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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Lay Morals + and Other Papers + + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Editor: Sidney Colvin + +Release Date: October 20, 2010 [eBook #373] +First Posted: November 1995 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAY MORALS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the Chatto and Windus 1911 edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>LAY MORALS</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">And Other Papers</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by</span><br /> +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</p> +<p> </p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p0b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Graphic" +title= +"Graphic" +src="images/p0s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">A NEW EDITION<br /> +WITH A PREFACE BY<br /> +MRS. STEVENSON</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +CHATTO & WINDUS<br /> +1911</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page iv--><a +name="pageiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. iv</span><i>All rights +reserved.</i></p> +<h2><!-- page v--><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>PREFACE<br /> +BY MRS. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON <a name="citation0"></a><a +href="#footnote0" class="citation">[0]</a></h2> +<p>In<span class="smcap"> </span>our long voyage on the yacht +<i>Casco</i>, we visited many islands; I believe on every one we +found the scourge of leprosy. In the Marquesas there was a +regular leper settlement, though the persons living there seemed +free to wander where they wished, fishing on the beach, or +visiting friends in the villages. I remember one afternoon, +at Anaho, when my husband and I, tired after a long quest for +shells, sat down on the sand to rest awhile, a native man stepped +out from under some cocoanut trees, regarding us hesitatingly as +though fearful of intruding. My husband waved an invitation +to the stranger to join us, offering his cigarette to the man in +the island fashion. The cigarette was accepted and, after a +puff or two, courteously passed back again according to native +etiquette. The hand that held it was the maimed hand of a +leper. To my consternation my husband took the cigarette +and smoked it out. Afterwards when we were alone <!-- page +vi--><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. vi</span>and I +spoke of my horror he said, ‘I could not mortify the +man. And if you think I <i>liked</i> doing it—that +was another reason; because I <i>didn’t</i> want +to.’</p> +<p>Another day, while we were still anchored in Anaho Bay, a +messenger from round a distant headland came in a whale-boat with +an urgent request that we go to see a young white girl who was +ill with some mysterious malady. We had supposed that, with +the beach-comber ‘Charley the red,’ we were the only +white people on our side of the island. Though there was +much wind that day and the sea ran high, we started at once, +impelled partly by curiosity and partly by the pathetic nature of +the message. Fortunately we took our luncheon with us, +eating it on the beach before we went up to the house where the +sick girl lay. Our hostess, the girl’s mother, met us +with regrets that we had already lunched, saying, ‘I have a +most excellent cook; here he is, now.’ She turned, as +she spoke, to an elderly Chinaman who was plainly in an advanced +stage of leprosy. When the man was gone, my husband asked +if she had no fear of contagion. ‘I don’t +believe in contagion,’ was her reply. But there was +little doubt as to what ailed her daughter. She was +certainly suffering from leprosy. We could only advise that +the girl be taken to the French post at Santa Maria Bay where +there was a doctor.</p> +<p>On our return to the <i>Casco</i> we confessed to each <!-- +page vii--><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>other with what alarm and repugnance we touched the +miserable girl. We talked long that evening of Father +Damien, his sublime heroism, and his martyrdom which was already +nearing its sad end. Beyond all noble qualities my husband +placed courage. The more he saw of leprosy, and he saw much +in the islands, the higher rose his admiration for the simple +priest of Molokai. ‘I must see Molokai,’ he +said many times. ‘I must somehow manage to see +Molokai.’</p> +<p>In January 1889, we arrived in Honolulu, settling in a +pleasant cottage by the sea to rest until we were ready to return +to England. The <i>Casco</i> we sent back to San Francisco +with the captain. But the knowledge that every few days +some vessel was leaving Honolulu to cruise among islands we had +not seen, and now should never see, was more than we could +bear. First we engaged passage on a missionary ship, but +changed our minds—my husband would not be allowed to smoke +on board, for one reason—and chartered the trading schooner +<i>Equator</i>. This was thought too rough a voyage for my +mother-in-law, as indeed it would have been; so she was sent, +somewhat protesting, back to Scotland.</p> +<p>My husband was still intent on seeing Molokai. After the +waste of much time and red tape, he finally received an official +permission to visit the leper settlement. It did not occur +to him it would be necessary <!-- page viii--><a +name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. viii</span>to get a +separate official permission to <i>leave</i> Molokai; hence he +was nearly left behind when the vessel sailed out. He only +saved himself by a prodigious leap which landed him on board the +boat, whence nothing but force could dislodge him. By the +doctor’s orders he took gloves to wear as a precautionary +measure against contagion, but they were never worn. At +first he avoided shaking hands, but when he played croquet with +the young leper girls he would not listen to the Mother +Superior’s warning that he must wear gloves. He +thought it might remind them of their condition. +‘What will you do if you find you have contracted +leprosy?’ I asked. ‘Do?’ he replied; +‘why, you and I would spend the rest of our lives in +Molokai and become humble followers of Father +Damien.’ As Mr. Balfour says in the Life of +Stevenson, he was as stern with his family as he was with +himself, and as exacting.</p> +<p>He talked very little to us of the tragedy of Molokai, though +I could see it lay heavy on his spirits; but of the great work +begun by Father Damien and carried on by his successors he spoke +fully. He had followed the life of the priest like a +detective until there seemed nothing more to learn. Mother +Mary Ann, the Mother Superior, he could never mention without +deep emotion. One of the first things he did on his return +to Honolulu was to send her a grand piano for the use of her +girls—<!-- page ix--><a name="pageix"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. ix</span>the girls with whom he had played +croquet. He also sent toys, sewing materials, small tools +for the younger children, and other things that I have +forgotten. After his death a letter was found among his +papers, of which I have only the last few lines. ‘I +cannot suppose you remember me, but I won’t forget you, nor +God won’t forget you for your kindness to the blind white +leper at Molokai.’</p> +<p>During my husband’s absence I had made every preparation +for our voyage on the <i>Equator</i>, so but little time was lost +before we found ourselves on board, our sails set for the +south. The <i>Equator</i>, which had easily lived through +the great Samoan hurricane, made no such phenomenal runs as the +<i>Casco</i>, but we could trust her, and she had no +‘tricks and ways’ that we did not understand. +We liked the sailors, we loved the ship and her captain, so it +was with heart-felt regret we said farewell in the harbour of +Apia after a long and perfect cruise.</p> +<p>After reading the letters that awaited us in Apia, we looked +over the newspapers. Our indignation may be imagined when +we read in one item that, owing to the publication of a letter by +a well-known Honolulu missionary, depicting Father Damien as a +dirty old peasant who had contracted leprosy through his immoral +habits, the project to erect a monument to his memory would be +abandoned. ‘I’ll not believe it,’ <!-- +page x--><a name="pagex"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +x</span>said my husband, ‘unless I see it with my own eyes; +for it is too damnable for belief!’</p> +<p>But see it he did, in spite of his incredulity, for in Sydney, +a month or two later, the very journal containing the letter +condemnatory of Father Damien was among the first we chanced to +open. I shall never forget my husband’s ferocity of +indignation, his leaping stride as he paced the room holding the +offending paper at arm’s-length before his eyes that burned +and sparkled with a peculiar flashing light. His cousin Mr. +Balfour, in his <i>Life of Robert Louis Stevenson</i>, says: +‘his eyes . . . when he was moved to anger or any fierce +emotion seemed literally to blaze and glow with a burning +light.’ In another moment he disappeared through the +doorway, and I could hear him, in his own room, pulling his chair +to the table, and the sound of his inkstand being dragged towards +him.</p> +<p>That afternoon he called us together—my son, my +daughter, and myself—saying that he had something serious +to lay before us. He went over the circumstances +succinctly, and then we three had the incomparable experience of +hearing its author read aloud the defence of Father Damien while +it was still red-hot from his indignant soul.</p> +<p>As we sat, dazed and overcome by emotion, he pointed out to us +that the subject-matter was libellous in the highest degree, and +the publication of the <!-- page xi--><a name="pagexi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xi</span>article might cause the loss of his +entire substance. Without our concurrence he would not take +such a risk. There was no dissenting voice; how could there +be? The paper was published with almost no change or +revision, though afterwards my husband said he considered this a +mistake. He thought he should have waited for his anger to +cool, when he might have been more impersonal and less +egotistic.</p> +<p>The next day he consulted an eminent lawyer, more from +curiosity than from any other reason. Mr. Moses—I +think that was his name—was at first inclined to be +jocular. I remember his smiling question: ‘Have you +called him a hell-hound or an atheist? Otherwise there is +no libel.’ But when he looked over the manuscript his +countenance changed. ‘This is a serious +affair,’ he said; ‘however, no one will publish it +for you.’ In that Mr. Moses was right; no one dared +publish the pamphlet. But that difficulty was soon +overcome. My husband hired a printer by the day, and the +work was rushed through. We then, my daughter, my son, and +myself, were set to work helping address the pamphlets, which +were scattered far and wide.</p> +<p>Father Damien was vindicated by a stranger, a man of another +country and another religion from his own.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">F. V. <span class="smcap">de +</span>G. S.</p> +<h2><!-- page xiii--><a name="pagexiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiii</span>Contents:</h2> +<p> Preface by Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson<br /> + Lay Morals<br /> + Father Damien<br /> + The Pentland Rising<br /> + I. The Causes of the +Revolt<br /> + II. The Beginning<br /> + III. The March of the +Rebels<br /> + IV. Rullion Green<br /> + V. A Record of Blood<br /> + The Day After To-morrow<br /> + College Papers<br /> + I. Edinburgh Students in +1824<br /> + II. The Modern Student<br /> + III. Debating Societies<br +/> + Criticisms<br /> + I. Lord Lytton’s +“Fables in Song”<br /> + II. Salvini’s +Macbeth<br /> + III. Bagster’s +“Pilgrim’s Progress”<br /> + Sketches<br /> + I. The Satirist<br /> + II. Nuits Blanches<br /> + III. The Wreath of +Immortelles<br /> + IV. Nurses<br /> + V. A Character<br /> + <!-- page xiv--><a name="pagexiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiv</span>The Great North Road<br /> + I. Nance at the “Green +Dragon”<br /> + II. In which Mr. Archer is +Installed<br /> + III. Jonathan Holdaway<br /> + IV. Mingling Threads<br /> + V. Life in the Castle<br /> + IV. The Bad Half-Crown<br /> + VII. The Bleaching-Green<br +/> + VIII. The Mail Guard<br /> + The Young Chevalier<br /> + Prologue: The Wine-Seller’s +Wife<br /> + I. The Prince<br /> + Heathercat<br /> + I. Traqairs of +Montroymont<br /> + II. Francie<br /> + III. The Hill-End of +Drumlowe</p> +<h2>LAY MORALS</h2> +<p><i>The following chapters of a projected treatise on Ethics +were drafted at Edinburgh in the spring of</i> 1879. +<i>They are unrevised</i>, <i>and must not be taken as +representing</i>, <i>either as to matter or form</i>, <i>their +author’s final thoughts</i>; <i>but they contain much that +is essentially characteristic of his mind</i>.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Copyright in the United States +of America</i>.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> +<p>The problem of education is twofold: first to know, and then +to utter. Every one who lives any semblance of an inner +life thinks more nobly and profoundly than he speaks; and the +best of teachers can impart only broken images of the truth which +they perceive. Speech which goes from one to another +between two natures, and, what is worse, between two experiences, +is doubly relative. The speaker buries his meaning; it is +for the hearer to dig it up again; and all speech, written or +spoken, is in a dead language until it finds a willing and +prepared hearer. Such, moreover, is the complexity of life, +that when we condescend upon details in our advice, we may be +sure we condescend on error; and the best of education is to +throw out some magnanimous hints. No man was ever so poor +that he could express all he has in him by words, looks, or +actions; his true knowledge is eternally incommunicable, for it +is a knowledge of himself; and his best wisdom comes to him by no +process of the mind, but in a supreme self-dictation, which keeps +varying from hour to hour in its dictates with the variation of +events and circumstances.</p> +<p>A few men of picked nature, full of faith, courage, and +contempt for others, try earnestly to set forth as much as they +can grasp of this inner law; but the vast majority, when they +come to advise the young, must be content to retail certain +doctrines which have been already retailed to them in their own +youth. Every generation has to educate another which it has +brought upon the stage. People who readily accept the +responsibility of parentship, having very different matters in +their eye, are apt to feel rueful when that responsibility falls +due. What are they to tell the child about life and +conduct, subjects on which they have themselves so few and such +confused opinions? Indeed, I do not know; the least said, +perhaps, the soonest mended; and yet the child keeps asking, and +the parent must find some words to say in his own defence. +Where does he find them? and what are they when found?</p> +<p>As a matter of experience, and in nine hundred and ninety-nine +cases out of a thousand, he will instil into his wide-eyed brat +three bad things: the terror of public opinion, and, flowing from +that as a fountain, the desire of wealth and applause. +Besides these, or what might be deduced as corollaries from +these, he will teach not much else of any effective value: some +dim notions of divinity, perhaps, and book-keeping, and how to +walk through a quadrille.</p> +<p>But, you may tell me, the young people are taught to be +Christians. It may be want of penetration, but I have not +yet been able to perceive it. As an honest man, whatever we +teach, and be it good or evil, it is not the doctrine of +Christ. What he taught (and in this he is like all other +teachers worthy of the name) was not a code of rules, but a +ruling spirit; not truths, but a spirit of truth; not views, but +a view. What he showed us was an attitude of mind. +Towards the many considerations on which conduct is built, each +man stands in a certain relation. He takes life on a +certain principle. He has a compass in his spirit which +points in a certain direction. It is the attitude, the +relation, the point of the compass, that is the whole body and +gist of what he has to teach us; in this, the details are +comprehended; out of this the specific precepts issue, and by +this, and this only, can they be explained and applied. And +thus, to learn aright from any teacher, we must first of all, +like a historical artist, think ourselves into sympathy with his +position and, in the technical phrase, create his +character. A historian confronted with some ambiguous +politician, or an actor charged with a part, have but one +pre-occupation; they must search all round and upon every side, +and grope for some central conception which is to explain and +justify the most extreme details; until that is found, the +politician is an enigma, or perhaps a quack, and the part a +tissue of fustian sentiment and big words; but once that is +found, all enters into a plan, a human nature appears, the +politician or the stage-king is understood from point to point, +from end to end. This is a degree of trouble which will be +gladly taken by a very humble artist; but not even the terror of +eternal fire can teach a business man to bend his imagination to +such athletic efforts. Yet without this, all is vain; until +we understand the whole, we shall understand none of the parts; +and otherwise we have no more than broken images and scattered +words; the meaning remains buried; and the language in which our +prophet speaks to us is a dead language in our ears.</p> +<p>Take a few of Christ’s sayings and compare them with our +current doctrines.</p> +<p>‘Ye cannot,’ he says, ‘<i>serve God and +Mammon</i>.’ Cannot? And our whole system is to +teach us how we can!</p> +<p>‘<i>The children of this world are wiser in their +generation than the children of light</i>.’ Are +they? I had been led to understand the reverse: that the +Christian merchant, for example, prospered exceedingly in his +affairs; that honesty was the best policy; that an author of +repute had written a conclusive treatise ‘How to make the +best of both worlds.’ Of both worlds indeed! +Which am I to believe then—Christ or the author of +repute?</p> +<p>‘<i>Take no thought for the morrow</i>.’ Ask +the Successful Merchant; interrogate your own heart; and you will +have to admit that this is not only a silly but an immoral +position. All we believe, all we hope, all we honour in +ourselves or our contemporaries, stands condemned in this one +sentence, or, if you take the other view, condemns the sentence +as unwise and inhumane. We are not then of the ‘same +mind that was in Christ.’ We disagree with +Christ. Either Christ meant nothing, or else he or we must +be in the wrong. Well says Thoreau, speaking of some texts +from the New Testament, and finding a strange echo of another +style which the reader may recognise: ‘Let but one of these +sentences be rightly read from any pulpit in the land, and there +would not be left one stone of that meeting-house upon +another.’</p> +<p>It may be objected that these are what are called ‘hard +sayings’; and that a man, or an education, may be very +sufficiently Christian although it leave some of these sayings +upon one side. But this is a very gross delusion. +Although truth is difficult to state, it is both easy and +agreeable to receive, and the mind runs out to meet it ere the +phrase be done. The universe, in relation to what any man +can say of it, is plain, patent and staringly +comprehensible. In itself, it is a great and travailing +ocean, unsounded, unvoyageable, an eternal mystery to man; or, +let us say, it is a monstrous and impassable mountain, one side +of which, and a few near slopes and foothills, we can dimly study +with these mortal eyes. But what any man can say of it, +even in his highest utterance, must have relation to this little +and plain corner, which is no less visible to us than to +him. We are looking on the same map; it will go hard if we +cannot follow the demonstration. The longest and most +abstruse flight of a philosopher becomes clear and shallow, in +the flash of a moment, when we suddenly perceive the aspect and +drift of his intention. The longest argument is but a +finger pointed; once we get our own finger rightly parallel, and +we see what the man meant, whether it be a new star or an old +street-lamp. And briefly, if a saying is hard to +understand, it is because we are thinking of something else.</p> +<p>But to be a true disciple is to think of the same things as +our prophet, and to think of different things in the same +order. To be of the same mind with another is to see all +things in the same perspective; it is not to agree in a few +indifferent matters near at hand and not much debated; it is to +follow him in his farthest flights, to see the force of his +hyperboles, to stand so exactly in the centre of his vision that +whatever he may express, your eyes will light at once on the +original, that whatever he may see to declare, your mind will at +once accept. You do not belong to the school of any +philosopher, because you agree with him that theft is, on the +whole, objectionable, or that the sun is overhead at noon. +It is by the hard sayings that discipleship is tested. We +are all agreed about the middling and indifferent parts of +knowledge and morality; even the most soaring spirits too often +take them tamely upon trust. But the man, the philosopher +or the moralist, does not stand upon these chance adhesions; and +the purpose of any system looks towards those extreme points +where it steps valiantly beyond tradition and returns with some +covert hint of things outside. Then only can you be certain +that the words are not words of course, nor mere echoes of the +past; then only are you sure that if he be indicating anything at +all, it is a star and not a street-lamp; then only do you touch +the heart of the mystery, since it was for these that the author +wrote his book.</p> +<p>Now, every now and then, and indeed surprisingly often, Christ +finds a word that transcends all common-place morality; every now +and then he quits the beaten track to pioneer the unexpressed, +and throws out a pregnant and magnanimous hyperbole; for it is +only by some bold poetry of thought that men can be strung up +above the level of everyday conceptions to take a broader look +upon experience or accept some higher principle of conduct. +To a man who is of the same mind that was in Christ, who stands +at some centre not too far from his, and looks at the world and +conduct from some not dissimilar or, at least, not opposing +attitude—or, shortly, to a man who is of Christ’s +philosophy—every such saying should come home with a thrill +of joy and corroboration; he should feel each one below his feet +as another sure foundation in the flux of time and chance; each +should be another proof that in the torrent of the years and +generations, where doctrines and great armaments and empires are +swept away and swallowed, he stands immovable, holding by the +eternal stars. But alas! at this juncture of the ages it is +not so with us; on each and every such occasion our whole +fellowship of Christians falls back in disapproving wonder and +implicitly denies the saying. Christians! the farce is +impudently broad. Let us stand up in the sight of heaven +and confess. The ethics that we hold are those of Benjamin +Franklin. <i>Honesty is the best policy</i>, is perhaps a +hard saying; it is certainly one by which a wise man of these +days will not too curiously direct his steps; but I think it +shows a glimmer of meaning to even our most dimmed intelligences; +I think we perceive a principle behind it; I think, without +hyperbole, we are of the same mind that was in Benjamin +Franklin.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> +<p>But, I may be told, we teach the ten commandments, where a +world of morals lies condensed, the very pith and epitome of all +ethics and religion; and a young man with these precepts engraved +upon his mind must follow after profit with some conscience and +Christianity of method. A man cannot go very far astray who +neither dishonours his parents, nor kills, nor commits adultery, +nor steals, nor bears false witness; for these things, rightly +thought out, cover a vast field of duty.</p> +<p>Alas! what is a precept? It is at best an illustration; +it is case law at the best which can be learned by precept. +The letter is not only dead, but killing; the spirit which +underlies, and cannot be uttered, alone is true and +helpful. This is trite to sickness; but familiarity has a +cunning disenchantment; in a day or two she can steal all beauty +from the mountain tops; and the most startling words begin to +fall dead upon the ear after several repetitions. If you +see a thing too often, you no longer see it; if you hear a thing +too often, you no longer hear it. Our attention requires to +be surprised; and to carry a fort by assault, or to gain a +thoughtful hearing from the ruck of mankind, are feats of about +an equal difficulty and must be tried by not dissimilar +means. The whole Bible has thus lost its message for the +common run of hearers; it has become mere words of course; and +the parson may bawl himself scarlet and beat the pulpit like a +thing possessed, but his hearers will continue to nod; they are +strangely at peace, they know all he has to say; ring the old +bell as you choose, it is still the old bell and it cannot +startle their composure. And so with this byword about the +letter and the spirit. It is quite true, no doubt; but it +has no meaning in the world to any man of us. Alas! it has +just this meaning, and neither more nor less: that while the +spirit is true, the letter is eternally false.</p> +<p>The shadow of a great oak lies abroad upon the ground at noon, +perfect, clear, and stable like the earth. But let a man +set himself to mark out the boundary with cords and pegs, and +were he never so nimble and never so exact, what with the +multiplicity of the leaves and the progression of the shadow as +it flees before the travelling sun, long ere he has made the +circuit the whole figure will have changed. Life may be +compared, not to a single tree, but to a great and complicated +forest; circumstance is more swiftly changing than a shadow, +language much more inexact than the tools of a surveyor; from day +to day the trees fall and are renewed; the very essences are +fleeting as we look; and the whole world of leaves is swinging +tempest-tossed among the winds of time. Look now for your +shadows. O man of formulæ, is this a place for +you? Have you fitted the spirit to a single case? +Alas, in the cycle of the ages when shall such another be +proposed for the judgment of man? Now when the sun shines +and the winds blow, the wood is filled with an innumerable +multitude of shadows, tumultuously tossed and changing; and at +every gust the whole carpet leaps and becomes new. Can you +or your heart say more?</p> +<p>Look back now, for a moment, on your own brief experience of +life; and although you lived it feelingly in your own person, and +had every step of conduct burned in by pains and joys upon your +memory, tell me what definite lesson does experience hand on from +youth to manhood, or from both to age? The settled tenor +which first strikes the eye is but the shadow of a +delusion. This is gone; that never truly was; and you +yourself are altered beyond recognition. Times and men and +circumstances change about your changing character, with a speed +of which no earthly hurricane affords an image. What was +the best yesterday, is it still the best in this changed theatre +of a to-morrow? Will your own Past truly guide you in your +own violent and unexpected Future? And if this be +questionable, with what humble, with what hopeless eyes, should +we not watch other men driving beside us on their unknown +careers, seeing with unlike eyes, impelled by different gales, +doing and suffering in another sphere of things?</p> +<p>And as the authentic clue to such a labyrinth and change of +scene, do you offer me these two score words? these five bald +prohibitions? For the moral precepts are no more than five; +the first four deal rather with matters of observance than of +conduct; the tenth, <i>Thou shalt not covet</i>, stands upon +another basis, and shall be spoken of ere long. The Jews, +to whom they were first given, in the course of years began to +find these precepts insufficient; and made an addition of no less +than six hundred and fifty others! They hoped to make a +pocket-book of reference on morals, which should stand to life in +some such relation, say, as Hoyle stands in to the scientific +game of whist. The comparison is just, and condemns the +design; for those who play by rule will never be more than +tolerable players; and you and I would like to play our game in +life to the noblest and the most divine advantage. Yet if +the Jews took a petty and huckstering view of conduct, what view +do we take ourselves, who callously leave youth to go forth into +the enchanted forest, full of spells and dire chimeras, with no +guidance more complete than is afforded by these five +precepts?</p> +<p><i>Honour thy father and thy mother</i>. Yes, but does +that mean to obey? and if so, how long and how far? <i>Thou +shall not kill</i>. Yet the very intention and purport of +the prohibition may be best fulfilled by killing. <i>Thou +shall not commit adultery</i>. But some of the ugliest +adulteries are committed in the bed of marriage and under the +sanction of religion and law. <i>Thou shalt not bear false +witness</i>. How? by speech or by silence also? or even by +a smile? <i>Thou shalt not steal</i>. Ah, that +indeed! But what is <i>to steal</i>?</p> +<p>To steal? It is another word to be construed; and who is +to be our guide? The police will give us one construction, +leaving the word only that least minimum of meaning without which +society would fall in pieces; but surely we must take some higher +sense than this; surely we hope more than a bare subsistence for +mankind; surely we wish mankind to prosper and go on from +strength to strength, and ourselves to live rightly in the eye of +some more exacting potentate than a policeman. The approval +or the disapproval of the police must be eternally indifferent to +a man who is both valorous and good. There is extreme +discomfort, but no shame, in the condemnation of the law. +The law represents that modicum of morality which can be squeezed +out of the ruck of mankind; but what is that to me, who aim +higher and seek to be my own more stringent judge? I +observe with pleasure that no brave man has ever given a rush for +such considerations. The Japanese have a nobler and more +sentimental feeling for this social bond into which we all are +born when we come into the world, and whose comforts and +protection we all indifferently share throughout our +lives:—but even to them, no more than to our Western saints +and heroes, does the law of the state supersede the higher law of +duty. Without hesitation and without remorse, they +transgress the stiffest enactments rather than abstain from doing +right. But the accidental superior duty being thus +fulfilled, they at once return in allegiance to the common duty +of all citizens; and hasten to denounce themselves; and value at +an equal rate their just crime and their equally just submission +to its punishment.</p> +<p>The evading of the police will not long satisfy an active +conscience or a thoughtful head. But to show you how one or +the other may trouble a man, and what a vast extent of frontier +is left unridden by this invaluable eighth commandment, let me +tell you a few pages out of a young man’s life.</p> +<p>He was a friend of mine; a young man like others; generous, +flighty, as variable as youth itself, but always with some high +motions and on the search for higher thoughts of life. I +should tell you at once that he thoroughly agrees with the eighth +commandment. But he got hold of some unsettling works, the +New Testament among others, and this loosened his views of life +and led him into many perplexities. As he was the son of a +man in a certain position, and well off, my friend had enjoyed +from the first the advantages of education, nay, he had been kept +alive through a sickly childhood by constant watchfulness, +comforts, and change of air; for all of which he was indebted to +his father’s wealth.</p> +<p>At college he met other lads more diligent than himself, who +followed the plough in summer-time to pay their college fees in +winter; and this inequality struck him with some force. He +was at that age of a conversible temper, and insatiably curious +in the aspects of life; and he spent much of his time scraping +acquaintance with all classes of man- and woman-kind. In +this way he came upon many depressed ambitions, and many +intelligences stunted for want of opportunity; and this also +struck him. He began to perceive that life was a handicap +upon strange, wrong-sided principles; and not, as he had been +told, a fair and equal race. He began to tremble that he +himself had been unjustly favoured, when he saw all the avenues +of wealth, and power, and comfort closed against so many of his +superiors and equals, and held unwearyingly open before so idle, +so desultory, and so dissolute a being as himself. There +sat a youth beside him on the college benches, who had only one +shirt to his back, and, at intervals sufficiently far apart, must +stay at home to have it washed. It was my friend’s +principle to stay away as often as he dared; for I fear he was no +friend to learning. But there was something that came home +to him sharply, in this fellow who had to give over study till +his shirt was washed, and the scores of others who had never an +opportunity at all. <i>If one of these could take his +place</i>, he thought; and the thought tore away a bandage from +his eyes. He was eaten by the shame of his discoveries, and +despised himself as an unworthy favourite and a creature of the +back-stairs of Fortune. He could no longer see without +confusion one of these brave young fellows battling up-hill +against adversity. Had he not filched that fellow’s +birthright? At best was he not coldly profiting by the +injustice of society, and greedily devouring stolen goods? +The money, indeed, belonged to his father, who had worked, and +thought, and given up his liberty to earn it; but by what justice +could the money belong to my friend, who had, as yet, done +nothing but help to squander it? A more sturdy honesty, +joined to a more even and impartial temperament, would have drawn +from these considerations a new force of industry, that this +equivocal position might be brought as swiftly as possible to an +end, and some good services to mankind justify the appropriation +of expense. It was not so with my friend, who was only +unsettled and discouraged, and filled full of that trumpeting +anger with which young men regard injustices in the first blush +of youth; although in a few years they will tamely acquiesce in +their existence, and knowingly profit by their +complications. Yet all this while he suffered many +indignant pangs. And once, when he put on his boots, like +any other unripe donkey, to run away from home, it was his best +consolation that he was now, at a single plunge, to free himself +from the responsibility of this wealth that was not his, and do +battle equally against his fellows in the warfare of life.</p> +<p>Some time after this, falling into ill-health, he was sent at +great expense to a more favourable climate; and then I think his +perplexities were thickest. When he thought of all the +other young men of singular promise, upright, good, the prop of +families, who must remain at home to die, and with all their +possibilities be lost to life and mankind; and how he, by one +more unmerited favour, was chosen out from all these others to +survive; he felt as if there were no life, no labour, no devotion +of soul and body, that could repay and justify these +partialities. A religious lady, to whom he communicated +these reflections, could see no force in them whatever. +‘It was God’s will,’ said she. But he +knew it was by God’s will that Joan of Arc was burnt at +Rouen, which cleared neither Bedford nor Bishop Cauchon; and +again, by God’s will that Christ was crucified outside +Jerusalem, which excused neither the rancour of the priests nor +the timidity of Pilate. He knew, moreover, that although +the possibility of this favour he was now enjoying issued from +his circumstances, its acceptance was the act of his own will; +and he had accepted it greedily, longing for rest and +sunshine. And hence this allegation of God’s +providence did little to relieve his scruples. I promise +you he had a very troubled mind. And I would not laugh if I +were you, though while he was thus making mountains out of what +you think molehills, he were still (as perhaps he was) +contentedly practising many other things that to you seem black +as hell. Every man is his own judge and mountain-guide +through life. There is an old story of a mote and a beam, +apparently not true, but worthy perhaps of some +consideration. I should, if I were you, give some +consideration to these scruples of his, and if I were he, I +should do the like by yours; for it is not unlikely that there +may be something under both. In the meantime you must hear +how my friend acted. Like many invalids, he supposed that +he would die. Now, should he die, he saw no means of +repaying this huge loan which, by the hands of his father, +mankind had advanced him for his sickness. In that case it +would be lost money. So he determined that the advance +should be as small as possible; and, so long as he continued to +doubt his recovery, lived in an upper room, and grudged himself +all but necessaries. But so soon as he began to perceive a +change for the better, he felt justified in spending more freely, +to speed and brighten his return to health, and trusted in the +future to lend a help to mankind, as mankind, out of its +treasury, had lent a help to him.</p> +<p>I do not say but that my friend was a little too curious and +partial in his view; nor thought too much of himself and too +little of his parents; but I do say that here are some scruples +which tormented my friend in his youth, and still, perhaps, at +odd times give him a prick in the midst of his enjoyments, and +which after all have some foundation in justice, and point, in +their confused way, to some more honourable honesty within the +reach of man. And at least, is not this an unusual gloss +upon the eighth commandment? And what sort of comfort, +guidance, or illumination did that precept afford my friend +throughout these contentions? ‘Thou shalt not +steal.’ With all my heart! But <i>am</i> I +stealing?</p> +<p>The truly quaint materialism of our view of life disables us +from pursuing any transaction to an end. You can make no +one understand that his bargain is anything more than a bargain, +whereas in point of fact it is a link in the policy of mankind, +and either a good or an evil to the world. We have a sort +of blindness which prevents us from seeing anything but +sovereigns. If one man agrees to give another so many +shillings for so many hours’ work, and then wilfully gives +him a certain proportion of the price in bad money and only the +remainder in good, we can see with half an eye that this man is a +thief. But if the other spends a certain proportion of the +hours in smoking a pipe of tobacco, and a certain other +proportion in looking at the sky, or the clock, or trying to +recall an air, or in meditation on his own past adventures, and +only the remainder in downright work such as he is paid to do, is +he, because the theft is one of time and not of money,—is +he any the less a thief? The one gave a bad shilling, the +other an imperfect hour; but both broke the bargain, and each is +a thief. In piecework, which is what most of us do, the +case is none the less plain for being even less material. +If you forge a bad knife, you have wasted some of mankind’s +iron, and then, with unrivalled cynicism, you pocket some of +mankind’s money for your trouble. Is there any man so +blind who cannot see that this is theft? Again, if you +carelessly cultivate a farm, you have been playing fast and loose +with mankind’s resources against hunger; there will be less +bread in consequence, and for lack of that bread somebody will +die next winter: a grim consideration. And you must not +hope to shuffle out of blame because you got less money for your +less quantity of bread; for although a theft be partly punished, +it is none the less a theft for that. You took the farm +against competitors; there were others ready to shoulder the +responsibility and be answerable for the tale of loaves; but it +was you who took it. By the act you came under a tacit +bargain with mankind to cultivate that farm with your best +endeavour; you were under no superintendence, you were on parole; +and you have broke your bargain, and to all who look closely, and +yourself among the rest if you have moral eyesight, you are a +thief. Or take the case of men of letters. Every +piece of work which is not as good as you can make it, which you +have palmed off imperfect, meagrely thought, niggardly in +execution, upon mankind who is your paymaster on parole and in a +sense your pupil, every hasty or slovenly or untrue performance, +should rise up against you in the court of your own heart and +condemn you for a thief. Have you a salary? If you +trifle with your health, and so render yourself less capable for +duty, and still touch, and still greedily pocket the +emolument—what are you but a thief? Have you double +accounts? do you by any time-honoured juggle, deceit, or +ambiguous process, gain more from those who deal with you than it +you were bargaining and dealing face to face in front of +God?—What are you but a thief? Lastly, if you fill an +office, or produce an article, which, in your heart of hearts, +you think a delusion and a fraud upon mankind, and still draw +your salary and go through the sham manœuvres of this +office, or still book your profits and keep on flooding the world +with these injurious goods?—though you were old, and bald, +and the first at church, and a baronet, what are you but a +thief? These may seem hard words and mere curiosities of +the intellect, in an age when the spirit of honesty is so +sparingly cultivated that all business is conducted upon lies and +so-called customs of the trade, that not a man bestows two +thoughts on the utility or honourableness of his pursuit. I +would say less if I thought less. But looking to my own +reason and the right of things, I can only avow that I am a thief +myself, and that I passionately suspect my neighbours of the same +guilt.</p> +<p>Where did you hear that it was easy to be honest? Do you +find that in your Bible? Easy! It is easy to be an +ass and follow the multitude like a blind, besotted bull in a +stampede; and that, I am well aware, is what you and Mrs. Grundy +mean by being honest. But it will not bear the stress of +time nor the scrutiny of conscience. Even before the lowest +of all tribunals,—before a court of law, whose business it +is, not to keep men right, or within a thousand miles of right, +but to withhold them from going so tragically wrong that they +will pull down the whole jointed fabric of society by their +misdeeds—even before a court of law, as we begin to see in +these last days, our easy view of following at each other’s +tails, alike to good and evil, is beginning to be reproved and +punished, and declared no honesty at all, but open theft and +swindling; and simpletons who have gone on through life with a +quiet conscience may learn suddenly, from the lips of a judge, +that the custom of the trade may be a custom of the devil. +You thought it was easy to be honest. Did you think it was +easy to be just and kind and truthful? Did you think the +whole duty of aspiring man was as simple as a horn-pipe? and you +could walk through life like a gentleman and a hero, with no more +concern than it takes to go to church or to address a +circular? And yet all this time you had the eighth +commandment! and, what makes it richer, you would not have broken +it for the world!</p> +<p>The truth is, that these commandments by themselves are of +little use in private judgment. If compression is what you +want, you have their whole spirit compressed into the golden +rule; and yet there expressed with more significance, since the +law is there spiritually and not materially stated. And in +truth, four out of these ten commands, from the sixth to the +ninth, are rather legal than ethical. The police-court is +their proper home. A magistrate cannot tell whether you +love your neighbour as yourself, but he can tell more or less +whether you have murdered, or stolen, or committed adultery, or +held up your hand and testified to that which was not; and these +things, for rough practical tests, are as good as can be +found. And perhaps, therefore, the best condensation of the +Jewish moral law is in the maxims of the priests, ‘neminem +lædere’ and ‘suum cuique tribuere.’ +But all this granted, it becomes only the more plain that they +are inadequate in the sphere of personal morality; that while +they tell the magistrate roughly when to punish, they can never +direct an anxious sinner what to do.</p> +<p>Only Polonius, or the like solemn sort of ass, can offer us a +succinct proverb by way of advice, and not burst out blushing in +our faces. We grant them one and all and for all that they +are worth; it is something above and beyond that we desire. +Christ was in general a great enemy to such a way of teaching; we +rarely find him meddling with any of these plump commands but it +was to open them out, and lift his hearers from the letter to the +spirit. For morals are a personal affair; in the war of +righteousness every man fights for his own hand; all the six +hundred precepts of the Mishna cannot shake my private judgment; +my magistracy of myself is an indefeasible charge, and my +decisions absolute for the time and case. The moralist is +not a judge of appeal, but an advocate who pleads at my +tribunal. He has to show not the law, but that the law +applies. Can he convince me? then he gains the cause. +And thus you find Christ giving various counsels to varying +people, and often jealously careful to avoid definite +precept. Is he asked, for example, to divide a +heritage? He refuses: and the best advice that he will +offer is but a paraphrase of that tenth commandment which figures +so strangely among the rest. <i>Take heed, and beware of +covetousness</i>. If you complain that this is vague, I +have failed to carry you along with me in my argument. For +no definite precept can be more than an illustration, though its +truth were resplendent like the sun, and it was announced from +heaven by the voice of God. And life is so intricate and +changing, that perhaps not twenty times, or perhaps not twice in +the ages, shall we find that nice consent of circumstances to +which alone it can apply.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> +<p>Although the world and life have in a sense become commonplace +to our experience, it is but in an external torpor; the true +sentiment slumbers within us; and we have but to reflect on +ourselves or our surroundings to rekindle our astonishment. +No length of habit can blunt our first surprise. Of the +world I have but little to say in this connection; a few strokes +shall suffice. We inhabit a dead ember swimming wide in the +blank of space, dizzily spinning as it swims, and lighted up from +several million miles away by a more horrible hell-fire than was +ever conceived by the theological imagination. Yet the dead +ember is a green, commodious dwelling-place; and the +reverberation of this hell-fire ripens flower and fruit and +mildly warms us on summer eves upon the lawn. Far off on +all hands other dead embers, other flaming suns, wheel and race +in the apparent void; the nearest is out of call, the farthest so +far that the heart sickens in the effort to conceive the +distance. Shipwrecked seamen on the deep, though they +bestride but the truncheon of a boom, are safe and near at home +compared with mankind on its bullet. Even to us who have +known no other, it seems a strange, if not an appalling, place of +residence.</p> +<p>But far stranger is the resident, man, a creature compact of +wonders that, after centuries of custom, is still wonderful to +himself. He inhabits a body which he is continually +outliving, discarding and renewing. Food and sleep, by an +unknown alchemy, restore his spirits and the freshness of his +countenance. Hair grows on him like grass; his eyes, his +brain, his sinews, thirst for action; he joys to see and touch +and hear, to partake the sun and wind, to sit down and intently +ponder on his astonishing attributes and situation, to rise up +and run, to perform the strange and revolting round of physical +functions. The sight of a flower, the note of a bird, will +often move him deeply; yet he looks unconcerned on the impassable +distances and portentous bonfires of the universe. He +comprehends, he designs, he tames nature, rides the sea, ploughs, +climbs the air in a balloon, makes vast inquiries, begins +interminable labours, joins himself into federations and populous +cities, spends his days to deliver the ends of the earth or to +benefit unborn posterity; and yet knows himself for a piece of +unsurpassed fragility and the creature of a few days. His +sight, which conducts him, which takes notice of the farthest +stars, which is miraculous in every way and a thing defying +explanation or belief, is yet lodged in a piece of jelly, and can +be extinguished with a touch. His heart, which all through +life so indomitably, so athletically labours, is but a capsule, +and may be stopped with a pin. His whole body, for all its +savage energies, its leaping and its winged desires, may yet be +tamed and conquered by a draught of air or a sprinkling of cold +dew. What he calls death, which is the seeming arrest of +everything, and the ruin and hateful transformation of the +visible body, lies in wait for him outwardly in a thousand +accidents, and grows up in secret diseases from within. He +is still learning to be a man when his faculties are already +beginning to decline; he has not yet understood himself or his +position before he inevitably dies. And yet this mad, +chimerical creature can take no thought of his last end, lives as +though he were eternal, plunges with his vulnerable body into the +shock of war, and daily affronts death with unconcern. He +cannot take a step without pain or pleasure. His life is a +tissue of sensations, which he distinguishes as they seem to come +more directly from himself or his surroundings. He is +conscious of himself as a joyer or a sufferer, as that which +craves, chooses, and is satisfied; conscious of his surroundings +as it were of an inexhaustible purveyor, the source of aspects, +inspirations, wonders, cruel knocks and transporting +caresses. Thus he goes on his way, stumbling among delights +and agonies.</p> +<p>Matter is a far-fetched theory, and materialism is without a +root in man. To him everything is important in the degree +to which it moves him. The telegraph wires and posts, the +electricity speeding from clerk to clerk, the clerks, the glad or +sorrowful import of the message, and the paper on which it is +finally brought to him at home, are all equally facts, all +equally exist for man. A word or a thought can wound him as +acutely as a knife of steel. If he thinks he is loved, he +will rise up and glory to himself, although he be in a distant +land and short of necessary bread. Does he think he is not +loved?—he may have the woman at his beck, and there is not +a joy for him in all the world. Indeed, if we are to make +any account of this figment of reason, the distinction between +material and immaterial, we shall conclude that the life of each +man as an individual is immaterial, although the continuation and +prospects of mankind as a race turn upon material +conditions. The physical business of each man’s body +is transacted for him; like a sybarite, he has attentive valets +in his own viscera; he breathes, he sweats, he digests without an +effort, or so much as a consenting volition; for the most part he +even eats, not with a wakeful consciousness, but as it were +between two thoughts. His life is centred among other and +more important considerations; touch him in his honour or his +love, creatures of the imagination which attach him to mankind or +to an individual man or woman; cross him in his piety which +connects his soul with heaven; and he turns from his food, he +loathes his breath, and with a magnanimous emotion cuts the knots +of his existence and frees himself at a blow from the web of +pains and pleasures.</p> +<p>It follows that man is twofold at least; that he is not a +rounded and autonomous empire; but that in the same body with him +there dwell other powers tributary but independent. If I +now behold one walking in a garden, curiously coloured and +illuminated by the sun, digesting his food with elaborate +chemistry, breathing, circulating blood, directing himself by the +sight of his eyes, accommodating his body by a thousand delicate +balancings to the wind and the uneven surface of the path, and +all the time, perhaps, with his mind engaged about America, or +the dog-star, or the attributes of God—what am I to say, or +how am I to describe the thing I see? Is that truly a man, +in the rigorous meaning of the word? or is it not a man and +something else? What, then, are we to count the centre-bit +and axle of a being so variously compounded? It is a +question much debated. Some read his history in a certain +intricacy of nerve and the success of successive digestions; +others find him an exiled piece of heaven blown upon and +determined by the breath of God; and both schools of theorists +will scream like scalded children at a word of doubt. Yet +either of these views, however plausible, is beside the question; +either may be right; and I care not; I ask a more particular +answer, and to a more immediate point. What is the +man? There is Something that was before hunger and that +remains behind after a meal. It may or may not be engaged +in any given act or passion, but when it is, it changes, +heightens, and sanctifies. Thus it is not engaged in lust, +where satisfaction ends the chapter; and it is engaged in love, +where no satisfaction can blunt the edge of the desire, and where +age, sickness, or alienation may deface what was desirable +without diminishing the sentiment. This something, which is +the man, is a permanence which abides through the vicissitudes of +passion, now overwhelmed and now triumphant, now unconscious of +itself in the immediate distress of appetite or pain, now rising +unclouded above all. So, to the man, his own central self +fades and grows clear again amid the tumult of the senses, like a +revolving Pharos in the night. It is forgotten; it is hid, +it seems, for ever; and yet in the next calm hour he shall behold +himself once more, shining and unmoved among changes and +storm.</p> +<p>Mankind, in the sense of the creeping mass that is born and +eats, that generates and dies, is but the aggregate of the outer +and lower sides of man. This inner consciousness, this +lantern alternately obscured and shining, to and by which the +individual exists and must order his conduct, is something +special to himself and not common to the race. His joys +delight, his sorrows wound him, according as <i>this</i> is +interested or indifferent in the affair; according as they arise +in an imperial war or in a broil conducted by the tributary +chieftains of the mind. He may lose all, and <i>this</i> +not suffer; he may lose what is materially a trifle, and +<i>this</i> leap in his bosom with a cruel pang. I do not +speak of it to hardened theorists: the living man knows keenly +what it is I mean.</p> +<p>‘Perceive at last that thou hast in thee something +better and more divine than the things which cause the various +effects, and, as it were, pull thee by the strings. What is +that now in thy mind? is it fear, or suspicion, or desire, or +anything of that kind?’ Thus far Marcus Aurelius, in +one of the most notable passages in any book. Here is a +question worthy to be answered. What is in thy mind? +What is the utterance of your inmost self when, in a quiet hour, +it can be heard intelligibly? It is something beyond the +compass of your thinking, inasmuch as it is yourself; but is it +not of a higher spirit than you had dreamed betweenwhiles, and +erect above all base considerations? This soul seems hardly +touched with our infirmities; we can find in it certainly no +fear, suspicion, or desire; we are only conscious—and that +as though we read it in the eyes of some one else—of a +great and unqualified readiness. A readiness to what? to +pass over and look beyond the objects of desire and fear, for +something else. And this something else? this something +which is apart from desire and fear, to which all the kingdoms of +the world and the immediate death of the body are alike +indifferent and beside the point, and which yet regards +conduct—by what name are we to call it? It may be the +love of God; or it may be an inherited (and certainly well +concealed) instinct to preserve self and propagate the race; I am +not, for the moment, averse to either theory; but it will save +time to call it righteousness. By so doing I intend no +subterfuge to beg a question; I am indeed ready, and more than +willing, to accept the rigid consequence, and lay aside, as far +as the treachery of the reason will permit, all former meanings +attached to the word righteousness. What is right is that +for which a man’s central self is ever ready to sacrifice +immediate or distant interests; what is wrong is what the central +self discards or rejects as incompatible with the fixed design of +righteousness.</p> +<p>To make this admission is to lay aside all hope of +definition. That which is right upon this theory is +intimately dictated to each man by himself, but can never be +rigorously set forth in language, and never, above all, imposed +upon another. The conscience has, then, a vision like that +of the eyes, which is incommunicable, and for the most part +illuminates none but its possessor. When many people +perceive the same or any cognate facts, they agree upon a word as +symbol; and hence we have such words as <i>tree</i>, <i>star</i>, +<i>love</i>, <i>honour</i>, or <i>death</i>; hence also we have +this word <i>right</i>, which, like the others, we all +understand, most of us understand differently, and none can +express succinctly otherwise. Yet even on the straitest +view, we can make some steps towards comprehension of our own +superior thoughts. For it is an incredible and most +bewildering fact that a man, through life, is on variable terms +with himself; he is aware of tiffs and reconciliations; the +intimacy is at times almost suspended, at times it is renewed +again with joy. As we said before, his inner self or soul +appears to him by successive revelations, and is frequently +obscured. It is from a study of these alternations that we +can alone hope to discover, even dimly, what seems right and what +seems wrong to this veiled prophet of ourself.</p> +<p>All that is in the man in the larger sense, what we call +impression as well as what we call intuition, so far as my +argument looks, we must accept. It is not wrong to desire +food, or exercise, or beautiful surroundings, or the love of sex, +or interest which is the food of the mind. All these are +craved; all these should be craved; to none of these in itself +does the soul demur; where there comes an undeniable want, we +recognise a demand of nature. Yet we know that these +natural demands may be superseded; for the demands which are +common to mankind make but a shadowy consideration in comparison +to the demands of the individual soul. Food is almost the +first prerequisite; and yet a high character will go without food +to the ruin and death of the body rather than gain it in a manner +which the spirit disavows. Pascal laid aside mathematics; +Origen doctored his body with a knife; every day some one is thus +mortifying his dearest interests and desires, and, in +Christ’s words, entering maim into the Kingdom of +Heaven. This is to supersede the lesser and less harmonious +affections by renunciation; and though by this ascetic path we +may get to heaven, we cannot get thither a whole and perfect +man. But there is another way, to supersede them by +reconciliation, in which the soul and all the faculties and +senses pursue a common route and share in one desire. Thus, +man is tormented by a very imperious physical desire; it spoils +his rest, it is not to be denied; the doctors will tell you, not +I, how it is a physical need, like the want of food or +slumber. In the satisfaction of this desire, as it first +appears, the soul sparingly takes part; nay, it oft unsparingly +regrets and disapproves the satisfaction. But let the man +learn to love a woman as far as he is capable of love; and for +this random affection of the body there is substituted a steady +determination, a consent of all his powers and faculties, which +supersedes, adopts, and commands the other. The desire +survives, strengthened, perhaps, but taught obedience and changed +in scope and character. Life is no longer a tale of +betrayals and regrets; for the man now lives as a whole; his +consciousness now moves on uninterrupted like a river; through +all the extremes and ups and downs of passion, he remains +approvingly conscious of himself.</p> +<p>Now to me, this seems a type of that rightness which the soul +demands. It demands that we shall not live alternately with +our opposing tendencies in continual see-saw of passion and +disgust, but seek some path on which the tendencies shall no +longer oppose, but serve each other to a common end. It +demands that we shall not pursue broken ends, but great and +comprehensive purposes, in which soul and body may unite like +notes in a harmonious chord. That were indeed a way of +peace and pleasure, that were indeed a heaven upon earth. +It does not demand, however, or, to speak in measure, it does not +demand of me, that I should starve my appetites for no purpose +under heaven but as a purpose in itself; or, in a weak despair, +pluck out the eye that I have not yet learned to guide and enjoy +with wisdom. The soul demands unity of purpose, not the +dismemberment of man; it seeks to roll up all his strength and +sweetness, all his passion and wisdom, into one, and make of him +a perfect man exulting in perfection. To conclude +ascetically is to give up, and not to solve, the problem. +The ascetic and the creeping hog, although they are at different +poles, have equally failed in life. The one has sacrificed +his crew; the other brings back his seamen in a cock-boat, and +has lost the ship. I believe there are not many +sea-captains who would plume themselves on either result as a +success.</p> +<p>But if it is righteousness thus to fuse together our divisive +impulses and march with one mind through life, there is plainly +one thing more unrighteous than all others, and one declension +which is irretrievable and draws on the rest. And this is +to lose consciousness of oneself. In the best of times, it +is but by flashes, when our whole nature is clear, strong and +conscious, and events conspire to leave us free, that we enjoy +communion with our soul. At the worst, we are so fallen and +passive that we may say shortly we have none. An arctic +torpor seizes upon men. Although built of nerves, and set +adrift in a stimulating world, they develop a tendency to go +bodily to sleep; consciousness becomes engrossed among the reflex +and mechanical parts of life; and soon loses both the will and +power to look higher considerations in the face. This is +ruin; this is the last failure in life; this is temporal +damnation, damnation on the spot and without the form of +judgment. ‘What shall it profit a man if he gain the +whole world and <i>lose himself</i>?’</p> +<p>It is to keep a man awake, to keep him alive to his own soul +and its fixed design of righteousness, that the better part of +moral and religious education is directed; not only that of words +and doctors, but the sharp ferule of calamity under which we are +all God’s scholars till we die. If, as teachers, we +are to say anything to the purpose, we must say what will remind +the pupil of his soul; we must speak that soul’s dialect; +we must talk of life and conduct as his soul would have him think +of them. If, from some conformity between us and the pupil, +or perhaps among all men, we do in truth speak in such a dialect +and express such views, beyond question we shall touch in him a +spring; beyond question he will recognise the dialect as one that +he himself has spoken in his better hours; beyond question he +will cry, ‘I had forgotten, but now I remember; I too have +eyes, and I had forgot to use them! I too have a soul of my +own, arrogantly upright, and to that I will listen and +conform.’ In short, say to him anything that he has +once thought, or been upon the point of thinking, or show him any +view of life that he has once clearly seen, or been upon the +point of clearly seeing; and you have done your part and may +leave him to complete the education for himself.</p> +<p>Now, the view taught at the present time seems to me to want +greatness; and the dialect in which alone it can be intelligibly +uttered is not the dialect of my soul. It is a sort of +postponement of life; nothing quite is, but something different +is to be; we are to keep our eyes upon the indirect from the +cradle to the grave. We are to regulate our conduct not by +desire, but by a politic eye upon the future; and to value acts +as they will bring us money or good opinion; as they will bring +us, in one word, <i>profit</i>. We must be what is called +respectable, and offend no one by our carriage; it will not do to +make oneself conspicuous—who knows? even in virtue? says +the Christian parent! And we must be what is called prudent +and make money; not only because it is pleasant to have money, +but because that also is a part of respectability, and we cannot +hope to be received in society without decent possessions. +Received in society! as if that were the kingdom of heaven! +There is dear Mr. So-and-so;—look at him!—so much +respected—so much looked up to—quite the Christian +merchant! And we must cut our conduct as strictly as +possible after the pattern of Mr. So-and-so; and lay our whole +lives to make money and be strictly decent. Besides these +holy injunctions, which form by far the greater part of a +youth’s training in our Christian homes, there are at least +two other doctrines. We are to live just now as well as we +can, but scrape at last into heaven, where we shall be +good. We are to worry through the week in a lay, +disreputable way, but, to make matters square, live a different +life on Sunday.</p> +<p>The train of thought we have been following gives us a key to +all these positions, without stepping aside to justify them on +their own ground. It is because we have been disgusted +fifty times with physical squalls, and fifty times torn between +conflicting impulses, that we teach people this indirect and +tactical procedure in life, and to judge by remote consequences +instead of the immediate face of things. The very desire to +act as our own souls would have us, coupled with a pathetic +disbelief in ourselves, moves us to follow the example of others; +perhaps, who knows? they may be on the right track; and the more +our patterns are in number, the better seems the chance; until, +if we be acting in concert with a whole civilised nation, there +are surely a majority of chances that we must be acting +right. And again, how true it is that we can never behave +as we wish in this tormented sphere, and can only aspire to +different and more favourable circumstances, in order to stand +out and be ourselves wholly and rightly! And yet once more, +if in the hurry and pressure of affairs and passions you tend to +nod and become drowsy, here are twenty-four hours of Sunday set +apart for you to hold counsel with your soul and look around you +on the possibilities of life.</p> +<p>This is not, of course, all that is to be, or even should be, +said for these doctrines. Only, in the course of this +chapter, the reader and I have agreed upon a few catchwords, and +been looking at morals on a certain system; it was a pity to lose +an opportunity of testing the catchwords, and seeing whether, by +this system as well as by others, current doctrines could show +any probable justification. If the doctrines had come too +badly out of the trial, it would have condemned the system. +Our sight of the world is very narrow; the mind but a pedestrian +instrument; there’s nothing new under the sun, as Solomon +says, except the man himself; and though that changes the aspect +of everything else, yet he must see the same things as other +people, only from a different side.</p> +<p>And now, having admitted so much, let us turn to +criticism.</p> +<p>If you teach a man to keep his eyes upon what others think of +him, unthinkingly to lead the life and hold the principles of the +majority of his contemporaries, you must discredit in his eyes +the one authoritative voice of his own soul. He may be a +docile citizen; he will never be a man. It is ours, on the +other hand, to disregard this babble and chattering of other men +better and worse than we are, and to walk straight before us by +what light we have. They may be right; but so, before +heaven, are we. They may know; but we know also, and by +that knowledge we must stand or fall. There is such a thing +as loyalty to a man’s own better self; and from those who +have not that, God help me, how am I to look for loyalty to +others? The most dull, the most imbecile, at a certain +moment turn round, at a certain point will hear no further +argument, but stand unflinching by their own dumb, irrational +sense of right. It is not only by steel or fire, but +through contempt and blame, that the martyr fulfils the calling +of his dear soul. Be glad if you are not tried by such +extremities. But although all the world ranged themselves +in one line to tell you ‘This is wrong,’ be you your +own faithful vassal and the ambassador of God—throw down +the glove and answer ‘This is right.’ Do you +think you are only declaring yourself? Perhaps in some dim +way, like a child who delivers a message not fully understood, +you are opening wider the straits of prejudice and preparing +mankind for some truer and more spiritual grasp of truth; +perhaps, as you stand forth for your own judgment, you are +covering a thousand weak ones with your body; perhaps, by this +declaration alone, you have avoided the guilt of false witness +against humanity and the little ones unborn. It is good, I +believe, to be respectable, but much nobler to respect oneself +and utter the voice of God. God, if there be any God, +speaks daily in a new language by the tongues of men; the +thoughts and habits of each fresh generation and each new-coined +spirit throw another light upon the universe and contain another +commentary on the printed Bibles; every scruple, every true +dissent, every glimpse of something new, is a letter of +God’s alphabet; and though there is a grave responsibility +for all who speak, is there none for those who unrighteously keep +silence and conform? Is not that also to conceal and cloak +God’s counsel? And how should we regard the man of +science who suppressed all facts that would not tally with the +orthodoxy of the hour?</p> +<p>Wrong? You are as surely wrong as the sun rose this +morning round the revolving shoulder of the world. Not +truth, but truthfulness, is the good of your endeavour. For +when will men receive that first part and prerequisite of truth, +that, by the order of things, by the greatness of the universe, +by the darkness and partiality of man’s experience, by the +inviolate secrecy of God, kept close in His most open +revelations, every man is, and to the end of the ages must be, +wrong? Wrong to the universe; wrong to mankind; wrong to +God. And yet in another sense, and that plainer and nearer, +every man of men, who wishes truly, must be right. He is +right to himself, and in the measure of his sagacity and +candour. That let him do in all sincerity and zeal, not +sparing a thought for contrary opinions; that, for what it is +worth, let him proclaim. Be not afraid; although he be +wrong, so also is the dead, stuffed Dagon he insults. For +the voice of God, whatever it is, is not that stammering, inept +tradition which the people holds. These truths survive in +travesty, swamped in a world of spiritual darkness and confusion; +and what a few comprehend and faithfully hold, the many, in their +dead jargon, repeat, degrade, and misinterpret.</p> +<p>So far of Respectability; what the Covenanters used to call +‘rank conformity’: the deadliest gag and wet blanket +that can be laid on men. And now of Profit. And this +doctrine is perhaps the more redoubtable, because it harms all +sorts of men; not only the heroic and self-reliant, but the +obedient, cowlike squadrons. A man, by this doctrine, looks +to consequences at the second, or third, or fiftieth turn. +He chooses his end, and for that, with wily turns and through a +great sea of tedium, steers this mortal bark. There may be +political wisdom in such a view; but I am persuaded there can +spring no great moral zeal. To look thus obliquely upon +life is the very recipe for moral slumber. Our intention +and endeavour should be directed, not on some vague end of money +or applause, which shall come to us by a ricochet in a month or a +year, or twenty years, but on the act itself; not on the approval +of others, but on the rightness of that act. At every +instant, at every step in life, the point has to be decided, our +soul has to be saved, heaven has to be gained or lost. At +every step our spirits must applaud, at every step we must set +down the foot and sound the trumpet. ‘This have I +done,’ we must say; ‘right or wrong, this have I +done, in unfeigned honour of intention, as to myself and +God.’ The profit of every act should be this, that it +was right for us to do it. Any other profit than that, if +it involved a kingdom or the woman I love, ought, if I were +God’s upright soldier, to leave me untempted.</p> +<p>It is the mark of what we call a righteous decision, that it +is made directly and for its own sake. The whole man, mind +and body, having come to an agreement, tyrannically dictates +conduct. There are two dispositions eternally opposed: that +in which we recognise that one thing is wrong and another right, +and that in which, not seeing any clear distinction, we fall back +on the consideration of consequences. The truth is, by the +scope of our present teaching, nothing is thought very wrong and +nothing very right, except a few actions which have the +disadvantage of being disrespectable when found out; the more +serious part of men inclining to think all things <i>rather +wrong</i>, the more jovial to suppose them <i>right enough for +practical purposes</i>. I will engage my head, they do not +find that view in their own hearts; they have taken it up in a +dark despair; they are but troubled sleepers talking in their +sleep. The soul, or my soul at least, thinks very +distinctly upon many points of right and wrong, and often differs +flatly with what is held out as the thought of corporate humanity +in the code of society or the code of law. Am I to suppose +myself a monster? I have only to read books, the Christian +Gospels for example, to think myself a monster no longer; and +instead I think the mass of people are merely speaking in their +sleep.</p> +<p>It is a commonplace, enshrined, if I mistake not, even in +school copy-books, that honour is to be sought and not +fame. I ask no other admission; we are to seek honour, +upright walking with our own conscience every hour of the day, +and not fame, the consequence, the far-off reverberation of our +footsteps. The walk, not the rumour of the walk, is what +concerns righteousness. Better disrespectable honour than +dishonourable fame. Better useless or seemingly hurtful +honour, than dishonour ruling empires and filling the mouths of +thousands. For the man must walk by what he sees, and leave +the issue with God who made him and taught him by the fortune of +his life. You would not dishonour yourself for money; which +is at least tangible; would you do it, then, for a doubtful +forecast in politics, or another person’s theory in +morals?</p> +<p>So intricate is the scheme of our affairs, that no man can +calculate the bearing of his own behaviour even on those +immediately around him, how much less upon the world at large or +on succeeding generations! To walk by external prudence and +the rule of consequences would require, not a man, but God. +All that we know to guide us in this changing labyrinth is our +soul with its fixed design of righteousness, and a few old +precepts which commend themselves to that. The precepts are +vague when we endeavour to apply them; consequences are more +entangled than a wisp of string, and their confusion is +unrestingly in change; we must hold to what we know and walk by +it. We must walk by faith, indeed, and not by +knowledge.</p> +<p>You do not love another because he is wealthy or wise or +eminently respectable: you love him because you love him; that is +love, and any other only a derision and grimace. It should +be the same with all our actions. If we were to conceive a +perfect man, it should be one who was never torn between +conflicting impulses, but who, on the absolute consent of all his +parts and faculties, submitted in every action of his life to a +self-dictation as absolute and unreasoned as that which bids him +love one woman and be true to her till death. But we should +not conceive him as sagacious, ascetical, playing off his +appetites against each other, turning the wing of public +respectable immorality instead of riding it directly down, or +advancing toward his end through a thousand sinister compromises +and considerations. The one man might be wily, might be +adroit, might be wise, might be respectable, might be gloriously +useful; it is the other man who would be good.</p> +<p>The soul asks honour and not fame; to be upright, not to be +successful; to be good, not prosperous; to be essentially, not +outwardly, respectable. Does your soul ask profit? +Does it ask money? Does it ask the approval of the +indifferent herd? I believe not. For my own part, I +want but little money, I hope; and I do not want to be decent at +all, but to be good.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> +<p>We have spoken of that supreme self-dictation which keeps +varying from hour to hour in its dictates with the variation of +events and circumstances. Now, for us, that is +ultimate. It may be founded on some reasonable process, but +it is not a process which we can follow or comprehend. And +moreover the dictation is not continuous, or not continuous +except in very lively and well-living natures; and between-whiles +we must brush along without it. Practice is a more +intricate and desperate business than the toughest theorising; +life is an affair of cavalry, where rapid judgment and prompt +action are alone possible and right. As a matter of fact, +there is no one so upright but he is influenced by the +world’s chatter; and no one so headlong but he requires to +consider consequences and to keep an eye on profit. For the +soul adopts all affections and appetites without exception, and +cares only to combine them for some common purpose which shall +interest all. Now, respect for the opinion of others, the +study of consequences, and the desire of power and comfort, are +all undeniably factors in the nature of man; and the more +undeniably since we find that, in our current doctrines, they +have swallowed up the others and are thought to conclude in +themselves all the worthy parts of man. These, then, must +also be suffered to affect conduct in the practical domain, much +or little according as they are forcibly or feebly present to the +mind of each.</p> +<p>Now, a man’s view of the universe is mostly a view of +the civilised society in which he lives. Other men and +women are so much more grossly and so much more intimately +palpable to his perceptions, that they stand between him and all +the rest; they are larger to his eye than the sun, he hears them +more plainly than thunder, with them, by them, and for them, he +must live and die. And hence the laws that affect his +intercourse with his fellow-men, although merely customary and +the creatures of a generation, are more clearly and continually +before his mind than those which bind him into the eternal system +of things, support him in his upright progress on this whirling +ball, or keep up the fire of his bodily life. And hence it +is that money stands in the first rank of considerations and so +powerfully affects the choice. For our society is built +with money for mortar; money is present in every joint of +circumstance; it might be named the social atmosphere, since, in +society, it is by that alone that men continue to live, and only +through that or chance that they can reach or affect one +another. Money gives us food, shelter, and privacy; it +permits us to be clean in person, opens for us the doors of the +theatre, gains us books for study or pleasure, enables us to help +the distresses of others, and puts us above necessity so that we +can choose the best in life. If we love, it enables us to +meet and live with the loved one, or even to prolong her health +and life; if we have scruples, it gives us an opportunity to be +honest; if we have any bright designs, here is what will smooth +the way to their accomplishment. Penury is the worst +slavery, and will soon lead to death.</p> +<p>But money is only a means; it presupposes a man to use +it. The rich can go where he pleases, but perhaps please +himself nowhere. He can buy a library or visit the whole +world, but perhaps has neither patience to read nor intelligence +to see. The table may be loaded and the appetite wanting; +the purse may be full, and the heart empty. He may have +gained the world and lost himself; and with all his wealth around +him, in a great house and spacious and beautiful demesne, he may +live as blank a life as any tattered ditcher. Without an +appetite, without an aspiration, void of appreciation, bankrupt +of desire and hope, there, in his great house, let him sit and +look upon his fingers. It is perhaps a more fortunate +destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be born a +millionaire. Although neither is to be despised, it is +always better policy to learn an interest than to make a thousand +pounds; for the money will soon be spent, or perhaps you may feel +no joy in spending it; but the interest remains imperishable and +ever new. To become a botanist, a geologist, a social +philosopher, an antiquary, or an artist, is to enlarge +one’s possessions in the universe by an incalculably higher +degree, and by a far surer sort of property, than to purchase a +farm of many acres. You had perhaps two thousand a year +before the transaction; perhaps you have two thousand five +hundred after it. That represents your gain in the one +case. But in the other, you have thrown down a barrier +which concealed significance and beauty. The blind man has +learned to see. The prisoner has opened up a window in his +cell and beholds enchanting prospects; he will never again be a +prisoner as he was; he can watch clouds and changing seasons, +ships on the river, travellers on the road, and the stars at +night; happy prisoner! his eyes have broken jail! And again +he who has learned to love an art or science has wisely laid up +riches against the day of riches; if prosperity come, he will not +enter poor into his inheritance; he will not slumber and forget +himself in the lap of money, or spend his hours in counting idle +treasures, but be up and briskly doing; he will have the true +alchemic touch, which is not that of Midas, but which transmutes +dead money into living delight and satisfaction. +<i>Être et pas avoir</i>—to be, not to +possess—that is the problem of life. To be wealthy, a +rich nature is the first requisite and money but the +second. To be of a quick and healthy blood, to share in all +honourable curiosities, to be rich in admiration and free from +envy, to rejoice greatly in the good of others, to love with such +generosity of heart that your love is still a dear possession in +absence or unkindness—these are the gifts of fortune which +money cannot buy and without which money can buy nothing. +For what can a man possess, or what can he enjoy, except +himself? If he enlarge his nature, it is then that he +enlarges his estates. If his nature be happy and valiant, +he will enjoy the universe as if it were his park and +orchard.</p> +<p>But money is not only to be spent; it has also to be +earned. It is not merely a convenience or a necessary in +social life; but it is the coin in which mankind pays his wages +to the individual man. And from this side, the question of +money has a very different scope and application. For no +man can be honest who does not work. Service for +service. If the farmer buys corn, and the labourer ploughs +and reaps, and the baker sweats in his hot bakery, plainly you +who eat must do something in your turn. It is not enough to +take off your hat, or to thank God upon your knees for the +admirable constitution of society and your own convenient +situation in its upper and more ornamental stories. Neither +is it enough to buy the loaf with a sixpence; for then you are +only changing the point of the inquiry; and you must first have +<i>bought the sixpence</i>. Service for service: how have +you bought your sixpences? A man of spirit desires +certainty in a thing of such a nature; he must see to it that +there is some reciprocity between him and mankind; that he pays +his expenditure in service; that he has not a lion’s share +in profit and a drone’s in labour; and is not a sleeping +partner and mere costly incubus on the great mercantile concern +of mankind.</p> +<p>Services differ so widely with different gifts, and some are +so inappreciable to external tests, that this is not only a +matter for the private conscience, but one which even there must +be leniently and trustfully considered. For remember how +many serve mankind who do no more than meditate; and how many are +precious to their friends for no more than a sweet and joyous +temper. To perform the function of a man of letters it is +not necessary to write; nay, it is perhaps better to be a living +book. So long as we love we serve; so long as we are loved +by others, I would almost say that we are indispensable; and no +man is useless while he has a friend. The true services of +life are inestimable in money, and are never paid. Kind +words and caresses, high and wise thoughts, humane designs, +tender behaviour to the weak and suffering, and all the charities +of man’s existence, are neither bought nor sold.</p> +<p>Yet the dearest and readiest, if not the most just, criterion +of a man’s services, is the wage that mankind pays him or, +briefly, what he earns. There at least there can be no +ambiguity. St. Paul is fully and freely entitled to his +earnings as a tentmaker, and Socrates fully and freely entitled +to his earnings as a sculptor, although the true business of each +was not only something different, but something which remained +unpaid. A man cannot forget that he is not superintended, +and serves mankind on parole. He would like, when +challenged by his own conscience, to reply: ‘I have done so +much work, and no less, with my own hands and brain, and taken so +much profit, and no more, for my own personal +delight.’ And though St. Paul, if he had possessed a +private fortune, would probably have scorned to waste his time in +making tents, yet of all sacrifices to public opinion none can be +more easily pardoned than that by which a man, already +spiritually useful to the world, should restrict the field of his +chief usefulness to perform services more apparent, and possess a +livelihood that neither stupidity nor malice could call in +question. Like all sacrifices to public opinion and mere +external decency, this would certainly be wrong; for the soul +should rest contented with its own approval and indissuadably +pursue its own calling. Yet, so grave and delicate is the +question, that a man may well hesitate before he decides it for +himself; he may well fear that he sets too high a valuation on +his own endeavours after good; he may well condescend upon a +humbler duty, where others than himself shall judge the service +and proportion the wage.</p> +<p>And yet it is to this very responsibility that the rich are +born. They can shuffle off the duty on no other; they are +their own paymasters on parole; and must pay themselves fair +wages and no more. For I suppose that in the course of +ages, and through reform and civil war and invasion, mankind was +pursuing some other and more general design than to set one or +two Englishmen of the nineteenth century beyond the reach of +needs and duties. Society was scarce put together, and +defended with so much eloquence and blood, for the convenience of +two or three millionaires and a few hundred other persons of +wealth and position. It is plain that if mankind thus acted +and suffered during all these generations, they hoped some +benefit, some ease, some wellbeing, for themselves and their +descendants; that if they supported law and order, it was to +secure fair-play for all; that if they denied themselves in the +present, they must have had some designs upon the future. +Now, a great hereditary fortune is a miracle of man’s +wisdom and mankind’s forbearance; it has not only been +amassed and handed down, it has been suffered to be amassed and +handed down; and surely in such a consideration as this, its +possessor should find only a new spur to activity and honour, +that with all this power of service he should not prove +unserviceable, and that this mass of treasure should return in +benefits upon the race. If he had twenty, or thirty, or a +hundred thousand at his banker’s, or if all Yorkshire or +all California were his to manage or to sell, he would still be +morally penniless, and have the world to begin like Whittington, +until he had found some way of serving mankind. His wage is +physically in his own hand; but, in honour, that wage must still +be earned. He is only steward on parole of what is called +his fortune. He must honourably perform his +stewardship. He must estimate his own services and allow +himself a salary in proportion, for that will be one among his +functions. And while he will then be free to spend that +salary, great or little, on his own private pleasures, the rest +of his fortune he but holds and disposes under trust for mankind; +it is not his, because he has not earned it; it cannot be his, +because his services have already been paid; but year by year it +is his to distribute, whether to help individuals whose +birthright and outfit have been swallowed up in his, or to +further public works and institutions.</p> +<p>At this rate, short of inspiration, it seems hardly possible +to be both rich and honest; and the millionaire is under a far +more continuous temptation to thieve than the labourer who gets +his shilling daily for despicable toils. Are you +surprised? It is even so. And you repeat it every +Sunday in your churches. ‘It is easier for a camel to +pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the +kingdom of God.’ I have heard this and similar texts +ingeniously explained away and brushed from the path of the +aspiring Christian by the tender Great-heart of the parish. +One excellent clergyman told us that the ‘eye of a +needle’ meant a low, Oriental postern through which camels +could not pass till they were unloaded—which is very likely +just; and then went on, bravely confounding the ‘kingdom of +God’ with heaven, the future paradise, to show that of +course no rich person could expect to carry his riches beyond the +grave—which, of course, he could not and never did. +Various greedy sinners of the congregation drank in the +comfortable doctrine with relief. It was worth the while +having come to church that Sunday morning! All was +plain. The Bible, as usual, meant nothing in particular; it +was merely an obscure and figurative school-copybook; and if a +man were only respectable, he was a man after God’s own +heart.</p> +<p>Alas! I fear not. And though this matter of a +man’s services is one for his own conscience, there are +some cases in which it is difficult to restrain the mind from +judging. Thus I shall be very easily persuaded that a man +has earned his daily bread; and if he has but a friend or two to +whom his company is delightful at heart, I am more than persuaded +at once. But it will be very hard to persuade me that any +one has earned an income of a hundred thousand. What he is +to his friends, he still would be if he were made penniless +to-morrow; for as to the courtiers of luxury and power, I will +neither consider them friends, nor indeed consider them at +all. What he does for mankind there are most likely +hundreds who would do the same, as effectually for the race and +as pleasurably to themselves, for the merest fraction of this +monstrous wage. Why it is paid, I am, therefore, unable to +conceive, and as the man pays it himself, out of funds in his +detention, I have a certain backwardness to think him honest.</p> +<p>At least, we have gained a very obvious point: that <i>what a +man spends upon himself</i>, <i>he shall have earned by services +to the race</i>. Thence flows a principle for the outset of +life, which is a little different from that taught in the present +day. I am addressing the middle and the upper classes; +those who have already been fostered and prepared for life at +some expense; those who have some choice before them, and can +pick professions; and above all, those who are what is called +independent, and need do nothing unless pushed by honour or +ambition. In this particular the poor are happy; among +them, when a lad comes to his strength, he must take the work +that offers, and can take it with an easy conscience. But +in the richer classes the question is complicated by the number +of opportunities and a variety of considerations. Here, +then, this principle of ours comes in helpfully. The young +man has to seek, not a road to wealth, but an opportunity of +service; not money, but honest work. If he has some strong +propensity, some calling of nature, some over-weening interest in +any special field of industry, inquiry, or art, he will do right +to obey the impulse; and that for two reasons: the first +external, because there he will render the best services; the +second personal, because a demand of his own nature is to him +without appeal whenever it can be satisfied with the consent of +his other faculties and appetites. If he has no such +elective taste, by the very principle on which he chooses any +pursuit at all he must choose the most honest and serviceable, +and not the most highly remunerated. We have here an +external problem, not from or to ourself, but flowing from the +constitution of society; and we have our own soul with its fixed +design of righteousness. All that can be done is to present +the problem in proper terms, and leave it to the soul of the +individual. Now, the problem to the poor is one of +necessity: to earn wherewithal to live, they must find +remunerative labour. But the problem to the rich is one of +honour: having the wherewithal, they must find serviceable +labour. Each has to earn his daily bread: the one, because +he has not yet got it to eat; the other, who has already eaten +it, because he has not yet earned it.</p> +<p>Of course, what is true of bread is true of luxuries and +comforts, whether for the body or the mind. But the +consideration of luxuries leads us to a new aspect of the whole +question, and to a second proposition no less true, and maybe no +less startling, than the last.</p> +<p>At the present day, we, of the easier classes, are in a state +of surfeit and disgrace after meat. Plethora has filled us +with indifference; and we are covered from head to foot with the +callosities of habitual opulence. Born into what is called +a certain rank, we live, as the saying is, up to our +station. We squander without enjoyment, because our fathers +squandered. We eat of the best, not from delicacy, but from +brazen habit. We do not keenly enjoy or eagerly desire the +presence of a luxury; we are unaccustomed to its absence. +And not only do we squander money from habit, but still more +pitifully waste it in ostentation. I can think of no more +melancholy disgrace for a creature who professes either reason or +pleasure for his guide, than to spend the smallest fraction of +his income upon that which he does not desire; and to keep a +carriage in which you do not wish to drive, or a butler of whom +you are afraid, is a pathetic kind of folly. Money, being a +means of happiness, should make both parties happy when it +changes hands; rightly disposed, it should be twice blessed in +its employment; and buyer and seller should alike have their +twenty shillings worth of profit out of every pound. +Benjamin Franklin went through life an altered man, because he +once paid too dearly for a penny whistle. My concern +springs usually from a deeper source, to wit, from having bought +a whistle when I did not want one. I find I regret this, or +would regret it if I gave myself the time, not only on personal +but on moral and philanthropical considerations. For, +first, in a world where money is wanting to buy books for eager +students and food and medicine for pining children, and where a +large majority are starved in their most immediate desires, it is +surely base, stupid, and cruel to squander money when I am pushed +by no appetite and enjoy no return of genuine satisfaction. +My philanthropy is wide enough in scope to include myself; and +when I have made myself happy, I have at least one good argument +that I have acted rightly; but where that is not so, and I have +bought and not enjoyed, my mouth is closed, and I conceive that I +have robbed the poor. And, second, anything I buy or use +which I do not sincerely want or cannot vividly enjoy, disturbs +the balance of supply and demand, and contributes to remove +industrious hands from the production of what is useful or +pleasurable and to keep them busy upon ropes of sand and things +that are a weariness to the flesh. That extravagance is +truly sinful, and a very silly sin to boot, in which we +impoverish mankind and ourselves. It is another question +for each man’s heart. He knows if he can enjoy what +he buys and uses; if he cannot, he is a dog in the manger; nay, +it he cannot, I contend he is a thief, for nothing really belongs +to a man which he cannot use. Proprietor is connected with +propriety; and that only is the man’s which is proper to +his wants and faculties.</p> +<p>A youth, in choosing a career, must not be alarmed by +poverty. Want is a sore thing, but poverty does not imply +want. It remains to be seen whether with half his present +income, or a third, he cannot, in the most generous sense, live +as fully as at present. He is a fool who objects to +luxuries; but he is also a fool who does not protest against the +waste of luxuries on those who do not desire and cannot enjoy +them. It remains to be seen, by each man who would live a +true life to himself and not a merely specious life to society, +how many luxuries he truly wants and to how many he merely +submits as to a social propriety; and all these last he will +immediately forswear. Let him do this, and he will be +surprised to find how little money it requires to keep him in +complete contentment and activity of mind and senses. Life +at any level among the easy classes is conceived upon a principle +of rivalry, where each man and each household must ape the tastes +and emulate the display of others. One is delicate in +eating, another in wine, a third in furniture or works of art or +dress; and I, who care nothing for any of these refinements, who +am perhaps a plain athletic creature and love exercise, beef, +beer, flannel shirts and a camp bed, am yet called upon to +assimilate all these other tastes and make these foreign +occasions of expenditure my own. It may be cynical: I am +sure I shall be told it is selfish; but I will spend my money as +I please and for my own intimate personal gratification, and +should count myself a nincompoop indeed to lay out the colour of +a halfpenny on any fancied social decency or duty. I shall +not wear gloves unless my hands are cold, or unless I am born +with a delight in them. Dress is my own affair, and that of +one other in the world; that, in fact and for an obvious reason, +of any woman who shall chance to be in love with me. I +shall lodge where I have a mind. If I do not ask society to +live with me, they must be silent; and even if I do, they have no +further right but to refuse the invitation! There is a kind +of idea abroad that a man must live up to his station, that his +house, his table, and his toilette, shall be in a ratio of +equivalence, and equally imposing to the world. If this is +in the Bible, the passage has eluded my inquiries. If it is +not in the Bible, it is nowhere but in the heart of the +fool. Throw aside this fancy. See what you want, and +spend upon that; distinguish what you do not care about, and +spend nothing upon that. There are not many people who can +differentiate wines above a certain and that not at all a high +price. Are you sure you are one of these? Are you +sure you prefer cigars at sixpence each to pipes at some fraction +of a farthing? Are you sure you wish to keep a gig? +Do you care about where you sleep, or are you not as much at your +ease in a cheap lodging as in an Elizabethan manor-house? +Do you enjoy fine clothes? It is not possible to answer +these questions without a trial; and there is nothing more +obvious to my mind, than that a man who has not experienced some +ups and downs, and been forced to live more cheaply than in his +father’s house, has still his education to begin. Let +the experiment be made, and he will find to his surprise that he +has been eating beyond his appetite up to that hour; that the +cheap lodging, the cheap tobacco, the rough country clothes, the +plain table, have not only no power to damp his spirits, but +perhaps give him as keen pleasure in the using as the dainties +that he took, betwixt sleep and waking, in his former callous and +somnambulous submission to wealth.</p> +<p>The true Bohemian, a creature lost to view under the imaginary +Bohemians of literature, is exactly described by such a principle +of life. The Bohemian of the novel, who drinks more than is +good for him and prefers anything to work, and wears strange +clothes, is for the most part a respectable Bohemian, respectable +in disrespectability, living for the outside, and an +adventurer. But the man I mean lives wholly to himself, +does what he wishes, and not what is thought proper, buys what he +wants for himself, and not what is thought proper, works at what +he believes he can do well and not what will bring him in money +or favour. You may be the most respectable of men, and yet +a true Bohemian. And the test is this: a Bohemian, for as +poor as he may be, is always open-handed to his friends; he knows +what he can do with money and how he can do without it, a far +rarer and more useful knowledge; he has had less, and continued +to live in some contentment; and hence he cares not to keep more, +and shares his sovereign or his shilling with a friend. The +poor, if they are generous, are Bohemian in virtue of their +birth. Do you know where beggars go? Not to the great +houses where people sit dazed among their thousands, but to the +doors of poor men who have seen the world; and it was the widow +who had only two mites, who cast half her fortune into the +treasury.</p> +<p>But a young man who elects to save on dress or on lodging, or +who in any way falls out of the level of expenditure which is +common to his level in society, falls out of society +altogether. I suppose the young man to have chosen his +career on honourable principles; he finds his talents and +instincts can be best contented in a certain pursuit; in a +certain industry, he is sure that he is serving mankind with a +healthy and becoming service; and he is not sure that he would be +doing so, or doing so equally well, in any other industry within +his reach. Then that is his true sphere in life; not the +one in which he was born to his father, but the one which is +proper to his talents and instincts. And suppose he does +fall out of society, is that a cause of sorrow? Is your +heart so dead that you prefer the recognition of many to the love +of a few? Do you think society loves you? Put it to +the proof. Decline in material expenditure, and you will +find they care no more for you than for the Khan of +Tartary. You will lose no friends. If you had any, +you will keep them. Only those who were friends to your +coat and equipage will disappear; the smiling faces will +disappear as by enchantment; but the kind hearts will remain +steadfastly kind. Are you so lost, are you so dead, are you +so little sure of your own soul and your own footing upon solid +fact, that you prefer before goodness and happiness the +countenance of sundry diners-out, who will flee from you at a +report of ruin, who will drop you with insult at a shadow of +disgrace, who do not know you and do not care to know you but by +sight, and whom you in your turn neither know nor care to know in +a more human manner? Is it not the principle of society, +openly avowed, that friendship must not interfere with business; +which being paraphrased, means simply that a consideration of +money goes before any consideration of affection known to this +cold-blooded gang, that they have not even the honour of thieves, +and will rook their nearest and dearest as readily as a +stranger? I hope I would go as far as most to serve a +friend; but I declare openly I would not put on my hat to do a +pleasure to society. I may starve my appetites and control +my temper for the sake of those I love; but society shall take me +as I choose to be, or go without me. Neither they nor I +will lose; for where there is no love, it is both laborious and +unprofitable to associate.</p> +<p>But it is obvious that if it is only right for a man to spend +money on that which he can truly and thoroughly enjoy, the +doctrine applies with equal force to the rich and to the poor, to +the man who has amassed many thousands as well as to the youth +precariously beginning life. And it may be asked, Is not +this merely preparing misers, who are not the best of +company? But the principle was this: that which a man has +not fairly earned, and, further, that which he cannot fully +enjoy, does not belong to him, but is a part of mankind’s +treasure which he holds as steward on parole. To mankind, +then, it must be made profitable; and how this should be done is, +once more, a problem which each man must solve for himself, and +about which none has a right to judge him. Yet there are a +few considerations which are very obvious and may here be +stated. Mankind is not only the whole in general, but every +one in particular. Every man or woman is one of +mankind’s dear possessions; to his or her just brain, and +kind heart, and active hands, mankind intrusts some of its hopes +for the future; he or she is a possible well-spring of good acts +and source of blessings to the race. This money which you +do not need, which, in a rigid sense, you do not want, may +therefore be returned not only in public benefactions to the +race, but in private kindnesses. Your wife, your children, +your friends stand nearest to you, and should be helped the +first. There at least there can be little imposture, for +you know their necessities of your own knowledge. And +consider, if all the world did as you did, and according to their +means extended help in the circle of their affections, there +would be no more crying want in times of plenty and no more cold, +mechanical charity given with a doubt and received with +confusion. Would not this simple rule make a new world out +of the old and cruel one which we inhabit?</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>After two more sentences the +fragment breaks off</i>.]</p> +<h2>FATHER DAMIEN<br /> +AN OPEN LETTER TO THE REVEREND DR. HYDE OF HONOLULU</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Sydney</span>,<br /> +<i>February</i> 25, 1890.</p> +<p>Sir,—It may probably occur to you that we have met, and +visited, and conversed; on my side, with interest. You may +remember that you have done me several courtesies, for which I +was prepared to be grateful. But there are duties which +come before gratitude, and offences which justly divide friends, +far more acquaintances. Your letter to the Reverend H. B. +Gage is a document which, in my sight, if you had filled me with +bread when I was starving, if you had sat up to nurse my father +when he lay a-dying, would yet absolve me from the bonds of +gratitude. You know enough, doubtless, of the process of +canonisation to be aware that, a hundred years after the death of +Damien, there will appear a man charged with the painful office +of the <i>devil’s advocate</i>. After that noble +brother of mine, and of all frail clay, shall have lain a century +at rest, one shall accuse, one defend him. The circumstance +is unusual that the devil’s advocate should be a volunteer, +should be a member of a sect immediately rival, and should make +haste to take upon himself his ugly office ere the bones are +cold; unusual, and of a taste which I shall leave my readers free +to qualify; unusual, and to me inspiring. If I have at all +learned the trade of using words to convey truth and to arouse +emotion, you have at last furnished me with a subject. For +it is in the interest of all mankind, and the cause of public +decency in every quarter of the world, not only that Damien +should be righted, but that you and your letter should be +displayed at length, in their true colours, to the public +eye.</p> +<p>To do this properly, I must begin by quoting you at large: I +shall then proceed to criticise your utterance from several +points of view, divine and human, in the course of which I shall +attempt to draw again, and with more specification, the character +of the dead saint whom it has pleased you to vilify: so much +being done, I shall say farewell to you for ever.</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: right">‘<span +class="smcap">Honolulu</span>,<br /> +‘<i>August</i> 2, 1889.</p> +<p>‘Rev. <span class="smcap">H. B. Gage</span>.</p> +<p>‘Dear Brother,—In answer to your inquiries about +Father Damien, I can only reply that we who knew the man are +surprised at the extravagant newspaper laudations, as if he was a +most saintly philanthropist. The simple truth is, he was a +coarse, dirty man, head-strong and bigoted. He was not sent +to Molokai, but went there without orders; did not stay at the +leper settlement (before he became one himself), but circulated +freely over the whole island (less than half the island is +devoted to the lepers), and he came often to Honolulu. He +had no hand in the reforms and improvements inaugurated, which +were the work of our Board of Health, as occasion required and +means were provided. He was not a pure man in his relations +with women, and the leprosy of which he died should be attributed +to his vices and carelessness. Others have done much for +the lepers, our own ministers, the government physicians, and so +forth, but never with the Catholic idea of meriting eternal +life.—Yours, etc.,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">‘<span class="smcap">C. M. +Hyde</span>.’ <a name="citation65"></a><a +href="#footnote65" class="citation">[65]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>To deal fitly with a letter so extraordinary, I must draw at +the outset on my private knowledge of the signatory and his +sect. It may offend others; scarcely you, who have been so +busy to collect, so bold to publish, gossip on your rivals. +And this is perhaps the moment when I may best explain to you the +character of what you are to read: I conceive you as a man quite +beyond and below the reticences of civility: with what measure +you mete, with that shall it be measured you again; with you, at +last, I rejoice to feel the button off the foil and to plunge +home. And if in aught that I shall say I should offend +others, your colleagues, whom I respect and remember with +affection, I can but offer them my regret; I am not free, I am +inspired by the consideration of interests far more large; and +such pain as can be inflicted by anything from me must be indeed +trifling when compared with the pain with which they read your +letter. It is not the hangman, but the criminal, that +brings dishonour on the house.</p> +<p>You belong, sir, to a sect—I believe my sect, and that +in which my ancestors laboured—which has enjoyed, and +partly failed to utilise, an exceptional advantage in the islands +of Hawaii. The first missionaries came; they found the land +already self-purged of its old and bloody faith; they were +embraced, almost on their arrival, with enthusiasm; what troubles +they supported came far more from whites than from Hawaiians; and +to these last they stood (in a rough figure) in the shoes of +God. This is not the place to enter into the degree or +causes of their failure, such as it is. One element alone +is pertinent, and must here be plainly dealt with. In the +course of their evangelical calling, they—or too many of +them—grew rich. It may be news to you that the houses +of missionaries are a cause of mocking on the streets of +Honolulu. It will at least be news to you, that when I +returned your civil visit, the driver of my cab commented on the +size, the taste, and the comfort of your home. It would +have been news certainly to myself, had any one told me that +afternoon that I should live to drag such matter into +print. But you see, sir, how you degrade better men to your +own level; and it is needful that those who are to judge betwixt +you and me, betwixt Damien and the devil’s advocate, should +understand your letter to have been penned in a house which could +raise, and that very justly, the envy and the comments of the +passers-by. I think (to employ a phrase of yours which I +admire) it ‘should be attributed’ to you that you +have never visited the scene of Damien’s life and +death. If you had, and had recalled it, and looked about +your pleasant rooms, even your pen perhaps would have been +stayed.</p> +<p>Your sect (and remember, as far as any sect avows me, it is +mine) has not done ill in a worldly sense in the Hawaiian +Kingdom. When calamity befell their innocent parishioners, +when leprosy descended and took root in the Eight Islands, a +<i>quid pro quo</i> was to be looked for. To that +prosperous mission, and to you, as one of its adornments, God had +sent at last an opportunity. I know I am touching here upon +a nerve acutely sensitive. I know that others of your +colleagues look back on the inertia of your Church, and the +intrusive and decisive heroism of Damien, with something almost +to be called remorse. I am sure it is so with yourself; I +am persuaded your letter was inspired by a certain envy, not +essentially ignoble, and the one human trait to be espied in that +performance. You were thinking of the lost chance, the past +day; of that which should have been conceived and was not; of the +service due and not rendered. Time was, said the voice in +your ear, in your pleasant room, as you sat raging and writing; +and if the words written were base beyond parallel, the rage, I +am happy to repeat—it is the only compliment I shall pay +you—the rage was almost virtuous. But, sir, when we +have failed, and another has succeeded; when we have stood by, +and another has stepped in; when we sit and grow bulky in our +charming mansions, and a plain, uncouth peasant steps into the +battle, under the eyes of God, and succours the afflicted, and +consoles the dying, and is himself afflicted in his turn, and +dies upon the field of honour—the battle cannot be +retrieved as your unhappy irritation has suggested. It is a +lost battle, and lost for ever. One thing remained to you +in your defeat—some rags of common honour; and these you +have made haste to cast away.</p> +<p>Common honour; not the honour of having done anything right, +but the honour of not having done aught conspicuously foul; the +honour of the inert: that was what remained to you. We are +not all expected to be Damiens; a man may conceive his duty more +narrowly, he may love his comforts better; and none will cast a +stone at him for that. But will a gentleman of your +reverend profession allow me an example from the fields of +gallantry? When two gentlemen compete for the favour of a +lady, and the one succeeds and the other is rejected, and (as +will sometimes happen) matter damaging to the successful +rival’s credit reaches the ear of the defeated, it is held +by plain men of no pretensions that his mouth is, in the +circumstance, almost necessarily closed. Your Church and +Damien’s were in Hawaii upon a rivalry to do well: to help, +to edify, to set divine examples. You having (in one huge +instance) failed, and Damien succeeded, I marvel it should not +have occurred to you that you were doomed to silence; that when +you had been outstripped in that high rivalry, and sat inglorious +in the midst of your wellbeing, in your pleasant room—and +Damien, crowned with glories and horrors, toiled and rotted in +that pigsty of his under the cliffs of Kalawao—you, the +elect who would not, were the last man on earth to collect and +propagate gossip on the volunteer who would and did.</p> +<p>I think I see you—for I try to see you in the flesh as I +write these sentences—I think I see you leap at the word +pigsty, a hyperbolical expression at the best. ‘He +had no hand in the reforms,’ he was ‘a coarse, dirty +man’; these were your own words; and you may think it +possible that I am come to support you with fresh evidence. +In a sense, it is even so. Damien has been too much +depicted with a conventional halo and conventional features; so +drawn by men who perhaps had not the eye to remark or the pen to +express the individual; or who perhaps were only blinded and +silenced by generous admiration, such as I partly envy for +myself—such as you, if your soul were enlightened, would +envy on your bended knees. It is the least defect of such a +method of portraiture that it makes the path easy for the +devil’s advocate, and leaves for the misuse of the +slanderer a considerable field of truth. For the truth that +is suppressed by friends is the readiest weapon of the +enemy. The world, in your despite, may perhaps owe you +something, if your letter be the means of substituting once for +all a credible likeness for a wax abstraction. For, if that +world at all remember you, on the day when Damien of Molokai +shall be named Saint, it will be in virtue of one work: your +letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage.</p> +<p>You may ask on what authority I speak. It was my +inclement destiny to become acquainted, not with Damien, but with +Dr. Hyde. When I visited the lazaretto, Damien was already +in his resting grave. But such information as I have, I +gathered on the spot in conversation with those who knew him well +and long: some indeed who revered his memory; but others who had +sparred and wrangled with him, who beheld him with no halo, who +perhaps regarded him with small respect, and through whose +unprepared and scarcely partial communications the plain, human +features of the man shone on me convincingly. These gave me +what knowledge I possess; and I learnt it in that scene where it +could be most completely and sensitively +understood—Kalawao, which you have never visited, about +which you have never so much as endeavoured to inform yourself; +for, brief as your letter is, you have found the means to stumble +into that confession. ‘<i>Less than one-half</i> of +the island,’ you say, ‘is devoted to the +lepers.’ Molokai—‘<i>Molokai +ahina</i>,’ the ‘grey,’ lofty, and most +desolate island—along all its northern side plunges a front +of precipice into a sea of unusual profundity. This range +of cliff is, from east to west, the true end and frontier of the +island. Only in one spot there projects into the ocean a +certain triangular and rugged down, grassy, stony, windy, and +rising in the midst into a hill with a dead crater: the whole +bearing to the cliff that overhangs it somewhat the same relation +as a bracket to a wall. With this hint you will now be able +to pick out the leper station on a map; you will be able to judge +how much of Molokai is thus cut off between the surf and +precipice, whether less than a half, or less than a quarter, or a +fifth, or a tenth—or, say, a twentieth; and the next time +you burst into print you will be in a position to share with us +the issue of your calculations.</p> +<p>I imagine you to be one of those persons who talk with +cheerfulness of that place which oxen and wain-ropes could not +drag you to behold. You, who do not even know its situation +on the map, probably denounce sensational descriptions, +stretching your limbs the while in your pleasant parlour on +Beretania Street. When I was pulled ashore there one early +morning, there sat with me in the boat two sisters, bidding +farewell (in humble imitation of Damien) to the lights and joys +of human life. One of these wept silently; I could not +withhold myself from joining her. Had you been there, it is +my belief that nature would have triumphed even in you; and as +the boat drew but a little nearer, and you beheld the stairs +crowded with abominable deformations of our common manhood, and +saw yourself landing in the midst of such a population as only +now and then surrounds us in the horror of a nightmare—what +a haggard eye you would have rolled over your reluctant shoulder +towards the house on Beretania Street! Had you gone on; had +you found every fourth face a blot upon the landscape; had you +visited the hospital and seen the butt-ends of human beings lying +there almost unrecognisable, but still breathing, still thinking, +still remembering; you would have understood that life in the +lazaretto is an ordeal from which the nerves of a man’s +spirit shrink, even as his eye quails under the brightness of the +sun; you would have felt it was (even to-day) a pitiful place to +visit and a hell to dwell in. It is not the fear of +possible infection. That seems a little thing when compared +with the pain, the pity, and the disgust of the visitor’s +surroundings, and the atmosphere of affliction, disease, and +physical disgrace in which he breathes. I do not think I am +a man more than usually timid; but I never recall the days and +nights I spent upon that island promontory (eight days and seven +nights), without heartfelt thankfulness that I am somewhere +else. I find in my diary that I speak of my stay as a +‘grinding experience’: I have once jotted in the +margin, ‘<i>Harrowing</i> is the word’; and when the +<i>Mokolii</i> bore me at last towards the outer world, I kept +repeating to myself, with a new conception of their pregnancy, +those simple words of the song—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘’Tis the most distressful country +that ever yet was seen.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And observe: that which I saw and suffered from was a +settlement purged, bettered, beautified; the new village built, +the hospital and the Bishop-Home excellently arranged; the +sisters, the doctor, and the missionaries, all indefatigable in +their noble tasks. It was a different place when Damien +came there and made his great renunciation, and slept that first +night under a tree amidst his rotting brethren: alone with +pestilence; and looking forward (with what courage, with what +pitiful sinkings of dread, God only knows) to a lifetime of +dressing sores and stumps.</p> +<p>You will say, perhaps, I am too sensitive, that sights as +painful abound in cancer hospitals and are confronted daily by +doctors and nurses. I have long learned to admire and envy +the doctors and the nurses. But there is no cancer hospital +so large and populous as Kalawao and Kalaupapa; and in such a +matter every fresh case, like every inch of length in the pipe of +an organ, deepens the note of the impression; for what daunts the +onlooker is that monstrous sum of human suffering by which he +stands surrounded. Lastly, no doctor or nurse is called +upon to enter once for all the doors of that gehenna; they do not +say farewell, they need not abandon hope, on its sad threshold; +they but go for a time to their high calling, and can look +forward as they go to relief, to recreation, and to rest. +But Damien shut-to with his own hand the doors of his own +sepulchre.</p> +<p>I shall now extract three passages from my diary at +Kalawao.</p> +<p><i>A</i>. ‘Damien is dead and already somewhat +ungratefully remembered in the field of his labours and +sufferings. “He was a good man, but very +officious,” says one. Another tells me he had fallen +(as other priests so easily do) into something of the ways and +habits of thought of a Kanaka; but he had the wit to recognise +the fact, and the good sense to laugh at’ [over] +‘it. A plain man it seems he was; I cannot find he +was a popular.’</p> +<p><i>B</i>. ‘After Ragsdale’s death’ +[Ragsdale was a famous Luna, or overseer, of the unruly +settlement] ‘there followed a brief term of office by +Father Damien which served only to publish the weakness of that +noble man. He was rough in his ways, and he had no +control. Authority was relaxed; Damien’s life was +threatened, and he was soon eager to resign.’</p> +<p><i>C</i>. ‘Of Damien I begin to have an +idea. He seems to have been a man of the peasant class, +certainly of the peasant type: shrewd, ignorant and bigoted, yet +with an open mind, and capable of receiving and digesting a +reproof if it were bluntly administered; superbly generous in the +least thing as well as in the greatest, and as ready to give his +last shirt (although not without human grumbling) as he had been +to sacrifice his life; essentially indiscreet and officious, +which made him a troublesome colleague; domineering in all his +ways, which made him incurably unpopular with the Kanakas, but +yet destitute of real authority, so that his boys laughed at him +and he must carry out his wishes by the means of bribes. He +learned to have a mania for doctoring; and set up the Kanakas +against the remedies of his regular rivals: perhaps (if anything +matter at all in the treatment of such a disease) the worst thing +that he did, and certainly the easiest. The best and worst +of the man appear very plainly in his dealings with Mr. +Chapman’s money; he had originally laid it out’ +[intended to lay it out] ‘entirely for the benefit of +Catholics, and even so not wisely; but after a long, plain talk, +he admitted his error fully and revised the list. The sad +state of the boys’ home is in part the result of his lack +of control; in part, of his own slovenly ways and false ideas of +hygiene. Brother officials used to call it +“Damien’s Chinatown.” “Well,” +they would say, “your China-town keeps +growing.” And he would laugh with perfect +good-nature, and adhere to his errors with perfect +obstinacy. So much I have gathered of truth about this +plain, noble human brother and father of ours; his imperfections +are the traits of his face, by which we know him for our fellow; +his martyrdom and his example nothing can lessen or annul; and +only a person here on the spot can properly appreciate their +greatness.’</p> +<p>I have set down these private passages, as you perceive, +without correction; thanks to you, the public has them in their +bluntness. They are almost a list of the man’s +faults, for it is rather these that I was seeking: with his +virtues, with the heroic profile of his life, I and the world +were already sufficiently acquainted. I was besides a +little suspicious of Catholic testimony; in no ill sense, but +merely because Damien’s admirers and disciples were the +least likely to be critical. I know you will be more +suspicious still; and the facts set down above were one and all +collected from the lips of Protestants who had opposed the father +in his life. Yet I am strangely deceived, or they build up +the image of a man, with all his weaknesses, essentially heroic, +and alive with rugged honesty, generosity, and mirth.</p> +<p>Take it for what it is, rough private jottings of the worst +sides of Damien’s character, collected from the lips of +those who had laboured with and (in your own phrase) ‘knew +the man’;—though I question whether Damien would have +said that he knew you. Take it, and observe with wonder how +well you were served by your gossips, how ill by your +intelligence and sympathy; in how many points of fact we are at +one, and how widely our appreciations vary. There is +something wrong here; either with you or me. It is +possible, for instance, that you, who seem to have so many ears +in Kalawao, had heard of the affair of Mr. Chapman’s money, +and were singly struck by Damien’s intended +wrong-doing. I was struck with that also, and set it fairly +down; but I was struck much more by the fact that he had the +honesty of mind to be convinced. I may here tell you that +it was a long business; that one of his colleagues sat with him +late into the night, multiplying arguments and accusations; that +the father listened as usual with ‘perfect good-nature and +perfect obstinacy’; but at the last, when he was +persuaded—‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I am very much +obliged to you; you have done me a service; it would have been a +theft.’ There are many (not Catholics merely) who +require their heroes and saints to be infallible; to these the +story will be painful; not to the true lovers, patrons, and +servants of mankind.</p> +<p>And I take it, this is a type of our division; that you are +one of those who have an eye for faults and failures; that you +take a pleasure to find and publish them; and that, having found +them, you make haste to forget the overvailing virtues and the +real success which had alone introduced them to your +knowledge. It is a dangerous frame of mind. That you +may understand how dangerous, and into what a situation it has +already brought you, we will (if you please) go hand-in-hand +through the different phrases of your letter, and candidly +examine each from the point of view of its truth, its +appositeness, and its charity.</p> +<p>Damien was <i>coarse</i>.</p> +<p>It is very possible. You make us sorry for the lepers, +who had only a coarse old peasant for their friend and +father. But you, who were so refined, why were you not +there, to cheer them with the lights of culture? Or may I +remind you that we have some reason to doubt if John the Baptist +were genteel; and in the case of Peter, on whose career you +doubtless dwell approvingly in the pulpit, no doubt at all he was +a ‘coarse, headstrong’ fisherman! Yet even in +our Protestant Bibles Peter is called Saint.</p> +<p>Damien was <i>dirty</i>.</p> +<p>He was. Think of the poor lepers annoyed with this dirty +comrade! But the clean Dr. Hyde was at his food in a fine +house.</p> +<p>Damien was <i>headstrong</i>.</p> +<p>I believe you are right again; and I thank God for his strong +head and heart.</p> +<p>Damien was <i>bigoted</i>.</p> +<p>I am not fond of bigots myself, because they are not fond of +me. But what is meant by bigotry, that we should regard it +as a blemish in a priest? Damien believed his own religion +with the simplicity of a peasant or a child; as I would I could +suppose that you do. For this, I wonder at him some way +off; and had that been his only character, should have avoided +him in life. But the point of interest in Damien, which has +caused him to be so much talked about and made him at last the +subject of your pen and mine, was that, in him, his bigotry, his +intense and narrow faith, wrought potently for good, and +strengthened him to be one of the world’s heroes and +exemplars.</p> +<p>Damien <i>was not sent to Molokai</i>, <i>but went there +without orders</i>.</p> +<p>Is this a misreading? or do you really mean the words for +blame? I have heard Christ, in the pulpits of our Church, +held up for imitation on the ground that His sacrifice was +voluntary. Does Dr. Hyde think otherwise?</p> +<p>Damien <i>did not stay at the settlement</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p>It is true he was allowed many indulgences. Am I to +understand that you blame the father for profiting by these, or +the officers for granting them? In either case, it is a +mighty Spartan standard to issue from the house on Beretania +Street; and I am convinced you will find yourself with few +supporters.</p> +<p>Damien <i>had no hand in the reforms</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p>I think even you will admit that I have already been frank in +my description of the man I am defending; but before I take you +up upon this head, I will be franker still, and tell you that +perhaps nowhere in the world can a man taste a more pleasurable +sense of contrast than when he passes from Damien’s +‘Chinatown’ at Kalawao to the beautiful Bishop-Home +at Kalaupapa. At this point, in my desire to make all fair +for you, I will break my rule and adduce Catholic +testimony. Here is a passage from my diary about my visit +to the Chinatown, from which you will see how it is (even now) +regarded by its own officials: ‘We went round all the +dormitories, refectories, etc.—dark and dingy enough, with +a superficial cleanliness, which he’ [Mr. Dutton, the +lay-brother] ‘did not seek to defend. “It is +almost decent,” said he; “the sisters will make that +all right when we get them here.”’ And yet I +gathered it was already better since Damien was dead, and far +better than when he was there alone and had his own (not always +excellent) way. I have now come far enough to meet you on a +common ground of fact; and I tell you that, to a mind not +prejudiced by jealousy, all the reforms of the lazaretto, and +even those which he most vigorously opposed, are properly the +work of Damien. They are the evidence of his success; they +are what his heroism provoked from the reluctant and the +careless. Many were before him in the field; Mr. Meyer, for +instance, of whose faithful work we hear too little: there have +been many since; and some had more worldly wisdom, though none +had more devotion, than our saint. Before his day, even you +will confess, they had effected little. It was his part, by +one striking act of martyrdom, to direct all men’s eyes on +that distressful country. At a blow, and with the price of +his life, he made the place illustrious and public. And +that, if you will consider largely, was the one reform needful; +pregnant of all that should succeed. It brought money; it +brought (best individual addition of them all) the sisters; it +brought supervision, for public opinion and public interest +landed with the man at Kalawao. If ever any man brought +reforms, and died to bring them, it was he. There is not a +clean cup or towel in the Bishop-Home, but dirty Damien washed +it.</p> +<p>Damien <i>was not a pure man in his relations with women</i>, +<i>etc.</i></p> +<p>How do you know that? Is this the nature of the +conversation in that house on Beretania Street which the cabman +envied, driving past?—racy details of the misconduct of the +poor peasant priest, toiling under the cliffs of Molokai?</p> +<p>Many have visited the station before me; they seem not to have +heard the rumour. When I was there I heard many shocking +tales, for my informants were men speaking with the plainness of +the laity; and I heard plenty of complaints of Damien. Why +was this never mentioned? and how came it to you in the +retirement of your clerical parlour?</p> +<p>But I must not even seem to deceive you. This scandal, +when I read it in your letter, was not new to me. I had +heard it once before; and I must tell you how. There came +to Samoa a man from Honolulu; he, in a public-house on the beach, +volunteered the statement that Damien had ‘contracted the +disease from having connection with the female lepers’; and +I find a joy in telling you how the report was welcomed in a +public-house. A man sprang to his feet; I am not at liberty +to give his name, but from what I heard I doubt if you would care +to have him to dinner in Beretania Street. ‘You +miserable little—’ (here is a word I dare not print, +it would so shock your ears). ‘You miserable +little—,’ he cried, ‘if the story were a +thousand times true, can’t you see you are a million times +a lower—for daring to repeat it?’ I wish it +could be told of you that when the report reached you in your +house, perhaps after family worship, you had found in your soul +enough holy anger to receive it with the same expressions; ay, +even with that one which I dare not print; it would not need to +have been blotted away, like Uncle Toby’s oath, by the +tears of the recording angel; it would have been counted to you +for your brightest righteousness. But you have deliberately +chosen the part of the man from Honolulu, and you have played it +with improvements of your own. The man from +Honolulu—miserable, leering creature—communicated the +tale to a rude knot of beach-combing drinkers in a public-house, +where (I will so far agree with your temperance opinions) man is +not always at his noblest; and the man from Honolulu had himself +been drinking—drinking, we may charitably fancy, to +excess. It was to your ‘Dear Brother, the Reverend H. +B. Gage,’ that you chose to communicate the sickening +story; and the blue ribbon which adorns your portly bosom forbids +me to allow you the extenuating plea that you were drunk when it +was done. Your ‘dear brother’—a brother +indeed—made haste to deliver up your letter (as a means of +grace, perhaps) to the religious papers; where, after many +months, I found and read and wondered at it; and whence I have +now reproduced it for the wonder of others. And you and +your dear brother have, by this cycle of operations, built up a +contrast very edifying to examine in detail. The man whom +you would not care to have to dinner, on the one side; on the +other, the Reverend Dr. Hyde and the Reverend H. B. Gage: the +Apia bar-room, the Honolulu manse.</p> +<p>But I fear you scarce appreciate how you appear to your +fellow-men; and to bring it home to you, I will suppose your +story to be true. I will suppose—and God forgive me +for supposing it—that Damien faltered and stumbled in his +narrow path of duty; I will suppose that, in the horror of his +isolation, perhaps in the fever of incipient disease, he, who was +doing so much more than he had sworn, failed in the letter of his +priestly oath—he, who was so much a better man than either +you or me, who did what we have never dreamed of daring—he +too tasted of our common frailty. ‘O, Iago, the pity +of it!’ The least tender should be moved to tears; +the most incredulous to prayer. And all that you could do +was to pen your letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage!</p> +<p>Is it growing at all clear to you what a picture you have +drawn of your own heart? I will try yet once again to make +it clearer. You had a father: suppose this tale were about +him, and some informant brought it to you, proof in hand: I am +not making too high an estimate of your emotional nature when I +suppose you would regret the circumstance? that you would feel +the tale of frailty the more keenly since it shamed the author of +your days? and that the last thing you would do would be to +publish it in the religious press? Well, the man who tried +to do what Damien did, is my father, and the father of the man in +the Apia bar, and the father of all who love goodness; and he was +your father too, if God had given you grace to see it.</p> +<h2>THE PENTLAND RISING<br /> +<span class="smcap">a page of history</span><br /> +1666</h2> +<blockquote><p>‘A cloud of witnesses lyes here,<br /> +Who for Christ’s interest did appear.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Inscription on Battlefield at +Rullion Green</i>.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER I—THE CAUSES OF THE REVOLT</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘Halt, passenger; take heed what thou dost +see,<br /> +This tomb doth show for what some men did die.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monument</i>, +<i>Greyfriars’ Churchyard</i>,<i> Edinburgh</i>,<br /> +1661–1668. <a name="citation85"></a><a href="#footnote85" +class="citation">[85]</a></p> +<p>Two hundred years ago a tragedy was enacted in Scotland, the +memory whereof has been in great measure lost or obscured by the +deep tragedies which followed it. It is, as it were, the +evening of the night of persecution—a sort of twilight, +dark indeed to us, but light as the noonday when compared with +the midnight gloom which followed. This fact, of its being +the very threshold of persecution, lends it, however, an +additional interest.</p> +<p>The prejudices of the people against Episcopacy were +‘out of measure increased,’ says Bishop Burnet, +‘by the new incumbents who were put in the places of the +ejected preachers, and were generally very mean and despicable in +all respects. They were the worst preachers I ever heard; +they were ignorant to a reproach; and many of them were openly +vicious. They . . . were indeed the dreg and refuse of the +northern parts. Those of them who arose above contempt or +scandal were men of such violent tempers that they were as much +hated as the others were despised.’ <a +name="citation86"></a><a href="#footnote86" +class="citation">[86]</a> It was little to be wondered at, +from this account that the country-folk refused to go to the +parish church, and chose rather to listen to outed ministers in +the fields. But this was not to be allowed, and their +persecutors at last fell on the method of calling a roll of the +parishioners’ names every Sabbath, and marking a fine of +twenty shillings Scots to the name of each absenter. In +this way very large debts were incurred by persons altogether +unable to pay. Besides this, landlords were fined for their +tenants’ absences, tenants for their landlords’, +masters for their servants’, servants for their +masters’, even though they themselves were perfectly +regular in their attendance. And as the curates were +allowed to fine with the sanction of any common soldier, it may +be imagined that often the pretexts were neither very sufficient +nor well proven.</p> +<p>When the fines could not be paid at once, Bibles, clothes, and +household utensils were seized upon, or a number of soldiers, +proportionate to his wealth, were quartered on the +offender. The coarse and drunken privates filled the houses +with woe; snatched the bread from the children to feed their +dogs; shocked the principles, scorned the scruples, and +blasphemed the religion of their humble hosts; and when they had +reduced them to destitution, sold the furniture, and burned down +the roof-tree which was consecrated to the peasants by the name +of Home. For all this attention each of these soldiers +received from his unwilling landlord a certain sum of money per +day—three shillings sterling, according to +<i>Naphtali</i>. And frequently they were forced to pay +quartering money for more men than were in reality ‘cessed +on them.’ At that time it was no strange thing to +behold a strong man begging for money to pay his fines, and many +others who were deep in arrears, or who had attracted attention +in some other way, were forced to flee from their homes, and take +refuge from arrest and imprisonment among the wild mosses of the +uplands. <a name="citation87a"></a><a href="#footnote87a" +class="citation">[87a]</a></p> +<p>One example in particular we may cite:</p> +<p>John Neilson, the Laird of Corsack, a worthy man, was, +unfortunately for himself, a Nonconformist. First he was +fined in four hundred pounds Scots, and then through cessing he +lost nineteen hundred and ninety-three pounds Scots. He was +next obliged to leave his house and flee from place to place, +during which wanderings he lost his horse. His wife and +children were turned out of doors, and then his tenants were +fined till they too were almost ruined. As a final stroke, +they drove away all his cattle to Glasgow and sold them. <a +name="citation87b"></a><a href="#footnote87b" +class="citation">[87b]</a> Surely it was time that +something were done to alleviate so much sorrow, to overthrow +such tyranny.</p> +<p>About this time too there arrived in Galloway a person calling +himself Captain Andrew Gray, and advising the people to +revolt. He displayed some documents purporting to be from +the northern Covenanters, and stating that they were prepared to +join in any enterprise commenced by their southern +brethren. The leader of the persecutors was Sir James +Turner, an officer afterwards degraded for his share in the +matter. ‘He was naturally fierce, but was mad when he +was drunk, and that was very often,’ said Bishop +Burnet. ‘He was a learned man, but had always been in +armies, and knew no other rule but to obey orders. He told +me he had no regard to any law, but acted, as he was commanded, +in a military way.’ <a name="citation88"></a><a +href="#footnote88" class="citation">[88]</a></p> +<p>This was the state of matters, when an outrage was committed +which gave spirit and determination to the oppressed countrymen, +lit the flame of insubordination, and for the time at least +recoiled on those who perpetrated it with redoubled force.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II—THE BEGINNING</h3> +<blockquote><p>I love no warres,<br /> +I love no jarres,<br /> +Nor strife’s fire.<br /> +May discord cease,<br /> +Let’s live in peace:<br /> +This I desire.</p> +<p>If it must be<br /> +Warre we must see<br /> +(So fates conspire),<br /> +May we not feel<br /> +The force of steel:<br /> +This I desire.</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">T. +Jackson</span>, 1651 <a name="citation89"></a><a +href="#footnote89" class="citation">[89]</a></p> +<p>Upon Tuesday, November 13th, 1666, Corporal George Deanes and +three other soldiers set upon an old man in the clachan of Dalry +and demanded the payment of his fines. On the old +man’s refusing to pay, they forced a large party of his +neighbours to go with them and thresh his corn. The field +was a certain distance out of the clachan, and four persons, +disguised as countrymen, who had been out on the moors all night, +met this mournful drove of slaves, compelled by the four soldiers +to work for the ruin of their friend. However, chided to +the bone by their night on the hills, and worn out by want of +food, they proceeded to the village inn to refresh +themselves. Suddenly some people rushed into the room where +they were sitting, and told them that the soldiers were about to +roast the old man, naked, on his own girdle. This was too +much for them to stand, and they repaired immediately to the +scene of this gross outrage, and at first merely requested that +the captive should be released. On the refusal of the two +soldiers who were in the front room, high words were given and +taken on both sides, and the other two rushed forth from an +adjoining chamber and made at the countrymen with drawn +swords. One of the latter, John M‘Lellan of Barscob, +drew a pistol and shot the corporal in the body. The pieces +of tobacco-pipe with which it was loaded, to the number of ten at +least, entered him, and he was so much disturbed that he never +appears to have recovered, for we find long afterwards a petition +to the Privy Council requesting a pension for him. The +other soldiers then laid down their arms, the old man was +rescued, and the rebellion was commenced. <a +name="citation90"></a><a href="#footnote90" +class="citation">[90]</a></p> +<p>And now we must turn to Sir James Turner’s memoirs of +himself; for, strange to say, this extraordinary man was +remarkably fond of literary composition, and wrote, besides the +amusing account of his own adventures just mentioned, a large +number of essays and short biographies, and a work on war, +entitled <i>Pallas Armata</i>. The following are some of +the shorter pieces ‘Magick,’ +‘Friendship,’ ‘Imprisonment,’ +‘Anger,’ ‘Revenge,’ ‘Duells,’ +‘Cruelty,’ ‘A Defence of some of the Ceremonies +of the English Liturgie—to wit—Bowing at the Name of +Jesus, The frequent repetition of the Lord’s Prayer and +Good Lord deliver us, Of the Doxologie, Of Surplesses, Rotchets, +Canonnicall Coats,’ etc. From what we know of his +character we should expect ‘Anger’ and +‘Cruelty’ to be very full and instructive. But +what earthly right he had to meddle with ecclesiastical subjects +it is hard to see.</p> +<p>Upon the 12th of the month he had received some information +concerning Gray’s proceedings, but as it was excessively +indefinite in its character, he paid no attention to it. On +the evening of the 14th, Corporal Deanes was brought into +Dumfries, who affirmed stoutly that he had been shot while +refusing to sign the Covenant—a story rendered singularly +unlikely by the after conduct of the rebels. Sir James +instantly dispatched orders to the cessed soldiers either to come +to Dumfries or meet him on the way to Dalry, and commanded the +thirteen or fourteen men in the town with him to come at nine +next morning to his lodging for supplies.</p> +<p>On the morning of Thursday the rebels arrived at Dumfries with +50 horse and 150 foot. Neilson of Corsack, and Gray, who +commanded, with a considerable troop, entered the town, and +surrounded Sir James Turner’s lodging. Though it was +between eight and nine o’clock, that worthy, being unwell, +was still in bed, but rose at once and went to the window.</p> +<p>Neilson and some others cried, ‘You may have fair +quarter.’</p> +<p>‘I need no quarter,’ replied Sir James; ‘nor +can I be a prisoner, seeing there is no war +declared.’ On being told, however, that he must +either be a prisoner or die, he came down, and went into the +street in his night-shirt. Here Gray showed himself very +desirous of killing him, but he was overruled by Corsack. +However, he was taken away a prisoner, Captain Gray mounting him +on his own horse, though, as Turner naively remarks, ‘there +was good reason for it, for he mounted himself on a farre better +one of mine.’ A large coffer containing his clothes +and money, together with all his papers, were taken away by the +rebels. They robbed Master Chalmers, the Episcopalian +minister of Dumfries, of his horse, drank the King’s health +at the market cross, and then left Dumfries. <a +name="citation92"></a><a href="#footnote92" +class="citation">[92]</a></p> +<h3>CHAPTER III—THE MARCH OF THE REBELS</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘Stay, passenger, take notice what thou +reads,<br /> +At Edinburgh lie our bodies, here our heads;<br /> +Our right hands stood at Lanark, these we want,<br /> +Because with them we signed the Covenant.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Epitaph on a Tombstone at +Hamilton</i>. <a name="citation93"></a><a href="#footnote93" +class="citation">[93]</a></p> +<p>On Friday the 16th, Bailie Irvine of Dumfries came to the +Council at Edinburgh, and gave information concerning this +‘horrid rebellion.’ In the absence of Rothes, +Sharpe presided—much to the wrath of some members; and as +he imagined his own safety endangered, his measures were most +energetic. Dalzell was ordered away to the West, the guards +round the city were doubled, officers and soldiers were forced to +take the oath of allegiance, and all lodgers were commanded to +give in their names. Sharpe, surrounded with all these +guards and precautions, trembled—trembled as he trembled +when the avengers of blood drew him from his chariot on Magus +Muir,—for he knew how he had sold his trust, how he had +betrayed his charge, and he felt that against him must their +chiefest hatred be directed, against him their direst +thunder-bolts be forged. But even in his fear the apostate +Presbyterian was unrelenting, unpityingly harsh; he published in +his manifesto no promise of pardon, no inducement to +submission. He said, ‘If you submit not you must +die,’ but never added, ‘If you submit you may +live!’ <a name="citation94a"></a><a href="#footnote94a" +class="citation">[94a]</a></p> +<p>Meantime the insurgents proceeded on their way. At +Carsphairn they were deserted by Captain Gray, who, doubtless in +a fit of oblivion, neglected to leave behind him the coffer +containing Sir James’s money. Who he was is a +mystery, unsolved by any historian; his papers were evidently +forgeries—that, and his final flight, appear to indicate +that he was an agent of the Royalists, for either the King or the +Duke of York was heard to say, ‘That, if he might have his +wish, he would have them all turn rebels and go to arms.’ +<a name="citation94b"></a><a href="#footnote94b" +class="citation">[94b]</a></p> +<p>Upon the 18th day of the month they left Carsphairn and +marched onwards.</p> +<p>Turner was always lodged by his captors at a good inn, +frequently at the best of which their halting-place could +boast. Here many visits were paid to him by the ministers +and officers of the insurgent force. In his description of +these interviews he displays a vein of satiric severity, +admitting any kindness that was done to him with some qualifying +souvenir of former harshness, and gloating over any injury, +mistake, or folly, which it was his chance to suffer or to +hear. He appears, notwithstanding all this, to have been on +pretty good terms with his cruel ‘phanaticks,’ as the +following extract sufficiently proves:</p> +<p>‘Most of the foot were lodged about the church or +churchyard, and order given to ring bells next morning for a +sermon to be preached by Mr. Welch. Maxwell of Morith, and +Major M‘Cullough invited me to heare “that phanatick +sermon” (for soe they merrilie called it). They said +that preaching might prove an effectual meane to turne me, which +they heartilie wished. I answered to them that I was under +guards, and that if they intended to heare that sermon, it was +probable I might likewise, for it was not like my guards wold goe +to church and leave me alone at my lodgeings. Bot to what +they said of my conversion, I said it wold be hard to turne a +Turner. Bot because I founde them in a merrie humour, I +said, if I did not come to heare Mr. Welch preach, then they +might fine me in fortie shillings Scots, which was double the +suome of what I had exacted from the phanatics.’ <a +name="citation95"></a><a href="#footnote95" +class="citation">[95]</a></p> +<p>This took place at Ochiltree, on the 22nd day of the +month. The following is recounted by this personage with +malicious glee, and certainly, if authentic, it is a sad proof of +how chaff is mixed with wheat, and how ignorant, almost impious, +persons were engaged in this movement; nevertheless we give it, +for we wish to present with impartiality all the alleged facts to +the reader:</p> +<p>‘Towards the evening Mr. Robinsone and Mr. Crukshank +gaue me a visite; I called for some ale purposelie to heare one +of them blesse it. It fell Mr. Robinsone to seeke the +blessing, who said one of the most bombastick graces that ever I +heard in my life. He summoned God Allmightie very +imperiouslie to be their secondarie (for that was his +language). “And if,” said he, “thou wilt +not be our Secondarie, we will not fight for thee at all, for it +is not our cause bot thy cause; and if thou wilt not fight for +our cause and thy oune cause, then we are not obliged to fight +for it. They say,” said he, “that Dukes, +Earles, and Lords are coming with the King’s General +against us, bot they shall be nothing bot a threshing to +us.” This grace did more fullie satisfie me of the +folly and injustice of their cause, then the ale did quench my +thirst.’ <a name="citation96a"></a><a href="#footnote96a" +class="citation">[96a]</a></p> +<p>Frequently the rebels made a halt near some roadside alehouse, +or in some convenient park, where Colonel Wallace, who had now +taken the command, would review the horse and foot, during which +time Turner was sent either into the alehouse or round the +shoulder of the hill, to prevent him from seeing the disorders +which were likely to arise. He was, at last, on the 25th +day of the month, between Douglas and Lanark, permitted to behold +their evolutions. ‘I found their horse did consist of +four hundreth and fortie, and the foot of five hundreth and +upwards. . . . The horsemen were armed for most part with suord +and pistoll, some onlie with suord. The foot with musket, +pike, sith (scythe), forke, and suord; and some with suords great +and long.’ He admired much the proficiency of their +cavalry, and marvelled how they had attained to it in so short a +time. <a name="citation96b"></a><a href="#footnote96b" +class="citation">[96b]</a></p> +<p>At Douglas, which they had just left on the morning of this +great wapinshaw, they were charged—awful picture of +depravity!—with the theft of a silver spoon and a +nightgown. Could it be expected that while the whole +country swarmed with robbers of every description, such a rare +opportunity for plunder should be lost by rogues—that among +a thousand men, even though fighting for religion, there should +not be one Achan in the camp? At Lanark a declaration was +drawn up and signed by the chief rebels. In it occurs the +following:</p> +<p>‘The just sense whereof ’—the sufferings of +the country—‘made us choose, rather to betake +ourselves to the fields for self-defence, than to stay at home, +burdened daily with the calamities of others, and tortured with +the fears of our own approaching misery.’ <a +name="citation97"></a><a href="#footnote97" +class="citation">[97]</a></p> +<p>The whole body, too, swore the Covenant, to which ceremony the +epitaph at the head of this chapter seems to refer.</p> +<p>A report that Dalzell was approaching drove them from Lanark +to Bathgate, where, on the evening of Monday the 26th, the +wearied army stopped. But at twelve o’clock the cry, +which served them for a trumpet, of ‘Horse! horse!’ +and ‘Mount the prisoner!’ resounded through the +night-shrouded town, and called the peasants from their +well-earned rest to toil onwards in their march. The wind +howled fiercely over the moorland; a close, thick, wetting rain +descended. Chilled to the bone, worn out with long fatigue, +sinking to the knees in mire, onward they marched to +destruction. One by one the weary peasants fell off from +their ranks to sleep, and die in the rain-soaked moor, or to seek +some house by the wayside wherein to hide till daybreak. +One by one at first, then in gradually increasing numbers, at +every shelter that was seen, whole troops left the waning +squadrons, and rushed to hide themselves from the ferocity of the +tempest. To right and left nought could be descried but the +broad expanse of the moor, and the figures of their +fellow-rebels, seen dimly through the murky night, plodding +onwards through the sinking moss. Those who kept +together—a miserable few—often halted to rest +themselves, and to allow their lagging comrades to overtake +them. Then onward they went again, still hoping for +assistance, reinforcement, and supplies; onward again, through +the wind, and the rain, and the darkness—onward to their +defeat at Pentland, and their scaffold at Edinburgh. It was +calculated that they lost one half of their army on that +disastrous night-march.</p> +<p>Next night they reached the village of Colinton, four miles +from Edinburgh, where they halted for the last time. <a +name="citation98"></a><a href="#footnote98" +class="citation">[98]</a></p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV—RULLION GREEN</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘From Covenanters with uplifted hands,<br /> +From Remonstrators with associate bands,<br /> + Good Lord, +deliver us!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Royalist Rhyme</i>, <span +class="smcap">Kirkton</span>, p. 127.</p> +<p>Late on the fourth night of November, exactly twenty-four days +before Rullion Green, Richard and George Chaplain, merchants in +Haddington, beheld four men, clad like West-country Whigamores, +standing round some object on the ground. It was at the +two-mile cross, and within that distance from their homes. +At last, to their horror, they discovered that the recumbent +figure was a livid corpse, swathed in a blood-stained +winding-sheet. <a name="citation99"></a><a href="#footnote99" +class="citation">[99]</a> Many thought that this apparition +was a portent of the deaths connected with the Pentland +Rising.</p> +<p>On the morning of Wednesday, the 28th of November 1666, they +left Colinton and marched to Rullion Green. There they +arrived about sunset. The position was a strong one. +On the summit of a bare, heathery spur of the Pentlands are two +hillocks, and between them lies a narrow band of flat marshy +ground. On the highest of the two mounds—that nearest +the Pentlands, and on the left hand of the main body—was +the greater part of the cavalry, under Major Learmont; on the +other Barscob and the Galloway gentlemen; and in the centre +Colonel Wallace and the weak, half-armed infantry. Their +position was further strengthened by the depth of the valley +below, and the deep chasm-like course of the Rullion Burn.</p> +<p>The sun, going down behind the Pentlands, cast golden lights +and blue shadows on their snow-clad summits, slanted obliquely +into the rich plain before them, bathing with rosy splendour the +leafless, snow-sprinkled trees, and fading gradually into shadow +in the distance. To the south, too, they beheld a +deep-shaded amphitheatre of heather and bracken; the course of +the Esk, near Penicuik, winding about at the foot of its gorge; +the broad, brown expanse of Maw Moss; and, fading into blue +indistinctness in the south, the wild heath-clad Peeblesshire +hills. In sooth, that scene was fair, and many a yearning +glance was cast over that peaceful evening scene from the spot +where the rebels awaited their defeat; and when the fight was +over, many a noble fellow lifted his head from the blood-stained +heather to strive with darkening eyeballs to behold that +landscape, over which, as over his life and his cause, the +shadows of night and of gloom were falling and thickening.</p> +<p>It was while waiting on this spot that the fear-inspiring cry +was raised: ‘The enemy! Here come the +enemy!’</p> +<p>Unwilling to believe their own doom—for our insurgents +still hoped for success in some negotiations for peace which had +been carried on at Colinton—they called out, ‘They +are some of our own.’</p> +<p>‘They are too blacke’ (<i>i.e.</i> numerous), +‘fie! fie! for ground to draw up on,’ cried Wallace, +fully realising the want of space for his men, and proving that +it was not till after this time that his forces were finally +arranged. <a name="citation101a"></a><a href="#footnote101a" +class="citation">[101a]</a></p> +<p>First of all the battle was commenced by fifty Royalist horse +sent obliquely across the hill to attack the left wing of the +rebels. An equal number of Learmont’s men met them, +and, after a struggle, drove them back. The course of the +Rullion Burn prevented almost all pursuit, and Wallace, on +perceiving it, dispatched a body of foot to occupy both the burn +and some ruined sheep-walls on the farther side.</p> +<p>Dalzell changed his position, and drew up his army at the foot +of the hill, on the top of which were his foes. He then +dispatched a mingled body of infantry and cavalry to attack +Wallace’s outpost, but they also were driven back. A +third charge produced a still more disastrous effect, for Dalzell +had to check the pursuit of his men by a reinforcement.</p> +<p>These repeated checks bred a panic in the +Lieutenant-General’s ranks, for several of his men flung +down their arms. Urged by such fatal symptoms, and by the +approaching night, he deployed his men, and closed in +overwhelming numbers on the centre and right flank of the +insurgent army. In the increasing twilight the burning +matches of the firelocks, shimmering on barrel, halbert, and +cuirass, lent to the approaching army a picturesque effect, like +a huge, many-armed giant breathing flame into the darkness.</p> +<p>Placed on an overhanging hill, Welch and Semple cried aloud, +‘The God of Jacob! The God of Jacob!’ and prayed with +uplifted hands for victory. <a name="citation101b"></a><a +href="#footnote101b" class="citation">[101b]</a></p> +<p>But still the Royalist troops closed in.</p> +<p>Captain John Paton was observed by Dalzell, who determined to +capture him with his own hands. Accordingly he charged +forward, presenting his pistols. Paton fired, but the balls +hopped off Dalzell’s buff coat and fell into his +boot. With the superstition peculiar to his age, the +Nonconformist concluded that his adversary was rendered +bullet-proof by enchantment, and, pulling some small silver coins +from his pocket, charged his pistol therewith. Dalzell, +seeing this, and supposing, it is likely, that Paton was putting +in larger balls, hid behind his servant, who was killed. <a +name="citation102"></a><a href="#footnote102" +class="citation">[102]</a></p> +<p>Meantime the outposts were forced, and the army of Wallace was +enveloped in the embrace of a hideous +boa-constrictor—tightening, closing, crushing every +semblance of life from the victim enclosed in his toils. +The flanking parties of horse were forced in upon the centre, and +though, as even Turner grants, they fought with desperation, a +general flight was the result.</p> +<p>But when they fell there was none to sing their coronach or +wail the death-wail over them. Those who sacrificed +themselves for the peace, the liberty, and the religion of their +fellow-countrymen, lay bleaching in the field of death for long, +and when at last they were buried by charity, the peasants dug up +their bodies, desecrated their graves, and cast them once more +upon the open heath for the sorry value of their +winding-sheets!</p> +<p><i>Inscription on stone at Rullion Green</i>:</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">here</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">and near to</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">this place lyes the</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">reverend mr john crookshank</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">and mr andrew mccormick</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">ministers of the gospel and</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">about fifty other true covenanted</span><br +/> +<span class="smcap">presbyterians who were</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">killed in this place in their own</span><br +/> +<span class="smcap">inocent self defence and deffence</span><br +/> +<span class="smcap">of the covenanted</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">work of reformation by</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">thomas dalzeel of bins</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">upon the 28 of november</span><br /> +1666. <span class="smcap">rev.</span> 12. 11. <span +class="smcap">erected</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">sept.</span> 28 1738.</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Back of stone</i>:</p> +<blockquote><p>A Cloud of Witnesses lyes here,<br /> +Who for Christ’s Interest did appear,<br /> +For to restore true Liberty,<br /> +O’erturnèd then by tyranny.<br /> +And by proud Prelats who did Rage<br /> +Against the Lord’s Own heritage.<br /> +They sacrificed were for the laws<br /> +Of Christ their king, his noble cause.<br /> +These heroes fought with great renown;<br /> +By falling got the Martyr’s crown. <a +name="citation103"></a><a href="#footnote103" +class="citation">[103]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<h3>CHAPTER V—A RECORD OF BLOOD</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘They cut his hands ere he was dead,<br /> +And after that struck of his head.<br /> +His blood under the altar cries<br /> +For vengeance on Christ’s enemies.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Epitaph on Tomb at Longcross of +Clermont</i>. <a name="citation104"></a><a href="#footnote104" +class="citation">[104]</a></p> +<p>Master Andrew Murray, an outed minister, residing in the +Potterrow, on the morning after the defeat, heard the sounds of +cheering and the march of many feet beneath his window. He +gazed out. With colours flying, and with music sounding, +Dalzell, victorious, entered Edinburgh. But his banners +were dyed in blood, and a band of prisoners were marched within +his ranks. The old man knew it all. That martial and +triumphant strain was the death-knell of his friends and of their +cause, the rust-hued spots upon the flags were the tokens of +their courage and their death, and the prisoners were the +miserable remnant spared from death in battle to die upon the +scaffold. Poor old man! he had outlived all joy. Had +he lived longer he would have seen increasing torment and +increasing woe; he would have seen the clouds, then but gathering +in mist, cast a more than midnight darkness over his native +hills, and have fallen a victim to those bloody persecutions +which, later, sent their red memorials to the sea by many a +burn. By a merciful Providence all this was spared to +him—he fell beneath the first blow; and ere four days had +passed since Rullion Green, the aged minister of God was gathered +to is fathers. <a name="citation105a"></a><a href="#footnote105a" +class="citation">[105a]</a></p> +<p>When Sharpe first heard of the rebellion, he applied to Sir +Alexander Ramsay, the Provost, for soldiers to guard his +house. Disliking their occupation, the soldiers gave him an +ugly time of it. All the night through they kept up a +continuous series of ‘alarms and incursions,’ +‘cries of “Stand!” “Give +fire!”’ etc., which forced the prelate to flee to the +Castle in the morning, hoping there to find the rest which was +denied him at home. <a name="citation105b"></a><a +href="#footnote105b" class="citation">[105b]</a> Now, +however, when all danger to himself was past, Sharpe came out in +his true colours, and scant was the justice likely to be shown to +the foes of Scottish Episcopacy when the Primate was by. +The prisoners were lodged in Haddo’s Hole, a part of St. +Giles’ Cathedral, where, by the kindness of Bishop Wishart, +to his credit be it spoken, they were amply supplied with food. +<a name="citation105c"></a><a href="#footnote105c" +class="citation">[105c]</a></p> +<p>Some people urged, in the Council, that the promise of quarter +which had been given on the field of battle should protect the +lives of the miserable men. Sir John Gilmoure, the greatest +lawyer, gave no opinion—certainly a suggestive +circumstance—but Lord Lee declared that this would not +interfere with their legal trial, ‘so to bloody executions +they went.’ <a name="citation105d"></a><a +href="#footnote105d" class="citation">[105d]</a> To the +number of thirty they were condemned and executed; while two of +them, Hugh M‘Kail, a young minister, and Neilson of +Corsack, were tortured with the boots.</p> +<p>The goods of those who perished were confiscated, and their +bodies were dismembered and distributed to different parts of the +country; ‘the heads of Major M‘Culloch and the two +Gordons,’ it was resolved, says Kirkton, ‘should be +pitched on the gate of Kirkcudbright; the two Hamiltons and +Strong’s head should be affixed at Hamilton, and Captain +Arnot’s sett on the Watter Gate at Edinburgh. The +armes of all the ten, because they hade with uplifted hands +renewed the Covenant at Lanark, were sent to the people of that +town to expiate that crime, by placing these arms on the top of +the prison.’ <a name="citation106"></a><a +href="#footnote106" class="citation">[106]</a> Among these +was John Neilson, the Laird of Corsack, who saved Turner’s +life at Dumfries; in return for which service Sir James +attempted, though without success, to get the poor man +reprieved. One of the condemned died of his wounds between +the day of condemnation and the day of execution. +‘None of them,’ says Kirkton, ‘would save their +life by taking the declaration and renouncing the Covenant, +though it was offered to them. . . . But never men died in +Scotland so much lamented by the people, not only spectators, but +those in the country. When Knockbreck and his brother were +turned over, they clasped each other in their armes, and so +endured the pangs of death. When Humphrey Colquhoun died, +he spoke not like an ordinary citizen, but like a heavenly +minister, relating his comfortable Christian experiences, and +called for his Bible, and laid it on his wounded arm, and read +John iii. 8, and spoke upon it to the admiration of all. +But most of all, when Mr. M‘Kail died, there was such a +lamentation as was never known in Scotland before; not one dry +cheek upon all the street, or in all the numberless windows in +the mercate place.’ <a name="citation107a"></a><a +href="#footnote107a" class="citation">[107a]</a></p> +<p>The following passage from this speech speaks for itself and +its author:</p> +<p>‘Hereafter I will not talk with flesh and blood, nor +think on the world’s consolations. Farewell to all my +friends, whose company hath been refreshful to me in my +pilgrimage. I have done with the light of the sun and the +moon; welcome eternal light, eternal life, everlasting love, +everlasting praise, everlasting glory. Praise to Him that +sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb for ever! Bless the +Lord, O my soul, that hath pardoned all my iniquities in the +blood of His Son, and healed all my diseases. Bless Him, O +all ye His angels that excel in strength, ye ministers of His +that do His pleasure. Bless the Lord, O my soul!’ <a +name="citation107b"></a><a href="#footnote107b" +class="citation">[107b]</a></p> +<p>After having ascended the gallows ladder he again broke forth +in the following words of touching eloquence: ‘And now I +leave off to speak any more to creatures, and begin my +intercourse with God, which shall never be broken off. +Farewell father and mother, friends and relations! Farewell +the world and all delights! Farewell meat and drink! +Farewell sun, moon, and stars!—Welcome God and +Father! Welcome sweet Jesus Christ, the Mediator of the new +covenant! Welcome blessed Spirit of grace and God of all +consolation! Welcome glory! Welcome eternal +life! Welcome Death!’ <a name="citation107c"></a><a +href="#footnote107c" class="citation">[107c]</a></p> +<p>At Glasgow, too, where some were executed, they caused the +soldiers to beat the drums and blow the trumpets on their closing +ears. Hideous refinement of revenge! Even the last +words which drop from the lips of a dying man—words surely +the most sincere and the most unbiassed which mortal mouth can +utter—even these were looked upon as poisoned and as +poisonous. ‘Drown their last accents,’ was the +cry, ‘lest they should lead the crowd to take their part, +or at the least to mourn their doom!’ <a +name="citation108a"></a><a href="#footnote108a" +class="citation">[108a]</a> But, after all, perhaps it was +more merciful than one would think—unintentionally so, of +course; perhaps the storm of harsh and fiercely jubilant noises, +the clanging of trumpets, the rattling of drums, and the hootings +and jeerings of an unfeeling mob, which were the last they heard +on earth, might, when the mortal fight was over, when the river +of death was passed, add tenfold sweetness to the hymning of the +angels, tenfold peacefulness to the shores which they had +reached.</p> +<p>Not content with the cruelty of these executions, some even of +the peasantry, though these were confined to the shire of +Mid-Lothian, pursued, captured, plundered, and murdered the +miserable fugitives who fell in their way. One strange +story have we of these times of blood and persecution: Kirkton +the historian and popular tradition tell us alike of a flame +which often would arise from the grave, in a moss near Carnwath, +of some of those poor rebels: of how it crept along the ground; +of how it covered the house of their murderer; and of how it +scared him with its lurid glare.</p> +<p>Hear Daniel Defoe: <a name="citation108b"></a><a +href="#footnote108b" class="citation">[108b]</a></p> +<blockquote><p>‘If the poor people were by these +insupportable violences made desperate, and driven to all the +extremities of a wild despair, who can justly reflect on them +when they read in the Word of God “That oppression makes a +wise man mad”? And therefore were there no other +original of the insurrection known by the name of the Rising of +Pentland, it was nothing but what the intolerable oppressions of +those times might have justified to all the world, nature having +dictated to all people a right of defence when illegally and +arbitrarily attacked in a manner not justifiable either by laws +of nature, the laws of God, or the laws of the +country.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Bear this remonstrance of Defoe’s in mind, and though it +is the fashion of the day to jeer and to mock, to execrate and to +contemn, the noble band of Covenanters—though the bitter +laugh at their old-world religious views, the curl of the lip at +their merits, and the chilling silence on their bravery and their +determination, are but too rife through all society—be +charitable to what was evil and honest to what was good about the +Pentland insurgents, who fought for life and liberty, for country +and religion, on the 28th of November 1666, now just two hundred +years ago.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>, 28<i>th November</i> +1866.</p> +<h2>THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW</h2> +<p>History is much decried; it is a tissue of errors, we are +told, no doubt correctly; and rival historians expose each +other’s blunders with gratification. Yet the worst +historian has a clearer view of the period he studies than the +best of us can hope to form of that in which we live. The +obscurest epoch is to-day; and that for a thousand reasons of +inchoate tendency, conflicting report, and sheer mass and +multiplicity of experience; but chiefly, perhaps, by reason of an +insidious shifting of landmarks. Parties and ideas +continually move, but not by measurable marches on a stable +course; the political soil itself steals forth by imperceptible +degrees, like a travelling glacier, carrying on its bosom not +only political parties but their flag-posts and cantonments; so +that what appears to be an eternal city founded on hills is but a +flying island of Laputa. It is for this reason in +particular that we are all becoming Socialists without knowing +it; by which I would not in the least refer to the acute case of +Mr. Hyndman and his horn-blowing supporters, sounding their +trumps of a Sunday within the walls of our individualist +Jericho—but to the stealthy change that has come over the +spirit of Englishmen and English legislation. A little +while ago, and we were still for liberty; ‘crowd a few more +thousands on the bench of Government,’ we seemed to cry; +‘keep her head direct on liberty, and we cannot help but +come to port.’ This is over; <i>laisser faire</i> +declines in favour; our legislation grows authoritative, grows +philanthropical, bristles with new duties and new penalties, and +casts a spawn of inspectors, who now begin, note-book in hand, to +darken the face of England. It may be right or wrong, we +are not trying that; but one thing it is beyond doubt: it is +Socialism in action, and the strange thing is that we scarcely +know it.</p> +<p>Liberty has served us a long while, and it may be time to seek +new altars. Like all other principles, she has been proved +to be self-exclusive in the long run. She has taken wages +besides (like all other virtues) and dutifully served Mammon; so +that many things we were accustomed to admire as the benefits of +freedom and common to all were truly benefits of wealth, and took +their value from our neighbours’ poverty. A few +shocks of logic, a few disclosures (in the journalistic phrase) +of what the freedom of manufacturers, landlords, or shipowners +may imply for operatives, tenants, or seamen, and we not +unnaturally begin to turn to that other pole of hope, beneficent +tyranny. Freedom, to be desirable, involves kindness, +wisdom, and all the virtues of the free; but the free man as we +have seen him in action has been, as of yore, only the master of +many helots; and the slaves are still ill-fed, ill-clad, +ill-taught, ill-housed, insolently treated, and driven to their +mines and workshops by the lash of famine. So much, in +other men’s affairs, we have begun to see clearly; we have +begun to despair of virtue in these other men, and from our seat +in Parliament begin to discharge upon them, thick as arrows, the +host of our inspectors. The landlord has long shaken his +head over the manufacturer; those who do business on land have +lost all trust in the virtues of the shipowner; the professions +look askance upon the retail traders and have even started their +co-operative stores to ruin them; and from out the smoke-wreaths +of Birmingham a finger has begun to write upon the wall the +condemnation of the landlord. Thus, piece by piece, do we +condemn each other, and yet not perceive the conclusion, that our +whole estate is somewhat damnable. Thus, piece by piece, +each acting against his neighbour, each sawing away the branch on +which some other interest is seated, do we apply in detail our +Socialistic remedies, and yet not perceive that we are all +labouring together to bring in Socialism at large. A +tendency so stupid and so selfish is like to prove invincible; +and if Socialism be at all a practicable rule of life, there is +every chance that our grand-children will see the day and taste +the pleasures of existence in something far liker an ant-heap +than any previous human polity. And this not in the least +because of the voice of Mr. Hyndman or the horns of his +followers; but by the mere glacier movement of the political +soil, bearing forward on its bosom, apparently undisturbed, the +proud camps of Whig and Tory. If Mr. Hyndman were a man of +keen humour, which is far from my conception of his character, he +might rest from his troubling and look on: the walls of Jericho +begin already to crumble and dissolve. That great servile +war, the Armageddon of money and numbers, to which we looked +forward when young, becomes more and more unlikely; and we may +rather look to see a peaceable and blindfold evolution, the work +of dull men immersed in political tactics and dead to political +results.</p> +<p>The principal scene of this comedy lies, of course, in the +House of Commons; it is there, besides, that the details of this +new evolution (if it proceed) will fall to be decided; so that +the state of Parliament is not only diagnostic of the present but +fatefully prophetic of the future. Well, we all know what +Parliament is, and we are all ashamed of it. We may pardon +it some faults, indeed, on the ground of Irish +obstruction—a bitter trial, which it supports with notable +good humour. But the excuse is merely local; it cannot +apply to similar bodies in America and France; and what are we to +say of these? President Cleveland’s letter may serve +as a picture of the one; a glance at almost any paper will +convince us of the weakness of the other. Decay appears to +have seized on the organ of popular government in every land; and +this just at the moment when we begin to bring to it, as to an +oracle of justice, the whole skein of our private affairs to be +unravelled, and ask it, like a new Messiah, to take upon itself +our frailties and play for us the part that should be played by +our own virtues. For that, in few words, is the case. +We cannot trust ourselves to behave with decency; we cannot trust +our consciences; and the remedy proposed is to elect a round +number of our neighbours, pretty much at random, and say to +these: ‘Be ye our conscience; make laws so wise, and +continue from year to year to administer them so wisely, that +they shall save us from ourselves and make us righteous and +happy, world without end. Amen.’ And who can +look twice at the British Parliament and then seriously bring it +such a task? I am not advancing this as an argument against +Socialism: once again, nothing is further from my mind. +There are great truths in Socialism, or no one, not even Mr. +Hyndman, would be found to hold it; and if it came, and did +one-tenth part of what it offers, I for one should make it +welcome. But if it is to come, we may as well have some +notion of what it will be like; and the first thing to grasp is +that our new polity will be designed and administered (to put it +courteously) with something short of inspiration. It will +be made, or will grow, in a human parliament; and the one thing +that will not very hugely change is human nature. The +Anarchists think otherwise, from which it is only plain that they +have not carried to the study of history the lamp of human +sympathy.</p> +<p>Given, then, our new polity, with its new waggon-load of laws, +what headmarks must we look for in the life? We chafe a +good deal at that excellent thing, the income-tax, because it +brings into our affairs the prying fingers, and exposes us to the +tart words, of the official. The official, in all degrees, +is already something of a terror to many of us. I would not +willingly have to do with even a police-constable in any other +spirit than that of kindness. I still remember in my dreams +the eye-glass of a certain <i>attaché</i> at a certain +embassy—an eyeglass that was a standing indignity to all on +whom it looked; and my next most disagreeable remembrance is of a +bracing, Republican postman in the city of San Francisco. I +lived in that city among working folk, and what my neighbours +accepted at the postman’s hands—nay, what I took from +him myself—it is still distasteful to recall. The +bourgeois, residing in the upper parts of society, has but few +opportunities of tasting this peculiar bowl; but about the +income-tax, as I have said, or perhaps about a patent, or in the +halls of an embassy at the hands of my friend of the eye-glass, +he occasionally sets his lips to it; and he may thus imagine (if +he has that faculty of imagination, without which most faculties +are void) how it tastes to his poorer neighbours, who must drain +it to the dregs. In every contact with authority, with +their employer, with the police, with the School Board officer, +in the hospital, or in the workhouse, they have equally the +occasion to appreciate the light-hearted civility of the man in +office; and as an experimentalist in several out-of-the-way +provinces of life, I may say it has but to be felt to be +appreciated. Well, this golden age of which we are speaking +will be the golden age of officials. In all our concerns it +will be their beloved duty to meddle, with what tact, with what +obliging words, analogy will aid us to imagine. It is +likely these gentlemen will be periodically elected; they will +therefore have their turn of being underneath, which does not +always sweeten men’s conditions. The laws they will +have to administer will be no clearer than those we know to-day, +and the body which is to regulate their administration no wiser +than the British Parliament. So that upon all hands we may +look for a form of servitude most galling to the +blood—servitude to many and changing masters, and for all +the slights that accompany the rule of jack-in-office. And +if the Socialistic programme be carried out with the least +fulness, we shall have lost a thing, in most respects not much to +be regretted, but as a moderator of oppression, a thing nearly +invaluable—the newspaper. For the independent journal +is a creature of capital and competition; it stands and falls +with millionaires and railway bonds and all the abuses and +glories of to-day; and as soon as the State has fairly taken its +bent to authority and philanthropy, and laid the least touch on +private property, the days of the independent journal are +numbered. State railways may be good things and so may +State bakeries; but a State newspaper will never be a very +trenchant critic of the State officials.</p> +<p>But again, these officials would have no sinecure. Crime +would perhaps be less, for some of the motives of crime we may +suppose would pass away. But if Socialism were carried out +with any fulness, there would be more contraventions. We +see already new sins ringing up like mustard—School Board +sins, factory sins, Merchant Shipping Act sins—none of +which I would be thought to except against in particular, but all +of which, taken together, show us that Socialism can be a hard +master even in the beginning. If it go on to such heights +as we hear proposed and lauded, if it come actually to its ideal +of the ant-heap, ruled with iron justice, the number of new +contraventions will be out of all proportion multiplied. +Take the case of work alone. Man is an idle animal. +He is at least as intelligent as the ant; but generations of +advisers have in vain recommended him the ant’s +example. Of those who are found truly indefatigable in +business, some are misers; some are the practisers of delightful +industries, like gardening; some are students, artists, +inventors, or discoverers, men lured forward by successive hopes; +and the rest are those who live by games of skill or +hazard—financiers, billiard-players, gamblers, and the +like. But in unloved toils, even under the prick of +necessity, no man is continually sedulous. Once eliminate +the fear of starvation, once eliminate or bound the hope of +riches, and we shall see plenty of skulking and +malingering. Society will then be something not wholly +unlike a cotton plantation in the old days; with cheerful, +careless, demoralised slaves, with elected overseers, and, +instead of the planter, a chaotic popular assembly. If the +blood be purposeful and the soil strong, such a plantation may +succeed, and be, indeed, a busy ant-heap, with full granaries and +long hours of leisure. But even then I think the whip will +be in the overseer’s hands, and not in vain. For, +when it comes to be a question of each man doing his own share or +the rest doing more, prettiness of sentiment will be +forgotten. To dock the skulker’s food is not enough; +many will rather eat haws and starve on petty pilferings than put +their shoulder to the wheel for one hour daily. For such as +these, then, the whip will be in the overseer’s hand; and +his own sense of justice and the superintendence of a chaotic +popular assembly will be the only checks on its employment. +Now, you may be an industrious man and a good citizen, and yet +not love, nor yet be loved by, Dr. Fell the inspector. It +is admitted by private soldiers that the disfavour of a sergeant +is an evil not to be combated; offend the sergeant, they say, and +in a brief while you will either be disgraced or have +deserted. And the sergeant can no longer appeal to the +lash. But if these things go on, we shall see, or our sons +shall see, what it is to have offended an inspector.</p> +<p>This for the unfortunate. But with the fortunate also, +even those whom the inspector loves, it may not be altogether +well. It is concluded that in such a state of society, +supposing it to be financially sound, the level of comfort will +be high. It does not follow: there are strange depths of +idleness in man, a too-easily-got sufficiency, as in the case of +the sago-eaters, often quenching the desire for all besides; and +it is possible that the men of the richest ant-heaps may sink +even into squalor. But suppose they do not; suppose our +tricksy instrument of human nature, when we play upon it this new +tune, should respond kindly; suppose no one to be damped and none +exasperated by the new conditions, the whole enterprise to be +financially sound—a vaulting supposition—and all the +inhabitants to dwell together in a golden mean of comfort: we +have yet to ask ourselves if this be what man desire, or if it be +what man will even deign to accept for a continuance. It is +certain that man loves to eat, it is not certain that he loves +that only or that best. He is supposed to love comfort; it +is not a love, at least, that he is faithful to. He is +supposed to love happiness; it is my contention that he rather +loves excitement. Danger, enterprise, hope, the novel, the +aleatory, are dearer to man than regular meals. He does not +think so when he is hungry, but he thinks so again as soon as he +is fed; and on the hypothesis of a successful ant-heap, he would +never go hungry. It would be always after dinner in that +society, as, in the land of the Lotos-eaters, it was always +afternoon; and food, which, when we have it not, seems +all-important, drops in our esteem, as soon as we have it, to a +mere prerequisite of living.</p> +<p>That for which man lives is not the same thing for all +individuals nor in all ages; yet it has a common base; what he +seeks and what he must have is that which will seize and hold his +attention. Regular meals and weatherproof lodgings will not +do this long. Play in its wide sense, as the artificial +induction of sensation, including all games and all arts, will, +indeed, go far to keep him conscious of himself; but in the end +he wearies for realities. Study or experiment, to some rare +natures, is the unbroken pastime of a life. These are +enviable natures; people shut in the house by sickness often +bitterly envy them; but the commoner man cannot continue to exist +upon such altitudes: his feet itch for physical adventure; his +blood boils for physical dangers, pleasures, and triumphs; his +fancy, the looker after new things, cannot continue to look for +them in books and crucibles, but must seek them on the breathing +stage of life. Pinches, buffets, the glow of hope, the +shock of disappointment, furious contention with obstacles: these +are the true elixir for all vital spirits, these are what they +seek alike in their romantic enterprises and their unromantic +dissipations. When they are taken in some pinch closer than +the common, they cry, ‘Catch me here again!’ and sure +enough you catch them there again—perhaps before the week +is out. It is as old as <i>Robinson Crusoe</i>; as old as +man. Our race has not been strained for all these ages +through that sieve of dangers that we call Natural Selection, to +sit down with patience in the tedium of safety; the voices of its +fathers call it forth. Already in our society as it exists, +the bourgeois is too much cottoned about for any zest in living; +he sits in his parlour out of reach of any danger, often out of +reach of any vicissitude but one of health; and there he +yawns. If the people in the next villa took pot-shots at +him, he might be killed indeed, but so long as he escaped he +would find his blood oxygenated and his views of the world +brighter. If Mr. Mallock, on his way to the publishers, +should have his skirts pinned to a wall by a javelin, it would +not occur to him—at least for several hours—to ask if +life were worth living; and if such peril were a daily matter, he +would ask it never more; he would have other things to think +about, he would be living indeed—not lying in a box with +cotton, safe, but immeasurably dull. The aleatory, whether +it touch life, or fortune, or renown—whether we explore +Africa or only toss for halfpence—that is what I conceive +men to love best, and that is what we are seeking to exclude from +men’s existences. Of all forms of the aleatory, that +which most commonly attends our working men—the danger of +misery from want of work—is the least inspiriting: it does +not whip the blood, it does not evoke the glory of contest; it is +tragic, but it is passive; and yet, in so far as it is aleatory, +and a peril sensibly touching them, it does truly season the +men’s lives. Of those who fail, I do not +speak—despair should be sacred; but to those who even +modestly succeed, the changes of their life bring interest: a job +found, a shilling saved, a dainty earned, all these are wells of +pleasure springing afresh for the successful poor; and it is not +from these but from the villa-dweller that we hear complaints of +the unworthiness of life. Much, then, as the average of the +proletariat would gain in this new state of life, they would also +lose a certain something, which would not be missed in the +beginning, but would be missed progressively and progressively +lamented. Soon there would be a looking back: there would +be tales of the old world humming in young men’s ears, +tales of the tramp and the pedlar, and the hopeful +emigrant. And in the stall-fed life of the successful +ant-heap—with its regular meals, regular duties, regular +pleasures, an even course of life, and fear excluded—the +vicissitudes, delights, and havens of to-day will seem of epic +breadth. This may seem a shallow observation; but the +springs by which men are moved lie much on the surface. +Bread, I believe, has always been considered first, but the +circus comes close upon its heels. Bread we suppose to be +given amply; the cry for circuses will be the louder, and if the +life of our descendants be such as we have conceived, there are +two beloved pleasures on which they will be likely to fall back: +the pleasures of intrigue and of sedition.</p> +<p>In all this I have supposed the ant-heap to be financially +sound. I am no economist, only a writer of fiction; but +even as such, I know one thing that bears on the economic +question—I know the imperfection of man’s faculty for +business. The Anarchists, who count some rugged elements of +common sense among what seem to me their tragic errors, have said +upon this matter all that I could wish to say, and condemned +beforehand great economical polities. So far it is obvious +that they are right; they may be right also in predicting a +period of communal independence, and they may even be right in +thinking that desirable. But the rise of communes is none +the less the end of economic equality, just when we were told it +was beginning. Communes will not be all equal in extent, +nor in quality of soil, nor in growth of population; nor will the +surplus produce of all be equally marketable. It will be +the old story of competing interests, only with a new unit; and, +as it appears to me, a new, inevitable danger. For the +merchant and the manufacturer, in this new world, will be a +sovereign commune; it is a sovereign power that will see its +crops undersold, and its manufactures worsted in the +market. And all the more dangerous that the sovereign power +should be small. Great powers are slow to stir; national +affronts, even with the aid of newspapers, filter slowly into +popular consciousness; national losses are so unequally shared, +that one part of the population will be counting its gains while +another sits by a cold hearth. But in the sovereign commune +all will be centralised and sensitive. When jealousy +springs up, when (let us say) the commune of Poole has +overreached the commune of Dorchester, irritation will run like +quicksilver throughout the body politic; each man in Dorchester +will have to suffer directly in his diet and his dress; even the +secretary, who drafts the official correspondence, will sit down +to his task embittered, as a man who has dined ill and may expect +to dine worse; and thus a business difference between communes +will take on much the same colour as a dispute between diggers in +the lawless West, and will lead as directly to the arbitrament of +blows. So that the establishment of the communal system +will not only reintroduce all the injustices and heart-burnings +of economic inequality, but will, in all human likelihood, +inaugurate a world of hedgerow warfare. Dorchester will +march on Poole, Sherborne on Dorchester, Wimborne on both; the +waggons will be fired on as they follow the highway, the trains +wrecked on the lines, the ploughman will go armed into the field +of tillage; and if we have not a return of ballad literature, the +local press at least will celebrate in a high vein the victory of +Cerne Abbas or the reverse of Toller Porcorum. At least +this will not be dull; when I was younger, I could have welcomed +such a world with relief; but it is the New-Old with a vengeance, +and irresistibly suggests the growth of military powers and the +foundation of new empires.</p> +<h2>COLLEGE PAPERS</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I—EDINBURGH STUDENTS IN 1824</h3> +<p>On the 2nd of January 1824 was issued the prospectus of the +<i>Lapsus Linguæ</i>; <i>or</i>, <i>the College Tatler</i>; +and on the 7th the first number appeared. On Friday the 2nd +of April ‘<i>Mr. Tatler</i> became speechless.’ +Its history was not all one success; for the editor (who applies +to himself the words of Iago, ‘I am nothing if I am not +critical’) overstepped the bounds of caution, and found +himself seriously embroiled with the powers that were. +There appeared in No. <span class="smcap">xvi.</span> a most +bitter satire upon Sir John Leslie, in which he was compared to +Falstaff, charged with puffing himself, and very prettily +censured for publishing only the first volume of a class-book, +and making all purchasers pay for both. Sir John Leslie +took up the matter angrily, visited Carfrae the publisher, and +threatened him with an action, till he was forced to turn the +hapless <i>Lapsus</i> out of doors. The maltreated +periodical found shelter in the shop of Huie, Infirmary Street; +and No. <span class="smcap">xvii.</span> was duly issued from the +new office. No. <span class="smcap">xvii.</span> beheld +<i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> humiliation, in which, with fulsome +apology and not very credible assurances of respect and +admiration, he disclaims the article in question, and advertises +a new issue of No. <span class="smcap">xvi.</span> with all +objectionable matter omitted. This, with pleasing +euphemism, he terms in a later advertisement, ‘a new and +improved edition.’ This was the only remarkable +adventure of <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> brief existence; unless we +consider as such a silly Chaldee manuscript in imitation of +<i>Blackwood</i>, and a letter of reproof from a divinity student +on the impiety of the same dull effusion. He laments the +near approach of his end in pathetic terms. ‘How +shall we summon up sufficient courage,’ says he, ‘to +look for the last time on our beloved little devil and his +inestimable proof-sheet? How shall we be able to pass No. +14 Infirmary Street and feel that all its attractions are +over? How shall we bid farewell for ever to that excellent +man, with the long greatcoat, wooden leg and wooden board, who +acts as our representative at the gate of <i>Alma +Mater</i>?’ But alas! he had no choice: <i>Mr. +Tatler</i>, whose career, he says himself, had been successful, +passed peacefully away, and has ever since dumbly implored +‘the bringing home of bell and burial.’</p> +<p><i>Alter et idem</i>. A very different affair was the +<i>Lapsus Linguæ</i> from the <i>Edinburgh University +Magazine</i>. The two prospectuses alone, laid side by +side, would indicate the march of luxury and the repeal of the +paper duty. The penny bi-weekly broadside of session +1828–4 was almost wholly dedicated to Momus. +Epigrams, pointless letters, amorous verses, and University +grievances are the continual burthen of the song. But +<i>Mr. Tatler</i> was not without a vein of hearty humour; and +his pages afford what is much better: to wit, a good picture of +student life as it then was. The students of those polite +days insisted on retaining their hats in the class-room. +There was a cab-stance in front of the College; and +‘Carriage Entrance’ was posted above the main arch, +on what the writer pleases to call ‘coarse, unclassic +boards.’ The benches of the ‘Speculative’ +then, as now, were red; but all other Societies (the +‘Dialectic’ is the only survivor) met downstairs, in +some rooms of which it is pointedly said that ‘nothing else +could conveniently be made of them.’ However horrible +these dungeons may have been, it is certain that they were paid +for, and that far too heavily for the taste of session +1823–4, which found enough calls upon its purse for porter +and toasted cheese at Ambrose’s, or cranberry tarts and +ginger-wine at Doull’s. Duelling was still a +possibility; so much so that when two medicals fell to fisticuffs +in Adam Square, it was seriously hinted that single combat would +be the result. Last and most wonderful of all, Gall and +Spurzheim were in every one’s mouth; and the Law student, +after having exhausted Byron’s poetry and Scott’s +novels, informed the ladies of his belief in phrenology. In +the present day he would dilate on ‘Red as a rose is +she,’ and then mention that he attends Old +Greyfriars’, as a tacit claim to intellectual +superiority. I do not know that the advance is much.</p> +<p>But <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> best performances were three +short papers in which he hit off pretty smartly the +idiosyncrasies of the ‘<i>Divinity</i>,’ the +‘<i>Medical</i>,’ and the ‘<i>Law</i>’ of +session 1823–4. The fact that there was no notice of +the ‘<i>Arts</i>’ seems to suggest that they stood in +the same intermediate position as they do now—the epitome +of student-kind. <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> satire is, on +the whole, good-humoured, and has not grown superannuated in +<i>all</i> its limbs. His descriptions may limp at some +points, but there are certain broad traits that apply equally +well to session 1870–1. He shows us the +<i>Divinity</i> of the period—tall, pale, and +slender—his collar greasy, and his coat bare about the +seams—‘his white neckcloth serving four days, and +regularly turned the third’—‘the rim of his hat +deficient in wool’—and ‘a weighty volume of +theology under his arm.’ He was the man to buy cheap +‘a snuff-box, or a dozen of pencils, or a six-bladed knife, +or a quarter of a hundred quills,’ at any of the public +sale-rooms. He was noted for cheap purchases, and for +exceeding the legal tender in halfpence. He haunted +‘the darkest and remotest corner of the Theatre +Gallery.’ He was to be seen issuing from +‘aerial lodging-houses.’ Withal, says mine +author, ‘there were many good points about him: he paid his +landlady’s bill, read his Bible, went twice to church on +Sunday, seldom swore, was not often tipsy, and bought the +<i>Lapsus Linguæ</i>.’</p> +<p>The <i>Medical</i>, again, ‘wore a white greatcoat, and +consequently talked loud’—(there is something very +delicious in that <i>consequently</i>). He wore his hat on +one side. He was active, volatile, and went to the top of +Arthur’s Seat on the Sunday forenoon. He was as quiet +in a debating society as he was loud in the streets. He was +reckless and imprudent: yesterday he insisted on your sharing a +bottle of claret with him (and claret was claret then, before the +cheap-and-nasty treaty), and to-morrow he asks you for the loan +of a penny to buy the last number of the <i>Lapsus</i>.</p> +<p>The student of <i>Law</i>, again, was a learned man. +‘He had turned over the leaves of Justinian’s +<i>Institutes</i>, and knew that they were written in +Latin. He was well acquainted with the title-page of +Blackstone’s <i>Commentaries</i>, and <i>argal</i> (as the +gravedigger in <i>Hamlet</i> says) he was not a person to be +laughed at.’ He attended the Parliament House in the +character of a critic, and could give you stale sneers at all the +celebrated speakers. He was the terror of essayists at the +Speculative or the Forensic. In social qualities he seems +to have stood unrivalled. Even in the police-office we find +him shining with undiminished lustre. ‘If a +<i>Charlie</i> should find him rather noisy at an untimely hour, +and venture to take him into custody, he appears next morning +like a Daniel come to judgment. He opens his mouth to +speak, and the divine precepts of unchanging justice and Scots +law flow from his tongue. The magistrate listens in +amazement, and fines him only a couple of guineas.’</p> +<p>Such then were our predecessors and their College +Magazine. Barclay, Ambrose, Young Amos, and Fergusson were +to them what the Café, the Rainbow, and Rutherford’s +are to us. An hour’s reading in these old pages +absolutely confuses us, there is so much that is similar and so +much that is different; the follies and amusements are so like +our own, and the manner of frolicking and enjoying are so +changed, that one pauses and looks about him in philosophic +judgment. The muddy quadrangle is thick with living +students; but in our eyes it swarms also with the phantasmal +white greatcoats and tilted hats of 1824. Two races meet: +races alike and diverse. Two performances are played before +our eyes; but the change seems merely of impersonators, of +scenery, of costume. Plot and passion are the same. +It is the fall of the spun shilling whether seventy-one or +twenty-four has the best of it.</p> +<p>In a future number we hope to give a glance at the +individualities of the present, and see whether the cast shall be +head or tail—whether we or the readers of the <i>Lapsus</i> +stand higher in the balance.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II—THE MODERN STUDENT CONSIDERED GENERALLY</h3> +<p>We have now reached the difficult portion of our task. +<i>Mr. Tatler</i>, for all that we care, may have been as +virulent as he liked about the students of a former; but for the +iron to touch our sacred selves, for a brother of the Guild to +betray its most privy infirmities, let such a Judas look to +himself as he passes on his way to the Scots Law or the +Diagnostic, below the solitary lamp at the corner of the dark +quadrangle. We confess that this idea alarms us. We +enter a protest. We bind ourselves over verbally to keep +the peace. We hope, moreover, that having thus made you +secret to our misgivings, you will excuse us if we be dull, and +set that down to caution which you might before have charged to +the account of stupidity.</p> +<p>The natural tendency of civilisation is to obliterate those +distinctions which are the best salt of life. All the fine +old professional flavour in language has evaporated. Your +very gravedigger has forgotten his avocation in his electorship, +and would quibble on the Franchise over Ophelia’s grave, +instead of more appropriately discussing the duration of bodies +under ground. From this tendency, from this gradual +attrition of life, in which everything pointed and characteristic +is being rubbed down, till the whole world begins to slip between +our fingers in smooth undistinguishable sands, from this, we say, +it follows that we must not attempt to join <i>Mr. Taller</i> in +his simple division of students into <i>Law</i>, <i>Divinity</i>, +and <i>Medical</i>. Nowadays the Faculties may shake hands +over their follies; and, like Mrs. Frail and Mrs. Foresight (in +<i>Love for Love</i>) they may stand in the doors of opposite +class-rooms, crying: ‘Sister, Sister—Sister +everyway!’ A few restrictions, indeed, remain to +influence the followers of individual branches of study. +The Divinity, for example, must be an avowed believer; and as +this, in the present day, is unhappily considered by many as a +confession of weakness, he is fain to choose one of two ways of +gilding the distasteful orthodox bolus. Some swallow it in +a thin jelly of metaphysics; for it is even a credit to believe +in God on the evidence of some crack-jaw philosopher, although it +is a decided slur to believe in Him on His own authority. +Others again (and this we think the worst method), finding German +grammar a somewhat dry morsel, run their own little heresy as a +proof of independence; and deny one of the cardinal doctrines +that they may hold the others without being laughed at.</p> +<p>Besides, however, such influences as these, there is little +more distinction between the faculties than the traditionary +ideal, handed down through a long sequence of students, and +getting rounder and more featureless at each successive +session. The plague of uniformity has descended on the +College. Students (and indeed all sorts and conditions of +men) now require their faculty and character hung round their +neck on a placard, like the scenes in Shakespeare’s +theatre. And in the midst of all this weary sameness, not +the least common feature is the gravity of every face. No +more does the merry medical run eagerly in the clear winter +morning up the rugged sides of Arthur’s Seat, and hear the +church bells begin and thicken and die away below him among the +gathered smoke of the city. He will not break Sunday to so +little purpose. He no longer finds pleasure in the mere +output of his surplus energy. He husbands his strength, and +lays out walks, and reading, and amusement with deep +consideration, so that he may get as much work and pleasure out +of his body as he can, and waste none of his energy on mere +impulse, or such flat enjoyment as an excursion in the +country.</p> +<p>See the quadrangle in the interregnum of classes, in those two +or three minutes when it is full of passing students, and we +think you will admit that, if we have not made it ‘an +habitation of dragons,’ we have at least transformed it +into ‘a court for owls.’ Solemnity broods +heavily over the enclosure; and wherever you seek it, you will +find a dearth of merriment, an absence of real youthful +enjoyment. You might as well try</p> +<blockquote><p>‘To move wild laughter in the throat of +death’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>as to excite any healthy stir among the bulk of this staid +company.</p> +<p>The studious congregate about the doors of the different +classes, debating the matter of the lecture, or comparing +note-books. A reserved rivalry sunders them. Here are +some deep in Greek particles: there, others are already +inhabitants of that land</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Where entity and quiddity,<br /> +‘Like ghosts of defunct bodies fly—<br /> +Where Truth in person does appear<br /> +Like words congealed in northern air.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But none of them seem to find any relish for their +studies—no pedantic love of this subject or that lights up +their eyes—science and learning are only means for a +livelihood, which they have considerately embraced and which they +solemnly pursue. ‘Labour’s pale priests,’ +their lips seem incapable of laughter, except in the way of +polite recognition of professorial wit. The stains of ink +are chronic on their meagre fingers. They walk like Saul +among the asses.</p> +<p>The dandies are not less subdued. In 1824 there was a +noisy dapper dandyism abroad. Vulgar, as we should now +think, but yet genial—a matter of white greatcoats and loud +voices—strangely different from the stately frippery that +is rife at present. These men are out of their element in +the quadrangle. Even the small remains of boisterous +humour, which still clings to any collection of young men, jars +painfully on their morbid sensibilities; and they beat a hasty +retreat to resume their perfunctory march along Princes +Street. Flirtation is to them a great social duty, a +painful obligation, which they perform on every occasion in the +same chill official manner, and with the same commonplace +advances, the same dogged observance of traditional +behaviour. The shape of their raiment is a burden almost +greater than they can bear, and they halt in their walk to +preserve the due adjustment of their trouser-knees, till one +would fancy he had mixed in a procession of Jacobs. We +speak, of course, for ourselves; but we would as soon associate +with a herd of sprightly apes as with these gloomy modern +beaux. Alas, that our Mirabels, our Valentines, even our +Brummels, should have left their mantles upon nothing more +amusing!</p> +<p>Nor are the fast men less constrained. Solemnity, even +in dissipation, is the order of the day; and they go to the devil +with a perverse seriousness, a systematic rationalism of +wickedness that would have surprised the simpler sinners of +old. Some of these men whom we see gravely conversing on +the steps have but a slender acquaintance with each other. +Their intercourse consists principally of mutual bulletins of +depravity; and, week after week, as they meet they reckon up +their items of transgression, and give an abstract of their +downward progress for approval and encouragement. These +folk form a freemasonry of their own. An oath is the +shibboleth of their sinister fellowship. Once they hear a +man swear, it is wonderful how their tongues loosen and their +bashful spirits take enlargement, under the consciousness of +brotherhood. There is no folly, no pardoning warmth of +temper about them; they are as steady-going and systematic in +their own way as the studious in theirs.</p> +<p>Not that we are without merry men. No. We shall +not be ungrateful to those, whose grimaces, whose ironical +laughter, whose active feet in the ‘College Anthem’ +have beguiled so many weary hours and added a pleasant variety to +the strain of close attention. But even these are too +evidently professional in their antics. They go about +cogitating puns and inventing tricks. It is their vocation, +Hal. They are the gratuitous jesters of the class-room; +and, like the clown when he leaves the stage, their merriment too +often sinks as the bell rings the hour of liberty, and they pass +forth by the Post-Office, grave and sedate, and meditating fresh +gambols for the morrow.</p> +<p>This is the impression left on the mind of any observing +student by too many of his fellows. They seem all frigid +old men; and one pauses to think how such an unnatural state of +matters is produced. We feel inclined to blame for it the +unfortunate absence of <i>University feeling</i> which is so +marked a characteristic of our Edinburgh students. +Academical interests are so few and far between—students, +as students, have so little in common, except a peevish +rivalry—there is such an entire want of broad college +sympathies and ordinary college friendships, that we fancy that +no University in the kingdom is in so poor a plight. Our +system is full of anomalies. A, who cut B whilst he was a +shabby student, curries sedulously up to him and cudgels his +memory for anecdotes about him when he becomes the great +so-and-so. Let there be an end of this shy, proud reserve +on the one hand, and this shuddering fine ladyism on the other; +and we think we shall find both ourselves and the College +bettered. Let it be a sufficient reason for intercourse +that two men sit together on the same benches. Let the +great A be held excused for nodding to the shabby B in Princes +Street, if he can say, ‘That fellow is a +student.’ Once this could be brought about, we think +you would find the whole heart of the University beat +faster. We think you would find a fusion among the +students, a growth of common feelings, an increasing sympathy +between class and class, whose influence (in such a heterogeneous +company as ours) might be of incalculable value in all branches +of politics and social progress. It would do more than +this. If we could find some method of making the University +a real mother to her sons—something beyond a building of +class-rooms, a Senatus and a lottery of somewhat shabby +prizes—we should strike a death-blow at the constrained and +unnatural attitude of our Society. At present we are not a +united body, but a loose gathering of individuals, whose inherent +attraction is allowed to condense them into little knots and +coteries. Our last snowball riot read us a plain lesson on +our condition. There was no party spirit—no unity of +interests. A few, who were mischievously inclined, marched +off to the College of Surgeons in a pretentious file; but even +before they reached their destination the feeble inspiration had +died out in many, and their numbers were sadly thinned. +Some followed strange gods in the direction of Drummond Street, +and others slunk back to meek good-boyism at the feet of the +Professors. The same is visible in better things. As +you send a man to an English University that he may have his +prejudices rubbed off, you might send him to Edinburgh that he +may have them ingrained—rendered indelible—fostered +by sympathy into living principles of his spirit. And the +reason of it is quite plain. From this absence of +University feeling it comes that a man’s friendships are +always the direct and immediate results of these very +prejudices. A common weakness is the best master of +ceremonies in our quadrangle: a mutual vice is the readiest +introduction. The studious associate with the studious +alone—the dandies with the dandies. There is nothing +to force them to rub shoulders with the others; and so they grow +day by day more wedded to their own original opinions and +affections. They see through the same spectacles +continually. All broad sentiments, all real catholic +humanity expires; and the mind gets gradually stiffened into one +position—becomes so habituated to a contracted atmosphere, +that it shudders and withers under the least draught of the free +air that circulates in the general field of mankind.</p> +<p>Specialism in Society then is, we think, one cause of our +present state. Specialism in study is another. We +doubt whether this has ever been a good thing since the world +began; but we are sure it is much worse now than it was. +Formerly, when a man became a specialist, it was out of affection +for his subject. With a somewhat grand devotion he left all +the world of Science to follow his true love; and he contrived to +find that strange pedantic interest which inspired the man +who</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Settled <i>Hoti’s</i> +business—let it be—<br /> + Properly based <i>Oun—</i><br /> +Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic <i>De</i>,<br /> + Dead from the waist down.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Nowadays it is quite different. Our pedantry wants even +the saving clause of Enthusiasm. The election is now matter +of necessity and not of choice. Knowledge is now too broad +a field for your Jack-of-all-Trades; and, from beautifully +utilitarian reasons, he makes his choice, draws his pen through a +dozen branches of study, and behold—John the +Specialist. That this is the way to be wealthy we shall not +deny; but we hold that it is <i>not</i> the way to be healthy or +wise. The whole mind becomes narrowed and circumscribed to +one ‘punctual spot’ of knowledge. A rank +unhealthy soil breeds a harvest of prejudices. Feeling +himself above others in his one little branch—in the +classification of toadstools, or Carthaginian history—he +waxes great in his own eyes and looks down on others. +Having all his sympathies educated in one way, they die out in +every other; and he is apt to remain a peevish, narrow, and +intolerant bigot. Dilettante is now a term of reproach; but +there is a certain form of dilettantism to which no one can +object. It is this that we want among our students. +We wish them to abandon no subject until they have seen and felt +its merit—to act under a general interest in all branches +of knowledge, not a commercial eagerness to excel in one.</p> +<p>In both these directions our sympathies are constipated. +We are apostles of our own caste and our own subject of study, +instead of being, as we should, true men and <i>loving</i> +students. Of course both of these could be corrected by the +students themselves; but this is nothing to the purpose: it is +more important to ask whether the Senatus or the body of alumni +could do nothing towards the growth of better feeling and wider +sentiments. Perhaps in another paper we may say something +upon this head.</p> +<p>One other word, however, before we have done. What shall +we be when we grow really old? Of yore, a man was thought +to lay on restrictions and acquire new deadweight of mournful +experience with every year, till he looked back on his youth as +the very summer of impulse and freedom. We please ourselves +with thinking that it cannot be so with us. We would fain +hope that, as we have begun in one way, we may end in another; +and that when we are in fact the octogenarians that we +<i>seem</i> at present, there shall be no merrier men on +earth. It is pleasant to picture us, sunning ourselves in +Princes Street of a morning, or chirping over our evening cups, +with all the merriment that we wanted in youth.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III—DEBATING SOCIETIES</h3> +<p>A debating society is at first somewhat of a +disappointment. You do not often find the youthful +Demosthenes chewing his pebbles in the same room with you; or, +even if you do, you will probably think the performance little to +be admired. As a general rule, the members speak shamefully +ill. The subjects of debate are heavy; and so are the +fines. The Ballot Question—oldest of dialectic +nightmares—is often found astride of a somnolent +sederunt. The Greeks and Romans, too, are reserved as sort +of <i>general-utility</i> men, to do all the dirty work of +illustration; and they fill as many functions as the famous +waterfall scene at the ‘Princess’s,’ which I +found doing duty on one evening as a gorge in Peru, a haunt of +German robbers, and a peaceful vale in the Scottish +borders. There is a sad absence of striking argument or +real lively discussion. Indeed, you feel a growing contempt +for your fellow-members; and it is not until you rise yourself to +hawk and hesitate and sit shamefully down again, amid +eleemosynary applause, that you begin to find your level and +value others rightly. Even then, even when failure has +damped your critical ardour, you will see many things to be +laughed at in the deportment of your rivals.</p> +<p>Most laughable, perhaps, are your indefatigable strivers after +eloquence. They are of those who ‘pursue with +eagerness the phantoms of hope,’ and who, since they expect +that ‘the deficiencies of last sentence will be supplied by +the next,’ have been recommended by Dr. Samuel Johnson to +‘attend to the History of Rasselas, Prince of +Abyssinia.’ They are characterised by a hectic +hopefulness. Nothing damps them. They rise from the +ruins of one abortive sentence, to launch forth into another with +unabated vigour. They have all the manner of an +orator. From the tone of their voice, you would expect a +splendid period—and lo! a string of broken-backed, +disjointed clauses, eked out with stammerings and +throat-clearings. They possess the art (learned from the +pulpit) of rounding an uneuphonious sentence by dwelling on a +single syllable—of striking a balance in a top-heavy period +by lengthening out a word into a melancholy quaver. Withal, +they never cease to hope. Even at last, even when they have +exhausted all their ideas, even after the would-be peroration has +finally refused to perorate, they remain upon their feet with +their mouths open, waiting for some further inspiration, like +Chaucer’s widow’s son in the dung-hole, after</p> +<blockquote><p>‘His throat was kit unto the nekké +bone,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>in vain expectation of that seed that was to be laid upon his +tongue, and give him renewed and clearer utterance.</p> +<p>These men may have something to say, if they could only say +it—indeed they generally have; but the next class are +people who, having nothing to say, are cursed with a facility and +an unhappy command of words, that makes them the prime nuisances +of the society they affect. They try to cover their absence +of matter by an unwholesome vitality of delivery. They look +triumphantly round the room, as if courting applause, after a +torrent of diluted truism. They talk in a circle, harping +on the same dull round of argument, and returning again and again +to the same remark with the same sprightliness, the same +irritating appearance of novelty.</p> +<p>After this set, any one is tolerable; so we shall merely hint +at a few other varieties. There is your man who is +pre-eminently conscientious, whose face beams with sincerity as +he opens on the negative, and who votes on the affirmative at the +end, looking round the room with an air of chastened pride. +There is also the irrelevant speaker, who rises, emits a joke or +two, and then sits down again, without ever attempting to tackle +the subject of debate. Again, we have men who ride +pick-a-back on their family reputation, or, if their family have +none, identify themselves with some well-known statesman, use his +opinions, and lend him their patronage on all occasions. +This is a dangerous plan, and serves oftener, I am afraid, to +point a difference than to adorn a speech.</p> +<p>But alas! a striking failure may be reached without tempting +Providence by any of these ambitious tricks. Our own +stature will be found high enough for shame. The success of +three simple sentences lures us into a fatal parenthesis in the +fourth, from whose shut brackets we may never disentangle the +thread of our discourse. A momentary flush tempts us into a +quotation; and we may be left helpless in the middle of one of +Pope’s couplets, a white film gathering before our eyes, +and our kind friends charitably trying to cover our disgrace by a +feeble round of applause. <i>Amis lecteurs</i>, this is a +painful topic. It is possible that we too, we, the +‘potent, grave, and reverend’ editor, may have +suffered these things, and drunk as deep as any of the cup of +shameful failure. Let us dwell no longer on so delicate a +subject.</p> +<p>In spite, however, of these disagreeables, I should recommend +any student to suffer them with Spartan courage, as the benefits +he receives should repay him an hundredfold for them all. +The life of the debating society is a handy antidote to the life +of the classroom and quadrangle. Nothing could be conceived +more excellent as a weapon against many of those <i>peccant +humours</i> that we have been railing against in the jeremiad of +our last ‘College Paper’—particularly in the +field of intellect. It is a sad sight to see our +heather-scented students, our boys of seventeen, coming up to +College with determined views—<i>roués</i> in +speculation—having gauged the vanity of philosophy or +learned to shun it as the middle-man of heresy—a company of +determined, deliberate opinionists, not to be moved by all the +sleights of logic. What have such men to do with +study? If their minds are made up irrevocably, why burn the +‘studious lamp’ in search of further +confirmation? Every set opinion I hear a student deliver I +feel a certain lowering of my regard. He who studies, he +who is yet employed in groping for his premises, should keep his +mind fluent and sensitive, keen to mark flaws, and willing to +surrender untenable positions. He should keep himself +teachable, or cease the expensive farce of being taught. It +is to further this docile spirit that we desire to press the +claims of debating societies. It is as a means of melting +down this museum of premature petrifactions into living and +impressionable soul that we insist on their utility. If we +could once prevail on our students to feel no shame in avowing an +uncertain attitude towards any subject, if we could teach them +that it was unnecessary for every lad to have his +<i>opinionette</i> on every topic, we should have gone a far way +towards bracing the intellectual tone of the coming race of +thinkers; and this it is which debating societies are so well +fitted to perform.</p> +<p>We there meet people of every shade of opinion, and make +friends with them. We are taught to rail against a man the +whole session through, and then hob-a-nob with him at the +concluding entertainment. We find men of talent far +exceeding our own, whose conclusions are widely different from +ours; and we are thus taught to distrust ourselves. But the +best means of all towards catholicity is that wholesome rule +which some folk are most inclined to condemn—I mean the law +of <i>obliged speeches</i>. Your senior member commands; +and you must take the affirmative or the negative, just as suits +his best convenience. This tends to the most perfect +liberality. It is no good hearing the arguments of an +opponent, for in good verity you rarely follow them; and even if +you do take the trouble to listen, it is merely in a captious +search for weaknesses. This is proved, I fear, in every +debate; when you hear each speaker arguing out his own prepared +<i>spécialité</i> (he never intended speaking, of +course, until some remarks of, etc.), arguing out, I say, his own +<i>coached-up</i> subject without the least attention to what has +gone before, as utterly at sea about the drift of his +adversary’s speech as Panurge when he argued with +Thaumaste, and merely linking his own prelection to the last by a +few flippant criticisms. Now, as the rule stands, you are +saddled with the side you disapprove, and so you are forced, by +regard for your own fame, to argue out, to feel with, to +elaborate completely, the case as it stands against yourself; and +what a fund of wisdom do you not turn up in this idle digging of +the vineyard! How many new difficulties take form before +your eyes? how many superannuated arguments cripple finally into +limbo, under the glance of your enforced eclecticism!</p> +<p>Nor is this the only merit of Debating Societies. They +tend also to foster taste, and to promote friendship between +University men. This last, as we have had occasion before +to say, is the great requirement of our student life; and it will +therefore be no waste of time if we devote a paragraph to this +subject in its connection with Debating Societies. At +present they partake too much of the nature of a +<i>clique</i>. Friends propose friends, and mutual friends +second them, until the society degenerates into a sort of family +party. You may confirm old acquaintances, but you can +rarely make new ones. You find yourself in the atmosphere +of your own daily intercourse. Now, this is an unfortunate +circumstance, which it seems to me might readily be +rectified. Our Principal has shown himself so friendly +towards all College improvements that I cherish the hope of +seeing shortly realised a certain suggestion, which is not a new +one with me, and which must often have been proposed and +canvassed heretofore—I mean, a real <i>University Debating +Society</i>, patronised by the Senatus, presided over by the +Professors, to which every one might gain ready admittance on +sight of his matriculation ticket, where it would be a favour and +not a necessity to speak, and where the obscure student might +have another object for attendance besides the mere desire to +save his fines: to wit, the chance of drawing on himself the +favourable consideration of his teachers. This would be +merely following in the good tendency, which has been so +noticeable during all this session, to increase and multiply +student societies and clubs of every sort. Nor would it be +a matter of much difficulty. The united societies would +form a nucleus: one of the class-rooms at first, and perhaps +afterwards the great hall above the library, might be the place +of meeting. There would be no want of attendance or +enthusiasm, I am sure; for it is a very different thing to speak +under the bushel of a private club on the one hand, and, on the +other, in a public place, where a happy period or a subtle +argument may do the speaker permanent service in after +life. Such a club might end, perhaps, by rivalling the +‘Union’ at Cambridge or the ‘Union’ at +Oxford.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV—THE PHILOSOPHY OF UMBRELLAS <a +name="citation151"></a><a href="#footnote151" +class="citation">[151]</a></h3> +<p>It is wonderful to think what a turn has been given to our +whole Society by the fact that we live under the sign of +Aquarius—that our climate is essentially wet. A mere +arbitrary distinction, like the walking-swords of yore, might +have remained the symbol of foresight and respectability, had not +the raw mists and dropping showers of our island pointed the +inclination of Society to another exponent of those +virtues. A ribbon of the Legion of Honour or a string of +medals may prove a person’s courage; a title may prove his +birth; a professorial chair his study and acquirement; but it is +the habitual carriage of the umbrella that is the stamp of +Respectability. The umbrella has become the acknowledged +index of social position.</p> +<p>Robinson Crusoe presents us with a touching instance of the +hankering after them inherent in the civilised and educated +mind. To the superficial, the hot suns of Juan Fernandez +may sufficiently account for his quaint choice of a luxury; but +surely one who had borne the hard labour of a seaman under the +tropics for all these years could have supported an excursion +after goats or a peaceful <i>constitutional</i> arm in arm with +the nude Friday. No, it was not this: the memory of a +vanished respectability called for some outward manifestation, +and the result was—an umbrella. A pious castaway +might have rigged up a belfry and solaced his Sunday mornings +with the mimicry of church-bells; but Crusoe was rather a +moralist than a pietist, and his leaf-umbrella is as fine an +example of the civilised mind striving to express itself under +adverse circumstances as we have ever met with.</p> +<p>It is not for nothing, either, that the umbrella has become +the very foremost badge of modern civilisation—the Urim and +Thummim of respectability. Its pregnant symbolism has taken +its rise in the most natural manner. Consider, for a +moment, when umbrellas were first introduced into this country, +what manner of men would use them, and what class would adhere to +the useless but ornamental cane. The first, without doubt, +would be the hypochondriacal, out of solicitude for their health, +or the frugal, out of care for their raiment; the second, it is +equally plain, would include the fop, the fool, and the +Bobadil. Any one acquainted with the growth of Society, and +knowing out of what small seeds of cause are produced great +revolutions, and wholly new conditions of intercourse, sees from +this simple thought how the carriage of an umbrella came to +indicate frugality, judicious regard for bodily welfare, and +scorn for mere outward adornment, and, in one word, all those +homely and solid virtues implied in the term <span +class="smcap">respectability</span>. Not that the +umbrella’s costliness has nothing to do with its great +influence. Its possession, besides symbolising (as we have +already indicated) the change from wild Esau to plain Jacob +dwelling in tents, implies a certain comfortable provision of +fortune. It is not every one that can expose twenty-six +shillings’ worth of property to so many chances of loss and +theft. So strongly do we feel on this point, indeed, that +we are almost inclined to consider all who possess really +well-conditioned umbrellas as worthy of the Franchise. They +have a qualification standing in their lobbies; they carry a +sufficient stake in the common-weal below their arm. One +who bears with him an umbrella—such a complicated structure +of whalebone, of silk, and of cane, that it becomes a very +microcosm of modern industry—is necessarily a man of +peace. A half-crown cane may be applied to an +offender’s head on a very moderate provocation; but a +six-and-twenty shilling silk is a possession too precious to be +adventured in the shock of war.</p> +<p>These are but a few glances at how umbrellas (in the general) +came to their present high estate. But the true +Umbrella-Philosopher meets with far stranger applications as he +goes about the streets.</p> +<p>Umbrellas, like faces, acquire a certain sympathy with the +individual who carries them: indeed, they are far more capable of +betraying his trust; for whereas a face is given to us so far +ready made, and all our power over it is in frowning, and +laughing, and grimacing, during the first three or four decades +of life, each umbrella is selected from a whole shopful, as being +most consonant to the purchaser’s disposition. An +undoubted power of diagnosis rests with the practised +Umbrella-Philosopher. O you who lisp, and amble, and change +the fashion of your countenances—you who conceal all these, +how little do you think that you left a proof of your weakness in +our umbrella-stand—that even now, as you shake out the +folds to meet the thickening snow, we read in its ivory handle +the outward and visible sign of your snobbery, or from the +exposed gingham of its cover detect, through coat and waistcoat, +the hidden hypocrisy of the ‘<i>dickey</i>’! +But alas! even the umbrella is no certain criterion. The +falsity and the folly of the human race have degraded that +graceful symbol to the ends of dishonesty; and while some +umbrellas, from carelessness in selection, are not strikingly +characteristic (for it is only in what a man loves that he +displays his real nature), others, from certain prudential +motives, are chosen directly opposite to the person’s +disposition. A mendacious umbrella is a sign of great moral +degradation. Hypocrisy naturally shelters itself below a +silk; while the fast youth goes to visit his religious friends +armed with the decent and reputable gingham. May it not be +said of the bearers of these inappropriate umbrellas that they go +about the streets ‘with a lie in their right +hand’?</p> +<p>The kings of Siam, as we read, besides having a graduated +social scale of umbrellas (which was a good thing), prevented the +great bulk of their subjects from having any at all, which was +certainly a bad thing. We should be sorry to believe that +this Eastern legislator was a fool—the idea of an +aristocracy of umbrellas is too philosophic to have originated in +a nobody—and we have accordingly taken exceeding pains to +find out the reason of this harsh restriction. We think we +have succeeded; but, while admiring the principle at which he +aimed, and while cordially recognising in the Siamese potentate +the only man before ourselves who had taken a real grasp of the +umbrella, we must be allowed to point out how unphilosophically +the great man acted in this particular. His object, +plainly, was to prevent any unworthy persons from bearing the +sacred symbol of domestic virtues. We cannot excuse his +limiting these virtues to the circle of his court. We must +only remember that such was the feeling of the age in which he +lived. Liberalism had not yet raised the war-cry of the +working classes. But here was his mistake: it was a +needless regulation. Except in a very few cases of +hypocrisy joined to a powerful intellect, men, not by nature +<i>umbrellarians</i>, have tried again and again to become so by +art, and yet have failed—have expended their patrimony in +the purchase of umbrella after umbrella, and yet have +systematically lost them, and have finally, with contrite spirits +and shrunken purses, given up their vain struggle, and relied on +theft and borrowing for the remainder of their lives. This +is the most remarkable fact that we have had occasion to notice; +and yet we challenge the candid reader to call it in +question. Now, as there cannot be any <i>moral +selection</i> in a mere dead piece of furniture—as the +umbrella cannot be supposed to have an affinity for individual +men equal and reciprocal to that which men certainly feel toward +individual umbrellas—we took the trouble of consulting a +scientific friend as to whether there was any possible physical +explanation of the phenomenon. He was unable to supply a +plausible theory, or even hypothesis; but we extract from his +letter the following interesting passage relative to the physical +peculiarities of umbrellas: ‘Not the least important, and +by far the most curious property of the umbrella, is the energy +which it displays in affecting the atmospheric strata. +There is no fact in meteorology better established—indeed, +it is almost the only one on which meteorologists are +agreed—than that the carriage of an umbrella produces +desiccation of the air; while if it be left at home, aqueous +vapour is largely produced, and is soon deposited in the form of +rain. No theory,’ my friend continues, +‘competent to explain this hygrometric law has been given +(as far as I am aware) by Herschel, Dove, Glaisher, Tait, Buchan, +or any other writer; nor do I pretend to supply the defect. +I venture, however, to throw out the conjecture that it will be +ultimately found to belong to the same class of natural laws as +that agreeable to which a slice of toast always descends with the +buttered surface downwards.’</p> +<p>But it is time to draw to a close. We could expatiate +much longer upon this topic, but want of space constrains us to +leave unfinished these few desultory remarks—slender +contributions towards a subject which has fallen sadly backward, +and which, we grieve to say, was better understood by the king of +Siam in 1686 than by all the philosophers of to-day. If, +however, we have awakened in any rational mind an interest in the +symbolism of umbrellas—in any generous heart a more +complete sympathy with the dumb companion of his daily +walk—or in any grasping spirit a pure notion of +respectability strong enough to make him expend his +six-and-twenty shillings—we shall have deserved well of the +world, to say nothing of the many industrious persons employed in +the manufacture of the article.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V—THE PHILOSOPHY OF NOMENCLATURE</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘How many Cæsars and Pompeys, by mere +inspirations of the names, have been rendered worthy of +them? And how many are there, who might have done exceeding +well in the world, had not their characters and spirits been +totally depressed and Nicodemus’d into +nothing?’—<i>Tristram Shandy</i>, vol. <span +class="smcap">i.</span> chap xix.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Such were the views of the late Walter Shandy, Esq., Turkey +merchant. To the best of my belief, Mr. Shandy is the first +who fairly pointed out the incalculable influence of nomenclature +upon the whole life—who seems first to have recognised the +one child, happy in an heroic appellation, soaring upwards on the +wings of fortune, and the other, like the dead sailor in his +shotted hammock, haled down by sheer weight of name into the +abysses of social failure. Solomon possibly had his eye on +some such theory when he said that ‘a good name is better +than precious ointment’; and perhaps we may trace a similar +spirit in the compilers of the English Catechism, and the +affectionate interest with which they linger round the +catechumen’s name at the very threshold of their +work. But, be these as they may, I think no one can censure +me for appending, in pursuance of the expressed wish of his son, +the Turkey merchant’s name to his system, and pronouncing, +without further preface, a short epitome of the ‘Shandean +Philosophy of Nomenclature.’</p> +<p>To begin, then: the influence of our name makes itself felt +from the very cradle. As a schoolboy I remember the pride +with which I hailed Robin Hood, Robert Bruce, and Robert le +Diable as my name-fellows; and the feeling of sore disappointment +that fell on my heart when I found a freebooter or a general who +did not share with me a single one of my numerous +<i>prænomina</i>. Look at the delight with which two +children find they have the same name. They are friends +from that moment forth; they have a bond of union stronger than +exchange of nuts and sweetmeats. This feeling, I own, wears +off in later life. Our names lose their freshness and +interest, become trite and indifferent. But this, dear +reader, is merely one of the sad effects of those ‘shades +of the prison-house’ which come gradually betwixt us and +nature with advancing years; it affords no weapon against the +philosophy of names.</p> +<p>In after life, although we fail to trace its working, that +name which careless godfathers lightly applied to your +unconscious infancy will have been moulding your character, and +influencing with irresistible power the whole course of your +earthly fortunes. But the last name, overlooked by Mr. +Shandy, is no whit less important as a condition of +success. Family names, we must recollect, are but inherited +nicknames; and if the <i>sobriquet</i> were applicable to the +ancestor, it is most likely applicable to the descendant +also. You would not expect to find Mr. M‘Phun acting +as a mute, or Mr. M‘Lumpha excelling as a professor of +dancing. Therefore, in what follows, we shall consider +names, independent of whether they are first or last. And +to begin with, look what a pull <i>Cromwell</i> had over +<i>Pym</i>—the one name full of a resonant imperialism, the +other, mean, pettifogging, and unheroic to a degree. Who +would expect eloquence from <i>Pym</i>—who would read poems +by <i>Pym</i>—who would bow to the opinion of +<i>Pym</i>? He might have been a dentist, but he should +never have aspired to be a statesman. I can only wonder +that he succeeded as he did. Pym and Habakkuk stand first +upon the roll of men who have triumphed, by sheer force of +genius, over the most unfavourable appellations. But even +these have suffered; and, had they been more fitly named, the one +might have been Lord Protector, and the other have shared the +laurels with Isaiah. In this matter we must not forget that +all our great poets have borne great names. Chaucer, +Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, +Shelley—what a constellation of lordly words! Not a +single common-place name among them—not a Brown, not a +Jones, not a Robinson; they are all names that one would stop and +look at on a door-plate. Now, imagine if <i>Pepys</i> had +tried to clamber somehow into the enclosure of poetry, what a +blot would that word have made upon the list! The thing was +impossible. In the first place a certain natural +consciousness that men would have held him down to the level of +his name, would have prevented him from rising above the Pepsine +standard, and so haply withheld him altogether from attempting +verse. Next, the booksellers would refuse to publish, and +the world to read them, on the mere evidence of the fatal +appellation. And now, before I close this section, I must +say one word as to <i>punnable</i> names, names that stand alone, +that have a significance and life apart from him that bears +them. These are the bitterest of all. One friend of +mine goes bowed and humbled through life under the weight of this +misfortune; for it is an awful thing when a man’s name is a +joke, when he cannot be mentioned without exciting merriment, and +when even the intimation of his death bids fair to carry laughter +into many a home.</p> +<p>So much for people who are badly named. Now for people +who are <i>too</i> well named, who go top-heavy from the font, +who are baptized into a false position, and find themselves +beginning life eclipsed under the fame of some of the great ones +of the past. A man, for instance, called William +Shakespeare could never dare to write plays. He is thrown +into too humbling an apposition with the author of +<i>Hamlet</i>. Its own name coming after is such an +anti-climax. ‘The plays of William +Shakespeare’? says the reader—‘O no! The +plays of William Shakespeare Cockerill,’ and he throws the +book aside. In wise pursuance of such views, Mr. John +Milton Hengler, who not long since delighted us in this favoured +town, has never attempted to write an epic, but has chosen a new +path, and has excelled upon the tight-rope. A marked +example of triumph over this is the case of Mr. Dante Gabriel +Rossetti. On the face of the matter, I should have advised +him to imitate the pleasing modesty of the last-named gentleman, +and confine his ambition to the sawdust. But Mr. Rossetti +has triumphed. He has even dared to translate from his +mighty name-father; and the voice of fame supports him in his +boldness.</p> +<p>Dear readers, one might write a year upon this matter. A +lifetime of comparison and research could scarce suffice for its +elucidation. So here, if it please you, we shall let it +rest. Slight as these notes have been, I would that the +great founder of the system had been alive to see them. How +he had warmed and brightened, how his persuasive eloquence would +have fallen on the ears of Toby; and what a letter of praise and +sympathy would not the editor have received before the month was +out! Alas, the thing was not to be. Walter Shandy +died and was duly buried, while yet his theory lay forgotten and +neglected by his fellow-countrymen. But, reader, the day +will come, I hope, when a paternal government will stamp out, as +seeds of national weakness, all depressing patronymics, and when +godfathers and godmothers will soberly and earnestly debate the +interest of the nameless one, and not rush blindfold to the +christening. In these days there shall be written a +‘Godfather’s Assistant,’ in shape of a +dictionary of names, with their concomitant virtues and vices; +and this book shall be scattered broadcast through the land, and +shall be on the table of every one eligible for godfathership, +until such a thing as a vicious or untoward appellation shall +have ceased from off the face of the earth.</p> +<h2>CRITICISMS</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I—LORD LYTTON’S ‘FABLES IN +SONG’</h3> +<p>It seems as if Lord Lytton, in this new book of his, had found +the form most natural to his talent. In some ways, indeed, +it may be held inferior to <i>Chronicles and Characters</i>; we +look in vain for anything like the terrible intensity of the +night-scene in <i>Irene</i>, or for any such passages of massive +and memorable writing as appeared, here and there, in the earlier +work, and made it not altogether unworthy of its model, +Hugo’s <i>Legend of the Ages</i>. But it becomes +evident, on the most hasty retrospect, that this earlier work was +a step on the way towards the later. It seems as if the +author had been feeling about for his definite medium, and was +already, in the language of the child’s game, growing +hot. There are many pieces in <i>Chronicles and +Characters</i> that might be detached from their original +setting, and embodied, as they stand, among the <i>Fables in +Song</i>.</p> +<p>For the term Fable is not very easy to define +rigorously. In the most typical form some moral precept is +set forth by means of a conception purely fantastic, and usually +somewhat trivial into the bargain; there is something playful +about it, that will not support a very exacting criticism, and +the lesson must be apprehended by the fancy at half a hint. +Such is the great mass of the old stories of wise animals or +foolish men that have amused our childhood. But we should +expect the fable, in company with other and more important +literary forms, to be more and more loosely, or at least largely, +comprehended as time went on, and so to degenerate in conception +from this original type. That depended for much of its +piquancy on the very fact that it was fantastic: the point of the +thing lay in a sort of humorous inappropriateness; and it is +natural enough that pleasantry of this description should become +less common, as men learn to suspect some serious analogy +underneath. Thus a comical story of an ape touches us quite +differently after the proposition of Mr. Darwin’s +theory. Moreover, there lay, perhaps, at the bottom of this +primitive sort of fable, a humanity, a tenderness of rough +truths; so that at the end of some story, in which vice or folly +had met with its destined punishment, the fabulist might be able +to assure his auditors, as we have often to assure tearful +children on the like occasions, that they may dry their eyes, for +none of it was true.</p> +<p>But this benefit of fiction becomes lost with more +sophisticated hearers and authors: a man is no longer the dupe of +his own artifice, and cannot deal playfully with truths that are +a matter of bitter concern to him in his life. And hence, +in the progressive centralisation of modern thought, we should +expect the old form of fable to fall gradually into desuetude, +and be gradually succeeded by another, which is a fable in all +points except that it is not altogether fabulous. And this +new form, such as we should expect, and such as we do indeed +find, still presents the essential character of brevity; as in +any other fable also, there is, underlying and animating the +brief action, a moral idea; and as in any other fable, the object +is to bring this home to the reader through the intellect rather +than through the feelings; so that, without being very deeply +moved or interested by the characters of the piece, we should +recognise vividly the hinges on which the little plot +revolves. But the fabulist now seeks analogies where before +he merely sought humorous situations. There will be now a +logical nexus between the moral expressed and the machinery +employed to express it. The machinery, in fact, as this +change is developed, becomes less and less fabulous. We +find ourselves in presence of quite a serious, if quite a +miniature division of creative literature; and sometimes we have +the lesson embodied in a sober, everyday narration, as in the +parables of the New Testament, and sometimes merely the statement +or, at most, the collocation of significant facts in life, the +reader being left to resolve for himself the vague, troublesome, +and not yet definitely moral sentiment which has been thus +created. And step by step with the development of this +change, yet another is developed: the moral tends to become more +indeterminate and large. It ceases to be possible to append +it, in a tag, to the bottom of the piece, as one might write the +name below a caricature; and the fable begins to take rank with +all other forms of creative literature, as something too +ambitious, in spite of its miniature dimensions, to be resumed in +any succinct formula without the loss of all that is deepest and +most suggestive in it.</p> +<p>Now it is in this widest sense that Lord Lytton understands +the term; there are examples in his two pleasant volumes of all +the forms already mentioned, and even of another which can only +be admitted among fables by the utmost possible leniency of +construction. ‘Composure,’ ‘Et +Cætera,’ and several more, are merely similes +poetically elaborated. So, too, is the pathetic story of +the grandfather and grandchild: the child, having treasured away +an icicle and forgotten it for ten minutes, comes back to find it +already nearly melted, and no longer beautiful: at the same time, +the grandfather has just remembered and taken out a bundle of +love-letters, which he too had stored away in years gone by, and +then long neglected; and, behold! the letters are as faded and +sorrowfully disappointing as the icicle. This is merely a +simile poetically worked out; and yet it is in such as these, and +some others, to be mentioned further on, that the author seems at +his best. Wherever he has really written after the old +model, there is something to be deprecated: in spite of all the +spirit and freshness, in spite of his happy assumption of that +cheerful acceptation of things as they are, which, rightly or +wrongly, we come to attribute to the ideal fabulist, there is +ever a sense as of something a little out of place. A form +of literature so very innocent and primitive looks a little +over-written in Lord Lytton’s conscious and highly-coloured +style. It may be bad taste, but sometimes we should prefer +a few sentences of plain prose narration, and a little Bewick by +way of tail-piece. So that it is not among those fables +that conform most nearly to the old model, but one had nearly +said among those that most widely differ from it, that we find +the most satisfactory examples of the author’s manner.</p> +<p>In the mere matter of ingenuity, the metaphysical fables are +the most remarkable; such as that of the windmill who imagined +that it was he who raised the wind; or that of the grocer’s +balance (‘Cogito ergo sum’) who considered himself +endowed with free-will, reason, and an infallible practical +judgment; until, one fine day, the police made a descent upon the +shop, and find the weights false and the scales unequal; and the +whole thing is broken up for old iron. Capital fables, +also, in the same ironical spirit, are ‘Prometheus +Unbound,’ the tale of the vainglorying of a champagne-cork, +and ‘Teleology,’ where a nettle justifies the ways of +God to nettles while all goes well with it, and, upon a change of +luck, promptly changes its divinity.</p> +<p>In all these there is still plenty of the fabulous if you +will, although, even here, there may be two opinions possible; +but there is another group, of an order of merit perhaps still +higher, where we look in vain for any such playful liberties with +Nature. Thus we have ‘Conservation of Force’; +where a musician, thinking of a certain picture, improvises in +the twilight; a poet, hearing the music, goes home inspired, and +writes a poem; and then a painter, under the influence of this +poem, paints another picture, thus lineally descended from the +first. This is fiction, but not what we have been used to +call fable. We miss the incredible element, the point of +audacity with which the fabulist was wont to mock at his +readers. And still more so is this the case with +others. ‘The Horse and the Fly’ states one of +the unanswerable problems of life in quite a realistic and +straightforward way. A fly startles a cab-horse, the coach +is overset; a newly-married pair within and the driver, a man +with a wife and family, are all killed. The horse continues +to gallop off in the loose traces, and ends the tragedy by +running over an only child; and there is some little pathetic +detail here introduced in the telling, that makes the +reader’s indignation very white-hot against some one. +It remains to be seen who that some one is to be: the fly? +Nay, but on closer inspection, it appears that the fly, actuated +by maternal instinct, was only seeking a place for her eggs: is +maternal instinct, then, ‘sole author of these mischiefs +all’? ‘Who’s in the Right?’ one of +the best fables in the book, is somewhat in the same vein. +After a battle has been won, a group of officers assemble inside +a battery, and debate together who should have the honour of the +success; the Prince, the general staff, the cavalry, the engineer +who posted the battery in which they then stand talking, are +successively named: the sergeant, who pointed the guns, sneers to +himself at the mention of the engineer; and, close by, the +gunner, who had applied the match, passes away with a smile of +triumph, since it was through his hand that the victorious blow +had been dealt. Meanwhile, the cannon claims the honour +over the gunner; the cannon-ball, who actually goes forth on the +dread mission, claims it over the cannon, who remains idly +behind; the powder reminds the cannon-ball that, but for him, it +would still be lying on the arsenal floor; and the match caps the +discussion; powder, cannon-ball, and cannon would be all equally +vain and ineffectual without fire. Just then there comes on +a shower of rain, which wets the powder and puts out the match, +and completes this lesson of dependence, by indicating the +negative conditions which are as necessary for any effect, in +their absence, as is the presence of this great fraternity of +positive conditions, not any one of which can claim priority over +any other. But the fable does not end here, as perhaps, in +all logical strictness, it should. It wanders off into a +discussion as to which is the truer greatness, that of the +vanquished fire or that of the victorious rain. And the +speech of the rain is charming:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Lo, with my little drops I bless again<br +/> +And beautify the fields which thou didst blast!<br /> +Rend, wither, waste, and ruin, what thou wilt,<br /> +But call not Greatness what the Gods call Guilt.<br /> +Blossoms and grass from blood in battle spilt,<br /> +And poppied corn, I bring.<br /> +‘Mid mouldering Babels, to oblivion built,<br /> +My violets spring.<br /> +Little by little my small drops have strength<br /> +To deck with green delights the grateful earth.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And so forth, not quite germane (it seems to me) to the matter +in hand, but welcome for its own sake.</p> +<p>Best of all are the fables that deal more immediately with the +emotions. There is, for instance, that of ‘The Two +Travellers,’ which is profoundly moving in conception, +although by no means as well written as some others. In +this, one of the two, fearfully frost-bitten, saves his life out +of the snow at the cost of all that was comely in his body; just +as, long before, the other, who has now quietly resigned himself +to death, had violently freed himself from Love at the cost of +all that was finest and fairest in his character. Very +graceful and sweet is the fable (if so it should be called) in +which the author sings the praises of that ‘kindly +perspective,’ which lets a wheat-stalk near the eye cover +twenty leagues of distant country, and makes the humble circle +about a man’s hearth more to him than all the possibilities +of the external world. The companion fable to this is also +excellent. It tells us of a man who had, all his life +through, entertained a passion for certain blue hills on the far +horizon, and had promised himself to travel thither ere he died, +and become familiar with these distant friends. At last, in +some political trouble, he is banished to the very place of his +dreams. He arrives there overnight, and, when he rises and +goes forth in the morning, there sure enough are the blue hills, +only now they have changed places with him, and smile across to +him, distant as ever, from the old home whence he has come. +Such a story might have been very cynically treated; but it is +not so done, the whole tone is kindly and consolatory, and the +disenchanted man submissively takes the lesson, and understands +that things far away are to be loved for their own sake, and that +the unattainable is not truly unattainable, when we can make the +beauty of it our own. Indeed, throughout all these two +volumes, though there is much practical scepticism, and much +irony on abstract questions, this kindly and consolatory spirit +is never absent. There is much that is cheerful and, after +a sedate, fireside fashion, hopeful. No one will be +discouraged by reading the book; but the ground of all this +hopefulness and cheerfulness remains to the end somewhat +vague. It does not seem to arise from any practical belief +in the future either of the individual or the race, but rather +from the profound personal contentment of the writer. This +is, I suppose, all we must look for in the case. It is as +much as we can expect, if the fabulist shall prove a shrewd and +cheerful fellow-wayfarer, one with whom the world does not seem +to have gone much amiss, but who has yet laughingly learned +something of its evil. It will depend much, of course, upon +our own character and circumstances, whether the encounter will +be agreeable and bracing to the spirits, or offend us as an +ill-timed mockery. But where, as here, there is a little +tincture of bitterness along with the good-nature, where it is +plainly not the humour of a man cheerfully ignorant, but of one +who looks on, tolerant and superior and smilingly attentive, upon +the good and bad of our existence, it will go hardly if we do not +catch some reflection of the same spirit to help us on our +way. There is here no impertinent and lying proclamation of +peace—none of the cheap optimism of the well-to-do; what we +find here is a view of life that would be even grievous, were it +not enlivened with this abiding cheerfulness, and ever and anon +redeemed by a stroke of pathos.</p> +<p>It is natural enough, I suppose, that we should find wanting +in this book some of the intenser qualities of the author’s +work; and their absence is made up for by much happy description +after a quieter fashion. The burst of jubilation over the +departure of the snow, which forms the prelude to ‘The +Thistle,’ is full of spirit and of pleasant images. +The speech of the forest in ‘Sans Souci’ is inspired +by a beautiful sentiment for nature of the modern sort, and +pleases us more, I think, as poetry should please us, than +anything in <i>Chronicles and Characters</i>. There are +some admirable felicities of expression here and there; as that +of the hill, whose summit</p> + +<blockquote><p> ‘Did +print<br /> +The azure air with pines.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Moreover, I do not recollect in the author’s former work +any symptom of that sympathetic treatment of still life, which is +noticeable now and again in the fables; and perhaps most +noticeably, when he sketches the burned letters as they hover +along the gusty flue, ‘Thin, sable veils, wherein a +restless spark Yet trembled.’ But the description is +at its best when the subjects are unpleasant, or even +grisly. There are a few capital lines in this key on the +last spasm of the battle before alluded to. Surely nothing +could be better, in its own way, than the fish in ‘The Last +Cruise of the Arrogant,’ ‘the shadowy, side-faced, +silent things,’ that come butting and staring with lidless +eyes at the sunken steam-engine. And although, in yet +another, we are told, pleasantly enough, how the water went down +into the valleys, where it set itself gaily to saw wood, and on +into the plains, where it would soberly carry grain to town; yet +the real strength of the fable is when it dealt with the shut +pool in which certain unfortunate raindrops are imprisoned among +slugs and snails, and in the company of an old toad. The +sodden contentment of the fallen acorn is strangely significant; +and it is astonishing how unpleasantly we are startled by the +appearance of her horrible lover, the maggot.</p> +<p>And now for a last word, about the style. This is not +easy to criticise. It is impossible to deny to it rapidity, +spirit, and a full sound; the lines are never lame, and the sense +is carried forward with an uninterrupted, impetuous rush. +But it is not equal. After passages of really admirable +versification, the author falls back upon a sort of loose, +cavalry manner, not unlike the style of some of Mr. +Browning’s minor pieces, and almost inseparable from +wordiness, and an easy acceptation of somewhat cheap +finish. There is nothing here of that compression which is +the note of a really sovereign style. It is unfair, +perhaps, to set a not remarkable passage from Lord Lytton side by +side with one of the signal masterpieces of another, and a very +perfect poet; and yet it is interesting, when we see how the +portraiture of a dog, detailed through thirty odd lines, is +frittered down and finally almost lost in the mere laxity of the +style, to compare it with the clear, simple, vigorous delineation +that Burns, in four couplets, has given us of the +ploughman’s collie. It is interesting, at first, and +then it becomes a little irritating; for when we think of other +passages so much more finished and adroit, we cannot help +feeling, that with a little more ardour after perfection of form, +criticism would have found nothing left for her to censure. +A similar mark of precipitate work is the number of adjectives +tumultuously heaped together, sometimes to help out the sense, +and sometimes (as one cannot but suspect) to help out the sound +of the verses. I do not believe, for instance, that Lord +Lytton himself would defend the lines in which we are told how +Laocoön ‘Revealed to Roman crowds, now +<i>Christian</i> grown, That <i>Pagan</i> anguish which, in +<i>Parian</i> stone, The <i>Rhodian</i> artist,’ and so +on. It is not only that this is bad in itself; but that it +is unworthy of the company in which it is found; that such verses +should not have appeared with the name of a good versifier like +Lord Lytton. We must take exception, also, in conclusion, +to the excess of alliteration. Alliteration is so liable to +be abused that we can scarcely be too sparing of it; and yet it +is a trick that seems to grow upon the author with years. +It is a pity to see fine verses, such as some in +‘Demos,’ absolutely spoiled by the recurrence of one +wearisome consonant.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II—SALVINI’S MACBETH</h3> +<p>Salvini closed his short visit to Edinburgh by a performance +of <i>Macbeth</i>. It was, perhaps, from a sentiment of +local colour that he chose to play the Scottish usurper for the +first time before Scotsmen; and the audience were not insensible +of the privilege. Few things, indeed, can move a stronger +interest than to see a great creation taking shape for the first +time. If it is not purely artistic, the sentiment is surely +human. And the thought that you are before all the world, +and have the start of so many others as eager as yourself, at +least keeps you in a more unbearable suspense before the curtain +rises, if it does not enhance the delight with which you follow +the performance and see the actor ‘bend up each corporal +agent’ to realise a masterpiece of a few hours’ +duration. With a player so variable as Salvini, who trusts +to the feelings of the moment for so much detail, and who, night +after night, does the same thing differently but always well, it +can never be safe to pass judgment after a single hearing. +And this is more particularly true of last week’s +<i>Macbeth</i>; for the whole third act was marred by a +grievously humorous misadventure. Several minutes too soon +the ghost of Banquo joined the party, and after having sat +helpless a while at a table, was ignominiously withdrawn. +Twice was this ghostly Jack-in-the-box obtruded on the stage +before his time; twice removed again; and yet he showed so little +hurry when he was really wanted, that, after an awkward pause, +Macbeth had to begin his apostrophe to empty air. The +arrival of the belated spectre in the middle, with a jerk that +made him nod all over, was the last accident in the chapter, and +worthily topped the whole. It may be imagined how lamely +matters went throughout these cross purposes.</p> +<p>In spite of this, and some other hitches, Salvini’s +Macbeth had an emphatic success. The creation is worthy of +a place beside the same artist’s Othello and Hamlet. +It is the simplest and most unsympathetic of the three; but the +absence of the finer lineaments of Hamlet is redeemed by gusto, +breadth, and a headlong unity. Salvini sees nothing great +in Macbeth beyond the royalty of muscle, and that courage which +comes of strong and copious circulation. The moral +smallness of the man is insisted on from the first, in the +shudder of uncontrollable jealousy with which he sees Duncan +embracing Banquo. He may have some northern poetry of +speech, but he has not much logical understanding. In his +dealings with the supernatural powers he is like a savage with +his fetich, trusting them beyond bounds while all goes well, and +whenever he is crossed, casting his belief aside and calling +‘fate into the list.’ For his wife, he is +little more than an agent, a frame of bone and sinew for her +fiery spirit to command. The nature of his feeling towards +her is rendered with a most precise and delicate touch. He +always yields to the woman’s fascination; and yet his +caresses (and we know how much meaning Salvini can give to a +caress) are singularly hard and unloving. Sometimes he lays +his hand on her as he might take hold of any one who happened to +be nearest to him at a moment of excitement. Love has +fallen out of this marriage by the way, and left a curious +friendship. Only once—at the very moment when she is +showing herself so little a woman and so much a high-spirited +man—only once is he very deeply stirred towards her; and +that finds expression in the strange and horrible transport of +admiration, doubly strange and horrible on Salvini’s +lips—‘Bring forth men-children only!’</p> +<p>The murder scene, as was to be expected, pleased the audience +best. Macbeth’s voice, in the talk with his wife, was +a thing not to be forgotten; and when he spoke of his +hangman’s hands he seemed to have blood in his +utterance. Never for a moment, even in the very article of +the murder, does he possess his own soul. He is a man on +wires. From first to last it is an exhibition of hideous +cowardice. For, after all, it is not here, but in broad +daylight, with the exhilaration of conflict, where he can assure +himself at every blow he has the longest sword and the heaviest +hand, that this man’s physical bravery can keep him up; he +is an unwieldy ship, and needs plenty of way on before he will +steer.</p> +<p>In the banquet scene, while the first murderer gives account +of what he has done, there comes a flash of truculent joy at the +‘twenty trenchèd gashes’ on Banquo’s +head. Thus Macbeth makes welcome to his imagination those +very details of physical horror which are so soon to turn sour in +him. As he runs out to embrace these cruel circumstances, +as he seeks to realise to his mind’s eye the reassuring +spectacle of his dead enemy, he is dressing out the phantom to +terrify himself; and his imagination, playing the part of +justice, is to ‘commend to his own lips the ingredients of +his poisoned chalice.’ With the recollection of +Hamlet and his father’s spirit still fresh upon him, and +the holy awe with which that good man encountered things not +dreamt of in his philosophy, it was not possible to avoid looking +for resemblances between the two apparitions and the two men +haunted. But there are none to be found. Macbeth has +a purely physical dislike for Banquo’s spirit and the +‘twenty trenchèd gashes.’ He is afraid +of he knows not what. He is abject, and again +blustering. In the end he so far forgets himself, his +terror, and the nature of what is before him, that he rushes upon +it as he would upon a man. When his wife tells him he needs +repose, there is something really childish in the way he looks +about the room, and, seeing nothing, with an expression of almost +sensual relief, plucks up heart enough to go to bed. And +what is the upshot of the visitation? It is written in +Shakespeare, but should be read with the commentary of +Salvini’s voice and expression:—‘O! <i>siam +nell’ opra ancor fanciulli</i>’—‘We are +yet but young in deed.’ Circle below circle. He +is looking with horrible satisfaction into the mouth of +hell. There may still be a prick to-day; but to-morrow +conscience will be dead, and he may move untroubled in this +element of blood.</p> +<p>In the fifth act we see this lowest circle reached; and it is +Salvini’s finest moment throughout the play. From the +first he was admirably made up, and looked Macbeth to the full as +perfectly as ever he looked Othello. From the first moment +he steps upon the stage you can see this character is a creation +to the fullest meaning of the phrase; for the man before you is a +type you know well already. He arrives with Banquo on the +heath, fair and red-bearded, sparing of gesture, full of pride +and the sense of animal wellbeing, and satisfied after the battle +like a beast who has eaten his fill. But in the fifth act +there is a change. This is still the big, burly, fleshly, +handsome-looking Thane; here is still the same face which in the +earlier acts could be superficially good-humoured and sometimes +royally courteous. But now the atmosphere of blood, which +pervades the whole tragedy, has entered into the man and subdued +him to its own nature; and an indescribable degradation, a +slackness and puffiness, has overtaken his features. He has +breathed the air of carnage, and supped full of horrors. +Lady Macbeth complains of the smell of blood on her hand: Macbeth +makes no complaint—he has ceased to notice it now; but the +same smell is in his nostrils. A contained fury and disgust +possesses him. He taunts the messenger and the doctor as +people would taunt their mortal enemies. And, indeed, as he +knows right well, every one is his enemy now, except his +wife. About her he questions the doctor with something like +a last human anxiety; and, in tones of grisly mystery, asks him +if he can ‘minister to a mind diseased.’ When +the news of her death is brought him, he is staggered and falls +into a seat; but somehow it is not anything we can call grief +that he displays. There had been two of them against God +and man; and now, when there is only one, it makes perhaps less +difference than he had expected. And so her death is not +only an affliction, but one more disillusion; and he redoubles in +bitterness. The speech that follows, given with tragic +cynicism in every word, is a dirge, not so much for her as for +himself. From that time forth there is nothing human left +in him, only ‘the fiend of Scotland,’ Macduff’s +‘hell-hound,’ whom, with a stern glee, we see baited +like a bear and hunted down like a wolf. He is inspired and +set above fate by a demoniacal energy, a lust of wounds and +slaughter. Even after he meets Macduff his courage does not +fail; but when he hears the Thane was not born of woman, all +virtue goes out of him; and though he speaks sounding words of +defiance, the last combat is little better than a suicide.</p> +<p>The whole performance is, as I said, so full of gusto and a +headlong unity; the personality of Macbeth is so sharp and +powerful; and within these somewhat narrow limits there is so +much play and saliency that, so far as concerns Salvini himself, +a third great success seems indubitable. Unfortunately, +however, a great actor cannot fill more than a very small +fraction of the boards; and though Banquo’s ghost will +probably be more seasonable in his future apparitions, there are +some more inherent difficulties in the piece. The company +at large did not distinguish themselves. Macduff, to the +huge delight of the gallery, out-Macduff’d the average +ranter. The lady who filled the principal female part has +done better on other occasions, but I fear she has not metal for +what she tried last week. Not to succeed in the +sleep-walking scene is to make a memorable failure. As it +was given, it succeeded in being wrong in art without being true +to nature.</p> +<p>And there is yet another difficulty, happily easy to reform, +which somewhat interfered with the success of the +performance. At the end of the incantation scene the +Italian translator has made Macbeth fall insensible upon the +stage. This is a change of questionable propriety from a +psychological point of view; while in point of view of effect it +leaves the stage for some moments empty of all business. To +remedy this, a bevy of green ballet-girls came forth and pointed +their toes about the prostrate king. A dance of High Church +curates, or a hornpipe by Mr. T. P. Cooke, would not be more out +of the key; though the gravity of a Scots audience was not to be +overcome, and they merely expressed their disapprobation by a +round of moderate hisses, a similar irruption of Christmas +fairies would most likely convulse a London theatre from pit to +gallery with inextinguishable laughter. It is, I am told, +the Italian tradition; but it is one more honoured in the breach +than the observance. With the total disappearance of these +damsels, with a stronger Lady Macbeth, and, if possible, with +some compression of those scenes in which Salvini does not +appear, and the spectator is left at the mercy of Macduffs and +Duncans, the play would go twice as well, and we should be better +able to follow and enjoy an admirable work of dramatic art.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III—BAGSTER’S ‘PILGRIM’S +PROGRESS’</h3> +<p>I have here before me an edition of the <i>Pilgrim’s +Progress</i>, bound in green, without a date, and described as +‘illustrated by nearly three hundred engravings, and memoir +of Bunyan.’ On the outside it is lettered +‘Bagster’s Illustrated Edition,’ and after the +author’s apology, facing the first page of the tale, a +folding pictorial ‘Plan of the Road’ is marked as +‘drawn by the late Mr. T. Conder,’ and engraved by J. +Basire. No further information is anywhere vouchsafed; +perhaps the publishers had judged the work too unimportant; and +we are still left ignorant whether or not we owe the woodcuts in +the body of the volume to the same hand that drew the plan. +It seems, however, more than probable. The literal +particularity of mind which, in the map, laid down the +flower-plots in the devil’s garden, and carefully +introduced the court-house in the town of Vanity, is closely +paralleled in many of the cuts; and in both, the architecture of +the buildings and the disposition of the gardens have a kindred +and entirely English air. Whoever he was, the author of +these wonderful little pictures may lay claim to be the best +illustrator of Bunyan. <a name="citation183"></a><a +href="#footnote183" class="citation">[183]</a> They are not +only good illustrations, like so many others; but they are like +so few, good illustrations of Bunyan. Their spirit, in +defect and quality, is still the same as his own. The +designer also has lain down and dreamed a dream, as literal, as +quaint, and almost as apposite as Bunyan’s; and text and +pictures make but the two sides of the same homespun yet +impassioned story. To do justice to the designs, it will be +necessary to say, for the hundredth time, a word or two about the +masterpiece which they adorn.</p> +<p>All allegories have a tendency to escape from the purpose of +their creators; and as the characters and incidents become more +and more interesting in themselves, the moral, which these were +to show forth, falls more and more into neglect. An +architect may command a wreath of vine-leaves round the cornice +of a monument; but if, as each leaf came from the chisel, it took +proper life and fluttered freely on the wall, and if the vine +grew, and the building were hidden over with foliage and fruit, +the architect would stand in much the same situation as the +writer of allegories. The <i>Faëry Queen</i> was an +allegory, I am willing to believe; but it survives as an +imaginative tale in incomparable verse. The case of Bunyan +is widely different; and yet in this also Allegory, poor nymph, +although never quite forgotten, is sometimes rudely thrust +against the wall. Bunyan was fervently in earnest; with +‘his fingers in his ears, he ran on,’ straight for +his mark. He tells us himself, in the conclusion to the +first part, that he did not fear to raise a laugh; indeed, he +feared nothing, and said anything; and he was greatly served in +this by a certain rustic privilege of his style, which, like the +talk of strong uneducated men, when it does not impress by its +force, still charms by its simplicity. The mere story and +the allegorical design enjoyed perhaps his equal favour. He +believed in both with an energy of faith that was capable of +moving mountains. And we have to remark in him, not the +parts where inspiration fails and is supplied by cold and merely +decorative invention, but the parts where faith has grown to be +credulity, and his characters become so real to him that he +forgets the end of their creation. We can follow him step +by step into the trap which he lays for himself by his own entire +good faith and triumphant literality of vision, till the trap +closes and shuts him in an inconsistency. The allegories of +the Interpreter and of the Shepherds of the Delectable Mountains +are all actually performed, like stage-plays, before the +pilgrims. The son of Mr. Great-grace visibly ‘tumbles +hills about with his words.’ Adam the First has his +condemnation written visibly on his forehead, so that Faithful +reads it. At the very instant the net closes round the +pilgrims, ‘the white robe falls from the black man’s +body.’ Despair ‘getteth him a grievous +crab-tree cudgel’; it was in ‘sunshiny weather’ +that he had his fits; and the birds in the grove about the House +Beautiful, ‘our country birds,’ only sing their +little pious verses ‘at the spring, when the flowers appear +and the sun shines warm.’ ‘I often,’ says +Piety, ‘go out to hear them; we also ofttimes keep them +tame on our house.’ The post between Beulah and the +Celestial City sounds his horn, as you may yet hear in country +places. Madam Bubble, that ‘tall, comely dame, +something of a swarthy complexion, in very pleasant attire, but +old,’ ‘gives you a smile at the end of each +sentence’—a real woman she; we all know her. +Christiana dying ‘gave Mr. Stand-fast a ring,’ for no +possible reason in the allegory, merely because the touch was +human and affecting. Look at Great-heart, with his +soldierly ways, garrison ways, as I had almost called them; with +his taste in weapons; his delight in any that ‘he found to +be a man of his hands’; his chivalrous point of honour, +letting Giant Maul get up again when he was down, a thing fairly +flying in the teeth of the moral; above all, with his language in +the inimitable tale of Mr. Fearing: ‘I thought I should +have lost my +man’—‘chicken-hearted’—‘at +last he came in, and I will say that for my lord, he carried it +wonderful lovingly to him.’ This is no Independent +minister; this is a stout, honest, big-busted ancient, adjusting +his shoulder-belts, twirling his long moustaches as he +speaks. Last and most remarkable, ‘My sword,’ +says the dying Valiant-for-Truth, he in whom Great-heart +delighted, ‘my sword I give to him that shall succeed me in +my pilgrimage, <i>and my courage and skill to him that can get +it</i>.’ And after this boast, more arrogantly +unorthodox than was ever dreamed of by the rejected Ignorance, we +are told that ‘all the trumpets sounded for him on the +other side.’</p> +<p>In every page the book is stamped with the same energy of +vision and the same energy of belief. The quality is +equally and indifferently displayed in the spirit of the +fighting, the tenderness of the pathos, the startling vigour and +strangeness of the incidents, the natural strain of the +conversations, and the humanity and charm of the +characters. Trivial talk over a meal, the dying words of +heroes, the delights of Beulah or the Celestial City, Apollyon +and my Lord Hate-good, Great-heart, and Mr. Worldly-Wiseman, all +have been imagined with the same clearness, all written of with +equal gusto and precision, all created in the same mixed element, +of simplicity that is almost comical, and art that, for its +purpose, is faultless.</p> +<p>It was in much the same spirit that our artist sat down to his +drawings. He is by nature a Bunyan of the pencil. He, +too, will draw anything, from a butcher at work on a dead sheep, +up to the courts of Heaven. ‘A Lamb for Supper’ +is the name of one of his designs, ‘Their Glorious +Entry’ of another. He has the same disregard for the +ridiculous, and enjoys somewhat of the same privilege of style, +so that we are pleased even when we laugh the most. He is +literal to the verge of folly. If dust is to be raised from +the unswept parlour, you may be sure it will ‘fly +abundantly’ in the picture. If Faithful is to lie +‘as dead’ before Moses, dead he shall lie with a +warrant—dead and stiff like granite; nay (and here the +artist must enhance upon the symbolism of the author), it is with +the identical stone tables of the law that Moses fells the +sinner. Good and bad people, whom we at once distinguish in +the text by their names, Hopeful, Honest, and Valiant-for-Truth, +on the one hand, as against By-ends, Sir Having Greedy, and the +Lord Old-man on the other, are in these drawings as simply +distinguished by their costume. Good people, when not armed +<i>cap-à-pie</i>, wear a speckled tunic girt about the +waist, and low hats, apparently of straw. Bad people +swagger in tail-coats and chimney-pots, a few with knee-breeches, +but the large majority in trousers, and for all the world like +guests at a garden-party. Worldly-Wiseman alone, by some +inexplicable quirk, stands before Christian in laced hat, +embroidered waistcoat, and trunk-hose. But above all +examples of this artist’s intrepidity, commend me to the +print entitled ‘Christian Finds it Deep.’ +‘A great darkness and horror,’ says the text, have +fallen on the pilgrim; it is the comfortless deathbed with which +Bunyan so strikingly concludes the sorrows and conflicts of his +hero. How to represent this worthily the artist knew not; +and yet he was determined to represent it somehow. This was +how he did: Hopeful is still shown to his neck above the water of +death; but Christian has bodily disappeared, and a blot of solid +blackness indicates his place.</p> +<p>As you continue to look at these pictures, about an inch +square for the most part, sometimes printed three or more to the +page, and each having a printed legend of its own, however +trivial the event recorded, you will soon become aware of two +things: first, that the man can draw, and, second, that he +possesses the gift of an imagination. ‘Obstinate +reviles,’ says the legend; and you should see Obstinate +reviling. ‘He warily retraces his steps’; and +there is Christian, posting through the plain, terror and speed +in every muscle. ‘Mercy yearns to go’ shows you +a plain interior with packing going forward, and, right in the +middle, Mercy yearning to go—every line of the girl’s +figure yearning. In ‘The Chamber called Peace’ +we see a simple English room, bed with white curtains, window +valance and door, as may be found in many thousand unpretentious +houses; but far off, through the open window, we behold the sun +uprising out of a great plain, and Christian hails it with his +hand:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Where am I now! is this the love and +care<br /> +Of Jesus, for the men that pilgrims are!<br /> +Thus to provide! That I should be forgiven!<br /> +And dwell already the next door to heaven!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>A page or two further, from the top of the House Beautiful, +the damsels point his gaze toward the Delectable Mountains: +‘The Prospect,’ so the cut is ticketed—and I +shall be surprised, if on less than a square inch of paper you +can show me one so wide and fair. Down a cross road on an +English plain, a cathedral city outlined on the horizon, a hazel +shaw upon the left, comes Madam Wanton dancing with her fair +enchanted cup, and Faithful, book in hand, half pauses. The +cut is perfect as a symbol; the giddy movement of the sorceress, +the uncertain poise of the man struck to the heart by a +temptation, the contrast of that even plain of life whereon he +journeys with the bold, ideal bearing of the wanton—the +artist who invented and portrayed this had not merely read +Bunyan, he had also thoughtfully lived. The Delectable +Mountains—I continue skimming the first part—are not +on the whole happily rendered. Once, and once only, the +note is struck, when Christian and Hopeful are seen coming, +shoulder-high, through a thicket of green shrubs—box, +perhaps, or perfumed nutmeg; while behind them, domed or pointed, +the hills stand ranged against the sky. A little further, +and we come to that masterpiece of Bunyan’s insight into +life, the Enchanted Ground; where, in a few traits, he has set +down the latter end of such a number of the would-be good; where +his allegory goes so deep that, to people looking seriously on +life, it cuts like satire. The true significance of this +invention lies, of course, far out of the way of drawing; only +one feature, the great tedium of the land, the growing weariness +in well-doing, may be somewhat represented in a symbol. The +pilgrims are near the end: ‘Two Miles Yet,’ says the +legend. The road goes ploughing up and down over a rolling +heath; the wayfarers, with outstretched arms, are already sunk to +the knees over the brow of the nearest hill; they have just +passed a milestone with the cipher two; from overhead a great, +piled, summer cumulus, as of a slumberous summer afternoon, +beshadows them: two miles! it might be hundreds. In dealing +with the Land of Beulah the artist lags, in both parts, miserably +behind the text, but in the distant prospect of the Celestial +City more than regains his own. You will remember when +Christian and Hopeful ‘with desire fell sick.’ +‘Effect of the Sunbeams’ is the artist’s +title. Against the sky, upon a cliffy mountain, the radiant +temple beams upon them over deep, subjacent woods; they, behind a +mound, as if seeking shelter from the splendour—one +prostrate on his face, one kneeling, and with hands ecstatically +lifted—yearn with passion after that immortal city. +Turn the page, and we behold them walking by the very shores of +death; Heaven, from this nigher view, has risen half-way to the +zenith, and sheds a wider glory; and the two pilgrims, dark +against that brightness, walk and sing out of the fulness of +their hearts. No cut more thoroughly illustrates at once +the merit and the weakness of the artist. Each pilgrim +sings with a book in his grasp—a family Bible at the least +for bigness; tomes so recklessly enormous that our second, +impulse is to laughter. And yet that is not the first +thought, nor perhaps the last. Something in the attitude of +the manikins—faces they have none, they are too small for +that—something in the way they swing these monstrous +volumes to their singing, something perhaps borrowed from the +text, some subtle differentiation from the cut that went before +and the cut that follows after—something, at least, speaks +clearly of a fearful joy, of Heaven seen from the deathbed, of +the horror of the last passage no less than of the glorious +coming home. There is that in the action of one of them +which always reminds me, with a difference, of that haunting last +glimpse of Thomas Idle, travelling to Tyburn in the cart. +Next come the Shining Ones, wooden and trivial enough; the +pilgrims pass into the river; the blot already mentioned settles +over and obliterates Christian. In two more cuts we behold +them drawing nearer to the other shore; and then, between two +radiant angels, one of whom points upward, we see them mounting +in new weeds, their former lendings left behind them on the inky +river. More angels meet them; Heaven is displayed, and if +no better, certainly no worse, than it has been shown by +others—a place, at least, infinitely populous and glorious +with light—a place that haunts solemnly the hearts of +children. And then this symbolic draughtsman once more +strikes into his proper vein. Three cuts conclude the first +part. In the first the gates close, black against the glory +struggling from within. The second shows us +Ignorance—alas! poor Arminian!—hailing, in a sad +twilight, the ferryman Vain-Hope; and in the third we behold him, +bound hand and foot, and black already with the hue of his +eternal fate, carried high over the mountain-tops of the world by +two angels of the anger of the Lord. ‘Carried to +Another Place,’ the artist enigmatically names his +plate—a terrible design.</p> +<p>Wherever he touches on the black side of the supernatural his +pencil grows more daring and incisive. He has many true +inventions in the perilous and diabolic; he has many startling +nightmares realised. It is not easy to select the best; +some may like one and some another; the nude, depilated devil +bounding and casting darts against the Wicket Gate; the scroll of +flying horrors that hang over Christian by the Mouth of Hell; the +horned shade that comes behind him whispering blasphemies; the +daylight breaking through that rent cave-mouth of the mountains +and falling chill adown the haunted tunnel; Christian’s +further progress along the causeway, between the two black pools, +where, at every yard or two, a gin, a pitfall, or a snare awaits +the passer-by—loathsome white devilkins harbouring close +under the bank to work the springes, Christian himself pausing +and pricking with his sword’s point at the nearest noose, +and pale discomfortable mountains rising on the farther side; or +yet again, the two ill-favoured ones that beset the first of +Christian’s journey, with the frog-like structure of the +skull, the frog-like limberness of limbs—crafty, slippery, +lustful-looking devils, drawn always in outline as though +possessed of a dim, infernal luminosity. Horrid fellows are +they, one and all; horrid fellows and horrific scenes. In +another spirit that Good-Conscience ‘to whom Mr. Honest had +spoken in his lifetime,’ a cowled, grey, awful figure, one +hand pointing to the heavenly shore, realises, I will not say +all, but some at least of the strange impressiveness of +Bunyan’s words. It is no easy nor pleasant thing to +speak in one’s lifetime with Good-Conscience; he is an +austere, unearthly friend, whom maybe Torquemada knew; and the +folds of his raiment are not merely claustral, but have something +of the horror of the pall. Be not afraid, however; with the +hand of that appearance Mr. Honest will get safe across.</p> +<p>Yet perhaps it is in sequences that this artist best displays +himself. He loves to look at either side of a thing: as, +for instance, when he shows us both sides of the +wall—‘Grace Inextinguishable’ on the one side, +with the devil vainly pouring buckets on the flame, and +‘The Oil of Grace’ on the other, where the Holy +Spirit, vessel in hand, still secretly supplies the fire. +He loves, also, to show us the same event twice over, and to +repeat his instantaneous photographs at the interval of but a +moment. So we have, first, the whole troop of pilgrims +coming up to Valiant, and Great-heart to the front, spear in hand +and parleying; and next, the same cross-roads, from a more +distant view, the convoy now scattered and looking safely and +curiously on, and Valiant handing over for inspection his +‘right Jerusalem blade.’ It is true that this +designer has no great care after consistency: Apollyon’s +spear is laid by, his quiver of darts will disappear, whenever +they might hinder the designer’s freedom; and the +fiend’s tail is blobbed or forked at his good +pleasure. But this is not unsuitable to the illustration of +the fervent Bunyan, breathing hurry and momentary +inspiration. He, with his hot purpose, hunting sinners with +a lasso, shall himself forget the things that he has written +yesterday. He shall first slay Heedless in the Valley of +the Shadow, and then take leave of him talking in his sleep, as +if nothing had happened, in an arbour on the Enchanted +Ground. And again, in his rhymed prologue, he shall assign +some of the glory of the siege of Doubting Castle to his +favourite Valiant-for-the-Truth, who did not meet with the +besiegers till long after, at that dangerous corner by +Deadman’s Lane. And, with all inconsistencies and +freedoms, there is a power shown in these sequences of cuts: a +power of joining on one action or one humour to another; a power +of following out the moods, even of the dismal subterhuman fiends +engendered by the artist’s fancy; a power of sustained +continuous realisation, step by step, in nature’s order, +that can tell a story, in all its ins and outs, its pauses and +surprises, fully and figuratively, like the art of words.</p> +<p>One such sequence is the fight of Christian and +Apollyon—six cuts, weird and fiery, like the text. +The pilgrim is throughout a pale and stockish figure; but the +devil covers a multitude of defects. There is no better +devil of the conventional order than our artist’s Apollyon, +with his mane, his wings, his bestial legs, his changing and +terrifying expression, his infernal energy to slay. In cut +the first you see him afar off, still obscure in form, but +already formidable in suggestion. Cut the second, +‘The Fiend in Discourse,’ represents him, not +reasoning, railing rather, shaking his spear at the pilgrim, his +shoulder advanced, his tail writhing in the air, his foot ready +for a spring, while Christian stands back a little, timidly +defensive. The third illustrates these magnificent words: +‘Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole breadth of +the way, and said, I am void of fear in this matter: prepare +thyself to die; for I swear by my infernal den that thou shalt go +no farther: here will I spill thy soul! And with that he +threw a flaming dart at his breast.’ In the cut he +throws a dart with either hand, belching pointed flames out of +his mouth, spreading his broad vans, and straddling the while +across the path, as only a fiend can straddle who has just sworn +by his infernal den. The defence will not be long against +such vice, such flames, such red-hot nether energy. And in +the fourth cut, to be sure, he has leaped bodily upon his victim, +sped by foot and pinion, and roaring as he leaps. The fifth +shows the climacteric of the battle; Christian has reached nimbly +out and got his sword, and dealt that deadly home-thrust, the +fiend still stretched upon him, but ‘giving back, as one +that had received his mortal wound.’ The raised head, +the bellowing mouth, the paw clapped upon the sword, the one wing +relaxed in agony, all realise vividly these words of the +text. In the sixth and last, the trivial armed figure of +the pilgrim is seen kneeling with clasped hands on the betrodden +scene of contest and among the shivers of the darts; while just +at the margin the hinder quarters and the tail of Apollyon are +whisking off, indignant and discounted.</p> +<p>In one point only do these pictures seem to be unworthy of the +text, and that point is one rather of the difference of arts than +the difference of artists. Throughout his best and worst, +in his highest and most divine imaginations as in the narrowest +sallies of his sectarianism, the human-hearted piety of Bunyan +touches and ennobles, convinces, accuses the reader. +Through no art beside the art of words can the kindness of a +man’s affections be expressed. In the cuts you shall +find faithfully parodied the quaintness and the power, the +triviality and the surprising freshness of the author’s +fancy; there you shall find him out-stripped in ready symbolism +and the art of bringing things essentially invisible before the +eyes: but to feel the contact of essential goodness, to be made +in love with piety, the book must be read and not the prints +examined.</p> +<p>Farewell should not be taken with a grudge; nor can I dismiss +in any other words than those of gratitude a series of pictures +which have, to one at least, been the visible embodiment of +Bunyan from childhood up, and shown him, through all his years, +Great-heart lungeing at Giant Maul, and Apollyon breathing fire +at Christian, and every turn and town along the road to the +Celestial City, and that bright place itself, seen as to a stave +of music, shining afar off upon the hill-top, the candle of the +world.</p> +<h2>SKETCHES</h2> +<h3>I. THE SATIRIST</h3> +<p>My companion enjoyed a cheap reputation for wit and +insight. He was by habit and repute a satirist. If he +did occasionally condemn anything or anybody who richly deserved +it, and whose demerits had hitherto escaped, it was simply +because he condemned everything and everybody. While I was +with him he disposed of St. Paul with an epigram, shook my +reverence for Shakespeare in a neat antithesis, and fell foul of +the Almighty Himself, on the score of one or two out of the ten +commandments. Nothing escaped his blighting censure. +At every sentence he overthrew an idol, or lowered my estimation +of a friend. I saw everything with new eyes, and could only +marvel at my former blindness. How was it possible that I +had not before observed A’s false hair, B’s +selfishness, or C’s boorish manners? I and my +companion, methought, walked the streets like a couple of gods +among a swarm of vermin; for every one we saw seemed to bear +openly upon his brow the mark of the apocalyptic beast. I +half expected that these miserable beings, like the people of +Lystra, would recognise their betters and force us to the altar; +in which case, warned by the late of Paul and Barnabas, I do not +know that my modesty would have prevailed upon me to +decline. But there was no need for such churlish +virtue. More blinded than the Lycaonians, the people saw no +divinity in our gait; and as our temporary godhead lay more in +the way of observing than healing their infirmities, we were +content to pass them by in scorn.</p> +<p>I could not leave my companion, not from regard or even from +interest, but from a very natural feeling, inseparable from the +case. To understand it, let us take a simile. Suppose +yourself walking down the street with a man who continues to +sprinkle the crowd out of a flask of vitriol. You would be +much diverted with the grimaces and contortions of his victims; +and at the same time you would fear to leave his arm until his +bottle was empty, knowing that, when once among the crowd, you +would run a good chance yourself of baptism with his biting +liquor. Now my companion’s vitriol was +inexhaustible.</p> +<p>It was perhaps the consciousness of this, the knowledge that I +was being anointed already out of the vials of his wrath, that +made me fall to criticising the critic, whenever we had +parted.</p> +<p>After all, I thought, our satirist has just gone far enough +into his neighbours to find that the outside is false, without +caring to go farther and discover what is really true. He +is content to find that things are not what they seem, and +broadly generalises from it that they do not exist at all. +He sees our virtues are not what they pretend they are; and, on +the strength of that, he denies us the possession of virtue +altogether. He has learnt the first lesson, that no man is +wholly good; but he has not even suspected that there is another +equally true, to wit, that no man is wholly bad. Like the +inmate of a coloured star, he has eyes for one colour +alone. He has a keen scent after evil, but his nostrils are +plugged against all good, as people plugged their nostrils before +going about the streets of the plague-struck city.</p> +<p>Why does he do this? It is most unreasonable to flee the +knowledge of good like the infection of a horrible disease, and +batten and grow fat in the real atmosphere of a +lazar-house. This was my first thought; but my second was +not like unto it, and I saw that our satirist was wise, wise in +his generation, like the unjust steward. He does not want +light, because the darkness is more pleasant. He does not +wish to see the good, because he is happier without it. I +recollect that when I walked with him, I was in a state of divine +exaltation, such as Adam and Eve must have enjoyed when the +savour of the fruit was still unfaded between their lips; and I +recognise that this must be the man’s habitual state. +He has the forbidden fruit in his waist-coat pocket, and can make +himself a god as often and as long as he likes. He has +raised himself upon a glorious pedestal above his fellows; he has +touched the summit of ambition; and he envies neither King nor +Kaiser, Prophet nor Priest, content in an elevation as high as +theirs, and much more easily attained. Yes, certes, much +more easily attained. He has not risen by climbing himself, +but by pushing others down. He has grown great in his own +estimation, not by blowing himself out, and risking the fate of +Æsop’s frog, but simply by the habitual use of a +diminishing glass on everybody else. And I think altogether +that his is a better, a safer, and a surer recipe than most +others.</p> +<p>After all, however, looking back on what I have written, I +detect a spirit suspiciously like his own. All through, I +have been comparing myself with our satirist, and all through, I +have had the best of the comparison. Well, well, contagion +is as often mental as physical; and I do not think my readers, +who have all been under his lash, will blame me very much for +giving the headsman a mouthful of his own sawdust.</p> +<h3>II. NUITS BLANCHES</h3> +<p>If any one should know the pleasure and pain of a sleepless +night, it should be I. I remember, so long ago, the sickly +child that woke from his few hours’ slumber with the sweat +of a nightmare on his brow, to lie awake and listen and long for +the first signs of life among the silent streets. These +nights of pain and weariness are graven on my mind; and so when +the same thing happened to me again, everything that I heard or +saw was rather a recollection than a discovery.</p> +<p>Weighed upon by the opaque and almost sensible darkness, I +listened eagerly for anything to break the sepulchral +quiet. But nothing came, save, perhaps, an emphatic crack +from the old cabinet that was made by Deacon Brodie, or the dry +rustle of the coals on the extinguished fire. It was a +calm; or I know that I should have heard in the roar and clatter +of the storm, as I have not heard it for so many years, the wild +career of a horseman, always scouring up from the distance and +passing swiftly below the window; yet always returning again from +the place whence first he came, as though, baffled by some higher +power, he had retraced his steps to gain impetus for another and +another attempt.</p> +<p>As I lay there, there arose out of the utter stillness the +rumbling of a carriage a very great way off, that drew near, and +passed within a few streets of the house, and died away as +gradually as it had arisen. This, too, was as a +reminiscence.</p> +<p>I rose and lifted a corner of the blind. Over the black +belt of the garden I saw the long line of Queen Street, with here +and there a lighted window. How often before had my nurse +lifted me out of bed and pointed them out to me, while we +wondered together if, there also, there were children that could +not sleep, and if these lighted oblongs were signs of those that +waited like us for the morning.</p> +<p>I went out into the lobby, and looked down into the great deep +well of the staircase. For what cause I know not, just as +it used to be in the old days that the feverish child might be +the better served, a peep of gas illuminated a narrow circle far +below me. But where I was, all was darkness and silence, +save the dry monotonous ticking of the clock that came +ceaselessly up to my ear.</p> +<p>The final crown of it all, however, the last touch of +reproduction on the pictures of my memory, was the arrival of +that time for which, all night through, I waited and longed of +old. It was my custom, as the hours dragged on, to repeat +the question, ‘When will the carts come in?’ and +repeat it again and again until at last those sounds arose in the +street that I have heard once more this morning. The road +before our house is a great thoroughfare for early carts. I +know not, and I never have known, what they carry, whence they +come, or whither they go. But I know that, long ere dawn, +and for hours together, they stream continuously past, with the +same rolling and jerking of wheels and the same clink of +horses’ feet. It was not for nothing that they made +the burthen of my wishes all night through. They are really +the first throbbings of life, the harbingers of day; and it +pleases you as much to hear them as it must please a shipwrecked +seaman once again to grasp a hand of flesh and blood after years +of miserable solitude. They have the freshness of the +daylight life about them. You can hear the carters cracking +their whips and crying hoarsely to their horses or to one +another; and sometimes even a peal of healthy, harsh +horse-laughter comes up to you through the darkness. There +is now an end of mystery and fear. Like the knocking at the +door in <i>Macbeth</i>, <a name="citation205"></a><a +href="#footnote205" class="citation">[205]</a> or the cry of the +watchman in the <i>Tour de Nesle</i>, they show that the horrible +cæsura is over and the nightmares have fled away, because +the day is breaking and the ordinary life of men is beginning to +bestir itself among the streets.</p> +<p>In the middle of it all I fell asleep, to be wakened by the +officious knocking at my door, and I find myself twelve years +older than I had dreamed myself all night.</p> +<h3>III. THE WREATH OF IMMORTELLES</h3> +<p>It is all very well to talk of death as ‘a pleasant +potion of immortality’, but the most of us, I suspect, are +of ‘queasy stomachs,’ and find it none of the +sweetest. <a name="citation206a"></a><a href="#footnote206a" +class="citation">[206a]</a> The graveyard may be cloak-room +to Heaven; but we must admit that it is a very ugly and offensive +vestibule in itself, however fair may be the life to which it +leads. And though Enoch and Elias went into the temple +through a gate which certainly may be called Beautiful, the rest +of us have to find our way to it through Ezekiel’s +low-bowed door and the vault full of creeping things and all +manner of abominable beasts. Nevertheless, there is a +certain frame of mind to which a cemetery is, if not an antidote, +at least an alleviation. If you are in a fit of the blues, +go nowhere else. It was in obedience to this wise +regulation that the other morning found me lighting my pipe at +the entrance to Old Greyfriars’, thoroughly sick of the +town, the country, and myself.</p> +<p>Two of the men were talking at the gate, one of them carrying +a spade in hands still crusted with the soil of graves. +Their very aspect was delightful to me; and I crept nearer to +them, thinking to pick up some snatch of sexton gossip, some +‘talk fit for a charnel,’ <a +name="citation206b"></a><a href="#footnote206b" +class="citation">[206b]</a> something, in fine, worthy of that +fastidious logician, that adept in coroner’s law, who has +come down to us as the patron of Yaughan’s liquor, and the +very prince of gravediggers. Scots people in general are so +much wrapped up in their profession that I had a good chance of +overhearing such conversation: the talk of fish-mongers running +usually on stockfish and haddocks; while of the Scots sexton I +could repeat stories and speeches that positively smell of the +graveyard. But on this occasion I was doomed to +disappointment. My two friends were far into the region of +generalities. Their profession was forgotten in their +electorship. Politics had engulfed the narrower economy of +grave-digging. ‘Na, na,’ said the one, +‘ye’re a’ wrang.’ ‘The +English and Irish Churches,’ answered the other, in a tone +as if he had made the remark before, and it had been called in +question—‘The English and Irish Churches have +<i>impoverished</i> the country.’</p> +<p>‘Such are the results of education,’ thought I as +I passed beside them and came fairly among the tombs. Here, +at least, there were no commonplace politics, no diluted +this-morning’s leader, to distract or offend me. The +old shabby church showed, as usual, its quaint extent of roofage +and the relievo skeleton on one gable, still blackened with the +fire of thirty years ago. A chill dank mist lay over +all. The Old Greyfriars’ churchyard was in perfection +that morning, and one could go round and reckon up the +associations with no fear of vulgar interruption. On this +stone the Covenant was signed. In that vault, as the story +goes, John Knox took hiding in some Reformation broil. From +that window Burke the murderer looked out many a time across the +tombs, and perhaps o’ nights let himself down over the sill +to rob some new-made grave. Certainly he would have a +selection here. The very walks have been carried over +forgotten resting-places; and the whole ground is uneven, because +(as I was once quaintly told) ‘when the wood rots it stands +to reason the soil should fall in,’ which, from the law of +gravitation, is certainly beyond denial. But it is round +the boundary that there are the finest tombs. The whole +irregular space is, as it were, fringed with quaint old +monuments, rich in death’s-heads and scythes and +hour-glasses, and doubly rich in pious epitaphs and Latin +mottoes—rich in them to such an extent that their proper +space has run over, and they have crawled end-long up the shafts +of columns and ensconced themselves in all sorts of odd corners +among the sculpture. These tombs raise their backs against +the rabble of squalid dwelling-houses, and every here and there a +clothes-pole projects between two monuments its fluttering trophy +of white and yellow and red. With a grim irony they recall +the banners in the Invalides, banners as appropriate perhaps over +the sepulchres of tailors and weavers as these others above the +dust of armies. Why they put things out to dry on that +particular morning it was hard to imagine. The grass was +grey with drops of rain, the headstones black with +moisture. Yet, in despite of weather and common sense, +there they hung between the tombs; and beyond them I could see +through open windows into miserable rooms where whole families +were born and fed, and slept and died. At one a girl sat +singing merrily with her back to the graveyard; and from another +came the shrill tones of a scolding woman. Every here and +there was a town garden full of sickly flowers, or a pile of +crockery inside upon the window-seat. But you do not grasp +the full connection between these houses of the dead and the +living, the unnatural marriage of stately sepulchres and squalid +houses, till, lower down, where the road has sunk far below the +surface of the cemetery, and the very roofs are scarcely on a +level with its wall, you observe that a proprietor has taken +advantage of a tall monument and trained a chimney-stack against +its back. It startles you to see the red, modern pots +peering over the shoulder of the tomb.</p> +<p>A man was at work on a grave, his spade clinking away the +drift of bones that permeates the thin brown soil; but my first +disappointment had taught me to expect little from +Greyfriars’ sextons, and I passed him by in silence. +A slater on the slope of a neighbouring roof eyed me +curiously. A lean black cat, looking as if it had battened +on strange meats, slipped past me. A little boy at a window +put his finger to his nose in so offensive a manner that I was +put upon my dignity, and turned grandly off to read old epitaphs +and peer through the gratings into the shadow of vaults.</p> +<p>Just then I saw two women coming down a path, one of them old, +and the other younger, with a child in her arms. Both had +faces eaten with famine and hardened with sin, and both had +reached that stage of degradation, much lower in a woman than a +man, when all care for dress is lost. As they came down +they neared a grave, where some pious friend or relative had laid +a wreath of immortelles, and put a bell glass over it, as is the +custom. The effect of that ring of dull yellow among so +many blackened and dusty sculptures was more pleasant than it is +in modern cemeteries, where every second mound can boast a +similar coronal; and here, where it was the exception and not the +rule, I could even fancy the drops of moisture that dimmed the +covering were the tears of those who laid it where it was. +As the two women came up to it, one of them kneeled down on the +wet grass and looked long and silently through the clouded shade, +while the second stood above her, gently oscillating to and fro +to lull the muling baby. I was struck a great way off with +something religious in the attitude of these two unkempt and +haggard women; and I drew near faster, but still cautiously, to +hear what they were saying. Surely on them the spirit of +death and decay had descended; I had no education to dread here: +should I not have a chance of seeing nature? Alas! a +pawnbroker could not have been more practical and commonplace, +for this was what the kneeling woman said to the woman +upright—this and nothing more: ‘Eh, what +extravagance!’</p> +<p>O nineteenth century, wonderful art thou +indeed—wonderful, but wearisome in thy stale and deadly +uniformity. Thy men are more like numerals than men. +They must bear their idiosyncrasies or their professions written +on a placard about their neck, like the scenery in +Shakespeare’s theatre. Thy precepts of economy have +pierced into the lowest ranks of life; and there is now a decorum +in vice, a respectability among the disreputable, a pure spirit +of Philistinism among the waifs and strays of thy Bohemia. +For lo! thy very gravediggers talk politics; and thy castaways +kneel upon new graves, to discuss the cost of the monument and +grumble at the improvidence of love.</p> +<p>Such was the elegant apostrophe that I made as I went out of +the gates again, happily satisfied in myself, and feeling that I +alone of all whom I had seen was able to profit by the silent +poem of these green mounds and blackened headstones.</p> +<h3>IV. NURSES</h3> +<p>I knew one once, and the room where, lonely and old, she +waited for death. It was pleasant enough, high up above the +lane, and looking forth upon a hill-side, covered all day with +sheets and yellow blankets, and with long lines of underclothing +fluttering between the battered posts. There were any +number of cheap prints, and a drawing by one of ‘her +children,’ and there were flowers in the window, and a +sickly canary withered into consumption in an ornamental +cage. The bed, with its checked coverlid, was in a +closet. A great Bible lay on the table; and her drawers +were full of ‘scones,’ which it was her pleasure to +give to young visitors such as I was then.</p> +<p>You may not think this a melancholy picture; but the canary, +and the cat, and the white mouse that she had for a while, and +that died, were all indications of the want that ate into her +heart. I think I know a little of what that old woman felt; +and I am as sure as if I had seen her, that she sat many an hour +in silent tears, with the big Bible open before her clouded +eyes.</p> +<p>If you could look back upon her life, and feel the great chain +that had linked her to one child after another, sometimes to be +wrenched suddenly through, and sometimes, which is infinitely +worse, to be torn gradually off through years of growing neglect, +or perhaps growing dislike! She had, like the mother, +overcome that natural repugnance—repugnance which no man +can conquer—towards the infirm and helpless mass of putty +of the earlier stage. She had spent her best and happiest +years in tending, watching, and learning to love like a mother +this child, with which she has no connection and to which she has +no tie. Perhaps she refused some sweetheart (such things +have been), or put him off and off, until he lost heart and +turned to some one else, all for fear of leaving this creature +that had wound itself about her heart. And the end of it +all—her month’s warning, and a present perhaps, and +the rest of the life to vain regret. Or, worse still, to +see the child gradually forgetting and forsaking her, fostered in +disrespect and neglect on the plea of growing manliness, and at +last beginning to treat her as a servant whom he had treated a +few years before as a mother. She sees the Bible or the +Psalm-book, which with gladness and love unutterable in her heart +she had bought for him years ago out of her slender savings, +neglected for some newer gift of his father, lying in dust in the +lumber-room or given away to a poor child, and the act applauded +for its unfeeling charity. Little wonder if she becomes +hurt and angry, and attempts to tyrannise and to grasp her old +power back again. We are not all patient Grizzels, by good +fortune, but the most of us human beings with feelings and +tempers of our own.</p> +<p>And so, in the end, behold her in the room that I +described. Very likely and very naturally, in some fling of +feverish misery or recoil of thwarted love, she has quarrelled +with her old employers and the children are forbidden to see her +or to speak to her; or at best she gets her rent paid and a +little to herself, and now and then her late charges are sent up +(with another nurse, perhaps) to pay her a short visit. How +bright these visits seem as she looks forward to them on her +lonely bed! How unsatisfactory their realisation, when the +forgetful child, half wondering, checks with every word and +action the outpouring of her maternal love! How bitter and +restless the memories that they leave behind! And for the +rest, what else has she?—to watch them with eager eyes as +they go to school, to sit in church where she can see them every +Sunday, to be passed some day unnoticed in the street, or +deliberately cut because the great man or the great woman are +with friends before whom they are ashamed to recognise the old +woman that loved them.</p> +<p>When she goes home that night, how lonely will the room appear +to her! Perhaps the neighbours may hear her sobbing to +herself in the dark, with the fire burnt out for want of fuel, +and the candle still unlit upon the table.</p> +<p>And it is for this that they live, these +quasi-mothers—mothers in everything but the travail and the +thanks. It is for this that they have remained virtuous in +youth, living the dull life of a household servant. It is +for this that they refused the old sweetheart, and have no +fireside or offspring of their own.</p> +<p>I believe in a better state of things, that there will be no +more nurses, and that every mother will nurse her own offspring; +for what can be more hardening and demoralising than to call +forth the tenderest feelings of a woman’s heart and cherish +them yourself as long as you need them, as long as your children +require a nurse to love them, and then to blight and thwart and +destroy them, whenever your own use for them is at an end. +This may be Utopian; but it is always a little thing if one +mother or two mothers can be brought to feel more tenderly to +those who share their toil and have no part in their reward.</p> +<h3>V. A CHARACTER</h3> +<p>The man has a red, bloated face, and his figure is short and +squat. So far there is nothing in him to notice, but when +you see his eyes, you can read in these hard and shallow orbs a +depravity beyond measure depraved, a thirst after wickedness, the +pure, disinterested love of Hell for its own sake. The +other night, in the street, I was watching an omnibus passing +with lit-up windows, when I heard some one coughing at my side as +though he would cough his soul out; and turning round, I saw him +stopping under a lamp, with a brown greatcoat buttoned round him +and his whole face convulsed. It seemed as if he could not +live long; and so the sight set my mind upon a train of thought, +as I finished my cigar up and down the lighted streets.</p> +<p>He is old, but all these years have not yet quenched his +thirst for evil, and his eyes still delight themselves in +wickedness. He is dumb; but he will not let that hinder his +foul trade, or perhaps I should say, his yet fouler amusement, +and he has pressed a slate into the service of corruption. +Look at him, and he will sign to you with his bloated head, and +when you go to him in answer to the sign, thinking perhaps that +the poor dumb man has lost his way, you will see what he writes +upon his slate. He haunts the doors of schools, and shows +such inscriptions as these to the innocent children that come +out. He hangs about picture-galleries, and makes the +noblest pictures the text for some silent homily of vice. +His industry is a lesson to ourselves. Is it not wonderful +how he can triumph over his infirmities and do such an amount of +harm without a tongue? Wonderful industry—strange, +fruitless, pleasureless toil? Must not the very devil feel +a soft emotion to see his disinterested and laborious +service? Ah, but the devil knows better than this: he knows +that this man is penetrated with the love of evil and that all +his pleasure is shut up in wickedness: he recognises him, +perhaps, as a fit type for mankind of his satanic self, and +watches over his effigy as we might watch over a favourite +likeness. As the business man comes to love the toil, which +he only looked upon at first as a ladder towards other desires +and less unnatural gratifications, so the dumb man has felt the +charm of his trade and fallen captivated before the eyes of +sin. It is a mistake when preachers tell us that vice is +hideous and loathsome; for even vice has her Hörsel and her +devotees, who love her for her own sake.</p> +<h2>THE GREAT NORTH ROAD</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I—NANCE AT THE ‘GREEN DRAGON’</h3> +<p>Nance Holdaway was on her knees before the fire blowing the +green wood that voluminously smoked upon the dogs, and only now +and then shot forth a smothered flame; her knees already ached +and her eyes smarted, for she had been some while at this +ungrateful task, but her mind was gone far away to meet the +coming stranger. Now she met him in the wood, now at the +castle gate, now in the kitchen by candle-light; each fresh +presentment eclipsed the one before; a form so elegant, manners +so sedate, a countenance so brave and comely, a voice so winning +and resolute—sure such a man was never seen! The +thick-coming fancies poured and brightened in her head like the +smoke and flames upon the hearth.</p> +<p>Presently the heavy foot of her uncle Jonathan was heard upon +the stair, and as he entered the room she bent the closer to her +work. He glanced at the green fagots with a sneer, and +looked askance at the bed and the white sheets, at the strip of +carpet laid, like an island, on the great expanse of the stone +floor, and at the broken glazing of the casement clumsily +repaired with paper.</p> +<p>‘Leave that fire a-be,’ he cried. +‘What, have I toiled all my life to turn innkeeper at the +hind end? Leave it a-be, I say.’</p> +<p>‘La, uncle, it doesn’t burn a bit; it only +smokes,’ said Nance, looking up from her position.</p> +<p>‘You are come of decent people on both sides,’ +returned the old man. ‘Who are you to blow the coals +for any Robin-run-agate? Get up, get on your hood, make +yourself useful, and be off to the “Green +Dragon.”’</p> +<p>‘I thought you was to go yourself,’ Nance +faltered.</p> +<p>‘So did I,’ quoth Jonathan; ‘but it appears +I was mistook.’</p> +<p>The very excess of her eagerness alarmed her, and she began to +hang back. ‘I think I would rather not, dear +uncle,’ she said. ‘Night is at hand, and I +think, dear, I would rather not.’</p> +<p>‘Now you look here,’ replied Jonathan, ‘I +have my lord’s orders, have I not? Little he gives +me, but it’s all my livelihood. And do you fancy, if +I disobey my lord, I’m likely to turn round for a lass like +you? No, I’ve that hell-fire of pain in my old knee, +I wouldn’t walk a mile, not for King George upon his bended +knees.’ And he walked to the window and looked down +the steep scarp to where the river foamed in the bottom of the +dell.</p> +<p>Nance stayed for no more bidding. In her own room, by +the glimmer of the twilight, she washed her hands and pulled on +her Sunday mittens; adjusted her black hood, and tied a dozen +times its cherry ribbons; and in less than ten minutes, with a +fluttering heart and excellently bright eyes, she passed forth +under the arch and over the bridge, into the thickening shadows +of the groves. A well-marked wheel-track conducted +her. The wood, which upon both sides of the river dell was +a mere scrambling thicket of hazel, hawthorn, and holly, boasted +on the level of more considerable timber. Beeches came to a +good growth, with here and there an oak; and the track now passed +under a high arcade of branches, and now ran under the open sky +in glades. As the girl proceeded these glades became more +frequent, the trees began again to decline in size, and the wood +to degenerate into furzy coverts. Last of all there was a +fringe of elders; and beyond that the track came forth upon an +open, rolling moorland, dotted with wind-bowed and scanty bushes, +and all golden brown with the winter, like a grouse. Right +over against the girl the last red embers of the sunset burned +under horizontal clouds; the night fell clear and still and +frosty, and the track in low and marshy passages began to crackle +under foot with ice.</p> +<p>Some half a mile beyond the borders of the wood the lights of +the ‘Green Dragon’ hove in sight, and running close +beside them, very faint in the dying dusk, the pale ribbon of the +Great North Road. It was the back of the post-house that +was presented to Nance Holdaway; and as she continued to draw +near and the night to fall more completely, she became aware of +an unusual brightness and bustle. A post-chaise stood in +the yard, its lamps already lighted: light shone hospitably in +the windows and from the open door; moving lights and shadows +testified to the activity of servants bearing lanterns. The +clank of pails, the stamping of hoofs on the firm causeway, the +jingle of harness, and, last of all, the energetic hissing of a +groom, began to fall upon her ear. By the stir you would +have thought the mail was at the door, but it was still too early +in the night. The down mail was not due at the ‘Green +Dragon’ for hard upon an hour; the up mail from Scotland +not before two in the black morning.</p> +<p>Nance entered the yard somewhat dazzled. Sam, the tall +ostler, was polishing a curb-chain wit sand; the lantern at his +feet letting up spouts of candle-light through the holes with +which its conical roof was peppered.</p> +<p>‘Hey, miss,’ said he jocularly, ‘you +won’t look at me any more, now you have gentry at the +castle.’</p> +<p>Her cheeks burned with anger.</p> +<p>‘That’s my lord’s chay,’ the man +continued, nodding at the chaise, ‘Lord +Windermoor’s. Came all in a fluster—dinner, +bowl of punch, and put the horses to. For all the world like a +runaway match, my dear—bar the bride. He brought Mr. +Archer in the chay with him.’</p> +<p>‘Is that Holdaway?’ cried the landlord from the +lighted entry, where he stood shading his eyes.</p> +<p>‘Only me, sir,’ answered Nance.</p> +<p>‘O, you, Miss Nance,’ he said. ‘Well, +come in quick, my pretty. My lord is waiting for your +uncle.’</p> +<p>And he ushered Nance into a room cased with yellow wainscot +and lighted by tall candles, where two gentlemen sat at a table +finishing a bowl of punch. One of these was stout, elderly, +and irascible, with a face like a full moon, well dyed with +liquor, thick tremulous lips, a short, purple hand, in which he +brandished a long pipe, and an abrupt and gobbling +utterance. This was my Lord Windermoor. In his +companion Nance beheld a younger man, tall, quiet, grave, +demurely dressed, and wearing his own hair. Her glance but +lighted on him, and she flushed, for in that second she made sure +that she had twice betrayed herself—betrayed by the +involuntary flash of her black eyes her secret impatience to +behold this new companion, and, what was far worse, betrayed her +disappointment in the realisation of her dreams. He, +meanwhile, as if unconscious, continued to regard her with +unmoved decorum.</p> +<p>‘O, a man of wood,’ thought Nance.</p> +<p>‘What—what?’ said his lordship. +‘Who is this?’</p> +<p>‘If you please, my lord, I am Holdaway’s +niece,’ replied Nance, with a curtsey.</p> +<p>‘Should have been here himself,’ observed his +lordship. ‘Well, you tell Holdaway that I’m +aground, not a stiver—not a stiver. I’m running +from the beagles—going abroad, tell Holdaway. And he +need look for no more wages: glad of ’em myself, if I could +get ’em. He can live in the castle if he likes, or go +to the devil. O, and here is Mr. Archer; and I recommend +him to take him in—a friend of mine—and Mr. Archer +will pay, as I wrote. And I regard that in the light of a +precious good thing for Holdaway, let me tell you, and a set-off +against the wages.’</p> +<p>‘But O, my lord!’ cried Nance, ‘we live upon +the wages, and what are we to do without?’</p> +<p>‘What am I to do?—what am I to do?’ replied +Lord Windermoor with some exasperation. ‘I have no +wages. And there is Mr. Archer. And if Holdaway +doesn’t like it, he can go to the devil, and you with +him!—and you with him!’</p> +<p>‘And yet, my lord,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘these +good people will have as keen a sense of loss as you or I; +keener, perhaps, since they have done nothing to deserve +it.’</p> +<p>‘Deserve it?’ cried the peer. +‘What? What? If a rascally highwayman comes up +to me with a confounded pistol, do you say that I’ve +deserved it? How often am I to tell you, sir, that I was +cheated—that I was cheated?’</p> +<p>‘You are happy in the belief,’ returned Mr. Archer +gravely.</p> +<p>‘Archer, you would be the death of me!’ exclaimed +his lordship. ‘You know you’re drunk; you know +it, sir; and yet you can’t get up a spark of +animation.’</p> +<p>‘I have drunk fair, my lord,’ replied the younger +man; ‘but I own I am conscious of no +exhilaration.’</p> +<p>‘If you had as black a look-out as me, sir,’ cried +the peer, ‘you would be very glad of a little innocent +exhilaration, let me tell you. I am glad of it—glad +of it, and I only wish I was drunker. For let me tell you +it’s a cruel hard thing upon a man of my time of life and +my position, to be brought down to beggary because the world is +full of thieves and rascals—thieves and rascals. +What? For all I know, you may be a thief and a rascal +yourself; and I would fight you for a pinch of snuff—a +pinch of snuff,’ exclaimed his lordship.</p> +<p>Here Mr. Archer turned to Nance Holdaway with a pleasant +smile, so full of sweetness, kindness, and composure that, at one +bound, her dreams returned to her. ‘My good Miss +Holdaway,’ said he, ‘if you are willing to show me +the road, I am even eager to be gone. As for his lordship +and myself, compose yourself; there is no fear; this is his +lordship’s way.’</p> +<p>‘What? what?’ cried his lordship. ‘My +way? Ish no such a thing, my way.’</p> +<p>‘Come, my lord,’ cried Archer; ‘you and I +very thoroughly understand each other; and let me suggest, it is +time that both of us were gone. The mail will soon be +due. Here, then, my lord, I take my leave of you, with the +most earnest assurance of my gratitude for the past, and a +sincere offer of any services I may be able to render in the +future.’</p> +<p>‘Archer,’ exclaimed Lord Windermoor, ‘I love +you like a son. Le’ ’s have another +bowl.’</p> +<p>‘My lord, for both our sakes, you will excuse me,’ +replied Mr. Archer. ‘We both require caution; we must +both, for some while at least, avoid the chance of a +pursuit.’</p> +<p>‘Archer,’ quoth his lordship, ‘this is a +rank ingratishood. What? I’m to go firing away +in the dark in the cold po’chaise, and not so much as a +game of écarté possible, unless I stop and play +with the postillion, the postillion; and the whole country +swarming with thieves and rascals and highwaymen.’</p> +<p>‘I beg your lordship’s pardon,’ put in the +landlord, who now appeared in the doorway to announce the chaise, +‘but this part of the North Road is known for safety. +There has not been a robbery, to call a robbery, this five +years’ time. Further south, of course, it’s +nearer London, and another story,’ he added.</p> +<p>‘Well, then, if that’s so,’ concluded my +lord, ‘le’ ’s have t’other bowl and a +pack of cards.’</p> +<p>‘My lord, you forget,’ said Archer, ‘I might +still gain; but it is hardly possible for me to lose.’</p> +<p>‘Think I’m a sharper?’ inquired the +peer. ‘Gen’leman’s parole’s all I +ask.’</p> +<p>But Mr. Archer was proof against these blandishments, and said +farewell gravely enough to Lord Windermoor, shaking his hand and +at the same time bowing very low. ‘You will never +know,’ says he, ‘the service you have done +me.’ And with that, and before my lord had finally +taken up his meaning, he had slipped about the table, touched +Nance lightly but imperiously on the arm, and left the +room. In face of the outbreak of his lordship’s +lamentations she made haste to follow the truant.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II—IN WHICH MR. ARCHER IS INSTALLED</h3> +<p>The chaise had been driven round to the front door; the +courtyard lay all deserted, and only lit by a lantern set upon a +window-sill. Through this Nance rapidly led the way, and +began to ascend the swellings of the moor with a heart that +somewhat fluttered in her bosom. She was not afraid, but in +the course of these last passages with Lord Windermoor Mr. Archer +had ascended to that pedestal on which her fancy waited to instal +him. The reality, she felt, excelled her dreams, and this +cold night walk was the first romantic incident in her +experience.</p> +<p>It was the rule in these days to see gentlemen unsteady after +dinner, yet Nance was both surprised and amused when her +companion, who had spoken so soberly, began to stumble and waver +by her side with the most airy divagations. Sometimes he +would get so close to her that she must edge away; and at others +lurch clear out of the track and plough among deep heather. +His courtesy and gravity meanwhile remained unaltered. He +asked her how far they had to go; whether the way lay all upon +the moorland, and when he learned they had to pass a wood +expressed his pleasure. ‘For,’ said he, +‘I am passionately fond of trees. Trees and fair +lawns, if you consider of it rightly, are the ornaments of +nature, as palaces and fine approaches—’ And +here he stumbled into a patch of slough and nearly fell. +The girl had hard work not to laugh, but at heart she was lost in +admiration for one who talked so elegantly.</p> +<p>They had got to about a quarter of a mile from the +‘Green Dragon,’ and were near the summit of the rise, +when a sudden rush of wheels arrested them. Turning and +looking back, they saw the post-house, now much declined in +brightness; and speeding away northward the two tremulous bright +dots of my Lord Windermoor’s chaise-lamps. Mr. Archer +followed these yellow and unsteady stars until they dwindled into +points and disappeared.</p> +<p>‘There goes my only friend,’ he said. +‘Death has cut off those that loved me, and change of +fortune estranged my flatterers; and but for you, poor bankrupt, +my life is as lonely as this moor.’</p> +<p>The tone of his voice affected both of them. They stood +there on the side of the moor, and became thrillingly conscious +of the void waste of the night, without a feature for the eye, +and except for the fainting whisper of the carriage-wheels +without a murmur for the ear. And instantly, like a +mockery, there broke out, very far away, but clear and jolly, the +note of the mail-guard’s horn. ‘Over the +hills’ was his air. It rose to the two watchers on +the moor with the most cheerful sentiment of human company and +travel, and at the same time in and around the ‘Green +Dragon’ it woke up a great bustle of lights running to and +fro and clattering hoofs. Presently after, out of the +darkness to southward, the mail grew near with a growing +rumble. Its lamps were very large and bright, and threw +their radiance forward in overlapping cones; the four cantering +horses swarmed and steamed; the body of the coach followed like a +great shadow; and this lit picture slid with a sort of +ineffectual swiftness over the black field of night, and was +eclipsed by the buildings of the ‘Green Dragon.’</p> +<p>Mr. Archer turned abruptly and resumed his former walk; only +that he was now more steady, kept better alongside his young +conductor, and had fallen into a silence broken by sighs. +Nance waxed very pitiful over his fate, contrasting an imaginary +past of courts and great society, and perhaps the King himself, +with the tumbledown ruin in a wood to which she was now +conducting him.</p> +<p>‘You must try, sir, to keep your spirits up,’ said +she. ‘To be sure this is a great change for one like +you; but who knows the future?’</p> +<p>Mr. Archer turned towards her in the darkness, and she could +clearly perceive that he smiled upon her very kindly. +‘There spoke a sweet nature,’ said he, ‘and I +must thank you for these words. But I would not have you +fancy that I regret the past for any happiness found in it, or +that I fear the simplicity and hardship of the country. I +am a man that has been much tossed about in life; now up, now +down; and do you think that I shall not be able to support what +you support—you who are kind, and therefore know how to +feel pain; who are beautiful, and therefore hope; who are young, +and therefore (or am I the more mistaken?) +discontented?’</p> +<p>‘Nay, sir, not that, at least,’ said Nance; +‘not discontented. If I were to be discontented, how +should I look those that have real sorrows in the face? I +have faults enough, but not that fault; and I have my merits too, +for I have a good opinion of myself. But for beauty, I am +not so simple but that I can tell a banter from a +compliment.’</p> +<p>‘Nay, nay,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘I had half +forgotten; grief is selfish, and I was thinking of myself and not +of you, or I had never blurted out so bold a piece of +praise. ’Tis the best proof of my sincerity. +But come, now, I would lay a wager you are no coward?’</p> +<p>‘Indeed, sir, I am not more afraid than another,’ +said Nance. ‘None of my blood are given to +fear.’</p> +<p>‘And you are honest?’ he returned.</p> +<p>‘I will answer for that,’ said she.</p> +<p>‘Well, then, to be brave, to be honest, to be kind, and +to be contented, since you say you are so—is not that to +fill up a great part of virtue?’</p> +<p>‘I fear you are but a flatterer,’ said Nance, but +she did not say it clearly, for what with bewilderment and +satisfaction, her heart was quite oppressed.</p> +<p>There could be no harm, certainly, in these grave compliments; +but yet they charmed and frightened her, and to find favour, for +reasons however obscure, in the eyes of this elegant, serious, +and most unfortunate young gentleman, was a giddy elevation, was +almost an apotheosis, for a country maid.</p> +<p>But she was to be no more exercised; for Mr. Archer, +disclaiming any thought of flattery, turned off to other +subjects, and held her all through the wood in conversation, +addressing her with an air of perfect sincerity, and listening to +her answers with every mark of interest. Had open flattery +continued, Nance would have soon found refuge in good sense; but +the more subtle lure she could not suspect, much less +avoid. It was the first time she had ever taken part in a +conversation illuminated by any ideas. All was then true +that she had heard and dreamed of gentlemen; they were a race +apart, like deities knowing good and evil. And then there +burst upon her soul a divine thought, hope’s glorious +sunrise: since she could understand, since it seemed that she +too, even she, could interest this sorrowful Apollo, might she +not learn? or was she not learning? Would not her soul +awake and put forth wings? Was she not, in fact, an +enchanted princess, waiting but a touch to become royal? +She saw herself transformed, radiantly attired, but in the most +exquisite taste: her face grown longer and more refined; her tint +etherealised; and she heard herself with delighted wonder talking +like a book.</p> +<p>Meanwhile they had arrived at where the track comes out above +the river dell, and saw in front of them the castle, faintly +shadowed on the night, covering with its broken battlements a +bold projection of the bank, and showing at the extreme end, +where were the habitable tower and wing, some crevices of +candle-light. Hence she called loudly upon her uncle, and +he was seen to issue, lantern in hand, from the tower door, and, +where the ruins did not intervene, to pick his way over the +swarded courtyard, avoiding treacherous cellars and winding among +blocks of fallen masonry. The arch of the great gate was +still entire, flanked by two tottering bastions, and it was here +that Jonathan met them, standing at the edge of the bridge, bent +somewhat forward, and blinking at them through the glow of his +own lantern. Mr. Archer greeted him with civility; but the +old man was in no humour of compliance. He guided the +newcomer across the court-yard, looking sharply and quickly in +his face, and grumbling all the time about the cold, and the +discomfort and dilapidation of the castle. He was sure he +hoped that Mr. Archer would like it; but in truth he could not +think what brought him there. Doubtless he had a good +reason—this with a look of cunning scrutiny—but, +indeed, the place was quite unfit for any person of repute; he +himself was eaten up with the rheumatics. It was the most +rheumaticky place in England, and some fine day the whole +habitable part (to call it habitable) would fetch away bodily and +go down the slope into the river. He had seen the cracks +widening; there was a plaguy issue in the bank below; he thought +a spring was mining it; it might be to-morrow, it might be next +day; but they were all sure of a come-down sooner or later. +‘And that is a poor death,’ said he, ‘for any +one, let alone a gentleman, to have a whole old ruin dumped upon +his belly. Have a care to your left there; these cellar +vaults have all broke down, and the grass and hemlock hide +’em. Well, sir, here is welcome to you, such as it +is, and wishing you well away.’</p> +<p>And with that Jonathan ushered his guest through the tower +door, and down three steps on the left hand into the kitchen or +common room of the castle. It was a huge, low room, as +large as a meadow, occupying the whole width of the habitable +wing, with six barred windows looking on the court, and two into +the river valley. A dresser, a table, and a few chairs +stood dotted here and there upon the uneven flags. Under +the great chimney a good fire burned in an iron fire-basket; a +high old settee, rudely carved with figures and Gothic lettering, +flanked it on either side; there was a hinge table and a stone +bench in the chimney corner, and above the arch hung guns, axes, +lanterns, and great sheaves of rusty keys.</p> +<p>Jonathan looked about him, holding up the lantern, and +shrugged his shoulders, with a pitying grimace. ‘Here +it is,’ he said. ‘See the damp on the floor, +look at the moss; where there’s moss you may be sure that +it’s rheumaticky. Try and get near that fire for to +warm yourself; it’ll blow the coat off your back. And +with a young gentleman with a face like yours, as pale as a +tallow-candle, I’d be afeard of a churchyard cough and a +galloping decline,’ says Jonathan, naming the maladies with +gloomy gusto, ‘or the cold might strike and turn your +blood,’ he added.</p> +<p>Mr. Archer fairly laughed. ‘My good Mr. +Holdaway,’ said he, ‘I was born with that same +tallow-candle face, and the only fear that you inspire me with is +the fear that I intrude unwelcomely upon your private +hours. But I think I can promise you that I am very little +troublesome, and I am inclined to hope that the terms which I can +offer may still pay you the derangement.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, the terms,’ said Jonathan, ‘I was +thinking of that. As you say, they are very small,’ +and he shook his head.</p> +<p>‘Unhappily, I can afford no more,’ said Mr. +Archer. ‘But this we have arranged already,’ he +added with a certain stiffness; ‘and as I am aware that +Miss Holdaway has matter to communicate, I will, if you permit, +retire at once. To-night I must bivouac; to-morrow my trunk +is to follow from the “Dragon.” So if you will +show me to my room I shall wish you a good slumber and a better +awakening.’</p> +<p>Jonathan silently gave the lantern to Nance, and she, turning +and curtseying in the doorway, proceeded to conduct their guest +up the broad winding staircase of the tower. He followed +with a very brooding face.</p> +<p>‘Alas!’ cried Nance, as she entered the room, +‘your fire black out,’ and, setting down the lantern, +she clapped upon her knees before the chimney and began to +rearrange the charred and still smouldering remains. Mr. +Archer looked about the gaunt apartment with a sort of +shudder. The great height, the bare stone, the shattered +windows, the aspect of the uncurtained bed, with one of its four +fluted columns broken short, all struck a chill upon his +fancy. From this dismal survey his eyes returned to Nance +crouching before the fire, the candle in one hand and artfully +puffing at the embers; the flames as they broke forth played upon +the soft outline of her cheek—she was alive and young, +coloured with the bright hues of life, and a woman. He +looked upon her, softening; and then sat down and continued to +admire the picture.</p> +<p>‘There, sir,’ said she, getting upon her feet, +‘your fire is doing bravely now. +Good-night.’</p> +<p>He rose and held out his hand. ‘Come,’ said +he, ‘you are my only friend in these parts, and you must +shake hands.’</p> +<p>She brushed her hand upon her skirt and offered it, +blushing.</p> +<p>‘God bless you, my dear,’ said he.</p> +<p>And then, when he was alone, he opened one of the windows, and +stared down into the dark valley. A gentle wimpling of the +river among stones ascended to his ear; the trees upon the other +bank stood very black against the sky; farther away an owl was +hooting. It was dreary and cold, and as he turned back to +the hearth and the fine glow of fire, ‘Heavens!’ said +he to himself, ‘what an unfortunate destiny is +mine!’</p> +<p>He went to bed, but sleep only visited his pillow in uneasy +snatches. Outbreaks of loud speech came up the staircase; +he heard the old stones of the castle crack in the frosty night +with sharp reverberations, and the bed complained under his +tossings. Lastly, far on into the morning, he awakened from +a doze to hear, very far off, in the extreme and breathless +quiet, a wailing flourish on the horn. The down mail was +drawing near to the ‘Green Dragon.’ He sat up +in bed; the sound was tragical by distance, and the modulation +appealed to his ear like human speech. It seemed to call +upon him with a dreary insistence—to call him far away, to +address him personally, and to have a meaning that he failed to +seize. It was thus, at least, in this nodding castle, in a +cold, miry woodland, and so far from men and society, that the +traffic on the Great North Road spoke to him in the intervals of +slumber.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III—JONATHAN HOLDAWAY</h3> +<p>Nance descended the tower stair, pausing at every step. +She was in no hurry to confront her uncle with bad news, and she +must dwell a little longer on the rich note of Mr. Archer’s +voice, the charm of his kind words, and the beauty of his manner +and person. But, once at the stair-foot, she threw aside +the spell and recovered her sensible and workaday self.</p> +<p>Jonathan was seated in the middle of the settle, a mug of ale +beside him, in the attitude of one prepared for trouble; but he +did not speak, and suffered her to fetch her supper and eat of +it, with a very excellent appetite, in silence. When she +had done, she, too, drew a tankard of home-brewed, and came and +planted herself in front of him upon the settle.</p> +<p>‘Well?’ said Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘My lord has run away,’ said Nance.</p> +<p>‘What?’ cried the old man.</p> +<p>‘Abroad,’ she continued; ‘run away from +creditors. He said he had not a stiver, but he was drunk +enough. He said you might live on in the castle, and Mr. +Archer would pay you; but you was to look for no more wages, +since he would be glad of them himself.’</p> +<p>Jonathan’s face contracted; the flush of a black, +bilious anger mounted to the roots of his hair; he gave an +inarticulate cry, leapt upon his feet, and began rapidly pacing +the stone floor. At first he kept his hands behind his back +in a tight knot; then he began to gesticulate as he turned.</p> +<p>‘This man—this lord,’ he shouted, ‘who +is he? He was born with a gold spoon in his mouth, and I +with a dirty straw. He rolled in his coach when he was a +baby. I have dug and toiled and laboured since I was that +high—that high.’ And he shouted again. +‘I’m bent and broke, and full of pains. +D’ ye think I don’t know the taste of sweat? +Many’s the gallon I’ve drunk of it—ay, in the +midwinter, toiling like a slave. All through, what has my +life been? Bend, bend, bend my old creaking back till it +would ache like breaking; wade about in the foul mire, never a +dry stitch; empty belly, sore hands, hat off to my Lord Redface; +kicks and ha’pence; and now, here, at the hind end, when +I’m worn to my poor bones, a kick and done with +it.’ He walked a little while in silence, and then, +extending his hand, ‘Now you, Nance Holdaway,’ says +he, ‘you come of my blood, and you’re a good +girl. When that man was a boy, I used to carry his gun for +him. I carried the gun all day on my two feet, and many a +stitch I had, and chewed a bullet for. He rode upon a +horse, with feathers in his hat; but it was him that had the +shots and took the game home. Did I complain? Not +I. I knew my station. What did I ask, but just the +chance to live and die honest? Nance Holdaway, don’t +let them deny it to me—don’t let them do it. +I’ve been as poor as Job, and as honest as the day, but +now, my girl, you mark these words of mine, I’m getting +tired of it.’</p> +<p>‘I wouldn’t say such words, at least,’ said +Nance.</p> +<p>‘You wouldn’t?’ said the old man +grimly. ‘Well, and did I when I was your age? +Wait till your back’s broke and your hands tremble, and +your eyes fail, and you’re weary of the battle and ask no +more but to lie down in your bed and give the ghost up like an +honest man; and then let there up and come some insolent, ungodly +fellow—ah! if I had him in these hands! +“Where’s my money that you gambled?” I should +say. “Where’s my money that you drank and +diced?” “Thief!” is what I would say; +“Thief!”’ he roared, +‘“Thief”’</p> +<p>‘Mr. Archer will hear you if you don’t take +care,’ said Nance, ‘and I would be ashamed, for one, +that he should hear a brave, old, honest, hard-working man like +Jonathan Holdaway talk nonsense like a boy.’</p> +<p>‘D’ ye think I mind for Mr. Archer?’ he +cried shrilly, with a clack of laughter; and then he came close +up to her, stooped down with his two palms upon his knees, and +looked her in the eyes, with a strange hard expression, something +like a smile. ‘Do I mind for God, my girl?’ he +said; ‘that’s what it’s come to be now, do I +mind for God?’</p> +<p>‘Uncle Jonathan,’ she said, getting up and taking +him by the arm; ‘you sit down again, where you were +sitting. There, sit still; I’ll have no more of this; +you’ll do yourself a mischief. Come, take a drink of +this good ale, and I’ll warm a tankard for you. La, +we’ll pull through, you’ll see. I’m +young, as you say, and it’s my turn to carry the bundle; +and don’t you worry your bile, or we’ll have +sickness, too, as well as sorrow.’</p> +<p>‘D’ ye think that I’d forgotten you?’ +said Jonathan, with something like a groan; and thereupon his +teeth clicked to, and he sat silent with the tankard in his hand +and staring straight before him.</p> +<p>‘Why,’ says Nance, setting on the ale to mull, +‘men are always children, they say, however old; and if +ever I heard a thing like this, to set to and make yourself sick, +just when the money’s failing. Keep a good heart up; +you haven’t kept a good heart these seventy years, nigh +hand, to break down about a pound or two. Here’s this +Mr. Archer come to lodge, that you disliked so much. Well, +now you see it was a clear Providence. Come, let’s +think upon our mercies. And here is the ale mulling lovely; +smell of it; I’ll take a drop myself, it smells so +sweet. And, Uncle Jonathan, you let me say one word. +You’ve lost more than money before now; you lost my aunt, +and bore it like a man. Bear this.’</p> +<p>His face once more contracted; his fist doubled, and shot +forth into the air, and trembled. ‘Let them look +out!’ he shouted. ‘Here, I warn all men; +I’ve done with this foul kennel of knaves. Let them +look out!’</p> +<p>‘Hush, hush! for pity’s sake,’ cried +Nance.</p> +<p>And then all of a sudden he dropped his face into his hands, +and broke out with a great hiccoughing dry sob that was horrible +to hear. ‘O,’ he cried, ‘my God, if my +son hadn’t left me, if my Dick was here!’ and the +sobs shook him; Nance sitting still and watching him, with +distress. ‘O, if he were here to help his +father!’ he went on again. ‘If I had a son like +other fathers, he would save me now, when all is breaking down; +O, he would save me! Ay, but where is he? Raking +taverns, a thief perhaps. My curse be on him!’ he +added, rising again into wrath.</p> +<p>‘Hush!’ cried Nance, springing to her feet: +‘your boy, your dead wife’s boy—Aunt +Susan’s baby that she loved—would you curse +him? O, God forbid!’</p> +<p>The energy of her address surprised him from his mood. +He looked upon her, tearless and confused. ‘Let me go +to my bed,’ he said at last, and he rose, and, shaking as +with ague, but quite silent, lighted his candle, and left the +kitchen.</p> +<p>Poor Nance! the pleasant current of her dreams was all +diverted. She beheld a golden city, where she aspired to +dwell; she had spoken with a deity, and had told herself that she +might rise to be his equal; and now the earthly ligaments that +bound her down had been tightened. She was like a tree +looking skyward, her roots were in the ground. It seemed to +her a thing so coarse, so rustic, to be thus concerned about a +loss in money; when Mr. Archer, fallen from the sky-level of +counts and nobles, faced his changed destiny with so immovable a +courage. To weary of honesty; that, at least, no one could +do, but even to name it was already a disgrace; and she beheld in +fancy her uncle, and the young lad, all laced and feathered, hand +upon hip, bestriding his small horse. The opposition seemed +to perpetuate itself from generation to generation; one side +still doomed to the clumsy and the servile, the other born to +beauty.</p> +<p>She thought of the golden zones in which gentlemen were bred, +and figured with so excellent a grace; zones in which wisdom and +smooth words, white linen and slim hands, were the mark of the +desired inhabitants; where low temptations were unknown, and +honesty no virtue, but a thing as natural as breathing.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV—MINGLING THREADS</h3> +<p>It was nearly seven before Mr. Archer left his +apartment. On the landing he found another door beside his +own opening on a roofless corridor, and presently he was walking +on the top of the ruins. On one hand he could look down a +good depth into the green court-yard; on the other his eye roved +along the downward course of the river, the wet woods all +smoking, the shadows long and blue, the mists golden and rosy in +the sun, here and there the water flashing across an +obstacle. His heart expanded and softened to a grateful +melancholy, and with his eye fixed upon the distance, and no +thought of present danger, he continued to stroll along the +elevated and treacherous promenade.</p> +<p>A terror-stricken cry rose to him from the courtyard. He +looked down, and saw in a glimpse Nance standing below with hands +clasped in horror and his own foot trembling on the margin of a +gulf. He recoiled and leant against a pillar, quaking from +head to foot, and covering his face with his hands; and Nance had +time to run round by the stair and rejoin him where he stood +before he had changed a line of his position.</p> +<p>‘Ah!’ he cried, and clutched her wrist; +‘don’t leave me. The place rocks; I have no +head for altitudes.’</p> +<p>‘Sit down against that pillar,’ said Nance. +‘Don’t you be afraid; I won’t leave you, and +don’t look up or down: look straight at me. How white +you are!’</p> +<p>‘The gulf,’ he said, and closed his eyes again and +shuddered.</p> +<p>‘Why,’ said Nance, ‘what a poor climber you +must be! That was where my cousin Dick used to get out of +the castle after Uncle Jonathan had shut the gate. +I’ve been down there myself with him helping me. I +wouldn’t try with you,’ she said, and laughed +merrily.</p> +<p>The sound of her laughter was sincere and musical, and perhaps +its beauty barbed the offence to Mr. Archer. The blood came +into his face with a quick jet, and then left it paler than +before. ‘It is a physical weakness,’ he said +harshly, ‘and very droll, no doubt, but one that I can +conquer on necessity. See, I am still shaking. Well, +I advance to the battlements and look down. Show me your +cousin’s path.’</p> +<p>‘He would go sure-foot along that little ledge,’ +said Nance, pointing as she spoke; ‘then out through the +breach and down by yonder buttress. It is easier coming +back, of course, because you see where you are going. From +the buttress foot a sheep-walk goes along the scarp—see, +you can follow it from here in the dry grass. And now, +sir,’ she added, with a touch of womanly pity, ‘I +would come away from here if I were you, for indeed you are not +fit.’</p> +<p>Sure enough Mr. Archer’s pallor and agitation had +continued to increase; his cheeks were deathly, his clenched +fingers trembled pitifully. ‘The weakness is +physical,’ he sighed, and had nearly fallen. Nance +led him from the spot, and he was no sooner back in the +tower-stair, than he fell heavily against the wall and put his +arm across his eyes. A cup of brandy had to be brought him +before he could descend to breakfast; and the perfection of +Nance’s dream was for the first time troubled.</p> +<p>Jonathan was waiting for them at table, with yellow, +blood-shot eyes and a peculiar dusky complexion. He hardly +waited till they found their seats, before, raising one hand, and +stooping with his mouth above his plate, he put up a prayer for a +blessing on the food and a spirit of gratitude in the eaters, and +thereupon, and without more civility, fell to. But it was +notable that he was no less speedily satisfied than he had been +greedy to begin. He pushed his plate away and drummed upon +the table.</p> +<p>‘These are silly prayers,’ said he, ‘that +they teach us. Eat and be thankful, that’s no such +wonder. Speak to me of starving—there’s the +touch. You’re a man, they tell me, Mr. Archer, that +has met with some reverses?’</p> +<p>‘I have met with many,’ replied Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘Ha!’ said Jonathan. ‘None reckons but +the last. Now, see; I tried to make this girl here +understand me.’</p> +<p>‘Uncle,’ said Nance, ‘what should Mr. Archer +care for your concerns? He hath troubles of his own, and +came to be at peace, I think.’</p> +<p>‘I tried to make her understand me,’ repeated +Jonathan doggedly; ‘and now I’ll try you. Do +you think this world is fair?’</p> +<p>‘Fair and false!’ quoth Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>The old man laughed immoderately. ‘Good,’ +said he, ‘very good, but what I mean is this: do you know +what it is to get up early and go to bed late, and never take so +much as a holiday but four: and one of these your own marriage +day, and the other three the funerals of folk you loved, and all +that, to have a quiet old age in shelter, and bread for your old +belly, and a bed to lay your crazy bones upon, with a clear +conscience?’</p> +<p>‘Sir,’ said Mr. Archer, with an inclination of his +head, ‘you portray a very brave existence.’</p> +<p>‘Well,’ continued Jonathan, ‘and in the end +thieves deceive you, thieves rob and rook you, thieves turn you +out in your old age and send you begging. What have you got +for all your honesty? A fine return! You that might +have stole scores of pounds, there you are out in the rain with +your rheumatics!’</p> +<p>Mr. Archer had forgotten to eat; with his hand upon his chin +he was studying the old man’s countenance. ‘And +you conclude?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Conclude!’ cried Jonathan. ‘I +conclude I’ll be upsides with them.’</p> +<p>‘Ay,’ said the other, ‘we are all tempted to +revenge.’</p> +<p>‘You have lost money?’ asked Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘A great estate,’ said Archer quietly.</p> +<p>‘See now!’ says Jonathan, ‘and where is +it?’</p> +<p>‘Nay, I sometimes think that every one has had his share +of it but me,’ was the reply. ‘All England hath +paid his taxes with my patrimony: I was a sheep that left my wool +on every briar.’</p> +<p>‘And you sit down under that?’ cried the old +man. ‘Come now, Mr. Archer, you and me belong to +different stations; and I know mine—no man better—but +since we have both been rooked, and are both sore with it, why, +here’s my hand with a very good heart, and I ask for yours, +and no offence, I hope.’</p> +<p>‘There is surely no offence, my friend,’ returned +Mr. Archer, as they shook hands across the table; ‘for, +believe me, my sympathies are quite acquired to you. This +life is an arena where we fight with beasts; and, indeed,’ +he added, sighing, ‘I sometimes marvel why we go down to it +unarmed.’</p> +<p>In the meanwhile a creaking of ungreased axles had been heard +descending through the wood; and presently after, the door +opened, and the tall ostler entered the kitchen carrying one end +of Mr. Archer’s trunk. The other was carried by an +aged beggar man of that district, known and welcome for some +twenty miles about under the name of ‘Old +Cumberland.’ Each was soon perched upon a settle, +with a cup of ale; and the ostler, who valued himself upon his +affability, began to entertain the company, still with half an +eye on Nance, to whom in gallant terms he expressly dedicated +every sip of ale. First he told of the trouble they had to +get his Lordship started in the chaise; and how he had dropped a +rouleau of gold on the threshold, and the passage and doorstep +had been strewn with guinea-pieces. At this old Jonathan +looked at Mr. Archer. Next the visitor turned to news of a +more thrilling character: how the down mail had been stopped +again near Grantham by three men on horseback—a white and +two bays; how they had handkerchiefs on their faces; how Tom the +guard’s blunderbuss missed fire, but he swore he had winged +one of them with a pistol; and how they had got clean away with +seventy pounds in money, some valuable papers, and a watch or +two.</p> +<p>‘Brave! brave!’ cried Jonathan in ecstasy. +‘Seventy pounds! O, it’s brave!’</p> +<p>‘Well, I don’t see the great bravery,’ +observed the ostler, misapprehending him. ‘Three men, +and you may call that three to one. I’ll call it +brave when some one stops the mail single-handed; that’s a +risk.’</p> +<p>‘And why should they hesitate?’ inquired Mr. +Archer. ‘The poor souls who are fallen to such a way +of life, pray what have they to lose? If they get the +money, well; but if a ball should put them from their troubles, +why, so better.’</p> +<p>‘Well, sir,’ said the ostler, ‘I believe +you’ll find they won’t agree with you. They +count on a good fling, you see; or who would risk it?—And +here’s my best respects to you, Miss Nance.’</p> +<p>‘And I forgot the part of cowardice,’ resumed Mr. +Archer. ‘All men fear.’</p> +<p>‘O, surely not!’ cried Nance.</p> +<p>‘All men,’ reiterated Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘Ay, that’s a true word,’ observed Old +Cumberland, ‘and a thief, anyway, for it’s a +coward’s trade.’</p> +<p>‘But these fellows, now,’ said Jonathan, with a +curious, appealing manner—‘these fellows with their +seventy pounds! Perhaps, Mr. Archer, they were no true +thieves after all, but just people who had been robbed and tried +to get their own again. What was that you said, about all +England and the taxes? One takes, another gives; why, +that’s almost fair. If I’ve been rooked and +robbed, and the coat taken off my back, I call it almost fair to +take another’s.’</p> +<p>‘Ask Old Cumberland,’ observed the ostler; +‘you ask Old Cumberland, Miss Nance!’ and he bestowed +a wink upon his favoured fair one.</p> +<p>‘Why that?’ asked Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘He had his coat taken—ay, and his shirt +too,’ returned the ostler.</p> +<p>‘Is that so?’ cried Jonathan eagerly. +‘Was you robbed too?’</p> +<p>‘That was I,’ replied Cumberland, ‘with a +warrant! I was a well-to-do man when I was +young.’</p> +<p>‘Ay! See that!’ says Jonathan. +‘And you don’t long for a revenge?’</p> +<p>‘Eh! Not me!’ answered the beggar. +‘It’s too long ago. But if you’ll give me +another mug of your good ale, my pretty lady, I won’t say +no to that.’</p> +<p>‘And shalt have! And shalt have!’ cried +Jonathan. ‘Or brandy even, if you like it +better.’</p> +<p>And as Cumberland did like it better, and the ostler chimed +in, the party pledged each other in a dram of brandy before +separating.</p> +<p>As for Nance, she slipped forth into the ruins, partly to +avoid the ostler’s gallantries, partly to lament over the +defects of Mr. Archer. Plainly, he was no hero. She +pitied him; she began to feel a protecting interest mingle with +and almost supersede her admiration, and was at the same time +disappointed and yet drawn to him. She was, indeed, +conscious of such unshaken fortitude in her own heart, that she +was almost tempted by an occasion to be bold for two. She +saw herself, in a brave attitude, shielding her imperfect hero +from the world; and she saw, like a piece of heaven, his +gratitude for her protection.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V—LIFE IN THE CASTLE</h3> +<p>From that day forth the life of these three persons in the +ruin ran very smoothly. Mr. Archer now sat by the fire with +a book, and now passed whole days abroad, returning late, dead +weary. His manner was a mask; but it was half transparent; +through the even tenor of his gravity and courtesy profound +revolutions of feeling were betrayed, seasons of numb despair, of +restlessness, of aching temper. For days he would say +nothing beyond his usual courtesies and solemn compliments; and +then, all of a sudden, some fine evening beside the kitchen fire, +he would fall into a vein of elegant gossip, tell of strange and +interesting events, the secrets of families, brave deeds of war, +the miraculous discovery of crime, the visitations of the +dead. Nance and her uncle would sit till the small hours +with eyes wide open: Jonathan applauding the unexpected incidents +with many a slap of his big hand; Nance, perhaps, more pleased +with the narrator’s eloquence and wise reflections; and +then, again, days would follow of abstraction, of listless +humming, of frequent apologies and long hours of silence. +Once only, and then after a week of unrelieved melancholy, he +went over to the ‘Green Dragon,’ spent the afternoon +with the landlord and a bowl of punch, and returned as on the +first night, devious in step but courteous and unperturbed of +speech.</p> +<p>If he seemed more natural and more at his ease it was when he +found Nance alone; and, laying by some of his reserve, talked +before her rather than to her of his destiny, character and +hopes. To Nance these interviews were but a doubtful +privilege. At times he would seem to take a pleasure in her +presence, to consult her gravely, to hear and to discuss her +counsels; at times even, but these were rare and brief, he would +talk of herself, praise the qualities that she possessed, touch +indulgently on her defects, and lend her books to read and even +examine her upon her reading; but far more often he would fall +into a half unconsciousness, put her a question and then answer +it himself, drop into the veiled tone of voice of one +soliloquising, and leave her at last as though he had forgotten +her existence. It was odd, too, that in all this random +converse, not a fact of his past life, and scarce a name, should +ever cross his lips. A profound reserve kept watch upon his +most unguarded moments. He spoke continually of himself, +indeed, but still in enigmas; a veiled prophet of egoism.</p> +<p>The base of Nance’s feelings for Mr. Archer was +admiration as for a superior being; and with this, his treatment, +consciously or not, accorded happily. When he forgot her, +she took the blame upon herself. His formal politeness was +so exquisite that this essential brutality stood excused. +His compliments, besides, were always grave and rational; he +would offer reason for his praise, convict her of merit, and thus +disarm suspicion. Nay, and the very hours when he forgot +and remembered her alternately could by the ardent fallacies of +youth be read in the light of an attention. She might be +far from his confidence; but still she was nearer it than any +one. He might ignore her presence, but yet he sought +it.</p> +<p>Moreover, she, upon her side, was conscious of one point of +superiority. Beside this rather dismal, rather effeminate +man, who recoiled from a worm, who grew giddy on the castle wall, +who bore so helplessly the weight of his misfortunes, she felt +herself a head and shoulders taller in cheerful and sterling +courage. She could walk head in air along the most +precarious rafter; her hand feared neither the grossness nor the +harshness of life’s web, but was thrust cheerfully, if need +were, into the briar bush, and could take hold of any crawling +horror. Ruin was mining the walls of her cottage, as +already it had mined and subverted Mr. Archer’s +palace. Well, she faced it with a bright countenance and a +busy hand. She had got some washing, some rough seamstress +work from the ‘Green Dragon,’ and from another +neighbour ten miles away across the moor. At this she +cheerfully laboured, and from that height she could afford to +pity the useless talents and poor attitude of Mr. Archer. +It did not change her admiration, but it made it bearable. +He was above her in all ways; but she was above him in one. +She kept it to herself, and hugged it. When, like all young +creatures, she made long stories to justify, to nourish, and to +forecast the course of her affection, it was this private +superiority that made all rosy, that cut the knot, and that, at +last, in some great situation, fetched to her knees the dazzling +but imperfect hero. With this pretty exercise she beguiled +the hours of labour, and consoled herself for Mr. Archer’s +bearing.</p> +<p>Pity was her weapon and her weakness. To accept the +loved one’s faults, although it has an air of freedom, is +to kiss the chain, and this pity it was which, lying nearer to +her heart, lent the one element of true emotion to a fanciful and +merely brain-sick love.</p> +<p>Thus it fell out one day that she had gone to the ‘Green +Dragon’ and brought back thence a letter to Mr. +Archer. He, upon seeing it, winced like a man under the +knife: pain, shame, sorrow, and the most trenchant edge of +mortification cut into his heart and wrung the steady composure +of his face.</p> +<p>‘Dear heart! have you bad news?’ she cried.</p> +<p>But he only replied by a gesture and fled to his room, and +when, later on, she ventured to refer to it, he stopped her on +the threshold, as if with words prepared beforehand. +‘There are some pains,’ said he, ‘too acute for +consolation, or I would bring them to my kind consoler. Let +the memory of that letter, if you please, be buried.’ +And then as she continued to gaze at him, being, in spite of +herself, pained by his elaborate phrase, doubtfully sincere in +word and manner: ‘Let it be enough,’ he added +haughtily, ‘that if this matter wring my heart, it doth not +touch my conscience. I am a man, I would have you to know, +who suffers undeservedly.’</p> +<p>He had never spoken so directly: never with so convincing an +emotion; and her heart thrilled for him. She could have +taken his pains and died of them with joy.</p> +<p>Meanwhile she was left without support. Jonathan now +swore by his lodger, and lived for him. He was a fine +talker. He knew the finest sight of stories; he was a man +and a gentleman, take him for all in all, and a perfect credit to +Old England. Such were the old man’s declared +sentiments, and sure enough he clung to Mr. Archer’s side, +hung upon his utterance when he spoke, and watched him with +unwearing interest when he was silent. And yet his feeling +was not clear; in the partial wreck of his mind, which was +leaning to decay, some after-thought was strongly present. +As he gazed in Mr. Archer’s face a sudden brightness would +kindle in his rheumy eyes, his eye-brows would lift as with a +sudden thought, his mouth would open as though to speak, and +close again on silence. Once or twice he even called Mr. +Archer mysteriously forth into the dark courtyard, took him by +the button, and laid a demonstrative finger on his chest; but +there his ideas or his courage failed him; he would shufflingly +excuse himself and return to his position by the fire without a +word of explanation. ‘The good man was growing +old,’ said Mr. Archer with a suspicion of a shrug. +But the good man had his idea, and even when he was alone the +name of Mr. Archer fell from his lips continually in the course +of mumbled and gesticulative conversation.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VI—THE BAD HALF-CROWN</h3> +<p>However early Nance arose, and she was no sluggard, the old +man, who had begun to outlive the earthly habit of slumber, would +usually have been up long before, the fire would be burning +brightly, and she would see him wandering among the ruins, +lantern in hand, and talking assiduously to himself. One +day, however, after he had returned late from the market town, +she found that she had stolen a march upon that indefatigable +early riser. The kitchen was all blackness. She +crossed the castle-yard to the wood-cellar, her steps printing +the thick hoarfrost. A scathing breeze blew out of the +north-east and slowly carried a regiment of black and tattered +clouds over the face of heaven, which was already kindled with +the wild light of morning, but where she walked, in shelter of +the ruins, the flame of her candle burned steady. The +extreme cold smote upon her conscience. She could not bear +to think this bitter business fell usually to the lot of one so +old as Jonathan, and made desperate resolutions to be earlier in +the future.</p> +<p>The fire was a good blaze before he entered, limping dismally +into the kitchen. ‘Nance,’ said he, ‘I be +all knotted up with the rheumatics; will you rub me a +bit?’ She came and rubbed him where and how he bade +her. ‘This is a cruel thing that old age should be +rheumaticky,’ said he. ‘When I was young I +stood my turn of the teethache like a man! for why? because it +couldn’t last for ever; but these rheumatics come to live +and die with you. Your aunt was took before the time came; +never had an ache to mention. Now I lie all night in my +single bed and the blood never warms in me; this knee of mine it +seems like lighted up with rheumatics; it seems as though you +could see to sew by it; and all the strings of my old body ache, +as if devils was pulling ’em. Thank you kindly; +that’s someways easier now, but an old man, my dear, has +little to look for; it’s pain, pain, pain to the end of the +business, and I’ll never be rightly warm again till I get +under the sod,’ he said, and looked down at her with a face +so aged and weary that she had nearly wept.</p> +<p>‘I lay awake all night,’ he continued; ‘I do +so mostly, and a long walk kills me. Eh, deary me, to think +that life should run to such a puddle! And I remember long +syne when I was strong, and the blood all hot and good about me, +and I loved to run, too—deary me, to run! Well, +that’s all by. You’d better pray to be took +early, Nance, and not live on till you get to be like me, and are +robbed in your grey old age, your cold, shivering, dark old age, +that’s like a winter’s morning’; and he +bitterly shuddered, spreading his hands before the fire.</p> +<p>‘Come now,’ said Nance, ‘the more you say +the less you’ll like it, Uncle Jonathan; but if I were you +I would be proud for to have lived all your days honest and +beloved, and come near the end with your good name: isn’t +that a fine thing to be proud of? Mr. Archer was telling me +in some strange land they used to run races each with a lighted +candle, and the art was to keep the candle burning. Well, +now, I thought that was like life: a man’s good conscience +is the flame he gets to carry, and if he comes to the +winning-post with that still burning, why, take it how you will, +the man’s a hero—even if he was low-born like you and +me.’</p> +<p>‘Did Mr. Archer tell you that?’ asked +Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘No, dear,’ said she, ‘that’s my own +thought about it. He told me of the race. But see, +now,’ she continued, putting on the porridge, ‘you +say old age is a hard season, but so is youth. You’re +half out of the battle, I would say; you loved my aunt and got +her, and buried her, and some of these days soon you’ll go +to meet her; and take her my love and tell her I tried to take +good care of you; for so I do, Uncle Jonathan.’</p> +<p>Jonathan struck with his fist upon the settle. +‘D’ ye think I want to die, ye vixen?’ he +shouted. ‘I want to live ten hundred +years.’</p> +<p>This was a mystery beyond Nance’s penetration, and she +stared in wonder as she made the porridge.</p> +<p>‘I want to live,’ he continued, ‘I want to +live and to grow rich. I want to drive my carriage and to +dice in hells and see the ring, I do. Is this a life that I +lived? I want to be a rake, d’ ye understand? I +want to know what things are like. I don’t want to +die like a blind kitten, and me seventy-six.’</p> +<p>‘O fie!’ said Nance.</p> +<p>The old man thrust out his jaw at her, with the grimace of an +irreverent schoolboy. Upon that aged face it seemed a +blasphemy. Then he took out of his bosom a long leather +purse, and emptying its contents on the settle, began to count +and recount the pieces, ringing and examining each, and suddenly +he leapt like a young man. ‘What!’ he +screamed. ‘Bad? O Lord! I’m robbed +again!’ And falling on his knees before the settle he +began to pour forth the most dreadful curses on the head of his +deceiver. His eyes were shut, for to him this vile +solemnity was prayer. He held up the bad half-crown in his +right hand, as though he were displaying it to Heaven, and what +increased the horror of the scene, the curses he invoked were +those whose efficacy he had tasted—old age and poverty, +rheumatism and an ungrateful son. Nance listened appalled; +then she sprang forward and dragged down his arm and laid her +hand upon his mouth.</p> +<p>‘Whist!’ she cried. ‘Whist ye, for +God’s sake! O my man, whist ye! If Heaven were +to hear; if poor Aunt Susan were to hear! Think, she may be +listening.’ And with the histrionism of strong +emotion she pointed to a corner of the kitchen.</p> +<p>His eyes followed her finger. He looked there for a +little, thinking, blinking; then he got stiffly to his feet and +resumed his place upon the settle, the bad piece still in his +hand. So he sat for some time, looking upon the half-crown, +and now wondering to himself on the injustice and partiality of +the law, now computing again and again the nature of his +loss. So he was still sitting when Mr. Archer entered the +kitchen. At this a light came into his face, and after some +seconds of rumination he dispatched Nance upon an errand.</p> +<p>‘Mr. Archer,’ said he, as soon as they were alone +together, ‘would you give me a guinea-piece for +silver?’</p> +<p>‘Why, sir, I believe I can,’ said Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>And the exchange was just effected when Nance re-entered the +apartment. The blood shot into her face.</p> +<p>‘What’s to do here?’ she asked rudely.</p> +<p>‘Nothing, my dearie,’ said old Jonathan, with a +touch of whine.</p> +<p>‘What’s to do?’ she said again.</p> +<p>‘Your uncle was but changing me a piece of gold,’ +returned Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘Let me see what he hath given you, Mr. Archer,’ +replied the girl. ‘I had a bad piece, and I fear it +is mixed up among the good.’</p> +<p>‘Well, well,’ replied Mr. Archer, smiling, +‘I must take the merchant’s risk of it. The +money is now mixed.’</p> +<p>‘I know my piece,’ quoth Nance. ‘Come, +let me see your silver, Mr. Archer. If I have to get it by +a theft I’ll see that money,’ she cried.</p> +<p>‘Nay, child, if you put as much passion to be honest as +the world to steal, I must give way, though I betray +myself,’ said Mr. Archer. ‘There it is as I +received it.’</p> +<p>Nance quickly found the bad half-crown.</p> +<p>‘Give him another,’ she said, looking Jonathan in +the face; and when that had been done, she walked over to the +chimney and flung the guilty piece into the reddest of the +fire. Its base constituents began immediately to run; even +as she watched it the disc crumbled, and the lineaments of the +King became confused. Jonathan, who had followed close +behind, beheld these changes from over her shoulder, and his face +darkened sorely.</p> +<p>‘Now,’ said she, ‘come back to table, and +to-day it is I that shall say grace, as I used to do in the old +times, day about with Dick’; and covering her eyes with one +hand, ‘O Lord,’ said she with deep emotion, +‘make us thankful; and, O Lord, deliver us from evil! +For the love of the poor souls that watch for us in heaven, O +deliver us from evil.’</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VII—THE BLEACHING-GREEN</h3> +<p>The year moved on to March; and March, though it blew bitter +keen from the North Sea, yet blinked kindly between whiles on the +river dell. The mire dried up in the closest covert; life +ran in the bare branches, and the air of the afternoon would be +suddenly sweet with the fragrance of new grass.</p> +<p>Above and below the castle the river crooked like the letter +‘S.’ The lower loop was to the left, and +embraced the high and steep projection which was crowned by the +ruins; the upper loop enclosed a lawny promontory, fringed by +thorn and willow. It was easy to reach it from the castle +side, for the river ran in this part very quietly among +innumerable boulders and over dam-like walls of rock. The +place was all enclosed, the wind a stranger, the turf smooth and +solid; so it was chosen by Nance to be her bleaching-green.</p> +<p>One day she brought a bucketful of linen, and had but begun to +wring and lay them out when Mr. Archer stepped from the thicket +on the far side, drew very deliberately near, and sat down in +silence on the grass. Nance looked up to greet him with a +smile, but finding her smile was not returned, she fell into +embarrassment and stuck the more busily to her employment. +Man or woman, the whole world looks well at any work to which +they are accustomed; but the girl was ashamed of what she +did. She was ashamed, besides, of the sun-bonnet that so +well became her, and ashamed of her bare arms, which were her +greatest beauty.</p> +<p>‘Nausicaa,’ said Mr. Archer at last, ‘I find +you like Nausicaa.’</p> +<p>‘And who was she?’ asked Nance, and laughed in +spite of herself, an empty and embarrassed laugh, that sounded in +Mr. Archer’s ears, indeed, like music, but to her own like +the last grossness of rusticity.</p> +<p>‘She was a princess of the Grecian islands,’ he +replied. ‘A king, being shipwrecked, found her +washing by the shore. Certainly I, too, was +shipwrecked,’ he continued, plucking at the grass. +‘There was never a more desperate castaway—to fall +from polite life, fortune, a shrine of honour, a grateful +conscience, duties willingly taken up and faithfully discharged; +and to fall to this—idleness, poverty, inutility, +remorse.’ He seemed to have forgotten her presence, +but here he remembered her again. ‘Nance,’ said +he, ‘would you have a man sit down and suffer or rise up +and strive?’</p> +<p>‘Nay,’ she said. ‘I would always +rather see him doing.’</p> +<p>‘Ha!’ said Mr. Archer, ‘but yet you speak +from an imperfect knowledge. Conceive a man damned to a +choice of only evil—misconduct upon either side, not a +fault behind him, and yet naught before him but this choice of +sins. How would you say then?’</p> +<p>‘I would say that he was much deceived, Mr. +Archer,’ returned Nance. ‘I would say there was +a third choice, and that the right one.’</p> +<p>‘I tell you,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘the man I +have in view hath two ways open, and no more. One to wait, +like a poor mewling baby, till Fate save or ruin him; the other +to take his troubles in his hand, and to perish or be saved at +once. It is no point of morals; both are wrong. +Either way this step-child of Providence must fall; which shall +he choose, by doing or not doing?’</p> +<p>‘Fall, then, is what I would say,’ replied +Nance. ‘Fall where you will, but do it! For O, +Mr. Archer,’ she continued, stooping to her work, +‘you that are good and kind, and so wise, it doth sometimes +go against my heart to see you live on here like a sheep in a +turnip-field! If you were braver—’ and here she +paused, conscience-smitten.</p> +<p>‘Do I, indeed, lack courage?’ inquired Mr. Archer +of himself. ‘Courage, the footstool of the virtues, +upon which they stand? Courage, that a poor private +carrying a musket has to spare of; that does not fail a weasel or +a rat; that is a brutish faculty? I to fail there, I +wonder? But what is courage, then? The constancy to +endure oneself or to see others suffer? The itch of +ill-advised activity: mere shuttle-wittedness, or to be still and +patient? To inquire of the significance of words is to rob +ourselves of what we seem to know, and yet, of all things, +certainly to stand still is the least heroic. Nance,’ +he said, ‘did you ever hear of <i>Hamlet</i>?’</p> +<p>‘Never,’ said Nance.</p> +<p>‘’Tis an old play,’ returned Mr. Archer, +‘and frequently enacted. This while I have been +talking Hamlet. You must know this Hamlet was a Prince +among the Danes,’ and he told her the play in a very good +style, here and there quoting a verse or two with solemn +emphasis.</p> +<p>‘It is strange,’ said Nance; ‘he was then a +very poor creature?’</p> +<p>‘That was what he could not tell,’ said Mr. +Archer. ‘Look at me, am I as poor a +creature?’</p> +<p>She looked, and what she saw was the familiar thought of all +her hours; the tall figure very plainly habited in black, the +spotless ruffles, the slim hands; the long, well-shapen, serious, +shaven face, the wide and somewhat thin-lipped mouth, the dark +eyes that were so full of depth and change and colour. He +was gazing at her with his brows a little knit, his chin upon one +hand and that elbow resting on his knee.</p> +<p>‘Ye look a man!’ she cried, ‘ay, and should +be a great one! The more shame to you to lie here idle like +a dog before the fire.’</p> +<p>‘My fair Holdaway,’ quoth Mr. Archer, ‘you +are much set on action. I cannot dig, to beg I am +ashamed.’ He continued, looking at her with a +half-absent fixity, ‘’Tis a strange thing, certainly, +that in my years of fortune I should never taste happiness, and +now when I am broke, enjoy so much of it, for was I ever happier +than to-day? Was the grass softer, the stream pleasanter in +sound, the air milder, the heart more at peace? Why should +I not sink? To dig—why, after all, it should be +easy. To take a mate, too? Love is of all grades +since Jupiter; love fails to none; and children’—but +here he passed his hand suddenly over his eyes. ‘O +fool and coward, fool and coward!’ he said bitterly; +‘can you forget your fetters? You did not know that I +was fettered, Nance?’ he asked, again addressing her.</p> +<p>But Nance was somewhat sore. ‘I know you keep +talking,’ she said, and, turning half away from him, began +to wring out a sheet across her shoulder. ‘I wonder +you are not wearied of your voice. When the hands lie abed +the tongue takes a walk.’</p> +<p>Mr. Archer laughed unpleasantly, rose and moved to the +water’s edge. In this part the body of the river +poured across a little narrow fell, ran some ten feet very +smoothly over a bed of pebbles, then getting wind, as it were, of +another shelf of rock which barred the channel, began, by +imperceptible degrees, to separate towards either shore in +dancing currents, and to leave the middle clear and +stagnant. The set towards either side was nearly equal; +about one half of the whole water plunged on the side of the +castle, through a narrow gullet; about one half ran ripping past +the margin of the green and slipped across a babbling rapid.</p> +<p>‘Here,’ said Mr. Archer, after he had looked for +some time at the fine and shifting demarcation of these currents, +‘come here and see me try my fortune.’</p> +<p>‘I am not like a man,’ said Nance; ‘I have +no time to waste.’</p> +<p>‘Come here,’ he said again. ‘I ask you +seriously, Nance. We are not always childish when we seem +so.’</p> +<p>She drew a little nearer.</p> +<p>‘Now,’ said he, ‘you see these two +channels—choose one.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll choose the nearest, to save time,’ +said Nance.</p> +<p>‘Well, that shall be for action,’ returned Mr. +Archer. ‘And since I wish to have the odds against +me, not only the other channel but yon stagnant water in the +midst shall be for lying still. You see this?’ he +continued, pulling up a withered rush. ‘I break it in +three. I shall put each separately at the top of the upper +fall, and according as they go by your way or by the other I +shall guide my life.’</p> +<p>‘This is very silly,’ said Nance, with a movement +of her shoulders.</p> +<p>‘I do not think it so,’ said Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘And then,’ she resumed, ‘if you are to try +your fortune, why not evenly?’</p> +<p>‘Nay,’ returned Mr. Archer with a smile, ‘no +man can put complete reliance in blind fate; he must still cog +the dice.’</p> +<p>By this time he had got upon the rock beside the upper fall, +and, bidding her look out, dropped a piece of rush into the +middle of the intake. The rusty fragment was sucked at once +over the fall, came up again far on the right hand, leaned ever +more and more in the same direction, and disappeared under the +hanging grasses on the castle side.</p> +<p>‘One,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘one for standing +still.’</p> +<p>But the next launch had a different fate, and after hanging +for a while about the edge of the stagnant water, steadily +approached the bleaching-green and danced down the rapid under +Nance’s eyes.</p> +<p>‘One for me,’ she cried with some exultation; and +then she observed that Mr. Archer had grown pale, and was +kneeling on the rock, with his hand raised like a person +petrified. ‘Why,’ said she, ‘you do not +mind it, do you?’</p> +<p>‘Does a man not mind a throw of dice by which a fortune +hangs?’ said Mr. Archer, rather hoarsely. ‘And +this is more than fortune. Nance, if you have any kindness +for my fate, put up a prayer before I launch the next +one.’</p> +<p>‘A prayer,’ she cried, ‘about a game like +this? I would not be so heathen.’</p> +<p>‘Well,’ said he, ‘then without,’ and +he closed his eyes and dropped the piece of rush. This time +there was no doubt. It went for the rapid as straight as +any arrow.</p> +<p>‘Action then!’ said Mr. Archer, getting to his +feet; ‘and then God forgive us,’ he added, almost to +himself.</p> +<p>‘God forgive us, indeed,’ cried Nance, ‘for +wasting the good daylight! But come, Mr. Archer, if I see +you look so serious I shall begin to think you was in +earnest.’</p> +<p>‘Nay,’ he said, turning upon her suddenly, with a +full smile; ‘but is not this good advice? I have +consulted God and demigod; the nymph of the river, and what I far +more admire and trust, my blue-eyed Minerva. Both have said +the same. My own heart was telling it already. +Action, then, be mine; and into the deep sea with all this +paralysing casuistry. I am happy to-day for the first +time.’</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VIII—THE MAIL GUARD</h3> +<p>Somewhere about two in the morning a squall had burst upon the +castle, a clap of screaming wind that made the towers rock, and a +copious drift of rain that streamed from the windows. The +wind soon blew itself out, but the day broke cloudy and dripping, +and when the little party assembled at breakfast their humours +appeared to have changed with the change of weather. Nance +had been brooding on the scene at the river-side, applying it in +various ways to her particular aspirations, and the result, which +was hardly to her mind, had taken the colour out of her +cheeks. Mr. Archer, too, was somewhat absent, his thoughts +were of a mingled strain; and even upon his usually impassive +countenance there were betrayed successive depths of depression +and starts of exultation, which the girl translated in terms of +her own hopes and fears. But Jonathan was the most altered: +he was strangely silent, hardly passing a word, and watched Mr. +Archer with an eager and furtive eye. It seemed as if the +idea that had so long hovered before him had now taken a more +solid shape, and, while it still attracted, somewhat alarmed his +imagination.</p> +<p>At this rate, conversation languished into a silence which was +only broken by the gentle and ghostly noises of the rain on the +stone roof and about all that field of ruins; and they were all +relieved when the note of a man whistling and the sound of +approaching footsteps in the grassy court announced a +visitor. It was the ostler from the ‘Green +Dragon’ bringing a letter for Mr. Archer. Nance saw +her hero’s face contract and then relax again at sight of +it; and she thought that she knew why, for the sprawling, gross +black characters of the address were easily distinguishable from +the fine writing on the former letter that had so much disturbed +him. He opened it and began to read; while the ostler sat +down to table with a pot of ale, and proceeded to make himself +agreeable after his fashion.</p> +<p>‘Fine doings down our way, Miss Nance,’ said +he. ‘I haven’t been abed this blessed +night.’</p> +<p>Nance expressed a polite interest, but her eye was on Mr. +Archer, who was reading his letter with a face of such extreme +indifference that she was tempted to suspect him of +assumption.</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ continued the ostler, ‘not been the +like of it this fifteen years: the North Mail stopped at the +three stones.’</p> +<p>Jonathan’s cup was at his lip, but at this moment he +choked with a great splutter; and Mr. Archer, as if startled by +the noise, made so sudden a movement that one corner of the sheet +tore off and stayed between his finger and thumb. It was +some little time before the old man was sufficiently recovered to +beg the ostler to go on, and he still kept coughing and crying +and rubbing his eyes. Mr. Archer, on his side, laid the +letter down, and, putting his hands in his pocket, listened +gravely to the tale.</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ resumed Sam, ‘the North Mail was +stopped by a single horseman; dash my wig, but I admire +him! There were four insides and two out, and poor Tom +Oglethorpe, the guard. Tom showed himself a man; let fly +his blunderbuss at him; had him covered, too, and could swear to +that; but the Captain never let on, up with a pistol and fetched +poor Tom a bullet through the body. Tom, he squelched upon +the seat, all over blood. Up comes the Captain to the +window. “Oblige me,” says he, “with what +you have.” Would you believe it? Not a man says +cheep!—not them. “Thy hands over thy +head.” Four watches, rings, snuff-boxes, +seven-and-forty pounds overhead in gold. One Dicksee, a +grazier, tries it on: gives him a guinea. “Beg your +pardon,” says the Captain, “I think too highly of you +to take it at your hand. I will not take less than ten from +such a gentleman.” This Dicksee had his money in his +stocking, but there was the pistol at his eye. Down he +goes, offs with his stocking, and there was thirty golden +guineas. “Now,” says the Captain, +“you’ve tried it on with me, but I scorns the +advantage. Ten I said,” he says, “and ten I +take.” So, dash my buttons, I call that man a +man!’ cried Sam in cordial admiration.</p> +<p>‘Well, and then?’ says Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘Then,’ resumed Sam, ‘that old fat fagot +Engleton, him as held the ribbons and drew up like a lamb when he +was told to, picks up his cattle, and drives off again. +Down they came to the “Dragon,” all singing like as +if they was scalded, and poor Tom saying nothing. You would +‘a’ thought they had all lost the King’s crown +to hear them. Down gets this Dicksee. +“Postmaster,” he says, taking him by the arm, +“this is a most abominable thing,” he says. +Down gets a Major Clayton, and gets the old man by the other +arm. “We’ve been robbed,” he cries, +“robbed!” Down gets the others, and all around +the old man telling their story, and what they had lost, and how +they was all as good as ruined; till at last Old Engleton says, +says he, “How about Oglethorpe?” says he. +“Ay,” says the others, “how about the +guard?” Well, with that we bousted him down, as white +as a rag and all blooded like a sop. I thought he was +dead. Well, he ain’t dead; but he’s dying, I +fancy.’</p> +<p>‘Did you say four watches?’ said Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘Four, I think. I wish it had been forty,’ +cried Sam. ‘Such a party of soused herrings I never +did see—not a man among them bar poor Tom. But us +that are the servants on the road have all the risk and none of +the profit.’</p> +<p>‘And this brave fellow,’ asked Mr. Archer, very +quietly, ‘this Oglethorpe—how is he now?’</p> +<p>‘Well, sir, with my respects, I take it he has a hole +bang through him,’ said Sam. ‘The doctor +hasn’t been yet. He’d ‘a’ been +bright and early if it had been a passenger. But, doctor or +no, I’ll make a good guess that Tom won’t see +to-morrow. He’ll die on a Sunday, will poor Tom; and +they do say that’s fortunate.’</p> +<p>‘Did Tom see him that did it?’ asked Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘Well, he saw him,’ replied Sam, ‘but not to +swear by. Said he was a very tall man, and very big, and +had a ’ankerchief about his face, and a very quick shot, +and sat his horse like a thorough gentleman, as he is.’</p> +<p>‘A gentleman!’ cried Nance. ‘The dirty +knave!’</p> +<p>‘Well, I calls a man like that a gentleman,’ +returned the ostler; ‘that’s what I mean by a +gentleman.’</p> +<p>‘You don’t know much of them, then,’ said +Nance.</p> +<p>‘A gentleman would scorn to stoop to such a thing. +I call my uncle a better gentleman than any thief.’</p> +<p>‘And you would be right,’ said Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘How many snuff-boxes did he get?’ asked +Jonathan.</p> +<p>‘O, dang me if I know,’ said Sam; ‘I +didn’t take an inventory.’</p> +<p>‘I will go back with you, if you please,’ said Mr. +Archer. ‘I should like to see poor Oglethorpe. +He has behaved well.’</p> +<p>‘At your service, sir,’ said Sam, jumping to his +feet. ‘I dare to say a gentleman like you would not +forget a poor fellow like Tom—no, nor a plain man like me, +sir, that went without his sleep to nurse him. And excuse +me, sir,’ added Sam, ‘you won’t forget about +the letter neither?’</p> +<p>‘Surely not,’ said Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>Oglethorpe lay in a low bed, one of several in a long garret +of the inn. The rain soaked in places through the roof and +fell in minute drops; there was but one small window; the beds +were occupied by servants, the air of the garret was both close +and chilly. Mr. Archer’s heart sank at the threshold +to see a man lying perhaps mortally hurt in so poor a sick-room, +and as he drew near the low bed he took his hat off. The +guard was a big, blowsy, innocent-looking soul with a thick lip +and a broad nose, comically turned up; his cheeks were crimson, +and when Mr. Archer laid a finger on his brow he found him +burning with fever.</p> +<p>‘I fear you suffer much,’ he said, with a catch in +his voice, as he sat down on the bedside.</p> +<p>‘I suppose I do, sir,’ returned Oglethorpe; +‘it is main sore.’</p> +<p>‘I am used to wounds and wounded men,’ returned +the visitor. ‘I have been in the wars and nursed +brave fellows before now; and, if you will suffer me, I propose +to stay beside you till the doctor comes.’</p> +<p>‘It is very good of you, sir, I am sure,’ said +Oglethorpe. ‘The trouble is they won’t none of +them let me drink.’</p> +<p>‘If you will not tell the doctor,’ said Mr. +Archer, ‘I will give you some water. They say it is +bad for a green wound, but in the Low Countries we all drank +water when we found the chance, and I could never perceive we +were the worse for it.’</p> +<p>‘Been wounded yourself, sir, perhaps?’ called +Oglethorpe.</p> +<p>‘Twice,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘and was as proud +of these hurts as any lady of her bracelets. ’Tis a +fine thing to smart for one’s duty; even in the pangs of it +there is contentment.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, well!’ replied the guard, ‘if +you’ve been shot yourself, that explains. But as for +contentment, why, sir, you see, it smarts, as you say. And +then, I have a good wife, you see, and a bit of a brat—a +little thing, so high.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t move,’ said Mr. Archer.</p> +<p>‘No, sir, I will not, and thank you kindly,’ said +Oglethorpe. ‘At York they are. A very good lass +is my wife—far too good for me. And the little +rascal—well, I don’t know how to say it, but he sort +of comes round you. If I were to go, sir, it would be hard +on my poor girl—main hard on her!’</p> +<p>‘Ay, you must feel bitter hardly to the rogue that laid +you here,’ said Archer.</p> +<p>‘Why, no, sir, more against Engleton and the +passengers,’ replied the guard. ‘He played his +hand, if you come to look at it; and I wish he had shot worse, or +me better. And yet I’ll go to my grave but what I +covered him,’ he cried. ‘It looks like +witchcraft. I’ll go to my grave but what he was drove +full of slugs like a pepper-box.’</p> +<p>‘Quietly,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘you must not +excite yourself. These deceptions are very usual in war; +the eye, in the moment of alert, is hardly to be trusted, and +when the smoke blows away you see the man you fired at, taking +aim, it may be, at yourself. You should observe, too, that +you were in the dark night, and somewhat dazzled by the lamps, +and that the sudden stopping of the mail had jolted you. In +such circumstances a man may miss, ay, even with a blunder-buss, +and no blame attach to his marksmanship.’ . . .</p> +<h2>THE YOUNG CHEVALIER</h2> +<h3>PROLOGUE—THE WINE-SELLER’S WIFE</h3> +<p>There was a wine-seller’s shop, as you went down to the +river in the city of the Anti-popes. There a man was served +with good wine of the country and plain country fare; and the +place being clean and quiet, with a prospect on the river, +certain gentlemen who dwelt in that city in attendance on a great +personage made it a practice (when they had any silver in their +purses) to come and eat there and be private.</p> +<p>They called the wine-seller Paradou. He was built more +like a bullock than a man, huge in bone and brawn, high in +colour, and with a hand like a baby for size. +Marie-Madeleine was the name of his wife; she was of Marseilles, +a city of entrancing women, nor was any fairer than +herself. She was tall, being almost of a height with +Paradou; full-girdled, point-device in every form, with an +exquisite delicacy in the face; her nose and nostrils a delight +to look at from the fineness of the sculpture, her eyes inclined +a hair’s-breadth inward, her colour between dark and fair, +and laid on even like a flower’s. A faint rose dwelt +in it, as though she had been found unawares bathing, and had +blushed from head to foot. She was of a grave countenance, +rarely smiling; yet it seemed to be written upon every part of +her that she rejoiced in life. Her husband loved the heels +of her feet and the knuckles of her fingers; he loved her like a +glutton and a brute; his love hung about her like an atmosphere; +one that came by chance into the wine-shop was aware of that +passion; and it might be said that by the strength of it the +woman had been drugged or spell-bound. She knew not if she +loved or loathed him; he was always in her eyes like something +monstrous—monstrous in his love, monstrous in his person, +horrific but imposing in his violence; and her sentiment swung +back and forward from desire to sickness. But the mean, +where it dwelt chiefly, was an apathetic fascination, partly of +horror; as of Europa in mid ocean with her bull.</p> +<p>On the 10th November 1749 there sat two of the foreign +gentlemen in the wine-seller’s shop. They were both +handsome men of a good presence, richly dressed. The first +was swarthy and long and lean, with an alert, black look, and a +mole upon his cheek. The other was more fair. He +seemed very easy and sedate, and a little melancholy for so young +a man, but his smile was charming. In his grey eyes there +was much abstraction, as of one recalling fondly that which was +past and lost. Yet there was strength and swiftness in his +limbs; and his mouth set straight across his face, the under lip +a thought upon side, like that of a man accustomed to +resolve. These two talked together in a rude outlandish +speech that no frequenter of that wine-shop understood. The +swarthy man answered to the name of <i>Ballantrae</i>; he of the +dreamy eyes was sometimes called <i>Balmile</i>, and sometimes +<i>my Lord</i>, or <i>my Lord Gladsmuir</i>; but when the title +was given him, he seemed to put it by as if in jesting, not +without bitterness.</p> +<p>The mistral blew in the city. The first day of that +wind, they say in the countries where its voice is heard, it +blows away all the dust, the second all the stones, and the third +it blows back others from the mountains. It was now come to +the third day; outside the pebbles flew like hail, and the face +of the river was puckered, and the very building-stones in the +walls of houses seemed to be curdled with the savage cold and +fury of that continuous blast. It could be heard to hoot in +all the chimneys of the city; it swept about the wine-shop, +filling the room with eddies; the chill and gritty touch of it +passed between the nearest clothes and the bare flesh; and the +two gentlemen at the far table kept their mantles loose about +their shoulders. The roughness of these outer hulls, for +they were plain travellers’ cloaks that had seen service, +set the greater mark of richness on what showed below of their +laced clothes; for the one was in scarlet and the other in violet +and white, like men come from a scene of ceremony; as indeed they +were.</p> +<p>It chanced that these fine clothes were not without their +influence on the scene which followed, and which makes the +prologue of our tale. For a long time Balmile was in the +habit to come to the wine-shop and eat a meal or drink a measure +of wine; sometimes with a comrade; more often alone, when he +would sit and dream and drum upon the table, and the thoughts +would show in the man’s face in little glooms and +lightenings, like the sun and the clouds upon a water. For +a long time Marie-Madeleine had observed him apart. His +sadness, the beauty of his smile when by any chance he remembered +her existence and addressed her, the changes of his mind +signalled forth by an abstruse play of feature, the mere fact +that he was foreign and a thing detached from the local and the +accustomed, insensibly attracted and affected her. Kindness +was ready in her mind; it but lacked the touch of an occasion to +effervesce and crystallise. Now Balmile had come hitherto +in a very poor plain habit; and this day of the mistral, when his +mantle was just open, and she saw beneath it the glancing of the +violet and the velvet and the silver, and the clustering fineness +of the lace, it seemed to set the man in a new light, with which +he shone resplendent to her fancy.</p> +<p>The high inhuman note of the wind, the violence and continuity +of its outpouring, and the fierce touch of it upon man’s +whole periphery, accelerated the functions of the mind. It +set thoughts whirling, as it whirled the trees of the forest; it +stirred them up in flights, as it stirred up the dust in +chambers. As brief as sparks, the fancies glittered and +succeeded each other in the mind of Marie-Madeleine; and the +grave man with the smile, and the bright clothes under the plain +mantle, haunted her with incongruous explanations. She +considered him, the unknown, the speaker of an unknown tongue, +the hero (as she placed him) of an unknown romance, the dweller +upon unknown memories. She recalled him sitting there +alone, so immersed, so stupefied; yet she was sure he was not +stupid. She recalled one day when he had remained a long +time motionless, with parted lips, like one in the act of +starting up, his eyes fixed on vacancy. Any one else must +have looked foolish; but not he. She tried to conceive what +manner of memory had thus entranced him; she forged for him a +past; she showed him to herself in every light of heroism and +greatness and misfortune; she brooded with petulant intensity on +all she knew and guessed of him. Yet, though she was +already gone so deep, she was still unashamed, still unalarmed; +her thoughts were still disinterested; she had still to reach the +stage at which—beside the image of that other whom we love +to contemplate and to adorn—we place the image of ourself +and behold them together with delight.</p> +<p>She stood within the counter, her hands clasped behind her +back, her shoulders pressed against the wall, her feet braced +out. Her face was bright with the wind and her own +thoughts; as a fire in a similar day of tempest glows and +brightens on a hearth, so she seemed to glow, standing there, and +to breathe out energy. It was the first time Ballantrae had +visited that wine-seller’s, the first time he had seen the +wife; and his eyes were true to her.</p> +<p>‘I perceive your reason for carrying me to this very +draughty tavern,’ he said at last.</p> +<p>‘I believe it is propinquity,’ returned +Balmile.</p> +<p>‘You play dark,’ said Ballantrae, ‘but have +a care! Be more frank with me, or I will cut you out. +I go through no form of qualifying my threat, which would be +commonplace and not conscientious. There is only one point +in these campaigns: that is the degree of admiration offered by +the man; and to our hostess I am in a posture to make victorious +love.’</p> +<p>‘If you think you have the time, or the game worth the +candle,’ replied the other with a shrug.</p> +<p>‘One would suppose you were never at the pains to +observe her,’ said Ballantrae.</p> +<p>‘I am not very observant,’ said Balmile. +‘She seems comely.’</p> +<p>‘You very dear and dull dog!’ cried Ballantrae; +‘chastity is the most besotting of the virtues. Why, +she has a look in her face beyond singing! I believe, if +you was to push me hard, I might trace it home to a trifle of a +squint. What matters? The height of beauty is in the +touch that’s wrong, that’s the modulation in a +tune. ’Tis the devil we all love; I owe many a +conquest to my mole’—he touched it as he spoke with a +smile, and his eyes glittered;—‘we are all +hunchbacks, and beauty is only that kind of deformity that I +happen to admire. But come! Because you are chaste, +for which I am sure I pay you my respects, that is no reason why +you should be blind. Look at her, look at the delicious +nose of her, look at her cheek, look at her ear, look at her hand +and wrist—look at the whole baggage from heels to crown, +and tell me if she wouldn’t melt on a man’s +tongue.’</p> +<p>As Ballantrae spoke, half jesting, half enthusiastic, Balmile +was constrained to do as he was bidden. He looked at the +woman, admired her excellences, and was at the same time ashamed +for himself and his companion. So it befell that when +Marie-Madeleine raised her eyes, she met those of the subject of +her contemplations fixed directly on herself with a look that is +unmistakable, the look of a person measuring and valuing +another—and, to clench the false impression, that his +glance was instantly and guiltily withdrawn. The blood beat +back upon her heart and leaped again; her obscure thoughts +flashed clear before her; she flew in fancy straight to his arms +like a wanton, and fled again on the instant like a nymph. +And at that moment there chanced an interruption, which not only +spared her embarrassment, but set the last consecration on her +now articulate love.</p> +<p>Into the wine-shop there came a French gentleman, arrayed in +the last refinement of the fashion, though a little tumbled by +his passage in the wind. It was to be judged he had come +from the same formal gathering at which the others had preceded +him; and perhaps that he had gone there in the hope to meet with +them, for he came up to Ballantrae with unceremonious +eagerness.</p> +<p>‘At last, here you are!’ he cried in French. +‘I thought I was to miss you altogether.’</p> +<p>The Scotsmen rose, and Ballantrae, after the first greetings, +laid his hand on his companion’s shoulder.</p> +<p>‘My lord,’ said he, ‘allow me to present to +you one of my best friends and one of our best soldiers, the Lord +Viscount Gladsmuir.’</p> +<p>The two bowed with the elaborate elegance of the period.</p> +<p>‘<i>Monseigneur</i>,’ said Balmile, ‘<i>je +n’ai pas la prétention de m’affubler +d’un titre que la mauvaise fortune de mon roi ne me permet +pas de porter comma il sied</i>. <i>Je m’appelle</i>, +<i>pour vous servir</i>, <i>Blair de Balmile tout +court</i>.’ [My lord, I have not the effrontery to +cumber myself with a title which the ill fortunes of my king will +not suffer me to bear the way it should be. I call myself, +at your service, plain Blair of Balmile.]</p> +<p>‘<i>Monsieur le Vicomte ou monsieur Blèr’ +de Balmaïl</i>,’ replied the newcomer, ‘<i>le +nom n’y fait rien</i>, <i>et l’on connaît vos +beaux faits</i>.’ [The name matters nothing, your +gallant actions are known.]</p> +<p>A few more ceremonies, and these three, sitting down together +to the table, called for wine. It was the happiness of +Marie-Madeleine to wait unobserved upon the prince of her +desires. She poured the wine, he drank of it; and that link +between them seemed to her, for the moment, close as a +caress. Though they lowered their tones, she surprised +great names passing in their conversation, names of kings, the +names of de Gesvre and Belle-Isle; and the man who dealt in these +high matters, and she who was now coupled with him in her own +thoughts, seemed to swim in mid air in a transfiguration. +Love is a crude core, but it has singular and far-reaching +fringes; in that passionate attraction for the stranger that now +swayed and mastered her, his harsh incomprehensible language, and +these names of grandees in his talk, were each an element.</p> +<p>The Frenchman stayed not long, but it was plain he left behind +him matter of much interest to his companions; they spoke +together earnestly, their heads down, the woman of the wine-shop +totally forgotten; and they were still so occupied when Paradou +returned.</p> +<p>This man’s love was unsleeping. The even bluster +of the mistral, with which he had been combating some hours, had +not suspended, though it had embittered, that predominant +passion. His first look was for his wife, a look of hope +and suspicion, menace and humility and love, that made the +over-blooming brute appear for the moment almost beautiful. +She returned his glance, at first as though she knew him not, +then with a swiftly waxing coldness of intent; and at last, +without changing their direction, she had closed her eyes.</p> +<p>There passed across her mind during that period much that +Paradou could not have understood had it been told to him in +words: chiefly the sense of an enlightening contrast betwixt the +man who talked of kings and the man who kept a wine-shop, betwixt +the love she yearned for and that to which she had been long +exposed like a victim bound upon the altar. There swelled +upon her, swifter than the Rhone, a tide of abhorrence and +disgust. She had succumbed to the monster, humbling herself +below animals; and now she loved a hero, aspiring to the +semi-divine. It was in the pang of that humiliating thought +that she had closed her eyes.</p> +<p>Paradou—quick as beasts are quick, to translate +silence—felt the insult through his blood; his inarticulate +soul bellowed within him for revenge. He glanced about the +shop. He saw the two indifferent gentlemen deep in talk, +and passed them over: his fancy flying not so high. There +was but one other present, a country lout who stood swallowing +his wine, equally unobserved by all and unobserving—to him +he dealt a glance of murderous suspicion, and turned direct upon +his wife. The wine-shop had lain hitherto, a space of +shelter, the scene of a few ceremonial passages and some +whispered conversation, in the howling river of the wind; the +clock had not yet ticked a score of times since Paradou’s +appearance; and now, as he suddenly gave tongue, it seemed as +though the mistral had entered at his heels.</p> +<p>‘What ails you, woman?’ he cried, smiting on the +counter.</p> +<p>‘Nothing ails me,’ she replied. It was +strange; but she spoke and stood at that moment like a lady of +degree, drawn upward by her aspirations.</p> +<p>‘You speak to me, by God, as though you scorned +me!’ cried the husband.</p> +<p>The man’s passion was always formidable; she had often +looked on upon its violence with a thrill, it had been one +ingredient in her fascination; and she was now surprised to +behold him, as from afar off, gesticulating but impotent. +His fury might be dangerous like a torrent or a gust of wind, but +it was inhuman; it might be feared or braved, it should never be +respected. And with that there came in her a sudden glow of +courage and that readiness to die which attends so closely upon +all strong passions.</p> +<p>‘I do scorn you,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘What is that?’ he cried.</p> +<p>‘I scorn you,’ she repeated, smiling.</p> +<p>‘You love another man!’ said he.</p> +<p>‘With all my soul,’ was her reply.</p> +<p>The wine-seller roared aloud so that the house rang and shook +with it.</p> +<p>‘Is this the—?’ he cried, using a foul word, +common in the South; and he seized the young countryman and +dashed him to the ground. There he lay for the least +interval of time insensible; thence fled from the house, the most +terrified person in the county. The heavy measure had +escaped from his hands, splashing the wine high upon the +wall. Paradou caught it. ‘And you?’ he +roared to his wife, giving her the same name in the feminine, and +he aimed at her the deadly missile. She expected it, +motionless, with radiant eyes.</p> +<p>But before it sped, Paradou was met by another adversary, and +the unconscious rivals stood confronted. It was hard to say +at that moment which appeared the more formidable. In +Paradou, the whole muddy and truculent depths of the half-man +were stirred to frenzy; the lust of destruction raged in him; +there was not a feature in his face but it talked murder. +Balmile had dropped his cloak: he shone out at once in his +finery, and stood to his full stature; girt in mind and body all +his resources, all his temper, perfectly in command in his face +the light of battle. Neither spoke; there was no blow nor +threat of one; it was war reduced to its last element, the +spiritual; and the huge wine-seller slowly lowered his +weapon. Balmile was a noble, he a commoner; Balmile exulted +in an honourable cause. Paradou already perhaps began to be +ashamed of his violence. Of a sudden, at least, the +tortured brute turned and fled from the shop in the footsteps of +his former victim, to whose continued flight his reappearance +added wings.</p> +<p>So soon as Balmile appeared between her husband and herself, +Marie-Madeleine transferred to him her eyes. It might be +her last moment, and she fed upon that face; reading there +inimitable courage and illimitable valour to protect. And +when the momentary peril was gone by, and the champion turned a +little awkwardly towards her whom he had rescued, it was to meet, +and quail before, a gaze of admiration more distinct than +words. He bowed, he stammered, his words failed him; he who +had crossed the floor a moment ago, like a young god, to smite, +returned like one discomfited; got somehow to his place by the +table, muffled himself again in his discarded cloak, and for a +last touch of the ridiculous, seeking for anything to restore his +countenance, drank of the wine before him, deep as a porter after +a heavy lift. It was little wonder if Ballantrae, reading +the scene with malevolent eyes, laughed out loud and brief, and +drank with raised glass, ‘To the champion of the +Fair.’</p> +<p>Marie-Madeleine stood in her old place within the counter; she +disdained the mocking laughter; it fell on her ears, but it did +not reach her spirit. For her, the world of living persons +was all resumed again into one pair, as in the days of Eden; +there was but the one end in life, the one hope before her, the +one thing needful, the one thing possible—to be his.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER I—THE PRINCE</h3> +<p>That same night there was in the city of Avignon a young man +in distress of mind. Now he sat, now walked in a high +apartment, full of draughts and shadows. A single candle +made the darkness visible; and the light scarce sufficed to show +upon the wall, where they had been recently and rudely nailed, a +few miniatures and a copper medal of the young man’s +head. The same was being sold that year in London, to +admiring thousands. The original was fair; he had beautiful +brown eyes, a beautiful bright open face; a little feminine, a +little hard, a little weak; still full of the light of youth, but +already beginning to be vulgarised; a sordid bloom come upon it, +the lines coarsened with a touch of puffiness. He was +dressed, as for a gala, in peach-colour and silver; his breast +sparkled with stars and was bright with ribbons; for he had held +a levee in the afternoon and received a distinguished personage +incognito. Now he sat with a bowed head, now walked +precipitately to and fro, now went and gazed from the uncurtained +window, where the wind was still blowing, and the lights winked +in the darkness.</p> +<p>The bells of Avignon rose into song as he was gazing; and the +high notes and the deep tossed and drowned, boomed suddenly near +or were suddenly swallowed up, in the current of the +mistral. Tears sprang in the pale blue eyes; the expression +of his face was changed to that of a more active misery, it +seemed as if the voices of the bells reached, and touched and +pained him, in a waste of vacancy where even pain was +welcome. Outside in the night they continued to sound on, +swelling and fainting; and the listener heard in his memory, as +it were their harmonies, joy-bells clashing in a northern city, +and the acclamations of a multitude, the cries of battle, the +gross voices of cannon, the stridor of an animated life. +And then all died away, and he stood face to face with himself in +the waste of vacancy, and a horror came upon his mind, and a +faintness on his brain, such as seizes men upon the brink of +cliffs.</p> +<p>On the table, by the side of the candle, stood a tray of +glasses, a bottle, and a silver bell. He went thither +swiftly, then his hand lowered first above the bell, then settled +on the bottle. Slowly he filled a glass, slowly drank it +out; and, as a tide of animal warmth recomforted the recesses of +his nature, stood there smiling at himself. He remembered +he was young; the funeral curtains rose, and he saw his life +shine and broaden and flow out majestically, like a river +sunward. The smile still on his lips, he lit a second +candle and a third; a fire stood ready built in a chimney, he lit +that also; and the fir-cones and the gnarled olive billets were +swift to break in flame and to crackle on the hearth, and the +room brightened and enlarged about him like his hopes. To +and fro, to and fro, he went, his hands lightly clasped, his +breath deeply and pleasurably taken. Victory walked with +him; he marched to crowns and empires among shouting followers; +glory was his dress. And presently again the shadows closed +upon the solitary. Under the gilt of flame and +candle-light, the stone walls of the apartment showed down bare +and cold; behind the depicted triumph loomed up the actual +failure: defeat, the long distress of the flight, exile, despair, +broken followers, mourning faces, empty pockets, friends +estranged. The memory of his father rose in his mind: he, +too, estranged and defied; despair sharpened into wrath. +There was one who had led armies in the field, who had staked his +life upon the family enterprise, a man of action and experience, +of the open air, the camp, the court, the council-room; and he +was to accept direction from an old, pompous gentleman in a home +in Italy, and buzzed about by priests? A pretty king, if he +had not a martial son to lean upon! A king at all?</p> +<p>‘There was a weaver (of all people) joined me at St. +Ninians; he was more of a man than my papa!’ he +thought. ‘I saw him lie doubled in his blood and a +grenadier below him—and he died for my papa! All died +for him, or risked the dying, and I lay for him all those months +in the rain and skulked in heather like a fox; and now he writes +me his advice! calls me Carluccio—me, the man of the house, +the only king in that king’s race.’ He ground +his teeth. ‘The only king in Europe!’ Who +else? Who has done and suffered except me? who has lain and +run and hidden with his faithful subjects, like a second +Bruce? Not my accursed cousin, Louis of France, at least, +the lewd effeminate traitor!’ And filling the glass +to the brim, he drank a king’s damnation. Ah, if he +had the power of Louis, what a king were here!</p> +<p>The minutes followed each other into the past, and still he +persevered in this debilitating cycle of emotions, still fed the +fire of his excitement with driblets of Rhine wine: a boy at odds +with life, a boy with a spark of the heroic, which he was now +burning out and drowning down in futile reverie and solitary +excess.</p> +<p>From two rooms beyond, the sudden sound of a raised voice +attracted him.</p> +<p>‘By . . .</p> +<h2>HEATHERCAT</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I—TRAQUAIRS OF MONTROYMONT</h3> +<p>The period of this tale is in the heat of the +<i>killing-time</i>; the scene laid for the most part in solitary +hills and morasses, haunted only by the so-called Mountain +Wanderers, the dragoons that came in chase of them, the women +that wept on their dead bodies, and the wild birds of the +moorland that have cried there since the beginning. It is a +land of many rain-clouds; a land of much mute history, written +there in prehistoric symbols. Strange green raths are to be +seen commonly in the country, above all by the kirkyards; barrows +of the dead, standing stones; beside these, the faint, durable +footprints and handmarks of the Roman; and an antiquity older +perhaps than any, and still living and active—a complete +Celtic nomenclature and a scarce-mingled Celtic population. +These rugged and grey hills were once included in the boundaries +of the Caledonian Forest. Merlin sat here below his +apple-tree and lamented Gwendolen; here spoke with Kentigern; +here fell into his enchanted trance. And the legend of his +slumber seems to body forth the story of that Celtic race, +deprived for so many centuries of their authentic speech, +surviving with their ancestral inheritance of melancholy +perversity and patient, unfortunate courage.</p> +<p>The Traquairs of Montroymont (<i>Mons Romanus</i>, as the +erudite expound it) had long held their seat about the +head-waters of the Dule and in the back parts of the moorland +parish of Balweary. For two hundred years they had enjoyed +in these upland quarters a certain decency (almost to be named +distinction) of repute; and the annals of their house, or what is +remembered of them, were obscure and bloody. Ninian +Traquair was ‘cruallie slochtered’ by the Crozers at +the kirk-door of Balweary, anno 1482. Francis killed Simon +Ruthven of Drumshoreland, anno 1540; bought letters of slayers at +the widow and heir, and, by a barbarous form of compounding, +married (without tocher) Simon’s daughter Grizzel, which is +the way the Traquairs and Ruthvens came first to an +intermarriage. About the last Traquair and Ruthven +marriage, it is the business of this book, among many other +things, to tell.</p> +<p>The Traquairs were always strong for the Covenant; for the +King also, but the Covenant first; and it began to be ill days +for Montroymont when the Bishops came in and the dragoons at the +heels of them. Ninian (then laird) was an anxious husband +of himself and the property, as the times required, and it may be +said of him, that he lost both. He was heavily suspected of +the Pentland Hills rebellion. When it came the length of +Bothwell Brig, he stood his trial before the Secret Council, and +was convicted of talking with some insurgents by the wayside, the +subject of the conversation not very clearly appearing, and of +the reset and maintenance of one Gale, a gardener man, who was +seen before Bothwell with a musket, and afterwards, for a +continuance of months, delved the garden at Montroymont. +Matters went very ill with Ninian at the Council; some of the +lords were clear for treason; and even the boot was talked +of. But he was spared that torture; and at last, having +pretty good friendship among great men, he came off with a fine +of seven thousand marks, that caused the estate to groan. +In this case, as in so many others, it was the wife that made the +trouble. She was a great keeper of conventicles; would ride +ten miles to one, and when she was fined, rejoiced greatly to +suffer for the Kirk; but it was rather her husband that +suffered. She had their only son, Francis, baptized +privately by the hands of Mr. Kidd; there was that much the more +to pay for! She could neither be driven nor wiled into the +parish kirk; as for taking the sacrament at the hands of any +Episcopalian curate, and tenfold more at those of Curate Haddo, +there was nothing further from her purposes; and Montroymont had +to put his hand in his pocket month by month and year by +year. Once, indeed, the little lady was cast in prison, and +the laird, worthy, heavy, uninterested man, had to ride up and +take her place; from which he was not discharged under nine +months and a sharp fine. It scarce seemed she had any +gratitude to him; she came out of gaol herself, and plunged +immediately deeper in conventicles, resetting recusants, and all +her old, expensive folly, only with greater vigour and openness, +because Montroymont was safe in the Tolbooth and she had no +witness to consider. When he was liberated and came back, +with his fingers singed, in December 1680, and late in the black +night, my lady was from home. He came into the house at his +alighting, with a riding-rod yet in his hand; and, on the +servant-maid telling him, caught her by the scruff of the neck, +beat her violently, flung her down in the passageway, and went +upstairs to his bed fasting and without a light. It was +three in the morning when my lady returned from that conventicle, +and, hearing of the assault (because the maid had sat up for her, +weeping), went to their common chamber with a lantern in hand and +stamping with her shoes so as to wake the dead; it was supposed, +by those that heard her, from a design to have it out with the +good man at once. The house-servants gathered on the stair, +because it was a main interest with them to know which of these +two was the better horse; and for the space of two hours they +were heard to go at the matter, hammer and tongs. +Montroymont alleged he was at the end of possibilities; it was no +longer within his power to pay the annual rents; she had served +him basely by keeping conventicles while he lay in prison for her +sake; his friends were weary, and there was nothing else before +him but the entire loss of the family lands, and to begin life +again by the wayside as a common beggar. She took him up +very sharp and high: called upon him, if he were a Christian? and +which he most considered, the loss of a few dirty, miry glebes, +or of his soul? Presently he was heard to weep, and my +lady’s voice to go on continually like a running burn, only +the words indistinguishable; whereupon it was supposed a victory +for her ladyship, and the domestics took themselves to bed. +The next day Traquair appeared like a man who had gone under the +harrows; and his lady wife thenceforward continued in her old +course without the least deflection.</p> +<p>Thenceforward Ninian went on his way without complaint, and +suffered his wife to go on hers without remonstrance. He +still minded his estate, of which it might be said he took daily +a fresh farewell, and counted it already lost; looking ruefully +on the acres and the graves of his fathers, on the moorlands +where the wild-fowl consorted, the low, gurgling pool of the +trout, and the high, windy place of the calling +curlews—things that were yet his for the day and would be +another’s to-morrow; coming back again, and sitting +ciphering till the dusk at his approaching ruin, which no device +of arithmetic could postpone beyond a year or two. He was +essentially the simple ancient man, the farmer and landholder; he +would have been content to watch the seasons come and go, and his +cattle increase, until the limit of age; he would have been +content at any time to die, if he could have left the estates +undiminished to an heir-male of his ancestors, that duty standing +first in his instinctive calendar. And now he saw +everywhere the image of the new proprietor come to meet him, and +go sowing and reaping, or fowling for his pleasure on the red +moors, or eating the very gooseberries in the Place garden; and +saw always, on the other hand, the figure of Francis go forth, a +beggar, into the broad world.</p> +<p>It was in vain the poor gentleman sought to moderate; took +every test and took advantage of every indulgence; went and drank +with the dragoons in Balweary; attended the communion and came +regularly to the church to Curate Haddo, with his son beside +him. The mad, raging, Presbyterian zealot of a wife at home +made all of no avail; and indeed the house must have fallen years +before if it had not been for the secret indulgence of the +curate, who had a great sympathy with the laird, and winked hard +at the doings in Montroymont. This curate was a man very +ill reputed in the countryside, and indeed in all Scotland. +‘Infamous Haddo’ is Shield’s expression. +But Patrick Walker is more copious. ‘Curate Hall +Haddo,’ says he, <i>sub voce</i> Peden, ‘or +<i>Hell</i> Haddo, as he was more justly to be called, a pokeful +of old condemned errors and the filthy vile lusts of the flesh, a +published whore-monger, a common gross drunkard, continually and +godlessly scraping and skirling on a fiddle, continually +breathing flames against the remnant of Israel. But the +Lord put an end to his piping, and all these offences were +composed into one bloody grave.’ No doubt this was +written to excuse his slaughter; and I have never heard it +claimed for Walker that he was either a just witness or an +indulgent judge. At least, in a merely human character, +Haddo comes off not wholly amiss in the matter of these +Traquairs: not that he showed any graces of the Christian, but +had a sort of Pagan decency, which might almost tempt one to be +concerned about his sudden, violent, and unprepared fate.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II—FRANCIE</h3> +<p>Francie was eleven years old, shy, secret, and rather childish +of his age, though not backward in schooling, which had been +pushed on far by a private governor, one M‘Brair, a +forfeited minister harboured in that capacity at +Montroymont. The boy, already much employed in secret by +his mother, was the most apt hand conceivable to run upon a +message, to carry food to lurking fugitives, or to stand sentry +on the skyline above a conventicle. It seemed no place on +the moorlands was so naked but what he would find cover there; +and as he knew every hag, boulder, and heather-bush in a circuit +of seven miles about Montroymont, there was scarce any spot but +what he could leave or approach it unseen. This dexterity +had won him a reputation in that part of the country; and among +the many children employed in these dangerous affairs, he passed +under the by-name of Heathercat.</p> +<p>How much his father knew of this employment might be +doubted. He took much forethought for the boy’s +future, seeing he was like to be left so poorly, and would +sometimes assist at his lessons, sighing heavily, yawning deep, +and now and again patting Francie on the shoulder if he seemed to +be doing ill, by way of a private, kind encouragement. But +a great part of the day was passed in aimless wanderings with his +eyes sealed, or in his cabinet sitting bemused over the +particulars of the coming bankruptcy; and the boy would be absent +a dozen times for once that his father would observe it.</p> +<p>On 2nd of July 1682 the boy had an errand from his mother, +which must be kept private from all, the father included in the +first of them. Crossing the braes, he hears the clatter of +a horse’s shoes, and claps down incontinent in a hag by the +wayside. And presently he spied his father come riding from +one direction, and Curate Haddo walking from another; and +Montroymont leaning down from the saddle, and Haddo getting on +his toes (for he was a little, ruddy, bald-pated man, more like a +dwarf), they greeted kindly, and came to a halt within two +fathoms of the child.</p> +<p>‘Montroymont,’ the curate said, ‘the +deil’s in ’t but I’ll have to denunciate your +leddy again.’</p> +<p>‘Deil’s in ’t indeed!’ says the +laird.</p> +<p>‘Man! can ye no induce her to come to the kirk?’ +pursues Haddo; ‘or to a communion at the least of it? +For the conventicles, let be! and the same for yon solemn fule, +M‘Brair: I can blink at them. But she’s got to +come to the kirk, Montroymont.’</p> +<p>‘Dinna speak of it,’ says the laird. +‘I can do nothing with her.’</p> +<p>‘Couldn’t ye try the stick to her? it works +wonders whiles,’ suggested Haddo. ‘No? +I’m wae to hear it. And I suppose ye ken where +you’re going?’</p> +<p>‘Fine!’ said Montroymont. ‘Fine do I +ken where: bankrup’cy and the Bass Rock!’</p> +<p>‘Praise to my bones that I never married!’ cried +the curate. ‘Well, it’s a grievous thing to me +to see an auld house dung down that was here before Flodden +Field. But naebody can say it was with my wish.’</p> +<p>‘No more they can, Haddo!’ says the laird. +‘A good friend ye’ve been to me, first and +last. I can give you that character with a clear +conscience.’</p> +<p>Whereupon they separated, and Montroymont rode briskly down +into the Dule Valley. But of the curate Francis was not to +be quit so easily. He went on with his little, brisk steps +to the corner of a dyke, and stopped and whistled and waved upon +a lassie that was herding cattle there. This Janet +M‘Clour was a big lass, being taller than the curate; and +what made her look the more so, she was kilted very high. +It seemed for a while she would not come, and Francie heard her +calling Haddo a ‘daft auld fule,’ and saw her running +and dodging him among the whins and hags till he was fairly +blown. But at the last he gets a bottle from his plaid-neuk +and holds it up to her; whereupon she came at once into a +composition, and the pair sat, drinking of the bottle, and +daffing and laughing together, on a mound of heather. The +boy had scarce heard of these vanities, or he might have been +minded of a nymph and satyr, if anybody could have taken +long-leggit Janet for a nymph. But they seemed to be huge +friends, he thought; and was the more surprised, when the curate +had taken his leave, to see the lassie fling stones after him +with screeches of laughter, and Haddo turn about and caper, and +shake his staff at her, and laugh louder than herself. A +wonderful merry pair, they seemed; and when Francie had crawled +out of the hag, he had a great deal to consider in his +mind. It was possible they were all fallen in error about +Mr. Haddo, he reflected—having seen him so tender with +Montroymont, and so kind and playful with the lass Janet; and he +had a temptation to go out of his road and question her herself +upon the matter. But he had a strong spirit of duty on him; +and plodded on instead over the braes till he came near the House +of Cairngorm. There, in a hollow place by the burnside that +was shaded by some birks, he was aware of a barefoot boy, perhaps +a matter of three years older than himself. The two +approached with the precautions of a pair of strange dogs, +looking at each other queerly.</p> +<p>‘It’s ill weather on the hills,’ said the +stranger, giving the watchword.</p> +<p>‘For a season,’ said Francie, ‘but the Lord +will appear.’</p> +<p>‘Richt,’ said the barefoot boy; +‘wha’re ye frae?’</p> +<p>‘The Leddy Montroymont,’ says Francie.</p> +<p>‘Ha’e, then!’ says the stranger, and handed +him a folded paper, and they stood and looked at each other +again. ‘It’s unco het,’ said the boy.</p> +<p>‘Dooms het,’ says Francie.</p> +<p>‘What do they ca’ ye?’ says the other.</p> +<p>‘Francie,’ says he. ‘I’m young +Montroymont. They ca’ me Heathercat.’</p> +<p>‘I’m Jock Crozer,’ said the boy. And +there was another pause, while each rolled a stone under his +foot.</p> +<p>‘Cast your jaiket and I’ll fecht ye for a +bawbee,’ cried the elder boy with sudden violence, and +dramatically throwing back his jacket.</p> +<p>‘Na, I’ve nae time the now,’ said Francie, +with a sharp thrill of alarm, because Crozer was much the heavier +boy.</p> +<p>‘Ye’re feared. Heathercat indeed!’ +said Crozer, for among this infantile army of spies and +messengers, the fame of Crozer had gone forth and was resented by +his rivals. And with that they separated.</p> +<p>On his way home Francie was a good deal occupied with the +recollection of this untoward incident. The challenge had +been fairly offered and basely refused: the tale would be carried +all over the country, and the lustre of the name of Heathercat be +dimmed. But the scene between Curate Haddo and Janet +M‘Clour had also given him much to think of: and he was +still puzzling over the case of the curate, and why such ill +words were said of him, and why, if he were so merry-spirited, he +should yet preach so dry, when coming over a knowe, whom should +he see but Janet, sitting with her back to him, minding her +cattle! He was always a great child for secret, stealthy +ways, having been employed by his mother on errands when the same +was necessary; and he came behind the lass without her +hearing.</p> +<p>‘Jennet,’ says he.</p> +<p>‘Keep me,’ cries Janet, springing up. +‘O, it’s you, Maister Francie! Save us, what a +fricht ye gied me.’</p> +<p>‘Ay, it’s me,’ said Francie. +‘I’ve been thinking, Jennet; I saw you and the curate +a while back—’</p> +<p>‘Brat!’ cried Janet, and coloured up crimson; and +the one moment made as if she would have stricken him with a +ragged stick she had to chase her bestial with, and the next was +begging and praying that he would mention it to none. It +was ‘naebody’s business, whatever,’ she said; +‘it would just start a clash in the country’; and +there would be nothing left for her but to drown herself in Dule +Water.</p> +<p>‘Why?’ says Francie.</p> +<p>The girl looked at him and grew scarlet again.</p> +<p>‘And it isna that, anyway,’ continued +Francie. ‘It was just that he seemed so good to +ye—like our Father in heaven, I thought; and I thought that +mebbe, perhaps, we had all been wrong about him from the +first. But I’ll have to tell Mr. M‘Brair; +I’m under a kind of a bargain to him to tell him +all.’</p> +<p>‘Tell it to the divil if ye like for me!’ cried +the lass. ‘I’ve naething to be ashamed +of. Tell M‘Brair to mind his ain affairs,’ she +cried again: ‘they’ll be hot eneugh for him, if +Haddie likes!’ And so strode off, shoving her beasts +before her, and ever and again looking back and crying angry +words to the boy, where he stood mystified.</p> +<p>By the time he had got home his mind was made up that he would +say nothing to his mother. My Lady Montroymont was in the +keeping-room, reading a godly book; she was a wonderful frail +little wife to make so much noise in the world and be able to +steer about that patient sheep her husband; her eyes were like +sloes, the fingers of her hands were like tobacco-pipe shanks, +her mouth shut tight like a trap; and even when she was the most +serious, and still more when she was angry, there hung about her +face the terrifying semblance of a smile.</p> +<p>‘Have ye gotten the billet, Francie said she; and when +he had handed it over, and she had read and burned it, ‘Did +you see anybody?’ she asked.</p> +<p>‘I saw the laird,’ said Francie.</p> +<p>‘He didna see you, though?’ asked his mother.</p> +<p>‘Deil a fear,’ from Francie.</p> +<p>‘Francie!’ she cried. ‘What’s +that I hear? an aith? The Lord forgive me, have I broughten +forth a brand for the burning, a fagot for hell-fire?’</p> +<p>‘I’m very sorry, ma’am,’ said +Francie. ‘I humbly beg the Lord’s pardon, and +yours, for my wickedness.’</p> +<p>‘H’m,’ grunted the lady. ‘Did ye +see nobody else?’</p> +<p>‘No, ma’am,’ said Francie, with the face of +an angel, ‘except Jock Crozer, that gied me the +billet.’</p> +<p>‘Jock Crozer!’ cried the lady. +‘I’ll Crozer them! Crozers indeed! What +next? Are we to repose the lives of a suffering remnant in +Crozers? The whole clan of them wants hanging, and if I had +my way of it, they wouldna want it long. Are you aware, +sir, that these Crozers killed your forebear at the +kirk-door?’</p> +<p>‘You see, he was bigger ’n me,’ said +Francie.</p> +<p>‘Jock Crozer!’ continued the lady. +‘That’ll be Clement’s son, the biggest thief +and reiver in the country-side. To trust a note to +him! But I’ll give the benefit of my opinions to Lady +Whitecross when we two forgather. Let her look to +herself! I have no patience with half-hearted carlines, +that complies on the Lord’s day morning with the kirk, and +comes taigling the same night to the conventicle. The one +or the other! is what I say: hell or heaven—Haddie’s +abominations or the pure word of God dreeping from the lips of +Mr. Arnot,</p> +<blockquote><p>‘“Like honey from the honeycomb<br /> + That dreepeth, sweeter far.”’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>My lady was now fairly launched, and that upon two congenial +subjects: the deficiencies of the Lady Whitecross and the +turpitudes of the whole Crozer race—which, indeed, had +never been conspicuous for respectability. She pursued the +pair of them for twenty minutes on the clock with wonderful +animation and detail, something of the pulpit manner, and the +spirit of one possessed. ‘O hellish +compliance!’ she exclaimed. ‘I would not suffer +a complier to break bread with Christian folk. Of all the +sins of this day there is not one so God-defying, so +Christ-humiliating, as damnable compliance’: the boy +standing before her meanwhile, and brokenly pursuing other +thoughts, mainly of Haddo and Janet, and Jock Crozer stripping +off his jacket. And yet, with all his distraction, it might +be argued that he heard too much: his father and himself being +‘compliers’—that is to say, attending the +church of the parish as the law required.</p> +<p>Presently, the lady’s passion beginning to decline, or +her flux of ill words to be exhausted, she dismissed her +audience. Francie bowed low, left the room, closed the door +behind him: and then turned him about in the passage-way, and +with a low voice, but a prodigious deal of sentiment, repeated +the name of the evil one twenty times over, to the end of which, +for the greater efficacy, he tacked on ‘damnable’ and +‘hellish.’ <i>Fas est ab hoste +doceri</i>—disrespect is made more pungent by quotation; +and there is no doubt but he felt relieved, and went upstairs +into his tutor’s chamber with a quiet mind. +M‘Brair sat by the cheek of the peat-fire and shivered, for +he had a quartan ague and this was his day. The great +night-cap and plaid, the dark unshaven cheeks of the man, and the +white, thin hands that held the plaid about his chittering body, +made a sorrowful picture. But Francie knew and loved him; +came straight in, nestled close to the refugee, and told his +story. M‘Brair had been at the College with Haddo; +the Presbytery had licensed both on the same day; and at this +tale, told with so much innocency by the boy, the heart of the +tutor was commoved.</p> +<p>‘Woe upon him! Woe upon that man!’ he +cried. ‘O the unfaithful shepherd! O the +hireling and apostate minister! Make my matters hot for me? +quo’ she! the shameless limmer! And true it is, that +he could repose me in that nasty, stinking hole, the Canongate +Tolbooth, from which your mother drew me out—the Lord +reward her for it!—or to that cold, unbieldy, marine place +of the Bass Rock, which, with my delicate kist, would be fair +ruin to me. But I will be valiant in my Master’s +service. I have a duty here: a duty to my God, to myself, +and to Haddo: in His strength, I will perform it.’</p> +<p>Then he straitly discharged Francie to repeat the tale, and +bade him in the future to avert his very eyes from the doings of +the curate. ‘You must go to his place of idolatry; +look upon him there!’ says he, ‘but nowhere +else. Avert your eyes, close your ears, pass him by like a +three days’ corp. He is like that damnable monster +Basiliscus, which defiles—yea, poisons!—by the +sight.’—All which was hardly claratory to the +boy’s mind.</p> +<p>Presently Montroymont came home, and called up the stairs to +Francie. Traquair was a good shot and swordsman: and it was +his pleasure to walk with his son over the braes of the moorfowl, +or to teach him arms in the back court, when they made a mighty +comely pair, the child being so lean, and light, and active, and +the laird himself a man of a manly, pretty stature, his hair (the +periwig being laid aside) showing already white with many +anxieties, and his face of an even, flaccid red. But this +day Francie’s heart was not in the fencing.</p> +<p>‘Sir,’ says he, suddenly lowering his point, +‘will ye tell me a thing if I was to ask it?’</p> +<p>‘Ask away,’ says the father.</p> +<p>‘Well, it’s this,’ said Francie: ‘Why +do you and me comply if it’s so wicked?’</p> +<p>‘Ay, ye have the cant of it too!’ cries +Montroymont. ‘But I’ll tell ye for all +that. It’s to try and see if we can keep the rigging +on this house, Francie. If she had her way, we would be +beggar-folk, and hold our hands out by the wayside. When ye +hear her—when ye hear folk,’ he corrected himself +briskly, ‘call me a coward, and one that betrayed the Lord, +and I kenna what else, just mind it was to keep a bed to ye to +sleep in and a bite for ye to eat.—On guard!’ he +cried, and the lesson proceeded again till they were called to +supper.</p> +<p>‘There’s another thing yet,’ said Francie, +stopping his father. ‘There’s another thing +that I am not sure that I am very caring for. She—she +sends me errands.’</p> +<p>‘Obey her, then, as is your bounden duty,’ said +Traquair.</p> +<p>‘Ay, but wait till I tell ye,’ says the boy. +‘If I was to see you I was to hide.’</p> +<p>Montroymont sighed. ‘Well, and that’s good +of her too,’ said he. ‘The less that I ken of +thir doings the better for me; and the best thing you can do is +just to obey her, and see and be a good son to her, the same as +ye are to me, Francie.’</p> +<p>At the tenderness of this expression the heart of Francie +swelled within his bosom, and his remorse was poured out. +‘Faither!’ he cried, ‘I said “deil” +to-day; many’s the time I said it, and <i>damnable</i> too, +and <i>hellitsh</i>. I ken they’re all right; +they’re beeblical. But I didna say them beeblically; +I said them for sweir words—that’s the truth of +it.’</p> +<p>‘Hout, ye silly bairn!’ said the father, +‘dinna do it nae mair, and come in by to your +supper.’ And he took the boy, and drew him close to +him a moment, as they went through the door, with something very +fond and secret, like a caress between a pair of lovers.</p> +<p>The next day M‘Brair was abroad in the afternoon, and +had a long advising with Janet on the braes where she herded +cattle. What passed was never wholly known; but the lass +wept bitterly, and fell on her knees to him among the +whins. The same night, as soon as it was dark, he took the +road again for Balweary. In the Kirkton, where the dragoons +quartered, he saw many lights, and heard the noise of a ranting +song and people laughing grossly, which was highly offensive to +his mind. He gave it the wider berth, keeping among fields; +and came down at last by the water-side, where the manse stands +solitary between the river and the road. He tapped at the +back door, and the old woman called upon him to come in, and +guided him through the house to the study, as they still called +it, though there was little enough study there in Haddo’s +days, and more song-books than theology.</p> +<p>‘Here’s yin to speak wi’ ye, Mr. +Haddie!’ cries the old wife.</p> +<p>And M‘Brair, opening the door and entering, found the +little, round, red man seated in one chair and his feet upon +another. A clear fire and a tallow dip lighted him +barely. He was taking tobacco in a pipe, and smiling to +himself; and a brandy-bottle and glass, and his fiddle and bow, +were beside him on the table.</p> +<p>‘Hech, Patey M‘Briar, is this you?’ said he, +a trifle tipsily. ‘Step in by, man, and have a drop +brandy: for the stomach’s sake! Even the deil can +quote Scripture—eh, Patey?’</p> +<p>‘I will neither eat nor drink with you,’ replied +M‘Brair. ‘I am come upon my Master’s +errand: woe be upon me if I should anyways mince the same. +Hall Haddo, I summon you to quit this kirk which you +encumber.’</p> +<p>‘Muckle obleeged!’ says Haddo, winking.</p> +<p>‘You and me have been to kirk and market +together,’ pursued M‘Brair; ‘we have had +blessed seasons in the kirk, we have sat in the same +teaching-rooms and read in the same book; and I know you still +retain for me some carnal kindness. It would be my shame if +I denied it; I live here at your mercy and by your favour, and +glory to acknowledge it. You have pity on my wretched body, +which is but grass, and must soon be trodden under: but O, Haddo! +how much greater is the yearning with which I yearn after and +pity your immortal soul! Come now, let us reason +together! I drop all points of controversy, weighty though +these be; I take your defaced and damnified kirk on your own +terms; and I ask you, Are you a worthy minister? The +communion season approaches; how can you pronounce thir solemn +words, “The elders will now bring forrit the +elements,” and not quail? A parishioner may be +summoned to-night; you may have to rise from your miserable +orgies; and I ask you, Haddo, what does your conscience tell +you? Are you fit? Are you fit to smooth the pillow of +a parting Christian? And if the summons should be for +yourself, how then?’</p> +<p>Haddo was startled out of all composure and the better part of +his temper. ‘What’s this of it?’ he +cried. ‘I’m no waur than my neebours. I +never set up to be speeritual; I never did. I’m a +plain, canty creature; godliness is cheerfulness, says I; give me +my fiddle and a dram, and I wouldna hairm a flee.’</p> +<p>‘And I repeat my question,’ said M‘Brair: +‘Are you fit—fit for this great charge? fit to carry +and save souls?’</p> +<p>‘Fit? Blethers! As fit’s +yoursel’,’ cried Haddo.</p> +<p>‘Are you so great a self-deceiver?’ said +M‘Brair. ‘Wretched man, trampler upon +God’s covenants, crucifier of your Lord afresh. I +will ding you to the earth with one word: How about the young +woman, Janet M‘Clour?’</p> +<p>‘Weel, what about her? what do I ken?’ cries +Haddo. ‘M’Brair, ye daft auld wife, I tell ye +as true’s truth, I never meddled her. It was just +daffing, I tell ye: daffing, and nae mair: a piece of fun, +like! I’m no denying but what I’m fond of fun, +sma’ blame to me! But for onything +sarious—hout, man, it might come to a deposeetion! +I’ll sweir it to ye. Where’s a Bible, till you +hear me sweir?’</p> +<p>‘There is nae Bible in your study,’ said +M‘Brair severely.</p> +<p>And Haddo, after a few distracted turns, was constrained to +accept the fact.</p> +<p>‘Weel, and suppose there isna?’ he cried, +stamping. ‘What mair can ye say of us, but just that +I’m fond of my joke, and so’s she? I declare to +God, by what I ken, she might be the Virgin Mary—if she +would just keep clear of the dragoons. But me! na, deil +haet o’ me!’</p> +<p>‘She is penitent at least,’ says +M‘Brair.</p> +<p>‘Do you mean to actually up and tell me to my face that +she accused me?’ cried the curate.</p> +<p>‘I canna just say that,’ replied +M‘Brair. ‘But I rebuked her in the name of God, +and she repented before me on her bended knees.’</p> +<p>‘Weel, I daursay she’s been ower far wi’ the +dragoons,’ said Haddo. ‘I never denied +that. I ken naething by it.’</p> +<p>‘Man, you but show your nakedness the more +plainly,’ said M‘Brair. ‘Poor, blind, +besotted creature—and I see you stoytering on the brink of +dissolution: your light out, and your hours numbered. +Awake, man!’ he shouted with a formidable voice, +‘awake, or it be ower late.’</p> +<p>‘Be damned if I stand this!’ exclaimed Haddo, +casting his tobacco-pipe violently on the table, where it was +smashed in pieces. ‘Out of my house with ye, or +I’ll call for the dragoons.’</p> +<p>‘The speerit of the Lord is upon me,’ said +M‘Brair with solemn ecstasy. ‘I sist you to +compear before the Great White Throne, and I warn you the summons +shall be bloody and sudden.’</p> +<p>And at this, with more agility than could have been expected, +he got clear of the room and slammed the door behind him in the +face of the pursuing curate. The next Lord’s day the +curate was ill, and the kirk closed, but for all his ill words, +Mr. M‘Brair abode unmolested in the house of +Montroymont.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III—THE HILL-END OF DRUMLOWE</h3> +<p>This was a bit of a steep broken hill that overlooked upon the +west a moorish valley, full of ink-black pools. These +presently drained into a burn that made off, with little noise +and no celerity of pace, about the corner of the hill. On +the far side the ground swelled into a bare heath, black with +junipers, and spotted with the presence of the standing stones +for which the place was famous. They were many in that +part, shapeless, white with lichen—you would have said with +age: and had made their abode there for untold centuries, since +first the heathens shouted for their installation. The +ancients had hallowed them to some ill religion, and their +neighbourhood had long been avoided by the prudent before the +fall of day; but of late, on the upspringing of new requirements, +these lonely stones on the moor had again become a place of +assembly. A watchful picket on the Hill-end commanded all +the northern and eastern approaches; and such was the disposition +of the ground, that by certain cunningly posted sentries the west +also could be made secure against surprise: there was no place in +the country where a conventicle could meet with more quiet of +mind or a more certain retreat open, in the case of interference +from the dragoons. The minister spoke from a knowe close to +the edge of the ring, and poured out the words God gave him on +the very threshold of the devils of yore. When they pitched +a tent (which was often in wet weather, upon a communion +occasion) it was rigged over the huge isolated pillar that had +the name of Anes-Errand, none knew why. And the +congregation sat partly clustered on the slope below, and partly +among the idolatrous monoliths and on the turfy soil of the Ring +itself. In truth the situation was well qualified to give a +zest to Christian doctrines, had there been any wanted. But +these congregations assembled under conditions at once so +formidable and romantic as made a zealot of the most cold. +They were the last of the faithful; God, who had averted His face +from all other countries of the world, still leaned from heaven +to observe, with swelling sympathy, the doings of His moorland +remnant; Christ was by them with His eternal wounds, with +dropping tears; the Holy Ghost (never perfectly realised nor +firmly adopted by Protestant imaginations) was dimly supposed to +be in the heart of each and on the lips of the minister. +And over against them was the army of the hierarchies, from the +men Charles and James Stuart, on to King Lewie and the Emperor; +and the scarlet Pope, and the muckle black devil himself, peering +out the red mouth of hell in an ecstasy of hate and hope. +‘One pull more!’ he seemed to cry; ‘one pull +more, and it’s done. There’s only Clydesdale +and the Stewartry, and the three Bailiaries of Ayr, left for +God.’ And with such an august assistance of powers +and principalities looking on at the last conflict of good and +evil, it was scarce possible to spare a thought to those old, +infirm, debile, <i>ab agendo</i> devils whose holy place they +were now violating.</p> +<p>There might have been three hundred to four hundred +present. At least there were three hundred horses tethered +for the most part in the ring; though some of the hearers on the +outskirts of the crowd stood with their bridles in their hand, +ready to mount at the first signal. The circle of faces was +strangely characteristic; long, serious, strongly marked, the +tackle standing out in the lean brown cheeks, the mouth set and +the eyes shining with a fierce enthusiasm; the shepherd, the +labouring man, and the rarer laird, stood there in their broad +blue bonnets or laced hats, and presenting an essential identity +of type. From time to time a long-drawn groan of adhesion +rose in this audience, and was propagated like a wave to the +outskirts, and died away among the keepers of the horses. +It had a name; it was called ‘a holy groan.’</p> +<p>A squall came up; a great volley of flying mist went out +before it and whelmed the scene; the wind stormed with a sudden +fierceness that carried away the minister’s voice and +twitched his tails and made him stagger, and turned the +congregation for a moment into a mere pother of blowing +plaid-ends and prancing horses; and the rain followed and was +dashed straight into their faces. Men and women panted +aloud in the shock of that violent shower-bath; the teeth were +bared along all the line in an involuntary grimace; plaids, +mantles, and riding-coats were proved vain, and the worshippers +felt the water stream on their naked flesh. The minister, +reinforcing his great and shrill voice, continued to contend +against and triumph over the rising of the squall and the dashing +of the rain.</p> +<p>‘In that day ye may go thirty mile and not hear a +crawing cock,’ he said; ‘and fifty mile and not get a +light to your pipe; and an hundred mile and not see a smoking +house. For there’ll be naething in all Scotland but +deid men’s banes and blackness, and the living anger of the +Lord. O, where to find a bield—O sirs, where to find +a bield from the wind of the Lord’s anger? Do ye call +<i>this</i> a wind? Bethankit! Sirs, this is but a +temporary dispensation; this is but a puff of wind, this is but a +spit of rain and by with it. Already there’s a blue +bow in the west, and the sun will take the crown of the causeway +again, and your things’ll be dried upon ye, and your flesh +will be warm upon your bones. But O, sirs, sirs! for the +day of the Lord’s anger!’</p> +<p>His rhetoric was set forth with an ear-piercing elocution, and +a voice that sometimes crashed like cannon. Such as it was, +it was the gift of all hill-preachers, to a singular degree of +likeness or identity. Their images scarce ranged beyond the +red horizon of the moor and the rainy hill-top, the shepherd and +his sheep, a fowling-piece, a spade, a pipe, a dunghill, a +crowing cock, the shining and the withdrawal of the sun. An +occasional pathos of simple humanity, and frequent patches of big +Biblical words, relieved the homely tissue. It was a poetry +apart; bleak, austere, but genuine, and redolent of the soil.</p> +<p>A little before the coming of the squall there was a different +scene enacting at the outposts. For the most part, the +sentinels were faithful to their important duty; the Hill-end of +Drumlowe was known to be a safe meeting-place; and the +out-pickets on this particular day had been somewhat lax from the +beginning, and grew laxer during the inordinate length of the +discourse. Francie lay there in his appointed hiding-hole, +looking abroad between two whin-bushes. His view was across +the course of the burn, then over a piece of plain moorland, to a +gap between two hills; nothing moved but grouse, and some cattle +who slowly traversed his field of view, heading northward: he +heard the psalms, and sang words of his own to the savage and +melancholy music; for he had his own design in hand, and terror +and cowardice prevailed in his bosom alternately, like the hot +and the cold fit of an ague. Courage was uppermost during +the singing, which he accompanied through all its length with +this impromptu strain:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘And I will ding Jock Crozer down<br /> + No later than the day.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Presently the voice of the preacher came to him in wafts, at +the wind’s will, as by the opening and shutting of a door; +wild spasms of screaming, as of some undiscerned gigantic +hill-bird stirred with inordinate passion, succeeded to intervals +of silence; and Francie heard them with a critical ear. +‘Ay,’ he thought at last, ‘he’ll do; he +has the bit in his mou’ fairly.’</p> +<p>He had observed that his friend, or rather his enemy, Jock +Crozer, had been established at a very critical part of the line +of outposts; namely, where the burn issues by an abrupt gorge +from the semicircle of high moors. If anything was +calculated to nerve him to battle it was this. The post was +important; next to the Hill-end itself, it might be called the +key to the position; and it was where the cover was bad, and in +which it was most natural to place a child. It should have +been Heathercat’s; why had it been given to Crozer? +An exquisite fear of what should be the answer passed through his +marrow every time he faced the question. Was it possible +that Crozer could have boasted? that there were rumours abroad to +his—Heathercat’s—discredit? that his honour was +publicly sullied? All the world went dark about him at the +thought; he sank without a struggle into the midnight pool of +despair; and every time he so sank, he brought back with +him—not drowned heroism indeed, but half-drowned courage by +the locks. His heart beat very slowly as he deserted his +station, and began to crawl towards that of Crozer. +Something pulled him back, and it was not the sense of duty, but +a remembrance of Crozer’s build and hateful readiness of +fist. Duty, as he conceived it, pointed him forward on the +rueful path that he was travelling. Duty bade him redeem +his name if he were able, at the risk of broken bones; and his +bones and every tooth in his head ached by anticipation. An +awful subsidiary fear whispered him that if he were hurt, he +should disgrace himself by weeping. He consoled himself, +boy-like, with the consideration that he was not yet committed; +he could easily steal over unseen to Crozer’s post, and he +had a continuous private idea that he would very probably steal +back again. His course took him so near the minister that +he could hear some of his words: ‘What news, minister, of +Claver’se? He’s going round like a roaring +rampaging lion. . . .</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by <span +class="smcap">T.</span> and <span class="smcap">A. +Constable</span>, Printers to His Majesty<br /> +at the Edinburgh University Press.</p> +<h2>Footnotes:</h2> +<p><a name="footnote0"></a><a href="#citation0" +class="footnote">[0]</a> With special reference to +<i>Father Damien</i>, pp. 63–81.</p> +<p><a name="footnote65"></a><a href="#citation65" +class="footnote">[65]</a> From the Sydney +<i>Presbyterian</i>, October 26, 1889.</p> +<p><a name="footnote85"></a><a href="#citation85" +class="footnote">[85]</a> <i>Theater of Mortality</i>, p. +10; Edin. 1713.</p> +<p><a name="footnote86"></a><a href="#citation86" +class="footnote">[86]</a> <i>History of My Own Times</i>, +beginning 1660, by Bishop Gilbert Burnet, p. 158.</p> +<p><a name="footnote87a"></a><a href="#citation87a" +class="footnote">[87a]</a> Wodrow’s <i>Church +History</i>, Book II. chap. i. sect. I.</p> +<p><a name="footnote87b"></a><a href="#citation87b" +class="footnote">[87b]</a> Crookshank’s <i>Church +History</i>, 1751, second ed. p. 202.</p> +<p><a name="footnote88"></a><a href="#citation88" +class="footnote">[88]</a> Burnet, p. 348.</p> +<p><a name="footnote89"></a><a href="#citation89" +class="footnote">[89]</a> <i>Fuller’s Historie of the +Holy Warre</i>, fourth ed. 1651.</p> +<p><a name="footnote90"></a><a href="#citation90" +class="footnote">[90]</a> Wodrow, vol. ii. p. 17.</p> +<p><a name="footnote92"></a><a href="#citation92" +class="footnote">[92]</a> Sir J. Turner’s +<i>Memoirs</i>, pp. 148–50.</p> +<p><a name="footnote93"></a><a href="#citation93" +class="footnote">[93]</a> <i>A Cloud of Witnesses</i>, p. +376.</p> +<p><a name="footnote94a"></a><a href="#citation94a" +class="footnote">[94a]</a> Wodrow, pp. 19, 20.</p> +<p><a name="footnote94b"></a><a href="#citation94b" +class="footnote">[94b]</a> <i>A Hind Let Loose</i>, p. +123.</p> +<p><a name="footnote95"></a><a href="#citation95" +class="footnote">[95]</a> Turner, p. 163.</p> +<p><a name="footnote96a"></a><a href="#citation96a" +class="footnote">[96a]</a> Turner, p. 198.</p> +<p><a name="footnote96b"></a><a href="#citation96b" +class="footnote">[96b]</a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 167.</p> +<p><a name="footnote97"></a><a href="#citation97" +class="footnote">[97]</a> Wodrow, p. 29.</p> +<p><a name="footnote98"></a><a href="#citation98" +class="footnote">[98]</a> Turner, Wodrow, and <i>Church +History</i> by James Kirkton, an outed minister of the +period.</p> +<p><a name="footnote99"></a><a href="#citation99" +class="footnote">[99]</a> Kirkton, p. 244.</p> +<p><a name="footnote101a"></a><a href="#citation101a" +class="footnote">[101a]</a> Kirkton.</p> +<p><a name="footnote101b"></a><a href="#citation101b" +class="footnote">[101b]</a> Turner.</p> +<p><a name="footnote102"></a><a href="#citation102" +class="footnote">[102]</a> Kirkton.</p> +<p><a name="footnote103"></a><a href="#citation103" +class="footnote">[103]</a> Kirkton.</p> +<p><a name="footnote104"></a><a href="#citation104" +class="footnote">[104]</a> <i>Cloud of Witnesses</i>, p. +389; Edin. 1765.</p> +<p><a name="footnote105a"></a><a href="#citation105a" +class="footnote">[105a]</a> Kirkton, p. 247.</p> +<p><a name="footnote105b"></a><a href="#citation105b" +class="footnote">[105b]</a> Ibid. p. 254.</p> +<p><a name="footnote105c"></a><a href="#citation105c" +class="footnote">[105c]</a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 247.</p> +<p><a name="footnote105d"></a><a href="#citation105d" +class="footnote">[105d]</a> <i>Ibid.</i> pp. 247, 248.</p> +<p><a name="footnote106"></a><a href="#citation106" +class="footnote">[106]</a> Kirkton, p. 248.</p> +<p><a name="footnote107a"></a><a href="#citation107a" +class="footnote">[107a]</a> Kirkton, p. 249.</p> +<p><a name="footnote107b"></a><a href="#citation107b" +class="footnote">[107b]</a> <i>Naphtali</i>, p. 205; +Glasgow, 1721.</p> +<p><a name="footnote107c"></a><a href="#citation107c" +class="footnote">[107c]</a> Wodrow, p. 59.</p> +<p><a name="footnote108a"></a><a href="#citation108a" +class="footnote">[108a]</a> Kirkton, p. 246.</p> +<p><a name="footnote108b"></a><a href="#citation108b" +class="footnote">[108b]</a> Defoe’s <i>History of the +Church of Scotland</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote151"></a><a href="#citation151" +class="footnote">[151]</a> ‘This paper was written in +collaboration with James Waiter Ferrier, and if reprinted this is +to be stated, though his principal collaboration was to lie back +in an easy-chair and laugh.’—[R.L.S., Oct. 25, +1894.]</p> +<p><a name="footnote183"></a><a href="#citation183" +class="footnote">[183]</a> The illustrator was, in fact, a +lady, Miss Eunice Bagster, eldest daughter of the publisher, +Samuel Bagster; except in the case of the cuts depicting the +fight with Apollyon, which were designed by her brother, Mr. +Jonathan Bagster. The edition was published in 1845. +I am indebted for this information to the kindness of Mr. Robert +Bagster, the present managing director of the firm.—[<span +class="smcap">Sir Sidney Colvin’s Note</span>.]</p> +<p><a name="footnote205"></a><a href="#citation205" +class="footnote">[205]</a> See a short essay of De +Quincey’s.</p> +<p><a name="footnote206a"></a><a href="#citation206a" +class="footnote">[206a]</a> <i>Religio Medici</i>, Part +ii.</p> +<p><a name="footnote206b"></a><a href="#citation206b" +class="footnote">[206b]</a> <i>Duchess of Malfi</i>.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAY MORALS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 373-h.htm or 373-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/7/373 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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