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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/373-0.txt b/373-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..68690b5 --- /dev/null +++ b/373-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8391 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Lay Morals, by Robert Louis Stevenson, Edited +by Sidney Colvin + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Lay Morals + and Other Papers + + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Editor: Sidney Colvin + +Release Date: October 20, 2010 [eBook #373] +First Posted: November 1995 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAY MORALS*** + + +Transcribed from the Chatto and Windus 1911 edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + LAY MORALS + + + And Other Papers + + BY + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + + + [Picture: Graphic] + + A NEW EDITION + WITH A PREFACE BY + MRS. STEVENSON + + * * * * * + + LONDON + CHATTO & WINDUS + 1911 + + * * * * * + + _All rights reserved._ + + + + +PREFACE +BY MRS. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON {0} + + +In our long voyage on the yacht _Casco_, we visited many islands; I +believe on every one we found the scourge of leprosy. In the Marquesas +there was a regular leper settlement, though the persons living there +seemed free to wander where they wished, fishing on the beach, or +visiting friends in the villages. I remember one afternoon, at Anaho, +when my husband and I, tired after a long quest for shells, sat down on +the sand to rest awhile, a native man stepped out from under some +cocoanut trees, regarding us hesitatingly as though fearful of intruding. +My husband waved an invitation to the stranger to join us, offering his +cigarette to the man in the island fashion. The cigarette was accepted +and, after a puff or two, courteously passed back again according to +native etiquette. The hand that held it was the maimed hand of a leper. +To my consternation my husband took the cigarette and smoked it out. +Afterwards when we were alone and I spoke of my horror he said, ‘I could +not mortify the man. And if you think I _liked_ doing it—that was +another reason; because I _didn’t_ want to.’ + +Another day, while we were still anchored in Anaho Bay, a messenger from +round a distant headland came in a whale-boat with an urgent request that +we go to see a young white girl who was ill with some mysterious malady. +We had supposed that, with the beach-comber ‘Charley the red,’ we were +the only white people on our side of the island. Though there was much +wind that day and the sea ran high, we started at once, impelled partly +by curiosity and partly by the pathetic nature of the message. +Fortunately we took our luncheon with us, eating it on the beach before +we went up to the house where the sick girl lay. Our hostess, the girl’s +mother, met us with regrets that we had already lunched, saying, ‘I have +a most excellent cook; here he is, now.’ She turned, as she spoke, to an +elderly Chinaman who was plainly in an advanced stage of leprosy. When +the man was gone, my husband asked if she had no fear of contagion. ‘I +don’t believe in contagion,’ was her reply. But there was little doubt +as to what ailed her daughter. She was certainly suffering from leprosy. +We could only advise that the girl be taken to the French post at Santa +Maria Bay where there was a doctor. + +On our return to the _Casco_ we confessed to each other with what alarm +and repugnance we touched the miserable girl. We talked long that +evening of Father Damien, his sublime heroism, and his martyrdom which +was already nearing its sad end. Beyond all noble qualities my husband +placed courage. The more he saw of leprosy, and he saw much in the +islands, the higher rose his admiration for the simple priest of Molokai. +‘I must see Molokai,’ he said many times. ‘I must somehow manage to see +Molokai.’ + +In January 1889, we arrived in Honolulu, settling in a pleasant cottage +by the sea to rest until we were ready to return to England. The _Casco_ +we sent back to San Francisco with the captain. But the knowledge that +every few days some vessel was leaving Honolulu to cruise among islands +we had not seen, and now should never see, was more than we could bear. +First we engaged passage on a missionary ship, but changed our minds—my +husband would not be allowed to smoke on board, for one reason—and +chartered the trading schooner _Equator_. This was thought too rough a +voyage for my mother-in-law, as indeed it would have been; so she was +sent, somewhat protesting, back to Scotland. + +My husband was still intent on seeing Molokai. After the waste of much +time and red tape, he finally received an official permission to visit +the leper settlement. It did not occur to him it would be necessary to +get a separate official permission to _leave_ Molokai; hence he was +nearly left behind when the vessel sailed out. He only saved himself by +a prodigious leap which landed him on board the boat, whence nothing but +force could dislodge him. By the doctor’s orders he took gloves to wear +as a precautionary measure against contagion, but they were never worn. +At first he avoided shaking hands, but when he played croquet with the +young leper girls he would not listen to the Mother Superior’s warning +that he must wear gloves. He thought it might remind them of their +condition. ‘What will you do if you find you have contracted leprosy?’ I +asked. ‘Do?’ he replied; ‘why, you and I would spend the rest of our +lives in Molokai and become humble followers of Father Damien.’ As Mr. +Balfour says in the Life of Stevenson, he was as stern with his family as +he was with himself, and as exacting. + +He talked very little to us of the tragedy of Molokai, though I could see +it lay heavy on his spirits; but of the great work begun by Father Damien +and carried on by his successors he spoke fully. He had followed the +life of the priest like a detective until there seemed nothing more to +learn. Mother Mary Ann, the Mother Superior, he could never mention +without deep emotion. One of the first things he did on his return to +Honolulu was to send her a grand piano for the use of her girls—the girls +with whom he had played croquet. He also sent toys, sewing materials, +small tools for the younger children, and other things that I have +forgotten. After his death a letter was found among his papers, of which +I have only the last few lines. ‘I cannot suppose you remember me, but I +won’t forget you, nor God won’t forget you for your kindness to the blind +white leper at Molokai.’ + +During my husband’s absence I had made every preparation for our voyage +on the _Equator_, so but little time was lost before we found ourselves +on board, our sails set for the south. The _Equator_, which had easily +lived through the great Samoan hurricane, made no such phenomenal runs as +the _Casco_, but we could trust her, and she had no ‘tricks and ways’ +that we did not understand. We liked the sailors, we loved the ship and +her captain, so it was with heart-felt regret we said farewell in the +harbour of Apia after a long and perfect cruise. + +After reading the letters that awaited us in Apia, we looked over the +newspapers. Our indignation may be imagined when we read in one item +that, owing to the publication of a letter by a well-known Honolulu +missionary, depicting Father Damien as a dirty old peasant who had +contracted leprosy through his immoral habits, the project to erect a +monument to his memory would be abandoned. ‘I’ll not believe it,’ said +my husband, ‘unless I see it with my own eyes; for it is too damnable for +belief!’ + +But see it he did, in spite of his incredulity, for in Sydney, a month or +two later, the very journal containing the letter condemnatory of Father +Damien was among the first we chanced to open. I shall never forget my +husband’s ferocity of indignation, his leaping stride as he paced the +room holding the offending paper at arm’s-length before his eyes that +burned and sparkled with a peculiar flashing light. His cousin Mr. +Balfour, in his _Life of Robert Louis Stevenson_, says: ‘his eyes . . . +when he was moved to anger or any fierce emotion seemed literally to +blaze and glow with a burning light.’ In another moment he disappeared +through the doorway, and I could hear him, in his own room, pulling his +chair to the table, and the sound of his inkstand being dragged towards +him. + +That afternoon he called us together—my son, my daughter, and +myself—saying that he had something serious to lay before us. He went +over the circumstances succinctly, and then we three had the incomparable +experience of hearing its author read aloud the defence of Father Damien +while it was still red-hot from his indignant soul. + +As we sat, dazed and overcome by emotion, he pointed out to us that the +subject-matter was libellous in the highest degree, and the publication +of the article might cause the loss of his entire substance. Without our +concurrence he would not take such a risk. There was no dissenting +voice; how could there be? The paper was published with almost no change +or revision, though afterwards my husband said he considered this a +mistake. He thought he should have waited for his anger to cool, when he +might have been more impersonal and less egotistic. + +The next day he consulted an eminent lawyer, more from curiosity than +from any other reason. Mr. Moses—I think that was his name—was at first +inclined to be jocular. I remember his smiling question: ‘Have you +called him a hell-hound or an atheist? Otherwise there is no libel.’ +But when he looked over the manuscript his countenance changed. ‘This is +a serious affair,’ he said; ‘however, no one will publish it for you.’ +In that Mr. Moses was right; no one dared publish the pamphlet. But that +difficulty was soon overcome. My husband hired a printer by the day, and +the work was rushed through. We then, my daughter, my son, and myself, +were set to work helping address the pamphlets, which were scattered far +and wide. + +Father Damien was vindicated by a stranger, a man of another country and +another religion from his own. + + F. V. DE G. S. + + + + +Contents: + + + Preface by Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson + Lay Morals + Father Damien + The Pentland Rising + I. The Causes of the Revolt + II. The Beginning + III. The March of the Rebels + IV. Rullion Green + V. A Record of Blood + The Day After To-morrow + College Papers + I. Edinburgh Students in 1824 + II. The Modern Student + III. Debating Societies + Criticisms + I. Lord Lytton’s “Fables in Song” + II. Salvini’s Macbeth + III. Bagster’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” + Sketches + I. The Satirist + II. Nuits Blanches + III. The Wreath of Immortelles + IV. Nurses + V. A Character + The Great North Road + I. Nance at the “Green Dragon” + II. In which Mr. Archer is Installed + III. Jonathan Holdaway + IV. Mingling Threads + V. Life in the Castle + IV. The Bad Half-Crown + VII. The Bleaching-Green + VIII. The Mail Guard + The Young Chevalier + Prologue: The Wine-Seller’s Wife + I. The Prince + Heathercat + I. Traqairs of Montroymont + II. Francie + III. The Hill-End of Drumlowe + + + + +LAY MORALS + + +_The following chapters of a projected treatise on Ethics were drafted at +Edinburgh in the spring of_ 1879. _They are unrevised_, _and must not be +taken as representing_, _either as to matter or form_, _their author’s +final thoughts_; _but they contain much that is essentially +characteristic of his mind_. + + * * * * * + + _Copyright in the United States of America_. + + + +CHAPTER I + + +The problem of education is twofold: first to know, and then to utter. +Every one who lives any semblance of an inner life thinks more nobly and +profoundly than he speaks; and the best of teachers can impart only +broken images of the truth which they perceive. Speech which goes from +one to another between two natures, and, what is worse, between two +experiences, is doubly relative. The speaker buries his meaning; it is +for the hearer to dig it up again; and all speech, written or spoken, is +in a dead language until it finds a willing and prepared hearer. Such, +moreover, is the complexity of life, that when we condescend upon details +in our advice, we may be sure we condescend on error; and the best of +education is to throw out some magnanimous hints. No man was ever so +poor that he could express all he has in him by words, looks, or actions; +his true knowledge is eternally incommunicable, for it is a knowledge of +himself; and his best wisdom comes to him by no process of the mind, but +in a supreme self-dictation, which keeps varying from hour to hour in its +dictates with the variation of events and circumstances. + +A few men of picked nature, full of faith, courage, and contempt for +others, try earnestly to set forth as much as they can grasp of this +inner law; but the vast majority, when they come to advise the young, +must be content to retail certain doctrines which have been already +retailed to them in their own youth. Every generation has to educate +another which it has brought upon the stage. People who readily accept +the responsibility of parentship, having very different matters in their +eye, are apt to feel rueful when that responsibility falls due. What are +they to tell the child about life and conduct, subjects on which they +have themselves so few and such confused opinions? Indeed, I do not +know; the least said, perhaps, the soonest mended; and yet the child +keeps asking, and the parent must find some words to say in his own +defence. Where does he find them? and what are they when found? + +As a matter of experience, and in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out +of a thousand, he will instil into his wide-eyed brat three bad things: +the terror of public opinion, and, flowing from that as a fountain, the +desire of wealth and applause. Besides these, or what might be deduced +as corollaries from these, he will teach not much else of any effective +value: some dim notions of divinity, perhaps, and book-keeping, and how +to walk through a quadrille. + +But, you may tell me, the young people are taught to be Christians. It +may be want of penetration, but I have not yet been able to perceive it. +As an honest man, whatever we teach, and be it good or evil, it is not +the doctrine of Christ. What he taught (and in this he is like all other +teachers worthy of the name) was not a code of rules, but a ruling +spirit; not truths, but a spirit of truth; not views, but a view. What +he showed us was an attitude of mind. Towards the many considerations on +which conduct is built, each man stands in a certain relation. He takes +life on a certain principle. He has a compass in his spirit which points +in a certain direction. It is the attitude, the relation, the point of +the compass, that is the whole body and gist of what he has to teach us; +in this, the details are comprehended; out of this the specific precepts +issue, and by this, and this only, can they be explained and applied. +And thus, to learn aright from any teacher, we must first of all, like a +historical artist, think ourselves into sympathy with his position and, +in the technical phrase, create his character. A historian confronted +with some ambiguous politician, or an actor charged with a part, have but +one pre-occupation; they must search all round and upon every side, and +grope for some central conception which is to explain and justify the +most extreme details; until that is found, the politician is an enigma, +or perhaps a quack, and the part a tissue of fustian sentiment and big +words; but once that is found, all enters into a plan, a human nature +appears, the politician or the stage-king is understood from point to +point, from end to end. This is a degree of trouble which will be gladly +taken by a very humble artist; but not even the terror of eternal fire +can teach a business man to bend his imagination to such athletic +efforts. Yet without this, all is vain; until we understand the whole, +we shall understand none of the parts; and otherwise we have no more than +broken images and scattered words; the meaning remains buried; and the +language in which our prophet speaks to us is a dead language in our +ears. + +Take a few of Christ’s sayings and compare them with our current +doctrines. + +‘Ye cannot,’ he says, ‘_serve God and Mammon_.’ Cannot? And our whole +system is to teach us how we can! + +‘_The children of this world are wiser in their generation than the +children of light_.’ Are they? I had been led to understand the +reverse: that the Christian merchant, for example, prospered exceedingly +in his affairs; that honesty was the best policy; that an author of +repute had written a conclusive treatise ‘How to make the best of both +worlds.’ Of both worlds indeed! Which am I to believe then—Christ or +the author of repute? + +‘_Take no thought for the morrow_.’ Ask the Successful Merchant; +interrogate your own heart; and you will have to admit that this is not +only a silly but an immoral position. All we believe, all we hope, all +we honour in ourselves or our contemporaries, stands condemned in this +one sentence, or, if you take the other view, condemns the sentence as +unwise and inhumane. We are not then of the ‘same mind that was in +Christ.’ We disagree with Christ. Either Christ meant nothing, or else +he or we must be in the wrong. Well says Thoreau, speaking of some texts +from the New Testament, and finding a strange echo of another style which +the reader may recognise: ‘Let but one of these sentences be rightly read +from any pulpit in the land, and there would not be left one stone of +that meeting-house upon another.’ + +It may be objected that these are what are called ‘hard sayings’; and +that a man, or an education, may be very sufficiently Christian although +it leave some of these sayings upon one side. But this is a very gross +delusion. Although truth is difficult to state, it is both easy and +agreeable to receive, and the mind runs out to meet it ere the phrase be +done. The universe, in relation to what any man can say of it, is plain, +patent and staringly comprehensible. In itself, it is a great and +travailing ocean, unsounded, unvoyageable, an eternal mystery to man; or, +let us say, it is a monstrous and impassable mountain, one side of which, +and a few near slopes and foothills, we can dimly study with these mortal +eyes. But what any man can say of it, even in his highest utterance, +must have relation to this little and plain corner, which is no less +visible to us than to him. We are looking on the same map; it will go +hard if we cannot follow the demonstration. The longest and most +abstruse flight of a philosopher becomes clear and shallow, in the flash +of a moment, when we suddenly perceive the aspect and drift of his +intention. The longest argument is but a finger pointed; once we get our +own finger rightly parallel, and we see what the man meant, whether it be +a new star or an old street-lamp. And briefly, if a saying is hard to +understand, it is because we are thinking of something else. + +But to be a true disciple is to think of the same things as our prophet, +and to think of different things in the same order. To be of the same +mind with another is to see all things in the same perspective; it is not +to agree in a few indifferent matters near at hand and not much debated; +it is to follow him in his farthest flights, to see the force of his +hyperboles, to stand so exactly in the centre of his vision that whatever +he may express, your eyes will light at once on the original, that +whatever he may see to declare, your mind will at once accept. You do +not belong to the school of any philosopher, because you agree with him +that theft is, on the whole, objectionable, or that the sun is overhead +at noon. It is by the hard sayings that discipleship is tested. We are +all agreed about the middling and indifferent parts of knowledge and +morality; even the most soaring spirits too often take them tamely upon +trust. But the man, the philosopher or the moralist, does not stand upon +these chance adhesions; and the purpose of any system looks towards those +extreme points where it steps valiantly beyond tradition and returns with +some covert hint of things outside. Then only can you be certain that +the words are not words of course, nor mere echoes of the past; then only +are you sure that if he be indicating anything at all, it is a star and +not a street-lamp; then only do you touch the heart of the mystery, since +it was for these that the author wrote his book. + +Now, every now and then, and indeed surprisingly often, Christ finds a +word that transcends all common-place morality; every now and then he +quits the beaten track to pioneer the unexpressed, and throws out a +pregnant and magnanimous hyperbole; for it is only by some bold poetry of +thought that men can be strung up above the level of everyday conceptions +to take a broader look upon experience or accept some higher principle of +conduct. To a man who is of the same mind that was in Christ, who stands +at some centre not too far from his, and looks at the world and conduct +from some not dissimilar or, at least, not opposing attitude—or, shortly, +to a man who is of Christ’s philosophy—every such saying should come home +with a thrill of joy and corroboration; he should feel each one below his +feet as another sure foundation in the flux of time and chance; each +should be another proof that in the torrent of the years and generations, +where doctrines and great armaments and empires are swept away and +swallowed, he stands immovable, holding by the eternal stars. But alas! +at this juncture of the ages it is not so with us; on each and every such +occasion our whole fellowship of Christians falls back in disapproving +wonder and implicitly denies the saying. Christians! the farce is +impudently broad. Let us stand up in the sight of heaven and confess. +The ethics that we hold are those of Benjamin Franklin. _Honesty is the +best policy_, is perhaps a hard saying; it is certainly one by which a +wise man of these days will not too curiously direct his steps; but I +think it shows a glimmer of meaning to even our most dimmed +intelligences; I think we perceive a principle behind it; I think, +without hyperbole, we are of the same mind that was in Benjamin Franklin. + + + +CHAPTER II + + +But, I may be told, we teach the ten commandments, where a world of +morals lies condensed, the very pith and epitome of all ethics and +religion; and a young man with these precepts engraved upon his mind must +follow after profit with some conscience and Christianity of method. A +man cannot go very far astray who neither dishonours his parents, nor +kills, nor commits adultery, nor steals, nor bears false witness; for +these things, rightly thought out, cover a vast field of duty. + +Alas! what is a precept? It is at best an illustration; it is case law +at the best which can be learned by precept. The letter is not only +dead, but killing; the spirit which underlies, and cannot be uttered, +alone is true and helpful. This is trite to sickness; but familiarity +has a cunning disenchantment; in a day or two she can steal all beauty +from the mountain tops; and the most startling words begin to fall dead +upon the ear after several repetitions. If you see a thing too often, +you no longer see it; if you hear a thing too often, you no longer hear +it. Our attention requires to be surprised; and to carry a fort by +assault, or to gain a thoughtful hearing from the ruck of mankind, are +feats of about an equal difficulty and must be tried by not dissimilar +means. The whole Bible has thus lost its message for the common run of +hearers; it has become mere words of course; and the parson may bawl +himself scarlet and beat the pulpit like a thing possessed, but his +hearers will continue to nod; they are strangely at peace, they know all +he has to say; ring the old bell as you choose, it is still the old bell +and it cannot startle their composure. And so with this byword about the +letter and the spirit. It is quite true, no doubt; but it has no meaning +in the world to any man of us. Alas! it has just this meaning, and +neither more nor less: that while the spirit is true, the letter is +eternally false. + +The shadow of a great oak lies abroad upon the ground at noon, perfect, +clear, and stable like the earth. But let a man set himself to mark out +the boundary with cords and pegs, and were he never so nimble and never +so exact, what with the multiplicity of the leaves and the progression of +the shadow as it flees before the travelling sun, long ere he has made +the circuit the whole figure will have changed. Life may be compared, +not to a single tree, but to a great and complicated forest; circumstance +is more swiftly changing than a shadow, language much more inexact than +the tools of a surveyor; from day to day the trees fall and are renewed; +the very essences are fleeting as we look; and the whole world of leaves +is swinging tempest-tossed among the winds of time. Look now for your +shadows. O man of formulæ, is this a place for you? Have you fitted the +spirit to a single case? Alas, in the cycle of the ages when shall such +another be proposed for the judgment of man? Now when the sun shines and +the winds blow, the wood is filled with an innumerable multitude of +shadows, tumultuously tossed and changing; and at every gust the whole +carpet leaps and becomes new. Can you or your heart say more? + +Look back now, for a moment, on your own brief experience of life; and +although you lived it feelingly in your own person, and had every step of +conduct burned in by pains and joys upon your memory, tell me what +definite lesson does experience hand on from youth to manhood, or from +both to age? The settled tenor which first strikes the eye is but the +shadow of a delusion. This is gone; that never truly was; and you +yourself are altered beyond recognition. Times and men and circumstances +change about your changing character, with a speed of which no earthly +hurricane affords an image. What was the best yesterday, is it still the +best in this changed theatre of a to-morrow? Will your own Past truly +guide you in your own violent and unexpected Future? And if this be +questionable, with what humble, with what hopeless eyes, should we not +watch other men driving beside us on their unknown careers, seeing with +unlike eyes, impelled by different gales, doing and suffering in another +sphere of things? + +And as the authentic clue to such a labyrinth and change of scene, do you +offer me these two score words? these five bald prohibitions? For the +moral precepts are no more than five; the first four deal rather with +matters of observance than of conduct; the tenth, _Thou shalt not covet_, +stands upon another basis, and shall be spoken of ere long. The Jews, to +whom they were first given, in the course of years began to find these +precepts insufficient; and made an addition of no less than six hundred +and fifty others! They hoped to make a pocket-book of reference on +morals, which should stand to life in some such relation, say, as Hoyle +stands in to the scientific game of whist. The comparison is just, and +condemns the design; for those who play by rule will never be more than +tolerable players; and you and I would like to play our game in life to +the noblest and the most divine advantage. Yet if the Jews took a petty +and huckstering view of conduct, what view do we take ourselves, who +callously leave youth to go forth into the enchanted forest, full of +spells and dire chimeras, with no guidance more complete than is afforded +by these five precepts? + +_Honour thy father and thy mother_. Yes, but does that mean to obey? and +if so, how long and how far? _Thou shall not kill_. Yet the very +intention and purport of the prohibition may be best fulfilled by +killing. _Thou shall not commit adultery_. But some of the ugliest +adulteries are committed in the bed of marriage and under the sanction of +religion and law. _Thou shalt not bear false witness_. How? by speech +or by silence also? or even by a smile? _Thou shalt not steal_. Ah, +that indeed! But what is _to steal_? + +To steal? It is another word to be construed; and who is to be our +guide? The police will give us one construction, leaving the word only +that least minimum of meaning without which society would fall in pieces; +but surely we must take some higher sense than this; surely we hope more +than a bare subsistence for mankind; surely we wish mankind to prosper +and go on from strength to strength, and ourselves to live rightly in the +eye of some more exacting potentate than a policeman. The approval or +the disapproval of the police must be eternally indifferent to a man who +is both valorous and good. There is extreme discomfort, but no shame, in +the condemnation of the law. The law represents that modicum of morality +which can be squeezed out of the ruck of mankind; but what is that to me, +who aim higher and seek to be my own more stringent judge? I observe +with pleasure that no brave man has ever given a rush for such +considerations. The Japanese have a nobler and more sentimental feeling +for this social bond into which we all are born when we come into the +world, and whose comforts and protection we all indifferently share +throughout our lives:—but even to them, no more than to our Western +saints and heroes, does the law of the state supersede the higher law of +duty. Without hesitation and without remorse, they transgress the +stiffest enactments rather than abstain from doing right. But the +accidental superior duty being thus fulfilled, they at once return in +allegiance to the common duty of all citizens; and hasten to denounce +themselves; and value at an equal rate their just crime and their equally +just submission to its punishment. + +The evading of the police will not long satisfy an active conscience or a +thoughtful head. But to show you how one or the other may trouble a man, +and what a vast extent of frontier is left unridden by this invaluable +eighth commandment, let me tell you a few pages out of a young man’s +life. + +He was a friend of mine; a young man like others; generous, flighty, as +variable as youth itself, but always with some high motions and on the +search for higher thoughts of life. I should tell you at once that he +thoroughly agrees with the eighth commandment. But he got hold of some +unsettling works, the New Testament among others, and this loosened his +views of life and led him into many perplexities. As he was the son of a +man in a certain position, and well off, my friend had enjoyed from the +first the advantages of education, nay, he had been kept alive through a +sickly childhood by constant watchfulness, comforts, and change of air; +for all of which he was indebted to his father’s wealth. + +At college he met other lads more diligent than himself, who followed the +plough in summer-time to pay their college fees in winter; and this +inequality struck him with some force. He was at that age of a +conversible temper, and insatiably curious in the aspects of life; and he +spent much of his time scraping acquaintance with all classes of man- and +woman-kind. In this way he came upon many depressed ambitions, and many +intelligences stunted for want of opportunity; and this also struck him. +He began to perceive that life was a handicap upon strange, wrong-sided +principles; and not, as he had been told, a fair and equal race. He +began to tremble that he himself had been unjustly favoured, when he saw +all the avenues of wealth, and power, and comfort closed against so many +of his superiors and equals, and held unwearyingly open before so idle, +so desultory, and so dissolute a being as himself. There sat a youth +beside him on the college benches, who had only one shirt to his back, +and, at intervals sufficiently far apart, must stay at home to have it +washed. It was my friend’s principle to stay away as often as he dared; +for I fear he was no friend to learning. But there was something that +came home to him sharply, in this fellow who had to give over study till +his shirt was washed, and the scores of others who had never an +opportunity at all. _If one of these could take his place_, he thought; +and the thought tore away a bandage from his eyes. He was eaten by the +shame of his discoveries, and despised himself as an unworthy favourite +and a creature of the back-stairs of Fortune. He could no longer see +without confusion one of these brave young fellows battling up-hill +against adversity. Had he not filched that fellow’s birthright? At best +was he not coldly profiting by the injustice of society, and greedily +devouring stolen goods? The money, indeed, belonged to his father, who +had worked, and thought, and given up his liberty to earn it; but by what +justice could the money belong to my friend, who had, as yet, done +nothing but help to squander it? A more sturdy honesty, joined to a more +even and impartial temperament, would have drawn from these +considerations a new force of industry, that this equivocal position +might be brought as swiftly as possible to an end, and some good services +to mankind justify the appropriation of expense. It was not so with my +friend, who was only unsettled and discouraged, and filled full of that +trumpeting anger with which young men regard injustices in the first +blush of youth; although in a few years they will tamely acquiesce in +their existence, and knowingly profit by their complications. Yet all +this while he suffered many indignant pangs. And once, when he put on +his boots, like any other unripe donkey, to run away from home, it was +his best consolation that he was now, at a single plunge, to free himself +from the responsibility of this wealth that was not his, and do battle +equally against his fellows in the warfare of life. + +Some time after this, falling into ill-health, he was sent at great +expense to a more favourable climate; and then I think his perplexities +were thickest. When he thought of all the other young men of singular +promise, upright, good, the prop of families, who must remain at home to +die, and with all their possibilities be lost to life and mankind; and +how he, by one more unmerited favour, was chosen out from all these +others to survive; he felt as if there were no life, no labour, no +devotion of soul and body, that could repay and justify these +partialities. A religious lady, to whom he communicated these +reflections, could see no force in them whatever. ‘It was God’s will,’ +said she. But he knew it was by God’s will that Joan of Arc was burnt at +Rouen, which cleared neither Bedford nor Bishop Cauchon; and again, by +God’s will that Christ was crucified outside Jerusalem, which excused +neither the rancour of the priests nor the timidity of Pilate. He knew, +moreover, that although the possibility of this favour he was now +enjoying issued from his circumstances, its acceptance was the act of his +own will; and he had accepted it greedily, longing for rest and sunshine. +And hence this allegation of God’s providence did little to relieve his +scruples. I promise you he had a very troubled mind. And I would not +laugh if I were you, though while he was thus making mountains out of +what you think molehills, he were still (as perhaps he was) contentedly +practising many other things that to you seem black as hell. Every man +is his own judge and mountain-guide through life. There is an old story +of a mote and a beam, apparently not true, but worthy perhaps of some +consideration. I should, if I were you, give some consideration to these +scruples of his, and if I were he, I should do the like by yours; for it +is not unlikely that there may be something under both. In the meantime +you must hear how my friend acted. Like many invalids, he supposed that +he would die. Now, should he die, he saw no means of repaying this huge +loan which, by the hands of his father, mankind had advanced him for his +sickness. In that case it would be lost money. So he determined that +the advance should be as small as possible; and, so long as he continued +to doubt his recovery, lived in an upper room, and grudged himself all +but necessaries. But so soon as he began to perceive a change for the +better, he felt justified in spending more freely, to speed and brighten +his return to health, and trusted in the future to lend a help to +mankind, as mankind, out of its treasury, had lent a help to him. + +I do not say but that my friend was a little too curious and partial in +his view; nor thought too much of himself and too little of his parents; +but I do say that here are some scruples which tormented my friend in his +youth, and still, perhaps, at odd times give him a prick in the midst of +his enjoyments, and which after all have some foundation in justice, and +point, in their confused way, to some more honourable honesty within the +reach of man. And at least, is not this an unusual gloss upon the eighth +commandment? And what sort of comfort, guidance, or illumination did +that precept afford my friend throughout these contentions? ‘Thou shalt +not steal.’ With all my heart! But _am_ I stealing? + +The truly quaint materialism of our view of life disables us from +pursuing any transaction to an end. You can make no one understand that +his bargain is anything more than a bargain, whereas in point of fact it +is a link in the policy of mankind, and either a good or an evil to the +world. We have a sort of blindness which prevents us from seeing +anything but sovereigns. If one man agrees to give another so many +shillings for so many hours’ work, and then wilfully gives him a certain +proportion of the price in bad money and only the remainder in good, we +can see with half an eye that this man is a thief. But if the other +spends a certain proportion of the hours in smoking a pipe of tobacco, +and a certain other proportion in looking at the sky, or the clock, or +trying to recall an air, or in meditation on his own past adventures, and +only the remainder in downright work such as he is paid to do, is he, +because the theft is one of time and not of money,—is he any the less a +thief? The one gave a bad shilling, the other an imperfect hour; but +both broke the bargain, and each is a thief. In piecework, which is what +most of us do, the case is none the less plain for being even less +material. If you forge a bad knife, you have wasted some of mankind’s +iron, and then, with unrivalled cynicism, you pocket some of mankind’s +money for your trouble. Is there any man so blind who cannot see that +this is theft? Again, if you carelessly cultivate a farm, you have been +playing fast and loose with mankind’s resources against hunger; there +will be less bread in consequence, and for lack of that bread somebody +will die next winter: a grim consideration. And you must not hope to +shuffle out of blame because you got less money for your less quantity of +bread; for although a theft be partly punished, it is none the less a +theft for that. You took the farm against competitors; there were others +ready to shoulder the responsibility and be answerable for the tale of +loaves; but it was you who took it. By the act you came under a tacit +bargain with mankind to cultivate that farm with your best endeavour; you +were under no superintendence, you were on parole; and you have broke +your bargain, and to all who look closely, and yourself among the rest if +you have moral eyesight, you are a thief. Or take the case of men of +letters. Every piece of work which is not as good as you can make it, +which you have palmed off imperfect, meagrely thought, niggardly in +execution, upon mankind who is your paymaster on parole and in a sense +your pupil, every hasty or slovenly or untrue performance, should rise up +against you in the court of your own heart and condemn you for a thief. +Have you a salary? If you trifle with your health, and so render +yourself less capable for duty, and still touch, and still greedily +pocket the emolument—what are you but a thief? Have you double accounts? +do you by any time-honoured juggle, deceit, or ambiguous process, gain +more from those who deal with you than it you were bargaining and dealing +face to face in front of God?—What are you but a thief? Lastly, if you +fill an office, or produce an article, which, in your heart of hearts, +you think a delusion and a fraud upon mankind, and still draw your salary +and go through the sham manœuvres of this office, or still book your +profits and keep on flooding the world with these injurious goods?—though +you were old, and bald, and the first at church, and a baronet, what are +you but a thief? These may seem hard words and mere curiosities of the +intellect, in an age when the spirit of honesty is so sparingly +cultivated that all business is conducted upon lies and so-called customs +of the trade, that not a man bestows two thoughts on the utility or +honourableness of his pursuit. I would say less if I thought less. But +looking to my own reason and the right of things, I can only avow that I +am a thief myself, and that I passionately suspect my neighbours of the +same guilt. + +Where did you hear that it was easy to be honest? Do you find that in +your Bible? Easy! It is easy to be an ass and follow the multitude like +a blind, besotted bull in a stampede; and that, I am well aware, is what +you and Mrs. Grundy mean by being honest. But it will not bear the +stress of time nor the scrutiny of conscience. Even before the lowest of +all tribunals,—before a court of law, whose business it is, not to keep +men right, or within a thousand miles of right, but to withhold them from +going so tragically wrong that they will pull down the whole jointed +fabric of society by their misdeeds—even before a court of law, as we +begin to see in these last days, our easy view of following at each +other’s tails, alike to good and evil, is beginning to be reproved and +punished, and declared no honesty at all, but open theft and swindling; +and simpletons who have gone on through life with a quiet conscience may +learn suddenly, from the lips of a judge, that the custom of the trade +may be a custom of the devil. You thought it was easy to be honest. Did +you think it was easy to be just and kind and truthful? Did you think +the whole duty of aspiring man was as simple as a horn-pipe? and you +could walk through life like a gentleman and a hero, with no more concern +than it takes to go to church or to address a circular? And yet all this +time you had the eighth commandment! and, what makes it richer, you would +not have broken it for the world! + +The truth is, that these commandments by themselves are of little use in +private judgment. If compression is what you want, you have their whole +spirit compressed into the golden rule; and yet there expressed with more +significance, since the law is there spiritually and not materially +stated. And in truth, four out of these ten commands, from the sixth to +the ninth, are rather legal than ethical. The police-court is their +proper home. A magistrate cannot tell whether you love your neighbour as +yourself, but he can tell more or less whether you have murdered, or +stolen, or committed adultery, or held up your hand and testified to that +which was not; and these things, for rough practical tests, are as good +as can be found. And perhaps, therefore, the best condensation of the +Jewish moral law is in the maxims of the priests, ‘neminem lædere’ and +‘suum cuique tribuere.’ But all this granted, it becomes only the more +plain that they are inadequate in the sphere of personal morality; that +while they tell the magistrate roughly when to punish, they can never +direct an anxious sinner what to do. + +Only Polonius, or the like solemn sort of ass, can offer us a succinct +proverb by way of advice, and not burst out blushing in our faces. We +grant them one and all and for all that they are worth; it is something +above and beyond that we desire. Christ was in general a great enemy to +such a way of teaching; we rarely find him meddling with any of these +plump commands but it was to open them out, and lift his hearers from the +letter to the spirit. For morals are a personal affair; in the war of +righteousness every man fights for his own hand; all the six hundred +precepts of the Mishna cannot shake my private judgment; my magistracy of +myself is an indefeasible charge, and my decisions absolute for the time +and case. The moralist is not a judge of appeal, but an advocate who +pleads at my tribunal. He has to show not the law, but that the law +applies. Can he convince me? then he gains the cause. And thus you find +Christ giving various counsels to varying people, and often jealously +careful to avoid definite precept. Is he asked, for example, to divide a +heritage? He refuses: and the best advice that he will offer is but a +paraphrase of that tenth commandment which figures so strangely among the +rest. _Take heed, and beware of covetousness_. If you complain that +this is vague, I have failed to carry you along with me in my argument. +For no definite precept can be more than an illustration, though its +truth were resplendent like the sun, and it was announced from heaven by +the voice of God. And life is so intricate and changing, that perhaps +not twenty times, or perhaps not twice in the ages, shall we find that +nice consent of circumstances to which alone it can apply. + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Although the world and life have in a sense become commonplace to our +experience, it is but in an external torpor; the true sentiment slumbers +within us; and we have but to reflect on ourselves or our surroundings to +rekindle our astonishment. No length of habit can blunt our first +surprise. Of the world I have but little to say in this connection; a +few strokes shall suffice. We inhabit a dead ember swimming wide in the +blank of space, dizzily spinning as it swims, and lighted up from several +million miles away by a more horrible hell-fire than was ever conceived +by the theological imagination. Yet the dead ember is a green, +commodious dwelling-place; and the reverberation of this hell-fire ripens +flower and fruit and mildly warms us on summer eves upon the lawn. Far +off on all hands other dead embers, other flaming suns, wheel and race in +the apparent void; the nearest is out of call, the farthest so far that +the heart sickens in the effort to conceive the distance. Shipwrecked +seamen on the deep, though they bestride but the truncheon of a boom, are +safe and near at home compared with mankind on its bullet. Even to us +who have known no other, it seems a strange, if not an appalling, place +of residence. + +But far stranger is the resident, man, a creature compact of wonders +that, after centuries of custom, is still wonderful to himself. He +inhabits a body which he is continually outliving, discarding and +renewing. Food and sleep, by an unknown alchemy, restore his spirits and +the freshness of his countenance. Hair grows on him like grass; his +eyes, his brain, his sinews, thirst for action; he joys to see and touch +and hear, to partake the sun and wind, to sit down and intently ponder on +his astonishing attributes and situation, to rise up and run, to perform +the strange and revolting round of physical functions. The sight of a +flower, the note of a bird, will often move him deeply; yet he looks +unconcerned on the impassable distances and portentous bonfires of the +universe. He comprehends, he designs, he tames nature, rides the sea, +ploughs, climbs the air in a balloon, makes vast inquiries, begins +interminable labours, joins himself into federations and populous cities, +spends his days to deliver the ends of the earth or to benefit unborn +posterity; and yet knows himself for a piece of unsurpassed fragility and +the creature of a few days. His sight, which conducts him, which takes +notice of the farthest stars, which is miraculous in every way and a +thing defying explanation or belief, is yet lodged in a piece of jelly, +and can be extinguished with a touch. His heart, which all through life +so indomitably, so athletically labours, is but a capsule, and may be +stopped with a pin. His whole body, for all its savage energies, its +leaping and its winged desires, may yet be tamed and conquered by a +draught of air or a sprinkling of cold dew. What he calls death, which +is the seeming arrest of everything, and the ruin and hateful +transformation of the visible body, lies in wait for him outwardly in a +thousand accidents, and grows up in secret diseases from within. He is +still learning to be a man when his faculties are already beginning to +decline; he has not yet understood himself or his position before he +inevitably dies. And yet this mad, chimerical creature can take no +thought of his last end, lives as though he were eternal, plunges with +his vulnerable body into the shock of war, and daily affronts death with +unconcern. He cannot take a step without pain or pleasure. His life is +a tissue of sensations, which he distinguishes as they seem to come more +directly from himself or his surroundings. He is conscious of himself as +a joyer or a sufferer, as that which craves, chooses, and is satisfied; +conscious of his surroundings as it were of an inexhaustible purveyor, +the source of aspects, inspirations, wonders, cruel knocks and +transporting caresses. Thus he goes on his way, stumbling among delights +and agonies. + +Matter is a far-fetched theory, and materialism is without a root in man. +To him everything is important in the degree to which it moves him. The +telegraph wires and posts, the electricity speeding from clerk to clerk, +the clerks, the glad or sorrowful import of the message, and the paper on +which it is finally brought to him at home, are all equally facts, all +equally exist for man. A word or a thought can wound him as acutely as a +knife of steel. If he thinks he is loved, he will rise up and glory to +himself, although he be in a distant land and short of necessary bread. +Does he think he is not loved?—he may have the woman at his beck, and +there is not a joy for him in all the world. Indeed, if we are to make +any account of this figment of reason, the distinction between material +and immaterial, we shall conclude that the life of each man as an +individual is immaterial, although the continuation and prospects of +mankind as a race turn upon material conditions. The physical business +of each man’s body is transacted for him; like a sybarite, he has +attentive valets in his own viscera; he breathes, he sweats, he digests +without an effort, or so much as a consenting volition; for the most part +he even eats, not with a wakeful consciousness, but as it were between +two thoughts. His life is centred among other and more important +considerations; touch him in his honour or his love, creatures of the +imagination which attach him to mankind or to an individual man or woman; +cross him in his piety which connects his soul with heaven; and he turns +from his food, he loathes his breath, and with a magnanimous emotion cuts +the knots of his existence and frees himself at a blow from the web of +pains and pleasures. + +It follows that man is twofold at least; that he is not a rounded and +autonomous empire; but that in the same body with him there dwell other +powers tributary but independent. If I now behold one walking in a +garden, curiously coloured and illuminated by the sun, digesting his food +with elaborate chemistry, breathing, circulating blood, directing himself +by the sight of his eyes, accommodating his body by a thousand delicate +balancings to the wind and the uneven surface of the path, and all the +time, perhaps, with his mind engaged about America, or the dog-star, or +the attributes of God—what am I to say, or how am I to describe the thing +I see? Is that truly a man, in the rigorous meaning of the word? or is +it not a man and something else? What, then, are we to count the +centre-bit and axle of a being so variously compounded? It is a question +much debated. Some read his history in a certain intricacy of nerve and +the success of successive digestions; others find him an exiled piece of +heaven blown upon and determined by the breath of God; and both schools +of theorists will scream like scalded children at a word of doubt. Yet +either of these views, however plausible, is beside the question; either +may be right; and I care not; I ask a more particular answer, and to a +more immediate point. What is the man? There is Something that was +before hunger and that remains behind after a meal. It may or may not be +engaged in any given act or passion, but when it is, it changes, +heightens, and sanctifies. Thus it is not engaged in lust, where +satisfaction ends the chapter; and it is engaged in love, where no +satisfaction can blunt the edge of the desire, and where age, sickness, +or alienation may deface what was desirable without diminishing the +sentiment. This something, which is the man, is a permanence which +abides through the vicissitudes of passion, now overwhelmed and now +triumphant, now unconscious of itself in the immediate distress of +appetite or pain, now rising unclouded above all. So, to the man, his +own central self fades and grows clear again amid the tumult of the +senses, like a revolving Pharos in the night. It is forgotten; it is +hid, it seems, for ever; and yet in the next calm hour he shall behold +himself once more, shining and unmoved among changes and storm. + +Mankind, in the sense of the creeping mass that is born and eats, that +generates and dies, is but the aggregate of the outer and lower sides of +man. This inner consciousness, this lantern alternately obscured and +shining, to and by which the individual exists and must order his +conduct, is something special to himself and not common to the race. His +joys delight, his sorrows wound him, according as _this_ is interested or +indifferent in the affair; according as they arise in an imperial war or +in a broil conducted by the tributary chieftains of the mind. He may +lose all, and _this_ not suffer; he may lose what is materially a trifle, +and _this_ leap in his bosom with a cruel pang. I do not speak of it to +hardened theorists: the living man knows keenly what it is I mean. + +‘Perceive at last that thou hast in thee something better and more divine +than the things which cause the various effects, and, as it were, pull +thee by the strings. What is that now in thy mind? is it fear, or +suspicion, or desire, or anything of that kind?’ Thus far Marcus +Aurelius, in one of the most notable passages in any book. Here is a +question worthy to be answered. What is in thy mind? What is the +utterance of your inmost self when, in a quiet hour, it can be heard +intelligibly? It is something beyond the compass of your thinking, +inasmuch as it is yourself; but is it not of a higher spirit than you had +dreamed betweenwhiles, and erect above all base considerations? This +soul seems hardly touched with our infirmities; we can find in it +certainly no fear, suspicion, or desire; we are only conscious—and that +as though we read it in the eyes of some one else—of a great and +unqualified readiness. A readiness to what? to pass over and look beyond +the objects of desire and fear, for something else. And this something +else? this something which is apart from desire and fear, to which all +the kingdoms of the world and the immediate death of the body are alike +indifferent and beside the point, and which yet regards conduct—by what +name are we to call it? It may be the love of God; or it may be an +inherited (and certainly well concealed) instinct to preserve self and +propagate the race; I am not, for the moment, averse to either theory; +but it will save time to call it righteousness. By so doing I intend no +subterfuge to beg a question; I am indeed ready, and more than willing, +to accept the rigid consequence, and lay aside, as far as the treachery +of the reason will permit, all former meanings attached to the word +righteousness. What is right is that for which a man’s central self is +ever ready to sacrifice immediate or distant interests; what is wrong is +what the central self discards or rejects as incompatible with the fixed +design of righteousness. + +To make this admission is to lay aside all hope of definition. That +which is right upon this theory is intimately dictated to each man by +himself, but can never be rigorously set forth in language, and never, +above all, imposed upon another. The conscience has, then, a vision like +that of the eyes, which is incommunicable, and for the most part +illuminates none but its possessor. When many people perceive the same +or any cognate facts, they agree upon a word as symbol; and hence we have +such words as _tree_, _star_, _love_, _honour_, or _death_; hence also we +have this word _right_, which, like the others, we all understand, most +of us understand differently, and none can express succinctly otherwise. +Yet even on the straitest view, we can make some steps towards +comprehension of our own superior thoughts. For it is an incredible and +most bewildering fact that a man, through life, is on variable terms with +himself; he is aware of tiffs and reconciliations; the intimacy is at +times almost suspended, at times it is renewed again with joy. As we +said before, his inner self or soul appears to him by successive +revelations, and is frequently obscured. It is from a study of these +alternations that we can alone hope to discover, even dimly, what seems +right and what seems wrong to this veiled prophet of ourself. + +All that is in the man in the larger sense, what we call impression as +well as what we call intuition, so far as my argument looks, we must +accept. It is not wrong to desire food, or exercise, or beautiful +surroundings, or the love of sex, or interest which is the food of the +mind. All these are craved; all these should be craved; to none of these +in itself does the soul demur; where there comes an undeniable want, we +recognise a demand of nature. Yet we know that these natural demands may +be superseded; for the demands which are common to mankind make but a +shadowy consideration in comparison to the demands of the individual +soul. Food is almost the first prerequisite; and yet a high character +will go without food to the ruin and death of the body rather than gain +it in a manner which the spirit disavows. Pascal laid aside mathematics; +Origen doctored his body with a knife; every day some one is thus +mortifying his dearest interests and desires, and, in Christ’s words, +entering maim into the Kingdom of Heaven. This is to supersede the +lesser and less harmonious affections by renunciation; and though by this +ascetic path we may get to heaven, we cannot get thither a whole and +perfect man. But there is another way, to supersede them by +reconciliation, in which the soul and all the faculties and senses pursue +a common route and share in one desire. Thus, man is tormented by a very +imperious physical desire; it spoils his rest, it is not to be denied; +the doctors will tell you, not I, how it is a physical need, like the +want of food or slumber. In the satisfaction of this desire, as it first +appears, the soul sparingly takes part; nay, it oft unsparingly regrets +and disapproves the satisfaction. But let the man learn to love a woman +as far as he is capable of love; and for this random affection of the +body there is substituted a steady determination, a consent of all his +powers and faculties, which supersedes, adopts, and commands the other. +The desire survives, strengthened, perhaps, but taught obedience and +changed in scope and character. Life is no longer a tale of betrayals +and regrets; for the man now lives as a whole; his consciousness now +moves on uninterrupted like a river; through all the extremes and ups and +downs of passion, he remains approvingly conscious of himself. + +Now to me, this seems a type of that rightness which the soul demands. +It demands that we shall not live alternately with our opposing +tendencies in continual see-saw of passion and disgust, but seek some +path on which the tendencies shall no longer oppose, but serve each other +to a common end. It demands that we shall not pursue broken ends, but +great and comprehensive purposes, in which soul and body may unite like +notes in a harmonious chord. That were indeed a way of peace and +pleasure, that were indeed a heaven upon earth. It does not demand, +however, or, to speak in measure, it does not demand of me, that I should +starve my appetites for no purpose under heaven but as a purpose in +itself; or, in a weak despair, pluck out the eye that I have not yet +learned to guide and enjoy with wisdom. The soul demands unity of +purpose, not the dismemberment of man; it seeks to roll up all his +strength and sweetness, all his passion and wisdom, into one, and make of +him a perfect man exulting in perfection. To conclude ascetically is to +give up, and not to solve, the problem. The ascetic and the creeping +hog, although they are at different poles, have equally failed in life. +The one has sacrificed his crew; the other brings back his seamen in a +cock-boat, and has lost the ship. I believe there are not many +sea-captains who would plume themselves on either result as a success. + +But if it is righteousness thus to fuse together our divisive impulses +and march with one mind through life, there is plainly one thing more +unrighteous than all others, and one declension which is irretrievable +and draws on the rest. And this is to lose consciousness of oneself. In +the best of times, it is but by flashes, when our whole nature is clear, +strong and conscious, and events conspire to leave us free, that we enjoy +communion with our soul. At the worst, we are so fallen and passive that +we may say shortly we have none. An arctic torpor seizes upon men. +Although built of nerves, and set adrift in a stimulating world, they +develop a tendency to go bodily to sleep; consciousness becomes engrossed +among the reflex and mechanical parts of life; and soon loses both the +will and power to look higher considerations in the face. This is ruin; +this is the last failure in life; this is temporal damnation, damnation +on the spot and without the form of judgment. ‘What shall it profit a +man if he gain the whole world and _lose himself_?’ + +It is to keep a man awake, to keep him alive to his own soul and its +fixed design of righteousness, that the better part of moral and +religious education is directed; not only that of words and doctors, but +the sharp ferule of calamity under which we are all God’s scholars till +we die. If, as teachers, we are to say anything to the purpose, we must +say what will remind the pupil of his soul; we must speak that soul’s +dialect; we must talk of life and conduct as his soul would have him +think of them. If, from some conformity between us and the pupil, or +perhaps among all men, we do in truth speak in such a dialect and express +such views, beyond question we shall touch in him a spring; beyond +question he will recognise the dialect as one that he himself has spoken +in his better hours; beyond question he will cry, ‘I had forgotten, but +now I remember; I too have eyes, and I had forgot to use them! I too +have a soul of my own, arrogantly upright, and to that I will listen and +conform.’ In short, say to him anything that he has once thought, or +been upon the point of thinking, or show him any view of life that he has +once clearly seen, or been upon the point of clearly seeing; and you have +done your part and may leave him to complete the education for himself. + +Now, the view taught at the present time seems to me to want greatness; +and the dialect in which alone it can be intelligibly uttered is not the +dialect of my soul. It is a sort of postponement of life; nothing quite +is, but something different is to be; we are to keep our eyes upon the +indirect from the cradle to the grave. We are to regulate our conduct +not by desire, but by a politic eye upon the future; and to value acts as +they will bring us money or good opinion; as they will bring us, in one +word, _profit_. We must be what is called respectable, and offend no one +by our carriage; it will not do to make oneself conspicuous—who knows? +even in virtue? says the Christian parent! And we must be what is called +prudent and make money; not only because it is pleasant to have money, +but because that also is a part of respectability, and we cannot hope to +be received in society without decent possessions. Received in society! +as if that were the kingdom of heaven! There is dear Mr. So-and-so;—look +at him!—so much respected—so much looked up to—quite the Christian +merchant! And we must cut our conduct as strictly as possible after the +pattern of Mr. So-and-so; and lay our whole lives to make money and be +strictly decent. Besides these holy injunctions, which form by far the +greater part of a youth’s training in our Christian homes, there are at +least two other doctrines. We are to live just now as well as we can, +but scrape at last into heaven, where we shall be good. We are to worry +through the week in a lay, disreputable way, but, to make matters square, +live a different life on Sunday. + +The train of thought we have been following gives us a key to all these +positions, without stepping aside to justify them on their own ground. +It is because we have been disgusted fifty times with physical squalls, +and fifty times torn between conflicting impulses, that we teach people +this indirect and tactical procedure in life, and to judge by remote +consequences instead of the immediate face of things. The very desire to +act as our own souls would have us, coupled with a pathetic disbelief in +ourselves, moves us to follow the example of others; perhaps, who knows? +they may be on the right track; and the more our patterns are in number, +the better seems the chance; until, if we be acting in concert with a +whole civilised nation, there are surely a majority of chances that we +must be acting right. And again, how true it is that we can never behave +as we wish in this tormented sphere, and can only aspire to different and +more favourable circumstances, in order to stand out and be ourselves +wholly and rightly! And yet once more, if in the hurry and pressure of +affairs and passions you tend to nod and become drowsy, here are +twenty-four hours of Sunday set apart for you to hold counsel with your +soul and look around you on the possibilities of life. + +This is not, of course, all that is to be, or even should be, said for +these doctrines. Only, in the course of this chapter, the reader and I +have agreed upon a few catchwords, and been looking at morals on a +certain system; it was a pity to lose an opportunity of testing the +catchwords, and seeing whether, by this system as well as by others, +current doctrines could show any probable justification. If the +doctrines had come too badly out of the trial, it would have condemned +the system. Our sight of the world is very narrow; the mind but a +pedestrian instrument; there’s nothing new under the sun, as Solomon +says, except the man himself; and though that changes the aspect of +everything else, yet he must see the same things as other people, only +from a different side. + +And now, having admitted so much, let us turn to criticism. + +If you teach a man to keep his eyes upon what others think of him, +unthinkingly to lead the life and hold the principles of the majority of +his contemporaries, you must discredit in his eyes the one authoritative +voice of his own soul. He may be a docile citizen; he will never be a +man. It is ours, on the other hand, to disregard this babble and +chattering of other men better and worse than we are, and to walk +straight before us by what light we have. They may be right; but so, +before heaven, are we. They may know; but we know also, and by that +knowledge we must stand or fall. There is such a thing as loyalty to a +man’s own better self; and from those who have not that, God help me, how +am I to look for loyalty to others? The most dull, the most imbecile, at +a certain moment turn round, at a certain point will hear no further +argument, but stand unflinching by their own dumb, irrational sense of +right. It is not only by steel or fire, but through contempt and blame, +that the martyr fulfils the calling of his dear soul. Be glad if you are +not tried by such extremities. But although all the world ranged +themselves in one line to tell you ‘This is wrong,’ be you your own +faithful vassal and the ambassador of God—throw down the glove and answer +‘This is right.’ Do you think you are only declaring yourself? Perhaps +in some dim way, like a child who delivers a message not fully +understood, you are opening wider the straits of prejudice and preparing +mankind for some truer and more spiritual grasp of truth; perhaps, as you +stand forth for your own judgment, you are covering a thousand weak ones +with your body; perhaps, by this declaration alone, you have avoided the +guilt of false witness against humanity and the little ones unborn. It +is good, I believe, to be respectable, but much nobler to respect oneself +and utter the voice of God. God, if there be any God, speaks daily in a +new language by the tongues of men; the thoughts and habits of each fresh +generation and each new-coined spirit throw another light upon the +universe and contain another commentary on the printed Bibles; every +scruple, every true dissent, every glimpse of something new, is a letter +of God’s alphabet; and though there is a grave responsibility for all who +speak, is there none for those who unrighteously keep silence and +conform? Is not that also to conceal and cloak God’s counsel? And how +should we regard the man of science who suppressed all facts that would +not tally with the orthodoxy of the hour? + +Wrong? You are as surely wrong as the sun rose this morning round the +revolving shoulder of the world. Not truth, but truthfulness, is the +good of your endeavour. For when will men receive that first part and +prerequisite of truth, that, by the order of things, by the greatness of +the universe, by the darkness and partiality of man’s experience, by the +inviolate secrecy of God, kept close in His most open revelations, every +man is, and to the end of the ages must be, wrong? Wrong to the +universe; wrong to mankind; wrong to God. And yet in another sense, and +that plainer and nearer, every man of men, who wishes truly, must be +right. He is right to himself, and in the measure of his sagacity and +candour. That let him do in all sincerity and zeal, not sparing a +thought for contrary opinions; that, for what it is worth, let him +proclaim. Be not afraid; although he be wrong, so also is the dead, +stuffed Dagon he insults. For the voice of God, whatever it is, is not +that stammering, inept tradition which the people holds. These truths +survive in travesty, swamped in a world of spiritual darkness and +confusion; and what a few comprehend and faithfully hold, the many, in +their dead jargon, repeat, degrade, and misinterpret. + +So far of Respectability; what the Covenanters used to call ‘rank +conformity’: the deadliest gag and wet blanket that can be laid on men. +And now of Profit. And this doctrine is perhaps the more redoubtable, +because it harms all sorts of men; not only the heroic and self-reliant, +but the obedient, cowlike squadrons. A man, by this doctrine, looks to +consequences at the second, or third, or fiftieth turn. He chooses his +end, and for that, with wily turns and through a great sea of tedium, +steers this mortal bark. There may be political wisdom in such a view; +but I am persuaded there can spring no great moral zeal. To look thus +obliquely upon life is the very recipe for moral slumber. Our intention +and endeavour should be directed, not on some vague end of money or +applause, which shall come to us by a ricochet in a month or a year, or +twenty years, but on the act itself; not on the approval of others, but +on the rightness of that act. At every instant, at every step in life, +the point has to be decided, our soul has to be saved, heaven has to be +gained or lost. At every step our spirits must applaud, at every step we +must set down the foot and sound the trumpet. ‘This have I done,’ we +must say; ‘right or wrong, this have I done, in unfeigned honour of +intention, as to myself and God.’ The profit of every act should be +this, that it was right for us to do it. Any other profit than that, if +it involved a kingdom or the woman I love, ought, if I were God’s upright +soldier, to leave me untempted. + +It is the mark of what we call a righteous decision, that it is made +directly and for its own sake. The whole man, mind and body, having come +to an agreement, tyrannically dictates conduct. There are two +dispositions eternally opposed: that in which we recognise that one thing +is wrong and another right, and that in which, not seeing any clear +distinction, we fall back on the consideration of consequences. The +truth is, by the scope of our present teaching, nothing is thought very +wrong and nothing very right, except a few actions which have the +disadvantage of being disrespectable when found out; the more serious +part of men inclining to think all things _rather wrong_, the more jovial +to suppose them _right enough for practical purposes_. I will engage my +head, they do not find that view in their own hearts; they have taken it +up in a dark despair; they are but troubled sleepers talking in their +sleep. The soul, or my soul at least, thinks very distinctly upon many +points of right and wrong, and often differs flatly with what is held out +as the thought of corporate humanity in the code of society or the code +of law. Am I to suppose myself a monster? I have only to read books, +the Christian Gospels for example, to think myself a monster no longer; +and instead I think the mass of people are merely speaking in their +sleep. + +It is a commonplace, enshrined, if I mistake not, even in school +copy-books, that honour is to be sought and not fame. I ask no other +admission; we are to seek honour, upright walking with our own conscience +every hour of the day, and not fame, the consequence, the far-off +reverberation of our footsteps. The walk, not the rumour of the walk, is +what concerns righteousness. Better disrespectable honour than +dishonourable fame. Better useless or seemingly hurtful honour, than +dishonour ruling empires and filling the mouths of thousands. For the +man must walk by what he sees, and leave the issue with God who made him +and taught him by the fortune of his life. You would not dishonour +yourself for money; which is at least tangible; would you do it, then, +for a doubtful forecast in politics, or another person’s theory in +morals? + +So intricate is the scheme of our affairs, that no man can calculate the +bearing of his own behaviour even on those immediately around him, how +much less upon the world at large or on succeeding generations! To walk +by external prudence and the rule of consequences would require, not a +man, but God. All that we know to guide us in this changing labyrinth is +our soul with its fixed design of righteousness, and a few old precepts +which commend themselves to that. The precepts are vague when we +endeavour to apply them; consequences are more entangled than a wisp of +string, and their confusion is unrestingly in change; we must hold to +what we know and walk by it. We must walk by faith, indeed, and not by +knowledge. + +You do not love another because he is wealthy or wise or eminently +respectable: you love him because you love him; that is love, and any +other only a derision and grimace. It should be the same with all our +actions. If we were to conceive a perfect man, it should be one who was +never torn between conflicting impulses, but who, on the absolute consent +of all his parts and faculties, submitted in every action of his life to +a self-dictation as absolute and unreasoned as that which bids him love +one woman and be true to her till death. But we should not conceive him +as sagacious, ascetical, playing off his appetites against each other, +turning the wing of public respectable immorality instead of riding it +directly down, or advancing toward his end through a thousand sinister +compromises and considerations. The one man might be wily, might be +adroit, might be wise, might be respectable, might be gloriously useful; +it is the other man who would be good. + +The soul asks honour and not fame; to be upright, not to be successful; +to be good, not prosperous; to be essentially, not outwardly, +respectable. Does your soul ask profit? Does it ask money? Does it ask +the approval of the indifferent herd? I believe not. For my own part, I +want but little money, I hope; and I do not want to be decent at all, but +to be good. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +We have spoken of that supreme self-dictation which keeps varying from +hour to hour in its dictates with the variation of events and +circumstances. Now, for us, that is ultimate. It may be founded on some +reasonable process, but it is not a process which we can follow or +comprehend. And moreover the dictation is not continuous, or not +continuous except in very lively and well-living natures; and +between-whiles we must brush along without it. Practice is a more +intricate and desperate business than the toughest theorising; life is an +affair of cavalry, where rapid judgment and prompt action are alone +possible and right. As a matter of fact, there is no one so upright but +he is influenced by the world’s chatter; and no one so headlong but he +requires to consider consequences and to keep an eye on profit. For the +soul adopts all affections and appetites without exception, and cares +only to combine them for some common purpose which shall interest all. +Now, respect for the opinion of others, the study of consequences, and +the desire of power and comfort, are all undeniably factors in the nature +of man; and the more undeniably since we find that, in our current +doctrines, they have swallowed up the others and are thought to conclude +in themselves all the worthy parts of man. These, then, must also be +suffered to affect conduct in the practical domain, much or little +according as they are forcibly or feebly present to the mind of each. + +Now, a man’s view of the universe is mostly a view of the civilised +society in which he lives. Other men and women are so much more grossly +and so much more intimately palpable to his perceptions, that they stand +between him and all the rest; they are larger to his eye than the sun, he +hears them more plainly than thunder, with them, by them, and for them, +he must live and die. And hence the laws that affect his intercourse +with his fellow-men, although merely customary and the creatures of a +generation, are more clearly and continually before his mind than those +which bind him into the eternal system of things, support him in his +upright progress on this whirling ball, or keep up the fire of his bodily +life. And hence it is that money stands in the first rank of +considerations and so powerfully affects the choice. For our society is +built with money for mortar; money is present in every joint of +circumstance; it might be named the social atmosphere, since, in society, +it is by that alone that men continue to live, and only through that or +chance that they can reach or affect one another. Money gives us food, +shelter, and privacy; it permits us to be clean in person, opens for us +the doors of the theatre, gains us books for study or pleasure, enables +us to help the distresses of others, and puts us above necessity so that +we can choose the best in life. If we love, it enables us to meet and +live with the loved one, or even to prolong her health and life; if we +have scruples, it gives us an opportunity to be honest; if we have any +bright designs, here is what will smooth the way to their accomplishment. +Penury is the worst slavery, and will soon lead to death. + +But money is only a means; it presupposes a man to use it. The rich can +go where he pleases, but perhaps please himself nowhere. He can buy a +library or visit the whole world, but perhaps has neither patience to +read nor intelligence to see. The table may be loaded and the appetite +wanting; the purse may be full, and the heart empty. He may have gained +the world and lost himself; and with all his wealth around him, in a +great house and spacious and beautiful demesne, he may live as blank a +life as any tattered ditcher. Without an appetite, without an +aspiration, void of appreciation, bankrupt of desire and hope, there, in +his great house, let him sit and look upon his fingers. It is perhaps a +more fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be +born a millionaire. Although neither is to be despised, it is always +better policy to learn an interest than to make a thousand pounds; for +the money will soon be spent, or perhaps you may feel no joy in spending +it; but the interest remains imperishable and ever new. To become a +botanist, a geologist, a social philosopher, an antiquary, or an artist, +is to enlarge one’s possessions in the universe by an incalculably higher +degree, and by a far surer sort of property, than to purchase a farm of +many acres. You had perhaps two thousand a year before the transaction; +perhaps you have two thousand five hundred after it. That represents +your gain in the one case. But in the other, you have thrown down a +barrier which concealed significance and beauty. The blind man has +learned to see. The prisoner has opened up a window in his cell and +beholds enchanting prospects; he will never again be a prisoner as he +was; he can watch clouds and changing seasons, ships on the river, +travellers on the road, and the stars at night; happy prisoner! his eyes +have broken jail! And again he who has learned to love an art or science +has wisely laid up riches against the day of riches; if prosperity come, +he will not enter poor into his inheritance; he will not slumber and +forget himself in the lap of money, or spend his hours in counting idle +treasures, but be up and briskly doing; he will have the true alchemic +touch, which is not that of Midas, but which transmutes dead money into +living delight and satisfaction. _Être et pas avoir_—to be, not to +possess—that is the problem of life. To be wealthy, a rich nature is the +first requisite and money but the second. To be of a quick and healthy +blood, to share in all honourable curiosities, to be rich in admiration +and free from envy, to rejoice greatly in the good of others, to love +with such generosity of heart that your love is still a dear possession +in absence or unkindness—these are the gifts of fortune which money +cannot buy and without which money can buy nothing. For what can a man +possess, or what can he enjoy, except himself? If he enlarge his nature, +it is then that he enlarges his estates. If his nature be happy and +valiant, he will enjoy the universe as if it were his park and orchard. + +But money is not only to be spent; it has also to be earned. It is not +merely a convenience or a necessary in social life; but it is the coin in +which mankind pays his wages to the individual man. And from this side, +the question of money has a very different scope and application. For no +man can be honest who does not work. Service for service. If the farmer +buys corn, and the labourer ploughs and reaps, and the baker sweats in +his hot bakery, plainly you who eat must do something in your turn. It +is not enough to take off your hat, or to thank God upon your knees for +the admirable constitution of society and your own convenient situation +in its upper and more ornamental stories. Neither is it enough to buy +the loaf with a sixpence; for then you are only changing the point of the +inquiry; and you must first have _bought the sixpence_. Service for +service: how have you bought your sixpences? A man of spirit desires +certainty in a thing of such a nature; he must see to it that there is +some reciprocity between him and mankind; that he pays his expenditure in +service; that he has not a lion’s share in profit and a drone’s in +labour; and is not a sleeping partner and mere costly incubus on the +great mercantile concern of mankind. + +Services differ so widely with different gifts, and some are so +inappreciable to external tests, that this is not only a matter for the +private conscience, but one which even there must be leniently and +trustfully considered. For remember how many serve mankind who do no +more than meditate; and how many are precious to their friends for no +more than a sweet and joyous temper. To perform the function of a man of +letters it is not necessary to write; nay, it is perhaps better to be a +living book. So long as we love we serve; so long as we are loved by +others, I would almost say that we are indispensable; and no man is +useless while he has a friend. The true services of life are inestimable +in money, and are never paid. Kind words and caresses, high and wise +thoughts, humane designs, tender behaviour to the weak and suffering, and +all the charities of man’s existence, are neither bought nor sold. + +Yet the dearest and readiest, if not the most just, criterion of a man’s +services, is the wage that mankind pays him or, briefly, what he earns. +There at least there can be no ambiguity. St. Paul is fully and freely +entitled to his earnings as a tentmaker, and Socrates fully and freely +entitled to his earnings as a sculptor, although the true business of +each was not only something different, but something which remained +unpaid. A man cannot forget that he is not superintended, and serves +mankind on parole. He would like, when challenged by his own conscience, +to reply: ‘I have done so much work, and no less, with my own hands and +brain, and taken so much profit, and no more, for my own personal +delight.’ And though St. Paul, if he had possessed a private fortune, +would probably have scorned to waste his time in making tents, yet of all +sacrifices to public opinion none can be more easily pardoned than that +by which a man, already spiritually useful to the world, should restrict +the field of his chief usefulness to perform services more apparent, and +possess a livelihood that neither stupidity nor malice could call in +question. Like all sacrifices to public opinion and mere external +decency, this would certainly be wrong; for the soul should rest +contented with its own approval and indissuadably pursue its own calling. +Yet, so grave and delicate is the question, that a man may well hesitate +before he decides it for himself; he may well fear that he sets too high +a valuation on his own endeavours after good; he may well condescend upon +a humbler duty, where others than himself shall judge the service and +proportion the wage. + +And yet it is to this very responsibility that the rich are born. They +can shuffle off the duty on no other; they are their own paymasters on +parole; and must pay themselves fair wages and no more. For I suppose +that in the course of ages, and through reform and civil war and +invasion, mankind was pursuing some other and more general design than to +set one or two Englishmen of the nineteenth century beyond the reach of +needs and duties. Society was scarce put together, and defended with so +much eloquence and blood, for the convenience of two or three +millionaires and a few hundred other persons of wealth and position. It +is plain that if mankind thus acted and suffered during all these +generations, they hoped some benefit, some ease, some wellbeing, for +themselves and their descendants; that if they supported law and order, +it was to secure fair-play for all; that if they denied themselves in the +present, they must have had some designs upon the future. Now, a great +hereditary fortune is a miracle of man’s wisdom and mankind’s +forbearance; it has not only been amassed and handed down, it has been +suffered to be amassed and handed down; and surely in such a +consideration as this, its possessor should find only a new spur to +activity and honour, that with all this power of service he should not +prove unserviceable, and that this mass of treasure should return in +benefits upon the race. If he had twenty, or thirty, or a hundred +thousand at his banker’s, or if all Yorkshire or all California were his +to manage or to sell, he would still be morally penniless, and have the +world to begin like Whittington, until he had found some way of serving +mankind. His wage is physically in his own hand; but, in honour, that +wage must still be earned. He is only steward on parole of what is +called his fortune. He must honourably perform his stewardship. He must +estimate his own services and allow himself a salary in proportion, for +that will be one among his functions. And while he will then be free to +spend that salary, great or little, on his own private pleasures, the +rest of his fortune he but holds and disposes under trust for mankind; it +is not his, because he has not earned it; it cannot be his, because his +services have already been paid; but year by year it is his to +distribute, whether to help individuals whose birthright and outfit have +been swallowed up in his, or to further public works and institutions. + +At this rate, short of inspiration, it seems hardly possible to be both +rich and honest; and the millionaire is under a far more continuous +temptation to thieve than the labourer who gets his shilling daily for +despicable toils. Are you surprised? It is even so. And you repeat it +every Sunday in your churches. ‘It is easier for a camel to pass through +the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.’ I +have heard this and similar texts ingeniously explained away and brushed +from the path of the aspiring Christian by the tender Great-heart of the +parish. One excellent clergyman told us that the ‘eye of a needle’ meant +a low, Oriental postern through which camels could not pass till they +were unloaded—which is very likely just; and then went on, bravely +confounding the ‘kingdom of God’ with heaven, the future paradise, to +show that of course no rich person could expect to carry his riches +beyond the grave—which, of course, he could not and never did. Various +greedy sinners of the congregation drank in the comfortable doctrine with +relief. It was worth the while having come to church that Sunday +morning! All was plain. The Bible, as usual, meant nothing in +particular; it was merely an obscure and figurative school-copybook; and +if a man were only respectable, he was a man after God’s own heart. + +Alas! I fear not. And though this matter of a man’s services is one for +his own conscience, there are some cases in which it is difficult to +restrain the mind from judging. Thus I shall be very easily persuaded +that a man has earned his daily bread; and if he has but a friend or two +to whom his company is delightful at heart, I am more than persuaded at +once. But it will be very hard to persuade me that any one has earned an +income of a hundred thousand. What he is to his friends, he still would +be if he were made penniless to-morrow; for as to the courtiers of luxury +and power, I will neither consider them friends, nor indeed consider them +at all. What he does for mankind there are most likely hundreds who +would do the same, as effectually for the race and as pleasurably to +themselves, for the merest fraction of this monstrous wage. Why it is +paid, I am, therefore, unable to conceive, and as the man pays it +himself, out of funds in his detention, I have a certain backwardness to +think him honest. + +At least, we have gained a very obvious point: that _what a man spends +upon himself_, _he shall have earned by services to the race_. Thence +flows a principle for the outset of life, which is a little different +from that taught in the present day. I am addressing the middle and the +upper classes; those who have already been fostered and prepared for life +at some expense; those who have some choice before them, and can pick +professions; and above all, those who are what is called independent, and +need do nothing unless pushed by honour or ambition. In this particular +the poor are happy; among them, when a lad comes to his strength, he must +take the work that offers, and can take it with an easy conscience. But +in the richer classes the question is complicated by the number of +opportunities and a variety of considerations. Here, then, this +principle of ours comes in helpfully. The young man has to seek, not a +road to wealth, but an opportunity of service; not money, but honest +work. If he has some strong propensity, some calling of nature, some +over-weening interest in any special field of industry, inquiry, or art, +he will do right to obey the impulse; and that for two reasons: the first +external, because there he will render the best services; the second +personal, because a demand of his own nature is to him without appeal +whenever it can be satisfied with the consent of his other faculties and +appetites. If he has no such elective taste, by the very principle on +which he chooses any pursuit at all he must choose the most honest and +serviceable, and not the most highly remunerated. We have here an +external problem, not from or to ourself, but flowing from the +constitution of society; and we have our own soul with its fixed design +of righteousness. All that can be done is to present the problem in +proper terms, and leave it to the soul of the individual. Now, the +problem to the poor is one of necessity: to earn wherewithal to live, +they must find remunerative labour. But the problem to the rich is one +of honour: having the wherewithal, they must find serviceable labour. +Each has to earn his daily bread: the one, because he has not yet got it +to eat; the other, who has already eaten it, because he has not yet +earned it. + +Of course, what is true of bread is true of luxuries and comforts, +whether for the body or the mind. But the consideration of luxuries +leads us to a new aspect of the whole question, and to a second +proposition no less true, and maybe no less startling, than the last. + +At the present day, we, of the easier classes, are in a state of surfeit +and disgrace after meat. Plethora has filled us with indifference; and +we are covered from head to foot with the callosities of habitual +opulence. Born into what is called a certain rank, we live, as the +saying is, up to our station. We squander without enjoyment, because our +fathers squandered. We eat of the best, not from delicacy, but from +brazen habit. We do not keenly enjoy or eagerly desire the presence of a +luxury; we are unaccustomed to its absence. And not only do we squander +money from habit, but still more pitifully waste it in ostentation. I +can think of no more melancholy disgrace for a creature who professes +either reason or pleasure for his guide, than to spend the smallest +fraction of his income upon that which he does not desire; and to keep a +carriage in which you do not wish to drive, or a butler of whom you are +afraid, is a pathetic kind of folly. Money, being a means of happiness, +should make both parties happy when it changes hands; rightly disposed, +it should be twice blessed in its employment; and buyer and seller should +alike have their twenty shillings worth of profit out of every pound. +Benjamin Franklin went through life an altered man, because he once paid +too dearly for a penny whistle. My concern springs usually from a deeper +source, to wit, from having bought a whistle when I did not want one. I +find I regret this, or would regret it if I gave myself the time, not +only on personal but on moral and philanthropical considerations. For, +first, in a world where money is wanting to buy books for eager students +and food and medicine for pining children, and where a large majority are +starved in their most immediate desires, it is surely base, stupid, and +cruel to squander money when I am pushed by no appetite and enjoy no +return of genuine satisfaction. My philanthropy is wide enough in scope +to include myself; and when I have made myself happy, I have at least one +good argument that I have acted rightly; but where that is not so, and I +have bought and not enjoyed, my mouth is closed, and I conceive that I +have robbed the poor. And, second, anything I buy or use which I do not +sincerely want or cannot vividly enjoy, disturbs the balance of supply +and demand, and contributes to remove industrious hands from the +production of what is useful or pleasurable and to keep them busy upon +ropes of sand and things that are a weariness to the flesh. That +extravagance is truly sinful, and a very silly sin to boot, in which we +impoverish mankind and ourselves. It is another question for each man’s +heart. He knows if he can enjoy what he buys and uses; if he cannot, he +is a dog in the manger; nay, it he cannot, I contend he is a thief, for +nothing really belongs to a man which he cannot use. Proprietor is +connected with propriety; and that only is the man’s which is proper to +his wants and faculties. + +A youth, in choosing a career, must not be alarmed by poverty. Want is a +sore thing, but poverty does not imply want. It remains to be seen +whether with half his present income, or a third, he cannot, in the most +generous sense, live as fully as at present. He is a fool who objects to +luxuries; but he is also a fool who does not protest against the waste of +luxuries on those who do not desire and cannot enjoy them. It remains to +be seen, by each man who would live a true life to himself and not a +merely specious life to society, how many luxuries he truly wants and to +how many he merely submits as to a social propriety; and all these last +he will immediately forswear. Let him do this, and he will be surprised +to find how little money it requires to keep him in complete contentment +and activity of mind and senses. Life at any level among the easy +classes is conceived upon a principle of rivalry, where each man and each +household must ape the tastes and emulate the display of others. One is +delicate in eating, another in wine, a third in furniture or works of art +or dress; and I, who care nothing for any of these refinements, who am +perhaps a plain athletic creature and love exercise, beef, beer, flannel +shirts and a camp bed, am yet called upon to assimilate all these other +tastes and make these foreign occasions of expenditure my own. It may be +cynical: I am sure I shall be told it is selfish; but I will spend my +money as I please and for my own intimate personal gratification, and +should count myself a nincompoop indeed to lay out the colour of a +halfpenny on any fancied social decency or duty. I shall not wear gloves +unless my hands are cold, or unless I am born with a delight in them. +Dress is my own affair, and that of one other in the world; that, in fact +and for an obvious reason, of any woman who shall chance to be in love +with me. I shall lodge where I have a mind. If I do not ask society to +live with me, they must be silent; and even if I do, they have no further +right but to refuse the invitation! There is a kind of idea abroad that +a man must live up to his station, that his house, his table, and his +toilette, shall be in a ratio of equivalence, and equally imposing to the +world. If this is in the Bible, the passage has eluded my inquiries. If +it is not in the Bible, it is nowhere but in the heart of the fool. +Throw aside this fancy. See what you want, and spend upon that; +distinguish what you do not care about, and spend nothing upon that. +There are not many people who can differentiate wines above a certain and +that not at all a high price. Are you sure you are one of these? Are +you sure you prefer cigars at sixpence each to pipes at some fraction of +a farthing? Are you sure you wish to keep a gig? Do you care about +where you sleep, or are you not as much at your ease in a cheap lodging +as in an Elizabethan manor-house? Do you enjoy fine clothes? It is not +possible to answer these questions without a trial; and there is nothing +more obvious to my mind, than that a man who has not experienced some ups +and downs, and been forced to live more cheaply than in his father’s +house, has still his education to begin. Let the experiment be made, and +he will find to his surprise that he has been eating beyond his appetite +up to that hour; that the cheap lodging, the cheap tobacco, the rough +country clothes, the plain table, have not only no power to damp his +spirits, but perhaps give him as keen pleasure in the using as the +dainties that he took, betwixt sleep and waking, in his former callous +and somnambulous submission to wealth. + +The true Bohemian, a creature lost to view under the imaginary Bohemians +of literature, is exactly described by such a principle of life. The +Bohemian of the novel, who drinks more than is good for him and prefers +anything to work, and wears strange clothes, is for the most part a +respectable Bohemian, respectable in disrespectability, living for the +outside, and an adventurer. But the man I mean lives wholly to himself, +does what he wishes, and not what is thought proper, buys what he wants +for himself, and not what is thought proper, works at what he believes he +can do well and not what will bring him in money or favour. You may be +the most respectable of men, and yet a true Bohemian. And the test is +this: a Bohemian, for as poor as he may be, is always open-handed to his +friends; he knows what he can do with money and how he can do without it, +a far rarer and more useful knowledge; he has had less, and continued to +live in some contentment; and hence he cares not to keep more, and shares +his sovereign or his shilling with a friend. The poor, if they are +generous, are Bohemian in virtue of their birth. Do you know where +beggars go? Not to the great houses where people sit dazed among their +thousands, but to the doors of poor men who have seen the world; and it +was the widow who had only two mites, who cast half her fortune into the +treasury. + +But a young man who elects to save on dress or on lodging, or who in any +way falls out of the level of expenditure which is common to his level in +society, falls out of society altogether. I suppose the young man to +have chosen his career on honourable principles; he finds his talents and +instincts can be best contented in a certain pursuit; in a certain +industry, he is sure that he is serving mankind with a healthy and +becoming service; and he is not sure that he would be doing so, or doing +so equally well, in any other industry within his reach. Then that is +his true sphere in life; not the one in which he was born to his father, +but the one which is proper to his talents and instincts. And suppose he +does fall out of society, is that a cause of sorrow? Is your heart so +dead that you prefer the recognition of many to the love of a few? Do +you think society loves you? Put it to the proof. Decline in material +expenditure, and you will find they care no more for you than for the +Khan of Tartary. You will lose no friends. If you had any, you will +keep them. Only those who were friends to your coat and equipage will +disappear; the smiling faces will disappear as by enchantment; but the +kind hearts will remain steadfastly kind. Are you so lost, are you so +dead, are you so little sure of your own soul and your own footing upon +solid fact, that you prefer before goodness and happiness the countenance +of sundry diners-out, who will flee from you at a report of ruin, who +will drop you with insult at a shadow of disgrace, who do not know you +and do not care to know you but by sight, and whom you in your turn +neither know nor care to know in a more human manner? Is it not the +principle of society, openly avowed, that friendship must not interfere +with business; which being paraphrased, means simply that a consideration +of money goes before any consideration of affection known to this +cold-blooded gang, that they have not even the honour of thieves, and +will rook their nearest and dearest as readily as a stranger? I hope I +would go as far as most to serve a friend; but I declare openly I would +not put on my hat to do a pleasure to society. I may starve my appetites +and control my temper for the sake of those I love; but society shall +take me as I choose to be, or go without me. Neither they nor I will +lose; for where there is no love, it is both laborious and unprofitable +to associate. + +But it is obvious that if it is only right for a man to spend money on +that which he can truly and thoroughly enjoy, the doctrine applies with +equal force to the rich and to the poor, to the man who has amassed many +thousands as well as to the youth precariously beginning life. And it +may be asked, Is not this merely preparing misers, who are not the best +of company? But the principle was this: that which a man has not fairly +earned, and, further, that which he cannot fully enjoy, does not belong +to him, but is a part of mankind’s treasure which he holds as steward on +parole. To mankind, then, it must be made profitable; and how this +should be done is, once more, a problem which each man must solve for +himself, and about which none has a right to judge him. Yet there are a +few considerations which are very obvious and may here be stated. +Mankind is not only the whole in general, but every one in particular. +Every man or woman is one of mankind’s dear possessions; to his or her +just brain, and kind heart, and active hands, mankind intrusts some of +its hopes for the future; he or she is a possible well-spring of good +acts and source of blessings to the race. This money which you do not +need, which, in a rigid sense, you do not want, may therefore be returned +not only in public benefactions to the race, but in private kindnesses. +Your wife, your children, your friends stand nearest to you, and should +be helped the first. There at least there can be little imposture, for +you know their necessities of your own knowledge. And consider, if all +the world did as you did, and according to their means extended help in +the circle of their affections, there would be no more crying want in +times of plenty and no more cold, mechanical charity given with a doubt +and received with confusion. Would not this simple rule make a new world +out of the old and cruel one which we inhabit? + + * * * * * + + [_After two more sentences the fragment breaks off_.] + + + + +FATHER DAMIEN +AN OPEN LETTER TO THE REVEREND DR. HYDE OF HONOLULU + + + SYDNEY, + _February_ 25, 1890. + +Sir,—It may probably occur to you that we have met, and visited, and +conversed; on my side, with interest. You may remember that you have +done me several courtesies, for which I was prepared to be grateful. But +there are duties which come before gratitude, and offences which justly +divide friends, far more acquaintances. Your letter to the Reverend H. +B. Gage is a document which, in my sight, if you had filled me with bread +when I was starving, if you had sat up to nurse my father when he lay +a-dying, would yet absolve me from the bonds of gratitude. You know +enough, doubtless, of the process of canonisation to be aware that, a +hundred years after the death of Damien, there will appear a man charged +with the painful office of the _devil’s advocate_. After that noble +brother of mine, and of all frail clay, shall have lain a century at +rest, one shall accuse, one defend him. The circumstance is unusual that +the devil’s advocate should be a volunteer, should be a member of a sect +immediately rival, and should make haste to take upon himself his ugly +office ere the bones are cold; unusual, and of a taste which I shall +leave my readers free to qualify; unusual, and to me inspiring. If I +have at all learned the trade of using words to convey truth and to +arouse emotion, you have at last furnished me with a subject. For it is +in the interest of all mankind, and the cause of public decency in every +quarter of the world, not only that Damien should be righted, but that +you and your letter should be displayed at length, in their true colours, +to the public eye. + +To do this properly, I must begin by quoting you at large: I shall then +proceed to criticise your utterance from several points of view, divine +and human, in the course of which I shall attempt to draw again, and with +more specification, the character of the dead saint whom it has pleased +you to vilify: so much being done, I shall say farewell to you for ever. + + ‘HONOLULU, + ‘_August_ 2, 1889. + + ‘Rev. H. B. GAGE. + + ‘Dear Brother,—In answer to your inquiries about Father Damien, I can + only reply that we who knew the man are surprised at the extravagant + newspaper laudations, as if he was a most saintly philanthropist. + The simple truth is, he was a coarse, dirty man, head-strong and + bigoted. He was not sent to Molokai, but went there without orders; + did not stay at the leper settlement (before he became one himself), + but circulated freely over the whole island (less than half the + island is devoted to the lepers), and he came often to Honolulu. He + had no hand in the reforms and improvements inaugurated, which were + the work of our Board of Health, as occasion required and means were + provided. He was not a pure man in his relations with women, and the + leprosy of which he died should be attributed to his vices and + carelessness. Others have done much for the lepers, our own + ministers, the government physicians, and so forth, but never with + the Catholic idea of meriting eternal life.—Yours, etc., + + ‘C. M. HYDE.’ {65} + +To deal fitly with a letter so extraordinary, I must draw at the outset +on my private knowledge of the signatory and his sect. It may offend +others; scarcely you, who have been so busy to collect, so bold to +publish, gossip on your rivals. And this is perhaps the moment when I +may best explain to you the character of what you are to read: I conceive +you as a man quite beyond and below the reticences of civility: with what +measure you mete, with that shall it be measured you again; with you, at +last, I rejoice to feel the button off the foil and to plunge home. And +if in aught that I shall say I should offend others, your colleagues, +whom I respect and remember with affection, I can but offer them my +regret; I am not free, I am inspired by the consideration of interests +far more large; and such pain as can be inflicted by anything from me +must be indeed trifling when compared with the pain with which they read +your letter. It is not the hangman, but the criminal, that brings +dishonour on the house. + +You belong, sir, to a sect—I believe my sect, and that in which my +ancestors laboured—which has enjoyed, and partly failed to utilise, an +exceptional advantage in the islands of Hawaii. The first missionaries +came; they found the land already self-purged of its old and bloody +faith; they were embraced, almost on their arrival, with enthusiasm; what +troubles they supported came far more from whites than from Hawaiians; +and to these last they stood (in a rough figure) in the shoes of God. +This is not the place to enter into the degree or causes of their +failure, such as it is. One element alone is pertinent, and must here be +plainly dealt with. In the course of their evangelical calling, they—or +too many of them—grew rich. It may be news to you that the houses of +missionaries are a cause of mocking on the streets of Honolulu. It will +at least be news to you, that when I returned your civil visit, the +driver of my cab commented on the size, the taste, and the comfort of +your home. It would have been news certainly to myself, had any one told +me that afternoon that I should live to drag such matter into print. But +you see, sir, how you degrade better men to your own level; and it is +needful that those who are to judge betwixt you and me, betwixt Damien +and the devil’s advocate, should understand your letter to have been +penned in a house which could raise, and that very justly, the envy and +the comments of the passers-by. I think (to employ a phrase of yours +which I admire) it ‘should be attributed’ to you that you have never +visited the scene of Damien’s life and death. If you had, and had +recalled it, and looked about your pleasant rooms, even your pen perhaps +would have been stayed. + +Your sect (and remember, as far as any sect avows me, it is mine) has not +done ill in a worldly sense in the Hawaiian Kingdom. When calamity +befell their innocent parishioners, when leprosy descended and took root +in the Eight Islands, a _quid pro quo_ was to be looked for. To that +prosperous mission, and to you, as one of its adornments, God had sent at +last an opportunity. I know I am touching here upon a nerve acutely +sensitive. I know that others of your colleagues look back on the +inertia of your Church, and the intrusive and decisive heroism of Damien, +with something almost to be called remorse. I am sure it is so with +yourself; I am persuaded your letter was inspired by a certain envy, not +essentially ignoble, and the one human trait to be espied in that +performance. You were thinking of the lost chance, the past day; of that +which should have been conceived and was not; of the service due and not +rendered. Time was, said the voice in your ear, in your pleasant room, +as you sat raging and writing; and if the words written were base beyond +parallel, the rage, I am happy to repeat—it is the only compliment I +shall pay you—the rage was almost virtuous. But, sir, when we have +failed, and another has succeeded; when we have stood by, and another has +stepped in; when we sit and grow bulky in our charming mansions, and a +plain, uncouth peasant steps into the battle, under the eyes of God, and +succours the afflicted, and consoles the dying, and is himself afflicted +in his turn, and dies upon the field of honour—the battle cannot be +retrieved as your unhappy irritation has suggested. It is a lost battle, +and lost for ever. One thing remained to you in your defeat—some rags of +common honour; and these you have made haste to cast away. + +Common honour; not the honour of having done anything right, but the +honour of not having done aught conspicuously foul; the honour of the +inert: that was what remained to you. We are not all expected to be +Damiens; a man may conceive his duty more narrowly, he may love his +comforts better; and none will cast a stone at him for that. But will a +gentleman of your reverend profession allow me an example from the fields +of gallantry? When two gentlemen compete for the favour of a lady, and +the one succeeds and the other is rejected, and (as will sometimes +happen) matter damaging to the successful rival’s credit reaches the ear +of the defeated, it is held by plain men of no pretensions that his mouth +is, in the circumstance, almost necessarily closed. Your Church and +Damien’s were in Hawaii upon a rivalry to do well: to help, to edify, to +set divine examples. You having (in one huge instance) failed, and +Damien succeeded, I marvel it should not have occurred to you that you +were doomed to silence; that when you had been outstripped in that high +rivalry, and sat inglorious in the midst of your wellbeing, in your +pleasant room—and Damien, crowned with glories and horrors, toiled and +rotted in that pigsty of his under the cliffs of Kalawao—you, the elect +who would not, were the last man on earth to collect and propagate gossip +on the volunteer who would and did. + +I think I see you—for I try to see you in the flesh as I write these +sentences—I think I see you leap at the word pigsty, a hyperbolical +expression at the best. ‘He had no hand in the reforms,’ he was ‘a +coarse, dirty man’; these were your own words; and you may think it +possible that I am come to support you with fresh evidence. In a sense, +it is even so. Damien has been too much depicted with a conventional +halo and conventional features; so drawn by men who perhaps had not the +eye to remark or the pen to express the individual; or who perhaps were +only blinded and silenced by generous admiration, such as I partly envy +for myself—such as you, if your soul were enlightened, would envy on your +bended knees. It is the least defect of such a method of portraiture +that it makes the path easy for the devil’s advocate, and leaves for the +misuse of the slanderer a considerable field of truth. For the truth +that is suppressed by friends is the readiest weapon of the enemy. The +world, in your despite, may perhaps owe you something, if your letter be +the means of substituting once for all a credible likeness for a wax +abstraction. For, if that world at all remember you, on the day when +Damien of Molokai shall be named Saint, it will be in virtue of one work: +your letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage. + +You may ask on what authority I speak. It was my inclement destiny to +become acquainted, not with Damien, but with Dr. Hyde. When I visited +the lazaretto, Damien was already in his resting grave. But such +information as I have, I gathered on the spot in conversation with those +who knew him well and long: some indeed who revered his memory; but +others who had sparred and wrangled with him, who beheld him with no +halo, who perhaps regarded him with small respect, and through whose +unprepared and scarcely partial communications the plain, human features +of the man shone on me convincingly. These gave me what knowledge I +possess; and I learnt it in that scene where it could be most completely +and sensitively understood—Kalawao, which you have never visited, about +which you have never so much as endeavoured to inform yourself; for, +brief as your letter is, you have found the means to stumble into that +confession. ‘_Less than one-half_ of the island,’ you say, ‘is devoted +to the lepers.’ Molokai—‘_Molokai ahina_,’ the ‘grey,’ lofty, and most +desolate island—along all its northern side plunges a front of precipice +into a sea of unusual profundity. This range of cliff is, from east to +west, the true end and frontier of the island. Only in one spot there +projects into the ocean a certain triangular and rugged down, grassy, +stony, windy, and rising in the midst into a hill with a dead crater: the +whole bearing to the cliff that overhangs it somewhat the same relation +as a bracket to a wall. With this hint you will now be able to pick out +the leper station on a map; you will be able to judge how much of Molokai +is thus cut off between the surf and precipice, whether less than a half, +or less than a quarter, or a fifth, or a tenth—or, say, a twentieth; and +the next time you burst into print you will be in a position to share +with us the issue of your calculations. + +I imagine you to be one of those persons who talk with cheerfulness of +that place which oxen and wain-ropes could not drag you to behold. You, +who do not even know its situation on the map, probably denounce +sensational descriptions, stretching your limbs the while in your +pleasant parlour on Beretania Street. When I was pulled ashore there one +early morning, there sat with me in the boat two sisters, bidding +farewell (in humble imitation of Damien) to the lights and joys of human +life. One of these wept silently; I could not withhold myself from +joining her. Had you been there, it is my belief that nature would have +triumphed even in you; and as the boat drew but a little nearer, and you +beheld the stairs crowded with abominable deformations of our common +manhood, and saw yourself landing in the midst of such a population as +only now and then surrounds us in the horror of a nightmare—what a +haggard eye you would have rolled over your reluctant shoulder towards +the house on Beretania Street! Had you gone on; had you found every +fourth face a blot upon the landscape; had you visited the hospital and +seen the butt-ends of human beings lying there almost unrecognisable, but +still breathing, still thinking, still remembering; you would have +understood that life in the lazaretto is an ordeal from which the nerves +of a man’s spirit shrink, even as his eye quails under the brightness of +the sun; you would have felt it was (even to-day) a pitiful place to +visit and a hell to dwell in. It is not the fear of possible infection. +That seems a little thing when compared with the pain, the pity, and the +disgust of the visitor’s surroundings, and the atmosphere of affliction, +disease, and physical disgrace in which he breathes. I do not think I am +a man more than usually timid; but I never recall the days and nights I +spent upon that island promontory (eight days and seven nights), without +heartfelt thankfulness that I am somewhere else. I find in my diary that +I speak of my stay as a ‘grinding experience’: I have once jotted in the +margin, ‘_Harrowing_ is the word’; and when the _Mokolii_ bore me at last +towards the outer world, I kept repeating to myself, with a new +conception of their pregnancy, those simple words of the song— + + ‘’Tis the most distressful country that ever yet was seen.’ + +And observe: that which I saw and suffered from was a settlement purged, +bettered, beautified; the new village built, the hospital and the +Bishop-Home excellently arranged; the sisters, the doctor, and the +missionaries, all indefatigable in their noble tasks. It was a different +place when Damien came there and made his great renunciation, and slept +that first night under a tree amidst his rotting brethren: alone with +pestilence; and looking forward (with what courage, with what pitiful +sinkings of dread, God only knows) to a lifetime of dressing sores and +stumps. + +You will say, perhaps, I am too sensitive, that sights as painful abound +in cancer hospitals and are confronted daily by doctors and nurses. I +have long learned to admire and envy the doctors and the nurses. But +there is no cancer hospital so large and populous as Kalawao and +Kalaupapa; and in such a matter every fresh case, like every inch of +length in the pipe of an organ, deepens the note of the impression; for +what daunts the onlooker is that monstrous sum of human suffering by +which he stands surrounded. Lastly, no doctor or nurse is called upon to +enter once for all the doors of that gehenna; they do not say farewell, +they need not abandon hope, on its sad threshold; they but go for a time +to their high calling, and can look forward as they go to relief, to +recreation, and to rest. But Damien shut-to with his own hand the doors +of his own sepulchre. + +I shall now extract three passages from my diary at Kalawao. + +_A_. ‘Damien is dead and already somewhat ungratefully remembered in the +field of his labours and sufferings. “He was a good man, but very +officious,” says one. Another tells me he had fallen (as other priests +so easily do) into something of the ways and habits of thought of a +Kanaka; but he had the wit to recognise the fact, and the good sense to +laugh at’ [over] ‘it. A plain man it seems he was; I cannot find he was +a popular.’ + +_B_. ‘After Ragsdale’s death’ [Ragsdale was a famous Luna, or overseer, +of the unruly settlement] ‘there followed a brief term of office by +Father Damien which served only to publish the weakness of that noble +man. He was rough in his ways, and he had no control. Authority was +relaxed; Damien’s life was threatened, and he was soon eager to resign.’ + +_C_. ‘Of Damien I begin to have an idea. He seems to have been a man of +the peasant class, certainly of the peasant type: shrewd, ignorant and +bigoted, yet with an open mind, and capable of receiving and digesting a +reproof if it were bluntly administered; superbly generous in the least +thing as well as in the greatest, and as ready to give his last shirt +(although not without human grumbling) as he had been to sacrifice his +life; essentially indiscreet and officious, which made him a troublesome +colleague; domineering in all his ways, which made him incurably +unpopular with the Kanakas, but yet destitute of real authority, so that +his boys laughed at him and he must carry out his wishes by the means of +bribes. He learned to have a mania for doctoring; and set up the Kanakas +against the remedies of his regular rivals: perhaps (if anything matter +at all in the treatment of such a disease) the worst thing that he did, +and certainly the easiest. The best and worst of the man appear very +plainly in his dealings with Mr. Chapman’s money; he had originally laid +it out’ [intended to lay it out] ‘entirely for the benefit of Catholics, +and even so not wisely; but after a long, plain talk, he admitted his +error fully and revised the list. The sad state of the boys’ home is in +part the result of his lack of control; in part, of his own slovenly ways +and false ideas of hygiene. Brother officials used to call it “Damien’s +Chinatown.” “Well,” they would say, “your China-town keeps growing.” +And he would laugh with perfect good-nature, and adhere to his errors +with perfect obstinacy. So much I have gathered of truth about this +plain, noble human brother and father of ours; his imperfections are the +traits of his face, by which we know him for our fellow; his martyrdom +and his example nothing can lessen or annul; and only a person here on +the spot can properly appreciate their greatness.’ + +I have set down these private passages, as you perceive, without +correction; thanks to you, the public has them in their bluntness. They +are almost a list of the man’s faults, for it is rather these that I was +seeking: with his virtues, with the heroic profile of his life, I and the +world were already sufficiently acquainted. I was besides a little +suspicious of Catholic testimony; in no ill sense, but merely because +Damien’s admirers and disciples were the least likely to be critical. I +know you will be more suspicious still; and the facts set down above were +one and all collected from the lips of Protestants who had opposed the +father in his life. Yet I am strangely deceived, or they build up the +image of a man, with all his weaknesses, essentially heroic, and alive +with rugged honesty, generosity, and mirth. + +Take it for what it is, rough private jottings of the worst sides of +Damien’s character, collected from the lips of those who had laboured +with and (in your own phrase) ‘knew the man’;—though I question whether +Damien would have said that he knew you. Take it, and observe with +wonder how well you were served by your gossips, how ill by your +intelligence and sympathy; in how many points of fact we are at one, and +how widely our appreciations vary. There is something wrong here; either +with you or me. It is possible, for instance, that you, who seem to have +so many ears in Kalawao, had heard of the affair of Mr. Chapman’s money, +and were singly struck by Damien’s intended wrong-doing. I was struck +with that also, and set it fairly down; but I was struck much more by the +fact that he had the honesty of mind to be convinced. I may here tell +you that it was a long business; that one of his colleagues sat with him +late into the night, multiplying arguments and accusations; that the +father listened as usual with ‘perfect good-nature and perfect +obstinacy’; but at the last, when he was persuaded—‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I am +very much obliged to you; you have done me a service; it would have been +a theft.’ There are many (not Catholics merely) who require their heroes +and saints to be infallible; to these the story will be painful; not to +the true lovers, patrons, and servants of mankind. + +And I take it, this is a type of our division; that you are one of those +who have an eye for faults and failures; that you take a pleasure to find +and publish them; and that, having found them, you make haste to forget +the overvailing virtues and the real success which had alone introduced +them to your knowledge. It is a dangerous frame of mind. That you may +understand how dangerous, and into what a situation it has already +brought you, we will (if you please) go hand-in-hand through the +different phrases of your letter, and candidly examine each from the +point of view of its truth, its appositeness, and its charity. + +Damien was _coarse_. + +It is very possible. You make us sorry for the lepers, who had only a +coarse old peasant for their friend and father. But you, who were so +refined, why were you not there, to cheer them with the lights of +culture? Or may I remind you that we have some reason to doubt if John +the Baptist were genteel; and in the case of Peter, on whose career you +doubtless dwell approvingly in the pulpit, no doubt at all he was a +‘coarse, headstrong’ fisherman! Yet even in our Protestant Bibles Peter +is called Saint. + +Damien was _dirty_. + +He was. Think of the poor lepers annoyed with this dirty comrade! But +the clean Dr. Hyde was at his food in a fine house. + +Damien was _headstrong_. + +I believe you are right again; and I thank God for his strong head and +heart. + +Damien was _bigoted_. + +I am not fond of bigots myself, because they are not fond of me. But +what is meant by bigotry, that we should regard it as a blemish in a +priest? Damien believed his own religion with the simplicity of a +peasant or a child; as I would I could suppose that you do. For this, I +wonder at him some way off; and had that been his only character, should +have avoided him in life. But the point of interest in Damien, which has +caused him to be so much talked about and made him at last the subject of +your pen and mine, was that, in him, his bigotry, his intense and narrow +faith, wrought potently for good, and strengthened him to be one of the +world’s heroes and exemplars. + +Damien _was not sent to Molokai_, _but went there without orders_. + +Is this a misreading? or do you really mean the words for blame? I have +heard Christ, in the pulpits of our Church, held up for imitation on the +ground that His sacrifice was voluntary. Does Dr. Hyde think otherwise? + +Damien _did not stay at the settlement_, _etc._ + +It is true he was allowed many indulgences. Am I to understand that you +blame the father for profiting by these, or the officers for granting +them? In either case, it is a mighty Spartan standard to issue from the +house on Beretania Street; and I am convinced you will find yourself with +few supporters. + +Damien _had no hand in the reforms_, _etc._ + +I think even you will admit that I have already been frank in my +description of the man I am defending; but before I take you up upon this +head, I will be franker still, and tell you that perhaps nowhere in the +world can a man taste a more pleasurable sense of contrast than when he +passes from Damien’s ‘Chinatown’ at Kalawao to the beautiful Bishop-Home +at Kalaupapa. At this point, in my desire to make all fair for you, I +will break my rule and adduce Catholic testimony. Here is a passage from +my diary about my visit to the Chinatown, from which you will see how it +is (even now) regarded by its own officials: ‘We went round all the +dormitories, refectories, etc.—dark and dingy enough, with a superficial +cleanliness, which he’ [Mr. Dutton, the lay-brother] ‘did not seek to +defend. “It is almost decent,” said he; “the sisters will make that all +right when we get them here.”’ And yet I gathered it was already better +since Damien was dead, and far better than when he was there alone and +had his own (not always excellent) way. I have now come far enough to +meet you on a common ground of fact; and I tell you that, to a mind not +prejudiced by jealousy, all the reforms of the lazaretto, and even those +which he most vigorously opposed, are properly the work of Damien. They +are the evidence of his success; they are what his heroism provoked from +the reluctant and the careless. Many were before him in the field; Mr. +Meyer, for instance, of whose faithful work we hear too little: there +have been many since; and some had more worldly wisdom, though none had +more devotion, than our saint. Before his day, even you will confess, +they had effected little. It was his part, by one striking act of +martyrdom, to direct all men’s eyes on that distressful country. At a +blow, and with the price of his life, he made the place illustrious and +public. And that, if you will consider largely, was the one reform +needful; pregnant of all that should succeed. It brought money; it +brought (best individual addition of them all) the sisters; it brought +supervision, for public opinion and public interest landed with the man +at Kalawao. If ever any man brought reforms, and died to bring them, it +was he. There is not a clean cup or towel in the Bishop-Home, but dirty +Damien washed it. + +Damien _was not a pure man in his relations with women_, _etc._ + +How do you know that? Is this the nature of the conversation in that +house on Beretania Street which the cabman envied, driving past?—racy +details of the misconduct of the poor peasant priest, toiling under the +cliffs of Molokai? + +Many have visited the station before me; they seem not to have heard the +rumour. When I was there I heard many shocking tales, for my informants +were men speaking with the plainness of the laity; and I heard plenty of +complaints of Damien. Why was this never mentioned? and how came it to +you in the retirement of your clerical parlour? + +But I must not even seem to deceive you. This scandal, when I read it in +your letter, was not new to me. I had heard it once before; and I must +tell you how. There came to Samoa a man from Honolulu; he, in a +public-house on the beach, volunteered the statement that Damien had +‘contracted the disease from having connection with the female lepers’; +and I find a joy in telling you how the report was welcomed in a +public-house. A man sprang to his feet; I am not at liberty to give his +name, but from what I heard I doubt if you would care to have him to +dinner in Beretania Street. ‘You miserable little—’ (here is a word I +dare not print, it would so shock your ears). ‘You miserable little—,’ +he cried, ‘if the story were a thousand times true, can’t you see you are +a million times a lower—for daring to repeat it?’ I wish it could be +told of you that when the report reached you in your house, perhaps after +family worship, you had found in your soul enough holy anger to receive +it with the same expressions; ay, even with that one which I dare not +print; it would not need to have been blotted away, like Uncle Toby’s +oath, by the tears of the recording angel; it would have been counted to +you for your brightest righteousness. But you have deliberately chosen +the part of the man from Honolulu, and you have played it with +improvements of your own. The man from Honolulu—miserable, leering +creature—communicated the tale to a rude knot of beach-combing drinkers +in a public-house, where (I will so far agree with your temperance +opinions) man is not always at his noblest; and the man from Honolulu had +himself been drinking—drinking, we may charitably fancy, to excess. It +was to your ‘Dear Brother, the Reverend H. B. Gage,’ that you chose to +communicate the sickening story; and the blue ribbon which adorns your +portly bosom forbids me to allow you the extenuating plea that you were +drunk when it was done. Your ‘dear brother’—a brother indeed—made haste +to deliver up your letter (as a means of grace, perhaps) to the religious +papers; where, after many months, I found and read and wondered at it; +and whence I have now reproduced it for the wonder of others. And you +and your dear brother have, by this cycle of operations, built up a +contrast very edifying to examine in detail. The man whom you would not +care to have to dinner, on the one side; on the other, the Reverend Dr. +Hyde and the Reverend H. B. Gage: the Apia bar-room, the Honolulu manse. + +But I fear you scarce appreciate how you appear to your fellow-men; and +to bring it home to you, I will suppose your story to be true. I will +suppose—and God forgive me for supposing it—that Damien faltered and +stumbled in his narrow path of duty; I will suppose that, in the horror +of his isolation, perhaps in the fever of incipient disease, he, who was +doing so much more than he had sworn, failed in the letter of his +priestly oath—he, who was so much a better man than either you or me, who +did what we have never dreamed of daring—he too tasted of our common +frailty. ‘O, Iago, the pity of it!’ The least tender should be moved to +tears; the most incredulous to prayer. And all that you could do was to +pen your letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage! + +Is it growing at all clear to you what a picture you have drawn of your +own heart? I will try yet once again to make it clearer. You had a +father: suppose this tale were about him, and some informant brought it +to you, proof in hand: I am not making too high an estimate of your +emotional nature when I suppose you would regret the circumstance? that +you would feel the tale of frailty the more keenly since it shamed the +author of your days? and that the last thing you would do would be to +publish it in the religious press? Well, the man who tried to do what +Damien did, is my father, and the father of the man in the Apia bar, and +the father of all who love goodness; and he was your father too, if God +had given you grace to see it. + + + + +THE PENTLAND RISING +A PAGE OF HISTORY +1666 + + + ‘A cloud of witnesses lyes here, + Who for Christ’s interest did appear.’ + + _Inscription on Battlefield at Rullion Green_. + + + +CHAPTER I—THE CAUSES OF THE REVOLT + + + ‘Halt, passenger; take heed what thou dost see, + This tomb doth show for what some men did die.’ + + _Monument_, _Greyfriars’ Churchyard_,_ Edinburgh_, + 1661–1668. {85} + +Two hundred years ago a tragedy was enacted in Scotland, the memory +whereof has been in great measure lost or obscured by the deep tragedies +which followed it. It is, as it were, the evening of the night of +persecution—a sort of twilight, dark indeed to us, but light as the +noonday when compared with the midnight gloom which followed. This fact, +of its being the very threshold of persecution, lends it, however, an +additional interest. + +The prejudices of the people against Episcopacy were ‘out of measure +increased,’ says Bishop Burnet, ‘by the new incumbents who were put in +the places of the ejected preachers, and were generally very mean and +despicable in all respects. They were the worst preachers I ever heard; +they were ignorant to a reproach; and many of them were openly vicious. +They . . . were indeed the dreg and refuse of the northern parts. Those +of them who arose above contempt or scandal were men of such violent +tempers that they were as much hated as the others were despised.’ {86} +It was little to be wondered at, from this account that the country-folk +refused to go to the parish church, and chose rather to listen to outed +ministers in the fields. But this was not to be allowed, and their +persecutors at last fell on the method of calling a roll of the +parishioners’ names every Sabbath, and marking a fine of twenty shillings +Scots to the name of each absenter. In this way very large debts were +incurred by persons altogether unable to pay. Besides this, landlords +were fined for their tenants’ absences, tenants for their landlords’, +masters for their servants’, servants for their masters’, even though +they themselves were perfectly regular in their attendance. And as the +curates were allowed to fine with the sanction of any common soldier, it +may be imagined that often the pretexts were neither very sufficient nor +well proven. + +When the fines could not be paid at once, Bibles, clothes, and household +utensils were seized upon, or a number of soldiers, proportionate to his +wealth, were quartered on the offender. The coarse and drunken privates +filled the houses with woe; snatched the bread from the children to feed +their dogs; shocked the principles, scorned the scruples, and blasphemed +the religion of their humble hosts; and when they had reduced them to +destitution, sold the furniture, and burned down the roof-tree which was +consecrated to the peasants by the name of Home. For all this attention +each of these soldiers received from his unwilling landlord a certain sum +of money per day—three shillings sterling, according to _Naphtali_. And +frequently they were forced to pay quartering money for more men than +were in reality ‘cessed on them.’ At that time it was no strange thing +to behold a strong man begging for money to pay his fines, and many +others who were deep in arrears, or who had attracted attention in some +other way, were forced to flee from their homes, and take refuge from +arrest and imprisonment among the wild mosses of the uplands. {87a} + +One example in particular we may cite: + +John Neilson, the Laird of Corsack, a worthy man, was, unfortunately for +himself, a Nonconformist. First he was fined in four hundred pounds +Scots, and then through cessing he lost nineteen hundred and ninety-three +pounds Scots. He was next obliged to leave his house and flee from place +to place, during which wanderings he lost his horse. His wife and +children were turned out of doors, and then his tenants were fined till +they too were almost ruined. As a final stroke, they drove away all his +cattle to Glasgow and sold them. {87b} Surely it was time that something +were done to alleviate so much sorrow, to overthrow such tyranny. + +About this time too there arrived in Galloway a person calling himself +Captain Andrew Gray, and advising the people to revolt. He displayed +some documents purporting to be from the northern Covenanters, and +stating that they were prepared to join in any enterprise commenced by +their southern brethren. The leader of the persecutors was Sir James +Turner, an officer afterwards degraded for his share in the matter. ‘He +was naturally fierce, but was mad when he was drunk, and that was very +often,’ said Bishop Burnet. ‘He was a learned man, but had always been +in armies, and knew no other rule but to obey orders. He told me he had +no regard to any law, but acted, as he was commanded, in a military way.’ +{88} + +This was the state of matters, when an outrage was committed which gave +spirit and determination to the oppressed countrymen, lit the flame of +insubordination, and for the time at least recoiled on those who +perpetrated it with redoubled force. + + + +CHAPTER II—THE BEGINNING + + + I love no warres, + I love no jarres, + Nor strife’s fire. + May discord cease, + Let’s live in peace: + This I desire. + + If it must be + Warre we must see + (So fates conspire), + May we not feel + The force of steel: + This I desire. + + T. JACKSON, 1651 {89} + +Upon Tuesday, November 13th, 1666, Corporal George Deanes and three other +soldiers set upon an old man in the clachan of Dalry and demanded the +payment of his fines. On the old man’s refusing to pay, they forced a +large party of his neighbours to go with them and thresh his corn. The +field was a certain distance out of the clachan, and four persons, +disguised as countrymen, who had been out on the moors all night, met +this mournful drove of slaves, compelled by the four soldiers to work for +the ruin of their friend. However, chided to the bone by their night on +the hills, and worn out by want of food, they proceeded to the village +inn to refresh themselves. Suddenly some people rushed into the room +where they were sitting, and told them that the soldiers were about to +roast the old man, naked, on his own girdle. This was too much for them +to stand, and they repaired immediately to the scene of this gross +outrage, and at first merely requested that the captive should be +released. On the refusal of the two soldiers who were in the front room, +high words were given and taken on both sides, and the other two rushed +forth from an adjoining chamber and made at the countrymen with drawn +swords. One of the latter, John M‘Lellan of Barscob, drew a pistol and +shot the corporal in the body. The pieces of tobacco-pipe with which it +was loaded, to the number of ten at least, entered him, and he was so +much disturbed that he never appears to have recovered, for we find long +afterwards a petition to the Privy Council requesting a pension for him. +The other soldiers then laid down their arms, the old man was rescued, +and the rebellion was commenced. {90} + +And now we must turn to Sir James Turner’s memoirs of himself; for, +strange to say, this extraordinary man was remarkably fond of literary +composition, and wrote, besides the amusing account of his own adventures +just mentioned, a large number of essays and short biographies, and a +work on war, entitled _Pallas Armata_. The following are some of the +shorter pieces ‘Magick,’ ‘Friendship,’ ‘Imprisonment,’ ‘Anger,’ +‘Revenge,’ ‘Duells,’ ‘Cruelty,’ ‘A Defence of some of the Ceremonies of +the English Liturgie—to wit—Bowing at the Name of Jesus, The frequent +repetition of the Lord’s Prayer and Good Lord deliver us, Of the +Doxologie, Of Surplesses, Rotchets, Canonnicall Coats,’ etc. From what +we know of his character we should expect ‘Anger’ and ‘Cruelty’ to be +very full and instructive. But what earthly right he had to meddle with +ecclesiastical subjects it is hard to see. + +Upon the 12th of the month he had received some information concerning +Gray’s proceedings, but as it was excessively indefinite in its +character, he paid no attention to it. On the evening of the 14th, +Corporal Deanes was brought into Dumfries, who affirmed stoutly that he +had been shot while refusing to sign the Covenant—a story rendered +singularly unlikely by the after conduct of the rebels. Sir James +instantly dispatched orders to the cessed soldiers either to come to +Dumfries or meet him on the way to Dalry, and commanded the thirteen or +fourteen men in the town with him to come at nine next morning to his +lodging for supplies. + +On the morning of Thursday the rebels arrived at Dumfries with 50 horse +and 150 foot. Neilson of Corsack, and Gray, who commanded, with a +considerable troop, entered the town, and surrounded Sir James Turner’s +lodging. Though it was between eight and nine o’clock, that worthy, +being unwell, was still in bed, but rose at once and went to the window. + +Neilson and some others cried, ‘You may have fair quarter.’ + +‘I need no quarter,’ replied Sir James; ‘nor can I be a prisoner, seeing +there is no war declared.’ On being told, however, that he must either +be a prisoner or die, he came down, and went into the street in his +night-shirt. Here Gray showed himself very desirous of killing him, but +he was overruled by Corsack. However, he was taken away a prisoner, +Captain Gray mounting him on his own horse, though, as Turner naively +remarks, ‘there was good reason for it, for he mounted himself on a farre +better one of mine.’ A large coffer containing his clothes and money, +together with all his papers, were taken away by the rebels. They robbed +Master Chalmers, the Episcopalian minister of Dumfries, of his horse, +drank the King’s health at the market cross, and then left Dumfries. {92} + + + +CHAPTER III—THE MARCH OF THE REBELS + + + ‘Stay, passenger, take notice what thou reads, + At Edinburgh lie our bodies, here our heads; + Our right hands stood at Lanark, these we want, + Because with them we signed the Covenant.’ + + _Epitaph on a Tombstone at Hamilton_. {93} + +On Friday the 16th, Bailie Irvine of Dumfries came to the Council at +Edinburgh, and gave information concerning this ‘horrid rebellion.’ In +the absence of Rothes, Sharpe presided—much to the wrath of some members; +and as he imagined his own safety endangered, his measures were most +energetic. Dalzell was ordered away to the West, the guards round the +city were doubled, officers and soldiers were forced to take the oath of +allegiance, and all lodgers were commanded to give in their names. +Sharpe, surrounded with all these guards and precautions, +trembled—trembled as he trembled when the avengers of blood drew him from +his chariot on Magus Muir,—for he knew how he had sold his trust, how he +had betrayed his charge, and he felt that against him must their chiefest +hatred be directed, against him their direst thunder-bolts be forged. +But even in his fear the apostate Presbyterian was unrelenting, +unpityingly harsh; he published in his manifesto no promise of pardon, no +inducement to submission. He said, ‘If you submit not you must die,’ but +never added, ‘If you submit you may live!’ {94a} + +Meantime the insurgents proceeded on their way. At Carsphairn they were +deserted by Captain Gray, who, doubtless in a fit of oblivion, neglected +to leave behind him the coffer containing Sir James’s money. Who he was +is a mystery, unsolved by any historian; his papers were evidently +forgeries—that, and his final flight, appear to indicate that he was an +agent of the Royalists, for either the King or the Duke of York was heard +to say, ‘That, if he might have his wish, he would have them all turn +rebels and go to arms.’ {94b} + +Upon the 18th day of the month they left Carsphairn and marched onwards. + +Turner was always lodged by his captors at a good inn, frequently at the +best of which their halting-place could boast. Here many visits were +paid to him by the ministers and officers of the insurgent force. In his +description of these interviews he displays a vein of satiric severity, +admitting any kindness that was done to him with some qualifying souvenir +of former harshness, and gloating over any injury, mistake, or folly, +which it was his chance to suffer or to hear. He appears, +notwithstanding all this, to have been on pretty good terms with his +cruel ‘phanaticks,’ as the following extract sufficiently proves: + +‘Most of the foot were lodged about the church or churchyard, and order +given to ring bells next morning for a sermon to be preached by Mr. +Welch. Maxwell of Morith, and Major M‘Cullough invited me to heare “that +phanatick sermon” (for soe they merrilie called it). They said that +preaching might prove an effectual meane to turne me, which they +heartilie wished. I answered to them that I was under guards, and that +if they intended to heare that sermon, it was probable I might likewise, +for it was not like my guards wold goe to church and leave me alone at my +lodgeings. Bot to what they said of my conversion, I said it wold be +hard to turne a Turner. Bot because I founde them in a merrie humour, I +said, if I did not come to heare Mr. Welch preach, then they might fine +me in fortie shillings Scots, which was double the suome of what I had +exacted from the phanatics.’ {95} + +This took place at Ochiltree, on the 22nd day of the month. The +following is recounted by this personage with malicious glee, and +certainly, if authentic, it is a sad proof of how chaff is mixed with +wheat, and how ignorant, almost impious, persons were engaged in this +movement; nevertheless we give it, for we wish to present with +impartiality all the alleged facts to the reader: + +‘Towards the evening Mr. Robinsone and Mr. Crukshank gaue me a visite; I +called for some ale purposelie to heare one of them blesse it. It fell +Mr. Robinsone to seeke the blessing, who said one of the most bombastick +graces that ever I heard in my life. He summoned God Allmightie very +imperiouslie to be their secondarie (for that was his language). “And +if,” said he, “thou wilt not be our Secondarie, we will not fight for +thee at all, for it is not our cause bot thy cause; and if thou wilt not +fight for our cause and thy oune cause, then we are not obliged to fight +for it. They say,” said he, “that Dukes, Earles, and Lords are coming +with the King’s General against us, bot they shall be nothing bot a +threshing to us.” This grace did more fullie satisfie me of the folly +and injustice of their cause, then the ale did quench my thirst.’ {96a} + +Frequently the rebels made a halt near some roadside alehouse, or in some +convenient park, where Colonel Wallace, who had now taken the command, +would review the horse and foot, during which time Turner was sent either +into the alehouse or round the shoulder of the hill, to prevent him from +seeing the disorders which were likely to arise. He was, at last, on the +25th day of the month, between Douglas and Lanark, permitted to behold +their evolutions. ‘I found their horse did consist of four hundreth and +fortie, and the foot of five hundreth and upwards. . . . The horsemen +were armed for most part with suord and pistoll, some onlie with suord. +The foot with musket, pike, sith (scythe), forke, and suord; and some +with suords great and long.’ He admired much the proficiency of their +cavalry, and marvelled how they had attained to it in so short a time. +{96b} + +At Douglas, which they had just left on the morning of this great +wapinshaw, they were charged—awful picture of depravity!—with the theft +of a silver spoon and a nightgown. Could it be expected that while the +whole country swarmed with robbers of every description, such a rare +opportunity for plunder should be lost by rogues—that among a thousand +men, even though fighting for religion, there should not be one Achan in +the camp? At Lanark a declaration was drawn up and signed by the chief +rebels. In it occurs the following: + +‘The just sense whereof ’—the sufferings of the country—‘made us choose, +rather to betake ourselves to the fields for self-defence, than to stay +at home, burdened daily with the calamities of others, and tortured with +the fears of our own approaching misery.’ {97} + +The whole body, too, swore the Covenant, to which ceremony the epitaph at +the head of this chapter seems to refer. + +A report that Dalzell was approaching drove them from Lanark to Bathgate, +where, on the evening of Monday the 26th, the wearied army stopped. But +at twelve o’clock the cry, which served them for a trumpet, of ‘Horse! +horse!’ and ‘Mount the prisoner!’ resounded through the night-shrouded +town, and called the peasants from their well-earned rest to toil onwards +in their march. The wind howled fiercely over the moorland; a close, +thick, wetting rain descended. Chilled to the bone, worn out with long +fatigue, sinking to the knees in mire, onward they marched to +destruction. One by one the weary peasants fell off from their ranks to +sleep, and die in the rain-soaked moor, or to seek some house by the +wayside wherein to hide till daybreak. One by one at first, then in +gradually increasing numbers, at every shelter that was seen, whole +troops left the waning squadrons, and rushed to hide themselves from the +ferocity of the tempest. To right and left nought could be descried but +the broad expanse of the moor, and the figures of their fellow-rebels, +seen dimly through the murky night, plodding onwards through the sinking +moss. Those who kept together—a miserable few—often halted to rest +themselves, and to allow their lagging comrades to overtake them. Then +onward they went again, still hoping for assistance, reinforcement, and +supplies; onward again, through the wind, and the rain, and the +darkness—onward to their defeat at Pentland, and their scaffold at +Edinburgh. It was calculated that they lost one half of their army on +that disastrous night-march. + +Next night they reached the village of Colinton, four miles from +Edinburgh, where they halted for the last time. {98} + + + +CHAPTER IV—RULLION GREEN + + + ‘From Covenanters with uplifted hands, + From Remonstrators with associate bands, + Good Lord, deliver us!’ + + _Royalist Rhyme_, KIRKTON, p. 127. + +Late on the fourth night of November, exactly twenty-four days before +Rullion Green, Richard and George Chaplain, merchants in Haddington, +beheld four men, clad like West-country Whigamores, standing round some +object on the ground. It was at the two-mile cross, and within that +distance from their homes. At last, to their horror, they discovered +that the recumbent figure was a livid corpse, swathed in a blood-stained +winding-sheet. {99} Many thought that this apparition was a portent of +the deaths connected with the Pentland Rising. + +On the morning of Wednesday, the 28th of November 1666, they left +Colinton and marched to Rullion Green. There they arrived about sunset. +The position was a strong one. On the summit of a bare, heathery spur of +the Pentlands are two hillocks, and between them lies a narrow band of +flat marshy ground. On the highest of the two mounds—that nearest the +Pentlands, and on the left hand of the main body—was the greater part of +the cavalry, under Major Learmont; on the other Barscob and the Galloway +gentlemen; and in the centre Colonel Wallace and the weak, half-armed +infantry. Their position was further strengthened by the depth of the +valley below, and the deep chasm-like course of the Rullion Burn. + +The sun, going down behind the Pentlands, cast golden lights and blue +shadows on their snow-clad summits, slanted obliquely into the rich plain +before them, bathing with rosy splendour the leafless, snow-sprinkled +trees, and fading gradually into shadow in the distance. To the south, +too, they beheld a deep-shaded amphitheatre of heather and bracken; the +course of the Esk, near Penicuik, winding about at the foot of its gorge; +the broad, brown expanse of Maw Moss; and, fading into blue +indistinctness in the south, the wild heath-clad Peeblesshire hills. In +sooth, that scene was fair, and many a yearning glance was cast over that +peaceful evening scene from the spot where the rebels awaited their +defeat; and when the fight was over, many a noble fellow lifted his head +from the blood-stained heather to strive with darkening eyeballs to +behold that landscape, over which, as over his life and his cause, the +shadows of night and of gloom were falling and thickening. + +It was while waiting on this spot that the fear-inspiring cry was raised: +‘The enemy! Here come the enemy!’ + +Unwilling to believe their own doom—for our insurgents still hoped for +success in some negotiations for peace which had been carried on at +Colinton—they called out, ‘They are some of our own.’ + +‘They are too blacke’ (_i.e._ numerous), ‘fie! fie! for ground to draw up +on,’ cried Wallace, fully realising the want of space for his men, and +proving that it was not till after this time that his forces were finally +arranged. {101a} + +First of all the battle was commenced by fifty Royalist horse sent +obliquely across the hill to attack the left wing of the rebels. An +equal number of Learmont’s men met them, and, after a struggle, drove +them back. The course of the Rullion Burn prevented almost all pursuit, +and Wallace, on perceiving it, dispatched a body of foot to occupy both +the burn and some ruined sheep-walls on the farther side. + +Dalzell changed his position, and drew up his army at the foot of the +hill, on the top of which were his foes. He then dispatched a mingled +body of infantry and cavalry to attack Wallace’s outpost, but they also +were driven back. A third charge produced a still more disastrous +effect, for Dalzell had to check the pursuit of his men by a +reinforcement. + +These repeated checks bred a panic in the Lieutenant-General’s ranks, for +several of his men flung down their arms. Urged by such fatal symptoms, +and by the approaching night, he deployed his men, and closed in +overwhelming numbers on the centre and right flank of the insurgent army. +In the increasing twilight the burning matches of the firelocks, +shimmering on barrel, halbert, and cuirass, lent to the approaching army +a picturesque effect, like a huge, many-armed giant breathing flame into +the darkness. + +Placed on an overhanging hill, Welch and Semple cried aloud, ‘The God of +Jacob! The God of Jacob!’ and prayed with uplifted hands for victory. +{101b} + +But still the Royalist troops closed in. + +Captain John Paton was observed by Dalzell, who determined to capture him +with his own hands. Accordingly he charged forward, presenting his +pistols. Paton fired, but the balls hopped off Dalzell’s buff coat and +fell into his boot. With the superstition peculiar to his age, the +Nonconformist concluded that his adversary was rendered bullet-proof by +enchantment, and, pulling some small silver coins from his pocket, +charged his pistol therewith. Dalzell, seeing this, and supposing, it is +likely, that Paton was putting in larger balls, hid behind his servant, +who was killed. {102} + +Meantime the outposts were forced, and the army of Wallace was enveloped +in the embrace of a hideous boa-constrictor—tightening, closing, crushing +every semblance of life from the victim enclosed in his toils. The +flanking parties of horse were forced in upon the centre, and though, as +even Turner grants, they fought with desperation, a general flight was +the result. + +But when they fell there was none to sing their coronach or wail the +death-wail over them. Those who sacrificed themselves for the peace, the +liberty, and the religion of their fellow-countrymen, lay bleaching in +the field of death for long, and when at last they were buried by +charity, the peasants dug up their bodies, desecrated their graves, and +cast them once more upon the open heath for the sorry value of their +winding-sheets! + +_Inscription on stone at Rullion Green_: + + HERE + AND NEAR TO + THIS PLACE LYES THE + REVEREND MR JOHN CROOKSHANK + AND MR ANDREW MCCORMICK + MINISTERS OF THE GOSPEL AND + ABOUT FIFTY OTHER TRUE COVENANTED + PRESBYTERIANS WHO WERE + KILLED IN THIS PLACE IN THEIR OWN + INOCENT SELF DEFENCE AND DEFFENCE + OF THE COVENANTED + WORK OF REFORMATION BY + THOMAS DALZEEL OF BINS + UPON THE 28 OF NOVEMBER + 1666. REV. 12. 11. ERECTED + SEPT. 28 1738. + + _Back of stone_: + + A Cloud of Witnesses lyes here, + Who for Christ’s Interest did appear, + For to restore true Liberty, + O’erturnèd then by tyranny. + And by proud Prelats who did Rage + Against the Lord’s Own heritage. + They sacrificed were for the laws + Of Christ their king, his noble cause. + These heroes fought with great renown; + By falling got the Martyr’s crown. {103} + + + +CHAPTER V—A RECORD OF BLOOD + + + ‘They cut his hands ere he was dead, + And after that struck of his head. + His blood under the altar cries + For vengeance on Christ’s enemies.’ + + _Epitaph on Tomb at Longcross of Clermont_. {104} + +Master Andrew Murray, an outed minister, residing in the Potterrow, on +the morning after the defeat, heard the sounds of cheering and the march +of many feet beneath his window. He gazed out. With colours flying, and +with music sounding, Dalzell, victorious, entered Edinburgh. But his +banners were dyed in blood, and a band of prisoners were marched within +his ranks. The old man knew it all. That martial and triumphant strain +was the death-knell of his friends and of their cause, the rust-hued +spots upon the flags were the tokens of their courage and their death, +and the prisoners were the miserable remnant spared from death in battle +to die upon the scaffold. Poor old man! he had outlived all joy. Had he +lived longer he would have seen increasing torment and increasing woe; he +would have seen the clouds, then but gathering in mist, cast a more than +midnight darkness over his native hills, and have fallen a victim to +those bloody persecutions which, later, sent their red memorials to the +sea by many a burn. By a merciful Providence all this was spared to +him—he fell beneath the first blow; and ere four days had passed since +Rullion Green, the aged minister of God was gathered to is fathers. +{105a} + +When Sharpe first heard of the rebellion, he applied to Sir Alexander +Ramsay, the Provost, for soldiers to guard his house. Disliking their +occupation, the soldiers gave him an ugly time of it. All the night +through they kept up a continuous series of ‘alarms and incursions,’ +‘cries of “Stand!” “Give fire!”’ etc., which forced the prelate to flee +to the Castle in the morning, hoping there to find the rest which was +denied him at home. {105b} Now, however, when all danger to himself was +past, Sharpe came out in his true colours, and scant was the justice +likely to be shown to the foes of Scottish Episcopacy when the Primate +was by. The prisoners were lodged in Haddo’s Hole, a part of St. Giles’ +Cathedral, where, by the kindness of Bishop Wishart, to his credit be it +spoken, they were amply supplied with food. {105c} + +Some people urged, in the Council, that the promise of quarter which had +been given on the field of battle should protect the lives of the +miserable men. Sir John Gilmoure, the greatest lawyer, gave no +opinion—certainly a suggestive circumstance—but Lord Lee declared that +this would not interfere with their legal trial, ‘so to bloody executions +they went.’ {105d} To the number of thirty they were condemned and +executed; while two of them, Hugh M‘Kail, a young minister, and Neilson +of Corsack, were tortured with the boots. + +The goods of those who perished were confiscated, and their bodies were +dismembered and distributed to different parts of the country; ‘the heads +of Major M‘Culloch and the two Gordons,’ it was resolved, says Kirkton, +‘should be pitched on the gate of Kirkcudbright; the two Hamiltons and +Strong’s head should be affixed at Hamilton, and Captain Arnot’s sett on +the Watter Gate at Edinburgh. The armes of all the ten, because they +hade with uplifted hands renewed the Covenant at Lanark, were sent to the +people of that town to expiate that crime, by placing these arms on the +top of the prison.’ {106} Among these was John Neilson, the Laird of +Corsack, who saved Turner’s life at Dumfries; in return for which service +Sir James attempted, though without success, to get the poor man +reprieved. One of the condemned died of his wounds between the day of +condemnation and the day of execution. ‘None of them,’ says Kirkton, +‘would save their life by taking the declaration and renouncing the +Covenant, though it was offered to them. . . . But never men died in +Scotland so much lamented by the people, not only spectators, but those +in the country. When Knockbreck and his brother were turned over, they +clasped each other in their armes, and so endured the pangs of death. +When Humphrey Colquhoun died, he spoke not like an ordinary citizen, but +like a heavenly minister, relating his comfortable Christian experiences, +and called for his Bible, and laid it on his wounded arm, and read John +iii. 8, and spoke upon it to the admiration of all. But most of all, +when Mr. M‘Kail died, there was such a lamentation as was never known in +Scotland before; not one dry cheek upon all the street, or in all the +numberless windows in the mercate place.’ {107a} + +The following passage from this speech speaks for itself and its author: + +‘Hereafter I will not talk with flesh and blood, nor think on the world’s +consolations. Farewell to all my friends, whose company hath been +refreshful to me in my pilgrimage. I have done with the light of the sun +and the moon; welcome eternal light, eternal life, everlasting love, +everlasting praise, everlasting glory. Praise to Him that sits upon the +throne, and to the Lamb for ever! Bless the Lord, O my soul, that hath +pardoned all my iniquities in the blood of His Son, and healed all my +diseases. Bless Him, O all ye His angels that excel in strength, ye +ministers of His that do His pleasure. Bless the Lord, O my soul!’ +{107b} + +After having ascended the gallows ladder he again broke forth in the +following words of touching eloquence: ‘And now I leave off to speak any +more to creatures, and begin my intercourse with God, which shall never +be broken off. Farewell father and mother, friends and relations! +Farewell the world and all delights! Farewell meat and drink! Farewell +sun, moon, and stars!—Welcome God and Father! Welcome sweet Jesus +Christ, the Mediator of the new covenant! Welcome blessed Spirit of +grace and God of all consolation! Welcome glory! Welcome eternal life! +Welcome Death!’ {107c} + +At Glasgow, too, where some were executed, they caused the soldiers to +beat the drums and blow the trumpets on their closing ears. Hideous +refinement of revenge! Even the last words which drop from the lips of a +dying man—words surely the most sincere and the most unbiassed which +mortal mouth can utter—even these were looked upon as poisoned and as +poisonous. ‘Drown their last accents,’ was the cry, ‘lest they should +lead the crowd to take their part, or at the least to mourn their doom!’ +{108a} But, after all, perhaps it was more merciful than one would +think—unintentionally so, of course; perhaps the storm of harsh and +fiercely jubilant noises, the clanging of trumpets, the rattling of +drums, and the hootings and jeerings of an unfeeling mob, which were the +last they heard on earth, might, when the mortal fight was over, when the +river of death was passed, add tenfold sweetness to the hymning of the +angels, tenfold peacefulness to the shores which they had reached. + +Not content with the cruelty of these executions, some even of the +peasantry, though these were confined to the shire of Mid-Lothian, +pursued, captured, plundered, and murdered the miserable fugitives who +fell in their way. One strange story have we of these times of blood and +persecution: Kirkton the historian and popular tradition tell us alike of +a flame which often would arise from the grave, in a moss near Carnwath, +of some of those poor rebels: of how it crept along the ground; of how it +covered the house of their murderer; and of how it scared him with its +lurid glare. + +Hear Daniel Defoe: {108b} + + ‘If the poor people were by these insupportable violences made + desperate, and driven to all the extremities of a wild despair, who + can justly reflect on them when they read in the Word of God “That + oppression makes a wise man mad”? And therefore were there no other + original of the insurrection known by the name of the Rising of + Pentland, it was nothing but what the intolerable oppressions of + those times might have justified to all the world, nature having + dictated to all people a right of defence when illegally and + arbitrarily attacked in a manner not justifiable either by laws of + nature, the laws of God, or the laws of the country.’ + +Bear this remonstrance of Defoe’s in mind, and though it is the fashion +of the day to jeer and to mock, to execrate and to contemn, the noble +band of Covenanters—though the bitter laugh at their old-world religious +views, the curl of the lip at their merits, and the chilling silence on +their bravery and their determination, are but too rife through all +society—be charitable to what was evil and honest to what was good about +the Pentland insurgents, who fought for life and liberty, for country and +religion, on the 28th of November 1666, now just two hundred years ago. + + * * * * * + +EDINBURGH, 28_th November_ 1866. + + + + +THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW + + +History is much decried; it is a tissue of errors, we are told, no doubt +correctly; and rival historians expose each other’s blunders with +gratification. Yet the worst historian has a clearer view of the period +he studies than the best of us can hope to form of that in which we live. +The obscurest epoch is to-day; and that for a thousand reasons of +inchoate tendency, conflicting report, and sheer mass and multiplicity of +experience; but chiefly, perhaps, by reason of an insidious shifting of +landmarks. Parties and ideas continually move, but not by measurable +marches on a stable course; the political soil itself steals forth by +imperceptible degrees, like a travelling glacier, carrying on its bosom +not only political parties but their flag-posts and cantonments; so that +what appears to be an eternal city founded on hills is but a flying +island of Laputa. It is for this reason in particular that we are all +becoming Socialists without knowing it; by which I would not in the least +refer to the acute case of Mr. Hyndman and his horn-blowing supporters, +sounding their trumps of a Sunday within the walls of our individualist +Jericho—but to the stealthy change that has come over the spirit of +Englishmen and English legislation. A little while ago, and we were +still for liberty; ‘crowd a few more thousands on the bench of +Government,’ we seemed to cry; ‘keep her head direct on liberty, and we +cannot help but come to port.’ This is over; _laisser faire_ declines in +favour; our legislation grows authoritative, grows philanthropical, +bristles with new duties and new penalties, and casts a spawn of +inspectors, who now begin, note-book in hand, to darken the face of +England. It may be right or wrong, we are not trying that; but one thing +it is beyond doubt: it is Socialism in action, and the strange thing is +that we scarcely know it. + +Liberty has served us a long while, and it may be time to seek new +altars. Like all other principles, she has been proved to be +self-exclusive in the long run. She has taken wages besides (like all +other virtues) and dutifully served Mammon; so that many things we were +accustomed to admire as the benefits of freedom and common to all were +truly benefits of wealth, and took their value from our neighbours’ +poverty. A few shocks of logic, a few disclosures (in the journalistic +phrase) of what the freedom of manufacturers, landlords, or shipowners +may imply for operatives, tenants, or seamen, and we not unnaturally +begin to turn to that other pole of hope, beneficent tyranny. Freedom, +to be desirable, involves kindness, wisdom, and all the virtues of the +free; but the free man as we have seen him in action has been, as of +yore, only the master of many helots; and the slaves are still ill-fed, +ill-clad, ill-taught, ill-housed, insolently treated, and driven to their +mines and workshops by the lash of famine. So much, in other men’s +affairs, we have begun to see clearly; we have begun to despair of virtue +in these other men, and from our seat in Parliament begin to discharge +upon them, thick as arrows, the host of our inspectors. The landlord has +long shaken his head over the manufacturer; those who do business on land +have lost all trust in the virtues of the shipowner; the professions look +askance upon the retail traders and have even started their co-operative +stores to ruin them; and from out the smoke-wreaths of Birmingham a +finger has begun to write upon the wall the condemnation of the landlord. +Thus, piece by piece, do we condemn each other, and yet not perceive the +conclusion, that our whole estate is somewhat damnable. Thus, piece by +piece, each acting against his neighbour, each sawing away the branch on +which some other interest is seated, do we apply in detail our +Socialistic remedies, and yet not perceive that we are all labouring +together to bring in Socialism at large. A tendency so stupid and so +selfish is like to prove invincible; and if Socialism be at all a +practicable rule of life, there is every chance that our grand-children +will see the day and taste the pleasures of existence in something far +liker an ant-heap than any previous human polity. And this not in the +least because of the voice of Mr. Hyndman or the horns of his followers; +but by the mere glacier movement of the political soil, bearing forward +on its bosom, apparently undisturbed, the proud camps of Whig and Tory. +If Mr. Hyndman were a man of keen humour, which is far from my conception +of his character, he might rest from his troubling and look on: the walls +of Jericho begin already to crumble and dissolve. That great servile +war, the Armageddon of money and numbers, to which we looked forward when +young, becomes more and more unlikely; and we may rather look to see a +peaceable and blindfold evolution, the work of dull men immersed in +political tactics and dead to political results. + +The principal scene of this comedy lies, of course, in the House of +Commons; it is there, besides, that the details of this new evolution (if +it proceed) will fall to be decided; so that the state of Parliament is +not only diagnostic of the present but fatefully prophetic of the future. +Well, we all know what Parliament is, and we are all ashamed of it. We +may pardon it some faults, indeed, on the ground of Irish obstruction—a +bitter trial, which it supports with notable good humour. But the excuse +is merely local; it cannot apply to similar bodies in America and France; +and what are we to say of these? President Cleveland’s letter may serve +as a picture of the one; a glance at almost any paper will convince us of +the weakness of the other. Decay appears to have seized on the organ of +popular government in every land; and this just at the moment when we +begin to bring to it, as to an oracle of justice, the whole skein of our +private affairs to be unravelled, and ask it, like a new Messiah, to take +upon itself our frailties and play for us the part that should be played +by our own virtues. For that, in few words, is the case. We cannot +trust ourselves to behave with decency; we cannot trust our consciences; +and the remedy proposed is to elect a round number of our neighbours, +pretty much at random, and say to these: ‘Be ye our conscience; make laws +so wise, and continue from year to year to administer them so wisely, +that they shall save us from ourselves and make us righteous and happy, +world without end. Amen.’ And who can look twice at the British +Parliament and then seriously bring it such a task? I am not advancing +this as an argument against Socialism: once again, nothing is further +from my mind. There are great truths in Socialism, or no one, not even +Mr. Hyndman, would be found to hold it; and if it came, and did one-tenth +part of what it offers, I for one should make it welcome. But if it is +to come, we may as well have some notion of what it will be like; and the +first thing to grasp is that our new polity will be designed and +administered (to put it courteously) with something short of inspiration. +It will be made, or will grow, in a human parliament; and the one thing +that will not very hugely change is human nature. The Anarchists think +otherwise, from which it is only plain that they have not carried to the +study of history the lamp of human sympathy. + +Given, then, our new polity, with its new waggon-load of laws, what +headmarks must we look for in the life? We chafe a good deal at that +excellent thing, the income-tax, because it brings into our affairs the +prying fingers, and exposes us to the tart words, of the official. The +official, in all degrees, is already something of a terror to many of us. +I would not willingly have to do with even a police-constable in any +other spirit than that of kindness. I still remember in my dreams the +eye-glass of a certain _attaché_ at a certain embassy—an eyeglass that +was a standing indignity to all on whom it looked; and my next most +disagreeable remembrance is of a bracing, Republican postman in the city +of San Francisco. I lived in that city among working folk, and what my +neighbours accepted at the postman’s hands—nay, what I took from him +myself—it is still distasteful to recall. The bourgeois, residing in the +upper parts of society, has but few opportunities of tasting this +peculiar bowl; but about the income-tax, as I have said, or perhaps about +a patent, or in the halls of an embassy at the hands of my friend of the +eye-glass, he occasionally sets his lips to it; and he may thus imagine +(if he has that faculty of imagination, without which most faculties are +void) how it tastes to his poorer neighbours, who must drain it to the +dregs. In every contact with authority, with their employer, with the +police, with the School Board officer, in the hospital, or in the +workhouse, they have equally the occasion to appreciate the light-hearted +civility of the man in office; and as an experimentalist in several +out-of-the-way provinces of life, I may say it has but to be felt to be +appreciated. Well, this golden age of which we are speaking will be the +golden age of officials. In all our concerns it will be their beloved +duty to meddle, with what tact, with what obliging words, analogy will +aid us to imagine. It is likely these gentlemen will be periodically +elected; they will therefore have their turn of being underneath, which +does not always sweeten men’s conditions. The laws they will have to +administer will be no clearer than those we know to-day, and the body +which is to regulate their administration no wiser than the British +Parliament. So that upon all hands we may look for a form of servitude +most galling to the blood—servitude to many and changing masters, and for +all the slights that accompany the rule of jack-in-office. And if the +Socialistic programme be carried out with the least fulness, we shall +have lost a thing, in most respects not much to be regretted, but as a +moderator of oppression, a thing nearly invaluable—the newspaper. For +the independent journal is a creature of capital and competition; it +stands and falls with millionaires and railway bonds and all the abuses +and glories of to-day; and as soon as the State has fairly taken its bent +to authority and philanthropy, and laid the least touch on private +property, the days of the independent journal are numbered. State +railways may be good things and so may State bakeries; but a State +newspaper will never be a very trenchant critic of the State officials. + +But again, these officials would have no sinecure. Crime would perhaps +be less, for some of the motives of crime we may suppose would pass away. +But if Socialism were carried out with any fulness, there would be more +contraventions. We see already new sins ringing up like mustard—School +Board sins, factory sins, Merchant Shipping Act sins—none of which I +would be thought to except against in particular, but all of which, taken +together, show us that Socialism can be a hard master even in the +beginning. If it go on to such heights as we hear proposed and lauded, +if it come actually to its ideal of the ant-heap, ruled with iron +justice, the number of new contraventions will be out of all proportion +multiplied. Take the case of work alone. Man is an idle animal. He is +at least as intelligent as the ant; but generations of advisers have in +vain recommended him the ant’s example. Of those who are found truly +indefatigable in business, some are misers; some are the practisers of +delightful industries, like gardening; some are students, artists, +inventors, or discoverers, men lured forward by successive hopes; and the +rest are those who live by games of skill or hazard—financiers, +billiard-players, gamblers, and the like. But in unloved toils, even +under the prick of necessity, no man is continually sedulous. Once +eliminate the fear of starvation, once eliminate or bound the hope of +riches, and we shall see plenty of skulking and malingering. Society +will then be something not wholly unlike a cotton plantation in the old +days; with cheerful, careless, demoralised slaves, with elected +overseers, and, instead of the planter, a chaotic popular assembly. If +the blood be purposeful and the soil strong, such a plantation may +succeed, and be, indeed, a busy ant-heap, with full granaries and long +hours of leisure. But even then I think the whip will be in the +overseer’s hands, and not in vain. For, when it comes to be a question +of each man doing his own share or the rest doing more, prettiness of +sentiment will be forgotten. To dock the skulker’s food is not enough; +many will rather eat haws and starve on petty pilferings than put their +shoulder to the wheel for one hour daily. For such as these, then, the +whip will be in the overseer’s hand; and his own sense of justice and the +superintendence of a chaotic popular assembly will be the only checks on +its employment. Now, you may be an industrious man and a good citizen, +and yet not love, nor yet be loved by, Dr. Fell the inspector. It is +admitted by private soldiers that the disfavour of a sergeant is an evil +not to be combated; offend the sergeant, they say, and in a brief while +you will either be disgraced or have deserted. And the sergeant can no +longer appeal to the lash. But if these things go on, we shall see, or +our sons shall see, what it is to have offended an inspector. + +This for the unfortunate. But with the fortunate also, even those whom +the inspector loves, it may not be altogether well. It is concluded that +in such a state of society, supposing it to be financially sound, the +level of comfort will be high. It does not follow: there are strange +depths of idleness in man, a too-easily-got sufficiency, as in the case +of the sago-eaters, often quenching the desire for all besides; and it is +possible that the men of the richest ant-heaps may sink even into +squalor. But suppose they do not; suppose our tricksy instrument of +human nature, when we play upon it this new tune, should respond kindly; +suppose no one to be damped and none exasperated by the new conditions, +the whole enterprise to be financially sound—a vaulting supposition—and +all the inhabitants to dwell together in a golden mean of comfort: we +have yet to ask ourselves if this be what man desire, or if it be what +man will even deign to accept for a continuance. It is certain that man +loves to eat, it is not certain that he loves that only or that best. He +is supposed to love comfort; it is not a love, at least, that he is +faithful to. He is supposed to love happiness; it is my contention that +he rather loves excitement. Danger, enterprise, hope, the novel, the +aleatory, are dearer to man than regular meals. He does not think so +when he is hungry, but he thinks so again as soon as he is fed; and on +the hypothesis of a successful ant-heap, he would never go hungry. It +would be always after dinner in that society, as, in the land of the +Lotos-eaters, it was always afternoon; and food, which, when we have it +not, seems all-important, drops in our esteem, as soon as we have it, to +a mere prerequisite of living. + +That for which man lives is not the same thing for all individuals nor in +all ages; yet it has a common base; what he seeks and what he must have +is that which will seize and hold his attention. Regular meals and +weatherproof lodgings will not do this long. Play in its wide sense, as +the artificial induction of sensation, including all games and all arts, +will, indeed, go far to keep him conscious of himself; but in the end he +wearies for realities. Study or experiment, to some rare natures, is the +unbroken pastime of a life. These are enviable natures; people shut in +the house by sickness often bitterly envy them; but the commoner man +cannot continue to exist upon such altitudes: his feet itch for physical +adventure; his blood boils for physical dangers, pleasures, and triumphs; +his fancy, the looker after new things, cannot continue to look for them +in books and crucibles, but must seek them on the breathing stage of +life. Pinches, buffets, the glow of hope, the shock of disappointment, +furious contention with obstacles: these are the true elixir for all +vital spirits, these are what they seek alike in their romantic +enterprises and their unromantic dissipations. When they are taken in +some pinch closer than the common, they cry, ‘Catch me here again!’ and +sure enough you catch them there again—perhaps before the week is out. +It is as old as _Robinson Crusoe_; as old as man. Our race has not been +strained for all these ages through that sieve of dangers that we call +Natural Selection, to sit down with patience in the tedium of safety; the +voices of its fathers call it forth. Already in our society as it +exists, the bourgeois is too much cottoned about for any zest in living; +he sits in his parlour out of reach of any danger, often out of reach of +any vicissitude but one of health; and there he yawns. If the people in +the next villa took pot-shots at him, he might be killed indeed, but so +long as he escaped he would find his blood oxygenated and his views of +the world brighter. If Mr. Mallock, on his way to the publishers, should +have his skirts pinned to a wall by a javelin, it would not occur to +him—at least for several hours—to ask if life were worth living; and if +such peril were a daily matter, he would ask it never more; he would have +other things to think about, he would be living indeed—not lying in a box +with cotton, safe, but immeasurably dull. The aleatory, whether it touch +life, or fortune, or renown—whether we explore Africa or only toss for +halfpence—that is what I conceive men to love best, and that is what we +are seeking to exclude from men’s existences. Of all forms of the +aleatory, that which most commonly attends our working men—the danger of +misery from want of work—is the least inspiriting: it does not whip the +blood, it does not evoke the glory of contest; it is tragic, but it is +passive; and yet, in so far as it is aleatory, and a peril sensibly +touching them, it does truly season the men’s lives. Of those who fail, +I do not speak—despair should be sacred; but to those who even modestly +succeed, the changes of their life bring interest: a job found, a +shilling saved, a dainty earned, all these are wells of pleasure +springing afresh for the successful poor; and it is not from these but +from the villa-dweller that we hear complaints of the unworthiness of +life. Much, then, as the average of the proletariat would gain in this +new state of life, they would also lose a certain something, which would +not be missed in the beginning, but would be missed progressively and +progressively lamented. Soon there would be a looking back: there would +be tales of the old world humming in young men’s ears, tales of the tramp +and the pedlar, and the hopeful emigrant. And in the stall-fed life of +the successful ant-heap—with its regular meals, regular duties, regular +pleasures, an even course of life, and fear excluded—the vicissitudes, +delights, and havens of to-day will seem of epic breadth. This may seem +a shallow observation; but the springs by which men are moved lie much on +the surface. Bread, I believe, has always been considered first, but the +circus comes close upon its heels. Bread we suppose to be given amply; +the cry for circuses will be the louder, and if the life of our +descendants be such as we have conceived, there are two beloved pleasures +on which they will be likely to fall back: the pleasures of intrigue and +of sedition. + +In all this I have supposed the ant-heap to be financially sound. I am +no economist, only a writer of fiction; but even as such, I know one +thing that bears on the economic question—I know the imperfection of +man’s faculty for business. The Anarchists, who count some rugged +elements of common sense among what seem to me their tragic errors, have +said upon this matter all that I could wish to say, and condemned +beforehand great economical polities. So far it is obvious that they are +right; they may be right also in predicting a period of communal +independence, and they may even be right in thinking that desirable. But +the rise of communes is none the less the end of economic equality, just +when we were told it was beginning. Communes will not be all equal in +extent, nor in quality of soil, nor in growth of population; nor will the +surplus produce of all be equally marketable. It will be the old story +of competing interests, only with a new unit; and, as it appears to me, a +new, inevitable danger. For the merchant and the manufacturer, in this +new world, will be a sovereign commune; it is a sovereign power that will +see its crops undersold, and its manufactures worsted in the market. And +all the more dangerous that the sovereign power should be small. Great +powers are slow to stir; national affronts, even with the aid of +newspapers, filter slowly into popular consciousness; national losses are +so unequally shared, that one part of the population will be counting its +gains while another sits by a cold hearth. But in the sovereign commune +all will be centralised and sensitive. When jealousy springs up, when +(let us say) the commune of Poole has overreached the commune of +Dorchester, irritation will run like quicksilver throughout the body +politic; each man in Dorchester will have to suffer directly in his diet +and his dress; even the secretary, who drafts the official +correspondence, will sit down to his task embittered, as a man who has +dined ill and may expect to dine worse; and thus a business difference +between communes will take on much the same colour as a dispute between +diggers in the lawless West, and will lead as directly to the arbitrament +of blows. So that the establishment of the communal system will not only +reintroduce all the injustices and heart-burnings of economic inequality, +but will, in all human likelihood, inaugurate a world of hedgerow +warfare. Dorchester will march on Poole, Sherborne on Dorchester, +Wimborne on both; the waggons will be fired on as they follow the +highway, the trains wrecked on the lines, the ploughman will go armed +into the field of tillage; and if we have not a return of ballad +literature, the local press at least will celebrate in a high vein the +victory of Cerne Abbas or the reverse of Toller Porcorum. At least this +will not be dull; when I was younger, I could have welcomed such a world +with relief; but it is the New-Old with a vengeance, and irresistibly +suggests the growth of military powers and the foundation of new empires. + + + + +COLLEGE PAPERS + + +CHAPTER I—EDINBURGH STUDENTS IN 1824 + + +On the 2nd of January 1824 was issued the prospectus of the _Lapsus +Linguæ_; _or_, _the College Tatler_; and on the 7th the first number +appeared. On Friday the 2nd of April ‘_Mr. Tatler_ became speechless.’ +Its history was not all one success; for the editor (who applies to +himself the words of Iago, ‘I am nothing if I am not critical’) +overstepped the bounds of caution, and found himself seriously embroiled +with the powers that were. There appeared in No. XVI. a most bitter +satire upon Sir John Leslie, in which he was compared to Falstaff, +charged with puffing himself, and very prettily censured for publishing +only the first volume of a class-book, and making all purchasers pay for +both. Sir John Leslie took up the matter angrily, visited Carfrae the +publisher, and threatened him with an action, till he was forced to turn +the hapless _Lapsus_ out of doors. The maltreated periodical found +shelter in the shop of Huie, Infirmary Street; and No. XVII. was duly +issued from the new office. No. XVII. beheld _Mr. Tatler’s_ humiliation, +in which, with fulsome apology and not very credible assurances of +respect and admiration, he disclaims the article in question, and +advertises a new issue of No. XVI. with all objectionable matter omitted. +This, with pleasing euphemism, he terms in a later advertisement, ‘a new +and improved edition.’ This was the only remarkable adventure of _Mr. +Tatler’s_ brief existence; unless we consider as such a silly Chaldee +manuscript in imitation of _Blackwood_, and a letter of reproof from a +divinity student on the impiety of the same dull effusion. He laments +the near approach of his end in pathetic terms. ‘How shall we summon up +sufficient courage,’ says he, ‘to look for the last time on our beloved +little devil and his inestimable proof-sheet? How shall we be able to +pass No. 14 Infirmary Street and feel that all its attractions are over? +How shall we bid farewell for ever to that excellent man, with the long +greatcoat, wooden leg and wooden board, who acts as our representative at +the gate of _Alma Mater_?’ But alas! he had no choice: _Mr. Tatler_, +whose career, he says himself, had been successful, passed peacefully +away, and has ever since dumbly implored ‘the bringing home of bell and +burial.’ + +_Alter et idem_. A very different affair was the _Lapsus Linguæ_ from +the _Edinburgh University Magazine_. The two prospectuses alone, laid +side by side, would indicate the march of luxury and the repeal of the +paper duty. The penny bi-weekly broadside of session 1828–4 was almost +wholly dedicated to Momus. Epigrams, pointless letters, amorous verses, +and University grievances are the continual burthen of the song. But +_Mr. Tatler_ was not without a vein of hearty humour; and his pages +afford what is much better: to wit, a good picture of student life as it +then was. The students of those polite days insisted on retaining their +hats in the class-room. There was a cab-stance in front of the College; +and ‘Carriage Entrance’ was posted above the main arch, on what the +writer pleases to call ‘coarse, unclassic boards.’ The benches of the +‘Speculative’ then, as now, were red; but all other Societies (the +‘Dialectic’ is the only survivor) met downstairs, in some rooms of which +it is pointedly said that ‘nothing else could conveniently be made of +them.’ However horrible these dungeons may have been, it is certain that +they were paid for, and that far too heavily for the taste of session +1823–4, which found enough calls upon its purse for porter and toasted +cheese at Ambrose’s, or cranberry tarts and ginger-wine at Doull’s. +Duelling was still a possibility; so much so that when two medicals fell +to fisticuffs in Adam Square, it was seriously hinted that single combat +would be the result. Last and most wonderful of all, Gall and Spurzheim +were in every one’s mouth; and the Law student, after having exhausted +Byron’s poetry and Scott’s novels, informed the ladies of his belief in +phrenology. In the present day he would dilate on ‘Red as a rose is +she,’ and then mention that he attends Old Greyfriars’, as a tacit claim +to intellectual superiority. I do not know that the advance is much. + +But _Mr. Tatler’s_ best performances were three short papers in which he +hit off pretty smartly the idiosyncrasies of the ‘_Divinity_,’ the +‘_Medical_,’ and the ‘_Law_’ of session 1823–4. The fact that there was +no notice of the ‘_Arts_’ seems to suggest that they stood in the same +intermediate position as they do now—the epitome of student-kind. _Mr. +Tatler’s_ satire is, on the whole, good-humoured, and has not grown +superannuated in _all_ its limbs. His descriptions may limp at some +points, but there are certain broad traits that apply equally well to +session 1870–1. He shows us the _Divinity_ of the period—tall, pale, and +slender—his collar greasy, and his coat bare about the seams—‘his white +neckcloth serving four days, and regularly turned the third’—‘the rim of +his hat deficient in wool’—and ‘a weighty volume of theology under his +arm.’ He was the man to buy cheap ‘a snuff-box, or a dozen of pencils, +or a six-bladed knife, or a quarter of a hundred quills,’ at any of the +public sale-rooms. He was noted for cheap purchases, and for exceeding +the legal tender in halfpence. He haunted ‘the darkest and remotest +corner of the Theatre Gallery.’ He was to be seen issuing from ‘aerial +lodging-houses.’ Withal, says mine author, ‘there were many good points +about him: he paid his landlady’s bill, read his Bible, went twice to +church on Sunday, seldom swore, was not often tipsy, and bought the +_Lapsus Linguæ_.’ + +The _Medical_, again, ‘wore a white greatcoat, and consequently talked +loud’—(there is something very delicious in that _consequently_). He +wore his hat on one side. He was active, volatile, and went to the top +of Arthur’s Seat on the Sunday forenoon. He was as quiet in a debating +society as he was loud in the streets. He was reckless and imprudent: +yesterday he insisted on your sharing a bottle of claret with him (and +claret was claret then, before the cheap-and-nasty treaty), and to-morrow +he asks you for the loan of a penny to buy the last number of the +_Lapsus_. + +The student of _Law_, again, was a learned man. ‘He had turned over the +leaves of Justinian’s _Institutes_, and knew that they were written in +Latin. He was well acquainted with the title-page of Blackstone’s +_Commentaries_, and _argal_ (as the gravedigger in _Hamlet_ says) he was +not a person to be laughed at.’ He attended the Parliament House in the +character of a critic, and could give you stale sneers at all the +celebrated speakers. He was the terror of essayists at the Speculative +or the Forensic. In social qualities he seems to have stood unrivalled. +Even in the police-office we find him shining with undiminished lustre. +‘If a _Charlie_ should find him rather noisy at an untimely hour, and +venture to take him into custody, he appears next morning like a Daniel +come to judgment. He opens his mouth to speak, and the divine precepts +of unchanging justice and Scots law flow from his tongue. The magistrate +listens in amazement, and fines him only a couple of guineas.’ + +Such then were our predecessors and their College Magazine. Barclay, +Ambrose, Young Amos, and Fergusson were to them what the Café, the +Rainbow, and Rutherford’s are to us. An hour’s reading in these old +pages absolutely confuses us, there is so much that is similar and so +much that is different; the follies and amusements are so like our own, +and the manner of frolicking and enjoying are so changed, that one pauses +and looks about him in philosophic judgment. The muddy quadrangle is +thick with living students; but in our eyes it swarms also with the +phantasmal white greatcoats and tilted hats of 1824. Two races meet: +races alike and diverse. Two performances are played before our eyes; +but the change seems merely of impersonators, of scenery, of costume. +Plot and passion are the same. It is the fall of the spun shilling +whether seventy-one or twenty-four has the best of it. + +In a future number we hope to give a glance at the individualities of the +present, and see whether the cast shall be head or tail—whether we or the +readers of the _Lapsus_ stand higher in the balance. + + + +CHAPTER II—THE MODERN STUDENT CONSIDERED GENERALLY + + +We have now reached the difficult portion of our task. _Mr. Tatler_, for +all that we care, may have been as virulent as he liked about the +students of a former; but for the iron to touch our sacred selves, for a +brother of the Guild to betray its most privy infirmities, let such a +Judas look to himself as he passes on his way to the Scots Law or the +Diagnostic, below the solitary lamp at the corner of the dark quadrangle. +We confess that this idea alarms us. We enter a protest. We bind +ourselves over verbally to keep the peace. We hope, moreover, that +having thus made you secret to our misgivings, you will excuse us if we +be dull, and set that down to caution which you might before have charged +to the account of stupidity. + +The natural tendency of civilisation is to obliterate those distinctions +which are the best salt of life. All the fine old professional flavour +in language has evaporated. Your very gravedigger has forgotten his +avocation in his electorship, and would quibble on the Franchise over +Ophelia’s grave, instead of more appropriately discussing the duration of +bodies under ground. From this tendency, from this gradual attrition of +life, in which everything pointed and characteristic is being rubbed +down, till the whole world begins to slip between our fingers in smooth +undistinguishable sands, from this, we say, it follows that we must not +attempt to join _Mr. Taller_ in his simple division of students into +_Law_, _Divinity_, and _Medical_. Nowadays the Faculties may shake hands +over their follies; and, like Mrs. Frail and Mrs. Foresight (in _Love for +Love_) they may stand in the doors of opposite class-rooms, crying: +‘Sister, Sister—Sister everyway!’ A few restrictions, indeed, remain to +influence the followers of individual branches of study. The Divinity, +for example, must be an avowed believer; and as this, in the present day, +is unhappily considered by many as a confession of weakness, he is fain +to choose one of two ways of gilding the distasteful orthodox bolus. +Some swallow it in a thin jelly of metaphysics; for it is even a credit +to believe in God on the evidence of some crack-jaw philosopher, although +it is a decided slur to believe in Him on His own authority. Others +again (and this we think the worst method), finding German grammar a +somewhat dry morsel, run their own little heresy as a proof of +independence; and deny one of the cardinal doctrines that they may hold +the others without being laughed at. + +Besides, however, such influences as these, there is little more +distinction between the faculties than the traditionary ideal, handed +down through a long sequence of students, and getting rounder and more +featureless at each successive session. The plague of uniformity has +descended on the College. Students (and indeed all sorts and conditions +of men) now require their faculty and character hung round their neck on +a placard, like the scenes in Shakespeare’s theatre. And in the midst of +all this weary sameness, not the least common feature is the gravity of +every face. No more does the merry medical run eagerly in the clear +winter morning up the rugged sides of Arthur’s Seat, and hear the church +bells begin and thicken and die away below him among the gathered smoke +of the city. He will not break Sunday to so little purpose. He no +longer finds pleasure in the mere output of his surplus energy. He +husbands his strength, and lays out walks, and reading, and amusement +with deep consideration, so that he may get as much work and pleasure out +of his body as he can, and waste none of his energy on mere impulse, or +such flat enjoyment as an excursion in the country. + +See the quadrangle in the interregnum of classes, in those two or three +minutes when it is full of passing students, and we think you will admit +that, if we have not made it ‘an habitation of dragons,’ we have at least +transformed it into ‘a court for owls.’ Solemnity broods heavily over +the enclosure; and wherever you seek it, you will find a dearth of +merriment, an absence of real youthful enjoyment. You might as well try + + ‘To move wild laughter in the throat of death’ + +as to excite any healthy stir among the bulk of this staid company. + +The studious congregate about the doors of the different classes, +debating the matter of the lecture, or comparing note-books. A reserved +rivalry sunders them. Here are some deep in Greek particles: there, +others are already inhabitants of that land + + ‘Where entity and quiddity, + ‘Like ghosts of defunct bodies fly— + Where Truth in person does appear + Like words congealed in northern air.’ + +But none of them seem to find any relish for their studies—no pedantic +love of this subject or that lights up their eyes—science and learning +are only means for a livelihood, which they have considerately embraced +and which they solemnly pursue. ‘Labour’s pale priests,’ their lips seem +incapable of laughter, except in the way of polite recognition of +professorial wit. The stains of ink are chronic on their meagre fingers. +They walk like Saul among the asses. + +The dandies are not less subdued. In 1824 there was a noisy dapper +dandyism abroad. Vulgar, as we should now think, but yet genial—a matter +of white greatcoats and loud voices—strangely different from the stately +frippery that is rife at present. These men are out of their element in +the quadrangle. Even the small remains of boisterous humour, which still +clings to any collection of young men, jars painfully on their morbid +sensibilities; and they beat a hasty retreat to resume their perfunctory +march along Princes Street. Flirtation is to them a great social duty, a +painful obligation, which they perform on every occasion in the same +chill official manner, and with the same commonplace advances, the same +dogged observance of traditional behaviour. The shape of their raiment +is a burden almost greater than they can bear, and they halt in their +walk to preserve the due adjustment of their trouser-knees, till one +would fancy he had mixed in a procession of Jacobs. We speak, of course, +for ourselves; but we would as soon associate with a herd of sprightly +apes as with these gloomy modern beaux. Alas, that our Mirabels, our +Valentines, even our Brummels, should have left their mantles upon +nothing more amusing! + +Nor are the fast men less constrained. Solemnity, even in dissipation, +is the order of the day; and they go to the devil with a perverse +seriousness, a systematic rationalism of wickedness that would have +surprised the simpler sinners of old. Some of these men whom we see +gravely conversing on the steps have but a slender acquaintance with each +other. Their intercourse consists principally of mutual bulletins of +depravity; and, week after week, as they meet they reckon up their items +of transgression, and give an abstract of their downward progress for +approval and encouragement. These folk form a freemasonry of their own. +An oath is the shibboleth of their sinister fellowship. Once they hear a +man swear, it is wonderful how their tongues loosen and their bashful +spirits take enlargement, under the consciousness of brotherhood. There +is no folly, no pardoning warmth of temper about them; they are as +steady-going and systematic in their own way as the studious in theirs. + +Not that we are without merry men. No. We shall not be ungrateful to +those, whose grimaces, whose ironical laughter, whose active feet in the +‘College Anthem’ have beguiled so many weary hours and added a pleasant +variety to the strain of close attention. But even these are too +evidently professional in their antics. They go about cogitating puns +and inventing tricks. It is their vocation, Hal. They are the +gratuitous jesters of the class-room; and, like the clown when he leaves +the stage, their merriment too often sinks as the bell rings the hour of +liberty, and they pass forth by the Post-Office, grave and sedate, and +meditating fresh gambols for the morrow. + +This is the impression left on the mind of any observing student by too +many of his fellows. They seem all frigid old men; and one pauses to +think how such an unnatural state of matters is produced. We feel +inclined to blame for it the unfortunate absence of _University feeling_ +which is so marked a characteristic of our Edinburgh students. +Academical interests are so few and far between—students, as students, +have so little in common, except a peevish rivalry—there is such an +entire want of broad college sympathies and ordinary college friendships, +that we fancy that no University in the kingdom is in so poor a plight. +Our system is full of anomalies. A, who cut B whilst he was a shabby +student, curries sedulously up to him and cudgels his memory for +anecdotes about him when he becomes the great so-and-so. Let there be an +end of this shy, proud reserve on the one hand, and this shuddering fine +ladyism on the other; and we think we shall find both ourselves and the +College bettered. Let it be a sufficient reason for intercourse that two +men sit together on the same benches. Let the great A be held excused +for nodding to the shabby B in Princes Street, if he can say, ‘That +fellow is a student.’ Once this could be brought about, we think you +would find the whole heart of the University beat faster. We think you +would find a fusion among the students, a growth of common feelings, an +increasing sympathy between class and class, whose influence (in such a +heterogeneous company as ours) might be of incalculable value in all +branches of politics and social progress. It would do more than this. +If we could find some method of making the University a real mother to +her sons—something beyond a building of class-rooms, a Senatus and a +lottery of somewhat shabby prizes—we should strike a death-blow at the +constrained and unnatural attitude of our Society. At present we are not +a united body, but a loose gathering of individuals, whose inherent +attraction is allowed to condense them into little knots and coteries. +Our last snowball riot read us a plain lesson on our condition. There +was no party spirit—no unity of interests. A few, who were mischievously +inclined, marched off to the College of Surgeons in a pretentious file; +but even before they reached their destination the feeble inspiration had +died out in many, and their numbers were sadly thinned. Some followed +strange gods in the direction of Drummond Street, and others slunk back +to meek good-boyism at the feet of the Professors. The same is visible +in better things. As you send a man to an English University that he may +have his prejudices rubbed off, you might send him to Edinburgh that he +may have them ingrained—rendered indelible—fostered by sympathy into +living principles of his spirit. And the reason of it is quite plain. +From this absence of University feeling it comes that a man’s friendships +are always the direct and immediate results of these very prejudices. A +common weakness is the best master of ceremonies in our quadrangle: a +mutual vice is the readiest introduction. The studious associate with +the studious alone—the dandies with the dandies. There is nothing to +force them to rub shoulders with the others; and so they grow day by day +more wedded to their own original opinions and affections. They see +through the same spectacles continually. All broad sentiments, all real +catholic humanity expires; and the mind gets gradually stiffened into one +position—becomes so habituated to a contracted atmosphere, that it +shudders and withers under the least draught of the free air that +circulates in the general field of mankind. + +Specialism in Society then is, we think, one cause of our present state. +Specialism in study is another. We doubt whether this has ever been a +good thing since the world began; but we are sure it is much worse now +than it was. Formerly, when a man became a specialist, it was out of +affection for his subject. With a somewhat grand devotion he left all +the world of Science to follow his true love; and he contrived to find +that strange pedantic interest which inspired the man who + + ‘Settled _Hoti’s_ business—let it be— + Properly based _Oun—_ + Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _De_, + Dead from the waist down.’ + +Nowadays it is quite different. Our pedantry wants even the saving +clause of Enthusiasm. The election is now matter of necessity and not of +choice. Knowledge is now too broad a field for your Jack-of-all-Trades; +and, from beautifully utilitarian reasons, he makes his choice, draws his +pen through a dozen branches of study, and behold—John the Specialist. +That this is the way to be wealthy we shall not deny; but we hold that it +is _not_ the way to be healthy or wise. The whole mind becomes narrowed +and circumscribed to one ‘punctual spot’ of knowledge. A rank unhealthy +soil breeds a harvest of prejudices. Feeling himself above others in his +one little branch—in the classification of toadstools, or Carthaginian +history—he waxes great in his own eyes and looks down on others. Having +all his sympathies educated in one way, they die out in every other; and +he is apt to remain a peevish, narrow, and intolerant bigot. Dilettante +is now a term of reproach; but there is a certain form of dilettantism to +which no one can object. It is this that we want among our students. We +wish them to abandon no subject until they have seen and felt its +merit—to act under a general interest in all branches of knowledge, not a +commercial eagerness to excel in one. + +In both these directions our sympathies are constipated. We are apostles +of our own caste and our own subject of study, instead of being, as we +should, true men and _loving_ students. Of course both of these could be +corrected by the students themselves; but this is nothing to the purpose: +it is more important to ask whether the Senatus or the body of alumni +could do nothing towards the growth of better feeling and wider +sentiments. Perhaps in another paper we may say something upon this +head. + +One other word, however, before we have done. What shall we be when we +grow really old? Of yore, a man was thought to lay on restrictions and +acquire new deadweight of mournful experience with every year, till he +looked back on his youth as the very summer of impulse and freedom. We +please ourselves with thinking that it cannot be so with us. We would +fain hope that, as we have begun in one way, we may end in another; and +that when we are in fact the octogenarians that we _seem_ at present, +there shall be no merrier men on earth. It is pleasant to picture us, +sunning ourselves in Princes Street of a morning, or chirping over our +evening cups, with all the merriment that we wanted in youth. + + + +CHAPTER III—DEBATING SOCIETIES + + +A debating society is at first somewhat of a disappointment. You do not +often find the youthful Demosthenes chewing his pebbles in the same room +with you; or, even if you do, you will probably think the performance +little to be admired. As a general rule, the members speak shamefully +ill. The subjects of debate are heavy; and so are the fines. The Ballot +Question—oldest of dialectic nightmares—is often found astride of a +somnolent sederunt. The Greeks and Romans, too, are reserved as sort of +_general-utility_ men, to do all the dirty work of illustration; and they +fill as many functions as the famous waterfall scene at the ‘Princess’s,’ +which I found doing duty on one evening as a gorge in Peru, a haunt of +German robbers, and a peaceful vale in the Scottish borders. There is a +sad absence of striking argument or real lively discussion. Indeed, you +feel a growing contempt for your fellow-members; and it is not until you +rise yourself to hawk and hesitate and sit shamefully down again, amid +eleemosynary applause, that you begin to find your level and value others +rightly. Even then, even when failure has damped your critical ardour, +you will see many things to be laughed at in the deportment of your +rivals. + +Most laughable, perhaps, are your indefatigable strivers after eloquence. +They are of those who ‘pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope,’ and +who, since they expect that ‘the deficiencies of last sentence will be +supplied by the next,’ have been recommended by Dr. Samuel Johnson to +‘attend to the History of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.’ They are +characterised by a hectic hopefulness. Nothing damps them. They rise +from the ruins of one abortive sentence, to launch forth into another +with unabated vigour. They have all the manner of an orator. From the +tone of their voice, you would expect a splendid period—and lo! a string +of broken-backed, disjointed clauses, eked out with stammerings and +throat-clearings. They possess the art (learned from the pulpit) of +rounding an uneuphonious sentence by dwelling on a single syllable—of +striking a balance in a top-heavy period by lengthening out a word into a +melancholy quaver. Withal, they never cease to hope. Even at last, even +when they have exhausted all their ideas, even after the would-be +peroration has finally refused to perorate, they remain upon their feet +with their mouths open, waiting for some further inspiration, like +Chaucer’s widow’s son in the dung-hole, after + + ‘His throat was kit unto the nekké bone,’ + +in vain expectation of that seed that was to be laid upon his tongue, and +give him renewed and clearer utterance. + +These men may have something to say, if they could only say it—indeed +they generally have; but the next class are people who, having nothing to +say, are cursed with a facility and an unhappy command of words, that +makes them the prime nuisances of the society they affect. They try to +cover their absence of matter by an unwholesome vitality of delivery. +They look triumphantly round the room, as if courting applause, after a +torrent of diluted truism. They talk in a circle, harping on the same +dull round of argument, and returning again and again to the same remark +with the same sprightliness, the same irritating appearance of novelty. + +After this set, any one is tolerable; so we shall merely hint at a few +other varieties. There is your man who is pre-eminently conscientious, +whose face beams with sincerity as he opens on the negative, and who +votes on the affirmative at the end, looking round the room with an air +of chastened pride. There is also the irrelevant speaker, who rises, +emits a joke or two, and then sits down again, without ever attempting to +tackle the subject of debate. Again, we have men who ride pick-a-back on +their family reputation, or, if their family have none, identify +themselves with some well-known statesman, use his opinions, and lend him +their patronage on all occasions. This is a dangerous plan, and serves +oftener, I am afraid, to point a difference than to adorn a speech. + +But alas! a striking failure may be reached without tempting Providence +by any of these ambitious tricks. Our own stature will be found high +enough for shame. The success of three simple sentences lures us into a +fatal parenthesis in the fourth, from whose shut brackets we may never +disentangle the thread of our discourse. A momentary flush tempts us +into a quotation; and we may be left helpless in the middle of one of +Pope’s couplets, a white film gathering before our eyes, and our kind +friends charitably trying to cover our disgrace by a feeble round of +applause. _Amis lecteurs_, this is a painful topic. It is possible that +we too, we, the ‘potent, grave, and reverend’ editor, may have suffered +these things, and drunk as deep as any of the cup of shameful failure. +Let us dwell no longer on so delicate a subject. + +In spite, however, of these disagreeables, I should recommend any student +to suffer them with Spartan courage, as the benefits he receives should +repay him an hundredfold for them all. The life of the debating society +is a handy antidote to the life of the classroom and quadrangle. Nothing +could be conceived more excellent as a weapon against many of those +_peccant humours_ that we have been railing against in the jeremiad of +our last ‘College Paper’—particularly in the field of intellect. It is a +sad sight to see our heather-scented students, our boys of seventeen, +coming up to College with determined views—_roués_ in speculation—having +gauged the vanity of philosophy or learned to shun it as the middle-man +of heresy—a company of determined, deliberate opinionists, not to be +moved by all the sleights of logic. What have such men to do with study? +If their minds are made up irrevocably, why burn the ‘studious lamp’ in +search of further confirmation? Every set opinion I hear a student +deliver I feel a certain lowering of my regard. He who studies, he who +is yet employed in groping for his premises, should keep his mind fluent +and sensitive, keen to mark flaws, and willing to surrender untenable +positions. He should keep himself teachable, or cease the expensive +farce of being taught. It is to further this docile spirit that we +desire to press the claims of debating societies. It is as a means of +melting down this museum of premature petrifactions into living and +impressionable soul that we insist on their utility. If we could once +prevail on our students to feel no shame in avowing an uncertain attitude +towards any subject, if we could teach them that it was unnecessary for +every lad to have his _opinionette_ on every topic, we should have gone a +far way towards bracing the intellectual tone of the coming race of +thinkers; and this it is which debating societies are so well fitted to +perform. + +We there meet people of every shade of opinion, and make friends with +them. We are taught to rail against a man the whole session through, and +then hob-a-nob with him at the concluding entertainment. We find men of +talent far exceeding our own, whose conclusions are widely different from +ours; and we are thus taught to distrust ourselves. But the best means +of all towards catholicity is that wholesome rule which some folk are +most inclined to condemn—I mean the law of _obliged speeches_. Your +senior member commands; and you must take the affirmative or the +negative, just as suits his best convenience. This tends to the most +perfect liberality. It is no good hearing the arguments of an opponent, +for in good verity you rarely follow them; and even if you do take the +trouble to listen, it is merely in a captious search for weaknesses. +This is proved, I fear, in every debate; when you hear each speaker +arguing out his own prepared _spécialité_ (he never intended speaking, of +course, until some remarks of, etc.), arguing out, I say, his own +_coached-up_ subject without the least attention to what has gone before, +as utterly at sea about the drift of his adversary’s speech as Panurge +when he argued with Thaumaste, and merely linking his own prelection to +the last by a few flippant criticisms. Now, as the rule stands, you are +saddled with the side you disapprove, and so you are forced, by regard +for your own fame, to argue out, to feel with, to elaborate completely, +the case as it stands against yourself; and what a fund of wisdom do you +not turn up in this idle digging of the vineyard! How many new +difficulties take form before your eyes? how many superannuated arguments +cripple finally into limbo, under the glance of your enforced +eclecticism! + +Nor is this the only merit of Debating Societies. They tend also to +foster taste, and to promote friendship between University men. This +last, as we have had occasion before to say, is the great requirement of +our student life; and it will therefore be no waste of time if we devote +a paragraph to this subject in its connection with Debating Societies. +At present they partake too much of the nature of a _clique_. Friends +propose friends, and mutual friends second them, until the society +degenerates into a sort of family party. You may confirm old +acquaintances, but you can rarely make new ones. You find yourself in +the atmosphere of your own daily intercourse. Now, this is an +unfortunate circumstance, which it seems to me might readily be +rectified. Our Principal has shown himself so friendly towards all +College improvements that I cherish the hope of seeing shortly realised a +certain suggestion, which is not a new one with me, and which must often +have been proposed and canvassed heretofore—I mean, a real _University +Debating Society_, patronised by the Senatus, presided over by the +Professors, to which every one might gain ready admittance on sight of +his matriculation ticket, where it would be a favour and not a necessity +to speak, and where the obscure student might have another object for +attendance besides the mere desire to save his fines: to wit, the chance +of drawing on himself the favourable consideration of his teachers. This +would be merely following in the good tendency, which has been so +noticeable during all this session, to increase and multiply student +societies and clubs of every sort. Nor would it be a matter of much +difficulty. The united societies would form a nucleus: one of the +class-rooms at first, and perhaps afterwards the great hall above the +library, might be the place of meeting. There would be no want of +attendance or enthusiasm, I am sure; for it is a very different thing to +speak under the bushel of a private club on the one hand, and, on the +other, in a public place, where a happy period or a subtle argument may +do the speaker permanent service in after life. Such a club might end, +perhaps, by rivalling the ‘Union’ at Cambridge or the ‘Union’ at Oxford. + + + +CHAPTER IV—THE PHILOSOPHY OF UMBRELLAS {151} + + +It is wonderful to think what a turn has been given to our whole Society +by the fact that we live under the sign of Aquarius—that our climate is +essentially wet. A mere arbitrary distinction, like the walking-swords +of yore, might have remained the symbol of foresight and respectability, +had not the raw mists and dropping showers of our island pointed the +inclination of Society to another exponent of those virtues. A ribbon of +the Legion of Honour or a string of medals may prove a person’s courage; +a title may prove his birth; a professorial chair his study and +acquirement; but it is the habitual carriage of the umbrella that is the +stamp of Respectability. The umbrella has become the acknowledged index +of social position. + +Robinson Crusoe presents us with a touching instance of the hankering +after them inherent in the civilised and educated mind. To the +superficial, the hot suns of Juan Fernandez may sufficiently account for +his quaint choice of a luxury; but surely one who had borne the hard +labour of a seaman under the tropics for all these years could have +supported an excursion after goats or a peaceful _constitutional_ arm in +arm with the nude Friday. No, it was not this: the memory of a vanished +respectability called for some outward manifestation, and the result +was—an umbrella. A pious castaway might have rigged up a belfry and +solaced his Sunday mornings with the mimicry of church-bells; but Crusoe +was rather a moralist than a pietist, and his leaf-umbrella is as fine an +example of the civilised mind striving to express itself under adverse +circumstances as we have ever met with. + +It is not for nothing, either, that the umbrella has become the very +foremost badge of modern civilisation—the Urim and Thummim of +respectability. Its pregnant symbolism has taken its rise in the most +natural manner. Consider, for a moment, when umbrellas were first +introduced into this country, what manner of men would use them, and what +class would adhere to the useless but ornamental cane. The first, +without doubt, would be the hypochondriacal, out of solicitude for their +health, or the frugal, out of care for their raiment; the second, it is +equally plain, would include the fop, the fool, and the Bobadil. Any one +acquainted with the growth of Society, and knowing out of what small +seeds of cause are produced great revolutions, and wholly new conditions +of intercourse, sees from this simple thought how the carriage of an +umbrella came to indicate frugality, judicious regard for bodily welfare, +and scorn for mere outward adornment, and, in one word, all those homely +and solid virtues implied in the term RESPECTABILITY. Not that the +umbrella’s costliness has nothing to do with its great influence. Its +possession, besides symbolising (as we have already indicated) the change +from wild Esau to plain Jacob dwelling in tents, implies a certain +comfortable provision of fortune. It is not every one that can expose +twenty-six shillings’ worth of property to so many chances of loss and +theft. So strongly do we feel on this point, indeed, that we are almost +inclined to consider all who possess really well-conditioned umbrellas as +worthy of the Franchise. They have a qualification standing in their +lobbies; they carry a sufficient stake in the common-weal below their +arm. One who bears with him an umbrella—such a complicated structure of +whalebone, of silk, and of cane, that it becomes a very microcosm of +modern industry—is necessarily a man of peace. A half-crown cane may be +applied to an offender’s head on a very moderate provocation; but a +six-and-twenty shilling silk is a possession too precious to be +adventured in the shock of war. + +These are but a few glances at how umbrellas (in the general) came to +their present high estate. But the true Umbrella-Philosopher meets with +far stranger applications as he goes about the streets. + +Umbrellas, like faces, acquire a certain sympathy with the individual who +carries them: indeed, they are far more capable of betraying his trust; +for whereas a face is given to us so far ready made, and all our power +over it is in frowning, and laughing, and grimacing, during the first +three or four decades of life, each umbrella is selected from a whole +shopful, as being most consonant to the purchaser’s disposition. An +undoubted power of diagnosis rests with the practised +Umbrella-Philosopher. O you who lisp, and amble, and change the fashion +of your countenances—you who conceal all these, how little do you think +that you left a proof of your weakness in our umbrella-stand—that even +now, as you shake out the folds to meet the thickening snow, we read in +its ivory handle the outward and visible sign of your snobbery, or from +the exposed gingham of its cover detect, through coat and waistcoat, the +hidden hypocrisy of the ‘_dickey_’! But alas! even the umbrella is no +certain criterion. The falsity and the folly of the human race have +degraded that graceful symbol to the ends of dishonesty; and while some +umbrellas, from carelessness in selection, are not strikingly +characteristic (for it is only in what a man loves that he displays his +real nature), others, from certain prudential motives, are chosen +directly opposite to the person’s disposition. A mendacious umbrella is +a sign of great moral degradation. Hypocrisy naturally shelters itself +below a silk; while the fast youth goes to visit his religious friends +armed with the decent and reputable gingham. May it not be said of the +bearers of these inappropriate umbrellas that they go about the streets +‘with a lie in their right hand’? + +The kings of Siam, as we read, besides having a graduated social scale of +umbrellas (which was a good thing), prevented the great bulk of their +subjects from having any at all, which was certainly a bad thing. We +should be sorry to believe that this Eastern legislator was a fool—the +idea of an aristocracy of umbrellas is too philosophic to have originated +in a nobody—and we have accordingly taken exceeding pains to find out the +reason of this harsh restriction. We think we have succeeded; but, while +admiring the principle at which he aimed, and while cordially recognising +in the Siamese potentate the only man before ourselves who had taken a +real grasp of the umbrella, we must be allowed to point out how +unphilosophically the great man acted in this particular. His object, +plainly, was to prevent any unworthy persons from bearing the sacred +symbol of domestic virtues. We cannot excuse his limiting these virtues +to the circle of his court. We must only remember that such was the +feeling of the age in which he lived. Liberalism had not yet raised the +war-cry of the working classes. But here was his mistake: it was a +needless regulation. Except in a very few cases of hypocrisy joined to a +powerful intellect, men, not by nature _umbrellarians_, have tried again +and again to become so by art, and yet have failed—have expended their +patrimony in the purchase of umbrella after umbrella, and yet have +systematically lost them, and have finally, with contrite spirits and +shrunken purses, given up their vain struggle, and relied on theft and +borrowing for the remainder of their lives. This is the most remarkable +fact that we have had occasion to notice; and yet we challenge the candid +reader to call it in question. Now, as there cannot be any _moral +selection_ in a mere dead piece of furniture—as the umbrella cannot be +supposed to have an affinity for individual men equal and reciprocal to +that which men certainly feel toward individual umbrellas—we took the +trouble of consulting a scientific friend as to whether there was any +possible physical explanation of the phenomenon. He was unable to supply +a plausible theory, or even hypothesis; but we extract from his letter +the following interesting passage relative to the physical peculiarities +of umbrellas: ‘Not the least important, and by far the most curious +property of the umbrella, is the energy which it displays in affecting +the atmospheric strata. There is no fact in meteorology better +established—indeed, it is almost the only one on which meteorologists are +agreed—than that the carriage of an umbrella produces desiccation of the +air; while if it be left at home, aqueous vapour is largely produced, and +is soon deposited in the form of rain. No theory,’ my friend continues, +‘competent to explain this hygrometric law has been given (as far as I am +aware) by Herschel, Dove, Glaisher, Tait, Buchan, or any other writer; +nor do I pretend to supply the defect. I venture, however, to throw out +the conjecture that it will be ultimately found to belong to the same +class of natural laws as that agreeable to which a slice of toast always +descends with the buttered surface downwards.’ + +But it is time to draw to a close. We could expatiate much longer upon +this topic, but want of space constrains us to leave unfinished these few +desultory remarks—slender contributions towards a subject which has +fallen sadly backward, and which, we grieve to say, was better understood +by the king of Siam in 1686 than by all the philosophers of to-day. If, +however, we have awakened in any rational mind an interest in the +symbolism of umbrellas—in any generous heart a more complete sympathy +with the dumb companion of his daily walk—or in any grasping spirit a +pure notion of respectability strong enough to make him expend his +six-and-twenty shillings—we shall have deserved well of the world, to say +nothing of the many industrious persons employed in the manufacture of +the article. + + + +CHAPTER V—THE PHILOSOPHY OF NOMENCLATURE + + + ‘How many Cæsars and Pompeys, by mere inspirations of the names, have + been rendered worthy of them? And how many are there, who might have + done exceeding well in the world, had not their characters and + spirits been totally depressed and Nicodemus’d into + nothing?’—_Tristram Shandy_, vol. I. chap xix. + +Such were the views of the late Walter Shandy, Esq., Turkey merchant. To +the best of my belief, Mr. Shandy is the first who fairly pointed out the +incalculable influence of nomenclature upon the whole life—who seems +first to have recognised the one child, happy in an heroic appellation, +soaring upwards on the wings of fortune, and the other, like the dead +sailor in his shotted hammock, haled down by sheer weight of name into +the abysses of social failure. Solomon possibly had his eye on some such +theory when he said that ‘a good name is better than precious ointment’; +and perhaps we may trace a similar spirit in the compilers of the English +Catechism, and the affectionate interest with which they linger round the +catechumen’s name at the very threshold of their work. But, be these as +they may, I think no one can censure me for appending, in pursuance of +the expressed wish of his son, the Turkey merchant’s name to his system, +and pronouncing, without further preface, a short epitome of the +‘Shandean Philosophy of Nomenclature.’ + +To begin, then: the influence of our name makes itself felt from the very +cradle. As a schoolboy I remember the pride with which I hailed Robin +Hood, Robert Bruce, and Robert le Diable as my name-fellows; and the +feeling of sore disappointment that fell on my heart when I found a +freebooter or a general who did not share with me a single one of my +numerous _prænomina_. Look at the delight with which two children find +they have the same name. They are friends from that moment forth; they +have a bond of union stronger than exchange of nuts and sweetmeats. This +feeling, I own, wears off in later life. Our names lose their freshness +and interest, become trite and indifferent. But this, dear reader, is +merely one of the sad effects of those ‘shades of the prison-house’ which +come gradually betwixt us and nature with advancing years; it affords no +weapon against the philosophy of names. + +In after life, although we fail to trace its working, that name which +careless godfathers lightly applied to your unconscious infancy will have +been moulding your character, and influencing with irresistible power the +whole course of your earthly fortunes. But the last name, overlooked by +Mr. Shandy, is no whit less important as a condition of success. Family +names, we must recollect, are but inherited nicknames; and if the +_sobriquet_ were applicable to the ancestor, it is most likely applicable +to the descendant also. You would not expect to find Mr. M‘Phun acting +as a mute, or Mr. M‘Lumpha excelling as a professor of dancing. +Therefore, in what follows, we shall consider names, independent of +whether they are first or last. And to begin with, look what a pull +_Cromwell_ had over _Pym_—the one name full of a resonant imperialism, +the other, mean, pettifogging, and unheroic to a degree. Who would +expect eloquence from _Pym_—who would read poems by _Pym_—who would bow +to the opinion of _Pym_? He might have been a dentist, but he should +never have aspired to be a statesman. I can only wonder that he +succeeded as he did. Pym and Habakkuk stand first upon the roll of men +who have triumphed, by sheer force of genius, over the most unfavourable +appellations. But even these have suffered; and, had they been more +fitly named, the one might have been Lord Protector, and the other have +shared the laurels with Isaiah. In this matter we must not forget that +all our great poets have borne great names. Chaucer, Spenser, +Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, Shelley—what a constellation of +lordly words! Not a single common-place name among them—not a Brown, not +a Jones, not a Robinson; they are all names that one would stop and look +at on a door-plate. Now, imagine if _Pepys_ had tried to clamber somehow +into the enclosure of poetry, what a blot would that word have made upon +the list! The thing was impossible. In the first place a certain +natural consciousness that men would have held him down to the level of +his name, would have prevented him from rising above the Pepsine +standard, and so haply withheld him altogether from attempting verse. +Next, the booksellers would refuse to publish, and the world to read +them, on the mere evidence of the fatal appellation. And now, before I +close this section, I must say one word as to _punnable_ names, names +that stand alone, that have a significance and life apart from him that +bears them. These are the bitterest of all. One friend of mine goes +bowed and humbled through life under the weight of this misfortune; for +it is an awful thing when a man’s name is a joke, when he cannot be +mentioned without exciting merriment, and when even the intimation of his +death bids fair to carry laughter into many a home. + +So much for people who are badly named. Now for people who are _too_ +well named, who go top-heavy from the font, who are baptized into a false +position, and find themselves beginning life eclipsed under the fame of +some of the great ones of the past. A man, for instance, called William +Shakespeare could never dare to write plays. He is thrown into too +humbling an apposition with the author of _Hamlet_. Its own name coming +after is such an anti-climax. ‘The plays of William Shakespeare’? says +the reader—‘O no! The plays of William Shakespeare Cockerill,’ and he +throws the book aside. In wise pursuance of such views, Mr. John Milton +Hengler, who not long since delighted us in this favoured town, has never +attempted to write an epic, but has chosen a new path, and has excelled +upon the tight-rope. A marked example of triumph over this is the case +of Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. On the face of the matter, I should have +advised him to imitate the pleasing modesty of the last-named gentleman, +and confine his ambition to the sawdust. But Mr. Rossetti has triumphed. +He has even dared to translate from his mighty name-father; and the voice +of fame supports him in his boldness. + +Dear readers, one might write a year upon this matter. A lifetime of +comparison and research could scarce suffice for its elucidation. So +here, if it please you, we shall let it rest. Slight as these notes have +been, I would that the great founder of the system had been alive to see +them. How he had warmed and brightened, how his persuasive eloquence +would have fallen on the ears of Toby; and what a letter of praise and +sympathy would not the editor have received before the month was out! +Alas, the thing was not to be. Walter Shandy died and was duly buried, +while yet his theory lay forgotten and neglected by his +fellow-countrymen. But, reader, the day will come, I hope, when a +paternal government will stamp out, as seeds of national weakness, all +depressing patronymics, and when godfathers and godmothers will soberly +and earnestly debate the interest of the nameless one, and not rush +blindfold to the christening. In these days there shall be written a +‘Godfather’s Assistant,’ in shape of a dictionary of names, with their +concomitant virtues and vices; and this book shall be scattered broadcast +through the land, and shall be on the table of every one eligible for +godfathership, until such a thing as a vicious or untoward appellation +shall have ceased from off the face of the earth. + + + + +CRITICISMS + + +CHAPTER I—LORD LYTTON’S ‘FABLES IN SONG’ + + +It seems as if Lord Lytton, in this new book of his, had found the form +most natural to his talent. In some ways, indeed, it may be held +inferior to _Chronicles and Characters_; we look in vain for anything +like the terrible intensity of the night-scene in _Irene_, or for any +such passages of massive and memorable writing as appeared, here and +there, in the earlier work, and made it not altogether unworthy of its +model, Hugo’s _Legend of the Ages_. But it becomes evident, on the most +hasty retrospect, that this earlier work was a step on the way towards +the later. It seems as if the author had been feeling about for his +definite medium, and was already, in the language of the child’s game, +growing hot. There are many pieces in _Chronicles and Characters_ that +might be detached from their original setting, and embodied, as they +stand, among the _Fables in Song_. + +For the term Fable is not very easy to define rigorously. In the most +typical form some moral precept is set forth by means of a conception +purely fantastic, and usually somewhat trivial into the bargain; there is +something playful about it, that will not support a very exacting +criticism, and the lesson must be apprehended by the fancy at half a +hint. Such is the great mass of the old stories of wise animals or +foolish men that have amused our childhood. But we should expect the +fable, in company with other and more important literary forms, to be +more and more loosely, or at least largely, comprehended as time went on, +and so to degenerate in conception from this original type. That +depended for much of its piquancy on the very fact that it was fantastic: +the point of the thing lay in a sort of humorous inappropriateness; and +it is natural enough that pleasantry of this description should become +less common, as men learn to suspect some serious analogy underneath. +Thus a comical story of an ape touches us quite differently after the +proposition of Mr. Darwin’s theory. Moreover, there lay, perhaps, at the +bottom of this primitive sort of fable, a humanity, a tenderness of rough +truths; so that at the end of some story, in which vice or folly had met +with its destined punishment, the fabulist might be able to assure his +auditors, as we have often to assure tearful children on the like +occasions, that they may dry their eyes, for none of it was true. + +But this benefit of fiction becomes lost with more sophisticated hearers +and authors: a man is no longer the dupe of his own artifice, and cannot +deal playfully with truths that are a matter of bitter concern to him in +his life. And hence, in the progressive centralisation of modern +thought, we should expect the old form of fable to fall gradually into +desuetude, and be gradually succeeded by another, which is a fable in all +points except that it is not altogether fabulous. And this new form, +such as we should expect, and such as we do indeed find, still presents +the essential character of brevity; as in any other fable also, there is, +underlying and animating the brief action, a moral idea; and as in any +other fable, the object is to bring this home to the reader through the +intellect rather than through the feelings; so that, without being very +deeply moved or interested by the characters of the piece, we should +recognise vividly the hinges on which the little plot revolves. But the +fabulist now seeks analogies where before he merely sought humorous +situations. There will be now a logical nexus between the moral +expressed and the machinery employed to express it. The machinery, in +fact, as this change is developed, becomes less and less fabulous. We +find ourselves in presence of quite a serious, if quite a miniature +division of creative literature; and sometimes we have the lesson +embodied in a sober, everyday narration, as in the parables of the New +Testament, and sometimes merely the statement or, at most, the +collocation of significant facts in life, the reader being left to +resolve for himself the vague, troublesome, and not yet definitely moral +sentiment which has been thus created. And step by step with the +development of this change, yet another is developed: the moral tends to +become more indeterminate and large. It ceases to be possible to append +it, in a tag, to the bottom of the piece, as one might write the name +below a caricature; and the fable begins to take rank with all other +forms of creative literature, as something too ambitious, in spite of its +miniature dimensions, to be resumed in any succinct formula without the +loss of all that is deepest and most suggestive in it. + +Now it is in this widest sense that Lord Lytton understands the term; +there are examples in his two pleasant volumes of all the forms already +mentioned, and even of another which can only be admitted among fables by +the utmost possible leniency of construction. ‘Composure,’ ‘Et Cætera,’ +and several more, are merely similes poetically elaborated. So, too, is +the pathetic story of the grandfather and grandchild: the child, having +treasured away an icicle and forgotten it for ten minutes, comes back to +find it already nearly melted, and no longer beautiful: at the same time, +the grandfather has just remembered and taken out a bundle of +love-letters, which he too had stored away in years gone by, and then +long neglected; and, behold! the letters are as faded and sorrowfully +disappointing as the icicle. This is merely a simile poetically worked +out; and yet it is in such as these, and some others, to be mentioned +further on, that the author seems at his best. Wherever he has really +written after the old model, there is something to be deprecated: in +spite of all the spirit and freshness, in spite of his happy assumption +of that cheerful acceptation of things as they are, which, rightly or +wrongly, we come to attribute to the ideal fabulist, there is ever a +sense as of something a little out of place. A form of literature so +very innocent and primitive looks a little over-written in Lord Lytton’s +conscious and highly-coloured style. It may be bad taste, but sometimes +we should prefer a few sentences of plain prose narration, and a little +Bewick by way of tail-piece. So that it is not among those fables that +conform most nearly to the old model, but one had nearly said among those +that most widely differ from it, that we find the most satisfactory +examples of the author’s manner. + +In the mere matter of ingenuity, the metaphysical fables are the most +remarkable; such as that of the windmill who imagined that it was he who +raised the wind; or that of the grocer’s balance (‘Cogito ergo sum’) who +considered himself endowed with free-will, reason, and an infallible +practical judgment; until, one fine day, the police made a descent upon +the shop, and find the weights false and the scales unequal; and the +whole thing is broken up for old iron. Capital fables, also, in the same +ironical spirit, are ‘Prometheus Unbound,’ the tale of the vainglorying +of a champagne-cork, and ‘Teleology,’ where a nettle justifies the ways +of God to nettles while all goes well with it, and, upon a change of +luck, promptly changes its divinity. + +In all these there is still plenty of the fabulous if you will, although, +even here, there may be two opinions possible; but there is another +group, of an order of merit perhaps still higher, where we look in vain +for any such playful liberties with Nature. Thus we have ‘Conservation +of Force’; where a musician, thinking of a certain picture, improvises in +the twilight; a poet, hearing the music, goes home inspired, and writes a +poem; and then a painter, under the influence of this poem, paints +another picture, thus lineally descended from the first. This is +fiction, but not what we have been used to call fable. We miss the +incredible element, the point of audacity with which the fabulist was +wont to mock at his readers. And still more so is this the case with +others. ‘The Horse and the Fly’ states one of the unanswerable problems +of life in quite a realistic and straightforward way. A fly startles a +cab-horse, the coach is overset; a newly-married pair within and the +driver, a man with a wife and family, are all killed. The horse +continues to gallop off in the loose traces, and ends the tragedy by +running over an only child; and there is some little pathetic detail here +introduced in the telling, that makes the reader’s indignation very +white-hot against some one. It remains to be seen who that some one is +to be: the fly? Nay, but on closer inspection, it appears that the fly, +actuated by maternal instinct, was only seeking a place for her eggs: is +maternal instinct, then, ‘sole author of these mischiefs all’? ‘Who’s in +the Right?’ one of the best fables in the book, is somewhat in the same +vein. After a battle has been won, a group of officers assemble inside a +battery, and debate together who should have the honour of the success; +the Prince, the general staff, the cavalry, the engineer who posted the +battery in which they then stand talking, are successively named: the +sergeant, who pointed the guns, sneers to himself at the mention of the +engineer; and, close by, the gunner, who had applied the match, passes +away with a smile of triumph, since it was through his hand that the +victorious blow had been dealt. Meanwhile, the cannon claims the honour +over the gunner; the cannon-ball, who actually goes forth on the dread +mission, claims it over the cannon, who remains idly behind; the powder +reminds the cannon-ball that, but for him, it would still be lying on the +arsenal floor; and the match caps the discussion; powder, cannon-ball, +and cannon would be all equally vain and ineffectual without fire. Just +then there comes on a shower of rain, which wets the powder and puts out +the match, and completes this lesson of dependence, by indicating the +negative conditions which are as necessary for any effect, in their +absence, as is the presence of this great fraternity of positive +conditions, not any one of which can claim priority over any other. But +the fable does not end here, as perhaps, in all logical strictness, it +should. It wanders off into a discussion as to which is the truer +greatness, that of the vanquished fire or that of the victorious rain. +And the speech of the rain is charming: + + ‘Lo, with my little drops I bless again + And beautify the fields which thou didst blast! + Rend, wither, waste, and ruin, what thou wilt, + But call not Greatness what the Gods call Guilt. + Blossoms and grass from blood in battle spilt, + And poppied corn, I bring. + ‘Mid mouldering Babels, to oblivion built, + My violets spring. + Little by little my small drops have strength + To deck with green delights the grateful earth.’ + +And so forth, not quite germane (it seems to me) to the matter in hand, +but welcome for its own sake. + +Best of all are the fables that deal more immediately with the emotions. +There is, for instance, that of ‘The Two Travellers,’ which is profoundly +moving in conception, although by no means as well written as some +others. In this, one of the two, fearfully frost-bitten, saves his life +out of the snow at the cost of all that was comely in his body; just as, +long before, the other, who has now quietly resigned himself to death, +had violently freed himself from Love at the cost of all that was finest +and fairest in his character. Very graceful and sweet is the fable (if +so it should be called) in which the author sings the praises of that +‘kindly perspective,’ which lets a wheat-stalk near the eye cover twenty +leagues of distant country, and makes the humble circle about a man’s +hearth more to him than all the possibilities of the external world. The +companion fable to this is also excellent. It tells us of a man who had, +all his life through, entertained a passion for certain blue hills on the +far horizon, and had promised himself to travel thither ere he died, and +become familiar with these distant friends. At last, in some political +trouble, he is banished to the very place of his dreams. He arrives +there overnight, and, when he rises and goes forth in the morning, there +sure enough are the blue hills, only now they have changed places with +him, and smile across to him, distant as ever, from the old home whence +he has come. Such a story might have been very cynically treated; but it +is not so done, the whole tone is kindly and consolatory, and the +disenchanted man submissively takes the lesson, and understands that +things far away are to be loved for their own sake, and that the +unattainable is not truly unattainable, when we can make the beauty of it +our own. Indeed, throughout all these two volumes, though there is much +practical scepticism, and much irony on abstract questions, this kindly +and consolatory spirit is never absent. There is much that is cheerful +and, after a sedate, fireside fashion, hopeful. No one will be +discouraged by reading the book; but the ground of all this hopefulness +and cheerfulness remains to the end somewhat vague. It does not seem to +arise from any practical belief in the future either of the individual or +the race, but rather from the profound personal contentment of the +writer. This is, I suppose, all we must look for in the case. It is as +much as we can expect, if the fabulist shall prove a shrewd and cheerful +fellow-wayfarer, one with whom the world does not seem to have gone much +amiss, but who has yet laughingly learned something of its evil. It will +depend much, of course, upon our own character and circumstances, whether +the encounter will be agreeable and bracing to the spirits, or offend us +as an ill-timed mockery. But where, as here, there is a little tincture +of bitterness along with the good-nature, where it is plainly not the +humour of a man cheerfully ignorant, but of one who looks on, tolerant +and superior and smilingly attentive, upon the good and bad of our +existence, it will go hardly if we do not catch some reflection of the +same spirit to help us on our way. There is here no impertinent and +lying proclamation of peace—none of the cheap optimism of the well-to-do; +what we find here is a view of life that would be even grievous, were it +not enlivened with this abiding cheerfulness, and ever and anon redeemed +by a stroke of pathos. + +It is natural enough, I suppose, that we should find wanting in this book +some of the intenser qualities of the author’s work; and their absence is +made up for by much happy description after a quieter fashion. The burst +of jubilation over the departure of the snow, which forms the prelude to +‘The Thistle,’ is full of spirit and of pleasant images. The speech of +the forest in ‘Sans Souci’ is inspired by a beautiful sentiment for +nature of the modern sort, and pleases us more, I think, as poetry should +please us, than anything in _Chronicles and Characters_. There are some +admirable felicities of expression here and there; as that of the hill, +whose summit + + ‘Did print + The azure air with pines.’ + +Moreover, I do not recollect in the author’s former work any symptom of +that sympathetic treatment of still life, which is noticeable now and +again in the fables; and perhaps most noticeably, when he sketches the +burned letters as they hover along the gusty flue, ‘Thin, sable veils, +wherein a restless spark Yet trembled.’ But the description is at its +best when the subjects are unpleasant, or even grisly. There are a few +capital lines in this key on the last spasm of the battle before alluded +to. Surely nothing could be better, in its own way, than the fish in +‘The Last Cruise of the Arrogant,’ ‘the shadowy, side-faced, silent +things,’ that come butting and staring with lidless eyes at the sunken +steam-engine. And although, in yet another, we are told, pleasantly +enough, how the water went down into the valleys, where it set itself +gaily to saw wood, and on into the plains, where it would soberly carry +grain to town; yet the real strength of the fable is when it dealt with +the shut pool in which certain unfortunate raindrops are imprisoned among +slugs and snails, and in the company of an old toad. The sodden +contentment of the fallen acorn is strangely significant; and it is +astonishing how unpleasantly we are startled by the appearance of her +horrible lover, the maggot. + +And now for a last word, about the style. This is not easy to criticise. +It is impossible to deny to it rapidity, spirit, and a full sound; the +lines are never lame, and the sense is carried forward with an +uninterrupted, impetuous rush. But it is not equal. After passages of +really admirable versification, the author falls back upon a sort of +loose, cavalry manner, not unlike the style of some of Mr. Browning’s +minor pieces, and almost inseparable from wordiness, and an easy +acceptation of somewhat cheap finish. There is nothing here of that +compression which is the note of a really sovereign style. It is unfair, +perhaps, to set a not remarkable passage from Lord Lytton side by side +with one of the signal masterpieces of another, and a very perfect poet; +and yet it is interesting, when we see how the portraiture of a dog, +detailed through thirty odd lines, is frittered down and finally almost +lost in the mere laxity of the style, to compare it with the clear, +simple, vigorous delineation that Burns, in four couplets, has given us +of the ploughman’s collie. It is interesting, at first, and then it +becomes a little irritating; for when we think of other passages so much +more finished and adroit, we cannot help feeling, that with a little more +ardour after perfection of form, criticism would have found nothing left +for her to censure. A similar mark of precipitate work is the number of +adjectives tumultuously heaped together, sometimes to help out the sense, +and sometimes (as one cannot but suspect) to help out the sound of the +verses. I do not believe, for instance, that Lord Lytton himself would +defend the lines in which we are told how Laocoön ‘Revealed to Roman +crowds, now _Christian_ grown, That _Pagan_ anguish which, in _Parian_ +stone, The _Rhodian_ artist,’ and so on. It is not only that this is bad +in itself; but that it is unworthy of the company in which it is found; +that such verses should not have appeared with the name of a good +versifier like Lord Lytton. We must take exception, also, in conclusion, +to the excess of alliteration. Alliteration is so liable to be abused +that we can scarcely be too sparing of it; and yet it is a trick that +seems to grow upon the author with years. It is a pity to see fine +verses, such as some in ‘Demos,’ absolutely spoiled by the recurrence of +one wearisome consonant. + + + +CHAPTER II—SALVINI’S MACBETH + + +Salvini closed his short visit to Edinburgh by a performance of +_Macbeth_. It was, perhaps, from a sentiment of local colour that he +chose to play the Scottish usurper for the first time before Scotsmen; +and the audience were not insensible of the privilege. Few things, +indeed, can move a stronger interest than to see a great creation taking +shape for the first time. If it is not purely artistic, the sentiment is +surely human. And the thought that you are before all the world, and +have the start of so many others as eager as yourself, at least keeps you +in a more unbearable suspense before the curtain rises, if it does not +enhance the delight with which you follow the performance and see the +actor ‘bend up each corporal agent’ to realise a masterpiece of a few +hours’ duration. With a player so variable as Salvini, who trusts to the +feelings of the moment for so much detail, and who, night after night, +does the same thing differently but always well, it can never be safe to +pass judgment after a single hearing. And this is more particularly true +of last week’s _Macbeth_; for the whole third act was marred by a +grievously humorous misadventure. Several minutes too soon the ghost of +Banquo joined the party, and after having sat helpless a while at a +table, was ignominiously withdrawn. Twice was this ghostly +Jack-in-the-box obtruded on the stage before his time; twice removed +again; and yet he showed so little hurry when he was really wanted, that, +after an awkward pause, Macbeth had to begin his apostrophe to empty air. +The arrival of the belated spectre in the middle, with a jerk that made +him nod all over, was the last accident in the chapter, and worthily +topped the whole. It may be imagined how lamely matters went throughout +these cross purposes. + +In spite of this, and some other hitches, Salvini’s Macbeth had an +emphatic success. The creation is worthy of a place beside the same +artist’s Othello and Hamlet. It is the simplest and most unsympathetic +of the three; but the absence of the finer lineaments of Hamlet is +redeemed by gusto, breadth, and a headlong unity. Salvini sees nothing +great in Macbeth beyond the royalty of muscle, and that courage which +comes of strong and copious circulation. The moral smallness of the man +is insisted on from the first, in the shudder of uncontrollable jealousy +with which he sees Duncan embracing Banquo. He may have some northern +poetry of speech, but he has not much logical understanding. In his +dealings with the supernatural powers he is like a savage with his +fetich, trusting them beyond bounds while all goes well, and whenever he +is crossed, casting his belief aside and calling ‘fate into the list.’ +For his wife, he is little more than an agent, a frame of bone and sinew +for her fiery spirit to command. The nature of his feeling towards her +is rendered with a most precise and delicate touch. He always yields to +the woman’s fascination; and yet his caresses (and we know how much +meaning Salvini can give to a caress) are singularly hard and unloving. +Sometimes he lays his hand on her as he might take hold of any one who +happened to be nearest to him at a moment of excitement. Love has fallen +out of this marriage by the way, and left a curious friendship. Only +once—at the very moment when she is showing herself so little a woman and +so much a high-spirited man—only once is he very deeply stirred towards +her; and that finds expression in the strange and horrible transport of +admiration, doubly strange and horrible on Salvini’s lips—‘Bring forth +men-children only!’ + +The murder scene, as was to be expected, pleased the audience best. +Macbeth’s voice, in the talk with his wife, was a thing not to be +forgotten; and when he spoke of his hangman’s hands he seemed to have +blood in his utterance. Never for a moment, even in the very article of +the murder, does he possess his own soul. He is a man on wires. From +first to last it is an exhibition of hideous cowardice. For, after all, +it is not here, but in broad daylight, with the exhilaration of conflict, +where he can assure himself at every blow he has the longest sword and +the heaviest hand, that this man’s physical bravery can keep him up; he +is an unwieldy ship, and needs plenty of way on before he will steer. + +In the banquet scene, while the first murderer gives account of what he +has done, there comes a flash of truculent joy at the ‘twenty trenchèd +gashes’ on Banquo’s head. Thus Macbeth makes welcome to his imagination +those very details of physical horror which are so soon to turn sour in +him. As he runs out to embrace these cruel circumstances, as he seeks to +realise to his mind’s eye the reassuring spectacle of his dead enemy, he +is dressing out the phantom to terrify himself; and his imagination, +playing the part of justice, is to ‘commend to his own lips the +ingredients of his poisoned chalice.’ With the recollection of Hamlet +and his father’s spirit still fresh upon him, and the holy awe with which +that good man encountered things not dreamt of in his philosophy, it was +not possible to avoid looking for resemblances between the two +apparitions and the two men haunted. But there are none to be found. +Macbeth has a purely physical dislike for Banquo’s spirit and the ‘twenty +trenchèd gashes.’ He is afraid of he knows not what. He is abject, and +again blustering. In the end he so far forgets himself, his terror, and +the nature of what is before him, that he rushes upon it as he would upon +a man. When his wife tells him he needs repose, there is something +really childish in the way he looks about the room, and, seeing nothing, +with an expression of almost sensual relief, plucks up heart enough to go +to bed. And what is the upshot of the visitation? It is written in +Shakespeare, but should be read with the commentary of Salvini’s voice +and expression:—‘O! _siam nell’ opra ancor fanciulli_’—‘We are yet but +young in deed.’ Circle below circle. He is looking with horrible +satisfaction into the mouth of hell. There may still be a prick to-day; +but to-morrow conscience will be dead, and he may move untroubled in this +element of blood. + +In the fifth act we see this lowest circle reached; and it is Salvini’s +finest moment throughout the play. From the first he was admirably made +up, and looked Macbeth to the full as perfectly as ever he looked +Othello. From the first moment he steps upon the stage you can see this +character is a creation to the fullest meaning of the phrase; for the man +before you is a type you know well already. He arrives with Banquo on +the heath, fair and red-bearded, sparing of gesture, full of pride and +the sense of animal wellbeing, and satisfied after the battle like a +beast who has eaten his fill. But in the fifth act there is a change. +This is still the big, burly, fleshly, handsome-looking Thane; here is +still the same face which in the earlier acts could be superficially +good-humoured and sometimes royally courteous. But now the atmosphere of +blood, which pervades the whole tragedy, has entered into the man and +subdued him to its own nature; and an indescribable degradation, a +slackness and puffiness, has overtaken his features. He has breathed the +air of carnage, and supped full of horrors. Lady Macbeth complains of +the smell of blood on her hand: Macbeth makes no complaint—he has ceased +to notice it now; but the same smell is in his nostrils. A contained +fury and disgust possesses him. He taunts the messenger and the doctor +as people would taunt their mortal enemies. And, indeed, as he knows +right well, every one is his enemy now, except his wife. About her he +questions the doctor with something like a last human anxiety; and, in +tones of grisly mystery, asks him if he can ‘minister to a mind +diseased.’ When the news of her death is brought him, he is staggered +and falls into a seat; but somehow it is not anything we can call grief +that he displays. There had been two of them against God and man; and +now, when there is only one, it makes perhaps less difference than he had +expected. And so her death is not only an affliction, but one more +disillusion; and he redoubles in bitterness. The speech that follows, +given with tragic cynicism in every word, is a dirge, not so much for her +as for himself. From that time forth there is nothing human left in him, +only ‘the fiend of Scotland,’ Macduff’s ‘hell-hound,’ whom, with a stern +glee, we see baited like a bear and hunted down like a wolf. He is +inspired and set above fate by a demoniacal energy, a lust of wounds and +slaughter. Even after he meets Macduff his courage does not fail; but +when he hears the Thane was not born of woman, all virtue goes out of +him; and though he speaks sounding words of defiance, the last combat is +little better than a suicide. + +The whole performance is, as I said, so full of gusto and a headlong +unity; the personality of Macbeth is so sharp and powerful; and within +these somewhat narrow limits there is so much play and saliency that, so +far as concerns Salvini himself, a third great success seems indubitable. +Unfortunately, however, a great actor cannot fill more than a very small +fraction of the boards; and though Banquo’s ghost will probably be more +seasonable in his future apparitions, there are some more inherent +difficulties in the piece. The company at large did not distinguish +themselves. Macduff, to the huge delight of the gallery, out-Macduff’d +the average ranter. The lady who filled the principal female part has +done better on other occasions, but I fear she has not metal for what she +tried last week. Not to succeed in the sleep-walking scene is to make a +memorable failure. As it was given, it succeeded in being wrong in art +without being true to nature. + +And there is yet another difficulty, happily easy to reform, which +somewhat interfered with the success of the performance. At the end of +the incantation scene the Italian translator has made Macbeth fall +insensible upon the stage. This is a change of questionable propriety +from a psychological point of view; while in point of view of effect it +leaves the stage for some moments empty of all business. To remedy this, +a bevy of green ballet-girls came forth and pointed their toes about the +prostrate king. A dance of High Church curates, or a hornpipe by Mr. T. +P. Cooke, would not be more out of the key; though the gravity of a Scots +audience was not to be overcome, and they merely expressed their +disapprobation by a round of moderate hisses, a similar irruption of +Christmas fairies would most likely convulse a London theatre from pit to +gallery with inextinguishable laughter. It is, I am told, the Italian +tradition; but it is one more honoured in the breach than the observance. +With the total disappearance of these damsels, with a stronger Lady +Macbeth, and, if possible, with some compression of those scenes in which +Salvini does not appear, and the spectator is left at the mercy of +Macduffs and Duncans, the play would go twice as well, and we should be +better able to follow and enjoy an admirable work of dramatic art. + + + +CHAPTER III—BAGSTER’S ‘PILGRIM’S PROGRESS’ + + +I have here before me an edition of the _Pilgrim’s Progress_, bound in +green, without a date, and described as ‘illustrated by nearly three +hundred engravings, and memoir of Bunyan.’ On the outside it is lettered +‘Bagster’s Illustrated Edition,’ and after the author’s apology, facing +the first page of the tale, a folding pictorial ‘Plan of the Road’ is +marked as ‘drawn by the late Mr. T. Conder,’ and engraved by J. Basire. +No further information is anywhere vouchsafed; perhaps the publishers had +judged the work too unimportant; and we are still left ignorant whether +or not we owe the woodcuts in the body of the volume to the same hand +that drew the plan. It seems, however, more than probable. The literal +particularity of mind which, in the map, laid down the flower-plots in +the devil’s garden, and carefully introduced the court-house in the town +of Vanity, is closely paralleled in many of the cuts; and in both, the +architecture of the buildings and the disposition of the gardens have a +kindred and entirely English air. Whoever he was, the author of these +wonderful little pictures may lay claim to be the best illustrator of +Bunyan. {183} They are not only good illustrations, like so many others; +but they are like so few, good illustrations of Bunyan. Their spirit, in +defect and quality, is still the same as his own. The designer also has +lain down and dreamed a dream, as literal, as quaint, and almost as +apposite as Bunyan’s; and text and pictures make but the two sides of the +same homespun yet impassioned story. To do justice to the designs, it +will be necessary to say, for the hundredth time, a word or two about the +masterpiece which they adorn. + +All allegories have a tendency to escape from the purpose of their +creators; and as the characters and incidents become more and more +interesting in themselves, the moral, which these were to show forth, +falls more and more into neglect. An architect may command a wreath of +vine-leaves round the cornice of a monument; but if, as each leaf came +from the chisel, it took proper life and fluttered freely on the wall, +and if the vine grew, and the building were hidden over with foliage and +fruit, the architect would stand in much the same situation as the writer +of allegories. The _Faëry Queen_ was an allegory, I am willing to +believe; but it survives as an imaginative tale in incomparable verse. +The case of Bunyan is widely different; and yet in this also Allegory, +poor nymph, although never quite forgotten, is sometimes rudely thrust +against the wall. Bunyan was fervently in earnest; with ‘his fingers in +his ears, he ran on,’ straight for his mark. He tells us himself, in the +conclusion to the first part, that he did not fear to raise a laugh; +indeed, he feared nothing, and said anything; and he was greatly served +in this by a certain rustic privilege of his style, which, like the talk +of strong uneducated men, when it does not impress by its force, still +charms by its simplicity. The mere story and the allegorical design +enjoyed perhaps his equal favour. He believed in both with an energy of +faith that was capable of moving mountains. And we have to remark in +him, not the parts where inspiration fails and is supplied by cold and +merely decorative invention, but the parts where faith has grown to be +credulity, and his characters become so real to him that he forgets the +end of their creation. We can follow him step by step into the trap +which he lays for himself by his own entire good faith and triumphant +literality of vision, till the trap closes and shuts him in an +inconsistency. The allegories of the Interpreter and of the Shepherds of +the Delectable Mountains are all actually performed, like stage-plays, +before the pilgrims. The son of Mr. Great-grace visibly ‘tumbles hills +about with his words.’ Adam the First has his condemnation written +visibly on his forehead, so that Faithful reads it. At the very instant +the net closes round the pilgrims, ‘the white robe falls from the black +man’s body.’ Despair ‘getteth him a grievous crab-tree cudgel’; it was +in ‘sunshiny weather’ that he had his fits; and the birds in the grove +about the House Beautiful, ‘our country birds,’ only sing their little +pious verses ‘at the spring, when the flowers appear and the sun shines +warm.’ ‘I often,’ says Piety, ‘go out to hear them; we also ofttimes +keep them tame on our house.’ The post between Beulah and the Celestial +City sounds his horn, as you may yet hear in country places. Madam +Bubble, that ‘tall, comely dame, something of a swarthy complexion, in +very pleasant attire, but old,’ ‘gives you a smile at the end of each +sentence’—a real woman she; we all know her. Christiana dying ‘gave Mr. +Stand-fast a ring,’ for no possible reason in the allegory, merely +because the touch was human and affecting. Look at Great-heart, with his +soldierly ways, garrison ways, as I had almost called them; with his +taste in weapons; his delight in any that ‘he found to be a man of his +hands’; his chivalrous point of honour, letting Giant Maul get up again +when he was down, a thing fairly flying in the teeth of the moral; above +all, with his language in the inimitable tale of Mr. Fearing: ‘I thought +I should have lost my man’—‘chicken-hearted’—‘at last he came in, and I +will say that for my lord, he carried it wonderful lovingly to him.’ +This is no Independent minister; this is a stout, honest, big-busted +ancient, adjusting his shoulder-belts, twirling his long moustaches as he +speaks. Last and most remarkable, ‘My sword,’ says the dying +Valiant-for-Truth, he in whom Great-heart delighted, ‘my sword I give to +him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, _and my courage and skill to +him that can get it_.’ And after this boast, more arrogantly unorthodox +than was ever dreamed of by the rejected Ignorance, we are told that ‘all +the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.’ + +In every page the book is stamped with the same energy of vision and the +same energy of belief. The quality is equally and indifferently +displayed in the spirit of the fighting, the tenderness of the pathos, +the startling vigour and strangeness of the incidents, the natural strain +of the conversations, and the humanity and charm of the characters. +Trivial talk over a meal, the dying words of heroes, the delights of +Beulah or the Celestial City, Apollyon and my Lord Hate-good, +Great-heart, and Mr. Worldly-Wiseman, all have been imagined with the +same clearness, all written of with equal gusto and precision, all +created in the same mixed element, of simplicity that is almost comical, +and art that, for its purpose, is faultless. + +It was in much the same spirit that our artist sat down to his drawings. +He is by nature a Bunyan of the pencil. He, too, will draw anything, +from a butcher at work on a dead sheep, up to the courts of Heaven. ‘A +Lamb for Supper’ is the name of one of his designs, ‘Their Glorious +Entry’ of another. He has the same disregard for the ridiculous, and +enjoys somewhat of the same privilege of style, so that we are pleased +even when we laugh the most. He is literal to the verge of folly. If +dust is to be raised from the unswept parlour, you may be sure it will +‘fly abundantly’ in the picture. If Faithful is to lie ‘as dead’ before +Moses, dead he shall lie with a warrant—dead and stiff like granite; nay +(and here the artist must enhance upon the symbolism of the author), it +is with the identical stone tables of the law that Moses fells the +sinner. Good and bad people, whom we at once distinguish in the text by +their names, Hopeful, Honest, and Valiant-for-Truth, on the one hand, as +against By-ends, Sir Having Greedy, and the Lord Old-man on the other, +are in these drawings as simply distinguished by their costume. Good +people, when not armed _cap-à-pie_, wear a speckled tunic girt about the +waist, and low hats, apparently of straw. Bad people swagger in +tail-coats and chimney-pots, a few with knee-breeches, but the large +majority in trousers, and for all the world like guests at a +garden-party. Worldly-Wiseman alone, by some inexplicable quirk, stands +before Christian in laced hat, embroidered waistcoat, and trunk-hose. +But above all examples of this artist’s intrepidity, commend me to the +print entitled ‘Christian Finds it Deep.’ ‘A great darkness and horror,’ +says the text, have fallen on the pilgrim; it is the comfortless deathbed +with which Bunyan so strikingly concludes the sorrows and conflicts of +his hero. How to represent this worthily the artist knew not; and yet he +was determined to represent it somehow. This was how he did: Hopeful is +still shown to his neck above the water of death; but Christian has +bodily disappeared, and a blot of solid blackness indicates his place. + +As you continue to look at these pictures, about an inch square for the +most part, sometimes printed three or more to the page, and each having a +printed legend of its own, however trivial the event recorded, you will +soon become aware of two things: first, that the man can draw, and, +second, that he possesses the gift of an imagination. ‘Obstinate +reviles,’ says the legend; and you should see Obstinate reviling. ‘He +warily retraces his steps’; and there is Christian, posting through the +plain, terror and speed in every muscle. ‘Mercy yearns to go’ shows you +a plain interior with packing going forward, and, right in the middle, +Mercy yearning to go—every line of the girl’s figure yearning. In ‘The +Chamber called Peace’ we see a simple English room, bed with white +curtains, window valance and door, as may be found in many thousand +unpretentious houses; but far off, through the open window, we behold the +sun uprising out of a great plain, and Christian hails it with his hand: + + ‘Where am I now! is this the love and care + Of Jesus, for the men that pilgrims are! + Thus to provide! That I should be forgiven! + And dwell already the next door to heaven!’ + +A page or two further, from the top of the House Beautiful, the damsels +point his gaze toward the Delectable Mountains: ‘The Prospect,’ so the +cut is ticketed—and I shall be surprised, if on less than a square inch +of paper you can show me one so wide and fair. Down a cross road on an +English plain, a cathedral city outlined on the horizon, a hazel shaw +upon the left, comes Madam Wanton dancing with her fair enchanted cup, +and Faithful, book in hand, half pauses. The cut is perfect as a symbol; +the giddy movement of the sorceress, the uncertain poise of the man +struck to the heart by a temptation, the contrast of that even plain of +life whereon he journeys with the bold, ideal bearing of the wanton—the +artist who invented and portrayed this had not merely read Bunyan, he had +also thoughtfully lived. The Delectable Mountains—I continue skimming +the first part—are not on the whole happily rendered. Once, and once +only, the note is struck, when Christian and Hopeful are seen coming, +shoulder-high, through a thicket of green shrubs—box, perhaps, or +perfumed nutmeg; while behind them, domed or pointed, the hills stand +ranged against the sky. A little further, and we come to that +masterpiece of Bunyan’s insight into life, the Enchanted Ground; where, +in a few traits, he has set down the latter end of such a number of the +would-be good; where his allegory goes so deep that, to people looking +seriously on life, it cuts like satire. The true significance of this +invention lies, of course, far out of the way of drawing; only one +feature, the great tedium of the land, the growing weariness in +well-doing, may be somewhat represented in a symbol. The pilgrims are +near the end: ‘Two Miles Yet,’ says the legend. The road goes ploughing +up and down over a rolling heath; the wayfarers, with outstretched arms, +are already sunk to the knees over the brow of the nearest hill; they +have just passed a milestone with the cipher two; from overhead a great, +piled, summer cumulus, as of a slumberous summer afternoon, beshadows +them: two miles! it might be hundreds. In dealing with the Land of +Beulah the artist lags, in both parts, miserably behind the text, but in +the distant prospect of the Celestial City more than regains his own. +You will remember when Christian and Hopeful ‘with desire fell sick.’ +‘Effect of the Sunbeams’ is the artist’s title. Against the sky, upon a +cliffy mountain, the radiant temple beams upon them over deep, subjacent +woods; they, behind a mound, as if seeking shelter from the splendour—one +prostrate on his face, one kneeling, and with hands ecstatically +lifted—yearn with passion after that immortal city. Turn the page, and +we behold them walking by the very shores of death; Heaven, from this +nigher view, has risen half-way to the zenith, and sheds a wider glory; +and the two pilgrims, dark against that brightness, walk and sing out of +the fulness of their hearts. No cut more thoroughly illustrates at once +the merit and the weakness of the artist. Each pilgrim sings with a book +in his grasp—a family Bible at the least for bigness; tomes so recklessly +enormous that our second, impulse is to laughter. And yet that is not +the first thought, nor perhaps the last. Something in the attitude of +the manikins—faces they have none, they are too small for that—something +in the way they swing these monstrous volumes to their singing, something +perhaps borrowed from the text, some subtle differentiation from the cut +that went before and the cut that follows after—something, at least, +speaks clearly of a fearful joy, of Heaven seen from the deathbed, of the +horror of the last passage no less than of the glorious coming home. +There is that in the action of one of them which always reminds me, with +a difference, of that haunting last glimpse of Thomas Idle, travelling to +Tyburn in the cart. Next come the Shining Ones, wooden and trivial +enough; the pilgrims pass into the river; the blot already mentioned +settles over and obliterates Christian. In two more cuts we behold them +drawing nearer to the other shore; and then, between two radiant angels, +one of whom points upward, we see them mounting in new weeds, their +former lendings left behind them on the inky river. More angels meet +them; Heaven is displayed, and if no better, certainly no worse, than it +has been shown by others—a place, at least, infinitely populous and +glorious with light—a place that haunts solemnly the hearts of children. +And then this symbolic draughtsman once more strikes into his proper +vein. Three cuts conclude the first part. In the first the gates close, +black against the glory struggling from within. The second shows us +Ignorance—alas! poor Arminian!—hailing, in a sad twilight, the ferryman +Vain-Hope; and in the third we behold him, bound hand and foot, and black +already with the hue of his eternal fate, carried high over the +mountain-tops of the world by two angels of the anger of the Lord. +‘Carried to Another Place,’ the artist enigmatically names his plate—a +terrible design. + +Wherever he touches on the black side of the supernatural his pencil +grows more daring and incisive. He has many true inventions in the +perilous and diabolic; he has many startling nightmares realised. It is +not easy to select the best; some may like one and some another; the +nude, depilated devil bounding and casting darts against the Wicket Gate; +the scroll of flying horrors that hang over Christian by the Mouth of +Hell; the horned shade that comes behind him whispering blasphemies; the +daylight breaking through that rent cave-mouth of the mountains and +falling chill adown the haunted tunnel; Christian’s further progress +along the causeway, between the two black pools, where, at every yard or +two, a gin, a pitfall, or a snare awaits the passer-by—loathsome white +devilkins harbouring close under the bank to work the springes, Christian +himself pausing and pricking with his sword’s point at the nearest noose, +and pale discomfortable mountains rising on the farther side; or yet +again, the two ill-favoured ones that beset the first of Christian’s +journey, with the frog-like structure of the skull, the frog-like +limberness of limbs—crafty, slippery, lustful-looking devils, drawn +always in outline as though possessed of a dim, infernal luminosity. +Horrid fellows are they, one and all; horrid fellows and horrific scenes. +In another spirit that Good-Conscience ‘to whom Mr. Honest had spoken in +his lifetime,’ a cowled, grey, awful figure, one hand pointing to the +heavenly shore, realises, I will not say all, but some at least of the +strange impressiveness of Bunyan’s words. It is no easy nor pleasant +thing to speak in one’s lifetime with Good-Conscience; he is an austere, +unearthly friend, whom maybe Torquemada knew; and the folds of his +raiment are not merely claustral, but have something of the horror of the +pall. Be not afraid, however; with the hand of that appearance Mr. +Honest will get safe across. + +Yet perhaps it is in sequences that this artist best displays himself. +He loves to look at either side of a thing: as, for instance, when he +shows us both sides of the wall—‘Grace Inextinguishable’ on the one side, +with the devil vainly pouring buckets on the flame, and ‘The Oil of +Grace’ on the other, where the Holy Spirit, vessel in hand, still +secretly supplies the fire. He loves, also, to show us the same event +twice over, and to repeat his instantaneous photographs at the interval +of but a moment. So we have, first, the whole troop of pilgrims coming +up to Valiant, and Great-heart to the front, spear in hand and parleying; +and next, the same cross-roads, from a more distant view, the convoy now +scattered and looking safely and curiously on, and Valiant handing over +for inspection his ‘right Jerusalem blade.’ It is true that this +designer has no great care after consistency: Apollyon’s spear is laid +by, his quiver of darts will disappear, whenever they might hinder the +designer’s freedom; and the fiend’s tail is blobbed or forked at his good +pleasure. But this is not unsuitable to the illustration of the fervent +Bunyan, breathing hurry and momentary inspiration. He, with his hot +purpose, hunting sinners with a lasso, shall himself forget the things +that he has written yesterday. He shall first slay Heedless in the +Valley of the Shadow, and then take leave of him talking in his sleep, as +if nothing had happened, in an arbour on the Enchanted Ground. And +again, in his rhymed prologue, he shall assign some of the glory of the +siege of Doubting Castle to his favourite Valiant-for-the-Truth, who did +not meet with the besiegers till long after, at that dangerous corner by +Deadman’s Lane. And, with all inconsistencies and freedoms, there is a +power shown in these sequences of cuts: a power of joining on one action +or one humour to another; a power of following out the moods, even of the +dismal subterhuman fiends engendered by the artist’s fancy; a power of +sustained continuous realisation, step by step, in nature’s order, that +can tell a story, in all its ins and outs, its pauses and surprises, +fully and figuratively, like the art of words. + +One such sequence is the fight of Christian and Apollyon—six cuts, weird +and fiery, like the text. The pilgrim is throughout a pale and stockish +figure; but the devil covers a multitude of defects. There is no better +devil of the conventional order than our artist’s Apollyon, with his +mane, his wings, his bestial legs, his changing and terrifying +expression, his infernal energy to slay. In cut the first you see him +afar off, still obscure in form, but already formidable in suggestion. +Cut the second, ‘The Fiend in Discourse,’ represents him, not reasoning, +railing rather, shaking his spear at the pilgrim, his shoulder advanced, +his tail writhing in the air, his foot ready for a spring, while +Christian stands back a little, timidly defensive. The third illustrates +these magnificent words: ‘Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole +breadth of the way, and said, I am void of fear in this matter: prepare +thyself to die; for I swear by my infernal den that thou shalt go no +farther: here will I spill thy soul! And with that he threw a flaming +dart at his breast.’ In the cut he throws a dart with either hand, +belching pointed flames out of his mouth, spreading his broad vans, and +straddling the while across the path, as only a fiend can straddle who +has just sworn by his infernal den. The defence will not be long against +such vice, such flames, such red-hot nether energy. And in the fourth +cut, to be sure, he has leaped bodily upon his victim, sped by foot and +pinion, and roaring as he leaps. The fifth shows the climacteric of the +battle; Christian has reached nimbly out and got his sword, and dealt +that deadly home-thrust, the fiend still stretched upon him, but ‘giving +back, as one that had received his mortal wound.’ The raised head, the +bellowing mouth, the paw clapped upon the sword, the one wing relaxed in +agony, all realise vividly these words of the text. In the sixth and +last, the trivial armed figure of the pilgrim is seen kneeling with +clasped hands on the betrodden scene of contest and among the shivers of +the darts; while just at the margin the hinder quarters and the tail of +Apollyon are whisking off, indignant and discounted. + +In one point only do these pictures seem to be unworthy of the text, and +that point is one rather of the difference of arts than the difference of +artists. Throughout his best and worst, in his highest and most divine +imaginations as in the narrowest sallies of his sectarianism, the +human-hearted piety of Bunyan touches and ennobles, convinces, accuses +the reader. Through no art beside the art of words can the kindness of a +man’s affections be expressed. In the cuts you shall find faithfully +parodied the quaintness and the power, the triviality and the surprising +freshness of the author’s fancy; there you shall find him out-stripped in +ready symbolism and the art of bringing things essentially invisible +before the eyes: but to feel the contact of essential goodness, to be +made in love with piety, the book must be read and not the prints +examined. + +Farewell should not be taken with a grudge; nor can I dismiss in any +other words than those of gratitude a series of pictures which have, to +one at least, been the visible embodiment of Bunyan from childhood up, +and shown him, through all his years, Great-heart lungeing at Giant Maul, +and Apollyon breathing fire at Christian, and every turn and town along +the road to the Celestial City, and that bright place itself, seen as to +a stave of music, shining afar off upon the hill-top, the candle of the +world. + + + + +SKETCHES + + +I. THE SATIRIST + + +My companion enjoyed a cheap reputation for wit and insight. He was by +habit and repute a satirist. If he did occasionally condemn anything or +anybody who richly deserved it, and whose demerits had hitherto escaped, +it was simply because he condemned everything and everybody. While I was +with him he disposed of St. Paul with an epigram, shook my reverence for +Shakespeare in a neat antithesis, and fell foul of the Almighty Himself, +on the score of one or two out of the ten commandments. Nothing escaped +his blighting censure. At every sentence he overthrew an idol, or +lowered my estimation of a friend. I saw everything with new eyes, and +could only marvel at my former blindness. How was it possible that I had +not before observed A’s false hair, B’s selfishness, or C’s boorish +manners? I and my companion, methought, walked the streets like a couple +of gods among a swarm of vermin; for every one we saw seemed to bear +openly upon his brow the mark of the apocalyptic beast. I half expected +that these miserable beings, like the people of Lystra, would recognise +their betters and force us to the altar; in which case, warned by the +late of Paul and Barnabas, I do not know that my modesty would have +prevailed upon me to decline. But there was no need for such churlish +virtue. More blinded than the Lycaonians, the people saw no divinity in +our gait; and as our temporary godhead lay more in the way of observing +than healing their infirmities, we were content to pass them by in scorn. + +I could not leave my companion, not from regard or even from interest, +but from a very natural feeling, inseparable from the case. To +understand it, let us take a simile. Suppose yourself walking down the +street with a man who continues to sprinkle the crowd out of a flask of +vitriol. You would be much diverted with the grimaces and contortions of +his victims; and at the same time you would fear to leave his arm until +his bottle was empty, knowing that, when once among the crowd, you would +run a good chance yourself of baptism with his biting liquor. Now my +companion’s vitriol was inexhaustible. + +It was perhaps the consciousness of this, the knowledge that I was being +anointed already out of the vials of his wrath, that made me fall to +criticising the critic, whenever we had parted. + +After all, I thought, our satirist has just gone far enough into his +neighbours to find that the outside is false, without caring to go +farther and discover what is really true. He is content to find that +things are not what they seem, and broadly generalises from it that they +do not exist at all. He sees our virtues are not what they pretend they +are; and, on the strength of that, he denies us the possession of virtue +altogether. He has learnt the first lesson, that no man is wholly good; +but he has not even suspected that there is another equally true, to wit, +that no man is wholly bad. Like the inmate of a coloured star, he has +eyes for one colour alone. He has a keen scent after evil, but his +nostrils are plugged against all good, as people plugged their nostrils +before going about the streets of the plague-struck city. + +Why does he do this? It is most unreasonable to flee the knowledge of +good like the infection of a horrible disease, and batten and grow fat in +the real atmosphere of a lazar-house. This was my first thought; but my +second was not like unto it, and I saw that our satirist was wise, wise +in his generation, like the unjust steward. He does not want light, +because the darkness is more pleasant. He does not wish to see the good, +because he is happier without it. I recollect that when I walked with +him, I was in a state of divine exaltation, such as Adam and Eve must +have enjoyed when the savour of the fruit was still unfaded between their +lips; and I recognise that this must be the man’s habitual state. He has +the forbidden fruit in his waist-coat pocket, and can make himself a god +as often and as long as he likes. He has raised himself upon a glorious +pedestal above his fellows; he has touched the summit of ambition; and he +envies neither King nor Kaiser, Prophet nor Priest, content in an +elevation as high as theirs, and much more easily attained. Yes, certes, +much more easily attained. He has not risen by climbing himself, but by +pushing others down. He has grown great in his own estimation, not by +blowing himself out, and risking the fate of Æsop’s frog, but simply by +the habitual use of a diminishing glass on everybody else. And I think +altogether that his is a better, a safer, and a surer recipe than most +others. + +After all, however, looking back on what I have written, I detect a +spirit suspiciously like his own. All through, I have been comparing +myself with our satirist, and all through, I have had the best of the +comparison. Well, well, contagion is as often mental as physical; and I +do not think my readers, who have all been under his lash, will blame me +very much for giving the headsman a mouthful of his own sawdust. + + + +II. NUITS BLANCHES + + +If any one should know the pleasure and pain of a sleepless night, it +should be I. I remember, so long ago, the sickly child that woke from +his few hours’ slumber with the sweat of a nightmare on his brow, to lie +awake and listen and long for the first signs of life among the silent +streets. These nights of pain and weariness are graven on my mind; and +so when the same thing happened to me again, everything that I heard or +saw was rather a recollection than a discovery. + +Weighed upon by the opaque and almost sensible darkness, I listened +eagerly for anything to break the sepulchral quiet. But nothing came, +save, perhaps, an emphatic crack from the old cabinet that was made by +Deacon Brodie, or the dry rustle of the coals on the extinguished fire. +It was a calm; or I know that I should have heard in the roar and clatter +of the storm, as I have not heard it for so many years, the wild career +of a horseman, always scouring up from the distance and passing swiftly +below the window; yet always returning again from the place whence first +he came, as though, baffled by some higher power, he had retraced his +steps to gain impetus for another and another attempt. + +As I lay there, there arose out of the utter stillness the rumbling of a +carriage a very great way off, that drew near, and passed within a few +streets of the house, and died away as gradually as it had arisen. This, +too, was as a reminiscence. + +I rose and lifted a corner of the blind. Over the black belt of the +garden I saw the long line of Queen Street, with here and there a lighted +window. How often before had my nurse lifted me out of bed and pointed +them out to me, while we wondered together if, there also, there were +children that could not sleep, and if these lighted oblongs were signs of +those that waited like us for the morning. + +I went out into the lobby, and looked down into the great deep well of +the staircase. For what cause I know not, just as it used to be in the +old days that the feverish child might be the better served, a peep of +gas illuminated a narrow circle far below me. But where I was, all was +darkness and silence, save the dry monotonous ticking of the clock that +came ceaselessly up to my ear. + +The final crown of it all, however, the last touch of reproduction on the +pictures of my memory, was the arrival of that time for which, all night +through, I waited and longed of old. It was my custom, as the hours +dragged on, to repeat the question, ‘When will the carts come in?’ and +repeat it again and again until at last those sounds arose in the street +that I have heard once more this morning. The road before our house is a +great thoroughfare for early carts. I know not, and I never have known, +what they carry, whence they come, or whither they go. But I know that, +long ere dawn, and for hours together, they stream continuously past, +with the same rolling and jerking of wheels and the same clink of horses’ +feet. It was not for nothing that they made the burthen of my wishes all +night through. They are really the first throbbings of life, the +harbingers of day; and it pleases you as much to hear them as it must +please a shipwrecked seaman once again to grasp a hand of flesh and blood +after years of miserable solitude. They have the freshness of the +daylight life about them. You can hear the carters cracking their whips +and crying hoarsely to their horses or to one another; and sometimes even +a peal of healthy, harsh horse-laughter comes up to you through the +darkness. There is now an end of mystery and fear. Like the knocking at +the door in _Macbeth_, {205} or the cry of the watchman in the _Tour de +Nesle_, they show that the horrible cæsura is over and the nightmares +have fled away, because the day is breaking and the ordinary life of men +is beginning to bestir itself among the streets. + +In the middle of it all I fell asleep, to be wakened by the officious +knocking at my door, and I find myself twelve years older than I had +dreamed myself all night. + + + +III. THE WREATH OF IMMORTELLES + + +It is all very well to talk of death as ‘a pleasant potion of +immortality’, but the most of us, I suspect, are of ‘queasy stomachs,’ +and find it none of the sweetest. {206a} The graveyard may be cloak-room +to Heaven; but we must admit that it is a very ugly and offensive +vestibule in itself, however fair may be the life to which it leads. And +though Enoch and Elias went into the temple through a gate which +certainly may be called Beautiful, the rest of us have to find our way to +it through Ezekiel’s low-bowed door and the vault full of creeping things +and all manner of abominable beasts. Nevertheless, there is a certain +frame of mind to which a cemetery is, if not an antidote, at least an +alleviation. If you are in a fit of the blues, go nowhere else. It was +in obedience to this wise regulation that the other morning found me +lighting my pipe at the entrance to Old Greyfriars’, thoroughly sick of +the town, the country, and myself. + +Two of the men were talking at the gate, one of them carrying a spade in +hands still crusted with the soil of graves. Their very aspect was +delightful to me; and I crept nearer to them, thinking to pick up some +snatch of sexton gossip, some ‘talk fit for a charnel,’ {206b} something, +in fine, worthy of that fastidious logician, that adept in coroner’s law, +who has come down to us as the patron of Yaughan’s liquor, and the very +prince of gravediggers. Scots people in general are so much wrapped up +in their profession that I had a good chance of overhearing such +conversation: the talk of fish-mongers running usually on stockfish and +haddocks; while of the Scots sexton I could repeat stories and speeches +that positively smell of the graveyard. But on this occasion I was +doomed to disappointment. My two friends were far into the region of +generalities. Their profession was forgotten in their electorship. +Politics had engulfed the narrower economy of grave-digging. ‘Na, na,’ +said the one, ‘ye’re a’ wrang.’ ‘The English and Irish Churches,’ +answered the other, in a tone as if he had made the remark before, and it +had been called in question—‘The English and Irish Churches have +_impoverished_ the country.’ + +‘Such are the results of education,’ thought I as I passed beside them +and came fairly among the tombs. Here, at least, there were no +commonplace politics, no diluted this-morning’s leader, to distract or +offend me. The old shabby church showed, as usual, its quaint extent of +roofage and the relievo skeleton on one gable, still blackened with the +fire of thirty years ago. A chill dank mist lay over all. The Old +Greyfriars’ churchyard was in perfection that morning, and one could go +round and reckon up the associations with no fear of vulgar interruption. +On this stone the Covenant was signed. In that vault, as the story goes, +John Knox took hiding in some Reformation broil. From that window Burke +the murderer looked out many a time across the tombs, and perhaps o’ +nights let himself down over the sill to rob some new-made grave. +Certainly he would have a selection here. The very walks have been +carried over forgotten resting-places; and the whole ground is uneven, +because (as I was once quaintly told) ‘when the wood rots it stands to +reason the soil should fall in,’ which, from the law of gravitation, is +certainly beyond denial. But it is round the boundary that there are the +finest tombs. The whole irregular space is, as it were, fringed with +quaint old monuments, rich in death’s-heads and scythes and hour-glasses, +and doubly rich in pious epitaphs and Latin mottoes—rich in them to such +an extent that their proper space has run over, and they have crawled +end-long up the shafts of columns and ensconced themselves in all sorts +of odd corners among the sculpture. These tombs raise their backs +against the rabble of squalid dwelling-houses, and every here and there a +clothes-pole projects between two monuments its fluttering trophy of +white and yellow and red. With a grim irony they recall the banners in +the Invalides, banners as appropriate perhaps over the sepulchres of +tailors and weavers as these others above the dust of armies. Why they +put things out to dry on that particular morning it was hard to imagine. +The grass was grey with drops of rain, the headstones black with +moisture. Yet, in despite of weather and common sense, there they hung +between the tombs; and beyond them I could see through open windows into +miserable rooms where whole families were born and fed, and slept and +died. At one a girl sat singing merrily with her back to the graveyard; +and from another came the shrill tones of a scolding woman. Every here +and there was a town garden full of sickly flowers, or a pile of crockery +inside upon the window-seat. But you do not grasp the full connection +between these houses of the dead and the living, the unnatural marriage +of stately sepulchres and squalid houses, till, lower down, where the +road has sunk far below the surface of the cemetery, and the very roofs +are scarcely on a level with its wall, you observe that a proprietor has +taken advantage of a tall monument and trained a chimney-stack against +its back. It startles you to see the red, modern pots peering over the +shoulder of the tomb. + +A man was at work on a grave, his spade clinking away the drift of bones +that permeates the thin brown soil; but my first disappointment had +taught me to expect little from Greyfriars’ sextons, and I passed him by +in silence. A slater on the slope of a neighbouring roof eyed me +curiously. A lean black cat, looking as if it had battened on strange +meats, slipped past me. A little boy at a window put his finger to his +nose in so offensive a manner that I was put upon my dignity, and turned +grandly off to read old epitaphs and peer through the gratings into the +shadow of vaults. + +Just then I saw two women coming down a path, one of them old, and the +other younger, with a child in her arms. Both had faces eaten with +famine and hardened with sin, and both had reached that stage of +degradation, much lower in a woman than a man, when all care for dress is +lost. As they came down they neared a grave, where some pious friend or +relative had laid a wreath of immortelles, and put a bell glass over it, +as is the custom. The effect of that ring of dull yellow among so many +blackened and dusty sculptures was more pleasant than it is in modern +cemeteries, where every second mound can boast a similar coronal; and +here, where it was the exception and not the rule, I could even fancy the +drops of moisture that dimmed the covering were the tears of those who +laid it where it was. As the two women came up to it, one of them +kneeled down on the wet grass and looked long and silently through the +clouded shade, while the second stood above her, gently oscillating to +and fro to lull the muling baby. I was struck a great way off with +something religious in the attitude of these two unkempt and haggard +women; and I drew near faster, but still cautiously, to hear what they +were saying. Surely on them the spirit of death and decay had descended; +I had no education to dread here: should I not have a chance of seeing +nature? Alas! a pawnbroker could not have been more practical and +commonplace, for this was what the kneeling woman said to the woman +upright—this and nothing more: ‘Eh, what extravagance!’ + +O nineteenth century, wonderful art thou indeed—wonderful, but wearisome +in thy stale and deadly uniformity. Thy men are more like numerals than +men. They must bear their idiosyncrasies or their professions written on +a placard about their neck, like the scenery in Shakespeare’s theatre. +Thy precepts of economy have pierced into the lowest ranks of life; and +there is now a decorum in vice, a respectability among the disreputable, +a pure spirit of Philistinism among the waifs and strays of thy Bohemia. +For lo! thy very gravediggers talk politics; and thy castaways kneel upon +new graves, to discuss the cost of the monument and grumble at the +improvidence of love. + +Such was the elegant apostrophe that I made as I went out of the gates +again, happily satisfied in myself, and feeling that I alone of all whom +I had seen was able to profit by the silent poem of these green mounds +and blackened headstones. + + + +IV. NURSES + + +I knew one once, and the room where, lonely and old, she waited for +death. It was pleasant enough, high up above the lane, and looking forth +upon a hill-side, covered all day with sheets and yellow blankets, and +with long lines of underclothing fluttering between the battered posts. +There were any number of cheap prints, and a drawing by one of ‘her +children,’ and there were flowers in the window, and a sickly canary +withered into consumption in an ornamental cage. The bed, with its +checked coverlid, was in a closet. A great Bible lay on the table; and +her drawers were full of ‘scones,’ which it was her pleasure to give to +young visitors such as I was then. + +You may not think this a melancholy picture; but the canary, and the cat, +and the white mouse that she had for a while, and that died, were all +indications of the want that ate into her heart. I think I know a little +of what that old woman felt; and I am as sure as if I had seen her, that +she sat many an hour in silent tears, with the big Bible open before her +clouded eyes. + +If you could look back upon her life, and feel the great chain that had +linked her to one child after another, sometimes to be wrenched suddenly +through, and sometimes, which is infinitely worse, to be torn gradually +off through years of growing neglect, or perhaps growing dislike! She +had, like the mother, overcome that natural repugnance—repugnance which +no man can conquer—towards the infirm and helpless mass of putty of the +earlier stage. She had spent her best and happiest years in tending, +watching, and learning to love like a mother this child, with which she +has no connection and to which she has no tie. Perhaps she refused some +sweetheart (such things have been), or put him off and off, until he lost +heart and turned to some one else, all for fear of leaving this creature +that had wound itself about her heart. And the end of it all—her month’s +warning, and a present perhaps, and the rest of the life to vain regret. +Or, worse still, to see the child gradually forgetting and forsaking her, +fostered in disrespect and neglect on the plea of growing manliness, and +at last beginning to treat her as a servant whom he had treated a few +years before as a mother. She sees the Bible or the Psalm-book, which +with gladness and love unutterable in her heart she had bought for him +years ago out of her slender savings, neglected for some newer gift of +his father, lying in dust in the lumber-room or given away to a poor +child, and the act applauded for its unfeeling charity. Little wonder if +she becomes hurt and angry, and attempts to tyrannise and to grasp her +old power back again. We are not all patient Grizzels, by good fortune, +but the most of us human beings with feelings and tempers of our own. + +And so, in the end, behold her in the room that I described. Very likely +and very naturally, in some fling of feverish misery or recoil of +thwarted love, she has quarrelled with her old employers and the children +are forbidden to see her or to speak to her; or at best she gets her rent +paid and a little to herself, and now and then her late charges are sent +up (with another nurse, perhaps) to pay her a short visit. How bright +these visits seem as she looks forward to them on her lonely bed! How +unsatisfactory their realisation, when the forgetful child, half +wondering, checks with every word and action the outpouring of her +maternal love! How bitter and restless the memories that they leave +behind! And for the rest, what else has she?—to watch them with eager +eyes as they go to school, to sit in church where she can see them every +Sunday, to be passed some day unnoticed in the street, or deliberately +cut because the great man or the great woman are with friends before whom +they are ashamed to recognise the old woman that loved them. + +When she goes home that night, how lonely will the room appear to her! +Perhaps the neighbours may hear her sobbing to herself in the dark, with +the fire burnt out for want of fuel, and the candle still unlit upon the +table. + +And it is for this that they live, these quasi-mothers—mothers in +everything but the travail and the thanks. It is for this that they have +remained virtuous in youth, living the dull life of a household servant. +It is for this that they refused the old sweetheart, and have no fireside +or offspring of their own. + +I believe in a better state of things, that there will be no more nurses, +and that every mother will nurse her own offspring; for what can be more +hardening and demoralising than to call forth the tenderest feelings of a +woman’s heart and cherish them yourself as long as you need them, as long +as your children require a nurse to love them, and then to blight and +thwart and destroy them, whenever your own use for them is at an end. +This may be Utopian; but it is always a little thing if one mother or two +mothers can be brought to feel more tenderly to those who share their +toil and have no part in their reward. + + + +V. A CHARACTER + + +The man has a red, bloated face, and his figure is short and squat. So +far there is nothing in him to notice, but when you see his eyes, you can +read in these hard and shallow orbs a depravity beyond measure depraved, +a thirst after wickedness, the pure, disinterested love of Hell for its +own sake. The other night, in the street, I was watching an omnibus +passing with lit-up windows, when I heard some one coughing at my side as +though he would cough his soul out; and turning round, I saw him stopping +under a lamp, with a brown greatcoat buttoned round him and his whole +face convulsed. It seemed as if he could not live long; and so the sight +set my mind upon a train of thought, as I finished my cigar up and down +the lighted streets. + +He is old, but all these years have not yet quenched his thirst for evil, +and his eyes still delight themselves in wickedness. He is dumb; but he +will not let that hinder his foul trade, or perhaps I should say, his yet +fouler amusement, and he has pressed a slate into the service of +corruption. Look at him, and he will sign to you with his bloated head, +and when you go to him in answer to the sign, thinking perhaps that the +poor dumb man has lost his way, you will see what he writes upon his +slate. He haunts the doors of schools, and shows such inscriptions as +these to the innocent children that come out. He hangs about +picture-galleries, and makes the noblest pictures the text for some +silent homily of vice. His industry is a lesson to ourselves. Is it not +wonderful how he can triumph over his infirmities and do such an amount +of harm without a tongue? Wonderful industry—strange, fruitless, +pleasureless toil? Must not the very devil feel a soft emotion to see +his disinterested and laborious service? Ah, but the devil knows better +than this: he knows that this man is penetrated with the love of evil and +that all his pleasure is shut up in wickedness: he recognises him, +perhaps, as a fit type for mankind of his satanic self, and watches over +his effigy as we might watch over a favourite likeness. As the business +man comes to love the toil, which he only looked upon at first as a +ladder towards other desires and less unnatural gratifications, so the +dumb man has felt the charm of his trade and fallen captivated before the +eyes of sin. It is a mistake when preachers tell us that vice is hideous +and loathsome; for even vice has her Hörsel and her devotees, who love +her for her own sake. + + + + +THE GREAT NORTH ROAD + + +CHAPTER I—NANCE AT THE ‘GREEN DRAGON’ + + +Nance Holdaway was on her knees before the fire blowing the green wood +that voluminously smoked upon the dogs, and only now and then shot forth +a smothered flame; her knees already ached and her eyes smarted, for she +had been some while at this ungrateful task, but her mind was gone far +away to meet the coming stranger. Now she met him in the wood, now at +the castle gate, now in the kitchen by candle-light; each fresh +presentment eclipsed the one before; a form so elegant, manners so +sedate, a countenance so brave and comely, a voice so winning and +resolute—sure such a man was never seen! The thick-coming fancies poured +and brightened in her head like the smoke and flames upon the hearth. + +Presently the heavy foot of her uncle Jonathan was heard upon the stair, +and as he entered the room she bent the closer to her work. He glanced +at the green fagots with a sneer, and looked askance at the bed and the +white sheets, at the strip of carpet laid, like an island, on the great +expanse of the stone floor, and at the broken glazing of the casement +clumsily repaired with paper. + +‘Leave that fire a-be,’ he cried. ‘What, have I toiled all my life to +turn innkeeper at the hind end? Leave it a-be, I say.’ + +‘La, uncle, it doesn’t burn a bit; it only smokes,’ said Nance, looking +up from her position. + +‘You are come of decent people on both sides,’ returned the old man. +‘Who are you to blow the coals for any Robin-run-agate? Get up, get on +your hood, make yourself useful, and be off to the “Green Dragon.”’ + +‘I thought you was to go yourself,’ Nance faltered. + +‘So did I,’ quoth Jonathan; ‘but it appears I was mistook.’ + +The very excess of her eagerness alarmed her, and she began to hang back. +‘I think I would rather not, dear uncle,’ she said. ‘Night is at hand, +and I think, dear, I would rather not.’ + +‘Now you look here,’ replied Jonathan, ‘I have my lord’s orders, have I +not? Little he gives me, but it’s all my livelihood. And do you fancy, +if I disobey my lord, I’m likely to turn round for a lass like you? No, +I’ve that hell-fire of pain in my old knee, I wouldn’t walk a mile, not +for King George upon his bended knees.’ And he walked to the window and +looked down the steep scarp to where the river foamed in the bottom of +the dell. + +Nance stayed for no more bidding. In her own room, by the glimmer of the +twilight, she washed her hands and pulled on her Sunday mittens; adjusted +her black hood, and tied a dozen times its cherry ribbons; and in less +than ten minutes, with a fluttering heart and excellently bright eyes, +she passed forth under the arch and over the bridge, into the thickening +shadows of the groves. A well-marked wheel-track conducted her. The +wood, which upon both sides of the river dell was a mere scrambling +thicket of hazel, hawthorn, and holly, boasted on the level of more +considerable timber. Beeches came to a good growth, with here and there +an oak; and the track now passed under a high arcade of branches, and now +ran under the open sky in glades. As the girl proceeded these glades +became more frequent, the trees began again to decline in size, and the +wood to degenerate into furzy coverts. Last of all there was a fringe of +elders; and beyond that the track came forth upon an open, rolling +moorland, dotted with wind-bowed and scanty bushes, and all golden brown +with the winter, like a grouse. Right over against the girl the last red +embers of the sunset burned under horizontal clouds; the night fell clear +and still and frosty, and the track in low and marshy passages began to +crackle under foot with ice. + +Some half a mile beyond the borders of the wood the lights of the ‘Green +Dragon’ hove in sight, and running close beside them, very faint in the +dying dusk, the pale ribbon of the Great North Road. It was the back of +the post-house that was presented to Nance Holdaway; and as she continued +to draw near and the night to fall more completely, she became aware of +an unusual brightness and bustle. A post-chaise stood in the yard, its +lamps already lighted: light shone hospitably in the windows and from the +open door; moving lights and shadows testified to the activity of +servants bearing lanterns. The clank of pails, the stamping of hoofs on +the firm causeway, the jingle of harness, and, last of all, the energetic +hissing of a groom, began to fall upon her ear. By the stir you would +have thought the mail was at the door, but it was still too early in the +night. The down mail was not due at the ‘Green Dragon’ for hard upon an +hour; the up mail from Scotland not before two in the black morning. + +Nance entered the yard somewhat dazzled. Sam, the tall ostler, was +polishing a curb-chain wit sand; the lantern at his feet letting up +spouts of candle-light through the holes with which its conical roof was +peppered. + +‘Hey, miss,’ said he jocularly, ‘you won’t look at me any more, now you +have gentry at the castle.’ + +Her cheeks burned with anger. + +‘That’s my lord’s chay,’ the man continued, nodding at the chaise, ‘Lord +Windermoor’s. Came all in a fluster—dinner, bowl of punch, and put the +horses to. For all the world like a runaway match, my dear—bar the bride. +He brought Mr. Archer in the chay with him.’ + +‘Is that Holdaway?’ cried the landlord from the lighted entry, where he +stood shading his eyes. + +‘Only me, sir,’ answered Nance. + +‘O, you, Miss Nance,’ he said. ‘Well, come in quick, my pretty. My lord +is waiting for your uncle.’ + +And he ushered Nance into a room cased with yellow wainscot and lighted +by tall candles, where two gentlemen sat at a table finishing a bowl of +punch. One of these was stout, elderly, and irascible, with a face like +a full moon, well dyed with liquor, thick tremulous lips, a short, purple +hand, in which he brandished a long pipe, and an abrupt and gobbling +utterance. This was my Lord Windermoor. In his companion Nance beheld a +younger man, tall, quiet, grave, demurely dressed, and wearing his own +hair. Her glance but lighted on him, and she flushed, for in that second +she made sure that she had twice betrayed herself—betrayed by the +involuntary flash of her black eyes her secret impatience to behold this +new companion, and, what was far worse, betrayed her disappointment in +the realisation of her dreams. He, meanwhile, as if unconscious, +continued to regard her with unmoved decorum. + +‘O, a man of wood,’ thought Nance. + +‘What—what?’ said his lordship. ‘Who is this?’ + +‘If you please, my lord, I am Holdaway’s niece,’ replied Nance, with a +curtsey. + +‘Should have been here himself,’ observed his lordship. ‘Well, you tell +Holdaway that I’m aground, not a stiver—not a stiver. I’m running from +the beagles—going abroad, tell Holdaway. And he need look for no more +wages: glad of ’em myself, if I could get ’em. He can live in the castle +if he likes, or go to the devil. O, and here is Mr. Archer; and I +recommend him to take him in—a friend of mine—and Mr. Archer will pay, as +I wrote. And I regard that in the light of a precious good thing for +Holdaway, let me tell you, and a set-off against the wages.’ + +‘But O, my lord!’ cried Nance, ‘we live upon the wages, and what are we +to do without?’ + +‘What am I to do?—what am I to do?’ replied Lord Windermoor with some +exasperation. ‘I have no wages. And there is Mr. Archer. And if +Holdaway doesn’t like it, he can go to the devil, and you with him!—and +you with him!’ + +‘And yet, my lord,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘these good people will have as keen +a sense of loss as you or I; keener, perhaps, since they have done +nothing to deserve it.’ + +‘Deserve it?’ cried the peer. ‘What? What? If a rascally highwayman +comes up to me with a confounded pistol, do you say that I’ve deserved +it? How often am I to tell you, sir, that I was cheated—that I was +cheated?’ + +‘You are happy in the belief,’ returned Mr. Archer gravely. + +‘Archer, you would be the death of me!’ exclaimed his lordship. ‘You +know you’re drunk; you know it, sir; and yet you can’t get up a spark of +animation.’ + +‘I have drunk fair, my lord,’ replied the younger man; ‘but I own I am +conscious of no exhilaration.’ + +‘If you had as black a look-out as me, sir,’ cried the peer, ‘you would +be very glad of a little innocent exhilaration, let me tell you. I am +glad of it—glad of it, and I only wish I was drunker. For let me tell +you it’s a cruel hard thing upon a man of my time of life and my +position, to be brought down to beggary because the world is full of +thieves and rascals—thieves and rascals. What? For all I know, you may +be a thief and a rascal yourself; and I would fight you for a pinch of +snuff—a pinch of snuff,’ exclaimed his lordship. + +Here Mr. Archer turned to Nance Holdaway with a pleasant smile, so full +of sweetness, kindness, and composure that, at one bound, her dreams +returned to her. ‘My good Miss Holdaway,’ said he, ‘if you are willing +to show me the road, I am even eager to be gone. As for his lordship and +myself, compose yourself; there is no fear; this is his lordship’s way.’ + +‘What? what?’ cried his lordship. ‘My way? Ish no such a thing, my +way.’ + +‘Come, my lord,’ cried Archer; ‘you and I very thoroughly understand each +other; and let me suggest, it is time that both of us were gone. The +mail will soon be due. Here, then, my lord, I take my leave of you, with +the most earnest assurance of my gratitude for the past, and a sincere +offer of any services I may be able to render in the future.’ + +‘Archer,’ exclaimed Lord Windermoor, ‘I love you like a son. Le’ ’s have +another bowl.’ + +‘My lord, for both our sakes, you will excuse me,’ replied Mr. Archer. +‘We both require caution; we must both, for some while at least, avoid +the chance of a pursuit.’ + +‘Archer,’ quoth his lordship, ‘this is a rank ingratishood. What? I’m +to go firing away in the dark in the cold po’chaise, and not so much as a +game of écarté possible, unless I stop and play with the postillion, the +postillion; and the whole country swarming with thieves and rascals and +highwaymen.’ + +‘I beg your lordship’s pardon,’ put in the landlord, who now appeared in +the doorway to announce the chaise, ‘but this part of the North Road is +known for safety. There has not been a robbery, to call a robbery, this +five years’ time. Further south, of course, it’s nearer London, and +another story,’ he added. + +‘Well, then, if that’s so,’ concluded my lord, ‘le’ ’s have t’other bowl +and a pack of cards.’ + +‘My lord, you forget,’ said Archer, ‘I might still gain; but it is hardly +possible for me to lose.’ + +‘Think I’m a sharper?’ inquired the peer. ‘Gen’leman’s parole’s all I +ask.’ + +But Mr. Archer was proof against these blandishments, and said farewell +gravely enough to Lord Windermoor, shaking his hand and at the same time +bowing very low. ‘You will never know,’ says he, ‘the service you have +done me.’ And with that, and before my lord had finally taken up his +meaning, he had slipped about the table, touched Nance lightly but +imperiously on the arm, and left the room. In face of the outbreak of +his lordship’s lamentations she made haste to follow the truant. + + + +CHAPTER II—IN WHICH MR. ARCHER IS INSTALLED + + +The chaise had been driven round to the front door; the courtyard lay all +deserted, and only lit by a lantern set upon a window-sill. Through this +Nance rapidly led the way, and began to ascend the swellings of the moor +with a heart that somewhat fluttered in her bosom. She was not afraid, +but in the course of these last passages with Lord Windermoor Mr. Archer +had ascended to that pedestal on which her fancy waited to instal him. +The reality, she felt, excelled her dreams, and this cold night walk was +the first romantic incident in her experience. + +It was the rule in these days to see gentlemen unsteady after dinner, yet +Nance was both surprised and amused when her companion, who had spoken so +soberly, began to stumble and waver by her side with the most airy +divagations. Sometimes he would get so close to her that she must edge +away; and at others lurch clear out of the track and plough among deep +heather. His courtesy and gravity meanwhile remained unaltered. He +asked her how far they had to go; whether the way lay all upon the +moorland, and when he learned they had to pass a wood expressed his +pleasure. ‘For,’ said he, ‘I am passionately fond of trees. Trees and +fair lawns, if you consider of it rightly, are the ornaments of nature, +as palaces and fine approaches—’ And here he stumbled into a patch of +slough and nearly fell. The girl had hard work not to laugh, but at +heart she was lost in admiration for one who talked so elegantly. + +They had got to about a quarter of a mile from the ‘Green Dragon,’ and +were near the summit of the rise, when a sudden rush of wheels arrested +them. Turning and looking back, they saw the post-house, now much +declined in brightness; and speeding away northward the two tremulous +bright dots of my Lord Windermoor’s chaise-lamps. Mr. Archer followed +these yellow and unsteady stars until they dwindled into points and +disappeared. + +‘There goes my only friend,’ he said. ‘Death has cut off those that +loved me, and change of fortune estranged my flatterers; and but for you, +poor bankrupt, my life is as lonely as this moor.’ + +The tone of his voice affected both of them. They stood there on the +side of the moor, and became thrillingly conscious of the void waste of +the night, without a feature for the eye, and except for the fainting +whisper of the carriage-wheels without a murmur for the ear. And +instantly, like a mockery, there broke out, very far away, but clear and +jolly, the note of the mail-guard’s horn. ‘Over the hills’ was his air. +It rose to the two watchers on the moor with the most cheerful sentiment +of human company and travel, and at the same time in and around the +‘Green Dragon’ it woke up a great bustle of lights running to and fro and +clattering hoofs. Presently after, out of the darkness to southward, the +mail grew near with a growing rumble. Its lamps were very large and +bright, and threw their radiance forward in overlapping cones; the four +cantering horses swarmed and steamed; the body of the coach followed like +a great shadow; and this lit picture slid with a sort of ineffectual +swiftness over the black field of night, and was eclipsed by the +buildings of the ‘Green Dragon.’ + +Mr. Archer turned abruptly and resumed his former walk; only that he was +now more steady, kept better alongside his young conductor, and had +fallen into a silence broken by sighs. Nance waxed very pitiful over his +fate, contrasting an imaginary past of courts and great society, and +perhaps the King himself, with the tumbledown ruin in a wood to which she +was now conducting him. + +‘You must try, sir, to keep your spirits up,’ said she. ‘To be sure this +is a great change for one like you; but who knows the future?’ + +Mr. Archer turned towards her in the darkness, and she could clearly +perceive that he smiled upon her very kindly. ‘There spoke a sweet +nature,’ said he, ‘and I must thank you for these words. But I would not +have you fancy that I regret the past for any happiness found in it, or +that I fear the simplicity and hardship of the country. I am a man that +has been much tossed about in life; now up, now down; and do you think +that I shall not be able to support what you support—you who are kind, +and therefore know how to feel pain; who are beautiful, and therefore +hope; who are young, and therefore (or am I the more mistaken?) +discontented?’ + +‘Nay, sir, not that, at least,’ said Nance; ‘not discontented. If I were +to be discontented, how should I look those that have real sorrows in the +face? I have faults enough, but not that fault; and I have my merits +too, for I have a good opinion of myself. But for beauty, I am not so +simple but that I can tell a banter from a compliment.’ + +‘Nay, nay,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘I had half forgotten; grief is selfish, and +I was thinking of myself and not of you, or I had never blurted out so +bold a piece of praise. ’Tis the best proof of my sincerity. But come, +now, I would lay a wager you are no coward?’ + +‘Indeed, sir, I am not more afraid than another,’ said Nance. ‘None of +my blood are given to fear.’ + +‘And you are honest?’ he returned. + +‘I will answer for that,’ said she. + +‘Well, then, to be brave, to be honest, to be kind, and to be contented, +since you say you are so—is not that to fill up a great part of virtue?’ + +‘I fear you are but a flatterer,’ said Nance, but she did not say it +clearly, for what with bewilderment and satisfaction, her heart was quite +oppressed. + +There could be no harm, certainly, in these grave compliments; but yet +they charmed and frightened her, and to find favour, for reasons however +obscure, in the eyes of this elegant, serious, and most unfortunate young +gentleman, was a giddy elevation, was almost an apotheosis, for a country +maid. + +But she was to be no more exercised; for Mr. Archer, disclaiming any +thought of flattery, turned off to other subjects, and held her all +through the wood in conversation, addressing her with an air of perfect +sincerity, and listening to her answers with every mark of interest. Had +open flattery continued, Nance would have soon found refuge in good +sense; but the more subtle lure she could not suspect, much less avoid. +It was the first time she had ever taken part in a conversation +illuminated by any ideas. All was then true that she had heard and +dreamed of gentlemen; they were a race apart, like deities knowing good +and evil. And then there burst upon her soul a divine thought, hope’s +glorious sunrise: since she could understand, since it seemed that she +too, even she, could interest this sorrowful Apollo, might she not learn? +or was she not learning? Would not her soul awake and put forth wings? +Was she not, in fact, an enchanted princess, waiting but a touch to +become royal? She saw herself transformed, radiantly attired, but in the +most exquisite taste: her face grown longer and more refined; her tint +etherealised; and she heard herself with delighted wonder talking like a +book. + +Meanwhile they had arrived at where the track comes out above the river +dell, and saw in front of them the castle, faintly shadowed on the night, +covering with its broken battlements a bold projection of the bank, and +showing at the extreme end, where were the habitable tower and wing, some +crevices of candle-light. Hence she called loudly upon her uncle, and he +was seen to issue, lantern in hand, from the tower door, and, where the +ruins did not intervene, to pick his way over the swarded courtyard, +avoiding treacherous cellars and winding among blocks of fallen masonry. +The arch of the great gate was still entire, flanked by two tottering +bastions, and it was here that Jonathan met them, standing at the edge of +the bridge, bent somewhat forward, and blinking at them through the glow +of his own lantern. Mr. Archer greeted him with civility; but the old +man was in no humour of compliance. He guided the newcomer across the +court-yard, looking sharply and quickly in his face, and grumbling all +the time about the cold, and the discomfort and dilapidation of the +castle. He was sure he hoped that Mr. Archer would like it; but in truth +he could not think what brought him there. Doubtless he had a good +reason—this with a look of cunning scrutiny—but, indeed, the place was +quite unfit for any person of repute; he himself was eaten up with the +rheumatics. It was the most rheumaticky place in England, and some fine +day the whole habitable part (to call it habitable) would fetch away +bodily and go down the slope into the river. He had seen the cracks +widening; there was a plaguy issue in the bank below; he thought a spring +was mining it; it might be to-morrow, it might be next day; but they were +all sure of a come-down sooner or later. ‘And that is a poor death,’ +said he, ‘for any one, let alone a gentleman, to have a whole old ruin +dumped upon his belly. Have a care to your left there; these cellar +vaults have all broke down, and the grass and hemlock hide ’em. Well, +sir, here is welcome to you, such as it is, and wishing you well away.’ + +And with that Jonathan ushered his guest through the tower door, and down +three steps on the left hand into the kitchen or common room of the +castle. It was a huge, low room, as large as a meadow, occupying the +whole width of the habitable wing, with six barred windows looking on the +court, and two into the river valley. A dresser, a table, and a few +chairs stood dotted here and there upon the uneven flags. Under the +great chimney a good fire burned in an iron fire-basket; a high old +settee, rudely carved with figures and Gothic lettering, flanked it on +either side; there was a hinge table and a stone bench in the chimney +corner, and above the arch hung guns, axes, lanterns, and great sheaves +of rusty keys. + +Jonathan looked about him, holding up the lantern, and shrugged his +shoulders, with a pitying grimace. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘See the damp +on the floor, look at the moss; where there’s moss you may be sure that +it’s rheumaticky. Try and get near that fire for to warm yourself; it’ll +blow the coat off your back. And with a young gentleman with a face like +yours, as pale as a tallow-candle, I’d be afeard of a churchyard cough +and a galloping decline,’ says Jonathan, naming the maladies with gloomy +gusto, ‘or the cold might strike and turn your blood,’ he added. + +Mr. Archer fairly laughed. ‘My good Mr. Holdaway,’ said he, ‘I was born +with that same tallow-candle face, and the only fear that you inspire me +with is the fear that I intrude unwelcomely upon your private hours. But +I think I can promise you that I am very little troublesome, and I am +inclined to hope that the terms which I can offer may still pay you the +derangement.’ + +‘Yes, the terms,’ said Jonathan, ‘I was thinking of that. As you say, +they are very small,’ and he shook his head. + +‘Unhappily, I can afford no more,’ said Mr. Archer. ‘But this we have +arranged already,’ he added with a certain stiffness; ‘and as I am aware +that Miss Holdaway has matter to communicate, I will, if you permit, +retire at once. To-night I must bivouac; to-morrow my trunk is to follow +from the “Dragon.” So if you will show me to my room I shall wish you a +good slumber and a better awakening.’ + +Jonathan silently gave the lantern to Nance, and she, turning and +curtseying in the doorway, proceeded to conduct their guest up the broad +winding staircase of the tower. He followed with a very brooding face. + +‘Alas!’ cried Nance, as she entered the room, ‘your fire black out,’ and, +setting down the lantern, she clapped upon her knees before the chimney +and began to rearrange the charred and still smouldering remains. Mr. +Archer looked about the gaunt apartment with a sort of shudder. The +great height, the bare stone, the shattered windows, the aspect of the +uncurtained bed, with one of its four fluted columns broken short, all +struck a chill upon his fancy. From this dismal survey his eyes returned +to Nance crouching before the fire, the candle in one hand and artfully +puffing at the embers; the flames as they broke forth played upon the +soft outline of her cheek—she was alive and young, coloured with the +bright hues of life, and a woman. He looked upon her, softening; and +then sat down and continued to admire the picture. + +‘There, sir,’ said she, getting upon her feet, ‘your fire is doing +bravely now. Good-night.’ + +He rose and held out his hand. ‘Come,’ said he, ‘you are my only friend +in these parts, and you must shake hands.’ + +She brushed her hand upon her skirt and offered it, blushing. + +‘God bless you, my dear,’ said he. + +And then, when he was alone, he opened one of the windows, and stared +down into the dark valley. A gentle wimpling of the river among stones +ascended to his ear; the trees upon the other bank stood very black +against the sky; farther away an owl was hooting. It was dreary and +cold, and as he turned back to the hearth and the fine glow of fire, +‘Heavens!’ said he to himself, ‘what an unfortunate destiny is mine!’ + +He went to bed, but sleep only visited his pillow in uneasy snatches. +Outbreaks of loud speech came up the staircase; he heard the old stones +of the castle crack in the frosty night with sharp reverberations, and +the bed complained under his tossings. Lastly, far on into the morning, +he awakened from a doze to hear, very far off, in the extreme and +breathless quiet, a wailing flourish on the horn. The down mail was +drawing near to the ‘Green Dragon.’ He sat up in bed; the sound was +tragical by distance, and the modulation appealed to his ear like human +speech. It seemed to call upon him with a dreary insistence—to call him +far away, to address him personally, and to have a meaning that he failed +to seize. It was thus, at least, in this nodding castle, in a cold, miry +woodland, and so far from men and society, that the traffic on the Great +North Road spoke to him in the intervals of slumber. + + + +CHAPTER III—JONATHAN HOLDAWAY + + +Nance descended the tower stair, pausing at every step. She was in no +hurry to confront her uncle with bad news, and she must dwell a little +longer on the rich note of Mr. Archer’s voice, the charm of his kind +words, and the beauty of his manner and person. But, once at the +stair-foot, she threw aside the spell and recovered her sensible and +workaday self. + +Jonathan was seated in the middle of the settle, a mug of ale beside him, +in the attitude of one prepared for trouble; but he did not speak, and +suffered her to fetch her supper and eat of it, with a very excellent +appetite, in silence. When she had done, she, too, drew a tankard of +home-brewed, and came and planted herself in front of him upon the +settle. + +‘Well?’ said Jonathan. + +‘My lord has run away,’ said Nance. + +‘What?’ cried the old man. + +‘Abroad,’ she continued; ‘run away from creditors. He said he had not a +stiver, but he was drunk enough. He said you might live on in the +castle, and Mr. Archer would pay you; but you was to look for no more +wages, since he would be glad of them himself.’ + +Jonathan’s face contracted; the flush of a black, bilious anger mounted +to the roots of his hair; he gave an inarticulate cry, leapt upon his +feet, and began rapidly pacing the stone floor. At first he kept his +hands behind his back in a tight knot; then he began to gesticulate as he +turned. + +‘This man—this lord,’ he shouted, ‘who is he? He was born with a gold +spoon in his mouth, and I with a dirty straw. He rolled in his coach +when he was a baby. I have dug and toiled and laboured since I was that +high—that high.’ And he shouted again. ‘I’m bent and broke, and full of +pains. D’ ye think I don’t know the taste of sweat? Many’s the gallon +I’ve drunk of it—ay, in the midwinter, toiling like a slave. All +through, what has my life been? Bend, bend, bend my old creaking back +till it would ache like breaking; wade about in the foul mire, never a +dry stitch; empty belly, sore hands, hat off to my Lord Redface; kicks +and ha’pence; and now, here, at the hind end, when I’m worn to my poor +bones, a kick and done with it.’ He walked a little while in silence, +and then, extending his hand, ‘Now you, Nance Holdaway,’ says he, ‘you +come of my blood, and you’re a good girl. When that man was a boy, I +used to carry his gun for him. I carried the gun all day on my two feet, +and many a stitch I had, and chewed a bullet for. He rode upon a horse, +with feathers in his hat; but it was him that had the shots and took the +game home. Did I complain? Not I. I knew my station. What did I ask, +but just the chance to live and die honest? Nance Holdaway, don’t let +them deny it to me—don’t let them do it. I’ve been as poor as Job, and +as honest as the day, but now, my girl, you mark these words of mine, I’m +getting tired of it.’ + +‘I wouldn’t say such words, at least,’ said Nance. + +‘You wouldn’t?’ said the old man grimly. ‘Well, and did I when I was +your age? Wait till your back’s broke and your hands tremble, and your +eyes fail, and you’re weary of the battle and ask no more but to lie down +in your bed and give the ghost up like an honest man; and then let there +up and come some insolent, ungodly fellow—ah! if I had him in these +hands! “Where’s my money that you gambled?” I should say. “Where’s my +money that you drank and diced?” “Thief!” is what I would say; “Thief!”’ +he roared, ‘“Thief”’ + +‘Mr. Archer will hear you if you don’t take care,’ said Nance, ‘and I +would be ashamed, for one, that he should hear a brave, old, honest, +hard-working man like Jonathan Holdaway talk nonsense like a boy.’ + +‘D’ ye think I mind for Mr. Archer?’ he cried shrilly, with a clack of +laughter; and then he came close up to her, stooped down with his two +palms upon his knees, and looked her in the eyes, with a strange hard +expression, something like a smile. ‘Do I mind for God, my girl?’ he +said; ‘that’s what it’s come to be now, do I mind for God?’ + +‘Uncle Jonathan,’ she said, getting up and taking him by the arm; ‘you +sit down again, where you were sitting. There, sit still; I’ll have no +more of this; you’ll do yourself a mischief. Come, take a drink of this +good ale, and I’ll warm a tankard for you. La, we’ll pull through, +you’ll see. I’m young, as you say, and it’s my turn to carry the bundle; +and don’t you worry your bile, or we’ll have sickness, too, as well as +sorrow.’ + +‘D’ ye think that I’d forgotten you?’ said Jonathan, with something like +a groan; and thereupon his teeth clicked to, and he sat silent with the +tankard in his hand and staring straight before him. + +‘Why,’ says Nance, setting on the ale to mull, ‘men are always children, +they say, however old; and if ever I heard a thing like this, to set to +and make yourself sick, just when the money’s failing. Keep a good heart +up; you haven’t kept a good heart these seventy years, nigh hand, to +break down about a pound or two. Here’s this Mr. Archer come to lodge, +that you disliked so much. Well, now you see it was a clear Providence. +Come, let’s think upon our mercies. And here is the ale mulling lovely; +smell of it; I’ll take a drop myself, it smells so sweet. And, Uncle +Jonathan, you let me say one word. You’ve lost more than money before +now; you lost my aunt, and bore it like a man. Bear this.’ + +His face once more contracted; his fist doubled, and shot forth into the +air, and trembled. ‘Let them look out!’ he shouted. ‘Here, I warn all +men; I’ve done with this foul kennel of knaves. Let them look out!’ + +‘Hush, hush! for pity’s sake,’ cried Nance. + +And then all of a sudden he dropped his face into his hands, and broke +out with a great hiccoughing dry sob that was horrible to hear. ‘O,’ he +cried, ‘my God, if my son hadn’t left me, if my Dick was here!’ and the +sobs shook him; Nance sitting still and watching him, with distress. ‘O, +if he were here to help his father!’ he went on again. ‘If I had a son +like other fathers, he would save me now, when all is breaking down; O, +he would save me! Ay, but where is he? Raking taverns, a thief perhaps. +My curse be on him!’ he added, rising again into wrath. + +‘Hush!’ cried Nance, springing to her feet: ‘your boy, your dead wife’s +boy—Aunt Susan’s baby that she loved—would you curse him? O, God +forbid!’ + +The energy of her address surprised him from his mood. He looked upon +her, tearless and confused. ‘Let me go to my bed,’ he said at last, and +he rose, and, shaking as with ague, but quite silent, lighted his candle, +and left the kitchen. + +Poor Nance! the pleasant current of her dreams was all diverted. She +beheld a golden city, where she aspired to dwell; she had spoken with a +deity, and had told herself that she might rise to be his equal; and now +the earthly ligaments that bound her down had been tightened. She was +like a tree looking skyward, her roots were in the ground. It seemed to +her a thing so coarse, so rustic, to be thus concerned about a loss in +money; when Mr. Archer, fallen from the sky-level of counts and nobles, +faced his changed destiny with so immovable a courage. To weary of +honesty; that, at least, no one could do, but even to name it was already +a disgrace; and she beheld in fancy her uncle, and the young lad, all +laced and feathered, hand upon hip, bestriding his small horse. The +opposition seemed to perpetuate itself from generation to generation; one +side still doomed to the clumsy and the servile, the other born to +beauty. + +She thought of the golden zones in which gentlemen were bred, and figured +with so excellent a grace; zones in which wisdom and smooth words, white +linen and slim hands, were the mark of the desired inhabitants; where low +temptations were unknown, and honesty no virtue, but a thing as natural +as breathing. + + + +CHAPTER IV—MINGLING THREADS + + +It was nearly seven before Mr. Archer left his apartment. On the landing +he found another door beside his own opening on a roofless corridor, and +presently he was walking on the top of the ruins. On one hand he could +look down a good depth into the green court-yard; on the other his eye +roved along the downward course of the river, the wet woods all smoking, +the shadows long and blue, the mists golden and rosy in the sun, here and +there the water flashing across an obstacle. His heart expanded and +softened to a grateful melancholy, and with his eye fixed upon the +distance, and no thought of present danger, he continued to stroll along +the elevated and treacherous promenade. + +A terror-stricken cry rose to him from the courtyard. He looked down, +and saw in a glimpse Nance standing below with hands clasped in horror +and his own foot trembling on the margin of a gulf. He recoiled and +leant against a pillar, quaking from head to foot, and covering his face +with his hands; and Nance had time to run round by the stair and rejoin +him where he stood before he had changed a line of his position. + +‘Ah!’ he cried, and clutched her wrist; ‘don’t leave me. The place +rocks; I have no head for altitudes.’ + +‘Sit down against that pillar,’ said Nance. ‘Don’t you be afraid; I +won’t leave you, and don’t look up or down: look straight at me. How +white you are!’ + +‘The gulf,’ he said, and closed his eyes again and shuddered. + +‘Why,’ said Nance, ‘what a poor climber you must be! That was where my +cousin Dick used to get out of the castle after Uncle Jonathan had shut +the gate. I’ve been down there myself with him helping me. I wouldn’t +try with you,’ she said, and laughed merrily. + +The sound of her laughter was sincere and musical, and perhaps its beauty +barbed the offence to Mr. Archer. The blood came into his face with a +quick jet, and then left it paler than before. ‘It is a physical +weakness,’ he said harshly, ‘and very droll, no doubt, but one that I can +conquer on necessity. See, I am still shaking. Well, I advance to the +battlements and look down. Show me your cousin’s path.’ + +‘He would go sure-foot along that little ledge,’ said Nance, pointing as +she spoke; ‘then out through the breach and down by yonder buttress. It +is easier coming back, of course, because you see where you are going. +From the buttress foot a sheep-walk goes along the scarp—see, you can +follow it from here in the dry grass. And now, sir,’ she added, with a +touch of womanly pity, ‘I would come away from here if I were you, for +indeed you are not fit.’ + +Sure enough Mr. Archer’s pallor and agitation had continued to increase; +his cheeks were deathly, his clenched fingers trembled pitifully. ‘The +weakness is physical,’ he sighed, and had nearly fallen. Nance led him +from the spot, and he was no sooner back in the tower-stair, than he fell +heavily against the wall and put his arm across his eyes. A cup of +brandy had to be brought him before he could descend to breakfast; and +the perfection of Nance’s dream was for the first time troubled. + +Jonathan was waiting for them at table, with yellow, blood-shot eyes and +a peculiar dusky complexion. He hardly waited till they found their +seats, before, raising one hand, and stooping with his mouth above his +plate, he put up a prayer for a blessing on the food and a spirit of +gratitude in the eaters, and thereupon, and without more civility, fell +to. But it was notable that he was no less speedily satisfied than he +had been greedy to begin. He pushed his plate away and drummed upon the +table. + +‘These are silly prayers,’ said he, ‘that they teach us. Eat and be +thankful, that’s no such wonder. Speak to me of starving—there’s the +touch. You’re a man, they tell me, Mr. Archer, that has met with some +reverses?’ + +‘I have met with many,’ replied Mr. Archer. + +‘Ha!’ said Jonathan. ‘None reckons but the last. Now, see; I tried to +make this girl here understand me.’ + +‘Uncle,’ said Nance, ‘what should Mr. Archer care for your concerns? He +hath troubles of his own, and came to be at peace, I think.’ + +‘I tried to make her understand me,’ repeated Jonathan doggedly; ‘and now +I’ll try you. Do you think this world is fair?’ + +‘Fair and false!’ quoth Mr. Archer. + +The old man laughed immoderately. ‘Good,’ said he, ‘very good, but what +I mean is this: do you know what it is to get up early and go to bed +late, and never take so much as a holiday but four: and one of these your +own marriage day, and the other three the funerals of folk you loved, and +all that, to have a quiet old age in shelter, and bread for your old +belly, and a bed to lay your crazy bones upon, with a clear conscience?’ + +‘Sir,’ said Mr. Archer, with an inclination of his head, ‘you portray a +very brave existence.’ + +‘Well,’ continued Jonathan, ‘and in the end thieves deceive you, thieves +rob and rook you, thieves turn you out in your old age and send you +begging. What have you got for all your honesty? A fine return! You +that might have stole scores of pounds, there you are out in the rain +with your rheumatics!’ + +Mr. Archer had forgotten to eat; with his hand upon his chin he was +studying the old man’s countenance. ‘And you conclude?’ he asked. + +‘Conclude!’ cried Jonathan. ‘I conclude I’ll be upsides with them.’ + +‘Ay,’ said the other, ‘we are all tempted to revenge.’ + +‘You have lost money?’ asked Jonathan. + +‘A great estate,’ said Archer quietly. + +‘See now!’ says Jonathan, ‘and where is it?’ + +‘Nay, I sometimes think that every one has had his share of it but me,’ +was the reply. ‘All England hath paid his taxes with my patrimony: I was +a sheep that left my wool on every briar.’ + +‘And you sit down under that?’ cried the old man. ‘Come now, Mr. Archer, +you and me belong to different stations; and I know mine—no man +better—but since we have both been rooked, and are both sore with it, +why, here’s my hand with a very good heart, and I ask for yours, and no +offence, I hope.’ + +‘There is surely no offence, my friend,’ returned Mr. Archer, as they +shook hands across the table; ‘for, believe me, my sympathies are quite +acquired to you. This life is an arena where we fight with beasts; and, +indeed,’ he added, sighing, ‘I sometimes marvel why we go down to it +unarmed.’ + +In the meanwhile a creaking of ungreased axles had been heard descending +through the wood; and presently after, the door opened, and the tall +ostler entered the kitchen carrying one end of Mr. Archer’s trunk. The +other was carried by an aged beggar man of that district, known and +welcome for some twenty miles about under the name of ‘Old Cumberland.’ +Each was soon perched upon a settle, with a cup of ale; and the ostler, +who valued himself upon his affability, began to entertain the company, +still with half an eye on Nance, to whom in gallant terms he expressly +dedicated every sip of ale. First he told of the trouble they had to get +his Lordship started in the chaise; and how he had dropped a rouleau of +gold on the threshold, and the passage and doorstep had been strewn with +guinea-pieces. At this old Jonathan looked at Mr. Archer. Next the +visitor turned to news of a more thrilling character: how the down mail +had been stopped again near Grantham by three men on horseback—a white +and two bays; how they had handkerchiefs on their faces; how Tom the +guard’s blunderbuss missed fire, but he swore he had winged one of them +with a pistol; and how they had got clean away with seventy pounds in +money, some valuable papers, and a watch or two. + +‘Brave! brave!’ cried Jonathan in ecstasy. ‘Seventy pounds! O, it’s +brave!’ + +‘Well, I don’t see the great bravery,’ observed the ostler, +misapprehending him. ‘Three men, and you may call that three to one. +I’ll call it brave when some one stops the mail single-handed; that’s a +risk.’ + +‘And why should they hesitate?’ inquired Mr. Archer. ‘The poor souls who +are fallen to such a way of life, pray what have they to lose? If they +get the money, well; but if a ball should put them from their troubles, +why, so better.’ + +‘Well, sir,’ said the ostler, ‘I believe you’ll find they won’t agree +with you. They count on a good fling, you see; or who would risk it?—And +here’s my best respects to you, Miss Nance.’ + +‘And I forgot the part of cowardice,’ resumed Mr. Archer. ‘All men +fear.’ + +‘O, surely not!’ cried Nance. + +‘All men,’ reiterated Mr. Archer. + +‘Ay, that’s a true word,’ observed Old Cumberland, ‘and a thief, anyway, +for it’s a coward’s trade.’ + +‘But these fellows, now,’ said Jonathan, with a curious, appealing +manner—‘these fellows with their seventy pounds! Perhaps, Mr. Archer, +they were no true thieves after all, but just people who had been robbed +and tried to get their own again. What was that you said, about all +England and the taxes? One takes, another gives; why, that’s almost +fair. If I’ve been rooked and robbed, and the coat taken off my back, I +call it almost fair to take another’s.’ + +‘Ask Old Cumberland,’ observed the ostler; ‘you ask Old Cumberland, Miss +Nance!’ and he bestowed a wink upon his favoured fair one. + +‘Why that?’ asked Jonathan. + +‘He had his coat taken—ay, and his shirt too,’ returned the ostler. + +‘Is that so?’ cried Jonathan eagerly. ‘Was you robbed too?’ + +‘That was I,’ replied Cumberland, ‘with a warrant! I was a well-to-do +man when I was young.’ + +‘Ay! See that!’ says Jonathan. ‘And you don’t long for a revenge?’ + +‘Eh! Not me!’ answered the beggar. ‘It’s too long ago. But if you’ll +give me another mug of your good ale, my pretty lady, I won’t say no to +that.’ + +‘And shalt have! And shalt have!’ cried Jonathan. ‘Or brandy even, if +you like it better.’ + +And as Cumberland did like it better, and the ostler chimed in, the party +pledged each other in a dram of brandy before separating. + +As for Nance, she slipped forth into the ruins, partly to avoid the +ostler’s gallantries, partly to lament over the defects of Mr. Archer. +Plainly, he was no hero. She pitied him; she began to feel a protecting +interest mingle with and almost supersede her admiration, and was at the +same time disappointed and yet drawn to him. She was, indeed, conscious +of such unshaken fortitude in her own heart, that she was almost tempted +by an occasion to be bold for two. She saw herself, in a brave attitude, +shielding her imperfect hero from the world; and she saw, like a piece of +heaven, his gratitude for her protection. + + + +CHAPTER V—LIFE IN THE CASTLE + + +From that day forth the life of these three persons in the ruin ran very +smoothly. Mr. Archer now sat by the fire with a book, and now passed +whole days abroad, returning late, dead weary. His manner was a mask; +but it was half transparent; through the even tenor of his gravity and +courtesy profound revolutions of feeling were betrayed, seasons of numb +despair, of restlessness, of aching temper. For days he would say +nothing beyond his usual courtesies and solemn compliments; and then, all +of a sudden, some fine evening beside the kitchen fire, he would fall +into a vein of elegant gossip, tell of strange and interesting events, +the secrets of families, brave deeds of war, the miraculous discovery of +crime, the visitations of the dead. Nance and her uncle would sit till +the small hours with eyes wide open: Jonathan applauding the unexpected +incidents with many a slap of his big hand; Nance, perhaps, more pleased +with the narrator’s eloquence and wise reflections; and then, again, days +would follow of abstraction, of listless humming, of frequent apologies +and long hours of silence. Once only, and then after a week of +unrelieved melancholy, he went over to the ‘Green Dragon,’ spent the +afternoon with the landlord and a bowl of punch, and returned as on the +first night, devious in step but courteous and unperturbed of speech. + +If he seemed more natural and more at his ease it was when he found Nance +alone; and, laying by some of his reserve, talked before her rather than +to her of his destiny, character and hopes. To Nance these interviews +were but a doubtful privilege. At times he would seem to take a pleasure +in her presence, to consult her gravely, to hear and to discuss her +counsels; at times even, but these were rare and brief, he would talk of +herself, praise the qualities that she possessed, touch indulgently on +her defects, and lend her books to read and even examine her upon her +reading; but far more often he would fall into a half unconsciousness, +put her a question and then answer it himself, drop into the veiled tone +of voice of one soliloquising, and leave her at last as though he had +forgotten her existence. It was odd, too, that in all this random +converse, not a fact of his past life, and scarce a name, should ever +cross his lips. A profound reserve kept watch upon his most unguarded +moments. He spoke continually of himself, indeed, but still in enigmas; +a veiled prophet of egoism. + +The base of Nance’s feelings for Mr. Archer was admiration as for a +superior being; and with this, his treatment, consciously or not, +accorded happily. When he forgot her, she took the blame upon herself. +His formal politeness was so exquisite that this essential brutality +stood excused. His compliments, besides, were always grave and rational; +he would offer reason for his praise, convict her of merit, and thus +disarm suspicion. Nay, and the very hours when he forgot and remembered +her alternately could by the ardent fallacies of youth be read in the +light of an attention. She might be far from his confidence; but still +she was nearer it than any one. He might ignore her presence, but yet he +sought it. + +Moreover, she, upon her side, was conscious of one point of superiority. +Beside this rather dismal, rather effeminate man, who recoiled from a +worm, who grew giddy on the castle wall, who bore so helplessly the +weight of his misfortunes, she felt herself a head and shoulders taller +in cheerful and sterling courage. She could walk head in air along the +most precarious rafter; her hand feared neither the grossness nor the +harshness of life’s web, but was thrust cheerfully, if need were, into +the briar bush, and could take hold of any crawling horror. Ruin was +mining the walls of her cottage, as already it had mined and subverted +Mr. Archer’s palace. Well, she faced it with a bright countenance and a +busy hand. She had got some washing, some rough seamstress work from the +‘Green Dragon,’ and from another neighbour ten miles away across the +moor. At this she cheerfully laboured, and from that height she could +afford to pity the useless talents and poor attitude of Mr. Archer. It +did not change her admiration, but it made it bearable. He was above her +in all ways; but she was above him in one. She kept it to herself, and +hugged it. When, like all young creatures, she made long stories to +justify, to nourish, and to forecast the course of her affection, it was +this private superiority that made all rosy, that cut the knot, and that, +at last, in some great situation, fetched to her knees the dazzling but +imperfect hero. With this pretty exercise she beguiled the hours of +labour, and consoled herself for Mr. Archer’s bearing. + +Pity was her weapon and her weakness. To accept the loved one’s faults, +although it has an air of freedom, is to kiss the chain, and this pity it +was which, lying nearer to her heart, lent the one element of true +emotion to a fanciful and merely brain-sick love. + +Thus it fell out one day that she had gone to the ‘Green Dragon’ and +brought back thence a letter to Mr. Archer. He, upon seeing it, winced +like a man under the knife: pain, shame, sorrow, and the most trenchant +edge of mortification cut into his heart and wrung the steady composure +of his face. + +‘Dear heart! have you bad news?’ she cried. + +But he only replied by a gesture and fled to his room, and when, later +on, she ventured to refer to it, he stopped her on the threshold, as if +with words prepared beforehand. ‘There are some pains,’ said he, ‘too +acute for consolation, or I would bring them to my kind consoler. Let +the memory of that letter, if you please, be buried.’ And then as she +continued to gaze at him, being, in spite of herself, pained by his +elaborate phrase, doubtfully sincere in word and manner: ‘Let it be +enough,’ he added haughtily, ‘that if this matter wring my heart, it doth +not touch my conscience. I am a man, I would have you to know, who +suffers undeservedly.’ + +He had never spoken so directly: never with so convincing an emotion; and +her heart thrilled for him. She could have taken his pains and died of +them with joy. + +Meanwhile she was left without support. Jonathan now swore by his +lodger, and lived for him. He was a fine talker. He knew the finest +sight of stories; he was a man and a gentleman, take him for all in all, +and a perfect credit to Old England. Such were the old man’s declared +sentiments, and sure enough he clung to Mr. Archer’s side, hung upon his +utterance when he spoke, and watched him with unwearing interest when he +was silent. And yet his feeling was not clear; in the partial wreck of +his mind, which was leaning to decay, some after-thought was strongly +present. As he gazed in Mr. Archer’s face a sudden brightness would +kindle in his rheumy eyes, his eye-brows would lift as with a sudden +thought, his mouth would open as though to speak, and close again on +silence. Once or twice he even called Mr. Archer mysteriously forth into +the dark courtyard, took him by the button, and laid a demonstrative +finger on his chest; but there his ideas or his courage failed him; he +would shufflingly excuse himself and return to his position by the fire +without a word of explanation. ‘The good man was growing old,’ said Mr. +Archer with a suspicion of a shrug. But the good man had his idea, and +even when he was alone the name of Mr. Archer fell from his lips +continually in the course of mumbled and gesticulative conversation. + + + +CHAPTER VI—THE BAD HALF-CROWN + + +However early Nance arose, and she was no sluggard, the old man, who had +begun to outlive the earthly habit of slumber, would usually have been up +long before, the fire would be burning brightly, and she would see him +wandering among the ruins, lantern in hand, and talking assiduously to +himself. One day, however, after he had returned late from the market +town, she found that she had stolen a march upon that indefatigable early +riser. The kitchen was all blackness. She crossed the castle-yard to +the wood-cellar, her steps printing the thick hoarfrost. A scathing +breeze blew out of the north-east and slowly carried a regiment of black +and tattered clouds over the face of heaven, which was already kindled +with the wild light of morning, but where she walked, in shelter of the +ruins, the flame of her candle burned steady. The extreme cold smote +upon her conscience. She could not bear to think this bitter business +fell usually to the lot of one so old as Jonathan, and made desperate +resolutions to be earlier in the future. + +The fire was a good blaze before he entered, limping dismally into the +kitchen. ‘Nance,’ said he, ‘I be all knotted up with the rheumatics; +will you rub me a bit?’ She came and rubbed him where and how he bade +her. ‘This is a cruel thing that old age should be rheumaticky,’ said +he. ‘When I was young I stood my turn of the teethache like a man! for +why? because it couldn’t last for ever; but these rheumatics come to live +and die with you. Your aunt was took before the time came; never had an +ache to mention. Now I lie all night in my single bed and the blood +never warms in me; this knee of mine it seems like lighted up with +rheumatics; it seems as though you could see to sew by it; and all the +strings of my old body ache, as if devils was pulling ’em. Thank you +kindly; that’s someways easier now, but an old man, my dear, has little +to look for; it’s pain, pain, pain to the end of the business, and I’ll +never be rightly warm again till I get under the sod,’ he said, and +looked down at her with a face so aged and weary that she had nearly +wept. + +‘I lay awake all night,’ he continued; ‘I do so mostly, and a long walk +kills me. Eh, deary me, to think that life should run to such a puddle! +And I remember long syne when I was strong, and the blood all hot and +good about me, and I loved to run, too—deary me, to run! Well, that’s +all by. You’d better pray to be took early, Nance, and not live on till +you get to be like me, and are robbed in your grey old age, your cold, +shivering, dark old age, that’s like a winter’s morning’; and he bitterly +shuddered, spreading his hands before the fire. + +‘Come now,’ said Nance, ‘the more you say the less you’ll like it, Uncle +Jonathan; but if I were you I would be proud for to have lived all your +days honest and beloved, and come near the end with your good name: isn’t +that a fine thing to be proud of? Mr. Archer was telling me in some +strange land they used to run races each with a lighted candle, and the +art was to keep the candle burning. Well, now, I thought that was like +life: a man’s good conscience is the flame he gets to carry, and if he +comes to the winning-post with that still burning, why, take it how you +will, the man’s a hero—even if he was low-born like you and me.’ + +‘Did Mr. Archer tell you that?’ asked Jonathan. + +‘No, dear,’ said she, ‘that’s my own thought about it. He told me of the +race. But see, now,’ she continued, putting on the porridge, ‘you say +old age is a hard season, but so is youth. You’re half out of the +battle, I would say; you loved my aunt and got her, and buried her, and +some of these days soon you’ll go to meet her; and take her my love and +tell her I tried to take good care of you; for so I do, Uncle Jonathan.’ + +Jonathan struck with his fist upon the settle. ‘D’ ye think I want to +die, ye vixen?’ he shouted. ‘I want to live ten hundred years.’ + +This was a mystery beyond Nance’s penetration, and she stared in wonder +as she made the porridge. + +‘I want to live,’ he continued, ‘I want to live and to grow rich. I want +to drive my carriage and to dice in hells and see the ring, I do. Is +this a life that I lived? I want to be a rake, d’ ye understand? I want +to know what things are like. I don’t want to die like a blind kitten, +and me seventy-six.’ + +‘O fie!’ said Nance. + +The old man thrust out his jaw at her, with the grimace of an irreverent +schoolboy. Upon that aged face it seemed a blasphemy. Then he took out +of his bosom a long leather purse, and emptying its contents on the +settle, began to count and recount the pieces, ringing and examining +each, and suddenly he leapt like a young man. ‘What!’ he screamed. +‘Bad? O Lord! I’m robbed again!’ And falling on his knees before the +settle he began to pour forth the most dreadful curses on the head of his +deceiver. His eyes were shut, for to him this vile solemnity was prayer. +He held up the bad half-crown in his right hand, as though he were +displaying it to Heaven, and what increased the horror of the scene, the +curses he invoked were those whose efficacy he had tasted—old age and +poverty, rheumatism and an ungrateful son. Nance listened appalled; then +she sprang forward and dragged down his arm and laid her hand upon his +mouth. + +‘Whist!’ she cried. ‘Whist ye, for God’s sake! O my man, whist ye! If +Heaven were to hear; if poor Aunt Susan were to hear! Think, she may be +listening.’ And with the histrionism of strong emotion she pointed to a +corner of the kitchen. + +His eyes followed her finger. He looked there for a little, thinking, +blinking; then he got stiffly to his feet and resumed his place upon the +settle, the bad piece still in his hand. So he sat for some time, +looking upon the half-crown, and now wondering to himself on the +injustice and partiality of the law, now computing again and again the +nature of his loss. So he was still sitting when Mr. Archer entered the +kitchen. At this a light came into his face, and after some seconds of +rumination he dispatched Nance upon an errand. + +‘Mr. Archer,’ said he, as soon as they were alone together, ‘would you +give me a guinea-piece for silver?’ + +‘Why, sir, I believe I can,’ said Mr. Archer. + +And the exchange was just effected when Nance re-entered the apartment. +The blood shot into her face. + +‘What’s to do here?’ she asked rudely. + +‘Nothing, my dearie,’ said old Jonathan, with a touch of whine. + +‘What’s to do?’ she said again. + +‘Your uncle was but changing me a piece of gold,’ returned Mr. Archer. + +‘Let me see what he hath given you, Mr. Archer,’ replied the girl. ‘I +had a bad piece, and I fear it is mixed up among the good.’ + +‘Well, well,’ replied Mr. Archer, smiling, ‘I must take the merchant’s +risk of it. The money is now mixed.’ + +‘I know my piece,’ quoth Nance. ‘Come, let me see your silver, Mr. +Archer. If I have to get it by a theft I’ll see that money,’ she cried. + +‘Nay, child, if you put as much passion to be honest as the world to +steal, I must give way, though I betray myself,’ said Mr. Archer. ‘There +it is as I received it.’ + +Nance quickly found the bad half-crown. + +‘Give him another,’ she said, looking Jonathan in the face; and when that +had been done, she walked over to the chimney and flung the guilty piece +into the reddest of the fire. Its base constituents began immediately to +run; even as she watched it the disc crumbled, and the lineaments of the +King became confused. Jonathan, who had followed close behind, beheld +these changes from over her shoulder, and his face darkened sorely. + +‘Now,’ said she, ‘come back to table, and to-day it is I that shall say +grace, as I used to do in the old times, day about with Dick’; and +covering her eyes with one hand, ‘O Lord,’ said she with deep emotion, +‘make us thankful; and, O Lord, deliver us from evil! For the love of +the poor souls that watch for us in heaven, O deliver us from evil.’ + + + +CHAPTER VII—THE BLEACHING-GREEN + + +The year moved on to March; and March, though it blew bitter keen from +the North Sea, yet blinked kindly between whiles on the river dell. The +mire dried up in the closest covert; life ran in the bare branches, and +the air of the afternoon would be suddenly sweet with the fragrance of +new grass. + +Above and below the castle the river crooked like the letter ‘S.’ The +lower loop was to the left, and embraced the high and steep projection +which was crowned by the ruins; the upper loop enclosed a lawny +promontory, fringed by thorn and willow. It was easy to reach it from +the castle side, for the river ran in this part very quietly among +innumerable boulders and over dam-like walls of rock. The place was all +enclosed, the wind a stranger, the turf smooth and solid; so it was +chosen by Nance to be her bleaching-green. + +One day she brought a bucketful of linen, and had but begun to wring and +lay them out when Mr. Archer stepped from the thicket on the far side, +drew very deliberately near, and sat down in silence on the grass. Nance +looked up to greet him with a smile, but finding her smile was not +returned, she fell into embarrassment and stuck the more busily to her +employment. Man or woman, the whole world looks well at any work to +which they are accustomed; but the girl was ashamed of what she did. She +was ashamed, besides, of the sun-bonnet that so well became her, and +ashamed of her bare arms, which were her greatest beauty. + +‘Nausicaa,’ said Mr. Archer at last, ‘I find you like Nausicaa.’ + +‘And who was she?’ asked Nance, and laughed in spite of herself, an empty +and embarrassed laugh, that sounded in Mr. Archer’s ears, indeed, like +music, but to her own like the last grossness of rusticity. + +‘She was a princess of the Grecian islands,’ he replied. ‘A king, being +shipwrecked, found her washing by the shore. Certainly I, too, was +shipwrecked,’ he continued, plucking at the grass. ‘There was never a +more desperate castaway—to fall from polite life, fortune, a shrine of +honour, a grateful conscience, duties willingly taken up and faithfully +discharged; and to fall to this—idleness, poverty, inutility, remorse.’ +He seemed to have forgotten her presence, but here he remembered her +again. ‘Nance,’ said he, ‘would you have a man sit down and suffer or +rise up and strive?’ + +‘Nay,’ she said. ‘I would always rather see him doing.’ + +‘Ha!’ said Mr. Archer, ‘but yet you speak from an imperfect knowledge. +Conceive a man damned to a choice of only evil—misconduct upon either +side, not a fault behind him, and yet naught before him but this choice +of sins. How would you say then?’ + +‘I would say that he was much deceived, Mr. Archer,’ returned Nance. ‘I +would say there was a third choice, and that the right one.’ + +‘I tell you,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘the man I have in view hath two ways +open, and no more. One to wait, like a poor mewling baby, till Fate save +or ruin him; the other to take his troubles in his hand, and to perish or +be saved at once. It is no point of morals; both are wrong. Either way +this step-child of Providence must fall; which shall he choose, by doing +or not doing?’ + +‘Fall, then, is what I would say,’ replied Nance. ‘Fall where you will, +but do it! For O, Mr. Archer,’ she continued, stooping to her work, ‘you +that are good and kind, and so wise, it doth sometimes go against my +heart to see you live on here like a sheep in a turnip-field! If you +were braver—’ and here she paused, conscience-smitten. + +‘Do I, indeed, lack courage?’ inquired Mr. Archer of himself. ‘Courage, +the footstool of the virtues, upon which they stand? Courage, that a +poor private carrying a musket has to spare of; that does not fail a +weasel or a rat; that is a brutish faculty? I to fail there, I wonder? +But what is courage, then? The constancy to endure oneself or to see +others suffer? The itch of ill-advised activity: mere +shuttle-wittedness, or to be still and patient? To inquire of the +significance of words is to rob ourselves of what we seem to know, and +yet, of all things, certainly to stand still is the least heroic. +Nance,’ he said, ‘did you ever hear of _Hamlet_?’ + +‘Never,’ said Nance. + +‘’Tis an old play,’ returned Mr. Archer, ‘and frequently enacted. This +while I have been talking Hamlet. You must know this Hamlet was a Prince +among the Danes,’ and he told her the play in a very good style, here and +there quoting a verse or two with solemn emphasis. + +‘It is strange,’ said Nance; ‘he was then a very poor creature?’ + +‘That was what he could not tell,’ said Mr. Archer. ‘Look at me, am I as +poor a creature?’ + +She looked, and what she saw was the familiar thought of all her hours; +the tall figure very plainly habited in black, the spotless ruffles, the +slim hands; the long, well-shapen, serious, shaven face, the wide and +somewhat thin-lipped mouth, the dark eyes that were so full of depth and +change and colour. He was gazing at her with his brows a little knit, +his chin upon one hand and that elbow resting on his knee. + +‘Ye look a man!’ she cried, ‘ay, and should be a great one! The more +shame to you to lie here idle like a dog before the fire.’ + +‘My fair Holdaway,’ quoth Mr. Archer, ‘you are much set on action. I +cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed.’ He continued, looking at her with a +half-absent fixity, ‘’Tis a strange thing, certainly, that in my years of +fortune I should never taste happiness, and now when I am broke, enjoy so +much of it, for was I ever happier than to-day? Was the grass softer, +the stream pleasanter in sound, the air milder, the heart more at peace? +Why should I not sink? To dig—why, after all, it should be easy. To +take a mate, too? Love is of all grades since Jupiter; love fails to +none; and children’—but here he passed his hand suddenly over his eyes. +‘O fool and coward, fool and coward!’ he said bitterly; ‘can you forget +your fetters? You did not know that I was fettered, Nance?’ he asked, +again addressing her. + +But Nance was somewhat sore. ‘I know you keep talking,’ she said, and, +turning half away from him, began to wring out a sheet across her +shoulder. ‘I wonder you are not wearied of your voice. When the hands +lie abed the tongue takes a walk.’ + +Mr. Archer laughed unpleasantly, rose and moved to the water’s edge. In +this part the body of the river poured across a little narrow fell, ran +some ten feet very smoothly over a bed of pebbles, then getting wind, as +it were, of another shelf of rock which barred the channel, began, by +imperceptible degrees, to separate towards either shore in dancing +currents, and to leave the middle clear and stagnant. The set towards +either side was nearly equal; about one half of the whole water plunged +on the side of the castle, through a narrow gullet; about one half ran +ripping past the margin of the green and slipped across a babbling rapid. + +‘Here,’ said Mr. Archer, after he had looked for some time at the fine +and shifting demarcation of these currents, ‘come here and see me try my +fortune.’ + +‘I am not like a man,’ said Nance; ‘I have no time to waste.’ + +‘Come here,’ he said again. ‘I ask you seriously, Nance. We are not +always childish when we seem so.’ + +She drew a little nearer. + +‘Now,’ said he, ‘you see these two channels—choose one.’ + +‘I’ll choose the nearest, to save time,’ said Nance. + +‘Well, that shall be for action,’ returned Mr. Archer. ‘And since I wish +to have the odds against me, not only the other channel but yon stagnant +water in the midst shall be for lying still. You see this?’ he +continued, pulling up a withered rush. ‘I break it in three. I shall +put each separately at the top of the upper fall, and according as they +go by your way or by the other I shall guide my life.’ + +‘This is very silly,’ said Nance, with a movement of her shoulders. + +‘I do not think it so,’ said Mr. Archer. + +‘And then,’ she resumed, ‘if you are to try your fortune, why not +evenly?’ + +‘Nay,’ returned Mr. Archer with a smile, ‘no man can put complete +reliance in blind fate; he must still cog the dice.’ + +By this time he had got upon the rock beside the upper fall, and, bidding +her look out, dropped a piece of rush into the middle of the intake. The +rusty fragment was sucked at once over the fall, came up again far on the +right hand, leaned ever more and more in the same direction, and +disappeared under the hanging grasses on the castle side. + +‘One,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘one for standing still.’ + +But the next launch had a different fate, and after hanging for a while +about the edge of the stagnant water, steadily approached the +bleaching-green and danced down the rapid under Nance’s eyes. + +‘One for me,’ she cried with some exultation; and then she observed that +Mr. Archer had grown pale, and was kneeling on the rock, with his hand +raised like a person petrified. ‘Why,’ said she, ‘you do not mind it, do +you?’ + +‘Does a man not mind a throw of dice by which a fortune hangs?’ said Mr. +Archer, rather hoarsely. ‘And this is more than fortune. Nance, if you +have any kindness for my fate, put up a prayer before I launch the next +one.’ + +‘A prayer,’ she cried, ‘about a game like this? I would not be so +heathen.’ + +‘Well,’ said he, ‘then without,’ and he closed his eyes and dropped the +piece of rush. This time there was no doubt. It went for the rapid as +straight as any arrow. + +‘Action then!’ said Mr. Archer, getting to his feet; ‘and then God +forgive us,’ he added, almost to himself. + +‘God forgive us, indeed,’ cried Nance, ‘for wasting the good daylight! +But come, Mr. Archer, if I see you look so serious I shall begin to think +you was in earnest.’ + +‘Nay,’ he said, turning upon her suddenly, with a full smile; ‘but is not +this good advice? I have consulted God and demigod; the nymph of the +river, and what I far more admire and trust, my blue-eyed Minerva. Both +have said the same. My own heart was telling it already. Action, then, +be mine; and into the deep sea with all this paralysing casuistry. I am +happy to-day for the first time.’ + + + +CHAPTER VIII—THE MAIL GUARD + + +Somewhere about two in the morning a squall had burst upon the castle, a +clap of screaming wind that made the towers rock, and a copious drift of +rain that streamed from the windows. The wind soon blew itself out, but +the day broke cloudy and dripping, and when the little party assembled at +breakfast their humours appeared to have changed with the change of +weather. Nance had been brooding on the scene at the river-side, +applying it in various ways to her particular aspirations, and the +result, which was hardly to her mind, had taken the colour out of her +cheeks. Mr. Archer, too, was somewhat absent, his thoughts were of a +mingled strain; and even upon his usually impassive countenance there +were betrayed successive depths of depression and starts of exultation, +which the girl translated in terms of her own hopes and fears. But +Jonathan was the most altered: he was strangely silent, hardly passing a +word, and watched Mr. Archer with an eager and furtive eye. It seemed as +if the idea that had so long hovered before him had now taken a more +solid shape, and, while it still attracted, somewhat alarmed his +imagination. + +At this rate, conversation languished into a silence which was only +broken by the gentle and ghostly noises of the rain on the stone roof and +about all that field of ruins; and they were all relieved when the note +of a man whistling and the sound of approaching footsteps in the grassy +court announced a visitor. It was the ostler from the ‘Green Dragon’ +bringing a letter for Mr. Archer. Nance saw her hero’s face contract and +then relax again at sight of it; and she thought that she knew why, for +the sprawling, gross black characters of the address were easily +distinguishable from the fine writing on the former letter that had so +much disturbed him. He opened it and began to read; while the ostler sat +down to table with a pot of ale, and proceeded to make himself agreeable +after his fashion. + +‘Fine doings down our way, Miss Nance,’ said he. ‘I haven’t been abed +this blessed night.’ + +Nance expressed a polite interest, but her eye was on Mr. Archer, who was +reading his letter with a face of such extreme indifference that she was +tempted to suspect him of assumption. + +‘Yes,’ continued the ostler, ‘not been the like of it this fifteen years: +the North Mail stopped at the three stones.’ + +Jonathan’s cup was at his lip, but at this moment he choked with a great +splutter; and Mr. Archer, as if startled by the noise, made so sudden a +movement that one corner of the sheet tore off and stayed between his +finger and thumb. It was some little time before the old man was +sufficiently recovered to beg the ostler to go on, and he still kept +coughing and crying and rubbing his eyes. Mr. Archer, on his side, laid +the letter down, and, putting his hands in his pocket, listened gravely +to the tale. + +‘Yes,’ resumed Sam, ‘the North Mail was stopped by a single horseman; +dash my wig, but I admire him! There were four insides and two out, and +poor Tom Oglethorpe, the guard. Tom showed himself a man; let fly his +blunderbuss at him; had him covered, too, and could swear to that; but +the Captain never let on, up with a pistol and fetched poor Tom a bullet +through the body. Tom, he squelched upon the seat, all over blood. Up +comes the Captain to the window. “Oblige me,” says he, “with what you +have.” Would you believe it? Not a man says cheep!—not them. “Thy +hands over thy head.” Four watches, rings, snuff-boxes, seven-and-forty +pounds overhead in gold. One Dicksee, a grazier, tries it on: gives him +a guinea. “Beg your pardon,” says the Captain, “I think too highly of +you to take it at your hand. I will not take less than ten from such a +gentleman.” This Dicksee had his money in his stocking, but there was +the pistol at his eye. Down he goes, offs with his stocking, and there +was thirty golden guineas. “Now,” says the Captain, “you’ve tried it on +with me, but I scorns the advantage. Ten I said,” he says, “and ten I +take.” So, dash my buttons, I call that man a man!’ cried Sam in cordial +admiration. + +‘Well, and then?’ says Mr. Archer. + +‘Then,’ resumed Sam, ‘that old fat fagot Engleton, him as held the +ribbons and drew up like a lamb when he was told to, picks up his cattle, +and drives off again. Down they came to the “Dragon,” all singing like +as if they was scalded, and poor Tom saying nothing. You would ‘a’ +thought they had all lost the King’s crown to hear them. Down gets this +Dicksee. “Postmaster,” he says, taking him by the arm, “this is a most +abominable thing,” he says. Down gets a Major Clayton, and gets the old +man by the other arm. “We’ve been robbed,” he cries, “robbed!” Down +gets the others, and all around the old man telling their story, and what +they had lost, and how they was all as good as ruined; till at last Old +Engleton says, says he, “How about Oglethorpe?” says he. “Ay,” says the +others, “how about the guard?” Well, with that we bousted him down, as +white as a rag and all blooded like a sop. I thought he was dead. Well, +he ain’t dead; but he’s dying, I fancy.’ + +‘Did you say four watches?’ said Jonathan. + +‘Four, I think. I wish it had been forty,’ cried Sam. ‘Such a party of +soused herrings I never did see—not a man among them bar poor Tom. But +us that are the servants on the road have all the risk and none of the +profit.’ + +‘And this brave fellow,’ asked Mr. Archer, very quietly, ‘this +Oglethorpe—how is he now?’ + +‘Well, sir, with my respects, I take it he has a hole bang through him,’ +said Sam. ‘The doctor hasn’t been yet. He’d ‘a’ been bright and early +if it had been a passenger. But, doctor or no, I’ll make a good guess +that Tom won’t see to-morrow. He’ll die on a Sunday, will poor Tom; and +they do say that’s fortunate.’ + +‘Did Tom see him that did it?’ asked Jonathan. + +‘Well, he saw him,’ replied Sam, ‘but not to swear by. Said he was a +very tall man, and very big, and had a ’ankerchief about his face, and a +very quick shot, and sat his horse like a thorough gentleman, as he is.’ + +‘A gentleman!’ cried Nance. ‘The dirty knave!’ + +‘Well, I calls a man like that a gentleman,’ returned the ostler; ‘that’s +what I mean by a gentleman.’ + +‘You don’t know much of them, then,’ said Nance. + +‘A gentleman would scorn to stoop to such a thing. I call my uncle a +better gentleman than any thief.’ + +‘And you would be right,’ said Mr. Archer. + +‘How many snuff-boxes did he get?’ asked Jonathan. + +‘O, dang me if I know,’ said Sam; ‘I didn’t take an inventory.’ + +‘I will go back with you, if you please,’ said Mr. Archer. ‘I should +like to see poor Oglethorpe. He has behaved well.’ + +‘At your service, sir,’ said Sam, jumping to his feet. ‘I dare to say a +gentleman like you would not forget a poor fellow like Tom—no, nor a +plain man like me, sir, that went without his sleep to nurse him. And +excuse me, sir,’ added Sam, ‘you won’t forget about the letter neither?’ + +‘Surely not,’ said Mr. Archer. + +Oglethorpe lay in a low bed, one of several in a long garret of the inn. +The rain soaked in places through the roof and fell in minute drops; +there was but one small window; the beds were occupied by servants, the +air of the garret was both close and chilly. Mr. Archer’s heart sank at +the threshold to see a man lying perhaps mortally hurt in so poor a +sick-room, and as he drew near the low bed he took his hat off. The +guard was a big, blowsy, innocent-looking soul with a thick lip and a +broad nose, comically turned up; his cheeks were crimson, and when Mr. +Archer laid a finger on his brow he found him burning with fever. + +‘I fear you suffer much,’ he said, with a catch in his voice, as he sat +down on the bedside. + +‘I suppose I do, sir,’ returned Oglethorpe; ‘it is main sore.’ + +‘I am used to wounds and wounded men,’ returned the visitor. ‘I have +been in the wars and nursed brave fellows before now; and, if you will +suffer me, I propose to stay beside you till the doctor comes.’ + +‘It is very good of you, sir, I am sure,’ said Oglethorpe. ‘The trouble +is they won’t none of them let me drink.’ + +‘If you will not tell the doctor,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘I will give you some +water. They say it is bad for a green wound, but in the Low Countries we +all drank water when we found the chance, and I could never perceive we +were the worse for it.’ + +‘Been wounded yourself, sir, perhaps?’ called Oglethorpe. + +‘Twice,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘and was as proud of these hurts as any lady of +her bracelets. ’Tis a fine thing to smart for one’s duty; even in the +pangs of it there is contentment.’ + +‘Ah, well!’ replied the guard, ‘if you’ve been shot yourself, that +explains. But as for contentment, why, sir, you see, it smarts, as you +say. And then, I have a good wife, you see, and a bit of a brat—a little +thing, so high.’ + +‘Don’t move,’ said Mr. Archer. + +‘No, sir, I will not, and thank you kindly,’ said Oglethorpe. ‘At York +they are. A very good lass is my wife—far too good for me. And the +little rascal—well, I don’t know how to say it, but he sort of comes +round you. If I were to go, sir, it would be hard on my poor girl—main +hard on her!’ + +‘Ay, you must feel bitter hardly to the rogue that laid you here,’ said +Archer. + +‘Why, no, sir, more against Engleton and the passengers,’ replied the +guard. ‘He played his hand, if you come to look at it; and I wish he had +shot worse, or me better. And yet I’ll go to my grave but what I covered +him,’ he cried. ‘It looks like witchcraft. I’ll go to my grave but what +he was drove full of slugs like a pepper-box.’ + +‘Quietly,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘you must not excite yourself. These +deceptions are very usual in war; the eye, in the moment of alert, is +hardly to be trusted, and when the smoke blows away you see the man you +fired at, taking aim, it may be, at yourself. You should observe, too, +that you were in the dark night, and somewhat dazzled by the lamps, and +that the sudden stopping of the mail had jolted you. In such +circumstances a man may miss, ay, even with a blunder-buss, and no blame +attach to his marksmanship.’ . . . + + + + +THE YOUNG CHEVALIER + + +PROLOGUE—THE WINE-SELLER’S WIFE + + +There was a wine-seller’s shop, as you went down to the river in the city +of the Anti-popes. There a man was served with good wine of the country +and plain country fare; and the place being clean and quiet, with a +prospect on the river, certain gentlemen who dwelt in that city in +attendance on a great personage made it a practice (when they had any +silver in their purses) to come and eat there and be private. + +They called the wine-seller Paradou. He was built more like a bullock +than a man, huge in bone and brawn, high in colour, and with a hand like +a baby for size. Marie-Madeleine was the name of his wife; she was of +Marseilles, a city of entrancing women, nor was any fairer than herself. +She was tall, being almost of a height with Paradou; full-girdled, +point-device in every form, with an exquisite delicacy in the face; her +nose and nostrils a delight to look at from the fineness of the +sculpture, her eyes inclined a hair’s-breadth inward, her colour between +dark and fair, and laid on even like a flower’s. A faint rose dwelt in +it, as though she had been found unawares bathing, and had blushed from +head to foot. She was of a grave countenance, rarely smiling; yet it +seemed to be written upon every part of her that she rejoiced in life. +Her husband loved the heels of her feet and the knuckles of her fingers; +he loved her like a glutton and a brute; his love hung about her like an +atmosphere; one that came by chance into the wine-shop was aware of that +passion; and it might be said that by the strength of it the woman had +been drugged or spell-bound. She knew not if she loved or loathed him; +he was always in her eyes like something monstrous—monstrous in his love, +monstrous in his person, horrific but imposing in his violence; and her +sentiment swung back and forward from desire to sickness. But the mean, +where it dwelt chiefly, was an apathetic fascination, partly of horror; +as of Europa in mid ocean with her bull. + +On the 10th November 1749 there sat two of the foreign gentlemen in the +wine-seller’s shop. They were both handsome men of a good presence, +richly dressed. The first was swarthy and long and lean, with an alert, +black look, and a mole upon his cheek. The other was more fair. He +seemed very easy and sedate, and a little melancholy for so young a man, +but his smile was charming. In his grey eyes there was much abstraction, +as of one recalling fondly that which was past and lost. Yet there was +strength and swiftness in his limbs; and his mouth set straight across +his face, the under lip a thought upon side, like that of a man +accustomed to resolve. These two talked together in a rude outlandish +speech that no frequenter of that wine-shop understood. The swarthy man +answered to the name of _Ballantrae_; he of the dreamy eyes was sometimes +called _Balmile_, and sometimes _my Lord_, or _my Lord Gladsmuir_; but +when the title was given him, he seemed to put it by as if in jesting, +not without bitterness. + +The mistral blew in the city. The first day of that wind, they say in +the countries where its voice is heard, it blows away all the dust, the +second all the stones, and the third it blows back others from the +mountains. It was now come to the third day; outside the pebbles flew +like hail, and the face of the river was puckered, and the very +building-stones in the walls of houses seemed to be curdled with the +savage cold and fury of that continuous blast. It could be heard to hoot +in all the chimneys of the city; it swept about the wine-shop, filling +the room with eddies; the chill and gritty touch of it passed between the +nearest clothes and the bare flesh; and the two gentlemen at the far +table kept their mantles loose about their shoulders. The roughness of +these outer hulls, for they were plain travellers’ cloaks that had seen +service, set the greater mark of richness on what showed below of their +laced clothes; for the one was in scarlet and the other in violet and +white, like men come from a scene of ceremony; as indeed they were. + +It chanced that these fine clothes were not without their influence on +the scene which followed, and which makes the prologue of our tale. For +a long time Balmile was in the habit to come to the wine-shop and eat a +meal or drink a measure of wine; sometimes with a comrade; more often +alone, when he would sit and dream and drum upon the table, and the +thoughts would show in the man’s face in little glooms and lightenings, +like the sun and the clouds upon a water. For a long time +Marie-Madeleine had observed him apart. His sadness, the beauty of his +smile when by any chance he remembered her existence and addressed her, +the changes of his mind signalled forth by an abstruse play of feature, +the mere fact that he was foreign and a thing detached from the local and +the accustomed, insensibly attracted and affected her. Kindness was +ready in her mind; it but lacked the touch of an occasion to effervesce +and crystallise. Now Balmile had come hitherto in a very poor plain +habit; and this day of the mistral, when his mantle was just open, and +she saw beneath it the glancing of the violet and the velvet and the +silver, and the clustering fineness of the lace, it seemed to set the man +in a new light, with which he shone resplendent to her fancy. + +The high inhuman note of the wind, the violence and continuity of its +outpouring, and the fierce touch of it upon man’s whole periphery, +accelerated the functions of the mind. It set thoughts whirling, as it +whirled the trees of the forest; it stirred them up in flights, as it +stirred up the dust in chambers. As brief as sparks, the fancies +glittered and succeeded each other in the mind of Marie-Madeleine; and +the grave man with the smile, and the bright clothes under the plain +mantle, haunted her with incongruous explanations. She considered him, +the unknown, the speaker of an unknown tongue, the hero (as she placed +him) of an unknown romance, the dweller upon unknown memories. She +recalled him sitting there alone, so immersed, so stupefied; yet she was +sure he was not stupid. She recalled one day when he had remained a long +time motionless, with parted lips, like one in the act of starting up, +his eyes fixed on vacancy. Any one else must have looked foolish; but +not he. She tried to conceive what manner of memory had thus entranced +him; she forged for him a past; she showed him to herself in every light +of heroism and greatness and misfortune; she brooded with petulant +intensity on all she knew and guessed of him. Yet, though she was +already gone so deep, she was still unashamed, still unalarmed; her +thoughts were still disinterested; she had still to reach the stage at +which—beside the image of that other whom we love to contemplate and to +adorn—we place the image of ourself and behold them together with +delight. + +She stood within the counter, her hands clasped behind her back, her +shoulders pressed against the wall, her feet braced out. Her face was +bright with the wind and her own thoughts; as a fire in a similar day of +tempest glows and brightens on a hearth, so she seemed to glow, standing +there, and to breathe out energy. It was the first time Ballantrae had +visited that wine-seller’s, the first time he had seen the wife; and his +eyes were true to her. + +‘I perceive your reason for carrying me to this very draughty tavern,’ he +said at last. + +‘I believe it is propinquity,’ returned Balmile. + +‘You play dark,’ said Ballantrae, ‘but have a care! Be more frank with +me, or I will cut you out. I go through no form of qualifying my threat, +which would be commonplace and not conscientious. There is only one +point in these campaigns: that is the degree of admiration offered by the +man; and to our hostess I am in a posture to make victorious love.’ + +‘If you think you have the time, or the game worth the candle,’ replied +the other with a shrug. + +‘One would suppose you were never at the pains to observe her,’ said +Ballantrae. + +‘I am not very observant,’ said Balmile. ‘She seems comely.’ + +‘You very dear and dull dog!’ cried Ballantrae; ‘chastity is the most +besotting of the virtues. Why, she has a look in her face beyond +singing! I believe, if you was to push me hard, I might trace it home to +a trifle of a squint. What matters? The height of beauty is in the +touch that’s wrong, that’s the modulation in a tune. ’Tis the devil we +all love; I owe many a conquest to my mole’—he touched it as he spoke +with a smile, and his eyes glittered;—‘we are all hunchbacks, and beauty +is only that kind of deformity that I happen to admire. But come! +Because you are chaste, for which I am sure I pay you my respects, that +is no reason why you should be blind. Look at her, look at the delicious +nose of her, look at her cheek, look at her ear, look at her hand and +wrist—look at the whole baggage from heels to crown, and tell me if she +wouldn’t melt on a man’s tongue.’ + +As Ballantrae spoke, half jesting, half enthusiastic, Balmile was +constrained to do as he was bidden. He looked at the woman, admired her +excellences, and was at the same time ashamed for himself and his +companion. So it befell that when Marie-Madeleine raised her eyes, she +met those of the subject of her contemplations fixed directly on herself +with a look that is unmistakable, the look of a person measuring and +valuing another—and, to clench the false impression, that his glance was +instantly and guiltily withdrawn. The blood beat back upon her heart and +leaped again; her obscure thoughts flashed clear before her; she flew in +fancy straight to his arms like a wanton, and fled again on the instant +like a nymph. And at that moment there chanced an interruption, which +not only spared her embarrassment, but set the last consecration on her +now articulate love. + +Into the wine-shop there came a French gentleman, arrayed in the last +refinement of the fashion, though a little tumbled by his passage in the +wind. It was to be judged he had come from the same formal gathering at +which the others had preceded him; and perhaps that he had gone there in +the hope to meet with them, for he came up to Ballantrae with +unceremonious eagerness. + +‘At last, here you are!’ he cried in French. ‘I thought I was to miss +you altogether.’ + +The Scotsmen rose, and Ballantrae, after the first greetings, laid his +hand on his companion’s shoulder. + +‘My lord,’ said he, ‘allow me to present to you one of my best friends +and one of our best soldiers, the Lord Viscount Gladsmuir.’ + +The two bowed with the elaborate elegance of the period. + +‘_Monseigneur_,’ said Balmile, ‘_je n’ai pas la prétention de m’affubler +d’un titre que la mauvaise fortune de mon roi ne me permet pas de porter +comma il sied_. _Je m’appelle_, _pour vous servir_, _Blair de Balmile +tout court_.’ [My lord, I have not the effrontery to cumber myself with +a title which the ill fortunes of my king will not suffer me to bear the +way it should be. I call myself, at your service, plain Blair of +Balmile.] + +‘_Monsieur le Vicomte ou monsieur Blèr’ de Balmaïl_,’ replied the +newcomer, ‘_le nom n’y fait rien_, _et l’on connaît vos beaux faits_.’ +[The name matters nothing, your gallant actions are known.] + +A few more ceremonies, and these three, sitting down together to the +table, called for wine. It was the happiness of Marie-Madeleine to wait +unobserved upon the prince of her desires. She poured the wine, he drank +of it; and that link between them seemed to her, for the moment, close as +a caress. Though they lowered their tones, she surprised great names +passing in their conversation, names of kings, the names of de Gesvre and +Belle-Isle; and the man who dealt in these high matters, and she who was +now coupled with him in her own thoughts, seemed to swim in mid air in a +transfiguration. Love is a crude core, but it has singular and +far-reaching fringes; in that passionate attraction for the stranger that +now swayed and mastered her, his harsh incomprehensible language, and +these names of grandees in his talk, were each an element. + +The Frenchman stayed not long, but it was plain he left behind him matter +of much interest to his companions; they spoke together earnestly, their +heads down, the woman of the wine-shop totally forgotten; and they were +still so occupied when Paradou returned. + +This man’s love was unsleeping. The even bluster of the mistral, with +which he had been combating some hours, had not suspended, though it had +embittered, that predominant passion. His first look was for his wife, a +look of hope and suspicion, menace and humility and love, that made the +over-blooming brute appear for the moment almost beautiful. She returned +his glance, at first as though she knew him not, then with a swiftly +waxing coldness of intent; and at last, without changing their direction, +she had closed her eyes. + +There passed across her mind during that period much that Paradou could +not have understood had it been told to him in words: chiefly the sense +of an enlightening contrast betwixt the man who talked of kings and the +man who kept a wine-shop, betwixt the love she yearned for and that to +which she had been long exposed like a victim bound upon the altar. +There swelled upon her, swifter than the Rhone, a tide of abhorrence and +disgust. She had succumbed to the monster, humbling herself below +animals; and now she loved a hero, aspiring to the semi-divine. It was +in the pang of that humiliating thought that she had closed her eyes. + +Paradou—quick as beasts are quick, to translate silence—felt the insult +through his blood; his inarticulate soul bellowed within him for revenge. +He glanced about the shop. He saw the two indifferent gentlemen deep in +talk, and passed them over: his fancy flying not so high. There was but +one other present, a country lout who stood swallowing his wine, equally +unobserved by all and unobserving—to him he dealt a glance of murderous +suspicion, and turned direct upon his wife. The wine-shop had lain +hitherto, a space of shelter, the scene of a few ceremonial passages and +some whispered conversation, in the howling river of the wind; the clock +had not yet ticked a score of times since Paradou’s appearance; and now, +as he suddenly gave tongue, it seemed as though the mistral had entered +at his heels. + +‘What ails you, woman?’ he cried, smiting on the counter. + +‘Nothing ails me,’ she replied. It was strange; but she spoke and stood +at that moment like a lady of degree, drawn upward by her aspirations. + +‘You speak to me, by God, as though you scorned me!’ cried the husband. + +The man’s passion was always formidable; she had often looked on upon its +violence with a thrill, it had been one ingredient in her fascination; +and she was now surprised to behold him, as from afar off, gesticulating +but impotent. His fury might be dangerous like a torrent or a gust of +wind, but it was inhuman; it might be feared or braved, it should never +be respected. And with that there came in her a sudden glow of courage +and that readiness to die which attends so closely upon all strong +passions. + +‘I do scorn you,’ she said. + +‘What is that?’ he cried. + +‘I scorn you,’ she repeated, smiling. + +‘You love another man!’ said he. + +‘With all my soul,’ was her reply. + +The wine-seller roared aloud so that the house rang and shook with it. + +‘Is this the—?’ he cried, using a foul word, common in the South; and he +seized the young countryman and dashed him to the ground. There he lay +for the least interval of time insensible; thence fled from the house, +the most terrified person in the county. The heavy measure had escaped +from his hands, splashing the wine high upon the wall. Paradou caught +it. ‘And you?’ he roared to his wife, giving her the same name in the +feminine, and he aimed at her the deadly missile. She expected it, +motionless, with radiant eyes. + +But before it sped, Paradou was met by another adversary, and the +unconscious rivals stood confronted. It was hard to say at that moment +which appeared the more formidable. In Paradou, the whole muddy and +truculent depths of the half-man were stirred to frenzy; the lust of +destruction raged in him; there was not a feature in his face but it +talked murder. Balmile had dropped his cloak: he shone out at once in +his finery, and stood to his full stature; girt in mind and body all his +resources, all his temper, perfectly in command in his face the light of +battle. Neither spoke; there was no blow nor threat of one; it was war +reduced to its last element, the spiritual; and the huge wine-seller +slowly lowered his weapon. Balmile was a noble, he a commoner; Balmile +exulted in an honourable cause. Paradou already perhaps began to be +ashamed of his violence. Of a sudden, at least, the tortured brute +turned and fled from the shop in the footsteps of his former victim, to +whose continued flight his reappearance added wings. + +So soon as Balmile appeared between her husband and herself, +Marie-Madeleine transferred to him her eyes. It might be her last +moment, and she fed upon that face; reading there inimitable courage and +illimitable valour to protect. And when the momentary peril was gone by, +and the champion turned a little awkwardly towards her whom he had +rescued, it was to meet, and quail before, a gaze of admiration more +distinct than words. He bowed, he stammered, his words failed him; he +who had crossed the floor a moment ago, like a young god, to smite, +returned like one discomfited; got somehow to his place by the table, +muffled himself again in his discarded cloak, and for a last touch of the +ridiculous, seeking for anything to restore his countenance, drank of the +wine before him, deep as a porter after a heavy lift. It was little +wonder if Ballantrae, reading the scene with malevolent eyes, laughed out +loud and brief, and drank with raised glass, ‘To the champion of the +Fair.’ + +Marie-Madeleine stood in her old place within the counter; she disdained +the mocking laughter; it fell on her ears, but it did not reach her +spirit. For her, the world of living persons was all resumed again into +one pair, as in the days of Eden; there was but the one end in life, the +one hope before her, the one thing needful, the one thing possible—to be +his. + + + +CHAPTER I—THE PRINCE + + +That same night there was in the city of Avignon a young man in distress +of mind. Now he sat, now walked in a high apartment, full of draughts +and shadows. A single candle made the darkness visible; and the light +scarce sufficed to show upon the wall, where they had been recently and +rudely nailed, a few miniatures and a copper medal of the young man’s +head. The same was being sold that year in London, to admiring +thousands. The original was fair; he had beautiful brown eyes, a +beautiful bright open face; a little feminine, a little hard, a little +weak; still full of the light of youth, but already beginning to be +vulgarised; a sordid bloom come upon it, the lines coarsened with a touch +of puffiness. He was dressed, as for a gala, in peach-colour and silver; +his breast sparkled with stars and was bright with ribbons; for he had +held a levee in the afternoon and received a distinguished personage +incognito. Now he sat with a bowed head, now walked precipitately to and +fro, now went and gazed from the uncurtained window, where the wind was +still blowing, and the lights winked in the darkness. + +The bells of Avignon rose into song as he was gazing; and the high notes +and the deep tossed and drowned, boomed suddenly near or were suddenly +swallowed up, in the current of the mistral. Tears sprang in the pale +blue eyes; the expression of his face was changed to that of a more +active misery, it seemed as if the voices of the bells reached, and +touched and pained him, in a waste of vacancy where even pain was +welcome. Outside in the night they continued to sound on, swelling and +fainting; and the listener heard in his memory, as it were their +harmonies, joy-bells clashing in a northern city, and the acclamations of +a multitude, the cries of battle, the gross voices of cannon, the stridor +of an animated life. And then all died away, and he stood face to face +with himself in the waste of vacancy, and a horror came upon his mind, +and a faintness on his brain, such as seizes men upon the brink of +cliffs. + +On the table, by the side of the candle, stood a tray of glasses, a +bottle, and a silver bell. He went thither swiftly, then his hand +lowered first above the bell, then settled on the bottle. Slowly he +filled a glass, slowly drank it out; and, as a tide of animal warmth +recomforted the recesses of his nature, stood there smiling at himself. +He remembered he was young; the funeral curtains rose, and he saw his +life shine and broaden and flow out majestically, like a river sunward. +The smile still on his lips, he lit a second candle and a third; a fire +stood ready built in a chimney, he lit that also; and the fir-cones and +the gnarled olive billets were swift to break in flame and to crackle on +the hearth, and the room brightened and enlarged about him like his +hopes. To and fro, to and fro, he went, his hands lightly clasped, his +breath deeply and pleasurably taken. Victory walked with him; he marched +to crowns and empires among shouting followers; glory was his dress. And +presently again the shadows closed upon the solitary. Under the gilt of +flame and candle-light, the stone walls of the apartment showed down bare +and cold; behind the depicted triumph loomed up the actual failure: +defeat, the long distress of the flight, exile, despair, broken +followers, mourning faces, empty pockets, friends estranged. The memory +of his father rose in his mind: he, too, estranged and defied; despair +sharpened into wrath. There was one who had led armies in the field, who +had staked his life upon the family enterprise, a man of action and +experience, of the open air, the camp, the court, the council-room; and +he was to accept direction from an old, pompous gentleman in a home in +Italy, and buzzed about by priests? A pretty king, if he had not a +martial son to lean upon! A king at all? + +‘There was a weaver (of all people) joined me at St. Ninians; he was more +of a man than my papa!’ he thought. ‘I saw him lie doubled in his blood +and a grenadier below him—and he died for my papa! All died for him, or +risked the dying, and I lay for him all those months in the rain and +skulked in heather like a fox; and now he writes me his advice! calls me +Carluccio—me, the man of the house, the only king in that king’s race.’ +He ground his teeth. ‘The only king in Europe!’ Who else? Who has done +and suffered except me? who has lain and run and hidden with his faithful +subjects, like a second Bruce? Not my accursed cousin, Louis of France, +at least, the lewd effeminate traitor!’ And filling the glass to the +brim, he drank a king’s damnation. Ah, if he had the power of Louis, +what a king were here! + +The minutes followed each other into the past, and still he persevered in +this debilitating cycle of emotions, still fed the fire of his excitement +with driblets of Rhine wine: a boy at odds with life, a boy with a spark +of the heroic, which he was now burning out and drowning down in futile +reverie and solitary excess. + +From two rooms beyond, the sudden sound of a raised voice attracted him. + +‘By . . . + + + + +HEATHERCAT + + +CHAPTER I—TRAQUAIRS OF MONTROYMONT + + +The period of this tale is in the heat of the _killing-time_; the scene +laid for the most part in solitary hills and morasses, haunted only by +the so-called Mountain Wanderers, the dragoons that came in chase of +them, the women that wept on their dead bodies, and the wild birds of the +moorland that have cried there since the beginning. It is a land of many +rain-clouds; a land of much mute history, written there in prehistoric +symbols. Strange green raths are to be seen commonly in the country, +above all by the kirkyards; barrows of the dead, standing stones; beside +these, the faint, durable footprints and handmarks of the Roman; and an +antiquity older perhaps than any, and still living and active—a complete +Celtic nomenclature and a scarce-mingled Celtic population. These rugged +and grey hills were once included in the boundaries of the Caledonian +Forest. Merlin sat here below his apple-tree and lamented Gwendolen; +here spoke with Kentigern; here fell into his enchanted trance. And the +legend of his slumber seems to body forth the story of that Celtic race, +deprived for so many centuries of their authentic speech, surviving with +their ancestral inheritance of melancholy perversity and patient, +unfortunate courage. + +The Traquairs of Montroymont (_Mons Romanus_, as the erudite expound it) +had long held their seat about the head-waters of the Dule and in the +back parts of the moorland parish of Balweary. For two hundred years +they had enjoyed in these upland quarters a certain decency (almost to be +named distinction) of repute; and the annals of their house, or what is +remembered of them, were obscure and bloody. Ninian Traquair was +‘cruallie slochtered’ by the Crozers at the kirk-door of Balweary, anno +1482. Francis killed Simon Ruthven of Drumshoreland, anno 1540; bought +letters of slayers at the widow and heir, and, by a barbarous form of +compounding, married (without tocher) Simon’s daughter Grizzel, which is +the way the Traquairs and Ruthvens came first to an intermarriage. About +the last Traquair and Ruthven marriage, it is the business of this book, +among many other things, to tell. + +The Traquairs were always strong for the Covenant; for the King also, but +the Covenant first; and it began to be ill days for Montroymont when the +Bishops came in and the dragoons at the heels of them. Ninian (then +laird) was an anxious husband of himself and the property, as the times +required, and it may be said of him, that he lost both. He was heavily +suspected of the Pentland Hills rebellion. When it came the length of +Bothwell Brig, he stood his trial before the Secret Council, and was +convicted of talking with some insurgents by the wayside, the subject of +the conversation not very clearly appearing, and of the reset and +maintenance of one Gale, a gardener man, who was seen before Bothwell +with a musket, and afterwards, for a continuance of months, delved the +garden at Montroymont. Matters went very ill with Ninian at the Council; +some of the lords were clear for treason; and even the boot was talked +of. But he was spared that torture; and at last, having pretty good +friendship among great men, he came off with a fine of seven thousand +marks, that caused the estate to groan. In this case, as in so many +others, it was the wife that made the trouble. She was a great keeper of +conventicles; would ride ten miles to one, and when she was fined, +rejoiced greatly to suffer for the Kirk; but it was rather her husband +that suffered. She had their only son, Francis, baptized privately by +the hands of Mr. Kidd; there was that much the more to pay for! She +could neither be driven nor wiled into the parish kirk; as for taking the +sacrament at the hands of any Episcopalian curate, and tenfold more at +those of Curate Haddo, there was nothing further from her purposes; and +Montroymont had to put his hand in his pocket month by month and year by +year. Once, indeed, the little lady was cast in prison, and the laird, +worthy, heavy, uninterested man, had to ride up and take her place; from +which he was not discharged under nine months and a sharp fine. It +scarce seemed she had any gratitude to him; she came out of gaol herself, +and plunged immediately deeper in conventicles, resetting recusants, and +all her old, expensive folly, only with greater vigour and openness, +because Montroymont was safe in the Tolbooth and she had no witness to +consider. When he was liberated and came back, with his fingers singed, +in December 1680, and late in the black night, my lady was from home. He +came into the house at his alighting, with a riding-rod yet in his hand; +and, on the servant-maid telling him, caught her by the scruff of the +neck, beat her violently, flung her down in the passageway, and went +upstairs to his bed fasting and without a light. It was three in the +morning when my lady returned from that conventicle, and, hearing of the +assault (because the maid had sat up for her, weeping), went to their +common chamber with a lantern in hand and stamping with her shoes so as +to wake the dead; it was supposed, by those that heard her, from a design +to have it out with the good man at once. The house-servants gathered on +the stair, because it was a main interest with them to know which of +these two was the better horse; and for the space of two hours they were +heard to go at the matter, hammer and tongs. Montroymont alleged he was +at the end of possibilities; it was no longer within his power to pay the +annual rents; she had served him basely by keeping conventicles while he +lay in prison for her sake; his friends were weary, and there was nothing +else before him but the entire loss of the family lands, and to begin +life again by the wayside as a common beggar. She took him up very sharp +and high: called upon him, if he were a Christian? and which he most +considered, the loss of a few dirty, miry glebes, or of his soul? +Presently he was heard to weep, and my lady’s voice to go on continually +like a running burn, only the words indistinguishable; whereupon it was +supposed a victory for her ladyship, and the domestics took themselves to +bed. The next day Traquair appeared like a man who had gone under the +harrows; and his lady wife thenceforward continued in her old course +without the least deflection. + +Thenceforward Ninian went on his way without complaint, and suffered his +wife to go on hers without remonstrance. He still minded his estate, of +which it might be said he took daily a fresh farewell, and counted it +already lost; looking ruefully on the acres and the graves of his +fathers, on the moorlands where the wild-fowl consorted, the low, +gurgling pool of the trout, and the high, windy place of the calling +curlews—things that were yet his for the day and would be another’s +to-morrow; coming back again, and sitting ciphering till the dusk at his +approaching ruin, which no device of arithmetic could postpone beyond a +year or two. He was essentially the simple ancient man, the farmer and +landholder; he would have been content to watch the seasons come and go, +and his cattle increase, until the limit of age; he would have been +content at any time to die, if he could have left the estates +undiminished to an heir-male of his ancestors, that duty standing first +in his instinctive calendar. And now he saw everywhere the image of the +new proprietor come to meet him, and go sowing and reaping, or fowling +for his pleasure on the red moors, or eating the very gooseberries in the +Place garden; and saw always, on the other hand, the figure of Francis go +forth, a beggar, into the broad world. + +It was in vain the poor gentleman sought to moderate; took every test and +took advantage of every indulgence; went and drank with the dragoons in +Balweary; attended the communion and came regularly to the church to +Curate Haddo, with his son beside him. The mad, raging, Presbyterian +zealot of a wife at home made all of no avail; and indeed the house must +have fallen years before if it had not been for the secret indulgence of +the curate, who had a great sympathy with the laird, and winked hard at +the doings in Montroymont. This curate was a man very ill reputed in the +countryside, and indeed in all Scotland. ‘Infamous Haddo’ is Shield’s +expression. But Patrick Walker is more copious. ‘Curate Hall Haddo,’ +says he, _sub voce_ Peden, ‘or _Hell_ Haddo, as he was more justly to be +called, a pokeful of old condemned errors and the filthy vile lusts of +the flesh, a published whore-monger, a common gross drunkard, continually +and godlessly scraping and skirling on a fiddle, continually breathing +flames against the remnant of Israel. But the Lord put an end to his +piping, and all these offences were composed into one bloody grave.’ No +doubt this was written to excuse his slaughter; and I have never heard it +claimed for Walker that he was either a just witness or an indulgent +judge. At least, in a merely human character, Haddo comes off not wholly +amiss in the matter of these Traquairs: not that he showed any graces of +the Christian, but had a sort of Pagan decency, which might almost tempt +one to be concerned about his sudden, violent, and unprepared fate. + + + +CHAPTER II—FRANCIE + + +Francie was eleven years old, shy, secret, and rather childish of his +age, though not backward in schooling, which had been pushed on far by a +private governor, one M‘Brair, a forfeited minister harboured in that +capacity at Montroymont. The boy, already much employed in secret by his +mother, was the most apt hand conceivable to run upon a message, to carry +food to lurking fugitives, or to stand sentry on the skyline above a +conventicle. It seemed no place on the moorlands was so naked but what +he would find cover there; and as he knew every hag, boulder, and +heather-bush in a circuit of seven miles about Montroymont, there was +scarce any spot but what he could leave or approach it unseen. This +dexterity had won him a reputation in that part of the country; and among +the many children employed in these dangerous affairs, he passed under +the by-name of Heathercat. + +How much his father knew of this employment might be doubted. He took +much forethought for the boy’s future, seeing he was like to be left so +poorly, and would sometimes assist at his lessons, sighing heavily, +yawning deep, and now and again patting Francie on the shoulder if he +seemed to be doing ill, by way of a private, kind encouragement. But a +great part of the day was passed in aimless wanderings with his eyes +sealed, or in his cabinet sitting bemused over the particulars of the +coming bankruptcy; and the boy would be absent a dozen times for once +that his father would observe it. + +On 2nd of July 1682 the boy had an errand from his mother, which must be +kept private from all, the father included in the first of them. +Crossing the braes, he hears the clatter of a horse’s shoes, and claps +down incontinent in a hag by the wayside. And presently he spied his +father come riding from one direction, and Curate Haddo walking from +another; and Montroymont leaning down from the saddle, and Haddo getting +on his toes (for he was a little, ruddy, bald-pated man, more like a +dwarf), they greeted kindly, and came to a halt within two fathoms of the +child. + +‘Montroymont,’ the curate said, ‘the deil’s in ’t but I’ll have to +denunciate your leddy again.’ + +‘Deil’s in ’t indeed!’ says the laird. + +‘Man! can ye no induce her to come to the kirk?’ pursues Haddo; ‘or to a +communion at the least of it? For the conventicles, let be! and the same +for yon solemn fule, M‘Brair: I can blink at them. But she’s got to come +to the kirk, Montroymont.’ + +‘Dinna speak of it,’ says the laird. ‘I can do nothing with her.’ + +‘Couldn’t ye try the stick to her? it works wonders whiles,’ suggested +Haddo. ‘No? I’m wae to hear it. And I suppose ye ken where you’re +going?’ + +‘Fine!’ said Montroymont. ‘Fine do I ken where: bankrup’cy and the Bass +Rock!’ + +‘Praise to my bones that I never married!’ cried the curate. ‘Well, it’s +a grievous thing to me to see an auld house dung down that was here +before Flodden Field. But naebody can say it was with my wish.’ + +‘No more they can, Haddo!’ says the laird. ‘A good friend ye’ve been to +me, first and last. I can give you that character with a clear +conscience.’ + +Whereupon they separated, and Montroymont rode briskly down into the Dule +Valley. But of the curate Francis was not to be quit so easily. He went +on with his little, brisk steps to the corner of a dyke, and stopped and +whistled and waved upon a lassie that was herding cattle there. This +Janet M‘Clour was a big lass, being taller than the curate; and what made +her look the more so, she was kilted very high. It seemed for a while +she would not come, and Francie heard her calling Haddo a ‘daft auld +fule,’ and saw her running and dodging him among the whins and hags till +he was fairly blown. But at the last he gets a bottle from his +plaid-neuk and holds it up to her; whereupon she came at once into a +composition, and the pair sat, drinking of the bottle, and daffing and +laughing together, on a mound of heather. The boy had scarce heard of +these vanities, or he might have been minded of a nymph and satyr, if +anybody could have taken long-leggit Janet for a nymph. But they seemed +to be huge friends, he thought; and was the more surprised, when the +curate had taken his leave, to see the lassie fling stones after him with +screeches of laughter, and Haddo turn about and caper, and shake his +staff at her, and laugh louder than herself. A wonderful merry pair, +they seemed; and when Francie had crawled out of the hag, he had a great +deal to consider in his mind. It was possible they were all fallen in +error about Mr. Haddo, he reflected—having seen him so tender with +Montroymont, and so kind and playful with the lass Janet; and he had a +temptation to go out of his road and question her herself upon the +matter. But he had a strong spirit of duty on him; and plodded on +instead over the braes till he came near the House of Cairngorm. There, +in a hollow place by the burnside that was shaded by some birks, he was +aware of a barefoot boy, perhaps a matter of three years older than +himself. The two approached with the precautions of a pair of strange +dogs, looking at each other queerly. + +‘It’s ill weather on the hills,’ said the stranger, giving the watchword. + +‘For a season,’ said Francie, ‘but the Lord will appear.’ + +‘Richt,’ said the barefoot boy; ‘wha’re ye frae?’ + +‘The Leddy Montroymont,’ says Francie. + +‘Ha’e, then!’ says the stranger, and handed him a folded paper, and they +stood and looked at each other again. ‘It’s unco het,’ said the boy. + +‘Dooms het,’ says Francie. + +‘What do they ca’ ye?’ says the other. + +‘Francie,’ says he. ‘I’m young Montroymont. They ca’ me Heathercat.’ + +‘I’m Jock Crozer,’ said the boy. And there was another pause, while each +rolled a stone under his foot. + +‘Cast your jaiket and I’ll fecht ye for a bawbee,’ cried the elder boy +with sudden violence, and dramatically throwing back his jacket. + +‘Na, I’ve nae time the now,’ said Francie, with a sharp thrill of alarm, +because Crozer was much the heavier boy. + +‘Ye’re feared. Heathercat indeed!’ said Crozer, for among this infantile +army of spies and messengers, the fame of Crozer had gone forth and was +resented by his rivals. And with that they separated. + +On his way home Francie was a good deal occupied with the recollection of +this untoward incident. The challenge had been fairly offered and basely +refused: the tale would be carried all over the country, and the lustre +of the name of Heathercat be dimmed. But the scene between Curate Haddo +and Janet M‘Clour had also given him much to think of: and he was still +puzzling over the case of the curate, and why such ill words were said of +him, and why, if he were so merry-spirited, he should yet preach so dry, +when coming over a knowe, whom should he see but Janet, sitting with her +back to him, minding her cattle! He was always a great child for secret, +stealthy ways, having been employed by his mother on errands when the +same was necessary; and he came behind the lass without her hearing. + +‘Jennet,’ says he. + +‘Keep me,’ cries Janet, springing up. ‘O, it’s you, Maister Francie! +Save us, what a fricht ye gied me.’ + +‘Ay, it’s me,’ said Francie. ‘I’ve been thinking, Jennet; I saw you and +the curate a while back—’ + +‘Brat!’ cried Janet, and coloured up crimson; and the one moment made as +if she would have stricken him with a ragged stick she had to chase her +bestial with, and the next was begging and praying that he would mention +it to none. It was ‘naebody’s business, whatever,’ she said; ‘it would +just start a clash in the country’; and there would be nothing left for +her but to drown herself in Dule Water. + +‘Why?’ says Francie. + +The girl looked at him and grew scarlet again. + +‘And it isna that, anyway,’ continued Francie. ‘It was just that he +seemed so good to ye—like our Father in heaven, I thought; and I thought +that mebbe, perhaps, we had all been wrong about him from the first. But +I’ll have to tell Mr. M‘Brair; I’m under a kind of a bargain to him to +tell him all.’ + +‘Tell it to the divil if ye like for me!’ cried the lass. ‘I’ve naething +to be ashamed of. Tell M‘Brair to mind his ain affairs,’ she cried +again: ‘they’ll be hot eneugh for him, if Haddie likes!’ And so strode +off, shoving her beasts before her, and ever and again looking back and +crying angry words to the boy, where he stood mystified. + +By the time he had got home his mind was made up that he would say +nothing to his mother. My Lady Montroymont was in the keeping-room, +reading a godly book; she was a wonderful frail little wife to make so +much noise in the world and be able to steer about that patient sheep her +husband; her eyes were like sloes, the fingers of her hands were like +tobacco-pipe shanks, her mouth shut tight like a trap; and even when she +was the most serious, and still more when she was angry, there hung about +her face the terrifying semblance of a smile. + +‘Have ye gotten the billet, Francie said she; and when he had handed it +over, and she had read and burned it, ‘Did you see anybody?’ she asked. + +‘I saw the laird,’ said Francie. + +‘He didna see you, though?’ asked his mother. + +‘Deil a fear,’ from Francie. + +‘Francie!’ she cried. ‘What’s that I hear? an aith? The Lord forgive +me, have I broughten forth a brand for the burning, a fagot for +hell-fire?’ + +‘I’m very sorry, ma’am,’ said Francie. ‘I humbly beg the Lord’s pardon, +and yours, for my wickedness.’ + +‘H’m,’ grunted the lady. ‘Did ye see nobody else?’ + +‘No, ma’am,’ said Francie, with the face of an angel, ‘except Jock +Crozer, that gied me the billet.’ + +‘Jock Crozer!’ cried the lady. ‘I’ll Crozer them! Crozers indeed! What +next? Are we to repose the lives of a suffering remnant in Crozers? The +whole clan of them wants hanging, and if I had my way of it, they wouldna +want it long. Are you aware, sir, that these Crozers killed your +forebear at the kirk-door?’ + +‘You see, he was bigger ’n me,’ said Francie. + +‘Jock Crozer!’ continued the lady. ‘That’ll be Clement’s son, the +biggest thief and reiver in the country-side. To trust a note to him! +But I’ll give the benefit of my opinions to Lady Whitecross when we two +forgather. Let her look to herself! I have no patience with +half-hearted carlines, that complies on the Lord’s day morning with the +kirk, and comes taigling the same night to the conventicle. The one or +the other! is what I say: hell or heaven—Haddie’s abominations or the +pure word of God dreeping from the lips of Mr. Arnot, + + ‘“Like honey from the honeycomb + That dreepeth, sweeter far.”’ + +My lady was now fairly launched, and that upon two congenial subjects: +the deficiencies of the Lady Whitecross and the turpitudes of the whole +Crozer race—which, indeed, had never been conspicuous for respectability. +She pursued the pair of them for twenty minutes on the clock with +wonderful animation and detail, something of the pulpit manner, and the +spirit of one possessed. ‘O hellish compliance!’ she exclaimed. ‘I +would not suffer a complier to break bread with Christian folk. Of all +the sins of this day there is not one so God-defying, so +Christ-humiliating, as damnable compliance’: the boy standing before her +meanwhile, and brokenly pursuing other thoughts, mainly of Haddo and +Janet, and Jock Crozer stripping off his jacket. And yet, with all his +distraction, it might be argued that he heard too much: his father and +himself being ‘compliers’—that is to say, attending the church of the +parish as the law required. + +Presently, the lady’s passion beginning to decline, or her flux of ill +words to be exhausted, she dismissed her audience. Francie bowed low, +left the room, closed the door behind him: and then turned him about in +the passage-way, and with a low voice, but a prodigious deal of +sentiment, repeated the name of the evil one twenty times over, to the +end of which, for the greater efficacy, he tacked on ‘damnable’ and +‘hellish.’ _Fas est ab hoste doceri_—disrespect is made more pungent by +quotation; and there is no doubt but he felt relieved, and went upstairs +into his tutor’s chamber with a quiet mind. M‘Brair sat by the cheek of +the peat-fire and shivered, for he had a quartan ague and this was his +day. The great night-cap and plaid, the dark unshaven cheeks of the man, +and the white, thin hands that held the plaid about his chittering body, +made a sorrowful picture. But Francie knew and loved him; came straight +in, nestled close to the refugee, and told his story. M‘Brair had been +at the College with Haddo; the Presbytery had licensed both on the same +day; and at this tale, told with so much innocency by the boy, the heart +of the tutor was commoved. + +‘Woe upon him! Woe upon that man!’ he cried. ‘O the unfaithful +shepherd! O the hireling and apostate minister! Make my matters hot for +me? quo’ she! the shameless limmer! And true it is, that he could repose +me in that nasty, stinking hole, the Canongate Tolbooth, from which your +mother drew me out—the Lord reward her for it!—or to that cold, unbieldy, +marine place of the Bass Rock, which, with my delicate kist, would be +fair ruin to me. But I will be valiant in my Master’s service. I have a +duty here: a duty to my God, to myself, and to Haddo: in His strength, I +will perform it.’ + +Then he straitly discharged Francie to repeat the tale, and bade him in +the future to avert his very eyes from the doings of the curate. ‘You +must go to his place of idolatry; look upon him there!’ says he, ‘but +nowhere else. Avert your eyes, close your ears, pass him by like a three +days’ corp. He is like that damnable monster Basiliscus, which +defiles—yea, poisons!—by the sight.’—All which was hardly claratory to +the boy’s mind. + +Presently Montroymont came home, and called up the stairs to Francie. +Traquair was a good shot and swordsman: and it was his pleasure to walk +with his son over the braes of the moorfowl, or to teach him arms in the +back court, when they made a mighty comely pair, the child being so lean, +and light, and active, and the laird himself a man of a manly, pretty +stature, his hair (the periwig being laid aside) showing already white +with many anxieties, and his face of an even, flaccid red. But this day +Francie’s heart was not in the fencing. + +‘Sir,’ says he, suddenly lowering his point, ‘will ye tell me a thing if +I was to ask it?’ + +‘Ask away,’ says the father. + +‘Well, it’s this,’ said Francie: ‘Why do you and me comply if it’s so +wicked?’ + +‘Ay, ye have the cant of it too!’ cries Montroymont. ‘But I’ll tell ye +for all that. It’s to try and see if we can keep the rigging on this +house, Francie. If she had her way, we would be beggar-folk, and hold +our hands out by the wayside. When ye hear her—when ye hear folk,’ he +corrected himself briskly, ‘call me a coward, and one that betrayed the +Lord, and I kenna what else, just mind it was to keep a bed to ye to +sleep in and a bite for ye to eat.—On guard!’ he cried, and the lesson +proceeded again till they were called to supper. + +‘There’s another thing yet,’ said Francie, stopping his father. ‘There’s +another thing that I am not sure that I am very caring for. She—she +sends me errands.’ + +‘Obey her, then, as is your bounden duty,’ said Traquair. + +‘Ay, but wait till I tell ye,’ says the boy. ‘If I was to see you I was +to hide.’ + +Montroymont sighed. ‘Well, and that’s good of her too,’ said he. ‘The +less that I ken of thir doings the better for me; and the best thing you +can do is just to obey her, and see and be a good son to her, the same as +ye are to me, Francie.’ + +At the tenderness of this expression the heart of Francie swelled within +his bosom, and his remorse was poured out. ‘Faither!’ he cried, ‘I said +“deil” to-day; many’s the time I said it, and _damnable_ too, and +_hellitsh_. I ken they’re all right; they’re beeblical. But I didna say +them beeblically; I said them for sweir words—that’s the truth of it.’ + +‘Hout, ye silly bairn!’ said the father, ‘dinna do it nae mair, and come +in by to your supper.’ And he took the boy, and drew him close to him a +moment, as they went through the door, with something very fond and +secret, like a caress between a pair of lovers. + +The next day M‘Brair was abroad in the afternoon, and had a long advising +with Janet on the braes where she herded cattle. What passed was never +wholly known; but the lass wept bitterly, and fell on her knees to him +among the whins. The same night, as soon as it was dark, he took the +road again for Balweary. In the Kirkton, where the dragoons quartered, +he saw many lights, and heard the noise of a ranting song and people +laughing grossly, which was highly offensive to his mind. He gave it the +wider berth, keeping among fields; and came down at last by the +water-side, where the manse stands solitary between the river and the +road. He tapped at the back door, and the old woman called upon him to +come in, and guided him through the house to the study, as they still +called it, though there was little enough study there in Haddo’s days, +and more song-books than theology. + +‘Here’s yin to speak wi’ ye, Mr. Haddie!’ cries the old wife. + +And M‘Brair, opening the door and entering, found the little, round, red +man seated in one chair and his feet upon another. A clear fire and a +tallow dip lighted him barely. He was taking tobacco in a pipe, and +smiling to himself; and a brandy-bottle and glass, and his fiddle and +bow, were beside him on the table. + +‘Hech, Patey M‘Briar, is this you?’ said he, a trifle tipsily. ‘Step in +by, man, and have a drop brandy: for the stomach’s sake! Even the deil +can quote Scripture—eh, Patey?’ + +‘I will neither eat nor drink with you,’ replied M‘Brair. ‘I am come +upon my Master’s errand: woe be upon me if I should anyways mince the +same. Hall Haddo, I summon you to quit this kirk which you encumber.’ + +‘Muckle obleeged!’ says Haddo, winking. + +‘You and me have been to kirk and market together,’ pursued M‘Brair; ‘we +have had blessed seasons in the kirk, we have sat in the same +teaching-rooms and read in the same book; and I know you still retain for +me some carnal kindness. It would be my shame if I denied it; I live +here at your mercy and by your favour, and glory to acknowledge it. You +have pity on my wretched body, which is but grass, and must soon be +trodden under: but O, Haddo! how much greater is the yearning with which +I yearn after and pity your immortal soul! Come now, let us reason +together! I drop all points of controversy, weighty though these be; I +take your defaced and damnified kirk on your own terms; and I ask you, +Are you a worthy minister? The communion season approaches; how can you +pronounce thir solemn words, “The elders will now bring forrit the +elements,” and not quail? A parishioner may be summoned to-night; you +may have to rise from your miserable orgies; and I ask you, Haddo, what +does your conscience tell you? Are you fit? Are you fit to smooth the +pillow of a parting Christian? And if the summons should be for +yourself, how then?’ + +Haddo was startled out of all composure and the better part of his +temper. ‘What’s this of it?’ he cried. ‘I’m no waur than my neebours. +I never set up to be speeritual; I never did. I’m a plain, canty +creature; godliness is cheerfulness, says I; give me my fiddle and a +dram, and I wouldna hairm a flee.’ + +‘And I repeat my question,’ said M‘Brair: ‘Are you fit—fit for this great +charge? fit to carry and save souls?’ + +‘Fit? Blethers! As fit’s yoursel’,’ cried Haddo. + +‘Are you so great a self-deceiver?’ said M‘Brair. ‘Wretched man, +trampler upon God’s covenants, crucifier of your Lord afresh. I will +ding you to the earth with one word: How about the young woman, Janet +M‘Clour?’ + +‘Weel, what about her? what do I ken?’ cries Haddo. ‘M’Brair, ye daft +auld wife, I tell ye as true’s truth, I never meddled her. It was just +daffing, I tell ye: daffing, and nae mair: a piece of fun, like! I’m no +denying but what I’m fond of fun, sma’ blame to me! But for onything +sarious—hout, man, it might come to a deposeetion! I’ll sweir it to ye. +Where’s a Bible, till you hear me sweir?’ + +‘There is nae Bible in your study,’ said M‘Brair severely. + +And Haddo, after a few distracted turns, was constrained to accept the +fact. + +‘Weel, and suppose there isna?’ he cried, stamping. ‘What mair can ye +say of us, but just that I’m fond of my joke, and so’s she? I declare to +God, by what I ken, she might be the Virgin Mary—if she would just keep +clear of the dragoons. But me! na, deil haet o’ me!’ + +‘She is penitent at least,’ says M‘Brair. + +‘Do you mean to actually up and tell me to my face that she accused me?’ +cried the curate. + +‘I canna just say that,’ replied M‘Brair. ‘But I rebuked her in the name +of God, and she repented before me on her bended knees.’ + +‘Weel, I daursay she’s been ower far wi’ the dragoons,’ said Haddo. ‘I +never denied that. I ken naething by it.’ + +‘Man, you but show your nakedness the more plainly,’ said M‘Brair. +‘Poor, blind, besotted creature—and I see you stoytering on the brink of +dissolution: your light out, and your hours numbered. Awake, man!’ he +shouted with a formidable voice, ‘awake, or it be ower late.’ + +‘Be damned if I stand this!’ exclaimed Haddo, casting his tobacco-pipe +violently on the table, where it was smashed in pieces. ‘Out of my house +with ye, or I’ll call for the dragoons.’ + +‘The speerit of the Lord is upon me,’ said M‘Brair with solemn ecstasy. +‘I sist you to compear before the Great White Throne, and I warn you the +summons shall be bloody and sudden.’ + +And at this, with more agility than could have been expected, he got +clear of the room and slammed the door behind him in the face of the +pursuing curate. The next Lord’s day the curate was ill, and the kirk +closed, but for all his ill words, Mr. M‘Brair abode unmolested in the +house of Montroymont. + + + +CHAPTER III—THE HILL-END OF DRUMLOWE + + +This was a bit of a steep broken hill that overlooked upon the west a +moorish valley, full of ink-black pools. These presently drained into a +burn that made off, with little noise and no celerity of pace, about the +corner of the hill. On the far side the ground swelled into a bare +heath, black with junipers, and spotted with the presence of the standing +stones for which the place was famous. They were many in that part, +shapeless, white with lichen—you would have said with age: and had made +their abode there for untold centuries, since first the heathens shouted +for their installation. The ancients had hallowed them to some ill +religion, and their neighbourhood had long been avoided by the prudent +before the fall of day; but of late, on the upspringing of new +requirements, these lonely stones on the moor had again become a place of +assembly. A watchful picket on the Hill-end commanded all the northern +and eastern approaches; and such was the disposition of the ground, that +by certain cunningly posted sentries the west also could be made secure +against surprise: there was no place in the country where a conventicle +could meet with more quiet of mind or a more certain retreat open, in the +case of interference from the dragoons. The minister spoke from a knowe +close to the edge of the ring, and poured out the words God gave him on +the very threshold of the devils of yore. When they pitched a tent +(which was often in wet weather, upon a communion occasion) it was rigged +over the huge isolated pillar that had the name of Anes-Errand, none knew +why. And the congregation sat partly clustered on the slope below, and +partly among the idolatrous monoliths and on the turfy soil of the Ring +itself. In truth the situation was well qualified to give a zest to +Christian doctrines, had there been any wanted. But these congregations +assembled under conditions at once so formidable and romantic as made a +zealot of the most cold. They were the last of the faithful; God, who +had averted His face from all other countries of the world, still leaned +from heaven to observe, with swelling sympathy, the doings of His +moorland remnant; Christ was by them with His eternal wounds, with +dropping tears; the Holy Ghost (never perfectly realised nor firmly +adopted by Protestant imaginations) was dimly supposed to be in the heart +of each and on the lips of the minister. And over against them was the +army of the hierarchies, from the men Charles and James Stuart, on to +King Lewie and the Emperor; and the scarlet Pope, and the muckle black +devil himself, peering out the red mouth of hell in an ecstasy of hate +and hope. ‘One pull more!’ he seemed to cry; ‘one pull more, and it’s +done. There’s only Clydesdale and the Stewartry, and the three +Bailiaries of Ayr, left for God.’ And with such an august assistance of +powers and principalities looking on at the last conflict of good and +evil, it was scarce possible to spare a thought to those old, infirm, +debile, _ab agendo_ devils whose holy place they were now violating. + +There might have been three hundred to four hundred present. At least +there were three hundred horses tethered for the most part in the ring; +though some of the hearers on the outskirts of the crowd stood with their +bridles in their hand, ready to mount at the first signal. The circle of +faces was strangely characteristic; long, serious, strongly marked, the +tackle standing out in the lean brown cheeks, the mouth set and the eyes +shining with a fierce enthusiasm; the shepherd, the labouring man, and +the rarer laird, stood there in their broad blue bonnets or laced hats, +and presenting an essential identity of type. From time to time a +long-drawn groan of adhesion rose in this audience, and was propagated +like a wave to the outskirts, and died away among the keepers of the +horses. It had a name; it was called ‘a holy groan.’ + +A squall came up; a great volley of flying mist went out before it and +whelmed the scene; the wind stormed with a sudden fierceness that carried +away the minister’s voice and twitched his tails and made him stagger, +and turned the congregation for a moment into a mere pother of blowing +plaid-ends and prancing horses; and the rain followed and was dashed +straight into their faces. Men and women panted aloud in the shock of +that violent shower-bath; the teeth were bared along all the line in an +involuntary grimace; plaids, mantles, and riding-coats were proved vain, +and the worshippers felt the water stream on their naked flesh. The +minister, reinforcing his great and shrill voice, continued to contend +against and triumph over the rising of the squall and the dashing of the +rain. + +‘In that day ye may go thirty mile and not hear a crawing cock,’ he said; +‘and fifty mile and not get a light to your pipe; and an hundred mile and +not see a smoking house. For there’ll be naething in all Scotland but +deid men’s banes and blackness, and the living anger of the Lord. O, +where to find a bield—O sirs, where to find a bield from the wind of the +Lord’s anger? Do ye call _this_ a wind? Bethankit! Sirs, this is but a +temporary dispensation; this is but a puff of wind, this is but a spit of +rain and by with it. Already there’s a blue bow in the west, and the sun +will take the crown of the causeway again, and your things’ll be dried +upon ye, and your flesh will be warm upon your bones. But O, sirs, sirs! +for the day of the Lord’s anger!’ + +His rhetoric was set forth with an ear-piercing elocution, and a voice +that sometimes crashed like cannon. Such as it was, it was the gift of +all hill-preachers, to a singular degree of likeness or identity. Their +images scarce ranged beyond the red horizon of the moor and the rainy +hill-top, the shepherd and his sheep, a fowling-piece, a spade, a pipe, a +dunghill, a crowing cock, the shining and the withdrawal of the sun. An +occasional pathos of simple humanity, and frequent patches of big +Biblical words, relieved the homely tissue. It was a poetry apart; +bleak, austere, but genuine, and redolent of the soil. + +A little before the coming of the squall there was a different scene +enacting at the outposts. For the most part, the sentinels were faithful +to their important duty; the Hill-end of Drumlowe was known to be a safe +meeting-place; and the out-pickets on this particular day had been +somewhat lax from the beginning, and grew laxer during the inordinate +length of the discourse. Francie lay there in his appointed hiding-hole, +looking abroad between two whin-bushes. His view was across the course +of the burn, then over a piece of plain moorland, to a gap between two +hills; nothing moved but grouse, and some cattle who slowly traversed his +field of view, heading northward: he heard the psalms, and sang words of +his own to the savage and melancholy music; for he had his own design in +hand, and terror and cowardice prevailed in his bosom alternately, like +the hot and the cold fit of an ague. Courage was uppermost during the +singing, which he accompanied through all its length with this impromptu +strain: + + ‘And I will ding Jock Crozer down + No later than the day.’ + +Presently the voice of the preacher came to him in wafts, at the wind’s +will, as by the opening and shutting of a door; wild spasms of screaming, +as of some undiscerned gigantic hill-bird stirred with inordinate +passion, succeeded to intervals of silence; and Francie heard them with a +critical ear. ‘Ay,’ he thought at last, ‘he’ll do; he has the bit in his +mou’ fairly.’ + +He had observed that his friend, or rather his enemy, Jock Crozer, had +been established at a very critical part of the line of outposts; namely, +where the burn issues by an abrupt gorge from the semicircle of high +moors. If anything was calculated to nerve him to battle it was this. +The post was important; next to the Hill-end itself, it might be called +the key to the position; and it was where the cover was bad, and in which +it was most natural to place a child. It should have been Heathercat’s; +why had it been given to Crozer? An exquisite fear of what should be the +answer passed through his marrow every time he faced the question. Was +it possible that Crozer could have boasted? that there were rumours +abroad to his—Heathercat’s—discredit? that his honour was publicly +sullied? All the world went dark about him at the thought; he sank +without a struggle into the midnight pool of despair; and every time he +so sank, he brought back with him—not drowned heroism indeed, but +half-drowned courage by the locks. His heart beat very slowly as he +deserted his station, and began to crawl towards that of Crozer. +Something pulled him back, and it was not the sense of duty, but a +remembrance of Crozer’s build and hateful readiness of fist. Duty, as he +conceived it, pointed him forward on the rueful path that he was +travelling. Duty bade him redeem his name if he were able, at the risk +of broken bones; and his bones and every tooth in his head ached by +anticipation. An awful subsidiary fear whispered him that if he were +hurt, he should disgrace himself by weeping. He consoled himself, +boy-like, with the consideration that he was not yet committed; he could +easily steal over unseen to Crozer’s post, and he had a continuous +private idea that he would very probably steal back again. His course +took him so near the minister that he could hear some of his words: ‘What +news, minister, of Claver’se? He’s going round like a roaring rampaging +lion. . . . + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty + at the Edinburgh University Press. + + + + +Footnotes: + + +{0} With special reference to _Father Damien_, pp. 63–81. + +{65} From the Sydney _Presbyterian_, October 26, 1889. + +{85} _Theater of Mortality_, p. 10; Edin. 1713. + +{86} _History of My Own Times_, beginning 1660, by Bishop Gilbert +Burnet, p. 158. + +{87a} Wodrow’s _Church History_, Book II. chap. i. sect. I. + +{87b} Crookshank’s _Church History_, 1751, second ed. p. 202. + +{88} Burnet, p. 348. + +{89} _Fuller’s Historie of the Holy Warre_, fourth ed. 1651. + +{90} Wodrow, vol. ii. p. 17. + +{92} Sir J. Turner’s _Memoirs_, pp. 148–50. + +{93} _A Cloud of Witnesses_, p. 376. + +{94a} Wodrow, pp. 19, 20. + +{94b} _A Hind Let Loose_, p. 123. + +{95} Turner, p. 163. + +{96a} Turner, p. 198. + +{96b} _Ibid._ p. 167. + +{97} Wodrow, p. 29. + +{98} Turner, Wodrow, and _Church History_ by James Kirkton, an outed +minister of the period. + +{99} Kirkton, p. 244. + +{101a} Kirkton. + +{101b} Turner. + +{102} Kirkton. + +{103} Kirkton. + +{104} _Cloud of Witnesses_, p. 389; Edin. 1765. + +{105a} Kirkton, p. 247. + +{105b} Ibid. p. 254. + +{105c} _Ibid._ p. 247. + +{105d} _Ibid._ pp. 247, 248. + +{106} Kirkton, p. 248. + +{107a} Kirkton, p. 249. + +{107b} _Naphtali_, p. 205; Glasgow, 1721. + +{107c} Wodrow, p. 59. + +{108a} Kirkton, p. 246. + +{108b} Defoe’s _History of the Church of Scotland_. + +{151} ‘This paper was written in collaboration with James Waiter +Ferrier, and if reprinted this is to be stated, though his principal +collaboration was to lie back in an easy-chair and laugh.’—[R.L.S., Oct. +25, 1894.] + +{183} The illustrator was, in fact, a lady, Miss Eunice Bagster, eldest +daughter of the publisher, Samuel Bagster; except in the case of the cuts +depicting the fight with Apollyon, which were designed by her brother, +Mr. Jonathan Bagster. The edition was published in 1845. I am indebted +for this information to the kindness of Mr. Robert Bagster, the present +managing director of the firm.—[SIR SIDNEY COLVIN’S NOTE.] + +{205} See a short essay of De Quincey’s. + +{206a} _Religio Medici_, Part ii. + +{206b} _Duchess of Malfi_. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAY MORALS*** + + +******* This file should be named 373-0.txt or 373-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/7/373 + + + +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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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: Lay Morals + and Other Papers + + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Editor: Sidney Colvin + +Release Date: October 20, 2010 [eBook #373] +First Posted: November 1995 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAY MORALS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the Chatto and Windus 1911 edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>LAY MORALS</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">And Other Papers</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by</span><br /> +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</p> +<p> </p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p0b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Graphic" +title= +"Graphic" +src="images/p0s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">A NEW EDITION<br /> +WITH A PREFACE BY<br /> +MRS. STEVENSON</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +CHATTO & WINDUS<br /> +1911</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page iv--><a +name="pageiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. iv</span><i>All rights +reserved.</i></p> +<h2><!-- page v--><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>PREFACE<br /> +BY MRS. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON <a name="citation0"></a><a +href="#footnote0" class="citation">[0]</a></h2> +<p>In<span class="smcap"> </span>our long voyage on the yacht +<i>Casco</i>, we visited many islands; I believe on every one we +found the scourge of leprosy. In the Marquesas there was a +regular leper settlement, though the persons living there seemed +free to wander where they wished, fishing on the beach, or +visiting friends in the villages. I remember one afternoon, +at Anaho, when my husband and I, tired after a long quest for +shells, sat down on the sand to rest awhile, a native man stepped +out from under some cocoanut trees, regarding us hesitatingly as +though fearful of intruding. My husband waved an invitation +to the stranger to join us, offering his cigarette to the man in +the island fashion. The cigarette was accepted and, after a +puff or two, courteously passed back again according to native +etiquette. The hand that held it was the maimed hand of a +leper. To my consternation my husband took the cigarette +and smoked it out. Afterwards when we were alone <!-- page +vi--><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. vi</span>and I +spoke of my horror he said, ‘I could not mortify the +man. And if you think I <i>liked</i> doing it—that +was another reason; because I <i>didn’t</i> want +to.’</p> +<p>Another day, while we were still anchored in Anaho Bay, a +messenger from round a distant headland came in a whale-boat with +an urgent request that we go to see a young white girl who was +ill with some mysterious malady. We had supposed that, with +the beach-comber ‘Charley the red,’ we were the only +white people on our side of the island. Though there was +much wind that day and the sea ran high, we started at once, +impelled partly by curiosity and partly by the pathetic nature of +the message. Fortunately we took our luncheon with us, +eating it on the beach before we went up to the house where the +sick girl lay. Our hostess, the girl’s mother, met us +with regrets that we had already lunched, saying, ‘I have a +most excellent cook; here he is, now.’ She turned, as +she spoke, to an elderly Chinaman who was plainly in an advanced +stage of leprosy. When the man was gone, my husband asked +if she had no fear of contagion. ‘I don’t +believe in contagion,’ was her reply. But there was +little doubt as to what ailed her daughter. She was +certainly suffering from leprosy. We could only advise that +the girl be taken to the French post at Santa Maria Bay where +there was a doctor.</p> +<p>On our return to the <i>Casco</i> we confessed to each <!-- +page vii--><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>other with what alarm and repugnance we touched the +miserable girl. We talked long that evening of Father +Damien, his sublime heroism, and his martyrdom which was already +nearing its sad end. Beyond all noble qualities my husband +placed courage. The more he saw of leprosy, and he saw much +in the islands, the higher rose his admiration for the simple +priest of Molokai. ‘I must see Molokai,’ he +said many times. ‘I must somehow manage to see +Molokai.’</p> +<p>In January 1889, we arrived in Honolulu, settling in a +pleasant cottage by the sea to rest until we were ready to return +to England. The <i>Casco</i> we sent back to San Francisco +with the captain. But the knowledge that every few days +some vessel was leaving Honolulu to cruise among islands we had +not seen, and now should never see, was more than we could +bear. First we engaged passage on a missionary ship, but +changed our minds—my husband would not be allowed to smoke +on board, for one reason—and chartered the trading schooner +<i>Equator</i>. This was thought too rough a voyage for my +mother-in-law, as indeed it would have been; so she was sent, +somewhat protesting, back to Scotland.</p> +<p>My husband was still intent on seeing Molokai. After the +waste of much time and red tape, he finally received an official +permission to visit the leper settlement. It did not occur +to him it would be necessary <!-- page viii--><a +name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. viii</span>to get a +separate official permission to <i>leave</i> Molokai; hence he +was nearly left behind when the vessel sailed out. He only +saved himself by a prodigious leap which landed him on board the +boat, whence nothing but force could dislodge him. By the +doctor’s orders he took gloves to wear as a precautionary +measure against contagion, but they were never worn. At +first he avoided shaking hands, but when he played croquet with +the young leper girls he would not listen to the Mother +Superior’s warning that he must wear gloves. He +thought it might remind them of their condition. +‘What will you do if you find you have contracted +leprosy?’ I asked. ‘Do?’ he replied; +‘why, you and I would spend the rest of our lives in +Molokai and become humble followers of Father +Damien.’ As Mr. Balfour says in the Life of +Stevenson, he was as stern with his family as he was with +himself, and as exacting.</p> +<p>He talked very little to us of the tragedy of Molokai, though +I could see it lay heavy on his spirits; but of the great work +begun by Father Damien and carried on by his successors he spoke +fully. He had followed the life of the priest like a +detective until there seemed nothing more to learn. Mother +Mary Ann, the Mother Superior, he could never mention without +deep emotion. One of the first things he did on his return +to Honolulu was to send her a grand piano for the use of her +girls—<!-- page ix--><a name="pageix"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. ix</span>the girls with whom he had played +croquet. He also sent toys, sewing materials, small tools +for the younger children, and other things that I have +forgotten. After his death a letter was found among his +papers, of which I have only the last few lines. ‘I +cannot suppose you remember me, but I won’t forget you, nor +God won’t forget you for your kindness to the blind white +leper at Molokai.’</p> +<p>During my husband’s absence I had made every preparation +for our voyage on the <i>Equator</i>, so but little time was lost +before we found ourselves on board, our sails set for the +south. The <i>Equator</i>, which had easily lived through +the great Samoan hurricane, made no such phenomenal runs as the +<i>Casco</i>, but we could trust her, and she had no +‘tricks and ways’ that we did not understand. +We liked the sailors, we loved the ship and her captain, so it +was with heart-felt regret we said farewell in the harbour of +Apia after a long and perfect cruise.</p> +<p>After reading the letters that awaited us in Apia, we looked +over the newspapers. Our indignation may be imagined when +we read in one item that, owing to the publication of a letter by +a well-known Honolulu missionary, depicting Father Damien as a +dirty old peasant who had contracted leprosy through his immoral +habits, the project to erect a monument to his memory would be +abandoned. ‘I’ll not believe it,’ <!-- +page x--><a name="pagex"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +x</span>said my husband, ‘unless I see it with my own eyes; +for it is too damnable for belief!’</p> +<p>But see it he did, in spite of his incredulity, for in Sydney, +a month or two later, the very journal containing the letter +condemnatory of Father Damien was among the first we chanced to +open. I shall never forget my husband’s ferocity of +indignation, his leaping stride as he paced the room holding the +offending paper at arm’s-length before his eyes that burned +and sparkled with a peculiar flashing light. His cousin Mr. +Balfour, in his <i>Life of Robert Louis Stevenson</i>, says: +‘his eyes . . . when he was moved to anger or any fierce +emotion seemed literally to blaze and glow with a burning +light.’ In another moment he disappeared through the +doorway, and I could hear him, in his own room, pulling his chair +to the table, and the sound of his inkstand being dragged towards +him.</p> +<p>That afternoon he called us together—my son, my +daughter, and myself—saying that he had something serious +to lay before us. He went over the circumstances +succinctly, and then we three had the incomparable experience of +hearing its author read aloud the defence of Father Damien while +it was still red-hot from his indignant soul.</p> +<p>As we sat, dazed and overcome by emotion, he pointed out to us +that the subject-matter was libellous in the highest degree, and +the publication of the <!-- page xi--><a name="pagexi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xi</span>article might cause the loss of his +entire substance. Without our concurrence he would not take +such a risk. There was no dissenting voice; how could there +be? The paper was published with almost no change or +revision, though afterwards my husband said he considered this a +mistake. He thought he should have waited for his anger to +cool, when he might have been more impersonal and less +egotistic.</p> +<p>The next day he consulted an eminent lawyer, more from +curiosity than from any other reason. Mr. Moses—I +think that was his name—was at first inclined to be +jocular. I remember his smiling question: ‘Have you +called him a hell-hound or an atheist? Otherwise there is +no libel.’ But when he looked over the manuscript his +countenance changed. ‘This is a serious +affair,’ he said; ‘however, no one will publish it +for you.’ In that Mr. Moses was right; no one dared +publish the pamphlet. But that difficulty was soon +overcome. My husband hired a printer by the day, and the +work was rushed through. We then, my daughter, my son, and +myself, were set to work helping address the pamphlets, which +were scattered far and wide.</p> +<p>Father Damien was vindicated by a stranger, a man of another +country and another religion from his own.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">F. V. <span class="smcap">de +</span>G. S.</p> +<h2><!-- page xiii--><a name="pagexiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiii</span>Contents:</h2> +<p> Preface by Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson<br /> + Lay Morals<br /> + Father Damien<br /> + The Pentland Rising<br /> + I. The Causes of the +Revolt<br /> + II. The Beginning<br /> + III. The March of the +Rebels<br /> + IV. Rullion Green<br /> + V. A Record of Blood<br /> + The Day After To-morrow<br /> + College Papers<br /> + I. Edinburgh Students in +1824<br /> + II. The Modern Student<br /> + III. Debating Societies<br +/> + Criticisms<br /> + I. Lord Lytton’s +“Fables in Song”<br /> + II. Salvini’s +Macbeth<br /> + III. Bagster’s +“Pilgrim’s Progress”<br /> + Sketches<br /> + I. The Satirist<br /> + II. Nuits Blanches<br /> + III. The Wreath of +Immortelles<br /> + IV. Nurses<br /> + V. A Character<br /> + <!-- page xiv--><a name="pagexiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiv</span>The Great North Road<br /> + I. Nance at the “Green +Dragon”<br /> + II. In which Mr. Archer is +Installed<br /> + III. Jonathan Holdaway<br /> + IV. Mingling Threads<br /> + V. Life in the Castle<br /> + IV. The Bad Half-Crown<br /> + VII. The Bleaching-Green<br +/> + VIII. The Mail Guard<br /> + The Young Chevalier<br /> + Prologue: The Wine-Seller’s +Wife<br /> + I. The Prince<br /> + Heathercat<br /> + I. Traqairs of +Montroymont<br /> + II. Francie<br /> + III. The Hill-End of +Drumlowe</p> +<h2>LAY MORALS</h2> +<p><i>The following chapters of a projected treatise on Ethics +were drafted at Edinburgh in the spring of</i> 1879. +<i>They are unrevised</i>, <i>and must not be taken as +representing</i>, <i>either as to matter or form</i>, <i>their +author’s final thoughts</i>; <i>but they contain much that +is essentially characteristic of his mind</i>.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Copyright in the United States +of America</i>.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> +<p>The problem of education is twofold: first to know, and then +to utter. Every one who lives any semblance of an inner +life thinks more nobly and profoundly than he speaks; and the +best of teachers can impart only broken images of the truth which +they perceive. Speech which goes from one to another +between two natures, and, what is worse, between two experiences, +is doubly relative. The speaker buries his meaning; it is +for the hearer to dig it up again; and all speech, written or +spoken, is in a dead language until it finds a willing and +prepared hearer. Such, moreover, is the complexity of life, +that when we condescend upon details in our advice, we may be +sure we condescend on error; and the best of education is to +throw out some magnanimous hints. No man was ever so poor +that he could express all he has in him by words, looks, or +actions; his true knowledge is eternally incommunicable, for it +is a knowledge of himself; and his best wisdom comes to him by no +process of the mind, but in a supreme self-dictation, which keeps +varying from hour to hour in its dictates with the variation of +events and circumstances.</p> +<p>A few men of picked nature, full of faith, courage, and +contempt for others, try earnestly to set forth as much as they +can grasp of this inner law; but the vast majority, when they +come to advise the young, must be content to retail certain +doctrines which have been already retailed to them in their own +youth. Every generation has to educate another which it has +brought upon the stage. People who readily accept the +responsibility of parentship, having very different matters in +their eye, are apt to feel rueful when that responsibility falls +due. What are they to tell the child about life and +conduct, subjects on which they have themselves so few and such +confused opinions? Indeed, I do not know; the least said, +perhaps, the soonest mended; and yet the child keeps asking, and +the parent must find some words to say in his own defence. +Where does he find them? and what are they when found?</p> +<p>As a matter of experience, and in nine hundred and ninety-nine +cases out of a thousand, he will instil into his wide-eyed brat +three bad things: the terror of public opinion, and, flowing from +that as a fountain, the desire of wealth and applause. +Besides these, or what might be deduced as corollaries from +these, he will teach not much else of any effective value: some +dim notions of divinity, perhaps, and book-keeping, and how to +walk through a quadrille.</p> +<p>But, you may tell me, the young people are taught to be +Christians. It may be want of penetration, but I have not +yet been able to perceive it. As an honest man, whatever we +teach, and be it good or evil, it is not the doctrine of +Christ. What he taught (and in this he is like all other +teachers worthy of the name) was not a code of rules, but a +ruling spirit; not truths, but a spirit of truth; not views, but +a view. What he showed us was an attitude of mind. +Towards the many considerations on which conduct is built, each +man stands in a certain relation. He takes life on a +certain principle. He has a compass in his spirit which +points in a certain direction. It is the attitude, the +relation, the point of the compass, that is the whole body and +gist of what he has to teach us; in this, the details are +comprehended; out of this the specific precepts issue, and by +this, and this only, can they be explained and applied. And +thus, to learn aright from any teacher, we must first of all, +like a historical artist, think ourselves into sympathy with his +position and, in the technical phrase, create his +character. A historian confronted with some ambiguous +politician, or an actor charged with a part, have but one +pre-occupation; they must search all round and upon every side, +and grope for some central conception which is to explain and +justify the most extreme details; until that is found, the +politician is an enigma, or perhaps a quack, and the part a +tissue of fustian sentiment and big words; but once that is +found, all enters into a plan, a human nature appears, the +politician or the stage-king is understood from point to point, +from end to end. This is a degree of trouble which will be +gladly taken by a very humble artist; but not even the terror of +eternal fire can teach a business man to bend his imagination to +such athletic efforts. Yet without this, all is vain; until +we understand the whole, we shall understand none of the parts; +and otherwise we have no more than broken images and scattered +words; the meaning remains buried; and the language in which our +prophet speaks to us is a dead language in our ears.</p> +<p>Take a few of Christ’s sayings and compare them with our +current doctrines.</p> +<p>‘Ye cannot,’ he says, ‘<i>serve God and +Mammon</i>.’ Cannot? And our whole system is to +teach us how we can!</p> +<p>‘<i>The children of this world are wiser in their +generation than the children of light</i>.’ Are +they? I had been led to understand the reverse: that the +Christian merchant, for example, prospered exceedingly in his +affairs; that honesty was the best policy; that an author of +repute had written a conclusive treatise ‘How to make the +best of both worlds.’ Of both worlds indeed! +Which am I to believe then—Christ or the author of +repute?</p> +<p>‘<i>Take no thought for the morrow</i>.’ Ask +the Successful Merchant; interrogate your own heart; and you will +have to admit that this is not only a silly but an immoral +position. All we believe, all we hope, all we honour in +ourselves or our contemporaries, stands condemned in this one +sentence, or, if you take the other view, condemns the sentence +as unwise and inhumane. We are not then of the ‘same +mind that was in Christ.’ We disagree with +Christ. Either Christ meant nothing, or else he or we must +be in the wrong. Well says Thoreau, speaking of some texts +from the New Testament, and finding a strange echo of another +style which the reader may recognise: ‘Let but one of these +sentences be rightly read from any pulpit in the land, and there +would not be left one stone of that meeting-house upon +another.’</p> +<p>It may be objected that these are what are called ‘hard +sayings’; and that a man, or an education, may be very +sufficiently Christian although it leave some of these sayings +upon one side. But this is a very gross delusion. +Although truth is difficult to state, it is both easy and +agreeable to receive, and the mind runs out to meet it ere the +phrase be done. The universe, in relation to what any man +can say of it, is plain, patent and staringly +comprehensible. In itself, it is a great and travailing +ocean, unsounded, unvoyageable, an eternal mystery to man; or, +let us say, it is a monstrous and impassable mountain, one side +of which, and a few near slopes and foothills, we can dimly study +with these mortal eyes. But what any man can say of it, +even in his highest utterance, must have relation to this little +and plain corner, which is no less visible to us than to +him. We are looking on the same map; it will go hard if we +cannot follow the demonstration. The longest and most +abstruse flight of a philosopher becomes clear and shallow, in +the flash of a moment, when we suddenly perceive the aspect and +drift of his intention. The longest argument is but a +finger pointed; once we get our own finger rightly parallel, and +we see what the man meant, whether it be a new star or an old +street-lamp. And briefly, if a saying is hard to +understand, it is because we are thinking of something else.</p> +<p>But to be a true disciple is to think of the same things as +our prophet, and to think of different things in the same +order. To be of the same mind with another is to see all +things in the same perspective; it is not to agree in a few +indifferent matters near at hand and not much debated; it is to +follow him in his farthest flights, to see the force of his +hyperboles, to stand so exactly in the centre of his vision that +whatever he may express, your eyes will light at once on the +original, that whatever he may see to declare, your mind will at +once accept. You do not belong to the school of any +philosopher, because you agree with him that theft is, on the +whole, objectionable, or that the sun is overhead at noon. +It is by the hard sayings that discipleship is tested. We +are all agreed about the middling and indifferent parts of +knowledge and morality; even the most soaring spirits too often +take them tamely upon trust. But the man, the philosopher +or the moralist, does not stand upon these chance adhesions; and +the purpose of any system looks towards those extreme points +where it steps valiantly beyond tradition and returns with some +covert hint of things outside. Then only can you be certain +that the words are not words of course, nor mere echoes of the +past; then only are you sure that if he be indicating anything at +all, it is a star and not a street-lamp; then only do you touch +the heart of the mystery, since it was for these that the author +wrote his book.</p> +<p>Now, every now and then, and indeed surprisingly often, Christ +finds a word that transcends all common-place morality; every now +and then he quits the beaten track to pioneer the unexpressed, +and throws out a pregnant and magnanimous hyperbole; for it is +only by some bold poetry of thought that men can be strung up +above the level of everyday conceptions to take a broader look +upon experience or accept some higher principle of conduct. +To a man who is of the same mind that was in Christ, who stands +at some centre not too far from his, and looks at the world and +conduct from some not dissimilar or, at least, not opposing +attitude—or, shortly, to a man who is of Christ’s +philosophy—every such saying should come home with a thrill +of joy and corroboration; he should feel each one below his feet +as another sure foundation in the flux of time and chance; each +should be another proof that in the torrent of the years and +generations, where doctrines and great armaments and empires are +swept away and swallowed, he stands immovable, holding by the +eternal stars. But alas! at this juncture of the ages it is +not so with us; on each and every such occasion our whole +fellowship of Christians falls back in disapproving wonder and +implicitly denies the saying. Christians! the farce is +impudently broad. Let us stand up in the sight of heaven +and confess. The ethics that we hold are those of Benjamin +Franklin. <i>Honesty is the best policy</i>, is perhaps a +hard saying; it is certainly one by which a wise man of these +days will not too curiously direct his steps; but I think it +shows a glimmer of meaning to even our most dimmed intelligences; +I think we perceive a principle behind it; I think, without +hyperbole, we are of the same mind that was in Benjamin +Franklin.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> +<p>But, I may be told, we teach the ten commandments, where a +world of morals lies condensed, the very pith and epitome of all +ethics and religion; and a young man with these precepts engraved +upon his mind must follow after profit with some conscience and +Christianity of method. A man cannot go very far astray who +neither dishonours his parents, nor kills, nor commits adultery, +nor steals, nor bears false witness; for these things, rightly +thought out, cover a vast field of duty.</p> +<p>Alas! what is a precept? It is at best an illustration; +it is case law at the best which can be learned by precept. +The letter is not only dead, but killing; the spirit which +underlies, and cannot be uttered, alone is true and +helpful. This is trite to sickness; but familiarity has a +cunning disenchantment; in a day or two she can steal all beauty +from the mountain tops; and the most startling words begin to +fall dead upon the ear after several repetitions. If you +see a thing too often, you no longer see it; if you hear a thing +too often, you no longer hear it. Our attention requires to +be surprised; and to carry a fort by assault, or to gain a +thoughtful hearing from the ruck of mankind, are feats of about +an equal difficulty and must be tried by not dissimilar +means. The whole Bible has thus lost its message for the +common run of hearers; it has become mere words of course; and +the parson may bawl himself scarlet and beat the pulpit like a +thing possessed, but his hearers will continue to nod; they are +strangely at peace, they know all he has to say; ring the old +bell as you choose, it is still the old bell and it cannot +startle their composure. And so with this byword about the +letter and the spirit. It is quite true, no doubt; but it +has no meaning in the world to any man of us. Alas! it has +just this meaning, and neither more nor less: that while the +spirit is true, the letter is eternally false.</p> +<p>The shadow of a great oak lies abroad upon the ground at noon, +perfect, clear, and stable like the earth. But let a man +set himself to mark out the boundary with cords and pegs, and +were he never so nimble and never so exact, what with the +multiplicity of the leaves and the progression of the shadow as +it flees before the travelling sun, long ere he has made the +circuit the whole figure will have changed. Life may be +compared, not to a single tree, but to a great and complicated +forest; circumstance is more swiftly changing than a shadow, +language much more inexact than the tools of a surveyor; from day +to day the trees fall and are renewed; the very essences are +fleeting as we look; and the whole world of leaves is swinging +tempest-tossed among the winds of time. Look now for your +shadows. O man of formulæ, is this a place for +you? Have you fitted the spirit to a single case? +Alas, in the cycle of the ages when shall such another be +proposed for the judgment of man? Now when the sun shines +and the winds blow, the wood is filled with an innumerable +multitude of shadows, tumultuously tossed and changing; and at +every gust the whole carpet leaps and becomes new. Can you +or your heart say more?</p> +<p>Look back now, for a moment, on your own brief experience of +life; and although you lived it feelingly in your own person, and +had every step of conduct burned in by pains and joys upon your +memory, tell me what definite lesson does experience hand on from +youth to manhood, or from both to age? The settled tenor +which first strikes the eye is but the shadow of a +delusion. This is gone; that never truly was; and you +yourself are altered beyond recognition. Times and men and +circumstances change about your changing character, with a speed +of which no earthly hurricane affords an image. What was +the best yesterday, is it still the best in this changed theatre +of a to-morrow? Will your own Past truly guide you in your +own violent and unexpected Future? And if this be +questionable, with what humble, with what hopeless eyes, should +we not watch other men driving beside us on their unknown +careers, seeing with unlike eyes, impelled by different gales, +doing and suffering in another sphere of things?</p> +<p>And as the authentic clue to such a labyrinth and change of +scene, do you offer me these two score words? these five bald +prohibitions? For the moral precepts are no more than five; +the first four deal rather with matters of observance than of +conduct; the tenth, <i>Thou shalt not covet</i>, stands upon +another basis, and shall be spoken of ere long. The Jews, +to whom they were first given, in the course of years began to +find these precepts insufficient; and made an addition of no less +than six hundred and fifty others! They hoped to make a +pocket-book of reference on morals, which should stand to life in +some such relation, say, as Hoyle stands in to the scientific +game of whist. The comparison is just, and condemns the +design; for those who play by rule will never be more than +tolerable players; and you and I would like to play our game in +life to the noblest and the most divine advantage. Yet if +the Jews took a petty and huckstering view of conduct, what view +do we take ourselves, who callously leave youth to go forth into +the enchanted forest, full of spells and dire chimeras, with no +guidance more complete than is afforded by these five +precepts?</p> +<p><i>Honour thy father and thy mother</i>. Yes, but does +that mean to obey? and if so, how long and how far? <i>Thou +shall not kill</i>. Yet the very intention and purport of +the prohibition may be best fulfilled by killing. <i>Thou +shall not commit adultery</i>. But some of the ugliest +adulteries are committed in the bed of marriage and under the +sanction of religion and law. <i>Thou shalt not bear false +witness</i>. How? by speech or by silence also? or even by +a smile? <i>Thou shalt not steal</i>. Ah, that +indeed! But what is <i>to steal</i>?</p> +<p>To steal? It is another word to be construed; and who is +to be our guide? The police will give us one construction, +leaving the word only that least minimum of meaning without which +society would fall in pieces; but surely we must take some higher +sense than this; surely we hope more than a bare subsistence for +mankind; surely we wish mankind to prosper and go on from +strength to strength, and ourselves to live rightly in the eye of +some more exacting potentate than a policeman. The approval +or the disapproval of the police must be eternally indifferent to +a man who is both valorous and good. There is extreme +discomfort, but no shame, in the condemnation of the law. +The law represents that modicum of morality which can be squeezed +out of the ruck of mankind; but what is that to me, who aim +higher and seek to be my own more stringent judge? I +observe with pleasure that no brave man has ever given a rush for +such considerations. The Japanese have a nobler and more +sentimental feeling for this social bond into which we all are +born when we come into the world, and whose comforts and +protection we all indifferently share throughout our +lives:—but even to them, no more than to our Western saints +and heroes, does the law of the state supersede the higher law of +duty. Without hesitation and without remorse, they +transgress the stiffest enactments rather than abstain from doing +right. But the accidental superior duty being thus +fulfilled, they at once return in allegiance to the common duty +of all citizens; and hasten to denounce themselves; and value at +an equal rate their just crime and their equally just submission +to its punishment.</p> +<p>The evading of the police will not long satisfy an active +conscience or a thoughtful head. But to show you how one or +the other may trouble a man, and what a vast extent of frontier +is left unridden by this invaluable eighth commandment, let me +tell you a few pages out of a young man’s life.</p> +<p>He was a friend of mine; a young man like others; generous, +flighty, as variable as youth itself, but always with some high +motions and on the search for higher thoughts of life. I +should tell you at once that he thoroughly agrees with the eighth +commandment. But he got hold of some unsettling works, the +New Testament among others, and this loosened his views of life +and led him into many perplexities. As he was the son of a +man in a certain position, and well off, my friend had enjoyed +from the first the advantages of education, nay, he had been kept +alive through a sickly childhood by constant watchfulness, +comforts, and change of air; for all of which he was indebted to +his father’s wealth.</p> +<p>At college he met other lads more diligent than himself, who +followed the plough in summer-time to pay their college fees in +winter; and this inequality struck him with some force. He +was at that age of a conversible temper, and insatiably curious +in the aspects of life; and he spent much of his time scraping +acquaintance with all classes of man- and woman-kind. In +this way he came upon many depressed ambitions, and many +intelligences stunted for want of opportunity; and this also +struck him. He began to perceive that life was a handicap +upon strange, wrong-sided principles; and not, as he had been +told, a fair and equal race. He began to tremble that he +himself had been unjustly favoured, when he saw all the avenues +of wealth, and power, and comfort closed against so many of his +superiors and equals, and held unwearyingly open before so idle, +so desultory, and so dissolute a being as himself. There +sat a youth beside him on the college benches, who had only one +shirt to his back, and, at intervals sufficiently far apart, must +stay at home to have it washed. It was my friend’s +principle to stay away as often as he dared; for I fear he was no +friend to learning. But there was something that came home +to him sharply, in this fellow who had to give over study till +his shirt was washed, and the scores of others who had never an +opportunity at all. <i>If one of these could take his +place</i>, he thought; and the thought tore away a bandage from +his eyes. He was eaten by the shame of his discoveries, and +despised himself as an unworthy favourite and a creature of the +back-stairs of Fortune. He could no longer see without +confusion one of these brave young fellows battling up-hill +against adversity. Had he not filched that fellow’s +birthright? At best was he not coldly profiting by the +injustice of society, and greedily devouring stolen goods? +The money, indeed, belonged to his father, who had worked, and +thought, and given up his liberty to earn it; but by what justice +could the money belong to my friend, who had, as yet, done +nothing but help to squander it? A more sturdy honesty, +joined to a more even and impartial temperament, would have drawn +from these considerations a new force of industry, that this +equivocal position might be brought as swiftly as possible to an +end, and some good services to mankind justify the appropriation +of expense. It was not so with my friend, who was only +unsettled and discouraged, and filled full of that trumpeting +anger with which young men regard injustices in the first blush +of youth; although in a few years they will tamely acquiesce in +their existence, and knowingly profit by their +complications. Yet all this while he suffered many +indignant pangs. And once, when he put on his boots, like +any other unripe donkey, to run away from home, it was his best +consolation that he was now, at a single plunge, to free himself +from the responsibility of this wealth that was not his, and do +battle equally against his fellows in the warfare of life.</p> +<p>Some time after this, falling into ill-health, he was sent at +great expense to a more favourable climate; and then I think his +perplexities were thickest. When he thought of all the +other young men of singular promise, upright, good, the prop of +families, who must remain at home to die, and with all their +possibilities be lost to life and mankind; and how he, by one +more unmerited favour, was chosen out from all these others to +survive; he felt as if there were no life, no labour, no devotion +of soul and body, that could repay and justify these +partialities. A religious lady, to whom he communicated +these reflections, could see no force in them whatever. +‘It was God’s will,’ said she. But he +knew it was by God’s will that Joan of Arc was burnt at +Rouen, which cleared neither Bedford nor Bishop Cauchon; and +again, by God’s will that Christ was crucified outside +Jerusalem, which excused neither the rancour of the priests nor +the timidity of Pilate. He knew, moreover, that although +the possibility of this favour he was now enjoying issued from +his circumstances, its acceptance was the act of his own will; +and he had accepted it greedily, longing for rest and +sunshine. And hence this allegation of God’s +providence did little to relieve his scruples. I promise +you he had a very troubled mind. And I would not laugh if I +were you, though while he was thus making mountains out of what +you think molehills, he were still (as perhaps he was) +contentedly practising many other things that to you seem black +as hell. Every man is his own judge and mountain-guide +through life. There is an old story of a mote and a beam, +apparently not true, but worthy perhaps of some +consideration. I should, if I were you, give some +consideration to these scruples of his, and if I were he, I +should do the like by yours; for it is not unlikely that there +may be something under both. In the meantime you must hear +how my friend acted. Like many invalids, he supposed that +he would die. Now, should he die, he saw no means of +repaying this huge loan which, by the hands of his father, +mankind had advanced him for his sickness. In that case it +would be lost money. So he determined that the advance +should be as small as possible; and, so long as he continued to +doubt his recovery, lived in an upper room, and grudged himself +all but necessaries. But so soon as he began to perceive a +change for the better, he felt justified in spending more freely, +to speed and brighten his return to health, and trusted in the +future to lend a help to mankind, as mankind, out of its +treasury, had lent a help to him.</p> +<p>I do not say but that my friend was a little too curious and +partial in his view; nor thought too much of himself and too +little of his parents; but I do say that here are some scruples +which tormented my friend in his youth, and still, perhaps, at +odd times give him a prick in the midst of his enjoyments, and +which after all have some foundation in justice, and point, in +their confused way, to some more honourable honesty within the +reach of man. And at least, is not this an unusual gloss +upon the eighth commandment? And what sort of comfort, +guidance, or illumination did that precept afford my friend +throughout these contentions? ‘Thou shalt not +steal.’ With all my heart! But <i>am</i> I +stealing?</p> +<p>The truly quaint materialism of our view of life disables us +from pursuing any transaction to an end. You can make no +one understand that his bargain is anything more than a bargain, +whereas in point of fact it is a link in the policy of mankind, +and either a good or an evil to the world. We have a sort +of blindness which prevents us from seeing anything but +sovereigns. If one man agrees to give another so many +shillings for so many hours’ work, and then wilfully gives +him a certain proportion of the price in bad money and only the +remainder in good, we can see with half an eye that this man is a +thief. But if the other spends a certain proportion of the +hours in smoking a pipe of tobacco, and a certain other +proportion in looking at the sky, or the clock, or trying to +recall an air, or in meditation on his own past adventures, and +only the remainder in downright work such as he is paid to do, is +he, because the theft is one of time and not of money,—is +he any the less a thief? The one gave a bad shilling, the +other an imperfect hour; but both broke the bargain, and each is +a thief. In piecework, which is what most of us do, the +case is none the less plain for being even less material. +If you forge a bad knife, you have wasted some of mankind’s +iron, and then, with unrivalled cynicism, you pocket some of +mankind’s money for your trouble. Is there any man so +blind who cannot see that this is theft? Again, if you +carelessly cultivate a farm, you have been playing fast and loose +with mankind’s resources against hunger; there will be less +bread in consequence, and for lack of that bread somebody will +die next winter: a grim consideration. And you must not +hope to shuffle out of blame because you got less money for your +less quantity of bread; for although a theft be partly punished, +it is none the less a theft for that. You took the farm +against competitors; there were others ready to shoulder the +responsibility and be answerable for the tale of loaves; but it +was you who took it. By the act you came under a tacit +bargain with mankind to cultivate that farm with your best +endeavour; you were under no superintendence, you were on parole; +and you have broke your bargain, and to all who look closely, and +yourself among the rest if you have moral eyesight, you are a +thief. Or take the case of men of letters. Every +piece of work which is not as good as you can make it, which you +have palmed off imperfect, meagrely thought, niggardly in +execution, upon mankind who is your paymaster on parole and in a +sense your pupil, every hasty or slovenly or untrue performance, +should rise up against you in the court of your own heart and +condemn you for a thief. Have you a salary? If you +trifle with your health, and so render yourself less capable for +duty, and still touch, and still greedily pocket the +emolument—what are you but a thief? Have you double +accounts? do you by any time-honoured juggle, deceit, or +ambiguous process, gain more from those who deal with you than it +you were bargaining and dealing face to face in front of +God?—What are you but a thief? Lastly, if you fill an +office, or produce an article, which, in your heart of hearts, +you think a delusion and a fraud upon mankind, and still draw +your salary and go through the sham manœuvres of this +office, or still book your profits and keep on flooding the world +with these injurious goods?—though you were old, and bald, +and the first at church, and a baronet, what are you but a +thief? These may seem hard words and mere curiosities of +the intellect, in an age when the spirit of honesty is so +sparingly cultivated that all business is conducted upon lies and +so-called customs of the trade, that not a man bestows two +thoughts on the utility or honourableness of his pursuit. I +would say less if I thought less. But looking to my own +reason and the right of things, I can only avow that I am a thief +myself, and that I passionately suspect my neighbours of the same +guilt.</p> +<p>Where did you hear that it was easy to be honest? Do you +find that in your Bible? Easy! It is easy to be an +ass and follow the multitude like a blind, besotted bull in a +stampede; and that, I am well aware, is what you and Mrs. Grundy +mean by being honest. But it will not bear the stress of +time nor the scrutiny of conscience. Even before the lowest +of all tribunals,—before a court of law, whose business it +is, not to keep men right, or within a thousand miles of right, +but to withhold them from going so tragically wrong that they +will pull down the whole jointed fabric of society by their +misdeeds—even before a court of law, as we begin to see in +these last days, our easy view of following at each other’s +tails, alike to good and evil, is beginning to be reproved and +punished, and declared no honesty at all, but open theft and +swindling; and simpletons who have gone on through life with a +quiet conscience may learn suddenly, from the lips of a judge, +that the custom of the trade may be a custom of the devil. +You thought it was easy to be honest. Did you think it was +easy to be just and kind and truthful? Did you think the +whole duty of aspiring man was as simple as a horn-pipe? and you +could walk through life like a gentleman and a hero, with no more +concern than it takes to go to church or to address a +circular? And yet all this time you had the eighth +commandment! and, what makes it richer, you would not have broken +it for the world!</p> +<p>The truth is, that these commandments by themselves are of +little use in private judgment. If compression is what you +want, you have their whole spirit compressed into the golden +rule; and yet there expressed with more significance, since the +law is there spiritually and not materially stated. And in +truth, four out of these ten commands, from the sixth to the +ninth, are rather legal than ethical. The police-court is +their proper home. A magistrate cannot tell whether you +love your neighbour as yourself, but he can tell more or less +whether you have murdered, or stolen, or committed adultery, or +held up your hand and testified to that which was not; and these +things, for rough practical tests, are as good as can be +found. And perhaps, therefore, the best condensation of the +Jewish moral law is in the maxims of the priests, ‘neminem +lædere’ and ‘suum cuique tribuere.’ +But all this granted, it becomes only the more plain that they +are inadequate in the sphere of personal morality; that while +they tell the magistrate roughly when to punish, they can never +direct an anxious sinner what to do.</p> +<p>Only Polonius, or the like solemn sort of ass, can offer us a +succinct proverb by way of advice, and not burst out blushing in +our faces. We grant them one and all and for all that they +are worth; it is something above and beyond that we desire. +Christ was in general a great enemy to such a way of teaching; we +rarely find him meddling with any of these plump commands but it +was to open them out, and lift his hearers from the letter to the +spirit. For morals are a personal affair; in the war of +righteousness every man fights for his own hand; all the six +hundred precepts of the Mishna cannot shake my private judgment; +my magistracy of myself is an indefeasible charge, and my +decisions absolute for the time and case. The moralist is +not a judge of appeal, but an advocate who pleads at my +tribunal. He has to show not the law, but that the law +applies. Can he convince me? then he gains the cause. +And thus you find Christ giving various counsels to varying +people, and often jealously careful to avoid definite +precept. Is he asked, for example, to divide a +heritage? He refuses: and the best advice that he will +offer is but a paraphrase of that tenth commandment which figures +so strangely among the rest. <i>Take heed, and beware of +covetousness</i>. If you complain that this is vague, I +have failed to carry you along with me in my argument. For +no definite precept can be more than an illustration, though its +truth were resplendent like the sun, and it was announced from +heaven by the voice of God. And life is so intricate and +changing, that perhaps not twenty times, or perhaps not twice in +the ages, shall we find that nice consent of circumstances to +which alone it can apply.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> +<p>Although the world and life have in a sense become commonplace +to our experience, it is but in an external torpor; the true +sentiment slumbers within us; and we have but to reflect on +ourselves or our surroundings to rekindle our astonishment. +No length of habit can blunt our first surprise. Of the +world I have but little to say in this connection; a few strokes +shall suffice. We inhabit a dead ember swimming wide in the +blank of space, dizzily spinning as it swims, and lighted up from +several million miles away by a more horrible hell-fire than was +ever conceived by the theological imagination. Yet the dead +ember is a green, commodious dwelling-place; and the +reverberation of this hell-fire ripens flower and fruit and +mildly warms us on summer eves upon the lawn. Far off on +all hands other dead embers, other flaming suns, wheel and race +in the apparent void; the nearest is out of call, the farthest so +far that the heart sickens in the effort to conceive the +distance. Shipwrecked seamen on the deep, though they +bestride but the truncheon of a boom, are safe and near at home +compared with mankind on its bullet. Even to us who have +known no other, it seems a strange, if not an appalling, place of +residence.</p> +<p>But far stranger is the resident, man, a creature compact of +wonders that, after centuries of custom, is still wonderful to +himself. He inhabits a body which he is continually +outliving, discarding and renewing. Food and sleep, by an +unknown alchemy, restore his spirits and the freshness of his +countenance. Hair grows on him like grass; his eyes, his +brain, his sinews, thirst for action; he joys to see and touch +and hear, to partake the sun and wind, to sit down and intently +ponder on his astonishing attributes and situation, to rise up +and run, to perform the strange and revolting round of physical +functions. The sight of a flower, the note of a bird, will +often move him deeply; yet he looks unconcerned on the impassable +distances and portentous bonfires of the universe. He +comprehends, he designs, he tames nature, rides the sea, ploughs, +climbs the air in a balloon, makes vast inquiries, begins +interminable labours, joins himself into federations and populous +cities, spends his days to deliver the ends of the earth or to +benefit unborn posterity; and yet knows himself for a piece of +unsurpassed fragility and the creature of a few days. His +sight, which conducts him, which takes notice of the farthest +stars, which is miraculous in every way and a thing defying +explanation or belief, is yet lodged in a piece of jelly, and can +be extinguished with a touch. His heart, which all through +life so indomitably, so athletically labours, is but a capsule, +and may be stopped with a pin. His whole body, for all its +savage energies, its leaping and its winged desires, may yet be +tamed and conquered by a draught of air or a sprinkling of cold +dew. What he calls death, which is the seeming arrest of +everything, and the ruin and hateful transformation of the +visible body, lies in wait for him outwardly in a thousand +accidents, and grows up in secret diseases from within. He +is still learning to be a man when his faculties are already +beginning to decline; he has not yet understood himself or his +position before he inevitably dies. And yet this mad, +chimerical creature can take no thought of his last end, lives as +though he were eternal, plunges with his vulnerable body into the +shock of war, and daily affronts death with unconcern. He +cannot take a step without pain or pleasure. His life is a +tissue of sensations, which he distinguishes as they seem to come +more directly from himself or his surroundings. He is +conscious of himself as a joyer or a sufferer, as that which +craves, chooses, and is satisfied; conscious of his surroundings +as it were of an inexhaustible purveyor, the source of aspects, +inspirations, wonders, cruel knocks and transporting +caresses. Thus he goes on his way, stumbling among delights +and agonies.</p> +<p>Matter is a far-fetched theory, and materialism is without a +root in man. To him everything is important in the degree +to which it moves him. The telegraph wires and posts, the +electricity speeding from clerk to clerk, the clerks, the glad or +sorrowful import of the message, and the paper on which it is +finally brought to him at home, are all equally facts, all +equally exist for man. A word or a thought can wound him as +acutely as a knife of steel. If he thinks he is loved, he +will rise up and glory to himself, although he be in a distant +land and short of necessary bread. Does he think he is not +loved?—he may have the woman at his beck, and there is not +a joy for him in all the world. Indeed, if we are to make +any account of this figment of reason, the distinction between +material and immaterial, we shall conclude that the life of each +man as an individual is immaterial, although the continuation and +prospects of mankind as a race turn upon material +conditions. The physical business of each man’s body +is transacted for him; like a sybarite, he has attentive valets +in his own viscera; he breathes, he sweats, he digests without an +effort, or so much as a consenting volition; for the most part he +even eats, not with a wakeful consciousness, but as it were +between two thoughts. His life is centred among other and +more important considerations; touch him in his honour or his +love, creatures of the imagination which attach him to mankind or +to an individual man or woman; cross him in his piety which +connects his soul with heaven; and he turns from his food, he +loathes his breath, and with a magnanimous emotion cuts the knots +of his existence and frees himself at a blow from the web of +pains and pleasures.</p> +<p>It follows that man is twofold at least; that he is not a +rounded and autonomous empire; but that in the same body with him +there dwell other powers tributary but independent. If I +now behold one walking in a garden, curiously coloured and +illuminated by the sun, digesting his food with elaborate +chemistry, breathing, circulating blood, directing himself by the +sight of his eyes, accommodating his body by a thousand delicate +balancings to the wind and the uneven surface of the path, and +all the time, perhaps, with his mind engaged about America, or +the dog-star, or the attributes of God—what am I to say, or +how am I to describe the thing I see? Is that truly a man, +in the rigorous meaning of the word? or is it not a man and +something else? What, then, are we to count the centre-bit +and axle of a being so variously compounded? It is a +question much debated. Some read his history in a certain +intricacy of nerve and the success of successive digestions; +others find him an exiled piece of heaven blown upon and +determined by the breath of God; and both schools of theorists +will scream like scalded children at a word of doubt. Yet +either of these views, however plausible, is beside the question; +either may be right; and I care not; I ask a more particular +answer, and to a more immediate point. What is the +man? There is Something that was before hunger and that +remains behind after a meal. It may or may not be engaged +in any given act or passion, but when it is, it changes, +heightens, and sanctifies. Thus it is not engaged in lust, +where satisfaction ends the chapter; and it is engaged in love, +where no satisfaction can blunt the edge of the desire, and where +age, sickness, or alienation may deface what was desirable +without diminishing the sentiment. This something, which is +the man, is a permanence which abides through the vicissitudes of +passion, now overwhelmed and now triumphant, now unconscious of +itself in the immediate distress of appetite or pain, now rising +unclouded above all. So, to the man, his own central self +fades and grows clear again amid the tumult of the senses, like a +revolving Pharos in the night. It is forgotten; it is hid, +it seems, for ever; and yet in the next calm hour he shall behold +himself once more, shining and unmoved among changes and +storm.</p> +<p>Mankind, in the sense of the creeping mass that is born and +eats, that generates and dies, is but the aggregate of the outer +and lower sides of man. This inner consciousness, this +lantern alternately obscured and shining, to and by which the +individual exists and must order his conduct, is something +special to himself and not common to the race. His joys +delight, his sorrows wound him, according as <i>this</i> is +interested or indifferent in the affair; according as they arise +in an imperial war or in a broil conducted by the tributary +chieftains of the mind. He may lose all, and <i>this</i> +not suffer; he may lose what is materially a trifle, and +<i>this</i> leap in his bosom with a cruel pang. I do not +speak of it to hardened theorists: the living man knows keenly +what it is I mean.</p> +<p>‘Perceive at last that thou hast in thee something +better and more divine than the things which cause the various +effects, and, as it were, pull thee by the strings. What is +that now in thy mind? is it fear, or suspicion, or desire, or +anything of that kind?’ Thus far Marcus Aurelius, in +one of the most notable passages in any book. Here is a +question worthy to be answered. What is in thy mind? +What is the utterance of your inmost self when, in a quiet hour, +it can be heard intelligibly? It is something beyond the +compass of your thinking, inasmuch as it is yourself; but is it +not of a higher spirit than you had dreamed betweenwhiles, and +erect above all base considerations? This soul seems hardly +touched with our infirmities; we can find in it certainly no +fear, suspicion, or desire; we are only conscious—and that +as though we read it in the eyes of some one else—of a +great and unqualified readiness. A readiness to what? to +pass over and look beyond the objects of desire and fear, for +something else. And this something else? this something +which is apart from desire and fear, to which all the kingdoms of +the world and the immediate death of the body are alike +indifferent and beside the point, and which yet regards +conduct—by what name are we to call it? It may be the +love of God; or it may be an inherited (and certainly well +concealed) instinct to preserve self and propagate the race; I am +not, for the moment, averse to either theory; but it will save +time to call it righteousness. By so doing I intend no +subterfuge to beg a question; I am indeed ready, and more than +willing, to accept the rigid consequence, and lay aside, as far +as the treachery of the reason will permit, all former meanings +attached to the word righteousness. What is right is that +for which a man’s central self is ever ready to sacrifice +immediate or distant interests; what is wrong is what the central +self discards or rejects as incompatible with the fixed design of +righteousness.</p> +<p>To make this admission is to lay aside all hope of +definition. That which is right upon this theory is +intimately dictated to each man by himself, but can never be +rigorously set forth in language, and never, above all, imposed +upon another. The conscience has, then, a vision like that +of the eyes, which is incommunicable, and for the most part +illuminates none but its possessor. When many people +perceive the same or any cognate facts, they agree upon a word as +symbol; and hence we have such words as <i>tree</i>, <i>star</i>, +<i>love</i>, <i>honour</i>, or <i>death</i>; hence also we have +this word <i>right</i>, which, like the others, we all +understand, most of us understand differently, and none can +express succinctly otherwise. Yet even on the straitest +view, we can make some steps towards comprehension of our own +superior thoughts. For it is an incredible and most +bewildering fact that a man, through life, is on variable terms +with himself; he is aware of tiffs and reconciliations; the +intimacy is at times almost suspended, at times it is renewed +again with joy. As we said before, his inner self or soul +appears to him by successive revelations, and is frequently +obscured. It is from a study of these alternations that we +can alone hope to discover, even dimly, what seems right and what +seems wrong to this veiled prophet of ourself.</p> +<p>All that is in the man in the larger sense, what we call +impression as well as what we call intuition, so far as my +argument looks, we must accept. It is not wrong to desire +food, or exercise, or beautiful surroundings, or the love of sex, +or interest which is the food of the mind. All these are +craved; all these should be craved; to none of these in itself +does the soul demur; where there comes an undeniable want, we +recognise a demand of nature. Yet we know that these +natural demands may be superseded; for the demands which are +common to mankind make but a shadowy consideration in comparison +to the demands of the individual soul. Food is almost the +first prerequisite; and yet a high character will go without food +to the ruin and death of the body rather than gain it in a manner +which the spirit disavows. Pascal laid aside mathematics; +Origen doctored his body with a knife; every day some one is thus +mortifying his dearest interests and desires, and, in +Christ’s words, entering maim into the Kingdom of +Heaven. This is to supersede the lesser and less harmonious +affections by renunciation; and though by this ascetic path we +may get to heaven, we cannot get thither a whole and perfect +man. But there is another way, to supersede them by +reconciliation, in which the soul and all the faculties and +senses pursue a common route and share in one desire. Thus, +man is tormented by a very imperious physical desire; it spoils +his rest, it is not to be denied; the doctors will tell you, not +I, how it is a physical need, like the want of food or +slumber. In the satisfaction of this desire, as it first +appears, the soul sparingly takes part; nay, it oft unsparingly +regrets and disapproves the satisfaction. But let the man +learn to love a woman as far as he is capable of love; and for +this random affection of the body there is substituted a steady +determination, a consent of all his powers and faculties, which +supersedes, adopts, and commands the other. The desire +survives, strengthened, perhaps, but taught obedience and changed +in scope and character. Life is no longer a tale of +betrayals and regrets; for the man now lives as a whole; his +consciousness now moves on uninterrupted like a river; through +all the extremes and ups and downs of passion, he remains +approvingly conscious of himself.</p> +<p>Now to me, this seems a type of that rightness which the soul +demands. It demands that we shall not live alternately with +our opposing tendencies in continual see-saw of passion and +disgust, but seek some path on which the tendencies shall no +longer oppose, but serve each other to a common end. It +demands that we shall not pursue broken ends, but great and +comprehensive purposes, in which soul and body may unite like +notes in a harmonious chord. That were indeed a way of +peace and pleasure, that were indeed a heaven upon earth. +It does not demand, however, or, to speak in measure, it does not +demand of me, that I should starve my appetites for no purpose +under heaven but as a purpose in itself; or, in a weak despair, +pluck out the eye that I have not yet learned to guide and enjoy +with wisdom. The soul demands unity of purpose, not the +dismemberment of man; it seeks to roll up all his strength and +sweetness, all his passion and wisdom, into one, and make of him +a perfect man exulting in perfection. To conclude +ascetically is to give up, and not to solve, the problem. +The ascetic and the creeping hog, although they are at different +poles, have equally failed in life. The one has sacrificed +his crew; the other brings back his seamen in a cock-boat, and +has lost the ship. I believe there are not many +sea-captains who would plume themselves on either result as a +success.</p> +<p>But if it is righteousness thus to fuse together our divisive +impulses and march with one mind through life, there is plainly +one thing more unrighteous than all others, and one declension +which is irretrievable and draws on the rest. And this is +to lose consciousness of oneself. In the best of times, it +is but by flashes, when our whole nature is clear, strong and +conscious, and events conspire to leave us free, that we enjoy +communion with our soul. At the worst, we are so fallen and +passive that we may say shortly we have none. An arctic +torpor seizes upon men. Although built of nerves, and set +adrift in a stimulating world, they develop a tendency to go +bodily to sleep; consciousness becomes engrossed among the reflex +and mechanical parts of life; and soon loses both the will and +power to look higher considerations in the face. This is +ruin; this is the last failure in life; this is temporal +damnation, damnation on the spot and without the form of +judgment. ‘What shall it profit a man if he gain the +whole world and <i>lose himself</i>?’</p> +<p>It is to keep a man awake, to keep him alive to his own soul +and its fixed design of righteousness, that the better part of +moral and religious education is directed; not only that of words +and doctors, but the sharp ferule of calamity under which we are +all God’s scholars till we die. If, as teachers, we +are to say anything to the purpose, we must say what will remind +the pupil of his soul; we must speak that soul’s dialect; +we must talk of life and conduct as his soul would have him think +of them. If, from some conformity between us and the pupil, +or perhaps among all men, we do in truth speak in such a dialect +and express such views, beyond question we shall touch in him a +spring; beyond question he will recognise the dialect as one that +he himself has spoken in his better hours; beyond question he +will cry, ‘I had forgotten, but now I remember; I too have +eyes, and I had forgot to use them! I too have a soul of my +own, arrogantly upright, and to that I will listen and +conform.’ In short, say to him anything that he has +once thought, or been upon the point of thinking, or show him any +view of life that he has once clearly seen, or been upon the +point of clearly seeing; and you have done your part and may +leave him to complete the education for himself.</p> +<p>Now, the view taught at the present time seems to me to want +greatness; and the dialect in which alone it can be intelligibly +uttered is not the dialect of my soul. It is a sort of +postponement of life; nothing quite is, but something different +is to be; we are to keep our eyes upon the indirect from the +cradle to the grave. We are to regulate our conduct not by +desire, but by a politic eye upon the future; and to value acts +as they will bring us money or good opinion; as they will bring +us, in one word, <i>profit</i>. We must be what is called +respectable, and offend no one by our carriage; it will not do to +make oneself conspicuous—who knows? even in virtue? says +the Christian parent! And we must be what is called prudent +and make money; not only because it is pleasant to have money, +but because that also is a part of respectability, and we cannot +hope to be received in society without decent possessions. +Received in society! as if that were the kingdom of heaven! +There is dear Mr. So-and-so;—look at him!—so much +respected—so much looked up to—quite the Christian +merchant! And we must cut our conduct as strictly as +possible after the pattern of Mr. So-and-so; and lay our whole +lives to make money and be strictly decent. Besides these +holy injunctions, which form by far the greater part of a +youth’s training in our Christian homes, there are at least +two other doctrines. We are to live just now as well as we +can, but scrape at last into heaven, where we shall be +good. We are to worry through the week in a lay, +disreputable way, but, to make matters square, live a different +life on Sunday.</p> +<p>The train of thought we have been following gives us a key to +all these positions, without stepping aside to justify them on +their own ground. It is because we have been disgusted +fifty times with physical squalls, and fifty times torn between +conflicting impulses, that we teach people this indirect and +tactical procedure in life, and to judge by remote consequences +instead of the immediate face of things. The very desire to +act as our own souls would have us, coupled with a pathetic +disbelief in ourselves, moves us to follow the example of others; +perhaps, who knows? they may be on the right track; and the more +our patterns are in number, the better seems the chance; until, +if we be acting in concert with a whole civilised nation, there +are surely a majority of chances that we must be acting +right. And again, how true it is that we can never behave +as we wish in this tormented sphere, and can only aspire to +different and more favourable circumstances, in order to stand +out and be ourselves wholly and rightly! And yet once more, +if in the hurry and pressure of affairs and passions you tend to +nod and become drowsy, here are twenty-four hours of Sunday set +apart for you to hold counsel with your soul and look around you +on the possibilities of life.</p> +<p>This is not, of course, all that is to be, or even should be, +said for these doctrines. Only, in the course of this +chapter, the reader and I have agreed upon a few catchwords, and +been looking at morals on a certain system; it was a pity to lose +an opportunity of testing the catchwords, and seeing whether, by +this system as well as by others, current doctrines could show +any probable justification. If the doctrines had come too +badly out of the trial, it would have condemned the system. +Our sight of the world is very narrow; the mind but a pedestrian +instrument; there’s nothing new under the sun, as Solomon +says, except the man himself; and though that changes the aspect +of everything else, yet he must see the same things as other +people, only from a different side.</p> +<p>And now, having admitted so much, let us turn to +criticism.</p> +<p>If you teach a man to keep his eyes upon what others think of +him, unthinkingly to lead the life and hold the principles of the +majority of his contemporaries, you must discredit in his eyes +the one authoritative voice of his own soul. He may be a +docile citizen; he will never be a man. It is ours, on the +other hand, to disregard this babble and chattering of other men +better and worse than we are, and to walk straight before us by +what light we have. They may be right; but so, before +heaven, are we. They may know; but we know also, and by +that knowledge we must stand or fall. There is such a thing +as loyalty to a man’s own better self; and from those who +have not that, God help me, how am I to look for loyalty to +others? The most dull, the most imbecile, at a certain +moment turn round, at a certain point will hear no further +argument, but stand unflinching by their own dumb, irrational +sense of right. It is not only by steel or fire, but +through contempt and blame, that the martyr fulfils the calling +of his dear soul. Be glad if you are not tried by such +extremities. But although all the world ranged themselves +in one line to tell you ‘This is wrong,’ be you your +own faithful vassal and the ambassador of God—throw down +the glove and answer ‘This is right.’ Do you +think you are only declaring yourself? Perhaps in some dim +way, like a child who delivers a message not fully understood, +you are opening wider the straits of prejudice and preparing +mankind for some truer and more spiritual grasp of truth; +perhaps, as you stand forth for your own judgment, you are +covering a thousand weak ones with your body; perhaps, by this +declaration alone, you have avoided the guilt of false witness +against humanity and the little ones unborn. It is good, I +believe, to be respectable, but much nobler to respect oneself +and utter the voice of God. God, if there be any God, +speaks daily in a new language by the tongues of men; the +thoughts and habits of each fresh generation and each new-coined +spirit throw another light upon the universe and contain another +commentary on the printed Bibles; every scruple, every true +dissent, every glimpse of something new, is a letter of +God’s alphabet; and though there is a grave responsibility +for all who speak, is there none for those who unrighteously keep +silence and conform? Is not that also to conceal and cloak +God’s counsel? And how should we regard the man of +science who suppressed all facts that would not tally with the +orthodoxy of the hour?</p> +<p>Wrong? You are as surely wrong as the sun rose this +morning round the revolving shoulder of the world. Not +truth, but truthfulness, is the good of your endeavour. For +when will men receive that first part and prerequisite of truth, +that, by the order of things, by the greatness of the universe, +by the darkness and partiality of man’s experience, by the +inviolate secrecy of God, kept close in His most open +revelations, every man is, and to the end of the ages must be, +wrong? Wrong to the universe; wrong to mankind; wrong to +God. And yet in another sense, and that plainer and nearer, +every man of men, who wishes truly, must be right. He is +right to himself, and in the measure of his sagacity and +candour. That let him do in all sincerity and zeal, not +sparing a thought for contrary opinions; that, for what it is +worth, let him proclaim. Be not afraid; although he be +wrong, so also is the dead, stuffed Dagon he insults. For +the voice of God, whatever it is, is not that stammering, inept +tradition which the people holds. These truths survive in +travesty, swamped in a world of spiritual darkness and confusion; +and what a few comprehend and faithfully hold, the many, in their +dead jargon, repeat, degrade, and misinterpret.</p> +<p>So far of Respectability; what the Covenanters used to call +‘rank conformity’: the deadliest gag and wet blanket +that can be laid on men. And now of Profit. And this +doctrine is perhaps the more redoubtable, because it harms all +sorts of men; not only the heroic and self-reliant, but the +obedient, cowlike squadrons. A man, by this doctrine, looks +to consequences at the second, or third, or fiftieth turn. +He chooses his end, and for that, with wily turns and through a +great sea of tedium, steers this mortal bark. There may be +political wisdom in such a view; but I am persuaded there can +spring no great moral zeal. To look thus obliquely upon +life is the very recipe for moral slumber. Our intention +and endeavour should be directed, not on some vague end of money +or applause, which shall come to us by a ricochet in a month or a +year, or twenty years, but on the act itself; not on the approval +of others, but on the rightness of that act. At every +instant, at every step in life, the point has to be decided, our +soul has to be saved, heaven has to be gained or lost. At +every step our spirits must applaud, at every step we must set +down the foot and sound the trumpet. ‘This have I +done,’ we must say; ‘right or wrong, this have I +done, in unfeigned honour of intention, as to myself and +God.’ The profit of every act should be this, that it +was right for us to do it. Any other profit than that, if +it involved a kingdom or the woman I love, ought, if I were +God’s upright soldier, to leave me untempted.</p> +<p>It is the mark of what we call a righteous decision, that it +is made directly and for its own sake. The whole man, mind +and body, having come to an agreement, tyrannically dictates +conduct. There are two dispositions eternally opposed: that +in which we recognise that one thing is wrong and another right, +and that in which, not seeing any clear distinction, we fall back +on the consideration of consequences. The truth is, by the +scope of our present teaching, nothing is thought very wrong and +nothing very right, except a few actions which have the +disadvantage of being disrespectable when found out; the more +serious part of men inclining to think all things <i>rather +wrong</i>, the more jovial to suppose them <i>right enough for +practical purposes</i>. I will engage my head, they do not +find that view in their own hearts; they have taken it up in a +dark despair; they are but troubled sleepers talking in their +sleep. The soul, or my soul at least, thinks very +distinctly upon many points of right and wrong, and often differs +flatly with what is held out as the thought of corporate humanity +in the code of society or the code of law. Am I to suppose +myself a monster? I have only to read books, the Christian +Gospels for example, to think myself a monster no longer; and +instead I think the mass of people are merely speaking in their +sleep.</p> +<p>It is a commonplace, enshrined, if I mistake not, even in +school copy-books, that honour is to be sought and not +fame. I ask no other admission; we are to seek honour, +upright walking with our own conscience every hour of the day, +and not fame, the consequence, the far-off reverberation of our +footsteps. The walk, not the rumour of the walk, is what +concerns righteousness. Better disrespectable honour than +dishonourable fame. Better useless or seemingly hurtful +honour, than dishonour ruling empires and filling the mouths of +thousands. For the man must walk by what he sees, and leave +the issue with God who made him and taught him by the fortune of +his life. You would not dishonour yourself for money; which +is at least tangible; would you do it, then, for a doubtful +forecast in politics, or another person’s theory in +morals?</p> +<p>So intricate is the scheme of our affairs, that no man can +calculate the bearing of his own behaviour even on those +immediately around him, how much less upon the world at large or +on succeeding generations! To walk by external prudence and +the rule of consequences would require, not a man, but God. +All that we know to guide us in this changing labyrinth is our +soul with its fixed design of righteousness, and a few old +precepts which commend themselves to that. The precepts are +vague when we endeavour to apply them; consequences are more +entangled than a wisp of string, and their confusion is +unrestingly in change; we must hold to what we know and walk by +it. We must walk by faith, indeed, and not by +knowledge.</p> +<p>You do not love another because he is wealthy or wise or +eminently respectable: you love him because you love him; that is +love, and any other only a derision and grimace. It should +be the same with all our actions. If we were to conceive a +perfect man, it should be one who was never torn between +conflicting impulses, but who, on the absolute consent of all his +parts and faculties, submitted in every action of his life to a +self-dictation as absolute and unreasoned as that which bids him +love one woman and be true to her till death. But we should +not conceive him as sagacious, ascetical, playing off his +appetites against each other, turning the wing of public +respectable immorality instead of riding it directly down, or +advancing toward his end through a thousand sinister compromises +and considerations. The one man might be wily, might be +adroit, might be wise, might be respectable, might be gloriously +useful; it is the other man who would be good.</p> +<p>The soul asks honour and not fame; to be upright, not to be +successful; to be good, not prosperous; to be essentially, not +outwardly, respectable. Does your soul ask profit? +Does it ask money? Does it ask the approval of the +indifferent herd? I believe not. For my own part, I +want but little money, I hope; and I do not want to be decent at +all, but to be good.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> +<p>We have spoken of that supreme self-dictation which keeps +varying from hour to hour in its dictates with the variation of +events and circumstances. Now, for us, that is +ultimate. It may be founded on some reasonable process, but +it is not a process which we can follow or comprehend. And +moreover the dictation is not continuous, or not continuous +except in very lively and well-living natures; and between-whiles +we must brush along without it. Practice is a more +intricate and desperate business than the toughest theorising; +life is an affair of cavalry, where rapid judgment and prompt +action are alone possible and right. As a matter of fact, +there is no one so upright but he is influenced by the +world’s chatter; and no one so headlong but he requires to +consider consequences and to keep an eye on profit. For the +soul adopts all affections and appetites without exception, and +cares only to combine them for some common purpose which shall +interest all. Now, respect for the opinion of others, the +study of consequences, and the desire of power and comfort, are +all undeniably factors in the nature of man; and the more +undeniably since we find that, in our current doctrines, they +have swallowed up the others and are thought to conclude in +themselves all the worthy parts of man. These, then, must +also be suffered to affect conduct in the practical domain, much +or little according as they are forcibly or feebly present to the +mind of each.</p> +<p>Now, a man’s view of the universe is mostly a view of +the civilised society in which he lives. Other men and +women are so much more grossly and so much more intimately +palpable to his perceptions, that they stand between him and all +the rest; they are larger to his eye than the sun, he hears them +more plainly than thunder, with them, by them, and for them, he +must live and die. And hence the laws that affect his +intercourse with his fellow-men, although merely customary and +the creatures of a generation, are more clearly and continually +before his mind than those which bind him into the eternal system +of things, support him in his upright progress on this whirling +ball, or keep up the fire of his bodily life. And hence it +is that money stands in the first rank of considerations and so +powerfully affects the choice. For our society is built +with money for mortar; money is present in every joint of +circumstance; it might be named the social atmosphere, since, in +society, it is by that alone that men continue to live, and only +through that or chance that they can reach or affect one +another. Money gives us food, shelter, and privacy; it +permits us to be clean in person, opens for us the doors of the +theatre, gains us books for study or pleasure, enables us to help +the distresses of others, and puts us above necessity so that we +can choose the best in life. If we love, it enables us to +meet and live with the loved one, or even to prolong her health +and life; if we have scruples, it gives us an opportunity to be +honest; if we have any bright designs, here is what will smooth +the way to their accomplishment. Penury is the worst +slavery, and will soon lead to death.</p> +<p>But money is only a means; it presupposes a man to use +it. The rich can go where he pleases, but perhaps please +himself nowhere. He can buy a library or visit the whole +world, but perhaps has neither patience to read nor intelligence +to see. The table may be loaded and the appetite wanting; +the purse may be full, and the heart empty. He may have +gained the world and lost himself; and with all his wealth around +him, in a great house and spacious and beautiful demesne, he may +live as blank a life as any tattered ditcher. Without an +appetite, without an aspiration, void of appreciation, bankrupt +of desire and hope, there, in his great house, let him sit and +look upon his fingers. It is perhaps a more fortunate +destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be born a +millionaire. Although neither is to be despised, it is +always better policy to learn an interest than to make a thousand +pounds; for the money will soon be spent, or perhaps you may feel +no joy in spending it; but the interest remains imperishable and +ever new. To become a botanist, a geologist, a social +philosopher, an antiquary, or an artist, is to enlarge +one’s possessions in the universe by an incalculably higher +degree, and by a far surer sort of property, than to purchase a +farm of many acres. You had perhaps two thousand a year +before the transaction; perhaps you have two thousand five +hundred after it. That represents your gain in the one +case. But in the other, you have thrown down a barrier +which concealed significance and beauty. The blind man has +learned to see. The prisoner has opened up a window in his +cell and beholds enchanting prospects; he will never again be a +prisoner as he was; he can watch clouds and changing seasons, +ships on the river, travellers on the road, and the stars at +night; happy prisoner! his eyes have broken jail! And again +he who has learned to love an art or science has wisely laid up +riches against the day of riches; if prosperity come, he will not +enter poor into his inheritance; he will not slumber and forget +himself in the lap of money, or spend his hours in counting idle +treasures, but be up and briskly doing; he will have the true +alchemic touch, which is not that of Midas, but which transmutes +dead money into living delight and satisfaction. +<i>Être et pas avoir</i>—to be, not to +possess—that is the problem of life. To be wealthy, a +rich nature is the first requisite and money but the +second. To be of a quick and healthy blood, to share in all +honourable curiosities, to be rich in admiration and free from +envy, to rejoice greatly in the good of others, to love with such +generosity of heart that your love is still a dear possession in +absence or unkindness—these are the gifts of fortune which +money cannot buy and without which money can buy nothing. +For what can a man possess, or what can he enjoy, except +himself? If he enlarge his nature, it is then that he +enlarges his estates. If his nature be happy and valiant, +he will enjoy the universe as if it were his park and +orchard.</p> +<p>But money is not only to be spent; it has also to be +earned. It is not merely a convenience or a necessary in +social life; but it is the coin in which mankind pays his wages +to the individual man. And from this side, the question of +money has a very different scope and application. For no +man can be honest who does not work. Service for +service. If the farmer buys corn, and the labourer ploughs +and reaps, and the baker sweats in his hot bakery, plainly you +who eat must do something in your turn. It is not enough to +take off your hat, or to thank God upon your knees for the +admirable constitution of society and your own convenient +situation in its upper and more ornamental stories. Neither +is it enough to buy the loaf with a sixpence; for then you are +only changing the point of the inquiry; and you must first have +<i>bought the sixpence</i>. Service for service: how have +you bought your sixpences? A man of spirit desires +certainty in a thing of such a nature; he must see to it that +there is some reciprocity between him and mankind; that he pays +his expenditure in service; that he has not a lion’s share +in profit and a drone’s in labour; and is not a sleeping +partner and mere costly incubus on the great mercantile concern +of mankind.</p> +<p>Services differ so widely with different gifts, and some are +so inappreciable to external tests, that this is not only a +matter for the private conscience, but one which even there must +be leniently and trustfully considered. For remember how +many serve mankind who do no more than meditate; and how many are +precious to their friends for no more than a sweet and joyous +temper. To perform the function of a man of letters it is +not necessary to write; nay, it is perhaps better to be a living +book. So long as we love we serve; so long as we are loved +by others, I would almost say that we are indispensable; and no +man is useless while he has a friend. The true services of +life are inestimable in money, and are never paid. Kind +words and caresses, high and wise thoughts, humane designs, +tender behaviour to the weak and suffering, and all the charities +of man’s existence, are neither bought nor sold.</p> +<p>Yet the dearest and readiest, if not the most just, criterion +of a man’s services, is the wage that mankind pays him or, +briefly, what he earns. There at least there can be no +ambiguity. St. Paul is fully and freely entitled to his +earnings as a tentmaker, and Socrates fully and freely entitled +to his earnings as a sculptor, although the true business of each +was not only something different, but something which remained +unpaid. A man cannot forget that he is not superintended, +and serves mankind on parole. He would like, when +challenged by his own conscience, to reply: ‘I have done so +much work, and no less, with my own hands and brain, and taken so +much profit, and no more, for my own personal +delight.’ And though St. Paul, if he had possessed a +private fortune, would probably have scorned to waste his time in +making tents, yet of all sacrifices to public opinion none can be +more easily pardoned than that by which a man, already +spiritually useful to the world, should restrict the field of his +chief usefulness to perform services more apparent, and possess a +livelihood that neither stupidity nor malice could call in +question. Like all sacrifices to public opinion and mere +external decency, this would certainly be wrong; for the soul +should rest contented with its own approval and indissuadably +pursue its own calling. Yet, so grave and delicate is the +question, that a man may well hesitate before he decides it for +himself; he may well fear that he sets too high a valuation on +his own endeavours after good; he may well condescend upon a +humbler duty, where others than himself shall judge the service +and proportion the wage.</p> +<p>And yet it is to this very responsibility that the rich are +born. They can shuffle off the duty on no other; they are +their own paymasters on parole; and must pay themselves fair +wages and no more. For I suppose that in the course of +ages, and through reform and civil war and invasion, mankind was +pursuing some other and more general design than to set one or +two Englishmen of the nineteenth century beyond the reach of +needs and duties. Society was scarce put together, and +defended with so much eloquence and blood, for the convenience of +two or three millionaires and a few hundred other persons of +wealth and position. It is plain that if mankind thus acted +and suffered during all these generations, they hoped some +benefit, some ease, some wellbeing, for themselves and their +descendants; that if they supported law and order, it was to +secure fair-play for all; that if they denied themselves in the +present, they must have had some designs upon the future. +Now, a great hereditary fortune is a miracle of man’s +wisdom and mankind’s forbearance; it has not only been +amassed and handed down, it has been suffered to be amassed and +handed down; and surely in such a consideration as this, its +possessor should find only a new spur to activity and honour, +that with all this power of service he should not prove +unserviceable, and that this mass of treasure should return in +benefits upon the race. If he had twenty, or thirty, or a +hundred thousand at his banker’s, or if all Yorkshire or +all California were his to manage or to sell, he would still be +morally penniless, and have the world to begin like Whittington, +until he had found some way of serving mankind. His wage is +physically in his own hand; but, in honour, that wage must still +be earned. He is only steward on parole of what is called +his fortune. He must honourably perform his +stewardship. He must estimate his own services and allow +himself a salary in proportion, for that will be one among his +functions. And while he will then be free to spend that +salary, great or little, on his own private pleasures, the rest +of his fortune he but holds and disposes under trust for mankind; +it is not his, because he has not earned it; it cannot be his, +because his services have already been paid; but year by year it +is his to distribute, whether to help individuals whose +birthright and outfit have been swallowed up in his, or to +further public works and institutions.</p> +<p>At this rate, short of inspiration, it seems hardly possible +to be both rich and honest; and the millionaire is under a far +more continuous temptation to thieve than the labourer who gets +his shilling daily for despicable toils. Are you +surprised? It is even so. And you repeat it every +Sunday in your churches. ‘It is easier for a camel to +pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the +kingdom of God.’ I have heard this and similar texts +ingeniously explained away and brushed from the path of the +aspiring Christian by the tender Great-heart of the parish. +One excellent clergyman told us that the ‘eye of a +needle’ meant a low, Oriental postern through which camels +could not pass till they were unloaded—which is very likely +just; and then went on, bravely confounding the ‘kingdom of +God’ with heaven, the future paradise, to show that of +course no rich person could expect to carry his riches beyond the +grave—which, of course, he could not and never did. +Various greedy sinners of the congregation drank in the +comfortable doctrine with relief. It was worth the while +having come to church that Sunday morning! All was +plain. The Bible, as usual, meant nothing in particular; it +was merely an obscure and figurative school-copybook; and if a +man were only respectable, he was a man after God’s own +heart.</p> +<p>Alas! I fear not. And though this matter of a +man’s services is one for his own conscience, there are +some cases in which it is difficult to restrain the mind from +judging. Thus I shall be very easily persuaded that a man +has earned his daily bread; and if he has but a friend or two to +whom his company is delightful at heart, I am more than persuaded +at once. But it will be very hard to persuade me that any +one has earned an income of a hundred thousand. What he is +to his friends, he still would be if he were made penniless +to-morrow; for as to the courtiers of luxury and power, I will +neither consider them friends, nor indeed consider them at +all. What he does for mankind there are most likely +hundreds who would do the same, as effectually for the race and +as pleasurably to themselves, for the merest fraction of this +monstrous wage. Why it is paid, I am, therefore, unable to +conceive, and as the man pays it himself, out of funds in his +detention, I have a certain backwardness to think him honest.</p> +<p>At least, we have gained a very obvious point: that <i>what a +man spends upon himself</i>, <i>he shall have earned by services +to the race</i>. Thence flows a principle for the outset of +life, which is a little different from that taught in the present +day. I am addressing the middle and the upper classes; +those who have already been fostered and prepared for life at +some expense; those who have some choice before them, and can +pick professions; and above all, those who are what is called +independent, and need do nothing unless pushed by honour or +ambition. In this particular the poor are happy; among +them, when a lad comes to his strength, he must take the work +that offers, and can take it with an easy conscience. But +in the richer classes the question is complicated by the number +of opportunities and a variety of considerations. Here, +then, this principle of ours comes in helpfully. The young +man has to seek, not a road to wealth, but an opportunity of +service; not money, but honest work. If he has some strong +propensity, some calling of nature, some over-weening interest in +any special field of industry, inquiry, or art, he will do right +to obey the impulse; and that for two reasons: the first +external, because there he will render the best services; the +second personal, because a demand of his own nature is to him +without appeal whenever it can be satisfied with the consent of +his other faculties and appetites. If he has no such +elective taste, by the very principle on which he chooses any +pursuit at all he must choose the most honest and serviceable, +and not the most highly remunerated. We have here an +external problem, not from or to ourself, but flowing from the +constitution of society; and we have our own soul with its fixed +design of righteousness. All that can be done is to present +the problem in proper terms, and leave it to the soul of the +individual. Now, the problem to the poor is one of +necessity: to earn wherewithal to live, they must find +remunerative labour. But the problem to the rich is one of +honour: having the wherewithal, they must find serviceable +labour. Each has to earn his daily bread: the one, because +he has not yet got it to eat; the other, who has already eaten +it, because he has not yet earned it.</p> +<p>Of course, what is true of bread is true of luxuries and +comforts, whether for the body or the mind. But the +consideration of luxuries leads us to a new aspect of the whole +question, and to a second proposition no less true, and maybe no +less startling, than the last.</p> +<p>At the present day, we, of the easier classes, are in a state +of surfeit and disgrace after meat. Plethora has filled us +with indifference; and we are covered from head to foot with the +callosities of habitual opulence. Born into what is called +a certain rank, we live, as the saying is, up to our +station. We squander without enjoyment, because our fathers +squandered. We eat of the best, not from delicacy, but from +brazen habit. We do not keenly enjoy or eagerly desire the +presence of a luxury; we are unaccustomed to its absence. +And not only do we squander money from habit, but still more +pitifully waste it in ostentation. I can think of no more +melancholy disgrace for a creature who professes either reason or +pleasure for his guide, than to spend the smallest fraction of +his income upon that which he does not desire; and to keep a +carriage in which you do not wish to drive, or a butler of whom +you are afraid, is a pathetic kind of folly. Money, being a +means of happiness, should make both parties happy when it +changes hands; rightly disposed, it should be twice blessed in +its employment; and buyer and seller should alike have their +twenty shillings worth of profit out of every pound. +Benjamin Franklin went through life an altered man, because he +once paid too dearly for a penny whistle. My concern +springs usually from a deeper source, to wit, from having bought +a whistle when I did not want one. I find I regret this, or +would regret it if I gave myself the time, not only on personal +but on moral and philanthropical considerations. For, +first, in a world where money is wanting to buy books for eager +students and food and medicine for pining children, and where a +large majority are starved in their most immediate desires, it is +surely base, stupid, and cruel to squander money when I am pushed +by no appetite and enjoy no return of genuine satisfaction. +My philanthropy is wide enough in scope to include myself; and +when I have made myself happy, I have at least one good argument +that I have acted rightly; but where that is not so, and I have +bought and not enjoyed, my mouth is closed, and I conceive that I +have robbed the poor. And, second, anything I buy or use +which I do not sincerely want or cannot vividly enjoy, disturbs +the balance of supply and demand, and contributes to remove +industrious hands from the production of what is useful or +pleasurable and to keep them busy upon ropes of sand and things +that are a weariness to the flesh. That extravagance is +truly sinful, and a very silly sin to boot, in which we +impoverish mankind and ourselves. It is another question +for each man’s heart. He knows if he can enjoy what +he buys and uses; if he cannot, he is a dog in the manger; nay, +it he cannot, I contend he is a thief, for nothing really belongs +to a man which he cannot use. Proprietor is connected with +propriety; and that only is the man’s which is proper to +his wants and faculties.</p> +<p>A youth, in choosing a career, must not be alarmed by +poverty. Want is a sore thing, but poverty does not imply +want. It remains to be seen whether with half his present +income, or a third, he cannot, in the most generous sense, live +as fully as at present. He is a fool who objects to +luxuries; but he is also a fool who does not protest against the +waste of luxuries on those who do not desire and cannot enjoy +them. It remains to be seen, by each man who would live a +true life to himself and not a merely specious life to society, +how many luxuries he truly wants and to how many he merely +submits as to a social propriety; and all these last he will +immediately forswear. Let him do this, and he will be +surprised to find how little money it requires to keep him in +complete contentment and activity of mind and senses. Life +at any level among the easy classes is conceived upon a principle +of rivalry, where each man and each household must ape the tastes +and emulate the display of others. One is delicate in +eating, another in wine, a third in furniture or works of art or +dress; and I, who care nothing for any of these refinements, who +am perhaps a plain athletic creature and love exercise, beef, +beer, flannel shirts and a camp bed, am yet called upon to +assimilate all these other tastes and make these foreign +occasions of expenditure my own. It may be cynical: I am +sure I shall be told it is selfish; but I will spend my money as +I please and for my own intimate personal gratification, and +should count myself a nincompoop indeed to lay out the colour of +a halfpenny on any fancied social decency or duty. I shall +not wear gloves unless my hands are cold, or unless I am born +with a delight in them. Dress is my own affair, and that of +one other in the world; that, in fact and for an obvious reason, +of any woman who shall chance to be in love with me. I +shall lodge where I have a mind. If I do not ask society to +live with me, they must be silent; and even if I do, they have no +further right but to refuse the invitation! There is a kind +of idea abroad that a man must live up to his station, that his +house, his table, and his toilette, shall be in a ratio of +equivalence, and equally imposing to the world. If this is +in the Bible, the passage has eluded my inquiries. If it is +not in the Bible, it is nowhere but in the heart of the +fool. Throw aside this fancy. See what you want, and +spend upon that; distinguish what you do not care about, and +spend nothing upon that. There are not many people who can +differentiate wines above a certain and that not at all a high +price. Are you sure you are one of these? Are you +sure you prefer cigars at sixpence each to pipes at some fraction +of a farthing? Are you sure you wish to keep a gig? +Do you care about where you sleep, or are you not as much at your +ease in a cheap lodging as in an Elizabethan manor-house? +Do you enjoy fine clothes? It is not possible to answer +these questions without a trial; and there is nothing more +obvious to my mind, than that a man who has not experienced some +ups and downs, and been forced to live more cheaply than in his +father’s house, has still his education to begin. Let +the experiment be made, and he will find to his surprise that he +has been eating beyond his appetite up to that hour; that the +cheap lodging, the cheap tobacco, the rough country clothes, the +plain table, have not only no power to damp his spirits, but +perhaps give him as keen pleasure in the using as the dainties +that he took, betwixt sleep and waking, in his former callous and +somnambulous submission to wealth.</p> +<p>The true Bohemian, a creature lost to view under the imaginary +Bohemians of literature, is exactly described by such a principle +of life. The Bohemian of the novel, who drinks more than is +good for him and prefers anything to work, and wears strange +clothes, is for the most part a respectable Bohemian, respectable +in disrespectability, living for the outside, and an +adventurer. But the man I mean lives wholly to himself, +does what he wishes, and not what is thought proper, buys what he +wants for himself, and not what is thought proper, works at what +he believes he can do well and not what will bring him in money +or favour. You may be the most respectable of men, and yet +a true Bohemian. And the test is this: a Bohemian, for as +poor as he may be, is always open-handed to his friends; he knows +what he can do with money and how he can do without it, a far +rarer and more useful knowledge; he has had less, and continued +to live in some contentment; and hence he cares not to keep more, +and shares his sovereign or his shilling with a friend. The +poor, if they are generous, are Bohemian in virtue of their +birth. Do you know where beggars go? Not to the great +houses where people sit dazed among their thousands, but to the +doors of poor men who have seen the world; and it was the widow +who had only two mites, who cast half her fortune into the +treasury.</p> +<p>But a young man who elects to save on dress or on lodging, or +who in any way falls out of the level of expenditure which is +common to his level in society, falls out of society +altogether. I suppose the young man to have chosen his +career on honourable principles; he finds his talents and +instincts can be best contented in a certain pursuit; in a +certain industry, he is sure that he is serving mankind with a +healthy and becoming service; and he is not sure that he would be +doing so, or doing so equally well, in any other industry within +his reach. Then that is his true sphere in life; not the +one in which he was born to his father, but the one which is +proper to his talents and instincts. And suppose he does +fall out of society, is that a cause of sorrow? Is your +heart so dead that you prefer the recognition of many to the love +of a few? Do you think society loves you? Put it to +the proof. Decline in material expenditure, and you will +find they care no more for you than for the Khan of +Tartary. You will lose no friends. If you had any, +you will keep them. Only those who were friends to your +coat and equipage will disappear; the smiling faces will +disappear as by enchantment; but the kind hearts will remain +steadfastly kind. Are you so lost, are you so dead, are you +so little sure of your own soul and your own footing upon solid +fact, that you prefer before goodness and happiness the +countenance of sundry diners-out, who will flee from you at a +report of ruin, who will drop you with insult at a shadow of +disgrace, who do not know you and do not care to know you but by +sight, and whom you in your turn neither know nor care to know in +a more human manner? Is it not the principle of society, +openly avowed, that friendship must not interfere with business; +which being paraphrased, means simply that a consideration of +money goes before any consideration of affection known to this +cold-blooded gang, that they have not even the honour of thieves, +and will rook their nearest and dearest as readily as a +stranger? I hope I would go as far as most to serve a +friend; but I declare openly I would not put on my hat to do a +pleasure to society. I may starve my appetites and control +my temper for the sake of those I love; but society shall take me +as I choose to be, or go without me. Neither they nor I +will lose; for where there is no love, it is both laborious and +unprofitable to associate.</p> +<p>But it is obvious that if it is only right for a man to spend +money on that which he can truly and thoroughly enjoy, the +doctrine applies with equal force to the rich and to the poor, to +the man who has amassed many thousands as well as to the youth +precariously beginning life. And it may be asked, Is not +this merely preparing misers, who are not the best of +company? But the principle was this: that which a man has +not fairly earned, and, further, that which he cannot fully +enjoy, does not belong to him, but is a part of mankind’s +treasure which he holds as steward on parole. To mankind, +then, it must be made profitable; and how this should be done is, +once more, a problem which each man must solve for himself, and +about which none has a right to judge him. Yet there are a +few considerations which are very obvious and may here be +stated. Mankind is not only the whole in general, but every +one in particular. Every man or woman is one of +mankind’s dear possessions; to his or her just brain, and +kind heart, and active hands, mankind intrusts some of its hopes +for the future; he or she is a possible well-spring of good acts +and source of blessings to the race. This money which you +do not need, which, in a rigid sense, you do not want, may +therefore be returned not only in public benefactions to the +race, but in private kindnesses. Your wife, your children, +your friends stand nearest to you, and should be helped the +first. There at least there can be little imposture, for +you know their necessities of your own knowledge. And +consider, if all the world did as you did, and according to their +means extended help in the circle of their affections, there +would be no more crying want in times of plenty and no more cold, +mechanical charity given with a doubt and received with +confusion. Would not this simple rule make a new world out +of the old and cruel one which we inhabit?</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>After two more sentences the +fragment breaks off</i>.]</p> +<h2>FATHER DAMIEN<br /> +AN OPEN LETTER TO THE REVEREND DR. HYDE OF HONOLULU</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Sydney</span>,<br /> +<i>February</i> 25, 1890.</p> +<p>Sir,—It may probably occur to you that we have met, and +visited, and conversed; on my side, with interest. You may +remember that you have done me several courtesies, for which I +was prepared to be grateful. But there are duties which +come before gratitude, and offences which justly divide friends, +far more acquaintances. Your letter to the Reverend H. B. +Gage is a document which, in my sight, if you had filled me with +bread when I was starving, if you had sat up to nurse my father +when he lay a-dying, would yet absolve me from the bonds of +gratitude. You know enough, doubtless, of the process of +canonisation to be aware that, a hundred years after the death of +Damien, there will appear a man charged with the painful office +of the <i>devil’s advocate</i>. After that noble +brother of mine, and of all frail clay, shall have lain a century +at rest, one shall accuse, one defend him. The circumstance +is unusual that the devil’s advocate should be a volunteer, +should be a member of a sect immediately rival, and should make +haste to take upon himself his ugly office ere the bones are +cold; unusual, and of a taste which I shall leave my readers free +to qualify; unusual, and to me inspiring. If I have at all +learned the trade of using words to convey truth and to arouse +emotion, you have at last furnished me with a subject. For +it is in the interest of all mankind, and the cause of public +decency in every quarter of the world, not only that Damien +should be righted, but that you and your letter should be +displayed at length, in their true colours, to the public +eye.</p> +<p>To do this properly, I must begin by quoting you at large: I +shall then proceed to criticise your utterance from several +points of view, divine and human, in the course of which I shall +attempt to draw again, and with more specification, the character +of the dead saint whom it has pleased you to vilify: so much +being done, I shall say farewell to you for ever.</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: right">‘<span +class="smcap">Honolulu</span>,<br /> +‘<i>August</i> 2, 1889.</p> +<p>‘Rev. <span class="smcap">H. B. Gage</span>.</p> +<p>‘Dear Brother,—In answer to your inquiries about +Father Damien, I can only reply that we who knew the man are +surprised at the extravagant newspaper laudations, as if he was a +most saintly philanthropist. The simple truth is, he was a +coarse, dirty man, head-strong and bigoted. He was not sent +to Molokai, but went there without orders; did not stay at the +leper settlement (before he became one himself), but circulated +freely over the whole island (less than half the island is +devoted to the lepers), and he came often to Honolulu. He +had no hand in the reforms and improvements inaugurated, which +were the work of our Board of Health, as occasion required and +means were provided. He was not a pure man in his relations +with women, and the leprosy of which he died should be attributed +to his vices and carelessness. Others have done much for +the lepers, our own ministers, the government physicians, and so +forth, but never with the Catholic idea of meriting eternal +life.—Yours, etc.,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">‘<span class="smcap">C. M. +Hyde</span>.’ <a name="citation65"></a><a +href="#footnote65" class="citation">[65]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>To deal fitly with a letter so extraordinary, I must draw at +the outset on my private knowledge of the signatory and his +sect. It may offend others; scarcely you, who have been so +busy to collect, so bold to publish, gossip on your rivals. +And this is perhaps the moment when I may best explain to you the +character of what you are to read: I conceive you as a man quite +beyond and below the reticences of civility: with what measure +you mete, with that shall it be measured you again; with you, at +last, I rejoice to feel the button off the foil and to plunge +home. And if in aught that I shall say I should offend +others, your colleagues, whom I respect and remember with +affection, I can but offer them my regret; I am not free, I am +inspired by the consideration of interests far more large; and +such pain as can be inflicted by anything from me must be indeed +trifling when compared with the pain with which they read your +letter. It is not the hangman, but the criminal, that +brings dishonour on the house.</p> +<p>You belong, sir, to a sect—I believe my sect, and that +in which my ancestors laboured—which has enjoyed, and +partly failed to utilise, an exceptional advantage in the islands +of Hawaii. The first missionaries came; they found the land +already self-purged of its old and bloody faith; they were +embraced, almost on their arrival, with enthusiasm; what troubles +they supported came far more from whites than from Hawaiians; and +to these last they stood (in a rough figure) in the shoes of +God. This is not the place to enter into the degree or +causes of their failure, such as it is. One element alone +is pertinent, and must here be plainly dealt with. In the +course of their evangelical calling, they—or too many of +them—grew rich. It may be news to you that the houses +of missionaries are a cause of mocking on the streets of +Honolulu. It will at least be news to you, that when I +returned your civil visit, the driver of my cab commented on the +size, the taste, and the comfort of your home. It would +have been news certainly to myself, had any one told me that +afternoon that I should live to drag such matter into +print. But you see, sir, how you degrade better men to your +own level; and it is needful that those who are to judge betwixt +you and me, betwixt Damien and the devil’s advocate, should +understand your letter to have been penned in a house which could +raise, and that very justly, the envy and the comments of the +passers-by. I think (to employ a phrase of yours which I +admire) it ‘should be attributed’ to you that you +have never visited the scene of Damien’s life and +death. If you had, and had recalled it, and looked about +your pleasant rooms, even your pen perhaps would have been +stayed.</p> +<p>Your sect (and remember, as far as any sect avows me, it is +mine) has not done ill in a worldly sense in the Hawaiian +Kingdom. When calamity befell their innocent parishioners, +when leprosy descended and took root in the Eight Islands, a +<i>quid pro quo</i> was to be looked for. To that +prosperous mission, and to you, as one of its adornments, God had +sent at last an opportunity. I know I am touching here upon +a nerve acutely sensitive. I know that others of your +colleagues look back on the inertia of your Church, and the +intrusive and decisive heroism of Damien, with something almost +to be called remorse. I am sure it is so with yourself; I +am persuaded your letter was inspired by a certain envy, not +essentially ignoble, and the one human trait to be espied in that +performance. You were thinking of the lost chance, the past +day; of that which should have been conceived and was not; of the +service due and not rendered. Time was, said the voice in +your ear, in your pleasant room, as you sat raging and writing; +and if the words written were base beyond parallel, the rage, I +am happy to repeat—it is the only compliment I shall pay +you—the rage was almost virtuous. But, sir, when we +have failed, and another has succeeded; when we have stood by, +and another has stepped in; when we sit and grow bulky in our +charming mansions, and a plain, uncouth peasant steps into the +battle, under the eyes of God, and succours the afflicted, and +consoles the dying, and is himself afflicted in his turn, and +dies upon the field of honour—the battle cannot be +retrieved as your unhappy irritation has suggested. It is a +lost battle, and lost for ever. One thing remained to you +in your defeat—some rags of common honour; and these you +have made haste to cast away.</p> +<p>Common honour; not the honour of having done anything right, +but the honour of not having done aught conspicuously foul; the +honour of the inert: that was what remained to you. We are +not all expected to be Damiens; a man may conceive his duty more +narrowly, he may love his comforts better; and none will cast a +stone at him for that. But will a gentleman of your +reverend profession allow me an example from the fields of +gallantry? When two gentlemen compete for the favour of a +lady, and the one succeeds and the other is rejected, and (as +will sometimes happen) matter damaging to the successful +rival’s credit reaches the ear of the defeated, it is held +by plain men of no pretensions that his mouth is, in the +circumstance, almost necessarily closed. Your Church and +Damien’s were in Hawaii upon a rivalry to do well: to help, +to edify, to set divine examples. You having (in one huge +instance) failed, and Damien succeeded, I marvel it should not +have occurred to you that you were doomed to silence; that when +you had been outstripped in that high rivalry, and sat inglorious +in the midst of your wellbeing, in your pleasant room—and +Damien, crowned with glories and horrors, toiled and rotted in +that pigsty of his under the cliffs of Kalawao—you, the +elect who would not, were the last man on earth to collect and +propagate gossip on the volunteer who would and did.</p> +<p>I think I see you—for I try to see you in the flesh as I +write these sentences—I think I see you leap at the word +pigsty, a hyperbolical expression at the best. ‘He +had no hand in the reforms,’ he was ‘a coarse, dirty +man’; these were your own words; and you may think it +possible that I am come to support you with fresh evidence. +In a sense, it is even so. Damien has been too much +depicted with a conventional halo and conventional features; so +drawn by men who perhaps had not the eye to remark or the pen to +express the individual; or who perhaps were only blinded and +silenced by generous admiration, such as I partly envy for +myself—such as you, if your soul were enlightened, would +envy on your bended knees. It is the least defect of such a +method of portraiture that it makes the path easy for the +devil’s advocate, and leaves for the misuse of the +slanderer a considerable field of truth. For the truth that +is suppressed by friends is the readiest weapon of the +enemy. The world, in your despite, may perhaps owe you +something, if your letter be the means of substituting once for +all a credible likeness for a wax abstraction. For, if that +world at all remember you, on the day when Damien of Molokai +shall be named Saint, it will be in virtue of one work: your +letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage.</p> +<p>You may ask on what authority I speak. It was my +inclement destiny to become acquainted, not with Damien, but with +Dr. Hyde. When I visited the lazaretto, Damien was already +in his resting grave. But such information as I have, I +gathered on the spot in conversation with those who knew him well +and long: some indeed who revered his memory; but others who had +sparred and wrangled with him, who beheld him with no halo, who +perhaps regarded him with small respect, and through whose +unprepared and scarcely partial communications the plain, human +features of the man shone on me convincingly. These gave me +what knowledge I possess; and I learnt it in that scene where it +could be most completely and sensitively +understood—Kalawao, which you have never visited, about +which you have never so much as endeavoured to inform yourself; +for, brief as your letter is, you have found the means to stumble +into that confession. ‘<i>Less than one-half</i> of +the island,’ you say, ‘is devoted to the +lepers.’ Molokai—‘<i>Molokai +ahina</i>,’ the ‘grey,’ lofty, and most +desolate island—along all its northern side plunges a front +of precipice into a sea of unusual profundity. This range +of cliff is, from east to west, the true end and frontier of the +island. Only in one spot there projects into the ocean a +certain triangular and rugged down, grassy, stony, windy, and +rising in the midst into a hill with a dead crater: the whole +bearing to the cliff that overhangs it somewhat the same relation +as a bracket to a wall. With this hint you will now be able +to pick out the leper station on a map; you will be able to judge +how much of Molokai is thus cut off between the surf and +precipice, whether less than a half, or less than a quarter, or a +fifth, or a tenth—or, say, a twentieth; and the next time +you burst into print you will be in a position to share with us +the issue of your calculations.</p> +<p>I imagine you to be one of those persons who talk with +cheerfulness of that place which oxen and wain-ropes could not +drag you to behold. You, who do not even know its situation +on the map, probably denounce sensational descriptions, +stretching your limbs the while in your pleasant parlour on +Beretania Street. When I was pulled ashore there one early +morning, there sat with me in the boat two sisters, bidding +farewell (in humble imitation of Damien) to the lights and joys +of human life. One of these wept silently; I could not +withhold myself from joining her. Had you been there, it is +my belief that nature would have triumphed even in you; and as +the boat drew but a little nearer, and you beheld the stairs +crowded with abominable deformations of our common manhood, and +saw yourself landing in the midst of such a population as only +now and then surrounds us in the horror of a nightmare—what +a haggard eye you would have rolled over your reluctant shoulder +towards the house on Beretania Street! Had you gone on; had +you found every fourth face a blot upon the landscape; had you +visited the hospital and seen the butt-ends of human beings lying +there almost unrecognisable, but still breathing, still thinking, +still remembering; you would have understood that life in the +lazaretto is an ordeal from which the nerves of a man’s +spirit shrink, even as his eye quails under the brightness of the +sun; you would have felt it was (even to-day) a pitiful place to +visit and a hell to dwell in. It is not the fear of +possible infection. That seems a little thing when compared +with the pain, the pity, and the disgust of the visitor’s +surroundings, and the atmosphere of affliction, disease, and +physical disgrace in which he breathes. I do not think I am +a man more than usually timid; but I never recall the days and +nights I spent upon that island promontory (eight days and seven +nights), without heartfelt thankfulness that I am somewhere +else. I find in my diary that I speak of my stay as a +‘grinding experience’: I have once jotted in the +margin, ‘<i>Harrowing</i> is the word’; and when the +<i>Mokolii</i> bore me at last towards the outer world, I kept +repeating to myself, with a new conception of their pregnancy, +those simple words of the song—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘’Tis the most distressful country +that ever yet was seen.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And observe: that which I saw and suffered from was a +settlement purged, bettered, beautified; the new village built, +the hospital and the Bishop-Home excellently arranged; the +sisters, the doctor, and the missionaries, all indefatigable in +their noble tasks. It was a different place when Damien +came there and made his great renunciation, and slept that first +night under a tree amidst his rotting brethren: alone with +pestilence; and looking forward (with what courage, with what +pitiful sinkings of dread, God only knows) to a lifetime of +dressing sores and stumps.</p> +<p>You will say, perhaps, I am too sensitive, that sights as +painful abound in cancer hospitals and are confronted daily by +doctors and nurses. I have long learned to admire and envy +the doctors and the nurses. But there is no cancer hospital +so large and populous as Kalawao and Kalaupapa; and in such a +matter every fresh case, like every inch of length in the pipe of +an organ, deepens the note of the impression; for what daunts the +onlooker is that monstrous sum of human suffering by which he +stands surrounded. Lastly, no doctor or nurse is called +upon to enter once for all the doors of that gehenna; they do not +say farewell, they need not abandon hope, on its sad threshold; +they but go for a time to their high calling, and can look +forward as they go to relief, to recreation, and to rest. +But Damien shut-to with his own hand the doors of his own +sepulchre.</p> +<p>I shall now extract three passages from my diary at +Kalawao.</p> +<p><i>A</i>. ‘Damien is dead and already somewhat +ungratefully remembered in the field of his labours and +sufferings. “He was a good man, but very +officious,” says one. Another tells me he had fallen +(as other priests so easily do) into something of the ways and +habits of thought of a Kanaka; but he had the wit to recognise +the fact, and the good sense to laugh at’ [over] +‘it. A plain man it seems he was; I cannot find he +was a popular.’</p> +<p><i>B</i>. ‘After Ragsdale’s death’ +[Ragsdale was a famous Luna, or overseer, of the unruly +settlement] ‘there followed a brief term of office by +Father Damien which served only to publish the weakness of that +noble man. He was rough in his ways, and he had no +control. Authority was relaxed; Damien’s life was +threatened, and he was soon eager to resign.’</p> +<p><i>C</i>. ‘Of Damien I begin to have an +idea. He seems to have been a man of the peasant class, +certainly of the peasant type: shrewd, ignorant and bigoted, yet +with an open mind, and capable of receiving and digesting a +reproof if it were bluntly administered; superbly generous in the +least thing as well as in the greatest, and as ready to give his +last shirt (although not without human grumbling) as he had been +to sacrifice his life; essentially indiscreet and officious, +which made him a troublesome colleague; domineering in all his +ways, which made him incurably unpopular with the Kanakas, but +yet destitute of real authority, so that his boys laughed at him +and he must carry out his wishes by the means of bribes. He +learned to have a mania for doctoring; and set up the Kanakas +against the remedies of his regular rivals: perhaps (if anything +matter at all in the treatment of such a disease) the worst thing +that he did, and certainly the easiest. The best and worst +of the man appear very plainly in his dealings with Mr. +Chapman’s money; he had originally laid it out’ +[intended to lay it out] ‘entirely for the benefit of +Catholics, and even so not wisely; but after a long, plain talk, +he admitted his error fully and revised the list. The sad +state of the boys’ home is in part the result of his lack +of control; in part, of his own slovenly ways and false ideas of +hygiene. Brother officials used to call it +“Damien’s Chinatown.” “Well,” +they would say, “your China-town keeps +growing.” And he would laugh with perfect +good-nature, and adhere to his errors with perfect +obstinacy. So much I have gathered of truth about this +plain, noble human brother and father of ours; his imperfections +are the traits of his face, by which we know him for our fellow; +his martyrdom and his example nothing can lessen or annul; and +only a person here on the spot can properly appreciate their +greatness.’</p> +<p>I have set down these private passages, as you perceive, +without correction; thanks to you, the public has them in their +bluntness. They are almost a list of the man’s +faults, for it is rather these that I was seeking: with his +virtues, with the heroic profile of his life, I and the world +were already sufficiently acquainted. I was besides a +little suspicious of Catholic testimony; in no ill sense, but +merely because Damien’s admirers and disciples were the +least likely to be critical. I know you will be more +suspicious still; and the facts set down above were one and all +collected from the lips of Protestants who had opposed the father +in his life. Yet I am strangely deceived, or they build up +the image of a man, with all his weaknesses, essentially heroic, +and alive with rugged honesty, generosity, and mirth.</p> +<p>Take it for what it is, rough private jottings of the worst +sides of Damien’s character, collected from the lips of +those who had laboured with and (in your own phrase) ‘knew +the man’;—though I question whether Damien would have +said that he knew you. Take it, and observe with wonder how +well you were served by your gossips, how ill by your +intelligence and sympathy; in how many points of fact we are at +one, and how widely our appreciations vary. There is +something wrong here; either with you or me. It is +possible, for instance, that you, who seem to have so many ears +in Kalawao, had heard of the affair of Mr. Chapman’s money, +and were singly struck by Damien’s intended +wrong-doing. I was struck with that also, and set it fairly +down; but I was struck much more by the fact that he had the +honesty of mind to be convinced. I may here tell you that +it was a long business; that one of his colleagues sat with him +late into the night, multiplying arguments and accusations; that +the father listened as usual with ‘perfect good-nature and +perfect obstinacy’; but at the last, when he was +persuaded—‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I am very much +obliged to you; you have done me a service; it would have been a +theft.’ There are many (not Catholics merely) who +require their heroes and saints to be infallible; to these the +story will be painful; not to the true lovers, patrons, and +servants of mankind.</p> +<p>And I take it, this is a type of our division; that you are +one of those who have an eye for faults and failures; that you +take a pleasure to find and publish them; and that, having found +them, you make haste to forget the overvailing virtues and the +real success which had alone introduced them to your +knowledge. It is a dangerous frame of mind. That you +may understand how dangerous, and into what a situation it has +already brought you, we will (if you please) go hand-in-hand +through the different phrases of your letter, and candidly +examine each from the point of view of its truth, its +appositeness, and its charity.</p> +<p>Damien was <i>coarse</i>.</p> +<p>It is very possible. You make us sorry for the lepers, +who had only a coarse old peasant for their friend and +father. But you, who were so refined, why were you not +there, to cheer them with the lights of culture? Or may I +remind you that we have some reason to doubt if John the Baptist +were genteel; and in the case of Peter, on whose career you +doubtless dwell approvingly in the pulpit, no doubt at all he was +a ‘coarse, headstrong’ fisherman! Yet even in +our Protestant Bibles Peter is called Saint.</p> +<p>Damien was <i>dirty</i>.</p> +<p>He was. Think of the poor lepers annoyed with this dirty +comrade! But the clean Dr. Hyde was at his food in a fine +house.</p> +<p>Damien was <i>headstrong</i>.</p> +<p>I believe you are right again; and I thank God for his strong +head and heart.</p> +<p>Damien was <i>bigoted</i>.</p> +<p>I am not fond of bigots myself, because they are not fond of +me. But what is meant by bigotry, that we should regard it +as a blemish in a priest? Damien believed his own religion +with the simplicity of a peasant or a child; as I would I could +suppose that you do. For this, I wonder at him some way +off; and had that been his only character, should have avoided +him in life. But the point of interest in Damien, which has +caused him to be so much talked about and made him at last the +subject of your pen and mine, was that, in him, his bigotry, his +intense and narrow faith, wrought potently for good, and +strengthened him to be one of the world’s heroes and +exemplars.</p> +<p>Damien <i>was not sent to Molokai</i>, <i>but went there +without orders</i>.</p> +<p>Is this a misreading? or do you really mean the words for +blame? I have heard Christ, in the pulpits of our Church, +held up for imitation on the ground that His sacrifice was +voluntary. Does Dr. Hyde think otherwise?</p> +<p>Damien <i>did not stay at the settlement</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p>It is true he was allowed many indulgences. Am I to +understand that you blame the father for profiting by these, or +the officers for granting them? In either case, it is a +mighty Spartan standard to issue from the house on Beretania +Street; and I am convinced you will find yourself with few +supporters.</p> +<p>Damien <i>had no hand in the reforms</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p>I think even you will admit that I have already been frank in +my description of the man I am defending; but before I take you +up upon this head, I will be franker still, and tell you that +perhaps nowhere in the world can a man taste a more pleasurable +sense of contrast than when he passes from Damien’s +‘Chinatown’ at Kalawao to the beautiful Bishop-Home +at Kalaupapa. At this point, in my desire to make all fair +for you, I will break my rule and adduce Catholic +testimony. Here is a passage from my diary about my visit +to the Chinatown, from which you will see how it is (even now) +regarded by its own officials: ‘We went round all the +dormitories, refectories, etc.—dark and dingy enough, with +a superficial cleanliness, which he’ [Mr. Dutton, the +lay-brother] ‘did not seek to defend. “It is +almost decent,” said he; “the sisters will make that +all right when we get them here.”’ And yet I +gathered it was already better since Damien was dead, and far +better than when he was there alone and had his own (not always +excellent) way. I have now come far enough to meet you on a +common ground of fact; and I tell you that, to a mind not +prejudiced by jealousy, all the reforms of the lazaretto, and +even those which he most vigorously opposed, are properly the +work of Damien. They are the evidence of his success; they +are what his heroism provoked from the reluctant and the +careless. Many were before him in the field; Mr. Meyer, for +instance, of whose faithful work we hear too little: there have +been many since; and some had more worldly wisdom, though none +had more devotion, than our saint. Before his day, even you +will confess, they had effected little. It was his part, by +one striking act of martyrdom, to direct all men’s eyes on +that distressful country. At a blow, and with the price of +his life, he made the place illustrious and public. And +that, if you will consider largely, was the one reform needful; +pregnant of all that should succeed. It brought money; it +brought (best individual addition of them all) the sisters; it +brought supervision, for public opinion and public interest +landed with the man at Kalawao. If ever any man brought +reforms, and died to bring them, it was he. There is not a +clean cup or towel in the Bishop-Home, but dirty Damien washed +it.</p> +<p>Damien <i>was not a pure man in his relations with women</i>, +<i>etc.</i></p> +<p>How do you know that? Is this the nature of the +conversation in that house on Beretania Street which the cabman +envied, driving past?—racy details of the misconduct of the +poor peasant priest, toiling under the cliffs of Molokai?</p> +<p>Many have visited the station before me; they seem not to have +heard the rumour. When I was there I heard many shocking +tales, for my informants were men speaking with the plainness of +the laity; and I heard plenty of complaints of Damien. Why +was this never mentioned? and how came it to you in the +retirement of your clerical parlour?</p> +<p>But I must not even seem to deceive you. This scandal, +when I read it in your letter, was not new to me. I had +heard it once before; and I must tell you how. There came +to Samoa a man from Honolulu; he, in a public-house on the beach, +volunteered the statement that Damien had ‘contracted the +disease from having connection with the female lepers’; and +I find a joy in telling you how the report was welcomed in a +public-house. A man sprang to his feet; I am not at liberty +to give his name, but from what I heard I doubt if you would care +to have him to dinner in Beretania Street. ‘You +miserable little—’ (here is a word I dare not print, +it would so shock your ears). ‘You miserable +little—,’ he cried, ‘if the story were a +thousand times true, can’t you see you are a million times +a lower—for daring to repeat it?’ I wish it +could be told of you that when the report reached you in your +house, perhaps after family worship, you had found in your soul +enough holy anger to receive it with the same expressions; ay, +even with that one which I dare not print; it would not need to +have been blotted away, like Uncle Toby’s oath, by the +tears of the recording angel; it would have been counted to you +for your brightest righteousness. But you have deliberately +chosen the part of the man from Honolulu, and you have played it +with improvements of your own. The man from +Honolulu—miserable, leering creature—communicated the +tale to a rude knot of beach-combing drinkers in a public-house, +where (I will so far agree with your temperance opinions) man is +not always at his noblest; and the man from Honolulu had himself +been drinking—drinking, we may charitably fancy, to +excess. It was to your ‘Dear Brother, the Reverend H. +B. Gage,’ that you chose to communicate the sickening +story; and the blue ribbon which adorns your portly bosom forbids +me to allow you the extenuating plea that you were drunk when it +was done. Your ‘dear brother’—a brother +indeed—made haste to deliver up your letter (as a means of +grace, perhaps) to the religious papers; where, after many +months, I found and read and wondered at it; and whence I have +now reproduced it for the wonder of others. And you and +your dear brother have, by this cycle of operations, built up a +contrast very edifying to examine in detail. The man whom +you would not care to have to dinner, on the one side; on the +other, the Reverend Dr. Hyde and the Reverend H. B. Gage: the +Apia bar-room, the Honolulu manse.</p> +<p>But I fear you scarce appreciate how you appear to your +fellow-men; and to bring it home to you, I will suppose your +story to be true. I will suppose—and God forgive me +for supposing it—that Damien faltered and stumbled in his +narrow path of duty; I will suppose that, in the horror of his +isolation, perhaps in the fever of incipient disease, he, who was +doing so much more than he had sworn, failed in the letter of his +priestly oath—he, who was so much a better man than either +you or me, who did what we have never dreamed of daring—he +too tasted of our common frailty. ‘O, Iago, the pity +of it!’ The least tender should be moved to tears; +the most incredulous to prayer. And all that you could do +was to pen your letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage!</p> +<p>Is it growing at all clear to you what a picture you have +drawn of your own heart? I will try yet once again to make +it clearer. You had a father: suppose this tale were about +him, and some informant brought it to you, proof in hand: I am +not making too high an estimate of your emotional nature when I +suppose you would regret the circumstance? that you would feel +the tale of frailty the more keenly since it shamed the author of +your days? and that the last thing you would do would be to +publish it in the religious press? Well, the man who tried +to do what Damien did, is my father, and the father of the man in +the Apia bar, and the father of all who love goodness; and he was +your father too, if God had given you grace to see it.</p> +<h2>THE PENTLAND RISING<br /> +<span class="smcap">a page of history</span><br /> +1666</h2> +<blockquote><p>‘A cloud of witnesses lyes here,<br /> +Who for Christ’s interest did appear.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Inscription on Battlefield at +Rullion Green</i>.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER I—THE CAUSES OF THE REVOLT</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘Halt, passenger; take heed what thou dost +see,<br /> +This tomb doth show for what some men did die.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monument</i>, +<i>Greyfriars’ Churchyard</i>,<i> Edinburgh</i>,<br /> +1661–1668. <a name="citation85"></a><a href="#footnote85" +class="citation">[85]</a></p> +<p>Two hundred years ago a tragedy was enacted in Scotland, the +memory whereof has been in great measure lost or obscured by the +deep tragedies which followed it. It is, as it were, the +evening of the night of persecution—a sort of twilight, +dark indeed to us, but light as the noonday when compared with +the midnight gloom which followed. This fact, of its being +the very threshold of persecution, lends it, however, an +additional interest.</p> +<p>The prejudices of the people against Episcopacy were +‘out of measure increased,’ says Bishop Burnet, +‘by the new incumbents who were put in the places of the +ejected preachers, and were generally very mean and despicable in +all respects. They were the worst preachers I ever heard; +they were ignorant to a reproach; and many of them were openly +vicious. They . . . were indeed the dreg and refuse of the +northern parts. Those of them who arose above contempt or +scandal were men of such violent tempers that they were as much +hated as the others were despised.’ <a +name="citation86"></a><a href="#footnote86" +class="citation">[86]</a> It was little to be wondered at, +from this account that the country-folk refused to go to the +parish church, and chose rather to listen to outed ministers in +the fields. But this was not to be allowed, and their +persecutors at last fell on the method of calling a roll of the +parishioners’ names every Sabbath, and marking a fine of +twenty shillings Scots to the name of each absenter. In +this way very large debts were incurred by persons altogether +unable to pay. Besides this, landlords were fined for their +tenants’ absences, tenants for their landlords’, +masters for their servants’, servants for their +masters’, even though they themselves were perfectly +regular in their attendance. And as the curates were +allowed to fine with the sanction of any common soldier, it may +be imagined that often the pretexts were neither very sufficient +nor well proven.</p> +<p>When the fines could not be paid at once, Bibles, clothes, and +household utensils were seized upon, or a number of soldiers, +proportionate to his wealth, were quartered on the +offender. The coarse and drunken privates filled the houses +with woe; snatched the bread from the children to feed their +dogs; shocked the principles, scorned the scruples, and +blasphemed the religion of their humble hosts; and when they had +reduced them to destitution, sold the furniture, and burned down +the roof-tree which was consecrated to the peasants by the name +of Home. For all this attention each of these soldiers +received from his unwilling landlord a certain sum of money per +day—three shillings sterling, according to +<i>Naphtali</i>. And frequently they were forced to pay +quartering money for more men than were in reality ‘cessed +on them.’ At that time it was no strange thing to +behold a strong man begging for money to pay his fines, and many +others who were deep in arrears, or who had attracted attention +in some other way, were forced to flee from their homes, and take +refuge from arrest and imprisonment among the wild mosses of the +uplands. <a name="citation87a"></a><a href="#footnote87a" +class="citation">[87a]</a></p> +<p>One example in particular we may cite:</p> +<p>John Neilson, the Laird of Corsack, a worthy man, was, +unfortunately for himself, a Nonconformist. First he was +fined in four hundred pounds Scots, and then through cessing he +lost nineteen hundred and ninety-three pounds Scots. He was +next obliged to leave his house and flee from place to place, +during which wanderings he lost his horse. His wife and +children were turned out of doors, and then his tenants were +fined till they too were almost ruined. As a final stroke, +they drove away all his cattle to Glasgow and sold them. <a +name="citation87b"></a><a href="#footnote87b" +class="citation">[87b]</a> Surely it was time that +something were done to alleviate so much sorrow, to overthrow +such tyranny.</p> +<p>About this time too there arrived in Galloway a person calling +himself Captain Andrew Gray, and advising the people to +revolt. He displayed some documents purporting to be from +the northern Covenanters, and stating that they were prepared to +join in any enterprise commenced by their southern +brethren. The leader of the persecutors was Sir James +Turner, an officer afterwards degraded for his share in the +matter. ‘He was naturally fierce, but was mad when he +was drunk, and that was very often,’ said Bishop +Burnet. ‘He was a learned man, but had always been in +armies, and knew no other rule but to obey orders. He told +me he had no regard to any law, but acted, as he was commanded, +in a military way.’ <a name="citation88"></a><a +href="#footnote88" class="citation">[88]</a></p> +<p>This was the state of matters, when an outrage was committed +which gave spirit and determination to the oppressed countrymen, +lit the flame of insubordination, and for the time at least +recoiled on those who perpetrated it with redoubled force.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II—THE BEGINNING</h3> +<blockquote><p>I love no warres,<br /> +I love no jarres,<br /> +Nor strife’s fire.<br /> +May discord cease,<br /> +Let’s live in peace:<br /> +This I desire.</p> +<p>If it must be<br /> +Warre we must see<br /> +(So fates conspire),<br /> +May we not feel<br /> +The force of steel:<br /> +This I desire.</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">T. +Jackson</span>, 1651 <a name="citation89"></a><a +href="#footnote89" class="citation">[89]</a></p> +<p>Upon Tuesday, November 13th, 1666, Corporal George Deanes and +three other soldiers set upon an old man in the clachan of Dalry +and demanded the payment of his fines. On the old +man’s refusing to pay, they forced a large party of his +neighbours to go with them and thresh his corn. The field +was a certain distance out of the clachan, and four persons, +disguised as countrymen, who had been out on the moors all night, +met this mournful drove of slaves, compelled by the four soldiers +to work for the ruin of their friend. However, chided to +the bone by their night on the hills, and worn out by want of +food, they proceeded to the village inn to refresh +themselves. Suddenly some people rushed into the room where +they were sitting, and told them that the soldiers were about to +roast the old man, naked, on his own girdle. This was too +much for them to stand, and they repaired immediately to the +scene of this gross outrage, and at first merely requested that +the captive should be released. On the refusal of the two +soldiers who were in the front room, high words were given and +taken on both sides, and the other two rushed forth from an +adjoining chamber and made at the countrymen with drawn +swords. One of the latter, John M‘Lellan of Barscob, +drew a pistol and shot the corporal in the body. The pieces +of tobacco-pipe with which it was loaded, to the number of ten at +least, entered him, and he was so much disturbed that he never +appears to have recovered, for we find long afterwards a petition +to the Privy Council requesting a pension for him. The +other soldiers then laid down their arms, the old man was +rescued, and the rebellion was commenced. <a +name="citation90"></a><a href="#footnote90" +class="citation">[90]</a></p> +<p>And now we must turn to Sir James Turner’s memoirs of +himself; for, strange to say, this extraordinary man was +remarkably fond of literary composition, and wrote, besides the +amusing account of his own adventures just mentioned, a large +number of essays and short biographies, and a work on war, +entitled <i>Pallas Armata</i>. The following are some of +the shorter pieces ‘Magick,’ +‘Friendship,’ ‘Imprisonment,’ +‘Anger,’ ‘Revenge,’ ‘Duells,’ +‘Cruelty,’ ‘A Defence of some of the Ceremonies +of the English Liturgie—to wit—Bowing at the Name of +Jesus, The frequent repetition of the Lord’s Prayer and +Good Lord deliver us, Of the Doxologie, Of Surplesses, Rotchets, +Canonnicall Coats,’ etc. From what we know of his +character we should expect ‘Anger’ and +‘Cruelty’ to be very full and instructive. But +what earthly right he had to meddle with ecclesiastical subjects +it is hard to see.</p> +<p>Upon the 12th of the month he had received some information +concerning Gray’s proceedings, but as it was excessively +indefinite in its character, he paid no attention to it. On +the evening of the 14th, Corporal Deanes was brought into +Dumfries, who affirmed stoutly that he had been shot while +refusing to sign the Covenant—a story rendered singularly +unlikely by the after conduct of the rebels. Sir James +instantly dispatched orders to the cessed soldiers either to come +to Dumfries or meet him on the way to Dalry, and commanded the +thirteen or fourteen men in the town with him to come at nine +next morning to his lodging for supplies.</p> +<p>On the morning of Thursday the rebels arrived at Dumfries with +50 horse and 150 foot. Neilson of Corsack, and Gray, who +commanded, with a considerable troop, entered the town, and +surrounded Sir James Turner’s lodging. Though it was +between eight and nine o’clock, that worthy, being unwell, +was still in bed, but rose at once and went to the window.</p> +<p>Neilson and some others cried, ‘You may have fair +quarter.’</p> +<p>‘I need no quarter,’ replied Sir James; ‘nor +can I be a prisoner, seeing there is no war +declared.’ On being told, however, that he must +either be a prisoner or die, he came down, and went into the +street in his night-shirt. Here Gray showed himself very +desirous of killing him, but he was overruled by Corsack. +However, he was taken away a prisoner, Captain Gray mounting him +on his own horse, though, as Turner naively remarks, ‘there +was good reason for it, for he mounted himself on a farre better +one of mine.’ A large coffer containing his clothes +and money, together with all his papers, were taken away by the +rebels. They robbed Master Chalmers, the Episcopalian +minister of Dumfries, of his horse, drank the King’s health +at the market cross, and then left Dumfries. <a +name="citation92"></a><a href="#footnote92" +class="citation">[92]</a></p> +<h3>CHAPTER III—THE MARCH OF THE REBELS</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘Stay, passenger, take notice what thou +reads,<br /> +At Edinburgh lie our bodies, here our heads;<br /> +Our right hands stood at Lanark, these we want,<br /> +Because with them we signed the Covenant.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Epitaph on a Tombstone at +Hamilton</i>. <a name="citation93"></a><a href="#footnote93" +class="citation">[93]</a></p> +<p>On Friday the 16th, Bailie Irvine of Dumfries came to the +Council at Edinburgh, and gave information concerning this +‘horrid rebellion.’ In the absence of Rothes, +Sharpe presided—much to the wrath of some members; and as +he imagined his own safety endangered, his measures were most +energetic. Dalzell was ordered away to the West, the guards +round the city were doubled, officers and soldiers were forced to +take the oath of allegiance, and all lodgers were commanded to +give in their names. Sharpe, surrounded with all these +guards and precautions, trembled—trembled as he trembled +when the avengers of blood drew him from his chariot on Magus +Muir,—for he knew how he had sold his trust, how he had +betrayed his charge, and he felt that against him must their +chiefest hatred be directed, against him their direst +thunder-bolts be forged. But even in his fear the apostate +Presbyterian was unrelenting, unpityingly harsh; he published in +his manifesto no promise of pardon, no inducement to +submission. He said, ‘If you submit not you must +die,’ but never added, ‘If you submit you may +live!’ <a name="citation94a"></a><a href="#footnote94a" +class="citation">[94a]</a></p> +<p>Meantime the insurgents proceeded on their way. At +Carsphairn they were deserted by Captain Gray, who, doubtless in +a fit of oblivion, neglected to leave behind him the coffer +containing Sir James’s money. Who he was is a +mystery, unsolved by any historian; his papers were evidently +forgeries—that, and his final flight, appear to indicate +that he was an agent of the Royalists, for either the King or the +Duke of York was heard to say, ‘That, if he might have his +wish, he would have them all turn rebels and go to arms.’ +<a name="citation94b"></a><a href="#footnote94b" +class="citation">[94b]</a></p> +<p>Upon the 18th day of the month they left Carsphairn and +marched onwards.</p> +<p>Turner was always lodged by his captors at a good inn, +frequently at the best of which their halting-place could +boast. Here many visits were paid to him by the ministers +and officers of the insurgent force. In his description of +these interviews he displays a vein of satiric severity, +admitting any kindness that was done to him with some qualifying +souvenir of former harshness, and gloating over any injury, +mistake, or folly, which it was his chance to suffer or to +hear. He appears, notwithstanding all this, to have been on +pretty good terms with his cruel ‘phanaticks,’ as the +following extract sufficiently proves:</p> +<p>‘Most of the foot were lodged about the church or +churchyard, and order given to ring bells next morning for a +sermon to be preached by Mr. Welch. Maxwell of Morith, and +Major M‘Cullough invited me to heare “that phanatick +sermon” (for soe they merrilie called it). They said +that preaching might prove an effectual meane to turne me, which +they heartilie wished. I answered to them that I was under +guards, and that if they intended to heare that sermon, it was +probable I might likewise, for it was not like my guards wold goe +to church and leave me alone at my lodgeings. Bot to what +they said of my conversion, I said it wold be hard to turne a +Turner. Bot because I founde them in a merrie humour, I +said, if I did not come to heare Mr. Welch preach, then they +might fine me in fortie shillings Scots, which was double the +suome of what I had exacted from the phanatics.’ <a +name="citation95"></a><a href="#footnote95" +class="citation">[95]</a></p> +<p>This took place at Ochiltree, on the 22nd day of the +month. The following is recounted by this personage with +malicious glee, and certainly, if authentic, it is a sad proof of +how chaff is mixed with wheat, and how ignorant, almost impious, +persons were engaged in this movement; nevertheless we give it, +for we wish to present with impartiality all the alleged facts to +the reader:</p> +<p>‘Towards the evening Mr. Robinsone and Mr. Crukshank +gaue me a visite; I called for some ale purposelie to heare one +of them blesse it. It fell Mr. Robinsone to seeke the +blessing, who said one of the most bombastick graces that ever I +heard in my life. He summoned God Allmightie very +imperiouslie to be their secondarie (for that was his +language). “And if,” said he, “thou wilt +not be our Secondarie, we will not fight for thee at all, for it +is not our cause bot thy cause; and if thou wilt not fight for +our cause and thy oune cause, then we are not obliged to fight +for it. They say,” said he, “that Dukes, +Earles, and Lords are coming with the King’s General +against us, bot they shall be nothing bot a threshing to +us.” This grace did more fullie satisfie me of the +folly and injustice of their cause, then the ale did quench my +thirst.’ <a name="citation96a"></a><a href="#footnote96a" +class="citation">[96a]</a></p> +<p>Frequently the rebels made a halt near some roadside alehouse, +or in some convenient park, where Colonel Wallace, who had now +taken the command, would review the horse and foot, during which +time Turner was sent either into the alehouse or round the +shoulder of the hill, to prevent him from seeing the disorders +which were likely to arise. He was, at last, on the 25th +day of the month, between Douglas and Lanark, permitted to behold +their evolutions. ‘I found their horse did consist of +four hundreth and fortie, and the foot of five hundreth and +upwards. . . . The horsemen were armed for most part with suord +and pistoll, some onlie with suord. The foot with musket, +pike, sith (scythe), forke, and suord; and some with suords great +and long.’ He admired much the proficiency of their +cavalry, and marvelled how they had attained to it in so short a +time. <a name="citation96b"></a><a href="#footnote96b" +class="citation">[96b]</a></p> +<p>At Douglas, which they had just left on the morning of this +great wapinshaw, they were charged—awful picture of +depravity!—with the theft of a silver spoon and a +nightgown. Could it be expected that while the whole +country swarmed with robbers of every description, such a rare +opportunity for plunder should be lost by rogues—that among +a thousand men, even though fighting for religion, there should +not be one Achan in the camp? At Lanark a declaration was +drawn up and signed by the chief rebels. In it occurs the +following:</p> +<p>‘The just sense whereof ’—the sufferings of +the country—‘made us choose, rather to betake +ourselves to the fields for self-defence, than to stay at home, +burdened daily with the calamities of others, and tortured with +the fears of our own approaching misery.’ <a +name="citation97"></a><a href="#footnote97" +class="citation">[97]</a></p> +<p>The whole body, too, swore the Covenant, to which ceremony the +epitaph at the head of this chapter seems to refer.</p> +<p>A report that Dalzell was approaching drove them from Lanark +to Bathgate, where, on the evening of Monday the 26th, the +wearied army stopped. But at twelve o’clock the cry, +which served them for a trumpet, of ‘Horse! horse!’ +and ‘Mount the prisoner!’ resounded through the +night-shrouded town, and called the peasants from their +well-earned rest to toil onwards in their march. The wind +howled fiercely over the moorland; a close, thick, wetting rain +descended. Chilled to the bone, worn out with long fatigue, +sinking to the knees in mire, onward they marched to +destruction. One by one the weary peasants fell off from +their ranks to sleep, and die in the rain-soaked moor, or to seek +some house by the wayside wherein to hide till daybreak. +One by one at first, then in gradually increasing numbers, at +every shelter that was seen, whole troops left the waning +squadrons, and rushed to hide themselves from the ferocity of the +tempest. To right and left nought could be descried but the +broad expanse of the moor, and the figures of their +fellow-rebels, seen dimly through the murky night, plodding +onwards through the sinking moss. Those who kept +together—a miserable few—often halted to rest +themselves, and to allow their lagging comrades to overtake +them. Then onward they went again, still hoping for +assistance, reinforcement, and supplies; onward again, through +the wind, and the rain, and the darkness—onward to their +defeat at Pentland, and their scaffold at Edinburgh. It was +calculated that they lost one half of their army on that +disastrous night-march.</p> +<p>Next night they reached the village of Colinton, four miles +from Edinburgh, where they halted for the last time. <a +name="citation98"></a><a href="#footnote98" +class="citation">[98]</a></p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV—RULLION GREEN</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘From Covenanters with uplifted hands,<br /> +From Remonstrators with associate bands,<br /> + Good Lord, +deliver us!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Royalist Rhyme</i>, <span +class="smcap">Kirkton</span>, p. 127.</p> +<p>Late on the fourth night of November, exactly twenty-four days +before Rullion Green, Richard and George Chaplain, merchants in +Haddington, beheld four men, clad like West-country Whigamores, +standing round some object on the ground. It was at the +two-mile cross, and within that distance from their homes. +At last, to their horror, they discovered that the recumbent +figure was a livid corpse, swathed in a blood-stained +winding-sheet. <a name="citation99"></a><a href="#footnote99" +class="citation">[99]</a> Many thought that this apparition +was a portent of the deaths connected with the Pentland +Rising.</p> +<p>On the morning of Wednesday, the 28th of November 1666, they +left Colinton and marched to Rullion Green. There they +arrived about sunset. The position was a strong one. +On the summit of a bare, heathery spur of the Pentlands are two +hillocks, and between them lies a narrow band of flat marshy +ground. On the highest of the two mounds—that nearest +the Pentlands, and on the left hand of the main body—was +the greater part of the cavalry, under Major Learmont; on the +other Barscob and the Galloway gentlemen; and in the centre +Colonel Wallace and the weak, half-armed infantry. Their +position was further strengthened by the depth of the valley +below, and the deep chasm-like course of the Rullion Burn.</p> +<p>The sun, going down behind the Pentlands, cast golden lights +and blue shadows on their snow-clad summits, slanted obliquely +into the rich plain before them, bathing with rosy splendour the +leafless, snow-sprinkled trees, and fading gradually into shadow +in the distance. To the south, too, they beheld a +deep-shaded amphitheatre of heather and bracken; the course of +the Esk, near Penicuik, winding about at the foot of its gorge; +the broad, brown expanse of Maw Moss; and, fading into blue +indistinctness in the south, the wild heath-clad Peeblesshire +hills. In sooth, that scene was fair, and many a yearning +glance was cast over that peaceful evening scene from the spot +where the rebels awaited their defeat; and when the fight was +over, many a noble fellow lifted his head from the blood-stained +heather to strive with darkening eyeballs to behold that +landscape, over which, as over his life and his cause, the +shadows of night and of gloom were falling and thickening.</p> +<p>It was while waiting on this spot that the fear-inspiring cry +was raised: ‘The enemy! Here come the +enemy!’</p> +<p>Unwilling to believe their own doom—for our insurgents +still hoped for success in some negotiations for peace which had +been carried on at Colinton—they called out, ‘They +are some of our own.’</p> +<p>‘They are too blacke’ (<i>i.e.</i> numerous), +‘fie! fie! for ground to draw up on,’ cried Wallace, +fully realising the want of space for his men, and proving that +it was not till after this time that his forces were finally +arranged. <a name="citation101a"></a><a href="#footnote101a" +class="citation">[101a]</a></p> +<p>First of all the battle was commenced by fifty Royalist horse +sent obliquely across the hill to attack the left wing of the +rebels. An equal number of Learmont’s men met them, +and, after a struggle, drove them back. The course of the +Rullion Burn prevented almost all pursuit, and Wallace, on +perceiving it, dispatched a body of foot to occupy both the burn +and some ruined sheep-walls on the farther side.</p> +<p>Dalzell changed his position, and drew up his army at the foot +of the hill, on the top of which were his foes. He then +dispatched a mingled body of infantry and cavalry to attack +Wallace’s outpost, but they also were driven back. A +third charge produced a still more disastrous effect, for Dalzell +had to check the pursuit of his men by a reinforcement.</p> +<p>These repeated checks bred a panic in the +Lieutenant-General’s ranks, for several of his men flung +down their arms. Urged by such fatal symptoms, and by the +approaching night, he deployed his men, and closed in +overwhelming numbers on the centre and right flank of the +insurgent army. In the increasing twilight the burning +matches of the firelocks, shimmering on barrel, halbert, and +cuirass, lent to the approaching army a picturesque effect, like +a huge, many-armed giant breathing flame into the darkness.</p> +<p>Placed on an overhanging hill, Welch and Semple cried aloud, +‘The God of Jacob! The God of Jacob!’ and prayed with +uplifted hands for victory. <a name="citation101b"></a><a +href="#footnote101b" class="citation">[101b]</a></p> +<p>But still the Royalist troops closed in.</p> +<p>Captain John Paton was observed by Dalzell, who determined to +capture him with his own hands. Accordingly he charged +forward, presenting his pistols. Paton fired, but the balls +hopped off Dalzell’s buff coat and fell into his +boot. With the superstition peculiar to his age, the +Nonconformist concluded that his adversary was rendered +bullet-proof by enchantment, and, pulling some small silver coins +from his pocket, charged his pistol therewith. Dalzell, +seeing this, and supposing, it is likely, that Paton was putting +in larger balls, hid behind his servant, who was killed. <a +name="citation102"></a><a href="#footnote102" +class="citation">[102]</a></p> +<p>Meantime the outposts were forced, and the army of Wallace was +enveloped in the embrace of a hideous +boa-constrictor—tightening, closing, crushing every +semblance of life from the victim enclosed in his toils. +The flanking parties of horse were forced in upon the centre, and +though, as even Turner grants, they fought with desperation, a +general flight was the result.</p> +<p>But when they fell there was none to sing their coronach or +wail the death-wail over them. Those who sacrificed +themselves for the peace, the liberty, and the religion of their +fellow-countrymen, lay bleaching in the field of death for long, +and when at last they were buried by charity, the peasants dug up +their bodies, desecrated their graves, and cast them once more +upon the open heath for the sorry value of their +winding-sheets!</p> +<p><i>Inscription on stone at Rullion Green</i>:</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">here</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">and near to</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">this place lyes the</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">reverend mr john crookshank</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">and mr andrew mccormick</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">ministers of the gospel and</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">about fifty other true covenanted</span><br +/> +<span class="smcap">presbyterians who were</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">killed in this place in their own</span><br +/> +<span class="smcap">inocent self defence and deffence</span><br +/> +<span class="smcap">of the covenanted</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">work of reformation by</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">thomas dalzeel of bins</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">upon the 28 of november</span><br /> +1666. <span class="smcap">rev.</span> 12. 11. <span +class="smcap">erected</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">sept.</span> 28 1738.</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Back of stone</i>:</p> +<blockquote><p>A Cloud of Witnesses lyes here,<br /> +Who for Christ’s Interest did appear,<br /> +For to restore true Liberty,<br /> +O’erturnèd then by tyranny.<br /> +And by proud Prelats who did Rage<br /> +Against the Lord’s Own heritage.<br /> +They sacrificed were for the laws<br /> +Of Christ their king, his noble cause.<br /> +These heroes fought with great renown;<br /> +By falling got the Martyr’s crown. <a +name="citation103"></a><a href="#footnote103" +class="citation">[103]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<h3>CHAPTER V—A RECORD OF BLOOD</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘They cut his hands ere he was dead,<br /> +And after that struck of his head.<br /> +His blood under the altar cries<br /> +For vengeance on Christ’s enemies.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Epitaph on Tomb at Longcross of +Clermont</i>. <a name="citation104"></a><a href="#footnote104" +class="citation">[104]</a></p> +<p>Master Andrew Murray, an outed minister, residing in the +Potterrow, on the morning after the defeat, heard the sounds of +cheering and the march of many feet beneath his window. He +gazed out. With colours flying, and with music sounding, +Dalzell, victorious, entered Edinburgh. But his banners +were dyed in blood, and a band of prisoners were marched within +his ranks. The old man knew it all. That martial and +triumphant strain was the death-knell of his friends and of their +cause, the rust-hued spots upon the flags were the tokens of +their courage and their death, and the prisoners were the +miserable remnant spared from death in battle to die upon the +scaffold. Poor old man! he had outlived all joy. Had +he lived longer he would have seen increasing torment and +increasing woe; he would have seen the clouds, then but gathering +in mist, cast a more than midnight darkness over his native +hills, and have fallen a victim to those bloody persecutions +which, later, sent their red memorials to the sea by many a +burn. By a merciful Providence all this was spared to +him—he fell beneath the first blow; and ere four days had +passed since Rullion Green, the aged minister of God was gathered +to is fathers. <a name="citation105a"></a><a href="#footnote105a" +class="citation">[105a]</a></p> +<p>When Sharpe first heard of the rebellion, he applied to Sir +Alexander Ramsay, the Provost, for soldiers to guard his +house. Disliking their occupation, the soldiers gave him an +ugly time of it. All the night through they kept up a +continuous series of ‘alarms and incursions,’ +‘cries of “Stand!” “Give +fire!”’ etc., which forced the prelate to flee to the +Castle in the morning, hoping there to find the rest which was +denied him at home. <a name="citation105b"></a><a +href="#footnote105b" class="citation">[105b]</a> Now, +however, when all danger to himself was past, Sharpe came out in +his true colours, and scant was the justice likely to be shown to +the foes of Scottish Episcopacy when the Primate was by. +The prisoners were lodged in Haddo’s Hole, a part of St. +Giles’ Cathedral, where, by the kindness of Bishop Wishart, +to his credit be it spoken, they were amply supplied with food. +<a name="citation105c"></a><a href="#footnote105c" +class="citation">[105c]</a></p> +<p>Some people urged, in the Council, that the promise of quarter +which had been given on the field of battle should protect the +lives of the miserable men. Sir John Gilmoure, the greatest +lawyer, gave no opinion—certainly a suggestive +circumstance—but Lord Lee declared that this would not +interfere with their legal trial, ‘so to bloody executions +they went.’ <a name="citation105d"></a><a +href="#footnote105d" class="citation">[105d]</a> To the +number of thirty they were condemned and executed; while two of +them, Hugh M‘Kail, a young minister, and Neilson of +Corsack, were tortured with the boots.</p> +<p>The goods of those who perished were confiscated, and their +bodies were dismembered and distributed to different parts of the +country; ‘the heads of Major M‘Culloch and the two +Gordons,’ it was resolved, says Kirkton, ‘should be +pitched on the gate of Kirkcudbright; the two Hamiltons and +Strong’s head should be affixed at Hamilton, and Captain +Arnot’s sett on the Watter Gate at Edinburgh. The +armes of all the ten, because they hade with uplifted hands +renewed the Covenant at Lanark, were sent to the people of that +town to expiate that crime, by placing these arms on the top of +the prison.’ <a name="citation106"></a><a +href="#footnote106" class="citation">[106]</a> Among these +was John Neilson, the Laird of Corsack, who saved Turner’s +life at Dumfries; in return for which service Sir James +attempted, though without success, to get the poor man +reprieved. One of the condemned died of his wounds between +the day of condemnation and the day of execution. +‘None of them,’ says Kirkton, ‘would save their +life by taking the declaration and renouncing the Covenant, +though it was offered to them. . . . But never men died in +Scotland so much lamented by the people, not only spectators, but +those in the country. When Knockbreck and his brother were +turned over, they clasped each other in their armes, and so +endured the pangs of death. When Humphrey Colquhoun died, +he spoke not like an ordinary citizen, but like a heavenly +minister, relating his comfortable Christian experiences, and +called for his Bible, and laid it on his wounded arm, and read +John iii. 8, and spoke upon it to the admiration of all. +But most of all, when Mr. M‘Kail died, there was such a +lamentation as was never known in Scotland before; not one dry +cheek upon all the street, or in all the numberless windows in +the mercate place.’ <a name="citation107a"></a><a +href="#footnote107a" class="citation">[107a]</a></p> +<p>The following passage from this speech speaks for itself and +its author:</p> +<p>‘Hereafter I will not talk with flesh and blood, nor +think on the world’s consolations. Farewell to all my +friends, whose company hath been refreshful to me in my +pilgrimage. I have done with the light of the sun and the +moon; welcome eternal light, eternal life, everlasting love, +everlasting praise, everlasting glory. Praise to Him that +sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb for ever! Bless the +Lord, O my soul, that hath pardoned all my iniquities in the +blood of His Son, and healed all my diseases. Bless Him, O +all ye His angels that excel in strength, ye ministers of His +that do His pleasure. Bless the Lord, O my soul!’ <a +name="citation107b"></a><a href="#footnote107b" +class="citation">[107b]</a></p> +<p>After having ascended the gallows ladder he again broke forth +in the following words of touching eloquence: ‘And now I +leave off to speak any more to creatures, and begin my +intercourse with God, which shall never be broken off. +Farewell father and mother, friends and relations! Farewell +the world and all delights! Farewell meat and drink! +Farewell sun, moon, and stars!—Welcome God and +Father! Welcome sweet Jesus Christ, the Mediator of the new +covenant! Welcome blessed Spirit of grace and God of all +consolation! Welcome glory! Welcome eternal +life! Welcome Death!’ <a name="citation107c"></a><a +href="#footnote107c" class="citation">[107c]</a></p> +<p>At Glasgow, too, where some were executed, they caused the +soldiers to beat the drums and blow the trumpets on their closing +ears. Hideous refinement of revenge! Even the last +words which drop from the lips of a dying man—words surely +the most sincere and the most unbiassed which mortal mouth can +utter—even these were looked upon as poisoned and as +poisonous. ‘Drown their last accents,’ was the +cry, ‘lest they should lead the crowd to take their part, +or at the least to mourn their doom!’ <a +name="citation108a"></a><a href="#footnote108a" +class="citation">[108a]</a> But, after all, perhaps it was +more merciful than one would think—unintentionally so, of +course; perhaps the storm of harsh and fiercely jubilant noises, +the clanging of trumpets, the rattling of drums, and the hootings +and jeerings of an unfeeling mob, which were the last they heard +on earth, might, when the mortal fight was over, when the river +of death was passed, add tenfold sweetness to the hymning of the +angels, tenfold peacefulness to the shores which they had +reached.</p> +<p>Not content with the cruelty of these executions, some even of +the peasantry, though these were confined to the shire of +Mid-Lothian, pursued, captured, plundered, and murdered the +miserable fugitives who fell in their way. One strange +story have we of these times of blood and persecution: Kirkton +the historian and popular tradition tell us alike of a flame +which often would arise from the grave, in a moss near Carnwath, +of some of those poor rebels: of how it crept along the ground; +of how it covered the house of their murderer; and of how it +scared him with its lurid glare.</p> +<p>Hear Daniel Defoe: <a name="citation108b"></a><a +href="#footnote108b" class="citation">[108b]</a></p> +<blockquote><p>‘If the poor people were by these +insupportable violences made desperate, and driven to all the +extremities of a wild despair, who can justly reflect on them +when they read in the Word of God “That oppression makes a +wise man mad”? And therefore were there no other +original of the insurrection known by the name of the Rising of +Pentland, it was nothing but what the intolerable oppressions of +those times might have justified to all the world, nature having +dictated to all people a right of defence when illegally and +arbitrarily attacked in a manner not justifiable either by laws +of nature, the laws of God, or the laws of the +country.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Bear this remonstrance of Defoe’s in mind, and though it +is the fashion of the day to jeer and to mock, to execrate and to +contemn, the noble band of Covenanters—though the bitter +laugh at their old-world religious views, the curl of the lip at +their merits, and the chilling silence on their bravery and their +determination, are but too rife through all society—be +charitable to what was evil and honest to what was good about the +Pentland insurgents, who fought for life and liberty, for country +and religion, on the 28th of November 1666, now just two hundred +years ago.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>, 28<i>th November</i> +1866.</p> +<h2>THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW</h2> +<p>History is much decried; it is a tissue of errors, we are +told, no doubt correctly; and rival historians expose each +other’s blunders with gratification. Yet the worst +historian has a clearer view of the period he studies than the +best of us can hope to form of that in which we live. The +obscurest epoch is to-day; and that for a thousand reasons of +inchoate tendency, conflicting report, and sheer mass and +multiplicity of experience; but chiefly, perhaps, by reason of an +insidious shifting of landmarks. Parties and ideas +continually move, but not by measurable marches on a stable +course; the political soil itself steals forth by imperceptible +degrees, like a travelling glacier, carrying on its bosom not +only political parties but their flag-posts and cantonments; so +that what appears to be an eternal city founded on hills is but a +flying island of Laputa. It is for this reason in +particular that we are all becoming Socialists without knowing +it; by which I would not in the least refer to the acute case of +Mr. Hyndman and his horn-blowing supporters, sounding their +trumps of a Sunday within the walls of our individualist +Jericho—but to the stealthy change that has come over the +spirit of Englishmen and English legislation. A little +while ago, and we were still for liberty; ‘crowd a few more +thousands on the bench of Government,’ we seemed to cry; +‘keep her head direct on liberty, and we cannot help but +come to port.’ This is over; <i>laisser faire</i> +declines in favour; our legislation grows authoritative, grows +philanthropical, bristles with new duties and new penalties, and +casts a spawn of inspectors, who now begin, note-book in hand, to +darken the face of England. It may be right or wrong, we +are not trying that; but one thing it is beyond doubt: it is +Socialism in action, and the strange thing is that we scarcely +know it.</p> +<p>Liberty has served us a long while, and it may be time to seek +new altars. Like all other principles, she has been proved +to be self-exclusive in the long run. She has taken wages +besides (like all other virtues) and dutifully served Mammon; so +that many things we were accustomed to admire as the benefits of +freedom and common to all were truly benefits of wealth, and took +their value from our neighbours’ poverty. A few +shocks of logic, a few disclosures (in the journalistic phrase) +of what the freedom of manufacturers, landlords, or shipowners +may imply for operatives, tenants, or seamen, and we not +unnaturally begin to turn to that other pole of hope, beneficent +tyranny. Freedom, to be desirable, involves kindness, +wisdom, and all the virtues of the free; but the free man as we +have seen him in action has been, as of yore, only the master of +many helots; and the slaves are still ill-fed, ill-clad, +ill-taught, ill-housed, insolently treated, and driven to their +mines and workshops by the lash of famine. So much, in +other men’s affairs, we have begun to see clearly; we have +begun to despair of virtue in these other men, and from our seat +in Parliament begin to discharge upon them, thick as arrows, the +host of our inspectors. The landlord has long shaken his +head over the manufacturer; those who do business on land have +lost all trust in the virtues of the shipowner; the professions +look askance upon the retail traders and have even started their +co-operative stores to ruin them; and from out the smoke-wreaths +of Birmingham a finger has begun to write upon the wall the +condemnation of the landlord. Thus, piece by piece, do we +condemn each other, and yet not perceive the conclusion, that our +whole estate is somewhat damnable. Thus, piece by piece, +each acting against his neighbour, each sawing away the branch on +which some other interest is seated, do we apply in detail our +Socialistic remedies, and yet not perceive that we are all +labouring together to bring in Socialism at large. A +tendency so stupid and so selfish is like to prove invincible; +and if Socialism be at all a practicable rule of life, there is +every chance that our grand-children will see the day and taste +the pleasures of existence in something far liker an ant-heap +than any previous human polity. And this not in the least +because of the voice of Mr. Hyndman or the horns of his +followers; but by the mere glacier movement of the political +soil, bearing forward on its bosom, apparently undisturbed, the +proud camps of Whig and Tory. If Mr. Hyndman were a man of +keen humour, which is far from my conception of his character, he +might rest from his troubling and look on: the walls of Jericho +begin already to crumble and dissolve. That great servile +war, the Armageddon of money and numbers, to which we looked +forward when young, becomes more and more unlikely; and we may +rather look to see a peaceable and blindfold evolution, the work +of dull men immersed in political tactics and dead to political +results.</p> +<p>The principal scene of this comedy lies, of course, in the +House of Commons; it is there, besides, that the details of this +new evolution (if it proceed) will fall to be decided; so that +the state of Parliament is not only diagnostic of the present but +fatefully prophetic of the future. Well, we all know what +Parliament is, and we are all ashamed of it. We may pardon +it some faults, indeed, on the ground of Irish +obstruction—a bitter trial, which it supports with notable +good humour. But the excuse is merely local; it cannot +apply to similar bodies in America and France; and what are we to +say of these? President Cleveland’s letter may serve +as a picture of the one; a glance at almost any paper will +convince us of the weakness of the other. Decay appears to +have seized on the organ of popular government in every land; and +this just at the moment when we begin to bring to it, as to an +oracle of justice, the whole skein of our private affairs to be +unravelled, and ask it, like a new Messiah, to take upon itself +our frailties and play for us the part that should be played by +our own virtues. For that, in few words, is the case. +We cannot trust ourselves to behave with decency; we cannot trust +our consciences; and the remedy proposed is to elect a round +number of our neighbours, pretty much at random, and say to +these: ‘Be ye our conscience; make laws so wise, and +continue from year to year to administer them so wisely, that +they shall save us from ourselves and make us righteous and +happy, world without end. Amen.’ And who can +look twice at the British Parliament and then seriously bring it +such a task? I am not advancing this as an argument against +Socialism: once again, nothing is further from my mind. +There are great truths in Socialism, or no one, not even Mr. +Hyndman, would be found to hold it; and if it came, and did +one-tenth part of what it offers, I for one should make it +welcome. But if it is to come, we may as well have some +notion of what it will be like; and the first thing to grasp is +that our new polity will be designed and administered (to put it +courteously) with something short of inspiration. It will +be made, or will grow, in a human parliament; and the one thing +that will not very hugely change is human nature. The +Anarchists think otherwise, from which it is only plain that they +have not carried to the study of history the lamp of human +sympathy.</p> +<p>Given, then, our new polity, with its new waggon-load of laws, +what headmarks must we look for in the life? We chafe a +good deal at that excellent thing, the income-tax, because it +brings into our affairs the prying fingers, and exposes us to the +tart words, of the official. The official, in all degrees, +is already something of a terror to many of us. I would not +willingly have to do with even a police-constable in any other +spirit than that of kindness. I still remember in my dreams +the eye-glass of a certain <i>attaché</i> at a certain +embassy—an eyeglass that was a standing indignity to all on +whom it looked; and my next most disagreeable remembrance is of a +bracing, Republican postman in the city of San Francisco. I +lived in that city among working folk, and what my neighbours +accepted at the postman’s hands—nay, what I took from +him myself—it is still distasteful to recall. The +bourgeois, residing in the upper parts of society, has but few +opportunities of tasting this peculiar bowl; but about the +income-tax, as I have said, or perhaps about a patent, or in the +halls of an embassy at the hands of my friend of the eye-glass, +he occasionally sets his lips to it; and he may thus imagine (if +he has that faculty of imagination, without which most faculties +are void) how it tastes to his poorer neighbours, who must drain +it to the dregs. In every contact with authority, with +their employer, with the police, with the School Board officer, +in the hospital, or in the workhouse, they have equally the +occasion to appreciate the light-hearted civility of the man in +office; and as an experimentalist in several out-of-the-way +provinces of life, I may say it has but to be felt to be +appreciated. Well, this golden age of which we are speaking +will be the golden age of officials. In all our concerns it +will be their beloved duty to meddle, with what tact, with what +obliging words, analogy will aid us to imagine. It is +likely these gentlemen will be periodically elected; they will +therefore have their turn of being underneath, which does not +always sweeten men’s conditions. The laws they will +have to administer will be no clearer than those we know to-day, +and the body which is to regulate their administration no wiser +than the British Parliament. So that upon all hands we may +look for a form of servitude most galling to the +blood—servitude to many and changing masters, and for all +the slights that accompany the rule of jack-in-office. And +if the Socialistic programme be carried out with the least +fulness, we shall have lost a thing, in most respects not much to +be regretted, but as a moderator of oppression, a thing nearly +invaluable—the newspaper. For the independent journal +is a creature of capital and competition; it stands and falls +with millionaires and railway bonds and all the abuses and +glories of to-day; and as soon as the State has fairly taken its +bent to authority and philanthropy, and laid the least touch on +private property, the days of the independent journal are +numbered. State railways may be good things and so may +State bakeries; but a State newspaper will never be a very +trenchant critic of the State officials.</p> +<p>But again, these officials would have no sinecure. Crime +would perhaps be less, for some of the motives of crime we may +suppose would pass away. But if Socialism were carried out +with any fulness, there would be more contraventions. We +see already new sins ringing up like mustard—School Board +sins, factory sins, Merchant Shipping Act sins—none of +which I would be thought to except against in particular, but all +of which, taken together, show us that Socialism can be a hard +master even in the beginning. If it go on to such heights +as we hear proposed and lauded, if it come actually to its ideal +of the ant-heap, ruled with iron justice, the number of new +contraventions will be out of all proportion multiplied. +Take the case of work alone. Man is an idle animal. +He is at least as intelligent as the ant; but generations of +advisers have in vain recommended him the ant’s +example. Of those who are found truly indefatigable in +business, some are misers; some are the practisers of delightful +industries, like gardening; some are students, artists, +inventors, or discoverers, men lured forward by successive hopes; +and the rest are those who live by games of skill or +hazard—financiers, billiard-players, gamblers, and the +like. But in unloved toils, even under the prick of +necessity, no man is continually sedulous. Once eliminate +the fear of starvation, once eliminate or bound the hope of +riches, and we shall see plenty of skulking and +malingering. Society will then be something not wholly +unlike a cotton plantation in the old days; with cheerful, +careless, demoralised slaves, with elected overseers, and, +instead of the planter, a chaotic popular assembly. If the +blood be purposeful and the soil strong, such a plantation may +succeed, and be, indeed, a busy ant-heap, with full granaries and +long hours of leisure. But even then I think the whip will +be in the overseer’s hands, and not in vain. For, +when it comes to be a question of each man doing his own share or +the rest doing more, prettiness of sentiment will be +forgotten. To dock the skulker’s food is not enough; +many will rather eat haws and starve on petty pilferings than put +their shoulder to the wheel for one hour daily. For such as +these, then, the whip will be in the overseer’s hand; and +his own sense of justice and the superintendence of a chaotic +popular assembly will be the only checks on its employment. +Now, you may be an industrious man and a good citizen, and yet +not love, nor yet be loved by, Dr. Fell the inspector. It +is admitted by private soldiers that the disfavour of a sergeant +is an evil not to be combated; offend the sergeant, they say, and +in a brief while you will either be disgraced or have +deserted. And the sergeant can no longer appeal to the +lash. But if these things go on, we shall see, or our sons +shall see, what it is to have offended an inspector.</p> +<p>This for the unfortunate. But with the fortunate also, +even those whom the inspector loves, it may not be altogether +well. It is concluded that in such a state of society, +supposing it to be financially sound, the level of comfort will +be high. It does not follow: there are strange depths of +idleness in man, a too-easily-got sufficiency, as in the case of +the sago-eaters, often quenching the desire for all besides; and +it is possible that the men of the richest ant-heaps may sink +even into squalor. But suppose they do not; suppose our +tricksy instrument of human nature, when we play upon it this new +tune, should respond kindly; suppose no one to be damped and none +exasperated by the new conditions, the whole enterprise to be +financially sound—a vaulting supposition—and all the +inhabitants to dwell together in a golden mean of comfort: we +have yet to ask ourselves if this be what man desire, or if it be +what man will even deign to accept for a continuance. It is +certain that man loves to eat, it is not certain that he loves +that only or that best. He is supposed to love comfort; it +is not a love, at least, that he is faithful to. He is +supposed to love happiness; it is my contention that he rather +loves excitement. Danger, enterprise, hope, the novel, the +aleatory, are dearer to man than regular meals. He does not +think so when he is hungry, but he thinks so again as soon as he +is fed; and on the hypothesis of a successful ant-heap, he would +never go hungry. It would be always after dinner in that +society, as, in the land of the Lotos-eaters, it was always +afternoon; and food, which, when we have it not, seems +all-important, drops in our esteem, as soon as we have it, to a +mere prerequisite of living.</p> +<p>That for which man lives is not the same thing for all +individuals nor in all ages; yet it has a common base; what he +seeks and what he must have is that which will seize and hold his +attention. Regular meals and weatherproof lodgings will not +do this long. Play in its wide sense, as the artificial +induction of sensation, including all games and all arts, will, +indeed, go far to keep him conscious of himself; but in the end +he wearies for realities. Study or experiment, to some rare +natures, is the unbroken pastime of a life. These are +enviable natures; people shut in the house by sickness often +bitterly envy them; but the commoner man cannot continue to exist +upon such altitudes: his feet itch for physical adventure; his +blood boils for physical dangers, pleasures, and triumphs; his +fancy, the looker after new things, cannot continue to look for +them in books and crucibles, but must seek them on the breathing +stage of life. Pinches, buffets, the glow of hope, the +shock of disappointment, furious contention with obstacles: these +are the true elixir for all vital spirits, these are what they +seek alike in their romantic enterprises and their unromantic +dissipations. When they are taken in some pinch closer than +the common, they cry, ‘Catch me here again!’ and sure +enough you catch them there again—perhaps before the week +is out. It is as old as <i>Robinson Crusoe</i>; as old as +man. Our race has not been strained for all these ages +through that sieve of dangers that we call Natural Selection, to +sit down with patience in the tedium of safety; the voices of its +fathers call it forth. Already in our society as it exists, +the bourgeois is too much cottoned about for any zest in living; +he sits in his parlour out of reach of any danger, often out of +reach of any vicissitude but one of health; and there he +yawns. If the people in the next villa took pot-shots at +him, he might be killed indeed, but so long as he escaped he +would find his blood oxygenated and his views of the world +brighter. If Mr. Mallock, on his way to the publishers, +should have his skirts pinned to a wall by a javelin, it would +not occur to him—at least for several hours—to ask if +life were worth living; and if such peril were a daily matter, he +would ask it never more; he would have other things to think +about, he would be living indeed—not lying in a box with +cotton, safe, but immeasurably dull. The aleatory, whether +it touch life, or fortune, or renown—whether we explore +Africa or only toss for halfpence—that is what I conceive +men to love best, and that is what we are seeking to exclude from +men’s existences. Of all forms of the aleatory, that +which most commonly attends our working men—the danger of +misery from want of work—is the least inspiriting: it does +not whip the blood, it does not evoke the glory of contest; it is +tragic, but it is passive; and yet, in so far as it is aleatory, +and a peril sensibly touching them, it does truly season the +men’s lives. Of those who fail, I do not +speak—despair should be sacred; but to those who even +modestly succeed, the changes of their life bring interest: a job +found, a shilling saved, a dainty earned, all these are wells of +pleasure springing afresh for the successful poor; and it is not +from these but from the villa-dweller that we hear complaints of +the unworthiness of life. Much, then, as the average of the +proletariat would gain in this new state of life, they would also +lose a certain something, which would not be missed in the +beginning, but would be missed progressively and progressively +lamented. Soon there would be a looking back: there would +be tales of the old world humming in young men’s ears, +tales of the tramp and the pedlar, and the hopeful +emigrant. And in the stall-fed life of the successful +ant-heap—with its regular meals, regular duties, regular +pleasures, an even course of life, and fear excluded—the +vicissitudes, delights, and havens of to-day will seem of epic +breadth. This may seem a shallow observation; but the +springs by which men are moved lie much on the surface. +Bread, I believe, has always been considered first, but the +circus comes close upon its heels. Bread we suppose to be +given amply; the cry for circuses will be the louder, and if the +life of our descendants be such as we have conceived, there are +two beloved pleasures on which they will be likely to fall back: +the pleasures of intrigue and of sedition.</p> +<p>In all this I have supposed the ant-heap to be financially +sound. I am no economist, only a writer of fiction; but +even as such, I know one thing that bears on the economic +question—I know the imperfection of man’s faculty for +business. The Anarchists, who count some rugged elements of +common sense among what seem to me their tragic errors, have said +upon this matter all that I could wish to say, and condemned +beforehand great economical polities. So far it is obvious +that they are right; they may be right also in predicting a +period of communal independence, and they may even be right in +thinking that desirable. But the rise of communes is none +the less the end of economic equality, just when we were told it +was beginning. Communes will not be all equal in extent, +nor in quality of soil, nor in growth of population; nor will the +surplus produce of all be equally marketable. It will be +the old story of competing interests, only with a new unit; and, +as it appears to me, a new, inevitable danger. For the +merchant and the manufacturer, in this new world, will be a +sovereign commune; it is a sovereign power that will see its +crops undersold, and its manufactures worsted in the +market. And all the more dangerous that the sovereign power +should be small. Great powers are slow to stir; national +affronts, even with the aid of newspapers, filter slowly into +popular consciousness; national losses are so unequally shared, +that one part of the population will be counting its gains while +another sits by a cold hearth. But in the sovereign commune +all will be centralised and sensitive. When jealousy +springs up, when (let us say) the commune of Poole has +overreached the commune of Dorchester, irritation will run like +quicksilver throughout the body politic; each man in Dorchester +will have to suffer directly in his diet and his dress; even the +secretary, who drafts the official correspondence, will sit down +to his task embittered, as a man who has dined ill and may expect +to dine worse; and thus a business difference between communes +will take on much the same colour as a dispute between diggers in +the lawless West, and will lead as directly to the arbitrament of +blows. So that the establishment of the communal system +will not only reintroduce all the injustices and heart-burnings +of economic inequality, but will, in all human likelihood, +inaugurate a world of hedgerow warfare. Dorchester will +march on Poole, Sherborne on Dorchester, Wimborne on both; the +waggons will be fired on as they follow the highway, the trains +wrecked on the lines, the ploughman will go armed into the field +of tillage; and if we have not a return of ballad literature, the +local press at least will celebrate in a high vein the victory of +Cerne Abbas or the reverse of Toller Porcorum. At least +this will not be dull; when I was younger, I could have welcomed +such a world with relief; but it is the New-Old with a vengeance, +and irresistibly suggests the growth of military powers and the +foundation of new empires.</p> +<h2>COLLEGE PAPERS</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I—EDINBURGH STUDENTS IN 1824</h3> +<p>On the 2nd of January 1824 was issued the prospectus of the +<i>Lapsus Linguæ</i>; <i>or</i>, <i>the College Tatler</i>; +and on the 7th the first number appeared. On Friday the 2nd +of April ‘<i>Mr. Tatler</i> became speechless.’ +Its history was not all one success; for the editor (who applies +to himself the words of Iago, ‘I am nothing if I am not +critical’) overstepped the bounds of caution, and found +himself seriously embroiled with the powers that were. +There appeared in No. <span class="smcap">xvi.</span> a most +bitter satire upon Sir John Leslie, in which he was compared to +Falstaff, charged with puffing himself, and very prettily +censured for publishing only the first volume of a class-book, +and making all purchasers pay for both. Sir John Leslie +took up the matter angrily, visited Carfrae the publisher, and +threatened him with an action, till he was forced to turn the +hapless <i>Lapsus</i> out of doors. The maltreated +periodical found shelter in the shop of Huie, Infirmary Street; +and No. <span class="smcap">xvii.</span> was duly issued from the +new office. No. <span class="smcap">xvii.</span> beheld +<i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> humiliation, in which, with fulsome +apology and not very credible assurances of respect and +admiration, he disclaims the article in question, and advertises +a new issue of No. <span class="smcap">xvi.</span> with all +objectionable matter omitted. This, with pleasing +euphemism, he terms in a later advertisement, ‘a new and +improved edition.’ This was the only remarkable +adventure of <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> brief existence; unless we +consider as such a silly Chaldee manuscript in imitation of +<i>Blackwood</i>, and a letter of reproof from a divinity student +on the impiety of the same dull effusion. He laments the +near approach of his end in pathetic terms. ‘How +shall we summon up sufficient courage,’ says he, ‘to +look for the last time on our beloved little devil and his +inestimable proof-sheet? How shall we be able to pass No. +14 Infirmary Street and feel that all its attractions are +over? How shall we bid farewell for ever to that excellent +man, with the long greatcoat, wooden leg and wooden board, who +acts as our representative at the gate of <i>Alma +Mater</i>?’ But alas! he had no choice: <i>Mr. +Tatler</i>, whose career, he says himself, had been successful, +passed peacefully away, and has ever since dumbly implored +‘the bringing home of bell and burial.’</p> +<p><i>Alter et idem</i>. A very different affair was the +<i>Lapsus Linguæ</i> from the <i>Edinburgh University +Magazine</i>. The two prospectuses alone, laid side by +side, would indicate the march of luxury and the repeal of the +paper duty. The penny bi-weekly broadside of session +1828–4 was almost wholly dedicated to Momus. +Epigrams, pointless letters, amorous verses, and University +grievances are the continual burthen of the song. But +<i>Mr. Tatler</i> was not without a vein of hearty humour; and +his pages afford what is much better: to wit, a good picture of +student life as it then was. The students of those polite +days insisted on retaining their hats in the class-room. +There was a cab-stance in front of the College; and +‘Carriage Entrance’ was posted above the main arch, +on what the writer pleases to call ‘coarse, unclassic +boards.’ The benches of the ‘Speculative’ +then, as now, were red; but all other Societies (the +‘Dialectic’ is the only survivor) met downstairs, in +some rooms of which it is pointedly said that ‘nothing else +could conveniently be made of them.’ However horrible +these dungeons may have been, it is certain that they were paid +for, and that far too heavily for the taste of session +1823–4, which found enough calls upon its purse for porter +and toasted cheese at Ambrose’s, or cranberry tarts and +ginger-wine at Doull’s. Duelling was still a +possibility; so much so that when two medicals fell to fisticuffs +in Adam Square, it was seriously hinted that single combat would +be the result. Last and most wonderful of all, Gall and +Spurzheim were in every one’s mouth; and the Law student, +after having exhausted Byron’s poetry and Scott’s +novels, informed the ladies of his belief in phrenology. In +the present day he would dilate on ‘Red as a rose is +she,’ and then mention that he attends Old +Greyfriars’, as a tacit claim to intellectual +superiority. I do not know that the advance is much.</p> +<p>But <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> best performances were three +short papers in which he hit off pretty smartly the +idiosyncrasies of the ‘<i>Divinity</i>,’ the +‘<i>Medical</i>,’ and the ‘<i>Law</i>’ of +session 1823–4. The fact that there was no notice of +the ‘<i>Arts</i>’ seems to suggest that they stood in +the same intermediate position as they do now—the epitome +of student-kind. <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> satire is, on +the whole, good-humoured, and has not grown superannuated in +<i>all</i> its limbs. His descriptions may limp at some +points, but there are certain broad traits that apply equally +well to session 1870–1. He shows us the +<i>Divinity</i> of the period—tall, pale, and +slender—his collar greasy, and his coat bare about the +seams—‘his white neckcloth serving four days, and +regularly turned the third’—‘the rim of his hat +deficient in wool’—and ‘a weighty volume of +theology under his arm.’ He was the man to buy cheap +‘a snuff-box, or a dozen of pencils, or a six-bladed knife, +or a quarter of a hundred quills,’ at any of the public +sale-rooms. He was noted for cheap purchases, and for +exceeding the legal tender in halfpence. He haunted +‘the darkest and remotest corner of the Theatre +Gallery.’ He was to be seen issuing from +‘aerial lodging-houses.’ Withal, says mine +author, ‘there were many good points about him: he paid his +landlady’s bill, read his Bible, went twice to church on +Sunday, seldom swore, was not often tipsy, and bought the +<i>Lapsus Linguæ</i>.’</p> +<p>The <i>Medical</i>, again, ‘wore a white greatcoat, and +consequently talked loud’—(there is something very +delicious in that <i>consequently</i>). He wore his hat on +one side. He was active, volatile, and went to the top of +Arthur’s Seat on the Sunday forenoon. He was as quiet +in a debating society as he was loud in the streets. He was +reckless and imprudent: yesterday he insisted on your sharing a +bottle of claret with him (and claret was claret then, before the +cheap-and-nasty treaty), and to-morrow he asks you for the loan +of a penny to buy the last number of the <i>Lapsus</i>.</p> +<p>The student of <i>Law</i>, again, was a learned man. +‘He had turned over the leaves of Justinian’s +<i>Institutes</i>, and knew that they were written in +Latin. He was well acquainted with the title-page of +Blackstone’s <i>Commentaries</i>, and <i>argal</i> (as the +gravedigger in <i>Hamlet</i> says) he was not a person to be +laughed at.’ He attended the Parliament House in the +character of a critic, and could give you stale sneers at all the +celebrated speakers. He was the terror of essayists at the +Speculative or the Forensic. In social qualities he seems +to have stood unrivalled. Even in the police-office we find +him shining with undiminished lustre. ‘If a +<i>Charlie</i> should find him rather noisy at an untimely hour, +and venture to take him into custody, he appears next morning +like a Daniel come to judgment. He opens his mouth to +speak, and the divine precepts of unchanging justice and Scots +law flow from his tongue. The magistrate listens in +amazement, and fines him only a couple of guineas.’</p> +<p>Such then were our predecessors and their College +Magazine. Barclay, Ambrose, Young Amos, and Fergusson were +to them what the Café, the Rainbow, and Rutherford’s +are to us. An hour’s reading in these old pages +absolutely confuses us, there is so much that is similar and so +much that is different; the follies and amusements are so like +our own, and the manner of frolicking and enjoying are so +changed, that one pauses and looks about him in philosophic +judgment. The muddy quadrangle is thick with living +students; but in our eyes it swarms also with the phantasmal +white greatcoats and tilted hats of 1824. Two races meet: +races alike and diverse. Two performances are played before +our eyes; but the change seems merely of impersonators, of +scenery, of costume. Plot and passion are the same. +It is the fall of the spun shilling whether seventy-one or +twenty-four has the best of it.</p> +<p>In a future number we hope to give a glance at the +individualities of the present, and see whether the cast shall be +head or tail—whether we or the readers of the <i>Lapsus</i> +stand higher in the balance.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II—THE MODERN STUDENT CONSIDERED GENERALLY</h3> +<p>We have now reached the difficult portion of our task. +<i>Mr. Tatler</i>, for all that we care, may have been as +virulent as he liked about the students of a former; but for the +iron to touch our sacred selves, for a brother of the Guild to +betray its most privy infirmities, let such a Judas look to +himself as he passes on his way to the Scots Law or the +Diagnostic, below the solitary lamp at the corner of the dark +quadrangle. We confess that this idea alarms us. We +enter a protest. We bind ourselves over verbally to keep +the peace. We hope, moreover, that having thus made you +secret to our misgivings, you will excuse us if we be dull, and +set that down to caution which you might before have charged to +the account of stupidity.</p> +<p>The natural tendency of civilisation is to obliterate those +distinctions which are the best salt of life. All the fine +old professional flavour in language has evaporated. Your +very gravedigger has forgotten his avocation in his electorship, +and would quibble on the Franchise over Ophelia’s grave, +instead of more appropriately discussing the duration of bodies +under ground. From this tendency, from this gradual +attrition of life, in which everything pointed and characteristic +is being rubbed down, till the whole world begins to slip between +our fingers in smooth undistinguishable sands, from this, we say, +it follows that we must not attempt to join <i>Mr. Taller</i> in +his simple division of students into <i>Law</i>, <i>Divinity</i>, +and <i>Medical</i>. Nowadays the Faculties may shake hands +over their follies; and, like Mrs. Frail and Mrs. Foresight (in +<i>Love for Love</i>) they may stand in the doors of opposite +class-rooms, crying: ‘Sister, Sister—Sister +everyway!’ A few restrictions, indeed, remain to +influence the followers of individual branches of study. +The Divinity, for example, must be an avowed believer; and as +this, in the present day, is unhappily considered by many as a +confession of weakness, he is fain to choose one of two ways of +gilding the distasteful orthodox bolus. Some swallow it in +a thin jelly of metaphysics; for it is even a credit to believe +in God on the evidence of some crack-jaw philosopher, although it +is a decided slur to believe in Him on His own authority. +Others again (and this we think the worst method), finding German +grammar a somewhat dry morsel, run their own little heresy as a +proof of independence; and deny one of the cardinal doctrines +that they may hold the others without being laughed at.</p> +<p>Besides, however, such influences as these, there is little +more distinction between the faculties than the traditionary +ideal, handed down through a long sequence of students, and +getting rounder and more featureless at each successive +session. The plague of uniformity has descended on the +College. Students (and indeed all sorts and conditions of +men) now require their faculty and character hung round their +neck on a placard, like the scenes in Shakespeare’s +theatre. And in the midst of all this weary sameness, not +the least common feature is the gravity of every face. No +more does the merry medical run eagerly in the clear winter +morning up the rugged sides of Arthur’s Seat, and hear the +church bells begin and thicken and die away below him among the +gathered smoke of the city. He will not break Sunday to so +little purpose. He no longer finds pleasure in the mere +output of his surplus energy. He husbands his strength, and +lays out walks, and reading, and amusement with deep +consideration, so that he may get as much work and pleasure out +of his body as he can, and waste none of his energy on mere +impulse, or such flat enjoyment as an excursion in the +country.</p> +<p>See the quadrangle in the interregnum of classes, in those two +or three minutes when it is full of passing students, and we +think you will admit that, if we have not made it ‘an +habitation of dragons,’ we have at least transformed it +into ‘a court for owls.’ Solemnity broods +heavily over the enclosure; and wherever you seek it, you will +find a dearth of merriment, an absence of real youthful +enjoyment. You might as well try</p> +<blockquote><p>‘To move wild laughter in the throat of +death’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>as to excite any healthy stir among the bulk of this staid +company.</p> +<p>The studious congregate about the doors of the different +classes, debating the matter of the lecture, or comparing +note-books. A reserved rivalry sunders them. Here are +some deep in Greek particles: there, others are already +inhabitants of that land</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Where entity and quiddity,<br /> +‘Like ghosts of defunct bodies fly—<br /> +Where Truth in person does appear<br /> +Like words congealed in northern air.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But none of them seem to find any relish for their +studies—no pedantic love of this subject or that lights up +their eyes—science and learning are only means for a +livelihood, which they have considerately embraced and which they +solemnly pursue. ‘Labour’s pale priests,’ +their lips seem incapable of laughter, except in the way of +polite recognition of professorial wit. The stains of ink +are chronic on their meagre fingers. They walk like Saul +among the asses.</p> +<p>The dandies are not less subdued. In 1824 there was a +noisy dapper dandyism abroad. Vulgar, as we should now +think, but yet genial—a matter of white greatcoats and loud +voices—strangely different from the stately frippery that +is rife at present. These men are out of their element in +the quadrangle. Even the small remains of boisterous +humour, which still clings to any collection of young men, jars +painfully on their morbid sensibilities; and they beat a hasty +retreat to resume their perfunctory march along Princes +Street. Flirtation is to them a great social duty, a +painful obligation, which they perform on every occasion in the +same chill official manner, and with the same commonplace +advances, the same dogged observance of traditional +behaviour. The shape of their raiment is a burden almost +greater than they can bear, and they halt in their walk to +preserve the due adjustment of their trouser-knees, till one +would fancy he had mixed in a procession of Jacobs. We +speak, of course, for ourselves; but we would as soon associate +with a herd of sprightly apes as with these gloomy modern +beaux. Alas, that our Mirabels, our Valentines, even our +Brummels, should have left their mantles upon nothing more +amusing!</p> +<p>Nor are the fast men less constrained. Solemnity, even +in dissipation, is the order of the day; and they go to the devil +with a perverse seriousness, a systematic rationalism of +wickedness that would have surprised the simpler sinners of +old. Some of these men whom we see gravely conversing on +the steps have but a slender acquaintance with each other. +Their intercourse consists principally of mutual bulletins of +depravity; and, week after week, as they meet they reckon up +their items of transgression, and give an abstract of their +downward progress for approval and encouragement. These +folk form a freemasonry of their own. An oath is the +shibboleth of their sinister fellowship. Once they hear a +man swear, it is wonderful how their tongues loosen and their +bashful spirits take enlargement, under the consciousness of +brotherhood. There is no folly, no pardoning warmth of +temper about them; they are as steady-going and systematic in +their own way as the studious in theirs.</p> +<p>Not that we are without merry men. No. We shall +not be ungrateful to those, whose grimaces, whose ironical +laughter, whose active feet in the ‘College Anthem’ +have beguiled so many weary hours and added a pleasant variety to +the strain of close attention. But even these are too +evidently professional in their antics. They go about +cogitating puns and inventing tricks. It is their vocation, +Hal. They are the gratuitous jesters of the class-room; +and, like the clown when he leaves the stage, their merriment too +often sinks as the bell rings the hour of liberty, and they pass +forth by the Post-Office, grave and sedate, and meditating fresh +gambols for the morrow.</p> +<p>This is the impression left on the mind of any observing +student by too many of his fellows. They seem all frigid +old men; and one pauses to think how such an unnatural state of +matters is produced. We feel inclined to blame for it the +unfortunate absence of <i>University feeling</i> which is so +marked a characteristic of our Edinburgh students. +Academical interests are so few and far between—students, +as students, have so little in common, except a peevish +rivalry—there is such an entire want of broad college +sympathies and ordinary college friendships, that we fancy that +no University in the kingdom is in so poor a plight. Our +system is full of anomalies. A, who cut B whilst he was a +shabby student, curries sedulously up to him and cudgels his +memory for anecdotes about him when he becomes the great +so-and-so. Let there be an end of this shy, proud reserve +on the one hand, and this shuddering fine ladyism on the other; +and we think we shall find both ourselves and the College +bettered. Let it be a sufficient reason for intercourse +that two men sit together on the same benches. Let the +great A be held excused for nodding to the shabby B in Princes +Street, if he can say, ‘That fellow is a +student.’ Once this could be brought about, we think +you would find the whole heart of the University beat +faster. We think you would find a fusion among the +students, a growth of common feelings, an increasing sympathy +between class and class, whose influence (in such a heterogeneous +company as ours) might be of incalculable value in all branches +of politics and social progress. It would do more than +this. If we could find some method of making the University +a real mother to her sons—something beyond a building of +class-rooms, a Senatus and a lottery of somewhat shabby +prizes—we should strike a death-blow at the constrained and +unnatural attitude of our Society. At present we are not a +united body, but a loose gathering of individuals, whose inherent +attraction is allowed to condense them into little knots and +coteries. Our last snowball riot read us a plain lesson on +our condition. There was no party spirit—no unity of +interests. A few, who were mischievously inclined, marched +off to the College of Surgeons in a pretentious file; but even +before they reached their destination the feeble inspiration had +died out in many, and their numbers were sadly thinned. +Some followed strange gods in the direction of Drummond Street, +and others slunk back to meek good-boyism at the feet of the +Professors. The same is visible in better things. As +you send a man to an English University that he may have his +prejudices rubbed off, you might send him to Edinburgh that he +may have them ingrained—rendered indelible—fostered +by sympathy into living principles of his spirit. And the +reason of it is quite plain. From this absence of +University feeling it comes that a man’s friendships are +always the direct and immediate results of these very +prejudices. A common weakness is the best master of +ceremonies in our quadrangle: a mutual vice is the readiest +introduction. The studious associate with the studious +alone—the dandies with the dandies. There is nothing +to force them to rub shoulders with the others; and so they grow +day by day more wedded to their own original opinions and +affections. They see through the same spectacles +continually. All broad sentiments, all real catholic +humanity expires; and the mind gets gradually stiffened into one +position—becomes so habituated to a contracted atmosphere, +that it shudders and withers under the least draught of the free +air that circulates in the general field of mankind.</p> +<p>Specialism in Society then is, we think, one cause of our +present state. Specialism in study is another. We +doubt whether this has ever been a good thing since the world +began; but we are sure it is much worse now than it was. +Formerly, when a man became a specialist, it was out of affection +for his subject. With a somewhat grand devotion he left all +the world of Science to follow his true love; and he contrived to +find that strange pedantic interest which inspired the man +who</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Settled <i>Hoti’s</i> +business—let it be—<br /> + Properly based <i>Oun—</i><br /> +Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic <i>De</i>,<br /> + Dead from the waist down.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Nowadays it is quite different. Our pedantry wants even +the saving clause of Enthusiasm. The election is now matter +of necessity and not of choice. Knowledge is now too broad +a field for your Jack-of-all-Trades; and, from beautifully +utilitarian reasons, he makes his choice, draws his pen through a +dozen branches of study, and behold—John the +Specialist. That this is the way to be wealthy we shall not +deny; but we hold that it is <i>not</i> the way to be healthy or +wise. The whole mind becomes narrowed and circumscribed to +one ‘punctual spot’ of knowledge. A rank +unhealthy soil breeds a harvest of prejudices. Feeling +himself above others in his one little branch—in the +classification of toadstools, or Carthaginian history—he +waxes great in his own eyes and looks down on others. +Having all his sympathies educated in one way, they die out in +every other; and he is apt to remain a peevish, narrow, and +intolerant bigot. Dilettante is now a term of reproach; but +there is a certain form of dilettantism to which no one can +object. It is this that we want among our students. +We wish them to abandon no subject until they have seen and felt +its merit—to act under a general interest in all branches +of knowledge, not a commercial eagerness to excel in one.</p> +<p>In both these directions our sympathies are constipated. +We are apostles of our own caste and our own subject of study, +instead of being, as we should, true men and <i>loving</i> +students. Of course both of these could be corrected by the +students themselves; but this is nothing to the purpose: it is +more important to ask whether the Senatus or the body of alumni +could do nothing towards the growth of better feeling and wider +sentiments. Perhaps in another paper we may say something +upon this head.</p> +<p>One other word, however, before we have done. What shall +we be when we grow really old? Of yore, a man was thought +to lay on restrictions and acquire new deadweight of mournful +experience with every year, till he looked back on his youth as +the very summer of impulse and freedom. We please ourselves +with thinking that it cannot be so with us. We would fain +hope that, as we have begun in one way, we may end in another; +and that when we are in fact the octogenarians that we +<i>seem</i> at present, there shall be no merrier men on +earth. It is pleasant to picture us, sunning ourselves in +Princes Street of a morning, or chirping over our evening cups, +with all the merriment that we wanted in youth.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III—DEBATING SOCIETIES</h3> +<p>A debating society is at first somewhat of a +disappointment. You do not often find the youthful +Demosthenes chewing his pebbles in the same room with you; or, +even if you do, you will probably think the performance little to +be admired. As a general rule, the members speak shamefully +ill. The subjects of debate are heavy; and so are the +fines. The Ballot Question—oldest of dialectic +nightmares—is often found astride of a somnolent +sederunt. The Greeks and Romans, too, are reserved as sort +of <i>general-utility</i> men, to do all the dirty work of +illustration; and they fill as many functions as the famous +waterfall scene at the ‘Princess’s,’ which I +found doing duty on one evening as a gorge in Peru, a haunt of +German robbers, and a peaceful vale in the Scottish +borders. There is a sad absence of striking argument or +real lively discussion. Indeed, you feel a growing contempt +for your fellow-members; and it is not until you rise yourself to +hawk and hesitate and sit shamefully down again, amid +eleemosynary applause, that you begin to find your level and +value others rightly. Even then, even when failure has +damped your critical ardour, you will see many things to be +laughed at in the deportment of your rivals.</p> +<p>Most laughable, perhaps, are your indefatigable strivers after +eloquence. They are of those who ‘pursue with +eagerness the phantoms of hope,’ and who, since they expect +that ‘the deficiencies of last sentence will be supplied by +the next,’ have been recommended by Dr. Samuel Johnson to +‘attend to the History of Rasselas, Prince of +Abyssinia.’ They are characterised by a hectic +hopefulness. Nothing damps them. They rise from the +ruins of one abortive sentence, to launch forth into another with +unabated vigour. They have all the manner of an +orator. From the tone of their voice, you would expect a +splendid period—and lo! a string of broken-backed, +disjointed clauses, eked out with stammerings and +throat-clearings. They possess the art (learned from the +pulpit) of rounding an uneuphonious sentence by dwelling on a +single syllable—of striking a balance in a top-heavy period +by lengthening out a word into a melancholy quaver. Withal, +they never cease to hope. Even at last, even when they have +exhausted all their ideas, even after the would-be peroration has +finally refused to perorate, they remain upon their feet with +their mouths open, waiting for some further inspiration, like +Chaucer’s widow’s son in the dung-hole, after</p> +<blockquote><p>‘His throat was kit unto the nekké +bone,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>in vain expectation of that seed that was to be laid upon his +tongue, and give him renewed and clearer utterance.</p> +<p>These men may have something to say, if they could only say +it—indeed they generally have; but the next class are +people who, having nothing to say, are cursed with a facility and +an unhappy command of words, that makes them the prime nuisances +of the society they affect. They try to cover their absence +of matter by an unwholesome vitality of delivery. They look +triumphantly round the room, as if courting applause, after a +torrent of diluted truism. They talk in a circle, harping +on the same dull round of argument, and returning again and again +to the same remark with the same sprightliness, the same +irritating appearance of novelty.</p> +<p>After this set, any one is tolerable; so we shall merely hint +at a few other varieties. There is your man who is +pre-eminently conscientious, whose face beams with sincerity as +he opens on the negative, and who votes on the affirmative at the +end, looking round the room with an air of chastened pride. +There is also the irrelevant speaker, who rises, emits a joke or +two, and then sits down again, without ever attempting to tackle +the subject of debate. Again, we have men who ride +pick-a-back on their family reputation, or, if their family have +none, identify themselves with some well-known statesman, use his +opinions, and lend him their patronage on all occasions. +This is a dangerous plan, and serves oftener, I am afraid, to +point a difference than to adorn a speech.</p> +<p>But alas! a striking failure may be reached without tempting +Providence by any of these ambitious tricks. Our own +stature will be found high enough for shame. The success of +three simple sentences lures us into a fatal parenthesis in the +fourth, from whose shut brackets we may never disentangle the +thread of our discourse. A momentary flush tempts us into a +quotation; and we may be left helpless in the middle of one of +Pope’s couplets, a white film gathering before our eyes, +and our kind friends charitably trying to cover our disgrace by a +feeble round of applause. <i>Amis lecteurs</i>, this is a +painful topic. It is possible that we too, we, the +‘potent, grave, and reverend’ editor, may have +suffered these things, and drunk as deep as any of the cup of +shameful failure. Let us dwell no longer on so delicate a +subject.</p> +<p>In spite, however, of these disagreeables, I should recommend +any student to suffer them with Spartan courage, as the benefits +he receives should repay him an hundredfold for them all. +The life of the debating society is a handy antidote to the life +of the classroom and quadrangle. Nothing could be conceived +more excellent as a weapon against many of those <i>peccant +humours</i> that we have been railing against in the jeremiad of +our last ‘College Paper’—particularly in the +field of intellect. It is a sad sight to see our +heather-scented students, our boys of seventeen, coming up to +College with determined views—<i>roués</i> in +speculation—having gauged the vanity of philosophy or +learned to shun it as the middle-man of heresy—a company of +determined, deliberate opinionists, not to be moved by all the +sleights of logic. What have such men to do with +study? If their minds are made up irrevocably, why burn the +‘studious lamp’ in search of further +confirmation? Every set opinion I hear a student deliver I +feel a certain lowering of my regard. He who studies, he +who is yet employed in groping for his premises, should keep his +mind fluent and sensitive, keen to mark flaws, and willing to +surrender untenable positions. He should keep himself +teachable, or cease the expensive farce of being taught. It +is to further this docile spirit that we desire to press the +claims of debating societies. It is as a means of melting +down this museum of premature petrifactions into living and +impressionable soul that we insist on their utility. If we +could once prevail on our students to feel no shame in avowing an +uncertain attitude towards any subject, if we could teach them +that it was unnecessary for every lad to have his +<i>opinionette</i> on every topic, we should have gone a far way +towards bracing the intellectual tone of the coming race of +thinkers; and this it is which debating societies are so well +fitted to perform.</p> +<p>We there meet people of every shade of opinion, and make +friends with them. We are taught to rail against a man the +whole session through, and then hob-a-nob with him at the +concluding entertainment. We find men of talent far +exceeding our own, whose conclusions are widely different from +ours; and we are thus taught to distrust ourselves. But the +best means of all towards catholicity is that wholesome rule +which some folk are most inclined to condemn—I mean the law +of <i>obliged speeches</i>. Your senior member commands; +and you must take the affirmative or the negative, just as suits +his best convenience. This tends to the most perfect +liberality. It is no good hearing the arguments of an +opponent, for in good verity you rarely follow them; and even if +you do take the trouble to listen, it is merely in a captious +search for weaknesses. This is proved, I fear, in every +debate; when you hear each speaker arguing out his own prepared +<i>spécialité</i> (he never intended speaking, of +course, until some remarks of, etc.), arguing out, I say, his own +<i>coached-up</i> subject without the least attention to what has +gone before, as utterly at sea about the drift of his +adversary’s speech as Panurge when he argued with +Thaumaste, and merely linking his own prelection to the last by a +few flippant criticisms. Now, as the rule stands, you are +saddled with the side you disapprove, and so you are forced, by +regard for your own fame, to argue out, to feel with, to +elaborate completely, the case as it stands against yourself; and +what a fund of wisdom do you not turn up in this idle digging of +the vineyard! How many new difficulties take form before +your eyes? how many superannuated arguments cripple finally into +limbo, under the glance of your enforced eclecticism!</p> +<p>Nor is this the only merit of Debating Societies. They +tend also to foster taste, and to promote friendship between +University men. This last, as we have had occasion before +to say, is the great requirement of our student life; and it will +therefore be no waste of time if we devote a paragraph to this +subject in its connection with Debating Societies. At +present they partake too much of the nature of a +<i>clique</i>. Friends propose friends, and mutual friends +second them, until the society degenerates into a sort of family +party. You may confirm old acquaintances, but you can +rarely make new ones. You find yourself in the atmosphere +of your own daily intercourse. Now, this is an unfortunate +circumstance, which it seems to me might readily be +rectified. Our Principal has shown himself so friendly +towards all College improvements that I cherish the hope of +seeing shortly realised a certain suggestion, which is not a new +one with me, and which must often have been proposed and +canvassed heretofore—I mean, a real <i>University Debating +Society</i>, patronised by the Senatus, presided over by the +Professors, to which every one might gain ready admittance on +sight of his matriculation ticket, where it would be a favour and +not a necessity to speak, and where the obscure student might +have another object for attendance besides the mere desire to +save his fines: to wit, the chance of drawing on himself the +favourable consideration of his teachers. This would be +merely following in the good tendency, which has been so +noticeable during all this session, to increase and multiply +student societies and clubs of every sort. Nor would it be +a matter of much difficulty. The united societies would +form a nucleus: one of the class-rooms at first, and perhaps +afterwards the great hall above the library, might be the place +of meeting. There would be no want of attendance or +enthusiasm, I am sure; for it is a very different thing to speak +under the bushel of a private club on the one hand, and, on the +other, in a public place, where a happy period or a subtle +argument may do the speaker permanent service in after +life. Such a club might end, perhaps, by rivalling the +‘Union’ at Cambridge or the ‘Union’ at +Oxford.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV—THE PHILOSOPHY OF UMBRELLAS <a +name="citation151"></a><a href="#footnote151" +class="citation">[151]</a></h3> +<p>It is wonderful to think what a turn has been given to our +whole Society by the fact that we live under the sign of +Aquarius—that our climate is essentially wet. A mere +arbitrary distinction, like the walking-swords of yore, might +have remained the symbol of foresight and respectability, had not +the raw mists and dropping showers of our island pointed the +inclination of Society to another exponent of those +virtues. A ribbon of the Legion of Honour or a string of +medals may prove a person’s courage; a title may prove his +birth; a professorial chair his study and acquirement; but it is +the habitual carriage of the umbrella that is the stamp of +Respectability. The umbrella has become the acknowledged +index of social position.</p> +<p>Robinson Crusoe presents us with a touching instance of the +hankering after them inherent in the civilised and educated +mind. To the superficial, the hot suns of Juan Fernandez +may sufficiently account for his quaint choice of a luxury; but +surely one who had borne the hard labour of a seaman under the +tropics for all these years could have supported an excursion +after goats or a peaceful <i>constitutional</i> arm in arm with +the nude Friday. No, it was not this: the memory of a +vanished respectability called for some outward manifestation, +and the result was—an umbrella. A pious castaway +might have rigged up a belfry and solaced his Sunday mornings +with the mimicry of church-bells; but Crusoe was rather a +moralist than a pietist, and his leaf-umbrella is as fine an +example of the civilised mind striving to express itself under +adverse circumstances as we have ever met with.</p> +<p>It is not for nothing, either, that the umbrella has become +the very foremost badge of modern civilisation—the Urim and +Thummim of respectability. Its pregnant symbolism has taken +its rise in the most natural manner. Consider, for a +moment, when umbrellas were first introduced into this country, +what manner of men would use them, and what class would adhere to +the useless but ornamental cane. The first, without doubt, +would be the hypochondriacal, out of solicitude for their health, +or the frugal, out of care for their raiment; the second, it is +equally plain, would include the fop, the fool, and the +Bobadil. Any one acquainted with the growth of Society, and +knowing out of what small seeds of cause are produced great +revolutions, and wholly new conditions of intercourse, sees from +this simple thought how the carriage of an umbrella came to +indicate frugality, judicious regard for bodily welfare, and +scorn for mere outward adornment, and, in one word, all those +homely and solid virtues implied in the term <span +class="smcap">respectability</span>. Not that the +umbrella’s costliness has nothing to do with its great +influence. Its possession, besides symbolising (as we have +already indicated) the change from wild Esau to plain Jacob +dwelling in tents, implies a certain comfortable provision of +fortune. It is not every one that can expose twenty-six +shillings’ worth of property to so many chances of loss and +theft. So strongly do we feel on this point, indeed, that +we are almost inclined to consider all who possess really +well-conditioned umbrellas as worthy of the Franchise. They +have a qualification standing in their lobbies; they carry a +sufficient stake in the common-weal below their arm. One +who bears with him an umbrella—such a complicated structure +of whalebone, of silk, and of cane, that it becomes a very +microcosm of modern industry—is necessarily a man of +peace. A half-crown cane may be applied to an +offender’s head on a very moderate provocation; but a +six-and-twenty shilling silk is a possession too precious to be +adventured in the shock of war.</p> +<p>These are but a few glances at how umbrellas (in the general) +came to their present high estate. But the true +Umbrella-Philosopher meets with far stranger applications as he +goes about the streets.</p> +<p>Umbrellas, like faces, acquire a certain sympathy with the +individual who carries them: indeed, they are far more capable of +betraying his trust; for whereas a face is given to us so far +ready made, and all our power over it is in frowning, and +laughing, and grimacing, during the first three or four decades +of life, each umbrella is selected from a whole shopful, as being +most consonant to the purchaser’s disposition. An +undoubted power of diagnosis rests with the practised +Umbrella-Philosopher. O you who lisp, and amble, and change +the fashion of your countenances—you who conceal all these, +how little do you think that you left a proof of your weakness in +our umbrella-stand—that even now, as you shake out the +folds to meet the thickening snow, we read in its ivory handle +the outward and visible sign of your snobbery, or from the +exposed gingham of its cover detect, through coat and waistcoat, +the hidden hypocrisy of the ‘<i>dickey</i>’! +But alas! even the umbrella is no certain criterion. The +falsity and the folly of the human race have degraded that +graceful symbol to the ends of dishonesty; and while some +umbrellas, from carelessness in selection, are not strikingly +characteristic (for it is only in what a man loves that he +displays his real nature), others, from certain prudential +motives, are chosen directly opposite to the person’s +disposition. A mendacious umbrella is a sign of great moral +degradation. Hypocrisy naturally shelters itself below a +silk; while the fast youth goes to visit his religious friends +armed with the decent and reputable gingham. May it not be +said of the bearers of these inappropriate umbrellas that they go +about the streets ‘with a lie in their right +hand’?</p> +<p>The kings of Siam, as we read, besides having a graduated +social scale of umbrellas (which was a good thing), prevented the +great bulk of their subjects from having any at all, which was +certainly a bad thing. We should be sorry to believe that +this Eastern legislator was a fool—the idea of an +aristocracy of umbrellas is too philosophic to have originated in +a nobody—and we have accordingly taken exceeding pains to +find out the reason of this harsh restriction. We think we +have succeeded; but, while admiring the principle at which he +aimed, and while cordially recognising in the Siamese potentate +the only man before ourselves who had taken a real grasp of the +umbrella, we must be allowed to point out how unphilosophically +the great man acted in this particular. His object, +plainly, was to prevent any unworthy persons from bearing the +sacred symbol of domestic virtues. We cannot excuse his +limiting these virtues to the circle of his court. We must +only remember that such was the feeling of the age in which he +lived. Liberalism had not yet raised the war-cry of the +working classes. But here was his mistake: it was a +needless regulation. Except in a very few cases of +hypocrisy joined to a powerful intellect, men, not by nature +<i>umbrellarians</i>, have tried again and again to become so by +art, and yet have failed—have expended their patrimony in +the purchase of umbrella after umbrella, and yet have +systematically lost them, and have finally, with contrite spirits +and shrunken purses, given up their vain struggle, and relied on +theft and borrowing for the remainder of their lives. This +is the most remarkable fact that we have had occasion to notice; +and yet we challenge the candid reader to call it in +question. Now, as there cannot be any <i>moral +selection</i> in a mere dead piece of furniture—as the +umbrella cannot be supposed to have an affinity for individual +men equal and reciprocal to that which men certainly feel toward +individual umbrellas—we took the trouble of consulting a +scientific friend as to whether there was any possible physical +explanation of the phenomenon. He was unable to supply a +plausible theory, or even hypothesis; but we extract from his +letter the following interesting passage relative to the physical +peculiarities of umbrellas: ‘Not the least important, and +by far the most curious property of the umbrella, is the energy +which it displays in affecting the atmospheric strata. +There is no fact in meteorology better established—indeed, +it is almost the only one on which meteorologists are +agreed—than that the carriage of an umbrella produces +desiccation of the air; while if it be left at home, aqueous +vapour is largely produced, and is soon deposited in the form of +rain. No theory,’ my friend continues, +‘competent to explain this hygrometric law has been given +(as far as I am aware) by Herschel, Dove, Glaisher, Tait, Buchan, +or any other writer; nor do I pretend to supply the defect. +I venture, however, to throw out the conjecture that it will be +ultimately found to belong to the same class of natural laws as +that agreeable to which a slice of toast always descends with the +buttered surface downwards.’</p> +<p>But it is time to draw to a close. We could expatiate +much longer upon this topic, but want of space constrains us to +leave unfinished these few desultory remarks—slender +contributions towards a subject which has fallen sadly backward, +and which, we grieve to say, was better understood by the king of +Siam in 1686 than by all the philosophers of to-day. If, +however, we have awakened in any rational mind an interest in the +symbolism of umbrellas—in any generous heart a more +complete sympathy with the dumb companion of his daily +walk—or in any grasping spirit a pure notion of +respectability strong enough to make him expend his +six-and-twenty shillings—we shall have deserved well of the +world, to say nothing of the many industrious persons employed in +the manufacture of the article.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V—THE PHILOSOPHY OF NOMENCLATURE</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘How many Cæsars and Pompeys, by mere +inspirations of the names, have been rendered worthy of +them? And how many are there, who might have done exceeding +well in the world, had not their characters and spirits been +totally depressed and Nicodemus’d into +nothing?’—<i>Tristram Shandy</i>, vol. <span +class="smcap">i.</span> chap xix.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Such were the views of the late Walter Shandy, Esq., Turkey +merchant. To the best of my belief, Mr. Shandy is the first +who fairly pointed out the incalculable influence of nomenclature +upon the whole life—who seems first to have recognised the +one child, happy in an heroic appellation, soaring upwards on the +wings of fortune, and the other, like the dead sailor in his +shotted hammock, haled down by sheer weight of name into the +abysses of social failure. Solomon possibly had his eye on +some such theory when he said that ‘a good name is better +than precious ointment’; and perhaps we may trace a similar +spirit in the compilers of the English Catechism, and the +affectionate interest with which they linger round the +catechumen’s name at the very threshold of their +work. But, be these as they may, I think no one can censure +me for appending, in pursuance of the expressed wish of his son, +the Turkey merchant’s name to his system, and pronouncing, +without further preface, a short epitome of the ‘Shandean +Philosophy of Nomenclature.’</p> +<p>To begin, then: the influence of our name makes itself felt +from the very cradle. As a schoolboy I remember the pride +with which I hailed Robin Hood, Robert Bruce, and Robert le +Diable as my name-fellows; and the feeling of sore disappointment +that fell on my heart when I found a freebooter or a general who +did not share with me a single one of my numerous +<i>prænomina</i>. Look at the delight with which two +children find they have the same name. They are friends +from that moment forth; they have a bond of union stronger than +exchange of nuts and sweetmeats. This feeling, I own, wears +off in later life. Our names lose their freshness and +interest, become trite and indifferent. But this, dear +reader, is merely one of the sad effects of those ‘shades +of the prison-house’ which come gradually betwixt us and +nature with advancing years; it affords no weapon against the +philosophy of names.</p> +<p>In after life, although we fail to trace its working, that +name which careless godfathers lightly applied to your +unconscious infancy will have been moulding your character, and +influencing with irresistible power the whole course of your +earthly fortunes. But the last name, overlooked by Mr. +Shandy, is no whit less important as a condition of +success. Family names, we must recollect, are but inherited +nicknames; and if the <i>sobriquet</i> were applicable to the +ancestor, it is most likely applicable to the descendant +also. You would not expect to find Mr. M‘Phun acting +as a mute, or Mr. M‘Lumpha excelling as a professor of +dancing. Therefore, in what follows, we shall consider +names, independent of whether they are first or last. And +to begin with, look what a pull <i>Cromwell</i> had over +<i>Pym</i>—the one name full of a resonant imperialism, the +other, mean, pettifogging, and unheroic to a degree. Who +would expect eloquence from <i>Pym</i>—who would read poems +by <i>Pym</i>—who would bow to the opinion of +<i>Pym</i>? He might have been a dentist, but he should +never have aspired to be a statesman. I can only wonder +that he succeeded as he did. Pym and Habakkuk stand first +upon the roll of men who have triumphed, by sheer force of +genius, over the most unfavourable appellations. But even +these have suffered; and, had they been more fitly named, the one +might have been Lord Protector, and the other have shared the +laurels with Isaiah. In this matter we must not forget that +all our great poets have borne great names. Chaucer, +Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, +Shelley—what a constellation of lordly words! Not a +single common-place name among them—not a Brown, not a +Jones, not a Robinson; they are all names that one would stop and +look at on a door-plate. Now, imagine if <i>Pepys</i> had +tried to clamber somehow into the enclosure of poetry, what a +blot would that word have made upon the list! The thing was +impossible. In the first place a certain natural +consciousness that men would have held him down to the level of +his name, would have prevented him from rising above the Pepsine +standard, and so haply withheld him altogether from attempting +verse. Next, the booksellers would refuse to publish, and +the world to read them, on the mere evidence of the fatal +appellation. And now, before I close this section, I must +say one word as to <i>punnable</i> names, names that stand alone, +that have a significance and life apart from him that bears +them. These are the bitterest of all. One friend of +mine goes bowed and humbled through life under the weight of this +misfortune; for it is an awful thing when a man’s name is a +joke, when he cannot be mentioned without exciting merriment, and +when even the intimation of his death bids fair to carry laughter +into many a home.</p> +<p>So much for people who are badly named. Now for people +who are <i>too</i> well named, who go top-heavy from the font, +who are baptized into a false position, and find themselves +beginning life eclipsed under the fame of some of the great ones +of the past. A man, for instance, called William +Shakespeare could never dare to write plays. He is thrown +into too humbling an apposition with the author of +<i>Hamlet</i>. Its own name coming after is such an +anti-climax. ‘The plays of William +Shakespeare’? says the reader—‘O no! The +plays of William Shakespeare Cockerill,’ and he throws the +book aside. In wise pursuance of such views, Mr. John +Milton Hengler, who not long since delighted us in this favoured +town, has never attempted to write an epic, but has chosen a new +path, and has excelled upon the tight-rope. A marked +example of triumph over this is the case of Mr. Dante Gabriel +Rossetti. On the face of the matter, I should have advised +him to imitate the pleasing modesty of the last-named gentleman, +and confine his ambition to the sawdust. But Mr. Rossetti +has triumphed. He has even dared to translate from his +mighty name-father; and the voice of fame supports him in his +boldness.</p> +<p>Dear readers, one might write a year upon this matter. A +lifetime of comparison and research could scarce suffice for its +elucidation. So here, if it please you, we shall let it +rest. Slight as these notes have been, I would that the +great founder of the system had been alive to see them. How +he had warmed and brightened, how his persuasive eloquence would +have fallen on the ears of Toby; and what a letter of praise and +sympathy would not the editor have received before the month was +out! Alas, the thing was not to be. Walter Shandy +died and was duly buried, while yet his theory lay forgotten and +neglected by his fellow-countrymen. But, reader, the day +will come, I hope, when a paternal government will stamp out, as +seeds of national weakness, all depressing patronymics, and when +godfathers and godmothers will soberly and earnestly debate the +interest of the nameless one, and not rush blindfold to the +christening. In these days there shall be written a +‘Godfather’s Assistant,’ in shape of a +dictionary of names, with their concomitant virtues and vices; +and this book shall be scattered broadcast through the land, and +shall be on the table of every one eligible for godfathership, +until such a thing as a vicious or untoward appellation shall +have ceased from off the face of the earth.</p> +<h2>CRITICISMS</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I—LORD LYTTON’S ‘FABLES IN +SONG’</h3> +<p>It seems as if Lord Lytton, in this new book of his, had found +the form most natural to his talent. In some ways, indeed, +it may be held inferior to <i>Chronicles and Characters</i>; we +look in vain for anything like the terrible intensity of the +night-scene in <i>Irene</i>, or for any such passages of massive +and memorable writing as appeared, here and there, in the earlier +work, and made it not altogether unworthy of its model, +Hugo’s <i>Legend of the Ages</i>. But it becomes +evident, on the most hasty retrospect, that this earlier work was +a step on the way towards the later. It seems as if the +author had been feeling about for his definite medium, and was +already, in the language of the child’s game, growing +hot. There are many pieces in <i>Chronicles and +Characters</i> that might be detached from their original +setting, and embodied, as they stand, among the <i>Fables in +Song</i>.</p> +<p>For the term Fable is not very easy to define +rigorously. In the most typical form some moral precept is +set forth by means of a conception purely fantastic, and usually +somewhat trivial into the bargain; there is something playful +about it, that will not support a very exacting criticism, and +the lesson must be apprehended by the fancy at half a hint. +Such is the great mass of the old stories of wise animals or +foolish men that have amused our childhood. But we should +expect the fable, in company with other and more important +literary forms, to be more and more loosely, or at least largely, +comprehended as time went on, and so to degenerate in conception +from this original type. That depended for much of its +piquancy on the very fact that it was fantastic: the point of the +thing lay in a sort of humorous inappropriateness; and it is +natural enough that pleasantry of this description should become +less common, as men learn to suspect some serious analogy +underneath. Thus a comical story of an ape touches us quite +differently after the proposition of Mr. Darwin’s +theory. Moreover, there lay, perhaps, at the bottom of this +primitive sort of fable, a humanity, a tenderness of rough +truths; so that at the end of some story, in which vice or folly +had met with its destined punishment, the fabulist might be able +to assure his auditors, as we have often to assure tearful +children on the like occasions, that they may dry their eyes, for +none of it was true.</p> +<p>But this benefit of fiction becomes lost with more +sophisticated hearers and authors: a man is no longer the dupe of +his own artifice, and cannot deal playfully with truths that are +a matter of bitter concern to him in his life. And hence, +in the progressive centralisation of modern thought, we should +expect the old form of fable to fall gradually into desuetude, +and be gradually succeeded by another, which is a fable in all +points except that it is not altogether fabulous. And this +new form, such as we should expect, and such as we do indeed +find, still presents the essential character of brevity; as in +any other fable also, there is, underlying and animating the +brief action, a moral idea; and as in any other fable, the object +is to bring this home to the reader through the intellect rather +than through the feelings; so that, without being very deeply +moved or interested by the characters of the piece, we should +recognise vividly the hinges on which the little plot +revolves. But the fabulist now seeks analogies where before +he merely sought humorous situations. There will be now a +logical nexus between the moral expressed and the machinery +employed to express it. The machinery, in fact, as this +change is developed, becomes less and less fabulous. We +find ourselves in presence of quite a serious, if quite a +miniature division of creative literature; and sometimes we have +the lesson embodied in a sober, everyday narration, as in the +parables of the New Testament, and sometimes merely the statement +or, at most, the collocation of significant facts in life, the +reader being left to resolve for himself the vague, troublesome, +and not yet definitely moral sentiment which has been thus +created. And step by step with the development of this +change, yet another is developed: the moral tends to become more +indeterminate and large. It ceases to be possible to append +it, in a tag, to the bottom of the piece, as one might write the +name below a caricature; and the fable begins to take rank with +all other forms of creative literature, as something too +ambitious, in spite of its miniature dimensions, to be resumed in +any succinct formula without the loss of all that is deepest and +most suggestive in it.</p> +<p>Now it is in this widest sense that Lord Lytton understands +the term; there are examples in his two pleasant volumes of all +the forms already mentioned, and even of another which can only +be admitted among fables by the utmost possible leniency of +construction. ‘Composure,’ ‘Et +Cætera,’ and several more, are merely similes +poetically elaborated. So, too, is the pathetic story of +the grandfather and grandchild: the child, having treasured away +an icicle and forgotten it for ten minutes, comes back to find it +already nearly melted, and no longer beautiful: at the same time, +the grandfather has just remembered and taken out a bundle of +love-letters, which he too had stored away in years gone by, and +then long neglected; and, behold! the letters are as faded and +sorrowfully disappointing as the icicle. This is merely a +simile poetically worked out; and yet it is in such as these, and +some others, to be mentioned further on, that the author seems at +his best. Wherever he has really written after the old +model, there is something to be deprecated: in spite of all the +spirit and freshness, in spite of his happy assumption of that +cheerful acceptation of things as they are, which, rightly or +wrongly, we come to attribute to the ideal fabulist, there is +ever a sense as of something a little out of place. A form +of literature so very innocent and primitive looks a little +over-written in Lord Lytton’s conscious and highly-coloured +style. It may be bad taste, but sometimes we should prefer +a few sentences of plain prose narration, and a little Bewick by +way of tail-piece. So that it is not among those fables +that conform most nearly to the old model, but one had nearly +said among those that most widely differ from it, that we find +the most satisfactory examples of the author’s manner.</p> +<p>In the mere matter of ingenuity, the metaphysical fables are +the most remarkable; such as that of the windmill who imagined +that it was he who raised the wind; or that of the grocer’s +balance (‘Cogito ergo sum’) who considered himself +endowed with free-will, reason, and an infallible practical +judgment; until, one fine day, the police made a descent upon the +shop, and find the weights false and the scales unequal; and the +whole thing is broken up for old iron. Capital fables, +also, in the same ironical spirit, are ‘Prometheus +Unbound,’ the tale of the vainglorying of a champagne-cork, +and ‘Teleology,’ where a nettle justifies the ways of +God to nettles while all goes well with it, and, upon a change of +luck, promptly changes its divinity.</p> +<p>In all these there is still plenty of the fabulous if you +will, although, even here, there may be two opinions possible; +but there is another group, of an order of merit perhaps still +higher, where we look in vain for any such playful liberties with +Nature. Thus we have ‘Conservation of Force’; +where a musician, thinking of a certain picture, improvises in +the twilight; a poet, hearing the music, goes home inspired, and +writes a poem; and then a painter, under the influence of this +poem, paints another picture, thus lineally descended from the +first. This is fiction, but not what we have been used to +call fable. We miss the incredible element, the point of +audacity with which the fabulist was wont to mock at his +readers. And still more so is this the case with +others. ‘The Horse and the Fly’ states one of +the unanswerable problems of life in quite a realistic and +straightforward way. A fly startles a cab-horse, the coach +is overset; a newly-married pair within and the driver, a man +with a wife and family, are all killed. The horse continues +to gallop off in the loose traces, and ends the tragedy by +running over an only child; and there is some little pathetic +detail here introduced in the telling, that makes the +reader’s indignation very white-hot against some one. +It remains to be seen who that some one is to be: the fly? +Nay, but on closer inspection, it appears that the fly, actuated +by maternal instinct, was only seeking a place for her eggs: is +maternal instinct, then, ‘sole author of these mischiefs +all’? ‘Who’s in the Right?’ one of +the best fables in the book, is somewhat in the same vein. +After a battle has been won, a group of officers assemble inside +a battery, and debate together who should have the honour of the +success; the Prince, the general staff, the cavalry, the engineer +who posted the battery in which they then stand talking, are +successively named: the sergeant, who pointed the guns, sneers to +himself at the mention of the engineer; and, close by, the +gunner, who had applied the match, passes away with a smile of +triumph, since it was through his hand that the victorious blow +had been dealt. Meanwhile, the cannon claims the honour +over the gunner; the cannon-ball, who actually goes forth on the +dread mission, claims it over the cannon, who remains idly +behind; the powder reminds the cannon-ball that, but for him, it +would still be lying on the arsenal floor; and the match caps the +discussion; powder, cannon-ball, and cannon would be all equally +vain and ineffectual without fire. Just then there comes on +a shower of rain, which wets the powder and puts out the match, +and completes this lesson of dependence, by indicating the +negative conditions which are as necessary for any effect, in +their absence, as is the presence of this great fraternity of +positive conditions, not any one of which can claim priority over +any other. But the fable does not end here, as perhaps, in +all logical strictness, it should. It wanders off into a +discussion as to which is the truer greatness, that of the +vanquished fire or that of the victorious rain. And the +speech of the rain is charming:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Lo, with my little drops I bless again<br +/> +And beautify the fields which thou didst blast!<br /> +Rend, wither, waste, and ruin, what thou wilt,<br /> +But call not Greatness what the Gods call Guilt.<br /> +Blossoms and grass from blood in battle spilt,<br /> +And poppied corn, I bring.<br /> +‘Mid mouldering Babels, to oblivion built,<br /> +My violets spring.<br /> +Little by little my small drops have strength<br /> +To deck with green delights the grateful earth.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And so forth, not quite germane (it seems to me) to the matter +in hand, but welcome for its own sake.</p> +<p>Best of all are the fables that deal more immediately with the +emotions. There is, for instance, that of ‘The Two +Travellers,’ which is profoundly moving in conception, +although by no means as well written as some others. In +this, one of the two, fearfully frost-bitten, saves his life out +of the snow at the cost of all that was comely in his body; just +as, long before, the other, who has now quietly resigned himself +to death, had violently freed himself from Love at the cost of +all that was finest and fairest in his character. Very +graceful and sweet is the fable (if so it should be called) in +which the author sings the praises of that ‘kindly +perspective,’ which lets a wheat-stalk near the eye cover +twenty leagues of distant country, and makes the humble circle +about a man’s hearth more to him than all the possibilities +of the external world. The companion fable to this is also +excellent. It tells us of a man who had, all his life +through, entertained a passion for certain blue hills on the far +horizon, and had promised himself to travel thither ere he died, +and become familiar with these distant friends. At last, in +some political trouble, he is banished to the very place of his +dreams. He arrives there overnight, and, when he rises and +goes forth in the morning, there sure enough are the blue hills, +only now they have changed places with him, and smile across to +him, distant as ever, from the old home whence he has come. +Such a story might have been very cynically treated; but it is +not so done, the whole tone is kindly and consolatory, and the +disenchanted man submissively takes the lesson, and understands +that things far away are to be loved for their own sake, and that +the unattainable is not truly unattainable, when we can make the +beauty of it our own. Indeed, throughout all these two +volumes, though there is much practical scepticism, and much +irony on abstract questions, this kindly and consolatory spirit +is never absent. There is much that is cheerful and, after +a sedate, fireside fashion, hopeful. No one will be +discouraged by reading the book; but the ground of all this +hopefulness and cheerfulness remains to the end somewhat +vague. It does not seem to arise from any practical belief +in the future either of the individual or the race, but rather +from the profound personal contentment of the writer. This +is, I suppose, all we must look for in the case. It is as +much as we can expect, if the fabulist shall prove a shrewd and +cheerful fellow-wayfarer, one with whom the world does not seem +to have gone much amiss, but who has yet laughingly learned +something of its evil. It will depend much, of course, upon +our own character and circumstances, whether the encounter will +be agreeable and bracing to the spirits, or offend us as an +ill-timed mockery. But where, as here, there is a little +tincture of bitterness along with the good-nature, where it is +plainly not the humour of a man cheerfully ignorant, but of one +who looks on, tolerant and superior and smilingly attentive, upon +the good and bad of our existence, it will go hardly if we do not +catch some reflection of the same spirit to help us on our +way. There is here no impertinent and lying proclamation of +peace—none of the cheap optimism of the well-to-do; what we +find here is a view of life that would be even grievous, were it +not enlivened with this abiding cheerfulness, and ever and anon +redeemed by a stroke of pathos.</p> +<p>It is natural enough, I suppose, that we should find wanting +in this book some of the intenser qualities of the author’s +work; and their absence is made up for by much happy description +after a quieter fashion. The burst of jubilation over the +departure of the snow, which forms the prelude to ‘The +Thistle,’ is full of spirit and of pleasant images. +The speech of the forest in ‘Sans Souci’ is inspired +by a beautiful sentiment for nature of the modern sort, and +pleases us more, I think, as poetry should please us, than +anything in <i>Chronicles and Characters</i>. There are +some admirable felicities of expression here and there; as that +of the hill, whose summit</p> + +<blockquote><p> ‘Did +print<br /> +The azure air with pines.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Moreover, I do not recollect in the author’s former work +any symptom of that sympathetic treatment of still life, which is +noticeable now and again in the fables; and perhaps most +noticeably, when he sketches the burned letters as they hover +along the gusty flue, ‘Thin, sable veils, wherein a +restless spark Yet trembled.’ But the description is +at its best when the subjects are unpleasant, or even +grisly. There are a few capital lines in this key on the +last spasm of the battle before alluded to. Surely nothing +could be better, in its own way, than the fish in ‘The Last +Cruise of the Arrogant,’ ‘the shadowy, side-faced, +silent things,’ that come butting and staring with lidless +eyes at the sunken steam-engine. And although, in yet +another, we are told, pleasantly enough, how the water went down +into the valleys, where it set itself gaily to saw wood, and on +into the plains, where it would soberly carry grain to town; yet +the real strength of the fable is when it dealt with the shut +pool in which certain unfortunate raindrops are imprisoned among +slugs and snails, and in the company of an old toad. The +sodden contentment of the fallen acorn is strangely significant; +and it is astonishing how unpleasantly we are startled by the +appearance of her horrible lover, the maggot.</p> +<p>And now for a last word, about the style. This is not +easy to criticise. It is impossible to deny to it rapidity, +spirit, and a full sound; the lines are never lame, and the sense +is carried forward with an uninterrupted, impetuous rush. +But it is not equal. After passages of really admirable +versification, the author falls back upon a sort of loose, +cavalry manner, not unlike the style of some of Mr. +Browning’s minor pieces, and almost inseparable from +wordiness, and an easy acceptation of somewhat cheap +finish. There is nothing here of that compression which is +the note of a really sovereign style. It is unfair, +perhaps, to set a not remarkable passage from Lord Lytton side by +side with one of the signal masterpieces of another, and a very +perfect poet; and yet it is interesting, when we see how the +portraiture of a dog, detailed through thirty odd lines, is +frittered down and finally almost lost in the mere laxity of the +style, to compare it with the clear, simple, vigorous delineation +that Burns, in four couplets, has given us of the +ploughman’s collie. It is interesting, at first, and +then it becomes a little irritating; for when we think of other +passages so much more finished and adroit, we cannot help +feeling, that with a little more ardour after perfection of form, +criticism would have found nothing left for her to censure. +A similar mark of precipitate work is the number of adjectives +tumultuously heaped together, sometimes to help out the sense, +and sometimes (as one cannot but suspect) to help out the sound +of the verses. I do not believe, for instance, that Lord +Lytton himself would defend the lines in which we are told how +Laocoön ‘Revealed to Roman crowds, now +<i>Christian</i> grown, That <i>Pagan</i> anguish which, in +<i>Parian</i> stone, The <i>Rhodian</i> artist,’ and so +on. It is not only that this is bad in itself; but that it +is unworthy of the company in which it is found; that such verses +should not have appeared with the name of a good versifier like +Lord Lytton. We must take exception, also, in conclusion, +to the excess of alliteration. Alliteration is so liable to +be abused that we can scarcely be too sparing of it; and yet it +is a trick that seems to grow upon the author with years. +It is a pity to see fine verses, such as some in +‘Demos,’ absolutely spoiled by the recurrence of one +wearisome consonant.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II—SALVINI’S MACBETH</h3> +<p>Salvini closed his short visit to Edinburgh by a performance +of <i>Macbeth</i>. It was, perhaps, from a sentiment of +local colour that he chose to play the Scottish usurper for the +first time before Scotsmen; and the audience were not insensible +of the privilege. Few things, indeed, can move a stronger +interest than to see a great creation taking shape for the first +time. If it is not purely artistic, the sentiment is surely +human. And the thought that you are before all the world, +and have the start of so many others as eager as yourself, at +least keeps you in a more unbearable suspense before the curtain +rises, if it does not enhance the delight with which you follow +the performance and see the actor ‘bend up each corporal +agent’ to realise a masterpiece of a few hours’ +duration. With a player so variable as Salvini, who trusts +to the feelings of the moment for so much detail, and who, night +after night, does the same thing differently but always well, it +can never be safe to pass judgment after a single hearing. +And this is more particularly true of last week’s +<i>Macbeth</i>; for the whole third act was marred by a +grievously humorous misadventure. Several minutes too soon +the ghost of Banquo joined the party, and after having sat +helpless a while at a table, was ignominiously withdrawn. +Twice was this ghostly Jack-in-the-box obtruded on the stage +before his time; twice removed again; and yet he showed so little +hurry when he was really wanted, that, after an awkward pause, +Macbeth had to begin his apostrophe to empty air. The +arrival of the belated spectre in the middle, with a jerk that +made him nod all over, was the last accident in the chapter, and +worthily topped the whole. It may be imagined how lamely +matters went throughout these cross purposes.</p> +<p>In spite of this, and some other hitches, Salvini’s +Macbeth had an emphatic success. The creation is worthy of +a place beside the same artist’s Othello and Hamlet. +It is the simplest and most unsympathetic of the three; but the +absence of the finer lineaments of Hamlet is redeemed by gusto, +breadth, and a headlong unity. Salvini sees nothing great +in Macbeth beyond the royalty of muscle, and that courage which +comes of strong and copious circulation. The moral +smallness of the man is insisted on from the first, in the +shudder of uncontrollable jealousy with which he sees Duncan +embracing Banquo. He may have some northern poetry of +speech, but he has not much logical understanding. In his +dealings with the supernatural powers he is like a savage with +his fetich, trusting them beyond bounds while all goes well, and +whenever he is crossed, casting his belief aside and calling +‘fate into the list.’ For his wife, he is +little more than an agent, a frame of bone and sinew for her +fiery spirit to command. The nature of his feeling towards +her is rendered with a most precise and delicate touch. He +always yields to the woman’s fascination; and yet his +caresses (and we know how much meaning Salvini can give to a +caress) are singularly hard and unloving. Sometimes he lays +his hand on her as he might take hold of any one who happened to +be nearest to him at a moment of excitement. Love has +fallen out of this marriage by the way, and left a curious +friendship. Only once—at the very moment when she is +showing herself so little a woman and so much a high-spirited +man—only once is he very deeply stirred towards her; and +that finds expression in the strange and horrible transport of +admiration, doubly strange and horrible on Salvini’s +lips—‘Bring forth men-children only!’</p> +<p>The murder scene, as was to be expected, pleased the audience +best. Macbeth’s voice, in the talk with his wife, was +a thing not to be forgotten; and when he spoke of his +hangman’s hands he seemed to have blood in his +utterance. Never for a moment, even in the very article of +the murder, does he possess his own soul. He is a man on +wires. From first to last it is an exhibition of hideous +cowardice. For, after all, it is not here, but in broad +daylight, with the exhilaration of conflict, where he can assure +himself at every blow he has the longest sword and the heaviest +hand, that this man’s physical bravery can keep him up; he +is an unwieldy ship, and needs plenty of way on before he will +steer.</p> +<p>In the banquet scene, while the first murderer gives account +of what he has done, there comes a flash of truculent joy at the +‘twenty trenchèd gashes’ on Banquo’s +head. Thus Macbeth makes welcome to his imagination those +very details of physical horror which are so soon to turn sour in +him. As he runs out to embrace these cruel circumstances, +as he seeks to realise to his mind’s eye the reassuring +spectacle of his dead enemy, he is dressing out the phantom to +terrify himself; and his imagination, playing the part of +justice, is to ‘commend to his own lips the ingredients of +his poisoned chalice.’ With the recollection of +Hamlet and his father’s spirit still fresh upon him, and +the holy awe with which that good man encountered things not +dreamt of in his philosophy, it was not possible to avoid looking +for resemblances between the two apparitions and the two men +haunted. But there are none to be found. Macbeth has +a purely physical dislike for Banquo’s spirit and the +‘twenty trenchèd gashes.’ He is afraid +of he knows not what. He is abject, and again +blustering. In the end he so far forgets himself, his +terror, and the nature of what is before him, that he rushes upon +it as he would upon a man. When his wife tells him he needs +repose, there is something really childish in the way he looks +about the room, and, seeing nothing, with an expression of almost +sensual relief, plucks up heart enough to go to bed. And +what is the upshot of the visitation? It is written in +Shakespeare, but should be read with the commentary of +Salvini’s voice and expression:—‘O! <i>siam +nell’ opra ancor fanciulli</i>’—‘We are +yet but young in deed.’ Circle below circle. He +is looking with horrible satisfaction into the mouth of +hell. There may still be a prick to-day; but to-morrow +conscience will be dead, and he may move untroubled in this +element of blood.</p> +<p>In the fifth act we see this lowest circle reached; and it is +Salvini’s finest moment throughout the play. From the +first he was admirably made up, and looked Macbeth to the full as +perfectly as ever he looked Othello. From the first moment +he steps upon the stage you can see this character is a creation +to the fullest meaning of the phrase; for the man before you is a +type you know well already. He arrives with Banquo on the +heath, fair and red-bearded, sparing of gesture, full of pride +and the sense of animal wellbeing, and satisfied after the battle +like a beast who has eaten his fill. But in the fifth act +there is a change. This is still the big, burly, fleshly, +handsome-looking Thane; here is still the same face which in the +earlier acts could be superficially good-humoured and sometimes +royally courteous. But now the atmosphere of blood, which +pervades the whole tragedy, has entered into the man and subdued +him to its own nature; and an indescribable degradation, a +slackness and puffiness, has overtaken his features. He has +breathed the air of carnage, and supped full of horrors. +Lady Macbeth complains of the smell of blood on her hand: Macbeth +makes no complaint—he has ceased to notice it now; but the +same smell is in his nostrils. A contained fury and disgust +possesses him. He taunts the messenger and the doctor as +people would taunt their mortal enemies. And, indeed, as he +knows right well, every one is his enemy now, except his +wife. About her he questions the doctor with something like +a last human anxiety; and, in tones of grisly mystery, asks him +if he can ‘minister to a mind diseased.’ When +the news of her death is brought him, he is staggered and falls +into a seat; but somehow it is not anything we can call grief +that he displays. There had been two of them against God +and man; and now, when there is only one, it makes perhaps less +difference than he had expected. And so her death is not +only an affliction, but one more disillusion; and he redoubles in +bitterness. The speech that follows, given with tragic +cynicism in every word, is a dirge, not so much for her as for +himself. From that time forth there is nothing human left +in him, only ‘the fiend of Scotland,’ Macduff’s +‘hell-hound,’ whom, with a stern glee, we see baited +like a bear and hunted down like a wolf. He is inspired and +set above fate by a demoniacal energy, a lust of wounds and +slaughter. Even after he meets Macduff his courage does not +fail; but when he hears the Thane was not born of woman, all +virtue goes out of him; and though he speaks sounding words of +defiance, the last combat is little better than a suicide.</p> +<p>The whole performance is, as I said, so full of gusto and a +headlong unity; the personality of Macbeth is so sharp and +powerful; and within these somewhat narrow limits there is so +much play and saliency that, so far as concerns Salvini himself, +a third great success seems indubitable. Unfortunately, +however, a great actor cannot fill more than a very small +fraction of the boards; and though Banquo’s ghost will +probably be more seasonable in his future apparitions, there are +some more inherent difficulties in the piece. The company +at large did not distinguish themselves. Macduff, to the +huge delight of the gallery, out-Macduff’d the average +ranter. The lady who filled the principal female part has +done better on other occasions, but I fear she has not metal for +what she tried last week. Not to succeed in the +sleep-walking scene is to make a memorable failure. As it +was given, it succeeded in being wrong in art without being true +to nature.</p> +<p>And there is yet another difficulty, happily easy to reform, +which somewhat interfered with the success of the +performance. At the end of the incantation scene the +Italian translator has made Macbeth fall insensible upon the +stage. This is a change of questionable propriety from a +psychological point of view; while in point of view of effect it +leaves the stage for some moments empty of all business. To +remedy this, a bevy of green ballet-girls came forth and pointed +their toes about the prostrate king. A dance of High Church +curates, or a hornpipe by Mr. T. P. Cooke, would not be more out +of the key; though the gravity of a Scots audience was not to be +overcome, and they merely expressed their disapprobation by a +round of moderate hisses, a similar irruption of Christmas +fairies would most likely convulse a London theatre from pit to +gallery with inextinguishable laughter. It is, I am told, +the Italian tradition; but it is one more honoured in the breach +than the observance. With the total disappearance of these +damsels, with a stronger Lady Macbeth, and, if possible, with +some compression of those scenes in which Salvini does not +appear, and the spectator is left at the mercy of Macduffs and +Duncans, the play would go twice as well, and we should be better +able to follow and enjoy an admirable work of dramatic art.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III—BAGSTER’S ‘PILGRIM’S +PROGRESS’</h3> +<p>I have here before me an edition of the <i>Pilgrim’s +Progress</i>, bound in green, without a date, and described as +‘illustrated by nearly three hundred engravings, and memoir +of Bunyan.’ On the outside it is lettered +‘Bagster’s Illustrated Edition,’ and after the +author’s apology, facing the first page of the tale, a +folding pictorial ‘Plan of the Road’ is marked as +‘drawn by the late Mr. T. Conder,’ and engraved by J. +Basire. No further information is anywhere vouchsafed; +perhaps the publishers had judged the work too unimportant; and +we are still left ignorant whether or not we owe the woodcuts in +the body of the volume to the same hand that drew the plan. +It seems, however, more than probable. The literal +particularity of mind which, in the map, laid down the +flower-plots in the devil’s garden, and carefully +introduced the court-house in the town of Vanity, is closely +paralleled in many of the cuts; and in both, the architecture of +the buildings and the disposition of the gardens have a kindred +and entirely English air. Whoever he was, the author of +these wonderful little pictures may lay claim to be the best +illustrator of Bunyan. <a name="citation183"></a><a +href="#footnote183" class="citation">[183]</a> They are not +only good illustrations, like so many others; but they are like +so few, good illustrations of Bunyan. Their spirit, in +defect and quality, is still the same as his own. The +designer also has lain down and dreamed a dream, as literal, as +quaint, and almost as apposite as Bunyan’s; and text and +pictures make but the two sides of the same homespun yet +impassioned story. To do justice to the designs, it will be +necessary to say, for the hundredth time, a word or two about the +masterpiece which they adorn.</p> +<p>All allegories have a tendency to escape from the purpose of +their creators; and as the characters and incidents become more +and more interesting in themselves, the moral, which these were +to show forth, falls more and more into neglect. An +architect may command a wreath of vine-leaves round the cornice +of a monument; but if, as each leaf came from the chisel, it took +proper life and fluttered freely on the wall, and if the vine +grew, and the building were hidden over with foliage and fruit, +the architect would stand in much the same situation as the +writer of allegories. The <i>Faëry Queen</i> was an +allegory, I am willing to believe; but it survives as an +imaginative tale in incomparable verse. The case of Bunyan +is widely different; and yet in this also Allegory, poor nymph, +although never quite forgotten, is sometimes rudely thrust +against the wall. Bunyan was fervently in earnest; with +‘his fingers in his ears, he ran on,’ straight for +his mark. He tells us himself, in the conclusion to the +first part, that he did not fear to raise a laugh; indeed, he +feared nothing, and said anything; and he was greatly served in +this by a certain rustic privilege of his style, which, like the +talk of strong uneducated men, when it does not impress by its +force, still charms by its simplicity. The mere story and +the allegorical design enjoyed perhaps his equal favour. He +believed in both with an energy of faith that was capable of +moving mountains. And we have to remark in him, not the +parts where inspiration fails and is supplied by cold and merely +decorative invention, but the parts where faith has grown to be +credulity, and his characters become so real to him that he +forgets the end of their creation. We can follow him step +by step into the trap which he lays for himself by his own entire +good faith and triumphant literality of vision, till the trap +closes and shuts him in an inconsistency. The allegories of +the Interpreter and of the Shepherds of the Delectable Mountains +are all actually performed, like stage-plays, before the +pilgrims. The son of Mr. Great-grace visibly ‘tumbles +hills about with his words.’ Adam the First has his +condemnation written visibly on his forehead, so that Faithful +reads it. At the very instant the net closes round the +pilgrims, ‘the white robe falls from the black man’s +body.’ Despair ‘getteth him a grievous +crab-tree cudgel’; it was in ‘sunshiny weather’ +that he had his fits; and the birds in the grove about the House +Beautiful, ‘our country birds,’ only sing their +little pious verses ‘at the spring, when the flowers appear +and the sun shines warm.’ ‘I often,’ says +Piety, ‘go out to hear them; we also ofttimes keep them +tame on our house.’ The post between Beulah and the +Celestial City sounds his horn, as you may yet hear in country +places. Madam Bubble, that ‘tall, comely dame, +something of a swarthy complexion, in very pleasant attire, but +old,’ ‘gives you a smile at the end of each +sentence’—a real woman she; we all know her. +Christiana dying ‘gave Mr. Stand-fast a ring,’ for no +possible reason in the allegory, merely because the touch was +human and affecting. Look at Great-heart, with his +soldierly ways, garrison ways, as I had almost called them; with +his taste in weapons; his delight in any that ‘he found to +be a man of his hands’; his chivalrous point of honour, +letting Giant Maul get up again when he was down, a thing fairly +flying in the teeth of the moral; above all, with his language in +the inimitable tale of Mr. Fearing: ‘I thought I should +have lost my +man’—‘chicken-hearted’—‘at +last he came in, and I will say that for my lord, he carried it +wonderful lovingly to him.’ This is no Independent +minister; this is a stout, honest, big-busted ancient, adjusting +his shoulder-belts, twirling his long moustaches as he +speaks. Last and most remarkable, ‘My sword,’ +says the dying Valiant-for-Truth, he in whom Great-heart +delighted, ‘my sword I give to him that shall succeed me in +my pilgrimage, <i>and my courage and skill to him that can get +it</i>.’ And after this boast, more arrogantly +unorthodox than was ever dreamed of by the rejected Ignorance, we +are told that ‘all the trumpets sounded for him on the +other side.’</p> +<p>In every page the book is stamped with the same energy of +vision and the same energy of belief. The quality is +equally and indifferently displayed in the spirit of the +fighting, the tenderness of the pathos, the startling vigour and +strangeness of the incidents, the natural strain of the +conversations, and the humanity and charm of the +characters. Trivial talk over a meal, the dying words of +heroes, the delights of Beulah or the Celestial City, Apollyon +and my Lord Hate-good, Great-heart, and Mr. Worldly-Wiseman, all +have been imagined with the same clearness, all written of with +equal gusto and precision, all created in the same mixed element, +of simplicity that is almost comical, and art that, for its +purpose, is faultless.</p> +<p>It was in much the same spirit that our artist sat down to his +drawings. He is by nature a Bunyan of the pencil. He, +too, will draw anything, from a butcher at work on a dead sheep, +up to the courts of Heaven. ‘A Lamb for Supper’ +is the name of one of his designs, ‘Their Glorious +Entry’ of another. He has the same disregard for the +ridiculous, and enjoys somewhat of the same privilege of style, +so that we are pleased even when we laugh the most. He is +literal to the verge of folly. If dust is to be raised from +the unswept parlour, you may be sure it will ‘fly +abundantly’ in the picture. If Faithful is to lie +‘as dead’ before Moses, dead he shall lie with a +warrant—dead and stiff like granite; nay (and here the +artist must enhance upon the symbolism of the author), it is with +the identical stone tables of the law that Moses fells the +sinner. Good and bad people, whom we at once distinguish in +the text by their names, Hopeful, Honest, and Valiant-for-Truth, +on the one hand, as against By-ends, Sir Having Greedy, and the +Lord Old-man on the other, are in these drawings as simply +distinguished by their costume. Good people, when not armed +<i>cap-à-pie</i>, wear a speckled tunic girt about the +waist, and low hats, apparently of straw. Bad people +swagger in tail-coats and chimney-pots, a few with knee-breeches, +but the large majority in trousers, and for all the world like +guests at a garden-party. Worldly-Wiseman alone, by some +inexplicable quirk, stands before Christian in laced hat, +embroidered waistcoat, and trunk-hose. But above all +examples of this artist’s intrepidity, commend me to the +print entitled ‘Christian Finds it Deep.’ +‘A great darkness and horror,’ says the text, have +fallen on the pilgrim; it is the comfortless deathbed with which +Bunyan so strikingly concludes the sorrows and conflicts of his +hero. How to represent this worthily the artist knew not; +and yet he was determined to represent it somehow. This was +how he did: Hopeful is still shown to his neck above the water of +death; but Christian has bodily disappeared, and a blot of solid +blackness indicates his place.</p> +<p>As you continue to look at these pictures, about an inch +square for the most part, sometimes printed three or more to the +page, and each having a printed legend of its own, however +trivial the event recorded, you will soon become aware of two +things: first, that the man can draw, and, second, that he +possesses the gift of an imagination. ‘Obstinate +reviles,’ says the legend; and you should see Obstinate +reviling. ‘He warily retraces his steps’; and +there is Christian, posting through the plain, terror and speed +in every muscle. ‘Mercy yearns to go’ shows you +a plain interior with packing going forward, and, right in the +middle, Mercy yearning to go—every line of the girl’s +figure yearning. In ‘The Chamber called Peace’ +we see a simple English room, bed with white curtains, window +valance and door, as may be found in many thousand unpretentious +houses; but far off, through the open window, we behold the sun +uprising out of a great plain, and Christian hails it with his +hand:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Where am I now! is this the love and +care<br /> +Of Jesus, for the men that pilgrims are!<br /> +Thus to provide! That I should be forgiven!<br /> +And dwell already the next door to heaven!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>A page or two further, from the top of the House Beautiful, +the damsels point his gaze toward the Delectable Mountains: +‘The Prospect,’ so the cut is ticketed—and I +shall be surprised, if on less than a square inch of paper you +can show me one so wide and fair. Down a cross road on an +English plain, a cathedral city outlined on the horizon, a hazel +shaw upon the left, comes Madam Wanton dancing with her fair +enchanted cup, and Faithful, book in hand, half pauses. The +cut is perfect as a symbol; the giddy movement of the sorceress, +the uncertain poise of the man struck to the heart by a +temptation, the contrast of that even plain of life whereon he +journeys with the bold, ideal bearing of the wanton—the +artist who invented and portrayed this had not merely read +Bunyan, he had also thoughtfully lived. The Delectable +Mountains—I continue skimming the first part—are not +on the whole happily rendered. Once, and once only, the +note is struck, when Christian and Hopeful are seen coming, +shoulder-high, through a thicket of green shrubs—box, +perhaps, or perfumed nutmeg; while behind them, domed or pointed, +the hills stand ranged against the sky. A little further, +and we come to that masterpiece of Bunyan’s insight into +life, the Enchanted Ground; where, in a few traits, he has set +down the latter end of such a number of the would-be good; where +his allegory goes so deep that, to people looking seriously on +life, it cuts like satire. The true significance of this +invention lies, of course, far out of the way of drawing; only +one feature, the great tedium of the land, the growing weariness +in well-doing, may be somewhat represented in a symbol. The +pilgrims are near the end: ‘Two Miles Yet,’ says the +legend. The road goes ploughing up and down over a rolling +heath; the wayfarers, with outstretched arms, are already sunk to +the knees over the brow of the nearest hill; they have just +passed a milestone with the cipher two; from overhead a great, +piled, summer cumulus, as of a slumberous summer afternoon, +beshadows them: two miles! it might be hundreds. In dealing +with the Land of Beulah the artist lags, in both parts, miserably +behind the text, but in the distant prospect of the Celestial +City more than regains his own. You will remember when +Christian and Hopeful ‘with desire fell sick.’ +‘Effect of the Sunbeams’ is the artist’s +title. Against the sky, upon a cliffy mountain, the radiant +temple beams upon them over deep, subjacent woods; they, behind a +mound, as if seeking shelter from the splendour—one +prostrate on his face, one kneeling, and with hands ecstatically +lifted—yearn with passion after that immortal city. +Turn the page, and we behold them walking by the very shores of +death; Heaven, from this nigher view, has risen half-way to the +zenith, and sheds a wider glory; and the two pilgrims, dark +against that brightness, walk and sing out of the fulness of +their hearts. No cut more thoroughly illustrates at once +the merit and the weakness of the artist. Each pilgrim +sings with a book in his grasp—a family Bible at the least +for bigness; tomes so recklessly enormous that our second, +impulse is to laughter. And yet that is not the first +thought, nor perhaps the last. Something in the attitude of +the manikins—faces they have none, they are too small for +that—something in the way they swing these monstrous +volumes to their singing, something perhaps borrowed from the +text, some subtle differentiation from the cut that went before +and the cut that follows after—something, at least, speaks +clearly of a fearful joy, of Heaven seen from the deathbed, of +the horror of the last passage no less than of the glorious +coming home. There is that in the action of one of them +which always reminds me, with a difference, of that haunting last +glimpse of Thomas Idle, travelling to Tyburn in the cart. +Next come the Shining Ones, wooden and trivial enough; the +pilgrims pass into the river; the blot already mentioned settles +over and obliterates Christian. In two more cuts we behold +them drawing nearer to the other shore; and then, between two +radiant angels, one of whom points upward, we see them mounting +in new weeds, their former lendings left behind them on the inky +river. More angels meet them; Heaven is displayed, and if +no better, certainly no worse, than it has been shown by +others—a place, at least, infinitely populous and glorious +with light—a place that haunts solemnly the hearts of +children. And then this symbolic draughtsman once more +strikes into his proper vein. Three cuts conclude the first +part. In the first the gates close, black against the glory +struggling from within. The second shows us +Ignorance—alas! poor Arminian!—hailing, in a sad +twilight, the ferryman Vain-Hope; and in the third we behold him, +bound hand and foot, and black already with the hue of his +eternal fate, carried high over the mountain-tops of the world by +two angels of the anger of the Lord. ‘Carried to +Another Place,’ the artist enigmatically names his +plate—a terrible design.</p> +<p>Wherever he touches on the black side of the supernatural his +pencil grows more daring and incisive. He has many true +inventions in the perilous and diabolic; he has many startling +nightmares realised. It is not easy to select the best; +some may like one and some another; the nude, depilated devil +bounding and casting darts against the Wicket Gate; the scroll of +flying horrors that hang over Christian by the Mouth of Hell; the +horned shade that comes behind him whispering blasphemies; the +daylight breaking through that rent cave-mouth of the mountains +and falling chill adown the haunted tunnel; Christian’s +further progress along the causeway, between the two black pools, +where, at every yard or two, a gin, a pitfall, or a snare awaits +the passer-by—loathsome white devilkins harbouring close +under the bank to work the springes, Christian himself pausing +and pricking with his sword’s point at the nearest noose, +and pale discomfortable mountains rising on the farther side; or +yet again, the two ill-favoured ones that beset the first of +Christian’s journey, with the frog-like structure of the +skull, the frog-like limberness of limbs—crafty, slippery, +lustful-looking devils, drawn always in outline as though +possessed of a dim, infernal luminosity. Horrid fellows are +they, one and all; horrid fellows and horrific scenes. In +another spirit that Good-Conscience ‘to whom Mr. Honest had +spoken in his lifetime,’ a cowled, grey, awful figure, one +hand pointing to the heavenly shore, realises, I will not say +all, but some at least of the strange impressiveness of +Bunyan’s words. It is no easy nor pleasant thing to +speak in one’s lifetime with Good-Conscience; he is an +austere, unearthly friend, whom maybe Torquemada knew; and the +folds of his raiment are not merely claustral, but have something +of the horror of the pall. Be not afraid, however; with the +hand of that appearance Mr. Honest will get safe across.</p> +<p>Yet perhaps it is in sequences that this artist best displays +himself. He loves to look at either side of a thing: as, +for instance, when he shows us both sides of the +wall—‘Grace Inextinguishable’ on the one side, +with the devil vainly pouring buckets on the flame, and +‘The Oil of Grace’ on the other, where the Holy +Spirit, vessel in hand, still secretly supplies the fire. +He loves, also, to show us the same event twice over, and to +repeat his instantaneous photographs at the interval of but a +moment. So we have, first, the whole troop of pilgrims +coming up to Valiant, and Great-heart to the front, spear in hand +and parleying; and next, the same cross-roads, from a more +distant view, the convoy now scattered and looking safely and +curiously on, and Valiant handing over for inspection his +‘right Jerusalem blade.’ It is true that this +designer has no great care after consistency: Apollyon’s +spear is laid by, his quiver of darts will disappear, whenever +they might hinder the designer’s freedom; and the +fiend’s tail is blobbed or forked at his good +pleasure. But this is not unsuitable to the illustration of +the fervent Bunyan, breathing hurry and momentary +inspiration. He, with his hot purpose, hunting sinners with +a lasso, shall himself forget the things that he has written +yesterday. He shall first slay Heedless in the Valley of +the Shadow, and then take leave of him talking in his sleep, as +if nothing had happened, in an arbour on the Enchanted +Ground. And again, in his rhymed prologue, he shall assign +some of the glory of the siege of Doubting Castle to his +favourite Valiant-for-the-Truth, who did not meet with the +besiegers till long after, at that dangerous corner by +Deadman’s Lane. And, with all inconsistencies and +freedoms, there is a power shown in these sequences of cuts: a +power of joining on one action or one humour to another; a power +of following out the moods, even of the dismal subterhuman fiends +engendered by the artist’s fancy; a power of sustained +continuous realisation, step by step, in nature’s order, +that can tell a story, in all its ins and outs, its pauses and +surprises, fully and figuratively, like the art of words.</p> +<p>One such sequence is the fight of Christian and +Apollyon—six cuts, weird and fiery, like the text. +The pilgrim is throughout a pale and stockish figure; but the +devil covers a multitude of defects. There is no better +devil of the conventional order than our artist’s Apollyon, +with his mane, his wings, his bestial legs, his changing and +terrifying expression, his infernal energy to slay. In cut +the first you see him afar off, still obscure in form, but +already formidable in suggestion. Cut the second, +‘The Fiend in Discourse,’ represents him, not +reasoning, railing rather, shaking his spear at the pilgrim, his +shoulder advanced, his tail writhing in the air, his foot ready +for a spring, while Christian stands back a little, timidly +defensive. The third illustrates these magnificent words: +‘Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole breadth of +the way, and said, I am void of fear in this matter: prepare +thyself to die; for I swear by my infernal den that thou shalt go +no farther: here will I spill thy soul! And with that he +threw a flaming dart at his breast.’ In the cut he +throws a dart with either hand, belching pointed flames out of +his mouth, spreading his broad vans, and straddling the while +across the path, as only a fiend can straddle who has just sworn +by his infernal den. The defence will not be long against +such vice, such flames, such red-hot nether energy. And in +the fourth cut, to be sure, he has leaped bodily upon his victim, +sped by foot and pinion, and roaring as he leaps. The fifth +shows the climacteric of the battle; Christian has reached nimbly +out and got his sword, and dealt that deadly home-thrust, the +fiend still stretched upon him, but ‘giving back, as one +that had received his mortal wound.’ The raised head, +the bellowing mouth, the paw clapped upon the sword, the one wing +relaxed in agony, all realise vividly these words of the +text. In the sixth and last, the trivial armed figure of +the pilgrim is seen kneeling with clasped hands on the betrodden +scene of contest and among the shivers of the darts; while just +at the margin the hinder quarters and the tail of Apollyon are +whisking off, indignant and discounted.</p> +<p>In one point only do these pictures seem to be unworthy of the +text, and that point is one rather of the difference of arts than +the difference of artists. Throughout his best and worst, +in his highest and most divine imaginations as in the narrowest +sallies of his sectarianism, the human-hearted piety of Bunyan +touches and ennobles, convinces, accuses the reader. +Through no art beside the art of words can the kindness of a +man’s affections be expressed. In the cuts you shall +find faithfully parodied the quaintness and the power, the +triviality and the surprising freshness of the author’s +fancy; there you shall find him out-stripped in ready symbolism +and the art of bringing things essentially invisible before the +eyes: but to feel the contact of essential goodness, to be made +in love with piety, the book must be read and not the prints +examined.</p> +<p>Farewell should not be taken with a grudge; nor can I dismiss +in any other words than those of gratitude a series of pictures +which have, to one at least, been the visible embodiment of +Bunyan from childhood up, and shown him, through all his years, +Great-heart lungeing at Giant Maul, and Apollyon breathing fire +at Christian, and every turn and town along the road to the +Celestial City, and that bright place itself, seen as to a stave +of music, shining afar off upon the hill-top, the candle of the +world.</p> +<h2>SKETCHES</h2> +<h3>I. THE SATIRIST</h3> +<p>My companion enjoyed a cheap reputation for wit and +insight. He was by habit and repute a satirist. If he +did occasionally condemn anything or anybody who richly deserved +it, and whose demerits had hitherto escaped, it was simply +because he condemned everything and everybody. While I was +with him he disposed of St. Paul with an epigram, shook my +reverence for Shakespeare in a neat antithesis, and fell foul of +the Almighty Himself, on the score of one or two out of the ten +commandments. Nothing escaped his blighting censure. +At every sentence he overthrew an idol, or lowered my estimation +of a friend. I saw everything with new eyes, and could only +marvel at my former blindness. How was it possible that I +had not before observed A’s false hair, B’s +selfishness, or C’s boorish manners? I and my +companion, methought, walked the streets like a couple of gods +among a swarm of vermin; for every one we saw seemed to bear +openly upon his brow the mark of the apocalyptic beast. I +half expected that these miserable beings, like the people of +Lystra, would recognise their betters and force us to the altar; +in which case, warned by the late of Paul and Barnabas, I do not +know that my modesty would have prevailed upon me to +decline. But there was no need for such churlish +virtue. More blinded than the Lycaonians, the people saw no +divinity in our gait; and as our temporary godhead lay more in +the way of observing than healing their infirmities, we were +content to pass them by in scorn.</p> +<p>I could not leave my companion, not from regard or even from +interest, but from a very natural feeling, inseparable from the +case. To understand it, let us take a simile. Suppose +yourself walking down the street with a man who continues to +sprinkle the crowd out of a flask of vitriol. You would be +much diverted with the grimaces and contortions of his victims; +and at the same time you would fear to leave his arm until his +bottle was empty, knowing that, when once among the crowd, you +would run a good chance yourself of baptism with his biting +liquor. Now my companion’s vitriol was +inexhaustible.</p> +<p>It was perhaps the consciousness of this, the knowledge that I +was being anointed already out of the vials of his wrath, that +made me fall to criticising the critic, whenever we had +parted.</p> +<p>After all, I thought, our satirist has just gone far enough +into his neighbours to find that the outside is false, without +caring to go farther and discover what is really true. He +is content to find that things are not what they seem, and +broadly generalises from it that they do not exist at all. +He sees our virtues are not what they pretend they are; and, on +the strength of that, he denies us the possession of virtue +altogether. He has learnt the first lesson, that no man is +wholly good; but he has not even suspected that there is another +equally true, to wit, that no man is wholly bad. Like the +inmate of a coloured star, he has eyes for one colour +alone. He has a keen scent after evil, but his nostrils are +plugged against all good, as people plugged their nostrils before +going about the streets of the plague-struck city.</p> +<p>Why does he do this? It is most unreasonable to flee the +knowledge of good like the infection of a horrible disease, and +batten and grow fat in the real atmosphere of a +lazar-house. This was my first thought; but my second was +not like unto it, and I saw that our satirist was wise, wise in +his generation, like the unjust steward. He does not want +light, because the darkness is more pleasant. He does not +wish to see the good, because he is happier without it. I +recollect that when I walked with him, I was in a state of divine +exaltation, such as Adam and Eve must have enjoyed when the +savour of the fruit was still unfaded between their lips; and I +recognise that this must be the man’s habitual state. +He has the forbidden fruit in his waist-coat pocket, and can make +himself a god as often and as long as he likes. He has +raised himself upon a glorious pedestal above his fellows; he has +touched the summit of ambition; and he envies neither King nor +Kaiser, Prophet nor Priest, content in an elevation as high as +theirs, and much more easily attained. Yes, certes, much +more easily attained. He has not risen by climbing himself, +but by pushing others down. He has grown great in his own +estimation, not by blowing himself out, and risking the fate of +Æsop’s frog, but simply by the habitual use of a +diminishing glass on everybody else. And I think altogether +that his is a better, a safer, and a surer recipe than most +others.</p> +<p>After all, however, looking back on what I have written, I +detect a spirit suspiciously like his own. All through, I +have been comparing myself with our satirist, and all through, I +have had the best of the comparison. Well, well, contagion +is as often mental as physical; and I do not think my readers, +who have all been under his lash, will blame me very much for +giving the headsman a mouthful of his own sawdust.</p> +<h3>II. NUITS BLANCHES</h3> +<p>If any one should know the pleasure and pain of a sleepless +night, it should be I. I remember, so long ago, the sickly +child that woke from his few hours’ slumber with the sweat +of a nightmare on his brow, to lie awake and listen and long for +the first signs of life among the silent streets. These +nights of pain and weariness are graven on my mind; and so when +the same thing happened to me again, everything that I heard or +saw was rather a recollection than a discovery.</p> +<p>Weighed upon by the opaque and almost sensible darkness, I +listened eagerly for anything to break the sepulchral +quiet. But nothing came, save, perhaps, an emphatic crack +from the old cabinet that was made by Deacon Brodie, or the dry +rustle of the coals on the extinguished fire. It was a +calm; or I know that I should have heard in the roar and clatter +of the storm, as I have not heard it for so many years, the wild +career of a horseman, always scouring up from the distance and +passing swiftly below the window; yet always returning again from +the place whence first he came, as though, baffled by some higher +power, he had retraced his steps to gain impetus for another and +another attempt.</p> +<p>As I lay there, there arose out of the utter stillness the +rumbling of a carriage a very great way off, that drew near, and +passed within a few streets of the house, and died away as +gradually as it had arisen. This, too, was as a +reminiscence.</p> +<p>I rose and lifted a corner of the blind. Over the black +belt of the garden I saw the long line of Queen Street, with here +and there a lighted window. How often before had my nurse +lifted me out of bed and pointed them out to me, while we +wondered together if, there also, there were children that could +not sleep, and if these lighted oblongs were signs of those that +waited like us for the morning.</p> +<p>I went out into the lobby, and looked down into the great deep +well of the staircase. For what cause I know not, just as +it used to be in the old days that the feverish child might be +the better served, a peep of gas illuminated a narrow circle far +below me. But where I was, all was darkness and silence, +save the dry monotonous ticking of the clock that came +ceaselessly up to my ear.</p> +<p>The final crown of it all, however, the last touch of +reproduction on the pictures of my memory, was the arrival of +that time for which, all night through, I waited and longed of +old. It was my custom, as the hours dragged on, to repeat +the question, ‘When will the carts come in?’ and +repeat it again and again until at last those sounds arose in the +street that I have heard once more this morning. The road +before our house is a great thoroughfare for early carts. I +know not, and I never have known, what they carry, whence they +come, or whither they go. But I know that, long ere dawn, +and for hours together, they stream continuously past, with the +same rolling and jerking of wheels and the same clink of +horses’ feet. It was not for nothing that they made +the burthen of my wishes all night through. They are really +the first throbbings of life, the harbingers of day; and it +pleases you as much to hear them as it must please a shipwrecked +seaman once again to grasp a hand of flesh and blood after years +of miserable solitude. They have the freshness of the +daylight life about them. You can hear the carters cracking +their whips and crying hoarsely to their horses or to one +another; and sometimes even a peal of healthy, harsh +horse-laughter comes up to you through the darkness. There +is now an end of mystery and fear. Like the knocking at the +door in <i>Macbeth</i>, <a name="citation205"></a><a +href="#footnote205" class="citation">[205]</a> or the cry of the +watchman in the <i>Tour de Nesle</i>, they show that the horrible +cæsura is over and the nightmares have fled away, because +the day is breaking and the ordinary life of men is beginning to +bestir itself among the streets.</p> +<p>In the middle of it all I fell asleep, to be wakened by the +officious knocking at my door, and I find myself twelve years +older than I had dreamed myself all night.</p> +<h3>III. THE WREATH OF IMMORTELLES</h3> +<p>It is all very well to talk of death as ‘a pleasant +potion of immortality’, but the most of us, I suspect, are +of ‘queasy stomachs,’ and find it none of the +sweetest. <a name="citation206a"></a><a href="#footnote206a" +class="citation">[206a]</a> The graveyard may be cloak-room +to Heaven; but we must admit that it is a very ugly and offensive +vestibule in itself, however fair may be the life to which it +leads. And though Enoch and Elias went into the temple +through a gate which certainly may be called Beautiful, the rest +of us have to find our way to it through Ezekiel’s +low-bowed door and the vault full of creeping things and all +manner of abominable beasts. Nevertheless, there is a +certain frame of mind to which a cemetery is, if not an antidote, +at least an alleviation. If you are in a fit of the blues, +go nowhere else. It was in obedience to this wise +regulation that the other morning found me lighting my pipe at +the entrance to Old Greyfriars’, thoroughly sick of the +town, the country, and myself.</p> +<p>Two of the men were talking at the gate, one of them carrying +a spade in hands still crusted with the soil of graves. +Their very aspect was delightful to me; and I crept nearer to +them, thinking to pick up some snatch of sexton gossip, some +‘talk fit for a charnel,’ <a +name="citation206b"></a><a href="#footnote206b" +class="citation">[206b]</a> something, in fine, worthy of that +fastidious logician, that adept in coroner’s law, who has +come down to us as the patron of Yaughan’s liquor, and the +very prince of gravediggers. Scots people in general are so +much wrapped up in their profession that I had a good chance of +overhearing such conversation: the talk of fish-mongers running +usually on stockfish and haddocks; while of the Scots sexton I +could repeat stories and speeches that positively smell of the +graveyard. But on this occasion I was doomed to +disappointment. My two friends were far into the region of +generalities. Their profession was forgotten in their +electorship. Politics had engulfed the narrower economy of +grave-digging. ‘Na, na,’ said the one, +‘ye’re a’ wrang.’ ‘The +English and Irish Churches,’ answered the other, in a tone +as if he had made the remark before, and it had been called in +question—‘The English and Irish Churches have +<i>impoverished</i> the country.’</p> +<p>‘Such are the results of education,’ thought I as +I passed beside them and came fairly among the tombs. Here, +at least, there were no commonplace politics, no diluted +this-morning’s leader, to distract or offend me. The +old shabby church showed, as usual, its quaint extent of roofage +and the relievo skeleton on one gable, still blackened with the +fire of thirty years ago. A chill dank mist lay over +all. The Old Greyfriars’ churchyard was in perfection +that morning, and one could go round and reckon up the +associations with no fear of vulgar interruption. On this +stone the Covenant was signed. In that vault, as the story +goes, John Knox took hiding in some Reformation broil. From +that window Burke the murderer looked out many a time across the +tombs, and perhaps o’ nights let himself down over the sill +to rob some new-made grave. Certainly he would have a +selection here. The very walks have been carried over +forgotten resting-places; and the whole ground is uneven, because +(as I was once quaintly told) ‘when the wood rots it stands +to reason the soil should fall in,’ which, from the law of +gravitation, is certainly beyond denial. But it is round +the boundary that there are the finest tombs. The whole +irregular space is, as it were, fringed with quaint old +monuments, rich in death’s-heads and scythes and +hour-glasses, and doubly rich in pious epitaphs and Latin +mottoes—rich in them to such an extent that their proper +space has run over, and they have crawled end-long up the shafts +of columns and ensconced themselves in all sorts of odd corners +among the sculpture. These tombs raise their backs against +the rabble of squalid dwelling-houses, and every here and there a +clothes-pole projects between two monuments its fluttering trophy +of white and yellow and red. With a grim irony they recall +the banners in the Invalides, banners as appropriate perhaps over +the sepulchres of tailors and weavers as these others above the +dust of armies. Why they put things out to dry on that +particular morning it was hard to imagine. The grass was +grey with drops of rain, the headstones black with +moisture. Yet, in despite of weather and common sense, +there they hung between the tombs; and beyond them I could see +through open windows into miserable rooms where whole families +were born and fed, and slept and died. At one a girl sat +singing merrily with her back to the graveyard; and from another +came the shrill tones of a scolding woman. Every here and +there was a town garden full of sickly flowers, or a pile of +crockery inside upon the window-seat. But you do not grasp +the full connection between these houses of the dead and the +living, the unnatural marriage of stately sepulchres and squalid +houses, till, lower down, where the road has sunk far below the +surface of the cemetery, and the very roofs are scarcely on a +level with its wall, you observe that a proprietor has taken +advantage of a tall monument and trained a chimney-stack against +its back. It startles you to see the red, modern pots +peering over the shoulder of the tomb.</p> +<p>A man was at work on a grave, his spade clinking away the +drift of bones that permeates the thin brown soil; but my first +disappointment had taught me to expect little from +Greyfriars’ sextons, and I passed him by in silence. +A slater on the slope of a neighbouring roof eyed me +curiously. A lean black cat, looking as if it had battened +on strange meats, slipped past me. A little boy at a window +put his finger to his nose in so offensive a manner that I was +put upon my dignity, and turned grandly off to read old epitaphs +and peer through the gratings into the shadow of vaults.</p> +<p>Just then I saw two women coming down a path, one of them old, +and the other younger, with a child in her arms. Both had +faces eaten with famine and hardened with sin, and both had +reached that stage of degradation, much lower in a woman than a +man, when all care for dress is lost. As they came down +they neared a grave, where some pious friend or relative had laid +a wreath of immortelles, and put a bell glass over it, as is the +custom. The effect of that ring of dull yellow among so +many blackened and dusty sculptures was more pleasant than it is +in modern cemeteries, where every second mound can boast a +similar coronal; and here, where it was the exception and not the +rule, I could even fancy the drops of moisture that dimmed the +covering were the tears of those who laid it where it was. +As the two women came up to it, one of them kneeled down on the +wet grass and looked long and silently through the clouded shade, +while the second stood above her, gently oscillating to and fro +to lull the muling baby. I was struck a great way off with +something religious in the attitude of these two unkempt and +haggard women; and I drew near faster, but still cautiously, to +hear what they were saying. Surely on them the spirit of +death and decay had descended; I had no education to dread here: +should I not have a chance of seeing nature? Alas! a +pawnbroker could not have been more practical and commonplace, +for this was what the kneeling woman said to the woman +upright—this and nothing more: ‘Eh, what +extravagance!’</p> +<p>O nineteenth century, wonderful art thou +indeed—wonderful, but wearisome in thy stale and deadly +uniformity. Thy men are more like numerals than men. +They must bear their idiosyncrasies or their professions written +on a placard about their neck, like the scenery in +Shakespeare’s theatre. Thy precepts of economy have +pierced into the lowest ranks of life; and there is now a decorum +in vice, a respectability among the disreputable, a pure spirit +of Philistinism among the waifs and strays of thy Bohemia. +For lo! thy very gravediggers talk politics; and thy castaways +kneel upon new graves, to discuss the cost of the monument and +grumble at the improvidence of love.</p> +<p>Such was the elegant apostrophe that I made as I went out of +the gates again, happily satisfied in myself, and feeling that I +alone of all whom I had seen was able to profit by the silent +poem of these green mounds and blackened headstones.</p> +<h3>IV. NURSES</h3> +<p>I knew one once, and the room where, lonely and old, she +waited for death. It was pleasant enough, high up above the +lane, and looking forth upon a hill-side, covered all day with +sheets and yellow blankets, and with long lines of underclothing +fluttering between the battered posts. There were any +number of cheap prints, and a drawing by one of ‘her +children,’ and there were flowers in the window, and a +sickly canary withered into consumption in an ornamental +cage. The bed, with its checked coverlid, was in a +closet. A great Bible lay on the table; and her drawers +were full of ‘scones,’ which it was her pleasure to +give to young visitors such as I was then.</p> +<p>You may not think this a melancholy picture; but the canary, +and the cat, and the white mouse that she had for a while, and +that died, were all indications of the want that ate into her +heart. I think I know a little of what that old woman felt; +and I am as sure as if I had seen her, that she sat many an hour +in silent tears, with the big Bible open before her clouded +eyes.</p> +<p>If you could look back upon her life, and feel the great chain +that had linked her to one child after another, sometimes to be +wrenched suddenly through, and sometimes, which is infinitely +worse, to be torn gradually off through years of growing neglect, +or perhaps growing dislike! She had, like the mother, +overcome that natural repugnance—repugnance which no man +can conquer—towards the infirm and helpless mass of putty +of the earlier stage. She had spent her best and happiest +years in tending, watching, and learning to love like a mother +this child, with which she has no connection and to which she has +no tie. Perhaps she refused some sweetheart (such things +have been), or put him off and off, until he lost heart and +turned to some one else, all for fear of leaving this creature +that had wound itself about her heart. And the end of it +all—her month’s warning, and a present perhaps, and +the rest of the life to vain regret. Or, worse still, to +see the child gradually forgetting and forsaking her, fostered in +disrespect and neglect on the plea of growing manliness, and at +last beginning to treat her as a servant whom he had treated a +few years before as a mother. She sees the Bible or the +Psalm-book, which with gladness and love unutterable in her heart +she had bought for him years ago out of her slender savings, +neglected for some newer gift of his father, lying in dust in the +lumber-room or given away to a poor child, and the act applauded +for its unfeeling charity. Little wonder if she becomes +hurt and angry, and attempts to tyrannise and to grasp her old +power back again. We are not all patient Grizzels, by good +fortune, but the most of us human beings with feelings and +tempers of our own.</p> +<p>And so, in the end, behold her in the room that I +described. Very likely and very naturally, in some fling of +feverish misery or recoil of thwarted love, she has quarrelled +with her old employers and the children are forbidden to see her +or to speak to her; or at best she gets her rent paid and a +little to herself, and now and then her late charges are sent up +(with another nurse, perhaps) to pay her a short visit. How +bright these visits seem as she looks forward to them on her +lonely bed! How unsatisfactory their realisation, when the +forgetful child, half wondering, checks with every word and +action the outpouring of her maternal love! How bitter and +restless the memories that they leave behind! And for the +rest, what else has she?—to watch them with eager eyes as +they go to school, to sit in church where she can see them every +Sunday, to be passed some day unnoticed in the street, or +deliberately cut because the great man or the great woman are +with friends before whom they are ashamed to recognise the old +woman that loved them.</p> +<p>When she goes home that night, how lonely will the room appear +to her! Perhaps the neighbours may hear her sobbing to +herself in the dark, with the fire burnt out for want of fuel, +and the candle still unlit upon the table.</p> +<p>And it is for this that they live, these +quasi-mothers—mothers in everything but the travail and the +thanks. It is for this that they have remained virtuous in +youth, living the dull life of a household servant. It is +for this that they refused the old sweetheart, and have no +fireside or offspring of their own.</p> +<p>I believe in a better state of things, that there will be no +more nurses, and that every mother will nurse her own offspring; +for what can be more hardening and demoralising than to call +forth the tenderest feelings of a woman’s heart and cherish +them yourself as long as you need them, as long as your children +require a nurse to love them, and then to blight and thwart and +destroy them, whenever your own use for them is at an end. +This may be Utopian; but it is always a little thing if one +mother or two mothers can be brought to feel more tenderly to +those who share their toil and have no part in their reward.</p> +<h3>V. A CHARACTER</h3> +<p>The man has a red, bloated face, and his figure is short and +squat. So far there is nothing in him to notice, but when +you see his eyes, you can read in these hard and shallow orbs a +depravity beyond measure depraved, a thirst after wickedness, the +pure, disinterested love of Hell for its own sake. The +other night, in the street, I was watching an omnibus passing +with lit-up windows, when I heard some one coughing at my side as +though he would cough his soul out; and turning round, I saw him +stopping under a lamp, with a brown greatcoat buttoned round him +and his whole face convulsed. It seemed as if he could not +live long; and so the sight set my mind upon a train of thought, +as I finished my cigar up and down the lighted streets.</p> +<p>He is old, but all these years have not yet quenched his +thirst for evil, and his eyes still delight themselves in +wickedness. He is dumb; but he will not let that hinder his +foul trade, or perhaps I should say, his yet fouler amusement, +and he has pressed a slate into the service of corruption. +Look at him, and he will sign to you with his bloated head, and +when you go to him in answer to the sign, thinking perhaps that +the poor dumb man has lost his way, you will see what he writes +upon his slate. He haunts the doors of schools, and shows +such inscriptions as these to the innocent children that come +out. He hangs about picture-galleries, and makes the +noblest pictures the text for some silent homily of vice. +His industry is a lesson to ourselves. Is it not wonderful +how he can triumph over his infirmities and do such an amount of +harm without a tongue? Wonderful industry—strange, +fruitless, pleasureless toil? Must not the very devil feel +a soft emotion to see his disinterested and laborious +service? Ah, but the devil knows better than this: he knows +that this man is penetrated with the love of evil and that all +his pleasure is shut up in wickedness: he recognises him, +perhaps, as a fit type for mankind of his satanic self, and +watches over his effigy as we might watch over a favourite +likeness. As the business man comes to love the toil, which +he only looked upon at first as a ladder towards other desires +and less unnatural gratifications, so the dumb man has felt the +charm of his trade and fallen captivated before the eyes of +sin. It is a mistake when preachers tell us that vice is +hideous and loathsome; for even vice has her Hörsel and her +devotees, who love her for her own sake.</p> +<h2>THE GREAT NORTH ROAD</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I—NANCE AT THE ‘GREEN DRAGON’</h3> +<p>Nance Holdaway was on her knees before the fire blowing the +green wood that voluminously smoked upon the dogs, and only now +and then shot forth a smothered flame; her knees already ached +and her eyes smarted, for she had been some while at this +ungrateful task, but her mind was gone far away to meet the +coming stranger. Now she met him in the wood, now at the +castle gate, now in the kitchen by candle-light; each fresh +presentment eclipsed the one before; a form so elegant, manners +so sedate, a countenance so brave and comely, a voice so winning +and resolute—sure such a man was never seen! The +thick-coming fancies poured and brightened in her head like the +smoke and flames upon the hearth.</p> +<p>Presently the heavy foot of her uncle Jonathan was heard upon +the stair, and as he entered the room she bent the closer to her +work. He glanced at the green fagots with a sneer, and +looked askance at the bed and the white sheets, at the strip of +carpet laid, like an island, on the great expanse of the stone +floor, and at the broken glazing of the casement clumsily +repaired with paper.</p> +<p>‘Leave that fire a-be,’ he cried. +‘What, have I toiled all my life to turn innkeeper at the +hind end? Leave it a-be, I say.’</p> +<p>‘La, uncle, it doesn’t burn a bit; it only +smokes,’ said Nance, looking up from her position.</p> +<p>‘You are come of decent people on both sides,’ +returned the old man. ‘Who are you to blow the coals +for any Robin-run-agate? Get up, get on your hood, make +yourself useful, and be off to the “Green +Dragon.”’</p> +<p>‘I thought you was to go yourself,’ Nance +faltered.</p> +<p>‘So did I,’ quoth Jonathan; ‘but it appears +I was mistook.’</p> +<p>The very excess of her eagerness alarmed her, and she began to +hang back. ‘I think I would rather not, dear +uncle,’ she said. ‘Night is at hand, and I +think, dear, I would rather not.’</p> +<p>‘Now you look here,’ replied Jonathan, ‘I +have my lord’s orders, have I not? Little he gives +me, but it’s all my livelihood. And do you fancy, if +I disobey my lord, I’m likely to turn round for a lass like +you? No, I’ve that hell-fire of pain in my old knee, +I wouldn’t walk a mile, not for King George upon his bended +knees.’ And he walked to the window and looked down +the steep scarp to where the river foamed in the bottom of the +dell.</p> +<p>Nance stayed for no more bidding. In her own room, by +the glimmer of the twilight, she washed her hands and pulled on +her Sunday mittens; adjusted her black hood, and tied a dozen +times its cherry ribbons; and in less than ten minutes, with a +fluttering heart and excellently bright eyes, she passed forth +under the arch and over the bridge, into the thickening shadows +of the groves. A well-marked wheel-track conducted +her. The wood, which upon both sides of the river dell was +a mere scrambling thicket of hazel, hawthorn, and holly, boasted +on the level of more considerable timber. Beeches came to a +good growth, with here and there an oak; and the track now passed +under a high arcade of branches, and now ran under the open sky +in glades. As the girl proceeded these glades became more +frequent, the trees began again to decline in size, and the wood +to degenerate into furzy coverts. Last of all there was a +fringe of elders; and beyond that the track came forth upon an +open, rolling moorland, dotted with wind-bowed and scanty bushes, +and all golden brown with the winter, like a grouse. Right +over against the girl the last red embers of the sunset burned +under horizontal clouds; the night fell clear and still and +frosty, and the track in low and marshy passages began to crackle +under foot with ice.</p> +<p>Some half a mile beyond the borders of the wood the lights of +the ‘Green Dragon’ hove in sight, and running close +beside them, very faint in the dying dusk, the pale ribbon of the +Great North Road. It was the back of the post-house that +was presented to Nance Holdaway; and as she continued to draw +near and the night to fall more completely, she became aware of +an unusual brightness and bustle. A post-chaise stood in +the yard, its lamps already lighted: light shone hospitably in +the windows and from the open door; moving lights and shadows +testified to the activity of servants bearing lanterns. The +clank of pails, the stamping of hoofs on the firm causeway, the +jingle of harness, and, last of all, the energetic hissing of a +groom, began to fall upon her ear. By the stir you would +have thought the mail was at the door, but it was still too early +in the night. The down mail was not due at the ‘Green +Dragon’ for hard upon an hour; the up mail from Scotland +not before two in the black morning.</p> +<p>Nance entered the yard somewhat dazzled. Sam, the tall +ostler, was polishing a curb-chain wit sand; the lantern at his +feet letting up spouts of candle-light through the holes with +which its conical roof was peppered.</p> +<p>‘Hey, miss,’ said he jocularly, ‘you +won’t look at me any more, now you have gentry at the +castle.’</p> +<p>Her cheeks burned with anger.</p> +<p>‘That’s my lord’s chay,’ the man +continued, nodding at the chaise, ‘Lord +Windermoor’s. Came all in a fluster—dinner, +bowl of punch, and put the horses to. For all the world like a +runaway match, my dear—bar the bride. He brought Mr. +Archer in the chay with him.’</p> +<p>‘Is that Holdaway?’ cried the landlord from the +lighted entry, where he stood shading his eyes.</p> +<p>‘Only me, sir,’ answered Nance.</p> +<p>‘O, you, Miss Nance,’ he said. ‘Well, +come in quick, my pretty. My lord is waiting for your +uncle.’</p> +<p>And he ushered Nance into a room cased with yellow wainscot +and lighted by tall candles, where two gentlemen sat at a table +finishing a bowl of punch. One of these was stout, elderly, +and irascible, with a face like a full moon, well dyed with +liquor, thick tremulous lips, a short, purple hand, in which he +brandished a long pipe, and an abrupt and gobbling +utterance. This was my Lord Windermoor. In his +companion Nance beheld a younger man, tall, quiet, grave, +demurely dressed, and wearing his own hair. Her glance but +lighted on him, and she flushed, for in that second she made sure +that she had twice betrayed herself—betrayed by the +involuntary flash of her black eyes her secret impatience to +behold this new companion, and, what was far worse, betrayed her +disappointment in the realisation of her dreams. He, +meanwhile, as if unconscious, continued to regard her with +unmoved decorum.</p> +<p>‘O, a man of wood,’ thought Nance.</p> +<p>‘What—what?’ said his lordship. +‘Who is this?’</p> +<p>‘If you please, my lord, I am Holdaway’s +niece,’ replied Nance, with a curtsey.</p> +<p>‘Should have been here himself,’ observed his +lordship. ‘Well, you tell Holdaway that I’m +aground, not a stiver—not a stiver. I’m running +from the beagles—going abroad, tell Holdaway. And he +need look for no more wages: glad of ’em myself, if I could +get ’em. He can live in the castle if he likes, or go +to the devil. O, and here is Mr. Archer; and I recommend +him to take him in—a friend of mine—and Mr. Archer +will pay, as I wrote. And I regard that in the light of a +precious good thing for Holdaway, let me tell you, and a set-off +against the wages.’</p> +<p>‘But O, my lord!’ cried Nance, ‘we live upon +the wages, and what are we to do without?’</p> +<p>‘What am I to do?—what am I to do?’ replied +Lord Windermoor with some exasperation. ‘I have no +wages. And there is Mr. Archer. And if Holdaway +doesn’t like it, he can go to the devil, and you with +him!—and you with him!’</p> +<p>‘And yet, my lord,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘these +good people will have as keen a sense of loss as you or I; +keener, perhaps, since they have done nothing to deserve +it.’</p> +<p>‘Deserve it?’ cried the peer. +‘What? What? If a rascally highwayman comes up +to me with a confounded pistol, do you say that I’ve +deserved it? How often am I to tell you, sir, that I was +cheated—that I was cheated?’</p> +<p>‘You are happy in the belief,’ returned Mr. Archer +gravely.</p> +<p>‘Archer, you would be the death of me!’ exclaimed +his lordship. ‘You know you’re drunk; you know +it, sir; and yet you can’t get up a spark of +animation.’</p> +<p>‘I have drunk fair, my lord,’ replied the younger +man; ‘but I own I am conscious of no +exhilaration.’</p> +<p>‘If you had as black a look-out as me, sir,’ cried +the peer, ‘you would be very glad of a little innocent +exhilaration, let me tell you. I am glad of it—glad +of it, and I only wish I was drunker. For let me tell you +it’s a cruel hard thing upon a man of my time of life and +my position, to be brought down to beggary because the world is +full of thieves and rascals—thieves and rascals. +What? For all I know, you may be a thief and a rascal +yourself; and I would fight you for a pinch of snuff—a +pinch of snuff,’ exclaimed his lordship.</p> +<p>Here Mr. Archer turned to Nance Holdaway with a pleasant +smile, so full of sweetness, kindness, and composure that, at one +bound, her dreams returned to her. ‘My good Miss +Holdaway,’ said he, ‘if you are willing to show me +the road, I am even eager to be gone. As for his lordship +and myself, compose yourself; there is no fear; this is his +lordship’s way.’</p> +<p>‘What? what?’ cried his lordship. ‘My +way? Ish no such a thing, my way.’</p> +<p>‘Come, my lord,’ cried Archer; ‘you and I +very thoroughly understand each other; and let me suggest, it is +time that both of us were gone. The mail will soon be +due. Here, then, my lord, I take my leave of you, with the +most earnest assurance of my gratitude for the past, and a +sincere offer of any services I may be able to render in the +future.’</p> +<p>‘Archer,’ exclaimed Lord Windermoor, ‘I love +you like a son. Le’ ’s have another +bowl.’</p> +<p>‘My lord, for both our sakes, you will excuse me,’ +replied Mr. Archer. ‘We both require caution; we must +both, for some while at least, avoid the chance of a +pursuit.’</p> +<p>‘Archer,’ quoth his lordship, ‘this is a +rank ingratishood. What? I’m to go firing away +in the dark in the cold po’chaise, and not so much as a +game of écarté possible, unless I stop and play +with the postillion, the postillion; and the whole country +swarming with thieves and rascals and highwaymen.’</p> +<p>‘I beg your lordship’s pardon,’ put in the +landlord, who now appeared in the doorway to announce the chaise, +‘but this part of the North Road is known for safety. +There has not been a robbery, to call a robbery, this five +years’ time. Further south, of course, it’s +nearer London, and another story,’ he added.</p> +<p>‘Well, then, if that’s so,’ concluded my +lord, ‘le’ ’s have t’other bowl and a +pack of cards.’</p> +<p>‘My lord, you forget,’ said Archer, ‘I might +still gain; but it is hardly possible for me to lose.’</p> +<p>‘Think I’m a sharper?’ inquired the +peer. ‘Gen’leman’s parole’s all I +ask.’</p> +<p>But Mr. Archer was proof against these blandishments, and said +farewell gravely enough to Lord Windermoor, shaking his hand and +at the same time bowing very low. ‘You will never +know,’ says he, ‘the service you have done +me.’ And with that, and before my lord had finally +taken up his meaning, he had slipped about the table, touched +Nance lightly but imperiously on the arm, and left the +room. In face of the outbreak of his lordship’s +lamentations she made haste to follow the truant.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II—IN WHICH MR. ARCHER IS INSTALLED</h3> +<p>The chaise had been driven round to the front door; the +courtyard lay all deserted, and only lit by a lantern set upon a +window-sill. Through this Nance rapidly led the way, and +began to ascend the swellings of the moor with a heart that +somewhat fluttered in her bosom. She was not afraid, but in +the course of these last passages with Lord Windermoor Mr. Archer +had ascended to that pedestal on which her fancy waited to instal +him. The reality, she felt, excelled her dreams, and this +cold night walk was the first romantic incident in her +experience.</p> +<p>It was the rule in these days to see gentlemen unsteady after +dinner, yet Nance was both surprised and amused when her +companion, who had spoken so soberly, began to stumble and waver +by her side with the most airy divagations. Sometimes he +would get so close to her that she must edge away; and at others +lurch clear out of the track and plough among deep heather. +His courtesy and gravity meanwhile remained unaltered. He +asked her how far they had to go; whether the way lay all upon +the moorland, and when he learned they had to pass a wood +expressed his pleasure. ‘For,’ said he, +‘I am passionately fond of trees. Trees and fair +lawns, if you consider of it rightly, are the ornaments of +nature, as palaces and fine approaches—’ And +here he stumbled into a patch of slough and nearly fell. +The girl had hard work not to laugh, but at heart she was lost in +admiration for one who talked so elegantly.</p> +<p>They had got to about a quarter of a mile from the +‘Green Dragon,’ and were near the summit of the rise, +when a sudden rush of wheels arrested them. Turning and +looking back, they saw the post-house, now much declined in +brightness; and speeding away northward the two tremulous bright +dots of my Lord Windermoor’s chaise-lamps. Mr. Archer +followed these yellow and unsteady stars until they dwindled into +points and disappeared.</p> +<p>‘There goes my only friend,’ he said. +‘Death has cut off those that loved me, and change of +fortune estranged my flatterers; and but for you, poor bankrupt, +my life is as lonely as this moor.’</p> +<p>The tone of his voice affected both of them. They stood +there on the side of the moor, and became thrillingly conscious +of the void waste of the night, without a feature for the eye, +and except for the fainting whisper of the carriage-wheels +without a murmur for the ear. And instantly, like a +mockery, there broke out, very far away, but clear and jolly, the +note of the mail-guard’s horn. ‘Over the +hills’ was his air. It rose to the two watchers on +the moor with the most cheerful sentiment of human company and +travel, and at the same time in and around the ‘Green +Dragon’ it woke up a great bustle of lights running to and +fro and clattering hoofs. Presently after, out of the +darkness to southward, the mail grew near with a growing +rumble. Its lamps were very large and bright, and threw +their radiance forward in overlapping cones; the four cantering +horses swarmed and steamed; the body of the coach followed like a +great shadow; and this lit picture slid with a sort of +ineffectual swiftness over the black field of night, and was +eclipsed by the buildings of the ‘Green Dragon.’</p> +<p>Mr. Archer turned abruptly and resumed his former walk; only +that he was now more steady, kept better alongside his young +conductor, and had fallen into a silence broken by sighs. +Nance waxed very pitiful over his fate, contrasting an imaginary +past of courts and great society, and perhaps the King himself, +with the tumbledown ruin in a wood to which she was now +conducting him.</p> +<p>‘You must try, sir, to keep your spirits up,’ said +she. ‘To be sure this is a great change for one like +you; but who knows the future?’</p> +<p>Mr. Archer turned towards her in the darkness, and she could +clearly perceive that he smiled upon her very kindly. +‘There spoke a sweet nature,’ said he, ‘and I +must thank you for these words. But I would not have you +fancy that I regret the past for any happiness found in it, or +that I fear the simplicity and hardship of the country. I +am a man that has been much tossed about in life; now up, now +down; and do you think that I shall not be able to support what +you support—you who are kind, and therefore know how to +feel pain; who are beautiful, and therefore hope; who are young, +and therefore (or am I the more mistaken?) +discontented?’</p> +<p>‘Nay, sir, not that, at least,’ said Nance; +‘not discontented. If I were to be discontented, how +should I look those that have real sorrows in the face? I +have faults enough, but not that fault; and I have my merits too, +for I have a good opinion of myself. But for beauty, I am +not so simple but that I can tell a banter from a +compliment.’</p> +<p>‘Nay, nay,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘I had half +forgotten; grief is selfish, and I was thinking of myself and not +of you, or I had never blurted out so bold a piece of +praise. ’Tis the best proof of my sincerity. +But come, now, I would lay a wager you are no coward?’</p> +<p>‘Indeed, sir, I am not more afraid than another,’ +said Nance. ‘None of my blood are given to +fear.’</p> +<p>‘And you are honest?’ he returned.</p> +<p>‘I will answer for that,’ said she.</p> +<p>‘Well, then, to be brave, to be honest, to be kind, and +to be contented, since you say you are so—is not that to +fill up a great part of virtue?’</p> +<p>‘I fear you are but a flatterer,’ said Nance, but +she did not say it clearly, for what with bewilderment and +satisfaction, her heart was quite oppressed.</p> +<p>There could be no harm, certainly, in these grave compliments; +but yet they charmed and frightened her, and to find favour, for +reasons however obscure, in the eyes of this elegant, serious, +and most unfortunate young gentleman, was a giddy elevation, was +almost an apotheosis, for a country maid.</p> +<p>But she was to be no more exercised; for Mr. Archer, +disclaiming any thought of flattery, turned off to other +subjects, and held her all through the wood in conversation, +addressing her with an air of perfect sincerity, and listening to +her answers with every mark of interest. Had open flattery +continued, Nance would have soon found refuge in good sense; but +the more subtle lure she could not suspect, much less +avoid. It was the first time she had ever taken part in a +conversation illuminated by any ideas. All was then true +that she had heard and dreamed of gentlemen; they were a race +apart, like deities knowing good and evil. And then there +burst upon her soul a divine thought, hope’s glorious +sunrise: since she could understand, since it seemed that she +too, even she, could interest this sorrowful Apollo, might she +not learn? or was she not learning? Would not her soul +awake and put forth wings? Was she not, in fact, an +enchanted princess, waiting but a touch to become royal? +She saw herself transformed, radiantly attired, but in the most +exquisite taste: her face grown longer and more refined; her tint +etherealised; and she heard herself with delighted wonder talking +like a book.</p> +<p>Meanwhile they had arrived at where the track comes out above +the river dell, and saw in front of them the castle, faintly +shadowed on the night, covering with its broken battlements a +bold projection of the bank, and showing at the extreme end, +where were the habitable tower and wing, some crevices of +candle-light. Hence she called loudly upon her uncle, and +he was seen to issue, lantern in hand, from the tower door, and, +where the ruins did not intervene, to pick his way over the +swarded courtyard, avoiding treacherous cellars and winding among +blocks of fallen masonry. The arch of the great gate was +still entire, flanked by two tottering bastions, and it was here +that Jonathan met them, standing at the edge of the bridge, bent +somewhat forward, and blinking at them through the glow of his +own lantern. Mr. Archer greeted him with civility; but the +old man was in no humour of compliance. He guided the +newcomer across the court-yard, looking sharply and quickly in +his face, and grumbling all the time about the cold, and the +discomfort and dilapidation of the castle. He was sure he +hoped that Mr. Archer would like it; but in truth he could not +think what brought him there. Doubtless he had a good +reason—this with a look of cunning scrutiny—but, +indeed, the place was quite unfit for any person of repute; he +himself was eaten up with the rheumatics. It was the most +rheumaticky place in England, and some fine day the whole +habitable part (to call it habitable) would fetch away bodily and +go down the slope into the river. He had seen the cracks +widening; there was a plaguy issue in the bank below; he thought +a spring was mining it; it might be to-morrow, it might be next +day; but they were all sure of a come-down sooner or later. +‘And that is a poor death,’ said he, ‘for any +one, let alone a gentleman, to have a whole old ruin dumped upon +his belly. Have a care to your left there; these cellar +vaults have all broke down, and the grass and hemlock hide +’em. Well, sir, here is welcome to you, such as it +is, and wishing you well away.’</p> +<p>And with that Jonathan ushered his guest through the tower +door, and down three steps on the left hand into the kitchen or +common room of the castle. It was a huge, low room, as +large as a meadow, occupying the whole width of the habitable +wing, with six barred windows looking on the court, and two into +the river valley. A dresser, a table, and a few chairs +stood dotted here and there upon the uneven flags. Under +the great chimney a good fire burned in an iron fire-basket; a +high old settee, rudely carved with figures and Gothic lettering, +flanked it on either side; there was a hinge table and a stone +bench in the chimney corner, and above the arch hung guns, axes, +lanterns, and great sheaves of rusty keys.</p> +<p>Jonathan looked about him, holding up the lantern, and +shrugged his shoulders, with a pitying grimace. ‘Here +it is,’ he said. ‘See the damp on the floor, +look at the moss; where there’s moss you may be sure that +it’s rheumaticky. Try and get near that fire for to +warm yourself; it’ll blow the coat off your back. And +with a young gentleman with a face like yours, as pale as a +tallow-candle, I’d be afeard of a churchyard cough and a +galloping decline,’ says Jonathan, naming the maladies with +gloomy gusto, ‘or the cold might strike and turn your +blood,’ he added.</p> +<p>Mr. Archer fairly laughed. ‘My good Mr. +Holdaway,’ said he, ‘I was born with that same +tallow-candle face, and the only fear that you inspire me with is +the fear that I intrude unwelcomely upon your private +hours. But I think I can promise you that I am very little +troublesome, and I am inclined to hope that the terms which I can +offer may still pay you the derangement.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, the terms,’ said Jonathan, ‘I was +thinking of that. As you say, they are very small,’ +and he shook his head.</p> +<p>‘Unhappily, I can afford no more,’ said Mr. +Archer. ‘But this we have arranged already,’ he +added with a certain stiffness; ‘and as I am aware that +Miss Holdaway has matter to communicate, I will, if you permit, +retire at once. To-night I must bivouac; to-morrow my trunk +is to follow from the “Dragon.” So if you will +show me to my room I shall wish you a good slumber and a better +awakening.’</p> +<p>Jonathan silently gave the lantern to Nance, and she, turning +and curtseying in the doorway, proceeded to conduct their guest +up the broad winding staircase of the tower. He followed +with a very brooding face.</p> +<p>‘Alas!’ cried Nance, as she entered the room, +‘your fire black out,’ and, setting down the lantern, +she clapped upon her knees before the chimney and began to +rearrange the charred and still smouldering remains. Mr. +Archer looked about the gaunt apartment with a sort of +shudder. The great height, the bare stone, the shattered +windows, the aspect of the uncurtained bed, with one of its four +fluted columns broken short, all struck a chill upon his +fancy. From this dismal survey his eyes returned to Nance +crouching before the fire, the candle in one hand and artfully +puffing at the embers; the flames as they broke forth played upon +the soft outline of her cheek—she was alive and young, +coloured with the bright hues of life, and a woman. He +looked upon her, softening; and then sat down and continued to +admire the picture.</p> +<p>‘There, sir,’ said she, getting upon her feet, +‘your fire is doing bravely now. +Good-night.’</p> +<p>He rose and held out his hand. ‘Come,’ said +he, ‘you are my only friend in these parts, and you must +shake hands.’</p> +<p>She brushed her hand upon her skirt and offered it, +blushing.</p> +<p>‘God bless you, my dear,’ said he.</p> +<p>And then, when he was alone, he opened one of the windows, and +stared down into the dark valley. A gentle wimpling of the +river among stones ascended to his ear; the trees upon the other +bank stood very black against the sky; farther away an owl was +hooting. It was dreary and cold, and as he turned back to +the hearth and the fine glow of fire, ‘Heavens!’ said +he to himself, ‘what an unfortunate destiny is +mine!’</p> +<p>He went to bed, but sleep only visited his pillow in uneasy +snatches. Outbreaks of loud speech came up the staircase; +he heard the old stones of the castle crack in the frosty night +with sharp reverberations, and the bed complained under his +tossings. Lastly, far on into the morning, he awakened from +a doze to hear, very far off, in the extreme and breathless +quiet, a wailing flourish on the horn. The down mail was +drawing near to the ‘Green Dragon.’ He sat up +in bed; the sound was tragical by distance, and the modulation +appealed to his ear like human speech. It seemed to call +upon him with a dreary insistence—to call him far away, to +address him personally, and to have a meaning that he failed to +seize. It was thus, at least, in this nodding castle, in a +cold, miry woodland, and so far from men and society, that the +traffic on the Great North Road spoke to him in the intervals of +slumber.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III—JONATHAN HOLDAWAY</h3> +<p>Nance descended the tower stair, pausing at every step. +She was in no hurry to confront her uncle with bad news, and she +must dwell a little longer on the rich note of Mr. Archer’s +voice, the charm of his kind words, and the beauty of his manner +and person. But, once at the stair-foot, she threw aside +the spell and recovered her sensible and workaday self.</p> +<p>Jonathan was seated in the middle of the settle, a mug of ale +beside him, in the attitude of one prepared for trouble; but he +did not speak, and suffered her to fetch her supper and eat of +it, with a very excellent appetite, in silence. When she +had done, she, too, drew a tankard of home-brewed, and came and +planted herself in front of him upon the settle.</p> +<p>‘Well?’ said Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘My lord has run away,’ said Nance.</p> +<p>‘What?’ cried the old man.</p> +<p>‘Abroad,’ she continued; ‘run away from +creditors. He said he had not a stiver, but he was drunk +enough. He said you might live on in the castle, and Mr. +Archer would pay you; but you was to look for no more wages, +since he would be glad of them himself.’</p> +<p>Jonathan’s face contracted; the flush of a black, +bilious anger mounted to the roots of his hair; he gave an +inarticulate cry, leapt upon his feet, and began rapidly pacing +the stone floor. At first he kept his hands behind his back +in a tight knot; then he began to gesticulate as he turned.</p> +<p>‘This man—this lord,’ he shouted, ‘who +is he? He was born with a gold spoon in his mouth, and I +with a dirty straw. He rolled in his coach when he was a +baby. I have dug and toiled and laboured since I was that +high—that high.’ And he shouted again. +‘I’m bent and broke, and full of pains. +D’ ye think I don’t know the taste of sweat? +Many’s the gallon I’ve drunk of it—ay, in the +midwinter, toiling like a slave. All through, what has my +life been? Bend, bend, bend my old creaking back till it +would ache like breaking; wade about in the foul mire, never a +dry stitch; empty belly, sore hands, hat off to my Lord Redface; +kicks and ha’pence; and now, here, at the hind end, when +I’m worn to my poor bones, a kick and done with +it.’ He walked a little while in silence, and then, +extending his hand, ‘Now you, Nance Holdaway,’ says +he, ‘you come of my blood, and you’re a good +girl. When that man was a boy, I used to carry his gun for +him. I carried the gun all day on my two feet, and many a +stitch I had, and chewed a bullet for. He rode upon a +horse, with feathers in his hat; but it was him that had the +shots and took the game home. Did I complain? Not +I. I knew my station. What did I ask, but just the +chance to live and die honest? Nance Holdaway, don’t +let them deny it to me—don’t let them do it. +I’ve been as poor as Job, and as honest as the day, but +now, my girl, you mark these words of mine, I’m getting +tired of it.’</p> +<p>‘I wouldn’t say such words, at least,’ said +Nance.</p> +<p>‘You wouldn’t?’ said the old man +grimly. ‘Well, and did I when I was your age? +Wait till your back’s broke and your hands tremble, and +your eyes fail, and you’re weary of the battle and ask no +more but to lie down in your bed and give the ghost up like an +honest man; and then let there up and come some insolent, ungodly +fellow—ah! if I had him in these hands! +“Where’s my money that you gambled?” I should +say. “Where’s my money that you drank and +diced?” “Thief!” is what I would say; +“Thief!”’ he roared, +‘“Thief”’</p> +<p>‘Mr. Archer will hear you if you don’t take +care,’ said Nance, ‘and I would be ashamed, for one, +that he should hear a brave, old, honest, hard-working man like +Jonathan Holdaway talk nonsense like a boy.’</p> +<p>‘D’ ye think I mind for Mr. Archer?’ he +cried shrilly, with a clack of laughter; and then he came close +up to her, stooped down with his two palms upon his knees, and +looked her in the eyes, with a strange hard expression, something +like a smile. ‘Do I mind for God, my girl?’ he +said; ‘that’s what it’s come to be now, do I +mind for God?’</p> +<p>‘Uncle Jonathan,’ she said, getting up and taking +him by the arm; ‘you sit down again, where you were +sitting. There, sit still; I’ll have no more of this; +you’ll do yourself a mischief. Come, take a drink of +this good ale, and I’ll warm a tankard for you. La, +we’ll pull through, you’ll see. I’m +young, as you say, and it’s my turn to carry the bundle; +and don’t you worry your bile, or we’ll have +sickness, too, as well as sorrow.’</p> +<p>‘D’ ye think that I’d forgotten you?’ +said Jonathan, with something like a groan; and thereupon his +teeth clicked to, and he sat silent with the tankard in his hand +and staring straight before him.</p> +<p>‘Why,’ says Nance, setting on the ale to mull, +‘men are always children, they say, however old; and if +ever I heard a thing like this, to set to and make yourself sick, +just when the money’s failing. Keep a good heart up; +you haven’t kept a good heart these seventy years, nigh +hand, to break down about a pound or two. Here’s this +Mr. Archer come to lodge, that you disliked so much. Well, +now you see it was a clear Providence. Come, let’s +think upon our mercies. And here is the ale mulling lovely; +smell of it; I’ll take a drop myself, it smells so +sweet. And, Uncle Jonathan, you let me say one word. +You’ve lost more than money before now; you lost my aunt, +and bore it like a man. Bear this.’</p> +<p>His face once more contracted; his fist doubled, and shot +forth into the air, and trembled. ‘Let them look +out!’ he shouted. ‘Here, I warn all men; +I’ve done with this foul kennel of knaves. Let them +look out!’</p> +<p>‘Hush, hush! for pity’s sake,’ cried +Nance.</p> +<p>And then all of a sudden he dropped his face into his hands, +and broke out with a great hiccoughing dry sob that was horrible +to hear. ‘O,’ he cried, ‘my God, if my +son hadn’t left me, if my Dick was here!’ and the +sobs shook him; Nance sitting still and watching him, with +distress. ‘O, if he were here to help his +father!’ he went on again. ‘If I had a son like +other fathers, he would save me now, when all is breaking down; +O, he would save me! Ay, but where is he? Raking +taverns, a thief perhaps. My curse be on him!’ he +added, rising again into wrath.</p> +<p>‘Hush!’ cried Nance, springing to her feet: +‘your boy, your dead wife’s boy—Aunt +Susan’s baby that she loved—would you curse +him? O, God forbid!’</p> +<p>The energy of her address surprised him from his mood. +He looked upon her, tearless and confused. ‘Let me go +to my bed,’ he said at last, and he rose, and, shaking as +with ague, but quite silent, lighted his candle, and left the +kitchen.</p> +<p>Poor Nance! the pleasant current of her dreams was all +diverted. She beheld a golden city, where she aspired to +dwell; she had spoken with a deity, and had told herself that she +might rise to be his equal; and now the earthly ligaments that +bound her down had been tightened. She was like a tree +looking skyward, her roots were in the ground. It seemed to +her a thing so coarse, so rustic, to be thus concerned about a +loss in money; when Mr. Archer, fallen from the sky-level of +counts and nobles, faced his changed destiny with so immovable a +courage. To weary of honesty; that, at least, no one could +do, but even to name it was already a disgrace; and she beheld in +fancy her uncle, and the young lad, all laced and feathered, hand +upon hip, bestriding his small horse. The opposition seemed +to perpetuate itself from generation to generation; one side +still doomed to the clumsy and the servile, the other born to +beauty.</p> +<p>She thought of the golden zones in which gentlemen were bred, +and figured with so excellent a grace; zones in which wisdom and +smooth words, white linen and slim hands, were the mark of the +desired inhabitants; where low temptations were unknown, and +honesty no virtue, but a thing as natural as breathing.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV—MINGLING THREADS</h3> +<p>It was nearly seven before Mr. Archer left his +apartment. On the landing he found another door beside his +own opening on a roofless corridor, and presently he was walking +on the top of the ruins. On one hand he could look down a +good depth into the green court-yard; on the other his eye roved +along the downward course of the river, the wet woods all +smoking, the shadows long and blue, the mists golden and rosy in +the sun, here and there the water flashing across an +obstacle. His heart expanded and softened to a grateful +melancholy, and with his eye fixed upon the distance, and no +thought of present danger, he continued to stroll along the +elevated and treacherous promenade.</p> +<p>A terror-stricken cry rose to him from the courtyard. He +looked down, and saw in a glimpse Nance standing below with hands +clasped in horror and his own foot trembling on the margin of a +gulf. He recoiled and leant against a pillar, quaking from +head to foot, and covering his face with his hands; and Nance had +time to run round by the stair and rejoin him where he stood +before he had changed a line of his position.</p> +<p>‘Ah!’ he cried, and clutched her wrist; +‘don’t leave me. The place rocks; I have no +head for altitudes.’</p> +<p>‘Sit down against that pillar,’ said Nance. +‘Don’t you be afraid; I won’t leave you, and +don’t look up or down: look straight at me. How white +you are!’</p> +<p>‘The gulf,’ he said, and closed his eyes again and +shuddered.</p> +<p>‘Why,’ said Nance, ‘what a poor climber you +must be! That was where my cousin Dick used to get out of +the castle after Uncle Jonathan had shut the gate. +I’ve been down there myself with him helping me. I +wouldn’t try with you,’ she said, and laughed +merrily.</p> +<p>The sound of her laughter was sincere and musical, and perhaps +its beauty barbed the offence to Mr. Archer. The blood came +into his face with a quick jet, and then left it paler than +before. ‘It is a physical weakness,’ he said +harshly, ‘and very droll, no doubt, but one that I can +conquer on necessity. See, I am still shaking. Well, +I advance to the battlements and look down. Show me your +cousin’s path.’</p> +<p>‘He would go sure-foot along that little ledge,’ +said Nance, pointing as she spoke; ‘then out through the +breach and down by yonder buttress. It is easier coming +back, of course, because you see where you are going. From +the buttress foot a sheep-walk goes along the scarp—see, +you can follow it from here in the dry grass. And now, +sir,’ she added, with a touch of womanly pity, ‘I +would come away from here if I were you, for indeed you are not +fit.’</p> +<p>Sure enough Mr. Archer’s pallor and agitation had +continued to increase; his cheeks were deathly, his clenched +fingers trembled pitifully. ‘The weakness is +physical,’ he sighed, and had nearly fallen. Nance +led him from the spot, and he was no sooner back in the +tower-stair, than he fell heavily against the wall and put his +arm across his eyes. A cup of brandy had to be brought him +before he could descend to breakfast; and the perfection of +Nance’s dream was for the first time troubled.</p> +<p>Jonathan was waiting for them at table, with yellow, +blood-shot eyes and a peculiar dusky complexion. He hardly +waited till they found their seats, before, raising one hand, and +stooping with his mouth above his plate, he put up a prayer for a +blessing on the food and a spirit of gratitude in the eaters, and +thereupon, and without more civility, fell to. But it was +notable that he was no less speedily satisfied than he had been +greedy to begin. He pushed his plate away and drummed upon +the table.</p> +<p>‘These are silly prayers,’ said he, ‘that +they teach us. Eat and be thankful, that’s no such +wonder. Speak to me of starving—there’s the +touch. You’re a man, they tell me, Mr. Archer, that +has met with some reverses?’</p> +<p>‘I have met with many,’ replied Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘Ha!’ said Jonathan. ‘None reckons but +the last. Now, see; I tried to make this girl here +understand me.’</p> +<p>‘Uncle,’ said Nance, ‘what should Mr. Archer +care for your concerns? He hath troubles of his own, and +came to be at peace, I think.’</p> +<p>‘I tried to make her understand me,’ repeated +Jonathan doggedly; ‘and now I’ll try you. Do +you think this world is fair?’</p> +<p>‘Fair and false!’ quoth Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>The old man laughed immoderately. ‘Good,’ +said he, ‘very good, but what I mean is this: do you know +what it is to get up early and go to bed late, and never take so +much as a holiday but four: and one of these your own marriage +day, and the other three the funerals of folk you loved, and all +that, to have a quiet old age in shelter, and bread for your old +belly, and a bed to lay your crazy bones upon, with a clear +conscience?’</p> +<p>‘Sir,’ said Mr. Archer, with an inclination of his +head, ‘you portray a very brave existence.’</p> +<p>‘Well,’ continued Jonathan, ‘and in the end +thieves deceive you, thieves rob and rook you, thieves turn you +out in your old age and send you begging. What have you got +for all your honesty? A fine return! You that might +have stole scores of pounds, there you are out in the rain with +your rheumatics!’</p> +<p>Mr. Archer had forgotten to eat; with his hand upon his chin +he was studying the old man’s countenance. ‘And +you conclude?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Conclude!’ cried Jonathan. ‘I +conclude I’ll be upsides with them.’</p> +<p>‘Ay,’ said the other, ‘we are all tempted to +revenge.’</p> +<p>‘You have lost money?’ asked Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘A great estate,’ said Archer quietly.</p> +<p>‘See now!’ says Jonathan, ‘and where is +it?’</p> +<p>‘Nay, I sometimes think that every one has had his share +of it but me,’ was the reply. ‘All England hath +paid his taxes with my patrimony: I was a sheep that left my wool +on every briar.’</p> +<p>‘And you sit down under that?’ cried the old +man. ‘Come now, Mr. Archer, you and me belong to +different stations; and I know mine—no man better—but +since we have both been rooked, and are both sore with it, why, +here’s my hand with a very good heart, and I ask for yours, +and no offence, I hope.’</p> +<p>‘There is surely no offence, my friend,’ returned +Mr. Archer, as they shook hands across the table; ‘for, +believe me, my sympathies are quite acquired to you. This +life is an arena where we fight with beasts; and, indeed,’ +he added, sighing, ‘I sometimes marvel why we go down to it +unarmed.’</p> +<p>In the meanwhile a creaking of ungreased axles had been heard +descending through the wood; and presently after, the door +opened, and the tall ostler entered the kitchen carrying one end +of Mr. Archer’s trunk. The other was carried by an +aged beggar man of that district, known and welcome for some +twenty miles about under the name of ‘Old +Cumberland.’ Each was soon perched upon a settle, +with a cup of ale; and the ostler, who valued himself upon his +affability, began to entertain the company, still with half an +eye on Nance, to whom in gallant terms he expressly dedicated +every sip of ale. First he told of the trouble they had to +get his Lordship started in the chaise; and how he had dropped a +rouleau of gold on the threshold, and the passage and doorstep +had been strewn with guinea-pieces. At this old Jonathan +looked at Mr. Archer. Next the visitor turned to news of a +more thrilling character: how the down mail had been stopped +again near Grantham by three men on horseback—a white and +two bays; how they had handkerchiefs on their faces; how Tom the +guard’s blunderbuss missed fire, but he swore he had winged +one of them with a pistol; and how they had got clean away with +seventy pounds in money, some valuable papers, and a watch or +two.</p> +<p>‘Brave! brave!’ cried Jonathan in ecstasy. +‘Seventy pounds! O, it’s brave!’</p> +<p>‘Well, I don’t see the great bravery,’ +observed the ostler, misapprehending him. ‘Three men, +and you may call that three to one. I’ll call it +brave when some one stops the mail single-handed; that’s a +risk.’</p> +<p>‘And why should they hesitate?’ inquired Mr. +Archer. ‘The poor souls who are fallen to such a way +of life, pray what have they to lose? If they get the +money, well; but if a ball should put them from their troubles, +why, so better.’</p> +<p>‘Well, sir,’ said the ostler, ‘I believe +you’ll find they won’t agree with you. They +count on a good fling, you see; or who would risk it?—And +here’s my best respects to you, Miss Nance.’</p> +<p>‘And I forgot the part of cowardice,’ resumed Mr. +Archer. ‘All men fear.’</p> +<p>‘O, surely not!’ cried Nance.</p> +<p>‘All men,’ reiterated Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘Ay, that’s a true word,’ observed Old +Cumberland, ‘and a thief, anyway, for it’s a +coward’s trade.’</p> +<p>‘But these fellows, now,’ said Jonathan, with a +curious, appealing manner—‘these fellows with their +seventy pounds! Perhaps, Mr. Archer, they were no true +thieves after all, but just people who had been robbed and tried +to get their own again. What was that you said, about all +England and the taxes? One takes, another gives; why, +that’s almost fair. If I’ve been rooked and +robbed, and the coat taken off my back, I call it almost fair to +take another’s.’</p> +<p>‘Ask Old Cumberland,’ observed the ostler; +‘you ask Old Cumberland, Miss Nance!’ and he bestowed +a wink upon his favoured fair one.</p> +<p>‘Why that?’ asked Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘He had his coat taken—ay, and his shirt +too,’ returned the ostler.</p> +<p>‘Is that so?’ cried Jonathan eagerly. +‘Was you robbed too?’</p> +<p>‘That was I,’ replied Cumberland, ‘with a +warrant! I was a well-to-do man when I was +young.’</p> +<p>‘Ay! See that!’ says Jonathan. +‘And you don’t long for a revenge?’</p> +<p>‘Eh! Not me!’ answered the beggar. +‘It’s too long ago. But if you’ll give me +another mug of your good ale, my pretty lady, I won’t say +no to that.’</p> +<p>‘And shalt have! And shalt have!’ cried +Jonathan. ‘Or brandy even, if you like it +better.’</p> +<p>And as Cumberland did like it better, and the ostler chimed +in, the party pledged each other in a dram of brandy before +separating.</p> +<p>As for Nance, she slipped forth into the ruins, partly to +avoid the ostler’s gallantries, partly to lament over the +defects of Mr. Archer. Plainly, he was no hero. She +pitied him; she began to feel a protecting interest mingle with +and almost supersede her admiration, and was at the same time +disappointed and yet drawn to him. She was, indeed, +conscious of such unshaken fortitude in her own heart, that she +was almost tempted by an occasion to be bold for two. She +saw herself, in a brave attitude, shielding her imperfect hero +from the world; and she saw, like a piece of heaven, his +gratitude for her protection.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V—LIFE IN THE CASTLE</h3> +<p>From that day forth the life of these three persons in the +ruin ran very smoothly. Mr. Archer now sat by the fire with +a book, and now passed whole days abroad, returning late, dead +weary. His manner was a mask; but it was half transparent; +through the even tenor of his gravity and courtesy profound +revolutions of feeling were betrayed, seasons of numb despair, of +restlessness, of aching temper. For days he would say +nothing beyond his usual courtesies and solemn compliments; and +then, all of a sudden, some fine evening beside the kitchen fire, +he would fall into a vein of elegant gossip, tell of strange and +interesting events, the secrets of families, brave deeds of war, +the miraculous discovery of crime, the visitations of the +dead. Nance and her uncle would sit till the small hours +with eyes wide open: Jonathan applauding the unexpected incidents +with many a slap of his big hand; Nance, perhaps, more pleased +with the narrator’s eloquence and wise reflections; and +then, again, days would follow of abstraction, of listless +humming, of frequent apologies and long hours of silence. +Once only, and then after a week of unrelieved melancholy, he +went over to the ‘Green Dragon,’ spent the afternoon +with the landlord and a bowl of punch, and returned as on the +first night, devious in step but courteous and unperturbed of +speech.</p> +<p>If he seemed more natural and more at his ease it was when he +found Nance alone; and, laying by some of his reserve, talked +before her rather than to her of his destiny, character and +hopes. To Nance these interviews were but a doubtful +privilege. At times he would seem to take a pleasure in her +presence, to consult her gravely, to hear and to discuss her +counsels; at times even, but these were rare and brief, he would +talk of herself, praise the qualities that she possessed, touch +indulgently on her defects, and lend her books to read and even +examine her upon her reading; but far more often he would fall +into a half unconsciousness, put her a question and then answer +it himself, drop into the veiled tone of voice of one +soliloquising, and leave her at last as though he had forgotten +her existence. It was odd, too, that in all this random +converse, not a fact of his past life, and scarce a name, should +ever cross his lips. A profound reserve kept watch upon his +most unguarded moments. He spoke continually of himself, +indeed, but still in enigmas; a veiled prophet of egoism.</p> +<p>The base of Nance’s feelings for Mr. Archer was +admiration as for a superior being; and with this, his treatment, +consciously or not, accorded happily. When he forgot her, +she took the blame upon herself. His formal politeness was +so exquisite that this essential brutality stood excused. +His compliments, besides, were always grave and rational; he +would offer reason for his praise, convict her of merit, and thus +disarm suspicion. Nay, and the very hours when he forgot +and remembered her alternately could by the ardent fallacies of +youth be read in the light of an attention. She might be +far from his confidence; but still she was nearer it than any +one. He might ignore her presence, but yet he sought +it.</p> +<p>Moreover, she, upon her side, was conscious of one point of +superiority. Beside this rather dismal, rather effeminate +man, who recoiled from a worm, who grew giddy on the castle wall, +who bore so helplessly the weight of his misfortunes, she felt +herself a head and shoulders taller in cheerful and sterling +courage. She could walk head in air along the most +precarious rafter; her hand feared neither the grossness nor the +harshness of life’s web, but was thrust cheerfully, if need +were, into the briar bush, and could take hold of any crawling +horror. Ruin was mining the walls of her cottage, as +already it had mined and subverted Mr. Archer’s +palace. Well, she faced it with a bright countenance and a +busy hand. She had got some washing, some rough seamstress +work from the ‘Green Dragon,’ and from another +neighbour ten miles away across the moor. At this she +cheerfully laboured, and from that height she could afford to +pity the useless talents and poor attitude of Mr. Archer. +It did not change her admiration, but it made it bearable. +He was above her in all ways; but she was above him in one. +She kept it to herself, and hugged it. When, like all young +creatures, she made long stories to justify, to nourish, and to +forecast the course of her affection, it was this private +superiority that made all rosy, that cut the knot, and that, at +last, in some great situation, fetched to her knees the dazzling +but imperfect hero. With this pretty exercise she beguiled +the hours of labour, and consoled herself for Mr. Archer’s +bearing.</p> +<p>Pity was her weapon and her weakness. To accept the +loved one’s faults, although it has an air of freedom, is +to kiss the chain, and this pity it was which, lying nearer to +her heart, lent the one element of true emotion to a fanciful and +merely brain-sick love.</p> +<p>Thus it fell out one day that she had gone to the ‘Green +Dragon’ and brought back thence a letter to Mr. +Archer. He, upon seeing it, winced like a man under the +knife: pain, shame, sorrow, and the most trenchant edge of +mortification cut into his heart and wrung the steady composure +of his face.</p> +<p>‘Dear heart! have you bad news?’ she cried.</p> +<p>But he only replied by a gesture and fled to his room, and +when, later on, she ventured to refer to it, he stopped her on +the threshold, as if with words prepared beforehand. +‘There are some pains,’ said he, ‘too acute for +consolation, or I would bring them to my kind consoler. Let +the memory of that letter, if you please, be buried.’ +And then as she continued to gaze at him, being, in spite of +herself, pained by his elaborate phrase, doubtfully sincere in +word and manner: ‘Let it be enough,’ he added +haughtily, ‘that if this matter wring my heart, it doth not +touch my conscience. I am a man, I would have you to know, +who suffers undeservedly.’</p> +<p>He had never spoken so directly: never with so convincing an +emotion; and her heart thrilled for him. She could have +taken his pains and died of them with joy.</p> +<p>Meanwhile she was left without support. Jonathan now +swore by his lodger, and lived for him. He was a fine +talker. He knew the finest sight of stories; he was a man +and a gentleman, take him for all in all, and a perfect credit to +Old England. Such were the old man’s declared +sentiments, and sure enough he clung to Mr. Archer’s side, +hung upon his utterance when he spoke, and watched him with +unwearing interest when he was silent. And yet his feeling +was not clear; in the partial wreck of his mind, which was +leaning to decay, some after-thought was strongly present. +As he gazed in Mr. Archer’s face a sudden brightness would +kindle in his rheumy eyes, his eye-brows would lift as with a +sudden thought, his mouth would open as though to speak, and +close again on silence. Once or twice he even called Mr. +Archer mysteriously forth into the dark courtyard, took him by +the button, and laid a demonstrative finger on his chest; but +there his ideas or his courage failed him; he would shufflingly +excuse himself and return to his position by the fire without a +word of explanation. ‘The good man was growing +old,’ said Mr. Archer with a suspicion of a shrug. +But the good man had his idea, and even when he was alone the +name of Mr. Archer fell from his lips continually in the course +of mumbled and gesticulative conversation.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VI—THE BAD HALF-CROWN</h3> +<p>However early Nance arose, and she was no sluggard, the old +man, who had begun to outlive the earthly habit of slumber, would +usually have been up long before, the fire would be burning +brightly, and she would see him wandering among the ruins, +lantern in hand, and talking assiduously to himself. One +day, however, after he had returned late from the market town, +she found that she had stolen a march upon that indefatigable +early riser. The kitchen was all blackness. She +crossed the castle-yard to the wood-cellar, her steps printing +the thick hoarfrost. A scathing breeze blew out of the +north-east and slowly carried a regiment of black and tattered +clouds over the face of heaven, which was already kindled with +the wild light of morning, but where she walked, in shelter of +the ruins, the flame of her candle burned steady. The +extreme cold smote upon her conscience. She could not bear +to think this bitter business fell usually to the lot of one so +old as Jonathan, and made desperate resolutions to be earlier in +the future.</p> +<p>The fire was a good blaze before he entered, limping dismally +into the kitchen. ‘Nance,’ said he, ‘I be +all knotted up with the rheumatics; will you rub me a +bit?’ She came and rubbed him where and how he bade +her. ‘This is a cruel thing that old age should be +rheumaticky,’ said he. ‘When I was young I +stood my turn of the teethache like a man! for why? because it +couldn’t last for ever; but these rheumatics come to live +and die with you. Your aunt was took before the time came; +never had an ache to mention. Now I lie all night in my +single bed and the blood never warms in me; this knee of mine it +seems like lighted up with rheumatics; it seems as though you +could see to sew by it; and all the strings of my old body ache, +as if devils was pulling ’em. Thank you kindly; +that’s someways easier now, but an old man, my dear, has +little to look for; it’s pain, pain, pain to the end of the +business, and I’ll never be rightly warm again till I get +under the sod,’ he said, and looked down at her with a face +so aged and weary that she had nearly wept.</p> +<p>‘I lay awake all night,’ he continued; ‘I do +so mostly, and a long walk kills me. Eh, deary me, to think +that life should run to such a puddle! And I remember long +syne when I was strong, and the blood all hot and good about me, +and I loved to run, too—deary me, to run! Well, +that’s all by. You’d better pray to be took +early, Nance, and not live on till you get to be like me, and are +robbed in your grey old age, your cold, shivering, dark old age, +that’s like a winter’s morning’; and he +bitterly shuddered, spreading his hands before the fire.</p> +<p>‘Come now,’ said Nance, ‘the more you say +the less you’ll like it, Uncle Jonathan; but if I were you +I would be proud for to have lived all your days honest and +beloved, and come near the end with your good name: isn’t +that a fine thing to be proud of? Mr. Archer was telling me +in some strange land they used to run races each with a lighted +candle, and the art was to keep the candle burning. Well, +now, I thought that was like life: a man’s good conscience +is the flame he gets to carry, and if he comes to the +winning-post with that still burning, why, take it how you will, +the man’s a hero—even if he was low-born like you and +me.’</p> +<p>‘Did Mr. Archer tell you that?’ asked +Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘No, dear,’ said she, ‘that’s my own +thought about it. He told me of the race. But see, +now,’ she continued, putting on the porridge, ‘you +say old age is a hard season, but so is youth. You’re +half out of the battle, I would say; you loved my aunt and got +her, and buried her, and some of these days soon you’ll go +to meet her; and take her my love and tell her I tried to take +good care of you; for so I do, Uncle Jonathan.’</p> +<p>Jonathan struck with his fist upon the settle. +‘D’ ye think I want to die, ye vixen?’ he +shouted. ‘I want to live ten hundred +years.’</p> +<p>This was a mystery beyond Nance’s penetration, and she +stared in wonder as she made the porridge.</p> +<p>‘I want to live,’ he continued, ‘I want to +live and to grow rich. I want to drive my carriage and to +dice in hells and see the ring, I do. Is this a life that I +lived? I want to be a rake, d’ ye understand? I +want to know what things are like. I don’t want to +die like a blind kitten, and me seventy-six.’</p> +<p>‘O fie!’ said Nance.</p> +<p>The old man thrust out his jaw at her, with the grimace of an +irreverent schoolboy. Upon that aged face it seemed a +blasphemy. Then he took out of his bosom a long leather +purse, and emptying its contents on the settle, began to count +and recount the pieces, ringing and examining each, and suddenly +he leapt like a young man. ‘What!’ he +screamed. ‘Bad? O Lord! I’m robbed +again!’ And falling on his knees before the settle he +began to pour forth the most dreadful curses on the head of his +deceiver. His eyes were shut, for to him this vile +solemnity was prayer. He held up the bad half-crown in his +right hand, as though he were displaying it to Heaven, and what +increased the horror of the scene, the curses he invoked were +those whose efficacy he had tasted—old age and poverty, +rheumatism and an ungrateful son. Nance listened appalled; +then she sprang forward and dragged down his arm and laid her +hand upon his mouth.</p> +<p>‘Whist!’ she cried. ‘Whist ye, for +God’s sake! O my man, whist ye! If Heaven were +to hear; if poor Aunt Susan were to hear! Think, she may be +listening.’ And with the histrionism of strong +emotion she pointed to a corner of the kitchen.</p> +<p>His eyes followed her finger. He looked there for a +little, thinking, blinking; then he got stiffly to his feet and +resumed his place upon the settle, the bad piece still in his +hand. So he sat for some time, looking upon the half-crown, +and now wondering to himself on the injustice and partiality of +the law, now computing again and again the nature of his +loss. So he was still sitting when Mr. Archer entered the +kitchen. At this a light came into his face, and after some +seconds of rumination he dispatched Nance upon an errand.</p> +<p>‘Mr. Archer,’ said he, as soon as they were alone +together, ‘would you give me a guinea-piece for +silver?’</p> +<p>‘Why, sir, I believe I can,’ said Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>And the exchange was just effected when Nance re-entered the +apartment. The blood shot into her face.</p> +<p>‘What’s to do here?’ she asked rudely.</p> +<p>‘Nothing, my dearie,’ said old Jonathan, with a +touch of whine.</p> +<p>‘What’s to do?’ she said again.</p> +<p>‘Your uncle was but changing me a piece of gold,’ +returned Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘Let me see what he hath given you, Mr. Archer,’ +replied the girl. ‘I had a bad piece, and I fear it +is mixed up among the good.’</p> +<p>‘Well, well,’ replied Mr. Archer, smiling, +‘I must take the merchant’s risk of it. The +money is now mixed.’</p> +<p>‘I know my piece,’ quoth Nance. ‘Come, +let me see your silver, Mr. Archer. If I have to get it by +a theft I’ll see that money,’ she cried.</p> +<p>‘Nay, child, if you put as much passion to be honest as +the world to steal, I must give way, though I betray +myself,’ said Mr. Archer. ‘There it is as I +received it.’</p> +<p>Nance quickly found the bad half-crown.</p> +<p>‘Give him another,’ she said, looking Jonathan in +the face; and when that had been done, she walked over to the +chimney and flung the guilty piece into the reddest of the +fire. Its base constituents began immediately to run; even +as she watched it the disc crumbled, and the lineaments of the +King became confused. Jonathan, who had followed close +behind, beheld these changes from over her shoulder, and his face +darkened sorely.</p> +<p>‘Now,’ said she, ‘come back to table, and +to-day it is I that shall say grace, as I used to do in the old +times, day about with Dick’; and covering her eyes with one +hand, ‘O Lord,’ said she with deep emotion, +‘make us thankful; and, O Lord, deliver us from evil! +For the love of the poor souls that watch for us in heaven, O +deliver us from evil.’</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VII—THE BLEACHING-GREEN</h3> +<p>The year moved on to March; and March, though it blew bitter +keen from the North Sea, yet blinked kindly between whiles on the +river dell. The mire dried up in the closest covert; life +ran in the bare branches, and the air of the afternoon would be +suddenly sweet with the fragrance of new grass.</p> +<p>Above and below the castle the river crooked like the letter +‘S.’ The lower loop was to the left, and +embraced the high and steep projection which was crowned by the +ruins; the upper loop enclosed a lawny promontory, fringed by +thorn and willow. It was easy to reach it from the castle +side, for the river ran in this part very quietly among +innumerable boulders and over dam-like walls of rock. The +place was all enclosed, the wind a stranger, the turf smooth and +solid; so it was chosen by Nance to be her bleaching-green.</p> +<p>One day she brought a bucketful of linen, and had but begun to +wring and lay them out when Mr. Archer stepped from the thicket +on the far side, drew very deliberately near, and sat down in +silence on the grass. Nance looked up to greet him with a +smile, but finding her smile was not returned, she fell into +embarrassment and stuck the more busily to her employment. +Man or woman, the whole world looks well at any work to which +they are accustomed; but the girl was ashamed of what she +did. She was ashamed, besides, of the sun-bonnet that so +well became her, and ashamed of her bare arms, which were her +greatest beauty.</p> +<p>‘Nausicaa,’ said Mr. Archer at last, ‘I find +you like Nausicaa.’</p> +<p>‘And who was she?’ asked Nance, and laughed in +spite of herself, an empty and embarrassed laugh, that sounded in +Mr. Archer’s ears, indeed, like music, but to her own like +the last grossness of rusticity.</p> +<p>‘She was a princess of the Grecian islands,’ he +replied. ‘A king, being shipwrecked, found her +washing by the shore. Certainly I, too, was +shipwrecked,’ he continued, plucking at the grass. +‘There was never a more desperate castaway—to fall +from polite life, fortune, a shrine of honour, a grateful +conscience, duties willingly taken up and faithfully discharged; +and to fall to this—idleness, poverty, inutility, +remorse.’ He seemed to have forgotten her presence, +but here he remembered her again. ‘Nance,’ said +he, ‘would you have a man sit down and suffer or rise up +and strive?’</p> +<p>‘Nay,’ she said. ‘I would always +rather see him doing.’</p> +<p>‘Ha!’ said Mr. Archer, ‘but yet you speak +from an imperfect knowledge. Conceive a man damned to a +choice of only evil—misconduct upon either side, not a +fault behind him, and yet naught before him but this choice of +sins. How would you say then?’</p> +<p>‘I would say that he was much deceived, Mr. +Archer,’ returned Nance. ‘I would say there was +a third choice, and that the right one.’</p> +<p>‘I tell you,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘the man I +have in view hath two ways open, and no more. One to wait, +like a poor mewling baby, till Fate save or ruin him; the other +to take his troubles in his hand, and to perish or be saved at +once. It is no point of morals; both are wrong. +Either way this step-child of Providence must fall; which shall +he choose, by doing or not doing?’</p> +<p>‘Fall, then, is what I would say,’ replied +Nance. ‘Fall where you will, but do it! For O, +Mr. Archer,’ she continued, stooping to her work, +‘you that are good and kind, and so wise, it doth sometimes +go against my heart to see you live on here like a sheep in a +turnip-field! If you were braver—’ and here she +paused, conscience-smitten.</p> +<p>‘Do I, indeed, lack courage?’ inquired Mr. Archer +of himself. ‘Courage, the footstool of the virtues, +upon which they stand? Courage, that a poor private +carrying a musket has to spare of; that does not fail a weasel or +a rat; that is a brutish faculty? I to fail there, I +wonder? But what is courage, then? The constancy to +endure oneself or to see others suffer? The itch of +ill-advised activity: mere shuttle-wittedness, or to be still and +patient? To inquire of the significance of words is to rob +ourselves of what we seem to know, and yet, of all things, +certainly to stand still is the least heroic. Nance,’ +he said, ‘did you ever hear of <i>Hamlet</i>?’</p> +<p>‘Never,’ said Nance.</p> +<p>‘’Tis an old play,’ returned Mr. Archer, +‘and frequently enacted. This while I have been +talking Hamlet. You must know this Hamlet was a Prince +among the Danes,’ and he told her the play in a very good +style, here and there quoting a verse or two with solemn +emphasis.</p> +<p>‘It is strange,’ said Nance; ‘he was then a +very poor creature?’</p> +<p>‘That was what he could not tell,’ said Mr. +Archer. ‘Look at me, am I as poor a +creature?’</p> +<p>She looked, and what she saw was the familiar thought of all +her hours; the tall figure very plainly habited in black, the +spotless ruffles, the slim hands; the long, well-shapen, serious, +shaven face, the wide and somewhat thin-lipped mouth, the dark +eyes that were so full of depth and change and colour. He +was gazing at her with his brows a little knit, his chin upon one +hand and that elbow resting on his knee.</p> +<p>‘Ye look a man!’ she cried, ‘ay, and should +be a great one! The more shame to you to lie here idle like +a dog before the fire.’</p> +<p>‘My fair Holdaway,’ quoth Mr. Archer, ‘you +are much set on action. I cannot dig, to beg I am +ashamed.’ He continued, looking at her with a +half-absent fixity, ‘’Tis a strange thing, certainly, +that in my years of fortune I should never taste happiness, and +now when I am broke, enjoy so much of it, for was I ever happier +than to-day? Was the grass softer, the stream pleasanter in +sound, the air milder, the heart more at peace? Why should +I not sink? To dig—why, after all, it should be +easy. To take a mate, too? Love is of all grades +since Jupiter; love fails to none; and children’—but +here he passed his hand suddenly over his eyes. ‘O +fool and coward, fool and coward!’ he said bitterly; +‘can you forget your fetters? You did not know that I +was fettered, Nance?’ he asked, again addressing her.</p> +<p>But Nance was somewhat sore. ‘I know you keep +talking,’ she said, and, turning half away from him, began +to wring out a sheet across her shoulder. ‘I wonder +you are not wearied of your voice. When the hands lie abed +the tongue takes a walk.’</p> +<p>Mr. Archer laughed unpleasantly, rose and moved to the +water’s edge. In this part the body of the river +poured across a little narrow fell, ran some ten feet very +smoothly over a bed of pebbles, then getting wind, as it were, of +another shelf of rock which barred the channel, began, by +imperceptible degrees, to separate towards either shore in +dancing currents, and to leave the middle clear and +stagnant. The set towards either side was nearly equal; +about one half of the whole water plunged on the side of the +castle, through a narrow gullet; about one half ran ripping past +the margin of the green and slipped across a babbling rapid.</p> +<p>‘Here,’ said Mr. Archer, after he had looked for +some time at the fine and shifting demarcation of these currents, +‘come here and see me try my fortune.’</p> +<p>‘I am not like a man,’ said Nance; ‘I have +no time to waste.’</p> +<p>‘Come here,’ he said again. ‘I ask you +seriously, Nance. We are not always childish when we seem +so.’</p> +<p>She drew a little nearer.</p> +<p>‘Now,’ said he, ‘you see these two +channels—choose one.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll choose the nearest, to save time,’ +said Nance.</p> +<p>‘Well, that shall be for action,’ returned Mr. +Archer. ‘And since I wish to have the odds against +me, not only the other channel but yon stagnant water in the +midst shall be for lying still. You see this?’ he +continued, pulling up a withered rush. ‘I break it in +three. I shall put each separately at the top of the upper +fall, and according as they go by your way or by the other I +shall guide my life.’</p> +<p>‘This is very silly,’ said Nance, with a movement +of her shoulders.</p> +<p>‘I do not think it so,’ said Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘And then,’ she resumed, ‘if you are to try +your fortune, why not evenly?’</p> +<p>‘Nay,’ returned Mr. Archer with a smile, ‘no +man can put complete reliance in blind fate; he must still cog +the dice.’</p> +<p>By this time he had got upon the rock beside the upper fall, +and, bidding her look out, dropped a piece of rush into the +middle of the intake. The rusty fragment was sucked at once +over the fall, came up again far on the right hand, leaned ever +more and more in the same direction, and disappeared under the +hanging grasses on the castle side.</p> +<p>‘One,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘one for standing +still.’</p> +<p>But the next launch had a different fate, and after hanging +for a while about the edge of the stagnant water, steadily +approached the bleaching-green and danced down the rapid under +Nance’s eyes.</p> +<p>‘One for me,’ she cried with some exultation; and +then she observed that Mr. Archer had grown pale, and was +kneeling on the rock, with his hand raised like a person +petrified. ‘Why,’ said she, ‘you do not +mind it, do you?’</p> +<p>‘Does a man not mind a throw of dice by which a fortune +hangs?’ said Mr. Archer, rather hoarsely. ‘And +this is more than fortune. Nance, if you have any kindness +for my fate, put up a prayer before I launch the next +one.’</p> +<p>‘A prayer,’ she cried, ‘about a game like +this? I would not be so heathen.’</p> +<p>‘Well,’ said he, ‘then without,’ and +he closed his eyes and dropped the piece of rush. This time +there was no doubt. It went for the rapid as straight as +any arrow.</p> +<p>‘Action then!’ said Mr. Archer, getting to his +feet; ‘and then God forgive us,’ he added, almost to +himself.</p> +<p>‘God forgive us, indeed,’ cried Nance, ‘for +wasting the good daylight! But come, Mr. Archer, if I see +you look so serious I shall begin to think you was in +earnest.’</p> +<p>‘Nay,’ he said, turning upon her suddenly, with a +full smile; ‘but is not this good advice? I have +consulted God and demigod; the nymph of the river, and what I far +more admire and trust, my blue-eyed Minerva. Both have said +the same. My own heart was telling it already. +Action, then, be mine; and into the deep sea with all this +paralysing casuistry. I am happy to-day for the first +time.’</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VIII—THE MAIL GUARD</h3> +<p>Somewhere about two in the morning a squall had burst upon the +castle, a clap of screaming wind that made the towers rock, and a +copious drift of rain that streamed from the windows. The +wind soon blew itself out, but the day broke cloudy and dripping, +and when the little party assembled at breakfast their humours +appeared to have changed with the change of weather. Nance +had been brooding on the scene at the river-side, applying it in +various ways to her particular aspirations, and the result, which +was hardly to her mind, had taken the colour out of her +cheeks. Mr. Archer, too, was somewhat absent, his thoughts +were of a mingled strain; and even upon his usually impassive +countenance there were betrayed successive depths of depression +and starts of exultation, which the girl translated in terms of +her own hopes and fears. But Jonathan was the most altered: +he was strangely silent, hardly passing a word, and watched Mr. +Archer with an eager and furtive eye. It seemed as if the +idea that had so long hovered before him had now taken a more +solid shape, and, while it still attracted, somewhat alarmed his +imagination.</p> +<p>At this rate, conversation languished into a silence which was +only broken by the gentle and ghostly noises of the rain on the +stone roof and about all that field of ruins; and they were all +relieved when the note of a man whistling and the sound of +approaching footsteps in the grassy court announced a +visitor. It was the ostler from the ‘Green +Dragon’ bringing a letter for Mr. Archer. Nance saw +her hero’s face contract and then relax again at sight of +it; and she thought that she knew why, for the sprawling, gross +black characters of the address were easily distinguishable from +the fine writing on the former letter that had so much disturbed +him. He opened it and began to read; while the ostler sat +down to table with a pot of ale, and proceeded to make himself +agreeable after his fashion.</p> +<p>‘Fine doings down our way, Miss Nance,’ said +he. ‘I haven’t been abed this blessed +night.’</p> +<p>Nance expressed a polite interest, but her eye was on Mr. +Archer, who was reading his letter with a face of such extreme +indifference that she was tempted to suspect him of +assumption.</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ continued the ostler, ‘not been the +like of it this fifteen years: the North Mail stopped at the +three stones.’</p> +<p>Jonathan’s cup was at his lip, but at this moment he +choked with a great splutter; and Mr. Archer, as if startled by +the noise, made so sudden a movement that one corner of the sheet +tore off and stayed between his finger and thumb. It was +some little time before the old man was sufficiently recovered to +beg the ostler to go on, and he still kept coughing and crying +and rubbing his eyes. Mr. Archer, on his side, laid the +letter down, and, putting his hands in his pocket, listened +gravely to the tale.</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ resumed Sam, ‘the North Mail was +stopped by a single horseman; dash my wig, but I admire +him! There were four insides and two out, and poor Tom +Oglethorpe, the guard. Tom showed himself a man; let fly +his blunderbuss at him; had him covered, too, and could swear to +that; but the Captain never let on, up with a pistol and fetched +poor Tom a bullet through the body. Tom, he squelched upon +the seat, all over blood. Up comes the Captain to the +window. “Oblige me,” says he, “with what +you have.” Would you believe it? Not a man says +cheep!—not them. “Thy hands over thy +head.” Four watches, rings, snuff-boxes, +seven-and-forty pounds overhead in gold. One Dicksee, a +grazier, tries it on: gives him a guinea. “Beg your +pardon,” says the Captain, “I think too highly of you +to take it at your hand. I will not take less than ten from +such a gentleman.” This Dicksee had his money in his +stocking, but there was the pistol at his eye. Down he +goes, offs with his stocking, and there was thirty golden +guineas. “Now,” says the Captain, +“you’ve tried it on with me, but I scorns the +advantage. Ten I said,” he says, “and ten I +take.” So, dash my buttons, I call that man a +man!’ cried Sam in cordial admiration.</p> +<p>‘Well, and then?’ says Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘Then,’ resumed Sam, ‘that old fat fagot +Engleton, him as held the ribbons and drew up like a lamb when he +was told to, picks up his cattle, and drives off again. +Down they came to the “Dragon,” all singing like as +if they was scalded, and poor Tom saying nothing. You would +‘a’ thought they had all lost the King’s crown +to hear them. Down gets this Dicksee. +“Postmaster,” he says, taking him by the arm, +“this is a most abominable thing,” he says. +Down gets a Major Clayton, and gets the old man by the other +arm. “We’ve been robbed,” he cries, +“robbed!” Down gets the others, and all around +the old man telling their story, and what they had lost, and how +they was all as good as ruined; till at last Old Engleton says, +says he, “How about Oglethorpe?” says he. +“Ay,” says the others, “how about the +guard?” Well, with that we bousted him down, as white +as a rag and all blooded like a sop. I thought he was +dead. Well, he ain’t dead; but he’s dying, I +fancy.’</p> +<p>‘Did you say four watches?’ said Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘Four, I think. I wish it had been forty,’ +cried Sam. ‘Such a party of soused herrings I never +did see—not a man among them bar poor Tom. But us +that are the servants on the road have all the risk and none of +the profit.’</p> +<p>‘And this brave fellow,’ asked Mr. Archer, very +quietly, ‘this Oglethorpe—how is he now?’</p> +<p>‘Well, sir, with my respects, I take it he has a hole +bang through him,’ said Sam. ‘The doctor +hasn’t been yet. He’d ‘a’ been +bright and early if it had been a passenger. But, doctor or +no, I’ll make a good guess that Tom won’t see +to-morrow. He’ll die on a Sunday, will poor Tom; and +they do say that’s fortunate.’</p> +<p>‘Did Tom see him that did it?’ asked Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘Well, he saw him,’ replied Sam, ‘but not to +swear by. Said he was a very tall man, and very big, and +had a ’ankerchief about his face, and a very quick shot, +and sat his horse like a thorough gentleman, as he is.’</p> +<p>‘A gentleman!’ cried Nance. ‘The dirty +knave!’</p> +<p>‘Well, I calls a man like that a gentleman,’ +returned the ostler; ‘that’s what I mean by a +gentleman.’</p> +<p>‘You don’t know much of them, then,’ said +Nance.</p> +<p>‘A gentleman would scorn to stoop to such a thing. +I call my uncle a better gentleman than any thief.’</p> +<p>‘And you would be right,’ said Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘How many snuff-boxes did he get?’ asked +Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘O, dang me if I know,’ said Sam; ‘I +didn’t take an inventory.’</p> +<p>‘I will go back with you, if you please,’ said Mr. +Archer. ‘I should like to see poor Oglethorpe. +He has behaved well.’</p> +<p>‘At your service, sir,’ said Sam, jumping to his +feet. ‘I dare to say a gentleman like you would not +forget a poor fellow like Tom—no, nor a plain man like me, +sir, that went without his sleep to nurse him. And excuse +me, sir,’ added Sam, ‘you won’t forget about +the letter neither?’</p> +<p>‘Surely not,’ said Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>Oglethorpe lay in a low bed, one of several in a long garret +of the inn. The rain soaked in places through the roof and +fell in minute drops; there was but one small window; the beds +were occupied by servants, the air of the garret was both close +and chilly. Mr. Archer’s heart sank at the threshold +to see a man lying perhaps mortally hurt in so poor a sick-room, +and as he drew near the low bed he took his hat off. The +guard was a big, blowsy, innocent-looking soul with a thick lip +and a broad nose, comically turned up; his cheeks were crimson, +and when Mr. Archer laid a finger on his brow he found him +burning with fever.</p> +<p>‘I fear you suffer much,’ he said, with a catch in +his voice, as he sat down on the bedside.</p> +<p>‘I suppose I do, sir,’ returned Oglethorpe; +‘it is main sore.’</p> +<p>‘I am used to wounds and wounded men,’ returned +the visitor. ‘I have been in the wars and nursed +brave fellows before now; and, if you will suffer me, I propose +to stay beside you till the doctor comes.’</p> +<p>‘It is very good of you, sir, I am sure,’ said +Oglethorpe. ‘The trouble is they won’t none of +them let me drink.’</p> +<p>‘If you will not tell the doctor,’ said Mr. +Archer, ‘I will give you some water. They say it is +bad for a green wound, but in the Low Countries we all drank +water when we found the chance, and I could never perceive we +were the worse for it.’</p> +<p>‘Been wounded yourself, sir, perhaps?’ called +Oglethorpe.</p> +<p>‘Twice,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘and was as proud +of these hurts as any lady of her bracelets. ’Tis a +fine thing to smart for one’s duty; even in the pangs of it +there is contentment.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, well!’ replied the guard, ‘if +you’ve been shot yourself, that explains. But as for +contentment, why, sir, you see, it smarts, as you say. And +then, I have a good wife, you see, and a bit of a brat—a +little thing, so high.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t move,’ said Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘No, sir, I will not, and thank you kindly,’ said +Oglethorpe. ‘At York they are. A very good lass +is my wife—far too good for me. And the little +rascal—well, I don’t know how to say it, but he sort +of comes round you. If I were to go, sir, it would be hard +on my poor girl—main hard on her!’</p> +<p>‘Ay, you must feel bitter hardly to the rogue that laid +you here,’ said Archer.</p> +<p>‘Why, no, sir, more against Engleton and the +passengers,’ replied the guard. ‘He played his +hand, if you come to look at it; and I wish he had shot worse, or +me better. And yet I’ll go to my grave but what I +covered him,’ he cried. ‘It looks like +witchcraft. I’ll go to my grave but what he was drove +full of slugs like a pepper-box.’</p> +<p>‘Quietly,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘you must not +excite yourself. These deceptions are very usual in war; +the eye, in the moment of alert, is hardly to be trusted, and +when the smoke blows away you see the man you fired at, taking +aim, it may be, at yourself. You should observe, too, that +you were in the dark night, and somewhat dazzled by the lamps, +and that the sudden stopping of the mail had jolted you. In +such circumstances a man may miss, ay, even with a blunder-buss, +and no blame attach to his marksmanship.’ . . .</p> +<h2>THE YOUNG CHEVALIER</h2> +<h3>PROLOGUE—THE WINE-SELLER’S WIFE</h3> +<p>There was a wine-seller’s shop, as you went down to the +river in the city of the Anti-popes. There a man was served +with good wine of the country and plain country fare; and the +place being clean and quiet, with a prospect on the river, +certain gentlemen who dwelt in that city in attendance on a great +personage made it a practice (when they had any silver in their +purses) to come and eat there and be private.</p> +<p>They called the wine-seller Paradou. He was built more +like a bullock than a man, huge in bone and brawn, high in +colour, and with a hand like a baby for size. +Marie-Madeleine was the name of his wife; she was of Marseilles, +a city of entrancing women, nor was any fairer than +herself. She was tall, being almost of a height with +Paradou; full-girdled, point-device in every form, with an +exquisite delicacy in the face; her nose and nostrils a delight +to look at from the fineness of the sculpture, her eyes inclined +a hair’s-breadth inward, her colour between dark and fair, +and laid on even like a flower’s. A faint rose dwelt +in it, as though she had been found unawares bathing, and had +blushed from head to foot. She was of a grave countenance, +rarely smiling; yet it seemed to be written upon every part of +her that she rejoiced in life. Her husband loved the heels +of her feet and the knuckles of her fingers; he loved her like a +glutton and a brute; his love hung about her like an atmosphere; +one that came by chance into the wine-shop was aware of that +passion; and it might be said that by the strength of it the +woman had been drugged or spell-bound. She knew not if she +loved or loathed him; he was always in her eyes like something +monstrous—monstrous in his love, monstrous in his person, +horrific but imposing in his violence; and her sentiment swung +back and forward from desire to sickness. But the mean, +where it dwelt chiefly, was an apathetic fascination, partly of +horror; as of Europa in mid ocean with her bull.</p> +<p>On the 10th November 1749 there sat two of the foreign +gentlemen in the wine-seller’s shop. They were both +handsome men of a good presence, richly dressed. The first +was swarthy and long and lean, with an alert, black look, and a +mole upon his cheek. The other was more fair. He +seemed very easy and sedate, and a little melancholy for so young +a man, but his smile was charming. In his grey eyes there +was much abstraction, as of one recalling fondly that which was +past and lost. Yet there was strength and swiftness in his +limbs; and his mouth set straight across his face, the under lip +a thought upon side, like that of a man accustomed to +resolve. These two talked together in a rude outlandish +speech that no frequenter of that wine-shop understood. The +swarthy man answered to the name of <i>Ballantrae</i>; he of the +dreamy eyes was sometimes called <i>Balmile</i>, and sometimes +<i>my Lord</i>, or <i>my Lord Gladsmuir</i>; but when the title +was given him, he seemed to put it by as if in jesting, not +without bitterness.</p> +<p>The mistral blew in the city. The first day of that +wind, they say in the countries where its voice is heard, it +blows away all the dust, the second all the stones, and the third +it blows back others from the mountains. It was now come to +the third day; outside the pebbles flew like hail, and the face +of the river was puckered, and the very building-stones in the +walls of houses seemed to be curdled with the savage cold and +fury of that continuous blast. It could be heard to hoot in +all the chimneys of the city; it swept about the wine-shop, +filling the room with eddies; the chill and gritty touch of it +passed between the nearest clothes and the bare flesh; and the +two gentlemen at the far table kept their mantles loose about +their shoulders. The roughness of these outer hulls, for +they were plain travellers’ cloaks that had seen service, +set the greater mark of richness on what showed below of their +laced clothes; for the one was in scarlet and the other in violet +and white, like men come from a scene of ceremony; as indeed they +were.</p> +<p>It chanced that these fine clothes were not without their +influence on the scene which followed, and which makes the +prologue of our tale. For a long time Balmile was in the +habit to come to the wine-shop and eat a meal or drink a measure +of wine; sometimes with a comrade; more often alone, when he +would sit and dream and drum upon the table, and the thoughts +would show in the man’s face in little glooms and +lightenings, like the sun and the clouds upon a water. For +a long time Marie-Madeleine had observed him apart. His +sadness, the beauty of his smile when by any chance he remembered +her existence and addressed her, the changes of his mind +signalled forth by an abstruse play of feature, the mere fact +that he was foreign and a thing detached from the local and the +accustomed, insensibly attracted and affected her. Kindness +was ready in her mind; it but lacked the touch of an occasion to +effervesce and crystallise. Now Balmile had come hitherto +in a very poor plain habit; and this day of the mistral, when his +mantle was just open, and she saw beneath it the glancing of the +violet and the velvet and the silver, and the clustering fineness +of the lace, it seemed to set the man in a new light, with which +he shone resplendent to her fancy.</p> +<p>The high inhuman note of the wind, the violence and continuity +of its outpouring, and the fierce touch of it upon man’s +whole periphery, accelerated the functions of the mind. It +set thoughts whirling, as it whirled the trees of the forest; it +stirred them up in flights, as it stirred up the dust in +chambers. As brief as sparks, the fancies glittered and +succeeded each other in the mind of Marie-Madeleine; and the +grave man with the smile, and the bright clothes under the plain +mantle, haunted her with incongruous explanations. She +considered him, the unknown, the speaker of an unknown tongue, +the hero (as she placed him) of an unknown romance, the dweller +upon unknown memories. She recalled him sitting there +alone, so immersed, so stupefied; yet she was sure he was not +stupid. She recalled one day when he had remained a long +time motionless, with parted lips, like one in the act of +starting up, his eyes fixed on vacancy. Any one else must +have looked foolish; but not he. She tried to conceive what +manner of memory had thus entranced him; she forged for him a +past; she showed him to herself in every light of heroism and +greatness and misfortune; she brooded with petulant intensity on +all she knew and guessed of him. Yet, though she was +already gone so deep, she was still unashamed, still unalarmed; +her thoughts were still disinterested; she had still to reach the +stage at which—beside the image of that other whom we love +to contemplate and to adorn—we place the image of ourself +and behold them together with delight.</p> +<p>She stood within the counter, her hands clasped behind her +back, her shoulders pressed against the wall, her feet braced +out. Her face was bright with the wind and her own +thoughts; as a fire in a similar day of tempest glows and +brightens on a hearth, so she seemed to glow, standing there, and +to breathe out energy. It was the first time Ballantrae had +visited that wine-seller’s, the first time he had seen the +wife; and his eyes were true to her.</p> +<p>‘I perceive your reason for carrying me to this very +draughty tavern,’ he said at last.</p> +<p>‘I believe it is propinquity,’ returned +Balmile.</p> +<p>‘You play dark,’ said Ballantrae, ‘but have +a care! Be more frank with me, or I will cut you out. +I go through no form of qualifying my threat, which would be +commonplace and not conscientious. There is only one point +in these campaigns: that is the degree of admiration offered by +the man; and to our hostess I am in a posture to make victorious +love.’</p> +<p>‘If you think you have the time, or the game worth the +candle,’ replied the other with a shrug.</p> +<p>‘One would suppose you were never at the pains to +observe her,’ said Ballantrae.</p> +<p>‘I am not very observant,’ said Balmile. +‘She seems comely.’</p> +<p>‘You very dear and dull dog!’ cried Ballantrae; +‘chastity is the most besotting of the virtues. Why, +she has a look in her face beyond singing! I believe, if +you was to push me hard, I might trace it home to a trifle of a +squint. What matters? The height of beauty is in the +touch that’s wrong, that’s the modulation in a +tune. ’Tis the devil we all love; I owe many a +conquest to my mole’—he touched it as he spoke with a +smile, and his eyes glittered;—‘we are all +hunchbacks, and beauty is only that kind of deformity that I +happen to admire. But come! Because you are chaste, +for which I am sure I pay you my respects, that is no reason why +you should be blind. Look at her, look at the delicious +nose of her, look at her cheek, look at her ear, look at her hand +and wrist—look at the whole baggage from heels to crown, +and tell me if she wouldn’t melt on a man’s +tongue.’</p> +<p>As Ballantrae spoke, half jesting, half enthusiastic, Balmile +was constrained to do as he was bidden. He looked at the +woman, admired her excellences, and was at the same time ashamed +for himself and his companion. So it befell that when +Marie-Madeleine raised her eyes, she met those of the subject of +her contemplations fixed directly on herself with a look that is +unmistakable, the look of a person measuring and valuing +another—and, to clench the false impression, that his +glance was instantly and guiltily withdrawn. The blood beat +back upon her heart and leaped again; her obscure thoughts +flashed clear before her; she flew in fancy straight to his arms +like a wanton, and fled again on the instant like a nymph. +And at that moment there chanced an interruption, which not only +spared her embarrassment, but set the last consecration on her +now articulate love.</p> +<p>Into the wine-shop there came a French gentleman, arrayed in +the last refinement of the fashion, though a little tumbled by +his passage in the wind. It was to be judged he had come +from the same formal gathering at which the others had preceded +him; and perhaps that he had gone there in the hope to meet with +them, for he came up to Ballantrae with unceremonious +eagerness.</p> +<p>‘At last, here you are!’ he cried in French. +‘I thought I was to miss you altogether.’</p> +<p>The Scotsmen rose, and Ballantrae, after the first greetings, +laid his hand on his companion’s shoulder.</p> +<p>‘My lord,’ said he, ‘allow me to present to +you one of my best friends and one of our best soldiers, the Lord +Viscount Gladsmuir.’</p> +<p>The two bowed with the elaborate elegance of the period.</p> +<p>‘<i>Monseigneur</i>,’ said Balmile, ‘<i>je +n’ai pas la prétention de m’affubler +d’un titre que la mauvaise fortune de mon roi ne me permet +pas de porter comma il sied</i>. <i>Je m’appelle</i>, +<i>pour vous servir</i>, <i>Blair de Balmile tout +court</i>.’ [My lord, I have not the effrontery to +cumber myself with a title which the ill fortunes of my king will +not suffer me to bear the way it should be. I call myself, +at your service, plain Blair of Balmile.]</p> +<p>‘<i>Monsieur le Vicomte ou monsieur Blèr’ +de Balmaïl</i>,’ replied the newcomer, ‘<i>le +nom n’y fait rien</i>, <i>et l’on connaît vos +beaux faits</i>.’ [The name matters nothing, your +gallant actions are known.]</p> +<p>A few more ceremonies, and these three, sitting down together +to the table, called for wine. It was the happiness of +Marie-Madeleine to wait unobserved upon the prince of her +desires. She poured the wine, he drank of it; and that link +between them seemed to her, for the moment, close as a +caress. Though they lowered their tones, she surprised +great names passing in their conversation, names of kings, the +names of de Gesvre and Belle-Isle; and the man who dealt in these +high matters, and she who was now coupled with him in her own +thoughts, seemed to swim in mid air in a transfiguration. +Love is a crude core, but it has singular and far-reaching +fringes; in that passionate attraction for the stranger that now +swayed and mastered her, his harsh incomprehensible language, and +these names of grandees in his talk, were each an element.</p> +<p>The Frenchman stayed not long, but it was plain he left behind +him matter of much interest to his companions; they spoke +together earnestly, their heads down, the woman of the wine-shop +totally forgotten; and they were still so occupied when Paradou +returned.</p> +<p>This man’s love was unsleeping. The even bluster +of the mistral, with which he had been combating some hours, had +not suspended, though it had embittered, that predominant +passion. His first look was for his wife, a look of hope +and suspicion, menace and humility and love, that made the +over-blooming brute appear for the moment almost beautiful. +She returned his glance, at first as though she knew him not, +then with a swiftly waxing coldness of intent; and at last, +without changing their direction, she had closed her eyes.</p> +<p>There passed across her mind during that period much that +Paradou could not have understood had it been told to him in +words: chiefly the sense of an enlightening contrast betwixt the +man who talked of kings and the man who kept a wine-shop, betwixt +the love she yearned for and that to which she had been long +exposed like a victim bound upon the altar. There swelled +upon her, swifter than the Rhone, a tide of abhorrence and +disgust. She had succumbed to the monster, humbling herself +below animals; and now she loved a hero, aspiring to the +semi-divine. It was in the pang of that humiliating thought +that she had closed her eyes.</p> +<p>Paradou—quick as beasts are quick, to translate +silence—felt the insult through his blood; his inarticulate +soul bellowed within him for revenge. He glanced about the +shop. He saw the two indifferent gentlemen deep in talk, +and passed them over: his fancy flying not so high. There +was but one other present, a country lout who stood swallowing +his wine, equally unobserved by all and unobserving—to him +he dealt a glance of murderous suspicion, and turned direct upon +his wife. The wine-shop had lain hitherto, a space of +shelter, the scene of a few ceremonial passages and some +whispered conversation, in the howling river of the wind; the +clock had not yet ticked a score of times since Paradou’s +appearance; and now, as he suddenly gave tongue, it seemed as +though the mistral had entered at his heels.</p> +<p>‘What ails you, woman?’ he cried, smiting on the +counter.</p> +<p>‘Nothing ails me,’ she replied. It was +strange; but she spoke and stood at that moment like a lady of +degree, drawn upward by her aspirations.</p> +<p>‘You speak to me, by God, as though you scorned +me!’ cried the husband.</p> +<p>The man’s passion was always formidable; she had often +looked on upon its violence with a thrill, it had been one +ingredient in her fascination; and she was now surprised to +behold him, as from afar off, gesticulating but impotent. +His fury might be dangerous like a torrent or a gust of wind, but +it was inhuman; it might be feared or braved, it should never be +respected. And with that there came in her a sudden glow of +courage and that readiness to die which attends so closely upon +all strong passions.</p> +<p>‘I do scorn you,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘What is that?’ he cried.</p> +<p>‘I scorn you,’ she repeated, smiling.</p> +<p>‘You love another man!’ said he.</p> +<p>‘With all my soul,’ was her reply.</p> +<p>The wine-seller roared aloud so that the house rang and shook +with it.</p> +<p>‘Is this the—?’ he cried, using a foul word, +common in the South; and he seized the young countryman and +dashed him to the ground. There he lay for the least +interval of time insensible; thence fled from the house, the most +terrified person in the county. The heavy measure had +escaped from his hands, splashing the wine high upon the +wall. Paradou caught it. ‘And you?’ he +roared to his wife, giving her the same name in the feminine, and +he aimed at her the deadly missile. She expected it, +motionless, with radiant eyes.</p> +<p>But before it sped, Paradou was met by another adversary, and +the unconscious rivals stood confronted. It was hard to say +at that moment which appeared the more formidable. In +Paradou, the whole muddy and truculent depths of the half-man +were stirred to frenzy; the lust of destruction raged in him; +there was not a feature in his face but it talked murder. +Balmile had dropped his cloak: he shone out at once in his +finery, and stood to his full stature; girt in mind and body all +his resources, all his temper, perfectly in command in his face +the light of battle. Neither spoke; there was no blow nor +threat of one; it was war reduced to its last element, the +spiritual; and the huge wine-seller slowly lowered his +weapon. Balmile was a noble, he a commoner; Balmile exulted +in an honourable cause. Paradou already perhaps began to be +ashamed of his violence. Of a sudden, at least, the +tortured brute turned and fled from the shop in the footsteps of +his former victim, to whose continued flight his reappearance +added wings.</p> +<p>So soon as Balmile appeared between her husband and herself, +Marie-Madeleine transferred to him her eyes. It might be +her last moment, and she fed upon that face; reading there +inimitable courage and illimitable valour to protect. And +when the momentary peril was gone by, and the champion turned a +little awkwardly towards her whom he had rescued, it was to meet, +and quail before, a gaze of admiration more distinct than +words. He bowed, he stammered, his words failed him; he who +had crossed the floor a moment ago, like a young god, to smite, +returned like one discomfited; got somehow to his place by the +table, muffled himself again in his discarded cloak, and for a +last touch of the ridiculous, seeking for anything to restore his +countenance, drank of the wine before him, deep as a porter after +a heavy lift. It was little wonder if Ballantrae, reading +the scene with malevolent eyes, laughed out loud and brief, and +drank with raised glass, ‘To the champion of the +Fair.’</p> +<p>Marie-Madeleine stood in her old place within the counter; she +disdained the mocking laughter; it fell on her ears, but it did +not reach her spirit. For her, the world of living persons +was all resumed again into one pair, as in the days of Eden; +there was but the one end in life, the one hope before her, the +one thing needful, the one thing possible—to be his.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER I—THE PRINCE</h3> +<p>That same night there was in the city of Avignon a young man +in distress of mind. Now he sat, now walked in a high +apartment, full of draughts and shadows. A single candle +made the darkness visible; and the light scarce sufficed to show +upon the wall, where they had been recently and rudely nailed, a +few miniatures and a copper medal of the young man’s +head. The same was being sold that year in London, to +admiring thousands. The original was fair; he had beautiful +brown eyes, a beautiful bright open face; a little feminine, a +little hard, a little weak; still full of the light of youth, but +already beginning to be vulgarised; a sordid bloom come upon it, +the lines coarsened with a touch of puffiness. He was +dressed, as for a gala, in peach-colour and silver; his breast +sparkled with stars and was bright with ribbons; for he had held +a levee in the afternoon and received a distinguished personage +incognito. Now he sat with a bowed head, now walked +precipitately to and fro, now went and gazed from the uncurtained +window, where the wind was still blowing, and the lights winked +in the darkness.</p> +<p>The bells of Avignon rose into song as he was gazing; and the +high notes and the deep tossed and drowned, boomed suddenly near +or were suddenly swallowed up, in the current of the +mistral. Tears sprang in the pale blue eyes; the expression +of his face was changed to that of a more active misery, it +seemed as if the voices of the bells reached, and touched and +pained him, in a waste of vacancy where even pain was +welcome. Outside in the night they continued to sound on, +swelling and fainting; and the listener heard in his memory, as +it were their harmonies, joy-bells clashing in a northern city, +and the acclamations of a multitude, the cries of battle, the +gross voices of cannon, the stridor of an animated life. +And then all died away, and he stood face to face with himself in +the waste of vacancy, and a horror came upon his mind, and a +faintness on his brain, such as seizes men upon the brink of +cliffs.</p> +<p>On the table, by the side of the candle, stood a tray of +glasses, a bottle, and a silver bell. He went thither +swiftly, then his hand lowered first above the bell, then settled +on the bottle. Slowly he filled a glass, slowly drank it +out; and, as a tide of animal warmth recomforted the recesses of +his nature, stood there smiling at himself. He remembered +he was young; the funeral curtains rose, and he saw his life +shine and broaden and flow out majestically, like a river +sunward. The smile still on his lips, he lit a second +candle and a third; a fire stood ready built in a chimney, he lit +that also; and the fir-cones and the gnarled olive billets were +swift to break in flame and to crackle on the hearth, and the +room brightened and enlarged about him like his hopes. To +and fro, to and fro, he went, his hands lightly clasped, his +breath deeply and pleasurably taken. Victory walked with +him; he marched to crowns and empires among shouting followers; +glory was his dress. And presently again the shadows closed +upon the solitary. Under the gilt of flame and +candle-light, the stone walls of the apartment showed down bare +and cold; behind the depicted triumph loomed up the actual +failure: defeat, the long distress of the flight, exile, despair, +broken followers, mourning faces, empty pockets, friends +estranged. The memory of his father rose in his mind: he, +too, estranged and defied; despair sharpened into wrath. +There was one who had led armies in the field, who had staked his +life upon the family enterprise, a man of action and experience, +of the open air, the camp, the court, the council-room; and he +was to accept direction from an old, pompous gentleman in a home +in Italy, and buzzed about by priests? A pretty king, if he +had not a martial son to lean upon! A king at all?</p> +<p>‘There was a weaver (of all people) joined me at St. +Ninians; he was more of a man than my papa!’ he +thought. ‘I saw him lie doubled in his blood and a +grenadier below him—and he died for my papa! All died +for him, or risked the dying, and I lay for him all those months +in the rain and skulked in heather like a fox; and now he writes +me his advice! calls me Carluccio—me, the man of the house, +the only king in that king’s race.’ He ground +his teeth. ‘The only king in Europe!’ Who +else? Who has done and suffered except me? who has lain and +run and hidden with his faithful subjects, like a second +Bruce? Not my accursed cousin, Louis of France, at least, +the lewd effeminate traitor!’ And filling the glass +to the brim, he drank a king’s damnation. Ah, if he +had the power of Louis, what a king were here!</p> +<p>The minutes followed each other into the past, and still he +persevered in this debilitating cycle of emotions, still fed the +fire of his excitement with driblets of Rhine wine: a boy at odds +with life, a boy with a spark of the heroic, which he was now +burning out and drowning down in futile reverie and solitary +excess.</p> +<p>From two rooms beyond, the sudden sound of a raised voice +attracted him.</p> +<p>‘By . . .</p> +<h2>HEATHERCAT</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I—TRAQUAIRS OF MONTROYMONT</h3> +<p>The period of this tale is in the heat of the +<i>killing-time</i>; the scene laid for the most part in solitary +hills and morasses, haunted only by the so-called Mountain +Wanderers, the dragoons that came in chase of them, the women +that wept on their dead bodies, and the wild birds of the +moorland that have cried there since the beginning. It is a +land of many rain-clouds; a land of much mute history, written +there in prehistoric symbols. Strange green raths are to be +seen commonly in the country, above all by the kirkyards; barrows +of the dead, standing stones; beside these, the faint, durable +footprints and handmarks of the Roman; and an antiquity older +perhaps than any, and still living and active—a complete +Celtic nomenclature and a scarce-mingled Celtic population. +These rugged and grey hills were once included in the boundaries +of the Caledonian Forest. Merlin sat here below his +apple-tree and lamented Gwendolen; here spoke with Kentigern; +here fell into his enchanted trance. And the legend of his +slumber seems to body forth the story of that Celtic race, +deprived for so many centuries of their authentic speech, +surviving with their ancestral inheritance of melancholy +perversity and patient, unfortunate courage.</p> +<p>The Traquairs of Montroymont (<i>Mons Romanus</i>, as the +erudite expound it) had long held their seat about the +head-waters of the Dule and in the back parts of the moorland +parish of Balweary. For two hundred years they had enjoyed +in these upland quarters a certain decency (almost to be named +distinction) of repute; and the annals of their house, or what is +remembered of them, were obscure and bloody. Ninian +Traquair was ‘cruallie slochtered’ by the Crozers at +the kirk-door of Balweary, anno 1482. Francis killed Simon +Ruthven of Drumshoreland, anno 1540; bought letters of slayers at +the widow and heir, and, by a barbarous form of compounding, +married (without tocher) Simon’s daughter Grizzel, which is +the way the Traquairs and Ruthvens came first to an +intermarriage. About the last Traquair and Ruthven +marriage, it is the business of this book, among many other +things, to tell.</p> +<p>The Traquairs were always strong for the Covenant; for the +King also, but the Covenant first; and it began to be ill days +for Montroymont when the Bishops came in and the dragoons at the +heels of them. Ninian (then laird) was an anxious husband +of himself and the property, as the times required, and it may be +said of him, that he lost both. He was heavily suspected of +the Pentland Hills rebellion. When it came the length of +Bothwell Brig, he stood his trial before the Secret Council, and +was convicted of talking with some insurgents by the wayside, the +subject of the conversation not very clearly appearing, and of +the reset and maintenance of one Gale, a gardener man, who was +seen before Bothwell with a musket, and afterwards, for a +continuance of months, delved the garden at Montroymont. +Matters went very ill with Ninian at the Council; some of the +lords were clear for treason; and even the boot was talked +of. But he was spared that torture; and at last, having +pretty good friendship among great men, he came off with a fine +of seven thousand marks, that caused the estate to groan. +In this case, as in so many others, it was the wife that made the +trouble. She was a great keeper of conventicles; would ride +ten miles to one, and when she was fined, rejoiced greatly to +suffer for the Kirk; but it was rather her husband that +suffered. She had their only son, Francis, baptized +privately by the hands of Mr. Kidd; there was that much the more +to pay for! She could neither be driven nor wiled into the +parish kirk; as for taking the sacrament at the hands of any +Episcopalian curate, and tenfold more at those of Curate Haddo, +there was nothing further from her purposes; and Montroymont had +to put his hand in his pocket month by month and year by +year. Once, indeed, the little lady was cast in prison, and +the laird, worthy, heavy, uninterested man, had to ride up and +take her place; from which he was not discharged under nine +months and a sharp fine. It scarce seemed she had any +gratitude to him; she came out of gaol herself, and plunged +immediately deeper in conventicles, resetting recusants, and all +her old, expensive folly, only with greater vigour and openness, +because Montroymont was safe in the Tolbooth and she had no +witness to consider. When he was liberated and came back, +with his fingers singed, in December 1680, and late in the black +night, my lady was from home. He came into the house at his +alighting, with a riding-rod yet in his hand; and, on the +servant-maid telling him, caught her by the scruff of the neck, +beat her violently, flung her down in the passageway, and went +upstairs to his bed fasting and without a light. It was +three in the morning when my lady returned from that conventicle, +and, hearing of the assault (because the maid had sat up for her, +weeping), went to their common chamber with a lantern in hand and +stamping with her shoes so as to wake the dead; it was supposed, +by those that heard her, from a design to have it out with the +good man at once. The house-servants gathered on the stair, +because it was a main interest with them to know which of these +two was the better horse; and for the space of two hours they +were heard to go at the matter, hammer and tongs. +Montroymont alleged he was at the end of possibilities; it was no +longer within his power to pay the annual rents; she had served +him basely by keeping conventicles while he lay in prison for her +sake; his friends were weary, and there was nothing else before +him but the entire loss of the family lands, and to begin life +again by the wayside as a common beggar. She took him up +very sharp and high: called upon him, if he were a Christian? and +which he most considered, the loss of a few dirty, miry glebes, +or of his soul? Presently he was heard to weep, and my +lady’s voice to go on continually like a running burn, only +the words indistinguishable; whereupon it was supposed a victory +for her ladyship, and the domestics took themselves to bed. +The next day Traquair appeared like a man who had gone under the +harrows; and his lady wife thenceforward continued in her old +course without the least deflection.</p> +<p>Thenceforward Ninian went on his way without complaint, and +suffered his wife to go on hers without remonstrance. He +still minded his estate, of which it might be said he took daily +a fresh farewell, and counted it already lost; looking ruefully +on the acres and the graves of his fathers, on the moorlands +where the wild-fowl consorted, the low, gurgling pool of the +trout, and the high, windy place of the calling +curlews—things that were yet his for the day and would be +another’s to-morrow; coming back again, and sitting +ciphering till the dusk at his approaching ruin, which no device +of arithmetic could postpone beyond a year or two. He was +essentially the simple ancient man, the farmer and landholder; he +would have been content to watch the seasons come and go, and his +cattle increase, until the limit of age; he would have been +content at any time to die, if he could have left the estates +undiminished to an heir-male of his ancestors, that duty standing +first in his instinctive calendar. And now he saw +everywhere the image of the new proprietor come to meet him, and +go sowing and reaping, or fowling for his pleasure on the red +moors, or eating the very gooseberries in the Place garden; and +saw always, on the other hand, the figure of Francis go forth, a +beggar, into the broad world.</p> +<p>It was in vain the poor gentleman sought to moderate; took +every test and took advantage of every indulgence; went and drank +with the dragoons in Balweary; attended the communion and came +regularly to the church to Curate Haddo, with his son beside +him. The mad, raging, Presbyterian zealot of a wife at home +made all of no avail; and indeed the house must have fallen years +before if it had not been for the secret indulgence of the +curate, who had a great sympathy with the laird, and winked hard +at the doings in Montroymont. This curate was a man very +ill reputed in the countryside, and indeed in all Scotland. +‘Infamous Haddo’ is Shield’s expression. +But Patrick Walker is more copious. ‘Curate Hall +Haddo,’ says he, <i>sub voce</i> Peden, ‘or +<i>Hell</i> Haddo, as he was more justly to be called, a pokeful +of old condemned errors and the filthy vile lusts of the flesh, a +published whore-monger, a common gross drunkard, continually and +godlessly scraping and skirling on a fiddle, continually +breathing flames against the remnant of Israel. But the +Lord put an end to his piping, and all these offences were +composed into one bloody grave.’ No doubt this was +written to excuse his slaughter; and I have never heard it +claimed for Walker that he was either a just witness or an +indulgent judge. At least, in a merely human character, +Haddo comes off not wholly amiss in the matter of these +Traquairs: not that he showed any graces of the Christian, but +had a sort of Pagan decency, which might almost tempt one to be +concerned about his sudden, violent, and unprepared fate.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II—FRANCIE</h3> +<p>Francie was eleven years old, shy, secret, and rather childish +of his age, though not backward in schooling, which had been +pushed on far by a private governor, one M‘Brair, a +forfeited minister harboured in that capacity at +Montroymont. The boy, already much employed in secret by +his mother, was the most apt hand conceivable to run upon a +message, to carry food to lurking fugitives, or to stand sentry +on the skyline above a conventicle. It seemed no place on +the moorlands was so naked but what he would find cover there; +and as he knew every hag, boulder, and heather-bush in a circuit +of seven miles about Montroymont, there was scarce any spot but +what he could leave or approach it unseen. This dexterity +had won him a reputation in that part of the country; and among +the many children employed in these dangerous affairs, he passed +under the by-name of Heathercat.</p> +<p>How much his father knew of this employment might be +doubted. He took much forethought for the boy’s +future, seeing he was like to be left so poorly, and would +sometimes assist at his lessons, sighing heavily, yawning deep, +and now and again patting Francie on the shoulder if he seemed to +be doing ill, by way of a private, kind encouragement. But +a great part of the day was passed in aimless wanderings with his +eyes sealed, or in his cabinet sitting bemused over the +particulars of the coming bankruptcy; and the boy would be absent +a dozen times for once that his father would observe it.</p> +<p>On 2nd of July 1682 the boy had an errand from his mother, +which must be kept private from all, the father included in the +first of them. Crossing the braes, he hears the clatter of +a horse’s shoes, and claps down incontinent in a hag by the +wayside. And presently he spied his father come riding from +one direction, and Curate Haddo walking from another; and +Montroymont leaning down from the saddle, and Haddo getting on +his toes (for he was a little, ruddy, bald-pated man, more like a +dwarf), they greeted kindly, and came to a halt within two +fathoms of the child.</p> +<p>‘Montroymont,’ the curate said, ‘the +deil’s in ’t but I’ll have to denunciate your +leddy again.’</p> +<p>‘Deil’s in ’t indeed!’ says the +laird.</p> +<p>‘Man! can ye no induce her to come to the kirk?’ +pursues Haddo; ‘or to a communion at the least of it? +For the conventicles, let be! and the same for yon solemn fule, +M‘Brair: I can blink at them. But she’s got to +come to the kirk, Montroymont.’</p> +<p>‘Dinna speak of it,’ says the laird. +‘I can do nothing with her.’</p> +<p>‘Couldn’t ye try the stick to her? it works +wonders whiles,’ suggested Haddo. ‘No? +I’m wae to hear it. And I suppose ye ken where +you’re going?’</p> +<p>‘Fine!’ said Montroymont. ‘Fine do I +ken where: bankrup’cy and the Bass Rock!’</p> +<p>‘Praise to my bones that I never married!’ cried +the curate. ‘Well, it’s a grievous thing to me +to see an auld house dung down that was here before Flodden +Field. But naebody can say it was with my wish.’</p> +<p>‘No more they can, Haddo!’ says the laird. +‘A good friend ye’ve been to me, first and +last. I can give you that character with a clear +conscience.’</p> +<p>Whereupon they separated, and Montroymont rode briskly down +into the Dule Valley. But of the curate Francis was not to +be quit so easily. He went on with his little, brisk steps +to the corner of a dyke, and stopped and whistled and waved upon +a lassie that was herding cattle there. This Janet +M‘Clour was a big lass, being taller than the curate; and +what made her look the more so, she was kilted very high. +It seemed for a while she would not come, and Francie heard her +calling Haddo a ‘daft auld fule,’ and saw her running +and dodging him among the whins and hags till he was fairly +blown. But at the last he gets a bottle from his plaid-neuk +and holds it up to her; whereupon she came at once into a +composition, and the pair sat, drinking of the bottle, and +daffing and laughing together, on a mound of heather. The +boy had scarce heard of these vanities, or he might have been +minded of a nymph and satyr, if anybody could have taken +long-leggit Janet for a nymph. But they seemed to be huge +friends, he thought; and was the more surprised, when the curate +had taken his leave, to see the lassie fling stones after him +with screeches of laughter, and Haddo turn about and caper, and +shake his staff at her, and laugh louder than herself. A +wonderful merry pair, they seemed; and when Francie had crawled +out of the hag, he had a great deal to consider in his +mind. It was possible they were all fallen in error about +Mr. Haddo, he reflected—having seen him so tender with +Montroymont, and so kind and playful with the lass Janet; and he +had a temptation to go out of his road and question her herself +upon the matter. But he had a strong spirit of duty on him; +and plodded on instead over the braes till he came near the House +of Cairngorm. There, in a hollow place by the burnside that +was shaded by some birks, he was aware of a barefoot boy, perhaps +a matter of three years older than himself. The two +approached with the precautions of a pair of strange dogs, +looking at each other queerly.</p> +<p>‘It’s ill weather on the hills,’ said the +stranger, giving the watchword.</p> +<p>‘For a season,’ said Francie, ‘but the Lord +will appear.’</p> +<p>‘Richt,’ said the barefoot boy; +‘wha’re ye frae?’</p> +<p>‘The Leddy Montroymont,’ says Francie.</p> +<p>‘Ha’e, then!’ says the stranger, and handed +him a folded paper, and they stood and looked at each other +again. ‘It’s unco het,’ said the boy.</p> +<p>‘Dooms het,’ says Francie.</p> +<p>‘What do they ca’ ye?’ says the other.</p> +<p>‘Francie,’ says he. ‘I’m young +Montroymont. They ca’ me Heathercat.’</p> +<p>‘I’m Jock Crozer,’ said the boy. And +there was another pause, while each rolled a stone under his +foot.</p> +<p>‘Cast your jaiket and I’ll fecht ye for a +bawbee,’ cried the elder boy with sudden violence, and +dramatically throwing back his jacket.</p> +<p>‘Na, I’ve nae time the now,’ said Francie, +with a sharp thrill of alarm, because Crozer was much the heavier +boy.</p> +<p>‘Ye’re feared. Heathercat indeed!’ +said Crozer, for among this infantile army of spies and +messengers, the fame of Crozer had gone forth and was resented by +his rivals. And with that they separated.</p> +<p>On his way home Francie was a good deal occupied with the +recollection of this untoward incident. The challenge had +been fairly offered and basely refused: the tale would be carried +all over the country, and the lustre of the name of Heathercat be +dimmed. But the scene between Curate Haddo and Janet +M‘Clour had also given him much to think of: and he was +still puzzling over the case of the curate, and why such ill +words were said of him, and why, if he were so merry-spirited, he +should yet preach so dry, when coming over a knowe, whom should +he see but Janet, sitting with her back to him, minding her +cattle! He was always a great child for secret, stealthy +ways, having been employed by his mother on errands when the same +was necessary; and he came behind the lass without her +hearing.</p> +<p>‘Jennet,’ says he.</p> +<p>‘Keep me,’ cries Janet, springing up. +‘O, it’s you, Maister Francie! Save us, what a +fricht ye gied me.’</p> +<p>‘Ay, it’s me,’ said Francie. +‘I’ve been thinking, Jennet; I saw you and the curate +a while back—’</p> +<p>‘Brat!’ cried Janet, and coloured up crimson; and +the one moment made as if she would have stricken him with a +ragged stick she had to chase her bestial with, and the next was +begging and praying that he would mention it to none. It +was ‘naebody’s business, whatever,’ she said; +‘it would just start a clash in the country’; and +there would be nothing left for her but to drown herself in Dule +Water.</p> +<p>‘Why?’ says Francie.</p> +<p>The girl looked at him and grew scarlet again.</p> +<p>‘And it isna that, anyway,’ continued +Francie. ‘It was just that he seemed so good to +ye—like our Father in heaven, I thought; and I thought that +mebbe, perhaps, we had all been wrong about him from the +first. But I’ll have to tell Mr. M‘Brair; +I’m under a kind of a bargain to him to tell him +all.’</p> +<p>‘Tell it to the divil if ye like for me!’ cried +the lass. ‘I’ve naething to be ashamed +of. Tell M‘Brair to mind his ain affairs,’ she +cried again: ‘they’ll be hot eneugh for him, if +Haddie likes!’ And so strode off, shoving her beasts +before her, and ever and again looking back and crying angry +words to the boy, where he stood mystified.</p> +<p>By the time he had got home his mind was made up that he would +say nothing to his mother. My Lady Montroymont was in the +keeping-room, reading a godly book; she was a wonderful frail +little wife to make so much noise in the world and be able to +steer about that patient sheep her husband; her eyes were like +sloes, the fingers of her hands were like tobacco-pipe shanks, +her mouth shut tight like a trap; and even when she was the most +serious, and still more when she was angry, there hung about her +face the terrifying semblance of a smile.</p> +<p>‘Have ye gotten the billet, Francie said she; and when +he had handed it over, and she had read and burned it, ‘Did +you see anybody?’ she asked.</p> +<p>‘I saw the laird,’ said Francie.</p> +<p>‘He didna see you, though?’ asked his mother.</p> +<p>‘Deil a fear,’ from Francie.</p> +<p>‘Francie!’ she cried. ‘What’s +that I hear? an aith? The Lord forgive me, have I broughten +forth a brand for the burning, a fagot for hell-fire?’</p> +<p>‘I’m very sorry, ma’am,’ said +Francie. ‘I humbly beg the Lord’s pardon, and +yours, for my wickedness.’</p> +<p>‘H’m,’ grunted the lady. ‘Did ye +see nobody else?’</p> +<p>‘No, ma’am,’ said Francie, with the face of +an angel, ‘except Jock Crozer, that gied me the +billet.’</p> +<p>‘Jock Crozer!’ cried the lady. +‘I’ll Crozer them! Crozers indeed! What +next? Are we to repose the lives of a suffering remnant in +Crozers? The whole clan of them wants hanging, and if I had +my way of it, they wouldna want it long. Are you aware, +sir, that these Crozers killed your forebear at the +kirk-door?’</p> +<p>‘You see, he was bigger ’n me,’ said +Francie.</p> +<p>‘Jock Crozer!’ continued the lady. +‘That’ll be Clement’s son, the biggest thief +and reiver in the country-side. To trust a note to +him! But I’ll give the benefit of my opinions to Lady +Whitecross when we two forgather. Let her look to +herself! I have no patience with half-hearted carlines, +that complies on the Lord’s day morning with the kirk, and +comes taigling the same night to the conventicle. The one +or the other! is what I say: hell or heaven—Haddie’s +abominations or the pure word of God dreeping from the lips of +Mr. Arnot,</p> +<blockquote><p>‘“Like honey from the honeycomb<br /> + That dreepeth, sweeter far.”’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>My lady was now fairly launched, and that upon two congenial +subjects: the deficiencies of the Lady Whitecross and the +turpitudes of the whole Crozer race—which, indeed, had +never been conspicuous for respectability. She pursued the +pair of them for twenty minutes on the clock with wonderful +animation and detail, something of the pulpit manner, and the +spirit of one possessed. ‘O hellish +compliance!’ she exclaimed. ‘I would not suffer +a complier to break bread with Christian folk. Of all the +sins of this day there is not one so God-defying, so +Christ-humiliating, as damnable compliance’: the boy +standing before her meanwhile, and brokenly pursuing other +thoughts, mainly of Haddo and Janet, and Jock Crozer stripping +off his jacket. And yet, with all his distraction, it might +be argued that he heard too much: his father and himself being +‘compliers’—that is to say, attending the +church of the parish as the law required.</p> +<p>Presently, the lady’s passion beginning to decline, or +her flux of ill words to be exhausted, she dismissed her +audience. Francie bowed low, left the room, closed the door +behind him: and then turned him about in the passage-way, and +with a low voice, but a prodigious deal of sentiment, repeated +the name of the evil one twenty times over, to the end of which, +for the greater efficacy, he tacked on ‘damnable’ and +‘hellish.’ <i>Fas est ab hoste +doceri</i>—disrespect is made more pungent by quotation; +and there is no doubt but he felt relieved, and went upstairs +into his tutor’s chamber with a quiet mind. +M‘Brair sat by the cheek of the peat-fire and shivered, for +he had a quartan ague and this was his day. The great +night-cap and plaid, the dark unshaven cheeks of the man, and the +white, thin hands that held the plaid about his chittering body, +made a sorrowful picture. But Francie knew and loved him; +came straight in, nestled close to the refugee, and told his +story. M‘Brair had been at the College with Haddo; +the Presbytery had licensed both on the same day; and at this +tale, told with so much innocency by the boy, the heart of the +tutor was commoved.</p> +<p>‘Woe upon him! Woe upon that man!’ he +cried. ‘O the unfaithful shepherd! O the +hireling and apostate minister! Make my matters hot for me? +quo’ she! the shameless limmer! And true it is, that +he could repose me in that nasty, stinking hole, the Canongate +Tolbooth, from which your mother drew me out—the Lord +reward her for it!—or to that cold, unbieldy, marine place +of the Bass Rock, which, with my delicate kist, would be fair +ruin to me. But I will be valiant in my Master’s +service. I have a duty here: a duty to my God, to myself, +and to Haddo: in His strength, I will perform it.’</p> +<p>Then he straitly discharged Francie to repeat the tale, and +bade him in the future to avert his very eyes from the doings of +the curate. ‘You must go to his place of idolatry; +look upon him there!’ says he, ‘but nowhere +else. Avert your eyes, close your ears, pass him by like a +three days’ corp. He is like that damnable monster +Basiliscus, which defiles—yea, poisons!—by the +sight.’—All which was hardly claratory to the +boy’s mind.</p> +<p>Presently Montroymont came home, and called up the stairs to +Francie. Traquair was a good shot and swordsman: and it was +his pleasure to walk with his son over the braes of the moorfowl, +or to teach him arms in the back court, when they made a mighty +comely pair, the child being so lean, and light, and active, and +the laird himself a man of a manly, pretty stature, his hair (the +periwig being laid aside) showing already white with many +anxieties, and his face of an even, flaccid red. But this +day Francie’s heart was not in the fencing.</p> +<p>‘Sir,’ says he, suddenly lowering his point, +‘will ye tell me a thing if I was to ask it?’</p> +<p>‘Ask away,’ says the father.</p> +<p>‘Well, it’s this,’ said Francie: ‘Why +do you and me comply if it’s so wicked?’</p> +<p>‘Ay, ye have the cant of it too!’ cries +Montroymont. ‘But I’ll tell ye for all +that. It’s to try and see if we can keep the rigging +on this house, Francie. If she had her way, we would be +beggar-folk, and hold our hands out by the wayside. When ye +hear her—when ye hear folk,’ he corrected himself +briskly, ‘call me a coward, and one that betrayed the Lord, +and I kenna what else, just mind it was to keep a bed to ye to +sleep in and a bite for ye to eat.—On guard!’ he +cried, and the lesson proceeded again till they were called to +supper.</p> +<p>‘There’s another thing yet,’ said Francie, +stopping his father. ‘There’s another thing +that I am not sure that I am very caring for. She—she +sends me errands.’</p> +<p>‘Obey her, then, as is your bounden duty,’ said +Traquair.</p> +<p>‘Ay, but wait till I tell ye,’ says the boy. +‘If I was to see you I was to hide.’</p> +<p>Montroymont sighed. ‘Well, and that’s good +of her too,’ said he. ‘The less that I ken of +thir doings the better for me; and the best thing you can do is +just to obey her, and see and be a good son to her, the same as +ye are to me, Francie.’</p> +<p>At the tenderness of this expression the heart of Francie +swelled within his bosom, and his remorse was poured out. +‘Faither!’ he cried, ‘I said “deil” +to-day; many’s the time I said it, and <i>damnable</i> too, +and <i>hellitsh</i>. I ken they’re all right; +they’re beeblical. But I didna say them beeblically; +I said them for sweir words—that’s the truth of +it.’</p> +<p>‘Hout, ye silly bairn!’ said the father, +‘dinna do it nae mair, and come in by to your +supper.’ And he took the boy, and drew him close to +him a moment, as they went through the door, with something very +fond and secret, like a caress between a pair of lovers.</p> +<p>The next day M‘Brair was abroad in the afternoon, and +had a long advising with Janet on the braes where she herded +cattle. What passed was never wholly known; but the lass +wept bitterly, and fell on her knees to him among the +whins. The same night, as soon as it was dark, he took the +road again for Balweary. In the Kirkton, where the dragoons +quartered, he saw many lights, and heard the noise of a ranting +song and people laughing grossly, which was highly offensive to +his mind. He gave it the wider berth, keeping among fields; +and came down at last by the water-side, where the manse stands +solitary between the river and the road. He tapped at the +back door, and the old woman called upon him to come in, and +guided him through the house to the study, as they still called +it, though there was little enough study there in Haddo’s +days, and more song-books than theology.</p> +<p>‘Here’s yin to speak wi’ ye, Mr. +Haddie!’ cries the old wife.</p> +<p>And M‘Brair, opening the door and entering, found the +little, round, red man seated in one chair and his feet upon +another. A clear fire and a tallow dip lighted him +barely. He was taking tobacco in a pipe, and smiling to +himself; and a brandy-bottle and glass, and his fiddle and bow, +were beside him on the table.</p> +<p>‘Hech, Patey M‘Briar, is this you?’ said he, +a trifle tipsily. ‘Step in by, man, and have a drop +brandy: for the stomach’s sake! Even the deil can +quote Scripture—eh, Patey?’</p> +<p>‘I will neither eat nor drink with you,’ replied +M‘Brair. ‘I am come upon my Master’s +errand: woe be upon me if I should anyways mince the same. +Hall Haddo, I summon you to quit this kirk which you +encumber.’</p> +<p>‘Muckle obleeged!’ says Haddo, winking.</p> +<p>‘You and me have been to kirk and market +together,’ pursued M‘Brair; ‘we have had +blessed seasons in the kirk, we have sat in the same +teaching-rooms and read in the same book; and I know you still +retain for me some carnal kindness. It would be my shame if +I denied it; I live here at your mercy and by your favour, and +glory to acknowledge it. You have pity on my wretched body, +which is but grass, and must soon be trodden under: but O, Haddo! +how much greater is the yearning with which I yearn after and +pity your immortal soul! Come now, let us reason +together! I drop all points of controversy, weighty though +these be; I take your defaced and damnified kirk on your own +terms; and I ask you, Are you a worthy minister? The +communion season approaches; how can you pronounce thir solemn +words, “The elders will now bring forrit the +elements,” and not quail? A parishioner may be +summoned to-night; you may have to rise from your miserable +orgies; and I ask you, Haddo, what does your conscience tell +you? Are you fit? Are you fit to smooth the pillow of +a parting Christian? And if the summons should be for +yourself, how then?’</p> +<p>Haddo was startled out of all composure and the better part of +his temper. ‘What’s this of it?’ he +cried. ‘I’m no waur than my neebours. I +never set up to be speeritual; I never did. I’m a +plain, canty creature; godliness is cheerfulness, says I; give me +my fiddle and a dram, and I wouldna hairm a flee.’</p> +<p>‘And I repeat my question,’ said M‘Brair: +‘Are you fit—fit for this great charge? fit to carry +and save souls?’</p> +<p>‘Fit? Blethers! As fit’s +yoursel’,’ cried Haddo.</p> +<p>‘Are you so great a self-deceiver?’ said +M‘Brair. ‘Wretched man, trampler upon +God’s covenants, crucifier of your Lord afresh. I +will ding you to the earth with one word: How about the young +woman, Janet M‘Clour?’</p> +<p>‘Weel, what about her? what do I ken?’ cries +Haddo. ‘M’Brair, ye daft auld wife, I tell ye +as true’s truth, I never meddled her. It was just +daffing, I tell ye: daffing, and nae mair: a piece of fun, +like! I’m no denying but what I’m fond of fun, +sma’ blame to me! But for onything +sarious—hout, man, it might come to a deposeetion! +I’ll sweir it to ye. Where’s a Bible, till you +hear me sweir?’</p> +<p>‘There is nae Bible in your study,’ said +M‘Brair severely.</p> +<p>And Haddo, after a few distracted turns, was constrained to +accept the fact.</p> +<p>‘Weel, and suppose there isna?’ he cried, +stamping. ‘What mair can ye say of us, but just that +I’m fond of my joke, and so’s she? I declare to +God, by what I ken, she might be the Virgin Mary—if she +would just keep clear of the dragoons. But me! na, deil +haet o’ me!’</p> +<p>‘She is penitent at least,’ says +M‘Brair.</p> +<p>‘Do you mean to actually up and tell me to my face that +she accused me?’ cried the curate.</p> +<p>‘I canna just say that,’ replied +M‘Brair. ‘But I rebuked her in the name of God, +and she repented before me on her bended knees.’</p> +<p>‘Weel, I daursay she’s been ower far wi’ the +dragoons,’ said Haddo. ‘I never denied +that. I ken naething by it.’</p> +<p>‘Man, you but show your nakedness the more +plainly,’ said M‘Brair. ‘Poor, blind, +besotted creature—and I see you stoytering on the brink of +dissolution: your light out, and your hours numbered. +Awake, man!’ he shouted with a formidable voice, +‘awake, or it be ower late.’</p> +<p>‘Be damned if I stand this!’ exclaimed Haddo, +casting his tobacco-pipe violently on the table, where it was +smashed in pieces. ‘Out of my house with ye, or +I’ll call for the dragoons.’</p> +<p>‘The speerit of the Lord is upon me,’ said +M‘Brair with solemn ecstasy. ‘I sist you to +compear before the Great White Throne, and I warn you the summons +shall be bloody and sudden.’</p> +<p>And at this, with more agility than could have been expected, +he got clear of the room and slammed the door behind him in the +face of the pursuing curate. The next Lord’s day the +curate was ill, and the kirk closed, but for all his ill words, +Mr. M‘Brair abode unmolested in the house of +Montroymont.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III—THE HILL-END OF DRUMLOWE</h3> +<p>This was a bit of a steep broken hill that overlooked upon the +west a moorish valley, full of ink-black pools. These +presently drained into a burn that made off, with little noise +and no celerity of pace, about the corner of the hill. On +the far side the ground swelled into a bare heath, black with +junipers, and spotted with the presence of the standing stones +for which the place was famous. They were many in that +part, shapeless, white with lichen—you would have said with +age: and had made their abode there for untold centuries, since +first the heathens shouted for their installation. The +ancients had hallowed them to some ill religion, and their +neighbourhood had long been avoided by the prudent before the +fall of day; but of late, on the upspringing of new requirements, +these lonely stones on the moor had again become a place of +assembly. A watchful picket on the Hill-end commanded all +the northern and eastern approaches; and such was the disposition +of the ground, that by certain cunningly posted sentries the west +also could be made secure against surprise: there was no place in +the country where a conventicle could meet with more quiet of +mind or a more certain retreat open, in the case of interference +from the dragoons. The minister spoke from a knowe close to +the edge of the ring, and poured out the words God gave him on +the very threshold of the devils of yore. When they pitched +a tent (which was often in wet weather, upon a communion +occasion) it was rigged over the huge isolated pillar that had +the name of Anes-Errand, none knew why. And the +congregation sat partly clustered on the slope below, and partly +among the idolatrous monoliths and on the turfy soil of the Ring +itself. In truth the situation was well qualified to give a +zest to Christian doctrines, had there been any wanted. But +these congregations assembled under conditions at once so +formidable and romantic as made a zealot of the most cold. +They were the last of the faithful; God, who had averted His face +from all other countries of the world, still leaned from heaven +to observe, with swelling sympathy, the doings of His moorland +remnant; Christ was by them with His eternal wounds, with +dropping tears; the Holy Ghost (never perfectly realised nor +firmly adopted by Protestant imaginations) was dimly supposed to +be in the heart of each and on the lips of the minister. +And over against them was the army of the hierarchies, from the +men Charles and James Stuart, on to King Lewie and the Emperor; +and the scarlet Pope, and the muckle black devil himself, peering +out the red mouth of hell in an ecstasy of hate and hope. +‘One pull more!’ he seemed to cry; ‘one pull +more, and it’s done. There’s only Clydesdale +and the Stewartry, and the three Bailiaries of Ayr, left for +God.’ And with such an august assistance of powers +and principalities looking on at the last conflict of good and +evil, it was scarce possible to spare a thought to those old, +infirm, debile, <i>ab agendo</i> devils whose holy place they +were now violating.</p> +<p>There might have been three hundred to four hundred +present. At least there were three hundred horses tethered +for the most part in the ring; though some of the hearers on the +outskirts of the crowd stood with their bridles in their hand, +ready to mount at the first signal. The circle of faces was +strangely characteristic; long, serious, strongly marked, the +tackle standing out in the lean brown cheeks, the mouth set and +the eyes shining with a fierce enthusiasm; the shepherd, the +labouring man, and the rarer laird, stood there in their broad +blue bonnets or laced hats, and presenting an essential identity +of type. From time to time a long-drawn groan of adhesion +rose in this audience, and was propagated like a wave to the +outskirts, and died away among the keepers of the horses. +It had a name; it was called ‘a holy groan.’</p> +<p>A squall came up; a great volley of flying mist went out +before it and whelmed the scene; the wind stormed with a sudden +fierceness that carried away the minister’s voice and +twitched his tails and made him stagger, and turned the +congregation for a moment into a mere pother of blowing +plaid-ends and prancing horses; and the rain followed and was +dashed straight into their faces. Men and women panted +aloud in the shock of that violent shower-bath; the teeth were +bared along all the line in an involuntary grimace; plaids, +mantles, and riding-coats were proved vain, and the worshippers +felt the water stream on their naked flesh. The minister, +reinforcing his great and shrill voice, continued to contend +against and triumph over the rising of the squall and the dashing +of the rain.</p> +<p>‘In that day ye may go thirty mile and not hear a +crawing cock,’ he said; ‘and fifty mile and not get a +light to your pipe; and an hundred mile and not see a smoking +house. For there’ll be naething in all Scotland but +deid men’s banes and blackness, and the living anger of the +Lord. O, where to find a bield—O sirs, where to find +a bield from the wind of the Lord’s anger? Do ye call +<i>this</i> a wind? Bethankit! Sirs, this is but a +temporary dispensation; this is but a puff of wind, this is but a +spit of rain and by with it. Already there’s a blue +bow in the west, and the sun will take the crown of the causeway +again, and your things’ll be dried upon ye, and your flesh +will be warm upon your bones. But O, sirs, sirs! for the +day of the Lord’s anger!’</p> +<p>His rhetoric was set forth with an ear-piercing elocution, and +a voice that sometimes crashed like cannon. Such as it was, +it was the gift of all hill-preachers, to a singular degree of +likeness or identity. Their images scarce ranged beyond the +red horizon of the moor and the rainy hill-top, the shepherd and +his sheep, a fowling-piece, a spade, a pipe, a dunghill, a +crowing cock, the shining and the withdrawal of the sun. An +occasional pathos of simple humanity, and frequent patches of big +Biblical words, relieved the homely tissue. It was a poetry +apart; bleak, austere, but genuine, and redolent of the soil.</p> +<p>A little before the coming of the squall there was a different +scene enacting at the outposts. For the most part, the +sentinels were faithful to their important duty; the Hill-end of +Drumlowe was known to be a safe meeting-place; and the +out-pickets on this particular day had been somewhat lax from the +beginning, and grew laxer during the inordinate length of the +discourse. Francie lay there in his appointed hiding-hole, +looking abroad between two whin-bushes. His view was across +the course of the burn, then over a piece of plain moorland, to a +gap between two hills; nothing moved but grouse, and some cattle +who slowly traversed his field of view, heading northward: he +heard the psalms, and sang words of his own to the savage and +melancholy music; for he had his own design in hand, and terror +and cowardice prevailed in his bosom alternately, like the hot +and the cold fit of an ague. Courage was uppermost during +the singing, which he accompanied through all its length with +this impromptu strain:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘And I will ding Jock Crozer down<br /> + No later than the day.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Presently the voice of the preacher came to him in wafts, at +the wind’s will, as by the opening and shutting of a door; +wild spasms of screaming, as of some undiscerned gigantic +hill-bird stirred with inordinate passion, succeeded to intervals +of silence; and Francie heard them with a critical ear. +‘Ay,’ he thought at last, ‘he’ll do; he +has the bit in his mou’ fairly.’</p> +<p>He had observed that his friend, or rather his enemy, Jock +Crozer, had been established at a very critical part of the line +of outposts; namely, where the burn issues by an abrupt gorge +from the semicircle of high moors. If anything was +calculated to nerve him to battle it was this. The post was +important; next to the Hill-end itself, it might be called the +key to the position; and it was where the cover was bad, and in +which it was most natural to place a child. It should have +been Heathercat’s; why had it been given to Crozer? +An exquisite fear of what should be the answer passed through his +marrow every time he faced the question. Was it possible +that Crozer could have boasted? that there were rumours abroad to +his—Heathercat’s—discredit? that his honour was +publicly sullied? All the world went dark about him at the +thought; he sank without a struggle into the midnight pool of +despair; and every time he so sank, he brought back with +him—not drowned heroism indeed, but half-drowned courage by +the locks. His heart beat very slowly as he deserted his +station, and began to crawl towards that of Crozer. +Something pulled him back, and it was not the sense of duty, but +a remembrance of Crozer’s build and hateful readiness of +fist. Duty, as he conceived it, pointed him forward on the +rueful path that he was travelling. Duty bade him redeem +his name if he were able, at the risk of broken bones; and his +bones and every tooth in his head ached by anticipation. An +awful subsidiary fear whispered him that if he were hurt, he +should disgrace himself by weeping. He consoled himself, +boy-like, with the consideration that he was not yet committed; +he could easily steal over unseen to Crozer’s post, and he +had a continuous private idea that he would very probably steal +back again. His course took him so near the minister that +he could hear some of his words: ‘What news, minister, of +Claver’se? He’s going round like a roaring +rampaging lion. . . .</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by <span +class="smcap">T.</span> and <span class="smcap">A. +Constable</span>, Printers to His Majesty<br /> +at the Edinburgh University Press.</p> +<h2>Footnotes:</h2> +<p><a name="footnote0"></a><a href="#citation0" +class="footnote">[0]</a> With special reference to +<i>Father Damien</i>, pp. 63–81.</p> +<p><a name="footnote65"></a><a href="#citation65" +class="footnote">[65]</a> From the Sydney +<i>Presbyterian</i>, October 26, 1889.</p> +<p><a name="footnote85"></a><a href="#citation85" +class="footnote">[85]</a> <i>Theater of Mortality</i>, p. +10; Edin. 1713.</p> +<p><a name="footnote86"></a><a href="#citation86" +class="footnote">[86]</a> <i>History of My Own Times</i>, +beginning 1660, by Bishop Gilbert Burnet, p. 158.</p> +<p><a name="footnote87a"></a><a href="#citation87a" +class="footnote">[87a]</a> Wodrow’s <i>Church +History</i>, Book II. chap. i. sect. I.</p> +<p><a name="footnote87b"></a><a href="#citation87b" +class="footnote">[87b]</a> Crookshank’s <i>Church +History</i>, 1751, second ed. p. 202.</p> +<p><a name="footnote88"></a><a href="#citation88" +class="footnote">[88]</a> Burnet, p. 348.</p> +<p><a name="footnote89"></a><a href="#citation89" +class="footnote">[89]</a> <i>Fuller’s Historie of the +Holy Warre</i>, fourth ed. 1651.</p> +<p><a name="footnote90"></a><a href="#citation90" +class="footnote">[90]</a> Wodrow, vol. ii. p. 17.</p> +<p><a name="footnote92"></a><a href="#citation92" +class="footnote">[92]</a> Sir J. Turner’s +<i>Memoirs</i>, pp. 148–50.</p> +<p><a name="footnote93"></a><a href="#citation93" +class="footnote">[93]</a> <i>A Cloud of Witnesses</i>, p. +376.</p> +<p><a name="footnote94a"></a><a href="#citation94a" +class="footnote">[94a]</a> Wodrow, pp. 19, 20.</p> +<p><a name="footnote94b"></a><a href="#citation94b" +class="footnote">[94b]</a> <i>A Hind Let Loose</i>, p. +123.</p> +<p><a name="footnote95"></a><a href="#citation95" +class="footnote">[95]</a> Turner, p. 163.</p> +<p><a name="footnote96a"></a><a href="#citation96a" +class="footnote">[96a]</a> Turner, p. 198.</p> +<p><a name="footnote96b"></a><a href="#citation96b" +class="footnote">[96b]</a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 167.</p> +<p><a name="footnote97"></a><a href="#citation97" +class="footnote">[97]</a> Wodrow, p. 29.</p> +<p><a name="footnote98"></a><a href="#citation98" +class="footnote">[98]</a> Turner, Wodrow, and <i>Church +History</i> by James Kirkton, an outed minister of the +period.</p> +<p><a name="footnote99"></a><a href="#citation99" +class="footnote">[99]</a> Kirkton, p. 244.</p> +<p><a name="footnote101a"></a><a href="#citation101a" +class="footnote">[101a]</a> Kirkton.</p> +<p><a name="footnote101b"></a><a href="#citation101b" +class="footnote">[101b]</a> Turner.</p> +<p><a name="footnote102"></a><a href="#citation102" +class="footnote">[102]</a> Kirkton.</p> +<p><a name="footnote103"></a><a href="#citation103" +class="footnote">[103]</a> Kirkton.</p> +<p><a name="footnote104"></a><a href="#citation104" +class="footnote">[104]</a> <i>Cloud of Witnesses</i>, p. +389; Edin. 1765.</p> +<p><a name="footnote105a"></a><a href="#citation105a" +class="footnote">[105a]</a> Kirkton, p. 247.</p> +<p><a name="footnote105b"></a><a href="#citation105b" +class="footnote">[105b]</a> Ibid. p. 254.</p> +<p><a name="footnote105c"></a><a href="#citation105c" +class="footnote">[105c]</a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 247.</p> +<p><a name="footnote105d"></a><a href="#citation105d" +class="footnote">[105d]</a> <i>Ibid.</i> pp. 247, 248.</p> +<p><a name="footnote106"></a><a href="#citation106" +class="footnote">[106]</a> Kirkton, p. 248.</p> +<p><a name="footnote107a"></a><a href="#citation107a" +class="footnote">[107a]</a> Kirkton, p. 249.</p> +<p><a name="footnote107b"></a><a href="#citation107b" +class="footnote">[107b]</a> <i>Naphtali</i>, p. 205; +Glasgow, 1721.</p> +<p><a name="footnote107c"></a><a href="#citation107c" +class="footnote">[107c]</a> Wodrow, p. 59.</p> +<p><a name="footnote108a"></a><a href="#citation108a" +class="footnote">[108a]</a> Kirkton, p. 246.</p> +<p><a name="footnote108b"></a><a href="#citation108b" +class="footnote">[108b]</a> Defoe’s <i>History of the +Church of Scotland</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote151"></a><a href="#citation151" +class="footnote">[151]</a> ‘This paper was written in +collaboration with James Waiter Ferrier, and if reprinted this is +to be stated, though his principal collaboration was to lie back +in an easy-chair and laugh.’—[R.L.S., Oct. 25, +1894.]</p> +<p><a name="footnote183"></a><a href="#citation183" +class="footnote">[183]</a> The illustrator was, in fact, a +lady, Miss Eunice Bagster, eldest daughter of the publisher, +Samuel Bagster; except in the case of the cuts depicting the +fight with Apollyon, which were designed by her brother, Mr. +Jonathan Bagster. The edition was published in 1845. +I am indebted for this information to the kindness of Mr. Robert +Bagster, the present managing director of the firm.—[<span +class="smcap">Sir Sidney Colvin’s Note</span>.]</p> +<p><a name="footnote205"></a><a href="#citation205" +class="footnote">[205]</a> See a short essay of De +Quincey’s.</p> +<p><a name="footnote206a"></a><a href="#citation206a" +class="footnote">[206a]</a> <i>Religio Medici</i>, Part +ii.</p> +<p><a name="footnote206b"></a><a href="#citation206b" +class="footnote">[206b]</a> <i>Duchess of Malfi</i>.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAY MORALS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 373-h.htm or 373-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/7/373 + + + +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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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: Lay Morals + and Other Papers + + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Editor: Sidney Colvin + +Release Date: October 20, 2010 [eBook #373] +First Posted: November 1995 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAY MORALS*** + + +Transcribed from the Chatto and Windus 1911 edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + LAY MORALS + + + And Other Papers + + BY + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + + + [Picture: Graphic] + + A NEW EDITION + WITH A PREFACE BY + MRS. STEVENSON + + * * * * * + + LONDON + CHATTO & WINDUS + 1911 + + * * * * * + + _All rights reserved._ + + + + +PREFACE +BY MRS. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON {0} + + +In our long voyage on the yacht _Casco_, we visited many islands; I +believe on every one we found the scourge of leprosy. In the Marquesas +there was a regular leper settlement, though the persons living there +seemed free to wander where they wished, fishing on the beach, or +visiting friends in the villages. I remember one afternoon, at Anaho, +when my husband and I, tired after a long quest for shells, sat down on +the sand to rest awhile, a native man stepped out from under some +cocoanut trees, regarding us hesitatingly as though fearful of intruding. +My husband waved an invitation to the stranger to join us, offering his +cigarette to the man in the island fashion. The cigarette was accepted +and, after a puff or two, courteously passed back again according to +native etiquette. The hand that held it was the maimed hand of a leper. +To my consternation my husband took the cigarette and smoked it out. +Afterwards when we were alone and I spoke of my horror he said, 'I could +not mortify the man. And if you think I _liked_ doing it--that was +another reason; because I _didn't_ want to.' + +Another day, while we were still anchored in Anaho Bay, a messenger from +round a distant headland came in a whale-boat with an urgent request that +we go to see a young white girl who was ill with some mysterious malady. +We had supposed that, with the beach-comber 'Charley the red,' we were +the only white people on our side of the island. Though there was much +wind that day and the sea ran high, we started at once, impelled partly +by curiosity and partly by the pathetic nature of the message. +Fortunately we took our luncheon with us, eating it on the beach before +we went up to the house where the sick girl lay. Our hostess, the girl's +mother, met us with regrets that we had already lunched, saying, 'I have +a most excellent cook; here he is, now.' She turned, as she spoke, to an +elderly Chinaman who was plainly in an advanced stage of leprosy. When +the man was gone, my husband asked if she had no fear of contagion. 'I +don't believe in contagion,' was her reply. But there was little doubt +as to what ailed her daughter. She was certainly suffering from leprosy. +We could only advise that the girl be taken to the French post at Santa +Maria Bay where there was a doctor. + +On our return to the _Casco_ we confessed to each other with what alarm +and repugnance we touched the miserable girl. We talked long that +evening of Father Damien, his sublime heroism, and his martyrdom which +was already nearing its sad end. Beyond all noble qualities my husband +placed courage. The more he saw of leprosy, and he saw much in the +islands, the higher rose his admiration for the simple priest of Molokai. +'I must see Molokai,' he said many times. 'I must somehow manage to see +Molokai.' + +In January 1889, we arrived in Honolulu, settling in a pleasant cottage +by the sea to rest until we were ready to return to England. The _Casco_ +we sent back to San Francisco with the captain. But the knowledge that +every few days some vessel was leaving Honolulu to cruise among islands +we had not seen, and now should never see, was more than we could bear. +First we engaged passage on a missionary ship, but changed our minds--my +husband would not be allowed to smoke on board, for one reason--and +chartered the trading schooner _Equator_. This was thought too rough a +voyage for my mother-in-law, as indeed it would have been; so she was +sent, somewhat protesting, back to Scotland. + +My husband was still intent on seeing Molokai. After the waste of much +time and red tape, he finally received an official permission to visit +the leper settlement. It did not occur to him it would be necessary to +get a separate official permission to _leave_ Molokai; hence he was +nearly left behind when the vessel sailed out. He only saved himself by +a prodigious leap which landed him on board the boat, whence nothing but +force could dislodge him. By the doctor's orders he took gloves to wear +as a precautionary measure against contagion, but they were never worn. +At first he avoided shaking hands, but when he played croquet with the +young leper girls he would not listen to the Mother Superior's warning +that he must wear gloves. He thought it might remind them of their +condition. 'What will you do if you find you have contracted leprosy?' I +asked. 'Do?' he replied; 'why, you and I would spend the rest of our +lives in Molokai and become humble followers of Father Damien.' As Mr. +Balfour says in the Life of Stevenson, he was as stern with his family as +he was with himself, and as exacting. + +He talked very little to us of the tragedy of Molokai, though I could see +it lay heavy on his spirits; but of the great work begun by Father Damien +and carried on by his successors he spoke fully. He had followed the +life of the priest like a detective until there seemed nothing more to +learn. Mother Mary Ann, the Mother Superior, he could never mention +without deep emotion. One of the first things he did on his return to +Honolulu was to send her a grand piano for the use of her girls--the +girls with whom he had played croquet. He also sent toys, sewing +materials, small tools for the younger children, and other things that I +have forgotten. After his death a letter was found among his papers, of +which I have only the last few lines. 'I cannot suppose you remember me, +but I won't forget you, nor God won't forget you for your kindness to the +blind white leper at Molokai.' + +During my husband's absence I had made every preparation for our voyage +on the _Equator_, so but little time was lost before we found ourselves +on board, our sails set for the south. The _Equator_, which had easily +lived through the great Samoan hurricane, made no such phenomenal runs as +the _Casco_, but we could trust her, and she had no 'tricks and ways' +that we did not understand. We liked the sailors, we loved the ship and +her captain, so it was with heart-felt regret we said farewell in the +harbour of Apia after a long and perfect cruise. + +After reading the letters that awaited us in Apia, we looked over the +newspapers. Our indignation may be imagined when we read in one item +that, owing to the publication of a letter by a well-known Honolulu +missionary, depicting Father Damien as a dirty old peasant who had +contracted leprosy through his immoral habits, the project to erect a +monument to his memory would be abandoned. 'I'll not believe it,' said +my husband, 'unless I see it with my own eyes; for it is too damnable for +belief!' + +But see it he did, in spite of his incredulity, for in Sydney, a month or +two later, the very journal containing the letter condemnatory of Father +Damien was among the first we chanced to open. I shall never forget my +husband's ferocity of indignation, his leaping stride as he paced the +room holding the offending paper at arm's-length before his eyes that +burned and sparkled with a peculiar flashing light. His cousin Mr. +Balfour, in his _Life of Robert Louis Stevenson_, says: 'his eyes . . . +when he was moved to anger or any fierce emotion seemed literally to +blaze and glow with a burning light.' In another moment he disappeared +through the doorway, and I could hear him, in his own room, pulling his +chair to the table, and the sound of his inkstand being dragged towards +him. + +That afternoon he called us together--my son, my daughter, and +myself--saying that he had something serious to lay before us. He went +over the circumstances succinctly, and then we three had the incomparable +experience of hearing its author read aloud the defence of Father Damien +while it was still red-hot from his indignant soul. + +As we sat, dazed and overcome by emotion, he pointed out to us that the +subject-matter was libellous in the highest degree, and the publication +of the article might cause the loss of his entire substance. Without our +concurrence he would not take such a risk. There was no dissenting +voice; how could there be? The paper was published with almost no change +or revision, though afterwards my husband said he considered this a +mistake. He thought he should have waited for his anger to cool, when he +might have been more impersonal and less egotistic. + +The next day he consulted an eminent lawyer, more from curiosity than +from any other reason. Mr. Moses--I think that was his name--was at +first inclined to be jocular. I remember his smiling question: 'Have you +called him a hell-hound or an atheist? Otherwise there is no libel.' +But when he looked over the manuscript his countenance changed. 'This is +a serious affair,' he said; 'however, no one will publish it for you.' +In that Mr. Moses was right; no one dared publish the pamphlet. But that +difficulty was soon overcome. My husband hired a printer by the day, and +the work was rushed through. We then, my daughter, my son, and myself, +were set to work helping address the pamphlets, which were scattered far +and wide. + +Father Damien was vindicated by a stranger, a man of another country and +another religion from his own. + + F. V. DE G. S. + + + + +Contents: + + + Preface by Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson + Lay Morals + Father Damien + The Pentland Rising + I. The Causes of the Revolt + II. The Beginning + III. The March of the Rebels + IV. Rullion Green + V. A Record of Blood + The Day After To-morrow + College Papers + I. Edinburgh Students in 1824 + II. The Modern Student + III. Debating Societies + Criticisms + I. Lord Lytton's "Fables in Song" + II. Salvini's Macbeth + III. Bagster's "Pilgrim's Progress" + Sketches + I. The Satirist + II. Nuits Blanches + III. The Wreath of Immortelles + IV. Nurses + V. A Character + The Great North Road + I. Nance at the "Green Dragon" + II. In which Mr. Archer is Installed + III. Jonathan Holdaway + IV. Mingling Threads + V. Life in the Castle + IV. The Bad Half-Crown + VII. The Bleaching-Green + VIII. The Mail Guard + The Young Chevalier + Prologue: The Wine-Seller's Wife + I. The Prince + Heathercat + I. Traqairs of Montroymont + II. Francie + III. The Hill-End of Drumlowe + + + + +LAY MORALS + + +_The following chapters of a projected treatise on Ethics were drafted at +Edinburgh in the spring of_ 1879. _They are unrevised_, _and must not be +taken as representing_, _either as to matter or form_, _their author's +final thoughts_; _but they contain much that is essentially +characteristic of his mind_. + + * * * * * + + _Copyright in the United States of America_. + + + +CHAPTER I + + +The problem of education is twofold: first to know, and then to utter. +Every one who lives any semblance of an inner life thinks more nobly and +profoundly than he speaks; and the best of teachers can impart only +broken images of the truth which they perceive. Speech which goes from +one to another between two natures, and, what is worse, between two +experiences, is doubly relative. The speaker buries his meaning; it is +for the hearer to dig it up again; and all speech, written or spoken, is +in a dead language until it finds a willing and prepared hearer. Such, +moreover, is the complexity of life, that when we condescend upon details +in our advice, we may be sure we condescend on error; and the best of +education is to throw out some magnanimous hints. No man was ever so +poor that he could express all he has in him by words, looks, or actions; +his true knowledge is eternally incommunicable, for it is a knowledge of +himself; and his best wisdom comes to him by no process of the mind, but +in a supreme self-dictation, which keeps varying from hour to hour in its +dictates with the variation of events and circumstances. + +A few men of picked nature, full of faith, courage, and contempt for +others, try earnestly to set forth as much as they can grasp of this +inner law; but the vast majority, when they come to advise the young, +must be content to retail certain doctrines which have been already +retailed to them in their own youth. Every generation has to educate +another which it has brought upon the stage. People who readily accept +the responsibility of parentship, having very different matters in their +eye, are apt to feel rueful when that responsibility falls due. What are +they to tell the child about life and conduct, subjects on which they +have themselves so few and such confused opinions? Indeed, I do not +know; the least said, perhaps, the soonest mended; and yet the child +keeps asking, and the parent must find some words to say in his own +defence. Where does he find them? and what are they when found? + +As a matter of experience, and in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out +of a thousand, he will instil into his wide-eyed brat three bad things: +the terror of public opinion, and, flowing from that as a fountain, the +desire of wealth and applause. Besides these, or what might be deduced +as corollaries from these, he will teach not much else of any effective +value: some dim notions of divinity, perhaps, and book-keeping, and how +to walk through a quadrille. + +But, you may tell me, the young people are taught to be Christians. It +may be want of penetration, but I have not yet been able to perceive it. +As an honest man, whatever we teach, and be it good or evil, it is not +the doctrine of Christ. What he taught (and in this he is like all other +teachers worthy of the name) was not a code of rules, but a ruling +spirit; not truths, but a spirit of truth; not views, but a view. What +he showed us was an attitude of mind. Towards the many considerations on +which conduct is built, each man stands in a certain relation. He takes +life on a certain principle. He has a compass in his spirit which points +in a certain direction. It is the attitude, the relation, the point of +the compass, that is the whole body and gist of what he has to teach us; +in this, the details are comprehended; out of this the specific precepts +issue, and by this, and this only, can they be explained and applied. +And thus, to learn aright from any teacher, we must first of all, like a +historical artist, think ourselves into sympathy with his position and, +in the technical phrase, create his character. A historian confronted +with some ambiguous politician, or an actor charged with a part, have but +one pre-occupation; they must search all round and upon every side, and +grope for some central conception which is to explain and justify the +most extreme details; until that is found, the politician is an enigma, +or perhaps a quack, and the part a tissue of fustian sentiment and big +words; but once that is found, all enters into a plan, a human nature +appears, the politician or the stage-king is understood from point to +point, from end to end. This is a degree of trouble which will be gladly +taken by a very humble artist; but not even the terror of eternal fire +can teach a business man to bend his imagination to such athletic +efforts. Yet without this, all is vain; until we understand the whole, +we shall understand none of the parts; and otherwise we have no more than +broken images and scattered words; the meaning remains buried; and the +language in which our prophet speaks to us is a dead language in our +ears. + +Take a few of Christ's sayings and compare them with our current +doctrines. + +'Ye cannot,' he says, '_serve God and Mammon_.' Cannot? And our whole +system is to teach us how we can! + +'_The children of this world are wiser in their generation than the +children of light_.' Are they? I had been led to understand the +reverse: that the Christian merchant, for example, prospered exceedingly +in his affairs; that honesty was the best policy; that an author of +repute had written a conclusive treatise 'How to make the best of both +worlds.' Of both worlds indeed! Which am I to believe then--Christ or +the author of repute? + +'_Take no thought for the morrow_.' Ask the Successful Merchant; +interrogate your own heart; and you will have to admit that this is not +only a silly but an immoral position. All we believe, all we hope, all +we honour in ourselves or our contemporaries, stands condemned in this +one sentence, or, if you take the other view, condemns the sentence as +unwise and inhumane. We are not then of the 'same mind that was in +Christ.' We disagree with Christ. Either Christ meant nothing, or else +he or we must be in the wrong. Well says Thoreau, speaking of some texts +from the New Testament, and finding a strange echo of another style which +the reader may recognise: 'Let but one of these sentences be rightly read +from any pulpit in the land, and there would not be left one stone of +that meeting-house upon another.' + +It may be objected that these are what are called 'hard sayings'; and +that a man, or an education, may be very sufficiently Christian although +it leave some of these sayings upon one side. But this is a very gross +delusion. Although truth is difficult to state, it is both easy and +agreeable to receive, and the mind runs out to meet it ere the phrase be +done. The universe, in relation to what any man can say of it, is plain, +patent and staringly comprehensible. In itself, it is a great and +travailing ocean, unsounded, unvoyageable, an eternal mystery to man; or, +let us say, it is a monstrous and impassable mountain, one side of which, +and a few near slopes and foothills, we can dimly study with these mortal +eyes. But what any man can say of it, even in his highest utterance, +must have relation to this little and plain corner, which is no less +visible to us than to him. We are looking on the same map; it will go +hard if we cannot follow the demonstration. The longest and most +abstruse flight of a philosopher becomes clear and shallow, in the flash +of a moment, when we suddenly perceive the aspect and drift of his +intention. The longest argument is but a finger pointed; once we get our +own finger rightly parallel, and we see what the man meant, whether it be +a new star or an old street-lamp. And briefly, if a saying is hard to +understand, it is because we are thinking of something else. + +But to be a true disciple is to think of the same things as our prophet, +and to think of different things in the same order. To be of the same +mind with another is to see all things in the same perspective; it is not +to agree in a few indifferent matters near at hand and not much debated; +it is to follow him in his farthest flights, to see the force of his +hyperboles, to stand so exactly in the centre of his vision that whatever +he may express, your eyes will light at once on the original, that +whatever he may see to declare, your mind will at once accept. You do +not belong to the school of any philosopher, because you agree with him +that theft is, on the whole, objectionable, or that the sun is overhead +at noon. It is by the hard sayings that discipleship is tested. We are +all agreed about the middling and indifferent parts of knowledge and +morality; even the most soaring spirits too often take them tamely upon +trust. But the man, the philosopher or the moralist, does not stand upon +these chance adhesions; and the purpose of any system looks towards those +extreme points where it steps valiantly beyond tradition and returns with +some covert hint of things outside. Then only can you be certain that +the words are not words of course, nor mere echoes of the past; then only +are you sure that if he be indicating anything at all, it is a star and +not a street-lamp; then only do you touch the heart of the mystery, since +it was for these that the author wrote his book. + +Now, every now and then, and indeed surprisingly often, Christ finds a +word that transcends all common-place morality; every now and then he +quits the beaten track to pioneer the unexpressed, and throws out a +pregnant and magnanimous hyperbole; for it is only by some bold poetry of +thought that men can be strung up above the level of everyday conceptions +to take a broader look upon experience or accept some higher principle of +conduct. To a man who is of the same mind that was in Christ, who stands +at some centre not too far from his, and looks at the world and conduct +from some not dissimilar or, at least, not opposing attitude--or, +shortly, to a man who is of Christ's philosophy--every such saying should +come home with a thrill of joy and corroboration; he should feel each one +below his feet as another sure foundation in the flux of time and chance; +each should be another proof that in the torrent of the years and +generations, where doctrines and great armaments and empires are swept +away and swallowed, he stands immovable, holding by the eternal stars. +But alas! at this juncture of the ages it is not so with us; on each and +every such occasion our whole fellowship of Christians falls back in +disapproving wonder and implicitly denies the saying. Christians! the +farce is impudently broad. Let us stand up in the sight of heaven and +confess. The ethics that we hold are those of Benjamin Franklin. +_Honesty is the best policy_, is perhaps a hard saying; it is certainly +one by which a wise man of these days will not too curiously direct his +steps; but I think it shows a glimmer of meaning to even our most dimmed +intelligences; I think we perceive a principle behind it; I think, +without hyperbole, we are of the same mind that was in Benjamin Franklin. + + + +CHAPTER II + + +But, I may be told, we teach the ten commandments, where a world of +morals lies condensed, the very pith and epitome of all ethics and +religion; and a young man with these precepts engraved upon his mind must +follow after profit with some conscience and Christianity of method. A +man cannot go very far astray who neither dishonours his parents, nor +kills, nor commits adultery, nor steals, nor bears false witness; for +these things, rightly thought out, cover a vast field of duty. + +Alas! what is a precept? It is at best an illustration; it is case law +at the best which can be learned by precept. The letter is not only +dead, but killing; the spirit which underlies, and cannot be uttered, +alone is true and helpful. This is trite to sickness; but familiarity +has a cunning disenchantment; in a day or two she can steal all beauty +from the mountain tops; and the most startling words begin to fall dead +upon the ear after several repetitions. If you see a thing too often, +you no longer see it; if you hear a thing too often, you no longer hear +it. Our attention requires to be surprised; and to carry a fort by +assault, or to gain a thoughtful hearing from the ruck of mankind, are +feats of about an equal difficulty and must be tried by not dissimilar +means. The whole Bible has thus lost its message for the common run of +hearers; it has become mere words of course; and the parson may bawl +himself scarlet and beat the pulpit like a thing possessed, but his +hearers will continue to nod; they are strangely at peace, they know all +he has to say; ring the old bell as you choose, it is still the old bell +and it cannot startle their composure. And so with this byword about the +letter and the spirit. It is quite true, no doubt; but it has no meaning +in the world to any man of us. Alas! it has just this meaning, and +neither more nor less: that while the spirit is true, the letter is +eternally false. + +The shadow of a great oak lies abroad upon the ground at noon, perfect, +clear, and stable like the earth. But let a man set himself to mark out +the boundary with cords and pegs, and were he never so nimble and never +so exact, what with the multiplicity of the leaves and the progression of +the shadow as it flees before the travelling sun, long ere he has made +the circuit the whole figure will have changed. Life may be compared, +not to a single tree, but to a great and complicated forest; circumstance +is more swiftly changing than a shadow, language much more inexact than +the tools of a surveyor; from day to day the trees fall and are renewed; +the very essences are fleeting as we look; and the whole world of leaves +is swinging tempest-tossed among the winds of time. Look now for your +shadows. O man of formulae, is this a place for you? Have you fitted +the spirit to a single case? Alas, in the cycle of the ages when shall +such another be proposed for the judgment of man? Now when the sun +shines and the winds blow, the wood is filled with an innumerable +multitude of shadows, tumultuously tossed and changing; and at every gust +the whole carpet leaps and becomes new. Can you or your heart say more? + +Look back now, for a moment, on your own brief experience of life; and +although you lived it feelingly in your own person, and had every step of +conduct burned in by pains and joys upon your memory, tell me what +definite lesson does experience hand on from youth to manhood, or from +both to age? The settled tenor which first strikes the eye is but the +shadow of a delusion. This is gone; that never truly was; and you +yourself are altered beyond recognition. Times and men and circumstances +change about your changing character, with a speed of which no earthly +hurricane affords an image. What was the best yesterday, is it still the +best in this changed theatre of a to-morrow? Will your own Past truly +guide you in your own violent and unexpected Future? And if this be +questionable, with what humble, with what hopeless eyes, should we not +watch other men driving beside us on their unknown careers, seeing with +unlike eyes, impelled by different gales, doing and suffering in another +sphere of things? + +And as the authentic clue to such a labyrinth and change of scene, do you +offer me these two score words? these five bald prohibitions? For the +moral precepts are no more than five; the first four deal rather with +matters of observance than of conduct; the tenth, _Thou shalt not covet_, +stands upon another basis, and shall be spoken of ere long. The Jews, to +whom they were first given, in the course of years began to find these +precepts insufficient; and made an addition of no less than six hundred +and fifty others! They hoped to make a pocket-book of reference on +morals, which should stand to life in some such relation, say, as Hoyle +stands in to the scientific game of whist. The comparison is just, and +condemns the design; for those who play by rule will never be more than +tolerable players; and you and I would like to play our game in life to +the noblest and the most divine advantage. Yet if the Jews took a petty +and huckstering view of conduct, what view do we take ourselves, who +callously leave youth to go forth into the enchanted forest, full of +spells and dire chimeras, with no guidance more complete than is afforded +by these five precepts? + +_Honour thy father and thy mother_. Yes, but does that mean to obey? and +if so, how long and how far? _Thou shall not kill_. Yet the very +intention and purport of the prohibition may be best fulfilled by +killing. _Thou shall not commit adultery_. But some of the ugliest +adulteries are committed in the bed of marriage and under the sanction of +religion and law. _Thou shalt not bear false witness_. How? by speech +or by silence also? or even by a smile? _Thou shalt not steal_. Ah, +that indeed! But what is _to steal_? + +To steal? It is another word to be construed; and who is to be our +guide? The police will give us one construction, leaving the word only +that least minimum of meaning without which society would fall in pieces; +but surely we must take some higher sense than this; surely we hope more +than a bare subsistence for mankind; surely we wish mankind to prosper +and go on from strength to strength, and ourselves to live rightly in the +eye of some more exacting potentate than a policeman. The approval or +the disapproval of the police must be eternally indifferent to a man who +is both valorous and good. There is extreme discomfort, but no shame, in +the condemnation of the law. The law represents that modicum of morality +which can be squeezed out of the ruck of mankind; but what is that to me, +who aim higher and seek to be my own more stringent judge? I observe +with pleasure that no brave man has ever given a rush for such +considerations. The Japanese have a nobler and more sentimental feeling +for this social bond into which we all are born when we come into the +world, and whose comforts and protection we all indifferently share +throughout our lives:--but even to them, no more than to our Western +saints and heroes, does the law of the state supersede the higher law of +duty. Without hesitation and without remorse, they transgress the +stiffest enactments rather than abstain from doing right. But the +accidental superior duty being thus fulfilled, they at once return in +allegiance to the common duty of all citizens; and hasten to denounce +themselves; and value at an equal rate their just crime and their equally +just submission to its punishment. + +The evading of the police will not long satisfy an active conscience or a +thoughtful head. But to show you how one or the other may trouble a man, +and what a vast extent of frontier is left unridden by this invaluable +eighth commandment, let me tell you a few pages out of a young man's +life. + +He was a friend of mine; a young man like others; generous, flighty, as +variable as youth itself, but always with some high motions and on the +search for higher thoughts of life. I should tell you at once that he +thoroughly agrees with the eighth commandment. But he got hold of some +unsettling works, the New Testament among others, and this loosened his +views of life and led him into many perplexities. As he was the son of a +man in a certain position, and well off, my friend had enjoyed from the +first the advantages of education, nay, he had been kept alive through a +sickly childhood by constant watchfulness, comforts, and change of air; +for all of which he was indebted to his father's wealth. + +At college he met other lads more diligent than himself, who followed the +plough in summer-time to pay their college fees in winter; and this +inequality struck him with some force. He was at that age of a +conversible temper, and insatiably curious in the aspects of life; and he +spent much of his time scraping acquaintance with all classes of man- and +woman-kind. In this way he came upon many depressed ambitions, and many +intelligences stunted for want of opportunity; and this also struck him. +He began to perceive that life was a handicap upon strange, wrong-sided +principles; and not, as he had been told, a fair and equal race. He +began to tremble that he himself had been unjustly favoured, when he saw +all the avenues of wealth, and power, and comfort closed against so many +of his superiors and equals, and held unwearyingly open before so idle, +so desultory, and so dissolute a being as himself. There sat a youth +beside him on the college benches, who had only one shirt to his back, +and, at intervals sufficiently far apart, must stay at home to have it +washed. It was my friend's principle to stay away as often as he dared; +for I fear he was no friend to learning. But there was something that +came home to him sharply, in this fellow who had to give over study till +his shirt was washed, and the scores of others who had never an +opportunity at all. _If one of these could take his place_, he thought; +and the thought tore away a bandage from his eyes. He was eaten by the +shame of his discoveries, and despised himself as an unworthy favourite +and a creature of the back-stairs of Fortune. He could no longer see +without confusion one of these brave young fellows battling up-hill +against adversity. Had he not filched that fellow's birthright? At best +was he not coldly profiting by the injustice of society, and greedily +devouring stolen goods? The money, indeed, belonged to his father, who +had worked, and thought, and given up his liberty to earn it; but by what +justice could the money belong to my friend, who had, as yet, done +nothing but help to squander it? A more sturdy honesty, joined to a more +even and impartial temperament, would have drawn from these +considerations a new force of industry, that this equivocal position +might be brought as swiftly as possible to an end, and some good services +to mankind justify the appropriation of expense. It was not so with my +friend, who was only unsettled and discouraged, and filled full of that +trumpeting anger with which young men regard injustices in the first +blush of youth; although in a few years they will tamely acquiesce in +their existence, and knowingly profit by their complications. Yet all +this while he suffered many indignant pangs. And once, when he put on +his boots, like any other unripe donkey, to run away from home, it was +his best consolation that he was now, at a single plunge, to free himself +from the responsibility of this wealth that was not his, and do battle +equally against his fellows in the warfare of life. + +Some time after this, falling into ill-health, he was sent at great +expense to a more favourable climate; and then I think his perplexities +were thickest. When he thought of all the other young men of singular +promise, upright, good, the prop of families, who must remain at home to +die, and with all their possibilities be lost to life and mankind; and +how he, by one more unmerited favour, was chosen out from all these +others to survive; he felt as if there were no life, no labour, no +devotion of soul and body, that could repay and justify these +partialities. A religious lady, to whom he communicated these +reflections, could see no force in them whatever. 'It was God's will,' +said she. But he knew it was by God's will that Joan of Arc was burnt at +Rouen, which cleared neither Bedford nor Bishop Cauchon; and again, by +God's will that Christ was crucified outside Jerusalem, which excused +neither the rancour of the priests nor the timidity of Pilate. He knew, +moreover, that although the possibility of this favour he was now +enjoying issued from his circumstances, its acceptance was the act of his +own will; and he had accepted it greedily, longing for rest and sunshine. +And hence this allegation of God's providence did little to relieve his +scruples. I promise you he had a very troubled mind. And I would not +laugh if I were you, though while he was thus making mountains out of +what you think molehills, he were still (as perhaps he was) contentedly +practising many other things that to you seem black as hell. Every man +is his own judge and mountain-guide through life. There is an old story +of a mote and a beam, apparently not true, but worthy perhaps of some +consideration. I should, if I were you, give some consideration to these +scruples of his, and if I were he, I should do the like by yours; for it +is not unlikely that there may be something under both. In the meantime +you must hear how my friend acted. Like many invalids, he supposed that +he would die. Now, should he die, he saw no means of repaying this huge +loan which, by the hands of his father, mankind had advanced him for his +sickness. In that case it would be lost money. So he determined that +the advance should be as small as possible; and, so long as he continued +to doubt his recovery, lived in an upper room, and grudged himself all +but necessaries. But so soon as he began to perceive a change for the +better, he felt justified in spending more freely, to speed and brighten +his return to health, and trusted in the future to lend a help to +mankind, as mankind, out of its treasury, had lent a help to him. + +I do not say but that my friend was a little too curious and partial in +his view; nor thought too much of himself and too little of his parents; +but I do say that here are some scruples which tormented my friend in his +youth, and still, perhaps, at odd times give him a prick in the midst of +his enjoyments, and which after all have some foundation in justice, and +point, in their confused way, to some more honourable honesty within the +reach of man. And at least, is not this an unusual gloss upon the eighth +commandment? And what sort of comfort, guidance, or illumination did +that precept afford my friend throughout these contentions? 'Thou shalt +not steal.' With all my heart! But _am_ I stealing? + +The truly quaint materialism of our view of life disables us from +pursuing any transaction to an end. You can make no one understand that +his bargain is anything more than a bargain, whereas in point of fact it +is a link in the policy of mankind, and either a good or an evil to the +world. We have a sort of blindness which prevents us from seeing +anything but sovereigns. If one man agrees to give another so many +shillings for so many hours' work, and then wilfully gives him a certain +proportion of the price in bad money and only the remainder in good, we +can see with half an eye that this man is a thief. But if the other +spends a certain proportion of the hours in smoking a pipe of tobacco, +and a certain other proportion in looking at the sky, or the clock, or +trying to recall an air, or in meditation on his own past adventures, and +only the remainder in downright work such as he is paid to do, is he, +because the theft is one of time and not of money,--is he any the less a +thief? The one gave a bad shilling, the other an imperfect hour; but +both broke the bargain, and each is a thief. In piecework, which is what +most of us do, the case is none the less plain for being even less +material. If you forge a bad knife, you have wasted some of mankind's +iron, and then, with unrivalled cynicism, you pocket some of mankind's +money for your trouble. Is there any man so blind who cannot see that +this is theft? Again, if you carelessly cultivate a farm, you have been +playing fast and loose with mankind's resources against hunger; there +will be less bread in consequence, and for lack of that bread somebody +will die next winter: a grim consideration. And you must not hope to +shuffle out of blame because you got less money for your less quantity of +bread; for although a theft be partly punished, it is none the less a +theft for that. You took the farm against competitors; there were others +ready to shoulder the responsibility and be answerable for the tale of +loaves; but it was you who took it. By the act you came under a tacit +bargain with mankind to cultivate that farm with your best endeavour; you +were under no superintendence, you were on parole; and you have broke +your bargain, and to all who look closely, and yourself among the rest if +you have moral eyesight, you are a thief. Or take the case of men of +letters. Every piece of work which is not as good as you can make it, +which you have palmed off imperfect, meagrely thought, niggardly in +execution, upon mankind who is your paymaster on parole and in a sense +your pupil, every hasty or slovenly or untrue performance, should rise up +against you in the court of your own heart and condemn you for a thief. +Have you a salary? If you trifle with your health, and so render +yourself less capable for duty, and still touch, and still greedily +pocket the emolument--what are you but a thief? Have you double +accounts? do you by any time-honoured juggle, deceit, or ambiguous +process, gain more from those who deal with you than it you were +bargaining and dealing face to face in front of God?--What are you but a +thief? Lastly, if you fill an office, or produce an article, which, in +your heart of hearts, you think a delusion and a fraud upon mankind, and +still draw your salary and go through the sham manoeuvres of this office, +or still book your profits and keep on flooding the world with these +injurious goods?--though you were old, and bald, and the first at church, +and a baronet, what are you but a thief? These may seem hard words and +mere curiosities of the intellect, in an age when the spirit of honesty +is so sparingly cultivated that all business is conducted upon lies and +so-called customs of the trade, that not a man bestows two thoughts on +the utility or honourableness of his pursuit. I would say less if I +thought less. But looking to my own reason and the right of things, I +can only avow that I am a thief myself, and that I passionately suspect +my neighbours of the same guilt. + +Where did you hear that it was easy to be honest? Do you find that in +your Bible? Easy! It is easy to be an ass and follow the multitude like +a blind, besotted bull in a stampede; and that, I am well aware, is what +you and Mrs. Grundy mean by being honest. But it will not bear the +stress of time nor the scrutiny of conscience. Even before the lowest of +all tribunals,--before a court of law, whose business it is, not to keep +men right, or within a thousand miles of right, but to withhold them from +going so tragically wrong that they will pull down the whole jointed +fabric of society by their misdeeds--even before a court of law, as we +begin to see in these last days, our easy view of following at each +other's tails, alike to good and evil, is beginning to be reproved and +punished, and declared no honesty at all, but open theft and swindling; +and simpletons who have gone on through life with a quiet conscience may +learn suddenly, from the lips of a judge, that the custom of the trade +may be a custom of the devil. You thought it was easy to be honest. Did +you think it was easy to be just and kind and truthful? Did you think +the whole duty of aspiring man was as simple as a horn-pipe? and you +could walk through life like a gentleman and a hero, with no more concern +than it takes to go to church or to address a circular? And yet all this +time you had the eighth commandment! and, what makes it richer, you would +not have broken it for the world! + +The truth is, that these commandments by themselves are of little use in +private judgment. If compression is what you want, you have their whole +spirit compressed into the golden rule; and yet there expressed with more +significance, since the law is there spiritually and not materially +stated. And in truth, four out of these ten commands, from the sixth to +the ninth, are rather legal than ethical. The police-court is their +proper home. A magistrate cannot tell whether you love your neighbour as +yourself, but he can tell more or less whether you have murdered, or +stolen, or committed adultery, or held up your hand and testified to that +which was not; and these things, for rough practical tests, are as good +as can be found. And perhaps, therefore, the best condensation of the +Jewish moral law is in the maxims of the priests, 'neminem laedere' and +'suum cuique tribuere.' But all this granted, it becomes only the more +plain that they are inadequate in the sphere of personal morality; that +while they tell the magistrate roughly when to punish, they can never +direct an anxious sinner what to do. + +Only Polonius, or the like solemn sort of ass, can offer us a succinct +proverb by way of advice, and not burst out blushing in our faces. We +grant them one and all and for all that they are worth; it is something +above and beyond that we desire. Christ was in general a great enemy to +such a way of teaching; we rarely find him meddling with any of these +plump commands but it was to open them out, and lift his hearers from the +letter to the spirit. For morals are a personal affair; in the war of +righteousness every man fights for his own hand; all the six hundred +precepts of the Mishna cannot shake my private judgment; my magistracy of +myself is an indefeasible charge, and my decisions absolute for the time +and case. The moralist is not a judge of appeal, but an advocate who +pleads at my tribunal. He has to show not the law, but that the law +applies. Can he convince me? then he gains the cause. And thus you find +Christ giving various counsels to varying people, and often jealously +careful to avoid definite precept. Is he asked, for example, to divide a +heritage? He refuses: and the best advice that he will offer is but a +paraphrase of that tenth commandment which figures so strangely among the +rest. _Take heed, and beware of covetousness_. If you complain that +this is vague, I have failed to carry you along with me in my argument. +For no definite precept can be more than an illustration, though its +truth were resplendent like the sun, and it was announced from heaven by +the voice of God. And life is so intricate and changing, that perhaps +not twenty times, or perhaps not twice in the ages, shall we find that +nice consent of circumstances to which alone it can apply. + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Although the world and life have in a sense become commonplace to our +experience, it is but in an external torpor; the true sentiment slumbers +within us; and we have but to reflect on ourselves or our surroundings to +rekindle our astonishment. No length of habit can blunt our first +surprise. Of the world I have but little to say in this connection; a +few strokes shall suffice. We inhabit a dead ember swimming wide in the +blank of space, dizzily spinning as it swims, and lighted up from several +million miles away by a more horrible hell-fire than was ever conceived +by the theological imagination. Yet the dead ember is a green, +commodious dwelling-place; and the reverberation of this hell-fire ripens +flower and fruit and mildly warms us on summer eves upon the lawn. Far +off on all hands other dead embers, other flaming suns, wheel and race in +the apparent void; the nearest is out of call, the farthest so far that +the heart sickens in the effort to conceive the distance. Shipwrecked +seamen on the deep, though they bestride but the truncheon of a boom, are +safe and near at home compared with mankind on its bullet. Even to us +who have known no other, it seems a strange, if not an appalling, place +of residence. + +But far stranger is the resident, man, a creature compact of wonders +that, after centuries of custom, is still wonderful to himself. He +inhabits a body which he is continually outliving, discarding and +renewing. Food and sleep, by an unknown alchemy, restore his spirits and +the freshness of his countenance. Hair grows on him like grass; his +eyes, his brain, his sinews, thirst for action; he joys to see and touch +and hear, to partake the sun and wind, to sit down and intently ponder on +his astonishing attributes and situation, to rise up and run, to perform +the strange and revolting round of physical functions. The sight of a +flower, the note of a bird, will often move him deeply; yet he looks +unconcerned on the impassable distances and portentous bonfires of the +universe. He comprehends, he designs, he tames nature, rides the sea, +ploughs, climbs the air in a balloon, makes vast inquiries, begins +interminable labours, joins himself into federations and populous cities, +spends his days to deliver the ends of the earth or to benefit unborn +posterity; and yet knows himself for a piece of unsurpassed fragility and +the creature of a few days. His sight, which conducts him, which takes +notice of the farthest stars, which is miraculous in every way and a +thing defying explanation or belief, is yet lodged in a piece of jelly, +and can be extinguished with a touch. His heart, which all through life +so indomitably, so athletically labours, is but a capsule, and may be +stopped with a pin. His whole body, for all its savage energies, its +leaping and its winged desires, may yet be tamed and conquered by a +draught of air or a sprinkling of cold dew. What he calls death, which +is the seeming arrest of everything, and the ruin and hateful +transformation of the visible body, lies in wait for him outwardly in a +thousand accidents, and grows up in secret diseases from within. He is +still learning to be a man when his faculties are already beginning to +decline; he has not yet understood himself or his position before he +inevitably dies. And yet this mad, chimerical creature can take no +thought of his last end, lives as though he were eternal, plunges with +his vulnerable body into the shock of war, and daily affronts death with +unconcern. He cannot take a step without pain or pleasure. His life is +a tissue of sensations, which he distinguishes as they seem to come more +directly from himself or his surroundings. He is conscious of himself as +a joyer or a sufferer, as that which craves, chooses, and is satisfied; +conscious of his surroundings as it were of an inexhaustible purveyor, +the source of aspects, inspirations, wonders, cruel knocks and +transporting caresses. Thus he goes on his way, stumbling among delights +and agonies. + +Matter is a far-fetched theory, and materialism is without a root in man. +To him everything is important in the degree to which it moves him. The +telegraph wires and posts, the electricity speeding from clerk to clerk, +the clerks, the glad or sorrowful import of the message, and the paper on +which it is finally brought to him at home, are all equally facts, all +equally exist for man. A word or a thought can wound him as acutely as a +knife of steel. If he thinks he is loved, he will rise up and glory to +himself, although he be in a distant land and short of necessary bread. +Does he think he is not loved?--he may have the woman at his beck, and +there is not a joy for him in all the world. Indeed, if we are to make +any account of this figment of reason, the distinction between material +and immaterial, we shall conclude that the life of each man as an +individual is immaterial, although the continuation and prospects of +mankind as a race turn upon material conditions. The physical business +of each man's body is transacted for him; like a sybarite, he has +attentive valets in his own viscera; he breathes, he sweats, he digests +without an effort, or so much as a consenting volition; for the most part +he even eats, not with a wakeful consciousness, but as it were between +two thoughts. His life is centred among other and more important +considerations; touch him in his honour or his love, creatures of the +imagination which attach him to mankind or to an individual man or woman; +cross him in his piety which connects his soul with heaven; and he turns +from his food, he loathes his breath, and with a magnanimous emotion cuts +the knots of his existence and frees himself at a blow from the web of +pains and pleasures. + +It follows that man is twofold at least; that he is not a rounded and +autonomous empire; but that in the same body with him there dwell other +powers tributary but independent. If I now behold one walking in a +garden, curiously coloured and illuminated by the sun, digesting his food +with elaborate chemistry, breathing, circulating blood, directing himself +by the sight of his eyes, accommodating his body by a thousand delicate +balancings to the wind and the uneven surface of the path, and all the +time, perhaps, with his mind engaged about America, or the dog-star, or +the attributes of God--what am I to say, or how am I to describe the +thing I see? Is that truly a man, in the rigorous meaning of the word? +or is it not a man and something else? What, then, are we to count the +centre-bit and axle of a being so variously compounded? It is a question +much debated. Some read his history in a certain intricacy of nerve and +the success of successive digestions; others find him an exiled piece of +heaven blown upon and determined by the breath of God; and both schools +of theorists will scream like scalded children at a word of doubt. Yet +either of these views, however plausible, is beside the question; either +may be right; and I care not; I ask a more particular answer, and to a +more immediate point. What is the man? There is Something that was +before hunger and that remains behind after a meal. It may or may not be +engaged in any given act or passion, but when it is, it changes, +heightens, and sanctifies. Thus it is not engaged in lust, where +satisfaction ends the chapter; and it is engaged in love, where no +satisfaction can blunt the edge of the desire, and where age, sickness, +or alienation may deface what was desirable without diminishing the +sentiment. This something, which is the man, is a permanence which +abides through the vicissitudes of passion, now overwhelmed and now +triumphant, now unconscious of itself in the immediate distress of +appetite or pain, now rising unclouded above all. So, to the man, his +own central self fades and grows clear again amid the tumult of the +senses, like a revolving Pharos in the night. It is forgotten; it is +hid, it seems, for ever; and yet in the next calm hour he shall behold +himself once more, shining and unmoved among changes and storm. + +Mankind, in the sense of the creeping mass that is born and eats, that +generates and dies, is but the aggregate of the outer and lower sides of +man. This inner consciousness, this lantern alternately obscured and +shining, to and by which the individual exists and must order his +conduct, is something special to himself and not common to the race. His +joys delight, his sorrows wound him, according as _this_ is interested or +indifferent in the affair; according as they arise in an imperial war or +in a broil conducted by the tributary chieftains of the mind. He may +lose all, and _this_ not suffer; he may lose what is materially a trifle, +and _this_ leap in his bosom with a cruel pang. I do not speak of it to +hardened theorists: the living man knows keenly what it is I mean. + +'Perceive at last that thou hast in thee something better and more divine +than the things which cause the various effects, and, as it were, pull +thee by the strings. What is that now in thy mind? is it fear, or +suspicion, or desire, or anything of that kind?' Thus far Marcus +Aurelius, in one of the most notable passages in any book. Here is a +question worthy to be answered. What is in thy mind? What is the +utterance of your inmost self when, in a quiet hour, it can be heard +intelligibly? It is something beyond the compass of your thinking, +inasmuch as it is yourself; but is it not of a higher spirit than you had +dreamed betweenwhiles, and erect above all base considerations? This +soul seems hardly touched with our infirmities; we can find in it +certainly no fear, suspicion, or desire; we are only conscious--and that +as though we read it in the eyes of some one else--of a great and +unqualified readiness. A readiness to what? to pass over and look beyond +the objects of desire and fear, for something else. And this something +else? this something which is apart from desire and fear, to which all +the kingdoms of the world and the immediate death of the body are alike +indifferent and beside the point, and which yet regards conduct--by what +name are we to call it? It may be the love of God; or it may be an +inherited (and certainly well concealed) instinct to preserve self and +propagate the race; I am not, for the moment, averse to either theory; +but it will save time to call it righteousness. By so doing I intend no +subterfuge to beg a question; I am indeed ready, and more than willing, +to accept the rigid consequence, and lay aside, as far as the treachery +of the reason will permit, all former meanings attached to the word +righteousness. What is right is that for which a man's central self is +ever ready to sacrifice immediate or distant interests; what is wrong is +what the central self discards or rejects as incompatible with the fixed +design of righteousness. + +To make this admission is to lay aside all hope of definition. That +which is right upon this theory is intimately dictated to each man by +himself, but can never be rigorously set forth in language, and never, +above all, imposed upon another. The conscience has, then, a vision like +that of the eyes, which is incommunicable, and for the most part +illuminates none but its possessor. When many people perceive the same +or any cognate facts, they agree upon a word as symbol; and hence we have +such words as _tree_, _star_, _love_, _honour_, or _death_; hence also we +have this word _right_, which, like the others, we all understand, most +of us understand differently, and none can express succinctly otherwise. +Yet even on the straitest view, we can make some steps towards +comprehension of our own superior thoughts. For it is an incredible and +most bewildering fact that a man, through life, is on variable terms with +himself; he is aware of tiffs and reconciliations; the intimacy is at +times almost suspended, at times it is renewed again with joy. As we +said before, his inner self or soul appears to him by successive +revelations, and is frequently obscured. It is from a study of these +alternations that we can alone hope to discover, even dimly, what seems +right and what seems wrong to this veiled prophet of ourself. + +All that is in the man in the larger sense, what we call impression as +well as what we call intuition, so far as my argument looks, we must +accept. It is not wrong to desire food, or exercise, or beautiful +surroundings, or the love of sex, or interest which is the food of the +mind. All these are craved; all these should be craved; to none of these +in itself does the soul demur; where there comes an undeniable want, we +recognise a demand of nature. Yet we know that these natural demands may +be superseded; for the demands which are common to mankind make but a +shadowy consideration in comparison to the demands of the individual +soul. Food is almost the first prerequisite; and yet a high character +will go without food to the ruin and death of the body rather than gain +it in a manner which the spirit disavows. Pascal laid aside mathematics; +Origen doctored his body with a knife; every day some one is thus +mortifying his dearest interests and desires, and, in Christ's words, +entering maim into the Kingdom of Heaven. This is to supersede the +lesser and less harmonious affections by renunciation; and though by this +ascetic path we may get to heaven, we cannot get thither a whole and +perfect man. But there is another way, to supersede them by +reconciliation, in which the soul and all the faculties and senses pursue +a common route and share in one desire. Thus, man is tormented by a very +imperious physical desire; it spoils his rest, it is not to be denied; +the doctors will tell you, not I, how it is a physical need, like the +want of food or slumber. In the satisfaction of this desire, as it first +appears, the soul sparingly takes part; nay, it oft unsparingly regrets +and disapproves the satisfaction. But let the man learn to love a woman +as far as he is capable of love; and for this random affection of the +body there is substituted a steady determination, a consent of all his +powers and faculties, which supersedes, adopts, and commands the other. +The desire survives, strengthened, perhaps, but taught obedience and +changed in scope and character. Life is no longer a tale of betrayals +and regrets; for the man now lives as a whole; his consciousness now +moves on uninterrupted like a river; through all the extremes and ups and +downs of passion, he remains approvingly conscious of himself. + +Now to me, this seems a type of that rightness which the soul demands. +It demands that we shall not live alternately with our opposing +tendencies in continual see-saw of passion and disgust, but seek some +path on which the tendencies shall no longer oppose, but serve each other +to a common end. It demands that we shall not pursue broken ends, but +great and comprehensive purposes, in which soul and body may unite like +notes in a harmonious chord. That were indeed a way of peace and +pleasure, that were indeed a heaven upon earth. It does not demand, +however, or, to speak in measure, it does not demand of me, that I should +starve my appetites for no purpose under heaven but as a purpose in +itself; or, in a weak despair, pluck out the eye that I have not yet +learned to guide and enjoy with wisdom. The soul demands unity of +purpose, not the dismemberment of man; it seeks to roll up all his +strength and sweetness, all his passion and wisdom, into one, and make of +him a perfect man exulting in perfection. To conclude ascetically is to +give up, and not to solve, the problem. The ascetic and the creeping +hog, although they are at different poles, have equally failed in life. +The one has sacrificed his crew; the other brings back his seamen in a +cock-boat, and has lost the ship. I believe there are not many +sea-captains who would plume themselves on either result as a success. + +But if it is righteousness thus to fuse together our divisive impulses +and march with one mind through life, there is plainly one thing more +unrighteous than all others, and one declension which is irretrievable +and draws on the rest. And this is to lose consciousness of oneself. In +the best of times, it is but by flashes, when our whole nature is clear, +strong and conscious, and events conspire to leave us free, that we enjoy +communion with our soul. At the worst, we are so fallen and passive that +we may say shortly we have none. An arctic torpor seizes upon men. +Although built of nerves, and set adrift in a stimulating world, they +develop a tendency to go bodily to sleep; consciousness becomes engrossed +among the reflex and mechanical parts of life; and soon loses both the +will and power to look higher considerations in the face. This is ruin; +this is the last failure in life; this is temporal damnation, damnation +on the spot and without the form of judgment. 'What shall it profit a +man if he gain the whole world and _lose himself_?' + +It is to keep a man awake, to keep him alive to his own soul and its +fixed design of righteousness, that the better part of moral and +religious education is directed; not only that of words and doctors, but +the sharp ferule of calamity under which we are all God's scholars till +we die. If, as teachers, we are to say anything to the purpose, we must +say what will remind the pupil of his soul; we must speak that soul's +dialect; we must talk of life and conduct as his soul would have him +think of them. If, from some conformity between us and the pupil, or +perhaps among all men, we do in truth speak in such a dialect and express +such views, beyond question we shall touch in him a spring; beyond +question he will recognise the dialect as one that he himself has spoken +in his better hours; beyond question he will cry, 'I had forgotten, but +now I remember; I too have eyes, and I had forgot to use them! I too +have a soul of my own, arrogantly upright, and to that I will listen and +conform.' In short, say to him anything that he has once thought, or +been upon the point of thinking, or show him any view of life that he has +once clearly seen, or been upon the point of clearly seeing; and you have +done your part and may leave him to complete the education for himself. + +Now, the view taught at the present time seems to me to want greatness; +and the dialect in which alone it can be intelligibly uttered is not the +dialect of my soul. It is a sort of postponement of life; nothing quite +is, but something different is to be; we are to keep our eyes upon the +indirect from the cradle to the grave. We are to regulate our conduct +not by desire, but by a politic eye upon the future; and to value acts as +they will bring us money or good opinion; as they will bring us, in one +word, _profit_. We must be what is called respectable, and offend no one +by our carriage; it will not do to make oneself conspicuous--who knows? +even in virtue? says the Christian parent! And we must be what is called +prudent and make money; not only because it is pleasant to have money, +but because that also is a part of respectability, and we cannot hope to +be received in society without decent possessions. Received in society! +as if that were the kingdom of heaven! There is dear Mr. +So-and-so;--look at him!--so much respected--so much looked up to--quite +the Christian merchant! And we must cut our conduct as strictly as +possible after the pattern of Mr. So-and-so; and lay our whole lives to +make money and be strictly decent. Besides these holy injunctions, which +form by far the greater part of a youth's training in our Christian +homes, there are at least two other doctrines. We are to live just now +as well as we can, but scrape at last into heaven, where we shall be +good. We are to worry through the week in a lay, disreputable way, but, +to make matters square, live a different life on Sunday. + +The train of thought we have been following gives us a key to all these +positions, without stepping aside to justify them on their own ground. +It is because we have been disgusted fifty times with physical squalls, +and fifty times torn between conflicting impulses, that we teach people +this indirect and tactical procedure in life, and to judge by remote +consequences instead of the immediate face of things. The very desire to +act as our own souls would have us, coupled with a pathetic disbelief in +ourselves, moves us to follow the example of others; perhaps, who knows? +they may be on the right track; and the more our patterns are in number, +the better seems the chance; until, if we be acting in concert with a +whole civilised nation, there are surely a majority of chances that we +must be acting right. And again, how true it is that we can never behave +as we wish in this tormented sphere, and can only aspire to different and +more favourable circumstances, in order to stand out and be ourselves +wholly and rightly! And yet once more, if in the hurry and pressure of +affairs and passions you tend to nod and become drowsy, here are +twenty-four hours of Sunday set apart for you to hold counsel with your +soul and look around you on the possibilities of life. + +This is not, of course, all that is to be, or even should be, said for +these doctrines. Only, in the course of this chapter, the reader and I +have agreed upon a few catchwords, and been looking at morals on a +certain system; it was a pity to lose an opportunity of testing the +catchwords, and seeing whether, by this system as well as by others, +current doctrines could show any probable justification. If the +doctrines had come too badly out of the trial, it would have condemned +the system. Our sight of the world is very narrow; the mind but a +pedestrian instrument; there's nothing new under the sun, as Solomon +says, except the man himself; and though that changes the aspect of +everything else, yet he must see the same things as other people, only +from a different side. + +And now, having admitted so much, let us turn to criticism. + +If you teach a man to keep his eyes upon what others think of him, +unthinkingly to lead the life and hold the principles of the majority of +his contemporaries, you must discredit in his eyes the one authoritative +voice of his own soul. He may be a docile citizen; he will never be a +man. It is ours, on the other hand, to disregard this babble and +chattering of other men better and worse than we are, and to walk +straight before us by what light we have. They may be right; but so, +before heaven, are we. They may know; but we know also, and by that +knowledge we must stand or fall. There is such a thing as loyalty to a +man's own better self; and from those who have not that, God help me, how +am I to look for loyalty to others? The most dull, the most imbecile, at +a certain moment turn round, at a certain point will hear no further +argument, but stand unflinching by their own dumb, irrational sense of +right. It is not only by steel or fire, but through contempt and blame, +that the martyr fulfils the calling of his dear soul. Be glad if you are +not tried by such extremities. But although all the world ranged +themselves in one line to tell you 'This is wrong,' be you your own +faithful vassal and the ambassador of God--throw down the glove and +answer 'This is right.' Do you think you are only declaring yourself? +Perhaps in some dim way, like a child who delivers a message not fully +understood, you are opening wider the straits of prejudice and preparing +mankind for some truer and more spiritual grasp of truth; perhaps, as you +stand forth for your own judgment, you are covering a thousand weak ones +with your body; perhaps, by this declaration alone, you have avoided the +guilt of false witness against humanity and the little ones unborn. It +is good, I believe, to be respectable, but much nobler to respect oneself +and utter the voice of God. God, if there be any God, speaks daily in a +new language by the tongues of men; the thoughts and habits of each fresh +generation and each new-coined spirit throw another light upon the +universe and contain another commentary on the printed Bibles; every +scruple, every true dissent, every glimpse of something new, is a letter +of God's alphabet; and though there is a grave responsibility for all who +speak, is there none for those who unrighteously keep silence and +conform? Is not that also to conceal and cloak God's counsel? And how +should we regard the man of science who suppressed all facts that would +not tally with the orthodoxy of the hour? + +Wrong? You are as surely wrong as the sun rose this morning round the +revolving shoulder of the world. Not truth, but truthfulness, is the +good of your endeavour. For when will men receive that first part and +prerequisite of truth, that, by the order of things, by the greatness of +the universe, by the darkness and partiality of man's experience, by the +inviolate secrecy of God, kept close in His most open revelations, every +man is, and to the end of the ages must be, wrong? Wrong to the +universe; wrong to mankind; wrong to God. And yet in another sense, and +that plainer and nearer, every man of men, who wishes truly, must be +right. He is right to himself, and in the measure of his sagacity and +candour. That let him do in all sincerity and zeal, not sparing a +thought for contrary opinions; that, for what it is worth, let him +proclaim. Be not afraid; although he be wrong, so also is the dead, +stuffed Dagon he insults. For the voice of God, whatever it is, is not +that stammering, inept tradition which the people holds. These truths +survive in travesty, swamped in a world of spiritual darkness and +confusion; and what a few comprehend and faithfully hold, the many, in +their dead jargon, repeat, degrade, and misinterpret. + +So far of Respectability; what the Covenanters used to call 'rank +conformity': the deadliest gag and wet blanket that can be laid on men. +And now of Profit. And this doctrine is perhaps the more redoubtable, +because it harms all sorts of men; not only the heroic and self-reliant, +but the obedient, cowlike squadrons. A man, by this doctrine, looks to +consequences at the second, or third, or fiftieth turn. He chooses his +end, and for that, with wily turns and through a great sea of tedium, +steers this mortal bark. There may be political wisdom in such a view; +but I am persuaded there can spring no great moral zeal. To look thus +obliquely upon life is the very recipe for moral slumber. Our intention +and endeavour should be directed, not on some vague end of money or +applause, which shall come to us by a ricochet in a month or a year, or +twenty years, but on the act itself; not on the approval of others, but +on the rightness of that act. At every instant, at every step in life, +the point has to be decided, our soul has to be saved, heaven has to be +gained or lost. At every step our spirits must applaud, at every step we +must set down the foot and sound the trumpet. 'This have I done,' we +must say; 'right or wrong, this have I done, in unfeigned honour of +intention, as to myself and God.' The profit of every act should be +this, that it was right for us to do it. Any other profit than that, if +it involved a kingdom or the woman I love, ought, if I were God's upright +soldier, to leave me untempted. + +It is the mark of what we call a righteous decision, that it is made +directly and for its own sake. The whole man, mind and body, having come +to an agreement, tyrannically dictates conduct. There are two +dispositions eternally opposed: that in which we recognise that one thing +is wrong and another right, and that in which, not seeing any clear +distinction, we fall back on the consideration of consequences. The +truth is, by the scope of our present teaching, nothing is thought very +wrong and nothing very right, except a few actions which have the +disadvantage of being disrespectable when found out; the more serious +part of men inclining to think all things _rather wrong_, the more jovial +to suppose them _right enough for practical purposes_. I will engage my +head, they do not find that view in their own hearts; they have taken it +up in a dark despair; they are but troubled sleepers talking in their +sleep. The soul, or my soul at least, thinks very distinctly upon many +points of right and wrong, and often differs flatly with what is held out +as the thought of corporate humanity in the code of society or the code +of law. Am I to suppose myself a monster? I have only to read books, +the Christian Gospels for example, to think myself a monster no longer; +and instead I think the mass of people are merely speaking in their +sleep. + +It is a commonplace, enshrined, if I mistake not, even in school +copy-books, that honour is to be sought and not fame. I ask no other +admission; we are to seek honour, upright walking with our own conscience +every hour of the day, and not fame, the consequence, the far-off +reverberation of our footsteps. The walk, not the rumour of the walk, is +what concerns righteousness. Better disrespectable honour than +dishonourable fame. Better useless or seemingly hurtful honour, than +dishonour ruling empires and filling the mouths of thousands. For the +man must walk by what he sees, and leave the issue with God who made him +and taught him by the fortune of his life. You would not dishonour +yourself for money; which is at least tangible; would you do it, then, +for a doubtful forecast in politics, or another person's theory in +morals? + +So intricate is the scheme of our affairs, that no man can calculate the +bearing of his own behaviour even on those immediately around him, how +much less upon the world at large or on succeeding generations! To walk +by external prudence and the rule of consequences would require, not a +man, but God. All that we know to guide us in this changing labyrinth is +our soul with its fixed design of righteousness, and a few old precepts +which commend themselves to that. The precepts are vague when we +endeavour to apply them; consequences are more entangled than a wisp of +string, and their confusion is unrestingly in change; we must hold to +what we know and walk by it. We must walk by faith, indeed, and not by +knowledge. + +You do not love another because he is wealthy or wise or eminently +respectable: you love him because you love him; that is love, and any +other only a derision and grimace. It should be the same with all our +actions. If we were to conceive a perfect man, it should be one who was +never torn between conflicting impulses, but who, on the absolute consent +of all his parts and faculties, submitted in every action of his life to +a self-dictation as absolute and unreasoned as that which bids him love +one woman and be true to her till death. But we should not conceive him +as sagacious, ascetical, playing off his appetites against each other, +turning the wing of public respectable immorality instead of riding it +directly down, or advancing toward his end through a thousand sinister +compromises and considerations. The one man might be wily, might be +adroit, might be wise, might be respectable, might be gloriously useful; +it is the other man who would be good. + +The soul asks honour and not fame; to be upright, not to be successful; +to be good, not prosperous; to be essentially, not outwardly, +respectable. Does your soul ask profit? Does it ask money? Does it ask +the approval of the indifferent herd? I believe not. For my own part, I +want but little money, I hope; and I do not want to be decent at all, but +to be good. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +We have spoken of that supreme self-dictation which keeps varying from +hour to hour in its dictates with the variation of events and +circumstances. Now, for us, that is ultimate. It may be founded on some +reasonable process, but it is not a process which we can follow or +comprehend. And moreover the dictation is not continuous, or not +continuous except in very lively and well-living natures; and +between-whiles we must brush along without it. Practice is a more +intricate and desperate business than the toughest theorising; life is an +affair of cavalry, where rapid judgment and prompt action are alone +possible and right. As a matter of fact, there is no one so upright but +he is influenced by the world's chatter; and no one so headlong but he +requires to consider consequences and to keep an eye on profit. For the +soul adopts all affections and appetites without exception, and cares +only to combine them for some common purpose which shall interest all. +Now, respect for the opinion of others, the study of consequences, and +the desire of power and comfort, are all undeniably factors in the nature +of man; and the more undeniably since we find that, in our current +doctrines, they have swallowed up the others and are thought to conclude +in themselves all the worthy parts of man. These, then, must also be +suffered to affect conduct in the practical domain, much or little +according as they are forcibly or feebly present to the mind of each. + +Now, a man's view of the universe is mostly a view of the civilised +society in which he lives. Other men and women are so much more grossly +and so much more intimately palpable to his perceptions, that they stand +between him and all the rest; they are larger to his eye than the sun, he +hears them more plainly than thunder, with them, by them, and for them, +he must live and die. And hence the laws that affect his intercourse +with his fellow-men, although merely customary and the creatures of a +generation, are more clearly and continually before his mind than those +which bind him into the eternal system of things, support him in his +upright progress on this whirling ball, or keep up the fire of his bodily +life. And hence it is that money stands in the first rank of +considerations and so powerfully affects the choice. For our society is +built with money for mortar; money is present in every joint of +circumstance; it might be named the social atmosphere, since, in society, +it is by that alone that men continue to live, and only through that or +chance that they can reach or affect one another. Money gives us food, +shelter, and privacy; it permits us to be clean in person, opens for us +the doors of the theatre, gains us books for study or pleasure, enables +us to help the distresses of others, and puts us above necessity so that +we can choose the best in life. If we love, it enables us to meet and +live with the loved one, or even to prolong her health and life; if we +have scruples, it gives us an opportunity to be honest; if we have any +bright designs, here is what will smooth the way to their accomplishment. +Penury is the worst slavery, and will soon lead to death. + +But money is only a means; it presupposes a man to use it. The rich can +go where he pleases, but perhaps please himself nowhere. He can buy a +library or visit the whole world, but perhaps has neither patience to +read nor intelligence to see. The table may be loaded and the appetite +wanting; the purse may be full, and the heart empty. He may have gained +the world and lost himself; and with all his wealth around him, in a +great house and spacious and beautiful demesne, he may live as blank a +life as any tattered ditcher. Without an appetite, without an +aspiration, void of appreciation, bankrupt of desire and hope, there, in +his great house, let him sit and look upon his fingers. It is perhaps a +more fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be +born a millionaire. Although neither is to be despised, it is always +better policy to learn an interest than to make a thousand pounds; for +the money will soon be spent, or perhaps you may feel no joy in spending +it; but the interest remains imperishable and ever new. To become a +botanist, a geologist, a social philosopher, an antiquary, or an artist, +is to enlarge one's possessions in the universe by an incalculably higher +degree, and by a far surer sort of property, than to purchase a farm of +many acres. You had perhaps two thousand a year before the transaction; +perhaps you have two thousand five hundred after it. That represents +your gain in the one case. But in the other, you have thrown down a +barrier which concealed significance and beauty. The blind man has +learned to see. The prisoner has opened up a window in his cell and +beholds enchanting prospects; he will never again be a prisoner as he +was; he can watch clouds and changing seasons, ships on the river, +travellers on the road, and the stars at night; happy prisoner! his eyes +have broken jail! And again he who has learned to love an art or science +has wisely laid up riches against the day of riches; if prosperity come, +he will not enter poor into his inheritance; he will not slumber and +forget himself in the lap of money, or spend his hours in counting idle +treasures, but be up and briskly doing; he will have the true alchemic +touch, which is not that of Midas, but which transmutes dead money into +living delight and satisfaction. _Etre et pas avoir_--to be, not to +possess--that is the problem of life. To be wealthy, a rich nature is +the first requisite and money but the second. To be of a quick and +healthy blood, to share in all honourable curiosities, to be rich in +admiration and free from envy, to rejoice greatly in the good of others, +to love with such generosity of heart that your love is still a dear +possession in absence or unkindness--these are the gifts of fortune which +money cannot buy and without which money can buy nothing. For what can a +man possess, or what can he enjoy, except himself? If he enlarge his +nature, it is then that he enlarges his estates. If his nature be happy +and valiant, he will enjoy the universe as if it were his park and +orchard. + +But money is not only to be spent; it has also to be earned. It is not +merely a convenience or a necessary in social life; but it is the coin in +which mankind pays his wages to the individual man. And from this side, +the question of money has a very different scope and application. For no +man can be honest who does not work. Service for service. If the farmer +buys corn, and the labourer ploughs and reaps, and the baker sweats in +his hot bakery, plainly you who eat must do something in your turn. It +is not enough to take off your hat, or to thank God upon your knees for +the admirable constitution of society and your own convenient situation +in its upper and more ornamental stories. Neither is it enough to buy +the loaf with a sixpence; for then you are only changing the point of the +inquiry; and you must first have _bought the sixpence_. Service for +service: how have you bought your sixpences? A man of spirit desires +certainty in a thing of such a nature; he must see to it that there is +some reciprocity between him and mankind; that he pays his expenditure in +service; that he has not a lion's share in profit and a drone's in +labour; and is not a sleeping partner and mere costly incubus on the +great mercantile concern of mankind. + +Services differ so widely with different gifts, and some are so +inappreciable to external tests, that this is not only a matter for the +private conscience, but one which even there must be leniently and +trustfully considered. For remember how many serve mankind who do no +more than meditate; and how many are precious to their friends for no +more than a sweet and joyous temper. To perform the function of a man of +letters it is not necessary to write; nay, it is perhaps better to be a +living book. So long as we love we serve; so long as we are loved by +others, I would almost say that we are indispensable; and no man is +useless while he has a friend. The true services of life are inestimable +in money, and are never paid. Kind words and caresses, high and wise +thoughts, humane designs, tender behaviour to the weak and suffering, and +all the charities of man's existence, are neither bought nor sold. + +Yet the dearest and readiest, if not the most just, criterion of a man's +services, is the wage that mankind pays him or, briefly, what he earns. +There at least there can be no ambiguity. St. Paul is fully and freely +entitled to his earnings as a tentmaker, and Socrates fully and freely +entitled to his earnings as a sculptor, although the true business of +each was not only something different, but something which remained +unpaid. A man cannot forget that he is not superintended, and serves +mankind on parole. He would like, when challenged by his own conscience, +to reply: 'I have done so much work, and no less, with my own hands and +brain, and taken so much profit, and no more, for my own personal +delight.' And though St. Paul, if he had possessed a private fortune, +would probably have scorned to waste his time in making tents, yet of all +sacrifices to public opinion none can be more easily pardoned than that +by which a man, already spiritually useful to the world, should restrict +the field of his chief usefulness to perform services more apparent, and +possess a livelihood that neither stupidity nor malice could call in +question. Like all sacrifices to public opinion and mere external +decency, this would certainly be wrong; for the soul should rest +contented with its own approval and indissuadably pursue its own calling. +Yet, so grave and delicate is the question, that a man may well hesitate +before he decides it for himself; he may well fear that he sets too high +a valuation on his own endeavours after good; he may well condescend upon +a humbler duty, where others than himself shall judge the service and +proportion the wage. + +And yet it is to this very responsibility that the rich are born. They +can shuffle off the duty on no other; they are their own paymasters on +parole; and must pay themselves fair wages and no more. For I suppose +that in the course of ages, and through reform and civil war and +invasion, mankind was pursuing some other and more general design than to +set one or two Englishmen of the nineteenth century beyond the reach of +needs and duties. Society was scarce put together, and defended with so +much eloquence and blood, for the convenience of two or three +millionaires and a few hundred other persons of wealth and position. It +is plain that if mankind thus acted and suffered during all these +generations, they hoped some benefit, some ease, some wellbeing, for +themselves and their descendants; that if they supported law and order, +it was to secure fair-play for all; that if they denied themselves in the +present, they must have had some designs upon the future. Now, a great +hereditary fortune is a miracle of man's wisdom and mankind's +forbearance; it has not only been amassed and handed down, it has been +suffered to be amassed and handed down; and surely in such a +consideration as this, its possessor should find only a new spur to +activity and honour, that with all this power of service he should not +prove unserviceable, and that this mass of treasure should return in +benefits upon the race. If he had twenty, or thirty, or a hundred +thousand at his banker's, or if all Yorkshire or all California were his +to manage or to sell, he would still be morally penniless, and have the +world to begin like Whittington, until he had found some way of serving +mankind. His wage is physically in his own hand; but, in honour, that +wage must still be earned. He is only steward on parole of what is +called his fortune. He must honourably perform his stewardship. He must +estimate his own services and allow himself a salary in proportion, for +that will be one among his functions. And while he will then be free to +spend that salary, great or little, on his own private pleasures, the +rest of his fortune he but holds and disposes under trust for mankind; it +is not his, because he has not earned it; it cannot be his, because his +services have already been paid; but year by year it is his to +distribute, whether to help individuals whose birthright and outfit have +been swallowed up in his, or to further public works and institutions. + +At this rate, short of inspiration, it seems hardly possible to be both +rich and honest; and the millionaire is under a far more continuous +temptation to thieve than the labourer who gets his shilling daily for +despicable toils. Are you surprised? It is even so. And you repeat it +every Sunday in your churches. 'It is easier for a camel to pass through +the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.' I +have heard this and similar texts ingeniously explained away and brushed +from the path of the aspiring Christian by the tender Great-heart of the +parish. One excellent clergyman told us that the 'eye of a needle' meant +a low, Oriental postern through which camels could not pass till they +were unloaded--which is very likely just; and then went on, bravely +confounding the 'kingdom of God' with heaven, the future paradise, to +show that of course no rich person could expect to carry his riches +beyond the grave--which, of course, he could not and never did. Various +greedy sinners of the congregation drank in the comfortable doctrine with +relief. It was worth the while having come to church that Sunday +morning! All was plain. The Bible, as usual, meant nothing in +particular; it was merely an obscure and figurative school-copybook; and +if a man were only respectable, he was a man after God's own heart. + +Alas! I fear not. And though this matter of a man's services is one for +his own conscience, there are some cases in which it is difficult to +restrain the mind from judging. Thus I shall be very easily persuaded +that a man has earned his daily bread; and if he has but a friend or two +to whom his company is delightful at heart, I am more than persuaded at +once. But it will be very hard to persuade me that any one has earned an +income of a hundred thousand. What he is to his friends, he still would +be if he were made penniless to-morrow; for as to the courtiers of luxury +and power, I will neither consider them friends, nor indeed consider them +at all. What he does for mankind there are most likely hundreds who +would do the same, as effectually for the race and as pleasurably to +themselves, for the merest fraction of this monstrous wage. Why it is +paid, I am, therefore, unable to conceive, and as the man pays it +himself, out of funds in his detention, I have a certain backwardness to +think him honest. + +At least, we have gained a very obvious point: that _what a man spends +upon himself_, _he shall have earned by services to the race_. Thence +flows a principle for the outset of life, which is a little different +from that taught in the present day. I am addressing the middle and the +upper classes; those who have already been fostered and prepared for life +at some expense; those who have some choice before them, and can pick +professions; and above all, those who are what is called independent, and +need do nothing unless pushed by honour or ambition. In this particular +the poor are happy; among them, when a lad comes to his strength, he must +take the work that offers, and can take it with an easy conscience. But +in the richer classes the question is complicated by the number of +opportunities and a variety of considerations. Here, then, this +principle of ours comes in helpfully. The young man has to seek, not a +road to wealth, but an opportunity of service; not money, but honest +work. If he has some strong propensity, some calling of nature, some +over-weening interest in any special field of industry, inquiry, or art, +he will do right to obey the impulse; and that for two reasons: the first +external, because there he will render the best services; the second +personal, because a demand of his own nature is to him without appeal +whenever it can be satisfied with the consent of his other faculties and +appetites. If he has no such elective taste, by the very principle on +which he chooses any pursuit at all he must choose the most honest and +serviceable, and not the most highly remunerated. We have here an +external problem, not from or to ourself, but flowing from the +constitution of society; and we have our own soul with its fixed design +of righteousness. All that can be done is to present the problem in +proper terms, and leave it to the soul of the individual. Now, the +problem to the poor is one of necessity: to earn wherewithal to live, +they must find remunerative labour. But the problem to the rich is one +of honour: having the wherewithal, they must find serviceable labour. +Each has to earn his daily bread: the one, because he has not yet got it +to eat; the other, who has already eaten it, because he has not yet +earned it. + +Of course, what is true of bread is true of luxuries and comforts, +whether for the body or the mind. But the consideration of luxuries +leads us to a new aspect of the whole question, and to a second +proposition no less true, and maybe no less startling, than the last. + +At the present day, we, of the easier classes, are in a state of surfeit +and disgrace after meat. Plethora has filled us with indifference; and +we are covered from head to foot with the callosities of habitual +opulence. Born into what is called a certain rank, we live, as the +saying is, up to our station. We squander without enjoyment, because our +fathers squandered. We eat of the best, not from delicacy, but from +brazen habit. We do not keenly enjoy or eagerly desire the presence of a +luxury; we are unaccustomed to its absence. And not only do we squander +money from habit, but still more pitifully waste it in ostentation. I +can think of no more melancholy disgrace for a creature who professes +either reason or pleasure for his guide, than to spend the smallest +fraction of his income upon that which he does not desire; and to keep a +carriage in which you do not wish to drive, or a butler of whom you are +afraid, is a pathetic kind of folly. Money, being a means of happiness, +should make both parties happy when it changes hands; rightly disposed, +it should be twice blessed in its employment; and buyer and seller should +alike have their twenty shillings worth of profit out of every pound. +Benjamin Franklin went through life an altered man, because he once paid +too dearly for a penny whistle. My concern springs usually from a deeper +source, to wit, from having bought a whistle when I did not want one. I +find I regret this, or would regret it if I gave myself the time, not +only on personal but on moral and philanthropical considerations. For, +first, in a world where money is wanting to buy books for eager students +and food and medicine for pining children, and where a large majority are +starved in their most immediate desires, it is surely base, stupid, and +cruel to squander money when I am pushed by no appetite and enjoy no +return of genuine satisfaction. My philanthropy is wide enough in scope +to include myself; and when I have made myself happy, I have at least one +good argument that I have acted rightly; but where that is not so, and I +have bought and not enjoyed, my mouth is closed, and I conceive that I +have robbed the poor. And, second, anything I buy or use which I do not +sincerely want or cannot vividly enjoy, disturbs the balance of supply +and demand, and contributes to remove industrious hands from the +production of what is useful or pleasurable and to keep them busy upon +ropes of sand and things that are a weariness to the flesh. That +extravagance is truly sinful, and a very silly sin to boot, in which we +impoverish mankind and ourselves. It is another question for each man's +heart. He knows if he can enjoy what he buys and uses; if he cannot, he +is a dog in the manger; nay, it he cannot, I contend he is a thief, for +nothing really belongs to a man which he cannot use. Proprietor is +connected with propriety; and that only is the man's which is proper to +his wants and faculties. + +A youth, in choosing a career, must not be alarmed by poverty. Want is a +sore thing, but poverty does not imply want. It remains to be seen +whether with half his present income, or a third, he cannot, in the most +generous sense, live as fully as at present. He is a fool who objects to +luxuries; but he is also a fool who does not protest against the waste of +luxuries on those who do not desire and cannot enjoy them. It remains to +be seen, by each man who would live a true life to himself and not a +merely specious life to society, how many luxuries he truly wants and to +how many he merely submits as to a social propriety; and all these last +he will immediately forswear. Let him do this, and he will be surprised +to find how little money it requires to keep him in complete contentment +and activity of mind and senses. Life at any level among the easy +classes is conceived upon a principle of rivalry, where each man and each +household must ape the tastes and emulate the display of others. One is +delicate in eating, another in wine, a third in furniture or works of art +or dress; and I, who care nothing for any of these refinements, who am +perhaps a plain athletic creature and love exercise, beef, beer, flannel +shirts and a camp bed, am yet called upon to assimilate all these other +tastes and make these foreign occasions of expenditure my own. It may be +cynical: I am sure I shall be told it is selfish; but I will spend my +money as I please and for my own intimate personal gratification, and +should count myself a nincompoop indeed to lay out the colour of a +halfpenny on any fancied social decency or duty. I shall not wear gloves +unless my hands are cold, or unless I am born with a delight in them. +Dress is my own affair, and that of one other in the world; that, in fact +and for an obvious reason, of any woman who shall chance to be in love +with me. I shall lodge where I have a mind. If I do not ask society to +live with me, they must be silent; and even if I do, they have no further +right but to refuse the invitation! There is a kind of idea abroad that +a man must live up to his station, that his house, his table, and his +toilette, shall be in a ratio of equivalence, and equally imposing to the +world. If this is in the Bible, the passage has eluded my inquiries. If +it is not in the Bible, it is nowhere but in the heart of the fool. +Throw aside this fancy. See what you want, and spend upon that; +distinguish what you do not care about, and spend nothing upon that. +There are not many people who can differentiate wines above a certain and +that not at all a high price. Are you sure you are one of these? Are +you sure you prefer cigars at sixpence each to pipes at some fraction of +a farthing? Are you sure you wish to keep a gig? Do you care about +where you sleep, or are you not as much at your ease in a cheap lodging +as in an Elizabethan manor-house? Do you enjoy fine clothes? It is not +possible to answer these questions without a trial; and there is nothing +more obvious to my mind, than that a man who has not experienced some ups +and downs, and been forced to live more cheaply than in his father's +house, has still his education to begin. Let the experiment be made, and +he will find to his surprise that he has been eating beyond his appetite +up to that hour; that the cheap lodging, the cheap tobacco, the rough +country clothes, the plain table, have not only no power to damp his +spirits, but perhaps give him as keen pleasure in the using as the +dainties that he took, betwixt sleep and waking, in his former callous +and somnambulous submission to wealth. + +The true Bohemian, a creature lost to view under the imaginary Bohemians +of literature, is exactly described by such a principle of life. The +Bohemian of the novel, who drinks more than is good for him and prefers +anything to work, and wears strange clothes, is for the most part a +respectable Bohemian, respectable in disrespectability, living for the +outside, and an adventurer. But the man I mean lives wholly to himself, +does what he wishes, and not what is thought proper, buys what he wants +for himself, and not what is thought proper, works at what he believes he +can do well and not what will bring him in money or favour. You may be +the most respectable of men, and yet a true Bohemian. And the test is +this: a Bohemian, for as poor as he may be, is always open-handed to his +friends; he knows what he can do with money and how he can do without it, +a far rarer and more useful knowledge; he has had less, and continued to +live in some contentment; and hence he cares not to keep more, and shares +his sovereign or his shilling with a friend. The poor, if they are +generous, are Bohemian in virtue of their birth. Do you know where +beggars go? Not to the great houses where people sit dazed among their +thousands, but to the doors of poor men who have seen the world; and it +was the widow who had only two mites, who cast half her fortune into the +treasury. + +But a young man who elects to save on dress or on lodging, or who in any +way falls out of the level of expenditure which is common to his level in +society, falls out of society altogether. I suppose the young man to +have chosen his career on honourable principles; he finds his talents and +instincts can be best contented in a certain pursuit; in a certain +industry, he is sure that he is serving mankind with a healthy and +becoming service; and he is not sure that he would be doing so, or doing +so equally well, in any other industry within his reach. Then that is +his true sphere in life; not the one in which he was born to his father, +but the one which is proper to his talents and instincts. And suppose he +does fall out of society, is that a cause of sorrow? Is your heart so +dead that you prefer the recognition of many to the love of a few? Do +you think society loves you? Put it to the proof. Decline in material +expenditure, and you will find they care no more for you than for the +Khan of Tartary. You will lose no friends. If you had any, you will +keep them. Only those who were friends to your coat and equipage will +disappear; the smiling faces will disappear as by enchantment; but the +kind hearts will remain steadfastly kind. Are you so lost, are you so +dead, are you so little sure of your own soul and your own footing upon +solid fact, that you prefer before goodness and happiness the countenance +of sundry diners-out, who will flee from you at a report of ruin, who +will drop you with insult at a shadow of disgrace, who do not know you +and do not care to know you but by sight, and whom you in your turn +neither know nor care to know in a more human manner? Is it not the +principle of society, openly avowed, that friendship must not interfere +with business; which being paraphrased, means simply that a consideration +of money goes before any consideration of affection known to this +cold-blooded gang, that they have not even the honour of thieves, and +will rook their nearest and dearest as readily as a stranger? I hope I +would go as far as most to serve a friend; but I declare openly I would +not put on my hat to do a pleasure to society. I may starve my appetites +and control my temper for the sake of those I love; but society shall +take me as I choose to be, or go without me. Neither they nor I will +lose; for where there is no love, it is both laborious and unprofitable +to associate. + +But it is obvious that if it is only right for a man to spend money on +that which he can truly and thoroughly enjoy, the doctrine applies with +equal force to the rich and to the poor, to the man who has amassed many +thousands as well as to the youth precariously beginning life. And it +may be asked, Is not this merely preparing misers, who are not the best +of company? But the principle was this: that which a man has not fairly +earned, and, further, that which he cannot fully enjoy, does not belong +to him, but is a part of mankind's treasure which he holds as steward on +parole. To mankind, then, it must be made profitable; and how this +should be done is, once more, a problem which each man must solve for +himself, and about which none has a right to judge him. Yet there are a +few considerations which are very obvious and may here be stated. +Mankind is not only the whole in general, but every one in particular. +Every man or woman is one of mankind's dear possessions; to his or her +just brain, and kind heart, and active hands, mankind intrusts some of +its hopes for the future; he or she is a possible well-spring of good +acts and source of blessings to the race. This money which you do not +need, which, in a rigid sense, you do not want, may therefore be returned +not only in public benefactions to the race, but in private kindnesses. +Your wife, your children, your friends stand nearest to you, and should +be helped the first. There at least there can be little imposture, for +you know their necessities of your own knowledge. And consider, if all +the world did as you did, and according to their means extended help in +the circle of their affections, there would be no more crying want in +times of plenty and no more cold, mechanical charity given with a doubt +and received with confusion. Would not this simple rule make a new world +out of the old and cruel one which we inhabit? + + * * * * * + + [_After two more sentences the fragment breaks off_.] + + + + +FATHER DAMIEN +AN OPEN LETTER TO THE REVEREND DR. HYDE OF HONOLULU + + + SYDNEY, + _February_ 25, 1890. + +Sir,--It may probably occur to you that we have met, and visited, and +conversed; on my side, with interest. You may remember that you have +done me several courtesies, for which I was prepared to be grateful. But +there are duties which come before gratitude, and offences which justly +divide friends, far more acquaintances. Your letter to the Reverend H. +B. Gage is a document which, in my sight, if you had filled me with bread +when I was starving, if you had sat up to nurse my father when he lay +a-dying, would yet absolve me from the bonds of gratitude. You know +enough, doubtless, of the process of canonisation to be aware that, a +hundred years after the death of Damien, there will appear a man charged +with the painful office of the _devil's advocate_. After that noble +brother of mine, and of all frail clay, shall have lain a century at +rest, one shall accuse, one defend him. The circumstance is unusual that +the devil's advocate should be a volunteer, should be a member of a sect +immediately rival, and should make haste to take upon himself his ugly +office ere the bones are cold; unusual, and of a taste which I shall +leave my readers free to qualify; unusual, and to me inspiring. If I +have at all learned the trade of using words to convey truth and to +arouse emotion, you have at last furnished me with a subject. For it is +in the interest of all mankind, and the cause of public decency in every +quarter of the world, not only that Damien should be righted, but that +you and your letter should be displayed at length, in their true colours, +to the public eye. + +To do this properly, I must begin by quoting you at large: I shall then +proceed to criticise your utterance from several points of view, divine +and human, in the course of which I shall attempt to draw again, and with +more specification, the character of the dead saint whom it has pleased +you to vilify: so much being done, I shall say farewell to you for ever. + + 'HONOLULU, + '_August_ 2, 1889. + + 'Rev. H. B. GAGE. + + 'Dear Brother,--In answer to your inquiries about Father Damien, I + can only reply that we who knew the man are surprised at the + extravagant newspaper laudations, as if he was a most saintly + philanthropist. The simple truth is, he was a coarse, dirty man, + head-strong and bigoted. He was not sent to Molokai, but went there + without orders; did not stay at the leper settlement (before he + became one himself), but circulated freely over the whole island + (less than half the island is devoted to the lepers), and he came + often to Honolulu. He had no hand in the reforms and improvements + inaugurated, which were the work of our Board of Health, as occasion + required and means were provided. He was not a pure man in his + relations with women, and the leprosy of which he died should be + attributed to his vices and carelessness. Others have done much for + the lepers, our own ministers, the government physicians, and so + forth, but never with the Catholic idea of meriting eternal + life.--Yours, etc., + + 'C. M. HYDE.' {65} + +To deal fitly with a letter so extraordinary, I must draw at the outset +on my private knowledge of the signatory and his sect. It may offend +others; scarcely you, who have been so busy to collect, so bold to +publish, gossip on your rivals. And this is perhaps the moment when I +may best explain to you the character of what you are to read: I conceive +you as a man quite beyond and below the reticences of civility: with what +measure you mete, with that shall it be measured you again; with you, at +last, I rejoice to feel the button off the foil and to plunge home. And +if in aught that I shall say I should offend others, your colleagues, +whom I respect and remember with affection, I can but offer them my +regret; I am not free, I am inspired by the consideration of interests +far more large; and such pain as can be inflicted by anything from me +must be indeed trifling when compared with the pain with which they read +your letter. It is not the hangman, but the criminal, that brings +dishonour on the house. + +You belong, sir, to a sect--I believe my sect, and that in which my +ancestors laboured--which has enjoyed, and partly failed to utilise, an +exceptional advantage in the islands of Hawaii. The first missionaries +came; they found the land already self-purged of its old and bloody +faith; they were embraced, almost on their arrival, with enthusiasm; what +troubles they supported came far more from whites than from Hawaiians; +and to these last they stood (in a rough figure) in the shoes of God. +This is not the place to enter into the degree or causes of their +failure, such as it is. One element alone is pertinent, and must here be +plainly dealt with. In the course of their evangelical calling, they--or +too many of them--grew rich. It may be news to you that the houses of +missionaries are a cause of mocking on the streets of Honolulu. It will +at least be news to you, that when I returned your civil visit, the +driver of my cab commented on the size, the taste, and the comfort of +your home. It would have been news certainly to myself, had any one told +me that afternoon that I should live to drag such matter into print. But +you see, sir, how you degrade better men to your own level; and it is +needful that those who are to judge betwixt you and me, betwixt Damien +and the devil's advocate, should understand your letter to have been +penned in a house which could raise, and that very justly, the envy and +the comments of the passers-by. I think (to employ a phrase of yours +which I admire) it 'should be attributed' to you that you have never +visited the scene of Damien's life and death. If you had, and had +recalled it, and looked about your pleasant rooms, even your pen perhaps +would have been stayed. + +Your sect (and remember, as far as any sect avows me, it is mine) has not +done ill in a worldly sense in the Hawaiian Kingdom. When calamity +befell their innocent parishioners, when leprosy descended and took root +in the Eight Islands, a _quid pro quo_ was to be looked for. To that +prosperous mission, and to you, as one of its adornments, God had sent at +last an opportunity. I know I am touching here upon a nerve acutely +sensitive. I know that others of your colleagues look back on the +inertia of your Church, and the intrusive and decisive heroism of Damien, +with something almost to be called remorse. I am sure it is so with +yourself; I am persuaded your letter was inspired by a certain envy, not +essentially ignoble, and the one human trait to be espied in that +performance. You were thinking of the lost chance, the past day; of that +which should have been conceived and was not; of the service due and not +rendered. Time was, said the voice in your ear, in your pleasant room, +as you sat raging and writing; and if the words written were base beyond +parallel, the rage, I am happy to repeat--it is the only compliment I +shall pay you--the rage was almost virtuous. But, sir, when we have +failed, and another has succeeded; when we have stood by, and another has +stepped in; when we sit and grow bulky in our charming mansions, and a +plain, uncouth peasant steps into the battle, under the eyes of God, and +succours the afflicted, and consoles the dying, and is himself afflicted +in his turn, and dies upon the field of honour--the battle cannot be +retrieved as your unhappy irritation has suggested. It is a lost battle, +and lost for ever. One thing remained to you in your defeat--some rags +of common honour; and these you have made haste to cast away. + +Common honour; not the honour of having done anything right, but the +honour of not having done aught conspicuously foul; the honour of the +inert: that was what remained to you. We are not all expected to be +Damiens; a man may conceive his duty more narrowly, he may love his +comforts better; and none will cast a stone at him for that. But will a +gentleman of your reverend profession allow me an example from the fields +of gallantry? When two gentlemen compete for the favour of a lady, and +the one succeeds and the other is rejected, and (as will sometimes +happen) matter damaging to the successful rival's credit reaches the ear +of the defeated, it is held by plain men of no pretensions that his mouth +is, in the circumstance, almost necessarily closed. Your Church and +Damien's were in Hawaii upon a rivalry to do well: to help, to edify, to +set divine examples. You having (in one huge instance) failed, and +Damien succeeded, I marvel it should not have occurred to you that you +were doomed to silence; that when you had been outstripped in that high +rivalry, and sat inglorious in the midst of your wellbeing, in your +pleasant room--and Damien, crowned with glories and horrors, toiled and +rotted in that pigsty of his under the cliffs of Kalawao--you, the elect +who would not, were the last man on earth to collect and propagate gossip +on the volunteer who would and did. + +I think I see you--for I try to see you in the flesh as I write these +sentences--I think I see you leap at the word pigsty, a hyperbolical +expression at the best. 'He had no hand in the reforms,' he was 'a +coarse, dirty man'; these were your own words; and you may think it +possible that I am come to support you with fresh evidence. In a sense, +it is even so. Damien has been too much depicted with a conventional +halo and conventional features; so drawn by men who perhaps had not the +eye to remark or the pen to express the individual; or who perhaps were +only blinded and silenced by generous admiration, such as I partly envy +for myself--such as you, if your soul were enlightened, would envy on +your bended knees. It is the least defect of such a method of +portraiture that it makes the path easy for the devil's advocate, and +leaves for the misuse of the slanderer a considerable field of truth. +For the truth that is suppressed by friends is the readiest weapon of the +enemy. The world, in your despite, may perhaps owe you something, if +your letter be the means of substituting once for all a credible likeness +for a wax abstraction. For, if that world at all remember you, on the +day when Damien of Molokai shall be named Saint, it will be in virtue of +one work: your letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage. + +You may ask on what authority I speak. It was my inclement destiny to +become acquainted, not with Damien, but with Dr. Hyde. When I visited +the lazaretto, Damien was already in his resting grave. But such +information as I have, I gathered on the spot in conversation with those +who knew him well and long: some indeed who revered his memory; but +others who had sparred and wrangled with him, who beheld him with no +halo, who perhaps regarded him with small respect, and through whose +unprepared and scarcely partial communications the plain, human features +of the man shone on me convincingly. These gave me what knowledge I +possess; and I learnt it in that scene where it could be most completely +and sensitively understood--Kalawao, which you have never visited, about +which you have never so much as endeavoured to inform yourself; for, +brief as your letter is, you have found the means to stumble into that +confession. '_Less than one-half_ of the island,' you say, 'is devoted +to the lepers.' Molokai--'_Molokai ahina_,' the 'grey,' lofty, and most +desolate island--along all its northern side plunges a front of precipice +into a sea of unusual profundity. This range of cliff is, from east to +west, the true end and frontier of the island. Only in one spot there +projects into the ocean a certain triangular and rugged down, grassy, +stony, windy, and rising in the midst into a hill with a dead crater: the +whole bearing to the cliff that overhangs it somewhat the same relation +as a bracket to a wall. With this hint you will now be able to pick out +the leper station on a map; you will be able to judge how much of Molokai +is thus cut off between the surf and precipice, whether less than a half, +or less than a quarter, or a fifth, or a tenth--or, say, a twentieth; and +the next time you burst into print you will be in a position to share +with us the issue of your calculations. + +I imagine you to be one of those persons who talk with cheerfulness of +that place which oxen and wain-ropes could not drag you to behold. You, +who do not even know its situation on the map, probably denounce +sensational descriptions, stretching your limbs the while in your +pleasant parlour on Beretania Street. When I was pulled ashore there one +early morning, there sat with me in the boat two sisters, bidding +farewell (in humble imitation of Damien) to the lights and joys of human +life. One of these wept silently; I could not withhold myself from +joining her. Had you been there, it is my belief that nature would have +triumphed even in you; and as the boat drew but a little nearer, and you +beheld the stairs crowded with abominable deformations of our common +manhood, and saw yourself landing in the midst of such a population as +only now and then surrounds us in the horror of a nightmare--what a +haggard eye you would have rolled over your reluctant shoulder towards +the house on Beretania Street! Had you gone on; had you found every +fourth face a blot upon the landscape; had you visited the hospital and +seen the butt-ends of human beings lying there almost unrecognisable, but +still breathing, still thinking, still remembering; you would have +understood that life in the lazaretto is an ordeal from which the nerves +of a man's spirit shrink, even as his eye quails under the brightness of +the sun; you would have felt it was (even to-day) a pitiful place to +visit and a hell to dwell in. It is not the fear of possible infection. +That seems a little thing when compared with the pain, the pity, and the +disgust of the visitor's surroundings, and the atmosphere of affliction, +disease, and physical disgrace in which he breathes. I do not think I am +a man more than usually timid; but I never recall the days and nights I +spent upon that island promontory (eight days and seven nights), without +heartfelt thankfulness that I am somewhere else. I find in my diary that +I speak of my stay as a 'grinding experience': I have once jotted in the +margin, '_Harrowing_ is the word'; and when the _Mokolii_ bore me at last +towards the outer world, I kept repeating to myself, with a new +conception of their pregnancy, those simple words of the song-- + + ''Tis the most distressful country that ever yet was seen.' + +And observe: that which I saw and suffered from was a settlement purged, +bettered, beautified; the new village built, the hospital and the +Bishop-Home excellently arranged; the sisters, the doctor, and the +missionaries, all indefatigable in their noble tasks. It was a different +place when Damien came there and made his great renunciation, and slept +that first night under a tree amidst his rotting brethren: alone with +pestilence; and looking forward (with what courage, with what pitiful +sinkings of dread, God only knows) to a lifetime of dressing sores and +stumps. + +You will say, perhaps, I am too sensitive, that sights as painful abound +in cancer hospitals and are confronted daily by doctors and nurses. I +have long learned to admire and envy the doctors and the nurses. But +there is no cancer hospital so large and populous as Kalawao and +Kalaupapa; and in such a matter every fresh case, like every inch of +length in the pipe of an organ, deepens the note of the impression; for +what daunts the onlooker is that monstrous sum of human suffering by +which he stands surrounded. Lastly, no doctor or nurse is called upon to +enter once for all the doors of that gehenna; they do not say farewell, +they need not abandon hope, on its sad threshold; they but go for a time +to their high calling, and can look forward as they go to relief, to +recreation, and to rest. But Damien shut-to with his own hand the doors +of his own sepulchre. + +I shall now extract three passages from my diary at Kalawao. + +_A_. 'Damien is dead and already somewhat ungratefully remembered in the +field of his labours and sufferings. "He was a good man, but very +officious," says one. Another tells me he had fallen (as other priests +so easily do) into something of the ways and habits of thought of a +Kanaka; but he had the wit to recognise the fact, and the good sense to +laugh at' [over] 'it. A plain man it seems he was; I cannot find he was +a popular.' + +_B_. 'After Ragsdale's death' [Ragsdale was a famous Luna, or overseer, +of the unruly settlement] 'there followed a brief term of office by +Father Damien which served only to publish the weakness of that noble +man. He was rough in his ways, and he had no control. Authority was +relaxed; Damien's life was threatened, and he was soon eager to resign.' + +_C_. 'Of Damien I begin to have an idea. He seems to have been a man of +the peasant class, certainly of the peasant type: shrewd, ignorant and +bigoted, yet with an open mind, and capable of receiving and digesting a +reproof if it were bluntly administered; superbly generous in the least +thing as well as in the greatest, and as ready to give his last shirt +(although not without human grumbling) as he had been to sacrifice his +life; essentially indiscreet and officious, which made him a troublesome +colleague; domineering in all his ways, which made him incurably +unpopular with the Kanakas, but yet destitute of real authority, so that +his boys laughed at him and he must carry out his wishes by the means of +bribes. He learned to have a mania for doctoring; and set up the Kanakas +against the remedies of his regular rivals: perhaps (if anything matter +at all in the treatment of such a disease) the worst thing that he did, +and certainly the easiest. The best and worst of the man appear very +plainly in his dealings with Mr. Chapman's money; he had originally laid +it out' [intended to lay it out] 'entirely for the benefit of Catholics, +and even so not wisely; but after a long, plain talk, he admitted his +error fully and revised the list. The sad state of the boys' home is in +part the result of his lack of control; in part, of his own slovenly ways +and false ideas of hygiene. Brother officials used to call it "Damien's +Chinatown." "Well," they would say, "your China-town keeps growing." +And he would laugh with perfect good-nature, and adhere to his errors +with perfect obstinacy. So much I have gathered of truth about this +plain, noble human brother and father of ours; his imperfections are the +traits of his face, by which we know him for our fellow; his martyrdom +and his example nothing can lessen or annul; and only a person here on +the spot can properly appreciate their greatness.' + +I have set down these private passages, as you perceive, without +correction; thanks to you, the public has them in their bluntness. They +are almost a list of the man's faults, for it is rather these that I was +seeking: with his virtues, with the heroic profile of his life, I and the +world were already sufficiently acquainted. I was besides a little +suspicious of Catholic testimony; in no ill sense, but merely because +Damien's admirers and disciples were the least likely to be critical. I +know you will be more suspicious still; and the facts set down above were +one and all collected from the lips of Protestants who had opposed the +father in his life. Yet I am strangely deceived, or they build up the +image of a man, with all his weaknesses, essentially heroic, and alive +with rugged honesty, generosity, and mirth. + +Take it for what it is, rough private jottings of the worst sides of +Damien's character, collected from the lips of those who had laboured +with and (in your own phrase) 'knew the man';--though I question whether +Damien would have said that he knew you. Take it, and observe with +wonder how well you were served by your gossips, how ill by your +intelligence and sympathy; in how many points of fact we are at one, and +how widely our appreciations vary. There is something wrong here; either +with you or me. It is possible, for instance, that you, who seem to have +so many ears in Kalawao, had heard of the affair of Mr. Chapman's money, +and were singly struck by Damien's intended wrong-doing. I was struck +with that also, and set it fairly down; but I was struck much more by the +fact that he had the honesty of mind to be convinced. I may here tell +you that it was a long business; that one of his colleagues sat with him +late into the night, multiplying arguments and accusations; that the +father listened as usual with 'perfect good-nature and perfect +obstinacy'; but at the last, when he was persuaded--'Yes,' said he, 'I am +very much obliged to you; you have done me a service; it would have been +a theft.' There are many (not Catholics merely) who require their heroes +and saints to be infallible; to these the story will be painful; not to +the true lovers, patrons, and servants of mankind. + +And I take it, this is a type of our division; that you are one of those +who have an eye for faults and failures; that you take a pleasure to find +and publish them; and that, having found them, you make haste to forget +the overvailing virtues and the real success which had alone introduced +them to your knowledge. It is a dangerous frame of mind. That you may +understand how dangerous, and into what a situation it has already +brought you, we will (if you please) go hand-in-hand through the +different phrases of your letter, and candidly examine each from the +point of view of its truth, its appositeness, and its charity. + +Damien was _coarse_. + +It is very possible. You make us sorry for the lepers, who had only a +coarse old peasant for their friend and father. But you, who were so +refined, why were you not there, to cheer them with the lights of +culture? Or may I remind you that we have some reason to doubt if John +the Baptist were genteel; and in the case of Peter, on whose career you +doubtless dwell approvingly in the pulpit, no doubt at all he was a +'coarse, headstrong' fisherman! Yet even in our Protestant Bibles Peter +is called Saint. + +Damien was _dirty_. + +He was. Think of the poor lepers annoyed with this dirty comrade! But +the clean Dr. Hyde was at his food in a fine house. + +Damien was _headstrong_. + +I believe you are right again; and I thank God for his strong head and +heart. + +Damien was _bigoted_. + +I am not fond of bigots myself, because they are not fond of me. But +what is meant by bigotry, that we should regard it as a blemish in a +priest? Damien believed his own religion with the simplicity of a +peasant or a child; as I would I could suppose that you do. For this, I +wonder at him some way off; and had that been his only character, should +have avoided him in life. But the point of interest in Damien, which has +caused him to be so much talked about and made him at last the subject of +your pen and mine, was that, in him, his bigotry, his intense and narrow +faith, wrought potently for good, and strengthened him to be one of the +world's heroes and exemplars. + +Damien _was not sent to Molokai_, _but went there without orders_. + +Is this a misreading? or do you really mean the words for blame? I have +heard Christ, in the pulpits of our Church, held up for imitation on the +ground that His sacrifice was voluntary. Does Dr. Hyde think otherwise? + +Damien _did not stay at the settlement_, _etc._ + +It is true he was allowed many indulgences. Am I to understand that you +blame the father for profiting by these, or the officers for granting +them? In either case, it is a mighty Spartan standard to issue from the +house on Beretania Street; and I am convinced you will find yourself with +few supporters. + +Damien _had no hand in the reforms_, _etc._ + +I think even you will admit that I have already been frank in my +description of the man I am defending; but before I take you up upon this +head, I will be franker still, and tell you that perhaps nowhere in the +world can a man taste a more pleasurable sense of contrast than when he +passes from Damien's 'Chinatown' at Kalawao to the beautiful Bishop-Home +at Kalaupapa. At this point, in my desire to make all fair for you, I +will break my rule and adduce Catholic testimony. Here is a passage from +my diary about my visit to the Chinatown, from which you will see how it +is (even now) regarded by its own officials: 'We went round all the +dormitories, refectories, etc.--dark and dingy enough, with a superficial +cleanliness, which he' [Mr. Dutton, the lay-brother] 'did not seek to +defend. "It is almost decent," said he; "the sisters will make that all +right when we get them here."' And yet I gathered it was already better +since Damien was dead, and far better than when he was there alone and +had his own (not always excellent) way. I have now come far enough to +meet you on a common ground of fact; and I tell you that, to a mind not +prejudiced by jealousy, all the reforms of the lazaretto, and even those +which he most vigorously opposed, are properly the work of Damien. They +are the evidence of his success; they are what his heroism provoked from +the reluctant and the careless. Many were before him in the field; Mr. +Meyer, for instance, of whose faithful work we hear too little: there +have been many since; and some had more worldly wisdom, though none had +more devotion, than our saint. Before his day, even you will confess, +they had effected little. It was his part, by one striking act of +martyrdom, to direct all men's eyes on that distressful country. At a +blow, and with the price of his life, he made the place illustrious and +public. And that, if you will consider largely, was the one reform +needful; pregnant of all that should succeed. It brought money; it +brought (best individual addition of them all) the sisters; it brought +supervision, for public opinion and public interest landed with the man +at Kalawao. If ever any man brought reforms, and died to bring them, it +was he. There is not a clean cup or towel in the Bishop-Home, but dirty +Damien washed it. + +Damien _was not a pure man in his relations with women_, _etc._ + +How do you know that? Is this the nature of the conversation in that +house on Beretania Street which the cabman envied, driving past?--racy +details of the misconduct of the poor peasant priest, toiling under the +cliffs of Molokai? + +Many have visited the station before me; they seem not to have heard the +rumour. When I was there I heard many shocking tales, for my informants +were men speaking with the plainness of the laity; and I heard plenty of +complaints of Damien. Why was this never mentioned? and how came it to +you in the retirement of your clerical parlour? + +But I must not even seem to deceive you. This scandal, when I read it in +your letter, was not new to me. I had heard it once before; and I must +tell you how. There came to Samoa a man from Honolulu; he, in a +public-house on the beach, volunteered the statement that Damien had +'contracted the disease from having connection with the female lepers'; +and I find a joy in telling you how the report was welcomed in a +public-house. A man sprang to his feet; I am not at liberty to give his +name, but from what I heard I doubt if you would care to have him to +dinner in Beretania Street. 'You miserable little--' (here is a word I +dare not print, it would so shock your ears). 'You miserable little--,' +he cried, 'if the story were a thousand times true, can't you see you are +a million times a lower--for daring to repeat it?' I wish it could be +told of you that when the report reached you in your house, perhaps after +family worship, you had found in your soul enough holy anger to receive +it with the same expressions; ay, even with that one which I dare not +print; it would not need to have been blotted away, like Uncle Toby's +oath, by the tears of the recording angel; it would have been counted to +you for your brightest righteousness. But you have deliberately chosen +the part of the man from Honolulu, and you have played it with +improvements of your own. The man from Honolulu--miserable, leering +creature--communicated the tale to a rude knot of beach-combing drinkers +in a public-house, where (I will so far agree with your temperance +opinions) man is not always at his noblest; and the man from Honolulu had +himself been drinking--drinking, we may charitably fancy, to excess. It +was to your 'Dear Brother, the Reverend H. B. Gage,' that you chose to +communicate the sickening story; and the blue ribbon which adorns your +portly bosom forbids me to allow you the extenuating plea that you were +drunk when it was done. Your 'dear brother'--a brother indeed--made +haste to deliver up your letter (as a means of grace, perhaps) to the +religious papers; where, after many months, I found and read and wondered +at it; and whence I have now reproduced it for the wonder of others. And +you and your dear brother have, by this cycle of operations, built up a +contrast very edifying to examine in detail. The man whom you would not +care to have to dinner, on the one side; on the other, the Reverend Dr. +Hyde and the Reverend H. B. Gage: the Apia bar-room, the Honolulu manse. + +But I fear you scarce appreciate how you appear to your fellow-men; and +to bring it home to you, I will suppose your story to be true. I will +suppose--and God forgive me for supposing it--that Damien faltered and +stumbled in his narrow path of duty; I will suppose that, in the horror +of his isolation, perhaps in the fever of incipient disease, he, who was +doing so much more than he had sworn, failed in the letter of his +priestly oath--he, who was so much a better man than either you or me, +who did what we have never dreamed of daring--he too tasted of our common +frailty. 'O, Iago, the pity of it!' The least tender should be moved to +tears; the most incredulous to prayer. And all that you could do was to +pen your letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage! + +Is it growing at all clear to you what a picture you have drawn of your +own heart? I will try yet once again to make it clearer. You had a +father: suppose this tale were about him, and some informant brought it +to you, proof in hand: I am not making too high an estimate of your +emotional nature when I suppose you would regret the circumstance? that +you would feel the tale of frailty the more keenly since it shamed the +author of your days? and that the last thing you would do would be to +publish it in the religious press? Well, the man who tried to do what +Damien did, is my father, and the father of the man in the Apia bar, and +the father of all who love goodness; and he was your father too, if God +had given you grace to see it. + + + + +THE PENTLAND RISING +A PAGE OF HISTORY +1666 + + + 'A cloud of witnesses lyes here, + Who for Christ's interest did appear.' + + _Inscription on Battlefield at Rullion Green_. + + + +CHAPTER I--THE CAUSES OF THE REVOLT + + + 'Halt, passenger; take heed what thou dost see, + This tomb doth show for what some men did die.' + + _Monument_, _Greyfriars' Churchyard_,_ Edinburgh_, + 1661-1668. {85} + +Two hundred years ago a tragedy was enacted in Scotland, the memory +whereof has been in great measure lost or obscured by the deep tragedies +which followed it. It is, as it were, the evening of the night of +persecution--a sort of twilight, dark indeed to us, but light as the +noonday when compared with the midnight gloom which followed. This fact, +of its being the very threshold of persecution, lends it, however, an +additional interest. + +The prejudices of the people against Episcopacy were 'out of measure +increased,' says Bishop Burnet, 'by the new incumbents who were put in +the places of the ejected preachers, and were generally very mean and +despicable in all respects. They were the worst preachers I ever heard; +they were ignorant to a reproach; and many of them were openly vicious. +They . . . were indeed the dreg and refuse of the northern parts. Those +of them who arose above contempt or scandal were men of such violent +tempers that they were as much hated as the others were despised.' {86} +It was little to be wondered at, from this account that the country-folk +refused to go to the parish church, and chose rather to listen to outed +ministers in the fields. But this was not to be allowed, and their +persecutors at last fell on the method of calling a roll of the +parishioners' names every Sabbath, and marking a fine of twenty shillings +Scots to the name of each absenter. In this way very large debts were +incurred by persons altogether unable to pay. Besides this, landlords +were fined for their tenants' absences, tenants for their landlords', +masters for their servants', servants for their masters', even though +they themselves were perfectly regular in their attendance. And as the +curates were allowed to fine with the sanction of any common soldier, it +may be imagined that often the pretexts were neither very sufficient nor +well proven. + +When the fines could not be paid at once, Bibles, clothes, and household +utensils were seized upon, or a number of soldiers, proportionate to his +wealth, were quartered on the offender. The coarse and drunken privates +filled the houses with woe; snatched the bread from the children to feed +their dogs; shocked the principles, scorned the scruples, and blasphemed +the religion of their humble hosts; and when they had reduced them to +destitution, sold the furniture, and burned down the roof-tree which was +consecrated to the peasants by the name of Home. For all this attention +each of these soldiers received from his unwilling landlord a certain sum +of money per day--three shillings sterling, according to _Naphtali_. And +frequently they were forced to pay quartering money for more men than +were in reality 'cessed on them.' At that time it was no strange thing +to behold a strong man begging for money to pay his fines, and many +others who were deep in arrears, or who had attracted attention in some +other way, were forced to flee from their homes, and take refuge from +arrest and imprisonment among the wild mosses of the uplands. {87a} + +One example in particular we may cite: + +John Neilson, the Laird of Corsack, a worthy man, was, unfortunately for +himself, a Nonconformist. First he was fined in four hundred pounds +Scots, and then through cessing he lost nineteen hundred and ninety-three +pounds Scots. He was next obliged to leave his house and flee from place +to place, during which wanderings he lost his horse. His wife and +children were turned out of doors, and then his tenants were fined till +they too were almost ruined. As a final stroke, they drove away all his +cattle to Glasgow and sold them. {87b} Surely it was time that something +were done to alleviate so much sorrow, to overthrow such tyranny. + +About this time too there arrived in Galloway a person calling himself +Captain Andrew Gray, and advising the people to revolt. He displayed +some documents purporting to be from the northern Covenanters, and +stating that they were prepared to join in any enterprise commenced by +their southern brethren. The leader of the persecutors was Sir James +Turner, an officer afterwards degraded for his share in the matter. 'He +was naturally fierce, but was mad when he was drunk, and that was very +often,' said Bishop Burnet. 'He was a learned man, but had always been +in armies, and knew no other rule but to obey orders. He told me he had +no regard to any law, but acted, as he was commanded, in a military way.' +{88} + +This was the state of matters, when an outrage was committed which gave +spirit and determination to the oppressed countrymen, lit the flame of +insubordination, and for the time at least recoiled on those who +perpetrated it with redoubled force. + + + +CHAPTER II--THE BEGINNING + + + I love no warres, + I love no jarres, + Nor strife's fire. + May discord cease, + Let's live in peace: + This I desire. + + If it must be + Warre we must see + (So fates conspire), + May we not feel + The force of steel: + This I desire. + + T. JACKSON, 1651 {89} + +Upon Tuesday, November 13th, 1666, Corporal George Deanes and three other +soldiers set upon an old man in the clachan of Dalry and demanded the +payment of his fines. On the old man's refusing to pay, they forced a +large party of his neighbours to go with them and thresh his corn. The +field was a certain distance out of the clachan, and four persons, +disguised as countrymen, who had been out on the moors all night, met +this mournful drove of slaves, compelled by the four soldiers to work for +the ruin of their friend. However, chided to the bone by their night on +the hills, and worn out by want of food, they proceeded to the village +inn to refresh themselves. Suddenly some people rushed into the room +where they were sitting, and told them that the soldiers were about to +roast the old man, naked, on his own girdle. This was too much for them +to stand, and they repaired immediately to the scene of this gross +outrage, and at first merely requested that the captive should be +released. On the refusal of the two soldiers who were in the front room, +high words were given and taken on both sides, and the other two rushed +forth from an adjoining chamber and made at the countrymen with drawn +swords. One of the latter, John M'Lellan of Barscob, drew a pistol and +shot the corporal in the body. The pieces of tobacco-pipe with which it +was loaded, to the number of ten at least, entered him, and he was so +much disturbed that he never appears to have recovered, for we find long +afterwards a petition to the Privy Council requesting a pension for him. +The other soldiers then laid down their arms, the old man was rescued, +and the rebellion was commenced. {90} + +And now we must turn to Sir James Turner's memoirs of himself; for, +strange to say, this extraordinary man was remarkably fond of literary +composition, and wrote, besides the amusing account of his own adventures +just mentioned, a large number of essays and short biographies, and a +work on war, entitled _Pallas Armata_. The following are some of the +shorter pieces 'Magick,' 'Friendship,' 'Imprisonment,' 'Anger,' +'Revenge,' 'Duells,' 'Cruelty,' 'A Defence of some of the Ceremonies of +the English Liturgie--to wit--Bowing at the Name of Jesus, The frequent +repetition of the Lord's Prayer and Good Lord deliver us, Of the +Doxologie, Of Surplesses, Rotchets, Canonnicall Coats,' etc. From what +we know of his character we should expect 'Anger' and 'Cruelty' to be +very full and instructive. But what earthly right he had to meddle with +ecclesiastical subjects it is hard to see. + +Upon the 12th of the month he had received some information concerning +Gray's proceedings, but as it was excessively indefinite in its +character, he paid no attention to it. On the evening of the 14th, +Corporal Deanes was brought into Dumfries, who affirmed stoutly that he +had been shot while refusing to sign the Covenant--a story rendered +singularly unlikely by the after conduct of the rebels. Sir James +instantly dispatched orders to the cessed soldiers either to come to +Dumfries or meet him on the way to Dalry, and commanded the thirteen or +fourteen men in the town with him to come at nine next morning to his +lodging for supplies. + +On the morning of Thursday the rebels arrived at Dumfries with 50 horse +and 150 foot. Neilson of Corsack, and Gray, who commanded, with a +considerable troop, entered the town, and surrounded Sir James Turner's +lodging. Though it was between eight and nine o'clock, that worthy, +being unwell, was still in bed, but rose at once and went to the window. + +Neilson and some others cried, 'You may have fair quarter.' + +'I need no quarter,' replied Sir James; 'nor can I be a prisoner, seeing +there is no war declared.' On being told, however, that he must either +be a prisoner or die, he came down, and went into the street in his +night-shirt. Here Gray showed himself very desirous of killing him, but +he was overruled by Corsack. However, he was taken away a prisoner, +Captain Gray mounting him on his own horse, though, as Turner naively +remarks, 'there was good reason for it, for he mounted himself on a farre +better one of mine.' A large coffer containing his clothes and money, +together with all his papers, were taken away by the rebels. They robbed +Master Chalmers, the Episcopalian minister of Dumfries, of his horse, +drank the King's health at the market cross, and then left Dumfries. {92} + + + +CHAPTER III--THE MARCH OF THE REBELS + + + 'Stay, passenger, take notice what thou reads, + At Edinburgh lie our bodies, here our heads; + Our right hands stood at Lanark, these we want, + Because with them we signed the Covenant.' + + _Epitaph on a Tombstone at Hamilton_. {93} + +On Friday the 16th, Bailie Irvine of Dumfries came to the Council at +Edinburgh, and gave information concerning this 'horrid rebellion.' In +the absence of Rothes, Sharpe presided--much to the wrath of some +members; and as he imagined his own safety endangered, his measures were +most energetic. Dalzell was ordered away to the West, the guards round +the city were doubled, officers and soldiers were forced to take the oath +of allegiance, and all lodgers were commanded to give in their names. +Sharpe, surrounded with all these guards and precautions, +trembled--trembled as he trembled when the avengers of blood drew him +from his chariot on Magus Muir,--for he knew how he had sold his trust, +how he had betrayed his charge, and he felt that against him must their +chiefest hatred be directed, against him their direst thunder-bolts be +forged. But even in his fear the apostate Presbyterian was unrelenting, +unpityingly harsh; he published in his manifesto no promise of pardon, no +inducement to submission. He said, 'If you submit not you must die,' but +never added, 'If you submit you may live!' {94a} + +Meantime the insurgents proceeded on their way. At Carsphairn they were +deserted by Captain Gray, who, doubtless in a fit of oblivion, neglected +to leave behind him the coffer containing Sir James's money. Who he was +is a mystery, unsolved by any historian; his papers were evidently +forgeries--that, and his final flight, appear to indicate that he was an +agent of the Royalists, for either the King or the Duke of York was heard +to say, 'That, if he might have his wish, he would have them all turn +rebels and go to arms.' {94b} + +Upon the 18th day of the month they left Carsphairn and marched onwards. + +Turner was always lodged by his captors at a good inn, frequently at the +best of which their halting-place could boast. Here many visits were +paid to him by the ministers and officers of the insurgent force. In his +description of these interviews he displays a vein of satiric severity, +admitting any kindness that was done to him with some qualifying souvenir +of former harshness, and gloating over any injury, mistake, or folly, +which it was his chance to suffer or to hear. He appears, +notwithstanding all this, to have been on pretty good terms with his +cruel 'phanaticks,' as the following extract sufficiently proves: + +'Most of the foot were lodged about the church or churchyard, and order +given to ring bells next morning for a sermon to be preached by Mr. +Welch. Maxwell of Morith, and Major M'Cullough invited me to heare "that +phanatick sermon" (for soe they merrilie called it). They said that +preaching might prove an effectual meane to turne me, which they +heartilie wished. I answered to them that I was under guards, and that +if they intended to heare that sermon, it was probable I might likewise, +for it was not like my guards wold goe to church and leave me alone at my +lodgeings. Bot to what they said of my conversion, I said it wold be +hard to turne a Turner. Bot because I founde them in a merrie humour, I +said, if I did not come to heare Mr. Welch preach, then they might fine +me in fortie shillings Scots, which was double the suome of what I had +exacted from the phanatics.' {95} + +This took place at Ochiltree, on the 22nd day of the month. The +following is recounted by this personage with malicious glee, and +certainly, if authentic, it is a sad proof of how chaff is mixed with +wheat, and how ignorant, almost impious, persons were engaged in this +movement; nevertheless we give it, for we wish to present with +impartiality all the alleged facts to the reader: + +'Towards the evening Mr. Robinsone and Mr. Crukshank gaue me a visite; I +called for some ale purposelie to heare one of them blesse it. It fell +Mr. Robinsone to seeke the blessing, who said one of the most bombastick +graces that ever I heard in my life. He summoned God Allmightie very +imperiouslie to be their secondarie (for that was his language). "And +if," said he, "thou wilt not be our Secondarie, we will not fight for +thee at all, for it is not our cause bot thy cause; and if thou wilt not +fight for our cause and thy oune cause, then we are not obliged to fight +for it. They say," said he, "that Dukes, Earles, and Lords are coming +with the King's General against us, bot they shall be nothing bot a +threshing to us." This grace did more fullie satisfie me of the folly +and injustice of their cause, then the ale did quench my thirst.' {96a} + +Frequently the rebels made a halt near some roadside alehouse, or in some +convenient park, where Colonel Wallace, who had now taken the command, +would review the horse and foot, during which time Turner was sent either +into the alehouse or round the shoulder of the hill, to prevent him from +seeing the disorders which were likely to arise. He was, at last, on the +25th day of the month, between Douglas and Lanark, permitted to behold +their evolutions. 'I found their horse did consist of four hundreth and +fortie, and the foot of five hundreth and upwards. . . . The horsemen +were armed for most part with suord and pistoll, some onlie with suord. +The foot with musket, pike, sith (scythe), forke, and suord; and some +with suords great and long.' He admired much the proficiency of their +cavalry, and marvelled how they had attained to it in so short a time. +{96b} + +At Douglas, which they had just left on the morning of this great +wapinshaw, they were charged--awful picture of depravity!--with the theft +of a silver spoon and a nightgown. Could it be expected that while the +whole country swarmed with robbers of every description, such a rare +opportunity for plunder should be lost by rogues--that among a thousand +men, even though fighting for religion, there should not be one Achan in +the camp? At Lanark a declaration was drawn up and signed by the chief +rebels. In it occurs the following: + +'The just sense whereof '--the sufferings of the country--'made us +choose, rather to betake ourselves to the fields for self-defence, than +to stay at home, burdened daily with the calamities of others, and +tortured with the fears of our own approaching misery.' {97} + +The whole body, too, swore the Covenant, to which ceremony the epitaph at +the head of this chapter seems to refer. + +A report that Dalzell was approaching drove them from Lanark to Bathgate, +where, on the evening of Monday the 26th, the wearied army stopped. But +at twelve o'clock the cry, which served them for a trumpet, of 'Horse! +horse!' and 'Mount the prisoner!' resounded through the night-shrouded +town, and called the peasants from their well-earned rest to toil onwards +in their march. The wind howled fiercely over the moorland; a close, +thick, wetting rain descended. Chilled to the bone, worn out with long +fatigue, sinking to the knees in mire, onward they marched to +destruction. One by one the weary peasants fell off from their ranks to +sleep, and die in the rain-soaked moor, or to seek some house by the +wayside wherein to hide till daybreak. One by one at first, then in +gradually increasing numbers, at every shelter that was seen, whole +troops left the waning squadrons, and rushed to hide themselves from the +ferocity of the tempest. To right and left nought could be descried but +the broad expanse of the moor, and the figures of their fellow-rebels, +seen dimly through the murky night, plodding onwards through the sinking +moss. Those who kept together--a miserable few--often halted to rest +themselves, and to allow their lagging comrades to overtake them. Then +onward they went again, still hoping for assistance, reinforcement, and +supplies; onward again, through the wind, and the rain, and the +darkness--onward to their defeat at Pentland, and their scaffold at +Edinburgh. It was calculated that they lost one half of their army on +that disastrous night-march. + +Next night they reached the village of Colinton, four miles from +Edinburgh, where they halted for the last time. {98} + + + +CHAPTER IV--RULLION GREEN + + + 'From Covenanters with uplifted hands, + From Remonstrators with associate bands, + Good Lord, deliver us!' + + _Royalist Rhyme_, KIRKTON, p. 127. + +Late on the fourth night of November, exactly twenty-four days before +Rullion Green, Richard and George Chaplain, merchants in Haddington, +beheld four men, clad like West-country Whigamores, standing round some +object on the ground. It was at the two-mile cross, and within that +distance from their homes. At last, to their horror, they discovered +that the recumbent figure was a livid corpse, swathed in a blood-stained +winding-sheet. {99} Many thought that this apparition was a portent of +the deaths connected with the Pentland Rising. + +On the morning of Wednesday, the 28th of November 1666, they left +Colinton and marched to Rullion Green. There they arrived about sunset. +The position was a strong one. On the summit of a bare, heathery spur of +the Pentlands are two hillocks, and between them lies a narrow band of +flat marshy ground. On the highest of the two mounds--that nearest the +Pentlands, and on the left hand of the main body--was the greater part of +the cavalry, under Major Learmont; on the other Barscob and the Galloway +gentlemen; and in the centre Colonel Wallace and the weak, half-armed +infantry. Their position was further strengthened by the depth of the +valley below, and the deep chasm-like course of the Rullion Burn. + +The sun, going down behind the Pentlands, cast golden lights and blue +shadows on their snow-clad summits, slanted obliquely into the rich plain +before them, bathing with rosy splendour the leafless, snow-sprinkled +trees, and fading gradually into shadow in the distance. To the south, +too, they beheld a deep-shaded amphitheatre of heather and bracken; the +course of the Esk, near Penicuik, winding about at the foot of its gorge; +the broad, brown expanse of Maw Moss; and, fading into blue +indistinctness in the south, the wild heath-clad Peeblesshire hills. In +sooth, that scene was fair, and many a yearning glance was cast over that +peaceful evening scene from the spot where the rebels awaited their +defeat; and when the fight was over, many a noble fellow lifted his head +from the blood-stained heather to strive with darkening eyeballs to +behold that landscape, over which, as over his life and his cause, the +shadows of night and of gloom were falling and thickening. + +It was while waiting on this spot that the fear-inspiring cry was raised: +'The enemy! Here come the enemy!' + +Unwilling to believe their own doom--for our insurgents still hoped for +success in some negotiations for peace which had been carried on at +Colinton--they called out, 'They are some of our own.' + +'They are too blacke' (_i.e._ numerous), 'fie! fie! for ground to draw up +on,' cried Wallace, fully realising the want of space for his men, and +proving that it was not till after this time that his forces were finally +arranged. {101a} + +First of all the battle was commenced by fifty Royalist horse sent +obliquely across the hill to attack the left wing of the rebels. An +equal number of Learmont's men met them, and, after a struggle, drove +them back. The course of the Rullion Burn prevented almost all pursuit, +and Wallace, on perceiving it, dispatched a body of foot to occupy both +the burn and some ruined sheep-walls on the farther side. + +Dalzell changed his position, and drew up his army at the foot of the +hill, on the top of which were his foes. He then dispatched a mingled +body of infantry and cavalry to attack Wallace's outpost, but they also +were driven back. A third charge produced a still more disastrous +effect, for Dalzell had to check the pursuit of his men by a +reinforcement. + +These repeated checks bred a panic in the Lieutenant-General's ranks, for +several of his men flung down their arms. Urged by such fatal symptoms, +and by the approaching night, he deployed his men, and closed in +overwhelming numbers on the centre and right flank of the insurgent army. +In the increasing twilight the burning matches of the firelocks, +shimmering on barrel, halbert, and cuirass, lent to the approaching army +a picturesque effect, like a huge, many-armed giant breathing flame into +the darkness. + +Placed on an overhanging hill, Welch and Semple cried aloud, 'The God of +Jacob! The God of Jacob!' and prayed with uplifted hands for victory. +{101b} + +But still the Royalist troops closed in. + +Captain John Paton was observed by Dalzell, who determined to capture him +with his own hands. Accordingly he charged forward, presenting his +pistols. Paton fired, but the balls hopped off Dalzell's buff coat and +fell into his boot. With the superstition peculiar to his age, the +Nonconformist concluded that his adversary was rendered bullet-proof by +enchantment, and, pulling some small silver coins from his pocket, +charged his pistol therewith. Dalzell, seeing this, and supposing, it is +likely, that Paton was putting in larger balls, hid behind his servant, +who was killed. {102} + +Meantime the outposts were forced, and the army of Wallace was enveloped +in the embrace of a hideous boa-constrictor--tightening, closing, +crushing every semblance of life from the victim enclosed in his toils. +The flanking parties of horse were forced in upon the centre, and though, +as even Turner grants, they fought with desperation, a general flight was +the result. + +But when they fell there was none to sing their coronach or wail the +death-wail over them. Those who sacrificed themselves for the peace, the +liberty, and the religion of their fellow-countrymen, lay bleaching in +the field of death for long, and when at last they were buried by +charity, the peasants dug up their bodies, desecrated their graves, and +cast them once more upon the open heath for the sorry value of their +winding-sheets! + +_Inscription on stone at Rullion Green_: + + HERE + AND NEAR TO + THIS PLACE LYES THE + REVEREND MR JOHN CROOKSHANK + AND MR ANDREW MCCORMICK + MINISTERS OF THE GOSPEL AND + ABOUT FIFTY OTHER TRUE COVENANTED + PRESBYTERIANS WHO WERE + KILLED IN THIS PLACE IN THEIR OWN + INOCENT SELF DEFENCE AND DEFFENCE + OF THE COVENANTED + WORK OF REFORMATION BY + THOMAS DALZEEL OF BINS + UPON THE 28 OF NOVEMBER + 1666. REV. 12. 11. ERECTED + SEPT. 28 1738. + + _Back of stone_: + + A Cloud of Witnesses lyes here, + Who for Christ's Interest did appear, + For to restore true Liberty, + O'erturned then by tyranny. + And by proud Prelats who did Rage + Against the Lord's Own heritage. + They sacrificed were for the laws + Of Christ their king, his noble cause. + These heroes fought with great renown; + By falling got the Martyr's crown. {103} + + + +CHAPTER V--A RECORD OF BLOOD + + + 'They cut his hands ere he was dead, + And after that struck of his head. + His blood under the altar cries + For vengeance on Christ's enemies.' + + _Epitaph on Tomb at Longcross of Clermont_. {104} + +Master Andrew Murray, an outed minister, residing in the Potterrow, on +the morning after the defeat, heard the sounds of cheering and the march +of many feet beneath his window. He gazed out. With colours flying, and +with music sounding, Dalzell, victorious, entered Edinburgh. But his +banners were dyed in blood, and a band of prisoners were marched within +his ranks. The old man knew it all. That martial and triumphant strain +was the death-knell of his friends and of their cause, the rust-hued +spots upon the flags were the tokens of their courage and their death, +and the prisoners were the miserable remnant spared from death in battle +to die upon the scaffold. Poor old man! he had outlived all joy. Had he +lived longer he would have seen increasing torment and increasing woe; he +would have seen the clouds, then but gathering in mist, cast a more than +midnight darkness over his native hills, and have fallen a victim to +those bloody persecutions which, later, sent their red memorials to the +sea by many a burn. By a merciful Providence all this was spared to +him--he fell beneath the first blow; and ere four days had passed since +Rullion Green, the aged minister of God was gathered to is fathers. +{105a} + +When Sharpe first heard of the rebellion, he applied to Sir Alexander +Ramsay, the Provost, for soldiers to guard his house. Disliking their +occupation, the soldiers gave him an ugly time of it. All the night +through they kept up a continuous series of 'alarms and incursions,' +'cries of "Stand!" "Give fire!"' etc., which forced the prelate to flee +to the Castle in the morning, hoping there to find the rest which was +denied him at home. {105b} Now, however, when all danger to himself was +past, Sharpe came out in his true colours, and scant was the justice +likely to be shown to the foes of Scottish Episcopacy when the Primate +was by. The prisoners were lodged in Haddo's Hole, a part of St. Giles' +Cathedral, where, by the kindness of Bishop Wishart, to his credit be it +spoken, they were amply supplied with food. {105c} + +Some people urged, in the Council, that the promise of quarter which had +been given on the field of battle should protect the lives of the +miserable men. Sir John Gilmoure, the greatest lawyer, gave no +opinion--certainly a suggestive circumstance--but Lord Lee declared that +this would not interfere with their legal trial, 'so to bloody executions +they went.' {105d} To the number of thirty they were condemned and +executed; while two of them, Hugh M'Kail, a young minister, and Neilson +of Corsack, were tortured with the boots. + +The goods of those who perished were confiscated, and their bodies were +dismembered and distributed to different parts of the country; 'the heads +of Major M'Culloch and the two Gordons,' it was resolved, says Kirkton, +'should be pitched on the gate of Kirkcudbright; the two Hamiltons and +Strong's head should be affixed at Hamilton, and Captain Arnot's sett on +the Watter Gate at Edinburgh. The armes of all the ten, because they +hade with uplifted hands renewed the Covenant at Lanark, were sent to the +people of that town to expiate that crime, by placing these arms on the +top of the prison.' {106} Among these was John Neilson, the Laird of +Corsack, who saved Turner's life at Dumfries; in return for which service +Sir James attempted, though without success, to get the poor man +reprieved. One of the condemned died of his wounds between the day of +condemnation and the day of execution. 'None of them,' says Kirkton, +'would save their life by taking the declaration and renouncing the +Covenant, though it was offered to them. . . . But never men died in +Scotland so much lamented by the people, not only spectators, but those +in the country. When Knockbreck and his brother were turned over, they +clasped each other in their armes, and so endured the pangs of death. +When Humphrey Colquhoun died, he spoke not like an ordinary citizen, but +like a heavenly minister, relating his comfortable Christian experiences, +and called for his Bible, and laid it on his wounded arm, and read John +iii. 8, and spoke upon it to the admiration of all. But most of all, +when Mr. M'Kail died, there was such a lamentation as was never known in +Scotland before; not one dry cheek upon all the street, or in all the +numberless windows in the mercate place.' {107a} + +The following passage from this speech speaks for itself and its author: + +'Hereafter I will not talk with flesh and blood, nor think on the world's +consolations. Farewell to all my friends, whose company hath been +refreshful to me in my pilgrimage. I have done with the light of the sun +and the moon; welcome eternal light, eternal life, everlasting love, +everlasting praise, everlasting glory. Praise to Him that sits upon the +throne, and to the Lamb for ever! Bless the Lord, O my soul, that hath +pardoned all my iniquities in the blood of His Son, and healed all my +diseases. Bless Him, O all ye His angels that excel in strength, ye +ministers of His that do His pleasure. Bless the Lord, O my soul!' +{107b} + +After having ascended the gallows ladder he again broke forth in the +following words of touching eloquence: 'And now I leave off to speak any +more to creatures, and begin my intercourse with God, which shall never +be broken off. Farewell father and mother, friends and relations! +Farewell the world and all delights! Farewell meat and drink! Farewell +sun, moon, and stars!--Welcome God and Father! Welcome sweet Jesus +Christ, the Mediator of the new covenant! Welcome blessed Spirit of +grace and God of all consolation! Welcome glory! Welcome eternal life! +Welcome Death!' {107c} + +At Glasgow, too, where some were executed, they caused the soldiers to +beat the drums and blow the trumpets on their closing ears. Hideous +refinement of revenge! Even the last words which drop from the lips of a +dying man--words surely the most sincere and the most unbiassed which +mortal mouth can utter--even these were looked upon as poisoned and as +poisonous. 'Drown their last accents,' was the cry, 'lest they should +lead the crowd to take their part, or at the least to mourn their doom!' +{108a} But, after all, perhaps it was more merciful than one would +think--unintentionally so, of course; perhaps the storm of harsh and +fiercely jubilant noises, the clanging of trumpets, the rattling of +drums, and the hootings and jeerings of an unfeeling mob, which were the +last they heard on earth, might, when the mortal fight was over, when the +river of death was passed, add tenfold sweetness to the hymning of the +angels, tenfold peacefulness to the shores which they had reached. + +Not content with the cruelty of these executions, some even of the +peasantry, though these were confined to the shire of Mid-Lothian, +pursued, captured, plundered, and murdered the miserable fugitives who +fell in their way. One strange story have we of these times of blood and +persecution: Kirkton the historian and popular tradition tell us alike of +a flame which often would arise from the grave, in a moss near Carnwath, +of some of those poor rebels: of how it crept along the ground; of how it +covered the house of their murderer; and of how it scared him with its +lurid glare. + +Hear Daniel Defoe: {108b} + + 'If the poor people were by these insupportable violences made + desperate, and driven to all the extremities of a wild despair, who + can justly reflect on them when they read in the Word of God "That + oppression makes a wise man mad"? And therefore were there no other + original of the insurrection known by the name of the Rising of + Pentland, it was nothing but what the intolerable oppressions of + those times might have justified to all the world, nature having + dictated to all people a right of defence when illegally and + arbitrarily attacked in a manner not justifiable either by laws of + nature, the laws of God, or the laws of the country.' + +Bear this remonstrance of Defoe's in mind, and though it is the fashion +of the day to jeer and to mock, to execrate and to contemn, the noble +band of Covenanters--though the bitter laugh at their old-world religious +views, the curl of the lip at their merits, and the chilling silence on +their bravery and their determination, are but too rife through all +society--be charitable to what was evil and honest to what was good about +the Pentland insurgents, who fought for life and liberty, for country and +religion, on the 28th of November 1666, now just two hundred years ago. + + * * * * * + +EDINBURGH, 28_th November_ 1866. + + + + +THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW + + +History is much decried; it is a tissue of errors, we are told, no doubt +correctly; and rival historians expose each other's blunders with +gratification. Yet the worst historian has a clearer view of the period +he studies than the best of us can hope to form of that in which we live. +The obscurest epoch is to-day; and that for a thousand reasons of +inchoate tendency, conflicting report, and sheer mass and multiplicity of +experience; but chiefly, perhaps, by reason of an insidious shifting of +landmarks. Parties and ideas continually move, but not by measurable +marches on a stable course; the political soil itself steals forth by +imperceptible degrees, like a travelling glacier, carrying on its bosom +not only political parties but their flag-posts and cantonments; so that +what appears to be an eternal city founded on hills is but a flying +island of Laputa. It is for this reason in particular that we are all +becoming Socialists without knowing it; by which I would not in the least +refer to the acute case of Mr. Hyndman and his horn-blowing supporters, +sounding their trumps of a Sunday within the walls of our individualist +Jericho--but to the stealthy change that has come over the spirit of +Englishmen and English legislation. A little while ago, and we were +still for liberty; 'crowd a few more thousands on the bench of +Government,' we seemed to cry; 'keep her head direct on liberty, and we +cannot help but come to port.' This is over; _laisser faire_ declines in +favour; our legislation grows authoritative, grows philanthropical, +bristles with new duties and new penalties, and casts a spawn of +inspectors, who now begin, note-book in hand, to darken the face of +England. It may be right or wrong, we are not trying that; but one thing +it is beyond doubt: it is Socialism in action, and the strange thing is +that we scarcely know it. + +Liberty has served us a long while, and it may be time to seek new +altars. Like all other principles, she has been proved to be +self-exclusive in the long run. She has taken wages besides (like all +other virtues) and dutifully served Mammon; so that many things we were +accustomed to admire as the benefits of freedom and common to all were +truly benefits of wealth, and took their value from our neighbours' +poverty. A few shocks of logic, a few disclosures (in the journalistic +phrase) of what the freedom of manufacturers, landlords, or shipowners +may imply for operatives, tenants, or seamen, and we not unnaturally +begin to turn to that other pole of hope, beneficent tyranny. Freedom, +to be desirable, involves kindness, wisdom, and all the virtues of the +free; but the free man as we have seen him in action has been, as of +yore, only the master of many helots; and the slaves are still ill-fed, +ill-clad, ill-taught, ill-housed, insolently treated, and driven to their +mines and workshops by the lash of famine. So much, in other men's +affairs, we have begun to see clearly; we have begun to despair of virtue +in these other men, and from our seat in Parliament begin to discharge +upon them, thick as arrows, the host of our inspectors. The landlord has +long shaken his head over the manufacturer; those who do business on land +have lost all trust in the virtues of the shipowner; the professions look +askance upon the retail traders and have even started their co-operative +stores to ruin them; and from out the smoke-wreaths of Birmingham a +finger has begun to write upon the wall the condemnation of the landlord. +Thus, piece by piece, do we condemn each other, and yet not perceive the +conclusion, that our whole estate is somewhat damnable. Thus, piece by +piece, each acting against his neighbour, each sawing away the branch on +which some other interest is seated, do we apply in detail our +Socialistic remedies, and yet not perceive that we are all labouring +together to bring in Socialism at large. A tendency so stupid and so +selfish is like to prove invincible; and if Socialism be at all a +practicable rule of life, there is every chance that our grand-children +will see the day and taste the pleasures of existence in something far +liker an ant-heap than any previous human polity. And this not in the +least because of the voice of Mr. Hyndman or the horns of his followers; +but by the mere glacier movement of the political soil, bearing forward +on its bosom, apparently undisturbed, the proud camps of Whig and Tory. +If Mr. Hyndman were a man of keen humour, which is far from my conception +of his character, he might rest from his troubling and look on: the walls +of Jericho begin already to crumble and dissolve. That great servile +war, the Armageddon of money and numbers, to which we looked forward when +young, becomes more and more unlikely; and we may rather look to see a +peaceable and blindfold evolution, the work of dull men immersed in +political tactics and dead to political results. + +The principal scene of this comedy lies, of course, in the House of +Commons; it is there, besides, that the details of this new evolution (if +it proceed) will fall to be decided; so that the state of Parliament is +not only diagnostic of the present but fatefully prophetic of the future. +Well, we all know what Parliament is, and we are all ashamed of it. We +may pardon it some faults, indeed, on the ground of Irish obstruction--a +bitter trial, which it supports with notable good humour. But the excuse +is merely local; it cannot apply to similar bodies in America and France; +and what are we to say of these? President Cleveland's letter may serve +as a picture of the one; a glance at almost any paper will convince us of +the weakness of the other. Decay appears to have seized on the organ of +popular government in every land; and this just at the moment when we +begin to bring to it, as to an oracle of justice, the whole skein of our +private affairs to be unravelled, and ask it, like a new Messiah, to take +upon itself our frailties and play for us the part that should be played +by our own virtues. For that, in few words, is the case. We cannot +trust ourselves to behave with decency; we cannot trust our consciences; +and the remedy proposed is to elect a round number of our neighbours, +pretty much at random, and say to these: 'Be ye our conscience; make laws +so wise, and continue from year to year to administer them so wisely, +that they shall save us from ourselves and make us righteous and happy, +world without end. Amen.' And who can look twice at the British +Parliament and then seriously bring it such a task? I am not advancing +this as an argument against Socialism: once again, nothing is further +from my mind. There are great truths in Socialism, or no one, not even +Mr. Hyndman, would be found to hold it; and if it came, and did one-tenth +part of what it offers, I for one should make it welcome. But if it is +to come, we may as well have some notion of what it will be like; and the +first thing to grasp is that our new polity will be designed and +administered (to put it courteously) with something short of inspiration. +It will be made, or will grow, in a human parliament; and the one thing +that will not very hugely change is human nature. The Anarchists think +otherwise, from which it is only plain that they have not carried to the +study of history the lamp of human sympathy. + +Given, then, our new polity, with its new waggon-load of laws, what +headmarks must we look for in the life? We chafe a good deal at that +excellent thing, the income-tax, because it brings into our affairs the +prying fingers, and exposes us to the tart words, of the official. The +official, in all degrees, is already something of a terror to many of us. +I would not willingly have to do with even a police-constable in any +other spirit than that of kindness. I still remember in my dreams the +eye-glass of a certain _attache_ at a certain embassy--an eyeglass that +was a standing indignity to all on whom it looked; and my next most +disagreeable remembrance is of a bracing, Republican postman in the city +of San Francisco. I lived in that city among working folk, and what my +neighbours accepted at the postman's hands--nay, what I took from him +myself--it is still distasteful to recall. The bourgeois, residing in +the upper parts of society, has but few opportunities of tasting this +peculiar bowl; but about the income-tax, as I have said, or perhaps about +a patent, or in the halls of an embassy at the hands of my friend of the +eye-glass, he occasionally sets his lips to it; and he may thus imagine +(if he has that faculty of imagination, without which most faculties are +void) how it tastes to his poorer neighbours, who must drain it to the +dregs. In every contact with authority, with their employer, with the +police, with the School Board officer, in the hospital, or in the +workhouse, they have equally the occasion to appreciate the light-hearted +civility of the man in office; and as an experimentalist in several +out-of-the-way provinces of life, I may say it has but to be felt to be +appreciated. Well, this golden age of which we are speaking will be the +golden age of officials. In all our concerns it will be their beloved +duty to meddle, with what tact, with what obliging words, analogy will +aid us to imagine. It is likely these gentlemen will be periodically +elected; they will therefore have their turn of being underneath, which +does not always sweeten men's conditions. The laws they will have to +administer will be no clearer than those we know to-day, and the body +which is to regulate their administration no wiser than the British +Parliament. So that upon all hands we may look for a form of servitude +most galling to the blood--servitude to many and changing masters, and +for all the slights that accompany the rule of jack-in-office. And if +the Socialistic programme be carried out with the least fulness, we shall +have lost a thing, in most respects not much to be regretted, but as a +moderator of oppression, a thing nearly invaluable--the newspaper. For +the independent journal is a creature of capital and competition; it +stands and falls with millionaires and railway bonds and all the abuses +and glories of to-day; and as soon as the State has fairly taken its bent +to authority and philanthropy, and laid the least touch on private +property, the days of the independent journal are numbered. State +railways may be good things and so may State bakeries; but a State +newspaper will never be a very trenchant critic of the State officials. + +But again, these officials would have no sinecure. Crime would perhaps +be less, for some of the motives of crime we may suppose would pass away. +But if Socialism were carried out with any fulness, there would be more +contraventions. We see already new sins ringing up like mustard--School +Board sins, factory sins, Merchant Shipping Act sins--none of which I +would be thought to except against in particular, but all of which, taken +together, show us that Socialism can be a hard master even in the +beginning. If it go on to such heights as we hear proposed and lauded, +if it come actually to its ideal of the ant-heap, ruled with iron +justice, the number of new contraventions will be out of all proportion +multiplied. Take the case of work alone. Man is an idle animal. He is +at least as intelligent as the ant; but generations of advisers have in +vain recommended him the ant's example. Of those who are found truly +indefatigable in business, some are misers; some are the practisers of +delightful industries, like gardening; some are students, artists, +inventors, or discoverers, men lured forward by successive hopes; and the +rest are those who live by games of skill or hazard--financiers, +billiard-players, gamblers, and the like. But in unloved toils, even +under the prick of necessity, no man is continually sedulous. Once +eliminate the fear of starvation, once eliminate or bound the hope of +riches, and we shall see plenty of skulking and malingering. Society +will then be something not wholly unlike a cotton plantation in the old +days; with cheerful, careless, demoralised slaves, with elected +overseers, and, instead of the planter, a chaotic popular assembly. If +the blood be purposeful and the soil strong, such a plantation may +succeed, and be, indeed, a busy ant-heap, with full granaries and long +hours of leisure. But even then I think the whip will be in the +overseer's hands, and not in vain. For, when it comes to be a question +of each man doing his own share or the rest doing more, prettiness of +sentiment will be forgotten. To dock the skulker's food is not enough; +many will rather eat haws and starve on petty pilferings than put their +shoulder to the wheel for one hour daily. For such as these, then, the +whip will be in the overseer's hand; and his own sense of justice and the +superintendence of a chaotic popular assembly will be the only checks on +its employment. Now, you may be an industrious man and a good citizen, +and yet not love, nor yet be loved by, Dr. Fell the inspector. It is +admitted by private soldiers that the disfavour of a sergeant is an evil +not to be combated; offend the sergeant, they say, and in a brief while +you will either be disgraced or have deserted. And the sergeant can no +longer appeal to the lash. But if these things go on, we shall see, or +our sons shall see, what it is to have offended an inspector. + +This for the unfortunate. But with the fortunate also, even those whom +the inspector loves, it may not be altogether well. It is concluded that +in such a state of society, supposing it to be financially sound, the +level of comfort will be high. It does not follow: there are strange +depths of idleness in man, a too-easily-got sufficiency, as in the case +of the sago-eaters, often quenching the desire for all besides; and it is +possible that the men of the richest ant-heaps may sink even into +squalor. But suppose they do not; suppose our tricksy instrument of +human nature, when we play upon it this new tune, should respond kindly; +suppose no one to be damped and none exasperated by the new conditions, +the whole enterprise to be financially sound--a vaulting supposition--and +all the inhabitants to dwell together in a golden mean of comfort: we +have yet to ask ourselves if this be what man desire, or if it be what +man will even deign to accept for a continuance. It is certain that man +loves to eat, it is not certain that he loves that only or that best. He +is supposed to love comfort; it is not a love, at least, that he is +faithful to. He is supposed to love happiness; it is my contention that +he rather loves excitement. Danger, enterprise, hope, the novel, the +aleatory, are dearer to man than regular meals. He does not think so +when he is hungry, but he thinks so again as soon as he is fed; and on +the hypothesis of a successful ant-heap, he would never go hungry. It +would be always after dinner in that society, as, in the land of the +Lotos-eaters, it was always afternoon; and food, which, when we have it +not, seems all-important, drops in our esteem, as soon as we have it, to +a mere prerequisite of living. + +That for which man lives is not the same thing for all individuals nor in +all ages; yet it has a common base; what he seeks and what he must have +is that which will seize and hold his attention. Regular meals and +weatherproof lodgings will not do this long. Play in its wide sense, as +the artificial induction of sensation, including all games and all arts, +will, indeed, go far to keep him conscious of himself; but in the end he +wearies for realities. Study or experiment, to some rare natures, is the +unbroken pastime of a life. These are enviable natures; people shut in +the house by sickness often bitterly envy them; but the commoner man +cannot continue to exist upon such altitudes: his feet itch for physical +adventure; his blood boils for physical dangers, pleasures, and triumphs; +his fancy, the looker after new things, cannot continue to look for them +in books and crucibles, but must seek them on the breathing stage of +life. Pinches, buffets, the glow of hope, the shock of disappointment, +furious contention with obstacles: these are the true elixir for all +vital spirits, these are what they seek alike in their romantic +enterprises and their unromantic dissipations. When they are taken in +some pinch closer than the common, they cry, 'Catch me here again!' and +sure enough you catch them there again--perhaps before the week is out. +It is as old as _Robinson Crusoe_; as old as man. Our race has not been +strained for all these ages through that sieve of dangers that we call +Natural Selection, to sit down with patience in the tedium of safety; the +voices of its fathers call it forth. Already in our society as it +exists, the bourgeois is too much cottoned about for any zest in living; +he sits in his parlour out of reach of any danger, often out of reach of +any vicissitude but one of health; and there he yawns. If the people in +the next villa took pot-shots at him, he might be killed indeed, but so +long as he escaped he would find his blood oxygenated and his views of +the world brighter. If Mr. Mallock, on his way to the publishers, should +have his skirts pinned to a wall by a javelin, it would not occur to +him--at least for several hours--to ask if life were worth living; and if +such peril were a daily matter, he would ask it never more; he would have +other things to think about, he would be living indeed--not lying in a +box with cotton, safe, but immeasurably dull. The aleatory, whether it +touch life, or fortune, or renown--whether we explore Africa or only toss +for halfpence--that is what I conceive men to love best, and that is what +we are seeking to exclude from men's existences. Of all forms of the +aleatory, that which most commonly attends our working men--the danger of +misery from want of work--is the least inspiriting: it does not whip the +blood, it does not evoke the glory of contest; it is tragic, but it is +passive; and yet, in so far as it is aleatory, and a peril sensibly +touching them, it does truly season the men's lives. Of those who fail, +I do not speak--despair should be sacred; but to those who even modestly +succeed, the changes of their life bring interest: a job found, a +shilling saved, a dainty earned, all these are wells of pleasure +springing afresh for the successful poor; and it is not from these but +from the villa-dweller that we hear complaints of the unworthiness of +life. Much, then, as the average of the proletariat would gain in this +new state of life, they would also lose a certain something, which would +not be missed in the beginning, but would be missed progressively and +progressively lamented. Soon there would be a looking back: there would +be tales of the old world humming in young men's ears, tales of the tramp +and the pedlar, and the hopeful emigrant. And in the stall-fed life of +the successful ant-heap--with its regular meals, regular duties, regular +pleasures, an even course of life, and fear excluded--the vicissitudes, +delights, and havens of to-day will seem of epic breadth. This may seem +a shallow observation; but the springs by which men are moved lie much on +the surface. Bread, I believe, has always been considered first, but the +circus comes close upon its heels. Bread we suppose to be given amply; +the cry for circuses will be the louder, and if the life of our +descendants be such as we have conceived, there are two beloved pleasures +on which they will be likely to fall back: the pleasures of intrigue and +of sedition. + +In all this I have supposed the ant-heap to be financially sound. I am +no economist, only a writer of fiction; but even as such, I know one +thing that bears on the economic question--I know the imperfection of +man's faculty for business. The Anarchists, who count some rugged +elements of common sense among what seem to me their tragic errors, have +said upon this matter all that I could wish to say, and condemned +beforehand great economical polities. So far it is obvious that they are +right; they may be right also in predicting a period of communal +independence, and they may even be right in thinking that desirable. But +the rise of communes is none the less the end of economic equality, just +when we were told it was beginning. Communes will not be all equal in +extent, nor in quality of soil, nor in growth of population; nor will the +surplus produce of all be equally marketable. It will be the old story +of competing interests, only with a new unit; and, as it appears to me, a +new, inevitable danger. For the merchant and the manufacturer, in this +new world, will be a sovereign commune; it is a sovereign power that will +see its crops undersold, and its manufactures worsted in the market. And +all the more dangerous that the sovereign power should be small. Great +powers are slow to stir; national affronts, even with the aid of +newspapers, filter slowly into popular consciousness; national losses are +so unequally shared, that one part of the population will be counting its +gains while another sits by a cold hearth. But in the sovereign commune +all will be centralised and sensitive. When jealousy springs up, when +(let us say) the commune of Poole has overreached the commune of +Dorchester, irritation will run like quicksilver throughout the body +politic; each man in Dorchester will have to suffer directly in his diet +and his dress; even the secretary, who drafts the official +correspondence, will sit down to his task embittered, as a man who has +dined ill and may expect to dine worse; and thus a business difference +between communes will take on much the same colour as a dispute between +diggers in the lawless West, and will lead as directly to the arbitrament +of blows. So that the establishment of the communal system will not only +reintroduce all the injustices and heart-burnings of economic inequality, +but will, in all human likelihood, inaugurate a world of hedgerow +warfare. Dorchester will march on Poole, Sherborne on Dorchester, +Wimborne on both; the waggons will be fired on as they follow the +highway, the trains wrecked on the lines, the ploughman will go armed +into the field of tillage; and if we have not a return of ballad +literature, the local press at least will celebrate in a high vein the +victory of Cerne Abbas or the reverse of Toller Porcorum. At least this +will not be dull; when I was younger, I could have welcomed such a world +with relief; but it is the New-Old with a vengeance, and irresistibly +suggests the growth of military powers and the foundation of new empires. + + + + +COLLEGE PAPERS + + +CHAPTER I--EDINBURGH STUDENTS IN 1824 + + +On the 2nd of January 1824 was issued the prospectus of the _Lapsus +Linguae_; _or_, _the College Tatler_; and on the 7th the first number +appeared. On Friday the 2nd of April '_Mr. Tatler_ became speechless.' +Its history was not all one success; for the editor (who applies to +himself the words of Iago, 'I am nothing if I am not critical') +overstepped the bounds of caution, and found himself seriously embroiled +with the powers that were. There appeared in No. XVI. a most bitter +satire upon Sir John Leslie, in which he was compared to Falstaff, +charged with puffing himself, and very prettily censured for publishing +only the first volume of a class-book, and making all purchasers pay for +both. Sir John Leslie took up the matter angrily, visited Carfrae the +publisher, and threatened him with an action, till he was forced to turn +the hapless _Lapsus_ out of doors. The maltreated periodical found +shelter in the shop of Huie, Infirmary Street; and No. XVII. was duly +issued from the new office. No. XVII. beheld _Mr. Tatler's_ humiliation, +in which, with fulsome apology and not very credible assurances of +respect and admiration, he disclaims the article in question, and +advertises a new issue of No. XVI. with all objectionable matter omitted. +This, with pleasing euphemism, he terms in a later advertisement, 'a new +and improved edition.' This was the only remarkable adventure of _Mr. +Tatler's_ brief existence; unless we consider as such a silly Chaldee +manuscript in imitation of _Blackwood_, and a letter of reproof from a +divinity student on the impiety of the same dull effusion. He laments +the near approach of his end in pathetic terms. 'How shall we summon up +sufficient courage,' says he, 'to look for the last time on our beloved +little devil and his inestimable proof-sheet? How shall we be able to +pass No. 14 Infirmary Street and feel that all its attractions are over? +How shall we bid farewell for ever to that excellent man, with the long +greatcoat, wooden leg and wooden board, who acts as our representative at +the gate of _Alma Mater_?' But alas! he had no choice: _Mr. Tatler_, +whose career, he says himself, had been successful, passed peacefully +away, and has ever since dumbly implored 'the bringing home of bell and +burial.' + +_Alter et idem_. A very different affair was the _Lapsus Linguae_ from +the _Edinburgh University Magazine_. The two prospectuses alone, laid +side by side, would indicate the march of luxury and the repeal of the +paper duty. The penny bi-weekly broadside of session 1828-4 was almost +wholly dedicated to Momus. Epigrams, pointless letters, amorous verses, +and University grievances are the continual burthen of the song. But +_Mr. Tatler_ was not without a vein of hearty humour; and his pages +afford what is much better: to wit, a good picture of student life as it +then was. The students of those polite days insisted on retaining their +hats in the class-room. There was a cab-stance in front of the College; +and 'Carriage Entrance' was posted above the main arch, on what the +writer pleases to call 'coarse, unclassic boards.' The benches of the +'Speculative' then, as now, were red; but all other Societies (the +'Dialectic' is the only survivor) met downstairs, in some rooms of which +it is pointedly said that 'nothing else could conveniently be made of +them.' However horrible these dungeons may have been, it is certain that +they were paid for, and that far too heavily for the taste of session +1823-4, which found enough calls upon its purse for porter and toasted +cheese at Ambrose's, or cranberry tarts and ginger-wine at Doull's. +Duelling was still a possibility; so much so that when two medicals fell +to fisticuffs in Adam Square, it was seriously hinted that single combat +would be the result. Last and most wonderful of all, Gall and Spurzheim +were in every one's mouth; and the Law student, after having exhausted +Byron's poetry and Scott's novels, informed the ladies of his belief in +phrenology. In the present day he would dilate on 'Red as a rose is +she,' and then mention that he attends Old Greyfriars', as a tacit claim +to intellectual superiority. I do not know that the advance is much. + +But _Mr. Tatler's_ best performances were three short papers in which he +hit off pretty smartly the idiosyncrasies of the '_Divinity_,' the +'_Medical_,' and the '_Law_' of session 1823-4. The fact that there was +no notice of the '_Arts_' seems to suggest that they stood in the same +intermediate position as they do now--the epitome of student-kind. _Mr. +Tatler's_ satire is, on the whole, good-humoured, and has not grown +superannuated in _all_ its limbs. His descriptions may limp at some +points, but there are certain broad traits that apply equally well to +session 1870-1. He shows us the _Divinity_ of the period--tall, pale, +and slender--his collar greasy, and his coat bare about the seams--'his +white neckcloth serving four days, and regularly turned the third'--'the +rim of his hat deficient in wool'--and 'a weighty volume of theology +under his arm.' He was the man to buy cheap 'a snuff-box, or a dozen of +pencils, or a six-bladed knife, or a quarter of a hundred quills,' at any +of the public sale-rooms. He was noted for cheap purchases, and for +exceeding the legal tender in halfpence. He haunted 'the darkest and +remotest corner of the Theatre Gallery.' He was to be seen issuing from +'aerial lodging-houses.' Withal, says mine author, 'there were many good +points about him: he paid his landlady's bill, read his Bible, went twice +to church on Sunday, seldom swore, was not often tipsy, and bought the +_Lapsus Linguae_.' + +The _Medical_, again, 'wore a white greatcoat, and consequently talked +loud'--(there is something very delicious in that _consequently_). He +wore his hat on one side. He was active, volatile, and went to the top +of Arthur's Seat on the Sunday forenoon. He was as quiet in a debating +society as he was loud in the streets. He was reckless and imprudent: +yesterday he insisted on your sharing a bottle of claret with him (and +claret was claret then, before the cheap-and-nasty treaty), and to-morrow +he asks you for the loan of a penny to buy the last number of the +_Lapsus_. + +The student of _Law_, again, was a learned man. 'He had turned over the +leaves of Justinian's _Institutes_, and knew that they were written in +Latin. He was well acquainted with the title-page of Blackstone's +_Commentaries_, and _argal_ (as the gravedigger in _Hamlet_ says) he was +not a person to be laughed at.' He attended the Parliament House in the +character of a critic, and could give you stale sneers at all the +celebrated speakers. He was the terror of essayists at the Speculative +or the Forensic. In social qualities he seems to have stood unrivalled. +Even in the police-office we find him shining with undiminished lustre. +'If a _Charlie_ should find him rather noisy at an untimely hour, and +venture to take him into custody, he appears next morning like a Daniel +come to judgment. He opens his mouth to speak, and the divine precepts +of unchanging justice and Scots law flow from his tongue. The magistrate +listens in amazement, and fines him only a couple of guineas.' + +Such then were our predecessors and their College Magazine. Barclay, +Ambrose, Young Amos, and Fergusson were to them what the Cafe, the +Rainbow, and Rutherford's are to us. An hour's reading in these old +pages absolutely confuses us, there is so much that is similar and so +much that is different; the follies and amusements are so like our own, +and the manner of frolicking and enjoying are so changed, that one pauses +and looks about him in philosophic judgment. The muddy quadrangle is +thick with living students; but in our eyes it swarms also with the +phantasmal white greatcoats and tilted hats of 1824. Two races meet: +races alike and diverse. Two performances are played before our eyes; +but the change seems merely of impersonators, of scenery, of costume. +Plot and passion are the same. It is the fall of the spun shilling +whether seventy-one or twenty-four has the best of it. + +In a future number we hope to give a glance at the individualities of the +present, and see whether the cast shall be head or tail--whether we or +the readers of the _Lapsus_ stand higher in the balance. + + + +CHAPTER II--THE MODERN STUDENT CONSIDERED GENERALLY + + +We have now reached the difficult portion of our task. _Mr. Tatler_, for +all that we care, may have been as virulent as he liked about the +students of a former; but for the iron to touch our sacred selves, for a +brother of the Guild to betray its most privy infirmities, let such a +Judas look to himself as he passes on his way to the Scots Law or the +Diagnostic, below the solitary lamp at the corner of the dark quadrangle. +We confess that this idea alarms us. We enter a protest. We bind +ourselves over verbally to keep the peace. We hope, moreover, that +having thus made you secret to our misgivings, you will excuse us if we +be dull, and set that down to caution which you might before have charged +to the account of stupidity. + +The natural tendency of civilisation is to obliterate those distinctions +which are the best salt of life. All the fine old professional flavour +in language has evaporated. Your very gravedigger has forgotten his +avocation in his electorship, and would quibble on the Franchise over +Ophelia's grave, instead of more appropriately discussing the duration of +bodies under ground. From this tendency, from this gradual attrition of +life, in which everything pointed and characteristic is being rubbed +down, till the whole world begins to slip between our fingers in smooth +undistinguishable sands, from this, we say, it follows that we must not +attempt to join _Mr. Taller_ in his simple division of students into +_Law_, _Divinity_, and _Medical_. Nowadays the Faculties may shake hands +over their follies; and, like Mrs. Frail and Mrs. Foresight (in _Love for +Love_) they may stand in the doors of opposite class-rooms, crying: +'Sister, Sister--Sister everyway!' A few restrictions, indeed, remain to +influence the followers of individual branches of study. The Divinity, +for example, must be an avowed believer; and as this, in the present day, +is unhappily considered by many as a confession of weakness, he is fain +to choose one of two ways of gilding the distasteful orthodox bolus. +Some swallow it in a thin jelly of metaphysics; for it is even a credit +to believe in God on the evidence of some crack-jaw philosopher, although +it is a decided slur to believe in Him on His own authority. Others +again (and this we think the worst method), finding German grammar a +somewhat dry morsel, run their own little heresy as a proof of +independence; and deny one of the cardinal doctrines that they may hold +the others without being laughed at. + +Besides, however, such influences as these, there is little more +distinction between the faculties than the traditionary ideal, handed +down through a long sequence of students, and getting rounder and more +featureless at each successive session. The plague of uniformity has +descended on the College. Students (and indeed all sorts and conditions +of men) now require their faculty and character hung round their neck on +a placard, like the scenes in Shakespeare's theatre. And in the midst of +all this weary sameness, not the least common feature is the gravity of +every face. No more does the merry medical run eagerly in the clear +winter morning up the rugged sides of Arthur's Seat, and hear the church +bells begin and thicken and die away below him among the gathered smoke +of the city. He will not break Sunday to so little purpose. He no +longer finds pleasure in the mere output of his surplus energy. He +husbands his strength, and lays out walks, and reading, and amusement +with deep consideration, so that he may get as much work and pleasure out +of his body as he can, and waste none of his energy on mere impulse, or +such flat enjoyment as an excursion in the country. + +See the quadrangle in the interregnum of classes, in those two or three +minutes when it is full of passing students, and we think you will admit +that, if we have not made it 'an habitation of dragons,' we have at least +transformed it into 'a court for owls.' Solemnity broods heavily over +the enclosure; and wherever you seek it, you will find a dearth of +merriment, an absence of real youthful enjoyment. You might as well try + + 'To move wild laughter in the throat of death' + +as to excite any healthy stir among the bulk of this staid company. + +The studious congregate about the doors of the different classes, +debating the matter of the lecture, or comparing note-books. A reserved +rivalry sunders them. Here are some deep in Greek particles: there, +others are already inhabitants of that land + + 'Where entity and quiddity, + 'Like ghosts of defunct bodies fly-- + Where Truth in person does appear + Like words congealed in northern air.' + +But none of them seem to find any relish for their studies--no pedantic +love of this subject or that lights up their eyes--science and learning +are only means for a livelihood, which they have considerately embraced +and which they solemnly pursue. 'Labour's pale priests,' their lips seem +incapable of laughter, except in the way of polite recognition of +professorial wit. The stains of ink are chronic on their meagre fingers. +They walk like Saul among the asses. + +The dandies are not less subdued. In 1824 there was a noisy dapper +dandyism abroad. Vulgar, as we should now think, but yet genial--a +matter of white greatcoats and loud voices--strangely different from the +stately frippery that is rife at present. These men are out of their +element in the quadrangle. Even the small remains of boisterous humour, +which still clings to any collection of young men, jars painfully on +their morbid sensibilities; and they beat a hasty retreat to resume their +perfunctory march along Princes Street. Flirtation is to them a great +social duty, a painful obligation, which they perform on every occasion +in the same chill official manner, and with the same commonplace +advances, the same dogged observance of traditional behaviour. The shape +of their raiment is a burden almost greater than they can bear, and they +halt in their walk to preserve the due adjustment of their trouser-knees, +till one would fancy he had mixed in a procession of Jacobs. We speak, +of course, for ourselves; but we would as soon associate with a herd of +sprightly apes as with these gloomy modern beaux. Alas, that our +Mirabels, our Valentines, even our Brummels, should have left their +mantles upon nothing more amusing! + +Nor are the fast men less constrained. Solemnity, even in dissipation, +is the order of the day; and they go to the devil with a perverse +seriousness, a systematic rationalism of wickedness that would have +surprised the simpler sinners of old. Some of these men whom we see +gravely conversing on the steps have but a slender acquaintance with each +other. Their intercourse consists principally of mutual bulletins of +depravity; and, week after week, as they meet they reckon up their items +of transgression, and give an abstract of their downward progress for +approval and encouragement. These folk form a freemasonry of their own. +An oath is the shibboleth of their sinister fellowship. Once they hear a +man swear, it is wonderful how their tongues loosen and their bashful +spirits take enlargement, under the consciousness of brotherhood. There +is no folly, no pardoning warmth of temper about them; they are as +steady-going and systematic in their own way as the studious in theirs. + +Not that we are without merry men. No. We shall not be ungrateful to +those, whose grimaces, whose ironical laughter, whose active feet in the +'College Anthem' have beguiled so many weary hours and added a pleasant +variety to the strain of close attention. But even these are too +evidently professional in their antics. They go about cogitating puns +and inventing tricks. It is their vocation, Hal. They are the +gratuitous jesters of the class-room; and, like the clown when he leaves +the stage, their merriment too often sinks as the bell rings the hour of +liberty, and they pass forth by the Post-Office, grave and sedate, and +meditating fresh gambols for the morrow. + +This is the impression left on the mind of any observing student by too +many of his fellows. They seem all frigid old men; and one pauses to +think how such an unnatural state of matters is produced. We feel +inclined to blame for it the unfortunate absence of _University feeling_ +which is so marked a characteristic of our Edinburgh students. +Academical interests are so few and far between--students, as students, +have so little in common, except a peevish rivalry--there is such an +entire want of broad college sympathies and ordinary college friendships, +that we fancy that no University in the kingdom is in so poor a plight. +Our system is full of anomalies. A, who cut B whilst he was a shabby +student, curries sedulously up to him and cudgels his memory for +anecdotes about him when he becomes the great so-and-so. Let there be an +end of this shy, proud reserve on the one hand, and this shuddering fine +ladyism on the other; and we think we shall find both ourselves and the +College bettered. Let it be a sufficient reason for intercourse that two +men sit together on the same benches. Let the great A be held excused +for nodding to the shabby B in Princes Street, if he can say, 'That +fellow is a student.' Once this could be brought about, we think you +would find the whole heart of the University beat faster. We think you +would find a fusion among the students, a growth of common feelings, an +increasing sympathy between class and class, whose influence (in such a +heterogeneous company as ours) might be of incalculable value in all +branches of politics and social progress. It would do more than this. +If we could find some method of making the University a real mother to +her sons--something beyond a building of class-rooms, a Senatus and a +lottery of somewhat shabby prizes--we should strike a death-blow at the +constrained and unnatural attitude of our Society. At present we are not +a united body, but a loose gathering of individuals, whose inherent +attraction is allowed to condense them into little knots and coteries. +Our last snowball riot read us a plain lesson on our condition. There +was no party spirit--no unity of interests. A few, who were +mischievously inclined, marched off to the College of Surgeons in a +pretentious file; but even before they reached their destination the +feeble inspiration had died out in many, and their numbers were sadly +thinned. Some followed strange gods in the direction of Drummond Street, +and others slunk back to meek good-boyism at the feet of the Professors. +The same is visible in better things. As you send a man to an English +University that he may have his prejudices rubbed off, you might send him +to Edinburgh that he may have them ingrained--rendered +indelible--fostered by sympathy into living principles of his spirit. +And the reason of it is quite plain. From this absence of University +feeling it comes that a man's friendships are always the direct and +immediate results of these very prejudices. A common weakness is the +best master of ceremonies in our quadrangle: a mutual vice is the +readiest introduction. The studious associate with the studious +alone--the dandies with the dandies. There is nothing to force them to +rub shoulders with the others; and so they grow day by day more wedded to +their own original opinions and affections. They see through the same +spectacles continually. All broad sentiments, all real catholic humanity +expires; and the mind gets gradually stiffened into one position--becomes +so habituated to a contracted atmosphere, that it shudders and withers +under the least draught of the free air that circulates in the general +field of mankind. + +Specialism in Society then is, we think, one cause of our present state. +Specialism in study is another. We doubt whether this has ever been a +good thing since the world began; but we are sure it is much worse now +than it was. Formerly, when a man became a specialist, it was out of +affection for his subject. With a somewhat grand devotion he left all +the world of Science to follow his true love; and he contrived to find +that strange pedantic interest which inspired the man who + + 'Settled _Hoti's_ business--let it be-- + Properly based _Oun--_ + Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _De_, + Dead from the waist down.' + +Nowadays it is quite different. Our pedantry wants even the saving +clause of Enthusiasm. The election is now matter of necessity and not of +choice. Knowledge is now too broad a field for your Jack-of-all-Trades; +and, from beautifully utilitarian reasons, he makes his choice, draws his +pen through a dozen branches of study, and behold--John the Specialist. +That this is the way to be wealthy we shall not deny; but we hold that it +is _not_ the way to be healthy or wise. The whole mind becomes narrowed +and circumscribed to one 'punctual spot' of knowledge. A rank unhealthy +soil breeds a harvest of prejudices. Feeling himself above others in his +one little branch--in the classification of toadstools, or Carthaginian +history--he waxes great in his own eyes and looks down on others. Having +all his sympathies educated in one way, they die out in every other; and +he is apt to remain a peevish, narrow, and intolerant bigot. Dilettante +is now a term of reproach; but there is a certain form of dilettantism to +which no one can object. It is this that we want among our students. We +wish them to abandon no subject until they have seen and felt its +merit--to act under a general interest in all branches of knowledge, not +a commercial eagerness to excel in one. + +In both these directions our sympathies are constipated. We are apostles +of our own caste and our own subject of study, instead of being, as we +should, true men and _loving_ students. Of course both of these could be +corrected by the students themselves; but this is nothing to the purpose: +it is more important to ask whether the Senatus or the body of alumni +could do nothing towards the growth of better feeling and wider +sentiments. Perhaps in another paper we may say something upon this +head. + +One other word, however, before we have done. What shall we be when we +grow really old? Of yore, a man was thought to lay on restrictions and +acquire new deadweight of mournful experience with every year, till he +looked back on his youth as the very summer of impulse and freedom. We +please ourselves with thinking that it cannot be so with us. We would +fain hope that, as we have begun in one way, we may end in another; and +that when we are in fact the octogenarians that we _seem_ at present, +there shall be no merrier men on earth. It is pleasant to picture us, +sunning ourselves in Princes Street of a morning, or chirping over our +evening cups, with all the merriment that we wanted in youth. + + + +CHAPTER III--DEBATING SOCIETIES + + +A debating society is at first somewhat of a disappointment. You do not +often find the youthful Demosthenes chewing his pebbles in the same room +with you; or, even if you do, you will probably think the performance +little to be admired. As a general rule, the members speak shamefully +ill. The subjects of debate are heavy; and so are the fines. The Ballot +Question--oldest of dialectic nightmares--is often found astride of a +somnolent sederunt. The Greeks and Romans, too, are reserved as sort of +_general-utility_ men, to do all the dirty work of illustration; and they +fill as many functions as the famous waterfall scene at the 'Princess's,' +which I found doing duty on one evening as a gorge in Peru, a haunt of +German robbers, and a peaceful vale in the Scottish borders. There is a +sad absence of striking argument or real lively discussion. Indeed, you +feel a growing contempt for your fellow-members; and it is not until you +rise yourself to hawk and hesitate and sit shamefully down again, amid +eleemosynary applause, that you begin to find your level and value others +rightly. Even then, even when failure has damped your critical ardour, +you will see many things to be laughed at in the deportment of your +rivals. + +Most laughable, perhaps, are your indefatigable strivers after eloquence. +They are of those who 'pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope,' and +who, since they expect that 'the deficiencies of last sentence will be +supplied by the next,' have been recommended by Dr. Samuel Johnson to +'attend to the History of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.' They are +characterised by a hectic hopefulness. Nothing damps them. They rise +from the ruins of one abortive sentence, to launch forth into another +with unabated vigour. They have all the manner of an orator. From the +tone of their voice, you would expect a splendid period--and lo! a string +of broken-backed, disjointed clauses, eked out with stammerings and +throat-clearings. They possess the art (learned from the pulpit) of +rounding an uneuphonious sentence by dwelling on a single syllable--of +striking a balance in a top-heavy period by lengthening out a word into a +melancholy quaver. Withal, they never cease to hope. Even at last, even +when they have exhausted all their ideas, even after the would-be +peroration has finally refused to perorate, they remain upon their feet +with their mouths open, waiting for some further inspiration, like +Chaucer's widow's son in the dung-hole, after + + 'His throat was kit unto the nekke bone,' + +in vain expectation of that seed that was to be laid upon his tongue, and +give him renewed and clearer utterance. + +These men may have something to say, if they could only say it--indeed +they generally have; but the next class are people who, having nothing to +say, are cursed with a facility and an unhappy command of words, that +makes them the prime nuisances of the society they affect. They try to +cover their absence of matter by an unwholesome vitality of delivery. +They look triumphantly round the room, as if courting applause, after a +torrent of diluted truism. They talk in a circle, harping on the same +dull round of argument, and returning again and again to the same remark +with the same sprightliness, the same irritating appearance of novelty. + +After this set, any one is tolerable; so we shall merely hint at a few +other varieties. There is your man who is pre-eminently conscientious, +whose face beams with sincerity as he opens on the negative, and who +votes on the affirmative at the end, looking round the room with an air +of chastened pride. There is also the irrelevant speaker, who rises, +emits a joke or two, and then sits down again, without ever attempting to +tackle the subject of debate. Again, we have men who ride pick-a-back on +their family reputation, or, if their family have none, identify +themselves with some well-known statesman, use his opinions, and lend him +their patronage on all occasions. This is a dangerous plan, and serves +oftener, I am afraid, to point a difference than to adorn a speech. + +But alas! a striking failure may be reached without tempting Providence +by any of these ambitious tricks. Our own stature will be found high +enough for shame. The success of three simple sentences lures us into a +fatal parenthesis in the fourth, from whose shut brackets we may never +disentangle the thread of our discourse. A momentary flush tempts us +into a quotation; and we may be left helpless in the middle of one of +Pope's couplets, a white film gathering before our eyes, and our kind +friends charitably trying to cover our disgrace by a feeble round of +applause. _Amis lecteurs_, this is a painful topic. It is possible that +we too, we, the 'potent, grave, and reverend' editor, may have suffered +these things, and drunk as deep as any of the cup of shameful failure. +Let us dwell no longer on so delicate a subject. + +In spite, however, of these disagreeables, I should recommend any student +to suffer them with Spartan courage, as the benefits he receives should +repay him an hundredfold for them all. The life of the debating society +is a handy antidote to the life of the classroom and quadrangle. Nothing +could be conceived more excellent as a weapon against many of those +_peccant humours_ that we have been railing against in the jeremiad of +our last 'College Paper'--particularly in the field of intellect. It is +a sad sight to see our heather-scented students, our boys of seventeen, +coming up to College with determined views--_roues_ in +speculation--having gauged the vanity of philosophy or learned to shun it +as the middle-man of heresy--a company of determined, deliberate +opinionists, not to be moved by all the sleights of logic. What have +such men to do with study? If their minds are made up irrevocably, why +burn the 'studious lamp' in search of further confirmation? Every set +opinion I hear a student deliver I feel a certain lowering of my regard. +He who studies, he who is yet employed in groping for his premises, +should keep his mind fluent and sensitive, keen to mark flaws, and +willing to surrender untenable positions. He should keep himself +teachable, or cease the expensive farce of being taught. It is to +further this docile spirit that we desire to press the claims of debating +societies. It is as a means of melting down this museum of premature +petrifactions into living and impressionable soul that we insist on their +utility. If we could once prevail on our students to feel no shame in +avowing an uncertain attitude towards any subject, if we could teach them +that it was unnecessary for every lad to have his _opinionette_ on every +topic, we should have gone a far way towards bracing the intellectual +tone of the coming race of thinkers; and this it is which debating +societies are so well fitted to perform. + +We there meet people of every shade of opinion, and make friends with +them. We are taught to rail against a man the whole session through, and +then hob-a-nob with him at the concluding entertainment. We find men of +talent far exceeding our own, whose conclusions are widely different from +ours; and we are thus taught to distrust ourselves. But the best means +of all towards catholicity is that wholesome rule which some folk are +most inclined to condemn--I mean the law of _obliged speeches_. Your +senior member commands; and you must take the affirmative or the +negative, just as suits his best convenience. This tends to the most +perfect liberality. It is no good hearing the arguments of an opponent, +for in good verity you rarely follow them; and even if you do take the +trouble to listen, it is merely in a captious search for weaknesses. +This is proved, I fear, in every debate; when you hear each speaker +arguing out his own prepared _specialite_ (he never intended speaking, of +course, until some remarks of, etc.), arguing out, I say, his own +_coached-up_ subject without the least attention to what has gone before, +as utterly at sea about the drift of his adversary's speech as Panurge +when he argued with Thaumaste, and merely linking his own prelection to +the last by a few flippant criticisms. Now, as the rule stands, you are +saddled with the side you disapprove, and so you are forced, by regard +for your own fame, to argue out, to feel with, to elaborate completely, +the case as it stands against yourself; and what a fund of wisdom do you +not turn up in this idle digging of the vineyard! How many new +difficulties take form before your eyes? how many superannuated arguments +cripple finally into limbo, under the glance of your enforced +eclecticism! + +Nor is this the only merit of Debating Societies. They tend also to +foster taste, and to promote friendship between University men. This +last, as we have had occasion before to say, is the great requirement of +our student life; and it will therefore be no waste of time if we devote +a paragraph to this subject in its connection with Debating Societies. +At present they partake too much of the nature of a _clique_. Friends +propose friends, and mutual friends second them, until the society +degenerates into a sort of family party. You may confirm old +acquaintances, but you can rarely make new ones. You find yourself in +the atmosphere of your own daily intercourse. Now, this is an +unfortunate circumstance, which it seems to me might readily be +rectified. Our Principal has shown himself so friendly towards all +College improvements that I cherish the hope of seeing shortly realised a +certain suggestion, which is not a new one with me, and which must often +have been proposed and canvassed heretofore--I mean, a real _University +Debating Society_, patronised by the Senatus, presided over by the +Professors, to which every one might gain ready admittance on sight of +his matriculation ticket, where it would be a favour and not a necessity +to speak, and where the obscure student might have another object for +attendance besides the mere desire to save his fines: to wit, the chance +of drawing on himself the favourable consideration of his teachers. This +would be merely following in the good tendency, which has been so +noticeable during all this session, to increase and multiply student +societies and clubs of every sort. Nor would it be a matter of much +difficulty. The united societies would form a nucleus: one of the +class-rooms at first, and perhaps afterwards the great hall above the +library, might be the place of meeting. There would be no want of +attendance or enthusiasm, I am sure; for it is a very different thing to +speak under the bushel of a private club on the one hand, and, on the +other, in a public place, where a happy period or a subtle argument may +do the speaker permanent service in after life. Such a club might end, +perhaps, by rivalling the 'Union' at Cambridge or the 'Union' at Oxford. + + + +CHAPTER IV--THE PHILOSOPHY OF UMBRELLAS {151} + + +It is wonderful to think what a turn has been given to our whole Society +by the fact that we live under the sign of Aquarius--that our climate is +essentially wet. A mere arbitrary distinction, like the walking-swords +of yore, might have remained the symbol of foresight and respectability, +had not the raw mists and dropping showers of our island pointed the +inclination of Society to another exponent of those virtues. A ribbon of +the Legion of Honour or a string of medals may prove a person's courage; +a title may prove his birth; a professorial chair his study and +acquirement; but it is the habitual carriage of the umbrella that is the +stamp of Respectability. The umbrella has become the acknowledged index +of social position. + +Robinson Crusoe presents us with a touching instance of the hankering +after them inherent in the civilised and educated mind. To the +superficial, the hot suns of Juan Fernandez may sufficiently account for +his quaint choice of a luxury; but surely one who had borne the hard +labour of a seaman under the tropics for all these years could have +supported an excursion after goats or a peaceful _constitutional_ arm in +arm with the nude Friday. No, it was not this: the memory of a vanished +respectability called for some outward manifestation, and the result +was--an umbrella. A pious castaway might have rigged up a belfry and +solaced his Sunday mornings with the mimicry of church-bells; but Crusoe +was rather a moralist than a pietist, and his leaf-umbrella is as fine an +example of the civilised mind striving to express itself under adverse +circumstances as we have ever met with. + +It is not for nothing, either, that the umbrella has become the very +foremost badge of modern civilisation--the Urim and Thummim of +respectability. Its pregnant symbolism has taken its rise in the most +natural manner. Consider, for a moment, when umbrellas were first +introduced into this country, what manner of men would use them, and what +class would adhere to the useless but ornamental cane. The first, +without doubt, would be the hypochondriacal, out of solicitude for their +health, or the frugal, out of care for their raiment; the second, it is +equally plain, would include the fop, the fool, and the Bobadil. Any one +acquainted with the growth of Society, and knowing out of what small +seeds of cause are produced great revolutions, and wholly new conditions +of intercourse, sees from this simple thought how the carriage of an +umbrella came to indicate frugality, judicious regard for bodily welfare, +and scorn for mere outward adornment, and, in one word, all those homely +and solid virtues implied in the term RESPECTABILITY. Not that the +umbrella's costliness has nothing to do with its great influence. Its +possession, besides symbolising (as we have already indicated) the change +from wild Esau to plain Jacob dwelling in tents, implies a certain +comfortable provision of fortune. It is not every one that can expose +twenty-six shillings' worth of property to so many chances of loss and +theft. So strongly do we feel on this point, indeed, that we are almost +inclined to consider all who possess really well-conditioned umbrellas as +worthy of the Franchise. They have a qualification standing in their +lobbies; they carry a sufficient stake in the common-weal below their +arm. One who bears with him an umbrella--such a complicated structure of +whalebone, of silk, and of cane, that it becomes a very microcosm of +modern industry--is necessarily a man of peace. A half-crown cane may be +applied to an offender's head on a very moderate provocation; but a +six-and-twenty shilling silk is a possession too precious to be +adventured in the shock of war. + +These are but a few glances at how umbrellas (in the general) came to +their present high estate. But the true Umbrella-Philosopher meets with +far stranger applications as he goes about the streets. + +Umbrellas, like faces, acquire a certain sympathy with the individual who +carries them: indeed, they are far more capable of betraying his trust; +for whereas a face is given to us so far ready made, and all our power +over it is in frowning, and laughing, and grimacing, during the first +three or four decades of life, each umbrella is selected from a whole +shopful, as being most consonant to the purchaser's disposition. An +undoubted power of diagnosis rests with the practised +Umbrella-Philosopher. O you who lisp, and amble, and change the fashion +of your countenances--you who conceal all these, how little do you think +that you left a proof of your weakness in our umbrella-stand--that even +now, as you shake out the folds to meet the thickening snow, we read in +its ivory handle the outward and visible sign of your snobbery, or from +the exposed gingham of its cover detect, through coat and waistcoat, the +hidden hypocrisy of the '_dickey_'! But alas! even the umbrella is no +certain criterion. The falsity and the folly of the human race have +degraded that graceful symbol to the ends of dishonesty; and while some +umbrellas, from carelessness in selection, are not strikingly +characteristic (for it is only in what a man loves that he displays his +real nature), others, from certain prudential motives, are chosen +directly opposite to the person's disposition. A mendacious umbrella is +a sign of great moral degradation. Hypocrisy naturally shelters itself +below a silk; while the fast youth goes to visit his religious friends +armed with the decent and reputable gingham. May it not be said of the +bearers of these inappropriate umbrellas that they go about the streets +'with a lie in their right hand'? + +The kings of Siam, as we read, besides having a graduated social scale of +umbrellas (which was a good thing), prevented the great bulk of their +subjects from having any at all, which was certainly a bad thing. We +should be sorry to believe that this Eastern legislator was a fool--the +idea of an aristocracy of umbrellas is too philosophic to have originated +in a nobody--and we have accordingly taken exceeding pains to find out +the reason of this harsh restriction. We think we have succeeded; but, +while admiring the principle at which he aimed, and while cordially +recognising in the Siamese potentate the only man before ourselves who +had taken a real grasp of the umbrella, we must be allowed to point out +how unphilosophically the great man acted in this particular. His +object, plainly, was to prevent any unworthy persons from bearing the +sacred symbol of domestic virtues. We cannot excuse his limiting these +virtues to the circle of his court. We must only remember that such was +the feeling of the age in which he lived. Liberalism had not yet raised +the war-cry of the working classes. But here was his mistake: it was a +needless regulation. Except in a very few cases of hypocrisy joined to a +powerful intellect, men, not by nature _umbrellarians_, have tried again +and again to become so by art, and yet have failed--have expended their +patrimony in the purchase of umbrella after umbrella, and yet have +systematically lost them, and have finally, with contrite spirits and +shrunken purses, given up their vain struggle, and relied on theft and +borrowing for the remainder of their lives. This is the most remarkable +fact that we have had occasion to notice; and yet we challenge the candid +reader to call it in question. Now, as there cannot be any _moral +selection_ in a mere dead piece of furniture--as the umbrella cannot be +supposed to have an affinity for individual men equal and reciprocal to +that which men certainly feel toward individual umbrellas--we took the +trouble of consulting a scientific friend as to whether there was any +possible physical explanation of the phenomenon. He was unable to supply +a plausible theory, or even hypothesis; but we extract from his letter +the following interesting passage relative to the physical peculiarities +of umbrellas: 'Not the least important, and by far the most curious +property of the umbrella, is the energy which it displays in affecting +the atmospheric strata. There is no fact in meteorology better +established--indeed, it is almost the only one on which meteorologists +are agreed--than that the carriage of an umbrella produces desiccation of +the air; while if it be left at home, aqueous vapour is largely produced, +and is soon deposited in the form of rain. No theory,' my friend +continues, 'competent to explain this hygrometric law has been given (as +far as I am aware) by Herschel, Dove, Glaisher, Tait, Buchan, or any +other writer; nor do I pretend to supply the defect. I venture, however, +to throw out the conjecture that it will be ultimately found to belong to +the same class of natural laws as that agreeable to which a slice of +toast always descends with the buttered surface downwards.' + +But it is time to draw to a close. We could expatiate much longer upon +this topic, but want of space constrains us to leave unfinished these few +desultory remarks--slender contributions towards a subject which has +fallen sadly backward, and which, we grieve to say, was better understood +by the king of Siam in 1686 than by all the philosophers of to-day. If, +however, we have awakened in any rational mind an interest in the +symbolism of umbrellas--in any generous heart a more complete sympathy +with the dumb companion of his daily walk--or in any grasping spirit a +pure notion of respectability strong enough to make him expend his +six-and-twenty shillings--we shall have deserved well of the world, to +say nothing of the many industrious persons employed in the manufacture +of the article. + + + +CHAPTER V--THE PHILOSOPHY OF NOMENCLATURE + + + 'How many Caesars and Pompeys, by mere inspirations of the names, + have been rendered worthy of them? And how many are there, who might + have done exceeding well in the world, had not their characters and + spirits been totally depressed and Nicodemus'd into + nothing?'--_Tristram Shandy_, vol. I. chap xix. + +Such were the views of the late Walter Shandy, Esq., Turkey merchant. To +the best of my belief, Mr. Shandy is the first who fairly pointed out the +incalculable influence of nomenclature upon the whole life--who seems +first to have recognised the one child, happy in an heroic appellation, +soaring upwards on the wings of fortune, and the other, like the dead +sailor in his shotted hammock, haled down by sheer weight of name into +the abysses of social failure. Solomon possibly had his eye on some such +theory when he said that 'a good name is better than precious ointment'; +and perhaps we may trace a similar spirit in the compilers of the English +Catechism, and the affectionate interest with which they linger round the +catechumen's name at the very threshold of their work. But, be these as +they may, I think no one can censure me for appending, in pursuance of +the expressed wish of his son, the Turkey merchant's name to his system, +and pronouncing, without further preface, a short epitome of the +'Shandean Philosophy of Nomenclature.' + +To begin, then: the influence of our name makes itself felt from the very +cradle. As a schoolboy I remember the pride with which I hailed Robin +Hood, Robert Bruce, and Robert le Diable as my name-fellows; and the +feeling of sore disappointment that fell on my heart when I found a +freebooter or a general who did not share with me a single one of my +numerous _praenomina_. Look at the delight with which two children find +they have the same name. They are friends from that moment forth; they +have a bond of union stronger than exchange of nuts and sweetmeats. This +feeling, I own, wears off in later life. Our names lose their freshness +and interest, become trite and indifferent. But this, dear reader, is +merely one of the sad effects of those 'shades of the prison-house' which +come gradually betwixt us and nature with advancing years; it affords no +weapon against the philosophy of names. + +In after life, although we fail to trace its working, that name which +careless godfathers lightly applied to your unconscious infancy will have +been moulding your character, and influencing with irresistible power the +whole course of your earthly fortunes. But the last name, overlooked by +Mr. Shandy, is no whit less important as a condition of success. Family +names, we must recollect, are but inherited nicknames; and if the +_sobriquet_ were applicable to the ancestor, it is most likely applicable +to the descendant also. You would not expect to find Mr. M'Phun acting +as a mute, or Mr. M'Lumpha excelling as a professor of dancing. +Therefore, in what follows, we shall consider names, independent of +whether they are first or last. And to begin with, look what a pull +_Cromwell_ had over _Pym_--the one name full of a resonant imperialism, +the other, mean, pettifogging, and unheroic to a degree. Who would +expect eloquence from _Pym_--who would read poems by _Pym_--who would bow +to the opinion of _Pym_? He might have been a dentist, but he should +never have aspired to be a statesman. I can only wonder that he +succeeded as he did. Pym and Habakkuk stand first upon the roll of men +who have triumphed, by sheer force of genius, over the most unfavourable +appellations. But even these have suffered; and, had they been more +fitly named, the one might have been Lord Protector, and the other have +shared the laurels with Isaiah. In this matter we must not forget that +all our great poets have borne great names. Chaucer, Spenser, +Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, Shelley--what a constellation of +lordly words! Not a single common-place name among them--not a Brown, +not a Jones, not a Robinson; they are all names that one would stop and +look at on a door-plate. Now, imagine if _Pepys_ had tried to clamber +somehow into the enclosure of poetry, what a blot would that word have +made upon the list! The thing was impossible. In the first place a +certain natural consciousness that men would have held him down to the +level of his name, would have prevented him from rising above the Pepsine +standard, and so haply withheld him altogether from attempting verse. +Next, the booksellers would refuse to publish, and the world to read +them, on the mere evidence of the fatal appellation. And now, before I +close this section, I must say one word as to _punnable_ names, names +that stand alone, that have a significance and life apart from him that +bears them. These are the bitterest of all. One friend of mine goes +bowed and humbled through life under the weight of this misfortune; for +it is an awful thing when a man's name is a joke, when he cannot be +mentioned without exciting merriment, and when even the intimation of his +death bids fair to carry laughter into many a home. + +So much for people who are badly named. Now for people who are _too_ +well named, who go top-heavy from the font, who are baptized into a false +position, and find themselves beginning life eclipsed under the fame of +some of the great ones of the past. A man, for instance, called William +Shakespeare could never dare to write plays. He is thrown into too +humbling an apposition with the author of _Hamlet_. Its own name coming +after is such an anti-climax. 'The plays of William Shakespeare'? says +the reader--'O no! The plays of William Shakespeare Cockerill,' and he +throws the book aside. In wise pursuance of such views, Mr. John Milton +Hengler, who not long since delighted us in this favoured town, has never +attempted to write an epic, but has chosen a new path, and has excelled +upon the tight-rope. A marked example of triumph over this is the case +of Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. On the face of the matter, I should have +advised him to imitate the pleasing modesty of the last-named gentleman, +and confine his ambition to the sawdust. But Mr. Rossetti has triumphed. +He has even dared to translate from his mighty name-father; and the voice +of fame supports him in his boldness. + +Dear readers, one might write a year upon this matter. A lifetime of +comparison and research could scarce suffice for its elucidation. So +here, if it please you, we shall let it rest. Slight as these notes have +been, I would that the great founder of the system had been alive to see +them. How he had warmed and brightened, how his persuasive eloquence +would have fallen on the ears of Toby; and what a letter of praise and +sympathy would not the editor have received before the month was out! +Alas, the thing was not to be. Walter Shandy died and was duly buried, +while yet his theory lay forgotten and neglected by his +fellow-countrymen. But, reader, the day will come, I hope, when a +paternal government will stamp out, as seeds of national weakness, all +depressing patronymics, and when godfathers and godmothers will soberly +and earnestly debate the interest of the nameless one, and not rush +blindfold to the christening. In these days there shall be written a +'Godfather's Assistant,' in shape of a dictionary of names, with their +concomitant virtues and vices; and this book shall be scattered broadcast +through the land, and shall be on the table of every one eligible for +godfathership, until such a thing as a vicious or untoward appellation +shall have ceased from off the face of the earth. + + + + +CRITICISMS + + +CHAPTER I--LORD LYTTON'S 'FABLES IN SONG' + + +It seems as if Lord Lytton, in this new book of his, had found the form +most natural to his talent. In some ways, indeed, it may be held +inferior to _Chronicles and Characters_; we look in vain for anything +like the terrible intensity of the night-scene in _Irene_, or for any +such passages of massive and memorable writing as appeared, here and +there, in the earlier work, and made it not altogether unworthy of its +model, Hugo's _Legend of the Ages_. But it becomes evident, on the most +hasty retrospect, that this earlier work was a step on the way towards +the later. It seems as if the author had been feeling about for his +definite medium, and was already, in the language of the child's game, +growing hot. There are many pieces in _Chronicles and Characters_ that +might be detached from their original setting, and embodied, as they +stand, among the _Fables in Song_. + +For the term Fable is not very easy to define rigorously. In the most +typical form some moral precept is set forth by means of a conception +purely fantastic, and usually somewhat trivial into the bargain; there is +something playful about it, that will not support a very exacting +criticism, and the lesson must be apprehended by the fancy at half a +hint. Such is the great mass of the old stories of wise animals or +foolish men that have amused our childhood. But we should expect the +fable, in company with other and more important literary forms, to be +more and more loosely, or at least largely, comprehended as time went on, +and so to degenerate in conception from this original type. That +depended for much of its piquancy on the very fact that it was fantastic: +the point of the thing lay in a sort of humorous inappropriateness; and +it is natural enough that pleasantry of this description should become +less common, as men learn to suspect some serious analogy underneath. +Thus a comical story of an ape touches us quite differently after the +proposition of Mr. Darwin's theory. Moreover, there lay, perhaps, at the +bottom of this primitive sort of fable, a humanity, a tenderness of rough +truths; so that at the end of some story, in which vice or folly had met +with its destined punishment, the fabulist might be able to assure his +auditors, as we have often to assure tearful children on the like +occasions, that they may dry their eyes, for none of it was true. + +But this benefit of fiction becomes lost with more sophisticated hearers +and authors: a man is no longer the dupe of his own artifice, and cannot +deal playfully with truths that are a matter of bitter concern to him in +his life. And hence, in the progressive centralisation of modern +thought, we should expect the old form of fable to fall gradually into +desuetude, and be gradually succeeded by another, which is a fable in all +points except that it is not altogether fabulous. And this new form, +such as we should expect, and such as we do indeed find, still presents +the essential character of brevity; as in any other fable also, there is, +underlying and animating the brief action, a moral idea; and as in any +other fable, the object is to bring this home to the reader through the +intellect rather than through the feelings; so that, without being very +deeply moved or interested by the characters of the piece, we should +recognise vividly the hinges on which the little plot revolves. But the +fabulist now seeks analogies where before he merely sought humorous +situations. There will be now a logical nexus between the moral +expressed and the machinery employed to express it. The machinery, in +fact, as this change is developed, becomes less and less fabulous. We +find ourselves in presence of quite a serious, if quite a miniature +division of creative literature; and sometimes we have the lesson +embodied in a sober, everyday narration, as in the parables of the New +Testament, and sometimes merely the statement or, at most, the +collocation of significant facts in life, the reader being left to +resolve for himself the vague, troublesome, and not yet definitely moral +sentiment which has been thus created. And step by step with the +development of this change, yet another is developed: the moral tends to +become more indeterminate and large. It ceases to be possible to append +it, in a tag, to the bottom of the piece, as one might write the name +below a caricature; and the fable begins to take rank with all other +forms of creative literature, as something too ambitious, in spite of its +miniature dimensions, to be resumed in any succinct formula without the +loss of all that is deepest and most suggestive in it. + +Now it is in this widest sense that Lord Lytton understands the term; +there are examples in his two pleasant volumes of all the forms already +mentioned, and even of another which can only be admitted among fables by +the utmost possible leniency of construction. 'Composure,' 'Et Caetera,' +and several more, are merely similes poetically elaborated. So, too, is +the pathetic story of the grandfather and grandchild: the child, having +treasured away an icicle and forgotten it for ten minutes, comes back to +find it already nearly melted, and no longer beautiful: at the same time, +the grandfather has just remembered and taken out a bundle of +love-letters, which he too had stored away in years gone by, and then +long neglected; and, behold! the letters are as faded and sorrowfully +disappointing as the icicle. This is merely a simile poetically worked +out; and yet it is in such as these, and some others, to be mentioned +further on, that the author seems at his best. Wherever he has really +written after the old model, there is something to be deprecated: in +spite of all the spirit and freshness, in spite of his happy assumption +of that cheerful acceptation of things as they are, which, rightly or +wrongly, we come to attribute to the ideal fabulist, there is ever a +sense as of something a little out of place. A form of literature so +very innocent and primitive looks a little over-written in Lord Lytton's +conscious and highly-coloured style. It may be bad taste, but sometimes +we should prefer a few sentences of plain prose narration, and a little +Bewick by way of tail-piece. So that it is not among those fables that +conform most nearly to the old model, but one had nearly said among those +that most widely differ from it, that we find the most satisfactory +examples of the author's manner. + +In the mere matter of ingenuity, the metaphysical fables are the most +remarkable; such as that of the windmill who imagined that it was he who +raised the wind; or that of the grocer's balance ('Cogito ergo sum') who +considered himself endowed with free-will, reason, and an infallible +practical judgment; until, one fine day, the police made a descent upon +the shop, and find the weights false and the scales unequal; and the +whole thing is broken up for old iron. Capital fables, also, in the same +ironical spirit, are 'Prometheus Unbound,' the tale of the vainglorying +of a champagne-cork, and 'Teleology,' where a nettle justifies the ways +of God to nettles while all goes well with it, and, upon a change of +luck, promptly changes its divinity. + +In all these there is still plenty of the fabulous if you will, although, +even here, there may be two opinions possible; but there is another +group, of an order of merit perhaps still higher, where we look in vain +for any such playful liberties with Nature. Thus we have 'Conservation +of Force'; where a musician, thinking of a certain picture, improvises in +the twilight; a poet, hearing the music, goes home inspired, and writes a +poem; and then a painter, under the influence of this poem, paints +another picture, thus lineally descended from the first. This is +fiction, but not what we have been used to call fable. We miss the +incredible element, the point of audacity with which the fabulist was +wont to mock at his readers. And still more so is this the case with +others. 'The Horse and the Fly' states one of the unanswerable problems +of life in quite a realistic and straightforward way. A fly startles a +cab-horse, the coach is overset; a newly-married pair within and the +driver, a man with a wife and family, are all killed. The horse +continues to gallop off in the loose traces, and ends the tragedy by +running over an only child; and there is some little pathetic detail here +introduced in the telling, that makes the reader's indignation very +white-hot against some one. It remains to be seen who that some one is +to be: the fly? Nay, but on closer inspection, it appears that the fly, +actuated by maternal instinct, was only seeking a place for her eggs: is +maternal instinct, then, 'sole author of these mischiefs all'? 'Who's in +the Right?' one of the best fables in the book, is somewhat in the same +vein. After a battle has been won, a group of officers assemble inside a +battery, and debate together who should have the honour of the success; +the Prince, the general staff, the cavalry, the engineer who posted the +battery in which they then stand talking, are successively named: the +sergeant, who pointed the guns, sneers to himself at the mention of the +engineer; and, close by, the gunner, who had applied the match, passes +away with a smile of triumph, since it was through his hand that the +victorious blow had been dealt. Meanwhile, the cannon claims the honour +over the gunner; the cannon-ball, who actually goes forth on the dread +mission, claims it over the cannon, who remains idly behind; the powder +reminds the cannon-ball that, but for him, it would still be lying on the +arsenal floor; and the match caps the discussion; powder, cannon-ball, +and cannon would be all equally vain and ineffectual without fire. Just +then there comes on a shower of rain, which wets the powder and puts out +the match, and completes this lesson of dependence, by indicating the +negative conditions which are as necessary for any effect, in their +absence, as is the presence of this great fraternity of positive +conditions, not any one of which can claim priority over any other. But +the fable does not end here, as perhaps, in all logical strictness, it +should. It wanders off into a discussion as to which is the truer +greatness, that of the vanquished fire or that of the victorious rain. +And the speech of the rain is charming: + + 'Lo, with my little drops I bless again + And beautify the fields which thou didst blast! + Rend, wither, waste, and ruin, what thou wilt, + But call not Greatness what the Gods call Guilt. + Blossoms and grass from blood in battle spilt, + And poppied corn, I bring. + 'Mid mouldering Babels, to oblivion built, + My violets spring. + Little by little my small drops have strength + To deck with green delights the grateful earth.' + +And so forth, not quite germane (it seems to me) to the matter in hand, +but welcome for its own sake. + +Best of all are the fables that deal more immediately with the emotions. +There is, for instance, that of 'The Two Travellers,' which is profoundly +moving in conception, although by no means as well written as some +others. In this, one of the two, fearfully frost-bitten, saves his life +out of the snow at the cost of all that was comely in his body; just as, +long before, the other, who has now quietly resigned himself to death, +had violently freed himself from Love at the cost of all that was finest +and fairest in his character. Very graceful and sweet is the fable (if +so it should be called) in which the author sings the praises of that +'kindly perspective,' which lets a wheat-stalk near the eye cover twenty +leagues of distant country, and makes the humble circle about a man's +hearth more to him than all the possibilities of the external world. The +companion fable to this is also excellent. It tells us of a man who had, +all his life through, entertained a passion for certain blue hills on the +far horizon, and had promised himself to travel thither ere he died, and +become familiar with these distant friends. At last, in some political +trouble, he is banished to the very place of his dreams. He arrives +there overnight, and, when he rises and goes forth in the morning, there +sure enough are the blue hills, only now they have changed places with +him, and smile across to him, distant as ever, from the old home whence +he has come. Such a story might have been very cynically treated; but it +is not so done, the whole tone is kindly and consolatory, and the +disenchanted man submissively takes the lesson, and understands that +things far away are to be loved for their own sake, and that the +unattainable is not truly unattainable, when we can make the beauty of it +our own. Indeed, throughout all these two volumes, though there is much +practical scepticism, and much irony on abstract questions, this kindly +and consolatory spirit is never absent. There is much that is cheerful +and, after a sedate, fireside fashion, hopeful. No one will be +discouraged by reading the book; but the ground of all this hopefulness +and cheerfulness remains to the end somewhat vague. It does not seem to +arise from any practical belief in the future either of the individual or +the race, but rather from the profound personal contentment of the +writer. This is, I suppose, all we must look for in the case. It is as +much as we can expect, if the fabulist shall prove a shrewd and cheerful +fellow-wayfarer, one with whom the world does not seem to have gone much +amiss, but who has yet laughingly learned something of its evil. It will +depend much, of course, upon our own character and circumstances, whether +the encounter will be agreeable and bracing to the spirits, or offend us +as an ill-timed mockery. But where, as here, there is a little tincture +of bitterness along with the good-nature, where it is plainly not the +humour of a man cheerfully ignorant, but of one who looks on, tolerant +and superior and smilingly attentive, upon the good and bad of our +existence, it will go hardly if we do not catch some reflection of the +same spirit to help us on our way. There is here no impertinent and +lying proclamation of peace--none of the cheap optimism of the +well-to-do; what we find here is a view of life that would be even +grievous, were it not enlivened with this abiding cheerfulness, and ever +and anon redeemed by a stroke of pathos. + +It is natural enough, I suppose, that we should find wanting in this book +some of the intenser qualities of the author's work; and their absence is +made up for by much happy description after a quieter fashion. The burst +of jubilation over the departure of the snow, which forms the prelude to +'The Thistle,' is full of spirit and of pleasant images. The speech of +the forest in 'Sans Souci' is inspired by a beautiful sentiment for +nature of the modern sort, and pleases us more, I think, as poetry should +please us, than anything in _Chronicles and Characters_. There are some +admirable felicities of expression here and there; as that of the hill, +whose summit + + 'Did print + The azure air with pines.' + +Moreover, I do not recollect in the author's former work any symptom of +that sympathetic treatment of still life, which is noticeable now and +again in the fables; and perhaps most noticeably, when he sketches the +burned letters as they hover along the gusty flue, 'Thin, sable veils, +wherein a restless spark Yet trembled.' But the description is at its +best when the subjects are unpleasant, or even grisly. There are a few +capital lines in this key on the last spasm of the battle before alluded +to. Surely nothing could be better, in its own way, than the fish in +'The Last Cruise of the Arrogant,' 'the shadowy, side-faced, silent +things,' that come butting and staring with lidless eyes at the sunken +steam-engine. And although, in yet another, we are told, pleasantly +enough, how the water went down into the valleys, where it set itself +gaily to saw wood, and on into the plains, where it would soberly carry +grain to town; yet the real strength of the fable is when it dealt with +the shut pool in which certain unfortunate raindrops are imprisoned among +slugs and snails, and in the company of an old toad. The sodden +contentment of the fallen acorn is strangely significant; and it is +astonishing how unpleasantly we are startled by the appearance of her +horrible lover, the maggot. + +And now for a last word, about the style. This is not easy to criticise. +It is impossible to deny to it rapidity, spirit, and a full sound; the +lines are never lame, and the sense is carried forward with an +uninterrupted, impetuous rush. But it is not equal. After passages of +really admirable versification, the author falls back upon a sort of +loose, cavalry manner, not unlike the style of some of Mr. Browning's +minor pieces, and almost inseparable from wordiness, and an easy +acceptation of somewhat cheap finish. There is nothing here of that +compression which is the note of a really sovereign style. It is unfair, +perhaps, to set a not remarkable passage from Lord Lytton side by side +with one of the signal masterpieces of another, and a very perfect poet; +and yet it is interesting, when we see how the portraiture of a dog, +detailed through thirty odd lines, is frittered down and finally almost +lost in the mere laxity of the style, to compare it with the clear, +simple, vigorous delineation that Burns, in four couplets, has given us +of the ploughman's collie. It is interesting, at first, and then it +becomes a little irritating; for when we think of other passages so much +more finished and adroit, we cannot help feeling, that with a little more +ardour after perfection of form, criticism would have found nothing left +for her to censure. A similar mark of precipitate work is the number of +adjectives tumultuously heaped together, sometimes to help out the sense, +and sometimes (as one cannot but suspect) to help out the sound of the +verses. I do not believe, for instance, that Lord Lytton himself would +defend the lines in which we are told how Laocoon 'Revealed to Roman +crowds, now _Christian_ grown, That _Pagan_ anguish which, in _Parian_ +stone, The _Rhodian_ artist,' and so on. It is not only that this is bad +in itself; but that it is unworthy of the company in which it is found; +that such verses should not have appeared with the name of a good +versifier like Lord Lytton. We must take exception, also, in conclusion, +to the excess of alliteration. Alliteration is so liable to be abused +that we can scarcely be too sparing of it; and yet it is a trick that +seems to grow upon the author with years. It is a pity to see fine +verses, such as some in 'Demos,' absolutely spoiled by the recurrence of +one wearisome consonant. + + + +CHAPTER II--SALVINI'S MACBETH + + +Salvini closed his short visit to Edinburgh by a performance of +_Macbeth_. It was, perhaps, from a sentiment of local colour that he +chose to play the Scottish usurper for the first time before Scotsmen; +and the audience were not insensible of the privilege. Few things, +indeed, can move a stronger interest than to see a great creation taking +shape for the first time. If it is not purely artistic, the sentiment is +surely human. And the thought that you are before all the world, and +have the start of so many others as eager as yourself, at least keeps you +in a more unbearable suspense before the curtain rises, if it does not +enhance the delight with which you follow the performance and see the +actor 'bend up each corporal agent' to realise a masterpiece of a few +hours' duration. With a player so variable as Salvini, who trusts to the +feelings of the moment for so much detail, and who, night after night, +does the same thing differently but always well, it can never be safe to +pass judgment after a single hearing. And this is more particularly true +of last week's _Macbeth_; for the whole third act was marred by a +grievously humorous misadventure. Several minutes too soon the ghost of +Banquo joined the party, and after having sat helpless a while at a +table, was ignominiously withdrawn. Twice was this ghostly +Jack-in-the-box obtruded on the stage before his time; twice removed +again; and yet he showed so little hurry when he was really wanted, that, +after an awkward pause, Macbeth had to begin his apostrophe to empty air. +The arrival of the belated spectre in the middle, with a jerk that made +him nod all over, was the last accident in the chapter, and worthily +topped the whole. It may be imagined how lamely matters went throughout +these cross purposes. + +In spite of this, and some other hitches, Salvini's Macbeth had an +emphatic success. The creation is worthy of a place beside the same +artist's Othello and Hamlet. It is the simplest and most unsympathetic +of the three; but the absence of the finer lineaments of Hamlet is +redeemed by gusto, breadth, and a headlong unity. Salvini sees nothing +great in Macbeth beyond the royalty of muscle, and that courage which +comes of strong and copious circulation. The moral smallness of the man +is insisted on from the first, in the shudder of uncontrollable jealousy +with which he sees Duncan embracing Banquo. He may have some northern +poetry of speech, but he has not much logical understanding. In his +dealings with the supernatural powers he is like a savage with his +fetich, trusting them beyond bounds while all goes well, and whenever he +is crossed, casting his belief aside and calling 'fate into the list.' +For his wife, he is little more than an agent, a frame of bone and sinew +for her fiery spirit to command. The nature of his feeling towards her +is rendered with a most precise and delicate touch. He always yields to +the woman's fascination; and yet his caresses (and we know how much +meaning Salvini can give to a caress) are singularly hard and unloving. +Sometimes he lays his hand on her as he might take hold of any one who +happened to be nearest to him at a moment of excitement. Love has fallen +out of this marriage by the way, and left a curious friendship. Only +once--at the very moment when she is showing herself so little a woman +and so much a high-spirited man--only once is he very deeply stirred +towards her; and that finds expression in the strange and horrible +transport of admiration, doubly strange and horrible on Salvini's +lips--'Bring forth men-children only!' + +The murder scene, as was to be expected, pleased the audience best. +Macbeth's voice, in the talk with his wife, was a thing not to be +forgotten; and when he spoke of his hangman's hands he seemed to have +blood in his utterance. Never for a moment, even in the very article of +the murder, does he possess his own soul. He is a man on wires. From +first to last it is an exhibition of hideous cowardice. For, after all, +it is not here, but in broad daylight, with the exhilaration of conflict, +where he can assure himself at every blow he has the longest sword and +the heaviest hand, that this man's physical bravery can keep him up; he +is an unwieldy ship, and needs plenty of way on before he will steer. + +In the banquet scene, while the first murderer gives account of what he +has done, there comes a flash of truculent joy at the 'twenty trenched +gashes' on Banquo's head. Thus Macbeth makes welcome to his imagination +those very details of physical horror which are so soon to turn sour in +him. As he runs out to embrace these cruel circumstances, as he seeks to +realise to his mind's eye the reassuring spectacle of his dead enemy, he +is dressing out the phantom to terrify himself; and his imagination, +playing the part of justice, is to 'commend to his own lips the +ingredients of his poisoned chalice.' With the recollection of Hamlet +and his father's spirit still fresh upon him, and the holy awe with which +that good man encountered things not dreamt of in his philosophy, it was +not possible to avoid looking for resemblances between the two +apparitions and the two men haunted. But there are none to be found. +Macbeth has a purely physical dislike for Banquo's spirit and the 'twenty +trenched gashes.' He is afraid of he knows not what. He is abject, and +again blustering. In the end he so far forgets himself, his terror, and +the nature of what is before him, that he rushes upon it as he would upon +a man. When his wife tells him he needs repose, there is something +really childish in the way he looks about the room, and, seeing nothing, +with an expression of almost sensual relief, plucks up heart enough to go +to bed. And what is the upshot of the visitation? It is written in +Shakespeare, but should be read with the commentary of Salvini's voice +and expression:--'O! _siam nell' opra ancor fanciulli_'--'We are yet but +young in deed.' Circle below circle. He is looking with horrible +satisfaction into the mouth of hell. There may still be a prick to-day; +but to-morrow conscience will be dead, and he may move untroubled in this +element of blood. + +In the fifth act we see this lowest circle reached; and it is Salvini's +finest moment throughout the play. From the first he was admirably made +up, and looked Macbeth to the full as perfectly as ever he looked +Othello. From the first moment he steps upon the stage you can see this +character is a creation to the fullest meaning of the phrase; for the man +before you is a type you know well already. He arrives with Banquo on +the heath, fair and red-bearded, sparing of gesture, full of pride and +the sense of animal wellbeing, and satisfied after the battle like a +beast who has eaten his fill. But in the fifth act there is a change. +This is still the big, burly, fleshly, handsome-looking Thane; here is +still the same face which in the earlier acts could be superficially +good-humoured and sometimes royally courteous. But now the atmosphere of +blood, which pervades the whole tragedy, has entered into the man and +subdued him to its own nature; and an indescribable degradation, a +slackness and puffiness, has overtaken his features. He has breathed the +air of carnage, and supped full of horrors. Lady Macbeth complains of +the smell of blood on her hand: Macbeth makes no complaint--he has ceased +to notice it now; but the same smell is in his nostrils. A contained +fury and disgust possesses him. He taunts the messenger and the doctor +as people would taunt their mortal enemies. And, indeed, as he knows +right well, every one is his enemy now, except his wife. About her he +questions the doctor with something like a last human anxiety; and, in +tones of grisly mystery, asks him if he can 'minister to a mind +diseased.' When the news of her death is brought him, he is staggered +and falls into a seat; but somehow it is not anything we can call grief +that he displays. There had been two of them against God and man; and +now, when there is only one, it makes perhaps less difference than he had +expected. And so her death is not only an affliction, but one more +disillusion; and he redoubles in bitterness. The speech that follows, +given with tragic cynicism in every word, is a dirge, not so much for her +as for himself. From that time forth there is nothing human left in him, +only 'the fiend of Scotland,' Macduff's 'hell-hound,' whom, with a stern +glee, we see baited like a bear and hunted down like a wolf. He is +inspired and set above fate by a demoniacal energy, a lust of wounds and +slaughter. Even after he meets Macduff his courage does not fail; but +when he hears the Thane was not born of woman, all virtue goes out of +him; and though he speaks sounding words of defiance, the last combat is +little better than a suicide. + +The whole performance is, as I said, so full of gusto and a headlong +unity; the personality of Macbeth is so sharp and powerful; and within +these somewhat narrow limits there is so much play and saliency that, so +far as concerns Salvini himself, a third great success seems indubitable. +Unfortunately, however, a great actor cannot fill more than a very small +fraction of the boards; and though Banquo's ghost will probably be more +seasonable in his future apparitions, there are some more inherent +difficulties in the piece. The company at large did not distinguish +themselves. Macduff, to the huge delight of the gallery, out-Macduff'd +the average ranter. The lady who filled the principal female part has +done better on other occasions, but I fear she has not metal for what she +tried last week. Not to succeed in the sleep-walking scene is to make a +memorable failure. As it was given, it succeeded in being wrong in art +without being true to nature. + +And there is yet another difficulty, happily easy to reform, which +somewhat interfered with the success of the performance. At the end of +the incantation scene the Italian translator has made Macbeth fall +insensible upon the stage. This is a change of questionable propriety +from a psychological point of view; while in point of view of effect it +leaves the stage for some moments empty of all business. To remedy this, +a bevy of green ballet-girls came forth and pointed their toes about the +prostrate king. A dance of High Church curates, or a hornpipe by Mr. T. +P. Cooke, would not be more out of the key; though the gravity of a Scots +audience was not to be overcome, and they merely expressed their +disapprobation by a round of moderate hisses, a similar irruption of +Christmas fairies would most likely convulse a London theatre from pit to +gallery with inextinguishable laughter. It is, I am told, the Italian +tradition; but it is one more honoured in the breach than the observance. +With the total disappearance of these damsels, with a stronger Lady +Macbeth, and, if possible, with some compression of those scenes in which +Salvini does not appear, and the spectator is left at the mercy of +Macduffs and Duncans, the play would go twice as well, and we should be +better able to follow and enjoy an admirable work of dramatic art. + + + +CHAPTER III--BAGSTER'S 'PILGRIM'S PROGRESS' + + +I have here before me an edition of the _Pilgrim's Progress_, bound in +green, without a date, and described as 'illustrated by nearly three +hundred engravings, and memoir of Bunyan.' On the outside it is lettered +'Bagster's Illustrated Edition,' and after the author's apology, facing +the first page of the tale, a folding pictorial 'Plan of the Road' is +marked as 'drawn by the late Mr. T. Conder,' and engraved by J. Basire. +No further information is anywhere vouchsafed; perhaps the publishers had +judged the work too unimportant; and we are still left ignorant whether +or not we owe the woodcuts in the body of the volume to the same hand +that drew the plan. It seems, however, more than probable. The literal +particularity of mind which, in the map, laid down the flower-plots in +the devil's garden, and carefully introduced the court-house in the town +of Vanity, is closely paralleled in many of the cuts; and in both, the +architecture of the buildings and the disposition of the gardens have a +kindred and entirely English air. Whoever he was, the author of these +wonderful little pictures may lay claim to be the best illustrator of +Bunyan. {183} They are not only good illustrations, like so many others; +but they are like so few, good illustrations of Bunyan. Their spirit, in +defect and quality, is still the same as his own. The designer also has +lain down and dreamed a dream, as literal, as quaint, and almost as +apposite as Bunyan's; and text and pictures make but the two sides of the +same homespun yet impassioned story. To do justice to the designs, it +will be necessary to say, for the hundredth time, a word or two about the +masterpiece which they adorn. + +All allegories have a tendency to escape from the purpose of their +creators; and as the characters and incidents become more and more +interesting in themselves, the moral, which these were to show forth, +falls more and more into neglect. An architect may command a wreath of +vine-leaves round the cornice of a monument; but if, as each leaf came +from the chisel, it took proper life and fluttered freely on the wall, +and if the vine grew, and the building were hidden over with foliage and +fruit, the architect would stand in much the same situation as the writer +of allegories. The _Faery Queen_ was an allegory, I am willing to +believe; but it survives as an imaginative tale in incomparable verse. +The case of Bunyan is widely different; and yet in this also Allegory, +poor nymph, although never quite forgotten, is sometimes rudely thrust +against the wall. Bunyan was fervently in earnest; with 'his fingers in +his ears, he ran on,' straight for his mark. He tells us himself, in the +conclusion to the first part, that he did not fear to raise a laugh; +indeed, he feared nothing, and said anything; and he was greatly served +in this by a certain rustic privilege of his style, which, like the talk +of strong uneducated men, when it does not impress by its force, still +charms by its simplicity. The mere story and the allegorical design +enjoyed perhaps his equal favour. He believed in both with an energy of +faith that was capable of moving mountains. And we have to remark in +him, not the parts where inspiration fails and is supplied by cold and +merely decorative invention, but the parts where faith has grown to be +credulity, and his characters become so real to him that he forgets the +end of their creation. We can follow him step by step into the trap +which he lays for himself by his own entire good faith and triumphant +literality of vision, till the trap closes and shuts him in an +inconsistency. The allegories of the Interpreter and of the Shepherds of +the Delectable Mountains are all actually performed, like stage-plays, +before the pilgrims. The son of Mr. Great-grace visibly 'tumbles hills +about with his words.' Adam the First has his condemnation written +visibly on his forehead, so that Faithful reads it. At the very instant +the net closes round the pilgrims, 'the white robe falls from the black +man's body.' Despair 'getteth him a grievous crab-tree cudgel'; it was +in 'sunshiny weather' that he had his fits; and the birds in the grove +about the House Beautiful, 'our country birds,' only sing their little +pious verses 'at the spring, when the flowers appear and the sun shines +warm.' 'I often,' says Piety, 'go out to hear them; we also ofttimes +keep them tame on our house.' The post between Beulah and the Celestial +City sounds his horn, as you may yet hear in country places. Madam +Bubble, that 'tall, comely dame, something of a swarthy complexion, in +very pleasant attire, but old,' 'gives you a smile at the end of each +sentence'--a real woman she; we all know her. Christiana dying 'gave Mr. +Stand-fast a ring,' for no possible reason in the allegory, merely +because the touch was human and affecting. Look at Great-heart, with his +soldierly ways, garrison ways, as I had almost called them; with his +taste in weapons; his delight in any that 'he found to be a man of his +hands'; his chivalrous point of honour, letting Giant Maul get up again +when he was down, a thing fairly flying in the teeth of the moral; above +all, with his language in the inimitable tale of Mr. Fearing: 'I thought +I should have lost my man'--'chicken-hearted'--'at last he came in, and I +will say that for my lord, he carried it wonderful lovingly to him.' +This is no Independent minister; this is a stout, honest, big-busted +ancient, adjusting his shoulder-belts, twirling his long moustaches as he +speaks. Last and most remarkable, 'My sword,' says the dying +Valiant-for-Truth, he in whom Great-heart delighted, 'my sword I give to +him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, _and my courage and skill to +him that can get it_.' And after this boast, more arrogantly unorthodox +than was ever dreamed of by the rejected Ignorance, we are told that 'all +the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.' + +In every page the book is stamped with the same energy of vision and the +same energy of belief. The quality is equally and indifferently +displayed in the spirit of the fighting, the tenderness of the pathos, +the startling vigour and strangeness of the incidents, the natural strain +of the conversations, and the humanity and charm of the characters. +Trivial talk over a meal, the dying words of heroes, the delights of +Beulah or the Celestial City, Apollyon and my Lord Hate-good, +Great-heart, and Mr. Worldly-Wiseman, all have been imagined with the +same clearness, all written of with equal gusto and precision, all +created in the same mixed element, of simplicity that is almost comical, +and art that, for its purpose, is faultless. + +It was in much the same spirit that our artist sat down to his drawings. +He is by nature a Bunyan of the pencil. He, too, will draw anything, +from a butcher at work on a dead sheep, up to the courts of Heaven. 'A +Lamb for Supper' is the name of one of his designs, 'Their Glorious +Entry' of another. He has the same disregard for the ridiculous, and +enjoys somewhat of the same privilege of style, so that we are pleased +even when we laugh the most. He is literal to the verge of folly. If +dust is to be raised from the unswept parlour, you may be sure it will +'fly abundantly' in the picture. If Faithful is to lie 'as dead' before +Moses, dead he shall lie with a warrant--dead and stiff like granite; nay +(and here the artist must enhance upon the symbolism of the author), it +is with the identical stone tables of the law that Moses fells the +sinner. Good and bad people, whom we at once distinguish in the text by +their names, Hopeful, Honest, and Valiant-for-Truth, on the one hand, as +against By-ends, Sir Having Greedy, and the Lord Old-man on the other, +are in these drawings as simply distinguished by their costume. Good +people, when not armed _cap-a-pie_, wear a speckled tunic girt about the +waist, and low hats, apparently of straw. Bad people swagger in +tail-coats and chimney-pots, a few with knee-breeches, but the large +majority in trousers, and for all the world like guests at a +garden-party. Worldly-Wiseman alone, by some inexplicable quirk, stands +before Christian in laced hat, embroidered waistcoat, and trunk-hose. +But above all examples of this artist's intrepidity, commend me to the +print entitled 'Christian Finds it Deep.' 'A great darkness and horror,' +says the text, have fallen on the pilgrim; it is the comfortless deathbed +with which Bunyan so strikingly concludes the sorrows and conflicts of +his hero. How to represent this worthily the artist knew not; and yet he +was determined to represent it somehow. This was how he did: Hopeful is +still shown to his neck above the water of death; but Christian has +bodily disappeared, and a blot of solid blackness indicates his place. + +As you continue to look at these pictures, about an inch square for the +most part, sometimes printed three or more to the page, and each having a +printed legend of its own, however trivial the event recorded, you will +soon become aware of two things: first, that the man can draw, and, +second, that he possesses the gift of an imagination. 'Obstinate +reviles,' says the legend; and you should see Obstinate reviling. 'He +warily retraces his steps'; and there is Christian, posting through the +plain, terror and speed in every muscle. 'Mercy yearns to go' shows you +a plain interior with packing going forward, and, right in the middle, +Mercy yearning to go--every line of the girl's figure yearning. In 'The +Chamber called Peace' we see a simple English room, bed with white +curtains, window valance and door, as may be found in many thousand +unpretentious houses; but far off, through the open window, we behold the +sun uprising out of a great plain, and Christian hails it with his hand: + + 'Where am I now! is this the love and care + Of Jesus, for the men that pilgrims are! + Thus to provide! That I should be forgiven! + And dwell already the next door to heaven!' + +A page or two further, from the top of the House Beautiful, the damsels +point his gaze toward the Delectable Mountains: 'The Prospect,' so the +cut is ticketed--and I shall be surprised, if on less than a square inch +of paper you can show me one so wide and fair. Down a cross road on an +English plain, a cathedral city outlined on the horizon, a hazel shaw +upon the left, comes Madam Wanton dancing with her fair enchanted cup, +and Faithful, book in hand, half pauses. The cut is perfect as a symbol; +the giddy movement of the sorceress, the uncertain poise of the man +struck to the heart by a temptation, the contrast of that even plain of +life whereon he journeys with the bold, ideal bearing of the wanton--the +artist who invented and portrayed this had not merely read Bunyan, he had +also thoughtfully lived. The Delectable Mountains--I continue skimming +the first part--are not on the whole happily rendered. Once, and once +only, the note is struck, when Christian and Hopeful are seen coming, +shoulder-high, through a thicket of green shrubs--box, perhaps, or +perfumed nutmeg; while behind them, domed or pointed, the hills stand +ranged against the sky. A little further, and we come to that +masterpiece of Bunyan's insight into life, the Enchanted Ground; where, +in a few traits, he has set down the latter end of such a number of the +would-be good; where his allegory goes so deep that, to people looking +seriously on life, it cuts like satire. The true significance of this +invention lies, of course, far out of the way of drawing; only one +feature, the great tedium of the land, the growing weariness in +well-doing, may be somewhat represented in a symbol. The pilgrims are +near the end: 'Two Miles Yet,' says the legend. The road goes ploughing +up and down over a rolling heath; the wayfarers, with outstretched arms, +are already sunk to the knees over the brow of the nearest hill; they +have just passed a milestone with the cipher two; from overhead a great, +piled, summer cumulus, as of a slumberous summer afternoon, beshadows +them: two miles! it might be hundreds. In dealing with the Land of +Beulah the artist lags, in both parts, miserably behind the text, but in +the distant prospect of the Celestial City more than regains his own. +You will remember when Christian and Hopeful 'with desire fell sick.' +'Effect of the Sunbeams' is the artist's title. Against the sky, upon a +cliffy mountain, the radiant temple beams upon them over deep, subjacent +woods; they, behind a mound, as if seeking shelter from the +splendour--one prostrate on his face, one kneeling, and with hands +ecstatically lifted--yearn with passion after that immortal city. Turn +the page, and we behold them walking by the very shores of death; Heaven, +from this nigher view, has risen half-way to the zenith, and sheds a +wider glory; and the two pilgrims, dark against that brightness, walk and +sing out of the fulness of their hearts. No cut more thoroughly +illustrates at once the merit and the weakness of the artist. Each +pilgrim sings with a book in his grasp--a family Bible at the least for +bigness; tomes so recklessly enormous that our second, impulse is to +laughter. And yet that is not the first thought, nor perhaps the last. +Something in the attitude of the manikins--faces they have none, they are +too small for that--something in the way they swing these monstrous +volumes to their singing, something perhaps borrowed from the text, some +subtle differentiation from the cut that went before and the cut that +follows after--something, at least, speaks clearly of a fearful joy, of +Heaven seen from the deathbed, of the horror of the last passage no less +than of the glorious coming home. There is that in the action of one of +them which always reminds me, with a difference, of that haunting last +glimpse of Thomas Idle, travelling to Tyburn in the cart. Next come the +Shining Ones, wooden and trivial enough; the pilgrims pass into the +river; the blot already mentioned settles over and obliterates Christian. +In two more cuts we behold them drawing nearer to the other shore; and +then, between two radiant angels, one of whom points upward, we see them +mounting in new weeds, their former lendings left behind them on the inky +river. More angels meet them; Heaven is displayed, and if no better, +certainly no worse, than it has been shown by others--a place, at least, +infinitely populous and glorious with light--a place that haunts solemnly +the hearts of children. And then this symbolic draughtsman once more +strikes into his proper vein. Three cuts conclude the first part. In +the first the gates close, black against the glory struggling from +within. The second shows us Ignorance--alas! poor Arminian!--hailing, in +a sad twilight, the ferryman Vain-Hope; and in the third we behold him, +bound hand and foot, and black already with the hue of his eternal fate, +carried high over the mountain-tops of the world by two angels of the +anger of the Lord. 'Carried to Another Place,' the artist enigmatically +names his plate--a terrible design. + +Wherever he touches on the black side of the supernatural his pencil +grows more daring and incisive. He has many true inventions in the +perilous and diabolic; he has many startling nightmares realised. It is +not easy to select the best; some may like one and some another; the +nude, depilated devil bounding and casting darts against the Wicket Gate; +the scroll of flying horrors that hang over Christian by the Mouth of +Hell; the horned shade that comes behind him whispering blasphemies; the +daylight breaking through that rent cave-mouth of the mountains and +falling chill adown the haunted tunnel; Christian's further progress +along the causeway, between the two black pools, where, at every yard or +two, a gin, a pitfall, or a snare awaits the passer-by--loathsome white +devilkins harbouring close under the bank to work the springes, Christian +himself pausing and pricking with his sword's point at the nearest noose, +and pale discomfortable mountains rising on the farther side; or yet +again, the two ill-favoured ones that beset the first of Christian's +journey, with the frog-like structure of the skull, the frog-like +limberness of limbs--crafty, slippery, lustful-looking devils, drawn +always in outline as though possessed of a dim, infernal luminosity. +Horrid fellows are they, one and all; horrid fellows and horrific scenes. +In another spirit that Good-Conscience 'to whom Mr. Honest had spoken in +his lifetime,' a cowled, grey, awful figure, one hand pointing to the +heavenly shore, realises, I will not say all, but some at least of the +strange impressiveness of Bunyan's words. It is no easy nor pleasant +thing to speak in one's lifetime with Good-Conscience; he is an austere, +unearthly friend, whom maybe Torquemada knew; and the folds of his +raiment are not merely claustral, but have something of the horror of the +pall. Be not afraid, however; with the hand of that appearance Mr. +Honest will get safe across. + +Yet perhaps it is in sequences that this artist best displays himself. +He loves to look at either side of a thing: as, for instance, when he +shows us both sides of the wall--'Grace Inextinguishable' on the one +side, with the devil vainly pouring buckets on the flame, and 'The Oil of +Grace' on the other, where the Holy Spirit, vessel in hand, still +secretly supplies the fire. He loves, also, to show us the same event +twice over, and to repeat his instantaneous photographs at the interval +of but a moment. So we have, first, the whole troop of pilgrims coming +up to Valiant, and Great-heart to the front, spear in hand and parleying; +and next, the same cross-roads, from a more distant view, the convoy now +scattered and looking safely and curiously on, and Valiant handing over +for inspection his 'right Jerusalem blade.' It is true that this +designer has no great care after consistency: Apollyon's spear is laid +by, his quiver of darts will disappear, whenever they might hinder the +designer's freedom; and the fiend's tail is blobbed or forked at his good +pleasure. But this is not unsuitable to the illustration of the fervent +Bunyan, breathing hurry and momentary inspiration. He, with his hot +purpose, hunting sinners with a lasso, shall himself forget the things +that he has written yesterday. He shall first slay Heedless in the +Valley of the Shadow, and then take leave of him talking in his sleep, as +if nothing had happened, in an arbour on the Enchanted Ground. And +again, in his rhymed prologue, he shall assign some of the glory of the +siege of Doubting Castle to his favourite Valiant-for-the-Truth, who did +not meet with the besiegers till long after, at that dangerous corner by +Deadman's Lane. And, with all inconsistencies and freedoms, there is a +power shown in these sequences of cuts: a power of joining on one action +or one humour to another; a power of following out the moods, even of the +dismal subterhuman fiends engendered by the artist's fancy; a power of +sustained continuous realisation, step by step, in nature's order, that +can tell a story, in all its ins and outs, its pauses and surprises, +fully and figuratively, like the art of words. + +One such sequence is the fight of Christian and Apollyon--six cuts, weird +and fiery, like the text. The pilgrim is throughout a pale and stockish +figure; but the devil covers a multitude of defects. There is no better +devil of the conventional order than our artist's Apollyon, with his +mane, his wings, his bestial legs, his changing and terrifying +expression, his infernal energy to slay. In cut the first you see him +afar off, still obscure in form, but already formidable in suggestion. +Cut the second, 'The Fiend in Discourse,' represents him, not reasoning, +railing rather, shaking his spear at the pilgrim, his shoulder advanced, +his tail writhing in the air, his foot ready for a spring, while +Christian stands back a little, timidly defensive. The third illustrates +these magnificent words: 'Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole +breadth of the way, and said, I am void of fear in this matter: prepare +thyself to die; for I swear by my infernal den that thou shalt go no +farther: here will I spill thy soul! And with that he threw a flaming +dart at his breast.' In the cut he throws a dart with either hand, +belching pointed flames out of his mouth, spreading his broad vans, and +straddling the while across the path, as only a fiend can straddle who +has just sworn by his infernal den. The defence will not be long against +such vice, such flames, such red-hot nether energy. And in the fourth +cut, to be sure, he has leaped bodily upon his victim, sped by foot and +pinion, and roaring as he leaps. The fifth shows the climacteric of the +battle; Christian has reached nimbly out and got his sword, and dealt +that deadly home-thrust, the fiend still stretched upon him, but 'giving +back, as one that had received his mortal wound.' The raised head, the +bellowing mouth, the paw clapped upon the sword, the one wing relaxed in +agony, all realise vividly these words of the text. In the sixth and +last, the trivial armed figure of the pilgrim is seen kneeling with +clasped hands on the betrodden scene of contest and among the shivers of +the darts; while just at the margin the hinder quarters and the tail of +Apollyon are whisking off, indignant and discounted. + +In one point only do these pictures seem to be unworthy of the text, and +that point is one rather of the difference of arts than the difference of +artists. Throughout his best and worst, in his highest and most divine +imaginations as in the narrowest sallies of his sectarianism, the +human-hearted piety of Bunyan touches and ennobles, convinces, accuses +the reader. Through no art beside the art of words can the kindness of a +man's affections be expressed. In the cuts you shall find faithfully +parodied the quaintness and the power, the triviality and the surprising +freshness of the author's fancy; there you shall find him out-stripped in +ready symbolism and the art of bringing things essentially invisible +before the eyes: but to feel the contact of essential goodness, to be +made in love with piety, the book must be read and not the prints +examined. + +Farewell should not be taken with a grudge; nor can I dismiss in any +other words than those of gratitude a series of pictures which have, to +one at least, been the visible embodiment of Bunyan from childhood up, +and shown him, through all his years, Great-heart lungeing at Giant Maul, +and Apollyon breathing fire at Christian, and every turn and town along +the road to the Celestial City, and that bright place itself, seen as to +a stave of music, shining afar off upon the hill-top, the candle of the +world. + + + + +SKETCHES + + +I. THE SATIRIST + + +My companion enjoyed a cheap reputation for wit and insight. He was by +habit and repute a satirist. If he did occasionally condemn anything or +anybody who richly deserved it, and whose demerits had hitherto escaped, +it was simply because he condemned everything and everybody. While I was +with him he disposed of St. Paul with an epigram, shook my reverence for +Shakespeare in a neat antithesis, and fell foul of the Almighty Himself, +on the score of one or two out of the ten commandments. Nothing escaped +his blighting censure. At every sentence he overthrew an idol, or +lowered my estimation of a friend. I saw everything with new eyes, and +could only marvel at my former blindness. How was it possible that I had +not before observed A's false hair, B's selfishness, or C's boorish +manners? I and my companion, methought, walked the streets like a couple +of gods among a swarm of vermin; for every one we saw seemed to bear +openly upon his brow the mark of the apocalyptic beast. I half expected +that these miserable beings, like the people of Lystra, would recognise +their betters and force us to the altar; in which case, warned by the +late of Paul and Barnabas, I do not know that my modesty would have +prevailed upon me to decline. But there was no need for such churlish +virtue. More blinded than the Lycaonians, the people saw no divinity in +our gait; and as our temporary godhead lay more in the way of observing +than healing their infirmities, we were content to pass them by in scorn. + +I could not leave my companion, not from regard or even from interest, +but from a very natural feeling, inseparable from the case. To +understand it, let us take a simile. Suppose yourself walking down the +street with a man who continues to sprinkle the crowd out of a flask of +vitriol. You would be much diverted with the grimaces and contortions of +his victims; and at the same time you would fear to leave his arm until +his bottle was empty, knowing that, when once among the crowd, you would +run a good chance yourself of baptism with his biting liquor. Now my +companion's vitriol was inexhaustible. + +It was perhaps the consciousness of this, the knowledge that I was being +anointed already out of the vials of his wrath, that made me fall to +criticising the critic, whenever we had parted. + +After all, I thought, our satirist has just gone far enough into his +neighbours to find that the outside is false, without caring to go +farther and discover what is really true. He is content to find that +things are not what they seem, and broadly generalises from it that they +do not exist at all. He sees our virtues are not what they pretend they +are; and, on the strength of that, he denies us the possession of virtue +altogether. He has learnt the first lesson, that no man is wholly good; +but he has not even suspected that there is another equally true, to wit, +that no man is wholly bad. Like the inmate of a coloured star, he has +eyes for one colour alone. He has a keen scent after evil, but his +nostrils are plugged against all good, as people plugged their nostrils +before going about the streets of the plague-struck city. + +Why does he do this? It is most unreasonable to flee the knowledge of +good like the infection of a horrible disease, and batten and grow fat in +the real atmosphere of a lazar-house. This was my first thought; but my +second was not like unto it, and I saw that our satirist was wise, wise +in his generation, like the unjust steward. He does not want light, +because the darkness is more pleasant. He does not wish to see the good, +because he is happier without it. I recollect that when I walked with +him, I was in a state of divine exaltation, such as Adam and Eve must +have enjoyed when the savour of the fruit was still unfaded between their +lips; and I recognise that this must be the man's habitual state. He has +the forbidden fruit in his waist-coat pocket, and can make himself a god +as often and as long as he likes. He has raised himself upon a glorious +pedestal above his fellows; he has touched the summit of ambition; and he +envies neither King nor Kaiser, Prophet nor Priest, content in an +elevation as high as theirs, and much more easily attained. Yes, certes, +much more easily attained. He has not risen by climbing himself, but by +pushing others down. He has grown great in his own estimation, not by +blowing himself out, and risking the fate of AEsop's frog, but simply by +the habitual use of a diminishing glass on everybody else. And I think +altogether that his is a better, a safer, and a surer recipe than most +others. + +After all, however, looking back on what I have written, I detect a +spirit suspiciously like his own. All through, I have been comparing +myself with our satirist, and all through, I have had the best of the +comparison. Well, well, contagion is as often mental as physical; and I +do not think my readers, who have all been under his lash, will blame me +very much for giving the headsman a mouthful of his own sawdust. + + + +II. NUITS BLANCHES + + +If any one should know the pleasure and pain of a sleepless night, it +should be I. I remember, so long ago, the sickly child that woke from +his few hours' slumber with the sweat of a nightmare on his brow, to lie +awake and listen and long for the first signs of life among the silent +streets. These nights of pain and weariness are graven on my mind; and +so when the same thing happened to me again, everything that I heard or +saw was rather a recollection than a discovery. + +Weighed upon by the opaque and almost sensible darkness, I listened +eagerly for anything to break the sepulchral quiet. But nothing came, +save, perhaps, an emphatic crack from the old cabinet that was made by +Deacon Brodie, or the dry rustle of the coals on the extinguished fire. +It was a calm; or I know that I should have heard in the roar and clatter +of the storm, as I have not heard it for so many years, the wild career +of a horseman, always scouring up from the distance and passing swiftly +below the window; yet always returning again from the place whence first +he came, as though, baffled by some higher power, he had retraced his +steps to gain impetus for another and another attempt. + +As I lay there, there arose out of the utter stillness the rumbling of a +carriage a very great way off, that drew near, and passed within a few +streets of the house, and died away as gradually as it had arisen. This, +too, was as a reminiscence. + +I rose and lifted a corner of the blind. Over the black belt of the +garden I saw the long line of Queen Street, with here and there a lighted +window. How often before had my nurse lifted me out of bed and pointed +them out to me, while we wondered together if, there also, there were +children that could not sleep, and if these lighted oblongs were signs of +those that waited like us for the morning. + +I went out into the lobby, and looked down into the great deep well of +the staircase. For what cause I know not, just as it used to be in the +old days that the feverish child might be the better served, a peep of +gas illuminated a narrow circle far below me. But where I was, all was +darkness and silence, save the dry monotonous ticking of the clock that +came ceaselessly up to my ear. + +The final crown of it all, however, the last touch of reproduction on the +pictures of my memory, was the arrival of that time for which, all night +through, I waited and longed of old. It was my custom, as the hours +dragged on, to repeat the question, 'When will the carts come in?' and +repeat it again and again until at last those sounds arose in the street +that I have heard once more this morning. The road before our house is a +great thoroughfare for early carts. I know not, and I never have known, +what they carry, whence they come, or whither they go. But I know that, +long ere dawn, and for hours together, they stream continuously past, +with the same rolling and jerking of wheels and the same clink of horses' +feet. It was not for nothing that they made the burthen of my wishes all +night through. They are really the first throbbings of life, the +harbingers of day; and it pleases you as much to hear them as it must +please a shipwrecked seaman once again to grasp a hand of flesh and blood +after years of miserable solitude. They have the freshness of the +daylight life about them. You can hear the carters cracking their whips +and crying hoarsely to their horses or to one another; and sometimes even +a peal of healthy, harsh horse-laughter comes up to you through the +darkness. There is now an end of mystery and fear. Like the knocking at +the door in _Macbeth_, {205} or the cry of the watchman in the _Tour de +Nesle_, they show that the horrible caesura is over and the nightmares +have fled away, because the day is breaking and the ordinary life of men +is beginning to bestir itself among the streets. + +In the middle of it all I fell asleep, to be wakened by the officious +knocking at my door, and I find myself twelve years older than I had +dreamed myself all night. + + + +III. THE WREATH OF IMMORTELLES + + +It is all very well to talk of death as 'a pleasant potion of +immortality', but the most of us, I suspect, are of 'queasy stomachs,' +and find it none of the sweetest. {206a} The graveyard may be cloak-room +to Heaven; but we must admit that it is a very ugly and offensive +vestibule in itself, however fair may be the life to which it leads. And +though Enoch and Elias went into the temple through a gate which +certainly may be called Beautiful, the rest of us have to find our way to +it through Ezekiel's low-bowed door and the vault full of creeping things +and all manner of abominable beasts. Nevertheless, there is a certain +frame of mind to which a cemetery is, if not an antidote, at least an +alleviation. If you are in a fit of the blues, go nowhere else. It was +in obedience to this wise regulation that the other morning found me +lighting my pipe at the entrance to Old Greyfriars', thoroughly sick of +the town, the country, and myself. + +Two of the men were talking at the gate, one of them carrying a spade in +hands still crusted with the soil of graves. Their very aspect was +delightful to me; and I crept nearer to them, thinking to pick up some +snatch of sexton gossip, some 'talk fit for a charnel,' {206b} something, +in fine, worthy of that fastidious logician, that adept in coroner's law, +who has come down to us as the patron of Yaughan's liquor, and the very +prince of gravediggers. Scots people in general are so much wrapped up +in their profession that I had a good chance of overhearing such +conversation: the talk of fish-mongers running usually on stockfish and +haddocks; while of the Scots sexton I could repeat stories and speeches +that positively smell of the graveyard. But on this occasion I was +doomed to disappointment. My two friends were far into the region of +generalities. Their profession was forgotten in their electorship. +Politics had engulfed the narrower economy of grave-digging. 'Na, na,' +said the one, 'ye're a' wrang.' 'The English and Irish Churches,' +answered the other, in a tone as if he had made the remark before, and it +had been called in question--'The English and Irish Churches have +_impoverished_ the country.' + +'Such are the results of education,' thought I as I passed beside them +and came fairly among the tombs. Here, at least, there were no +commonplace politics, no diluted this-morning's leader, to distract or +offend me. The old shabby church showed, as usual, its quaint extent of +roofage and the relievo skeleton on one gable, still blackened with the +fire of thirty years ago. A chill dank mist lay over all. The Old +Greyfriars' churchyard was in perfection that morning, and one could go +round and reckon up the associations with no fear of vulgar interruption. +On this stone the Covenant was signed. In that vault, as the story goes, +John Knox took hiding in some Reformation broil. From that window Burke +the murderer looked out many a time across the tombs, and perhaps o' +nights let himself down over the sill to rob some new-made grave. +Certainly he would have a selection here. The very walks have been +carried over forgotten resting-places; and the whole ground is uneven, +because (as I was once quaintly told) 'when the wood rots it stands to +reason the soil should fall in,' which, from the law of gravitation, is +certainly beyond denial. But it is round the boundary that there are the +finest tombs. The whole irregular space is, as it were, fringed with +quaint old monuments, rich in death's-heads and scythes and hour-glasses, +and doubly rich in pious epitaphs and Latin mottoes--rich in them to such +an extent that their proper space has run over, and they have crawled +end-long up the shafts of columns and ensconced themselves in all sorts +of odd corners among the sculpture. These tombs raise their backs +against the rabble of squalid dwelling-houses, and every here and there a +clothes-pole projects between two monuments its fluttering trophy of +white and yellow and red. With a grim irony they recall the banners in +the Invalides, banners as appropriate perhaps over the sepulchres of +tailors and weavers as these others above the dust of armies. Why they +put things out to dry on that particular morning it was hard to imagine. +The grass was grey with drops of rain, the headstones black with +moisture. Yet, in despite of weather and common sense, there they hung +between the tombs; and beyond them I could see through open windows into +miserable rooms where whole families were born and fed, and slept and +died. At one a girl sat singing merrily with her back to the graveyard; +and from another came the shrill tones of a scolding woman. Every here +and there was a town garden full of sickly flowers, or a pile of crockery +inside upon the window-seat. But you do not grasp the full connection +between these houses of the dead and the living, the unnatural marriage +of stately sepulchres and squalid houses, till, lower down, where the +road has sunk far below the surface of the cemetery, and the very roofs +are scarcely on a level with its wall, you observe that a proprietor has +taken advantage of a tall monument and trained a chimney-stack against +its back. It startles you to see the red, modern pots peering over the +shoulder of the tomb. + +A man was at work on a grave, his spade clinking away the drift of bones +that permeates the thin brown soil; but my first disappointment had +taught me to expect little from Greyfriars' sextons, and I passed him by +in silence. A slater on the slope of a neighbouring roof eyed me +curiously. A lean black cat, looking as if it had battened on strange +meats, slipped past me. A little boy at a window put his finger to his +nose in so offensive a manner that I was put upon my dignity, and turned +grandly off to read old epitaphs and peer through the gratings into the +shadow of vaults. + +Just then I saw two women coming down a path, one of them old, and the +other younger, with a child in her arms. Both had faces eaten with +famine and hardened with sin, and both had reached that stage of +degradation, much lower in a woman than a man, when all care for dress is +lost. As they came down they neared a grave, where some pious friend or +relative had laid a wreath of immortelles, and put a bell glass over it, +as is the custom. The effect of that ring of dull yellow among so many +blackened and dusty sculptures was more pleasant than it is in modern +cemeteries, where every second mound can boast a similar coronal; and +here, where it was the exception and not the rule, I could even fancy the +drops of moisture that dimmed the covering were the tears of those who +laid it where it was. As the two women came up to it, one of them +kneeled down on the wet grass and looked long and silently through the +clouded shade, while the second stood above her, gently oscillating to +and fro to lull the muling baby. I was struck a great way off with +something religious in the attitude of these two unkempt and haggard +women; and I drew near faster, but still cautiously, to hear what they +were saying. Surely on them the spirit of death and decay had descended; +I had no education to dread here: should I not have a chance of seeing +nature? Alas! a pawnbroker could not have been more practical and +commonplace, for this was what the kneeling woman said to the woman +upright--this and nothing more: 'Eh, what extravagance!' + +O nineteenth century, wonderful art thou indeed--wonderful, but wearisome +in thy stale and deadly uniformity. Thy men are more like numerals than +men. They must bear their idiosyncrasies or their professions written on +a placard about their neck, like the scenery in Shakespeare's theatre. +Thy precepts of economy have pierced into the lowest ranks of life; and +there is now a decorum in vice, a respectability among the disreputable, +a pure spirit of Philistinism among the waifs and strays of thy Bohemia. +For lo! thy very gravediggers talk politics; and thy castaways kneel upon +new graves, to discuss the cost of the monument and grumble at the +improvidence of love. + +Such was the elegant apostrophe that I made as I went out of the gates +again, happily satisfied in myself, and feeling that I alone of all whom +I had seen was able to profit by the silent poem of these green mounds +and blackened headstones. + + + +IV. NURSES + + +I knew one once, and the room where, lonely and old, she waited for +death. It was pleasant enough, high up above the lane, and looking forth +upon a hill-side, covered all day with sheets and yellow blankets, and +with long lines of underclothing fluttering between the battered posts. +There were any number of cheap prints, and a drawing by one of 'her +children,' and there were flowers in the window, and a sickly canary +withered into consumption in an ornamental cage. The bed, with its +checked coverlid, was in a closet. A great Bible lay on the table; and +her drawers were full of 'scones,' which it was her pleasure to give to +young visitors such as I was then. + +You may not think this a melancholy picture; but the canary, and the cat, +and the white mouse that she had for a while, and that died, were all +indications of the want that ate into her heart. I think I know a little +of what that old woman felt; and I am as sure as if I had seen her, that +she sat many an hour in silent tears, with the big Bible open before her +clouded eyes. + +If you could look back upon her life, and feel the great chain that had +linked her to one child after another, sometimes to be wrenched suddenly +through, and sometimes, which is infinitely worse, to be torn gradually +off through years of growing neglect, or perhaps growing dislike! She +had, like the mother, overcome that natural repugnance--repugnance which +no man can conquer--towards the infirm and helpless mass of putty of the +earlier stage. She had spent her best and happiest years in tending, +watching, and learning to love like a mother this child, with which she +has no connection and to which she has no tie. Perhaps she refused some +sweetheart (such things have been), or put him off and off, until he lost +heart and turned to some one else, all for fear of leaving this creature +that had wound itself about her heart. And the end of it all--her +month's warning, and a present perhaps, and the rest of the life to vain +regret. Or, worse still, to see the child gradually forgetting and +forsaking her, fostered in disrespect and neglect on the plea of growing +manliness, and at last beginning to treat her as a servant whom he had +treated a few years before as a mother. She sees the Bible or the +Psalm-book, which with gladness and love unutterable in her heart she had +bought for him years ago out of her slender savings, neglected for some +newer gift of his father, lying in dust in the lumber-room or given away +to a poor child, and the act applauded for its unfeeling charity. Little +wonder if she becomes hurt and angry, and attempts to tyrannise and to +grasp her old power back again. We are not all patient Grizzels, by good +fortune, but the most of us human beings with feelings and tempers of our +own. + +And so, in the end, behold her in the room that I described. Very likely +and very naturally, in some fling of feverish misery or recoil of +thwarted love, she has quarrelled with her old employers and the children +are forbidden to see her or to speak to her; or at best she gets her rent +paid and a little to herself, and now and then her late charges are sent +up (with another nurse, perhaps) to pay her a short visit. How bright +these visits seem as she looks forward to them on her lonely bed! How +unsatisfactory their realisation, when the forgetful child, half +wondering, checks with every word and action the outpouring of her +maternal love! How bitter and restless the memories that they leave +behind! And for the rest, what else has she?--to watch them with eager +eyes as they go to school, to sit in church where she can see them every +Sunday, to be passed some day unnoticed in the street, or deliberately +cut because the great man or the great woman are with friends before whom +they are ashamed to recognise the old woman that loved them. + +When she goes home that night, how lonely will the room appear to her! +Perhaps the neighbours may hear her sobbing to herself in the dark, with +the fire burnt out for want of fuel, and the candle still unlit upon the +table. + +And it is for this that they live, these quasi-mothers--mothers in +everything but the travail and the thanks. It is for this that they have +remained virtuous in youth, living the dull life of a household servant. +It is for this that they refused the old sweetheart, and have no fireside +or offspring of their own. + +I believe in a better state of things, that there will be no more nurses, +and that every mother will nurse her own offspring; for what can be more +hardening and demoralising than to call forth the tenderest feelings of a +woman's heart and cherish them yourself as long as you need them, as long +as your children require a nurse to love them, and then to blight and +thwart and destroy them, whenever your own use for them is at an end. +This may be Utopian; but it is always a little thing if one mother or two +mothers can be brought to feel more tenderly to those who share their +toil and have no part in their reward. + + + +V. A CHARACTER + + +The man has a red, bloated face, and his figure is short and squat. So +far there is nothing in him to notice, but when you see his eyes, you can +read in these hard and shallow orbs a depravity beyond measure depraved, +a thirst after wickedness, the pure, disinterested love of Hell for its +own sake. The other night, in the street, I was watching an omnibus +passing with lit-up windows, when I heard some one coughing at my side as +though he would cough his soul out; and turning round, I saw him stopping +under a lamp, with a brown greatcoat buttoned round him and his whole +face convulsed. It seemed as if he could not live long; and so the sight +set my mind upon a train of thought, as I finished my cigar up and down +the lighted streets. + +He is old, but all these years have not yet quenched his thirst for evil, +and his eyes still delight themselves in wickedness. He is dumb; but he +will not let that hinder his foul trade, or perhaps I should say, his yet +fouler amusement, and he has pressed a slate into the service of +corruption. Look at him, and he will sign to you with his bloated head, +and when you go to him in answer to the sign, thinking perhaps that the +poor dumb man has lost his way, you will see what he writes upon his +slate. He haunts the doors of schools, and shows such inscriptions as +these to the innocent children that come out. He hangs about +picture-galleries, and makes the noblest pictures the text for some +silent homily of vice. His industry is a lesson to ourselves. Is it not +wonderful how he can triumph over his infirmities and do such an amount +of harm without a tongue? Wonderful industry--strange, fruitless, +pleasureless toil? Must not the very devil feel a soft emotion to see +his disinterested and laborious service? Ah, but the devil knows better +than this: he knows that this man is penetrated with the love of evil and +that all his pleasure is shut up in wickedness: he recognises him, +perhaps, as a fit type for mankind of his satanic self, and watches over +his effigy as we might watch over a favourite likeness. As the business +man comes to love the toil, which he only looked upon at first as a +ladder towards other desires and less unnatural gratifications, so the +dumb man has felt the charm of his trade and fallen captivated before the +eyes of sin. It is a mistake when preachers tell us that vice is hideous +and loathsome; for even vice has her Horsel and her devotees, who love +her for her own sake. + + + + +THE GREAT NORTH ROAD + + +CHAPTER I--NANCE AT THE 'GREEN DRAGON' + + +Nance Holdaway was on her knees before the fire blowing the green wood +that voluminously smoked upon the dogs, and only now and then shot forth +a smothered flame; her knees already ached and her eyes smarted, for she +had been some while at this ungrateful task, but her mind was gone far +away to meet the coming stranger. Now she met him in the wood, now at +the castle gate, now in the kitchen by candle-light; each fresh +presentment eclipsed the one before; a form so elegant, manners so +sedate, a countenance so brave and comely, a voice so winning and +resolute--sure such a man was never seen! The thick-coming fancies +poured and brightened in her head like the smoke and flames upon the +hearth. + +Presently the heavy foot of her uncle Jonathan was heard upon the stair, +and as he entered the room she bent the closer to her work. He glanced +at the green fagots with a sneer, and looked askance at the bed and the +white sheets, at the strip of carpet laid, like an island, on the great +expanse of the stone floor, and at the broken glazing of the casement +clumsily repaired with paper. + +'Leave that fire a-be,' he cried. 'What, have I toiled all my life to +turn innkeeper at the hind end? Leave it a-be, I say.' + +'La, uncle, it doesn't burn a bit; it only smokes,' said Nance, looking +up from her position. + +'You are come of decent people on both sides,' returned the old man. +'Who are you to blow the coals for any Robin-run-agate? Get up, get on +your hood, make yourself useful, and be off to the "Green Dragon."' + +'I thought you was to go yourself,' Nance faltered. + +'So did I,' quoth Jonathan; 'but it appears I was mistook.' + +The very excess of her eagerness alarmed her, and she began to hang back. +'I think I would rather not, dear uncle,' she said. 'Night is at hand, +and I think, dear, I would rather not.' + +'Now you look here,' replied Jonathan, 'I have my lord's orders, have I +not? Little he gives me, but it's all my livelihood. And do you fancy, +if I disobey my lord, I'm likely to turn round for a lass like you? No, +I've that hell-fire of pain in my old knee, I wouldn't walk a mile, not +for King George upon his bended knees.' And he walked to the window and +looked down the steep scarp to where the river foamed in the bottom of +the dell. + +Nance stayed for no more bidding. In her own room, by the glimmer of the +twilight, she washed her hands and pulled on her Sunday mittens; adjusted +her black hood, and tied a dozen times its cherry ribbons; and in less +than ten minutes, with a fluttering heart and excellently bright eyes, +she passed forth under the arch and over the bridge, into the thickening +shadows of the groves. A well-marked wheel-track conducted her. The +wood, which upon both sides of the river dell was a mere scrambling +thicket of hazel, hawthorn, and holly, boasted on the level of more +considerable timber. Beeches came to a good growth, with here and there +an oak; and the track now passed under a high arcade of branches, and now +ran under the open sky in glades. As the girl proceeded these glades +became more frequent, the trees began again to decline in size, and the +wood to degenerate into furzy coverts. Last of all there was a fringe of +elders; and beyond that the track came forth upon an open, rolling +moorland, dotted with wind-bowed and scanty bushes, and all golden brown +with the winter, like a grouse. Right over against the girl the last red +embers of the sunset burned under horizontal clouds; the night fell clear +and still and frosty, and the track in low and marshy passages began to +crackle under foot with ice. + +Some half a mile beyond the borders of the wood the lights of the 'Green +Dragon' hove in sight, and running close beside them, very faint in the +dying dusk, the pale ribbon of the Great North Road. It was the back of +the post-house that was presented to Nance Holdaway; and as she continued +to draw near and the night to fall more completely, she became aware of +an unusual brightness and bustle. A post-chaise stood in the yard, its +lamps already lighted: light shone hospitably in the windows and from the +open door; moving lights and shadows testified to the activity of +servants bearing lanterns. The clank of pails, the stamping of hoofs on +the firm causeway, the jingle of harness, and, last of all, the energetic +hissing of a groom, began to fall upon her ear. By the stir you would +have thought the mail was at the door, but it was still too early in the +night. The down mail was not due at the 'Green Dragon' for hard upon an +hour; the up mail from Scotland not before two in the black morning. + +Nance entered the yard somewhat dazzled. Sam, the tall ostler, was +polishing a curb-chain wit sand; the lantern at his feet letting up +spouts of candle-light through the holes with which its conical roof was +peppered. + +'Hey, miss,' said he jocularly, 'you won't look at me any more, now you +have gentry at the castle.' + +Her cheeks burned with anger. + +'That's my lord's chay,' the man continued, nodding at the chaise, 'Lord +Windermoor's. Came all in a fluster--dinner, bowl of punch, and put the +horses to. For all the world like a runaway match, my dear--bar the +bride. He brought Mr. Archer in the chay with him.' + +'Is that Holdaway?' cried the landlord from the lighted entry, where he +stood shading his eyes. + +'Only me, sir,' answered Nance. + +'O, you, Miss Nance,' he said. 'Well, come in quick, my pretty. My lord +is waiting for your uncle.' + +And he ushered Nance into a room cased with yellow wainscot and lighted +by tall candles, where two gentlemen sat at a table finishing a bowl of +punch. One of these was stout, elderly, and irascible, with a face like +a full moon, well dyed with liquor, thick tremulous lips, a short, purple +hand, in which he brandished a long pipe, and an abrupt and gobbling +utterance. This was my Lord Windermoor. In his companion Nance beheld a +younger man, tall, quiet, grave, demurely dressed, and wearing his own +hair. Her glance but lighted on him, and she flushed, for in that second +she made sure that she had twice betrayed herself--betrayed by the +involuntary flash of her black eyes her secret impatience to behold this +new companion, and, what was far worse, betrayed her disappointment in +the realisation of her dreams. He, meanwhile, as if unconscious, +continued to regard her with unmoved decorum. + +'O, a man of wood,' thought Nance. + +'What--what?' said his lordship. 'Who is this?' + +'If you please, my lord, I am Holdaway's niece,' replied Nance, with a +curtsey. + +'Should have been here himself,' observed his lordship. 'Well, you tell +Holdaway that I'm aground, not a stiver--not a stiver. I'm running from +the beagles--going abroad, tell Holdaway. And he need look for no more +wages: glad of 'em myself, if I could get 'em. He can live in the castle +if he likes, or go to the devil. O, and here is Mr. Archer; and I +recommend him to take him in--a friend of mine--and Mr. Archer will pay, +as I wrote. And I regard that in the light of a precious good thing for +Holdaway, let me tell you, and a set-off against the wages.' + +'But O, my lord!' cried Nance, 'we live upon the wages, and what are we +to do without?' + +'What am I to do?--what am I to do?' replied Lord Windermoor with some +exasperation. 'I have no wages. And there is Mr. Archer. And if +Holdaway doesn't like it, he can go to the devil, and you with him!--and +you with him!' + +'And yet, my lord,' said Mr. Archer, 'these good people will have as keen +a sense of loss as you or I; keener, perhaps, since they have done +nothing to deserve it.' + +'Deserve it?' cried the peer. 'What? What? If a rascally highwayman +comes up to me with a confounded pistol, do you say that I've deserved +it? How often am I to tell you, sir, that I was cheated--that I was +cheated?' + +'You are happy in the belief,' returned Mr. Archer gravely. + +'Archer, you would be the death of me!' exclaimed his lordship. 'You +know you're drunk; you know it, sir; and yet you can't get up a spark of +animation.' + +'I have drunk fair, my lord,' replied the younger man; 'but I own I am +conscious of no exhilaration.' + +'If you had as black a look-out as me, sir,' cried the peer, 'you would +be very glad of a little innocent exhilaration, let me tell you. I am +glad of it--glad of it, and I only wish I was drunker. For let me tell +you it's a cruel hard thing upon a man of my time of life and my +position, to be brought down to beggary because the world is full of +thieves and rascals--thieves and rascals. What? For all I know, you may +be a thief and a rascal yourself; and I would fight you for a pinch of +snuff--a pinch of snuff,' exclaimed his lordship. + +Here Mr. Archer turned to Nance Holdaway with a pleasant smile, so full +of sweetness, kindness, and composure that, at one bound, her dreams +returned to her. 'My good Miss Holdaway,' said he, 'if you are willing +to show me the road, I am even eager to be gone. As for his lordship and +myself, compose yourself; there is no fear; this is his lordship's way.' + +'What? what?' cried his lordship. 'My way? Ish no such a thing, my +way.' + +'Come, my lord,' cried Archer; 'you and I very thoroughly understand each +other; and let me suggest, it is time that both of us were gone. The +mail will soon be due. Here, then, my lord, I take my leave of you, with +the most earnest assurance of my gratitude for the past, and a sincere +offer of any services I may be able to render in the future.' + +'Archer,' exclaimed Lord Windermoor, 'I love you like a son. Le' 's have +another bowl.' + +'My lord, for both our sakes, you will excuse me,' replied Mr. Archer. +'We both require caution; we must both, for some while at least, avoid +the chance of a pursuit.' + +'Archer,' quoth his lordship, 'this is a rank ingratishood. What? I'm +to go firing away in the dark in the cold po'chaise, and not so much as a +game of ecarte possible, unless I stop and play with the postillion, the +postillion; and the whole country swarming with thieves and rascals and +highwaymen.' + +'I beg your lordship's pardon,' put in the landlord, who now appeared in +the doorway to announce the chaise, 'but this part of the North Road is +known for safety. There has not been a robbery, to call a robbery, this +five years' time. Further south, of course, it's nearer London, and +another story,' he added. + +'Well, then, if that's so,' concluded my lord, 'le' 's have t'other bowl +and a pack of cards.' + +'My lord, you forget,' said Archer, 'I might still gain; but it is hardly +possible for me to lose.' + +'Think I'm a sharper?' inquired the peer. 'Gen'leman's parole's all I +ask.' + +But Mr. Archer was proof against these blandishments, and said farewell +gravely enough to Lord Windermoor, shaking his hand and at the same time +bowing very low. 'You will never know,' says he, 'the service you have +done me.' And with that, and before my lord had finally taken up his +meaning, he had slipped about the table, touched Nance lightly but +imperiously on the arm, and left the room. In face of the outbreak of +his lordship's lamentations she made haste to follow the truant. + + + +CHAPTER II--IN WHICH MR. ARCHER IS INSTALLED + + +The chaise had been driven round to the front door; the courtyard lay all +deserted, and only lit by a lantern set upon a window-sill. Through this +Nance rapidly led the way, and began to ascend the swellings of the moor +with a heart that somewhat fluttered in her bosom. She was not afraid, +but in the course of these last passages with Lord Windermoor Mr. Archer +had ascended to that pedestal on which her fancy waited to instal him. +The reality, she felt, excelled her dreams, and this cold night walk was +the first romantic incident in her experience. + +It was the rule in these days to see gentlemen unsteady after dinner, yet +Nance was both surprised and amused when her companion, who had spoken so +soberly, began to stumble and waver by her side with the most airy +divagations. Sometimes he would get so close to her that she must edge +away; and at others lurch clear out of the track and plough among deep +heather. His courtesy and gravity meanwhile remained unaltered. He +asked her how far they had to go; whether the way lay all upon the +moorland, and when he learned they had to pass a wood expressed his +pleasure. 'For,' said he, 'I am passionately fond of trees. Trees and +fair lawns, if you consider of it rightly, are the ornaments of nature, +as palaces and fine approaches--' And here he stumbled into a patch of +slough and nearly fell. The girl had hard work not to laugh, but at +heart she was lost in admiration for one who talked so elegantly. + +They had got to about a quarter of a mile from the 'Green Dragon,' and +were near the summit of the rise, when a sudden rush of wheels arrested +them. Turning and looking back, they saw the post-house, now much +declined in brightness; and speeding away northward the two tremulous +bright dots of my Lord Windermoor's chaise-lamps. Mr. Archer followed +these yellow and unsteady stars until they dwindled into points and +disappeared. + +'There goes my only friend,' he said. 'Death has cut off those that +loved me, and change of fortune estranged my flatterers; and but for you, +poor bankrupt, my life is as lonely as this moor.' + +The tone of his voice affected both of them. They stood there on the +side of the moor, and became thrillingly conscious of the void waste of +the night, without a feature for the eye, and except for the fainting +whisper of the carriage-wheels without a murmur for the ear. And +instantly, like a mockery, there broke out, very far away, but clear and +jolly, the note of the mail-guard's horn. 'Over the hills' was his air. +It rose to the two watchers on the moor with the most cheerful sentiment +of human company and travel, and at the same time in and around the +'Green Dragon' it woke up a great bustle of lights running to and fro and +clattering hoofs. Presently after, out of the darkness to southward, the +mail grew near with a growing rumble. Its lamps were very large and +bright, and threw their radiance forward in overlapping cones; the four +cantering horses swarmed and steamed; the body of the coach followed like +a great shadow; and this lit picture slid with a sort of ineffectual +swiftness over the black field of night, and was eclipsed by the +buildings of the 'Green Dragon.' + +Mr. Archer turned abruptly and resumed his former walk; only that he was +now more steady, kept better alongside his young conductor, and had +fallen into a silence broken by sighs. Nance waxed very pitiful over his +fate, contrasting an imaginary past of courts and great society, and +perhaps the King himself, with the tumbledown ruin in a wood to which she +was now conducting him. + +'You must try, sir, to keep your spirits up,' said she. 'To be sure this +is a great change for one like you; but who knows the future?' + +Mr. Archer turned towards her in the darkness, and she could clearly +perceive that he smiled upon her very kindly. 'There spoke a sweet +nature,' said he, 'and I must thank you for these words. But I would not +have you fancy that I regret the past for any happiness found in it, or +that I fear the simplicity and hardship of the country. I am a man that +has been much tossed about in life; now up, now down; and do you think +that I shall not be able to support what you support--you who are kind, +and therefore know how to feel pain; who are beautiful, and therefore +hope; who are young, and therefore (or am I the more mistaken?) +discontented?' + +'Nay, sir, not that, at least,' said Nance; 'not discontented. If I were +to be discontented, how should I look those that have real sorrows in the +face? I have faults enough, but not that fault; and I have my merits +too, for I have a good opinion of myself. But for beauty, I am not so +simple but that I can tell a banter from a compliment.' + +'Nay, nay,' said Mr. Archer, 'I had half forgotten; grief is selfish, and +I was thinking of myself and not of you, or I had never blurted out so +bold a piece of praise. 'Tis the best proof of my sincerity. But come, +now, I would lay a wager you are no coward?' + +'Indeed, sir, I am not more afraid than another,' said Nance. 'None of +my blood are given to fear.' + +'And you are honest?' he returned. + +'I will answer for that,' said she. + +'Well, then, to be brave, to be honest, to be kind, and to be contented, +since you say you are so--is not that to fill up a great part of virtue?' + +'I fear you are but a flatterer,' said Nance, but she did not say it +clearly, for what with bewilderment and satisfaction, her heart was quite +oppressed. + +There could be no harm, certainly, in these grave compliments; but yet +they charmed and frightened her, and to find favour, for reasons however +obscure, in the eyes of this elegant, serious, and most unfortunate young +gentleman, was a giddy elevation, was almost an apotheosis, for a country +maid. + +But she was to be no more exercised; for Mr. Archer, disclaiming any +thought of flattery, turned off to other subjects, and held her all +through the wood in conversation, addressing her with an air of perfect +sincerity, and listening to her answers with every mark of interest. Had +open flattery continued, Nance would have soon found refuge in good +sense; but the more subtle lure she could not suspect, much less avoid. +It was the first time she had ever taken part in a conversation +illuminated by any ideas. All was then true that she had heard and +dreamed of gentlemen; they were a race apart, like deities knowing good +and evil. And then there burst upon her soul a divine thought, hope's +glorious sunrise: since she could understand, since it seemed that she +too, even she, could interest this sorrowful Apollo, might she not learn? +or was she not learning? Would not her soul awake and put forth wings? +Was she not, in fact, an enchanted princess, waiting but a touch to +become royal? She saw herself transformed, radiantly attired, but in the +most exquisite taste: her face grown longer and more refined; her tint +etherealised; and she heard herself with delighted wonder talking like a +book. + +Meanwhile they had arrived at where the track comes out above the river +dell, and saw in front of them the castle, faintly shadowed on the night, +covering with its broken battlements a bold projection of the bank, and +showing at the extreme end, where were the habitable tower and wing, some +crevices of candle-light. Hence she called loudly upon her uncle, and he +was seen to issue, lantern in hand, from the tower door, and, where the +ruins did not intervene, to pick his way over the swarded courtyard, +avoiding treacherous cellars and winding among blocks of fallen masonry. +The arch of the great gate was still entire, flanked by two tottering +bastions, and it was here that Jonathan met them, standing at the edge of +the bridge, bent somewhat forward, and blinking at them through the glow +of his own lantern. Mr. Archer greeted him with civility; but the old +man was in no humour of compliance. He guided the newcomer across the +court-yard, looking sharply and quickly in his face, and grumbling all +the time about the cold, and the discomfort and dilapidation of the +castle. He was sure he hoped that Mr. Archer would like it; but in truth +he could not think what brought him there. Doubtless he had a good +reason--this with a look of cunning scrutiny--but, indeed, the place was +quite unfit for any person of repute; he himself was eaten up with the +rheumatics. It was the most rheumaticky place in England, and some fine +day the whole habitable part (to call it habitable) would fetch away +bodily and go down the slope into the river. He had seen the cracks +widening; there was a plaguy issue in the bank below; he thought a spring +was mining it; it might be to-morrow, it might be next day; but they were +all sure of a come-down sooner or later. 'And that is a poor death,' +said he, 'for any one, let alone a gentleman, to have a whole old ruin +dumped upon his belly. Have a care to your left there; these cellar +vaults have all broke down, and the grass and hemlock hide 'em. Well, +sir, here is welcome to you, such as it is, and wishing you well away.' + +And with that Jonathan ushered his guest through the tower door, and down +three steps on the left hand into the kitchen or common room of the +castle. It was a huge, low room, as large as a meadow, occupying the +whole width of the habitable wing, with six barred windows looking on the +court, and two into the river valley. A dresser, a table, and a few +chairs stood dotted here and there upon the uneven flags. Under the +great chimney a good fire burned in an iron fire-basket; a high old +settee, rudely carved with figures and Gothic lettering, flanked it on +either side; there was a hinge table and a stone bench in the chimney +corner, and above the arch hung guns, axes, lanterns, and great sheaves +of rusty keys. + +Jonathan looked about him, holding up the lantern, and shrugged his +shoulders, with a pitying grimace. 'Here it is,' he said. 'See the damp +on the floor, look at the moss; where there's moss you may be sure that +it's rheumaticky. Try and get near that fire for to warm yourself; it'll +blow the coat off your back. And with a young gentleman with a face like +yours, as pale as a tallow-candle, I'd be afeard of a churchyard cough +and a galloping decline,' says Jonathan, naming the maladies with gloomy +gusto, 'or the cold might strike and turn your blood,' he added. + +Mr. Archer fairly laughed. 'My good Mr. Holdaway,' said he, 'I was born +with that same tallow-candle face, and the only fear that you inspire me +with is the fear that I intrude unwelcomely upon your private hours. But +I think I can promise you that I am very little troublesome, and I am +inclined to hope that the terms which I can offer may still pay you the +derangement.' + +'Yes, the terms,' said Jonathan, 'I was thinking of that. As you say, +they are very small,' and he shook his head. + +'Unhappily, I can afford no more,' said Mr. Archer. 'But this we have +arranged already,' he added with a certain stiffness; 'and as I am aware +that Miss Holdaway has matter to communicate, I will, if you permit, +retire at once. To-night I must bivouac; to-morrow my trunk is to follow +from the "Dragon." So if you will show me to my room I shall wish you a +good slumber and a better awakening.' + +Jonathan silently gave the lantern to Nance, and she, turning and +curtseying in the doorway, proceeded to conduct their guest up the broad +winding staircase of the tower. He followed with a very brooding face. + +'Alas!' cried Nance, as she entered the room, 'your fire black out,' and, +setting down the lantern, she clapped upon her knees before the chimney +and began to rearrange the charred and still smouldering remains. Mr. +Archer looked about the gaunt apartment with a sort of shudder. The +great height, the bare stone, the shattered windows, the aspect of the +uncurtained bed, with one of its four fluted columns broken short, all +struck a chill upon his fancy. From this dismal survey his eyes returned +to Nance crouching before the fire, the candle in one hand and artfully +puffing at the embers; the flames as they broke forth played upon the +soft outline of her cheek--she was alive and young, coloured with the +bright hues of life, and a woman. He looked upon her, softening; and +then sat down and continued to admire the picture. + +'There, sir,' said she, getting upon her feet, 'your fire is doing +bravely now. Good-night.' + +He rose and held out his hand. 'Come,' said he, 'you are my only friend +in these parts, and you must shake hands.' + +She brushed her hand upon her skirt and offered it, blushing. + +'God bless you, my dear,' said he. + +And then, when he was alone, he opened one of the windows, and stared +down into the dark valley. A gentle wimpling of the river among stones +ascended to his ear; the trees upon the other bank stood very black +against the sky; farther away an owl was hooting. It was dreary and +cold, and as he turned back to the hearth and the fine glow of fire, +'Heavens!' said he to himself, 'what an unfortunate destiny is mine!' + +He went to bed, but sleep only visited his pillow in uneasy snatches. +Outbreaks of loud speech came up the staircase; he heard the old stones +of the castle crack in the frosty night with sharp reverberations, and +the bed complained under his tossings. Lastly, far on into the morning, +he awakened from a doze to hear, very far off, in the extreme and +breathless quiet, a wailing flourish on the horn. The down mail was +drawing near to the 'Green Dragon.' He sat up in bed; the sound was +tragical by distance, and the modulation appealed to his ear like human +speech. It seemed to call upon him with a dreary insistence--to call him +far away, to address him personally, and to have a meaning that he failed +to seize. It was thus, at least, in this nodding castle, in a cold, miry +woodland, and so far from men and society, that the traffic on the Great +North Road spoke to him in the intervals of slumber. + + + +CHAPTER III--JONATHAN HOLDAWAY + + +Nance descended the tower stair, pausing at every step. She was in no +hurry to confront her uncle with bad news, and she must dwell a little +longer on the rich note of Mr. Archer's voice, the charm of his kind +words, and the beauty of his manner and person. But, once at the +stair-foot, she threw aside the spell and recovered her sensible and +workaday self. + +Jonathan was seated in the middle of the settle, a mug of ale beside him, +in the attitude of one prepared for trouble; but he did not speak, and +suffered her to fetch her supper and eat of it, with a very excellent +appetite, in silence. When she had done, she, too, drew a tankard of +home-brewed, and came and planted herself in front of him upon the +settle. + +'Well?' said Jonathan. + +'My lord has run away,' said Nance. + +'What?' cried the old man. + +'Abroad,' she continued; 'run away from creditors. He said he had not a +stiver, but he was drunk enough. He said you might live on in the +castle, and Mr. Archer would pay you; but you was to look for no more +wages, since he would be glad of them himself.' + +Jonathan's face contracted; the flush of a black, bilious anger mounted +to the roots of his hair; he gave an inarticulate cry, leapt upon his +feet, and began rapidly pacing the stone floor. At first he kept his +hands behind his back in a tight knot; then he began to gesticulate as he +turned. + +'This man--this lord,' he shouted, 'who is he? He was born with a gold +spoon in his mouth, and I with a dirty straw. He rolled in his coach +when he was a baby. I have dug and toiled and laboured since I was that +high--that high.' And he shouted again. 'I'm bent and broke, and full +of pains. D' ye think I don't know the taste of sweat? Many's the +gallon I've drunk of it--ay, in the midwinter, toiling like a slave. All +through, what has my life been? Bend, bend, bend my old creaking back +till it would ache like breaking; wade about in the foul mire, never a +dry stitch; empty belly, sore hands, hat off to my Lord Redface; kicks +and ha'pence; and now, here, at the hind end, when I'm worn to my poor +bones, a kick and done with it.' He walked a little while in silence, +and then, extending his hand, 'Now you, Nance Holdaway,' says he, 'you +come of my blood, and you're a good girl. When that man was a boy, I +used to carry his gun for him. I carried the gun all day on my two feet, +and many a stitch I had, and chewed a bullet for. He rode upon a horse, +with feathers in his hat; but it was him that had the shots and took the +game home. Did I complain? Not I. I knew my station. What did I ask, +but just the chance to live and die honest? Nance Holdaway, don't let +them deny it to me--don't let them do it. I've been as poor as Job, and +as honest as the day, but now, my girl, you mark these words of mine, I'm +getting tired of it.' + +'I wouldn't say such words, at least,' said Nance. + +'You wouldn't?' said the old man grimly. 'Well, and did I when I was +your age? Wait till your back's broke and your hands tremble, and your +eyes fail, and you're weary of the battle and ask no more but to lie down +in your bed and give the ghost up like an honest man; and then let there +up and come some insolent, ungodly fellow--ah! if I had him in these +hands! "Where's my money that you gambled?" I should say. "Where's my +money that you drank and diced?" "Thief!" is what I would say; "Thief!"' +he roared, '"Thief"' + +'Mr. Archer will hear you if you don't take care,' said Nance, 'and I +would be ashamed, for one, that he should hear a brave, old, honest, +hard-working man like Jonathan Holdaway talk nonsense like a boy.' + +'D' ye think I mind for Mr. Archer?' he cried shrilly, with a clack of +laughter; and then he came close up to her, stooped down with his two +palms upon his knees, and looked her in the eyes, with a strange hard +expression, something like a smile. 'Do I mind for God, my girl?' he +said; 'that's what it's come to be now, do I mind for God?' + +'Uncle Jonathan,' she said, getting up and taking him by the arm; 'you +sit down again, where you were sitting. There, sit still; I'll have no +more of this; you'll do yourself a mischief. Come, take a drink of this +good ale, and I'll warm a tankard for you. La, we'll pull through, +you'll see. I'm young, as you say, and it's my turn to carry the bundle; +and don't you worry your bile, or we'll have sickness, too, as well as +sorrow.' + +'D' ye think that I'd forgotten you?' said Jonathan, with something like +a groan; and thereupon his teeth clicked to, and he sat silent with the +tankard in his hand and staring straight before him. + +'Why,' says Nance, setting on the ale to mull, 'men are always children, +they say, however old; and if ever I heard a thing like this, to set to +and make yourself sick, just when the money's failing. Keep a good heart +up; you haven't kept a good heart these seventy years, nigh hand, to +break down about a pound or two. Here's this Mr. Archer come to lodge, +that you disliked so much. Well, now you see it was a clear Providence. +Come, let's think upon our mercies. And here is the ale mulling lovely; +smell of it; I'll take a drop myself, it smells so sweet. And, Uncle +Jonathan, you let me say one word. You've lost more than money before +now; you lost my aunt, and bore it like a man. Bear this.' + +His face once more contracted; his fist doubled, and shot forth into the +air, and trembled. 'Let them look out!' he shouted. 'Here, I warn all +men; I've done with this foul kennel of knaves. Let them look out!' + +'Hush, hush! for pity's sake,' cried Nance. + +And then all of a sudden he dropped his face into his hands, and broke +out with a great hiccoughing dry sob that was horrible to hear. 'O,' he +cried, 'my God, if my son hadn't left me, if my Dick was here!' and the +sobs shook him; Nance sitting still and watching him, with distress. 'O, +if he were here to help his father!' he went on again. 'If I had a son +like other fathers, he would save me now, when all is breaking down; O, +he would save me! Ay, but where is he? Raking taverns, a thief perhaps. +My curse be on him!' he added, rising again into wrath. + +'Hush!' cried Nance, springing to her feet: 'your boy, your dead wife's +boy--Aunt Susan's baby that she loved--would you curse him? O, God +forbid!' + +The energy of her address surprised him from his mood. He looked upon +her, tearless and confused. 'Let me go to my bed,' he said at last, and +he rose, and, shaking as with ague, but quite silent, lighted his candle, +and left the kitchen. + +Poor Nance! the pleasant current of her dreams was all diverted. She +beheld a golden city, where she aspired to dwell; she had spoken with a +deity, and had told herself that she might rise to be his equal; and now +the earthly ligaments that bound her down had been tightened. She was +like a tree looking skyward, her roots were in the ground. It seemed to +her a thing so coarse, so rustic, to be thus concerned about a loss in +money; when Mr. Archer, fallen from the sky-level of counts and nobles, +faced his changed destiny with so immovable a courage. To weary of +honesty; that, at least, no one could do, but even to name it was already +a disgrace; and she beheld in fancy her uncle, and the young lad, all +laced and feathered, hand upon hip, bestriding his small horse. The +opposition seemed to perpetuate itself from generation to generation; one +side still doomed to the clumsy and the servile, the other born to +beauty. + +She thought of the golden zones in which gentlemen were bred, and figured +with so excellent a grace; zones in which wisdom and smooth words, white +linen and slim hands, were the mark of the desired inhabitants; where low +temptations were unknown, and honesty no virtue, but a thing as natural +as breathing. + + + +CHAPTER IV--MINGLING THREADS + + +It was nearly seven before Mr. Archer left his apartment. On the landing +he found another door beside his own opening on a roofless corridor, and +presently he was walking on the top of the ruins. On one hand he could +look down a good depth into the green court-yard; on the other his eye +roved along the downward course of the river, the wet woods all smoking, +the shadows long and blue, the mists golden and rosy in the sun, here and +there the water flashing across an obstacle. His heart expanded and +softened to a grateful melancholy, and with his eye fixed upon the +distance, and no thought of present danger, he continued to stroll along +the elevated and treacherous promenade. + +A terror-stricken cry rose to him from the courtyard. He looked down, +and saw in a glimpse Nance standing below with hands clasped in horror +and his own foot trembling on the margin of a gulf. He recoiled and +leant against a pillar, quaking from head to foot, and covering his face +with his hands; and Nance had time to run round by the stair and rejoin +him where he stood before he had changed a line of his position. + +'Ah!' he cried, and clutched her wrist; 'don't leave me. The place +rocks; I have no head for altitudes.' + +'Sit down against that pillar,' said Nance. 'Don't you be afraid; I +won't leave you, and don't look up or down: look straight at me. How +white you are!' + +'The gulf,' he said, and closed his eyes again and shuddered. + +'Why,' said Nance, 'what a poor climber you must be! That was where my +cousin Dick used to get out of the castle after Uncle Jonathan had shut +the gate. I've been down there myself with him helping me. I wouldn't +try with you,' she said, and laughed merrily. + +The sound of her laughter was sincere and musical, and perhaps its beauty +barbed the offence to Mr. Archer. The blood came into his face with a +quick jet, and then left it paler than before. 'It is a physical +weakness,' he said harshly, 'and very droll, no doubt, but one that I can +conquer on necessity. See, I am still shaking. Well, I advance to the +battlements and look down. Show me your cousin's path.' + +'He would go sure-foot along that little ledge,' said Nance, pointing as +she spoke; 'then out through the breach and down by yonder buttress. It +is easier coming back, of course, because you see where you are going. +From the buttress foot a sheep-walk goes along the scarp--see, you can +follow it from here in the dry grass. And now, sir,' she added, with a +touch of womanly pity, 'I would come away from here if I were you, for +indeed you are not fit.' + +Sure enough Mr. Archer's pallor and agitation had continued to increase; +his cheeks were deathly, his clenched fingers trembled pitifully. 'The +weakness is physical,' he sighed, and had nearly fallen. Nance led him +from the spot, and he was no sooner back in the tower-stair, than he fell +heavily against the wall and put his arm across his eyes. A cup of +brandy had to be brought him before he could descend to breakfast; and +the perfection of Nance's dream was for the first time troubled. + +Jonathan was waiting for them at table, with yellow, blood-shot eyes and +a peculiar dusky complexion. He hardly waited till they found their +seats, before, raising one hand, and stooping with his mouth above his +plate, he put up a prayer for a blessing on the food and a spirit of +gratitude in the eaters, and thereupon, and without more civility, fell +to. But it was notable that he was no less speedily satisfied than he +had been greedy to begin. He pushed his plate away and drummed upon the +table. + +'These are silly prayers,' said he, 'that they teach us. Eat and be +thankful, that's no such wonder. Speak to me of starving--there's the +touch. You're a man, they tell me, Mr. Archer, that has met with some +reverses?' + +'I have met with many,' replied Mr. Archer. + +'Ha!' said Jonathan. 'None reckons but the last. Now, see; I tried to +make this girl here understand me.' + +'Uncle,' said Nance, 'what should Mr. Archer care for your concerns? He +hath troubles of his own, and came to be at peace, I think.' + +'I tried to make her understand me,' repeated Jonathan doggedly; 'and now +I'll try you. Do you think this world is fair?' + +'Fair and false!' quoth Mr. Archer. + +The old man laughed immoderately. 'Good,' said he, 'very good, but what +I mean is this: do you know what it is to get up early and go to bed +late, and never take so much as a holiday but four: and one of these your +own marriage day, and the other three the funerals of folk you loved, and +all that, to have a quiet old age in shelter, and bread for your old +belly, and a bed to lay your crazy bones upon, with a clear conscience?' + +'Sir,' said Mr. Archer, with an inclination of his head, 'you portray a +very brave existence.' + +'Well,' continued Jonathan, 'and in the end thieves deceive you, thieves +rob and rook you, thieves turn you out in your old age and send you +begging. What have you got for all your honesty? A fine return! You +that might have stole scores of pounds, there you are out in the rain +with your rheumatics!' + +Mr. Archer had forgotten to eat; with his hand upon his chin he was +studying the old man's countenance. 'And you conclude?' he asked. + +'Conclude!' cried Jonathan. 'I conclude I'll be upsides with them.' + +'Ay,' said the other, 'we are all tempted to revenge.' + +'You have lost money?' asked Jonathan. + +'A great estate,' said Archer quietly. + +'See now!' says Jonathan, 'and where is it?' + +'Nay, I sometimes think that every one has had his share of it but me,' +was the reply. 'All England hath paid his taxes with my patrimony: I was +a sheep that left my wool on every briar.' + +'And you sit down under that?' cried the old man. 'Come now, Mr. Archer, +you and me belong to different stations; and I know mine--no man +better--but since we have both been rooked, and are both sore with it, +why, here's my hand with a very good heart, and I ask for yours, and no +offence, I hope.' + +'There is surely no offence, my friend,' returned Mr. Archer, as they +shook hands across the table; 'for, believe me, my sympathies are quite +acquired to you. This life is an arena where we fight with beasts; and, +indeed,' he added, sighing, 'I sometimes marvel why we go down to it +unarmed.' + +In the meanwhile a creaking of ungreased axles had been heard descending +through the wood; and presently after, the door opened, and the tall +ostler entered the kitchen carrying one end of Mr. Archer's trunk. The +other was carried by an aged beggar man of that district, known and +welcome for some twenty miles about under the name of 'Old Cumberland.' +Each was soon perched upon a settle, with a cup of ale; and the ostler, +who valued himself upon his affability, began to entertain the company, +still with half an eye on Nance, to whom in gallant terms he expressly +dedicated every sip of ale. First he told of the trouble they had to get +his Lordship started in the chaise; and how he had dropped a rouleau of +gold on the threshold, and the passage and doorstep had been strewn with +guinea-pieces. At this old Jonathan looked at Mr. Archer. Next the +visitor turned to news of a more thrilling character: how the down mail +had been stopped again near Grantham by three men on horseback--a white +and two bays; how they had handkerchiefs on their faces; how Tom the +guard's blunderbuss missed fire, but he swore he had winged one of them +with a pistol; and how they had got clean away with seventy pounds in +money, some valuable papers, and a watch or two. + +'Brave! brave!' cried Jonathan in ecstasy. 'Seventy pounds! O, it's +brave!' + +'Well, I don't see the great bravery,' observed the ostler, +misapprehending him. 'Three men, and you may call that three to one. +I'll call it brave when some one stops the mail single-handed; that's a +risk.' + +'And why should they hesitate?' inquired Mr. Archer. 'The poor souls who +are fallen to such a way of life, pray what have they to lose? If they +get the money, well; but if a ball should put them from their troubles, +why, so better.' + +'Well, sir,' said the ostler, 'I believe you'll find they won't agree +with you. They count on a good fling, you see; or who would risk +it?--And here's my best respects to you, Miss Nance.' + +'And I forgot the part of cowardice,' resumed Mr. Archer. 'All men +fear.' + +'O, surely not!' cried Nance. + +'All men,' reiterated Mr. Archer. + +'Ay, that's a true word,' observed Old Cumberland, 'and a thief, anyway, +for it's a coward's trade.' + +'But these fellows, now,' said Jonathan, with a curious, appealing +manner--'these fellows with their seventy pounds! Perhaps, Mr. Archer, +they were no true thieves after all, but just people who had been robbed +and tried to get their own again. What was that you said, about all +England and the taxes? One takes, another gives; why, that's almost +fair. If I've been rooked and robbed, and the coat taken off my back, I +call it almost fair to take another's.' + +'Ask Old Cumberland,' observed the ostler; 'you ask Old Cumberland, Miss +Nance!' and he bestowed a wink upon his favoured fair one. + +'Why that?' asked Jonathan. + +'He had his coat taken--ay, and his shirt too,' returned the ostler. + +'Is that so?' cried Jonathan eagerly. 'Was you robbed too?' + +'That was I,' replied Cumberland, 'with a warrant! I was a well-to-do +man when I was young.' + +'Ay! See that!' says Jonathan. 'And you don't long for a revenge?' + +'Eh! Not me!' answered the beggar. 'It's too long ago. But if you'll +give me another mug of your good ale, my pretty lady, I won't say no to +that.' + +'And shalt have! And shalt have!' cried Jonathan. 'Or brandy even, if +you like it better.' + +And as Cumberland did like it better, and the ostler chimed in, the party +pledged each other in a dram of brandy before separating. + +As for Nance, she slipped forth into the ruins, partly to avoid the +ostler's gallantries, partly to lament over the defects of Mr. Archer. +Plainly, he was no hero. She pitied him; she began to feel a protecting +interest mingle with and almost supersede her admiration, and was at the +same time disappointed and yet drawn to him. She was, indeed, conscious +of such unshaken fortitude in her own heart, that she was almost tempted +by an occasion to be bold for two. She saw herself, in a brave attitude, +shielding her imperfect hero from the world; and she saw, like a piece of +heaven, his gratitude for her protection. + + + +CHAPTER V--LIFE IN THE CASTLE + + +From that day forth the life of these three persons in the ruin ran very +smoothly. Mr. Archer now sat by the fire with a book, and now passed +whole days abroad, returning late, dead weary. His manner was a mask; +but it was half transparent; through the even tenor of his gravity and +courtesy profound revolutions of feeling were betrayed, seasons of numb +despair, of restlessness, of aching temper. For days he would say +nothing beyond his usual courtesies and solemn compliments; and then, all +of a sudden, some fine evening beside the kitchen fire, he would fall +into a vein of elegant gossip, tell of strange and interesting events, +the secrets of families, brave deeds of war, the miraculous discovery of +crime, the visitations of the dead. Nance and her uncle would sit till +the small hours with eyes wide open: Jonathan applauding the unexpected +incidents with many a slap of his big hand; Nance, perhaps, more pleased +with the narrator's eloquence and wise reflections; and then, again, days +would follow of abstraction, of listless humming, of frequent apologies +and long hours of silence. Once only, and then after a week of +unrelieved melancholy, he went over to the 'Green Dragon,' spent the +afternoon with the landlord and a bowl of punch, and returned as on the +first night, devious in step but courteous and unperturbed of speech. + +If he seemed more natural and more at his ease it was when he found Nance +alone; and, laying by some of his reserve, talked before her rather than +to her of his destiny, character and hopes. To Nance these interviews +were but a doubtful privilege. At times he would seem to take a pleasure +in her presence, to consult her gravely, to hear and to discuss her +counsels; at times even, but these were rare and brief, he would talk of +herself, praise the qualities that she possessed, touch indulgently on +her defects, and lend her books to read and even examine her upon her +reading; but far more often he would fall into a half unconsciousness, +put her a question and then answer it himself, drop into the veiled tone +of voice of one soliloquising, and leave her at last as though he had +forgotten her existence. It was odd, too, that in all this random +converse, not a fact of his past life, and scarce a name, should ever +cross his lips. A profound reserve kept watch upon his most unguarded +moments. He spoke continually of himself, indeed, but still in enigmas; +a veiled prophet of egoism. + +The base of Nance's feelings for Mr. Archer was admiration as for a +superior being; and with this, his treatment, consciously or not, +accorded happily. When he forgot her, she took the blame upon herself. +His formal politeness was so exquisite that this essential brutality +stood excused. His compliments, besides, were always grave and rational; +he would offer reason for his praise, convict her of merit, and thus +disarm suspicion. Nay, and the very hours when he forgot and remembered +her alternately could by the ardent fallacies of youth be read in the +light of an attention. She might be far from his confidence; but still +she was nearer it than any one. He might ignore her presence, but yet he +sought it. + +Moreover, she, upon her side, was conscious of one point of superiority. +Beside this rather dismal, rather effeminate man, who recoiled from a +worm, who grew giddy on the castle wall, who bore so helplessly the +weight of his misfortunes, she felt herself a head and shoulders taller +in cheerful and sterling courage. She could walk head in air along the +most precarious rafter; her hand feared neither the grossness nor the +harshness of life's web, but was thrust cheerfully, if need were, into +the briar bush, and could take hold of any crawling horror. Ruin was +mining the walls of her cottage, as already it had mined and subverted +Mr. Archer's palace. Well, she faced it with a bright countenance and a +busy hand. She had got some washing, some rough seamstress work from the +'Green Dragon,' and from another neighbour ten miles away across the +moor. At this she cheerfully laboured, and from that height she could +afford to pity the useless talents and poor attitude of Mr. Archer. It +did not change her admiration, but it made it bearable. He was above her +in all ways; but she was above him in one. She kept it to herself, and +hugged it. When, like all young creatures, she made long stories to +justify, to nourish, and to forecast the course of her affection, it was +this private superiority that made all rosy, that cut the knot, and that, +at last, in some great situation, fetched to her knees the dazzling but +imperfect hero. With this pretty exercise she beguiled the hours of +labour, and consoled herself for Mr. Archer's bearing. + +Pity was her weapon and her weakness. To accept the loved one's faults, +although it has an air of freedom, is to kiss the chain, and this pity it +was which, lying nearer to her heart, lent the one element of true +emotion to a fanciful and merely brain-sick love. + +Thus it fell out one day that she had gone to the 'Green Dragon' and +brought back thence a letter to Mr. Archer. He, upon seeing it, winced +like a man under the knife: pain, shame, sorrow, and the most trenchant +edge of mortification cut into his heart and wrung the steady composure +of his face. + +'Dear heart! have you bad news?' she cried. + +But he only replied by a gesture and fled to his room, and when, later +on, she ventured to refer to it, he stopped her on the threshold, as if +with words prepared beforehand. 'There are some pains,' said he, 'too +acute for consolation, or I would bring them to my kind consoler. Let +the memory of that letter, if you please, be buried.' And then as she +continued to gaze at him, being, in spite of herself, pained by his +elaborate phrase, doubtfully sincere in word and manner: 'Let it be +enough,' he added haughtily, 'that if this matter wring my heart, it doth +not touch my conscience. I am a man, I would have you to know, who +suffers undeservedly.' + +He had never spoken so directly: never with so convincing an emotion; and +her heart thrilled for him. She could have taken his pains and died of +them with joy. + +Meanwhile she was left without support. Jonathan now swore by his +lodger, and lived for him. He was a fine talker. He knew the finest +sight of stories; he was a man and a gentleman, take him for all in all, +and a perfect credit to Old England. Such were the old man's declared +sentiments, and sure enough he clung to Mr. Archer's side, hung upon his +utterance when he spoke, and watched him with unwearing interest when he +was silent. And yet his feeling was not clear; in the partial wreck of +his mind, which was leaning to decay, some after-thought was strongly +present. As he gazed in Mr. Archer's face a sudden brightness would +kindle in his rheumy eyes, his eye-brows would lift as with a sudden +thought, his mouth would open as though to speak, and close again on +silence. Once or twice he even called Mr. Archer mysteriously forth into +the dark courtyard, took him by the button, and laid a demonstrative +finger on his chest; but there his ideas or his courage failed him; he +would shufflingly excuse himself and return to his position by the fire +without a word of explanation. 'The good man was growing old,' said Mr. +Archer with a suspicion of a shrug. But the good man had his idea, and +even when he was alone the name of Mr. Archer fell from his lips +continually in the course of mumbled and gesticulative conversation. + + + +CHAPTER VI--THE BAD HALF-CROWN + + +However early Nance arose, and she was no sluggard, the old man, who had +begun to outlive the earthly habit of slumber, would usually have been up +long before, the fire would be burning brightly, and she would see him +wandering among the ruins, lantern in hand, and talking assiduously to +himself. One day, however, after he had returned late from the market +town, she found that she had stolen a march upon that indefatigable early +riser. The kitchen was all blackness. She crossed the castle-yard to +the wood-cellar, her steps printing the thick hoarfrost. A scathing +breeze blew out of the north-east and slowly carried a regiment of black +and tattered clouds over the face of heaven, which was already kindled +with the wild light of morning, but where she walked, in shelter of the +ruins, the flame of her candle burned steady. The extreme cold smote +upon her conscience. She could not bear to think this bitter business +fell usually to the lot of one so old as Jonathan, and made desperate +resolutions to be earlier in the future. + +The fire was a good blaze before he entered, limping dismally into the +kitchen. 'Nance,' said he, 'I be all knotted up with the rheumatics; +will you rub me a bit?' She came and rubbed him where and how he bade +her. 'This is a cruel thing that old age should be rheumaticky,' said +he. 'When I was young I stood my turn of the teethache like a man! for +why? because it couldn't last for ever; but these rheumatics come to live +and die with you. Your aunt was took before the time came; never had an +ache to mention. Now I lie all night in my single bed and the blood +never warms in me; this knee of mine it seems like lighted up with +rheumatics; it seems as though you could see to sew by it; and all the +strings of my old body ache, as if devils was pulling 'em. Thank you +kindly; that's someways easier now, but an old man, my dear, has little +to look for; it's pain, pain, pain to the end of the business, and I'll +never be rightly warm again till I get under the sod,' he said, and +looked down at her with a face so aged and weary that she had nearly +wept. + +'I lay awake all night,' he continued; 'I do so mostly, and a long walk +kills me. Eh, deary me, to think that life should run to such a puddle! +And I remember long syne when I was strong, and the blood all hot and +good about me, and I loved to run, too--deary me, to run! Well, that's +all by. You'd better pray to be took early, Nance, and not live on till +you get to be like me, and are robbed in your grey old age, your cold, +shivering, dark old age, that's like a winter's morning'; and he bitterly +shuddered, spreading his hands before the fire. + +'Come now,' said Nance, 'the more you say the less you'll like it, Uncle +Jonathan; but if I were you I would be proud for to have lived all your +days honest and beloved, and come near the end with your good name: isn't +that a fine thing to be proud of? Mr. Archer was telling me in some +strange land they used to run races each with a lighted candle, and the +art was to keep the candle burning. Well, now, I thought that was like +life: a man's good conscience is the flame he gets to carry, and if he +comes to the winning-post with that still burning, why, take it how you +will, the man's a hero--even if he was low-born like you and me.' + +'Did Mr. Archer tell you that?' asked Jonathan. + +'No, dear,' said she, 'that's my own thought about it. He told me of the +race. But see, now,' she continued, putting on the porridge, 'you say +old age is a hard season, but so is youth. You're half out of the +battle, I would say; you loved my aunt and got her, and buried her, and +some of these days soon you'll go to meet her; and take her my love and +tell her I tried to take good care of you; for so I do, Uncle Jonathan.' + +Jonathan struck with his fist upon the settle. 'D' ye think I want to +die, ye vixen?' he shouted. 'I want to live ten hundred years.' + +This was a mystery beyond Nance's penetration, and she stared in wonder +as she made the porridge. + +'I want to live,' he continued, 'I want to live and to grow rich. I want +to drive my carriage and to dice in hells and see the ring, I do. Is +this a life that I lived? I want to be a rake, d' ye understand? I want +to know what things are like. I don't want to die like a blind kitten, +and me seventy-six.' + +'O fie!' said Nance. + +The old man thrust out his jaw at her, with the grimace of an irreverent +schoolboy. Upon that aged face it seemed a blasphemy. Then he took out +of his bosom a long leather purse, and emptying its contents on the +settle, began to count and recount the pieces, ringing and examining +each, and suddenly he leapt like a young man. 'What!' he screamed. +'Bad? O Lord! I'm robbed again!' And falling on his knees before the +settle he began to pour forth the most dreadful curses on the head of his +deceiver. His eyes were shut, for to him this vile solemnity was prayer. +He held up the bad half-crown in his right hand, as though he were +displaying it to Heaven, and what increased the horror of the scene, the +curses he invoked were those whose efficacy he had tasted--old age and +poverty, rheumatism and an ungrateful son. Nance listened appalled; then +she sprang forward and dragged down his arm and laid her hand upon his +mouth. + +'Whist!' she cried. 'Whist ye, for God's sake! O my man, whist ye! If +Heaven were to hear; if poor Aunt Susan were to hear! Think, she may be +listening.' And with the histrionism of strong emotion she pointed to a +corner of the kitchen. + +His eyes followed her finger. He looked there for a little, thinking, +blinking; then he got stiffly to his feet and resumed his place upon the +settle, the bad piece still in his hand. So he sat for some time, +looking upon the half-crown, and now wondering to himself on the +injustice and partiality of the law, now computing again and again the +nature of his loss. So he was still sitting when Mr. Archer entered the +kitchen. At this a light came into his face, and after some seconds of +rumination he dispatched Nance upon an errand. + +'Mr. Archer,' said he, as soon as they were alone together, 'would you +give me a guinea-piece for silver?' + +'Why, sir, I believe I can,' said Mr. Archer. + +And the exchange was just effected when Nance re-entered the apartment. +The blood shot into her face. + +'What's to do here?' she asked rudely. + +'Nothing, my dearie,' said old Jonathan, with a touch of whine. + +'What's to do?' she said again. + +'Your uncle was but changing me a piece of gold,' returned Mr. Archer. + +'Let me see what he hath given you, Mr. Archer,' replied the girl. 'I +had a bad piece, and I fear it is mixed up among the good.' + +'Well, well,' replied Mr. Archer, smiling, 'I must take the merchant's +risk of it. The money is now mixed.' + +'I know my piece,' quoth Nance. 'Come, let me see your silver, Mr. +Archer. If I have to get it by a theft I'll see that money,' she cried. + +'Nay, child, if you put as much passion to be honest as the world to +steal, I must give way, though I betray myself,' said Mr. Archer. 'There +it is as I received it.' + +Nance quickly found the bad half-crown. + +'Give him another,' she said, looking Jonathan in the face; and when that +had been done, she walked over to the chimney and flung the guilty piece +into the reddest of the fire. Its base constituents began immediately to +run; even as she watched it the disc crumbled, and the lineaments of the +King became confused. Jonathan, who had followed close behind, beheld +these changes from over her shoulder, and his face darkened sorely. + +'Now,' said she, 'come back to table, and to-day it is I that shall say +grace, as I used to do in the old times, day about with Dick'; and +covering her eyes with one hand, 'O Lord,' said she with deep emotion, +'make us thankful; and, O Lord, deliver us from evil! For the love of +the poor souls that watch for us in heaven, O deliver us from evil.' + + + +CHAPTER VII--THE BLEACHING-GREEN + + +The year moved on to March; and March, though it blew bitter keen from +the North Sea, yet blinked kindly between whiles on the river dell. The +mire dried up in the closest covert; life ran in the bare branches, and +the air of the afternoon would be suddenly sweet with the fragrance of +new grass. + +Above and below the castle the river crooked like the letter 'S.' The +lower loop was to the left, and embraced the high and steep projection +which was crowned by the ruins; the upper loop enclosed a lawny +promontory, fringed by thorn and willow. It was easy to reach it from +the castle side, for the river ran in this part very quietly among +innumerable boulders and over dam-like walls of rock. The place was all +enclosed, the wind a stranger, the turf smooth and solid; so it was +chosen by Nance to be her bleaching-green. + +One day she brought a bucketful of linen, and had but begun to wring and +lay them out when Mr. Archer stepped from the thicket on the far side, +drew very deliberately near, and sat down in silence on the grass. Nance +looked up to greet him with a smile, but finding her smile was not +returned, she fell into embarrassment and stuck the more busily to her +employment. Man or woman, the whole world looks well at any work to +which they are accustomed; but the girl was ashamed of what she did. She +was ashamed, besides, of the sun-bonnet that so well became her, and +ashamed of her bare arms, which were her greatest beauty. + +'Nausicaa,' said Mr. Archer at last, 'I find you like Nausicaa.' + +'And who was she?' asked Nance, and laughed in spite of herself, an empty +and embarrassed laugh, that sounded in Mr. Archer's ears, indeed, like +music, but to her own like the last grossness of rusticity. + +'She was a princess of the Grecian islands,' he replied. 'A king, being +shipwrecked, found her washing by the shore. Certainly I, too, was +shipwrecked,' he continued, plucking at the grass. 'There was never a +more desperate castaway--to fall from polite life, fortune, a shrine of +honour, a grateful conscience, duties willingly taken up and faithfully +discharged; and to fall to this--idleness, poverty, inutility, remorse.' +He seemed to have forgotten her presence, but here he remembered her +again. 'Nance,' said he, 'would you have a man sit down and suffer or +rise up and strive?' + +'Nay,' she said. 'I would always rather see him doing.' + +'Ha!' said Mr. Archer, 'but yet you speak from an imperfect knowledge. +Conceive a man damned to a choice of only evil--misconduct upon either +side, not a fault behind him, and yet naught before him but this choice +of sins. How would you say then?' + +'I would say that he was much deceived, Mr. Archer,' returned Nance. 'I +would say there was a third choice, and that the right one.' + +'I tell you,' said Mr. Archer, 'the man I have in view hath two ways +open, and no more. One to wait, like a poor mewling baby, till Fate save +or ruin him; the other to take his troubles in his hand, and to perish or +be saved at once. It is no point of morals; both are wrong. Either way +this step-child of Providence must fall; which shall he choose, by doing +or not doing?' + +'Fall, then, is what I would say,' replied Nance. 'Fall where you will, +but do it! For O, Mr. Archer,' she continued, stooping to her work, 'you +that are good and kind, and so wise, it doth sometimes go against my +heart to see you live on here like a sheep in a turnip-field! If you +were braver--' and here she paused, conscience-smitten. + +'Do I, indeed, lack courage?' inquired Mr. Archer of himself. 'Courage, +the footstool of the virtues, upon which they stand? Courage, that a +poor private carrying a musket has to spare of; that does not fail a +weasel or a rat; that is a brutish faculty? I to fail there, I wonder? +But what is courage, then? The constancy to endure oneself or to see +others suffer? The itch of ill-advised activity: mere +shuttle-wittedness, or to be still and patient? To inquire of the +significance of words is to rob ourselves of what we seem to know, and +yet, of all things, certainly to stand still is the least heroic. +Nance,' he said, 'did you ever hear of _Hamlet_?' + +'Never,' said Nance. + +''Tis an old play,' returned Mr. Archer, 'and frequently enacted. This +while I have been talking Hamlet. You must know this Hamlet was a Prince +among the Danes,' and he told her the play in a very good style, here and +there quoting a verse or two with solemn emphasis. + +'It is strange,' said Nance; 'he was then a very poor creature?' + +'That was what he could not tell,' said Mr. Archer. 'Look at me, am I as +poor a creature?' + +She looked, and what she saw was the familiar thought of all her hours; +the tall figure very plainly habited in black, the spotless ruffles, the +slim hands; the long, well-shapen, serious, shaven face, the wide and +somewhat thin-lipped mouth, the dark eyes that were so full of depth and +change and colour. He was gazing at her with his brows a little knit, +his chin upon one hand and that elbow resting on his knee. + +'Ye look a man!' she cried, 'ay, and should be a great one! The more +shame to you to lie here idle like a dog before the fire.' + +'My fair Holdaway,' quoth Mr. Archer, 'you are much set on action. I +cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed.' He continued, looking at her with a +half-absent fixity, ''Tis a strange thing, certainly, that in my years of +fortune I should never taste happiness, and now when I am broke, enjoy so +much of it, for was I ever happier than to-day? Was the grass softer, +the stream pleasanter in sound, the air milder, the heart more at peace? +Why should I not sink? To dig--why, after all, it should be easy. To +take a mate, too? Love is of all grades since Jupiter; love fails to +none; and children'--but here he passed his hand suddenly over his eyes. +'O fool and coward, fool and coward!' he said bitterly; 'can you forget +your fetters? You did not know that I was fettered, Nance?' he asked, +again addressing her. + +But Nance was somewhat sore. 'I know you keep talking,' she said, and, +turning half away from him, began to wring out a sheet across her +shoulder. 'I wonder you are not wearied of your voice. When the hands +lie abed the tongue takes a walk.' + +Mr. Archer laughed unpleasantly, rose and moved to the water's edge. In +this part the body of the river poured across a little narrow fell, ran +some ten feet very smoothly over a bed of pebbles, then getting wind, as +it were, of another shelf of rock which barred the channel, began, by +imperceptible degrees, to separate towards either shore in dancing +currents, and to leave the middle clear and stagnant. The set towards +either side was nearly equal; about one half of the whole water plunged +on the side of the castle, through a narrow gullet; about one half ran +ripping past the margin of the green and slipped across a babbling rapid. + +'Here,' said Mr. Archer, after he had looked for some time at the fine +and shifting demarcation of these currents, 'come here and see me try my +fortune.' + +'I am not like a man,' said Nance; 'I have no time to waste.' + +'Come here,' he said again. 'I ask you seriously, Nance. We are not +always childish when we seem so.' + +She drew a little nearer. + +'Now,' said he, 'you see these two channels--choose one.' + +'I'll choose the nearest, to save time,' said Nance. + +'Well, that shall be for action,' returned Mr. Archer. 'And since I wish +to have the odds against me, not only the other channel but yon stagnant +water in the midst shall be for lying still. You see this?' he +continued, pulling up a withered rush. 'I break it in three. I shall +put each separately at the top of the upper fall, and according as they +go by your way or by the other I shall guide my life.' + +'This is very silly,' said Nance, with a movement of her shoulders. + +'I do not think it so,' said Mr. Archer. + +'And then,' she resumed, 'if you are to try your fortune, why not +evenly?' + +'Nay,' returned Mr. Archer with a smile, 'no man can put complete +reliance in blind fate; he must still cog the dice.' + +By this time he had got upon the rock beside the upper fall, and, bidding +her look out, dropped a piece of rush into the middle of the intake. The +rusty fragment was sucked at once over the fall, came up again far on the +right hand, leaned ever more and more in the same direction, and +disappeared under the hanging grasses on the castle side. + +'One,' said Mr. Archer, 'one for standing still.' + +But the next launch had a different fate, and after hanging for a while +about the edge of the stagnant water, steadily approached the +bleaching-green and danced down the rapid under Nance's eyes. + +'One for me,' she cried with some exultation; and then she observed that +Mr. Archer had grown pale, and was kneeling on the rock, with his hand +raised like a person petrified. 'Why,' said she, 'you do not mind it, do +you?' + +'Does a man not mind a throw of dice by which a fortune hangs?' said Mr. +Archer, rather hoarsely. 'And this is more than fortune. Nance, if you +have any kindness for my fate, put up a prayer before I launch the next +one.' + +'A prayer,' she cried, 'about a game like this? I would not be so +heathen.' + +'Well,' said he, 'then without,' and he closed his eyes and dropped the +piece of rush. This time there was no doubt. It went for the rapid as +straight as any arrow. + +'Action then!' said Mr. Archer, getting to his feet; 'and then God +forgive us,' he added, almost to himself. + +'God forgive us, indeed,' cried Nance, 'for wasting the good daylight! +But come, Mr. Archer, if I see you look so serious I shall begin to think +you was in earnest.' + +'Nay,' he said, turning upon her suddenly, with a full smile; 'but is not +this good advice? I have consulted God and demigod; the nymph of the +river, and what I far more admire and trust, my blue-eyed Minerva. Both +have said the same. My own heart was telling it already. Action, then, +be mine; and into the deep sea with all this paralysing casuistry. I am +happy to-day for the first time.' + + + +CHAPTER VIII--THE MAIL GUARD + + +Somewhere about two in the morning a squall had burst upon the castle, a +clap of screaming wind that made the towers rock, and a copious drift of +rain that streamed from the windows. The wind soon blew itself out, but +the day broke cloudy and dripping, and when the little party assembled at +breakfast their humours appeared to have changed with the change of +weather. Nance had been brooding on the scene at the river-side, +applying it in various ways to her particular aspirations, and the +result, which was hardly to her mind, had taken the colour out of her +cheeks. Mr. Archer, too, was somewhat absent, his thoughts were of a +mingled strain; and even upon his usually impassive countenance there +were betrayed successive depths of depression and starts of exultation, +which the girl translated in terms of her own hopes and fears. But +Jonathan was the most altered: he was strangely silent, hardly passing a +word, and watched Mr. Archer with an eager and furtive eye. It seemed as +if the idea that had so long hovered before him had now taken a more +solid shape, and, while it still attracted, somewhat alarmed his +imagination. + +At this rate, conversation languished into a silence which was only +broken by the gentle and ghostly noises of the rain on the stone roof and +about all that field of ruins; and they were all relieved when the note +of a man whistling and the sound of approaching footsteps in the grassy +court announced a visitor. It was the ostler from the 'Green Dragon' +bringing a letter for Mr. Archer. Nance saw her hero's face contract and +then relax again at sight of it; and she thought that she knew why, for +the sprawling, gross black characters of the address were easily +distinguishable from the fine writing on the former letter that had so +much disturbed him. He opened it and began to read; while the ostler sat +down to table with a pot of ale, and proceeded to make himself agreeable +after his fashion. + +'Fine doings down our way, Miss Nance,' said he. 'I haven't been abed +this blessed night.' + +Nance expressed a polite interest, but her eye was on Mr. Archer, who was +reading his letter with a face of such extreme indifference that she was +tempted to suspect him of assumption. + +'Yes,' continued the ostler, 'not been the like of it this fifteen years: +the North Mail stopped at the three stones.' + +Jonathan's cup was at his lip, but at this moment he choked with a great +splutter; and Mr. Archer, as if startled by the noise, made so sudden a +movement that one corner of the sheet tore off and stayed between his +finger and thumb. It was some little time before the old man was +sufficiently recovered to beg the ostler to go on, and he still kept +coughing and crying and rubbing his eyes. Mr. Archer, on his side, laid +the letter down, and, putting his hands in his pocket, listened gravely +to the tale. + +'Yes,' resumed Sam, 'the North Mail was stopped by a single horseman; +dash my wig, but I admire him! There were four insides and two out, and +poor Tom Oglethorpe, the guard. Tom showed himself a man; let fly his +blunderbuss at him; had him covered, too, and could swear to that; but +the Captain never let on, up with a pistol and fetched poor Tom a bullet +through the body. Tom, he squelched upon the seat, all over blood. Up +comes the Captain to the window. "Oblige me," says he, "with what you +have." Would you believe it? Not a man says cheep!--not them. "Thy +hands over thy head." Four watches, rings, snuff-boxes, seven-and-forty +pounds overhead in gold. One Dicksee, a grazier, tries it on: gives him +a guinea. "Beg your pardon," says the Captain, "I think too highly of +you to take it at your hand. I will not take less than ten from such a +gentleman." This Dicksee had his money in his stocking, but there was +the pistol at his eye. Down he goes, offs with his stocking, and there +was thirty golden guineas. "Now," says the Captain, "you've tried it on +with me, but I scorns the advantage. Ten I said," he says, "and ten I +take." So, dash my buttons, I call that man a man!' cried Sam in cordial +admiration. + +'Well, and then?' says Mr. Archer. + +'Then,' resumed Sam, 'that old fat fagot Engleton, him as held the +ribbons and drew up like a lamb when he was told to, picks up his cattle, +and drives off again. Down they came to the "Dragon," all singing like +as if they was scalded, and poor Tom saying nothing. You would 'a' +thought they had all lost the King's crown to hear them. Down gets this +Dicksee. "Postmaster," he says, taking him by the arm, "this is a most +abominable thing," he says. Down gets a Major Clayton, and gets the old +man by the other arm. "We've been robbed," he cries, "robbed!" Down +gets the others, and all around the old man telling their story, and what +they had lost, and how they was all as good as ruined; till at last Old +Engleton says, says he, "How about Oglethorpe?" says he. "Ay," says the +others, "how about the guard?" Well, with that we bousted him down, as +white as a rag and all blooded like a sop. I thought he was dead. Well, +he ain't dead; but he's dying, I fancy.' + +'Did you say four watches?' said Jonathan. + +'Four, I think. I wish it had been forty,' cried Sam. 'Such a party of +soused herrings I never did see--not a man among them bar poor Tom. But +us that are the servants on the road have all the risk and none of the +profit.' + +'And this brave fellow,' asked Mr. Archer, very quietly, 'this +Oglethorpe--how is he now?' + +'Well, sir, with my respects, I take it he has a hole bang through him,' +said Sam. 'The doctor hasn't been yet. He'd 'a' been bright and early +if it had been a passenger. But, doctor or no, I'll make a good guess +that Tom won't see to-morrow. He'll die on a Sunday, will poor Tom; and +they do say that's fortunate.' + +'Did Tom see him that did it?' asked Jonathan. + +'Well, he saw him,' replied Sam, 'but not to swear by. Said he was a +very tall man, and very big, and had a 'ankerchief about his face, and a +very quick shot, and sat his horse like a thorough gentleman, as he is.' + +'A gentleman!' cried Nance. 'The dirty knave!' + +'Well, I calls a man like that a gentleman,' returned the ostler; 'that's +what I mean by a gentleman.' + +'You don't know much of them, then,' said Nance. + +'A gentleman would scorn to stoop to such a thing. I call my uncle a +better gentleman than any thief.' + +'And you would be right,' said Mr. Archer. + +'How many snuff-boxes did he get?' asked Jonathan. + +'O, dang me if I know,' said Sam; 'I didn't take an inventory.' + +'I will go back with you, if you please,' said Mr. Archer. 'I should +like to see poor Oglethorpe. He has behaved well.' + +'At your service, sir,' said Sam, jumping to his feet. 'I dare to say a +gentleman like you would not forget a poor fellow like Tom--no, nor a +plain man like me, sir, that went without his sleep to nurse him. And +excuse me, sir,' added Sam, 'you won't forget about the letter neither?' + +'Surely not,' said Mr. Archer. + +Oglethorpe lay in a low bed, one of several in a long garret of the inn. +The rain soaked in places through the roof and fell in minute drops; +there was but one small window; the beds were occupied by servants, the +air of the garret was both close and chilly. Mr. Archer's heart sank at +the threshold to see a man lying perhaps mortally hurt in so poor a +sick-room, and as he drew near the low bed he took his hat off. The +guard was a big, blowsy, innocent-looking soul with a thick lip and a +broad nose, comically turned up; his cheeks were crimson, and when Mr. +Archer laid a finger on his brow he found him burning with fever. + +'I fear you suffer much,' he said, with a catch in his voice, as he sat +down on the bedside. + +'I suppose I do, sir,' returned Oglethorpe; 'it is main sore.' + +'I am used to wounds and wounded men,' returned the visitor. 'I have +been in the wars and nursed brave fellows before now; and, if you will +suffer me, I propose to stay beside you till the doctor comes.' + +'It is very good of you, sir, I am sure,' said Oglethorpe. 'The trouble +is they won't none of them let me drink.' + +'If you will not tell the doctor,' said Mr. Archer, 'I will give you some +water. They say it is bad for a green wound, but in the Low Countries we +all drank water when we found the chance, and I could never perceive we +were the worse for it.' + +'Been wounded yourself, sir, perhaps?' called Oglethorpe. + +'Twice,' said Mr. Archer, 'and was as proud of these hurts as any lady of +her bracelets. 'Tis a fine thing to smart for one's duty; even in the +pangs of it there is contentment.' + +'Ah, well!' replied the guard, 'if you've been shot yourself, that +explains. But as for contentment, why, sir, you see, it smarts, as you +say. And then, I have a good wife, you see, and a bit of a brat--a +little thing, so high.' + +'Don't move,' said Mr. Archer. + +'No, sir, I will not, and thank you kindly,' said Oglethorpe. 'At York +they are. A very good lass is my wife--far too good for me. And the +little rascal--well, I don't know how to say it, but he sort of comes +round you. If I were to go, sir, it would be hard on my poor girl--main +hard on her!' + +'Ay, you must feel bitter hardly to the rogue that laid you here,' said +Archer. + +'Why, no, sir, more against Engleton and the passengers,' replied the +guard. 'He played his hand, if you come to look at it; and I wish he had +shot worse, or me better. And yet I'll go to my grave but what I covered +him,' he cried. 'It looks like witchcraft. I'll go to my grave but what +he was drove full of slugs like a pepper-box.' + +'Quietly,' said Mr. Archer, 'you must not excite yourself. These +deceptions are very usual in war; the eye, in the moment of alert, is +hardly to be trusted, and when the smoke blows away you see the man you +fired at, taking aim, it may be, at yourself. You should observe, too, +that you were in the dark night, and somewhat dazzled by the lamps, and +that the sudden stopping of the mail had jolted you. In such +circumstances a man may miss, ay, even with a blunder-buss, and no blame +attach to his marksmanship.' . . . + + + + +THE YOUNG CHEVALIER + + +PROLOGUE--THE WINE-SELLER'S WIFE + + +There was a wine-seller's shop, as you went down to the river in the city +of the Anti-popes. There a man was served with good wine of the country +and plain country fare; and the place being clean and quiet, with a +prospect on the river, certain gentlemen who dwelt in that city in +attendance on a great personage made it a practice (when they had any +silver in their purses) to come and eat there and be private. + +They called the wine-seller Paradou. He was built more like a bullock +than a man, huge in bone and brawn, high in colour, and with a hand like +a baby for size. Marie-Madeleine was the name of his wife; she was of +Marseilles, a city of entrancing women, nor was any fairer than herself. +She was tall, being almost of a height with Paradou; full-girdled, +point-device in every form, with an exquisite delicacy in the face; her +nose and nostrils a delight to look at from the fineness of the +sculpture, her eyes inclined a hair's-breadth inward, her colour between +dark and fair, and laid on even like a flower's. A faint rose dwelt in +it, as though she had been found unawares bathing, and had blushed from +head to foot. She was of a grave countenance, rarely smiling; yet it +seemed to be written upon every part of her that she rejoiced in life. +Her husband loved the heels of her feet and the knuckles of her fingers; +he loved her like a glutton and a brute; his love hung about her like an +atmosphere; one that came by chance into the wine-shop was aware of that +passion; and it might be said that by the strength of it the woman had +been drugged or spell-bound. She knew not if she loved or loathed him; +he was always in her eyes like something monstrous--monstrous in his +love, monstrous in his person, horrific but imposing in his violence; and +her sentiment swung back and forward from desire to sickness. But the +mean, where it dwelt chiefly, was an apathetic fascination, partly of +horror; as of Europa in mid ocean with her bull. + +On the 10th November 1749 there sat two of the foreign gentlemen in the +wine-seller's shop. They were both handsome men of a good presence, +richly dressed. The first was swarthy and long and lean, with an alert, +black look, and a mole upon his cheek. The other was more fair. He +seemed very easy and sedate, and a little melancholy for so young a man, +but his smile was charming. In his grey eyes there was much abstraction, +as of one recalling fondly that which was past and lost. Yet there was +strength and swiftness in his limbs; and his mouth set straight across +his face, the under lip a thought upon side, like that of a man +accustomed to resolve. These two talked together in a rude outlandish +speech that no frequenter of that wine-shop understood. The swarthy man +answered to the name of _Ballantrae_; he of the dreamy eyes was sometimes +called _Balmile_, and sometimes _my Lord_, or _my Lord Gladsmuir_; but +when the title was given him, he seemed to put it by as if in jesting, +not without bitterness. + +The mistral blew in the city. The first day of that wind, they say in +the countries where its voice is heard, it blows away all the dust, the +second all the stones, and the third it blows back others from the +mountains. It was now come to the third day; outside the pebbles flew +like hail, and the face of the river was puckered, and the very +building-stones in the walls of houses seemed to be curdled with the +savage cold and fury of that continuous blast. It could be heard to hoot +in all the chimneys of the city; it swept about the wine-shop, filling +the room with eddies; the chill and gritty touch of it passed between the +nearest clothes and the bare flesh; and the two gentlemen at the far +table kept their mantles loose about their shoulders. The roughness of +these outer hulls, for they were plain travellers' cloaks that had seen +service, set the greater mark of richness on what showed below of their +laced clothes; for the one was in scarlet and the other in violet and +white, like men come from a scene of ceremony; as indeed they were. + +It chanced that these fine clothes were not without their influence on +the scene which followed, and which makes the prologue of our tale. For +a long time Balmile was in the habit to come to the wine-shop and eat a +meal or drink a measure of wine; sometimes with a comrade; more often +alone, when he would sit and dream and drum upon the table, and the +thoughts would show in the man's face in little glooms and lightenings, +like the sun and the clouds upon a water. For a long time +Marie-Madeleine had observed him apart. His sadness, the beauty of his +smile when by any chance he remembered her existence and addressed her, +the changes of his mind signalled forth by an abstruse play of feature, +the mere fact that he was foreign and a thing detached from the local and +the accustomed, insensibly attracted and affected her. Kindness was +ready in her mind; it but lacked the touch of an occasion to effervesce +and crystallise. Now Balmile had come hitherto in a very poor plain +habit; and this day of the mistral, when his mantle was just open, and +she saw beneath it the glancing of the violet and the velvet and the +silver, and the clustering fineness of the lace, it seemed to set the man +in a new light, with which he shone resplendent to her fancy. + +The high inhuman note of the wind, the violence and continuity of its +outpouring, and the fierce touch of it upon man's whole periphery, +accelerated the functions of the mind. It set thoughts whirling, as it +whirled the trees of the forest; it stirred them up in flights, as it +stirred up the dust in chambers. As brief as sparks, the fancies +glittered and succeeded each other in the mind of Marie-Madeleine; and +the grave man with the smile, and the bright clothes under the plain +mantle, haunted her with incongruous explanations. She considered him, +the unknown, the speaker of an unknown tongue, the hero (as she placed +him) of an unknown romance, the dweller upon unknown memories. She +recalled him sitting there alone, so immersed, so stupefied; yet she was +sure he was not stupid. She recalled one day when he had remained a long +time motionless, with parted lips, like one in the act of starting up, +his eyes fixed on vacancy. Any one else must have looked foolish; but +not he. She tried to conceive what manner of memory had thus entranced +him; she forged for him a past; she showed him to herself in every light +of heroism and greatness and misfortune; she brooded with petulant +intensity on all she knew and guessed of him. Yet, though she was +already gone so deep, she was still unashamed, still unalarmed; her +thoughts were still disinterested; she had still to reach the stage at +which--beside the image of that other whom we love to contemplate and to +adorn--we place the image of ourself and behold them together with +delight. + +She stood within the counter, her hands clasped behind her back, her +shoulders pressed against the wall, her feet braced out. Her face was +bright with the wind and her own thoughts; as a fire in a similar day of +tempest glows and brightens on a hearth, so she seemed to glow, standing +there, and to breathe out energy. It was the first time Ballantrae had +visited that wine-seller's, the first time he had seen the wife; and his +eyes were true to her. + +'I perceive your reason for carrying me to this very draughty tavern,' he +said at last. + +'I believe it is propinquity,' returned Balmile. + +'You play dark,' said Ballantrae, 'but have a care! Be more frank with +me, or I will cut you out. I go through no form of qualifying my threat, +which would be commonplace and not conscientious. There is only one +point in these campaigns: that is the degree of admiration offered by the +man; and to our hostess I am in a posture to make victorious love.' + +'If you think you have the time, or the game worth the candle,' replied +the other with a shrug. + +'One would suppose you were never at the pains to observe her,' said +Ballantrae. + +'I am not very observant,' said Balmile. 'She seems comely.' + +'You very dear and dull dog!' cried Ballantrae; 'chastity is the most +besotting of the virtues. Why, she has a look in her face beyond +singing! I believe, if you was to push me hard, I might trace it home to +a trifle of a squint. What matters? The height of beauty is in the +touch that's wrong, that's the modulation in a tune. 'Tis the devil we +all love; I owe many a conquest to my mole'--he touched it as he spoke +with a smile, and his eyes glittered;--'we are all hunchbacks, and beauty +is only that kind of deformity that I happen to admire. But come! +Because you are chaste, for which I am sure I pay you my respects, that +is no reason why you should be blind. Look at her, look at the delicious +nose of her, look at her cheek, look at her ear, look at her hand and +wrist--look at the whole baggage from heels to crown, and tell me if she +wouldn't melt on a man's tongue.' + +As Ballantrae spoke, half jesting, half enthusiastic, Balmile was +constrained to do as he was bidden. He looked at the woman, admired her +excellences, and was at the same time ashamed for himself and his +companion. So it befell that when Marie-Madeleine raised her eyes, she +met those of the subject of her contemplations fixed directly on herself +with a look that is unmistakable, the look of a person measuring and +valuing another--and, to clench the false impression, that his glance was +instantly and guiltily withdrawn. The blood beat back upon her heart and +leaped again; her obscure thoughts flashed clear before her; she flew in +fancy straight to his arms like a wanton, and fled again on the instant +like a nymph. And at that moment there chanced an interruption, which +not only spared her embarrassment, but set the last consecration on her +now articulate love. + +Into the wine-shop there came a French gentleman, arrayed in the last +refinement of the fashion, though a little tumbled by his passage in the +wind. It was to be judged he had come from the same formal gathering at +which the others had preceded him; and perhaps that he had gone there in +the hope to meet with them, for he came up to Ballantrae with +unceremonious eagerness. + +'At last, here you are!' he cried in French. 'I thought I was to miss +you altogether.' + +The Scotsmen rose, and Ballantrae, after the first greetings, laid his +hand on his companion's shoulder. + +'My lord,' said he, 'allow me to present to you one of my best friends +and one of our best soldiers, the Lord Viscount Gladsmuir.' + +The two bowed with the elaborate elegance of the period. + +'_Monseigneur_,' said Balmile, '_je n'ai pas la pretention de m'affubler +d'un titre que la mauvaise fortune de mon roi ne me permet pas de porter +comma il sied_. _Je m'appelle_, _pour vous servir_, _Blair de Balmile +tout court_.' [My lord, I have not the effrontery to cumber myself with +a title which the ill fortunes of my king will not suffer me to bear the +way it should be. I call myself, at your service, plain Blair of +Balmile.] + +'_Monsieur le Vicomte ou monsieur Bler' de Balmail_,' replied the +newcomer, '_le nom n'y fait rien_, _et l'on connait vos beaux faits_.' +[The name matters nothing, your gallant actions are known.] + +A few more ceremonies, and these three, sitting down together to the +table, called for wine. It was the happiness of Marie-Madeleine to wait +unobserved upon the prince of her desires. She poured the wine, he drank +of it; and that link between them seemed to her, for the moment, close as +a caress. Though they lowered their tones, she surprised great names +passing in their conversation, names of kings, the names of de Gesvre and +Belle-Isle; and the man who dealt in these high matters, and she who was +now coupled with him in her own thoughts, seemed to swim in mid air in a +transfiguration. Love is a crude core, but it has singular and +far-reaching fringes; in that passionate attraction for the stranger that +now swayed and mastered her, his harsh incomprehensible language, and +these names of grandees in his talk, were each an element. + +The Frenchman stayed not long, but it was plain he left behind him matter +of much interest to his companions; they spoke together earnestly, their +heads down, the woman of the wine-shop totally forgotten; and they were +still so occupied when Paradou returned. + +This man's love was unsleeping. The even bluster of the mistral, with +which he had been combating some hours, had not suspended, though it had +embittered, that predominant passion. His first look was for his wife, a +look of hope and suspicion, menace and humility and love, that made the +over-blooming brute appear for the moment almost beautiful. She returned +his glance, at first as though she knew him not, then with a swiftly +waxing coldness of intent; and at last, without changing their direction, +she had closed her eyes. + +There passed across her mind during that period much that Paradou could +not have understood had it been told to him in words: chiefly the sense +of an enlightening contrast betwixt the man who talked of kings and the +man who kept a wine-shop, betwixt the love she yearned for and that to +which she had been long exposed like a victim bound upon the altar. +There swelled upon her, swifter than the Rhone, a tide of abhorrence and +disgust. She had succumbed to the monster, humbling herself below +animals; and now she loved a hero, aspiring to the semi-divine. It was +in the pang of that humiliating thought that she had closed her eyes. + +Paradou--quick as beasts are quick, to translate silence--felt the insult +through his blood; his inarticulate soul bellowed within him for revenge. +He glanced about the shop. He saw the two indifferent gentlemen deep in +talk, and passed them over: his fancy flying not so high. There was but +one other present, a country lout who stood swallowing his wine, equally +unobserved by all and unobserving--to him he dealt a glance of murderous +suspicion, and turned direct upon his wife. The wine-shop had lain +hitherto, a space of shelter, the scene of a few ceremonial passages and +some whispered conversation, in the howling river of the wind; the clock +had not yet ticked a score of times since Paradou's appearance; and now, +as he suddenly gave tongue, it seemed as though the mistral had entered +at his heels. + +'What ails you, woman?' he cried, smiting on the counter. + +'Nothing ails me,' she replied. It was strange; but she spoke and stood +at that moment like a lady of degree, drawn upward by her aspirations. + +'You speak to me, by God, as though you scorned me!' cried the husband. + +The man's passion was always formidable; she had often looked on upon its +violence with a thrill, it had been one ingredient in her fascination; +and she was now surprised to behold him, as from afar off, gesticulating +but impotent. His fury might be dangerous like a torrent or a gust of +wind, but it was inhuman; it might be feared or braved, it should never +be respected. And with that there came in her a sudden glow of courage +and that readiness to die which attends so closely upon all strong +passions. + +'I do scorn you,' she said. + +'What is that?' he cried. + +'I scorn you,' she repeated, smiling. + +'You love another man!' said he. + +'With all my soul,' was her reply. + +The wine-seller roared aloud so that the house rang and shook with it. + +'Is this the--?' he cried, using a foul word, common in the South; and he +seized the young countryman and dashed him to the ground. There he lay +for the least interval of time insensible; thence fled from the house, +the most terrified person in the county. The heavy measure had escaped +from his hands, splashing the wine high upon the wall. Paradou caught +it. 'And you?' he roared to his wife, giving her the same name in the +feminine, and he aimed at her the deadly missile. She expected it, +motionless, with radiant eyes. + +But before it sped, Paradou was met by another adversary, and the +unconscious rivals stood confronted. It was hard to say at that moment +which appeared the more formidable. In Paradou, the whole muddy and +truculent depths of the half-man were stirred to frenzy; the lust of +destruction raged in him; there was not a feature in his face but it +talked murder. Balmile had dropped his cloak: he shone out at once in +his finery, and stood to his full stature; girt in mind and body all his +resources, all his temper, perfectly in command in his face the light of +battle. Neither spoke; there was no blow nor threat of one; it was war +reduced to its last element, the spiritual; and the huge wine-seller +slowly lowered his weapon. Balmile was a noble, he a commoner; Balmile +exulted in an honourable cause. Paradou already perhaps began to be +ashamed of his violence. Of a sudden, at least, the tortured brute +turned and fled from the shop in the footsteps of his former victim, to +whose continued flight his reappearance added wings. + +So soon as Balmile appeared between her husband and herself, +Marie-Madeleine transferred to him her eyes. It might be her last +moment, and she fed upon that face; reading there inimitable courage and +illimitable valour to protect. And when the momentary peril was gone by, +and the champion turned a little awkwardly towards her whom he had +rescued, it was to meet, and quail before, a gaze of admiration more +distinct than words. He bowed, he stammered, his words failed him; he +who had crossed the floor a moment ago, like a young god, to smite, +returned like one discomfited; got somehow to his place by the table, +muffled himself again in his discarded cloak, and for a last touch of the +ridiculous, seeking for anything to restore his countenance, drank of the +wine before him, deep as a porter after a heavy lift. It was little +wonder if Ballantrae, reading the scene with malevolent eyes, laughed out +loud and brief, and drank with raised glass, 'To the champion of the +Fair.' + +Marie-Madeleine stood in her old place within the counter; she disdained +the mocking laughter; it fell on her ears, but it did not reach her +spirit. For her, the world of living persons was all resumed again into +one pair, as in the days of Eden; there was but the one end in life, the +one hope before her, the one thing needful, the one thing possible--to be +his. + + + +CHAPTER I--THE PRINCE + + +That same night there was in the city of Avignon a young man in distress +of mind. Now he sat, now walked in a high apartment, full of draughts +and shadows. A single candle made the darkness visible; and the light +scarce sufficed to show upon the wall, where they had been recently and +rudely nailed, a few miniatures and a copper medal of the young man's +head. The same was being sold that year in London, to admiring +thousands. The original was fair; he had beautiful brown eyes, a +beautiful bright open face; a little feminine, a little hard, a little +weak; still full of the light of youth, but already beginning to be +vulgarised; a sordid bloom come upon it, the lines coarsened with a touch +of puffiness. He was dressed, as for a gala, in peach-colour and silver; +his breast sparkled with stars and was bright with ribbons; for he had +held a levee in the afternoon and received a distinguished personage +incognito. Now he sat with a bowed head, now walked precipitately to and +fro, now went and gazed from the uncurtained window, where the wind was +still blowing, and the lights winked in the darkness. + +The bells of Avignon rose into song as he was gazing; and the high notes +and the deep tossed and drowned, boomed suddenly near or were suddenly +swallowed up, in the current of the mistral. Tears sprang in the pale +blue eyes; the expression of his face was changed to that of a more +active misery, it seemed as if the voices of the bells reached, and +touched and pained him, in a waste of vacancy where even pain was +welcome. Outside in the night they continued to sound on, swelling and +fainting; and the listener heard in his memory, as it were their +harmonies, joy-bells clashing in a northern city, and the acclamations of +a multitude, the cries of battle, the gross voices of cannon, the stridor +of an animated life. And then all died away, and he stood face to face +with himself in the waste of vacancy, and a horror came upon his mind, +and a faintness on his brain, such as seizes men upon the brink of +cliffs. + +On the table, by the side of the candle, stood a tray of glasses, a +bottle, and a silver bell. He went thither swiftly, then his hand +lowered first above the bell, then settled on the bottle. Slowly he +filled a glass, slowly drank it out; and, as a tide of animal warmth +recomforted the recesses of his nature, stood there smiling at himself. +He remembered he was young; the funeral curtains rose, and he saw his +life shine and broaden and flow out majestically, like a river sunward. +The smile still on his lips, he lit a second candle and a third; a fire +stood ready built in a chimney, he lit that also; and the fir-cones and +the gnarled olive billets were swift to break in flame and to crackle on +the hearth, and the room brightened and enlarged about him like his +hopes. To and fro, to and fro, he went, his hands lightly clasped, his +breath deeply and pleasurably taken. Victory walked with him; he marched +to crowns and empires among shouting followers; glory was his dress. And +presently again the shadows closed upon the solitary. Under the gilt of +flame and candle-light, the stone walls of the apartment showed down bare +and cold; behind the depicted triumph loomed up the actual failure: +defeat, the long distress of the flight, exile, despair, broken +followers, mourning faces, empty pockets, friends estranged. The memory +of his father rose in his mind: he, too, estranged and defied; despair +sharpened into wrath. There was one who had led armies in the field, who +had staked his life upon the family enterprise, a man of action and +experience, of the open air, the camp, the court, the council-room; and +he was to accept direction from an old, pompous gentleman in a home in +Italy, and buzzed about by priests? A pretty king, if he had not a +martial son to lean upon! A king at all? + +'There was a weaver (of all people) joined me at St. Ninians; he was more +of a man than my papa!' he thought. 'I saw him lie doubled in his blood +and a grenadier below him--and he died for my papa! All died for him, or +risked the dying, and I lay for him all those months in the rain and +skulked in heather like a fox; and now he writes me his advice! calls me +Carluccio--me, the man of the house, the only king in that king's race.' +He ground his teeth. 'The only king in Europe!' Who else? Who has done +and suffered except me? who has lain and run and hidden with his faithful +subjects, like a second Bruce? Not my accursed cousin, Louis of France, +at least, the lewd effeminate traitor!' And filling the glass to the +brim, he drank a king's damnation. Ah, if he had the power of Louis, +what a king were here! + +The minutes followed each other into the past, and still he persevered in +this debilitating cycle of emotions, still fed the fire of his excitement +with driblets of Rhine wine: a boy at odds with life, a boy with a spark +of the heroic, which he was now burning out and drowning down in futile +reverie and solitary excess. + +From two rooms beyond, the sudden sound of a raised voice attracted him. + +'By . . . + + + + +HEATHERCAT + + +CHAPTER I--TRAQUAIRS OF MONTROYMONT + + +The period of this tale is in the heat of the _killing-time_; the scene +laid for the most part in solitary hills and morasses, haunted only by +the so-called Mountain Wanderers, the dragoons that came in chase of +them, the women that wept on their dead bodies, and the wild birds of the +moorland that have cried there since the beginning. It is a land of many +rain-clouds; a land of much mute history, written there in prehistoric +symbols. Strange green raths are to be seen commonly in the country, +above all by the kirkyards; barrows of the dead, standing stones; beside +these, the faint, durable footprints and handmarks of the Roman; and an +antiquity older perhaps than any, and still living and active--a complete +Celtic nomenclature and a scarce-mingled Celtic population. These rugged +and grey hills were once included in the boundaries of the Caledonian +Forest. Merlin sat here below his apple-tree and lamented Gwendolen; +here spoke with Kentigern; here fell into his enchanted trance. And the +legend of his slumber seems to body forth the story of that Celtic race, +deprived for so many centuries of their authentic speech, surviving with +their ancestral inheritance of melancholy perversity and patient, +unfortunate courage. + +The Traquairs of Montroymont (_Mons Romanus_, as the erudite expound it) +had long held their seat about the head-waters of the Dule and in the +back parts of the moorland parish of Balweary. For two hundred years +they had enjoyed in these upland quarters a certain decency (almost to be +named distinction) of repute; and the annals of their house, or what is +remembered of them, were obscure and bloody. Ninian Traquair was +'cruallie slochtered' by the Crozers at the kirk-door of Balweary, anno +1482. Francis killed Simon Ruthven of Drumshoreland, anno 1540; bought +letters of slayers at the widow and heir, and, by a barbarous form of +compounding, married (without tocher) Simon's daughter Grizzel, which is +the way the Traquairs and Ruthvens came first to an intermarriage. About +the last Traquair and Ruthven marriage, it is the business of this book, +among many other things, to tell. + +The Traquairs were always strong for the Covenant; for the King also, but +the Covenant first; and it began to be ill days for Montroymont when the +Bishops came in and the dragoons at the heels of them. Ninian (then +laird) was an anxious husband of himself and the property, as the times +required, and it may be said of him, that he lost both. He was heavily +suspected of the Pentland Hills rebellion. When it came the length of +Bothwell Brig, he stood his trial before the Secret Council, and was +convicted of talking with some insurgents by the wayside, the subject of +the conversation not very clearly appearing, and of the reset and +maintenance of one Gale, a gardener man, who was seen before Bothwell +with a musket, and afterwards, for a continuance of months, delved the +garden at Montroymont. Matters went very ill with Ninian at the Council; +some of the lords were clear for treason; and even the boot was talked +of. But he was spared that torture; and at last, having pretty good +friendship among great men, he came off with a fine of seven thousand +marks, that caused the estate to groan. In this case, as in so many +others, it was the wife that made the trouble. She was a great keeper of +conventicles; would ride ten miles to one, and when she was fined, +rejoiced greatly to suffer for the Kirk; but it was rather her husband +that suffered. She had their only son, Francis, baptized privately by +the hands of Mr. Kidd; there was that much the more to pay for! She +could neither be driven nor wiled into the parish kirk; as for taking the +sacrament at the hands of any Episcopalian curate, and tenfold more at +those of Curate Haddo, there was nothing further from her purposes; and +Montroymont had to put his hand in his pocket month by month and year by +year. Once, indeed, the little lady was cast in prison, and the laird, +worthy, heavy, uninterested man, had to ride up and take her place; from +which he was not discharged under nine months and a sharp fine. It +scarce seemed she had any gratitude to him; she came out of gaol herself, +and plunged immediately deeper in conventicles, resetting recusants, and +all her old, expensive folly, only with greater vigour and openness, +because Montroymont was safe in the Tolbooth and she had no witness to +consider. When he was liberated and came back, with his fingers singed, +in December 1680, and late in the black night, my lady was from home. He +came into the house at his alighting, with a riding-rod yet in his hand; +and, on the servant-maid telling him, caught her by the scruff of the +neck, beat her violently, flung her down in the passageway, and went +upstairs to his bed fasting and without a light. It was three in the +morning when my lady returned from that conventicle, and, hearing of the +assault (because the maid had sat up for her, weeping), went to their +common chamber with a lantern in hand and stamping with her shoes so as +to wake the dead; it was supposed, by those that heard her, from a design +to have it out with the good man at once. The house-servants gathered on +the stair, because it was a main interest with them to know which of +these two was the better horse; and for the space of two hours they were +heard to go at the matter, hammer and tongs. Montroymont alleged he was +at the end of possibilities; it was no longer within his power to pay the +annual rents; she had served him basely by keeping conventicles while he +lay in prison for her sake; his friends were weary, and there was nothing +else before him but the entire loss of the family lands, and to begin +life again by the wayside as a common beggar. She took him up very sharp +and high: called upon him, if he were a Christian? and which he most +considered, the loss of a few dirty, miry glebes, or of his soul? +Presently he was heard to weep, and my lady's voice to go on continually +like a running burn, only the words indistinguishable; whereupon it was +supposed a victory for her ladyship, and the domestics took themselves to +bed. The next day Traquair appeared like a man who had gone under the +harrows; and his lady wife thenceforward continued in her old course +without the least deflection. + +Thenceforward Ninian went on his way without complaint, and suffered his +wife to go on hers without remonstrance. He still minded his estate, of +which it might be said he took daily a fresh farewell, and counted it +already lost; looking ruefully on the acres and the graves of his +fathers, on the moorlands where the wild-fowl consorted, the low, +gurgling pool of the trout, and the high, windy place of the calling +curlews--things that were yet his for the day and would be another's +to-morrow; coming back again, and sitting ciphering till the dusk at his +approaching ruin, which no device of arithmetic could postpone beyond a +year or two. He was essentially the simple ancient man, the farmer and +landholder; he would have been content to watch the seasons come and go, +and his cattle increase, until the limit of age; he would have been +content at any time to die, if he could have left the estates +undiminished to an heir-male of his ancestors, that duty standing first +in his instinctive calendar. And now he saw everywhere the image of the +new proprietor come to meet him, and go sowing and reaping, or fowling +for his pleasure on the red moors, or eating the very gooseberries in the +Place garden; and saw always, on the other hand, the figure of Francis go +forth, a beggar, into the broad world. + +It was in vain the poor gentleman sought to moderate; took every test and +took advantage of every indulgence; went and drank with the dragoons in +Balweary; attended the communion and came regularly to the church to +Curate Haddo, with his son beside him. The mad, raging, Presbyterian +zealot of a wife at home made all of no avail; and indeed the house must +have fallen years before if it had not been for the secret indulgence of +the curate, who had a great sympathy with the laird, and winked hard at +the doings in Montroymont. This curate was a man very ill reputed in the +countryside, and indeed in all Scotland. 'Infamous Haddo' is Shield's +expression. But Patrick Walker is more copious. 'Curate Hall Haddo,' +says he, _sub voce_ Peden, 'or _Hell_ Haddo, as he was more justly to be +called, a pokeful of old condemned errors and the filthy vile lusts of +the flesh, a published whore-monger, a common gross drunkard, continually +and godlessly scraping and skirling on a fiddle, continually breathing +flames against the remnant of Israel. But the Lord put an end to his +piping, and all these offences were composed into one bloody grave.' No +doubt this was written to excuse his slaughter; and I have never heard it +claimed for Walker that he was either a just witness or an indulgent +judge. At least, in a merely human character, Haddo comes off not wholly +amiss in the matter of these Traquairs: not that he showed any graces of +the Christian, but had a sort of Pagan decency, which might almost tempt +one to be concerned about his sudden, violent, and unprepared fate. + + + +CHAPTER II--FRANCIE + + +Francie was eleven years old, shy, secret, and rather childish of his +age, though not backward in schooling, which had been pushed on far by a +private governor, one M'Brair, a forfeited minister harboured in that +capacity at Montroymont. The boy, already much employed in secret by his +mother, was the most apt hand conceivable to run upon a message, to carry +food to lurking fugitives, or to stand sentry on the skyline above a +conventicle. It seemed no place on the moorlands was so naked but what +he would find cover there; and as he knew every hag, boulder, and +heather-bush in a circuit of seven miles about Montroymont, there was +scarce any spot but what he could leave or approach it unseen. This +dexterity had won him a reputation in that part of the country; and among +the many children employed in these dangerous affairs, he passed under +the by-name of Heathercat. + +How much his father knew of this employment might be doubted. He took +much forethought for the boy's future, seeing he was like to be left so +poorly, and would sometimes assist at his lessons, sighing heavily, +yawning deep, and now and again patting Francie on the shoulder if he +seemed to be doing ill, by way of a private, kind encouragement. But a +great part of the day was passed in aimless wanderings with his eyes +sealed, or in his cabinet sitting bemused over the particulars of the +coming bankruptcy; and the boy would be absent a dozen times for once +that his father would observe it. + +On 2nd of July 1682 the boy had an errand from his mother, which must be +kept private from all, the father included in the first of them. +Crossing the braes, he hears the clatter of a horse's shoes, and claps +down incontinent in a hag by the wayside. And presently he spied his +father come riding from one direction, and Curate Haddo walking from +another; and Montroymont leaning down from the saddle, and Haddo getting +on his toes (for he was a little, ruddy, bald-pated man, more like a +dwarf), they greeted kindly, and came to a halt within two fathoms of the +child. + +'Montroymont,' the curate said, 'the deil's in 't but I'll have to +denunciate your leddy again.' + +'Deil's in 't indeed!' says the laird. + +'Man! can ye no induce her to come to the kirk?' pursues Haddo; 'or to a +communion at the least of it? For the conventicles, let be! and the same +for yon solemn fule, M'Brair: I can blink at them. But she's got to come +to the kirk, Montroymont.' + +'Dinna speak of it,' says the laird. 'I can do nothing with her.' + +'Couldn't ye try the stick to her? it works wonders whiles,' suggested +Haddo. 'No? I'm wae to hear it. And I suppose ye ken where you're +going?' + +'Fine!' said Montroymont. 'Fine do I ken where: bankrup'cy and the Bass +Rock!' + +'Praise to my bones that I never married!' cried the curate. 'Well, it's +a grievous thing to me to see an auld house dung down that was here +before Flodden Field. But naebody can say it was with my wish.' + +'No more they can, Haddo!' says the laird. 'A good friend ye've been to +me, first and last. I can give you that character with a clear +conscience.' + +Whereupon they separated, and Montroymont rode briskly down into the Dule +Valley. But of the curate Francis was not to be quit so easily. He went +on with his little, brisk steps to the corner of a dyke, and stopped and +whistled and waved upon a lassie that was herding cattle there. This +Janet M'Clour was a big lass, being taller than the curate; and what made +her look the more so, she was kilted very high. It seemed for a while +she would not come, and Francie heard her calling Haddo a 'daft auld +fule,' and saw her running and dodging him among the whins and hags till +he was fairly blown. But at the last he gets a bottle from his +plaid-neuk and holds it up to her; whereupon she came at once into a +composition, and the pair sat, drinking of the bottle, and daffing and +laughing together, on a mound of heather. The boy had scarce heard of +these vanities, or he might have been minded of a nymph and satyr, if +anybody could have taken long-leggit Janet for a nymph. But they seemed +to be huge friends, he thought; and was the more surprised, when the +curate had taken his leave, to see the lassie fling stones after him with +screeches of laughter, and Haddo turn about and caper, and shake his +staff at her, and laugh louder than herself. A wonderful merry pair, +they seemed; and when Francie had crawled out of the hag, he had a great +deal to consider in his mind. It was possible they were all fallen in +error about Mr. Haddo, he reflected--having seen him so tender with +Montroymont, and so kind and playful with the lass Janet; and he had a +temptation to go out of his road and question her herself upon the +matter. But he had a strong spirit of duty on him; and plodded on +instead over the braes till he came near the House of Cairngorm. There, +in a hollow place by the burnside that was shaded by some birks, he was +aware of a barefoot boy, perhaps a matter of three years older than +himself. The two approached with the precautions of a pair of strange +dogs, looking at each other queerly. + +'It's ill weather on the hills,' said the stranger, giving the watchword. + +'For a season,' said Francie, 'but the Lord will appear.' + +'Richt,' said the barefoot boy; 'wha're ye frae?' + +'The Leddy Montroymont,' says Francie. + +'Ha'e, then!' says the stranger, and handed him a folded paper, and they +stood and looked at each other again. 'It's unco het,' said the boy. + +'Dooms het,' says Francie. + +'What do they ca' ye?' says the other. + +'Francie,' says he. 'I'm young Montroymont. They ca' me Heathercat.' + +'I'm Jock Crozer,' said the boy. And there was another pause, while each +rolled a stone under his foot. + +'Cast your jaiket and I'll fecht ye for a bawbee,' cried the elder boy +with sudden violence, and dramatically throwing back his jacket. + +'Na, I've nae time the now,' said Francie, with a sharp thrill of alarm, +because Crozer was much the heavier boy. + +'Ye're feared. Heathercat indeed!' said Crozer, for among this infantile +army of spies and messengers, the fame of Crozer had gone forth and was +resented by his rivals. And with that they separated. + +On his way home Francie was a good deal occupied with the recollection of +this untoward incident. The challenge had been fairly offered and basely +refused: the tale would be carried all over the country, and the lustre +of the name of Heathercat be dimmed. But the scene between Curate Haddo +and Janet M'Clour had also given him much to think of: and he was still +puzzling over the case of the curate, and why such ill words were said of +him, and why, if he were so merry-spirited, he should yet preach so dry, +when coming over a knowe, whom should he see but Janet, sitting with her +back to him, minding her cattle! He was always a great child for secret, +stealthy ways, having been employed by his mother on errands when the +same was necessary; and he came behind the lass without her hearing. + +'Jennet,' says he. + +'Keep me,' cries Janet, springing up. 'O, it's you, Maister Francie! +Save us, what a fricht ye gied me.' + +'Ay, it's me,' said Francie. 'I've been thinking, Jennet; I saw you and +the curate a while back--' + +'Brat!' cried Janet, and coloured up crimson; and the one moment made as +if she would have stricken him with a ragged stick she had to chase her +bestial with, and the next was begging and praying that he would mention +it to none. It was 'naebody's business, whatever,' she said; 'it would +just start a clash in the country'; and there would be nothing left for +her but to drown herself in Dule Water. + +'Why?' says Francie. + +The girl looked at him and grew scarlet again. + +'And it isna that, anyway,' continued Francie. 'It was just that he +seemed so good to ye--like our Father in heaven, I thought; and I thought +that mebbe, perhaps, we had all been wrong about him from the first. But +I'll have to tell Mr. M'Brair; I'm under a kind of a bargain to him to +tell him all.' + +'Tell it to the divil if ye like for me!' cried the lass. 'I've naething +to be ashamed of. Tell M'Brair to mind his ain affairs,' she cried +again: 'they'll be hot eneugh for him, if Haddie likes!' And so strode +off, shoving her beasts before her, and ever and again looking back and +crying angry words to the boy, where he stood mystified. + +By the time he had got home his mind was made up that he would say +nothing to his mother. My Lady Montroymont was in the keeping-room, +reading a godly book; she was a wonderful frail little wife to make so +much noise in the world and be able to steer about that patient sheep her +husband; her eyes were like sloes, the fingers of her hands were like +tobacco-pipe shanks, her mouth shut tight like a trap; and even when she +was the most serious, and still more when she was angry, there hung about +her face the terrifying semblance of a smile. + +'Have ye gotten the billet, Francie said she; and when he had handed it +over, and she had read and burned it, 'Did you see anybody?' she asked. + +'I saw the laird,' said Francie. + +'He didna see you, though?' asked his mother. + +'Deil a fear,' from Francie. + +'Francie!' she cried. 'What's that I hear? an aith? The Lord forgive +me, have I broughten forth a brand for the burning, a fagot for +hell-fire?' + +'I'm very sorry, ma'am,' said Francie. 'I humbly beg the Lord's pardon, +and yours, for my wickedness.' + +'H'm,' grunted the lady. 'Did ye see nobody else?' + +'No, ma'am,' said Francie, with the face of an angel, 'except Jock +Crozer, that gied me the billet.' + +'Jock Crozer!' cried the lady. 'I'll Crozer them! Crozers indeed! What +next? Are we to repose the lives of a suffering remnant in Crozers? The +whole clan of them wants hanging, and if I had my way of it, they wouldna +want it long. Are you aware, sir, that these Crozers killed your +forebear at the kirk-door?' + +'You see, he was bigger 'n me,' said Francie. + +'Jock Crozer!' continued the lady. 'That'll be Clement's son, the +biggest thief and reiver in the country-side. To trust a note to him! +But I'll give the benefit of my opinions to Lady Whitecross when we two +forgather. Let her look to herself! I have no patience with +half-hearted carlines, that complies on the Lord's day morning with the +kirk, and comes taigling the same night to the conventicle. The one or +the other! is what I say: hell or heaven--Haddie's abominations or the +pure word of God dreeping from the lips of Mr. Arnot, + + '"Like honey from the honeycomb + That dreepeth, sweeter far."' + +My lady was now fairly launched, and that upon two congenial subjects: +the deficiencies of the Lady Whitecross and the turpitudes of the whole +Crozer race--which, indeed, had never been conspicuous for +respectability. She pursued the pair of them for twenty minutes on the +clock with wonderful animation and detail, something of the pulpit +manner, and the spirit of one possessed. 'O hellish compliance!' she +exclaimed. 'I would not suffer a complier to break bread with Christian +folk. Of all the sins of this day there is not one so God-defying, so +Christ-humiliating, as damnable compliance': the boy standing before her +meanwhile, and brokenly pursuing other thoughts, mainly of Haddo and +Janet, and Jock Crozer stripping off his jacket. And yet, with all his +distraction, it might be argued that he heard too much: his father and +himself being 'compliers'--that is to say, attending the church of the +parish as the law required. + +Presently, the lady's passion beginning to decline, or her flux of ill +words to be exhausted, she dismissed her audience. Francie bowed low, +left the room, closed the door behind him: and then turned him about in +the passage-way, and with a low voice, but a prodigious deal of +sentiment, repeated the name of the evil one twenty times over, to the +end of which, for the greater efficacy, he tacked on 'damnable' and +'hellish.' _Fas est ab hoste doceri_--disrespect is made more pungent by +quotation; and there is no doubt but he felt relieved, and went upstairs +into his tutor's chamber with a quiet mind. M'Brair sat by the cheek of +the peat-fire and shivered, for he had a quartan ague and this was his +day. The great night-cap and plaid, the dark unshaven cheeks of the man, +and the white, thin hands that held the plaid about his chittering body, +made a sorrowful picture. But Francie knew and loved him; came straight +in, nestled close to the refugee, and told his story. M'Brair had been +at the College with Haddo; the Presbytery had licensed both on the same +day; and at this tale, told with so much innocency by the boy, the heart +of the tutor was commoved. + +'Woe upon him! Woe upon that man!' he cried. 'O the unfaithful +shepherd! O the hireling and apostate minister! Make my matters hot for +me? quo' she! the shameless limmer! And true it is, that he could repose +me in that nasty, stinking hole, the Canongate Tolbooth, from which your +mother drew me out--the Lord reward her for it!--or to that cold, +unbieldy, marine place of the Bass Rock, which, with my delicate kist, +would be fair ruin to me. But I will be valiant in my Master's service. +I have a duty here: a duty to my God, to myself, and to Haddo: in His +strength, I will perform it.' + +Then he straitly discharged Francie to repeat the tale, and bade him in +the future to avert his very eyes from the doings of the curate. 'You +must go to his place of idolatry; look upon him there!' says he, 'but +nowhere else. Avert your eyes, close your ears, pass him by like a three +days' corp. He is like that damnable monster Basiliscus, which +defiles--yea, poisons!--by the sight.'--All which was hardly claratory to +the boy's mind. + +Presently Montroymont came home, and called up the stairs to Francie. +Traquair was a good shot and swordsman: and it was his pleasure to walk +with his son over the braes of the moorfowl, or to teach him arms in the +back court, when they made a mighty comely pair, the child being so lean, +and light, and active, and the laird himself a man of a manly, pretty +stature, his hair (the periwig being laid aside) showing already white +with many anxieties, and his face of an even, flaccid red. But this day +Francie's heart was not in the fencing. + +'Sir,' says he, suddenly lowering his point, 'will ye tell me a thing if +I was to ask it?' + +'Ask away,' says the father. + +'Well, it's this,' said Francie: 'Why do you and me comply if it's so +wicked?' + +'Ay, ye have the cant of it too!' cries Montroymont. 'But I'll tell ye +for all that. It's to try and see if we can keep the rigging on this +house, Francie. If she had her way, we would be beggar-folk, and hold +our hands out by the wayside. When ye hear her--when ye hear folk,' he +corrected himself briskly, 'call me a coward, and one that betrayed the +Lord, and I kenna what else, just mind it was to keep a bed to ye to +sleep in and a bite for ye to eat.--On guard!' he cried, and the lesson +proceeded again till they were called to supper. + +'There's another thing yet,' said Francie, stopping his father. 'There's +another thing that I am not sure that I am very caring for. She--she +sends me errands.' + +'Obey her, then, as is your bounden duty,' said Traquair. + +'Ay, but wait till I tell ye,' says the boy. 'If I was to see you I was +to hide.' + +Montroymont sighed. 'Well, and that's good of her too,' said he. 'The +less that I ken of thir doings the better for me; and the best thing you +can do is just to obey her, and see and be a good son to her, the same as +ye are to me, Francie.' + +At the tenderness of this expression the heart of Francie swelled within +his bosom, and his remorse was poured out. 'Faither!' he cried, 'I said +"deil" to-day; many's the time I said it, and _damnable_ too, and +_hellitsh_. I ken they're all right; they're beeblical. But I didna say +them beeblically; I said them for sweir words--that's the truth of it.' + +'Hout, ye silly bairn!' said the father, 'dinna do it nae mair, and come +in by to your supper.' And he took the boy, and drew him close to him a +moment, as they went through the door, with something very fond and +secret, like a caress between a pair of lovers. + +The next day M'Brair was abroad in the afternoon, and had a long advising +with Janet on the braes where she herded cattle. What passed was never +wholly known; but the lass wept bitterly, and fell on her knees to him +among the whins. The same night, as soon as it was dark, he took the +road again for Balweary. In the Kirkton, where the dragoons quartered, +he saw many lights, and heard the noise of a ranting song and people +laughing grossly, which was highly offensive to his mind. He gave it the +wider berth, keeping among fields; and came down at last by the +water-side, where the manse stands solitary between the river and the +road. He tapped at the back door, and the old woman called upon him to +come in, and guided him through the house to the study, as they still +called it, though there was little enough study there in Haddo's days, +and more song-books than theology. + +'Here's yin to speak wi' ye, Mr. Haddie!' cries the old wife. + +And M'Brair, opening the door and entering, found the little, round, red +man seated in one chair and his feet upon another. A clear fire and a +tallow dip lighted him barely. He was taking tobacco in a pipe, and +smiling to himself; and a brandy-bottle and glass, and his fiddle and +bow, were beside him on the table. + +'Hech, Patey M'Briar, is this you?' said he, a trifle tipsily. 'Step in +by, man, and have a drop brandy: for the stomach's sake! Even the deil +can quote Scripture--eh, Patey?' + +'I will neither eat nor drink with you,' replied M'Brair. 'I am come +upon my Master's errand: woe be upon me if I should anyways mince the +same. Hall Haddo, I summon you to quit this kirk which you encumber.' + +'Muckle obleeged!' says Haddo, winking. + +'You and me have been to kirk and market together,' pursued M'Brair; 'we +have had blessed seasons in the kirk, we have sat in the same +teaching-rooms and read in the same book; and I know you still retain for +me some carnal kindness. It would be my shame if I denied it; I live +here at your mercy and by your favour, and glory to acknowledge it. You +have pity on my wretched body, which is but grass, and must soon be +trodden under: but O, Haddo! how much greater is the yearning with which +I yearn after and pity your immortal soul! Come now, let us reason +together! I drop all points of controversy, weighty though these be; I +take your defaced and damnified kirk on your own terms; and I ask you, +Are you a worthy minister? The communion season approaches; how can you +pronounce thir solemn words, "The elders will now bring forrit the +elements," and not quail? A parishioner may be summoned to-night; you +may have to rise from your miserable orgies; and I ask you, Haddo, what +does your conscience tell you? Are you fit? Are you fit to smooth the +pillow of a parting Christian? And if the summons should be for +yourself, how then?' + +Haddo was startled out of all composure and the better part of his +temper. 'What's this of it?' he cried. 'I'm no waur than my neebours. +I never set up to be speeritual; I never did. I'm a plain, canty +creature; godliness is cheerfulness, says I; give me my fiddle and a +dram, and I wouldna hairm a flee.' + +'And I repeat my question,' said M'Brair: 'Are you fit--fit for this +great charge? fit to carry and save souls?' + +'Fit? Blethers! As fit's yoursel',' cried Haddo. + +'Are you so great a self-deceiver?' said M'Brair. 'Wretched man, +trampler upon God's covenants, crucifier of your Lord afresh. I will +ding you to the earth with one word: How about the young woman, Janet +M'Clour?' + +'Weel, what about her? what do I ken?' cries Haddo. 'M'Brair, ye daft +auld wife, I tell ye as true's truth, I never meddled her. It was just +daffing, I tell ye: daffing, and nae mair: a piece of fun, like! I'm no +denying but what I'm fond of fun, sma' blame to me! But for onything +sarious--hout, man, it might come to a deposeetion! I'll sweir it to ye. +Where's a Bible, till you hear me sweir?' + +'There is nae Bible in your study,' said M'Brair severely. + +And Haddo, after a few distracted turns, was constrained to accept the +fact. + +'Weel, and suppose there isna?' he cried, stamping. 'What mair can ye +say of us, but just that I'm fond of my joke, and so's she? I declare to +God, by what I ken, she might be the Virgin Mary--if she would just keep +clear of the dragoons. But me! na, deil haet o' me!' + +'She is penitent at least,' says M'Brair. + +'Do you mean to actually up and tell me to my face that she accused me?' +cried the curate. + +'I canna just say that,' replied M'Brair. 'But I rebuked her in the name +of God, and she repented before me on her bended knees.' + +'Weel, I daursay she's been ower far wi' the dragoons,' said Haddo. 'I +never denied that. I ken naething by it.' + +'Man, you but show your nakedness the more plainly,' said M'Brair. +'Poor, blind, besotted creature--and I see you stoytering on the brink of +dissolution: your light out, and your hours numbered. Awake, man!' he +shouted with a formidable voice, 'awake, or it be ower late.' + +'Be damned if I stand this!' exclaimed Haddo, casting his tobacco-pipe +violently on the table, where it was smashed in pieces. 'Out of my house +with ye, or I'll call for the dragoons.' + +'The speerit of the Lord is upon me,' said M'Brair with solemn ecstasy. +'I sist you to compear before the Great White Throne, and I warn you the +summons shall be bloody and sudden.' + +And at this, with more agility than could have been expected, he got +clear of the room and slammed the door behind him in the face of the +pursuing curate. The next Lord's day the curate was ill, and the kirk +closed, but for all his ill words, Mr. M'Brair abode unmolested in the +house of Montroymont. + + + +CHAPTER III--THE HILL-END OF DRUMLOWE + + +This was a bit of a steep broken hill that overlooked upon the west a +moorish valley, full of ink-black pools. These presently drained into a +burn that made off, with little noise and no celerity of pace, about the +corner of the hill. On the far side the ground swelled into a bare +heath, black with junipers, and spotted with the presence of the standing +stones for which the place was famous. They were many in that part, +shapeless, white with lichen--you would have said with age: and had made +their abode there for untold centuries, since first the heathens shouted +for their installation. The ancients had hallowed them to some ill +religion, and their neighbourhood had long been avoided by the prudent +before the fall of day; but of late, on the upspringing of new +requirements, these lonely stones on the moor had again become a place of +assembly. A watchful picket on the Hill-end commanded all the northern +and eastern approaches; and such was the disposition of the ground, that +by certain cunningly posted sentries the west also could be made secure +against surprise: there was no place in the country where a conventicle +could meet with more quiet of mind or a more certain retreat open, in the +case of interference from the dragoons. The minister spoke from a knowe +close to the edge of the ring, and poured out the words God gave him on +the very threshold of the devils of yore. When they pitched a tent +(which was often in wet weather, upon a communion occasion) it was rigged +over the huge isolated pillar that had the name of Anes-Errand, none knew +why. And the congregation sat partly clustered on the slope below, and +partly among the idolatrous monoliths and on the turfy soil of the Ring +itself. In truth the situation was well qualified to give a zest to +Christian doctrines, had there been any wanted. But these congregations +assembled under conditions at once so formidable and romantic as made a +zealot of the most cold. They were the last of the faithful; God, who +had averted His face from all other countries of the world, still leaned +from heaven to observe, with swelling sympathy, the doings of His +moorland remnant; Christ was by them with His eternal wounds, with +dropping tears; the Holy Ghost (never perfectly realised nor firmly +adopted by Protestant imaginations) was dimly supposed to be in the heart +of each and on the lips of the minister. And over against them was the +army of the hierarchies, from the men Charles and James Stuart, on to +King Lewie and the Emperor; and the scarlet Pope, and the muckle black +devil himself, peering out the red mouth of hell in an ecstasy of hate +and hope. 'One pull more!' he seemed to cry; 'one pull more, and it's +done. There's only Clydesdale and the Stewartry, and the three +Bailiaries of Ayr, left for God.' And with such an august assistance of +powers and principalities looking on at the last conflict of good and +evil, it was scarce possible to spare a thought to those old, infirm, +debile, _ab agendo_ devils whose holy place they were now violating. + +There might have been three hundred to four hundred present. At least +there were three hundred horses tethered for the most part in the ring; +though some of the hearers on the outskirts of the crowd stood with their +bridles in their hand, ready to mount at the first signal. The circle of +faces was strangely characteristic; long, serious, strongly marked, the +tackle standing out in the lean brown cheeks, the mouth set and the eyes +shining with a fierce enthusiasm; the shepherd, the labouring man, and +the rarer laird, stood there in their broad blue bonnets or laced hats, +and presenting an essential identity of type. From time to time a +long-drawn groan of adhesion rose in this audience, and was propagated +like a wave to the outskirts, and died away among the keepers of the +horses. It had a name; it was called 'a holy groan.' + +A squall came up; a great volley of flying mist went out before it and +whelmed the scene; the wind stormed with a sudden fierceness that carried +away the minister's voice and twitched his tails and made him stagger, +and turned the congregation for a moment into a mere pother of blowing +plaid-ends and prancing horses; and the rain followed and was dashed +straight into their faces. Men and women panted aloud in the shock of +that violent shower-bath; the teeth were bared along all the line in an +involuntary grimace; plaids, mantles, and riding-coats were proved vain, +and the worshippers felt the water stream on their naked flesh. The +minister, reinforcing his great and shrill voice, continued to contend +against and triumph over the rising of the squall and the dashing of the +rain. + +'In that day ye may go thirty mile and not hear a crawing cock,' he said; +'and fifty mile and not get a light to your pipe; and an hundred mile and +not see a smoking house. For there'll be naething in all Scotland but +deid men's banes and blackness, and the living anger of the Lord. O, +where to find a bield--O sirs, where to find a bield from the wind of the +Lord's anger? Do ye call _this_ a wind? Bethankit! Sirs, this is but a +temporary dispensation; this is but a puff of wind, this is but a spit of +rain and by with it. Already there's a blue bow in the west, and the sun +will take the crown of the causeway again, and your things'll be dried +upon ye, and your flesh will be warm upon your bones. But O, sirs, sirs! +for the day of the Lord's anger!' + +His rhetoric was set forth with an ear-piercing elocution, and a voice +that sometimes crashed like cannon. Such as it was, it was the gift of +all hill-preachers, to a singular degree of likeness or identity. Their +images scarce ranged beyond the red horizon of the moor and the rainy +hill-top, the shepherd and his sheep, a fowling-piece, a spade, a pipe, a +dunghill, a crowing cock, the shining and the withdrawal of the sun. An +occasional pathos of simple humanity, and frequent patches of big +Biblical words, relieved the homely tissue. It was a poetry apart; +bleak, austere, but genuine, and redolent of the soil. + +A little before the coming of the squall there was a different scene +enacting at the outposts. For the most part, the sentinels were faithful +to their important duty; the Hill-end of Drumlowe was known to be a safe +meeting-place; and the out-pickets on this particular day had been +somewhat lax from the beginning, and grew laxer during the inordinate +length of the discourse. Francie lay there in his appointed hiding-hole, +looking abroad between two whin-bushes. His view was across the course +of the burn, then over a piece of plain moorland, to a gap between two +hills; nothing moved but grouse, and some cattle who slowly traversed his +field of view, heading northward: he heard the psalms, and sang words of +his own to the savage and melancholy music; for he had his own design in +hand, and terror and cowardice prevailed in his bosom alternately, like +the hot and the cold fit of an ague. Courage was uppermost during the +singing, which he accompanied through all its length with this impromptu +strain: + + 'And I will ding Jock Crozer down + No later than the day.' + +Presently the voice of the preacher came to him in wafts, at the wind's +will, as by the opening and shutting of a door; wild spasms of screaming, +as of some undiscerned gigantic hill-bird stirred with inordinate +passion, succeeded to intervals of silence; and Francie heard them with a +critical ear. 'Ay,' he thought at last, 'he'll do; he has the bit in his +mou' fairly.' + +He had observed that his friend, or rather his enemy, Jock Crozer, had +been established at a very critical part of the line of outposts; namely, +where the burn issues by an abrupt gorge from the semicircle of high +moors. If anything was calculated to nerve him to battle it was this. +The post was important; next to the Hill-end itself, it might be called +the key to the position; and it was where the cover was bad, and in which +it was most natural to place a child. It should have been Heathercat's; +why had it been given to Crozer? An exquisite fear of what should be the +answer passed through his marrow every time he faced the question. Was +it possible that Crozer could have boasted? that there were rumours +abroad to his--Heathercat's--discredit? that his honour was publicly +sullied? All the world went dark about him at the thought; he sank +without a struggle into the midnight pool of despair; and every time he +so sank, he brought back with him--not drowned heroism indeed, but +half-drowned courage by the locks. His heart beat very slowly as he +deserted his station, and began to crawl towards that of Crozer. +Something pulled him back, and it was not the sense of duty, but a +remembrance of Crozer's build and hateful readiness of fist. Duty, as he +conceived it, pointed him forward on the rueful path that he was +travelling. Duty bade him redeem his name if he were able, at the risk +of broken bones; and his bones and every tooth in his head ached by +anticipation. An awful subsidiary fear whispered him that if he were +hurt, he should disgrace himself by weeping. He consoled himself, +boy-like, with the consideration that he was not yet committed; he could +easily steal over unseen to Crozer's post, and he had a continuous +private idea that he would very probably steal back again. His course +took him so near the minister that he could hear some of his words: 'What +news, minister, of Claver'se? He's going round like a roaring rampaging +lion. . . . + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty + at the Edinburgh University Press. + + + + +Footnotes: + + +{0} With special reference to _Father Damien_, pp. 63-81. + +{65} From the Sydney _Presbyterian_, October 26, 1889. + +{85} _Theater of Mortality_, p. 10; Edin. 1713. + +{86} _History of My Own Times_, beginning 1660, by Bishop Gilbert +Burnet, p. 158. + +{87a} Wodrow's _Church History_, Book II. chap. i. sect. I. + +{87b} Crookshank's _Church History_, 1751, second ed. p. 202. + +{88} Burnet, p. 348. + +{89} _Fuller's Historie of the Holy Warre_, fourth ed. 1651. + +{90} Wodrow, vol. ii. p. 17. + +{92} Sir J. Turner's _Memoirs_, pp. 148-50. + +{93} _A Cloud of Witnesses_, p. 376. + +{94a} Wodrow, pp. 19, 20. + +{94b} _A Hind Let Loose_, p. 123. + +{95} Turner, p. 163. + +{96a} Turner, p. 198. + +{96b} _Ibid._ p. 167. + +{97} Wodrow, p. 29. + +{98} Turner, Wodrow, and _Church History_ by James Kirkton, an outed +minister of the period. + +{99} Kirkton, p. 244. + +{101a} Kirkton. + +{101b} Turner. + +{102} Kirkton. + +{103} Kirkton. + +{104} _Cloud of Witnesses_, p. 389; Edin. 1765. + +{105a} Kirkton, p. 247. + +{105b} Ibid. p. 254. + +{105c} _Ibid._ p. 247. + +{105d} _Ibid._ pp. 247, 248. + +{106} Kirkton, p. 248. + +{107a} Kirkton, p. 249. + +{107b} _Naphtali_, p. 205; Glasgow, 1721. + +{107c} Wodrow, p. 59. + +{108a} Kirkton, p. 246. + +{108b} Defoe's _History of the Church of Scotland_. + +{151} 'This paper was written in collaboration with James Waiter +Ferrier, and if reprinted this is to be stated, though his principal +collaboration was to lie back in an easy-chair and laugh.'--[R.L.S., Oct. +25, 1894.] + +{183} The illustrator was, in fact, a lady, Miss Eunice Bagster, eldest +daughter of the publisher, Samuel Bagster; except in the case of the cuts +depicting the fight with Apollyon, which were designed by her brother, +Mr. Jonathan Bagster. The edition was published in 1845. I am indebted +for this information to the kindness of Mr. Robert Bagster, the present +managing director of the firm.--[SIR SIDNEY COLVIN'S NOTE.] + +{205} See a short essay of De Quincey's. + +{206a} _Religio Medici_, Part ii. + +{206b} _Duchess of Malfi_. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAY MORALS*** + + +******* This file should be named 373.txt or 373.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/7/373 + + + +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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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Lay Morals + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Release Date: December, 1995 [EBook #373] +[This file was first posted on November 25, 1995] +[Most recently updated: August 18, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, LAY MORALS *** + + + + +Transcribed from the Chatto and Windus 1911 edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + +LAY MORALS AND OTHER PAPERS + + + + +Contents: + Lay Morals + Chapter I + Chapter II + Chapter III + Chapter IV + Father Damien + The Pentland Rising + Chapter I--The Causes of the Revolt + Chapter II--The Beginning + Chapter III--The March of the Rebels + Chapter IV--Rullion Green + Chapter V--A Record of Blood + The Day After To-morrow + College Papers + Chapter I--Edinburgh Students in 1824 + Chapter II--The Modern Student + Chapter III--Debating Societies + Criticisms + Chapter I--Lord Lytton's "Fables in Song" + Chapter II--Salvini's Macbeth + Chapter III--Bagster's "Pilgrim's Progress" + Sketches + The Satirist + Nuits Blanches + The Wreath of Immortelles + Nurses + A Character + The Great North Road + Chapter I--Nance at the "Green Dragon" + Chapter II--In which Mr. Archer is Installed + Chapter III--Jonathan Holdaway + Chapter IV--Mingling Threads + Chapter V--Life in the Castle + Chapter IV--The Bad Half-Crown + Chapter VII--The Bleaching-Green + Chapter VIII--The Mail Guard + The Young Chevalier + Prologue: The Wine-Seller's Wife + Chapter I--The Prince + Heathercat + Chapter I--Traqairs of Montroymont + Chapter II--Francie + Chapter III--The Hill-End of Drumlowe + + + + +LAY MORALS + + + + +CHAPTER I + + + +The problem of education is twofold: first to know, and then to +utter. Every one who lives any semblance of an inner life thinks +more nobly and profoundly than he speaks; and the best of teachers +can impart only broken images of the truth which they perceive. +Speech which goes from one to another between two natures, and, +what is worse, between two experiences, is doubly relative. The +speaker buries his meaning; it is for the hearer to dig it up +again; and all speech, written or spoken, is in a dead language +until it finds a willing and prepared hearer. Such, moreover, is +the complexity of life, that when we condescend upon details in our +advice, we may be sure we condescend on error; and the best of +education is to throw out some magnanimous hints. No man was ever +so poor that he could express all he has in him by words, looks, or +actions; his true knowledge is eternally incommunicable, for it is +a knowledge of himself; and his best wisdom comes to him by no +process of the mind, but in a supreme self-dictation, which keeps +varying from hour to hour in its dictates with the variation of +events and circumstances. + +A few men of picked nature, full of faith, courage, and contempt +for others, try earnestly to set forth as much as they can grasp of +this inner law; but the vast majority, when they come to advise the +young, must be content to retail certain doctrines which have been +already retailed to them in their own youth. Every generation has +to educate another which it has brought upon the stage. People who +readily accept the responsibility of parentship, having very +different matters in their eye, are apt to feel rueful when that +responsibility falls due. What are they to tell the child about +life and conduct, subjects on which they have themselves so few and +such confused opinions? Indeed, I do not know; the least said, +perhaps, the soonest mended; and yet the child keeps asking, and +the parent must find some words to say in his own defence. Where +does he find them? and what are they when found? + +As a matter of experience, and in nine hundred and ninety-nine +cases out of a thousand, he will instil into his wide-eyed brat +three bad things: the terror of public opinion, and, flowing from +that as a fountain, the desire of wealth and applause. Besides +these, or what might be deduced as corollaries from these, he will +teach not much else of any effective value: some dim notions of +divinity, perhaps, and book-keeping, and how to walk through a +quadrille. + +But, you may tell me, the young people are taught to be Christians. +It may be want of penetration, but I have not yet been able to +perceive it. As an honest man, whatever we teach, and be it good +or evil, it is not the doctrine of Christ. What he taught (and in +this he is like all other teachers worthy of the name) was not a +code of rules, but a ruling spirit; not truths, but a spirit of +truth; not views, but a view. What he showed us was an attitude of +mind. Towards the many considerations on which conduct is built, +each man stands in a certain relation. He takes life on a certain +principle. He has a compass in his spirit which points in a +certain direction. It is the attitude, the relation, the point of +the compass, that is the whole body and gist of what he has to +teach us; in this, the details are comprehended; out of this the +specific precepts issue, and by this, and this only, can they be +explained and applied. And thus, to learn aright from any teacher, +we must first of all, like a historical artist, think ourselves +into sympathy with his position and, in the technical phrase, +create his character. A historian confronted with some ambiguous +politician, or an actor charged with a part, have but one pre- +occupation; they must search all round and upon every side, and +grope for some central conception which is to explain and justify +the most extreme details; until that is found, the politician is an +enigma, or perhaps a quack, and the part a tissue of fustian +sentiment and big words; but once that is found, all enters into a +plan, a human nature appears, the politician or the stage-king is +understood from point to point, from end to end. This is a degree +of trouble which will be gladly taken by a very humble artist; but +not even the terror of eternal fire can teach a business man to +bend his imagination to such athletic efforts. Yet without this, +all is vain; until we understand the whole, we shall understand +none of the parts; and otherwise we have no more than broken images +and scattered words; the meaning remains buried; and the language +in which our prophet speaks to us is a dead language in our ears. + +Take a few of Christ's sayings and compare them with our current +doctrines. + +'Ye cannot,' he says, 'serve God and Mammon.' Cannot? And our +whole system is to teach us how we can! + +'The children of this world are wiser in their generation than the +children of light.' Are they? I had been led to understand the +reverse: that the Christian merchant, for example, prospered +exceedingly in his affairs; that honesty was the best policy; that +an author of repute had written a conclusive treatise 'How to make +the best of both worlds.' Of both worlds indeed! Which am I to +believe then--Christ or the author of repute? + +'Take no thought for the morrow.' Ask the Successful Merchant; +interrogate your own heart; and you will have to admit that this is +not only a silly but an immoral position. All we believe, all we +hope, all we honour in ourselves or our contemporaries, stands +condemned in this one sentence, or, if you take the other view, +condemns the sentence as unwise and inhumane. We are not then of +the 'same mind that was in Christ.' We disagree with Christ. +Either Christ meant nothing, or else he or we must be in the wrong. +Well says Thoreau, speaking of some texts from the New Testament, +and finding a strange echo of another style which the reader may +recognise: 'Let but one of these sentences be rightly read from +any pulpit in the land, and there would not be left one stone of +that meeting-house upon another.' + +It may be objected that these are what are called 'hard sayings'; +and that a man, or an education, may be very sufficiently Christian +although it leave some of these sayings upon one side. But this is +a very gross delusion. Although truth is difficult to state, it is +both easy and agreeable to receive, and the mind runs out to meet +it ere the phrase be done. The universe, in relation to what any +man can say of it, is plain, patent and staringly comprehensible. +In itself, it is a great and travailing ocean, unsounded, +unvoyageable, an eternal mystery to man; or, let us say, it is a +monstrous and impassable mountain, one side of which, and a few +near slopes and foothills, we can dimly study with these mortal +eyes. But what any man can say of it, even in his highest +utterance, must have relation to this little and plain corner, +which is no less visible to us than to him. We are looking on the +same map; it will go hard if we cannot follow the demonstration. +The longest and most abstruse flight of a philosopher becomes clear +and shallow, in the flash of a moment, when we suddenly perceive +the aspect and drift of his intention. The longest argument is but +a finger pointed; once we get our own finger rightly parallel, and +we see what the man meant, whether it be a new star or an old +street-lamp. And briefly, if a saying is hard to understand, it is +because we are thinking of something else. + +But to be a true disciple is to think of the same things as our +prophet, and to think of different things in the same order. To be +of the same mind with another is to see all things in the same +perspective; it is not to agree in a few indifferent matters near +at hand and not much debated; it is to follow him in his farthest +flights, to see the force of his hyperboles, to stand so exactly in +the centre of his vision that whatever he may express, your eyes +will light at once on the original, that whatever he may see to +declare, your mind will at once accept. You do not belong to the +school of any philosopher, because you agree with him that theft +is, on the whole, objectionable, or that the sun is overhead at +noon. It is by the hard sayings that discipleship is tested. We +are all agreed about the middling and indifferent parts of +knowledge and morality; even the most soaring spirits too often +take them tamely upon trust. But the man, the philosopher or the +moralist, does not stand upon these chance adhesions; and the +purpose of any system looks towards those extreme points where it +steps valiantly beyond tradition and returns with some covert hint +of things outside. Then only can you be certain that the words are +not words of course, nor mere echoes of the past; then only are you +sure that if he be indicating anything at all, it is a star and not +a street-lamp; then only do you touch the heart of the mystery, +since it was for these that the author wrote his book. + +Now, every now and then, and indeed surprisingly often, Christ +finds a word that transcends all common-place morality; every now +and then he quits the beaten track to pioneer the unexpressed, and +throws out a pregnant and magnanimous hyperbole; for it is only by +some bold poetry of thought that men can be strung up above the +level of everyday conceptions to take a broader look upon +experience or accept some higher principle of conduct. To a man +who is of the same mind that was in Christ, who stands at some +centre not too far from his, and looks at the world and conduct +from some not dissimilar or, at least, not opposing attitude--or, +shortly, to a man who is of Christ's philosophy--every such saying +should come home with a thrill of joy and corroboration; he should +feel each one below his feet as another sure foundation in the flux +of time and chance; each should be another proof that in the +torrent of the years and generations, where doctrines and great +armaments and empires are swept away and swallowed, he stands +immovable, holding by the eternal stars. But alas! at this +juncture of the ages it is not so with us; on each and every such +occasion our whole fellowship of Christians falls back in +disapproving wonder and implicitly denies the saying. Christians! +the farce is impudently broad. Let us stand up in the sight of +heaven and confess. The ethics that we hold are those of Benjamin +Franklin. HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY, is perhaps a hard saying; it +is certainly one by which a wise man of these days will not too +curiously direct his steps; but I think it shows a glimmer of +meaning to even our most dimmed intelligences; I think we perceive +a principle behind it; I think, without hyperbole, we are of the +same mind that was in Benjamin Franklin. + + + +CHAPTER II + + + +But, I may be told, we teach the ten commandments, where a world of +morals lies condensed, the very pith and epitome of all ethics and +religion; and a young man with these precepts engraved upon his +mind must follow after profit with some conscience and Christianity +of method. A man cannot go very far astray who neither dishonours +his parents, nor kills, nor commits adultery, nor steals, nor bears +false witness; for these things, rightly thought out, cover a vast +field of duty. + +Alas! what is a precept? It is at best an illustration; it is case +law at the best which can be learned by precept. The letter is not +only dead, but killing; the spirit which underlies, and cannot be +uttered, alone is true and helpful. This is trite to sickness; but +familiarity has a cunning disenchantment; in a day or two she can +steal all beauty from the mountain tops; and the most startling +words begin to fall dead upon the ear after several repetitions. +If you see a thing too often, you no longer see it; if you hear a +thing too often, you no longer hear it. Our attention requires to +be surprised; and to carry a fort by assault, or to gain a +thoughtful hearing from the ruck of mankind, are feats of about an +equal difficulty and must be tried by not dissimilar means. The +whole Bible has thus lost its message for the common run of +hearers; it has become mere words of course; and the parson may +bawl himself scarlet and beat the pulpit like a thing possessed, +but his hearers will continue to nod; they are strangely at peace, +they know all he has to say; ring the old bell as you choose, it is +still the old bell and it cannot startle their composure. And so +with this byword about the letter and the spirit. It is quite +true, no doubt; but it has no meaning in the world to any man of +us. Alas! it has just this meaning, and neither more nor less: +that while the spirit is true, the letter is eternally false. + +The shadow of a great oak lies abroad upon the ground at noon, +perfect, clear, and stable like the earth. But let a man set +himself to mark out the boundary with cords and pegs, and were he +never so nimble and never so exact, what with the multiplicity of +the leaves and the progression of the shadow as it flees before the +travelling sun, long ere he has made the circuit the whole figure +will have changed. Life may be compared, not to a single tree, but +to a great and complicated forest; circumstance is more swiftly +changing than a shadow, language much more inexact than the tools +of a surveyor; from day to day the trees fall and are renewed; the +very essences are fleeting as we look; and the whole world of +leaves is swinging tempest-tossed among the winds of time. Look +now for your shadows. O man of formulae, is this a place for you? +Have you fitted the spirit to a single case? Alas, in the cycle of +the ages when shall such another be proposed for the judgment of +man? Now when the sun shines and the winds blow, the wood is +filled with an innumerable multitude of shadows, tumultuously +tossed and changing; and at every gust the whole carpet leaps and +becomes new. Can you or your heart say more? + +Look back now, for a moment, on your own brief experience of life; +and although you lived it feelingly in your own person, and had +every step of conduct burned in by pains and joys upon your memory, +tell me what definite lesson does experience hand on from youth to +manhood, or from both to age? The settled tenor which first +strikes the eye is but the shadow of a delusion. This is gone; +that never truly was; and you yourself are altered beyond +recognition. Times and men and circumstances change about your +changing character, with a speed of which no earthly hurricane +affords an image. What was the best yesterday, is it still the +best in this changed theatre of a to-morrow? Will your own Past +truly guide you in your own violent and unexpected Future? And if +this be questionable, with what humble, with what hopeless eyes, +should we not watch other men driving beside us on their unknown +careers, seeing with unlike eyes, impelled by different gales, +doing and suffering in another sphere of things? + +And as the authentic clue to such a labyrinth and change of scene, +do you offer me these two score words? these five bald +prohibitions? For the moral precepts are no more than five; the +first four deal rather with matters of observance than of conduct; +the tenth, THOU SHALT NOT COVET, stands upon another basis, and +shall be spoken of ere long. The Jews, to whom they were first +given, in the course of years began to find these precepts +insufficient; and made an addition of no less than six hundred and +fifty others! They hoped to make a pocket-book of reference on +morals, which should stand to life in some such relation, say, as +Hoyle stands in to the scientific game of whist. The comparison is +just, and condemns the design; for those who play by rule will +never be more than tolerable players; and you and I would like to +play our game in life to the noblest and the most divine advantage. +Yet if the Jews took a petty and huckstering view of conduct, what +view do we take ourselves, who callously leave youth to go forth +into the enchanted forest, full of spells and dire chimeras, with +no guidance more complete than is afforded by these five precepts? + +HONOUR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER. Yes, but does that mean to obey? +and if so, how long and how far? THOU SHALL NOT KILL. Yet the +very intention and purport of the prohibition may be best fulfilled +by killing. THOU SHALL NOT COMMIT ADULTERY. But some of the +ugliest adulteries are committed in the bed of marriage and under +the sanction of religion and law. THOU SHALT NOT BEAR FALSE +WITNESS. How? by speech or by silence also? or even by a smile? +THOU SHALT NOT STEAL. Ah, that indeed! But what is TO STEAL? + +To steal? It is another word to be construed; and who is to be our +guide? The police will give us one construction, leaving the word +only that least minimum of meaning without which society would fall +in pieces; but surely we must take some higher sense than this; +surely we hope more than a bare subsistence for mankind; surely we +wish mankind to prosper and go on from strength to strength, and +ourselves to live rightly in the eye of some more exacting +potentate than a policeman. The approval or the disapproval of the +police must be eternally indifferent to a man who is both valorous +and good. There is extreme discomfort, but no shame, in the +condemnation of the law. The law represents that modicum of +morality which can be squeezed out of the ruck of mankind; but what +is that to me, who aim higher and seek to be my own more stringent +judge? I observe with pleasure that no brave man has ever given a +rush for such considerations. The Japanese have a nobler and more +sentimental feeling for this social bond into which we all are born +when we come into the world, and whose comforts and protection we +all indifferently share throughout our lives:- but even to them, no +more than to our Western saints and heroes, does the law of the +state supersede the higher law of duty. Without hesitation and +without remorse, they transgress the stiffest enactments rather +than abstain from doing right. But the accidental superior duty +being thus fulfilled, they at once return in allegiance to the +common duty of all citizens; and hasten to denounce themselves; and +value at an equal rate their just crime and their equally just +submission to its punishment. + +The evading of the police will not long satisfy an active +conscience or a thoughtful head. But to show you how one or the +other may trouble a man, and what a vast extent of frontier is left +unridden by this invaluable eighth commandment, let me tell you a +few pages out of a young man's life. + +He was a friend of mine; a young man like others; generous, +flighty, as variable as youth itself, but always with some high +motions and on the search for higher thoughts of life. I should +tell you at once that he thoroughly agrees with the eighth +commandment. But he got hold of some unsettling works, the New +Testament among others, and this loosened his views of life and led +him into many perplexities. As he was the son of a man in a +certain position, and well off, my friend had enjoyed from the +first the advantages of education, nay, he had been kept alive +through a sickly childhood by constant watchfulness, comforts, and +change of air; for all of which he was indebted to his father's +wealth. + +At college he met other lads more diligent than himself, who +followed the plough in summer-time to pay their college fees in +winter; and this inequality struck him with some force. He was at +that age of a conversible temper, and insatiably curious in the +aspects of life; and he spent much of his time scraping +acquaintance with all classes of man- and woman-kind. In this way +he came upon many depressed ambitions, and many intelligences +stunted for want of opportunity; and this also struck him. He +began to perceive that life was a handicap upon strange, wrong- +sided principles; and not, as he had been told, a fair and equal +race. He began to tremble that he himself had been unjustly +favoured, when he saw all the avenues of wealth, and power, and +comfort closed against so many of his superiors and equals, and +held unwearyingly open before so idle, so desultory, and so +dissolute a being as himself. There sat a youth beside him on the +college benches, who had only one shirt to his back, and, at +intervals sufficiently far apart, must stay at home to have it +washed. It was my friend's principle to stay away as often as he +dared; for I fear he was no friend to learning. But there was +something that came home to him sharply, in this fellow who had to +give over study till his shirt was washed, and the scores of others +who had never an opportunity at all. IF ONE OF THESE COULD TAKE +HIS PLACE, he thought; and the thought tore away a bandage from his +eyes. He was eaten by the shame of his discoveries, and despised +himself as an unworthy favourite and a creature of the back-stairs +of Fortune. He could no longer see without confusion one of these +brave young fellows battling up-hill against adversity. Had he not +filched that fellow's birthright? At best was he not coldly +profiting by the injustice of society, and greedily devouring +stolen goods? The money, indeed, belonged to his father, who had +worked, and thought, and given up his liberty to earn it; but by +what justice could the money belong to my friend, who had, as yet, +done nothing but help to squander it? A more sturdy honesty, +joined to a more even and impartial temperament, would have drawn +from these considerations a new force of industry, that this +equivocal position might be brought as swiftly as possible to an +end, and some good services to mankind justify the appropriation of +expense. It was not so with my friend, who was only unsettled and +discouraged, and filled full of that trumpeting anger with which +young men regard injustices in the first blush of youth; although +in a few years they will tamely acquiesce in their existence, and +knowingly profit by their complications. Yet all this while he +suffered many indignant pangs. And once, when he put on his boots, +like any other unripe donkey, to run away from home, it was his +best consolation that he was now, at a single plunge, to free +himself from the responsibility of this wealth that was not his, +and do battle equally against his fellows in the warfare of life. + +Some time after this, falling into ill-health, he was sent at great +expense to a more favourable climate; and then I think his +perplexities were thickest. When he thought of all the other young +men of singular promise, upright, good, the prop of families, who +must remain at home to die, and with all their possibilities be +lost to life and mankind; and how he, by one more unmerited favour, +was chosen out from all these others to survive; he felt as if +there were no life, no labour, no devotion of soul and body, that +could repay and justify these partialities. A religious lady, to +whom he communicated these reflections, could see no force in them +whatever. 'It was God's will,' said she. But he knew it was by +God's will that Joan of Arc was burnt at Rouen, which cleared +neither Bedford nor Bishop Cauchon; and again, by God's will that +Christ was crucified outside Jerusalem, which excused neither the +rancour of the priests nor the timidity of Pilate. He knew, +moreover, that although the possibility of this favour he was now +enjoying issued from his circumstances, its acceptance was the act +of his own will; and he had accepted it greedily, longing for rest +and sunshine. And hence this allegation of God's providence did +little to relieve his scruples. I promise you he had a very +troubled mind. And I would not laugh if I were you, though while +he was thus making mountains out of what you think molehills, he +were still (as perhaps he was) contentedly practising many other +things that to you seem black as hell. Every man is his own judge +and mountain-guide through life. There is an old story of a mote +and a beam, apparently not true, but worthy perhaps of some +consideration. I should, if I were you, give some consideration to +these scruples of his, and if I were he, I should do the like by +yours; for it is not unlikely that there may be something under +both. In the meantime you must hear how my friend acted. Like +many invalids, he supposed that he would die. Now, should he die, +he saw no means of repaying this huge loan which, by the hands of +his father, mankind had advanced him for his sickness. In that +case it would be lost money. So he determined that the advance +should be as small as possible; and, so long as he continued to +doubt his recovery, lived in an upper room, and grudged himself all +but necessaries. But so soon as he began to perceive a change for +the better, he felt justified in spending more freely, to speed and +brighten his return to health, and trusted in the future to lend a +help to mankind, as mankind, out of its treasury, had lent a help +to him. + +I do not say but that my friend was a little too curious and +partial in his view; nor thought too much of himself and too little +of his parents; but I do say that here are some scruples which +tormented my friend in his youth, and still, perhaps, at odd times +give him a prick in the midst of his enjoyments, and which after +all have some foundation in justice, and point, in their confused +way, to some more honourable honesty within the reach of man. And +at least, is not this an unusual gloss upon the eighth commandment? +And what sort of comfort, guidance, or illumination did that +precept afford my friend throughout these contentions? 'Thou shalt +not steal.' With all my heart! But AM I stealing? + +The truly quaint materialism of our view of life disables us from +pursuing any transaction to an end. You can make no one understand +that his bargain is anything more than a bargain, whereas in point +of fact it is a link in the policy of mankind, and either a good or +an evil to the world. We have a sort of blindness which prevents +us from seeing anything but sovereigns. If one man agrees to give +another so many shillings for so many hours' work, and then +wilfully gives him a certain proportion of the price in bad money +and only the remainder in good, we can see with half an eye that +this man is a thief. But if the other spends a certain proportion +of the hours in smoking a pipe of tobacco, and a certain other +proportion in looking at the sky, or the clock, or trying to recall +an air, or in meditation on his own past adventures, and only the +remainder in downright work such as he is paid to do, is he, +because the theft is one of time and not of money,--is he any the +less a thief? The one gave a bad shilling, the other an imperfect +hour; but both broke the bargain, and each is a thief. In +piecework, which is what most of us do, the case is none the less +plain for being even less material. If you forge a bad knife, you +have wasted some of mankind's iron, and then, with unrivalled +cynicism, you pocket some of mankind's money for your trouble. Is +there any man so blind who cannot see that this is theft? Again, +if you carelessly cultivate a farm, you have been playing fast and +loose with mankind's resources against hunger; there will be less +bread in consequence, and for lack of that bread somebody will die +next winter: a grim consideration. And you must not hope to +shuffle out of blame because you got less money for your less +quantity of bread; for although a theft be partly punished, it is +none the less a theft for that. You took the farm against +competitors; there were others ready to shoulder the responsibility +and be answerable for the tale of loaves; but it was you who took +it. By the act you came under a tacit bargain with mankind to +cultivate that farm with your best endeavour; you were under no +superintendence, you were on parole; and you have broke your +bargain, and to all who look closely, and yourself among the rest +if you have moral eyesight, you are a thief. Or take the case of +men of letters. Every piece of work which is not as good as you +can make it, which you have palmed off imperfect, meagrely thought, +niggardly in execution, upon mankind who is your paymaster on +parole and in a sense your pupil, every hasty or slovenly or untrue +performance, should rise up against you in the court of your own +heart and condemn you for a thief. Have you a salary? If you +trifle with your health, and so render yourself less capable for +duty, and still touch, and still greedily pocket the emolument-- +what are you but a thief? Have you double accounts? do you by any +time-honoured juggle, deceit, or ambiguous process, gain more from +those who deal with you than it you were bargaining and dealing +face to face in front of God?--What are you but a thief? Lastly, +if you fill an office, or produce an article, which, in your heart +of hearts, you think a delusion and a fraud upon mankind, and still +draw your salary and go through the sham manoeuvres of this office, +or still book your profits and keep on flooding the world with +these injurious goods?--though you were old, and bald, and the +first at church, and a baronet, what are you but a thief? These +may seem hard words and mere curiosities of the intellect, in an +age when the spirit of honesty is so sparingly cultivated that all +business is conducted upon lies and so-called customs of the trade, +that not a man bestows two thoughts on the utility or +honourableness of his pursuit. I would say less if I thought less. +But looking to my own reason and the right of things, I can only +avow that I am a thief myself, and that I passionately suspect my +neighbours of the same guilt. + +Where did you hear that it was easy to be honest? Do you find that +in your Bible? Easy! It is easy to be an ass and follow the +multitude like a blind, besotted bull in a stampede; and that, I am +well aware, is what you and Mrs. Grundy mean by being honest. But +it will not bear the stress of time nor the scrutiny of conscience. +Even before the lowest of all tribunals,--before a court of law, +whose business it is, not to keep men right, or within a thousand +miles of right, but to withhold them from going so tragically wrong +that they will pull down the whole jointed fabric of society by +their misdeeds--even before a court of law, as we begin to see in +these last days, our easy view of following at each other's tails, +alike to good and evil, is beginning to be reproved and punished, +and declared no honesty at all, but open theft and swindling; and +simpletons who have gone on through life with a quiet conscience +may learn suddenly, from the lips of a judge, that the custom of +the trade may be a custom of the devil. You thought it was easy to +be honest. Did you think it was easy to be just and kind and +truthful? Did you think the whole duty of aspiring man was as +simple as a horn-pipe? and you could walk through life like a +gentleman and a hero, with no more concern than it takes to go to +church or to address a circular? And yet all this time you had the +eighth commandment! and, what makes it richer, you would not have +broken it for the world! + +The truth is, that these commandments by themselves are of little +use in private judgment. If compression is what you want, you have +their whole spirit compressed into the golden rule; and yet there +expressed with more significance, since the law is there +spiritually and not materially stated. And in truth, four out of +these ten commands, from the sixth to the ninth, are rather legal +than ethical. The police-court is their proper home. A magistrate +cannot tell whether you love your neighbour as yourself, but he can +tell more or less whether you have murdered, or stolen, or +committed adultery, or held up your hand and testified to that +which was not; and these things, for rough practical tests, are as +good as can be found. And perhaps, therefore, the best +condensation of the Jewish moral law is in the maxims of the +priests, 'neminem laedere' and 'suum cuique tribuere.' But all +this granted, it becomes only the more plain that they are +inadequate in the sphere of personal morality; that while they tell +the magistrate roughly when to punish, they can never direct an +anxious sinner what to do. + +Only Polonius, or the like solemn sort of ass, can offer us a +succinct proverb by way of advice, and not burst out blushing in +our faces. We grant them one and all and for all that they are +worth; it is something above and beyond that we desire. Christ was +in general a great enemy to such a way of teaching; we rarely find +him meddling with any of these plump commands but it was to open +them out, and lift his hearers from the letter to the spirit. For +morals are a personal affair; in the war of righteousness every man +fights for his own hand; all the six hundred precepts of the Mishna +cannot shake my private judgment; my magistracy of myself is an +indefeasible charge, and my decisions absolute for the time and +case. The moralist is not a judge of appeal, but an advocate who +pleads at my tribunal. He has to show not the law, but that the +law applies. Can he convince me? then he gains the cause. And +thus you find Christ giving various counsels to varying people, and +often jealously careful to avoid definite precept. Is he asked, +for example, to divide a heritage? He refuses: and the best +advice that he will offer is but a paraphrase of that tenth +commandment which figures so strangely among the rest. TAKE HEED, +AND BEWARE OF COVETOUSNESS. If you complain that this is vague, I +have failed to carry you along with me in my argument. For no +definite precept can be more than an illustration, though its truth +were resplendent like the sun, and it was announced from heaven by +the voice of God. And life is so intricate and changing, that +perhaps not twenty times, or perhaps not twice in the ages, shall +we find that nice consent of circumstances to which alone it can +apply. + + + +CHAPTER III + + + +Although the world and life have in a sense become commonplace to +our experience, it is but in an external torpor; the true sentiment +slumbers within us; and we have but to reflect on ourselves or our +surroundings to rekindle our astonishment. No length of habit can +blunt our first surprise. Of the world I have but little to say in +this connection; a few strokes shall suffice. We inhabit a dead +ember swimming wide in the blank of space, dizzily spinning as it +swims, and lighted up from several million miles away by a more +horrible hell-fire than was ever conceived by the theological +imagination. Yet the dead ember is a green, commodious dwelling- +place; and the reverberation of this hell-fire ripens flower and +fruit and mildly warms us on summer eves upon the lawn. Far off on +all hands other dead embers, other flaming suns, wheel and race in +the apparent void; the nearest is out of call, the farthest so far +that the heart sickens in the effort to conceive the distance. +Shipwrecked seamen on the deep, though they bestride but the +truncheon of a boom, are safe and near at home compared with +mankind on its bullet. Even to us who have known no other, it +seems a strange, if not an appalling, place of residence. + +But far stranger is the resident, man, a creature compact of +wonders that, after centuries of custom, is still wonderful to +himself. He inhabits a body which he is continually outliving, +discarding and renewing. Food and sleep, by an unknown alchemy, +restore his spirits and the freshness of his countenance. Hair +grows on him like grass; his eyes, his brain, his sinews, thirst +for action; he joys to see and touch and hear, to partake the sun +and wind, to sit down and intently ponder on his astonishing +attributes and situation, to rise up and run, to perform the +strange and revolting round of physical functions. The sight of a +flower, the note of a bird, will often move him deeply; yet he +looks unconcerned on the impassable distances and portentous +bonfires of the universe. He comprehends, he designs, he tames +nature, rides the sea, ploughs, climbs the air in a balloon, makes +vast inquiries, begins interminable labours, joins himself into +federations and populous cities, spends his days to deliver the +ends of the earth or to benefit unborn posterity; and yet knows +himself for a piece of unsurpassed fragility and the creature of a +few days. His sight, which conducts him, which takes notice of the +farthest stars, which is miraculous in every way and a thing +defying explanation or belief, is yet lodged in a piece of jelly, +and can be extinguished with a touch. His heart, which all through +life so indomitably, so athletically labours, is but a capsule, and +may be stopped with a pin. His whole body, for all its savage +energies, its leaping and its winged desires, may yet be tamed and +conquered by a draught of air or a sprinkling of cold dew. What he +calls death, which is the seeming arrest of everything, and the +ruin and hateful transformation of the visible body, lies in wait +for him outwardly in a thousand accidents, and grows up in secret +diseases from within. He is still learning to be a man when his +faculties are already beginning to decline; he has not yet +understood himself or his position before he inevitably dies. And +yet this mad, chimerical creature can take no thought of his last +end, lives as though he were eternal, plunges with his vulnerable +body into the shock of war, and daily affronts death with +unconcern. He cannot take a step without pain or pleasure. His +life is a tissue of sensations, which he distinguishes as they seem +to come more directly from himself or his surroundings. He is +conscious of himself as a joyer or a sufferer, as that which +craves, chooses, and is satisfied; conscious of his surroundings as +it were of an inexhaustible purveyor, the source of aspects, +inspirations, wonders, cruel knocks and transporting caresses. +Thus he goes on his way, stumbling among delights and agonies. + +Matter is a far-fetched theory, and materialism is without a root +in man. To him everything is important in the degree to which it +moves him. The telegraph wires and posts, the electricity speeding +from clerk to clerk, the clerks, the glad or sorrowful import of +the message, and the paper on which it is finally brought to him at +home, are all equally facts, all equally exist for man. A word or +a thought can wound him as acutely as a knife of steel. If he +thinks he is loved, he will rise up and glory to himself, although +he be in a distant land and short of necessary bread. Does he +think he is not loved?--he may have the woman at his beck, and +there is not a joy for him in all the world. Indeed, if we are to +make any account of this figment of reason, the distinction between +material and immaterial, we shall conclude that the life of each +man as an individual is immaterial, although the continuation and +prospects of mankind as a race turn upon material conditions. The +physical business of each man's body is transacted for him; like a +sybarite, he has attentive valets in his own viscera; he breathes, +he sweats, he digests without an effort, or so much as a consenting +volition; for the most part he even eats, not with a wakeful +consciousness, but as it were between two thoughts. His life is +centred among other and more important considerations; touch him in +his honour or his love, creatures of the imagination which attach +him to mankind or to an individual man or woman; cross him in his +piety which connects his soul with heaven; and he turns from his +food, he loathes his breath, and with a magnanimous emotion cuts +the knots of his existence and frees himself at a blow from the web +of pains and pleasures. + +It follows that man is twofold at least; that he is not a rounded +and autonomous empire; but that in the same body with him there +dwell other powers tributary but independent. If I now behold one +walking in a garden, curiously coloured and illuminated by the sun, +digesting his food with elaborate chemistry, breathing, circulating +blood, directing himself by the sight of his eyes, accommodating +his body by a thousand delicate balancings to the wind and the +uneven surface of the path, and all the time, perhaps, with his +mind engaged about America, or the dog-star, or the attributes of +God--what am I to say, or how am I to describe the thing I see? Is +that truly a man, in the rigorous meaning of the word? or is it not +a man and something else? What, then, are we to count the centre- +bit and axle of a being so variously compounded? It is a question +much debated. Some read his history in a certain intricacy of +nerve and the success of successive digestions; others find him an +exiled piece of heaven blown upon and determined by the breath of +God; and both schools of theorists will scream like scalded +children at a word of doubt. Yet either of these views, however +plausible, is beside the question; either may be right; and I care +not; I ask a more particular answer, and to a more immediate point. +What is the man? There is Something that was before hunger and +that remains behind after a meal. It may or may not be engaged in +any given act or passion, but when it is, it changes, heightens, +and sanctifies. Thus it is not engaged in lust, where satisfaction +ends the chapter; and it is engaged in love, where no satisfaction +can blunt the edge of the desire, and where age, sickness, or +alienation may deface what was desirable without diminishing the +sentiment. This something, which is the man, is a permanence which +abides through the vicissitudes of passion, now overwhelmed and now +triumphant, now unconscious of itself in the immediate distress of +appetite or pain, now rising unclouded above all. So, to the man, +his own central self fades and grows clear again amid the tumult of +the senses, like a revolving Pharos in the night. It is forgotten; +it is hid, it seems, for ever; and yet in the next calm hour he +shall behold himself once more, shining and unmoved among changes +and storm. + +Mankind, in the sense of the creeping mass that is born and eats, +that generates and dies, is but the aggregate of the outer and +lower sides of man. This inner consciousness, this lantern +alternately obscured and shining, to and by which the individual +exists and must order his conduct, is something special to himself +and not common to the race. His joys delight, his sorrows wound +him, according as THIS is interested or indifferent in the affair; +according as they arise in an imperial war or in a broil conducted +by the tributary chieftains of the mind. He may lose all, and THIS +not suffer; he may lose what is materially a trifle, and THIS leap +in his bosom with a cruel pang. I do not speak of it to hardened +theorists: the living man knows keenly what it is I mean. + +'Perceive at last that thou hast in thee something better and more +divine than the things which cause the various effects, and, as it +were, pull thee by the strings. What is that now in thy mind? is +it fear, or suspicion, or desire, or anything of that kind?' Thus +far Marcus Aurelius, in one of the most notable passages in any +book. Here is a question worthy to be answered. What is in thy +mind? What is the utterance of your inmost self when, in a quiet +hour, it can be heard intelligibly? It is something beyond the +compass of your thinking, inasmuch as it is yourself; but is it not +of a higher spirit than you had dreamed betweenwhiles, and erect +above all base considerations? This soul seems hardly touched with +our infirmities; we can find in it certainly no fear, suspicion, or +desire; we are only conscious--and that as though we read it in the +eyes of some one else--of a great and unqualified readiness. A +readiness to what? to pass over and look beyond the objects of +desire and fear, for something else. And this something else? this +something which is apart from desire and fear, to which all the +kingdoms of the world and the immediate death of the body are alike +indifferent and beside the point, and which yet regards conduct--by +what name are we to call it? It may be the love of God; or it may +be an inherited (and certainly well concealed) instinct to preserve +self and propagate the race; I am not, for the moment, averse to +either theory; but it will save time to call it righteousness. By +so doing I intend no subterfuge to beg a question; I am indeed +ready, and more than willing, to accept the rigid consequence, and +lay aside, as far as the treachery of the reason will permit, all +former meanings attached to the word righteousness. What is right +is that for which a man's central self is ever ready to sacrifice +immediate or distant interests; what is wrong is what the central +self discards or rejects as incompatible with the fixed design of +righteousness. + +To make this admission is to lay aside all hope of definition. +That which is right upon this theory is intimately dictated to each +man by himself, but can never be rigorously set forth in language, +and never, above all, imposed upon another. The conscience has, +then, a vision like that of the eyes, which is incommunicable, and +for the most part illuminates none but its possessor. When many +people perceive the same or any cognate facts, they agree upon a +word as symbol; and hence we have such words as TREE, STAR, LOVE, +HONOUR, or DEATH; hence also we have this word RIGHT, which, like +the others, we all understand, most of us understand differently, +and none can express succinctly otherwise. Yet even on the +straitest view, we can make some steps towards comprehension of our +own superior thoughts. For it is an incredible and most +bewildering fact that a man, through life, is on variable terms +with himself; he is aware of tiffs and reconciliations; the +intimacy is at times almost suspended, at times it is renewed again +with joy. As we said before, his inner self or soul appears to him +by successive revelations, and is frequently obscured. It is from +a study of these alternations that we can alone hope to discover, +even dimly, what seems right and what seems wrong to this veiled +prophet of ourself. + +All that is in the man in the larger sense, what we call impression +as well as what we call intuition, so far as my argument looks, we +must accept. It is not wrong to desire food, or exercise, or +beautiful surroundings, or the love of sex, or interest which is +the food of the mind. All these are craved; all these should be +craved; to none of these in itself does the soul demur; where there +comes an undeniable want, we recognise a demand of nature. Yet we +know that these natural demands may be superseded; for the demands +which are common to mankind make but a shadowy consideration in +comparison to the demands of the individual soul. Food is almost +the first prerequisite; and yet a high character will go without +food to the ruin and death of the body rather than gain it in a +manner which the spirit disavows. Pascal laid aside mathematics; +Origen doctored his body with a knife; every day some one is thus +mortifying his dearest interests and desires, and, in Christ's +words, entering maim into the Kingdom of Heaven. This is to +supersede the lesser and less harmonious affections by +renunciation; and though by this ascetic path we may get to heaven, +we cannot get thither a whole and perfect man. But there is +another way, to supersede them by reconciliation, in which the soul +and all the faculties and senses pursue a common route and share in +one desire. Thus, man is tormented by a very imperious physical +desire; it spoils his rest, it is not to be denied; the doctors +will tell you, not I, how it is a physical need, like the want of +food or slumber. In the satisfaction of this desire, as it first +appears, the soul sparingly takes part; nay, it oft unsparingly +regrets and disapproves the satisfaction. But let the man learn to +love a woman as far as he is capable of love; and for this random +affection of the body there is substituted a steady determination, +a consent of all his powers and faculties, which supersedes, +adopts, and commands the other. The desire survives, strengthened, +perhaps, but taught obedience and changed in scope and character. +Life is no longer a tale of betrayals and regrets; for the man now +lives as a whole; his consciousness now moves on uninterrupted like +a river; through all the extremes and ups and downs of passion, he +remains approvingly conscious of himself. + +Now to me, this seems a type of that rightness which the soul +demands. It demands that we shall not live alternately with our +opposing tendencies in continual see-saw of passion and disgust, +but seek some path on which the tendencies shall no longer oppose, +but serve each other to a common end. It demands that we shall not +pursue broken ends, but great and comprehensive purposes, in which +soul and body may unite like notes in a harmonious chord. That +were indeed a way of peace and pleasure, that were indeed a heaven +upon earth. It does not demand, however, or, to speak in measure, +it does not demand of me, that I should starve my appetites for no +purpose under heaven but as a purpose in itself; or, in a weak +despair, pluck out the eye that I have not yet learned to guide and +enjoy with wisdom. The soul demands unity of purpose, not the +dismemberment of man; it seeks to roll up all his strength and +sweetness, all his passion and wisdom, into one, and make of him a +perfect man exulting in perfection. To conclude ascetically is to +give up, and not to solve, the problem. The ascetic and the +creeping hog, although they are at different poles, have equally +failed in life. The one has sacrificed his crew; the other brings +back his seamen in a cock-boat, and has lost the ship. I believe +there are not many sea-captains who would plume themselves on +either result as a success. + +But if it is righteousness thus to fuse together our divisive +impulses and march with one mind through life, there is plainly one +thing more unrighteous than all others, and one declension which is +irretrievable and draws on the rest. And this is to lose +consciousness of oneself. In the best of times, it is but by +flashes, when our whole nature is clear, strong and conscious, and +events conspire to leave us free, that we enjoy communion with our +soul. At the worst, we are so fallen and passive that we may say +shortly we have none. An arctic torpor seizes upon men. Although +built of nerves, and set adrift in a stimulating world, they +develop a tendency to go bodily to sleep; consciousness becomes +engrossed among the reflex and mechanical parts of life; and soon +loses both the will and power to look higher considerations in the +face. This is ruin; this is the last failure in life; this is +temporal damnation, damnation on the spot and without the form of +judgment. 'What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world +and LOSE HIMSELF?' + +It is to keep a man awake, to keep him alive to his own soul and +its fixed design of righteousness, that the better part of moral +and religious education is directed; not only that of words and +doctors, but the sharp ferule of calamity under which we are all +God's scholars till we die. If, as teachers, we are to say +anything to the purpose, we must say what will remind the pupil of +his soul; we must speak that soul's dialect; we must talk of life +and conduct as his soul would have him think of them. If, from +some conformity between us and the pupil, or perhaps among all men, +we do in truth speak in such a dialect and express such views, +beyond question we shall touch in him a spring; beyond question he +will recognise the dialect as one that he himself has spoken in his +better hours; beyond question he will cry, 'I had forgotten, but +now I remember; I too have eyes, and I had forgot to use them! I +too have a soul of my own, arrogantly upright, and to that I will +listen and conform.' In short, say to him anything that he has +once thought, or been upon the point of thinking, or show him any +view of life that he has once clearly seen, or been upon the point +of clearly seeing; and you have done your part and may leave him to +complete the education for himself. + +Now, the view taught at the present time seems to me to want +greatness; and the dialect in which alone it can be intelligibly +uttered is not the dialect of my soul. It is a sort of +postponement of life; nothing quite is, but something different is +to be; we are to keep our eyes upon the indirect from the cradle to +the grave. We are to regulate our conduct not by desire, but by a +politic eye upon the future; and to value acts as they will bring +us money or good opinion; as they will bring us, in one word, +PROFIT. We must be what is called respectable, and offend no one +by our carriage; it will not do to make oneself conspicuous--who +knows? even in virtue? says the Christian parent! And we must be +what is called prudent and make money; not only because it is +pleasant to have money, but because that also is a part of +respectability, and we cannot hope to be received in society +without decent possessions. Received in society! as if that were +the kingdom of heaven! There is dear Mr. So-and-so;--look at him!- +-so much respected--so much looked up to--quite the Christian +merchant! And we must cut our conduct as strictly as possible +after the pattern of Mr. So-and-so; and lay our whole lives to make +money and be strictly decent. Besides these holy injunctions, +which form by far the greater part of a youth's training in our +Christian homes, there are at least two other doctrines. We are to +live just now as well as we can, but scrape at last into heaven, +where we shall be good. We are to worry through the week in a lay, +disreputable way, but, to make matters square, live a different +life on Sunday. + +The train of thought we have been following gives us a key to all +these positions, without stepping aside to justify them on their +own ground. It is because we have been disgusted fifty times with +physical squalls, and fifty times torn between conflicting +impulses, that we teach people this indirect and tactical procedure +in life, and to judge by remote consequences instead of the +immediate face of things. The very desire to act as our own souls +would have us, coupled with a pathetic disbelief in ourselves, +moves us to follow the example of others; perhaps, who knows? they +may be on the right track; and the more our patterns are in number, +the better seems the chance; until, if we be acting in concert with +a whole civilised nation, there are surely a majority of chances +that we must be acting right. And again, how true it is that we +can never behave as we wish in this tormented sphere, and can only +aspire to different and more favourable circumstances, in order to +stand out and be ourselves wholly and rightly! And yet once more, +if in the hurry and pressure of affairs and passions you tend to +nod and become drowsy, here are twenty-four hours of Sunday set +apart for you to hold counsel with your soul and look around you on +the possibilities of life. + +This is not, of course, all that is to be, or even should be, said +for these doctrines. Only, in the course of this chapter, the +reader and I have agreed upon a few catchwords, and been looking at +morals on a certain system; it was a pity to lose an opportunity of +testing the catchwords, and seeing whether, by this system as well +as by others, current doctrines could show any probable +justification. If the doctrines had come too badly out of the +trial, it would have condemned the system. Our sight of the world +is very narrow; the mind but a pedestrian instrument; there's +nothing new under the sun, as Solomon says, except the man himself; +and though that changes the aspect of everything else, yet he must +see the same things as other people, only from a different side. + +And now, having admitted so much, let us turn to criticism. + +If you teach a man to keep his eyes upon what others think of him, +unthinkingly to lead the life and hold the principles of the +majority of his contemporaries, you must discredit in his eyes the +one authoritative voice of his own soul. He may be a docile +citizen; he will never be a man. It is ours, on the other hand, to +disregard this babble and chattering of other men better and worse +than we are, and to walk straight before us by what light we have. +They may be right; but so, before heaven, are we. They may know; +but we know also, and by that knowledge we must stand or fall. +There is such a thing as loyalty to a man's own better self; and +from those who have not that, God help me, how am I to look for +loyalty to others? The most dull, the most imbecile, at a certain +moment turn round, at a certain point will hear no further +argument, but stand unflinching by their own dumb, irrational sense +of right. It is not only by steel or fire, but through contempt +and blame, that the martyr fulfils the calling of his dear soul. +Be glad if you are not tried by such extremities. But although all +the world ranged themselves in one line to tell you 'This is +wrong,' be you your own faithful vassal and the ambassador of God-- +throw down the glove and answer 'This is right.' Do you think you +are only declaring yourself? Perhaps in some dim way, like a child +who delivers a message not fully understood, you are opening wider +the straits of prejudice and preparing mankind for some truer and +more spiritual grasp of truth; perhaps, as you stand forth for your +own judgment, you are covering a thousand weak ones with your body; +perhaps, by this declaration alone, you have avoided the guilt of +false witness against humanity and the little ones unborn. It is +good, I believe, to be respectable, but much nobler to respect +oneself and utter the voice of God. God, if there be any God, +speaks daily in a new language by the tongues of men; the thoughts +and habits of each fresh generation and each new-coined spirit +throw another light upon the universe and contain another +commentary on the printed Bibles; every scruple, every true +dissent, every glimpse of something new, is a letter of God's +alphabet; and though there is a grave responsibility for all who +speak, is there none for those who unrighteously keep silence and +conform? Is not that also to conceal and cloak God's counsel? And +how should we regard the man of science who suppressed all facts +that would not tally with the orthodoxy of the hour? + +Wrong? You are as surely wrong as the sun rose this morning round +the revolving shoulder of the world. Not truth, but truthfulness, +is the good of your endeavour. For when will men receive that +first part and prerequisite of truth, that, by the order of things, +by the greatness of the universe, by the darkness and partiality of +man's experience, by the inviolate secrecy of God, kept close in +His most open revelations, every man is, and to the end of the ages +must be, wrong? Wrong to the universe; wrong to mankind; wrong to +God. And yet in another sense, and that plainer and nearer, every +man of men, who wishes truly, must be right. He is right to +himself, and in the measure of his sagacity and candour. That let +him do in all sincerity and zeal, not sparing a thought for +contrary opinions; that, for what it is worth, let him proclaim. +Be not afraid; although he be wrong, so also is the dead, stuffed +Dagon he insults. For the voice of God, whatever it is, is not +that stammering, inept tradition which the people holds. These +truths survive in travesty, swamped in a world of spiritual +darkness and confusion; and what a few comprehend and faithfully +hold, the many, in their dead jargon, repeat, degrade, and +misinterpret. + +So far of Respectability; what the Covenanters used to call 'rank +conformity': the deadliest gag and wet blanket that can be laid on +men. And now of Profit. And this doctrine is perhaps the more +redoubtable, because it harms all sorts of men; not only the heroic +and self-reliant, but the obedient, cowlike squadrons. A man, by +this doctrine, looks to consequences at the second, or third, or +fiftieth turn. He chooses his end, and for that, with wily turns +and through a great sea of tedium, steers this mortal bark. There +may be political wisdom in such a view; but I am persuaded there +can spring no great moral zeal. To look thus obliquely upon life +is the very recipe for moral slumber. Our intention and endeavour +should be directed, not on some vague end of money or applause, +which shall come to us by a ricochet in a month or a year, or +twenty years, but on the act itself; not on the approval of others, +but on the rightness of that act. At every instant, at every step +in life, the point has to be decided, our soul has to be saved, +heaven has to be gained or lost. At every step our spirits must +applaud, at every step we must set down the foot and sound the +trumpet. 'This have I done,' we must say; 'right or wrong, this +have I done, in unfeigned honour of intention, as to myself and +God.' The profit of every act should be this, that it was right +for us to do it. Any other profit than that, if it involved a +kingdom or the woman I love, ought, if I were God's upright +soldier, to leave me untempted. + +It is the mark of what we call a righteous decision, that it is +made directly and for its own sake. The whole man, mind and body, +having come to an agreement, tyrannically dictates conduct. There +are two dispositions eternally opposed: that in which we recognise +that one thing is wrong and another right, and that in which, not +seeing any clear distinction, we fall back on the consideration of +consequences. The truth is, by the scope of our present teaching, +nothing is thought very wrong and nothing very right, except a few +actions which have the disadvantage of being disrespectable when +found out; the more serious part of men inclining to think all +things RATHER WRONG, the more jovial to suppose them RIGHT ENOUGH +FOR PRACTICAL PURPOSES. I will engage my head, they do not find +that view in their own hearts; they have taken it up in a dark +despair; they are but troubled sleepers talking in their sleep. +The soul, or my soul at least, thinks very distinctly upon many +points of right and wrong, and often differs flatly with what is +held out as the thought of corporate humanity in the code of +society or the code of law. Am I to suppose myself a monster? I +have only to read books, the Christian Gospels for example, to +think myself a monster no longer; and instead I think the mass of +people are merely speaking in their sleep. + +It is a commonplace, enshrined, if I mistake not, even in school +copy-books, that honour is to be sought and not fame. I ask no +other admission; we are to seek honour, upright walking with our +own conscience every hour of the day, and not fame, the +consequence, the far-off reverberation of our footsteps. The walk, +not the rumour of the walk, is what concerns righteousness. Better +disrespectable honour than dishonourable fame. Better useless or +seemingly hurtful honour, than dishonour ruling empires and filling +the mouths of thousands. For the man must walk by what he sees, +and leave the issue with God who made him and taught him by the +fortune of his life. You would not dishonour yourself for money; +which is at least tangible; would you do it, then, for a doubtful +forecast in politics, or another person's theory in morals? + +So intricate is the scheme of our affairs, that no man can +calculate the bearing of his own behaviour even on those +immediately around him, how much less upon the world at large or on +succeeding generations! To walk by external prudence and the rule +of consequences would require, not a man, but God. All that we +know to guide us in this changing labyrinth is our soul with its +fixed design of righteousness, and a few old precepts which commend +themselves to that. The precepts are vague when we endeavour to +apply them; consequences are more entangled than a wisp of string, +and their confusion is unrestingly in change; we must hold to what +we know and walk by it. We must walk by faith, indeed, and not by +knowledge. + +You do not love another because he is wealthy or wise or eminently +respectable: you love him because you love him; that is love, and +any other only a derision and grimace. It should be the same with +all our actions. If we were to conceive a perfect man, it should +be one who was never torn between conflicting impulses, but who, on +the absolute consent of all his parts and faculties, submitted in +every action of his life to a self-dictation as absolute and +unreasoned as that which bids him love one woman and be true to her +till death. But we should not conceive him as sagacious, +ascetical, playing off his appetites against each other, turning +the wing of public respectable immorality instead of riding it +directly down, or advancing toward his end through a thousand +sinister compromises and considerations. The one man might be +wily, might be adroit, might be wise, might be respectable, might +be gloriously useful; it is the other man who would be good. + +The soul asks honour and not fame; to be upright, not to be +successful; to be good, not prosperous; to be essentially, not +outwardly, respectable. Does your soul ask profit? Does it ask +money? Does it ask the approval of the indifferent herd? I +believe not. For my own part, I want but little money, I hope; and +I do not want to be decent at all, but to be good. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + + +We have spoken of that supreme self-dictation which keeps varying +from hour to hour in its dictates with the variation of events and +circumstances. Now, for us, that is ultimate. It may be founded +on some reasonable process, but it is not a process which we can +follow or comprehend. And moreover the dictation is not +continuous, or not continuous except in very lively and well-living +natures; and between-whiles we must brush along without it. +Practice is a more intricate and desperate business than the +toughest theorising; life is an affair of cavalry, where rapid +judgment and prompt action are alone possible and right. As a +matter of fact, there is no one so upright but he is influenced by +the world's chatter; and no one so headlong but he requires to +consider consequences and to keep an eye on profit. For the soul +adopts all affections and appetites without exception, and cares +only to combine them for some common purpose which shall interest +all. Now, respect for the opinion of others, the study of +consequences, and the desire of power and comfort, are all +undeniably factors in the nature of man; and the more undeniably +since we find that, in our current doctrines, they have swallowed +up the others and are thought to conclude in themselves all the +worthy parts of man. These, then, must also be suffered to affect +conduct in the practical domain, much or little according as they +are forcibly or feebly present to the mind of each. + +Now, a man's view of the universe is mostly a view of the civilised +society in which he lives. Other men and women are so much more +grossly and so much more intimately palpable to his perceptions, +that they stand between him and all the rest; they are larger to +his eye than the sun, he hears them more plainly than thunder, with +them, by them, and for them, he must live and die. And hence the +laws that affect his intercourse with his fellow-men, although +merely customary and the creatures of a generation, are more +clearly and continually before his mind than those which bind him +into the eternal system of things, support him in his upright +progress on this whirling ball, or keep up the fire of his bodily +life. And hence it is that money stands in the first rank of +considerations and so powerfully affects the choice. For our +society is built with money for mortar; money is present in every +joint of circumstance; it might be named the social atmosphere, +since, in society, it is by that alone that men continue to live, +and only through that or chance that they can reach or affect one +another. Money gives us food, shelter, and privacy; it permits us +to be clean in person, opens for us the doors of the theatre, gains +us books for study or pleasure, enables us to help the distresses +of others, and puts us above necessity so that we can choose the +best in life. If we love, it enables us to meet and live with the +loved one, or even to prolong her health and life; if we have +scruples, it gives us an opportunity to be honest; if we have any +bright designs, here is what will smooth the way to their +accomplishment. Penury is the worst slavery, and will soon lead to +death. + +But money is only a means; it presupposes a man to use it. The +rich can go where he pleases, but perhaps please himself nowhere. +He can buy a library or visit the whole world, but perhaps has +neither patience to read nor intelligence to see. The table may be +loaded and the appetite wanting; the purse may be full, and the +heart empty. He may have gained the world and lost himself; and +with all his wealth around him, in a great house and spacious and +beautiful demesne, he may live as blank a life as any tattered +ditcher. Without an appetite, without an aspiration, void of +appreciation, bankrupt of desire and hope, there, in his great +house, let him sit and look upon his fingers. It is perhaps a more +fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be +born a millionaire. Although neither is to be despised, it is +always better policy to learn an interest than to make a thousand +pounds; for the money will soon be spent, or perhaps you may feel +no joy in spending it; but the interest remains imperishable and +ever new. To become a botanist, a geologist, a social philosopher, +an antiquary, or an artist, is to enlarge one's possessions in the +universe by an incalculably higher degree, and by a far surer sort +of property, than to purchase a farm of many acres. You had +perhaps two thousand a year before the transaction; perhaps you +have two thousand five hundred after it. That represents your gain +in the one case. But in the other, you have thrown down a barrier +which concealed significance and beauty. The blind man has learned +to see. The prisoner has opened up a window in his cell and +beholds enchanting prospects; he will never again be a prisoner as +he was; he can watch clouds and changing seasons, ships on the +river, travellers on the road, and the stars at night; happy +prisoner! his eyes have broken jail! And again he who has learned +to love an art or science has wisely laid up riches against the day +of riches; if prosperity come, he will not enter poor into his +inheritance; he will not slumber and forget himself in the lap of +money, or spend his hours in counting idle treasures, but be up and +briskly doing; he will have the true alchemic touch, which is not +that of Midas, but which transmutes dead money into living delight +and satisfaction. Etre et pas avoir--to be, not to possess--that +is the problem of life. To be wealthy, a rich nature is the first +requisite and money but the second. To be of a quick and healthy +blood, to share in all honourable curiosities, to be rich in +admiration and free from envy, to rejoice greatly in the good of +others, to love with such generosity of heart that your love is +still a dear possession in absence or unkindness--these are the +gifts of fortune which money cannot buy and without which money can +buy nothing. For what can a man possess, or what can he enjoy, +except himself? If he enlarge his nature, it is then that he +enlarges his estates. If his nature be happy and valiant, he will +enjoy the universe as if it were his park and orchard. + +But money is not only to be spent; it has also to be earned. It is +not merely a convenience or a necessary in social life; but it is +the coin in which mankind pays his wages to the individual man. +And from this side, the question of money has a very different +scope and application. For no man can be honest who does not work. +Service for service. If the farmer buys corn, and the labourer +ploughs and reaps, and the baker sweats in his hot bakery, plainly +you who eat must do something in your turn. It is not enough to +take off your hat, or to thank God upon your knees for the +admirable constitution of society and your own convenient situation +in its upper and more ornamental stories. Neither is it enough to +buy the loaf with a sixpence; for then you are only changing the +point of the inquiry; and you must first have BOUGHT THE SIXPENCE. +Service for service: how have you bought your sixpences? A man of +spirit desires certainty in a thing of such a nature; he must see +to it that there is some reciprocity between him and mankind; that +he pays his expenditure in service; that he has not a lion's share +in profit and a drone's in labour; and is not a sleeping partner +and mere costly incubus on the great mercantile concern of mankind. + +Services differ so widely with different gifts, and some are so +inappreciable to external tests, that this is not only a matter for +the private conscience, but one which even there must be leniently +and trustfully considered. For remember how many serve mankind who +do no more than meditate; and how many are precious to their +friends for no more than a sweet and joyous temper. To perform the +function of a man of letters it is not necessary to write; nay, it +is perhaps better to be a living book. So long as we love we +serve; so long as we are loved by others, I would almost say that +we are indispensable; and no man is useless while he has a friend. +The true services of life are inestimable in money, and are never +paid. Kind words and caresses, high and wise thoughts, humane +designs, tender behaviour to the weak and suffering, and all the +charities of man's existence, are neither bought nor sold. + +Yet the dearest and readiest, if not the most just, criterion of a +man's services, is the wage that mankind pays him or, briefly, what +he earns. There at least there can be no ambiguity. St. Paul is +fully and freely entitled to his earnings as a tentmaker, and +Socrates fully and freely entitled to his earnings as a sculptor, +although the true business of each was not only something +different, but something which remained unpaid. A man cannot +forget that he is not superintended, and serves mankind on parole. +He would like, when challenged by his own conscience, to reply: 'I +have done so much work, and no less, with my own hands and brain, +and taken so much profit, and no more, for my own personal +delight.' And though St. Paul, if he had possessed a private +fortune, would probably have scorned to waste his time in making +tents, yet of all sacrifices to public opinion none can be more +easily pardoned than that by which a man, already spiritually +useful to the world, should restrict the field of his chief +usefulness to perform services more apparent, and possess a +livelihood that neither stupidity nor malice could call in +question. Like all sacrifices to public opinion and mere external +decency, this would certainly be wrong; for the soul should rest +contented with its own approval and indissuadably pursue its own +calling. Yet, so grave and delicate is the question, that a man +may well hesitate before he decides it for himself; he may well +fear that he sets too high a valuation on his own endeavours after +good; he may well condescend upon a humbler duty, where others than +himself shall judge the service and proportion the wage. + +And yet it is to this very responsibility that the rich are born. +They can shuffle off the duty on no other; they are their own +paymasters on parole; and must pay themselves fair wages and no +more. For I suppose that in the course of ages, and through reform +and civil war and invasion, mankind was pursuing some other and +more general design than to set one or two Englishmen of the +nineteenth century beyond the reach of needs and duties. Society +was scarce put together, and defended with so much eloquence and +blood, for the convenience of two or three millionaires and a few +hundred other persons of wealth and position. It is plain that if +mankind thus acted and suffered during all these generations, they +hoped some benefit, some ease, some wellbeing, for themselves and +their descendants; that if they supported law and order, it was to +secure fair-play for all; that if they denied themselves in the +present, they must have had some designs upon the future. Now, a +great hereditary fortune is a miracle of man's wisdom and mankind's +forbearance; it has not only been amassed and handed down, it has +been suffered to be amassed and handed down; and surely in such a +consideration as this, its possessor should find only a new spur to +activity and honour, that with all this power of service he should +not prove unserviceable, and that this mass of treasure should +return in benefits upon the race. If he had twenty, or thirty, or +a hundred thousand at his banker's, or if all Yorkshire or all +California were his to manage or to sell, he would still be morally +penniless, and have the world to begin like Whittington, until he +had found some way of serving mankind. His wage is physically in +his own hand; but, in honour, that wage must still be earned. He +is only steward on parole of what is called his fortune. He must +honourably perform his stewardship. He must estimate his own +services and allow himself a salary in proportion, for that will be +one among his functions. And while he will then be free to spend +that salary, great or little, on his own private pleasures, the +rest of his fortune he but holds and disposes under trust for +mankind; it is not his, because he has not earned it; it cannot be +his, because his services have already been paid; but year by year +it is his to distribute, whether to help individuals whose +birthright and outfit have been swallowed up in his, or to further +public works and institutions. + +At this rate, short of inspiration, it seems hardly possible to be +both rich and honest; and the millionaire is under a far more +continuous temptation to thieve than the labourer who gets his +shilling daily for despicable toils. Are you surprised? It is +even so. And you repeat it every Sunday in your churches. 'It is +easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a +rich man to enter the kingdom of God.' I have heard this and +similar texts ingeniously explained away and brushed from the path +of the aspiring Christian by the tender Great-heart of the parish. +One excellent clergyman told us that the 'eye of a needle' meant a +low, Oriental postern through which camels could not pass till they +were unloaded--which is very likely just; and then went on, bravely +confounding the 'kingdom of God' with heaven, the future paradise, +to show that of course no rich person could expect to carry his +riches beyond the grave--which, of course, he could not and never +did. Various greedy sinners of the congregation drank in the +comfortable doctrine with relief. It was worth the while having +come to church that Sunday morning! All was plain. The Bible, as +usual, meant nothing in particular; it was merely an obscure and +figurative school-copybook; and if a man were only respectable, he +was a man after God's own heart. + +Alas! I fear not. And though this matter of a man's services is +one for his own conscience, there are some cases in which it is +difficult to restrain the mind from judging. Thus I shall be very +easily persuaded that a man has earned his daily bread; and if he +has but a friend or two to whom his company is delightful at heart, +I am more than persuaded at once. But it will be very hard to +persuade me that any one has earned an income of a hundred +thousand. What he is to his friends, he still would be if he were +made penniless to-morrow; for as to the courtiers of luxury and +power, I will neither consider them friends, nor indeed consider +them at all. What he does for mankind there are most likely +hundreds who would do the same, as effectually for the race and as +pleasurably to themselves, for the merest fraction of this +monstrous wage. Why it is paid, I am, therefore, unable to +conceive, and as the man pays it himself, out of funds in his +detention, I have a certain backwardness to think him honest. + +At least, we have gained a very obvious point: that WHAT A MAN +SPENDS UPON HIMSELF, HE SHALL HAVE EARNED BY SERVICES TO THE RACE. +Thence flows a principle for the outset of life, which is a little +different from that taught in the present day. I am addressing the +middle and the upper classes; those who have already been fostered +and prepared for life at some expense; those who have some choice +before them, and can pick professions; and above all, those who are +what is called independent, and need do nothing unless pushed by +honour or ambition. In this particular the poor are happy; among +them, when a lad comes to his strength, he must take the work that +offers, and can take it with an easy conscience. But in the richer +classes the question is complicated by the number of opportunities +and a variety of considerations. Here, then, this principle of +ours comes in helpfully. The young man has to seek, not a road to +wealth, but an opportunity of service; not money, but honest work. +If he has some strong propensity, some calling of nature, some +over-weening interest in any special field of industry, inquiry, or +art, he will do right to obey the impulse; and that for two +reasons: the first external, because there he will render the best +services; the second personal, because a demand of his own nature +is to him without appeal whenever it can be satisfied with the +consent of his other faculties and appetites. If he has no such +elective taste, by the very principle on which he chooses any +pursuit at all he must choose the most honest and serviceable, and +not the most highly remunerated. We have here an external problem, +not from or to ourself, but flowing from the constitution of +society; and we have our own soul with its fixed design of +righteousness. All that can be done is to present the problem in +proper terms, and leave it to the soul of the individual. Now, the +problem to the poor is one of necessity: to earn wherewithal to +live, they must find remunerative labour. But the problem to the +rich is one of honour: having the wherewithal, they must find +serviceable labour. Each has to earn his daily bread: the one, +because he has not yet got it to eat; the other, who has already +eaten it, because he has not yet earned it. + +Of course, what is true of bread is true of luxuries and comforts, +whether for the body or the mind. But the consideration of +luxuries leads us to a new aspect of the whole question, and to a +second proposition no less true, and maybe no less startling, than +the last. + +At the present day, we, of the easier classes, are in a state of +surfeit and disgrace after meat. Plethora has filled us with +indifference; and we are covered from head to foot with the +callosities of habitual opulence. Born into what is called a +certain rank, we live, as the saying is, up to our station. We +squander without enjoyment, because our fathers squandered. We eat +of the best, not from delicacy, but from brazen habit. We do not +keenly enjoy or eagerly desire the presence of a luxury; we are +unaccustomed to its absence. And not only do we squander money +from habit, but still more pitifully waste it in ostentation. I +can think of no more melancholy disgrace for a creature who +professes either reason or pleasure for his guide, than to spend +the smallest fraction of his income upon that which he does not +desire; and to keep a carriage in which you do not wish to drive, +or a butler of whom you are afraid, is a pathetic kind of folly. +Money, being a means of happiness, should make both parties happy +when it changes hands; rightly disposed, it should be twice blessed +in its employment; and buyer and seller should alike have their +twenty shillings worth of profit out of every pound. Benjamin +Franklin went through life an altered man, because he once paid too +dearly for a penny whistle. My concern springs usually from a +deeper source, to wit, from having bought a whistle when I did not +want one. I find I regret this, or would regret it if I gave +myself the time, not only on personal but on moral and +philanthropical considerations. For, first, in a world where money +is wanting to buy books for eager students and food and medicine +for pining children, and where a large majority are starved in +their most immediate desires, it is surely base, stupid, and cruel +to squander money when I am pushed by no appetite and enjoy no +return of genuine satisfaction. My philanthropy is wide enough in +scope to include myself; and when I have made myself happy, I have +at least one good argument that I have acted rightly; but where +that is not so, and I have bought and not enjoyed, my mouth is +closed, and I conceive that I have robbed the poor. And, second, +anything I buy or use which I do not sincerely want or cannot +vividly enjoy, disturbs the balance of supply and demand, and +contributes to remove industrious hands from the production of what +is useful or pleasurable and to keep them busy upon ropes of sand +and things that are a weariness to the flesh. That extravagance is +truly sinful, and a very silly sin to boot, in which we impoverish +mankind and ourselves. It is another question for each man's +heart. He knows if he can enjoy what he buys and uses; if he +cannot, he is a dog in the manger; nay, it he cannot, I contend he +is a thief, for nothing really belongs to a man which he cannot +use. Proprietor is connected with propriety; and that only is the +man's which is proper to his wants and faculties. + +A youth, in choosing a career, must not be alarmed by poverty. +Want is a sore thing, but poverty does not imply want. It remains +to be seen whether with half his present income, or a third, he +cannot, in the most generous sense, live as fully as at present. +He is a fool who objects to luxuries; but he is also a fool who +does not protest against the waste of luxuries on those who do not +desire and cannot enjoy them. It remains to be seen, by each man +who would live a true life to himself and not a merely specious +life to society, how many luxuries he truly wants and to how many +he merely submits as to a social propriety; and all these last he +will immediately forswear. Let him do this, and he will be +surprised to find how little money it requires to keep him in +complete contentment and activity of mind and senses. Life at any +level among the easy classes is conceived upon a principle of +rivalry, where each man and each household must ape the tastes and +emulate the display of others. One is delicate in eating, another +in wine, a third in furniture or works of art or dress; and I, who +care nothing for any of these refinements, who am perhaps a plain +athletic creature and love exercise, beef, beer, flannel shirts and +a camp bed, am yet called upon to assimilate all these other tastes +and make these foreign occasions of expenditure my own. It may be +cynical: I am sure I shall be told it is selfish; but I will spend +my money as I please and for my own intimate personal +gratification, and should count myself a nincompoop indeed to lay +out the colour of a halfpenny on any fancied social decency or +duty. I shall not wear gloves unless my hands are cold, or unless +I am born with a delight in them. Dress is my own affair, and that +of one other in the world; that, in fact and for an obvious reason, +of any woman who shall chance to be in love with me. I shall lodge +where I have a mind. If I do not ask society to live with me, they +must be silent; and even if I do, they have no further right but to +refuse the invitation! There is a kind of idea abroad that a man +must live up to his station, that his house, his table, and his +toilette, shall be in a ratio of equivalence, and equally imposing +to the world. If this is in the Bible, the passage has eluded my +inquiries. If it is not in the Bible, it is nowhere but in the +heart of the fool. Throw aside this fancy. See what you want, and +spend upon that; distinguish what you do not care about, and spend +nothing upon that. There are not many people who can differentiate +wines above a certain and that not at all a high price. Are you +sure you are one of these? Are you sure you prefer cigars at +sixpence each to pipes at some fraction of a farthing? Are you +sure you wish to keep a gig? Do you care about where you sleep, or +are you not as much at your ease in a cheap lodging as in an +Elizabethan manor-house? Do you enjoy fine clothes? It is not +possible to answer these questions without a trial; and there is +nothing more obvious to my mind, than that a man who has not +experienced some ups and downs, and been forced to live more +cheaply than in his father's house, has still his education to +begin. Let the experiment be made, and he will find to his +surprise that he has been eating beyond his appetite up to that +hour; that the cheap lodging, the cheap tobacco, the rough country +clothes, the plain table, have not only no power to damp his +spirits, but perhaps give him as keen pleasure in the using as the +dainties that he took, betwixt sleep and waking, in his former +callous and somnambulous submission to wealth. + +The true Bohemian, a creature lost to view under the imaginary +Bohemians of literature, is exactly described by such a principle +of life. The Bohemian of the novel, who drinks more than is good +for him and prefers anything to work, and wears strange clothes, is +for the most part a respectable Bohemian, respectable in +disrespectability, living for the outside, and an adventurer. But +the man I mean lives wholly to himself, does what he wishes, and +not what is thought proper, buys what he wants for himself, and not +what is thought proper, works at what he believes he can do well +and not what will bring him in money or favour. You may be the +most respectable of men, and yet a true Bohemian. And the test is +this: a Bohemian, for as poor as he may be, is always open-handed +to his friends; he knows what he can do with money and how he can +do without it, a far rarer and more useful knowledge; he has had +less, and continued to live in some contentment; and hence he cares +not to keep more, and shares his sovereign or his shilling with a +friend. The poor, if they are generous, are Bohemian in virtue of +their birth. Do you know where beggars go? Not to the great +houses where people sit dazed among their thousands, but to the +doors of poor men who have seen the world; and it was the widow who +had only two mites, who cast half her fortune into the treasury. + +But a young man who elects to save on dress or on lodging, or who +in any way falls out of the level of expenditure which is common to +his level in society, falls out of society altogether. I suppose +the young man to have chosen his career on honourable principles; +he finds his talents and instincts can be best contented in a +certain pursuit; in a certain industry, he is sure that he is +serving mankind with a healthy and becoming service; and he is not +sure that he would be doing so, or doing so equally well, in any +other industry within his reach. Then that is his true sphere in +life; not the one in which he was born to his father, but the one +which is proper to his talents and instincts. And suppose he does +fall out of society, is that a cause of sorrow? Is your heart so +dead that you prefer the recognition of many to the love of a few? +Do you think society loves you? Put it to the proof. Decline in +material expenditure, and you will find they care no more for you +than for the Khan of Tartary. You will lose no friends. If you +had any, you will keep them. Only those who were friends to your +coat and equipage will disappear; the smiling faces will disappear +as by enchantment; but the kind hearts will remain steadfastly +kind. Are you so lost, are you so dead, are you so little sure of +your own soul and your own footing upon solid fact, that you prefer +before goodness and happiness the countenance of sundry diners-out, +who will flee from you at a report of ruin, who will drop you with +insult at a shadow of disgrace, who do not know you and do not care +to know you but by sight, and whom you in your turn neither know +nor care to know in a more human manner? Is it not the principle +of society, openly avowed, that friendship must not interfere with +business; which being paraphrased, means simply that a +consideration of money goes before any consideration of affection +known to this cold-blooded gang, that they have not even the honour +of thieves, and will rook their nearest and dearest as readily as a +stranger? I hope I would go as far as most to serve a friend; but +I declare openly I would not put on my hat to do a pleasure to +society. I may starve my appetites and control my temper for the +sake of those I love; but society shall take me as I choose to be, +or go without me. Neither they nor I will lose; for where there is +no love, it is both laborious and unprofitable to associate. + +But it is obvious that if it is only right for a man to spend money +on that which he can truly and thoroughly enjoy, the doctrine +applies with equal force to the rich and to the poor, to the man +who has amassed many thousands as well as to the youth precariously +beginning life. And it may be asked, Is not this merely preparing +misers, who are not the best of company? But the principle was +this: that which a man has not fairly earned, and, further, that +which he cannot fully enjoy, does not belong to him, but is a part +of mankind's treasure which he holds as steward on parole. To +mankind, then, it must be made profitable; and how this should be +done is, once more, a problem which each man must solve for +himself, and about which none has a right to judge him. Yet there +are a few considerations which are very obvious and may here be +stated. Mankind is not only the whole in general, but every one in +particular. Every man or woman is one of mankind's dear +possessions; to his or her just brain, and kind heart, and active +hands, mankind intrusts some of its hopes for the future; he or she +is a possible well-spring of good acts and source of blessings to +the race. This money which you do not need, which, in a rigid +sense, you do not want, may therefore be returned not only in +public benefactions to the race, but in private kindnesses. Your +wife, your children, your friends stand nearest to you, and should +be helped the first. There at least there can be little imposture, +for you know their necessities of your own knowledge. And +consider, if all the world did as you did, and according to their +means extended help in the circle of their affections, there would +be no more crying want in times of plenty and no more cold, +mechanical charity given with a doubt and received with confusion. +Would not this simple rule make a new world out of the old and +cruel one which we inhabit? + + +[After two more sentences the fragment breaks off.] + + + + +FATHER DAMIEN +AN OPEN LETTER TO THE REVEREND +DR. HYDE OF HONOLULU + + + + +SYDNEY, +February 25, 1890. + + +Sir,--It may probably occur to you that we have met, and visited, +and conversed; on my side, with interest. You may remember that +you have done me several courtesies, for which I was prepared to be +grateful. But there are duties which come before gratitude, and +offences which justly divide friends, far more acquaintances. Your +letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage is a document which, in my sight, +if you had filled me with bread when I was starving, if you had sat +up to nurse my father when he lay a-dying, would yet absolve me +from the bonds of gratitude. You know enough, doubtless, of the +process of canonisation to be aware that, a hundred years after the +death of Damien, there will appear a man charged with the painful +office of the DEVIL'S ADVOCATE. After that noble brother of mine, +and of all frail clay, shall have lain a century at rest, one shall +accuse, one defend him. The circumstance is unusual that the +devil's advocate should be a volunteer, should be a member of a +sect immediately rival, and should make haste to take upon himself +his ugly office ere the bones are cold; unusual, and of a taste +which I shall leave my readers free to qualify; unusual, and to me +inspiring. If I have at all learned the trade of using words to +convey truth and to arouse emotion, you have at last furnished me +with a subject. For it is in the interest of all mankind, and the +cause of public decency in every quarter of the world, not only +that Damien should be righted, but that you and your letter should +be displayed at length, in their true colours, to the public eye. + +To do this properly, I must begin by quoting you at large: I shall +then proceed to criticise your utterance from several points of +view, divine and human, in the course of which I shall attempt to +draw again, and with more specification, the character of the dead +saint whom it has pleased you to vilify: so much being done, I +shall say farewell to you for ever. + + +'HONOLULU, +'August 2, 1889. + + +'Rev. H. B. GAGE. + +'Dear Brother,--In answer to your inquiries about Father Damien, I +can only reply that we who knew the man are surprised at the +extravagant newspaper laudations, as if he was a most saintly +philanthropist. The simple truth is, he was a coarse, dirty man, +head-strong and bigoted. He was not sent to Molokai, but went +there without orders; did not stay at the leper settlement (before +he became one himself), but circulated freely over the whole island +(less than half the island is devoted to the lepers), and he came +often to Honolulu. He had no hand in the reforms and improvements +inaugurated, which were the work of our Board of Health, as +occasion required and means were provided. He was not a pure man +in his relations with women, and the leprosy of which he died +should be attributed to his vices and carelessness. Others have +done much for the lepers, our own ministers, the government +physicians, and so forth, but never with the Catholic idea of +meriting eternal life.--Yours, etc., + +'C. M. HYDE.' {1} + + +To deal fitly with a letter so extraordinary, I must draw at the +outset on my private knowledge of the signatory and his sect. It +may offend others; scarcely you, who have been so busy to collect, +so bold to publish, gossip on your rivals. And this is perhaps the +moment when I may best explain to you the character of what you are +to read: I conceive you as a man quite beyond and below the +reticences of civility: with what measure you mete, with that +shall it be measured you again; with you, at last, I rejoice to +feel the button off the foil and to plunge home. And if in aught +that I shall say I should offend others, your colleagues, whom I +respect and remember with affection, I can but offer them my +regret; I am not free, I am inspired by the consideration of +interests far more large; and such pain as can be inflicted by +anything from me must be indeed trifling when compared with the +pain with which they read your letter. It is not the hangman, but +the criminal, that brings dishonour on the house. + +You belong, sir, to a sect--I believe my sect, and that in which my +ancestors laboured--which has enjoyed, and partly failed to +utilise, an exceptional advantage in the islands of Hawaii. The +first missionaries came; they found the land already self-purged of +its old and bloody faith; they were embraced, almost on their +arrival, with enthusiasm; what troubles they supported came far +more from whites than from Hawaiians; and to these last they stood +(in a rough figure) in the shoes of God. This is not the place to +enter into the degree or causes of their failure, such as it is. +One element alone is pertinent, and must here be plainly dealt +with. In the course of their evangelical calling, they--or too +many of them--grew rich. It may be news to you that the houses of +missionaries are a cause of mocking on the streets of Honolulu. It +will at least be news to you, that when I returned your civil +visit, the driver of my cab commented on the size, the taste, and +the comfort of your home. It would have been news certainly to +myself, had any one told me that afternoon that I should live to +drag such matter into print. But you see, sir, how you degrade +better men to your own level; and it is needful that those who are +to judge betwixt you and me, betwixt Damien and the devil's +advocate, should understand your letter to have been penned in a +house which could raise, and that very justly, the envy and the +comments of the passers-by. I think (to employ a phrase of yours +which I admire) it 'should be attributed' to you that you have +never visited the scene of Damien's life and death. If you had, +and had recalled it, and looked about your pleasant rooms, even +your pen perhaps would have been stayed. + +Your sect (and remember, as far as any sect avows me, it is mine) +has not done ill in a worldly sense in the Hawaiian Kingdom. When +calamity befell their innocent parishioners, when leprosy descended +and took root in the Eight Islands, a quid pro quo was to be looked +for. To that prosperous mission, and to you, as one of its +adornments, God had sent at last an opportunity. I know I am +touching here upon a nerve acutely sensitive. I know that others +of your colleagues look back on the inertia of your Church, and the +intrusive and decisive heroism of Damien, with something almost to +be called remorse. I am sure it is so with yourself; I am +persuaded your letter was inspired by a certain envy, not +essentially ignoble, and the one human trait to be espied in that +performance. You were thinking of the lost chance, the past day; +of that which should have been conceived and was not; of the +service due and not rendered. Time was, said the voice in your +ear, in your pleasant room, as you sat raging and writing; and if +the words written were base beyond parallel, the rage, I am happy +to repeat--it is the only compliment I shall pay you--the rage was +almost virtuous. But, sir, when we have failed, and another has +succeeded; when we have stood by, and another has stepped in; when +we sit and grow bulky in our charming mansions, and a plain, +uncouth peasant steps into the battle, under the eyes of God, and +succours the afflicted, and consoles the dying, and is himself +afflicted in his turn, and dies upon the field of honour--the +battle cannot be retrieved as your unhappy irritation has +suggested. It is a lost battle, and lost for ever. One thing +remained to you in your defeat--some rags of common honour; and +these you have made haste to cast away. + +Common honour; not the honour of having done anything right, but +the honour of not having done aught conspicuously foul; the honour +of the inert: that was what remained to you. We are not all +expected to be Damiens; a man may conceive his duty more narrowly, +he may love his comforts better; and none will cast a stone at him +for that. But will a gentleman of your reverend profession allow +me an example from the fields of gallantry? When two gentlemen +compete for the favour of a lady, and the one succeeds and the +other is rejected, and (as will sometimes happen) matter damaging +to the successful rival's credit reaches the ear of the defeated, +it is held by plain men of no pretensions that his mouth is, in the +circumstance, almost necessarily closed. Your Church and Damien's +were in Hawaii upon a rivalry to do well: to help, to edify, to +set divine examples. You having (in one huge instance) failed, and +Damien succeeded, I marvel it should not have occurred to you that +you were doomed to silence; that when you had been outstripped in +that high rivalry, and sat inglorious in the midst of your +wellbeing, in your pleasant room--and Damien, crowned with glories +and horrors, toiled and rotted in that pigsty of his under the +cliffs of Kalawao--you, the elect who would not, were the last man +on earth to collect and propagate gossip on the volunteer who would +and did. + +I think I see you--for I try to see you in the flesh as I write +these sentences--I think I see you leap at the word pigsty, a +hyperbolical expression at the best. 'He had no hand in the +reforms,' he was 'a coarse, dirty man'; these were your own words; +and you may think it possible that I am come to support you with +fresh evidence. In a sense, it is even so. Damien has been too +much depicted with a conventional halo and conventional features; +so drawn by men who perhaps had not the eye to remark or the pen to +express the individual; or who perhaps were only blinded and +silenced by generous admiration, such as I partly envy for myself-- +such as you, if your soul were enlightened, would envy on your +bended knees. It is the least defect of such a method of +portraiture that it makes the path easy for the devil's advocate, +and leaves for the misuse of the slanderer a considerable field of +truth. For the truth that is suppressed by friends is the readiest +weapon of the enemy. The world, in your despite, may perhaps owe +you something, if your letter be the means of substituting once for +all a credible likeness for a wax abstraction. For, if that world +at all remember you, on the day when Damien of Molokai shall be +named Saint, it will be in virtue of one work: your letter to the +Reverend H. B. Gage. + +You may ask on what authority I speak. It was my inclement destiny +to become acquainted, not with Damien, but with Dr. Hyde. When I +visited the lazaretto, Damien was already in his resting grave. +But such information as I have, I gathered on the spot in +conversation with those who knew him well and long: some indeed +who revered his memory; but others who had sparred and wrangled +with him, who beheld him with no halo, who perhaps regarded him +with small respect, and through whose unprepared and scarcely +partial communications the plain, human features of the man shone +on me convincingly. These gave me what knowledge I possess; and I +learnt it in that scene where it could be most completely and +sensitively understood--Kalawao, which you have never visited, +about which you have never so much as endeavoured to inform +yourself; for, brief as your letter is, you have found the means to +stumble into that confession. 'LESS THAN ONE-HALF of the island,' +you say, 'is devoted to the lepers.' Molokai--'Molokai ahina,' the +'grey,' lofty, and most desolate island--along all its northern +side plunges a front of precipice into a sea of unusual profundity. +This range of cliff is, from east to west, the true end and +frontier of the island. Only in one spot there projects into the +ocean a certain triangular and rugged down, grassy, stony, windy, +and rising in the midst into a hill with a dead crater: the whole +bearing to the cliff that overhangs it somewhat the same relation +as a bracket to a wall. With this hint you will now be able to +pick out the leper station on a map; you will be able to judge how +much of Molokai is thus cut off between the surf and precipice, +whether less than a half, or less than a quarter, or a fifth, or a +tenth--or, say, a twentieth; and the next time you burst into print +you will be in a position to share with us the issue of your +calculations. + +I imagine you to be one of those persons who talk with cheerfulness +of that place which oxen and wain-ropes could not drag you to +behold. You, who do not even know its situation on the map, +probably denounce sensational descriptions, stretching your limbs +the while in your pleasant parlour on Beretania Street. When I was +pulled ashore there one early morning, there sat with me in the +boat two sisters, bidding farewell (in humble imitation of Damien) +to the lights and joys of human life. One of these wept silently; +I could not withhold myself from joining her. Had you been there, +it is my belief that nature would have triumphed even in you; and +as the boat drew but a little nearer, and you beheld the stairs +crowded with abominable deformations of our common manhood, and saw +yourself landing in the midst of such a population as only now and +then surrounds us in the horror of a nightmare--what a haggard eye +you would have rolled over your reluctant shoulder towards the +house on Beretania Street! Had you gone on; had you found every +fourth face a blot upon the landscape; had you visited the hospital +and seen the butt-ends of human beings lying there almost +unrecognisable, but still breathing, still thinking, still +remembering; you would have understood that life in the lazaretto +is an ordeal from which the nerves of a man's spirit shrink, even +as his eye quails under the brightness of the sun; you would have +felt it was (even to-day) a pitiful place to visit and a hell to +dwell in. It is not the fear of possible infection. That seems a +little thing when compared with the pain, the pity, and the disgust +of the visitor's surroundings, and the atmosphere of affliction, +disease, and physical disgrace in which he breathes. I do not +think I am a man more than usually timid; but I never recall the +days and nights I spent upon that island promontory (eight days and +seven nights), without heartfelt thankfulness that I am somewhere +else. I find in my diary that I speak of my stay as a 'grinding +experience': I have once jotted in the margin, 'HARROWING is the +word'; and when the Mokolii bore me at last towards the outer +world, I kept repeating to myself, with a new conception of their +pregnancy, those simple words of the song - + + +''Tis the most distressful country that ever yet was seen.' + + +And observe: that which I saw and suffered from was a settlement +purged, bettered, beautified; the new village built, the hospital +and the Bishop-Home excellently arranged; the sisters, the doctor, +and the missionaries, all indefatigable in their noble tasks. It +was a different place when Damien came there and made his great +renunciation, and slept that first night under a tree amidst his +rotting brethren: alone with pestilence; and looking forward (with +what courage, with what pitiful sinkings of dread, God only knows) +to a lifetime of dressing sores and stumps. + +You will say, perhaps, I am too sensitive, that sights as painful +abound in cancer hospitals and are confronted daily by doctors and +nurses. I have long learned to admire and envy the doctors and the +nurses. But there is no cancer hospital so large and populous as +Kalawao and Kalaupapa; and in such a matter every fresh case, like +every inch of length in the pipe of an organ, deepens the note of +the impression; for what daunts the onlooker is that monstrous sum +of human suffering by which he stands surrounded. Lastly, no +doctor or nurse is called upon to enter once for all the doors of +that gehenna; they do not say farewell, they need not abandon hope, +on its sad threshold; they but go for a time to their high calling, +and can look forward as they go to relief, to recreation, and to +rest. But Damien shut-to with his own hand the doors of his own +sepulchre. + +I shall now extract three passages from my diary at Kalawao. + +A. 'Damien is dead and already somewhat ungratefully remembered in +the field of his labours and sufferings. "He was a good man, but +very officious," says one. Another tells me he had fallen (as +other priests so easily do) into something of the ways and habits +of thought of a Kanaka; but he had the wit to recognise the fact, +and the good sense to laugh at' [over] 'it. A plain man it seems +he was; I cannot find he was a popular.' + +B. 'After Ragsdale's death' [Ragsdale was a famous Luna, or +overseer, of the unruly settlement] 'there followed a brief term of +office by Father Damien which served only to publish the weakness +of that noble man. He was rough in his ways, and he had no +control. Authority was relaxed; Damien's life was threatened, and +he was soon eager to resign.' + +C. 'Of Damien I begin to have an idea. He seems to have been a +man of the peasant class, certainly of the peasant type: shrewd, +ignorant and bigoted, yet with an open mind, and capable of +receiving and digesting a reproof if it were bluntly administered; +superbly generous in the least thing as well as in the greatest, +and as ready to give his last shirt (although not without human +grumbling) as he had been to sacrifice his life; essentially +indiscreet and officious, which made him a troublesome colleague; +domineering in all his ways, which made him incurably unpopular +with the Kanakas, but yet destitute of real authority, so that his +boys laughed at him and he must carry out his wishes by the means +of bribes. He learned to have a mania for doctoring; and set up +the Kanakas against the remedies of his regular rivals: perhaps +(if anything matter at all in the treatment of such a disease) the +worst thing that he did, and certainly the easiest. The best and +worst of the man appear very plainly in his dealings with Mr. +Chapman's money; he had originally laid it out' [intended to lay it +out] 'entirely for the benefit of Catholics, and even so not +wisely; but after a long, plain talk, he admitted his error fully +and revised the list. The sad state of the boys' home is in part +the result of his lack of control; in part, of his own slovenly +ways and false ideas of hygiene. Brother officials used to call it +"Damien's Chinatown." "Well," they would say, "your China-town +keeps growing." And he would laugh with perfect good-nature, and +adhere to his errors with perfect obstinacy. So much I have +gathered of truth about this plain, noble human brother and father +of ours; his imperfections are the traits of his face, by which we +know him for our fellow; his martyrdom and his example nothing can +lessen or annul; and only a person here on the spot can properly +appreciate their greatness.' + +I have set down these private passages, as you perceive, without +correction; thanks to you, the public has them in their bluntness. +They are almost a list of the man's faults, for it is rather these +that I was seeking: with his virtues, with the heroic profile of +his life, I and the world were already sufficiently acquainted. I +was besides a little suspicious of Catholic testimony; in no ill +sense, but merely because Damien's admirers and disciples were the +least likely to be critical. I know you will be more suspicious +still; and the facts set down above were one and all collected from +the lips of Protestants who had opposed the father in his life. +Yet I am strangely deceived, or they build up the image of a man, +with all his weaknesses, essentially heroic, and alive with rugged +honesty, generosity, and mirth. + +Take it for what it is, rough private jottings of the worst sides +of Damien's character, collected from the lips of those who had +laboured with and (in your own phrase) 'knew the man';--though I +question whether Damien would have said that he knew you. Take it, +and observe with wonder how well you were served by your gossips, +how ill by your intelligence and sympathy; in how many points of +fact we are at one, and how widely our appreciations vary. There +is something wrong here; either with you or me. It is possible, +for instance, that you, who seem to have so many ears in Kalawao, +had heard of the affair of Mr. Chapman's money, and were singly +struck by Damien's intended wrong-doing. I was struck with that +also, and set it fairly down; but I was struck much more by the +fact that he had the honesty of mind to be convinced. I may here +tell you that it was a long business; that one of his colleagues +sat with him late into the night, multiplying arguments and +accusations; that the father listened as usual with 'perfect good- +nature and perfect obstinacy'; but at the last, when he was +persuaded--'Yes,' said he, 'I am very much obliged to you; you have +done me a service; it would have been a theft.' There are many +(not Catholics merely) who require their heroes and saints to be +infallible; to these the story will be painful; not to the true +lovers, patrons, and servants of mankind. + +And I take it, this is a type of our division; that you are one of +those who have an eye for faults and failures; that you take a +pleasure to find and publish them; and that, having found them, you +make haste to forget the overvailing virtues and the real success +which had alone introduced them to your knowledge. It is a +dangerous frame of mind. That you may understand how dangerous, +and into what a situation it has already brought you, we will (if +you please) go hand-in-hand through the different phrases of your +letter, and candidly examine each from the point of view of its +truth, its appositeness, and its charity. + +Damien was COARSE. + +It is very possible. You make us sorry for the lepers, who had +only a coarse old peasant for their friend and father. But you, +who were so refined, why were you not there, to cheer them with the +lights of culture? Or may I remind you that we have some reason to +doubt if John the Baptist were genteel; and in the case of Peter, +on whose career you doubtless dwell approvingly in the pulpit, no +doubt at all he was a 'coarse, headstrong' fisherman! Yet even in +our Protestant Bibles Peter is called Saint. + +Damien was DIRTY. + +He was. Think of the poor lepers annoyed with this dirty comrade! +But the clean Dr. Hyde was at his food in a fine house. + +Damien was HEADSTRONG. + +I believe you are right again; and I thank God for his strong head +and heart. + +Damien was BIGOTED. + +I am not fond of bigots myself, because they are not fond of me. +But what is meant by bigotry, that we should regard it as a blemish +in a priest? Damien believed his own religion with the simplicity +of a peasant or a child; as I would I could suppose that you do. +For this, I wonder at him some way off; and had that been his only +character, should have avoided him in life. But the point of +interest in Damien, which has caused him to be so much talked about +and made him at last the subject of your pen and mine, was that, in +him, his bigotry, his intense and narrow faith, wrought potently +for good, and strengthened him to be one of the world's heroes and +exemplars. + +Damien WAS NOT SENT TO MOLOKAI, BUT WENT THERE WITHOUT ORDERS. + +Is this a misreading? or do you really mean the words for blame? I +have heard Christ, in the pulpits of our Church, held up for +imitation on the ground that His sacrifice was voluntary. Does Dr. +Hyde think otherwise? + +Damien DID NOT STAY AT THE SETTLEMENT, ETC. + +It is true he was allowed many indulgences. Am I to understand +that you blame the father for profiting by these, or the officers +for granting them? In either case, it is a mighty Spartan standard +to issue from the house on Beretania Street; and I am convinced you +will find yourself with few supporters. + +Damien HAD NO HAND IN THE REFORMS, ETC. + +I think even you will admit that I have already been frank in my +description of the man I am defending; but before I take you up +upon this head, I will be franker still, and tell you that perhaps +nowhere in the world can a man taste a more pleasurable sense of +contrast than when he passes from Damien's 'Chinatown' at Kalawao +to the beautiful Bishop-Home at Kalaupapa. At this point, in my +desire to make all fair for you, I will break my rule and adduce +Catholic testimony. Here is a passage from my diary about my visit +to the Chinatown, from which you will see how it is (even now) +regarded by its own officials: 'We went round all the dormitories, +refectories, etc.--dark and dingy enough, with a superficial +cleanliness, which he' [Mr. Dutton, the lay-brother] 'did not seek +to defend. "It is almost decent," said he; "the sisters will make +that all right when we get them here."' And yet I gathered it was +already better since Damien was dead, and far better than when he +was there alone and had his own (not always excellent) way. I have +now come far enough to meet you on a common ground of fact; and I +tell you that, to a mind not prejudiced by jealousy, all the +reforms of the lazaretto, and even those which he most vigorously +opposed, are properly the work of Damien. They are the evidence of +his success; they are what his heroism provoked from the reluctant +and the careless. Many were before him in the field; Mr. Meyer, +for instance, of whose faithful work we hear too little: there +have been many since; and some had more worldly wisdom, though none +had more devotion, than our saint. Before his day, even you will +confess, they had effected little. It was his part, by one +striking act of martyrdom, to direct all men's eyes on that +distressful country. At a blow, and with the price of his life, he +made the place illustrious and public. And that, if you will +consider largely, was the one reform needful; pregnant of all that +should succeed. It brought money; it brought (best individual +addition of them all) the sisters; it brought supervision, for +public opinion and public interest landed with the man at Kalawao. +If ever any man brought reforms, and died to bring them, it was he. +There is not a clean cup or towel in the Bishop-Home, but dirty +Damien washed it. + +Damien WAS NOT A PURE MAN IN HIS RELATIONS WITH WOMEN, ETC. + +How do you know that? Is this the nature of the conversation in +that house on Beretania Street which the cabman envied, driving +past?--racy details of the misconduct of the poor peasant priest, +toiling under the cliffs of Molokai? + +Many have visited the station before me; they seem not to have +heard the rumour. When I was there I heard many shocking tales, +for my informants were men speaking with the plainness of the +laity; and I heard plenty of complaints of Damien. Why was this +never mentioned? and how came it to you in the retirement of your +clerical parlour? + +But I must not even seem to deceive you. This scandal, when I read +it in your letter, was not new to me. I had heard it once before; +and I must tell you how. There came to Samoa a man from Honolulu; +he, in a public-house on the beach, volunteered the statement that +Damien had 'contracted the disease from having connection with the +female lepers'; and I find a joy in telling you how the report was +welcomed in a public-house. A man sprang to his feet; I am not at +liberty to give his name, but from what I heard I doubt if you +would care to have him to dinner in Beretania Street. 'You +miserable little--' (here is a word I dare not print, it would so +shock your ears). 'You miserable little--,' he cried, 'if the +story were a thousand times true, can't you see you are a million +times a lower--for daring to repeat it?' I wish it could be told +of you that when the report reached you in your house, perhaps +after family worship, you had found in your soul enough holy anger +to receive it with the same expressions; ay, even with that one +which I dare not print; it would not need to have been blotted +away, like Uncle Toby's oath, by the tears of the recording angel; +it would have been counted to you for your brightest righteousness. +But you have deliberately chosen the part of the man from Honolulu, +and you have played it with improvements of your own. The man from +Honolulu--miserable, leering creature--communicated the tale to a +rude knot of beach-combing drinkers in a public-house, where (I +will so far agree with your temperance opinions) man is not always +at his noblest; and the man from Honolulu had himself been +drinking--drinking, we may charitably fancy, to excess. It was to +your 'Dear Brother, the Reverend H. B. Gage,' that you chose to +communicate the sickening story; and the blue ribbon which adorns +your portly bosom forbids me to allow you the extenuating plea that +you were drunk when it was done. Your 'dear brother'--a brother +indeed--made haste to deliver up your letter (as a means of grace, +perhaps) to the religious papers; where, after many months, I found +and read and wondered at it; and whence I have now reproduced it +for the wonder of others. And you and your dear brother have, by +this cycle of operations, built up a contrast very edifying to +examine in detail. The man whom you would not care to have to +dinner, on the one side; on the other, the Reverend Dr. Hyde and +the Reverend H. B. Gage: the Apia bar-room, the Honolulu manse. + +But I fear you scarce appreciate how you appear to your fellow-men; +and to bring it home to you, I will suppose your story to be true. +I will suppose--and God forgive me for supposing it--that Damien +faltered and stumbled in his narrow path of duty; I will suppose +that, in the horror of his isolation, perhaps in the fever of +incipient disease, he, who was doing so much more than he had +sworn, failed in the letter of his priestly oath--he, who was so +much a better man than either you or me, who did what we have never +dreamed of daring--he too tasted of our common frailty. 'O, Iago, +the pity of it!' The least tender should be moved to tears; the +most incredulous to prayer. And all that you could do was to pen +your letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage! + +Is it growing at all clear to you what a picture you have drawn of +your own heart? I will try yet once again to make it clearer. You +had a father: suppose this tale were about him, and some informant +brought it to you, proof in hand: I am not making too high an +estimate of your emotional nature when I suppose you would regret +the circumstance? that you would feel the tale of frailty the more +keenly since it shamed the author of your days? and that the last +thing you would do would be to publish it in the religious press? +Well, the man who tried to do what Damien did, is my father, and +the father of the man in the Apia bar, and the father of all who +love goodness; and he was your father too, if God had given you +grace to see it. + + + + +THE PENTLAND RISING +A PAGE OF HISTORY +1666 + + + + +'A cloud of witnesses lyes here, +Who for Christ's interest did appear.' +Inscription on Battlefield at Rullion Green. + + + +CHAPTER I--THE CAUSES OF THE REVOLT + + + +'Halt, passenger; take heed what thou dost see, +This tomb doth show for what some men did die.' +Monument, Greyfriars' Churchyard, Edinburgh, +1661-1668. {2a} + + +Two hundred years ago a tragedy was enacted in Scotland, the memory +whereof has been in great measure lost or obscured by the deep +tragedies which followed it. It is, as it were, the evening of the +night of persecution--a sort of twilight, dark indeed to us, but +light as the noonday when compared with the midnight gloom which +followed. This fact, of its being the very threshold of +persecution, lends it, however, an additional interest. + +The prejudices of the people against Episcopacy were 'out of +measure increased,' says Bishop Burnet, 'by the new incumbents who +were put in the places of the ejected preachers, and were generally +very mean and despicable in all respects. They were the worst +preachers I ever heard; they were ignorant to a reproach; and many +of them were openly vicious. They . . . were indeed the dreg and +refuse of the northern parts. Those of them who arose above +contempt or scandal were men of such violent tempers that they were +as much hated as the others were despised.' {2b} It was little to +be wondered at, from this account that the country-folk refused to +go to the parish church, and chose rather to listen to outed +ministers in the fields. But this was not to be allowed, and their +persecutors at last fell on the method of calling a roll of the +parishioners' names every Sabbath, and marking a fine of twenty +shillings Scots to the name of each absenter. In this way very +large debts were incurred by persons altogether unable to pay. +Besides this, landlords were fined for their tenants' absences, +tenants for their landlords', masters for their servants', servants +for their masters', even though they themselves were perfectly +regular in their attendance. And as the curates were allowed to +fine with the sanction of any common soldier, it may be imagined +that often the pretexts were neither very sufficient nor well +proven. + +When the fines could not be paid at once, Bibles, clothes, and +household utensils were seized upon, or a number of soldiers, +proportionate to his wealth, were quartered on the offender. The +coarse and drunken privates filled the houses with woe; snatched +the bread from the children to feed their dogs; shocked the +principles, scorned the scruples, and blasphemed the religion of +their humble hosts; and when they had reduced them to destitution, +sold the furniture, and burned down the roof-tree which was +consecrated to the peasants by the name of Home. For all this +attention each of these soldiers received from his unwilling +landlord a certain sum of money per day--three shillings sterling, +according to Naphtali. And frequently they were forced to pay +quartering money for more men than were in reality 'cessed on +them.' At that time it was no strange thing to behold a strong man +begging for money to pay his fines, and many others who were deep +in arrears, or who had attracted attention in some other way, were +forced to flee from their homes, and take refuge from arrest and +imprisonment among the wild mosses of the uplands. {2c} + +One example in particular we may cite: + +John Neilson, the Laird of Corsack, a worthy man, was, +unfortunately for himself, a Nonconformist. First he was fined in +four hundred pounds Scots, and then through cessing he lost +nineteen hundred and ninety-three pounds Scots. He was next +obliged to leave his house and flee from place to place, during +which wanderings he lost his horse. His wife and children were +turned out of doors, and then his tenants were fined till they too +were almost ruined. As a final stroke, they drove away all his +cattle to Glasgow and sold them. {2d} Surely it was time that +something were done to alleviate so much sorrow, to overthrow such +tyranny. + +About this time too there arrived in Galloway a person calling +himself Captain Andrew Gray, and advising the people to revolt. He +displayed some documents purporting to be from the northern +Covenanters, and stating that they were prepared to join in any +enterprise commenced by their southern brethren. The leader of the +persecutors was Sir James Turner, an officer afterwards degraded +for his share in the matter. 'He was naturally fierce, but was mad +when he was drunk, and that was very often,' said Bishop Burnet. +'He was a learned man, but had always been in armies, and knew no +other rule but to obey orders. He told me he had no regard to any +law, but acted, as he was commanded, in a military way.' {2e} + +This was the state of matters, when an outrage was committed which +gave spirit and determination to the oppressed countrymen, lit the +flame of insubordination, and for the time at least recoiled on +those who perpetrated it with redoubled force. + + + +CHAPTER II--THE BEGINNING + + + +I love no warres, +I love no jarres, +Nor strife's fire. +May discord cease, +Let's live in peace: +This I desire. + +If it must be +Warre we must see +(So fates conspire), +May we not feel +The force of steel: +This I desire. + +T. JACKSON, 1651 {3a} + + +Upon Tuesday, November 13th, 1666, Corporal George Deanes and three +other soldiers set upon an old man in the clachan of Dalry and +demanded the payment of his fines. On the old man's refusing to +pay, they forced a large party of his neighbours to go with them +and thresh his corn. The field was a certain distance out of the +clachan, and four persons, disguised as countrymen, who had been +out on the moors all night, met this mournful drove of slaves, +compelled by the four soldiers to work for the ruin of their +friend. However, chided to the bone by their night on the hills, +and worn out by want of food, they proceeded to the village inn to +refresh themselves. Suddenly some people rushed into the room +where they were sitting, and told them that the soldiers were about +to roast the old man, naked, on his own girdle. This was too much +for them to stand, and they repaired immediately to the scene of +this gross outrage, and at first merely requested that the captive +should be released. On the refusal of the two soldiers who were in +the front room, high words were given and taken on both sides, and +the other two rushed forth from an adjoining chamber and made at +the countrymen with drawn swords. One of the latter, John M'Lellan +of Barscob, drew a pistol and shot the corporal in the body. The +pieces of tobacco-pipe with which it was loaded, to the number of +ten at least, entered him, and he was so much disturbed that he +never appears to have recovered, for we find long afterwards a +petition to the Privy Council requesting a pension for him. The +other soldiers then laid down their arms, the old man was rescued, +and the rebellion was commenced. {3b} + +And now we must turn to Sir James Turner's memoirs of himself; for, +strange to say, this extraordinary man was remarkably fond of +literary composition, and wrote, besides the amusing account of his +own adventures just mentioned, a large number of essays and short +biographies, and a work on war, entitled Pallas Armata. The +following are some of the shorter pieces 'Magick,' 'Friendship,' +'Imprisonment,' 'Anger,' 'Revenge,' 'Duells,' 'Cruelty,' 'A Defence +of some of the Ceremonies of the English Liturgie--to wit--Bowing +at the Name of Jesus, The frequent repetition of the Lord's Prayer +and Good Lord deliver us, Of the Doxologie, Of Surplesses, +Rotchets, Canonnicall Coats,' etc. From what we know of his +character we should expect 'Anger' and 'Cruelty' to be very full +and instructive. But what earthly right he had to meddle with +ecclesiastical subjects it is hard to see. + +Upon the 12th of the month he had received some information +concerning Gray's proceedings, but as it was excessively indefinite +in its character, he paid no attention to it. On the evening of +the 14th, Corporal Deanes was brought into Dumfries, who affirmed +stoutly that he had been shot while refusing to sign the Covenant-- +a story rendered singularly unlikely by the after conduct of the +rebels. Sir James instantly dispatched orders to the cessed +soldiers either to come to Dumfries or meet him on the way to +Dalry, and commanded the thirteen or fourteen men in the town with +him to come at nine next morning to his lodging for supplies. + +On the morning of Thursday the rebels arrived at Dumfries with 50 +horse and 150 foot. Neilson of Corsack, and Gray, who commanded, +with a considerable troop, entered the town, and surrounded Sir +James Turner's lodging. Though it was between eight and nine +o'clock, that worthy, being unwell, was still in bed, but rose at +once and went to the window. + +Neilson and some others cried, 'You may have fair quarter.' + +'I need no quarter,' replied Sir James; 'nor can I be a prisoner, +seeing there is no war declared.' On being told, however, that he +must either be a prisoner or die, he came down, and went into the +street in his night-shirt. Here Gray showed himself very desirous +of killing him, but he was overruled by Corsack. However, he was +taken away a prisoner, Captain Gray mounting him on his own horse, +though, as Turner naively remarks, 'there was good reason for it, +for he mounted himself on a farre better one of mine.' A large +coffer containing his clothes and money, together with all his +papers, were taken away by the rebels. They robbed Master +Chalmers, the Episcopalian minister of Dumfries, of his horse, +drank the King's health at the market cross, and then left +Dumfries. {3c} + + + +CHAPTER III--THE MARCH OF THE REBELS + + + +'Stay, passenger, take notice what thou reads, +At Edinburgh lie our bodies, here our heads; +Our right hands stood at Lanark, these we want, +Because with them we signed the Covenant.' +Epitaph on a Tombstone at Hamilton. {4a} + + +On Friday the 16th, Bailie Irvine of Dumfries came to the Council +at Edinburgh, and gave information concerning this 'horrid +rebellion.' In the absence of Rothes, Sharpe presided--much to the +wrath of some members; and as he imagined his own safety +endangered, his measures were most energetic. Dalzell was ordered +away to the West, the guards round the city were doubled, officers +and soldiers were forced to take the oath of allegiance, and all +lodgers were commanded to give in their names. Sharpe, surrounded +with all these guards and precautions, trembled--trembled as he +trembled when the avengers of blood drew him from his chariot on +Magus Muir,--for he knew how he had sold his trust, how he had +betrayed his charge, and he felt that against him must their +chiefest hatred be directed, against him their direst thunder-bolts +be forged. But even in his fear the apostate Presbyterian was +unrelenting, unpityingly harsh; he published in his manifesto no +promise of pardon, no inducement to submission. He said, 'If you +submit not you must die,' but never added, 'If you submit you may +live!' {4b} + +Meantime the insurgents proceeded on their way. At Carsphairn they +were deserted by Captain Gray, who, doubtless in a fit of oblivion, +neglected to leave behind him the coffer containing Sir James's +money. Who he was is a mystery, unsolved by any historian; his +papers were evidently forgeries--that, and his final flight, appear +to indicate that he was an agent of the Royalists, for either the +King or the Duke of York was heard to say, 'That, if he might have +his wish, he would have them all turn rebels and go to arms.' {4c} + +Upon the 18th day of the month they left Carsphairn and marched +onwards. + +Turner was always lodged by his captors at a good inn, frequently +at the best of which their halting-place could boast. Here many +visits were paid to him by the ministers and officers of the +insurgent force. In his description of these interviews he +displays a vein of satiric severity, admitting any kindness that +was done to him with some qualifying souvenir of former harshness, +and gloating over any injury, mistake, or folly, which it was his +chance to suffer or to hear. He appears, notwithstanding all this, +to have been on pretty good terms with his cruel 'phanaticks,' as +the following extract sufficiently proves: + +'Most of the foot were lodged about the church or churchyard, and +order given to ring bells next morning for a sermon to be preached +by Mr. Welch. Maxwell of Morith, and Major M'Cullough invited me +to heare "that phanatick sermon" (for soe they merrilie called it). +They said that preaching might prove an effectual meane to turne +me, which they heartilie wished. I answered to them that I was +under guards, and that if they intended to heare that sermon, it +was probable I might likewise, for it was not like my guards wold +goe to church and leave me alone at my lodgeings. Bot to what they +said of my conversion, I said it wold be hard to turne a Turner. +Bot because I founde them in a merrie humour, I said, if I did not +come to heare Mr. Welch preach, then they might fine me in fortie +shillings Scots, which was double the suome of what I had exacted +from the phanatics.' {4d} + +This took place at Ochiltree, on the 22nd day of the month. The +following is recounted by this personage with malicious glee, and +certainly, if authentic, it is a sad proof of how chaff is mixed +with wheat, and how ignorant, almost impious, persons were engaged +in this movement; nevertheless we give it, for we wish to present +with impartiality all the alleged facts to the reader: + +'Towards the evening Mr. Robinsone and Mr. Crukshank gaue me a +visite; I called for some ale purposelie to heare one of them +blesse it. It fell Mr. Robinsone to seeke the blessing, who said +one of the most bombastick graces that ever I heard in my life. He +summoned God Allmightie very imperiouslie to be their secondarie +(for that was his language). "And if," said he, "thou wilt not be +our Secondarie, we will not fight for thee at all, for it is not +our cause bot thy cause; and if thou wilt not fight for our cause +and thy oune cause, then we are not obliged to fight for it. They +say," said he, "that Dukes, Earles, and Lords are coming with the +King's General against us, bot they shall be nothing bot a +threshing to us." This grace did more fullie satisfie me of the +folly and injustice of their cause, then the ale did quench my +thirst.' {4e} + +Frequently the rebels made a halt near some roadside alehouse, or +in some convenient park, where Colonel Wallace, who had now taken +the command, would review the horse and foot, during which time +Turner was sent either into the alehouse or round the shoulder of +the hill, to prevent him from seeing the disorders which were +likely to arise. He was, at last, on the 25th day of the month, +between Douglas and Lanark, permitted to behold their evolutions. +'I found their horse did consist of four hundreth and fortie, and +the foot of five hundreth and upwards. . . . The horsemen were +armed for most part with suord and pistoll, some onlie with suord. +The foot with musket, pike, sith (scythe), forke, and suord; and +some with suords great and long.' He admired much the proficiency +of their cavalry, and marvelled how they had attained to it in so +short a time. {4f} + +At Douglas, which they had just left on the morning of this great +wapinshaw, they were charged--awful picture of depravity!--with the +theft of a silver spoon and a nightgown. Could it be expected that +while the whole country swarmed with robbers of every description, +such a rare opportunity for plunder should be lost by rogues--that +among a thousand men, even though fighting for religion, there +should not be one Achan in the camp? At Lanark a declaration was +drawn up and signed by the chief rebels. In it occurs the +following: + +'The just sense whereof '--the sufferings of the country--'made us +choose, rather to betake ourselves to the fields for self-defence, +than to stay at home, burdened daily with the calamities of others, +and tortured with the fears of our own approaching misery.' {4g} + +The whole body, too, swore the Covenant, to which ceremony the +epitaph at the head of this chapter seems to refer. + +A report that Dalzell was approaching drove them from Lanark to +Bathgate, where, on the evening of Monday the 26th, the wearied +army stopped. But at twelve o'clock the cry, which served them for +a trumpet, of 'Horse! horse!' and 'Mount the prisoner!' resounded +through the night-shrouded town, and called the peasants from their +well-earned rest to toil onwards in their march. The wind howled +fiercely over the moorland; a close, thick, wetting rain descended. +Chilled to the bone, worn out with long fatigue, sinking to the +knees in mire, onward they marched to destruction. One by one the +weary peasants fell off from their ranks to sleep, and die in the +rain-soaked moor, or to seek some house by the wayside wherein to +hide till daybreak. One by one at first, then in gradually +increasing numbers, at every shelter that was seen, whole troops +left the waning squadrons, and rushed to hide themselves from the +ferocity of the tempest. To right and left nought could be +descried but the broad expanse of the moor, and the figures of +their fellow-rebels, seen dimly through the murky night, plodding +onwards through the sinking moss. Those who kept together--a +miserable few--often halted to rest themselves, and to allow their +lagging comrades to overtake them. Then onward they went again, +still hoping for assistance, reinforcement, and supplies; onward +again, through the wind, and the rain, and the darkness--onward to +their defeat at Pentland, and their scaffold at Edinburgh. It was +calculated that they lost one half of their army on that disastrous +night-march. + +Next night they reached the village of Colinton, four miles from +Edinburgh, where they halted for the last time. {4h} + + + +CHAPTER IV--RULLION GREEN + + + +'From Covenanters with uplifted hands, +From Remonstrators with associate bands, +Good Lord, deliver us!' +Royalist Rhyme, KIRKTON, p. 127. + + +Late on the fourth night of November, exactly twenty-four days +before Rullion Green, Richard and George Chaplain, merchants in +Haddington, beheld four men, clad like West-country Whigamores, +standing round some object on the ground. It was at the two-mile +cross, and within that distance from their homes. At last, to +their horror, they discovered that the recumbent figure was a livid +corpse, swathed in a blood-stained winding-sheet. {5a} Many +thought that this apparition was a portent of the deaths connected +with the Pentland Rising. + +On the morning of Wednesday, the 28th of November 1666, they left +Colinton and marched to Rullion Green. There they arrived about +sunset. The position was a strong one. On the summit of a bare, +heathery spur of the Pentlands are two hillocks, and between them +lies a narrow band of flat marshy ground. On the highest of the +two mounds--that nearest the Pentlands, and on the left hand of the +main body--was the greater part of the cavalry, under Major +Learmont; on the other Barscob and the Galloway gentlemen; and in +the centre Colonel Wallace and the weak, half-armed infantry. +Their position was further strengthened by the depth of the valley +below, and the deep chasm-like course of the Rullion Burn. + +The sun, going down behind the Pentlands, cast golden lights and +blue shadows on their snow-clad summits, slanted obliquely into the +rich plain before them, bathing with rosy splendour the leafless, +snow-sprinkled trees, and fading gradually into shadow in the +distance. To the south, too, they beheld a deep-shaded +amphitheatre of heather and bracken; the course of the Esk, near +Penicuik, winding about at the foot of its gorge; the broad, brown +expanse of Maw Moss; and, fading into blue indistinctness in the +south, the wild heath-clad Peeblesshire hills. In sooth, that +scene was fair, and many a yearning glance was cast over that +peaceful evening scene from the spot where the rebels awaited their +defeat; and when the fight was over, many a noble fellow lifted his +head from the blood-stained heather to strive with darkening +eyeballs to behold that landscape, over which, as over his life and +his cause, the shadows of night and of gloom were falling and +thickening. + +It was while waiting on this spot that the fear-inspiring cry was +raised: 'The enemy! Here come the enemy!' + +Unwilling to believe their own doom--for our insurgents still hoped +for success in some negotiations for peace which had been carried +on at Colinton--they called out, 'They are some of our own.' + +'They are too blacke ' (i.e. numerous), 'fie! fie! for ground to +draw up on,' cried Wallace, fully realising the want of space for +his men, and proving that it was not till after this time that his +forces were finally arranged. {5b} + +First of all the battle was commenced by fifty Royalist horse sent +obliquely across the hill to attack the left wing of the rebels. +An equal number of Learmont's men met them, and, after a struggle, +drove them back. The course of the Rullion Burn prevented almost +all pursuit, and Wallace, on perceiving it, dispatched a body of +foot to occupy both the burn and some ruined sheep-walls on the +farther side. + +Dalzell changed his position, and drew up his army at the foot of +the hill, on the top of which were his foes. He then dispatched a +mingled body of infantry and cavalry to attack Wallace's outpost, +but they also were driven back. A third charge produced a still +more disastrous effect, for Dalzell had to check the pursuit of his +men by a reinforcement. + +These repeated checks bred a panic in the Lieutenant-General's +ranks, for several of his men flung down their arms. Urged by such +fatal symptoms, and by the approaching night, he deployed his men, +and closed in overwhelming numbers on the centre and right flank of +the insurgent army. In the increasing twilight the burning matches +of the firelocks, shimmering on barrel, halbert, and cuirass, lent +to the approaching army a picturesque effect, like a huge, many- +armed giant breathing flame into the darkness. + +Placed on an overhanging hill, Welch and Semple cried aloud, 'The +God of Jacob! The God of Jacob!' and prayed with uplifted hands for +victory. {5c} + +But still the Royalist troops closed in. + +Captain John Paton was observed by Dalzell, who determined to +capture him with his own hands. Accordingly he charged forward, +presenting his pistols. Paton fired, but the balls hopped off +Dalzell's buff coat and fell into his boot. With the superstition +peculiar to his age, the Nonconformist concluded that his adversary +was rendered bullet-proof by enchantment, and, pulling some small +silver coins from his pocket, charged his pistol therewith. +Dalzell, seeing this, and supposing, it is likely, that Paton was +putting in larger balls, hid behind his servant, who was killed. +{5d} + +Meantime the outposts were forced, and the army of Wallace was +enveloped in the embrace of a hideous boa-constrictor--tightening, +closing, crushing every semblance of life from the victim enclosed +in his toils. The flanking parties of horse were forced in upon +the centre, and though, as even Turner grants, they fought with +desperation, a general flight was the result. + +But when they fell there was none to sing their coronach or wail +the death-wail over them. Those who sacrificed themselves for the +peace, the liberty, and the religion of their fellow-countrymen, +lay bleaching in the field of death for long, and when at last they +were buried by charity, the peasants dug up their bodies, +desecrated their graves, and cast them once more upon the open +heath for the sorry value of their winding-sheets! + + +Inscription on stone at Rullion Green: + + +HERE +AND NEAR TO +THIS PLACE LYES THE +REVEREND MR JOHN CROOKSHANK +AND MR ANDREW MCCORMICK +MINISTERS OF THE GOSPEL AND +ABOUT FIFTY OTHER TRUE COVENANTED +PRESBYTERIANS WHO WERE +KILLED IN THIS PLACE IN THEIR OWN +INOCENT SELF DEFENCE AND DEFFENCE +OF THE COVENANTED WORK OF +REFORMATION BY THOMAS DALZEEL OF BINS +UPON THE 28 OF NOVEMBER +1666. REV. 12. 11. ERECTED +SEPT. 28 1738. + + +Back of stone: + + +A Cloud of Witnesses lyes here, +Who for Christ's Interest did appear, +For to restore true Liberty, +O'erturned then by tyranny. +And by proud Prelats who did Rage +Against the Lord's Own heritage. +They sacrificed were for the laws +Of Christ their king, his noble cause. +These heroes fought with great renown; +By falling got the Martyr's crown. {5e} + + + +CHAPTER V--A RECORD OF BLOOD + + + +'They cut his hands ere he was dead, +And after that struck of his head. +His blood under the altar cries +For vengeance on Christ's enemies.' +Epitaph on Tomb at Longcross of Clermont. {6a} + + +Master Andrew Murray, an outed minister, residing in the Potterrow, +on the morning after the defeat, heard the sounds of cheering and +the march of many feet beneath his window. He gazed out. With +colours flying, and with music sounding, Dalzell, victorious, +entered Edinburgh. But his banners were dyed in blood, and a band +of prisoners were marched within his ranks. The old man knew it +all. That martial and triumphant strain was the death-knell of his +friends and of their cause, the rust-hued spots upon the flags were +the tokens of their courage and their death, and the prisoners were +the miserable remnant spared from death in battle to die upon the +scaffold. Poor old man! he had outlived all joy. Had he lived +longer he would have seen increasing torment and increasing woe; he +would have seen the clouds, then but gathering in mist, cast a more +than midnight darkness over his native hills, and have fallen a +victim to those bloody persecutions which, later, sent their red +memorials to the sea by many a burn. By a merciful Providence all +this was spared to him--he fell beneath the first blow; and ere +four days had passed since Rullion Green, the aged minister of God +was gathered to is fathers. {6b} + +When Sharpe first heard of the rebellion, he applied to Sir +Alexander Ramsay, the Provost, for soldiers to guard his house. +Disliking their occupation, the soldiers gave him an ugly time of +it. All the night through they kept up a continuous series of +'alarms and incursions,' 'cries of "Stand!" "Give fire!"' etc., +which forced the prelate to flee to the Castle in the morning, +hoping there to find the rest which was denied him at home. {6c} +Now, however, when all danger to himself was past, Sharpe came out +in his true colours, and scant was the justice likely to be shown +to the foes of Scottish Episcopacy when the Primate was by. The +prisoners were lodged in Haddo's Hole, a part of St. Giles' +Cathedral, where, by the kindness of Bishop Wishart, to his credit +be it spoken, they were amply supplied with food. {6d} + +Some people urged, in the Council, that the promise of quarter +which had been given on the field of battle should protect the +lives of the miserable men. Sir John Gilmoure, the greatest +lawyer, gave no opinion--certainly a suggestive circumstance--but +Lord Lee declared that this would not interfere with their legal +trial, 'so to bloody executions they went.' {6e} To the number of +thirty they were condemned and executed; while two of them, Hugh +M'Kail, a young minister, and Neilson of Corsack, were tortured +with the boots. + +The goods of those who perished were confiscated, and their bodies +were dismembered and distributed to different parts of the country; +'the heads of Major M'Culloch and the two Gordons,' it was +resolved, says Kirkton, 'should be pitched on the gate of +Kirkcudbright; the two Hamiltons and Strong's head should be +affixed at Hamilton, and Captain Arnot's sett on the Watter Gate at +Edinburgh. The armes of all the ten, because they hade with +uplifted hands renewed the Covenant at Lanark, were sent to the +people of that town to expiate that crime, by placing these arms on +the top of the prison.' {6f} Among these was John Neilson, the +Laird of Corsack, who saved Turner's life at Dumfries; in return +for which service Sir James attempted, though without success, to +get the poor man reprieved. One of the condemned died of his +wounds between the day of condemnation and the day of execution. ' +None of them,' says Kirkton, 'would save their life by taking the +declaration and renouncing the Covenant, though it was offered to +them. . . . But never men died in Scotland so much lamented by the +people, not only spectators, but those in the country. When +Knockbreck and his brother were turned over, they clasped each +other in their armes, and so endured the pangs of death. When +Humphrey Colquhoun died, he spoke not like an ordinary citizen, but +like a heavenly minister, relating his comfortable Christian +experiences, and called for his Bible, and laid it on his wounded +arm, and read John iii. 8, and spoke upon it to the admiration of +all. But most of all, when Mr. M'Kail died, there was such a +lamentation as was never known in Scotland before; not one dry +cheek upon all the street, or in all the numberless windows in the +mercate place.' {6g} + +The following passage from this speech speaks for itself and its +author: + +'Hereafter I will not talk with flesh and blood, nor think on the +world's consolations. Farewell to all my friends, whose company +hath been refreshful to me in my pilgrimage. I have done with the +light of the sun and the moon; welcome eternal light, eternal life, +everlasting love, everlasting praise, everlasting glory. Praise to +Him that sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb for ever! Bless the +Lord, O my soul, that hath pardoned all my iniquities in the blood +of His Son, and healed all my diseases. Bless Him, O all ye His +angels that excel in strength, ye ministers of His that do His +pleasure. Bless the Lord, O my soul!' {6h} + +After having ascended the gallows ladder he again broke forth in +the following words of touching eloquence: 'And now I leave off to +speak any more to creatures, and begin my intercourse with God, +which shall never be broken off. Farewell father and mother, +friends and relations! Farewell the world and all delights! +Farewell meat and drink! Farewell sun, moon, and stars!--Welcome +God and Father! Welcome sweet Jesus Christ, the Mediator of the +new covenant! Welcome blessed Spirit of grace and God of all +consolation! Welcome glory! Welcome eternal life! Welcome +Death!' {6i} + +At Glasgow, too, where some were executed, they caused the soldiers +to beat the drums and blow the trumpets on their closing ears. +Hideous refinement of revenge! Even the last words which drop from +the lips of a dying man--words surely the most sincere and the most +unbiassed which mortal mouth can utter--even these were looked upon +as poisoned and as poisonous. 'Drown their last accents,' was the +cry, 'lest they should lead the crowd to take their part, or at the +least to mourn their doom!' {6j} But, after all, perhaps it was +more merciful than one would think--unintentionally so, of course; +perhaps the storm of harsh and fiercely jubilant noises, the +clanging of trumpets, the rattling of drums, and the hootings and +jeerings of an unfeeling mob, which were the last they heard on +earth, might, when the mortal fight was over, when the river of +death was passed, add tenfold sweetness to the hymning of the +angels, tenfold peacefulness to the shores which they had reached. + +Not content with the cruelty of these executions, some even of the +peasantry, though these were confined to the shire of Mid-Lothian, +pursued, captured, plundered, and murdered the miserable fugitives +who fell in their way. One strange story have we of these times of +blood and persecution: Kirkton the historian and popular tradition +tell us alike of a flame which often would arise from the grave, in +a moss near Carnwath, of some of those poor rebels: of how it +crept along the ground; of how it covered the house of their +murderer; and of how it scared him with its lurid glare. + +Hear Daniel Defoe: {6k} + +'If the poor people were by these insupportable violences made +desperate, and driven to all the extremities of a wild despair, who +can justly reflect on them when they read in the Word of God "That +oppression makes a wise man mad"? And therefore were there no +other original of the insurrection known by the name of the Rising +of Pentland, it was nothing but what the intolerable oppressions of +those times might have justified to all the world, nature having +dictated to all people a right of defence when illegally and +arbitrarily attacked in a manner not justifiable either by laws of +nature, the laws of God, or the laws of the country.' + +Bear this remonstrance of Defoe's in mind, and though it is the +fashion of the day to jeer and to mock, to execrate and to contemn, +the noble band of Covenanters--though the bitter laugh at their +old-world religious views, the curl of the lip at their merits, and +the chilling silence on their bravery and their determination, are +but too rife through all society--be charitable to what was evil +and honest to what was good about the Pentland insurgents, who +fought for life and liberty, for country and religion, on the 28th +of November 1666, now just two hundred years ago. + + +EDINBURGH, 28th November 1866. + + + + +THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW + + + +History is much decried; it is a tissue of errors, we are told, no +doubt correctly; and rival historians expose each other's blunders +with gratification. Yet the worst historian has a clearer view of +the period he studies than the best of us can hope to form of that +in which we live. The obscurest epoch is to-day; and that for a +thousand reasons of inchoate tendency, conflicting report, and +sheer mass and multiplicity of experience; but chiefly, perhaps, by +reason of an insidious shifting of landmarks. Parties and ideas +continually move, but not by measurable marches on a stable course; +the political soil itself steals forth by imperceptible degrees, +like a travelling glacier, carrying on its bosom not only political +parties but their flag-posts and cantonments; so that what appears +to be an eternal city founded on hills is but a flying island of +Laputa. It is for this reason in particular that we are all +becoming Socialists without knowing it; by which I would not in the +least refer to the acute case of Mr. Hyndman and his horn-blowing +supporters, sounding their trumps of a Sunday within the walls of +our individualist Jericho--but to the stealthy change that has come +over the spirit of Englishmen and English legislation. A little +while ago, and we were still for liberty; 'crowd a few more +thousands on the bench of Government,' we seemed to cry; 'keep her +head direct on liberty, and we cannot help but come to port.' This +is over; laisser faire declines in favour; our legislation grows +authoritative, grows philanthropical, bristles with new duties and +new penalties, and casts a spawn of inspectors, who now begin, +note-book in hand, to darken the face of England. It may be right +or wrong, we are not trying that; but one thing it is beyond doubt: +it is Socialism in action, and the strange thing is that we +scarcely know it. + +Liberty has served us a long while, and it may be time to seek new +altars. Like all other principles, she has been proved to be self- +exclusive in the long run. She has taken wages besides (like all +other virtues) and dutifully served Mammon; so that many things we +were accustomed to admire as the benefits of freedom and common to +all were truly benefits of wealth, and took their value from our +neighbours' poverty. A few shocks of logic, a few disclosures (in +the journalistic phrase) of what the freedom of manufacturers, +landlords, or shipowners may imply for operatives, tenants, or +seamen, and we not unnaturally begin to turn to that other pole of +hope, beneficent tyranny. Freedom, to be desirable, involves +kindness, wisdom, and all the virtues of the free; but the free man +as we have seen him in action has been, as of yore, only the master +of many helots; and the slaves are still ill-fed, ill-clad, ill- +taught, ill-housed, insolently treated, and driven to their mines +and workshops by the lash of famine. So much, in other men's +affairs, we have begun to see clearly; we have begun to despair of +virtue in these other men, and from our seat in Parliament begin to +discharge upon them, thick as arrows, the host of our inspectors. +The landlord has long shaken his head over the manufacturer; those +who do business on land have lost all trust in the virtues of the +shipowner; the professions look askance upon the retail traders and +have even started their co-operative stores to ruin them; and from +out the smoke-wreaths of Birmingham a finger has begun to write +upon the wall the condemnation of the landlord. Thus, piece by +piece, do we condemn each other, and yet not perceive the +conclusion, that our whole estate is somewhat damnable. Thus, +piece by piece, each acting against his neighbour, each sawing away +the branch on which some other interest is seated, do we apply in +detail our Socialistic remedies, and yet not perceive that we are +all labouring together to bring in Socialism at large. A tendency +so stupid and so selfish is like to prove invincible; and if +Socialism be at all a practicable rule of life, there is every +chance that our grand-children will see the day and taste the +pleasures of existence in something far liker an ant-heap than any +previous human polity. And this not in the least because of the +voice of Mr. Hyndman or the horns of his followers; but by the mere +glacier movement of the political soil, bearing forward on its +bosom, apparently undisturbed, the proud camps of Whig and Tory. +If Mr. Hyndman were a man of keen humour, which is far from my +conception of his character, he might rest from his troubling and +look on: the walls of Jericho begin already to crumble and +dissolve. That great servile war, the Armageddon of money and +numbers, to which we looked forward when young, becomes more and +more unlikely; and we may rather look to see a peaceable and +blindfold evolution, the work of dull men immersed in political +tactics and dead to political results. + +The principal scene of this comedy lies, of course, in the House of +Commons; it is there, besides, that the details of this new +evolution (if it proceed) will fall to be decided; so that the +state of Parliament is not only diagnostic of the present but +fatefully prophetic of the future. Well, we all know what +Parliament is, and we are all ashamed of it. We may pardon it some +faults, indeed, on the ground of Irish obstruction--a bitter trial, +which it supports with notable good humour. But the excuse is +merely local; it cannot apply to similar bodies in America and +France; and what are we to say of these? President Cleveland's +letter may serve as a picture of the one; a glance at almost any +paper will convince us of the weakness of the other. Decay appears +to have seized on the organ of popular government in every land; +and this just at the moment when we begin to bring to it, as to an +oracle of justice, the whole skein of our private affairs to be +unravelled, and ask it, like a new Messiah, to take upon itself our +frailties and play for us the part that should be played by our own +virtues. For that, in few words, is the case. We cannot trust +ourselves to behave with decency; we cannot trust our consciences; +and the remedy proposed is to elect a round number of our +neighbours, pretty much at random, and say to these: 'Be ye our +conscience; make laws so wise, and continue from year to year to +administer them so wisely, that they shall save us from ourselves +and make us righteous and happy, world without end. Amen.' And +who can look twice at the British Parliament and then seriously +bring it such a task? I am not advancing this as an argument +against Socialism: once again, nothing is further from my mind. +There are great truths in Socialism, or no one, not even Mr. +Hyndman, would be found to hold it; and if it came, and did one- +tenth part of what it offers, I for one should make it welcome. +But if it is to come, we may as well have some notion of what it +will be like; and the first thing to grasp is that our new polity +will be designed and administered (to put it courteously) with +something short of inspiration. It will be made, or will grow, in +a human parliament; and the one thing that will not very hugely +change is human nature. The Anarchists think otherwise, from which +it is only plain that they have not carried to the study of history +the lamp of human sympathy. + +Given, then, our new polity, with its new waggon-load of laws, what +headmarks must we look for in the life? We chafe a good deal at +that excellent thing, the income-tax, because it brings into our +affairs the prying fingers, and exposes us to the tart words, of +the official. The official, in all degrees, is already something +of a terror to many of us. I would not willingly have to do with +even a police-constable in any other spirit than that of kindness. +I still remember in my dreams the eye-glass of a certain attache at +a certain embassy--an eyeglass that was a standing indignity to all +on whom it looked; and my next most disagreeable remembrance is of +a bracing, Republican postman in the city of San Francisco. I +lived in that city among working folk, and what my neighbours +accepted at the postman's hands--nay, what I took from him myself-- +it is still distasteful to recall. The bourgeois, residing in the +upper parts of society, has but few opportunities of tasting this +peculiar bowl; but about the income-tax, as I have said, or perhaps +about a patent, or in the halls of an embassy at the hands of my +friend of the eye-glass, he occasionally sets his lips to it; and +he may thus imagine (if he has that faculty of imagination, without +which most faculties are void) how it tastes to his poorer +neighbours, who must drain it to the dregs. In every contact with +authority, with their employer, with the police, with the School +Board officer, in the hospital, or in the workhouse, they have +equally the occasion to appreciate the light-hearted civility of +the man in office; and as an experimentalist in several out-of-the- +way provinces of life, I may say it has but to be felt to be +appreciated. Well, this golden age of which we are speaking will +be the golden age of officials. In all our concerns it will be +their beloved duty to meddle, with what tact, with what obliging +words, analogy will aid us to imagine. It is likely these +gentlemen will be periodically elected; they will therefore have +their turn of being underneath, which does not always sweeten men's +conditions. The laws they will have to administer will be no +clearer than those we know to-day, and the body which is to +regulate their administration no wiser than the British Parliament. +So that upon all hands we may look for a form of servitude most +galling to the blood--servitude to many and changing masters, and +for all the slights that accompany the rule of jack-in-office. And +if the Socialistic programme be carried out with the least fulness, +we shall have lost a thing, in most respects not much to be +regretted, but as a moderator of oppression, a thing nearly +invaluable--the newspaper. For the independent journal is a +creature of capital and competition; it stands and falls with +millionaires and railway bonds and all the abuses and glories of +to-day; and as soon as the State has fairly taken its bent to +authority and philanthropy, and laid the least touch on private +property, the days of the independent journal are numbered. State +railways may be good things and so may State bakeries; but a State +newspaper will never be a very trenchant critic of the State +officials. + +But again, these officials would have no sinecure. Crime would +perhaps be less, for some of the motives of crime we may suppose +would pass away. But if Socialism were carried out with any +fulness, there would be more contraventions. We see already new +sins ringing up like mustard--School Board sins, factory sins, +Merchant Shipping Act sins--none of which I would be thought to +except against in particular, but all of which, taken together, +show us that Socialism can be a hard master even in the beginning. +If it go on to such heights as we hear proposed and lauded, if it +come actually to its ideal of the ant-heap, ruled with iron +justice, the number of new contraventions will be out of all +proportion multiplied. Take the case of work alone. Man is an +idle animal. He is at least as intelligent as the ant; but +generations of advisers have in vain recommended him the ant's +example. Of those who are found truly indefatigable in business, +some are misers; some are the practisers of delightful industries, +like gardening; some are students, artists, inventors, or +discoverers, men lured forward by successive hopes; and the rest +are those who live by games of skill or hazard--financiers, +billiard-players, gamblers, and the like. But in unloved toils, +even under the prick of necessity, no man is continually sedulous. +Once eliminate the fear of starvation, once eliminate or bound the +hope of riches, and we shall see plenty of skulking and +malingering. Society will then be something not wholly unlike a +cotton plantation in the old days; with cheerful, careless, +demoralised slaves, with elected overseers, and, instead of the +planter, a chaotic popular assembly. If the blood be purposeful +and the soil strong, such a plantation may succeed, and be, indeed, +a busy ant-heap, with full granaries and long hours of leisure. +But even then I think the whip will be in the overseer's hands, and +not in vain. For, when it comes to be a question of each man doing +his own share or the rest doing more, prettiness of sentiment will +be forgotten. To dock the skulker's food is not enough; many will +rather eat haws and starve on petty pilferings than put their +shoulder to the wheel for one hour daily. For such as these, then, +the whip will be in the overseer's hand; and his own sense of +justice and the superintendence of a chaotic popular assembly will +be the only checks on its employment. Now, you may be an +industrious man and a good citizen, and yet not love, nor yet be +loved by, Dr. Fell the inspector. It is admitted by private +soldiers that the disfavour of a sergeant is an evil not to be +combated; offend the sergeant, they say, and in a brief while you +will either be disgraced or have deserted. And the sergeant can no +longer appeal to the lash. But if these things go on, we shall +see, or our sons shall see, what it is to have offended an +inspector. + +This for the unfortunate. But with the fortunate also, even those +whom the inspector loves, it may not be altogether well. It is +concluded that in such a state of society, supposing it to be +financially sound, the level of comfort will be high. It does not +follow: there are strange depths of idleness in man, a too-easily- +got sufficiency, as in the case of the sago-eaters, often quenching +the desire for all besides; and it is possible that the men of the +richest ant-heaps may sink even into squalor. But suppose they do +not; suppose our tricksy instrument of human nature, when we play +upon it this new tune, should respond kindly; suppose no one to be +damped and none exasperated by the new conditions, the whole +enterprise to be financially sound--a vaulting supposition--and all +the inhabitants to dwell together in a golden mean of comfort: we +have yet to ask ourselves if this be what man desire, or if it be +what man will even deign to accept for a continuance. It is +certain that man loves to eat, it is not certain that he loves that +only or that best. He is supposed to love comfort; it is not a +love, at least, that he is faithful to. He is supposed to love +happiness; it is my contention that he rather loves excitement. +Danger, enterprise, hope, the novel, the aleatory, are dearer to +man than regular meals. He does not think so when he is hungry, +but he thinks so again as soon as he is fed; and on the hypothesis +of a successful ant-heap, he would never go hungry. It would be +always after dinner in that society, as, in the land of the Lotos- +eaters, it was always afternoon; and food, which, when we have it +not, seems all-important, drops in our esteem, as soon as we have +it, to a mere prerequisite of living. + +That for which man lives is not the same thing for all individuals +nor in all ages; yet it has a common base; what he seeks and what +he must have is that which will seize and hold his attention. +Regular meals and weatherproof lodgings will not do this long. +Play in its wide sense, as the artificial induction of sensation, +including all games and all arts, will, indeed, go far to keep him +conscious of himself; but in the end he wearies for realities. +Study or experiment, to some rare natures, is the unbroken pastime +of a life. These are enviable natures; people shut in the house by +sickness often bitterly envy them; but the commoner man cannot +continue to exist upon such altitudes: his feet itch for physical +adventure; his blood boils for physical dangers, pleasures, and +triumphs; his fancy, the looker after new things, cannot continue +to look for them in books and crucibles, but must seek them on the +breathing stage of life. Pinches, buffets, the glow of hope, the +shock of disappointment, furious contention with obstacles: these +are the true elixir for all vital spirits, these are what they seek +alike in their romantic enterprises and their unromantic +dissipations. When they are taken in some pinch closer than the +common, they cry, 'Catch me here again!' and sure enough you catch +them there again--perhaps before the week is out. It is as old as +Robinson Crusoe; as old as man. Our race has not been strained for +all these ages through that sieve of dangers that we call Natural +Selection, to sit down with patience in the tedium of safety; the +voices of its fathers call it forth. Already in our society as it +exists, the bourgeois is too much cottoned about for any zest in +living; he sits in his parlour out of reach of any danger, often +out of reach of any vicissitude but one of health; and there he +yawns. If the people in the next villa took pot-shots at him, he +might be killed indeed, but so long as he escaped he would find his +blood oxygenated and his views of the world brighter. If Mr. +Mallock, on his way to the publishers, should have his skirts +pinned to a wall by a javelin, it would not occur to him--at least +for several hours--to ask if life were worth living; and if such +peril were a daily matter, he would ask it never more; he would +have other things to think about, he would be living indeed--not +lying in a box with cotton, safe, but immeasurably dull. The +aleatory, whether it touch life, or fortune, or renown--whether we +explore Africa or only toss for halfpence--that is what I conceive +men to love best, and that is what we are seeking to exclude from +men's existences. Of all forms of the aleatory, that which most +commonly attends our working men--the danger of misery from want of +work--is the least inspiriting: it does not whip the blood, it +does not evoke the glory of contest; it is tragic, but it is +passive; and yet, in so far as it is aleatory, and a peril sensibly +touching them, it does truly season the men's lives. Of those who +fail, I do not speak--despair should be sacred; but to those who +even modestly succeed, the changes of their life bring interest: a +job found, a shilling saved, a dainty earned, all these are wells +of pleasure springing afresh for the successful poor; and it is not +from these but from the villa-dweller that we hear complaints of +the unworthiness of life. Much, then, as the average of the +proletariat would gain in this new state of life, they would also +lose a certain something, which would not be missed in the +beginning, but would be missed progressively and progressively +lamented. Soon there would be a looking back: there would be +tales of the old world humming in young men's ears, tales of the +tramp and the pedlar, and the hopeful emigrant. And in the stall- +fed life of the successful ant-heap--with its regular meals, +regular duties, regular pleasures, an even course of life, and fear +excluded--the vicissitudes, delights, and havens of to-day will +seem of epic breadth. This may seem a shallow observation; but the +springs by which men are moved lie much on the surface. Bread, I +believe, has always been considered first, but the circus comes +close upon its heels. Bread we suppose to be given amply; the cry +for circuses will be the louder, and if the life of our descendants +be such as we have conceived, there are two beloved pleasures on +which they will be likely to fall back: the pleasures of intrigue +and of sedition. + +In all this I have supposed the ant-heap to be financially sound. +I am no economist, only a writer of fiction; but even as such, I +know one thing that bears on the economic question--I know the +imperfection of man's faculty for business. The Anarchists, who +count some rugged elements of common sense among what seem to me +their tragic errors, have said upon this matter all that I could +wish to say, and condemned beforehand great economical polities. +So far it is obvious that they are right; they may be right also in +predicting a period of communal independence, and they may even be +right in thinking that desirable. But the rise of communes is none +the less the end of economic equality, just when we were told it +was beginning. Communes will not be all equal in extent, nor in +quality of soil, nor in growth of population; nor will the surplus +produce of all be equally marketable. It will be the old story of +competing interests, only with a new unit; and, as it appears to +me, a new, inevitable danger. For the merchant and the +manufacturer, in this new world, will be a sovereign commune; it is +a sovereign power that will see its crops undersold, and its +manufactures worsted in the market. And all the more dangerous +that the sovereign power should be small. Great powers are slow to +stir; national affronts, even with the aid of newspapers, filter +slowly into popular consciousness; national losses are so unequally +shared, that one part of the population will be counting its gains +while another sits by a cold hearth. But in the sovereign commune +all will be centralised and sensitive. When jealousy springs up, +when (let us say) the commune of Poole has overreached the commune +of Dorchester, irritation will run like quicksilver throughout the +body politic; each man in Dorchester will have to suffer directly +in his diet and his dress; even the secretary, who drafts the +official correspondence, will sit down to his task embittered, as a +man who has dined ill and may expect to dine worse; and thus a +business difference between communes will take on much the same +colour as a dispute between diggers in the lawless West, and will +lead as directly to the arbitrament of blows. So that the +establishment of the communal system will not only reintroduce all +the injustices and heart-burnings of economic inequality, but will, +in all human likelihood, inaugurate a world of hedgerow warfare. +Dorchester will march on Poole, Sherborne on Dorchester, Wimborne +on both; the waggons will be fired on as they follow the highway, +the trains wrecked on the lines, the ploughman will go armed into +the field of tillage; and if we have not a return of ballad +literature, the local press at least will celebrate in a high vein +the victory of Cerne Abbas or the reverse of Toller Porcorum. At +least this will not be dull; when I was younger, I could have +welcomed such a world with relief; but it is the New-Old with a +vengeance, and irresistibly suggests the growth of military powers +and the foundation of new empires. + + + + +COLLEGE PAPERS + + + + +CHAPTER I--EDINBURGH STUDENTS IN 1824 + + + +On the 2nd of January 1824 was issued the prospectus of the Lapsus +Linguae; or, the College Tatler; and on the 7th the first number +appeared. On Friday the 2nd of April 'Mr. Tatler became +speechless.' Its history was not all one success; for the editor +(who applies to himself the words of Iago, 'I am nothing if I am +not critical') overstepped the bounds of caution, and found himself +seriously embroiled with the powers that were. There appeared in +No. XVI. a most bitter satire upon Sir John Leslie, in which he was +compared to Falstaff, charged with puffing himself, and very +prettily censured for publishing only the first volume of a class- +book, and making all purchasers pay for both. Sir John Leslie took +up the matter angrily, visited Carfrae the publisher, and +threatened him with an action, till he was forced to turn the +hapless Lapsus out of doors. The maltreated periodical found +shelter in the shop of Huie, Infirmary Street; and No. XVII. was +duly issued from the new office. No. XVII. beheld Mr. Tatler's +humiliation, in which, with fulsome apology and not very credible +assurances of respect and admiration, he disclaims the article in +question, and advertises a new issue of No. XVI. with all +objectionable matter omitted. This, with pleasing euphemism, he +terms in a later advertisement, 'a new and improved edition.' This +was the only remarkable adventure of Mr. Tatler's brief existence; +unless we consider as such a silly Chaldee manuscript in imitation +of Blackwood, and a letter of reproof from a divinity student on +the impiety of the same dull effusion. He laments the near +approach of his end in pathetic terms. 'How shall we summon up +sufficient courage,' says he, 'to look for the last time on our +beloved little devil and his inestimable proof-sheet? How shall we +be able to pass No. 14 Infirmary Street and feel that all its +attractions are over? How shall we bid farewell for ever to that +excellent man, with the long greatcoat, wooden leg and wooden +board, who acts as our representative at the gate of Alma Mater?' +But alas! he had no choice: Mr. Tatler, whose career, he says +himself, had been successful, passed peacefully away, and has ever +since dumbly implored 'the bringing home of bell and burial.' + +Alter et idem. A very different affair was the Lapsus Linguae from +the Edinburgh University Magazine. The two prospectuses alone, +laid side by side, would indicate the march of luxury and the +repeal of the paper duty. The penny bi-weekly broadside of session +1828-4 was almost wholly dedicated to Momus. Epigrams, pointless +letters, amorous verses, and University grievances are the +continual burthen of the song. But Mr. Tatler was not without a +vein of hearty humour; and his pages afford what is much better: +to wit, a good picture of student life as it then was. The +students of those polite days insisted on retaining their hats in +the class-room. There was a cab-stance in front of the College; +and 'Carriage Entrance' was posted above the main arch, on what the +writer pleases to call 'coarse, unclassic boards.' The benches of +the 'Speculative' then, as now, were red; but all other Societies +(the 'Dialectic' is the only survivor) met downstairs, in some +rooms of which it is pointedly said that 'nothing else could +conveniently be made of them.' However horrible these dungeons may +have been, it is certain that they were paid for, and that far too +heavily for the taste of session 1823-4, which found enough calls +upon its purse for porter and toasted cheese at Ambrose's, or +cranberry tarts and ginger-wine at Doull's. Duelling was still a +possibility; so much so that when two medicals fell to fisticuffs +in Adam Square, it was seriously hinted that single combat would be +the result. Last and most wonderful of all, Gall and Spurzheim +were in every one's mouth; and the Law student, after having +exhausted Byron's poetry and Scott's novels, informed the ladies of +his belief in phrenology. In the present day he would dilate on +'Red as a rose is she,' and then mention that he attends Old +Greyfriars', as a tacit claim to intellectual superiority. I do +not know that the advance is much. + +But Mr. Tatler's best performances were three short papers in which +he hit off pretty smartly the idiosyncrasies of the 'Divinity,' the +'Medical,' and the 'Law' of session 1823-4. The fact that there +was no notice of the 'Arts' seems to suggest that they stood in the +same intermediate position as they do now--the epitome of student- +kind. Mr. Tatler's satire is, on the whole, good-humoured, and has +not grown superannuated in ALL its limbs. His descriptions may +limp at some points, but there are certain broad traits that apply +equally well to session 1870-1. He shows us the DIVINITY of the +period--tall, pale, and slender--his collar greasy, and his coat +bare about the seams--'his white neckcloth serving four days, and +regularly turned the third'--'the rim of his hat deficient in +wool'--and 'a weighty volume of theology under his arm.' He was +the man to buy cheap 'a snuff-box, or a dozen of pencils, or a six- +bladed knife, or a quarter of a hundred quills,' at any of the +public sale-rooms. He was noted for cheap purchases, and for +exceeding the legal tender in halfpence. He haunted 'the darkest +and remotest corner of the Theatre Gallery.' He was to be seen +issuing from 'aerial lodging-houses.' Withal, says mine author, +'there were many good points about him: he paid his landlady's +bill, read his Bible, went twice to church on Sunday, seldom swore, +was not often tipsy, and bought the Lapsus Linguae.' + +The MEDICAL, again, 'wore a white greatcoat, and consequently +talked loud'--(there is something very delicious in that +CONSEQUENTLY). He wore his hat on one side. He was active, +volatile, and went to the top of Arthur's Seat on the Sunday +forenoon. He was as quiet in a debating society as he was loud in +the streets. He was reckless and imprudent: yesterday he insisted +on your sharing a bottle of claret with him (and claret was claret +then, before the cheap-and-nasty treaty), and to-morrow he asks you +for the loan of a penny to buy the last number of the Lapsus. + +The student of LAW, again, was a learned man. 'He had turned over +the leaves of Justinian's Institutes, and knew that they were +written in Latin. He was well acquainted with the title-page of +Blackstone's Commentaries, and argal (as the gravedigger in Hamlet +says) he was not a person to be laughed at.' He attended the +Parliament House in the character of a critic, and could give you +stale sneers at all the celebrated speakers. He was the terror of +essayists at the Speculative or the Forensic. In social qualities +he seems to have stood unrivalled. Even in the police-office we +find him shining with undiminished lustre. 'If a CHARLIE should +find him rather noisy at an untimely hour, and venture to take him +into custody, he appears next morning like a Daniel come to +judgment. He opens his mouth to speak, and the divine precepts of +unchanging justice and Scots law flow from his tongue. The +magistrate listens in amazement, and fines him only a couple of +guineas.' + +Such then were our predecessors and their College Magazine. +Barclay, Ambrose, Young Amos, and Fergusson were to them what the +Cafe, the Rainbow, and Rutherford's are to us. An hour's reading +in these old pages absolutely confuses us, there is so much that is +similar and so much that is different; the follies and amusements +are so like our own, and the manner of frolicking and enjoying are +so changed, that one pauses and looks about him in philosophic +judgment. The muddy quadrangle is thick with living students; but +in our eyes it swarms also with the phantasmal white greatcoats and +tilted hats of 1824. Two races meet: races alike and diverse. +Two performances are played before our eyes; but the change seems +merely of impersonators, of scenery, of costume. Plot and passion +are the same. It is the fall of the spun shilling whether seventy- +one or twenty-four has the best of it. + +In a future number we hope to give a glance at the individualities +of the present, and see whether the cast shall be head or tail-- +whether we or the readers of the Lapsus stand higher in the +balance. + + + +CHAPTER II--THE MODERN STUDENT CONSIDERED GENERALLY + + + +We have now reached the difficult portion of our task. Mr. Tatler, +for all that we care, may have been as virulent as he liked about +the students of a former; but for the iron to touch our sacred +selves, for a brother of the Guild to betray its most privy +infirmities, let such a Judas look to himself as he passes on his +way to the Scots Law or the Diagnostic, below the solitary lamp at +the corner of the dark quadrangle. We confess that this idea +alarms us. We enter a protest. We bind ourselves over verbally to +keep the peace. We hope, moreover, that having thus made you +secret to our misgivings, you will excuse us if we be dull, and set +that down to caution which you might before have charged to the +account of stupidity. + +The natural tendency of civilisation is to obliterate those +distinctions which are the best salt of life. All the fine old +professional flavour in language has evaporated. Your very +gravedigger has forgotten his avocation in his electorship, and +would quibble on the Franchise over Ophelia's grave, instead of +more appropriately discussing the duration of bodies under ground. +From this tendency, from this gradual attrition of life, in which +everything pointed and characteristic is being rubbed down, till +the whole world begins to slip between our fingers in smooth +undistinguishable sands, from this, we say, it follows that we must +not attempt to join Mr. Taller in his simple division of students +into LAW, DIVINITY, and MEDICAL. Nowadays the Faculties may shake +hands over their follies; and, like Mrs. Frail and Mrs. Foresight +(in Love for Love) they may stand in the doors of opposite class- +rooms, crying: 'Sister, Sister--Sister everyway!' A few +restrictions, indeed, remain to influence the followers of +individual branches of study. The Divinity, for example, must be +an avowed believer; and as this, in the present day, is unhappily +considered by many as a confession of weakness, he is fain to +choose one of two ways of gilding the distasteful orthodox bolus. +Some swallow it in a thin jelly of metaphysics; for it is even a +credit to believe in God on the evidence of some crack-jaw +philosopher, although it is a decided slur to believe in Him on His +own authority. Others again (and this we think the worst method), +finding German grammar a somewhat dry morsel, run their own little +heresy as a proof of independence; and deny one of the cardinal +doctrines that they may hold the others without being laughed at. + +Besides, however, such influences as these, there is little more +distinction between the faculties than the traditionary ideal, +handed down through a long sequence of students, and getting +rounder and more featureless at each successive session. The +plague of uniformity has descended on the College. Students (and +indeed all sorts and conditions of men) now require their faculty +and character hung round their neck on a placard, like the scenes +in Shakespeare's theatre. And in the midst of all this weary +sameness, not the least common feature is the gravity of every +face. No more does the merry medical run eagerly in the clear +winter morning up the rugged sides of Arthur's Seat, and hear the +church bells begin and thicken and die away below him among the +gathered smoke of the city. He will not break Sunday to so little +purpose. He no longer finds pleasure in the mere output of his +surplus energy. He husbands his strength, and lays out walks, and +reading, and amusement with deep consideration, so that he may get +as much work and pleasure out of his body as he can, and waste none +of his energy on mere impulse, or such flat enjoyment as an +excursion in the country. + +See the quadrangle in the interregnum of classes, in those two or +three minutes when it is full of passing students, and we think you +will admit that, if we have not made it 'an habitation of dragons,' +we have at least transformed it into 'a court for owls.' Solemnity +broods heavily over the enclosure; and wherever you seek it, you +will find a dearth of merriment, an absence of real youthful +enjoyment. You might as well try + + +'To move wild laughter in the throat of death' + + +as to excite any healthy stir among the bulk of this staid company. + +The studious congregate about the doors of the different classes, +debating the matter of the lecture, or comparing note-books. A +reserved rivalry sunders them. Here are some deep in Greek +particles: there, others are already inhabitants of that land + + +'Where entity and quiddity, +'Like ghosts of defunct bodies fly - +Where Truth in person does appear +Like words congealed in northern air.' + + +But none of them seem to find any relish for their studies--no +pedantic love of this subject or that lights up their eyes--science +and learning are only means for a livelihood, which they have +considerately embraced and which they solemnly pursue. 'Labour's +pale priests,' their lips seem incapable of laughter, except in the +way of polite recognition of professorial wit. The stains of ink +are chronic on their meagre fingers. They walk like Saul among the +asses. + +The dandies are not less subdued. In 1824 there was a noisy dapper +dandyism abroad. Vulgar, as we should now think, but yet genial--a +matter of white greatcoats and loud voices--strangely different +from the stately frippery that is rife at present. These men are +out of their element in the quadrangle. Even the small remains of +boisterous humour, which still clings to any collection of young +men, jars painfully on their morbid sensibilities; and they beat a +hasty retreat to resume their perfunctory march along Princes +Street. Flirtation is to them a great social duty, a painful +obligation, which they perform on every occasion in the same chill +official manner, and with the same commonplace advances, the same +dogged observance of traditional behaviour. The shape of their +raiment is a burden almost greater than they can bear, and they +halt in their walk to preserve the due adjustment of their trouser- +knees, till one would fancy he had mixed in a procession of Jacobs. +We speak, of course, for ourselves; but we would as soon associate +with a herd of sprightly apes as with these gloomy modern beaux. +Alas, that our Mirabels, our Valentines, even our Brummels, should +have left their mantles upon nothing more amusing! + +Nor are the fast men less constrained. Solemnity, even in +dissipation, is the order of the day; and they go to the devil with +a perverse seriousness, a systematic rationalism of wickedness that +would have surprised the simpler sinners of old. Some of these men +whom we see gravely conversing on the steps have but a slender +acquaintance with each other. Their intercourse consists +principally of mutual bulletins of depravity; and, week after week, +as they meet they reckon up their items of transgression, and give +an abstract of their downward progress for approval and +encouragement. These folk form a freemasonry of their own. An +oath is the shibboleth of their sinister fellowship. Once they +hear a man swear, it is wonderful how their tongues loosen and +their bashful spirits take enlargement, under the consciousness of +brotherhood. There is no folly, no pardoning warmth of temper +about them; they are as steady-going and systematic in their own +way as the studious in theirs. + +Not that we are without merry men. No. We shall not be ungrateful +to those, whose grimaces, whose ironical laughter, whose active +feet in the 'College Anthem' have beguiled so many weary hours and +added a pleasant variety to the strain of close attention. But +even these are too evidently professional in their antics. They go +about cogitating puns and inventing tricks. It is their vocation, +Hal. They are the gratuitous jesters of the class-room; and, like +the clown when he leaves the stage, their merriment too often sinks +as the bell rings the hour of liberty, and they pass forth by the +Post-Office, grave and sedate, and meditating fresh gambols for the +morrow. + +This is the impression left on the mind of any observing student by +too many of his fellows. They seem all frigid old men; and one +pauses to think how such an unnatural state of matters is produced. +We feel inclined to blame for it the unfortunate absence of +UNIVERSITY FEELING which is so marked a characteristic of our +Edinburgh students. Academical interests are so few and far +between--students, as students, have so little in common, except a +peevish rivalry--there is such an entire want of broad college +sympathies and ordinary college friendships, that we fancy that no +University in the kingdom is in so poor a plight. Our system is +full of anomalies. A, who cut B whilst he was a shabby student, +curries sedulously up to him and cudgels his memory for anecdotes +about him when he becomes the great so-and-so. Let there be an end +of this shy, proud reserve on the one hand, and this shuddering +fine ladyism on the other; and we think we shall find both +ourselves and the College bettered. Let it be a sufficient reason +for intercourse that two men sit together on the same benches. Let +the great A be held excused for nodding to the shabby B in Princes +Street, if he can say, 'That fellow is a student.' Once this could +be brought about, we think you would find the whole heart of the +University beat faster. We think you would find a fusion among the +students, a growth of common feelings, an increasing sympathy +between class and class, whose influence (in such a heterogeneous +company as ours) might be of incalculable value in all branches of +politics and social progress. It would do more than this. If we +could find some method of making the University a real mother to +her sons--something beyond a building of class-rooms, a Senatus and +a lottery of somewhat shabby prizes--we should strike a death-blow +at the constrained and unnatural attitude of our Society. At +present we are not a united body, but a loose gathering of +individuals, whose inherent attraction is allowed to condense them +into little knots and coteries. Our last snowball riot read us a +plain lesson on our condition. There was no party spirit--no unity +of interests. A few, who were mischievously inclined, marched off +to the College of Surgeons in a pretentious file; but even before +they reached their destination the feeble inspiration had died out +in many, and their numbers were sadly thinned. Some followed +strange gods in the direction of Drummond Street, and others slunk +back to meek good-boyism at the feet of the Professors. The same +is visible in better things. As you send a man to an English +University that he may have his prejudices rubbed off, you might +send him to Edinburgh that he may have them ingrained--rendered +indelible--fostered by sympathy into living principles of his +spirit. And the reason of it is quite plain. From this absence of +University feeling it comes that a man's friendships are always the +direct and immediate results of these very prejudices. A common +weakness is the best master of ceremonies in our quadrangle: a +mutual vice is the readiest introduction. The studious associate +with the studious alone--the dandies with the dandies. There is +nothing to force them to rub shoulders with the others; and so they +grow day by day more wedded to their own original opinions and +affections. They see through the same spectacles continually. All +broad sentiments, all real catholic humanity expires; and the mind +gets gradually stiffened into one position--becomes so habituated +to a contracted atmosphere, that it shudders and withers under the +least draught of the free air that circulates in the general field +of mankind. + +Specialism in Society then is, we think, one cause of our present +state. Specialism in study is another. We doubt whether this has +ever been a good thing since the world began; but we are sure it is +much worse now than it was. Formerly, when a man became a +specialist, it was out of affection for his subject. With a +somewhat grand devotion he left all the world of Science to follow +his true love; and he contrived to find that strange pedantic +interest which inspired the man who + + +'Settled Hoti's business--let it be - +Properly based Oun - +Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De, +Dead from the waist down.' + + +Nowadays it is quite different. Our pedantry wants even the saving +clause of Enthusiasm. The election is now matter of necessity and +not of choice. Knowledge is now too broad a field for your Jack- +of-all-Trades; and, from beautifully utilitarian reasons, he makes +his choice, draws his pen through a dozen branches of study, and +behold--John the Specialist. That this is the way to be wealthy we +shall not deny; but we hold that it is NOT the way to be healthy or +wise. The whole mind becomes narrowed and circumscribed to one +'punctual spot' of knowledge. A rank unhealthy soil breeds a +harvest of prejudices. Feeling himself above others in his one +little branch--in the classification of toadstools, or Carthaginian +history--he waxes great in his own eyes and looks down on others. +Having all his sympathies educated in one way, they die out in +every other; and he is apt to remain a peevish, narrow, and +intolerant bigot. Dilettante is now a term of reproach; but there +is a certain form of dilettantism to which no one can object. It +is this that we want among our students. We wish them to abandon +no subject until they have seen and felt its merit--to act under a +general interest in all branches of knowledge, not a commercial +eagerness to excel in one. + +In both these directions our sympathies are constipated. We are +apostles of our own caste and our own subject of study, instead of +being, as we should, true men and LOVING students. Of course both +of these could be corrected by the students themselves; but this is +nothing to the purpose: it is more important to ask whether the +Senatus or the body of alumni could do nothing towards the growth +of better feeling and wider sentiments. Perhaps in another paper +we may say something upon this head. + +One other word, however, before we have done. What shall we be +when we grow really old? Of yore, a man was thought to lay on +restrictions and acquire new deadweight of mournful experience with +every year, till he looked back on his youth as the very summer of +impulse and freedom. We please ourselves with thinking that it +cannot be so with us. We would fain hope that, as we have begun in +one way, we may end in another; and that when we are in fact the +octogenarians that we SEEM at present, there shall be no merrier +men on earth. It is pleasant to picture us, sunning ourselves in +Princes Street of a morning, or chirping over our evening cups, +with all the merriment that we wanted in youth. + + + +CHAPTER III--DEBATING SOCIETIES + + + +A debating society is at first somewhat of a disappointment. You +do not often find the youthful Demosthenes chewing his pebbles in +the same room with you; or, even if you do, you will probably think +the performance little to be admired. As a general rule, the +members speak shamefully ill. The subjects of debate are heavy; +and so are the fines. The Ballot Question--oldest of dialectic +nightmares--is often found astride of a somnolent sederunt. The +Greeks and Romans, too, are reserved as sort of GENERAL-UTILITY +men, to do all the dirty work of illustration; and they fill as +many functions as the famous waterfall scene at the 'Princess's,' +which I found doing duty on one evening as a gorge in Peru, a haunt +of German robbers, and a peaceful vale in the Scottish borders. +There is a sad absence of striking argument or real lively +discussion. Indeed, you feel a growing contempt for your fellow- +members; and it is not until you rise yourself to hawk and hesitate +and sit shamefully down again, amid eleemosynary applause, that you +begin to find your level and value others rightly. Even then, even +when failure has damped your critical ardour, you will see many +things to be laughed at in the deportment of your rivals. + +Most laughable, perhaps, are your indefatigable strivers after +eloquence. They are of those who 'pursue with eagerness the +phantoms of hope,' and who, since they expect that 'the +deficiencies of last sentence will be supplied by the next,' have +been recommended by Dr. Samuel Johnson to 'attend to the History of +Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.' They are characterised by a hectic +hopefulness. Nothing damps them. They rise from the ruins of one +abortive sentence, to launch forth into another with unabated +vigour. They have all the manner of an orator. From the tone of +their voice, you would expect a splendid period--and lo! a string +of broken-backed, disjointed clauses, eked out with stammerings and +throat-clearings. They possess the art (learned from the pulpit) +of rounding an uneuphonious sentence by dwelling on a single +syllable--of striking a balance in a top-heavy period by +lengthening out a word into a melancholy quaver. Withal, they +never cease to hope. Even at last, even when they have exhausted +all their ideas, even after the would-be peroration has finally +refused to perorate, they remain upon their feet with their mouths +open, waiting for some further inspiration, like Chaucer's widow's +son in the dung-hole, after + + +'His throat was kit unto the nekke bone,' + + +in vain expectation of that seed that was to be laid upon his +tongue, and give him renewed and clearer utterance. + +These men may have something to say, if they could only say it-- +indeed they generally have; but the next class are people who, +having nothing to say, are cursed with a facility and an unhappy +command of words, that makes them the prime nuisances of the +society they affect. They try to cover their absence of matter by +an unwholesome vitality of delivery. They look triumphantly round +the room, as if courting applause, after a torrent of diluted +truism. They talk in a circle, harping on the same dull round of +argument, and returning again and again to the same remark with the +same sprightliness, the same irritating appearance of novelty. + +After this set, any one is tolerable; so we shall merely hint at a +few other varieties. There is your man who is pre-eminently +conscientious, whose face beams with sincerity as he opens on the +negative, and who votes on the affirmative at the end, looking +round the room with an air of chastened pride. There is also the +irrelevant speaker, who rises, emits a joke or two, and then sits +down again, without ever attempting to tackle the subject of +debate. Again, we have men who ride pick-a-back on their family +reputation, or, if their family have none, identify themselves with +some well-known statesman, use his opinions, and lend him their +patronage on all occasions. This is a dangerous plan, and serves +oftener, I am afraid, to point a difference than to adorn a speech. + +But alas! a striking failure may be reached without tempting +Providence by any of these ambitious tricks. Our own stature will +be found high enough for shame. The success of three simple +sentences lures us into a fatal parenthesis in the fourth, from +whose shut brackets we may never disentangle the thread of our +discourse. A momentary flush tempts us into a quotation; and we +may be left helpless in the middle of one of Pope's couplets, a +white film gathering before our eyes, and our kind friends +charitably trying to cover our disgrace by a feeble round of +applause. Amis lecteurs, this is a painful topic. It is possible +that we too, we, the 'potent, grave, and reverend' editor, may have +suffered these things, and drunk as deep as any of the cup of +shameful failure. Let us dwell no longer on so delicate a subject. + +In spite, however, of these disagreeables, I should recommend any +student to suffer them with Spartan courage, as the benefits he +receives should repay him an hundredfold for them all. The life of +the debating society is a handy antidote to the life of the +classroom and quadrangle. Nothing could be conceived more +excellent as a weapon against many of those PECCANT HUMOURS that we +have been railing against in the jeremiad of our last 'College +Paper'--particularly in the field of intellect. It is a sad sight +to see our heather-scented students, our boys of seventeen, coming +up to College with determined views--roues in speculation--having +gauged the vanity of philosophy or learned to shun it as the +middle-man of heresy--a company of determined, deliberate +opinionists, not to be moved by all the sleights of logic. What +have such men to do with study? If their minds are made up +irrevocably, why burn the 'studious lamp' in search of further +confirmation? Every set opinion I hear a student deliver I feel a +certain lowering of my regard. He who studies, he who is yet +employed in groping for his premises, should keep his mind fluent +and sensitive, keen to mark flaws, and willing to surrender +untenable positions. He should keep himself teachable, or cease +the expensive farce of being taught. It is to further this docile +spirit that we desire to press the claims of debating societies. +It is as a means of melting down this museum of premature +petrifactions into living and impressionable soul that we insist on +their utility. If we could once prevail on our students to feel no +shame in avowing an uncertain attitude towards any subject, if we +could teach them that it was unnecessary for every lad to have his +opinionette on every topic, we should have gone a far way towards +bracing the intellectual tone of the coming race of thinkers; and +this it is which debating societies are so well fitted to perform. + +We there meet people of every shade of opinion, and make friends +with them. We are taught to rail against a man the whole session +through, and then hob-a-nob with him at the concluding +entertainment. We find men of talent far exceeding our own, whose +conclusions are widely different from ours; and we are thus taught +to distrust ourselves. But the best means of all towards +catholicity is that wholesome rule which some folk are most +inclined to condemn--I mean the law of OBLIGED SPEECHES. Your +senior member commands; and you must take the affirmative or the +negative, just as suits his best convenience. This tends to the +most perfect liberality. It is no good hearing the arguments of an +opponent, for in good verity you rarely follow them; and even if +you do take the trouble to listen, it is merely in a captious +search for weaknesses. This is proved, I fear, in every debate; +when you hear each speaker arguing out his own prepared specialite +(he never intended speaking, of course, until some remarks of, +etc.), arguing out, I say, his own COACHED-UP subject without the +least attention to what has gone before, as utterly at sea about +the drift of his adversary's speech as Panurge when he argued with +Thaumaste, and merely linking his own prelection to the last by a +few flippant criticisms. Now, as the rule stands, you are saddled +with the side you disapprove, and so you are forced, by regard for +your own fame, to argue out, to feel with, to elaborate completely, +the case as it stands against yourself; and what a fund of wisdom +do you not turn up in this idle digging of the vineyard! How many +new difficulties take form before your eyes? how many superannuated +arguments cripple finally into limbo, under the glance of your +enforced eclecticism! + +Nor is this the only merit of Debating Societies. They tend also +to foster taste, and to promote friendship between University men. +This last, as we have had occasion before to say, is the great +requirement of our student life; and it will therefore be no waste +of time if we devote a paragraph to this subject in its connection +with Debating Societies. At present they partake too much of the +nature of a clique. Friends propose friends, and mutual friends +second them, until the society degenerates into a sort of family +party. You may confirm old acquaintances, but you can rarely make +new ones. You find yourself in the atmosphere of your own daily +intercourse. Now, this is an unfortunate circumstance, which it +seems to me might readily be rectified. Our Principal has shown +himself so friendly towards all College improvements that I cherish +the hope of seeing shortly realised a certain suggestion, which is +not a new one with me, and which must often have been proposed and +canvassed heretofore--I mean, a real University Debating Society, +patronised by the Senatus, presided over by the Professors, to +which every one might gain ready admittance on sight of his +matriculation ticket, where it would be a favour and not a +necessity to speak, and where the obscure student might have +another object for attendance besides the mere desire to save his +fines: to wit, the chance of drawing on himself the favourable +consideration of his teachers. This would be merely following in +the good tendency, which has been so noticeable during all this +session, to increase and multiply student societies and clubs of +every sort. Nor would it be a matter of much difficulty. The +united societies would form a nucleus: one of the class-rooms at +first, and perhaps afterwards the great hall above the library, +might be the place of meeting. There would be no want of +attendance or enthusiasm, I am sure; for it is a very different +thing to speak under the bushel of a private club on the one hand, +and, on the other, in a public place, where a happy period or a +subtle argument may do the speaker permanent service in after life. +Such a club might end, perhaps, by rivalling the 'Union' at +Cambridge or the 'Union' at Oxford. + + + +CHAPTER IV--THE PHILOSOPHY OF UMBRELLAS {7} + + + +It is wonderful to think what a turn has been given to our whole +Society by the fact that we live under the sign of Aquarius--that +our climate is essentially wet. A mere arbitrary distinction, like +the walking-swords of yore, might have remained the symbol of +foresight and respectability, had not the raw mists and dropping +showers of our island pointed the inclination of Society to another +exponent of those virtues. A ribbon of the Legion of Honour or a +string of medals may prove a person's courage; a title may prove +his birth; a professorial chair his study and acquirement; but it +is the habitual carriage of the umbrella that is the stamp of +Respectability. The umbrella has become the acknowledged index of +social position. + +Robinson Crusoe presents us with a touching instance of the +hankering after them inherent in the civilised and educated mind. +To the superficial, the hot suns of Juan Fernandez may sufficiently +account for his quaint choice of a luxury; but surely one who had +borne the hard labour of a seaman under the tropics for all these +years could have supported an excursion after goats or a peaceful +CONSTITUTIONAL arm in arm with the nude Friday. No, it was not +this: the memory of a vanished respectability called for some +outward manifestation, and the result was--an umbrella. A pious +castaway might have rigged up a belfry and solaced his Sunday +mornings with the mimicry of church-bells; but Crusoe was rather a +moralist than a pietist, and his leaf-umbrella is as fine an +example of the civilised mind striving to express itself under +adverse circumstances as we have ever met with. + +It is not for nothing, either, that the umbrella has become the +very foremost badge of modern civilisation--the Urim and Thummim of +respectability. Its pregnant symbolism has taken its rise in the +most natural manner. Consider, for a moment, when umbrellas were +first introduced into this country, what manner of men would use +them, and what class would adhere to the useless but ornamental +cane. The first, without doubt, would be the hypochondriacal, out +of solicitude for their health, or the frugal, out of care for +their raiment; the second, it is equally plain, would include the +fop, the fool, and the Bobadil. Any one acquainted with the growth +of Society, and knowing out of what small seeds of cause are +produced great revolutions, and wholly new conditions of +intercourse, sees from this simple thought how the carriage of an +umbrella came to indicate frugality, judicious regard for bodily +welfare, and scorn for mere outward adornment, and, in one word, +all those homely and solid virtues implied in the term +RESPECTABILITY. Not that the umbrella's costliness has nothing to +do with its great influence. Its possession, besides symbolising +(as we have already indicated) the change from wild Esau to plain +Jacob dwelling in tents, implies a certain comfortable provision of +fortune. It is not every one that can expose twenty-six shillings' +worth of property to so many chances of loss and theft. So +strongly do we feel on this point, indeed, that we are almost +inclined to consider all who possess really well-conditioned +umbrellas as worthy of the Franchise. They have a qualification +standing in their lobbies; they carry a sufficient stake in the +common-weal below their arm. One who bears with him an umbrella-- +such a complicated structure of whalebone, of silk, and of cane, +that it becomes a very microcosm of modern industry--is necessarily +a man of peace. A half-crown cane may be applied to an offender's +head on a very moderate provocation; but a six-and-twenty shilling +silk is a possession too precious to be adventured in the shock of +war. + +These are but a few glances at how umbrellas (in the general) came +to their present high estate. But the true Umbrella-Philosopher +meets with far stranger applications as he goes about the streets. + +Umbrellas, like faces, acquire a certain sympathy with the +individual who carries them: indeed, they are far more capable of +betraying his trust; for whereas a face is given to us so far ready +made, and all our power over it is in frowning, and laughing, and +grimacing, during the first three or four decades of life, each +umbrella is selected from a whole shopful, as being most consonant +to the purchaser's disposition. An undoubted power of diagnosis +rests with the practised Umbrella-Philosopher. O you who lisp, and +amble, and change the fashion of your countenances--you who conceal +all these, how little do you think that you left a proof of your +weakness in our umbrella-stand--that even now, as you shake out the +folds to meet the thickening snow, we read in its ivory handle the +outward and visible sign of your snobbery, or from the exposed +gingham of its cover detect, through coat and waistcoat, the hidden +hypocrisy of the 'DICKEY'! But alas! even the umbrella is no +certain criterion. The falsity and the folly of the human race +have degraded that graceful symbol to the ends of dishonesty; and +while some umbrellas, from carelessness in selection, are not +strikingly characteristic (for it is only in what a man loves that +he displays his real nature), others, from certain prudential +motives, are chosen directly opposite to the person's disposition. +A mendacious umbrella is a sign of great moral degradation. +Hypocrisy naturally shelters itself below a silk; while the fast +youth goes to visit his religious friends armed with the decent and +reputable gingham. May it not be said of the bearers of these +inappropriate umbrellas that they go about the streets 'with a lie +in their right hand'? + +The kings of Siam, as we read, besides having a graduated social +scale of umbrellas (which was a good thing), prevented the great +bulk of their subjects from having any at all, which was certainly +a bad thing. We should be sorry to believe that this Eastern +legislator was a fool--the idea of an aristocracy of umbrellas is +too philosophic to have originated in a nobody--and we have +accordingly taken exceeding pains to find out the reason of this +harsh restriction. We think we have succeeded; but, while admiring +the principle at which he aimed, and while cordially recognising in +the Siamese potentate the only man before ourselves who had taken a +real grasp of the umbrella, we must be allowed to point out how +unphilosophically the great man acted in this particular. His +object, plainly, was to prevent any unworthy persons from bearing +the sacred symbol of domestic virtues. We cannot excuse his +limiting these virtues to the circle of his court. We must only +remember that such was the feeling of the age in which he lived. +Liberalism had not yet raised the war-cry of the working classes. +But here was his mistake: it was a needless regulation. Except in +a very few cases of hypocrisy joined to a powerful intellect, men, +not by nature UMBRELLARIANS, have tried again and again to become +so by art, and yet have failed--have expended their patrimony in +the purchase of umbrella after umbrella, and yet have +systematically lost them, and have finally, with contrite spirits +and shrunken purses, given up their vain struggle, and relied on +theft and borrowing for the remainder of their lives. This is the +most remarkable fact that we have had occasion to notice; and yet +we challenge the candid reader to call it in question. Now, as +there cannot be any MORAL SELECTION in a mere dead piece of +furniture--as the umbrella cannot be supposed to have an affinity +for individual men equal and reciprocal to that which men certainly +feel toward individual umbrellas--we took the trouble of consulting +a scientific friend as to whether there was any possible physical +explanation of the phenomenon. He was unable to supply a plausible +theory, or even hypothesis; but we extract from his letter the +following interesting passage relative to the physical +peculiarities of umbrellas: 'Not the least important, and by far +the most curious property of the umbrella, is the energy which it +displays in affecting the atmospheric strata. There is no fact in +meteorology better established--indeed, it is almost the only one +on which meteorologists are agreed--than that the carriage of an +umbrella produces desiccation of the air; while if it be left at +home, aqueous vapour is largely produced, and is soon deposited in +the form of rain. No theory,' my friend continues, 'competent to +explain this hygrometric law has been given (as far as I am aware) +by Herschel, Dove, Glaisher, Tait, Buchan, or any other writer; nor +do I pretend to supply the defect. I venture, however, to throw +out the conjecture that it will be ultimately found to belong to +the same class of natural laws as that agreeable to which a slice +of toast always descends with the buttered surface downwards.' + +But it is time to draw to a close. We could expatiate much longer +upon this topic, but want of space constrains us to leave +unfinished these few desultory remarks--slender contributions +towards a subject which has fallen sadly backward, and which, we +grieve to say, was better understood by the king of Siam in 1686 +than by all the philosophers of to-day. If, however, we have +awakened in any rational mind an interest in the symbolism of +umbrellas--in any generous heart a more complete sympathy with the +dumb companion of his daily walk--or in any grasping spirit a pure +notion of respectability strong enough to make him expend his six- +and-twenty shillings--we shall have deserved well of the world, to +say nothing of the many industrious persons employed in the +manufacture of the article. + + + +CHAPTER V--THE PHILOSOPHY OF NOMENCLATURE + + + +'How many Caesars and Pompeys, by mere inspirations of the names, +have been rendered worthy of them? And how many are there, who +might have done exceeding well in the world, had not their +characters and spirits been totally depressed and Nicodemus'd into +nothing?'--Tristram Shandy, vol. I. chap xix. + + +Such were the views of the late Walter Shandy, Esq., Turkey +merchant. To the best of my belief, Mr. Shandy is the first who +fairly pointed out the incalculable influence of nomenclature upon +the whole life--who seems first to have recognised the one child, +happy in an heroic appellation, soaring upwards on the wings of +fortune, and the other, like the dead sailor in his shotted +hammock, haled down by sheer weight of name into the abysses of +social failure. Solomon possibly had his eye on some such theory +when he said that 'a good name is better than precious ointment'; +and perhaps we may trace a similar spirit in the compilers of the +English Catechism, and the affectionate interest with which they +linger round the catechumen's name at the very threshold of their +work. But, be these as they may, I think no one can censure me for +appending, in pursuance of the expressed wish of his son, the +Turkey merchant's name to his system, and pronouncing, without +further preface, a short epitome of the 'Shandean Philosophy of +Nomenclature.' + +To begin, then: the influence of our name makes itself felt from +the very cradle. As a schoolboy I remember the pride with which I +hailed Robin Hood, Robert Bruce, and Robert le Diable as my name- +fellows; and the feeling of sore disappointment that fell on my +heart when I found a freebooter or a general who did not share with +me a single one of my numerous praenomina. Look at the delight +with which two children find they have the same name. They are +friends from that moment forth; they have a bond of union stronger +than exchange of nuts and sweetmeats. This feeling, I own, wears +off in later life. Our names lose their freshness and interest, +become trite and indifferent. But this, dear reader, is merely one +of the sad effects of those 'shades of the prison-house' which come +gradually betwixt us and nature with advancing years; it affords no +weapon against the philosophy of names. + +In after life, although we fail to trace its working, that name +which careless godfathers lightly applied to your unconscious +infancy will have been moulding your character, and influencing +with irresistible power the whole course of your earthly fortunes. +But the last name, overlooked by Mr. Shandy, is no whit less +important as a condition of success. Family names, we must +recollect, are but inherited nicknames; and if the sobriquet were +applicable to the ancestor, it is most likely applicable to the +descendant also. You would not expect to find Mr. M'Phun acting as +a mute, or Mr. M'Lumpha excelling as a professor of dancing. +Therefore, in what follows, we shall consider names, independent of +whether they are first or last. And to begin with, look what a +pull Cromwell had over Pym--the one name full of a resonant +imperialism, the other, mean, pettifogging, and unheroic to a +degree. Who would expect eloquence from Pym--who would read poems +by Pym--who would bow to the opinion of Pym? He might have been a +dentist, but he should never have aspired to be a statesman. I can +only wonder that he succeeded as he did. Pym and Habakkuk stand +first upon the roll of men who have triumphed, by sheer force of +genius, over the most unfavourable appellations. But even these +have suffered; and, had they been more fitly named, the one might +have been Lord Protector, and the other have shared the laurels +with Isaiah. In this matter we must not forget that all our great +poets have borne great names. Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, +Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, Shelley--what a constellation of lordly +words! Not a single common-place name among them--not a Brown, not +a Jones, not a Robinson; they are all names that one would stop and +look at on a door-plate. Now, imagine if Pepys had tried to +clamber somehow into the enclosure of poetry, what a blot would +that word have made upon the list! The thing was impossible. In +the first place a certain natural consciousness that men would have +held him down to the level of his name, would have prevented him +from rising above the Pepsine standard, and so haply withheld him +altogether from attempting verse. Next, the booksellers would +refuse to publish, and the world to read them, on the mere evidence +of the fatal appellation. And now, before I close this section, I +must say one word as to PUNNABLE names, names that stand alone, +that have a significance and life apart from him that bears them. +These are the bitterest of all. One friend of mine goes bowed and +humbled through life under the weight of this misfortune; for it is +an awful thing when a man's name is a joke, when he cannot be +mentioned without exciting merriment, and when even the intimation +of his death bids fair to carry laughter into many a home. + +So much for people who are badly named. Now for people who are TOO +well named, who go top-heavy from the font, who are baptized into a +false position, and find themselves beginning life eclipsed under +the fame of some of the great ones of the past. A man, for +instance, called William Shakespeare could never dare to write +plays. He is thrown into too humbling an apposition with the +author of Hamlet. Its own name coming after is such an anti- +climax. 'The plays of William Shakespeare'? says the reader--'O +no! The plays of William Shakespeare Cockerill,' and he throws the +book aside. In wise pursuance of such views, Mr. John Milton +Hengler, who not long since delighted us in this favoured town, has +never attempted to write an epic, but has chosen a new path, and +has excelled upon the tight-rope. A marked example of triumph over +this is the case of Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. On the face of the +matter, I should have advised him to imitate the pleasing modesty +of the last-named gentleman, and confine his ambition to the +sawdust. But Mr. Rossetti has triumphed. He has even dared to +translate from his mighty name-father; and the voice of fame +supports him in his boldness. + +Dear readers, one might write a year upon this matter. A lifetime +of comparison and research could scarce suffice for its +elucidation. So here, if it please you, we shall let it rest. +Slight as these notes have been, I would that the great founder of +the system had been alive to see them. How he had warmed and +brightened, how his persuasive eloquence would have fallen on the +ears of Toby; and what a letter of praise and sympathy would not +the editor have received before the month was out! Alas, the thing +was not to be. Walter Shandy died and was duly buried, while yet +his theory lay forgotten and neglected by his fellow-countrymen. +But, reader, the day will come, I hope, when a paternal government +will stamp out, as seeds of national weakness, all depressing +patronymics, and when godfathers and godmothers will soberly and +earnestly debate the interest of the nameless one, and not rush +blindfold to the christening. In these days there shall be written +a 'Godfather's Assistant,' in shape of a dictionary of names, with +their concomitant virtues and vices; and this book shall be +scattered broadcast through the land, and shall be on the table of +every one eligible for godfathership, until such a thing as a +vicious or untoward appellation shall have ceased from off the face +of the earth. + + + + +CRITICISMS + + + +CHAPTER I--LORD LYTTON'S 'FABLES IN SONG' + + + +It seems as if Lord Lytton, in this new book of his, had found the +form most natural to his talent. In some ways, indeed, it may be +held inferior to Chronicles and Characters; we look in vain for +anything like the terrible intensity of the night-scene in Irene, +or for any such passages of massive and memorable writing as +appeared, here and there, in the earlier work, and made it not +altogether unworthy of its model, Hugo's Legend of the Ages. But +it becomes evident, on the most hasty retrospect, that this earlier +work was a step on the way towards the later. It seems as if the +author had been feeling about for his definite medium, and was +already, in the language of the child's game, growing hot. There +are many pieces in Chronicles and Characters that might be detached +from their original setting, and embodied, as they stand, among the +Fables in Song. + +For the term Fable is not very easy to define rigorously. In the +most typical form some moral precept is set forth by means of a +conception purely fantastic, and usually somewhat trivial into the +bargain; there is something playful about it, that will not support +a very exacting criticism, and the lesson must be apprehended by +the fancy at half a hint. Such is the great mass of the old +stories of wise animals or foolish men that have amused our +childhood. But we should expect the fable, in company with other +and more important literary forms, to be more and more loosely, or +at least largely, comprehended as time went on, and so to +degenerate in conception from this original type. That depended +for much of its piquancy on the very fact that it was fantastic: +the point of the thing lay in a sort of humorous inappropriateness; +and it is natural enough that pleasantry of this description should +become less common, as men learn to suspect some serious analogy +underneath. Thus a comical story of an ape touches us quite +differently after the proposition of Mr. Darwin's theory. +Moreover, there lay, perhaps, at the bottom of this primitive sort +of fable, a humanity, a tenderness of rough truths; so that at the +end of some story, in which vice or folly had met with its destined +punishment, the fabulist might be able to assure his auditors, as +we have often to assure tearful children on the like occasions, +that they may dry their eyes, for none of it was true. + +But this benefit of fiction becomes lost with more sophisticated +hearers and authors: a man is no longer the dupe of his own +artifice, and cannot deal playfully with truths that are a matter +of bitter concern to him in his life. And hence, in the +progressive centralisation of modern thought, we should expect the +old form of fable to fall gradually into desuetude, and be +gradually succeeded by another, which is a fable in all points +except that it is not altogether fabulous. And this new form, such +as we should expect, and such as we do indeed find, still presents +the essential character of brevity; as in any other fable also, +there is, underlying and animating the brief action, a moral idea; +and as in any other fable, the object is to bring this home to the +reader through the intellect rather than through the feelings; so +that, without being very deeply moved or interested by the +characters of the piece, we should recognise vividly the hinges on +which the little plot revolves. But the fabulist now seeks +analogies where before he merely sought humorous situations. There +will be now a logical nexus between the moral expressed and the +machinery employed to express it. The machinery, in fact, as this +change is developed, becomes less and less fabulous. We find +ourselves in presence of quite a serious, if quite a miniature +division of creative literature; and sometimes we have the lesson +embodied in a sober, everyday narration, as in the parables of the +New Testament, and sometimes merely the statement or, at most, the +collocation of significant facts in life, the reader being left to +resolve for himself the vague, troublesome, and not yet definitely +moral sentiment which has been thus created. And step by step with +the development of this change, yet another is developed: the +moral tends to become more indeterminate and large. It ceases to +be possible to append it, in a tag, to the bottom of the piece, as +one might write the name below a caricature; and the fable begins +to take rank with all other forms of creative literature, as +something too ambitious, in spite of its miniature dimensions, to +be resumed in any succinct formula without the loss of all that is +deepest and most suggestive in it. + +Now it is in this widest sense that Lord Lytton understands the +term; there are examples in his two pleasant volumes of all the +forms already mentioned, and even of another which can only be +admitted among fables by the utmost possible leniency of +construction. 'Composure,' 'Et Caetera,' and several more, are +merely similes poetically elaborated. So, too, is the pathetic +story of the grandfather and grandchild: the child, having +treasured away an icicle and forgotten it for ten minutes, comes +back to find it already nearly melted, and no longer beautiful: at +the same time, the grandfather has just remembered and taken out a +bundle of love-letters, which he too had stored away in years gone +by, and then long neglected; and, behold! the letters are as faded +and sorrowfully disappointing as the icicle. This is merely a +simile poetically worked out; and yet it is in such as these, and +some others, to be mentioned further on, that the author seems at +his best. Wherever he has really written after the old model, +there is something to be deprecated: in spite of all the spirit +and freshness, in spite of his happy assumption of that cheerful +acceptation of things as they are, which, rightly or wrongly, we +come to attribute to the ideal fabulist, there is ever a sense as +of something a little out of place. A form of literature so very +innocent and primitive looks a little over-written in Lord Lytton's +conscious and highly-coloured style. It may be bad taste, but +sometimes we should prefer a few sentences of plain prose +narration, and a little Bewick by way of tail-piece. So that it is +not among those fables that conform most nearly to the old model, +but one had nearly said among those that most widely differ from +it, that we find the most satisfactory examples of the author's +manner. + +In the mere matter of ingenuity, the metaphysical fables are the +most remarkable; such as that of the windmill who imagined that it +was he who raised the wind; or that of the grocer's balance +('Cogito ergo sum') who considered himself endowed with free-will, +reason, and an infallible practical judgment; until, one fine day, +the police made a descent upon the shop, and find the weights false +and the scales unequal; and the whole thing is broken up for old +iron. Capital fables, also, in the same ironical spirit, are +'Prometheus Unbound,' the tale of the vainglorying of a champagne- +cork, and 'Teleology,' where a nettle justifies the ways of God to +nettles while all goes well with it, and, upon a change of luck, +promptly changes its divinity. + +In all these there is still plenty of the fabulous if you will, +although, even here, there may be two opinions possible; but there +is another group, of an order of merit perhaps still higher, where +we look in vain for any such playful liberties with Nature. Thus +we have 'Conservation of Force'; where a musician, thinking of a +certain picture, improvises in the twilight; a poet, hearing the +music, goes home inspired, and writes a poem; and then a painter, +under the influence of this poem, paints another picture, thus +lineally descended from the first. This is fiction, but not what +we have been used to call fable. We miss the incredible element, +the point of audacity with which the fabulist was wont to mock at +his readers. And still more so is this the case with others. 'The +Horse and the Fly' states one of the unanswerable problems of life +in quite a realistic and straightforward way. A fly startles a +cab-horse, the coach is overset; a newly-married pair within and +the driver, a man with a wife and family, are all killed. The +horse continues to gallop off in the loose traces, and ends the +tragedy by running over an only child; and there is some little +pathetic detail here introduced in the telling, that makes the +reader's indignation very white-hot against some one. It remains +to be seen who that some one is to be: the fly? Nay, but on +closer inspection, it appears that the fly, actuated by maternal +instinct, was only seeking a place for her eggs: is maternal +instinct, then, 'sole author of these mischiefs all'? 'Who's in +the Right?' one of the best fables in the book, is somewhat in the +same vein. After a battle has been won, a group of officers +assemble inside a battery, and debate together who should have the +honour of the success; the Prince, the general staff, the cavalry, +the engineer who posted the battery in which they then stand +talking, are successively named: the sergeant, who pointed the +guns, sneers to himself at the mention of the engineer; and, close +by, the gunner, who had applied the match, passes away with a smile +of triumph, since it was through his hand that the victorious blow +had been dealt. Meanwhile, the cannon claims the honour over the +gunner; the cannon-ball, who actually goes forth on the dread +mission, claims it over the cannon, who remains idly behind; the +powder reminds the cannon-ball that, but for him, it would still be +lying on the arsenal floor; and the match caps the discussion; +powder, cannon-ball, and cannon would be all equally vain and +ineffectual without fire. Just then there comes on a shower of +rain, which wets the powder and puts out the match, and completes +this lesson of dependence, by indicating the negative conditions +which are as necessary for any effect, in their absence, as is the +presence of this great fraternity of positive conditions, not any +one of which can claim priority over any other. But the fable does +not end here, as perhaps, in all logical strictness, it should. It +wanders off into a discussion as to which is the truer greatness, +that of the vanquished fire or that of the victorious rain. And +the speech of the rain is charming: + + +'Lo, with my little drops I bless again +And beautify the fields which thou didst blast! +Rend, wither, waste, and ruin, what thou wilt, +But call not Greatness what the Gods call Guilt. +Blossoms and grass from blood in battle spilt, +And poppied corn, I bring. +'Mid mouldering Babels, to oblivion built, +My violets spring. +Little by little my small drops have strength +To deck with green delights the grateful earth.' + + +And so forth, not quite germane (it seems to me) to the matter in +hand, but welcome for its own sake. + +Best of all are the fables that deal more immediately with the +emotions. There is, for instance, that of 'The Two Travellers,' +which is profoundly moving in conception, although by no means as +well written as some others. In this, one of the two, fearfully +frost-bitten, saves his life out of the snow at the cost of all +that was comely in his body; just as, long before, the other, who +has now quietly resigned himself to death, had violently freed +himself from Love at the cost of all that was finest and fairest in +his character. Very graceful and sweet is the fable (if so it +should be called) in which the author sings the praises of that +'kindly perspective,' which lets a wheat-stalk near the eye cover +twenty leagues of distant country, and makes the humble circle +about a man's hearth more to him than all the possibilities of the +external world. The companion fable to this is also excellent. It +tells us of a man who had, all his life through, entertained a +passion for certain blue hills on the far horizon, and had promised +himself to travel thither ere he died, and become familiar with +these distant friends. At last, in some political trouble, he is +banished to the very place of his dreams. He arrives there +overnight, and, when he rises and goes forth in the morning, there +sure enough are the blue hills, only now they have changed places +with him, and smile across to him, distant as ever, from the old +home whence he has come. Such a story might have been very +cynically treated; but it is not so done, the whole tone is kindly +and consolatory, and the disenchanted man submissively takes the +lesson, and understands that things far away are to be loved for +their own sake, and that the unattainable is not truly +unattainable, when we can make the beauty of it our own. Indeed, +throughout all these two volumes, though there is much practical +scepticism, and much irony on abstract questions, this kindly and +consolatory spirit is never absent. There is much that is cheerful +and, after a sedate, fireside fashion, hopeful. No one will be +discouraged by reading the book; but the ground of all this +hopefulness and cheerfulness remains to the end somewhat vague. It +does not seem to arise from any practical belief in the future +either of the individual or the race, but rather from the profound +personal contentment of the writer. This is, I suppose, all we +must look for in the case. It is as much as we can expect, if the +fabulist shall prove a shrewd and cheerful fellow-wayfarer, one +with whom the world does not seem to have gone much amiss, but who +has yet laughingly learned something of its evil. It will depend +much, of course, upon our own character and circumstances, whether +the encounter will be agreeable and bracing to the spirits, or +offend us as an ill-timed mockery. But where, as here, there is a +little tincture of bitterness along with the good-nature, where it +is plainly not the humour of a man cheerfully ignorant, but of one +who looks on, tolerant and superior and smilingly attentive, upon +the good and bad of our existence, it will go hardly if we do not +catch some reflection of the same spirit to help us on our way. +There is here no impertinent and lying proclamation of peace--none +of the cheap optimism of the well-to-do; what we find here is a +view of life that would be even grievous, were it not enlivened +with this abiding cheerfulness, and ever and anon redeemed by a +stroke of pathos. + +It is natural enough, I suppose, that we should find wanting in +this book some of the intenser qualities of the author's work; and +their absence is made up for by much happy description after a +quieter fashion. The burst of jubilation over the departure of the +snow, which forms the prelude to 'The Thistle,' is full of spirit +and of pleasant images. The speech of the forest in 'Sans Souci' +is inspired by a beautiful sentiment for nature of the modern sort, +and pleases us more, I think, as poetry should please us, than +anything in Chronicles and Characters. There are some admirable +felicities of expression here and there; as that of the hill, whose +summit + + + 'Did print +The azure air with pines.' + + +Moreover, I do not recollect in the author's former work any +symptom of that sympathetic treatment of still life, which is +noticeable now and again in the fables; and perhaps most +noticeably, when he sketches the burned letters as they hover along +the gusty flue, 'Thin, sable veils, wherein a restless spark Yet +trembled.' But the description is at its best when the subjects +are unpleasant, or even grisly. There are a few capital lines in +this key on the last spasm of the battle before alluded to. Surely +nothing could be better, in its own way, than the fish in 'The Last +Cruise of the Arrogant,' 'the shadowy, side-faced, silent things,' +that come butting and staring with lidless eyes at the sunken +steam-engine. And although, in yet another, we are told, +pleasantly enough, how the water went down into the valleys, where +it set itself gaily to saw wood, and on into the plains, where it +would soberly carry grain to town; yet the real strength of the +fable is when it dealt with the shut pool in which certain +unfortunate raindrops are imprisoned among slugs and snails, and in +the company of an old toad. The sodden contentment of the fallen +acorn is strangely significant; and it is astonishing how +unpleasantly we are startled by the appearance of her horrible +lover, the maggot. + +And now for a last word, about the style. This is not easy to +criticise. It is impossible to deny to it rapidity, spirit, and a +full sound; the lines are never lame, and the sense is carried +forward with an uninterrupted, impetuous rush. But it is not +equal. After passages of really admirable versification, the +author falls back upon a sort of loose, cavalry manner, not unlike +the style of some of Mr. Browning's minor pieces, and almost +inseparable from wordiness, and an easy acceptation of somewhat +cheap finish. There is nothing here of that compression which is +the note of a really sovereign style. It is unfair, perhaps, to +set a not remarkable passage from Lord Lytton side by side with one +of the signal masterpieces of another, and a very perfect poet; and +yet it is interesting, when we see how the portraiture of a dog, +detailed through thirty odd lines, is frittered down and finally +almost lost in the mere laxity of the style, to compare it with the +clear, simple, vigorous delineation that Burns, in four couplets, +has given us of the ploughman's collie. It is interesting, at +first, and then it becomes a little irritating; for when we think +of other passages so much more finished and adroit, we cannot help +feeling, that with a little more ardour after perfection of form, +criticism would have found nothing left for her to censure. A +similar mark of precipitate work is the number of adjectives +tumultuously heaped together, sometimes to help out the sense, and +sometimes (as one cannot but suspect) to help out the sound of the +verses. I do not believe, for instance, that Lord Lytton himself +would defend the lines in which we are told how Laocoon 'Revealed +to Roman crowds, now Christian grown, That Pagan anguish which, in +Parian stone, The Rhodian artist,' and so on. It is not only that +this is bad in itself; but that it is unworthy of the company in +which it is found; that such verses should not have appeared with +the name of a good versifier like Lord Lytton. We must take +exception, also, in conclusion, to the excess of alliteration. +Alliteration is so liable to be abused that we can scarcely be too +sparing of it; and yet it is a trick that seems to grow upon the +author with years. It is a pity to see fine verses, such as some +in 'Demos,' absolutely spoiled by the recurrence of one wearisome +consonant. + + + +CHAPTER II--SALVINI'S MACBETH + + + +Salvini closed his short visit to Edinburgh by a performance of +Macbeth. It was, perhaps, from a sentiment of local colour that he +chose to play the Scottish usurper for the first time before +Scotsmen; and the audience were not insensible of the privilege. +Few things, indeed, can move a stronger interest than to see a +great creation taking shape for the first time. If it is not +purely artistic, the sentiment is surely human. And the thought +that you are before all the world, and have the start of so many +others as eager as yourself, at least keeps you in a more +unbearable suspense before the curtain rises, if it does not +enhance the delight with which you follow the performance and see +the actor 'bend up each corporal agent' to realise a masterpiece of +a few hours' duration. With a player so variable as Salvini, who +trusts to the feelings of the moment for so much detail, and who, +night after night, does the same thing differently but always well, +it can never be safe to pass judgment after a single hearing. And +this is more particularly true of last week's Macbeth; for the +whole third act was marred by a grievously humorous misadventure. +Several minutes too soon the ghost of Banquo joined the party, and +after having sat helpless a while at a table, was ignominiously +withdrawn. Twice was this ghostly Jack-in-the-box obtruded on the +stage before his time; twice removed again; and yet he showed so +little hurry when he was really wanted, that, after an awkward +pause, Macbeth had to begin his apostrophe to empty air. The +arrival of the belated spectre in the middle, with a jerk that made +him nod all over, was the last accident in the chapter, and +worthily topped the whole. It may be imagined how lamely matters +went throughout these cross purposes. + +In spite of this, and some other hitches, Salvini's Macbeth had an +emphatic success. The creation is worthy of a place beside the +same artist's Othello and Hamlet. It is the simplest and most +unsympathetic of the three; but the absence of the finer lineaments +of Hamlet is redeemed by gusto, breadth, and a headlong unity. +Salvini sees nothing great in Macbeth beyond the royalty of muscle, +and that courage which comes of strong and copious circulation. +The moral smallness of the man is insisted on from the first, in +the shudder of uncontrollable jealousy with which he sees Duncan +embracing Banquo. He may have some northern poetry of speech, but +he has not much logical understanding. In his dealings with the +supernatural powers he is like a savage with his fetich, trusting +them beyond bounds while all goes well, and whenever he is crossed, +casting his belief aside and calling 'fate into the list.' For his +wife, he is little more than an agent, a frame of bone and sinew +for her fiery spirit to command. The nature of his feeling towards +her is rendered with a most precise and delicate touch. He always +yields to the woman's fascination; and yet his caresses (and we +know how much meaning Salvini can give to a caress) are singularly +hard and unloving. Sometimes he lays his hand on her as he might +take hold of any one who happened to be nearest to him at a moment +of excitement. Love has fallen out of this marriage by the way, +and left a curious friendship. Only once--at the very moment when +she is showing herself so little a woman and so much a high- +spirited man--only once is he very deeply stirred towards her; and +that finds expression in the strange and horrible transport of +admiration, doubly strange and horrible on Salvini's lips--'Bring +forth men-children only!' + +The murder scene, as was to be expected, pleased the audience best. +Macbeth's voice, in the talk with his wife, was a thing not to be +forgotten; and when he spoke of his hangman's hands he seemed to +have blood in his utterance. Never for a moment, even in the very +article of the murder, does he possess his own soul. He is a man +on wires. From first to last it is an exhibition of hideous +cowardice. For, after all, it is not here, but in broad daylight, +with the exhilaration of conflict, where he can assure himself at +every blow he has the longest sword and the heaviest hand, that +this man's physical bravery can keep him up; he is an unwieldy +ship, and needs plenty of way on before he will steer. + +In the banquet scene, while the first murderer gives account of +what he has done, there comes a flash of truculent joy at the +'twenty trenched gashes' on Banquo's head. Thus Macbeth makes +welcome to his imagination those very details of physical horror +which are so soon to turn sour in him. As he runs out to embrace +these cruel circumstances, as he seeks to realise to his mind's eye +the reassuring spectacle of his dead enemy, he is dressing out the +phantom to terrify himself; and his imagination, playing the part +of justice, is to 'commend to his own lips the ingredients of his +poisoned chalice.' With the recollection of Hamlet and his +father's spirit still fresh upon him, and the holy awe with which +that good man encountered things not dreamt of in his philosophy, +it was not possible to avoid looking for resemblances between the +two apparitions and the two men haunted. But there are none to be +found. Macbeth has a purely physical dislike for Banquo's spirit +and the 'twenty trenched gashes.' He is afraid of he knows not +what. He is abject, and again blustering. In the end he so far +forgets himself, his terror, and the nature of what is before him, +that he rushes upon it as he would upon a man. When his wife tells +him he needs repose, there is something really childish in the way +he looks about the room, and, seeing nothing, with an expression of +almost sensual relief, plucks up heart enough to go to bed. And +what is the upshot of the visitation? It is written in +Shakespeare, but should be read with the commentary of Salvini's +voice and expression:- 'O! siam nell' opra ancor fanciulli'-- 'We +are yet but young in deed.' Circle below circle. He is looking +with horrible satisfaction into the mouth of hell. There may still +be a prick to-day; but to-morrow conscience will be dead, and he +may move untroubled in this element of blood. + +In the fifth act we see this lowest circle reached; and it is +Salvini's finest moment throughout the play. From the first he was +admirably made up, and looked Macbeth to the full as perfectly as +ever he looked Othello. From the first moment he steps upon the +stage you can see this character is a creation to the fullest +meaning of the phrase; for the man before you is a type you know +well already. He arrives with Banquo on the heath, fair and red- +bearded, sparing of gesture, full of pride and the sense of animal +wellbeing, and satisfied after the battle like a beast who has +eaten his fill. But in the fifth act there is a change. This is +still the big, burly, fleshly, handsome-looking Thane; here is +still the same face which in the earlier acts could be +superficially good-humoured and sometimes royally courteous. But +now the atmosphere of blood, which pervades the whole tragedy, has +entered into the man and subdued him to its own nature; and an +indescribable degradation, a slackness and puffiness, has overtaken +his features. He has breathed the air of carnage, and supped full +of horrors. Lady Macbeth complains of the smell of blood on her +hand: Macbeth makes no complaint--he has ceased to notice it now; +but the same smell is in his nostrils. A contained fury and +disgust possesses him. He taunts the messenger and the doctor as +people would taunt their mortal enemies. And, indeed, as he knows +right well, every one is his enemy now, except his wife. About her +he questions the doctor with something like a last human anxiety; +and, in tones of grisly mystery, asks him if he can 'minister to a +mind diseased.' When the news of her death is brought him, he is +staggered and falls into a seat; but somehow it is not anything we +can call grief that he displays. There had been two of them +against God and man; and now, when there is only one, it makes +perhaps less difference than he had expected. And so her death is +not only an affliction, but one more disillusion; and he redoubles +in bitterness. The speech that follows, given with tragic cynicism +in every word, is a dirge, not so much for her as for himself. +From that time forth there is nothing human left in him, only 'the +fiend of Scotland,' Macduff's 'hell-hound,' whom, with a stern +glee, we see baited like a bear and hunted down like a wolf. He is +inspired and set above fate by a demoniacal energy, a lust of +wounds and slaughter. Even after he meets Macduff his courage does +not fail; but when he hears the Thane was not born of woman, all +virtue goes out of him; and though he speaks sounding words of +defiance, the last combat is little better than a suicide. + +The whole performance is, as I said, so full of gusto and a +headlong unity; the personality of Macbeth is so sharp and +powerful; and within these somewhat narrow limits there is so much +play and saliency that, so far as concerns Salvini himself, a third +great success seems indubitable. Unfortunately, however, a great +actor cannot fill more than a very small fraction of the boards; +and though Banquo's ghost will probably be more seasonable in his +future apparitions, there are some more inherent difficulties in +the piece. The company at large did not distinguish themselves. +Macduff, to the huge delight of the gallery, out-Macduff'd the +average ranter. The lady who filled the principal female part has +done better on other occasions, but I fear she has not metal for +what she tried last week. Not to succeed in the sleep-walking +scene is to make a memorable failure. As it was given, it +succeeded in being wrong in art without being true to nature. + +And there is yet another difficulty, happily easy to reform, which +somewhat interfered with the success of the performance. At the +end of the incantation scene the Italian translator has made +Macbeth fall insensible upon the stage. This is a change of +questionable propriety from a psychological point of view; while in +point of view of effect it leaves the stage for some moments empty +of all business. To remedy this, a bevy of green ballet-girls came +forth and pointed their toes about the prostrate king. A dance of +High Church curates, or a hornpipe by Mr. T. P. Cooke, would not be +more out of the key; though the gravity of a Scots audience was not +to be overcome, and they merely expressed their disapprobation by a +round of moderate hisses, a similar irruption of Christmas fairies +would most likely convulse a London theatre from pit to gallery +with inextinguishable laughter. It is, I am told, the Italian +tradition; but it is one more honoured in the breach than the +observance. With the total disappearance of these damsels, with a +stronger Lady Macbeth, and, if possible, with some compression of +those scenes in which Salvini does not appear, and the spectator is +left at the mercy of Macduffs and Duncans, the play would go twice +as well, and we should be better able to follow and enjoy an +admirable work of dramatic art. + + + +CHAPTER III--BAGSTER'S 'PILGRIM'S PROGRESS' + + + +I have here before me an edition of the Pilgrim's Progress, bound +in green, without a date, and described as 'illustrated by nearly +three hundred engravings, and memoir of Bunyan.' On the outside it +is lettered 'Bagster's Illustrated Edition,' and after the author's +apology, facing the first page of the tale, a folding pictorial +'Plan of the Road' is marked as 'drawn by the late Mr. T. Conder,' +and engraved by J. Basire. No further information is anywhere +vouchsafed; perhaps the publishers had judged the work too +unimportant; and we are still left ignorant whether or not we owe +the woodcuts in the body of the volume to the same hand that drew +the plan. It seems, however, more than probable. The literal +particularity of mind which, in the map, laid down the flower-plots +in the devil's garden, and carefully introduced the court-house in +the town of Vanity, is closely paralleled in many of the cuts; and +in both, the architecture of the buildings and the disposition of +the gardens have a kindred and entirely English air. Whoever he +was, the author of these wonderful little pictures may lay claim to +be the best illustrator of Bunyan. They are not only good +illustrations, like so many others; but they are like so few, good +illustrations of Bunyan. Their spirit, in defect and quality, is +still the same as his own. The designer also has lain down and +dreamed a dream, as literal, as quaint, and almost as apposite as +Bunyan's; and text and pictures make but the two sides of the same +homespun yet impassioned story. To do justice to the designs, it +will be necessary to say, for the hundredth time, a word or two +about the masterpiece which they adorn. + +All allegories have a tendency to escape from the purpose of their +creators; and as the characters and incidents become more and more +interesting in themselves, the moral, which these were to show +forth, falls more and more into neglect. An architect may command +a wreath of vine-leaves round the cornice of a monument; but if, as +each leaf came from the chisel, it took proper life and fluttered +freely on the wall, and if the vine grew, and the building were +hidden over with foliage and fruit, the architect would stand in +much the same situation as the writer of allegories. The Faery +Queen was an allegory, I am willing to believe; but it survives as +an imaginative tale in incomparable verse. The case of Bunyan is +widely different; and yet in this also Allegory, poor nymph, +although never quite forgotten, is sometimes rudely thrust against +the wall. Bunyan was fervently in earnest; with 'his fingers in +his ears, he ran on,' straight for his mark. He tells us himself, +in the conclusion to the first part, that he did not fear to raise +a laugh; indeed, he feared nothing, and said anything; and he was +greatly served in this by a certain rustic privilege of his style, +which, like the talk of strong uneducated men, when it does not +impress by its force, still charms by its simplicity. The mere +story and the allegorical design enjoyed perhaps his equal favour. +He believed in both with an energy of faith that was capable of +moving mountains. And we have to remark in him, not the parts +where inspiration fails and is supplied by cold and merely +decorative invention, but the parts where faith has grown to be +credulity, and his characters become so real to him that he forgets +the end of their creation. We can follow him step by step into the +trap which he lays for himself by his own entire good faith and +triumphant literality of vision, till the trap closes and shuts him +in an inconsistency. The allegories of the Interpreter and of the +Shepherds of the Delectable Mountains are all actually performed, +like stage-plays, before the pilgrims. The son of Mr. Great-grace +visibly 'tumbles hills about with his words.' Adam the First has +his condemnation written visibly on his forehead, so that Faithful +reads it. At the very instant the net closes round the pilgrims, +'the white robe falls from the black man's body.' Despair 'getteth +him a grievous crab-tree cudgel'; it was in 'sunshiny weather' that +he had his fits; and the birds in the grove about the House +Beautiful, 'our country birds,' only sing their little pious verses +'at the spring, when the flowers appear and the sun shines warm.' +'I often,' says Piety, 'go out to hear them; we also ofttimes keep +them tame on our house.' The post between Beulah and the Celestial +City sounds his horn, as you may yet hear in country places. Madam +Bubble, that 'tall, comely dame, something of a swarthy complexion, +in very pleasant attire, but old,' 'gives you a smile at the end of +each sentence'--a real woman she; we all know her. Christiana +dying 'gave Mr. Stand-fast a ring,' for no possible reason in the +allegory, merely because the touch was human and affecting. Look +at Great-heart, with his soldierly ways, garrison ways, as I had +almost called them; with his taste in weapons; his delight in any +that 'he found to be a man of his hands'; his chivalrous point of +honour, letting Giant Maul get up again when he was down, a thing +fairly flying in the teeth of the moral; above all, with his +language in the inimitable tale of Mr. Fearing: 'I thought I +should have lost my man'--'chicken-hearted'--'at last he came in, +and I will say that for my lord, he carried it wonderful lovingly +to him.' This is no Independent minister; this is a stout, honest, +big-busted ancient, adjusting his shoulder-belts, twirling his long +moustaches as he speaks. Last and most remarkable, 'My sword,' +says the dying Valiant-for-Truth, he in whom Great-heart delighted, +'my sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, AND +MY COURAGE AND SKILL TO HIM THAT CAN GET IT.' And after this +boast, more arrogantly unorthodox than was ever dreamed of by the +rejected Ignorance, we are told that 'all the trumpets sounded for +him on the other side.' + +In every page the book is stamped with the same energy of vision +and the same energy of belief. The quality is equally and +indifferently displayed in the spirit of the fighting, the +tenderness of the pathos, the startling vigour and strangeness of +the incidents, the natural strain of the conversations, and the +humanity and charm of the characters. Trivial talk over a meal, +the dying words of heroes, the delights of Beulah or the Celestial +City, Apollyon and my Lord Hate-good, Great-heart, and Mr. Worldly- +Wiseman, all have been imagined with the same clearness, all +written of with equal gusto and precision, all created in the same +mixed element, of simplicity that is almost comical, and art that, +for its purpose, is faultless. + +It was in much the same spirit that our artist sat down to his +drawings. He is by nature a Bunyan of the pencil. He, too, will +draw anything, from a butcher at work on a dead sheep, up to the +courts of Heaven. 'A Lamb for Supper' is the name of one of his +designs, 'Their Glorious Entry' of another. He has the same +disregard for the ridiculous, and enjoys somewhat of the same +privilege of style, so that we are pleased even when we laugh the +most. He is literal to the verge of folly. If dust is to be +raised from the unswept parlour, you may be sure it will 'fly +abundantly' in the picture. If Faithful is to lie 'as dead' before +Moses, dead he shall lie with a warrant--dead and stiff like +granite; nay (and here the artist must enhance upon the symbolism +of the author), it is with the identical stone tables of the law +that Moses fells the sinner. Good and bad people, whom we at once +distinguish in the text by their names, Hopeful, Honest, and +Valiant-for-Truth, on the one hand, as against By-ends, Sir Having +Greedy, and the Lord Old-man on the other, are in these drawings as +simply distinguished by their costume. Good people, when not armed +cap-a-pie, wear a speckled tunic girt about the waist, and low +hats, apparently of straw. Bad people swagger in tail-coats and +chimney-pots, a few with knee-breeches, but the large majority in +trousers, and for all the world like guests at a garden-party. +Worldly-Wiseman alone, by some inexplicable quirk, stands before +Christian in laced hat, embroidered waistcoat, and trunk-hose. But +above all examples of this artist's intrepidity, commend me to the +print entitled 'Christian Finds it Deep.' 'A great darkness and +horror,' says the text, have fallen on the pilgrim; it is the +comfortless deathbed with which Bunyan so strikingly concludes the +sorrows and conflicts of his hero. How to represent this worthily +the artist knew not; and yet he was determined to represent it +somehow. This was how he did: Hopeful is still shown to his neck +above the water of death; but Christian has bodily disappeared, and +a blot of solid blackness indicates his place. + +As you continue to look at these pictures, about an inch square for +the most part, sometimes printed three or more to the page, and +each having a printed legend of its own, however trivial the event +recorded, you will soon become aware of two things: first, that +the man can draw, and, second, that he possesses the gift of an +imagination. 'Obstinate reviles,' says the legend; and you should +see Obstinate reviling. 'He warily retraces his steps'; and there +is Christian, posting through the plain, terror and speed in every +muscle. 'Mercy yearns to go' shows you a plain interior with +packing going forward, and, right in the middle, Mercy yearning to +go--every line of the girl's figure yearning. In 'The Chamber +called Peace' we see a simple English room, bed with white +curtains, window valance and door, as may be found in many thousand +unpretentious houses; but far off, through the open window, we +behold the sun uprising out of a great plain, and Christian hails +it with his hand: + + +'Where am I now! is this the love and care +Of Jesus, for the men that pilgrims are! +Thus to provide! That I should be forgiven! +And dwell already the next door to heaven!' + + +A page or two further, from the top of the House Beautiful, the +damsels point his gaze toward the Delectable Mountains: 'The +Prospect,' so the cut is ticketed--and I shall be surprised, if on +less than a square inch of paper you can show me one so wide and +fair. Down a cross road on an English plain, a cathedral city +outlined on the horizon, a hazel shaw upon the left, comes Madam +Wanton dancing with her fair enchanted cup, and Faithful, book in +hand, half pauses. The cut is perfect as a symbol; the giddy +movement of the sorceress, the uncertain poise of the man struck to +the heart by a temptation, the contrast of that even plain of life +whereon he journeys with the bold, ideal bearing of the wanton--the +artist who invented and portrayed this had not merely read Bunyan, +he had also thoughtfully lived. The Delectable Mountains--I +continue skimming the first part--are not on the whole happily +rendered. Once, and once only, the note is struck, when Christian +and Hopeful are seen coming, shoulder-high, through a thicket of +green shrubs--box, perhaps, or perfumed nutmeg; while behind them, +domed or pointed, the hills stand ranged against the sky. A little +further, and we come to that masterpiece of Bunyan's insight into +life, the Enchanted Ground; where, in a few traits, he has set down +the latter end of such a number of the would-be good; where his +allegory goes so deep that, to people looking seriously on life, it +cuts like satire. The true significance of this invention lies, of +course, far out of the way of drawing; only one feature, the great +tedium of the land, the growing weariness in well-doing, may be +somewhat represented in a symbol. The pilgrims are near the end: +'Two Miles Yet,' says the legend. The road goes ploughing up and +down over a rolling heath; the wayfarers, with outstretched arms, +are already sunk to the knees over the brow of the nearest hill; +they have just passed a milestone with the cipher two; from +overhead a great, piled, summer cumulus, as of a slumberous summer +afternoon, beshadows them: two miles! it might be hundreds. In +dealing with the Land of Beulah the artist lags, in both parts, +miserably behind the text, but in the distant prospect of the +Celestial City more than regains his own. You will remember when +Christian and Hopeful 'with desire fell sick.' 'Effect of the +Sunbeams' is the artist's title. Against the sky, upon a cliffy +mountain, the radiant temple beams upon them over deep, subjacent +woods; they, behind a mound, as if seeking shelter from the +splendour--one prostrate on his face, one kneeling, and with hands +ecstatically lifted--yearn with passion after that immortal city. +Turn the page, and we behold them walking by the very shores of +death; Heaven, from this nigher view, has risen half-way to the +zenith, and sheds a wider glory; and the two pilgrims, dark against +that brightness, walk and sing out of the fulness of their hearts. +No cut more thoroughly illustrates at once the merit and the +weakness of the artist. Each pilgrim sings with a book in his +grasp--a family Bible at the least for bigness; tomes so recklessly +enormous that our second, impulse is to laughter. And yet that is +not the first thought, nor perhaps the last. Something in the +attitude of the manikins--faces they have none, they are too small +for that--something in the way they swing these monstrous volumes +to their singing, something perhaps borrowed from the text, some +subtle differentiation from the cut that went before and the cut +that follows after--something, at least, speaks clearly of a +fearful joy, of Heaven seen from the deathbed, of the horror of the +last passage no less than of the glorious coming home. There is +that in the action of one of them which always reminds me, with a +difference, of that haunting last glimpse of Thomas Idle, +travelling to Tyburn in the cart. Next come the Shining Ones, +wooden and trivial enough; the pilgrims pass into the river; the +blot already mentioned settles over and obliterates Christian. In +two more cuts we behold them drawing nearer to the other shore; and +then, between two radiant angels, one of whom points upward, we see +them mounting in new weeds, their former lendings left behind them +on the inky river. More angels meet them; Heaven is displayed, and +if no better, certainly no worse, than it has been shown by others- +-a place, at least, infinitely populous and glorious with light--a +place that haunts solemnly the hearts of children. And then this +symbolic draughtsman once more strikes into his proper vein. Three +cuts conclude the first part. In the first the gates close, black +against the glory struggling from within. The second shows us +Ignorance--alas! poor Arminian!--hailing, in a sad twilight, the +ferryman Vain-Hope; and in the third we behold him, bound hand and +foot, and black already with the hue of his eternal fate, carried +high over the mountain-tops of the world by two angels of the anger +of the Lord. 'Carried to Another Place,' the artist enigmatically +names his plate--a terrible design. + +Wherever he touches on the black side of the supernatural his +pencil grows more daring and incisive. He has many true inventions +in the perilous and diabolic; he has many startling nightmares +realised. It is not easy to select the best; some may like one and +some another; the nude, depilated devil bounding and casting darts +against the Wicket Gate; the scroll of flying horrors that hang +over Christian by the Mouth of Hell; the horned shade that comes +behind him whispering blasphemies; the daylight breaking through +that rent cave-mouth of the mountains and falling chill adown the +haunted tunnel; Christian's further progress along the causeway, +between the two black pools, where, at every yard or two, a gin, a +pitfall, or a snare awaits the passer-by--loathsome white devilkins +harbouring close under the bank to work the springes, Christian +himself pausing and pricking with his sword's point at the nearest +noose, and pale discomfortable mountains rising on the farther +side; or yet again, the two ill-favoured ones that beset the first +of Christian's journey, with the frog-like structure of the skull, +the frog-like limberness of limbs--crafty, slippery, lustful- +looking devils, drawn always in outline as though possessed of a +dim, infernal luminosity. Horrid fellows are they, one and all; +horrid fellows and horrific scenes. In another spirit that Good- +Conscience 'to whom Mr. Honest had spoken in his lifetime,' a +cowled, grey, awful figure, one hand pointing to the heavenly +shore, realises, I will not say all, but some at least of the +strange impressiveness of Bunyan's words. It is no easy nor +pleasant thing to speak in one's lifetime with Good-Conscience; he +is an austere, unearthly friend, whom maybe Torquemada knew; and +the folds of his raiment are not merely claustral, but have +something of the horror of the pall. Be not afraid, however; with +the hand of that appearance Mr. Honest will get safe across. + +Yet perhaps it is in sequences that this artist best displays +himself. He loves to look at either side of a thing: as, for +instance, when he shows us both sides of the wall--'Grace +Inextinguishable' on the one side, with the devil vainly pouring +buckets on the flame, and 'The Oil of Grace' on the other, where +the Holy Spirit, vessel in hand, still secretly supplies the fire. +He loves, also, to show us the same event twice over, and to repeat +his instantaneous photographs at the interval of but a moment. So +we have, first, the whole troop of pilgrims coming up to Valiant, +and Great-heart to the front, spear in hand and parleying; and +next, the same cross-roads, from a more distant view, the convoy +now scattered and looking safely and curiously on, and Valiant +handing over for inspection his 'right Jerusalem blade.' It is +true that this designer has no great care after consistency: +Apollyon's spear is laid by, his quiver of darts will disappear, +whenever they might hinder the designer's freedom; and the fiend's +tail is blobbed or forked at his good pleasure. But this is not +unsuitable to the illustration of the fervent Bunyan, breathing +hurry and momentary inspiration. He, with his hot purpose, hunting +sinners with a lasso, shall himself forget the things that he has +written yesterday. He shall first slay Heedless in the Valley of +the Shadow, and then take leave of him talking in his sleep, as if +nothing had happened, in an arbour on the Enchanted Ground. And +again, in his rhymed prologue, he shall assign some of the glory of +the siege of Doubting Castle to his favourite Valiant-for-the- +Truth, who did not meet with the besiegers till long after, at that +dangerous corner by Deadman's Lane. And, with all inconsistencies +and freedoms, there is a power shown in these sequences of cuts: a +power of joining on one action or one humour to another; a power of +following out the moods, even of the dismal subterhuman fiends +engendered by the artist's fancy; a power of sustained continuous +realisation, step by step, in nature's order, that can tell a +story, in all its ins and outs, its pauses and surprises, fully and +figuratively, like the art of words. + +One such sequence is the fight of Christian and Apollyon--six cuts, +weird and fiery, like the text. The pilgrim is throughout a pale +and stockish figure; but the devil covers a multitude of defects. +There is no better devil of the conventional order than our +artist's Apollyon, with his mane, his wings, his bestial legs, his +changing and terrifying expression, his infernal energy to slay. +In cut the first you see him afar off, still obscure in form, but +already formidable in suggestion. Cut the second, 'The Fiend in +Discourse,' represents him, not reasoning, railing rather, shaking +his spear at the pilgrim, his shoulder advanced, his tail writhing +in the air, his foot ready for a spring, while Christian stands +back a little, timidly defensive. The third illustrates these +magnificent words: 'Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole +breadth of the way, and said, I am void of fear in this matter: +prepare thyself to die; for I swear by my infernal den that thou +shalt go no farther: here will I spill thy soul! And with that he +threw a flaming dart at his breast.' In the cut he throws a dart +with either hand, belching pointed flames out of his mouth, +spreading his broad vans, and straddling the while across the path, +as only a fiend can straddle who has just sworn by his infernal +den. The defence will not be long against such vice, such flames, +such red-hot nether energy. And in the fourth cut, to be sure, he +has leaped bodily upon his victim, sped by foot and pinion, and +roaring as he leaps. The fifth shows the climacteric of the +battle; Christian has reached nimbly out and got his sword, and +dealt that deadly home-thrust, the fiend still stretched upon him, +but 'giving back, as one that had received his mortal wound.' The +raised head, the bellowing mouth, the paw clapped upon the sword, +the one wing relaxed in agony, all realise vividly these words of +the text. In the sixth and last, the trivial armed figure of the +pilgrim is seen kneeling with clasped hands on the betrodden scene +of contest and among the shivers of the darts; while just at the +margin the hinder quarters and the tail of Apollyon are whisking +off, indignant and discounted. + +In one point only do these pictures seem to be unworthy of the +text, and that point is one rather of the difference of arts than +the difference of artists. Throughout his best and worst, in his +highest and most divine imaginations as in the narrowest sallies of +his sectarianism, the human-hearted piety of Bunyan touches and +ennobles, convinces, accuses the reader. Through no art beside the +art of words can the kindness of a man's affections be expressed. +In the cuts you shall find faithfully parodied the quaintness and +the power, the triviality and the surprising freshness of the +author's fancy; there you shall find him out-stripped in ready +symbolism and the art of bringing things essentially invisible +before the eyes: but to feel the contact of essential goodness, to +be made in love with piety, the book must be read and not the +prints examined. + +Farewell should not be taken with a grudge; nor can I dismiss in +any other words than those of gratitude a series of pictures which +have, to one at least, been the visible embodiment of Bunyan from +childhood up, and shown him, through all his years, Great-heart +lungeing at Giant Maul, and Apollyon breathing fire at Christian, +and every turn and town along the road to the Celestial City, and +that bright place itself, seen as to a stave of music, shining afar +off upon the hill-top, the candle of the world. + + + + +SKETCHES + + + + +THE SATIRIST + + + +My companion enjoyed a cheap reputation for wit and insight. He +was by habit and repute a satirist. If he did occasionally condemn +anything or anybody who richly deserved it, and whose demerits had +hitherto escaped, it was simply because he condemned everything and +everybody. While I was with him he disposed of St. Paul with an +epigram, shook my reverence for Shakespeare in a neat antithesis, +and fell foul of the Almighty Himself, on the score of one or two +out of the ten commandments. Nothing escaped his blighting +censure. At every sentence he overthrew an idol, or lowered my +estimation of a friend. I saw everything with new eyes, and could +only marvel at my former blindness. How was it possible that I had +not before observed A's false hair, B's selfishness, or C's boorish +manners? I and my companion, methought, walked the streets like a +couple of gods among a swarm of vermin; for every one we saw seemed +to bear openly upon his brow the mark of the apocalyptic beast. I +half expected that these miserable beings, like the people of +Lystra, would recognise their betters and force us to the altar; in +which case, warned by the late of Paul and Barnabas, I do not know +that my modesty would have prevailed upon me to decline. But there +was no need for such churlish virtue. More blinded than the +Lycaonians, the people saw no divinity in our gait; and as our +temporary godhead lay more in the way of observing than healing +their infirmities, we were content to pass them by in scorn. + +I could not leave my companion, not from regard or even from +interest, but from a very natural feeling, inseparable from the +case. To understand it, let us take a simile. Suppose yourself +walking down the street with a man who continues to sprinkle the +crowd out of a flask of vitriol. You would be much diverted with +the grimaces and contortions of his victims; and at the same time +you would fear to leave his arm until his bottle was empty, knowing +that, when once among the crowd, you would run a good chance +yourself of baptism with his biting liquor. Now my companion's +vitriol was inexhaustible. + +It was perhaps the consciousness of this, the knowledge that I was +being anointed already out of the vials of his wrath, that made me +fall to criticising the critic, whenever we had parted. + +After all, I thought, our satirist has just gone far enough into +his neighbours to find that the outside is false, without caring to +go farther and discover what is really true. He is content to find +that things are not what they seem, and broadly generalises from it +that they do not exist at all. He sees our virtues are not what +they pretend they are; and, on the strength of that, he denies us +the possession of virtue altogether. He has learnt the first +lesson, that no man is wholly good; but he has not even suspected +that there is another equally true, to wit, that no man is wholly +bad. Like the inmate of a coloured star, he has eyes for one +colour alone. He has a keen scent after evil, but his nostrils are +plugged against all good, as people plugged their nostrils before +going about the streets of the plague-struck city. + +Why does he do this? It is most unreasonable to flee the knowledge +of good like the infection of a horrible disease, and batten and +grow fat in the real atmosphere of a lazar-house. This was my +first thought; but my second was not like unto it, and I saw that +our satirist was wise, wise in his generation, like the unjust +steward. He does not want light, because the darkness is more +pleasant. He does not wish to see the good, because he is happier +without it. I recollect that when I walked with him, I was in a +state of divine exaltation, such as Adam and Eve must have enjoyed +when the savour of the fruit was still unfaded between their lips; +and I recognise that this must be the man's habitual state. He has +the forbidden fruit in his waist-coat pocket, and can make himself +a god as often and as long as he likes. He has raised himself upon +a glorious pedestal above his fellows; he has touched the summit of +ambition; and he envies neither King nor Kaiser, Prophet nor +Priest, content in an elevation as high as theirs, and much more +easily attained. Yes, certes, much more easily attained. He has +not risen by climbing himself, but by pushing others down. He has +grown great in his own estimation, not by blowing himself out, and +risking the fate of AEsop's frog, but simply by the habitual use of +a diminishing glass on everybody else. And I think altogether that +his is a better, a safer, and a surer recipe than most others. + +After all, however, looking back on what I have written, I detect a +spirit suspiciously like his own. All through, I have been +comparing myself with our satirist, and all through, I have had the +best of the comparison. Well, well, contagion is as often mental +as physical; and I do not think my readers, who have all been under +his lash, will blame me very much for giving the headsman a +mouthful of his own sawdust. + + + +NUITS BLANCHES + + + +If any one should know the pleasure and pain of a sleepless night, +it should be I. I remember, so long ago, the sickly child that +woke from his few hours' slumber with the sweat of a nightmare on +his brow, to lie awake and listen and long for the first signs of +life among the silent streets. These nights of pain and weariness +are graven on my mind; and so when the same thing happened to me +again, everything that I heard or saw was rather a recollection +than a discovery. + +Weighed upon by the opaque and almost sensible darkness, I listened +eagerly for anything to break the sepulchral quiet. But nothing +came, save, perhaps, an emphatic crack from the old cabinet that +was made by Deacon Brodie, or the dry rustle of the coals on the +extinguished fire. It was a calm; or I know that I should have +heard in the roar and clatter of the storm, as I have not heard it +for so many years, the wild career of a horseman, always scouring +up from the distance and passing swiftly below the window; yet +always returning again from the place whence first he came, as +though, baffled by some higher power, he had retraced his steps to +gain impetus for another and another attempt. + +As I lay there, there arose out of the utter stillness the rumbling +of a carriage a very great way off, that drew near, and passed +within a few streets of the house, and died away as gradually as it +had arisen. This, too, was as a reminiscence. + +I rose and lifted a corner of the blind. Over the black belt of +the garden I saw the long line of Queen Street, with here and there +a lighted window. How often before had my nurse lifted me out of +bed and pointed them out to me, while we wondered together if, +there also, there were children that could not sleep, and if these +lighted oblongs were signs of those that waited like us for the +morning. + +I went out into the lobby, and looked down into the great deep well +of the staircase. For what cause I know not, just as it used to be +in the old days that the feverish child might be the better served, +a peep of gas illuminated a narrow circle far below me. But where +I was, all was darkness and silence, save the dry monotonous +ticking of the clock that came ceaselessly up to my ear. + +The final crown of it all, however, the last touch of reproduction +on the pictures of my memory, was the arrival of that time for +which, all night through, I waited and longed of old. It was my +custom, as the hours dragged on, to repeat the question, 'When will +the carts come in?' and repeat it again and again until at last +those sounds arose in the street that I have heard once more this +morning. The road before our house is a great thoroughfare for +early carts. I know not, and I never have known, what they carry, +whence they come, or whither they go. But I know that, long ere +dawn, and for hours together, they stream continuously past, with +the same rolling and jerking of wheels and the same clink of +horses' feet. It was not for nothing that they made the burthen of +my wishes all night through. They are really the first throbbings +of life, the harbingers of day; and it pleases you as much to hear +them as it must please a shipwrecked seaman once again to grasp a +hand of flesh and blood after years of miserable solitude. They +have the freshness of the daylight life about them. You can hear +the carters cracking their whips and crying hoarsely to their +horses or to one another; and sometimes even a peal of healthy, +harsh horse-laughter comes up to you through the darkness. There +is now an end of mystery and fear. Like the knocking at the door +in Macbeth, {8} or the cry of the watchman in the Tour de Nesle, +they show that the horrible caesura is over and the nightmares have +fled away, because the day is breaking and the ordinary life of men +is beginning to bestir itself among the streets. + +In the middle of it all I fell asleep, to be wakened by the +officious knocking at my door, and I find myself twelve years older +than I had dreamed myself all night. + + + +THE WREATH OF IMMORTELLES + + + +It is all very well to talk of death as 'a pleasant potion of +immortality', but the most of us, I suspect, are of 'queasy +stomachs,' and find it none of the sweetest. {9a} The graveyard +may be cloak-room to Heaven; but we must admit that it is a very +ugly and offensive vestibule in itself, however fair may be the +life to which it leads. And though Enoch and Elias went into the +temple through a gate which certainly may be called Beautiful, the +rest of us have to find our way to it through Ezekiel's low-bowed +door and the vault full of creeping things and all manner of +abominable beasts. Nevertheless, there is a certain frame of mind +to which a cemetery is, if not an antidote, at least an +alleviation. If you are in a fit of the blues, go nowhere else. +It was in obedience to this wise regulation that the other morning +found me lighting my pipe at the entrance to Old Greyfriars', +thoroughly sick of the town, the country, and myself. + +Two of the men were talking at the gate, one of them carrying a +spade in hands still crusted with the soil of graves. Their very +aspect was delightful to me; and I crept nearer to them, thinking +to pick up some snatch of sexton gossip, some 'talk fit for a +charnel,' {9b} something, in fine, worthy of that fastidious +logician, that adept in coroner's law, who has come down to us as +the patron of Yaughan's liquor, and the very prince of +gravediggers. Scots people in general are so much wrapped up in +their profession that I had a good chance of overhearing such +conversation: the talk of fish-mongers running usually on +stockfish and haddocks; while of the Scots sexton I could repeat +stories and speeches that positively smell of the graveyard. But +on this occasion I was doomed to disappointment. My two friends +were far into the region of generalities. Their profession was +forgotten in their electorship. Politics had engulfed the narrower +economy of grave-digging. 'Na, na,' said the one, 'ye're a' +wrang.' 'The English and Irish Churches,' answered the other, in a +tone as if he had made the remark before, and it had been called in +question--'The English and Irish Churches have IMPOVERISHED the +country.' + +'Such are the results of education,' thought I as I passed beside +them and came fairly among the tombs. Here, at least, there were +no commonplace politics, no diluted this-morning's leader, to +distract or offend me. The old shabby church showed, as usual, its +quaint extent of roofage and the relievo skeleton on one gable, +still blackened with the fire of thirty years ago. A chill dank +mist lay over all. The Old Greyfriars' churchyard was in +perfection that morning, and one could go round and reckon up the +associations with no fear of vulgar interruption. On this stone +the Covenant was signed. In that vault, as the story goes, John +Knox took hiding in some Reformation broil. From that window Burke +the murderer looked out many a time across the tombs, and perhaps +o' nights let himself down over the sill to rob some new-made +grave. Certainly he would have a selection here. The very walks +have been carried over forgotten resting-places; and the whole +ground is uneven, because (as I was once quaintly told) 'when the +wood rots it stands to reason the soil should fall in,' which, from +the law of gravitation, is certainly beyond denial. But it is +round the boundary that there are the finest tombs. The whole +irregular space is, as it were, fringed with quaint old monuments, +rich in death's-heads and scythes and hour-glasses, and doubly rich +in pious epitaphs and Latin mottoes--rich in them to such an extent +that their proper space has run over, and they have crawled end- +long up the shafts of columns and ensconced themselves in all sorts +of odd corners among the sculpture. These tombs raise their backs +against the rabble of squalid dwelling-houses, and every here and +there a clothes-pole projects between two monuments its fluttering +trophy of white and yellow and red. With a grim irony they recall +the banners in the Invalides, banners as appropriate perhaps over +the sepulchres of tailors and weavers as these others above the +dust of armies. Why they put things out to dry on that particular +morning it was hard to imagine. The grass was grey with drops of +rain, the headstones black with moisture. Yet, in despite of +weather and common sense, there they hung between the tombs; and +beyond them I could see through open windows into miserable rooms +where whole families were born and fed, and slept and died. At one +a girl sat singing merrily with her back to the graveyard; and from +another came the shrill tones of a scolding woman. Every here and +there was a town garden full of sickly flowers, or a pile of +crockery inside upon the window-seat. But you do not grasp the +full connection between these houses of the dead and the living, +the unnatural marriage of stately sepulchres and squalid houses, +till, lower down, where the road has sunk far below the surface of +the cemetery, and the very roofs are scarcely on a level with its +wall, you observe that a proprietor has taken advantage of a tall +monument and trained a chimney-stack against its back. It startles +you to see the red, modern pots peering over the shoulder of the +tomb. + +A man was at work on a grave, his spade clinking away the drift of +bones that permeates the thin brown soil; but my first +disappointment had taught me to expect little from Greyfriars' +sextons, and I passed him by in silence. A slater on the slope of +a neighbouring roof eyed me curiously. A lean black cat, looking +as if it had battened on strange meats, slipped past me. A little +boy at a window put his finger to his nose in so offensive a manner +that I was put upon my dignity, and turned grandly off to read old +epitaphs and peer through the gratings into the shadow of vaults. + +Just then I saw two women coming down a path, one of them old, and +the other younger, with a child in her arms. Both had faces eaten +with famine and hardened with sin, and both had reached that stage +of degradation, much lower in a woman than a man, when all care for +dress is lost. As they came down they neared a grave, where some +pious friend or relative had laid a wreath of immortelles, and put +a bell glass over it, as is the custom. The effect of that ring of +dull yellow among so many blackened and dusty sculptures was more +pleasant than it is in modern cemeteries, where every second mound +can boast a similar coronal; and here, where it was the exception +and not the rule, I could even fancy the drops of moisture that +dimmed the covering were the tears of those who laid it where it +was. As the two women came up to it, one of them kneeled down on +the wet grass and looked long and silently through the clouded +shade, while the second stood above her, gently oscillating to and +fro to lull the muling baby. I was struck a great way off with +something religious in the attitude of these two unkempt and +haggard women; and I drew near faster, but still cautiously, to +hear what they were saying. Surely on them the spirit of death and +decay had descended; I had no education to dread here: should I +not have a chance of seeing nature? Alas! a pawnbroker could not +have been more practical and commonplace, for this was what the +kneeling woman said to the woman upright--this and nothing more: +'Eh, what extravagance!' + +O nineteenth century, wonderful art thou indeed--wonderful, but +wearisome in thy stale and deadly uniformity. Thy men are more +like numerals than men. They must bear their idiosyncrasies or +their professions written on a placard about their neck, like the +scenery in Shakespeare's theatre. Thy precepts of economy have +pierced into the lowest ranks of life; and there is now a decorum +in vice, a respectability among the disreputable, a pure spirit of +Philistinism among the waifs and strays of thy Bohemia. For lo! +thy very gravediggers talk politics; and thy castaways kneel upon +new graves, to discuss the cost of the monument and grumble at the +improvidence of love. + +Such was the elegant apostrophe that I made as I went out of the +gates again, happily satisfied in myself, and feeling that I alone +of all whom I had seen was able to profit by the silent poem of +these green mounds and blackened headstones. + + + +NURSES + + + +I knew one once, and the room where, lonely and old, she waited for +death. It was pleasant enough, high up above the lane, and looking +forth upon a hill-side, covered all day with sheets and yellow +blankets, and with long lines of underclothing fluttering between +the battered posts. There were any number of cheap prints, and a +drawing by one of 'her children,' and there were flowers in the +window, and a sickly canary withered into consumption in an +ornamental cage. The bed, with its checked coverlid, was in a +closet. A great Bible lay on the table; and her drawers were full +of 'scones,' which it was her pleasure to give to young visitors +such as I was then. + +You may not think this a melancholy picture; but the canary, and +the cat, and the white mouse that she had for a while, and that +died, were all indications of the want that ate into her heart. I +think I know a little of what that old woman felt; and I am as sure +as if I had seen her, that she sat many an hour in silent tears, +with the big Bible open before her clouded eyes. + +If you could look back upon her life, and feel the great chain that +had linked her to one child after another, sometimes to be wrenched +suddenly through, and sometimes, which is infinitely worse, to be +torn gradually off through years of growing neglect, or perhaps +growing dislike! She had, like the mother, overcome that natural +repugnance--repugnance which no man can conquer--towards the infirm +and helpless mass of putty of the earlier stage. She had spent her +best and happiest years in tending, watching, and learning to love +like a mother this child, with which she has no connection and to +which she has no tie. Perhaps she refused some sweetheart (such +things have been), or put him off and off, until he lost heart and +turned to some one else, all for fear of leaving this creature that +had wound itself about her heart. And the end of it all--her +month's warning, and a present perhaps, and the rest of the life to +vain regret. Or, worse still, to see the child gradually +forgetting and forsaking her, fostered in disrespect and neglect on +the plea of growing manliness, and at last beginning to treat her +as a servant whom he had treated a few years before as a mother. +She sees the Bible or the Psalm-book, which with gladness and love +unutterable in her heart she had bought for him years ago out of +her slender savings, neglected for some newer gift of his father, +lying in dust in the lumber-room or given away to a poor child, and +the act applauded for its unfeeling charity. Little wonder if she +becomes hurt and angry, and attempts to tyrannise and to grasp her +old power back again. We are not all patient Grizzels, by good +fortune, but the most of us human beings with feelings and tempers +of our own. + +And so, in the end, behold her in the room that I described. Very +likely and very naturally, in some fling of feverish misery or +recoil of thwarted love, she has quarrelled with her old employers +and the children are forbidden to see her or to speak to her; or at +best she gets her rent paid and a little to herself, and now and +then her late charges are sent up (with another nurse, perhaps) to +pay her a short visit. How bright these visits seem as she looks +forward to them on her lonely bed! How unsatisfactory their +realisation, when the forgetful child, half wondering, checks with +every word and action the outpouring of her maternal love! How +bitter and restless the memories that they leave behind! And for +the rest, what else has she?--to watch them with eager eyes as they +go to school, to sit in church where she can see them every Sunday, +to be passed some day unnoticed in the street, or deliberately cut +because the great man or the great woman are with friends before +whom they are ashamed to recognise the old woman that loved them. + +When she goes home that night, how lonely will the room appear to +her! Perhaps the neighbours may hear her sobbing to herself in the +dark, with the fire burnt out for want of fuel, and the candle +still unlit upon the table. + +And it is for this that they live, these quasi-mothers--mothers in +everything but the travail and the thanks. It is for this that +they have remained virtuous in youth, living the dull life of a +household servant. It is for this that they refused the old +sweetheart, and have no fireside or offspring of their own. + +I believe in a better state of things, that there will be no more +nurses, and that every mother will nurse her own offspring; for +what can be more hardening and demoralising than to call forth the +tenderest feelings of a woman's heart and cherish them yourself as +long as you need them, as long as your children require a nurse to +love them, and then to blight and thwart and destroy them, whenever +your own use for them is at an end. This may be Utopian; but it is +always a little thing if one mother or two mothers can be brought +to feel more tenderly to those who share their toil and have no +part in their reward. + + + +CHAPTER V--A CHARACTER + + + +The man has a red, bloated face, and his figure is short and squat. +So far there is nothing in him to notice, but when you see his +eyes, you can read in these hard and shallow orbs a depravity +beyond measure depraved, a thirst after wickedness, the pure, +disinterested love of Hell for its own sake. The other night, in +the street, I was watching an omnibus passing with lit-up windows, +when I heard some one coughing at my side as though he would cough +his soul out; and turning round, I saw him stopping under a lamp, +with a brown greatcoat buttoned round him and his whole face +convulsed. It seemed as if he could not live long; and so the +sight set my mind upon a train of thought, as I finished my cigar +up and down the lighted streets. + +He is old, but all these years have not yet quenched his thirst for +evil, and his eyes still delight themselves in wickedness. He is +dumb; but he will not let that hinder his foul trade, or perhaps I +should say, his yet fouler amusement, and he has pressed a slate +into the service of corruption. Look at him, and he will sign to +you with his bloated head, and when you go to him in answer to the +sign, thinking perhaps that the poor dumb man has lost his way, you +will see what he writes upon his slate. He haunts the doors of +schools, and shows such inscriptions as these to the innocent +children that come out. He hangs about picture-galleries, and +makes the noblest pictures the text for some silent homily of vice. +His industry is a lesson to ourselves. Is it not wonderful how he +can triumph over his infirmities and do such an amount of harm +without a tongue? Wonderful industry--strange, fruitless, +pleasureless toil? Must not the very devil feel a soft emotion to +see his disinterested and laborious service? Ah, but the devil +knows better than this: he knows that this man is penetrated with +the love of evil and that all his pleasure is shut up in +wickedness: he recognises him, perhaps, as a fit type for mankind +of his satanic self, and watches over his effigy as we might watch +over a favourite likeness. As the business man comes to love the +toil, which he only looked upon at first as a ladder towards other +desires and less unnatural gratifications, so the dumb man has felt +the charm of his trade and fallen captivated before the eyes of +sin. It is a mistake when preachers tell us that vice is hideous +and loathsome; for even vice has her Horsel and her devotees, who +love her for her own sake. + + + + +THE GREAT NORTH ROAD + + + + +CHAPTER I--NANCE AT THE 'GREEN DRAGON' + + + +Nance Holdaway was on her knees before the fire blowing the green +wood that voluminously smoked upon the dogs, and only now and then +shot forth a smothered flame; her knees already ached and her eyes +smarted, for she had been some while at this ungrateful task, but +her mind was gone far away to meet the coming stranger. Now she +met him in the wood, now at the castle gate, now in the kitchen by +candle-light; each fresh presentment eclipsed the one before; a +form so elegant, manners so sedate, a countenance so brave and +comely, a voice so winning and resolute--sure such a man was never +seen! The thick-coming fancies poured and brightened in her head +like the smoke and flames upon the hearth. + +Presently the heavy foot of her uncle Jonathan was heard upon the +stair, and as he entered the room she bent the closer to her work. +He glanced at the green fagots with a sneer, and looked askance at +the bed and the white sheets, at the strip of carpet laid, like an +island, on the great expanse of the stone floor, and at the broken +glazing of the casement clumsily repaired with paper. + +'Leave that fire a-be,' he cried. 'What, have I toiled all my life +to turn innkeeper at the hind end? Leave it a-be, I say.' + +'La, uncle, it doesn't burn a bit; it only smokes,' said Nance, +looking up from her position. + +'You are come of decent people on both sides,' returned the old +man. 'Who are you to blow the coals for any Robin-run-agate? Get +up, get on your hood, make yourself useful, and be off to the +"Green Dragon."' + +'I thought you was to go yourself,' Nance faltered. + +'So did I,' quoth Jonathan; 'but it appears I was mistook.' + +The very excess of her eagerness alarmed her, and she began to hang +back. 'I think I would rather not, dear uncle,' she said. 'Night +is at hand, and I think, dear, I would rather not.' + +'Now you look here,' replied Jonathan, 'I have my lord's orders, +have I not? Little he gives me, but it's all my livelihood. And +do you fancy, if I disobey my lord, I'm likely to turn round for a +lass like you? No, I've that hell-fire of pain in my old knee, I +wouldn't walk a mile, not for King George upon his bended knees.' +And he walked to the window and looked down the steep scarp to +where the river foamed in the bottom of the dell. + +Nance stayed for no more bidding. In her own room, by the glimmer +of the twilight, she washed her hands and pulled on her Sunday +mittens; adjusted her black hood, and tied a dozen times its cherry +ribbons; and in less than ten minutes, with a fluttering heart and +excellently bright eyes, she passed forth under the arch and over +the bridge, into the thickening shadows of the groves. A well- +marked wheel-track conducted her. The wood, which upon both sides +of the river dell was a mere scrambling thicket of hazel, hawthorn, +and holly, boasted on the level of more considerable timber. +Beeches came to a good growth, with here and there an oak; and the +track now passed under a high arcade of branches, and now ran under +the open sky in glades. As the girl proceeded these glades became +more frequent, the trees began again to decline in size, and the +wood to degenerate into furzy coverts. Last of all there was a +fringe of elders; and beyond that the track came forth upon an +open, rolling moorland, dotted with wind-bowed and scanty bushes, +and all golden brown with the winter, like a grouse. Right over +against the girl the last red embers of the sunset burned under +horizontal clouds; the night fell clear and still and frosty, and +the track in low and marshy passages began to crackle under foot +with ice. + +Some half a mile beyond the borders of the wood the lights of the +'Green Dragon' hove in sight, and running close beside them, very +faint in the dying dusk, the pale ribbon of the Great North Road. +It was the back of the post-house that was presented to Nance +Holdaway; and as she continued to draw near and the night to fall +more completely, she became aware of an unusual brightness and +bustle. A post-chaise stood in the yard, its lamps already +lighted: light shone hospitably in the windows and from the open +door; moving lights and shadows testified to the activity of +servants bearing lanterns. The clank of pails, the stamping of +hoofs on the firm causeway, the jingle of harness, and, last of +all, the energetic hissing of a groom, began to fall upon her ear. +By the stir you would have thought the mail was at the door, but it +was still too early in the night. The down mail was not due at the +'Green Dragon' for hard upon an hour; the up mail from Scotland not +before two in the black morning. + +Nance entered the yard somewhat dazzled. Sam, the tall ostler, was +polishing a curb-chain wit sand; the lantern at his feet letting up +spouts of candle-light through the holes with which its conical +roof was peppered. + +'Hey, miss,' said he jocularly, 'you won't look at me any more, now +you have gentry at the castle.' + +Her cheeks burned with anger. + +'That's my lord's chay,' the man continued, nodding at the chaise, +'Lord Windermoor's. Came all in a fluster--dinner, bowl of punch, +and put the horses to. For all the world like a runaway match, my +dear--bar the bride. He brought Mr. Archer in the chay with him.' + +'Is that Holdaway?' cried the landlord from the lighted entry, +where he stood shading his eyes. + +'Only me, sir,' answered Nance. + +'O, you, Miss Nance,' he said. 'Well, come in quick, my pretty. +My lord is waiting for your uncle.' + +And he ushered Nance into a room cased with yellow wainscot and +lighted by tall candles, where two gentlemen sat at a table +finishing a bowl of punch. One of these was stout, elderly, and +irascible, with a face like a full moon, well dyed with liquor, +thick tremulous lips, a short, purple hand, in which he brandished +a long pipe, and an abrupt and gobbling utterance. This was my +Lord Windermoor. In his companion Nance beheld a younger man, +tall, quiet, grave, demurely dressed, and wearing his own hair. +Her glance but lighted on him, and she flushed, for in that second +she made sure that she had twice betrayed herself--betrayed by the +involuntary flash of her black eyes her secret impatience to behold +this new companion, and, what was far worse, betrayed her +disappointment in the realisation of her dreams. He, meanwhile, as +if unconscious, continued to regard her with unmoved decorum. + +'O, a man of wood,' thought Nance. + +'What--what?' said his lordship. 'Who is this?' + +'If you please, my lord, I am Holdaway's niece,' replied Nance, +with a curtsey. + +'Should have been here himself,' observed his lordship. 'Well, you +tell Holdaway that I'm aground, not a stiver--not a stiver. I'm +running from the beagles--going abroad, tell Holdaway. And he need +look for no more wages: glad of 'em myself, if I could get 'em. +He can live in the castle if he likes, or go to the devil. O, and +here is Mr. Archer; and I recommend him to take him in--a friend of +mine--and Mr. Archer will pay, as I wrote. And I regard that in +the light of a precious good thing for Holdaway, let me tell you, +and a set-off against the wages.' + +'But O, my lord!' cried Nance, 'we live upon the wages, and what +are we to do without?' + +'What am I to do?--what am I to do?' replied Lord Windermoor with +some exasperation. 'I have no wages. And there is Mr. Archer. +And if Holdaway doesn't like it, he can go to the devil, and you +with him!--and you with him!' + +'And yet, my lord,' said Mr. Archer, 'these good people will have +as keen a sense of loss as you or I; keener, perhaps, since they +have done nothing to deserve it.' + +'Deserve it?' cried the peer. 'What? What? If a rascally +highwayman comes up to me with a confounded pistol, do you say that +I've deserved it? How often am I to tell you, sir, that I was +cheated--that I was cheated?' + +'You are happy in the belief,' returned Mr. Archer gravely. + +'Archer, you would be the death of me!' exclaimed his lordship. +'You know you're drunk; you know it, sir; and yet you can't get up +a spark of animation.' + +'I have drunk fair, my lord,' replied the younger man; 'but I own I +am conscious of no exhilaration.' + +'If you had as black a look-out as me, sir,' cried the peer, 'you +would be very glad of a little innocent exhilaration, let me tell +you. I am glad of it--glad of it, and I only wish I was drunker. +For let me tell you it's a cruel hard thing upon a man of my time +of life and my position, to be brought down to beggary because the +world is full of thieves and rascals--thieves and rascals. What? +For all I know, you may be a thief and a rascal yourself; and I +would fight you for a pinch of snuff--a pinch of snuff,' exclaimed +his lordship. + +Here Mr. Archer turned to Nance Holdaway with a pleasant smile, so +full of sweetness, kindness, and composure that, at one bound, her +dreams returned to her. 'My good Miss Holdaway,' said he, 'if you +are willing to show me the road, I am even eager to be gone. As +for his lordship and myself, compose yourself; there is no fear; +this is his lordship's way.' + +'What? what?' cried his lordship. 'My way? Ish no such a thing, +my way.' + +'Come, my lord,' cried Archer; 'you and I very thoroughly +understand each other; and let me suggest, it is time that both of +us were gone. The mail will soon be due. Here, then, my lord, I +take my leave of you, with the most earnest assurance of my +gratitude for the past, and a sincere offer of any services I may +be able to render in the future.' + +'Archer,' exclaimed Lord Windermoor, 'I love you like a son. Le' +'s have another bowl.' + +'My lord, for both our sakes, you will excuse me,' replied Mr. +Archer. 'We both require caution; we must both, for some while at +least, avoid the chance of a pursuit.' + +'Archer,' quoth his lordship, 'this is a rank ingratishood. What? +I'm to go firing away in the dark in the cold po'chaise, and not so +much as a game of ecarte possible, unless I stop and play with the +postillion, the postillion; and the whole country swarming with +thieves and rascals and highwaymen.' + +'I beg your lordship's pardon,' put in the landlord, who now +appeared in the doorway to announce the chaise, 'but this part of +the North Road is known for safety. There has not been a robbery, +to call a robbery, this five years' time. Further south, of +course, it's nearer London, and another story,' he added. + +'Well, then, if that's so,' concluded my lord, 'le' 's have t'other +bowl and a pack of cards.' + +'My lord, you forget,' said Archer, 'I might still gain; but it is +hardly possible for me to lose.' + +'Think I'm a sharper?' inquired the peer. 'Gen'leman's parole's +all I ask.' + +But Mr. Archer was proof against these blandishments, and said +farewell gravely enough to Lord Windermoor, shaking his hand and at +the same time bowing very low. 'You will never know,' says he, +'the service you have done me.' And with that, and before my lord +had finally taken up his meaning, he had slipped about the table, +touched Nance lightly but imperiously on the arm, and left the +room. In face of the outbreak of his lordship's lamentations she +made haste to follow the truant. + + + +CHAPTER II--IN WHICH MR. ARCHER IS INSTALLED + + + +The chaise had been driven round to the front door; the courtyard +lay all deserted, and only lit by a lantern set upon a window-sill. +Through this Nance rapidly led the way, and began to ascend the +swellings of the moor with a heart that somewhat fluttered in her +bosom. She was not afraid, but in the course of these last +passages with Lord Windermoor Mr. Archer had ascended to that +pedestal on which her fancy waited to instal him. The reality, she +felt, excelled her dreams, and this cold night walk was the first +romantic incident in her experience. + +It was the rule in these days to see gentlemen unsteady after +dinner, yet Nance was both surprised and amused when her companion, +who had spoken so soberly, began to stumble and waver by her side +with the most airy divagations. Sometimes he would get so close to +her that she must edge away; and at others lurch clear out of the +track and plough among deep heather. His courtesy and gravity +meanwhile remained unaltered. He asked her how far they had to go; +whether the way lay all upon the moorland, and when he learned they +had to pass a wood expressed his pleasure. 'For,' said he, 'I am +passionately fond of trees. Trees and fair lawns, if you consider +of it rightly, are the ornaments of nature, as palaces and fine +approaches--' And here he stumbled into a patch of slough and +nearly fell. The girl had hard work not to laugh, but at heart she +was lost in admiration for one who talked so elegantly. + +They had got to about a quarter of a mile from the 'Green Dragon,' +and were near the summit of the rise, when a sudden rush of wheels +arrested them. Turning and looking back, they saw the post-house, +now much declined in brightness; and speeding away northward the +two tremulous bright dots of my Lord Windermoor's chaise-lamps. +Mr. Archer followed these yellow and unsteady stars until they +dwindled into points and disappeared. + +'There goes my only friend,' he said. 'Death has cut off those +that loved me, and change of fortune estranged my flatterers; and +but for you, poor bankrupt, my life is as lonely as this moor.' + +The tone of his voice affected both of them. They stood there on +the side of the moor, and became thrillingly conscious of the void +waste of the night, without a feature for the eye, and except for +the fainting whisper of the carriage-wheels without a murmur for +the ear. And instantly, like a mockery, there broke out, very far +away, but clear and jolly, the note of the mail-guard's horn. +'Over the hills' was his air. It rose to the two watchers on the +moor with the most cheerful sentiment of human company and travel, +and at the same time in and around the 'Green Dragon' it woke up a +great bustle of lights running to and fro and clattering hoofs. +Presently after, out of the darkness to southward, the mail grew +near with a growing rumble. Its lamps were very large and bright, +and threw their radiance forward in overlapping cones; the four +cantering horses swarmed and steamed; the body of the coach +followed like a great shadow; and this lit picture slid with a sort +of ineffectual swiftness over the black field of night, and was +eclipsed by the buildings of the 'Green Dragon.' + +Mr. Archer turned abruptly and resumed his former walk; only that +he was now more steady, kept better alongside his young conductor, +and had fallen into a silence broken by sighs. Nance waxed very +pitiful over his fate, contrasting an imaginary past of courts and +great society, and perhaps the King himself, with the tumbledown +ruin in a wood to which she was now conducting him. + +'You must try, sir, to keep your spirits up,' said she. 'To be +sure this is a great change for one like you; but who knows the +future?' + +Mr. Archer turned towards her in the darkness, and she could +clearly perceive that he smiled upon her very kindly. 'There spoke +a sweet nature,' said he, 'and I must thank you for these words. +But I would not have you fancy that I regret the past for any +happiness found in it, or that I fear the simplicity and hardship +of the country. I am a man that has been much tossed about in +life; now up, now down; and do you think that I shall not be able +to support what you support--you who are kind, and therefore know +how to feel pain; who are beautiful, and therefore hope; who are +young, and therefore (or am I the more mistaken?) discontented?' + +'Nay, sir, not that, at least,' said Nance; 'not discontented. If +I were to be discontented, how should I look those that have real +sorrows in the face? I have faults enough, but not that fault; and +I have my merits too, for I have a good opinion of myself. But for +beauty, I am not so simple but that I can tell a banter from a +compliment.' + +'Nay, nay,' said Mr. Archer, 'I had half forgotten; grief is +selfish, and I was thinking of myself and not of you, or I had +never blurted out so bold a piece of praise. 'Tis the best proof +of my sincerity. But come, now, I would lay a wager you are no +coward?' + +'Indeed, sir, I am not more afraid than another,' said Nance. +'None of my blood are given to fear.' + +'And you are honest?' he returned. + +'I will answer for that,' said she. + +'Well, then, to be brave, to be honest, to be kind, and to be +contented, since you say you are so--is not that to fill up a great +part of virtue?' + +'I fear you are but a flatterer,' said Nance, but she did not say +it clearly, for what with bewilderment and satisfaction, her heart +was quite oppressed. + +There could be no harm, certainly, in these grave compliments; but +yet they charmed and frightened her, and to find favour, for +reasons however obscure, in the eyes of this elegant, serious, and +most unfortunate young gentleman, was a giddy elevation, was almost +an apotheosis, for a country maid. + +But she was to be no more exercised; for Mr. Archer, disclaiming +any thought of flattery, turned off to other subjects, and held her +all through the wood in conversation, addressing her with an air of +perfect sincerity, and listening to her answers with every mark of +interest. Had open flattery continued, Nance would have soon found +refuge in good sense; but the more subtle lure she could not +suspect, much less avoid. It was the first time she had ever taken +part in a conversation illuminated by any ideas. All was then true +that she had heard and dreamed of gentlemen; they were a race +apart, like deities knowing good and evil. And then there burst +upon her soul a divine thought, hope's glorious sunrise: since she +could understand, since it seemed that she too, even she, could +interest this sorrowful Apollo, might she not learn? or was she not +learning? Would not her soul awake and put forth wings? Was she +not, in fact, an enchanted princess, waiting but a touch to become +royal? She saw herself transformed, radiantly attired, but in the +most exquisite taste: her face grown longer and more refined; her +tint etherealised; and she heard herself with delighted wonder +talking like a book. + +Meanwhile they had arrived at where the track comes out above the +river dell, and saw in front of them the castle, faintly shadowed +on the night, covering with its broken battlements a bold +projection of the bank, and showing at the extreme end, where were +the habitable tower and wing, some crevices of candle-light. Hence +she called loudly upon her uncle, and he was seen to issue, lantern +in hand, from the tower door, and, where the ruins did not +intervene, to pick his way over the swarded courtyard, avoiding +treacherous cellars and winding among blocks of fallen masonry. +The arch of the great gate was still entire, flanked by two +tottering bastions, and it was here that Jonathan met them, +standing at the edge of the bridge, bent somewhat forward, and +blinking at them through the glow of his own lantern. Mr. Archer +greeted him with civility; but the old man was in no humour of +compliance. He guided the newcomer across the court-yard, looking +sharply and quickly in his face, and grumbling all the time about +the cold, and the discomfort and dilapidation of the castle. He +was sure he hoped that Mr. Archer would like it; but in truth he +could not think what brought him there. Doubtless he had a good +reason--this with a look of cunning scrutiny--but, indeed, the +place was quite unfit for any person of repute; he himself was +eaten up with the rheumatics. It was the most rheumaticky place in +England, and some fine day the whole habitable part (to call it +habitable) would fetch away bodily and go down the slope into the +river. He had seen the cracks widening; there was a plaguy issue +in the bank below; he thought a spring was mining it; it might be +to-morrow, it might be next day; but they were all sure of a come- +down sooner or later. 'And that is a poor death,' said he, 'for +any one, let alone a gentleman, to have a whole old ruin dumped +upon his belly. Have a care to your left there; these cellar +vaults have all broke down, and the grass and hemlock hide 'em. +Well, sir, here is welcome to you, such as it is, and wishing you +well away.' + +And with that Jonathan ushered his guest through the tower door, +and down three steps on the left hand into the kitchen or common +room of the castle. It was a huge, low room, as large as a meadow, +occupying the whole width of the habitable wing, with six barred +windows looking on the court, and two into the river valley. A +dresser, a table, and a few chairs stood dotted here and there upon +the uneven flags. Under the great chimney a good fire burned in an +iron fire-basket; a high old settee, rudely carved with figures and +Gothic lettering, flanked it on either side; there was a hinge +table and a stone bench in the chimney corner, and above the arch +hung guns, axes, lanterns, and great sheaves of rusty keys. + +Jonathan looked about him, holding up the lantern, and shrugged his +shoulders, with a pitying grimace. 'Here it is,' he said. 'See +the damp on the floor, look at the moss; where there's moss you may +be sure that it's rheumaticky. Try and get near that fire for to +warm yourself; it'll blow the coat off your back. And with a young +gentleman with a face like yours, as pale as a tallow-candle, I'd +be afeard of a churchyard cough and a galloping decline,' says +Jonathan, naming the maladies with gloomy gusto, 'or the cold might +strike and turn your blood,' he added. + +Mr. Archer fairly laughed. 'My good Mr. Holdaway,' said he, 'I was +born with that same tallow-candle face, and the only fear that you +inspire me with is the fear that I intrude unwelcomely upon your +private hours. But I think I can promise you that I am very little +troublesome, and I am inclined to hope that the terms which I can +offer may still pay you the derangement.' + +'Yes, the terms,' said Jonathan, 'I was thinking of that. As you +say, they are very small,' and he shook his head. + +'Unhappily, I can afford no more,' said Mr. Archer. 'But this we +have arranged already,' he added with a certain stiffness; 'and as +I am aware that Miss Holdaway has matter to communicate, I will, if +you permit, retire at once. To-night I must bivouac; to-morrow my +trunk is to follow from the "Dragon." So if you will show me to my +room I shall wish you a good slumber and a better awakening.' + +Jonathan silently gave the lantern to Nance, and she, turning and +curtseying in the doorway, proceeded to conduct their guest up the +broad winding staircase of the tower. He followed with a very +brooding face. + +'Alas!' cried Nance, as she entered the room, 'your fire black +out,' and, setting down the lantern, she clapped upon her knees +before the chimney and began to rearrange the charred and still +smouldering remains. Mr. Archer looked about the gaunt apartment +with a sort of shudder. The great height, the bare stone, the +shattered windows, the aspect of the uncurtained bed, with one of +its four fluted columns broken short, all struck a chill upon his +fancy. From this dismal survey his eyes returned to Nance +crouching before the fire, the candle in one hand and artfully +puffing at the embers; the flames as they broke forth played upon +the soft outline of her cheek--she was alive and young, coloured +with the bright hues of life, and a woman. He looked upon her, +softening; and then sat down and continued to admire the picture. + +'There, sir,' said she, getting upon her feet, 'your fire is doing +bravely now. Good-night.' + +He rose and held out his hand. 'Come,' said he, 'you are my only +friend in these parts, and you must shake hands.' + +She brushed her hand upon her skirt and offered it, blushing. + +'God bless you, my dear,' said he. + +And then, when he was alone, he opened one of the windows, and +stared down into the dark valley. A gentle wimpling of the river +among stones ascended to his ear; the trees upon the other bank +stood very black against the sky; farther away an owl was hooting. +It was dreary and cold, and as he turned back to the hearth and the +fine glow of fire, 'Heavens!' said he to himself, 'what an +unfortunate destiny is mine!' + +He went to bed, but sleep only visited his pillow in uneasy +snatches. Outbreaks of loud speech came up the staircase; he heard +the old stones of the castle crack in the frosty night with sharp +reverberations, and the bed complained under his tossings. Lastly, +far on into the morning, he awakened from a doze to hear, very far +off, in the extreme and breathless quiet, a wailing flourish on the +horn. The down mail was drawing near to the 'Green Dragon.' He +sat up in bed; the sound was tragical by distance, and the +modulation appealed to his ear like human speech. It seemed to +call upon him with a dreary insistence--to call him far away, to +address him personally, and to have a meaning that he failed to +seize. It was thus, at least, in this nodding castle, in a cold, +miry woodland, and so far from men and society, that the traffic on +the Great North Road spoke to him in the intervals of slumber. + + + +CHAPTER III-- JONATHAN HOLDAWAY + + + +Nance descended the tower stair, pausing at every step. She was in +no hurry to confront her uncle with bad news, and she must dwell a +little longer on the rich note of Mr. Archer's voice, the charm of +his kind words, and the beauty of his manner and person. But, once +at the stair-foot, she threw aside the spell and recovered her +sensible and workaday self. + +Jonathan was seated in the middle of the settle, a mug of ale +beside him, in the attitude of one prepared for trouble; but he did +not speak, and suffered her to fetch her supper and eat of it, with +a very excellent appetite, in silence. When she had done, she, +too, drew a tankard of home-brewed, and came and planted herself in +front of him upon the settle. + +'Well?' said Jonathan. + +'My lord has run away,' said Nance. + +'What?' cried the old man. + +'Abroad,' she continued; 'run away from creditors. He said he had +not a stiver, but he was drunk enough. He said you might live on +in the castle, and Mr. Archer would pay you; but you was to look +for no more wages, since he would be glad of them himself.' + +Jonathan's face contracted; the flush of a black, bilious anger +mounted to the roots of his hair; he gave an inarticulate cry, +leapt upon his feet, and began rapidly pacing the stone floor. At +first he kept his hands behind his back in a tight knot; then he +began to gesticulate as he turned. + +'This man--this lord,' he shouted, 'who is he? He was born with a +gold spoon in his mouth, and I with a dirty straw. He rolled in +his coach when he was a baby. I have dug and toiled and laboured +since I was that high--that high.' And he shouted again. 'I'm +bent and broke, and full of pains. D' ye think I don't know the +taste of sweat? Many's the gallon I've drunk of it--ay, in the +midwinter, toiling like a slave. All through, what has my life +been? Bend, bend, bend my old creaking back till it would ache +like breaking; wade about in the foul mire, never a dry stitch; +empty belly, sore hands, hat off to my Lord Redface; kicks and +ha'pence; and now, here, at the hind end, when I'm worn to my poor +bones, a kick and done with it.' He walked a little while in +silence, and then, extending his hand, 'Now you, Nance Holdaway,' +says he, 'you come of my blood, and you're a good girl. When that +man was a boy, I used to carry his gun for him. I carried the gun +all day on my two feet, and many a stitch I had, and chewed a +bullet for. He rode upon a horse, with feathers in his hat; but it +was him that had the shots and took the game home. Did I complain? +Not I. I knew my station. What did I ask, but just the chance to +live and die honest? Nance Holdaway, don't let them deny it to me- +-don't let them do it. I've been as poor as Job, and as honest as +the day, but now, my girl, you mark these words of mine, I'm +getting tired of it.' + +'I wouldn't say such words, at least,' said Nance. + +'You wouldn't?' said the old man grimly. 'Well, and did I when I +was your age? Wait till your back's broke and your hands tremble, +and your eyes fail, and you're weary of the battle and ask no more +but to lie down in your bed and give the ghost up like an honest +man; and then let there up and come some insolent, ungodly fellow-- +ah! if I had him in these hands! "Where's my money that you +gambled?" I should say. "Where's my money that you drank and +diced?" "Thief!" is what I would say; "Thief!"' he roared, +'"Thief"' + +'Mr. Archer will hear you if you don't take care,' said Nance, 'and +I would be ashamed, for one, that he should hear a brave, old, +honest, hard-working man like Jonathan Holdaway talk nonsense like +a boy.' + +'D' ye think I mind for Mr. Archer?' he cried shrilly, with a clack +of laughter; and then he came close up to her, stooped down with +his two palms upon his knees, and looked her in the eyes, with a +strange hard expression, something like a smile. 'Do I mind for +God, my girl?' he said; 'that's what it's come to be now, do I mind +for God?' + +'Uncle Jonathan,' she said, getting up and taking him by the arm; +'you sit down again, where you were sitting. There, sit still; +I'll have no more of this; you'll do yourself a mischief. Come, +take a drink of this good ale, and I'll warm a tankard for you. +La, we'll pull through, you'll see. I'm young, as you say, and +it's my turn to carry the bundle; and don't you worry your bile, or +we'll have sickness, too, as well as sorrow.' + +'D' ye think that I'd forgotten you?' said Jonathan, with something +like a groan; and thereupon his teeth clicked to, and he sat silent +with the tankard in his hand and staring straight before him. + +'Why,' says Nance, setting on the ale to mull, 'men are always +children, they say, however old; and if ever I heard a thing like +this, to set to and make yourself sick, just when the money's +failing. Keep a good heart up; you haven't kept a good heart these +seventy years, nigh hand, to break down about a pound or two. +Here's this Mr. Archer come to lodge, that you disliked so much. +Well, now you see it was a clear Providence. Come, let's think +upon our mercies. And here is the ale mulling lovely; smell of it; +I'll take a drop myself, it smells so sweet. And, Uncle Jonathan, +you let me say one word. You've lost more than money before now; +you lost my aunt, and bore it like a man. Bear this.' + +His face once more contracted; his fist doubled, and shot forth +into the air, and trembled. 'Let them look out!' he shouted. +'Here, I warn all men; I've done with this foul kennel of knaves. +Let them look out!' + +'Hush, hush! for pity's sake,' cried Nance. + +And then all of a sudden he dropped his face into his hands, and +broke out with a great hiccoughing dry sob that was horrible to +hear. 'O,' he cried, 'my God, if my son hadn't left me, if my Dick +was here!' and the sobs shook him; Nance sitting still and watching +him, with distress. 'O, if he were here to help his father!' he +went on again. 'If I had a son like other fathers, he would save +me now, when all is breaking down; O, he would save me! Ay, but +where is he? Raking taverns, a thief perhaps. My curse be on +him!' he added, rising again into wrath. + +'Hush!' cried Nance, springing to her feet: 'your boy, your dead +wife's boy--Aunt Susan's baby that she loved--would you curse him? +O, God forbid!' + +The energy of her address surprised him from his mood. He looked +upon her, tearless and confused. 'Let me go to my bed,' he said at +last, and he rose, and, shaking as with ague, but quite silent, +lighted his candle, and left the kitchen. + +Poor Nance! the pleasant current of her dreams was all diverted. +She beheld a golden city, where she aspired to dwell; she had +spoken with a deity, and had told herself that she might rise to be +his equal; and now the earthly ligaments that bound her down had +been tightened. She was like a tree looking skyward, her roots +were in the ground. It seemed to her a thing so coarse, so rustic, +to be thus concerned about a loss in money; when Mr. Archer, fallen +from the sky-level of counts and nobles, faced his changed destiny +with so immovable a courage. To weary of honesty; that, at least, +no one could do, but even to name it was already a disgrace; and +she beheld in fancy her uncle, and the young lad, all laced and +feathered, hand upon hip, bestriding his small horse. The +opposition seemed to perpetuate itself from generation to +generation; one side still doomed to the clumsy and the servile, +the other born to beauty. + +She thought of the golden zones in which gentlemen were bred, and +figured with so excellent a grace; zones in which wisdom and smooth +words, white linen and slim hands, were the mark of the desired +inhabitants; where low temptations were unknown, and honesty no +virtue, but a thing as natural as breathing. + + + +CHAPTER IV--MINGLING THREADS + + + +It was nearly seven before Mr. Archer left his apartment. On the +landing he found another door beside his own opening on a roofless +corridor, and presently he was walking on the top of the ruins. On +one hand he could look down a good depth into the green court-yard; +on the other his eye roved along the downward course of the river, +the wet woods all smoking, the shadows long and blue, the mists +golden and rosy in the sun, here and there the water flashing +across an obstacle. His heart expanded and softened to a grateful +melancholy, and with his eye fixed upon the distance, and no +thought of present danger, he continued to stroll along the +elevated and treacherous promenade. + +A terror-stricken cry rose to him from the courtyard. He looked +down, and saw in a glimpse Nance standing below with hands clasped +in horror and his own foot trembling on the margin of a gulf. He +recoiled and leant against a pillar, quaking from head to foot, and +covering his face with his hands; and Nance had time to run round +by the stair and rejoin him where he stood before he had changed a +line of his position. + +'Ah!' he cried, and clutched her wrist; 'don't leave me. The place +rocks; I have no head for altitudes.' + +'Sit down against that pillar,' said Nance. 'Don't you be afraid; +I won't leave you, and don't look up or down: look straight at me. +How white you are!' + +'The gulf,' he said, and closed his eyes again and shuddered. + +'Why,' said Nance, 'what a poor climber you must be! That was +where my cousin Dick used to get out of the castle after Uncle +Jonathan had shut the gate. I've been down there myself with him +helping me. I wouldn't try with you,' she said, and laughed +merrily. + +The sound of her laughter was sincere and musical, and perhaps its +beauty barbed the offence to Mr. Archer. The blood came into his +face with a quick jet, and then left it paler than before. 'It is +a physical weakness,' he said harshly, 'and very droll, no doubt, +but one that I can conquer on necessity. See, I am still shaking. +Well, I advance to the battlements and look down. Show me your +cousin's path.' + +'He would go sure-foot along that little ledge,' said Nance, +pointing as she spoke; 'then out through the breach and down by +yonder buttress. It is easier coming back, of course, because you +see where you are going. From the buttress foot a sheep-walk goes +along the scarp--see, you can follow it from here in the dry grass. +And now, sir,' she added, with a touch of womanly pity, 'I would +come away from here if I were you, for indeed you are not fit.' + +Sure enough Mr. Archer's pallor and agitation had continued to +increase; his cheeks were deathly, his clenched fingers trembled +pitifully. 'The weakness is physical,' he sighed, and had nearly +fallen. Nance led him from the spot, and he was no sooner back in +the tower-stair, than he fell heavily against the wall and put his +arm across his eyes. A cup of brandy had to be brought him before +he could descend to breakfast; and the perfection of Nance's dream +was for the first time troubled. + +Jonathan was waiting for them at table, with yellow, blood-shot +eyes and a peculiar dusky complexion. He hardly waited till they +found their seats, before, raising one hand, and stooping with his +mouth above his plate, he put up a prayer for a blessing on the +food and a spirit of gratitude in the eaters, and thereupon, and +without more civility, fell to. But it was notable that he was no +less speedily satisfied than he had been greedy to begin. He +pushed his plate away and drummed upon the table. + +'These are silly prayers,' said he, 'that they teach us. Eat and +be thankful, that's no such wonder. Speak to me of starving-- +there's the touch. You're a man, they tell me, Mr. Archer, that +has met with some reverses?' + +'I have met with many,' replied Mr. Archer. + +'Ha!' said Jonathan. 'None reckons but the last. Now, see; I +tried to make this girl here understand me.' + +'Uncle,' said Nance, 'what should Mr. Archer care for your +concerns? He hath troubles of his own, and came to be at peace, I +think.' + +'I tried to make her understand me,' repeated Jonathan doggedly; +'and now I'll try you. Do you think this world is fair?' + +'Fair and false!' quoth Mr. Archer. + +The old man laughed immoderately. 'Good,' said he, 'very good, but +what I mean is this: do you know what it is to get up early and go +to bed late, and never take so much as a holiday but four: and one +of these your own marriage day, and the other three the funerals of +folk you loved, and all that, to have a quiet old age in shelter, +and bread for your old belly, and a bed to lay your crazy bones +upon, with a clear conscience?' + +'Sir,' said Mr. Archer, with an inclination of his head, 'you +portray a very brave existence.' + +'Well,' continued Jonathan, 'and in the end thieves deceive you, +thieves rob and rook you, thieves turn you out in your old age and +send you begging. What have you got for all your honesty? A fine +return! You that might have stole scores of pounds, there you are +out in the rain with your rheumatics!' + +Mr. Archer had forgotten to eat; with his hand upon his chin he was +studying the old man's countenance. 'And you conclude?' he asked. + +'Conclude!' cried Jonathan. 'I conclude I'll be upsides with +them.' + +'Ay,' said the other, 'we are all tempted to revenge.' + +'You have lost money?' asked Jonathan. + +'A great estate,' said Archer quietly. + +'See now!' says Jonathan, 'and where is it?' + +'Nay, I sometimes think that every one has had his share of it but +me,' was the reply. 'All England hath paid his taxes with my +patrimony: I was a sheep that left my wool on every briar.' + +'And you sit down under that?' cried the old man. 'Come now, Mr. +Archer, you and me belong to different stations; and I know mine-- +no man better--but since we have both been rooked, and are both +sore with it, why, here's my hand with a very good heart, and I ask +for yours, and no offence, I hope.' + +'There is surely no offence, my friend,' returned Mr. Archer, as +they shook hands across the table; 'for, believe me, my sympathies +are quite acquired to you. This life is an arena where we fight +with beasts; and, indeed,' he added, sighing, 'I sometimes marvel +why we go down to it unarmed.' + +In the meanwhile a creaking of ungreased axles had been heard +descending through the wood; and presently after, the door opened, +and the tall ostler entered the kitchen carrying one end of Mr. +Archer's trunk. The other was carried by an aged beggar man of +that district, known and welcome for some twenty miles about under +the name of 'Old Cumberland.' Each was soon perched upon a settle, +with a cup of ale; and the ostler, who valued himself upon his +affability, began to entertain the company, still with half an eye +on Nance, to whom in gallant terms he expressly dedicated every sip +of ale. First he told of the trouble they had to get his Lordship +started in the chaise; and how he had dropped a rouleau of gold on +the threshold, and the passage and doorstep had been strewn with +guinea-pieces. At this old Jonathan looked at Mr. Archer. Next +the visitor turned to news of a more thrilling character: how the +down mail had been stopped again near Grantham by three men on +horseback--a white and two bays; how they had handkerchiefs on +their faces; how Tom the guard's blunderbuss missed fire, but he +swore he had winged one of them with a pistol; and how they had got +clean away with seventy pounds in money, some valuable papers, and +a watch or two. + +'Brave! brave!' cried Jonathan in ecstasy. 'Seventy pounds! O, +it's brave!' + +'Well, I don't see the great bravery,' observed the ostler, +misapprehending him. 'Three men, and you may call that three to +one. I'll call it brave when some one stops the mail single- +handed; that's a risk.' + +'And why should they hesitate?' inquired Mr. Archer. 'The poor +souls who are fallen to such a way of life, pray what have they to +lose? If they get the money, well; but if a ball should put them +from their troubles, why, so better.' + +'Well, sir,' said the ostler, 'I believe you'll find they won't +agree with you. They count on a good fling, you see; or who would +risk it?--And here's my best respects to you, Miss Nance.' + +'And I forgot the part of cowardice,' resumed Mr. Archer. 'All men +fear.' + +'O, surely not!' cried Nance. + +'All men,' reiterated Mr. Archer. + +'Ay, that's a true word,' observed Old Cumberland, 'and a thief, +anyway, for it's a coward's trade.' + +'But these fellows, now,' said Jonathan, with a curious, appealing +manner--'these fellows with their seventy pounds! Perhaps, Mr. +Archer, they were no true thieves after all, but just people who +had been robbed and tried to get their own again. What was that +you said, about all England and the taxes? One takes, another +gives; why, that's almost fair. If I've been rooked and robbed, +and the coat taken off my back, I call it almost fair to take +another's.' + +'Ask Old Cumberland,' observed the ostler; 'you ask Old Cumberland, +Miss Nance!' and he bestowed a wink upon his favoured fair one. + +'Why that?' asked Jonathan. + +'He had his coat taken--ay, and his shirt too,' returned the +ostler. + +'Is that so?' cried Jonathan eagerly. 'Was you robbed too?' + +'That was I,' replied Cumberland, 'with a warrant! I was a well- +to-do man when I was young.' + +'Ay! See that!' says Jonathan. 'And you don't long for a +revenge?' + +'Eh! Not me!' answered the beggar. 'It's too long ago. But if +you'll give me another mug of your good ale, my pretty lady, I +won't say no to that.' + +'And shalt have! And shalt have!' cried Jonathan. 'Or brandy +even, if you like it better.' + +And as Cumberland did like it better, and the ostler chimed in, the +party pledged each other in a dram of brandy before separating. + +As for Nance, she slipped forth into the ruins, partly to avoid the +ostler's gallantries, partly to lament over the defects of Mr. +Archer. Plainly, he was no hero. She pitied him; she began to +feel a protecting interest mingle with and almost supersede her +admiration, and was at the same time disappointed and yet drawn to +him. She was, indeed, conscious of such unshaken fortitude in her +own heart, that she was almost tempted by an occasion to be bold +for two. She saw herself, in a brave attitude, shielding her +imperfect hero from the world; and she saw, like a piece of heaven, +his gratitude for her protection. + + + +CHAPTER V--LIFE IN THE CASTLE + + + +From that day forth the life of these three persons in the ruin ran +very smoothly. Mr. Archer now sat by the fire with a book, and now +passed whole days abroad, returning late, dead weary. His manner +was a mask; but it was half transparent; through the even tenor of +his gravity and courtesy profound revolutions of feeling were +betrayed, seasons of numb despair, of restlessness, of aching +temper. For days he would say nothing beyond his usual courtesies +and solemn compliments; and then, all of a sudden, some fine +evening beside the kitchen fire, he would fall into a vein of +elegant gossip, tell of strange and interesting events, the secrets +of families, brave deeds of war, the miraculous discovery of crime, +the visitations of the dead. Nance and her uncle would sit till +the small hours with eyes wide open: Jonathan applauding the +unexpected incidents with many a slap of his big hand; Nance, +perhaps, more pleased with the narrator's eloquence and wise +reflections; and then, again, days would follow of abstraction, of +listless humming, of frequent apologies and long hours of silence. +Once only, and then after a week of unrelieved melancholy, he went +over to the 'Green Dragon,' spent the afternoon with the landlord +and a bowl of punch, and returned as on the first night, devious in +step but courteous and unperturbed of speech. + +If he seemed more natural and more at his ease it was when he found +Nance alone; and, laying by some of his reserve, talked before her +rather than to her of his destiny, character and hopes. To Nance +these interviews were but a doubtful privilege. At times he would +seem to take a pleasure in her presence, to consult her gravely, to +hear and to discuss her counsels; at times even, but these were +rare and brief, he would talk of herself, praise the qualities that +she possessed, touch indulgently on her defects, and lend her books +to read and even examine her upon her reading; but far more often +he would fall into a half unconsciousness, put her a question and +then answer it himself, drop into the veiled tone of voice of one +soliloquising, and leave her at last as though he had forgotten her +existence. It was odd, too, that in all this random converse, not +a fact of his past life, and scarce a name, should ever cross his +lips. A profound reserve kept watch upon his most unguarded +moments. He spoke continually of himself, indeed, but still in +enigmas; a veiled prophet of egoism. + +The base of Nance's feelings for Mr. Archer was admiration as for a +superior being; and with this, his treatment, consciously or not, +accorded happily. When he forgot her, she took the blame upon +herself. His formal politeness was so exquisite that this +essential brutality stood excused. His compliments, besides, were +always grave and rational; he would offer reason for his praise, +convict her of merit, and thus disarm suspicion. Nay, and the very +hours when he forgot and remembered her alternately could by the +ardent fallacies of youth be read in the light of an attention. +She might be far from his confidence; but still she was nearer it +than any one. He might ignore her presence, but yet he sought it. + +Moreover, she, upon her side, was conscious of one point of +superiority. Beside this rather dismal, rather effeminate man, who +recoiled from a worm, who grew giddy on the castle wall, who bore +so helplessly the weight of his misfortunes, she felt herself a +head and shoulders taller in cheerful and sterling courage. She +could walk head in air along the most precarious rafter; her hand +feared neither the grossness nor the harshness of life's web, but +was thrust cheerfully, if need were, into the briar bush, and could +take hold of any crawling horror. Ruin was mining the walls of her +cottage, as already it had mined and subverted Mr. Archer's palace. +Well, she faced it with a bright countenance and a busy hand. She +had got some washing, some rough seamstress work from the 'Green +Dragon,' and from another neighbour ten miles away across the moor. +At this she cheerfully laboured, and from that height she could +afford to pity the useless talents and poor attitude of Mr. Archer. +It did not change her admiration, but it made it bearable. He was +above her in all ways; but she was above him in one. She kept it +to herself, and hugged it. When, like all young creatures, she +made long stories to justify, to nourish, and to forecast the +course of her affection, it was this private superiority that made +all rosy, that cut the knot, and that, at last, in some great +situation, fetched to her knees the dazzling but imperfect hero. +With this pretty exercise she beguiled the hours of labour, and +consoled herself for Mr. Archer's bearing. + +Pity was her weapon and her weakness. To accept the loved one's +faults, although it has an air of freedom, is to kiss the chain, +and this pity it was which, lying nearer to her heart, lent the one +element of true emotion to a fanciful and merely brain-sick love. + +Thus it fell out one day that she had gone to the 'Green Dragon' +and brought back thence a letter to Mr. Archer. He, upon seeing +it, winced like a man under the knife: pain, shame, sorrow, and +the most trenchant edge of mortification cut into his heart and +wrung the steady composure of his face. + +'Dear heart! have you bad news?' she cried. + +But he only replied by a gesture and fled to his room, and when, +later on, she ventured to refer to it, he stopped her on the +threshold, as if with words prepared beforehand. 'There are some +pains,' said he, 'too acute for consolation, or I would bring them +to my kind consoler. Let the memory of that letter, if you please, +be buried.' And then as she continued to gaze at him, being, in +spite of herself, pained by his elaborate phrase, doubtfully +sincere in word and manner: 'Let it be enough,' he added +haughtily, 'that if this matter wring my heart, it doth not touch +my conscience. I am a man, I would have you to know, who suffers +undeservedly.' + +He had never spoken so directly: never with so convincing an +emotion; and her heart thrilled for him. She could have taken his +pains and died of them with joy. + +Meanwhile she was left without support. Jonathan now swore by his +lodger, and lived for him. He was a fine talker. He knew the +finest sight of stories; he was a man and a gentleman, take him for +all in all, and a perfect credit to Old England. Such were the old +man's declared sentiments, and sure enough he clung to Mr. Archer's +side, hung upon his utterance when he spoke, and watched him with +unwearing interest when he was silent. And yet his feeling was not +clear; in the partial wreck of his mind, which was leaning to +decay, some after-thought was strongly present. As he gazed in Mr. +Archer's face a sudden brightness would kindle in his rheumy eyes, +his eye-brows would lift as with a sudden thought, his mouth would +open as though to speak, and close again on silence. Once or twice +he even called Mr. Archer mysteriously forth into the dark +courtyard, took him by the button, and laid a demonstrative finger +on his chest; but there his ideas or his courage failed him; he +would shufflingly excuse himself and return to his position by the +fire without a word of explanation. 'The good man was growing +old,' said Mr. Archer with a suspicion of a shrug. But the good +man had his idea, and even when he was alone the name of Mr. Archer +fell from his lips continually in the course of mumbled and +gesticulative conversation. + + + +CHAPTER VI--THE BAD HALF-CROWN + + + +However early Nance arose, and she was no sluggard, the old man, +who had begun to outlive the earthly habit of slumber, would +usually have been up long before, the fire would be burning +brightly, and she would see him wandering among the ruins, lantern +in hand, and talking assiduously to himself. One day, however, +after he had returned late from the market town, she found that she +had stolen a march upon that indefatigable early riser. The +kitchen was all blackness. She crossed the castle-yard to the +wood-cellar, her steps printing the thick hoarfrost. A scathing +breeze blew out of the north-east and slowly carried a regiment of +black and tattered clouds over the face of heaven, which was +already kindled with the wild light of morning, but where she +walked, in shelter of the ruins, the flame of her candle burned +steady. The extreme cold smote upon her conscience. She could not +bear to think this bitter business fell usually to the lot of one +so old as Jonathan, and made desperate resolutions to be earlier in +the future. + +The fire was a good blaze before he entered, limping dismally into +the kitchen. 'Nance,' said he, 'I be all knotted up with the +rheumatics; will you rub me a bit?' She came and rubbed him where +and how he bade her. 'This is a cruel thing that old age should be +rheumaticky,' said he. 'When I was young I stood my turn of the +teethache like a man! for why? because it couldn't last for ever; +but these rheumatics come to live and die with you. Your aunt was +took before the time came; never had an ache to mention. Now I lie +all night in my single bed and the blood never warms in me; this +knee of mine it seems like lighted up with rheumatics; it seems as +though you could see to sew by it; and all the strings of my old +body ache, as if devils was pulling 'em. Thank you kindly; that's +someways easier now, but an old man, my dear, has little to look +for; it's pain, pain, pain to the end of the business, and I'll +never be rightly warm again till I get under the sod,' he said, and +looked down at her with a face so aged and weary that she had +nearly wept. + +'I lay awake all night,' he continued; 'I do so mostly, and a long +walk kills me. Eh, deary me, to think that life should run to such +a puddle! And I remember long syne when I was strong, and the +blood all hot and good about me, and I loved to run, too--deary me, +to run! Well, that's all by. You'd better pray to be took early, +Nance, and not live on till you get to be like me, and are robbed +in your grey old age, your cold, shivering, dark old age, that's +like a winter's morning'; and he bitterly shuddered, spreading his +hands before the fire. + +'Come now,' said Nance, 'the more you say the less you'll like it, +Uncle Jonathan; but if I were you I would be proud for to have +lived all your days honest and beloved, and come near the end with +your good name: isn't that a fine thing to be proud of? Mr. +Archer was telling me in some strange land they used to run races +each with a lighted candle, and the art was to keep the candle +burning. Well, now, I thought that was like life: a man's good +conscience is the flame he gets to carry, and if he comes to the +winning-post with that still burning, why, take it how you will, +the man's a hero--even if he was low-born like you and me.' + +'Did Mr. Archer tell you that?' asked Jonathan. + +'No, dear,' said she, 'that's my own thought about it. He told me +of the race. But see, now,' she continued, putting on the +porridge, 'you say old age is a hard season, but so is youth. +You're half out of the battle, I would say; you loved my aunt and +got her, and buried her, and some of these days soon you'll go to +meet her; and take her my love and tell her I tried to take good +care of you; for so I do, Uncle Jonathan.' + +Jonathan struck with his fist upon the settle. 'D' ye think I want +to die, ye vixen?' he shouted. 'I want to live ten hundred years.' + +This was a mystery beyond Nance's penetration, and she stared in +wonder as she made the porridge. + +'I want to live,' he continued, 'I want to live and to grow rich. +I want to drive my carriage and to dice in hells and see the ring, +I do. Is this a life that I lived? I want to be a rake, d' ye +understand? I want to know what things are like. I don't want to +die like a blind kitten, and me seventy-six.' + +'O fie!' said Nance. + +The old man thrust out his jaw at her, with the grimace of an +irreverent schoolboy. Upon that aged face it seemed a blasphemy. +Then he took out of his bosom a long leather purse, and emptying +its contents on the settle, began to count and recount the pieces, +ringing and examining each, and suddenly he leapt like a young man. +'What!' he screamed. 'Bad? O Lord! I'm robbed again!' And +falling on his knees before the settle he began to pour forth the +most dreadful curses on the head of his deceiver. His eyes were +shut, for to him this vile solemnity was prayer. He held up the +bad half-crown in his right hand, as though he were displaying it +to Heaven, and what increased the horror of the scene, the curses +he invoked were those whose efficacy he had tasted--old age and +poverty, rheumatism and an ungrateful son. Nance listened +appalled; then she sprang forward and dragged down his arm and laid +her hand upon his mouth. + +'Whist!' she cried. 'Whist ye, for God's sake! O my man, whist +ye! If Heaven were to hear; if poor Aunt Susan were to hear! +Think, she may be listening.' And with the histrionism of strong +emotion she pointed to a corner of the kitchen. + +His eyes followed her finger. He looked there for a little, +thinking, blinking; then he got stiffly to his feet and resumed his +place upon the settle, the bad piece still in his hand. So he sat +for some time, looking upon the half-crown, and now wondering to +himself on the injustice and partiality of the law, now computing +again and again the nature of his loss. So he was still sitting +when Mr. Archer entered the kitchen. At this a light came into his +face, and after some seconds of rumination he dispatched Nance upon +an errand. + +'Mr. Archer,' said he, as soon as they were alone together, 'would +you give me a guinea-piece for silver?' + +'Why, sir, I believe I can,' said Mr. Archer. + +And the exchange was just effected when Nance re-entered the +apartment. The blood shot into her face. + +'What's to do here?' she asked rudely. + +'Nothing, my dearie,' said old Jonathan, with a touch of whine. + +'What's to do?' she said again. + +'Your uncle was but changing me a piece of gold,' returned Mr. +Archer. + +'Let me see what he hath given you, Mr. Archer,' replied the girl. +'I had a bad piece, and I fear it is mixed up among the good.' + +'Well, well,' replied Mr. Archer, smiling, 'I must take the +merchant's risk of it. The money is now mixed.' + +'I know my piece,' quoth Nance. 'Come, let me see your silver, Mr. +Archer. If I have to get it by a theft I'll see that money,' she +cried. + +'Nay, child, if you put as much passion to be honest as the world +to steal, I must give way, though I betray myself,' said Mr. +Archer. 'There it is as I received it.' + +Nance quickly found the bad half-crown. + +'Give him another,' she said, looking Jonathan in the face; and +when that had been done, she walked over to the chimney and flung +the guilty piece into the reddest of the fire. Its base +constituents began immediately to run; even as she watched it the +disc crumbled, and the lineaments of the King became confused. +Jonathan, who had followed close behind, beheld these changes from +over her shoulder, and his face darkened sorely. + +'Now,' said she, 'come back to table, and to-day it is I that shall +say grace, as I used to do in the old times, day about with Dick'; +and covering her eyes with one hand, 'O Lord,' said she with deep +emotion, 'make us thankful; and, O Lord, deliver us from evil! For +the love of the poor souls that watch for us in heaven, O deliver +us from evil.' + + + +CHAPTER VII--THE BLEACHING-GREEN + + + +The year moved on to March; and March, though it blew bitter keen +from the North Sea, yet blinked kindly between whiles on the river +dell. The mire dried up in the closest covert; life ran in the +bare branches, and the air of the afternoon would be suddenly sweet +with the fragrance of new grass. + +Above and below the castle the river crooked like the letter 'S.' +The lower loop was to the left, and embraced the high and steep +projection which was crowned by the ruins; the upper loop enclosed +a lawny promontory, fringed by thorn and willow. It was easy to +reach it from the castle side, for the river ran in this part very +quietly among innumerable boulders and over dam-like walls of rock. +The place was all enclosed, the wind a stranger, the turf smooth +and solid; so it was chosen by Nance to be her bleaching-green. + +One day she brought a bucketful of linen, and had but begun to +wring and lay them out when Mr. Archer stepped from the thicket on +the far side, drew very deliberately near, and sat down in silence +on the grass. Nance looked up to greet him with a smile, but +finding her smile was not returned, she fell into embarrassment and +stuck the more busily to her employment. Man or woman, the whole +world looks well at any work to which they are accustomed; but the +girl was ashamed of what she did. She was ashamed, besides, of the +sun-bonnet that so well became her, and ashamed of her bare arms, +which were her greatest beauty. + +'Nausicaa,' said Mr. Archer at last, 'I find you like Nausicaa.' + +'And who was she?' asked Nance, and laughed in spite of herself, an +empty and embarrassed laugh, that sounded in Mr. Archer's ears, +indeed, like music, but to her own like the last grossness of +rusticity. + +'She was a princess of the Grecian islands,' he replied. 'A king, +being shipwrecked, found her washing by the shore. Certainly I, +too, was shipwrecked,' he continued, plucking at the grass. 'There +was never a more desperate castaway--to fall from polite life, +fortune, a shrine of honour, a grateful conscience, duties +willingly taken up and faithfully discharged; and to fall to this-- +idleness, poverty, inutility, remorse.' He seemed to have +forgotten her presence, but here he remembered her again. 'Nance,' +said he, 'would you have a man sit down and suffer or rise up and +strive?' + +'Nay,' she said. 'I would always rather see him doing.' + +'Ha!' said Mr. Archer, 'but yet you speak from an imperfect +knowledge. Conceive a man damned to a choice of only evil-- +misconduct upon either side, not a fault behind him, and yet naught +before him but this choice of sins. How would you say then?' + +'I would say that he was much deceived, Mr. Archer,' returned +Nance. 'I would say there was a third choice, and that the right +one.' + +'I tell you,' said Mr. Archer, 'the man I have in view hath two +ways open, and no more. One to wait, like a poor mewling baby, +till Fate save or ruin him; the other to take his troubles in his +hand, and to perish or be saved at once. It is no point of morals; +both are wrong. Either way this step-child of Providence must +fall; which shall he choose, by doing or not doing?' + +'Fall, then, is what I would say,' replied Nance. 'Fall where you +will, but do it! For O, Mr. Archer,' she continued, stooping to +her work, 'you that are good and kind, and so wise, it doth +sometimes go against my heart to see you live on here like a sheep +in a turnip-field! If you were braver--' and here she paused, +conscience-smitten. + +'Do I, indeed, lack courage?' inquired Mr. Archer of himself. +'Courage, the footstool of the virtues, upon which they stand? +Courage, that a poor private carrying a musket has to spare of; +that does not fail a weasel or a rat; that is a brutish faculty? I +to fail there, I wonder? But what is courage, then? The constancy +to endure oneself or to see others suffer? The itch of ill-advised +activity: mere shuttle-wittedness, or to be still and patient? To +inquire of the significance of words is to rob ourselves of what we +seem to know, and yet, of all things, certainly to stand still is +the least heroic. Nance,' he said, 'did you ever hear of Hamlet?' + +'Never,' said Nance. + +''Tis an old play,' returned Mr. Archer, 'and frequently enacted. +This while I have been talking Hamlet. You must know this Hamlet +was a Prince among the Danes,' and he told her the play in a very +good style, here and there quoting a verse or two with solemn +emphasis. + +'It is strange,' said Nance; 'he was then a very poor creature?' + +'That was what he could not tell,' said Mr. Archer. 'Look at me, +am I as poor a creature?' + +She looked, and what she saw was the familiar thought of all her +hours; the tall figure very plainly habited in black, the spotless +ruffles, the slim hands; the long, well-shapen, serious, shaven +face, the wide and somewhat thin-lipped mouth, the dark eyes that +were so full of depth and change and colour. He was gazing at her +with his brows a little knit, his chin upon one hand and that elbow +resting on his knee. + +'Ye look a man!' she cried, 'ay, and should be a great one! The +more shame to you to lie here idle like a dog before the fire.' + +'My fair Holdaway,' quoth Mr. Archer, 'you are much set on action. +I cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed.' He continued, looking at her +with a half-absent fixity, ''Tis a strange thing, certainly, that +in my years of fortune I should never taste happiness, and now when +I am broke, enjoy so much of it, for was I ever happier than to- +day? Was the grass softer, the stream pleasanter in sound, the air +milder, the heart more at peace? Why should I not sink? To dig-- +why, after all, it should be easy. To take a mate, too? Love is +of all grades since Jupiter; love fails to none; and children'--but +here he passed his hand suddenly over his eyes. 'O fool and +coward, fool and coward!' he said bitterly; 'can you forget your +fetters? You did not know that I was fettered, Nance?' he asked, +again addressing her. + +But Nance was somewhat sore. 'I know you keep talking,' she said, +and, turning half away from him, began to wring out a sheet across +her shoulder. 'I wonder you are not wearied of your voice. When +the hands lie abed the tongue takes a walk.' + +Mr. Archer laughed unpleasantly, rose and moved to the water's +edge. In this part the body of the river poured across a little +narrow fell, ran some ten feet very smoothly over a bed of pebbles, +then getting wind, as it were, of another shelf of rock which +barred the channel, began, by imperceptible degrees, to separate +towards either shore in dancing currents, and to leave the middle +clear and stagnant. The set towards either side was nearly equal; +about one half of the whole water plunged on the side of the +castle, through a narrow gullet; about one half ran ripping past +the margin of the green and slipped across a babbling rapid. + +'Here,' said Mr. Archer, after he had looked for some time at the +fine and shifting demarcation of these currents, 'come here and see +me try my fortune.' + +'I am not like a man,' said Nance; 'I have no time to waste.' + +'Come here,' he said again. 'I ask you seriously, Nance. We are +not always childish when we seem so.' + +She drew a little nearer. + +'Now,' said he, 'you see these two channels--choose one.' + +'I'll choose the nearest, to save time,' said Nance. + +'Well, that shall be for action,' returned Mr. Archer. 'And since +I wish to have the odds against me, not only the other channel but +yon stagnant water in the midst shall be for lying still. You see +this?' he continued, pulling up a withered rush. 'I break it in +three. I shall put each separately at the top of the upper fall, +and according as they go by your way or by the other I shall guide +my life.' + +'This is very silly,' said Nance, with a movement of her shoulders. + +'I do not think it so,' said Mr. Archer. + +'And then,' she resumed, 'if you are to try your fortune, why not +evenly?' + +'Nay,' returned Mr. Archer with a smile, 'no man can put complete +reliance in blind fate; he must still cog the dice.' + +By this time he had got upon the rock beside the upper fall, and, +bidding her look out, dropped a piece of rush into the middle of +the intake. The rusty fragment was sucked at once over the fall, +came up again far on the right hand, leaned ever more and more in +the same direction, and disappeared under the hanging grasses on +the castle side. + +'One,' said Mr. Archer, 'one for standing still.' + +But the next launch had a different fate, and after hanging for a +while about the edge of the stagnant water, steadily approached the +bleaching-green and danced down the rapid under Nance's eyes. + +'One for me,' she cried with some exultation; and then she observed +that Mr. Archer had grown pale, and was kneeling on the rock, with +his hand raised like a person petrified. 'Why,' said she, 'you do +not mind it, do you?' + +'Does a man not mind a throw of dice by which a fortune hangs?' +said Mr. Archer, rather hoarsely. 'And this is more than fortune. +Nance, if you have any kindness for my fate, put up a prayer before +I launch the next one.' + +'A prayer,' she cried, 'about a game like this? I would not be so +heathen.' + +'Well,' said he, 'then without,' and he closed his eyes and dropped +the piece of rush. This time there was no doubt. It went for the +rapid as straight as any arrow. + +'Action then!' said Mr. Archer, getting to his feet; 'and then God +forgive us,' he added, almost to himself. + +'God forgive us, indeed,' cried Nance, 'for wasting the good +daylight! But come, Mr. Archer, if I see you look so serious I +shall begin to think you was in earnest.' + +'Nay,' he said, turning upon her suddenly, with a full smile; 'but +is not this good advice? I have consulted God and demigod; the +nymph of the river, and what I far more admire and trust, my blue- +eyed Minerva. Both have said the same. My own heart was telling +it already. Action, then, be mine; and into the deep sea with all +this paralysing casuistry. I am happy to-day for the first time.' + + + +CHAPTER VIII--THE MAIL GUARD + + + +Somewhere about two in the morning a squall had burst upon the +castle, a clap of screaming wind that made the towers rock, and a +copious drift of rain that streamed from the windows. The wind +soon blew itself out, but the day broke cloudy and dripping, and +when the little party assembled at breakfast their humours appeared +to have changed with the change of weather. Nance had been +brooding on the scene at the river-side, applying it in various +ways to her particular aspirations, and the result, which was +hardly to her mind, had taken the colour out of her cheeks. Mr. +Archer, too, was somewhat absent, his thoughts were of a mingled +strain; and even upon his usually impassive countenance there were +betrayed successive depths of depression and starts of exultation, +which the girl translated in terms of her own hopes and fears. But +Jonathan was the most altered: he was strangely silent, hardly +passing a word, and watched Mr. Archer with an eager and furtive +eye. It seemed as if the idea that had so long hovered before him +had now taken a more solid shape, and, while it still attracted, +somewhat alarmed his imagination. + +At this rate, conversation languished into a silence which was only +broken by the gentle and ghostly noises of the rain on the stone +roof and about all that field of ruins; and they were all relieved +when the note of a man whistling and the sound of approaching +footsteps in the grassy court announced a visitor. It was the +ostler from the 'Green Dragon' bringing a letter for Mr. Archer. +Nance saw her hero's face contract and then relax again at sight of +it; and she thought that she knew why, for the sprawling, gross +black characters of the address were easily distinguishable from +the fine writing on the former letter that had so much disturbed +him. He opened it and began to read; while the ostler sat down to +table with a pot of ale, and proceeded to make himself agreeable +after his fashion. + +'Fine doings down our way, Miss Nance,' said he. 'I haven't been +abed this blessed night.' + +Nance expressed a polite interest, but her eye was on Mr. Archer, +who was reading his letter with a face of such extreme indifference +that she was tempted to suspect him of assumption. + +'Yes,' continued the ostler, 'not been the like of it this fifteen +years: the North Mail stopped at the three stones.' + +Jonathan's cup was at his lip, but at this moment he choked with a +great splutter; and Mr. Archer, as if startled by the noise, made +so sudden a movement that one corner of the sheet tore off and +stayed between his finger and thumb. It was some little time +before the old man was sufficiently recovered to beg the ostler to +go on, and he still kept coughing and crying and rubbing his eyes. +Mr. Archer, on his side, laid the letter down, and, putting his +hands in his pocket, listened gravely to the tale. + +'Yes,' resumed Sam, 'the North Mail was stopped by a single +horseman; dash my wig, but I admire him! There were four insides +and two out, and poor Tom Oglethorpe, the guard. Tom showed +himself a man; let fly his blunderbuss at him; had him covered, +too, and could swear to that; but the Captain never let on, up with +a pistol and fetched poor Tom a bullet through the body. Tom, he +squelched upon the seat, all over blood. Up comes the Captain to +the window. "Oblige me," says he, "with what you have." Would you +believe it? Not a man says cheep!--not them. "Thy hands over thy +head." Four watches, rings, snuff-boxes, seven-and-forty pounds +overhead in gold. One Dicksee, a grazier, tries it on: gives him +a guinea. "Beg your pardon," says the Captain, "I think too highly +of you to take it at your hand. I will not take less than ten from +such a gentleman." This Dicksee had his money in his stocking, but +there was the pistol at his eye. Down he goes, offs with his +stocking, and there was thirty golden guineas. "Now," says the +Captain, "you've tried it on with me, but I scorns the advantage. +Ten I said," he says, "and ten I take." So, dash my buttons, I +call that man a man!' cried Sam in cordial admiration. + +'Well, and then?' says Mr. Archer. + +'Then,' resumed Sam, 'that old fat fagot Engleton, him as held the +ribbons and drew up like a lamb when he was told to, picks up his +cattle, and drives off again. Down they came to the "Dragon," all +singing like as if they was scalded, and poor Tom saying nothing. +You would 'a' thought they had all lost the King's crown to hear +them. Down gets this Dicksee. "Postmaster," he says, taking him +by the arm, "this is a most abominable thing," he says. Down gets +a Major Clayton, and gets the old man by the other arm. "We've +been robbed," he cries, "robbed!" Down gets the others, and all +around the old man telling their story, and what they had lost, and +how they was all as good as ruined; till at last Old Engleton says, +says he, "How about Oglethorpe?" says he. "Ay," says the others, +"how about the guard?" Well, with that we bousted him down, as +white as a rag and all blooded like a sop. I thought he was dead. +Well, he ain't dead; but he's dying, I fancy.' + +'Did you say four watches?' said Jonathan. + +'Four, I think. I wish it had been forty,' cried Sam. 'Such a +party of soused herrings I never did see--not a man among them bar +poor Tom. But us that are the servants on the road have all the +risk and none of the profit.' + +'And this brave fellow,' asked Mr. Archer, very quietly, 'this +Oglethorpe--how is he now?' + +'Well, sir, with my respects, I take it he has a hole bang through +him,' said Sam. 'The doctor hasn't been yet. He'd 'a' been bright +and early if it had been a passenger. But, doctor or no, I'll make +a good guess that Tom won't see to-morrow. He'll die on a Sunday, +will poor Tom; and they do say that's fortunate.' + +'Did Tom see him that did it?' asked Jonathan. + +'Well, he saw him,' replied Sam, 'but not to swear by. Said he was +a very tall man, and very big, and had a 'ankerchief about his +face, and a very quick shot, and sat his horse like a thorough +gentleman, as he is.' + +'A gentleman!' cried Nance. 'The dirty knave!' + +'Well, I calls a man like that a gentleman,' returned the ostler; +'that's what I mean by a gentleman.' + +'You don't know much of them, then,' said Nance. + +'A gentleman would scorn to stoop to such a thing. I call my uncle +a better gentleman than any thief.' + +'And you would be right,' said Mr. Archer. + +'How many snuff-boxes did he get?' asked Jonathan. + +'O, dang me if I know,' said Sam; 'I didn't take an inventory.' + +'I will go back with you, if you please,' said Mr. Archer. 'I +should like to see poor Oglethorpe. He has behaved well.' + +'At your service, sir,' said Sam, jumping to his feet. 'I dare to +say a gentleman like you would not forget a poor fellow like Tom-- +no, nor a plain man like me, sir, that went without his sleep to +nurse him. And excuse me, sir,' added Sam, 'you won't forget about +the letter neither?' + +'Surely not,' said Mr. Archer. + +Oglethorpe lay in a low bed, one of several in a long garret of the +inn. The rain soaked in places through the roof and fell in minute +drops; there was but one small window; the beds were occupied by +servants, the air of the garret was both close and chilly. Mr. +Archer's heart sank at the threshold to see a man lying perhaps +mortally hurt in so poor a sick-room, and as he drew near the low +bed he took his hat off. The guard was a big, blowsy, innocent- +looking soul with a thick lip and a broad nose, comically turned +up; his cheeks were crimson, and when Mr. Archer laid a finger on +his brow he found him burning with fever. + +'I fear you suffer much,' he said, with a catch in his voice, as he +sat down on the bedside. + +'I suppose I do, sir,' returned Oglethorpe; 'it is main sore.' + +'I am used to wounds and wounded men,' returned the visitor. 'I +have been in the wars and nursed brave fellows before now; and, if +you will suffer me, I propose to stay beside you till the doctor +comes.' + +'It is very good of you, sir, I am sure,' said Oglethorpe. 'The +trouble is they won't none of them let me drink.' + +'If you will not tell the doctor,' said Mr. Archer, 'I will give +you some water. They say it is bad for a green wound, but in the +Low Countries we all drank water when we found the chance, and I +could never perceive we were the worse for it.' + +'Been wounded yourself, sir, perhaps?' called Oglethorpe. + +'Twice,' said Mr. Archer, 'and was as proud of these hurts as any +lady of her bracelets. 'Tis a fine thing to smart for one's duty; +even in the pangs of it there is contentment.' + +'Ah, well!' replied the guard, 'if you've been shot yourself, that +explains. But as for contentment, why, sir, you see, it smarts, as +you say. And then, I have a good wife, you see, and a bit of a +brat--a little thing, so high.' + +'Don't move,' said Mr. Archer. + +'No, sir, I will not, and thank you kindly,' said Oglethorpe. 'At +York they are. A very good lass is my wife--far too good for me. +And the little rascal--well, I don't know how to say it, but he +sort of comes round you. If I were to go, sir, it would be hard on +my poor girl--main hard on her!' + +'Ay, you must feel bitter hardly to the rogue that laid you here,' +said Archer. + +'Why, no, sir, more against Engleton and the passengers,' replied +the guard. 'He played his hand, if you come to look at it; and I +wish he had shot worse, or me better. And yet I'll go to my grave +but what I covered him,' he cried. 'It looks like witchcraft. +I'll go to my grave but what he was drove full of slugs like a +pepper-box.' + +'Quietly,' said Mr. Archer, 'you must not excite yourself. These +deceptions are very usual in war; the eye, in the moment of alert, +is hardly to be trusted, and when the smoke blows away you see the +man you fired at, taking aim, it may be, at yourself. You should +observe, too, that you were in the dark night, and somewhat dazzled +by the lamps, and that the sudden stopping of the mail had jolted +you. In such circumstances a man may miss, ay, even with a +blunder-buss, and no blame attach to his marksmanship.' . . . + + + + +THE YOUNG CHEVALIER + + + + +PROLOGUE--THE WINE-SELLER'S WIFE + + + +There was a wine-seller's shop, as you went down to the river in +the city of the Anti-popes. There a man was served with good wine +of the country and plain country fare; and the place being clean +and quiet, with a prospect on the river, certain gentlemen who +dwelt in that city in attendance on a great personage made it a +practice (when they had any silver in their purses) to come and eat +there and be private. + +They called the wine-seller Paradou. He was built more like a +bullock than a man, huge in bone and brawn, high in colour, and +with a hand like a baby for size. Marie-Madeleine was the name of +his wife; she was of Marseilles, a city of entrancing women, nor +was any fairer than herself. She was tall, being almost of a +height with Paradou; full-girdled, point-device in every form, with +an exquisite delicacy in the face; her nose and nostrils a delight +to look at from the fineness of the sculpture, her eyes inclined a +hair's-breadth inward, her colour between dark and fair, and laid +on even like a flower's. A faint rose dwelt in it, as though she +had been found unawares bathing, and had blushed from head to foot. +She was of a grave countenance, rarely smiling; yet it seemed to be +written upon every part of her that she rejoiced in life. Her +husband loved the heels of her feet and the knuckles of her +fingers; he loved her like a glutton and a brute; his love hung +about her like an atmosphere; one that came by chance into the +wine-shop was aware of that passion; and it might be said that by +the strength of it the woman had been drugged or spell-bound. She +knew not if she loved or loathed him; he was always in her eyes +like something monstrous--monstrous in his love, monstrous in his +person, horrific but imposing in his violence; and her sentiment +swung back and forward from desire to sickness. But the mean, +where it dwelt chiefly, was an apathetic fascination, partly of +horror; as of Europa in mid ocean with her bull. + +On the 10th November 1749 there sat two of the foreign gentlemen in +the wine-seller's shop. They were both handsome men of a good +presence, richly dressed. The first was swarthy and long and lean, +with an alert, black look, and a mole upon his cheek. The other +was more fair. He seemed very easy and sedate, and a little +melancholy for so young a man, but his smile was charming. In his +grey eyes there was much abstraction, as of one recalling fondly +that which was past and lost. Yet there was strength and swiftness +in his limbs; and his mouth set straight across his face, the under +lip a thought upon side, like that of a man accustomed to resolve. +These two talked together in a rude outlandish speech that no +frequenter of that wine-shop understood. The swarthy man answered +to the name of Ballantrae; he of the dreamy eyes was sometimes +called Balmile, and sometimes MY LORD, or MY LORD GLADSMUIR; but +when the title was given him, he seemed to put it by as if in +jesting, not without bitterness. + +The mistral blew in the city. The first day of that wind, they say +in the countries where its voice is heard, it blows away all the +dust, the second all the stones, and the third it blows back others +from the mountains. It was now come to the third day; outside the +pebbles flew like hail, and the face of the river was puckered, and +the very building-stones in the walls of houses seemed to be +curdled with the savage cold and fury of that continuous blast. It +could be heard to hoot in all the chimneys of the city; it swept +about the wine-shop, filling the room with eddies; the chill and +gritty touch of it passed between the nearest clothes and the bare +flesh; and the two gentlemen at the far table kept their mantles +loose about their shoulders. The roughness of these outer hulls, +for they were plain travellers' cloaks that had seen service, set +the greater mark of richness on what showed below of their laced +clothes; for the one was in scarlet and the other in violet and +white, like men come from a scene of ceremony; as indeed they were. + +It chanced that these fine clothes were not without their influence +on the scene which followed, and which makes the prologue of our +tale. For a long time Balmile was in the habit to come to the +wine-shop and eat a meal or drink a measure of wine; sometimes with +a comrade; more often alone, when he would sit and dream and drum +upon the table, and the thoughts would show in the man's face in +little glooms and lightenings, like the sun and the clouds upon a +water. For a long time Marie-Madeleine had observed him apart. +His sadness, the beauty of his smile when by any chance he +remembered her existence and addressed her, the changes of his mind +signalled forth by an abstruse play of feature, the mere fact that +he was foreign and a thing detached from the local and the +accustomed, insensibly attracted and affected her. Kindness was +ready in her mind; it but lacked the touch of an occasion to +effervesce and crystallise. Now Balmile had come hitherto in a +very poor plain habit; and this day of the mistral, when his mantle +was just open, and she saw beneath it the glancing of the violet +and the velvet and the silver, and the clustering fineness of the +lace, it seemed to set the man in a new light, with which he shone +resplendent to her fancy. + +The high inhuman note of the wind, the violence and continuity of +its outpouring, and the fierce touch of it upon man's whole +periphery, accelerated the functions of the mind. It set thoughts +whirling, as it whirled the trees of the forest; it stirred them up +in flights, as it stirred up the dust in chambers. As brief as +sparks, the fancies glittered and succeeded each other in the mind +of Marie-Madeleine; and the grave man with the smile, and the +bright clothes under the plain mantle, haunted her with incongruous +explanations. She considered him, the unknown, the speaker of an +unknown tongue, the hero (as she placed him) of an unknown romance, +the dweller upon unknown memories. She recalled him sitting there +alone, so immersed, so stupefied; yet she was sure he was not +stupid. She recalled one day when he had remained a long time +motionless, with parted lips, like one in the act of starting up, +his eyes fixed on vacancy. Any one else must have looked foolish; +but not he. She tried to conceive what manner of memory had thus +entranced him; she forged for him a past; she showed him to herself +in every light of heroism and greatness and misfortune; she brooded +with petulant intensity on all she knew and guessed of him. Yet, +though she was already gone so deep, she was still unashamed, still +unalarmed; her thoughts were still disinterested; she had still to +reach the stage at which--beside the image of that other whom we +love to contemplate and to adorn--we place the image of ourself and +behold them together with delight. + +She stood within the counter, her hands clasped behind her back, +her shoulders pressed against the wall, her feet braced out. Her +face was bright with the wind and her own thoughts; as a fire in a +similar day of tempest glows and brightens on a hearth, so she +seemed to glow, standing there, and to breathe out energy. It was +the first time Ballantrae had visited that wine-seller's, the first +time he had seen the wife; and his eyes were true to her. + +'I perceive your reason for carrying me to this very draughty +tavern,' he said at last. + +'I believe it is propinquity,' returned Balmile. + +'You play dark,' said Ballantrae, 'but have a care! Be more frank +with me, or I will cut you out. I go through no form of qualifying +my threat, which would be commonplace and not conscientious. There +is only one point in these campaigns: that is the degree of +admiration offered by the man; and to our hostess I am in a posture +to make victorious love.' + +'If you think you have the time, or the game worth the candle,' +replied the other with a shrug. + +'One would suppose you were never at the pains to observe her,' +said Ballantrae. + +'I am not very observant,' said Balmile. 'She seems comely.' + +'You very dear and dull dog!' cried Ballantrae; 'chastity is the +most besotting of the virtues. Why, she has a look in her face +beyond singing! I believe, if you was to push me hard, I might +trace it home to a trifle of a squint. What matters? The height +of beauty is in the touch that's wrong, that's the modulation in a +tune. 'Tis the devil we all love; I owe many a conquest to my +mole'--he touched it as he spoke with a smile, and his eyes +glittered;--'we are all hunchbacks, and beauty is only that kind of +deformity that I happen to admire. But come! Because you are +chaste, for which I am sure I pay you my respects, that is no +reason why you should be blind. Look at her, look at the delicious +nose of her, look at her cheek, look at her ear, look at her hand +and wrist--look at the whole baggage from heels to crown, and tell +me if she wouldn't melt on a man's tongue.' + +As Ballantrae spoke, half jesting, half enthusiastic, Balmile was +constrained to do as he was bidden. He looked at the woman, +admired her excellences, and was at the same time ashamed for +himself and his companion. So it befell that when Marie-Madeleine +raised her eyes, she met those of the subject of her contemplations +fixed directly on herself with a look that is unmistakable, the +look of a person measuring and valuing another--and, to clench the +false impression, that his glance was instantly and guiltily +withdrawn. The blood beat back upon her heart and leaped again; +her obscure thoughts flashed clear before her; she flew in fancy +straight to his arms like a wanton, and fled again on the instant +like a nymph. And at that moment there chanced an interruption, +which not only spared her embarrassment, but set the last +consecration on her now articulate love. + +Into the wine-shop there came a French gentleman, arrayed in the +last refinement of the fashion, though a little tumbled by his +passage in the wind. It was to be judged he had come from the same +formal gathering at which the others had preceded him; and perhaps +that he had gone there in the hope to meet with them, for he came +up to Ballantrae with unceremonious eagerness. + +'At last, here you are!' he cried in French. 'I thought I was to +miss you altogether.' + +The Scotsmen rose, and Ballantrae, after the first greetings, laid +his hand on his companion's shoulder. + +'My lord,' said he, 'allow me to present to you one of my best +friends and one of our best soldiers, the Lord Viscount Gladsmuir.' + +The two bowed with the elaborate elegance of the period. + +'Monseigneur,' said Balmile, 'je n'ai pas la pretention de +m'affubler d'un titre que la mauvaise fortune de mon roi ne me +permet pas de porter comma il sied. Je m'appelle, pour vous +servir, Blair de Balmile tout court.' [My lord, I have not the +effrontery to cumber myself with a title which the ill fortunes of +my king will not suffer me to bear the way it should be. I call +myself, at your service, plain Blair of Balmile.] + +'Monsieur le Vicomte ou monsieur Bler' de Balmail,' replied the +newcomer, 'le nom n'y fait rien, et l'on connait vos beaux faits.' +[The name matters nothing, your gallant actions are known.] + +A few more ceremonies, and these three, sitting down together to +the table, called for wine. It was the happiness of Marie- +Madeleine to wait unobserved upon the prince of her desires. She +poured the wine, he drank of it; and that link between them seemed +to her, for the moment, close as a caress. Though they lowered +their tones, she surprised great names passing in their +conversation, names of kings, the names of de Gesvre and Belle- +Isle; and the man who dealt in these high matters, and she who was +now coupled with him in her own thoughts, seemed to swim in mid air +in a transfiguration. Love is a crude core, but it has singular +and far-reaching fringes; in that passionate attraction for the +stranger that now swayed and mastered her, his harsh +incomprehensible language, and these names of grandees in his talk, +were each an element. + +The Frenchman stayed not long, but it was plain he left behind him +matter of much interest to his companions; they spoke together +earnestly, their heads down, the woman of the wine-shop totally +forgotten; and they were still so occupied when Paradou returned. + +This man's love was unsleeping. The even bluster of the mistral, +with which he had been combating some hours, had not suspended, +though it had embittered, that predominant passion. His first look +was for his wife, a look of hope and suspicion, menace and humility +and love, that made the over-blooming brute appear for the moment +almost beautiful. She returned his glance, at first as though she +knew him not, then with a swiftly waxing coldness of intent; and at +last, without changing their direction, she had closed her eyes. + +There passed across her mind during that period much that Paradou +could not have understood had it been told to him in words: +chiefly the sense of an enlightening contrast betwixt the man who +talked of kings and the man who kept a wine-shop, betwixt the love +she yearned for and that to which she had been long exposed like a +victim bound upon the altar. There swelled upon her, swifter than +the Rhone, a tide of abhorrence and disgust. She had succumbed to +the monster, humbling herself below animals; and now she loved a +hero, aspiring to the semi-divine. It was in the pang of that +humiliating thought that she had closed her eyes. + +Paradou--quick as beasts are quick, to translate silence--felt the +insult through his blood; his inarticulate soul bellowed within him +for revenge. He glanced about the shop. He saw the two +indifferent gentlemen deep in talk, and passed them over: his +fancy flying not so high. There was but one other present, a +country lout who stood swallowing his wine, equally unobserved by +all and unobserving--to him he dealt a glance of murderous +suspicion, and turned direct upon his wife. The wine-shop had lain +hitherto, a space of shelter, the scene of a few ceremonial +passages and some whispered conversation, in the howling river of +the wind; the clock had not yet ticked a score of times since +Paradou's appearance; and now, as he suddenly gave tongue, it +seemed as though the mistral had entered at his heels. + +'What ails you, woman?' he cried, smiting on the counter. + +'Nothing ails me,' she replied. It was strange; but she spoke and +stood at that moment like a lady of degree, drawn upward by her +aspirations. + +'You speak to me, by God, as though you scorned me!' cried the +husband. + +The man's passion was always formidable; she had often looked on +upon its violence with a thrill, it had been one ingredient in her +fascination; and she was now surprised to behold him, as from afar +off, gesticulating but impotent. His fury might be dangerous like +a torrent or a gust of wind, but it was inhuman; it might be feared +or braved, it should never be respected. And with that there came +in her a sudden glow of courage and that readiness to die which +attends so closely upon all strong passions. + +'I do scorn you,' she said. + +'What is that?' he cried. + +'I scorn you,' she repeated, smiling. + +'You love another man!' said he. + +'With all my soul,' was her reply. + +The wine-seller roared aloud so that the house rang and shook with +it. + +'Is this the--?' he cried, using a foul word, common in the South; +and he seized the young countryman and dashed him to the ground. +There he lay for the least interval of time insensible; thence fled +from the house, the most terrified person in the county. The heavy +measure had escaped from his hands, splashing the wine high upon +the wall. Paradou caught it. 'And you?' he roared to his wife, +giving her the same name in the feminine, and he aimed at her the +deadly missile. She expected it, motionless, with radiant eyes. + +But before it sped, Paradou was met by another adversary, and the +unconscious rivals stood confronted. It was hard to say at that +moment which appeared the more formidable. In Paradou, the whole +muddy and truculent depths of the half-man were stirred to frenzy; +the lust of destruction raged in him; there was not a feature in +his face but it talked murder. Balmile had dropped his cloak: he +shone out at once in his finery, and stood to his full stature; +girt in mind and body all his resources, all his temper, perfectly +in command in his face the light of battle. Neither spoke; there +was no blow nor threat of one; it was war reduced to its last +element, the spiritual; and the huge wine-seller slowly lowered his +weapon. Balmile was a noble, he a commoner; Balmile exulted in an +honourable cause. Paradou already perhaps began to be ashamed of +his violence. Of a sudden, at least, the tortured brute turned and +fled from the shop in the footsteps of his former victim, to whose +continued flight his reappearance added wings. + +So soon as Balmile appeared between her husband and herself, Marie- +Madeleine transferred to him her eyes. It might be her last +moment, and she fed upon that face; reading there inimitable +courage and illimitable valour to protect. And when the momentary +peril was gone by, and the champion turned a little awkwardly +towards her whom he had rescued, it was to meet, and quail before, +a gaze of admiration more distinct than words. He bowed, he +stammered, his words failed him; he who had crossed the floor a +moment ago, like a young god, to smite, returned like one +discomfited; got somehow to his place by the table, muffled himself +again in his discarded cloak, and for a last touch of the +ridiculous, seeking for anything to restore his countenance, drank +of the wine before him, deep as a porter after a heavy lift. It +was little wonder if Ballantrae, reading the scene with malevolent +eyes, laughed out loud and brief, and drank with raised glass, 'To +the champion of the Fair.' + +Marie-Madeleine stood in her old place within the counter; she +disdained the mocking laughter; it fell on her ears, but it did not +reach her spirit. For her, the world of living persons was all +resumed again into one pair, as in the days of Eden; there was but +the one end in life, the one hope before her, the one thing +needful, the one thing possible--to be his. + + + +CHAPTER I--THE PRINCE + + + +That same night there was in the city of Avignon a young man in +distress of mind. Now he sat, now walked in a high apartment, full +of draughts and shadows. A single candle made the darkness +visible; and the light scarce sufficed to show upon the wall, where +they had been recently and rudely nailed, a few miniatures and a +copper medal of the young man's head. The same was being sold that +year in London, to admiring thousands. The original was fair; he +had beautiful brown eyes, a beautiful bright open face; a little +feminine, a little hard, a little weak; still full of the light of +youth, but already beginning to be vulgarised; a sordid bloom come +upon it, the lines coarsened with a touch of puffiness. He was +dressed, as for a gala, in peach-colour and silver; his breast +sparkled with stars and was bright with ribbons; for he had held a +levee in the afternoon and received a distinguished personage +incognito. Now he sat with a bowed head, now walked precipitately +to and fro, now went and gazed from the uncurtained window, where +the wind was still blowing, and the lights winked in the darkness. + +The bells of Avignon rose into song as he was gazing; and the high +notes and the deep tossed and drowned, boomed suddenly near or were +suddenly swallowed up, in the current of the mistral. Tears sprang +in the pale blue eyes; the expression of his face was changed to +that of a more active misery, it seemed as if the voices of the +bells reached, and touched and pained him, in a waste of vacancy +where even pain was welcome. Outside in the night they continued +to sound on, swelling and fainting; and the listener heard in his +memory, as it were their harmonies, joy-bells clashing in a +northern city, and the acclamations of a multitude, the cries of +battle, the gross voices of cannon, the stridor of an animated +life. And then all died away, and he stood face to face with +himself in the waste of vacancy, and a horror came upon his mind, +and a faintness on his brain, such as seizes men upon the brink of +cliffs. + +On the table, by the side of the candle, stood a tray of glasses, a +bottle, and a silver bell. He went thither swiftly, then his hand +lowered first above the bell, then settled on the bottle. Slowly +he filled a glass, slowly drank it out; and, as a tide of animal +warmth recomforted the recesses of his nature, stood there smiling +at himself. He remembered he was young; the funeral curtains rose, +and he saw his life shine and broaden and flow out majestically, +like a river sunward. The smile still on his lips, he lit a second +candle and a third; a fire stood ready built in a chimney, he lit +that also; and the fir-cones and the gnarled olive billets were +swift to break in flame and to crackle on the hearth, and the room +brightened and enlarged about him like his hopes. To and fro, to +and fro, he went, his hands lightly clasped, his breath deeply and +pleasurably taken. Victory walked with him; he marched to crowns +and empires among shouting followers; glory was his dress. And +presently again the shadows closed upon the solitary. Under the +gilt of flame and candle-light, the stone walls of the apartment +showed down bare and cold; behind the depicted triumph loomed up +the actual failure: defeat, the long distress of the flight, +exile, despair, broken followers, mourning faces, empty pockets, +friends estranged. The memory of his father rose in his mind: he, +too, estranged and defied; despair sharpened into wrath. There was +one who had led armies in the field, who had staked his life upon +the family enterprise, a man of action and experience, of the open +air, the camp, the court, the council-room; and he was to accept +direction from an old, pompous gentleman in a home in Italy, and +buzzed about by priests? A pretty king, if he had not a martial +son to lean upon! A king at all? + +'There was a weaver (of all people) joined me at St. Ninians; he +was more of a man than my papa!' he thought. 'I saw him lie +doubled in his blood and a grenadier below him--and he died for my +papa! All died for him, or risked the dying, and I lay for him all +those months in the rain and skulked in heather like a fox; and now +he writes me his advice! calls me Carluccio--me, the man of the +house, the only king in that king's race.' He ground his teeth. +'The only king in Europe!' Who else? Who has done and suffered +except me? who has lain and run and hidden with his faithful +subjects, like a second Bruce? Not my accursed cousin, Louis of +France, at least, the lewd effeminate traitor!' And filling the +glass to the brim, he drank a king's damnation. Ah, if he had the +power of Louis, what a king were here! + +The minutes followed each other into the past, and still he +persevered in this debilitating cycle of emotions, still fed the +fire of his excitement with driblets of Rhine wine: a boy at odds +with life, a boy with a spark of the heroic, which he was now +burning out and drowning down in futile reverie and solitary +excess. + +From two rooms beyond, the sudden sound of a raised voice attracted +him. + +'By . . . + + + + +HEATHERCAT + + + + +CHAPTER I--TRAQUAIRS OF MONTROYMONT + + + +The period of this tale is in the heat of the KILLING-TIME; the +scene laid for the most part in solitary hills and morasses, +haunted only by the so-called Mountain Wanderers, the dragoons that +came in chase of them, the women that wept on their dead bodies, +and the wild birds of the moorland that have cried there since the +beginning. It is a land of many rain-clouds; a land of much mute +history, written there in prehistoric symbols. Strange green raths +are to be seen commonly in the country, above all by the kirkyards; +barrows of the dead, standing stones; beside these, the faint, +durable footprints and handmarks of the Roman; and an antiquity +older perhaps than any, and still living and active--a complete +Celtic nomenclature and a scarce-mingled Celtic population. These +rugged and grey hills were once included in the boundaries of the +Caledonian Forest. Merlin sat here below his apple-tree and +lamented Gwendolen; here spoke with Kentigern; here fell into his +enchanted trance. And the legend of his slumber seems to body +forth the story of that Celtic race, deprived for so many centuries +of their authentic speech, surviving with their ancestral +inheritance of melancholy perversity and patient, unfortunate +courage. + +The Traquairs of Montroymont (Mons Romanus, as the erudite expound +it) had long held their seat about the head-waters of the Dule and +in the back parts of the moorland parish of Balweary. For two +hundred years they had enjoyed in these upland quarters a certain +decency (almost to be named distinction) of repute; and the annals +of their house, or what is remembered of them, were obscure and +bloody. Ninian Traquair was 'cruallie slochtered' by the Crozers +at the kirk-door of Balweary, anno 1482. Francis killed Simon +Ruthven of Drumshoreland, anno 1540; bought letters of slayers at +the widow and heir, and, by a barbarous form of compounding, +married (without tocher) Simon's daughter Grizzel, which is the way +the Traquairs and Ruthvens came first to an intermarriage. About +the last Traquair and Ruthven marriage, it is the business of this +book, among many other things, to tell. + +The Traquairs were always strong for the Covenant; for the King +also, but the Covenant first; and it began to be ill days for +Montroymont when the Bishops came in and the dragoons at the heels +of them. Ninian (then laird) was an anxious husband of himself and +the property, as the times required, and it may be said of him, +that he lost both. He was heavily suspected of the Pentland Hills +rebellion. When it came the length of Bothwell Brig, he stood his +trial before the Secret Council, and was convicted of talking with +some insurgents by the wayside, the subject of the conversation not +very clearly appearing, and of the reset and maintenance of one +Gale, a gardener man, who was seen before Bothwell with a musket, +and afterwards, for a continuance of months, delved the garden at +Montroymont. Matters went very ill with Ninian at the Council; +some of the lords were clear for treason; and even the boot was +talked of. But he was spared that torture; and at last, having +pretty good friendship among great men, he came off with a fine of +seven thousand marks, that caused the estate to groan. In this +case, as in so many others, it was the wife that made the trouble. +She was a great keeper of conventicles; would ride ten miles to +one, and when she was fined, rejoiced greatly to suffer for the +Kirk; but it was rather her husband that suffered. She had their +only son, Francis, baptized privately by the hands of Mr. Kidd; +there was that much the more to pay for! She could neither be +driven nor wiled into the parish kirk; as for taking the sacrament +at the hands of any Episcopalian curate, and tenfold more at those +of Curate Haddo, there was nothing further from her purposes; and +Montroymont had to put his hand in his pocket month by month and +year by year. Once, indeed, the little lady was cast in prison, +and the laird, worthy, heavy, uninterested man, had to ride up and +take her place; from which he was not discharged under nine months +and a sharp fine. It scarce seemed she had any gratitude to him; +she came out of gaol herself, and plunged immediately deeper in +conventicles, resetting recusants, and all her old, expensive +folly, only with greater vigour and openness, because Montroymont +was safe in the Tolbooth and she had no witness to consider. When +he was liberated and came back, with his fingers singed, in +December 1680, and late in the black night, my lady was from home. +He came into the house at his alighting, with a riding-rod yet in +his hand; and, on the servant-maid telling him, caught her by the +scruff of the neck, beat her violently, flung her down in the +passageway, and went upstairs to his bed fasting and without a +light. It was three in the morning when my lady returned from that +conventicle, and, hearing of the assault (because the maid had sat +up for her, weeping), went to their common chamber with a lantern +in hand and stamping with her shoes so as to wake the dead; it was +supposed, by those that heard her, from a design to have it out +with the good man at once. The house-servants gathered on the +stair, because it was a main interest with them to know which of +these two was the better horse; and for the space of two hours they +were heard to go at the matter, hammer and tongs. Montroymont +alleged he was at the end of possibilities; it was no longer within +his power to pay the annual rents; she had served him basely by +keeping conventicles while he lay in prison for her sake; his +friends were weary, and there was nothing else before him but the +entire loss of the family lands, and to begin life again by the +wayside as a common beggar. She took him up very sharp and high: +called upon him, if he were a Christian? and which he most +considered, the loss of a few dirty, miry glebes, or of his soul? +Presently he was heard to weep, and my lady's voice to go on +continually like a running burn, only the words indistinguishable; +whereupon it was supposed a victory for her ladyship, and the +domestics took themselves to bed. The next day Traquair appeared +like a man who had gone under the harrows; and his lady wife +thenceforward continued in her old course without the least +deflection. + +Thenceforward Ninian went on his way without complaint, and +suffered his wife to go on hers without remonstrance. He still +minded his estate, of which it might be said he took daily a fresh +farewell, and counted it already lost; looking ruefully on the +acres and the graves of his fathers, on the moorlands where the +wild-fowl consorted, the low, gurgling pool of the trout, and the +high, windy place of the calling curlews--things that were yet his +for the day and would be another's to-morrow; coming back again, +and sitting ciphering till the dusk at his approaching ruin, which +no device of arithmetic could postpone beyond a year or two. He +was essentially the simple ancient man, the farmer and landholder; +he would have been content to watch the seasons come and go, and +his cattle increase, until the limit of age; he would have been +content at any time to die, if he could have left the estates +undiminished to an heir-male of his ancestors, that duty standing +first in his instinctive calendar. And now he saw everywhere the +image of the new proprietor come to meet him, and go sowing and +reaping, or fowling for his pleasure on the red moors, or eating +the very gooseberries in the Place garden; and saw always, on the +other hand, the figure of Francis go forth, a beggar, into the +broad world. + +It was in vain the poor gentleman sought to moderate; took every +test and took advantage of every indulgence; went and drank with +the dragoons in Balweary; attended the communion and came regularly +to the church to Curate Haddo, with his son beside him. The mad, +raging, Presbyterian zealot of a wife at home made all of no avail; +and indeed the house must have fallen years before if it had not +been for the secret indulgence of the curate, who had a great +sympathy with the laird, and winked hard at the doings in +Montroymont. This curate was a man very ill reputed in the +countryside, and indeed in all Scotland. 'Infamous Haddo' is +Shield's expression. But Patrick Walker is more copious. 'Curate +Hall Haddo,' says he, sub voce Peden, 'or Hell Haddo, as he was +more justly to be called, a pokeful of old condemned errors and the +filthy vile lusts of the flesh, a published whore-monger, a common +gross drunkard, continually and godlessly scraping and skirling on +a fiddle, continually breathing flames against the remnant of +Israel. But the Lord put an end to his piping, and all these +offences were composed into one bloody grave.' No doubt this was +written to excuse his slaughter; and I have never heard it claimed +for Walker that he was either a just witness or an indulgent judge. +At least, in a merely human character, Haddo comes off not wholly +amiss in the matter of these Traquairs: not that he showed any +graces of the Christian, but had a sort of Pagan decency, which +might almost tempt one to be concerned about his sudden, violent, +and unprepared fate. + + + +CHAPTER II--FRANCIE + + + +Francie was eleven years old, shy, secret, and rather childish of +his age, though not backward in schooling, which had been pushed on +far by a private governor, one M'Brair, a forfeited minister +harboured in that capacity at Montroymont. The boy, already much +employed in secret by his mother, was the most apt hand conceivable +to run upon a message, to carry food to lurking fugitives, or to +stand sentry on the skyline above a conventicle. It seemed no +place on the moorlands was so naked but what he would find cover +there; and as he knew every hag, boulder, and heather-bush in a +circuit of seven miles about Montroymont, there was scarce any spot +but what he could leave or approach it unseen. This dexterity had +won him a reputation in that part of the country; and among the +many children employed in these dangerous affairs, he passed under +the by-name of Heathercat. + +How much his father knew of this employment might be doubted. He +took much forethought for the boy's future, seeing he was like to +be left so poorly, and would sometimes assist at his lessons, +sighing heavily, yawning deep, and now and again patting Francie on +the shoulder if he seemed to be doing ill, by way of a private, +kind encouragement. But a great part of the day was passed in +aimless wanderings with his eyes sealed, or in his cabinet sitting +bemused over the particulars of the coming bankruptcy; and the boy +would be absent a dozen times for once that his father would +observe it. + +On 2nd of July 1682 the boy had an errand from his mother, which +must be kept private from all, the father included in the first of +them. Crossing the braes, he hears the clatter of a horse's shoes, +and claps down incontinent in a hag by the wayside. And presently +he spied his father come riding from one direction, and Curate +Haddo walking from another; and Montroymont leaning down from the +saddle, and Haddo getting on his toes (for he was a little, ruddy, +bald-pated man, more like a dwarf), they greeted kindly, and came +to a halt within two fathoms of the child. + +'Montroymont,' the curate said, 'the deil's in 't but I'll have to +denunciate your leddy again.' + +'Deil's in 't indeed!' says the laird. + +'Man! can ye no induce her to come to the kirk?' pursues Haddo; 'or +to a communion at the least of it? For the conventicles, let be! +and the same for yon solemn fule, M'Brair: I can blink at them. +But she's got to come to the kirk, Montroymont.' + +'Dinna speak of it,' says the laird. 'I can do nothing with her.' + +'Couldn't ye try the stick to her? it works wonders whiles,' +suggested Haddo. 'No? I'm wae to hear it. And I suppose ye ken +where you're going?' + +'Fine!' said Montroymont. 'Fine do I ken where: bankrup'cy and +the Bass Rock!' + +'Praise to my bones that I never married!' cried the curate. +'Well, it's a grievous thing to me to see an auld house dung down +that was here before Flodden Field. But naebody can say it was +with my wish.' + +'No more they can, Haddo!' says the laird. 'A good friend ye've +been to me, first and last. I can give you that character with a +clear conscience.' + +Whereupon they separated, and Montroymont rode briskly down into +the Dule Valley. But of the curate Francis was not to be quit so +easily. He went on with his little, brisk steps to the corner of a +dyke, and stopped and whistled and waved upon a lassie that was +herding cattle there. This Janet M'Clour was a big lass, being +taller than the curate; and what made her look the more so, she was +kilted very high. It seemed for a while she would not come, and +Francie heard her calling Haddo a 'daft auld fule,' and saw her +running and dodging him among the whins and hags till he was fairly +blown. But at the last he gets a bottle from his plaid-neuk and +holds it up to her; whereupon she came at once into a composition, +and the pair sat, drinking of the bottle, and daffing and laughing +together, on a mound of heather. The boy had scarce heard of these +vanities, or he might have been minded of a nymph and satyr, if +anybody could have taken long-leggit Janet for a nymph. But they +seemed to be huge friends, he thought; and was the more surprised, +when the curate had taken his leave, to see the lassie fling stones +after him with screeches of laughter, and Haddo turn about and +caper, and shake his staff at her, and laugh louder than herself. +A wonderful merry pair, they seemed; and when Francie had crawled +out of the hag, he had a great deal to consider in his mind. It +was possible they were all fallen in error about Mr. Haddo, he +reflected--having seen him so tender with Montroymont, and so kind +and playful with the lass Janet; and he had a temptation to go out +of his road and question her herself upon the matter. But he had a +strong spirit of duty on him; and plodded on instead over the braes +till he came near the House of Cairngorm. There, in a hollow place +by the burnside that was shaded by some birks, he was aware of a +barefoot boy, perhaps a matter of three years older than himself. +The two approached with the precautions of a pair of strange dogs, +looking at each other queerly. + +'It's ill weather on the hills,' said the stranger, giving the +watchword. + +'For a season,' said Francie, 'but the Lord will appear.' + +'Richt,' said the barefoot boy; 'wha're ye frae?' + +'The Leddy Montroymont,' says Francie. + +'Ha'e, then!' says the stranger, and handed him a folded paper, and +they stood and looked at each other again. 'It's unco het,' said +the boy. + +'Dooms het,' says Francie. + +'What do they ca' ye?' says the other. + +'Francie,' says he. 'I'm young Montroymont. They ca' me +Heathercat.' + +'I'm Jock Crozer,' said the boy. And there was another pause, +while each rolled a stone under his foot. + +'Cast your jaiket and I'll fecht ye for a bawbee,' cried the elder +boy with sudden violence, and dramatically throwing back his +jacket. + +'Na, I've nae time the now,' said Francie, with a sharp thrill of +alarm, because Crozer was much the heavier boy. + +'Ye're feared. Heathercat indeed!' said Crozer, for among this +infantile army of spies and messengers, the fame of Crozer had gone +forth and was resented by his rivals. And with that they +separated. + +On his way home Francie was a good deal occupied with the +recollection of this untoward incident. The challenge had been +fairly offered and basely refused: the tale would be carried all +over the country, and the lustre of the name of Heathercat be +dimmed. But the scene between Curate Haddo and Janet M'Clour had +also given him much to think of: and he was still puzzling over +the case of the curate, and why such ill words were said of him, +and why, if he were so merry-spirited, he should yet preach so dry, +when coming over a knowe, whom should he see but Janet, sitting +with her back to him, minding her cattle! He was always a great +child for secret, stealthy ways, having been employed by his mother +on errands when the same was necessary; and he came behind the lass +without her hearing. + +'Jennet,' says he. + +'Keep me,' cries Janet, springing up. 'O, it's you, Maister +Francie! Save us, what a fricht ye gied me.' + +'Ay, it's me,' said Francie. 'I've been thinking, Jennet; I saw +you and the curate a while back--' + +'Brat!' cried Janet, and coloured up crimson; and the one moment +made as if she would have stricken him with a ragged stick she had +to chase her bestial with, and the next was begging and praying +that he would mention it to none. It was 'naebody's business, +whatever,' she said; 'it would just start a clash in the country'; +and there would be nothing left for her but to drown herself in +Dule Water. + +'Why?' says Francie. + +The girl looked at him and grew scarlet again. + +'And it isna that, anyway,' continued Francie. 'It was just that +he seemed so good to ye--like our Father in heaven, I thought; and +I thought that mebbe, perhaps, we had all been wrong about him from +the first. But I'll have to tell Mr. M'Brair; I'm under a kind of +a bargain to him to tell him all.' + +'Tell it to the divil if ye like for me!' cried the lass. 'I've +naething to be ashamed of. Tell M'Brair to mind his ain affairs,' +she cried again: 'they'll be hot eneugh for him, if Haddie likes!' +And so strode off, shoving her beasts before her, and ever and +again looking back and crying angry words to the boy, where he +stood mystified. + +By the time he had got home his mind was made up that he would say +nothing to his mother. My Lady Montroymont was in the keeping- +room, reading a godly book; she was a wonderful frail little wife +to make so much noise in the world and be able to steer about that +patient sheep her husband; her eyes were like sloes, the fingers of +her hands were like tobacco-pipe shanks, her mouth shut tight like +a trap; and even when she was the most serious, and still more when +she was angry, there hung about her face the terrifying semblance +of a smile. + +'Have ye gotten the billet, Francie said she; and when he had +handed it over, and she had read and burned it, 'Did you see +anybody?' she asked. + +'I saw the laird,' said Francie. + +'He didna see you, though?' asked his mother. + +'Deil a fear,' from Francie. + +'Francie!' she cried. 'What's that I hear? an aith? The Lord +forgive me, have I broughten forth a brand for the burning, a fagot +for hell-fire?' + +'I'm very sorry, ma'am,' said Francie. 'I humbly beg the Lord's +pardon, and yours, for my wickedness.' + +'H'm,' grunted the lady. 'Did ye see nobody else?' + +'No, ma'am,' said Francie, with the face of an angel, 'except Jock +Crozer, that gied me the billet.' + +'Jock Crozer!' cried the lady. 'I'll Crozer them! Crozers indeed! +What next? Are we to repose the lives of a suffering remnant in +Crozers? The whole clan of them wants hanging, and if I had my way +of it, they wouldna want it long. Are you aware, sir, that these +Crozers killed your forebear at the kirk-door?' + +'You see, he was bigger 'n me,' said Francie. + +'Jock Crozer!' continued the lady. 'That'll be Clement's son, the +biggest thief and reiver in the country-side. To trust a note to +him! But I'll give the benefit of my opinions to Lady Whitecross +when we two forgather. Let her look to herself! I have no +patience with half-hearted carlines, that complies on the Lord's +day morning with the kirk, and comes taigling the same night to the +conventicle. The one or the other! is what I say: hell or heaven- +-Haddie's abominations or the pure word of God dreeping from the +lips of Mr. Arnot, + + +'"Like honey from the honeycomb +That dreepeth, sweeter far."' + + +My lady was now fairly launched, and that upon two congenial +subjects: the deficiencies of the Lady Whitecross and the +turpitudes of the whole Crozer race--which, indeed, had never been +conspicuous for respectability. She pursued the pair of them for +twenty minutes on the clock with wonderful animation and detail, +something of the pulpit manner, and the spirit of one possessed. +'O hellish compliance!' she exclaimed. 'I would not suffer a +complier to break bread with Christian folk. Of all the sins of +this day there is not one so God-defying, so Christ-humiliating, as +damnable compliance': the boy standing before her meanwhile, and +brokenly pursuing other thoughts, mainly of Haddo and Janet, and +Jock Crozer stripping off his jacket. And yet, with all his +distraction, it might be argued that he heard too much: his father +and himself being 'compliers'--that is to say, attending the church +of the parish as the law required. + +Presently, the lady's passion beginning to decline, or her flux of +ill words to be exhausted, she dismissed her audience. Francie +bowed low, left the room, closed the door behind him: and then +turned him about in the passage-way, and with a low voice, but a +prodigious deal of sentiment, repeated the name of the evil one +twenty times over, to the end of which, for the greater efficacy, +he tacked on 'damnable' and 'hellish.' Fas est ab hoste doceri-- +disrespect is made more pungent by quotation; and there is no doubt +but he felt relieved, and went upstairs into his tutor's chamber +with a quiet mind. M'Brair sat by the cheek of the peat-fire and +shivered, for he had a quartan ague and this was his day. The +great night-cap and plaid, the dark unshaven cheeks of the man, and +the white, thin hands that held the plaid about his chittering +body, made a sorrowful picture. But Francie knew and loved him; +came straight in, nestled close to the refugee, and told his story. +M'Brair had been at the College with Haddo; the Presbytery had +licensed both on the same day; and at this tale, told with so much +innocency by the boy, the heart of the tutor was commoved. + +'Woe upon him! Woe upon that man!' he cried. 'O the unfaithful +shepherd! O the hireling and apostate minister! Make my matters +hot for me? quo' she! the shameless limmer! And true it is, that +he could repose me in that nasty, stinking hole, the Canongate +Tolbooth, from which your mother drew me out--the Lord reward her +for it!--or to that cold, unbieldy, marine place of the Bass Rock, +which, with my delicate kist, would be fair ruin to me. But I will +be valiant in my Master's service. I have a duty here: a duty to +my God, to myself, and to Haddo: in His strength, I will perform +it.' + +Then he straitly discharged Francie to repeat the tale, and bade +him in the future to avert his very eyes from the doings of the +curate. 'You must go to his place of idolatry; look upon him +there!' says he, 'but nowhere else. Avert your eyes, close your +ears, pass him by like a three days' corp. He is like that +damnable monster Basiliscus, which defiles--yea, poisons!--by the +sight.'--All which was hardly claratory to the boy's mind. + +Presently Montroymont came home, and called up the stairs to +Francie. Traquair was a good shot and swordsman: and it was his +pleasure to walk with his son over the braes of the moorfowl, or to +teach him arms in the back court, when they made a mighty comely +pair, the child being so lean, and light, and active, and the laird +himself a man of a manly, pretty stature, his hair (the periwig +being laid aside) showing already white with many anxieties, and +his face of an even, flaccid red. But this day Francie's heart was +not in the fencing. + +'Sir,' says he, suddenly lowering his point, 'will ye tell me a +thing if I was to ask it?' + +'Ask away,' says the father. + +'Well, it's this,' said Francie: 'Why do you and me comply if it's +so wicked?' + +'Ay, ye have the cant of it too!' cries Montroymont. 'But I'll +tell ye for all that. It's to try and see if we can keep the +rigging on this house, Francie. If she had her way, we would be +beggar-folk, and hold our hands out by the wayside. When ye hear +her--when ye hear folk,' he corrected himself briskly, 'call me a +coward, and one that betrayed the Lord, and I kenna what else, just +mind it was to keep a bed to ye to sleep in and a bite for ye to +eat.--On guard!' he cried, and the lesson proceeded again till they +were called to supper. + +'There's another thing yet,' said Francie, stopping his father. +'There's another thing that I am not sure that I am very caring +for. She--she sends me errands.' + +'Obey her, then, as is your bounden duty,' said Traquair. + +'Ay, but wait till I tell ye,' says the boy. 'If I was to see you +I was to hide.' + +Montroymont sighed. 'Well, and that's good of her too,' said he. +'The less that I ken of thir doings the better for me; and the best +thing you can do is just to obey her, and see and be a good son to +her, the same as ye are to me, Francie.' + +At the tenderness of this expression the heart of Francie swelled +within his bosom, and his remorse was poured out. 'Faither!' he +cried, 'I said "deil" to-day; many's the time I said it, and +DAMNABLE too, and HELLITSH. I ken they're all right; they're +beeblical. But I didna say them beeblically; I said them for sweir +words--that's the truth of it.' + +'Hout, ye silly bairn!' said the father, 'dinna do it nae mair, and +come in by to your supper.' And he took the boy, and drew him +close to him a moment, as they went through the door, with +something very fond and secret, like a caress between a pair of +lovers. + +The next day M'Brair was abroad in the afternoon, and had a long +advising with Janet on the braes where she herded cattle. What +passed was never wholly known; but the lass wept bitterly, and fell +on her knees to him among the whins. The same night, as soon as it +was dark, he took the road again for Balweary. In the Kirkton, +where the dragoons quartered, he saw many lights, and heard the +noise of a ranting song and people laughing grossly, which was +highly offensive to his mind. He gave it the wider berth, keeping +among fields; and came down at last by the water-side, where the +manse stands solitary between the river and the road. He tapped at +the back door, and the old woman called upon him to come in, and +guided him through the house to the study, as they still called it, +though there was little enough study there in Haddo's days, and +more song-books than theology. + +'Here's yin to speak wi' ye, Mr. Haddie!' cries the old wife. + +And M'Brair, opening the door and entering, found the little, +round, red man seated in one chair and his feet upon another. A +clear fire and a tallow dip lighted him barely. He was taking +tobacco in a pipe, and smiling to himself; and a brandy-bottle and +glass, and his fiddle and bow, were beside him on the table. + +'Hech, Patey M'Briar, is this you?' said he, a trifle tipsily. +'Step in by, man, and have a drop brandy: for the stomach's sake! +Even the deil can quote Scripture--eh, Patey?' + +'I will neither eat nor drink with you,' replied M'Brair. 'I am +come upon my Master's errand: woe be upon me if I should anyways +mince the same. Hall Haddo, I summon you to quit this kirk which +you encumber.' + +'Muckle obleeged!' says Haddo, winking. + +'You and me have been to kirk and market together,' pursued +M'Brair; 'we have had blessed seasons in the kirk, we have sat in +the same teaching-rooms and read in the same book; and I know you +still retain for me some carnal kindness. It would be my shame if +I denied it; I live here at your mercy and by your favour, and +glory to acknowledge it. You have pity on my wretched body, which +is but grass, and must soon be trodden under: but O, Haddo! how +much greater is the yearning with which I yearn after and pity your +immortal soul! Come now, let us reason together! I drop all +points of controversy, weighty though these be; I take your defaced +and damnified kirk on your own terms; and I ask you, Are you a +worthy minister? The communion season approaches; how can you +pronounce thir solemn words, "The elders will now bring forrit the +elements," and not quail? A parishioner may be summoned to-night; +you may have to rise from your miserable orgies; and I ask you, +Haddo, what does your conscience tell you? Are you fit? Are you +fit to smooth the pillow of a parting Christian? And if the +summons should be for yourself, how then?' + +Haddo was startled out of all composure and the better part of his +temper. 'What's this of it?' he cried. 'I'm no waur than my +neebours. I never set up to be speeritual; I never did. I'm a +plain, canty creature; godliness is cheerfulness, says I; give me +my fiddle and a dram, and I wouldna hairm a flee.' + +'And I repeat my question,' said M'Brair: 'Are you fit--fit for +this great charge? fit to carry and save souls?' + +'Fit? Blethers! As fit's yoursel',' cried Haddo. + +'Are you so great a self-deceiver?' said M'Brair. 'Wretched man, +trampler upon God's covenants, crucifier of your Lord afresh. I +will ding you to the earth with one word: How about the young +woman, Janet M'Clour?' + +'Weel, what about her? what do I ken?' cries Haddo. 'M'Brair, ye +daft auld wife, I tell ye as true's truth, I never meddled her. It +was just daffing, I tell ye: daffing, and nae mair: a piece of +fun, like! I'm no denying but what I'm fond of fun, sma' blame to +me! But for onything sarious--hout, man, it might come to a +deposeetion! I'll sweir it to ye. Where's a Bible, till you hear +me sweir?' + +'There is nae Bible in your study,' said M'Brair severely. + +And Haddo, after a few distracted turns, was constrained to accept +the fact. + +'Weel, and suppose there isna?' he cried, stamping. 'What mair can +ye say of us, but just that I'm fond of my joke, and so's she? I +declare to God, by what I ken, she might be the Virgin Mary--if she +would just keep clear of the dragoons. But me! na, deil haet o' +me!' + +'She is penitent at least,' says M'Brair. + +'Do you mean to actually up and tell me to my face that she accused +me?' cried the curate. + +'I canna just say that,' replied M'Brair. 'But I rebuked her in +the name of God, and she repented before me on her bended knees.' + +'Weel, I daursay she's been ower far wi' the dragoons,' said Haddo. +'I never denied that. I ken naething by it.' + +'Man, you but show your nakedness the more plainly,' said M'Brair. +'Poor, blind, besotted creature--and I see you stoytering on the +brink of dissolution: your light out, and your hours numbered. +Awake, man!' he shouted with a formidable voice, 'awake, or it be +ower late.' + +'Be damned if I stand this!' exclaimed Haddo, casting his tobacco- +pipe violently on the table, where it was smashed in pieces. 'Out +of my house with ye, or I'll call for the dragoons.' + +'The speerit of the Lord is upon me,' said M'Brair with solemn +ecstasy. 'I sist you to compear before the Great White Throne, and +I warn you the summons shall be bloody and sudden.' + +And at this, with more agility than could have been expected, he +got clear of the room and slammed the door behind him in the face +of the pursuing curate. The next Lord's day the curate was ill, +and the kirk closed, but for all his ill words, Mr. M'Brair abode +unmolested in the house of Montroymont. + + + +CHAPTER III--THE HILL-END OF DRUMLOWE + + + +This was a bit of a steep broken hill that overlooked upon the west +a moorish valley, full of ink-black pools. These presently drained +into a burn that made off, with little noise and no celerity of +pace, about the corner of the hill. On the far side the ground +swelled into a bare heath, black with junipers, and spotted with +the presence of the standing stones for which the place was famous. +They were many in that part, shapeless, white with lichen--you +would have said with age: and had made their abode there for +untold centuries, since first the heathens shouted for their +installation. The ancients had hallowed them to some ill religion, +and their neighbourhood had long been avoided by the prudent before +the fall of day; but of late, on the upspringing of new +requirements, these lonely stones on the moor had again become a +place of assembly. A watchful picket on the Hill-end commanded all +the northern and eastern approaches; and such was the disposition +of the ground, that by certain cunningly posted sentries the west +also could be made secure against surprise: there was no place in +the country where a conventicle could meet with more quiet of mind +or a more certain retreat open, in the case of interference from +the dragoons. The minister spoke from a knowe close to the edge of +the ring, and poured out the words God gave him on the very +threshold of the devils of yore. When they pitched a tent (which +was often in wet weather, upon a communion occasion) it was rigged +over the huge isolated pillar that had the name of Anes-Errand, +none knew why. And the congregation sat partly clustered on the +slope below, and partly among the idolatrous monoliths and on the +turfy soil of the Ring itself. In truth the situation was well +qualified to give a zest to Christian doctrines, had there been any +wanted. But these congregations assembled under conditions at once +so formidable and romantic as made a zealot of the most cold. They +were the last of the faithful; God, who had averted His face from +all other countries of the world, still leaned from heaven to +observe, with swelling sympathy, the doings of His moorland +remnant; Christ was by them with His eternal wounds, with dropping +tears; the Holy Ghost (never perfectly realised nor firmly adopted +by Protestant imaginations) was dimly supposed to be in the heart +of each and on the lips of the minister. And over against them was +the army of the hierarchies, from the men Charles and James Stuart, +on to King Lewie and the Emperor; and the scarlet Pope, and the +muckle black devil himself, peering out the red mouth of hell in an +ecstasy of hate and hope. 'One pull more!' he seemed to cry; 'one +pull more, and it's done. There's only Clydesdale and the +Stewartry, and the three Bailiaries of Ayr, left for God.' And +with such an august assistance of powers and principalities looking +on at the last conflict of good and evil, it was scarce possible to +spare a thought to those old, infirm, debile, ab agendo devils +whose holy place they were now violating. + +There might have been three hundred to four hundred present. At +least there were three hundred horses tethered for the most part in +the ring; though some of the hearers on the outskirts of the crowd +stood with their bridles in their hand, ready to mount at the first +signal. The circle of faces was strangely characteristic; long, +serious, strongly marked, the tackle standing out in the lean brown +cheeks, the mouth set and the eyes shining with a fierce +enthusiasm; the shepherd, the labouring man, and the rarer laird, +stood there in their broad blue bonnets or laced hats, and +presenting an essential identity of type. From time to time a +long-drawn groan of adhesion rose in this audience, and was +propagated like a wave to the outskirts, and died away among the +keepers of the horses. It had a name; it was called 'a holy +groan.' + +A squall came up; a great volley of flying mist went out before it +and whelmed the scene; the wind stormed with a sudden fierceness +that carried away the minister's voice and twitched his tails and +made him stagger, and turned the congregation for a moment into a +mere pother of blowing plaid-ends and prancing horses; and the rain +followed and was dashed straight into their faces. Men and women +panted aloud in the shock of that violent shower-bath; the teeth +were bared along all the line in an involuntary grimace; plaids, +mantles, and riding-coats were proved vain, and the worshippers +felt the water stream on their naked flesh. The minister, +reinforcing his great and shrill voice, continued to contend +against and triumph over the rising of the squall and the dashing +of the rain. + +'In that day ye may go thirty mile and not hear a crawing cock,' he +said; 'and fifty mile and not get a light to your pipe; and an +hundred mile and not see a smoking house. For there'll be naething +in all Scotland but deid men's banes and blackness, and the living +anger of the Lord. O, where to find a bield--O sirs, where to find +a bield from the wind of the Lord's anger? Do ye call THIS a wind? +Bethankit! Sirs, this is but a temporary dispensation; this is but +a puff of wind, this is but a spit of rain and by with it. Already +there's a blue bow in the west, and the sun will take the crown of +the causeway again, and your things'll be dried upon ye, and your +flesh will be warm upon your bones. But O, sirs, sirs! for the day +of the Lord's anger!' + +His rhetoric was set forth with an ear-piercing elocution, and a +voice that sometimes crashed like cannon. Such as it was, it was +the gift of all hill-preachers, to a singular degree of likeness or +identity. Their images scarce ranged beyond the red horizon of the +moor and the rainy hill-top, the shepherd and his sheep, a fowling- +piece, a spade, a pipe, a dunghill, a crowing cock, the shining and +the withdrawal of the sun. An occasional pathos of simple +humanity, and frequent patches of big Biblical words, relieved the +homely tissue. It was a poetry apart; bleak, austere, but genuine, +and redolent of the soil. + +A little before the coming of the squall there was a different +scene enacting at the outposts. For the most part, the sentinels +were faithful to their important duty; the Hill-end of Drumlowe was +known to be a safe meeting-place; and the out-pickets on this +particular day had been somewhat lax from the beginning, and grew +laxer during the inordinate length of the discourse. Francie lay +there in his appointed hiding-hole, looking abroad between two +whin-bushes. His view was across the course of the burn, then over +a piece of plain moorland, to a gap between two hills; nothing +moved but grouse, and some cattle who slowly traversed his field of +view, heading northward: he heard the psalms, and sang words of +his own to the savage and melancholy music; for he had his own +design in hand, and terror and cowardice prevailed in his bosom +alternately, like the hot and the cold fit of an ague. Courage was +uppermost during the singing, which he accompanied through all its +length with this impromptu strain: + + +'And I will ding Jock Crozer down +No later than the day.' + + +Presently the voice of the preacher came to him in wafts, at the +wind's will, as by the opening and shutting of a door; wild spasms +of screaming, as of some undiscerned gigantic hill-bird stirred +with inordinate passion, succeeded to intervals of silence; and +Francie heard them with a critical ear. 'Ay,' he thought at last, +'he'll do; he has the bit in his mou' fairly.' + +He had observed that his friend, or rather his enemy, Jock Crozer, +had been established at a very critical part of the line of +outposts; namely, where the burn issues by an abrupt gorge from the +semicircle of high moors. If anything was calculated to nerve him +to battle it was this. The post was important; next to the Hill- +end itself, it might be called the key to the position; and it was +where the cover was bad, and in which it was most natural to place +a child. It should have been Heathercat's; why had it been given +to Crozer? An exquisite fear of what should be the answer passed +through his marrow every time he faced the question. Was it +possible that Crozer could have boasted? that there were rumours +abroad to his--Heathercat's--discredit? that his honour was +publicly sullied? All the world went dark about him at the +thought; he sank without a struggle into the midnight pool of +despair; and every time he so sank, he brought back with him--not +drowned heroism indeed, but half-drowned courage by the locks. His +heart beat very slowly as he deserted his station, and began to +crawl towards that of Crozer. Something pulled him back, and it +was not the sense of duty, but a remembrance of Crozer's build and +hateful readiness of fist. Duty, as he conceived it, pointed him +forward on the rueful path that he was travelling. Duty bade him +redeem his name if he were able, at the risk of broken bones; and +his bones and every tooth in his head ached by anticipation. An +awful subsidiary fear whispered him that if he were hurt, he should +disgrace himself by weeping. He consoled himself, boy-like, with +the consideration that he was not yet committed; he could easily +steal over unseen to Crozer's post, and he had a continuous private +idea that he would very probably steal back again. His course took +him so near the minister that he could hear some of his words: +'What news, minister, of Claver'se? He's going round like a +roaring rampaging lion. . . . + + + + +Footnotes: + + +{1} From the Sydney Presbyterian, October 26, 1889. + +{2a} Theater of Mortality, p. 10; Edin. 1713. + +{2b} History of My Own Times, beginning 1660, by Bishop Gilbert +Burnet, p. 158. + +{2c} Wodrow's Church History, Book II. chap. i. sect. I. + +{2d} Crookshank's Church History, 1751, second ed. p. 202. + +{2e} Burnet, p. 348. + +{3a} Fuller's Historie of the Holy Warre, fourth ed. 1651. + +{3b} Wodrow, vol. ii. p. 17. + +{3c} Sir J. Turner's Memoirs, pp. 148-50. + +{4a} A Cloud of Witnesses, p. 376. + +{4b} Wodrow, pp. 19, 20. + +{4c} A Hind Let Loose, p. 123. + +{4d} Turner, p. 163. + +{4e} Turner, p. 198. + +{4f} Ibid. p. 167. + +{4g} Wodrow, p. 29. + +{4h} Turner, Wodrow, and Church History by James Kirkton, an outed +minister of the period. + +{5a} Kirkton, p. 244. + +{5b} Kirkton. + +{5c} Turner. + +{5d} Kirkton. + +{5e} Kirkton. + +{6a} Cloud of Witnesses, p. 389; Edin. 1765. + +{6b} Kirkton, p. 247. + +{6c} Ibid. p. 254. + +{6d} Ibid. p. 247. + +{6e} Ibid. pp. 247, 248. + +{6f} Kirkton, p. 248. + +{6g} Kirkton, p. 249. + +{6h} Naphtali, p. 205; Glasgow, 1721. + +{6i} Wodrow, p. 59. + +{6j} Kirkton, p. 246. + +{6k} Defoe's History of the Church of Scotland. + +{7} 'This paper was written in collaboration with James Waiter +Ferrier, and if reprinted this is to be stated, though his +principal collaboration was to lie back in an easy-chair and +laugh.'--[R.L.S., Oct. 25, 1894.] + +{8} See a short essay of De Quincey's. + +{9a} Religio Medici, Part ii. + +{9b} Duchess of Malfi. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, LAY MORALS *** + +This file should be named lamor10.txt or lamor10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, lamor11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, lamor10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/lamor10.zip b/old/lamor10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a1a6c1 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/lamor10.zip diff --git a/old/lamor10h.htm b/old/lamor10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f4bee2 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/lamor10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8636 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII"> +<title>Lay Morals</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Lay Morals, by Robert Louis Stevenson</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lay Morals, by Robert Louis Stevenson +(#10 in our series by Robert Louis Stevenson) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Lay Morals + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Release Date: December, 1995 [EBook #373] +[This file was first posted on November 25, 1995] +[Most recently updated: August 18, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII +</pre> +<p> +<a name="startoftext"></a> +Transcribed from the Chatto and Windus 1911 edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +LAY MORALS AND OTHER PAPERS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Contents:<br> + Lay Morals<br> + Chapter I<br> + Chapter II<br> + Chapter III<br> + Chapter IV<br> + Father Damien<br> + The Pentland Rising<br> + Chapter I - The Causes of the Revolt<br> + Chapter II - The Beginning<br> + Chapter III - The March of the Rebels<br> + Chapter IV - Rullion Green<br> + Chapter V - A Record of Blood<br> + The Day After To-morrow<br> + College Papers<br> + Chapter I - Edinburgh Students in +1824<br> + Chapter II - The Modern Student<br> + Chapter III - Debating Societies<br> + Criticisms<br> + Chapter I - Lord Lytton's “Fables +in Song”<br> + Chapter II - Salvini’s Macbeth<br> + Chapter III - Bagster’s “Pilgrim’s +Progress”<br> + Sketches<br> + The Satirist<br> + Nuits Blanches<br> + The Wreath of Immortelles<br> + Nurses<br> + A Character<br> + The Great North Road<br> + Chapter I - Nance at the “Green +Dragon”<br> + Chapter II - In which Mr. Archer +is Installed<br> + Chapter III - Jonathan Holdaway<br> + Chapter IV - Mingling Threads<br> + Chapter V - Life in the Castle<br> + Chapter IV - The Bad Half-Crown<br> + Chapter VII - The Bleaching-Green<br> + Chapter VIII - The Mail Guard<br> + The Young Chevalier<br> + Prologue: The Wine-Seller’s +Wife<br> + Chapter I - The Prince<br> + Heathercat<br> + Chapter I - Traqairs of Montroymont<br> + Chapter II - Francie<br> + Chapter III - The Hill-End of Drumlowe<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +LAY MORALS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER I<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +The problem of education is twofold: first to know, and then to utter. +Every one who lives any semblance of an inner life thinks more nobly +and profoundly than he speaks; and the best of teachers can impart only +broken images of the truth which they perceive. Speech which goes +from one to another between two natures, and, what is worse, between +two experiences, is doubly relative. The speaker buries his meaning; +it is for the hearer to dig it up again; and all speech, written or +spoken, is in a dead language until it finds a willing and prepared +hearer. Such, moreover, is the complexity of life, that when we +condescend upon details in our advice, we may be sure we condescend +on error; and the best of education is to throw out some magnanimous +hints. No man was ever so poor that he could express all he has +in him by words, looks, or actions; his true knowledge is eternally +incommunicable, for it is a knowledge of himself; and his best wisdom +comes to him by no process of the mind, but in a supreme self-dictation, +which keeps varying from hour to hour in its dictates with the variation +of events and circumstances.<br> +<br> +A few men of picked nature, full of faith, courage, and contempt for +others, try earnestly to set forth as much as they can grasp of this +inner law; but the vast majority, when they come to advise the young, +must be content to retail certain doctrines which have been already +retailed to them in their own youth. Every generation has to educate +another which it has brought upon the stage. People who readily +accept the responsibility of parentship, having very different matters +in their eye, are apt to feel rueful when that responsibility falls +due. What are they to tell the child about life and conduct, subjects +on which they have themselves so few and such confused opinions? +Indeed, I do not know; the least said, perhaps, the soonest mended; +and yet the child keeps asking, and the parent must find some words +to say in his own defence. Where does he find them? and what are +they when found?<br> +<br> +As a matter of experience, and in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases +out of a thousand, he will instil into his wide-eyed brat three bad +things: the terror of public opinion, and, flowing from that as a fountain, +the desire of wealth and applause. Besides these, or what might +be deduced as corollaries from these, he will teach not much else of +any effective value: some dim notions of divinity, perhaps, and book-keeping, +and how to walk through a quadrille.<br> +<br> +But, you may tell me, the young people are taught to be Christians. +It may be want of penetration, but I have not yet been able to perceive +it. As an honest man, whatever we teach, and be it good or evil, +it is not the doctrine of Christ. What he taught (and in this +he is like all other teachers worthy of the name) was not a code of +rules, but a ruling spirit; not truths, but a spirit of truth; not views, +but a view. What he showed us was an attitude of mind. Towards +the many considerations on which conduct is built, each man stands in +a certain relation. He takes life on a certain principle. +He has a compass in his spirit which points in a certain direction. +It is the attitude, the relation, the point of the compass, that is +the whole body and gist of what he has to teach us; in this, the details +are comprehended; out of this the specific precepts issue, and by this, +and this only, can they be explained and applied. And thus, to +learn aright from any teacher, we must first of all, like a historical +artist, think ourselves into sympathy with his position and, in the +technical phrase, create his character. A historian confronted +with some ambiguous politician, or an actor charged with a part, have +but one pre-occupation; they must search all round and upon every side, +and grope for some central conception which is to explain and justify +the most extreme details; until that is found, the politician is an +enigma, or perhaps a quack, and the part a tissue of fustian sentiment +and big words; but once that is found, all enters into a plan, a human +nature appears, the politician or the stage-king is understood from +point to point, from end to end. This is a degree of trouble which +will be gladly taken by a very humble artist; but not even the terror +of eternal fire can teach a business man to bend his imagination to +such athletic efforts. Yet without this, all is vain; until we +understand the whole, we shall understand none of the parts; and otherwise +we have no more than broken images and scattered words; the meaning +remains buried; and the language in which our prophet speaks to us is +a dead language in our ears.<br> +<br> +Take a few of Christ’s sayings and compare them with our current +doctrines.<br> +<br> +‘Ye cannot,’ he says, ‘<i>serve God and Mammon</i>.’ +Cannot? And our whole system is to teach us how we can!<br> +<br> +‘<i>The children of this world are wiser in their generation than +the children of light</i>.’ Are they? I had been led +to understand the reverse: that the Christian merchant, for example, +prospered exceedingly in his affairs; that honesty was the best policy; +that an author of repute had written a conclusive treatise ‘How +to make the best of both worlds.’ Of both worlds indeed! +Which am I to believe then - Christ or the author of repute?<br> +<br> +‘<i>Take no thought for the morrow</i>.’ Ask the Successful +Merchant; interrogate your own heart; and you will have to admit that +this is not only a silly but an immoral position. All we believe, +all we hope, all we honour in ourselves or our contemporaries, stands +condemned in this one sentence, or, if you take the other view, condemns +the sentence as unwise and inhumane. We are not then of the ‘same +mind that was in Christ.’ We disagree with Christ. +Either Christ meant nothing, or else he or we must be in the wrong. +Well says Thoreau, speaking of some texts from the New Testament, and +finding a strange echo of another style which the reader may recognise: +‘Let but one of these sentences be rightly read from any pulpit +in the land, and there would not be left one stone of that meeting-house +upon another.’<br> +<br> +It may be objected that these are what are called ‘hard sayings’; +and that a man, or an education, may be very sufficiently Christian +although it leave some of these sayings upon one side. But this +is a very gross delusion. Although truth is difficult to state, +it is both easy and agreeable to receive, and the mind runs out to meet +it ere the phrase be done. The universe, in relation to what any +man can say of it, is plain, patent and staringly comprehensible. +In itself, it is a great and travailing ocean, unsounded, unvoyageable, +an eternal mystery to man; or, let us say, it is a monstrous and impassable +mountain, one side of which, and a few near slopes and foothills, we +can dimly study with these mortal eyes. But what any man can say +of it, even in his highest utterance, must have relation to this little +and plain corner, which is no less visible to us than to him. +We are looking on the same map; it will go hard if we cannot follow +the demonstration. The longest and most abstruse flight of a philosopher +becomes clear and shallow, in the flash of a moment, when we suddenly +perceive the aspect and drift of his intention. The longest argument +is but a finger pointed; once we get our own finger rightly parallel, +and we see what the man meant, whether it be a new star or an old street-lamp. +And briefly, if a saying is hard to understand, it is because we are +thinking of something else.<br> +<br> +But to be a true disciple is to think of the same things as our prophet, +and to think of different things in the same order. To be of the +same mind with another is to see all things in the same perspective; +it is not to agree in a few indifferent matters near at hand and not +much debated; it is to follow him in his farthest flights, to see the +force of his hyperboles, to stand so exactly in the centre of his vision +that whatever he may express, your eyes will light at once on the original, +that whatever he may see to declare, your mind will at once accept. +You do not belong to the school of any philosopher, because you agree +with him that theft is, on the whole, objectionable, or that the sun +is overhead at noon. It is by the hard sayings that discipleship +is tested. We are all agreed about the middling and indifferent +parts of knowledge and morality; even the most soaring spirits too often +take them tamely upon trust. But the man, the philosopher or the +moralist, does not stand upon these chance adhesions; and the purpose +of any system looks towards those extreme points where it steps valiantly +beyond tradition and returns with some covert hint of things outside. +Then only can you be certain that the words are not words of course, +nor mere echoes of the past; then only are you sure that if he be indicating +anything at all, it is a star and not a street-lamp; then only do you +touch the heart of the mystery, since it was for these that the author +wrote his book.<br> +<br> +Now, every now and then, and indeed surprisingly often, Christ finds +a word that transcends all common-place morality; every now and then +he quits the beaten track to pioneer the unexpressed, and throws out +a pregnant and magnanimous hyperbole; for it is only by some bold poetry +of thought that men can be strung up above the level of everyday conceptions +to take a broader look upon experience or accept some higher principle +of conduct. To a man who is of the same mind that was in Christ, +who stands at some centre not too far from his, and looks at the world +and conduct from some not dissimilar or, at least, not opposing attitude +- or, shortly, to a man who is of Christ’s philosophy - every +such saying should come home with a thrill of joy and corroboration; +he should feel each one below his feet as another sure foundation in +the flux of time and chance; each should be another proof that in the +torrent of the years and generations, where doctrines and great armaments +and empires are swept away and swallowed, he stands immovable, holding +by the eternal stars. But alas! at this juncture of the ages it +is not so with us; on each and every such occasion our whole fellowship +of Christians falls back in disapproving wonder and implicitly denies +the saying. Christians! the farce is impudently broad. Let +us stand up in the sight of heaven and confess. The ethics that +we hold are those of Benjamin Franklin. <i>Honesty is the best</i> +<i>policy</i>, is perhaps a hard saying; it is certainly one by which +a wise man of these days will not too curiously direct his steps; but +I think it shows a glimmer of meaning to even our most dimmed intelligences; +I think we perceive a principle behind it; I think, without hyperbole, +we are of the same mind that was in Benjamin Franklin.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER II<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +But, I may be told, we teach the ten commandments, where a world of +morals lies condensed, the very pith and epitome of all ethics and religion; +and a young man with these precepts engraved upon his mind must follow +after profit with some conscience and Christianity of method. +A man cannot go very far astray who neither dishonours his parents, +nor kills, nor commits adultery, nor steals, nor bears false witness; +for these things, rightly thought out, cover a vast field of duty.<br> +<br> +Alas! what is a precept? It is at best an illustration; it is +case law at the best which can be learned by precept. The letter +is not only dead, but killing; the spirit which underlies, and cannot +be uttered, alone is true and helpful. This is trite to sickness; +but familiarity has a cunning disenchantment; in a day or two she can +steal all beauty from the mountain tops; and the most startling words +begin to fall dead upon the ear after several repetitions. If +you see a thing too often, you no longer see it; if you hear a thing +too often, you no longer hear it. Our attention requires to be +surprised; and to carry a fort by assault, or to gain a thoughtful hearing +from the ruck of mankind, are feats of about an equal difficulty and +must be tried by not dissimilar means. The whole Bible has thus +lost its message for the common run of hearers; it has become mere words +of course; and the parson may bawl himself scarlet and beat the pulpit +like a thing possessed, but his hearers will continue to nod; they are +strangely at peace, they know all he has to say; ring the old bell as +you choose, it is still the old bell and it cannot startle their composure. +And so with this byword about the letter and the spirit. It is +quite true, no doubt; but it has no meaning in the world to any man +of us. Alas! it has just this meaning, and neither more nor less: +that while the spirit is true, the letter is eternally false.<br> +<br> +The shadow of a great oak lies abroad upon the ground at noon, perfect, +clear, and stable like the earth. But let a man set himself to +mark out the boundary with cords and pegs, and were he never so nimble +and never so exact, what with the multiplicity of the leaves and the +progression of the shadow as it flees before the travelling sun, long +ere he has made the circuit the whole figure will have changed. +Life may be compared, not to a single tree, but to a great and complicated +forest; circumstance is more swiftly changing than a shadow, language +much more inexact than the tools of a surveyor; from day to day the +trees fall and are renewed; the very essences are fleeting as we look; +and the whole world of leaves is swinging tempest-tossed among the winds +of time. Look now for your shadows. O man of formulae, is +this a place for you? Have you fitted the spirit to a single case? +Alas, in the cycle of the ages when shall such another be proposed for +the judgment of man? Now when the sun shines and the winds blow, +the wood is filled with an innumerable multitude of shadows, tumultuously +tossed and changing; and at every gust the whole carpet leaps and becomes +new. Can you or your heart say more?<br> +<br> +Look back now, for a moment, on your own brief experience of life; and +although you lived it feelingly in your own person, and had every step +of conduct burned in by pains and joys upon your memory, tell me what +definite lesson does experience hand on from youth to manhood, or from +both to age? The settled tenor which first strikes the eye is +but the shadow of a delusion. This is gone; that never truly was; +and you yourself are altered beyond recognition. Times and men +and circumstances change about your changing character, with a speed +of which no earthly hurricane affords an image. What was the best +yesterday, is it still the best in this changed theatre of a to-morrow? +Will your own Past truly guide you in your own violent and unexpected +Future? And if this be questionable, with what humble, with what +hopeless eyes, should we not watch other men driving beside us on their +unknown careers, seeing with unlike eyes, impelled by different gales, +doing and suffering in another sphere of things?<br> +<br> +And as the authentic clue to such a labyrinth and change of scene, do +you offer me these two score words? these five bald prohibitions? +For the moral precepts are no more than five; the first four deal rather +with matters of observance than of conduct; the tenth, <i>Thou shalt +not covet</i>, stands upon another basis, and shall be spoken of ere +long. The Jews, to whom they were first given, in the course of +years began to find these precepts insufficient; and made an addition +of no less than six hundred and fifty others! They hoped to make +a pocket-book of reference on morals, which should stand to life in +some such relation, say, as Hoyle stands in to the scientific game of +whist. The comparison is just, and condemns the design; for those +who play by rule will never be more than tolerable players; and you +and I would like to play our game in life to the noblest and the most +divine advantage. Yet if the Jews took a petty and huckstering +view of conduct, what view do we take ourselves, who callously leave +youth to go forth into the enchanted forest, full of spells and dire +chimeras, with no guidance more complete than is afforded by these five +precepts?<br> +<br> +<i>Honour thy father and thy mother</i>. Yes, but does that mean +to obey? and if so, how long and how far? <i>Thou shall not kill</i>. +Yet the very intention and purport of the prohibition may be best fulfilled +by killing. <i>Thou shall not commit adultery</i>. But some +of the ugliest adulteries are committed in the bed of marriage and under +the sanction of religion and law. <i>Thou shalt not bear false +witness</i>. How? by speech or by silence also? or even by a smile? +<i>Thou shalt</i> <i>not steal</i>. Ah, that indeed! But +what is <i>to steal</i>?<br> +<br> +To steal? It is another word to be construed; and who is to be +our guide? The police will give us one construction, leaving the +word only that least minimum of meaning without which society would +fall in pieces; but surely we must take some higher sense than this; +surely we hope more than a bare subsistence for mankind; surely we wish +mankind to prosper and go on from strength to strength, and ourselves +to live rightly in the eye of some more exacting potentate than a policeman. +The approval or the disapproval of the police must be eternally indifferent +to a man who is both valorous and good. There is extreme discomfort, +but no shame, in the condemnation of the law. The law represents +that modicum of morality which can be squeezed out of the ruck of mankind; +but what is that to me, who aim higher and seek to be my own more stringent +judge? I observe with pleasure that no brave man has ever given +a rush for such considerations. The Japanese have a nobler and +more sentimental feeling for this social bond into which we all are +born when we come into the world, and whose comforts and protection +we all indifferently share throughout our lives:- but even to them, +no more than to our Western saints and heroes, does the law of the state +supersede the higher law of duty. Without hesitation and without +remorse, they transgress the stiffest enactments rather than abstain +from doing right. But the accidental superior duty being thus +fulfilled, they at once return in allegiance to the common duty of all +citizens; and hasten to denounce themselves; and value at an equal rate +their just crime and their equally just submission to its punishment.<br> +<br> +The evading of the police will not long satisfy an active conscience +or a thoughtful head. But to show you how one or the other may +trouble a man, and what a vast extent of frontier is left unridden by +this invaluable eighth commandment, let me tell you a few pages out +of a young man’s life.<br> +<br> +He was a friend of mine; a young man like others; generous, flighty, +as variable as youth itself, but always with some high motions and on +the search for higher thoughts of life. I should tell you at once +that he thoroughly agrees with the eighth commandment. But he +got hold of some unsettling works, the New Testament among others, and +this loosened his views of life and led him into many perplexities. +As he was the son of a man in a certain position, and well off, my friend +had enjoyed from the first the advantages of education, nay, he had +been kept alive through a sickly childhood by constant watchfulness, +comforts, and change of air; for all of which he was indebted to his +father’s wealth.<br> +<br> +At college he met other lads more diligent than himself, who followed +the plough in summer-time to pay their college fees in winter; and this +inequality struck him with some force. He was at that age of a +conversible temper, and insatiably curious in the aspects of life; and +he spent much of his time scraping acquaintance with all classes of +man- and woman-kind. In this way he came upon many depressed ambitions, +and many intelligences stunted for want of opportunity; and this also +struck him. He began to perceive that life was a handicap upon +strange, wrong-sided principles; and not, as he had been told, a fair +and equal race. He began to tremble that he himself had been unjustly +favoured, when he saw all the avenues of wealth, and power, and comfort +closed against so many of his superiors and equals, and held unwearyingly +open before so idle, so desultory, and so dissolute a being as himself. +There sat a youth beside him on the college benches, who had only one +shirt to his back, and, at intervals sufficiently far apart, must stay +at home to have it washed. It was my friend’s principle +to stay away as often as he dared; for I fear he was no friend to learning. +But there was something that came home to him sharply, in this fellow +who had to give over study till his shirt was washed, and the scores +of others who had never an opportunity at all. <i>If one of these +could take his place</i>, he thought; and the thought tore away a bandage +from his eyes. He was eaten by the shame of his discoveries, and +despised himself as an unworthy favourite and a creature of the back-stairs +of Fortune. He could no longer see without confusion one of these +brave young fellows battling up-hill against adversity. Had he +not filched that fellow’s birthright? At best was he not +coldly profiting by the injustice of society, and greedily devouring +stolen goods? The money, indeed, belonged to his father, who had +worked, and thought, and given up his liberty to earn it; but by what +justice could the money belong to my friend, who had, as yet, done nothing +but help to squander it? A more sturdy honesty, joined to a more +even and impartial temperament, would have drawn from these considerations +a new force of industry, that this equivocal position might be brought +as swiftly as possible to an end, and some good services to mankind +justify the appropriation of expense. It was not so with my friend, +who was only unsettled and discouraged, and filled full of that trumpeting +anger with which young men regard injustices in the first blush of youth; +although in a few years they will tamely acquiesce in their existence, +and knowingly profit by their complications. Yet all this while +he suffered many indignant pangs. And once, when he put on his +boots, like any other unripe donkey, to run away from home, it was his +best consolation that he was now, at a single plunge, to free himself +from the responsibility of this wealth that was not his, and do battle +equally against his fellows in the warfare of life.<br> +<br> +Some time after this, falling into ill-health, he was sent at great +expense to a more favourable climate; and then I think his perplexities +were thickest. When he thought of all the other young men of singular +promise, upright, good, the prop of families, who must remain at home +to die, and with all their possibilities be lost to life and mankind; +and how he, by one more unmerited favour, was chosen out from all these +others to survive; he felt as if there were no life, no labour, no devotion +of soul and body, that could repay and justify these partialities. +A religious lady, to whom he communicated these reflections, could see +no force in them whatever. ‘It was God’s will,’ +said she. But he knew it was by God’s will that Joan of +Arc was burnt at Rouen, which cleared neither Bedford nor Bishop Cauchon; +and again, by God’s will that Christ was crucified outside Jerusalem, +which excused neither the rancour of the priests nor the timidity of +Pilate. He knew, moreover, that although the possibility of this +favour he was now enjoying issued from his circumstances, its acceptance +was the act of his own will; and he had accepted it greedily, longing +for rest and sunshine. And hence this allegation of God’s +providence did little to relieve his scruples. I promise you he +had a very troubled mind. And I would not laugh if I were you, +though while he was thus making mountains out of what you think molehills, +he were still (as perhaps he was) contentedly practising many other +things that to you seem black as hell. Every man is his own judge +and mountain-guide through life. There is an old story of a mote +and a beam, apparently not true, but worthy perhaps of some consideration. +I should, if I were you, give some consideration to these scruples of +his, and if I were he, I should do the like by yours; for it is not +unlikely that there may be something under both. In the meantime +you must hear how my friend acted. Like many invalids, he supposed +that he would die. Now, should he die, he saw no means of repaying +this huge loan which, by the hands of his father, mankind had advanced +him for his sickness. In that case it would be lost money. +So he determined that the advance should be as small as possible; and, +so long as he continued to doubt his recovery, lived in an upper room, +and grudged himself all but necessaries. But so soon as he began +to perceive a change for the better, he felt justified in spending more +freely, to speed and brighten his return to health, and trusted in the +future to lend a help to mankind, as mankind, out of its treasury, had +lent a help to him.<br> +<br> +I do not say but that my friend was a little too curious and partial +in his view; nor thought too much of himself and too little of his parents; +but I do say that here are some scruples which tormented my friend in +his youth, and still, perhaps, at odd times give him a prick in the +midst of his enjoyments, and which after all have some foundation in +justice, and point, in their confused way, to some more honourable honesty +within the reach of man. And at least, is not this an unusual +gloss upon the eighth commandment? And what sort of comfort, guidance, +or illumination did that precept afford my friend throughout these contentions? +‘Thou shalt not steal.’ With all my heart! But +<i>am</i> I stealing?<br> +<br> +The truly quaint materialism of our view of life disables us from pursuing +any transaction to an end. You can make no one understand that +his bargain is anything more than a bargain, whereas in point of fact +it is a link in the policy of mankind, and either a good or an evil +to the world. We have a sort of blindness which prevents us from +seeing anything but sovereigns. If one man agrees to give another +so many shillings for so many hours’ work, and then wilfully gives +him a certain proportion of the price in bad money and only the remainder +in good, we can see with half an eye that this man is a thief. +But if the other spends a certain proportion of the hours in smoking +a pipe of tobacco, and a certain other proportion in looking at the +sky, or the clock, or trying to recall an air, or in meditation on his +own past adventures, and only the remainder in downright work such as +he is paid to do, is he, because the theft is one of time and not of +money, - is he any the less a thief? The one gave a bad shilling, +the other an imperfect hour; but both broke the bargain, and each is +a thief. In piecework, which is what most of us do, the case is +none the less plain for being even less material. If you forge +a bad knife, you have wasted some of mankind’s iron, and then, +with unrivalled cynicism, you pocket some of mankind’s money for +your trouble. Is there any man so blind who cannot see that this +is theft? Again, if you carelessly cultivate a farm, you have +been playing fast and loose with mankind’s resources against hunger; +there will be less bread in consequence, and for lack of that bread +somebody will die next winter: a grim consideration. And you must +not hope to shuffle out of blame because you got less money for your +less quantity of bread; for although a theft be partly punished, it +is none the less a theft for that. You took the farm against competitors; +there were others ready to shoulder the responsibility and be answerable +for the tale of loaves; but it was you who took it. By the act +you came under a tacit bargain with mankind to cultivate that farm with +your best endeavour; you were under no superintendence, you were on +parole; and you have broke your bargain, and to all who look closely, +and yourself among the rest if you have moral eyesight, you are a thief. +Or take the case of men of letters. Every piece of work which +is not as good as you can make it, which you have palmed off imperfect, +meagrely thought, niggardly in execution, upon mankind who is your paymaster +on parole and in a sense your pupil, every hasty or slovenly or untrue +performance, should rise up against you in the court of your own heart +and condemn you for a thief. Have you a salary? If you trifle +with your health, and so render yourself less capable for duty, and +still touch, and still greedily pocket the emolument - what are you +but a thief? Have you double accounts? do you by any time-honoured +juggle, deceit, or ambiguous process, gain more from those who deal +with you than it you were bargaining and dealing face to face in front +of God? - What are you but a thief? Lastly, if you fill an office, +or produce an article, which, in your heart of hearts, you think a delusion +and a fraud upon mankind, and still draw your salary and go through +the sham manoeuvres of this office, or still book your profits and keep +on flooding the world with these injurious goods? - though you were +old, and bald, and the first at church, and a baronet, what are you +but a thief? These may seem hard words and mere curiosities of +the intellect, in an age when the spirit of honesty is so sparingly +cultivated that all business is conducted upon lies and so-called customs +of the trade, that not a man bestows two thoughts on the utility or +honourableness of his pursuit. I would say less if I thought less. +But looking to my own reason and the right of things, I can only avow +that I am a thief myself, and that I passionately suspect my neighbours +of the same guilt.<br> +<br> +Where did you hear that it was easy to be honest? Do you find +that in your Bible? Easy! It is easy to be an ass and follow +the multitude like a blind, besotted bull in a stampede; and that, I +am well aware, is what you and Mrs. Grundy mean by being honest. +But it will not bear the stress of time nor the scrutiny of conscience. +Even before the lowest of all tribunals, - before a court of law, whose +business it is, not to keep men right, or within a thousand miles of +right, but to withhold them from going so tragically wrong that they +will pull down the whole jointed fabric of society by their misdeeds +- even before a court of law, as we begin to see in these last days, +our easy view of following at each other’s tails, alike to good +and evil, is beginning to be reproved and punished, and declared no +honesty at all, but open theft and swindling; and simpletons who have +gone on through life with a quiet conscience may learn suddenly, from +the lips of a judge, that the custom of the trade may be a custom of +the devil. You thought it was easy to be honest. Did you +think it was easy to be just and kind and truthful? Did you think +the whole duty of aspiring man was as simple as a horn-pipe? and you +could walk through life like a gentleman and a hero, with no more concern +than it takes to go to church or to address a circular? And yet +all this time you had the eighth commandment! and, what makes it richer, +you would not have broken it for the world!<br> +<br> +The truth is, that these commandments by themselves are of little use +in private judgment. If compression is what you want, you have +their whole spirit compressed into the golden rule; and yet there expressed +with more significance, since the law is there spiritually and not materially +stated. And in truth, four out of these ten commands, from the +sixth to the ninth, are rather legal than ethical. The police-court +is their proper home. A magistrate cannot tell whether you love +your neighbour as yourself, but he can tell more or less whether you +have murdered, or stolen, or committed adultery, or held up your hand +and testified to that which was not; and these things, for rough practical +tests, are as good as can be found. And perhaps, therefore, the +best condensation of the Jewish moral law is in the maxims of the priests, +‘neminem laedere’ and ‘suum cuique tribuere.’ +But all this granted, it becomes only the more plain that they are inadequate +in the sphere of personal morality; that while they tell the magistrate +roughly when to punish, they can never direct an anxious sinner what +to do.<br> +<br> +Only Polonius, or the like solemn sort of ass, can offer us a succinct +proverb by way of advice, and not burst out blushing in our faces. +We grant them one and all and for all that they are worth; it is something +above and beyond that we desire. Christ was in general a great +enemy to such a way of teaching; we rarely find him meddling with any +of these plump commands but it was to open them out, and lift his hearers +from the letter to the spirit. For morals are a personal affair; +in the war of righteousness every man fights for his own hand; all the +six hundred precepts of the Mishna cannot shake my private judgment; +my magistracy of myself is an indefeasible charge, and my decisions +absolute for the time and case. The moralist is not a judge of +appeal, but an advocate who pleads at my tribunal. He has to show +not the law, but that the law applies. Can he convince me? then +he gains the cause. And thus you find Christ giving various counsels +to varying people, and often jealously careful to avoid definite precept. +Is he asked, for example, to divide a heritage? He refuses: and +the best advice that he will offer is but a paraphrase of that tenth +commandment which figures so strangely among the rest. <i>Take +heed, and beware of</i> <i>covetousness</i>. If you complain that +this is vague, I have failed to carry you along with me in my argument. +For no definite precept can be more than an illustration, though its +truth were resplendent like the sun, and it was announced from heaven +by the voice of God. And life is so intricate and changing, that +perhaps not twenty times, or perhaps not twice in the ages, shall we +find that nice consent of circumstances to which alone it can apply.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER III<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Although the world and life have in a sense become commonplace to our +experience, it is but in an external torpor; the true sentiment slumbers +within us; and we have but to reflect on ourselves or our surroundings +to rekindle our astonishment. No length of habit can blunt our +first surprise. Of the world I have but little to say in this +connection; a few strokes shall suffice. We inhabit a dead ember +swimming wide in the blank of space, dizzily spinning as it swims, and +lighted up from several million miles away by a more horrible hell-fire +than was ever conceived by the theological imagination. Yet the +dead ember is a green, commodious dwelling-place; and the reverberation +of this hell-fire ripens flower and fruit and mildly warms us on summer +eves upon the lawn. Far off on all hands other dead embers, other +flaming suns, wheel and race in the apparent void; the nearest is out +of call, the farthest so far that the heart sickens in the effort to +conceive the distance. Shipwrecked seamen on the deep, though +they bestride but the truncheon of a boom, are safe and near at home +compared with mankind on its bullet. Even to us who have known +no other, it seems a strange, if not an appalling, place of residence.<br> +<br> +But far stranger is the resident, man, a creature compact of wonders +that, after centuries of custom, is still wonderful to himself. +He inhabits a body which he is continually outliving, discarding and +renewing. Food and sleep, by an unknown alchemy, restore his spirits +and the freshness of his countenance. Hair grows on him like grass; +his eyes, his brain, his sinews, thirst for action; he joys to see and +touch and hear, to partake the sun and wind, to sit down and intently +ponder on his astonishing attributes and situation, to rise up and run, +to perform the strange and revolting round of physical functions. +The sight of a flower, the note of a bird, will often move him deeply; +yet he looks unconcerned on the impassable distances and portentous +bonfires of the universe. He comprehends, he designs, he tames +nature, rides the sea, ploughs, climbs the air in a balloon, makes vast +inquiries, begins interminable labours, joins himself into federations +and populous cities, spends his days to deliver the ends of the earth +or to benefit unborn posterity; and yet knows himself for a piece of +unsurpassed fragility and the creature of a few days. His sight, +which conducts him, which takes notice of the farthest stars, which +is miraculous in every way and a thing defying explanation or belief, +is yet lodged in a piece of jelly, and can be extinguished with a touch. +His heart, which all through life so indomitably, so athletically labours, +is but a capsule, and may be stopped with a pin. His whole body, +for all its savage energies, its leaping and its winged desires, may +yet be tamed and conquered by a draught of air or a sprinkling of cold +dew. What he calls death, which is the seeming arrest of everything, +and the ruin and hateful transformation of the visible body, lies in +wait for him outwardly in a thousand accidents, and grows up in secret +diseases from within. He is still learning to be a man when his +faculties are already beginning to decline; he has not yet understood +himself or his position before he inevitably dies. And yet this +mad, chimerical creature can take no thought of his last end, lives +as though he were eternal, plunges with his vulnerable body into the +shock of war, and daily affronts death with unconcern. He cannot +take a step without pain or pleasure. His life is a tissue of +sensations, which he distinguishes as they seem to come more directly +from himself or his surroundings. He is conscious of himself as +a joyer or a sufferer, as that which craves, chooses, and is satisfied; +conscious of his surroundings as it were of an inexhaustible purveyor, +the source of aspects, inspirations, wonders, cruel knocks and transporting +caresses. Thus he goes on his way, stumbling among delights and +agonies.<br> +<br> +Matter is a far-fetched theory, and materialism is without a root in +man. To him everything is important in the degree to which it +moves him. The telegraph wires and posts, the electricity speeding +from clerk to clerk, the clerks, the glad or sorrowful import of the +message, and the paper on which it is finally brought to him at home, +are all equally facts, all equally exist for man. A word or a +thought can wound him as acutely as a knife of steel. If he thinks +he is loved, he will rise up and glory to himself, although he be in +a distant land and short of necessary bread. Does he think he +is not loved? - he may have the woman at his beck, and there is not +a joy for him in all the world. Indeed, if we are to make any +account of this figment of reason, the distinction between material +and immaterial, we shall conclude that the life of each man as an individual +is immaterial, although the continuation and prospects of mankind as +a race turn upon material conditions. The physical business of +each man’s body is transacted for him; like a sybarite, he has +attentive valets in his own viscera; he breathes, he sweats, he digests +without an effort, or so much as a consenting volition; for the most +part he even eats, not with a wakeful consciousness, but as it were +between two thoughts. His life is centred among other and more +important considerations; touch him in his honour or his love, creatures +of the imagination which attach him to mankind or to an individual man +or woman; cross him in his piety which connects his soul with heaven; +and he turns from his food, he loathes his breath, and with a magnanimous +emotion cuts the knots of his existence and frees himself at a blow +from the web of pains and pleasures.<br> +<br> +It follows that man is twofold at least; that he is not a rounded and +autonomous empire; but that in the same body with him there dwell other +powers tributary but independent. If I now behold one walking +in a garden, curiously coloured and illuminated by the sun, digesting +his food with elaborate chemistry, breathing, circulating blood, directing +himself by the sight of his eyes, accommodating his body by a thousand +delicate balancings to the wind and the uneven surface of the path, +and all the time, perhaps, with his mind engaged about America, or the +dog-star, or the attributes of God - what am I to say, or how am I to +describe the thing I see? Is that truly a man, in the rigorous +meaning of the word? or is it not a man and something else? What, +then, are we to count the centre-bit and axle of a being so variously +compounded? It is a question much debated. Some read his +history in a certain intricacy of nerve and the success of successive +digestions; others find him an exiled piece of heaven blown upon and +determined by the breath of God; and both schools of theorists will +scream like scalded children at a word of doubt. Yet either of +these views, however plausible, is beside the question; either may be +right; and I care not; I ask a more particular answer, and to a more +immediate point. What is the man? There is Something that +was before hunger and that remains behind after a meal. It may +or may not be engaged in any given act or passion, but when it is, it +changes, heightens, and sanctifies. Thus it is not engaged in +lust, where satisfaction ends the chapter; and it is engaged in love, +where no satisfaction can blunt the edge of the desire, and where age, +sickness, or alienation may deface what was desirable without diminishing +the sentiment. This something, which is the man, is a permanence +which abides through the vicissitudes of passion, now overwhelmed and +now triumphant, now unconscious of itself in the immediate distress +of appetite or pain, now rising unclouded above all. So, to the +man, his own central self fades and grows clear again amid the tumult +of the senses, like a revolving Pharos in the night. It is forgotten; +it is hid, it seems, for ever; and yet in the next calm hour he shall +behold himself once more, shining and unmoved among changes and storm.<br> +<br> +Mankind, in the sense of the creeping mass that is born and eats, that +generates and dies, is but the aggregate of the outer and lower sides +of man. This inner consciousness, this lantern alternately obscured +and shining, to and by which the individual exists and must order his +conduct, is something special to himself and not common to the race. +His joys delight, his sorrows wound him, according as <i>this</i> is +interested or indifferent in the affair; according as they arise in +an imperial war or in a broil conducted by the tributary chieftains +of the mind. He may lose all, and <i>this</i> not suffer; he may +lose what is materially a trifle, and <i>this</i> leap in his bosom +with a cruel pang. I do not speak of it to hardened theorists: +the living man knows keenly what it is I mean.<br> +<br> +‘Perceive at last that thou hast in thee something better and +more divine than the things which cause the various effects, and, as +it were, pull thee by the strings. What is that now in thy mind? +is it fear, or suspicion, or desire, or anything of that kind?’ +Thus far Marcus Aurelius, in one of the most notable passages in any +book. Here is a question worthy to be answered. What is +in thy mind? What is the utterance of your inmost self when, in +a quiet hour, it can be heard intelligibly? It is something beyond +the compass of your thinking, inasmuch as it is yourself; but is it +not of a higher spirit than you had dreamed betweenwhiles, and erect +above all base considerations? This soul seems hardly touched +with our infirmities; we can find in it certainly no fear, suspicion, +or desire; we are only conscious - and that as though we read it in +the eyes of some one else - of a great and unqualified readiness. +A readiness to what? to pass over and look beyond the objects of desire +and fear, for something else. And this something else? this something +which is apart from desire and fear, to which all the kingdoms of the +world and the immediate death of the body are alike indifferent and +beside the point, and which yet regards conduct - by what name are we +to call it? It may be the love of God; or it may be an inherited +(and certainly well concealed) instinct to preserve self and propagate +the race; I am not, for the moment, averse to either theory; but it +will save time to call it righteousness. By so doing I intend +no subterfuge to beg a question; I am indeed ready, and more than willing, +to accept the rigid consequence, and lay aside, as far as the treachery +of the reason will permit, all former meanings attached to the word +righteousness. What is right is that for which a man’s central +self is ever ready to sacrifice immediate or distant interests; what +is wrong is what the central self discards or rejects as incompatible +with the fixed design of righteousness.<br> +<br> +To make this admission is to lay aside all hope of definition. +That which is right upon this theory is intimately dictated to each +man by himself, but can never be rigorously set forth in language, and +never, above all, imposed upon another. The conscience has, then, +a vision like that of the eyes, which is incommunicable, and for the +most part illuminates none but its possessor. When many people +perceive the same or any cognate facts, they agree upon a word as symbol; +and hence we have such words as <i>tree, star</i>, <i>love, honour</i>, +or <i>death</i>; hence also we have this word <i>right</i>, which, like +the others, we all understand, most of us understand differently, and +none can express succinctly otherwise. Yet even on the straitest +view, we can make some steps towards comprehension of our own superior +thoughts. For it is an incredible and most bewildering fact that +a man, through life, is on variable terms with himself; he is aware +of tiffs and reconciliations; the intimacy is at times almost suspended, +at times it is renewed again with joy. As we said before, his +inner self or soul appears to him by successive revelations, and is +frequently obscured. It is from a study of these alternations +that we can alone hope to discover, even dimly, what seems right and +what seems wrong to this veiled prophet of ourself.<br> +<br> +All that is in the man in the larger sense, what we call impression +as well as what we call intuition, so far as my argument looks, we must +accept. It is not wrong to desire food, or exercise, or beautiful +surroundings, or the love of sex, or interest which is the food of the +mind. All these are craved; all these should be craved; to none +of these in itself does the soul demur; where there comes an undeniable +want, we recognise a demand of nature. Yet we know that these +natural demands may be superseded; for the demands which are common +to mankind make but a shadowy consideration in comparison to the demands +of the individual soul. Food is almost the first prerequisite; +and yet a high character will go without food to the ruin and death +of the body rather than gain it in a manner which the spirit disavows. +Pascal laid aside mathematics; Origen doctored his body with a knife; +every day some one is thus mortifying his dearest interests and desires, +and, in Christ’s words, entering maim into the Kingdom of Heaven. +This is to supersede the lesser and less harmonious affections by renunciation; +and though by this ascetic path we may get to heaven, we cannot get +thither a whole and perfect man. But there is another way, to +supersede them by reconciliation, in which the soul and all the faculties +and senses pursue a common route and share in one desire. Thus, +man is tormented by a very imperious physical desire; it spoils his +rest, it is not to be denied; the doctors will tell you, not I, how +it is a physical need, like the want of food or slumber. In the +satisfaction of this desire, as it first appears, the soul sparingly +takes part; nay, it oft unsparingly regrets and disapproves the satisfaction. +But let the man learn to love a woman as far as he is capable of love; +and for this random affection of the body there is substituted a steady +determination, a consent of all his powers and faculties, which supersedes, +adopts, and commands the other. The desire survives, strengthened, +perhaps, but taught obedience and changed in scope and character. +Life is no longer a tale of betrayals and regrets; for the man now lives +as a whole; his consciousness now moves on uninterrupted like a river; +through all the extremes and ups and downs of passion, he remains approvingly +conscious of himself.<br> +<br> +Now to me, this seems a type of that rightness which the soul demands. +It demands that we shall not live alternately with our opposing tendencies +in continual see-saw of passion and disgust, but seek some path on which +the tendencies shall no longer oppose, but serve each other to a common +end. It demands that we shall not pursue broken ends, but great +and comprehensive purposes, in which soul and body may unite like notes +in a harmonious chord. That were indeed a way of peace and pleasure, +that were indeed a heaven upon earth. It does not demand, however, +or, to speak in measure, it does not demand of me, that I should starve +my appetites for no purpose under heaven but as a purpose in itself; +or, in a weak despair, pluck out the eye that I have not yet learned +to guide and enjoy with wisdom. The soul demands unity of purpose, +not the dismemberment of man; it seeks to roll up all his strength and +sweetness, all his passion and wisdom, into one, and make of him a perfect +man exulting in perfection. To conclude ascetically is to give +up, and not to solve, the problem. The ascetic and the creeping +hog, although they are at different poles, have equally failed in life. +The one has sacrificed his crew; the other brings back his seamen in +a cock-boat, and has lost the ship. I believe there are not many +sea-captains who would plume themselves on either result as a success.<br> +<br> +But if it is righteousness thus to fuse together our divisive impulses +and march with one mind through life, there is plainly one thing more +unrighteous than all others, and one declension which is irretrievable +and draws on the rest. And this is to lose consciousness of oneself. +In the best of times, it is but by flashes, when our whole nature is +clear, strong and conscious, and events conspire to leave us free, that +we enjoy communion with our soul. At the worst, we are so fallen +and passive that we may say shortly we have none. An arctic torpor +seizes upon men. Although built of nerves, and set adrift in a +stimulating world, they develop a tendency to go bodily to sleep; consciousness +becomes engrossed among the reflex and mechanical parts of life; and +soon loses both the will and power to look higher considerations in +the face. This is ruin; this is the last failure in life; this +is temporal damnation, damnation on the spot and without the form of +judgment. ‘What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole +world and <i>lose himself</i>?’<br> +<br> +It is to keep a man awake, to keep him alive to his own soul and its +fixed design of righteousness, that the better part of moral and religious +education is directed; not only that of words and doctors, but the sharp +ferule of calamity under which we are all God’s scholars till +we die. If, as teachers, we are to say anything to the purpose, +we must say what will remind the pupil of his soul; we must speak that +soul’s dialect; we must talk of life and conduct as his soul would +have him think of them. If, from some conformity between us and +the pupil, or perhaps among all men, we do in truth speak in such a +dialect and express such views, beyond question we shall touch in him +a spring; beyond question he will recognise the dialect as one that +he himself has spoken in his better hours; beyond question he will cry, +‘I had forgotten, but now I remember; I too have eyes, and I had +forgot to use them! I too have a soul of my own, arrogantly upright, +and to that I will listen and conform.’ In short, say to +him anything that he has once thought, or been upon the point of thinking, +or show him any view of life that he has once clearly seen, or been +upon the point of clearly seeing; and you have done your part and may +leave him to complete the education for himself.<br> +<br> +Now, the view taught at the present time seems to me to want greatness; +and the dialect in which alone it can be intelligibly uttered is not +the dialect of my soul. It is a sort of postponement of life; +nothing quite is, but something different is to be; we are to keep our +eyes upon the indirect from the cradle to the grave. We are to +regulate our conduct not by desire, but by a politic eye upon the future; +and to value acts as they will bring us money or good opinion; as they +will bring us, in one word, <i>profit</i>. We must be what is +called respectable, and offend no one by our carriage; it will not do +to make oneself conspicuous - who knows? even in virtue? says the Christian +parent! And we must be what is called prudent and make money; +not only because it is pleasant to have money, but because that also +is a part of respectability, and we cannot hope to be received in society +without decent possessions. Received in society! as if that were +the kingdom of heaven! There is dear Mr. So-and-so; - look at +him! - so much respected - so much looked up to - quite the Christian +merchant! And we must cut our conduct as strictly as possible +after the pattern of Mr. So-and-so; and lay our whole lives to make +money and be strictly decent. Besides these holy injunctions, +which form by far the greater part of a youth’s training in our +Christian homes, there are at least two other doctrines. We are +to live just now as well as we can, but scrape at last into heaven, +where we shall be good. We are to worry through the week in a +lay, disreputable way, but, to make matters square, live a different +life on Sunday.<br> +<br> +The train of thought we have been following gives us a key to all these +positions, without stepping aside to justify them on their own ground. +It is because we have been disgusted fifty times with physical squalls, +and fifty times torn between conflicting impulses, that we teach people +this indirect and tactical procedure in life, and to judge by remote +consequences instead of the immediate face of things. The very +desire to act as our own souls would have us, coupled with a pathetic +disbelief in ourselves, moves us to follow the example of others; perhaps, +who knows? they may be on the right track; and the more our patterns +are in number, the better seems the chance; until, if we be acting in +concert with a whole civilised nation, there are surely a majority of +chances that we must be acting right. And again, how true it is +that we can never behave as we wish in this tormented sphere, and can +only aspire to different and more favourable circumstances, in order +to stand out and be ourselves wholly and rightly! And yet once +more, if in the hurry and pressure of affairs and passions you tend +to nod and become drowsy, here are twenty-four hours of Sunday set apart +for you to hold counsel with your soul and look around you on the possibilities +of life.<br> +<br> +This is not, of course, all that is to be, or even should be, said for +these doctrines. Only, in the course of this chapter, the reader +and I have agreed upon a few catchwords, and been looking at morals +on a certain system; it was a pity to lose an opportunity of testing +the catchwords, and seeing whether, by this system as well as by others, +current doctrines could show any probable justification. If the +doctrines had come too badly out of the trial, it would have condemned +the system. Our sight of the world is very narrow; the mind but +a pedestrian instrument; there’s nothing new under the sun, as +Solomon says, except the man himself; and though that changes the aspect +of everything else, yet he must see the same things as other people, +only from a different side.<br> +<br> +And now, having admitted so much, let us turn to criticism.<br> +<br> +If you teach a man to keep his eyes upon what others think of him, unthinkingly +to lead the life and hold the principles of the majority of his contemporaries, +you must discredit in his eyes the one authoritative voice of his own +soul. He may be a docile citizen; he will never be a man. +It is ours, on the other hand, to disregard this babble and chattering +of other men better and worse than we are, and to walk straight before +us by what light we have. They may be right; but so, before heaven, +are we. They may know; but we know also, and by that knowledge +we must stand or fall. There is such a thing as loyalty to a man’s +own better self; and from those who have not that, God help me, how +am I to look for loyalty to others? The most dull, the most imbecile, +at a certain moment turn round, at a certain point will hear no further +argument, but stand unflinching by their own dumb, irrational sense +of right. It is not only by steel or fire, but through contempt +and blame, that the martyr fulfils the calling of his dear soul. +Be glad if you are not tried by such extremities. But although +all the world ranged themselves in one line to tell you ‘This +is wrong,’ be you your own faithful vassal and the ambassador +of God - throw down the glove and answer ‘This is right.’ +Do you think you are only declaring yourself? Perhaps in some +dim way, like a child who delivers a message not fully understood, you +are opening wider the straits of prejudice and preparing mankind for +some truer and more spiritual grasp of truth; perhaps, as you stand +forth for your own judgment, you are covering a thousand weak ones with +your body; perhaps, by this declaration alone, you have avoided the +guilt of false witness against humanity and the little ones unborn. +It is good, I believe, to be respectable, but much nobler to respect +oneself and utter the voice of God. God, if there be any God, +speaks daily in a new language by the tongues of men; the thoughts and +habits of each fresh generation and each new-coined spirit throw another +light upon the universe and contain another commentary on the printed +Bibles; every scruple, every true dissent, every glimpse of something +new, is a letter of God’s alphabet; and though there is a grave +responsibility for all who speak, is there none for those who unrighteously +keep silence and conform? Is not that also to conceal and cloak +God’s counsel? And how should we regard the man of science +who suppressed all facts that would not tally with the orthodoxy of +the hour?<br> +<br> +Wrong? You are as surely wrong as the sun rose this morning round +the revolving shoulder of the world. Not truth, but truthfulness, +is the good of your endeavour. For when will men receive that +first part and prerequisite of truth, that, by the order of things, +by the greatness of the universe, by the darkness and partiality of +man’s experience, by the inviolate secrecy of God, kept close +in His most open revelations, every man is, and to the end of the ages +must be, wrong? Wrong to the universe; wrong to mankind; wrong +to God. And yet in another sense, and that plainer and nearer, +every man of men, who wishes truly, must be right. He is right +to himself, and in the measure of his sagacity and candour. That +let him do in all sincerity and zeal, not sparing a thought for contrary +opinions; that, for what it is worth, let him proclaim. Be not +afraid; although he be wrong, so also is the dead, stuffed Dagon he +insults. For the voice of God, whatever it is, is not that stammering, +inept tradition which the people holds. These truths survive in +travesty, swamped in a world of spiritual darkness and confusion; and +what a few comprehend and faithfully hold, the many, in their dead jargon, +repeat, degrade, and misinterpret.<br> +<br> +So far of Respectability; what the Covenanters used to call ‘rank +conformity’: the deadliest gag and wet blanket that can be laid +on men. And now of Profit. And this doctrine is perhaps +the more redoubtable, because it harms all sorts of men; not only the +heroic and self-reliant, but the obedient, cowlike squadrons. +A man, by this doctrine, looks to consequences at the second, or third, +or fiftieth turn. He chooses his end, and for that, with wily +turns and through a great sea of tedium, steers this mortal bark. +There may be political wisdom in such a view; but I am persuaded there +can spring no great moral zeal. To look thus obliquely upon life +is the very recipe for moral slumber. Our intention and endeavour +should be directed, not on some vague end of money or applause, which +shall come to us by a ricochet in a month or a year, or twenty years, +but on the act itself; not on the approval of others, but on the rightness +of that act. At every instant, at every step in life, the point +has to be decided, our soul has to be saved, heaven has to be gained +or lost. At every step our spirits must applaud, at every step +we must set down the foot and sound the trumpet. ‘This have +I done,’ we must say; ‘right or wrong, this have I done, +in unfeigned honour of intention, as to myself and God.’ +The profit of every act should be this, that it was right for us to +do it. Any other profit than that, if it involved a kingdom or +the woman I love, ought, if I were God’s upright soldier, to leave +me untempted.<br> +<br> +It is the mark of what we call a righteous decision, that it is made +directly and for its own sake. The whole man, mind and body, having +come to an agreement, tyrannically dictates conduct. There are +two dispositions eternally opposed: that in which we recognise that +one thing is wrong and another right, and that in which, not seeing +any clear distinction, we fall back on the consideration of consequences. +The truth is, by the scope of our present teaching, nothing is thought +very wrong and nothing very right, except a few actions which have the +disadvantage of being disrespectable when found out; the more serious +part of men inclining to think all things <i>rather</i> <i>wrong</i>, +the more jovial to suppose them <i>right enough for</i> <i>practical +purposes</i>. I will engage my head, they do not find that view +in their own hearts; they have taken it up in a dark despair; they are +but troubled sleepers talking in their sleep. The soul, or my +soul at least, thinks very distinctly upon many points of right and +wrong, and often differs flatly with what is held out as the thought +of corporate humanity in the code of society or the code of law. +Am I to suppose myself a monster? I have only to read books, the +Christian Gospels for example, to think myself a monster no longer; +and instead I think the mass of people are merely speaking in their +sleep.<br> +<br> +It is a commonplace, enshrined, if I mistake not, even in school copy-books, +that honour is to be sought and not fame. I ask no other admission; +we are to seek honour, upright walking with our own conscience every +hour of the day, and not fame, the consequence, the far-off reverberation +of our footsteps. The walk, not the rumour of the walk, is what +concerns righteousness. Better disrespectable honour than dishonourable +fame. Better useless or seemingly hurtful honour, than dishonour +ruling empires and filling the mouths of thousands. For the man +must walk by what he sees, and leave the issue with God who made him +and taught him by the fortune of his life. You would not dishonour +yourself for money; which is at least tangible; would you do it, then, +for a doubtful forecast in politics, or another person’s theory +in morals?<br> +<br> +So intricate is the scheme of our affairs, that no man can calculate +the bearing of his own behaviour even on those immediately around him, +how much less upon the world at large or on succeeding generations! +To walk by external prudence and the rule of consequences would require, +not a man, but God. All that we know to guide us in this changing +labyrinth is our soul with its fixed design of righteousness, and a +few old precepts which commend themselves to that. The precepts +are vague when we endeavour to apply them; consequences are more entangled +than a wisp of string, and their confusion is unrestingly in change; +we must hold to what we know and walk by it. We must walk by faith, +indeed, and not by knowledge.<br> +<br> +You do not love another because he is wealthy or wise or eminently respectable: +you love him because you love him; that is love, and any other only +a derision and grimace. It should be the same with all our actions. +If we were to conceive a perfect man, it should be one who was never +torn between conflicting impulses, but who, on the absolute consent +of all his parts and faculties, submitted in every action of his life +to a self-dictation as absolute and unreasoned as that which bids him +love one woman and be true to her till death. But we should not +conceive him as sagacious, ascetical, playing off his appetites against +each other, turning the wing of public respectable immorality instead +of riding it directly down, or advancing toward his end through a thousand +sinister compromises and considerations. The one man might be +wily, might be adroit, might be wise, might be respectable, might be +gloriously useful; it is the other man who would be good.<br> +<br> +The soul asks honour and not fame; to be upright, not to be successful; +to be good, not prosperous; to be essentially, not outwardly, respectable. +Does your soul ask profit? Does it ask money? Does it ask +the approval of the indifferent herd? I believe not. For +my own part, I want but little money, I hope; and I do not want to be +decent at all, but to be good.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER IV<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +We have spoken of that supreme self-dictation which keeps varying from +hour to hour in its dictates with the variation of events and circumstances. +Now, for us, that is ultimate. It may be founded on some reasonable +process, but it is not a process which we can follow or comprehend. +And moreover the dictation is not continuous, or not continuous except +in very lively and well-living natures; and between-whiles we must brush +along without it. Practice is a more intricate and desperate business +than the toughest theorising; life is an affair of cavalry, where rapid +judgment and prompt action are alone possible and right. As a +matter of fact, there is no one so upright but he is influenced by the +world’s chatter; and no one so headlong but he requires to consider +consequences and to keep an eye on profit. For the soul adopts +all affections and appetites without exception, and cares only to combine +them for some common purpose which shall interest all. Now, respect +for the opinion of others, the study of consequences, and the desire +of power and comfort, are all undeniably factors in the nature of man; +and the more undeniably since we find that, in our current doctrines, +they have swallowed up the others and are thought to conclude in themselves +all the worthy parts of man. These, then, must also be suffered +to affect conduct in the practical domain, much or little according +as they are forcibly or feebly present to the mind of each.<br> +<br> +Now, a man’s view of the universe is mostly a view of the civilised +society in which he lives. Other men and women are so much more +grossly and so much more intimately palpable to his perceptions, that +they stand between him and all the rest; they are larger to his eye +than the sun, he hears them more plainly than thunder, with them, by +them, and for them, he must live and die. And hence the laws that +affect his intercourse with his fellow-men, although merely customary +and the creatures of a generation, are more clearly and continually +before his mind than those which bind him into the eternal system of +things, support him in his upright progress on this whirling ball, or +keep up the fire of his bodily life. And hence it is that money +stands in the first rank of considerations and so powerfully affects +the choice. For our society is built with money for mortar; money +is present in every joint of circumstance; it might be named the social +atmosphere, since, in society, it is by that alone that men continue +to live, and only through that or chance that they can reach or affect +one another. Money gives us food, shelter, and privacy; it permits +us to be clean in person, opens for us the doors of the theatre, gains +us books for study or pleasure, enables us to help the distresses of +others, and puts us above necessity so that we can choose the best in +life. If we love, it enables us to meet and live with the loved +one, or even to prolong her health and life; if we have scruples, it +gives us an opportunity to be honest; if we have any bright designs, +here is what will smooth the way to their accomplishment. Penury +is the worst slavery, and will soon lead to death.<br> +<br> +But money is only a means; it presupposes a man to use it. The +rich can go where he pleases, but perhaps please himself nowhere. +He can buy a library or visit the whole world, but perhaps has neither +patience to read nor intelligence to see. The table may be loaded +and the appetite wanting; the purse may be full, and the heart empty. +He may have gained the world and lost himself; and with all his wealth +around him, in a great house and spacious and beautiful demesne, he +may live as blank a life as any tattered ditcher. Without an appetite, +without an aspiration, void of appreciation, bankrupt of desire and +hope, there, in his great house, let him sit and look upon his fingers. +It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting +shells than to be born a millionaire. Although neither is to be +despised, it is always better policy to learn an interest than to make +a thousand pounds; for the money will soon be spent, or perhaps you +may feel no joy in spending it; but the interest remains imperishable +and ever new. To become a botanist, a geologist, a social philosopher, +an antiquary, or an artist, is to enlarge one’s possessions in +the universe by an incalculably higher degree, and by a far surer sort +of property, than to purchase a farm of many acres. You had perhaps +two thousand a year before the transaction; perhaps you have two thousand +five hundred after it. That represents your gain in the one case. +But in the other, you have thrown down a barrier which concealed significance +and beauty. The blind man has learned to see. The prisoner +has opened up a window in his cell and beholds enchanting prospects; +he will never again be a prisoner as he was; he can watch clouds and +changing seasons, ships on the river, travellers on the road, and the +stars at night; happy prisoner! his eyes have broken jail! And +again he who has learned to love an art or science has wisely laid up +riches against the day of riches; if prosperity come, he will not enter +poor into his inheritance; he will not slumber and forget himself in +the lap of money, or spend his hours in counting idle treasures, but +be up and briskly doing; he will have the true alchemic touch, which +is not that of Midas, but which transmutes dead money into living delight +and satisfaction. <i>Ecirctre et pas avoir</i> - to be, not to +possess - that is the problem of life. To be wealthy, a rich nature +is the first requisite and money but the second. To be of a quick +and healthy blood, to share in all honourable curiosities, to be rich +in admiration and free from envy, to rejoice greatly in the good of +others, to love with such generosity of heart that your love is still +a dear possession in absence or unkindness - these are the gifts of +fortune which money cannot buy and without which money can buy nothing. +For what can a man possess, or what can he enjoy, except himself? +If he enlarge his nature, it is then that he enlarges his estates. +If his nature be happy and valiant, he will enjoy the universe as if +it were his park and orchard.<br> +<br> +But money is not only to be spent; it has also to be earned. It +is not merely a convenience or a necessary in social life; but it is +the coin in which mankind pays his wages to the individual man. +And from this side, the question of money has a very different scope +and application. For no man can be honest who does not work. +Service for service. If the farmer buys corn, and the labourer +ploughs and reaps, and the baker sweats in his hot bakery, plainly you +who eat must do something in your turn. It is not enough to take +off your hat, or to thank God upon your knees for the admirable constitution +of society and your own convenient situation in its upper and more ornamental +stories. Neither is it enough to buy the loaf with a sixpence; +for then you are only changing the point of the inquiry; and you must +first have <i>bought the</i> <i>sixpence</i>. Service for service: +how have you bought your sixpences? A man of spirit desires certainty +in a thing of such a nature; he must see to it that there is some reciprocity +between him and mankind; that he pays his expenditure in service; that +he has not a lion’s share in profit and a drone’s in labour; +and is not a sleeping partner and mere costly incubus on the great mercantile +concern of mankind.<br> +<br> +Services differ so widely with different gifts, and some are so inappreciable +to external tests, that this is not only a matter for the private conscience, +but one which even there must be leniently and trustfully considered. +For remember how many serve mankind who do no more than meditate; and +how many are precious to their friends for no more than a sweet and +joyous temper. To perform the function of a man of letters it +is not necessary to write; nay, it is perhaps better to be a living +book. So long as we love we serve; so long as we are loved by +others, I would almost say that we are indispensable; and no man is +useless while he has a friend. The true services of life are inestimable +in money, and are never paid. Kind words and caresses, high and +wise thoughts, humane designs, tender behaviour to the weak and suffering, +and all the charities of man’s existence, are neither bought nor +sold.<br> +<br> +Yet the dearest and readiest, if not the most just, criterion of a man’s +services, is the wage that mankind pays him or, briefly, what he earns. +There at least there can be no ambiguity. St. Paul is fully and +freely entitled to his earnings as a tentmaker, and Socrates fully and +freely entitled to his earnings as a sculptor, although the true business +of each was not only something different, but something which remained +unpaid. A man cannot forget that he is not superintended, and +serves mankind on parole. He would like, when challenged by his +own conscience, to reply: ‘I have done so much work, and no less, +with my own hands and brain, and taken so much profit, and no more, +for my own personal delight.’ And though St. Paul, if he +had possessed a private fortune, would probably have scorned to waste +his time in making tents, yet of all sacrifices to public opinion none +can be more easily pardoned than that by which a man, already spiritually +useful to the world, should restrict the field of his chief usefulness +to perform services more apparent, and possess a livelihood that neither +stupidity nor malice could call in question. Like all sacrifices +to public opinion and mere external decency, this would certainly be +wrong; for the soul should rest contented with its own approval and +indissuadably pursue its own calling. Yet, so grave and delicate +is the question, that a man may well hesitate before he decides it for +himself; he may well fear that he sets too high a valuation on his own +endeavours after good; he may well condescend upon a humbler duty, where +others than himself shall judge the service and proportion the wage.<br> +<br> +And yet it is to this very responsibility that the rich are born. +They can shuffle off the duty on no other; they are their own paymasters +on parole; and must pay themselves fair wages and no more. For +I suppose that in the course of ages, and through reform and civil war +and invasion, mankind was pursuing some other and more general design +than to set one or two Englishmen of the nineteenth century beyond the +reach of needs and duties. Society was scarce put together, and +defended with so much eloquence and blood, for the convenience of two +or three millionaires and a few hundred other persons of wealth and +position. It is plain that if mankind thus acted and suffered +during all these generations, they hoped some benefit, some ease, some +wellbeing, for themselves and their descendants; that if they supported +law and order, it was to secure fair-play for all; that if they denied +themselves in the present, they must have had some designs upon the +future. Now, a great hereditary fortune is a miracle of man’s +wisdom and mankind’s forbearance; it has not only been amassed +and handed down, it has been suffered to be amassed and handed down; +and surely in such a consideration as this, its possessor should find +only a new spur to activity and honour, that with all this power of +service he should not prove unserviceable, and that this mass of treasure +should return in benefits upon the race. If he had twenty, or +thirty, or a hundred thousand at his banker’s, or if all Yorkshire +or all California were his to manage or to sell, he would still be morally +penniless, and have the world to begin like Whittington, until he had +found some way of serving mankind. His wage is physically in his +own hand; but, in honour, that wage must still be earned. He is +only steward on parole of what is called his fortune. He must +honourably perform his stewardship. He must estimate his own services +and allow himself a salary in proportion, for that will be one among +his functions. And while he will then be free to spend that salary, +great or little, on his own private pleasures, the rest of his fortune +he but holds and disposes under trust for mankind; it is not his, because +he has not earned it; it cannot be his, because his services have already +been paid; but year by year it is his to distribute, whether to help +individuals whose birthright and outfit have been swallowed up in his, +or to further public works and institutions.<br> +<br> +At this rate, short of inspiration, it seems hardly possible to be both +rich and honest; and the millionaire is under a far more continuous +temptation to thieve than the labourer who gets his shilling daily for +despicable toils. Are you surprised? It is even so. +And you repeat it every Sunday in your churches. ‘It is +easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich +man to enter the kingdom of God.’ I have heard this and +similar texts ingeniously explained away and brushed from the path of +the aspiring Christian by the tender Great-heart of the parish. +One excellent clergyman told us that the ‘eye of a needle’ +meant a low, Oriental postern through which camels could not pass till +they were unloaded - which is very likely just; and then went on, bravely +confounding the ‘kingdom of God’ with heaven, the future +paradise, to show that of course no rich person could expect to carry +his riches beyond the grave - which, of course, he could not and never +did. Various greedy sinners of the congregation drank in the comfortable +doctrine with relief. It was worth the while having come to church +that Sunday morning! All was plain. The Bible, as usual, +meant nothing in particular; it was merely an obscure and figurative +school-copybook; and if a man were only respectable, he was a man after +God’s own heart.<br> +<br> +Alas! I fear not. And though this matter of a man’s services +is one for his own conscience, there are some cases in which it is difficult +to restrain the mind from judging. Thus I shall be very easily +persuaded that a man has earned his daily bread; and if he has but a +friend or two to whom his company is delightful at heart, I am more +than persuaded at once. But it will be very hard to persuade me +that any one has earned an income of a hundred thousand. What +he is to his friends, he still would be if he were made penniless to-morrow; +for as to the courtiers of luxury and power, I will neither consider +them friends, nor indeed consider them at all. What he does for +mankind there are most likely hundreds who would do the same, as effectually +for the race and as pleasurably to themselves, for the merest fraction +of this monstrous wage. Why it is paid, I am, therefore, unable +to conceive, and as the man pays it himself, out of funds in his detention, +I have a certain backwardness to think him honest.<br> +<br> +At least, we have gained a very obvious point: that <i>what a man spends +upon himself, he shall have earned by services to the race</i>. +Thence flows a principle for the outset of life, which is a little different +from that taught in the present day. I am addressing the middle +and the upper classes; those who have already been fostered and prepared +for life at some expense; those who have some choice before them, and +can pick professions; and above all, those who are what is called independent, +and need do nothing unless pushed by honour or ambition. In this +particular the poor are happy; among them, when a lad comes to his strength, +he must take the work that offers, and can take it with an easy conscience. +But in the richer classes the question is complicated by the number +of opportunities and a variety of considerations. Here, then, +this principle of ours comes in helpfully. The young man has to +seek, not a road to wealth, but an opportunity of service; not money, +but honest work. If he has some strong propensity, some calling +of nature, some over-weening interest in any special field of industry, +inquiry, or art, he will do right to obey the impulse; and that for +two reasons: the first external, because there he will render the best +services; the second personal, because a demand of his own nature is +to him without appeal whenever it can be satisfied with the consent +of his other faculties and appetites. If he has no such elective +taste, by the very principle on which he chooses any pursuit at all +he must choose the most honest and serviceable, and not the most highly +remunerated. We have here an external problem, not from or to +ourself, but flowing from the constitution of society; and we have our +own soul with its fixed design of righteousness. All that can +be done is to present the problem in proper terms, and leave it to the +soul of the individual. Now, the problem to the poor is one of +necessity: to earn wherewithal to live, they must find remunerative +labour. But the problem to the rich is one of honour: having the +wherewithal, they must find serviceable labour. Each has to earn +his daily bread: the one, because he has not yet got it to eat; the +other, who has already eaten it, because he has not yet earned it.<br> +<br> +Of course, what is true of bread is true of luxuries and comforts, whether +for the body or the mind. But the consideration of luxuries leads +us to a new aspect of the whole question, and to a second proposition +no less true, and maybe no less startling, than the last.<br> +<br> +At the present day, we, of the easier classes, are in a state of surfeit +and disgrace after meat. Plethora has filled us with indifference; +and we are covered from head to foot with the callosities of habitual +opulence. Born into what is called a certain rank, we live, as +the saying is, up to our station. We squander without enjoyment, +because our fathers squandered. We eat of the best, not from delicacy, +but from brazen habit. We do not keenly enjoy or eagerly desire +the presence of a luxury; we are unaccustomed to its absence. +And not only do we squander money from habit, but still more pitifully +waste it in ostentation. I can think of no more melancholy disgrace +for a creature who professes either reason or pleasure for his guide, +than to spend the smallest fraction of his income upon that which he +does not desire; and to keep a carriage in which you do not wish to +drive, or a butler of whom you are afraid, is a pathetic kind of folly. +Money, being a means of happiness, should make both parties happy when +it changes hands; rightly disposed, it should be twice blessed in its +employment; and buyer and seller should alike have their twenty shillings +worth of profit out of every pound. Benjamin Franklin went through +life an altered man, because he once paid too dearly for a penny whistle. +My concern springs usually from a deeper source, to wit, from having +bought a whistle when I did not want one. I find I regret this, +or would regret it if I gave myself the time, not only on personal but +on moral and philanthropical considerations. For, first, in a +world where money is wanting to buy books for eager students and food +and medicine for pining children, and where a large majority are starved +in their most immediate desires, it is surely base, stupid, and cruel +to squander money when I am pushed by no appetite and enjoy no return +of genuine satisfaction. My philanthropy is wide enough in scope +to include myself; and when I have made myself happy, I have at least +one good argument that I have acted rightly; but where that is not so, +and I have bought and not enjoyed, my mouth is closed, and I conceive +that I have robbed the poor. And, second, anything I buy or use +which I do not sincerely want or cannot vividly enjoy, disturbs the +balance of supply and demand, and contributes to remove industrious +hands from the production of what is useful or pleasurable and to keep +them busy upon ropes of sand and things that are a weariness to the +flesh. That extravagance is truly sinful, and a very silly sin +to boot, in which we impoverish mankind and ourselves. It is another +question for each man’s heart. He knows if he can enjoy +what he buys and uses; if he cannot, he is a dog in the manger; nay, +it he cannot, I contend he is a thief, for nothing really belongs to +a man which he cannot use. Proprietor is connected with propriety; +and that only is the man’s which is proper to his wants and faculties.<br> +<br> +A youth, in choosing a career, must not be alarmed by poverty. +Want is a sore thing, but poverty does not imply want. It remains +to be seen whether with half his present income, or a third, he cannot, +in the most generous sense, live as fully as at present. He is +a fool who objects to luxuries; but he is also a fool who does not protest +against the waste of luxuries on those who do not desire and cannot +enjoy them. It remains to be seen, by each man who would live +a true life to himself and not a merely specious life to society, how +many luxuries he truly wants and to how many he merely submits as to +a social propriety; and all these last he will immediately forswear. +Let him do this, and he will be surprised to find how little money it +requires to keep him in complete contentment and activity of mind and +senses. Life at any level among the easy classes is conceived +upon a principle of rivalry, where each man and each household must +ape the tastes and emulate the display of others. One is delicate +in eating, another in wine, a third in furniture or works of art or +dress; and I, who care nothing for any of these refinements, who am +perhaps a plain athletic creature and love exercise, beef, beer, flannel +shirts and a camp bed, am yet called upon to assimilate all these other +tastes and make these foreign occasions of expenditure my own. +It may be cynical: I am sure I shall be told it is selfish; but I will +spend my money as I please and for my own intimate personal gratification, +and should count myself a nincompoop indeed to lay out the colour of +a halfpenny on any fancied social decency or duty. I shall not +wear gloves unless my hands are cold, or unless I am born with a delight +in them. Dress is my own affair, and that of one other in the +world; that, in fact and for an obvious reason, of any woman who shall +chance to be in love with me. I shall lodge where I have a mind. +If I do not ask society to live with me, they must be silent; and even +if I do, they have no further right but to refuse the invitation! +There is a kind of idea abroad that a man must live up to his station, +that his house, his table, and his toilette, shall be in a ratio of +equivalence, and equally imposing to the world. If this is in +the Bible, the passage has eluded my inquiries. If it is not in +the Bible, it is nowhere but in the heart of the fool. Throw aside +this fancy. See what you want, and spend upon that; distinguish +what you do not care about, and spend nothing upon that. There +are not many people who can differentiate wines above a certain and +that not at all a high price. Are you sure you are one of these? +Are you sure you prefer cigars at sixpence each to pipes at some fraction +of a farthing? Are you sure you wish to keep a gig? Do you +care about where you sleep, or are you not as much at your ease in a +cheap lodging as in an Elizabethan manor-house? Do you enjoy fine +clothes? It is not possible to answer these questions without +a trial; and there is nothing more obvious to my mind, than that a man +who has not experienced some ups and downs, and been forced to live +more cheaply than in his father’s house, has still his education +to begin. Let the experiment be made, and he will find to his +surprise that he has been eating beyond his appetite up to that hour; +that the cheap lodging, the cheap tobacco, the rough country clothes, +the plain table, have not only no power to damp his spirits, but perhaps +give him as keen pleasure in the using as the dainties that he took, +betwixt sleep and waking, in his former callous and somnambulous submission +to wealth.<br> +<br> +The true Bohemian, a creature lost to view under the imaginary Bohemians +of literature, is exactly described by such a principle of life. +The Bohemian of the novel, who drinks more than is good for him and +prefers anything to work, and wears strange clothes, is for the most +part a respectable Bohemian, respectable in disrespectability, living +for the outside, and an adventurer. But the man I mean lives wholly +to himself, does what he wishes, and not what is thought proper, buys +what he wants for himself, and not what is thought proper, works at +what he believes he can do well and not what will bring him in money +or favour. You may be the most respectable of men, and yet a true +Bohemian. And the test is this: a Bohemian, for as poor as he +may be, is always open-handed to his friends; he knows what he can do +with money and how he can do without it, a far rarer and more useful +knowledge; he has had less, and continued to live in some contentment; +and hence he cares not to keep more, and shares his sovereign or his +shilling with a friend. The poor, if they are generous, are Bohemian +in virtue of their birth. Do you know where beggars go? +Not to the great houses where people sit dazed among their thousands, +but to the doors of poor men who have seen the world; and it was the +widow who had only two mites, who cast half her fortune into the treasury.<br> +<br> +But a young man who elects to save on dress or on lodging, or who in +any way falls out of the level of expenditure which is common to his +level in society, falls out of society altogether. I suppose the +young man to have chosen his career on honourable principles; he finds +his talents and instincts can be best contented in a certain pursuit; +in a certain industry, he is sure that he is serving mankind with a +healthy and becoming service; and he is not sure that he would be doing +so, or doing so equally well, in any other industry within his reach. +Then that is his true sphere in life; not the one in which he was born +to his father, but the one which is proper to his talents and instincts. +And suppose he does fall out of society, is that a cause of sorrow? +Is your heart so dead that you prefer the recognition of many to the +love of a few? Do you think society loves you? Put it to +the proof. Decline in material expenditure, and you will find +they care no more for you than for the Khan of Tartary. You will +lose no friends. If you had any, you will keep them. Only +those who were friends to your coat and equipage will disappear; the +smiling faces will disappear as by enchantment; but the kind hearts +will remain steadfastly kind. Are you so lost, are you so dead, +are you so little sure of your own soul and your own footing upon solid +fact, that you prefer before goodness and happiness the countenance +of sundry diners-out, who will flee from you at a report of ruin, who +will drop you with insult at a shadow of disgrace, who do not know you +and do not care to know you but by sight, and whom you in your turn +neither know nor care to know in a more human manner? Is it not +the principle of society, openly avowed, that friendship must not interfere +with business; which being paraphrased, means simply that a consideration +of money goes before any consideration of affection known to this cold-blooded +gang, that they have not even the honour of thieves, and will rook their +nearest and dearest as readily as a stranger? I hope I would go +as far as most to serve a friend; but I declare openly I would not put +on my hat to do a pleasure to society. I may starve my appetites +and control my temper for the sake of those I love; but society shall +take me as I choose to be, or go without me. Neither they nor +I will lose; for where there is no love, it is both laborious and unprofitable +to associate.<br> +<br> +But it is obvious that if it is only right for a man to spend money +on that which he can truly and thoroughly enjoy, the doctrine applies +with equal force to the rich and to the poor, to the man who has amassed +many thousands as well as to the youth precariously beginning life. +And it may be asked, Is not this merely preparing misers, who are not +the best of company? But the principle was this: that which a +man has not fairly earned, and, further, that which he cannot fully +enjoy, does not belong to him, but is a part of mankind’s treasure +which he holds as steward on parole. To mankind, then, it must +be made profitable; and how this should be done is, once more, a problem +which each man must solve for himself, and about which none has a right +to judge him. Yet there are a few considerations which are very +obvious and may here be stated. Mankind is not only the whole +in general, but every one in particular. Every man or woman is +one of mankind’s dear possessions; to his or her just brain, and +kind heart, and active hands, mankind intrusts some of its hopes for +the future; he or she is a possible well-spring of good acts and source +of blessings to the race. This money which you do not need, which, +in a rigid sense, you do not want, may therefore be returned not only +in public benefactions to the race, but in private kindnesses. +Your wife, your children, your friends stand nearest to you, and should +be helped the first. There at least there can be little imposture, +for you know their necessities of your own knowledge. And consider, +if all the world did as you did, and according to their means extended +help in the circle of their affections, there would be no more crying +want in times of plenty and no more cold, mechanical charity given with +a doubt and received with confusion. Would not this simple rule +make a new world out of the old and cruel one which we inhabit?<br> +<br> +<br> +[After two more sentences the fragment breaks off.]<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +FATHER DAMIEN<br> +AN OPEN LETTER TO THE REVEREND<br> +DR. HYDE OF HONOLULU<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +SYDNEY,<br> +<i>February 25</i>, 1890.<br> +<br> +<br> +Sir, - It may probably occur to you that we have met, and visited, and +conversed; on my side, with interest. You may remember that you +have done me several courtesies, for which I was prepared to be grateful. +But there are duties which come before gratitude, and offences which +justly divide friends, far more acquaintances. Your letter to +the Reverend H. B. Gage is a document which, in my sight, if you had +filled me with bread when I was starving, if you had sat up to nurse +my father when he lay a-dying, would yet absolve me from the bonds of +gratitude. You know enough, doubtless, of the process of canonisation +to be aware that, a hundred years after the death of Damien, there will +appear a man charged with the painful office of the <i>devil’s +advocate</i>. After that noble brother of mine, and of all frail +clay, shall have lain a century at rest, one shall accuse, one defend +him. The circumstance is unusual that the devil’s advocate +should be a volunteer, should be a member of a sect immediately rival, +and should make haste to take upon himself his ugly office ere the bones +are cold; unusual, and of a taste which I shall leave my readers free +to qualify; unusual, and to me inspiring. If I have at all learned +the trade of using words to convey truth and to arouse emotion, you +have at last furnished me with a subject. For it is in the interest +of all mankind, and the cause of public decency in every quarter of +the world, not only that Damien should be righted, but that you and +your letter should be displayed at length, in their true colours, to +the public eye.<br> +<br> +To do this properly, I must begin by quoting you at large: I shall then +proceed to criticise your utterance from several points of view, divine +and human, in the course of which I shall attempt to draw again, and +with more specification, the character of the dead saint whom it has +pleased you to vilify: so much being done, I shall say farewell to you +for ever.<br> +<br> +<br> +‘HONOLULU,<br> +<i>‘August</i> 2, 1889.<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Rev. H. B. GAGE.<br> +<br> +‘Dear Brother, - In answer to your inquiries about Father Damien, +I can only reply that we who knew the man are surprised at the extravagant +newspaper laudations, as if he was a most saintly philanthropist. +The simple truth is, he was a coarse, dirty man, head-strong and bigoted. +He was not sent to Molokai, but went there without orders; did not stay +at the leper settlement (before he became one himself), but circulated +freely over the whole island (less than half the island is devoted to +the lepers), and he came often to Honolulu. He had no hand in +the reforms and improvements inaugurated, which were the work of our +Board of Health, as occasion required and means were provided. +He was not a pure man in his relations with women, and the leprosy of +which he died should be attributed to his vices and carelessness. +Others have done much for the lepers, our own ministers, the government +physicians, and so forth, but never with the Catholic idea of meriting +eternal life. - Yours, etc.,<br> +<br> +‘C. M. HYDE.’ <a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1">{1}</a><br> +<br> +<br> +To deal fitly with a letter so extraordinary, I must draw at the outset +on my private knowledge of the signatory and his sect. It may +offend others; scarcely you, who have been so busy to collect, so bold +to publish, gossip on your rivals. And this is perhaps the moment +when I may best explain to you the character of what you are to read: +I conceive you as a man quite beyond and below the reticences of civility: +with what measure you mete, with that shall it be measured you again; +with you, at last, I rejoice to feel the button off the foil and to +plunge home. And if in aught that I shall say I should offend +others, your colleagues, whom I respect and remember with affection, +I can but offer them my regret; I am not free, I am inspired by the +consideration of interests far more large; and such pain as can be inflicted +by anything from me must be indeed trifling when compared with the pain +with which they read your letter. It is not the hangman, but the +criminal, that brings dishonour on the house.<br> +<br> +You belong, sir, to a sect - I believe my sect, and that in which my +ancestors laboured - which has enjoyed, and partly failed to utilise, +an exceptional advantage in the islands of Hawaii. The first missionaries +came; they found the land already self-purged of its old and bloody +faith; they were embraced, almost on their arrival, with enthusiasm; +what troubles they supported came far more from whites than from Hawaiians; +and to these last they stood (in a rough figure) in the shoes of God. +This is not the place to enter into the degree or causes of their failure, +such as it is. One element alone is pertinent, and must here be +plainly dealt with. In the course of their evangelical calling, +they - or too many of them - grew rich. It may be news to you +that the houses of missionaries are a cause of mocking on the streets +of Honolulu. It will at least be news to you, that when I returned +your civil visit, the driver of my cab commented on the size, the taste, +and the comfort of your home. It would have been news certainly +to myself, had any one told me that afternoon that I should live to +drag such matter into print. But you see, sir, how you degrade +better men to your own level; and it is needful that those who are to +judge betwixt you and me, betwixt Damien and the devil’s advocate, +should understand your letter to have been penned in a house which could +raise, and that very justly, the envy and the comments of the passers-by. +I think (to employ a phrase of yours which I admire) it ‘should +be attributed’ to you that you have never visited the scene of +Damien’s life and death. If you had, and had recalled it, +and looked about your pleasant rooms, even your pen perhaps would have +been stayed.<br> +<br> +Your sect (and remember, as far as any sect avows me, it is mine) has +not done ill in a worldly sense in the Hawaiian Kingdom. When +calamity befell their innocent parishioners, when leprosy descended +and took root in the Eight Islands, a <i>quid pro quo</i> was to be +looked for. To that prosperous mission, and to you, as one of +its adornments, God had sent at last an opportunity. I know I +am touching here upon a nerve acutely sensitive. I know that others +of your colleagues look back on the inertia of your Church, and the +intrusive and decisive heroism of Damien, with something almost to be +called remorse. I am sure it is so with yourself; I am persuaded +your letter was inspired by a certain envy, not essentially ignoble, +and the one human trait to be espied in that performance. You +were thinking of the lost chance, the past day; of that which should +have been conceived and was not; of the service due and not rendered. +Time was, said the voice in your ear, in your pleasant room, as you +sat raging and writing; and if the words written were base beyond parallel, +the rage, I am happy to repeat - it is the only compliment I shall pay +you - the rage was almost virtuous. But, sir, when we have failed, +and another has succeeded; when we have stood by, and another has stepped +in; when we sit and grow bulky in our charming mansions, and a plain, +uncouth peasant steps into the battle, under the eyes of God, and succours +the afflicted, and consoles the dying, and is himself afflicted in his +turn, and dies upon the field of honour - the battle cannot be retrieved +as your unhappy irritation has suggested. It is a lost battle, +and lost for ever. One thing remained to you in your defeat - +some rags of common honour; and these you have made haste to cast away.<br> +<br> +Common honour; not the honour of having done anything right, but the +honour of not having done aught conspicuously foul; the honour of the +inert: that was what remained to you. We are not all expected +to be Damiens; a man may conceive his duty more narrowly, he may love +his comforts better; and none will cast a stone at him for that. +But will a gentleman of your reverend profession allow me an example +from the fields of gallantry? When two gentlemen compete for the +favour of a lady, and the one succeeds and the other is rejected, and +(as will sometimes happen) matter damaging to the successful rival’s +credit reaches the ear of the defeated, it is held by plain men of no +pretensions that his mouth is, in the circumstance, almost necessarily +closed. Your Church and Damien’s were in Hawaii upon a rivalry +to do well: to help, to edify, to set divine examples. You having +(in one huge instance) failed, and Damien succeeded, I marvel it should +not have occurred to you that you were doomed to silence; that when +you had been outstripped in that high rivalry, and sat inglorious in +the midst of your wellbeing, in your pleasant room - and Damien, crowned +with glories and horrors, toiled and rotted in that pigsty of his under +the cliffs of Kalawao - you, the elect who would not, were the last +man on earth to collect and propagate gossip on the volunteer who would +and did.<br> +<br> +I think I see you - for I try to see you in the flesh as I write these +sentences - I think I see you leap at the word pigsty, a hyperbolical +expression at the best. ‘He had no hand in the reforms,’ +he was ‘a coarse, dirty man’; these were your own words; +and you may think it possible that I am come to support you with fresh +evidence. In a sense, it is even so. Damien has been too +much depicted with a conventional halo and conventional features; so +drawn by men who perhaps had not the eye to remark or the pen to express +the individual; or who perhaps were only blinded and silenced by generous +admiration, such as I partly envy for myself - such as you, if your +soul were enlightened, would envy on your bended knees. It is +the least defect of such a method of portraiture that it makes the path +easy for the devil’s advocate, and leaves for the misuse of the +slanderer a considerable field of truth. For the truth that is +suppressed by friends is the readiest weapon of the enemy. The +world, in your despite, may perhaps owe you something, if your letter +be the means of substituting once for all a credible likeness for a +wax abstraction. For, if that world at all remember you, on the +day when Damien of Molokai shall be named Saint, it will be in virtue +of one work: your letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage.<br> +<br> +You may ask on what authority I speak. It was my inclement destiny +to become acquainted, not with Damien, but with Dr. Hyde. When +I visited the lazaretto, Damien was already in his resting grave. +But such information as I have, I gathered on the spot in conversation +with those who knew him well and long: some indeed who revered his memory; +but others who had sparred and wrangled with him, who beheld him with +no halo, who perhaps regarded him with small respect, and through whose +unprepared and scarcely partial communications the plain, human features +of the man shone on me convincingly. These gave me what knowledge +I possess; and I learnt it in that scene where it could be most completely +and sensitively understood - Kalawao, which you have never visited, +about which you have never so much as endeavoured to inform yourself; +for, brief as your letter is, you have found the means to stumble into +that confession. ‘<i>Less than one-half</i> of the island,’ +you say, ‘is devoted to the lepers.’ Molokai - ‘<i>Molokai +ahina</i>,’ the ‘grey,’ lofty, and most desolate island +- along all its northern side plunges a front of precipice into a sea +of unusual profundity. This range of cliff is, from east to west, +the true end and frontier of the island. Only in one spot there +projects into the ocean a certain triangular and rugged down, grassy, +stony, windy, and rising in the midst into a hill with a dead crater: +the whole bearing to the cliff that overhangs it somewhat the same relation +as a bracket to a wall. With this hint you will now be able to +pick out the leper station on a map; you will be able to judge how much +of Molokai is thus cut off between the surf and precipice, whether less +than a half, or less than a quarter, or a fifth, or a tenth - or, say, +a twentieth; and the next time you burst into print you will be in a +position to share with us the issue of your calculations.<br> +<br> +I imagine you to be one of those persons who talk with cheerfulness +of that place which oxen and wain-ropes could not drag you to behold. +You, who do not even know its situation on the map, probably denounce +sensational descriptions, stretching your limbs the while in your pleasant +parlour on Beretania Street. When I was pulled ashore there one +early morning, there sat with me in the boat two sisters, bidding farewell +(in humble imitation of Damien) to the lights and joys of human life. +One of these wept silently; I could not withhold myself from joining +her. Had you been there, it is my belief that nature would have +triumphed even in you; and as the boat drew but a little nearer, and +you beheld the stairs crowded with abominable deformations of our common +manhood, and saw yourself landing in the midst of such a population +as only now and then surrounds us in the horror of a nightmare - what +a haggard eye you would have rolled over your reluctant shoulder towards +the house on Beretania Street! Had you gone on; had you found +every fourth face a blot upon the landscape; had you visited the hospital +and seen the butt-ends of human beings lying there almost unrecognisable, +but still breathing, still thinking, still remembering; you would have +understood that life in the lazaretto is an ordeal from which the nerves +of a man’s spirit shrink, even as his eye quails under the brightness +of the sun; you would have felt it was (even to-day) a pitiful place +to visit and a hell to dwell in. It is not the fear of possible +infection. That seems a little thing when compared with the pain, +the pity, and the disgust of the visitor’s surroundings, and the +atmosphere of affliction, disease, and physical disgrace in which he +breathes. I do not think I am a man more than usually timid; but +I never recall the days and nights I spent upon that island promontory +(eight days and seven nights), without heartfelt thankfulness that I +am somewhere else. I find in my diary that I speak of my stay +as a ‘grinding experience’: I have once jotted in the margin, +‘<i>Harrowing</i> is the word’; and when the <i>Mokolii</i> +bore me at last towards the outer world, I kept repeating to myself, +with a new conception of their pregnancy, those simple words of the +song -<br> +<br> +<br> +‘’Tis the most distressful country that ever yet was seen.’<br> +<br> +<br> +And observe: that which I saw and suffered from was a settlement purged, +bettered, beautified; the new village built, the hospital and the Bishop-Home +excellently arranged; the sisters, the doctor, and the missionaries, +all indefatigable in their noble tasks. It was a different place +when Damien came there and made his great renunciation, and slept that +first night under a tree amidst his rotting brethren: alone with pestilence; +and looking forward (with what courage, with what pitiful sinkings of +dread, God only knows) to a lifetime of dressing sores and stumps.<br> +<br> +You will say, perhaps, I am too sensitive, that sights as painful abound +in cancer hospitals and are confronted daily by doctors and nurses. +I have long learned to admire and envy the doctors and the nurses. +But there is no cancer hospital so large and populous as Kalawao and +Kalaupapa; and in such a matter every fresh case, like every inch of +length in the pipe of an organ, deepens the note of the impression; +for what daunts the onlooker is that monstrous sum of human suffering +by which he stands surrounded. Lastly, no doctor or nurse is called +upon to enter once for all the doors of that gehenna; they do not say +farewell, they need not abandon hope, on its sad threshold; they but +go for a time to their high calling, and can look forward as they go +to relief, to recreation, and to rest. But Damien shut-to with +his own hand the doors of his own sepulchre.<br> +<br> +I shall now extract three passages from my diary at Kalawao.<br> +<br> +<i>A</i>. ‘Damien is dead and already somewhat ungratefully +remembered in the field of his labours and sufferings. “He +was a good man, but very officious,” says one. Another tells +me he had fallen (as other priests so easily do) into something of the +ways and habits of thought of a Kanaka; but he had the wit to recognise +the fact, and the good sense to laugh at’ [over] ‘it. +A plain man it seems he was; I cannot find he was a popular.’<br> +<br> +<i>B</i>. ‘After Ragsdale’s death’ [Ragsdale +was a famous Luna, or overseer, of the unruly settlement] ‘there +followed a brief term of office by Father Damien which served only to +publish the weakness of that noble man. He was rough in his ways, +and he had no control. Authority was relaxed; Damien’s life +was threatened, and he was soon eager to resign.’<br> +<br> +<i>C</i>. ‘Of Damien I begin to have an idea. He seems +to have been a man of the peasant class, certainly of the peasant type: +shrewd, ignorant and bigoted, yet with an open mind, and capable of +receiving and digesting a reproof if it were bluntly administered; superbly +generous in the least thing as well as in the greatest, and as ready +to give his last shirt (although not without human grumbling) as he +had been to sacrifice his life; essentially indiscreet and officious, +which made him a troublesome colleague; domineering in all his ways, +which made him incurably unpopular with the Kanakas, but yet destitute +of real authority, so that his boys laughed at him and he must carry +out his wishes by the means of bribes. He learned to have a mania +for doctoring; and set up the Kanakas against the remedies of his regular +rivals: perhaps (if anything matter at all in the treatment of such +a disease) the worst thing that he did, and certainly the easiest. +The best and worst of the man appear very plainly in his dealings with +Mr. Chapman’s money; he had originally laid it out’ [intended +to lay it out] ‘entirely for the benefit of Catholics, and even +so not wisely; but after a long, plain talk, he admitted his error fully +and revised the list. The sad state of the boys’ home is +in part the result of his lack of control; in part, of his own slovenly +ways and false ideas of hygiene. Brother officials used to call +it “Damien’s Chinatown.” “Well,” +they would say, “your China-town keeps growing.” And +he would laugh with perfect good-nature, and adhere to his errors with +perfect obstinacy. So much I have gathered of truth about this +plain, noble human brother and father of ours; his imperfections are +the traits of his face, by which we know him for our fellow; his martyrdom +and his example nothing can lessen or annul; and only a person here +on the spot can properly appreciate their greatness.’<br> +<br> +I have set down these private passages, as you perceive, without correction; +thanks to you, the public has them in their bluntness. They are +almost a list of the man’s faults, for it is rather these that +I was seeking: with his virtues, with the heroic profile of his life, +I and the world were already sufficiently acquainted. I was besides +a little suspicious of Catholic testimony; in no ill sense, but merely +because Damien’s admirers and disciples were the least likely +to be critical. I know you will be more suspicious still; and +the facts set down above were one and all collected from the lips of +Protestants who had opposed the father in his life. Yet I am strangely +deceived, or they build up the image of a man, with all his weaknesses, +essentially heroic, and alive with rugged honesty, generosity, and mirth.<br> +<br> +Take it for what it is, rough private jottings of the worst sides of +Damien’s character, collected from the lips of those who had laboured +with and (in your own phrase) ‘knew the man’; - though I +question whether Damien would have said that he knew you. Take +it, and observe with wonder how well you were served by your gossips, +how ill by your intelligence and sympathy; in how many points of fact +we are at one, and how widely our appreciations vary. There is +something wrong here; either with you or me. It is possible, for +instance, that you, who seem to have so many ears in Kalawao, had heard +of the affair of Mr. Chapman’s money, and were singly struck by +Damien’s intended wrong-doing. I was struck with that also, +and set it fairly down; but I was struck much more by the fact that +he had the honesty of mind to be convinced. I may here tell you +that it was a long business; that one of his colleagues sat with him +late into the night, multiplying arguments and accusations; that the +father listened as usual with ‘perfect good-nature and perfect +obstinacy’; but at the last, when he was persuaded - ‘Yes,’ +said he, ‘I am very much obliged to you; you have done me a service; +it would have been a theft.’ There are many (not Catholics +merely) who require their heroes and saints to be infallible; to these +the story will be painful; not to the true lovers, patrons, and servants +of mankind.<br> +<br> +And I take it, this is a type of our division; that you are one of those +who have an eye for faults and failures; that you take a pleasure to +find and publish them; and that, having found them, you make haste to +forget the overvailing virtues and the real success which had alone +introduced them to your knowledge. It is a dangerous frame of +mind. That you may understand how dangerous, and into what a situation +it has already brought you, we will (if you please) go hand-in-hand +through the different phrases of your letter, and candidly examine each +from the point of view of its truth, its appositeness, and its charity.<br> +<br> +Damien was <i>coarse.<br> +<br> +</i>It is very possible. You make us sorry for the lepers, who +had only a coarse old peasant for their friend and father. But +you, who were so refined, why were you not there, to cheer them with +the lights of culture? Or may I remind you that we have some reason +to doubt if John the Baptist were genteel; and in the case of Peter, +on whose career you doubtless dwell approvingly in the pulpit, no doubt +at all he was a ‘coarse, headstrong’ fisherman! Yet +even in our Protestant Bibles Peter is called Saint.<br> +<br> +Damien was <i>dirty.<br> +<br> +</i>He was. Think of the poor lepers annoyed with this dirty comrade! +But the clean Dr. Hyde was at his food in a fine house.<br> +<br> +Damien was <i>headstrong.<br> +<br> +</i>I believe you are right again; and I thank God for his strong head +and heart.<br> +<br> +Damien was <i>bigoted.<br> +<br> +</i>I am not fond of bigots myself, because they are not fond of me. +But what is meant by bigotry, that we should regard it as a blemish +in a priest? Damien believed his own religion with the simplicity +of a peasant or a child; as I would I could suppose that you do. +For this, I wonder at him some way off; and had that been his only character, +should have avoided him in life. But the point of interest in +Damien, which has caused him to be so much talked about and made him +at last the subject of your pen and mine, was that, in him, his bigotry, +his intense and narrow faith, wrought potently for good, and strengthened +him to be one of the world’s heroes and exemplars.<br> +<br> +Damien <i>was not sent to Molokai, but went there without orders.<br> +<br> +</i>Is this a misreading? or do you really mean the words for blame? +I have heard Christ, in the pulpits of our Church, held up for imitation +on the ground that His sacrifice was voluntary. Does Dr. Hyde +think otherwise?<br> +<br> +Damien <i>did not stay at the settlement, etc.<br> +<br> +</i>It is true he was allowed many indulgences. Am I to understand +that you blame the father for profiting by these, or the officers for +granting them? In either case, it is a mighty Spartan standard +to issue from the house on Beretania Street; and I am convinced you +will find yourself with few supporters.<br> +<br> +Damien <i>had no hand</i> <i>in the reforms, etc.<br> +<br> +</i>I think even you will admit that I have already been frank in my +description of the man I am defending; but before I take you up upon +this head, I will be franker still, and tell you that perhaps nowhere +in the world can a man taste a more pleasurable sense of contrast than +when he passes from Damien’s ‘Chinatown’ at Kalawao +to the beautiful Bishop-Home at Kalaupapa. At this point, in my +desire to make all fair for you, I will break my rule and adduce Catholic +testimony. Here is a passage from my diary about my visit to the +Chinatown, from which you will see how it is (even now) regarded by +its own officials: ‘We went round all the dormitories, refectories, +etc. - dark and dingy enough, with a superficial cleanliness, which +he’ [Mr. Dutton, the lay-brother] ‘did not seek to defend. +“It is almost decent,” said he; “the sisters will +make that all right when we get them here.”’ And yet +I gathered it was already better since Damien was dead, and far better +than when he was there alone and had his own (not always excellent) +way. I have now come far enough to meet you on a common ground +of fact; and I tell you that, to a mind not prejudiced by jealousy, +all the reforms of the lazaretto, and even those which he most vigorously +opposed, are properly the work of Damien. They are the evidence +of his success; they are what his heroism provoked from the reluctant +and the careless. Many were before him in the field; Mr. Meyer, +for instance, of whose faithful work we hear too little: there have +been many since; and some had more worldly wisdom, though none had more +devotion, than our saint. Before his day, even you will confess, +they had effected little. It was his part, by one striking act +of martyrdom, to direct all men’s eyes on that distressful country. +At a blow, and with the price of his life, he made the place illustrious +and public. And that, if you will consider largely, was the one +reform needful; pregnant of all that should succeed. It brought +money; it brought (best individual addition of them all) the sisters; +it brought supervision, for public opinion and public interest landed +with the man at Kalawao. If ever any man brought reforms, and +died to bring them, it was he. There is not a clean cup or towel +in the Bishop-Home, but dirty Damien washed it.<br> +<br> +Damien <i>was not a pure man in his relations with</i> <i>women, etc.<br> +<br> +</i>How do you know that? Is this the nature of the conversation +in that house on Beretania Street which the cabman envied, driving past? +- racy details of the misconduct of the poor peasant priest, toiling +under the cliffs of Molokai?<br> +<br> +Many have visited the station before me; they seem not to have heard +the rumour. When I was there I heard many shocking tales, for +my informants were men speaking with the plainness of the laity; and +I heard plenty of complaints of Damien. Why was this never mentioned? +and how came it to you in the retirement of your clerical parlour?<br> +<br> +But I must not even seem to deceive you. This scandal, when I +read it in your letter, was not new to me. I had heard it once +before; and I must tell you how. There came to Samoa a man from +Honolulu; he, in a public-house on the beach, volunteered the statement +that Damien had ‘contracted the disease from having connection +with the female lepers’; and I find a joy in telling you how the +report was welcomed in a public-house. A man sprang to his feet; +I am not at liberty to give his name, but from what I heard I doubt +if you would care to have him to dinner in Beretania Street. ‘You +miserable little - ’ (here is a word I dare not print, it would +so shock your ears). ‘You miserable little - ,’ he +cried, ‘if the story were a thousand times true, can’t you +see you are a million times a lower - for daring to repeat it?’ +I wish it could be told of you that when the report reached you in your +house, perhaps after family worship, you had found in your soul enough +holy anger to receive it with the same expressions; ay, even with that +one which I dare not print; it would not need to have been blotted away, +like Uncle Toby’s oath, by the tears of the recording angel; it +would have been counted to you for your brightest righteousness. +But you have deliberately chosen the part of the man from Honolulu, +and you have played it with improvements of your own. The man +from Honolulu - miserable, leering creature - communicated the tale +to a rude knot of beach-combing drinkers in a public-house, where (I +will so far agree with your temperance opinions) man is not always at +his noblest; and the man from Honolulu had himself been drinking - drinking, +we may charitably fancy, to excess. It was to your ‘Dear +Brother, the Reverend H. B. Gage,’ that you chose to communicate +the sickening story; and the blue ribbon which adorns your portly bosom +forbids me to allow you the extenuating plea that you were drunk when +it was done. Your ‘dear brother’ - a brother indeed +- made haste to deliver up your letter (as a means of grace, perhaps) +to the religious papers; where, after many months, I found and read +and wondered at it; and whence I have now reproduced it for the wonder +of others. And you and your dear brother have, by this cycle of +operations, built up a contrast very edifying to examine in detail. +The man whom you would not care to have to dinner, on the one side; +on the other, the Reverend Dr. Hyde and the Reverend H. B. Gage: the +Apia bar-room, the Honolulu manse.<br> +<br> +But I fear you scarce appreciate how you appear to your fellow-men; +and to bring it home to you, I will suppose your story to be true. +I will suppose - and God forgive me for supposing it - that Damien faltered +and stumbled in his narrow path of duty; I will suppose that, in the +horror of his isolation, perhaps in the fever of incipient disease, +he, who was doing so much more than he had sworn, failed in the letter +of his priestly oath - he, who was so much a better man than either +you or me, who did what we have never dreamed of daring - he too tasted +of our common frailty. ‘O, Iago, the pity of it!’ +The least tender should be moved to tears; the most incredulous to prayer. +And all that you could do was to pen your letter to the Reverend H. +B. Gage!<br> +<br> +Is it growing at all clear to you what a picture you have drawn of your +own heart? I will try yet once again to make it clearer. +You had a father: suppose this tale were about him, and some informant +brought it to you, proof in hand: I am not making too high an estimate +of your emotional nature when I suppose you would regret the circumstance? +that you would feel the tale of frailty the more keenly since it shamed +the author of your days? and that the last thing you would do would +be to publish it in the religious press? Well, the man who tried +to do what Damien did, is my father, and the father of the man in the +Apia bar, and the father of all who love goodness; and he was your father +too, if God had given you grace to see it.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE PENTLAND RISING<br> +A PAGE OF HISTORY<br> +1666<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +‘A cloud of witnesses lyes here,<br> +Who for Christ’s interest did appear.’<br> +<i>Inscription on Battlefield at Rullion Green</i>.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER I - THE CAUSES OF THE REVOLT<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Halt, passenger; take heed what thou dost see,<br> +This tomb doth show for what some men did die.’<br> +<i>Monument, Greyfriars’ Churchyard, Edinburgh,<br> +</i>1661-1668. <a name="citation2a"></a><a href="#footnote2a">{2a}</a><br> +<br> +<br> +Two hundred years ago a tragedy was enacted in Scotland, the memory +whereof has been in great measure lost or obscured by the deep tragedies +which followed it. It is, as it were, the evening of the night +of persecution - a sort of twilight, dark indeed to us, but light as +the noonday when compared with the midnight gloom which followed. +This fact, of its being the very threshold of persecution, lends it, +however, an additional interest.<br> +<br> +The prejudices of the people against Episcopacy were ‘out of measure +increased,’ says Bishop Burnet, ‘by the new incumbents who +were put in the places of the ejected preachers, and were generally +very mean and despicable in all respects. They were the worst +preachers I ever heard; they were ignorant to a reproach; and many of +them were openly vicious. They . . . were indeed the dreg and +refuse of the northern parts. Those of them who arose above contempt +or scandal were men of such violent tempers that they were as much hated +as the others were despised.’ <a name="citation2b"></a><a href="#footnote2b">{2b}</a> +It was little to be wondered at, from this account that the country-folk +refused to go to the parish church, and chose rather to listen to outed +ministers in the fields. But this was not to be allowed, and their +persecutors at last fell on the method of calling a roll of the parishioners’ +names every Sabbath, and marking a fine of twenty shillings Scots to +the name of each absenter. In this way very large debts were incurred +by persons altogether unable to pay. Besides this, landlords were +fined for their tenants’ absences, tenants for their landlords’, +masters for their servants’, servants for their masters’, +even though they themselves were perfectly regular in their attendance. +And as the curates were allowed to fine with the sanction of any common +soldier, it may be imagined that often the pretexts were neither very +sufficient nor well proven.<br> +<br> +When the fines could not be paid at once, Bibles, clothes, and household +utensils were seized upon, or a number of soldiers, proportionate to +his wealth, were quartered on the offender. The coarse and drunken +privates filled the houses with woe; snatched the bread from the children +to feed their dogs; shocked the principles, scorned the scruples, and +blasphemed the religion of their humble hosts; and when they had reduced +them to destitution, sold the furniture, and burned down the roof-tree +which was consecrated to the peasants by the name of Home. For +all this attention each of these soldiers received from his unwilling +landlord a certain sum of money per day - three shillings sterling, +according to <i>Naphtali</i>. And frequently they were forced +to pay quartering money for more men than were in reality ‘cessed +on them.’ At that time it was no strange thing to behold +a strong man begging for money to pay his fines, and many others who +were deep in arrears, or who had attracted attention in some other way, +were forced to flee from their homes, and take refuge from arrest and +imprisonment among the wild mosses of the uplands. <a name="citation2c"></a><a href="#footnote2c">{2c}</a><br> +<br> +One example in particular we may cite:<br> +<br> +John Neilson, the Laird of Corsack, a worthy man, was, unfortunately +for himself, a Nonconformist. First he was fined in four hundred +pounds Scots, and then through cessing he lost nineteen hundred and +ninety-three pounds Scots. He was next obliged to leave his house +and flee from place to place, during which wanderings he lost his horse. +His wife and children were turned out of doors, and then his tenants +were fined till they too were almost ruined. As a final stroke, +they drove away all his cattle to Glasgow and sold them. <a name="citation2d"></a><a href="#footnote2d">{2d}</a> +Surely it was time that something were done to alleviate so much sorrow, +to overthrow such tyranny.<br> +<br> +About this time too there arrived in Galloway a person calling himself +Captain Andrew Gray, and advising the people to revolt. He displayed +some documents purporting to be from the northern Covenanters, and stating +that they were prepared to join in any enterprise commenced by their +southern brethren. The leader of the persecutors was Sir James +Turner, an officer afterwards degraded for his share in the matter. +‘He was naturally fierce, but was mad when he was drunk, and that +was very often,’ said Bishop Burnet. ‘He was a learned +man, but had always been in armies, and knew no other rule but to obey +orders. He told me he had no regard to any law, but acted, as +he was commanded, in a military way.’ <a name="citation2e"></a><a href="#footnote2e">{2e}</a><br> +<br> +This was the state of matters, when an outrage was committed which gave +spirit and determination to the oppressed countrymen, lit the flame +of insubordination, and for the time at least recoiled on those who +perpetrated it with redoubled force.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER II - THE BEGINNING<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +I love no warres,<br> +I love no jarres,<br> +Nor strife’s fire.<br> +May discord cease,<br> +Let’s live in peace:<br> +This I desire.<br> +<br> +If it must be<br> +Warre we must see<br> +(So fates conspire),<br> +May we not feel<br> +The force of steel:<br> +This I desire.<br> +<br> +T. JACKSON, 1651 <a name="citation3a"></a><a href="#footnote3a">{3a}</a><br> +<br> +<br> +Upon Tuesday, November 13th, 1666, Corporal George Deanes and three +other soldiers set upon an old man in the clachan of Dalry and demanded +the payment of his fines. On the old man’s refusing to pay, +they forced a large party of his neighbours to go with them and thresh +his corn. The field was a certain distance out of the clachan, +and four persons, disguised as countrymen, who had been out on the moors +all night, met this mournful drove of slaves, compelled by the four +soldiers to work for the ruin of their friend. However, chided +to the bone by their night on the hills, and worn out by want of food, +they proceeded to the village inn to refresh themselves. Suddenly +some people rushed into the room where they were sitting, and told them +that the soldiers were about to roast the old man, naked, on his own +girdle. This was too much for them to stand, and they repaired +immediately to the scene of this gross outrage, and at first merely +requested that the captive should be released. On the refusal +of the two soldiers who were in the front room, high words were given +and taken on both sides, and the other two rushed forth from an adjoining +chamber and made at the countrymen with drawn swords. One of the +latter, John M’Lellan of Barscob, drew a pistol and shot the corporal +in the body. The pieces of tobacco-pipe with which it was loaded, +to the number of ten at least, entered him, and he was so much disturbed +that he never appears to have recovered, for we find long afterwards +a petition to the Privy Council requesting a pension for him. +The other soldiers then laid down their arms, the old man was rescued, +and the rebellion was commenced. <a name="citation3b"></a><a href="#footnote3b">{3b}</a><br> +<br> +And now we must turn to Sir James Turner’s memoirs of himself; +for, strange to say, this extraordinary man was remarkably fond of literary +composition, and wrote, besides the amusing account of his own adventures +just mentioned, a large number of essays and short biographies, and +a work on war, entitled <i>Pallas Armata</i>. The following are +some of the shorter pieces ‘Magick,’ ‘Friendship,’ +‘Imprisonment,’ ‘Anger,’ ‘Revenge,’ +‘Duells,’ ‘Cruelty,’ ‘A Defence of some +of the Ceremonies of the English Liturgie - to wit - Bowing at the Name +of Jesus, The frequent repetition of the Lord’s Prayer and Good +Lord deliver us, Of the Doxologie, Of Surplesses, Rotchets, Canonnicall +Coats,’ etc. From what we know of his character we should +expect ‘Anger’ and ‘Cruelty’ to be very full +and instructive. But what earthly right he had to meddle with +ecclesiastical subjects it is hard to see.<br> +<br> +Upon the 12th of the month he had received some information concerning +Gray’s proceedings, but as it was excessively indefinite in its +character, he paid no attention to it. On the evening of the 14th, +Corporal Deanes was brought into Dumfries, who affirmed stoutly that +he had been shot while refusing to sign the Covenant - a story rendered +singularly unlikely by the after conduct of the rebels. Sir James +instantly dispatched orders to the cessed soldiers either to come to +Dumfries or meet him on the way to Dalry, and commanded the thirteen +or fourteen men in the town with him to come at nine next morning to +his lodging for supplies.<br> +<br> +On the morning of Thursday the rebels arrived at Dumfries with 50 horse +and 150 foot. Neilson of Corsack, and Gray, who commanded, with +a considerable troop, entered the town, and surrounded Sir James Turner’s +lodging. Though it was between eight and nine o’clock, that +worthy, being unwell, was still in bed, but rose at once and went to +the window.<br> +<br> +Neilson and some others cried, ‘You may have fair quarter.’<br> +<br> +‘I need no quarter,’ replied Sir James; ‘nor can I +be a prisoner, seeing there is no war declared.’ On being +told, however, that he must either be a prisoner or die, he came down, +and went into the street in his night-shirt. Here Gray showed +himself very desirous of killing him, but he was overruled by Corsack. +However, he was taken away a prisoner, Captain Gray mounting him on +his own horse, though, as Turner naively remarks, ‘there was good +reason for it, for he mounted himself on a farre better one of mine.’ +A large coffer containing his clothes and money, together with all his +papers, were taken away by the rebels. They robbed Master Chalmers, +the Episcopalian minister of Dumfries, of his horse, drank the King’s +health at the market cross, and then left Dumfries. <a name="citation3c"></a><a href="#footnote3c">{3c}</a><br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER III - THE MARCH OF THE REBELS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Stay, passenger, take notice what thou reads,<br> +At Edinburgh lie our bodies, here our heads;<br> +Our right hands stood at Lanark, these we want,<br> +Because with them we signed the Covenant.’<br> +<i>Epitaph on a Tombstone at Hamilton</i>. <a name="citation4a"></a><a href="#footnote4a">{4a}</a><br> +<br> +<br> +On Friday the 16th, Bailie Irvine of Dumfries came to the Council at +Edinburgh, and gave information concerning this ‘horrid rebellion.’ +In the absence of Rothes, Sharpe presided - much to the wrath of some +members; and as he imagined his own safety endangered, his measures +were most energetic. Dalzell was ordered away to the West, the +guards round the city were doubled, officers and soldiers were forced +to take the oath of allegiance, and all lodgers were commanded to give +in their names. Sharpe, surrounded with all these guards and precautions, +trembled - trembled as he trembled when the avengers of blood drew him +from his chariot on Magus Muir, - for he knew how he had sold his trust, +how he had betrayed his charge, and he felt that against him must their +chiefest hatred be directed, against him their direst thunder-bolts +be forged. But even in his fear the apostate Presbyterian was +unrelenting, unpityingly harsh; he published in his manifesto no promise +of pardon, no inducement to submission. He said, ‘If you +submit not you must die,’ but never added, ‘If you submit +you may live!’ <a name="citation4b"></a><a href="#footnote4b">{4b}</a><br> +<br> +Meantime the insurgents proceeded on their way. At Carsphairn +they were deserted by Captain Gray, who, doubtless in a fit of oblivion, +neglected to leave behind him the coffer containing Sir James’s +money. Who he was is a mystery, unsolved by any historian; his +papers were evidently forgeries - that, and his final flight, appear +to indicate that he was an agent of the Royalists, for either the King +or the Duke of York was heard to say, ‘That, if he might have +his wish, he would have them all turn rebels and go to arms.’ +<a name="citation4c"></a><a href="#footnote4c">{4c}</a><br> +<br> +Upon the 18th day of the month they left Carsphairn and marched onwards.<br> +<br> +Turner was always lodged by his captors at a good inn, frequently at +the best of which their halting-place could boast. Here many visits +were paid to him by the ministers and officers of the insurgent force. +In his description of these interviews he displays a vein of satiric +severity, admitting any kindness that was done to him with some qualifying +souvenir of former harshness, and gloating over any injury, mistake, +or folly, which it was his chance to suffer or to hear. He appears, +notwithstanding all this, to have been on pretty good terms with his +cruel ‘phanaticks,’ as the following extract sufficiently +proves:<br> +<br> +‘Most of the foot were lodged about the church or churchyard, +and order given to ring bells next morning for a sermon to be preached +by Mr. Welch. Maxwell of Morith, and Major M’Cullough invited +me to heare “that phanatick sermon” (for soe they merrilie +called it). They said that preaching might prove an effectual +meane to turne me, which they heartilie wished. I answered to +them that I was under guards, and that if they intended to heare that +sermon, it was probable I might likewise, for it was not like my guards +wold goe to church and leave me alone at my lodgeings. Bot to +what they said of my conversion, I said it wold be hard to turne a Turner. +Bot because I founde them in a merrie humour, I said, if I did not come +to heare Mr. Welch preach, then they might fine me in fortie shillings +Scots, which was double the suome of what I had exacted from the phanatics.’ +<a name="citation4d"></a><a href="#footnote4d">{4d}</a><br> +<br> +This took place at Ochiltree, on the 22nd day of the month. The +following is recounted by this personage with malicious glee, and certainly, +if authentic, it is a sad proof of how chaff is mixed with wheat, and +how ignorant, almost impious, persons were engaged in this movement; +nevertheless we give it, for we wish to present with impartiality all +the alleged facts to the reader:<br> +<br> +‘Towards the evening Mr. Robinsone and Mr. Crukshank gaue me a +visite; I called for some ale purposelie to heare one of them blesse +it. It fell Mr. Robinsone to seeke the blessing, who said one +of the most bombastick graces that ever I heard in my life. He +summoned God Allmightie very imperiouslie to be their secondarie (for +that was his language). “And if,” said he, “thou +wilt not be our Secondarie, we will not fight for thee at all, for it +is not our cause bot thy cause; and if thou wilt not fight for our cause +and thy oune cause, then we are not obliged to fight for it. They +say,” said he, “that Dukes, Earles, and Lords are coming +with the King’s General against us, bot they shall be nothing +bot a threshing to us.” This grace did more fullie satisfie +me of the folly and injustice of their cause, then the ale did quench +my thirst.’ <a name="citation4e"></a><a href="#footnote4e">{4e}</a><br> +<br> +Frequently the rebels made a halt near some roadside alehouse, or in +some convenient park, where Colonel Wallace, who had now taken the command, +would review the horse and foot, during which time Turner was sent either +into the alehouse or round the shoulder of the hill, to prevent him +from seeing the disorders which were likely to arise. He was, +at last, on the 25th day of the month, between Douglas and Lanark, permitted +to behold their evolutions. ‘I found their horse did consist +of four hundreth and fortie, and the foot of five hundreth and upwards. +. . . The horsemen were armed for most part with suord and pistoll, +some onlie with suord. The foot with musket, pike, sith (scythe), +forke, and suord; and some with suords great and long.’ +He admired much the proficiency of their cavalry, and marvelled how +they had attained to it in so short a time. <a name="citation4f"></a><a href="#footnote4f">{4f}</a><br> +<br> +At Douglas, which they had just left on the morning of this great wapinshaw, +they were charged - awful picture of depravity! - with the theft of +a silver spoon and a nightgown. Could it be expected that while +the whole country swarmed with robbers of every description, such a +rare opportunity for plunder should be lost by rogues - that among a +thousand men, even though fighting for religion, there should not be +one Achan in the camp? At Lanark a declaration was drawn up and +signed by the chief rebels. In it occurs the following:<br> +<br> +‘The just sense whereof ’ - the sufferings of the country +- ‘made us choose, rather to betake ourselves to the fields for +self-defence, than to stay at home, burdened daily with the calamities +of others, and tortured with the fears of our own approaching misery.’ +<a name="citation4g"></a><a href="#footnote4g">{4g}</a><br> +<br> +The whole body, too, swore the Covenant, to which ceremony the epitaph +at the head of this chapter seems to refer.<br> +<br> +A report that Dalzell was approaching drove them from Lanark to Bathgate, +where, on the evening of Monday the 26th, the wearied army stopped. +But at twelve o’clock the cry, which served them for a trumpet, +of ‘Horse! horse!’ and ‘Mount the prisoner!’ +resounded through the night-shrouded town, and called the peasants from +their well-earned rest to toil onwards in their march. The wind +howled fiercely over the moorland; a close, thick, wetting rain descended. +Chilled to the bone, worn out with long fatigue, sinking to the knees +in mire, onward they marched to destruction. One by one the weary +peasants fell off from their ranks to sleep, and die in the rain-soaked +moor, or to seek some house by the wayside wherein to hide till daybreak. +One by one at first, then in gradually increasing numbers, at every +shelter that was seen, whole troops left the waning squadrons, and rushed +to hide themselves from the ferocity of the tempest. To right +and left nought could be descried but the broad expanse of the moor, +and the figures of their fellow-rebels, seen dimly through the murky +night, plodding onwards through the sinking moss. Those who kept +together - a miserable few - often halted to rest themselves, and to +allow their lagging comrades to overtake them. Then onward they +went again, still hoping for assistance, reinforcement, and supplies; +onward again, through the wind, and the rain, and the darkness - onward +to their defeat at Pentland, and their scaffold at Edinburgh. +It was calculated that they lost one half of their army on that disastrous +night-march.<br> +<br> +Next night they reached the village of Colinton, four miles from Edinburgh, +where they halted for the last time. <a name="citation4h"></a><a href="#footnote4h">{4h}</a><br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER IV - RULLION GREEN<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +‘From Covenanters with uplifted hands,<br> +From Remonstrators with associate bands,<br> +Good Lord, deliver us!’<br> +<i>Royalist Rhyme</i>, KIRKTON, p. 127.<br> +<br> +<br> +Late on the fourth night of November, exactly twenty-four days before +Rullion Green, Richard and George Chaplain, merchants in Haddington, +beheld four men, clad like West-country Whigamores, standing round some +object on the ground. It was at the two-mile cross, and within +that distance from their homes. At last, to their horror, they +discovered that the recumbent figure was a livid corpse, swathed in +a blood-stained winding-sheet. <a name="citation5a"></a><a href="#footnote5a">{5a}</a> +Many thought that this apparition was a portent of the deaths connected +with the Pentland Rising.<br> +<br> +On the morning of Wednesday, the 28th of November 1666, they left Colinton +and marched to Rullion Green. There they arrived about sunset. +The position was a strong one. On the summit of a bare, heathery +spur of the Pentlands are two hillocks, and between them lies a narrow +band of flat marshy ground. On the highest of the two mounds - +that nearest the Pentlands, and on the left hand of the main body - +was the greater part of the cavalry, under Major Learmont; on the other +Barscob and the Galloway gentlemen; and in the centre Colonel Wallace +and the weak, half-armed infantry. Their position was further +strengthened by the depth of the valley below, and the deep chasm-like +course of the Rullion Burn.<br> +<br> +The sun, going down behind the Pentlands, cast golden lights and blue +shadows on their snow-clad summits, slanted obliquely into the rich +plain before them, bathing with rosy splendour the leafless, snow-sprinkled +trees, and fading gradually into shadow in the distance. To the +south, too, they beheld a deep-shaded amphitheatre of heather and bracken; +the course of the Esk, near Penicuik, winding about at the foot of its +gorge; the broad, brown expanse of Maw Moss; and, fading into blue indistinctness +in the south, the wild heath-clad Peeblesshire hills. In sooth, +that scene was fair, and many a yearning glance was cast over that peaceful +evening scene from the spot where the rebels awaited their defeat; and +when the fight was over, many a noble fellow lifted his head from the +blood-stained heather to strive with darkening eyeballs to behold that +landscape, over which, as over his life and his cause, the shadows of +night and of gloom were falling and thickening.<br> +<br> +It was while waiting on this spot that the fear-inspiring cry was raised: +‘The enemy! Here come the enemy!’<br> +<br> +Unwilling to believe their own doom - for our insurgents still hoped +for success in some negotiations for peace which had been carried on +at Colinton - they called out, ‘They are some of our own.’<br> +<br> +‘They are too blacke ‘ (<i>i.e</i>. numerous), ‘fie! +fie! for ground to draw up on,’ cried Wallace, fully realising +the want of space for his men, and proving that it was not till after +this time that his forces were finally arranged. <a name="citation5b"></a><a href="#footnote5b">{5b}</a><br> +<br> +First of all the battle was commenced by fifty Royalist horse sent obliquely +across the hill to attack the left wing of the rebels. An equal +number of Learmont’s men met them, and, after a struggle, drove +them back. The course of the Rullion Burn prevented almost all +pursuit, and Wallace, on perceiving it, dispatched a body of foot to +occupy both the burn and some ruined sheep-walls on the farther side.<br> +<br> +Dalzell changed his position, and drew up his army at the foot of the +hill, on the top of which were his foes. He then dispatched a +mingled body of infantry and cavalry to attack Wallace’s outpost, +but they also were driven back. A third charge produced a still +more disastrous effect, for Dalzell had to check the pursuit of his +men by a reinforcement.<br> +<br> +These repeated checks bred a panic in the Lieutenant-General’s +ranks, for several of his men flung down their arms. Urged by +such fatal symptoms, and by the approaching night, he deployed his men, +and closed in overwhelming numbers on the centre and right flank of +the insurgent army. In the increasing twilight the burning matches +of the firelocks, shimmering on barrel, halbert, and cuirass, lent to +the approaching army a picturesque effect, like a huge, many-armed giant +breathing flame into the darkness.<br> +<br> +Placed on an overhanging hill, Welch and Semple cried aloud, ‘The +God of Jacob! The God of Jacob!’ and prayed with uplifted hands +for victory. <a name="citation5c"></a><a href="#footnote5c">{5c}</a><br> +<br> +But still the Royalist troops closed in.<br> +<br> +Captain John Paton was observed by Dalzell, who determined to capture +him with his own hands. Accordingly he charged forward, presenting +his pistols. Paton fired, but the balls hopped off Dalzell’s +buff coat and fell into his boot. With the superstition peculiar +to his age, the Nonconformist concluded that his adversary was rendered +bullet-proof by enchantment, and, pulling some small silver coins from +his pocket, charged his pistol therewith. Dalzell, seeing this, +and supposing, it is likely, that Paton was putting in larger balls, +hid behind his servant, who was killed. <a name="citation5d"></a><a href="#footnote5d">{5d}</a><br> +<br> +Meantime the outposts were forced, and the army of Wallace was enveloped +in the embrace of a hideous boa-constrictor - tightening, closing, crushing +every semblance of life from the victim enclosed in his toils. +The flanking parties of horse were forced in upon the centre, and though, +as even Turner grants, they fought with desperation, a general flight +was the result.<br> +<br> +But when they fell there was none to sing their coronach or wail the +death-wail over them. Those who sacrificed themselves for the +peace, the liberty, and the religion of their fellow-countrymen, lay +bleaching in the field of death for long, and when at last they were +buried by charity, the peasants dug up their bodies, desecrated their +graves, and cast them once more upon the open heath for the sorry value +of their winding-sheets!<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>Inscription on stone at Rullion Green:<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>HERE<br> +AND NEAR TO<br> +THIS PLACE LYES THE<br> +REVEREND MR JOHN CROOKSHANK<br> +AND MR ANDREW MCCORMICK<br> +MINISTERS OF THE GOSPEL AND<br> +ABOUT FIFTY OTHER TRUE COVENANTED<br> +PRESBYTERIANS WHO WERE<br> +KILLED IN THIS PLACE IN THEIR OWN<br> +INOCENT SELF DEFENCE AND DEFFENCE<br> +OF THE COVENANTED WORK OF<br> +REFORMATION BY THOMAS DALZEEL OF BINS<br> +UPON THE 28 OF NOVEMBER<br> +1666. REV. 12. 11. ERECTED<br> +SEPT. 28 1738.<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>Back of stone:<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>A Cloud of Witnesses lyes here,<br> +Who for Christ’s Interest did appear,<br> +For to restore true Liberty,<br> +O’erturnèd then by tyranny.<br> +And by proud Prelats who did Rage<br> +Against the Lord’s Own heritage.<br> +They sacrificed were for the laws<br> +Of Christ their king, his noble cause.<br> +These heroes fought with great renown;<br> +By falling got the Martyr’s crown. <a name="citation5e"></a><a href="#footnote5e">{5e}</a><br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER V - A RECORD OF BLOOD<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +‘They cut his hands ere he was dead,<br> +And after that struck of his head.<br> +His blood under the altar cries<br> +For vengeance on Christ’s enemies.’<br> +<i>Epitaph on Tomb at Longcross of Clermont</i>. <a name="citation6a"></a><a href="#footnote6a">{6a}</a><br> +<br> +<br> +Master Andrew Murray, an outed minister, residing in the Potterrow, +on the morning after the defeat, heard the sounds of cheering and the +march of many feet beneath his window. He gazed out. With +colours flying, and with music sounding, Dalzell, victorious, entered +Edinburgh. But his banners were dyed in blood, and a band of prisoners +were marched within his ranks. The old man knew it all. +That martial and triumphant strain was the death-knell of his friends +and of their cause, the rust-hued spots upon the flags were the tokens +of their courage and their death, and the prisoners were the miserable +remnant spared from death in battle to die upon the scaffold. +Poor old man! he had outlived all joy. Had he lived longer he +would have seen increasing torment and increasing woe; he would have +seen the clouds, then but gathering in mist, cast a more than midnight +darkness over his native hills, and have fallen a victim to those bloody +persecutions which, later, sent their red memorials to the sea by many +a burn. By a merciful Providence all this was spared to him - +he fell beneath the first blow; and ere four days had passed since Rullion +Green, the aged minister of God was gathered to is fathers. <a name="citation6b"></a><a href="#footnote6b">{6b}</a><br> +<br> +When Sharpe first heard of the rebellion, he applied to Sir Alexander +Ramsay, the Provost, for soldiers to guard his house. Disliking +their occupation, the soldiers gave him an ugly time of it. All +the night through they kept up a continuous series of ‘alarms +and incursions,’ ‘cries of “Stand!” “Give +fire!”’ etc., which forced the prelate to flee to the Castle +in the morning, hoping there to find the rest which was denied him at +home. <a name="citation6c"></a><a href="#footnote6c">{6c}</a> +Now, however, when all danger to himself was past, Sharpe came out in +his true colours, and scant was the justice likely to be shown to the +foes of Scottish Episcopacy when the Primate was by. The prisoners +were lodged in Haddo’s Hole, a part of St. Giles’ Cathedral, +where, by the kindness of Bishop Wishart, to his credit be it spoken, +they were amply supplied with food. <a name="citation6d"></a><a href="#footnote6d">{6d}</a><br> +<br> +Some people urged, in the Council, that the promise of quarter which +had been given on the field of battle should protect the lives of the +miserable men. Sir John Gilmoure, the greatest lawyer, gave no +opinion - certainly a suggestive circumstance - but Lord Lee declared +that this would not interfere with their legal trial, ‘so to bloody +executions they went.’ <a name="citation6e"></a><a href="#footnote6e">{6e}</a> +To the number of thirty they were condemned and executed; while two +of them, Hugh M’Kail, a young minister, and Neilson of Corsack, +were tortured with the boots.<br> +<br> +The goods of those who perished were confiscated, and their bodies were +dismembered and distributed to different parts of the country; ‘the +heads of Major M’Culloch and the two Gordons,’ it was resolved, +says Kirkton, ‘should be pitched on the gate of Kirkcudbright; +the two Hamiltons and Strong’s head should be affixed at Hamilton, +and Captain Arnot’s sett on the Watter Gate at Edinburgh. +The armes of all the ten, because they hade with uplifted hands renewed +the Covenant at Lanark, were sent to the people of that town to expiate +that crime, by placing these arms on the top of the prison.’ <a name="citation6f"></a><a href="#footnote6f">{6f}</a> +Among these was John Neilson, the Laird of Corsack, who saved Turner’s +life at Dumfries; in return for which service Sir James attempted, though +without success, to get the poor man reprieved. One of the condemned +died of his wounds between the day of condemnation and the day of execution. +‘ None of them,’ says Kirkton, ‘would save their life +by taking the declaration and renouncing the Covenant, though it was +offered to them. . . . But never men died in Scotland so much lamented +by the people, not only spectators, but those in the country. +When Knockbreck and his brother were turned over, they clasped each +other in their armes, and so endured the pangs of death. When +Humphrey Colquhoun died, he spoke not like an ordinary citizen, but +like a heavenly minister, relating his comfortable Christian experiences, +and called for his Bible, and laid it on his wounded arm, and read John +iii. 8, and spoke upon it to the admiration of all. But most of +all, when Mr. M’Kail died, there was such a lamentation as was +never known in Scotland before; not one dry cheek upon all the street, +or in all the numberless windows in the mercate place.’ <a name="citation6g"></a><a href="#footnote6g">{6g}</a><br> +<br> +The following passage from this speech speaks for itself and its author:<br> +<br> +‘Hereafter I will not talk with flesh and blood, nor think on +the world’s consolations. Farewell to all my friends, whose +company hath been refreshful to me in my pilgrimage. I have done +with the light of the sun and the moon; welcome eternal light, eternal +life, everlasting love, everlasting praise, everlasting glory. +Praise to Him that sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb for ever! +Bless the Lord, O my soul, that hath pardoned all my iniquities in the +blood of His Son, and healed all my diseases. Bless Him, O all +ye His angels that excel in strength, ye ministers of His that do His +pleasure. Bless the Lord, O my soul!’ <a name="citation6h"></a><a href="#footnote6h">{6h}</a><br> +<br> +After having ascended the gallows ladder he again broke forth in the +following words of touching eloquence: ‘And now I leave off to +speak any more to creatures, and begin my intercourse with God, which +shall never be broken off. Farewell father and mother, friends +and relations! Farewell the world and all delights! Farewell +meat and drink! Farewell sun, moon, and stars! - Welcome God and +Father! Welcome sweet Jesus Christ, the Mediator of the new covenant! +Welcome blessed Spirit of grace and God of all consolation! Welcome +glory! Welcome eternal life! Welcome Death!’ <a name="citation6i"></a><a href="#footnote6i">{6i}</a><br> +<br> +At Glasgow, too, where some were executed, they caused the soldiers +to beat the drums and blow the trumpets on their closing ears. +Hideous refinement of revenge! Even the last words which drop +from the lips of a dying man - words surely the most sincere and the +most unbiassed which mortal mouth can utter - even these were looked +upon as poisoned and as poisonous. ‘Drown their last accents,’ +was the cry, ‘lest they should lead the crowd to take their part, +or at the least to mourn their doom!’ <a name="citation6j"></a><a href="#footnote6j">{6j}</a> +But, after all, perhaps it was more merciful than one would think - +unintentionally so, of course; perhaps the storm of harsh and fiercely +jubilant noises, the clanging of trumpets, the rattling of drums, and +the hootings and jeerings of an unfeeling mob, which were the last they +heard on earth, might, when the mortal fight was over, when the river +of death was passed, add tenfold sweetness to the hymning of the angels, +tenfold peacefulness to the shores which they had reached.<br> +<br> +Not content with the cruelty of these executions, some even of the peasantry, +though these were confined to the shire of Mid-Lothian, pursued, captured, +plundered, and murdered the miserable fugitives who fell in their way. +One strange story have we of these times of blood and persecution: Kirkton +the historian and popular tradition tell us alike of a flame which often +would arise from the grave, in a moss near Carnwath, of some of those +poor rebels: of how it crept along the ground; of how it covered the +house of their murderer; and of how it scared him with its lurid glare.<br> +<br> +Hear Daniel Defoe: <a name="citation6k"></a><a href="#footnote6k">{6k}</a><br> +<br> +‘If the poor people were by these insupportable violences made +desperate, and driven to all the extremities of a wild despair, who +can justly reflect on them when they read in the Word of God “That +oppression makes a wise man mad”? And therefore were there +no other original of the insurrection known by the name of the Rising +of Pentland, it was nothing but what the intolerable oppressions of +those times might have justified to all the world, nature having dictated +to all people a right of defence when illegally and arbitrarily attacked +in a manner not justifiable either by laws of nature, the laws of God, +or the laws of the country.’<br> +<br> +Bear this remonstrance of Defoe’s in mind, and though it is the +fashion of the day to jeer and to mock, to execrate and to contemn, +the noble band of Covenanters - though the bitter laugh at their old-world +religious views, the curl of the lip at their merits, and the chilling +silence on their bravery and their determination, are but too rife through +all society - be charitable to what was evil and honest to what was +good about the Pentland insurgents, who fought for life and liberty, +for country and religion, on the 28th of November 1666, now just two +hundred years ago.<br> +<br> +<br> +EDINBURGH, <i>28th November 1866</i>.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +History is much decried; it is a tissue of errors, we are told, no doubt +correctly; and rival historians expose each other’s blunders with +gratification. Yet the worst historian has a clearer view of the +period he studies than the best of us can hope to form of that in which +we live. The obscurest epoch is to-day; and that for a thousand +reasons of inchoate tendency, conflicting report, and sheer mass and +multiplicity of experience; but chiefly, perhaps, by reason of an insidious +shifting of landmarks. Parties and ideas continually move, but +not by measurable marches on a stable course; the political soil itself +steals forth by imperceptible degrees, like a travelling glacier, carrying +on its bosom not only political parties but their flag-posts and cantonments; +so that what appears to be an eternal city founded on hills is but a +flying island of Laputa. It is for this reason in particular that +we are all becoming Socialists without knowing it; by which I would +not in the least refer to the acute case of Mr. Hyndman and his horn-blowing +supporters, sounding their trumps of a Sunday within the walls of our +individualist Jericho - but to the stealthy change that has come over +the spirit of Englishmen and English legislation. A little while +ago, and we were still for liberty; ‘crowd a few more thousands +on the bench of Government,’ we seemed to cry; ‘keep her +head direct on liberty, and we cannot help but come to port.’ +This is over; <i>laisser faire</i> declines in favour; our legislation +grows authoritative, grows philanthropical, bristles with new duties +and new penalties, and casts a spawn of inspectors, who now begin, note-book +in hand, to darken the face of England. It may be right or wrong, +we are not trying that; but one thing it is beyond doubt: it is Socialism +in action, and the strange thing is that we scarcely know it.<br> +<br> +Liberty has served us a long while, and it may be time to seek new altars. +Like all other principles, she has been proved to be self-exclusive +in the long run. She has taken wages besides (like all other virtues) +and dutifully served Mammon; so that many things we were accustomed +to admire as the benefits of freedom and common to all were truly benefits +of wealth, and took their value from our neighbours’ poverty. +A few shocks of logic, a few disclosures (in the journalistic phrase) +of what the freedom of manufacturers, landlords, or shipowners may imply +for operatives, tenants, or seamen, and we not unnaturally begin to +turn to that other pole of hope, beneficent tyranny. Freedom, +to be desirable, involves kindness, wisdom, and all the virtues of the +free; but the free man as we have seen him in action has been, as of +yore, only the master of many helots; and the slaves are still ill-fed, +ill-clad, ill-taught, ill-housed, insolently treated, and driven to +their mines and workshops by the lash of famine. So much, in other +men’s affairs, we have begun to see clearly; we have begun to +despair of virtue in these other men, and from our seat in Parliament +begin to discharge upon them, thick as arrows, the host of our inspectors. +The landlord has long shaken his head over the manufacturer; those who +do business on land have lost all trust in the virtues of the shipowner; +the professions look askance upon the retail traders and have even started +their co-operative stores to ruin them; and from out the smoke-wreaths +of Birmingham a finger has begun to write upon the wall the condemnation +of the landlord. Thus, piece by piece, do we condemn each other, +and yet not perceive the conclusion, that our whole estate is somewhat +damnable. Thus, piece by piece, each acting against his neighbour, +each sawing away the branch on which some other interest is seated, +do we apply in detail our Socialistic remedies, and yet not perceive +that we are all labouring together to bring in Socialism at large. +A tendency so stupid and so selfish is like to prove invincible; and +if Socialism be at all a practicable rule of life, there is every chance +that our grand-children will see the day and taste the pleasures of +existence in something far liker an ant-heap than any previous human +polity. And this not in the least because of the voice of Mr. +Hyndman or the horns of his followers; but by the mere glacier movement +of the political soil, bearing forward on its bosom, apparently undisturbed, +the proud camps of Whig and Tory. If Mr. Hyndman were a man of +keen humour, which is far from my conception of his character, he might +rest from his troubling and look on: the walls of Jericho begin already +to crumble and dissolve. That great servile war, the Armageddon +of money and numbers, to which we looked forward when young, becomes +more and more unlikely; and we may rather look to see a peaceable and +blindfold evolution, the work of dull men immersed in political tactics +and dead to political results.<br> +<br> +The principal scene of this comedy lies, of course, in the House of +Commons; it is there, besides, that the details of this new evolution +(if it proceed) will fall to be decided; so that the state of Parliament +is not only diagnostic of the present but fatefully prophetic of the +future. Well, we all know what Parliament is, and we are all ashamed +of it. We may pardon it some faults, indeed, on the ground of +Irish obstruction - a bitter trial, which it supports with notable good +humour. But the excuse is merely local; it cannot apply to similar +bodies in America and France; and what are we to say of these? +President Cleveland’s letter may serve as a picture of the one; +a glance at almost any paper will convince us of the weakness of the +other. Decay appears to have seized on the organ of popular government +in every land; and this just at the moment when we begin to bring to +it, as to an oracle of justice, the whole skein of our private affairs +to be unravelled, and ask it, like a new Messiah, to take upon itself +our frailties and play for us the part that should be played by our +own virtues. For that, in few words, is the case. We cannot +trust ourselves to behave with decency; we cannot trust our consciences; +and the remedy proposed is to elect a round number of our neighbours, +pretty much at random, and say to these: ‘Be ye our conscience; +make laws so wise, and continue from year to year to administer them +so wisely, that they shall save us from ourselves and make us righteous +and happy, world without end. Amen.’ And who can look +twice at the British Parliament and then seriously bring it such a task? +I am not advancing this as an argument against Socialism: once again, +nothing is further from my mind. There are great truths in Socialism, +or no one, not even Mr. Hyndman, would be found to hold it; and if it +came, and did one-tenth part of what it offers, I for one should make +it welcome. But if it is to come, we may as well have some notion +of what it will be like; and the first thing to grasp is that our new +polity will be designed and administered (to put it courteously) with +something short of inspiration. It will be made, or will grow, +in a human parliament; and the one thing that will not very hugely change +is human nature. The Anarchists think otherwise, from which it +is only plain that they have not carried to the study of history the +lamp of human sympathy.<br> +<br> +Given, then, our new polity, with its new waggon-load of laws, what +headmarks must we look for in the life? We chafe a good deal at +that excellent thing, the income-tax, because it brings into our affairs +the prying fingers, and exposes us to the tart words, of the official. +The official, in all degrees, is already something of a terror to many +of us. I would not willingly have to do with even a police-constable +in any other spirit than that of kindness. I still remember in +my dreams the eye-glass of a certain <i>attaché</i> at a certain +embassy - an eyeglass that was a standing indignity to all on whom it +looked; and my next most disagreeable remembrance is of a bracing, Republican +postman in the city of San Francisco. I lived in that city among +working folk, and what my neighbours accepted at the postman’s +hands - nay, what I took from him myself - it is still distasteful to +recall. The bourgeois, residing in the upper parts of society, +has but few opportunities of tasting this peculiar bowl; but about the +income-tax, as I have said, or perhaps about a patent, or in the halls +of an embassy at the hands of my friend of the eye-glass, he occasionally +sets his lips to it; and he may thus imagine (if he has that faculty +of imagination, without which most faculties are void) how it tastes +to his poorer neighbours, who must drain it to the dregs. In every +contact with authority, with their employer, with the police, with the +School Board officer, in the hospital, or in the workhouse, they have +equally the occasion to appreciate the light-hearted civility of the +man in office; and as an experimentalist in several out-of-the-way provinces +of life, I may say it has but to be felt to be appreciated. Well, +this golden age of which we are speaking will be the golden age of officials. +In all our concerns it will be their beloved duty to meddle, with what +tact, with what obliging words, analogy will aid us to imagine. +It is likely these gentlemen will be periodically elected; they will +therefore have their turn of being underneath, which does not always +sweeten men’s conditions. The laws they will have to administer +will be no clearer than those we know to-day, and the body which is +to regulate their administration no wiser than the British Parliament. +So that upon all hands we may look for a form of servitude most galling +to the blood - servitude to many and changing masters, and for all the +slights that accompany the rule of jack-in-office. And if the +Socialistic programme be carried out with the least fulness, we shall +have lost a thing, in most respects not much to be regretted, but as +a moderator of oppression, a thing nearly invaluable - the newspaper. +For the independent journal is a creature of capital and competition; +it stands and falls with millionaires and railway bonds and all the +abuses and glories of to-day; and as soon as the State has fairly taken +its bent to authority and philanthropy, and laid the least touch on +private property, the days of the independent journal are numbered. +State railways may be good things and so may State bakeries; but a State +newspaper will never be a very trenchant critic of the State officials.<br> +<br> +But again, these officials would have no sinecure. Crime would +perhaps be less, for some of the motives of crime we may suppose would +pass away. But if Socialism were carried out with any fulness, +there would be more contraventions. We see already new sins ringing +up like mustard - School Board sins, factory sins, Merchant Shipping +Act sins - none of which I would be thought to except against in particular, +but all of which, taken together, show us that Socialism can be a hard +master even in the beginning. If it go on to such heights as we +hear proposed and lauded, if it come actually to its ideal of the ant-heap, +ruled with iron justice, the number of new contraventions will be out +of all proportion multiplied. Take the case of work alone. +Man is an idle animal. He is at least as intelligent as the ant; +but generations of advisers have in vain recommended him the ant’s +example. Of those who are found truly indefatigable in business, +some are misers; some are the practisers of delightful industries, like +gardening; some are students, artists, inventors, or discoverers, men +lured forward by successive hopes; and the rest are those who live by +games of skill or hazard - financiers, billiard-players, gamblers, and +the like. But in unloved toils, even under the prick of necessity, +no man is continually sedulous. Once eliminate the fear of starvation, +once eliminate or bound the hope of riches, and we shall see plenty +of skulking and malingering. Society will then be something not +wholly unlike a cotton plantation in the old days; with cheerful, careless, +demoralised slaves, with elected overseers, and, instead of the planter, +a chaotic popular assembly. If the blood be purposeful and the +soil strong, such a plantation may succeed, and be, indeed, a busy ant-heap, +with full granaries and long hours of leisure. But even then I +think the whip will be in the overseer’s hands, and not in vain. +For, when it comes to be a question of each man doing his own share +or the rest doing more, prettiness of sentiment will be forgotten. +To dock the skulker’s food is not enough; many will rather eat +haws and starve on petty pilferings than put their shoulder to the wheel +for one hour daily. For such as these, then, the whip will be +in the overseer’s hand; and his own sense of justice and the superintendence +of a chaotic popular assembly will be the only checks on its employment. +Now, you may be an industrious man and a good citizen, and yet not love, +nor yet be loved by, Dr. Fell the inspector. It is admitted by +private soldiers that the disfavour of a sergeant is an evil not to +be combated; offend the sergeant, they say, and in a brief while you +will either be disgraced or have deserted. And the sergeant can +no longer appeal to the lash. But if these things go on, we shall +see, or our sons shall see, what it is to have offended an inspector.<br> +<br> +This for the unfortunate. But with the fortunate also, even those +whom the inspector loves, it may not be altogether well. It is +concluded that in such a state of society, supposing it to be financially +sound, the level of comfort will be high. It does not follow: +there are strange depths of idleness in man, a too-easily-got sufficiency, +as in the case of the sago-eaters, often quenching the desire for all +besides; and it is possible that the men of the richest ant-heaps may +sink even into squalor. But suppose they do not; suppose our tricksy +instrument of human nature, when we play upon it this new tune, should +respond kindly; suppose no one to be damped and none exasperated by +the new conditions, the whole enterprise to be financially sound - a +vaulting supposition - and all the inhabitants to dwell together in +a golden mean of comfort: we have yet to ask ourselves if this be what +man desire, or if it be what man will even deign to accept for a continuance. +It is certain that man loves to eat, it is not certain that he loves +that only or that best. He is supposed to love comfort; it is +not a love, at least, that he is faithful to. He is supposed to +love happiness; it is my contention that he rather loves excitement. +Danger, enterprise, hope, the novel, the aleatory, are dearer to man +than regular meals. He does not think so when he is hungry, but +he thinks so again as soon as he is fed; and on the hypothesis of a +successful ant-heap, he would never go hungry. It would be always +after dinner in that society, as, in the land of the Lotos-eaters, it +was always afternoon; and food, which, when we have it not, seems all-important, +drops in our esteem, as soon as we have it, to a mere prerequisite of +living.<br> +<br> +That for which man lives is not the same thing for all individuals nor +in all ages; yet it has a common base; what he seeks and what he must +have is that which will seize and hold his attention. Regular +meals and weatherproof lodgings will not do this long. Play in +its wide sense, as the artificial induction of sensation, including +all games and all arts, will, indeed, go far to keep him conscious of +himself; but in the end he wearies for realities. Study or experiment, +to some rare natures, is the unbroken pastime of a life. These +are enviable natures; people shut in the house by sickness often bitterly +envy them; but the commoner man cannot continue to exist upon such altitudes: +his feet itch for physical adventure; his blood boils for physical dangers, +pleasures, and triumphs; his fancy, the looker after new things, cannot +continue to look for them in books and crucibles, but must seek them +on the breathing stage of life. Pinches, buffets, the glow of +hope, the shock of disappointment, furious contention with obstacles: +these are the true elixir for all vital spirits, these are what they +seek alike in their romantic enterprises and their unromantic dissipations. +When they are taken in some pinch closer than the common, they cry, +‘Catch me here again!’ and sure enough you catch them there +again - perhaps before the week is out. It is as old as <i>Robinson +Crusoe</i>; as old as man. Our race has not been strained for +all these ages through that sieve of dangers that we call Natural Selection, +to sit down with patience in the tedium of safety; the voices of its +fathers call it forth. Already in our society as it exists, the +bourgeois is too much cottoned about for any zest in living; he sits +in his parlour out of reach of any danger, often out of reach of any +vicissitude but one of health; and there he yawns. If the people +in the next villa took pot-shots at him, he might be killed indeed, +but so long as he escaped he would find his blood oxygenated and his +views of the world brighter. If Mr. Mallock, on his way to the +publishers, should have his skirts pinned to a wall by a javelin, it +would not occur to him - at least for several hours - to ask if life +were worth living; and if such peril were a daily matter, he would ask +it never more; he would have other things to think about, he would be +living indeed - not lying in a box with cotton, safe, but immeasurably +dull. The aleatory, whether it touch life, or fortune, or renown +- whether we explore Africa or only toss for halfpence - that is what +I conceive men to love best, and that is what we are seeking to exclude +from men’s existences. Of all forms of the aleatory, that +which most commonly attends our working men - the danger of misery from +want of work - is the least inspiriting: it does not whip the blood, +it does not evoke the glory of contest; it is tragic, but it is passive; +and yet, in so far as it is aleatory, and a peril sensibly touching +them, it does truly season the men’s lives. Of those who +fail, I do not speak - despair should be sacred; but to those who even +modestly succeed, the changes of their life bring interest: a job found, +a shilling saved, a dainty earned, all these are wells of pleasure springing +afresh for the successful poor; and it is not from these but from the +villa-dweller that we hear complaints of the unworthiness of life. +Much, then, as the average of the proletariat would gain in this new +state of life, they would also lose a certain something, which would +not be missed in the beginning, but would be missed progressively and +progressively lamented. Soon there would be a looking back: there +would be tales of the old world humming in young men’s ears, tales +of the tramp and the pedlar, and the hopeful emigrant. And in +the stall-fed life of the successful ant-heap - with its regular meals, +regular duties, regular pleasures, an even course of life, and fear +excluded - the vicissitudes, delights, and havens of to-day will seem +of epic breadth. This may seem a shallow observation; but the +springs by which men are moved lie much on the surface. Bread, +I believe, has always been considered first, but the circus comes close +upon its heels. Bread we suppose to be given amply; the cry for +circuses will be the louder, and if the life of our descendants be such +as we have conceived, there are two beloved pleasures on which they +will be likely to fall back: the pleasures of intrigue and of sedition.<br> +<br> +In all this I have supposed the ant-heap to be financially sound. +I am no economist, only a writer of fiction; but even as such, I know +one thing that bears on the economic question - I know the imperfection +of man’s faculty for business. The Anarchists, who count +some rugged elements of common sense among what seem to me their tragic +errors, have said upon this matter all that I could wish to say, and +condemned beforehand great economical polities. So far it is obvious +that they are right; they may be right also in predicting a period of +communal independence, and they may even be right in thinking that desirable. +But the rise of communes is none the less the end of economic equality, +just when we were told it was beginning. Communes will not be +all equal in extent, nor in quality of soil, nor in growth of population; +nor will the surplus produce of all be equally marketable. It +will be the old story of competing interests, only with a new unit; +and, as it appears to me, a new, inevitable danger. For the merchant +and the manufacturer, in this new world, will be a sovereign commune; +it is a sovereign power that will see its crops undersold, and its manufactures +worsted in the market. And all the more dangerous that the sovereign +power should be small. Great powers are slow to stir; national +affronts, even with the aid of newspapers, filter slowly into popular +consciousness; national losses are so unequally shared, that one part +of the population will be counting its gains while another sits by a +cold hearth. But in the sovereign commune all will be centralised +and sensitive. When jealousy springs up, when (let us say) the +commune of Poole has overreached the commune of Dorchester, irritation +will run like quicksilver throughout the body politic; each man in Dorchester +will have to suffer directly in his diet and his dress; even the secretary, +who drafts the official correspondence, will sit down to his task embittered, +as a man who has dined ill and may expect to dine worse; and thus a +business difference between communes will take on much the same colour +as a dispute between diggers in the lawless West, and will lead as directly +to the arbitrament of blows. So that the establishment of the +communal system will not only reintroduce all the injustices and heart-burnings +of economic inequality, but will, in all human likelihood, inaugurate +a world of hedgerow warfare. Dorchester will march on Poole, Sherborne +on Dorchester, Wimborne on both; the waggons will be fired on as they +follow the highway, the trains wrecked on the lines, the ploughman will +go armed into the field of tillage; and if we have not a return of ballad +literature, the local press at least will celebrate in a high vein the +victory of Cerne Abbas or the reverse of Toller Porcorum. At least +this will not be dull; when I was younger, I could have welcomed such +a world with relief; but it is the New-Old with a vengeance, and irresistibly +suggests the growth of military powers and the foundation of new empires.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +COLLEGE PAPERS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER I - EDINBURGH STUDENTS IN 1824<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +On the 2nd of January 1824 was issued the prospectus of the <i>Lapsus +Linguae</i>; <i>or, the College Tatler</i>; and on the 7th the first +number appeared. On Friday the 2nd of April ‘<i>Mr. Tatler</i> +became speechless.’ Its history was not all one success; +for the editor (who applies to himself the words of Iago, ‘I am +nothing if I am not critical’) overstepped the bounds of caution, +and found himself seriously embroiled with the powers that were. +There appeared in No. XVI. a most bitter satire upon Sir John Leslie, +in which he was compared to Falstaff, charged with puffing himself, +and very prettily censured for publishing only the first volume of a +class-book, and making all purchasers pay for both. Sir John Leslie +took up the matter angrily, visited Carfrae the publisher, and threatened +him with an action, till he was forced to turn the hapless <i>Lapsus</i> +out of doors. The maltreated periodical found shelter in the shop +of Huie, Infirmary Street; and No. XVII. was duly issued from the new +office. No. XVII. beheld <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> humiliation, +in which, with fulsome apology and not very credible assurances of respect +and admiration, he disclaims the article in question, and advertises +a new issue of No. XVI. with all objectionable matter omitted. +This, with pleasing euphemism, he terms in a later advertisement, ‘a +new and improved edition.’ This was the only remarkable +adventure of <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> brief existence; unless we consider +as such a silly Chaldee manuscript in imitation of <i>Blackwood</i>, +and a letter of reproof from a divinity student on the impiety of the +same dull effusion. He laments the near approach of his end in +pathetic terms. ‘How shall we summon up sufficient courage,’ +says he, ‘to look for the last time on our beloved little devil +and his inestimable proof-sheet? How shall we be able to pass +No. 14 Infirmary Street and feel that all its attractions are over? +How shall we bid farewell for ever to that excellent man, with the long +greatcoat, wooden leg and wooden board, who acts as our representative +at the gate of <i>Alma Mater</i>?’ But alas! he had no choice: +<i>Mr. Tatler</i>, whose career, he says himself, had been successful, +passed peacefully away, and has ever since dumbly implored ‘the +bringing home of bell and burial.’<br> +<br> +<i>Alter et idem</i>. A very different affair was the <i>Lapsus</i> +<i>Linguae</i> from the <i>Edinburgh</i> <i>University Magazine</i>. +The two prospectuses alone, laid side by side, would indicate the march +of luxury and the repeal of the paper duty. The penny bi-weekly +broadside of session 1828-4 was almost wholly dedicated to Momus. +Epigrams, pointless letters, amorous verses, and University grievances +are the continual burthen of the song. But <i>Mr. Tatler</i> was +not without a vein of hearty humour; and his pages afford what is much +better: to wit, a good picture of student life as it then was. +The students of those polite days insisted on retaining their hats in +the class-room. There was a cab-stance in front of the College; +and ‘Carriage Entrance’ was posted above the main arch, +on what the writer pleases to call ‘coarse, unclassic boards.’ +The benches of the ‘Speculative’ then, as now, were red; +but all other Societies (the ‘Dialectic’ is the only survivor) +met downstairs, in some rooms of which it is pointedly said that ‘nothing +else could conveniently be made of them.’ However horrible +these dungeons may have been, it is certain that they were paid for, +and that far too heavily for the taste of session 1823-4, which found +enough calls upon its purse for porter and toasted cheese at Ambrose’s, +or cranberry tarts and ginger-wine at Doull’s. Duelling +was still a possibility; so much so that when two medicals fell to fisticuffs +in Adam Square, it was seriously hinted that single combat would be +the result. Last and most wonderful of all, Gall and Spurzheim +were in every one’s mouth; and the Law student, after having exhausted +Byron’s poetry and Scott’s novels, informed the ladies of +his belief in phrenology. In the present day he would dilate on +‘Red as a rose is she,’ and then mention that he attends +Old Greyfriars’, as a tacit claim to intellectual superiority. +I do not know that the advance is much.<br> +<br> +But <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> best performances were three short papers +in which he hit off pretty smartly the idiosyncrasies of the ‘<i>Divinity</i>,’ +the ‘<i>Medical</i>,’ and the ‘<i>Law</i>’ of +session 1823-4. The fact that there was no notice of the <i>‘Arts’</i> +seems to suggest that they stood in the same intermediate position as +they do now - the epitome of student-kind. <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> +satire is, on the whole, good-humoured, and has not grown superannuated +in <i>all</i> its limbs. His descriptions may limp at some points, +but there are certain broad traits that apply equally well to session +1870-1. He shows us the <i>Divinity</i> of the period - tall, +pale, and slender - his collar greasy, and his coat bare about the seams +- ‘his white neckcloth serving four days, and regularly turned +the third’ - ‘the rim of his hat deficient in wool’ +- and ‘a weighty volume of theology under his arm.’ +He was the man to buy cheap ‘a snuff-box, or a dozen of pencils, +or a six-bladed knife, or a quarter of a hundred quills,’ at any +of the public sale-rooms. He was noted for cheap purchases, and +for exceeding the legal tender in halfpence. He haunted ‘the +darkest and remotest corner of the Theatre Gallery.’ He +was to be seen issuing from ‘aerial lodging-houses.’ +Withal, says mine author, ‘there were many good points about him: +he paid his landlady’s bill, read his Bible, went twice to church +on Sunday, seldom swore, was not often tipsy, and bought the <i>Lapsus +Linguae</i>.’<br> +<br> +The <i>Medical</i>, again, ‘wore a white greatcoat, and consequently +talked loud’ - (there is something very delicious in that <i>consequently</i>). +He wore his hat on one side. He was active, volatile, and went +to the top of Arthur’s Seat on the Sunday forenoon. He was +as quiet in a debating society as he was loud in the streets. +He was reckless and imprudent: yesterday he insisted on your sharing +a bottle of claret with him (and claret was claret then, before the +cheap-and-nasty treaty), and to-morrow he asks you for the loan of a +penny to buy the last number of the <i>Lapsus.<br> +<br> +</i>The student of <i>Law</i>, again, was a learned man. ‘He +had turned over the leaves of Justinian’s <i>Institutes</i>, and +knew that they were written in Latin. He was well acquainted with +the title-page of Blackstone’s <i>Commentaries</i>, and <i>argal</i> +(as the gravedigger in <i>Hamlet</i> says) he was not a person to be +laughed at.’ He attended the Parliament House in the character +of a critic, and could give you stale sneers at all the celebrated speakers. +He was the terror of essayists at the Speculative or the Forensic. +In social qualities he seems to have stood unrivalled. Even in +the police-office we find him shining with undiminished lustre. +‘If a <i>Charlie</i> should find him rather noisy at an untimely +hour, and venture to take him into custody, he appears next morning +like a Daniel come to judgment. He opens his mouth to speak, and +the divine precepts of unchanging justice and Scots law flow from his +tongue. The magistrate listens in amazement, and fines him only +a couple of guineas.’<br> +<br> +Such then were our predecessors and their College Magazine. Barclay, +Ambrose, Young Amos, and Fergusson were to them what the Café, +the Rainbow, and Rutherford’s are to us. An hour’s +reading in these old pages absolutely confuses us, there is so much +that is similar and so much that is different; the follies and amusements +are so like our own, and the manner of frolicking and enjoying are so +changed, that one pauses and looks about him in philosophic judgment. +The muddy quadrangle is thick with living students; but in our eyes +it swarms also with the phantasmal white greatcoats and tilted hats +of 1824. Two races meet: races alike and diverse. Two performances +are played before our eyes; but the change seems merely of impersonators, +of scenery, of costume. Plot and passion are the same. It +is the fall of the spun shilling whether seventy-one or twenty-four +has the best of it.<br> +<br> +In a future number we hope to give a glance at the individualities of +the present, and see whether the cast shall be head or tail - whether +we or the readers of the <i>Lapsus</i> stand higher in the balance.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER II - THE MODERN STUDENT CONSIDERED GENERALLY<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +We have now reached the difficult portion of our task. <i>Mr. +Tatler</i>, for all that we care, may have been as virulent as he liked +about the students of a former; but for the iron to touch our sacred +selves, for a brother of the Guild to betray its most privy infirmities, +let such a Judas look to himself as he passes on his way to the Scots +Law or the Diagnostic, below the solitary lamp at the corner of the +dark quadrangle. We confess that this idea alarms us. We +enter a protest. We bind ourselves over verbally to keep the peace. +We hope, moreover, that having thus made you secret to our misgivings, +you will excuse us if we be dull, and set that down to caution which +you might before have charged to the account of stupidity.<br> +<br> +The natural tendency of civilisation is to obliterate those distinctions +which are the best salt of life. All the fine old professional +flavour in language has evaporated. Your very gravedigger has +forgotten his avocation in his electorship, and would quibble on the +Franchise over Ophelia’s grave, instead of more appropriately +discussing the duration of bodies under ground. From this tendency, +from this gradual attrition of life, in which everything pointed and +characteristic is being rubbed down, till the whole world begins to +slip between our fingers in smooth undistinguishable sands, from this, +we say, it follows that we must not attempt to join <i>Mr. Taller</i> +in his simple division of students into <i>Law, Divinity</i>, and <i>Medical</i>. +Nowadays the Faculties may shake hands over their follies; and, like +Mrs. Frail and Mrs. Foresight (in <i>Love for Love</i>) they may stand +in the doors of opposite class-rooms, crying: ‘Sister, Sister +- Sister everyway!’ A few restrictions, indeed, remain to +influence the followers of individual branches of study. The Divinity, +for example, must be an avowed believer; and as this, in the present +day, is unhappily considered by many as a confession of weakness, he +is fain to choose one of two ways of gilding the distasteful orthodox +bolus. Some swallow it in a thin jelly of metaphysics; for it +is even a credit to believe in God on the evidence of some crack-jaw +philosopher, although it is a decided slur to believe in Him on His +own authority. Others again (and this we think the worst method), +finding German grammar a somewhat dry morsel, run their own little heresy +as a proof of independence; and deny one of the cardinal doctrines that +they may hold the others without being laughed at.<br> +<br> +Besides, however, such influences as these, there is little more distinction +between the faculties than the traditionary ideal, handed down through +a long sequence of students, and getting rounder and more featureless +at each successive session. The plague of uniformity has descended +on the College. Students (and indeed all sorts and conditions +of men) now require their faculty and character hung round their neck +on a placard, like the scenes in Shakespeare’s theatre. +And in the midst of all this weary sameness, not the least common feature +is the gravity of every face. No more does the merry medical run +eagerly in the clear winter morning up the rugged sides of Arthur’s +Seat, and hear the church bells begin and thicken and die away below +him among the gathered smoke of the city. He will not break Sunday +to so little purpose. He no longer finds pleasure in the mere +output of his surplus energy. He husbands his strength, and lays +out walks, and reading, and amusement with deep consideration, so that +he may get as much work and pleasure out of his body as he can, and +waste none of his energy on mere impulse, or such flat enjoyment as +an excursion in the country.<br> +<br> +See the quadrangle in the interregnum of classes, in those two or three +minutes when it is full of passing students, and we think you will admit +that, if we have not made it ‘an habitation of dragons,’ +we have at least transformed it into ‘a court for owls.’ +Solemnity broods heavily over the enclosure; and wherever you seek it, +you will find a dearth of merriment, an absence of real youthful enjoyment. +You might as well try<br> +<br> +<br> +‘To move wild laughter in the throat of death’<br> +<br> +<br> +as to excite any healthy stir among the bulk of this staid company.<br> +<br> +The studious congregate about the doors of the different classes, debating +the matter of the lecture, or comparing note-books. A reserved +rivalry sunders them. Here are some deep in Greek particles: there, +others are already inhabitants of that land<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Where entity and quiddity,<br> +‘Like ghosts of defunct bodies fly -<br> +Where Truth in person does appear<br> +Like words congealed in northern air.’<br> +<br> +<br> +But none of them seem to find any relish for their studies - no pedantic +love of this subject or that lights up their eyes - science and learning +are only means for a livelihood, which they have considerately embraced +and which they solemnly pursue. ‘Labour’s pale priests,’ +their lips seem incapable of laughter, except in the way of polite recognition +of professorial wit. The stains of ink are chronic on their meagre +fingers. They walk like Saul among the asses.<br> +<br> +The dandies are not less subdued. In 1824 there was a noisy dapper +dandyism abroad. Vulgar, as we should now think, but yet genial +- a matter of white greatcoats and loud voices - strangely different +from the stately frippery that is rife at present. These men are +out of their element in the quadrangle. Even the small remains +of boisterous humour, which still clings to any collection of young +men, jars painfully on their morbid sensibilities; and they beat a hasty +retreat to resume their perfunctory march along Princes Street. +Flirtation is to them a great social duty, a painful obligation, which +they perform on every occasion in the same chill official manner, and +with the same commonplace advances, the same dogged observance of traditional +behaviour. The shape of their raiment is a burden almost greater +than they can bear, and they halt in their walk to preserve the due +adjustment of their trouser-knees, till one would fancy he had mixed +in a procession of Jacobs. We speak, of course, for ourselves; +but we would as soon associate with a herd of sprightly apes as with +these gloomy modern beaux. Alas, that our Mirabels, our Valentines, +even our Brummels, should have left their mantles upon nothing more +amusing!<br> +<br> +Nor are the fast men less constrained. Solemnity, even in dissipation, +is the order of the day; and they go to the devil with a perverse seriousness, +a systematic rationalism of wickedness that would have surprised the +simpler sinners of old. Some of these men whom we see gravely +conversing on the steps have but a slender acquaintance with each other. +Their intercourse consists principally of mutual bulletins of depravity; +and, week after week, as they meet they reckon up their items of transgression, +and give an abstract of their downward progress for approval and encouragement. +These folk form a freemasonry of their own. An oath is the shibboleth +of their sinister fellowship. Once they hear a man swear, it is +wonderful how their tongues loosen and their bashful spirits take enlargement, +under the consciousness of brotherhood. There is no folly, no +pardoning warmth of temper about them; they are as steady-going and +systematic in their own way as the studious in theirs.<br> +<br> +Not that we are without merry men. No. We shall not be ungrateful +to those, whose grimaces, whose ironical laughter, whose active feet +in the ‘College Anthem’ have beguiled so many weary hours +and added a pleasant variety to the strain of close attention. +But even these are too evidently professional in their antics. +They go about cogitating puns and inventing tricks. It is their +vocation, Hal. They are the gratuitous jesters of the class-room; +and, like the clown when he leaves the stage, their merriment too often +sinks as the bell rings the hour of liberty, and they pass forth by +the Post-Office, grave and sedate, and meditating fresh gambols for +the morrow.<br> +<br> +This is the impression left on the mind of any observing student by +too many of his fellows. They seem all frigid old men; and one +pauses to think how such an unnatural state of matters is produced. +We feel inclined to blame for it the unfortunate absence of <i>University +feeling</i> which is so marked a characteristic of our Edinburgh students. +Academical interests are so few and far between - students, as students, +have so little in common, except a peevish rivalry - there is such an +entire want of broad college sympathies and ordinary college friendships, +that we fancy that no University in the kingdom is in so poor a plight. +Our system is full of anomalies. A, who cut B whilst he was a +shabby student, curries sedulously up to him and cudgels his memory +for anecdotes about him when he becomes the great so-and-so. Let +there be an end of this shy, proud reserve on the one hand, and this +shuddering fine ladyism on the other; and we think we shall find both +ourselves and the College bettered. Let it be a sufficient reason +for intercourse that two men sit together on the same benches. +Let the great A be held excused for nodding to the shabby B in Princes +Street, if he can say, ‘That fellow is a student.’ +Once this could be brought about, we think you would find the whole +heart of the University beat faster. We think you would find a +fusion among the students, a growth of common feelings, an increasing +sympathy between class and class, whose influence (in such a heterogeneous +company as ours) might be of incalculable value in all branches of politics +and social progress. It would do more than this. If we could +find some method of making the University a real mother to her sons +- something beyond a building of class-rooms, a Senatus and a lottery +of somewhat shabby prizes - we should strike a death-blow at the constrained +and unnatural attitude of our Society. At present we are not a +united body, but a loose gathering of individuals, whose inherent attraction +is allowed to condense them into little knots and coteries. Our +last snowball riot read us a plain lesson on our condition. There +was no party spirit - no unity of interests. A few, who were mischievously +inclined, marched off to the College of Surgeons in a pretentious file; +but even before they reached their destination the feeble inspiration +had died out in many, and their numbers were sadly thinned. Some +followed strange gods in the direction of Drummond Street, and others +slunk back to meek good-boyism at the feet of the Professors. +The same is visible in better things. As you send a man to an +English University that he may have his prejudices rubbed off, you might +send him to Edinburgh that he may have them ingrained - rendered indelible +- fostered by sympathy into living principles of his spirit. And +the reason of it is quite plain. From this absence of University +feeling it comes that a man’s friendships are always the direct +and immediate results of these very prejudices. A common weakness +is the best master of ceremonies in our quadrangle: a mutual vice is +the readiest introduction. The studious associate with the studious +alone - the dandies with the dandies. There is nothing to force +them to rub shoulders with the others; and so they grow day by day more +wedded to their own original opinions and affections. They see +through the same spectacles continually. All broad sentiments, +all real catholic humanity expires; and the mind gets gradually stiffened +into one position - becomes so habituated to a contracted atmosphere, +that it shudders and withers under the least draught of the free air +that circulates in the general field of mankind.<br> +<br> +Specialism in Society then is, we think, one cause of our present state. +Specialism in study is another. We doubt whether this has ever +been a good thing since the world began; but we are sure it is much +worse now than it was. Formerly, when a man became a specialist, +it was out of affection for his subject. With a somewhat grand +devotion he left all the world of Science to follow his true love; and +he contrived to find that strange pedantic interest which inspired the +man who<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Settled <i>Hoti’s</i> business - let it be -<br> +Properly based <i>Oun</i> -<br> +Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic <i>De</i>,<br> +Dead from the waist down.’<br> +<br> +<br> +Nowadays it is quite different. Our pedantry wants even the saving +clause of Enthusiasm. The election is now matter of necessity +and not of choice. Knowledge is now too broad a field for your +Jack-of-all-Trades; and, from beautifully utilitarian reasons, he makes +his choice, draws his pen through a dozen branches of study, and behold +- John the Specialist. That this is the way to be wealthy we shall +not deny; but we hold that it is <i>not</i> the way to be healthy or +wise. The whole mind becomes narrowed and circumscribed to one +‘punctual spot’ of knowledge. A rank unhealthy soil +breeds a harvest of prejudices. Feeling himself above others in +his one little branch - in the classification of toadstools, or Carthaginian +history - he waxes great in his own eyes and looks down on others. +Having all his sympathies educated in one way, they die out in every +other; and he is apt to remain a peevish, narrow, and intolerant bigot. +Dilettante is now a term of reproach; but there is a certain form of +dilettantism to which no one can object. It is this that we want +among our students. We wish them to abandon no subject until they +have seen and felt its merit - to act under a general interest in all +branches of knowledge, not a commercial eagerness to excel in one.<br> +<br> +In both these directions our sympathies are constipated. We are +apostles of our own caste and our own subject of study, instead of being, +as we should, true men and <i>loving</i> students. Of course both +of these could be corrected by the students themselves; but this is +nothing to the purpose: it is more important to ask whether the Senatus +or the body of alumni could do nothing towards the growth of better +feeling and wider sentiments. Perhaps in another paper we may +say something upon this head.<br> +<br> +One other word, however, before we have done. What shall we be +when we grow really old? Of yore, a man was thought to lay on +restrictions and acquire new deadweight of mournful experience with +every year, till he looked back on his youth as the very summer of impulse +and freedom. We please ourselves with thinking that it cannot +be so with us. We would fain hope that, as we have begun in one +way, we may end in another; and that when we are in fact the octogenarians +that we <i>seem</i> at present, there shall be no merrier men on earth. +It is pleasant to picture us, sunning ourselves in Princes Street of +a morning, or chirping over our evening cups, with all the merriment +that we wanted in youth.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER III - DEBATING SOCIETIES<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +A debating society is at first somewhat of a disappointment. You +do not often find the youthful Demosthenes chewing his pebbles in the +same room with you; or, even if you do, you will probably think the +performance little to be admired. As a general rule, the members +speak shamefully ill. The subjects of debate are heavy; and so +are the fines. The Ballot Question - oldest of dialectic nightmares +- is often found astride of a somnolent sederunt. The Greeks and +Romans, too, are reserved as sort of <i>general-utility</i> men, to +do all the dirty work of illustration; and they fill as many functions +as the famous waterfall scene at the ‘Princess’s,’ +which I found doing duty on one evening as a gorge in Peru, a haunt +of German robbers, and a peaceful vale in the Scottish borders. +There is a sad absence of striking argument or real lively discussion. +Indeed, you feel a growing contempt for your fellow-members; and it +is not until you rise yourself to hawk and hesitate and sit shamefully +down again, amid eleemosynary applause, that you begin to find your +level and value others rightly. Even then, even when failure has +damped your critical ardour, you will see many things to be laughed +at in the deportment of your rivals.<br> +<br> +Most laughable, perhaps, are your indefatigable strivers after eloquence. +They are of those who ‘pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope,’ +and who, since they expect that ‘the deficiencies of last sentence +will be supplied by the next,’ have been recommended by Dr. Samuel +Johnson to ‘attend to the History of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.’ +They are characterised by a hectic hopefulness. Nothing damps +them. They rise from the ruins of one abortive sentence, to launch +forth into another with unabated vigour. They have all the manner +of an orator. From the tone of their voice, you would expect a +splendid period - and lo! a string of broken-backed, disjointed clauses, +eked out with stammerings and throat-clearings. They possess the +art (learned from the pulpit) of rounding an uneuphonious sentence by +dwelling on a single syllable - of striking a balance in a top-heavy +period by lengthening out a word into a melancholy quaver. Withal, +they never cease to hope. Even at last, even when they have exhausted +all their ideas, even after the would-be peroration has finally refused +to perorate, they remain upon their feet with their mouths open, waiting +for some further inspiration, like Chaucer’s widow’s son +in the dung-hole, after<br> +<br> +<br> +‘His throat was kit unto the nekké bone,’<br> +<br> +<br> +in vain expectation of that seed that was to be laid upon his tongue, +and give him renewed and clearer utterance.<br> +<br> +These men may have something to say, if they could only say it - indeed +they generally have; but the next class are people who, having nothing +to say, are cursed with a facility and an unhappy command of words, +that makes them the prime nuisances of the society they affect. +They try to cover their absence of matter by an unwholesome vitality +of delivery. They look triumphantly round the room, as if courting +applause, after a torrent of diluted truism. They talk in a circle, +harping on the same dull round of argument, and returning again and +again to the same remark with the same sprightliness, the same irritating +appearance of novelty.<br> +<br> +After this set, any one is tolerable; so we shall merely hint at a few +other varieties. There is your man who is pre-eminently conscientious, +whose face beams with sincerity as he opens on the negative, and who +votes on the affirmative at the end, looking round the room with an +air of chastened pride. There is also the irrelevant speaker, +who rises, emits a joke or two, and then sits down again, without ever +attempting to tackle the subject of debate. Again, we have men +who ride pick-a-back on their family reputation, or, if their family +have none, identify themselves with some well-known statesman, use his +opinions, and lend him their patronage on all occasions. This +is a dangerous plan, and serves oftener, I am afraid, to point a difference +than to adorn a speech.<br> +<br> +But alas! a striking failure may be reached without tempting Providence +by any of these ambitious tricks. Our own stature will be found +high enough for shame. The success of three simple sentences lures +us into a fatal parenthesis in the fourth, from whose shut brackets +we may never disentangle the thread of our discourse. A momentary +flush tempts us into a quotation; and we may be left helpless in the +middle of one of Pope’s couplets, a white film gathering before +our eyes, and our kind friends charitably trying to cover our disgrace +by a feeble round of applause. <i>Amis lecteurs</i>, this is a +painful topic. It is possible that we too, we, the ‘potent, +grave, and reverend’ editor, may have suffered these things, and +drunk as deep as any of the cup of shameful failure. Let us dwell +no longer on so delicate a subject.<br> +<br> +In spite, however, of these disagreeables, I should recommend any student +to suffer them with Spartan courage, as the benefits he receives should +repay him an hundredfold for them all. The life of the debating +society is a handy antidote to the life of the classroom and quadrangle. +Nothing could be conceived more excellent as a weapon against many of +those <i>peccant</i> <i>humours</i> that we have been railing against +in the jeremiad of our last ‘College Paper’ - particularly +in the field of intellect. It is a sad sight to see our heather-scented +students, our boys of seventeen, coming up to College with determined +views - <i>roués</i> in speculation - having gauged the vanity +of philosophy or learned to shun it as the middle-man of heresy - a +company of determined, deliberate opinionists, not to be moved by all +the sleights of logic. What have such men to do with study? +If their minds are made up irrevocably, why burn the ‘studious +lamp’ in search of further confirmation? Every set opinion +I hear a student deliver I feel a certain lowering of my regard. +He who studies, he who is yet employed in groping for his premises, +should keep his mind fluent and sensitive, keen to mark flaws, and willing +to surrender untenable positions. He should keep himself teachable, +or cease the expensive farce of being taught. It is to further +this docile spirit that we desire to press the claims of debating societies. +It is as a means of melting down this museum of premature petrifactions +into living and impressionable soul that we insist on their utility. +If we could once prevail on our students to feel no shame in avowing +an uncertain attitude towards any subject, if we could teach them that +it was unnecessary for every lad to have his <i>opinionette</i> on every +topic, we should have gone a far way towards bracing the intellectual +tone of the coming race of thinkers; and this it is which debating societies +are so well fitted to perform.<br> +<br> +We there meet people of every shade of opinion, and make friends with +them. We are taught to rail against a man the whole session through, +and then hob-a-nob with him at the concluding entertainment. We +find men of talent far exceeding our own, whose conclusions are widely +different from ours; and we are thus taught to distrust ourselves. +But the best means of all towards catholicity is that wholesome rule +which some folk are most inclined to condemn - I mean the law of <i>obliged +speeches</i>. Your senior member commands; and you must take the +affirmative or the negative, just as suits his best convenience. +This tends to the most perfect liberality. It is no good hearing +the arguments of an opponent, for in good verity you rarely follow them; +and even if you do take the trouble to listen, it is merely in a captious +search for weaknesses. This is proved, I fear, in every debate; +when you hear each speaker arguing out his own prepared <i>spécialité</i> +(he never intended speaking, of course, until some remarks of, etc.), +arguing out, I say, his own <i>coached-up</i> subject without the least +attention to what has gone before, as utterly at sea about the drift +of his adversary’s speech as Panurge when he argued with Thaumaste, +and merely linking his own prelection to the last by a few flippant +criticisms. Now, as the rule stands, you are saddled with the +side you disapprove, and so you are forced, by regard for your own fame, +to argue out, to feel with, to elaborate completely, the case as it +stands against yourself; and what a fund of wisdom do you not turn up +in this idle digging of the vineyard! How many new difficulties +take form before your eyes? how many superannuated arguments cripple +finally into limbo, under the glance of your enforced eclecticism!<br> +<br> +Nor is this the only merit of Debating Societies. They tend also +to foster taste, and to promote friendship between University men. +This last, as we have had occasion before to say, is the great requirement +of our student life; and it will therefore be no waste of time if we +devote a paragraph to this subject in its connection with Debating Societies. +At present they partake too much of the nature of a <i>clique</i>. +Friends propose friends, and mutual friends second them, until the society +degenerates into a sort of family party. You may confirm old acquaintances, +but you can rarely make new ones. You find yourself in the atmosphere +of your own daily intercourse. Now, this is an unfortunate circumstance, +which it seems to me might readily be rectified. Our Principal +has shown himself so friendly towards all College improvements that +I cherish the hope of seeing shortly realised a certain suggestion, +which is not a new one with me, and which must often have been proposed +and canvassed heretofore - I mean, a real <i>University Debating Society</i>, +patronised by the Senatus, presided over by the Professors, to which +every one might gain ready admittance on sight of his matriculation +ticket, where it would be a favour and not a necessity to speak, and +where the obscure student might have another object for attendance besides +the mere desire to save his fines: to wit, the chance of drawing on +himself the favourable consideration of his teachers. This would +be merely following in the good tendency, which has been so noticeable +during all this session, to increase and multiply student societies +and clubs of every sort. Nor would it be a matter of much difficulty. +The united societies would form a nucleus: one of the class-rooms at +first, and perhaps afterwards the great hall above the library, might +be the place of meeting. There would be no want of attendance +or enthusiasm, I am sure; for it is a very different thing to speak +under the bushel of a private club on the one hand, and, on the other, +in a public place, where a happy period or a subtle argument may do +the speaker permanent service in after life. Such a club might +end, perhaps, by rivalling the ‘Union’ at Cambridge or the +‘Union’ at Oxford.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER IV - THE PHILOSOPHY OF UMBRELLAS <a name="citation7"></a><a href="#footnote7">{7}</a><br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +It is wonderful to think what a turn has been given to our whole Society +by the fact that we live under the sign of Aquarius - that our climate +is essentially wet. A mere arbitrary distinction, like the walking-swords +of yore, might have remained the symbol of foresight and respectability, +had not the raw mists and dropping showers of our island pointed the +inclination of Society to another exponent of those virtues. A +ribbon of the Legion of Honour or a string of medals may prove a person’s +courage; a title may prove his birth; a professorial chair his study +and acquirement; but it is the habitual carriage of the umbrella that +is the stamp of Respectability. The umbrella has become the acknowledged +index of social position.<br> +<br> +Robinson Crusoe presents us with a touching instance of the hankering +after them inherent in the civilised and educated mind. To the +superficial, the hot suns of Juan Fernandez may sufficiently account +for his quaint choice of a luxury; but surely one who had borne the +hard labour of a seaman under the tropics for all these years could +have supported an excursion after goats or a peaceful <i>constitutional</i> +arm in arm with the nude Friday. No, it was not this: the memory +of a vanished respectability called for some outward manifestation, +and the result was - an umbrella. A pious castaway might have +rigged up a belfry and solaced his Sunday mornings with the mimicry +of church-bells; but Crusoe was rather a moralist than a pietist, and +his leaf-umbrella is as fine an example of the civilised mind striving +to express itself under adverse circumstances as we have ever met with.<br> +<br> +It is not for nothing, either, that the umbrella has become the very +foremost badge of modern civilisation - the Urim and Thummim of respectability. +Its pregnant symbolism has taken its rise in the most natural manner. +Consider, for a moment, when umbrellas were first introduced into this +country, what manner of men would use them, and what class would adhere +to the useless but ornamental cane. The first, without doubt, +would be the hypochondriacal, out of solicitude for their health, or +the frugal, out of care for their raiment; the second, it is equally +plain, would include the fop, the fool, and the Bobadil. Any one +acquainted with the growth of Society, and knowing out of what small +seeds of cause are produced great revolutions, and wholly new conditions +of intercourse, sees from this simple thought how the carriage of an +umbrella came to indicate frugality, judicious regard for bodily welfare, +and scorn for mere outward adornment, and, in one word, all those homely +and solid virtues implied in the term RESPECTABILITY. Not that +the umbrella’s costliness has nothing to do with its great influence. +Its possession, besides symbolising (as we have already indicated) the +change from wild Esau to plain Jacob dwelling in tents, implies a certain +comfortable provision of fortune. It is not every one that can +expose twenty-six shillings’ worth of property to so many chances +of loss and theft. So strongly do we feel on this point, indeed, +that we are almost inclined to consider all who possess really well-conditioned +umbrellas as worthy of the Franchise. They have a qualification +standing in their lobbies; they carry a sufficient stake in the common-weal +below their arm. One who bears with him an umbrella - such a complicated +structure of whalebone, of silk, and of cane, that it becomes a very +microcosm of modern industry - is necessarily a man of peace. +A half-crown cane may be applied to an offender’s head on a very +moderate provocation; but a six-and-twenty shilling silk is a possession +too precious to be adventured in the shock of war.<br> +<br> +These are but a few glances at how umbrellas (in the general) came to +their present high estate. But the true Umbrella-Philosopher meets +with far stranger applications as he goes about the streets.<br> +<br> +Umbrellas, like faces, acquire a certain sympathy with the individual +who carries them: indeed, they are far more capable of betraying his +trust; for whereas a face is given to us so far ready made, and all +our power over it is in frowning, and laughing, and grimacing, during +the first three or four decades of life, each umbrella is selected from +a whole shopful, as being most consonant to the purchaser’s disposition. +An undoubted power of diagnosis rests with the practised Umbrella-Philosopher. +O you who lisp, and amble, and change the fashion of your countenances +- you who conceal all these, how little do you think that you left a +proof of your weakness in our umbrella-stand - that even now, as you +shake out the folds to meet the thickening snow, we read in its ivory +handle the outward and visible sign of your snobbery, or from the exposed +gingham of its cover detect, through coat and waistcoat, the hidden +hypocrisy of the ‘<i>dickey</i>’! But alas! even the +umbrella is no certain criterion. The falsity and the folly of +the human race have degraded that graceful symbol to the ends of dishonesty; +and while some umbrellas, from carelessness in selection, are not strikingly +characteristic (for it is only in what a man loves that he displays +his real nature), others, from certain prudential motives, are chosen +directly opposite to the person’s disposition. A mendacious +umbrella is a sign of great moral degradation. Hypocrisy naturally +shelters itself below a silk; while the fast youth goes to visit his +religious friends armed with the decent and reputable gingham. +May it not be said of the bearers of these inappropriate umbrellas that +they go about the streets ‘with a lie in their right hand’?<br> +<br> +The kings of Siam, as we read, besides having a graduated social scale +of umbrellas (which was a good thing), prevented the great bulk of their +subjects from having any at all, which was certainly a bad thing. +We should be sorry to believe that this Eastern legislator was a fool +- the idea of an aristocracy of umbrellas is too philosophic to have +originated in a nobody - and we have accordingly taken exceeding pains +to find out the reason of this harsh restriction. We think we +have succeeded; but, while admiring the principle at which he aimed, +and while cordially recognising in the Siamese potentate the only man +before ourselves who had taken a real grasp of the umbrella, we must +be allowed to point out how unphilosophically the great man acted in +this particular. His object, plainly, was to prevent any unworthy +persons from bearing the sacred symbol of domestic virtues. We +cannot excuse his limiting these virtues to the circle of his court. +We must only remember that such was the feeling of the age in which +he lived. Liberalism had not yet raised the war-cry of the working +classes. But here was his mistake: it was a needless regulation. +Except in a very few cases of hypocrisy joined to a powerful intellect, +men, not by nature <i>umbrellarians</i>, have tried again and again +to become so by art, and yet have failed - have expended their patrimony +in the purchase of umbrella after umbrella, and yet have systematically +lost them, and have finally, with contrite spirits and shrunken purses, +given up their vain struggle, and relied on theft and borrowing for +the remainder of their lives. This is the most remarkable fact +that we have had occasion to notice; and yet we challenge the candid +reader to call it in question. Now, as there cannot be any <i>moral +selection</i> in a mere dead piece of furniture - as the umbrella cannot +be supposed to have an affinity for individual men equal and reciprocal +to that which men certainly feel toward individual umbrellas - we took +the trouble of consulting a scientific friend as to whether there was +any possible physical explanation of the phenomenon. He was unable +to supply a plausible theory, or even hypothesis; but we extract from +his letter the following interesting passage relative to the physical +peculiarities of umbrellas: ‘Not the least important, and by far +the most curious property of the umbrella, is the energy which it displays +in affecting the atmospheric strata. There is no fact in meteorology +better established - indeed, it is almost the only one on which meteorologists +are agreed - than that the carriage of an umbrella produces desiccation +of the air; while if it be left at home, aqueous vapour is largely produced, +and is soon deposited in the form of rain. No theory,’ my +friend continues, ‘competent to explain this hygrometric law has +been given (as far as I am aware) by Herschel, Dove, Glaisher, Tait, +Buchan, or any other writer; nor do I pretend to supply the defect. +I venture, however, to throw out the conjecture that it will be ultimately +found to belong to the same class of natural laws as that agreeable +to which a slice of toast always descends with the buttered surface +downwards.’<br> +<br> +But it is time to draw to a close. We could expatiate much longer +upon this topic, but want of space constrains us to leave unfinished +these few desultory remarks - slender contributions towards a subject +which has fallen sadly backward, and which, we grieve to say, was better +understood by the king of Siam in 1686 than by all the philosophers +of to-day. If, however, we have awakened in any rational mind +an interest in the symbolism of umbrellas - in any generous heart a +more complete sympathy with the dumb companion of his daily walk - or +in any grasping spirit a pure notion of respectability strong enough +to make him expend his six-and-twenty shillings - we shall have deserved +well of the world, to say nothing of the many industrious persons employed +in the manufacture of the article.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER V - THE PHILOSOPHY OF NOMENCLATURE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +‘How many Caesars and Pompeys, by mere inspirations of the names, +have been rendered worthy of them? And how many are there, who +might have done exceeding well in the world, had not their characters +and spirits been totally depressed and Nicodemus’d into nothing?’ +- <i>Tristram</i> <i>Shandy</i>, vol. I. chap xix.<br> +<br> +<br> +Such were the views of the late Walter Shandy, Esq., Turkey merchant. +To the best of my belief, Mr. Shandy is the first who fairly pointed +out the incalculable influence of nomenclature upon the whole life - +who seems first to have recognised the one child, happy in an heroic +appellation, soaring upwards on the wings of fortune, and the other, +like the dead sailor in his shotted hammock, haled down by sheer weight +of name into the abysses of social failure. Solomon possibly had +his eye on some such theory when he said that ‘a good name is +better than precious ointment’; and perhaps we may trace a similar +spirit in the compilers of the English Catechism, and the affectionate +interest with which they linger round the catechumen’s name at +the very threshold of their work. But, be these as they may, I +think no one can censure me for appending, in pursuance of the expressed +wish of his son, the Turkey merchant’s name to his system, and +pronouncing, without further preface, a short epitome of the ‘Shandean +Philosophy of Nomenclature.’<br> +<br> +To begin, then: the influence of our name makes itself felt from the +very cradle. As a schoolboy I remember the pride with which I +hailed Robin Hood, Robert Bruce, and Robert le Diable as my name-fellows; +and the feeling of sore disappointment that fell on my heart when I +found a freebooter or a general who did not share with me a single one +of my numerous <i>praenomina</i>. Look at the delight with which +two children find they have the same name. They are friends from +that moment forth; they have a bond of union stronger than exchange +of nuts and sweetmeats. This feeling, I own, wears off in later +life. Our names lose their freshness and interest, become trite +and indifferent. But this, dear reader, is merely one of the sad +effects of those ‘shades of the prison-house’ which come +gradually betwixt us and nature with advancing years; it affords no +weapon against the philosophy of names.<br> +<br> +In after life, although we fail to trace its working, that name which +careless godfathers lightly applied to your unconscious infancy will +have been moulding your character, and influencing with irresistible +power the whole course of your earthly fortunes. But the last +name, overlooked by Mr. Shandy, is no whit less important as a condition +of success. Family names, we must recollect, are but inherited +nicknames; and if the <i>sobriquet</i> were applicable to the ancestor, +it is most likely applicable to the descendant also. You would +not expect to find Mr. M’Phun acting as a mute, or Mr. M’Lumpha +excelling as a professor of dancing. Therefore, in what follows, +we shall consider names, independent of whether they are first or last. +And to begin with, look what a pull <i>Cromwell</i> had over <i>Pym</i> +- the one name full of a resonant imperialism, the other, mean, pettifogging, +and unheroic to a degree. Who would expect eloquence from <i>Pym</i> +- who would read poems by <i>Pym</i> - who would bow to the opinion +of <i>Pym</i>? He might have been a dentist, but he should never +have aspired to be a statesman. I can only wonder that he succeeded +as he did. Pym and Habakkuk stand first upon the roll of men who +have triumphed, by sheer force of genius, over the most unfavourable +appellations. But even these have suffered; and, had they been +more fitly named, the one might have been Lord Protector, and the other +have shared the laurels with Isaiah. In this matter we must not +forget that all our great poets have borne great names. Chaucer, +Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, Shelley - what a constellation +of lordly words! Not a single common-place name among them - not +a Brown, not a Jones, not a Robinson; they are all names that one would +stop and look at on a door-plate. Now, imagine if <i>Pepys</i> +had tried to clamber somehow into the enclosure of poetry, what a blot +would that word have made upon the list! The thing was impossible. +In the first place a certain natural consciousness that men would have +held him down to the level of his name, would have prevented him from +rising above the Pepsine standard, and so haply withheld him altogether +from attempting verse. Next, the booksellers would refuse to publish, +and the world to read them, on the mere evidence of the fatal appellation. +And now, before I close this section, I must say one word as to <i>punnable</i> +names, names that stand alone, that have a significance and life apart +from him that bears them. These are the bitterest of all. +One friend of mine goes bowed and humbled through life under the weight +of this misfortune; for it is an awful thing when a man’s name +is a joke, when he cannot be mentioned without exciting merriment, and +when even the intimation of his death bids fair to carry laughter into +many a home.<br> +<br> +So much for people who are badly named. Now for people who are +<i>too</i> well named, who go top-heavy from the font, who are baptized +into a false position, and find themselves beginning life eclipsed under +the fame of some of the great ones of the past. A man, for instance, +called William Shakespeare could never dare to write plays. He +is thrown into too humbling an apposition with the author of <i>Hamlet</i>. +Its own name coming after is such an anti-climax. ‘The plays +of William Shakespeare’? says the reader - ‘O no! +The plays of William Shakespeare Cockerill,’ and he throws the +book aside. In wise pursuance of such views, Mr. John Milton Hengler, +who not long since delighted us in this favoured town, has never attempted +to write an epic, but has chosen a new path, and has excelled upon the +tight-rope. A marked example of triumph over this is the case +of Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. On the face of the matter, I should +have advised him to imitate the pleasing modesty of the last-named gentleman, +and confine his ambition to the sawdust. But Mr. Rossetti has +triumphed. He has even dared to translate from his mighty name-father; +and the voice of fame supports him in his boldness.<br> +<br> +Dear readers, one might write a year upon this matter. A lifetime +of comparison and research could scarce suffice for its elucidation. +So here, if it please you, we shall let it rest. Slight as these +notes have been, I would that the great founder of the system had been +alive to see them. How he had warmed and brightened, how his persuasive +eloquence would have fallen on the ears of Toby; and what a letter of +praise and sympathy would not the editor have received before the month +was out! Alas, the thing was not to be. Walter Shandy died +and was duly buried, while yet his theory lay forgotten and neglected +by his fellow-countrymen. But, reader, the day will come, I hope, +when a paternal government will stamp out, as seeds of national weakness, +all depressing patronymics, and when godfathers and godmothers will +soberly and earnestly debate the interest of the nameless one, and not +rush blindfold to the christening. In these days there shall be +written a ‘Godfather’s Assistant,’ in shape of a dictionary +of names, with their concomitant virtues and vices; and this book shall +be scattered broadcast through the land, and shall be on the table of +every one eligible for godfathership, until such a thing as a vicious +or untoward appellation shall have ceased from off the face of the earth.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CRITICISMS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER I - LORD LYTTON’S ‘FABLES IN SONG’<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +It seems as if Lord Lytton, in this new book of his, had found the form +most natural to his talent. In some ways, indeed, it may be held +inferior to <i>Chronicles</i> <i>and Characters</i>; we look in vain +for anything like the terrible intensity of the night-scene in <i>Irene</i>, +or for any such passages of massive and memorable writing as appeared, +here and there, in the earlier work, and made it not altogether unworthy +of its model, Hugo’s <i>Legend of the Ages</i>. But it becomes +evident, on the most hasty retrospect, that this earlier work was a +step on the way towards the later. It seems as if the author had +been feeling about for his definite medium, and was already, in the +language of the child’s game, growing hot. There are many +pieces in <i>Chronicles</i> <i>and Characters</i> that might be detached +from their original setting, and embodied, as they stand, among the +<i>Fables in Song.<br> +<br> +</i>For the term Fable is not very easy to define rigorously. +In the most typical form some moral precept is set forth by means of +a conception purely fantastic, and usually somewhat trivial into the +bargain; there is something playful about it, that will not support +a very exacting criticism, and the lesson must be apprehended by the +fancy at half a hint. Such is the great mass of the old stories +of wise animals or foolish men that have amused our childhood. +But we should expect the fable, in company with other and more important +literary forms, to be more and more loosely, or at least largely, comprehended +as time went on, and so to degenerate in conception from this original +type. That depended for much of its piquancy on the very fact +that it was fantastic: the point of the thing lay in a sort of humorous +inappropriateness; and it is natural enough that pleasantry of this +description should become less common, as men learn to suspect some +serious analogy underneath. Thus a comical story of an ape touches +us quite differently after the proposition of Mr. Darwin’s theory. +Moreover, there lay, perhaps, at the bottom of this primitive sort of +fable, a humanity, a tenderness of rough truths; so that at the end +of some story, in which vice or folly had met with its destined punishment, +the fabulist might be able to assure his auditors, as we have often +to assure tearful children on the like occasions, that they may dry +their eyes, for none of it was true.<br> +<br> +But this benefit of fiction becomes lost with more sophisticated hearers +and authors: a man is no longer the dupe of his own artifice, and cannot +deal playfully with truths that are a matter of bitter concern to him +in his life. And hence, in the progressive centralisation of modern +thought, we should expect the old form of fable to fall gradually into +desuetude, and be gradually succeeded by another, which is a fable in +all points except that it is not altogether fabulous. And this +new form, such as we should expect, and such as we do indeed find, still +presents the essential character of brevity; as in any other fable also, +there is, underlying and animating the brief action, a moral idea; and +as in any other fable, the object is to bring this home to the reader +through the intellect rather than through the feelings; so that, without +being very deeply moved or interested by the characters of the piece, +we should recognise vividly the hinges on which the little plot revolves. +But the fabulist now seeks analogies where before he merely sought humorous +situations. There will be now a logical nexus between the moral +expressed and the machinery employed to express it. The machinery, +in fact, as this change is developed, becomes less and less fabulous. +We find ourselves in presence of quite a serious, if quite a miniature +division of creative literature; and sometimes we have the lesson embodied +in a sober, everyday narration, as in the parables of the New Testament, +and sometimes merely the statement or, at most, the collocation of significant +facts in life, the reader being left to resolve for himself the vague, +troublesome, and not yet definitely moral sentiment which has been thus +created. And step by step with the development of this change, +yet another is developed: the moral tends to become more indeterminate +and large. It ceases to be possible to append it, in a tag, to +the bottom of the piece, as one might write the name below a caricature; +and the fable begins to take rank with all other forms of creative literature, +as something too ambitious, in spite of its miniature dimensions, to +be resumed in any succinct formula without the loss of all that is deepest +and most suggestive in it.<br> +<br> +Now it is in this widest sense that Lord Lytton understands the term; +there are examples in his two pleasant volumes of all the forms already +mentioned, and even of another which can only be admitted among fables +by the utmost possible leniency of construction. ‘Composure,’ +‘Et Caetera,’ and several more, are merely similes poetically +elaborated. So, too, is the pathetic story of the grandfather +and grandchild: the child, having treasured away an icicle and forgotten +it for ten minutes, comes back to find it already nearly melted, and +no longer beautiful: at the same time, the grandfather has just remembered +and taken out a bundle of love-letters, which he too had stored away +in years gone by, and then long neglected; and, behold! the letters +are as faded and sorrowfully disappointing as the icicle. This +is merely a simile poetically worked out; and yet it is in such as these, +and some others, to be mentioned further on, that the author seems at +his best. Wherever he has really written after the old model, +there is something to be deprecated: in spite of all the spirit and +freshness, in spite of his happy assumption of that cheerful acceptation +of things as they are, which, rightly or wrongly, we come to attribute +to the ideal fabulist, there is ever a sense as of something a little +out of place. A form of literature so very innocent and primitive +looks a little over-written in Lord Lytton’s conscious and highly-coloured +style. It may be bad taste, but sometimes we should prefer a few +sentences of plain prose narration, and a little Bewick by way of tail-piece. +So that it is not among those fables that conform most nearly to the +old model, but one had nearly said among those that most widely differ +from it, that we find the most satisfactory examples of the author’s +manner.<br> +<br> +In the mere matter of ingenuity, the metaphysical fables are the most +remarkable; such as that of the windmill who imagined that it was he +who raised the wind; or that of the grocer’s balance (‘Cogito +ergo sum’) who considered himself endowed with free-will, reason, +and an infallible practical judgment; until, one fine day, the police +made a descent upon the shop, and find the weights false and the scales +unequal; and the whole thing is broken up for old iron. Capital +fables, also, in the same ironical spirit, are ‘Prometheus Unbound,’ +the tale of the vainglorying of a champagne-cork, and ‘Teleology,’ +where a nettle justifies the ways of God to nettles while all goes well +with it, and, upon a change of luck, promptly changes its divinity.<br> +<br> +In all these there is still plenty of the fabulous if you will, although, +even here, there may be two opinions possible; but there is another +group, of an order of merit perhaps still higher, where we look in vain +for any such playful liberties with Nature. Thus we have ‘Conservation +of Force’; where a musician, thinking of a certain picture, improvises +in the twilight; a poet, hearing the music, goes home inspired, and +writes a poem; and then a painter, under the influence of this poem, +paints another picture, thus lineally descended from the first. +This is fiction, but not what we have been used to call fable. +We miss the incredible element, the point of audacity with which the +fabulist was wont to mock at his readers. And still more so is +this the case with others. ‘The Horse and the Fly’ +states one of the unanswerable problems of life in quite a realistic +and straightforward way. A fly startles a cab-horse, the coach +is overset; a newly-married pair within and the driver, a man with a +wife and family, are all killed. The horse continues to gallop +off in the loose traces, and ends the tragedy by running over an only +child; and there is some little pathetic detail here introduced in the +telling, that makes the reader’s indignation very white-hot against +some one. It remains to be seen who that some one is to be: the +fly? Nay, but on closer inspection, it appears that the fly, actuated +by maternal instinct, was only seeking a place for her eggs: is maternal +instinct, then, ‘sole author of these mischiefs all’? +‘Who’s in the Right?’ one of the best fables in the +book, is somewhat in the same vein. After a battle has been won, +a group of officers assemble inside a battery, and debate together who +should have the honour of the success; the Prince, the general staff, +the cavalry, the engineer who posted the battery in which they then +stand talking, are successively named: the sergeant, who pointed the +guns, sneers to himself at the mention of the engineer; and, close by, +the gunner, who had applied the match, passes away with a smile of triumph, +since it was through his hand that the victorious blow had been dealt. +Meanwhile, the cannon claims the honour over the gunner; the cannon-ball, +who actually goes forth on the dread mission, claims it over the cannon, +who remains idly behind; the powder reminds the cannon-ball that, but +for him, it would still be lying on the arsenal floor; and the match +caps the discussion; powder, cannon-ball, and cannon would be all equally +vain and ineffectual without fire. Just then there comes on a +shower of rain, which wets the powder and puts out the match, and completes +this lesson of dependence, by indicating the negative conditions which +are as necessary for any effect, in their absence, as is the presence +of this great fraternity of positive conditions, not any one of which +can claim priority over any other. But the fable does not end +here, as perhaps, in all logical strictness, it should. It wanders +off into a discussion as to which is the truer greatness, that of the +vanquished fire or that of the victorious rain. And the speech +of the rain is charming:<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Lo, with my little drops I bless again<br> +And beautify the fields which thou didst blast!<br> +Rend, wither, waste, and ruin, what thou wilt,<br> +But call not Greatness what the Gods call Guilt.<br> +Blossoms and grass from blood in battle spilt,<br> +And poppied corn, I bring.<br> +‘Mid mouldering Babels, to oblivion built,<br> +My violets spring.<br> +Little by little my small drops have strength<br> +To deck with green delights the grateful earth.’<br> +<br> +<br> +And so forth, not quite germane (it seems to me) to the matter in hand, +but welcome for its own sake.<br> +<br> +Best of all are the fables that deal more immediately with the emotions. +There is, for instance, that of ‘The Two Travellers,’ which +is profoundly moving in conception, although by no means as well written +as some others. In this, one of the two, fearfully frost-bitten, +saves his life out of the snow at the cost of all that was comely in +his body; just as, long before, the other, who has now quietly resigned +himself to death, had violently freed himself from Love at the cost +of all that was finest and fairest in his character. Very graceful +and sweet is the fable (if so it should be called) in which the author +sings the praises of that ‘kindly perspective,’ which lets +a wheat-stalk near the eye cover twenty leagues of distant country, +and makes the humble circle about a man’s hearth more to him than +all the possibilities of the external world. The companion fable +to this is also excellent. It tells us of a man who had, all his +life through, entertained a passion for certain blue hills on the far +horizon, and had promised himself to travel thither ere he died, and +become familiar with these distant friends. At last, in some political +trouble, he is banished to the very place of his dreams. He arrives +there overnight, and, when he rises and goes forth in the morning, there +sure enough are the blue hills, only now they have changed places with +him, and smile across to him, distant as ever, from the old home whence +he has come. Such a story might have been very cynically treated; +but it is not so done, the whole tone is kindly and consolatory, and +the disenchanted man submissively takes the lesson, and understands +that things far away are to be loved for their own sake, and that the +unattainable is not truly unattainable, when we can make the beauty +of it our own. Indeed, throughout all these two volumes, though +there is much practical scepticism, and much irony on abstract questions, +this kindly and consolatory spirit is never absent. There is much +that is cheerful and, after a sedate, fireside fashion, hopeful. +No one will be discouraged by reading the book; but the ground of all +this hopefulness and cheerfulness remains to the end somewhat vague. +It does not seem to arise from any practical belief in the future either +of the individual or the race, but rather from the profound personal +contentment of the writer. This is, I suppose, all we must look +for in the case. It is as much as we can expect, if the fabulist +shall prove a shrewd and cheerful fellow-wayfarer, one with whom the +world does not seem to have gone much amiss, but who has yet laughingly +learned something of its evil. It will depend much, of course, +upon our own character and circumstances, whether the encounter will +be agreeable and bracing to the spirits, or offend us as an ill-timed +mockery. But where, as here, there is a little tincture of bitterness +along with the good-nature, where it is plainly not the humour of a +man cheerfully ignorant, but of one who looks on, tolerant and superior +and smilingly attentive, upon the good and bad of our existence, it +will go hardly if we do not catch some reflection of the same spirit +to help us on our way. There is here no impertinent and lying +proclamation of peace - none of the cheap optimism of the well-to-do; +what we find here is a view of life that would be even grievous, were +it not enlivened with this abiding cheerfulness, and ever and anon redeemed +by a stroke of pathos.<br> +<br> +It is natural enough, I suppose, that we should find wanting in this +book some of the intenser qualities of the author’s work; and +their absence is made up for by much happy description after a quieter +fashion. The burst of jubilation over the departure of the snow, +which forms the prelude to ‘The Thistle,’ is full of spirit +and of pleasant images. The speech of the forest in ‘Sans +Souci’ is inspired by a beautiful sentiment for nature of the +modern sort, and pleases us more, I think, as poetry should please us, +than anything in <i>Chronicles and Characters</i>. There are some +admirable felicities of expression here and there; as that of the hill, +whose summit<br> +<br> +<br> + ‘Did print<br> +The azure air with pines.’<br> +<br> +<br> +Moreover, I do not recollect in the author’s former work any symptom +of that sympathetic treatment of still life, which is noticeable now +and again in the fables; and perhaps most noticeably, when he sketches +the burned letters as they hover along the gusty flue, ‘Thin, +sable veils, wherein a restless spark Yet trembled.’ But +the description is at its best when the subjects are unpleasant, or +even grisly. There are a few capital lines in this key on the +last spasm of the battle before alluded to. Surely nothing could +be better, in its own way, than the fish in ‘The Last Cruise of +the Arrogant,’ ‘the shadowy, side-faced, silent things,’ +that come butting and staring with lidless eyes at the sunken steam-engine. +And although, in yet another, we are told, pleasantly enough, how the +water went down into the valleys, where it set itself gaily to saw wood, +and on into the plains, where it would soberly carry grain to town; +yet the real strength of the fable is when it dealt with the shut pool +in which certain unfortunate raindrops are imprisoned among slugs and +snails, and in the company of an old toad. The sodden contentment +of the fallen acorn is strangely significant; and it is astonishing +how unpleasantly we are startled by the appearance of her horrible lover, +the maggot.<br> +<br> +And now for a last word, about the style. This is not easy to +criticise. It is impossible to deny to it rapidity, spirit, and +a full sound; the lines are never lame, and the sense is carried forward +with an uninterrupted, impetuous rush. But it is not equal. +After passages of really admirable versification, the author falls back +upon a sort of loose, cavalry manner, not unlike the style of some of +Mr. Browning’s minor pieces, and almost inseparable from wordiness, +and an easy acceptation of somewhat cheap finish. There is nothing +here of that compression which is the note of a really sovereign style. +It is unfair, perhaps, to set a not remarkable passage from Lord Lytton +side by side with one of the signal masterpieces of another, and a very +perfect poet; and yet it is interesting, when we see how the portraiture +of a dog, detailed through thirty odd lines, is frittered down and finally +almost lost in the mere laxity of the style, to compare it with the +clear, simple, vigorous delineation that Burns, in four couplets, has +given us of the ploughman’s collie. It is interesting, at +first, and then it becomes a little irritating; for when we think of +other passages so much more finished and adroit, we cannot help feeling, +that with a little more ardour after perfection of form, criticism would +have found nothing left for her to censure. A similar mark of +precipitate work is the number of adjectives tumultuously heaped together, +sometimes to help out the sense, and sometimes (as one cannot but suspect) +to help out the sound of the verses. I do not believe, for instance, +that Lord Lytton himself would defend the lines in which we are told +how Laocoön ‘Revealed to Roman crowds, now <i>Christian</i> +grown, That <i>Pagan</i> anguish which, in <i>Parian</i> stone, The +<i>Rhodian</i> artist,’ and so on. It is not only that this +is bad in itself; but that it is unworthy of the company in which it +is found; that such verses should not have appeared with the name of +a good versifier like Lord Lytton. We must take exception, also, +in conclusion, to the excess of alliteration. Alliteration is +so liable to be abused that we can scarcely be too sparing of it; and +yet it is a trick that seems to grow upon the author with years. +It is a pity to see fine verses, such as some in ‘Demos,’ +absolutely spoiled by the recurrence of one wearisome consonant.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER II - SALVINI’S MACBETH<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Salvini closed his short visit to Edinburgh by a performance of <i>Macbeth</i>. +It was, perhaps, from a sentiment of local colour that he chose to play +the Scottish usurper for the first time before Scotsmen; and the audience +were not insensible of the privilege. Few things, indeed, can +move a stronger interest than to see a great creation taking shape for +the first time. If it is not purely artistic, the sentiment is +surely human. And the thought that you are before all the world, +and have the start of so many others as eager as yourself, at least +keeps you in a more unbearable suspense before the curtain rises, if +it does not enhance the delight with which you follow the performance +and see the actor ‘bend up each corporal agent’ to realise +a masterpiece of a few hours’ duration. With a player so +variable as Salvini, who trusts to the feelings of the moment for so +much detail, and who, night after night, does the same thing differently +but always well, it can never be safe to pass judgment after a single +hearing. And this is more particularly true of last week’s +<i>Macbeth</i>; for the whole third act was marred by a grievously humorous +misadventure. Several minutes too soon the ghost of Banquo joined +the party, and after having sat helpless a while at a table, was ignominiously +withdrawn. Twice was this ghostly Jack-in-the-box obtruded on +the stage before his time; twice removed again; and yet he showed so +little hurry when he was really wanted, that, after an awkward pause, +Macbeth had to begin his apostrophe to empty air. The arrival +of the belated spectre in the middle, with a jerk that made him nod +all over, was the last accident in the chapter, and worthily topped +the whole. It may be imagined how lamely matters went throughout +these cross purposes.<br> +<br> +In spite of this, and some other hitches, Salvini’s Macbeth had +an emphatic success. The creation is worthy of a place beside +the same artist’s Othello and Hamlet. It is the simplest +and most unsympathetic of the three; but the absence of the finer lineaments +of Hamlet is redeemed by gusto, breadth, and a headlong unity. +Salvini sees nothing great in Macbeth beyond the royalty of muscle, +and that courage which comes of strong and copious circulation. +The moral smallness of the man is insisted on from the first, in the +shudder of uncontrollable jealousy with which he sees Duncan embracing +Banquo. He may have some northern poetry of speech, but he has +not much logical understanding. In his dealings with the supernatural +powers he is like a savage with his fetich, trusting them beyond bounds +while all goes well, and whenever he is crossed, casting his belief +aside and calling ‘fate into the list.’ For his wife, +he is little more than an agent, a frame of bone and sinew for her fiery +spirit to command. The nature of his feeling towards her is rendered +with a most precise and delicate touch. He always yields to the +woman’s fascination; and yet his caresses (and we know how much +meaning Salvini can give to a caress) are singularly hard and unloving. +Sometimes he lays his hand on her as he might take hold of any one who +happened to be nearest to him at a moment of excitement. Love +has fallen out of this marriage by the way, and left a curious friendship. +Only once - at the very moment when she is showing herself so little +a woman and so much a high-spirited man - only once is he very deeply +stirred towards her; and that finds expression in the strange and horrible +transport of admiration, doubly strange and horrible on Salvini’s +lips - ‘Bring forth men-children only!’<br> +<br> +The murder scene, as was to be expected, pleased the audience best. +Macbeth’s voice, in the talk with his wife, was a thing not to +be forgotten; and when he spoke of his hangman’s hands he seemed +to have blood in his utterance. Never for a moment, even in the +very article of the murder, does he possess his own soul. He is +a man on wires. From first to last it is an exhibition of hideous +cowardice. For, after all, it is not here, but in broad daylight, +with the exhilaration of conflict, where he can assure himself at every +blow he has the longest sword and the heaviest hand, that this man’s +physical bravery can keep him up; he is an unwieldy ship, and needs +plenty of way on before he will steer.<br> +<br> +In the banquet scene, while the first murderer gives account of what +he has done, there comes a flash of truculent joy at the ‘twenty +trenchèd gashes’ on Banquo’s head. Thus Macbeth +makes welcome to his imagination those very details of physical horror +which are so soon to turn sour in him. As he runs out to embrace +these cruel circumstances, as he seeks to realise to his mind’s +eye the reassuring spectacle of his dead enemy, he is dressing out the +phantom to terrify himself; and his imagination, playing the part of +justice, is to ‘commend to his own lips the ingredients of his +poisoned chalice.’ With the recollection of Hamlet and his +father’s spirit still fresh upon him, and the holy awe with which +that good man encountered things not dreamt of in his philosophy, it +was not possible to avoid looking for resemblances between the two apparitions +and the two men haunted. But there are none to be found. +Macbeth has a purely physical dislike for Banquo’s spirit and +the ‘twenty trenchèd gashes.’ He is afraid +of he knows not what. He is abject, and again blustering. +In the end he so far forgets himself, his terror, and the nature of +what is before him, that he rushes upon it as he would upon a man. +When his wife tells him he needs repose, there is something really childish +in the way he looks about the room, and, seeing nothing, with an expression +of almost sensual relief, plucks up heart enough to go to bed. +And what is the upshot of the visitation? It is written in Shakespeare, +but should be read with the commentary of Salvini’s voice and +expression:- ‘O!<i> siam nell’ opra ancor fanciulli</i>’ +- ‘We are yet but young in deed.’ Circle below +circle. He is looking with horrible satisfaction into the mouth +of hell. There may still be a prick to-day; but to-morrow conscience +will be dead, and he may move untroubled in this element of blood.<br> +<br> +In the fifth act we see this lowest circle reached; and it is Salvini’s +finest moment throughout the play. From the first he was admirably +made up, and looked Macbeth to the full as perfectly as ever he looked +Othello. From the first moment he steps upon the stage you can +see this character is a creation to the fullest meaning of the phrase; +for the man before you is a type you know well already. He arrives +with Banquo on the heath, fair and red-bearded, sparing of gesture, +full of pride and the sense of animal wellbeing, and satisfied after +the battle like a beast who has eaten his fill. But in the fifth +act there is a change. This is still the big, burly, fleshly, +handsome-looking Thane; here is still the same face which in the earlier +acts could be superficially good-humoured and sometimes royally courteous. +But now the atmosphere of blood, which pervades the whole tragedy, has +entered into the man and subdued him to its own nature; and an indescribable +degradation, a slackness and puffiness, has overtaken his features. +He has breathed the air of carnage, and supped full of horrors. +Lady Macbeth complains of the smell of blood on her hand: Macbeth makes +no complaint - he has ceased to notice it now; but the same smell is +in his nostrils. A contained fury and disgust possesses him. +He taunts the messenger and the doctor as people would taunt their mortal +enemies. And, indeed, as he knows right well, every one is his +enemy now, except his wife. About her he questions the doctor +with something like a last human anxiety; and, in tones of grisly mystery, +asks him if he can ‘minister to a mind diseased.’ +When the news of her death is brought him, he is staggered and falls +into a seat; but somehow it is not anything we can call grief that he +displays. There had been two of them against God and man; and +now, when there is only one, it makes perhaps less difference than he +had expected. And so her death is not only an affliction, but +one more disillusion; and he redoubles in bitterness. The speech +that follows, given with tragic cynicism in every word, is a dirge, +not so much for her as for himself. From that time forth there +is nothing human left in him, only ‘the fiend of Scotland,’ +Macduff’s ‘hell-hound,’ whom, with a stern glee, we +see baited like a bear and hunted down like a wolf. He is inspired +and set above fate by a demoniacal energy, a lust of wounds and slaughter. +Even after he meets Macduff his courage does not fail; but when he hears +the Thane was not born of woman, all virtue goes out of him; and though +he speaks sounding words of defiance, the last combat is little better +than a suicide.<br> +<br> +The whole performance is, as I said, so full of gusto and a headlong +unity; the personality of Macbeth is so sharp and powerful; and within +these somewhat narrow limits there is so much play and saliency that, +so far as concerns Salvini himself, a third great success seems indubitable. +Unfortunately, however, a great actor cannot fill more than a very small +fraction of the boards; and though Banquo’s ghost will probably +be more seasonable in his future apparitions, there are some more inherent +difficulties in the piece. The company at large did not distinguish +themselves. Macduff, to the huge delight of the gallery, out-Macduff’d +the average ranter. The lady who filled the principal female part +has done better on other occasions, but I fear she has not metal for +what she tried last week. Not to succeed in the sleep-walking +scene is to make a memorable failure. As it was given, it succeeded +in being wrong in art without being true to nature.<br> +<br> +And there is yet another difficulty, happily easy to reform, which somewhat +interfered with the success of the performance. At the end of +the incantation scene the Italian translator has made Macbeth fall insensible +upon the stage. This is a change of questionable propriety from +a psychological point of view; while in point of view of effect it leaves +the stage for some moments empty of all business. To remedy this, +a bevy of green ballet-girls came forth and pointed their toes about +the prostrate king. A dance of High Church curates, or a hornpipe +by Mr. T. P. Cooke, would not be more out of the key; though the gravity +of a Scots audience was not to be overcome, and they merely expressed +their disapprobation by a round of moderate hisses, a similar irruption +of Christmas fairies would most likely convulse a London theatre from +pit to gallery with inextinguishable laughter. It is, I am told, +the Italian tradition; but it is one more honoured in the breach than +the observance. With the total disappearance of these damsels, +with a stronger Lady Macbeth, and, if possible, with some compression +of those scenes in which Salvini does not appear, and the spectator +is left at the mercy of Macduffs and Duncans, the play would go twice +as well, and we should be better able to follow and enjoy an admirable +work of dramatic art.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER III - BAGSTER’S ‘PILGRIM’S PROGRESS’<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +I have here before me an edition of the <i>Pilgrim’s</i> <i>Progress</i>, +bound in green, without a date, and described as ‘illustrated +by nearly three hundred engravings, and memoir of Bunyan.’ +On the outside it is lettered ‘Bagster’s Illustrated Edition,’ +and after the author’s apology, facing the first page of the tale, +a folding pictorial ‘Plan of the Road’ is marked as ‘drawn +by the late Mr. T. Conder,’ and engraved by J. Basire. No +further information is anywhere vouchsafed; perhaps the publishers had +judged the work too unimportant; and we are still left ignorant whether +or not we owe the woodcuts in the body of the volume to the same hand +that drew the plan. It seems, however, more than probable. +The literal particularity of mind which, in the map, laid down the flower-plots +in the devil’s garden, and carefully introduced the court-house +in the town of Vanity, is closely paralleled in many of the cuts; and +in both, the architecture of the buildings and the disposition of the +gardens have a kindred and entirely English air. Whoever he was, +the author of these wonderful little pictures may lay claim to be the +best illustrator of Bunyan. They are not only good illustrations, +like so many others; but they are like so few, good illustrations of +Bunyan. Their spirit, in defect and quality, is still the same +as his own. The designer also has lain down and dreamed a dream, +as literal, as quaint, and almost as apposite as Bunyan’s; and +text and pictures make but the two sides of the same homespun yet impassioned +story. To do justice to the designs, it will be necessary to say, +for the hundredth time, a word or two about the masterpiece which they +adorn.<br> +<br> +All allegories have a tendency to escape from the purpose of their creators; +and as the characters and incidents become more and more interesting +in themselves, the moral, which these were to show forth, falls more +and more into neglect. An architect may command a wreath of vine-leaves +round the cornice of a monument; but if, as each leaf came from the +chisel, it took proper life and fluttered freely on the wall, and if +the vine grew, and the building were hidden over with foliage and fruit, +the architect would stand in much the same situation as the writer of +allegories. The <i>Faëry</i> <i>Queen</i> was an allegory, +I am willing to believe; but it survives as an imaginative tale in incomparable +verse. The case of Bunyan is widely different; and yet in this +also Allegory, poor nymph, although never quite forgotten, is sometimes +rudely thrust against the wall. Bunyan was fervently in earnest; +with ‘his fingers in his ears, he ran on,’ straight for +his mark. He tells us himself, in the conclusion to the first +part, that he did not fear to raise a laugh; indeed, he feared nothing, +and said anything; and he was greatly served in this by a certain rustic +privilege of his style, which, like the talk of strong uneducated men, +when it does not impress by its force, still charms by its simplicity. +The mere story and the allegorical design enjoyed perhaps his equal +favour. He believed in both with an energy of faith that was capable +of moving mountains. And we have to remark in him, not the parts +where inspiration fails and is supplied by cold and merely decorative +invention, but the parts where faith has grown to be credulity, and +his characters become so real to him that he forgets the end of their +creation. We can follow him step by step into the trap which he +lays for himself by his own entire good faith and triumphant literality +of vision, till the trap closes and shuts him in an inconsistency. +The allegories of the Interpreter and of the Shepherds of the Delectable +Mountains are all actually performed, like stage-plays, before the pilgrims. +The son of Mr. Great-grace visibly ‘tumbles hills about with his +words.’ Adam the First has his condemnation written visibly +on his forehead, so that Faithful reads it. At the very instant +the net closes round the pilgrims, ‘the white robe falls from +the black man’s body.’ Despair ‘getteth him +a grievous crab-tree cudgel’; it was in ‘sunshiny weather’ +that he had his fits; and the birds in the grove about the House Beautiful, +‘our country birds,’ only sing their little pious verses +‘at the spring, when the flowers appear and the sun shines warm.’ +‘I often,’ says Piety, ‘go out to hear them; we also +ofttimes keep them tame on our house.’ The post between +Beulah and the Celestial City sounds his horn, as you may yet hear in +country places. Madam Bubble, that ‘tall, comely dame, something +of a swarthy complexion, in very pleasant attire, but old,’ ‘gives +you a smile at the end of each sentence’ - a real woman she; we +all know her. Christiana dying ‘gave Mr. Stand-fast a ring,’ +for no possible reason in the allegory, merely because the touch was +human and affecting. Look at Great-heart, with his soldierly ways, +garrison ways, as I had almost called them; with his taste in weapons; +his delight in any that ‘he found to be a man of his hands’; +his chivalrous point of honour, letting Giant Maul get up again when +he was down, a thing fairly flying in the teeth of the moral; above +all, with his language in the inimitable tale of Mr. Fearing: ‘I +thought I should have lost my man’ - ‘chicken-hearted’ +- ‘at last he came in, and I will say that for my lord, he carried +it wonderful lovingly to him.’ This is no Independent minister; +this is a stout, honest, big-busted ancient, adjusting his shoulder-belts, +twirling his long moustaches as he speaks. Last and most remarkable, +‘My sword,’ says the dying Valiant-for-Truth, he in whom +Great-heart delighted, ‘my sword I give to him that shall succeed +me in my pilgrimage, <i>and my courage and skill to him that can get +it</i>.’ And after this boast, more arrogantly unorthodox +than was ever dreamed of by the rejected Ignorance, we are told that +‘all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.’<br> +<br> +In every page the book is stamped with the same energy of vision and +the same energy of belief. The quality is equally and indifferently +displayed in the spirit of the fighting, the tenderness of the pathos, +the startling vigour and strangeness of the incidents, the natural strain +of the conversations, and the humanity and charm of the characters. +Trivial talk over a meal, the dying words of heroes, the delights of +Beulah or the Celestial City, Apollyon and my Lord Hate-good, Great-heart, +and Mr. Worldly-Wiseman, all have been imagined with the same clearness, +all written of with equal gusto and precision, all created in the same +mixed element, of simplicity that is almost comical, and art that, for +its purpose, is faultless.<br> +<br> +It was in much the same spirit that our artist sat down to his drawings. +He is by nature a Bunyan of the pencil. He, too, will draw anything, +from a butcher at work on a dead sheep, up to the courts of Heaven. +‘A Lamb for Supper’ is the name of one of his designs, ‘Their +Glorious Entry’ of another. He has the same disregard for +the ridiculous, and enjoys somewhat of the same privilege of style, +so that we are pleased even when we laugh the most. He is literal +to the verge of folly. If dust is to be raised from the unswept +parlour, you may be sure it will ‘fly abundantly’ in the +picture. If Faithful is to lie ‘as dead’ before Moses, +dead he shall lie with a warrant - dead and stiff like granite; nay +(and here the artist must enhance upon the symbolism of the author), +it is with the identical stone tables of the law that Moses fells the +sinner. Good and bad people, whom we at once distinguish in the +text by their names, Hopeful, Honest, and Valiant-for-Truth, on the +one hand, as against By-ends, Sir Having Greedy, and the Lord Old-man +on the other, are in these drawings as simply distinguished by their +costume. Good people, when not armed <i>cap-à-pie</i>, +wear a speckled tunic girt about the waist, and low hats, apparently +of straw. Bad people swagger in tail-coats and chimney-pots, a +few with knee-breeches, but the large majority in trousers, and for +all the world like guests at a garden-party. Worldly-Wiseman alone, +by some inexplicable quirk, stands before Christian in laced hat, embroidered +waistcoat, and trunk-hose. But above all examples of this artist’s +intrepidity, commend me to the print entitled ‘Christian Finds +it Deep.’ ‘A great darkness and horror,’ says +the text, have fallen on the pilgrim; it is the comfortless deathbed +with which Bunyan so strikingly concludes the sorrows and conflicts +of his hero. How to represent this worthily the artist knew not; +and yet he was determined to represent it somehow. This was how +he did: Hopeful is still shown to his neck above the water of death; +but Christian has bodily disappeared, and a blot of solid blackness +indicates his place.<br> +<br> +As you continue to look at these pictures, about an inch square for +the most part, sometimes printed three or more to the page, and each +having a printed legend of its own, however trivial the event recorded, +you will soon become aware of two things: first, that the man can draw, +and, second, that he possesses the gift of an imagination. ‘Obstinate +reviles,’ says the legend; and you should see Obstinate reviling. +‘He warily retraces his steps’; and there is Christian, +posting through the plain, terror and speed in every muscle. ‘Mercy +yearns to go’ shows you a plain interior with packing going forward, +and, right in the middle, Mercy yearning to go - every line of the girl’s +figure yearning. In ‘The Chamber called Peace’ we +see a simple English room, bed with white curtains, window valance and +door, as may be found in many thousand unpretentious houses; but far +off, through the open window, we behold the sun uprising out of a great +plain, and Christian hails it with his hand:<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Where am I now! is this the love and care<br> +Of Jesus, for the men that pilgrims are!<br> +Thus to provide! That I should be forgiven!<br> +And dwell already the next door to heaven!’<br> +<br> +<br> +A page or two further, from the top of the House Beautiful, the damsels +point his gaze toward the Delectable Mountains: ‘The Prospect,’ +so the cut is ticketed - and I shall be surprised, if on less than a +square inch of paper you can show me one so wide and fair. Down +a cross road on an English plain, a cathedral city outlined on the horizon, +a hazel shaw upon the left, comes Madam Wanton dancing with her fair +enchanted cup, and Faithful, book in hand, half pauses. The cut +is perfect as a symbol; the giddy movement of the sorceress, the uncertain +poise of the man struck to the heart by a temptation, the contrast of +that even plain of life whereon he journeys with the bold, ideal bearing +of the wanton - the artist who invented and portrayed this had not merely +read Bunyan, he had also thoughtfully lived. The Delectable Mountains +- I continue skimming the first part - are not on the whole happily +rendered. Once, and once only, the note is struck, when Christian +and Hopeful are seen coming, shoulder-high, through a thicket of green +shrubs - box, perhaps, or perfumed nutmeg; while behind them, domed +or pointed, the hills stand ranged against the sky. A little further, +and we come to that masterpiece of Bunyan’s insight into life, +the Enchanted Ground; where, in a few traits, he has set down the latter +end of such a number of the would-be good; where his allegory goes so +deep that, to people looking seriously on life, it cuts like satire. +The true significance of this invention lies, of course, far out of +the way of drawing; only one feature, the great tedium of the land, +the growing weariness in well-doing, may be somewhat represented in +a symbol. The pilgrims are near the end: ‘Two Miles Yet,’ +says the legend. The road goes ploughing up and down over a rolling +heath; the wayfarers, with outstretched arms, are already sunk to the +knees over the brow of the nearest hill; they have just passed a milestone +with the cipher two; from overhead a great, piled, summer cumulus, as +of a slumberous summer afternoon, beshadows them: two miles! it might +be hundreds. In dealing with the Land of Beulah the artist lags, +in both parts, miserably behind the text, but in the distant prospect +of the Celestial City more than regains his own. You will remember +when Christian and Hopeful ‘with desire fell sick.’ +‘Effect of the Sunbeams’ is the artist’s title. +Against the sky, upon a cliffy mountain, the radiant temple beams upon +them over deep, subjacent woods; they, behind a mound, as if seeking +shelter from the splendour - one prostrate on his face, one kneeling, +and with hands ecstatically lifted - yearn with passion after that immortal +city. Turn the page, and we behold them walking by the very shores +of death; Heaven, from this nigher view, has risen half-way to the zenith, +and sheds a wider glory; and the two pilgrims, dark against that brightness, +walk and sing out of the fulness of their hearts. No cut more +thoroughly illustrates at once the merit and the weakness of the artist. +Each pilgrim sings with a book in his grasp - a family Bible at the +least for bigness; tomes so recklessly enormous that our second, impulse +is to laughter. And yet that is not the first thought, nor perhaps +the last. Something in the attitude of the manikins - faces they +have none, they are too small for that - something in the way they swing +these monstrous volumes to their singing, something perhaps borrowed +from the text, some subtle differentiation from the cut that went before +and the cut that follows after - something, at least, speaks clearly +of a fearful joy, of Heaven seen from the deathbed, of the horror of +the last passage no less than of the glorious coming home. There +is that in the action of one of them which always reminds me, with a +difference, of that haunting last glimpse of Thomas Idle, travelling +to Tyburn in the cart. Next come the Shining Ones, wooden and +trivial enough; the pilgrims pass into the river; the blot already mentioned +settles over and obliterates Christian. In two more cuts we behold +them drawing nearer to the other shore; and then, between two radiant +angels, one of whom points upward, we see them mounting in new weeds, +their former lendings left behind them on the inky river. More +angels meet them; Heaven is displayed, and if no better, certainly no +worse, than it has been shown by others - a place, at least, infinitely +populous and glorious with light - a place that haunts solemnly the +hearts of children. And then this symbolic draughtsman once more +strikes into his proper vein. Three cuts conclude the first part. +In the first the gates close, black against the glory struggling from +within. The second shows us Ignorance - alas! poor Arminian! - +hailing, in a sad twilight, the ferryman Vain-Hope; and in the third +we behold him, bound hand and foot, and black already with the hue of +his eternal fate, carried high over the mountain-tops of the world by +two angels of the anger of the Lord. ‘Carried to Another +Place,’ the artist enigmatically names his plate - a terrible +design.<br> +<br> +Wherever he touches on the black side of the supernatural his pencil +grows more daring and incisive. He has many true inventions in +the perilous and diabolic; he has many startling nightmares realised. +It is not easy to select the best; some may like one and some another; +the nude, depilated devil bounding and casting darts against the Wicket +Gate; the scroll of flying horrors that hang over Christian by the Mouth +of Hell; the horned shade that comes behind him whispering blasphemies; +the daylight breaking through that rent cave-mouth of the mountains +and falling chill adown the haunted tunnel; Christian’s further +progress along the causeway, between the two black pools, where, at +every yard or two, a gin, a pitfall, or a snare awaits the passer-by +- loathsome white devilkins harbouring close under the bank to work +the springes, Christian himself pausing and pricking with his sword’s +point at the nearest noose, and pale discomfortable mountains rising +on the farther side; or yet again, the two ill-favoured ones that beset +the first of Christian’s journey, with the frog-like structure +of the skull, the frog-like limberness of limbs - crafty, slippery, +lustful-looking devils, drawn always in outline as though possessed +of a dim, infernal luminosity. Horrid fellows are they, one and +all; horrid fellows and horrific scenes. In another spirit that +Good-Conscience ‘to whom Mr. Honest had spoken in his lifetime,’ +a cowled, grey, awful figure, one hand pointing to the heavenly shore, +realises, I will not say all, but some at least of the strange impressiveness +of Bunyan’s words. It is no easy nor pleasant thing to speak +in one’s lifetime with Good-Conscience; he is an austere, unearthly +friend, whom maybe Torquemada knew; and the folds of his raiment are +not merely claustral, but have something of the horror of the pall. +Be not afraid, however; with the hand of that appearance Mr. Honest +will get safe across.<br> +<br> +Yet perhaps it is in sequences that this artist best displays himself. +He loves to look at either side of a thing: as, for instance, when he +shows us both sides of the wall - ‘Grace Inextinguishable’ +on the one side, with the devil vainly pouring buckets on the flame, +and ‘The Oil of Grace’ on the other, where the Holy Spirit, +vessel in hand, still secretly supplies the fire. He loves, also, +to show us the same event twice over, and to repeat his instantaneous +photographs at the interval of but a moment. So we have, first, +the whole troop of pilgrims coming up to Valiant, and Great-heart to +the front, spear in hand and parleying; and next, the same cross-roads, +from a more distant view, the convoy now scattered and looking safely +and curiously on, and Valiant handing over for inspection his ‘right +Jerusalem blade.’ It is true that this designer has no great +care after consistency: Apollyon’s spear is laid by, his quiver +of darts will disappear, whenever they might hinder the designer’s +freedom; and the fiend’s tail is blobbed or forked at his good +pleasure. But this is not unsuitable to the illustration of the +fervent Bunyan, breathing hurry and momentary inspiration. He, +with his hot purpose, hunting sinners with a lasso, shall himself forget +the things that he has written yesterday. He shall first slay +Heedless in the Valley of the Shadow, and then take leave of him talking +in his sleep, as if nothing had happened, in an arbour on the Enchanted +Ground. And again, in his rhymed prologue, he shall assign some +of the glory of the siege of Doubting Castle to his favourite Valiant-for-the-Truth, +who did not meet with the besiegers till long after, at that dangerous +corner by Deadman’s Lane. And, with all inconsistencies +and freedoms, there is a power shown in these sequences of cuts: a power +of joining on one action or one humour to another; a power of following +out the moods, even of the dismal subterhuman fiends engendered by the +artist’s fancy; a power of sustained continuous realisation, step +by step, in nature’s order, that can tell a story, in all its +ins and outs, its pauses and surprises, fully and figuratively, like +the art of words.<br> +<br> +One such sequence is the fight of Christian and Apollyon - six cuts, +weird and fiery, like the text. The pilgrim is throughout a pale +and stockish figure; but the devil covers a multitude of defects. +There is no better devil of the conventional order than our artist’s +Apollyon, with his mane, his wings, his bestial legs, his changing and +terrifying expression, his infernal energy to slay. In cut the +first you see him afar off, still obscure in form, but already formidable +in suggestion. Cut the second, ‘The Fiend in Discourse,’ +represents him, not reasoning, railing rather, shaking his spear at +the pilgrim, his shoulder advanced, his tail writhing in the air, his +foot ready for a spring, while Christian stands back a little, timidly +defensive. The third illustrates these magnificent words: ‘Then +Apollyon straddled quite over the whole breadth of the way, and said, +I am void of fear in this matter: prepare thyself to die; for I swear +by my infernal den that thou shalt go no farther: here will I spill +thy soul! And with that he threw a flaming dart at his breast.’ +In the cut he throws a dart with either hand, belching pointed flames +out of his mouth, spreading his broad vans, and straddling the while +across the path, as only a fiend can straddle who has just sworn by +his infernal den. The defence will not be long against such vice, +such flames, such red-hot nether energy. And in the fourth cut, +to be sure, he has leaped bodily upon his victim, sped by foot and pinion, +and roaring as he leaps. The fifth shows the climacteric of the +battle; Christian has reached nimbly out and got his sword, and dealt +that deadly home-thrust, the fiend still stretched upon him, but ‘giving +back, as one that had received his mortal wound.’ The raised +head, the bellowing mouth, the paw clapped upon the sword, the one wing +relaxed in agony, all realise vividly these words of the text. +In the sixth and last, the trivial armed figure of the pilgrim is seen +kneeling with clasped hands on the betrodden scene of contest and among +the shivers of the darts; while just at the margin the hinder quarters +and the tail of Apollyon are whisking off, indignant and discounted.<br> +<br> +In one point only do these pictures seem to be unworthy of the text, +and that point is one rather of the difference of arts than the difference +of artists. Throughout his best and worst, in his highest and +most divine imaginations as in the narrowest sallies of his sectarianism, +the human-hearted piety of Bunyan touches and ennobles, convinces, accuses +the reader. Through no art beside the art of words can the kindness +of a man’s affections be expressed. In the cuts you shall +find faithfully parodied the quaintness and the power, the triviality +and the surprising freshness of the author’s fancy; there you +shall find him out-stripped in ready symbolism and the art of bringing +things essentially invisible before the eyes: but to feel the contact +of essential goodness, to be made in love with piety, the book must +be read and not the prints examined.<br> +<br> +Farewell should not be taken with a grudge; nor can I dismiss in any +other words than those of gratitude a series of pictures which have, +to one at least, been the visible embodiment of Bunyan from childhood +up, and shown him, through all his years, Great-heart lungeing at Giant +Maul, and Apollyon breathing fire at Christian, and every turn and town +along the road to the Celestial City, and that bright place itself, +seen as to a stave of music, shining afar off upon the hill-top, the +candle of the world.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +SKETCHES<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE SATIRIST<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +My companion enjoyed a cheap reputation for wit and insight. He +was by habit and repute a satirist. If he did occasionally condemn +anything or anybody who richly deserved it, and whose demerits had hitherto +escaped, it was simply because he condemned everything and everybody. +While I was with him he disposed of St. Paul with an epigram, shook +my reverence for Shakespeare in a neat antithesis, and fell foul of +the Almighty Himself, on the score of one or two out of the ten commandments. +Nothing escaped his blighting censure. At every sentence he overthrew +an idol, or lowered my estimation of a friend. I saw everything +with new eyes, and could only marvel at my former blindness. How +was it possible that I had not before observed A’s false hair, +B’s selfishness, or C’s boorish manners? I and my +companion, methought, walked the streets like a couple of gods among +a swarm of vermin; for every one we saw seemed to bear openly upon his +brow the mark of the apocalyptic beast. I half expected that these +miserable beings, like the people of Lystra, would recognise their betters +and force us to the altar; in which case, warned by the late of Paul +and Barnabas, I do not know that my modesty would have prevailed upon +me to decline. But there was no need for such churlish virtue. +More blinded than the Lycaonians, the people saw no divinity in our +gait; and as our temporary godhead lay more in the way of observing +than healing their infirmities, we were content to pass them by in scorn.<br> +<br> +I could not leave my companion, not from regard or even from interest, +but from a very natural feeling, inseparable from the case. To +understand it, let us take a simile. Suppose yourself walking +down the street with a man who continues to sprinkle the crowd out of +a flask of vitriol. You would be much diverted with the grimaces +and contortions of his victims; and at the same time you would fear +to leave his arm until his bottle was empty, knowing that, when once +among the crowd, you would run a good chance yourself of baptism with +his biting liquor. Now my companion’s vitriol was inexhaustible.<br> +<br> +It was perhaps the consciousness of this, the knowledge that I was being +anointed already out of the vials of his wrath, that made me fall to +criticising the critic, whenever we had parted.<br> +<br> +After all, I thought, our satirist has just gone far enough into his +neighbours to find that the outside is false, without caring to go farther +and discover what is really true. He is content to find that things +are not what they seem, and broadly generalises from it that they do +not exist at all. He sees our virtues are not what they pretend +they are; and, on the strength of that, he denies us the possession +of virtue altogether. He has learnt the first lesson, that no +man is wholly good; but he has not even suspected that there is another +equally true, to wit, that no man is wholly bad. Like the inmate +of a coloured star, he has eyes for one colour alone. He has a +keen scent after evil, but his nostrils are plugged against all good, +as people plugged their nostrils before going about the streets of the +plague-struck city.<br> +<br> +Why does he do this? It is most unreasonable to flee the knowledge +of good like the infection of a horrible disease, and batten and grow +fat in the real atmosphere of a lazar-house. This was my first +thought; but my second was not like unto it, and I saw that our satirist +was wise, wise in his generation, like the unjust steward. He +does not want light, because the darkness is more pleasant. He +does not wish to see the good, because he is happier without it. +I recollect that when I walked with him, I was in a state of divine +exaltation, such as Adam and Eve must have enjoyed when the savour of +the fruit was still unfaded between their lips; and I recognise that +this must be the man’s habitual state. He has the forbidden +fruit in his waist-coat pocket, and can make himself a god as often +and as long as he likes. He has raised himself upon a glorious +pedestal above his fellows; he has touched the summit of ambition; and +he envies neither King nor Kaiser, Prophet nor Priest, content in an +elevation as high as theirs, and much more easily attained. Yes, +certes, much more easily attained. He has not risen by climbing +himself, but by pushing others down. He has grown great in his +own estimation, not by blowing himself out, and risking the fate of +AEsop’s frog, but simply by the habitual use of a diminishing +glass on everybody else. And I think altogether that his is a +better, a safer, and a surer recipe than most others.<br> +<br> +After all, however, looking back on what I have written, I detect a +spirit suspiciously like his own. All through, I have been comparing +myself with our satirist, and all through, I have had the best of the +comparison. Well, well, contagion is as often mental as physical; +and I do not think my readers, who have all been under his lash, will +blame me very much for giving the headsman a mouthful of his own sawdust.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +NUITS BLANCHES<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +If any one should know the pleasure and pain of a sleepless night, it +should be I. I remember, so long ago, the sickly child that woke +from his few hours’ slumber with the sweat of a nightmare on his +brow, to lie awake and listen and long for the first signs of life among +the silent streets. These nights of pain and weariness are graven +on my mind; and so when the same thing happened to me again, everything +that I heard or saw was rather a recollection than a discovery.<br> +<br> +Weighed upon by the opaque and almost sensible darkness, I listened +eagerly for anything to break the sepulchral quiet. But nothing +came, save, perhaps, an emphatic crack from the old cabinet that was +made by Deacon Brodie, or the dry rustle of the coals on the extinguished +fire. It was a calm; or I know that I should have heard in the +roar and clatter of the storm, as I have not heard it for so many years, +the wild career of a horseman, always scouring up from the distance +and passing swiftly below the window; yet always returning again from +the place whence first he came, as though, baffled by some higher power, +he had retraced his steps to gain impetus for another and another attempt.<br> +<br> +As I lay there, there arose out of the utter stillness the rumbling +of a carriage a very great way off, that drew near, and passed within +a few streets of the house, and died away as gradually as it had arisen. +This, too, was as a reminiscence.<br> +<br> +I rose and lifted a corner of the blind. Over the black belt of +the garden I saw the long line of Queen Street, with here and there +a lighted window. How often before had my nurse lifted me out +of bed and pointed them out to me, while we wondered together if, there +also, there were children that could not sleep, and if these lighted +oblongs were signs of those that waited like us for the morning.<br> +<br> +I went out into the lobby, and looked down into the great deep well +of the staircase. For what cause I know not, just as it used to +be in the old days that the feverish child might be the better served, +a peep of gas illuminated a narrow circle far below me. But where +I was, all was darkness and silence, save the dry monotonous ticking +of the clock that came ceaselessly up to my ear.<br> +<br> +The final crown of it all, however, the last touch of reproduction on +the pictures of my memory, was the arrival of that time for which, all +night through, I waited and longed of old. It was my custom, as +the hours dragged on, to repeat the question, ‘When will the carts +come in?’ and repeat it again and again until at last those sounds +arose in the street that I have heard once more this morning. +The road before our house is a great thoroughfare for early carts. +I know not, and I never have known, what they carry, whence they come, +or whither they go. But I know that, long ere dawn, and for hours +together, they stream continuously past, with the same rolling and jerking +of wheels and the same clink of horses’ feet. It was not +for nothing that they made the burthen of my wishes all night through. +They are really the first throbbings of life, the harbingers of day; +and it pleases you as much to hear them as it must please a shipwrecked +seaman once again to grasp a hand of flesh and blood after years of +miserable solitude. They have the freshness of the daylight life +about them. You can hear the carters cracking their whips and +crying hoarsely to their horses or to one another; and sometimes even +a peal of healthy, harsh horse-laughter comes up to you through the +darkness. There is now an end of mystery and fear. Like +the knocking at the door in <i>Macbeth</i>, <a name="citation8"></a><a href="#footnote8">{8}</a> +or the cry of the watchman in the <i>Tour de Nesle</i>, they show that +the horrible caesura is over and the nightmares have fled away, because +the day is breaking and the ordinary life of men is beginning to bestir +itself among the streets.<br> +<br> +In the middle of it all I fell asleep, to be wakened by the officious +knocking at my door, and I find myself twelve years older than I had +dreamed myself all night.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE WREATH OF IMMORTELLES<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +It is all very well to talk of death as ‘a pleasant potion of +immortality’, but the most of us, I suspect, are of ‘queasy +stomachs,’ and find it none of the sweetest. <a name="citation9a"></a><a href="#footnote9a">{9a}</a> +The graveyard may be cloak-room to Heaven; but we must admit that it +is a very ugly and offensive vestibule in itself, however fair may be +the life to which it leads. And though Enoch and Elias went into +the temple through a gate which certainly may be called Beautiful, the +rest of us have to find our way to it through Ezekiel’s low-bowed +door and the vault full of creeping things and all manner of abominable +beasts. Nevertheless, there is a certain frame of mind to which +a cemetery is, if not an antidote, at least an alleviation. If +you are in a fit of the blues, go nowhere else. It was in obedience +to this wise regulation that the other morning found me lighting my +pipe at the entrance to Old Greyfriars’, thoroughly sick of the +town, the country, and myself.<br> +<br> +Two of the men were talking at the gate, one of them carrying a spade +in hands still crusted with the soil of graves. Their very aspect +was delightful to me; and I crept nearer to them, thinking to pick up +some snatch of sexton gossip, some ‘talk fit for a charnel,’ +<a name="citation9b"></a><a href="#footnote9b">{9b}</a> something, in +fine, worthy of that fastidious logician, that adept in coroner’s +law, who has come down to us as the patron of Yaughan’s liquor, +and the very prince of gravediggers. Scots people in general are +so much wrapped up in their profession that I had a good chance of overhearing +such conversation: the talk of fish-mongers running usually on stockfish +and haddocks; while of the Scots sexton I could repeat stories and speeches +that positively smell of the graveyard. But on this occasion I +was doomed to disappointment. My two friends were far into the +region of generalities. Their profession was forgotten in their +electorship. Politics had engulfed the narrower economy of grave-digging. +‘Na, na,’ said the one, ‘ye’re a’ wrang.’ +‘The English and Irish Churches,’ answered the other, in +a tone as if he had made the remark before, and it had been called in +question - ‘The English and Irish Churches have <i>impoverished</i> +the country.’<br> +<br> +‘Such are the results of education,’ thought I as I passed +beside them and came fairly among the tombs. Here, at least, there +were no commonplace politics, no diluted this-morning’s leader, +to distract or offend me. The old shabby church showed, as usual, +its quaint extent of roofage and the relievo skeleton on one gable, +still blackened with the fire of thirty years ago. A chill dank +mist lay over all. The Old Greyfriars’ churchyard was in +perfection that morning, and one could go round and reckon up the associations +with no fear of vulgar interruption. On this stone the Covenant +was signed. In that vault, as the story goes, John Knox took hiding +in some Reformation broil. From that window Burke the murderer +looked out many a time across the tombs, and perhaps o’ nights +let himself down over the sill to rob some new-made grave. Certainly +he would have a selection here. The very walks have been carried +over forgotten resting-places; and the whole ground is uneven, because +(as I was once quaintly told) ‘when the wood rots it stands to +reason the soil should fall in,’ which, from the law of gravitation, +is certainly beyond denial. But it is round the boundary that +there are the finest tombs. The whole irregular space is, as it +were, fringed with quaint old monuments, rich in death’s-heads +and scythes and hour-glasses, and doubly rich in pious epitaphs and +Latin mottoes - rich in them to such an extent that their proper space +has run over, and they have crawled end-long up the shafts of columns +and ensconced themselves in all sorts of odd corners among the sculpture. +These tombs raise their backs against the rabble of squalid dwelling-houses, +and every here and there a clothes-pole projects between two monuments +its fluttering trophy of white and yellow and red. With a grim +irony they recall the banners in the Invalides, banners as appropriate +perhaps over the sepulchres of tailors and weavers as these others above +the dust of armies. Why they put things out to dry on that particular +morning it was hard to imagine. The grass was grey with drops +of rain, the headstones black with moisture. Yet, in despite of +weather and common sense, there they hung between the tombs; and beyond +them I could see through open windows into miserable rooms where whole +families were born and fed, and slept and died. At one a girl +sat singing merrily with her back to the graveyard; and from another +came the shrill tones of a scolding woman. Every here and there +was a town garden full of sickly flowers, or a pile of crockery inside +upon the window-seat. But you do not grasp the full connection +between these houses of the dead and the living, the unnatural marriage +of stately sepulchres and squalid houses, till, lower down, where the +road has sunk far below the surface of the cemetery, and the very roofs +are scarcely on a level with its wall, you observe that a proprietor +has taken advantage of a tall monument and trained a chimney-stack against +its back. It startles you to see the red, modern pots peering +over the shoulder of the tomb.<br> +<br> +A man was at work on a grave, his spade clinking away the drift of bones +that permeates the thin brown soil; but my first disappointment had +taught me to expect little from Greyfriars’ sextons, and I passed +him by in silence. A slater on the slope of a neighbouring roof +eyed me curiously. A lean black cat, looking as if it had battened +on strange meats, slipped past me. A little boy at a window put +his finger to his nose in so offensive a manner that I was put upon +my dignity, and turned grandly off to read old epitaphs and peer through +the gratings into the shadow of vaults.<br> +<br> +Just then I saw two women coming down a path, one of them old, and the +other younger, with a child in her arms. Both had faces eaten +with famine and hardened with sin, and both had reached that stage of +degradation, much lower in a woman than a man, when all care for dress +is lost. As they came down they neared a grave, where some pious +friend or relative had laid a wreath of immortelles, and put a bell +glass over it, as is the custom. The effect of that ring of dull +yellow among so many blackened and dusty sculptures was more pleasant +than it is in modern cemeteries, where every second mound can boast +a similar coronal; and here, where it was the exception and not the +rule, I could even fancy the drops of moisture that dimmed the covering +were the tears of those who laid it where it was. As the two women +came up to it, one of them kneeled down on the wet grass and looked +long and silently through the clouded shade, while the second stood +above her, gently oscillating to and fro to lull the muling baby. +I was struck a great way off with something religious in the attitude +of these two unkempt and haggard women; and I drew near faster, but +still cautiously, to hear what they were saying. Surely on them +the spirit of death and decay had descended; I had no education to dread +here: should I not have a chance of seeing nature? Alas! a pawnbroker +could not have been more practical and commonplace, for this was what +the kneeling woman said to the woman upright - this and nothing more: +‘Eh, what extravagance!’<br> +<br> +O nineteenth century, wonderful art thou indeed - wonderful, but wearisome +in thy stale and deadly uniformity. Thy men are more like numerals +than men. They must bear their idiosyncrasies or their professions +written on a placard about their neck, like the scenery in Shakespeare’s +theatre. Thy precepts of economy have pierced into the lowest +ranks of life; and there is now a decorum in vice, a respectability +among the disreputable, a pure spirit of Philistinism among the waifs +and strays of thy Bohemia. For lo! thy very gravediggers talk +politics; and thy castaways kneel upon new graves, to discuss the cost +of the monument and grumble at the improvidence of love.<br> +<br> +Such was the elegant apostrophe that I made as I went out of the gates +again, happily satisfied in myself, and feeling that I alone of all +whom I had seen was able to profit by the silent poem of these green +mounds and blackened headstones.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +NURSES<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +I knew one once, and the room where, lonely and old, she waited for +death. It was pleasant enough, high up above the lane, and looking +forth upon a hill-side, covered all day with sheets and yellow blankets, +and with long lines of underclothing fluttering between the battered +posts. There were any number of cheap prints, and a drawing by +one of ‘her children,’ and there were flowers in the window, +and a sickly canary withered into consumption in an ornamental cage. +The bed, with its checked coverlid, was in a closet. A great Bible +lay on the table; and her drawers were full of ‘scones,’ +which it was her pleasure to give to young visitors such as I was then.<br> +<br> +You may not think this a melancholy picture; but the canary, and the +cat, and the white mouse that she had for a while, and that died, were +all indications of the want that ate into her heart. I think I +know a little of what that old woman felt; and I am as sure as if I +had seen her, that she sat many an hour in silent tears, with the big +Bible open before her clouded eyes.<br> +<br> +If you could look back upon her life, and feel the great chain that +had linked her to one child after another, sometimes to be wrenched +suddenly through, and sometimes, which is infinitely worse, to be torn +gradually off through years of growing neglect, or perhaps growing dislike! +She had, like the mother, overcome that natural repugnance - repugnance +which no man can conquer - towards the infirm and helpless mass of putty +of the earlier stage. She had spent her best and happiest years +in tending, watching, and learning to love like a mother this child, +with which she has no connection and to which she has no tie. +Perhaps she refused some sweetheart (such things have been), or put +him off and off, until he lost heart and turned to some one else, all +for fear of leaving this creature that had wound itself about her heart. +And the end of it all - her month’s warning, and a present perhaps, +and the rest of the life to vain regret. Or, worse still, to see +the child gradually forgetting and forsaking her, fostered in disrespect +and neglect on the plea of growing manliness, and at last beginning +to treat her as a servant whom he had treated a few years before as +a mother. She sees the Bible or the Psalm-book, which with gladness +and love unutterable in her heart she had bought for him years ago out +of her slender savings, neglected for some newer gift of his father, +lying in dust in the lumber-room or given away to a poor child, and +the act applauded for its unfeeling charity. Little wonder if +she becomes hurt and angry, and attempts to tyrannise and to grasp her +old power back again. We are not all patient Grizzels, by good +fortune, but the most of us human beings with feelings and tempers of +our own.<br> +<br> +And so, in the end, behold her in the room that I described. Very +likely and very naturally, in some fling of feverish misery or recoil +of thwarted love, she has quarrelled with her old employers and the +children are forbidden to see her or to speak to her; or at best she +gets her rent paid and a little to herself, and now and then her late +charges are sent up (with another nurse, perhaps) to pay her a short +visit. How bright these visits seem as she looks forward to them +on her lonely bed! How unsatisfactory their realisation, when +the forgetful child, half wondering, checks with every word and action +the outpouring of her maternal love! How bitter and restless the +memories that they leave behind! And for the rest, what else has +she? - to watch them with eager eyes as they go to school, to sit in +church where she can see them every Sunday, to be passed some day unnoticed +in the street, or deliberately cut because the great man or the great +woman are with friends before whom they are ashamed to recognise the +old woman that loved them.<br> +<br> +When she goes home that night, how lonely will the room appear to her! +Perhaps the neighbours may hear her sobbing to herself in the dark, +with the fire burnt out for want of fuel, and the candle still unlit +upon the table.<br> +<br> +And it is for this that they live, these quasi-mothers - mothers in +everything but the travail and the thanks. It is for this that +they have remained virtuous in youth, living the dull life of a household +servant. It is for this that they refused the old sweetheart, +and have no fireside or offspring of their own.<br> +<br> +I believe in a better state of things, that there will be no more nurses, +and that every mother will nurse her own offspring; for what can be +more hardening and demoralising than to call forth the tenderest feelings +of a woman’s heart and cherish them yourself as long as you need +them, as long as your children require a nurse to love them, and then +to blight and thwart and destroy them, whenever your own use for them +is at an end. This may be Utopian; but it is always a little thing +if one mother or two mothers can be brought to feel more tenderly to +those who share their toil and have no part in their reward.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER V - A CHARACTER<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +The man has a red, bloated face, and his figure is short and squat. +So far there is nothing in him to notice, but when you see his eyes, +you can read in these hard and shallow orbs a depravity beyond measure +depraved, a thirst after wickedness, the pure, disinterested love of +Hell for its own sake. The other night, in the street, I was watching +an omnibus passing with lit-up windows, when I heard some one coughing +at my side as though he would cough his soul out; and turning round, +I saw him stopping under a lamp, with a brown greatcoat buttoned round +him and his whole face convulsed. It seemed as if he could not +live long; and so the sight set my mind upon a train of thought, as +I finished my cigar up and down the lighted streets.<br> +<br> +He is old, but all these years have not yet quenched his thirst for +evil, and his eyes still delight themselves in wickedness. He +is dumb; but he will not let that hinder his foul trade, or perhaps +I should say, his yet fouler amusement, and he has pressed a slate into +the service of corruption. Look at him, and he will sign to you +with his bloated head, and when you go to him in answer to the sign, +thinking perhaps that the poor dumb man has lost his way, you will see +what he writes upon his slate. He haunts the doors of schools, +and shows such inscriptions as these to the innocent children that come +out. He hangs about picture-galleries, and makes the noblest pictures +the text for some silent homily of vice. His industry is a lesson +to ourselves. Is it not wonderful how he can triumph over his +infirmities and do such an amount of harm without a tongue? Wonderful +industry - strange, fruitless, pleasureless toil? Must not the +very devil feel a soft emotion to see his disinterested and laborious +service? Ah, but the devil knows better than this: he knows that +this man is penetrated with the love of evil and that all his pleasure +is shut up in wickedness: he recognises him, perhaps, as a fit type +for mankind of his satanic self, and watches over his effigy as we might +watch over a favourite likeness. As the business man comes to +love the toil, which he only looked upon at first as a ladder towards +other desires and less unnatural gratifications, so the dumb man has +felt the charm of his trade and fallen captivated before the eyes of +sin. It is a mistake when preachers tell us that vice is hideous +and loathsome; for even vice has her Hörsel and her devotees, who +love her for her own sake.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE GREAT NORTH ROAD<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER I - NANCE AT THE ‘GREEN DRAGON’<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Nance Holdaway was on her knees before the fire blowing the green wood +that voluminously smoked upon the dogs, and only now and then shot forth +a smothered flame; her knees already ached and her eyes smarted, for +she had been some while at this ungrateful task, but her mind was gone +far away to meet the coming stranger. Now she met him in the wood, +now at the castle gate, now in the kitchen by candle-light; each fresh +presentment eclipsed the one before; a form so elegant, manners so sedate, +a countenance so brave and comely, a voice so winning and resolute - +sure such a man was never seen! The thick-coming fancies poured +and brightened in her head like the smoke and flames upon the hearth.<br> +<br> +Presently the heavy foot of her uncle Jonathan was heard upon the stair, +and as he entered the room she bent the closer to her work. He +glanced at the green fagots with a sneer, and looked askance at the +bed and the white sheets, at the strip of carpet laid, like an island, +on the great expanse of the stone floor, and at the broken glazing of +the casement clumsily repaired with paper.<br> +<br> +‘Leave that fire a-be,’ he cried. ‘What, have +I toiled all my life to turn innkeeper at the hind end? Leave +it a-be, I say.’<br> +<br> +‘La, uncle, it doesn’t burn a bit; it only smokes,’ +said Nance, looking up from her position.<br> +<br> +‘You are come of decent people on both sides,’ returned +the old man. ‘Who are you to blow the coals for any Robin-run-agate? +Get up, get on your hood, make yourself useful, and be off to the “Green +Dragon.”’<br> +<br> +‘I thought you was to go yourself,’ Nance faltered.<br> +<br> +‘So did I,’ quoth Jonathan; ‘but it appears I was +mistook.’<br> +<br> +The very excess of her eagerness alarmed her, and she began to hang +back. ‘I think I would rather not, dear uncle,’ she +said. ‘Night is at hand, and I think, dear, I would rather +not.’<br> +<br> +‘Now you look here,’ replied Jonathan, ‘I have my +lord’s orders, have I not? Little he gives me, but it’s +all my livelihood. And do you fancy, if I disobey my lord, I’m +likely to turn round for a lass like you? No, I’ve that +hell-fire of pain in my old knee, I wouldn’t walk a mile, not +for King George upon his bended knees.’ And he walked to +the window and looked down the steep scarp to where the river foamed +in the bottom of the dell.<br> +<br> +Nance stayed for no more bidding. In her own room, by the glimmer +of the twilight, she washed her hands and pulled on her Sunday mittens; +adjusted her black hood, and tied a dozen times its cherry ribbons; +and in less than ten minutes, with a fluttering heart and excellently +bright eyes, she passed forth under the arch and over the bridge, into +the thickening shadows of the groves. A well-marked wheel-track +conducted her. The wood, which upon both sides of the river dell +was a mere scrambling thicket of hazel, hawthorn, and holly, boasted +on the level of more considerable timber. Beeches came to a good +growth, with here and there an oak; and the track now passed under a +high arcade of branches, and now ran under the open sky in glades. +As the girl proceeded these glades became more frequent, the trees began +again to decline in size, and the wood to degenerate into furzy coverts. +Last of all there was a fringe of elders; and beyond that the track +came forth upon an open, rolling moorland, dotted with wind-bowed and +scanty bushes, and all golden brown with the winter, like a grouse. +Right over against the girl the last red embers of the sunset burned +under horizontal clouds; the night fell clear and still and frosty, +and the track in low and marshy passages began to crackle under foot +with ice.<br> +<br> +Some half a mile beyond the borders of the wood the lights of the ‘Green +Dragon’ hove in sight, and running close beside them, very faint +in the dying dusk, the pale ribbon of the Great North Road. It +was the back of the post-house that was presented to Nance Holdaway; +and as she continued to draw near and the night to fall more completely, +she became aware of an unusual brightness and bustle. A post-chaise +stood in the yard, its lamps already lighted: light shone hospitably +in the windows and from the open door; moving lights and shadows testified +to the activity of servants bearing lanterns. The clank of pails, +the stamping of hoofs on the firm causeway, the jingle of harness, and, +last of all, the energetic hissing of a groom, began to fall upon her +ear. By the stir you would have thought the mail was at the door, +but it was still too early in the night. The down mail was not +due at the ‘Green Dragon’ for hard upon an hour; the up +mail from Scotland not before two in the black morning.<br> +<br> +Nance entered the yard somewhat dazzled. Sam, the tall ostler, +was polishing a curb-chain wit sand; the lantern at his feet letting +up spouts of candle-light through the holes with which its conical roof +was peppered.<br> +<br> +‘Hey, miss,’ said he jocularly, ‘you won’t look +at me any more, now you have gentry at the castle.’<br> +<br> +Her cheeks burned with anger.<br> +<br> +‘That’s my lord’s chay,’ the man continued, +nodding at the chaise, ‘Lord Windermoor’s. Came all +in a fluster - dinner, bowl of punch, and put the horses to. For all +the world like a runaway match, my dear - bar the bride. He brought +Mr. Archer in the chay with him.’<br> +<br> +‘Is that Holdaway?’ cried the landlord from the lighted +entry, where he stood shading his eyes.<br> +<br> +‘Only me, sir,’ answered Nance.<br> +<br> +‘O, you, Miss Nance,’ he said. ‘Well, come in +quick, my pretty. My lord is waiting for your uncle.’<br> +<br> +And he ushered Nance into a room cased with yellow wainscot and lighted +by tall candles, where two gentlemen sat at a table finishing a bowl +of punch. One of these was stout, elderly, and irascible, with +a face like a full moon, well dyed with liquor, thick tremulous lips, +a short, purple hand, in which he brandished a long pipe, and an abrupt +and gobbling utterance. This was my Lord Windermoor. In +his companion Nance beheld a younger man, tall, quiet, grave, demurely +dressed, and wearing his own hair. Her glance but lighted on him, +and she flushed, for in that second she made sure that she had twice +betrayed herself - betrayed by the involuntary flash of her black eyes +her secret impatience to behold this new companion, and, what was far +worse, betrayed her disappointment in the realisation of her dreams. +He, meanwhile, as if unconscious, continued to regard her with unmoved +decorum.<br> +<br> +‘O, a man of wood,’ thought Nance.<br> +<br> +‘What - what?’ said his lordship. ‘Who is this?’<br> +<br> +‘If you please, my lord, I am Holdaway’s niece,’ replied +Nance, with a curtsey.<br> +<br> +‘Should have been here himself,’ observed his lordship. +‘Well, you tell Holdaway that I’m aground, not a stiver +- not a stiver. I’m running from the beagles - going abroad, +tell Holdaway. And he need look for no more wages: glad of ’em +myself, if I could get ’em. He can live in the castle if +he likes, or go to the devil. O, and here is Mr. Archer; and I +recommend him to take him in - a friend of mine - and Mr. Archer will +pay, as I wrote. And I regard that in the light of a precious +good thing for Holdaway, let me tell you, and a set-off against the +wages.’<br> +<br> +‘But O, my lord!’ cried Nance, ‘we live upon the wages, +and what are we to do without?’<br> +<br> +‘What am I to do? - what am I to do?’ replied Lord Windermoor +with some exasperation. ‘I have no wages. And there +is Mr. Archer. And if Holdaway doesn’t like it, he can go +to the devil, and you with him! - and you with him!’<br> +<br> +‘And yet, my lord,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘these good people +will have as keen a sense of loss as you or I; keener, perhaps, since +they have done nothing to deserve it.’<br> +<br> +‘Deserve it?’ cried the peer. ‘What? What? +If a rascally highwayman comes up to me with a confounded pistol, do +you say that I’ve deserved it? How often am I to tell you, +sir, that I was cheated - that I was cheated?’<br> +<br> +‘You are happy in the belief,’ returned Mr. Archer gravely.<br> +<br> +‘Archer, you would be the death of me!’ exclaimed his lordship. +‘You know you’re drunk; you know it, sir; and yet you can’t +get up a spark of animation.’<br> +<br> +‘I have drunk fair, my lord,’ replied the younger man; ‘but +I own I am conscious of no exhilaration.’<br> +<br> +‘If you had as black a look-out as me, sir,’ cried the peer, +‘you would be very glad of a little innocent exhilaration, let +me tell you. I am glad of it - glad of it, and I only wish I was +drunker. For let me tell you it’s a cruel hard thing upon +a man of my time of life and my position, to be brought down to beggary +because the world is full of thieves and rascals - thieves and rascals. +What? For all I know, you may be a thief and a rascal yourself; +and I would fight you for a pinch of snuff - a pinch of snuff,’ +exclaimed his lordship.<br> +<br> +Here Mr. Archer turned to Nance Holdaway with a pleasant smile, so full +of sweetness, kindness, and composure that, at one bound, her dreams +returned to her. ‘My good Miss Holdaway,’ said he, +‘if you are willing to show me the road, I am even eager to be +gone. As for his lordship and myself, compose yourself; there +is no fear; this is his lordship’s way.’<br> +<br> +‘What? what?’ cried his lordship. ‘My way? +Ish no such a thing, my way.’<br> +<br> +‘Come, my lord,’ cried Archer; ‘you and I very thoroughly +understand each other; and let me suggest, it is time that both of us +were gone. The mail will soon be due. Here, then, my lord, +I take my leave of you, with the most earnest assurance of my gratitude +for the past, and a sincere offer of any services I may be able to render +in the future.’<br> +<br> +‘Archer,’ exclaimed Lord Windermoor, ‘I love you like +a son. Le’ ’s have another bowl.’<br> +<br> +‘My lord, for both our sakes, you will excuse me,’ replied +Mr. Archer. ‘We both require caution; we must both, for +some while at least, avoid the chance of a pursuit.’<br> +<br> +‘Archer,’ quoth his lordship, ‘this is a rank ingratishood. +What? I’m to go firing away in the dark in the cold po’chaise, +and not so much as a game of écarté possible, unless I +stop and play with the postillion, the postillion; and the whole country +swarming with thieves and rascals and highwaymen.’<br> +<br> +‘I beg your lordship’s pardon,’ put in the landlord, +who now appeared in the doorway to announce the chaise, ‘but this +part of the North Road is known for safety. There has not been +a robbery, to call a robbery, this five years’ time. Further +south, of course, it’s nearer London, and another story,’ +he added.<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, if that’s so,’ concluded my lord, ‘le’ +’s have t’other bowl and a pack of cards.’<br> +<br> +‘My lord, you forget,’ said Archer, ‘I might still +gain; but it is hardly possible for me to lose.’<br> +<br> +‘Think I’m a sharper?’ inquired the peer. ‘Gen’leman’s +parole’s all I ask.’<br> +<br> +But Mr. Archer was proof against these blandishments, and said farewell +gravely enough to Lord Windermoor, shaking his hand and at the same +time bowing very low. ‘You will never know,’ says +he, ‘the service you have done me.’ And with that, +and before my lord had finally taken up his meaning, he had slipped +about the table, touched Nance lightly but imperiously on the arm, and +left the room. In face of the outbreak of his lordship’s +lamentations she made haste to follow the truant.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER II - IN WHICH MR. ARCHER IS INSTALLED<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +The chaise had been driven round to the front door; the courtyard lay +all deserted, and only lit by a lantern set upon a window-sill. +Through this Nance rapidly led the way, and began to ascend the swellings +of the moor with a heart that somewhat fluttered in her bosom. +She was not afraid, but in the course of these last passages with Lord +Windermoor Mr. Archer had ascended to that pedestal on which her fancy +waited to instal him. The reality, she felt, excelled her dreams, +and this cold night walk was the first romantic incident in her experience.<br> +<br> +It was the rule in these days to see gentlemen unsteady after dinner, +yet Nance was both surprised and amused when her companion, who had +spoken so soberly, began to stumble and waver by her side with the most +airy divagations. Sometimes he would get so close to her that +she must edge away; and at others lurch clear out of the track and plough +among deep heather. His courtesy and gravity meanwhile remained +unaltered. He asked her how far they had to go; whether the way +lay all upon the moorland, and when he learned they had to pass a wood +expressed his pleasure. ‘For,’ said he, ‘I am +passionately fond of trees. Trees and fair lawns, if you consider +of it rightly, are the ornaments of nature, as palaces and fine approaches +- ’ And here he stumbled into a patch of slough and nearly +fell. The girl had hard work not to laugh, but at heart she was +lost in admiration for one who talked so elegantly.<br> +<br> +They had got to about a quarter of a mile from the ‘Green Dragon,’ +and were near the summit of the rise, when a sudden rush of wheels arrested +them. Turning and looking back, they saw the post-house, now much +declined in brightness; and speeding away northward the two tremulous +bright dots of my Lord Windermoor’s chaise-lamps. Mr. Archer +followed these yellow and unsteady stars until they dwindled into points +and disappeared.<br> +<br> +‘There goes my only friend,’ he said. ‘Death +has cut off those that loved me, and change of fortune estranged my +flatterers; and but for you, poor bankrupt, my life is as lonely as +this moor.’<br> +<br> +The tone of his voice affected both of them. They stood there +on the side of the moor, and became thrillingly conscious of the void +waste of the night, without a feature for the eye, and except for the +fainting whisper of the carriage-wheels without a murmur for the ear. +And instantly, like a mockery, there broke out, very far away, but clear +and jolly, the note of the mail-guard’s horn. ‘Over +the hills’ was his air. It rose to the two watchers on the +moor with the most cheerful sentiment of human company and travel, and +at the same time in and around the ‘Green Dragon’ it woke +up a great bustle of lights running to and fro and clattering hoofs. +Presently after, out of the darkness to southward, the mail grew near +with a growing rumble. Its lamps were very large and bright, and +threw their radiance forward in overlapping cones; the four cantering +horses swarmed and steamed; the body of the coach followed like a great +shadow; and this lit picture slid with a sort of ineffectual swiftness +over the black field of night, and was eclipsed by the buildings of +the ‘Green Dragon.’<br> +<br> +Mr. Archer turned abruptly and resumed his former walk; only that he +was now more steady, kept better alongside his young conductor, and +had fallen into a silence broken by sighs. Nance waxed very pitiful +over his fate, contrasting an imaginary past of courts and great society, +and perhaps the King himself, with the tumbledown ruin in a wood to +which she was now conducting him.<br> +<br> +‘You must try, sir, to keep your spirits up,’ said she. +‘To be sure this is a great change for one like you; but who knows +the future?’<br> +<br> +Mr. Archer turned towards her in the darkness, and she could clearly +perceive that he smiled upon her very kindly. ‘There spoke +a sweet nature,’ said he, ‘and I must thank you for these +words. But I would not have you fancy that I regret the past for +any happiness found in it, or that I fear the simplicity and hardship +of the country. I am a man that has been much tossed about in +life; now up, now down; and do you think that I shall not be able to +support what you support - you who are kind, and therefore know how +to feel pain; who are beautiful, and therefore hope; who are young, +and therefore (or am I the more mistaken?) discontented?’<br> +<br> +‘Nay, sir, not that, at least,’ said Nance; ‘not discontented. +If I were to be discontented, how should I look those that have real +sorrows in the face? I have faults enough, but not that fault; +and I have my merits too, for I have a good opinion of myself. +But for beauty, I am not so simple but that I can tell a banter from +a compliment.’<br> +<br> +‘Nay, nay,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘I had half forgotten; +grief is selfish, and I was thinking of myself and not of you, or I +had never blurted out so bold a piece of praise. ’Tis the +best proof of my sincerity. But come, now, I would lay a wager +you are no coward?’<br> +<br> +‘Indeed, sir, I am not more afraid than another,’ said Nance. +‘None of my blood are given to fear.’<br> +<br> +‘And you are honest?’ he returned.<br> +<br> +‘I will answer for that,’ said she.<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, to be brave, to be honest, to be kind, and to be +contented, since you say you are so - is not that to fill up a great +part of virtue?’<br> +<br> +‘I fear you are but a flatterer,’ said Nance, but she did +not say it clearly, for what with bewilderment and satisfaction, her +heart was quite oppressed.<br> +<br> +There could be no harm, certainly, in these grave compliments; but yet +they charmed and frightened her, and to find favour, for reasons however +obscure, in the eyes of this elegant, serious, and most unfortunate +young gentleman, was a giddy elevation, was almost an apotheosis, for +a country maid.<br> +<br> +But she was to be no more exercised; for Mr. Archer, disclaiming any +thought of flattery, turned off to other subjects, and held her all +through the wood in conversation, addressing her with an air of perfect +sincerity, and listening to her answers with every mark of interest. +Had open flattery continued, Nance would have soon found refuge in good +sense; but the more subtle lure she could not suspect, much less avoid. +It was the first time she had ever taken part in a conversation illuminated +by any ideas. All was then true that she had heard and dreamed +of gentlemen; they were a race apart, like deities knowing good and +evil. And then there burst upon her soul a divine thought, hope’s +glorious sunrise: since she could understand, since it seemed that she +too, even she, could interest this sorrowful Apollo, might she not learn? +or was she not learning? Would not her soul awake and put forth +wings? Was she not, in fact, an enchanted princess, waiting but +a touch to become royal? She saw herself transformed, radiantly +attired, but in the most exquisite taste: her face grown longer and +more refined; her tint etherealised; and she heard herself with delighted +wonder talking like a book.<br> +<br> +Meanwhile they had arrived at where the track comes out above the river +dell, and saw in front of them the castle, faintly shadowed on the night, +covering with its broken battlements a bold projection of the bank, +and showing at the extreme end, where were the habitable tower and wing, +some crevices of candle-light. Hence she called loudly upon her +uncle, and he was seen to issue, lantern in hand, from the tower door, +and, where the ruins did not intervene, to pick his way over the swarded +courtyard, avoiding treacherous cellars and winding among blocks of +fallen masonry. The arch of the great gate was still entire, flanked +by two tottering bastions, and it was here that Jonathan met them, standing +at the edge of the bridge, bent somewhat forward, and blinking at them +through the glow of his own lantern. Mr. Archer greeted him with +civility; but the old man was in no humour of compliance. He guided +the newcomer across the court-yard, looking sharply and quickly in his +face, and grumbling all the time about the cold, and the discomfort +and dilapidation of the castle. He was sure he hoped that Mr. +Archer would like it; but in truth he could not think what brought him +there. Doubtless he had a good reason - this with a look of cunning +scrutiny - but, indeed, the place was quite unfit for any person of +repute; he himself was eaten up with the rheumatics. It was the +most rheumaticky place in England, and some fine day the whole habitable +part (to call it habitable) would fetch away bodily and go down the +slope into the river. He had seen the cracks widening; there was +a plaguy issue in the bank below; he thought a spring was mining it; +it might be to-morrow, it might be next day; but they were all sure +of a come-down sooner or later. ‘And that is a poor death,’ +said he, ‘for any one, let alone a gentleman, to have a whole +old ruin dumped upon his belly. Have a care to your left there; +these cellar vaults have all broke down, and the grass and hemlock hide +’em. Well, sir, here is welcome to you, such as it is, and +wishing you well away.’<br> +<br> +And with that Jonathan ushered his guest through the tower door, and +down three steps on the left hand into the kitchen or common room of +the castle. It was a huge, low room, as large as a meadow, occupying +the whole width of the habitable wing, with six barred windows looking +on the court, and two into the river valley. A dresser, a table, +and a few chairs stood dotted here and there upon the uneven flags. +Under the great chimney a good fire burned in an iron fire-basket; a +high old settee, rudely carved with figures and Gothic lettering, flanked +it on either side; there was a hinge table and a stone bench in the +chimney corner, and above the arch hung guns, axes, lanterns, and great +sheaves of rusty keys.<br> +<br> +Jonathan looked about him, holding up the lantern, and shrugged his +shoulders, with a pitying grimace. ‘Here it is,’ he +said. ‘See the damp on the floor, look at the moss; where +there’s moss you may be sure that it’s rheumaticky. +Try and get near that fire for to warm yourself; it’ll blow the +coat off your back. And with a young gentleman with a face like +yours, as pale as a tallow-candle, I’d be afeard of a churchyard +cough and a galloping decline,’ says Jonathan, naming the maladies +with gloomy gusto, ‘or the cold might strike and turn your blood,’ +he added.<br> +<br> +Mr. Archer fairly laughed. ‘My good Mr. Holdaway,’ +said he, ‘I was born with that same tallow-candle face, and the +only fear that you inspire me with is the fear that I intrude unwelcomely +upon your private hours. But I think I can promise you that I +am very little troublesome, and I am inclined to hope that the terms +which I can offer may still pay you the derangement.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, the terms,’ said Jonathan, ‘I was thinking of +that. As you say, they are very small,’ and he shook his +head.<br> +<br> +‘Unhappily, I can afford no more,’ said Mr. Archer. +‘But this we have arranged already,’ he added with a certain +stiffness; ‘and as I am aware that Miss Holdaway has matter to +communicate, I will, if you permit, retire at once. To-night I +must bivouac; to-morrow my trunk is to follow from the “Dragon.” +So if you will show me to my room I shall wish you a good slumber and +a better awakening.’<br> +<br> +Jonathan silently gave the lantern to Nance, and she, turning and curtseying +in the doorway, proceeded to conduct their guest up the broad winding +staircase of the tower. He followed with a very brooding face.<br> +<br> +‘Alas!’ cried Nance, as she entered the room, ‘your +fire black out,’ and, setting down the lantern, she clapped upon +her knees before the chimney and began to rearrange the charred and +still smouldering remains. Mr. Archer looked about the gaunt apartment +with a sort of shudder. The great height, the bare stone, the +shattered windows, the aspect of the uncurtained bed, with one of its +four fluted columns broken short, all struck a chill upon his fancy. +From this dismal survey his eyes returned to Nance crouching before +the fire, the candle in one hand and artfully puffing at the embers; +the flames as they broke forth played upon the soft outline of her cheek +- she was alive and young, coloured with the bright hues of life, and +a woman. He looked upon her, softening; and then sat down and +continued to admire the picture.<br> +<br> +‘There, sir,’ said she, getting upon her feet, ‘your +fire is doing bravely now. Good-night.’<br> +<br> +He rose and held out his hand. ‘Come,’ said he, ‘you +are my only friend in these parts, and you must shake hands.’<br> +<br> +She brushed her hand upon her skirt and offered it, blushing.<br> +<br> +‘God bless you, my dear,’ said he.<br> +<br> +And then, when he was alone, he opened one of the windows, and stared +down into the dark valley. A gentle wimpling of the river among +stones ascended to his ear; the trees upon the other bank stood very +black against the sky; farther away an owl was hooting. It was +dreary and cold, and as he turned back to the hearth and the fine glow +of fire, ‘Heavens!’ said he to himself, ‘what an unfortunate +destiny is mine!’<br> +<br> +He went to bed, but sleep only visited his pillow in uneasy snatches. +Outbreaks of loud speech came up the staircase; he heard the old stones +of the castle crack in the frosty night with sharp reverberations, and +the bed complained under his tossings. Lastly, far on into the +morning, he awakened from a doze to hear, very far off, in the extreme +and breathless quiet, a wailing flourish on the horn. The down +mail was drawing near to the ‘Green Dragon.’ He sat +up in bed; the sound was tragical by distance, and the modulation appealed +to his ear like human speech. It seemed to call upon him with +a dreary insistence - to call him far away, to address him personally, +and to have a meaning that he failed to seize. It was thus, at +least, in this nodding castle, in a cold, miry woodland, and so far +from men and society, that the traffic on the Great North Road spoke +to him in the intervals of slumber.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER III - JONATHAN HOLDAWAY<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Nance descended the tower stair, pausing at every step. She was +in no hurry to confront her uncle with bad news, and she must dwell +a little longer on the rich note of Mr. Archer’s voice, the charm +of his kind words, and the beauty of his manner and person. But, +once at the stair-foot, she threw aside the spell and recovered her +sensible and workaday self.<br> +<br> +Jonathan was seated in the middle of the settle, a mug of ale beside +him, in the attitude of one prepared for trouble; but he did not speak, +and suffered her to fetch her supper and eat of it, with a very excellent +appetite, in silence. When she had done, she, too, drew a tankard +of home-brewed, and came and planted herself in front of him upon the +settle.<br> +<br> +‘Well?’ said Jonathan.<br> +<br> +‘My lord has run away,’ said Nance.<br> +<br> +‘What?’ cried the old man.<br> +<br> +‘Abroad,’ she continued; ‘run away from creditors. +He said he had not a stiver, but he was drunk enough. He said +you might live on in the castle, and Mr. Archer would pay you; but you +was to look for no more wages, since he would be glad of them himself.’<br> +<br> +Jonathan’s face contracted; the flush of a black, bilious anger +mounted to the roots of his hair; he gave an inarticulate cry, leapt +upon his feet, and began rapidly pacing the stone floor. At first +he kept his hands behind his back in a tight knot; then he began to +gesticulate as he turned.<br> +<br> +‘This man - this lord,’ he shouted, ‘who is he? +He was born with a gold spoon in his mouth, and I with a dirty straw. +He rolled in his coach when he was a baby. I have dug and toiled +and laboured since I was that high - that high.’ And he +shouted again. ‘I’m bent and broke, and full of pains. +D’ ye think I don’t know the taste of sweat? Many’s +the gallon I’ve drunk of it - ay, in the midwinter, toiling like +a slave. All through, what has my life been? Bend, bend, +bend my old creaking back till it would ache like breaking; wade about +in the foul mire, never a dry stitch; empty belly, sore hands, hat off +to my Lord Redface; kicks and ha’pence; and now, here, at the +hind end, when I’m worn to my poor bones, a kick and done with +it.’ He walked a little while in silence, and then, extending +his hand, ‘Now you, Nance Holdaway,’ says he, ‘you +come of my blood, and you’re a good girl. When that man +was a boy, I used to carry his gun for him. I carried the gun +all day on my two feet, and many a stitch I had, and chewed a bullet +for. He rode upon a horse, with feathers in his hat; but it was +him that had the shots and took the game home. Did I complain? +Not I. I knew my station. What did I ask, but just the chance +to live and die honest? Nance Holdaway, don’t let them deny +it to me - don’t let them do it. I’ve been as poor +as Job, and as honest as the day, but now, my girl, you mark these words +of mine, I’m getting tired of it.’<br> +<br> +‘I wouldn’t say such words, at least,’ said Nance.<br> +<br> +‘You wouldn’t?’ said the old man grimly. ‘Well, +and did I when I was your age? Wait till your back’s broke +and your hands tremble, and your eyes fail, and you’re weary of +the battle and ask no more but to lie down in your bed and give the +ghost up like an honest man; and then let there up and come some insolent, +ungodly fellow - ah! if I had him in these hands! “Where’s +my money that you gambled?” I should say. “Where’s +my money that you drank and diced?” “Thief!” +is what I would say; “Thief!”’ he roared, ‘“Thief”’<br> +<br> +‘Mr. Archer will hear you if you don’t take care,’ +said Nance, ‘and I would be ashamed, for one, that he should hear +a brave, old, honest, hard-working man like Jonathan Holdaway talk nonsense +like a boy.’<br> +<br> +‘D’ ye think I mind for Mr. Archer?’ he cried shrilly, +with a clack of laughter; and then he came close up to her, stooped +down with his two palms upon his knees, and looked her in the eyes, +with a strange hard expression, something like a smile. ‘Do +I mind for God, my girl?’ he said; ‘that’s what it’s +come to be now, do I mind for God?’<br> +<br> +‘Uncle Jonathan,’ she said, getting up and taking him by +the arm; ‘you sit down again, where you were sitting. There, +sit still; I’ll have no more of this; you’ll do yourself +a mischief. Come, take a drink of this good ale, and I’ll +warm a tankard for you. La, we’ll pull through, you’ll +see. I’m young, as you say, and it’s my turn to carry +the bundle; and don’t you worry your bile, or we’ll have +sickness, too, as well as sorrow.’<br> +<br> +‘D’ ye think that I’d forgotten you?’ said Jonathan, +with something like a groan; and thereupon his teeth clicked to, and +he sat silent with the tankard in his hand and staring straight before +him.<br> +<br> +‘Why,’ says Nance, setting on the ale to mull, ‘men +are always children, they say, however old; and if ever I heard a thing +like this, to set to and make yourself sick, just when the money’s +failing. Keep a good heart up; you haven’t kept a good heart +these seventy years, nigh hand, to break down about a pound or two. +Here’s this Mr. Archer come to lodge, that you disliked so much. +Well, now you see it was a clear Providence. Come, let’s +think upon our mercies. And here is the ale mulling lovely; smell +of it; I’ll take a drop myself, it smells so sweet. And, +Uncle Jonathan, you let me say one word. You’ve lost more +than money before now; you lost my aunt, and bore it like a man. +Bear this.’<br> +<br> +His face once more contracted; his fist doubled, and shot forth into +the air, and trembled. ‘Let them look out!’ he shouted. +‘Here, I warn all men; I’ve done with this foul kennel of +knaves. Let them look out!’<br> +<br> +‘Hush, hush! for pity’s sake,’ cried Nance.<br> +<br> +And then all of a sudden he dropped his face into his hands, and broke +out with a great hiccoughing dry sob that was horrible to hear. +‘O,’ he cried, ‘my God, if my son hadn’t left +me, if my Dick was here!’ and the sobs shook him; Nance sitting +still and watching him, with distress. ‘O, if he were here +to help his father!’ he went on again. ‘If I had a +son like other fathers, he would save me now, when all is breaking down; +O, he would save me! Ay, but where is he? Raking taverns, +a thief perhaps. My curse be on him!’ he added, rising again +into wrath.<br> +<br> +‘Hush!’ cried Nance, springing to her feet: ‘your +boy, your dead wife’s boy - Aunt Susan’s baby that she loved +- would you curse him? O, God forbid!’<br> +<br> +The energy of her address surprised him from his mood. He looked +upon her, tearless and confused. ‘Let me go to my bed,’ +he said at last, and he rose, and, shaking as with ague, but quite silent, +lighted his candle, and left the kitchen.<br> +<br> +Poor Nance! the pleasant current of her dreams was all diverted. +She beheld a golden city, where she aspired to dwell; she had spoken +with a deity, and had told herself that she might rise to be his equal; +and now the earthly ligaments that bound her down had been tightened. +She was like a tree looking skyward, her roots were in the ground. +It seemed to her a thing so coarse, so rustic, to be thus concerned +about a loss in money; when Mr. Archer, fallen from the sky-level of +counts and nobles, faced his changed destiny with so immovable a courage. +To weary of honesty; that, at least, no one could do, but even to name +it was already a disgrace; and she beheld in fancy her uncle, and the +young lad, all laced and feathered, hand upon hip, bestriding his small +horse. The opposition seemed to perpetuate itself from generation +to generation; one side still doomed to the clumsy and the servile, +the other born to beauty.<br> +<br> +She thought of the golden zones in which gentlemen were bred, and figured +with so excellent a grace; zones in which wisdom and smooth words, white +linen and slim hands, were the mark of the desired inhabitants; where +low temptations were unknown, and honesty no virtue, but a thing as +natural as breathing.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER IV - MINGLING THREADS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +It was nearly seven before Mr. Archer left his apartment. On the +landing he found another door beside his own opening on a roofless corridor, +and presently he was walking on the top of the ruins. On one hand +he could look down a good depth into the green court-yard; on the other +his eye roved along the downward course of the river, the wet woods +all smoking, the shadows long and blue, the mists golden and rosy in +the sun, here and there the water flashing across an obstacle. +His heart expanded and softened to a grateful melancholy, and with his +eye fixed upon the distance, and no thought of present danger, he continued +to stroll along the elevated and treacherous promenade.<br> +<br> +A terror-stricken cry rose to him from the courtyard. He looked +down, and saw in a glimpse Nance standing below with hands clasped in +horror and his own foot trembling on the margin of a gulf. He +recoiled and leant against a pillar, quaking from head to foot, and +covering his face with his hands; and Nance had time to run round by +the stair and rejoin him where he stood before he had changed a line +of his position.<br> +<br> +‘Ah!’ he cried, and clutched her wrist; ‘don’t +leave me. The place rocks; I have no head for altitudes.’<br> +<br> +‘Sit down against that pillar,’ said Nance. ‘Don’t +you be afraid; I won’t leave you, and don’t look up or down: +look straight at me. How white you are!’<br> +<br> +‘The gulf,’ he said, and closed his eyes again and shuddered.<br> +<br> +‘Why,’ said Nance, ‘what a poor climber you must be! +That was where my cousin Dick used to get out of the castle after Uncle +Jonathan had shut the gate. I’ve been down there myself +with him helping me. I wouldn’t try with you,’ she +said, and laughed merrily.<br> +<br> +The sound of her laughter was sincere and musical, and perhaps its beauty +barbed the offence to Mr. Archer. The blood came into his face +with a quick jet, and then left it paler than before. ‘It +is a physical weakness,’ he said harshly, ‘and very droll, +no doubt, but one that I can conquer on necessity. See, I am still +shaking. Well, I advance to the battlements and look down. +Show me your cousin’s path.’<br> +<br> +‘He would go sure-foot along that little ledge,’ said Nance, +pointing as she spoke; ‘then out through the breach and down by +yonder buttress. It is easier coming back, of course, because +you see where you are going. From the buttress foot a sheep-walk +goes along the scarp - see, you can follow it from here in the dry grass. +And now, sir,’ she added, with a touch of womanly pity, ‘I +would come away from here if I were you, for indeed you are not fit.’<br> +<br> +Sure enough Mr. Archer’s pallor and agitation had continued to +increase; his cheeks were deathly, his clenched fingers trembled pitifully. +‘The weakness is physical,’ he sighed, and had nearly fallen. +Nance led him from the spot, and he was no sooner back in the tower-stair, +than he fell heavily against the wall and put his arm across his eyes. +A cup of brandy had to be brought him before he could descend to breakfast; +and the perfection of Nance’s dream was for the first time troubled.<br> +<br> +Jonathan was waiting for them at table, with yellow, blood-shot eyes +and a peculiar dusky complexion. He hardly waited till they found +their seats, before, raising one hand, and stooping with his mouth above +his plate, he put up a prayer for a blessing on the food and a spirit +of gratitude in the eaters, and thereupon, and without more civility, +fell to. But it was notable that he was no less speedily satisfied +than he had been greedy to begin. He pushed his plate away and +drummed upon the table.<br> +<br> +‘These are silly prayers,’ said he, ‘that they teach +us. Eat and be thankful, that’s no such wonder. Speak +to me of starving - there’s the touch. You’re a man, +they tell me, Mr. Archer, that has met with some reverses?’<br> +<br> +‘I have met with many,’ replied Mr. Archer.<br> +<br> +‘Ha!’ said Jonathan. ‘None reckons but the last. +Now, see; I tried to make this girl here understand me.’<br> +<br> +‘Uncle,’ said Nance, ‘what should Mr. Archer care +for your concerns? He hath troubles of his own, and came to be +at peace, I think.’<br> +<br> +‘I tried to make her understand me,’ repeated Jonathan doggedly; +‘and now I’ll try you. Do you think this world is +fair?’<br> +<br> +‘Fair and false!’ quoth Mr. Archer.<br> +<br> +The old man laughed immoderately. ‘Good,’ said he, +‘very good, but what I mean is this: do you know what it is to +get up early and go to bed late, and never take so much as a holiday +but four: and one of these your own marriage day, and the other three +the funerals of folk you loved, and all that, to have a quiet old age +in shelter, and bread for your old belly, and a bed to lay your crazy +bones upon, with a clear conscience?’<br> +<br> +‘Sir,’ said Mr. Archer, with an inclination of his head, +‘you portray a very brave existence.’<br> +<br> +‘Well,’ continued Jonathan, ‘and in the end thieves +deceive you, thieves rob and rook you, thieves turn you out in your +old age and send you begging. What have you got for all your honesty? +A fine return! You that might have stole scores of pounds, there +you are out in the rain with your rheumatics!’<br> +<br> +Mr. Archer had forgotten to eat; with his hand upon his chin he was +studying the old man’s countenance. ‘And you conclude?’ +he asked.<br> +<br> +‘Conclude!’ cried Jonathan. ‘I conclude I’ll +be upsides with them.’<br> +<br> +‘Ay,’ said the other, ‘we are all tempted to revenge.’<br> +<br> +‘You have lost money?’ asked Jonathan.<br> +<br> +‘A great estate,’ said Archer quietly.<br> +<br> +‘See now!’ says Jonathan, ‘and where is it?’<br> +<br> +‘Nay, I sometimes think that every one has had his share of it +but me,’ was the reply. ‘All England hath paid his +taxes with my patrimony: I was a sheep that left my wool on every briar.’<br> +<br> +‘And you sit down under that?’ cried the old man. +‘Come now, Mr. Archer, you and me belong to different stations; +and I know mine - no man better - but since we have both been rooked, +and are both sore with it, why, here’s my hand with a very good +heart, and I ask for yours, and no offence, I hope.’<br> +<br> +‘There is surely no offence, my friend,’ returned Mr. Archer, +as they shook hands across the table; ‘for, believe me, my sympathies +are quite acquired to you. This life is an arena where we fight +with beasts; and, indeed,’ he added, sighing, ‘I sometimes +marvel why we go down to it unarmed.’<br> +<br> +In the meanwhile a creaking of ungreased axles had been heard descending +through the wood; and presently after, the door opened, and the tall +ostler entered the kitchen carrying one end of Mr. Archer’s trunk. +The other was carried by an aged beggar man of that district, known +and welcome for some twenty miles about under the name of ‘Old +Cumberland.’ Each was soon perched upon a settle, with a +cup of ale; and the ostler, who valued himself upon his affability, +began to entertain the company, still with half an eye on Nance, to +whom in gallant terms he expressly dedicated every sip of ale. +First he told of the trouble they had to get his Lordship started in +the chaise; and how he had dropped a rouleau of gold on the threshold, +and the passage and doorstep had been strewn with guinea-pieces. +At this old Jonathan looked at Mr. Archer. Next the visitor turned +to news of a more thrilling character: how the down mail had been stopped +again near Grantham by three men on horseback - a white and two bays; +how they had handkerchiefs on their faces; how Tom the guard’s +blunderbuss missed fire, but he swore he had winged one of them with +a pistol; and how they had got clean away with seventy pounds in money, +some valuable papers, and a watch or two.<br> +<br> +‘Brave! brave!’ cried Jonathan in ecstasy. ‘Seventy +pounds! O, it’s brave!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I don’t see the great bravery,’ observed the +ostler, misapprehending him. ‘Three men, and you may call +that three to one. I’ll call it brave when some one stops +the mail single-handed; that’s a risk.’<br> +<br> +‘And why should they hesitate?’ inquired Mr. Archer. +‘The poor souls who are fallen to such a way of life, pray what +have they to lose? If they get the money, well; but if a ball +should put them from their troubles, why, so better.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, sir,’ said the ostler, ‘I believe you’ll +find they won’t agree with you. They count on a good fling, +you see; or who would risk it? - And here’s my best respects to +you, Miss Nance.’<br> +<br> +‘And I forgot the part of cowardice,’ resumed Mr. Archer. +‘All men fear.’<br> +<br> +‘O, surely not!’ cried Nance.<br> +<br> +‘All men,’ reiterated Mr. Archer.<br> +<br> +‘Ay, that’s a true word,’ observed Old Cumberland, +‘and a thief, anyway, for it’s a coward’s trade.’<br> +<br> +‘But these fellows, now,’ said Jonathan, with a curious, +appealing manner - ‘these fellows with their seventy pounds! +Perhaps, Mr. Archer, they were no true thieves after all, but just people +who had been robbed and tried to get their own again. What was +that you said, about all England and the taxes? One takes, another +gives; why, that’s almost fair. If I’ve been rooked +and robbed, and the coat taken off my back, I call it almost fair to +take another’s.’<br> +<br> +‘Ask Old Cumberland,’ observed the ostler; ‘you ask +Old Cumberland, Miss Nance!’ and he bestowed a wink upon his favoured +fair one.<br> +<br> +‘Why that?’ asked Jonathan.<br> +<br> +‘He had his coat taken - ay, and his shirt too,’ returned +the ostler.<br> +<br> +‘Is that so?’ cried Jonathan eagerly. ‘Was you +robbed too?’<br> +<br> +‘That was I,’ replied Cumberland, ‘with a warrant! +I was a well-to-do man when I was young.’<br> +<br> +‘Ay! See that!’ says Jonathan. ‘And you +don’t long for a revenge?’<br> +<br> +‘Eh! Not me!’ answered the beggar. ‘It’s +too long ago. But if you’ll give me another mug of your +good ale, my pretty lady, I won’t say no to that.’<br> +<br> +‘And shalt have! And shalt have!’ cried Jonathan. +‘Or brandy even, if you like it better.’<br> +<br> +And as Cumberland did like it better, and the ostler chimed in, the +party pledged each other in a dram of brandy before separating.<br> +<br> +As for Nance, she slipped forth into the ruins, partly to avoid the +ostler’s gallantries, partly to lament over the defects of Mr. +Archer. Plainly, he was no hero. She pitied him; she began +to feel a protecting interest mingle with and almost supersede her admiration, +and was at the same time disappointed and yet drawn to him. She +was, indeed, conscious of such unshaken fortitude in her own heart, +that she was almost tempted by an occasion to be bold for two. +She saw herself, in a brave attitude, shielding her imperfect hero from +the world; and she saw, like a piece of heaven, his gratitude for her +protection.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER V - LIFE IN THE CASTLE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +From that day forth the life of these three persons in the ruin ran +very smoothly. Mr. Archer now sat by the fire with a book, and +now passed whole days abroad, returning late, dead weary. His +manner was a mask; but it was half transparent; through the even tenor +of his gravity and courtesy profound revolutions of feeling were betrayed, +seasons of numb despair, of restlessness, of aching temper. For +days he would say nothing beyond his usual courtesies and solemn compliments; +and then, all of a sudden, some fine evening beside the kitchen fire, +he would fall into a vein of elegant gossip, tell of strange and interesting +events, the secrets of families, brave deeds of war, the miraculous +discovery of crime, the visitations of the dead. Nance and her +uncle would sit till the small hours with eyes wide open: Jonathan applauding +the unexpected incidents with many a slap of his big hand; Nance, perhaps, +more pleased with the narrator’s eloquence and wise reflections; +and then, again, days would follow of abstraction, of listless humming, +of frequent apologies and long hours of silence. Once only, and +then after a week of unrelieved melancholy, he went over to the ‘Green +Dragon,’ spent the afternoon with the landlord and a bowl of punch, +and returned as on the first night, devious in step but courteous and +unperturbed of speech.<br> +<br> +If he seemed more natural and more at his ease it was when he found +Nance alone; and, laying by some of his reserve, talked before her rather +than to her of his destiny, character and hopes. To Nance these +interviews were but a doubtful privilege. At times he would seem +to take a pleasure in her presence, to consult her gravely, to hear +and to discuss her counsels; at times even, but these were rare and +brief, he would talk of herself, praise the qualities that she possessed, +touch indulgently on her defects, and lend her books to read and even +examine her upon her reading; but far more often he would fall into +a half unconsciousness, put her a question and then answer it himself, +drop into the veiled tone of voice of one soliloquising, and leave her +at last as though he had forgotten her existence. It was odd, +too, that in all this random converse, not a fact of his past life, +and scarce a name, should ever cross his lips. A profound reserve +kept watch upon his most unguarded moments. He spoke continually +of himself, indeed, but still in enigmas; a veiled prophet of egoism.<br> +<br> +The base of Nance’s feelings for Mr. Archer was admiration as +for a superior being; and with this, his treatment, consciously or not, +accorded happily. When he forgot her, she took the blame upon +herself. His formal politeness was so exquisite that this essential +brutality stood excused. His compliments, besides, were always +grave and rational; he would offer reason for his praise, convict her +of merit, and thus disarm suspicion. Nay, and the very hours when +he forgot and remembered her alternately could by the ardent fallacies +of youth be read in the light of an attention. She might be far +from his confidence; but still she was nearer it than any one. +He might ignore her presence, but yet he sought it.<br> +<br> +Moreover, she, upon her side, was conscious of one point of superiority. +Beside this rather dismal, rather effeminate man, who recoiled from +a worm, who grew giddy on the castle wall, who bore so helplessly the +weight of his misfortunes, she felt herself a head and shoulders taller +in cheerful and sterling courage. She could walk head in air along +the most precarious rafter; her hand feared neither the grossness nor +the harshness of life’s web, but was thrust cheerfully, if need +were, into the briar bush, and could take hold of any crawling horror. +Ruin was mining the walls of her cottage, as already it had mined and +subverted Mr. Archer’s palace. Well, she faced it with a +bright countenance and a busy hand. She had got some washing, +some rough seamstress work from the ‘Green Dragon,’ and +from another neighbour ten miles away across the moor. At this +she cheerfully laboured, and from that height she could afford to pity +the useless talents and poor attitude of Mr. Archer. It did not +change her admiration, but it made it bearable. He was above her +in all ways; but she was above him in one. She kept it to herself, +and hugged it. When, like all young creatures, she made long stories +to justify, to nourish, and to forecast the course of her affection, +it was this private superiority that made all rosy, that cut the knot, +and that, at last, in some great situation, fetched to her knees the +dazzling but imperfect hero. With this pretty exercise she beguiled +the hours of labour, and consoled herself for Mr. Archer’s bearing.<br> +<br> +Pity was her weapon and her weakness. To accept the loved one’s +faults, although it has an air of freedom, is to kiss the chain, and +this pity it was which, lying nearer to her heart, lent the one element +of true emotion to a fanciful and merely brain-sick love.<br> +<br> +Thus it fell out one day that she had gone to the ‘Green Dragon’ +and brought back thence a letter to Mr. Archer. He, upon seeing +it, winced like a man under the knife: pain, shame, sorrow, and the +most trenchant edge of mortification cut into his heart and wrung the +steady composure of his face.<br> +<br> +‘Dear heart! have you bad news?’ she cried.<br> +<br> +But he only replied by a gesture and fled to his room, and when, later +on, she ventured to refer to it, he stopped her on the threshold, as +if with words prepared beforehand. ‘There are some pains,’ +said he, ‘too acute for consolation, or I would bring them to +my kind consoler. Let the memory of that letter, if you please, +be buried.’ And then as she continued to gaze at him, being, +in spite of herself, pained by his elaborate phrase, doubtfully sincere +in word and manner: ‘Let it be enough,’ he added haughtily, +‘that if this matter wring my heart, it doth not touch my conscience. +I am a man, I would have you to know, who suffers undeservedly.’<br> +<br> +He had never spoken so directly: never with so convincing an emotion; +and her heart thrilled for him. She could have taken his pains +and died of them with joy.<br> +<br> +Meanwhile she was left without support. Jonathan now swore by +his lodger, and lived for him. He was a fine talker. He +knew the finest sight of stories; he was a man and a gentleman, take +him for all in all, and a perfect credit to Old England. Such +were the old man’s declared sentiments, and sure enough he clung +to Mr. Archer’s side, hung upon his utterance when he spoke, and +watched him with unwearing interest when he was silent. And yet +his feeling was not clear; in the partial wreck of his mind, which was +leaning to decay, some after-thought was strongly present. As +he gazed in Mr. Archer’s face a sudden brightness would kindle +in his rheumy eyes, his eye-brows would lift as with a sudden thought, +his mouth would open as though to speak, and close again on silence. +Once or twice he even called Mr. Archer mysteriously forth into the +dark courtyard, took him by the button, and laid a demonstrative finger +on his chest; but there his ideas or his courage failed him; he would +shufflingly excuse himself and return to his position by the fire without +a word of explanation. ‘The good man was growing old,’ +said Mr. Archer with a suspicion of a shrug. But the good man +had his idea, and even when he was alone the name of Mr. Archer fell +from his lips continually in the course of mumbled and gesticulative +conversation.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER VI - THE BAD HALF-CROWN<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +However early Nance arose, and she was no sluggard, the old man, who +had begun to outlive the earthly habit of slumber, would usually have +been up long before, the fire would be burning brightly, and she would +see him wandering among the ruins, lantern in hand, and talking assiduously +to himself. One day, however, after he had returned late from +the market town, she found that she had stolen a march upon that indefatigable +early riser. The kitchen was all blackness. She crossed +the castle-yard to the wood-cellar, her steps printing the thick hoarfrost. +A scathing breeze blew out of the north-east and slowly carried a regiment +of black and tattered clouds over the face of heaven, which was already +kindled with the wild light of morning, but where she walked, in shelter +of the ruins, the flame of her candle burned steady. The extreme +cold smote upon her conscience. She could not bear to think this +bitter business fell usually to the lot of one so old as Jonathan, and +made desperate resolutions to be earlier in the future.<br> +<br> +The fire was a good blaze before he entered, limping dismally into the +kitchen. ‘Nance,’ said he, ‘I be all knotted +up with the rheumatics; will you rub me a bit?’ She came +and rubbed him where and how he bade her. ‘This is a cruel +thing that old age should be rheumaticky,’ said he. ‘When +I was young I stood my turn of the teethache like a man! for why? because +it couldn’t last for ever; but these rheumatics come to live and +die with you. Your aunt was took before the time came; never had +an ache to mention. Now I lie all night in my single bed and the +blood never warms in me; this knee of mine it seems like lighted up +with rheumatics; it seems as though you could see to sew by it; and +all the strings of my old body ache, as if devils was pulling ’em. +Thank you kindly; that’s someways easier now, but an old man, +my dear, has little to look for; it’s pain, pain, pain to the +end of the business, and I’ll never be rightly warm again till +I get under the sod,’ he said, and looked down at her with a face +so aged and weary that she had nearly wept.<br> +<br> +‘I lay awake all night,’ he continued; ‘I do so mostly, +and a long walk kills me. Eh, deary me, to think that life should +run to such a puddle! And I remember long syne when I was strong, +and the blood all hot and good about me, and I loved to run, too - deary +me, to run! Well, that’s all by. You’d better +pray to be took early, Nance, and not live on till you get to be like +me, and are robbed in your grey old age, your cold, shivering, dark +old age, that’s like a winter’s morning’; and he bitterly +shuddered, spreading his hands before the fire.<br> +<br> +‘Come now,’ said Nance, ‘the more you say the less +you’ll like it, Uncle Jonathan; but if I were you I would be proud +for to have lived all your days honest and beloved, and come near the +end with your good name: isn’t that a fine thing to be proud of? +Mr. Archer was telling me in some strange land they used to run races +each with a lighted candle, and the art was to keep the candle burning. +Well, now, I thought that was like life: a man’s good conscience +is the flame he gets to carry, and if he comes to the winning-post with +that still burning, why, take it how you will, the man’s a hero +- even if he was low-born like you and me.’<br> +<br> +‘Did Mr. Archer tell you that?’ asked Jonathan.<br> +<br> +‘No, dear,’ said she, ‘that’s my own thought +about it. He told me of the race. But see, now,’ she +continued, putting on the porridge, ‘you say old age is a hard +season, but so is youth. You’re half out of the battle, +I would say; you loved my aunt and got her, and buried her, and some +of these days soon you’ll go to meet her; and take her my love +and tell her I tried to take good care of you; for so I do, Uncle Jonathan.’<br> +<br> +Jonathan struck with his fist upon the settle. ‘D’ +ye think I want to die, ye vixen?’ he shouted. ‘I +want to live ten hundred years.’<br> +<br> +This was a mystery beyond Nance’s penetration, and she stared +in wonder as she made the porridge.<br> +<br> +‘I want to live,’ he continued, ‘I want to live and +to grow rich. I want to drive my carriage and to dice in hells +and see the ring, I do. Is this a life that I lived? I want +to be a rake, d’ ye understand? I want to know what things +are like. I don’t want to die like a blind kitten, and me +seventy-six.’<br> +<br> +‘O fie!’ said Nance.<br> +<br> +The old man thrust out his jaw at her, with the grimace of an irreverent +schoolboy. Upon that aged face it seemed a blasphemy. Then +he took out of his bosom a long leather purse, and emptying its contents +on the settle, began to count and recount the pieces, ringing and examining +each, and suddenly he leapt like a young man. ‘What!’ +he screamed. ‘Bad? O Lord! I’m robbed +again!’ And falling on his knees before the settle he began +to pour forth the most dreadful curses on the head of his deceiver. +His eyes were shut, for to him this vile solemnity was prayer. +He held up the bad half-crown in his right hand, as though he were displaying +it to Heaven, and what increased the horror of the scene, the curses +he invoked were those whose efficacy he had tasted - old age and poverty, +rheumatism and an ungrateful son. Nance listened appalled; then +she sprang forward and dragged down his arm and laid her hand upon his +mouth.<br> +<br> +‘Whist!’ she cried. ‘Whist ye, for God’s +sake! O my man, whist ye! If Heaven were to hear; if poor +Aunt Susan were to hear! Think, she may be listening.’ +And with the histrionism of strong emotion she pointed to a corner of +the kitchen.<br> +<br> +His eyes followed her finger. He looked there for a little, thinking, +blinking; then he got stiffly to his feet and resumed his place upon +the settle, the bad piece still in his hand. So he sat for some +time, looking upon the half-crown, and now wondering to himself on the +injustice and partiality of the law, now computing again and again the +nature of his loss. So he was still sitting when Mr. Archer entered +the kitchen. At this a light came into his face, and after some +seconds of rumination he dispatched Nance upon an errand.<br> +<br> +‘Mr. Archer,’ said he, as soon as they were alone together, +‘would you give me a guinea-piece for silver?’<br> +<br> +‘Why, sir, I believe I can,’ said Mr. Archer.<br> +<br> +And the exchange was just effected when Nance re-entered the apartment. +The blood shot into her face.<br> +<br> +‘What’s to do here?’ she asked rudely.<br> +<br> +‘Nothing, my dearie,’ said old Jonathan, with a touch of +whine.<br> +<br> +‘What’s to do?’ she said again.<br> +<br> +‘Your uncle was but changing me a piece of gold,’ returned +Mr. Archer.<br> +<br> +‘Let me see what he hath given you, Mr. Archer,’ replied +the girl. ‘I had a bad piece, and I fear it is mixed up +among the good.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, well,’ replied Mr. Archer, smiling, ‘I must +take the merchant’s risk of it. The money is now mixed.’<br> +<br> +‘I know my piece,’ quoth Nance. ‘Come, let me +see your silver, Mr. Archer. If I have to get it by a theft I’ll +see that money,’ she cried.<br> +<br> +‘Nay, child, if you put as much passion to be honest as the world +to steal, I must give way, though I betray myself,’ said Mr. Archer. +‘There it is as I received it.’<br> +<br> +Nance quickly found the bad half-crown.<br> +<br> +‘Give him another,’ she said, looking Jonathan in the face; +and when that had been done, she walked over to the chimney and flung +the guilty piece into the reddest of the fire. Its base constituents +began immediately to run; even as she watched it the disc crumbled, +and the lineaments of the King became confused. Jonathan, who +had followed close behind, beheld these changes from over her shoulder, +and his face darkened sorely.<br> +<br> +‘Now,’ said she, ‘come back to table, and to-day it +is I that shall say grace, as I used to do in the old times, day about +with Dick’; and covering her eyes with one hand, ‘O Lord,’ +said she with deep emotion, ‘make us thankful; and, O Lord, deliver +us from evil! For the love of the poor souls that watch for us +in heaven, O deliver us from evil.’<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER VII - THE BLEACHING-GREEN<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +The year moved on to March; and March, though it blew bitter keen from +the North Sea, yet blinked kindly between whiles on the river dell. +The mire dried up in the closest covert; life ran in the bare branches, +and the air of the afternoon would be suddenly sweet with the fragrance +of new grass.<br> +<br> +Above and below the castle the river crooked like the letter ‘S.’ +The lower loop was to the left, and embraced the high and steep projection +which was crowned by the ruins; the upper loop enclosed a lawny promontory, +fringed by thorn and willow. It was easy to reach it from the +castle side, for the river ran in this part very quietly among innumerable +boulders and over dam-like walls of rock. The place was all enclosed, +the wind a stranger, the turf smooth and solid; so it was chosen by +Nance to be her bleaching-green.<br> +<br> +One day she brought a bucketful of linen, and had but begun to wring +and lay them out when Mr. Archer stepped from the thicket on the far +side, drew very deliberately near, and sat down in silence on the grass. +Nance looked up to greet him with a smile, but finding her smile was +not returned, she fell into embarrassment and stuck the more busily +to her employment. Man or woman, the whole world looks well at +any work to which they are accustomed; but the girl was ashamed of what +she did. She was ashamed, besides, of the sun-bonnet that so well +became her, and ashamed of her bare arms, which were her greatest beauty.<br> +<br> +‘Nausicaa,’ said Mr. Archer at last, ‘I find you like +Nausicaa.’<br> +<br> +‘And who was she?’ asked Nance, and laughed in spite of +herself, an empty and embarrassed laugh, that sounded in Mr. Archer’s +ears, indeed, like music, but to her own like the last grossness of +rusticity.<br> +<br> +‘She was a princess of the Grecian islands,’ he replied. +‘A king, being shipwrecked, found her washing by the shore. +Certainly I, too, was shipwrecked,’ he continued, plucking at +the grass. ‘There was never a more desperate castaway - +to fall from polite life, fortune, a shrine of honour, a grateful conscience, +duties willingly taken up and faithfully discharged; and to fall to +this - idleness, poverty, inutility, remorse.’ He seemed +to have forgotten her presence, but here he remembered her again. +‘Nance,’ said he, ‘would you have a man sit down and +suffer or rise up and strive?’<br> +<br> +‘Nay,’ she said. ‘I would always rather see +him doing.’<br> +<br> +‘Ha!’ said Mr. Archer, ‘but yet you speak from an +imperfect knowledge. Conceive a man damned to a choice of only +evil - misconduct upon either side, not a fault behind him, and yet +naught before him but this choice of sins. How would you say then?’<br> +<br> +‘I would say that he was much deceived, Mr. Archer,’ returned +Nance. ‘I would say there was a third choice, and that the +right one.’<br> +<br> +‘I tell you,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘the man I have in +view hath two ways open, and no more. One to wait, like a poor +mewling baby, till Fate save or ruin him; the other to take his troubles +in his hand, and to perish or be saved at once. It is no point +of morals; both are wrong. Either way this step-child of Providence +must fall; which shall he choose, by doing or not doing?’<br> +<br> +‘Fall, then, is what I would say,’ replied Nance. +‘Fall where you will, but do it! For O, Mr. Archer,’ +she continued, stooping to her work, ‘you that are good and kind, +and so wise, it doth sometimes go against my heart to see you live on +here like a sheep in a turnip-field! If you were braver - ’ +and here she paused, conscience-smitten.<br> +<br> +‘Do I, indeed, lack courage?’ inquired Mr. Archer of himself. +‘Courage, the footstool of the virtues, upon which they stand? +Courage, that a poor private carrying a musket has to spare of; that +does not fail a weasel or a rat; that is a brutish faculty? I +to fail there, I wonder? But what is courage, then? The +constancy to endure oneself or to see others suffer? The itch +of ill-advised activity: mere shuttle-wittedness, or to be still and +patient? To inquire of the significance of words is to rob ourselves +of what we seem to know, and yet, of all things, certainly to stand +still is the least heroic. Nance,’ he said, ‘did you +ever hear of <i>Hamlet</i>?’<br> +<br> +‘Never,’ said Nance.<br> +<br> +‘’Tis an old play,’ returned Mr. Archer, ‘and +frequently enacted. This while I have been talking Hamlet. +You must know this Hamlet was a Prince among the Danes,’ and he +told her the play in a very good style, here and there quoting a verse +or two with solemn emphasis.<br> +<br> +‘It is strange,’ said Nance; ‘he was then a very poor +creature?’<br> +<br> +‘That was what he could not tell,’ said Mr. Archer. +‘Look at me, am I as poor a creature?’<br> +<br> +She looked, and what she saw was the familiar thought of all her hours; +the tall figure very plainly habited in black, the spotless ruffles, +the slim hands; the long, well-shapen, serious, shaven face, the wide +and somewhat thin-lipped mouth, the dark eyes that were so full of depth +and change and colour. He was gazing at her with his brows a little +knit, his chin upon one hand and that elbow resting on his knee.<br> +<br> +‘Ye look a man!’ she cried, ‘ay, and should be a great +one! The more shame to you to lie here idle like a dog before +the fire.’<br> +<br> +‘My fair Holdaway,’ quoth Mr. Archer, ‘you are much +set on action. I cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed.’ +He continued, looking at her with a half-absent fixity, ‘’Tis +a strange thing, certainly, that in my years of fortune I should never +taste happiness, and now when I am broke, enjoy so much of it, for was +I ever happier than to-day? Was the grass softer, the stream pleasanter +in sound, the air milder, the heart more at peace? Why should +I not sink? To dig - why, after all, it should be easy. +To take a mate, too? Love is of all grades since Jupiter; love +fails to none; and children’ - but here he passed his hand suddenly +over his eyes. ‘O fool and coward, fool and coward!’ +he said bitterly; ‘can you forget your fetters? You did +not know that I was fettered, Nance?’ he asked, again addressing +her.<br> +<br> +But Nance was somewhat sore. ‘I know you keep talking,’ +she said, and, turning half away from him, began to wring out a sheet +across her shoulder. ‘I wonder you are not wearied of your +voice. When the hands lie abed the tongue takes a walk.’<br> +<br> +Mr. Archer laughed unpleasantly, rose and moved to the water’s +edge. In this part the body of the river poured across a little +narrow fell, ran some ten feet very smoothly over a bed of pebbles, +then getting wind, as it were, of another shelf of rock which barred +the channel, began, by imperceptible degrees, to separate towards either +shore in dancing currents, and to leave the middle clear and stagnant. +The set towards either side was nearly equal; about one half of the +whole water plunged on the side of the castle, through a narrow gullet; +about one half ran ripping past the margin of the green and slipped +across a babbling rapid.<br> +<br> +‘Here,’ said Mr. Archer, after he had looked for some time +at the fine and shifting demarcation of these currents, ‘come +here and see me try my fortune.’<br> +<br> +‘I am not like a man,’ said Nance; ‘I have no time +to waste.’<br> +<br> +‘Come here,’ he said again. ‘I ask you seriously, +Nance. We are not always childish when we seem so.’<br> +<br> +She drew a little nearer.<br> +<br> +‘Now,’ said he, ‘you see these two channels - choose +one.’<br> +<br> +‘I’ll choose the nearest, to save time,’ said Nance.<br> +<br> +‘Well, that shall be for action,’ returned Mr. Archer. +‘And since I wish to have the odds against me, not only the other +channel but yon stagnant water in the midst shall be for lying still. +You see this?’ he continued, pulling up a withered rush. +‘I break it in three. I shall put each separately at the +top of the upper fall, and according as they go by your way or by the +other I shall guide my life.’<br> +<br> +‘This is very silly,’ said Nance, with a movement of her +shoulders.<br> +<br> +‘I do not think it so,’ said Mr. Archer.<br> +<br> +‘And then,’ she resumed, ‘if you are to try your fortune, +why not evenly?’<br> +<br> +‘Nay,’ returned Mr. Archer with a smile, ‘no man can +put complete reliance in blind fate; he must still cog the dice.’<br> +<br> +By this time he had got upon the rock beside the upper fall, and, bidding +her look out, dropped a piece of rush into the middle of the intake. +The rusty fragment was sucked at once over the fall, came up again far +on the right hand, leaned ever more and more in the same direction, +and disappeared under the hanging grasses on the castle side.<br> +<br> +‘One,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘one for standing still.’<br> +<br> +But the next launch had a different fate, and after hanging for a while +about the edge of the stagnant water, steadily approached the bleaching-green +and danced down the rapid under Nance’s eyes.<br> +<br> +‘One for me,’ she cried with some exultation; and then she +observed that Mr. Archer had grown pale, and was kneeling on the rock, +with his hand raised like a person petrified. ‘Why,’ +said she, ‘you do not mind it, do you?’<br> +<br> +‘Does a man not mind a throw of dice by which a fortune hangs?’ +said Mr. Archer, rather hoarsely. ‘And this is more than +fortune. Nance, if you have any kindness for my fate, put up a +prayer before I launch the next one.’<br> +<br> +‘A prayer,’ she cried, ‘about a game like this? +I would not be so heathen.’<br> +<br> +‘Well,’ said he, ‘then without,’ and he closed +his eyes and dropped the piece of rush. This time there was no +doubt. It went for the rapid as straight as any arrow.<br> +<br> +‘Action then!’ said Mr. Archer, getting to his feet; ‘and +then God forgive us,’ he added, almost to himself.<br> +<br> +‘God forgive us, indeed,’ cried Nance, ‘for wasting +the good daylight! But come, Mr. Archer, if I see you look so +serious I shall begin to think you was in earnest.’<br> +<br> +‘Nay,’ he said, turning upon her suddenly, with a full smile; +‘but is not this good advice? I have consulted God and demigod; +the nymph of the river, and what I far more admire and trust, my blue-eyed +Minerva. Both have said the same. My own heart was telling +it already. Action, then, be mine; and into the deep sea with +all this paralysing casuistry. I am happy to-day for the first +time.’<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER VIII - THE MAIL GUARD<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Somewhere about two in the morning a squall had burst upon the castle, +a clap of screaming wind that made the towers rock, and a copious drift +of rain that streamed from the windows. The wind soon blew itself +out, but the day broke cloudy and dripping, and when the little party +assembled at breakfast their humours appeared to have changed with the +change of weather. Nance had been brooding on the scene at the +river-side, applying it in various ways to her particular aspirations, +and the result, which was hardly to her mind, had taken the colour out +of her cheeks. Mr. Archer, too, was somewhat absent, his thoughts +were of a mingled strain; and even upon his usually impassive countenance +there were betrayed successive depths of depression and starts of exultation, +which the girl translated in terms of her own hopes and fears. +But Jonathan was the most altered: he was strangely silent, hardly passing +a word, and watched Mr. Archer with an eager and furtive eye. +It seemed as if the idea that had so long hovered before him had now +taken a more solid shape, and, while it still attracted, somewhat alarmed +his imagination.<br> +<br> +At this rate, conversation languished into a silence which was only +broken by the gentle and ghostly noises of the rain on the stone roof +and about all that field of ruins; and they were all relieved when the +note of a man whistling and the sound of approaching footsteps in the +grassy court announced a visitor. It was the ostler from the ‘Green +Dragon’ bringing a letter for Mr. Archer. Nance saw her +hero’s face contract and then relax again at sight of it; and +she thought that she knew why, for the sprawling, gross black characters +of the address were easily distinguishable from the fine writing on +the former letter that had so much disturbed him. He opened it +and began to read; while the ostler sat down to table with a pot of +ale, and proceeded to make himself agreeable after his fashion.<br> +<br> +‘Fine doings down our way, Miss Nance,’ said he. ‘I +haven’t been abed this blessed night.’<br> +<br> +Nance expressed a polite interest, but her eye was on Mr. Archer, who +was reading his letter with a face of such extreme indifference that +she was tempted to suspect him of assumption.<br> +<br> +‘Yes,’ continued the ostler, ‘not been the like of +it this fifteen years: the North Mail stopped at the three stones.’<br> +<br> +Jonathan’s cup was at his lip, but at this moment he choked with +a great splutter; and Mr. Archer, as if startled by the noise, made +so sudden a movement that one corner of the sheet tore off and stayed +between his finger and thumb. It was some little time before the +old man was sufficiently recovered to beg the ostler to go on, and he +still kept coughing and crying and rubbing his eyes. Mr. Archer, +on his side, laid the letter down, and, putting his hands in his pocket, +listened gravely to the tale.<br> +<br> +‘Yes,’ resumed Sam, ‘the North Mail was stopped by +a single horseman; dash my wig, but I admire him! There were four +insides and two out, and poor Tom Oglethorpe, the guard. Tom showed +himself a man; let fly his blunderbuss at him; had him covered, too, +and could swear to that; but the Captain never let on, up with a pistol +and fetched poor Tom a bullet through the body. Tom, he squelched +upon the seat, all over blood. Up comes the Captain to the window. +“Oblige me,” says he, “with what you have.” +Would you believe it? Not a man says cheep! - not them. +“Thy hands over thy head.” Four watches, rings, snuff-boxes, +seven-and-forty pounds overhead in gold. One Dicksee, a grazier, +tries it on: gives him a guinea. “Beg your pardon,” +says the Captain, “I think too highly of you to take it at your +hand. I will not take less than ten from such a gentleman.” +This Dicksee had his money in his stocking, but there was the pistol +at his eye. Down he goes, offs with his stocking, and there was +thirty golden guineas. “Now,” says the Captain, “you’ve +tried it on with me, but I scorns the advantage. Ten I said,” +he says, “and ten I take.” So, dash my buttons, I +call that man a man!’ cried Sam in cordial admiration.<br> +<br> +‘Well, and then?’ says Mr. Archer.<br> +<br> +‘Then,’ resumed Sam, ‘that old fat fagot Engleton, +him as held the ribbons and drew up like a lamb when he was told to, +picks up his cattle, and drives off again. Down they came to the +“Dragon,” all singing like as if they was scalded, and poor +Tom saying nothing. You would ‘a’ thought they had +all lost the King’s crown to hear them. Down gets this Dicksee. +“Postmaster,” he says, taking him by the arm, “this +is a most abominable thing,” he says. Down gets a Major +Clayton, and gets the old man by the other arm. “We’ve +been robbed,” he cries, “robbed!” Down gets +the others, and all around the old man telling their story, and what +they had lost, and how they was all as good as ruined; till at last +Old Engleton says, says he, “How about Oglethorpe?” says +he. “Ay,” says the others, “how about the guard?” +Well, with that we bousted him down, as white as a rag and all blooded +like a sop. I thought he was dead. Well, he ain’t +dead; but he’s dying, I fancy.’<br> +<br> +‘Did you say four watches?’ said Jonathan.<br> +<br> +‘Four, I think. I wish it had been forty,’ cried Sam. +‘Such a party of soused herrings I never did see - not a man among +them bar poor Tom. But us that are the servants on the road have +all the risk and none of the profit.’<br> +<br> +‘And this brave fellow,’ asked Mr. Archer, very quietly, +‘this Oglethorpe - how is he now?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, sir, with my respects, I take it he has a hole bang through +him,’ said Sam. ‘The doctor hasn’t been yet. +He’d ‘a’ been bright and early if it had been a passenger. +But, doctor or no, I’ll make a good guess that Tom won’t +see to-morrow. He’ll die on a Sunday, will poor Tom; and +they do say that’s fortunate.’<br> +<br> +‘Did Tom see him that did it?’ asked Jonathan.<br> +<br> +‘Well, he saw him,’ replied Sam, ‘but not to swear +by. Said he was a very tall man, and very big, and had a ’ankerchief +about his face, and a very quick shot, and sat his horse like a thorough +gentleman, as he is.’<br> +<br> +‘A gentleman!’ cried Nance. ‘The dirty knave!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I calls a man like that a gentleman,’ returned the +ostler; ‘that’s what I mean by a gentleman.’<br> +<br> +‘You don’t know much of them, then,’ said Nance.<br> +<br> +‘A gentleman would scorn to stoop to such a thing. I call +my uncle a better gentleman than any thief.’<br> +<br> +‘And you would be right,’ said Mr. Archer.<br> +<br> +‘How many snuff-boxes did he get?’ asked Jonathan.<br> +<br> +‘O, dang me if I know,’ said Sam; ‘I didn’t +take an inventory.’<br> +<br> +‘I will go back with you, if you please,’ said Mr. Archer. +‘I should like to see poor Oglethorpe. He has behaved well.’<br> +<br> +‘At your service, sir,’ said Sam, jumping to his feet. +‘I dare to say a gentleman like you would not forget a poor fellow +like Tom - no, nor a plain man like me, sir, that went without his sleep +to nurse him. And excuse me, sir,’ added Sam, ‘you +won’t forget about the letter neither?’<br> +<br> +‘Surely not,’ said Mr. Archer.<br> +<br> +Oglethorpe lay in a low bed, one of several in a long garret of the +inn. The rain soaked in places through the roof and fell in minute +drops; there was but one small window; the beds were occupied by servants, +the air of the garret was both close and chilly. Mr. Archer’s +heart sank at the threshold to see a man lying perhaps mortally hurt +in so poor a sick-room, and as he drew near the low bed he took his +hat off. The guard was a big, blowsy, innocent-looking soul with +a thick lip and a broad nose, comically turned up; his cheeks were crimson, +and when Mr. Archer laid a finger on his brow he found him burning with +fever.<br> +<br> +‘I fear you suffer much,’ he said, with a catch in his voice, +as he sat down on the bedside.<br> +<br> +‘I suppose I do, sir,’ returned Oglethorpe; ‘it is +main sore.’<br> +<br> +‘I am used to wounds and wounded men,’ returned the visitor. +‘I have been in the wars and nursed brave fellows before now; +and, if you will suffer me, I propose to stay beside you till the doctor +comes.’<br> +<br> +‘It is very good of you, sir, I am sure,’ said Oglethorpe. +‘The trouble is they won’t none of them let me drink.’<br> +<br> +‘If you will not tell the doctor,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘I +will give you some water. They say it is bad for a green wound, +but in the Low Countries we all drank water when we found the chance, +and I could never perceive we were the worse for it.’<br> +<br> +‘Been wounded yourself, sir, perhaps?’ called Oglethorpe.<br> +<br> +‘Twice,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘and was as proud of these +hurts as any lady of her bracelets. ’Tis a fine thing to +smart for one’s duty; even in the pangs of it there is contentment.’<br> +<br> +‘Ah, well!’ replied the guard, ‘if you’ve been +shot yourself, that explains. But as for contentment, why, sir, +you see, it smarts, as you say. And then, I have a good wife, +you see, and a bit of a brat - a little thing, so high.’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t move,’ said Mr. Archer.<br> +<br> +‘No, sir, I will not, and thank you kindly,’ said Oglethorpe. +‘At York they are. A very good lass is my wife - far too +good for me. And the little rascal - well, I don’t know +how to say it, but he sort of comes round you. If I were to go, +sir, it would be hard on my poor girl - main hard on her!’<br> +<br> +‘Ay, you must feel bitter hardly to the rogue that laid you here,’ +said Archer.<br> +<br> +‘Why, no, sir, more against Engleton and the passengers,’ +replied the guard. ‘He played his hand, if you come to look +at it; and I wish he had shot worse, or me better. And yet I’ll +go to my grave but what I covered him,’ he cried. ‘It +looks like witchcraft. I’ll go to my grave but what he was +drove full of slugs like a pepper-box.’<br> +<br> +‘Quietly,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘you must not excite yourself. +These deceptions are very usual in war; the eye, in the moment of alert, +is hardly to be trusted, and when the smoke blows away you see the man +you fired at, taking aim, it may be, at yourself. You should observe, +too, that you were in the dark night, and somewhat dazzled by the lamps, +and that the sudden stopping of the mail had jolted you. In such +circumstances a man may miss, ay, even with a blunder-buss, and no blame +attach to his marksmanship.’ . . .<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE YOUNG CHEVALIER<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +PROLOGUE - THE WINE-SELLER’S WIFE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +There was a wine-seller’s shop, as you went down to the river +in the city of the Anti-popes. There a man was served with good +wine of the country and plain country fare; and the place being clean +and quiet, with a prospect on the river, certain gentlemen who dwelt +in that city in attendance on a great personage made it a practice (when +they had any silver in their purses) to come and eat there and be private.<br> +<br> +They called the wine-seller Paradou. He was built more like a +bullock than a man, huge in bone and brawn, high in colour, and with +a hand like a baby for size. Marie-Madeleine was the name of his +wife; she was of Marseilles, a city of entrancing women, nor was any +fairer than herself. She was tall, being almost of a height with +Paradou; full-girdled, point-device in every form, with an exquisite +delicacy in the face; her nose and nostrils a delight to look at from +the fineness of the sculpture, her eyes inclined a hair’s-breadth +inward, her colour between dark and fair, and laid on even like a flower’s. +A faint rose dwelt in it, as though she had been found unawares bathing, +and had blushed from head to foot. She was of a grave countenance, +rarely smiling; yet it seemed to be written upon every part of her that +she rejoiced in life. Her husband loved the heels of her feet +and the knuckles of her fingers; he loved her like a glutton and a brute; +his love hung about her like an atmosphere; one that came by chance +into the wine-shop was aware of that passion; and it might be said that +by the strength of it the woman had been drugged or spell-bound. +She knew not if she loved or loathed him; he was always in her eyes +like something monstrous - monstrous in his love, monstrous in his person, +horrific but imposing in his violence; and her sentiment swung back +and forward from desire to sickness. But the mean, where it dwelt +chiefly, was an apathetic fascination, partly of horror; as of Europa +in mid ocean with her bull.<br> +<br> +On the 10th November 1749 there sat two of the foreign gentlemen in +the wine-seller’s shop. They were both handsome men of a +good presence, richly dressed. The first was swarthy and long +and lean, with an alert, black look, and a mole upon his cheek. +The other was more fair. He seemed very easy and sedate, and a +little melancholy for so young a man, but his smile was charming. +In his grey eyes there was much abstraction, as of one recalling fondly +that which was past and lost. Yet there was strength and swiftness +in his limbs; and his mouth set straight across his face, the under +lip a thought upon side, like that of a man accustomed to resolve. +These two talked together in a rude outlandish speech that no frequenter +of that wine-shop understood. The swarthy man answered to the +name of <i>Ballantrae</i>; he of the dreamy eyes was sometimes called +<i>Balmile</i>, and sometimes <i>my Lord</i>, or <i>my</i> <i>Lord Gladsmuir</i>; +but when the title was given him, he seemed to put it by as if in jesting, +not without bitterness.<br> +<br> +The mistral blew in the city. The first day of that wind, they +say in the countries where its voice is heard, it blows away all the +dust, the second all the stones, and the third it blows back others +from the mountains. It was now come to the third day; outside +the pebbles flew like hail, and the face of the river was puckered, +and the very building-stones in the walls of houses seemed to be curdled +with the savage cold and fury of that continuous blast. It could +be heard to hoot in all the chimneys of the city; it swept about the +wine-shop, filling the room with eddies; the chill and gritty touch +of it passed between the nearest clothes and the bare flesh; and the +two gentlemen at the far table kept their mantles loose about their +shoulders. The roughness of these outer hulls, for they were plain +travellers’ cloaks that had seen service, set the greater mark +of richness on what showed below of their laced clothes; for the one +was in scarlet and the other in violet and white, like men come from +a scene of ceremony; as indeed they were.<br> +<br> +It chanced that these fine clothes were not without their influence +on the scene which followed, and which makes the prologue of our tale. +For a long time Balmile was in the habit to come to the wine-shop and +eat a meal or drink a measure of wine; sometimes with a comrade; more +often alone, when he would sit and dream and drum upon the table, and +the thoughts would show in the man’s face in little glooms and +lightenings, like the sun and the clouds upon a water. For a long +time Marie-Madeleine had observed him apart. His sadness, the +beauty of his smile when by any chance he remembered her existence and +addressed her, the changes of his mind signalled forth by an abstruse +play of feature, the mere fact that he was foreign and a thing detached +from the local and the accustomed, insensibly attracted and affected +her. Kindness was ready in her mind; it but lacked the touch of +an occasion to effervesce and crystallise. Now Balmile had come +hitherto in a very poor plain habit; and this day of the mistral, when +his mantle was just open, and she saw beneath it the glancing of the +violet and the velvet and the silver, and the clustering fineness of +the lace, it seemed to set the man in a new light, with which he shone +resplendent to her fancy.<br> +<br> +The high inhuman note of the wind, the violence and continuity of its +outpouring, and the fierce touch of it upon man’s whole periphery, +accelerated the functions of the mind. It set thoughts whirling, +as it whirled the trees of the forest; it stirred them up in flights, +as it stirred up the dust in chambers. As brief as sparks, the +fancies glittered and succeeded each other in the mind of Marie-Madeleine; +and the grave man with the smile, and the bright clothes under the plain +mantle, haunted her with incongruous explanations. She considered +him, the unknown, the speaker of an unknown tongue, the hero (as she +placed him) of an unknown romance, the dweller upon unknown memories. +She recalled him sitting there alone, so immersed, so stupefied; yet +she was sure he was not stupid. She recalled one day when he had +remained a long time motionless, with parted lips, like one in the act +of starting up, his eyes fixed on vacancy. Any one else must have +looked foolish; but not he. She tried to conceive what manner +of memory had thus entranced him; she forged for him a past; she showed +him to herself in every light of heroism and greatness and misfortune; +she brooded with petulant intensity on all she knew and guessed of him. +Yet, though she was already gone so deep, she was still unashamed, still +unalarmed; her thoughts were still disinterested; she had still to reach +the stage at which - beside the image of that other whom we love to +contemplate and to adorn - we place the image of ourself and behold +them together with delight.<br> +<br> +She stood within the counter, her hands clasped behind her back, her +shoulders pressed against the wall, her feet braced out. Her face +was bright with the wind and her own thoughts; as a fire in a similar +day of tempest glows and brightens on a hearth, so she seemed to glow, +standing there, and to breathe out energy. It was the first time +Ballantrae had visited that wine-seller’s, the first time he had +seen the wife; and his eyes were true to her.<br> +<br> +‘I perceive your reason for carrying me to this very draughty +tavern,’ he said at last.<br> +<br> +‘I believe it is propinquity,’ returned Balmile.<br> +<br> +‘You play dark,’ said Ballantrae, ‘but have a care! +Be more frank with me, or I will cut you out. I go through no +form of qualifying my threat, which would be commonplace and not conscientious. +There is only one point in these campaigns: that is the degree of admiration +offered by the man; and to our hostess I am in a posture to make victorious +love.’<br> +<br> +‘If you think you have the time, or the game worth the candle,’ +replied the other with a shrug.<br> +<br> +‘One would suppose you were never at the pains to observe her,’ +said Ballantrae.<br> +<br> +‘I am not very observant,’ said Balmile. ‘She +seems comely.’<br> +<br> +‘You very dear and dull dog!’ cried Ballantrae; ‘chastity +is the most besotting of the virtues. Why, she has a look in her +face beyond singing! I believe, if you was to push me hard, I +might trace it home to a trifle of a squint. What matters? +The height of beauty is in the touch that’s wrong, that’s +the modulation in a tune. ’Tis the devil we all love; I +owe many a conquest to my mole’ - he touched it as he spoke with +a smile, and his eyes glittered; - ‘we are all hunchbacks, and +beauty is only that kind of deformity that I happen to admire. +But come! Because you are chaste, for which I am sure I pay you +my respects, that is no reason why you should be blind. Look at +her, look at the delicious nose of her, look at her cheek, look at her +ear, look at her hand and wrist - look at the whole baggage from heels +to crown, and tell me if she wouldn’t melt on a man’s tongue.’<br> +<br> +As Ballantrae spoke, half jesting, half enthusiastic, Balmile was constrained +to do as he was bidden. He looked at the woman, admired her excellences, +and was at the same time ashamed for himself and his companion. +So it befell that when Marie-Madeleine raised her eyes, she met those +of the subject of her contemplations fixed directly on herself with +a look that is unmistakable, the look of a person measuring and valuing +another - and, to clench the false impression, that his glance was instantly +and guiltily withdrawn. The blood beat back upon her heart and +leaped again; her obscure thoughts flashed clear before her; she flew +in fancy straight to his arms like a wanton, and fled again on the instant +like a nymph. And at that moment there chanced an interruption, +which not only spared her embarrassment, but set the last consecration +on her now articulate love.<br> +<br> +Into the wine-shop there came a French gentleman, arrayed in the last +refinement of the fashion, though a little tumbled by his passage in +the wind. It was to be judged he had come from the same formal +gathering at which the others had preceded him; and perhaps that he +had gone there in the hope to meet with them, for he came up to Ballantrae +with unceremonious eagerness.<br> +<br> +‘At last, here you are!’ he cried in French. ‘I +thought I was to miss you altogether.’<br> +<br> +The Scotsmen rose, and Ballantrae, after the first greetings, laid his +hand on his companion’s shoulder.<br> +<br> +‘My lord,’ said he, ‘allow me to present to you one +of my best friends and one of our best soldiers, the Lord Viscount Gladsmuir.’<br> +<br> +The two bowed with the elaborate elegance of the period.<br> +<br> +‘<i>Monseigneur</i>,’ said Balmile, ‘<i>je n’ai +pas la prétention de m’affubler d’un titre que la +mauvaise fortune de mon roi ne me permet pas de porter comma il sied. +Je m’appelle, pour vous servir, Blair de Balmile tout court</i>.’ +[My lord, I have not the effrontery to cumber myself with a title which +the ill fortunes of my king will not suffer me to bear the way it should +be. I call myself, at your service, plain Blair of Balmile.]<br> +<br> +‘<i>Monsieur le Vicomte ou monsieur Blèr’ de Balmaïl</i>,’ +replied the newcomer, ‘<i>le nom n’y fait rien, et l’on +connaît vos beaux faits</i>.’ [The name matters nothing, +your gallant actions are known.]<br> +<br> +A few more ceremonies, and these three, sitting down together to the +table, called for wine. It was the happiness of Marie-Madeleine +to wait unobserved upon the prince of her desires. She poured +the wine, he drank of it; and that link between them seemed to her, +for the moment, close as a caress. Though they lowered their tones, +she surprised great names passing in their conversation, names of kings, +the names of de Gesvre and Belle-Isle; and the man who dealt in these +high matters, and she who was now coupled with him in her own thoughts, +seemed to swim in mid air in a transfiguration. Love is a crude +core, but it has singular and far-reaching fringes; in that passionate +attraction for the stranger that now swayed and mastered her, his harsh +incomprehensible language, and these names of grandees in his talk, +were each an element.<br> +<br> +The Frenchman stayed not long, but it was plain he left behind him matter +of much interest to his companions; they spoke together earnestly, their +heads down, the woman of the wine-shop totally forgotten; and they were +still so occupied when Paradou returned.<br> +<br> +This man’s love was unsleeping. The even bluster of the +mistral, with which he had been combating some hours, had not suspended, +though it had embittered, that predominant passion. His first +look was for his wife, a look of hope and suspicion, menace and humility +and love, that made the over-blooming brute appear for the moment almost +beautiful. She returned his glance, at first as though she knew +him not, then with a swiftly waxing coldness of intent; and at last, +without changing their direction, she had closed her eyes.<br> +<br> +There passed across her mind during that period much that Paradou could +not have understood had it been told to him in words: chiefly the sense +of an enlightening contrast betwixt the man who talked of kings and +the man who kept a wine-shop, betwixt the love she yearned for and that +to which she had been long exposed like a victim bound upon the altar. +There swelled upon her, swifter than the Rhone, a tide of abhorrence +and disgust. She had succumbed to the monster, humbling herself +below animals; and now she loved a hero, aspiring to the semi-divine. +It was in the pang of that humiliating thought that she had closed her +eyes.<br> +<br> +Paradou - quick as beasts are quick, to translate silence - felt the +insult through his blood; his inarticulate soul bellowed within him +for revenge. He glanced about the shop. He saw the two indifferent +gentlemen deep in talk, and passed them over: his fancy flying not so +high. There was but one other present, a country lout who stood +swallowing his wine, equally unobserved by all and unobserving - to +him he dealt a glance of murderous suspicion, and turned direct upon +his wife. The wine-shop had lain hitherto, a space of shelter, +the scene of a few ceremonial passages and some whispered conversation, +in the howling river of the wind; the clock had not yet ticked a score +of times since Paradou’s appearance; and now, as he suddenly gave +tongue, it seemed as though the mistral had entered at his heels.<br> +<br> +‘What ails you, woman?’ he cried, smiting on the counter.<br> +<br> +‘Nothing ails me,’ she replied. It was strange; but +she spoke and stood at that moment like a lady of degree, drawn upward +by her aspirations.<br> +<br> +‘You speak to me, by God, as though you scorned me!’ cried +the husband.<br> +<br> +The man’s passion was always formidable; she had often looked +on upon its violence with a thrill, it had been one ingredient in her +fascination; and she was now surprised to behold him, as from afar off, +gesticulating but impotent. His fury might be dangerous like a +torrent or a gust of wind, but it was inhuman; it might be feared or +braved, it should never be respected. And with that there came +in her a sudden glow of courage and that readiness to die which attends +so closely upon all strong passions.<br> +<br> +‘I do scorn you,’ she said.<br> +<br> +‘What is that?’ he cried.<br> +<br> +‘I scorn you,’ she repeated, smiling.<br> +<br> +‘You love another man!’ said he.<br> +<br> +‘With all my soul,’ was her reply.<br> +<br> +The wine-seller roared aloud so that the house rang and shook with it.<br> +<br> +‘Is this the - ?’ he cried, using a foul word, common in +the South; and he seized the young countryman and dashed him to the +ground. There he lay for the least interval of time insensible; +thence fled from the house, the most terrified person in the county. +The heavy measure had escaped from his hands, splashing the wine high +upon the wall. Paradou caught it. ‘And you?’ +he roared to his wife, giving her the same name in the feminine, and +he aimed at her the deadly missile. She expected it, motionless, +with radiant eyes.<br> +<br> +But before it sped, Paradou was met by another adversary, and the unconscious +rivals stood confronted. It was hard to say at that moment which +appeared the more formidable. In Paradou, the whole muddy and +truculent depths of the half-man were stirred to frenzy; the lust of +destruction raged in him; there was not a feature in his face but it +talked murder. Balmile had dropped his cloak: he shone out at +once in his finery, and stood to his full stature; girt in mind and +body all his resources, all his temper, perfectly in command in his +face the light of battle. Neither spoke; there was no blow nor +threat of one; it was war reduced to its last element, the spiritual; +and the huge wine-seller slowly lowered his weapon. Balmile was +a noble, he a commoner; Balmile exulted in an honourable cause. +Paradou already perhaps began to be ashamed of his violence. Of +a sudden, at least, the tortured brute turned and fled from the shop +in the footsteps of his former victim, to whose continued flight his +reappearance added wings.<br> +<br> +So soon as Balmile appeared between her husband and herself, Marie-Madeleine +transferred to him her eyes. It might be her last moment, and +she fed upon that face; reading there inimitable courage and illimitable +valour to protect. And when the momentary peril was gone by, and +the champion turned a little awkwardly towards her whom he had rescued, +it was to meet, and quail before, a gaze of admiration more distinct +than words. He bowed, he stammered, his words failed him; he who +had crossed the floor a moment ago, like a young god, to smite, returned +like one discomfited; got somehow to his place by the table, muffled +himself again in his discarded cloak, and for a last touch of the ridiculous, +seeking for anything to restore his countenance, drank of the wine before +him, deep as a porter after a heavy lift. It was little wonder +if Ballantrae, reading the scene with malevolent eyes, laughed out loud +and brief, and drank with raised glass, ‘To the champion of the +Fair.’<br> +<br> +Marie-Madeleine stood in her old place within the counter; she disdained +the mocking laughter; it fell on her ears, but it did not reach her +spirit. For her, the world of living persons was all resumed again +into one pair, as in the days of Eden; there was but the one end in +life, the one hope before her, the one thing needful, the one thing +possible - to be his.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER I - THE PRINCE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +That same night there was in the city of Avignon a young man in distress +of mind. Now he sat, now walked in a high apartment, full of draughts +and shadows. A single candle made the darkness visible; and the +light scarce sufficed to show upon the wall, where they had been recently +and rudely nailed, a few miniatures and a copper medal of the young +man’s head. The same was being sold that year in London, +to admiring thousands. The original was fair; he had beautiful +brown eyes, a beautiful bright open face; a little feminine, a little +hard, a little weak; still full of the light of youth, but already beginning +to be vulgarised; a sordid bloom come upon it, the lines coarsened with +a touch of puffiness. He was dressed, as for a gala, in peach-colour +and silver; his breast sparkled with stars and was bright with ribbons; +for he had held a levee in the afternoon and received a distinguished +personage incognito. Now he sat with a bowed head, now walked +precipitately to and fro, now went and gazed from the uncurtained window, +where the wind was still blowing, and the lights winked in the darkness.<br> +<br> +The bells of Avignon rose into song as he was gazing; and the high notes +and the deep tossed and drowned, boomed suddenly near or were suddenly +swallowed up, in the current of the mistral. Tears sprang in the +pale blue eyes; the expression of his face was changed to that of a +more active misery, it seemed as if the voices of the bells reached, +and touched and pained him, in a waste of vacancy where even pain was +welcome. Outside in the night they continued to sound on, swelling +and fainting; and the listener heard in his memory, as it were their +harmonies, joy-bells clashing in a northern city, and the acclamations +of a multitude, the cries of battle, the gross voices of cannon, the +stridor of an animated life. And then all died away, and he stood +face to face with himself in the waste of vacancy, and a horror came +upon his mind, and a faintness on his brain, such as seizes men upon +the brink of cliffs.<br> +<br> +On the table, by the side of the candle, stood a tray of glasses, a +bottle, and a silver bell. He went thither swiftly, then his hand +lowered first above the bell, then settled on the bottle. Slowly +he filled a glass, slowly drank it out; and, as a tide of animal warmth +recomforted the recesses of his nature, stood there smiling at himself. +He remembered he was young; the funeral curtains rose, and he saw his +life shine and broaden and flow out majestically, like a river sunward. +The smile still on his lips, he lit a second candle and a third; a fire +stood ready built in a chimney, he lit that also; and the fir-cones +and the gnarled olive billets were swift to break in flame and to crackle +on the hearth, and the room brightened and enlarged about him like his +hopes. To and fro, to and fro, he went, his hands lightly clasped, +his breath deeply and pleasurably taken. Victory walked with him; +he marched to crowns and empires among shouting followers; glory was +his dress. And presently again the shadows closed upon the solitary. +Under the gilt of flame and candle-light, the stone walls of the apartment +showed down bare and cold; behind the depicted triumph loomed up the +actual failure: defeat, the long distress of the flight, exile, despair, +broken followers, mourning faces, empty pockets, friends estranged. +The memory of his father rose in his mind: he, too, estranged and defied; +despair sharpened into wrath. There was one who had led armies +in the field, who had staked his life upon the family enterprise, a +man of action and experience, of the open air, the camp, the court, +the council-room; and he was to accept direction from an old, pompous +gentleman in a home in Italy, and buzzed about by priests? A pretty +king, if he had not a martial son to lean upon! A king at all?<br> +<br> +‘There was a weaver (of all people) joined me at St. Ninians; +he was more of a man than my papa!’ he thought. ‘I +saw him lie doubled in his blood and a grenadier below him - and he +died for my papa! All died for him, or risked the dying, and I +lay for him all those months in the rain and skulked in heather like +a fox; and now he writes me his advice! calls me Carluccio - me, the +man of the house, the only king in that king’s race.’ +He ground his teeth. ‘The only king in Europe!’ +Who else? Who has done and suffered except me? who has lain and +run and hidden with his faithful subjects, like a second Bruce? +Not my accursed cousin, Louis of France, at least, the lewd effeminate +traitor!’ And filling the glass to the brim, he drank a +king’s damnation. Ah, if he had the power of Louis, what +a king were here!<br> +<br> +The minutes followed each other into the past, and still he persevered +in this debilitating cycle of emotions, still fed the fire of his excitement +with driblets of Rhine wine: a boy at odds with life, a boy with a spark +of the heroic, which he was now burning out and drowning down in futile +reverie and solitary excess.<br> +<br> +From two rooms beyond, the sudden sound of a raised voice attracted +him.<br> +<br> +‘By . . .<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +HEATHERCAT<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER I - TRAQUAIRS OF MONTROYMONT<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +The period of this tale is in the heat of the <i>killing</i>-<i>time</i>; +the scene laid for the most part in solitary hills and morasses, haunted +only by the so-called Mountain Wanderers, the dragoons that came in +chase of them, the women that wept on their dead bodies, and the wild +birds of the moorland that have cried there since the beginning. +It is a land of many rain-clouds; a land of much mute history, written +there in prehistoric symbols. Strange green raths are to be seen +commonly in the country, above all by the kirkyards; barrows of the +dead, standing stones; beside these, the faint, durable footprints and +handmarks of the Roman; and an antiquity older perhaps than any, and +still living and active - a complete Celtic nomenclature and a scarce-mingled +Celtic population. These rugged and grey hills were once included +in the boundaries of the Caledonian Forest. Merlin sat here below +his apple-tree and lamented Gwendolen; here spoke with Kentigern; here +fell into his enchanted trance. And the legend of his slumber +seems to body forth the story of that Celtic race, deprived for so many +centuries of their authentic speech, surviving with their ancestral +inheritance of melancholy perversity and patient, unfortunate courage.<br> +<br> +The Traquairs of Montroymont <i>(Mons Romanus</i>, as the erudite expound +it) had long held their seat about the head-waters of the Dule and in +the back parts of the moorland parish of Balweary. For two hundred +years they had enjoyed in these upland quarters a certain decency (almost +to be named distinction) of repute; and the annals of their house, or +what is remembered of them, were obscure and bloody. Ninian Traquair +was ‘cruallie slochtered’ by the Crozers at the kirk-door +of Balweary, anno 1482. Francis killed Simon Ruthven of Drumshoreland, +anno 1540; bought letters of slayers at the widow and heir, and, by +a barbarous form of compounding, married (without tocher) Simon’s +daughter Grizzel, which is the way the Traquairs and Ruthvens came first +to an intermarriage. About the last Traquair and Ruthven marriage, +it is the business of this book, among many other things, to tell.<br> +<br> +The Traquairs were always strong for the Covenant; for the King also, +but the Covenant first; and it began to be ill days for Montroymont +when the Bishops came in and the dragoons at the heels of them. +Ninian (then laird) was an anxious husband of himself and the property, +as the times required, and it may be said of him, that he lost both. +He was heavily suspected of the Pentland Hills rebellion. When +it came the length of Bothwell Brig, he stood his trial before the Secret +Council, and was convicted of talking with some insurgents by the wayside, +the subject of the conversation not very clearly appearing, and of the +reset and maintenance of one Gale, a gardener man, who was seen before +Bothwell with a musket, and afterwards, for a continuance of months, +delved the garden at Montroymont. Matters went very ill with Ninian +at the Council; some of the lords were clear for treason; and even the +boot was talked of. But he was spared that torture; and at last, +having pretty good friendship among great men, he came off with a fine +of seven thousand marks, that caused the estate to groan. In this +case, as in so many others, it was the wife that made the trouble. +She was a great keeper of conventicles; would ride ten miles to one, +and when she was fined, rejoiced greatly to suffer for the Kirk; but +it was rather her husband that suffered. She had their only son, +Francis, baptized privately by the hands of Mr. Kidd; there was that +much the more to pay for! She could neither be driven nor wiled +into the parish kirk; as for taking the sacrament at the hands of any +Episcopalian curate, and tenfold more at those of Curate Haddo, there +was nothing further from her purposes; and Montroymont had to put his +hand in his pocket month by month and year by year. Once, indeed, +the little lady was cast in prison, and the laird, worthy, heavy, uninterested +man, had to ride up and take her place; from which he was not discharged +under nine months and a sharp fine. It scarce seemed she had any +gratitude to him; she came out of gaol herself, and plunged immediately +deeper in conventicles, resetting recusants, and all her old, expensive +folly, only with greater vigour and openness, because Montroymont was +safe in the Tolbooth and she had no witness to consider. When +he was liberated and came back, with his fingers singed, in December +1680, and late in the black night, my lady was from home. He came +into the house at his alighting, with a riding-rod yet in his hand; +and, on the servant-maid telling him, caught her by the scruff of the +neck, beat her violently, flung her down in the passageway, and went +upstairs to his bed fasting and without a light. It was three +in the morning when my lady returned from that conventicle, and, hearing +of the assault (because the maid had sat up for her, weeping), went +to their common chamber with a lantern in hand and stamping with her +shoes so as to wake the dead; it was supposed, by those that heard her, +from a design to have it out with the good man at once. The house-servants +gathered on the stair, because it was a main interest with them to know +which of these two was the better horse; and for the space of two hours +they were heard to go at the matter, hammer and tongs. Montroymont +alleged he was at the end of possibilities; it was no longer within +his power to pay the annual rents; she had served him basely by keeping +conventicles while he lay in prison for her sake; his friends were weary, +and there was nothing else before him but the entire loss of the family +lands, and to begin life again by the wayside as a common beggar. +She took him up very sharp and high: called upon him, if he were a Christian? +and which he most considered, the loss of a few dirty, miry glebes, +or of his soul? Presently he was heard to weep, and my lady’s +voice to go on continually like a running burn, only the words indistinguishable; +whereupon it was supposed a victory for her ladyship, and the domestics +took themselves to bed. The next day Traquair appeared like a +man who had gone under the harrows; and his lady wife thenceforward +continued in her old course without the least deflection.<br> +<br> +Thenceforward Ninian went on his way without complaint, and suffered +his wife to go on hers without remonstrance. He still minded his +estate, of which it might be said he took daily a fresh farewell, and +counted it already lost; looking ruefully on the acres and the graves +of his fathers, on the moorlands where the wild-fowl consorted, the +low, gurgling pool of the trout, and the high, windy place of the calling +curlews - things that were yet his for the day and would be another’s +to-morrow; coming back again, and sitting ciphering till the dusk at +his approaching ruin, which no device of arithmetic could postpone beyond +a year or two. He was essentially the simple ancient man, the +farmer and landholder; he would have been content to watch the seasons +come and go, and his cattle increase, until the limit of age; he would +have been content at any time to die, if he could have left the estates +undiminished to an heir-male of his ancestors, that duty standing first +in his instinctive calendar. And now he saw everywhere the image +of the new proprietor come to meet him, and go sowing and reaping, or +fowling for his pleasure on the red moors, or eating the very gooseberries +in the Place garden; and saw always, on the other hand, the figure of +Francis go forth, a beggar, into the broad world.<br> +<br> +It was in vain the poor gentleman sought to moderate; took every test +and took advantage of every indulgence; went and drank with the dragoons +in Balweary; attended the communion and came regularly to the church +to Curate Haddo, with his son beside him. The mad, raging, Presbyterian +zealot of a wife at home made all of no avail; and indeed the house +must have fallen years before if it had not been for the secret indulgence +of the curate, who had a great sympathy with the laird, and winked hard +at the doings in Montroymont. This curate was a man very ill reputed +in the countryside, and indeed in all Scotland. ‘Infamous +Haddo’ is Shield’s expression. But Patrick Walker +is more copious. ‘Curate Hall Haddo,’ says he, <i>sub</i> +<i>voce</i> Peden, ‘or <i>Hell</i> Haddo, as he was more justly +to be called, a pokeful of old condemned errors and the filthy vile +lusts of the flesh, a published whore-monger, a common gross drunkard, +continually and godlessly scraping and skirling on a fiddle, continually +breathing flames against the remnant of Israel. But the Lord put +an end to his piping, and all these offences were composed into one +bloody grave.’ No doubt this was written to excuse his slaughter; +and I have never heard it claimed for Walker that he was either a just +witness or an indulgent judge. At least, in a merely human character, +Haddo comes off not wholly amiss in the matter of these Traquairs: not +that he showed any graces of the Christian, but had a sort of Pagan +decency, which might almost tempt one to be concerned about his sudden, +violent, and unprepared fate.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER II - FRANCIE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Francie was eleven years old, shy, secret, and rather childish of his +age, though not backward in schooling, which had been pushed on far +by a private governor, one M’Brair, a forfeited minister harboured +in that capacity at Montroymont. The boy, already much employed +in secret by his mother, was the most apt hand conceivable to run upon +a message, to carry food to lurking fugitives, or to stand sentry on +the skyline above a conventicle. It seemed no place on the moorlands +was so naked but what he would find cover there; and as he knew every +hag, boulder, and heather-bush in a circuit of seven miles about Montroymont, +there was scarce any spot but what he could leave or approach it unseen. +This dexterity had won him a reputation in that part of the country; +and among the many children employed in these dangerous affairs, he +passed under the by-name of Heathercat.<br> +<br> +How much his father knew of this employment might be doubted. +He took much forethought for the boy’s future, seeing he was like +to be left so poorly, and would sometimes assist at his lessons, sighing +heavily, yawning deep, and now and again patting Francie on the shoulder +if he seemed to be doing ill, by way of a private, kind encouragement. +But a great part of the day was passed in aimless wanderings with his +eyes sealed, or in his cabinet sitting bemused over the particulars +of the coming bankruptcy; and the boy would be absent a dozen times +for once that his father would observe it.<br> +<br> +On 2nd of July 1682 the boy had an errand from his mother, which must +be kept private from all, the father included in the first of them. +Crossing the braes, he hears the clatter of a horse’s shoes, and +claps down incontinent in a hag by the wayside. And presently +he spied his father come riding from one direction, and Curate Haddo +walking from another; and Montroymont leaning down from the saddle, +and Haddo getting on his toes (for he was a little, ruddy, bald-pated +man, more like a dwarf), they greeted kindly, and came to a halt within +two fathoms of the child.<br> +<br> +‘Montroymont,’ the curate said, ‘the deil’s +in ’t but I’ll have to denunciate your leddy again.’<br> +<br> +‘Deil’s in ’t indeed!’ says the laird.<br> +<br> +‘Man! can ye no induce her to come to the kirk?’ pursues +Haddo; ‘or to a communion at the least of it? For the conventicles, +let be! and the same for yon solemn fule, M’Brair: I can blink +at them. But she’s got to come to the kirk, Montroymont.’<br> +<br> +‘Dinna speak of it,’ says the laird. ‘I can +do nothing with her.’<br> +<br> +‘Couldn’t ye try the stick to her? it works wonders whiles,’ +suggested Haddo. ‘No? I’m wae to hear it. +And I suppose ye ken where you’re going?’<br> +<br> +‘Fine!’ said Montroymont. ‘Fine do I ken where: +bankrup’cy and the Bass Rock!’<br> +<br> +‘Praise to my bones that I never married!’ cried the curate. +‘Well, it’s a grievous thing to me to see an auld house +dung down that was here before Flodden Field. But naebody can +say it was with my wish.’<br> +<br> +‘No more they can, Haddo!’ says the laird. ‘A +good friend ye’ve been to me, first and last. I can give +you that character with a clear conscience.’<br> +<br> +Whereupon they separated, and Montroymont rode briskly down into the +Dule Valley. But of the curate Francis was not to be quit so easily. +He went on with his little, brisk steps to the corner of a dyke, and +stopped and whistled and waved upon a lassie that was herding cattle +there. This Janet M’Clour was a big lass, being taller than +the curate; and what made her look the more so, she was kilted very +high. It seemed for a while she would not come, and Francie heard +her calling Haddo a ‘daft auld fule,’ and saw her running +and dodging him among the whins and hags till he was fairly blown. +But at the last he gets a bottle from his plaid-neuk and holds it up +to her; whereupon she came at once into a composition, and the pair +sat, drinking of the bottle, and daffing and laughing together, on a +mound of heather. The boy had scarce heard of these vanities, +or he might have been minded of a nymph and satyr, if anybody could +have taken long-leggit Janet for a nymph. But they seemed to be +huge friends, he thought; and was the more surprised, when the curate +had taken his leave, to see the lassie fling stones after him with screeches +of laughter, and Haddo turn about and caper, and shake his staff at +her, and laugh louder than herself. A wonderful merry pair, they +seemed; and when Francie had crawled out of the hag, he had a great +deal to consider in his mind. It was possible they were all fallen +in error about Mr. Haddo, he reflected - having seen him so tender with +Montroymont, and so kind and playful with the lass Janet; and he had +a temptation to go out of his road and question her herself upon the +matter. But he had a strong spirit of duty on him; and plodded +on instead over the braes till he came near the House of Cairngorm. +There, in a hollow place by the burnside that was shaded by some birks, +he was aware of a barefoot boy, perhaps a matter of three years older +than himself. The two approached with the precautions of a pair +of strange dogs, looking at each other queerly.<br> +<br> +‘It’s ill weather on the hills,’ said the stranger, +giving the watchword.<br> +<br> +‘For a season,’ said Francie, ‘but the Lord will appear.’<br> +<br> +‘Richt,’ said the barefoot boy; ‘wha’re ye frae?’<br> +<br> +‘The Leddy Montroymont,’ says Francie.<br> +<br> +‘Ha’e, then!’ says the stranger, and handed him a +folded paper, and they stood and looked at each other again. ‘It’s +unco het,’ said the boy.<br> +<br> +‘Dooms het,’ says Francie.<br> +<br> +‘What do they ca’ ye?’ says the other.<br> +<br> +‘Francie,’ says he. ‘I’m young Montroymont. +They ca’ me Heathercat.’<br> +<br> +‘I’m Jock Crozer,’ said the boy. And there was +another pause, while each rolled a stone under his foot.<br> +<br> +‘Cast your jaiket and I’ll fecht ye for a bawbee,’ +cried the elder boy with sudden violence, and dramatically throwing +back his jacket.<br> +<br> +‘Na, I’ve nae time the now,’ said Francie, with a +sharp thrill of alarm, because Crozer was much the heavier boy.<br> +<br> +‘Ye’re feared. Heathercat indeed!’ said Crozer, +for among this infantile army of spies and messengers, the fame of Crozer +had gone forth and was resented by his rivals. And with that they +separated.<br> +<br> +On his way home Francie was a good deal occupied with the recollection +of this untoward incident. The challenge had been fairly offered +and basely refused: the tale would be carried all over the country, +and the lustre of the name of Heathercat be dimmed. But the scene +between Curate Haddo and Janet M’Clour had also given him much +to think of: and he was still puzzling over the case of the curate, +and why such ill words were said of him, and why, if he were so merry-spirited, +he should yet preach so dry, when coming over a knowe, whom should he +see but Janet, sitting with her back to him, minding her cattle! +He was always a great child for secret, stealthy ways, having been employed +by his mother on errands when the same was necessary; and he came behind +the lass without her hearing.<br> +<br> +‘Jennet,’ says he.<br> +<br> +‘Keep me,’ cries Janet, springing up. ‘O, it’s +you, Maister Francie! Save us, what a fricht ye gied me.’<br> +<br> +‘Ay, it’s me,’ said Francie. ‘I’ve +been thinking, Jennet; I saw you and the curate a while back - ’<br> +<br> +‘Brat!’ cried Janet, and coloured up crimson; and the one +moment made as if she would have stricken him with a ragged stick she +had to chase her bestial with, and the next was begging and praying +that he would mention it to none. It was ‘naebody’s +business, whatever,’ she said; ‘it would just start a clash +in the country’; and there would be nothing left for her but to +drown herself in Dule Water.<br> +<br> +‘Why?’ says Francie.<br> +<br> +The girl looked at him and grew scarlet again.<br> +<br> +‘And it isna that, anyway,’ continued Francie. ‘It +was just that he seemed so good to ye - like our Father in heaven, I +thought; and I thought that mebbe, perhaps, we had all been wrong about +him from the first. But I’ll have to tell Mr. M’Brair; +I’m under a kind of a bargain to him to tell him all.’<br> +<br> +‘Tell it to the divil if ye like for me!’ cried the lass. +‘I’ve naething to be ashamed of. Tell M’Brair +to mind his ain affairs,’ she cried again: ‘they’ll +be hot eneugh for him, if Haddie likes!’ And so strode off, +shoving her beasts before her, and ever and again looking back and crying +angry words to the boy, where he stood mystified.<br> +<br> +By the time he had got home his mind was made up that he would say nothing +to his mother. My Lady Montroymont was in the keeping-room, reading +a godly book; she was a wonderful frail little wife to make so much +noise in the world and be able to steer about that patient sheep her +husband; her eyes were like sloes, the fingers of her hands were like +tobacco-pipe shanks, her mouth shut tight like a trap; and even when +she was the most serious, and still more when she was angry, there hung +about her face the terrifying semblance of a smile.<br> +<br> +‘Have ye gotten the billet, Francie said she; and when he had +handed it over, and she had read and burned it, ‘Did you see anybody?’ +she asked.<br> +<br> +‘I saw the laird,’ said Francie.<br> +<br> +‘He didna see you, though?’ asked his mother.<br> +<br> +‘Deil a fear,’ from Francie.<br> +<br> +‘Francie!’ she cried. ‘What’s that I hear? +an aith? The Lord forgive me, have I broughten forth a brand for +the burning, a fagot for hell-fire?’<br> +<br> +‘I’m very sorry, ma’am,’ said Francie. +‘I humbly beg the Lord’s pardon, and yours, for my wickedness.’<br> +<br> +‘H’m,’ grunted the lady. ‘Did ye see nobody +else?’<br> +<br> +‘No, ma’am,’ said Francie, with the face of an angel, +‘except Jock Crozer, that gied me the billet.’<br> +<br> +‘Jock Crozer!’ cried the lady. ‘I’ll Crozer +them! Crozers indeed! What next? Are we to repose +the lives of a suffering remnant in Crozers? The whole clan of +them wants hanging, and if I had my way of it, they wouldna want it +long. Are you aware, sir, that these Crozers killed your forebear +at the kirk-door?’<br> +<br> +‘You see, he was bigger ’n me,’ said Francie.<br> +<br> +‘Jock Crozer!’ continued the lady. ‘That’ll +be Clement’s son, the biggest thief and reiver in the country-side. +To trust a note to him! But I’ll give the benefit of my +opinions to Lady Whitecross when we two forgather. Let her look +to herself! I have no patience with half-hearted carlines, that +complies on the Lord’s day morning with the kirk, and comes taigling +the same night to the conventicle. The one or the other! is what +I say: hell or heaven - Haddie’s abominations or the pure word +of God dreeping from the lips of Mr. Arnot,<br> +<br> +<br> +‘“Like honey from the honeycomb<br> +That dreepeth, sweeter far.”’<br> +<br> +<br> +My lady was now fairly launched, and that upon two congenial subjects: +the deficiencies of the Lady Whitecross and the turpitudes of the whole +Crozer race - which, indeed, had never been conspicuous for respectability. +She pursued the pair of them for twenty minutes on the clock with wonderful +animation and detail, something of the pulpit manner, and the spirit +of one possessed. ‘O hellish compliance!’ she exclaimed. +‘I would not suffer a complier to break bread with Christian folk. +Of all the sins of this day there is not one so God-defying, so Christ-humiliating, +as damnable compliance’: the boy standing before her meanwhile, +and brokenly pursuing other thoughts, mainly of Haddo and Janet, and +Jock Crozer stripping off his jacket. And yet, with all his distraction, +it might be argued that he heard too much: his father and himself being +‘compliers’ - that is to say, attending the church of the +parish as the law required.<br> +<br> +Presently, the lady’s passion beginning to decline, or her flux +of ill words to be exhausted, she dismissed her audience. Francie +bowed low, left the room, closed the door behind him: and then turned +him about in the passage-way, and with a low voice, but a prodigious +deal of sentiment, repeated the name of the evil one twenty times over, +to the end of which, for the greater efficacy, he tacked on ‘damnable’ +and ‘hellish.’ <i>Fas est ab hoste doceri</i> - disrespect +is made more pungent by quotation; and there is no doubt but he felt +relieved, and went upstairs into his tutor’s chamber with a quiet +mind. M’Brair sat by the cheek of the peat-fire and shivered, +for he had a quartan ague and this was his day. The great night-cap +and plaid, the dark unshaven cheeks of the man, and the white, thin +hands that held the plaid about his chittering body, made a sorrowful +picture. But Francie knew and loved him; came straight in, nestled +close to the refugee, and told his story. M’Brair had been +at the College with Haddo; the Presbytery had licensed both on the same +day; and at this tale, told with so much innocency by the boy, the heart +of the tutor was commoved.<br> +<br> +‘Woe upon him! Woe upon that man!’ he cried. +‘O the unfaithful shepherd! O the hireling and apostate +minister! Make my matters hot for me? quo’ she! the shameless +limmer! And true it is, that he could repose me in that nasty, +stinking hole, the Canongate Tolbooth, from which your mother drew me +out - the Lord reward her for it! - or to that cold, unbieldy, marine +place of the Bass Rock, which, with my delicate kist, would be fair +ruin to me. But I will be valiant in my Master’s service. +I have a duty here: a duty to my God, to myself, and to Haddo: in His +strength, I will perform it.’<br> +<br> +Then he straitly discharged Francie to repeat the tale, and bade him +in the future to avert his very eyes from the doings of the curate. +‘You must go to his place of idolatry; look upon him there!’ +says he, ‘but nowhere else. Avert your eyes, close your +ears, pass him by like a three days’ corp. He is like that +damnable monster Basiliscus, which defiles - yea, poisons! - by the +sight.’ - All which was hardly claratory to the boy’s mind.<br> +<br> +Presently Montroymont came home, and called up the stairs to Francie. +Traquair was a good shot and swordsman: and it was his pleasure to walk +with his son over the braes of the moorfowl, or to teach him arms in +the back court, when they made a mighty comely pair, the child being +so lean, and light, and active, and the laird himself a man of a manly, +pretty stature, his hair (the periwig being laid aside) showing already +white with many anxieties, and his face of an even, flaccid red. +But this day Francie’s heart was not in the fencing.<br> +<br> +‘Sir,’ says he, suddenly lowering his point, ‘will +ye tell me a thing if I was to ask it?’<br> +<br> +‘Ask away,’ says the father.<br> +<br> +‘Well, it’s this,’ said Francie: ‘Why do you +and me comply if it’s so wicked?’<br> +<br> +‘Ay, ye have the cant of it too!’ cries Montroymont. +‘But I’ll tell ye for all that. It’s to try +and see if we can keep the rigging on this house, Francie. If +she had her way, we would be beggar-folk, and hold our hands out by +the wayside. When ye hear her - when ye hear folk,’ he corrected +himself briskly, ‘call me a coward, and one that betrayed the +Lord, and I kenna what else, just mind it was to keep a bed to ye to +sleep in and a bite for ye to eat. - On guard!’ he cried, and +the lesson proceeded again till they were called to supper.<br> +<br> +‘There’s another thing yet,’ said Francie, stopping +his father. ‘There’s another thing that I am not sure +that I am very caring for. She - she sends me errands.’<br> +<br> +‘Obey her, then, as is your bounden duty,’ said Traquair.<br> +<br> +‘Ay, but wait till I tell ye,’ says the boy. ‘If +I was to see you I was to hide.’<br> +<br> +Montroymont sighed. ‘Well, and that’s good of her +too,’ said he. ‘The less that I ken of thir doings +the better for me; and the best thing you can do is just to obey her, +and see and be a good son to her, the same as ye are to me, Francie.’<br> +<br> +At the tenderness of this expression the heart of Francie swelled within +his bosom, and his remorse was poured out. ‘Faither!’ +he cried, ‘I said “deil” to-day; many’s the +time I said it, and <i>damnable</i> too, and <i>hellitsh</i>. +I ken they’re all right; they’re beeblical. But I +didna say them beeblically; I said them for sweir words - that’s +the truth of it.’<br> +<br> +‘Hout, ye silly bairn!’ said the father, ‘dinna do +it nae mair, and come in by to your supper.’ And he took +the boy, and drew him close to him a moment, as they went through the +door, with something very fond and secret, like a caress between a pair +of lovers.<br> +<br> +The next day M’Brair was abroad in the afternoon, and had a long +advising with Janet on the braes where she herded cattle. What +passed was never wholly known; but the lass wept bitterly, and fell +on her knees to him among the whins. The same night, as soon as +it was dark, he took the road again for Balweary. In the Kirkton, +where the dragoons quartered, he saw many lights, and heard the noise +of a ranting song and people laughing grossly, which was highly offensive +to his mind. He gave it the wider berth, keeping among fields; +and came down at last by the water-side, where the manse stands solitary +between the river and the road. He tapped at the back door, and +the old woman called upon him to come in, and guided him through the +house to the study, as they still called it, though there was little +enough study there in Haddo’s days, and more song-books than theology.<br> +<br> +‘Here’s yin to speak wi’ ye, Mr. Haddie!’ cries +the old wife.<br> +<br> +And M’Brair, opening the door and entering, found the little, +round, red man seated in one chair and his feet upon another. +A clear fire and a tallow dip lighted him barely. He was taking +tobacco in a pipe, and smiling to himself; and a brandy-bottle and glass, +and his fiddle and bow, were beside him on the table.<br> +<br> +‘Hech, Patey M’Briar, is this you?’ said he, a trifle +tipsily. ‘Step in by, man, and have a drop brandy: for the +stomach’s sake! Even the deil can quote Scripture - eh, +Patey?’<br> +<br> +‘I will neither eat nor drink with you,’ replied M’Brair. +‘I am come upon my Master’s errand: woe be upon me if I +should anyways mince the same. Hall Haddo, I summon you to quit +this kirk which you encumber.’<br> +<br> +‘Muckle obleeged!’ says Haddo, winking.<br> +<br> +‘You and me have been to kirk and market together,’ pursued +M’Brair; ‘we have had blessed seasons in the kirk, we have +sat in the same teaching-rooms and read in the same book; and I know +you still retain for me some carnal kindness. It would be my shame +if I denied it; I live here at your mercy and by your favour, and glory +to acknowledge it. You have pity on my wretched body, which is +but grass, and must soon be trodden under: but O, Haddo! how much greater +is the yearning with which I yearn after and pity your immortal soul! +Come now, let us reason together! I drop all points of controversy, +weighty though these be; I take your defaced and damnified kirk on your +own terms; and I ask you, Are you a worthy minister? The communion +season approaches; how can you pronounce thir solemn words, “The +elders will now bring forrit the elements,” and not quail? +A parishioner may be summoned to-night; you may have to rise from your +miserable orgies; and I ask you, Haddo, what does your conscience tell +you? Are you fit? Are you fit to smooth the pillow of a +parting Christian? And if the summons should be for yourself, +how then?’<br> +<br> +Haddo was startled out of all composure and the better part of his temper. +‘What’s this of it?’ he cried. ‘I’m +no waur than my neebours. I never set up to be speeritual; I never +did. I’m a plain, canty creature; godliness is cheerfulness, +says I; give me my fiddle and a dram, and I wouldna hairm a flee.’<br> +<br> +‘And I repeat my question,’ said M’Brair: ‘Are +you fit - fit for this great charge? fit to carry and save souls?’<br> +<br> +‘Fit? Blethers! As fit’s yoursel’,’ +cried Haddo.<br> +<br> +‘Are you so great a self-deceiver?’ said M’Brair. +‘Wretched man, trampler upon God’s covenants, crucifier +of your Lord afresh. I will ding you to the earth with one word: +How about the young woman, Janet M’Clour?’<br> +<br> +‘Weel, what about her? what do I ken?’ cries Haddo. +‘M’Brair, ye daft auld wife, I tell ye as true’s truth, +I never meddled her. It was just daffing, I tell ye: daffing, +and nae mair: a piece of fun, like! I’m no denying but what +I’m fond of fun, sma’ blame to me! But for onything +sarious - hout, man, it might come to a deposeetion! I’ll +sweir it to ye. Where’s a Bible, till you hear me sweir?’<br> +<br> +‘There is nae Bible in your study,’ said M’Brair severely.<br> +<br> +And Haddo, after a few distracted turns, was constrained to accept the +fact.<br> +<br> +‘Weel, and suppose there isna?’ he cried, stamping. +‘What mair can ye say of us, but just that I’m fond of my +joke, and so’s she? I declare to God, by what I ken, she +might be the Virgin Mary - if she would just keep clear of the dragoons. +But me! na, deil haet o’ me!’<br> +<br> +‘She is penitent at least,’ says M’Brair.<br> +<br> +‘Do you mean to actually up and tell me to my face that she accused +me?’ cried the curate.<br> +<br> +‘I canna just say that,’ replied M’Brair. ‘But +I rebuked her in the name of God, and she repented before me on her +bended knees.’<br> +<br> +‘Weel, I daursay she’s been ower far wi’ the dragoons,’ +said Haddo. ‘I never denied that. I ken naething by +it.’<br> +<br> +‘Man, you but show your nakedness the more plainly,’ said +M’Brair. ‘Poor, blind, besotted creature - and I see +you stoytering on the brink of dissolution: your light out, and your +hours numbered. Awake, man!’ he shouted with a formidable +voice, ‘awake, or it be ower late.’<br> +<br> +‘Be damned if I stand this!’ exclaimed Haddo, casting his +tobacco-pipe violently on the table, where it was smashed in pieces. +‘Out of my house with ye, or I’ll call for the dragoons.’<br> +<br> +‘The speerit of the Lord is upon me,’ said M’Brair +with solemn ecstasy. ‘I sist you to compear before the Great +White Throne, and I warn you the summons shall be bloody and sudden.’<br> +<br> +And at this, with more agility than could have been expected, he got +clear of the room and slammed the door behind him in the face of the +pursuing curate. The next Lord’s day the curate was ill, +and the kirk closed, but for all his ill words, Mr. M’Brair abode +unmolested in the house of Montroymont.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER III - THE HILL-END OF DRUMLOWE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +This was a bit of a steep broken hill that overlooked upon the west +a moorish valley, full of ink-black pools. These presently drained +into a burn that made off, with little noise and no celerity of pace, +about the corner of the hill. On the far side the ground swelled +into a bare heath, black with junipers, and spotted with the presence +of the standing stones for which the place was famous. They were +many in that part, shapeless, white with lichen - you would have said +with age: and had made their abode there for untold centuries, since +first the heathens shouted for their installation. The ancients +had hallowed them to some ill religion, and their neighbourhood had +long been avoided by the prudent before the fall of day; but of late, +on the upspringing of new requirements, these lonely stones on the moor +had again become a place of assembly. A watchful picket on the +Hill-end commanded all the northern and eastern approaches; and such +was the disposition of the ground, that by certain cunningly posted +sentries the west also could be made secure against surprise: there +was no place in the country where a conventicle could meet with more +quiet of mind or a more certain retreat open, in the case of interference +from the dragoons. The minister spoke from a knowe close to the +edge of the ring, and poured out the words God gave him on the very +threshold of the devils of yore. When they pitched a tent (which +was often in wet weather, upon a communion occasion) it was rigged over +the huge isolated pillar that had the name of Anes-Errand, none knew +why. And the congregation sat partly clustered on the slope below, +and partly among the idolatrous monoliths and on the turfy soil of the +Ring itself. In truth the situation was well qualified to give +a zest to Christian doctrines, had there been any wanted. But +these congregations assembled under conditions at once so formidable +and romantic as made a zealot of the most cold. They were the +last of the faithful; God, who had averted His face from all other countries +of the world, still leaned from heaven to observe, with swelling sympathy, +the doings of His moorland remnant; Christ was by them with His eternal +wounds, with dropping tears; the Holy Ghost (never perfectly realised +nor firmly adopted by Protestant imaginations) was dimly supposed to +be in the heart of each and on the lips of the minister. And over +against them was the army of the hierarchies, from the men Charles and +James Stuart, on to King Lewie and the Emperor; and the scarlet Pope, +and the muckle black devil himself, peering out the red mouth of hell +in an ecstasy of hate and hope. ‘One pull more!’ he +seemed to cry; ‘one pull more, and it’s done. There’s +only Clydesdale and the Stewartry, and the three Bailiaries of Ayr, +left for God.’ And with such an august assistance of powers +and principalities looking on at the last conflict of good and evil, +it was scarce possible to spare a thought to those old, infirm, debile, +<i>ab agendo</i> devils whose holy place they were now violating.<br> +<br> +There might have been three hundred to four hundred present. At +least there were three hundred horses tethered for the most part in +the ring; though some of the hearers on the outskirts of the crowd stood +with their bridles in their hand, ready to mount at the first signal. +The circle of faces was strangely characteristic; long, serious, strongly +marked, the tackle standing out in the lean brown cheeks, the mouth +set and the eyes shining with a fierce enthusiasm; the shepherd, the +labouring man, and the rarer laird, stood there in their broad blue +bonnets or laced hats, and presenting an essential identity of type. +From time to time a long-drawn groan of adhesion rose in this audience, +and was propagated like a wave to the outskirts, and died away among +the keepers of the horses. It had a name; it was called ‘a +holy groan.’<br> +<br> +A squall came up; a great volley of flying mist went out before it and +whelmed the scene; the wind stormed with a sudden fierceness that carried +away the minister’s voice and twitched his tails and made him +stagger, and turned the congregation for a moment into a mere pother +of blowing plaid-ends and prancing horses; and the rain followed and +was dashed straight into their faces. Men and women panted aloud +in the shock of that violent shower-bath; the teeth were bared along +all the line in an involuntary grimace; plaids, mantles, and riding-coats +were proved vain, and the worshippers felt the water stream on their +naked flesh. The minister, reinforcing his great and shrill voice, +continued to contend against and triumph over the rising of the squall +and the dashing of the rain.<br> +<br> +‘In that day ye may go thirty mile and not hear a crawing cock,’ +he said; ‘and fifty mile and not get a light to your pipe; and +an hundred mile and not see a smoking house. For there’ll +be naething in all Scotland but deid men’s banes and blackness, +and the living anger of the Lord. O, where to find a bield - O +sirs, where to find a bield from the wind of the Lord’s anger? +Do ye call <i>this</i> a wind? Bethankit! Sirs, this is +but a temporary dispensation; this is but a puff of wind, this is but +a spit of rain and by with it. Already there’s a blue bow +in the west, and the sun will take the crown of the causeway again, +and your things’ll be dried upon ye, and your flesh will be warm +upon your bones. But O, sirs, sirs! for the day of the Lord’s +anger!’<br> +<br> +His rhetoric was set forth with an ear-piercing elocution, and a voice +that sometimes crashed like cannon. Such as it was, it was the +gift of all hill-preachers, to a singular degree of likeness or identity. +Their images scarce ranged beyond the red horizon of the moor and the +rainy hill-top, the shepherd and his sheep, a fowling-piece, a spade, +a pipe, a dunghill, a crowing cock, the shining and the withdrawal of +the sun. An occasional pathos of simple humanity, and frequent +patches of big Biblical words, relieved the homely tissue. It +was a poetry apart; bleak, austere, but genuine, and redolent of the +soil.<br> +<br> +A little before the coming of the squall there was a different scene +enacting at the outposts. For the most part, the sentinels were +faithful to their important duty; the Hill-end of Drumlowe was known +to be a safe meeting-place; and the out-pickets on this particular day +had been somewhat lax from the beginning, and grew laxer during the +inordinate length of the discourse. Francie lay there in his appointed +hiding-hole, looking abroad between two whin-bushes. His view +was across the course of the burn, then over a piece of plain moorland, +to a gap between two hills; nothing moved but grouse, and some cattle +who slowly traversed his field of view, heading northward: he heard +the psalms, and sang words of his own to the savage and melancholy music; +for he had his own design in hand, and terror and cowardice prevailed +in his bosom alternately, like the hot and the cold fit of an ague. +Courage was uppermost during the singing, which he accompanied through +all its length with this impromptu strain:<br> +<br> +<br> +‘And I will ding Jock Crozer down<br> +No later than the day.’<br> +<br> +<br> +Presently the voice of the preacher came to him in wafts, at the wind’s +will, as by the opening and shutting of a door; wild spasms of screaming, +as of some undiscerned gigantic hill-bird stirred with inordinate passion, +succeeded to intervals of silence; and Francie heard them with a critical +ear. ‘Ay,’ he thought at last, ‘he’ll +do; he has the bit in his mou’ fairly.’<br> +<br> +He had observed that his friend, or rather his enemy, Jock Crozer, had +been established at a very critical part of the line of outposts; namely, +where the burn issues by an abrupt gorge from the semicircle of high +moors. If anything was calculated to nerve him to battle it was +this. The post was important; next to the Hill-end itself, it +might be called the key to the position; and it was where the cover +was bad, and in which it was most natural to place a child. It +should have been Heathercat’s; why had it been given to Crozer? +An exquisite fear of what should be the answer passed through his marrow +every time he faced the question. Was it possible that Crozer +could have boasted? that there were rumours abroad to his - Heathercat’s +- discredit? that his honour was publicly sullied? All the world +went dark about him at the thought; he sank without a struggle into +the midnight pool of despair; and every time he so sank, he brought +back with him - not drowned heroism indeed, but half-drowned courage +by the locks. His heart beat very slowly as he deserted his station, +and began to crawl towards that of Crozer. Something pulled him +back, and it was not the sense of duty, but a remembrance of Crozer’s +build and hateful readiness of fist. Duty, as he conceived it, +pointed him forward on the rueful path that he was travelling. +Duty bade him redeem his name if he were able, at the risk of broken +bones; and his bones and every tooth in his head ached by anticipation. +An awful subsidiary fear whispered him that if he were hurt, he should +disgrace himself by weeping. He consoled himself, boy-like, with +the consideration that he was not yet committed; he could easily steal +over unseen to Crozer’s post, and he had a continuous private +idea that he would very probably steal back again. His course +took him so near the minister that he could hear some of his words: +‘What news, minister, of Claver’se? He’s going +round like a roaring rampaging lion. . . .<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Footnotes:<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1">{1}</a> From the Sydney +<i>Presbyterian</i>, October 26, 1889.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote2a"></a><a href="#citation2a">{2a}</a> <i>Theater</i> +of <i>Mortality</i>, p. 10; Edin. 1713.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote2b"></a><a href="#citation2b">{2b}</a> <i>History +of My Own Times</i>, beginning 1660, by Bishop Gilbert Burnet, p. 158.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote2c"></a><a href="#citation2c">{2c}</a> Wodrow’s +<i>Church History</i>, Book II. chap. i. sect. I.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote2d"></a><a href="#citation2d">{2d}</a> Crookshank’s +<i>Church History</i>, 1751, second ed. p. 202.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote2e"></a><a href="#citation2e">{2e}</a> Burnet, +p. 348.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote3a"></a><a href="#citation3a">{3a}</a> <i>Fuller’s +Historie of the Holy Warre</i>, fourth ed. 1651.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote3b"></a><a href="#citation3b">{3b}</a> Wodrow, +vol. ii. p. 17.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote3c"></a><a href="#citation3c">{3c}</a> Sir J. +Turner’s <i>Memoirs</i>, pp. 148-50.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote4a"></a><a href="#citation4a">{4a}</a> <i>A Cloud +of Witnesses</i>, p. 376.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote4b"></a><a href="#citation4b">{4b}</a> Wodrow, +pp. 19, 20.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote4c"></a><a href="#citation4c">{4c}</a> <i>A Hind +Let Loose</i>, p. 123.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote4d"></a><a href="#citation4d">{4d}</a> Turner, +p. 163.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote4e"></a><a href="#citation4e">{4e}</a> Turner, +p. 198.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote4f"></a><a href="#citation4f">{4f}</a> <i>Ibid</i>. +p. 167.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote4g"></a><a href="#citation4g">{4g}</a> Wodrow, +p. 29.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote4h"></a><a href="#citation4h">{4h}</a> Turner, +Wodrow, and <i>Church History</i> by James Kirkton, an outed minister +of the period.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote5a"></a><a href="#citation5a">{5a}</a> Kirkton, +p. 244.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote5b"></a><a href="#citation5b">{5b}</a> Kirkton.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote5c"></a><a href="#citation5c">{5c}</a> Turner.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote5d"></a><a href="#citation5d">{5d}</a> Kirkton.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote5e"></a><a href="#citation5e">{5e}</a> Kirkton.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote6a"></a><a href="#citation6a">{6a}</a> <i>Cloud +of Witnesses</i>, p. 389; Edin. 1765.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote6b"></a><a href="#citation6b">{6b}</a> Kirkton, +p. 247.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote6c"></a><a href="#citation6c">{6c}</a> Ibid. +p. 254.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote6d"></a><a href="#citation6d">{6d}</a> <i>Ibid</i>. +p. 247.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote6e"></a><a href="#citation6e">{6e}</a> <i>Ibid</i>. +pp. 247, 248.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote6f"></a><a href="#citation6f">{6f}</a> Kirkton, +p. 248.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote6g"></a><a href="#citation6g">{6g}</a> Kirkton, +p. 249.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote6h"></a><a href="#citation6h">{6h}</a> <i>Naphtali</i>, +p. 205; Glasgow, 1721.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote6i"></a><a href="#citation6i">{6i}</a> Wodrow, +p. 59.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote6j"></a><a href="#citation6j">{6j}</a> Kirkton, +p. 246.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote6k"></a><a href="#citation6k">{6k}</a> Defoe’s +<i>History of the Church of Scotland.<br> +<br> +</i><a name="footnote7"></a><a href="#citation7">{7}</a> ‘This +paper was written in collaboration with James Waiter Ferrier, and if +reprinted this is to be stated, though his principal collaboration was +to lie back in an easy-chair and laugh.’ - [R.L.S., Oct. 25, 1894.]<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote8"></a><a href="#citation8">{8}</a> See a short +essay of De Quincey’s.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote9a"></a><a href="#citation9a">{9a}</a> <i>Religio +Medici</i>, Part ii.<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote9b"></a><a href="#citation9b">{9b}</a> <i>Duchess</i> +<i>of Malfi</i>.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, LAY MORALS ***<br> +<pre> + +******This file should be named lamor10h.htm or lamor10h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, lamor11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, lamor10ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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