m ^ U:t -i: t -A a U -AU'ft KM MM ui 1 ?««}♦;•»«»» ;«iM«i#^»^»»»tf?'Bif>*B»i n/i^ University of California • Berkeley From the Collection of Joseph Z. Todd Gift of Hatherly B. Todd ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Vol. XIV FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS ^ k MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2008 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/familiarstudiesoOOstevrich i i »THE TRAVELS and ESSAYS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEI^'^^'X^e^^^OOKS % ft MISCEI LAMEOUS PAPERS SePUBLISHED IN NEW YORK BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS « t 1907 * *THE TRAVELS AND ESSAYS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS t t MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS IfePUBLISHED IN NEW YORK BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS t % 1907 $ Copyright, 1895, t>y Charles Scribner's Sons. TO THOMAS STEVENSON CIVIL ENGINEER BY WHOSE DEVICES THE GREAT SEA LIGHTS IN EVERY QUARTER OF THE WORLD NOW SHINE MORE BRIGHTLY THIS VOLUME IS IN LOVE AND GRATITUDE DEDICATED BY HIS SON THE AUTHOR CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE I VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES 17 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS 46 WALT WHITMAN 87 HENRY DAVID THOREAU: HIS CHARACTER AND OPIN- IONS 116 YOSHIDA-TORAJIRO . 150 FRANCOIS VILLON, STUDENT, POET, AND HOUSE- BREAKER 166 CHARLES OF ORLEANS 201 SAMUEL PEPYS 243 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN ... 272 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS Popular Authors 329 Gentlemen 346 Some Gentlemen in Fiction 361 The Pentland Rising 377 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS PREFACE BY WAY OF CRITICISM THESE studies are collected from the monthly press. One appeared in -the New Quarterly, one in Mac- miUan's, and the rest in the Cornhill Magazine, To the CornbiU I owe a double debt of thanks ; first, that I was received there in the very best society, and under the eye of the very best of editors; and second, that the proprietors have allowed me to republish so consider- able an amount of copy. These nine worthies have been brought together from many different ages and countries. Not the most eru- dite of men could be perfectly prepared to deal with so many and such various sides of human life and manners. To pass a true judgment upon Knox and Burns implies a grasp upon the very deepest strain of thought in Scot- land, — a country far more essentially different from England than many parts of America; for, in a sense, the first of these men recreated Scotland, and the second is its most essentially national production. To treat fitly of Hugo and Villon would involve yet wider knowledge, not only of a country foreign to the author by race, his- tory, and religion, but of the growth and liberties of art. Of the two Americans, Whitman and Thoreau, each is the type of something not so much realised as widely FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS sought after among the late generations of their country- men; and to see them clearly in a nice relation to the society that brought them forth, an author would re- quire a large habit of life among modern Americans. As for Yoshida, 1 have already disclaimed responsibility ; it was but my hand that held the pen. In truth, these are but the readings of a literary va- grant. One book led to another, one study to another. The first was published with trepidation. Since no bones were broken, the second was launched with greater confidence. So, by insensible degrees, a young man of our generation acquires, in his own eyes, a kind of roving judicial commission through the ages; and, having once escaped the perils of the Freemans and the Furnivalls, sets himself up to right the wrongs of uni- versal history and criticism. Now, it is one thing to write with enjoyment on a subject while the story is hot in your mind from recent reading, coloured with recent prejudice ; and it is quite another business to put these writings coldly forth again in a bound volume. We are most of us attached to our opinions ; that is one of the '* natural affections " of which we hear so much in youth ; but few of us are altogether free from paralysing doubts and scruples. For my part, I have a small idea of the degree of accuracy possible to man, and I feel sure these studies teem with error. One and all were writ- ten with genuine interest in the subject; many, how- ever, have been conceived and finished with imperfect knowledge; and all have lain, from beginning to end, under the disadvantages inherent in this style of writing. Of these disadvantages a word must here be said. The writer of short studies, having to condense in a few PREFACE, BY WAY OF CRITICISM pages the events of a whole lifetime, and the effect on his own mind of many various volumes, is bound, above all things, to make that condensation logical and strik- ing. For the only justification of his writing at all is that he shall present a brief, reasoned, and memorable view. By the necessity of the case, all the more neu- tral circumstances are omitted from his narrative; and that of itself, by the negative exaggeration of which I have spoken in the text, lends to the matter in hand a certain false and specious glitter. By the necessity of the case, again, he is forced to view his subject throughout in a particular illumination, like a studio artifice. Like Hales with Pepys, he must nearly break his sitters neck to get the proper shadows on the portrait It is from one side only that he has time to represent his subject. The side selected will either be the one most striking to him- self, or the one most obscured by controversy ; and in both cases that will be the one most liable to strained and sophisticated reading. In a biography, this and that is displayed; the hero is seen at home, playing the flute; the different tendencies of his work come, one after another, into notice; and thus something like a true, general impression of the subject may at last be struck. But in the short study, the writer, having seized his ''point of view," must keep his eye steadily to that. He seeks, perhaps, rather to differentiate than truly to characterise. The proportions of the sitter must be sacrificed to the proportions of the portrait ; the lights are heightened, the shadows overcharged ; the chosen expression, continually forced, may degenerate at length into a grimace; and we have at best something of a caricature, at worst a calumny. Hence, if they be 3 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS readable at all, and hang together by their own ends, the peculiar convincing force of these brief representa- tions. They take so little a while to read, and yet in that little while the subject is so repeatedly introduced in the same light and with the same expression, that, by sheer force of repetition, that view is imposed upon the reader. The two English masters of the style, Macaulay and Carlyle, largely exemplify its dangers. Carlyle, indeed, had so much more depth and knowl- edge of the heart, his portraits of mankind are felt and rendered with so much more poetic comprehension, and he, like his favourite Ram Dass, had a fire in his belly so much more hotly burning than the patent reading lamp by which Macaulay studied, that it seems at first sight hardly fair to bracket them together. But the ''point of view " was imposed by Carlyle on the men he judged of in his writings with an austerity not only cruel but almost stupid. They are too often broken outright on the Procrustean bed; they are probably always disfigured. The rhetorical artifice of Macaulay is easily spied; it will take longer to appreciate the moral bias of Carlyle. So with all writers who insist on forcing some significance from all that comes before them ; and the writer of short studies is bound, by the necessity of the case, to write entirely in that spirit. What he cannot vivify he should omit. Had it been possible to rewrite some of these papers, I hope I should have had the courage to attempt it. But it is not possible. Short studies are, or should be, things woven like a carpet, from which it is impossible to detach a strand. What is perverted has its place there forever, as a part of the technical means by which 4 PREFACE, BY WAY OF CRITICISM what is right has been presented. It is only possible to write another study, and then, with a new "point of view," would follow new perversions and perhaps a fresh caricature. Hence, it will be, at least, honest to offer a few grains of salt to be taken with the text; and as some words of apology, addition, correction, or am- plification fall to be said on almost every study in the volume, it will be most simple to run them over in their order. But this must not be taken as a propitiatory of- fering to the gods of shipwreck ; I trust my cargo unre- servedly to the chances of the sea; and do not, by crit- icising myself, seek to disarm the wrath of other and less partial critics. Hugo's Romances. — This is an instance of the "point of view." The five romances studied with a different purpose might have given different results, even with a critic so warmly interested in their favour. The great contemporary master of wordmanship, and indeed of all literary arts and technicalities, had not unnaturally dazzled a beginner. But it is best to dwell on merits, for it is these that are most often overlooked. Burns. — I have left the introductory sentences on Principal Shairp, partly to explain my own paper, which was merely supplemental to his amiable but imperfect book, partly because that book appears to me truly mis- leading both as to the character and the genius of Burns. This seems ungracious, but Mr. Shairp has himself to blame; so good a Wordsworthian was out of character upon that stage. This half apology apart, nothing more falls to be said except upon a remark called forth by my study in the columns of a literary Review. The exact terms in 5 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS which that sheet disposed of Burns I cannot now recall; but they were to this effect — that Burns was a bad man, the impure vehicle of fine verses; and that this was the view to which all criticism tended. Now I knew, for my own part, that it was with the profound- est pity, but with a growing esteem, that I studied the man's desperate efforts to do right; and the more 1 re- flected, the stranger it appeared to me that any thinking being should feel otherwise. The complete letters shed, indeed, a light on the depths to which Burns had sunk in his character of Don Juan, but they enhance in the same proportion the hopeless nobility of his marrying Jean. That I ought to have stated this more noisily I now see ; but that any one should fail to see it for him- self, is to me a thing both incomprehensible and worthy of open scorn. If Burns, on the facts dealt with in this study, is to be called a bad man, 1 question very much whether either I or the writer in the Review have ever encountered what it would be fair to call a good one. All have some fault. The fault of each grinds down the hearts of those about him, and — let us not blink the truth — hurries both him and them into the grave. And when we find a man persevering indeed, in his fault, as all of us do, and openly overtaken, as not all of us are, by its consequences, to gloss the matter over, with too polite biographers, is to do the work of the wrecker dis- figuring beacons on a perilous seaboard; but to call him bad, with a self-righteous chuckle, is to be talking in one's sleep with Heedless and Too-bold in the arbour. Yet it is undeniable that much anger and distress is raised in many quarters by the least attempt to state plainly what every one well knows of Burns's profli- 6 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES tells US as much as he thought necessary to account for the actions of his creatures; he thought that each of these actions could be decomposed on the spot into a few simple personal elements, as we decompose a force in a question of abstract dynamics. The larger motives are all unknown to him ; he had not understood that the nature of the landscape or the spirit of the times could be for anything in a story ; and so, naturally and rightly, he said nothing about them. But Scott's instinct, the instinct of the man of an age profoundly different, taught him otherwise; and, in his work, the individual char- acters begin to occupy a comparatively small proportion of that canvas on which armies manoeuvre, and great hills pile themselves upon each other's shoulders. Field- ing's characters were always great to the full stature of a perfectly arbitrary will. Already in Scott we begin to have a sense of the subtle influences that moderate and qualify a man's personality ; that personality is no longer thrown out in unnatural isolation, but is resumed into its place in the constitution of things. It is this change in the manner of regarding men and their actions first exhibited in romance, that has since renewed and vivified history. For art precedes phi- losophy and even science. People must have noticed things and interested themselves in them before they begin to debate upon their causes or influence. And it is in this way that art is the pioneer of knowledge; those predilections of the artist he knows not why, those irrational acceptations and recognitions, reclaim, out of the world that we have not yet realised, ever another and another corner; and after the facts have been thus vividly brought before us and have had time 23 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS to settle and arrange themselves in our minds, some day there will be found the man of science to stand up and give the explanation. Scott took an interest in many things in which Fielding took none; and for this reason, and no other, he introduced them into his ro- mances. If he had been told what would be the na- ture of the movement that he was so lightly initiating, he would have been very incredulous and not a little scandalised. At the time when he wrote, the real drift of this new manner of pleasing people in fiction was not yet apparent ; and, even now, it is only by looking at the romances of Victor Hugo that we are enabled to form any proper judgment in the matter. These books are not only descended by ordinary generation from the Waverley novels, but it is in them chiefly that we shall find the revolutionary tradition of Scott carried farther; that we shall find Scott himself, in so far as regards his conception of prose fiction and its purposes, surpassed in his own spirit, instead of tamely followed. We have here, as 1 said before, a line of literary tendency produced, and by this production definitely separated from others. When we come to Hugo, we see that the deviation, which seemed slight enough and not very serious be- tween Scott and Fielding, is indeed such a great gulf in thought and sentiment as only successive genera- tions can pass over: and it is but natural that one of the chief advances that Hugo has made upon Scott is an advance in self-consciousness. Both men follow the same road; but where the one went blindly and carelessly, the other advances with all deliberation and forethought. There never was artist much more unconscious than Scott; and there have been not many 24 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES more conscious than Hugo. The passage at the head of these pages shows how organically he had under- stood the nature of his own changes. He has, under- lying each of the five great romances (which alone I purpose here to examine), two deliberate designs : one artistic, the other consciously ethical and intellectual. This is a man living in a different world from Scott, who professes sturdily (in one of his introductions) that he does not believe in novels having any moral influ- ence at all ; but still Hugo is too much of an artist to let himself be hampered by his dogmas ; and the truth is that the artistic result seems, in at least one great in- stance, to have very little connection with the other, or directly ethical result. The artistic result of a romance, what is left upon the memory by any really powerful and artistic novel, is something so complicated and refined that it is difficult to put a name upon it; and yet something as simple as nature. These two propositions may seem mutually destructive, but they are so only in appearance. The fact is that art is working far ahead of language as well as of science, realising for us, by all manner of sugges- tions and exaggerations, effects for which as yet we have no direct name; nay, for which we may never perhaps have a direct name, for the reason that these effects do not enter very largely into the necessities of life. Hence alone is that suspicion of vagueness that often hangs about the purpose of a romance: it is clear enough to us in thought; but we are not used to consider anything clear until we are able to formulate it in words, and an- alytical language has not been sufficiently shaped to that end. We all know this difficulty in the case of a pic- as FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS ture, simple and strong as may be the impression that it has left with us ; and it is only because language is the medium of romance, that we are prevented from seeing that the two cases are the same. It is not that there is anything blurred or indefinite in the impression left with us, it is just because the impression is so very definite after its own kind, that we find it hard to fit it exactly with the expressions of our philosophical speech. It is this idea which underlies and issues from a ro- mance, this something which it is the function of that form of art to create, this epical value, that I propose chiefly to seek and, as far as may be, to throw into re- lief, in the present study. It is thus, 1 believe, that we shall see most clearly the great stride that Hugo has taken beyond his predecessors, and how, no longer content with expressing more or less abstract relations of man to man, he has set before himself the task of re- alising, in the language of romance, much of the invo- lution of our complicated lives. This epical value is not to be found, let it be under- stood, in every so-called novel. The great majority are not works of art in anything but a very secondary sig- nification. One might almost number on one's fingers the works in which such a supreme artistic intention has been in any way superior to the other and lesser aims, themselves more or less artistic, that generally go hand in hand with it in the conception of prose ro- mance. The purely critical spirit is, in most novels, paramount. At the present moment we can recall one man only, for whose works it would have been equally possible to accomplish our present design : and that man 26 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES is Hawthorne. There is a unity, an unwavering creative purpose, about some at least of Hawthorne's romances, that impresses itself on the most indifferent reader; and the very restrictions and weaknesses of the man served perhaps to strengthen the vivid and single impression of his works. There is nothing of this kind in Hugo: unity, if he attains to it, is indeed unity out of multi- tude; and it is the wonderful power of subordination and synthesis thus displayed, that gives us the measure of his talent. No amount of mere discussion and state- ment, such as this, could give a just conception of the greatness of this power. It must be felt in the books themselves, and all that can be done in the present essay is to recall to the reader the more general features of each of the five great romances, hurriedly and imper- fectly, as space will permit, and rather as a suggestion than anything more complete. The moral end that the author had before him in the conception of Notre Dame de Paris was (he tells us) to *' denounce" the external fatality that hangs over men in the form of foolish and inflexible superstition. To speak plainly, this moral purpose seems to have mighty little to do with the artistic conception ; moreover it is very questionably handled, while the artistic conception is developed with the most consummate success. Old Paris lives for us with newness of life : we have ever be- fore our eyes the city cut into three by the two arms of the river, the boat-shaped island ** moored" by five bridges to the different shores, and the two unequal towns on either hand. We forget all that enumeration of palaces and churches and convents which occupies ay FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS SO many pages of admirable description, and the thoughtless reader might be inclined to conclude from this, that they were pages thrown away; but this is not so : we forget, indeed, the details, as we forget or do not see the different layers of paint on a completed pic- ture; but the thing desired has been accomplished, and we carry away with us a sense of the " Gothic profile" of the city, of the "surprising forest of pinnacles and towers and belfries," and we know not what of rich and intricate and quaint. And throughout, Notre Dame has been held up over Paris by a height far greater than that of its twin towers : the Cathedral is present to us from the first page to the last; the title has given us the clew, and already in the Palace of Justice the story begins to attach itself to that central building by character after character. It is purely an effect of mirage ; Notre Dame does not, in reality, thus dominate and stand out above the city ; and any one who should visit it, in the spirit of the Scott-tourists to Edinburgh or the Tros- sachs, would be almost offended at finding nothing more than this old church thrust away into a corner. It is purely an effect of mirage, as we say ; but it is an effect that permeates and possesses the whole book with as- tonishing consistency and strength. And then, Hugo has peopled this Gothic city, and, above all, this Gothic church, with a race of men even more distinctly Gothic than their surroundings. We know this generation already : we have seen them clustered about the worn capitals of pillars, or craning forth over the church-leads with the open mouths of gargoyles. About them all there is that sort of stiff" quaint unreality, that conjunc- tion of the grotesque, and even of a certain bourgeois 28 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES snugness, with passionate contortion and horror, that is so characteristic of Gothic art. Esmeralda is somewhat an exception ; she and the goat traverse the story like two children who have wandered in a dream. The finest moment of the book is when these two share with the two other leading characters, Dom Claude and Quasimodo, the chill shelter of the old cathedral. It is here that we touch most intimately the generative ar- tistic idea of the romance : are they not all four taken out of some quaint moulding, illustrative of the Beati- tudes, or the Ten Commandments, or the seven deadly sins ? What is Quasimodo but an animated gargoyle > What is the whole book but the reanimation of Gothic art? It is curious that in this, the earliest of the five great romances, there should be so little of that extravagance that latterly we have come almost to identify with the author's manner. Yet even here we are distressed by words, thoughts, and incidents that defy belief and alienate the sympathies. The scene of the w /)^^^^ for example, in spite of its strength, verges dangerously on the province of the penny novelist. I do not believe that Quasimodo rode upon the bell; I should as soon imagine that he swung by the clapper. And again the following two sentences, out of an otherwise admirable chapter, surely surpass what it has ever entered into the heart of any other man to imagine (vol. ii. p. i8o) : '' II souflfrait tant que par instants il s'arrachait des poignees de cheveux, pour voir s 'Us ne blanchissaient pas. ' ' And, p. i8i : **Ses pensees etaient si insupportables qu'il prenait sa tete a deux mains et tachait de I'arracher de ses epaules pour la briser sur le pavi. 29 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS One other fault, before we pass on. In spite of the horror and misery that pervade all of his later work, there is in it much less of actual melodrama than here, and rarely, I should say never, that sort of brutality, that useless insufferable violence to the feelings, which is the last distinction between melodrama and true tragedy. Now, in Notre Dame, the whole story of Es- meralda's passion for the worthless archer is unpleasant enough ; but when she betrays herself in her last hiding- place, herself and her wretched mother, by calling out to this sordid hero who has long since forgotten her — well, that is just one of those things that readers will not forgive; they do not like it, and they are quite right; life is hard enough for poor mortals, without having it indefinitely embittered for them by bad art. We look in vain for any similar blemish in Les Mis^- rabies. Here, on the other hand, there is perhaps the nearest approach to literary restraint that Hugo has ever made: there is here certainly the ripest and most easy development of his powers. It is the moral intention of this great novel to awaken us a little, if it may be — for such awakenings are unpleasant — to the great cost of this society that we enjoy and profit by, to the labour and sweat of those who support the litter, civilisation, in which we ourselves are so smoothly carried forward. People are all glad to shut their eyes; and it gives them a very simple pleasure when they can forget that our laws commit a million individual injustices, to be once roughly just in the general; that the bread that we eat, and the quiet of the family, and all that embellishes life and makes it worth having, have to be purchased by 30 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES death — by the deaths of animals, and the deaths of men wearied out with labour, and the deaths of those crimi- nals called tyrants and revolutionaries, and the deaths of those revolutionaries called criminals. It is to some- thing of all this that Victor Hugo wishes to open men's eyes in Les Miserables; and this moral lesson is worked out in masterly coincidence with the artistic effect. The deadly weight of civilisation to those who are below presses sensibly on our shoulders as we read. A sort of mocking indignation grows upon us as we find So- ciety rejecting, again and again, the services of the most serviceable; setting Jean Valjean to pick oakum, casting Galileo into prison, even crucifying Christ. There is a haunting and horrible sense of insecurity about the book. The terror we thus feel is a terror for the ma- chinery of law, that we can hear tearing, in the dark, good and bad between its formidable wheels with the iron stolidity of all machinery, human or divine. This terror incarnates itself sometimes and leaps horribly out upon us; as when the crouching mendicant looks up, and Jean Valjean, in the light of the street lamp, recog- nises the face of the detective ; as when the lantern of the patrol flashes suddenly through the darkness of the sewer; or as when the fugitive comes forth at last at evening, by the quiet riverside, and finds the police there also, waiting stolidly for vice and stolidly satisfied to take virtue instead. The whole book is full of op- pression, and full of prejudice, which is the great cause of oppression. We have the prejudices of M. Gillenor- mand, the prejudices of Marius, the prejudices in revolt that defend the barricade, and the throned prejudices that carry it by storm. And then we have the admi- 3» FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS rable but ill-written character of Javert, the man who had made a religion of the police, and would not sur- vive the moment when he learned that there was an- other truth outside the truth of laws; a just creation, over which the reader will do well to ponder. With so gloomy a design this great work is still full of life and light and love. The portrait of the good Bishop is one of the most agreeable things in modern literature. The whole scene at Montfermeil is full of the charm that Hugo knows so well how to throw about children. Who can forget the passage where Cosette, sent out at night to draw water, stands in admiration before the illuminated booth, and the huckster behind ** lui faisait un peu reffet d'etre le Pere eternel ? " The pathos of the forlorn sabot laid trustingly by the chimney in expectation of the Santa Claus that was not, takes us fairly by the throat; there is nothing in Shakespeare that touches the heart more nearly. The loves of Cosette and Marius are very pure and pleasant, and we cannot refuse our affection to Gavroche, although we may make a mental reservation of our profound disbelief in his ex- istence. Take it for all in all, there are few books in the world that can be compared with it. There is as much calm and serenity as Hugo has ever attained to; the melodramatic coarsenesses that disfigured Notre Dame are no longer present. There is certainly much that is painfully improbable; and again, the story itself is a little too well constructed; it produces on us the effect of a puzzle, and we grow incredulous as we find that every character fits again and again into the plot, and is, like the child's cube, serviceable on six faces ; things are not so well arranged in life as all that comes to. Some of 33 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES the digressions, also, seem out of place, and do nothing but interrupt and irritate. But when all is said, the book remains of masterly conception and of masterly develop- ment, full of pathos, full of truth, full of a high elo- quence. Superstition and social exigency having been thus dealt with in the first two members of the series, it re- mained for Les Travailleurs de la Mer to show man hand to hand with the elements, the last form of ex- ternal force that is brought against him. And here once more the artistic effect and the moral lesson are worked out together, and are, indeed, one. Gilliat, alone upon the reef at his herculean task, offers a type of human in- dustry in the midst of the vague ' ' diffusion of forces into the illimitable," and the visionary development of ** wasted labour" in the sea, and the winds, and the clouds. No character was ever thrown into such strange relief as Gilliat. The great circle of sea-birds that come wonderingly around him on the night of his arrival, strikes at once the note of his pre-eminence and isola- tion. He fills the whole reef with his indefatigable toil; this solitary spot in the ocean rings with the clamour of his anvil ; we see him as he comes and goes, thrown out sharply against the clear background of the sea. And yet his isolation is not to be compared with the isolation of Robinson Crusoe, for example; indeed, no two books could be more instructive to set side by side than Les Travailleurs and this other of the old days before art had learned to occupy itself with what lies outside of human will. Crusoe was one sole centre of interest in the midst of a nature utterly dead and utterly unrealised 33 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS by the artist; but this is not how we feel with Gilliat; we feel that he is opposed by a ''dark coalition of forces," that an " immense animosity " surrounds him; we are the witnesses of the terrible warfare that he wages with "the silent inclemency of phenomena go- ing their own way, and the great general law, implaca- ble and passive:" '*a conspiracy of the indifferency of things " is against him. There is not one interest on the reef, but two. Just as we recognise Gilliat for the hero, we recognise, as implied by this indifferency of things, this direction of forces to some purpose outside our purposes, yet another character who may almost take rank as the villain of the novel, and the two face up to one another blow for blow, feint for feint, until, in the storm, they fight it epically out, and Gilliat remains the victor; — a victor, however, who has still to encoun- ter the octopus. I need say nothing of the grewsome, repulsive excellence of that famous scene; it will be enough to remind the reader that Gilliat is in pursuit of a crab when he is himself assaulted by the devil fish, and that this, in its way, is the last touch to the inner significance of the book ; here, indeed, is the true posi- tion of man in the universe. But in Les Travailleurs, with all its strength, with all its eloquence, with all the beauty and fitness of its main situations, we cannot conceal from ourselves that there is a thread of something that will not bear calm scrutiny. There is much that is disquiet- ing about the storm, admirably as it begins. I am very doubtful whether it would be possible to keep the boat from foundering in such circumstances, by any amount of breakwater and broken rock. I do not un- 34 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES derstand the way in which the waves are spoken of, and prefer just to take it as a loose way of speaking, and pass on. And lastly, how does it happen that the sea was quite calm next day ? Is this great hurricane a piece of scene-painting after all ? And when we have for- given Gilliat's prodigies of strength (although, in sober- ness, he reminds us more of Porthos in the Vicomte de Bragelonne than is quite desirable), what is to be said to his suicide, and how are we to condemn in adequate terms that unprincipled avidity after effect, which tells us that the sloop disappeared over the horizon, and the head under the water, at one and the same moment ? Monsieur Hugo may say what he will, but we know better; we know very well that they did not; a thing like that raises up a despairing spirit of opposition in a man's readers; they give him the lie fiercely, as they read. Lastly, we have here already some beginning of that curious series of English blunders, that makes us wonder if there are neither proof sheets nor judicious friends in the whole of France, and affects us sometimes with a sickening uneasiness as to what may be our own exploits when we touch upon foreign countries and for- eign tongues. It is here that we shall find the famous "first of the fourth," and many English words that may be comprehensible perhaps in Paris. It is here that we learn that *' laird" in Scotland is the same title as "lord'^ in England. Here, also, is an account of a Highland soldier's equipment, which we recommend to the lovers of genuine fun. In L' Homme qui Rit, it was Hugo's object to ''de- nounce " (as he would say himself) the aristocratic ^5 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS principle as it was exhibited in England ; and this pur- pose, somewhat more unmitigatedly satiric than that of the two last, must answer for much that is unpleasant in the book. The repulsiveness of the scheme of the story, and the manner in which it is bound up with impossi- bilities and absurdities, discourage the reader at the out- set, and it needs an effort to take it as seriously as it deserves. And yet when we judge it deliberately, it will be seen that, here again, the story is admirably adapted to the moral. The constructive ingenuity ex- hibited throughout is almost morbid. Nothing could be more happily imagined, as a reductio ad absurdum of the aristocratic principle, than the adventures of Gwynplaine, the itinerant mountebank, snatched sud- denly out of his little way of life, and installed without preparation as one of the hereditary legislators of a great country. It is with a very bitter irony that the paper, on which all this depends, is left to float for years at the will of wind and tide. What, again, can be finer in conception than that voice from the people heard sud- denly in the House of Lords, in solemn arraignment of the pleasures and privileges of its splendid occupants ? The horrible laughter, stamped forever *'by order of the king " upon the face of this strange spokesman of de- mocracy, adds yet another feature of justice to the scene; in all time, travesty has been the argument of oppres- sion; and, in all time, the oppressed might have made this answer: "If I am vile, is it not your system that has made me so ? " This ghastly laughter gives occa- sion, moreover, for the one strain of tenderness running through the web of this unpleasant story : the love of the blind girl Dea for the monster. It is a most be- 36 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES nignant providence that thus harmoniously brings together these two misfortunes ; it is one of those com- pensations, one of those afterthoughts of a relenting destiny, that reconcile us from time to time to the evil that is in the world; the atmosphere of the book is purified by the presence of this pathetic love; it seems to be above the story somehow, and not of it, as the full moon over the night of some foul and feverish city. There is here a quality in the narration more intimate and particular than is general with Hugo ; but it must be owned, on the other hand, that the book is wordy, and even, now and then, a little wearisome. Ursus and his wolf are pleasant enough companions ; but the for- mer is nearly as much an abstract type as the latter. There is a beginning, also, of an abuse of conventional conversation, such as may be quite pardonable in the drama where needs must, but is without excuse in the romance. Lastly, I suppose one must say a word or two about the weak points of this not immaculate novel ; and if so, it will be best to distinguish at once. The large family of English blunders, to which we have alluded already in speaking of Les Travailleurs, are of a sort that is really indifferent in art. If Shakespeare makes his ships cast anchor by some seaport of Bohe- mia, if Hugo imagines Tom-Tim-Jack to be a likely nickname for an English sailor, or if either Shakespeare, or Hugo, or Scott, for that matter, be guilty of "fig- ments enough to confuse the march of a whole history — anachronisms enough to overset all chronology," ^ the life of their creations, the artistic truth and accuracy of their work, is not so much as compromised. But 1 Prefatory letter to Peveril of the Peak. 37 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS when we come upon a passage like the sinking of the **Ourque" in this romance, we can do nothing but cover our face with our hands : the conscientious reader feels a sort of disgrace in the very reading. For such ahistic falsehoods, springing from what I have called already an unprincipled avidity after effect, no amount of blame can be exaggerated ; and above all, when the criminal is such a man as Victor Hugo. We cannot for- give in him what we might have passed over in a third- rate sensation novelist. Little as he seems to know of the sea and nautical affairs, he must have known very well that vessels do not go down as he makes the ** Ourque " go down ; he must have known that such a liberty with fact was against the laws of the game, and incompatible with all appearance of sincerity in concep- tion or workmanship. In each of these books, one after another, there has been some departure from the traditional canons of ro- mance; but taking each separately, one would have feared to make too much of these departures, or to found any theory upon what was perhaps purely accidental. The appearance of Quatre Vingt Trei^e has put us out of the region of such doubt. Like a doctor who has long been hesitating how to classify an epidemic mal- ady, we have come at last upon a case so well marked that our uncertainty is at an end. It is a novel built upon **a sort of enigma," which was at that date laid before revolutionary France, and which is presented by Hugo to Tellmarch, to Lantenac, to Gauvain, and very terribly to Cimourdain, each of whom gives his own so- lution of the question, clement or stern, according to the 38 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES tells US as much as he thought necessary to account for the actions of his creatures; he thought that each of these actions could be decomposed on the spot into a few simple personal elements, as we decompose a force in a question of abstract dynamics. The larger motives are all unknown to him ; he had not understood that the nature of the landscape or the spirit of the times could be for anything in a story ; and so, naturally and rightly, he said nothing about them. But Scott's instinct, the instinct of the man of an age profoundly different, taught him otherwise; and, in his work, the individual char- acters begin to occupy a comparatively small proportion of that canvas on which armies manoeuvre, and great hills pile themselves upon each other's shoulders. Field- ing's characters were always great to the full stature of a perfectly arbitrary will. Already in Scott we begin to have a sense of the subtle influences that moderate and qualify a man's personality ; that personality is no longer thrown out in unnatural isolation, but is resumed into its place in the constitution of things. It is this change in the manner of regarding men and their actions first exhibited in romance, that has since renewed and vivified history. For art precedes phi- losophy and even science. People must have noticed things and interested themselves in them before they begin to debate upon their causes or influence. And it is in this way that art is the pioneer of knowledge ; those predilections of the artist he knows not why, those irrational acceptations and recognitions, reclaim, out of the world that we have not yet realised, ever another and another corner; and after the facts have been thus vividly brought before us and have had time 23 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS to settle and arrange themselves in our minds, some day there will be found the man of science to stand up and give the explanation. Scott took an interest in many things in which Fielding took none; and for this reason, and no other, he introduced them into his ro- mances. If he had been told what would be the na- ture of the movement that he was so lightly initiating, he would have been very incredulous and not a little scandalised. At the time when he wrote, the real drift of this new manner of pleasing people in fiction was not yet apparent; and, even now, it is only by looking at the romances of Victor Hugo that we are enabled to form any proper judgment in the matter. These books are not only descended by ordinary generation from the Waverley novels, but it is in them chiefly that we shall find the revolutionary tradition of Scott carried farther; that we shall find Scott himself, in so far as regards his conception of prose fiction and its purposes, surpassed in his own spirit, instead of tamely followed. We have here, as I said before, a line of literary tendency produced, and by this production definitely separated from others. When we come to Hugo, we see that the deviation, which seemed slight enough and not very serious be- tween Scott and Fielding, is indeed such a great gulf in thought and sentiment as only successive genera- tions can pass over: and it is but natural that one of the chief advances that Hugo has made upon Scott is an advance in self-consciousness. Both men follow the same road; but where the one went blindly and carelessly, the other advances with all deliberation and forethought. There never was artist much more unconscious than Scott ; and there have been not many 24 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES more conscious than Hugo. The passage at the head of these pages shows how organically he had under- stood the nature of his own changes. He has, under- lying each of the five great romances (which alone I purpose here to examine), two deliberate designs : one artistic, the other consciously ethical and intellectual. This is a man living in a different world from Scott, who professes sturdily (in one of his introductions) that he does not believe in novels having any moral influ- enc^e at all; but still Hugo is too much of an artist to let himself be hampered by his dogmas ; and the truth is that the artistic result seems, in at least one great in- stance, to have very little connection with the other, or directly ethical result. The artistic result of a romance, what is left upon the memory by any really powerful and artistic novel, is something so complicated and refined that it is difficult to put a name upon it; and yet something as simple as nature. These two propositions may seem mutually destructive, but they are so only in appearance. The fact is that art is working far ahead of language as well as of science, realising for us, by all manner of sugges- tions and exaggerations, effects for which as yet we have no direct name ; nay, for which we may never perhaps have a direct name, for the reason that these effects do not enter very largely into the necessities of life. Hence alone is that suspicion of vagueness that often hangs about the purpose of a romance: it is clear enough to us in thought; but we are not used to consider anything clear until we are able to formulate it in words, and an- alytical language has not been sufficiently shaped to that end. We all know this difficulty in the case of a pic- 25 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS ture, simple and strong as may be the impression that it has left with us ; and it is only because language is the medium of romance, that we are prevented from seeing that the two cases are the same. It is not that there is anything blurred or indefinite in the impression left with us, it is just because the impression is so very definite after its own kind, that we find it hard to fit it exactly with the expressions of our philosophical speech. It is this idea which underlies and issues from a ro- mance, this something which it is the function of that form of art to create, this epical value, that I propose chiefly to seek and, as far as may be, to throw into re- lief, in the present study. It is thus, I believe, that we shall see most clearly the great stride that Hugo has taken beyond his predecessors, and how, no longer content with expressing more or less abstract relations of man to man, he has set before himself the task of re- alising, in the language of romance, much of the invo- lution of our complicated lives. This epical value is not to be found, let it be under- stood, in every so-called novel. The great majority are not works of art in anything but a very secondary sig- nification. One might almost number on one's fingers the works in which such a supreme artistic intention has been in any way superior to the other and lesser aims, themselves more or less artistic, that generally go hand in hand with it in the conception of prose ro- mance. The purely critical spirit is, in most novels, paramount. At the present moment we can recall one man only, for whose works it would have been equally possible to accomplish our present design : and that man 36 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES is Hawthorne. There is a unity, an unwavering creative purpose, about some at least of Hawthorne's romances, that impresses itself on the most indifferent reader; and the very restrictions and weaknesses of the man served perhaps to strengthen the vivid and single impression of his works. There is nothing of this kind in Hugo: unity, if he attains to it, is indeed unity out of multi- tude; and it is the wonderful power of subordination and synthesis thus displayed, that gives us the measure of his talent. No amount of mere discussion and state- ment, such as this, could give a just conception of the greatness of this power. It must be felt in the books themselves, and all that can be done in the present essay is to recall to the reader the more general features of each of the five great romances, hurriedly and imper- fectly, as space will permit, and rather as a suggestion than anything more complete. The moral end that the author had before him in the conception of Notre Dame de Paris was (he tells us) to *' denounce" the external fatality that hangs over men in the form of foolish and inflexible superstition. To speak plainly, this moral purpose seems to have mighty little to do with the artistic conception ; moreover it is very questionably handled, while the artistic conception is developed with the most consummate success. Old Paris lives for us with newness of life : we have ever be- fore our eyes the city cut into three by the two arms of the river, the boat-shaped island *' moored'* by five bridges to the different shores, and the two unequal towns on either hand. We forget all that enumeration of palaces and churches and convents which occupies 27 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS SO many pages of admirable description, and the thoughtless reader might be inclined to conclude from this, that they were pages thrown away ; but this is not so : we forget, indeed, the details, as we forget or do not see the different layers of paint on a completed pic- ture; but the thing desired has been accomplished, and we carry away with us a sense of the " Gothic profile" of the city, of the "surprising forest of pinnacles and towers and belfries," and we know not what of rich and intricate and quaint. And throughout, Notre Dame has been held up over Paris by a height far greater than that of its twin towers : the Cathedral is present to us from the first page to the last; the title has given us the clew, and already in the Palace of Justice the story begins to attach itself to that central building by character after character. It is purely an effect of mirage ; Notre Dame does not, in reality, thus dominate and stand out above the city ; and any one who should visit it, in the spirit of the Scott-tourists to Edinburgh or the Tros- sachs, would be almost offended at finding nothing more than this old church thrust away into a corner. It is purely an effect of mirage, as we say ; but it is an effect that permeates and possesses the whole book with as- tonishing consistency and strength. And then, Hugo has peopled this Gothic city, and, above all, this Gothic church, with a race of men even more distinctly Gothic than their surroundings. We know this generation already : we have seen them clustered about the worn capitals of pillars, or craning forth over the church-leads with the open mouths of gargoyles. About them all there is that sort of stiff quaint unreality, that conjunc- tion of the grotesque, and even of a certain bourgeois 28 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES snugness, with passionate contortion and horror, that is so characteristic of Gothic art. Esmeralda is somewhat an exception ; she and the goat traverse the story like two children who have wandered in a dream. The finest moment of the book is when these two share with the two other leading characters, Dom Claude and Quasimodo, the chill shelter of the old cathedral. It is here that we touch most intimately the generative ar- tistic idea of the romance : are they not all four taken out of some quaint moulding, illustrative of the Beati- tudes, or the Ten Commandments, or the seven deadly sins ? What is Quasimodo but an animated gargoyle > What is the whole book but the reanimation of Gothic art? It is curious that in this, the earliest of the five great romances, there should be so little of that extravagance that latterly we have come almost to identify with the author's manner. Yet even here we are distressed by words, thoughts, and incidents that defy belief and alienate the sympathies. The scene of the in pace, for example, in spite of its strength, verges dangerously on the province of the penny novelist. I do not believe that Quasimodo rode upon the bell; I should as soon imagine that he swung by the clapper. And again the following two sentences, out of an otherwise admirable chapter, surely surpass what it has ever entered into the heart of any other man to imagine (vol. ii. p. i8o) : " II souflfrait tant que par instants il s'arrachait des poignees de cheveux, pour voir s'ils ne blanchissaient pas. ' ' And, p. i8i : *'Ses pensees etaient si insupportables qu'il prenait sa tete a deux mains et tachait de I'arracher de ses 6paules pour la hri&er surle pavL" 29 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS One other fault, before we pass on. In spite of the horror and misery that pervade all of his later work, there is in it much less of actual melodrama than here, and rarely, I should say never, that sort of brutality, that useless insufferable violence to the feelings, which is the last distinction between melodrama and true tragedy. Now, in Notre Dame, the whole story of Es- meralda's passion for the worthless archer is unpleasant enough ; but when she betrays herself in her last hiding- place, herself and her wretched mother, by calling out to this sordid hero who has long since forgotten her — well, that is just one of those things that readers will not forgive; they do not like it, and they are quite right; life is hard enough for poor mortals, without having it indefinitely embittered for them by bad art. We look in vain for any similar blemish in Les Misi^ rabies. Here, on the other hand, there is perhaps the nearest approach to literary restraint that Hugo has ever made: there is here certainly the ripest and most easy development of his powers. It is the moral intention of this great novel to awaken us a little, if it may be — for such awakenings are unpleasant — to the great cost of this society that we enjoy and profit by, to the labour and sweat of those who support the litter, civilisation, in which we ourselves are so smoothly carried forward. People are all glad to shut their eyes; and it gives them a very simple pleasure when they can forget that our laws commit a million individual injustices, to be once roughly just in the general ; that the bread that we eat, and the quiet of the family, and all that embellishes life and makes it worth having, have to be purchased by 30 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES death — by the deaths of animals, and the deaths of men wearied out with labour, and the deaths of those crimi- nals called tyrants and revolutionaries, and the deaths of those revolutionaries called criminals. It is to some- thing of all this that Victor Hugo wishes to open men's eyes in Les Miserables; and this moral lesson is worked out in masterly coincidence with the artistic effect. The deadly weight of civilisation to those who are below presses sensibly on our shoulders as we read. A sort of mocking indignation grows upon us as we find So- ciety rejecting, again and again, the services of the most serviceable; setting Jean Valjean to pick oakum, casting Galileo into prison, even crucifying Christ. There is a haunting and horrible sense of insecurity about the book. The terror we thus feel is a terror for the ma- chinery of law, that we can hear tearing, in the dark, good and bad between its formidable wheels with the iron stolidity of all machinery, human or divine. This terror incarnates itself sometimes and leaps horribly out upon us; as when the crouching mendicant looks up, and Jean Valjean, in the light of the street lamp, recog- nises the face of the detective ; as when the lantern of the patrol flashes suddenly through the darkness of the sewer; or as when the fugitive comes forth at last at evening, by the quiet riverside, and finds the police there also, waiting stolidly for vice and stolidly satisfied to take virtue instead. The whole book is full of op- pression, and full of prejudice, which is the great cause of oppression. We have the prejudices of M. Gillenor- mand, the prejudices of Marius, the prejudices in revolt that defend the barricade, and the throned prejudices that carry it by storm. And then we have the admi- 31 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS rable but ill-written character of Javert, the man who had made a religion of the police, and would not sur- vive the moment when he learned that there was an- other truth outside the truth of laws; a just creation, over which the reader will do well to ponder. With so gloomy a design this great work is still full of life and light and love. The portrait of the good Bishop is one of the most agreeable things in modern literature. The whole scene at Montfermeil is full of the charm that Hugo knows so well how to throw about children. Who can forget the passage where Cosette, sent out at night to draw water, stands in admiration before the illuminated booth, and the huckster behind " lui faisait un peu I'efTet d'etre le Pere eternel ? " The pathos of the forlorn sabot laid trustingly by the chimney in expectation of the Santa Claus that was not, takes us fairly by the throat; there is nothing in Shakespeare that touches the heart more nearly. The loves of Cosette and Marius are very pure and pleasant, and we cannot refuse our affection to Gavroche, although we may make a mental reservation of our profound disbelief in his ex- istence. Take it for all in all, there are few books in the world that can be compared with it. There is as much calm and serenity as Hugo has ever attained to; the melodramatic coarsenesses that disfigured Notre Dame are no longer present. There is certainly much that is painfully improbable; and again, the story itself is a little too well constructed ; it produces on us the effect of a puzzle, and we grow incredulous as we find that every character fits again and again into the plot, and is, like the child's cube, serviceable on six faces; things ate not so well arranged in life as all that comes to. Some of 32 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES the digressions, also, seem out of place, and do nothing but interrupt and irritate. But when all is said, the book remains of masterly conception and of masterly develop- ment, full of pathos, full of truth, full of a high elo- quence. Superstition and social exigency having been thus dealt with in the first two members of the series, it re- mained for Les Travailleurs de la Mer to show man hand to hand with the elements, the last form of ex- ternal force that is brought against him. And here once more the artistic effect and the moral lesson are worked out together, and are, indeed, one. Gilliat, alone upon the reef at his herculean task, offers a type of human in- dustry in the midst of the vague "diffusion of forces into the illimitable," and the visionary development of ** wasted labour" in the sea, and the winds, and the clouds. No character was ever thrown into such strange relief as Gilliat. The great circle of sea-birds that come wonderingly around him on the night of his arrival, strikes at once the note of his pre-eminence and isola- tion. He fills the whole reef with his indefatigable toil; this solitary spot in the ocean rings with the clamour of his anvil; we see him as he comes and goes, thrown out sharply against the clear background of the sea. And yet his isolation is not to be compared with the isolation of Robinson Crusoe, for example; indeed, no two books could be more instructive to set side by side than Les Travailleurs and this other of the old days before art had learned to occupy itself with what lies outside of human will. Crusoe was one sole centre of interest in the midst of a nature utterly dead and utterly unrealised 33 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS by the artist; but this is not how we feel with Gilliat; we feel that he is opposed by a "dark coalition of forces," that an " immense animosity " surrounds him; we are the witnesses of the terrible warfare that he wages with ** the silent inclemency of phenomena go- ing their own way, and the great general law, implaca- ble and passive:" "a. conspiracy of the indiflferency of things " is against him. There is not one interest on the reef, but two. Just as we recognise Gilliat for the hero, we recognise, as implied by this indifferency of things, this direction of forces to some purpose outside our purposes, yet another character who may almost take rank as the villain of the novel, and the two face up to one another blow for blow, feint for feint, until, in the storm, they fight it epically out, and Gilliat remains the victor; — a victor, however, who has still to encoun- ter the octopus. I need say nothing of the grewsome, repulsive excellence of that famous scene; it will be enough to remind the reader that Gilliat is in pursuit of a crab when he is himself assaulted by the devil fish, and that this, in its way, is the last touch to the inner significance of the book ; here, indeed, is the true posi- tion of man in the universe. But in Les Travatlleurs, with all its strength, with all its eloquence, with all the beauty and fitness of its main situations, we cannot conceal from ourselves that there is a thread of something that will not bear calm scrutiny. There is much that is disquiet- ing about the storm, admirably as it begins. I am very doubtful whether it would be possible to keep the boat from foundering in such circumstances, by any amount of breakwater and broken rock. I do not un- M VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES derstand the way in which the waves are spoken of, and prefer just to take it as a loose way of speaking, and pass on. And lastly, how does it happen that the sea was quite calm next day ? Is this great hurricane a piece of scene-painting after all ? And when we have for- given Gilliat's prodigies of strength (although, in sober- ness, he reminds us more of Porthos in the Vicomte de Bragelonne than is quite desirable), what is to be said to his suicide, and how are we to condemn in adequate terms that unprincipled avidity after effect, which tells us that the sloop disappeared over the horizon, and the head under the water, at one and the same moment ? Monsieur Hugo may say what he will, but we know better; we know very well that they did not; a thing like that raises up a despairing spirit of opposition in a man's readers; they give him the lie fiercely, as they read. Lastly, we have here already some beginning of that curious series of English blunders, that makes us wonder if there are neither proof sheets nor judicious friends in the whole of France, and affects us sometimes with a sickening uneasiness as to what may be our own exploits when we touch upon foreign countries and for- eign tongues. It is here that we shall find the famous '* first of the fourth," and many English words that may be comprehensible perhaps in Paris. It is here that we learn that "laird" in Scotland is the same title as 'Mord"* in England. Here, also, is an account of a Highland soldier's equipment, which we recommend to the lovers of genuine fun. In U Homme qui Rtt, it was Hugo's object to ''de- nounce " (as he would say himself) the aristocratic 35 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS principle as it was exhibited in England ; and this pur- pose, somewhat more unmitigatedly satiric than that of the two last, must answer for much that is unpleasant in the book. The repulsiveness of the scheme of the story, and the manner in which it is bound up with impossi- bilities and absurdities, discourage the reader at the out- set, and it needs an effort to take it as seriously as it deserves. And yet when we judge it deliberately, it will be seen that, here again, the story is admirably adapted to the moral. The constructive ingenuity ex- hibited throughout is almost morbid. Nothing could be more happily imagined, as a reductio ad absurdum of the aristocratic principle, than the adventures of Gwynplaine, the itinerant mountebank, snatched sud- denly out of his little way of life, and installed without preparation as one of the hereditary legislators of a great country. It is with a very bitter irony that the paper, on which all this depends, is left to float for years at the will of wind and tide. What, again, can be finer in conception than that voice from the people heard sud- denly in the House of Lords, in solemn arraignment of the pleasures and privileges of its splendid occupants ? The horrible laughter, stamped forever "by order of the king " upon the face of this strange spokesman of de- mocracy, adds yet another feature of justice to the scene; in all time, travesty has been the argument of oppres- sion; and, in all time, the oppressed might have made this answer: "If I am vile, is it not your system that has made me so ? " This ghastly laughter gives occa- sion, moreover, for the one strain of tenderness running through the web of this unpleasant story : the love of the blind girl Dea for the monster. It is a most be- 36 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES nignant providence that thus harmoniously brings together these two misfortunes; it is one of those com- pensations, one of those afterthoughts of a relenting destiny, that reconcile us from time to time to the evil that is in the world; the atmosphere of the book is purified by the presence of this pathetic love; it seems to be above the story somehow, and not of it, as the full moon over the night of some foul and feverish city. There is here a quality in the narration more intimate and particular than is general with Hugo; but it must be owned, on the other hand, that the book is wordy, and even, now and then, a little wearisome. Ursus and his wolf are pleasant enough companions ; but the for- mer is nearly as much an abstract type as the latter. There is a beginning, also, of an abuse of conventional conversation, such as may be quite pardonable in the drama where needs must, but is without excuse in the romance. Lastly, I suppose one must say a word or two about the weak points of this not immaculate novel; and if so, it will be best to distinguish at once. The large family of English blunders, to which we have alluded already in speaking of Les Travailleurs, are of a sort that is really indifferent in art. If Shakespeare makes his ships cast anchor by some seaport of Bohe- mia, if Hugo imagines Tom-Tim-Jack to be a likely nickname for an English sailor, or if either Shakespeare, or Hugo, or Scott, for that matter, be guilty of fig- ments enough to confuse the march of a whole history — anachronisms enough to overset all chronology," ^ the life of their creations, the artistic truth and accuracy of their work, is not so much as compromised. But 1 Prefatory letter to Peveril of the Peak. 37 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS when we come upon a passage like the sinking of the **Ourque"in this romance, we can do nothing but cover our face with our hands: the conscientious reader feels a sort of disgrace in the very reading. For such artistic falsehoods, springing from what I have called already an unprincipled avidity after effect, no amount of blame can be exaggerated; and above all, when the criminal is such a man as Victor Hugo. We cannot for- give in him what we might have passed over in a third- rate sensation novelist. Little as he seems to know of the sea and nautical affairs, he must have known very well that vessels do not go down as he makes the ** Ourque " go down; he must have known that such a liberty with fact was against the laws of the game, and incompatible with all appearance of sincerity in concep- tion or workmanship. In each of these books, one after another, there has been some departure from the traditional canons of ro- mance; but taking each separately, one would have feared to make too much of these departures, or to found any theory upon what was perhaps purely accidental. The appearance of Quatre yingt Trei:{e has put us out of the region of such doubt. Like a doctor who has long been hesitating how to classify an epidemic mal- ady, we have come at last upon a case so well marked that our uncertainty is at an end. It is a novel built upon "a sort of enigma," which was at that date laid before revolutionary France, and which is presented by Hugo to Tellmarch, to Lantenac, to Gauvain, and very terribly to Cimourdain, each of whom gives his own so- lution of the question, clement or stern, according to the 58 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES temper of his spirit. That enigma was this: ''Can a good action be a bad action ? Does not he who spares the wolf kill the sheep ? " This question, as I say, meets with one answer after another during the course of the book, and yet seems to remain undecided to the end. And something in the same way, although one char- acter, or one set of characters, after another comes to the front and occupies our attention for the moment, we never identify our interest with any of these tempo- rary heroes nor regret them after they are withdrawn. We soon come to regard them somewhat as special cases of a general law ; what we really care for is some- thing that they only imply and body forth to us. We know how history continues through century after cen- tury ; how this king or that patriot disappears from its pages with his whole generation, and yet we do not cease to read, nor do we even feel as if we had reached any legitimate conclusion, because our interest is not in the men, but in the country that they loved or hated, benefited or injured. And so it is here : Gauvain and Cimourdain pass away, and we regard them no more than the lost armies of which we find the cold statistics in military annals ; what we regard is what remains be- hind; it is the principle that put these men where they were, that filled them for a while with heroic inspira- tion, and has the power, now that they are fallen, to in- spire others with the same courage. The interest of the novel centres about revolutionary France: just as the plot is an abstract judicial difficulty, the hero is an ab- stract historical force. And this has been done, not, as it would have been before, by the cold and cumbersome machinery of allegory, but with bold, straightforward 39 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS realism, dealing only with the objective materials of art, and dealing with them so masterfully that the palest abstractions of thought come before us, and move our hopes and fears, as if they were the young men and maidens of customary romance. The episode of the mother and children in Quatre^ Vingt Treiie is equal to anything that Hugo has ever written. There is one chapter in the second volume, for instance, called '"Sein guiri, coeur satgnant/ ' that is full of the very stuff of true tragedy, and nothing could be more delightful than the humours of the three children on the day before the assault. The passage on La Ven- dee is really great, and the scenes in Paris have much of the same broad merit. The book is full, as usual, of pregnant and splendid sayings. But when thus much is conceded by way of praise, we come to the other scale of the balance, and find this, also, somewhat heavy. There is here a yet greater over employment of conventional dialogue than in L' Homme qui Rit ; and much that should have been said by the author himself, if it were to be said at all, he has most un- warrantably put into the mouths of one or other of his characters. We should like to know what becomes of the main body of the troop in the wood of La Saudraie during the thirty pages or so in which the foreguard lays aside all discipline, and stops to gossip over a wo- man and some children. We have an unpleasant idea forced upon us at one place, in spite of all the good- natured incredulity that we can summon up to resist it. Is it possible that Monsieur Hugo thinks they ceased to steer the corvette while the gun was loose ? Of the chapter in which Lantenac and Halmalho are alone to- 40 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES gether in the boat, the less said the better; of course, if there were nothing else, they would have been swamped thirty times over during the course of Lantenac's ha- rangue. Again, after Lantenac has landed, we have scenes of almost inimitable workmanship that suggest the epithet " statuesque " by their clear and trenchant out- line; but the tocsin scene will not do, and the tocsin unfortunately pervades the whole passage, ringing con- tinually in our ears with a taunting accusation of false- hood. And then, when we come to the place where Lantenac meets the royalists, under the idea that he is going to meet the republicans, it seems as if there were a hitch in the stage mechanism. I have tried it over in every way, and I cannot conceive any disposition that would make the scene possible as narrated. Such then, with their faults and their signal excellences, are the five great novels. Romance is a language in which many persons learn to speak with a certain appearance of fluency ; but there are few who can ever bend it to any practical need, few who can ever be said to express themselves in it. It has become abundantly plain in the foregoing examina- tion that Victor Hugo occupies a high place among those few. He has always a perfect command over his stories ; and we see that they are constructed with a high regard to some ulterior purpose, and that every situation is informed with moral significance and grandeur. Of no other man can the same thing be said in the same degree. His romances are not to be con- fused with "the novel with a purpose "as familiar to the English reader: this is generally the model of in- competence ; and we see the moral clumsily forced into 4« FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS every hole and corner of the story, or thrown externally over it like a carpet over a railing. Now the moral sig- nificance, with Hugo, is of the essence of the romance; it is the organising principle. If you could somehow despoil Les Miserables or Les Travailleurs of their dis- tinctive lesson, you would find that the story had lost its interest and the book was dead. Having thus learned to subordinate his story to an idea, to make his art speak, he went on to teach it to say things heretofore unaccustomed. If you look back at the five books of which we have now so hastily spoken, you will be astonished at the freedom with which the original purposes of story-telling have been laid aside and passed by. Where are now the two lovers who descended the main watershed of all the Waver- ley novels, and all the novels that have tried to follow in their wake ? Sometimes they are almost lost sight of before the solemn isolation of a man against the sea and sky, as in Les Travailleurs ; sometimes, as in Les Miserables, they merely figure for a while, as a beautiful episode in the epic of oppression; some- times they are entirely absent, as in Quatre Fingt Trei^e. There is no hero in Notre Dame: in Les Miserables it is an old man: in L' Homme qui Rit it is a monster : in Quatre Vingt Trei^^e it is the Revolu- tion. Those elements that only began to show them- selves timidly, as adjuncts, in the novels of Walter Scott, have usurped ever more and more of the can- vas; until we find the whole interest of one of Hugo's romances centring around matter that Fielding would have banished from his altogether, as being out of the field of fiction. So we have elemental forces 43 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES occupying nearly as large a place, playing (so to speak) nearly as important a role, as the man, Gilliat, who opposes and overcomes them. So we find the fortunes of a nation put upon the stage with as much vividness as ever before the fortunes of a village maiden or a lost heir; and the forces that oppose and corrupt a principle holding the attention quite as strongly as the wicked barons or dishonest attorneys of the past. Hence those individual interests that were supreme in Fielding, and even in Scott, stood out over everything else and formed as it were the spine of the story, figure here only as one set of interests among many sets, one force among many forces, one thing to be treated out of a whole world of things equally vivid and important. So that, for Hugo, man is no longer an isolated spirit with- out antecedent or relation here below, but a being involved in the action and reaction of natural forces, himself a centre of such action and reaction ; or an unit in a great multitude, chased hither and thither by epi- demic terrors and aspirations, and, in all seriousness, blown about by every wind of doctrine. This is a long way that we have travelled : between such work and the work of Fielding is there not, indeed, a great gulf in thought and sentiment .? Art, thus conceived, realises for men a larger portion of life, and that portion one that it is more difficult for them to realise unaided; and, besides helping them to feel more intensely those restricted personal interests which are patent to all, it awakes in them some con- sciousness of those more general relations that are so strangely invisible to the average man in ordinary moods. It helps to keep man in his place in nature, and, above 43 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS all, it helps him to understand more intelligently the responsibilities of his place in society. And in all this generalisation of interest, we never miss those small humanities that are at the opposite pole of excellence in art; and while we admire the intellect that could see life thus largely, we are touched with another sentiment for the tender heart that slipped the piece of gold into Cosette's sabot, that was virginally troubled at the flut- tering of her dress in the spring wind, or put the blind girl beside the deformity of the laughing man. This, then, is the last praise that we can award to these ro- mances. The author has shown a power of just sub- ordination hitherto unequalled ; and as, in reaching for- ward to one class of effects, he has not been forgetful or careless of the other, his work is more nearly com- plete work, and his art, with all its imperfections, deals more comprehensively with the materials of life than that of any of his otherwise more sure and masterly predecessors. These five books would have made a very great fame for any writer, and yet they are but one facade of the monument that Victor Hugo has erected to his genius. Everywhere we find somewhat the same greatness, somewhat the same infirmities. In his poems and plays there are the same unaccountable protervities that have already astonished us in the romances. There, too, is the same feverish strength, welding the fiery iron of his idea under forge-hammer re- petitions — an emphasis that is somehow akin to weakness — a strength that is a little epileptic. He stands so far above all his contemporaries, and so in- comparably excels them in richness, breadth, variety, 44 VICTOR HUGO'S ROMANCES and moral earnestness, that we almost feel as if he had a sort of right to fall oftener and more heavily than others; but this does not reconcile us to seeing him profit by the privilege so freely. We like to have, in our great men, something that is above question ; we like to place an implicit faith in them, and see them al- ways on the platform of their greatness ; and this, un- happily, cannot be with Hugo. As Heine said long ago, his is a genius somewhat deformed ; but, deformed as it is, we accept it gladly ; we shall have the wisdom to see where his foot slips, but we shall have the justice also to recognise in him one of the greatest artists of our generation, and, in many ways, one of the greatest artists of time. If we look back, yet once, upon these five romances, we see blemishes such as we can lay to the charge of no other man in the number of the famous ; but to what other man can we attribute such sweeping innovations, such a new and significant presentment of the life of man, such an amount, if we merely think of the amount, of equally consummate performance ? SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS TO write with authority about another man, we must have fellow-feeling and some common ground of experience with our subject. We may praise or blame according as we find him related to us by the best or worst in ourselves; but it is only in virtue of some re- lationship that we can be his judges, even to condemn. Feelings which we share and understand enter for us into the tissue of the man's character; those to which we are strangers in our own experience we are inclined to regard as blots, exceptions, inconsistencies, and ex- cursions of the diabolic ; we conceive them with repug- nance, explain them with difficulty, and raise our hands to heaven in wonder when we find them in conjunction with talents that we respect or virtues that we admire. David, king of Israel, would pass a sounder judgment on a man than either Nathaniel or David Hume. Now, Principal Shairp's recent volume, although I believe no one will read it without respect and interest, has this one capital defect — that there is imperfect sympathy between the author and the subject, between the critic and the personality under criticism. Hence an inor- ganic, if not an incoherent, presentation of both the poems and the man. Of Holy Willie's Prayer, Princi- 46 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS pal Shairp remarks that "those who have loved most what was best in Burns's poetry must have regretted that it was ever written." To the Jolly "Beggars, so far as my memory serves me, he refers but once; and then only to remark on the "strange, not to say painful," circumstance that the same hand which wrote the Cot- ter's Saturday Night should have stooped to write the Jolly Beggars. The Saturday Night may or may not be an admirable poem ; but its significance is trebled, and the power and range of the poet first appears, when it is set beside the Jolly Beggars. To take a man's work piecemeal, except with the design of elegant extracts, is the way to avoid, and not to perform, the critic's duty. The same defect is displayed in the treatment of Burns as a man, which is broken, apologetical, and confused. The man here presented to us is not that Burns, teres atque rotundus — a burly figure in litera- ture, as, from our present vantage of time, we have be- gun to see him. This, on the other hand, is Burns as he may have appeared to a contemporary clergyman, whom we shall conceive to have been a kind and indul- gent but orderly and orthodox person, anxious to be pleased, but too often hurt and disappointed by the be- haviour of his red-hot protege, and solacing himself with the explanation that the poet was "the most in- consistent of men." If you are so sensibly pained by the misconduct of your subject, and so paternally de- lighted with his virtues, you will always be an excel- lent gentleman, but a somewhat questionable biog- rapher. Indeed, we can only be sorry and surprised that Principal Shairp should have chosen a theme so uncongenial. When we find a man writing on Burns, 47 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS who likes neither Holy Willie, nor the Beggars, nor the Ordination, nothing is adequate to the situation but the old cry of Geronte: '* Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galere ? " And every merit we find in the book, which is sober and candid in a degree unusual with biogra- phies of Burns, only leads us to regret more heartily that good work should be so greatly thrown away. It is far from my intention to tell over again a story that has been so often told ; but there are certainly some points in the character of Burns that will bear to be brought out, and some chapters in his life that demand a brief rehearsal. The unity of the man's nature, for all its richness, has fallen somewhat out of sight in the pressure of new information and the apologetical cere- mony of biographers. Mr. Carlyle made an inimitable bust of the poet's head of gold ; may 1 not be forgiven if my business should have more to do with the feet, which were of clay ? YOUTH Any view of Burns would be misleading which passed over in silence the influences of his home and his father. That father, William Burnes, after having been for many years a gardener, took a farm, married, and, like an emigrant in a new country, built himself a house with his own hands. Poverty of the most distressing sort, with sometimes the near prospect of a gaol, embit- tered the remainder of his life. Chill, backward, and austere with strangers, grave and imperious in his fam- ily, he was yet a man of very unusual parts and of an affectionate nature. On his way through life he had 48 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS remarked much upon other men, with more result in theory than practice; and he had reflected upon many subjects as he delved the garden. His great delight was in solid conversation ; he would leave his work to talk with the schoolmaster Murdoch; and Robert, when he came home late at night, not only turned aside re- buke but kept his father two hours beside the fire by the charm of his merry and vigorous talk. Nothing is more characteristic of the class in general, and William Burnes in particular, than the pains he took to get proper schooling for his boys, and, when that was no longer possible, the sense and resolution with which he set himself to supply the deficiency by his own influence. For many years he was their chief companion ; he spoke with them seriously on all subjects as if they had been grown men ; at night, when work was over, he taught them arithmetic ; he borrowed books for them on his- tory, science, and theology; and he felt it his duty to supplement this last — the trait is laughably Scottish — by a dialogue of his own composition, where his own private shade of orthodoxy was exactly repre- sented. He would go to his daughter as she stayed afield herding cattle, to teach her the names of grasses and wild flowers, or to sit by her side when it thun- dered. Distance to strangers, deep family tenderness, love of knowledge, a narrow, precise, and formal read- ing of theology — everything we learn of him hangs well together, and builds up a popular Scotch type. If I mention the name of Andrew Fairservice, it is only as I might couple for an instant Dugald Dalgetty with old Marshal Loudon, to help out the reader's comprehension by a popular but unworthy instance of a class. Such 49 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS was the influence of this good and wise man that his household became a school to itself, and neighbours who came into the farm at meal-time would find the whole family, father, brothers, and sisters, helping them- selves with one hand, and holding a book in the other. We are surprised at the prose style of Robert ; that of Gilbert need surprise us no less ; even William writes a remarkable letter for a young man of such slender op- portunities. One anecdote marks the taste of the fam- ily. Murdoch brought Titus Andronicus, and, with such dominie elocution as we may suppose, began to read it aloud before this rustic audience; but when he had reached the passage where Tamora insults Lavinia, with one voice and **in an agony of distress" they re- fused to hear it to an end. In such a father and with such a home, Robert had already the making of an ex- cellent education ; and what Murdoch added, although it may not have been much in amount, was in charac- ter the very essence of a literary training. Schools and colleges, for one great man whom they complete, per- haps unmake a dozen; the strong spirit can do well upon more scanty fare. Robert steps before us, almost from the first, in his complete character — a proud, headstrong, impetuous lad, greedy of pleasure, greedy of notice; in his own phrase "panting after distinction," and in his brother's "cherishing a particular jealousy of people who were richer or of more consequence than himself: " with all this, he was emphatically of the artist nature. Already he made a conspicuous figure in Tarbolton church, with the only tied hair in the parish, "and his plaid, which was of a particular colour, wrapped in a particular 50 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS manner round his shoulders." Ten years later, when a married man, the father of a family, a farmer, and an officer of Excise, we shall find him out fishing in mas- querade, with fox-skin cap, belted great-coat, and great Highland broadsword. He liked dressing up, in fact, for its own sake. This is the spirit which leads to the extravagant array of Latin Quarter students, and the proverbial velveteen of the English landscape-painter; and, though the pleasure derived is in itself merely per- sonal, it shows a man who is, to say the least of it, not pained by general attention and remark. His father wrote the family name Burnes; Robert early adopted the orthography Burness from his cousin in the Mearns ; and in his twenty-eighth year changed it once more to Burns. It is plain that the last transformation was not made without some qualm ; for in addressing his cousin he adheres, in at least one more letter, to spelling num- ber two. And this, again, shows a man preoccupied about the manner of his appearance even down to the name, and little willing to follow custom. Again, he was proud, and justly proud, of his powers in conver- sation. To no other man's have we the same conclu- sive testimony from different sources and from every rank of life. It is almost a commonplace that the best of his works was what he said in talk. Robertson the historian "scarcely ever met any man whose conver- sation displayed greater vigour;" the Duchess of Gor- don declared that he "carried her off her feet;" and, when he came late to an inn, the servants would get out of bed to hear him talk. But, in these early days at least, he was determined to shine by any means. He made himself feared in the village for his tongue. 5» FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS He would crush weaker men to their faces, or even per- haps — for the statement of Sillar is not absolute — say cutting things of his acquaintances behind their back. At the church door, between sermons, he would parade his religious views amid hisses. These details stamp the man. He had no genteel timidities in the conduct of his life. He loved to force his personality upon the world. He would please himself, and shine. Had he lived in the Paris of 1830, and joined his lot with the Romantics, we can conceive him \MX\X\x\g Jehan for Jean, swaggering in Gautier's red waistcoat, and horrifying Bourgeois in a public cafe with paradox and gasconnade. A leading trait throughout his whole career was his desire to be in love. Ne fait pas ce tour qui veut. His affections were often enough touched, but perhaps never engaged. He was all his life on a voyage of discovery, but it does not appear conclusively that he ever touched the happy isle. A man brings to love a deal of ready- made sentiment, and even from childhood obscurely prognosticates the symptoms of this vital malady. Burns was formed for love; he had passion, tenderness, and a singular bent in the direction; he could foresee, with the intuition of an artist, what love ought to be; and he could not conceive a worthy life without it. But he had ill-fortune, and was besides so greedy after every shadow of the true divinity, and so much the slave of a strong temperament, that perhaps his nerve was relaxed and his heart had lost the power of self-devotion before an opportunity occurred. The circumstances of his youth doubtless counted for something in the result. For the lads of Ayrshire, as soon as the day's work was over and the beasts were stabled, would take the road, it 5a SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS might be in a winter tempest, and travel perhaps miles by moss and moorland to spend an hour or two in courtship. Rule lo of the Bachelors' Club at Tarbolton provides that "every man proper for a member of this Society must be a professed lover of one or more of the female sex." The rich, as Burns himself points out, may have a choice of pleasurable occupations, but these lads had nothing but their * * cannie hour at e'en. " It was upon love and flirtation that this rustic society was built; gallantry was the essence of life among the Ayrshire hills as well as in the Court of Versailles ; and the days were distinguished from each other by love-letters, meetings, tiffs, reconciliations, and expansions to the chosen confidant, as in a comedy of Marivaux. Here was a field for a man of Burns's indiscriminate personal ambition, where he might pursue his voyage of dis- covery in quest of true love, and enjoy temporary tri- umphs by the way. He was "constantly the victim of some fair enslaver " — at least, when it was not the other way about; and there were often underplots and secondary fair enslavers in the background. Many — or may we not say most? — of these affairs were entirely artificial. One, he tells us, he began out of "a vanity of showing his parts in courtship," for he piqued him- self on his ability at a love-letter. But, however they began, these flames of his were fanned into a passion ere the end; and he stands unsurpassed in his power of self-deception, and positively without a competitor in the art, to use his own words, of "battering himself into a warm affection," — a debilitating and futile exer- cise. Once he had worked himself into the vein, "the agitations of his mind and body " were an astonishment 5y FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS to all who knew him. Such a course as this, however pleasant to a thirsty vanity, was lowering to his nature. He sank more and more toward the professional Don Juan. With a leer of what the French call fatuity, he bids the belles of Mauchline beware of his seductions; and the same cheap self-satisfaction finds a yet uglier vent when he plumes himself on the scandal at the birth of his first bastard. We can well believe what we hear of his facility in striking up an acquaintance with women : he would have conquering manners; he would bear down upon his rustic game with the grace that comes of absolute assurance — the Richelieu of Lochlea or Moss- giel. In yet another manner did these quaint ways of courtship help him into fame. If he were great as prin- cipal, he was unrivalled as confidant. He could enter into a passion; he could counsel wary moves, being, in his own phrase, so old a hawk; nay, he could turn a letter for some unlucky swain, or even string a few lines of verse that should clinch the business and fetch the hesitating fair one to the ground. Nor, perhaps, was it only his "curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity " that recommended him for a second in such affairs ; it must have been a distinction to have the assistance and ad- vice of Rab the Ranter; and one who was in no way formidable by himself might grow dangerous and at- tractive through the fame of his associate. I think we can conceive him, in these early years, in that rough moorland country, poor among the poor with his seven pounds a year, looked upon with doubt by respectable elders, but for all that the best talker, the best letter-writer, the most famous lover and con- fidant, the laureate poet, and the only man who wore 54 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS his hair tied in the parish. He says he had then as high a notion of himself as ever after; and I can well believe it. Among the youth he walked facile prin- ceps, an apparent god ; and even if, from time to time, the Reverend Mr. Auld should swoop upon him with the thunders of the Church, and, in company with seven others, Rab the Ranter must figure some fine Sunday on the stool of repentance, would there not be a sort of glory, an infernal apotheosis, in so conspicuous a shame ? Was not Richelieu in disgrace more idolised than ever by the dames of Paris ? and when was the highwayman most acclaimed but on his way to Tyburn ? Or, to take a simile from nearer home, and still more exactly to the point, what could even corporal punish- ment avail, administered by a cold, abstract, unearthly schoolmaster, against the influence and fame of the school's hero? And now we come to the culminating point of Burns's early period. He began to be received into the unknown upper world. His fame soon spread from among his fellow-rebels on the benches, and began to reach the ushers and monitors of this great Ayrshire academy. This arose in part from his lax views about religion ; for at this time that old war of the creeds and confessors, which is always grumbling from end to end of our poor Scotland, brisked up in these parts into a hot and viru- lent skirmish ; and Burns found himself identified with the opposition party, — a clique of roaring lawyers and half-heretical divines, with wit enough to appreciate the value of the poet's help, and not sufficient taste to mod- erate his grossness and personality. We may judge of their surprise when Holy Willie was put into their 55 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS hand; like the amorous lads of Tarbolton, they recog- nised in him the best of seconds. His satires began to go the round in manuscript; Mr. Aiken, one of the law- yers, "read him into fame;" he himself was soon wel- come in many houses of a better sort, where his admi- rable talk, and his manners, which he had direct from his Maker, except for a brush he gave them at a country dancing school, completed what his poems had begun. We have a sight of him at his first visit to Adamhill, in his ploughman's shoes, coasting around the carpet as though that were sacred ground. But he soon grew used to carpets and their owners ; and he was still the superior of all whom he encountered, and ruled the roost in conversation. Such was the impression made, that a young clergyman, himself a man of ability, trem- bled and became confused when he saw Robert enter the church in which he was to preach. It is not sur- prising that the poet determined to publish : he had now stood the test of some publicity, and under this hopeful impulse he composed in six winter months the bulk of his more important poems. Here was a young man who, from a very humble place, was mounting rapidly ; from the cynosure of a parish, he had become the talk of a county; once the bard of rural courtships, he was now about to appear as a bound and printed poet in the world's bookshops. A few more intimate strokes are necessary to com- plete the sketch. This strong young ploughman, who feared no competitor with the flail, suffered like a fine lady from sleeplessness and vapours ; he would fall into the blackest melancholies, and be filled with remorse for the past and terror for the future. He was still not per- 56 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS haps devoted to religion, but haunted by it; and at a touch of sickness prostrated himself before God in what I can only call unmanly penitence. As he had aspirations beyond his place in the world, so he had tastes, thoughts, and weaknesses to match. He loved to walk under a wood to the sound of a winter tempest; he had a sin- gular tenderness for animals; he carried a book with him in his pocket when he went abroad, and wore out in this service two copies of the Man of Feeling. With young people in the field at work he was very long- suffering; and when his brother Gilbert spoke sharply to them — '* O man, ye are no for young folk," he would say, and give the defaulter a helping hand and a smile. In the hearts of the men whom he met, he read as in a book; and, what is yet more rare, his knowledge of himself equalled his knowledge of others. There are no truer things said of Burns than what is to be found in his own letters. Country Don Juan as he was, he had none of that blind vanity which values itself on what it is not; he knew his own strength and weakness to a hair: he took himself boldly for what he was, and, ex- cept in moments of hypochondria, declared himself con- tent. THE LOVE STORIES On the night of Mauchline races, 1785, the young men and women of the place joined in a penny ball, according to their custom. In the same set danced Jean Armour, the master-mason's daughter, and our dark-eyed Don Juan. His dog (not the immortal Luath, but a successor unknown to fame, caret quia vatesacro), apparently sensible of some neglect, followed his mas- 57 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS ter to and fro, to the confusion of the dancers. Some mirthful comments followed; and Jean heard the poet say to his partner — or, as I should imagine, laughingly launch the remark to the company at large — that ** he wished he could get any of the lasses to like him as well as his dog." Some time after, as the girl was bleaching clothes on Mauchline green, Robert chanced to go by, still accompanied by his dog; and the dog, ''scouring in long excursion," scampered with four black paws across the linen. This brought the two into conversation; when Jean, with a somewhat hoy- denish advance, inquired if "he had yet got any of the lasses to like him as well as his dog ? " It is one of the misfortunes of the professional Don Juan that his honour forbids him to refuse battle ; he is in life like the Roman soldier upon duty, or like the sworn physician who must attend on all diseases. Burns accepted the provo- cation; hungry hope reawakened in his heart; here was a girl — pretty, simple at least, if not honestly stupid, and plainly not averse to his attentions: it seemed to him once more as if love might here be waiting him. Had he but known the truth! for this facile and empty- headed girl had nothing more in view than a flirtation ; and her heart, from the first and on to the end of her story, was engaged by another man. Burns once more commenced the celebrated process of "battering him- self into a warm affection ; " and the proofs of his suc- cess are to be found in many verses of the period. Nor did he succeed with himself only; Jean, with her heart still elsewhere, succumbed to his fascination, and early in the next year the natural consequence became mani- fest. It was a heavy stroke for this unfortunate couple. 58 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS They had trifled with life, and were now rudely re- minded of life's serious issues. Jean awoke to the ruin of her hopes ; the best she had now to expect was mar- riage with a man who was a stranger to her dearest thoughts ; she might now be glad if she could get what she would never have chosen. As for Burns, at the stroke of the calamity he recognised that his voyage of discovery had led him into a wrong hemisphere — that he was not, and never had been, really in love with Jean. Hear him in the pressure of the hour. "Against two things," he writes, " 1 am as fixed as fate — staying at home, and owning her conjugally. The first, by heaven, I will not do ! — the last, by hell, I will never do !" And then he adds, perhaps already in a more re- lenting temper: " If you see Jean, tell her I will meet her, so God help me in my hour of need." They met accordingly ; and Burns, touched with her misery, came down from these heights of independence, and gave her a written acknowledgment of marriage. It is the punishment of Don Juanism to create continually false positions — relations in life which are wrong in them- selves, and which it is equally wrong to break or to perpetuate. This was such a case. Worldly Wiseman would have laughed and gone his way ; let us be glad that Burns was better counselled by his heart. When we discover that we can be no longer true, the next best is to be kind. I dare say he came away from that interview not very content, but with a glorious conscience; and as he went homeward, he would sing his favourite, *'How are Thy servants blest, O Lord!" Jean, on the other hand, armed with her 'Mines," con- iided her position to the master-mason, her father, and 59 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS his wife. Burns and his brother were then in a fair way to ruin themselves in their farm ; the poet was an exe- crable match for any well-to-do country lass ; and per- haps old Armour had an inkling of a previous attach- ment on his daughter's part. At least, he was not so much incensed by her slip from virtue as by the mar- riage which had been designed to cover it. Of this he would not hear a word. Jean, who had besought the acknowledgment only to appease her parents, and not at all from any violent inclination to the poet, readily gave up the paper for destruction; and all parties im- agined, although wrongly, that the marriage was thus dissolved. To a proud man like Burns here was a crushing blow. The concession which had been wrung from his pity was now publicly thrown back in his teeth. The Armour family preferred disgrace to his con- nection. Since the promise, besides, he had doubtless been busy "battering himself" back again into his af- fection for the girl ; and the blow would not only take him in his vanity, but wound him at the heart. He relieved himself in verse ; but for such a smart- ing affront manuscript poetry was insufficient to con- sole him. He must find a more powerful remedy in good flesh and blood, and after this discomfiture, set forth again at once upon his voyage of discovery in quest of love. It is perhaps one of the most touching things in human nature, as it is a commonplace of psychology, that when a man has just lost hope or confidence in one love, he is then most eager to find and lean upon an- other. The universe could not be yet exhausted; there must be hope and love waiting for him somewhere; and so, with his head down, this poor, insulted poet ran 60 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS once more upon his fate. There was an innocent and gentle Highland nursery-maid at service in a neighbour- ing family; and he had soon battered himself and her into a warm affection and a secret engagement. Jean's marriage lines had not been destroyed till March 13, 1786 ; yet all was settled between Burns and Mary Campbell by Sunday, May 14, when they met for the last time, and said farewell with rustic solemnities upon the banks of Ayr. They each wet their hands in a stream, and, standing one on either bank, held a Bible between them as they vowed eternal faith. Then they exchanged Bibles, on one of which Burns, for greater security, had inscribed texts as to the binding nature of an oath ; and surely, if ceremony can do aught to fix the wandering affections, here were two people united for life. Mary came of a superstitious family, so that she perhaps insisted on these rites ; but they must have been eminently to the taste of Burns at this period ; for noth- ing would seem superfluous, and no oath great enough, to stay his tottering constancy. Events of consequence now happened thickly in the poet's life. His book was announced; the Armours sought to summon him at law for the aliment of the child; he lay here and there in hiding to correct the sheets ; he was under an engagement for Jamaica, where Mary was to join him as his wife; now, he had ** orders within three weeks at latest to repair aboard the Nancy, Captain Smith ; " now his chest was already on the road to Greenock; and now, in the wild autumn weather on the moorland, he measures verses of farewell: — " The bursting tears my heart declare; Farewell the bonny banks of Ayr!" 61 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS But the great master dramatist had secretly another in- tention for the piece; by the most violent and compli- cated solution, in which death and birth and sudden fame all play a part as interposing deities, the act-drop fell upon a scene of transformation. Jean was brought to bed of twins, and, by an amicable arrangement, the Burnses took the boy to bring up by hand, while the girl remained with her mother. The success of the book was immediate and emphatic ; it put £,20 at once into the author's purse; and he was encouraged upon all hands to go to Edinburgh and push his success in a second and larger edition. Third and last in these series of interpositions, a letter came one day to Mossgiel Farm for Robert. He went to the window to read it ; a sudden change came over his face, and he left the room without a word. Years afterward, when the story began to leak out, his family understood that he had then learned the death of Highland Mary. Except in a few poems and a few dry indications purposely misleading as to date, Burns himself made no reference to this passage of his life; it was an adventure of which, for I think sufficient reasons, he desired to bury the details. Of one thing we may be glad : in after years he visited the poor girl's mother, and left her with the impression that he was "a real warm-hearted chield." Perhaps a month after he received this intelligence, he set out for Edinburgh on a pony he had borrowed from a friend. The town that winter was "agog with the ploughman poet. " Robertson, Dugald Stewart, Blair, ** Duchess Gordon and all the gay world," were of his acquaintance. Such a revolution is not to be found in literary history. He was now, it must be remembered, 62 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS twenty-seven years of age; he had fought since his early boyhood an obstinate battle against poor soil, bad seed, and inclement seasons, wading deep in Ayrshire mosses, guiding the plough in the furrow, wielding ''the thresher's weary flingin'-tree ; " and his education, his diet, and his pleasures, had been those of a Scotch countryman. Now he stepped forth suddenly among the polite and learned. We can see him as he then was, in his boots and buckskins, his blue coat and waistcoat striped with buff and blue, like a farmer in his Sunday best; the heavy ploughman's figure firmly planted on its burly legs ; his face full of sense and shrewdness, and with a somewhat melancholy air of thought, and his large dark eye "literallv glowing" as he spoke. **I never saw such another eye in a human head," says Walter Scott, ''though I have seen the most distin- guished men of my time." With men, whether they were lords or omnipotent critics, his manner was plain, dignified, and free from bashfulness or affectation. If he made a slip, he had the social courage to pass on and refrain from explanation. He was not embarrassed in this society, because he read and judged the men ; he could spy snobbery in a titled lord ; and, as for the crit- ics, he dismissed their system in an epigram. "These gentlemen," said he, "remind me of some spinsters in my country who spin their thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof" Ladies, on the other hand, sur- prised him ; he was scarce commander of himself in their society ; he was disqualified by his acquired nature as a Don Juan ; and he, who had been so much at his ease with country lasses, treated the town dames to an ex- treme of deference. One lady, who met him at a ball 63 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS gave Chambers a speaking sketch of his demeanour. "His manner was not prepossessing — scarcely, she thinks, manly or natural. It seemed as if he affected a rusticity or landertness, so that when he said the music was 'bonnie, bonnie,' it was like the expression of a child." These would be company manners ; and doubt- less on a slight degree of intimacy the affectation would grow less. And his talk to women had always "a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged the attention particularly." The Edinburgh magnates (to conclude this episode at once) behaved well to Burns from first to last. Were heaven-born genius to revisit us in similar guise, I am not venturing too far when I say that he need expect neither so warm a welcome nor such solid help. Al- though Burns was only a peasant, and one of no very elegant reputation as to morals, he was made welcome to their homes. They gave him a great deal of good advice, helped him to some five hundred pounds of ready money, and got him, as soon as he asked it, a place in the Excise. Burns, on his part, bore the eleva- tion with perfect dignity ; and with perfect dignity re- turned, when the time had come, into a country privacy of life. His powerful sense never deserted him, and from the first he recognised that his Edinburgh popu- larity was but an ovation and the affair of a day. He wrote a few letters in a high-flown, bombastic vein of gratitude; but in practice he suffered no man to intrude upon his self-respect. On the other hand, he never turned his back, even for a moment, on his old asso- ciates; and he was always ready to sacrifice an ac- quaintance to a friend, although the acquaintance were 64 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS a duke. He would be a bold man who should promise similar conduct in equally exacting circumstances. It was, in short, an admirable appearance on the stage of life — socially successful, intimately self-respecting, and like a gentleman from first to last. In the present study, this must only be taken by the way, while we return to Burns's love affairs. Even on the road to Edinburgh he had seized upon the oppor- tunity of a flirtation, and had carried the "battering" so far that when next he moved from town, it was to steal two days with this anonymous fair one. The exact importance to Burns of this affair may be gathered from the song in which he commemorated its oc- currence. '*! love the dear lassie," he sings, "because she loves me;" or, in the tongue of prose: "Finding an opportunity, I did not hesitate to profit by it; and even now, if it returned, I should not hesitate to profit by it again." A love thus founded has no interest for mortal man. Meantime, early in the winter, and only once, we find him regretting Jean in his correspondence. "Because" — such is his reason — "because he does not think he will ever meet so delicious an armful again ; " and then, after a brief excursion into verse, he goes straight on to describe a new episode in the voyage of discovery with the daughter of a Lothian farmer for a heroine. I must ask the reader to follow all these refer- ences to his future wife ; they are essential to the com- prehension of Burns's character and fate. In June, we find him back at Mauchline, a famous man. There, the Armour family greeted him with a "mean, servile com- pliance," which increased his former disgust. Jean was not less compliant; a second time the poor girl sub- 65 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS mitted to the fascination of the man whom she did not love, and whom she had so cruelly insulted little more than a year ago ; and, though Burns took advantage of her weakness, it was in the ugliest and most cynical spirit, and with a heart absolutely indifferent. Judge of this by a letter written some twenty days after his return — a letter to my mind among the most degrading in the whole collection — a letter which seems to have been inspired by a boastful, libertine bagman. "I am afraid," it goes, ''I have almost ruined one source, the principal one, indeed, of my former happiness — the eternal propensity I always had to fall in love. My heart no more glows with feverish rapture; I have no para- disiacal evening interviews." Even the process of '' battering " has failed him, you perceive. Still he had some one in his eye — a lady, if you please, with a fine figure and elegant manners, and who had "seen the politest quarters in Europe. " "I frequently visited her, " he writes, " and after passing regularly the intermediate degrees between the distant formal bow and the familiar grasp round the waist, I ventured, in my careless way, to talk of friendship in rather ambiguous terms; and after her return to , I wrote her in the same terms. Miss, construing my remarks further than even I in- tended, flew off in a tangent of female dignity and re- serve, like a mounting lark in an April morning; and wrote me an answer which measured out very com- pletely what an immense way I had to travel before I could reach tlie climate of her favours. But I am an old hawk at the sport, and wrote her such a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, as brought my bird from her aerial tower- ings, pop, down to my foot, like Corporal Trim's hat." 66 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS I avow a carnal longing, after this transcription, to buffet the Old Hawk about the ears. There is little question that to this lady he must have repeated his addresses, and that he was by her (Miss Chalmers) eventually, though not at all unkindly, rejected. One more detail to characterise the period. Six months after the date of this letter. Burns, back in Edinburgh, is served with a writ in meditatione fugce, on behalf of some Edin- burgh fair one, probably of humble rank, who declared an intention of adding to his family. About the beginning of December (1787), a new pe- riod opens in the story of the poet's random affections. He met at a tea party one Mrs. Agnes M'Lehose, a mar- ried woman of about his own age, who, with her two children, had been deserted by an unworthy husband. She had wit, could use her pen, and had read IVerther with attention. Sociable, and even somewhat frisky, there was a good, sound, human kernel in the woman ; a warmth of love, strong dogmatic religious feeling, and a considerable, but not authoritative, sense of the pro- prieties. Of what biographers refer to daintily as " her somewhat voluptuous style of beauty," judging from the silhouette in Mr. Scott Douglas's invaluable edition, the reader will be fastidious if he does not approve. Take her for all in all, I believe she was the best woman Burns encountered. The pair took a fancy for each other on the spot; Mrs. M'Lehose, in her turn, invited him to tea; but the poet, in his character of the Old Hawk, preferred a Ute-a-Ute, excused himself at the last moment, and offered a visit instead. An accident con- fined him to his room for nearly a month, and this led to the famous Clarinda and Sylvander correspondence. 67 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS It was begun in simple sport; they are already at their fifth or sixth exchange, when Clarinda writes: "It is really curious so much fun passing between two per- sons who saw each other only once ; ' ' but it is hardly safe for a man and woman in the flower of their years to write almost daily, and sometimes in terms too am- biguous, sometimes in terms too plain, and generally in terms too warm, for mere acquaintance. The exercise partakes a little of the nature of battering, and danger may be apprehended when next they meet. It is diffi- cult to give any account of this remarkable correspon- dence ; it is too far away from us, and perhaps, not yet far enough, in point of time and manner; the imagina- tion is baffled by these stilted literary utterances, warm- ing, in bravura passages, into downright truculent non- sense. Clarinda has one famous sentence in which she bids Sylvander connect the thought of his mistress with the changing phases of the year; it was enthusiastically admired by the swain, but on the modern mind pro- duces mild amazement and alarm. "Oh, Clarinda," writes Burns, "shall we not meet in a state — some yet unknown state — of being, where the lavish hand of Plenty shall minister to the highest wish of Benevo- lence, and where the chill north wind of Prudence shall never blow over the flowery field of Enjoyment } " The design may be that of an Old Hawk, but the style is more suggestive of a Bird of Paradise. It is sometimes hard to fancy they are not gravely making fun of each other as they write. Religion, poetry, love, and charm- ing sensibility, are the current topics. " I am delighted, charming Clarinda, 'vith your honest enthusiasm for re- ligion," writes Burns; and the pair entertained a fiction 68 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS that this was their "favourite subject." " This is Sun- day, " writes the lady, " and not a word on our favourite subject. O fy ! ' divine Clarinda ! ' " I suspect, although quite unconsciously on the part of the lady, who was bent on his redemption, they but used the favourite sub- ject as a stalking-horse. In the meantime, the sportive acquaintance was ripening steadily into a genuine pas- sion. Visits took place, and then became frequent. Clarinda's friends were hurt and suspicious ; her clergy- man interfered ; she herself had smart attacks of con- science ; but her heart had gone from her control ; it was altogether his, and she " counted all things but loss — heaven excepted — that she might win and keep him." Burns himself was transported while in her neighbour- hood, but his transports somewhat rapidly declined during an absence. I am tempted to imagine that, womanlike, he took on the colour of his mistress's feel- ing; that he could not but heat himself at the fire of her unaffected passion ; but that, like one who should leave the hearth upon a winter's night, his temperature soon fell when he was out of sight, and in a word, though he could share the symptoms, that he had never shared the disease. At the same time, amid the fustian of the let- ters there are forcible and true expressions, and the love verses that he wrote upon Clarinda are among the most moving in the language. We are approaching the solution. In mid-winter, Jean, once more in the family way, was turned out of doors by her family; and Burns had her received and cared for in the house of a friend. For he remained to the last imperfect in his character of Don Juan, and lacked the sinister courage to desert his victim. About the 69 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS middle of February (1788), he had to tear himself from his Clarinda and make a journey into the southwest on business. Clarinda gave him two shirts for his little son. They were daily to meet in prayer at an appointed hour. Burns, too late for the post at Glasgow, sent her a letter by parcel that she might not have to wait. Clarinda on her part writes, this time with a beautiful simplicity: '' I think the streets look deserted-like since Monday ; and there's a certain insipidity in good kind folks I once enjoyed not a little. Miss Wardrobe supped here on Monday. She once named you, which kept me from falling asleep. I drank your health in a glass of ale — as the lasses do at Hallowe'en — * in to mysel'.' " Arrived at Mauchline, Burns installed Jean Armour in a lodging, and prevailed on Mrs. Armour to promise her help and countenance in the approaching confinement. This was kind at least; but hear his expressions: '*I have taken her a room ; I have taken her to my arms; I have given her a mahogany bed; I have given her a guinea. ... I swore her privately and solemnly never to attempt any claim on me as a husband, even though anybody should persuade her she had such a claim — which she has not, neither during my life nor after my death. She did all this like a good girl." And then he took advantage of the situation. To Clarinda he wrote : " I this morning called for a certain woman. I am dis- gusted with her; I cannot endure her; " and he accused her of ** tasteless insipidity, vulgarity of soul, and mer- cenary fawning." This was already in March; by the 13th of that month he was back in Edinburgh. On the 17th he wrote to Clarinda: **Your hopes, your fears, your cares, my love, are mine; so don't mind them. I SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS will take you in my hand through the dreary wilds of this world, and scare away the ravening bird or beast that would annoy you." Again, on the 21st: ''Will you open, with satisfaction and delight, a letter from a man who loves you, who has loved you, and who will love you, to death, through death, and for ever. . . . How rich am 1 to have such a treasure as you! . . . * The Lord God knoweth,' and, perhaps, ' Israel he shall know,' my love and your merit. Adieu, Clarinda! I am going to remember you in my prayers." By the 7th of April, seventeen days later, he had already decided to make Jean Armour publicly his wife. A more astonishing stage-trick is not to be found. And yet his conduct is seen, upon a nearer examination, to be grounded both in reason and in kindness. He was now about to embark on a solid worldly career; he had taken a farm ; the affair with Clarinda, however grati- fying to his heart, was too contingent to offer any great consolation to a man like Burns, to whom marriage must have seemed the very dawn of hope and self-respect. This is to regard the question from its lowest aspect; but there is no doubt that he entered on this new period of his life with a sincere determination to do right. He had just helped his brother with a loan of a hundred and eighty pounds ; should he do nothing for the poor girl whom he had ruined ? It was true he could not do as he did without brutally wounding Cla- rinda; that was the punishment of his bygone fault; he was, as he truly says, ''damned with a choice only of different species of error and misconduct." To be pro- fessional Don Juan, to accept the provocation of any lively lass upon the village green, may thus lead a man 7» FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS through a series of detestable words and actions, and land him at last in an undesired and most unsuitable union for life. If he had been strong enough to refrain or bad enough to persevere in evil; if he had only not been Don Juan at all, or been Don Juan altogether, there had been some possible road for him throughout this troublesome world; but a man, alas! who is equally at the call of his worse and better instincts, stands among changing events without foundation or resource. ^ DOWNWARD COURSE It may be questionable whether any marriage could have tamed Burns; but it is at least certain that there was no hope for him in the marriage he contracted. He did right, but then he had done wrong before ; it was, as I said, one of those relations in life which it seems equally wrong to break or to perpetuate. He neither loved nor respected his wife. '' God knows," he writes, *' my choice was as random as blind man's buff." He consoles himself by the thought that he has acted kindly to her; that she ** has the most sacred enthusiasm of attachment to him;" that she has a good figure; that she has a '* wood-note wild," "her voice rising with ease to B natural," no less. The effect on the reader is one of unmingled pity for both parties concerned. This was not the wife who (in his own words) could "enter into his favourite studies or relish his favourite authors; " this was not even a wife, after the affair of the marriage lines, in whom a husband could joy to place his trust. 1 For the love affairs see, in particular, Mr. Scott Douglas's edition under the different dates. 72 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS Let her manage a farm with sense, let her voice rise to B natural all day long, she would still be a peasant to her lettered lord, and an object of pity rather than of equal affection. She could now be faithful, she could now be forgiving, she could now be generous even to a pathetic and touching degree; but coming from one who was unloved, and who had scarce shown herself worthy of the sentiment, these were all virtues thrown away, which could neither change her husband's heart nor affect the inherent destiny of their relation. From the outset, it was a marriage that had no root in nature; and we find him, erelong, lyrically regretting Highland Mary, renewing correspondence with Clarinda in the warmest language, on doubtful terms with Mrs. Riddel, and on terms unfortunately beyond any question with Anne Park. Alas! this was not the only ill circumstance in his future. He had been idle for some eighteen months, superintending his new edition, hanging on to settle with the publisher, travelling in the Highlands with Willie Nichol, or philandering with Mrs. M'Lehose; and in this period the radical part of the man had suf- fered irremediable hurt. He had lost his habits of in- dustry, and formed the habit of pleasure. Apologet- ical biographers assure us of the contrary ; but from the first, he saw and recognised the danger for himself; his mind, he writes, is ** enervated to an alarming degree" by idleness and dissipation; and again, "my mind has been vitiated with idleness." It never fairly recovered. To business he could bring the required diligence and attention without difficulty ; but he was thenceforward incapable, except in rare instances, of that superior 73 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS effort of concentration which is required for serious lit- erary work. He may be said, indeed, to have worked no more, and only amused himself with letters. The man who had written a volume of masterpieces in six months, during the remainder of his life rarely found courage for any more sustained effort than a song. And the nature of the songs is itself characteristic of these idle later years ; for they are often as polished and elaborate as his earlier works were frank, and headlong, and colloquial; and this sort of verbal elaboration in short flights is, for a man of literary turn, simply the most agreeable of pastimes. The change in manner co- incides exactly with the Edinburgh visit. In 1786 he had written the Address to a LomCy which may be taken as an extreme instance of the first manner; and already, in 1787, we come upon the rosebud pieces to Miss Cruikshank, which are extreme examples of the second. The change was, therefore, the direct and very natural consequence of his great change in life; but it is not the less typical of his loss of moral courage that he should have given up all larger ventures, nor the less melancholy that a man who first attacked literature with a hand that seemed capable of moving mountains, should have spent his later years in whittling cherry- stones. Meanwhile, the farm did not prosper; he had to join to it the salary of an exciseman ; at last he had to give it up, and rely altogether on the latter resource. He was an active officer; and, though he sometimes tem- pered severity with mercy, we have local testimony oddly representing the public feeling of the period, that, while ** in everything else he was a perfect gentleman, 74 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS when he met with anything seizable he was no better than any other gauger." There is but one manifestation of the man in these last years which need delay us : and that was the sud- den interest in politics which arose from his sympathy with the great French Revolution. His only political feeling had been hitherto a sentimental Jacobitism, not more or less respectable than that of Scott, Aytoun, and the rest of what George Borrow has nicknamed the " Charlie over the water" Scotchmen. It was a senti- ment almost entirely literary and picturesque in its origin, built on ballads and the adventures of the Young Chevalier; and in Burns it is the more excusable, be- cause he lay out of the way of active politics in his youth. With the great French Revolution, something living, practical, and feasible appeared to him for the first time in this realm of human action. The young ploughman who had desired so earnestly to rise, now reached out his sympathies to a whole nation animated with the same desire. Already in 1788 we find the old Jacobitism hand in hand with the new popular doctrine, when, in a letter of indignation against the zeal of a Whig clergyman, he writes: " I dare say the American Congress in 1776 will be allowed to be as able and as enlightened as the English Convention was in 1688; and that their posterity will celebrate the centenary of their deliverance from us as duly and sincerely as we do. ours from the oppressive measures of the wrong- headed house of Stuart." As time wore on, his senti- ments grew more pronounced and even violent; but there was a basis of sense and generous feeling to his hottest excess. What he asked was a fair chance for 75 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS the individual in life; an open road to success and dis- tinction for all classes of men. It was in the same spirit that he had helped to found a public library in the parish where his farm was situated, and that he sang his fervent snatches against tyranny and tyrants. Wit- ness, were it alone, this verse : — "Here's freedom to him that wad read, Here's freedom to him that wad write; There's nane ever feared that the truth should be heard But them wham the truth wad indite." Yet his enthusiasm for the cause was scarce guided by wisdom. Many stories are preserved of the bitter and unwise words he used in country coteries; how he proposed Washington's health as an amendment to Pitt's, gave as a toast **the last verse of the last chap- ter of Kings," and celebrated Dumouriez in a doggrel impromptu full of ridicule and hate. Now his sympa- thies would inspire him with Scots, wha hae ; now in- volve him in a drunken broil with a loyal officer, and consequent apologies and explanations, hard to offer for a man of Burns's stomach. Nor was this the front of his offending. On February 27, 1792, he took part in the capture of an armed smuggler, bought at the sub- sequent sale four carronades, and despatched them with a letter to the French Assembly. Letter and guns were stopped at Dover by the English officials; there was trouble for Burns with his superiors ; he was reminded firmly, however delicately, that, as a paid official, it was his duty to obey and to be silent; and all the blood of this poor, proud, and falling man must have rushed to his head at the humiliation. His letter to Mr. Erskine, 76 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS subsequently Earl of Mar, testifies, in its turgid, turbu- lent phrases, to a perfect passion of alarmed self-respect and vanity. He had been muzzled, and muzzled, when all was said, by his paltry salary as an exciseman ; alas ! had he not a family to keep ? Already, he wrote, he looked forward to some such judgment from a hackney scribbler as this: " Burns, notwithstanding the fanfar- onnade of independence to be found in his works, and after having been held forth to view and to public esti- mation as a man of some genius, yet, quite destitute of resources within himself to support his borrowed dig- nity, he dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and shrunk out the rest of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of mankind." And then on he goes, in a style of rhodomontade, but filled with living indignation, to declare his right to a political opinion, and his willingness to shed his blood for the political birthright of his sons. Poor, perturbed spirit! he was indeed exercised in vain ; those who share and those who differ from his sentiments about the Revolu- tion, alike understand and sympathise with him in this painful strait ; for poetry and human manhood are last- ing like the race, and politics, which are but a wrong- ful striving after right, pass and change from year to year and age to age. The Twa Dogs has already out- lasted the constitution of Sieyes and the policy of the Whigs; and Burns is better known among English- speaking races than either Pitt or Fox. Meanwhile, whether as a man, a husband, or a poet, his steps led downward. He knew, knew bitterly, that the best was out of him ; he refused to make another volume, for he felt that it would be a disappointment; 77 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS he grew petulantly alive to criticism, unless he was sure it reached him from a friend. For his songs, he would take nothing; they were all that he could do; the pro- posed Scotch play, the proposed series of Scotch tales in verse, all had gone to water; and in a fling of pain and disappointment, which is surely noble with the nobility of a viking, he would rather stoop to borrow than to accept money for these last and inadequate efforts of his muse. And this desperate abnegation rises at times near to the height of madness; as when he pretended that he had not written, but only found and published, his immortal Auld Lang Syne. In the same spirit he became more scrupulous as an artist; he was doing so little, he would fain do that little well ; and about two months before his death, he asked Thomson to send back all his manuscripts for revisal, saying that he would rather write five songs to his taste than twice that num- ber otherwise. The battle of his life was lost; in for- lorn efforts to do well, in desperate submissions to evil, the last years flew by. His temper is dark and explo- sive, launching epigrams, quarrelling with his friends, jealous of young puppy officers. He tries to be a good father; he boasts himself a libertine. Sick, sad, and jaded, he can refuse no occasion of temporary pleasure, no opportunity to shine ; and he who had once refused the invitations of lords and ladies is now whistled to the inn by any curious stranger. His death (July 21, 1796), in his thirty-seventh year, was indeed a kindly dispensation. It is the fashion to say he died of drink; many a man has drunk more and yet lived with repu- tation, and reached a good age. That drink and de- bauchery helped to destroy his constitution, and were 78 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS the means of his unconscious suicide, is doubtless true; but he had failed in life, had lost his power of work, and was already married to the poor, unworthy, patient Jean, before he had shown his inclination to convivial nights, or at least before that inclination had become dangerous either to his health or his self-respect. He had trifled with life, and must pay the penalty. He had chosen to be Don Juan, he had grasped at temporary pleasures, and substantial happiness and solid industry had passed him by. He died of being Robert Burns, and there is no levity in such a statement of the case; for shall we not, one and all, deserve a similar epitaph ? WORKS The somewhat cruel necessity which has Iain upon me throughout this paper only to touch upon those points in the life of Burns where correction or amplifica- tion seemed desirable, leaves me little opportunity to speak of the works which have made his name so famous. Yet, even here, a few observations seem nec- essary. At the time when the poet made his appearance and great first success, his work was remarkable in two ways. For, first, in an age when poetry had become abstract and conventional, instead of continuing to deal with shepherds, thunderstorms, and personifications, he dealt with the actual circumstances of his life, however matter-of-fact and sordid these might be. And, second, in a time when English versification was particularly stiff, lame, and feeble, and words were used with ultra- academical timidity, he wrote verses that were easy, 79 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS racy, graphic, and forcible, and used language with ab* solute tact and courage as it seemed most fit to give a clear impression. If you take even those English authors whom we know Burns to have most admired and studied, you will see at once that he owed them noth- ing but a warning. Take Shenstone, for instance, and watch that elegant author as he tries to grapple with the facts of life. He has a description, I remember, of a gentleman engaged in sliding or walking on thin ice, which is a little miracle of incompetence. You see my memory fails me, and I positively cannot recollect whether his hero was sliding or walking; as though a writer should describe a skirmish, and the reader, at the end, be still uncertain whether it were a charge of cavalry or a slow and stubborn advance of foot. There could be no such ambiguity in Burns ; his work is at the opposite pole from such indefinite and stammering performances ; and a whole lifetime passed in the study of Shenstone would only lead a man farther and farther from writing the Address to a Lome. Yet Burns, like most great artists, proceeded from a school and continued a tradition; only the school and tradition were Scotch, and not English. While the English language was be- coming daily more pedantic and inflexible, and English letters more colourless and slack, there was another dialect in the sister country, and a different school of poetry tracing its descent, through King James I., from Chaucer. The dialect alone accounts for much ; for it was then written colloquially, which kept it fresh and sup- ple; and, although not shaped for heroic flights, it was a direct and vivid medium for all that had to do with social life. Hence, whenever Scotch poets left their 80 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS laborious imitations of bad English verses, and fell back on their own dialect, their style would kindle, and they would write of their convivial and somewhat gross ex- istences with pith and point. In Ramsay, and far more in the poor lad Fergusson, there was mettle, humour, literary courage, and a power of saying what they wished to say definitely and brightly, which in the latter case should have justified great anticipations. Had Burns died at the same age as Fergusson, he would have left us literally nothing worth remark. To Ramsay and to Fergusson, then, he was indebted in a very un- common degree, not only following their tradition and using their measures, but directly and avowedly imi- tating their pieces. The same tendency to borrow a hint, to work on some one else's foundation, is nota- ble in Burns from first to last, in the period of song- writing as well as in that of the early poems ; and strikes one oddly in a man of such deep originality, who left so strong a print on all he touched, and whose work is so greatly distinguished by that character of " inevitability " which Wordsworth denied to Goethe. When we remember Burns's obligations to his pre- decessors, we must never forget his immense advances on them. They had already "discovered" nature; but Burns discovered poetry — a higher and more in- tense way of thinking of the things that go to make up nature, a higher and more ideal key of words in which to speak of them. Ramsay and Fergusson excelled at making a popular — or shall we say vulgar.^ — sort of society verses, comical and prosaic, written, you would say, in taverns while a supper party waited for its lau- reate's word ; but on the appearance of Burns, this coarse 8i FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS and laughing literature was touched to finer issues, and learned gravity of thought and natural pathos. What he had gained from his predecessors was a di- rect, speaking style, and to walk on his own feet in- stead of on academical stilts. There was never a man of letters with more absolute command of his means; and we may say of him, without excess, that his style was his slave. Hence that energy of epithet, so con- cise and telling, that a foreigner is tempted to explain it by some special richness or aptitude in the dialect he wrote. Hence that Homeric justice and completeness of description which gives us the very physiognomy of nature, in body and detail, as nature is. Hence, too, the unbroken literary quality of his best pieces, which keeps him from any slip into the weariful trade of word- painting, and presents everything, as everything should be presented by the art of words, in a clear, continuous medium of thought. Principal Shairp, for instance, gives us a paraphrase of one tough verse of the original; and for those who know the Greek poets only by para- phrase, this has the very quality they are accustomed to look for and admire in Greek. The contemporaries of Burns were surprised that he should visit so many cele- brated mountains and waterfalls, and not seize the op- portunity to make a poem. Indeed, it is not for those who have a true command of the art of words, but for peddling, professional amateurs, that these pointed oc- casions are most useful and inspiring. As those who speak French imperfectly are glad to dwell on any topic they may have talked upon or heard others talk upon before, because they know appropriate words for it in French, so the dabbler in verse rejoices to behold a 8a SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS waterfall, because he has learned the sentiment and knows appropriate words for it in poetry. But the dialect of Burns was fitted to deal with any subject; and whether it was a stormy night, a shepherd's collie, a sheep struggling in the snow, the conduct of cowardly soldiers in the field, the gait and cogitations of a drunk- en man, or only a village cockcrow in the morning, he could find language to give it freshness, body, and re- lief He was always ready to borrow the hint of a de- sign, as though he had a difficulty in commencing — a difficulty, let us say, in choosing a subject out of a world which seemed all equally living and significant to him ; but once he had the subject chosen, he could cope with nature single-handed, and make every stroke a triumph. Again, his absolute mastery in his art en- abled him to express each and all of his different hu- mours, and to pass smoothly and congruously from one to another. Many men invent a dialect for only one side of their nature — perhaps their pathos or their hu- mour, or the delicacy of their senses — and, for lack of a medium, leave all the others unexpressed. You meet such an one, and find him in conversation full of thought, feeling, and experience, which he has lacked the art to employ in his writings. But Burns was not thus ham- pered in the practice of the literary art ; he could throw the whole weight of his nature into his work, and im- pregnate it from end to end. If Doctor Johnson, that stilted and accomplished stylist, had lacked the sacred Boswell, what should we have known of him ? and how should we have delighted in his acquaintance as we do ? Those who spoke with Burns tell us how much we have lost who did not. But I think they exaggerate their 83 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS privilege: I think we have the whole Burns in our pos- session set forth in his consummate verses. It was by his style, and not by his matter, that he affected Wordsworth and the world, There is, indeed, only one merit worth considering in a man of letters — that he should write well ; and only one damning fault — that he should write ill. We are little the better for the reflections of the sailor's parrot in the story. And so, if Burns helped to change the course of literary his- tory, it was by his frank, direct, and masterly utterance, and not by his homely choice of subjects. That was imposed upon him, not chosen upon a principle. He wrote from his own experience, because it was his na- ture so to do, and the tradition of the school from which he proceeded was fortunately not opposed to homely subjects. But to these homely subjects he communi- cated the rich commentary of his nature; they were all steeped in Burns ; and they interest us not in themselves, but because they have been passed through the spirit of so genuine and vigorous a man. Such is the stamp of living literature ; and there was never any more alive than that of Burns. What a gust of sympathy there is in him sometimes flowing out in byways hitherto unused, upon mice, and flowers, and the devil himself; sometimes speaking plainly between human hearts ; sometimes ringing out in exultation like a peal of bells! When we compare the Farmer's Salutation to his AuldMare Maggie, with the clever and inhumane production of half a century earlier. The Auld Man's Mare's dead, we see in a nut- shell the spirit of the change introduced by Burns. And as to its manner, who that "has read it can forget how 84 SOME ASPECTS OF ROBERT BURNS the collie, Luath, in the Twa Dogs, describes and enters into the merry-making in the cottage ? " The luntin' pipe an' sneeshin' mill, Are handed round wi' richt guid will; The canty auld folks crackin' crouse, The young anes rantin' through the house — My heart has been sae fain to see them That I for joy hae barkit wi' them." It was this ardent power of sympathy that was fatal to so many women, and, through Jean Armour, to himself at last. His humour comes from him in a stream so deep and easy that 1 will venture to call him the best of humorous poets. He turns about in the midst to utter a noble sentiment or a trenchant remark on human life, and the style changes and rises to the occasion. I think it is Principal Shairp who says, happily, that Burns would have been no Scotchman if he had not loved to moralise; neither, may we add, would he have been his father's son ; but (what is worthy of note) his moralis- ings are to a large extent the moral of his own career. He was among the least impersonal of artists. Except in the Jolly Beggars, he shows no gleam of dramatic in- stinct. Mr. Carlyle has complained that Tarn o' Shanter is, from the absence of this quality, only a picturesque and external piece of work ; and I may add that in the Twa Dogs it is precisely in the infringement of dramatic propriety that a great deal of the humour of the speeches depends for its existence and effect. Indeed, Burns was so full of his identity that it breaks forth on every page ; and there is scarce an appropriate remark either in praise or blame of his own conduct, but he has put it himself 85 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS into verse. Alas ! for the tenor of these remarks ! They are, indeed, his own pitiful apology for such a marred existence and talents so misused and stunted; and they seem to prove forever how small a part is played by reason in the conduct of man's affairs. Here was one, at least, who with unfailing judgment predicted his own fate; yet his knowledge could not avail him, and with open eyes he must fulfil his tragic destiny. Ten years before the end he had written his epitaph ; and neither subsequent events, nor the critical eyes of posterity, have shown us a word in it to alter. And, lastly, has he not put in for himself the last unanswerable plea ? — " Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark One? Alas! I fear every man and woman of us is ''greatly dark" to all their neighbours, from the day of birth until death removes them, in their greatest virtues as well as in their saddest faults; and we, who have been trying to read the character of Burns, may take home the lesson and be gentle in our thoughts. 86 WALT WHITMAN OF late years the name of Walt Whitman has been a good deal bandied about in books and magazines. It has become familiar both in good and ill repute. His works have been largely bespattered with praise by his admirers, and cruelly mauled and mangled by irreverent enemies. Now, whether his poetry is good or bad as poetry, is a matter that may admit of a difference of opinion without alienating those who differ. We could not keep the peace with a man who should put forward claims to taste and yet depreciate the choruses in Sam- son Agonistes ; but, I think, we may shake hands with one who sees no more in Walt Whitman's volume, from a literary point of view, than a farrago of incompetent essays in a wrong direction. That may not be at all our own opinion. We may think that, when a work con- tains many unforgettable phrases, it cannot be altogether devoid of literary merit. We may even see passages of a high poetry here and there among its eccentric con- tents. But when all is said, Walt Whitman is neither a Milton nor a Shakespeare ; to appreciate his works is not a condition necessary to salvation ; and I would not dis- inherit a son upon the question, nor even think much the worse of a critic, for I should always have an idea what he meant. 87 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS What Whitman has to say is another affair from how he says it. It is not possible to acquit any one of de- fective intelligence, or else stiff prejudice, who is not in- terested by Whitman's matter and the spirit it repre- sents. Not as a poet, but as what we must call (for lack of a more exact expression) a prophet, he occupies a curious and prominent position. Whether he may greatly influence the future or not, he is a notable symp- tom of the present. As a sign of the times, it would be hard to find his parallel. I should hazard a large wager, for instance, that he was not unacquainted with the works of Herbert Spencer; and yet where, in all the his- tory books, shall we lay our hands on two more incon- gruous contemporaries.? Mr. Spencer so decorous — I had almost said, so dandy — in dissent; and Whitman, like a large shaggy dog, just unchained, scouring the beaches of the world and baying at the moon. And when was an echo more curiously like a satire, than when Mr. Spencer found his Synthetic Philosophy re- verberated from the other shores of the Atlantic in the *' barbaric yawp " of Whitman ? Whitman, it cannot be too soon explained, writes up to a system. He was a theoriser about society before he was a poet. He first perceived something wanting, and then sat down squarely to supply the want.^ The reader, running over his works, will find that he takes nearly as much pleasure in critically expounding his theory of poetry as in making poems. This is as fiir as it can be from the case of the spontaneous village min- 88 WALT WHITMAN strel dear to elegy, who has no theory whatever, al- though sometimes he may have fully as much poetry as Whitman. The whole of Whitman's work is deliber- ate and preconceived. A man born into a society com- paratively new, full of conflicting elements and interests, could not fail, if he had any thoughts at all, to reflect upon the tendencies around him. He saw much good and evil on all sides, not yet settled down into some more or less unjust compromise as in older nations, but still in the act of settlement. And he could not but wonder what it would turn out; whether the compro- mise would be very just or very much the reverse, and give great or little scope for healthy human energies. From idle wonder to active speculation is but a step ; and he seems to have been early struck with the ineffi- cacy of literature and its extreme unsuitability to the conditions. What he calls ''Feudal Literature" could have little living action on the tumult of American de- mocracy; what he calls the ''Literature of Woe," mean- ing the whole tribe of Werther and Byron, could have no action for good in any time or place. Both proposi- tions, if art had none but a direct moral influence, would be true enough; and as this seems to be Whitman's view, they were true enough for him. He conceived the idea of a Literature which was to inhere in the life of the present; which was to be, first, human, and next, American; which was to be brave and cheerful as per contract; to give culture in a popular and poetical presentment; and, in so doing, catch and stereotype some democratic ideal of humanity which should be equally natural to all grades of wealth and education, and suited, in one of his favourite phrases, to "the av- 89 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS erage man." To the formation of some such literature as this his poems are to be regarded as so many contri- butions, one sometimes explaining, sometimes super- seding, the other: and the whole together not so much a finished work as a body of suggestive hints. He does not profess to have built the castle, but he pretends he has traced the lines of the foundation. He has not made the poetry, but he flatters himself he has done some- thing toward making the poets. His notion of the poetic function is ambitious, and coincides roughly with what Schopenhauer has laid down as the province of the metaphysician. The poet is to gather together for men, and set in order, the ma- terials of their existence. He is "The Answerer; " he is to find some way of speaking about life that shall sat- isfy, if only for the moment, man's enduring astonish- ment at his own position. And besides having an an- swer ready, it is he who shall provoke the question. He must shake people out of their indifference, and force them to make some election in this world, instead of sliding dully forward in a dream. Life is a business we are all apt to mismanage ; either living recklessly from day to day, or suffering ourselves to be gulled out of our moments by the inanities of custom. We should de- spise a man who gave as little activity and forethought to the conduct of any other business. But in this, which is the one thing of all others, since it contains them all, we cannot see the forest for the trees. One brief im- pression obliterates another. There is something stupe- fying in the recurrence of unimportant things. And it is only on rare provocations that we can rise to take an outlook beyond daily concerns, and comprehend the 90 WALT WHITMAN narrow limits and great possibilities of our existence. It is the duty of the poet to induce such moments of clear sight. He is the declared enemy of all living by reflex action, of all that is done betwixt sleep and wak- ing, of all the pleasureless pleasurings and imaginary duties in which we coin away our hearts and fritter in- valuable years. He has to electrify his readers into an instant unflagging activity, founded on a wide and eager observation of the world, and make them direct their ways by a superior prudence, which has little or nothing in common with the maxims of the copy-book. That many of us lead such lives as they would heartily dis- own after two hours' serious reflection on the subject is, I am afraid, a true, and, I am sure, a very galling thought. The Enchanted Ground of dead-alive respectability is next, upon the map, to the Beulah of considerate virtue. But there they all slumber and take their rest in the middle of God's beautiful and wonderful universe; the drowsy heads have nodded together in the same posi- tion since first their fathers fell asleep ; and not even the sound of the last trumpet can wake them to a single active thought. The poet has a hard task before him to stir up such fellows to a sense of their own and other people's principles in life. And it happens that literature is, in some ways, but an indifferent means to such an end. Language is but a poor bull's-eye lantern wherewith to show off the vast cathedral of the world; and yet a particular thing once said in words is so definite and memorable, that it makes us forget the absence of the many which remain unexpressed; like a bright window in a distant view, which dazzles and confuses our sight of its surroundings. 9« FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS There are not words enough in all Shakespeare to ex- press the merest fraction of a man's experience in an hour. The speed of the eyesight and the hearing, and the continual industry of the mind, produce, in ten min- utes, what it would require a laborious volume to shadow forth by comparisons and roundabout approaches. If verbal logic were sufficient, life would be as plain sail- ing as a piece of Euclid. But, as a matter of fact, we make a travesty of the simplest process of thought when we put it into words ; for the words are all coloured and forsworn, apply inaccurately, and bring with them, from former uses, ideas of praise and blame that have nothing to do with the question in hand. So we must always see to it nearly, that we judge by the realities of life and not by the partial terms that represent them in man's speech ; and at times of choice, we must leave words upon one side, and act upon those brute convictions, unexpressed and perhaps inexpressible, which cannot be flourished in an argument, but which are truly the sum and fruit of our experience. Words are for com- munication, not for judgment. This is what every thoughtful man knows for himself, for only fools and silly schoolmasters push definitions over far into the do- main of conduct; and the majority of women, not learned in these scholastic refinements, live all-of-a-piece and unconsciously, as a tree grows, without caring to put a name upon their acts or motives. Hence, a new diffi- culty for Whitman's scrupulous and argumentative poet; he must do more than waken up the sleepers to his words; he must persuade them to look over the book and at life with their own eyes. This side of truth is very present to Whitman; it is 92 WALT WHITMAN this that he means when he tells us that "To glance with an eye confounds the learning of all times." But he is not unready. He is never weary of descanting on the undebatable conviction that is forced upon our minds by the presence of other men, of animals, or of inanimate things. To glance with an eye, were it only at a chair or a park railing, is by far a more persuasive process, and brings us to a far more exact conclusion, than to read the works of all the logicians extant. If both, by a large allowance, may be said to end in cer- tainty, the certainty in the one case transcends the other to an incalculable degree. If people see a lion, they run away; if they only apprehend a deduction, they keep wandering around in an experimental humour. Now, how is the poet to convince like nature, and not like books ? Is there no actual piece of nature that he can show the man to his face, as he might show him a tree if they were walking together ? Yes, there is one : the man's own thoughts. In fact, if the poet is to speak efficaciously, he must say what is already in his hearer's mind. That, alone, the hearer will believe ; that, alone, he will be able to apply intelligently to the facts of life. Any conviction, even if it be a whole system or a whole religion, must pass into the condition of commonplace, or postulate, before it becomes fully operative. Strange excursions and high-flying theories may interest, but they cannot rule behaviour. Our faith is not the highest truth that we perceive, but the highest that we have been able to assimilate into the very texture and method of our thinking. It is not, therefore, by flashing before a man's eyes the weapons of dialectic ; it is not by in- duction, deduction, or construction ; it is not by forcing 93 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS him on from one stage of reasoning to another, that the man will be effectually renewed. He cannot be made to believe anything; but he can be made to see that he has always believed it. And this is the practical canon. It is when the reader cries, '*0h, I know!" and is, per- haps, half irritated to see how nearly the author has forestalled his own thoughts, that he is on the way to what is called in theology a Saving Faith. Here we have the key to Whitman's attitude. To give a certain unity of ideal to the average population of America — to gather their activities about some concep- tion of humanity that shall be central and normal, if only for the moment — the poet must portray that population as it is. Like human law, human poetry is simply de- claratory. If any ideal is possible, it must be already in the thoughts of the people ; and, by the same reason, in the thoughts of the poet, who is one of them. And hence Whitman's own formula: **The poet is individ- ual — he is complete in himself: the others are as good as he; only he sees it, and they do not." To show them how good they are, the poet must study his fel- low-countrymen and himself somewhat like a traveller on the hunt for his book of travels. There is a sense, of course, in which all true books are books of travel ; and all genuine poets must run their risk of being charged with the traveller's exaggeration ; for to whom are such books more surprising than to those whose own life is faithfully and smartly pictured ? But this danger is all upon one side; and you may judiciously flatter the portrait without any likelihood of the sitter's disowning it for a faithful likeness. And so Whitman has reasoned : that by drawing at first hand from him- 94 WALT WHITMAN self and his neighbours, accepting without shame the in-, consistencies and brutalities that go to make up man, and yet treating the whole in a high, magnanimous spirit, he would make sure of belief, and at the same time encourage people forward by the means of praise. We are accustomed nowadays to a great deal of pul- ing over the circumstances in which we are placed. The great refinement of many poetical gentlemen has rendered them practically unfit for the jostling and ugliness of life, and they record their unfitness at con- siderable length. The bold and awful poetry of Job's complaint produces too many flimsy imitators ; for there is always something consolatory in grandeur, but the symphony transposed for the piano becomes hysterically sad. This literature of woe, as Whitman calls it, this Maladie de Rend, as we like to call it in Europe, is in many ways a most humiliating and sickly phenomenon. Young gentlemen with three or four hundred a year of private means look down from a pinnacle of doleful ex- perience on all the grown and hearty men who have dared to say a good word for life since the beginning of the world. There is no prophet but the melancholy Jacques, and the blue devils dance on all our literary wires. It would be a poor service to spread culture, if this be its result, among the comparatively innocent and cheer- ful ranks of men. When our little poets have to be sent to look at the ploughman and learn wisdom, we must be careful how we tamper with our ploughmen. Where 95 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS a man in not the best of circumstances preserves com- posure of mind, and relishes ale and tobacco, and his wife and children, in the intervals of dull and unremu- nerative labour; where a man in this predicament cart afford a lesson by the way to what are called his intel- lectual superiors, there is plainly something to be lost, as well as something to be gained, by teaching him to think differently. It is better to leave him as he is than to teach him whining. It is better that he should go without the cheerful lights of culture, if cheerless doubt and paralysing sentimentalism are to be the consequence. Let us, by all means, fight against that hide-bound stolidity of sensation and sluggishness of mind which blurs and decolourises for poor natures the wonderful pageant of consciousness ; let us teach people, as much as we can, to enjoy, and they will learn for themselves to sympathise ; but let us see to it, above all, that we give these lessons in a brave, vivacious note, and build the man up in courage while we demolish its substitute, indifference. Whitman is alive to all this. He sees that, if the poet is to be of any help, he must testify to the livableness of life. His poems, he tells us, are to be "hymns of the praise of things." They are to make for a certain high joy in living, or what he calls himself "a brave delight fit for freedom's athletes." And he has had no diffi- culty in introducing his optimism: it fitted readily enough with his system ; for the average man is truly a courageous person and truly fond of living. One of Whitman's remarks upon this head is worth quotation, as he is there perfectly successful, and does precisely what he designs to do throughout: Takes ordinary 96 WALT WHITMAN and even commonplace circumstances; throws them out, by a happy turn of thinking, into significance and something like beauty ; and tacks a hopeful moral lesson to the end. " The passionate tenacity of hunters, woodmen, early risers, culti- vators of gardens and orchards and fields, he says, the love of healthy women for the manly form, seafaring persons, drivers of horses, the passion for light and the open air, — all is an old unvaried sign of the unfailing perception of beauty, and of the residence of the poetic in outdoor people." There seems to me something truly original in this choice of trite examples. You will remark how adroitly Whitman begins, hunters and woodmen being confess- edly romantic. And one thing more. If he had said " the love of healthy men for the female form," he would have said almost a silliness; for the thing has never been dissembled out of delicacy, and is so obvious as to be a public nuisance. But by reversing it, he tells us some- thing not unlike news; something that sounds quite freshly in words ; and, if the reader be a man, gives him a moment of great self-satisfaction and spiritual aggran- dizement. In many different authors you may find pas- sages more remarkable for grammar, but few of a more ingenious turn, and none that could be more to the point in our connection. The tenacity of many ordinary people in ordinary pursuits is a sort of standing chal- lenge to everybody else. If one man can grow absorbed in delving his garden, others may grow absorbed and happy over something else. Not to be upsides in this with any groom or gardener, is to be very meanly or- ganised. A man should be ashamed to take his food 97 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS if he has not alchemy enough in his stomach to turn some of it into intense and enjoyable occupation. Whitman tries to reinforce this cheerfulness by keep- ing up a sort of outdoor atmosphere of sentiment. His book, he tells us, should be read "among the cooling influences of external nature;" and this recommenda- tion, like that other famous one which Hawthorne pre- fixed to his collected tales, is in itself a character of the work. Every one who has been upon a walking or a boating tour, living in the open air, with the body in constant exercise and the mind in fallow, knows true ease and quiet. The irritating action of the brain is set at rest; we think in a plain, unfeverish temper; little things seem big enough, and great things no longer portentous ; and the world is smilingly accepted as it is. This is the spirit that Whitman inculcates and pa- rades. He thinks very ill of the atmosphere of parlours or libraries. Wisdom keeps school outdoors. And he has the art to recommend this attitude of mind by sim- ply pluming himself upon it as a virtue; so that the reader, to keep the advantage over his author which most readers enjoy, is tricked into professing the same view. And this spirit, as it is his chief lesson, is the greatest charm of his work. Thence, in spite of an uneven and emphatic key of expression, something trenchant and straightforward, something simple and surprising, distinguishes his poems. He has sayings that come home to one like the Bible. We fall upon Whitman, after the works of so many men who write better, with a sense of relief from strain, with a sense of touching nature, as when one passes out of the flar- ing, noisy thoroughfares of a great city into what he 98 WALT WHITMAN himself has called, with unexcelled imaginative justice of language, "the huge and thoughtful night." And his book in consequence, whatever may be the final judgment of its merit, whatever may be its influence on the future, should be in the hands of all parents and guar- dians as a specific for the distressing malady of being seventeen years old. Green-sickness yields to his treat- ment as to a charm of magic; and the youth, after a short course of reading, ceases to carry the universe upon his shoulders. HI Whitman is not one of those who can be deceived by familiarity. He considers it just as wonderful that there are myriads of stars, as that one man should rise from the dead. He declares "a hair on the back of his hand just as curious as any special revelation." His whole life is to him what it was to Sir Thomas Browne, one perpetual miracle. Everything is strange, everything unaccountable, everything beautiful ; from a bug to the moon, from the sight of the eyes to the appetite for food. He makes it his business to see things as if he saw them for the first time, and professes astonishment on principle. But he has no leaning toward mythology ; avows his contempt for what he calls *'unregenerate poetry ; " and does not mean by nature " The smooth walks, trimmed hedges, butterflies, posies, and night- ingales of the English poets, but the whole orb, with its geologic his- tory, the Kosmos, carrying fire and snow, that rolls through the illimitable areas, light as a feather though weighing billions of tons." Nor is this exhaustive ; for in his character of idealist all impressions, all thoughts, trees and people, love and 99 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS faith, astronomy, history, and religion, enter upon equal terms into his notion of the universe. He is not against religion ; not, indeed, against any religion. He wishes to drag with a larger net, to make a more comprehen- sive synthesis, than any or than all of them put to- gether. In feeling after the central type of man, he must embrace all eccentricities; his cosmology must subsume all cosmologies, and the feelings that gave birth to them; his statement of facts must include all re- ligion and all irreligion, Christ and Boodha, God and the devil. The world as it is, and the whole world as it is, physical, and spiritual, and historical, with its good and bad, with its manifold inconsistencies, is what he wishes to set forth, in strong, picturesque, and popular linea- ments, for the understanding of the average man. One of his favourite endeavours is to get the whole matter into a nutshell; to knock the four corners of the uni- verse, one after another, about his reader's ears ; to hurry him, in breathless phrases, hither and thither, back and forward, in time and space; to focus all this about his ov/n momentary personality; and then, drawing the ground from under his feet, as if by some cataclysm of nature, to plunge him into the unfathomable abyss sown with enormous suns and systems, and among the in- conceivable numbers and magnitudes and velocities of the heavenly bodies. So that he concludes by striking into us some sense of that disproportion of things which Shelley has illuminated by the ironical flash of these eight words : The desire of the moth for the star. The same truth, but to what a different purpose! Whitman's moth is mightily at his ease about all the planets in heaven, and cannot think too highly of our WALT WHITMAN sublunary tapers. The universe is so large that imag- ination flags in the effort to conceive it ; but here, in the meantime, is the world under our feet, a very warm and habitable corner. "The earth, that is sufficient; I do not want the constellations any nearer," he remarks And again: ''Let your soul stand cool and composed," says he, "before a million universes." It is the lan- guage of a transcendental common sense, such as Tho- reau held and sometimes uttered. But Whitman, who has a somewhat vulgar inclination for technical talk and the jargon of philosophy, is not content with a few pregnant hints; he must put the dots upon his i's; he must corroborate the songs of Apollo by some of the darkest talk of human metaphysic. He tells his dis- ciples that they must be ready "to confront the grow- ing arrogance of Realism." Each person is, for him- self, the keystone and the occasion of this universal edifice. "Nothing, not God," he says, "is greater to one than oneself is; " a statement with an irreligious smack at the first sight ; but like most startling sayings, a mani- fest truism on a second. He will give effect to his own character without apology; he sees "that the element- ary laws never apologise." "I reckon," he adds, with quaint colloquial arrogance, "I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all." The level follows the law of its being; so, unrelentingly, will he; everything, every person, is good in his own place and way ; God is the maker of all, and all are in one design. For he believes in God, and that with a sort of blasphemous security. "No array of terms," quoth he, "no array of terms can say how much at peace 1 am about God and about death." There cer- FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS tainly never was a prophet who carried things with a higher hand ; he gives us less a body of dogmas than a series of proclamations by the grace of God ; and lan- guage, you will observe, positively fails him to express how far he stands above the highest human doubts and trepidations. But next in order of truths to a person's sublime con- viction of himself, comes the attraction of one person for another, and all that we mean by the word love : — "The dear love of man for his comrade — the attraction of friend for friend, Of the well-married husband and wife, of children and parents, Of city for city and land for land." The solitude of the most sublime idealist is broken in upon by other people's faces ; he sees a look in their eyes that corresponds to something in his own heart; there comes a tone in their voices which convicts him of a startling weakness for his fellow-creatures. While he is hymning the ego and commercing with God and the universe, a woman goes below his window; and at the turn of her skirt or the colour of her eyes, Icarus is re- called from heaven by the run. Love is so startlingly real that it takes rank upon an equal footing of reality with the consciousness of personal existence. We are as heartily persuaded of the identity of those we love as of our own identity. And so sympathy pairs with self- assertion, the two gerents of human life on earth ; and Whitman's ideal man must not only be strong, free, and self-reliant in himself, but his freedom must be bounded and his strength perfected by the most intimate, eager, and long-suffering love for others. To some extent this 103 . WALT WHITMAN is taking away with the left hand what has been so gen- erously given with the right. Morality has been cere- moniously extruded from the door only to be brought in again by the window. We are told, on one page, to do as we please; and on the next we are sharply up- braided for not having done as the author pleases. We are first assured that we are the finest fellows in the world in our own right ; and then it appears that we are only fine fellows in so far as we practise a most quixotic code of morals. The disciple who saw himself in clear ether a moment before is plunged down again among the fogs and complications of duty. And this is all the more overwhelming because Whitman insists not only on love between sex and sex, and between friends of the same sex, but in the field of the less intense politi- cal sympathies; and his ideal man must not only be a generous friend but a conscientious voter into the bar- gain. His method somewhat lessens the difficulty. He is not, the reader will remember, to tell us how good we ought to be, but to remind us how good we are. He is to encourage us to be free and kind, by proving that we are free and kind already. He passes our corporate life under review, to show that it is upheld by the very vir- tues of which he makes himself the advocate. ''There is no object so soft," he says somewhere in his big, plain way, "there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe." Rightly understood, it is on the softest of all objects, the sympathetic heart, that the wheel of society turns easily and securely as on a perfect axle. There is no room, of course, for doubt or discus- sion, about conduct, where every one is to follow the. 103 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS law of his being with exact compliance. Whitman hates doubt, deprecates discussion, and discourages to his ut- most the craving, carping sensibilities of the conscience. We are to imitate, to use one of his absurd and happy phrases, **the satisfaction and aplomb of animals." If he preaches a sort of ranting Christianity in morals, a fit consequent to the ranting optimism of his cosmology, it is because he declares it to be the original deliverance of the human heart ; or at least, for he would be hon- estly historical in method, of the human heart as at pres- ent Christianised. His is a morality without a prohibi- tion ; his policy is one of encouragement all round. A man must be a born hero to come up to Whitman's stand- ard in the practice of any of the positive virtues ; but of a negative virtue, such as temperance or chastity, he has so little to say, that the reader need not be surprised if he drops a word or two upon the other side. He would lay down nothing that would be a clog; he would pre- scribe nothing that cannot be done ruddily, in a heat. The great point is to get people under way. To the faithful Whitmanite this would be justified by the belief that God made all, and that all was good ; the prophet, in this doctrine, has only to cry "Tally-ho," and man- kind will break into a gallop on the road to El Dorado. Perhaps, to another class of minds, it may look like the result of the somewhat cynical reflection that you will not make a kind man out of one who is unkind by any precepts under heaven; tempered by the belief that, in natural circumstances, the large majority is well dis- posed. Thence it would follow, that if you can only get every one to feel more warmly and act more cour- ageously, the balance of results will be for good. 104 WALT WHITMAN So far, you see, the doctrine is pretty coherent as a doctrine; as a picture of man's life it is incomplete and misleading, although eminently cheerful. This he is himself the first to acknowledge; for if he is prophetic in anything, it is in his noble disregard of consistency. *'Do I contradict myself?" he asks somewhere; and then pat comes the answer, the best answer ever given in print, worthy of a sage, or rather of a woman : ' ' Very well, then, I contradict myself ! " with this addition, not so feminine and perhaps not altogether so satisfactory : '*I am large — I contain multitudes." Life, as a matter of fact, partakes largely of the nature of tragedy. The gospel according to Whitman, even if it be not so log- ical, has this advantage over the gospel according to Pangloss, that it does not utterly disregard the existence of temporal evil. Whitman accepts the fact of disease and wretchedness like an honest man; and instead of trying to qualify it in the interest of his optimism, sets himself to spur people up to be helpful. He expresses a conviction, indeed, that all will be made up to the victims in the end; that ''what is untried and after- ward " will fail no one, not even "the old man who has lived without purpose and feels it with bitterness worse than gall." But this is not to palliate our sense of what is hard or melancholy in the present. Pangloss, smart- ing under one of the worst things that ever was sup- posed to come from America, consoled himself with the reflection that it was the price we have to pay for cochi- neal. And with that murderous parody, logical op- timism and the praises of the best of possible worlds went irrevocably out of season, and have been no more heard of in the mouths of reasonable men. Whitman spares 105 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS US all allusions to the cochineal ; he treats evil and sorrow in a spirit almost as of welcome ; as an old sea-dog might have welcomed the sight of the enemy's topsails off the Spanish Main. There, at least, he seems to say, is something obvious to be done. I do not know many better things in literature than the brief pictures, — brief and vivid like things seen by lightning, — with which he tries to stir up the world's heart upon the side of mercy. He braces us, on the one hand, with examples of heroic duty and helpfulness; on the other, he touches us with pitiful instances of people needing help. He knows how to make the heart beat at a brave story ; to inflame us with just resentment over the bunted slave; to stop our mouths for shame when he tells of the drunken prostitute. For all the afflicted, all the weak, all the wicked, a good word is said in a spirit which I can only call one of ultra-Christianity; and however wild, however contradictory, it may be in parts, this at least may be said for his book, as it may be said of the Christian Gospels, that no one will read it, however re- spectable, but he gets a knock upon his conscience; no one, however fallen, but he finds a kindly and support- ing welcome. IV Nor has he been content with merely blowing the trumpet for the battle of well-doing; he has given to his precepts the authority of his own brave example. Naturally a grave, believing man, with little or no sense of humour, he has succeeded as well in life as in his printed performances. The spirit that was in him has come forth most eloquently in his actions. Many who 106 WALT WHITMAN have only read his poetry have been tempted to set him down as an ass, or even as a charlatan ; but I never met any one who had known him personally who did not profess a solid affection and respect for the man's char- acter. He practises as he professes; he feels deeply that Christian love for all men, that toleration, that cheerful delight in serving others, which he often cele- brates in literature with a doubtful measure of success. And perhaps, out of all his writings, the best and the most human and convincing passages are to be found in "these soil'd and creas'd little livraisons, each com- posed of a sheet or two of paper, folded small to carry in the pocket, and fastened with a pin," which he scrib- bled during the war by the bedsides of the wounded or in the excitement of great events. They are hardly lit- erature in the formal meaning of the word ; he has left his jottings for the most part as he made them; a homely detail, a word from the lips of a dying soldier, a business memorandum, the copy of a letter — short, straightforward to the point, with none of the trappings of composition; but they breathe a profound sentiment, they give us a vivid look at one of the sides of life, and they make us acquainted with a man whom it is an honour to love. Whitman's intense Americanism, his unlimited belief in the future of These States (as, with reverential capi- tals, he loves to call them), made the war a period of great trial to his soul. The new virtue. Unionism, of which he is the sole inventor, seemed to have fallen into premature unpopularity. All that he loved, hoped, or hated, hung in the balance. And the game of war was not only momentous to him in its issues ; it sublimated 107 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS his spirit by its heroic displays, and tortured him inti- mately by the spectacle of its horrors. It was a theatre, it was a place of education, it was like a season of religious revival. He watched Lincoln going daily to his work; he studied and fraternised with young sol- diery passing to the front ; above all, he walked the hos- pitals, reading the Bible, distributing clean clothes, or apples, or tobacco; a patient, helpful, reverend man, full of kind speeches. His memoranda of this period are almost bewildering to read. From one point' of view they seem those of a district visitor; from another, they look like the form- less jottings of an artist in the picturesque. More than one woman, on whom I tried the experiment, imme- diately claimed the writer for a fellow-woman. More than one literary purist might identify him as a shoddy newspaper correspondent without the necessary faculty of style. And yet the story touches home; and if you are of the weeping order of mankind, you will certainly find your eyes fill with tears, of which you have no reason to be ashamed. There is only one way to char- acterise a work of this order, and that is to quote. Here is a passage from a letter to a mother, unknown to Whitman, whose son died in hospital :— *' Frank, as far as I saw, had everything requisite in surgical treat- ment, nursing, etc. He had watches much of the time. He was so good and well-behaved, and affectionate, I myself liked him very much. I was in the habit of coming in afternoons and sitting by him, and he liked to have me — liked to put out his arm and lay his hand on my knee — would keep it so a long while. Toward the last he was more restless and flighty at night — often fancied himself with his regi- ment — by his talk sometimes seem'd as if his feelings were hurt by be- ing blamed by his officers for something he was entirely innocent of— * 108 WALT WHITMAN said ' I never in my life was thought capable of such a thing, and nev- er was.' At other times he would fancy himself talking as it seem'd to children or such like, his relatives, I suppose^ and giving them good advice; would talk to them a long while. All the time he was out of his head not one single bad word, or thought, or idea escaped him. It was remark'd that many a man's conversation in his senses was not half so good as Frank's delirium. " He was perfectly willing to die — he had become very weak, and had suffer'd a good deal, and was perfectly resign'd, poor boy. I do not know his past life, but I feel as if it must have been good. At any rate what I saw of him here, under the most trying circumstances, with a painful wound, and among strangers, I can say that he behaved so brave, so composed, and so sweet and affectionate, it could not be surpassed. And now, like many other noble and good men, after serv- ing his country as a soldier, he has yielded up his young life at the very outset in her service. Such things are gloomy — yet there is a text, * God doeth all things well,' the meaning of which, after due time, appears to the soul. " I thought perhaps a few words, though from a stranger, about your son, from one who was with him at the last, might be worth while, for I loved the young man, though I but saw him immediately to lose him." It is easy enough to pick holes in the grammar of this letter, but what are we to say of its profound goodness and tenderness ? It is written as though he had the mother's face before his eyes, and saw her wincing in the flesh at every word. And what, again, are we to say of its sober truthfulness, not exaggerating, not run- ning to phrases, not seeking to make a hero out of what was only an ordinary but good and brave young man ? Literary reticence is not Whitman's stronghold; and this reticence is not literary, but humane; it is not that of a good artist but that of a good man. He knew that what the mother wished to hear about was Frank; and he told her about her Frank as he was. 109 FAMILIAR. STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS V Something should be said of Whitman's style, for style is of the essence of thinking. And where a man is so critically deliberate as our author, and goes sol- emnly about his poetry for an ulterior end, every indica- tion is worth notice. He has chosen a rough, unrhymed, lyrical verse; sometimes instinct with a fine proces- sional movement; often so rugged and careless that it can only be described by saying that he has not taken the trouble to write prose. I believe myself that it was selected principally because it was easy to write, al- though not without recollections of the marching mea- sures of some of the prose in our English Old Testament. According to Whitman, on the other hand, "the time has arrived to essentially break down the barriers of form between Prose and Poetry ... for the most cogent purposes of those great inland states, and for Texas, and California^ and Oregon ; " — a statement which is among the happiest achievements of American humour. He calls his verses '* recitatives," in easily followed allusion to a musical form. "Easily-written, loose-fingered chords," he cries, "I feel the thrum of your climax and close." Too often, I fear, he is the only one who can perceive the rhythm ; and in spite of Mr. Swinburne, a great part of his work considered as verse is poor bald stuff. Considered, not as verse, but as speech, a great part of it is full of strange and admirable merits. The right detail is seized ; the right word, bold and trenchant, is thrust into its place. Whitman has small regard to literary decencies, and is totally free from literary timid- ities. He is neither afraid of being slangy nor of being no WALT WHITMAN dull; nor, let me add, of being ridiculous. The result is a most surprising compound of plain grandeur, senti- mental affectation, and downright nonsense. It would be useless to follow his detractors and give instances of how bad he can be at his worst; and perhaps it would be not much wiser to give extracted specimens of how happily he can write when he is at his best. These come in to most advantage in their own place ; owing something, it may be, to the offset of their curi- ous surroundings. And one thing is certain, that no one can appreciate Whitman's excellences until he has grown accustomed to his faults. Until you are content to pick poetry out of his pages almost as you must pick it out of a Greek play in Bohn's translation, your gravity will be continually upset, your ears perpetually disap- pointed, and the whole book will be no more to you than a particularly flagrant production by the Poet Close. A writer of this uncertain quality was, perhaps, un- fortunate in taking for thesis the beauty of the world as it now is, not only on the hill-tops, but in the factory; not only by the harbour full of stately ships, but in the magazine of the hopelessly prosaic hatter. To show beauty in common things is the work of the rarest tact. It is not to be done by the wishing. It is easy to posit as a theory,but to bring it home to men's minds is the problem of literature, and is only accomplished by rare talent, and in comparatively rare instances. To bid the whole world stand and deliver, with a dogma in one's right hand by way of pistol ; to cover reams of paper in a gal- loping, headstrong vein; to cry louder and louder over everything as it comes up, and make no distinction in III FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS one's enthusiasm over the most incomparable matters; to prove one's entire want of sympathy for the jaded, literary palate, by calling, not a spade a spade, but a hatter a hatter, in a lyrical apostrophe ; — this, in spite of all the airs of inspiration, is not the way to do it. It may be very wrong, and very wounding to a respectable branch of industry, but the word " hatter" cannot be used seriously in emotional verse; not to understand this, is to have no literary tact; and I would, for his own sake, that this were the only inadmissible expression with which Whitman had bedecked his pages. The book teems with similar comicalities; and, to a reader who is determined to take it from that side only, presents a perfect carnival of fun. A good deal of this is the result of theory playing its usual vile trick upon the artist. It is because he is a Democrat that Whitman must have in the hatter. If you may say Admiral, he reasons, why may you not say Hatter ? One man is as good as another, and it is the business of the ''great poet" to show poetry in the life of the one as well as the other. A most incontro- vertible sentiment surely, and one which nobody would think of controverting, where — and here is the point — where any beauty has been shown. But how, where that is not the case ? where the hatter is simply intro- duced, as God made him and as his fellow-men have miscalled him, at the crisis of a high-flown rhapsody ? And what are we to say, where a man of Whitman's notable capacity for putting things in a bright, pictu- resque, and novel way, simply gives up the attempt, and indulges, with apparent exultation, in an inventory of trades or implements, with no more colour of coherence 1 12 WALT WHITMAN than so many index- words out of a dictionary ? I do not know that we can say anything, but that it is a pro- digiously amusing exhibition for a line or so. The worst of it is, that Whitman must have known better; The man is a great critic, and, so far as I can make out, a good one ; and how much criticism does it require to know that capitulation is not description, or that finger- ing on a dumb keyboard, with whatever show of senti- ment and execution, is not at all the same thing as discoursing music ? I wish I could believe he was quite honest with us ; but, indeed, who was ever quite honest who wrote a book for a purpose ? It is a flight beyond the reach of human magnanimity. One other point, where his means failed him, must be touched upon, however shortly. In his desire to accept all facts loyally and simply, it fell within his programme to speak at some length and with some plainness on what is, for I really do not know what reason, the most delicate of subjects. Seeing in that one of the most se- rious and interesting parts of life, he was aggrieved that it should be looked upon as ridiculous or shameful. No one speaks of maternity with his tongue in his cheek; and Whitman made a bold push to set the sanc- tity of fatherhood beside the sanctity of motherhood, and introduce this also among the things that can be spoken of without either a blush or a wink. But the Philistines have been too strong; and, to say truth. Whitman has rather played the fool. We may be thor- oughly conscious that his end is improving ; that it would be a good thing if a window were opened on these close privacies of life; that on this subject, as on all others, he now and then lets fall a pregnant saying. But we are 113 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS not satisfied. We feel that he was not the man for so difficult an enterprise. He loses our sympathy in the character of a poet by attracting too much of our atten- tion in that of a Bull in a China Shop. And where, by a little more art, we might have been solemnised our- selves, it is too often Whitman alone who is solemn in the face of an audience somewhat indecorously amused. VI Lastly, as most important, after all, to human beings in our disputable state, what is that higher prudence which was to be the aim and issue of these deliberate productions ? Whitman is too clever to slip into a succinct formula. If he could have adequately said his say in a single pro- verb, it is to be presumed he would not have put him- self to the trouble of writing several volumes. It was his programme to state as much as he could of the world with all its contradictions, and leave the upshot with God who planned it. What he has made of the world and the world's meanings is to be found at large in his poems. These altogether give his answers to the prob- lems of belief and conduct; in many ways righteous and high-spirited, in some ways loose and contradictory. And yet there are two passages from the preface to the Leaves of Grass which do pretty well condense his teaching on all essential points, and yet preserve a meas- ure of his spirit. " This is what you shall do," he says in the one, " love the earth, and sun, and animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to 114 WALT WHITMAN others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and in- dulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown, or to any man or number of men; go freely with powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and mothers of families, read these leaves (his own works) in the open air every season of every year of your life; re-examine all you have been told at school or church, or in any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul." " The prudence of the greatest poet," he adds in the other — and the greatest poet is, of course, himself — " knows that the young man who composedly perilled his life and lost it, has done exceeding well for himself; while the man who has not perilled his life, and retains it to old age in riches and ease, has perhaps achieved nothing for himself worth mentioning; and that only that person has no great prudence to learn, who has learnt to prefer real long-lived things, and favours body and soul the same, and perceives the indirect surely following the di- rect, and what evil or good he does leaping onward and waiting to meet him again, and who in his spirit, in any emergency whatever^ neither hurries nor avoids death." There is much that is Christian in these extracts, start- lingly Christian. Any reader who bears in mind Whit- man's own advice and ** dismisses whatever insults his own soul " will find plenty that is bracing, brightening, and chastening to reward him for a little patience at first. It seems hardly possible that any being should get evil from so healthy a book as the Leaves of Grass, which is simply comical wherever it falls short of nobil- ity ; but if there be any such, who cannot both take and leave, who cannot let a single opportunity pass by with- out some unworthy and unmanly thought, I should have as great difficulty, and neither more nor less, in recom- mending the works of Whitman as in lending them Shakespeare, or letting them go abroad outside of the grounds of a private asylum. 115 HENRY DAVID THOREAU : HIS CHARACTER AND OPINIONS I THOREAU'S thin, penetrating, big-nosed face, even in a bad woodcut, conveys some hint of the lim- itations of his mind and character. With his almost acid sharpness of insight, with his almost animal dex- terity in act, there went none of that large, unconscious geniality of the world's heroes. He was not easy, not ample, not urbane, not even kind ; his enjoyment was hardly smiling, or the smile was not broad enough to be convincing; he had no waste lands nor kitchen-midden in his nature, but was all improved and sharpened to a point. "He was bred to no profession," says Emer- son; "he never married; he lived alone; he never went to church ; he never voted ; he refused to pay a tax to the State; he ate no flesh, he drank no wine, he never knew the use of tobacco ; and, though a naturalist, he used neither trap nor gun. When asked at dinner what dish he preferred, he answered, 'the nearest.'" So many negative superiorities begin to smack a little of the prig. From his later works he was in the habit of cutting out the humorous passages, under the impres- sion that they were beneath the dignity of his moral muse; and there we see the prig stand public and con- fessed. It was "much easier," says Emerson acutely, u6 HENRY DAVID THOREAU much easier for Thoreau to say no than yes; and that is a characteristic which depicts the man. It is a useful accomplishment to be able to say nOj but surely it is the essence of amiability to prefer to say yes where it is possible. There is something wanting in the man who does not hate himself whenever he is constrained to say no. And there was a great deal wanting in this born dissenter. He was almost shockingly devoid of weak- nesses; he had not enough of them to be truly polar with humanity; whether you call him demi-god or demi-man, he was at least not altogether one of us, for he was not touched with a feeling of our infirmities. The world's heroes have room for all positive qualities, even those which are disreputable, in the capacious theatre of their dispositions. Such can live many lives; while a Thoreau can live but one, and that only with perpetual foresight. He was no ascetic, rather an Epicurean of the nobler sort; and he had this one great merit, that he succeeded so far as to be happy. "I love my fate to the core and rind," he wrote once; and even while he lay dying, here is what he dictated (for it seems he was already too feeble to control the pen): ''You ask particularly after my health. I suppose that I have not many months to live, but of course know nothing about it. I may say that I am enjoying existence as much as ever, and regret nothing." It is not given to all to bear so clear a testimony to the sweetness of their fate, nor to any without courage and wisdom ; for this world in itself is but a painful and uneasy place of residence, and lasting happiness, at least to the self-conscious, comes only from within. Now Thoreau's content and ecstasy in 117 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS living was, we may say, like a plant that he had watered and tended with womanish solicitude; for there is apt to be something unmanly, something al- most dastardly, in a life that does not move with dash and freedom, and that fears the bracing contact of the world. In one word, Thoreau was a skulker. He did not wish virtue to go out of him among his fellow-men, but slunk into a corner to hoard it for himself He left all for the sake of certain virtuous self-indulgences. It is true that his tastes were noble; that his ruling pas- sion was to keep himself unspotted from the world; and that his luxuries were all of the same healthy order as cold tubs and early rising. But a man may be both coldly cruel in the pursuit of goodness, and morbid even in the pursuit of health. I cannot lay my hands on the passage in which he explains his abstinence from tea and coffee, but I am sure I have the meaning correctly. It is this: He thought it bad economy and worthy of no true virtuoso to spoil the natural rapture of the morning with such muddy stimulants; let him but see the sun rise, and he was already sufficiently inspirited for the labours of the day. That may be reason good enough to abstain from tea; but when we go on to find the same man, on the same or similar grounds, abstain from nearly everything that his neighbours innocently and pleasurably use, and from the rubs and trials of human society itself into the bargain, we recognise that vale- tudinarian healthfulness which is more delicate than sickness itself We need have no respect for a state of artificial training. True health is to be able to do with- out it. Shakespeare, we can imagine, might begin the day upon a quart of ale, and yet enjoy the sunrise to iiS HENRY DAVID THOREAU the full as much as Thoreau, and commemorate his en- joyment in vastly better verses. A man who must separate himself from his neighbours' habits in order to be happy, is in much the same case with one who re- quires to take opium for the same purpose. What we want to see is one who can breast into the world, do a man's work, and still preserve his first and pure enjoy- ment of existence. Thoreau's faculties were of a piece with his moral shyness ; for they were all delicacies. He could guide himself about the woods on the darkest night by the touch of his feet. He could pick up at once an exact dozen of pencils by the feeling, pace distances with accuracy, and gauge cubic contents by the eye. His smell was so dainty that he could perceive the foetor of dwelling-houses as he passed them by at night; his palate so unsophisticated that, like a child, he dis- liked the taste of wine — or perhaps, living in America, had never tasted any that was good; and his knowl- edge of nature was so complete and curious that he could have told the time of year, within a day or so, by the aspect of the plants. In his dealings with animals, he was the original of Hawthorne's Donatello. He pulled the woodchuck out of its hole by the tail ; the hunted fox came to him for protection ; wild squirrels have been seen to nestle in his waistcoat; he would thrust his arm into a pool and bring forth a bright, pant- ing fish, lying undismayed in the palm of his hand. There were few things that he could not do. He could make a house, a boat, a pencil, or a book. He was a surveyor, a scholar, a natural historian. He could run, walk, climb, skate, swim, and manage a boat The 119 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS smallest occasion served to display his physical accom- plishment; and a manufacturer, from merely observing his dexterity with the window of a railway carriage, offered him a situation on the spot. **The only fruit of much living," he observes, "is the ability to do some slight thing better. " But such was the exactitude of his senses, so alive was he in every fibre, that it seems as if the maxim should be changed in his case, for he could do most things with unusual perfection. And perhaps he had an approving eye to himself when he wrote: "Though the youth at last grows indiffer- ent, the laws of the universe are not indifferent, but are forever on the side of the most sensitive. Thoreau had decided, it would seem, from the very first to lead a life of self-improvement: the needle did not tremble as with richer natures, but pointed steadily north; and as he saw duty and inclination in one, he turned all his strength in that direction. He was met upon the threshold by a common difficulty. In this world, in spite of its many agreeable features, even the most sensitive must undergo some drudgery tc live. It is not possible to devote your time to study and medi- tation without what are quaintly but happily denomi- nated private means; these absent, a man must contrive to earn his bread by some service to the public such as the public cares to pay him for; or, as Thoreau loved to put it, Apollo must serve Admetus. This was to Tho- reau even a sourer necessity than it is to most; there was a love of freedom, a strain of the wild man, in his HENRY DAVID THOREAU nature, that rebelled with violence against the yoke of custom ; and he was so eager to cultivate himself and to be happy in his own society, that he could consent with difficulty even to the interruptions of friendship. "" Such are my engagements to myself that I dare not promise," he once wrote in answer to an invitation; and the italics are his own. Marcus Aurelius found time to study virtue, and between whiles to conduct the im- perial affairs of Rome; but Thoreau is so busy improv- ing himself, that he must think twice about a morning call. And now imagine him condemned for eight hours a day to some uncongenial and unmeaning business! He shrank from the very look of the mechanical in life; all should, if possible, be sweetly spontaneous and swimmingly progressive. Thus he learned to make lead pencils, and, when he had gained the best certifi- cate and his friends began to congratulate him on his establishment in life, calmly announced that he should never make another. **Why should I .^" said he; '' I would not do again what I have done once. " For when a thing has once been done as well as it wants to be, it is of no further interest to the self-improver. Yet in after years, and when it became needful to support his family, he returned patiently to this mechanical art — a step more than worthy of himself The pencils seem to have been Apollo's first experi- ment in the service of Admetus; but others followed. **I have thoroughly tried school-keeping," he writes, **and found that my expenses were in proportion, or rather out of proportion, to my income; for I was obliged to dress and train, not to say think and believe, accordingly, and I lost my time into the bargain. As I 121 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS did not teach for the benefit of my fellow-men, but sim- ply for a livelihood, this was a failure. I have tried trade, but I found that it would take ten years to get under way in that, and that then I should probably be on my way to the devil." Nothing, indeed, can surpass his scorn for all so-called business. Upon that subject gall squirts from him at a touch. "The whole enter- prise of this nation is not illustrated by a thought," he writes; "it is not warmed by a sentiment; there is nothing in it for which a man should lay down his life, nor even his gloves." And again: "If our merchants did not most of them fail, and the banks too, my faith in the old laws of this world would be staggered. The statement that ninety-six in a hundred doing such busi- ness surely break down is perhaps the sweetest fact that statistics have revealed." The wish was probably father to the figures ; but there is something enlivening in a hatred of so genuine a brand, hot as Corsican re- venge, and sneering like Voltaire. Pencils, school-keeping, and trade being thus dis- carded one after another, Thoreau, with a stroke of strategy, turned the position. He saw his way to get his board and lodging for practically nothing; and Ad- metus never got less work out of any servant since the world began. It was his ambition to be an oriental philosopher; but he was always a very Yankee sort of oriental. Even in the peculiar attitude in which he stood to money, his system of personal economics, as we may call it, he displayed a vast amount of truly down-East calculation, and he adopted poverty like a piece of business. Yet his system is based on one or two ideas which, I believe, come naturally to all thought- 123 HENRY DAVID THOREAU ful youths, and are only pounded out of them by city uncles. Indeed, something essentially youthful distin- guishes all Thoreau's knock-down blows at current opinion. Like the posers of a child, they leave the or- thodox in a kind of speechless agony. These know the thing is nonsense. They are sure there must be an an- swer, yet somehow cannot find it. So it is with his system of economy. He cuts through the subject on so new a plane that the accepted arguments apply no longer; he attacks it in a new dialect where there are no catchwords ready made for the defender; after you have been boxing for years on a polite, gladiatorial con- vention, here is an assailant who does not scruple to hit below the belt. "The cost of a thing," says he, "is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run." I have been accustomed to put it to myself, perhaps more clearly, that the price we have to pay for money is paid in lib- erty. Between these two ways of it, at least, the reader will probably not fail to find a third definition of his own ; and it follows, on one or other, that a man may pay too dearly for his livelihood, by giving, in Thoreau's terms, his whole life for it, or, in mine, bartering for it the whole of his available liberty, and becoming a slave till death. There are two questions to be considered — the quality of what we buy, and the price we have to pay for it. Do you want a thousand a year, a two thousand a year, or a ten thousand a year livelihood ? and can you afford the one you want ? It is a matter of taste; it is not in the least degree a question of duty, though commonly supposed so. But there is no au- 123 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS thority for that view anywhere. It is nowhere in the Bible. It is true that we might do a vast amount of good if we were wealthy, but it is also highly improb- able; not many do; and the art of growing rich is not only quite distinct from that of doing good, but the practice of the one does not at all train a man for prac- tising the other. " Money might be of great service to me," writes Thoreau; "but the difficulty now is that I do not improve my opportunities, and therefore I am not prepared to have my opportunities increased." It is a mere illusion that, above a certain income, the personal desires will be satisfied and leave a wider margin for the generous impulse. It is as difficult to be generous, or anything else, except perhaps a member of Parliament, on thirty thousand as on two hundred a year. Now Thoreau's tastes were well defined. He loved to be free, to be master of his times and seasons, to in- dulge the mind rather than the body ; he preferred long rambles to rich dinners, his own reflections to the con- sideration of society, and an easy, calm, unfettered, ac- tive life among green trees to dull toiling at the counter of a bank. And such being his inclination he deter- mined to gratify it. A poor man must save off some- thing ; he determined to save off his livelihood. ' * When a man has attained those things which are necessary to life," he writes, *' there is another alternative than to obtain the superfluities; he may adventure on life now, his vacation from humbler toil having commenced." Thoreau would get shelter, some kind of covering for his body, and necessary daily bread; even these he should get as cheaply as possible ; and then, his vaca- tion from humbler toil having commenced, devote him- 124 HENRY DAVID THOREAU self to oriental philosophers, the study of nature, and the work of self-improvement. Prudence, which bids us all go to the ant for wis- dom and hoard against the day of sickness, was not a fa- vourite with Thoreau. He preferred that other, whose name is so much misappropriated: Faith. When he had secured the necessaries of the moment, he would not reckon up possible accidents or torment himself with trouble for the future. He had no toleration for the man "who ventures to live only by the aid of the mutual insurance company, which has promised to bury him decently." He would trust himself a little to the world. **We mky safely trust a good deal more than we do," says he. "How much is not done by us! or what if we had been taken sick ? " And then, with a stab of satire, he describes contemporary mankind in a phrase: "All the day long on the alert, at night we unwillingly say our prayers and commit ourselves to uncertainties." It is not likely that the public will be much affected by Thoreau, when they blink the direct injunctions of the religion they profess; and yet, whether we will or no, we make the same hazardous ventures; we back our own health and the honesty of our neigh- bours for all that we are worth ; and it is chilling to think how many must lose their wager. In 1845, twenty-eight years old, an age by which the liveliest have usually declined into some conformity with the world, Thoreau, with a capital of something less than five pounds and a borrowed axe, walked forth into the woods by Walden Pond, and began his new experiment in life. He built himself a dwelling, and returned the axe, he says with characteristic and work- 125 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS man-like pride, sharper than when he borrowed it; he reclaimed a patch, where he cultivated beans, peas, potatoes, and sweet corn; he had his bread to bake, his farm to dig, and for the matter of six weeks in the summer he worked at surveying, carpentry, or some other of his numerous dexterities, for hire. For more than five years, this was all that he required to do for his support, and he had the winter and most of the summer at his entire disposal. For six weeks of occupation, a little cooking and a little gentle hygienic gardening, the man, you may say, had as good as stolen his liveli- hood. Or we must rather allow that he had done far better; for the thief himself is continually and busily oc- cupied; and even one born to inherit a million will have more calls upon his time than Thoreau. Well might he say, '* What old people tell you you cannot do, you try and find you can." And how surprising is his con- clusion: "I am convinced that to maintain oneself on this earth is not a hardship, but a pastime, if we will live simply and wisely ; as the pursuits of simpler na- tions are stiU the sports of the more artificial. ' ' When he had enough of that kind of life, he showed the same simplicity in giving it up as in beginning it. There are some who could have done the one, but, vanity forbidding, not the other; and that is perhaps the story of the hermits ; but Thoreau made no fetich of his own example, and did what he wanted squarely. And five years is long enough for an experiment and to prove the success of transcendental Yankeeism. It is not his frugality which is worthy of note; for, to begin with, that was inborn, and therefore inimitable by others who are differently constituted; and again, it was no \i6 HENRY DAVID THOREAU Tiew thing, but has often been equalled by poor Scotch students at the universities. The point is the sanity of his view of life, and the insight with which he recog- nised the position of money, and thought out for him- self the problem of riches and a livelihood. Apart from his eccentricities, he had perceived, and was acting on, a truth of universal application. For money enters in two different characters into the scheme of life. A cer- tain amount, varying with the number and empire of our desires, is a true necessary to each one of us in the present order of society; but beyond that amount, money is a commodity to be bought or not to be bought, a luxury in which we may either indulge or stint ourselves, like any other. And there are many luxuries that we may legitimately prefer to it, such as a grateful conscience, a country life, or the woman of our inclination. Trite, flat, and obvious as this conclusion may appear, we have only to look round us in society to see how scantily it has been recognised ; and perhaps even ourselves, after a little reflection, may decide to spend a trifle less for money, and indulge ourselves a trifle more in the article of freedom. Ill ** To have done anything by which you earned money merely," says Thoreau, "is to be " (have been, he means) ''idle and worse." There are two passages in his letters, both, oddly enough, relating to firewood, which must be brought together to be rightly under- stood. So taken, they contain between them the mar- Tow of all good sense on the subject of work in its rela- 127 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS tion to something broader than mere livelihood. Here is the first: "I suppose I have burned up a good-sized tree to-night — and for what? I settled with Mr. Tar- bell for it the other day, but that wasn't the final settle- ment. I got off cheaply from him. At last one will say : ' Let us see, how much wood did you burn, sir ? ' And I shall shudder to think that the next question will be, ' What did you do while you were warm ? ' " Even after we have settled with Admetus in the person of Mr. Tarbell, there comes, you see, a further question. It is not enough to have earned our livelihood. Either the earning itself should have been serviceable to man- kind, or something else must follow. To live is some- times very difficult, but it is never meritorious in itself; and we must have a reason to allege to our own con- science why we should continue to exist upon this crowded earth. If Thoreau had simply dwelt in his house at Walden, a lover of trees, birds, and fishes, and the open air and virtue, a reader of wise books, an idle, selfish self-improver, he would have managed to cheat Admetus, but, to cling to metaphor, the devil would have had him in the end. Those who can avoid toil altogether and dwell in the Arcadia of private means, and even those who can, by abstinence, reduce the nec- essary amount of it to some six weeks a year, having the more liberty, have only the higher moral obligation to be up and doing in the interest of man. The second passage is this : ** There is a far more im- portant and warming heat, commonly lost, which pre- cedes the burning of the wood. It is the smoke of in- dustry, which is incense. I had been so thoroughly warmed in body and spirit, that when at length my fuel' 128 HENRY DAVID THOREAU was housed, I came near selling it to the ashman, as if I had extracted all its heat." Industry is, in itself and when properly chosen, delightful and profitable to the worker; and when your toil has been a pleasure, you have not, as Thoreau says, "earned money merely," but money, health, delight, and moral profit, all in one. **We must heap up a great pile of doing for a small di- ameter of being," he says in another place; and then ex- claims, " How admirably the artist is made to accomplish his self-culture by devotion to his art!" We may es- cape uncongenial toil, only to devote ourselves to that which is congenial. It is only to transact some higher business that even Apollo dare play the truant from Ad- metus. We must all work for the sake of work ; we must all work, as Thoreau says again, in any "absorb- ing pursuit — it does not much matter what, so it be honest;" but the most profitable work is that which combines into one continued effort the largest propor- tion of the powers and desires of a man's nature; that into which he will plunge with ardour, and from which he will desist with reluctance ; in which he will know the weariness of fatigue, but not that of satiety; and which will be ever fresh, pleasing, and stimulating to his taste. Such work holds a man together, braced at all points; it does not suffer him to doze or wander; it keeps him actively conscious of himself, yet raised among superior interests; it gives him the profit of industry with the pleasures of a pastime. This is what his art should be to the true artist, and that to a degree un- known in other and less intimate pursuits. For other professions stand apart from the human business of life ; but an art has its seat at the centre of the artist's doings 129 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS and sufferings, deals directly with his experiences, teaches him the lessons of his own fortunes and mis- haps, and becomes a part of his biography. So says Goethe : " Spat erklingt was frilh erklang; GIQck und Ungliick wird Gesang." Now Thoreau's art was literature ; and it was one of which he had conceived most ambitiously. He loved and believed in good books. He said well, ** Life is not habitually seen from any common platform so truly and unexaggerated as in the light of literature. " But the lit- erature he loved was of the heroic order. '* Books, not which afford us a cowering enjoyment, but in which each thought is of unusual daring; such as an idle man can- not read, and a timid one would not be entertained by, which even make us dangerous to existing institutions — such I call good books." He did not think them easy to be read. **The heroic books," he says, *'even if printed in the character of our mother-tongue, will al- ways be in a language dead to degenerate times; and we must laboriously seek the meaning of each word and line, conjecturing a larger sense than common use permits out of what wisdom and valour and generosity we have." Nor does he suppose that such books are easily written. " Great prose, of equal elevation, com- mands our respect more than great verse," says he, *' since it implies a more permanent and level height, a life more pervaded with the grandeur of the thought. The poet often only makes an irruption, like the Parthian, and is off again, shooting while he retreats; but the prose writer has conquered like a Roman and settled 130 HENRY DAVID THOREAU colonies." We may ask ourselves, almost with dismay, whether such works exist at all but in the imagination of the student. For the bulk of the best of books is apt to be made up with ballast; and those in which en- ergy of thought is combined with any stateliness of ut- terance may be almost counted on the fingers. Look- ing round in English for a book that should answer Thoreau's two demands of a style like poetry and sense that shall be both original and inspiriting, I come to Milton's Areopagitica, and can name no other instance for the moment. Two things at least are plain : that if a man will condescend to nothing more commonplace in the way of reading, he must not look to have a large library; and that if he proposes himself to write in a similar vein, he will find his work cut out for him. Thoreau composed seemingly while he walked, or at least exercise and composition were with him intimately connected ; for we are told that "the length of his walk uniformly made the length of his writing." He speaks in one place of " plainness and vigor, the ornaments of style," which is rather too paradoxical to be compre- hensively true. In another he remarks: "As for style of writing, if one has anything to say it drops from him simply as a stone falls to the ground." We must conjecture a very large sense indeed for the phrase " if one has anything to say." When truth flows from a man, fittingly clothed in style and without conscious effort, it is because the effort has been made and the work practically completed before he sat down to write. It is only out of fulness of thinking that expression drops perfect like a ripe fruit ; and when Thoreau wrote so non- chalantly at his desk, it was because he had been vigor- 131 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS ously active during his walk. For neither clearness, compression, nor beauty of language, come to any liv- ing creature till after a busy and a prolonged acquaint- ance with the subject on hand. Easy writers are those who, like Walter Scott, choose to remain contented with a less degree of perfection than is legitimately within the compass of their powers. We hear of Shakespeare and his clean manuscript; but in face of the evidence of the style itself and of the various editions of Hamlet, this merely proves that Messrs. Hemming and Condell were unacquainted with the common enough phenomenon called a fair copy. He who would recast a tragedy already given to the world must fre- quently and earnestly have revised details in the study. Thoreau himself, and in spite of his protestations, is an instance of even extreme research in one direction ; and his effort after heroic utterance is proved not only by the occasional finish, but by the determined exaggera- tion of his style. ** I trust you realize what an exagger- ator I am — that I lay myself out to exaggerate," he writes. And again, hinting at the explanation: "Who that has heard a strain of music feared lest he should speak extravagantly any more forever ? " And yet once more, in his essay on Carlyle, and this time with his meaning well in hand: **No truth, we think, v/as ever expressed but with this sort of emphasis, that for the time there seemed to be no other." Thus Thoreau was an exaggerative and a parabolical writer, not because he loved the literature of the East, but from a desire that people should understand and realise what he was writ- ing. He was near the truth upon the general question; but in his own particular method, it appears to me, he 132 HENRY DAVID THOREAU wandered. Literature is not less a conventional art than painting or sculpture; and it is the least striking, as it is the most comprehensive of the three. To hear a strain of music, to see a beautiful woman, a river, a great city, or a starry night, is to make a man despair of his Lilliputian arts in language. Now, to gain that emphasis which seems denied to us by the very nature of the medium, the proper method of literature is by se- lection, which is a kind of negative exaggeration. It is the right of the literary artist, as Thoreau was on the point of seeing, to leave out whatever does not suit his purpose. Thus we extract the pure gold ; and thus the well- written story of a noble life becomes, by its very •omissions, more thrilling to the reader. But to go be- yond this, like Thoreau, and to exaggerate directly, is to leave the saner classical tradition, and to put the reader on his guard. And when you write the whole for the half, you do not express your thought more forcibly, but only express a different thought which is not yours. Thoreau's true subject was the pursuit of self-im- provement combined with an unfriendly criticism of life as it goes on in our societies ; it is there that he best dis- plays the freshness and surprising trenchancy of his intel- lect ; it is there that his style becomes plain and vigor- ous, and therefore, according to his own formula, orna- mental. Yet he did not care to follow this vein singly, but must drop into it by the way in books of a different purport. IValden, or Life in the Woods, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, The Maine Woods, — such are the titles he affects. He was probably re- minded by his delicate critical perception that the true U3 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS business of literature is with narrative ; in reasoned nar- rative, and there alone, that art enjoys all its advantages, and suffers least from its defects. Dry precept and dis- embodied disquisition, as they can only be read with an effort of abstraction, can never convey a perfectly com- plete or a perfectly natural impression. Truth, even in literature, must be clothed with flesh and blood, or it cannot tell its whole story to the reader. Hence the ef- fect of anecdote on simple minds ; and hence good biog- raphies and works of high, imaginative art, are not only far more entertaining, but far more edifying, than books of theory or precept. Now Thoreau could not clothe his opinions in the garment of art, for that was not his talent; but he sought to gain the same elbow-room for himself, and to afford a similar relief to his readers, by mingling his thoughts with a record of experience. Again, he was a lover of nature. The quality which we should call mystery in a painting, and which belongs so particularly to the aspect of the external world and to its influence upon our feelings, was one which he was never weary of attempting to reproduce in his books. The seeming significance of nature's appearances, their unchanging strangeness to the senses, and the thrilling response which they waken in the mind of man, con- tinued to surprise and stimulate his spirits. It appeared to him, I think, that if we could only write near enough to the facts, and yet with no pedestrian calm, but ar- dently, we might transfer the glamour of reality direct upon our pages; and that, if it were once thus captured and expressed, a new and instructive relation might ap- pear between men's thoughts and the phenomena of nature. This was the eagle that he pursued all his life »34 HENRY DAVID THOREAU long, like a schoolboy with a butterfly net. Hear him to a friend: " Let me suggest a theme for you — to state to yourself precisely and completely what that walk over the mountains amounted to for you, returning to this essay again and again until you are satisfied that all that was important in your experience is in it. Don't suppose that you can tell it precisely the first dozen times you try, but at 'em again ; especially when, after a sufficient pause, you suspect that you are touching the heart or summit of the matter, reiterate your blows there, and account for the mountain to yourself. Not that the story need be long, but it will take a long while to make it short." Such was the method, not consistent for a man whose meanings were to "drop from him as a stone falls to the ground." Perhaps the most successful work that Thoreau ever accomplished in this direction is to be found in the passages relating to fish in the Week. These are remarkable for a vivid truth of impression and a happy suitability of language, not frequently surpassed. Whatever Thoreau tried to do was tried in fair, square prose, with sentences solidly built, and no help from bastard rhythms. Moreover, there is a progression — I cannot call it a progress — in his work toward a more and more strictly prosaic level, until at last he sinks into the bathos of the prosy. Emerson mentions having once remarked to Thoreau: **Who would not like to write something which all can read, like Robinson Cru~ see ? and who does not see with regret that his page is not solid with a right materialistic treatment which delights everybody ?" I must say in passing that it is not the right materialistic treatment which delights the 135 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS world in Robinson, but the romantic and philosophic interest of the fable. The same treatment does quite the reverse of delighting us when it is applied, in Col- onel Jack, to the management of a plantation. But I cannot help suspecting Thoreau to have been influenced either by this identical remark or by some other closely similar in meaning. He began to fall more and more into a detailed materialistic treatment; he went into the business doggedly, as one who should make a guide- book; he not only chronicled what had been important in his own experience, but whatever might have been important in the experience of anybody else; not only what had affected him, but all that he saw or heard. His ardour had grown less, or perhaps it was inconsist- ent with a right materialistic treatment to display such emotions as he felt ; and, to complete the eventful change, he chose, from a sense of moral dignity, to gut these later works of the saving quality of humour. He was not one of those authors who have learned, in his own words, "to leave out their dulness." He inflicts his full quantity upon the reader in such books as Cape Cod, or The Yankee in Canada. Of the latter he con- fessed that he had not managed to get much of himself into it. Heaven knows he had not, nor yet much of Canada, we may hope. "Nothing," he says some- where, "can shock a brave man but dulness." Well, there are few spots more shocking to the brave than the pages of The Yankee in Canada. There are but three books of his that will be read with much pleasure: the Week, Walden, and the collected letters. As to his poetry, Emerson's word shall suffice for us, it is so accurate and so prettily said: "The thyme 136 HENRY DAVID THOREAU and marjoram are not yet honey." In this, as in his prose, he relied greatly on the goodwill of the reader, and wrote throughout in faith. It was an exercise of faith to suppose that many would understand the sense of his best work, or that any could be exhilarated by the dreary chronicling of his worst. *' But," as he says, **the gods do not hear any rude or discordant sound, as we learn from the echo ; and I know that the nature toward which I launch these sounds is so rich that it will modulate anew and wonderfully improve my rudest strain." IV "What means the fact," he cries, **that a soul which has lost all hope for itself can inspire in another listening soul such an infinite confidence in it, even while it is expressing its despair?" The question is an echo and an illustration of the words last quoted; and it forms the key-note of his thoughts on friend- ship. No one else, to my knowledge, has spoken in so high and just a spirit of the kindly relations ; and I doubt whether it be a drawback that these lessons should come from one in many ways so unfitted to be a teacher in this branch. The very coldness and egoism of his own intercourse gave him a clearer insight into the intellectual basis of our warm, mutual tolerations ; and testimony to their worth comes with added force from one who was solitary and disobliging, and of whom a friend remarked, with equal wit and wisdom, ** I love Henry, but I cannot like him." He can hardly be persuaded to make any distinctior between love and friendship ; in such rarefied and freer >37 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS ing air, upon the mountain-tops of meditation, had he taught himself to breathe. He was, indeed, too accu- rate an observer not to have remarked that ''there ex- ists already a natural disinterestedness and liberality " between men and women; yet, he thought, "friend- ship is no respecter of sex." Perhaps there is a sense in which the words are true; but they were spoken in ignorance; and perhaps we shall have put the matter most correctly, if we call love a foundation for a nearer and freer degree of friendship than can be possible with- out it. For there are delicacies, eternal between per- sons of the same sex, which are melted and disappear in the warmth of love. To both, if they are to be right, he attributes the same nature and condition. "We are not what we are," says he, "nor do we treat or esteem each other for such, but for what we are capable of being." "A friend is one who incessantly pays us the compliment of expecting all the virtues from us, and who can ap- preciate them in us." "The friend asks no return but that his friend will religiously accept and wear and not disgrace his apotheosis of him." "It is the merit and preservation of friendship that it takes place on a level higher than the actual characters of the parties would seem to warrant." This is to put friendship on a ped- estal indeed; and yet the root of the matter is there; and the last sentence, in particular, is like a light in a dark place, and makes many mysteries plain. We are different with different friends ; yet if we look closely we shall find that every such relation reposes on some particular apotheosis of oneself; with each friend, al- though we could not distinguish it in words from any 138 HENRY DAVID THOREAU Other, we have at least one special reputation to pre- serve: and it is thus that we run, when mortified, to our friend or the woman that we love, not to hear our- selves called better, but to be better men in point of fact. We seek this society to flatter ourselves with our own good conduct. And hence any falsehood in the relation, any incomplete or perverted understanding, will spoil even the pleasure of these visits. Thus says Thoreau again : ** Only lovers know the value of truth." And yet again: ** They ask for words and deeds, when a true relation is word and deed." But it follows that since they are neither of them so good as the other hopes, and each is, in a very honest manner, playing a part above his powers, such an inter- course must often be disappointing to both. ** We may bid farewell sooner than complain, "says Thoreau, "for our complaint is too well grounded to be uttered. " * ' We have not so good a right to hate any as our friend." " It were treason to our love And a sin to God above, One iota to abate Of a pure, impartial hate." Love is not blind, nor yet forgiving. " O yes, believe me," as the song says, ** Love has eyes ! " The nearer the intimacy, the more cuttingly do we feel the unwor- thiness of those we love ; and because you love one, and would die for that love to-morrow, you have not forgiven, and you never will forgive, that friend's mis- conduct. If you want a person's faults, go to those who love him. They will not tell you, but they know. And herein lies the magnanimous courage of love, that it en- dures this knowledge without change. 139 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS It required a cold, distant personality like that of The- reau, perhaps, to recognise and certainly to utter this truth ; for a more human love makes it a point of hon- our not to acknowledge those faults of which it is most conscious. But his point of view is both high and dry. He has no illusions; he does not give way to love any more than to hatred, but preserves them both with care like valuable curiosities. A more bald-headed picture of life, if I may so express myself, has seldom been pre- sented. He is an egoist; he does not remember, or does not think it worth while to remark, that, in these near intimacies, we are ninety-nine times disappointed in our beggarly selves for once that we are disappointed in our friend ; that it is we who seem most frequently undeserving of the love that unites us ; and that it is by our friend's conduct that we are continually rebuked and yet strengthened for a fresh endeavour. Thoreau is dry, priggish, and selfish. It is profit he is after in these intimacies ; moral profit, certainly, but still profit to himself. If you will be the sort of friend I want, he remarks naively, " my education cannot dispense with your society." His education! as though a friend were a dictionary. And with all this, not one word about pleasure, or laughter, or kisses, or any quality of flesh and blood. It was not inappropriate, surely, that he had such close relations with the fish. We can under- stand the friend already quoted, when he cried: "As for taking his arm, I would as soon think of taking the arm of an elm-tree! " As a matter of fact he experienced but a broken en- joyment in his intimacies. He says he has been per- petually on the brink of the sort of intercourse he 140 HENRY DAVID THOREAU -wanted, and yet never completely attained it. And what else had he to expect when he would not, in a happy phrase of Carlyle's, '* nestle down into it?" Truly, so it will be always if you only stroll in upon your friends as you might stroll in to see a cricket match; and even then not simply for the pleasure of the thing, but with some after-thought of self-im- provement, as though you had come to the cricket match to bet. It was his theory that people saw each other too frequently, so that their curiosity was not properly whetted, nor had they anything fresh to com- municate; but friendship must be something else than a society for mutual improvement — indeed, it must only be that by the way, and to some extent unconsciously ; and if Thoreau had been a man instead of a manner of elm-tree, he would have felt that he saw his friends too seldom, and have reaped benefits unknown to his phi- losophy from a more sustained and easy intercourse. We might remind him of his own words about love : ** We should have no reserve ; we should give the whole of ourselves to that business. But commonly men have not imagination enough to be thus employed about a human being, but must be coopering a barrel, forsooth." Ay, or reading oriental philosophers. It is not the na- ture of the rival occupation, it is the fact that you suffer it to be a rival, that renders loving intimacy impossible. Nothing is given for nothing in this world; there can be no true love, even on your own side, without devotion ; devotion is the exercise of love, by which it grows; but if you will give enough of that, if you will pay the price in a sufficient ''amount of what you call life," why then, indeed, whether with wife or comrade, you may 141 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS have months and even years of such easy, natural, pleas- urable, and yet improving intercourse as shall make time a moment and kindness a delight. The secret of his retirement lies not in misanthropy, of which he had no tincture, but part in his engrossing design of self-improvement and part in the real defi- ciencies of social intercourse. He v^as not so much difficult about his fellow human beings as he could not tolerate the terms of their association. He could take to a man for any genuine qualities, as we see by his admirable sketch of the Canadian woodcutter in Walden; but he would not consent, in his own words, to ''feebly fabulate and paddle in the social slush." It seemed to him, I think, that society is precisely the reverse of friendship, in that it takes place on a lower level than the characters of any of the parties would warrant us to expect. The society talk of even the most brilliant man is of greatly less account than what you will get from him in (as the French say) a little committee. And Thoreau wanted geniality; he had not enough of the superficial, even at command ; he could not swoop into a parlour and, in the naval phrase, *' cut out " a human being from that dreary port; nor had he inclination for the task. I suspect he loved books and nature as well and near as warmly as he loved his fellow-creatures, — a melancholy, lean degeneration of the human char- acter. *' As for the dispute about solitude and society," he thus sums up: "Any comparison is impertinent. It is an idling down on the plain at the base of the mountain instead of climbing steadily to its top. Of course you will be glad of all the society you can get to go up with ? 14a HENRY DAVID THOREAU Will you go to glory with me? is the burden of the song. It is not that we love to be alone, but that we love to soar, and when we do soar the company grows thinner and thinner till there is none at all. It is either the tribune on the plain, a sermon on the mount, or a very private ecstasy still higher up. Use all the society that will abet you." But surely it is no very extrava- gant opinion that it is better to give than to receive, to serve than to use our companions ; and above all, where there is no question of service upon either side, that it is good to enjoy their company like a natural man. It is curious and in some ways dispiriting that a writer may be always best corrected out of his own mouth ; and so, to conclude, here is another passage from Thoreau which seems aimed directly at himself: '* Do not be too moral; you may cheat yourself out of much life so . . . All fables, indeed, have their morals; but the innocent enjoy the story. ' ' 'The only obligation," says he, ''which I have a right to assume is to do at any time what I think right." " Why should we ever go abroad, even across the way, to ask a neighbour's advice.?" "There is a nearer neighbour within, who is incessantly telling us how we should behave, ^ut we wait for the neighbour without to tell us of some false, easier way, " "The greater part of what my neighbours call good I believe in my soul to be bad." To be what we are, and to become what we are capable of becoming, is the only end of life. It is " when we fall behind ourselves " that "we are cursed with duties and the neglect of duties." "I love the 143 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS wild," he says, " not less than the good." And again: **The life of a good man will hardly improve us more than the life of a freebooter, for the inevitable laws ap- pear as plainly in the infringement as in the observance, and " (mark this) '' our lives are sustained by a nearly equal expense of virtue of some kind. ' ' Even although he were a prig, it will be owned he could announce a startling doctrine. "As for doing good," he writes elsewhere, "that is one of the professions that are full. Moreover, I have tried it fairly, and, strange as it may seem, am satisfied that it does not agree with my con- stitution. Probably I should not conscientiously and deliberately forsake my particular calling to do the good which society demands of me, to save the universe from annihilation; and I believe that a like but infinitely greatersteadfastness elsewhere is all that now preserves it. If you should ever be betrayed into any of these philan- thropies, do not let your left hand know what your right hand does, for it is not worth knowing." Else- where he returns upon the subject, and explains his meaning thus: " If I ever did a man any good in their sense, of course it was something exceptional and insig- nificant compared with the good or evil I am constantly doing by being what I am." There is a rude nobility, like that of a barbarian king, in this unshaken confidence in himself and indifference to the wants, thoughts, or sufferings of others. In his whole works I find no trace of pity. This was partly the result of theory, for he held the world too mysteri- ous to be criticised, and asks conclusively : " What right have I to grieve who have not ceased to wonder ? " But it sprang still more from constitutional indifference and >44 HENRY DAVID THOREAU superiority; and lie grew up healthy, composed, and unconscious from among life's horrors, like a green bay- tree from a field of battle. It was from this lack in him- self that he failed to do justice to the spirit of Christ; for while he could glean more meaning from individual pre- cepts than any score of Christians, yet he conceived life in such a different hope, and viewed it with such con- trary emotions, that the sense and purport of the doc- trine as a whole seems to have passed him by or left him unimpressed. He could understand the idealism of the Christian view, but he was himself so unaffect- edly unhuman that he did not recognise the human in- tention and essence of that teaching. Hence he com- plained that Christ did not leave us a rule that was proper and sufficient for this world, not having con- ceived the nature of the rule that was laid down; for things of that character that are sufficiently unaccept- able become positively non-existent to the mind. But perhaps we shall best appreciate the defect in Thoreau by seeing it supplied in the case of Whitman. For the one, I feel confident, is the disciple of the other; it is what Thoreau clearly whispered that Whitman so up- roariously bawls; it is the same doctrine, but with how immense a difference! the same argument, but used to what a new conclusion ! Thoreau had plenty of humour until he tutored himself out of it, and so forfeited that best birthright of a sensible man ; Whitman, in that re- spect, seems to have been sent into the world naked and unashamed; and yet by a strange consummation, it is the theory of the former that is arid, abstract, and claustral. Of these two philosophies so nearly identical at bottom, the one pursues Self-improvement >45 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS — a churlish, mangy dog; the other is up with the morning, in the best of health, and following the nymph Happiness, buxom, blithe, and debonair. Happiness, at least, is not solitary; it joys to communicate; it loves others, for it depends on them for its existence ; it sanc- tions and encourages to all delights that are not unkind in themselves; if it lived to a thousand, it would not make excision of a single humorous passage; and while the self-improver dwindles toward the prig, and, if he be not of an excellent constitution, may even grow de- formed into an Obermann, the very name and appear- ance of a happy man breathe of good-nature, and help the rest of us to live. In the case of Thoreau, so great a show of doctrine demands some outcome in the field of action. If noth- ing were to be done but build a shanty beside Walden Pond, we have heard altogether too much of these dec- larations of independence. That the man wrote some books is nothing to the purpose, for the same has been done in a suburban villa. That he kept himself happy is perhaps a sufficient excuse, but it is disappointing to the reader. We may be unjust, but when a man de- spises commerce and philanthropy alike, and has views of good so soaring that he must take himself apart from mankind for their cultivation, we will not be content without some striking act. It was not Thoreau's fault if he were not martyred ; had the occasion come, he would have made a noble ending. As it is, he did once seek to interfere in the world's course ; he made one practical appearance on the stage of affairs; and a strange one it was, and strangely characteristic of the nobility and the eccentricity of the man. It was forced on him by his calm 146 HENRY DAVID THOREAU but radical opposition to negro slavery. ' ' Voting for the right is doing nothing for it," he saw; *'it is only expressing to men feebly your desire that it should pre- vail." For his part, he would not '* for an instant recog- nise that political organisation for his government which is the slave's government also." 'M do not hesitate to say," he adds, ''that those who call themselves Ab- olitionists should at once effectually withdraw their support, both in person and property, from the govern- ment of Massachusetts." That is what he did: in 1843 he ceased to pay the poll-tax. The highway-tax he paid, for he said he was as desirous to be a good neigh- bour as to be a bad subject ; but no more poll-tax to the State of Massachusetts. Thoreau had now seceded, and was a polity unto himself; or, as he explains it with admirable sense, " In fact, I quietly declare war with the State after my fashion, though I will still make what use and get what advantage of her I can, as is usual in such cases." He was put in prison; but that was a part of his design. *' Under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also a prison. I know this well, that if one thousand, if one hundred, if ten men whom I could name — ay, if one HONEST man, in this State of Massachusetts, ceas- ing to hold slaves, were actually to withdraw from this copartnership, and be locked up in the county jail there- for, it would be the abolition of slavery in America. For it matters not how small the beginning may seem to be; what is once well done is done forever." Such was his theory of civil disobedience. And the upshot? A friend paid the tax for him; continued year by year to pay it in the sequel; and M7 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS Thoreau was free to walk the woods unmolested. It VJ^S2i fiasco, but to me it does not seem laughable; even those who joined in the laughter at the moment would be insensibly affected by this quaint instance of a good man's horror for injustice. We may compute the worth of that one night's imprisonment as outweighing half a hundred voters at some subsequent election: and if Thoreau had possessed as great a power of persuasion as (let us say) Falstaff, if he had counted a party however small, if his example had been followed by a hundred or by thirty of his fellows, I cannot but believe it would have greatly precipitated the era of freedom and justice. We feel the misdeeds of our country with so little fer- vour, for we are not witnesses to the suffering they cause; but when we see them wake an active horror in our fellow-man, when we see a neighbour prefer to lie in prison rather than be so much as passively implicated in their perpetration, even the dullest of us will begin to realise them with a quicker pulse. Not far from twenty years later, when Captain John Brown was taken at Harper's Ferry, Thoreau was the first to come forward in his defence. The committees wrote to him unanimously that his action was prema- ture. '* I did not send to you for advice," said he, "but to announce that I was to speak." I have used the word *' defence"; in truth he did not seek to defend him, even declared it would be better for the good cause that he should die; but he praised his action as I think Brown would have liked to hear it praised. Thus this singularly eccentric and independent mind, wedded to a character of so much strength, singleness, and purity, pursued its own path of self-improvement 148 HENRY DAVID THOREAU for more than half a century, part gymnosophist, part backwoodsman ; and thus did it come twice, though in a subaltern attitude, into the field of political history. Note. — For many facts in the above essay, among which I may mention the incident of the squirrel, I am indebted to Thoreau : His Life and Aims, by J. A. Page, or, as is well known, Dr. Japp. «49 YOSHIDA-TORAJIRO THE name at the head of this page is probably un- known to the English reader, and yet I think it should become a household word like that of Garibaldi or John Brown. Some day soon, we may expect to hear more fully the details of Yoshida's history, and the degree of his influence in the transformation of Japan ; even now there must be Englishmen acquainted with the subject, and perhaps the appearance of this sketch may elicit something more complete and exact. I wish to say that I am not, rightly speaking, the author of the present paper: I tell the story on the authority of an in- telligent Japanese gentleman, Mr. Taiso Masaki, who told it me with an emotion that does honour to his heart; and though 1 have taken some pains, and sent my notes to him to be corrected, this can be no more than an imperfect outline. Yoshida-Torajiro was son to the hereditary military instructor of the house of Choshu. The name you are to pronounce with an equality of accent on the different syllables, almost as in French, the vowels as in Italian, but the consonants in the English manner — except the j, which has the French sound, or, as it has been cleverly proposed to write it, the sound of ^/i. Yoshida was 150 YOSHIDA-TORAJIRO very learned in Chinese letters, or, as we might say, in the classics, and in his father's subject; fortification was among his favourite studies, and he was a poet from his boyhood. He was born to a lively and intelligent pa- triotism ; the condition of Japan was his great concern ; and while he projected a better future, he lost no oppor- tunity of improving his knowledge of her present state. With this end he was continually travelling in his youth, going on foot and sometimes with three days' provision on his back, in the brave, self-helpful manner of all heroes. He kept a full diary while he was thus upon his journeys, but it is feared that these notes have been destroyed. If their value were in any respect such as we have reason to expect from the man's character, this would be a loss not easy to exaggerate. It is still won- derful to the Japanese how far he contrived to push these explorations ; a cultured gentleman of that land and pe- riod would leave a complimentary poem wherever he had been hospitably entertained; and a friend of Mr. Masaki, who was likewise a great wanderer, has found such traces of Yoshida's passage in very remote regions of Japan. Politics is perhaps the only profession for which no preparation is thought necessary ; but Yoshida consid- ered otherwise, and he studied the miseries of his fellow- countrymen with as much attention and research as though he had been going to write a book instead of merely to propose a remedy. To a man of his intensity and singleness, there is no question but that this survey was melancholy in the extreme. His dissatisfaction is proved by the eagerness with which he threw himself into the cause of reform ; and what would have discour- »5» FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS aged another braced Yoshida for his task. As he pro- fessed the theory of arms, it was firstly the defences of Japan that occupied his mind. The external feebleness of that country was then illustrated by the manners of overriding barbarians, and the visits of big barbarian war ships : she was a country beleaguered. Thus the patriotism of Yoshida took a form which may be said to have defeated itself: he had it upon him to keep out these all-powerful foreigners, whom it is now one of his chief merits to have helped to introduce ; but a man who follows his own virtuous heart will be always found in the end to have been fighting for the best. One thing leads naturally to another in an awakened mind, and that with an upward progress from effect to cause. The power and knowledge of these foreigners were things inseparable ; by envying them their military strength, Yoshida came to envy them their culture; from the desire to equal them in the first, sprang his de- sire to share with them in the second ; and thus he is found treating in the same book of a new scheme to strengthen the defences of Kioto and of the establish- ment, in the same city, of a university of foreign teach- ers. He hoped, perhaps, to get the good of other lands without their evil ; to enable Japan to profit by the know- ledge of the barbarians, and still keep her inviolate with her own arts and virtues. But whatever was the pre- cise nature of his hope, the means by which it was to be accomplished were both difficult and obvious. Some one with eyes and understanding must break through the official cordon, escape into the new world, and study this other civilization on the spot. And who could be better suited for the business ? It was not without 15a YOSHIDA-TORAJIRO danger, but he was without fear. It needed preparation and insight; and what had he done since he was a child but prepare himself with the best culture of Japan, and acquire in his excursions the power and habit of observing ? He was but twenty-two, and already all this was clear in his mind, when news reached Choshu that Com- modore Perry was lying near to Yeddo. Here, then, was the patriot's opportunity. Among the Samurai of Choshu, and in particular among the councillors of the Daimio, his general culture, his views, which the en- lightened were eager to accept, and, above all, the pro- phetic charm, the radiant persuasion of the man, had gained him many and sincere disciples. He had thus a strong influence at the provincial Court; and so he ob- tained leave to quit the district, and, by way of a pretext, a privilege to follow his profession in Yeddo. Thither he hurried, and arrived in time to be too late : Perry had Weighed anchor, and his sails had vanished from the waters of Japan. But Yoshida, having put his hand to the plough, was not the man to go back; he had entered upon this business, and, please God, he would carry it through ; and so he gave up his professional career and remained in Yeddo to be at hand against the next op- portunity. By this behaviour he put himself into an at- titude toward his superior, the Daimio of Choshu, which I cannot thoroughly explain. Certainly, he became a Ronyin, a broken man, a feudal outlaw; certainly he was liable to be arrested if he set foot upon his native province; yet 1 am cautioned that "he did not really break his allegiance," but only so far separated himself as that the prince could no longer be held accountable 153 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS for his late vassal's conduct. There is some nicety of feudal custom here that escapes my comprehension. In Yeddo, with this nondescript political status, and cut off from any means of livelihood, he was joyfully supported by those who sympathised with his design. One was Sakuma-Shozan, hereditary retainer of one of the Shogun's councillors, and from him he got more than money or than money's worth. A steady, respect- able man, with an eye to the world's opinion, Sakuma was one of those who, if they cannot do great deeds in their own person, have yet an ardour of admiration for those who can, that recommends them to the gratitude of history. They aid and abet greatness more, perhaps, than we imagine. One thinks of them in connection with Nicodemus, who visited our Lord by night. And Sakuma was in a position to help Yoshida more practi- cally than by simple countenance; for he could read Dutch, and was eager to communicate what he knew. While the young Ronyin thus lay studying in Yed- do, news came of a Russian ship at Nangasaki. No time was to be lost. Sakuma contributed "a long copy of encouraging verses;" and off set Yoshida on foot for Nangasaki. His way lay through his own province of Choshu; but, as the highroad to the south lay apart from the capital, he was able to avoid arrest. He supported himself, like a trouvere, by his proficiency in verse. He carried his works along with him, to serve as an introduction. When he reached a town he would inquire for the house of any one celebrated for swordsmanship, or poetry, or some of the other ac- knowledged forms of culture; and there, on giving a taste of his skill, he would be received and entertained, 154 YOSHIDA-TORAJIRO and leave behind him, when he went away, a compli- ment in verse. Thus he travelled through the Middle Ages on his voyage of discovery into the nineteenth century. When he reached Nangasaki he was once more too late. The Russians were gone. But he made a profit on his journey in spite of fate, and stayed awhile to pick up scraps of knowledge from the Dutch inter- preters — a low class of men, but one that had oppor- tunities; and then, still full of purpose, returned to Yeddo on foot, as he had come. It was not only his youth and courage that supported him under these suc- cessive disappointments, but the continual affluence of new disciples. The man had the tenacity of a Bruce or a Columbus, with a pliability that was all his own. He did not fight for what the world would call success ; but for "the wages of going on." Check him off in a dozen directions, he would find another outlet and break forth. He missed one vessel after another, and the main work still halted ; but so long as he had a sin- gle Japanese to enlighten and prepare for the better fu- ture, he could still feel that he was working for Japan. Now, he had scarce returned from Nangasaki, when he was sought out by a new inquirer, the most promising of all. This was a common soldier, of the Hemming class, a dyer by birth, who had heard vaguely^ of Yo- 1 Yoshida, when on his way to Nangasaki, met the soldier and talked with him by the roadside; they then parted, but the soldier was so much struck by the words he heard, that on Yoshida's return he sought him out and declared his intention of devoting his life to the good cause. I venture, in the absence of the writer, to insert this correction, having been present when the story was told by Mr. Masaki. — F. J, And I, there being none to settle the difference, must reproduce both versions. — R. L. S. 155 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS shida's movements, and had become filled with wonder as to their design. This was a far different inquirer from Sakuma-Shozan, or the councillors of the Daimio of Choshu. This was no two-sworded gentleman, but the common stuff of the country, born in low tradi- tions and unimproved by books ; and yet that influence, that radiant persuasion that never failed Yoshida in any circumstance of his short life, enchanted, enthralled, and converted the common soldier, as it had done already with the elegant and learned. The man instantly burned up into a true enthusiasm; his mind had been only waiting for a teacher; he grasped in a moment the profit of these new ideas ; he, too, would go to foreign, outlandish parts, and bring back the knowledge that was to strengthen and renew Japan; and in the mean- time, that he might be the better prepared, Yoshida set himself to teach, and he to learn, the Chinese literature. It is an episode most honourable to Yoshida, and yet more honourable still to the soldier, and to the capacity and virtue of the common people of Japan. And now, at length. Commodore Perry returned to Simoda. Friends crowded round Yoshida with help, counsels, and encouragement. One presented him with a great sword, three feet long and very heavy, which, in the exultation of the hour, he swore to carry throughout all his wanderings, and to bring back — a far-travelled weapon — to Japan. A long letter was prepared in Chinese for the American officers; it was revised and corrected by Sakuma, and signed by Yoshi- da, under the name of Urinaki-Manji, and by the sol- dier under that of Ichigi-Koda. Yoshida had supplied himself with a profusion of materials for writing; his 156 YOSHIDA-TORAJIRO dress was literally stuffed with paper which was to come back again enriched with his observations, and make a great and happy kingdom of Japan. Thus equipped, this pair of emigrants set forward on foot from Yeddo, and reached Simoda about nightfall. At no period within history can travel have presented to any European creature the same face of awe and ter- ror as to these courageous Japanese. The descent of Ulysses into hell is a parallel more near the case than the boldest expedition in the polar circles. For their act was unprecedented; it was criminal; and it was to take them beyond the pale of humanity into a land of devils. It is not to be wondered at if they were thrilled by the thought of their unusual situation ; and perhaps the soldier gave utterance to the sentiment of both when he sang, *'in Chinese singing" (so that we see he had already profited by his lessons ), these two ap- propriate verses: " We do not know where we are to sleep to-night, In a thousand miles of desert where we can see no human smoke." In a little temple, hard by the sea-shore, they lay down to repose; sleep overtook them as they lay; and when they awoke, ''the east was already white" for their last morning in Japan. They seized a fisherman's boat and rowed out — Perry lying far to sea because of the two tides. Their very manner of boarding was significant of determination; for they had no sooner caught hold upon the ship than they kicked away their boat to make return impossible. And now you would have thought that all was over. But the Commodore was already in treaty with the Shogun's Government; 157 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS it was one of the stipulations that no Japanese was to be aided in escaping from Japan ; and Yoshida and his followers were handed over as prisoners to the author- ities at Simoda. That night he who had been to ex- plore the secrets of the barbarian slept, if he might sleep at all, in a cell too short for lying down at full length, and too low for standing upright. There are some disappointments too great for commentary. Sakuma, implicated by his handwriting, was sent into his own province in confinement, from which he was soon released. Yoshida and the soldier suffered a long and miserable period of captivity, and the latter, indeed, died, while yet in prison, of a skin disease. But such a spirit as that of Yoshida-Torajiro is not easily made or kept a captive; and that which cannot be broken by misfortune you shall seek in vain to confine in a bastille. He was indefatigably active, writing re- ports to Government and treatises for dissemination. These latter were contraband ; and yet he found no diffi- culty in their distribution, for he always had the jailer on his side. It was in vain that they kept changing him from one prison to another; Government by that plan only hastened the spread of new ideas ; for Yoshida had only to arrive to make a convert. Thus, though he himself was laid by the heels, he confirmed and extended his party in the State. At last, after many lesser transferences, he was given over from the prisons of the Shogun to those of his own superior, the Daimio of Choshu. I conceive it possible that he may then have served out his time for the at- tempt to leave Japan, and was now resigned to the pro- vincial Government on a lesser count, as a Ronyin or 158 YOSHIDA-TORAJIRO feudal rebel. But, however that may be, the change was of great importance to Yoshida; for by the influ- ence of his admirers in the Daimio's council, he was allowed the privilege, underhand, of dwelling in his own house. And there, as well to keep up communi- cation with his fellow-reformers as to pursue his work of education, he received boys to teach. It must not be supposed that he was free; he was too marked a man for that ; he was probably assigned to some small circle, and lived, as we should say, under police surveil- lance ; but to him, who had done so much from under lock and key, this would seem a large and profitable liberty. It was at this period that Mr. Masaki was brought into personal contact with Yoshida; and hence, through the eyes of a boy of thirteen, we get one good look at the character and habits of the hero. He was ugly and laughably disfigured with the small-pox; and while na- ture had been so niggardly with him from the first, his personal habits were even sluttish. His clothes were wretched; when he ate or washed he wiped his hands upon his sleeves ; and as his hair was not tied more than once in the two months, it was often disgusting to behold. With such a picture, it is easy to believe that he never married. A good teacher, gentle in act, although violent and abusive in speech, his lessons were apt to go over the heads of his scholars, and to leave them gaping, or more often laughing. Such was his passion for study that he even grudged himself natural repose; and when he grew drowsy over his books he would, if it was summer, put mosquitoes up his sleeve; iind, if it was winter, take off his shoes and run barefoot 159 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS on the snow. His handwriting was exceptionally vil- lainous ; poet though he was, he had no taste for what was elegant ; and in a country where to write beauti- fully was not the mark of a scrivener but an admired accomplishment for gentlemen, he suffered his letters to be jolted out of him by the press of matter and the heat of his convictions. He would not tolerate even the ap- pearance of a bribe ; for bribery lay at the root of much that was evil in Japan, as well as in countries nearer home ; and once when a merchant brought him his son to educate, and added, as was customary, ^ a little pri- vate sweetener, Yoshida dashed the money in the giver's face, and launched into such an outbreak of indignation as made the matter public in the school. He was still, when Masaki knew him, much weakened by his hard- ships in prison ; and the presentation sword, three feet long, was too heavy for him to wear without distress ; yet he would always gird it on when he went to dig in his garden. That is a touch which qualifies the man. A weaker nature would have shrunk from the sight of what only commemorated a failure. But he was of Thoreau's mind, that if you can "make your failure tragical by courage, it will not differ from success." He could look back without confusion to his enthusiastic promise. If events had been contrary, and he found himself unable to carry out that purpose — well, there was but the more reason to be brave and constant in another; if he could not carry the sword into barbarian lands, it should at least be witness to a life spent en- tirely for Japan. 1 1 understood that the merchant was endeavouring surreptitiously to obtain for his son instruction to which he was not entitled. — F. J. 160 YOSHIDA-TORAJIRO This is the sight we have of him as he appeared to schoolboys, but not related in the schoolboy spirit. A man so careless of the graces must be out of court with boys and women. And, indeed, as we have all been more or less to school, it will astonish no one that Yo- shida was regarded by his scholars as a laughing-stock. The schoolboy has a keen sense of humour. Heroes he learns to understand and to admire in books; but he is not forward to recognise the heroic under the traits of any contemporary man, and least of all in a brawling, dirty, and eccentric teacher. But as the years went by, and the scholars of Yoshida continued in vain to look around them for the abstractly perfect, and began more and more to understand the drift of his instructions, they learned to look back upon their comic schoolmaster as upon the noblest of mankind. The last act of this brief and full existence was already near at hand. Some of his work was done; for already there had been Dutch teachers admitted into Nangasaki, and the country at large was keen for the new learning. But though the renaissance had begun, it was impeded and dangerously threatened by the power of the Shogun. His minister — the same who was afterward assassi- nated in the snow in the very midst of his bodyguard — not only held back pupils from going to the Dutchmen, but by spies and detectives, by imprisonment and death, kept thinning out of Japan the most intelligent and active spirits. It is the old story of a power upon its last legs — learning to the Bastille, and courage to the block; when there are none left but sheep and donkeys, the State will have been saved. But a man must not think to cope with a Revolution ; nor a minister, how- i6i FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS ever fortified with guards, to hold in check a country that had given birth to such men as Yoshida and his soldier follower. The violence of the ministerial Tar- quin only served to direct attention to the illegality of his master's rule ; and people began to turn their allegi- ance from Yeddo and the Shogun to the long-forgotten Mikado in his seclusion at Kioto. At this juncture, whether in consequence or not, the relations between these two rulers became strained; and the Shogun's minister set forth for Kioto to put another affront upon the rightful sovereign. The circumstance was well fitted to precipitate events. It was a piece of religion to defend the Mikado ; it was a plain piece of political righteousness to oppose a tyrannical and bloody usurpa- tion. To Yoshida the moment for action seemed to have arrived. He was himself still confined in Choshu. Nothing was free but his intelligence ; but with that he sharpened a sword for the Shogun's minister. A party of his followers were to waylay the tyrant at a village on the Yeddo and Kioto road, present him with a peti- tion, and put him to the sword. But Yoshida and his friends were closely observed ; and the too great expe- dition of two of the conspirators, a boy of eighteen and his brother, wakened the suspicion of the authorities, and led to a full discovery of the plot and the arrest of all who were concerned. In Yeddo, to which he was taken, Yoshida was thrown again into a strict confinement. But he was not left destitute of sympathy in this last hour of trial. In the next cell lay one Kus^kabe, a reformer from the southern highlands of Satzuma. They were in prison for different plots indeed, but for the same intention; 163 YOSHIDA-TORAJIRO they shared the same beliefs and the same aspirations for Japan ; many and lojig were the conversations they held through the prison wall, and dear was the sympa- thy that soon united them. It fell first to the lot of Kusakabe to pass before the judges ; and when sentence had been pronounced he was led toward the place of death below Yoshida's window. To turn the head would have been to implicate his fellow-prisoner; but he threw him a look from his eye, and bade him fare- well in a loud voice, with these two Chinese verses : — ^"^ It is better to be a crystal and be broken, ^f/S'i {I Than to remain perfect lii73 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS when these amenities escaped his pen; or perhaps the strong arm of Noe le Joly would have been again in requisition. So ends the love story, if love story it may properly be called. Poets are not necessarily fortunate in love; but they usually fall among more romantic cir- cumstances and bear their disappointment with a better grace. The neighbourhood of Regnier de Montigny and Colin de Cayeux was probably more influential on his after life than the contempt of Catherine. For a man who is greedy of all pleasures, and provided with little money and less dignity of character, we may prophesy a safe and speedy voyage downward. Humble or even truckling virtue may walk unspotted in this life. But only those who despise the pleasures can afford to de- spise the opinion of the world. A man of a strong, heady temperament, like Villon, is very differently tempted. His eyes lay hold on all provocations greed- ily, and his heart flames up at a look into imperious desire; he is snared and broached to by anything and everything, from a pretty face to a piece of pastry in a cookshop window; he will drink the rinsing of the wine cup, stay the latest at the tavern party; tap at the lit windows, follow the sound of singing, and beat the whole neighbourhood for another reveller, as he goes reluctantly homeward; and grudge himself every hour of sleep as a black empty period in which he cannot follow after pleasure. Such a person is lost if he have not dignity, or, failing that, at least pride, which is its shadow and in many ways its substitute. Master Francis, I fancy, would follow his own eager instincts without much spiritual struggle. And we soon find >74 FRANCOIS VILLON him fallen among thieves in sober, literal earnest, and counting as acquaintances the most disreputable people he could lay his hands on : fellows who stole ducks in Paris Moat; sergeants of the criminal court, and archers of the watch ; blackguards who slept at night under the butchers' stalls, and for whom the aforesaid archers peered about carefully with lanterns ; Regnier de Mon- tigny, Colin de Cayeux, and their crew, all bound on a favouring breeze toward the gallows; the disorderly abbess of Port Royal, who went about at fair time with soldiers and thieves, and conducted her abbey on the queerest principles ; and most likely Perette Mauger, the great Paris receiver of stolen goods, not yet dreaming, poor woman! of the last scene of her career when Henry Cousin, executor of the high justice, shall bury her, alive and most reluctant, in front of the new Mon- tigny gibbet.i Nay, our friend soon began to take a foremost rank in this society. He could string off verses, which is always an agreeable talent; and he could make himself useful in many other ways. The whole ragged army of Bohemia, and whosoever loved good cheer without at all loving to work and pay for it, are addressed in contemporary verses as the "Sub- jects of Francois Villon." He was a good genius to all hungry and unscrupulous persons ; and became the hero of a whole legendary cycle of tavern tricks and cheat- eries. At best, these were doubtful levities, rather too thievish for a schoolboy, rather too gamesome for a thief. But he would not linger long in this equivocal border land. He must soon have complied with his surroundings. He was one who would go where the 1 Chronique Scandaleuse, ed. Pantheon, p. 237. »75 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS cannikin clinked, not caring who should pay; and from supping in the wolves' den, there is but a step to hunt- ing with the pack. And here, as I am on the chapter of his degradation, I shall say all I mean to say about its darkest expression, and be done with it for good. Some charitable critics see no more than 2ijeu d' esprit, a graceful and trifling exercise of the imagination, in the grimy ballad of Fat Peg (Grosse Margot). I am not able to follow these gentlemen to this polite extreme. Out of all Villon's works that ballad stands forth in flar- ing reality, gross and ghastly, as a thing written in a contraction of disgust. M. Longnon shows us more and more clearly at every page that we are to read our poet literally, that his names are the names of real per- sons, and the events he chronicles were actual events. But even if the tendency of criticism had run the other way, this ballad would have gone far to prove itself I can well understand the reluctance of worthy persons in this matter; for of course it is unpleasant to think of a man of genius as one who held, in the words of Ma- rina to Boult — " A place, for which the pained'st fiend Of hell would not in reputation change." But beyond this natural unwillingness, the whole diffi- culty of the case springs from a highly virtuous igno- rance of life. Paris now is not so different from the Paris of then; and the whole of the doings of Bohemia are not written in the sugar-candy pastorals of Murger. It is really not at all surprising that a young man of the fifteenth century, with a knack of making verses, should 176 FRANgOlS VILLON accept his bread upon disgraceful terms. The race of those who do is not extinct; and some of them to this day write the prettiest verses imaginable. . . . After this, it were impossible for Master Francis to fall lower: to go and steal for himself would be an admirable ad- vance from every point of view, divine or human. And yet it is not as a thief, but as a homicide, that he makes his first appearance before angry justice. On June 5, 1455, when he was about twenty-four, and had been Master of Arts for a matter of three years, we be- hold him for the first time quite definitely. Angry jus- tice had, as it were, photographed him in the act of his homicide ; and M. Longnon, rummaging among old deeds, has turned up the negative and printed it off for our instruction. Villon had been supping — copious- ly we may believe — and sat on a stone bench in front of the Church of St. Benoit, in company with a priest called Gilles and a woman of the name of Isabeau. It wrs nine o'clock, a mighty late hour for the period, and evidently a fine summer's night. Master Francis carried a mantle, like a prudent man, to keep him from the dews (serain), and had a sword below it dangling from his girdle. So these three dallied in front of St. Benoit, taking their pleasure (pour soy esbatre). Suddenly there arrived upon the scene a priest, Philippe Chermoye or Sermaise, also with sword and cloak, and accompa- nied by one Master Jehan le Mardi. Sermaise, accord- ing to Villon's account, which is all we have to go upon, came up blustering and denying God; as Villon rose to make room for him upon the bench, thrust him rudely back into his place; and finally drew his sword and cut open his lower lip, by what 1 should imagine was a 177 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS very clumsy stroke. Up to this point, Villon professes to have been a model of courtesy, even of feebleness : and the brawl, in his version, reads like the fable of the wolf and the lamb. But now the lamb was roused; he drew his sword, stabbed Sermaise in the groin, knocked him on the head with a big stone, and then, leaving him to his fate, went away to have his own lip doc- tored by a barber of the name of Fouquet. In one ver- sion, he says that Gilles, Isabeau, and Le Mardi ran away at the first high words, and that he and Sermaise had it out alone; in another, Le Mardi is represented as returning and wresting Villon's sword from him : the reader may please himself. Sermaise was picked up, lay all that night in the prison of Saint Benoit, where he was examined by an official of the Chatelet and ex- pressly pardoned Villon, and died on the following Sat- urday in the Hotel Dieu. This, as I have said, was in June. Not before Janu- ary of the next year could Villon extract a pardon from the king; but while his hand was in, he got two. One is for "Francois des Loges, alias {autrement dit) de Villon;" and the other runs in the name of Francois de Montcorbier. Nay, it appears there was a further com- plication ; for in the narrative of the first of these docu- ments, it is mentioned that he passed himself off upon Fouquet, the barber-surgeon, as one Michel Mouton. M. Longnon has a theory that this unhappy accident with Sermaise was the cause of Villon's subsequent ir- regularities ; and that up to that moment he had been the pink of good behaviour. But the matter has to my eyes a more dubious air. A pardon necessary for Des Loges and another for Montcorbier ? and these two the 178 FRANCOIS VILLON same person ? and one or both of them known by the alias of Villon, however honestly come by ? and lastly, in the heat of the moment, a fourth name thrown out with an assured countenance? A ship is not to be trusted that sails under so many colours. This is not the simple bearing of innocence. No — the young mas- ter was already treading crooked paths ; already, he would start and blench at a hand upon his shoulder, with the look we know so well in the face of Hogarth's Idle Apprentice; already, in the blue devils, he would see Henry Cousin, the executor of high justice, going in dolorous procession toward Montfaucon, and hear the wind and the birds crying around Paris gibbet. A GANG OF THIEVES In spite of the prodigious number of people who managed to get hanged, the fifteenth century was by no means a bad time for criminals. A great confusion of parties and great dust of fighting favoured the escape of private housebreakers and quiet fellows who stole ducks in Paris Moat. Prisons were leaky; and as we shall see, a man with a few crowns in his pocket and perhaps some acquaintance among the officials, could easily slip out and become once more a free marauder. There was no want of a sanctuary where he might har- bour until troubles blew by; and accomplices helped each other with more or less good faith. Clerks, above all, had remarkable facilities for a criminal way of life ; for they were privileged, except in cases of notorious incorrigibility, to be plucked from the hands of rude secular justice and tried by a tribunal of their own. In 179 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS 1402, a couple of thieves, both clerks of the University, were condemned to death by the Provost of Paris. As they were taken to Montfaucon, they kept crying " high and clearly " for their benefit of clergy, but were none the less pitilessly hanged and gibbeted. Indignant Alma Mater interfered before the king; and the Provost was deprived of all royal offices, and condemned to return the bodies and erect a great stone cross, on the road from Paris to the gibbet, graven with the effigies of these two holy martyrs.i We shall hear more of the benefit of clergy ; for after this the reader will not be surprised to meet with thieves in the shape of tonsured clerks, or even priests and monks. To a knot of such learned pilferers our poet certainly belonged ; and by turning over a few more of M. Long- non's negatives, we shall get a clear idea of their char- acter and doings. Montigny and De Cayeux are names already known; Guy Tabary, Petit-Jehan, Dom Nicolas, little Thibault, who was both clerk and goldsmith, and who made picklocks and melted plate for himself and his companions — with these the reader has still to be- come acquainted. Petit-Jehan and De Cayeux were handy fellows and enjoyed a useful pre-eminence in honour of their doings with the picklock. " Dictm des Cahyem est fort is operator crochetorum, ' ' says Tabary 's interrogation, '' sed dictm Petit-Jehan, ejus socius, est forcim Operator." But the flower of the flock was little Thibault; it was reported that no lock could stand before him ; he had a persuasive hand ; let us salute ca- pacity wherever we may find it. Perhaps the term gang is not quite properly applied to the persons whose for^ iMonstrelet: Pantheon LitUraire, p. 26. 180 FRANCOIS VILLON tunes we are now about to follow; rather they were independent malefactors, socially intimate, and occa- sionally joining together for some serious operation, just as modern stockjobbers form a syndicate for an impor- tant loan. Nor were they at all particular to any branch of misdoing. They did not scrupulously confine them- selves to a single sort of theft, as I hear is common among modern thieves. They were ready for anything, from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter. Montigny, for instance, had neglected neither of these extremes, and we find him accused of cheating at games of hazard on the one hand, and on the other with the murder of one Thevenin Pensete in a house by the Cemetery of St. John. If time had only spared us some particulars, might not this last have furnished us with the matter of a grisly winter's tale ? At Christmas-time in 1456, readers of Villon will re- member that he was engaged on the Small Testament. About the same period, circa festum nativitatis Domini, he took part in a memorable supper at the Mule Tavern, in front of the Church of St. Mathurin. Tabary, who seems to have been very much Villon's creature, had ordered the supper in the course of the afternoon. He was a man who had had troubles in his time and lan- guished in the Bishop of Paris's prisons on a suspicion of picking locks; confiding, convivial, not very astute — who had copied out a whole improper romance with his own right hand. This supper-party was to be his first introduction to De Cayeux and Petit-Jehan, which was probably a matter of some concern to the poor man's muddy wits; in the sequel, at least, he speaks of both ^with an undisguised respect, based on professional in- 181 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS feriority in the matter of picklocks. Dom Nicolas, a Pi- cardy monk, was the fifth and last at table. When sup- per had been despatched and fairly washed down, we may suppose, with white Baigneux or red Beaune, which were favourite wines among the fellowship, Ta- bary was solemnly sworn over to secrecy on the night's performances ; and the party left the Mule and proceeded to an unoccupied house belonging to Robert de Saint- Simon. This, over a low wall, they entered without difficulty. All but Tabary took off their upper gar- ments ; a ladder was found and applied to the high wall which separated Saint-Simon's house from the court of the College of Navarre; the four fellows in their shirt- sleeves (as we might say) clambered over in a twink- ling: and Master Guy Tabary remained alone beside the overcoats. From the court the burglars made their way into the vestry of the chapel, where they found a large chest, strengthened with iron bands and closed with four locks. One of these locks they picked, and then, by levering up the corner, forced the other three. In- side was a small coffer, of walnut wood, also barred with iron, but fastened with only three locks, which were all comfortably picked by way of the keyhole. In the walnut coffer — a joyous sight by our thieves' lantern — were five hundred crowns of gold. There was some talk of opening the aumries, where, if they had only known, a booty eight or nine times greater lay ready to their hand; but one of the party (I have a humorous suspicion it was Dom Nicolas, the Picardy monk) hur- ried them away. It was ten o'clock when they mounted the ladder; it was about midnight before Tabary beheld them coming back. To him they gave ten crowns, and 182 FRANgOIS VILLON promised a share of a two-crown dinner on the mor- row; whereat we may suppose his mouth watered. In course of time, he got wind of the real amount of their booty and understood how scurvily he had been used; but he seems to have borne no malice. How could he,, against such superb operators as Petit-Jehan and De Cayeux; or a person like Villon, who could have made a new improper romance out of his own head, instead of merely copying an old one with mechanical right hand ? The rest of the winter was not uneventful for the gang. First they made a demonstration against the Church of St. Mathurin after chalices, and were igno- miniously chased away by barking dogs. Then Tabary fell out with Casin Chollet, one of the fellows who stole ducks in Paris Moat, who subsequently became a ser- geant of the Chatelet and distinguished himself by mis- conduct, followed by imprisonment and public castiga- tion, during the wars of Louis Eleventh. The quarrel was not conducted with a proper regard to the king's peace, and the pair publicly belaboured each other until the police stepped in, and Master Tabary was cast once more into the prisons of the Bishop. While he still lay in durance, another job was cleverly executed by the band in broad daylight, at the Augustine Monastery. Brother Guillaume CoiflTier was beguiled by an accom- plice to St. Mathurin to say mass; and during his ab- sence, his chamber was entered and five or six hundred crowns in money and some silver plate successfully ab- stracted. A melancholy man was Coiffier on his re- turn! Eight crowns from this adventure were for- warded by little Thibault to the incarcerated Tabary; 183 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS and with these he bribed the jailer and reappeared in Paris taverns. Some time before or shortly after this, Villon set out for Angers, as he had promised in the Small Testament. The object of this excursion was not merely to avoid the presence of his cruel mistress or the strong arm of Noe le Joly, but to plan a deliberate rob- bery on his uncle the monk. As soon as he had prop- erly studied the ground, the others were to go over in force from Paris — picklocks and all — and away with my uncle's strongbox ! This throws a comical sidelight on his own accusation against his relatives, that they had "forgotten natural duty" and disowned him be- cause he was poor. A poor relation is a distasteful cir- cumstance at the best, but a poor relation who plans deliberate robberies against those of his blood, and trudges hundreds of weary leagues to put them into execution, is surely a little on the wrong side of tolera- tion. The uncle at Angers may have been monstrously undutiful ; but the nephew from Paris was upsides with him. On the 23d April, that venerable and discreet per- son, Master Pierre Marchand, Curate and Prior of Paray- le-Monial, in the diocese of Chartres, arrived in Paris and put up at the sign of the Three Chandeliers, in the Rue de la Huchette. Next day, or the day after, as he was breakfasting at the sign of the Armchair, he fell into talk with two customers, one of whom was a priest and the other our friend Tabary. The idiotic Ta- bary became mighty confidential as to his past life. Pierre Marchand, who was an acquaintance of Guil- laume Coiffier's and had sympathised with him over his loss, pricked up his ears at the mention of picklocks, and 184 FRANgOIS VILLON led on the transcriber of improper romances from one thing to another, until they were fast friends. For pick- locks the Prior of Paray professed a keen curiosity ; but Tabary, upon some late alarm, had thrown all his into the Seine. Let that be no difficulty, however, for was there not little Thibault, who could make them of all shapes and sizes, and to whom Tabary, smelling an ac- complice, would be only too glad to introduce his new acquaintance ? On the morrow, accordingly, they met; and Tabary, after having first wet his whistle at the Prior's expense, led him to Notre Dame and presented him to four or five ''young companions," who were keeping sanctuary in the church. They were all clerks, recently escaped, like Tabary himself, from the episco- pal prisons. Among these we may notice Thibault, the operator, a little fellow of twenty-six, wearing long hair behind. The Prior expressed, through Tabary, his anxiety to become their accomplice and altogether such as they were {de leur sorte et de leurs complices). Mighty polite they showed themselves, and made him many fine speeches in return. But for all that, perhaps because they had longer heads than Tabary, perhaps because it is less easy to wheedle men in a body, they kept obstinately to generalities and gave him no infor- mation as to their exploits, past, present, or to come. I suppose Tabary groaned under this reserve; for no sooner were he and the Prior out of the church than he fairly emptied his heart to him, gave him full details of many hanging matters in the past, and explained the future intentions of the band. The scheme of the hour was to rob another Augustine monk, Robert de la Porte, and in this the Prior agreed to take a hand with simu- 185 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS lated greed. Thus, in the course of two days, he had turned this wineskin of a Tabary inside out. For a while longer the farce was carried on ; the Prior was intro- duced to Petit-Jehan, whom he describes as a little, very smart man of thirty, with a black beard and a short jack- et; an appointment was made and broken in the de la Porte affair; Tabary had some breakfast at the Prior's charge and leaked out more secrets under the influence of wine and friendship; and then all of a sudden, on the 17th of May, an alarm sprang up, the Prior picked up his skirts and walked quietly over to the Chatelet to make a deposition, and the whole band took to their heels and vanished out of Paris and the sight of the police. Vanish as they like, they all go with a clog about their feet. Sooner or later, here or there, they will be caught in the fact, and ignominiously sent home. From our vantage of four centuries afterward, it is odd and pitiful to watch the order in which the fugitives are cap- tured and dragged in. Montigny was the first. In August of that same year, he was laid by the heels on many grievous counts ; sac- rilegious robberies, frauds, incorrigibility, and that bad business about Thevenin Pensete in the house by the Cemetery of St. John. He was reclaimed by the eccle- siastical authorities as a clerk ; but the claim was rebut- ted on the score of incorrigibility, and ultimately fell to the ground ; and he was condemned to death by the Provost of Paris. It was a very rude hour for Montigny, but hope was not yet over. He was a fellow of some birth; his father had been king's pantler; his sister, probably married to some one about the Court, was in 186 FRANCOIS VILLON the family way, and her health would be endangered if the execution was proceeded with. So down comes Charles the Seventh with letters of mercy, commuting the penalty to a year in a dungeon on bread and water, and a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. James in Galicia. Alas! the document was incomplete; it did not contain the full tale of Montigny's enormities ; it did not recite that he had been denied benefit of clergy, and it said nothing about Thevenin Pensete. Montigny's hour was at hand. Benefit of clergy, honourable descent from king's pantler, sister in the family way, royal letters of commutation — all were of no avail. He had been in prison in Rouen, in Tours, in Bordeaux, and four times already in Paris ; and out of all these he had come scath- less ; but now he must make a little excursion as far as Montfaucon with Henry Cousin, executor of high jus- tice. There let him swing among the carrion crows. About a year later, in July 1458, the police laid hands on Tabary. Before the ecclesiastical commissary he was twice examined, and, on the latter occasion, put to the question ordinary and extraordinary. What a dismal change from pleasant suppers at the Mule, where he sat in triumph with expert operators and great wits! He is at the lees of life, poor rogue ; and those fingers which once transcribed improper romances are now agonis- ingly stretched upon the rack. We have no sure know- ledge, but we may have a shrewd guess of the con- clusion. Tabary, the admirer, would go the same way as those whom he admired. The last we hear of is Colin de Cayeux. He was caught in autumn 1460, in the great Church of St. Leu d'Esserens, which makes so fine a figure in the pleasant 187 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS Oise valley between Creil and Beaumont. He was re- claimed by no less than two bishops; but the Procureur for the Provost held fast by incorrigible Colin. 1460 was an ill-starred year: for justice was making a clean sweep of ''poor and indigent persons, thieves, cheats, and lockpickers," in the neighbourhood of Paris ;^ and Colin de Cayeux, with many others, was condemned to death and hanged. ^ VILLON AND THE GALLOWS Villon was still absent on the Angers expedition when the Prior of Paray sent such a bombshell among his ac- complices; and the dates of his return and arrest remain undiscoverable. M. Campaux plausibly enough opined for the autumn of 1457, which would make him closely follow on Montigny, and the first of those denounced by the Prior to fall into the toils. We may suppose, at least, that it was not long thereafter; we may suppose him competed for between lay and clerical Courts; and we may suppose him alternately pert and impudent, humble and fawning, in his defence. But at the end of all supposing, we come upon some nuggets of fact. For first, he was put to the question by water. He who had tossed off so many cups of white Baigneux or red 1 Cbron. Scand., ut supra. 2 Here and there, principally in the order of events, this article differs from M. Longnon's own reading of his material. The ground on which he defers the execution of Montigny and De Cayeux beyond the date of their trials seems insufficient. There is a law of parsimony for the construction of historical documents; simplicity is the first duty of nar- ration; and hanged they were. 188 FRANCOIS VILLON Beaume, now drank water through linen folds, until his bowels were flooded and his heart stood still. After so much raising of the elbow, so much outcry of fictitious thirst, here at last was enough drinking for a lifetime. Truly, of our pleasant vices, the gods make whips to scourge us. And secondly he was condemned to be hanged. A man may have been expecting a catastrophe for years, and yet find himself unprepared when it ar- rives. Certainly, Villon found, in this legitimate issue of his career, a very staggering and grave consideration. Every beast, as he says, clings bitterly to a whole skin. If everything is lost, and even honour, life still remains ; nay, and it becomes, like the ewe lamb in Nathan's parable, as dear as all the rest. *'Do you fancy," he asks, in a lively ballad, ''that I had not enough philo- sophy under my hood to cry out: ' I appeal ' .? If I had made any bones about the matter, I should have been planted upright in the fields, by the St. Denis Road " — Montfaucon being on the way to St. Denis. An appeal to Parliament, as we saw in the case of Colin de Cayeux, did not necessarily lead to an acquittal or a commuta- tion ; and while the matter was pending, our poet had ample opportunity to reflect on his position. Hanging is a sharp argument, and to swing with many others on the gibbet adds a horrible corollary for the imagination. With the aspect of Montfaucon he was well acquainted ; indeed, as the neighbourhood appears to have been sacred to junketing and nocturnal picnicsofwild young men and women, he had probably studied it under all varieties of hour and weather. And now, as he lay in prison wait- ing the mortal push, these different aspects crowded back on his imagination with a new and startling sig- 189 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS nificance; and he wrote a ballad, by way of epitaph for himself and his companions, which remains unique in the annals of mankind. It is, in the highest sense, a piece of his biography : — " La pluye nous a debuez et lavez, Et le soleil dessechez et noirciz; Pies, corbeaulx, nous ont les yeux cavez, Et arrachez la barbe et les sourcilz. Jamais, nul temps, nous ne sommes rassis; Puis fa, puis la, comme le vent varie, A son plaisir sans cesser nous charie, Plus becquetez d'oiseaulx que dez a couldre. Ne soyez done de nostre confrairie, Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre." Here is some genuine thieves* literature after so much that was spurious ; sharp as an etching, written with a shuddering soul. There is an intensity of consideration in the piece that shows it to be the transcript of familiar thoughts. It is the quintessence of many a doleful nightmare on the straw, when he felt himself swing helpless in the wind, and saw the birds turn about him, screaming and menacing his eyes. And, after all, the Parliament changed his sentence into one of banishment; and to Roussillon, in Dauphiny, our poet must carry his woes without delay. Travellers between Lyons and Marseilles may remember a station on the line, some way below Vienne, where the Rhone fleets seaward between vine-clad hills. This was Vil- lon's Siberia. It would be a little warm in summer perhaps, and a little cold in winter in that draughty valley between two great mountain fields; but what 190 FRANgOIS VILLON with the hills, and the racing river, and the fiery Rhone whines, he was little to be pitied on the conditions of his exile. Villon, in a remarkably bad ballad, written in a breath, heartily thanked and fulsomely belauded the Parliament; the envoi, like the proverbial postscript of a lady's letter, containing the pith of his performance in a request for three days' delay to settle his affairs and bid his friends farewell. He was probably not followed out of Paris, like Antoine Fradin, the popular preacher, another exile of a few years later, by weeping multi- tudes ; 1 but I dare say one or two rogues of his ac- quaintance would keep him company for a mile or so on the south road, and drink a bottle with him before they turned. For banished people, in those days, seem to have set out on their own responsibility, in their own guard, and at their own expense. It was no joke to make one's way from Paris to Roussillon alone and pen- niless in the fifteenth century. Villon says he left a rag of liis tails on every bush. Indeed, he must have had many a weary tramp, many a slender meal, and many a to-do with blustering captains of the Ordonnance. But with one of his light fingers, we may fancy that he took as good as he gave; for every rag of his tail, he would manage to indemnify himself upon the population in the shape of food, or wine, or ringing money ; and his route would be traceable across France and Burgundy by housewives and inn-keepers lamenting over petty thefts, like the track of a single human locust. A strange figure he must have cut in the eyes of the good coun- try people: this ragged, blackguard city poet, with a -smack of the Paris student, and a smack of the Paris 1 Chron. Scand., p. 338. 191 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS Street arab, posting along the highways, in rain or suit, among the green fields and vineyards. For himself, he had no taste for rural loveliness; green fields and vine- yards would be mighty indifferent to Master Francis; but he would often have his tongue in his cheek at the simplicity of rustic dupes, and often, at city gates, he might stop to contemplate the gibbet with its swinging bodies, and hug himself on his escape. How long he stayed at Roussillon, how far he became the protege of the Bourbons, to whom that town be- longed, or when it was that he took part, under the auspices of Charles of Orleans, in a rhyming tournament to be referred to once again in the pages of the present volume, are matters that still remain in darkness, in spite of M. Longnon's diligent rummaging among ar- chives. When we next find him, in summer 146 1, alas! he is once more in durance: this time at Meun- sur-Loire, in the prisons of Thibault d'Aussigny, Bishop of Orleans. He had been lowered in a basket into a noisome pit, where he lay, all summer, gnawing hard crusts and railing upon fate. His teeth, he says, were like the teeth of a rake : a touch of haggard portraiture all the more real for being excessive and burlesque, and all the more proper to the man for being a caricature of his own misery. His eyes were "bandaged with thick walls." It might blow hurricanes overhead; the light- ning might leap in high heaven; but no word of all this reached him in his noisome pit. "11 n'entre, ou gist, n'escler ni tourbillon." Above all, he was fevered with envy and anger at the freedom of others; and his heart flowed over into curses as he thought of Thibault d'Aussigny, walking the streets in God's sunlight, and 19a FRANgOIS VILLON blessing people with extended fingers. So much we find sharply lined in his own poems. Why he was cast again into prison — how he had again managed to shave the gallows — this we know not, nor, from the destruc- tion of authorities, are we ever likely to learn. But on October 2d, 1461, or some day immediately preceding, the new King, Louis Eleventh, made his joyous entry into Meun. Now it was a part of the formality on such occasions for the new King to liberate certain prisoners ; and so the basket was let down into Villon's pit, and hastily did Master Francis scramble in, and was most joyfully hauled up, and shot out, blinking and tottering, but once more a free man, into the blessed sun and wind. Now or never is the time for verses! Such a happy revolution would turn the head of a stocking- weaver, and set him jingling rhymes. And so — after a voyage to Paris, where he finds Montigny and De Cayeux clat- tering their bones upon the gibbet, and his three pupils roystering in Paris streets, *'with their thumbs under their girdles," — down sits Master Francis to write his Large Testament, and perpetuate his name in a sort of glorious ignominy. THE LARGE TESTAMENT Of this capital achievement and, with it, of Villon's style in general, it is here the place to speak. The Large Testament is a hurly-burly of cynical and senti- mental reflections about life, jesting legacies to friends and enemies, and, interspersed among these many ad- mirable ballades, both serious and absurd. With so free a design, no thought that occurred to him would need ^9^ FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS to be dismissed without expression ; and he could draw at full length the portrait of his own bedevilled soul, and of the bleak and blackguardly world which was the theatre of his exploits and sufferings. If the reader can conceive something between the slap-dash inconse- quence of Byron's Don Juan and the racy humorous gravity and brief noble touches that distinguish the ver- nacular poems of Burns, he will have formed some idea of Villon's style. To the latter writer — except in the ballades, which are quite his own, and can be paralleled from no other language known to me — he bears a par- ticular resemblance. In common with Burns he has a certain rugged compression, a brutal vivacity of epithet, a homely vigour, a delight in local personalities, and an interest in many sides of life, that are often despised and passed over by more effete and cultured poets. Both also, in their strong, easy colloquial way, tend to be- come difficult and obscure ; the obscurity in the case of Villon passing at times into the absolute darkness of cant language. They are perhaps the only two great masters of expression who keep sending their readers to a glossary. "Shall we not dare to say of a thief," asks Montaigne, **that he has a handsome leg?" It is a far more seri- ous claim that we have to put forward in behalf of Vil- lon. Beside that of his contemporaries, his writing, so full of colour, so eloquent, so picturesque, stands out in an almost miraculous isolation. If only one or two of the chroniclers could have taken a leaf out of his book, history would have been a pastime, and the fifteenth century as present to our minds as the age of Charles Second. This gallows-bird was the one great writer «94 FRANgOIS VILLON of his age and country, and initiated modern literature for France. Boileau, long ago, in the period of perukes and snuff-boxes, recognised him as the first articulate poet in the language ; and if we measure him, not by priority of merit, but living duration of influence, not on a comparison with obscure forerunners, but with great and famous successors, we shall install this ragged and disreputable figure in a far higher niche in glory's tem- ple than was ever dreamed of by the critic. It is, in it- self, a memorable fact that, before 1542, in the very dawn of printing, and while modern France was in the making, the works of Villon ran through seven different editions. Out of him flows much of Rabelais; and through Rabelais, directly and indirectly, a deep, per- manent, and growing inspiration. Not only his style, but his callous pertinent way of looking upon the sordid and ugly sides of life, becomes every day a more spe- cific feature in the literature of France. And only the other year, a work of some power appeared in Paris, and appeared with infinite scandal, which owed its whole inner significance and much of its outward form to the study of our rhyming thief The world to which he introduces us is, as before said, blackguardly and bleak. Paris swarms before us, full of famine, shame, and death; monks and the servants of great lords hold high wassail upon cakes and pastry; the poor man licks his lips before the baker's window; people with patched eyes sprawl all night under the stalls ; chuckling Tabary transcribes an improper ro- mance; bare-bosomed lasses and ruffling students swag- ger in the streets ; the drunkard goes stumbling home- ward ; the graveyard is full of bones ; and away on >95 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS Montfaucon, Colin de Cayeux and Montigny hang drag- gled in the rain. Is there nothing better to be seen than sordid misery and worthless joys ? Only where the poor old mother of the poet kneels in church below painted windows, and makes tremulous supplication to the Mother of God. In our mixed world, full of green fields and happy lovers, where not long before, Joan of Arc had led one of the highest and noblest lives in the whole story of mankind, this was all worth chronicling that our poet could perceive. His eyes were indeed sealed with his own filth. He dwelt all his life in a pit more noisome than the dungeon at Meun. In the moral world, also, there are large phenomena not cognisable out of holes and corners. Loud winds blow, speeding home deep- laden ships and sweeping rubbish from the earth ; the lightning leaps and cleans the face of heaven; high purposes and brave passions shake and sublimate men's spirits; and meanwhile, in the narrow dungeon of his soul, Villon is mumbling crusts and picking vermin. Along with this deadly gloom of outlook, we must take another characteristic of his work : its unrivalled insincerity. I can give no better similitude of this qual- ity than I have given already : that he comes up with a whine, and runs away with a whoop and his finger to his nose. His pathos is that of a professional mendicant who should happen to be a man of genius; his levity that of a bitter street arab, full of bread. On a first reading, the pathetic passages preoccupy the reader, and he is cheated out of an alms in the shape of sympa- thy. But when the thing is studied the illusion fades 196 FRANgOIS VILLON away : in the transitions, above all, we can detect the evil, ironical temper of the man; and instead of a flighty work, where many crude but genuine feelings tumble together for the mastery as in the lists of tournament, we are tempted to think of the Large Testament as of one long-drawn epical grimace, pulled by a merry-an- drew, who has found a certain despicable eminence over human respect and human affections by perching him- self astride upon the gallows. Between these two views, at best, all temperate judgments will be found to fall; and rather, as I imagine, toward the last. There were two things on which he felt with perfect and, in one case, even threatening sincerity. The first of these was an undisguised envy of those richer than himself. He was forever drawing a parallel, already exemplified from his own words, between the happy life of the well-to-do and the miseries of the poor. Burns, too proud and honest not to work, continued through all reverses to sing of poverty with a light, de- fiant note. Beranger waited till he was himself beyond the reach of want, before writing the Old Vagabond or Jacques. Samuel Johnson, although he was very sorry to be poor, " was a great arguer for the advantages of poverty " in his ill days. Thus it is that brave men carry their crosses, and smile with the fox burrowing in their vitals. But Villon, who had not the courage to be poor with honesty, now whiningly implores our sym- pathy, now shows his teeth upon the dung-heap with an ugly snarl. He envies bitterly, envies passionately. Poverty, he protests, drives men to steal, as hunger makes the wolf sally from the forest. The poor, he goes on, will always have a carping word to say, or, if that 197 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS outlet be denied, nourish rebellious thoughts. It is a calumny on the noble army of the poor. Thousands in a small way of life, ay, and even in the smallest, go through life with tenfold as much honour and dignity and peace of mind, as the rich gluttons whose dainties and state-beds awakened Villon's covetous temper. And every morning's sun sees thousands who pass whistling to their toil. But Villon was the " mauvais pauvre " de- fined by Victor Hugo, and, in its English expression, so admirably stereotyped by Dickens. He was the first wicked sans-culotte. He is the man of genius with the moleskin cap. He is mighty pathetic and beseeching here in the street, but I would not go down a dark road with him for a large consideration. The second of the points on which he was genuine and emphatic was common to the middle ages ; a deep and somewhat snivelling conviction of the transitory nature of this life and the pity and horror of death. Old age and the grave, with some dark and yet half-sceptical terror of an after-world — these were ideas that clung about his bones like a disease. An old ape, as he says, may play all the tricks in its repertory, and none of them will tickle an audience into good humour. ' ' Tous- jours vieil synge est desplaisant. " It is not the old jester who receives most recognition at a tavern party, but the young fellow, fresh and handsome, who knows the new slang, and carries off his vice with a certain air. Of this, as a tavern jester himself, he would be pointedly conscious. As for the women with whom he was best acquainted, his reflections on their old age, in all their harrowing pathos, shall remain in the original for me. Horace has disgraced himself to something the same 198 FRANgOIS VILLON tune ; but what Horace throws out with an ill-favoured laugh, Villon dwells on with an almost maudlin whimper. It is in death that he finds his truest inspiration; in the swift and sorrowful change that overtakes beauty; in the strange revolution by which great fortunes and renowns are diminished to a handful of churchyard dust; and in the utter passing away of what was once lovable and mighty. It is in this that the mixed tex- ture of his thought enables him to reach such poignant and terrible effects, and to enhance pity with ridicule, like a man cutting capers to a funeral march. It is in this, also, that he rises out of himself into the higher spheres of art. So, in the ballade by which he is best known, he rings the changes on names that once stood for beautiful and queenly women, and are now no more than letters and a legend. ' ' Where are the snows of yes- ter year.?" runs the burden. And so, in another not so famous, he passes in review the different degrees of by- gone men, from the holy Apostles and the golden Emperor of the East, down to the heralds, pursuivants, and trum- peters, who also bore their part in the world's pageantries and ate greedily at great folks' tables : all this to the refrain of " So much carry the winds away! " Probably, there was some melancholy in his mind for a yet lower grade, and Montigny and Colin de Cayeux clattering their bones on Paris gibbet. Alas, and with so pitiful an ex- perience of life, Villon can offer us nothing but terror and lamentation about death! No one has ever more skilfully communicated his own disenchantment; no one ever blown a more ear-piercing note of sadness. This unrepentant thief can attain neither to Christian confidence, nor to the spirit of the bright Greek sayings 199 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS that whom the gods love die early. It is a poor heart, and a poorer age, that cannot accept the conditions of life with some heroic readiness. The date of the Large Testament is the last date in the poet's biography. After having achieved that ad- mirable and despicable performance, he disappears into the night from whence he came. How or when he died, whether decently in bed or trussed up to a gal- lows, remains a riddle for foolhardy commentators. It appears his health had suffered in the pit at Meun ; he was thirty years of age and quite bald ; with the notch in his under lip where Sermaise had struck him with the sword, and what wrinkles the reader may imagine. In default of portraits, this is all I have been able to piece together, and perhaps even the baldness should be taken as a figure of his destitution. A sinister dog, in all likelihood, but with a look in his eye, and the loose flexible mouth that goes with wit and an over- weening sensual temperament. Certainly the sorriest figure on the rolls of fame. aoo CHARLES OF ORLEANS FOR one who was no great politician, nor (as men go) especially v/ise, capable or virtuous, Charles of Or- leans is more than usually enviable to all who love that better sort of fame which consists in being known not widely, but intimately. "To be content that time to come should know there was such a man, not caring whether they knew more of him, or to subsist under naked denominations, without deserts or noble acts," is, says Sir Thomas Browne, a frigid ambition. It is to some more specific memory that youth looks forward in its vigils. Old kings are sometimes disinterred in all the emphasis of life, the hands untainted by decay, the beard that had so often wagged in camp or senate still spread upon the royal bosom ; and in busts and pictures, some similitude of the great and beautiful of former days is handed down. In this way, public curiosity may be gratified, but hardly any private aspiration after fame. It is not likely that posterity will fall in love with us, but not impossible that it may respect or sympathise; and so a man would rather leave behind him the por- trait of his spirit than a portrait of his f2ice,Jigura animi magis quam corporis. Of those who have thus sur- vived themselves most completely, left a sort of per- 20 1 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS sonal seduction behind them in the world, and retained, after death, the art of making friends, Montaigne and Samuel Johnson certainly stand first. But we have portraits of all sorts of men, from august Caesar to the king's dwarf; and all sorts of portraits, from a Titian treasured in the Louvre to a profile over the grocer's chimney-shelf. And so in a less degree, but no less truly, than the spirit of Montaigne lives on in the de- lightful Essays, that of Charles of Orleans survives in a few old songs and old account-books ; and it is still in the choice of the reader to make this duke's acquaint- ance, and, if their humours suit, become his friend. His birth — if we are to argue from a man's parents — was above his merit. It is not merely that he was the grandson of one king, the father of another, and the uncle of a third ; but something more specious was to be looked for from the son of his father, Louis de Valois, Duke of Orleans, brother to the mad king Charles VI., lover of Queen Isabel, and the leading patron of art and one of the leading politicians in France. And the poet might have inherited yet higher virtues from his mother, Valentina of Milan, a very pathetic figure of the age, the faithful wife of an unfaithful husband, and the friend of a most unhappy king. The father, beautiful, elo- quent, and accomplished, exercised a strange fascina- tion over his contemporaries; and among those who- dip nowadays into the annals of the time there are not many — and these few are little to be envied — who can resist the fascination of the mother. All mankind owfr 3oa CHARLES OF ORLEANS her a debt of gratitude because she brought some com- fort into the life of the poor madman who wore the crown of France. Born (May 1391) of such a noble stock, Charles was to know from the first all favours of nature and art. His father's gardens were the admiration of his contempora- ries ; his castles were situated in the most agreeable parts of France, and sumptuously adorned. We have pre- served, in an inventory of 1403, the description of tap- estried rooms where Charles may have played in child- hood.i '* A green room, with the ceiling full of angels, and the dossier of shepherds and shepherdesses seeming (faisant contenance) to eat nuts and cherries. A room of gold, silk and worsted, with a device of little children in a river, and the sky full of birds. A room of green tapestry, showing a knight and lady at chess in a pa- vilion. Another green room, with shepherdesses in a trellised garden worked in gold and silk. A carpet representing cherry-trees, where there is a fountain, and a lady gathering cherries in a basin." These were some of the pictures over which his fancy might busy itself of an afternoon, or at morning as he lay awake in bed. With our deeper and more logical sense of life, we can have no idea how large a space in the attention of me- diaeval men might be occupied by such figured hangings on the wall. There was something timid and purblind in the view they had of the world. Morally, they saw nothing outside of traditional axioms ; and little of the physical aspect of things entered vividly into their mind, beyond what was to be seen on church windows and the walls and floors of palaces. The reader will remem* 1 Champollion-Figeac's Louis et Charles d'Orleans, p. 348. 203 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS ber how Villon's mother conceived of heaven and hell and took all her scanty stock of theology from the stained glass that threw its light upon her as she prayed. And there is scarcely a detail of external effect in the chronicles and romances of the time, but might have been borrowed at second hand from a piece of tapestry. It was a stage in the history of mankind which we may see paralleled, to some extent, in the first infant school, where the representations of lions and elephants alter- nate round the wall with moral verses and trite present- ments of the lesser virtues. So that to live in a house of many pictures was tantamount, for the time, to a lib- eral education in itself At Charles's birth an order of knighthood was inaugu- rated in his honour. At nine years old, he was a squire ; at eleven, he had the escort of a chaplain and a school- master; at twelve, his uncle the king made him a pen- sion of twelve thousand livres d'or.^ He saw the most brilliant and the most learned persons of France, in his father's Court; and would not fail to notice that these brilliant and learned persons were one and all engaged in rhyming. Indeed, if it is difficult to realise the part played by pictures, it is perhaps even more difficult to realise that played by verses in the polite and active his- tory of the age. At the siege of Pontoise, English and French exchanged defiant ballads over the walls.^ If a scandal happened, as in the loathsome thirty-third story of the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles, all the wits must make rondels and chansonettes, which they would hand from 1 D'Hericault's admirable Memoir, prefixed to his edition of Charles's works, vol. i. p. xi. 2 Vallet de Viriville, Charles VII. et son Epoque, ii. 428, note a. ao4 CHARLES OF ORLEANS one to another with an unmanly sneer. Ladies carried their favourite's ballades in their girdles. i Margaret of Scotland, all the world knows already, kissed Alain Chartier's lips in honour of the many virtuous thoughts and golden sayings they had uttered ; but it is not so well known, that this princess was herself the most in- dustrious of poetasters, that she is supposed to have hastened her death by her literary vigils, and sometimes wrote as many as twelve rondels in the day.2 It was in rhyme, even, that the young Charles should learn his lessons. He might get all manner of instruction in the truly noble art of the chase, not without a smack of eth- ics by the way, from the compendious didactic poem of Gace de la Bigne. Nay, and it was in rhyme that he should learn rhyming: in the verses of his father's Mattre d'Hotel, Eustache Deschamps, which treated of ** Tart de dictier et de faire chansons, ballades, virelais et ron- deaux," along with many other matters worth attention, from the courts of Heaven to the migovernment of France.' At this rate, all knowledge is to be had in a goody, and the end of it is an old song. We need not wonder when we hear from Monstrelet that Charles was a very well-educated person. He could string Latin texts together by the hour, and make ballades and ron- dels better than Eustache Deschamps himself. He had seen a mad king who would not change his clothes, and a drunken emperor who could not keep his hand from the wine-cup. He had spoken a great deal with jesters and fiddlers, and with the profligate lords who 1 See Lecoy de la Marche, Le Roi Rene, i. 167. 2 Vallet, Charles VII., ii. 85, 86, note 2. 3 Champollion-Figeac, 193-198. 205 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS helped his father to waste the revenues of France. He had seen ladies dance on into broad daylight, and much burning of torches and waste of dainties and good wine.^ And when all is said, it was no very helpful preparation for the battle of life. * ' I believe Louis XI. , " writes Comines, "would not have saved himself, if he had not been very differently brought up from such other lords as I have seen educated in this country ; for these were taught nothing but to play the jackanapes with finery and fine words. "^ I am afraid Charles took such lessons to heart, and conceived of life as a season principally for junketing and war. His view of the whole duty of man, so empty, vain, and wearisome to us, was yet sincerely and consistently held. When he came in his ripe years to compare the glory of two kingdoms, England and France, it was on three points only, — plea- sures, valour, and riches, — that he cared to measure them ; and in the very outset of that tract he speaks of the life of the great as passed, "whether in arms, as in assaults, battles, and sieges, or in jousts and tournaments, in high and stately festivities and in funeral solemnities. " ^ When he was no more than thirteen, his father had him affianced to Isabella, virgin-widow of our Richard ^ Ibid. 209. 2 The student will see that there are facts cited, and expressions bor- rowed, in this paragraph, from a period extending over almost the whole of Charles's life, instead of being confined entirely to his boyhood. As I do not believe there was any change, so I do not believe there is any anachronism involved. 3 The Debate between the Heralds of France and England, trans- lated and admirably edited by Mr. Henry Pyne. For the attribution of this tract to Charles, the reader is referred to Mr. Pyne's conclusive argument. 206 CHARLES OF ORLEANS II. and daughter of his uncle Charles VI. ; and, two years after (June 29, 1406), the cousins were married at Compiegne, he fifteen, she seventeen years of age. It was in every way a most desirable match. The bride brought five hundred thousand francs of dowry. The ceremony was of the utmost magnificence, Louis of Orleans figuring in crimson velvet, adorned with no less than seven hundred and ninety-five pearls, gathered to- gether expressly for this occasion. And no doubt it must have been very gratifying for a young gentleman of fifteen, to play the chief part in a pageant so gaily put upon the stage. Only, the bridegroom might have been a little older; and, as ill-luck would have it, the bride herself was of this way of thinking, and would not be consoled for the loss of her title as queen, or the con- temptible age of her new husband. Pleuroit fort ladite Isabeau; the said Isabella wept copiously.^ It is fairly debatable whether Charles was much to be pitied when, three years later (September 1409), this odd marriage was dissolved by death. Short as it was, however, this connection left a lasting stamp upon his mind; and we find that, in the last decade of his life, and after he had remarried for perhaps the second time, he had not yet forgotten or forgiven the violent death of Richard II. '*Ce mauvais cas" — that ugly business, he writes, has yet to be avenged. The marriage festivity was on the threshold of evil days. The great rivalry between Louis of Orleans and John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, had been for- sworn with the most reverend solemnities. But the feud was only in abeyance, and John of Burgundy still iDes Ursins. 207 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS conspired in secret. On November 23, 1407 — in that black winter when the frost lasted six-and-sixty days on end — a summons from the king reached Louis of Orleans at the Hotel Barbette, where he had been sup- ping with Queen Isabel. It was seven or eight in the evening, and the inhabitants of the quarter were abed. He set forth in haste, accompanied by two squires rid- ing on one horse, a page, and a few varlets running with torches. As he rode, he hummed to himself and trifled with his glove. And so riding, he was beset by the bravoes of his enemy and slain. My lord of Burgundy set an ill precedent in this deed, as he found some years after on the bridge at Montereau ; and even in the mean- time he did not profit quietly by his rival's death. The horror of the other princes seems to have perturbed him- self; he avowed his guilt in the council, tried to brazen it out, finally lost heart and fled at full gallop, cutting bridges behind him, toward Bapaume and Lille. And so there we have the head of one faction, who had just made himself the most formidable man in France, en- gaged in a remarkably hurried journey, with black care on the pillion. And meantime, on the other side, the widowed duchess came to Paris in appropriate mourn- ing, to demand justice for her husband's death. Charles VI., who was then in a lucid interval, did probably all that he could, when he raised up the kneeling suppliant with kisses and smooth words. Things were at a dead- lock. The criminal might be in the sorriest fright, but he was still the greatest of vassals. Justice was easy to ask and not difficult to promise; how it was to be exe- cuted was another question. No one in France was strong enough to punish John of Burgundy ; and perhaps ao8 CHARLES OF ORLEANS no one, except the widow, very sincere in wishing to punish him. She, indeed, was eaten up of zeal ; but the intensity of her eagerness wore her out; and she died about a year after the murder, of grief and indignation, unre- quited love and unsatisfied resentment. It was during the last months of her life that this fiery and generous woman, seeing the soft hearts of her own children, looked with envy on a certain natural son of her hus- band's destined to become famous in the sequel as the Bastard of Orleans, or the brave Dunois. " You were stolen from me/' she said; ''it is you who are fit to avenge your father." These are not the words of or- dinary mourning, or of an ordinary woman. It is a say- ing, over which Balzac would have rubbed his episcopal hands. That the child who was to avenge her husband had not been born out of her body, was a thing intol- erable to Valentina of Milan ; and the expression of this singular and tragic jealousy is preserved to us by a rare chance, in such straightforward and vivid words as we are accustomed to hear only on the stress of actual life, or in the theatre. In history — where we see things as in a glass darkly, and the fashion of former times is brought before us, deplorably adulterated and defaced, fitted to very vague and pompous words, and strained through many men's minds of everything personal or precise — this speech of the widowed duchess startles a reader, somewhat as the footprint startled Robinson Crusoe. A human voice breaks in upon the silence of the study, and the student is aware of a fellow-creature in his world of documents. With such a clue in hand, one may imagine how this wounded lioness would spur and exasperate 209 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS the resentment of her children, and what would be the last words of counsel and command she left behind her. With these instances of his dying mother — almost a voice from the tomb — still tingling in his ears, the posi- tion of young Charles of Orleans, when he was left at the head of that great house, was curiously similar to that of Shakespeare's Hamlet. The times were out of joint ; here was a murdered father to avenge on a pow- erful murderer; and here, in both cases, a lad of inactive disposition born to set these matters right. Valentina's commendation of Dunois involved a judgment on Charles, and that judgment was exactly correct. Who- ever might be, Charles was not the man to avenge his father. Like Hamlet, this son of a dear father murdered was sincerely grieved at heart. Like Hamlet, too, he could unpack his heart with words, and wrote a most eloquent letter to the king, complaining that what was denied to him would not be denied ** to the lowest born and poorest man on earth." Even in his private hours he strove to preserve a lively recollection of his injury, and keep up the native hue of resolution. He had gems engraved with appropriate legends, hortatory or threat- ening: " Dieu le scet," God knows it; or "' Souvenei- vous de — " Remember!^ It is only toward the end that the two stories begin to differ; and in some points the historical version is the more tragic. Hamlet only stabbed a silly old councillor behind the arras ; Charles of Orleans trampled France for five years under the hoofs of his banditti. The miscarriage of Hamlet's ven- geance was confined, at widest, to the palace; the ruin wrought by Charles of Orleans was as broad as France. iMichelet, iv. App. 179, p. 337. 310 CHARLES OF ORLEANS Yet the first act of the young duke is worthy of hon- ourable mention. Prodigal Louis had made enormous debts; and there is a story extant, to illustrate how- lightly he himself regarded these commercial obligations. It appears that Louis, after a narrow escape he made in a thunder-storm, had a smart access of penitence, and announced he would pay his debts on the following Sunday. More than eight hundred creditors presented themselves, but by that time the devil was well again, and they were shown the door with more gaiety than politeness. A time when such cynical dishonesty was possible for a man of culture is not, it will be granted, a fortunate epoch for creditors. When the original debtor was so lax, we may imagine how an heir would deal with the incumbrances of his inheritance. On the death of Philip the Forward, father of that John the Fearless whom we have seen at work, the widow went through the ceremony of a public renunciation of goods ; taking off her purse and girdle, she left them on the grave, and thus, by one notable act, cancelled her husband's debts and defamed his honour. The conduct of young Charles of Orleans was very different. To meet the joint liabil- ities of his father and mother (for Valentina also was lavish), he had to sell or pledge a quantity of jewels ; and yet he would not take advantage of a pretext, even legally valid, to diminish the amount. Thus, one Gode- froi Lefevre, having disbursed many odd sums for the late duke, and received or kept no vouchers, Charles ordered that he should be believed upon his oath.^ To a modern mind this seems as honourable to his father's memory as if John the Fearless had been hanged as high 1 Champollion-Figeac, pp. 279-82. 211 FAMILIAR. STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS as Haman. And as things fell out, except a recantation from the University of Paris, which had justified the murder out of party feeling, and various other purely paper reparations, this was about the outside of what Charles was to effect in that direction. He lived five years, and grew up from sixteen to twenty-one, in the midst of the most horrible civil war, or series of civil wars, that ever devastated France; and from first to last his wars were ill-starred, or else his victories useless. Two years after the murder (March 1409), John the Fearless having the upper hand for the moment, a shameful and useless reconciliation took place, by the king's command, in the church of Our Lady at Chartres. The advocate of the Duke of Burgundy stated that Louis of Orleans had been killed **for the good of the king's person and realm. " Charles and his brothers, with tears of shame, under protest, pour ne pas desobeir au roi, forgave their father's murderer and swore peace upon the missal. It was, as I say, a shameful and useless ceremony; the very greffier, entering it in his register, wrote in the margin, '' Pax, pax, inquit Propheta, et non est pax." ^ Charles was soon after allied with the abominable Bernard d'Armagnac, even betrothed or married to a daughter of his, called by a name that sounds like a contradiction in terms. Bonne d'Armagnac. From that time forth, throughout all this monstrous period — a very nightmare in the history of France — he is no more than a stalking-horse for the ambitious Gascon. Sometimes the smoke lifts, and you can see him for the twinkling of an eye, a very pale figure; at one moment there is a rumour he will be crowned IMichelet, iv. pp. 123-4. 213 CHARLES OF ORLEANS king; at another, when the uproar has subsided, he will be heard still crying out for justice; and the next (14 12), he is showing himself to the applauding populace on the same horse with John of Burgundy. But these are exceptional seasons, and, for the most part, he merely rides at the Gascon's bridle over devastated France. His very party go, not by the name of Orleans, but by the name of Armagnac. Paris is in the hands of the butchers: the peasants have taken to the woods. Al- liances are made and broken as if in a country dance; the English called in, now by this one, now by the other. Poor people sing in church, with white faces and lamentable music : '" Dominejesu, parcepopulo tuo, dirige in viam pacts principes/' And the end and up- shot of the whole affair for Charles of Orleans is another peace with John the Fearless. France is once more tranquil, with the tranquillity of ruin ; he may ride home again to Blois, and look, with what countenance he may, on those gems he had got engraved in the early days of his resentment, '" Souvenei-vous de — " Re- member! He has killed Polonius, to be sure; but the king is never a penny the worse. From the battle of Agincourt (Oct. 141 5) dates the second period of Charles's life. The English reader will remember the name of Orleans in the play of//^«rr K./ and it is at least odd that we can trace a resemblance be- tween the puppet and the original. The interjection, ** I have heard a sonnet begin so to one's mistress " {Act iii. scene 7), may very well indicate one who was ai3 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS already an expert in that sort of trifle ; and the game of proverbs he plays with the Constable in the same scene, would be quite in character for a man who spent many years of his life capping verses with his courtiers. Cer- tainly, Charles was in the great battle with five hundred lances (say, three thousand men), and there he was made prisoner as he led the van. According to one story, some ragged English archer shot him down; and some diligent English Pistol, hunting ransoms on the field of battle, extracted him from under a heap of bodies and retailed him to our King Henry. He was the most important capture of the day, and used with all consid- eration. On the way to Calais, Henry sent him a pres- ent of bread and wine (and bread, you will remember, was an article of luxury in the English camp), but Charles would neither eat nor drink. Thereupon, Henry came to visit him in his quarters. " Noble cousin, " said he, " how are you ? " Charles replied that he was well. '* Why, then, do you neither eat nor drink ? " And then with some asperity, as I imagine, the young duke told him that "truly he had no inclination for food." And our Henry improved the occasion with something of a snuffle, assuring his prisoner that God had fought against the French on account of their manifold sins and transgressions. Upon this there supervened the agonies of a rough sea passage; and many French lords, Charles, certainly, among the number, declared they would rather endure such another defeat than such another sore trial on shipboard. Charles, indeed, never forgot his suffer- ings. Long afterward, he declared his hatred to a sea- faring life, and willingly yielded to England the empire of the seas, ** because there is danger and loss of life, and 214 CHARLES OF ORLEANS God knows what pity when it storms ; and sea-sickness is for many people hard to bear; and the rough life that must be led is little suitable for the nobility : " ^ which, of all babyish utterances that ever fell from any public man, may surely bear the bell. Scarcely disembarked, he followed his victor, with such wry face as we may fancy, through the streets of holiday London. And then the doors closed upon his last day of garish life for more than a quarter of a century. After a boyhood passed in the dissipations of a luxurious court or in the camp of war, his ears still stunned and his cheeks still burning from his enemies' jubilations; out of all this ringing of English bells and singing of English anthems, from among all these shouting citizens in scarlet cloaks, and beautiful virgins attired in white, he passed into the si- lence and solitude of a political prison.^ His captivity was not without alleviations. He was allowed to go hawking, and he found England an ad- mirable country for the sport; he was a favourite with English ladies, and admired their beauty ; and he did not lack for money, wine, or books; he was honourably imprisoned in the strongholds of great nobles, in Wind- sor Castle and the Tower of London. But when all is said, he was a prisoner for five-and-twenty years. For five-and-twenty years he could not go where he would, or do what he liked, or speak with any but his jailers. We may talk very wisely of alleviations ; there is only one alleviation for which the man would thank you : he would thank you to open the door. With what regret Scottish James I. bethought him (in the next room per- haps to Charles) of the time when he rose ''as early as 1 Debate between the Heralds, 2 sir H, Nicholas, Agincourt, 315 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS the day." What would he not have given to wet his boots once more with morning dew, and follow his vagrant fancy among the meadows ? The only allevia- tion to the misery of constraint lies in the disposition of the prisoner. To each one this place of discipline brings his own lesson. It stirs Latude or Baron Trenck into heroic action ; it is a hermitage for pious and conform- able spirits. Beranger tells us he found prison life, with its regular hours and long evenings, both pleasant and profitable. The Pilgrim's Progress and Don Quixote were begun in prison. It was after they were become (to use the words of one of them), "Oh, worst im- prisonment — the dungeon of themselves ! " that Homer and Milton worked so hard and so well for the profit of mankind. In the year 141 5 Henry V. had two dis- tinguished prisoners, French Charles of Orleans and Scottish James I., who whiled away the hours of their captivity with rhyming. Indeed, there can be no better pastime for a lonely man than the mechanical exercise of verse. Such intricate forms as Charles had been used to from childhood, the ballade with its scanty rhymes ; the rondel, with the recurrence first of the whole, then of half the burden, in thirteen verses, seem to have been invented for the prison and the sick-bed. The common Scotch saying, on the sight of anything operose and finical, '* he must have had little to do that made that! " might be put as epigraph on all the song books of old France. Making such sorts of verse belongs to the same class of pleasures as guessing acrostics or ** burying proverbs." It is almost purely formal, almost purely verbal. It must be done gently and gingerly. It keeps the mind occupied a long time, and never so intently as 216 CHARLES OF ORLEANS to be distressing ; for anything like strain is against the very nature of the craft. Sometimes things go easily, the refrains fall into their place as if of their own accord, and it becomes something of the nature of an intellectual tennis; you must make your poem as the rhymes will go, just as you must strike your ball as your adversary played it. So that these forms are suitable rather for those who wish to make verses, than for those who wish to express opinions. Sometimes, on the other hand, difficulties arise : rival verses come into a man's head, and fugitive words elude his memory. Then it is that he enjoys at the same time the deliberate plea- sures of a connoisseur comparing wines, and the ardour of the chase. He may have been sitting all day long in prison with folded hands ; but when he goes to bed, the retrospect will seem animated and eventful. Besides confirming himself as an habitual maker of verses, Charles acquired some new opinions during his captivity. He was perpetually reminded of the change that had befallen him. He found the climate of Eng- land cold and "prejudicial to the human frame;" he had a great contempt for English fruit and English beer; even the coal fires were unpleasing in his eyes."^ He was rooted up from among his friends and customs and the places that had known him. And so in this strange land he began to learn the love of his own. Sad people all the world over are like to be moved when the wind is in some particular quarter. So Burns preferred when it was in the west, and blew to him from his mistress; so the girl in the ballade, looking south to Yarrow, thought it might carry a kiss betwixt 1 Debate between the Heralds. 217 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS her and her gallant; and so we find Charles singing of the "pleasant wind that comes from France."^ One day, at ''Dover-on-the-Sea," he looked across the straits, and saw the sandhills about Calais. And it happened to him, he tells us in a ballade, to remember his happi- ness over there in the past; and he was both sad and merry at the recollection, and could not have his fill of gazing on the shores of France. ^ Although guilty of unpatriotic acts, he had never been exactly unpatriotic in feeling. But his sojourn in England gave, for the time at least, some consistency to what had been a very weak and ineffectual prejudice. He must have been under the influence of more than usually solemn con- siderations, when he proceeded to turn Henry's puritan- ical homily after Agincourt into a ballade, and reproach France, and himself by implication, with pride, gluttony, idleness, unbridled covetousness, and sensuality. ^ For the moment, he must really have been thinking more of France than of Charles of Orleans. And another lesson he learned. He who was only to be released in case of peace, begins to think upon the disadvantages of war. "Pray for peace," is his re- frain : a strange enough subject for the ally of Bernard d'Armagnac* But this lesson was plain and practical; it had one side in particular that was specially attractive for Charles; and he did not hesitate to explain it in so many words. "Everybody," he writes — I translate roughly — "everybody should be much inclined to peace, for everybody has a deal to gain by it." ^ Charles made laudable endeavours to acquire English, 1 Works (ed. d'Hericault), i. 43. ^ Ihid. i. 43. ^ Ibid. 190. ^Ibid. 144. ^ Ibid. 158. ai8 CHARLES OF ORLEANS and even learned to write a rondel in that tongue of quite average mediocrity. i He was for some time bil- leted on the unhappy Suffolk, who received fourteen shillings and fourpence a day for his expenses; and from the fact that Suffolk afterward visited Charles in France while he was negotiating the marriage of Henry VI., as well as the terms of that nobleman's impeach- ment, we may believe there was some not unkindly intercourse between the prisoner and his jailer: a fact of considerable interest when we remember that Suffolk's wife was the granddaughter of the poet Geoffrey Chaucer. 2 Apart from this, and a mere catalogue of dates and places, only one thing seems evident in the story of Charles's captivity. It seems evident that, as these five-and-twenty years drew on, he became less and less resigned. Circumstances were against the growth of such a feeling. One after another of his fel- low-prisoners was ransomed and went home. More than once he was himself permitted to visit France; where he worked on abortive treaties and showed him- self more eager for his own deliverance than for the profit of his native land. Resignation may follow after a reasonable time upon despair; but if a man is perse- cuted by a series of brief and irritating hopes, his mind no more attains to a settled frame of resolution, than his eye would grow familiar with a night of thunder and lightning. Years after, when he was speaking at the trial of that Duke of Alen9on, who began life so 1 M. Champollion-Figeac gives many in his editions of Charles's works, most (as I should think) of very doubtful authenticity, or worse. 2 Rymer, x. 564. D'Hericault's Memoir, p. xli. Gairdner's Paston Letters, i. 27, 99. 319 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS hopefully as the boyish favourite of Joan of Arc, he sought to prove that captivity was a harder punishment than death. "For I have had experience myself," he said; "and in my prison of England, for the weariness, danger, and displeasure in which I then lay, I have many a time wished I had been slain at the battle where they took me."i This is a flourish, if you will, but it is something more. His spirit would sometimes rise up in a fine anger against the petty desires and contra- rieties of life. He would compare his own condition with the quiet and dignified estate of the dead; and aspire to lie among his comrades on the field of Agincourt, as the Psalmist prayed to have the wings of a dove and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea. But such high thoughts came to Charles only in a flash. John the Fearless had been murdered in his turn on the bridge of Montereau so far back as 14 19. His son, Philip the Good — partly to extinguish the feud, partly that he might do a popular action, and partly, in view of his ambitious schemes, to detach another great vas- sal from the throne of France — had taken up the cause of Charles of Orleans, and negotiated diligently for his release. In 1433 a Burgundian embassy was admitted to an interview with the captive duke, in the presence of Suffolk. Charles shook hands most affectionately with the ambassadors. They asked after his health. " I am well enough in body," he replied, "but far from well in mind. I am dying of grief at having to pass the best days of my life in prison, with none to sympathise." The talk falling on the chances of peace, Charles referred to Suffolk if he were not sincere and constant in his en- 1 Champollion-Figeac, 377. 220 CHARLES OF ORLEANS deavours to bring it about. *Mf peace depended on me," he said, *M should procure it gladly, were it to cost me my life seven days after." We may take this as showing what a large price he set, not so much on peace, as on seven days of freedom. Seven days! — he would make them seven years in the employment. Finally, he assured the ambassadors of his good will to Philip of Burgundy ; squeezed one of them by the hand and nipped him twice in the arm to signify things un- speakable before Suffolk ; and two days after sent them Suffolk's barber, one Jean Garnet, a native of Lille, to testify more freely of his sentiments. **As I speak French," said this emissary, **the Duke of Orleans is more familiar with me than with any other of the household; and I can bear witness he never said any- thing against Duke Philip. "^ It will be remembered that this person, with whom he was so anxious to stand well, was no other than his hereditary enemy, the son of his father's murderer. But the honest fellow bore no malice, indeed not he. He began exchanging ballades with Philip, whom he apostrophises as his companion, his cousin, and his brother. He assures him that, soul and body, he is altogether Burgundian; and protests that he has given his heart in pledge to him. Regarded as the history of a vendetta, it must be owned that Charles's life has points of some originality. And yet there is an engaging frankness about these bal- lades which disarms criticism. ^ You see Charles throw- ing himself headforemost into the trap ; you hear Bur- gundy, in his answers, begin to inspire him with his own prejudices, and draw melancholy pictures of the 1 Dom Plancher, iv. 178-9. 2 Works, i. 157-63. FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS misgovernment of France. But Charles's own spirits are so high and so amiable, and he is so thoroughly convinced his cousin is a fine fellow, that one's scruples are carried away in the torrent of his happiness and gratitude. And his would be a sordid spirit who would not clap hands at the consummation (Nov. 1440) ; when Charles, after having sworn on the Sacrament that he would never again bear arms against England, and pledged himself body and soul to the unpatriotic faction in his own country, set out from London with a light heart and a damaged integrity. In the magnificent copy of Charles's poems, given by our Henry VII. to Elizabeth of York on the occasion of their marriage, a large illumination figures at the head of one of the pages, which, in chronological perspective, is almost a history of his imprisonment. It gives a view of London with all its spires, the river passing through the old bridge and busy with boats. One side of the White Tower has been taken out, and we can see, as under a sort of shrine, the paved room where the duke sits writing. He occupies a high-backed bench in front of a great chimney ; red and black ink are before him ; and the upper end of the apartment is guarded by many halberdiers, with the red cross of England on their breast. On the next side of the tower he appears again, leaning out of window and gazing on the river; doubt- less there blows just then "a. pleasant wind from out the land of France," and some ship comes up the river: *'the ship of good news." At the door we find him yet again; this time embracing a messenger, while a groom stands by holding two saddled horses. And yet further to the left, a cavalcade defiles out of the tower; 222 CHARLES OF ORLEANS the duke is on his way at last toward ''the sunshine of France." Ill During the five-and-twenty years of his captivity, Charles had not lost in the esteem of his fellow-coun- trymen. For so young a man, the head of so great a house, and so numerous a party, to be taken prisoner as he rode in the vanguard of France, and stereotyped for all men in this heroic attitude, was to taste untime- ously the honours of the grave. Of him, as of the dead, it would be ungenerous to speak evil ; what little energy he had displayed would be remembered with piety, when all that he had done amiss was courteously for- gotten. As English folk looked for Arthur; as Danes awaited the coming of Ogier; as Somersetshire peasants or sergeants of the Old Guard expected the return of Monmouth or Napoleon ; the countrymen of Charles of Orleans looked over the straits toward his English prison with desire and confidence. Events had so fallen out while he was rhyming ballades, that he had become the type of all that was most truly patriotic. The rem- nants of his old party had been the chief defenders of the unity of France. His enemies of Burgundy had been notoriously favourers and furtherers of English domina- tion. People forgot that his brother still lay by the heels for an unpatriotic treaty with England, because Charles himself had been taken prisoner patriotically fighting against it. That Henry V. had left special orders against his liberation, served to increase the wistful pity with Avhich he was regarded. And when, in defiance of all contemporary virtue, and against express pledges, the 2^3 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS English carried war into their prisoner's fief, not only France, but all thinking men in Christendom, were roused to indignation against the oppressors, and sym- pathy with the victim. It was little wonder if he came to bulk somewhat largely in the imagination of the best of those at home. Charles le Boutteillier, when (as the story goes) he slew Clarence at Beauge, was only seek- ing an exchange for Charles of Orleans. ^ It was one of Joan of Arc's declared intentions to deliver the captive duke. If there was no other way, she meant to cross the seas and bring him home by force. And she pro- fessed before her judges a sure knowledge that Charles of Orleans was beloved of God.2 Alas! it was not at all as a deliverer that Charles re- turned to France. He was nearly fifty years old. Many changes had been accomplished since, at twenty-three, he was taken on the field of Agincourt. But of all these he was profoundly ignorant, or had only heard of them in the discoloured reports of Philip of Burgundy. He had the ideas of a former generation, and sought to cor- rect them by the scandal of a factious party. With such qualifications he came back eager for the domination, the pleasures, and the display that befitted his princely birth. A long disuse of all political activity combined with the flatteries of his new friends to fill him with aa overweening conceit of his own capacity and influence. If aught had gone wrong in his absence, it seemed quite natural men should look to him for its redress. Was not King Arthur come again ? The Duke of Burgundy received him with politic 1 Vallet's Charles VII,, i. 25 1 . ^ Proems de Jeanne d'Arc, i. 133-55. 224 CHARLES OF ORLEANS honours. He took his guest by his foible for pageantry, all the easier as it was a foible of his own ; and Charles walked right out of prison into much the same atmos- phere of trumpeting and bell-ringing as he had left be- hind when he went in. Fifteen days after his deliver- ance he was married to Mary of Cleves, at St. Omer. The marriage was celebrated with the usual pomp of the Burgundian court; there were joustings, and illumina- tions, and animals that spouted wine; and many nobles dined together, comme en brigade, and were served abundantly with many rich and curious dishes. ^ It must have reminded Charles not a little of his first mar- riage at Compiegne; only then he was two years the junior of his bride, and this time he was five-and-thirty years her senior. It will be a fine question which mar- riage promises more: for a boy of fifteen to lead off with a lass of seventeen, or a man of fifty to make a match of it with a child of fifteen. But there was something bitter in both. The lamentations of Isabella will not have been forgotten. As for Mary, she took up with one Jaquet de la Lain, a sortof muscular Methody of the period, with a huge appetite for tournaments, and a habit of confessing himself the last thing before he went to bed. 2 With such a hero, the young duchess's amours were most likely innocent; and in all other ways she was a suitable partner for the duke, and well fitted to en- ter into his pleasures. When the festivities at St. Omer had come to an end, Charles and his wife set forth by Ghent and Tournay. 1 Monstrelet. 2 Vallet's Charles FIL, iii . chap, i. But see the chronicle that bears Jaquet's name: a lean and dreary book, 225 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS The towns gave him offerings of money as he passed through, to help in the payment of his ransom. From all sides, ladies and gentlemen thronged to offer him their services; some gave him their sons for pages, some archers for a bodyguard; and by the time he reached Tournay, he had a following of 300 horse. Ev- erywhere he was received as though he had been the King of France.^ If he did not come to imagine himself something of the sort, he certainly forgot the existence of any one with a better claim to the title. He con- ducted himself or^ the hypothesis that Charles VII. was another Charles VI. He signed with enthusiasm that treaty of Arras, which left France almost at the dis- cretion of Burgundy. On December 18 he was still no farther than Bruges, where he entered into a private treaty with Philip; and it was not until January 14, ten weeks after he disembarked in France, and attended by a ruck of Burgundian gentlemen, that he arrived in Paris and offered to present himself before Charles VII. The king sent word that he might come, if he would, with a small retinue, but not with his present following; and the duke, who was mightily on his high horse after all the ovations he had received, took the king's attitude amiss, and turned aside into Touraine, to receive more welcome and more presents, and be convoyed by torch- light into faithful cities. And so you see, here was King Arthur home again, and matters nowise mended in consequence. The best we can say is, that this last stage of Charles's public life was of no long duration. His confidence was soon knocked out of him in the contact with others. He be* 1 Monstrelet. 326 CHARLES OF ORLEANS gan to find he was an earthen vessel among many ves- sels of brass ; he began to be shrewdly aware that he was no King Arthur. In 144^, at Limoges, he made himself the spokesman of the malcontent nobility. The king showed himself humiliatingly indifferent to his counsels, and humiliatingly generous toward his necess- ities. And there, with some blushes, he may be said to have taken farewell of the political stage. A feeble at- tempt on the county of Asti is scarce worth the name of exception. Thenceforward let Ambition wile whom she may into the turmoil of events, our duke will walk cannily in his well-ordered garden, or sit by the fire to touch the slender reed.^ IV If it were given each of us to transplant his life where- ever he pleased in time or space, with all the ages and all the countries of the world to choose from, there would be quite an instructive diversity of taste. A cer- tain sedentary majority would prefer to remain where they were. Many would choose the Renaissance; many some stately and simple period of Grecian life; and still more elect to pass a few years wandering among the villages of Palestine with an inspired con- ductor. For some of our quaintly vicious contempora- ries, we have the decline of the Roman Empire and the reign of Henry III. of France. But there are others not quite so vicious, who yet cannot look upon the world with perfect gravity, who have never taken the cate- gorical imperative to wife, and have more taste for what is comfortable than for what is magnanimous and high; 1 D'Hericault's Memoir, xl. xli. Vallet, Charles l^I,, ii. 435. 227 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS and I can imagine some of these casting their lot in the Court of Biois during the last twenty years of the life of Charles of Orleans. The duke and duchess, their staff of officers and ladies, and the high-born and learned persons who were at- tracted to Blois on a visit, formed a society for killing time and perfecting each other in various elegant accom- plishments, such as we might imagine for an ideal watering-place in the Delectable Mountains. The com- pany hunted and went on pleasure-parties ; they played chess, tables, and many other games. What we now call the history of the period passed, I imagine, over the heads of these good people much as it passes over our own. News reached them, indeed, of great and joyful import. William Peel received eight livres and five sous from the duchess, when he brought the first tidings that Rouen was recaptured from the English.^ A little later and the duke sang, in a truly patriotic vein, the deliver- ance of Guyenne and Normandy.^ They were liberal of rhymes and largesse, and welcomed the prosperity of their country much as they welcomed the coming of spring, and with no more thought of collaborating to- ward the event. Religion was not forgotten in the Court of Blois. Pilgrimages were agreeable and picturesque excursions. In those days a well-served chapel was something like a good vinery in our own, an opportu- nity for display and the source of mild enjoyments. There was probably something of his rooted delight in pageantry, as well as a good deal of gentle piety, in the feelings with which Charles gave dinner every Friday to thirteen poor people, served them himself, and washed 1 ChampoUion-Figeac, 368. 2 Works, i. 115. 228 CHARLES OF ORLEANS their feet with his own hands. ^ Solemn affairs would interest Charles and his courtiers from their trivial side. The duke perhaps cared less for the deliverance of Guy- enne and Normandy than for his own verses on the oc- casion; just as Dr. Russell's correspondence in The Times was among the most material parts of the Cri- mean War for that talented correspondent. And I think it scarcely cynical to suppose that religion as well as patriotism was principally cultivated as a means of fill- ing up the day. It was not only messengers fiery red with haste and charged with the destiny of nations, who were made welcome at the gates of Blois. If any man of accom- plishment came that way, he was sure of an audience, and something for his pocket. The courtiers would have received Ben Jonson like Drummond of Hawthorn- den, and a good pugilist like Captain Barclay. They were catholic, as none but the entirely idle can be cath- olic. It might be Pierre, called Dieu d'amours, the jug- gler; or it might be three high English minstrels ; or the two men, players of ghitterns, from the kingdom of Scotland, who sang the destruction of the Turks; or again Jehan Rognelet, player of instruments of music, who played and danced with his wife and two children ; they would each be called into the castle to give a taste of his proficiency before my lord the duke.^ Sometimes the performance was of a more personal interest, and produced much the same sensations as are felt on an English green on the arrival of a professional cricketer, or round an English billiard table during a match be- 1 D'Hericault's Memoir, xlv. 2 Champollion-Figeac, 381, 361, 381. 229 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS tween Roberts and Cooke. This was when Jehan Ndgre, the Lombard, came to Blois and played chess against all these chess-players, and won much money from my lord and his intimates; or when Baudet Harenc of Chalons made ballades before all these ballade-makers.^ It will not surprise the reader to learn they were all makers of ballades and rondels. To write verses for May day, seems to have been as much a matter of course, as to ride out with the cavalcade that went to gather hawthorn. The choice of Valentines was a standing challenge, and the courtiers pelted each other with hu- morous and sentimental verses as in a literary carnival. If an indecorous adventure befell our friend Maistre Es- tienne le Gout, my lord the duke would turn it into the funniest of rondels, all the rhymes being the names of the cases of nouns or the moods of verbs ; and Maistre Estienne would make reply in similar fashion, seeking to prune the story of its more humiliating episodes. If Fredet was too long away from Court, a rondel went to upbraid him ; and it was in a rondel that Fredet would excuse himself. Sometimes two or three, or as many as a dozen, would set to work on the same refrain, the same idea, or in the same macaronic jargon. Some of the poetasters were heavy enough; others were not wanting in address ; and the duchess herself was among those who most excelled. On one occasion eleven com- petitors made a ballade on the idea, " I die of thirst beside the fountain's edge" (Je meurs de soif empres de la fontaine). These eleven ballades still exist; and one of them arrests the attention rather from the name of the author than 1 ChampoUion-Figeac, 359, 361. 230 CHARLES OF ORLEANS from any special merit in itself. K purports to be the work of Francois Villon ; and so far as a foreigner can judge (which is indeed a small way), it may very well be his. Nay, and if any one thing is more probable than another, in the great tabula rasa, or unknown land, which we are fain to call the biography of Villon, it seems probable enough that he may have gone upon a visit to Charles of Orleans. Where Master Baudet Harenc, of Chalons, found a sympathetic, or perhaps a derisive audience (for who can tell nowadays the degree of Baudet's excellence in his art ?), favour would not be wanting for the greatest ballade-maker of all time. Great as would seem the incongruity, it may have pleased Charles to own a sort of kinship with ragged singers, and whimsically regard himself as one of the confraternity of poets. And he would have other grounds of intimacy with Villon. A room looking upon Windsor gardens is a different matter from Villon's dungeon at Meun; yet each in his own degree had been tried in prison. Each in his own way also, loved the good things of this life and the service of the Muses. But the same gulf that separated Burns from his Edinburgh patrons would separate the singer of Bohemia from the rhyming duke. And it is hard to imagine that Villon's training among thieves, loose women, and vagabond students, had fitted him to move in a society of any dignity and courtliness. Ballades are very admirable things ; and a poet is doubtless a most interesting visitor. But among the courtiers of Charles, there would be con- siderable regard for the proprieties of etiquette; and even a duke will sometimes have an eye to his teaspoons. Moreover, as a poet, I can conceive he may have disap- 331 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS pointed expectation. It need surprise nobody if Villon's ballade on the theme, * "I die of thirst beside the fountain's edge," was but a poor performance. He would make better verses on the lee-side of a flagon at the sign of the Pomme du Pin, than in a cushioned settle in the halls of Blois. Charles liked change of place. He was often, not so much travelling as making a progress; now to join the king for some great tournament; now to visit King Rene, at Tarascon, where he had a study of his own and saw all manner of interesting things — oriental curios. King Rene painting birds, and, what particularly pleased him, Triboulet, the dwarf jester, whose skull- cap was no bigger than an orange. ^ Sometimes the journeys were set about on horseback in a large party, with the fourriers sent forward to prepare a lodging at the next stage. We find almost Gargantuan details of the provision made by these officers against the duke's arrival, of eggs and butter and bread, cheese and peas and chickens, pike and bream and barbel, and wine both white and red.^ Sometimes he went by water in a barge, playing chess or tables with a friend in the pa- vilion, or watching other vessels as they went before the wind.3 Children ran along the bank, as they do to this day on the Crinan Canal ; and when Charles threw in money, they would dive and bring it up.* As he 1 Lecoy de la Marche, Roy Rene, ii. 155, 177. 2 Champollion-Figeac, chaps, v. and vi. 8 Ibid., 364; Works, i. 172. "* Champollion-Figeac, 364: "Jeter de I'argent aux petis enfans qui cstoient au long de Bourbon, pour les faire nonner en Teau et aller querre I'argent au fond. " 232 CHARLES OF ORLEANS looked on at their exploits, I wonder whether that room of gold and silk and worsted came back into his memory, with the device of little children in a river, and the sky full of birds ? He was a bit of a book-fancier, and had vied with his brother Angouleme in bringing back the library of their grandfather Charles V., when Bedford put it up for sale in London."^ The duchess had a library of her own; and we hear of her borrowing romances from ladies in at- tendance on the blue stocking Margaret of Scotland. ^ Not only were books collected, but new books were written at the Court of Blois. The widow of one Jean Fougere, a bookbinder, seems to have done a number of odd commissions for the bibliophilous count. She it was who received three vellum-skins to bind the duch- ess's Book of Hours, and who was employed to prepare parchment for the use of the duke's scribes. And she it was who bound in vermilion leather the great manu- script of Charles's own poems, which was presented to him by his secretary, Anthony Astesan, with the text in one column, and Astesan's Latin version in the other.^ Such tastes, with the coming of years, would doubt- less take the place of many others. We find in Charles's verse much semi-ironical regret for other days, and resignation to growing infirmities. He who had been ''nourished in the schools of love," now sees nothing either to please or displease him. Old age has impris- oned him within doors, where he means to take his 1 Champollion-Figeac, 387. ^Nouvelle Biographie Didot, art. "Marie de Cleves." Vallet, Charles VII., iii. 85, note i. 8 Champollion-Figeac, 383, 384-386. 333 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS ease, and let younger fellows bestir themselves in life. He had written (in earlier days, we may presume) a bright and defiant little poem in praise of solitude. If they would but leave him alone with his own thoughts and happy recollections, he declared it was beyond the power of melancholy to affect him. But now, when his animal strength has so much declined that he sings the discomforts of winter instead of the inspirations of spring, and he has no longer any appetite for life, he confesses he is wretched when alone, and, to keep his mind from grievous thoughts, he must have many peo- ple around him, laughing, talking, and singing.^ While Charles was thus falling into years, the order of things, of which he was the outcome and ornament, was growing old along with him. The semi-royalty of the princes of the blood was already a thing of the past; and when Charles VII. was gathered to his fathers, a new king reigned in France, who seemed every way the opposite of royal. Louis XI. had aims that were incom- prehensible, and virtues that were inconceivable to his contemporaries. But his contemporaries were able enough to appreciate his sordid exterior, and his cruel and treacherous spirit. To the whole nobility of France he was a fatal and unreasonable phenomenon. All such courts as that of Charles at Blois, or his friend Rene's in Provence, would soon be made impossible ; interference was the order of the day; hunting was already abol- ished; and who should say what was to go next? Louis, in fact, must have appeared to Charles primarily in the light of a kill-joy. I take it, when missionaries land in South Sea Islands and lay strange embargo on 1 Works, ii. 57, 258. 334 CHARLES OF ORLEANS the simplest things in life, the islanders will not be much more puzzled and irritated than Charles of Orleans at the policy of the Eleventh Louis. There was one thing, I seem to apprehend, that had always particularly moved him ; and that was, any proposal to punish a person of his acquaintance. No matter what treason he may have made or meddled with, an Alen^on or an Armagnac was sure to find Charles reappear from private life, and do his best to get him pardoned. He knew them quite well. He had made rondels with them. They were charming people in every way. There must certainly be some mistake. Had not he himself made anti-na- tional treaties almost before he was out of his nonage ? And for the matter of that, had not every one else done the like ? Such are some of the thoughts by which he might explain to himself his aversion to such extremi- ties ; but it was on a deeper basis that the feeling proba- bly reposed. A man of his temper could not fail to be impressed at the thought of disastrous revolutions in the fortunes of those he knew. He would feel painfully the tragic contrast, when those who had everything to make life valuable were deprived of life itself. And it was shocking to the clemency of his spirit, that sinners should be hurried before their Judge without a fitting interval for penitence and satisfaction. It was this feel- ing which brought him at last, a poor, purblind blue- bottle of the later autumn, into collision with **the uni- versal spider," Louis XI. He took up the defence of the Duke of Brittany at Tours. But Louis was then in no humour to hear Charles's texts and Latin sentiments; he had his back to the wall, the future of France was at stake; and if all the old men in the world had 233 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS crossed his path, they would have had the rough side of his tongue like Charles of Orleans. I have found no- where what he said, but it seems it was monstrously to the point, and so rudely conceived that the old duke never recovered the indignity. He got home as far as Amboise, sickened, and died two days after (Jan. 4, 1465), in the seventy-fourth year of his age. And so a whiff of pungent prose stopped the issue of melodious rondels to the end of time. The futility of Charles's public life was of a piece throughout. He never succeeded in any single purpose he set before him; for his deliverance from England, after twenty-five years of failure and at the cost of dig- nity and consistency, it would be ridiculously hyperbol- ical to treat as a success. During the first part of his life he was the stalking horse of Bernard d'Armagnac; dur- ing the second, he was the passive instrument of Eng- lish diplomatists ; and before he was well entered on the third, he hastened to become the dupe and catspaw of Burgundian treason. On each of these occasions, a strong and not dishonourable personal motive deter- mined his behaviour. In 1407 and the following years, he had his father's murder uppermost in his mind. Dur- ing his English captivity, that thought was displaced by a more immediate desire for his own liberation. In 1440 a sentiment of gratitude to Philip of Burgundy blinded him to all else, and led him to break with the tradition of his party and his own former life. He was born a great vassal, and he conducted himself like a private 2^6 CHARLES OF ORLEANS gentleman. He began life in a showy and brilliant enough fashion, by the light of a petty personal chivalry. He was not without some tincture of patriotism ; but it was resolvable into two parts: a preference for life among his fellow-countrymen, and a barren point of honour. In England, he could comfort himself by the reflection that *'he had been taken while loyally doing his devoir," without any misgiving as to his conduct in the previous years, when he had prepared the disaster of Agincourt by wasteful feud. This unconsciousness of the larger interests is perhaps most happily exampled out of his own mouth. When Alen9on stood accused of betraying Normandy into the hands of the English, Charles made a speech in his defence, from which I have already quoted more than once. Alen^on, he said, had professed a great love and trust toward him; ''yet did he give no great proof thereof, when he sought to be- tray Normandy ; whereby he would have made me lose an estate of 10,000 livres a year, and might have occa- sioned the destruction of the kingdom and of all us Frenchmen." These are the words of one, mark you, against whom Gloucester warned the English Council because of his "great subtility and cautelous disposi- tion." It is not hard to excuse the impatience of Louis XL, if such stuff was foisted on him by way of political deliberation. This incapacity to see things with any greatness, this obscure and narrow view, was fundamentally charac- teristic of the man as well as of the epoch. It is not even so striking in his public life, where he failed, as in his poems, where he notably succeeded. For wherever we might expect a poet to be unintelligent, it certainly 237 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS would not be in his poetry. And Charles is unintelli- gent even there. Of all authors whom a modern may still read and read over again with pleasure, he has per- haps the least to say. His poems seem to bear testi- mony rather to the fashion of rhyming, which distin- guished the age, than to any special vocation in the man himself. Some of them are drawing-room exer- cises, and the rest seem made by habit. Great writers are struck with something in nature or society, with which they become pregnant and longing; they are pos- sessed with an idea, and cannot be at peace until they have put it outside of them in some distinct embodi- ment. ' But with Charles literature was an object rather than a mean; he was one who loved bandying words for its own sake; the rigidity of intricate metrical forms stood him in lieu of precise thought ; instead of commu- nicating truth, he observed the laws of a game; and when he had no one to challenge at chess or rackets, he made verses in a wager against himself. From the very idleness of the man's mind, and not from intensity of feeling, it happens that all his poems are more or less autobiographical. But they form an autobiography sin- gularly bald and uneventful. Little is therein recorded beside sentiments. Thoughts, in any true sense, he had none to record. And if we can gather that he had been a prisoner in England, that he had lived in the Orlean- nese, and that he hunted and went in parties of pleas- ure, 1 believe it is about as much definite experience as is to be found in all these five hundred pages of autobi- ographical verse. Doubtless, we find here and there a complaint on the progress of the infirmities of age. Doubtless, he feels the great change of the year, and 238 CHARLES OF ORLEANS distinguishes winter from spring ; winter as the time of snow and the fireside; spring as the return of grass and flowers, the time of St. Valentine's day and a beating heart. And he feels love after a fashion. Again and again, we learn that Charles of Orleans is in love, and hear him ring the changes through the whole gamut of dainty and tender sentiment. But there is never a spark of passion ; and heaven alone knows whether there was any real woman in the matter, or the whole thing was an exercise in fancy. If these poems were indeed in- spired by some living mistress, one would think he had never seen, never heard, and never touched her. There is nothing in any one of these so numerous love-songs to indicate who or what the lady was. Was she dark or fair, passionate or gentle like himself, witty or sim- ple ? Was it always one woman ? or are there a dozen here immortalised in cold indistinction ? The old Eng- lish translator mentions grey eyes in his version of one of the amorous rondels ; so far as I remember, he was driven by some emergency of the verse ; but in the ab- sence of all sharp lines of character and anything spe- cific, we feel for the moment a sort of surprise, as though the epithet were singularly happy and unusual, or as though we had made our escape from cloudland into something tangible and sure. The measure of Charles's indifference to all that now preoccupies and excites a poet, is best given by a positive example. If, besides the coming of spring, any one external circumstance may be said to have struck his imagination, it was the despatch of fourrters, while on a journey, to prepare the night's lodging. This seems to be his favourite im- age ; it appears like the upas-tree in the early work of 239 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS Coleridge: we may judge with what childish eyes he looked upon the world, if one of the sights which most impressed him was that of a man going to order dinner. Although they are not inspired by any deeper motive than the common run of contemporaneous drawing- room verses, those of Charles of Orleans are executed with inimitable lightness and delicacy of touch. They deal with floating and colourless sentiments, and the writer is never greatly moved, but he seems always genuine. He makes no attempt to set off thin concep- tions with a multiplicity of phrases. His ballades are generally thin and scanty of import; for the ballade pre- sented too large a canvas, and he was preoccupied by technical requirements. But in the rondel he has put himself before all competitors by a happy knack and a prevailing distinction of manner. He is very much more of a duke in his verses than in his absurd and inconse- quential career as a statesman; and how he shows him- self a duke is precisely by the absence of all pretension, turgidity, or emphasis. He turns verses, as he would have come into the king's presence, with a quiet accom- plishment of grace. Theodore de Banville, the youngest poet of a famous generation now nearly extinct, and himself a sure and finished artist, knocked off, in his happiest vein, a few experiments in imitation of Charles of Orleans. I would recommend these modern rondels to all who care about the old duke, not only because they are delightful in themselves, but because they serve as a contrast to throw into relief the peculiarities of their model. When De Banville revives a forgotten form of verse — and he has already had the honour of reviving the ballade — he 240 CHARLES OF ORLEANS does it in the spirit of a workman choosing a good tool wherever he can find one, and not at all in that of the dilettante, who seeks to renew bygone forms of thought and make historic forgeries. With the ballade this seemed natural enough ; for in connection with ballades the mind recurs to Villon, and Villon was almost more of a modern than De Banville himself But in the case of the rondel, a comparison is challenged with Charles of Orleans, and the difference between two ages and two literatures is illustrated in a few poems of thirteen lines. Something, certainly, has been retained of the old movement; the refrain falls in time like a well- played bass; and the very brevity of the thing, by hampering and restraining the greater fecundity of the modern mind, assists the imitation. But De Banville's poems are full of form and colour; they smack racily of modern life, and own small kindred with the verse of other days, when it seems as if men walked by twilight, seeing little, and that with distracted eyes, and instead of blood, some thin and spectral fluid circulated in their veins. They might gird themselves for battle, make love, eat and drink, and acquit themselves manfully in all the external parts of life ; but of the life that is within, and those processes by which we render ourselves an intelligent account of what we feel and do, and so rep- resent experience that we for the first time make it ours, they had only a loose and troubled possession. They beheld or took part in great events, but there was no answerable commotion in their reflective being; and they passed throughout turbulent epochs in a sort of ghostly quiet and abstraction. Feeling seems to have been strangely disproportioned to the occasion, and words 241 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS were laughably trivial and scanty to set forth the feeling even such as it was. Juvenal des Ursins chronicles calamity after calamity, with but one comment for them all: that "it was great pity." Perhaps, after too much of our florid literature, we find an adventitious charm in what is so different; and while the big drums are beaten every day by perspiring editors over the loss of a cock-boat or the rejection of a clause, and nothing is heard that is not proclaimed with sound of trumpet, it is not wonderful if we retire with pleasure into old books, and listen to authors who speak small and clear, as if in a private conversation. Truly this is so with Charles of Orleans. We are pleased to find a small man without the buskin, and obvious sentiments stated without affectation. If the sentiments are obvious, there is all the more chance we may have experienced the like. As we turn over the leaves, we may find ourselves in sympathy with some one or other of these staid joys and smiling sorrows. If we do we shall be strangely pleased, for there is a genuine pathos in these simple words, and the lines go with a lilt, and sing themselves to music of their own. SAMUEL PEPYS IN two books a fresh light has recently been thrown on the character and position of Samuel Pepys. Mr. Mynors Bright has given us a new transcription of the Diary, increasing it in bulk by near a third, correcting many errors, and completing our knowledge of the man in some curious and important points. We can only regret that he has taken liberties with the author and the public. It is no part of the duties of the editor of an established classic to decide what may or may not be "tedious to the reader." The book is either an his- torical document or not, and in condemning Lord Bray- brooke Mr. Bright condemns himself As for the time-honored phrase, "unfit for publication," without being cynical, we may regard it as the sign of a precau- tion more or less commercial; and we may think, with- out being sordid, that when we purchase six huge and distressingly expensive volumes, we are entitled to be treated rather more like scholars and rather less like children. But Mr. Bright may rest assured : while we complain, we are still grateful. Mr. Wheatley, to divide our obligation, brings together, clearly and with no lost words, a body of illustrative material. Sometimes we might ask a little more ; never, I think, less. And as a 243 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS matter of fact, a great part of Mr. • Wheatley's volume might be transferred, by a good editor of Pepys, to the margin of the text, for it is precisely what the reader wants. In the light of these two books, at least, we have now to read our author. Between them they contain all we can expect to learn for, it may be, many years. Now, if ever, we should be able to form some notion of that unparalleled figure in the annals of mankind — unparal- leled for three good reasons : first, because he was a man known to his contemporaries in a halo of almost histor- ical pomp, and to his remote descendants with an in- decent familiarity, like a tap-room comrade; second, because he has outstripped all competitors in the art or virtue of a conscious honesty about oneself; and, third, because, being in many ways a very ordinary person, he has yet placed himself before the public eye with such a fulness and such an intimacy of detail as might be en- vied by a genius like Montaigne. Not then for his own sake only, but as a character in a unique position, en- dowed with a unique talent, and shedding a unique light upon the lives of the mass of mankind, he is surely worthy of prolonged and patient study. THE DIARY That there should be such a book as Pepys's Diary is incomparably strange. Pepys, in a corrupt and idle period, played the man in public employments, toiling hard and keeping his honour bright. Much of the little good that is set down to James the Second comes by right to Pepys ; and if it were little for a king, it is much H4 SAMUEL PEPYS for a subordinate. To his clear, capable head was ow- ing somewhat of the greatness of England on the seas. In the exploits of Hawke, Rodney, or Nelson, this dead Mr. Pepys of the Navy Office had some considerable share. He stood well by his business in the appalling plague of 1666. He was loved and respected by some of the best and wisest men in England. He was Pres- ident of the Royal Society ; and when he came to die, people said of his conduct in that solemn hour — think- ing it needless to say more — that it was answerable to the greatness of his life. Thus he walked in dignity, guards of soldiers sometimes attending him in his walks, subalterns bowing before his periwig ; and when he ut- tered his thoughts they were suitable to his state and services. On February 8, 1668, we find him writing to Evelyn, his mind bitterly occupied with the late Dutch war, and some thoughts of the different story of the re- pulse of the Great Armada: "Sir, you will not wonder at the backwardness of my thanks for the present you made me, so many days since, of the Prospect of the Medway, while the Hollander rode master in it, when I have told you that the sight of it hath led me to such reflections on my particular interest, by my employment, in the reproach due to that miscarriage, as have given me little less disquiet than he is fancied to have who found his face in Michael Angelo's hell. The same should serve me also in excuse for my silence in cele- brating your mastery shown in the design and draught, did not indignation rather than courtship urge me so far to commend them, as to wish the furniture of our House of Lords changed from the story of '88 to that of ^67 (of Evelyn's designing), till the pravity of this were 245 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS reformed to the temper of that age, wherein God Al- mighty found his blessings more operative than, I fear^ he doth in ours his judgments." This is a letter honourable to the writer, where the meaning rather than the words is eloquent. Such was the account he gave of himself to his contemporaries; such thoughts he chose to utter, and in such language: giving himself out for a grave and patriotic public ser- vant. We turn to the same date in the Diary by which he is known, after two centuries, to his descendants. The entry begins in the same key with the letter, blam- ing the * * madness of the House of Commons " and * * the base proceedings, just the epitome of all our public pro- ceedings in this age, of the House of Lords; " and then, without the least transition, this is how our diarist pro- ceeds: *'To the Strand, to my bookseller's, and there bought an idle, rogueish French book, L'cscholle des Filles, which I have bought in plain binding, avoiding the buying of it better bound, because I resolve, as soon as I have read it, to burn it, that it may not stand in the list of books, nor among them, to disgrace them, if it should be found." Even in our day, when responsi- bility is so much more clearly apprehended, the man who wrote the letter would be notable ; but what about the man, I do not say who bought a roguish book, but who was ashamed of doing so, yet did it, and recorded both the doing and the shame in the pages of his daily journal } We all, whether we write or speak, must somewhat drape ourselves when we address our fellows ; at a given moment we apprehend our character and acts by some par- ticular side; we are merry with one, grave with another, 146 SAMUEL PEPYS as befits the nature and demands of the relation. Pepys's letter to Evelyn would have little in common with that other one to Mrs. Knipp which he signed by the pseu- donym of Dapper Dicky ; yet each would be suitable to the character of his correspondent. There is no untruth in this, for man, being a Protean animal, swiftly shares and changes with his company and surroundings ; and these changes are the better part of his education in the world. To strike a posture once for all, and to march through life like a drum-major, is to be highly disagree- able to others and a fool for oneself into the bargain. To Evelyn and to Knipp we understand the double facing ; but to whom was he posing in the Diary, and what, in the name of astonishment, was the nature of the pose } Had he suppressed all mention of the book, or had he bought it, gloried in the act, and cheerfully re- corded his glorification, in either case we should have made him out. But no ; he is full of precautions to con- ceal the " disgrace" of the purchase, and yet speeds to chronicle the whole affair in pen and ink. It is a sort of anomaly in human action, which we can exactly paral- lel from another part of the Diary. Mrs. Pepys had written a paper of her too just com- plaints against her husband, and written it in plain and very pungent English. Pepys, in an agony lest the world should come to see it, brutally seizes and destroys the tell-tale document; and then — you disbelieve your eyes — down goes the whole story with unsparing truth and in the cruellest detail. It seems he has no design but to appear respectable, and here he keeps a private book to prove he was not. You are at first faintly re- minded of some of the vagaries of the morbid religious M7 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS diarist; but at a moment's thought the resemblance dis- appears. The design of Pepys is not at all to edify ; it is not from repentance that he chronicles his peccadilloes, for he tells us when he does repent, and, to be just to himj there often follows some improvement. Again, the sins of the religious diarist are of a very formal pattern, and are told with an elaborate whine. But in Pepys you come upon good, substantive misdemeanours; beams in his eye of which he alone remains uncon- scious; healthy outbreaks of the animal nature, and laughable subterfuges to himself that always command belief and often engage the sympathies. Pepys was a young man for his age, came slowly to himself in the world, sowed his wild oats late, took late to industry, and preserved till nearly forty the headlong gusto of a boy. So, to come rightly at the spirit in which the Diary was written, we must recall a class of sentiments which with most of us are over and done before the age of twelve. In our tender years we still preserve a freshness of surprise at our prolonged exist- ence; events make an impression out of all proportion to their consequence; we are unspeakably touched by our own past adventures, and look forward to our future personality with sentimental interest. It was something of this, 1 think, that clung to Pepys. Although not sen- timental in the abstract, he was sweetly sentimentaC about himself His own past clung about his heart, an evergreen. He was the slave of an association. He could not pass by Islington, where his father used to carry him to cakes and ale, but he must light at the " King's Head" and eat and drink *'for remembrance of the old house sake." He counted it good fortune to 248 SAMUEL PEPYS lie a night at Epsom to renew his old walks, ''where Mrs. Hely and I did use to walk and talk, with whom I had the first sentiments of love and pleasure in a wom- an's company, discourse and taking her by the hand, she being a pretty woman." He goes about weighing up the Assurance, which lay near Woolwich under water, and cries in a parenthesis, ''Poor ship, that I have been twice merry in, in Captain Holland's time;" and after revisiting the Naseby, now changed into the Charles, he confesses " it was a great pleasure to myself to see the ship that I began my good fortune in." The stone that he was cut for he preserved in a case ; and to the Turners he kept alive such gratitude for their assist- ance that for years, and after he had begun to mount himself into higher zones, he continued to have that family to dinner on the anniversary of the operation. Not Hazlitt nor Rousseau had a more romantic passion for their past, although at times they might express it more romantically ; and if Pepys shared with them this childish fondness, did not Rousseau, who left behind him the Confessions, or Hazlitt, who wrote the Liber Amoris, and loaded his essays with loving personal de- tail, share with Pepys in his unwearied egotism } For the two things go hand in hand ; or, to be more exact, it is the first that makes the second either possible or pleasing. But, to be quite in sympathy with Pepys, we must return once more to the experience of children. I can remember to have written, in the fly-leaf of more than one book, the date and the place where I then was — if, for instance, I was ill in bed or sitting in a certain gar- den ; these were jottings for my future self; if I should 249 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS chance on such a note in after years, I thought it would cause me a particular thrill to recognise myself across the intervening distance. Indeed, I might come upon them now, and not be moved one tittle — which shows that I have comparatively failed in life, and grown older than Samuel Pepys. For in the Diary we can fmd more than one such note of perfect childish egotism ; as when he explains that his candle is going out, " which makes me write thus slobberingly ; " or as in this incredible particularity, **To my study, where I only wrote thus much of this day's passages to this*, and so out again ; " or lastly, as here, with more of circumstance: " I staid up till the bellman came by with his bell under my win- dow, as I was writing of this very line, and cried, * Past one of the clock, and a cold, frosty, windy morning.'" Such passages are not to be misunderstood. The appeal to Samuel Pepys years hence is unmistakable. He de- sires that dear, though unknown, gentleman keenly to realise his predecessor; to remember why a passage was uncleanly written; to recall (let us fancy, with a sigh) the tones of the bellman, the chill of the early, windy morning, and the very line his own romantic self was scribing at the moment. The man, you will per- ceive, was making reminiscences — a sort of pleasure by ricochet, which comforts many in distress, and turns some others into sentimental libertines : and the whole book, if you will but look at it in that way, is seen to be a work of art to Pepys's own address. Here, then, we have the key to that remarkable atti- tude preserved by him throughout his Diary, to that un- flinching — I had almost said, that unintelligent — sin- cerity which makes it a miracle among human books. 330 SAMUEL PEPYS He was not unconscious of his errors — far from it; he was often startled into shame, often reformed, often made and broke his vows of change. But whether he did ill or well, he was still his own unequalled self; still that entrancing ego of whom alone he cared to write; and still sure of his own affectionate indulgence, when the parts should be changed, and the writer come to read what he had written. Whatever he did, or said, or thought, or suffered, it was still a trait of Pepys, a character of his career; and as, to himself, he was more interesting than Moses or than Alexander, so all should be faithfully set down. I have called his Diary a work of art. Now when the artist has found something, word or deed, exactly proper to a favourite character in play or novel, he will neither suppress nor diminish it, though the remark be silly or the act mean. The hesitation of Hamlet, the credulity of Othello, the baseness of Emma Bovary, or the irregularities of Mr. Swiveller, caused neither disappointment nor disgust to their creators. And so with Pepys and his adored protagonist : adored not blindly, but with trenchant insight and enduring, human toleration. I have gone over and over the greater part of the Diary ; and the points where, to the most sus- picious scrutiny, he has seemed not perfectly sincere, are so few, so doubtful, and so petty, that I am ashamed to name them. It may be said that we all of us write such a diary in airy characters upon our brain; but I fear there is a distinction to be made; I fear that as we render to our consciousness an account of our daily for- tunes and behaviour, we too often weave a tissue of ro- mantic compliments and dull excuses ; and even if Pepys were the ass and coward that men call him, we must 251 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS take rank as sillier and more cowardly than he. The bald truth about oneself, what we are all too timid to admit when we are not too dull to see it, that was what he saw clearly and set down unsparingly. It is improbable that the Diary can have been carried on in the same single spirit in which it was begun. Pepys was not such an ass, but he must have perceived, as he went on, the extraordinary nature of the work he was producing. He was a great reader, and he knew what other books were like. It must, at least, have crossed his mind that some one might ultimately deci- pher the manuscript, and he himself, with all his pains and pleasures, be resuscitated in some later day ; and the thought, although discouraged, must have warmed his heart. He was not such an ass, besides, but he must have been conscious of the deadly explosives, the gun-cotton and the giant powder, he was hoarding in his drawer. Let some contemporary light upon the Journal, and Pepys was plunged forever in social and political dis- grace. We can trace the growth of his terrors by two facts. In 1660, while the Diary was still in its youth, he tells about it, as a matter of course, to a lieutenant in the navy; but in 1669, when it was already near an end, he could have bitten his tongue out, as the saying is, be- cause he had let slip his secret to one so grave and friendly as Sir William Coventry. And from two other facts I think we may infer that he had entertained, even if he had not acquiesced in, the thought of a far-distant publicity. The first is of capital importance: the Diary was not destroyed. The second — that he took unusual precautions to confound the cipher in **rogueish " pas- sages — proves, beyond question, that he was thinking 252 SAMUEL PEPYS of some Other reader besides himself. Perhaps while his friends were admiring the "greatness of his behaviour" at the approach of death, he may have had a twinkling hope of immortality. Mens cujusque is est quisque, said his chosen motto ; and, as he had stamped his mind with every crook and foible in the pages of the Diary, he might feel that what he left behind him was indeed him- self There is perhaps no other instance so remarkable of the desire of man for publicity and an enduring name. The greatness of his life was open, yet he longed to communicate its smallness also; and, while contempo- raries bowed before him, he must buttonhole posterity with the news that his periwig was once alive with nits. But this thought, although I cannot doubt he had it, was neither his first nor his deepest ; it did not colour one word that he wrote ; and the Diary, for as long as he kept it, remained what it was when he began, a private pleasure for himself. It was his bosom secret ; it added a zest to all his pleasures; he lived in and for it, and might well write these solemn words, when he closed that confidant forever: "And so I betake myself to that course which is almost as much as to see myself go into the grave ; for which, and all the discomforts that will accompany my being blind, the good God prepare me." A LIBERAL GENIUS Pepys spent part of a certain winter Sunday, when he had taken physic, composing "a song in praise of a lib- eral genius (such as I take my own to be) to all studies and pleasures." The song was unsuccessful, but the Diary is, in a sense, the very song that he was seeking ; 253 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS and his portrait by Hales, so admirably reproduced in Mynors Bright's edition, is a confirmation of the Diary. Hales, it would appear, had known his business; and though he put his sitter to a deal of trouble, almost breaking his neck "to have the portrait full of sha- dows," and draping him in an Indian gown hired ex- pressly for the purpose, he was preoccupied about no merely picturesque effects, but to portray the essence of the man. Whether we read the picture by the Diary or the Diary by the picture, we shall at least agree that Hales was among the number of those who can "sur- prise the manners in the face." Here we have a mouth pouting, moist with desires ; eyes greedy, protuberant, and yet apt for weeping too ; a nose great alike in char- acter and dimensions; and altogether a most fleshly, melting countenance. The face is attractive by its promise of reciprocity. I have used the word greedy, but the reader must not suppose that he can change it for that closely kindred one of hungry, for there is here no aspiration, no waiting for better things, but an ani- mal joy in all that comes. It could never be the face of an artist; it is the face of a vtveur — kindly, pleased and pleasing, protected from excess and upheld in content- ment by the shifting versatility of his desires. For a single desire is more rightly to be called a lust; but there is health in a variety, where one may balance and control another. The whole world, town or country, was to Pepys a garden of Armida. Wherever he went, his steps were winged with the most eager expectation ; whatever he did, it was done with the most lively pleasure. An insatiable curiosity in all the shows of the world and 254 SAMUEL PEPYS all the secrets of knowledge, filled him brimful of the longing to travel, and supported him in the toils of study. Rome was the dream of his life ; he was never happier than when he read or talked of the Eternal City. When he was in Holland, he was "with child" to see any strange thing. Meeting some friends and singing with them in a palace near the Hague, his pen fails him to express his passion of delight, "the more so because in a heaven of pleasure and in a strange country." He must go to see all famous executions. He must needs visit the body of a murdered man, defaced "with a broad wound," he says, ''that makes my hand now shake to write of it." He learned to dance, and was "like to make a dancer." He learned to sing, and walked about Gray's Inn Fields "humming to myself (which is now my constant practice) the trillo." He learned to play the lute, the flute, the flageolet, and the theorbo, and it was not the fault of his intention if he did not learn the harpsichord or the spinet. He learned to compose songs, and burned to give forth "a scheme and theory of music not yet ever made in the world." When he heard "a fellow whistle like a bird exceeding well," he promised to return another day and give an angel for a lesson in the art. Once, he writes, " I took the Bezan back with me, and with a brave gale and tide reached up that night to the Hope, taking great pleasure in learning the seamen's manner of singing when they sound the depths." If he found himself rusty in his Latin grammar, he must fall to it like a schoolboy. He was a member of Harrington's Club till its dissolution, and of the Royal Society before it had received the name. Boyle's Hydrostatics was "of in- 255 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS finite delight" to him, walking in Barnes Elms. We find him comparing Bible concordances, a captious judge of sermons, deep in Descartes and Aristotle. We find him, in a single year, studying timber and the measurement of timber; tar and oil, hemp, and the process of preparing cordage; mathematics and account- ing; the hull and the rigging of ships from a model; and "looking and improving himself of the (naval) stores with" — hark to the fellow! — "great delight." His familiar spirit of delight was not the same with Shelley's ; but how true it was to him through life ! He is only copying something, and behold, he " takes great pleasure to rule the lines, and have the capital words wrote with red ink;" he has only had his coal-cellar emptied and cleaned, and behold, "it do please him exceedingly." A hog's harslett is "a piece of meat he loves." He cannot ride home in my Lord Sandwich's coach, but he must exclaim, with breathless gusto, " his noble, rich coach." When he is bound for a supper party, he anticipates a "glut of pleasure." When he has a new watch, "to see my childishness," says he, " I could not forbear carrying it in my hand and seeing what o'clock it was an hundred times." To go to Vauxhall, he says, and "to hear the nightingales and other birds, hear fiddles, and there a harp and here a Jew's trump, and here laughing, and there fine people walking, is mighty divertising." And the nightingales, I take it, were particularly dear to him ; and it was again "with great pleasure" that he paused to hear them as he walked to Woolwich, while the fog was rising and the April sun broke through. He must always be doing something agreeable, and, 256 SAMUEL PEPYS by preference, two agreeable things at once. In his house he had a box of carpenter's tools, two dogs, an eagle, a canary, and a blackbird that whistled tunes, lest, even in that full life, he should chance upon an empty moment. If he had to wait for a dish of poached eggs, he must put in the time by playing on the flageo- let; if a sermon were dull, he must read in the book of Tobit or divert his mind with sly advances on the near- est women. When he walked, it must be with a book in his pocket to beguile the way in case the nightin- gales were silent; and even along the streets of London, with so many pretty faces to be spied for and dignita- ries to be saluted, his trail was marked by little debts *'for wine, pictures, etc.," the true headmark of a life intolerant of any joyless passage. He had a kind of idealism in pleasure ; like the princess in the fairy story, he was conscious of a rose-leaf out of place. Dearly as he loved to talk, he could not enjoy nor shine in a con- versation when he thought himself unsuitably dressed. Dearly as he loved eating, he **knew not how to eat alone;" pleasure for him must heighten pleasure; and the eye and ear must be flattered like the palate ere he avow himself content. He had no zest in a good dinner when it fell to be eaten "in a bad street and in a periwig-maker's house ; " and a collation was spoiled for him by indifferent music. His body was indefati- gable, doing him yeoman's service in this breathless chase of pleasures. On April ii, 1662, he mentions that he went to bed " weary, which I seldom am ; *' and already over thirty, he would sit up all night cheerfully to see a comet. But it is never pleasure that exhausts the pleasure -seeker; for in that career, as in all others, it is 257 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS failure that kills. The man who enjoys so wholly and bears so impatiently the slightest widowhood from joy, is just the man to lose a night's rest over some paltry question of his right to fiddle on the leads, or to be *' vexed to the blood " by a solecism in his wife's attire; and we find in consequence that he was always peevish when he was hungry, and that his head ** aked mightily" after a dispute. But nothing could divert him from his aim in life ; his remedy in care was the same as his delight in prosperity ; it was with pleasure, and with pleasure only, that he sought to drive out sorrow ; and, whether he was jealous of his wife or skulking from a bailiff, he would equally take refuge in the theatre. There, if the house be full and the company noble, if the songs be tunable, the actors perfect, and the play diverting, this odd hero of the secret Diary, this private self-adorer, will speedily be healed of his distresses. Equally pleased with a watch, a coach, a piece of meat, a tune upon the fiddle, or a fact in hydrostatics, Pepys was pleased yet more by the beauty, the worth, the mirth, or the mere scenic attitude in life of his fellow- creatures. He shows himself throughout a sterling humanist. Indeed, he who loves himself, not in idle vanity, but with a plenitude of knowledge, is the best equipped of all to love his neighbours. And perhaps it is in this sense that charity may be most properly said to begin at home. It does not matter what quality a person has : Pepys can appreciate and love him for it. He * * fills his eyes " with the beauty of Lady Castlemaine ; indeed, he may be said to dote upon the thought of her for years ; if a woman be good-looking and not painted, he will walk miles to have another sight of her; and 358 SAMUEL PEPYS even when a lady by a mischance spat upon his clothes, he was immediately consoled when he had observed that she was pretty. But, on the other hand, he is de- lighted to see Mrs. Pett upon her knees, and speaks thus of his Aunt James: "a poor, religious, well-meaning, good soul, talking of nothing but God Almighty, and that with so much innocence that mightily pleased me." He is taken with Pen's merriment and loose songs, but not less taken with the sterling worth of Coventry. He is jolly with a drunken sailor, but listens with interest and patience, as he rides the Essex roads, to the story of a Quaker's spiritual trials and convictions. He lends a critical ear to the discourse of kings and royal dukes. He spends an evening at Vauxhall with "Killigrew and young Newport — loose company, " says he, ' ' but worth a man's being in for once, to know the nature of it, and their manner of talk and lives." And when a rag-boy lights him home, he examines him about his business and other ways of livelihood for destitute children. This is almost half-way to the beginning of philanthropy; had it only been the fashion, as it is at present, Pepys had perhaps been a man famous for good deeds. And it is through this quality that he rises, at times, su- perior to his surprising egotism ; his interest in the love affairs of others is, indeed, impersonal ; he is filled with concern for my Lady Castlemaine, whom he only knows by sight, shares in her very jealousies, joys with her in her successes; and it is not untrue, however strange it seems in his abrupt presentment, that he loved his maid Jane because she was in love with his man Tom. Let us hear him, for once, at length : ''So the women and W. Hewer and I walked upon the Downes, where 2%9 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS a flock of sheep was; and the most pleasant and inno- cent sight that ever I saw in my life. We found a shep- herd and his little boy reading, far from any houses or sight of people, the Bible to him ; so I made the boy read to me, which he did with the forced tone that children do usually read, that was mighty pretty ; and then I did give him something, and went to the father, and talked with him. He did content himself mightily in my liking his boy's reading, and did bless God for him, the most like one of the old patriarchs that ever I saw in my life, and it brought those thoughts of the old age of the world in my mind for two or three days after. We took notice of his woolen knit stockings of two colors mixed, and of his shoes shod with iron, both at the toe and heels, and with great nails in the soles of his feet, which was mighty pretty; and taking notice of them, 'Why,' says the poor man, 'the downes, you see, are full of stones, and we are faine to shoe ourselves thus; and these,' says he, 'will make the stones fly till they ring before me.' I did give the poor man some- thing, for which he was mighty thankful, and I tried to cast stones with his home crooke. He values his dog mightily, that would turn a sheep any way which he would have him, when he goes to fold them ; told me there was about eighteen score sheep in his flock, and that he hath four shillings a week the year round for keeping of them ; and Mrs. Turner, in the common fields here, did gather one of the prettiest nosegays that ever I saw in my life." And so the story rambles on to the end of that day's pleasuring; with cups of milk, and glowworms, and people walking at sundown with their wives and chil- 260 SAMUEL PEPYS dren, and all the way home Pepys still dreaming "of the old age of the world " and the early innocence of man. This was how he walked through life, his eyes and ears wide open, and his hand, you will observe, not shut; and thus he observed the lives, the speech, and the manners of his fellow-men, with prose fidelity of detail and yet a lingering glamour of romance. It was ''two or three days after" that he extended this passage in the pages of his Journal, and the style has thus the benefit of some reflection. It is generally supposed that, as a writer, Pepys must rank at the bot- tom of the scale of merit. But a style which is indefat- igably lively, telling, and picturesque through six large volumes of everyday experience, which deals with the whole matter of a life, and yet is rarely wearisome, which condescends to the most fastidious particulars, and yet sweeps all away in the forthright current of the narrative, — such a style may be ungrammatical, it may be inelegant, it may be one tissue of mistakes, but it can never be devoid of merit. The first and the true func- tion of the writer has been thoroughly performed through- out; and though the manner of his utterance may be childishly awkward, the matter has been transformed and assimilated by his unfeigned interest and delight. The gusto of the man speaks out fierily after all these years. For the difference between Pepys and Shelley, to return to that half whimsical approximation, is one of quality but not one of degree; in his sphere, Pepys felt as keenly, and his is the true prose of poetry — prose because the spirit of the man was narrow and earthly, but poetry because he was delightedly alive. Hence, in such a passage as this about the Epsom shepherd, the 261 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS result upon the reader's mind is entire conviction and unmingled pleasure. So, you feel, the thing fell out, not otherwise; and you would no more change it than you would change a sublimity of Shakespeare's, a homely touch of Bunyan's, or a favoured reminiscence of your own. There never was a man nearer being an artist, who yet was not one. The tang was in the family ; while he was writing the Journal for our enjoyment in his comely house in Navy Gardens, no fewer than two of his cousins were tramping the fens, kit under arm, to make music to the country girls. But he himself, though he could play so many instruments and pass judgment in so many fields of art, remained an amateur. It is not given to any one so keenly to enjoy, without some greater power to understand. That he did not like Shakespeare as an artist for the stage may be a fault, but it is not without either parallel or excuse. He cer- tainly admired him as a poet; he was the first beyond mere actors on the rolls of that innumerable army who have got " To be or not to be " by heart. Nor was he content with that; it haunted his mind; he quoted it to himself in the pages of the Diary, and, rushing in where angels fear to tread, he set it to music. Nothing, in- deed, is more notable than the heroic quality of the verses that our little sensualist in a periwig chose out to marry with his own mortal strains. Some gust from brave Elizabethan times must have warmed his spirit, as he sat tuning his sublime theorbo. " To be or not to be. Whether 'tis nobler " — " Beauty retire, thou dost my pity move" — "It is decreed, nor shall thy fate, O Rome;" — open and dignified in the sound, various 262 SAMUEL PEPYS and majestic in the sentiment, it was no inapt, as it was certainly no timid, spirit that selected such a range of themes. Of ** Gaze not on Swans," I know no more than these four words ; yet that also seems to promise well. It was, however, on a probable suspicion, the work of his master, Mr. Berkenshaw — as the drawings that figure at the breaking up of a young ladies' semi- nary are the work of the professor attached to the estab- lishment. Mr. Berkenshaw was not altogether happy in his pupil. The amateur cannot usually rise into the artist, some leaven of the world still clogging him ; and we find Pepys behaving like a pickthank to the man who taught him composition. In relation to the stage, which he so warmly loved and understood, he was not only more hearty, but more generous to others. Thus he encounters Colonel Reames, "3. man," says he, *' who understands and loves a play as well as I, and I love him for it." And again, when he and his wife had seen a most ridiculous insipid piece, "Glad we were," he writes, ''that Betterton had no part in it." It is by such a zeal and loyalty to those who labour for his delight that the amateur grows worthy of the artist. And it should be kept in mind that, not only in art, but in morals, Pepys rejoiced to recognise his betters. There was not one speck of envy in the whole human-hearted egotist. RESPECTABILITY When writers inveigh against respectability, in the present degraded meaning of the word, they are usu- ally suspected of a taste for clay pipes and beer cellars ; 26? FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS and their performances are thought to hail from the Owl's Nest of the comedy. They have something more, however, in their eye than the dulness of a round mil- lion dinner parties that sit down yearly in old England. For to do anything because others do it, and not be- cause the thing is good, or kind, or honest in its own right, is to resign all moral control and captaincy upon yourself, and go post-haste to the devil with the greater number. We smile over the ascendency of priests ; but I had rather follow a priest than what they call the lead- ers of society. No life can better than that of Pepys il- lustrate the dangers of this respectable theory of living. For what can be more untoward than the occurrence, at a critical period and while the habits are still pliable, of such a sweeping transformation as the return of Charles the Second } Round went the whole fleet of England on the other tack; and while a few tall pintas, Milton or Pen, still sailed a lonely course by the stars and their own private compass, the cock-boat, Pepys, must go about with the majority among "the stupid starers and the loud huzzas." The respectable are not led so much by any desire of applause as by a positive need for countenance. The weaker and the tamer the man, the more will, he re- quire this support; and any positive quality relieves him, by just so much, of this dependence. In a dozen ways, Pepys was quite strong enough to please him- self without regard for others ; but his positive qualities were not coextensive with the field of conduct; and in many parts of life he followed, with gleeful precision, in the footprints of the contemporary Mrs. Grundy. In morals, particularly, he lived by the countenance ot 264 SAMUEL PEPYS Others ; felt a slight from another more keenly than a meanness in himself; and then first repented when he was found out. You could talk of religion or morality to such a man ; and by the artist side of him, by his lively sympathy and apprehension, he could rise, as it were dramatically, to the significance of what you said. All that matter in religion which has been nicknamed other-worldliness was strictly in his gamut; but a rule of life that should make a man rudely virtuous, follow- ing right in good report and ill report, was foolishness and a stumbling-block to Pepys. He was much thrown across the Friends; and nothing can be more instruc- tive than his attitude toward these most interesting people of that age. I have mentioned how he con- versed with one as he rode; when he saw some brought from a meeting under arrest, '' I would to God," said he, ''they would either conform, or be more wise and not be catched ; " and to a Quaker in his own office he extended a timid though effectual pro- tection. Meanwhile there was growing up next door to him that beautiful nature, William Pen. It is odd that Pepys condemned him for a fop; odd, though natural enough when you see Pen's portrait, that Pepys was jealous of him with his wife. But the cream of the story is when Pen publishes his Sandy Foundation Shaken, and Pepys has it read aloud by his wife. *'I find it," he says, *'so well writ as, I think, it is too good for him ever to have writ it; and it is a serious sort of book, and not fit for everybody to read." Noth- ing is more galling to the merely respectable than to be brought in contact with religious ardour. Pepys had his own foundation, sandy enough, but dear to him 265 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS from practical considerations, and he would read the book with true uneasiness of spirit; for conceive the blow if, by some plaguy accident, this Pen were to convert him ! It was a different kind of doctrine that he judged profitable for himself and others. " A good sermon of Mr. GifTord's at our church, upon * Seek ye first the kingdom of heaven.' A very excellent and persuasive, good and moral sermon. He showed, like a wise man, that righteousness is a surer moral way of being rich than sin and villainy." It is thus that re- spectable people desire to have their Greathearts address them, telling, in mild accents, how you may make the best of both worlds, and be a moral hero without courage, kindness, or troublesome reflection ; and thus the Gospel, cleared of Eastern metaphor, becomes a manual of worldly prudence, and a handy-book for Pepys and the successful merchant. The respectability of Pepys was deeply grained. He has no idea of truth except for the Diary. He has no care that a thing shall be, if it but appear; gives out that he has inherited a good estate, when he has seemingly got nothing but a lawsuit ; and is pleased to be thought liberal when he knows he has been rrfean. He is con- scientiously ostentatious. I say conscientiously, with reason. He could never have been taken for a fop, like Pen, but arrayed himself in a manner nicely suitable to his position. For long he hesitated to assume the fa- mous periwig; for a public man should travel gravely with the fashions, not foppishly before, nor dowdily be- hind, the central movement of his age. For long he durst not keep a carriage; that, in his circumstances, would have been improper; but a time comes, with the 266 SAMUEL PEPYS growth of his fortune, when the impropriety has shifted to the other side, and he is "ashamed to be seen in a hackney." Pepys talked about being **a Quaker or some very melancholy thing; " for my part, I can ima- gine nothing so melancholy, because nothing half so silly, as to be concerned about such problems. But so respectability and the duties of society haunt and burden their poor devotees; and what seems at first the very primrose path of life, proves difficult and thorny like the rest. And the time comes to Pepys, as to all the merely respectable, when he must not only order his pleasures, but even clip his virtuous movements, to the public pat- ter of the age. There was some juggling among officials to avoid direct taxation ; and Pepys, with a noble im- pulse, growing ashamed of this dishonesty, designed to charge himself with ;£iooo; but finding none to set him an example, ** nobody of our ablest merchants " with this moderate liking for clean hands, he judged it **not de- cent;" he feared it would '*be thought vain glory;" and, rather than appear singular, cheerfully remained a thief. One able merchant's countenance, and Pepys had dared to do an honest act ! Had he found one brave spirit, properly recognised by society, he might have gone far as a disciple. Mrs. Turner, it is true, can fill him full of sordid scandal, and make him believe, against the testimony of his senses, that Pen's venison pasty stank like the devil; but, on the other hand. Sir William Coventry can raise him by a word into another being. Pepys, when he is with Coventry, talks in the vein of an old Roman. What does he care for office or emolu- ment ? * ' Thank God, I have enough of my own, " says he, '*to buy me a good book and a good fiddle, and I 267 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS have a good wife." And again, we find this pair pro- jecting an old age when an ungrateful country shall have dismissed them from the field of public service; Coven- try living retired in a fine house, and Pepys dropping in, "it may be, to read a chapter of Seneca." Under this influence, the only good one in his life, Pepys continued zealous and, for the period, pure in his employment. He would not be "bribed to be unjust," he says, though he was " not so squeamish as to refuse a present after," suppose the king to have received no wrong. His new arrangement for the victualling of Tangier, he tells us with honest complacency, will save the king a thousand and gain Pepys three hundred pounds a year, — a statement which exactly fixes the degree of the age's enlightenment. But for his industry and capacity no praise can be too high. It was an un- ending struggle for the man to stick to his business in such a garden of Armida as he found this life; and the story of his oaths, so often broken, so courageously re- newed, is worthy rather of admiration than the contempt it has received. Elsewhere, and beyond the sphere of Coventry's in- fluence, we find him losing scruples and daily comply- ing further with the age. When he began the Journal, he was a trifle prim and puritanic ; merry enough, to be sure, over his private cups, and still remembering Mag- dalen ale and his acquaintance with Mrs. Ainsworth of Cambridge. But youth is a hot season with all ; when a man smells April and May he is apt at times to stum- ble; and in spite of a disordered practice, Pepys's theory, the better things that he approved and followed after, we may even say were strict. Where there was ** tag 268 SAMUEL PEPYS rag, and bobtail, dancing, singing, and drinking," he felt *' ashamed, and went away;" and when he slept in church, he prayed God forgive him. In but a little while we find him with some ladies keeping each other awake ''from spite," as though not to sleep in church were an obvious hardship ; and yet later he calmly passes the time of service, looking about him, with a perspec- tive glass, on all the pretty women. His favourite ejaculation, **Lord!" occurs but once that I have ob- served in 1660, never in '61, twice in '62, and at least five times in '6}; after which the '' Lords " may be said to pullulate like herrings, with here and there a solitary "damned," as it were a whale among the shoal. He and his wife, once filled with dudgeon by some innocent freedoms at a marriage, are soon content to go pleasur- ing with my Lord Brouncker's mistress, who was not even, by his own account, the most discreet of mis- tresses. Tag, rag, and bobtail, dancing, singing, and drinking, become his natural element; actors and ac- tresses and drunken, roaring courtiers are to be found in his society ; until the man grew so involved with Sat- urnalian manners and companions that he was shot al- most unconsciously into the grand domestic crash of 1668. That was the legitimate issue and punishment of years of staggering walk and conversation. The man who has smoked his pipe for half a century in a powder magazine finds himself at last the author and the victim of a hid- eous disaster. So with our pleasant-minded Pepys and his peccadilloes. All of a sudden, as he still trips dex- terously enough among the dangers of a double-faced career, thinking no great evil, humming to himself the 269 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS trillo, Fate takes the further conduct of that matter from his hands, and brings him face to face with the conse- quences of his acts. For a man still, after so many years, the lover, although not the constant lover, of his wife, — for a man, besides, who was so greatly careful of appearances, — the revelation of his infidelities was a crushing blow. The tears that he shed, the indignities that he endured, are not to be measured. A vulgar woman, and now justly incensed, Mrs. Pepys spared him no detail of suffering. She was violent, threatening him with the tongs; she was careless of his honour, driving him to insult the mistress whom she had driven him to betray and to discard ; worst of all, she was hope- lessly inconsequent, in word and thought and deed, now lulling him with reconciliations, and anon flaming forth again with the original anger. Pepys had not used his wife well; he had wearied her with jealousies, even while himself unfaithful; he had grudged her clothes and pleasures, while lavishing both upon himself; he had abused her in words; he had bent his fist at her in anger; he had once blacked her eye; and it is one of the oddest particulars in that odd Diary of his, that, while the injury is referred to once in passing, there is no hint as to the occasion or the manner of the blow. But now, when he is in the wrong, nothing can exceed the long- suffering affection of this impatient husband. While he was still sinning and still undiscovered, he seems not to have known a touch of penitence stronger than what might lead him to take his wife to the theatre, or for an airing, or to give her a new dress, by way of compen- sation. Once found out, however, and he seems to himself to have lost all claim to decent usage. It is per- 370 SAMUEL PEPYS haps the strongest instance of his externality. His wife may do what she pleases, and though he may groan, it will never occur to him to blame her; he has no weapon left but tears and the most abject submission. We should perhaps have respected him more had he not given way so utterly — above all, had he refused to write, under his wife's dictation, an insulting letter to his unhappy fellow-culprit. Miss Willet; but somehow I believe we like him better as he was. The death of his wife, following so shortly after, must have stamped the impression of this episode upon his mind. For the remaining years of his long life we have no Diary to help us, and we have seen already how lit- tle stress is to be laid upon the tenor of his correspond- ence; but what with the recollection of the catastrophe of his married life, what with the natural influence of his advancing years and reputation, it seems not unlikely that the period of gallantry was at an end for Pepys ; and it is beyond a doubt that he sat down at last to an honoured and agreeable old age among his books and music, the correspondent of Sir Isaac Newton, and, in one instance at least, the poetical counsellor of Dryden. Through all this period, that Diary which contained the secret memoirs of his life, with all its inconsistencies and escapades, had been religiously preserved; nor, when he came to die, does he appear to have provided for its destruction. So we may conceive him faithful to the end to all his dear and early memories; still mindful of Mrs. Hely in the woods at Epsom; still lighting at Is- lington for a cup of kindness to the dead ; still, if he heard again that air that once so much disturbed him, thrilling at the recollection of the love that bound him to his wife. 271 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN I. — THE CONTROVERSY ABOUT FEMALE RULE WHEN first the idea became widely spread among men that the Word of God, instead of being- truly the foundation of all existing institutions, was rather a stone which the builders had rejected, it was but natural that the consequent havoc among received opinions should be accompanied by the generation of many new and lively hopes for the future. Somewhat as in the early days of the French Revolution, men must have looked for an immediate and universal improve- ment in their condition. Christianity, up to that time, had been somewhat of a failure politically. The reason was now obvious, the capital flaw was detected, the sickness of the body politic traced at last to its efficient cause. It was only necessary to put the Bible thor- oughly into practice, to set themselves strenuously to re- alise in life the Holy Commonwealth, and all abuses and iniquities would surely pass away. Thus, in a pageant played at Geneva in the year 1 523, the world was rep- resented as a sick man at the end of his wits for help, to whom his doctor recommends Lutheran specifics.^ The Reformers themselves had set their affections in a different world, and professed to look for the finished 1 Gaberel's Eglise de Geneve, i. 88. 272 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN result of their endeavours on the other side of death. They took no interest in politics as such ; they even con- demned political action as Antichristian : notably, Luther in the case of the Peasants' War. And yet, as the purely religious question was inseparably complicated with po- litical difficulties, and they had to make opposition, from day to day, against principalities and powers, they were led, one after another, and again and again, to leave the sphere which was more strictly their own, and meddle, for good and evil, with the affairs of State. Not much was to be expected from interference in such a spirit. Whenever a minister found himself galled or hindered, he would be inclined to suppose some contravention of the Bible. Whenever Christian liberty was restrained (and Christian liberty for each individual would be about coextensive with what he wished to do), it was obvious that the State was Antichrtstian. The great thing, and the one thing, was to push the Gospel and the Reform- ers' own interpretation of it. Whatever helped was good; whatever hindered was evil; and if this simple classification proved inapplicable over the whole field, it was no business of his to stop and reconcile incon- gruities. He had more pressing concerns on hand; he had to save souls ; he had to be about his Father's busi- ness. This short-sighted view resulted in a doctrine that was actually Jesuitical in application. They had no serious ideas upon politics, and they were ready, nay, they seemed almost bound, to adopt and support which- ever ensured for the moment the greatest benefit to the souls of their fellow-men. They were dishonest in all sincerity. Thus Labitte, in the introduction to a book* 1 La Democratie che^ les Predicateurs de la Ligue. 273 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS in which he exposes the hypocritical democracy of the Catholics under the League, steps aside for a moment to stigmatize the hypocritical democracy of the Protestants. And nowhere was this expediency in political questions more apparent than about the question of female sover- eignty. So much was this the case that one James Thomasius, of Leipsic, wrote a little paper i about the religious partialities of those who took part in the con- troversy, in which some of these learned disputants cut a very sorry figure. Now Knox has been from the first a man well hated ; and it is somewhat characteristic of his luck that he fig- ures here in the very forefront of the list of partial scribes who trimmed their doctrine with the wind in all good conscience, and were political weathercocks out of con- viction. Not only has Thomasius mentioned him, but Bayle has taken the hint from Thomasius, and dedicated a long note to the matter at the end of his article on the Scotch Reformer. This is a little less than fair. If any one among the evangelists of that period showed more seri- ous political sense than another, it was assuredly Knox ; and even in this very matter of female rule, although I do not suppose any one nowadays will feel inclined to endorse his sentiments, I confess 1 can make great al- lowance for his conduct. The controversy, besides, has an interest of its own, in view of later controversies. John Knox, from 1 556 to 1 559, was resident in Geneva, as minister, jointly with Goodman, of a little church of English refugees. He and his congregation were ban- ished from England by one woman, Mary Tudor, and 1 Htstoria affectuum se immiscentium controversice de gjtncecocra- tia. It is in his collected prefaces, Leipsic, 1683. 274 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN proscribed in Scotland by another, the Regent Mary of Guise. The coincidence was tempting : here were many abuses centring about one abuse; here was Christ's Gospel persecuted in the two kingdoms by one anoma- lous power. He had not far to go to find the idea that female government was anomalous. It was an age, in- deed, in which women, capable and incapable, played a conspicuous part upon the stage of European history ; and yet their rule, whatever may have been the opinion of here and there a wise man or enthusiast, was re- garded as an anomaly by the great bulk of their con- temporaries. It was defended as an anomaly. It, and all that accompanied and sanctioned it, was set aside as a single exception; and no one thought of reasoning down from queens and extending their privileges to or- dinary women. Great ladies, as we know, had the privilege of entering into monasteries and cloisters, otherwise forbidden to their sex. As with one thing, so with another. Thus, Margaret of Navarre wrote books with great acclamation, and no one, seemingly, saw fit to call her conduct in question ; but Mademoiselle de Gournay, Montaigne's adopted daughter, was in a con- troversy with the world as to whether a woman might be an author without incongruity. Thus, too, we have Theodore Agrippa d'Aubigne writing to his daughters about the learned women of his century, and cautioning them, in conclusion, that the study of letters was un- suited to ladies of a middling station, and should be re- served for princesses.^ And once more, if we desire to see the same principle carried to ludicrous extreme, we shall find that Reverend Father in God, the Abbot of 1 CEuvres de d'Aubigne, i. 449. 275 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS Brantdme, claiming, on the authority of some lord of his acquaintance, a privilege, or rather a duty, of free love for great princesses, and carefully excluding other ladies from the same gallant dispensation.^ One sees the spirit in which these immunities were granted; and how they were but the natural consequence of that awe for courts and kings that made the last writer tell us, with simple wonder, how Catherine de Medici would "laugh her fill just like another" over the humours of pantaloons and zanies. And such servility was, of all things, what would touch most nearly the republican spirit of Knox. It was not difficult for him to set aside this weak scruple of loyalty. The lantern of his analysis did not always shine with a very serviceable light; but he had the virtue, at least, to carry it into many places of fictitious holiness, and was not abashed by the tinsel divinity that hedged kings and queens from his contem- poraries. And so he could put the proposition in the form already mentioned : there was Christ's Gospel per- secuted in the two kingdoms by one anomalous power; plainly, then, the " regiment of women " was Anti- christian. Early in 1558 he communicated this discovery to the world, by publishing at Geneva his notorious book — The First Blast of the Trumpet against the Mon- strous Regiment of IVomen.^ As a whole, it is a dull performance; but the preface, as is usual with Knox, is both interesting and morally fine. Knox was not one of those who are humble in the hour of triumph; he was aggressive even when things were at their worst. He had a grim reliance in 1 Dames Illustres, pp. 358-60. 2 Works of John Knox, iv. 349. 336 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN himself, or rather in his mission ; if he were not sure that he was a great man, he was at least sure that he was one set apart to do great things. And he judged simply that whatever passed in his mind, whatever moved him to flee from persecution instead of constantly facing it out, or, as here, to publish and withhold his name from the title-page of a critical work, would not fail to be of interest, perhaps of benefit, to the world. There may be something more finely sensitive in the modern humour, that tends more and more to withdraw a man's personality from the lessons he inculcates or the cause that he has espoused ; but there is a loss herewith of wholesome responsibility ; and when we find in the works of Knox, as in the Epistles of Paul, the man him- self standing nakedly forward, courting and anticipating criticism, putting his character, as it were, in pledge for the sincerity of his doctrine, we had best waive the question of delicacy, and make our acknowledgments for a lesson of courage, not unnecessary in these days of anonymous criticism, and much light, otherwise un- attainable, on the spirit in which great movements were initiated and carried forward. Knox's personal revela- tions are always interesting; and, in the case of the ''First Blast," as I have said, there is no exception to the rule. He begins by stating the solemn responsi- bility of all who are watchmen over God's flock; and all are watchmen (he goes on to explain, with that fine breadth of spirit that characterises him even when, as here, he shows himself most narrow), all are watchmen "whose eyes God doth open, and whose conscience he pricketh to admonish the ungodly." And with the full consciousness of this great duty before him, he sets him- 277 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS self to answer the scruples of timorous or worldly- minded people. How can a man repent, he asks, unless the nature of his transgression is made plain to him ? *' And therefore I say," he continues, " that of necessity it is that this monstriferous empire of women (which among all enormities that this day do abound upon the face of the whole earth, is most detestable and damna- ble) be openly and plainly declared to the world, to the end that some may repent and be saved." To those who think the doctrine useless, because it cannot be ex- pected to amend those princes whom it would dispos- sess if once accepted, he makes answer in a strain that shows him at his greatest. After having instanced how the rumour of Christ's censures found its way to Herod in his own court, ''even so," he continues, "may the sound of our weak trumpet, by the support of some wind (blow it from the south, or blow it from the north, it is of no matter), come to the ears of the chief offenders. But whether it do or not, yet dare we not cease to blow as God will give strength. For we are debtors to more than to princes, to wit, to the great multitude of our brethren, of whom, no doubt, a great number have heretofore offended by error and ignorance." It is for the multitude, then, he writes; he does not greatly hope that his trumpet will be audible in palaces, or that crowned women will submissively discrown themselves at his appeal; what he does hope, in plain English, is to encourage and justify rebellion; and we shall see, before we have done, that he can put his pur- pose into words as roundly as I can put it for him. This he sees to be a matter of much hazard ; he is not " altogether so brutish and insensible, but that he has 278 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN laid his account what the finishing of the work may cost." He knows that he will find many adversaries, since ''to the most part of men, lawful and godly ap- peareth whatsoever antiquity hath received. " He looks for opposition, ''not only of the ignorant multitude, but of the wise, politic, and quiet spirits of the earth." He will be called foolish, curious, despiteful, and a sower of sedition; and one day, perhaps, for all he is now nameless, he may be attainted of treason. Yet he has "determined to obey God, notwithstanding that the world shall rage thereat." Finally, he makes some ex- cuse for the anonymous appearance of this first instal- ment : it is his purpose thrice to blow the trumpet in this matter, if God so permit; twice he intends to do it without name; but at the last blast to take the odium upon himself, that all others may be purged. Thus he ends the preface, and enters upon his argu- ment with a secondary title: " The First Blast to awake Women degenerate." We are in the land of assertion without delay. That a woman should bear rule, superior- ity, dominion or empire over any realm, nation, or city, he tells us, is repugnant to nature, contumely to God, and a subversion of good order. Women are weak, frail, impatient, feeble, and foolish. God has denied to woman wisdom to consider, or providence to foresee, what is profitable to a commonwealth. Women have been ever lightly esteemed ; they have been denied the tutory of their own sons, and subjected to the unques- tionable sway of their husbands ; and surely it is irra- tional to give the greater where the less has been withheld, and suffer a woman to reign supreme over a great kingdom who would be allowed no authority by 279 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS her own fireside. He appeals to the Bible; but though he makes much of the first transgression and certain strong texts in Genesis and Paul's Epistles, he does not appeal with entire success. The cases of Deborah and Huldah can be brought into no sort of harmony with his thesis. Indeed, I may say that, logically, he left his bones there; and that it is but the phantom of an argu- ment that he parades thenceforward to the end. Well was it for Knox that he succeeded no better; it is under this very ambiguity about Deborah that we shall find him fain to creep for shelter before he is done with the regiment of women. After having thus exhausted Scripture, and formulated its teaching in the somewhat blasphemous maxim that the man is placed above the woman, even as God above the angels, he goes on triumphantly to adduce the testimonies of Tertullian, Augustine, Ambrose, Basil, Chrysostom, and the Pan- dects; and having gathered this little cloud of witnesses about him, like pursuivants about a herald, he solemnly proclaims all reigning women to be traitoresses and rebels against God; discharges all men thenceforward from holding any office under such monstrous regiment, and calls upon all the lieges with one consent to '' study to repress the inordinate pride and tyranny " of queens. If this is not treasonable teaching, one would be glad to know what is; and yet, as if he feared he had not made the case plain enough against himself, he goes on to deduce the startling corollary that all oaths of allegiance must be incontinently broken. If it was sin thus to have sworn even in ignorance, it were obstinate sin to continue to respect them after fuller knowledge. Then comes the peroration, in which he cries aloud against aSo JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN the cruelties of that cursed Jezebel of England — that horrible monster Jezebel of England; and after having predicted sudden destruction to her rule and to the rule of all crowned women, and warned all men that if they presume to defend the same when any ''noble heart" shall be raised up to vindicate the liberty of his country, they shall not fail to perish themselves in the ruin, he concludes with a last rhetorical flourish : '* And there- fore let all men be advertised, for the Trumpet hath ONCE BLOWN." The capitals are his own. In writing, he probably felt the want of some such reverberation of the pulpit under strong hands as he was wont to emphasise his spoken utterances withal; there would seem to him a want of passion in the orderly lines of type; and I sup- pose we may take the capitals as a mere substitute for the great voice with which he would have given it forth, had we heard it from his own lips. Indeed, as it is, in this little strain of rhetoric about the trumpet, this current allusion to the fall of Jericho, that alone distinguishes his bitter and hasty production, he was probably right, according to all artistic canon, thus to support and accentuate in conclusion the sustained metaphor of a hostile proclamation. It is curious, by the way, to note how favourite an image the trumpet was with the Reformer. He returns to it again and again ; it is the Alpha and Omega of his rhetoric; it is to him what a ship is to the stage sailor; and one would almost fancy he had begun the world as a trumpeter's apprentice. The partiality is surely characteristic. All his life long he was blowing summonses before various Jerichos, some of which fell duly, but not all. Wher- 281 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS ever he appears in history his speech is loud, angry, and hostile; there is no peace in his life, and little tender- ness; he is always sounding hopefully to the front for some rough enterprise. And as his voice had some- thing of the trumpet's hardness, it had something also of the trumpet's warlike inspiration. So Randolph, possibly fresh from the sound of the Reformer's preach- ing, writes of him to Cecil: — "Where your honour exhorteth us to stoutness, I assure you the voice of one man is able, in an hour, to put more life in us than six hundred trumpets continually blustering in our ears."^ Thus was the proclamation made. Nor was it long in wakening all the echoes of Europe. What success might have attended it, had the question decided been a purely abstract question, it is difficult to say. As it was, it was to stand or fall, not by logic, but by polit- ical needs and sympathies. Thus, in France, his doc- trine was to have some future, because Protestants suf- fered there under the feeble and treacherous regency of Catherine de Medici; and thus it was to have no future anywhere else, because the Protestant interest was bound up with the prosperity of Queen Elizabeth. This stumbling-block lay at the very threshold of the matter; and Knox, in the text of the "First Blast," had set everybody the wrong example and gone to the ground himself. He finds occasion to regret "the blood of innocent Lady Jane Dudley." But Lady Jane Dudley, or Lady Jane Grey, as we call her, was a would- be traitoress and rebel against God, to use his own ex- pressions. If, therefore, political and religious sympa- 1 M'Crie's Life of Knox, ii. 41. a83 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN thy led Knox himself into so grave a partiality, what was he to expect from his disciples ? If the trumpet gave so ambiguous a sound, who could heartily prepare himself for the battle ? The question whether Lady Jane Dudley was an innocent martyr, or a traitoress against God, whose inordinate pride and tyranny had been effectually repressed, was thus left altogether in the wind ; and it was not, perhaps, wonderful if many of Knox's readers concluded that all right and wrong in the matter turned upon the degree of the sovereign's orthodoxy and possible helpfulness to the Reformation. He should have been the more careful of such an am- biguity of meaning, as he must have known well the lukewarm indifference and dishonesty of his fellow- reformers in political matters. He had already, in 1556 or 1557, talked the matter over with his great master, Calvin, in " a private conversation ; " and the interview^ must have been truly distasteful to both parties. Cal- vin, indeed, went a far way with him in theory, and owned that the "government of women was a devia- tion from the original and proper order of nature, to be ranked, no less than slavery, among the punishments consequent upon the fall of man." But, in practice, their two roads separated. For the Man of Geneva saw difficulties in the way of the Scripture proof in the cases of Deborah and Huldah, and in the prophecy of Isaiah that queens should be the nursing mothers of the Church. And as the Bible was not decisive, he thought the subject should be let alone, because **by custom and public consent and long practice, it has been estab- lished that realms and principalities may descend to 1 Described by Calvin in a letter to Cecil, Knox's Works, vol. iv. 283 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS females by hereditary right, and it would not be lawful to unsettle governments which are ordained by the peculiar providence of God." I imagine Knox's ears must have burned during this interview. Think of him listening dutifully to all this — how it would not do to meddle with anointed kings — how there was a peculiar providence in these great affairs; and then think of his own peroration, and the *' noble heart" whom he looks for "to vindicate the liberty of his country;" or his answer to Queen Mary, when she asked him who he was, to interfere in the affairs of Scotland: — ''Madam, a subject born within the same!" Indeed, the two doctors who differed at this private conversation rep- resented, at the moment, two principles of enormous import in the subsequent history of Europe. In Calvin we have represented that passive obedience, that tolera- tion of injustice and absurdity, that holding back of the hand from political affairs as from something unclean, which lost France, if we are to believe M. Michelet, for the Reformation ; a spirit necessarily fatal in the long run to the existence of any sect that may profess it; a suicidal doctrine that survives among us to this day in narrow views of personal duty, and the low political morality of many virtuous men. In Knox, on the other hand, we see foreshadowed the whole Puritan Revolu- tion and the scaffold of Charles I. There is little doubt in my mind that this interview was what caused Knox to print his book without a name.i It was a dangerous thing to contradict the Man 1 It was anonymously published, but no one seems to have been in doubt about its authorship; he might as well have set his name to it, for all the good he got by holding it back. 284 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN of Geneva, and doubly so, surely, when one had had the advantage of correction from him in a private con- versation ; and Knox had his little flock of English refu- gees to consider. If they had fallen into bad odour at Geneva, where else was there left to flee to ? It was printed, as I said, in 1558; and, by a singular mal-d- propos, in that same year Mary died, and Elizabeth suc- ceeded to the throne of England. And just as the ac- cession of Catholic Queen Mary had condemned female rule in the eyes of Knox, the accession of Protestant Queen Elizabeth justified it in the eyes of his colleagues. Female rule ceases to be an anomaly, not because Eliza- beth can "reply to eight ambassadors in one day in their different languages," but because she represents for the moment the political future of the Reformation. The exiles troop back to England with songs of praise in their mouths. The bright occidental star, of which we have all read in the Preface to the Bible, has risen over the darkness of Europe. There is a thrill of hope through the persecuted Churches of the Continent. Cal- vin writes to Cecil, washing his hands of Knox and his political heresies. The sale of the " First Blast " is pro- hibited in Geneva; and along with it the bold book of Knox's colleague, Goodman — a book dear to Milton — where female rule was briefly characterised as a ** mon- ster in nature and disorder among men."^ Any who may ever have doubted, or been for a moment led away by Knox or Goodman, or their own wicked imagina- tions, are now more than convinced. They have seen the occidental star. Aylmer, with his eye set greedily on a possible bishopric, and "the better to obtain the 1 Knox's Works, iv. 558. 28$ FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS favour of the new Queen, "^ sharpens his pen to con- found Knox by logic. What need ? He has been con- founded by facts. '*Thus what had been to the refu- gees of Geneva as the very word of God, no sooner were they back in England than, behold ! it was the work of the devil." 2 Now, what of the real sentiments of these loyal sub- jects of Elizabeth ? They professed a holy horror for Knox's position : let us see if their own would please a modern audience any better, or was, in substance, greatly different. John Aylmer, afterward Bishop of London, published an answer to Knox, under the title of An Harbour for Faithful and true Subjects against the late Blown Blast, concerning the government of Women.^ And certainly he was a thought more acute, a thought less precipitate and simple, than his adversary. He is not to be led away by such captious terms as natural and unnatu- ral. It is obvious to him that a woman's disability to rule is not natural in the same sense in which it is nat- ural for a stone to fall or fire to burn. He is doubtful, on the whole, whether this disability be natural at all ; nay, when he is laying it down that a woman should not be a priest, he shows some elementary conception of what many of us now hold to be the truth of the matter. "The bringing-up of women," he says, 'Ms commonly such " that they cannot have the necessary 1 Strype's Aylmer, p. 16. ' It may interest the reader to know that these (so says Thomasius) are the *' ipsissima verba Schlusselburgii." 3 I am indebted for a sight of this book to the kindness of Mr. David Laing, the editor of Knox's works. 386 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN qualifications, "for they are not brought up in learning in schools, nor trained in disputation." And even so, he can ask, *' Are there not in England women, think you, that for learning and wisdom could tell their house- hold and neighbours as good a tale as any Sir John there?" For all that, his advocacy is weak. If wo- man's rule is not unnatural in a sense preclusive of its very existence, it is neither so convenient nor so profit- able as the government of men. He holds England to be specially suitable for the government of women, be- cause there the governor is more limited and restrained by the other members of the constitution than in other places ; and this argument has kept his book from being altogether forgotten. It is only in hereditary monar- chies that he will offer any defence of the anomaly. " If rulers were to be chosen by lot or suffrage, he would not that any women should stand in the election, but men only." The law of succession of crowns was a law to him, in the same sense as the law of evolution is a law to Mr. Herbert Spencer; and the one and the other counsels his readers, in a spirit suggestively alike, not to kick against the pricks or seek to be more wise than He who made them.^ If God has put a female child into the direct line of inheritance, it is God's affair. His strength will be perfected in her weakness. He makes the Creator address the objectors in this not very flatter- ing vein: — " I, that could make Daniel, a sucking babe, to judge better than the wisest lawyers ; a brute beast to reprehend the folly of a prophet; and poor fishers to confound the great clerks of the world — cannot I make a woman to be a good ruler over you ? " This is the 1 Social Statics, p. 64, etc. 287 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS last word of his reasoning. Although he was not alto- gether without Puritanic leaven, shown particularly in what he says of the incomes of Bishops, yet it was rather loyalty to the old order of things than any generous be- lief in the capacity of women, that raised up for them this clerical champion. His courtly spirit contrasts sin- gularly with the rude, bracing republicanism of Knox. "Thy knee shall bow," he says, ** thy cap shall off, thy tongue shall speak reverently of thy sovereign." For himself, his tongue is even more than reverent. Nothing can stay the issue of his eloquent adulation. Again and again, "the remembrance of Elizabeth's virtues" car- ries him away ; and he has to hark back again to find the scent of his argument. He is repressing his vehe- ment adoration throughout, until, when the end comes, and he feels his business at an end, he can indulge him- self to his heart's content in indiscriminate laudation of his royal mistress. It is humorous to think that this illustrious lady, whom he here praises, among many other excellences, for the simplicity of her attire and the "marvellous meekness of her stomach," threatened him, years after, in no very meek terms, for a sermon against female vanity in dress, which she held as a re- flection on herself.^ Whatever was wanting here in respect for women generally, there was no want of respect for the Queen ; and one cannot very greatly wonder if these devoted servants looked askance, not upon Knox only, but on his little flock, as they came back to England tainted with disloyal doctrine. For them, as for him, the occi- dental star rose somewhat red and angry. As for poor 1 Hallam's Const. Hist, of England, i. 225, note ". 288 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN Knox, his position was the saddest of all. For the juncture seemed to him of the highest importance; it was the nick of time, the flood-water of opportunity. Not only was there an opening for him in Scotland, a smouldering brand of civil liberty and religious en- thusiasm which it should be for him to kindle into flame with his powerful breath ; but he had his eye seemingly on an object of even higher worth. For now, when re- ligious sympathy ran so high that it could be set against national aversion, he wished to begin the fusion to- gether of England and Scotland, and to begin it at the sore place. If once the open wound were closed at the Border, the work would be half done. Ministers placed at Berwick and such places might seek their con- verts equally on either side of the march ; old enemies would sit together to hear the gospel of peace, and for- get the inherited jealousies of many generations in the enthusiasm of a common faith ; or — let us say better — a common heresy. For people are not most conscious of brotherhood when they continue languidly together in one creed, but when, with some doubt, with some danger perhaps, and certainly not without some re- luctance, they violently break with the tradition of the past, and go forth from, the sanctuary of their fathers to worship under the bare heaven. A new creed, like a new country, is an unhomely place of sojourn ; but it makes men lean on one another and join hands. It was on this that Knox relied to begin the union of the English and the Scotch. And he had, per- haps, better means of judging than any even of his con- temporaries. He knew the temper of both nations ; and already during his two years' chaplaincy at Berwick, he 289 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS had seen his scheme put to the proof. But whether practicable or not, the proposal does him much honour. That he should thus have sought to make a love-match of it between the two peoples, and tried to win their in- clination toward a union instead of simply transferring them, like so many sheep, by a marriage, or testament, or private treaty, is thoroughly characteristic of what is best in the man. Nor was this all. He had, besides, to assure himself of English support, secret or avowed, for the reformation party in Scotland ; a delicate affair, trenching upon treason. And so he had plenty to say to Cecil, plenty that he did not care to " commit to pa- per neither yet to the knowledge of many." But his miserable publication had shut the doors of England in his face. Summoned to Edinburgh by the confederate lords, he waited at Dieppe, anxiously praying for leave to journey through England. The most dispiriting ti- dings reach him. His messengers, coming from so ob- noxious a quarter, narrowly escape imprisonment. His old congregation are coldly received, and even begin to look back again to their place of exile with regret. '*My First Blast," he writes ruefully, **has blown from me all my friends of England." * And then he adds, with a snarl, "The Second Blast, I fear, shall sound somewhat more sharp, except men be more moderate than I hear they are."i But the threat is empty; there will never be a second blast — he has had enough of that trumpet. Nay, he begins to feel uneasily that, unless he is to be rendered useless for the rest of his life, unless he is to lose his right arm and go about his great work maimed and impotent, he must find some way of making his 1 Knox to Mrs. Locke, 6th April, 1559. Works, vi. 14, 290 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN peace with England and the indignant Queen. The letter just quoted was written on the 6th of April, 1559; and on the loth, after he had cooled his heels for four days more about the streets of Dieppe, he gave in alto- gether, and writes a letter of capitulation to Cecil. In this letter ^ which he kept back until the 22d, still hoping that things would come right of themselves, he censures the great secretary for having "followed the world in the way of perdition," characterizes him as " worthy of hell," and threatens him, if he be not found simple, sincere, and fervent in the cause of Christ's gospel, that he shall " taste of the same cup that politic heads have drunken in before him." This is all, I take it, out of respect for the Reformer's own position ; if he is going to be humiliated, let others be humiliated first; like a child who will not take his medicine until he has made his nurse and his mother drink of it before him. " But I have, say you, written a treasonable book against the regiment and empire of women. . . . The writing of that book I will not deny ; but to prove it treasonable I think it shall be hard. . . . It is hinted that my book shall be written against. If so be, sir, I greatly doubt they shall rather hurt nor (than) mend the matter." And here come the terms of capitulation ; for he does not surrender unconditionally, even in this sore strait: '* And yet if any," he goes on, ''think me enemy to the person, or yet to the regiment, of her whom God hath now promoted, they are utterly deceived in me, for the miraculous work of God, comforting His afflicted by means of an infirm vessel, I do acknowledge, and the power of His most potent hand I will obey. More 1 Knox to Sir William Cecil, loth April, 1559. Works, ii. 16, or vi. 15, 291 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS plainly to speak, if Queen Elizabeth shall confess, that the extraordinary dispensation of God's great mercy maketh that lawful unto her which both nature and God's law do deny to all women, then shall none in England be more willing to maintain her lawful author- ity than I shall be. But if (God's wondrous work set aside) she ground (as God forbid) the justness of her title upon consuetude, laws, or ordinances of men, then " — Then Knox will denounce her? Not so; he is more politic nowadays — then, he "greatly fears" that her ingratitude to God will not go long without punishment. His letter to Elizabeth, written some few months later, was a mere amplification of the sentences quoted above. She must base her title entirely upon the extraordinary providence of God; but ifshe does this, " if thus, in God's presence, she humbles herself, so will he with tongue and pen justify her authority, as the Holy Ghost hath justified the same in Deborah, that blessed mother in Israel." ^ And so, you see, his consistency is preserved ; he is merely applying the doctrine of the ** First Blast." The argument goes thus: The regiment of women is, as before noted in our work, repugnant to nature, con- tumely to God, and a subversion of good order. It has nevertheless pleased God to raise up, as exceptions to this law, first Deborah, and afterward Elizabeth Tudor — whose regiment we shall proceed to celebrate. There is no evidence as to how the Reformer's ex- planations were received, and indeed it is most probable that the letter was never shown to Elizabeth at all. For it was sent under cover of another to Cecil, and as it was 1 Knox to Queen Elizabeth, July 20th, 1559. Works, vi. 47, or ii. 26. 292 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN not of a very courtly conception throughout, and was, of all things, what would most excite the Queen's uneasy jealousy about her title, it is like enough that the secre- tary exercised his discretion (he had Knox's leave in this case, and did not always wait for that, it is reputed) to put the letter harmlessly away beside other valueless or unpresentable State Papers. I wonder very much if he did the same with another,^ written two years later, -after Mary had come into Scotland, in which Knox al- most seeks to make Elizabeth an accomplice with him in the matter of the ** First Blast." The Queen of Scot- land is going to have that work refuted, he tells her; and "though it were but foolishness in him to prescribe unto her Majesty what is to be done," he would yet re- mind her that Mary is neither so much alarmed about her own security, nor so generously interested in Eliza- beth's, "that she would take such pains, unless her -crafty counsel in so doing shot at a further mark. ' ' There is something really ingenious in this letter; it showed Knox in the double capacity of the author of the "First Blast" and the faithful friend of Elizabeth; and he combines them there so naturally, that one would .scarcely imagine the two to be incongruous. Twenty days later he was defending his intemperate publication to another queen — his own queen, Mary Stuart. This was on the first of those three interviews which he has preserved for us with so much dramatic vigour in the picturesque pages of his history. After he had avowed the authorship in his usual haughty style, Mary asked: "You think, then, that 1 have no just au- thority?" The question was evaded. "Please your ^ Knox to Queen Elizabeth, August 6th, 1561. Works, vi. 126. 293 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS Majesty," he answered, ''that learned men in all ages have had their judgments free, and most commonly dis- agreeing from the common judgment of the world ; such also have they published by pen and tongue; and yet notwithstanding they themselves have lived in the com- mon society with others, and have borne patiently with the errors and imperfections which they could not amend." Thus did " Plato the philosopher:" thus will do John Knox. *M have communicated my judgment to the world : if the realm finds no inconvenience from the regiment of a woman, that which they approve, shall I not further disallow than within my own breast; but shall be as well content to live under your Grace, as Paul was to live under Nero. And my hope is, that so long as ye defile not your hands with the blood of the saints of God, neither I nor my book shall hurt either you or your authority. " All this is admirable in wisdom and moderation, and, except that he might have hit upon a comparison less offensive than that with Paul and Nero, hardly to be bettered. Having said thus much, he feels he needs say no more; and so, when he is further pressed, he closes that part of the discussion with an as- tonishing sally. If he has been content to let this mat- ter sleep, he would recommend her Grace to follow his example with thankfulness of heart; it is grimly to be understood which of them has most to fear if the ques- tion should be reawakened. So the talk wandered to other subjects. Only, when the Queen was summoned at last to dinner ( "for it was afternoon ") Knox made his salutation in this form of words: "I pray God, Madam, that you may be as much blessed within the Commonwealth of Scotland, if it be the pleasure of God, ap4 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN as ever Deborah was in the Commonwealth of Israel." ' Deborah again. But he was not yet done with the echoes of his own "First Blast." In 1571, when he was already near his end, the old controversy was taken up in one of a series of anonymous libels against the Reformer affixed, Sun- day after Sunday, to the church door. The dilemma was fairly enough stated. Either his doctrine is false, in which case he is a "false doctor" and seditious; or, if it be true, why does he "avow and approve the con- trare, I mean that regim.ent in the Queen of England's person; which he avoweth and approveth, not only praying for the maintenance of her estate, but also pro- curing her aid and support against his own native coun- try ? " Knox answered the libel, as his wont was, next Sunday, from the pulpit. He justified the " First Blast " with all the old arrogance; there is no drawing back there. The regiment of women is repugnant to nature, contumely to God, and a subversion of good order, as before. When he prays for the maintenance of Eliza- beth's estate, he is only following the example of those prophets of God who warned and comforted the wicked kings of Israel; or of Jeremiah, who bade the Jews pray for the prosperity of Nebuchadnezzar. As for the Queen's aid, there is no harm in that: quia (these are his own words) quia omnia munda mundis : because to the pure all things are pure. One thing, in conclusion, he " may not pretermit; " to give the lie in the throat to his ac- cuser, where he charges him with seeking support against his native country. "What I have been to my country," said the old Reformer, "what I have been to 1 Knox's Works, ii. 278-280. 295 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS my country, albeit this unthankful age will not know, yet the ages to come will be compelled to bear witness to the truth. And thus I cease, requiring of all men that have anything to oppone against me, that he may (they may) do it so plainly, as that I may make myself and all my doings manifest to the world. For to me it seemeth a thing unreasonable, that, in this my decrepit age, I shall be compelled to fight against shadows, and howlets that dare not abide the light." ^ Now, in this, which may be called his Last Plasty there is as sharp speaking as any in the " First Blast" itself He is of the same opinion to the end, you see, although he has been obliged to cloak and garble that opinion for political ends. He has been tacking indeed, and he has indeed been seeking the favour of a queen ; but what man ever sought a queen's favour with a more virtuous purpose, or with as little courtly policy ? The question of consistency is delicate, and must be made plain. Knox never changed his opinion about female rule, but lived to regret that he had published that opin- ion. Doubtless he had many thoughts so far out of the range of public sympathy, that he could only keep them to himself, and, in his own words, bear patiently with the errors and imperfections that he could not amend. For example, I make no doubt myself that, in his own heart, he did hold the shocking dogma attributed to him by more than one calumniator; and that, had the time been ripe, had there been aught to gain by it, in- stead of all to lose, he would have been the first to assert that Scotland was elective instead of hereditary 1 Calderwood's History of the Kirk of Scotland, edition of the Wod- row Society, iii. 51-54. 2^ JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN — ** elective as in the days of paganism," as one Thevet says in holy horror.^ And yet, because the time was not ripe, 1 find no hint of such an idea in his collected works. Now, the regiment of women was another matter that he should have kept to himself; right or wrong, his opinion did not fit the moment; right or wrong, as Aylmer puts it, ''the Blast was blown out of season." And this it was that he began to perceive after the accession of Elizabeth; not that he had been wrong, and that female rule was a good thing, for he had said from the first that "the felicity of some women in their empires " could not change the law of God and the nature of created things; not this, but that the regiment of women was one of those imperfections of society which must be borne with because yet they cannot be remedied. The thing had seemed so obvious to him, in his sense of unspeakable masculine superior- ity, and his fine contempt for what is only sanctioned by antiquity and common consent, he had imagined that, at the first hint, men would arise and shake off the debasing tyranny. He found himself wrong, and he showed that he could be moderate in his own fashion, and understood the spirit of true compromise. He came round to Calvin's position, in fact, but by a different way. And it derogates nothing from the merit of this wise attitude that it was the consequence of a change of interest. We are all taught by interest; and if the interest be not merely selfish, there is no wiser preceptor under heaven, and perhaps no sterner. Such is the history of John Knox's connection with the controversy about female rule. In itself, this is ob- 1 Bayle's Historical Dictionary, art. Knox, remark G- 297 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS viously an incomplete study; not fully to be understood, without a knowledge of his private relations with the other sex, and what he thought of their position in domestic life. This shall be dealt with in another paper. 11. PRIVATE LIFE To those who know Knox by hearsay only, I believe the matter of this paper will be somewhat astonishing. For the hard energy of the man in all public matters has possessed the imagination of the world; he remains for posterity in certain traditional phrases, browbeating Queen Mary, or breaking beautiful carved work in ab- beys and cathedrals, that had long smoked themselves out and were no more than sorry ruins, while he was still quietly teaching children in a country gentleman's family. It does not consist with the common accepta- tion of his character to fancy him much moved, except with anger. And yet the language of passion came to his pen as readily, whether it was a passion of denun- ciation against some of the abuses that vexed his right- eous spirit, or of yearning for the society of an absent friend. He was vehement in affection, as in doctrine. I will not deny that there may have been, along with his vehemence, something shifty, and for the moment only; that, like many men, and many Scotchmen, he saw the world and his own heart, not so much under any very steady, equable light, as by extreme flashes of passion, true for the moment, but not true in the long run. There does seem to me to be something of this traceable in the Reformer's utterances : precipi- tation and repentance, hardy speech and action some- 398 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN what circumspect, a strong tendency to see himself in a heroic light and to place a ready belief in the disposi- tion of the moment. Withal he had considerable con- fidence in himself, and in the uprightness of his own disciplined emotions, underlying much sincere aspira- tion after spiritual humility. And it is this confidence that makes his intercourse with women so interesting to a modern. It would be easy, of course, to make fun of the whole affair, to picture him strutting vainglori- ously among these inferior creatures, or compare a re- ligious friendship in the sixteenth century with what was called, 1 think, a literary friendship in the eigh- teenth. But it is more just and profitable to recognise what there is sterling and human underneath all his theoretical affectations of superiority. Women, he has said in his "First Blast," are ''weak, frail, impatient, feeble, and foolish ; " and yet it does not appear that he was himself any less dependent than other men upon the sympathy and affection of these weak, frail, impa- tient, feeble, and foolish creatures ; it seems even as if he had been rather more dependent than most. Of those who are to act influentially on their fellows, we should expect always something large and public in their way of life, something more or less urbane and comprehensive in their sentiment for others. We should not expect to see them spend their sympathy in idyls, however beautiful. We should not seek them among those who, if they have but a wife to their bosom, ask no more of womankind, just as they ask no more of their own sex, if they can find a friend or two for their immediate need. They will be quick to feel all the pleasures of our association — not the great ones 299 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS alone, but all. They will know not love only, but all those other ways in which man and woman mutually make each other happy — by sympathy, by admiration, by the atmosphere they bear about them — down to the mere impersonal pleasure of passing happy faces in the street. For, through all this gradation, the difference of sex makes itself pleasurably felt. Down to the most lukewarm courtesies of life, there is a special chivalry due and a special pleasure received, when the two sexes are brought ever so lightly into contact. We love our mothers otherwise than we love our fathers ; a sister is not as a brother to us; and friendship between man and woman, be it never so unalloyed and innocent, is not the same as friendship between man and man. Such friendship is not even possible for all. To conjoin ten- derness for a woman that is not far short of passionate with such disinterestedness and beautiful gratuity of affection as there is between friends of the same sex, requires no ordinary disposition in the man. For either it would presuppose quite womanly delicacy of percep- tion, and, as it were, a curiosity in shades of differing sentiment; or it would mean that he had accepted the large, simple divisions of society : a strong and positive spirit robustly virtuous, who has chosen a better part coarsely, and holds to it steadfastly, with all its conse- quences of pain to himself and others; as one who should go straight before him on a journey, neither tempted by wayside flowers nor very scrupulous of small lives under foot. It was in virtue of this latter disposition that Knox was capable of those intimacies with women that embellished his life; and we find him preserved for us in old letters as a man of many women 300 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN friends; a man of some expansion toward the other sex; a man ever ready to comfort weeping women, and to weep along with them. Of such scraps and fragments of evidence as to his private life and more intimate thoughts as have survived to us from all the perils that environ written paper, an astonishingly large proportion is in the shape of letters to women of his familiarity. He was twice married, but that is not greatly to the purpose ; for the Turk, who thinks even more meanly of women than John Knox, is none the less given to marrying. What is really significant is quite apart from marriage. For the man Knox was a true man, and woman, the ewig-wei- Uiche, was as necessary to him, in spite of all low theories, as ever she was to Goethe. He came to her in a certain halo of his own, as the minister of truth, just as Goethe came to her in a glory of art; he made himself necessary to troubled hearts and minds exercised in the painful complications that naturally result from all changes in the world's way of thinking; and those whom he had thus helped became dear to him, and were made the chosen companions of his leisure if they were at hand, or encouraged and comforted by letter if they were afar. It must not be forgotten that Knox had been a pres- byter of the old Church, and that the many women whom we shall see gathering around him, as he goes through life, had probably been accustomed, while still in the communion of Rome, to rely much upon some chosen spiritual director, so that the intimacies of which 1 propose to offer some account, while testifying to a good heart in the Reformer, testify also to a certain sur- 301 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS vival of the spirit of the confessional in the Reformed Church, and are not properly to be judged without this idea. There is no friendship so noble, but it is the product of the time; and a world of little finical ob- servances, and little frail proprieties and fashions of the hour, go to make or to mar, to stint or to perfect, the union of spirits the most loving and the most intolerant of such interference. The trick of the country and the age steps in even between the mother and her child, counts out their caresses upon niggardly fingers, and says, in the voice of authority, that this one thing shall be a matter of confidence between them, and this other thing shall not. And thus it is that we must take into reckoning whatever tended to modify the social atmos- phere in which Knox and his women friends met, and loved and trusted each other. To the man who had been their priest and was now their minister, women would be able to speak with a confidence quite impos- sible in these latter days; the women would be able to speak, and the man to hear. It was a beaten road just then ; and 1 dare say we should be no less scandalised at their plain speech than they, if they could come back to earth, would be offended at our waltzes and worldly fashions. This, then, was the footing on which Knox stood with his many women friends. The reader will see, as he goes on, how much of warmth, of interest, and of that happy mutual dependence which is the very gist of friendship, he contrived to ingraft upon this somewhat dry relationship of penitent and confessor. It must be understood that we know nothing of his intercourse with women (as indeed we know little at all about his life) until he came to Berwick in 1 549, when 302 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN he was already in the forty-fifth year of his age. At the same time it is just possible that some of a little group at Edinburgh, with whom he corresponded during his last absence, may have been friends of an older stand- ing. Certainly they were, of all his female correspon- dents, the least personally favored. He treats them throughout in a comprehensive sort of spirit that must at times have been a little wounding. Thus, he remits one of them to his former letters, ** which 1 trust be com- mon betwixt you and the rest of our sisters, for to me ye are all equal in Christ." ^ Another letter is a gem in this way. ''Albeit," it begins, "albeit I have no par- ticular matter to write unto you, beloved sister, yet I could not refrain to write these few lines to you in declaration of my remembrance of you. True it is that I have many whom I bear in equal remembrance before God with you, to whom at present I write nothing, either for that I esteem them stronger than you, and therefore they need the less my rude labours, or else be- cause they have not provoked me by their writing to recompense their remembrance."^ His "sisters in Ed- inburgh " had evidently to " provoke " his attention pretty constantly; nearly all his letters are, on the face of them, answers to questions, and the answers are given with a certain crudity that I do not find repeated when he writes to those he really cares for. So when they consult him about women's apparel (a subject on which his opinion may be pretty correctly imagined by the in- genious reader for himself) he takes occasion to antici- pate some of the most offensive matter of the "First Blast " in a style of real brutality. ^ It is not merely that 1 Works, iv. 244. 2 Works, iv. 246. 3 lb. iv. 225. 303 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS he tells them "the garments of women do declare their weakness and inability to execute the office of man,'* though that in itself is neither very wise nor very oppor- tune in such a correspondence one would think; but if the reader will take the trouble to wade through the long, tedious sermon for himself, he will see proof enough that Knox neither loved, nor very deeply respected, the women he was then addressing. In very truth, I believe these Edinburgh sisters simply bored him. He had a certain interest in them as his children in the Lord ; they were continually "provoking him by their writing;" and, if they handed his letters about, writing to them was a& good a form of publication as was then open to him in Scotland. There is one letter, however, in this budget, addressed to the wife of Clerk-Register Mackgil, which is worthy of some further mention. The Clerk-Register had not opened his heart, it would appear, to the preach- ing of the Gospel, and Mrs. Mackgil has written, seeking the Reformer's prayers in his behalf. "Your husband," he answers, "is dear to me for that he is a man indued with some good gifts, but more dear for that he is your husband. Charity moveth me to thirst his illumination, both for his comfort and for the trouble which you sus- tain by his coldness, which justly may be called infi- delity. " He wishes her, however, not to hope too much ; he can promise that his prayers will be earnest, but not that they will be effectual ; it is possible that this is to be her "cross" in life; that "her head, appointed by God for her comfort, should be her enemy." And if this be so, well, there is nothing for it; " with patience she must abide God's merciful deliverance," taking heed only that she does not "obey manifest iniquity for the 304 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN pleasure of any mortal man."^ I conceive this epistle would have given a very modified sort of pleasure to the Clerk- Register, had it chanced to fall into his hands. Compare its tenor — the dry resignation not without a hope of merciful deliverance therein recommended — with these words from another letter, written but the year before to two married women of London: ''Call first for grace by Jesus, and thereafter communicate with your faithful husbands, and then shall God, I doubt not, conduct your footsteps, and direct your counsels to His glory." 2 Here the husbands are put in a very high place; we can recognise here the same hand that has written for our instruction how the man is set above the woman, even as God above the angels. But the point of the distinction is plain. For Clerk-Register Mackgil was not a faithful husband ; displayed, indeed, toward religion a " coldness which justly might be called infidelity. " We shall see in more notable instances how much Knox's conception of the duty of wives varies ac- cording to the zeal and orthodoxy of the husband. As I have said, he may possibly have made the ac- quaintance of Mrs. Mackgil, Mrs. Guthrie, or some other, or all, of these Edinburgh friends while he was still Douglas of Longniddry's private tutor. But our certain knowledge begins in 1 549. He was then but newly es- caped from his captivity in France, after pulling an oar for nineteen months on the benches of the galley Notre Dame; now up the rivers, holding stealthy intercourse with other Scottish prisoners in the castle of Rouen; now out in the North Sea, raising his sick head to catch a glimpse of the far-off steeples of St. Andrews. And 1 Works, iv. 245. ^Ih. iv. 221. 305 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS now he was sent down by the English Privy Council as a preacher to Berwick-upon-Tweed; somewhat shaken in health by all his hardships, full of pains and agues, and tormented by gravel, that sorrow of great men ; alto- gether, what with his romantic story, his weak health, and his great faculty of eloquence, a very natural object for the sympathy of devout women. At this happy juncture he fell into the company of a Mrs. Elizabeth Bowes, wife of Richard Bowes, of Aske, in Yorkshire, to whom she had borne twelve children. She was a re- ligious hypochondriac, a very weariful woman, full of doubts and scruples, and giving no rest on earth either to herself or to those whom she honoured with her con- fidence. From the first time she heard Knox preach she formed a high opinion of him, and was solicitous ever after of his society. ^ Nor was Knox unresponsive. ** I have always delighted in your company," he writes, "and when labours would permit, you know I have not spared hours to talk and commune with you." Of- ten when they had met in depression he reminds her, "God hath sent great comfort unto both." 2 We can gather from such letters as are yet extant how close and continuous was their intercourse. " I think it best you remain till the morrow," he writes once, "and so shall we commune at large at afternoon. This day you know to be the day of my study and prayer unto God ; yet if your trouble be intolerable, or if you think my presence may release your pain, do as the Spirit shall move you. . . . Your messenger found me in bed, after a sore trouble and most dolorous night, and so dolour may complain to dolour when we two meet. . . . 1 Works, vi. 514, ^ Jb. iii, 338. 306 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN And this is more plain than ever I spoke, to let you know you have a companion in trouble." ^ Once we have the curtain raised for a moment, and can look at the two together for the length of a phrase. " After the writing of this preceding," writes Knox, "your brother and mine, Harrie Wycliffe, did advertise me by writing, that your adversary (the devil) took occasion to trouble you because that / did start back from yon rehearsing your infirmities. I remember myself so to have done, and that is my common consuetude when anything pier ceth or toucheth my heart. Call to your mind what I did stand- ing at the cupboard at Alnwick. In very deed I thought that no creature had been tempted as I was; and when I heard proceed from your mouth the very same words that he troubles me with, I did wonder and from my heart lament your sore trouble, knowing in myself the dolour thereof. " ^ Now intercourse of so very close a de- scription, whether it be religious intercourse or not, is apt to displease and disquiet a husband; and we know incidentally from Knox himself that there was some little scandal about his intimacy with Mrs. Bowes. **The slander and fear of men," he writes, "has im- peded me to exercise my pen so oft as I would ; yea, very shame hath holden me from your company, when I was most surely persuaded that God had appointed me at that time to comfort and feed your hungry and af- flicted soul. God in His infinite mercy/' he goes on, '' remove not only from me all fear that tendeth not to godliness, but from others suspicion to judge of me other- wise than it becometh one member to judge of another. "* And the scandal, such as it was, would not be allayed 1 Works, iii. 352, 353. ^Ih, iii. 350. ^ lb. iii. 390,391. 307 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS by the dissension in which Mrs. Bowes seems to have lived with her family upon the matter of religion, and the countenance shown by Knox to her resistance. Talking of these conflicts, and her courage against "her own flesh and most inward affections, yea, against some of her most natural friends," he writes it, ** to the praise of God, he has wondered at the bold constancy which he has found in her when his own heart was faint." ^ Now, perhaps in order to stop scandalous mouths, perhaps out of a desire to bind the much-loved evan- gelist nearer to her in the only manner possible, Mrs. Bowes conceived the scheme of marrying him to her fifth daughter, Marjorie; and the Reformer seems to have fallen in with it readily enough. It seems to have been believed in the family that the whole matter had been originally made up between these two, with no very spontaneous inclination on the part of the bride.^ Knox's idea of marriage, as I have said, was not the same for all men ; but on the whole, it was not lofty. We have a curious letter of his, written at the request of Queen Mary, to the Earl of Argyle, on very delicate household matters; which, as he tells us, "was not well accepted of the said Earl."^ We may suppose, however, that his own home was regulated in a similar spirit. I can fancy that for such a man, emotional, and with a need, now and again, to exercise parsimony in emotions not strictly needful, something a little mechanical, something hard and fast and clearly understood, would enter into his ideal of a home. There were storms enough with- out, and equability was to be desired at the fireside even at a sacrifice of deeper pleasures. So, from a wife, of 1 Works, Hi. 142. ^Ib. iii. 378. ^Ib. ii. 379. 308 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN all women, he would not ask much. One letter to her which has come down to us is, 1 had almost said, con- spicuous for coldness.^ He calls her, as he called other female correspondents, "dearly beloved sister;" the epistle is doctrinal, and nearly the half of it bears, not upon her own case, but upon that of her mother. How- ever, we know what Heine wrote in his wife's album ; and there is, after all, one passage that may be held to intimate some tenderness, although even that admits of an amusingly opposite construction. "I think," he says, 'M think this be the first letter I ever wrote to you." This, if we are to take it literally, may pair off with the **two or three children" whom Montaigne mentions having lost at nurse; the one is as eccentric in a lover as the other in a parent. Nevertheless, he displayed more energy in the course of his troubled wooing than might have been expected. The whole Bowes family, angry enough already at the influence he had obtained over the mother, set their faces obdurately against the match. And I dare say the opposition quick- ened his inclination. I fmd him writing to Mrs. Bowes that she need no further trouble herself about the mar- riage; it should now be his business altogether; it be- hoved him now to jeopard his life *'for the comfort of his own flesh, both fear and friendship of all earthly creature laid aside." ^ This is a wonderfully chivalrous utterance for a Reformer forty-eight years old; and it compares well with the leaden coquetries of Calvin, not much over thirty, taking this and that into considera- tion, weighing together dowries and religious qualifica- tions and the instancy of friends, and exhibiting what 1 Works, iii. 394. ^Ih., iii. 376. 309 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS M. Bungener calls "an honourable and Christian diffi- culty" of choice, in frigid indecisions and insincere pro- posals. But Knox's next letter is in a humbler tone; he has not found the negotiation so easy as he fancied ; he despairs of the marriage altogether, and talks of leaving England, — regards not "what country consumes his wicked carcass." "You shall understand," he says, "that this sixth of November, I spoke with Sir Robert Bowes" (the head of the family, his bride's uncle) "in the matter you know, according to your request; whose disdainful, yea, despiteful, words hath so pierced my heart that my life is bitter to me. I bear a good coun- tenance with a sore troubled heart, because he that ought to consider matters with a deep judgment is become not only a despiser, but also a taunter of God's messengers — God be merciful unto him ! Among others his most unpleasing words, while that I was about to have de- clared my heart in the whole matter, he said, * Away with your rhetorical reasons ! for I will not be persuaded with them.' God knows I did use no rhetoric nor col- oured speech ; but would have spoken the truth, and that in most simple manner. 1 am not a good orator in my own cause; but what he would not be content to hear of me, God shall declare to him one day to his dis- pleasure, unless he repent. "^ Poor Knox, you see, is quite commoved. It has been a very unpleasant inter- view. And as it is the only sample that we have of how things went with him during his courtship, we may in- fer that the period was not as agreeable for Knox as it has been for some others. However, when once they were married, I imagine 1 Works, iii. 378. 310 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN he and Marjorie Bowes hit it off together comfortably enough. The little we know of it may be brought to- gether in a very short space. She bore him two sons. He seems to have kept her pretty busy, and depended on her to some degree in his work; so that when she fell ill, his papers got at once into disorder. ^ Certainly she sometimes wrote to his dictation; and, in this ca- pacity, he calls her **his left hand."^ In June 1559, at the headiest moment of the Reformation in Scotland, he writes regretting the absence of his helpful colleague, Goodman, ** whose presence" (this is the not very grammatical form of his lament) ''whose presence I more thirst, than she that is my own flesh." ^ And this, considering the source and the circumstances, may be held as evidence of a very tender sentiment. He tells us himself in his history, on the occasion of a certain meeting at the Kirk of Field, that **he was in no small heaviness by reason of the late death of his dear bed- fellow, Marjorie Bowes." * Calvin, condoling with him, speaks of her as "a wife whose like is not to be found everywhere " (that is very like Calvin), and again, as "the most delightful of wives." We know what Cal- vin thought desirable in a wife, ''good humour, chas- tity, thrift, patience, and solicitude for her husband's health," and so we may suppose that the first Mrs. Knox fell not far short of this ideal. The actual date of the marriage is uncertain ; but by September 1 566, at the latest, the Reformer was settled in Geneva with his wife. There is no fear either that he will be dull ; even if the chaste, thrifty, patient Mar- 1 Works, vi .104. 2 /j. y. 5. ' lb. vi. 27. * lb. ii. 138. 3>» FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS jorie should not altogether occupy his mind, he need not go out of the house to seek more female sympathy; for behold! Mrs. Bowes is duly domesticated with the young couple. Dr. M'Crie imagined that Richard Bowes was now dead, and his widow, consequently, free to live where she would; and where could she go more naturally than to the house of a married daughter ? This, however, is not the case. Richard Bowes did not die till at least two years later. It is impossible to believe that he approved of his wife's desertion, after so many years of marriage, after twelve children had been born to them ; and accordingly we find in his will, dated 1 558, no mention either of her or of Knox's wife.^ This is plain sailing. It is easy enough to understand the anger of Bowes against this interloper, who had come into a quiet family, married the daughter in spite of the father's opposition, alienated the wife from the husband and the husband's religion, supported her in a long course of resistance and rebellion, and, after years of intimacy, already too close and tender for any jealous spirit to be- hold without resentment, carried her away with him at last into a foreign land. But it is not quite easy to un- derstand how, except out of sheer weariness and dis- gust, he was ever brought 10 agree to the arrangement. Nor is it easy to square the Reformer's conduct with his public teaching. We have, for instance, a letter ad- dressed by him, Craig, and Spottiswood, to the Arch- bishops of Canterbury and York, anent "a wicked and rebellious woman," one Anne Good, spouse to "John Barron, a minister of Christ Jesus his evangel," who, "after great rebellion shown unto him, and divers ad- iMr. Laing's preface to the sixth volume of Knox's Works, p. Ixii. 313 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN monitions given, as well by himself as by others in his name, that she should in no wise depart from this realm, nor from his house without his license, hath not the less stubbornly and rebelliously departed, separated herself from his society, left his house, and withdrawn herself from this realm." ^ Perhaps some sort of licence was extorted, as 1 have said, from Richard Bowes, weary with years of domestic dissension ; but setting that aside, the words employed with so much righteous indigna- tion by Knox, Craig, and Spottiswood, to describe the conduct of that wicked and rebellious woman, Mrs. Barron, would describe nearly as exactly the conduct of the religious Mrs. Bowes. It is a little bewildering, un- til we recollect the distinction between faithful and un- faithful husbands; for Barron was "a minister of Christ Jesus his evangel," while Richard Bowes, besides being own brother to a despiser and taunter of God's mes- sengers, is shrewdly suspected to have been ''a bigoted adherent of the Roman Catholic faith," or, as Knox himself would have expressed it, "a rotten Papist." You would have thought that Knox* was now pretty well supplied with female society. But we are not yet at the end of the roll. The last year of his sojourn in England had been spent principally in London, where he was resident as one of the chaplains of Edward the Sixth ; and here he boasts, although a stranger, he had, by God's grace, found favour before many.^ The godly women of the metropolis made much of him; once he writes to Mrs. Bowes that her last letter had found him closeted with three, and he and the three women were all in tears.3 Out of all, however, he had chosen two. 1 Works, vi. 534. 2 /&. jy. 220. 3 Jh. iii. 380. FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS *' God/' he writes to them, "brought us in such fa- miliar acquaintance, that your hearts were incensed and kindled with a special care over me, as a mother useth to he aver her natural child ; and my heart was opened and compelled in your presence to be more plain than ever I was to any." ^ And out of the two even he had chosen one, Mrs. Anne Locke, wife to Mr. Harry Locke, merchant, nigh to Bow Kirk, Cheapside, in London, as the address runs. If one may venture to judge upon such imperfect evidence, this was the woman he loved best. I have a difficulty in quite forming to myself an idea of her character. She may have been one of the three tearful visitors before alluded to; she may even have been that one of them who was so profoundly moved by some passages of Mrs. Bowes's letter, which the Reformer opened, and read aloud to them before they went. *' O would to God," cried this impression- able matron, "would to God that I might speak with that person, for I perceive there are more tempted than L"2 This may have been Mrs. Locke, as I say; but even if it were, we must not conclude from this one fact that she was such another as Mrs. Bowes. All the evi- dence tends the other way. She was a woman of un- derstanding, plainly, who followed political events with interest, and to whom Knox thought it worth while to write, in detail, the history of his trials and successes. She was religious, but without that morbid perversity of spirit that made religion so heavy a burden for the poor-hearted Mrs. Bowes. More of her I do not find, save testimony to the profound affection that united her to the Reformer. So we find him writing to her from a Ih. iii. 380. 3>4 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN Geneva, in such terms as these: — "You write that your desire is earnest to see me. Dear sister, if I should express the thirst and languor which I have had for your presence, I should appear to pass measure. . . . Yea, I weep and rejoice in remembrance of you ; but that would evanish by the comfort of your presence, which I assure you is so dear to me, that if the charge of this little flock here, gathered together in Christ's name, did not impede me, my coming should prevent my letter."^ I say that this was written from Geneva; and yet you will observe that it is no consideration for his wife or mother-in-law, only the charge of his little flock, that keeps him from setting out forthwith for London, to comfort himself with the dear presence of Mrs. Locke. Remember that was a certain plausible enough pretext for Mrs. Locke to come to Geneva — "the most perfect school of Christ that ever was on earth since the days of the Apostles" — for we are now under the reign of that "horrible monster Jezebel of England," when a lady of good orthodox sentiments was better out of London. It was doubtful, however, whether this was to be. She was detained in England, partly by circumstances unknown, "partly by empire of her head," Mr. Harry Locke, the Cheapside merchant. It is somewhat humorous to see Knox struggling for resignation, now that he has to do with a faithful hus- band (for Mr. Harry Locke was faithful). Had it been otherwise, "in my heart," he says, "I could have wished — yea," here he breaks out, "yea, and cannot cease to wish — that God would guide you to this place. "2 And after all, he had not long to wait, 1 Works, iv. 238. 2/j, jy. 240. 3«5 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS for, whether Mr. Harry Locke died in the interval, or was wearied, he too, into giving permission, five months after the date of the letter last quoted, "Mrs. Anne Locke, Harry her son, and Anne her daughter, and Katharine her maid," arrived in that perfect school of Christ, the Presbyterian paradise, Geneva. So now, and for the next two years, the cup of Knox's happi- ness was surely full. Of an afternoon, when the bells rang out for the sermon, the shops closed, and the good folk gathered to the churches, psalm-book in hand, we can imagine him drawing near to the Eng- glish chapel in quite patriarchal fashion, with Mrs. Knox and Mrs. Bowes and Mrs. Locke, James his ser- vant, Patrick his pupiL and a due following of children and maids. He might be alone at work all morning in his study, for he wrote much during these two years; but at night, you may be sure there was a circle of admiring women, eager to hear the new para- graph, and not sparing of applause. And what work, among others, was he elaborating at this time, but the notorious "First Blast" ? So that he may have rolled out in his big pulpit voice, how women were weak, frail, impatient, feeble, foolish, inconstant, variable, cruel, and lacking the spirit of counsel, and how men were above them, even as God is above the angels, in the ears of his own wife, and the two dearest friends he had on earth. But he had lost the sense of in- congruity, and continued to despise in theory the sex he honoured so much in practice, of whom he chose his most intimate associates, and whose courage he was compelled to wonder at, when his own heart was faint. ai6 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN We may say that such a man was not worthy of his fortune; and so, as he would not learn, he was taken away from that agreeable school, and his fellowship of women was broken up, not to be reunited. Called into Scotland to take at last that strange position in history which is his best claim to commemoration, he was fol- lowed thither by his wife and his mother-in-law. The wife soon died. The death of her daughter did not al- together separate Mrs. Bowes from Knox, but she seems to have come and gone between his house and England. In 1562, however, we find him characterised as "a sole man by reason of the absence of his mother-in-law, Mrs. Bowes," and a passport is got for her, her man, a maid, and ** three horses, whereof two shall return," as well as liberty to take all her own money with her into Scotland. This looks like a definite arrangement; but whether she died at Edinburgh, or went back to Eng- land yet again, 1 cannot find. With that great family of hers, unless in leaving her husband she had quarrelled with them all, there must have been frequent occasion for her presence, one would think. Knox at least sur- vived her; and we possess his epigraph to their long in- timacy, given to the world by him in an appendix to his latest publication. 1 have said in a former paper that Knox was not shy of personal revelations in his pub- lished works. And the trick seems to have grown on him. To this last tract, a controversial onslaught on a Scottish Jesuit, he prefixed a prayer, not very pertinent to the matter in hand, and containing references to his family which were the occasion of some wit in his ad- versary's answer; and appended what seems equally irrelevant, one of his devout letters to Mrs. Bowes, with 317 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS an explanatory preface. To say truth, I believe he had always felt uneasily that the circumstances of this in- timacy were very capable of misconstruction ; and now, when he was an old man, taking "his good night of all the faithful in both realms," and only desirous **that without any notable sclander to the evangel of Jesus Christ, he might end his battle; for as the world was weary of him, so was he of it ; " — in such a spirit it was not, perhaps, unnatural that he should return to this old story, and seek to put it right in the eyes of all men, ere he died. " Because that God," he says, '* because that God now in His mercy hath put an end to the battle of my dear mother, Mistress Elizabeth Bowes, before that He put an end to my wretched life, I could not cease but declare to the world what was the cause of our great familiarity and long acquaintance; which was neither flesh nor blood, but a troubled conscience upon her part, which never suffered her to rest but when she was in the company of the faithful, of whom (from the first hearing of the word at my mouth) she judged me to be one. . . . Her company to me was comfortable (yea, hon- ourable and profitable, for she was to me and mine a mother), but yet it was not without some cross ; for be- sides trouble and fashery of body sustained for her, my mind was seldom quiet, for doing somewhat for the comfort of her troubled conscience, "i He had written to her years before, from his first exile in Dieppe, that ** only God's hand " could withhold him from once more speaking with her face to face; and now, when God's hand has indeed interposed, when there lies between them, instead of the voyageable straits, that great gulf 1 Works, vi. 513, 514. 318 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN over which no man can pass, this is the spirit in which he can look back upon their long acquaintance. She was a religious hypochondriac, it appears, whom, not without some cross and fashery of mind and body, he -was good enough to tend. He might have given a truer character of their friendship, had he thought less of his own standing in public estimation, and more of the dead woman. But he was in all things, as Burke said of his son in that ever-memorable passage, a public creature. He wished that even into this private place of his affections posterity should follow him with a com- plete approval ; and he was willing, in order that this might be so, to exhibit the defects of his lost friend, and tell the world what weariness he had sustained through her unhappy disposition. There is something here that reminds one of Rousseau. I do not think he ever saw Mrs. Locke after he left Geneva ; but his correspondence with her continued for three years. It may have continued longer, of course, but 1 think the last letters we possess read like the last that would be written. Perhaps Mrs. Locke was then remarried, for there is much obscurity over her subse- quent history. For as long as their intimacy was kept up, at least, the human element remains in the Reform- er's life. Here is one passage, for example, the most likable utterance of Knox's that I can quote: — Mrs. Locke has been upbraiding him as a bad correspondent. **My remembrance of you," he answers, "is not so dead, but 1 trust it shall be fresh enough, albeit it be re- newed by no outward token for one year. Of nature, I am churlish ; yet one thing I ashame not to affirm, that familiarity once thoroughly contracted was never yet 319 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS broken on my default. The cause may he that I have rather need of all, than that any have need of me. How- ever it (that) be, it cannot be, as I say, the corporal ab- sence of one year or two that can quench in my heart that familiar acquaintance in Christ Jesus, which half a year did engender, and almost two years did nourish and confirm. And therefore, whether 1 write or no, be assuredly persuaded that 1 have you in such memory as becometh the faithful to have of the faithful." ^ This is the truest touch of personal humility that I can remem- ber to have seen in all the five volumes of the Reform- er's collected works: it is no small honour to Mrs. Locke that his affection for her should have brought home to him this unwonted feeling of dependence upon others. Everything else in the course of the correspondence tes- tifies to a good, sound, downright sort of friendship be- tween the two, less ecstatic than it was at first, perhaps, but serviceable and very equal. He gives her ample de- tails as to the progress of the work of reformation ; sends her the sheets of the Confession of Faith, " in quairs," as he calls it; asks her to assist him with her prayers, to collect money for the good cause in Scotland, and to send him books for himself — books by Calvin espe- cially, one on Isaiah, and a new revised edition of the *' Institutes." " 1 must be bold on your liberality," he writes, " not only in that, but in greater things as I shall need. "2 On her part she applies to him for spiritual advice, not after the manner of the drooping Mrs. Bowes, but in a more positive spirit, — advice as to practical points, advice as to the Church of England, for instance, 1 Works, vi. ii. 2 lb. vi. pp. 21, 101,108, 130. 320 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN whose ritual he condemns as a "mingle-mangle."^ Just at the end she ceases to write, sends him ** a token, without writing." **I understand your impediment," he answers, **and therefore I cannot complain. Yet if you understood the variety of my temptations, I doubt not but you would have written somewhat. "^ One letter more, and then silence. And I think the best of the Reformer died out with that correspondence. It is after this, of course, that he wrote that ungenerous description of his intercourse with Mrs. Bowes. It is after this, also, that we come to the unlovely episode of his second marriage. He had been left a widower at the age of fifty-five. Three years after, it occurred apparently to yet another pious parent to sacrifice a child upon the altar of his respect for the Reformer. In January, 1563, Randolph writes to Cecil: ''Your Honour will take it for a great wonder when I shall write unto you that Mr. Knox shall marry a very near kinswoman of the Duke's, a Lord's daughter, a young lass not above sixteen years of age." ^ He adds that he fears he will be laughed at for reporting so mad a story. And yet it was true ; and on Palm Sunday, 1 564, Margaret Stewart, daughter of Andrew Lord Stew- art of Ochiltree, aged seventeen, was duly united to John Knox, Minister of St. Giles's Kirk, Edinburgh, aged fifty- nine, — to the great disgust of Queen Mary from family pride, and I would fain hope of many others for more humane considerations. *'In this," as Randolph says, **I wish he had done otherwise." The Consistory of Geneva, ''that most perfect school of Christ that ever was on earth since the days of the Apostles," were wont 1 Works, vi. 83. ^ lb. vi. 129. 3 /j. yi. 532. 321 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS to forbid marriages on the ground of too great a dispro- portion in age. I cannot help wondering whether the old Reformer's conscience did not uneasily remind him, now and again, of this good custom of his religious me- tropolis, as he thought of the two-and-forty years that separated him from his poor bride. Fitly enough, we hear nothing of the second Mrs. Knox until she appears at her husband's deathbed, eight years after. She bore him three daughters in the interval ; and I suppose the poor child's martyrdom was made as easy for her as might be. She was ** extremely attentive to him" at the end, we read ; and he seems to have spoken to her with some confidence. Moreover, and this is very char- acteristic, he had copied out for her use a little volume of his own devotional letters to other women. This is the end of the roll, unless we add to it Mrs. Adamson, who had delighted much in his company '*by reason that she had a troubled conscience," and whose deathbed is commemorated at some length in the pages of his history.^ And now, looking back, it cannot be said that Knox's intercourse with women was quite of the highest sort. It is characteristic that we find him more alarmed for his own reputation than for the reputation of the women with whom he was familiar. There was a fatal pre- ponderance of self in all his intimacies: many women came to learn from him, but he never condescended to become a learner in his turn. And so there is not any- thing idyllic in these intimacies of his; and they were never so renovating to his spirit as they might have been. But I believe they were good enough for the 1 Works, i. 246. 322 JOHN KNOX AND. HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN women. I fancy the women knew what they were about when so many of them followed after Knox. It is not simply because a man is always fully persuaded that he knows the right from the wrong and sees his way plainly through the maze of life, great qualities as these are, that people will love and follow him, and write him letters full of their "earnest desire for him" when he is absent. It is not over a man, whose one characteristic is grim fixity of purpose, that the hearts of women are "incensed and kindled with a special care," as it were over their natural children. In the strong quiet patience of all his letters to the weariful Mrs. Bowes, we may perhaps see one cause of the fas- cination he possessed for these religious women. Here was one whom you could besiege all the year round with inconsistent scruples and complaints; you might write to him on Thursday that you were so elated it was plain the devil was deceiving you, and again on Friday that you were so depressed it was plain God had cast you ofiT forever; and he would read all this patiently and sympathetically, and give you an answer in the most reassuring polysyllables, and all divided into heads — who knows ? — like a treatise on divinity. And then, those easy tears of his. There are some women who like to see men crying; and here was this great-voiced, bearded man of God, who might be seen beating the solid pulpit every Sunday, and casting abroad his clam- orous denunciations to the terror of all, and who on the Monday would sit in their parlours by the hour, and weep with them over their manifold trials and tempta- tions. Nowadays, he would have to drink a dish of tea with all these penitents. ... It sounds a little 323 FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS vulgar, as the past will do, if we look into it too closely. We could not let these great folk of old into our draw- ing-rooms. Queen Elizabeth would positively not be eligible for a housemaid. The old manners and the old customs go sinking from grade to grade, until, if some mighty emperor revisited the glimpses of the moon, he would not find any one of his way of thinking, any one he could strike hands with and talk to freely and with- out offence, save perhaps the porter at the end of the street, or the fellow with his elbows out who loafs all day before the public-house. So that this little note of vulgarity is not a thing to be dwelt upon ; it is to be put away from us, as we recall the fashion of these old inti- macies; so that we may only remember Knox as one who was very long-suffering with women, kind to them in his own way, loving them in his own way — and that not the worst way, if it was not the best — and once at least, if not twice, moved to his heart of hearts by a woman, and giving expression to the yearn- ing he had for her society in words that none of us need be ashamed to borrow. And let us bear in mind always that the period I have gone over in this essay begins when the Reformer was already beyond the middle age, and already broken in bodily health : it has been the story of an old man's friendships. This it is that makes Knox enviable. Un- known until past forty, he had then before him five- and-thirty years of splendid and influential life, passed through uncommon hardships to an uncommon degree of power, lived in his own country as a sort of king, and did what he would with the sound of his voice out of the pulpit. And besides all this, such a following of 324 JOHN KNOX AND HIS RELATIONS TO WOMEN faithful women ! One would take the first forty years gladly, if one could be sure of the last thirty. Most oi us, even if, by reason of great strength and the dignity of grey hairs, we retain some degree of public respect in the latter days of our existence, will find a falling away of friends, and a solitude making itself round about us day by day, until we are left alone with the hired sick nurse. For the attraction of a man's charac- ter is apt to be outlived, like the attraction of his body ; and the power to love grows feeble in its turn, as well as the power to inspire love in others. It is only with a few rare natures that friendship is added to friendship, love to love, and the man keeps growing richer in affec- tion — richer, I mean, as a bank may be said to grow richer, both giving and receiving more — after his head is white and his back weary, and he prepares to go down into the dust of death. 325 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS The following three papers, published originally in Scribner's Magazine in 1888, are added for convenience to this volume. They have not before been included in this collection of essays. MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS POPULAR AUTHORS THE scene is the deck of an Atlantic liner, close by the doors of the ashpit, where it is warm: the time, night : the persons, an emigrant of an inquiring turn of mind and a deck hand. ** Now," says the emi- grant, ** is there not any book that gives a true picture of a sailor's life?" — *'Well," returns the other, with great deliberation and emphasis, *' there is one ; that is just a sailor's life. You know all about it, if you know that." — ** What do you call it?" asks the emigrant. — **They call it Tom Holt's Log/" says the sailor. The emigrant entered the fact in his note-book: with a wondering query as to what sort of stuff this Tom Holt would prove to be : and a double-headed prophecy that it would prove one of two things : either a solid, dull, admirable piece of truth, or mere ink and banditti. Well, the emigrant was wrong: it was something more curious than either, for it was a work by Stephens •Hayward. Copyright, 1888, 1895, by Charles Scribner's Sons. MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS In this paper I propose to put the authors* names in capital letters; the most of them have not much hope of durable renown; their day is past, the poor dogs — they begin swiftly to be forgotten ; and Hayward is of the number. Yet he was a popular writer; and what is really odd, he had a vein of hare-brained merit. There never was a man of less pretension ; the intoxi- cating presence of an ink-bottle, which was too much for the strong head of Napoleon, left him sober and light-hearted; he had no shade of literary vanity; he was never at the trouble to be dull. His works fell out of date in the days of printing. They were the un- hatched eggs of Arab tales ; made for word-of-mouth recitation, certain (if thus told) to captivate an audience of boys or any simple people — certain, on the lips of a generation or two of public story-tellers, to take on new merit and become cherished lore. Such tales as a man, such rather as a boy, tells himself at night, not without smiling, as he drops asleep; such, with the same ex- hilarating range of incident and the same trifling inge- nuities, with no more truth to experience and scarcely more cohesion, Hayward told. If we so consider The- Diamond Necklace or the Twenty Captains, which is what I remember best of Hayward, you will find that staggering narrative grow quite conceivable. A gentleman (his name forgotten — Hayward had no taste in names) puts an advertisement in the papers, inviting nineteen other gentlemen to join him in a likely enterprise. The nineteen appear promptly, nine- teen, no more, no less : see the ease of the recumbent 33(> POPULAR AUTHORS Story-teller, half-asleep, hanging on the verge of that country of dreams, where candles come alight and journeys are accomplished at the wishing! These twenty, all total strangers, are to put their money to- gether and form an association of strict equality : hence its name — The Twenty Captains. And it is no doubt very pleasant to be equal to anybody, even in name; and mighty desirable (at least in the eyes of young gentlemen hearing this tale in the school dormitory) to be called captain, even in private. But the deuce of it is, the founder has no enterprise in view, and here you would think, the least wary capitalist would leave his chair, and buy a broom and a crossing with his money, rather than place it in the hands of this total stranger, whose mind by his own confession was a blank, and whose real name was probably Macaire. No such matter in the book. With the ease of dream- ing, the association is founded ; and again with the ease of dreaming (Hay ward being now three parts asleep) the enterprise, in the shape of a persecuted heiress and a truly damnable and idiotic aristocrat, appears upon the scene. For some time, our drowsy story-teller dodges along upon the frontiers of incoherence, hardly at the trouble to invent, never at the trouble to write literature; but suddenly his interest brightens up, he sees something in front of him, turns on the pillow, shakes off the tentacles of slumber, and puts his back into his tale. Injured innocence takes a special train to Dover; damnable idiot takes another and pursues; the twenty captains reach the station five minutes after, and demand a third. It is against the rules, they are told; not more than two specials (here is good news for the 33i MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS railway traveller) are allowed at the same time upon the line. Is injured innocence, with her diamond neck- lace, to lie at the mercy of an aristocrat ? Forbid it, Heaven and the Cheap Press! The twenty captains slip unobserved into the engine-house, steal an engine, and forth upon the Dover line ! As well as I can gather, there were no stations and no pointsmen on this route to Dover, which must in consequence be quick and safe. One thing it had in common with other and less simple railways, it had a line of telegraph wires; and these the twenty captains decided to destroy. One of them, you will not be surprised to learn, had a coil of rope — in his pocket, I suppose; another — again I shall not surprise you — was an Irishman and given to blun- dering. One end of the line was made fast to a telegraph post; one (by the Irishman) to the engine: all aboard — full steam ahead — a double crash, and there was the telegraph post upon the ground, and here — mark my Hayward! was something carried away upon the en- gine. All eyes turn to see what it is : an integral part of the machinery! There is now no means of reducing speed ; on thunders the engine, full steam ahead, down this remarkable route to Dover; on speed the twenty captains, not very easy in their minds. Presently, the driver of the second special (the aristocrat's) looks be- hind him, sees an engine on his track, signals, signals in vain, finds himself being overhauled, pokes up his fire and — full steam ahead in flight. Presently after, the driver of the first special (injured innocence's) looks be- hind, sees a special on his track and an engine on the track of the special, signals, signals in vain, and he too — full steam ahead in flight. Such a day on the Dover 333 POPULAR AUTHORS line! But at last the second special smashes into the first, and the engine into both ; and for my part, I think there was an end of that romance. But Hayward was by this time fast asleep: not a life was lost; nor only that, but the various parties recovered consciousness and resumed their wild career (only now, of course, on foot and across country) in the precise original order: injured innocence leading by a length, damnable aristo- crat with still more damnable valet (like one man) a good second, and the twenty captains (again like one man) a bad third ; so that here was the story going on again just as before, and this appalling catastrophe on the Dover line reduced to the proportions of a morning call. The feelings of the company (it is true) are not dwelt upon. Now, I do not mean that Tom Holt is quite such high-flying folly as The Twenty Captains ; for it is no such thing, nor half so entertaining. Still it flowed from the same irresponsible brain; still it was the mere drowsy divagation of a man in bed, now tedious, now extravagant — always acutely untrue to life as it is, of- ten pleasantly coincident with childish hopes of what life ought to be — as (for instance) in the matter of that little pleasure-boat, rigged, to every block and rope, as a full-rigged ship, in which Tom goes sailing — happy child ! And this was the work that an actual tarry sea- man recommended for a picture of his own existence 1 It was once my fortune to have an interview with Mr. Hayward*s publisher : a very affable gentleman in a MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS very small office in a shady court off Fleet Street. We had some talk together of the works he issued and the authors who supplied them ; and it was strange to hear him talk for all the world as one of our publishers might have talked of one of us, only with a more obliging frankness, so that the private life of these great men was more or less unveiled to me. So and so (he told me, among other things) had demanded an advance upon a novel, had laid out the sum (apparently on spirituous drinks) and refused to finish the work. "We had to put it in the hands of Bracebridge Hemming," said the publisher with a chuckle: " he finished it." And then with conviction : ** A most reliable author, Bracebridge Hemming." I have no doubt the name is new to the reader; it was not so to me. Among these great men of the dust, there is a touching ambition which punishes itself; not content with such glory as comes to them, they long for the glory of being bound — long to invade, between six boards, the homes of that aristocracy whose manners they so often find occasion to expose; and sometimes (once in a long lifetime) the gods give them this also, and they appear in the orthodox three volumes, and are fleered at in the critical press, and lie quite unread in circulating libraries. One such work came in my mind : The Bondage of Brandon, by Bracebridge Hemming. I had not found much pleasure in the volumes; but I was the more glad to think that Mr. Hemming's name was quite a household word, and himself quoted for *' a re- liable author," in his own literary circles. On my way westward from this interview, I was aware of a first floor in Fleet Street rigged up with wire window-blinds, brass straps, and gilt lettering: 334 POPULAR AUTHORS Office for the sale of the works of Pierce Egan. *' Ay, Mr. Egan," thought I, ''and have you an office all to yourself ! " And then remembered that he too had once revelled in three volumes : The Flower of the Flock the book was called, not without pathos for the consid- erate mind ; but even the flower of Egan's flock was not good enough for the critics or the circulating libraries, so that I purchased my own copy, quite unread, for three shillings at a railway bookstall. Poor dogs, I thought, what ails you, that you should have the de- sire of this fictitious upper popularity, made by hack journalists and countersigned by yawning girls } Yours is the more true. Your butcher, the landlady at your seaside lodgings — if you can afford that indulgence, the barmaid whom you doubtless court, even the Rates and Taxes that besiege your door, have actually read your tales and actually know your names. There was a waiter once (or so the story goes) who knew not the name of Tennyson: that of Hemming perhaps had brought the light into his eyes, or Viles perhaps, or Errym, or the great J. F. Smith, or the unutterable Rey- nolds, to whom even here I must deny his capitals. — Fancy, if you can (thought I), that I languish under the reverse of your complaint; and being an upper-class author, bound and criticised, long for the penny number and the weekly woodcut! Well, I know that glory now. I have tried and on the whole I have failed: just as Egan and Hemming failed in the circulating libraries. It is my consolation that Charles Reade nearly wrecked that valuable property the London Journal, which must instantly fall back on Mr. Egan ; and the king of us all, George Meredith, once 335 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS Staggered the circulation of a weekly newspaper. A servant-maid used to come and boast when she had read another chapter of Treasure Island: that any pleasure should attend the exercise never crossed her thoughts. The same tale, in a penny paper of a high class, was mighty coldly looked upon ; by the delicate test of the cor- respondence column, I could see I was far to leeward ; and there was one giant on the stafif(a man with some tal- ent, when he chose to use it) with whom I very early perceived it was in vain to rival. Yet I was thought well of on my penny paper for two reasons : one that the publisher was bent on raising the standard — a dif- ficult enterprise in which he has to a great extent suc- ceeded; the other, because (like Bracebridge Hemming) I was "a reliable author." For our great men of the dust are apt to be behind with copy. Ill How I came to be such a student of our penny press, demands perhaps some explanation. I was brought up on Cassell's Family Paper ; but the lady who was kind enough to read the tales aloud to me was subject to sharp attacks of conscience. She took the Family Pa- per on confidence ; the tales it contained being Family Tales, not novels. But every now and then, something would occur to alarm her finer sense; she would express a well-grounded fear that the current fiction was *' going to turn out a Regular Novel;" and the family paper, with my pious approval, would be dropped. Yet neither she nor I were wholly stoical; and when Saturday came round, we would study the windows of the stationer i36 POPULAR AUTHORS and try to fish out of subsequent woodcuts and their legends the further adventures of our favourites. Many points are here suggested for the casuist; definitions of the Regular Novel and the Family Tale are to be de- sired ; and quite a paper might be written on the rela- tive merit of reading a fiction outright and lusting after it at the stationer's window. The experience at least had a great effect upon my childhood. This inexpen- sive pleasure mastered m.e. Each new Saturday 1 would go from one newsvender's window to another's, till 1 was master of the weekly gallery and had thoroughly digested "The Baronet Unmasked," ''So and so ap- proaching the Mysterious House," "The Discovery of the Dead Body in the Blue Marl Pit," "Dr. Vargas Re- moving the Senseless Body of Fair Lilias," and what- ever other snatch of unknown story and glimpse of un- known characters that gallery afforded. 1 do not know that I ever enjoyed fiction more; those books that we have (in such a way) avoided reading, are all so excel- lently written ! And in early years, we take a book for its material, and act as our own artists, keenly realising that which pleases us, leaving the rest aside. I never supposed that a book was to command me until, one disastrous day of storm, the heaven full of turbulent va- pours, the streets full of the squalling of the gale, the windows resounding under bucketfuls of rain, my mother read aloud to me Macbeth. I cannot say I thought the experience agreeable; I far preferred the ditch-water stories that a child could dip and skip and doze over, stealing at times materials for play ; it was something new and shocking to be thus ravished by a giant, and I shrank under the brutal grasp. But the 337 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS Spot in memory is still sensitive; nor do I ever read that tragedy but I hear the gale howling up the valley of the Leith. All this while, I would never buy upon my own ac- count; pence were scarce, conscience busy; and 1 would study the pictures and dip into the exposed columns, but not buy. My fall was brought about by a truly ro- mantic incident. Perhaps the reader knows Neidpath Castle, where it stands, bosomed in hills, on a green promontory; Tweed at its base running through all the gamut of a busy river, from the pouring shallow to the brown pool. In the days when I was thereabout, and that part of the earth was made a heaven to me by many things now lost, by boats, and bathing, and the fascina- tion of streams, and the delights of comradeship, and those (surely the prettiest and simplest) of a boy and a girl romance — in those days of Arcady there dwelt in the upper story of the castle one whom I believe to have been gamekeeper on the estate. The rest of the place stood open to incursive urchins ; and there, in a deserted chamber, we found some half-a-dozen numbers of Black Bess, or the Knight of the Road, a work by Edward ViLES. So far as we were aware, no one had visited that chamber (which was in a turret) since Lambert blew in the doors of the fortress with contumelious English can- non. Yet it could hardly have been Lambert (in what- ever hurry of military operations) who had left these samples of romance; and the idea that the gamekeeper had anything to do with them was one that we dis- couraged. Well, the offence is now covered by pre- scription; we took them away; and in the shade of a contiguous fir-wood, lying on blaeberries. I made my 338 e POPULAR AUTHORS first acquaintance with the art of Mr. Viles. From this author, I passed on to Malcolm J. Errym (the name to my present scrutiny, suggesting an anagram on Merry), author of Edith the Captive, The Treasures of St. Mark, A Mystery in Scarlet, George Barington, Sea-drift, Townsend the Runner, and a variety of other well- named romances. Memory may play me false, but I believe there was a kind of merit about Errym. The Mystery in Scarlet runs in my mind to this day ; and if any hunter after autographs (and I think the world is full of such) can lay his hands on a copy even imperfect, and will send it to me in the care of Messrs. Scribner, my gratitude (the muse consenting) will even drop into poetry. For I have a curiosity to know what the Mys- tery in Scarlet was, and to renew acquaintance with King George and his valet Norris, who were the chief figures in the work and may be said to have risen in every page superior to history and the ten command- ments. Hence I passed on to Mr. Egan, whom I trust the reader does not confuse with the author of Tom and Jerry ; the two are quite distinct, though I have some- times suspected they v/ere father and son. I never en- joyed Egan as I did Errym; but this was possibly a want of taste, and Egan would do. Thence again I was suddenly brought face to face '^ >..h Mr. Reynolds. A school-fellow, acquainted with ny debasing tastes, sup- plied me with The Mysteries of London, and I fell back revolted. The same school-fellow (who seems to have been a devil of a fellow) supplied me about the same time with one of those contributions to literature (and even to art) from which the name of the publisher is modestly withheld. It was a far more respectable work 339 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS than The Mysteries of London. J. F. Smith when I was a child, Errym when I was a boy, Hayward when I had attained to man's estate, these I read for pleasure ; the others, down to Sylvanus Cobb, I have made it my business to know (as far as my endurance would sup- port me) from a sincere interest in human nature and the art of letters. IV What kind of talent is required to please this mighty public ? that was my first question, and was soon amended with the words, "if any." J. F. Smith was a man of undeniable talent, Errym and Hayward have a certain spirit, and even in Egan the very tender might recognise the rudiments of a sort of literary gift ; but the cases on the other side are quite conclusive. Take Hem- ming, or the dull ruffian Reynolds, or Sylvanus Cobb, of whom perhaps 1 have only seen unfortunate examples — they seem not to have the talents of a rabbit, and why anyone should read them is a thing that passes wonder. A plain-spoken and possibly high-thinking critic might here perhaps return upon me with my own expressions. And he would have missed the point. For 1 and my fellows have no such popularity to be accounted for. The reputation of an upper-class author is made for him at dinner-tables and nursed in newspaper paragraphs, and when all is done, amounts to no great matter. We call it popularity, surely in a pleasant error. A flippant writer in the Saturday Review expressed a doubt if I had ever cherished a "genteel" illusion; in truth I never had many, but this was one — and I have lost it. Once I took the literary author at his own esteem ; I behold 340 POPULAR AUTHORS him now like one of those gentlemen who read their own MS. descriptive poetry aloud to wife and babes around the evening hearth ; addressing a mere parlour coterie and quite unknown to the great world outside the villa windows. At such pigmy reputation, Reynolds, or Cobb, or Mrs. Southworth can afford to smile. By spontaneous public vote, at a cry from the unorganic masses, these great ones of the dust were laurelled. And for what ? Ay, there is the question: For what? How is this great honour gained? Many things have been sug- gested. The people (it has been said) like rapid narra- tive. If so, the taste is recent, for both Smith and Egan were leisurely writers. It has been said they like inci- dent, not character. I am not so sure. G. P. R. James was an upper-class author, J. F. Smith a penny-press- man; the two are in some ways not unlike; but — here is the curiosity — James made far the better story. Smith was far the more successful with his characters. Each (to bring the parallel home) wrote a novel called The Stepmother ; each introduced a pair of old maids; and let anyone study the result! James's Stepmother is a capital tale, but Smith's old maids are like Trollope at his best. It is said again that the people like crime. Certainly they do. But the great ones of the dust have no monopoly of that, and their less fortunate rivals hammer away at murder and abduction unapplauded. I return to linger about my seaman on the Atlantic liner. I shall be told he is exceptional. I am tempted to think, on the other hand, that he may be normal. The critical attitude, whether to books or life — how if that were the true exception ? How if Tom Holt's Log, 34» MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS surreptitiously perused by a harbour-side, had been the means of sending my mariner to sea ? How if he were still unconsciously expecting the Tom Holt part of the business to begin — perhaps to-morrow ? How, even, if he had never yet awakened to the discrepancy be- tween that singular picture and the facts ? Let us take another instance. The Young Ladies' Journal is an ele- gant miscellany which I have frequently observed in the possession of the barmaid. In a lone house on a moor- land, 1 was once supplied with quite a considerable file of this production and (the weather being violent) de- voutly read it. The tales were not ill done ; they were well abreast of the average tale in a circulating library; there was only one difference, only one thing to remind me 1 was in the land of penny numbers instead of the parish of three volumes : Disguise it as the authors pleased (and they showed ingenuity in doing so) it was always the same tale they must relate: the tale of a poor girl ultimately married to a peer of the realm or (at the worst) a baronet. The circumstance is not common in life ; but how familiar to the musings of the barmaid ! The tales were not true to what men see; they were true to what the readers dreamed. Let us try to remember how fancy works in children; with what selective partiality it reads, leaving often the bulk of the book unrealised, but fixing on the rest and living it; and what a passionate impotence it shows — what power of adoption, what weakness to create. It seems to be not much otherwise with uneducated read- ers. They long, not to enter into the lives of others, but to behold themselves in changed situations, ardently but impotently preconceived. The imagination (save 34a POPULAR AUTHORS the mark!) of the popular author here comes to the res- cue, supplies some body of circumstance to these phan- tom aspirations, and conducts the readers where they will. Where they will: that is the point; elsewhere they will not follow. When I was a child, if I came on a book in which the characters wore armour, it fell from my hand ; I had no criterion of merit, simply that one decisive taste, that my fancy refused to linger in the mid- dle ages. And the mind of the uneducated reader is mailed with similar restrictions. So it is that we must account for a thing otherwise unaccountable; the pop- ularity of some of these great ones of the dust. In de- fect of any other gift, they have instinctive sympathy with the popular mind. They can thus supply to the shop-girl and the shoe-black vesture cut to the pattern of their naked fancies, and furnish them with welcome scenery and properties for autobiographical romancing. Even in readers of an upper class, we may perceive the traces of a similar hesitation ; even for them, a writer may be too exotic. The villain, even the heroine, may be a Feejee islander, but only on condition the hero is one of ourselves. It is pretty to see the thing reversed in the Arabian tale (Torrens or Burton — the tale is omit- ted in popular editions) where the Moslem hero carries off the Christian amazon; and in the exogamous ro- mance, there lies interred a good deal of human history and human nature. But the question of exogamy is foreign to the purpose. Enough that we are not readily pleased without a character of our own race and lan- guage; so that, when the scene of a romance is laid on any distant soil, we look with eagerness and confidence for the coming of the English traveller. With the read- 343 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS ers of the penny-press, the thing goes further. Burning as they are to penetrate into the homes of the peerage, they must still be conducted there by some character of their own class, into whose person they cheerfully mi- grate for the time of reading. Hence the poor govern- esses supplied in the Young Ladies' Journal. Hence these dreary virtuous ouvriers and ouvrieres of Xavier de Montepin. He can do nothing with them; and he is far too clever not to be aware of that. When he writes for the Figaro, he discards these venerable pup- pets and doubtless glories in their absence; but so soon as he must address the great audience of the half-penny journal, out come the puppets, and are furbished up, and take to drink again, and are once more reclaimed, and once more falsely accused. See them for what they are — Montepin's decoys; without these he could not make his public feel at home in the houses of the fraud- ulent bankers and the wicked dukes. The reader, it has been said, migrates into such char- acters for the time of reading; under their name escapes the narrow prison of the individual career, and sates his avidity for other lives. To what extent he ever emi- grates again, and how far the fancied careers react upon the true one, it would fill another paper to debate. But the case of my sailor shows their grave importance. "Tom Holt does not apply to me," thinks our dully- imaginative boy by the harbour-side, **for 1 am not a sailor. But if I go to sea it will apply completely." And he does go to sea. He lives surrounded by the fact, and does not observe it. He cannot realise, he can- not make a tale of his own life; which crumbles in dis- crete impressions even as he lives it, and slips between 344 POPULAR AUTHORS the fingers of his memory like sand. It is not this that he considers in his rare hours of rumination, but that other life, which was all lit up for him by the humble talent of a Hay ward — that other life which, God knows, per- haps he still believes that he is leading — the life of Tom Holt. 345 GENTLEMEN WHAT do we mean to-day by that common phrase, a gentleman ? By the lights of history, from gens, gentilis, it should mean a man of family, "one of a kent house," one of notable descent: thus embodying an ancient stupid belief and implying a modern scientific theory. The ancient and stupid belief came to the ground, with a prodigious dust and the collapse of sev- eral polities, in the latter half of the last century. There followed upon this an interregnum, during which it was believed that all men were born ''free and equal," and that it really did not matter who your father was. Man has always been nobly irrational, bandaging his eyes against the facts of life, feeding himself on the wind of ambitious falsehood, counting his stock to be the children of the gods; and yet perhaps he never showed in a more touching light than when he embraced this boyish theory. Freedom we now know for a thing in- compatible with corporate life and a blessing probably peculiar to the solitary robber; we know besides that every advance in richness of existence, whether moral or material, is paid for by a loss of liberty ; that liberty is man's coin in which he pays his way; that luxury and knowledge and virtue, and love and the family Copyright, 1888, 189s, by Charles Scribner's Sons. GENTLEMEN affections, are all so many fresh fetters on the naked and solitary freeman. And the ancient stupid belief having come to the ground and the dust of its fall sub- sided, behold the modern scientific theory beginning to rise very nearly on the old foundation; and individuals no longer (as was fondly imagined) springing into life from God knows where, incalculable, untrammelled, abstract, equal to one another — but issuing modestly from a race; with virtues and vices, fortitudes and frail- ties, ready made ; the slaves of their inheritance of blood ; eternally unequal. So that we in the present, and yet more our scientific descendants in the future, must use, when we desire to praise a character, the old expression, gentleman, in nearly the old sense: one of a happy strain of blood, one fortunate in descent from brave and self- respecting ancestors, whether clowns or counts. And yet plainly this is of but little help. The intri- cacy of descent defies prediction ; so that even the heir of a hundred sovereigns may be born a brute or a vul- garian. We may be told that a picture is an heirloom ; that does not tell us what the picture represents. All qualities are inherited, and all characters ; but which are the qualities that belong to the gentleman ? what is the character that earns and deserves that honorable style ? The current ideas vary with every class, and need scarce be combated, need scarce be mentioned save for the love of fun. In one class, and not long ago, he was regarded as a gentleman who kept a gig. He is a gentleman in one house who does not eat peas M7 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS with his knife; in another, who is not to be discoun- tenanced by any created form of butler. In my own case I have learned to move among pompous menials without much terror, never without much respect. In the narrow sense, and so long as they publicly tread the boards of their profession, it would be difficult to find more finished gentlemen; and it would often be a matter of grave thought with me, sitting in my club, to compare the bearing of the servants with that of those on whom they waited. There could be no question which were the better gentlemen. And yet I was hurried into no democratic theories ; for I saw the members' part was the more difficult to play, I saw that to serve was a more graceful attitude than to be served, I knew besides that much of the servants' gentility was ad hoc and would be laid aside with their livery jackets; and to put the matter in a nutshell, that some of the members would have made very civil footmen and many of the servants intolerable members. For all that, one of the prettiest gentlemen I ever knew was a servant. A gentleman he happened to be, even in the old stupid sense, only on the wrong side of the blanket; and a man besides of much experience, having served in the Guards* Club, and been valet to old Cooke of the Satur- day Review, and visited the States with Madame Sinico (I think it was) and Portugal with Madame Some-one- else, so that he had studied, at least from the chair-backs, many phases of society. It chanced he was waiter in a hotel where I was staying with my mother; it was mid- winter and we were the only guests ; all afternoons, he and I passed together on a perfect equality in the smok- ing-room ; and at mealtime, he waited on my mother 348 GENTLEMEN and me as a servant. Now here was a trial of manners from which few would have come forth successful. To take refuge in a frozen bearing would have been the timid, the inelegant, resource of almost all. My friend was much more bold ; he joined in the talk, he ventured to be jocular, he pushed familiarity to the nice margin, and yet still preserved the indefinable and proper dis- tance of the English servant, and yet never embarrassed, never even alarmed, the comrade with whom he had just been smoking a pipe. It was a masterpiece of so- cial dexterity — on artificial lines no doubt, and dealing with difficulties that should never have existed, that exist much less in France, and that will exist nowhere long — but a masterpiece for all that, and one that 1 ob- served with despairing admiration, as I have watched Sargent paint. I say these difficulties should never have existed ; for the whole relation of master and servant is to-day cor- rupt and vulgar. At home in England it is the master who is degraded ; here in the States, by a triumph of inverted tact, the servant often so contrives that he de- grades himself. He must be above his place ; and it is the mark of a gentleman to be at home. He thinks perpetually of his own dignity ; it is the proof of a gen- tleman to be jealous of the dignity of others. He is ashamed of his trade, which is the essence of vulgarity. He is paid to do certain services, yet he does them so grufifiy that any man of spirit would resent them if they were gratuitous favours ; and this (if he will reflect upon it tenderly) is so far from the genteel as to be not even coarsely honest. Yet we must not blame the man for these mistakes ; the vulgarity is in the air. There is a 349 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS tone in popular literature much to be deplored; depre- cating service, like a disgrace; honouring those who are ashamed of it; honouring even (I speak not without book) such as prefer to live by the charity of poor neigh- bours instead of blacking the shoes of the rich. Black- ing shoes is counted (in these works) a thing specially disgraceful. To the philosophic mind, it will seem a less exceptionable trade than to deal in stocks, and one in which it is more easy to be honest than to write books. Why, then, should it be marked out for reprobation by the popular authors? It is taken, I think, for a type; inoffensive in itself, it stands for many disagreeable household duties; disagreeable to fulfil, I had nearly said shameful to impose; and with the dulness of their tribe, the popular authors transfer the shame to the wrong party. Truly, in this matter there seems a lack of gentility somewhere ; a lack of refinement, of reserve, of common modesty ; a strain of the spirit of those ladies in the past, who did not hesitate to bathe before a foot- man. And one thing at least is easy to prophesy, not many years will have gone by before those shall be held the most '* elegant" gentlemen, and those the most ''refined " ladies, who wait (in a dozen particulars) upon themselves. But the shame is for the masters only. The servant stands quite clear. He has one of the easiest parts to play upon the face of earth ; he must be far misled, if he so grossly fails in it. Ill It is a fairly common accomplishment to behave with decency in one character and among those to whom we are accustomed and with whom we have been }5o GENTLEMEN brought Up. The trial of gentility lies in some such problem as that of my waiter's, in foreign travel, or in some sudden and sharp change of class. I once sailed on the emigrant side from the Clyde to New York; among my fellow-passengers I passed generally as a mason, for the excellent reason that there was a mason on board who happened to know; and this fortunate event enabled me to mix with these working people on a foot- ing of equality. I thus saw them at their best, using their own civility; while I, on the other hand, stood naked to their criticism. The workmen were at home, 1 was abroad, I was the shoe-black in the drawing- room, the Huron at Versailles; and I used to have hot and cold fits, lest perchance I made a beast of myself in this new environment. I had no allowances to hope for ; I could not plead that I was "only a gentleman after all," for I was known to be a mason; and I must stand and fall by my transplanted manners on their own in- trinsic decency. It chanced there was a Welsh black- smith on board, who was not only well-mannered him- self and a judge of manners, but a fellow besides of an original mind. He had early diagnosed me for a mas- querader and a person out of place; and as we had grown intimate upon the voyage, I carried him my troubles. How did I behave ? Was I, upon this crucial test, at all a gentleman } I might have asked eight hun- dred thousand blacksmiths (if Wales or the world con- tain so many) and they would have held my question for a mockery ; but Jones was a man of genuine per- ception, thought a long time before he answered, look- ing at me comically and reviewing ( I could see) the .events of the voyage, and then told me that ''on the 351 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS whole " I did '* pretty well." Mr. Jones was a humane man and very much my friend, and he could get no further than *' on the whole" and " pretty well." 1 was chagrined at the moment for myself; on a larger basis of experience, I am now only concerned for my class. My coequals would have done but little better, and many of them worse. Indeed, I have never seen a sight more pitiable than that of the current gentleman unbending; unless it were the current lady! It is these stiff-necked condescensions, it is that graceless assump- tion, that make the diabolic element in times of riot. A man may be willing to starve in silence like a hero ; it is a rare man indeed who can accept the unspoken slights of the unworthy, and not be embittered. There was a visit paid to the steerage quarters on this same voyage, by a young gentleman and two young ladies ; and as I was by that time pretty well accustomed to the workman's standard, I had a chance to see my own class from below. God help them, poor creatures ! As they ambled back to their saloon, they left behind, in the minds of my companions, and in my mind also, an image and an influence that might well have set them weeping, could they have guessed its nature. I spoke a few lines past of a shoe-black in a drawing-room ; it is what I never saw ; but I did see that young gentleman and these young ladies on the forward deck, and the picture remains with me, and the offence they managed to con- vey is not forgotten. IV And yet for all this ambiguity, for all these imperfect examples, we know clearly what we mean by the word. 352 GENTLEMEN When we meet a gentleman of another class, though all contrariety of habits, the essentials of the matter stand confessed: I never had a doubt of Jones. More than that, we recognise the type in books; the actors of history, the characters of fiction, bear the mark upon their brow ; at a word, by a bare act, we discern and segregate the mass, this one a gentleman, the others not. To take but the last hundred years, Scott, Gor- don, Wellington in his cold way, Grant in his plain way, Shelley for all his follies, these were clearly gen- tlemen; Napoleon, Byron, Lockhart, these were as surely cads, and the two first cads of a rare water. Let us take an anecdote of Grant and one of Welling- ton. On the day of the capitulation, Lee wore his pre- sentation sword ; it was the first thing Grant observed, and from that moment he had but one thought: how to avoid taking it. A man, who should perhaps have had the nature of an angel, but assuredly not the spe- cial virtues of the gentleman, might have received the sword, and no more words about it: he would have done well in a plain way. One who wished to be a gentleman, and knew not how, might have received and returned it: he would have done infamously ill, he would have proved himself a cad ; taking the stage for himself, leaving to his adversary confusion of counte- nance and the ungraceful posture of the man condemned to offer thanks. Grant, without a word said, added to the terms this article: ** All officers to retain their side- arms;" and the problem was solved and Lee kept his sword, and Grant went down to posterity, not perhaps a fine gentleman, but a great one. And now for Wel- lington. The tale is on a lower plane, is elegant rather 353 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS than noble ; yet it is a tale of a gentleman too, and raises besides a pleasant and instructive question. Welling- ton and Marshal Marmont were adversaries (it will not have been forgotten) in one of the prettiest recorded acts of military fencing, the campaign of Salamanca: it was a brilliant business on both sides, just what Count Tolstoi ought to study before he writes again upon the inutility of generals; indeed, it was so very brilliant on the Marshal's part that on the last day, in one of those extremes of cleverness that come so near stupidity, he fairly overreached himself, was taken "in flagrant de- lict," was beaten like a sack, and had his own arm shot off as a reminder not to be so clever the next time. It appears he was incurable; a more distinguished ex- ample of the same precipitate, ingenious blundering will be present to the minds of all — his treachery in 1 8 14; and even the tale I am now telling shows, on a lilliputian scale, the man's besetting weakness. Years after Salamanca, the two generals met, and the Marshal (willing to be agreeable) asked the Duke his opinion of the battle. With that promptitude, wit, and willing- ness to spare pain which make so large a part of the armory of the gentleman, Wellington had his answer ready, impossible to surpass on its own ground : " I early perceived your excellency had been wounded." And you see what a pleasant position he had created for the Marshal, who had no more to do than just to bow and smile and take the stage at his leisure. But here we come to our problem. The Duke's answer (whether true or false) created a pleasant position for the Marshal. But what sort of position had the Marshal's question ^created for the Duke ? and had not Marmont the manoeu- 354 GENTLEMEN vrer once more manoeuvred himself into a false posi- tion ? I conceive so. It is the man who has gained the victory, not the man who has suffered the defeat, who finds his ground embarrassing. The vanquished has an easy part, it is easy for him to make a handsome reference ; but how hard for the victor to make a hand- some reply ! Mn unanswerable compliment is the social bludgeon '^nd Marmont (with the most graceful inten- tions in the world) had propounded one of the most desperate. Wellington escaped from his embarrassment by a happy and courtly inspiration. Grant, I imagine, since he had a genius for silence, would have found some means to hold his peace. Lincoln, with his half- tact and unhappy readiness, might have placed an ap- propriate anecdote and raised a laugh ; not an unkindly laugh, for he was a kindly man ; but under the circum- stances the best-natured laugh would have been death to Marmont. Shelley (if we can conceive him to have gained a battle at all) would have blushed and stam- mered, feeling the Marshal's false position like some grossness of his own ; and when the blush had com- municated itself to the cheeks of his unlucky questioner, some stupid, generous word (such as I cannot invent for him) would have found its way to his lips and set them both at ease. Byron ? well, he would have man- aged to do wrong; I have too little sympathy for that unmatched vulgarian to create his part. Napoleon ? that would have depended: had he been angry, he would have left all competitors behind in cruel coarse- ness: had he been in a good humour, it might have been the other way. For this man, the very model of a cad, was so well served with truths by the clear insight 355 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS cf his mind, and with words by his great though shallow gift of literature, that he has left behind him one of the most gentlemanly utterances on record : " Madame, respecte:^ le fardeau." And he could do the right thing too, as well as say it; and any character in history might envy him that moment when he gave his sword, the sword of the world-subduer, to his old, loyal ene- my, Macdonald. A strange thing to consider two gen- erations of a Skye family, and two generations of the same virtue, fidelity to the defeated : the father braving the rains of the Hebrides with the tattered beggar-lad that was his rightful sovereign ; the son, in that princely house of Fontainebleau, himself a marshal of the Em- pire, receiving from the gratitude of one whom he had never feared and who had never loved him, the tool and symbol of the world's most splendid domination. I am glad, since 1 deal with the name of gentlemen, to touch for one moment on its nobler sense, embodied, on the historic scale and with epic circumstance, in the lives of these Macdonalds. Nor is there any man but must be conscious of a thrill of gratitude to Napoleon, for his worthy recognition of the worthiest virtue. Yes, that was done like a gentleman ; and yet in our hearts we must think that it was done by a performer. For to feel precisely what it is to be a gentleman and what it is to be a cad, we have but to study Napoleon's attitude after Trafalgar, and compare it with that beautiful letter of Louis the Fourteenth's in which he acknowledges the news of Blenheim. We hear much about the Sun- king nowadays, and Michelet is very sad reading about his government, and Thackeray was very droll about his wig; but when we read this letter from the vainest 356 GENTLEMEN king in Europe smarting under the deadliest reverse, we know that at least he was a gentleman. In the battle, Tallard had lost his son, Louis the primacy of Europe; it is only with the son the letter deals. Poor Louis ! if his wig had been twice as great, and his sins twice as numerous, here is a letter to throw wide the gates of Heaven for his entrance. I wonder what would Louis have said to Marshal Marmont ? Something infinitely condescending; for he was too much of a king to be quite a gentleman. And Marcus Aurelius, how would he have met the question ? With some reference to the gods no doubt, uttered not quite without a twang; for the good emperor and great gentleman of Rome was of the methodists of his day and race. And now to make the point at which I have been aim- ing. The perfectly straightforward person who should have said to Marmont, "1 was uncommonly glad to get you beaten," would have done the next best to Welling- ton who had the inspiration of graceful speech ; just as the perfectly straightforward person who should have taken Lee's sword and kept it, would have done the next best to Grant who had the inspiration of the truly grace- ful act. Lee would have given up his sword and pre- served his dignity ; Marmont might have laughed, his pride need not have suffered. Not to try to spare peo- ple's feelings is so much kinder than to try in a wrong way; and not to try to be a gentleman at all is so much more gentlemanly than to try and fail! So that this gift, or grace, or virtue, resides not so much in conduct as in knowledge; not so much in refraining from the wrong, as in knowing the precisely right. A quality of exquisite aptitude marks out the gentlemanly act ; 357 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS without an element of wit, we can be only gentlemen^ by negatives. More and more, as our knowledge widens, we have to reply to those who ask for a definition : "I can't give you that, but I will tell you a story." We cannot say what a thing will be, nor what it ought to be; but we can say what it has been, and how it came to be what it is: History instead of Definition. It is this which (if we continue teachable) will make short work of all po- litical theories; it is on this we must fall back to explain our word, gentleman. The life of our fathers was highly ceremonial ; a man's steps were counted; his acts, his gestures were pre- scribed ; marriage, sale, adoption, and not only legal con- tracts, but the simplest necessary movements, must be all conventionally ordered and performed to rule. Life was a rehearsed piece; and only those who had been drilled in the rehearsals could appear with decency in the performance. A gentile man, one of a dominant race, hereditary priest, hereditary leader, was, by the circumstances of his birth and education, versed in this symbolic etiquette. Whatever circumstance arose, he would be prepared to utter the sacramental word, to perform the ceremonial act. For every exigence of fam- ily or tribal life, peace or war, marriage or sacrifice, for- tune or mishap, he stood easily waiting, like the well- graced actor for his cue. The clan that he guided would be safe from shame, it would be ensured from loss ; for the man's attitude would be always becoming, his bar- gains legal, and his sacrifices pleasing to the gods. It 358 GENTLEMEN is from this gentile man, the priest, the chief, the ex- pert in legal forms and attitudes, the bulwark and the ornament of his tribe, that our name of gentleman de- scends. So much of the sense still clings to it, it still points the man who, in every circumstance of life, knows what to do and how to do it gracefully ; so much of its sense it has lost, for this grace and knowledge are no longer of value in practical affairs ; so much of a new sense it has taken on, for as well as the nicest fitness, it now implies a punctual loyalty of word and act. And note the word loyalty ; here is a parallel advance from the proficiency of the gentile man to the honour of the gentleman, and from the sense of legality to that of loyalty. With the decay of the ceremonial element in life, the gentleman has lost some of his prestige, I had nearly said some of his importance; and yet his part is the more difficult to play. It is hard to preserve the figures of a dance when many of our partners dance at random. It is easy to be a gentleman in a very stiff society, where much of our action is prescribed ; it is hard indeed in a very free society where (as it seems) almost any word or act must come by inspiration. The rehearsed piece is at an end ; we are now floundering through an impromptu charade. Far more of ceremo- nial remains (to be sure) traditional in the terms of our association, far more hereditary in the texture of brains, than is dreamed by the superficial; it is our fortress against many perils, the cement of states, the meeting ground of classes. But much of life comes up for the first time, unrehearsed, and must be acted on upon the instant. Knowledge there can here be none; the man must invent an attitude, he must be inspired with speech; 359 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS and the most perfect gentleman is he who, in these ir- regular cases, acts and speaks with most aplomb and fitness. His tact simulates knowledge; to see him so easy and secure and graceful, you would think he had been through it all before; you would think he was the gentile man of old, repeating for the thousandth time, upon some public business, the sacramental words and ceremonial gestures of his race. Lastly, the club footman, so long as he is in his livery jacket, appears the perfect gentleman and visibly out- shines the members; and the same man, in the public- house, among his equals, becomes perhaps plain and dull, perhaps even brutal. He has learned the one part of service perfectly; there he has knowledge, he shines in the prepared performance; outside of that he must rely on tact, and sometimes flounders sadly in the unre- hearsed charade. The gentleman, again, may be put to open shame as he changes from one country, or from one rank of society to another. The footman was a gentleman only ad hoc ; the other (at the most) ad hcec; and when he has got beyond his knowledge, he begins to flounder in the charade. Even so the gentile man was only gentile among those of his own gens and their subordinates and neighbours ; in a distant city, he too was peregrine and inexpert, and must become the client of another, or find his bargains insecure and be excluded from the service of the gods. 360 SOME GENTLEMEN IN FICTION TO make a character at all — so to select, so to de- scribe a few acts, a few speeches, perhaps (though this is quite superfluous) a few details of physical appearance, as that these shall all cohere and strike in the reader's mind a common note of personality — there is no more delicate enterprise, success is nowhere less comprehensible than here. We meet a man, we .find his talk to have been racy; and yet if every word were taken down by shorthand, we should stand amazed at its essential insignificance. Physical pres- ence, the speaking eye, the inimitable commentary of the voice, it was in these the spell resided ; and these are all excluded from the pages of the novel. There is one writer of fiction whom I have the advantage of knowing; and he confesses to me that his success in this matter (small though it be) is quite surprising to himself. "In one. of my books," he writes, ''and in one only, the characters took the bit in their mouth; all at once, they became detached from the flat paper, they turned their backs on me and walked off bodily ; and from that time, my task was stenographic — it was they who spoke, it was they who wrote the remainder of the story. When this miracle of genesis occurred, I was thrilled with joyous surprise; I felt a certain awe — shall we call it superstitious ? And yet how small a Copyright, 1888, 189S, by Charles Scribner's Sons. MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS miracle it was ; with what a partial life were my char- acters endowed ; and when all was said, how little did I know of them ! It was a form of words that they supplied me with ; it was in a form of words that they consisted; beyond and behind was nothing." The limitation, which this writer felt and which he seems to have deplored, can be remarked in the work of even literary princes. I think it was Hazlitt who declared that, if the names were dropped at press, he could re- store any speech in Shakespeare to the proper speaker; and I dare say we could all pick out the words of Nym or Pistol, Caius or Evans ; but not even Hazlitt could do the like for the great leading characters, who yet are cast in a more delicate mould, and appear before us far more subtly and far more fully differentiated, than these easy-going ventriloquial puppets. It is just when the obvious expedients of the barrel-organ vocabulary, the droll mispronunciation or the racy dialect, are laid aside, that the true masterpieces are wrought (it would seem) from nothing. Hamlet speaks in character, I potently believe it, and yet see not how. He speaks at least as no man ever spoke in life, and very much as many other heroes do in the same volume; now utter- ing the noblest verse, now prose of the most cunning workmanship; clothing his opinions throughout in that amazing dialect, Shakespearese. The opinions them- selves, again, though they are true and forcible and re- inforced with excellent images, are not peculiar either to Hamlet, or to any man or class or period ; in their admirable generality of appeal resides their merit; they might figure, and they would be applauded, in almost any play and in the mouth of almost any noble and 36a SOME GENTLEMEN IN FICTION considerate character. The only hint that is given as to his physical man — I speak for myself — is merely shocking, seems merely erroneous, and is perhaps best explained away upon the theory that Shakespeare had Burbadge more directly in his eye than Hamlet. As for what the Prince does and what he refrains from doing, all acts and passions are strangely impersonal. A thousand characters, as different among themselves as night from day, should yet, under the like stress of circumstance, have trodden punctually in the footprints of Hamlet and each other. Have you read Andre Cor- nelis? in which M. Bourget handled over again but yesterday the theme of Hamlet, even as Godwin had already rehandled part of it in Caleb Williams, You can see the character M. Bourget means with quite suf- ficient clearness ; it is not a masterpiece, but it is ade- quately indicated; and the character is proper to the part, these acts and passions fit him like a glove, he car- ries the tale, not with so good a grace as Hamlet, but with equal nature. Well, the two personalities are fun- damentally distinct : they breathe upon us out of differ- ent worlds; in face, in touch, in the subtile atmos- phere by which we recognise an individual, in all that goes to build up a character — or at least that shadowy thing, a character in a book — they are even opposed: the same fate involves them, they behave on the same lines, and they have not one hair in common. What, then, remains of Hamlet.? and by what magic does he stand forth in our brains, teres atque rotundm, solid to the touch, a man to praise, to blame, to pity, ay, and to love ? At bottom, what we hate or love is doubtless some projection of the author; the personal atmosphere is 363 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS doubtless his ; and when we think we know Hamlet, we know but a side of his creator. It is a good old com- fortable doctrine, which our fathers have taken for a pillow, which has served as a cradle for ourselves ; and yet, in some of its applications, it brings us face to face with difficulties. I said last month that we could tell a gentleman in a novel. Let us continue to take Hamlet. Manners vary, they invert themselves, from age to age; Shakespeare's gentlemen are not quite ours, there is no doubt their talk would raise a flutter in a modern tea- party ; but in the old pious phrase, they have the root of the matter. All the most beautiful traits of the gentle- man adorn this character of Hamlet : it was the side on which Salvini seized, which he so attractively displayed, with which he led theatres captive ; it is the side, I think, by which the Prince endears himself to readers. It is true there is one staggering scene, the great scene with his mother. But we must regard this as the author's lost battle ; here it was that Shakespeare failed : what to do with the Queen, how to depict her, how to make Hamlet use her, these (as we know) were his miserable problem; it beat him; he faced it with an indecision worthy of his hero; he shifted, he shuffled with it; in the end, he may be said to have left his paper blank. One reason why we do not more generally recognise this failure of Shakespeare's is because we have most of us seen the play performed; and managers, by what seems a stroke of art, by what is really (I dare say) a fortunate necessity, smuggle the problem out of sight — the play, too, for the matter of that; but the glamour of the footlights and the charm of that little strip of fiddlers' heads and elbows, conceal the conjuring. This stroke 364 SOME GENTLEMEN IN FICTION of art (let me call it so) consists in casting the Queen as an old woman. Thanks to the footlights and the fid- dlers' heads, we never pause to inquire why the King should have pawned his soul for this college-bedmaker in masquerade; and thanks to the absurdity of the whole position, and that unconscious unchivalry of audiences (ay, and of authors also) to old women, Hamlet's mon- strous conduct passes unobserved or unresented. Were the Queen cast as she should be, a woman still young and beautiful, had she been coherently written by Shakespeare, and were she played with any spirit, even an audience would rise. But the scene is simply false, effective on the stage, untrue of any son or any mother; in judging the char- acter of Hamlet, it must be left upon one side; and in all other relations we recognise the Prince for a gentleman. Now, if the personal charm of any verbal puppet be in- deed only an emanation from its author, may we con- clude, since we feel Hamlet to be a gentleman, that Shakespeare was one too ? An instructive parallel oc- curs. There were in England two writers of fiction, contemporaries, rivals in fame, opposites in character; one descended from a great house, easy, generous, witty, debauched, a favourite in the tap-room and the hunting field, yet withal a man of a high practical intel- ligence, a distinguished public servant, an ornament of the bench : the other, sprung from I know not whence — but not from kings — buzzed about by second-rate wo- men, and their fit companion, a tea-bibber in parlours, a man of painful propriety, with all the narrowness and much of the animosity of the backshop and the dissent- ing chapel. Take the pair, they seem like types : Field- 365 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS ing, with all his faults, was undeniably a gentleman; Richardson, with all his genius and his virtues, as un- deniably was not. And now turn to their works. In Tom Jones, a novel of which the respectable profess that they could stand the dulness if it were not so black- guardly, and the more honest admit they could forgive the blackguardism if it were not so dull — in Tom Jones, with its voluminous bulk and troops of characters, there is no shadow of a gentleman, for Allworthy is only ink and paper. In Joseph Andrews, I fear I have always confined my reading to the parson; and Mr. Adams, delightful as he is, has no pretension *' to the genteel." In Amelia, things get better; all things get better; it is one of the curiosities of literature that Fielding, who wrote one book that was engaging, truthful, kind, and clean, and another book that was dirty, dull, and false, should be spoken of, the world over, as the author of the second and not the first, as the author of Tom Jones, not of Amelia. And in Amelia, sure enough, we find some gentlefolk ; Booth and Dr. Harrison will pass in a crowd, 1 dare not say they will do more. It is very differently that one must speak of Richardson's creations. With Sir Charles Grandison I am unacquainted — there are many impediments in this brief life of man ; I have more than once, indeed, reconnoitred the first volume with a flying party, but always decided not to break ground before the place till my siege guns came up; and it's an odd thing — I have been all these years in the field, and that powerful artillery is still miles in the rear. The day it overtakes me. Baron Gibbon's fortress shall be beat about his ears, and my flag be planted on the for- midable ramparts of the second part of Faiist. Claren- 366 SOME GENTLEMEN IN FICTION don, too — But why should I continue this confession ? Let the reader take up the wondrous tale himself, and run over the books that he has tried, and failed withal, and vowed to try again, and now beholds, as he goes about a library, with secret compunction. As to Sir Charles at least, I have the report of spies ; and by the papers in the office of my Intelligence Department, it would seem he was a most accomplished baronet. I am the more ready to credit these reports, because the spies are persons thoroughly accustomed to the business ; and because my own investigation of a kindred quarter of the globe {Clarissa Marlowe) has led me to set a high value on the Richardsonians. Lovelace — in spite of his abominable misbehaviour — Colonel Morden and my Lord M are all gentlemen of undisputed quality. They more than pass muster, they excel ; they have a gallant, a conspicuous carriage; they roll into the book, four in hand, in gracious attitudes. The best of Fielding's gen- tlemen had scarce been at their ease in M Hall; Dr. Harrison had seemed a plain, honest man, a trifle be- low his company; and poor Booth (supposing him to have served in Colonel Morden's corps and to have travelled in the post-chaise along with his comman- dant) had been glad to slink away with Mowbray and crack a bottle in the butler's room. So that here, on the terms of our theory, we have an odd inversion, tempting to the cynic. Just the other day, there were again two rival novel- ists in England : Thackeray and Dickens ; and the case of 367 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS the last is, in this connection, full of interest. Here was a man and an artist, the most strenuous, one of the most endowed ; and for how many years he laboured in vain to create a gentleman ! With all his watchfulness of merr and manners, with all his fiery industry, with his ex- quisite native gift of characterisation, with his clear knowledge of what he meant to do, there was yet something lacking. In part after part, novel after novel, a whole menagerie of characters, the good, the bad, the- droll and the tragic, came at his beck like slaves about an oriental despot; there was only one who stayed away : the gentleman. If this ill fortune had persisted it might have shaken man's belief in art and industry. But years were given and courage was continued to the indefatigable artist; and at length, after so many and such lamentable failures, success began to attend upon his arms. David Copperfield scrambled through on hands and knees ; it was at least a negative success ; and Dickens, keenly alive to all he did, must have heaved a sigh of infinite relief Then came the evil days, the days of Dombey and Dorrit, from which the lover of Dickens willingly averts his eyes ; and when that tem- porary blight had passed away, and the artist began with a more resolute arm to reap the aftermath of his genius, we find him able to create a Carton, a Wray- burn, a Twemlow. No mistake about these three; they are all gentlemen : the sottish Carton, the effete Twem- low, the insolent Wrayburn, all have doubled the cape. There were never in any book three perfect sentences on end; there was never a character in any volume but it somewhere tripped. We are like dancing dogs and preaching women: the wonder is not that we should 368 SOME GENTLEMEN IN FICTION do it well, but that we should do it at all. And Wray- burn, I am free to admit, comes on one occasion to the dust. I mean, of course, the scene with the old Jew. I will make you a present of the Jew for a card-board figure; but that is neither here nor there: the ineffectu- ality of the one presentment does not mitigate the gross- ness, the baseness, the inhumanity of the other. In this scene, and in one other (if I remember aright) where it is echoed, Wrayburn combines the wit of the omnibus- cad with the good feeling of the Andaman Islander: in all the remainder of the book, throughout a thousand perils, playing (you would say) with difficulty, the au- thor swimmingly steers his hero on the true course. The error stands by itself, and it is striking to observe the moment of its introduction. It follows immediately upon one of the most dramatic passages in fiction, that in which Bradley Headstone barks his knuckles on the church-yard wall. To handle Bradley (one of Dickens's superlative achievements) were a thing impossible to almost any man but his creator; and even to him, we may be sure, the effort was exhausting. Dickens was a weary man when he had barked the school-master's knuckles, a weary man and an excited ; but the tale of bricks had to be finished, the monthly number waited; and under the false inspiration of irritated nerves, the scene of Wrayburn and the Jew was written and sent forth ; and there it is, a blot upon the book and a buffet to the reader. I make no more account of this passage than of that other in Hamlet: a scene that has broken down, the judicious reader cancels for himself And the general tenor of Wrayburn, and the whole of Carton and Twem- 369 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS low, are beyond exception. Here, then, we have a man who found it for years an enterprise beyond his art to draw a gentleman, and who in the end succeeded. Is it because Dickens was not a gentleman himself that he so often failed ? and if so, then how did he succeed at last ? Is it because he was a gentleman that he succeeded ? and if so, what made him fail ? I feel inclined to stop this paper here, after the manner of conundrums, and offer a moderate reward for a solution. But the true answer lies probably deeper than did ever plummet sound. And mine (such as it is) will hardly appear to the reader to disturb the surface. These verbal puppets (so to call them once again) are things of a divided parentage : the breath of life may be an emanation from their maker, but they themselves are only strings of words and parts of books ; they dwell in, they belong to, literature; convention, technical artifice, technical gusto, the mechanical necessities of the art, these are the flesh and blood with which they are in- vested. If we look only at Carton and Wrayburn, both leading parts, it must strike us at once that both are most ambitiously attempted ; that Dickens was not con- tent to draw a hero and a gentleman plainly and quietly; that, after all his ill-success, he must still handicap him- self upon these fresh adventures, and make Carton a sot, and sometimes a cantankerous sot, and Wrayburn in- solent to the verge, and sometimes beyond the verge, of what is pardonable. A moment's thought will show us this was in the nature of his genius, and a part of his literary method. His fierce intensity of design was not to be slaked with any academic portraiture; not all the arts of individualisation could perfectly content him ; he 379 SOME GENTLEMEN IN FICTION must still seek something more definite and more ex- press than nature. All artists, it may be properly argued, do the like; it is their method to discard the middling and the insignificant, to disengage the charactered and the precise. But it is only a class of artists that pursue so singly the note of personality ; and is it not possible that such a preoccupation may disable men from repre- senting gentlefolk ? The gentleman passes in the stream of the day's manners, inconspicuous. The lover of the individual may find him scarce worth drawing. And even if he draw him, on what will his attention centre but just upon those points in which his model exceeds or falls short of his subdued ideal — but just upon those points in which the gentleman is not genteel ? Dickens, in an hour of irritated nerves, and under the pressure of the monthly number, defaced his Wrayburn. Ob- serve what he sacrifices. The ruling passion strong in his hour of weakness, he sacrifices dignity, de- cency, the essential human beauties of his hero ; he still preserves the dialect, the shrill note of personality, the mark of identification. Thackeray, under the strain of the same villainous system, would have fallen upon the other side; his gentleman would still have been a gen- tleman, he would have only ceased to be an individual figure. There are incompatible ambitions. You cannot paint a Vandyke and keep it a Franz Hals. Ill I have preferred to conclude my inconclusive argument before I touched on Thackeray. Personally, he scarce 371 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS appeals to us as the ideal gentleman ; if there were noth- ing else, perpetual nosing after snobbery at least sug- gests the snob ; but about the men he made, there can be no such question of reserve. And whether because he was himself a gentleman in a very high degree, or because his methods were in a very high degree suited to this class of work, or from the common operation of both causes, a gentleman came from his pen by the gift of nature. He could draw him as a character part, full of pettiness, tainted with vulgarity, and yet still a gen- tleman, in the inimitable Major Pendennis. He could draw him as the full-blown hero in Colonel Esmond. He could draw him — the next thing to the work of God — human and true and noble and frail, in Colonel New- come. If the art of being a gentleman were forgotten, like the art of staining glass, it might be learned anew from that one character. It is learned there, I dare to say, daily. Mr. Andrew Lang, in a graceful attitude of melancholy, denies the influence of books. I think he forgets his philosophy ; for surely there go two elements to the determination of conduct: heredity, and experi- ence — that which is given to us at birth, that which is added and cancelled in the course of life; and what ex- perience is more formative, what step of life is more efficient, than to know and weep for Colonel Newcome? And surely he forgets himself; for I call to mind other pages, beautiful pages, from which it may be gathered that the language of the Newcomes sings still in his memory, and its gospel is sometimes not forgotten. I call it a gospel : it is the best I know. Error and suffer- ing and failure and death, those calamities that our con- temporaries paint upon so vast a scale — they are all 37a SOME GENTLEMEN IN FICTION depicted here, but in a more true proportion. We may return, before tliis picture, to the simple and ancient faith. We may be sure (although we know not why) that we give our lives, like coral insects, to build up in- sensibly, in the twilight of the seas of time, the reef of righteousness. And we may be sure (although we see not how) it is a thing worth doing. m THE PENTLAND RISING A PAGE OF HISTORY 1666 ' A cloud of witnesses ly here. Who for Chris fs interest did appear.** Inscription on Battle-field at Rullion Green. THE PENTLAND RISING I. THE CAUSES OF THE REVOLT "Halt, passengtr ; take heed what thou dost see. This tomb doth show for what some men did die." Monument, Greyfriars' Churchyard, Edinburgh, z66i-z668.1 TWO hundred years ago a tragedy was enacted in Scotland, the memory whereof has been in great measure lost or obscured by the deeper 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 mid- night gloom which followed. This fact, of its being the very threshold of persecution, lends it, however, an additional interest. The prejudices of the people against Episcopacy were *'out of measure increased," says Bishop Burnet, **by the new incumbents, who were put in the place 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 re- proach ; and many of them were openly vicious. They were indeed the dregs and refuse of the northern parts. Those of them who rose above contempt or scandal 1 Theatre of Mortality, p. lo, Edin. 1713. 377 THE PENTLAND RISING were men of such violent tempers that they were as much hated as the others were despised." ^ 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 field. 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 atten- dance. And as the curates were allowed to fine with the sanction of any common soldier, it may be imag- ined that often the pretexts were neither very sufficient nor well proven. When the fines could not be paid at once, bibles, clothes, and household utensils were seized upon, or a number of soldiers, proportionate to his wealth, were quartered on the offender. The coarse and drunken privates filled the houses with woe; snatched the bread from the children to feed their dogs; shocked the prin- ciples, scorned the scruples, and blasphemed the reli- gion 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 peas- ants by the name of Home. For all this attention each of these soldiers received from his unwilling landlord 1 History of my Own Times, beginning 1660, by Bishop Gilbert Burnet, p. 158. 578 THE CAUSES OF THE REVOLT a certain sum of money per day — three shillings sterling, according to ''Naphtali." And frequently they were forced to pay quartering money for more men than were in reality *'cessed" on them. At that time it was no strange thing to behold a strong man begging for money to pay his fines, and many others who were deep in arrears, or who had attracted attention in some other way, were forced to flee from their homes, and take refuge from arrest and imprisonment among the wild mosses of the uplands, i One example in particular we may cite: — John Nielson, 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 wan- derings he lost his horse. His wife and children were turned out of doors, and then his tenants were fined till they too were almost all ruined. As a final stroke, they drove away all his cattle to Glasgow and sold them.2 Surely it was time that something were done to alle- viate so much sorrow, to overthrow such tyanny. About this time too there arrived in Galloway a per- son 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 after- 1 Wodrow's Church History, book ii. chap. i. sect, i . 2 Cruickshank's Church History, 1751, 2d edit. p. 202. 379 THE PENTLAND RISING wards 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."^ 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 perpe- trated it with redoubled force. 1 Burnet, p. 348. 380 II. THE BEGINNING / love no warres, If it must be, J love no j'arres, Warre -we must see Nor strife's fire. (So fates conspire)^ May discora cease. May we not feel Let's live in peace : The force of steel: This I desire. This I desire. T. Jackson, 1651. ^ Upon Tuesday, November 13th, 1666, Corporal George Deanes and three other soldiers set upon an old man in the Clachan of Dairy, 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, chilled to the bone by their night on the hills, and worn out by want of food, they proceeded to the village inn to refresh them- selves. 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 ad- 1 Fuller's Historic of the Holy Warre. 4th edit. 165 1. 381 THE PENTLAND RISING joining chamber and made at the countrymen with drawn swords. One of the latter, John M'Lellan of Barskob, 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.^ 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 biog- raphies, and a work on war, entitled ''Pallas Armata." The following are some of the shorter pieces: — "Ma- gick," " Friendship," " Imprisonment," ''Anger," " Re- venge," "Duells," "Cruelty," "A Defence of some of the Ceremonies of the English Liturgie, to wit — Bow- ing at the Name of Jesus, The frequent repitition of the Lord's Prayer and Good Lord deliver us. Of the Dox- ologie. Of Surplesses, Rotchets, Cannonicall 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 ecclesi- astical subjects it is hard to see. Upon the 12th of the month he had received some information concerning Gray's proceedings, but as it was excessively indefinite in its character, he paid no attention to it. On the evening of the 14th, Corporal 1 Wodrow, vol. II. p. 17. 58a THE BEGINNING Deanes was brought into Dumfries, who affirmed stoutly that he had been shot while refusing to sign the Cove- nant — a story rendered singularly unlikely by the after conduct of the rebels. Sir James instantly despatched orders to the cessed soldiers either to come to Dumfries, or meet him on the way to Dairy, and commanded the thirteen or fourteen men in the town with him to come at nine next morning to his lodging for supplies. On the morning of Thursday the rebels arrived at Dumfries, with 50 horse and 1 50 foot. Nielson of Cor- sack, and Gray, who commanded, with a considerable troop, entered the town, and surrounded Sir James Tur- ner'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. Nielson and some others cried — " You may have fair quarter." "I need no quarter," replied Sir James; "nor can I be a prisoner, seeing there is no war declared." On being told, however, that he must either be a pri- soner, or die, he came down and went into the street in his night-shirt. Here Gray showed himself very desir- ous 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 a 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 minis- ter of Dumfries, of his horses, drank the King's health at the market-cross, and then left Dumfries.^ 1 Sir J. Turner's Memoirs, pp. 148-150. 383 III. THE MARCH OF THE REBELS " Stay, passenger, take notice what thou reads, A t Edinburgh lie our bodies, here our heads ; Our right hands stood at Lanark, these we want. Because with them we signed the Covenant." Epitaph on a Tombstone at Hamilton.! On Friday the i6th, Bailie Irvine of Dumfries came to the Council at Edinburgh, and gave information con- cerning this ''horrid rebellion." In the absence of Rothes, Sharpe presided — much to the wrath of some members; and as he imagined his own safety endan- gered, 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 di- rected, against him their direst thunderbolts 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 sub- mission. He said, '*If you submit not you must die," but never added, *' If you submit you may live I " ^ 1 A Cloud of Witnesses, p. 376. •Wodrow, pp. 19, ao. 384 THE MARCH OF THE REBELS Meantime the insurgents proceded 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 pa- pers were evidently forgeries — that, and his final flight, appear to indicate that he was an agent of the Royal- ists, 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."^ Upon the i8th day of the month they left Carsphairn and marched onwards. Turner was always lodged by his captors at a good inn, frequently at the best of which their halting-place could boast. Here many visits were paid to him by the ministers and officers of the insurgent force. In his description of these interviews he displays a vein of satiric severity, admitting any kindness that was done to him with some qualifying souvenir of former harshness, and gloating over any injury, mistake, or folly which it was his chance to suffer or to hear. He appears, notwithstanding all this, to have been on pretty good terms with his cruel " phanaticks," as the follow- ing extract sufficiently proves : — "Most of the foot were lodged about the church or churchyard, and order given to ring bells next morn- ing for a sermon to be preached by Mr. Welch. Max- well 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. 1 A Hind Let Loose, p. 123. 385 THE PENTLAND RISING 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 duoble the suome of what I had exacted from the phanatics. " ^ This took place at Ochiltree, on the 22d day of the month. The following is recounted by this personage with malicious glee, and certainly, if authen- tic, it is a sad proof of how chaff is mixed with wheat, and how ignorant, almost impious, persons were en- gaged in this movement; nevertheless we give it, for we wish to present with impartiality all the alleged facts to the reader: — '* Towards the evening Mr. Robinsone and Mr. Cruk- shank 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 bom- bastick graces that ever I heard in my life. He sum- moned 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 ISir J. Turner, p. 163. 386 THE MARCH OF THE REBELS me of the folly and injustice of their cause, than the ale did quench my thirst."^ Frequently the rebels made a halt near some roadside ale-house, or in some convenient park, where Colonel Wallace, who had now taken the command, would re- view the horse and foot, during which time Turner was sent either into the ale-house or round the shoulder of a 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.2 At Douglas, which they had just left on the morning of this great wapinschaw, 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 descrip- tion, such a rare opportunity for plunder should be lost by rogues — that among a thousand men, even though fighting for religion, there should not be one Achan in the camp ? At Lanark a declaration was drawn up and signed by the chief rebels. In it occurs the following : — " The just sense whereof" — the sufferings of the country — '' made us choose, rather to betake ourselves to the fields for self-defence, than 1 Turner, p. 198. 2 ibid. p. 167. 387 THE PENTLAND RISING to stay at home^ burdened daily with the calamities of others, and tortured with the fears of our own approaching misery." 1 The whole body, too, swore the Covenant, to which ceremony the epitaph at the head of this chapter seems to refer. A report that Dalzell was approaching drove them from Lanark to Bathgate, where, on the evening of Tuesday the 26th, the wearied army stopped. But at twelve o'clock the cry, which served them for a trum- pet, 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, sink- ing to the knees in mire, onward they marched to de- struction. One by one the weary peasants fell ofif 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, till at last, at every shelter that was seen, whole troops left the waning squadrons, and rushed to hide themselves from the ferocity of the tem- pest. 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; on- 1 Wodrow, p. 29. 388 THE MARCH OF THE REBELS ward again, through the wind, and the rain, and the darkness — onward to their defeat at Pentland, and their scaffold at Edinburgh. It was calculated that they lost one-half of their army on that disastrous night march. Next night they reached the village of Colinton, four miles from Edinburgh, where they halted for the last time.* 1 Turner, Wodrow, and Church History, by James Kirkton, an outed minister oi the period. 3S9 IV. RULLION GREEN **From Covenanters with uplifted hands, Prom remonstrators with associate bands. Good Lord, deliver us. " Royalist Rhjrme, Kirkton, p. 137. Late on the fourth night of November, exactly twen- ty-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. ^ Many thought that this apparition was a portent of the deaths connected with the Pentland Rising. On the morning of Thursday, 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 Barskob and the Galloway gentlemen ; and in the centre 1 Kirkton, p. 244. 390 RULLION GREEN Colonel Wallace and the weak half-armed infantry. Their position was further strengthened by the depth of the valley below, and the deep chasm-like course of the Rullion Burn. The sun, going down behind the Pentlands, cast golden lights and blue shadows on their snow-clad summits, slanted obliquely into the rich plain before them, bathing with rosy splendour the leafless, snow- sprinkled trees, and fading gradually into shadow in the distance. To the south, too, they beheld a deep-shaded amphitheatre of heather and bracken; the course of the Esk, near Penicuik, winding about at the foot of its gorge ; the broad, brown expanse of Maw moss ; and, fading into blue indistinctness in the south, the wild heath-clad Peeblesshire hills. In sooth, that scene was fair, and many a yearning glance was cast over that peaceful evening scene from the spot where the rebels awaited their defeat ; and when the fight was over, many a noble fellow lifted his head from the blood-stained heather to strive with darkening eyeballs to behold that landscape, over which, as o'er his life and his cause, the shadows of night and of gloom were falling and thick- ening. It was while waiting on this spot that the fear-inspir- ing cry was raised, ''The enemy! — Here comes the enemy!" Unwilling to believe their own doom — for our insur- gents still hoped for success in some negotiations for peace which had been carried on at Colinton — they called out, — "They are some other of our own." ''They are too blacke" (/. e., too numerous), "fie! fie! for ground to draw up on," cried Wallace, fully re- 39^ THE PENTLAND RISING alising the want of space for his men, and proving that it was not till after this time that his forces were finally arranged. 1 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, despatched a body of foot to occupy both the burn and some ruined sheep walls on the farther side. Dalzell changed his position and drew up his army at the foot of the hill, on the top of which were his foes. He then despatched 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 dis- astrous effect, for Dalzell had to check the pursuit of his men by a reinforcement. These repeated checks bred a panic in the lieutenant- general's ranks, for several of his men flung down their arms. Urged by such fatal symptoms, and by the ap- proaching 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 pic- turesque effect, like a huge many-armed giant breathing flame into the darkness. Placed on an overhanging hill, Welch and Sempie cried aloud, **The God of Jacob! The God of Jacob!" and prayed with uplifted hands for victory. ^ 1 Kirkton . 2 Turner, 392 RULLION GREEN But still the royalist troops closed in. Captain John Paton was observed by Dalzell, who determined to capture him with his own hands. Ac- cordingly, 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 adver- sary was rendered bullet-proof by enchantment, and pulling some small silver coins from his pocket, charged his pistol therewith. Dalzell, seeing this, and suppos- ing, it is likely, that Paton was putting in larger balls, hid behind his servant, who was killed.^ Meantime the outposts were forced, and the army of Wallace was enveloped in the embrace of a hideous boa-constrictor — tightening, closing, crushing every semblance of life from the victim enclosed in his toils. The flanking parties of horse were forced in upon the centre, and though, as even Turner grants, they fought with desperation, a general flight was the result. But when they fell there was none to sing their coro- nach 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 ! 1 Kirkton, p. 244. 393 THE PENTLAND RISING Inscription on stone at Ruliion Green. Here and near to this place lyes the reuerend Mr. John Crookshanks and Mr. Andrew M'Cormock ministers of the Gospel, and about fifty other true coven- anted Presbyterians who were killed in this place in their own innocent self-defence and def- fence of the Covenanted Work of Reformation by Thomas Dalzel of Bins Upon 28 November 1666. Rev. 12. II. Erected September 28. 1 738. Back of stone. A cloud of witnesses ly here, Who for Christ's interest did appear, For to restore true liberty, O'ertumed then by tyrany; And by proud prelats who did rage Against the Lord's own heritage; They sacrific'd were for the laws Of Christ their King, his noble cause, These heros fought with great renown By falling got the martyrs crown. 1 1 Kirkton, p. 246. 394 V. A RECORD OF BLOOD *' They cut his hands ere he was dead, A ltd after that struck off his head. His blood under the altar cries. For vengeance on Christ's enemies" Epitaph on Tomb at Longcross of Clermont ^ 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 be- neath 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 to- kens 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 out- lived 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 o'er 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 1 Cloud of Witnesses, p. 389. Edin. 1 765. 2,95 THE PENTLAND RISING 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 his fathers.^ 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 sol- diers gave him an ugly time of it. All the night through they kept up a continuous series of "alarms and incur- sions," 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.2 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 Scotch Episcopacy when the Primate was by. The prisoners were lodged in Haddo's Hole, a part of St. Giles's Cathedral, where, by the kindness of Bishop Wishart, to his credit be it spoken, they were amply supplied with food.^ 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 Gilmore, the greatest lawyer, gave no opinion — cer- tainly a suggestive circumstance, — but Lord Lee declared that this would not interfere with their legal trial; "so to bloody executions they went."* To the number of thirty they were condemned and executed; while two of them, Hugh M'Kail, a young minister, and Nielson of Corsack, were tortured with the boots. 1 Kirkton, p. 247. 3 ibid. p. 254. * Ibid. p. 247. * Ibid. pp. 247, 248. 396 A RECORD OF BLOOD 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'Culioch and the two Gordons," it was resolved, says Kirkton, ''should be pitched on the gate of Kirkcud- bright; 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 armes on the top of the prison." Among these was John Niel- son, the Laird of Corsack, who saved Turner's life at Dumfries; in return for which service, Sir James at- tempted, 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 ex- ecution. ' ' 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 Humphray Colquhoun died, he spoke not like ane 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 ad- miration of all. But most of all, when Mr. M'Kail died, there was such a lamentation as was never known in 1 Kirkton, p. 248. 397 THE PENTLAND RISING Scotland before; not one dry cheek upon all the street, or in all the numberless windows in the mercate place." ^ The following passage from this speech speaks for itself and its author: — " Hereafter I will not talk with flesh and blood, nor think on the world's consolations. Farewell to all my friends, whose company hath been refreshful to me in my pilgrimage. I have done with the light of the sun and the moon ; welcome eternal light, eternal life, ever- lasting 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 inquities in the blood of His Son, and healed all my diseases. Bless him, oh! all ye His angels, that excel in strength, ye ministers that do His pleasure. Bless the Lord, O my soul! "2 After having ascended the gallows-ladder he again broke forth in the following words of touching elo- quence: " And now I leave oflTto 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 de- lights ! 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!" 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 iKirkton, p. 249. 2Naphtali, Glasg. 1721, p. 205. 'Wodrow, p. 59. 398 A RECORD OF BLOOD 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!"i But, after all, perhaps it was more merciful than one would think — unintentionally so, of course; perhaps the storm of harsh and fiercely jubilant noises, the clanging of trumpets, the rattling of drums, and the hootings and jeerings of an unfeeling mob, which were the last they heard on earth, might, when the mortal fight was over, when the river of death was passed, add tenfold sweetness to the hymning of the angels, tenfold peacefulness to the shores which they had reached. Not content with the cruelty of these executions, some even of the peasantry, though these were confined to the shire of Mid-Lothian, pursued, captured, plundered, and murdered the miserable fugitives who fell in their way. One strange story have we of these times of blood and persecution : Kirkton, the historian, and pop- ular tradition tell us alike, of a flame which often would arise from the grave, in a moss near Carnwath, of some of those poor rebels; of how it crept along the ground; of how it covered the house of their murderer; and of how it scared him with its lurid glare. Hear Daniel Defoe : 2 " If the poor people were by these insupportable violences made des- perate, 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 1 Kirkton, p. 246. 2 Defoe's Hist, of the Church. 399 THE PENTLAND RISING 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 the laws of nature, the laws of God, or the laws of the country." Bear this remonstrance of Defoe's in mind, and thougii it is the fashion of the day to jeer and to mock, to exe- crate 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 chill- ing 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 Pent- land insurgents, who fought for life and liberty, for country and religion, on the 28th of November 1666, now just two hundred years ago. Edinburgh, 28th Nov. 1866. 400 i*Ml> ••<«»•}*« •>?thi!itiv^-vt] h^-tr*--!- --.-:-.- -.- g|^^^->7?^>3^:^^^ '• r«A«.-irr-nr-r! tKKrMvC^:::-:. itishitiiiiut triir'izK&^ij^M •*}*-&XHltii c-c---- •« i'^-2'^-z-yz '^Xtirttltitii ^ff^t^tfgfM^ji^^w^ii^f m S-jflti.-i.ti-i .-Wtti.:u-%V^- ■> — •> • -"~ — . 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