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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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