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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 s^
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN
 
 BOOKS BY ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 
 EFFIE HETHERINGTON. Crown 8vo, cloth, 
 2s. 6d. (Popular Copyright Novels.) 
 
 Also a 6d. Edition. 
 
 DIANA'S HUNTING. Demy i2mo, cloth, 2s. 6d. 
 
 (Half-Crown Series.) 
 
 A MARRIAGE BY CAPTURE. Cloth, 2S. ; 
 paper, is. 6d. (The Autonym Library.) 
 
 London: T. FISHER UNWIN. 
 
 (All rights reserved.)
 
 RJ,eJ^^iS'^-^^!u^--d\_ 
 
 Prontispikce.
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE 
 HIS LIFE'S WORK AND HIS 
 LITERARY FRIENDSHIPS ¥ ¥ 
 
 BY 
 
 HARRIETT JAY 
 
 AUTHOR OF "the queen OF CONNAUGHT," " THE HARK COLLEEN,'' 
 " MADGE DUNRAVEN," ETC., ETC. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 T. FISHER UNWIN 
 
 Paternoster Square 
 
 1903
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 To the memory of Robert Buchanan, 
 who adopted me in my childhood, and 
 who, throughout his life, was to me the 
 kindest of fathers, the best of friends. 
 To him I owe all that I have and am ; 
 and now that he is gone, it is my proud 
 pleasure to remember that, during his 
 last bitter hours of pain, I was able to 
 return to him, even if ever so slightly, 
 a little of the great tenderness and 
 devotion which he had always given to 
 me. 
 
 HARRIETT JAY.
 
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 a 
 
 •^ = 
 
 09 
 
 
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 860G01
 
 PREFACE 
 
 " TV T OBODY could tell the story of his life so well 
 1 \| as Robert Buchanan himself" (wrote Mr. 
 T. P. O'Connor in M.A.P.), and I feel this statement 
 to be so absolutely true that I have endeavoured in 
 compiling these Memoirs, to allow the Poet as far as 
 possible to speak for himself With this object in 
 view I have been most careful to gather together 
 every scrap of reminiscence which he has published 
 from time to time in various newspapers and maga- 
 zines. He knew himself better than any man or 
 woman could possibly know him, no matter how 
 intimate their acquaintance with him might be, and so 
 I have endeavoured to allow him to reveal himself to 
 the world. 
 
 I suppose no one knew him better than I did, and 
 yet even I was debarred from the knowledge of some 
 of his most sacred thoughts and feelings until after 
 he had been laid to rest. A careful study of his 
 diaries, and some of the private papers which he left 
 behind him revealed to me certain phases of his 
 character of which I had had no previous knowledge 
 whatever.
 
 viii Preface 
 
 The task, though an arduous one, has been to 
 me a labour of love, and if, after a perusal of this 
 volume the heart of the reader is touched by the 
 struggles of a man who fought so bravely for the good 
 of Humanity, I shall have reaped my reward. 
 
 I wish to tender my best thanks to my brother and 
 sister artists who have so generously assisted me in 
 my work. To Mr. G. R. Sims, Mr. R. E. Francillon, 
 Mr. Henry S. Salt, and Mr. Henry Murray, I am 
 specially indebted for certain pages of reminiscence 
 which have been written for this work, and which I 
 feel sure will be of exceptional interest to the public. 
 
 I have also to acknowledge the courtesy of 
 Mr. Walter Scott for permission to quote from a 
 Preface written by Mr. Buchanan to the Poems 
 (Canterbury Edition) of the Hon. Roden Noel ; of 
 Mr. T. P. O'Connor for permission to quote from 
 " M.A.P." ; of Mr. Philip Welby for permission to quote 
 from an article on Mr. Buchanan, written by Mr. 
 Henry Murray and issued by Mr. Welby in book 
 form, under the title, "Robert Buchanan and other 
 Essays " ; to Mr. William Freeland for permission to 
 quote from the Glasgow Evening Times. I am also 
 indebted to the Right Hon. W. E. H. Lecky, M.P., 
 to Mr. Herbert Spencer, Mr. Leslie Stephen, Mr. 
 William Canton, Mr. Alexander Strahan, Mr. Lionel 
 Gowing, Mrs. Macanally, Dr. Harry Campbell, 
 Dr. Gorham, Dr. Stodart Walker, and the Rev. T. 
 Varney and Miss Wylie for permission to quote from 
 letters, and I wish also to publicly acknowledge my 
 indebtedness to my dear friend. Miss Edith Francillon, 
 whose advice and help during the progress of this 
 work have been of the utmost value to me. Though 
 her name does not appear in the following pages, she 
 was a constant visitor at our house, and was intimately
 
 Preface ix 
 
 acquainted with and much esteemed by both the Poet 
 and his wife. 
 
 My own association with Mr. Buchanan has been 
 of so exceptional a character, that a word or so con- 
 cerning the position which I held in his household 
 may not be out of place here. In the eye of the law 
 I was his sister-in-law, but that relationship could not 
 possibly convey any idea of the tie which bound us 
 together. Briefly told, the story is as follows : When 
 my sister had been married some three or four years, 
 and was still childless, she resolved to adopt me. In 
 doing this she was anxious that any love which I 
 might have to give should be given to herself and to 
 her husband, so I was taken from my home at a very 
 tender age and for many years was never allowed to 
 revisit it. When at length I was permitted to see 
 my mother I remember looking at her very much as 
 little Paul Dombey looked at Miss Pipchin, wonder- 
 ing all the time whether she could possibly be my 
 mother, or whether she was some " strange person " 
 whom I was told to regard in that light. I turned 
 away with a great sob and threw myself into my 
 sister's arms, clinging to her as the only mother whom 
 I was thenceforth to know. As to the Poet, I was 
 always taught both by his wife and his mother, to 
 look up to him as a model of all the virtues, and my 
 line of conduct was invariably determined by his 
 approval or the reverse. If I proffered some childish 
 request it was always met with, " Yes, if Robert says 
 you may," or " No, I don't think Robert would like 
 that," and though I was sometimes wayward and 
 wilful as children too often are, I never wavered, I 
 trust, in that great love which it was my duty as well 
 as my pleasure to give. His frown always made me 
 wretched, his smile made me glad, and I was never so
 
 X Preface 
 
 happy as when I had earned his praise. When my 
 sister died, it was her dying wish that I should remain 
 with him, when his mother died the request was again 
 whispered into my ear by Hps which were fast growing 
 cold. During his last sad, terrible illness my friends 
 wrote to me praising me for what they called my 
 " generosity and self-sacrifice," when indeed there 
 was neither generosity nor self-sacrifice to praise. 
 The greatest pleasure in life, it seems to me, is to 
 be able to minister to the wants of those we love, and 
 I did what I did because in the doing of it lay my 
 only chance of happiness. When at length my task 
 was ended I felt only as if all the happiness had been 
 taken out of my life, but for his sake I rejoiced that 
 his pains were ended, and that he had gone to rejoin 
 those whom he had so passionately loved. 
 
 HARRIETT JAY. 
 Southend-on-Sea.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 PREFACE . . . . . . vii 
 
 I. HIS BIRTH ..... I 
 
 II. EARLY MEMORIES, 184I-50 . . . .JO 
 
 III. BOYHOOD, 1850-56 .... 17 
 
 IV. YOUTH, 1856-58 . . . . -31 
 
 V. FLIGHT TO LONDON, 1 859 ... 42 
 
 VI. EARLY STRUGGLES, 1859 . . . -53 
 VIL DAVID GRAY, i860 .... 57 
 VIII. FRIENDSHIPS, 1864 . • . . .88 
 
 IX. MARRIAGE, 1861 ..... lOO 
 
 X. G. H. LEWES AND ROBERT BROWNING, 1 862 . 105 
 
 XI. FIRST BOOKS, 1 863-66 . . . . II6 
 
 XII. RETURN TO SCOTLAND, 1 866 . . . 125 
 
 XIII. SPORT ...... 137 
 
 XIV. HUMANITARIANISM. (By Henry S. Salt) . . 144 
 
 XV. READINGS, 1868-69 . . . -153 
 
 XVI. THE FLESHLY SCHOOL OF POETRY, 1870 . . 1 59 
 
 XVII. LIFE IN IRELAND . . . . 169
 
 xii Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVIII. FIRST IDEAS OF NOVEL WRITING . . . 183 
 
 XIX. AN IMPRESSION, WRITTEN BY R. E. FRANCILLON 197 
 
 XX. "THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD," "GOD AND 
 
 THE MAN" ..... 203 
 
 XXI. "BALDER THE BEAUTIFUL" . . . 209 
 
 XXII. THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE . . . .217 
 
 XXIII. " THE CITY OF DREAM "... 225 
 
 XXIV. PLAY- WRITING . . . . . 23I 
 
 XXV. A REMINISCENCE. (By George R. Sims) . 250 
 
 XXVI. ON THE TURF. WRITTEN BY MR. HENRY 
 
 MURRAY ...... 253 
 
 XXVII. "the WANDERING JEW" . . . 258 
 XXVIII. THE LAST SHADOW ..... 277 
 
 XXIX. CLOSING SCENES. . . . .291 
 
 XXX. THE LAST SCENE OF ALL . . . 306 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PORTRAIT OF ROBERT BUCHANAN . . Frontispiece 
 
 SPECIMEN OF ROBERT BUCHANAN'S HANDWRITING . Page V 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN (THE POET'S FATHER) To face page 8 
 
 66 STAMFORD STREET . . .,,,,50 
 
 MARY BUCHANAN (THE POET'S WIFE) . ,, ,, lOO 
 
 HARRIETT JAY . . . . • „ ,, 234 
 
 MARGARET BUCHANAN (THE POET'S MOTHER) „ „ 278 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN AND " BETSY '' {Last Portrait) „ „ 308 
 
 THE POET'S GRAVE . . . . „ ,,312
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 HIS BIRTH 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN, poet, novelist, drama- 
 tist, was born at Caversvvall in Lancashire on 
 the i8th of August, 1841. 
 
 An unworldly man, whose life was chiefly occupied 
 with the child's puzzle of natural religion. A worker, 
 yet a dreamer who fought Don Quixote-like with 
 many windmills ; a lover of truth and beauty, yet 
 darkly doomed to much ignoble pot-boiling, a dweller 
 between the fringe of literary Bohemia and the begin- 
 ning of mere cloudland, who, while giving a careless 
 glance at the present generation, ever fixed a long, 
 hopeful, wistful look towards posterity. 
 
 The story of his life which to the best of my ability 
 I am about to set down, is in many respects a sad 
 one. He had few friends and many enemies, and he 
 received from the world many cruel blows. From 
 the beginning I fear he lacked the true literary 
 temper, but he always tried to preach the truth as he 
 saw it, never counting the cost to himself. A fearless, 
 upright, honest man, whose life, if rightly studied, 
 cannot fail to be of interest to the world. 
 
 It was perhaps because he heard the name of God 
 for the first time so late in boyhood that the mention 
 
 2 '
 
 2 Robert Buchanan 
 
 of that name never grew tiresome to him. He was 
 born in the strangest odour of infidelity, hence 
 infidehty amused him less than most men, but for 
 infidels and revolters he had ever a kindly feeling 
 quite irrespective of their creed or his. His life was 
 a lonely one — he was from first to last a lonely man ; 
 not unsociable by disposition, not unsympathetic, 
 but seldom travelling far for sympathy — always 
 climbing, climbing, but never quite reaching the 
 heights on which he had set his intellectual ideals. 
 Had his father not broken down in health and fortune 
 all might have been very different with him; he would 
 at least have had a foothold apart from the dangerous 
 quicksands of literature. For many years he suffered 
 a martyrdom from ill health, from the infinite 
 delicacies of an over-wrought nervous system, thence 
 came isolation, friendlessness, bitterness, misconcep- 
 tion, and despair. 
 
 Perhaps no man has been oftener abused, yet no 
 man needed kindness so much and received so little. 
 He was stabbed again and again, and scarcely one arm 
 was ever stretched out in his defence ; yet he bore his 
 burthen with cheerfulness and infinite hope, and now, 
 in reviewing his life, I can truly say that it was honest 
 even in its utmost blindness ; unselfish in its one linger- 
 ing aspiration to be truthful, and not to fear the truth. 
 He was never an ambitious man ; he reaped what he 
 sowed, and it was a blessed harvest ; for, in spite of 
 many trials and temptations, he never lost the deep 
 poetic heart which he brought with him into the 
 world as his only birthright. 
 
 As far back as the year 1891, when giving some 
 account of his early experiences, he wrote : — 
 
 "At the time when the benign Don Quixote of 
 modern Socialism, Robert Owen, was issuing his
 
 His Birth 3 
 
 propaganda of a New Moral World, and when his 
 words of promise sounded like a trumpet-note to so 
 many youthful sons of toil, one of the first to respond 
 was a poor journeyman tailor in Ayrshire, who, 
 throwing down goose and scissors, straightway 
 aspired to the role of Socialist reformer ; was soon 
 welcomed and appreciated for his keen Scottish intel- 
 ligence, his wide, if uninstructed reading, and his 
 rugged eloquence on the platform ; in due time 
 became one of Owen's most valued Missionaries ; and 
 before many years had elapsed was famous among his 
 own people, and infamous among the orthodox, as 
 Robert Buchanan, poet and iconoclast. That man 
 was my father. 
 
 " Sometimes stumping the country as a controver- 
 sialist on the side of Free-Thought, sometimes travel- 
 ling from town to town with a magic lantern (one of 
 his great feats being the exposure of the popular 
 theory of ' ghosts,' through the production of a mystic 
 Skeleton which he sent dancing among his affrighted 
 audience), sometimes following his gentle Leader into 
 perilous places where the new gospel was hateful or 
 unknown, he laboured pertinaciously in the good 
 cause till, in or about 1840, well known to Socialists 
 as the Communistic Year, he married Miss Margaret 
 Williams, daughter of a well-known solicitor (of 
 Socialistic leanings) in Stoke-upon-Trent. Robert 
 Owen himself honoured the civil ceremony before the 
 Registrar, and gave Miss Williams away. About a 
 year afterwards I was born — if not in the odour of 
 sanctity, at least in the full and increasing daylight of 
 the New Moral World. 
 
 " It was, as the reader is doubtless aware, a stirring 
 time. The wave of the great Revolution had not yet 
 spent itself, and every day some doomed structure
 
 4 Robert Buchanan 
 
 was subsiding into the waste of troubled waters. 
 Many failures had not yet daunted the apostles of 
 Liberty and Co-operation. Instead of the stagnant 
 pessimism which now covers the green fields of 
 Democracy with loathsome pools, an ardent optimism 
 was everywhere at work. Owen's clear call to arms 
 had been heard all over the land, bringing recruits 
 from the tailor's shop, the smithy, the cobbler's bench, 
 the manufactory, the plough-tail, from every place 
 indeed, where the poor sons of toil had learned to 
 read and think. Many of these men, my father 
 among the number, had splendid gifts ; all had the 
 courage of their opinions. 
 
 " Those who had the happiness to know Robert 
 Owen knew him as the most benign of men, in whom 
 the enthusiasm of humanity was combined with the 
 most extraordinary powers of practical business. In 
 the words of Duke Bernard of Saxe-Weimar, ' Mr. 
 Owen looked for nothing less than to renovate the 
 world, to extirpate all evil, to banish all punishment, 
 to create like views and like wants, and to guard 
 against all conflicts and all hostilities.' His benevo- 
 lence, however, was entirely scientific — he was, in fact, 
 the father and founder of modern social science. 
 His success, for a time at least, was phenomenal. In 
 a letter to the Times newspaper in 1834 he said, 
 addressing his friend Lord Brougham : ' I believe it is 
 known to your lordship that from every point of view 
 no experiment was ever so successful as the one I 
 conducted at New Lanark, although it was com- 
 menced and continued in opposition to all the oldest 
 and strongest prejudices of mankind. For twenty-nine 
 years we did without the necessity for magistrates or 
 lawyers ; without a single legal punishment ; without 
 any known poor's-rate, without intemperance or re-
 
 His Birth 5 
 
 ligious animosities. We reduced the hours of labour, 
 well educated all the children from infancy, greatly 
 improved the condition of the adults, diminished their 
 daily hours of labour, paid interest on capital, and 
 cleared upwards of ^300,000 of profit ! ' So far his 
 mission had been practical, and had succeeded ; but 
 in 1837 he delivered a formula which made him 
 thenceforth the avowed enemy of all who held 
 orthodox opinions. 
 
 " ' All the religions of the world,' he said, 
 'ARE wrong ! ' From that time forth the influential 
 classes entirely deserted him. He became at once an 
 apostle and a martyr. Personally a Theist, he 
 preached universal toleration, a form of toleration 
 which is, and always has been, to nine-tenths of 
 mankind, quite intolerable. 
 
 "Only those who have carefully followed the 
 history of the Socialistic movement under Owen can 
 have any notion whatever of the condition of Eng- 
 land in those troublous times. A freethinker, a 
 proclaimer of the right to private judgment, often 
 carried his life in his hand. The priest and the 
 capitalist, the bigot and the landowner, worked every- 
 where against the new doctrines, which, they con- 
 tended, were poisoning the air — the missionaries of 
 Socialism were very generally regarded as agents of 
 the Prince of Darkness conspiring to plunge the 
 country into anarchy and revolution. Owen's views 
 on religion were generally considered blasphemous, 
 horrible, atheistical, but it was his ideas on marriage, 
 in the moral programme which he advanced with 
 persuasive eloquence, that aroused the most frenzied 
 opposition, particularly among the women of the 
 lower classes, who were firmly persuaded that the 
 object was to rob them of their husbands and by
 
 6 Robert Buchanan 
 
 reducing all sexual union to a simple contract, revok- 
 able at pleasure, to leave them at the mercy of male 
 caprice and to bastardise their children. This de- 
 lusion drove the wives and mothers of the toiling 
 classes to absolute frenzy, and made them the chief 
 leaders and abettors of the many acts of violence to 
 which Owen's missionaries were subjected." ^ 
 
 The poet's grandfather, known throughout the 
 Midlands as " Lawyer Williams," was a very remark- 
 able man. Quite early in his career he had come 
 under the influence of Robert Owen and had accepted 
 that philanthropist's ideas on social, political, and 
 religious problems — in fact, he was a freethinker of 
 the most advanced school. He fearlessly proclaimed 
 his opinions in and out of season, and this exceptional 
 candour, so far from hindering his progress in his 
 profession, gained for him the respect of his most 
 bitter opponents. It was a favourite dictum of his, 
 that there was no such anachronism as an " honest 
 lawyer," but he himself was honesty incarnate, a 
 living refutation of his own dictum ; and his fearless- 
 ness, his unselfishness in helping the weak and in 
 denouncing every form of injustice, earned for him 
 the title of the " poor man's friend." 
 
 At the time that the war against Capital and 
 Superstition was raging, "Lawyer Williams" followed 
 his profession as a solicitor in Stoke-upon-Trent, and 
 his house became the temporary home of every wan- 
 dering preacher of the cause who visited the district. 
 He entertained the lecturers, he presided at their 
 meetings, he furthered, both publicly and privately, 
 the dissemination of the new doctrines, and only his 
 great popularity with the lower classes saved him 
 from personal violence. Again and again when the 
 ' " Latter Day Leaves."
 
 His Birth 7 
 
 mob rose in its fury, when public halls were wrecked 
 and Owen's lecturers were compelled to fly for their 
 lives, the only refuge in Stoke was the house of 
 " Lawyer Williams," and while some trembling 
 apostle of freethought was being smuggled away 
 through the back door, the " poor man's friend " 
 faced the furies and diverted their attention to his 
 own person. Any other man's house would have 
 been burned down or razed to the ground ; any other 
 man would, in all likelihood, have been torn to pieces. 
 Both the men and women of Stoke respected the man 
 who had befriended them in a thousand ways, who 
 had sacrificed time and money and reputation to 
 the legal defence of the poorest and most wretched 
 among them, and much as they loathed the opinions 
 which he fearlessly shared, not one hand in all the 
 crowd was raised against him. Nor was it among 
 the poor and wretched alone that his name was 
 a synonym for honesty, kindliness, and philanthropy. 
 Even amongst the clergy, his bitterest opponents, he 
 had sympathisers and well-wishers. Doctor Vale, the 
 Vicar of Stoke, was the intimate friend of the lawyer 
 and his wife, and on one occasion Mr. Williams 
 protected him from the wild mob of hungry men and 
 women who would otherwise have had his life. 
 
 To the lawyer and his wife were born two children, 
 a son and a daughter, the latter of whom became the 
 poet's mother. She was a very beautiful girl — blue- 
 eyed and golden-haired. Almost with her first breath 
 she inhaled the atmosphere of Socialism and free- 
 thought. Throughout her long life she had two 
 supreme objects of idolatry — her father, who recipro- 
 cated her passionate attachment, and Robert Owen, 
 whom she had been taught to regard as the wisest 
 and best of men.
 
 8 Robert Buchanan 
 
 To the house of " Lawyer Williams " came from 
 time to time all the preachers of the cause. Among 
 these men was the poet's father, who, when quite a 
 boy, had run away from home to seek his fortune. 
 He was a dark, somewhat reserved young man, an 
 omnivorous reader, and a fairly fluent speaker, but it 
 was in the height of fiery argument on the public 
 platform that he appeared at his best. Some of his 
 fellow missionaries excelled him in oratorical gifts, 
 but in knowledge of the subjects discussed, and in 
 range of general information he had no equal among 
 them. His manners were far from courtly, but his 
 strong intellectual qualities attracted Miss Williams, 
 and before they had been very long acquainted they 
 were engaged to be married. The marriage took 
 place in the autumn of 1840, and on the i8th day 
 of August, 1 84 1, Robert, their only son, was born. 
 About twelve years later Mrs. Buchanan gave birth 
 to a little girl, who died in infancy, so Robert was 
 practically their only child. 
 
 The fact that his parents had no other surviving 
 children was, I think, the chief misfortune of his life, 
 as well as its crowning blessing. An only child, he 
 became the idol of his mother, whose affection for 
 him he returned with absolutely overmastering 
 intensity. His feeling towards his father, he often 
 said, was one of ordinary, though strong affection, 
 but towards his mother it was far from ordinary. 
 His earliest memories were of her beauty and quite 
 girlish grace. She was a particularly young-looking 
 woman at all times, and he could never, at any hour 
 of his life, realise the fact that she was growing old. 
 In looking at her even when she was close upon 
 eighty years of age, he saw only the soft blue eyes 
 and golden hair as he had seen them long ago, and I
 
 RojlKUT ilLl IIA.NAN. 
 (The Poet's Father.) 
 
 Tv face page 8.
 
 His Birth 9 
 
 have heard him remark again and again that it 
 always gave him a shock if any one happened to 
 refer to her as "old," " I cannot imagine my mother 
 old," he would say, and again, the very day after she 
 died, " I do not feel that she is dead, for I cannot 
 imagine the world without my mother ! " As I have 
 said, he adored her, and was in turn adored. Thus 
 reared and sheltered from every harsh influence, he 
 grew sensitive beyond measure, and his naturally 
 nervous temperament became so highly strung, that 
 he was ill prepared for the struggles of the world. 
 This was a misfortune, and the cause later on of 
 infinite pain and heartache. He was spoiled by too 
 much tenderness and solicitude, weakened by too 
 many gusts of childish passion which wrung his heart 
 the more because he was not openly demonstrative, 
 but given on the contrary to the concealment of his 
 deepest feelings. But the influence of his mother was 
 not merely emotional. He learned from her teaching 
 to be sympathetic and tender-hearted, to worship 
 goodness and to rise in revolt against any form of in- 
 justice or oppression. The words of the great Humani- 
 tarians were on her lips, she had learned them at her 
 father's knee, and he learned them in turn at hers. 
 
 From his parents he had no religious training what- 
 ever, yet slowly and imperceptibly there grew in him 
 a deep and abiding sense of natural religion, of awe 
 and reverence for the mysterious Power which moves 
 the world. He could never remember when he first 
 began to say his prayers, but he knew that as a child 
 he said them, and later on to my knowledge on two 
 memorable occasions he said them — first, by the dead 
 body of his wife, next by the dead body of his 
 mother, she who to him was the symbol of all that 
 was beautiful and loving in humanity.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 EARLY MEMORIES, 1841-50 
 
 "'' I ^HE reward of Socialist missionaries in those 
 1 days was, I fear, quite inadequate to their 
 personal necessities, and my father was one of many 
 who found it necessary to eke out a subsistence by 
 reporting for the Press. Just after I was born he 
 joined the staff of the Sun newspaper, combining 
 with his occupation of reporter that of small news- 
 vendor. A few months later, when I was still an 
 infant, my mother went to join the community at 
 Ham Common, in Surrey, the manager of which was 
 Mr. William Oldham, whose chief eccentricity was a 
 preference for wet sheets to dry ones. The inmates 
 of Alcott House, or, as it was called, the Concordian, 
 were vegetarians, objected to the use of even salt and 
 tea, and, naturally, to all stimulants, and advocated 
 entire abstinence from indulgences of the flesh, 
 including marriage. My mother, as a married woman, 
 was refused admission to the inner, or perfectly 
 sacred, circle, which was presided over by Oldham, the 
 grand " Pater." A diet consisting almost entirely of 
 uncooked cabbage is apt to grow monotonous, and 
 my mother did not remain at Ham Common long. 
 A year or two later, however, when New Harmony 
 
 was established, she went on Robert Owen's special 
 
 10
 
 Early Memories, 1841-50 11 
 
 invitation to Oueenvvood, near Wisbech, Norfolk, 
 a baronial structure surrounded by spacious woods 
 and promenades. The inmates of Queenwood, 
 though they were all believers in the principle of 
 association, consulted their own taste in matters of 
 diet, but the most popular table in the Hall was the 
 one where a vegetarian diet alone was served. It 
 was, as I gathered, a happy and innocent community ; 
 but infamous reports were spread concerning it by the 
 antagonists of human progress ; it was, in fact, de- 
 scribed as an immoral association. Members of the 
 Church Orthodox were not likely to forgive a com- 
 munity founded to illustrate the doctrines of the man 
 who denounced all religions as ' wrong,' and who on 
 the platform and in the newspapers had so often 
 shown the weak points in the armour of Christianity. 
 'Is it possible' asked an opponent of Socialism at 
 Edinburgh, in 1838, 'to train an individual to believe 
 that two and two make five ? ' ' We need not, I fancy, 
 go far for an answer,' replied Owen, with his gentle 
 smile and inimitable courtliness of manner, ' I fancy 
 all of us know many persons who are trained to 
 believe that three make one, and who think very ill of 
 you if you differ from them.' 
 
 " I have often heard my mother speak of Robert 
 Owen as the kindliest and most gracious of men, 
 with an air of indomitable gentleness peculiarly 
 irritating to individuals whose metier it was to discuss 
 burning questions under burning excitement. I saw 
 the good man often early in my life, but my recollec- 
 tion of him is kaleidoscopic — one tiny sparkle of 
 memory mixed confusedly with things I have only 
 heard. In our home, wherever it might be, he was 
 a sort of religious presence. I heard his name long 
 before I heard that of Jesus Christ. I was taught to
 
 12 Robert Buchanan 
 
 think of him as of one wholly unselfish, holy, and 
 morally omniscient. I heard again and again of his 
 gracious deeds and inspiring words. One secret of 
 his extraordinary power was that he was pre-eminently 
 a 'gentleman.' Under his refining influence the 
 rough, untutored men who flocked to his standard 
 became gentle too. When persecution came they 
 took it like their master, patiently and wisely. To 
 know Robert Owen was in itself a liberal education. 
 
 " My first vivid recollections are of the period when 
 my father, having established himself on the London 
 Press, and residing permanently in London, sent me 
 to a small school at Hampton Wick, kept by a well- 
 known Socialist missionary, Alexander Campbell, 
 known to his circle as the ' Patriarch.' He was a 
 grave, simple man, with peculiar notions on the 
 Immanence of the Deity, or what is called Being. 
 With his peculiar religious ideas he combined, I 
 fancy, eccentric views concerning the diet of the 
 human race. At all events, the children under the 
 care of himself and his daughter pined for lack of 
 fitting nutriment. I myself, as a very little boy, must 
 have been in danger of starvation, for I vividly 
 remember having to supplement the school diet, 
 which was chiefly vegetarian, by eating snails gathered 
 in the garden. On going home for the holidays I 
 was found to be a little skeleton, and my mother took 
 care that I did not return to the establishment. 
 
 " I was next sent to a so-called French and German 
 College at Merton, kept by a certain M. de Chaste- 
 lain, a French gentleman and, I think, a refugee. It 
 was a large school, excellently conducted, but resem- 
 bling, in some respects, Mr. Creakle's establishment, 
 made famous by the author of " David Copperfield." 
 Just opposite the main entrance was a CHURCH,
 
 Early Memories, 1841—50 13 
 
 almost the first I had ever seen, and certainly the first 
 I ever entered. Here, I presume, I became acquainted 
 with the national religion and its sacred terminology. 
 I vividly recall the sense of strangeness I expe- 
 rienced when I listened, little heathen that I was, 
 to the ordinary vocabulary of Christianity. I had 
 received no religious teaching : if I had heard the 
 name of God, it had been as a voice from far away ; 
 and I was old enough to understand that much that 
 was taught in churches was mostly * superstition.' 
 But not till some years afterwards, when I was taken 
 to Scotland, did I completely realise the gloom and 
 narrowness of the popular Christian creed. 
 
 " My parents were now residing at Norwood, in a 
 quaint little cottage commanding a distant prospect 
 of St. Paul's ; and thither, chiefly on Sundays, came 
 many of the apostles of progress — hirsute men for the 
 most part, of all characters and of all nations. When 
 my holidays occurred I saw a good deal of these gentle- 
 men. Two of them I remember vividly, who generally 
 came together : one a little miniature of a man with 
 tiny feet and hands and an enormous head, generally 
 covered by a chimney-pot hat three or four sizes too 
 large for it ; the other a mighty fellow, of gigantic 
 stature, with a chest fit for Hercules and a voice like 
 a trumpet. The first was Louis Blanc, a famous 
 exile: the second was Caussidiere, who had been chief 
 of the police in Paris during the last Revolution. 
 Both spoke English fairly, and Blanc wrote it like an 
 Englishman. It was during a visit of this strange 
 pair that I first heard the ' Marseillaise.' Sung by 
 Caussidiere in stentorian tones, with kindling eyes 
 and excited gestures, it sounded like a wild conjura- 
 tion. I listened to these men for hours, as they 
 talked of their country and its sorrows, and named
 
 14 Robert Buchanan 
 
 the wondrous words, ' Liberty, Equality, and Fra- 
 ternity.' 
 
 "In after years I met Louis Blanc again, and by 
 that time only the faintest trace of a foreign accent 
 remained to show that he was a Frenchman. He was 
 at once the keenest and most enthusiastic of little 
 men, neat in his person, brilliant in his talk, and 
 cultured to the finger-nails. He loved England, which 
 had so long afforded him a home, and hated nothing 
 in the world but one thing, the Empire, and one man, 
 the Emperor. He preached the great Socialistic 
 doctrine of solidarity, in writings which were as 
 brilliant as they were closely reasoned ; he was an 
 enemy of tyranny in any form ; and he lived long 
 enough to see the foulest tyranny of modern times, a 
 tyranny of the senses, ignominiously overthrown at 
 Sedan. 
 
 " Another friend of my father, and a constant visitor 
 at our house, was Lloyd Jones, lecturer, debater, and 
 journalist. An Irishman with the mellowest of voices, 
 he delighted my young soul with snatches of jovial 
 song, ' The Widow Machree,' ' The Leather Bottel,' 
 and the modern burlesque of that royal ballad, ' The 
 Pewter Quart,' written, I think, by Macguire, and 
 originally published in Blackwood — 
 
 ' Here, boy, take this handful of brass, 
 Across to the Goose and the Gridiron pass, 
 Pay the coin on the counter out, 
 And bring me a pint of foaming stout, 
 Put it not into bottle or jug, 
 Cannikin, rumkin, flagon, or mug, 
 Into nothing at all, in short, 
 Except the natural Pewter Quart ! ' 
 
 " Jones ' troll'd ' rather than sang, with robust 
 strength and humour. I found out when I was a
 
 Early Memories, 1841-50 15 
 
 year or two older, that he knew and loved the obscurer 
 early poets, and could recite whole passages from 
 their works by heart. George Wither was a great 
 favourite of his, and he had a fine collection of that 
 poet's works, many of them very scarce. It was a great 
 treat to hear him sing Wither's charming ballad — 
 
 ' Shall I, wasting in despair, 
 Die because a woman's fair ? 
 If she be not fair to me, 
 What care I how fair she be ? ' 
 
 or to hear him recite the same poet's naive, yet lively 
 invocation to the Muse, written in prison — 
 
 ' By a Daisy whose leaves spread, 
 Shut when Titan goes to bed, 
 By a lush upon a tree, 
 She could more infuse in me 
 Than all Nature's wonders can 
 In some other wiser man ! ' 
 
 I owe Lloyd Jones this debt, that he first taught me 
 to love old songs and homespun English poetry. He 
 was a large-hearted, genial man, not to be forgotten 
 in any chronicle of the Socialistic cause. 
 
 " It was not, as I have hinted, until I was taken by 
 my parents to reside in Scotland that I came face to 
 face with the Dismal Superstition against which my 
 father and these men, his friends, were passionately 
 struggling. I then learned for the first time that to 
 fight for human good, to be honest and fearless, to 
 love the Light, was to be branded as an Enemy of 
 Society and an Atheist. I saw my father so branded, 
 and I have not forgotten my first horror when chil- 
 dren of my own age avoided me, on the score that I 
 was the son of an ' infidel.' But I learned now that
 
 1 6 Robert Buchanan 
 
 there was more real religion, more holy zeal for 
 Humanity, in these revolters against the popular creed 
 than in most of the Christians who preach one faith 
 and practise another. 
 
 " Tanhim Religio potiiit suadere vialorum. 
 
 " The world has advanced somewhat since those 
 early days of which I have been writing. There is 
 no sign as yet, however, that the warning uttered long 
 ago by Lucretius, and echoed by the minority from 
 generation to generation, has been of much avail." ^ 
 
 ' " Latter Day Leaves."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 BOYHOOD, 1850-56 
 
 THE poet was about ten years of age when he 
 left the French and German College at Merton, 
 and accompanied his parents to Glasgow, where his 
 father had undertaken to edit a newspaper of advanced 
 liberal views, the Glasgow Sentinel. It was in Glas- 
 gow, therefore, that he spent a large portion of his 
 boyhood and early youth. The newspaper office 
 was up a dingy street in the neighbourhood of the 
 Trongate, and all around stretched the darkest slums 
 and dens of the city. Just below it was the newspaper 
 shop of William Love, who had some sort of share in 
 the proprietorship of the Sentinel. 
 
 William Love was a cripple, with one leg much 
 smaller than the other. He had been the mainstay 
 of a large family of brothers and sisters, and was 
 destined in after years to become the largest book- 
 seller in Glasgow. At the time of which I write he 
 was in a very small way of business indeed, but what 
 his occupation lacked in one way was amply made 
 up for in another. On that dingy counter lay the 
 whole armoury of the new moral world, tracts for the 
 times, Owen's speeches, Holyoake's debates, all the 
 
 3 ''
 
 1 8 Robert Buchanan 
 
 literature of Socialism. There, from time to time, 
 gathered the local apostles of freethinking — Lloyd 
 Jones, Alexander Campbell, William Turvey, and 
 Mr. Buchanan, sen. Thus, as a boy, Robert 
 Buch-anan listened to the oracles and drank in the 
 atmosphere of unbelief. 
 
 To understand the boy's position at that period of 
 his life it is necessary to remember that Glasgow was 
 at that time the very stronghold of Godliness and 
 more particularly of Sabbatarianism. The men of 
 whom I am writing were looked upon as social out- 
 casts. When they appeared upon the platform to 
 face the champions of orthodoxy, it was often at the 
 peril of their lives. Even when walking in the streets 
 they were frequently assailed with insulting epithets, 
 and threatened with personal violence. The poet's 
 father was an object of special detestation, and he 
 himself, as the son of a notorious unbeliever, was very 
 often taught the lesson of social persecution. If he 
 made an acquaintance of his own age, that boy was 
 generally warned against him and taught to give 
 him the cold shoulder. " Don't play with yon laddie," 
 the boys themselves would say, " his father's an 
 infidel ! " Ridiculous as the record of this persecution 
 may appear, it caused the lad at the time a great deal 
 of misery, and later on, when we spoke together of 
 those days of his youth, he assured me that many a 
 time he had prayed with all his soul that his father 
 would mend his ways, go to church, and accept the 
 social sanctities like other men ! 
 
 Meantime the boy was sent to a small day school 
 in the suburb of Glasgow where the family had taken 
 up their abode. It seems to have been a poor estab- 
 lishment compared to the college at Merton, but he 
 learned in it the rudiments of Latin and mathematics,
 
 Boyhood, 1850-56 19 
 
 and throve under the strict yet kindly care of the 
 master, one of those zealous pedagogues to be found 
 only in Scotland. But his real education went on in 
 his father's house, and at the house of William Love, 
 where his father went every Sunday to read the 
 secular journals of the week. 
 
 In his very able article, written during the poet's 
 last illness, and published shortly before his death, 
 Mr. Henry Murray says : " From a brief period of 
 God-intoxication, through many doubts and battles 
 and fluctuations, he came at last to face the facts of 
 Life and Death, with only the thinnest veil of mysticism 
 to hide their stern nakedness. Thin as that veil was, 
 it was growing ever thinner. From the broken arc 
 we may divine the perfect round, and it is my fixed 
 belief that, had the subtle and cruel malady which 
 struck him down but spared him for a little longer 
 time, he would logically have completed the evolu- 
 tion of so many years, and have definitely pro- 
 claimed himself as an Agnostic, perhaps even as an 
 atheist." ^ 
 
 An agnostic he undoubtedly was, but it seems to 
 me that a man of his emotional temperament could 
 never have become an atheist. 
 
 "For the life of me I cannot tell how the sweet 
 spirit of natural piety arose within me. All my 
 experience, my birth, my education, my entire sur- 
 roundings were against its birth or growth, all the 
 human beings I had known or listened to were con- 
 firmed sceptics or boisterous unbelievers. Yet while 
 my father was confidently preaching God's non- 
 existence, I was praying to God in the language of 
 the canonical books. I cannot even remember a time 
 when I did not kneel by my bedside before going to 
 ' " Robert Buchanan and other Essays."
 
 20 Robert Buchanan 
 
 sleep, and repeat the Lord's Prayer. So far away 
 was I from any human sympathy in this foolish 
 matter, that this praying of mine was ever done 
 secretly, with a strong sense of shame and dread of 
 discovery." ^ 
 
 As late as the year 1896, he wrote : — 
 
 " ' The dumb, wistful yearning in man to something 
 higher — yearning such as the animal creation showed 
 in the Greek period to the human — has not yet found 
 any interpreter equal to Buchanan.' These words, 
 written by a writer in the Spectator in the course of a 
 general estimate of modern poets, are the highest 
 tribute I have ever received from any contemporary 
 critic, and because I think they are true, in so far as 
 they recognise what I have at least attempted to do 
 in poetry, I am proud to quote them. I am ready to 
 admit au rest, that my religion is only a yearning, my 
 hope only a hope, born even out of a certain kind of 
 despair ; but through all the aberrations of a stormy 
 personal career, and amid all the vicissitudes of fame 
 and fortune, I have never ceased to cherish it, and 
 the day it dies within me will be the day of my 
 intellectual and moral extinction. It includes, I need 
 not say, the forlorn and perhaps foolish faith of my 
 childhood — the faith (to be carefully distinguished 
 from belief) in personal immortality, in a supreme 
 God or Good, and in the Life after Death. A faith 
 very much out of fashion. To many good and wise 
 men, to many more men who are neither good nor 
 wise, such a faith is merely a survival from the lower 
 forms of intelligence, and will become less and less 
 possible as human beings realise the actual conditions 
 of existence and energise more and more unselfishly 
 for the good of the great and perfect being. Humanity. 
 ' "Latter Day Leaves."
 
 Boyhood, 1850-56 21 
 
 But to me, a dreamer of dreams, the ' dumb, wistful 
 yearning ' is born solely and wholly, not out of love 
 for the race, but out of acute, intimate, possibly selfish 
 perso7ial love ; my religion, like my charity, begins at 
 home, and my philanthropy is only the generalisation 
 of individual experience and affection. It is this fact 
 which has made me, after thirty years of thought on 
 religious subjects, see in the Christian religion, as still 
 preached and taught, the hereditary enemy of human 
 aspiration. Christianity is not dead ; it will never die 
 so long as the deductive method, arguing from 
 generalisations to particulars, possess any fascination 
 for the human mind, in preference to the method 
 which instructs religion on the basis of particular and 
 individual proofs and discovers in it the only possible 
 solution of an eternal enigma." 
 
 In writing to Mr. Leslie Stephen, in the year 1896, 
 he said : — 
 
 " I always feel that this life is worthless without 
 the idea of pe^nnanence in the affections, and I am 
 afraid I reiterate the thought too often in my writ- 
 ings. And the very idea of Evolution, if upbuilt of 
 limitless death and suffering, is horrible without some 
 further explanation. ... I know that I am struggling 
 in deep waters and can land on neither side — neither 
 on the side of orthodox Religion, nor on that of out- 
 right Materialism — so that I am in danger of pleasing 
 no one. But I have a very clear idea, nevertheless, of 
 where I am drifting. Intellectually speaking, I find 
 no ground whatever for believing in a Divine solution 
 of this puzzle — emotionally, I feel surer. I cannot 
 say that I am of your opinion that this life is worth 
 anything without another and a higher. Frankly I 
 hope I shall never think so." 
 
 Meanwhile his father's editorship throve, and he
 
 22 Robert Buchanan 
 
 soon became the proprietor of the paper. By that 
 time the Glasgow Sentinel, though still of limited 
 circulation, was a recognised power in Glasgow. The 
 leaven was slowly working. After the abolition of the 
 stamp duty on newspapers the Sentinel acquired, with 
 a large increase of subscribers and purchasers, an 
 increase of influence in due proportion. Meantime, 
 for the better furtherance of the boy's education he 
 was sent to a boarding-school at Rothesay, in the 
 Island of Bute. 
 
 It was a small school, kept by a person named Munro, 
 whom Robert afterwards recalled as a delicate, gentle, 
 pink-complexioned man, who would sit in the middle 
 of the schoolroom bathing his poor aching head 
 with cold water, and suffering all the martyrdom of 
 nervous headache. The boarders were chiefly boys 
 from Glasgow or the neighbourhood, but there were a 
 couple of dingy-complexioned lads from Demerara, 
 and several little girls from the same mysterious 
 region. If the boy's religious studies had been 
 previously neglected, they were now vigorously and 
 rigorously pursued. The good schoolmaster, catering 
 for pious parents, dosed his scholars daily with long 
 Scripture lessons and hymns to be got by heart. 
 There were prayers too, morning and evening, grace 
 before and after meat, while on Sunday the scholars 
 were marched away to Port Bannatyne to hear two 
 services and two long sermons, with an interval 
 between for refreshments, consisting of a few biscuits 
 partaken of in a chilly schoolroom attached to the 
 " kirk." Sick as he had become of social outlawry, 
 the boy thought all this highly proper and respect- 
 able, not that it failed to bore him as it did the others, 
 not that he failed to slumber tranquilly during the 
 sermon, or to play odds-and-evens with marbles
 
 Boyhood, 1850-56 23 
 
 during the service, but he always looked back on 
 those days as among the happiest of his life. Most of 
 his schoolfellows had had a surfeit of Sabbatarianism, 
 from infancy upwards, and cordially hated the very 
 name of the Sabbath, but he, to whom it was a new 
 experience, found the pious influence most refreshing. 
 In later years he never heard the church bells, but 
 he recalled with a thrill of pleasure that peaceful 
 time. 
 
 He often spoke, too, of the intense home-sickness 
 which possessed him in those days, and which 
 mastered him like a passion. He had the gentlest 
 and fondest of mothers, and it was torture to him 
 to be away from her side — torture deepened by the 
 long and loving letters which she sent him almost 
 daily. " My life has been a turbulous one," he said, 
 " not free from bitter sorrows, but never since have I 
 endured a keener anguish than possessed me when 
 homesick in those boyish days. I would sit for hours 
 together, with the tears streaming down my face, 
 looking across the dark waters of the firth, and 
 thinking of my home — so near and yet so far 
 away." ^ 
 
 I mention this home-sickness because, with it, began 
 his first promptings to express emotion in that poetic 
 art by the pursuit of which he is now chiefly known. 
 About that time, at any rate, he began to scribble 
 verses. Of many of these verses his mother was the 
 theme, but some years later he one day recalled for 
 our edification two abominable lines which had for 
 subject a certain young lady of dazzling beauty 
 whom he met at a school party, one Halloween. 
 The name of this divinity was Rebecca, and she 
 was a farmer's daughter, and he addressed to 
 
 ' Letter to Mr. Gentles.
 
 24 Robert Buchanan 
 
 her his first love poem, which culminated as 
 follows : — 
 
 " O, were she mine, with countless gems I'd deck her, 
 And give my all to beautiful Rebecca ! " 
 
 About that time he became a refractory and 
 troublesome pupil. What between homesickness and 
 natural restlessness of temperament, he was soon 
 driven to open mutiny. On one occasion when 
 returning to school in one of the Clyde steamers 
 after a brief holiday, he left the boat at Dunoon, 
 immersed himself bodily in the sea, and taking the 
 next boat home again appeared before his mother 
 dripping and bedraggled, saying that he had fallen 
 overboard and had narrowly escaped drowning. His 
 story was discredited and he was sent away again in 
 no little disgrace. But from that hour he was deter- 
 mined not to remain in the boarding-school, and went 
 steadily to work to get himself expelled. He must 
 have been a sore trial to his schoolmaster, for a 
 gentleman writing to him some years later, asked, 
 naively, " Were you that devil of a boy who was at 
 school with my daughter at Rothesay ? " 
 
 I am afraid there is no doubt that he had fairly 
 earned the title of " a devil of a boy." His mischief- 
 making culminated in a ridiculous episode, worthy to 
 be chronicled in the Boy's Journal. After many days 
 of mutinous planning, during which he devised a wild 
 scheme to quit the school and seek his fortune, he 
 succeeded in persuading two of his schoolfellows to 
 join him in running away. Robert had armed himself 
 with an old pistol, the lock of which was broken, and 
 which required infinite persuasion before it would go 
 off, but for all that he felt a positive desperado ready
 
 Boyhood, 1850-56 25 
 
 to sell his life dearly should violent hands be laid 
 upon him. Early one day the three boys left the 
 school and ran to Rothesay, some two miles distant. 
 The moment their absence was discovered they were 
 pursued, caught, and brought ignominiously back. 
 Next morning Mr. Munro took Robert into his 
 private room, and after giving him a long and very 
 sensible lecture, informed him that he must leave the 
 school, as he was a mutinous spirit which it was 
 necessary to expel. The very next day, therefore, 
 he was sent home to Glasgow. 
 
 To one other episode of his life at Rothesay I may 
 briefly allude before I pass on to other matters. A 
 little before he planned to run away he had fallen 
 desperately in love, the object of his affections being 
 a little girl whom he had met at a school dance. He 
 was just twelve years old, she about nine, and their 
 love seemed to be a very passionate business indeed. 
 One day she told him she was going away with her 
 parents. Stunned by the news, the boy implored her 
 to remain, but it was of no avail. A little later their 
 last meeting came, taking place in a "close" at 
 Rothesay. " Again and again," he said, when 
 describing this incident, " my youthful Juliet rushed 
 into my arms, again and again our tears mingled 
 together. She went and I never saw her again. 
 The parting was a blow to me, and helped to create 
 the spirit of recklessness which was the ultimate cause 
 of my being expelled from the school." 
 
 So, at twelve years of age, he had already begun to 
 live. Love, innocent but potent had already found 
 him out, and childish sorrow had deepened love's 
 impression. By that time he was writing verses and 
 beginning to understand the magic of the word 
 " poetry." Nor had Nature neglected her ministra-
 
 26 Robert Buchanan 
 
 tions. In the sea-girt little island of Bute he had 
 become familiar with two great natural phenomena — 
 the hills and the ocean. He carried away with him 
 visions of the sunset clouds on Goatfell, of moonlight 
 on the waters, of sunlight on the open heathery moor. 
 Not till some years later, when he read Wordsworth, 
 did he learn to look on Nature with the eye of a poet 
 or a lover, but the love for sea and mountains which 
 afterwards became his passion and his inspiration 
 began with his school life on the Clyde, 
 
 By this time Mr. Buchanan was a fairly prosperous 
 newspaper proprietor, owning besides the Sc7itmel 
 two other newspapers which he had started, the 
 Glasgow Thnes and the Penny Post. He had taken 
 a flat in the West end of Glasgow, close to the Park, 
 and there, when his son left Rothesay, he resided 
 with his parents. His first day-school was the 
 Glasgow Academy, where he attended the Latin 
 classes of Doctor Corrie. From the Academy he 
 passed on to the High School, attending the PVench 
 and English classes under teachers whose names I 
 have heard but forget, and the Latin classes under 
 Doctor Lowe, whom he ever remembered as the 
 kindest of schoolmasters and who first instructed 
 him in the mysteries of the manufacture of Latin 
 verse. Now that he was able to pursue his studies 
 at home he was perfectly happy, the more so, owing 
 to the fact that in addition to his very perfunctory 
 work at school, he was already beginning to compose 
 both prose and verse, and contributing anonymously 
 before he was fifteen years of age to one of the 
 Glasgow daily newspapers, and one, moreover, which 
 did not belong to his father. His eiTusions were 
 printed and he was, of course, in the seventh heaven 
 of delight.
 
 Boyhood, 1850-56 27 
 
 His early flights into the fields of literature were 
 not discountenanced. His first efforts delighted his 
 mother and, better still, did not displease his father, 
 and it was soon whispered about that the infidel 
 editor's curly-headed son was a poet in embryo. 
 That being so, he found a friendly sympathiser and 
 adviser. At that time Mr. Buchanan's literary 
 lieutenant on his newspapers was called Hugh 
 Macdonald. He was an artizan who had turned 
 poet and become a writer for the press. He was 
 a great pedestrian and knew every hill, stream, 
 clump of woodland, old castle and wayside inn for 
 miles round the smoky city. He was besides a 
 practical botanist and could tell the name of every 
 flower which grew in that region. He was also 
 familiar with the names and notes of all the birds. 
 But his knowledge was specially that of a poet. If 
 a bird or flower had a sweet Doric name, if it was 
 celebrated in old or modern song, he knew it. His 
 talk was full of the music of Scottish glens, and a 
 day out among the woods with him was a delight 
 to be remembered. 
 
 As Macdonald was in Mr. Buchanan's employment, 
 and a frequent guest at his house, the youthful poet 
 soon made his acquaintance, and when he discovered 
 that the boy had a turn for writing verse he did all 
 he could to foster the aspiration. He bought the 
 lad's first long poem, a weird and wondrous ballad, 
 for half a crown, and published it in the Glasgow 
 Times, hugely to the delight of the author, of course. 
 From that time forth he dubbed himself the lad's 
 " literary godfather." But the chief boon he conferred 
 upon his godson was the knowledge of his delightful 
 personality. Hitherto the men with whom Robert 
 had come in contact were, with few exceptions, prose
 
 28 Robert Buchanan 
 
 men, political and social reformers of harsh and arid 
 experience, always excepting his father, who loved 
 the Muses with all his soul. But Hugh Macdonald 
 was different. He " babbled o' green fields," he could 
 sing old Scotch songs and recite old Scotch ballads 
 in a way to fire the blood. He first of all made the 
 boy aware of the magic of the simple speech of the 
 lyrics woven by Tannahill and Motherwell, of the 
 broad, human touch of Burns, of the winsome tender- 
 ness of such fireside singers as William Miller, and 
 when he grew to manhood he never forgot this debt. 
 Under this inflluence he discovered that the smoky 
 city, and the cities in its neighbourhood, were very 
 birdsnests of melody, full of happy singers who 
 made songs to the trotting of the ploughman's team 
 and the whuzzing of the loom. The very air was 
 full of poetry. Why, in the adjacent town of Paisley 
 alone the poets were to be counted by thousands. 
 Macdonald knew them all. Wherever he went with 
 his stout staff in his hand he was a welcome guest. 
 He seems, however, to have had one failing, which, 
 alas ! was too common among the Scotchmen of that 
 time, he was too fond of what is called " the social 
 glass," and as he grew older he yielded more and 
 more to that temptation. When he left Mr. 
 Buchanan's employment to assume a more lucrative 
 post on another newspaper, the son saw little or 
 nothing of him. He died shortly afterwards in the 
 very prime of his manhood. 
 
 But it was not merely personal influence like that 
 of Hugh the Rambler which filled the boy's soul with 
 the impulse to write and sing. As I have said, the 
 whole air he breathed was alive with music, from the 
 piercing notes of the old ballads to the tear- and 
 laughter-compelling songs of Burns. Wherever he
 
 Boyhood, 1850-56 29 
 
 went, into fine house or poor cottage, down dark 
 streets or across green fields, the poets were whistling 
 away like so many blackbirds, the living emulating 
 the dead, and the dead as vocal as if they were only 
 newly born ! How could a boy resist the magic ? 
 Why, he heard more music and inhaled more poetical 
 delight in one short Scottish summer than he might 
 have done in London during many years. It is more 
 than likely that if you stopped a policeman on his 
 beat in the streets of Glasgow, you would find that 
 he was a poet, and that he knew his Shakespeare 
 and even his Shelley, to say nothing of his Burns ! 
 
 At that time there was at all events one true poet 
 living in Glasgow, but the youth did not meet him 
 till several years later. His name was William 
 Freeland ; the name is still his, for he is still 
 living, and in the same city, and he wrote very 
 touchingly of Robert Buchanan's death. 
 
 " I knew him as a handsome and healthy lad in 
 Glasgow, and I have followed his career, generally 
 with admiration, and often with astonishment. He was 
 ever a fighter, and there was a time when, full of life 
 and vigour, it might have been predicted that he would 
 live to a brave and bright old age. It was in his 
 father's paper that he began to ' strike the lyre,' and 
 he did so in a manner which foreshadowed the future 
 poet. It is by his poetry that his name will live, and 
 if the opinion of one or two excellent critics may be 
 trusted, his fame is fairly well assured. One of these 
 critics was the late Mr. R. H. Hutton, of the Spectator^ 
 who, in noticing an edition of his collected works, could 
 hardly put a limit to his praise. ' To our mind,' said 
 Mr. Hutton, ' after long knowledge of his poems, they 
 seem to us nearly perfect of their kind, realistic and 
 idealistic alike in the highest sense.' Mr. Steadman,
 
 30 Robert Buchanan 
 
 in referring to ' Willie Baird/ one of the ' Idyls of 
 Inverburn,* described him as a ' most faithful poet to 
 Nature ' ; saying further : ' He is her familiar, and in 
 this respect it would seem as if the mantle of Words- 
 worth had fallen to him from some fine sunset or 
 misty height.' These are friendly words, but they are 
 not unwarranted — in whatever form Mr. Buchanan 
 wrote, he was never false to his poetic function. He 
 was a poet of a high order, and his best poetry is rich 
 with beauty and music and truth."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 YOUTH, 1856-58 
 
 FROM the High School, where he acquired a fair 
 knowledge of Latin, Robert Buchanan passed 
 on to the University, where he took the Latin course 
 under Ramsay and the Greek under Lushington. 
 The last-named Professor had a wonderful interest in 
 the boy's eyes,' for it was reported that he knew ^ 
 Tennyson. 
 
 During his studies at the University the young 
 poet had a tutor, a mild and kindly man who did his 
 best to keep his pupil close to his studies, but who 
 usually failed, for at that time one Temple of Pleasure 
 above all was attracting him, and that was the 
 theatre, to which his father's position as a newspaper 
 proprietor gave him the privilege of constant entrance. 
 
 " Among the few imperishable Dramas which are 
 not merely poetical but greatly and truly human, I 
 think that the ' King Lear ' of Shakespeare stands 
 supreme. This work was the one with which I first 
 became acquainted, at a time when all my boyish 
 soul was hungry for the teaching of great Poetry. 
 
 " I was then a boy in Glasgow, and the elder 
 Vandenhofif was playing in Scotland, accompanied by 
 his niece, known as ' Miss Vandenhoff.' When they 
 
 31
 
 32 Robert Buchanan 
 
 came to the West of Scotland I saw them in nearly 
 all their impersonations, and also attended their 
 public readings of the ' Antigone ' of Sophocles ; it 
 was not, however, until I saw the play of ' Lear' for 
 the first time, with Vandenhoff as the old King and 
 his niece as Cordelia, that I fully realised the signifi- 
 cance of the great tragedy. 
 
 " To this day I retain the impression left upon me 
 by this performance, without parallel in my experi- 
 ence for splendour and pathos of poetical effect. 
 Compared with much of the other work of Shake- 
 speare, this play of ' Lear ' towers solitary and 
 supreme: and to turn to it from such fustian as ' King 
 John ' and other of the historical plays, is to leave 
 what Mr. Walkley calls the ' padded room ' and come 
 face to face with a modern mind and a nobler spirit. 
 It is the fashion, of course, to treat all the great 
 dramatist's work as if it was impeccable ; whereas a 
 portion of the work he did for the stage was almost 
 beneath contempt, both in subject and in treatment. 
 Curiously enough, some of his least inspired pro- 
 ductions are the very ones which hold possession of 
 the stage. ' King Lear ' is seldom or never repre- 
 sented, for the reason possibly that it demands 
 greater insight and a larger method in its exponents 
 than are nowadays forthcoming on the boards. I 
 have seen several Lears since the Lear of Vandenhoff, 
 but all of them seemed to me either uninspired, or 
 melodramatic or inarticulate. Unfortunately I missed 
 the Lear of Salvini, which possessed, I am assured, 
 remarkable qualities. 
 
 " But for me, ' King Lear ' remains, and will remain, 
 the soul-moving poem which swept me beyond myself 
 when I was a boy. I feel now, as I felt then, the 
 unapproachable truth and sublimity of such passages
 
 Youth, 1856-58 33 
 
 as the one in Act III., where the storm-beaten 
 Monarch first realises the mystery of human wretched- 
 ness and pain. Here, and in many other passages, 
 the very quick of Pity is touched. From the soul- 
 moving situation, where the old man's tremulous 
 hands reach out to feel the tears on the lids of his 
 sobbing daughter, down to the crowning pathos, the 
 heart-breaking last cry, the whole story moves on to 
 such music as has never been made by poet either 
 before or since, culminating in the solemn words of 
 Kent, uttered just before the curtain falls. I feel 
 still, as I felt more than thirty years ago, that this 
 work of Shakespeare ranks among the highest 
 possible achievements of the human mind. Yet the 
 speech in which it is written, observe, is the simple 
 speech of ordinary life, which, with all its wonderful 
 modulations, is as natural to-day as in the day when 
 it was first uttered. 
 
 " The influence on my own character of this master- 
 piece was deep and abiding. I first gained from it 
 that perception of the piteousness of life which has 
 been, despite all aberrations into contemporary 
 savagery, the inspiration of all my writings. To me 
 the storm-tost figure of Lear represented Humanity 
 itself, swept hither and thither by the elemental and 
 seemingly aimless cruelty of Nature, yet coming at 
 last to anchorage, so far as the individual is con- 
 cerned, in an equally elemental peace and calm. I 
 was taught by the contemplation of his wretchedness, 
 as he himself was taught by personal strife and 
 sorrow, to feel for that sorrow of which I had hitherto 
 taken ' too little care.' In weeping for him I wept 
 for all those who suffer, either through their own 
 passions or through the anarchy of society, and from 
 that time forward I was alert to catch any genuine 
 
 4
 
 34 Robert Buchanan 
 
 cri du arur from the troubled waters of the world. 
 Other influences, of course, co-operated — my upbring- 
 ing among the Socialists, my mother's supreme 
 sympathy for all suffering, my general reading in the 
 literature I was beginning to love — but I think, nay, I 
 am sure, that ' King Lear ' focussed my feelings into 
 humanitarianism, and gave to my mind no little of 
 the human sympathy which I hope it possesses. I 
 mention this, not to claim any special interest for my 
 own literary development, but to emphasise the belief 
 I have long held — that environment shapes character, 
 for good or evil, quite as much as natural tempera- 
 ment and inherited qualities. Up to a certain period 
 of my boyhood I was, I think, indifferent to suffering, 
 capable of selfish cruelty, careless of all pain save my 
 own. From the moment that I drank into my being 
 the full significance of Shakespeare's tragedy I 
 possessed a clue to all the mystery of Life, and 
 realised that if I personally had ever any message to 
 deliver, it would be a message on behalf of suffering 
 humanity. 
 
 " I learned also from ' King Lear ' another thing, 
 which I have never quite forgotten — the truth that 
 simplicity of thought and phrase is the inevitable 
 characteristic of all great literary work. The more I 
 studied the masterj^iece (and of course I rushed from 
 the playhouse to study the printed text), the more I 
 saw that its effects were obtained by absolute truth to 
 nature and to the language of common life. In the 
 finest passages, words of one syllable predominated, 
 strong Saxon words for the most part, rendered 
 poetically wonderful by the magic of their phrasing. 
 Like many young readers, and like all young poets, I 
 was charmed, of course, by the verbal felicity in which 
 Shakespeare still remains supreme. I lingered like a
 
 Youth, 1856-58 35 
 
 lover over such expressions as : ' drinks the green 
 mantle of the deadly pool,' * as mad as the vexed sea,' 
 'strange oeiliads and most speaking looks,' ' the shrill- 
 gorged lark,' ' the wheel has come full circle, — I am 
 here,' and a hundred others more or less apt and 
 masterful. Of course these things concerned the 
 mere vocabulary of poetical art, but if I needed any 
 clue to the cunning of great Literature, they supplied 
 it to me. I was thenceforth free of the realms of 
 Poesy, so far as its masonic signs are concerned. It 
 took me many a long year to discover that, without a 
 deeper and more abiding inspiration, the masonic 
 signs meant nothing, though I may remark, en passant, 
 that I know of no instance in literature where con- 
 summate mastery of verbal expression is associated 
 with deficient intellectual power. Even Keats, the 
 least meditative and the most passionate of all the 
 poets and the nearest in power of verbal magic to 
 Shakespeare, was intellectually prescient to the 
 inmost fibres of his poetical being — pure absolute 
 thinking and conceiving power being at the very root 
 of his unexampled sensuous instinct, and leading him 
 to those miracles of phrasing in which, I conceive, he 
 has no modern rival. It so happened that at the 
 very time when my eyes were becoming opened to 
 the secrets of human imagination, while hungry, with 
 a lad's insensate hunger, for the thrills of Life itself, 
 that chance threw me among the very men who were 
 the liege servants of the great Dramatist ; and a rare 
 crowd they were, with much of the savagery, but no 
 little of the personal charm, of Shakespeare's own 
 contemporaries. 
 
 " The Theatre Royal, Glasgow, was then under the 
 management of Edmund Glover, a man of remarkable 
 gifts, full-blooded, able, and quick both in thought
 
 36 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 and execution, an actor of power and passion, fas- 
 cinating and humorous. As my father was the 
 editor and proprietor of a leading local newspaper, I 
 had free entrance to the Theatre, which I haunted in 
 and out of season ; but not satisfied with this, I 
 followed the Players into the privacy of their lives, 
 or such doubtful privacy as they found in the hostelry 
 round the corner. Well, they were for the most part 
 merry fellows, wild in their ways, loose in their gait 
 and their conversation, living in an atmosphere which 
 constantly reminded me of that breathed by Falstaff 
 and the rogues of his following. It would be idle to 
 deny that they were not a sober crew — their spirits 
 and their manners were ever under the influence of 
 my Host of the Garter, for the actor then was still a 
 vagabond, who had not yet acquired the respectability 
 of the counter-jumper or the fine airs of the man about 
 town. Such as they were I loved them, and I am 
 still quite sure that they were true kinsmen and leal 
 descendants of the players who lived and died in the 
 times of good Queen Bess. Morals they had none, 
 or none to boast of; they tippled, they swaggered, 
 they ran after petticoats and petticoats ran after 
 them ; but the spirit of the savage old literature ran 
 in their veins like blood, and they had the fine 
 qualities of their defects. Their very speech was 
 archaic, their very oaths were reminiscent of 
 Bardolph and Pistol. Tom Powerie, Henry Vivash, 
 Harry Ashley, George Vincent — these are some of 
 the names that recur to me as I think of those wild 
 young days. Powerie was the best Falconbridge I 
 ever encountered, either on or off the stage ; as 
 reckless, as fiery, as masterful as the great Bastard 
 himself. He died early, the victim of his own fierce 
 energy and abandonment. Henry Vivash drifted to
 
 Youth, 1856-58 37 
 
 London and died there in harness. Ashley became 
 famous afterwards as a wonderful impersonator of 
 quaint ' old men/ especially in comic opera. George 
 Vincent came to London also, startling the city by his 
 wonderful performance of Melter Moss when the 
 *Ticket-of-leave Man' was first produced, and after- 
 wards, in other productions at the Olympic, showing 
 an extraordinary versatility. 
 
 " To the boy on the threshold of life, still a student 
 in his quieter hours, these men were wonderful beyond 
 measure, for they were, as I have suggested, Shake- 
 speare's men — virile, reckless, and strangely merry — 
 and their presence in that sad Sabbatarian City, from 
 whose blessings and sympathies they were outcast, 
 was to all seeming as wonderful as themselves. I 
 learned to know them well, and, as I have said, to 
 love them, and I still think that the hours I spent 
 with them were far from wasted. Among them, for 
 a short period, drifted a young player of another 
 nature, afterwards known to the world as Henry 
 Irving. A quiet, studious young man, even then 
 ambitious, but exhibiting little talent even as a 
 ' walking gentleman,' I was much drawn to him by 
 his thoughtful personality, so different to the wilder 
 personalities of his companions, and I took him to 
 my father's house and introduced him to my mother. 
 He went away suddenly, and the last message I had 
 from him came in the shape of a long letter dated 
 from the British Museum in London." ^ 
 
 The boy might have had a worse environment than 
 he was blessed with in Glasgow during those early 
 years when he inhaled the atmosphere of freethought 
 among his father's friends. At that time he had 
 several friends of his own, students like himself, but 
 • " Latter Day Leaves."
 
 38 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 none for whom he greatly cared, so he was thrown 
 for companionship into the society of grown men, all 
 many years his senior. In this respect, therefore, he 
 was somewhat lonely, until one day Providence sent 
 him a comrade only a few years older than himself, 
 but even more boyish and unsophisticated in the 
 world's ways. His name was David Gray, and he 
 was then, while preparing for the University, a 
 pupil teacher in connection with the Normal schools. 
 The two youthful poets, who were destined to 
 become such friends, first met at a cricket match on 
 Glasgow Green, to which they had both been invited 
 by a mutual friend, Mr, John Steven, and after the 
 match there was a supper given to the young 
 cricketers, at which both David Gray and Robert 
 Buchanan was present. David Gray was very 
 diffident and retiring by nature, but on that eventful 
 evening it seems he was the life and soul of the little 
 
 gathering. 
 
 From the beginning of their boyish friendship 
 David Gray, although he was the elder, always leant 
 upon his friend, and was influenced both for good 
 and evil by his more strenuous and pertinacious 
 character. There was also this curious feature in 
 their relationship, that Robert Buchanan had been 
 bred among comparatively educated people, superior 
 in social station to the peasantry among whom Gray 
 was reared. His knowledge of his lowly origin made 
 him very diffident, even to the extent of dreading and 
 avoiding cultivated society, more particularly that of 
 educated women ; he preferred to mix with men and 
 women of the lower classes, with whom he was 
 thoroughly at home. 
 
 " It always struck me as rather droll," said the 
 poet, " that I should stand in this relationship to my
 
 Youth, 1856-58 39 
 
 friend, for my own family was certainly not aris- 
 tocratic in any sense of the word, but so it was, and 
 even my own dear mother regarded David as 
 practically a social inferior, very gauche in manner, 
 and almost boorish in his silent and bashful ways. 
 Few people saw him as I saw him — free, natural, and 
 unconstrained. Alone with me, or in the company 
 of kindred spirits like myself, he became transformed, 
 even physically ; his tongue was loosened, his eyes 
 flashed fire, and he was to all intents and purposes 
 another being. But despite all this I was generally 
 the one to lead, he the one to follow ; and he followed 
 me, I fear, into many queer scenes and into a great 
 deal of doubtful company. 
 
 " Poor David, not in one respect only but in a 
 hundred respects he was too frail and sensitive for 
 this rough world, and it is little wonder that he 
 withered up so soon at the first breath of its unkind- 
 ness. He was woman-like in both face and form, 
 and he was woman-like too in his sympathies and 
 disposition. His feelings were like running water, 
 for ever changing, passionately pure, ineffably soft 
 and tender, yet the sport of every wind that blew. 
 Of the two I was by far the most introspective, my 
 emotions being always tempered by purely mental 
 impressions. His only taste was for poetry pure and 
 simple — verse poetry from that of Shakespeare to 
 that of Burns, and neither religion nor philosophy 
 awakened his interest. Partly from natural disposi- 
 tion, partly through my early training, I was 
 altogether different. Poetry to me was merely the 
 handmaid of the severer Muses. True I ' lisped in 
 numbers,' but less for the mere music's sake than for 
 some strange clue it seemed to give to the subtler 
 business of life and thought. I had steeped myself
 
 40 Robert Buchanan 
 
 in all the philosophical literature of the last century, 
 more particularly that of the English Deists and the 
 French materialists, and I was already beginning to 
 ask myself if there was any clue to life's mystery. 
 To David there was no mystery about it, to him life 
 was a golden wonder and delight flooded with the 
 memories of the great singers. He heard nothing 
 else, cried for nothing else ; poetry was his absolute 
 life and death. Nevertheless I shared his enthusiasm 
 and rapture when we began linking hands, as it were, 
 to thread our delightful way through the Wonderland 
 of the English Muses. We sat and read together, 
 often turning night into day, and comparing our 
 impressions of the books we read. In my father's 
 library was Anderson's edition of the English Poets, 
 closely printed in double columns and extending to 
 fourteen or fifteen volumes, including verse transla- 
 tions of the classics. We waded gladly and un- 
 weariedly through these enormous tomes, though 
 they consisted for the most part of sad rubbish. But 
 among the rubbish there was solid gold, of course. 
 It was in this edition that Gray first read Chaucer's 
 * Legend of Good Women ' and Drayton's poems, and 
 Milton's ' Paradise Lost ' and ' Paradise Regained,' 
 underlining all the precious passages." ^ 
 
 Robert treasured those volumes all his life, and he 
 has often pointed out to me the " precious passages " 
 marked by Gray's own hand. " Neither of us at that 
 time cared much for the classic poets of Greece or 
 Rome. Gray was a fairly good Latin scholar, but 
 had very little Greek, and such poor scholarship as I 
 possess came to me afterwards, when I revived the 
 impression of what I had learned at school and 
 college. It seems to me singular now that although 
 ' Letter to Mr. Gentles.
 
 Youth, 1856-58 41 
 
 I had a boy's familiarity with Homer and Virgil I 
 never seemed to go to those sources for the phrasing 
 which bewitched me so much in the poets of my 
 native land. To me they were class books, and little 
 more. The explanation is no doubt that Shake- 
 speare and the rest took such absolute possession of 
 me, that they left me no room to seek elsewhere the 
 verbal felicities which I loved so much." ^ 
 
 It will be seen that even at that time he was begin- 
 ning to realise that poetry in its highest and best 
 aspect meant far more than mere phrases or beautiful 
 ideas. It was to him inspiration, imagination, 
 religion. The supreme tragedy of " King Lear " sof- 
 tened his character, and flooded his soul with human 
 pity. Next to that in influence came, I think, the 
 first reading of Wordsworth, whom he ever regarded 
 as one of the greatest of modern poets. The one- 
 volume edition of Wordsworth, published by Moxon, 
 had been given to him by his father as a present on 
 his fourteenth birthday. It was in every way a 
 priceless gift, and before long he had nearly all the 
 poems by heart. The other poets were to him 
 beautiful singers, but Wordsworth he felt was a 
 prophet and a seer. He alone knew Nature at the 
 fountain head, he alone delivered oracles, some of 
 which sounded to the boy's soul like the very voice 
 of Nature's God. 
 
 ' Letter to Mr. Gentles.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 FLIGHT TO LONDON, 1 859 
 
 IN or about the year 1859 Robert Buchanan the 
 elder became insolvent, and a full chorus of his 
 friends and enemies averred that he had brought the 
 catastrophe upon himself by reckless speculation and 
 extravagant living. His wife shared this delusion 
 and resented, chiefly for her son's sake, the sudden 
 change in their fortunes. The boy had been reared 
 and educated in the belief that the newspaper 
 business which his father had established was a kind 
 of indestructible property guaranteeing for his son 
 and heir at least a competence for life. How the 
 lad's fortunes would have shaped had this really been 
 the case one cannot of course divine ; as it was, he 
 found himself at eighteen years of age without any 
 prospect before him (since he had been put to no 
 profession), and bereft at one blow of what had 
 seemed an independence. At that moment, however, 
 his sympathies appear to have been with his father ; 
 and partly perhaps because he did not quite realise 
 what the change in his own prospects meant, partly 
 because his sense of justice divined at once that the 
 
 change was the result of simple accident, he was 
 
 42
 
 Flight to London, 1859 43 
 
 righteously indignant with those summer friends who 
 visited his father with such bitter blame. 
 
 In point of fact the very enterprise which had 
 enabled Mr. Buchanan to succeed was the sole or 
 chief cause of his ultimate downfall and ruin. 
 Coming almost unknown to Glasgow, he had practi- 
 cally founded the Glasgow Sentinel as an organ of 
 freethought and liberal opinion and had gradually 
 established in connection with that newspaper a 
 prosperous printing business. Encouraged by his 
 success he had added to his ventures the Glasgow 
 Times and the Penny Post. For years fortune 
 favoured him, and everything he touched succeeded. 
 It was not until he was tempted to extend his ven- 
 tures beyond the locality where he resided that the 
 tide of his fortunes seems to have turned. He 
 became involved in serious liabilities and finally 
 failed to meet his responsibilities. 
 
 The blow must have been a heavy one, but Mr. 
 Buchanan felt it chiefly on account of his wife — he 
 himself was too light-hearted, too hopeful, too unsel- 
 fish to fret much over his own misfortunes. " Even 
 had I never loved my father before, I should have 
 loved and venerated him then for the patience and 
 gentleness with which he accepted the blow. All 
 his friends, or nearly all, turned from him, and did 
 much to embitter his position, but he never moaned 
 or complained, he uttered no word of self-pity, and 
 he seemed utterly incapable of remembering, with 
 the slightest resentment, the cruel conduct of some 
 of those who had called themselves his friends. I 
 had long, even as a boy, perceived that goodness and 
 kindness as estimated by the world were very com- 
 posite qualities. My father, I know, was not a good 
 man — not, that is to say, a moral man in the strict
 
 44 Robert Buchanan 
 
 sense — his relations with my mother were not happy, 
 and he was to no Httle extent to blame, and in many 
 respects he was weak as water. But looking back 
 over the years I see in him who had so many faults 
 a nobility, a loving-kindness which I have scarcely 
 seen in any other man. For the rest he was a 
 childish creature, dear and simple as a child. His 
 very faults were childish, nay, his very vices, but it is 
 much to be able to say of him — what could not be 
 said of one man in a thousand — that in all my recol- 
 lection of him I cannot remember one cruel or 
 unkind act, or even one unkind word." ^ 
 
 The Scottish method of dealing with the insolvent 
 is swift and speedy, and Mr. Buchanan found himself 
 in a moment, as it were, stripped bare of his remaining 
 substance and thrust out into the streets to face the 
 world. Even then he was not daunted, but prepared 
 with reckless energy to start another newspaper ! 
 It was at this juncture that the boy, who seemed to 
 have inherited a good deal of his father's dauntless 
 spirit, went to his mother and proposed to her that 
 he should start for London to seek his fortune. It 
 was clear, he said, that he could do nothing in 
 Glasgow, where he was only a burden on his father's 
 scanty resources. In London, on the other hand, he 
 could at least secure a maintenance of some sort. 
 Long and anxious were the talks he had with his 
 mother until, finding it quite impossible to gain her 
 consent to the separation, he, not, as he afterwards 
 said, without many regrets, made arrangements to 
 leave his home without her knowledge. 
 
 He had long dreamed of taking the world by 
 storm, for his boyish heart was full of recollections of 
 the mighty dead who had fallen or triumphed, and 
 
 ' Letter to Mr. Gentles.
 
 Flight to London, 1859 45 
 
 even if his father had continued to prosper, I think 
 he would eventually have tried his fortune in London 
 as so many others had done, but of course he would 
 then have done so under less cruel a handicap — as it 
 was he had scarcely a shilling in the world. 
 
 For eighteen years he had never known what it 
 was to suffer privation or to want money ; he had 
 been reared in comparative luxury, in a bright and 
 happy home, the spoiled darling of a loving mother, 
 but he felt that in arranging to go from home, even 
 under circumstances so disadvantageous, he surely 
 could not come to harm. Thus it was that on 
 Saturday, the 5th of May, i860, he set forth from the 
 Central Railway Station, Glasgow, and, after he had 
 paid his third-class fare to London, had only a few 
 shillings in his pocket with which to face the world. 
 In one respect, however, he was better equipped than 
 most young literary adventurers — he had an ex- 
 cellent stock of clothes, and amongst it a sumptuous 
 silk-quilted dressing-gown, which his mother had 
 bought for him just before his father failed. Once 
 fairly started on his journey, he sat in a corner of the 
 carriage as miserable a lad as could be. " As one by 
 one my companions fell asleep in the darkness, my 
 heart swelled and my eyes were dim with tears, as I 
 realised for the first time that I was quite friendless 
 and alone. I thought of my dear mother praying for 
 me at home, and I longed to turn back and ask her 
 forgiveness for the pain I had caused her. Even 
 now I never take a railway journey in the night 
 without again realising the dismal heartache of that 
 midnight journey to London." ^ 
 
 He had made no plans to guide him on entering 
 the great city, nor had he any personal acquaintances 
 ' Letter to Mr. Gentles.
 
 46 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 there who might give him a helping hand. Shortly 
 before his father's misfortune he had sent some 
 verses to Hepworth Dixon, who had printed them in 
 the AiJiencEwn, then under his editorship, and he had 
 some faint hope that Mr. Dixon might give him a 
 little work. He had corresponded also with George 
 Henry Lewes and Bryan Procter (Barry Cornwall), 
 both of whom had strongly dissuaded him from 
 attempting to live by literature. Sydney Dobell, 
 another of his correspondents, lived far away from 
 London, and was unlikely to be able to be of much 
 service to him in the metropolis. He had no plans, 
 and literally no prospects. 
 
 As ill-luck would have it, he managed to lose his 
 railway ticket, and when it was asked for he had to 
 confess the loss. After some delay he was suffered 
 to proceed, but on his arrival at the terminus he was 
 treated like a culprit, and marched off to the super- 
 intendent's office. The result was that his luggage 
 was detained, pending inquiries at Glasgow, and he 
 walked away into the streets of London without any 
 personal effects whatever. But his heart was light. 
 The morning had brought bolder thoughts ; with 
 youth and strength on his side he seemed to be 
 ready for any emergency that might happen, so after 
 telegraphing to his mother that he was safe and well, 
 he swaggered forth into the Euston Road. 
 
 He must have breakfasted somewhere — possibly in 
 one of the numerous coffee-houses close to King's 
 Cross Station — but that episode he could never recall. 
 His next recollection was of strolling carelessly for- 
 ward in the early forenoon and making his way in 
 the direction of Regent's Park. Lonely and sick at 
 heart he wandered hither and thither, hungering to 
 accost one of the many strangers who passed him by,
 
 Flight to London, 1859 47 
 
 but he was young, so he went on in silence till he 
 found a green spot in the Park, when he threw 
 himself down and began to think. 
 
 " As I lay thus seeing the bright sunlight through 
 a mist of boyish tears, I was conscious of a pair of 
 eyes steadfastly regarding me. They belonged to a 
 youth of about my own age, who was sprawling on 
 the grass and smoking a clay pipe. His head was 
 close-cropped and his general expression pugilistic, 
 but he looked good-humoured. He reminded me 
 instantly of the famous Mr. Dawkins, better known 
 as the Artful Dodger, and by that token he was 
 quite as ragged and disreputable-looking. We got 
 into conversation, and presently on hearing that I 
 was without a home, he invited me to accompany 
 him to his quarters in the neighbourhood of Shore- 
 ditch. I was so friendless and lonely that I would 
 have gone anywhere with the devil himself if he had 
 invited me, and late that afternoon I found myself 
 in the east of London, in a sort of low lodging-house, 
 or thieves' kitchen. It is all like a dream now, but 
 I remember my new friend was very kind to me, and 
 saved me from impolite attentions on the part of his 
 companions. The whole place reminded me of 
 ' Oliver Twist,' and I fancy Fagin was there as well 
 as my friend the Dodger, whose bed I shared that 
 night, throwing myself full dressed upon it, and 
 sleeping like a top till morning. There were other 
 beds in the wretched room, and other youths and 
 men of my friend's persuasion, but no one molested 
 me, and, what is more wonderful, no one robbed me of 
 the small sum in my pocket. I rose up in the early 
 dawn and shook hands with my friend, who was still 
 half asleep. I never saw him again, but I often think of 
 him with gratitude for his kindness to me, a stranger.
 
 48 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 " I took some breakfast at a cofifee-stall in Shore- 
 ditch, and then strolled westwards through the 
 crowded streets, past the Bank, and along Newgate 
 Street to the Old Bailey, and thence into Fleet 
 Street and along the Strand. I had no particular 
 object and went along still like one in a dream, even 
 as a straw drifts with the current of a brook, indif- 
 ferent whither it goes or where it rests. I was in 
 London, that was enough for me; accident, fortunate, 
 or the reverse, would do the rest. The glory of my 
 youth was on me, I saw everything around me with 
 enchanted eyes ! " ^ 
 
 He was still puzzled what to do, when he bethought 
 him of a schoolfellow who had been with him at 
 Merton, and whose father, one of the Socialistic 
 brotherhood, had a business somewhere in the 
 Edgware Road, which business turned out to be a 
 prosperous ham and beef shop, where food could be 
 purchased for home use, or consumed on the premises. 
 He did not find his schoolfellow, but he interviewed 
 the father, who stood behind the counter arrayed in 
 a white apron, and before many minutes had passed 
 Robert was seated at a table devouring a plateful 
 of ham and beef, while the good man stood over him 
 questioning him about his position. " I forget whether 
 he gave me any further assistance in the shape of 
 money, but I fancy that he did not, although he 
 made me promise to come to him again if I needed 
 assistance. It is more than likely that I concealed 
 from him the full extent of my poverty, although 
 I accepted gratefully his hospitable offer of a good 
 square meal. I was very doubtful as to where I 
 should look for my next night's longing, and was 
 still debating what to do, when I remembered a 
 ' Letter to Mr. Gentles.
 
 Flight to London, 1859 49 
 
 friend who owed both my father and mother a large 
 debt of gratitude for kindness received. His name 
 was Merriman. At the time when my father was a 
 small newsvendor in Holywell Street, Merriman, then 
 a youth, had been a sort of errand boy. At the time 
 of my arrival in London he was studying for the law 
 after several years of busy journalism in the pro- 
 vinces, and, I had no doubt whatever that if I could 
 find him out I should at least obtain from him a 
 temporary shelter, I succeeded in finding him, and 
 no sooner had I appeared than I met with the 
 kindliest of welcomes." ^ 
 
 Mr. Merriman was then living with his wife and 
 family in the Euston Road, not far from King's Cross 
 Railway Station, and when informed of the detention 
 of the luggage he accompanied his youthful guest 
 to claim the property. Information had come 
 from Glasgow that he had not travelled without a 
 ticket, and his small impedimenta were handed to 
 him with apologies, the authorities in Scotland having 
 conveyed the information that his father was a 
 prominent member of the newspaper press, who might 
 make the affair unpleasant. 
 
 A week or so later he left the shelter of Mr. 
 Merriman's roof, and betook himself to the afterwards 
 famous garret, No. 66, Stamford Street, Blackfriars, 
 where he settled down in earnest to begin life in the 
 Great City. The room which he occupied — a bed- 
 sitting-room — was situated at the very top of the 
 lodging-house, and the rent of it was seven shillings 
 a week, including attendance. The furniture was 
 very ramshackle, and the bed, a large old-fashioned 
 wooden one, with a festooned tent or awning over- 
 hanging it. There was an old, worn carpet on the 
 ' Letter to Mr. Gentles. 
 5
 
 50 Robert Buchanan 
 
 floor and a tumbledown armchair by the fireplace ; 
 but shabby and dismal as the room was, it was his 
 own, and he rejoiced accordingly. He was alone in 
 the Great City, but he was neither sad nor desolate. 
 In the first place he had his books, the few favourite 
 books which he had brought with him — the tiny 
 Pickering editions of Catullus, Dante, and the Greek 
 New Testament, an old copy of Horace, and the 
 poems of Keats and Shelley. When he had placed 
 them on the mantelpiece and lit his pipe (he smoked 
 a pipe in those days), he felt quite at home. All he 
 required besides was paper, a pen, and some ink, and 
 he was ready to storm the heights of Fame. 
 
 He generally took one meal at home — his break- 
 fast, and it consisted mainly of strong tea and bread- 
 and-butter. Now and then, not often, the London 
 egg appeared, as a relish. If he dined at home — and 
 V "^ it was very seldom — tea and bread-and-butter formed 
 the meal, but his favourite repast was taken at the 
 ■^^ Caledonian Coffee House in Covent Garden, and 
 consisted of coffee and muffins, saturated with butter. 
 On Sundays, however, his landlady occasionally sent 
 him up a cut from her own joint. He was supposed, 
 as I have said, to have " attendance." This consisted 
 in the occasional apparition of a shock-headed Irish 
 servant, very much in the style of the " Marchioness," 
 who tumbled up and down stairs in a most alarming 
 manner. Apart from this individual he saw no one, 
 except a fellow-lodger who occupied a room on the 
 same floor as his own. He was a printer, and was 
 generally in a state of intoxication. I have often 
 heard the story of how one morning he entered " the 
 garret " in his shirt sleeves, with an open razor in his 
 hand, and besought his neighbour to cut off" a button 
 on the neck of his shirt, which he had tried in vain
 
 66, Stamford Strket. 
 
 I'o f(ice page 50.
 
 Flight to London, 1859 5^ 
 
 to undo. He was relieved from strangulation, where- 
 upon he retired to his own apartment and immediately 
 cut his throat. 
 
 Almost daily the young aspirant to literary fame 
 received a letter from his mother, full of loving in- 
 structions for his guidance. To one of these missives 
 the following is a reply : — 
 
 66, Stamford Street, S. 
 
 "Saturday afternoon. 
 
 " My very dear Mother, — I dash off a line or 
 two in answer to your letter, which I have just 
 received. My other letter has gone off, but it is of 
 no consequence. 
 
 " In the name of God don't credit for a moment 
 what the common liar says — stuff your ears when 
 those contemptible hounds talk slander into them. 
 If every married woman in the world was to break 
 down under the first falsehood levelled at her hus- 
 band, or even under the first unpleasant truth, good- 
 bye to Utopia. True or untrue, don't give ear to 
 those infernal tales. Anything, false or true circulated 
 for a sinister, vile purpose is morally an irretrievable 
 lie. Human nature learns to endure such things — it 
 must endure them. We have all our troubles ; and 
 the troubles resulting from matrimony, although 
 often the keenest, are seldom the most lasting. 
 
 " Take the worst like a stoic ! even if, as I do not 
 believe, the worst should come. I will earn enough 
 to keep the whole family, if it comes to that. I have 
 kind friends in London who will not see me overcome. 
 I can do something yet, thank God. So, for my sake, 
 keep up heart. 
 
 " A fall in life is very bitter and trying, but if a man 
 endeavours to climb a precipice and tumbles down in
 
 52 Robert Buchanan 
 
 the attempt, the fall is not necessarily degradation. 
 Again, I say your duty demands woman's strength, — 
 stronger it is than man's strength in such a crisis after 
 
 all. 
 
 " Don't forget that / have still hands and a brain, 
 both of which may accomplish miracles. The world 
 is before me, and if I don't tear this lying tongue you 
 talk about out of its jaws, I am a swindler. 
 " With best and warmest love, 
 
 " Your affectionate son, 
 
 "Robert Buchanan." 
 
 This letter, stained and torn and marked with age, 
 came into my possession in a curious manner. I had 
 often heard his mother speak of it with pride— such 
 pride as I think would fill the heart of any woman 
 receiving such a letter from a son barely nineteen 
 years of age; and when she died, in 1894, I found 
 it hidden away among her most treasured belongings. 
 I gave it to her son. A few years later, after his own 
 death, I again found it when looking over his papers, 
 and I give it here, because it seems to me that the 
 spirit which then animated the boy was in after years 
 so eminently characteristic of the man.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 EARLY STRUGGLES, 1 859 
 
 IT was one thing to possess a lodging and to be 
 monarch of all he surveyed over the moonlit tiles 
 of Lambeth ; it was quite another thing to be able to 
 pay the rent, and to command if not the roast beef of 
 old England, at least bread-and-butter. His modest ^ 
 calculation had been that a pound a week would be '^ys}-^ 
 sufficient for all his needs, including tobacco, but how 
 to earn that pound was another question. Hepworth 
 Dixon, of the Athenceum, had given him a few unim- 
 portant books to review, in order (as he said) to " get 
 his hand in," but it was uncertain how soon those 
 contributions would be used, and the pay, ten shillings 
 and sixpence per column, was very small. He had 
 sent some papers to All the Year Round, but whether 
 they would be accepted or not was still uncertain. 
 His pocket was almost empty when he thought of 
 Bryan Procter (Barry Cornwall), with whom he had 
 corresponded when in Glasgow, and who had, as I 
 have said, warned him not to attempt to live by 
 literature. " The work you now do with pleasure," 
 he wrote, " will possibly become a torture to you, and 
 you will discover, as so many others have done, that 
 what you eat is turned to bitter bread." The boy, 
 full of enthusiasm for his art, had disregarded this 
 warning, and was therefore almost ashamed to present 
 
 53
 
 54 Robert Buchanan 
 
 himself before the man who had given it in vain. So 
 he wrote to the poet telling him that he had come to 
 London, and asking for the honour of an interview. 
 He received an answer almost immediately appoint- 
 ing a meeting at Mr. Procter's house in Weymouth 
 Street, Portland Place. The next morning the youth 
 presented himself, " and I fear my appearance must 
 have been somewhat forlorn, for I vividly remember 
 the looks of gentle sympathy and pity which Procter 
 cast upon me. He was then growing old and was 
 somewhat infirm, but when we talked his eye sparkled 
 and he seemed to forget the burthen of his years. It 
 was pleasant no doubt for the old poet to meet with 
 even a boy-worshipper, one who knew well his works, 
 which the world had already almost forgotten. As I 
 looked into his gentle face I could not but feel reve- 
 rence for the man who had been the friend of Landor 
 and Southey, and who had lived so long among 
 literary giants. He repeated, with a sad smile, for 
 the mischief was done, his former warning against the 
 literary life, but he promised to help me as far as lay 
 in his power, and as we parted invited me to see him 
 soon again. While I held his hand he pressed into 
 mine something wrapped up in a piece of paper, and 
 as he did so I saw the tears in his eyes. When I got 
 into the street I opened the paper and found three 
 sovereigns ! I had said nothing of my extremity, but 
 I presume that the old man guessed it without much 
 prompting." ^ 
 
 After that interview the two never met. 
 
 " Again and again I proposed going to him, but 
 
 from one cause or another I never did. It was not 
 
 that I was ungrateful or forgetful ; night after night 
 
 I thought of "Barry Cornwall," and named him in my 
 
 • Letter to Mr. Gentles.
 
 Early Struggles, 1859 55 
 
 prayers, but I had drifted away with the tide of life, 
 and was a stranger even to some of my closest friends. 
 I remember Browning reminding me some years after- 
 wards that Procter had inquired after me, rather 
 wondering that he had never seen me again. Brown- 
 ing, when he was in London, visited the old poet 
 regularly every Sunday. To my shame let it be 
 chronicled that I forgot my duty in this instance, as in ^ 
 many others. I shall always regret that I was so remiss. 
 Before I could make amends Procterhad passed away." ^ 
 
 In those days, so far as his fellow-craftsmen were 
 concerned, Robert Buchanan was not a little of a 
 recluse, and the habit of keeping apart from profes- 
 sional company remained with him more or less 
 all his life. Hating all intellectual pretensions, and 
 preferring to be simply a man among men, he sought 
 every kind of society save that called " literary," and 
 was at home everywhere except among literary men. 
 This habit of seclusion grew rather than diminished 
 with age — indeed, during the latter years of his life it 
 became almost a mania with him. On the occasion 
 of our returning from a visit we paid to New York in 
 the year 1885 he was rather taken with one of our 
 fellow-passengers, and during the evenings the two 
 would frequently pace the deck of the ship in earnest 
 conversation, each not having the least idea of the 
 identity of the other. As our journey was nearing 
 its end the stranger came to me one morning and 
 said how sorry he was that we were about to part. 
 " I have quite enjoyed my conversations with your 
 brother," he said, "he seems to be so fond of poetry ! " 
 
 The admiration which he was unwilling to court he 
 was just as unwilling to give. He was never a hero- 
 worshipper ; strength, either of mind or body, did not 
 ' Letters to Mr. Gentles.
 
 S6 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 attract him, while gentle deeds and modest worth 
 invariably did. In point of fact he was a born 
 Bohemian, and cared nothing whatever for the pros- 
 perous or successful men. I do not mention this to 
 explain or palliate his forgetfulness with regard to 
 Mr. Procter, or rather I should say his carelessness 
 in acknowledging his obligation to him, for he never 
 forgot a kindness or failed, if occasion came, to repay 
 it. Had the old man been in need of his sympathy, 
 he would have acted differently, but he was happy 
 and prosperous, and so the youth did not hurry to 
 recall himself to his memory. 
 
 Another motive may have weighed greatly with 
 him. He was proud as Lucifer, and he hesitated to 
 greet the good old poet again till he could show him 
 that he was no longer a pauper, and that he had done 
 some good work to justify his belief in him. He sent 
 him his first books, and was preparing to follow them 
 into the kindly presence, when he heard to his great 
 regret that the poet was dead. 
 
 Meantime he stayed on in his " garret " earning 
 scarcely enough to keep body and soul together, but 
 he never gave up hope or lost heart. 
 
 He was not unhappy, indeed he looked back upon 
 that time as one of the happiest in his life. It was 
 only now and then that a sense of desolation came upon 
 him, and he realised his helplessness in the world. 
 The light of Fairyland was still following him, and he 
 had all his young illusions to keep him strong and glad. 
 
 But his pride of heart and gladness in mere life 
 were not to be without qualification. His first great 
 experience of the world's sorrow was coming to him, 
 for his dear comrade and companion, David Gray, 
 was about to join him, wounded and broken, after his 
 first flight into the great world of London.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 DAVID GRAY, 1860 
 
 IN the year i860, when Robert Buchanan left 
 Glasgow for London, he had arranged to make 
 the journey in the company of his friend. Why he 
 did not do so he himself has told so graphically, in 
 his admirable sketch of the life of his comrade, that 
 I give the story in his own words : — 
 
 "In the spring of i860 we both found ourselves 
 without an anchorage : each found it necessary to do 
 something for daily bread. For some little time the 
 London scheme had been in abeyance ; but, on the 
 3rd of May, i860, David came to me, his lips firmly 
 compressed, his eyes full of fire, saying, ' Bob, I'm off 
 to London.' ' Have you funds ? ' I asked. ' Enough 
 for one, not enough for two,' was the reply. ' If you 
 can get the money anyhow, we'll go together.' On 
 parting we arranged to meet on the evening of the 
 5th of May, in time to catch the five o'clock train. 
 Unfortunately, however, we neglected to specify 
 which of the two Glasgow stations was intended. 
 At the hour appointed David left Glasgow by one 
 line of railway, in the belief that I had been unable 
 to join him, but determined to try the venture alone. 
 
 With the same belief and determination I left at the 
 
 57
 
 58 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 same hour by the other line of railway. We arrived 
 in different parts of London at about the same time. 
 Had we left Glasgow in company, or had we met 
 immediately after our arrival in London, the story 
 of David's life might not have been so brief and 
 sorrowful. 
 
 " Though the month was May, the weather was dark, 
 damp, cloudy. On arriving in the metropolis, David 
 wandered about for hours, carpet bag in hand. The 
 magnitude of the place overwhelmed him ; he was 
 lost in that great ocean of life. He thought about 
 Johnson and Savage, and how they wandered through 
 London with pockets more empty than his own ; but 
 already he longed to be back in the little carpeted bed- 
 room in the weaver's cottage. How lonely it seemed 1 
 Among all that mist of human faces there was not 
 one to smile in welcome : and how was he to make 
 his trembling voice heard above the roar and tumult 
 of those streets ? The very policemen seemed to 
 look suspiciously at the stranger. To his sensitively 
 Scottish ear the language spoken seemed quite 
 strange and foreign : it had a painful, homeless 
 sound about it that sank nervously on the heart- 
 strings. As he wandered about the streets he 
 glanced into coffee-shop after coffee-shop, seeing 
 'Beds' ticketed in each fly-blown window. His 
 pocket contained a sovereign and a few shillings, but 
 he would need every penny. Would not a bed be 
 useless extravagance ? he asked himself. Certainly. 
 Where then should he pass the night ? In Hyde Park ! 
 He had heard so much about this part of London 
 that the name was quite familiar to him. Yes, he 
 would pass the night in the Park. Such a proceeding 
 would save money and be exceedingly romantic ; it 
 would be just the right sort of beginning for a poet's
 
 David Gray, i860 59 
 
 struggle in London ! So he strolled into the great 
 Park, and wandered about its purlieus till morning. 
 In remarking upon this foolish conduct, one must 
 reflect that David was strong, heartsome, full of 
 healthy youth. It was a frequent boast of his that 
 he scarcely ever had a day's illness. Whether or not 
 his fatal complaint was caught during this his first night 
 in London is uncertain, but some few days afterwards 
 David wrote thus to his father : ' By the bye, I have 
 had the worst cold I ever had in my life. I cannot 
 get it away properly, but I feel a great deal better to- 
 day.' Alas ! violent cold had settled down upon his 
 lungs, and insidious death was already slowly approach- 
 ing him. So little conscious was he of his danger, 
 however, that I find him writing to a friend : ' What 
 brought me here? God knows, for I don't. Alone 
 in such a place is a horrible thing. . . . People don't 
 seem to understand me. . . . Westminster Abbey ; I 
 was there all day yesterday. If I live I shall be 
 buried there — so help me God ! A completely 
 defined consciousness of great poetical genius is my 
 only antidote against utter despair and despicable 
 failure.' 
 
 " I suppose his purposes in coming to Babylon were 
 about as definite as my own had been, although he 
 had the advantage of being qualified as a pupil 
 teacher. We tossed ourselves on the great waters as 
 two youths who wished to learn to swim, and trusted 
 that by diligent kicking we might escape drowning. 
 There was the prospect of getting into a newspaper 
 office. Again, there was the prospect of selling a few 
 verses. Thirdly, if everything failed, there was the 
 prospect of getting into one of the theatres as super- 
 numeraries. Beyond all this, there was of course the 
 dim prospect that London would at once, and with
 
 n 
 
 60 Robert Buchanan 
 
 acclamations, welcome the advent of true genius, 
 albeit with seedy garments and a Scotch accent. It 
 doubtless never occurred to either that besides mere 
 ' consciousness ' of power, some other things were 
 necessary for a literary struggle in London — special 
 knowledge, capability of interesting oneself in trifles, 
 and the pen of a ready writer. What were David's 
 qualifications for a fight in which hundreds miserably 
 fail year after year? Considerable knowledge of 
 Greek, Latin, and French, great miscellaneous reading, 
 a clerkly handwriting and a bold purpose. Slender 
 qualifications, doubtless, but while life lasted there 
 was hope. 
 
 " We did not meet for some time after our arrival in 
 London. Finally we came together. David's first 
 impulse was to describe his lodgings, situated in a 
 by-street in the Borough : ' A cold, cheerless bed- 
 room, Bob ; nothing but a blanket to cover me. For 
 God's sake get me out of it ! ' We were walking 
 side by side in the neighbourhood of the New Cut. 
 'Have you been well?' I inquired. 'First rate,' 
 answered David, looking as merry as possible. Nor 
 did he show any indications whatever of illness ; he 
 seemed hopeful, energetic, full of health and spirits ; 
 his sole desire was to change his lodging. It was not 
 without qualms that he surveyed the dingy, smoky 
 neighbourhood where I resided. The sun was 
 shedding dismal, crimson light on the chimney-pots, 
 and the twilight was slowly thickening. We climbed 
 up three flights of stairs to my room : dingy as it was, 
 this apartment seemed, in David's eyes, quite a palatial 
 sanctum ; and it was arranged that we should take up 
 our residence together. As speedily as possible I 
 procured David's little stock of luggage ; then, settled 
 face to face as in old times, we made very merry.
 
 David Gray, i860 61 
 
 "My first idea, on questioning David about his 
 prospects, was that my friend had had the best of luck. 
 You see, the picture drawn on either side was a golden 
 one ; but the brightness soon melted away. It turned 
 out that David, on arriving in London, had sought out 
 certain gentlemen whom he had formerly favoured 
 with his correspondence, among others, Mr. Richard 
 Monckton Milnes, now Lord Houghton.^ Though 
 not a little astonished at the appearance of the 
 boy-poet, Mr. Milnes had received him kindly, 
 assisted him to the best of his power, and made some 
 work for him in the shape of manuscript-copying. 
 The same gentleman had also used his influence with 
 literary people — to very little purpose, however. The 
 real truth turned out to be that David was dis- 
 appointed and low-spirited. ' It's weary work. Bob ; 
 they don't understand me : I wish I was back in 
 Glasgow.' It was now that David told me all about 
 that first day and night in London, and how he had 
 already begun a poem about ' Hyde Park,' how Mr. 
 Milnes had been good to him, had said that he was 
 a ' poet,' but had insisted on his going back to Scot- 
 land and becoming a minister. David did not at all 
 like the notion of returning home. He thought he 
 had every chance of making his way in London. 
 About this time he was bitterly disappointed by the 
 rejection of ' The Luggie ' by Mr. Thackeray, to whom Yjl^ 
 Mr. Milnes had sent it, with a recommendation that 
 it should be inserted in the Cornhill Magazine. . . . 
 It has been seen that Mr. Milnes was the first to 
 perceive that the young adventurer was seriously ill. 
 After a hurried call on his patron one day in May, 
 
 ' Lord Houghton, who afterwards became an intimate friend 
 of Robert Buchanan, died in 1885, and was succeeded by his 
 son, the present Earl of Crewe.
 
 62 Robert Buchanan 
 
 David rejoined mc in the near neighbourhood. 
 * Milnes says I'm to go home and keep warm, and 
 he'll send his own doctor to me.' This was done. 
 The doctor came, examined David's chest, said very 
 Httle, and went away, leaving strict orders that the 
 invalid should keep within doors and take great care 
 of himself. Neither David nor I liked the expression 
 of the doctor's face at all. 
 
 "It soon became evident that David's illness was of 
 a most serious character. Pulmonary disease had set 
 in ; medicine, blistering, all the remedies employed in 
 the early stages of his complaint, seemed of little 
 avail. Just then David read the ' Life of John 
 Keats,' a book which impressed him with a nervous 
 fear of impending dissolution. He began to be filled 
 with conceits droller than any he had imagined in 
 health. ' If I were to meet Keats in heaven,' he 
 said one day, ' I wonder if I should know his face 
 from his pictures ? ' Most frequently his talk was of 
 labour uncompleted, hope deferred ; and he began to 
 pant for free country air. ' If I die,' he said on one 
 occasion, ' I shall have one consolation ; Milnes will 
 write an introduction to the poems.' At another 
 time, with tears in his eyes, he repeated Burns's 
 epitaph. Now and then, too, he had his fits of frolic 
 and humour, and would laugh and joke over his 
 unfortunate position. It cannot be said that Milnes 
 and his friends were at all lukewarm about the case 
 of their young friend ; on the contrary, they gave him 
 every practical assistance. Mr. Milnes himself, full 
 of the most delicate sympathy, trudged to and fro 
 between his own house and the invalid's lodgings, 
 his pockets laden with jelly and beef-tea and his 
 tongue tipped with kindly comfort. Had circum- 
 stances permitted, he would have taken the invalid
 
 David Gray, i860 63 
 
 into his own house. Unfortunately, however, David 
 was compelled to remain, in company with me, in a 
 chamber which seemed to have been constructed 
 peculiarly for the purpose of making the occupants 
 as uncomfortable as possible. There were draughts 
 everywhere : through the chinks of the door, through 
 the windows, down the chimney, and up through the 
 flooring. When the wind blew, the whole tenement 
 seemed on the point of crumbling to atoms ; when 
 the rain fell, the walls exuded moisture ; when the 
 sun shone, the sunshine only served to increase the 
 characteristic dinginess of the furniture. Occasional 
 visitors, however, could not be fully aware of these 
 inconveniences. It was in the night-time, and in bad 
 weather, that they were chiefly felt : and it required a 
 few days' experience to test the superlative discomfort 
 of what David (in a letter written afterwards) styled 
 ' the dear old ghastly bankrupt garret.' His stay in 
 these quarters was destined to be brief Gradually 
 the invalid grew homesick. Nothing would content 
 him but a speedy return to Scotland. He was care- 
 fully sent off by train, and arrived safely in his little 
 cottage-home far north. Here all was unchanged as 
 ever. The beloved river was flowing through the same 
 fields, and the same familiar faces were coming and 
 going on its banks ; but the whole meaning of the 
 pastoral pageant had changed, and the colour of all 
 was deepening towards the final sadness. 
 
 " Great, meanwhile, had been the commotion in the 
 handloom weaver's cottage after the receipt of this 
 bulletin : ' I start off to-night at five o'clock by the 
 Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway, right on to London, 
 in good health and spirits,' A great cry arose in 
 the household. He was fairly ' daft ' ; he was throw- 
 ing away all his chances in the world ; the verse-
 
 6+ 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 writing had turned his head. Father and mother 
 mourned together. The former, though incompetent 
 to judge Hterary merit of any kind, perceived that 
 David was hot-headed, only half educated, and was 
 going to a place where thousands of people were 
 starving daily. But the suspense was not to last 
 long. The darling son, the secret hope and pride, 
 came back to the old people, sick to death. All 
 rebuke died away before that pale sad face and 
 feeble tottering body: and David was welcomed to 
 the cottage hearth with silent prayers. 
 
 " It was now placed beyond a doubt that the disease 
 was one of mortal danger ; yet David, surrounded 
 again by his old cares, busied himself with many 
 bright and delusive dreams of ultimate recovery. 
 Pictures of a pleasant, dreamy convalescence in a 
 foreign clime floated before him morn and night, 
 and the fairest and dearest of the dreams was Italy. 
 Previous to his departure for London he had con- 
 cocted a wild scheme for visiting Florence, and 
 throwing himself on the poetical sympathy of Robert 
 Browning. He had even thought of enlisting in the 
 English Garibaldian corps and by that means gain- 
 ing his cherished wish. ' How about Italy ? ' he 
 wrote to me after returning home. ' Do you still 
 entertain its delusive notions ? Pour out your soul 
 before me ; I am as a child,' All at once a new 
 dream burst upon him. A local doctor insisted that 
 the invalid should be removed to a milder climate, 
 and recommended Natal. In a letter full of coaxing 
 tenderness David besought me, for the sake of old 
 days, to accompany him thither. I answered indeci- 
 sively, but immediately made all endeavours to grant 
 my friend's wish. Meanwhile I received the follow- 
 ing :—
 
 David Gray, i860 65 
 
 " ' Merkland, Kirkintollock, 
 
 " ' loth November, i860. 
 
 " ' Ever dear Bob, — Your letter causes me some 
 uneasiness; not but that your objections are numerous 
 and vital enough, but they convey the sad and firm 
 intelligence that you cannot come with me. It is 
 absolutely impossible for you to raise a sum sufficient ! 
 Now you know it is not necessary that I should go 
 to Natal ; nay, I have, in very fear, given up the 
 thoughts of it ; but we, or I, could go to Italy or 
 Jamaica — this latter, as I learn, being the more pre- 
 ferable. Nor has there been any " crisis " come, as 
 you say. I would not cause you much trouble 
 (forgive me for hinting this), but I believe we could 
 be happy as in the dear old times. Doctor — (whose 
 address I don't know) supposes that I shall be able 
 to work (?) when I reach a more genial climate ; and 
 if that should prove the result, why, it is a consum- 
 mation devoutly to be wished. But the matter of 
 money bothers me. What I wrote to you was all 
 hypothetical, i.e., things have been carried so far, but 
 I have not heard whether or no the subscription has 
 been gone on with. And, supposing for one instant 
 the utterly preposterous supposition that I had 
 money to carry us both, then comes the second 
 objection — your dear mother ! I am not so far gone, 
 though I fear far enough, to ignore that blessed feel- 
 ing. But if it were for your good ? Before God, if 
 I thought it would in any way harm your health 
 (that cannot be) or your hopes, I would never have 
 mooted the proposal. On the contrary, I feel from 
 my heart it would benefit you ; and how much would 
 it not benefit we ? But I am baking without flour. 
 The cash is not in my hand, and I fear never will be ; 
 the amount I would require is not so easily gathered. 
 
 6
 
 66 Robert Buchanan 
 
 "'Dobell^ is again laid up. He is at the Isle of 
 Wight, at some establishment called the Victoria 
 Baths. I am told that his friends deem his life in 
 constant danger. He asks for your address. I shall 
 send it only to-day ; wait until you hear what he has 
 got to say. He would prefer me to go to Brompton 
 Hospital. / ivould go anywhere for a change. If I 
 don't get money somcJiow or soviewJiere I shall die of 
 ennui. A weary desire for change, life, excitement 
 of every, a^iy kind possesses me, and without you 
 what am I ? There is no other person in the world 
 whom I could spend a week with and thoroughly 
 enjoy it. Oh, how I desire to smoke a cigar and 
 have a pint and a chat with you. 
 
 " ' By the way, how are you getting on ? Have you 
 lots to do ? and well paid for it ? Or is life a lottery 
 with you ? and the tea-caddy a vacuum ? and a snare ? 
 and — a nightmare ? Do you dream yet on your old 
 rickety sofa in the dear old ghastly bankrupt garret 
 at No. 66 ? Write to yours eternally, David Gray.' 
 
 " The proposal to go abroad was soon abandoned, 
 partly because the invalid began to evince a nervous 
 home-sickness, but chiefly because it was impossible 
 to raise a sufficient sum of money. Yet be it never 
 said that this youth was denied the extremest loving 
 sympathy and care. As I look back upon those days 
 it is to me a glad wonder that so many tender faces, 
 many of them quite strange, clustered round his sick- 
 bed. When it is reflected that he was known only as 
 a poor Scotch lad, that even his extraordinary lyric 
 ^ <^ faculty was as yet only half guessed, if guessed at all,"^ 
 the kindness of the world through his trouble is extra- 
 
 • "Sydney Dobell, author of 'Balder,' 'The Roman,' &c., 
 whose kindness to David, whom he never saw, is beyond all 
 praise."
 
 David Gray, i860 67 
 
 ordinary. Milnes, Dobell, Dobell's lady-friends at 
 Hampstead, tired never in devising plans for the salva- 
 tion of the poor consumptive invalid — goodness which 
 sprang from the instincts of the heart itself, and not 
 from that intellectual benevolence which invests in 
 kind deeds with a view to a bonus from the Almighty, 
 
 " The best and tenderest of people, however, cannot 
 always agree ; and in this case there was too much 
 discussion and delay. Some recommended the long 
 sea voyage ; one doctor recommended Brompton 
 Hospital ; Milnes suggested Torquay in Devonshire. 
 Meantime Gray, for the most part ignorant of the 
 discussions that were taking place, besought his 
 friends on all hands to come to his assistance. Late 
 in November he addressed the editor of a local news- 
 paper with whom he was personally acquainted and 
 who had taken interest in his affair : ' I write you in 
 a certain commotion of mind, and may speak wrongly. 
 But I write to yon because I know it will take much 
 to offend you when no offence is meant ; and when 
 the probable offence will proceed from youthful heat 
 and frantic foolishness. It may be impertinent to 
 address you, of whom I know so little, and yet so 
 much ; but the severe circumstances seem to justify it. 
 
 " ' The medical verdict pronounced upon me is 
 certain and rapid death if I remain at Merkland. 
 That is awful enough, even to a brave man. But 
 there is a chance of escape ; as a drowning man 
 grasps at a straw I strive for it. Good, kind, true 
 Dobell writes me this morning the plans for my 
 welfare which he has put in progress and which 
 most certainly meet my wishes. They are as 
 follows : Go immediately and as a guest to the house 
 of Doctor Lane in the salubrious town of Richmond ; 
 thence, when the difficult matter of admission is over-
 
 68 Robert Buchanan 
 
 come, to the celebrated Brompton Hospital for chest 
 diseases, and in the spring to Italy. Of course, all 
 this presupposes the conjectural problem that I will 
 slowly recover. " Consummation devoutly to be 
 wished ! " Now you think, or say, what prevents 
 you from taking advantage of all these plans ? At 
 once, and without any squeamishness, Dwney for an 
 outfit. I did not like to ask Dobell, nor do I ask 
 you ; but, hearing a " subscription " had been spoken 
 of, I urge it with all my weak force. I am not in 
 want of an immense sum, but say £,\2 or ^15. This 
 would conduce to my safety as far as human means 
 could do so. If you can aid me in getting this sum 
 the obligation to a sinking fellow-creature will be as 
 indelible in his heart as the moral law, 
 
 " ' I hope you will not misunderstand me. My 
 barefaced request may be summed thus : If your 
 influence set the affair a-going, quietly and quickly, 
 the thing is done and I'm off. Surely I am worth 
 £\^, and for God's sake overlook the strangeness 
 and the freedom and the utter impertinence of this 
 communication. I would be off for Richmond in 
 two days, had I the money, and sitting here thinking 
 of the fearful probabilities makes me half-mad.' 
 
 " It was soon found necessary, however, to act with 
 decision. A residence in Kirkintolloch throughout 
 the winter was, on all accounts, to be avoided. A 
 lady therefore subscribed to the Brompton Hospital 
 for chest complaints for the express purpose of 
 procuring David admission. 
 
 " One bleak, wintry day, not long after the receipt 
 of the above letter, I was gazing out of my lofty 
 lodging-window when a startling vision presented 
 itself, in the shape of David himself, seated, with 
 quite a gay look, in an open Hansom cab. In a
 
 David Gray, i860 69 
 
 minute we were side by side, and one of my first 
 impulses was to rebuke David for the folly of 
 exposing himself during such weather, in such a 
 vehicle. This folly, however, was on a parallel 
 with David's general habits of thought. Sometimes, 
 indeed, the poor boy became unusually thoughtful, 
 as when, during his illness, he wrote thus to me : 
 ' Are you remembering that you will need clothes ? 
 These are things you take no concern about, and so 
 you may be seedy without knowing it. By all means 
 hoard a few pounds if you can (I require none) for 
 any emergency like this. Brush your excellent top- 
 coat ; it is the best and warmest I ever had on my 
 back. Mind, you have to pay ready-money for a 
 new coat. A seedy man will not get on if he requires, 
 like you, to call personally on his employers.' 
 
 " David had come to London in order to go either 
 to Brompton or to Torquay — the hospital at which 
 last-named place was thrown open to him by Mr. 
 Milnes. Perceiving his dislike for the Temperance 
 Hotel, to which he had been conducted, I consented 
 that he should stay in the ' ghastly bankrupt garret ' 
 until he should depart to one or other of the hos- 
 pitals. It was finally arranged that he should accept 
 a temporary invitation to a hydropathic establish- 
 ment at Sudbrook Park, Richmond. Thither I at 
 once conveyed him. Meanwhile, his prospects were 
 diligently canvassed by his numerous friends. His 
 own feelings at this time were well expressed in a 
 letter home : ' I am dreadfully afraid of Brompton ; 
 living among sallow, dolorous, dying consumptives 
 is enough to kill me. Here I am as comfortable as 
 can be : a fire in my room all day, plenty of meat 
 and good society, nobody so ill as myself; but there, 
 perhaps, hundreds far worse (the hospital holds 218
 
 70 Robert Buchanan 
 
 in all stages of the disease ; ninety of them died last 
 report), dying beside me, perhaps — it frightens me.' 
 
 " About the same time he sent me the following, 
 containing more particulars : — 
 
 "'SuDBROOK Park, Richmond, 
 " ' Surrey. 
 
 " ' My dear Bob,— Your anxiety will be allayed 
 by learning that I am little worse. The severe hours 
 of this establishment have not killed me. At eight 
 o'clock in the morning a man comes into my bed- 
 room with a pail of cold water, and I must rise and 
 get myself soused. This sousing takes place three 
 times a day, and I'm not dead yet. To-day I told 
 the bath-man that I was utterly unable to bear it, 
 and refused to undress. The doctor will hear of it — 
 that's the very thing I want. The society here is 
 most pleasant. No patient so bad as myself No 
 wonder your father wished to go to the water cure for 
 a month or two ; it is the most pleasant, refreshing 
 thing in the world. But / am really too weak to 
 bear it. Robert Chambers is here ; Mrs. Crowe the 
 authoress ; Lord Brougham's son-in-law ; and at 
 dinner and tea the literary tittle-tattle is the most 
 wonderful you ever heard. They seem to know 
 everything about everybody but Tennyson. Major 
 
 (who has a beautiful daughter here) was 
 
 crowned with a laurel-wreath for some burlesque 
 verses he had made and read last night. Of course 
 you know what I am among them — a pale, cadaverous 
 young person, who sits in dark corners, and is for the 
 most part silent, with a horrible fear of being pounced 
 upon by a cultivated unmarried lady, and talked to. 
 
 " ' Seriously, I am not better. When the novelty of 
 my situation is gone, won't the old days at Oakfield
 
 David Gray, i860 71 
 
 Terrace seem pleasant ? Why didn't they last for 
 ever? 
 
 " ' Yours ever, 
 
 "'David Gray.'" 
 
 " All at once David began, with a delicacy peculiar 
 to him, to consider himself an unwarrantable intruder 
 at Sudbrook Park. In the face of all persuasion, 
 therefore, he joined me in London, whence he shortly 
 afterwards departed for Torquay. 
 
 " He left me in good spirits, full of pleasant anti- 
 cipation of Devonshire scenery. But the second 
 day after his departure he addressed to me a wild 
 epistle, dated from one of the Torquay hotels. He 
 had arrived safe and sound, he said, and had been 
 kindly received by a friend of Mr. Milnes. He had 
 at first been delighted with the town and everything 
 in it. He had gone to the hospital, had been re- 
 ceived by ' a nurse of death ' (as he phrased it), and 
 had been inducted into the privileges of the place; 
 but on seeing his fellow-patients, some in the last 
 stages of disease, he had fainted away. On coming 
 to himself he obtained an interview with the matron. 
 To his request for a private apartment, she had 
 answered that to favour him in that way would be 
 to break written rules, and that he must content 
 himself with the common privileges of the establish- 
 ment. On leaving the matron he had furtively stolen 
 from the place and made his way through the night 
 to the hotel. From the hotel he addressed the fol- 
 lowing terrible letter to his parents : — 
 
 " ' Torquay, January 6, 1861. 
 
 " ' Dear Parents, — I am coming home — home- 
 sick. I cannot stay from home any longer. What's the
 
 72 Robert Buchanan 
 
 good of me being so far from home, and sick and ill ? 
 I don't know whether I'll be able to come back — 
 sleeping none at night — crying out for my mother, 
 and her so far away. O God ! I wish I were home 
 never to leave it more ! Tell everybody that I'm 
 coming back — no better — worse, worse. What's 
 about climate — about frost or snow or cold weather 
 when one is at home? I wish I had never left it. 
 
 " ' But how am I to get back without money, and 
 my expenses for the journey newly paid yesterday ? 
 I came here yesterday scarcely able to walk. O 
 how I wish I saw my father's face — shall I ever see 
 it ? I have no money, and I want to get home, 
 home, home ! What shall I do, O God ? Father, 
 I shall steal to see you again, because I did not use 
 you rightly — my conduct to you all the time I was 
 at home makes me miserable, miserable, miserable ! 
 Will you forgive me? — Do I ask that? Forgiven, 
 Forgiven, Forgiven ! If I can't get money to pay 
 for my box, I shall leave box and everything behind. 
 I shall try and be at home by Saturday, January 12th. 
 Mind the day — if I am not home — God knows where 
 I shall be. I have come through things that would 
 make your hearts ache for me — things which I shall 
 never tell to anybody but you, and you shall keep 
 them secret as the grave. Get my own little room 
 ready quick, quick ; have it all tidy and clean and 
 cosy against my home-coming. I wish to die 
 there, and nobody shall nurse me except my own 
 dear mother ever, ever again. O home, home, 
 home ! 
 
 " ' I will try and write again, but mind the day. 
 Perhaps my father will come into Glasgow if I can 
 tell him beforehand how, when, and where I shall be. 
 I shall try all I can to let him know.
 
 David Gray, i860 73 
 
 " ' Mind and tell everybody that I am coming back, 
 and cannot stay away. Tell everybody ; but I shall 
 come back in the dark, because I am so utterly 
 unhappy. No more, no more. Mind the day. 
 
 " * Yours, 
 " ' D. G. 
 " * Don't answer — not even think of answering.' 
 
 " Before I had time to comprehend the state of 
 affairs, there came a second letter stating that David 
 was on the point of starting for London. ' Every 
 ring at the hotel bell makes me tremble, fancying 
 they are coming to take me away by force. Had 
 you seen the nurse ! Oh that I were back again at 
 home — Mother ! mother ! mother ! ' A few hours 
 after I had read these lines in miserable fear, arrived 
 Gray himself, pale, anxious, and trembling. He 
 flung himself into my arms with a smile of sad 
 relief ' Thank God ! ' he cried, ' that's over, and 
 I am here ! ' Then his cry was for home ; he would 
 die if he remained longer adrift ; he must depart at 
 once. I persuaded him to wait for a few days, and 
 in the mean time saw some of his influential friends. 
 The skill and regimen of a medical establishment 
 being necessary to him at this stage, it was naturally 
 concluded that he should go to Brompton ; but 
 David, in a high state of nervous excitement, 
 scouted the idea. Disease had sapped the foun- 
 tains of the once strong spirit. He was now bent 
 on returning to the North, and wrote more calmly 
 to his parents from my lodgings : — 
 
 " ' London, Thursday. 
 
 " ' My very dear Parents, — Having arrived in 
 London last night my friends have seized on me
 
 74 Robert Buchanan 
 
 again and wish me to go to Brompton. But what 
 I saw at Torquay was enough, and I will come home, 
 though it should freeze me to death. You must not 
 take literally what I wrote you in my last. I had 
 just yu7i aivay from Torquay Hospital, and didn't 
 know what to do or where to go. But you see I 
 have got to London, and surely by some means 
 or other I shall get home. I am really home-sick. 
 They all tell Die my life is not worth a farthing 
 candle if I go to Scotland in this lueather, but what 
 about that. I wish I could tell my father when to 
 come to Glasgow, but I can't. If I start to-morrow 
 I shall be in Glasgow very late, and what am I to do 
 if I have no cash. If he comes into Glasgow by the 
 twelve train on Saturday I may, if possible, see him 
 at the train, but I would not like to say positively. 
 Surely I'll get home somehow. I don't sleep any at 
 night now for coughing and sweating. I am afraid 
 to go to bed. Strongly hoping to be with you soon. 
 
 " ' Yours ever, 
 
 "'David Gray.' 
 
 " ' Home — home — home ! ' was his hourly cry. To 
 resist these frantic appeals would have been to 
 hasten the end of all. In the midst of winter I saw 
 him into the train at Euston Square. A day after- 
 wards David was in the bosom of his father's 
 household, never more to pass thence alive. Not 
 long after his arrival at home he repented his rash 
 flight, ' I am not at all contented with my position. 
 I acted like a fool ; but if the hospital were the sine qua. 
 non again my conduct would be the same.' Further, 
 ' I lament my own foolish conduct, but what was 
 that quotation about i^npellunt in Acheron ? It was 
 all nervous impulsion. However, I despair not, and
 
 David Gray, i860 75 
 
 least of all, my dear fellow, to those whom I have 
 deserted wrongfully.' 
 
 " Ere long poor David made up his mind that he 
 must die, and this feeling urged him to write some- 
 thing that would keep his memory green for ever. 
 ' I am working away at my old poem. Bob ; 
 leavening it throughout with the pure, beautiful 
 theology of Kingsley.' A little later : * By the 
 bye, I have about six hundred lines of my poem 
 written, but the manual labour is so weakening that 
 I do not go on.' Nor was this all. In the very 
 shadow of the grave, he began and finished a series 
 of sonnets on the subject of his own disease and 
 impending death. This increased literary energy 
 was not, as many people imagined, a sign of in- 
 creased physical strength ; it was merely the last 
 flash upon the blackening brand. Gradually, but 
 surely, life was ebbing away from the young poet. 
 
 "In March, 1861, I formed the plan of visiting Scot- 
 land in the spring, and wrote to David accordingly. 
 His delight at the prospect of a fresh meeting — 
 perhaps a farewell one — was as great as mine, 
 
 "' Merkland, March 12, 1861. 
 
 " ' Mv DEAR Bob, — I am very glad to be able to 
 write you to-day. Rest assured to find a change 
 in your old friend when you come down in April. 
 And do, old fellow, let it be the end of April, when 
 the evenings are cool and fresh, and these east-winds 
 have howled themselves to rest. When I think of 
 what a fair worshipful season is before you, I advise 
 you to remove to a little room at Hampstead, where 
 I only wish too, too much to be with you. Don't 
 forget to come North since you have spoken about 
 it ; it has made me very happy. My health is no
 
 76 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 better — not having been out of my room since I 
 wrote, and for some time before. The weather here 
 is so bitterly cold and unfavourable that I have not 
 walked a hundred yards for three weeks. I trust 
 your revivifying presence will electrify my weary 
 relaxed limbs and enervated system. The mind, 
 you know, has a great effect on the body. Accept 
 the wholesome commonplace. . . . By the way, how 
 about Dobell ? Did your mind of itself recognise, 
 or even against itself recognise, through the clothes a 
 man — a poet? Young speaks well : — 
 
 " ' " I never bowed but to superior worth, 
 
 Nor ever failed in my allegiance there. . . ." 
 
 Has he the modesty and make-himself-at-home 
 manner of Milnes ? ' 
 
 " The remainder of this letter is unfortunately lost. 
 
 "In April I saw him for the last time, and heard 
 him speak words which showed the abandonment of 
 hope. ' I am dying,' said David, leaning back in his 
 armchair in the little carpeted bedroom ; ' I am 
 dying, and I've only two things to regret : that my 
 poem is not published and that I have not seen 
 Italy.' In the endeavour to inspire hope, I spoke of 
 the happy past, and of the happy days yet to be. 
 David only shook his head with a sad smile. ' It is 
 the old dream — only a dream, Bob — but I am content.' 
 He spoke of all his friends with tenderness, and of his 
 parents with intense and touching love. Then it was 
 ' farewell.' ' After all our dreams of the future,' he 
 said, ' I must leave you to fight alone ; but shall there 
 be no more " cakes and ale " because I die ? ' 
 
 " I returned to London ; and ere long heard that 
 David was eagerly attempting to get ' The Luggie '
 
 David Gray, i860 77 
 
 published. Delay after delay occurred. ' If my book 
 be not immediately gone on with I fear I may never 
 see it. Disease presses closely on me . . . the merit 
 of my MSS. is very little — mere hints of better things 
 — crude notions harshly languaged ; but that must be 
 overlooked. They are left not to the world (wild 
 thought !), but as the simple, possible, sad, only legacy 
 I can leave to those who have loved and love me.' 
 To a dear friend and fellow-poet, William Freeland, 
 then sub-editor of the Glasgow Citizen, he wrote at 
 this time, ' I feel more acutely the approach of that 
 mystic dissolution of existence. The body is unable 
 to perform its functions, and like rusty machinery 
 creaks painfully to the final crash. . . . About my 
 poem — it troubles me like an ever-present demon. 
 Some day I'll burn all that I have ever written — yet 
 no ! They are all that remain of me as a living soul. 
 Milnes offers five pounds towards its publication. I 
 shall have it ready by Saturday first.' And to Free- 
 land, who visited him every week, and cheered his 
 latter moments with a true poet's converse, he wrote 
 out a wild dedication, ending in these words : ' Before 
 I enter that nebulous, uncertain land of shadowy 
 notions and tremulous wonderings — standing on the 
 threshold of the sun and looking back, I cry thee, O 
 beloved ! a last farewell, lingeringly, passionately, 
 without tears.' At this period I received the 
 
 following : — 
 
 " ' Merkland, N.B. Sunday Evening. 
 
 " ' Dear, dear Bob, — By all means and instantly, 
 "move in this matter" of my book. Do you really and 
 without any dream work, think it could be gone about 
 immediately? If not soon I fear I shall never behold 
 it. The doctors give me no hope, and with the yellowing 
 of the leaf changes likewise the countenance of your
 
 78 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 friend. Freeland is in possession of the MSS., but 
 before I send them (I love them in so great temerity) 
 I would like to see, and, if at all possible^ revise them. 
 Meanwhile, act and write. Above all. Bob, give me 
 (and my father) no hope unless on sound foundation. 
 Better that the rekindled desire should die than 
 languish, bringing misery. I cannot sufficiently im- 
 press on you how important "this book" is to me: with 
 what ignoble trembling I anticipate its appearance ; 
 how I shall bless you should you succeed. 
 
 " * Do not tempt me with your kindness. The family 
 have almost got over the strait, only my father being 
 out of work. It is indeed a "golden treasury" you 
 have sent me. Many thanks. My only want is new 
 interesting books. I shall return it soon when I get 
 Smith. Do not, like a good fellow, disappoint an old 
 friend by forgetting to send that work. With what 
 interest (thinking of my own probable volume) shall 
 I examine the print, &c. / am sure, sure to return it. 
 
 " ' When you complain of physical discomfort I 
 believe. What is the matter ? Your letters now are 
 a mere provoking adumbration of your condition. I 
 know positively nothing of you, but that you are 
 mentally, and bodily depressed, and that you will 
 never forget Gray. In God's name let us keep 
 together the short time remaining. 
 
 " ' You tell me nothing ; write sooner too. Re- 
 collect I have no other pleasure. How is your 
 mother ? and all ? Are your editorial duties oppres- 
 sive ? Is life full of hope and bright faith, yet, yet ? 
 Tell me. Bob, and tell me quickly. 
 
 " ' What a fair, sad, beautiful dream is Italy ! Do 
 you still entertain its delusive notions? Pour out 
 your soul before me ; — I am as a child. 
 
 " ' Yours for ever, 
 
 " ' David Gray.' "
 
 David Gray, i860 79 
 
 Still later, in an even sweeter spirit, he wrote to 
 an old schoolmate, Arthur Sutherland, with whom he 
 had dreamed many a boyish dream, when they were 
 pupil teachers together at the Normal school : — 
 
 " ' As my time narrows to a completion you grow 
 dearer. I think of you daily with quiet tears. I 
 think of the happy, happy days we might have spent 
 together at Maryburgh ; but the vision darkens. My 
 crown is laid in the dust for ever. Nameless too ! 
 God, how that troubles me ! Had I but written one 
 immortal poem, what a glorious consolation ! But 
 this shall be my epitaph if I have a gravestone 
 
 at all— 
 
 " ' " 'Twas not a life, 
 'Twas but a piece of childhood thrown away." 
 
 O dear, dear Sutherland ! I wish I could spend two 
 healthy months with you ; we would make an effort, 
 and do something great. But slowly, insidiously, 
 and I fear fatally, consumption is doing its work, 
 until I shall be only a fair odorous memory (for I 
 have great faith in your affection for me) to you — a 
 sad tale for your old age. 
 
 " ' " Whom the gods love, die young." 
 
 Bless the ancient Greeks for that comfort. If I was 
 not ripe do you think I would be gathered ? Work 
 for fame for my sake, dear Sutherland. Who knows 
 but in spiritual being I may send sweet dreams to 
 you — to advise, comfort, and command ! who knows ? 
 At all events, when I am viooly, may you be fresh as 
 the dawn. 
 
 " ' Yours till death, and I trust hereafter too, 
 
 " ' David Gray.'
 
 ^^ 
 
 80 Robert Buchanan 
 
 "At last, chiefly through the agency of the unweary- 
 ing Dobell, the poem was placed in the hands of the 
 printer. On the 2nd of December, 1861, a specimen- 
 page was sent to the author. David, with the 
 shadow of death even then dark upon him, gazed 
 long and lingeringly at the printed page. All the 
 mysterious past — the boyish yearnings, the flash of 
 anticipated fame, the black surroundings of the great 
 city — flitted across his vision like a dream. It was 
 ' good news,' he said. The next day the complete 
 silence passed over the weaver's household, for David 
 Gray was no more. Thus, on the 3rd of December, 
 1 86 1, in the twenty-fourth year of his age, he passed 
 tranquilly away, almost his last words being, ' God 
 has love and I have faith.' The following epitaph, 
 written out carefully a few months before his decease, 
 was found among his papers : — 
 
 "'My Epitaph. 
 
 " ' Below lies one whose name was traced in sand — 
 He died, not knowing what it was to live : 
 Died while the first sweet consciousness of manhood 
 And maiden thought electrified his soul : 
 Faint beatings in the calyx of the rose. 
 Bewildered reader, pass without a sigh 
 In a proud sorrow ! There is life with God, 
 In other kingdom of a sweeter air ; 
 In Eden every flower is blown. Amen. 
 
 " ' David Gray.' 
 '" September 2^^, 1861.'" ' 
 
 " You will never forget Gray ! " wrote the dying poet 
 to his friend ; and surely his faith was justified, for 
 David Gray owes his reputation as much to Robert 
 Buchanan as to his own undoubted genius. At the 
 time when Gray was living in Stamford Street, several 
 
 ' " David Gray and other Essays."
 
 David Gray, i860 81 
 
 visitors went to see him — Lawrence Oliphant, Charles 
 Mackay, besides the ever kindly Monckton Milnes — 
 but of those visitors the youthful Robert Buchanan 
 saw little or nothing, being too proud and inde- 
 pendent to seek their patronage or friendship for 
 himself. Whenever a visitor was announced he 
 went away downstairs into the streets, not returning 
 until his companion was again alone. Friends he 
 himself had none, nor was he disposed to seek for 
 them until he could meet them on equal terms. He 
 sought no sympathy and he needed none, for he was 
 strong and able to fight his own way. Nevertheless, 
 he once or twice felt a little sore when some of the 
 good people, whose sympathies Gray's illness had 
 awakened, appeared to assume that he himself was 
 an interloper in his own lodgings, a sort of hanger-on 
 to his sick friend. He must have felt how infinitely 
 his love and friendship transcended theirs. Except 
 for his succour Gray would still have been adrift, 
 without companionship, without a tender hand to 
 minister to his wants, as Robert Buchanan did, by 
 night and by day, until the morning when the two 
 parted at the railway station at Euston Square, when 
 Gray returned home to the little cottage at Merkland 
 where he died. 
 
 But even with the death of his friend his responsi- 
 bilities in this connection were not laid aside, for 
 though he had his own way to make in the world, 
 though part of his earnings had to go to his father 
 (who was too old and broken to start life afresh), he 
 yet found enough, by practising great self-denial, to 
 enable him to extend a helping hand to the relatives 
 of his dead friend. 
 
 "The book of poems written, and the writer laid 
 quietly down in the auld aisle burying-ground, had 
 
 7
 
 82 Robert Buchanan 
 
 David Gray wholly done with earth ? No ; for he 
 worked from the grave on one who loved him with a 
 love transcending that of woman. In the weaver's 
 cottage at Merkland subsisted tender sorrow and 
 affectionate remembrance ; but something more. 
 The shadow lay in the cottage ; a light had departed 
 which would never again be seen on sea or land ; and 
 David Gray, the hand-loom weaver, the father of the 
 poet, felt that the meaning had departed out of his 
 simple life. There was a great mystery. The world 
 called his darling son a poet — and he hardly knew 
 what a poet was ; all he did know was that the coming 
 of this prodigy had given a new complexion to all the 
 facts of existence. There was a dream-life, it appeared, 
 beyond the work in the fields and the loom. His 
 son, whom he had thought mad at first, was crowned 
 and honoured for the very things which his parents 
 had thought useless. Around him, vague, incompre- 
 hensible, floated a new atmosphere, which clever 
 people called poetry, and he began to feel that it 
 was beautiful — the more so, that it was so new and 
 wondrous. The fountains of his nature were stirred. 
 He sat and smoked before the fire o' nights, and found 
 himself dreaming too ! He was conscious now that 
 the glory of his days was beyond that grave in the 
 kirkyard. He was like one that walks in a mist, his 
 eyes full of tears. But he said little of his griefs — 
 little, that is to say, in the way of direct complaint. 
 ' We feel very weary now David has gone ! ' was all 
 the plaint I knew him to utter ; he grieved so silently, 
 wondered so speechlessly. The new life, brief and 
 fatal, made him wise. With the eager sensitiveness of 
 the poet himself he read the various criticisms on 
 David's book ; and so subtle was the change in him 
 that, though he was utterly unlearned, and had
 
 David Gray, i860 83 
 
 hitherto had no insight whatever into the nature of 
 poetry, he knew by instinct whether the critics were 
 right or wrong, and felt their suggestions to the very 
 roots of his being. 
 
 " With this old man, in whom I recognised a great- 
 ness and sweetness of soul that has broadened my 
 view of God's humblest creatures ever since, I kept 
 up a correspondence — at first for David's sake — but 
 latterly for my correspondent's own sake. His 
 letters, brief and simple as they were, grew fraught 
 with delicate and delicious meaning ; I could see how 
 he marvelled at the mysterious light he understood 
 not, yet how fearlessly he kept his soul stirred towards 
 the eternal silence where his son was lying. ' We 
 feel very weary now David has gone ! ' Ah, how 
 weary ! The long years of toil told their tale now ; 
 the thread was snapt, and labour was no longer a 
 perfect end to the soul and satisfaction to the body. 
 The little carpeted bedroom was a prayer-place now. 
 The Luggie flowing, the green woods, the thymy hills, 
 had become haunted ; a voice unheard by other 
 dwellers in the valley was calling, calling, and a hand 
 was beckoning ; and tired, more tired, dazzled, more 
 dazzled, grew the old weaver. The very nauies of 
 familiar scenes were now a strange trouble ; for were 
 not these names echoing in David's songs ? Merk- 
 land, ' the summer woods of dear Gartshire,' the 
 ' fairy glen of Wooilee,' Criftin, * with his host of 
 gloomy pine-trees,' all had their ghostly voices. 
 Strange rhymes mingled with the humming of the 
 loom. Mysterious ' poetry,' which he had once 
 scorned as an idle thing, deepened and deepened 
 in its fascination for him. All he saw and heard 
 meant something strange in rhyme. He was drawn 
 along by music, and he could not rest.
 
 8+ 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 " Beside him dwelt the mother. Her face was 
 quite calm. She had wept bitterly, but her heart was 
 now with other sons and daughters. David was with 
 God, and the minister said that God was good — that 
 was quite enough. None of the new light had 
 troubled her eyes. She knew that her beloved had 
 made a ' heap o' rhyme ' — that was all. A good 
 loving lad had gone to rest, but there were still bairns 
 left, bless God ! 
 
 " But the old man lingered on, with hunger in his 
 heart, wonder in his soul. This could not last for ever. 
 In the winter of 1864 he warned me that he was 
 growing ill ; and although he attributed his illness to 
 cold, his letters showed me the truth. There was 
 some physical malady, but the aggravating cause was 
 mental. It was my duty, however, to do all that 
 could be done humanly to save him ; and the first 
 thine to do was to see that he had those comforts 
 which sick men need. I placed his case before Lord 
 Houghton ; but generous as that man is, all men are 
 not so generous. ' It is exceedingly difficult to get 
 people to assist a man of genius himself,' wrote Lord 
 Houghton gloomily ; ' they won't assist his relations.' 
 Lord Houghton, however, personally assisted him, and 
 was joined by a kind colleague, Mr. Baillie Cochrane. 
 
 " I felt then, and I feel now, that the condition of the 
 old man was even more deeply affecting than the 
 condition of David in his last moments, as deserving 
 of sympathy, as universal in its appeal to human 
 generosity ; and I felt a yearning, moreover, to pro- 
 vide for the comfort of David's mother, and for the 
 education of David's brothers. Who knew but that, 
 among the latter, might be another bright intellect, 
 which a little schooling might save for the world ? 
 After puzzling myself for a plan, I at last thought
 
 David Gray, i860 85 
 
 that I could attain all my wishes by publishing a 
 book to be entitled ' Memorials of David Gray,' and 
 to contain contributions from all the writers of 
 eminence whom I could enlist in the good cause. 
 Such a thing would sell, and might, moreover, be 
 worth buying. The fine natures were not slow in 
 responding to the appeal, and I mention some names 
 that they may gain honour. Tennyson promised a 
 poem ; Browning another ; George Eliot agreed to 
 contribute ; Dickens, because he was too busy to 
 write anything more, offered me an equivalent in 
 money. All seemed well, when one or two objections 
 were raised on the score of propriety ; and it was even 
 suggested that * it looked like begging for the father 
 on the strength of Gray's reputation.' Confused and 
 perplexed, I determined to refer the matter to one 
 whose good sense is as great as his heart, but (luckily 
 for his friends) a great deal harder. ' Should I or 
 should I not, under the circumstances, go on with my 
 scheme?' His answer being in the negative, the 
 book was not gone on with, and the matter dropped. 
 " Meantime the old man was getting worse. On 
 the 27th of April I received this letter : — 
 
 '"Merkland. 
 
 " ' Dear Mr. Buchanan, — We hope this will find 
 you and Mrs. Buchanan in good health. I am not 
 getter any better. The cough still continues. How- 
 ever, I rise every day a while, but it is only to sit by 
 the fire. Weather is so cold I cannot go out except 
 sometimes I get out and walks round yard. / am not 
 looking for betterness. I have nothing particular to 
 say, only we thought you would be thinking us 
 ungrateful in not writing soon. 
 
 " ' I remain, yours ever, 
 
 '"David Gray.'
 
 86 Robert Buchanan 
 
 " On the 9th of May he wrote, ' I have Dr. Stewart 
 to attend me. He called on Sunday and sounded 
 me — he says I am a dying man, and dying fast. You 
 cannot imagine what a weak person I am ; I am 
 nearly bedfast.' On the i6th of May came the last 
 lines I ever received from him. They are almost 
 illegible, and their purport prevents me from printing 
 them here. A few days more, and the old man was 
 dead. His green grave lies in the shadow of the 
 obelisk which stands over his beloved son. Father 
 and child are side by side. A little cloud, a pathetic 
 mystery, came between them in life ; but that is all 
 over. The old hand-loom weaver, who never wrote a 
 verse, unconsciously reached his son's stature ere he 
 passed away. The mysterious thing called ' poetry,' 
 which operated such changes in his simple life, became 
 all clear at last — in that final moment when the world's 
 meanings become transparent, and nothing is left but 
 to swoon back with closed eyes into the darkness, 
 confiding in God's mercy, content either to waken at 
 His footstool, or to rest painlessly for evermore." ^ 
 
 Thus it will be seen that even at a period of 
 his career when most young men are sowing their 
 "wild oats" Robert Buchanan was dispensing that 
 blessed charity for which he afterwards became so 
 famous. 
 
 " He could hear of no case of poverty or suf- 
 fering (wrote Mr. Henry Murray, who knew him 
 intimately for years) and rest until he had relieved it, 
 and for many years he was the milch-cow of every 
 impecunious scribbler in London. His nationality 
 must have cost him many scores of pounds per 
 annum, because, at all times open to the moving 
 influence of a tale of woe, he would always reward 
 ' " David Gray and other Essays."
 
 David Gray, i860 87 
 
 with a double gratuity any such tale that was told 
 with a Scotch accent. The actor who had fallen on 
 evil times dined sumptuously on the day he met 
 Buchanan. Often laughing at himself for being the 
 dupe of people he knew to be morally unworthy, he 
 never knotted his purse-strings for such a reason. It 
 was enough that the applicant was poor. He had 
 little faith in ' organised ' charity, and detested the 
 self-advertisement of the published subscription list. 
 He felt that charity was hardly charity at all unless 
 the alms could pass from hand to hand, accompanied 
 by a word of hopeful cheer which doubled the value 
 of the sift." I 
 
 to* 
 
 ' " Robert Buchanan and other Essays."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 FRIENDSHIPS, 1864 
 
 WITH the death of David Gray his loneliness 
 in the Great City became complete ; almost 
 his only acquaintances being Hepworth Dixon of 
 the AthencEiwi, and other editors for whom he did 
 a little work. His only recreation was the playhouse, 
 and it was one night as he sat in the gallery of the 
 Strand Theatre that he recognised on the stage the 
 face of a player whom he had known slightly during 
 his boyhood in Glasgow. His delight at the recog- 
 nition was great. He hung round the stage door 
 after the performance, waiting for the "extras" to 
 come out, and when the one he sought emerged he 
 eagerly reminded him of their acquaintance. The 
 name of this actor was Edwin Danvers, famous 
 shortly afterwards for his extraordinary perform- 
 ances in Byron's burlesques. At that time Mr. 
 Danvers was not much better off than the boy who 
 had so providentially found him (for the salaries 
 received by actors then were very different to those 
 of the present day), and he had, moreover, a wife and 
 a large family to support, but poor as he was he 
 had the kindly heart and warm hand of a true 
 Bohemian, and he gave his youthful friend a 
 Bohemian's welcome. 
 
 88
 
 Friendships, 1864 89 
 
 They adjourned together to a neighbouring bar, 
 and there drank and spoke of old times till late into 
 the night, and when they parted, with an arrange- 
 ment to meet speedily again, the boy walked home 
 across the Bridge of Sighs with a lighter heart. At 
 last he had discovered some one whom he knew, some- 
 one to whom he could speak of the things he loved 
 — of Scotland, of old friends there, of the wild life 
 among the players, some one who was a fellow-fighter 
 for bread, impecunious yet cheerful, like himself Of 
 course the pair had little or nothing in common, 
 for Mr. Danvers was not in any sense of the word 
 " literary," and he had little or no interest in the art 
 which the youth so passionately loved, but he was 
 frank and free, and perhaps this companionship did 
 more for the poet at that crisis of his career than 
 a more solemn or more learned acquaintance could 
 have done. 
 
 For several Sundays following this first meeting he 
 went by invitation to join the Danvers family at their 
 midday meal, but after a time the two drifted apart, 
 yet the memory of this little gleam of friendship, 
 coming as it did at a time when it meant so much to 
 him, was never erased from his mind. Many years 
 later the two heard of each other again, and now 
 it was the poet who held forth a succouring hand, 
 while the poor old actor, who had fallen upon evil 
 days, had every reason to bless the name of Robert 
 Buchanan. 
 
 The life he led in those days was not altogether 
 that of a serious student. True he worked very hard 
 by day and far into the night, but whenever he had a 
 little money to spare he spent it in the simple dissipa- 
 tions of the Great City. Sometimes, in company with 
 Mr. Danvers or some other " poor player," he would
 
 90 Robert Buchanan 
 
 sail down the river and dance by mooi)light in Rosher- 
 r' ville Gardens. Curiously enough, the pleasantest 
 thing that remained with him was the memory of 
 1^ those little Sunday dinners in Gerrard Street, Soho, 
 where Mr. Danvcrs welcomed him to take " pot luck " 
 with his wife and family, and where the joint cooked 
 at the neighbouring baker's formed the centre of 
 attraction. 
 
 A few years before his death he had rooms in 
 Gerrard Street, and he took me to the window and 
 pointed out the house where Mr. Danvers had lived and 
 where those Sunday dinners had been eaten. " Ah, 
 those days ! " he said, with a sigh. " The merry days 
 when I was young! I shall never again feast so 
 royally or dream so happily as I did then ! " 
 
 Meantime, he knew one or two houses where he 
 was kindly entertained. One of these was the house 
 f 1 of Westland Marston, near Primrose Hill. There he 
 encountered sundry Bohemian journalists and players 
 — Hermann Vezin, Adelaide Neilson, W. G. Wills, 
 and many others. Westland Marston was an earnest 
 and very able man who had written one or two 
 successful dramas, the best known of these being 
 the " Patrician's Daughter," but whose intellectual 
 standards were somewhat old fashioned, either for 
 original creations or great immediate popularity. 
 His wife was very kind to all the young aspirants 
 who frequented her house, and his eldest daughter 
 Nellie interested the poet exceedingly. It seems 
 to have been a curious household. Nearly all the 
 members kept late hours, and did at midnight the 
 work which ought to have been done by day. Mrs. 
 Marston was an ardent spiritualist, and on one 
 occasion the subject of these memoirs was present 
 when she consulted the spirits about the eyes of her
 
 Friendships, 1864 91 
 
 little son Philip, who was even then almost totally 
 blind. It was at the house of Westland Marston 
 that Robert Buchanan met Dinah Muloch, the 
 authoress of " John Halifax, Gentleman." She was 
 some years his senior, and they had no sooner met 
 than she carried him off to her little cottage on the 
 verge of Hampstead Heath, and placed her small 
 library at his command. " You will be a great man," 
 she wrote to him, and he was very proud of the com- 
 pliment. His old friend Hermann Vezin deserves 
 more than a passing mention in these pages, for he 
 is one of the kindest of men, earnest, scholarly, and 
 sympathetic beyond measure to all young strugglers. 
 He it was who " discovered " James Albery and also 
 W. G. Wills, who for a long time had had a terrible 
 fight with fortune. For Mr. Vezin's genius as an 
 actor the poet had then, as always, the profoundest 
 admiration. " No greater piece of acting," I have 
 heard him say, " has been done within my memory 
 than Vezin's ' Man o' Airlie.' " The " Man o' Airlie " 
 was the hero of a play by W. G. Will.% it was founded 
 on some German play and had for its theme the life 
 and death of the poet Burns. My sister, too, was 
 always a warm admirer of Hermann Vezin, and 
 though she differed from her husband on a good 
 many points, she was always at one with him when 
 he spoke with such enthusiasm of the genius of his 
 friend. 
 
 But despite such acquaintances as those which 
 I have mentioned he was still, to use a homely 
 expression, " like a fish out of water." " Many of 
 the men and women whom I met were amusing 
 enough" (he wrote), "but I speedily perceived that 
 literature, instead of widening their ideas and 
 enlarging their views, narrowed both hopelessly.
 
 92 Robert Buchanan 
 
 Wherever I went I heard tittle-tattle, not con- 
 versation — tittle-tattle about books and journals, 
 good and bad notices, and views of what Carlyle 
 called 'able editors.' I remembered with regret 
 nobler talk to which I had listened in my boyhood 
 at my father's table. Many of the individuals I met 
 seemed to me not only ill read and ignorant, but 
 radically unintelligent, and I searched in vain for 
 some young man of my own age with whom I 
 could cultivate a friendship." 
 
 Then it was that he made the acquaintance 
 W^ of Charles Gibbon, who was a year or so younger 
 r than himself. The pair first met at Heme Bay, 
 whither they had gone for a few days' recreation, 
 and on their return to London they set up house- 
 keeping together. Gibbon going to share the 
 "bankrupt garret" in Stamford Street. Besides 
 assisting his friend in the production of copy for 
 Mr. Maxwell, Mr. Gibbon wrote a good deal of 
 fiction on his own account. Although their earnings 
 at that time were not great they were both at work 
 far into the watches of the night, reading, writing, 
 studying, like young fellows cramming for an exami- 
 nation. Every night a pot of strong coffee was set 
 upon the hob, and out of this pot they refreshed 
 themselves, fighting hard against the natural desire 
 for sleep, and again and again tumbling off into a 
 troubled doze till daylight came and they crept 
 wearily to bed. There was no absolute necessity 
 for their burning the midnight oil in this fashion, 
 and indeed the poet never contracted this ugly habit 
 until Mr. Gibbon became his companion. When the 
 poet had a few shillings to spare they were now spent 
 in books, for he was essaying a double task : to earn 
 a living by his pen, and to complete his interrupted 
 
 i 
 
 .*
 
 Friendships, 1864 93 
 
 education. In those vigils he learned his Horace 
 and his Catullus almost by heart, and beginning to 
 study German, soon mastered Goethe's " Faust " from 
 the first page of the first, to the last page of the second 
 part. 
 
 " It was about this time that I seriously thought 
 for the first time in my life of winning instant and 
 certain immortality by killing a publisher ! I had 
 been contributing articles and verses to divers 
 magazines, including Temple Bar and the St. James s 
 Magazine, then under the ownership of Mr. John 
 Maxwell, and in the natural course of things I soon 
 became acquainted with that gentleman — indeed, he 
 sent for me, and made me certain overtures with 
 regard to my contributions. He was a big, burly, 
 florid-faced, loud-spoken Irishman, far from unkindly 
 by disposition, and I am now quite sure, on reviewing 
 my connection with him, that he was of no little 
 service to me in my hard struggle for bread ; indeed, 
 he believed in me when few other people did, and 
 but for him my sufferings in those days would 
 certainly have been acuter. It became my custom to 
 take him from time to time a bundle of manuscript, 
 the length of which he would estimate without read- 
 ing, and for which he would pay me a given sum, 
 ' on the nail.' But his manners had not that repose 
 which distinguishes the cast of Vere de Vere, and as 
 I was very young and proud, I sometimes felt acutely 
 and resented bitterly the style in which he occa- 
 sionally received me. I was, no doubt, a trying 
 young person, full of my own importance, but 
 Maxwell, on the other hand, had a knack of rubbing 
 my vanity the wrong way, and of making me feel 
 myself, as I literally was, a pauper. Add to this, 
 that I was often kept waiting for hours on the
 
 94 Robert Buchanan 
 
 premises in Fleet Street, and that I had sometimes 
 to go away angry and disgusted, without an inter- 
 view at all ; now and then, moreover, the great man 
 was crusty, and wouldn't buy what I wanted to sell, 
 so that I had to depart in despair. Well, for some 
 reason or other, rightly or wrongly, I conceived the 
 idea that Maxwell had used me very badly. I had 
 called once or twice and failed to see him, and the 
 style in which the Publisher's myrmidons received me 
 deepened in me a sultry sense of wrong. So one 
 morning, after several hungry days, I packed up a 
 parcel of manuscript, procured a thick cudgel, and 
 left my lodging with this intimation to my companion 
 in wretchedness, the late Charles Gibbon : ' I am 
 going to see Maxwell — I will see him, and if he is 
 offensive as usual, I will beat out what brains the 
 ruffian possesses and offer him up as a sacrifice to the 
 Muses.' My friend laughed and thought I was 
 joking, but I was really in earnest, and contemplated 
 assault and battery. Off I strode, cudgel in hand, on 
 this truly Christian errand. I cannot tell how it 
 came about, but on entering the Publisher's shop and 
 asking for its master, I was received with effusion, 
 shown up at once into the presence and — well, then 
 and there in the friendliest manner imaginable, Mr. 
 Maxwell bought my manuscript and handed me his 
 little cheque ! 
 
 " Many a time since then I have laughed over this 
 episode, wondering what would have happened if I 
 had proceeded to extremities. I daresay I might 
 have come off worse, for Maxwell was a powerful man 
 and the weights were tremendously in his favour. 
 But if I had assaulted him successfully, how all my 
 future life would have been changed ! I might even 
 have been hanged for killing a Publisher and gone
 
 Friendships, 1864 95 
 
 to the gallows with a flower in my buttonhole, sure 
 of the worship of future generations of impecunious 
 authors ! 
 
 " Seriously I had no real casus belli, for, I repeat, 
 Maxwell had been very kind to me. He was, I am 
 certain, a thoroughly good fellow, while I, no doubt, 
 was an aggressive young imp. Moreover, he never 
 knew how hard my struggle was, and how dangerously 
 near I sometimes was to starvation. A little after 
 this period he gave me the editorship of one of his 
 publications, the moribund Welcome Guest, and it 
 was while I was editing this publication that he sent 
 to me the lady whom he afterwards married, Miss 
 M. E. Braddon. I ran her first story through the 
 Guest and about the same time reviewed in the 
 Atkencsum, at Maxwell's request, her first and only 
 volume of verse. I remember our first interview on 
 the ground floor of the house where I lived in Stam- 
 ford Street, Blackfriars. She was a plump, fair-haired 
 unassuming young girl, while I was a curly-headed, 
 diffident boy, and she must have been amused, I fancy, 
 by my assumption of editorial airs. I trust that I 
 have not conveyed the impression that my first 
 publisher was either ungenerous or inconsiderate. 
 He had no doubt his faults, but he was after all a 
 very different person from some others whom I after- 
 wards encountered. One of these had a playful way 
 of insulting his authors, particularly when they came 
 to him for money which they had earned. It was 
 this gentleman, I am told, who said of me, apropos of 
 a call I had made upon him : ' I can't stand that 
 young fellow — he came into my office and he talked 
 to me as if he was God Almighty, or Lord Byron /'"^ 
 
 By this time his father and mother had come to 
 ' " Latter Day Leaves."
 
 9^ Robert Buchanan 
 
 London and were living in lodgings in the neighbour- 
 hood of the Euston Road. His father found some 
 work on the newspapers, and was also trying 
 his hand at the manufacture of cheap fiction. 
 Nothing seemed to daunt him, yet already the weight 
 of trouble was beginning to bow him down, and he 
 had grown quite grey, Mrs, Buchanan, who was 
 some years his junior, had still the bloom of her early 
 womanhood upon her. She had but one thought in 
 life, the welfare of her son, and when that son pre- 
 sented a happy face to her she was happy too. 
 
 In course of time Mr. and Mrs, Buchanan took 
 lY' a small house in Kentish Town, and scraped together 
 some fragments of furniture to make it habitable. It 
 was a very small house, but it sufficed for their simple 
 needs, and once settled in it Mrs. Buchanan implored 
 her son to come and reside with her. He could not 
 resist the appeal, so he moved to Kentish Town, his 
 companion Charles Gibbon accompanying him, and 
 the two lived together for some time under his father's 
 roof 
 
 At this period he turned his attention to the 
 stage, and was soon busily engaged upon a poetical 
 drama in four acts entitled " The Witch-finder." 
 The scene of this play was laid in New England, 
 at the period of the memorable State persecu- 
 tions for witchcraft, and the leading character was 
 an inspired bigot, who became instrumental, after 
 destroying many helpless women, in procuring the 
 condemnation of his own daughter. The dialogue 
 was in blank verse, with the exception of certain 
 comic scenes, which were written in a sort of Shake- 
 spearean prose. Such literary strength as he 
 possessed at the time was put into this somewhat 
 ambitious play and the result was not altogether
 
 Friendships, 1864 97 
 
 undramatic. He sent this drama to Fechter, then in 
 management at the Lyceum, who informed him that 
 it was a fine work, but so sad and dismal that it 
 oppressed him Hke an evil dream. He then offered 
 it to Phelps, who was quite enthusiastic over it, but 
 for one reason or another hesitated to produce it 
 While the fate of the " Witchfinder " was still 
 undecided, its author collaborated with Charles 
 Gibbon on a dramatisation of Banim's powerful story 
 " Crohoore of the Billhook." This piece, a lurid 
 melodrama, was offered to Richard Edgar, then 
 managing the Standard Theatre in Shoreditch and 
 Sadler's Wells in Islington, and was at once accepted 
 and paid for, the purchase money being the munificent 
 sum of twenty pounds ! 
 
 The " Rathboys," as the dramatisation was called, 
 was produced in due course at the Standard Theatre, 
 and ran successfully for some weeks. The leading 
 character was played by Edmund Phelps, the son of 
 the famous tragedian, and the " comic Irishman," by 
 Thomas Thorne, with whom one of the authors 
 was to have delightful business relations many years 
 later. Before the play was withdrawn from repre- 
 sentation the authors appeared in it themselves, Mr. 
 Gibbon taking the part of a young lover, and Mr. 
 Buchanan that of the hero, called Shadrack the 
 Shingawn. As they knew the play by heart they 
 had no rehearsals. The part played by Mr. Buchanan 
 was that of a hunchback falsely accused of murder, 
 and he made the character so hideously disfigured a 
 monster that somebody inquired whether he was 
 representing Shakespeare's Caliban. Plowever, the 
 audiences out eastward were not critical, and the 
 performance passed off with a certain measure of 
 applause. The crux of the performance came in the 
 
 8
 
 98 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 penultimate act, when Shadrack had to rescue the 
 heroine from a violent death, descending by a rope 
 from the top of a precipice, seizing the heroine in his 
 arms as she swung over the abyss from the branch of 
 a tree, and ascending with her to the cliffs above. 
 For this effect, which demanded an athlete rather 
 than an actor, there had, as I have said, been no 
 rehearsal, and it is more than probable that the 
 aspiring actor showed some little doubt and trepida- 
 tion, for the lady whom he was to save was in agonies 
 of terror. However, all went well. Shadrack 
 descended by a rope from the flies, clasped the lady 
 in his arms, and was drawn back amid round after 
 round of deafening applause. 
 
 In a kindly notice of Mr. Buchanan, written just 
 after his death (1901), and published in M.A.P., 
 Mr. T. P. O'Connor said : " In his reminiscences I do 
 not find any mention of one stage in Buchanan's life 
 which was very interesting. He was employed as a 
 small actor, if I mistake not, at the Britannia, or some 
 other of the popular suburban theatres, and I think 
 I have heard that his somewhat bulky form was one 
 night precipitated from the rope on which, as Myles- 
 na-Coppaleen in Boucicault's play, he was crossing 
 the Lake of Killarney." 
 
 The episode which I have related is doubtless the 
 one referred to, only it has got altered in the telling. 
 Anyhow, Mr. Buchanan was never a salaried actor, 
 and he never, to my knowledge, played the part of 
 Myles-na-Coppaleen. Encouraged by the success of 
 the " Rathboys," Mr. Edgar arranged for the produc- 
 tion of the poetical play, the " Witchfinder," at Sadler's 
 Wells, and it met with an excellent reception. The 
 leading male part, Matthew Holt, was played by the 
 late George Melville, while the late Miss Mariot
 
 Friendships, 1864 99 
 
 personated a mad youth, one Elijah Holt, whose 
 brain had been turned by the denunciation of his 
 mother by himself, and by her subsequent execution 
 for witchcraft. The other characters were well sus- 
 tained, and the piece had a fair local run, but it was 
 the last attempt made by the poet for many years to 
 conquer a foothold on the stage. After the " Witch- 
 finder" had had its run, he turned aside from the 
 theatre, and for some time devoted himself to litera- 
 ture pure and simple.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 MARRIAGE, 1 86 1 
 
 ■•} 
 
 IT was towards the close of the year 1861 that he 
 married my sister, who was not yet out of her 
 teens, and who was afterwards known among his 
 friends as " Buchanan's lovely wife." " She was " 
 (wrote Mr. O'Connor in M. A. P.) "a very beautiful 
 woman, stately and statuesque in figure, with beauti- 
 fully chiselled, regular features, fine eyes, and a gay 
 and almost bubbling spirit. But early in her married 
 life she was attacked by one of those painful internal 
 maladies which are the death of health and domestic 
 happiness, and often she suffered tortures. Indeed, I 
 remember seeing her once laughing and chattering 
 like some bright singing bird, and in the midst of it 
 a shade suddenly fell upon her face, and turning to 
 me she said : ' If you speak to me, I shall have to 
 burst into tears.' I was young in years and even 
 younger in experience, and knew nothing at that 
 time of that strange world of laughter and tears, of 
 heroic suffering and tragic depression, which is the 
 world of the invalid woman, but the moment remained 
 with me afterwards, an illuminating glimpse into the 
 unfathomable depths of secret and silent sorrow and 
 pain in which we move unconsciously among our 
 fellow men and women."
 
 Mary Bfchanax. 
 
 (The Poet's Wife.) 
 
 To fac* -paqn lOO.
 
 Marriage, 1861 10 1 
 
 At one period of her life Mr. O'Connor knew her 
 extremely well, and she on her side always enter- 
 tained a very warm feeling of friendship for him, but 
 his knowledge of her did not begin till many years 
 after her marriage, and in writing the above he is 
 speaking of a time when her beauty would of neces- 
 sity have become dimmed by a foreshadowing of 
 the terrible anguish through which she was destined 
 to pass. 
 
 Shortly after his marriage Mr. Buchanan went to 
 Denmark. " Being one of the very few Englishmen 
 of that day who knew the Danish language, he went 
 to Schleswig-Holstein towards the end of the war as 
 correspondent of the Morning Star. It was on his 
 return from thence that he wrote so freely on 
 Scandinavian literature, an unknown world to the 
 bookmen of that day." i He was accompanied on 
 this expedition by his father (who also, I should 
 imagine, went in some official capacity), and during 
 the absence of the pair the young wife went to stay 
 with her mother-in-law, who at that time was living 
 in the neighbourhood of Shepherd's Bush. It was 
 during that visit to Denmark that he met Hans 
 Christian Andersen ; he also visited the famous 
 Thorwaldsen Museum, and was so much impressed 
 by the figures of Christ and the Apostles, that he 
 purchased the one of Christ and brought it home as 
 a present to his wife. For a further record of those 
 days I must give his own words, 
 
 " I did some occasional work for All the Year 
 Round, and received for it a more liberal remunera- 
 tion. These desultory contributions would hardly 
 have served to keep me in bread and butter, had they 
 not been supplemented by a leader on current 
 
 ' Pearson's Weekly.
 
 I02 Robert Buchanan 
 
 politics sent weekly to a newspaper in Ayr. One 
 literary engagement, however, soon led to another ; 
 and I was in high spirits indeed on the morning I 
 received a letter from Edmund Yates informing me 
 that he was subediting, under Sala, a new magazine to 
 be called Temple Bar^ and that Dickens had given 
 him my name, among others, as that of a useful con- 
 tributor. " Let me have your copy as soon as 
 possible," Yates concluded, without even a suggestion 
 that it might be disapproved. Shortly afterwards, 
 when Temple Bar started, I became a constant con- 
 tributor, and the pay, compared to what I had hitherto 
 received, was princely. 
 
 "In after years, when he fell foul of me for an 
 article from my pen, called the ' Newest Thing in 
 Journalism,' ^ poor Yates asserted that his first know- 
 ledge of me was when ' I went to him with a letter 
 of introduction from John Hollingshead.' This was 
 a mistake, though it is quite true that I did have such 
 a letter in my possession, and that I possibly presented 
 it afterwards ; it had been procured for me from 
 Hollingshead, whom I did not then know, by Sydney 
 Dobell. It was not until I was an accepted contribu- 
 tor to Temple Bar that I met Yates in his rooms at 
 the General Post Office, where he was a sort of under- 
 secretary. He was a bright, cheery, somewhat loud- 
 spoken young man, who had drifted into journalism 
 via Thackeray and the Garrick Club, and he might 
 be described as a very favourable specimen of the 
 litterateur who was not essentially, or by tempera- 
 ment and education, literary. He wrote gossips for 
 the journals — chatty, personal gossip of a kind not 
 then so familiar as it is nowadays ; and in the course 
 of his lightsome work he had written with unpleasant 
 ' Published in the Contemporary Review.
 
 Marriage, 1861 103 
 
 personality of Thackeray's nose. Thackeray protested 
 that Yates, a fellow-member of the Garrick Club, had 
 broken the code of honour among gentlemen by 
 utilising his knowledge as a club-man to insult him, 
 Thackeray, and as a result, in spite of a strong 
 remonstrance from Dickens, Yates was expelled. It 
 was an unpleasant business, very contemptible and 
 very trivial. I am quite certain that Yates erred out 
 of sheer gaite de cceur, and not from malice ; indeed, 
 his respect for the great novelist was almost idolatrous. 
 Afterwards, when I visited him at his house in St. 
 John's Wood, I found a large portrait of Thackeray 
 hanging over his study table. He told me the whole 
 story over whiskey and water, and the tears rolled 
 down his manly cheeks as he did so, avowing both his 
 sorrow and his adoration. 
 
 " All this time, while working diligently to make 
 the pot boil, I was studying hard and writing verses 
 to please myself. I had a few friends, the brightest 
 and happiest influence upon me was that of Thomas 
 Love Peacock, the friend of Shelley, and the kindliest 
 and most wise of scholars. He was living at Lower 
 Halliford, on the Thames, and in order to be near 
 him I took lodgings at Chertsey, only sleeping occa- 
 sionally under his hospitable roof It was rest and 
 inspiration indeed to pass from the roar of Grub 
 Street and the strident Sixties into the peaceful 
 atmosphere of the brave old pagan's dwelling, to 
 drink May Rosewell's cowslip wine, and to boat on 
 the quiet river with Clari Leigh Hunt, a bright-eyed 
 little maid of fifteen and Peacock's special pet. It 
 was under Peacock's influence that I wrote many 
 of my pseudo-classic poems, afterwards gathered 
 together in my first volume, ' Undertones.' " ^ 
 ■ M. A. P. (" In the Days of my Youth ").
 
 u 
 
 104 Robert Buchanan 
 
 Another friend of those early days was the late 
 ^V Mr. William Black, ^ now so well and widely known 
 as a writer of fiction. The two saw a good deal of 
 each other at one time, but afterwards, through some 
 misunderstanding, he and the poet drifted apart. His 
 sister, Mrs. J, G. Morten, whom he described in his 
 novels as " Queen Titania," was ever our warm friend, 
 as also his niece. Miss Honnor Morten, who is known 
 far and wide as an authority on hospital nursing and 
 charitable works in general. 
 
 ' Mr. Black died at Brighton in 1898, and was buried at 
 Rottingdean.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 G. H. LEWES AND ROBERT BROWNING, 1 862 
 
 AVERY powerful influence was that of the 
 late G. H. Lewes, whose name, coupled with 
 that of the lady so well and widely known as 
 " George Eliot," appears very frequently both in the 
 published work and private letters of Mr. Buchanan. 
 
 " At the time when my friend and companion David 
 Gray was in busy correspondence with Sydney Dobell, 
 I was first opening up communication with George 
 Henry Lewes. Lewes was well known to me as a man 
 of letters and a powerful critic, as well as the friend 
 and adviser of 'George Eliot;' and I was attracted to 
 him by a certain catholicity or liberality of temper 
 which animated those of his works with which I was 
 familiar. About that time I had completed, in 
 addition to divers poems in the classical manner, a 
 number of blank verse idyls or pastorals, in which I had 
 utilised to some extent my knowledge of Nature, and 
 which, though crude enough, were certainly attempts 
 in a praiseworthy direction. Altogether undecided 
 as to the value of my attempts, and anxious to secure 
 an authoritative opinion, I one day despatched to 
 Lewes a formidable parcel, consisting of all sorts of 
 poems, and accompanied with a letter, in which I 
 requested him to tell me honestly if, in his opinion, I 
 
 was a Poet. The reply came very speedily, in a long 
 
 105
 
 io6 Robert Buchanan 
 
 and kindly letter which began by putting my pseudo- 
 classical efforts as comparatively unimportant, and 
 then proceeded as follows : ' But in the pastorals I 
 recognised a different talent, and perhaps a future poet. 
 I say "perhaps" because I do not know your age, and 
 because there are so many poetical blossoms which 
 never come to fruit ; but these poems are original, or, 
 at any rate, individual. If you would keep them by 
 you for a time, strengthening the weak lines, as 
 Tennyson elaborately does, I have no doubt that the 
 best sort of success would attend them. If my 
 advice is of any value, however, write as much as you 
 feel impelled to write at present, but publish nothing. 
 If you publish now you will get classed. The public 
 will come to know you as a clever verse-writer, and 
 will be slow, very slow, to believe anything else, 
 whatever you may have become.' He ended by 
 conjuring me to wait, at any rate some years, before 
 thinking of publication." ^ 
 
 Some years later, when the boy had become a man 
 and had settled down in London, he wrote to Mr. Lewes 
 to remind him of their correspondence. The answer 
 to this letter was cordial in the extreme, and Mr. 
 Lewes begged that his youthful friend would present 
 ,/, himself at the Priory, North Bank, Regent's Park, 
 where he was then living. It was an invitation of 
 which he was not slow to avail himself; and thus the 
 two met for the first time. " Remembering Douglas 
 Jerrold's description of him, I was agreeably surprised 
 to meet a little, bright, not ill-looking man of between 
 forty and fifty, with a magnificent forehead, bright, 
 intelligent eyes, and a manner full of intellectual 
 grace. True, he was not physically beautiful. The 
 great defects of the face were the coarse, almost 
 ' " Latter Day Leaves."
 
 Lewes and Browning, 1862 107 
 
 sensual-looking mouth, with its protruding teeth, 
 partly covered by a bristly moustache, and the small, 
 retreating chin ; but when the face lighted up and 
 the eyes sparkled and the mouth began its eloquent 
 discourse, every imperfection was forgotten. 
 
 " Lunching one day at the Priory, tete-d-tcte with 
 * George Eliot ' and Lewes, I told them, among 
 other stories of my youthful experience, the story of 
 David Gray — his wild, dreamy youth, his strange 
 ambition, his early death. Both of my hearers were 
 deeply moved, and Lewes, with tears in his eyes, 
 exclaimed when I had finished, ' Tell that story to 
 the public too ! Tell it as simply and vividly as 
 you have told it to us this morning, and let Smith 
 and Elder publish it in their magazine.' Upon this 
 hint I wrote my little memoir, which was eagerly 
 accepted for publication in the Cornhill, then under 
 the editorship of Frederick Greenwood. About this 
 time I was busily engaged in writing, or rather com- 
 pleting, a series of Scotch stories in verse, afterwards 
 published under the title of ' Idyls and Legends of 
 Inverburn.' Not without trepidation I showed one 
 of the poems, ' Willie Baird,' to Lewes, and, to my 
 great delight, he praised it enthusiastically. ' Publish 
 a volume of such stories,' he said, ' and your fortune 
 is made.' I then sent him the long narrative poem 
 called ' Two Babes.' ' Better and better,' he wrote 
 immediately upon reading it. Not content with 
 empty praise, he communicated with Mr. George 
 Smith, of Smith and Elder, and urged him to secure 
 the work without delay." ^ 
 
 Though his relations with Mr. Lewes seem to have 
 been of a very friendly character, he was evidently 
 not so well disposed towards the lady of the house. 
 
 ' " Latter Day Leaves."
 
 io8 Robert Buchanan 
 
 He hated anything Hke pretence or affectation, and 
 the airs of mysterious greatness which George EHot 
 thought fit to assume were particularly repugnant to 
 him. 
 
 *' She posed behind a curtain, and Lewes acted as 
 showman. No one could approach the oracle save 
 with reverence, fear, and bated breath. If she was 
 'composing' she must not be disturbed ; if she 
 descended from the tripod, it was a godlike con- 
 descension ; if she deigned, in that deep voice of hers, 
 to make a remark about the weather, it was celestial 
 thunder ; if she joked, which she did ' wi' difficulty,' 
 as we say in Scotland, her joke was summer lightning 
 on Minerva's brow. This state of affairs was com- 
 plicated by the fact of her peculiar relationship to 
 Lewes. She had few female acquaintances, and those 
 only worshippers, and her attitude towards the out- 
 side world, while sternly contemptuous, was at the 
 same time morbidly uneasy. 
 
 " I am obliged to confess that my attitude towards 
 the Sybil, when I was introduced to her by Lewes, 
 was always somewhat irreverent. I was an impu- 
 dent youngster, but I hated absolutism in any form. 
 Towards any godhead which I really worshipped — 
 towards Dickens, for example — I could have abased 
 myself in the dust. But it unluckily happened that 
 the works of George Eliot had never stirred me very 
 deeply, and that I was rather amused than awed by 
 her personality. Of course I kept my heterodoxy to 
 myself as much as possible, but I am afraid that it 
 oozed through my otherwise respectful manner, and 
 at times I frankly suggested that not even great 
 Genius had any right to assume airs of superiority 
 towards broad Humanity. With Lewes himself, 
 moreover, I had to be very careful ; he was very
 
 Lewes and Browning, 1862 109 
 
 kind to me, but as the price of his sympathy he 
 demanded a certain acquiescence which I could not 
 always give, and my impudence more than once 
 provoked him into angry remonstrance. Once, 
 indeed, when I asserted myself a little too strongly, 
 he threatened that if I did not behave myself he 
 would give me the cold shoulder, to which my reply 
 was, I fear, ' Give me the cold shoulder, and be 
 hanged.' 
 
 " The last time I met Lewes was shortly after I 
 published my diatribe on the * Fleshly School of 
 Poetry,' and when I was being shot at from all the 
 countless batteries of coterie criticism. He was 
 walking in Regent's Park, not far from Clarence 
 Gate, and George Eliot, now Mrs. Lewes, was with 
 him. Both looked worn and old. The Sybil wore a 
 black silk skirt over a crinoline, an old-fashioned 
 bonnet and mantle ; she stooped very much, and 
 looked quite an aged woman. I stopped and spoke 
 to them for a few moments, and then the Sybil 
 walked on while I still held Lewes by the hand. He 
 said very little, but his manner was so cold and pecu- 
 liar, that at last I released him and let him go. That 
 night I wrote to him and asked if I had offended him 
 in any way. He sent me a long, rambling letter in 
 reply, from which I vaguely gathered that he thought 
 I had done something very dreadful, showing (he 
 said) an indifference to the rights of others of which 
 he should not have thought me capable. He alluded, 
 no doubt, to my article in the Contemporary Review^ 
 and to the subsequent pamphlet, but beyond that 
 allusion I knew lay the knowledge that I had written 
 somewhat coldly of George Eliot's poetry. I was not 
 much surprised, for I knew that Lewes had many 
 close friends among the pre-Raphaelite critics, but I
 
 no Robert Buchanan 
 
 was so angry with his attitude towards me that I 
 sent him an angry reply, I saw him once or twice 
 afterwards, but we never came face to face again. 
 
 " It was at Lewes's house that I first met Robert 
 Browning, whom I had long regarded with idolatry. 
 I had heard he was in London, and had begged 
 George Eliot to introduce me to him if possible, and 
 the opportunity came at a little gathering to which 
 both he and I were invited. It was shortly after the 
 publication in the Corn/nil Magasme of my memorials 
 of David Gray, in the course of which I mentioned 
 that my friend, in one of his wild moods, had 
 thought of 'going to Italy/ and 'throwing himself 
 on the sympathy of Robert Browning.' I found to 
 my delight that Browning had been much pleased 
 and interested by this allusion, and in the course of 
 our first conversation he assured me that he would 
 have given the poor boy a kindly welcome. 
 
 " We had a long and pleasant talk together, and 
 after we had shaken hands with an arrangement to 
 meet again, George Eliot took me aside, and said, 
 smiling, ' Well, are you disappointed ? Does he 
 realise your expectations ? ' My reply was candour 
 itself. I said that I was disappointed, though heaven 
 knows what I had expected ! I was little more than 
 a boy, very full of Quixotic fancies, and very ignorant 
 of the world, and perhaps I expected to find in 
 the poet, whom I so greatly admired and revered, a 
 less commonplace and more romantic personality. 
 According to Lewes, with whom I afterwards dis- 
 cussed my new acquaintance, Browning was morbidly 
 sensitive to criticism, and eager for any kind of 
 praise ; indeed Leigh Hunt had said, Lewes assured 
 me, that Browning was so hungry for general 
 approval, that he ' coveted that even of his own
 
 Lewes and Browning, 1862 iii 
 
 washerwoman!' There can be no doubt whatever 
 that the poet was somewhat disheartened by his 
 continuous failure to reach the great public, and by 
 the contemptuous treatment generally accorded him 
 by the newspaper critics. He had just published 
 ' Dramatis Personae,' and I had reviewed it at con- 
 siderable length, with boyish ardour and enthusiasm, 
 in a monthly magazine. It was the remembrance of 
 this earliest enthusiasm that caused Browning to 
 describe me, in answer to the statement that I had 
 no appreciation of my own contemporaries, as ' the 
 kindest critic lie had ever had ! ' 
 
 " Our relations though friendly were never those of 
 unreserved intimacy. I was many years his junior, 
 and had been reared in a rougher school ; I had 
 neither his dilettante tastes nor his dilettante omni- 
 science. My attitude towards him, moreover, was 
 that of a pupil to a teacher, to one whose intellectual 
 position was assured, while mine was, to say the best 
 of it, uncertain. But for this very reason I was pre- 
 pared to recognise the moral greatness in him, and 
 even to exaggerate the signs of a superior wisdom. 
 I realised, however, very reluctantly, that, apart from 
 his books, which were still a priceless treasure to me, 
 he had little or no intellectual stimulus to give me. 
 Many of his opinions seemed narrow, some of them 
 even childish. They seemed to me essentially the 
 opinions of a man in good society, less concerned 
 with the great movements of Humanity than with 
 the fleeting artistic phenomena of the hour. On 
 some of the great subjects which concern our happi- 
 ness as conditioned beings, he scarcely seemed to 
 have thought at all. 
 
 " I was greatly struck by this fact, just before the 
 publication of his poem ' La Saisiaz.' He had
 
 112 Robert Buchanan 
 
 returned from an excursion to Switzerland in com- 
 pany with his sister Sarah Ann and a lady to whom 
 he was much attached — Miss Egerton Smith, pro- 
 prietoress of the Liverpool Meixury. One morning 
 just as they w^ere preparing for a mountain excursion, 
 Miss Smith had died suddenly and painlessly, with- 
 out any previous warning whatever of indisposition. 
 Well, he came to my rooms in Gloucester Place, 
 Regent's Park, and we had scarcely shaken hands 
 before he began volubly to tell me of what had 
 occurred, and to express his natural amazement and 
 sorrow at the catastrophe. His feelings appeared to 
 me those of simple horror, or, if I may use the word 
 without any suggestion of personal timidity, of 
 terror. ' If such things can be,' he cried, 'there is 
 nothing safe in life whatever. At any moment we 
 may be struck down suddenly and swept away ! ' 
 I wondered, remembering many of the beautiful 
 things he had written on the subject of death, and 
 quoted to him, I remember, certain lines of verse 
 without telling him that they were my own : — 
 
 " ' We mortals are as men on ships at sea, 
 And oft forget how Ihin a plank divides 
 Our lives from the abyss in which we sail.' 
 
 But this particular occurrence, he suggested, was 
 so extraordinary, so unanticipated — he had been 
 familiar with Death before, but it had always 
 approached with some kind of warning, and he 
 proceeded to describe in detail, as he afterwards 
 described in his poem, the piteous circumstances of 
 the event which had so amazed him. His manner 
 was that of a child startled amid its play, by a 
 lightning-flash which strikes down one of its com-
 
 Lewes and Browning, 1862 113 
 
 panions. He was completely agitated and unstrung. 
 Early in our acquaintance we had several verbal 
 battles, in which, I need hardly say, I was easily 
 vanquished. On one occasion, when I was lunching 
 at his house, I was unsuspecting enough to avow my 
 deep admiration for the American Poet, Walt Whit- 
 man. No sooner had I done so than I found that I 
 had loosened an avalanche. 
 
 " No words were strong enough, no terms indignant 
 enough, to express my host's loathing and contempt 
 for poor Walt, and chiefly on moral grounds ! As 
 far as I was able, I stuck up for the defence of the 
 man whom I reverenced this side of idolatry ; but it 
 was of no use, I was buried under the attack of 
 Browning's copious vocabulary, and could only pant 
 for breath. The squabble, the first serious one I 
 had ever had with Browning, lasted until I rose to 
 go, very glad indeed to get out of range. The next 
 morning, to my amazement, I received a letter from 
 the poet, which, for reasons of propriety, I am unable 
 to print verbatim. The mischief was out, however. 
 Although it did not appear that Browning had 
 studied Whitman at all (which was singular seeing 
 what an omnivorous reader Browning was) he was 
 ready to pass judgment on him and to condemn him 
 to instant execution, simply on the score of some 
 miserable and possibly garbled quotation carried to 
 him at secondhand. 
 
 " This struck me as neither right nor generous, 
 and I had looked for something different from the 
 poet of the ' Ring and the Book.' I suppose I had 
 pitched my note of praise too high, and so my 
 admiration of another modern poet was resented as 
 an act of disloyalty, for I was busy just then in 
 asserting, through the medium of the Athenceuin and 
 
 9
 
 \ . ^ 
 
 114 Robert Buchanan 
 
 other journals, that Browning was the biggest 
 literary force we had had since Shakespeare. I have 
 modified my opinion since then, but I am still con- 
 vinced that Shakespeare had no more doughty 
 descendant, and that the words of the modern man 
 contain passages which it would be difficult to 
 surpass, even in the writings of his great Master. 
 
 " My last meeting with him was at one of the 
 Royal Academy soirees, which follow the annual 
 dinner. By that time we had fallen asunder a good 
 deal, though we never had had any open disagree- 
 ment, but as years wore on my enthusiasm had 
 lessened, and I was not in the way of being useful 
 to him as a friendly critic. We had only exchanged 
 a handshake and a few words, but I felt that his 
 manner was a little chilly, I was informed after- 
 wards that at the Academy dinner, when Lecky, in 
 responding to the toast of Literature, had startled 
 the company by generously and warmlyl eulogizing 
 my ' City of Dream,' Browning had murmured to 
 his next neighbour, ' Of whom is he speaking ? Of 
 Buchanan, the writer of plays?' I was just then 
 collaborating with Sims on a melodrama for the 
 Adelphi, and the question was construed by those 
 who heard it, as an expression of ironical contempt. 
 
 " Naturally enough Browning may have fancied 
 that in writing plays for the market I was selling my 
 birthright for a mess of pottage, but he knew better 
 than most men that I had no option — it was either 
 that or practical starvation. Had he been less in the 
 world and more liberal-minded, he might have 
 remembered that to hew wood and draw water as a 
 means of subsistence does not necessarily imply any 
 loss of self-respect, and he would have observed that, 
 so far at least as my work was concerned, I was
 
 Lewes and Browning, 1862 115 
 
 passing higher and higher towards my own ideal. 
 On former occasions he had proclaimed his admira- 
 tion for my work in terms as strong as any used 
 by Lecky, and I cannot help thinking that, had I 
 still been writing criticism, he might have been more 
 tolerant of my occasional backslidings in literature. 
 I well remember our meeting just after I had pub- 
 lished ' White Rose and Red ' anonymously. He 
 bounded into my rooms with outstretched hands, and 
 almost before we had exchanged a word launched 
 out into eager eulogy of the work. I said something 
 in smiling deprecation, but he did not listen. * O, 
 it's a beautiful poem ! a beautiful poem ! ' he cried 
 again and again, with florid emphasis on the 
 adjective. I think he was honest, and I am sure 
 I hope so ; but I had powerful organs at my com- 
 mand at that time, and he knew it."
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 FIRST BOOKS, 1 863-66 
 
 E AN WHILE the young poet who was 
 working very steadily, was taking Mr. 
 Lewes's advice "not to publish too hastily." But 
 much as he valued the opinion of his friends he 
 longed to challenge public opinion, and as a result 
 his first volume of poems was given to the world. 
 The volume, which was entitled " Undertones," was 
 
 ^ published by Moxon and Co., towards the close of 
 the year 1863, and the reception of it was cordial 
 enough to satisfy even the wildest dreams of its 
 author, for not only had he justified Mr. Lewes's faith 
 in him, but he had secured for himself, at one bound, 
 the much-coveted title of " Poet." His second volume 
 of verse, " Idyls and Legends of Inverburn," was pub- 
 lished in May, 1865, and the reception given to this 
 book was even more encouraging than that which 
 was accorded to his first venture. " The reputation 
 
 X ^ which the earlier poems of Mr. Buchanan have 
 acquired for him among all lovers of poetry cannot 
 fail," said the Sunday Times, " to be greatly enhanced 
 by this latest production of his ripening muse. It is 
 by no means a constant rule that the promise con- 
 tained in the early poems of an author is fulfilled in 
 
 his later career. Youth is as completely associated 
 
 116
 
 First Books, 1863-66 117 
 
 with poetry as Spring with blossoms, but with most 
 men the leaves of poetry are soon shed, and the 
 bloom, after its first short day of beauty, disappears 
 and is seen no more. The publication of a first 
 volume of poems implies therefore little, the ap- 
 pearance of a second volume, on the contrary 
 implies much. It means that poetry is not the mere 
 delight of youthful days, but the chosen and acknow- 
 ledged profession of a life, that the author claims 
 frankly to be received into that noble confraternity of 
 bards from whose lips we have received our most 
 noble teaching, and at whose hands we obtain all that 
 refines and makes pleasant our life. On the present 
 volume, then, if what we have stated be true, Mr. 
 Buchanan rests his claim to be considered as a poet, and 
 that claim few will be found to deny him. The voice of 
 poetry seldom spoke more plainly or more loud than 
 it does in the ' Idyls and Legends of Inverburn,' and 
 those whom the exquisite fancy and rich sensuous 
 grace of ' Undertones ' had prepared for much, will 
 find, we think, in this volume their most sanguine 
 anticipations outgone." The second volume was 
 published by Alexander Strahan, who at the same 
 time took over the volume of " Undertones " from 
 Moxon and Co. With this business transaction 
 began a friendship between Mr. Buchanan and his 
 publisher which only terminated with the poet's 
 death. On hearing of this Mr. Strahan wrote : " It 
 is with a pang of regret that I hear of the terrible 
 blow which has fallen upon you and upon your wide 
 circle of friends, to say nothing of the world at large, 
 who are indebted to Robert Buchanan for many 
 priceless works which will touch their hearts to noble 
 issues for many a day to come. He certainly did not 
 live in vain, although had he been spared to live a 
 
 -V
 
 ^ 
 
 ii8 Robert Buchanan 
 
 little loiif^er, he would undoubtedly have enriched the 
 world still more than he has done. Peace be with 
 him. His good qualities, and they were not few, 
 were always appreciated and admired by me, and 
 the world will not be the same to me now that this 
 brave, unselfish man has gone from us — that the 
 throbs of his wildly beating heart have ceased for ever. 
 " I suppose it is the case that all true passion makes 
 us dumb — the deepest grief as well as the highest 
 happiness seizes us too violently to be expressed by 
 our words. At all events I am made to feel, in 
 presence of this calamity, that silence is the per- 
 fectest expression of sorrow, for I should be but little 
 grieved if I could say how much." 
 
 Just before the publication of " Idyls and Legends 
 of Inverburn " the state of my sister's health became 
 such as to make it quite clear that a permanent 
 residence in London was not to be thought of, so the 
 young couple removed to the (then) little village of 
 
 |\i\ Bexhill, and settled down for a time in a quaint 
 gabled house built of red brick and surrounded with 
 wonderful stretches of garden ground and orchard. 
 The cottage was owned by a retired cobbler of 
 Socialistic leanings, who attended to the garden, 
 while his wife acted as general servant. After a time 
 their domestic circle was enlarged by the appearance 
 upon the scene of the late Mr. Gentles and Mr. 
 
 '^' Walter Maclaren, who has since become so well and 
 widely known as a painter of Italian scenes. Another 
 and a deeper friendship also dates from this time, for 
 it was in the summer of 1865 that the subject of these 
 memoirs made the acquaintance of the Hon. Roden 
 
 '^^* Noel, for whom, all his life, he entertained feelings of 
 deep affection. At the time of which I write Mr. 
 Noel was staying at Hastings with his father, the late
 
 First Books, 1863-66 119 
 
 Earl of Gainsborough, and he walked over one fine 
 day and sent in his card while the Bohemians were 
 at dinner. In those days Robert Buchanan was 
 Radical to the finger-tips, and the prefix " honour- 
 able " on the young patrician's card awoke a strong 
 prejudice within him, but no sooner had he come face 
 to face with his visitor, and shaken his hand, and 
 looked into his eyes, than he was spellbound with 
 the thrill of love which began that day between them 
 and lasted till the day Mr. Noel died. 
 
 " It is a far cry to that time now (wrote Mr. 
 Buchanan in 1884), to the time when we swam 
 together in the tumbling waters of the Channel, 
 wandered in the Sussex lanes and talked of the old 
 poets and the old gods. I got one of my first lessons '-i^ 
 
 in toleration when I first met and talked with the 
 aged Earl of Gainsborough, simple, child-like, a 
 Christian, and with that beautiful soul his Countess, 
 a peerless woman and a loving mother. From this 
 good and gracious stock came Roden Noel, fortunate 
 in an inheritance of sane and gentle blood. His early 
 youth had been spent at his father's seat in Rutland- 
 shire, and at the Irish seat of his maternal grand- 
 father, the Earl of Roden. At twenty he went to 
 Cambridge with a view of studying for the Church, 
 but religious scruples intervened and he never took 
 orders. Soon after taking his degree he spent two 
 long years in the East, visiting Egypt and the Holy 
 Land, Lebanon, Greece, and Turkey, and gathering in 
 the course of many romantic adventures the materials 
 for some of his finest poetry. His marriage took 
 place during this pilgrimage, and was a little romance 
 in itself. Struck down with fever at Beyrout, he was 
 nursed back to life by Madame de Broe, wife of the 
 director of the Ottoman Bank, and he married her
 
 I20 Robert Buchanan 
 
 eldest daughter Alice shortly after his recovery. 
 That marriage, I think, was the crown of a fortunate 
 life ! It has kept this poet calm and happy at a time 
 when most of us are troubled and storm-tossed, and 
 it has given to him the consecration of a pure 
 domestic love. While others have been fiehtinQ- with 
 windmills and struggling for bread, peace and rest 
 have dwelt with the young wayfarer from Hellas ; and 
 if he has known, as all must know, the acute agonies of 
 human sorrow, if his hearth has been darkened by the 
 wings of the destroying Angel, the issue has still been 
 holy, thanks to the faith that comes to us throucrh 
 Love alone. Often as his thoughts may wander back 
 to Hellas, while the pagan stirs within his blood and 
 he hears from afar the voices of the Dryad and the 
 Naiad, the Satyr and Sylvanus, he has learnt by his 
 own fire the one great modern lesson — that the god 
 of Humanity has conquered and subdued to his own 
 likeness all the gods of the world that lies beneath 
 his feet." i 
 
 It was in the year 1894 that this dear friend was 
 stricken down in death, when on his way to Stuttgart, 
 and on hearing of the sad calamity the poet made 
 the following entry in his diary : — 
 
 " If I survive beyond this lingering cloud of Time, 
 those whom I have loved will survive with me, and 
 not least of these is the beloved friend who was taken 
 from me yesterday. He has been writing verses and 
 publishing them for nearly half a century, yet few 
 readers even know his name. A noble-hearted man, 
 he has dwelt upon the skirts of life and literature, 
 independent of all necessity to work for bread, and 
 yet eager and willing to take his part in the great 
 
 ' Preface to the Poems (Canterbury Edition) of the Hon. 
 Roden Noel.
 
 First Books, 1863-66 121 
 
 strife of modern thought. If any writer of verse 
 possessed the deep poetic heart, it was certainly 
 Roden Noel." 
 
 The first visit paid by Mr. Noel to the good old 
 cobbler's cottage was only the prelude to many 
 others, for the friendship, begun so auspiciously, 
 throve apace. 
 
 " Even as I saw him approaching many years ago, 
 my heart went out to meet him in the full certainty 
 that he could speak to me of the hidden things of 
 Hellas, of the vanished Wonderland where gods were 
 born. This he surely did, so that for me, as for 
 Sainte-Beuve, Ganymede, Pan^ and the Water-Nymph 
 lived again. ... I do not know, I have not cared to 
 inquire to what extent and in what measure Roden 
 Noel accepts the popular religion (to my thinking a 
 poet's opinions are of little consequence so long as 
 they do not imply belief in baseness), but it is from 
 popular religion that he derives his second great 
 quality as a poet, that of moral exaltation. No singer 
 of our time is so eager to perceive, so quick to appre- 
 hend the problem of Evil ; in poem after poem he 
 shows himself alive, not merely to personal sorrow, 
 but to the pain of Humanity at large; yet no singer of 
 our time of equal gifts is so stirred to exalted utter- 
 ance by a spiritual message. Let it be noted that the 
 poet's religious mood is as childlike and primitive, as 
 direct and simple, as his former mood of pagan 
 sensuousness. Nowhere in our language is personal 
 sorrow more supremely expressed than in the noble 
 series of poems called with touching tenderness, ' A 
 Little Child's Monument' This is a book for all 
 loving souls, above all for the bereaven, and I am 
 glad to know that its popularity with the great public 
 has been in proportion to its merits as poetry. It is
 
 122 Robert Buchanan 
 
 not only with his own suffering as an individual, 
 however, that the poet has to deal. His personal 
 sorrow is merely a key to the great heart of humanity. 
 Just as surely as he felt the joy and sunlight of the 
 pagan world, does he feel the storm and stress of the 
 post-Christian. The same vivid keenness of perception, 
 of insight, is brought to bear here as there. Every- 
 where in the poem, ' Poor People's Christmas,' there 
 is the same haunting sense of the details of misery 
 and the eyes of the Christ look out upon us from the 
 printed page. 
 
 " ' The poor are Mine, that I may heal,' says the 
 voice from the Cross. Roden Noel's so-called 
 spiritual poems have, moreover, one great merit to 
 distinguish them from the latter-day poetry of 
 Christian apology ; they are seldom or never rec- 
 tangular and argumentative. The poet approaches 
 the truth in the frank, free spirit of the lost paganism, 
 eager to see all, to learn all, and to suffer and 
 sympathise with all, and he finds his answer to the 
 problem of Evil in his own heart-beats by becoming 
 (according to the precept) even as a little child. . . . 
 Fortunately for himself all the shafts of modern doubt 
 have failed to penetrate the white armour of his 
 fully reasoned faith. He has passed his forty days in 
 the wilderness of moral despair only to return secure 
 in insight and certain of his mission, which is to offer 
 the good things of Hope to all men. He is, in other 
 words, the poet of Christian Thought. Surely a strange 
 sight is here ; the young pagan fresh from the wood- 
 lands of Pan, and from the dark, shadow mountains 
 of modern speculation, flinging himself down on his 
 knees at the foot of the Cross ! 
 
 " If we miss this fact in Roden Noel's poetry we 
 shall miss its whole power and purpose. He is a
 
 First Books, 1863-66 123 
 
 Christian thinker, a Christian singer or nothing. Not 
 that I conceive for one moment that he accepts the 
 whole impedimenta of Christian orthodoxy, he is far 
 too much of a pagan ever to arrive at that. But he 
 believes, as so many of us have sought in vain to 
 believe, in the absolute logic of the Christian message : 
 that logic which is to me a miracle of clear reasoning 
 raised on false premises, and which to others is false 
 premises and false reasoning all through. To me the 
 historical Christ, the Christ of popular teaching, is a 
 Phantom, the Christ-God a very Spectre of the 
 Brocken, cast by the miserable pigmy Man on the 
 cloudland surrounding and environing him. I con- 
 ceive only the ideal Christ as an Elder Brother who 
 lived and suffered and died as I have done and must 
 do ; and while I love him in so far as he is human 
 and my fellow-creature, I shrink from him in so far 
 as he claims to be Divine. With Roden Noel, as 
 with so many other favoured souls, it is different. 
 Where we can find little comfort and no solution he 
 finds both. He embraces in full affluence of sympathy 
 and love that ghostly godhead, and credits him with 
 all the mercy, all the knowledge, all the love and 
 power which we believe to be the common birthright 
 of Humanity, the accumulation of spiritual ideals from 
 century after century. But where I and those who 
 think with me are at one with Roden Noel is in the 
 absolute moral certainty that, in the estimate of the 
 Supreme Intelligence, what we believe counts for 
 nothing, in so far as it merely represents what we 
 know. The atheist and the Christian, the believer 
 and the unbeliever meet on the same platform of a 
 common beneficence. Faith in Love is all-sufficient 
 without faith in any supernatural or godlike form of 
 Love. There is nothing nebulous, however, about
 
 124 Robert Buchanan 
 
 Roden Noel's religious belief. It is clear, direct, and 
 logically reasoned out. He is, moreover, in the highest 
 sense of the word a spiritualist, as all true poets must 
 be. The pessimism of Schopenhauer and Leopardi is 
 as far away from his sympathy as the gross materialism 
 of Holbach and Zola. Even disease transmutes itself 
 under his tender gaze into images of loveliness and 
 hope. At the present epoch of our progress thinkers 
 of this kind are sadly wanted. The history of our 
 poetry for the last twenty years has been a melancholy 
 record of mere artificiality and verbalism ; and in spite 
 of the splendid flashes of power shown by one or two 
 of our prosperous poets, there has been little or no 
 effort to touch the quick of human life. True, the 
 miasmic cloud of Realism which is darkening and 
 destroying all literature by robbing it of sunshine and 
 fresh air, has not yet reached our poetry, the majority 
 of those who write in verse being neither realists nor 
 idealists, only triflers who imagine verse to be a school- 
 boy's exercise or an idle man's amusement. If Poetry 
 is ever to resume again its old prophetic function, and 
 to regain any influence over the lives and thoughts of 
 men, it will be through the help of such writers as 
 Roden Noel." ^ 
 
 Such was the man who, stepping into the place 
 left vacant by the death of David Gray, became the 
 most intimate and lifelong friend of Robert 
 Buchanan. 
 
 ' Preface to the Poems of the Hon. Roden Noel (Canterbury 
 Edition).
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 RETURN TO SCOTLAND, 1 866 
 
 THE first sojourn at Bexhill was followed by a 
 brief visit to France where, in the little village 
 of Etretat, in Normandy, the poet familiarised himself 
 with the scenes which were afterwards so graphically 
 described in his romance, the " Shadow of the Sword." 
 Returning to Bexhill in the spring of 1866, with the 
 completed MS. of a new volume of poems ready for 
 the press, he was met by the news of the dangerous 
 illness of his father. Mr. Buchanan, who never really 
 recovered from the blow which fell upon him in 
 Scotland, had been stricken down in London, and 
 there he was speedily joined by his son. My sister, 
 who was always more or less an invalid, was at that 
 time suffering from rheumatism in such an acute 
 form that she had to be carried from room to room. 
 She was therefore unable to accompany her husband 
 on his visit to the sick-bed of his father, so at her 
 earnest solicitation he was removed with all speed to 
 Bexhill, where he received every possible attention. 
 After his death his widow took up her residence 
 with her son, with whom she spent the remaining 
 years of her life. 
 
 In times of supreme sorrow the poet turned for 
 consolation to the only thing which ever interested 
 
 125
 
 126 Robert Buchanan 
 
 him— his beloved poetry. While mourning his dear 
 comrade, David Gray, he wrote one of the most 
 beautiful poems in the English language, " To David 
 in Heaven "- — and in this, his second great sorrow, he 
 conceived and commenced to write the poem, which 
 was afterwards published under the title of " The 
 Wandering Jew." It was not until some thirty 
 years later that this poem was given to the world, 
 and then the poet in some beautiful lines dedicated it 
 to his father, who had been its inspiration. 
 
 Meanwhile the MS. which he had brought back 
 with him from France had been sent to the printers. 
 The book, under the title of " London Poems," was 
 issued by Mr. Strahan, and its reception was such as 
 to secure for its author a permanent place in the very 
 foremost rank of English poets. 
 
 In the year 1896, in taking a general survey of 
 ^\^\ Mr. Buchanan's poetry, Mr. William Canton said : " It 
 was in ' London Poems ' that Mr. Buchanan touched 
 most acutely the quick of life ; and I do not think it 
 rash to say that never since has any one touched the 
 same quick with such telling effect. Who that has 
 read ' Liz ' can have forgotten the poor slum-child's 
 first venture from London into the green fields — the 
 high green hill and the unclouded sun, and the 
 smokeless blue, the trees and the soft winds and 
 the singing birds, and who has surpassed in verse 
 the poignant misery of ' Jane Lewson ' ? " 
 
 In the dedication to Mr. Hepworth Dixon, with 
 which the book opens, Mr. Buchanan says : " ' London 
 Poems ' are the last of what I may term my ' poems 
 of probation,' wherein I have fairly hinted what I am 
 trying to assimilate in life and thought. However 
 much my method may be confounded with the 
 methods of other writers, I am sure to get quartered
 
 Return to Scotland, 1866 127 
 
 (to my cost perhaps) on my own merits by 
 and by." 
 
 In connection with this book the author told a 
 story which it may here be interesting to recall. 
 
 " When the FortnigJitly Review was started, under 
 the editorship of George Henry Lewes, I was 
 among its first contributors, and published in it one 
 of the longest of my ' London Poems ' — the story of 
 the flower-girl ' Liz.' Afterwards, when my poems of 
 London life appeared in a volume, I sent an early 
 copy to my friend and critic, who replied to the gift 
 in a letter expressing disappointment. He did not 
 like the book, and frankly said so — a serious blow to 
 me, despite the praise of the journals and the work's 
 phenomenal popularity. A few weeks afterwards, 
 however, came a letter of cordial recantation. ' I 
 have been in the country ' (Lewes wrote) ' and 
 have read your poems amongst different sur- 
 roundings, in a fresh spirit and in solitude. I 
 cannot now convey to you my full impression 
 concerning them, but it is enough for the present 
 to say that they moved and delighted me.' Another 
 illustration of the truth that a good critic may form 
 very contradictory impressions of the same work 
 according to the spirit in which he reads and the 
 nature of his environment." 
 
 Again in writing of this book, Mr. Buchanan 
 said : — 
 
 "In 'London Poems' I was a great deal juster to 
 the rude forces of my life, my sympathy was bolder 
 and more confident, my soul clearer and more trust- 
 worthy as a medium, however poor might be my 
 power of perfect artistic spiritualisation. As common 
 life was approached more closely, as the danger of 
 vulgarity threatened more and more to interfere with
 
 128 Robert Buchanan 
 
 the readers' sense of beauty, the stronger and tenderer 
 was the lyrical note needed. In writing such poems 
 as ' Liz ' and ' Nell ' the intensest dramatic care was 
 necessary to escape vulgarity on the one hand and 
 false refinement on the other. ' Liz,' although the 
 offspring of the very lowest social deposit, possesses 
 great natural intelligence, and speaks more than once 
 with a refinement consequent on strange purity of 
 thought. Moreover, she has been under spiritual 
 influences. She is a beautiful, living soul, just 
 conscious of the unfitness of the atmosphere she is 
 breathing, but, above all, she is a large-hearted woman, 
 with wonderful capacity for loving. She is, on the 
 whole, quite an exceptional study, although in many 
 of her moods typical of her class. ' Nell ' is not so 
 exceptional, and since it is harder to create types 
 than eccentricities, her utterance was far more 
 difficult to spiritualise into music. She is a woman 
 quite without refined instincts, coarse, uncultured, 
 impulsive. Her love, though profound, is insufficient 
 to escape mere commonplace, and it was necessary 
 to breathe around her the fascination of a tragic 
 subject, the lurid light of an ever-deepening terror. 
 In the language of both these poems I followed 
 Nature as closely as possible, so far as poetic speech 
 can follow ordinary speech. I had to add nothing, 
 but to deduct whatever hid instead of expressing the 
 natural meaning of the speakers ; for to obtrude slips 
 of grammar, misspelling, and other meaningless 
 blotches — in short, to lay undue emphasis on the mere 
 language employed— would have been wilfully to 
 destroy the artistic verisimilitude of such poems. 
 Every stronger stress, every more noticeable trick of 
 style, added after the speech, was sufficient to hint 
 the quality of the speaker, was so much over truth
 
 Return to Scotland, 1866 129 
 
 offending against the truth's harmony. The object 
 was, while clearly conveying the cast of the speakers, 
 to afford an artistic insight into their souls, and to 
 blend them with the great universal mysteries of 
 Life and Death. Vulgarity obtruded is not truth 
 spiritualised and made clear, but truth still hooded 
 and masked and little likely to reveal anything to the 
 vision of its contemplators. By at least one critic I 
 have been charged with idealising the speech a little 
 too much. Both ' Liz ' and ' Nell,' it is averred, 
 occasionally speak in a strain very uncommon in 
 their class. In reply to this I may observe how 
 much mispronunciations, vulgarisms, and the like, 
 have blinded educated people to the wonderful force 
 and picturesqueness of the language of the lower 
 classes. They know nothing of the educated luxury 
 of using language in order to conceal thought, but 
 speak because they have something to say, and try 
 to explain themselves as forcibly as possible." 
 
 While his new volume of poems was delighting the 
 world the poet himself was strangely sick and sad at 
 heart. After his father's death he found himself 
 unable to settle down comfortably in Bexhill, so as 
 soon as his book was fairly launched, and its success 
 assured, he set his face northward, and after pausing 
 here and there in his flight he finally went to Oban, 
 and settled down in what was afterwards known as 
 " The White House on the Hill." Here is his own 
 description of it in the " Land of Lome." 
 
 " In a kind of dovecot, perched on a hill far from 
 human habitation, the Wanderer dwelt and watched, 
 while the gloomy gillie came and went, and the dogs 
 howled from the rain-drenched kennel. The weasel 
 bred at the very door in some obscure corner of a 
 drain, and the young weasels used to come fearlessly 
 
 10
 
 130 Robert Buchanan 
 
 out on Sunday morning and play in the rain. Two 
 hundred yards above the house was a mountain tarn, 
 on the shores of which a desolate couple of teal were 
 trying hard to hatch a brood ; and all around the 
 miserable grouse and grayhens were sitting like 
 stones, drenched on their eggs, hoping against hope. 
 In the far distance, over a dreary sweep of marshes 
 and pools, lay the little town of Oban, looking, when 
 the mists cleared away a little, like the woodcuts of 
 the City of Destruction in popular editions of the 
 ' Pilgrim's Progress.' Now and then, too, the figure 
 of a certain genial Edinburgh Professor,^ with long 
 white hair and flowing plaid, might be seen toiling 
 upward to Doubting Castle, exactly like Christian 
 on his pilgrimage, but carrying instead of a bundle 
 on his back, the whole of Homer's hexameters in his 
 brain. Few others had courage to climb so high in 
 weather so inclement, and, wonderful to add, the 
 Professor did not in the least share the newcomer's 
 melancholy, but roundly vowed in good Doric that 
 there was no sweeter spot in all the world than the 
 ' bonnie Land of Lome.' 
 
 " The town of Oban, prettily situated along the skirts 
 of a pleasant bay, and boasting a resident population 
 of some two thousand inhabitants, has been fitly 
 enough designated the ' Key of the Highlands ' ; 
 since from its quaint quay, composed from the hulk 
 of an old wreck, the splendid fleet of Highland 
 steamers start for all parts of the western coast 
 and adjacent islands. In summer-time a few visitors 
 occupy the neat villas which ornament the western 
 slopes above the town, and innumerable tourists, ever 
 coming and going to the sharp ringing of the steam- 
 boat bell, lend quite a festive appearance to the little 
 
 ' Professor Blackie.
 
 Return to Scotland, 1866 131 
 
 main street. As a tourist the Wanderer first made 
 the acquaintance of Oban and its people, and resided 
 among them for some weeks, during which time there 
 was a general conspiracy on the part of everybody to 
 reduce him to bankruptcy : extortionate boatmen, 
 grasping small tradesmen, greedy car-drivers, all 
 regarding him as a lawful victim. He was lonely, 
 and the gentle people took him in ; he was helpless, 
 and they did for him ; until at last he fled, vowing 
 never to visit the place again. Fate, stronger than 
 human will, interposed, and he became the tenant of 
 the White House on the Hill. He arrived in the 
 fallow season, before the swift boats begin to bring 
 their stock of festive travellers, and found Oban 
 plunged in funereal gloom — the tradesmen melan- 
 choly, the boatmen sad and unsuspicious, the hotel 
 waiters depressed and servile instead of brisk and 
 patronising. The grand waiter at the Great Western 
 Hotel, one whom to see was to reverence, whose 
 faintest smile was an honour, and who conferred a 
 lifelong obligation when he condescended to pour 
 out your champagne, still lingered in the south, and 
 the lesser waiters of the lesser hotels lingered afar 
 with the great man. All was sad and weary, and at 
 first all looks were cold. But speedily the Wanderer 
 discovered that the people of Oban regarded him with 
 grateful affection. He was the first man who for no 
 other reason than sheer love of silence and pic- 
 turesqueness had come to reside among them ' out 
 of the season.' In a few weeks, he not only discovered 
 that the extortioners of his former visit were no such 
 harpies after all, but poor devils anxious to get hay 
 while the sun shone ; he found that these same 
 extortioners were the merest scum of the town, the 
 veriest froth, underneath which there existed the
 
 132 Robert Buchanan 
 
 sediment of the real population, which for many 
 mysterious reasons no mere tourist is ever suffered 
 to behold. He found around him most of the High- 
 land virtues — gentleness, hospitality, spirituality. No 
 hand was stretched out to rob him now. Wherever 
 he went there was a kind word from the men and 
 a courtesy from the women. The poor, pale faces 
 brightened, and he saw the sweet spirit looking 
 forth, with that deep inner hunger which is ever 
 marked on the Celtic physiognomy. Every day 
 deepened his interest and increased his satisfaction. 
 He knew now that he had come to a place where life 
 ran fresh and simple, and to a great extent unpolluted. 
 " Not to make the picture too tender, let him add 
 that he soon discovered for himself — what every one 
 else discovers sooner or later — that the majority of 
 the town population was hopelessly lazy. There was 
 no surplus energy anywhere, but there were some 
 individuals who for sheer unhesitating, unblushing, 
 wholesale indolence, were certainly unapproachable 
 on this side of Jamaica. It so happened that the 
 Wanderer wanted a new wing added to the White 
 House, and it was arranged with a 'contractor,' one 
 Angus Maclean, that it should be erected at a trifling 
 expense within three weeks. A week passed, during 
 which Angus Maclean occupied himself in abstruse 
 meditation, coming two or three times to the spot 
 dreamily chewing stalks of grass, and measuring 
 imaginary walls with a rule. Then, all of a sudden 
 one morning, a load of stones was deposited at the 
 door, and the workmen arrived, men of all ages and 
 all temperaments, from the clean methodic mason to 
 the wild and hirsute hodsman. In other parts of 
 the world houses are built silently, not so in Lome ; 
 the babble of Gaelic was incessant. The work crept
 
 Return to Scotland, 1866 133 
 
 on surely if slowly, relieved by intervals of Gaelic 
 melody and political debate, during which all labour 
 ceased. Angus Maclean came and went, and of 
 course it was sometimes necessary to advise with 
 him as to details ; and great was his delight whenever 
 he could beguile the Wanderer into a discussion as to 
 the shape of a window or the size of a door, for the 
 conversation was sure to drift into general topics, 
 such as the Irish Land Question, or the literature of 
 the Highlands, and the labourers would suspend their 
 toil and cluster round to listen while Angus explained 
 his 'views.' In a little more than a month the 
 masonry was completed, and the carpenter's assistance 
 necessary. A week passed and no carpenter came. 
 Summoned to council, Angus Maclean explained 
 that the carpenter would be up ' the first thing in the 
 morning.' Two days afterwards he did appear, and 
 it was at once apparent that, compared with him, all 
 the other inhabitants of Oban were models of human 
 energy. With him came a lazy boy, with sleep-dust 
 in his round blobs of eyes. The carpenter's name 
 was Donald Mactavish — ' a fine man,' as the con- 
 tractor explained, ' tho' he takes a drap.' The first 
 day Donald Mactavish smoked half a dozen pipes 
 and sawed a board. The next day he didn't appear — 
 ' it was that showery and he was afraid of catching 
 cold ' ; but the lazy boy came up, and went to sleep 
 in the unfinished wing. The third day Donald 
 appeared at noon, looking very pale and shaky. 
 Thus matters proceeded. Sometimes a fair day's 
 work was secured, and Donald was so triumphant 
 at his own energy that he disappeared the following 
 morning altogether. Sometimes Donald was unwell, 
 sometimes it was ' o'er showery.' Tears and entreaties 
 made no impression on Mactavish, and he took his
 
 134 Robert Buchanan 
 
 own time. Then the slater appeared with a some- 
 what brisker style of workmanship. Finally a moody 
 plasterer strolled that way, and promised to white- 
 wash the walls 'when he came back frae Mull,' 
 whither he was going on business. To cut a long 
 story short, the new wing to the White House was 
 complete in three months, whereas the same number 
 of hands might have finished it in a fortnight. 
 
 " Thus far we have given only the dark side of the 
 picture. Turning to the bright side, we herewith 
 record our vow, that whenever we build again we will 
 seek the aid of those same workmen from Lome. 
 Why, the Wanderer has all his life lived among wise 
 men, or men who deemed themselves wise, amons- 
 great book-makers, among brilliant minstrels, but for 
 sheer unmitigated enjoyment, give him the talk of 
 those Celts— flaming Radicals every one of them, so 
 radical forsooth as to have about equal belief in Mr. 
 Gladstone and Mr. Disraeli. They had their own 
 notions of freedom, political and social. ' Sell my 
 vote ? ' quoth Angus ; ' to be sure I'd sell my vote ! ' 
 and he would thereupon most fiercely expound his 
 convictions, and give as good a reason for not voting 
 at all as the best of those clever gentlemen who laugh 
 at political representation. At heart, too, Angus was 
 a Fenian, though not in the bad and bloodthirsty 
 sense. Donald Mactavish, on the other hand, was of 
 a gentle nature, inclined to acquiesce in all human 
 arrangement, so long as he got his pipe and his glass, 
 and was not hurried about his work. With playful 
 humour he would ' draw out ' the fiery Angus for the 
 Wanderer's benefit. Then the two would come sud- 
 denly to war about the relative merits of certain 
 obscure Gaelic poets, and would rain quotations at 
 each other until they grew hoarse. They had both
 
 Return to Scotland, 1866 135 
 
 the profoundest contempt for English literature and 
 the English language, as compared with their beloved 
 Gaelic. They were both full of old legends and quaint 
 Highland stories. The workmen, too, were in their 
 own way as interesting — fine natural bits of humanity, 
 full of intelligence and quiet affection. Noteworthy 
 among them was old Duncan Campbell, who had in 
 his younger days been piper in a Highland regiment, 
 and who now, advanced in years, worked hard all day 
 as a hodsman, and nightly, clean-washed and shaven, 
 played to himself on the beloved pipes till over- 
 powered with sleep. Duncan was simply delicious. 
 More than once he brought up the pipes and played 
 on the hillsides, while the workmen danced. These 
 pipes were more to him than bread and meat. As he 
 played them his face became glorified. His skill was 
 not great and his tunes had a strange monotony 
 about them, but they gave to his soul a joy passing 
 the glory of battle or the love of women. He was 
 never too weary for them in the evening, though the 
 day's work had been ever so hard and long. Great 
 was his pride and joy that day when the house was 
 finished, and with pipes playing and ribbons flying, 
 he headed the gleeful workmen as they marched 
 away to the town. 
 
 " From that day forward the White House on the 
 Hill remained silent in the solitude. Though the 
 summer season came, and with it the stream of 
 tourists and visitors, the Wanderer abode undis- 
 turbed. Far off he saw the white gleam of the little 
 Town, but he seldom bent his footsteps thither, save 
 when constrained by urgent business. Nevertheless, 
 faces came and went, and bright scenic glimpses rose 
 and passed, while day after day he found his love 
 deepening for the Land of Lome."
 
 136 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 Amid these scenes some of his best work was 
 done. Following his " London Poems " came " Ballad 
 Stories of the Affections" (1866), "North Coast 
 and Other Poems" (1868), "The Book of Orm " 
 (1870), "Napoleon Fallen" (1870), "The Drama 
 of Kings" (1871), and "St. Abe and his Seven 
 Wives" (1872). While in prose he issued "David 
 Gray and other Essays," " The Land of Lome," and 
 " Master Spirits."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 SPORT 
 
 HUNGRY at all times for any form of ex- 
 perience, and driven to various devices in 
 his constant search for health, Mr. Buchanan was for 
 many years what is known as a " sportsman " — in 
 other words, he wandered forth with gun and rod 
 intent, in the usual manner of Englishmen, on 
 " killing something." He was never wantonly cruel, 
 or a mere pot-hunter, and he disdained the savageries 
 of the battue, preferring rather to seek game under the 
 wildest conditions, at as much personal inconvenience 
 and even peril as possible. There was a time in his 
 life, indeed, when he thought that to lie out for 
 wild duck among the marshes, hidden up to the 
 neck among reeds, was the brightest pleasure in 
 existence. 
 
 He was first persuaded to take a gun into his hand 
 by Mr. William Black, who went down to Bexhill one 
 snowy wintertide and persuaded him to go shooting 
 over the marshes in the direction of Pevensey. I "^^ 
 do not think he shot anything on that occasion, but 
 Mr. Black killed one or two fieldfares, over which he 
 was quite jubilant. When Mr. Buchanan went to 
 
 Scotland one of his earliest experiences was wild- 
 
 137
 
 138 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 goose shooting in the wilds of Uist, of which he gave 
 some account in his Hebridean sketches. 
 
 " I shoot very little, but I have a fancy for having 
 shooting round me — the wilder the better. I never 
 ^o in for slaughter, even on a small scale. I find if 
 I walk without some excitement I simply get ill, 
 because my mind continues working out of doors ; 
 and so in the depths of winter I pursue snipe, grouse, 
 and wild fowl. But I like fishing best, both because 
 my conscience never quite acquits me for shooting at 
 all, and because it is altogether a gentler art. You 
 must know I have to humour my health, just as 
 Bright kept his by salmon fishing." ^ 
 
 Of course, as a sportsman he learned a great deal 
 which he could hardly have learned in any other way. 
 When he first went to Oban he hardly knew the 
 difference between a cuckoo and a sparrow-hawk ; 
 indeed, he took the first cuckoo he saw for a small 
 hawk, and was only instructed rightly by its cry. 
 With regard to this same cry of the cuckoo, it has 
 been described in the common English song — 
 
 "The cuckoo is a pretty bird, 
 It sings as it flies ; " 
 
 he then learned that it did nothing of the kind, so 
 he wrote — 
 
 " From rock to rock I saw him fly, 
 Silent in flight, but loud at rest." 
 
 It was delightful for him to learn those things, but I 
 have heard him regret again and again that he did 
 not learn them without the shedding of innocent 
 
 ' Letter to Mr. William Canton.
 
 Sport 
 
 139 
 
 blood. At that time he never realised that what he 
 did was cruel ; indeed, he would have resented the 
 charge with indignation. To harm or kill a living 
 thing in cold blood, to pursue sport as some so-called 
 sportsmen pursue it, in the manner of slaying tame 
 or farmyard fowl, was always distasteful to him ; but 
 if he had to face the elements and to seek the soli- 
 tudes and to climb the mountains— if there was 
 difficulty and fatigue and needful skill in pursuing 
 his quarry, he thought himself justified in taking the 
 life of grouse, or wild duck, or any other edible thing. 
 Wantonly he never worked, never killing for the sake 
 of killing, always justifying himself by the fact that 
 what he killed was meant for human food. At the 
 time when he thought sport justifiable he was more 
 or less exercised on religious subjects, for he wrote 
 the " Coruisken Sonnets " and the " Book of Orm," 
 the motto of which was Milton's line — 
 
 " To vindicate the ways of God to Man." 
 
 At no time in his life was he so tenderly observant ot 
 natural objects, so alive to the terrors and beauties of 
 nature, or so pitiful to the sorrows of his fellow- 
 men. Had he not lived in the solitudes and felt 
 their spell to the soul, he could never have written 
 such lines as those descriptive of autumn among the 
 mountains — 
 
 The heather fadeth ; on the treeless hills, 
 
 O'er rusht with the slow-decaying bracken, 
 
 The sheep crawl slow with damp and red-stain'd wool, 
 
 Keen cutting winds from the Cold Clime begin 
 
 To frost the edges of the cloud — the Sun 
 
 Upriseth slow and silvern — many Rainbows 
 
 People the desolate air. . . ."
 
 140 Robert Buchanan 
 
 Or these lines descriptive of his own condition — 
 
 "The World was wondrous round me— God's green World— 
 A W^orld of gleaming waters and green places 
 And weirdly woven colours in the air. 
 Yet evermore a trouble did pursue me — 
 A hunger for the wherefore of my being, 
 A wonder from what regions I had fallen. 
 I gladdened in the glad things of the World. 
 Yet crying always, Wherefore, and Oh, wherefore? 
 What am I ? Wherefore doth the World seem happy ? " 
 
 And so on and so on, the poem being full of one 
 long wail to the effect that there must be a God, and 
 that that God would certainly not let even the basest 
 of men perish. He arrived at fine imagery and great 
 poetry when he reached his " Vision of the Man 
 Accurst," which he could not compose without tears, 
 and which has moved many a man and woman to 
 compassion. I have heard him say that the blot on 
 the " Book of Orm " is the fact that, with all its 
 great pity for Humanity, it has not one word on the 
 subject of our duty to the things beneath us. " I 
 have often thought that if Jesus of Nazareth had lived 
 among the civilised savages of the West, instead of in 
 a land where the woes of human beings were para- 
 mount, another and a wonderful chapter would have 
 been added to the New Testament, and in addition 
 to the beautiful blessing spoken on little children we 
 should have had such words as: 'Suffer the dumb 
 beasts and the birds of the air to come to Me, for of 
 such is the kingdom of heaven.' For really and 
 truly that is the lesson which is forced more and more 
 as evolution advances in the soul of every thinking 
 man, that is the teaching imminent in the teaching of 
 my beloved master, Herbert Spencer, when he sees 
 in developing altruism the hope and potency of the
 
 Sport 
 
 141 
 
 human race. For the most beautiful of all the beau- 
 tiful things in the development of the modern scien- 
 tific spirit (not the spirit of the vivisection-room or of 
 the Pasteur Institute, but the loving and piteous 
 spirit of advancing knowledge) is the revolt against 
 cruelty in any shape, not merely to our fellow-men, 
 but to all the gentle things that dwell beneath the 
 sun." I I never could understand how it was that he, 
 a man full of loving impulses, ever came to pursue the 
 savage pleasures of the average Britain. That he 
 loved animals will be seen in the following letter to 
 Mr. Canton. 
 
 " I am just now quite heartbroken. I have lost my 
 best friend who loved me faithfully for nine years — a 
 little Dog. He died, after months of pathetic suffering, 
 on Friday last, just as I finished a letter to you ; and 
 I have not rested or worked since. He lies close by 
 me now, but I must bury him to-morrow and it tears 
 my heartstrings. He was born just nine years ago, 
 when my father was dying, and in the same house. 
 I don't know if you ever learned to fathom a dog's 
 living soul, but if you ever did, you'll know my grief 
 is not the mere trifle some would think it. I have 
 not cried for nine years, but since Friday my eyes 
 have never been dry. I bury him to-morrow close to 
 the door, in a spot they call the ' Fairies' Knoll' 
 It will be a miserable day to me. My household 
 Fairy will lie there." 2 
 
 Now the evolution of supreme pity, which is only 
 another word for justice, is often very slow, and it 
 was slow in his case. I well remember his telling me 
 that as a little boy in Norwood he was taken by a 
 friendly butcher boy to the slaughter-house, and saw 
 with complete equanimity the killing of sheep and 
 ' Letter to Mr. Wylic. ' Letter to Mr. Canton.
 
 142 Robert Buchanan 
 
 oxen. He felt perhaps a little horror, but had no 
 perception that what he saw was cruel. Later on, 
 when a boy at school, he witnessed other brutalities, 
 and not at first did he even sympathise with the 
 sufferings of human beings. Gradually, however, his 
 own sense of justice, conditioned by his mother's 
 constant teachings of beneficence, awoke in him the 
 enthusiasm of humanity, " I look upon the sporting 
 episode as the crowning wickedness of my life, at 
 any rate nothing that I can remember seems to tell 
 so strongly against my claim to a comparatively 
 decent manhood. There are times when the thing 
 haunts me, and a voice seems to say ' Die and be 
 forgotten as you deserve ! ' for all that time I was 
 praying to God and wondering if my miserable soul 
 was worth saving. I was clinging wildly to the 
 dream of a personal immortality, and arguing that 
 the sufferings of men deserved some eternal recom- 
 pense. The sufferings of man ? What of the suffer- 
 ings of the gentle things which man, with diabolic 
 and pitiless obtusity, tortures daily and hourly for 
 his wretched pleasure ? What of the poor wounded 
 hare, the panting deer surrounded by man-taught 
 hounds, the fox pursued from copse to copse and 
 'enjoying' (as the egregious Trollope put it) the 
 run to his death? Thank God, if I forgot for a time 
 the poet's birthright of pity, the great poets of 
 mankind had not forgotten it. Poor world-worn, 
 sensual, tippling Burns had tears of compassion even 
 for the field-mouse, ruined and beggared by the 
 plough. It has been argued again and again that 
 Nature herself is cruel, that animals wantonly destroy 
 each other, and that, so far as the wild game is con- 
 cerned, they must either be reserved as sport and 
 food for men or be abandoned altogether. The pre-
 
 Sport 
 
 H3 
 
 ponderance of their experience, moreover, is (it is 
 urged) on the side of enjoyment. Such arguments, 
 to my thinking, are neither here nor there. The 
 whole evolution of altruism is a revolt against nature, 
 headed by the most supremely pitiful of men, the 
 Nazarene. If it were only for its evil action on the 
 higher nature of man himself, quite apart from the 
 question of the suffering so wantonly distributed by 
 man, cruelty in any form would be evil, and would 
 make in the end for Humanity's deterioration and 
 finally for its destruction." ^ 
 
 • Letter to Mr. Wylie.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 HUMANITARIAN ISM 
 By Henry S. Salt 
 
 I AM asked to write my impressions of Robert 
 Buchanan as a humanitarian, and I do so the 
 more gladly because I think this aspect of his many- 
 sided genius has generally been overlooked, though 
 to some of his readers it constitutes not the least of 
 his numerous claims to their gratitude and admiration. 
 Whatever else may be said of him, in praise or dis- 
 praise, this can never be denied — that a passionate 
 love of humanity lay at the root of his most memor- 
 able work, and that his great powers were enlisted on 
 behalf of the weak and suffering, and in defiance of 
 the tyrannous and strong. It will be said, perhaps, 
 that humanitarianism is concerned with the lower 
 animals as well as with mankind, and that Mr. 
 Buchanan, who was at one time an ardent lover of 
 sport, cannot be classed as an out and out humani- 
 tarian. I have no wish to lay undue stress on one 
 side of his character, but it will be seen that, in his 
 latter years, his sympathies were so widened as to 
 include not only human beings but all sentient life. 
 It was, I believe, through our mutual friend, the 
 
 Hon. Roden Noel, that I became acquainted with 
 
 144
 
 Humanitarianism 145 
 
 Mr. Buchanan some ten or twelve years ago, and in 
 1892 and 1893 I h^*^ correspondence with him about 
 the inclusion of some of his poems in an anthology 
 of ' Songs of Freedom ' which I was then editing, 
 and on other literary matters. On March 4, 1893, he 
 wrote to me as follows : — 
 
 "Many thanks for the brochure on Tennyson. 
 It contains, to a great extent, the truth as I feel it, 
 though I could not, owing to my personal relations 
 with the poet, give it expression. Bunting asked me 
 to write a memorial article on T. for the Contemporary, 
 but I refused, on the score that if I wrote at all I 
 should have to express my honest convictions. 
 
 " What a satire on literature it is, to find the whole 
 world flocking to worship the poets of Good Taste, 
 while a singer like James Thomson dies neglected ! 
 We are ringed all round with shams — sham sweetness 
 and light, sham criticism, sham morality, sham 
 Christianity ; and the man who tries to break 
 through must assuredly pay the penalty of his fool- 
 hardihood. To exist comfortably, one must dance 
 like a tame bear in the middle of Society's charmed 
 circle, and then the world will cry, ' How pretty ! how 
 self-controlled ! how full of beautiful ideas ! ' — those 
 ' beautiful ideas ' which are the death of all honest 
 manhood." 
 
 On August 10, 1894, he became a member of the 
 Humanitarian League, of which I was Hon. Secretary. 
 " I will gladly join your League," he wrote, " as I 
 sympathise outright with all its objects." In the 
 same letter he expressed a wish to see Francis Adams's 
 " Songs of the Army of the Night," a copy of which I 
 accordingly sent him. On this subject he wrote a 
 few days later as follows : — 
 
 " Many thanks for the poems, which I have just 
 
 II
 
 146 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 received on returning from a few days' run into 
 Normandy ; also for the pamphlets which have 
 arrived. A glance at the newspaper notice reminds 
 me of the piteous circumstances under which poor 
 Adams died, and which impressed me very sadly at 
 the time. 
 
 " I have only just glanced at the poems, and to be 
 frank, feel rather repelled by some of them, finely 
 human though they are. The indignation seems 
 somewhat overdone, and the sympathy not too 
 healthy. But I reserve all judgment till by and by, 
 when I know the book, as far as my nature will allow 
 me to know it. Of late years (I suppose it is because 
 I am growing old) I am less in accord than I used to 
 be with some forms of democracy, and I look forward 
 with anxiety to a millennium of labour. Certainly 
 the problem of human suffering will have to be solved, 
 but will its solution come from the many-headed god, 
 Demos ? I doubt it. Is it not rather the inclination 
 of Demos to suppress individual happiness, and to 
 reduce life to a tyrannical rule of thumb? Is there 
 much difference between a tyranny of one person and 
 the tyranny of an organisation ? 
 
 "■And why do the labour people adopt the jargon 
 of Christianity ? Adams does so habitually. Surely 
 the time has come to show that the mistakes of 
 Christianity were the mistakes of its Founder ? " 
 
 In 1894 Mr. Buchanan sent me a copy of his poem 
 " The Devil's Case," referred to in the following letter, 
 dated March 31st : — 
 
 "I am specially glad that you like \\\Qforni of the 
 ' Devil's Case,' for it was chosen after long thought, 
 and I myself feel that no other form was possible. 
 Not one of the idiots who have described it as easy 
 and careless have perceived that it is subtly assonantic
 
 Humanitarianism 147 
 
 and very difficult to manage. Your suggestion for a 
 'Satanic Series' is distinctly good, and I shall seriously 
 think of it." 
 
 Readers of the " Devil's Case " will remember that 
 it contains some magnificent humanitarian passages — 
 
 " Cast thy thought along the Ages ! 
 Walk the sepulchres of Nations ! 
 Mourn, with me, the fair things perish'd ! 
 Mark the martyrdoms of men ! 
 
 Say, can any latter blessing 
 
 Cleanse the blood-stain'd Book of Being ? 
 
 Can a remnant render'd happy 
 
 Wipe out centuries of sorrow ? 
 
 Nay, one broken life outweigheth 
 Twenty thousand lives made perfect ! 
 Nay, I scorn the God whose pathway 
 Lieth over broken hearts ! 
 
 Man, thou say'st, shall yd be happy ? 
 What avails a bliss created 
 Out of hecatombs of evil. 
 Out of endless years of pain ? 
 
 Even now the life he liveth 
 Builded is of shame and sorrow ! 
 Even now his flesh is fashion'd 
 Of the creatures that surround him. 
 
 From the sward the stench of slaughter 
 Riseth hourly to his nostrils. 
 By his will the beast doth anguish, 
 And the wounded dove doth die." 
 
 In 1897 Mr. Buchanan, who had been one of the 
 signatories of the memorial against the Royal Buck- 
 hounds, was asked to write a preface to a pamphlet 
 entitled "The Truth about the Game Laws," which 
 Mr. J. Connell was then preparing for the Humani-
 
 148 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 tarian League. On October loth he wrote to me as 
 follows : — 
 
 " I shall be glad to see proofs of pamphlet, but I 
 have to confess with shame that I was for years an 
 ardent sportsman myself! I don't know whether 'tis 
 merely sour grapes and advancing years, but I feel 
 very differently now on the subject, and if I write for 
 you should resemble the ' converted clown.' " 
 
 The same confession was made by him in the 
 preface itself, but this did not hinder him from writing 
 a very strong and trenchant criticism of the sportsman 
 and the game-preserver : — 
 
 " When all is said and done, however, sport, in so 
 far as it embraces the hunting and killing of wild 
 animals, is invariably more or less demoralising — is, 
 in fact, a relapse from civilisation to barbarism. 
 Therein lies its real fascination for men bored with 
 the proprieties and duties of the nineteenth century. 
 The instincts of the primeval man — food-hunting, 
 predatory, self-preserving — re-emerge in the modern ; 
 moral sanctions are disregarded, the rights of inferior 
 races are forgotten, and the hunter feels himself, 
 figuratively speaking, naked, savage, bloodthirsty, and 
 unashamed. Sportsmen for this reason are invariably 
 selfish and conservative. A sportsman who is a 
 Radical in politics and a pioneer in social science is 
 an impossibility. 
 
 " It is hopeless, therefore, to expect from sportsmen 
 any sympathy whatever with the agitation against 
 the cruel and iniquitous Game Laws. The agitation 
 began, and it must continue, among the men who 
 shrink from cruelty of any kind, and prefer the 
 amenities of civilisation to the coarse pleasures of 
 barbarism. Now, more than ever, the fight in the 
 higher planes of life is between philanthropy and
 
 Humanitarianism 149 
 
 savagery, culture and brutality, the pleasures of the 
 thinking being and the amusements of the naked 
 man." 
 
 Nor was it only on the question of sport that 
 Mr. Buchanan had avowed humanitarian sympathies. 
 There is a terrible and most impressive passage in 
 his " City of Dream," in which he describes the 
 vivisection of a dog in the Temple of Science — 
 
 " I look'd no more ; 
 But covering up mine eyes, I shrieked aloud 
 And rush'd in horror from the accursed place ; 
 But at the door I turn'd, and turning met 
 The piteous eyeballs fix'd in agony 
 Beneath a forehead by the knife laid bare ! " 
 
 And in a later contribution to the Zoophilist 
 (June I, 1899) he reaffirms the same judgment on 
 the tortures of the laboratory : — 
 
 " That which has hitherto been deemed most 
 godlike in humanity, that which has brought comfort 
 and hope and moral salvation to countless human 
 beings, is the one thing which the arch-priests of 
 a false science seek to eliminate for ever from the 
 human conscience — the sentiment of Pity, which is 
 only another name for the idea of Justice. If animals 
 have no rights, then men and women have no rights ; 
 if men and women have no rights, then the conception 
 of a Divine Providence, of a Law which works invari- 
 ably for righteousness, is no more than a drunkard's 
 dream." 
 
 A few months after the publication of the Game 
 Laws pamphlet the League was permitted to reprint 
 a notable article on the " Law of Infanticide " which 
 Mr. Buchanan had contributed to the Star, with 
 reference to the case of Kate Shoesmith, the " Hetty
 
 150 Robert Buchanan 
 
 Sorrel " of the occasion. " No words of mine," he 
 wrote, " could express the horror and the pity of the 
 whole business ; yet the story is as old as our marriage 
 market and is repeated with heartbreaking variations 
 every day. ... In truth we are still a savage and 
 uncivilised people, able and willing to mow down 
 with artillery such subject races as are not of our way 
 of thinking, but utterly blind and indifferent to the 
 sorrows of the weak and the sufferings of the martyred 
 poor." 
 
 On November 2, 1898, he wrote to me with 
 reference to his last volume of poems : — 
 
 " I am about to publish my ' New Rome ; Ballads 
 and Poems of our Empire,' and much of it will appeal, 
 I think, to your circle, though the critics generally will 
 cordially detest it. It is an attack on our civilisation 
 all round, in the name of Humanity. One poem in it, 
 ' The Song of the Fur Seal,' was suggested by passages 
 in your journal.^ I shall really be glad of any sym- 
 pathy you can show me, for I am certain to get very 
 scant justice in other quarters. I have poured out 
 the belief that is in me, however, and I don't think it 
 will be altogether wasted." 
 
 " The New Rome " is indeed inspired by the most 
 passionate humanitarian feeling. Under the title 
 " Songs of Empire " the poet denounces the selfish 
 and aggressive militarism which was then practising 
 on native races the barbarities which have since 
 reached their climax in the war on the South African 
 Republics. His " Song of the Slain " breathes the 
 true democratic spirit, and no more trenchant satire 
 has been written of late years than his " Ballad of 
 
 ' " The Cost of a Sealskin Cloak," by Joseph CoUinson, 
 reprinted irom Humanity, a.s one of the Humanitarian League's 
 pamphlets.
 
 Humanitarianism 151 
 
 Kiplingson " and " The Chartered Companie." Nor 
 are the poems conceived in a spirit of mere denuncia- 
 tion ; for many of them express with consummate 
 tenderness and beauty the new gospel of Humaneness. 
 Here, for example, are some stanzas from " God 
 Evolving," which might be taken as the hymn of 
 Humanitarianism : — 
 
 "Where'er great pity is and piteousness, 
 
 Where'er great Love and Love's strange sorrow stay, 
 Where'er men cease to curse, but bend to bless, 
 Frail brethren fashion' d like themselves of clay. 
 
 Where'er the lamb and lion side by side 
 Lie down in peace, where'er on land or sea 
 
 Infinite Love and Mercy heavenly-eyed 
 Emerge, there stirs the God that is to be ! 
 
 His hght is round the slaughter'd bird and beast 
 As round the forehead of Man crucified, — 
 
 All things that Hve, the greatest and the least, 
 Await the coming of this Lord and Guide ; 
 
 And every gentle deed by mortals done, 
 Yea, every holy thought and loving breath, 
 
 Lighten poor Nature's travail with this Son 
 Who shall be Lord and God of Life and Death ! 
 
 No God behind us in the empty Vast, 
 
 No God enthroned on yonder heights above. 
 
 But God emerging, and evolved at last 
 Out of the inmost heart of human Love !" 
 
 On social questions Buchanan's outlook was not 
 less humane, and his abiding sense of the close kin- 
 ship of all sentient life is shown in many of his poems 
 — in none perhaps more nobly than in the magnificent 
 verses that have reference to " fallen women " : — 
 
 " How? Thou be saved, and one of these be lost ? 
 The least of these be spent, and thou soar free ? 
 Nay ! for these things are ihou — these tempest-tost 
 Waves of the darkness are but forms of thee.
 
 152 Robert Buchanan 
 
 Shall these be cast away ? Then rest thou sure 
 No hopes abide for thee if none for these. 
 
 Would'st thou be hcal'd ? Then hast thou these to cure ; 
 Thine is their shame, their foulness, their disease." 
 
 Nor were the lower animals excluded from his 
 sympathies, as is testified by the stanzas on " Man of 
 the Red Right Hand," " Be Pitiful," " The Song of 
 the Fur Seal," and many others. It is on this one- 
 ness of mankind, and of all sentient life, that Humani- 
 tarianism, if it be more than a passing sentiment, 
 must be based, and this is the spirit in which " The 
 New Rome " is written. 
 
 " I had been taught by sharp experience," says 
 Buchanan in his preface, " that such poems were not 
 wanted by the public." This sort of admonition, 
 however, was always disregarded by him, and herein, 
 perhaps, is the reason why his great poetical qualities 
 have been so strangely undervalued in dominant 
 literary circles. No thoughtful lover of poetry can be 
 unaware that Mr. Buchanan's equipment, intellectual 
 and artistic, would have been sufficient to fit out some 
 half-dozen of the popular poets whom Society delights 
 to honour ; but his inveterate habit of calling a spade 
 a spade almost condemned him to the role of a 
 prophet crying in the wilderness. All the more, 
 then, do humanitarians owe a tribute of gratitude 
 to this most humane and fearless writer, whose poems 
 are a living testimony to the fact that true poetry 
 does not lose, but is greatly a gainer, by association 
 with compassionate feeling. It is right that this side 
 of Robert Buchanan's genius should receive the appre- 
 ciation which it deserves.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 READINGS, 1868-69 
 
 WHEN he returned to Scotland the shadow 
 against which Bryan Procter first warned 
 him had not yet descended upon him. He was free, 
 for the time being, to write poetry, and to dream that 
 it would procure both bread and a foothold in the 
 world. His " London Poems" had succeeded beyond 
 his expectations. Encouraged by the success of his 
 translations from the Danish, published under the 
 title of " Ballads of the Affections," and consisting 
 for the most part of renderings from the " Danske 
 Viser," Messrs. Dalziel had offered him four hundred 
 pounds for his next book of poems, on the condition 
 that they might issue it, as they had issued the 
 "Ballads," with illustrations. This they did, and 
 the volume, containing some of his best work, was 
 published under the title of " North Coast and other 
 Poems." I fancy that the work failed for one reason 
 or another to show a profit to the publishers, such 
 original poetry as it contained being quite out of the 
 way of those who buy expensive illustrated books. 
 The poems which it contained, however, were mag- 
 nificently noticed by the Press. 
 
 By this time he was settled comfortably at Oban, 
 and was living the life of a regulation country gentle- 
 
 153
 
 154 Robert Buchanan 
 
 man. His tastes were expensive, and he gratified 
 them. He had his shooting and his fishing, while his 
 yacht was riding at anchor in Oban Bay, From time 
 to time as the humour seized him he boarded this 
 Httle craft and made sundry excursions among the 
 outer Hebrides, gaining in each of these expeditions 
 fresh poetical inspiration such as that which came to 
 him when he stood upon the lonely shores of Loch 
 Coruisk and conceived the series of poems which 
 were afterwards published under the title of " Coru- 
 isken Sonnets." It was from Loch Slighan, Isle of 
 Skye, that he wrote the following letter : — 
 
 "August, 1868. 
 
 " Dear Noel, — You will think me a beast for my 
 silence, and indeed I reproach myself daily for my 
 neglect of you and other dear friends. I cannot, 
 however, help being a bad correspondent ; and more- 
 over each letter is so much taken from my scant literary 
 hours. Were I to write to you as often as I think 
 of you, and as kindly, you would be sick — with sugar. 
 
 We have had a long wander, roughing it a good 
 deal both literally and figuratively, and we have 
 drunk much wonder by eye and ear. The little craft 
 we sail in has behaved bravely and gone through her 
 work like a lady of the old Norwegian school- — with a 
 fierce grace. I have thought much and written Httle, 
 eat little and walked much. I don't know that I am 
 much the better in health for this cruise — the cuisine 
 has been a little ^00 bad ; but I shall enjoy civilisation 
 better when I next enter an eating-house. 
 
 * How goes your book ? You never told me what 
 Chapman said, or how he said it ; and you never sent 
 me that Heroditan romance, of course. My horrid 
 bigotry revolts you. Well ! you will think my
 
 Readings, 1868-69 155 
 
 views larger some day, when I have had my full 
 say. Meantime I am merely mumbling an odd 
 music with little meaning to the foreign. That I do 
 not love all you love, that I do not see all you see, 
 that I do not hope all you hope are misfortunes ; but 
 with a little clearer light, some day, we shall find we 
 agree better than we think. I am doubtless silly and 
 fantastical when your Arnolds and your Swinburnes, 
 even your Tennysons, do not anyway move me, any 
 more than my crude stuff moves them. I really do 
 believe it is some vice in myself; yet were you to 
 know me alone, when I have been reading of Sancho's 
 government, or of the Miltonic epos, or of poor 
 Jack Falstaff's death — of these and a thousand other 
 beloved things — you would know I could love some- 
 thing, much. It is my vice that I must love a thing 
 wholly, or dislike it wholly. Of contemporaries, I 
 love only a few wholly. You see I have only been 
 half educated, and my tastes are very raw. 
 
 " But one thing let me confess — my total obtusity 
 about Clough. I have not read a line of him since, 
 yet all at once the light has grown on me of its own 
 accord, and I see that Clough was a star — not one in 
 the same heaven with my Chaucer and my Shake- 
 speare, and my Burns and my Cervantes — but a pure 
 scholastic light, real and everlasting. 
 
 " I don't know what will come next, but I shall try 
 to get to London for a month soon, when I hope to 
 get a little more of your company. I have great 
 bothers of course, and am still troubled ; but the 
 clouds clear. I was shipwrecked in the night, but I 
 swam for shore, and am looking out for another ship. 
 Where will you be in October ? Write to 
 
 " Yours always, 
 
 " Robert Buchanan." » 
 
 ' Letter to the Hon. Roden Noel,
 
 156 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 As will be seen from the above, the cloud was 
 descending, for he was beginning to feel the dis- 
 comfort caused by a small income and a heavy 
 expenditure. Added to this the writing of poetry, 
 which was always a great strain upon him, was 
 beginning to affect his health. " You do not re- 
 member," wrote one of his old friends to me during 
 his last illness, " because you were only a child, but I 
 remember that as far back as those Oban days he 
 had a slight stroke of some kind. He was very ill 
 then, and his brave young wife nursed him back to 
 life." 
 
 The cause of this breakdown arose partly from 
 overwork, and partly from the privations which he 
 had endured when he first came to London. There 
 is a general impression abroad that he was a self- 
 made man — that he rose, if not exactly from the 
 gutter, at any rate from very poor surroundings, and 
 that he never knew what it was to eat a good dinner 
 till he was able to earn it by his pen. That this 
 impression is a perfectly erroneous one I have shown 
 in the earlier chapters of this memoir. His up- 
 bringing, until he reached the age of eighteen, was 
 princely, for his indulgent mother never left a single 
 wish of his ungratified, so that when at length 
 poverty came to him, the very novelty of the 
 situation helped to rob it of its repulsiveness. He 
 took to it very much as a young aristocrat might 
 take to " slumming," and all the time he was happy 
 in the knowledge that it would certainly not last long. 
 The few months spent in the garret at Stamford 
 Street, when he was waited upon by shockheaded 
 " Belinda " and compelled to eat stale eggs for 
 breakfast, became an episode in his career, and one 
 to which he was never tired of referring. The struggle
 
 Readings, 1868-69 ^57 
 
 for existence which darkened his whole Hfe was 
 mainly the result of his early training — a taste for 
 luxury of all kinds had been instilled into him by 
 his mother, while from his father he inherited a love 
 of speculation. From neither had he learned the 
 value of money ; when he had it he spent it like a 
 lord, when he hadn't it he lived upon credit, and then, 
 finding himself in difficulties, he endeavoured to 
 extricate himself by hard work, or by plunging into 
 hazardous speculations which very often had the 
 effect of sinking him still deeper in the mire. 
 
 To such a man a wife fashioned on the lines of 
 Jane Welch Carlyle would have proved a blessing, 
 but my sister had unfortunately been cast in much 
 the same mould as himself She had no idea of 
 managing, or saving, or thinking of to-morrow. 
 " Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof" was her 
 motto, and so like a couple of babies they muddled 
 through life, tasting sometimes of its joys, but oftener 
 of its sorrows. 
 
 Up to this time (1868) five years had elapsed since 
 the publication of his first volume of poems, and 
 during those five years he had published many more, 
 yet in spite of the large sums which he received from 
 these volumes, and in spite of much ignoble pot- 
 boiling, he found himself at the close of the year 1868 
 in such monetary difficulties that he was compelled 
 to face the situation and cast about in his mind for 
 some kind of work which would be more lucrative 
 than that of literature, with the result that after a good 
 deal of deliberation he determined to follow in the 
 footsteps of Dickens — to emerge from his solitude 
 and give readings from his own works on the public 
 platform. This he did, on January 25, 1869, ap- 
 pearing at the Queen's Concert Rooms, Hanover
 
 158 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 Square. His appearance in public created no little 
 1(^ stir, and the audience which he drew was an excep- 
 tional one. " In front of him sat Lord Houghton, on 
 his right was Robert Browning, near him Dr. West- 
 land Marston and the Rev. Newman Hall. The 
 body of the room was full of literary men, critics, 
 editors, publishers, but he was not afraid of his 
 critical audience ; he faced them boldly, read manfully 
 and well, and wrung from them for his best passages 
 the tribute of enthusiastic applause." There cannot 
 be a doubt that he was in every way well fitted to 
 succeed in the path which he had elected to tread ; 
 " he had a pleasing and distinct delivery, a voice of 
 compass and power, and a prepossessing appearance." 
 " If all our writers" (said the Examiner) "were as 
 capable as he of doing histrionic justice to their 
 works, we should consider them not only unwise but 
 positively culpable in not treading the same path as 
 that so manfully traversed by Charles Dickens and 
 Robert Buchanan." 
 
 The success of the second reading, which took place 
 in March, was as great as that of the first, and had he 
 been blessed with even moderate health all would 
 have been well with him. Offers to read and lecture 
 came from all parts of the country, and a prosperous 
 future opened before him, but his highly strung 
 nervous system was unable to bear the strain of 
 these public appearances, and after the second 
 reading had been given he returned to Oban, so 
 broken in health that for a time at least every kind 
 of work had to be abandoned. It was at this period 
 of his career that the late Mr. Gladstone granted him 
 a Government pension of a hundred pounds a year, 
 which sum he received until his death.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE FLESHLY SCHOOL OF POETRY, 1870 
 
 IT was in the summer of 1870, when he was still 
 living at Oban, that Mr. Buchanan read the 
 poems of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, which had been re- 
 ceived with much praise by the entire newspaper press, 
 to the accompaniment of rapturous salvoes from the 
 writer's friends and personal admirers. In all the 
 ocean of eau sucrce which surrounded the new poet ^ 
 there had not been one drop of gall ; and the cliques 
 were ringing with the pretensions of the whole 
 school to which the poet-painter belonged. By 
 temperament, instinct, and literary education Robert 
 Buchanan was opposed to that school, and the voice 
 of calumny whispered that insults had been heaped 
 upon his own friends and sympathisers. He remem- 
 bered too things which still rankled in his mind, and 
 to which allusion will be made later on. Unfortu- 
 nately for himself he yielded partly to the desire to 
 express his opinion of the poems which criticism was 
 praising, he thought, too vehemently, and partly to 
 the temptation to be smart and funny at the expense 
 of a clique whose antics were, to his thinking at least, 
 
 highly absurd. The result was an article published in 
 
 159
 
 i6o Robert Buchanan 
 
 the Contemporary Revieiv signed " Thomas Maitland," 
 and entitled " The Fleshly School of Poetry," 
 
 The story of that article is now old literary history, 
 but I must traverse it again with a view to the partial 
 exculpation of the one who, ever since the publication 
 of the article in question, has been made the subject of 
 endless slander and misconception. 
 
 " My own career " (he wrote) " may be cited as an 
 example of the difficulties which must beset any 
 individual who is rash enough to despise coterie 
 friendships altogether. No man loves praise more 
 than I do, and few men of equal gifts have got so 
 little, ever since the time when my natural indiscre- 
 tion conquered me and I began to express decided 
 opinions. I have had many friends, but few of them, 
 alas ! have been professional Critics, and I alienated 
 those few long ago by refusing to accept their judg- 
 ments as authoritative or to express complete con- 
 fidence in their integrity. But here again, what has 
 it mattered ? I should have been more loved had 
 I been more lovable, and doubtless I have only got 
 my deserts, I may flatter my vanity at times by 
 assuming that I am not properly appreciated, but 
 I know well in my heart of hearts that a man as a 
 rule gets what sympathy he earns, and that I have 
 earned exactly what I have received. I may affirm 
 or insinuate that I am an honest creature, while all 
 the Critics of the Coteries are either knaves or fools, 
 but I know well in my heart that I am not a bit 
 better than they are, and am indeed as arrant a 
 Logroller as any one of them. Blood is thicker than 
 water, and Love is stronger than Criticism, Let me 
 illustrate the fact again in my own person. I pub- 
 lished many years ago an article called the ' Fleshly 
 School of Poetry.' It created a tremendous stir and
 
 The Fleshly School of Poetry i6i 
 
 provoked endless recriminations, and the question 
 which I am about to answer now is, Was it an honest 
 article, i.e., did it actually represent my honest belief? 
 To answer that question I must refer to the fons et 
 origo of the whole affair. Not long before its publi- 
 cation Mr. Swinburne the poet had gone out of his 
 way to print, in a note to one of his prose essays, an 
 insulting allusion to the friend of my boyhood, David 
 Gray, whose premature death I still mourned deeply. 
 He spoke contemptuously and cruelly of Gray's ' poor 
 little book,' an allusion emphasised, I was assured, by 
 other spiteful comments of the Coterie to which Mr. 
 Swinburne belonged. I showed the note to Lord 
 Houghton ; he was much surprised and vexed, and 
 said (I quote his actual words) : ' O he (Swinburne) 
 did this to annoy vie ! ' Whatever motive inspired 
 the allusion, it seemed to me most ill-timed, offensive, 
 and cruel ; and I vowed then and there to avenge it if 
 ever I had the opportunity. I am not justifying my 
 conduct ; I am simply describing it. I am not natu- 
 rally revengeful, but remember I was very young and 
 my dead friend was very dear to me. Well, I bided 
 my time. I forgot the provocation I myself had 
 given by my review of Mr. Swinburne's ' Poems and 
 Ballads' in the Athenceum, — a review in which, I am 
 ashamed to say, I compared the writer to the Gito 
 of Petronius. The retort came, not merely in Mr. 
 Swinburne's fierce exculpatory brochure, but in Mr. 
 Rossetti's pamphlet defending his friend, in the 
 opening passage of which I was called ' a poor 
 and pretentious poetaster who was causing storms 
 in teacups,' the allusion being to the success of my 
 ' London Poems.' From that instant I considered 
 myself free to strike at the whole Coterie, which I 
 finally did, at the moment when all the journals were 
 
 12
 
 1 62 Robert Buchanan 
 
 sounding extravagant pseans over the poems of Dante 
 Gabriel Rossetti. 
 
 " My criticism in the Contemporary Review was not 
 conscientiously dishonest ; I really believed then that 
 Rossetti was an affected, immoral, and overpraised 
 writer. I was not alone in that opinion, absurd as 
 I consider it now. Shortly after the publication of 
 my review, Tennyson avowed to me viva voce that he 
 considered Rossetti's sonnet on ' Nuptial Sleep ' the 
 ' filthiest thing he had ever read.' Browning in 
 private talks had been equally emphatic. Thus 
 encouraged, I faced at last the men who had (I 
 thought) trampled down the flowers on poor Gray's 
 grave, and 
 
 ' When I struck at length 
 Their honour, 'twas with all my strength ! ' 
 
 In spite of the shriek of protest raised, the blow 
 was decisive ; the Coterie collapsed like a house of 
 cards." i 
 
 At the time of the publication of this criticism Mr. 
 Buchanan was under contract to supply Alexander 
 Strahan, for the Argosy^ the Contemporary Review, 
 and other of his publications, with so much magazine 
 copy monthly. His contributions being very varied 
 in character, including verses and descriptive articles 
 as well as more serious matter, were frequently un- 
 signed and more frequently signed pseudonymously, 
 and his first idea was to publish the criticism on 
 Mr. Rossetti without any signature whatever, so it 
 was Mr. Strahan who attached to it the pseudonym 
 " Thomas Maitland." It is certain, however, that 
 Mr. Buchanan had no intention of signing the article 
 t,vV ■ "Latter Day Leaves."
 
 The Fleshly School of Poetry 163 
 
 with his own name, for at that time the coterie had 
 most of the Hterary journals, including the Atkencsum, 
 at their absolute command, and would be certain, he 
 thought, to use them to discredit his criticism. I am 
 not saying this in order to justify the course adopted, 
 I am merely stating a fact. His motive was, I know, 
 primarily revenge, his opinions dictated by a wrath 
 which he considered righteous, as well as by a literary 
 antipathy which he considered just. 
 
 He had not long to wait before learning that he 
 had thrust his staff into a hornet's nest. The author- 
 ship of the article soon became known ; he avowed it 
 indeed directly his name was mentioned in connec- 
 tion with it, and as he had meant all along to avow it 
 sooner or later. The critical journals described him 
 as a " disguised assassin," stabbing a brother artist in 
 the back and then hiding his head in darkness. The 
 Saturday Review alone defended him, and ridi- 
 culea his opponents in an article called " Coterie 
 Glory." Fiercer recriminations followed, culminating 
 in Rossetti's protest, published in the Athenceuvi, in 
 the re-publication of the review in pamphlet form, with 
 large and savage additions, and in Mr. Swinburne's 
 " Under the Microscope." But in the meantime the 
 fiery attacks upon him had brought unknown friends 
 into the field, who were just as eager to support him. 
 The late Cardinal Manning sent him a private 
 message, approving what he had done and desiring 
 to make his acquaintance. Tennyson and Browning 
 were on his side, tacitly if not openly, and a large 
 number of less famous people sent him messages of 
 sympathy and congratulation. The late Lord de \- . 
 Tabley, then the Hon. Leicester Warren (author of • 
 " Philoctetes ") helped him to design the cover of his 
 pamphlet by supplying him with drawings of the
 
 164 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 various flowers of the wayside, and so pointing the 
 moral of the diatribe. 
 
 Nevertheless he was practically left to fight his 
 battle alone, no one daring or caring to provoke the 
 hostility of his enemies by a public expression of 
 opinion ; and for months, nay for years afterwards, 
 he was assailed with every insult that malice could 
 invent for his destruction. So cruel indeed and so 
 relentless was this persecution of him, that when, in 
 the year 1872, he published his poem "St. Abe and 
 His Seven Wives," he found it expedient not only to 
 issue the book anonymously, but to take every precau- 
 tion to prevent the name of the author from becoming 
 known. The secret was so well kept that when a 
 representative of a leading London daily newspaper 
 went to Mr. Strahan (the publisher of the book), 
 showed him the proof of a highly laudatory review 
 two columns in length, and promised that it should 
 appear the very next day if he would tell him (in 
 strict confidence of course) the name of the author, 
 Mr. Strahan refused to speak, and as a consequence 
 no notice of the poem appeared in the columns of 
 the journal in question. The book however (since 
 it could not be proved to be written by Robert 
 Buchanan), did not fail to make its mark. Indeed 
 both " St. Abe " and its successor, " White Rose and 
 Red," were welcomed by the public and received by 
 the journals with such roars of applause as certainly 
 would not have greeted them had the secret of their 
 authorship become known. 
 
 Writing in the Christian World in July, 1876, 
 some five years after the publication of the famous 
 pamphlet, the Rev. W. H. Wylie said — 
 
 " Had they perceived the truth, Mr. Swinburne and 
 his friends would have been grateful to Mr. Buchanan
 
 The Fleshly School of Poetry 165 
 
 for the advice he gave them. He told them to aban- 
 don blasphemy and the sensual vein of Baudelaire. 
 . . . This excellent advice, instead of being gratefully 
 received, was spurned ; and any one who desires to see 
 the unholy wrath which it provoked in the breast of 
 Mr. Swinburne has only to turn to the pamphlet 
 ' Under the Microscope/ in which he replied to Mr. 
 Buchanan, pouring forth such torrents of invective as, 
 fortunately, have few parallels in the range of English 
 literature. Having delivered his soul in the article 
 of 1 87 1, I am not aware that Mr. Buchanan has 
 ever published another syllable about the Fleshly 
 Poets ; but when the story is told of hovv they have 
 laboured to discredit him, both as a man and a poet, it 
 will form one of the most humiliating episodes in the 
 literary history of our generation. To escape the band 
 of Mohawks by whom he was relentlessly pursued, he 
 has on more than one occasion betaken himself to 
 anonymous publication; and I am aware of one in- 
 stance in which a leading evening journal has, within 
 the same week, assailed a new poem bearing his name 
 with violent invective, and welcomed another poem, 
 which was also his, but which he had taken the pre- 
 caution of issuing anonymously, as the work of a man 
 of undoubted genius. The appearance last year of 
 ' Jonas Fisher ' was made a peg on which to hang 
 another series of attacks on Mr. Buchanan. That 
 poem, at first appearing anonymously, they ascribed 
 to his pen, led into this error by the fact that Lord 
 Southesk had also spoken his mind pretty plainly 
 about the Fleshly School. When Mr. Buchanan 
 disowned the imputed authorship of a work which he 
 had not even seen, and with the writer of which he 
 was then totally unacquainted, Mr. Swinburne still 
 continued the attack. It seemed to the victim of 
 
 .>
 
 1 66 Robert Buchanan 
 
 these libels that the time had at length arrived when 
 a decided step should be taken to put a stop to the 
 malicious slanders; and accordingly he appealed to the 
 strong arm of the law. It was a hazardous experi- 
 ment, for it seems to be a prevalent notion that one 
 poet may libel another with impunity ; and all the 
 damage that could be inflicted on the plaintiff by an 
 ingenious cross-examiner like Mr. Hawkins was, of 
 course employed to discredit his case. But I am 
 happy to say that the cause of justice triumphed, 
 even before a special jury in the Court of Common 
 Pleas ; and after having the whole story opened out 
 before them, which I have here compressed into a 
 brief compass, that jury delivered a verdict for the 
 plaintiff, with damages ^150. It adds to my satis- 
 faction to learn that the presiding judge, Mr. Justice 
 \C^ Archibald, condemned in most unqualified terms the 
 productions against which Mr. Buchanan tabled his 
 protest five years before. Speaking of the works of 
 Dante Rossetti, Swinburne, Morris, &c., the judge 
 declared that ' it would have been better if they had 
 never been written, and that if all the poetry of the 
 Cj Fleshly School were committed to the flames to- 
 
 morrow, the world would be very much the better 
 for it.'" 
 
 I grant the provocation, but, as I have shown, 
 the first blow was struck by the other side, and 
 the whole conduct of the fight appears to me to 
 have been mean and cowardly on that side from 
 first to last. When Mr. Buchanan attacked Mr. 
 Rossetti, he attacked, as he thought, a strong 
 man — he was not showering rancour on the helpless 
 dead. Had he conceived for a moment that his 
 words would have caused so much pain, he would 
 never have written as he did, but in this instance he
 
 The Fleshly School of Poetry 167 
 
 himself had been attacked far more savagely again 
 and again, and had taken his punishment like a man. 
 He could not understand then, indeed he never could 
 understand, how any clique of men could take a piece 
 of adverse criticism in so paltry and pusillanimous a 
 spirit. But the moment he saw in what spirit his 
 criticism had been received, the very moment he 
 realised that he had been the cause of such bitter 
 pain, he came forward and made amends, both in his 
 inscription to " God and the Man " and in his mature 
 appreciation of Mr. Rossetti in his " Look Round 
 Literature." Nevertheless I would gladly, if I could, 
 wipe this episode from the record of so large-hearted 
 and high-minded a man as Robert Buchanan or, 
 failing that, persuade myself and my readers that his 
 motives in the attack were consistently honest and 
 high-minded. But in telling the story of this quarrel 
 I have above all things attempted to speak the truth, 
 as he would have wished me to speak it, thus leaving 
 the public to mete out their own measure of praise or 
 blame. His motives, it seems to me, were complex, 
 first among them being the determination to be even 
 with the men who had insulted his dead comrade. 
 Add to that a young man's irritation at the 
 exaggerated praises heaped upon work which then 
 seemed to him artificial, affected, and insincere. 
 
 It is certain that Robert Buchanan, more than 
 most men, suffered from wilful misconstruction and 
 deliberate persecution, but more than most men, on 
 the other hand, he asserted his intellectual inde- 
 pendence and held on his own way towards his own 
 ideals. I should exaggerate perhaps if I said that he 
 was indifferent to misconstruction — no man is able 
 to despise, or has any right to despise, the opinion of 
 his contemporaries, but I can safely assert that in his
 
 1 68 Robert Buchanan 
 
 case the pleasures of independence far outweighed 
 the pains of personal martyrdom. Praise is sweet to 
 us all, blame is bitter enough, but in his case neither 
 blame nor praise affected one hair's breadth his fight 
 with his own conscience.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 LIFE IN IRELAND 
 
 IN the year 1874 his occupancy of the "White 
 House on the Hill " came to an end, and he left 
 Scotland for ever. Various circumstances contributed 
 to this move, first among them being the condition of 
 his health, about which he had very serious mis- 
 givings, certain symptoms pointing to probable 
 paralysis. With the breakdown in health came the 
 inability to work and consequently to meet his 
 weekly expenditure, which at that time was con- 
 siderable. He persuaded himself, moreover, that the 
 climate of Scotland did not suit him, so his yacht 
 was sold, his shooting given up, and he came again 
 to London not with the idea of settling there, but 
 merely to consult certain doctors, and to search the 
 advertising columns of the newspapers for a country 
 residence the expenses of which would be con- 
 siderably less than they had been at Oban. Doctors 
 King Chambers and Russell Reynolds had both been 
 consulted, when the subject of these memoirs was 
 strongly advised by the late Countess of Gainsborough 
 to call in Dr. Gulley, in whose system she had the 
 most implicit faith. Her advice was acted upon ; Dr. 
 Gulley was called in, with the result that Mr. 
 
 Buchanan was sent to Great Malvern and placed 
 
 169
 
 170 Robert Buchanan 
 
 under the care of Dr. Fernie, who had become 
 Dr. Gulley's successor. 
 
 He was taken to Malvern by his wife, who has 
 recorded in her journal that " though the weather was 
 intensely cold (February 28th) Robert bore the 
 journey pretty well." They were met at the station, 
 and found that apartments had been taken for 
 them at Holyrood House. The journal goes on to 
 state : — 
 
 ^^ Feb. 2gtli. — We rose at nine o'clock and found 
 the ground covered with snow. Most depressing — 
 even the houses look depressed. Our apartments 
 are most oddly situated ; we have a doctor on one 
 side, an undertaker on the other, and I think a 
 churchyard close by. The bell is constantly tolling. 
 Baths close to our window and making a dreadful 
 noise through letting off steam by machinery. 
 Robert so cold he has to wear his cap and gloves. 
 Dr. Fernie called in the afternoon, and in the evening, 
 as the weather was warmer, we took a walk and 
 became a little better impressed with the town. 
 
 " March 2nd. — Robert went through his first 
 tortures. It has been a lovely day and we went for 
 a drive, but it was dreadfully dull. In the evening 
 we walked for about a mile, and when we had 
 covered half the return journey Robert's leg became 
 bad again — loss of power in it — but I managed to get 
 him home. Once there he became worse. He had 
 flushing in the head, numbness in the right cheek, 
 and he lost power in his hand too. Went to bed, 
 but did not get much better all the evening, 
 though he had a fairly good night. The bell is still 
 tolling ! 
 
 ''March 13/// — When we were out walking this 
 morning Robert complained of being in a violent
 
 Life in Ireland 171 
 
 perspiration, feeling muddy in the head, and very- 
 nervous, and so we hurried home. Have strongly 
 advised him to leave as he seems to get no better," 
 
 A few days later they returned to London, and 
 Mr. Buchanan placed himself under the care of Dr. 
 Lobb, but as the symptoms from which he suffered 
 seemed to continue with more or less severity, he 
 decided to return again to Malvern and make a 
 further trial of the water treatment. This he did 
 on March 29th. 
 
 " Travelled to Malvern. Rose at eight and took 
 a hasty breakfast. Right leg very bad while walking 
 down steps to cab, and continued so throughout the 
 drive to the station. Left town by the ten train. Felt 
 pretty well till we got to Worcester, then became 
 very ill with swelling feeling in right arm and face. 
 Took stimulant drops and brandy and got slightly 
 better. Arrived at Malvern about three o'clock, felt 
 leg very bad while walking from train to cab. Had 
 a tea-dinner on arriving, but did not get thoroughly 
 well all the evening. To make matters worse Polly 
 has contracted a bad cold." ^ 
 
 During this time, although he was always more or 
 less unwell, he had not been idle, for on March 12th 
 I find the following entry in my sister's diary : — 
 
 " Robert finished and posted complete poem, 
 ' White Rose and Red.' Neuralgia away, but right 
 cheek bothering him very much and head rather bad 
 during the evening." 
 
 The second visit to Malvern, which lasted several 
 weeks, was productive of no better results than the 
 first. Mr. Buchanan's health got steadily worse and 
 his pocket proportionately lighter. " It is awfully 
 dull and damnably dear," he wrote ; " in fact a perfect 
 ' Mr. Buchanan's diary.
 
 172 Robert Buchanan 
 
 catarrh of cash. ... I got a h'ghter heart directly 
 I had seen Reynolds and Gulley, and they to some 
 extent dissipated my greatest dread." ^ 
 
 Having convinced himself that no great good 
 would result from a lengthened stay at Malvern, he 
 resolved to try again the remedy of an open-air 
 country life. With this object in view he rented, 
 from an advertisement in the Field newspaper, a 
 furnished cottage called Rossport Lodge, which was 
 situated in the very wildest parts of the wilds of 
 Connemara. He had had no previous knowledge of 
 Ireland whatever, his decision to make the experi- 
 ment having been brought about by the wish to 
 obtain a certain amount of luxury with the least 
 possible outlay. With the discovery of Rossport he 
 seemed to have found exactly what he wanted. The 
 Lodge was small, fairly furnished, and comfortable 
 enough. Included in the rent there was the right to 
 burn unlimited turf, which was also brought to the 
 house free of charge, there were two or three thousand 
 acres of wild, rough shooting, the right to fish in a 
 couple of rivers well stocked with salmon and trout, 
 the use of a horse and car three days a week, and the 
 rent was fifty pounds a year ! 
 
 By the courtesy of Mr. William Canton I am enabled 
 to quote from a very interesting and very voluminous 
 packet of letters which he received from Mr. 
 Buchanan during the period of the latter's residence 
 in Ireland, and the following quotation gives a very 
 graphic picture of the poet's surroundings at that 
 time : — 
 
 " Dont imagine me ' looking out from a garden ' on 
 the Atlantic ! We have no gardens here. My ' Lodge ' 
 is a little place in the centre of a bog, surrounded by 
 
 ' Letter to the Hon. Roden Noel.
 
 Life in Ireland 173 
 
 huts even wilder than those you paint in Romaine. I 
 am ten miles from Belmullet, a wretched little town 
 something like Tobermory in the Highlands. There 
 is fair snipe-shooting and salmon-fishing in summer. 
 I wish you could see Kid Island, a weird place out in 
 the sea surrounded by wondrous caves and haunted 
 by legions of birds. Photographs quotha ! You 
 have a dim notion indeed if you think a photographer 
 has ever been here. A young ' kern ' of my acquaint- 
 ance went the other day forty miles distant to Ballina, 
 and saw the Train ! He trembles at the memory of 
 that appalling sight. They tried to persuade him to 
 get into a carriage, but he was not such a fool ! Super- 
 stition flourishes. They believe implicitly in the 
 Mermaid, the Second Sight, the Water Bull, and all 
 the rest of it. Such are we here; and as we vary our 
 monotony by occasionally shooting a landlord, our 
 life is not uneventful." 
 
 The main reason for his going to Rossport, that of 
 retrenchment, was not accomplished. " I came here 
 for economy " (he wrote), " and just now, calculating 
 up, I find it costs me as much as London, though we 
 only live in a tiny cottage. There are so many Poor 
 who must and will be assisted." ^ 
 
 Despite its drawbacks, which were not few, the 
 time spent in Rossport was productive of much 
 happiness. With the change to these surroundings, 
 Mr. Buchanan's health rapidly improved, and his 
 power of work became greater than it had been for 
 many months. " I simply cannot work in Town, but 
 directly I get here, though I take twice the exercise, 
 and am out thrice the time, I do twice or thrice the 
 work. I never felt one tithe of the literary power I 
 feel now, and the results will make or mar me. So 
 ' Letter to Mr. Canton.
 
 174 Robert Buchanan 
 
 much for Oxygen. Not that I feel quite the thing — I 
 never do that, and I suppose few do," ^ 
 
 The place was certainly inconvenient, for not only 
 were we forty miles from a railway station, but we 
 were ten miles from a post-office or any kind of shop, 
 and had it not been that my sister, who loved nothing 
 so well as a country life, soon turned the shooting- 
 lodge into a miniature farm, we might often have 
 gone hungry to bed. As it was we baked our own 
 bread, reared our own poultry, and when they killed 
 a sheep at the barracks, invariabl}^ took a good 
 portion of it as our share, while for other provisions 
 my sister had only to dip into her store cupboard, 
 which had been well stocked soon after our arrival. 
 Thus we were able not only to have our own wants 
 supplied, but to feed half the starving villagers 
 besides. But it was not alone for their generosity, 
 which was always of the most lavish kind, that the 
 poet and his wife endeared themselves to all the poor 
 of Rossport ; it was also for their great tenderness to 
 all the sick and afflicted. As an amateur Mr. 
 Buchanan was a most able doctor, and my sister 
 was a particularly skilful nurse, and since the nearest 
 doctor lived ten miles away, the poet and his wife 
 were soon called upon to tend the village sick. This 
 they did with never-ending patience. Indeed 1 have 
 known my sister to be called up in the middle of the 
 night, and to tramp for miles over a wet and slushy 
 moorland in order to tend some miserable peasant 
 woman who, but for her kindly ministrations, would 
 most surely have died. When she left the village, 
 which she occasionally did to pay a short visit to 
 London, there was much wailing and gnashing of 
 teeth, while to celebrate her return bonfires were 
 
 ' Letter to the Hon. Roden Noel.
 
 Life in Ireland 175 
 
 lit, and the Lodge surrounded by a sorry-looking 
 lot of creatures who had gathered together to bid 
 her welcome home. We seldom or ever saw a news- 
 paper, and our letters were delivered to us three times 
 a week, when we were so lucky as to get them 
 delivered at all. The post-boy, " Johnny the Ferry " 
 as he was called, had to fetch the letters from Bel- 
 mullet, a distance of ten miles. Sometimes he got 
 a lift on a side car, but oftener he had to do the 
 journey on foot, and that, too, in the wettest and 
 stormiest weather, so that occasionally the letters 
 arrived in such a state of dilapidation as to be 
 almost unreadable. The post usually came in at 
 nine o'clock at night, and went out again at 7.30 
 in the morning, an arrangement which we found 
 exceedingly inconvenient when a book happened 
 to be going through the press, as, when proof- 
 reading had to be done, it generally meant sitting up 
 till the small hours of the morning. In this way Mr. 
 Buchanan corrected the proofs of the " Shadow of 
 the Sword " and I those of the " Queen of Con- 
 naught." 
 
 But the life we led there was by no means dull. 
 For society there was the parish priest — Father John 
 Melvin — a particularly handsome man who loved a 
 game of chess and a glass of whiskey, and who could 
 produce on occasion one of the finest glasses of 
 potheen ever brewed in Connaught. 
 
 During one of our periodical visits to London we 
 brought with us some of Father John's potheen and 
 presented it to Charles Reade, who was so enthu- 
 siastic over it and who set such store by it that 
 when producing it at his own table he insisted upon 
 having it served in the tiniest of liqueur glasses. 
 There was Father John's curate. Father Michael
 
 176 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 Geraghty, a delicate, refined youth of some three- 
 and-twenty summers, whose pathetic Hfe-story was 
 so touchingly told in the novel which was published 
 in 1898 under the title of " Father Anthony," while 
 Rossport House, the only other habitable dwelling in 
 the village besides our own, was occupied by Colonel 
 Campbell, his wife, and four bonnie daughters ; and 
 last, but not least, there was the Protestant clergy- 
 man the Rev. G. H. Croly, who dwelt in Polothomas, 
 just across the ferry. Those were days to which the 
 poet ever looked back with pleasure, and when he 
 published his novel " Father Anthony," he referred 
 to them in a dedication to the parish priest. 
 
 " Dear Father John, — I am inscribing this 
 book with your name in memory of our many meet- 
 ings among the sea-surrounded wilds of Erris. 
 Certain scenes and characters in it will be familiar 
 to you, and in ' Father x'\nthony ' himself you will 
 recognise a dim likeness to one whom we both knew 
 and loved. P"or his sake and also for yours, I shall 
 always feel strong affection towards the Irish Mother- 
 Church, and towards those brave and liberal-hearted 
 men who share so cheerfully the sorrows and priva- 
 tions, the simple joys and duties of the Irish 
 peasantry. 
 
 " As I close the unpretentious tale, for which I 
 claim only one merit, that of truth to the life, I look 
 back with regretful tenderness to the happy years I 
 spent in Western Ireland and to the friends whom I 
 found there to ' brighten the sunshine.' Some have 
 already passed away ; dear ' Father Michael,' who 
 sleeps in his lonely grave at Ballina ; and the good 
 'Colonel,' blithest and best of hosts and truest of 
 sportsmen, at whose table you denounced the 'Saxon,'
 
 Life in Ireland 177 
 
 to the Saxon's unending delight, joining afterwards 
 till the rafters rang in the chorus of 'John Peel.' 
 Ever leal, faithful, brave, and honest, tolerant to all 
 creeds yet staunch and steadfast to your own, you 
 survive, beloved still, I am sure, by all that know you, 
 and still carrying with you the brightness of a kindly 
 gospel and a broadly human disposition. 
 
 " Yours always affectionately, 
 
 "Robert Buchanan." ^ 
 
 At this point of my narrative I recall an incident 
 which it may be interesting to relate. The Colonel 
 was an omnivorous reader. He subscribed to Smith's 
 library, and regularly every month came his box well 
 stocked with books, which he was always ready to 
 lend to any member of our little colony, but his 
 reading was limited to prose, the lists which went in 
 never by any chance including the name of a volume 
 of poems. Once, however, a terrible mistake 
 occurred. In the publisher's announcements the 
 Colonel one day saw the advertisement of an 
 anonymous work entitled, " St. Abe and his Seven 
 Wives : a Tale of Salt Lake City," and, without 
 waiting to ascertain whether the work in question 
 was in prose or verse, he hastily added it to his list. 
 On the arrival of the box the mistake was discovered 
 and the offending volume was cast into a corner and 
 left there. Some little time later it was taken up, quite 
 by chance, and looked at. Having read a few lines, 
 the Colonel became interested ; he read the poem to 
 the end, and his enthusiasm knew no bounds. That 
 same night he appeared at the Lodge with the book 
 in his hand. He had brought it for the poet to read, 
 and having recommended it with all the enthusiasm 
 ' Dedication to " Father Anthony." 
 13
 
 178 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 of which he was capable, he said how much he would 
 like to meet the man who had written it. The poet 
 listened and smiled, but my sister revealed the secret 
 of the authorship with no little pride. Up to that 
 time the friendship between the two men had not 
 been of the closest, for the Colonel, it must be 
 admitted, was in every way the opposite of the 
 poet. Both were Scotchmen, but while one was 
 generous to a fault, the other was what is termed 
 " close," especially in the matter of sport, keeping to 
 himself his knowledge of the best pools in the river, 
 or the " warm corners " on the moor. But now all 
 was changed — the King could do no wrong — the poet 
 was at liberty to fish in the Colonel's river if it so 
 pleased him, or to shoot on his land, and following 
 the theory that by pitch one is defiled, the Colonel, 
 by intimate association, imbibed a good deal of the 
 generosity and good-heartedness of his neighbour. 
 From having been tolerated in the village, he became 
 liked, and indeed he was soon quite popular. But 
 much as he esteemed the poet, he never learned to 
 like poetry ; indeed, he ever regarded it with horror, 
 despite the fact that he had derived so much pleasure 
 from the reading of " St. Abe and His Seven Wives." 
 
 Another friendship which dates from this time is 
 that of Charles Reade, whose acquaintance the poet 
 made during one of his visits to London, and of 
 whom, many years later, he wrote the following 
 touching reminiscence : — 
 
 " It was in the summer of 1876 that I first made 
 the acquaintance of Charles Reade, at a little dinner 
 given by Mr. John Coleman, then manager of the 
 Queen's Theatre. The occasion was one especially 
 interesting to me, as the great novelist (for great and 
 in some respects unparalleled he will be found to be
 
 Life in Ireland 179 
 
 when the time for his due appraisement comes) had 
 expressed a desire to meet my sister-in-law, who 
 although still a very young girl in her teens, had 
 risen into sudden distinction by the publication of 
 the ' Queen of Connaught,' Pleasant beyond measure 
 was that night's meeting ; pleasanter still the friendly 
 intimacy which followed it, and lasted for years ; for 
 of all the many distinguished men that I have met, 
 Charles Reade, when you knew him thoroughly, was 
 one of the gentlest, sincerest, and most sympathetic. 
 With the intellectual strength and bodily height of 
 an Anak, he possessed the quiddity and animal spirits 
 of Tom Thumb. He was learned, but he wore his 
 wisdom lightly, as became a true English gentleman 
 of the old school. His manners had the stateliness 
 of the last generation, such manners as I had known 
 in the scholar Peacock, himself a prince of tale- 
 tellers ; and, to women especially, he had the grace 
 and gallantry of the good old band of literary 
 knights. Yet with all his courtly dignity he was 
 as frank -hearted as a boy, and utterly without pre- 
 tence. What struck me at once in him was his 
 supreme veracity. Above all shams and pretences, 
 he talked only of what he knew ; and his knowledge, 
 though limited in range, was large and memorable. 
 At the period of our first acquaintance he was living 
 at Albert Gate, with the bright and genial Mrs. 
 Seymour as his devoted friend and housekeeper ; 
 and there, surrounded by his books of wonderful 
 memoranda, he was ever happy to hold simple 
 wassail with the few friends he loved. Gastronomi- 
 cally his tastes were juvenile, and his table was 
 generally heaped with sweets and fruits. A magni- 
 ficent whist and chess player, he would condescend 
 to spend whole evenings at the primitive game of
 
 t8o Robert Buchanan 
 
 ' squales.' In these and in all other respects he 
 was the least bookish, the least literary person that 
 ever used a pen ; indeed, if the truth must be told, 
 his love for merely literary people was small, and he 
 was consequently above all literary affectations. His 
 keen insight went straight into a man's real acquire- 
 ments and real experience, apart from verbal or 
 artistic clothing, and he was ever illustrating in 
 practice the potent injunction of Goethe — 
 
 ' Greift nur hinein in 's voile Menschenleben ! 
 Ein jedcr lebt 's, nicht vielen ist 's bekannt, 
 Und wo ihr 's packt, da ist 's interressant ! ' 
 
 "His sympathy was for the living world, not for 
 the world of mere ideas ; and as his sympathy so was 
 his religion, — not a trouble-haunted, querulous ques- 
 tioning of truths unrealised and unrealisable, but a 
 simple, unpretending, humble, and faithful acquies- 
 cence in those divine laws which are written in the 
 pages of Nature and on the human heart. 
 
 " He read few books and abominated fine writing. 
 I well remember his impatience when, taking up a 
 novel of Ouida, and being pestered with a certain 
 abominable iteration about an ' Ariadne,' he sent the 
 book flying across the room before he had reached the 
 end of the first chapter. For the literature of pure 
 imagination he cared little or nothing, perhaps not 
 quite enough. Among the letters of his in my posses- 
 sion is one in which, referring to certain conversations 
 we had had on the subject of poetry, he utters the 
 following dicta, following them up with the charming 
 playfulness which was his most pleasant charac- 
 teristic : ' Even Tennyson to my mind ' (he says) ' is 
 only a Prince of Poetasters (!) I think with the 
 ancients, in whose view the Poetae Majores were
 
 Life in Ireland i8i 
 
 versifiers who could tell a great story in great verse 
 and adorn it with great speeches and fine descrip- 
 tions ; and the Poetee Minores were versifiers who 
 could do all the rest just as well but could not tell a 
 great story. In short, I look on poetry as fiction 
 with the music of words. But, divorced from fiction, 
 I do not much value the verbal faculty, nor the 
 verbal music. And I believe this is the popular 
 instinct, too, and that a musical story-teller would 
 achieve an incredible popularity. Reflechissez y ! 
 Would have gone in for this myself long ago, but can 
 only write doggerel. Example — 
 
 " You and Miss Jay 
 Hope to see my play ; 
 
 I hope so too. 
 Because — the day 
 You see my play, 
 
 I shall see you ! " 
 
 Vive la poesie ! — Yours ever very truly, Reade.' 
 
 " Here I may appropriately refer to his habit of 
 signing with his surname only those letters which he 
 reserved for intimate friends. In all his personal 
 relations he was completely frank, charming, and gay- 
 hearted. On the back of a photograph before me 
 taken at Margate, whither he had gone for the benefit 
 of his health, he wrote as follows : — 
 
 '"Dear Miss Jay, — I enclose the benevolent 
 Imbecile you say you require. It serves you right 
 for not coming down to see me ! — C. R. All pre- 
 vious attempts were solidified vinegar. This is the 
 reaction, no doubt ! ' 
 
 " This was written not long before he encountered 
 the great trouble of his later life, when the good and
 
 1 8.2 Robert Buchanan 
 
 gracious friend who had made his home delightful to 
 all who knew him was suddenly and cruelly taken 
 away. ' Seymour,' as he used to call her very often, 
 possessed much of his own fine frankness of cha- 
 racter, and knew and loved him to the last with 
 beautiful friendship and devotion. From the blow of 
 her loss he never quite rallied. His grief was pitiful 
 to see in so strong a man ; but from that moment 
 forward he turned his thoughts heavenward, accept- 
 ing with noble simplicity and humility the full 
 promise of the Christian faith. Fortunately, I think, 
 for him, his intellect had never been speculative in 
 the religious direction ; he possessed the wisdom 
 which to so many nowadays is foolishness, and was 
 able, as an old man, to become as a little child." ^ 
 
 ' " A Look Round Literature."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 FIRST IDEAS OF NOVEL WRITING 
 
 IT was during the period of his residence in 
 Ireland, about the year 1874, that Mr. Buchanan 
 made his first bid for popularity by the writing of 
 prose fiction. His first idea in this connection was 
 to write in collaboration, and so he made the 
 following proposition to Mr. William Canton : — 
 
 " I am tempted, believing in you so much, to 
 propose collaboration in a story^ I supplying the 
 theme, to be modified as we might mutually agree, 
 and you doing your fair half of the working-out. 
 Your strong picturesque style would suit me, and I 
 don't think the public would see the 'joins!' In 
 suggesting this, I bid for something very high indeed ; 
 a first-class theme, first-class work, and (I hope) a 
 first-class success. I think I have a grand subject 
 ready to hand. The work would be either anony- 
 mous, or under a pseudonym or anagram embracing 
 our two names. In this kind of joint work Erck- 
 mann-Chatrian have been very successful. Let me 
 hear from you, and ' if 'twere done, 'twere well if 
 'twere done quickly.' ... I find I have some of the 
 story-sketches by me ; so I send them to you to 
 
 look over. The story of which they form part ran 
 
 183
 
 184 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 thus: The young fellow in Chapter I. was the Lord of 
 Uribol in disguise ; he made love to and ran away 
 with the girl Minna ; she went with him to London, 
 and there discovered he was a bigamist, having 
 married a drunken widow in India ; she fled his 
 house in horror when they were in an hotel in Edin- 
 burgh, and rushed out into the streets ; here she 
 would have perished, if she had not suddenly encoun- 
 tered the poor wanderer Angus-with-the-dogs ; and 
 the great strength of the tale was to be her journey 
 home on foot in his company, until she fell on the 
 way, and was delivered of a child. Meantime the 
 remorseful husband returned to Uribol in a smack, 
 and was wrecked on the Morig Dhu, a reef of rocks, 
 while Angus-with-the-dogs, returning one wild night 
 home to Uribol, pulled out from his breast, along 
 with his usual puppies, a baby-child — the Heir of 
 Uribol ! This is vague enough, but you are keen 
 and will see the possibilities. The tale is only 
 written as far as chapter 5 or 6, and I think could 
 be easily transferred to this wild Irish Erris, for the 
 people here are the very same race, the same habits, 
 customs, peculiarities, as the Hebrideans. Angus 
 could turn into Andy; Glasgow into Dublin; Uribol 
 into Erris. Tell me what you think of the tale, and 
 can you suggest any alteration of the plot, &c. ? If 
 you thought the story very strong we might make 
 this our first anonymous venture." ^ 
 
 This first proposition came to nothing, though the 
 story, of which the foregoing is a dim outline, was 
 subsequently written by Mr. Buchanan himself, and 
 published in the year 1881 under the title of "A 
 Child of Nature." Though the first venture came to 
 nought, the idea of collaboration was not abandoned, 
 ' Letter to Mr. Canton.
 
 First Ideas of Novel Writing 185 
 
 for on December 20th Mr. Buchanan again wrote to 
 Mr. Canton : — 
 
 " My dear Canton, — I send you abstract of the 
 other plot. It was originally meant for a poem, but 
 long reflection convinces me it must be prose. To some 
 extent founded on facts it ought to make a magnifi- 
 cent book. I send you two or three fragments of 
 the (crude) verse, a sketch of first ten chapters, and 
 one rough draft of chapter 10. If you will also refer 
 to Vol. I. of the Argosy, and to two articles called 
 ' Wintering in Etretat ' by John Banks (J. B. is your 
 humble servant), you will have an idea of the sort of 
 village, but Brittany is better than Normandy. For 
 Brittany simply describe the Hebrides, with a dash 
 of Blackpool slush, and you will go all right ; 
 nothing can be too wild, weird, and strange for that 
 coast. It would be as well for you to read ' Le 
 Foyer Breton' and ' Les Derniers Bretons' of Sou- 
 vestre for Breton folklore, &c. I have the books in 
 London if you cannot procure them. But in fact 
 consult any sources that occur to you — only remem- 
 bering we don't want any cram, but a simple strong 
 natural poem in prose. 
 
 " Now will you try your hand on the first chapter 
 or two of this tale, and let me see them ? As the 
 subject is intense and gloomy later on you cannot be 
 too brightly poetical and easy in the opening. I 
 leave the girl Joan to you so far she must be a 
 bright foil to Romaine ; and whatever village worthies 
 you like, may come in. The idea is, in a natural and 
 striking way, to trace the evil influence of Avatarism 
 on a simple individual, how from a gentle loving soul, 
 Romaine gets turned into something terrible, how his 
 life becomes a sort of microcosm of War and Rapine;
 
 1 86 Robert Buchanan 
 
 and how finally God avenges him, and proffers to the 
 Avatar the same simple cup of sorrow. I don't think 
 we can be too simple and realistic in such a tale. 
 Let us have plenty of love by all means, in the 
 beginning at all events. 
 
 " Let me know by return how you feel this theme, 
 and after I get your first chapter or two I will map 
 out our several parts. But pray suggest any 
 improvements and modifications that occur to you, 
 especially any that will lighten the brooding intensity 
 of the tale. 
 
 " Thanks for the printed story. I will read it of 
 course. That you have the power to do fine work of 
 this kind I am convinced. 
 
 " There is no reason why we should not do both 
 tales. As to Erris it is simply the Hebrides. Any 
 sea, you ask ? As old Paul Bedford used to say, 
 ' I believe you, my boy.' The surge from Labrador 
 thunders at my door ; the cliffs equal Skye and 
 Gareloch ; there are headlands and islands innu- 
 merable ; and in fact, read any description of the 
 Western Isles, and you see Erris. The same people 
 too — Celtic, speaking the same tongue with only 
 slight differences of accent — e.g.^ they say in the 
 Hebrides bridd (salmon) and here briddwn (I write 
 phonetically). My Angus is here as well as there, 
 and this is new soil. I know a grand specimen of a 
 priest, Father John Melvin, who spouts Homer like 
 Blackie, and as for the quaint specimens of human 
 nature that throng around us, it would do your heart 
 good to see them. I have just parted with an old 
 Beggar woman, the strangest of Gaberlunzies, whose 
 story is the saddest and most wondrous thing I ever 
 heard — such self-sacrifice is little less than divine. 
 By the way, did you ever read my ' Eiradh of Canna' ?
 
 First Ideas of Novel Writing 187 
 
 I daresay not, so I enclose it. I pride myself on it as 
 a masterpiece (!) and often think of a volume of such 
 studies. 
 
 " Ever yours, 
 
 " Robert Buchanan." 
 
 " RosspoRT, Belmullet, 
 
 " December 26, 1874. 
 
 " My dear Canton, — Your enthusiasm makes me 
 hope for wonders. It is a. good subject. Fire away 
 and God-speed. I am writing to London for the 
 French books. 
 
 "One word of solemn warning. In praising the 
 theme you call it Hiigoic. No one admires Hugo 
 more than I do — I have called him the ' ^Eschylus of 
 this generation ' — but I conjure you to work as far 
 away from his style as possible. You cannot have a 
 better model in your mind than Hawthorne, or a 
 worse than Hugo. I mention this because your 
 powers of imitation sometimes run away v/ith you ! 
 I know you'll forgive this warning for the sake of all 
 my faith in you ; I wait with anxiety for your first 
 chapters. Your enthusiasm rekindles mine. 
 
 " I am laid up with catarrh and cough and am 
 therefore rather stupid. I spent Christmas in bed, 
 and couldn't even look a goose in the face ! 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 " Robert Buchanan." 
 
 " ROSSPORT. 
 
 " My dear Canton, — I have only just time to say 
 that I have glanced through the first chapter and 
 like it well ; it only needs curtailing, or rather having 
 some of its matter transferred. Go on ; and get in
 
 1 88 Robert Buchanan 
 
 some dialogue. I shall grasp you better after a few 
 chapters. You shall have all the books by next post ; 
 they will reach you Sunday or Monday. 
 " Yours, in great haste, 
 
 " Robert Buchanan." 
 
 " RosspoRT, Belmullet, Jan., 1875. 
 
 " My dear Canton, — I send you entire sketch 
 of chapters of Vol. I. You will see that I want you 
 to stop at end of your chapter 4, when I will take up 
 the thread for two chapters, — you continuing on 
 chapters 7 and 8 — then me for 9, 10, and 11 — then 
 you for four more, then last two by me. You can 
 skip straight on from four to seven without waiting 
 to see my intermediate chapters, as they will be to 
 some extent independent of previous and subsequent 
 chapters. Leave the schoolmaster to me, please ! I 
 think the road is now pretty clear for Vol. I. If any 
 links seem clumsy we can easily ' tittyvate ' them 
 afterwards. 
 
 " We must alter the Cure a little. He is a little 
 too stereotyped — too saintly, not sordid enough. Oh 
 that we could transfer to paper a certain priest here ! 
 I will try to make a few marginal suggestions and 
 alterations for this purpose. Still I think we might 
 be ready at Easter. 
 
 " If on reflection there are any of the chapters j^cz/ 
 would rather write, that you feel an impulse to write, 
 tell me ! Also if you can think of any situations, 
 however quiet, where the girl might come out 
 stronger. 
 
 " Go ahead ! 
 
 " Sincerely yours, 
 
 " Robert Buchanan."
 
 c 
 
 B 
 B 
 
 1 
 
 First Ideas of Novel Writing 189 
 
 Rough Sketch of Vol. I. 
 
 Overture 
 Chapter. 
 
 /I. On the Crags. Romaine and Yvonne. 
 
 2. As written. Meet Cure. 
 
 3. Cure — Schoolmaster — Corporal. 
 
 4. Continued. 
 
 5. Romaine and Schoolmaster. 
 \6. Schoolmaster's tale of his own life. Remi- 
 niscences of the Terror, &c. He is a 
 strong Republican and peace-lover, his 
 favourite book being Rousseau's " Con- 
 trat Social." 
 
 C 7. At the fountain. The Conscription, &c., 
 ending " first on the list of names was 
 that of Romaine Bisson." 
 
 C 8. The Conscription. Old Ewen's harangue to 
 the recruits, and speech about the great 
 Emperor. Journey to Romaine's hut. 
 Yvonne's journey. Romaine there. She 
 offers to pin the conscript ribbon to his 
 coat, but he turns deathly pale and springs 
 away. 
 
 B 9, The Schoolmaster is by the roadside miles 
 away. Romaine suddenly appears to 
 him. He encourages Romaine's revolt. 
 Reads him MS. Man against Napoleon. 
 A Sergeant appears, but Romaine es- 
 capes. 
 
 B 10. Affairs in village. Pursuit after Romaine. 
 Sketch of the Political state of France. 
 News from seat of war. Romaine 
 branded as a coward. Yvonne's sorrow. 
 Romaine appears to Yvonne. 
 
 B II. Yvonne and Romaine. He disappears. 
 She believes him a coward.
 
 190 Robert Buchanan 
 
 C 12. An interval of weeks. Discovery of Ro- 
 
 maine's hiding-place by Clovis. The 
 
 light in the cliffs. 
 C 13. (Same as chapter 6 in first sketch) only 
 
 adding the ' tremendous header' by which 
 
 Romaine first eludes them. 
 C 14. The siege (same as chapter 7, first sketched). 
 C 15, (Same as chapter 8, first sketched). 
 
 16, (Same as chapter 9). 
 
 17. (Same as chapter 10) ending with the mirage. 
 
 End of Vol. I. 
 
 An average of 20 pp. to each chapter. 
 
 The above is the rough sketch of Vol. I. of the 
 story contemplated — the letters B and C standing for 
 Buchanan and Canton. 
 
 "RosspoRT, Belmullet, ^an. 15, 1875. 
 
 "My dear Canton, — Chapter II. is better than 
 chapter I. — better and freer. The cathedral bit is 
 good especially. You must now, however, get in 
 some dialogue-chapters, with glimpses of village 
 character. I forgot to say that I think you should 
 make Yvonne a /it//e stronger, not guz'te so clinging ; 
 she is however very nice as she stands. How comes 
 she to have her distaff on the cliff though ? Again 
 I have to alter the bit about the slaying of birds ; it 
 is out of keeping with the man's character ; egg- 
 hunting will suffice. All these are trifles. The writing 
 
 as a whole is excellent. 
 
 '• Yours, 
 
 " R. B." 
 
 "Jaw. 18, 1875. 
 
 " My dear Canton, — I thought I said the old 
 officer was the girl's unc/e — if I wrote 'father' I
 
 First Ideas of Novel Writing 191 
 
 blundered. My idea too was that she should be an 
 orphan whose father had died afield, and who was 
 filled by the Bonapartist with intense military en- 
 thusiasm ; otherwise you lose the point of her thinking 
 Romaine a coward when he won't fight. Your idea 
 of the imperial scene at Boulogne is good. It might 
 be described at the fireside cf the old Bonapartist to 
 an eager circle of listeners, Clovis included, the only 
 dissentient being Romaine. 
 
 " Our conscription must be long before Leipsic. 
 The meeting of the two must take place at Fontaine- 
 bleau, just when all N.'s own marshals have deserted 
 him, and he has signed the unconditional abdication. 
 If not then, after Waterloo. It is doubtful which is best. 
 
 " Do not forget that Brittany as a whole was 
 legitimist. We might have a chapter reminiscent of 
 the Chouans. By the way, there are some Breton 
 glimpses in ' Ouatre-vingt-treize,' which I have not yet 
 read, however. 
 
 " Can you copy my memoranda and MS. and return 
 them to me? 
 
 " A new character to appear in early chapters — an 
 old itinerant schoolmaster, who lives by teaching from 
 farm to farm, and has seen much of civil war, &c. 
 A believer in rights of man and the higher revolution, 
 but poor withal. Very poor, even ragged. Has had 
 a strange influence on Romaine. On the lonely sea- 
 shore and in caves they have read together. He 
 might have one pet book, only one, besides his 
 breviary, &c. But what book ? Plutarch's * Lives ' ? 
 Pascal ? Rousseau's ' Confessions ' ? This is a matter 
 for reflection. 
 
 " As I said, when I get the new chapter or so I will 
 finally portion out our tasks. So far, so well, I think. 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 "Robert Buchanan.
 
 1 92 Robert Buchanan 
 
 " There is a gale raging here as I write, against 
 which even the wild geese can hardly fly. Typhus is 
 raging a few miles off, killing even the doctors. In 
 fact all the agents of Providence are busily at work ! " 
 
 "RosspoRT Lodge, Feb. lyfh. 
 "Dear Canton,— Chapter 7 will do. Forgive 
 my delay in writing to say so. Of course Easter is 
 now out of the question, but we'll get ahead. This 
 in haste ; will write again directly, but am neck-deep 
 in work. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 " Robert Buchanan." 
 
 " Feb. 26th. 
 
 "My dear Canton,— I am sorry my silence 
 made you anxious. I have been very busy and 
 much worried : far too much of both to write any of 
 ' Romaine.' Nothing has miscarried that you sent. 
 The days flash by like lightning, and I find hardly a 
 moment to spare. 
 
 "I forget such at this moment, but I fancy the 
 phoebe-bird is the lapwing— if not that, the golden 
 plover — the latter may be called a dun bird, but its 
 flash of under-wing is bright as possible in flight. 
 I forget the passage even in my own poem, but I'll 
 look it up. My memory is overstocked. 
 
 " I have answered your last seriatim, you see. 
 
 " Go on with ' Romaine ' with as much heart as you 
 can throw into it — 
 
 ' 'Twill be a credit to us a', 
 We'll a' be proud o' — Romaine ! ' 
 
 If it does not turn out a fine work the fault is ours,
 
 First Ideas of Novel Writing 193 
 
 not the subject's. But Easter is out of the question. 
 I don't know how you stand, but I fear I cannot 
 touch my portion for some Httle time yet, for I must 
 have everything else off my mind ere I begin. I 
 suffer much here from the want of books of reference ; 
 otherwise I get on well. It's hard to carry all one's 
 dates and quotations in one's own head. 
 
 " Thank God I am ?tot ill, though always shaky 
 more or less, like a man on thin ice. I trust we shall 
 meet this summer ; perhaps you and Mrs. C. may 
 think of a run into the wilds of Erris, if you dare face 
 rough quarters. Meantime don't despair — you are 
 doing the story as well as I could wish, and write as 
 often as you can. 
 
 " Yours most truly, 
 
 " Robert Buchanan." 
 
 "April 14, 1875. 
 
 " My dear Canton, — I forget which of us wrote 
 last, so if I owe you a letter forgive me. I have been 
 distraught on various accounts ; partly with work. 
 And you, I suppose on your side have been so deep 
 in the folds of that ' top coat,' as to have forgotten 
 ' Romaine.' If so wake up ! The first free week 
 I get I mean to plunge headlong into that work, but 
 it wants thought, silence, and care. Sometimes I 
 almost regret the poetic form. But I will write fully 
 about it soon. I have just now to finish an article on 
 ' The Modern Stage,' commissioned for the New 
 Quarterly Magazine. Apropos, I send you the new 
 number. It has a little sketch by me of Peacock. . . . 
 What are you doing ? By the way, my sister-in-law 
 wants very much to read ' A Poet's Love Letters,' if 
 you can send them. Has the poem made any pro- 
 gress ? I still hold to my opinion that your shorter 
 
 14
 
 194 Robert Buchanan 
 
 pieces should be prefaced by a longer, more important 
 work, and when that is ready, heigho for a Publisher ! 
 Only do get a good subject ; 'tis half the battle. . . . 
 I should be glad to assist your views in this or any 
 way if I knew how. You really ought not to be 
 doing drudgery. Write. 
 
 " Always yours, 
 
 "Robert Buchanan." 
 
 " April 2o{h. 
 
 " My dear Canton, — I have been trying week 
 after week to get a good serious look at ' Romaine.' 
 Something always interferes. I think however in 
 a few days I shall be comparatively free. 
 
 " I am longing for a run to London, and bitterly 
 bemoaning that I have not seen Salvini ! The worst 
 of this region is its inaccessibility ! — the journey to 
 Town being both arduous and costly. I think I s/ia/l 
 be in Town shortly, if only for a few days. 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 " R. B. 
 
 " The Spring is just putting on her bright face 
 here. For three or four days the heat has been 
 tropical. Yesterday I realised our opening chapter 
 of ' Romaine,' though I was under, not over, the cliffs, 
 in a ' curragh,' or boat, made of canvas and wooden 
 skeleton. By the way, your sea-parrot z's the puffin ; 
 they are thronging in by thousands and pairing. 
 I caught my first salmon of the season a month ago, 
 so the winter's back is fairly broken." 
 
 "May 12, 1875. 
 " My dear Canton, — Miss Jay and I agree that 
 the ' Letters ' are charming, although not in the least 
 ' real.' With a few exceptions which I shall mark, they
 
 First Ideas of Novel Writing 195 
 
 are most pleasant reading, and would go in admirably 
 with your poems. The allusions to your humble 
 servant are kind, though I fancy a leetle strained, 
 especially the allusion to the ' Two Sons.' Don't 
 you sometimes write with exaggeration of what 
 pleases you, and overestimate the importance of 
 trifles which strike you as new discoveries ? ' Two 
 Sons ' is pretty enough, but I fancy a reader turning 
 to it after your ' note ' would be disappointed. Take, 
 again, the remarks on Shakespeare. Do you really 
 feel that he drinks you up like a drop of dew ? or do 
 you not rather feel that his humanity, while so many- 
 sided as to amaze and divert you, never touches the 
 diviner heights of Biblical and ^schylean purity? 
 There are times, I think, when Shakespeare's feudal 
 style is dissatisfying. This from one who loves 
 Shakespeare as much as any man, but who smiles 
 when enthusiastic poets (in love) write — nonsense ! 
 about him ! 
 
 " Forgive me, for I like the clippings amazingly, 
 and I will do all I can to get 'em a Publisher. 
 It won't be easy. The gentry hate poetry from 
 unknown poets . . ." 
 
 " May 19, 1875. 
 
 " My dear Canton, — Shall you be very much — 
 awfully — disappointed if I decide that the prose form 
 won't suit ' Romaine' after all, and that I should like 
 to adhere to my original plan of making it a poem ? 
 I am not decided, remember, but reading your chap- 
 ters carefully, after long reflection, I seem rather 
 afraid. Not but they are excellent in themselves, 
 but somehow, they don't quite fulfil my feeling for 
 the nuances of the story. This impression might 
 disappear after more were written, but I dread going
 
 196 Robert Buchanan 
 
 on till I feel more certain. If I decide against you, 
 of course I shall pay you for your trouble. 
 
 "Don't think for a minute I am disappointed in 
 your work ; it's not that ; the disillusion is i7i myself 
 solely. And after all it may disappear, 
 
 " Ever yours, 
 
 "Robert Buchanan." 
 
 Again the plan of collaboration fell through — not 
 from any fault on Mr. Canton's part, as the foregoing 
 letters will show, but merely because the poet's brain 
 was too full of other things to allow him to give his 
 undivided attention to this new departure. Some 
 time later, however, the story was written by Mr. 
 Buchanan himself, and published under the title of 
 " The Shadow of the Sword."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 AN IMPRESSION, WRITTEN BY R. E. FRANCILLON 
 
 IN the year 1874 the Gentleman's Magazine began 
 to keep Christmas by bringing out a novel as an 
 extra number. I undertook to supply the novel for 
 1875, under a somewhat adventurous condition, 
 namely, to work into and harmonise with my plot 
 contributions from other writers, not the least notable 
 of which was to be a poem by Robert Buchanan. 
 Disquieting is a weak description for the state of 
 mind caused by this part of the condition when I 
 began to realise its nature. I had never met the 
 poet outside his poems, and had no reason to suppose 
 that he so much as knew my name. From all I had 
 heard of him, I was filled with dire misgivings that 
 my plot, about which I had taken very special pains 
 — even to climbing down the shaft of a Welsh gold 
 mine in search of accurate sensation— would receive 
 but scant consideration should it fail to coincide with 
 the independent ideas of a poet who (I understood) 
 allowed no middle course between abject submission 
 and a ferocious quarrel. My mental portrait of him 
 was indeed turned into a confused blur when, in 
 answer to some inquiries and cautiously worded 
 suggestions of mine, I received from him, then in 
 
 Ireland, a more than merely courteous letter — a letter 
 
 197
 
 198 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 that I have kept, and give here, not merely for its 
 writer's name's sake, but as a warning against por- 
 traits painted by one's own imagination with other 
 people's colours : — 
 
 "RosspoRT Lodge, Belmullet, Co. Mayo, Ireland. 
 
 " April 14, 1875. 
 
 "My dear Sir, — I am obliged to you for your 
 kind letter concerning the ' Legend.' I see no diffi- 
 culty just now — if any occurs to me afterwards you 
 shall know — of incorporating in it the elements you 
 suggest ; and the Bala Lake Tradition, too, might be 
 utilised. But, in truth, I have hardly yet had leisure 
 to shape the plan definitely. When I do so I will 
 follow your views as far as I can. 
 
 " I presume Mr. Gowing has told you that the 
 authorship is to be, and to continue, anonymous, so 
 far as I am concerned. I have undertaken it chiefly 
 with a wish to oblige him and the proprietors of the 
 magazine. 
 
 " May I take this opportunity of saying how much 
 I enjoyed your ' Olympia ' — nearly all of which I read 
 in the magazine ? Your article on ' Physiology of 
 Authorship ' entertained me greatly ; but in the 
 story I found a charm and freshness very unusual in 
 modern fiction. I hope the ' Legend ' will be worthy 
 of its ' setting ' by you ; and, believe me, I am 
 
 " Very truly yours, 
 
 " Robert Buchanan. 
 
 " I will write again when I see the matter a little 
 more clearly. 
 
 " R. E. Francillon, Esq." 
 
 The poem arrived at last ; but — though the pro- 
 duction of an annual was a more leisurely and less
 
 An Impression 199 
 
 long-beforehand business in 1875 than now — too late 
 for any essential adaptation of the more than half- 
 written story to its requirements in case of need. 
 Anxiously I searched for a sufficient incorporation in 
 it of my suggestions ; alas ! a microscope was wanted 
 for the discovery of an infinitesimal phantom of an 
 allusion to the " Fair Folk " who inhabit the depths 
 of the Lake of Bala ; I do not remember what my 
 other suggestions were, but I do remember that even 
 the microscope failed to find any other. I know 
 exactly how the farmer felt who harnessed Pegasus 
 to his plough, for I was myself that very farmer. In 
 short, the poem had no more visible connection with 
 my story of a Merionethshire mine than — no, not 
 nearly so much — as Monmouth with Maerdon. The 
 skilfules*" literary cabinet-maker that ever lived would 
 have been hard put to it to dovetail the poem into 
 the story so as to leave no obvious tokens of his tools. 
 But then — that poem was " The Changeling." Even 
 its author-in-chief has more than half- forgotten the 
 story of" Streaked with Gold." But " The Changeling," 
 with its later introduction, " The Asrai," lives, and will 
 live — and so there was a connection between story 
 and poem after all. The most natural of all connec- 
 tions : the connection of mortal body and immortal 
 soul. The anonymity of " The Changeling," never a 
 very close secret, has been of course disposed of by 
 its appearance in the latest edition of its author's 
 poems. 
 
 It was, I suppose, about a year later that I made 
 Buchanan's personal acquaintance at the house of the 
 then editor of the Gentleman's^ the late Richard 
 Gowing. The result was a varyingly frequent inter- 
 course, short of intimacy, but quite close enough for the 
 revision of first impressions by second, and of second
 
 200 Robert Buchanan 
 
 again by third — that is to say, by those which alone 
 are of value. Intimacy is next to impossible without 
 some natural talent for it on both sides — in this case 
 nonexistent on either side — and when, besides, there 
 is mutual consciousness of disagreement concerning 
 nearly every subject on which it is possible to dis- 
 agree. But its absence makes impressions, if colder, 
 also clearer, especially when stamped by the interest 
 which nobody could fail to take in so marked and so 
 — apparently — complex a personality. I say " appa- 
 rently," because the actual simplicity of it, in contrast 
 with its superficial complications, was almost a dis- 
 appointment when it came to be recognised — ^just as 
 one is almost more vexed than pleased by the 
 solution of a problem that was difficult only because 
 its difficulty was taken for granted. The right 
 reading of Buchanan was, I am convinced, that his 
 very genius had prevented him from outgrowing, or 
 being able to outgrow, the boyishness of the best sort 
 of boy ; while too many of us only too quickly forget 
 what any sort of boyhood means. And the grand 
 note of the best sort of boy is a sincere passion for 
 justice, or rather a consuming indignation against 
 injustice — the two things are not exactly the same. 
 The boy of whatever age can never comprehend the 
 coolness with which the grown-up man of the world 
 has learned to take injustice as part and parcel of 
 the natural order of things, even when himself the 
 sufferer. The grown-up man has learned the sound 
 policy of not sending indignation red-hot or white-hot 
 to the post or the press, but of waiting till it is cool 
 enough to insert in a barrel of gunpowder without 
 risk of explosion. But the boy rebels, and, if he be 
 among the great masters of language, hurls it out hot 
 and strong, in the full belief that no honest feelings
 
 An Impression 20i 
 
 could be so weak as to be wounded by any honest 
 words. Of course he was wrong. Complete honesty 
 is perfectly compatible with even abnormal thinness 
 of skin, and with an even exceptionally plentiful crop 
 of corns. He would often have been amazed and 
 shocked could he, to whom hard hitting was so easy, 
 have estimated the effect of his blows. I do not 
 believe Robert Buchanan to have been capable of a 
 malign or vindictive thought ; I know that I never 
 heard him utter an unkindly word. I wish, above all 
 else, that those who thought of him as I had thought 
 of him before knowing him could have met him at 
 home — Stras2-Engel, Haus-Teufel ("Street Angel, 
 House Devil," say the Germans) — not that they have 
 any monopoly of the experience. I have never heard 
 the natural converse of the saying, but it is impossible 
 to think of Buchanan without its suggestion. Of this, 
 however, it is for those who shared his home life to 
 tell in full. 
 
 In short, he always gave me the impression of being 
 thrown into a world into which he had never really 
 grown, where he was never at home, but always in a 
 foreign country whose language he could not learn 
 despite all his efforts, and whose manners and cus- 
 toms, despite his desire to adopt them, he could not 
 understand. It was not that, like many mystics, he 
 in his inmost mind regarded life as a sort of dream 
 to be slept through pleasantly or painfully, as the 
 case might be, but not with serious concern. On the 
 contrary, while to the Celtic part of him the unseen 
 life was fully as real as the seen, to another element 
 in him the seen was as real as the unseen. And 
 so the two hostile realities became mixed without 
 becoming fused, so that the ordinary man of ordinary 
 affairs, who knows this world (or at least his own
 
 202 Robert Buchanan 
 
 little part of it) very well — who indeed makes this 
 world what it is — found Buchanan exceedingly easy 
 to misunderstand. 
 
 On the other hand Buchanan could make neither 
 head nor tail of the intricate complexities of the man 
 of the world, lie laboured under a pathetically 
 inveterate belief that every man always means exactly 
 what he says and says exactly all that he means ; that 
 his actions and services are directed to high aims ; 
 that his enthusiasms are as deep and sincere as they 
 are loud. Of course we all know so much better that 
 we never expect the whole truth, and indeed are 
 shocked, when by any chance we meet it, by its naked 
 indecency ; we know how mixed are the best of 
 motives, and how enthusiasms are at the mercy of 
 interest and fashion. But to Buchanan shortcomings 
 and imperfections that we take for granted were — 
 especially when savouring of his two arch-hatreds, 
 cruelty or injustice — heinous crimes demanding the 
 utmost rigour, and vigour, too, of the English tongue. 
 Inevitably he would now and then tilt at some very 
 ordinary windmill because it was not a cathedral, or 
 because it turned about with the wind, or because it 
 ground the poor defenceless corn. And, indeed, to 
 sum up all my impressions in one — the type of the 
 ever youthful spirit, of rebellion against injustice, of 
 mutual misconception by and of the world, of endea- 
 vour to bring mysticism into business and romance 
 into action, has long since ceased to bear, in my 
 thoughts, the cadaverous height and the lantern jaws 
 of Don Quixote of Le Mancha. It has assumed the 
 genial presentment of Robert Buchanan.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 "THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD," "GOD AND THE 
 
 MAN 
 
 
 " '' I ^HE Shadow of the Sword " was first given to 
 X the world as a serial, appearing in the pages 
 of the Gentleman's Magazine, then under the editor- 
 ship of the late Mr. Richard Gowing. In arranging 
 for its production Mr. Buchanan wrote as follows : — 
 
 " i6, Upper Gloucester Place, Dorset Square, 
 
 November igih. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — Your memorandum is correct, with 
 the exception that you put pounds instead of guineas, 
 and that you introduce as points of legality several 
 mere points of usage and understanding. It is 
 agreed that I write you a story for the magazine, all 
 copyright and re-print rights of which I reserve for 
 the sum of one hundred and eighty guineas, payable 
 in monthly cheques, that this story leads the magazine 
 for at least six months of the twelve ; that a half-page 
 advertisement of my poems fronts the story each 
 number, and in the event of your having to displace 
 the story after six months you withdraw the adver- 
 tisement and return me ten guineas, half the sum 
 allowed for the same. These are the main points. 
 
 As to delivery of copy I will not be bound rigidly, 
 
 203
 
 204 Robert Buchanan 
 
 but I will do all in my power to let you have what 
 you require, and shall be quite as anxious as you to 
 be well ahead. 
 
 " Please get the above loose memoranda put into a 
 proper agreement, and send it to me to sign. The 
 letters would be sufficient, but it would save trouble 
 if you just drew out the agreement in the usual way. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 "Robert Buchanan." 
 
 The arrangements made, Mr. Buchanan set to work 
 with a will and wrote his monthly instalments with 
 keen pleasure. He had the story very clearly mapped 
 out from start to finish, so that when it came to be 
 written it flowed easily from his pen. His monthly 
 parts were the neatest things I have ever seen written, 
 as they were in a very tiny but perfectly clear hand, 
 on ordinary sheets of note-paper, and almost without 
 an erasure. I fear, however, he was never far ahead 
 with his " copy," the writing of which he invariably 
 postponed till the last possible moment, and this 
 method of his was the cause later on of some trouble. 
 While the story was running in the magazine there 
 occurred a fire on the premises of Messrs. Grant, the 
 publishers, and a good deal of valuable manuscript 
 was destroyed, amongst it the last instalment of the 
 " Shadow of the Sword." As usual this had arrived 
 late, too late for the editor to have had an opportunity 
 of sending a proof, and as Mr. Buchanan himself had 
 kept no copy (there was no typewriting in those days), 
 the only thing to be done was for him to set to work 
 and rewrite the instalment. This he did with such 
 marvellous rapidity that the appearance of the maga- 
 zine was not delayed by a single day. On the 
 termination of its run the story was issued in book
 
 '' The Shadow of the Sword " 205 
 
 form by Messrs. Bentley, and instantly made its mark. 
 " It is a work " (said the Gi'aphic) " that no one but a 
 poet could have written," while the Nonconformist 
 declared it to contain " the finest descriptive writing 
 of which any English writer is capable," and the 
 Standaj'd, while regretting that it was not written in 
 verse, said that " even verse could hardly have been 
 sweeter than the delicately cadenced prose in which 
 it is written. . . . Could the prettiest of rhymed 
 stanzas be much prettier than that in which we are 
 told how the two cousins first discovered that their 
 love was not that of brother and sister ? We are no 
 blind admirers of the author of the ' Shadow of the 
 Sword,' but we are bound to say that in these 
 volumes he has taught a lesson to his brother and 
 sister novelists which we wish they would learn. The 
 lesson is that nothing is more pure and modest than 
 a really strong passion." 
 
 Though the success of the " Shadow of the Sword " 
 was great and instantaneous, it was not until the year 
 1 88 1 that its author issued his second work of fiction, 
 the success of which was even greater than that of its 
 predecessor. The idea of this story (which was the 
 result of years of thought and preparation) came to 
 him in a very curious way. One night he dreamed 
 that he was on a ship at sea watching two men who 
 were regarding each other with looks of bitter hatred. 
 Suddenly one man sprang upon the other, dragged 
 him to the side of the ship, and leapt with him into 
 the sea. On awaking the poet found himself ponder- 
 ing upon the problems of Love and Hatred. He 
 pictured these two men (evidently bitter enemies) 
 struggling together in the sea, being cast upon a 
 desert island, dwelling together month after month, 
 year after year, until they finally came to know each
 
 2o6 Robert Buchanan 
 
 other, and so their hatred was turned to love. From 
 this simple nucleus arose the story of " God and the 
 Man." 
 
 " In this story " (wrote its author) " I attempt to 
 show that the passion of Hate is like all human 
 passions, composed of the elements of the social 
 atmosphere enveloping it, and easily disintegrated, 
 therefore, when the conditions of moral life are 
 changed. In a hate so abnormal as that between my 
 hero and his enemy, born in the blood, fed and 
 nourished for generations, only a change to conditions 
 equally abnormal could produce the phenomenon of 
 disintegration. This change I procure by placing my 
 two miserable men under circumstances of awful 
 isolation in the polar regions. Left alone together 
 the stronger nurses the weaker, and in those dreadful 
 moments, in the very presence, as it were, of the 
 Supreme Pity, they utter words of mutual forgiveness 
 and are solemnly reconciled. 
 
 " The ethical teaching of my work depends in no 
 respect on the living or dying of my villain ; its gist 
 is, that when two enemies are once placed by irre- 
 sistible Fate in a position of mutual sorrow, mutual 
 suffering, mutual sympathy, and finally mutual 
 service — when, in a word, they see each other's Souls 
 and are simultaneously conscious of the divine Law 
 of Love reconciling them — Hate becomes impossible 
 once and forever. Once admit that an evil nature 
 can become good for one instant, once admit that 
 Hate is liable to any process of disintegration, and my 
 thesis is established beyond contradiction. That 
 thesis is, stated again, as follows : We hate each 
 other because we do not know each other ; the 
 atmosphere of life makes that knowledge too often 
 impossible ; but there are certain supreme experi-
 
 ^' The Shadow of the Sword" 207 
 
 ences which are as potent, almost, as Death itself, to 
 transform the human character. If miraculous con- 
 versions are incredible, under any conditions what- 
 ever, then — Christianity is a falsehood. If it is 
 impossible for a bad man — a man made bad by 
 ignorance, by jealousy, by tempestuous passion — in 
 short, by the very air he breathes, to become a better 
 man when removed into a higher atmosphere, then I 
 have erred, both as moral teacher and as dramatist. 
 I hold that I have not erred. I hold that if I had 
 asserted the utter impossibility of any redemption or 
 any repentance short of Death and its mystery, I 
 should have preached a philosophy fit only for the 
 Philistines, and have stultified the whole teaching of 
 my life." 
 
 The story of " God and the Man " appeared serially 
 in the pages of the Day of Rest. It was issued in 
 book form by Messrs. Chatto and Windus, and later 
 on a cheaper edition was published by Messrs. 
 Strahan & Co., as one of " Strahan's Books for the 
 People." 
 
 It was, I believe, on the suggestion of Mr. G. R. 
 Sims that the story was ultimately dramatised by 
 Mr. Buchanan, and produced at the Adelphi Theatre 
 under the title of " Stormbeaten." In this production 
 Mr. Charles Warner played the part of the hero, 
 Christian Christianson, and Mr. J. H. Barnes that of 
 the villain, Richard Orchardson, while the late Miss 
 Amy Roselle, then in the very height of her popu- 
 larity, gave a most powerful performance of the 
 unhappy Kate. 
 
 Into these two novels, " The Shadow of the Sword " 
 and " God and the Man," Mr. Buchanan, as I have 
 shown, put the very best work of which he was 
 capable. Both were conceived and partly written as
 
 2o8 Robert Buchanan 
 
 poems, and both remained poems although they were 
 given to the world in prose form. Had things gone 
 well with him he would, in all probability, have con- 
 tinued to give the world of his very best, but after the 
 publication of " God and the Man " he had to face a 
 calamity which would have broken down many a 
 stronger man. His young wife, who had never been 
 strong, was stricken with the cruellest of all diseases, 
 cancer, and for two long years she was slowly dying. 
 He was too poor a man to be able to sit down and 
 nurse his grief, work had to be done, and he did it, 
 though not with the same heart, the same enthusiasm. 
 His great ambition now was to make money, and so 
 he scribbled at fiction in order to attain this end. 
 His output was very great and very rapid, and 
 although his income increased, his position as a 
 novelist declined, many of his later novels were 
 written, as it were, with his left hand, and it is certain 
 that had he been a man of means they would never 
 have been written at all.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 "BALDER THE BEAUTIFUL" 
 
 IN his correspondence with Mr. Canton Mr. 
 Buchanan spoke of the work which had so 
 absorbed him to the exclusion of the prose 
 romance. " It is something so alarming, even to 
 myself, that I can't find words to speak of it. If you 
 can imagine the feelings of Atlas with both earth and 
 heaven on his shoulders, you can have some idea of 
 mine under the pressure of this opus. I send you 
 herewith some proofs of the poem, minus the con- 
 cluding portions, which are not yet back from the 
 printer. I think you will admit its originality what- 
 ever you think of its beauty. For my own part, I 
 am conceited enough to think it in some respects the 
 finest conception of this generation ! ! ! There ! In 
 reading it, forget — if you remember — anything about 
 the vulgar myths of the Edda. This Balder is my 
 own — his story mine — ^although he is the Northern 
 Apollo as well as the Northern Christ. I don't think 
 the poem will be understood at first, but I am sure it 
 will ' live,' that the type I have so created will 
 abide ; and I will go further and say that it is better 
 (though not greater) to have created a Balder than a 
 Mephistopheles. There's a farrago of conceit for you." ^ 
 ' Letter to Mr. Canton. 
 
 15 '°^
 
 2IO Robert Buchanan 
 
 While to Mr. Noel he wrote : " I shall be very curious 
 to hear your opinion of a work which I think my 
 most original, and which is pregnant with subtle 
 ideas. Whatever you think of the workmanship, I 
 fancy you will admit the conception to be grandiose 
 and striking in the extreme. This time it is not a 
 poem for the public — it is likely to be caviare to the 
 general. The title is — 
 
 "'Balder the Beautiful: a Song of Divine 
 
 Death.' " 
 
 This poem, which was issued in 1877, did not 
 appeal to the general public. Its sale was limited, 
 despite the fact that it contained perhaps some of 
 the finest work which its author had yet done. It 
 opens with the following exquisite lines addressed to 
 his wife, and it was the last volume of poetry which 
 he published before her death : — 
 
 PROEM TO 
 
 A Song of a Dream. 
 
 what is this cry in our burning ears, 
 
 And what is this hght on our eyes, dear love ? 
 The cry is the cry of the rolling years, 
 
 As they break on the sun-rock, far above ; 
 And the light is the light of that rock of gold 
 
 As it burneth bright in a starry sea; 
 And the cry is clearer a hundredfold, 
 
 And the light more bright, when I gaze on thee. 
 My weak eyes dazzle beneath that gleam. 
 
 My sad ears deafen to hear that cry : 
 
 1 was born in a dream, and I dwell in a dream, 
 And I go in a dream to die ! 
 
 O whose is this hand on my forehead bare. 
 And whose are these eyes that look in mine ? 
 
 The hand is the Earth's soft hand of air. 
 The eyes are the Earth's— thro' tears they shine ;
 
 "Balder the Beautiful" 211 
 
 And the touch of the hand is so soft, so light, 
 
 As the ray of the blind orbs blesseth me ; 
 But the touch is softest, the eyes most bright, 
 
 When I sit and smile by the side of thee. 
 For the mortal Mother's blind eyes beam 
 
 With the long-lost love of a life gone by. 
 On her breast I woke in a beauteous dream, 
 
 And I go in a dream to die ! 
 
 O what are the voices around my way. 
 
 And what are these shadows that stir below ? 
 The voices of waifs in a world astray, 
 
 The shadows of souls that come and go. 
 And I hear and see, and I wonder more. 
 
 For their features are fair and strange as mine, 
 But most I wonder when most I pore 
 
 On the passionate peace of this face of thine. 
 We walk in silence by wood and stream, 
 
 Our gaze upturned to the same blue sky : 
 We move in a dream, and we love in a dream. 
 
 And we go in our dream to die ! 
 
 &^ 
 
 what is this music of merry bells. 
 
 And what is this laughter across the wold ? 
 'Tis the mirth of a market that buys and sells, 
 'Tis the laughter of men that are counting gold. 
 
 1 walk thro' Cities of silent stone. 
 And the public places alive I see ; 
 
 The wicked flourish, the weary groan. 
 And I think it real till I turn to thee ! 
 
 And I smile to answer thine eyes' bright beam. 
 For I know all's vision that darkens by : 
 
 That they buy in a dream, and they sell in a dream. 
 And they go in a dream to die ! 
 
 what are these shapes on their thrones of gold, 
 And what are those clouds around their feet ? 
 
 The shapes are Kings with their hearts clay-cold, 
 Tlie clouds are armies that ever meet ; 
 
 1 see the flame of the crimson fire, 
 
 I hear the murdered who moan, "Ah, mc!" — 
 My bosom aches with its bitter ire. 
 
 And I think it real, till I turn to thee ! 
 And I hear thee whisper, " These shapes but seem — 
 
 They are but visions that flash and fly. 
 While we move in a dream, and love in a dream. 
 
 And go in our dream to die ! "
 
 2 12 Robert Buchanan 
 
 O what are these Spirits that o'er us creep, 
 
 And touch our eycHds and drink our breath ? 
 The first, with a ilower in his hand, is Sleep ; 
 
 The next, with a star on his brow, is Death. 
 We fade before them whene'er they come, 
 
 (And never single those spirits be !) 
 A little season my lips are dumb, 
 
 But I waken ever, and look for thee. 
 Yea, ever each night when the pale stars gleam 
 
 And the mystical Brethren pass me by, 
 This cloud of a trance comes across my dream, 
 
 And I seem in my dream to die ! 
 
 what is this grass beneath our feet, 
 
 And what are these beautiful underblooms ? 
 
 The grass is the grass of the churchyard, Sweet, 
 
 The flowers are flowers on the quiet tombs. 
 
 1 pluck them softly, and bless the dead. 
 Silently o'er them I bend the knee. 
 
 But my tenderest blessing is surely said 
 Tho' my tears fall fast, when I turn to thee. 
 
 For our lips are tuned to the same sad theme, 
 We think of the loveless dead and sigh ; 
 
 Dark is the shadow across our dream, 
 For we go in that dream to die ! 
 
 O what is this moaning so faint and low, 
 
 And what is this crying from night to morn ? 
 The moaning is that of the souls that go, 
 
 The crying is that of the souls new-born. 
 The life-sea gathers with stormy calls, 
 
 The wind blows shrilly, the foam flies free. 
 The great wave rises, the great wave falls, 
 
 I swim to its height by the side of thee ! 
 With arms outstretching and throats that scream. 
 
 With faces that flash into foam and fly, 
 Our beings break in the light of a dream 
 
 As the great waves gather and die ! 
 
 O what is this spirit with silvern feet ? 
 
 His bright head wrapped in a saffron veil ? 
 Around his raiment our wild arms beat, 
 
 We cling unto them, but faint and fail. 
 'Tis the Spirit that sits on the twilight star. 
 
 And soft to the sound of the waves sings he. 
 He leads the chaunt from his crystal car, 
 
 And I join in the mystical chaunt with thee,
 
 *' Balder the Beautiful" 213 
 
 And our beings burn with the heavenly theme, 
 For he sings of wonders beyond the sky, 
 
 Of a god-hke dream, and of gods in a dream, 
 Of a dream that cannot die ! 
 
 O closer creep to this breast of mine ; 
 
 We rise, we mingle, we break, dear love ! 
 A space on the crest of the waves we shine, 
 
 With light and music and mirth we move ; 
 Before and behind us (fear not. Sweet !) 
 
 Blackens the trough of the surging sea — 
 A little moment our mouths may meet, 
 
 A little moment I cling to thee ; 
 Onward the wonderful waters stream, 
 
 'Tis vain to struggle, 'tis vain to cry — 
 We wake in a dream, and we ache in a dream, 
 
 And we break in a dream, and die ! 
 
 But who is this other with hair of flame. 
 
 With naked feet, and the robe of white ? 
 A Spirit, too, with a sweeter name, 
 
 A softer smile, a serener light. 
 He wraps us both in a golden cloud. 
 
 He thrills our frames with a fire divine. 
 Our souls are mingled, our hearts beat loud. 
 
 My breath and being are blent with thine ; 
 And the sun-rock flames with a flash supreme, 
 
 And the starry waves have a stranger cry — 
 We climb to the crest of our golden dream, 
 
 For we dream that we cannot die ! 
 
 A)'e ! the cry rings loud in our burning ears. 
 
 And the light flames bright on our eyes, dear love. 
 And we know the cry of the roUing years 
 
 As they break on the sun-rock far above ; 
 And we know the light of the rock of gold, 
 
 As it burnetii bright in a starry sea, 
 And the glory deepens a thousandfold 
 
 As I name the immortal gods and thee ! 
 We shrink together beneath that gleam. 
 
 We cHng together before that cry : 
 We were made in a dream, and we fade in a dream, 
 
 And if death be a dream, we die ! 
 
 After the publication of " Balder the Beautiful " 
 Mr. Buchanan's enthusiasm for Ireland began to
 
 214 Robert Buchanan 
 
 wane. Perhaps he was a little disappointed with the 
 reception accorded to this work, although his hopes 
 for it never ran very high. Be that as it may, the 
 solitude which had hitherto charmed him now grew 
 irksome, and he longed to change his surroundings, 
 at least for a time. " I find the Irish bogs very dull 
 company," he wrote. " The truth is, I have sucked 
 the marrow of Connaught as regards poetical and 
 literary inspiration, and I mean to leave for good in a 
 month or so." ^ The move was made to London. He 
 took a furnished house in the neighbourhood of the 
 Swiss Cottage, and for several years he continued to 
 live in furnished houses in or near London. " When 
 I first visited him," wrote Mr, O'Connor, " he lived in 
 Belsize Park, then I saw him in some country house 
 down Richmond way, and the last time it was in one 
 of those wondrous places in St. John's Wood — the 
 one spot left in London with big gardens and 
 numerous trees, and windows flat with the lawn, 
 true country in the midst of bustling, dirty, choked 
 London. 2 
 
 It was at this time that he started "a brilliant 
 little newspaper called Light" but the journal was 
 short-lived, partly because he did not sufficiently 
 identify himself with it, and partly because it was 
 under-capitalised. So small indeed was the capital 
 with which he started this venture that he found 
 himself a heavy loser when the journal ceased to live. 
 
 When the last number of the paper had been 
 issued, and the business arrangements had been 
 wound up, Mr. Buchanan made another trip to Ire- 
 land, going this time to Mulranny, by Westport, and 
 plunging into the very midst of the riots. On the 
 day of our arrival Mr. Smith, the land-agent, had 
 ' Letter to Mr. Canton. ^ M.A. P.
 
 "Balder the Beautiful" 215 
 
 been attacked while driving along the Mulranny 
 road, and his son, a youth of nineteen, had leapt from 
 the car and shot his father's assailant dead close to 
 the very door of our Lodge. We arrived in the grey 
 of the evening, and were met by this news and by 
 the information that the body of the would-be 
 assassin lay at the police-barracks, whither it had 
 been removed to await the inquest. We had not 
 been in the Lodge more than an hour when the 
 neighbouring clergyman called ; he had driven over 
 to the village to make inquiries and was on his way 
 home. Hearing of our arrival, and knowing Mr. 
 Buchanan by reputation, he had called to apologise, 
 as it were, for the state of the country. My sister 
 asked him to remain and join us at dinner, which he 
 did, and I noticed that when he removed his overcoat 
 a six-chambered revolver was transferred from it to 
 the pocket of the one which he wore. " The country 
 will not be safe for some time after this," he said, 
 " and it is as well to be prepared for emergencies." 
 The days which followed this event were certainly 
 exciting enough — there was the inquest on the body, 
 and later on the trial of the young fellow whose 
 bullet had done such deadly work. He had simply 
 acted in self-defence, and was of course acquitted, but 
 he soon found that Ireland was too small to hold him, 
 and so he sailed with all possible speed for Australia. 
 One or two of the gentlemen who had served on the jury 
 received the usual "death's-head and cross-bone " busi- 
 ness — that is to say, they were warned and threatened 
 but during our stay none of the threats were carried 
 out. Our visit this time did not last long — not that 
 we were afraid, for us there was nothing to fear, for 
 we were neither landlords nor land-agents ; but the 
 whole atmosphere of the place was depressing — the
 
 2i6 Robert Buchanan 
 
 spirit of revenge was running riot and death was in 
 the very air we breathed ; so on one fine frosty morn- 
 ing in November we took our leave of Mulranny, 
 drove to Westport and came thence by train and 
 boat to London, where, after a very few weeks, the 
 nature of the malady with which my sister had been 
 attacked declared itself, and we knew she would 
 never be able to take a very long journey again.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE 
 
 FROM that time forth the clouds gathered thickly 
 over his home, and so harassed was he by 
 domestic trouble that to do work of any kind was 
 almost an impossibility. In August, 1880, he wrote: — 
 
 " Isle of Man. 
 
 " My dear Canton, — The details of your letter 
 are very painful to read, and I deeply sympathise 
 with you : the more so, as my own wife is just now 
 dangerously ill with cancer. She has been a great 
 sufferer for some time, and now things have come to 
 a crisis. I am here on some special business, but 
 shall be back again very shortly. We are living at 
 Hampton Wick, a charming spot on the Thames, 
 and I think you might do worse than pay us a visit 
 during your holiday." And again, a few months 
 later — " I have waited till the last moment hoping I 
 could say ' Come here' — but my poor wife is worse than 
 ever and it would be a mockery to invite you to a 
 house of sickness. I am so sorry — but you know by 
 sore experience what such illness means. I was 
 very anxious to see you, but the pleasure must be 
 postponed." 
 
 About that time Mr. Buchanan, whose efforts to save 
 
 217
 
 2i8 Robert Buchanan 
 
 his wife were never ending, heard quite by chance of 
 the Hfe-saving properties of the Missisquoi Spring 
 Water. He had had, I need hardly say, doctors 
 without end, and indeed every quack in the country 
 who professed to cure cancer was brought to her 
 bedside. At times, when she heard of the advent of 
 some new doctor she would refuse to see him, saying 
 wearily, " What is the use? it always ends in the same 
 way — let me die ! " but to her husband's piteous 
 appeal of "just to please me" she ever yielded — and 
 so the doctors came and went, their remedies were 
 tried, but ever with the same result. When we heard of 
 the marvellous water she was lying almost at the point 
 of death, and so weak was she that she could scarcely 
 lift her hand. Without loss of time the water was 
 procured — she drank of it, and it seemed as if a 
 miracle was about to be performed. Gradually 
 though very slowly her weakness gave place to ever- 
 increasing strength, and in time she rose from her 
 bed looking like a girl of twenty. After a time she 
 was able to take short drives and walks in Bushey 
 Park, and so in common with us all, came to believe 
 that the dreaded disease had been successfully battled 
 with and that her life had been saved. 
 
 As the autumn advanced Mr. Buchanan was coun- 
 selled by the doctor to leave Hampton Wick, which he 
 averred was becoming every day more and more un- 
 healthy, on account of the decay of the fallen leaves, 
 and so, as my sister was strong enough to undertake the 
 journey, we removed to London and settled down for 
 the winter in a furnished house near Clapham Common, 
 She was still drinking the water and her attacks of pain 
 were becoming less frequent, but though her strength 
 increased up to a certain point, it seemed as if that 
 point could not be passed. Though she went about
 
 The Death of His Wife 219 
 
 the house as usual, though, when the spring came, she 
 took some walks in Regent Street to look at the gaily 
 bedecked shop windows and to study the fashions — 
 though her bright, rippling laughter was often the 
 gayest of the gay, one could see by the shadows 
 which sometimes darkened her face that all was not 
 well with her — that she knew, in fact, but that she 
 would not speak, because she dreaded to shatter the 
 illusions which she had ceased to share. 
 
 As spring gave place to summer she longed for a 
 sight of the sea, so we went for the first time to 
 Southend. The details of that journey I recall as 
 vividly as if it had been undertaken but yesterday. 
 There is a long flight of steps at Fenchurch Street 
 Station which leads up to the platform. I remember 
 how eagerly she made for those steps while her hus- 
 band was at the ticket-office, in order that he might 
 not see how difficult it was for her to mount them. 
 A gentleman coming down as she was going up, 
 paused for a moment and offered her his arm, which 
 was curtly and irritably refused. " Why did he do 
 that ? " she asked, turning to me ; " I am quite well 
 able — quite strong enough to walk alone!" All 
 these incidents came vividly back to me on June 14, 
 1901. 
 
 At first it seemed that the change for which she 
 had longed would be beneficial to her. The rooms 
 which we occupied were close to the sea, and she 
 was able to go out and sit on the cliffs and bask in 
 the sunshine, but it soon became evident that the 
 attacks of pains which she tried so heroically to hide 
 were sapping her strength away — she was fighting a 
 losing battle, and at length she was cruelly con- 
 quered. On June 22nd of that year Mr. Buchanan 
 wrote to Mr. Canton —
 
 2 20 Robert Buchanan 
 
 " I ought to have thanked you before for reading 
 those proofs, but indeed I have had no time to think 
 of anything (the proofs themselves have now been on 
 my hands a year and are not ready for press). 
 However, I thank you sincerely. 
 
 " My poor wife has had a relapse, and is now very 
 ill, so much of our time and thought are spent on her. 
 Her suffering is at times very hard to contemplate, 
 though her courage and patience are very great." 
 
 Her walks on the cliff were now discontinued — we 
 took her out once in a Bath-chair, but she cried all the 
 time, and on her return to the house became so 
 hysterical that the experiment was not repeated. 
 Her attacks of pain were now very frequent and 
 very terrible. She refused to have morphia adminis- 
 tered, yet I have seen her almost tear the bedclothes 
 in order to prevent herself from shrieking aloud. At 
 such times her great anxiety was to keep her hus- 
 band from the room, and when I asked her the cause 
 of this she replied, " He is always wanting to do 
 'something for me, and I know now that nothing can 
 be done — I want to be left alone." When the attacks 
 passed off she was always very calm and resigned — 
 sometimes indeed her laugh was quite gay — but 
 though she was never told that the disease was incur- 
 able, she seemed to know by instinct what the end 
 would be, for once I heard her murmur : " It is very 
 hard to have to die, when one is just beginning to 
 live! " In November the end came, and she passed 
 away in her husband's arms, her head resting on his 
 shoulder. A few days later Mr. Buchanan wrote the 
 following to the Hon. Roden Noel : — 
 
 " Dear Roden. — We have arranged for the funeral 
 to be on Sunday at one o'clock. A train reaches
 
 The Death of His Wife 221 
 
 here at 12.10, leaving Fenchurch Street at 10.35. 
 I do hope this will suit you somehow. I am 
 so anxious for her sake. It is asking much and 
 putting you to sad inconvenience, I fear ; but it is the 
 last time you can ever prove your kindness to her. 
 
 " And Alice ? ^ Of course if the weather is bad she 
 would not go with us — Mary would be the last to 
 have wished it. But to see her here will be a comfort, 
 knowing their faithful affection for each other. 
 
 " God bless you for your kind words. I see it all as 
 you see it, but ah ! so darkly. If this parting is only 
 for a time, I see its blessedness — but if, as I dread and 
 fear, it is a •^ds\\x\g forever^ what then ? Ah, God, what 
 then ? 
 
 "With love and thanks to you both. Ever your 
 friend, 
 
 "R. B. 
 
 " She looks so beautiful in her coffin. I feel as if 
 she were my child too, child and wife ; for she had a 
 child's angelic disposition." 
 
 In the volume of Mr. Buchanan's Selected Poems, 
 published in 1882, will be found the following — 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 {To Mary) 
 
 " Weeping and sorrowing, yet in sure and certain 
 hope of a heavenly resurrection, I place these poor 
 flowers of verse on the grave of my beloved Wife, who, 
 with eyes of truest love and tenderness, watched them 
 growing for more than twenty years. 
 
 "Robert Buchanan, Southend, 1882." 
 
 • The Hon. Mrs. Noel.
 
 222 Robert Buchanan 
 
 The general idea is, I believe, that sorrow softens 
 us — that our own bitter experiences in this world 
 only tend to fill our hearts with a kindlier feeling for 
 our fellow-sufferers. Indeed Mr. Buchanan himself 
 has written that — 
 
 " Tears bring forth 
 The richness of our natures, as the rain 
 Sweetens the smelling briar." 
 
 All this may be very true in some cases, but that 
 was not his experience. After the death of his wife 
 he brooded more than ever on religious questions, 
 which he began to discuss with great bitterness, and 
 that that bitterness remained with him will be seen 
 from the following letter which he addressed to Mr. 
 Noel as late as the year 1894: — 
 
 " Dear Roden, — With regard to this question of 
 Christianity, I really do think that you are (unconsci- 
 ously of course) disingenuous — in other words, you 
 are trying to cling on to a Notion which your better 
 reason combats. I can't take all the points you raise, 
 though I understand them all by sad experience ; but I 
 will comment on one or two. You say that as I 
 personally am God, or of God, I should accept Christ's 
 sonship. I do not accept it, because God within me 
 points out that it was fraught with miraculous preten- 
 sion. To my mind, Christ did not experience the 
 ordinary sufferings of men, if he assumed to be viore 
 than man. In other words, his Divine claim quite 
 destroys his/^w^r of suffering or sacrifice. Then again, 
 though I am entirely with you in preferring anthropo- 
 morphism to pantheism and can conceive a heavenly 
 Fatherhood, I can't reconcile a Father who is 
 omnipotent with a Father who is cruel and
 
 The Death of His Wife 223 
 
 tyrannical. If God is my Father, I claim the 
 right to survey his conduct to me and others, and I 
 often feel, as Mill felt, that the only way to excuse 
 Him is to assume that his power is limited by a 
 greater Power behind him. I cannot respect a 
 process of schooling which postulates endless pain. 
 I have seen my wife die in slow agony of cancer, and 
 I find no mercy there. I find, moreover, that I my- 
 self, after years of harsh schooling and suffering, am 
 not a whit better than when I was a happy boy — or 
 rather an unhappy one. Men may grow cleverer, but 
 they seldom or never grow better. I am considerably 
 sceptical, therefore, about human progress upward. 
 
 " ' Christ, Buddha, Gordon ' — children of God ! Then 
 equally so all other good fellows, all loving spirits. 
 That thought doesn't help to make me a Christian. 
 In the sense you mean all are mediators, so why 
 select one for special honour ? You say, ' Because 
 He was the best and highest.' Not to me. There is 
 some ground for believing that he loved men for 
 their own sakes less than Buddha. Moreover, his 
 claim to moral supremacy is, to me, the very proof of 
 his flawed humanity. At all events He has delayed 
 the world's happiness for eighteen hundred years. 
 
 " Finally, I hate the common cant of ' loving God.' 
 It is a form of gross egoism, and means ' I love my- 
 self and my own feelings and opinions.' Anthropo- 
 morphically I cannot ' love ' a Father whom I 
 distrust, and when my brethren assure me that 
 everything is right because it is, my reason revolts, 
 and the God within me says, ' accept nothing on such 
 grounds, and distrust any Mediator who offers you 
 any absolute solution of a World riddle. 
 
 " Yours always, 
 
 " R. B."
 
 2 24 Robert Buchanan 
 
 " It all amounts to this : a creed should be judged 
 by its practical results, and Christianity has deluged 
 the world with innocent blood purely owing to its 
 loose terminology. Our talk began on this very 
 ground — the looseness of religious definitions. Better 
 to be a pure materialist or an atheist than a nebulous 
 Christian. All the good in Christianity is summed 
 up in the words ' Love one another ; ' all that is evil 
 in such nebulosities as ' Give Caesar what belongs to 
 Caesar,' &c., i.e., respect the status quo here, and look 
 for results yonder. Scientific religion, on the other 
 hand, says : ' Clean this world and make it habitable, 
 widen the area of health and joy, prove your love by 
 acts of love, and change the status quo whenever it 
 conflicts with human happiness.' And it adds, ' The 
 other world, if it exists, can take care of itself ; your 
 plain duty is to make this world beautiful if you 
 
 can.'" 
 
 R. B."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 "THE CITY OF DREAM" 
 
 AFTER the death of his wife he wished to remain 
 quietly at Southend, but instead of following 
 his own inclination he listened to the advice of his 
 friends and again took to roaming. After a few 
 months spent in France he returned to London, 
 settling again in a furnished house, and taking from 
 time to time various trips to Southend, which little 
 town had by association become very dear to him. 
 It was during this period of roaming that several of 
 his novels were written, notably, " The Martyrdom of 
 Madeline" (1882), "Annan Water," and "Love me 
 For Ever" (1882), " Foxglove Manor," and the " New 
 Abelard " (1884), " The Master of the Mine," " Matt," 
 and "Stormy Waters" (1885), and he also at that 
 time was turning his attention very seriously to the 
 writing and producing of plays. From his earliest 
 years his tastes had inclined that way since, at the 
 age of fourteen, he wrote a pantomime which was 
 accepted by Mr. Glover, and produced at the Theatre 
 Royal, Glasgow. The pantomime was a great suc- 
 cess, and its youthful author received from the 
 management the gift of a gold pencil-case as his 
 reward. In the year 1883 his dramatic version of 
 
 l6 225
 
 2 26 Robert Buchanan 
 
 "God and the Man" saw the light at the Adelphi 
 Theatre, and this was followed by " Lady Clare " at 
 the Globe. But his connection with the stage was 
 altogether of too important a nature to be disposed 
 of in a few words, and so I propose to deal with it at 
 some length in a subsequent chapter. 
 
 For many years he wrote plays in conjunction with 
 Mr. G. R. Sims, and during that time the two made 
 frequent trips to Southend. " On a holiday " (wrote 
 Mr. Sims) " he lived every hour of the day. The 
 long walk never tired him, the long drive never made 
 him sleepy. He would sit far into the night and 
 smoke cigarettes and talk and be up in the morning 
 eager for work or play. Once at Southend we went 
 to bed at three. At half-past eight he was up and 
 ready for a stroll before breakfast. We walked about 
 Southend for an hour. Suddenly my companion left 
 me saying : ' Go back to the hotel, I'll be with you 
 directly.' When he came in I noticed that the knees 
 of his trousers were covered with chalk. He had 
 gone to the graveyard to see the grave of his wife. 
 He had found the gate locked, and had climbed over 
 the wall." 
 
 In the year 1884 he made his first and only trip to 
 America. He had a contract to supply a play to 
 Messrs. Shook and Collier, then managers of the 
 Union Square Theatre, New York, but he went 
 without having written it. On his arrival he offered 
 for their acceptance a melodrama which was our 
 joint work, and which has since become popular 
 under the title of " Alone in London." This, how- 
 ever, they refused, and it was produced by Mr. 
 Buchanan himself at the Chestnut Street Theatre, 
 Philadelphia, where it drew crowded houses. At the 
 conclusion of its first run it was taken up by Colonel
 
 "The City of Dream" 227 
 
 Sinn, of Brooklyn, who, besides giving very fine terms, 
 bought all the scenery which had been specially 
 painted for it. 
 
 While " Alone in London " was running at the 
 Chestnut Street Theatre Mr. Buchanan made the 
 acquaintance of Walt Whitman, whom he found " in 
 his lonely lodgings in New Jersey — old, worn, weary 
 and weather-beaten." The two poets drank brackish 
 tea together and feasted on custard pie, for Walt 
 Whitman was simple in his tastes, and he was, more- 
 over, very poor. They parted with a promise to 
 meet again, but the second meeting never came 
 about, for Mr. Buchanan's health again broke down 
 and he had to hasten his return home. While in 
 New York he was offered and refused the editorship 
 of the North American Review^ with a salary which 
 was indeed princely. 
 
 On his return to England he went again to South- 
 end, taking this time a house which he furnished him- 
 self, so resolved was he to make Southend his home. 
 This house, which had already been the home of Sir 
 Richard Cunliffe Owen and Sir Edwin Arnold, was 
 a quaint old country place with extensive gardens 
 and eight acres of meadow, and it was known as 
 "Hamlet Court." 
 
 " I spend the time between this and London " 
 (wrote the poet) ; " without the stage I think 
 I should go melancholy mad. It is not only a 
 source of profit but of recreation, as I produce and 
 stage-manage my own dramas in every detail. I 
 think moreover there is moral gain in rubbing 
 shoulders with non-literary people. Perhaps I can 
 persuade you to spend a few days here. There is no 
 lovelier spot when the spring becomes a certainty. 
 Just now I am doing the influenza, and your letter 
 
 *r
 
 22 8 Robert Buchanan 
 
 comes with sweet refreshment and memory of old 
 times." 1 
 
 Since then, however, the builder has been busy, 
 and Hamlet Court is no longer what it was. In 
 those days it was a paradise for the poet to dream in, 
 but now the fine old elms which formed the avenue, 
 known as the " Lovers' Walk," have disappeared, and 
 in the eight acres of meadow stands the fashionable 
 Queen's Hotel. There is a station, too, and the little 
 hamlet is now known as Westclifif-on-Sea. It was 
 from there that he issued his poem " The City of 
 Dream," a verse from which is now to be found upon 
 his tomb. In publishing this work Mr. Buchanan 
 had little hope of popularity. "The public don't 
 want poetry " (he wrote), " they want pretty verses, 
 short snatches, lyrics got 'twixt sleeping and waking. 
 Just now indeed folk seem to read little beyond 
 shilling dreadfuls and penny papers. Literature will 
 soon be a lost art." ^ Thus it will be seen that in 
 issuing the " City of Dream " the poet did so in a 
 mood which was more or less despairing. Since his 
 wife's death, in 1881, he had published two volumes of 
 poetry — " Ballads of Life, Love, and Humour" (1882) 
 and "The Earthquake" (1885), and both had met 
 with scant recognition. In all probability " The City 
 of Dream " might have shared the fate of its prede- 
 cessors, but it happened that the Right Hon. W. E. H. 
 Lecky replied that year at the Royal Academy 
 Banquet to the toast of literature, and in his speech 
 he made the following complimentary allusion to the 
 poem which had just been issued from the press. 
 
 " It would be idle" (said Mr. Lecky), "it would be 
 perhaps invidious, for me to mention names, many of 
 which will rise unbidden to your minds ; but it is not 
 ■ Letter to the Hon. Roden Noel.
 
 "The City of Dream" 229 
 
 I think, out of place to remind you, that it is since 
 the doors of the last Academy Exhibition closed that 
 the illustrious historian of the Crimean War has com- 
 pleted that noble historic gallery hung with battle 
 pieces as glowing and as animated, with portraits as 
 vivid, as powerful as any that have adorned these 
 walls. And if it be said that this great master of 
 picturesque English was reared in the traditions of a 
 more artistic age, I would venture to point to a poem 
 which has been but a few weeks in the world but 
 which is destined, if I am not mistaken, to take a 
 prominent place in the literature of its time — a poem 
 which among many other beauties contains pictures 
 of the old Greek mythology that are worthy to com- 
 pare, even with those with which you, Mr. President, 
 have so often delighted us. I refer to the ' City of 
 Dream ' by Robert Buchanan (hear, hear). While 
 such works are produced in England, it cannot, I 
 think, be said that the artistic spirit in English 
 literature has very seriously decayed (cheers)." 
 
 " Dear Mr. Lecky " (wrote Mr. Buchanan), — " How 
 can I thank you sufficiently for the generous words 
 you spoke concerning me at the Royal Academy 
 Banquet? How can I express my sense of your 
 goodness and your courage? Coming from even a 
 smaller man, such praise would be very grateful ; but 
 coming from one whom I have regarded with 
 reverence and admiration, as one of the clearest 
 intellects of the age, to whom I owe inestimable 
 gratitude, it almost overpowers me. And you knew 
 what you were doing — praising a man who is not 
 too much loved, and has met with little sympathy. 
 What can I say further than that the act was 
 worthy of you — worthy of one who is intellectually
 
 230 Robert Buchanan 
 
 fearless, and whose noble life has been devoted to 
 truth. 
 
 " Some day I should like, if I might be so honoured, 
 to take you by the hand and thank you by word of 
 mouth. Need I say in this connection that your 
 books have long been a precious possession and help 
 to me? Indeed I scarcely know any writer, except 
 yourself and Herbert Spencer, to whom I have 
 yielded perfect acquiescence. Henceforth, when I 
 turn to those pages which I know so well and love 
 so much, I shall feel something more than respectful 
 admiration — a divine thrill of personal sympathy, 
 very precious to a wanderer in the wastes of litera- 
 ture." 
 
 " Yours most truly, 
 
 "Robert Buchanan." 
 
 After a residence at Hamlet Court which lasted 
 two or three years, the poet removed to a house on 
 the Cliff, which is now known as Byculla House ; then, 
 finding that he was plunging deeper and deeper into 
 stage work, he settled down in Maresfield Gardens, 
 South Hampstead, where he lived for many years.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 PLAY-WRITING 
 
 IT was not till he had passed the forties that Mr. 
 Buchanan obtained any real success upon the 
 stage. From the time of the production of the 
 " Witchfinder " he had never ceased to regard it as 
 a possible means of livelihood, knowing as he did 
 that in this connection far greater prizes were to be 
 obtained than from the mere writing of books, even 
 of novels, but for many years the life he led was not 
 conducive to his being able even to make a bid for 
 theatrical success. The state of his health made it 
 impossible for him to live in London, so he was 
 unable either to familiarise himself with stagecraft 
 or to be in touch with those who might have aided 
 him in this branch of literature. During what may 
 be termed his years of exile, he never ceased to work 
 at play-writing, devoting to it all the time which he 
 could comfortably spare from his other arduous tasks, 
 and thus it may be said, that for ten or fifteen years, 
 he was gradually perfecting himself in the art, from 
 which, in the autumn of his life, he reaped such great 
 rewards. 
 
 The first play which he produced after the " Witch- 
 finder " was a little costume comedy in three acts 
 entitled " A Madcap Prince." This piece was staged 
 
 231
 
 232 Robert Buchanan 
 
 in 1875 at the Haymarket Theatre, then under the 
 management of the late J, B. Buckstone. Though it 
 had the advantage of an exceptionally fine cast, 
 which included such names as Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, 
 the late Mr. Buckstone, Mrs. Chippendale, Mr. Howe, 
 and Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and on its initial production 
 scored a distinct success, it never had the slightest 
 chance of a prosperous London run. It was pro- 
 duced at the close of the London season, and was 
 put up as a bonne boucJie, for the benefit of the 
 manager of the theatre, and though it was announced 
 that the piece would be played by " the Haymarket 
 company during their tour, and would reopen the 
 Haymarket in October," it was never afterwards 
 performed in London. This fact, however, could 
 not be attributed to the non-success of the play, the 
 reception of which was enthusiastic. " Prince Arthur 
 was present, and at the end called Mr. Kendal to 
 his box and congratulated him on the play, which 
 he declared to be one of the best he had ever 
 witnessed." It was, however, taken on tour, and 
 although Mr. Buchanan had some difficulty in ob- 
 taining his fees (" I have to issue a writ against 
 Buckstone for what he owes me, confound him ! ") 
 the piece was phenomenally successful. In Liver- 
 pool they " refused money in all the more expen- 
 sive parts of the House." In Edinburgh it was 
 presented with every possible success, while in 
 Glasgow it attracted " the largest audience seen in 
 the Theatre Royal for a long time. The house was 
 crammed to the door with a fashionable audience, 
 and one important source of the eagerness of the 
 great assembly was the fact that a new comedy was 
 to be produced from the pen of one whose youth 
 was spent in Glasgow, and whose name is now well
 
 Play- Writing 233 
 
 known all over the world." The comedy met with 
 a " decidedly brilliant reception from the whole 
 audience, who were hearty and unstinted in their 
 demonstrations of satisfaction. Greatly charmed, 
 they cheered again and again." Yet, as I have 
 said, " A Madcap Prince " did not form the opening 
 attraction at the Haymarket Theatre on the return 
 of the company to London, the principal reason for 
 this, I fancy, being the fact that its author was 
 driven to the necessity of " issuing a writ against 
 Buckstone for the fees." 
 
 His next production was a play entitled " Corinne," 
 and again the circumstances were such as to preclude 
 any chance of success. The play was bought by a 
 lady, who, beyond having acted as an amateur, had had 
 little or no experience upon the stage. She took the 
 Lyceum Theatre for a month in the off-season, in order 
 to exploit herself in the leading part, and the result 
 of this experiment was disastrous to everybody con- 
 cerned. " The lady's acting " (wrote Mr. Buchanan) 
 " was simply awful, and a strong acting piece was lost 
 through her incompetence. So far as the literary 
 merits of the play went, the critics were right 
 perhaps — it was merely meant to be a theatrical 
 success. Fortunately, I had secured my full money 
 beforehand, or I should have been a heavy loser. As 
 it is, though I have gained nothing in reputation, 
 this very failure has brought me two heavy offers or 
 commissions from London managers, all of whom 
 saw why the piece could not run."i Though the 
 play failed to draw the public to any great extent, it 
 held the stage during the lady's tenure of the Lyceum 
 Theatre, and later on it was evidently taken on tour, 
 for in a subsequent letter to Mr. Canton Mr. Buchanan 
 ' Letter to Mr, Canton.
 
 2 34 Robert Buchanan 
 
 said : " I see ' Corinne ' is to be played in Glasgow. 
 Between ourselves, I am very sorry for it ; for the 
 lady {cntre no7is — don't whisper it abroad) is quite 
 incompetent. It is a play of the French romantic 
 school, and wants perfect acting to do any good." 
 
 But so far from daunting him these failures only 
 acted as an incentive to fresh efforts, and his next 
 bid for theatrical success came in the shape of a 
 dramatic version of my first novel, " The Queen of 
 Connaught." There are one or two circumstances in 
 connection with this play which it may be interesting 
 to relate. The book, which was issued anonymously, 
 was received most kindly by the critics, and met with 
 great and instantaneous success. " You will observe 
 with amusement" (wrote Mr. Buchanan) "that all the 
 writers think the author is a ' he.' " This indeed was 
 the case, and in many quarters the book was spoken 
 of as the work of Charles Reade. Fearing the great 
 author's anger, I wrote him a letter of apology, 
 telling him that I was only a beginner in the art 
 which I had adopted under circumstances so 
 auspicious, and finally assuring him that I had had 
 no hand whatever in the circulation of the reports 
 which connected the book with his name. The reply 
 which I received was courteous and kindly in the 
 extreme. Mr. Reade began by congratulating me 
 on the success which I had obtained so early in my 
 career. He urged me not to lose my head over it, or 
 to be too eager to rush into the market with another 
 book. " Rest on your laurels," said he, " and be 
 careful to fill up the teapot before you pour out 
 again." Finally he confessed that the report had 
 not made him angry in the least ; it had, in fact, 
 sent him to the book (he was not a great reader of 
 fiction). But having read this particular work, he
 
 HAnniKTT .Tav. 
 
 To Jace page 234,
 
 Play- Writing 235 
 
 could only say he would have been proud to 
 acknowledge it as his own. 
 
 Some time later, when I was dining with him at 
 his house in Knightsbridge, our talk reverted to the 
 subject which had been the means of making us per- 
 sonally acquainted, and he showed me a note-book in 
 which he had scribbled the following : " ' Oueen of 
 Connaught ' — good for a play." I told him that Mr- 
 Buchanan had had the same idea ; that, as a matter 
 of fact, he had sketched the play, and had begun the 
 writing of it, but that so far he had been unable to 
 see in it the makings of a theatrical success. At this 
 Mr. Reade became keenly interested, and was so 
 good as to say that in the event of Mr. Buchanan 
 going on with the work he would be only too pleased 
 to help him with his criticism and advice. I related 
 all this to Mr. Buchanan, who, spurned to fresh efforts, 
 reviewed his notes and returned to the writing of the 
 play. As the work proceeded we went, on Mr. 
 Reade's invitation, from time to time to Albert 
 Gate, to read him certain scenes and talk over 
 others, and many delightful evenings were so spent. 
 One evening, I remember, while Mr. Buchanan was 
 reading a scene in the last act, the great novelist 
 became so excited that he could not keep in his seat. 
 He paced the floor ejaculating " Good ! " " Very 
 powerful ! " " Go on, my boy ! " and on the con- 
 clusion of the reading he rang the bell, announcing, 
 in his most delightful manner, that the act was quite 
 good enough to warrant the opening of a bottle of 
 champagne. The play, on its completion, was accepted 
 by Mr. Henry Neville, and was produced by him at 
 the Olympic Theatre (then under his management), 
 Mr. Neville himself appearing as the hero John 
 Darlington, while the late Ada Cavendish sustained
 
 236 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 the part of the Queen of Connaught. Though the 
 piece drew fair business, and could not by any 
 stretch of the imagination be called a failure, it 
 never rose into what may be called a great theatrical 
 success. 
 
 Following this came a " Nine Days' Queen," pro- 
 duced for a short run at the Connaught Theatre in 
 1880, "Lucy Brandon" at the Imperial, and the 
 "Shadow of the Sword" at the Olympic in 1882; 
 but the dramatisation of his novel, " God and the 
 Man," which, as I have said, was produced at the 
 Adelphi Theatre under the title of " Stormbeaten," 
 brought him a far greater monetary reward than he 
 had reaped from all his other dramatic productions 
 put together. The successor to " Stormbeaten " was 
 the version of " Le Maitre de Forges," and entitled 
 " Lady Clare." For this production Mr. Buchanan 
 took the Globe Theatre. The play ran for over a 
 hundred nights, and was taken off to a good margin 
 of profit, Mr. Buchanan also receiving considerable 
 sums for it from America. But the play which made 
 the most money was " Alone in London," the very 
 one for which he cared the least ; indeed, he could 
 never bring himself to speak of it with anything but 
 contempt. However, it has never failed to make 
 money for everybody connected with it, but the 
 money so earned brought him no satisfaction, for 
 he was always ashamed of the source from which 
 it sprang, and so, taking my consent for granted, he 
 sold the piece for an absurdly small sum to Messrs. 
 Miller and Elliston, and so parted with the goose 
 which laid the golden eggs. 
 
 It was during the first provincial tour of " Alone 
 in London " that Mr. Buchanan began a connection 
 which was destined to bring him much pleasure, no
 
 Play-Writing 237 
 
 little profit, and considerable reputation as a writer 
 for the stage, for in that year Mr. Thomas Thorne 
 (then the sole manager of the Vaudeville Theatre) 
 read and accepted his comedy of " Sophia." The 
 first performance of this play was a triumph for 
 everybody concerned in it — for the management, the 
 company, and the author. A brilliant representative 
 audience was assembled, and prominent in a private 
 box was Mr., now Sir, Henry Irving, who, directly the 
 comedy began to " move," was liberal both with 
 laughter and applause, and who sent round a cordial 
 " Bravo, Tom ! " to Mr. Thorne directly the play was 
 over. The author was called and re-called, and made 
 his bow in the midst of the performers instead of 
 before the curtain. Immediately after the descent of 
 the curtain the stage and the manager's dressing-room 
 were crowded with friends of the management, who 
 came to offer their congratulations, for Mr. Thorne 
 was justly popular in private life as well as with the 
 appreciative public. 
 
 " Sophia " had waited exactly ten years for a pro- 
 duction, and had been declined with thanks by several 
 leading London managers. Mr. Wilson Barrett, how- 
 ever, had read it some years before, and had written 
 to this effect : " I like it. Will the public stand it ? " 
 and had paid a small deposit for the right of doing it 
 within a year. A little later it was almost staged by 
 the late Mr. Edgar Bruce, then managing the Prince 
 of Wales's Theatre in Tottenham Court Road, but 
 the question of the expensive costumes finally decided 
 him against it, and he produced the "Colonel" instead. 
 It had been offered in vain to Mr. Bancroft in England 
 and to Lester Wallack in America — neither thought 
 that it would be successful. As a matter of fact 
 it ran consecutively for over five hundred nights,
 
 238 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 or close upon two years, and it has been more than 
 once revived. Towards the end of its run, and after 
 the author had been receiving fees for its perform- 
 ances from the beginning, he sold the acting rights to 
 Mr. Thorne for £600. 
 
 The day after production the newspapers were full 
 of enthusiastic notices, one of the warmest and most 
 cordial being from the pen of Mr. Clement Scott and 
 published in the Daily Telegraph. Yet, in spite of 
 such encomiums, the fate of " Sophia " hovered in 
 the balance for about a month, so much so indeed 
 that the piece was actually withdrawn for a short time 
 during the heat of the summer. It was not till its 
 revival to open the autumn season that it began the 
 career of prosperity which, as I have said, lasted for 
 nearly two years. 
 
 The production of " Sophia " at the Vaudeville 
 was the beginning of a very happy theatrical ex- 
 perience. After it came " Joseph's Sweetheart," the 
 dramatisation of "Joseph Andrews," in which Mr. 
 Thorne appeared as the humorous country parson. 
 This play was produced at the Vaudeville in March, 
 1888 — as usual at an afternoon performance — and on 
 the succeeding night it was placed in the evening 
 bill. Before the comedy began Miss Vane, in the 
 character of Lady Booby, spoke the following pro- 
 logue : — 
 
 't>' 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen — behold in me 
 A wicked dame of the last century, — 
 Just brought to life again before your gaze, 
 To hint the fashion of forgotten days, 
 When Garrick, bent to woo the comic Muse, 
 Changed his high buskin for soft satin shoes, 
 And frolicking behind the footlights, showed 
 Love a bon ton and marriage a la mode ! 
 La, times are changed indeed since wits and lords 
 Swagger'd in square-cut, powder'd wigs, and swords !
 
 Play- Writing 239 
 
 Picture the age ! — a lord was then, I vow, 
 
 A lord indeed (how different from noiv) 
 
 And trembling Virtue hid herself in fear 
 
 Before the naughty ogling of a peer. 
 
 Abductions, scandals, brawls, and dissipation, 
 
 Were rich men's pleasure, poor men's consternation, 
 
 While Fashion, painted, trick'd in fine brocade, 
 
 Turn'd Love to jest, and Life to masquerade ! 
 
 Well, 'mid the masquerade, the pinchbeck show. 
 
 When Folly smiled on courtesan and beau. 
 
 Some noble human Spirits still drew breath, 
 
 And proved this world no hideous Dance of Death 
 
 Sad Hogarth's pencil limn'd the souls of men. 
 
 And Fielding wielded his magician's pen ! 
 
 Off fell the mask that darkcn'd and concealed 
 
 Life's face, and Human Nature stood revealed ! 
 
 Then rose Sophia at Fielding's conjuration. 
 
 Like Venus from the sea — of affectation. 
 
 Then madcap Tom showed, in his sport and passion, 
 
 A man's a man for a' that, 'spite the fashion. 
 
 Then Parson Adams, type of honest worth, 
 
 Born of the pure embrace of Love and Mirth, 
 
 Smiled in the English sunshine, proving clear 
 
 That one true heart is worth a world's veneer ! 
 
 And now our task is in a merry play. 
 
 To summon up that time long past away ; 
 
 To bring to life the manners long outworn, 
 
 The lords, the dames, the maidens all forlorn — 
 
 A tableau vivant of the tinsel age 
 
 Immortalised on the great Master's page ! 
 
 Hey, Presto ! See, I wave my conjuror's cane ! 
 
 The Present fades — the dead Past lives again — 
 
 The clouds of modern care dissolve — to show 
 
 Life a la mode, a hundred years ago ! " 
 
 This comedy, which was in five acts, had a recep- 
 tion quite as enthusiastic as that of its predecessor. 
 Admirably put upon the stage, the scenes of Lady 
 Booby's Boudoir (reaUsing Hogarth's picture in his 
 " Marriage a la Mode ") and of Parson Adams's Cottage 
 being wonderfully solid sets for so small a theatre. 
 A new recruit came to the already excellent com- 
 pany in the person of Mr. Cyril Maude, whose 
 foppish roue, Lord Fellamar, was admirably con- 
 ceived and executed.
 
 240 Robert Buchanan 
 
 " Joseph's Sweetheart " ran for over a year, or, 
 speaking Hterally, for three hundred and fifty odd 
 nights. It was succeeded in 1889 by a practically 
 original comedy from the pen of the same author, 
 entitled " Dr. Cupid " — a fantastic bit of imagination, 
 the scene of which was laid in the eighteenth century. 
 The cast included Winifred Emery, Cyril Maude, 
 Fred Thorne, and Thomas Thorne. The run of 
 " Dr. Cupid " was briefer than that of its predecessors, 
 but it drew excellent houses for over six months. 
 
 By this time Mr. Buchanan had succeeded in 
 establishing at the Vaudeville a sort of vogue for 
 costume comedies and dramatisations of master- 
 pieces of English fiction. The difficulty, of course, 
 was to keep the ball rolling — in other words, to find 
 new subjects founded on old masterpieces or imbued 
 with the spirit of old comedy. " Tom Jones " and 
 " Joseph Andrews " were all very well, but where 
 were their successors to come from ? " Amelia " was 
 out of the question for many reasons, quite apart 
 from its inferiority as a work of art, and the works 
 of Smollett were at once coarser and more chaotic 
 than those of his mightier contemporary. When the 
 names of Fielding and Smollett were spoken, only 
 Richardson remained among the great masters of 
 eighteenth century fiction, for " Tristram Shandy " 
 was not exactly a story, but a succession of amusing 
 incidents dealing with the surroundings of a hero 
 only just born. While the author was speculating 
 what work he should produce next for the little 
 theatre in the Strand, a French melodrama, founded 
 on a French feuilleton, was placed in his hands for 
 adaptation for the English stage. This was " Roger 
 la Honte," better known to English playgoers as 
 Robert Buchanan's famous play, " A Man's Shadow."
 
 Play-Writing 241 
 
 The adaptation of this work was not an easy task, 
 for the original was in innumerable acts and episodes, 
 and it had been offered to and refused by nearly all 
 the managers in London, while Mr. Beerbohm Tree, 
 who went to Paris to see the French play, gave it as 
 his opinion that there was not a penny in it. Mr. 
 Buchanan's version, however, was at once accepted 
 by Mr. Tree. Produced at a critical moment for the 
 management of the Haymarket Theatre, it became 
 an enormous success, playing to crowded audiences 
 from early autumn to the following summer, and 
 enabling Mr. Tree to distinguish himself in the dual 
 role of the hero and the villain Luversan, the latter 
 a masterly bit of characterisation. Previous to the 
 production of " A Man's Shadow," Mr. Tree had 
 obtained no little success in a play from Mr. 
 Buchanan's pen entitled " Partners " — an adaptation 
 of Daudet's " Fromont Jeune et Risler Ainc." 
 
 Mr. Buchanan was now in the high tide of success 
 as a popular dramatist, and naturally his hands were 
 very full of work. The triumph of " A Man's 
 Shadow " led to an offer from Messrs. Gatti, asking 
 him to collaborate with Mr. G. R. Sims in a new play 
 for the Adelphi, and in an evil moment he accepted. 
 I do not use this expression to convey the fact that 
 it was in any way derogatory to him to write 
 melodrama for the most melodramatic house in 
 London, especially in combination with a writer so 
 thoroughly strong and human as Mr. Sims ; but, in 
 point of fact, he was doing too much, and over- 
 loading himself with work, which, at the very best, 
 could only be perfunctory. This the result proved, 
 for during the next three or four years he produced 
 a large quantity of dramatic work of exceedingly 
 mixed quality, and began to grow tired of play- 
 
 17
 
 24-2 Robert Buchanan 
 
 writing altogether. Up to date, in spite of all his 
 success, he had not obtained the object which made 
 him write for the stage at all — that of securing 
 enough money to enable him to devote the rest of 
 his life to pure literature, more particularly to poetry. 
 He certainly made large sums — sums far greater than 
 any he could possibly have made by the mere writing 
 of books — but with his increased income came increased 
 expenditure, and he soon found that what he earned 
 melted rapidly away. It is a curious fact that, 
 despite his many struggles, he never could master 
 the art of compound addition, so that whatever his 
 income was he always managed to be a little in 
 arrear. He could no more help being prodigal with 
 his great gains than the sun can help shining. I 
 have known him go to Trouville with two hundred 
 pounds in his pocket and return at the end of a week 
 without a penny of it, even although that two hun- 
 dred pounds happened to be his last, and the spending 
 of it meant that he had to shut himself up in his 
 study and work incessantly till the deficiency could 
 be made good. But it must not be supposed that all 
 his money went in the purchase of mere personal 
 pleasures. His generosity was without parallel, and 
 he never refused a request for help if it was in his 
 power to grant it. If a friend happened to be in 
 " Queer Street "he would lend him a hundred pounds 
 with as little hesitation as he would lend ten, and it 
 was a peculiarity with him that he never looked for 
 the return of such money, no matter how large the 
 sum might be, but always regarded it as so much to 
 the good if it happened to come his way again. 
 
 For four years he collaborated with Mr. Sims in 
 plays for the Adelphi. Their first production, " The 
 English Rose," was a considerable success, and after
 
 Play-Writing 243 
 
 it had been running for some time Mr. Buchanan 
 sold out his share in it for two thousand five hundred 
 pounds. Its successor, " The Trumpet Call," was 
 even more popular, but Mr. Buchanan sold out for 
 a lesser sum. Next came the " White Rose " — a 
 costume drama produced in the summer season. 
 This was only moderately successful, in spite of 
 some superb acting. Two other plays followed — 
 " The Lights of Home " and the " Black Domino " 
 — but neither of these equalled their predecessors in 
 popularity. 
 
 For the production of the " Trumpet Call " the 
 authors had the assistance of that charming actress 
 Mrs. Patrick Campbell, and the first night was 
 memorable for an incident, or rather for an accident, 
 which might have wrecked the play. Mrs. Campbell 
 played the part of Astrea, a gipsy girl, and in one 
 of the later scenes, that of a low lodging-house, she 
 had to appear in rags. As she crossed the stage the 
 skirt of her dress became loose, and descended slowly 
 towards her knees. A low murmur, deepening to a 
 groan, arose from the audience ; but with wonderful 
 presence of mind the actress, quite calm and not in 
 the least disconcerted, gripped the garment with one 
 hand and drew it upward, fixing the spectators at 
 the same time with one long look, a sort of " Peace 
 be still " expression in her great black eyes. The 
 roar of horror changed into a tumultuous roar of 
 applause, and a disaster was averted. 
 
 Afterwards, in the " White Rose," Mrs. Campbell 
 played, with extraordinary sweetness and pathos, the 
 part of Cromwell's daughter. 
 
 But in turning his attention to the Adelphi Mr. 
 Buchanan was not forgetting his former love, the 
 little Vaudeville. Here, at a matinee in March,
 
 244 Robert Buchanan 
 
 1890, was produced " Miss Tomboy," a quite new 
 version of Vanbrugh's " The Relapse," formerly used 
 by Sheridan in the " Trip to Scarborough." It was 
 received with complete enthusiasm, the impersonation 
 of the heroine by Miss Winifred Emery being quite 
 the most perfect thing this versatile actress had done 
 in comedy. In the same year Mr. Buchanan staged at 
 the same theatre his version of Richardson's " Clarissa 
 Harlowe," with Miss P^mery as the hapless heroine, 
 Mr. Thalberg as Lovelace, and Mr. Thomas Thorne 
 in a quasi-serious role — that of Bedford. No play 
 of Mr. Buchanan's ever held an audience under so 
 complete a spell, but the final act was almost too 
 pathetic for the public taste of that moment, 
 especially at a theatre so closely associated with 
 broad comedy. 
 
 Meantime, not satisfied with his ventures at the 
 Vaudeville and the Adelphi, he had produced on his 
 own responsibility at the last-named theatre, for a 
 matinee performance, a poetical play founded on the 
 story of " Cupid and Psyche," and called the " Bride 
 of Love." It was written in blank verse throughout, 
 and was highly poetical and imaginative, too much 
 so for the English public, who will only tolerate such 
 experiments when they are made the occasion for 
 gorgeous scenery. The scenery at the Adelphi, 
 though correct and adequate, was inexpensive. In 
 this production I myself played the part of Psyche, 
 Miss Letty Lind that of Euphrosyne, Mr. Thalberg 
 that of Eros, Mr, Lionel Rignold that of Zephyr, and 
 the late Miss Ada Cavendish that of Venus Aphro- 
 dite. The reception of the " Bride of Love " on its 
 first production was so encouraging that Mr. Buchanan 
 was induced to take the Lyric Theatre and to repro- 
 duce the play there for a " regular run." This was a
 
 Play-Writing 245 
 
 serious mistake, as he made no attempt to improve 
 the scenery, but trusted to the mere poetry of the 
 piece to draw the public. After his long experience 
 of the stage he ought to have known better. 
 
 There is no modern instance, I think, of a poetical 
 play attracting audiences on its own merits apart 
 from the arts of the showman and the tricks of 
 the scene-painter. This experiment cost him some 
 thousands of pounds, nor was he much consoled, I 
 fancy, by the almost daily receipt of letters from 
 unknown admirers congratulating him on the work. 
 One of these letters was so remarkable in the tone of 
 its compliments as to be almost unique. The writer 
 said that he had long ceased to find in the theatre 
 the enjoyment and the interest of his early years ; 
 the glamour had all passed away, as he thought, for 
 ever ; but in witnessing the " Bride of Love," he said, 
 all the charm and all the glamour had returned, and 
 he felt again the delight and enthusiasm of his boy- 
 hood. The signature to this letter was that of the 
 distinguished American dramatist, Bronson Howard. 
 
 I may remark in passing that the " Bride of Love " 
 was not a Greek play in the strict sense of the word, 
 but rather a dramatisation of a Greek fairy tale. 
 Whatever its merits as an acting piece might be, it 
 certainly contained passages of real poetry. 
 
 Two exquisite choral odes were composed for this 
 play by Sir Alexander Mackenzie and sung by Sted- 
 man's choir. Other incidental music, some of it of 
 bewitching beauty, was written by Mr. Walter 
 Slaughter, now so widely known to the public as a 
 musician of the finest gifts. Before passing on to 
 other matters I may mention that on the occasion 
 of the opening of the Glasgow Exhibition in May, 
 1888, the great representatives of poetry and music
 
 246 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 were Robert Buchanan and Sir Alexander (then Mr.) 
 Mackenzie. 
 
 " The fine ode which Robert Buchanan had written 
 was worthily set by Mr. Mackenzie, and was worthily 
 sung. . . . No one who heard it will soon forget its 
 noble swelling harmonies, and assuredly few more 
 striking and impressive scenes have been witnessed 
 than when the vast audience stood with bowed heads 
 while the massive strains were pealed out by the 
 organ, orchestra, and chorus. Immediately after 
 the conclusion of the Ode, just as the large as- 
 sembly was bursting into cheers, the Prince of 
 Wales stepped forward and declared the Exhibition 
 open." I 
 
 Before resigning the tenancy of the Lyric Theatre 
 Mr. Buchanan produced there, under the title of 
 " Sweet Nancy," his dramatisation of Miss Rhoda 
 Broughton's most popular book, and the reception 
 of this play was so favourable that he took the 
 Royalty Theatre in order to continue the "run." 
 Never was a comedy of the kind better played ; 
 indeed, Mr. John Hare, witnessing the performance 
 at the Royalty, averred that the acting was the very 
 best he had seen for years. Miss Annie Hughes 
 was inimitable as Nancy, almost equally delightful 
 were the Algy of Mr. H. V. Esmond, and the 
 Tow-Tow of Miss Beatrice Ferrer. Everything was 
 going well and the piece was giving promise of 
 a successful run when Miss Hughes was taken ill 
 and had to resign the leading part. An attempt 
 was made to find a substitute for this delightful 
 coDiMienney but the only possible one was Miss 
 Norreys, who was not at that time available. 
 Without Miss Hughes " Sweet Nancy " was abso- 
 
 ' Scotsman.
 
 Play-Writing 247 
 
 lutely worthless, so perfect in its captivation had 
 been her rendering of the character, so the piece 
 was withdrawn, and that was Mr. Buchanan's last 
 experience of theatrical management on his own 
 account and with his own money. 
 
 So far, mainly as I have shown through disastrous 
 speculation, his work for the stage had not left him 
 one penny the richer. He grew reckless, and the 
 next few years, from 1890 to 1894, were lived at 
 headlong pace. Never perhaps was a man so busy, 
 so full of affairs, and his marvellous power of rapid 
 writing now became his bane, for besides a succession 
 of plays which were more or less successful, he was 
 contributing a great deal to the Press, and in such 
 leisure as he could find he was putting the finishing 
 touches to his poetical writings. The present chapter, 
 however, is concerned solely with his work for the 
 stage. Among the productions of those years was 
 the "Sixth Commandment," which was a version 
 of Dostoievski's " Crime and Punishment." This play 
 failed to attract the public, but it was noteworthy 
 for two pieces of magnificent acting on the part 
 of Mr. Herbert Waring and of Mr. Lewis Waller. 
 Later on " The Charlatan " was written for Mr. Beer- 
 bohm Tree at the Haymarket Theatre, and although 
 it was most warmly received it just fell short of a 
 great financial success. " Dick Sheridan " was pro- 
 duced at the Comedy Theatre and also met with an 
 adverse fate, and running simultaneously with it, for 
 afternoon performances only, was the " Pied Piper of 
 Hamelin." This little play, which was acknow- 
 ledged by the Press to be almost perfect of its kind, 
 also failed from some reason or other to draw the 
 public. 
 
 I am now approaching the end of this brief sum-
 
 248 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 mary of his dramatic work. By this time he was not 
 only far off independence, but heavily in debt. His 
 last stake was a comedy of which he was part author, 
 and for which he engaged the famous Mrs. Langtry, 
 then anxious to return to the stage. Having secured 
 a small financial backing, quite inadequate as the 
 issue proved, he took the Opera Comique, and pro- 
 duced there in June, 1894, the " Society Butterfly," 
 with Mrs. Langtry in the chief female part, and such 
 excellent artistes as Mr. Fred Kerr and the late Miss 
 Rose Leclercq to support the leading lady. All 
 would have gone very well, but for one unfortunate 
 contretemps. The fate of the play absolutely de- 
 pended on a certain dance to be performed by the 
 leading actress at the end of the third act, but at 
 the last moment Mrs. Langtry was unable to do 
 the dance, and some ineffective tableaux vivants had 
 to be substituted in a hurry. These tableaux pro- 
 voked a stormy reception and led to very adverse 
 criticisms in the Press. The play, however, ran for 
 some weeks to very fair business, and was actually 
 promising to develop into a popular success when 
 the managerial exchequer was found to be empty. 
 At that moment a creditor served Mr. Buchanan 
 with a petition in bankruptcy. His house of cards 
 collapsed, and a few months later he was standing 
 in the bankruptcy court, a practically ruined man. 
 
 Looking back upon that experience, I think now 
 that the man whom I then regarded as his bitterest 
 enemy, since he brought about his financial disaster, 
 was in reality a friend in disguise. For several years 
 he had been living in a fool's paradise, veritably 
 gambling away the best hours of his life. What 
 part had he, who from first to last was a Poet with 
 the deep poetic heart, among the worldlings of
 
 Play-Writing 249 
 
 finance? All his thoughts and dreams were of 
 higher and nobler things, and au fond all his daily 
 prayer was to escape again into solitude and to be 
 alone with his first love. It was only half a heart 
 he could give to money getting. He awoke from 
 his folly disillusioned, wretched, dispirited, but the 
 punishment he had received was really given to him 
 in mercy, for from that time forth he saw both himself 
 and the world with very different eyes.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 A REMINISCENCE 
 By George R. Sims 
 
 FOR many years it was my privilege to be on 
 terms of intimate friendship with the poet who 
 was my work-fellow in Adelphi melodrama. Now 
 that the collaboration and the companionship are 
 severed for ever I see him when I look backward 
 over the years, not as poet or fellow-worker, but 
 as companion only. And nowhere was Robert 
 Buchanan a more delightful companion than under 
 his own roof. When the work of the day was done, 
 and the " Bard " sat at the supper-table between his 
 mother and his sister-in-law, and entertained his 
 literary friends, it was the best side of the old 
 Bohemia come to life again. When the ladies 
 had retired and the atmosphere became tobacco- 
 laden^ the great problems of life would become so 
 enthralling in the course of discussion, that many a 
 night and oft have we risen to say goodbye when 
 the hour was late and lingered on the doorsteps of 
 the house in Maresfield Gardens to "drive home 
 points " until a neighbouring clock had struck the 
 quarter and the half. And sometimes in the summer, 
 
 when the dawn trod swiftly on the heels of the dark, 
 
 250
 
 A Reminiscence 251 
 
 we would still linger on after the discussion had been 
 closed ; for it was a cherished idea of the Bard's 
 that from his front doorstep one got a whiff of the 
 distant sea. He would stand sometimes in the early- 
 dawn, throw back his massive head, and declare that 
 he was inhaling the Brighton breezes. 
 
 I like to think sometimes of the old days, or rather 
 nights, at Merkland ; for the memory of the rugged 
 fighter's love for his mother is a very sweet one. In 
 his home the man who was looked upon by many 
 as a fierce and masterful free-lance was as gentle 
 as a woman. In his work the dominant note was 
 nearly always that of " I am Sir Oracle," but when 
 the pen was thrown aside and he found himself among 
 his fellow-workers, with a cigarette between his lips 
 and John Jameson at his elbow, there was no 
 more modest or less self-assertive man than 
 Robert Buchanan. 
 
 I knew him best when he had come to middle age, 
 and it always seemed to me that at a time when most 
 men have " seen the world " the poet-novelist was 
 just beginning to get a glimpse of it. He found 
 himself suddenly introduced to the pleasure-seeking 
 side of it, and his astonishment at some of the 
 " phases " which came under his notice was that 
 of a lad fresh from a cathedral city being taken 
 about town by a London cousin. But if for a time 
 the novelty of his new surroundings attracted him, 
 the poet and student of humanity always got the 
 upper hand at the finish. To his occasional excur- 
 sions into the land of the modern Corinthians we 
 owe some of the best of the poet's later work. 
 
 My last remembrance of the busy man who fought 
 for fame and fortune, who was accorded the former 
 grudgingly, and who won and lost the latter, and
 
 252 Robert Buchanan 
 
 was slowly winning it again when he was struck 
 down by a blow that shattered health and hope for 
 ever, is of a holiday trip we took together to that 
 cockney paradise, Southend-on-Sea. Buchanan had 
 lived at Southend at one time and knew it well. He 
 took me far from the madding holiday crowd and 
 showed me the lovely spots that lay around the 
 district which is the meeting-place of London's 
 mighty river and the sea that has made England 
 great. 
 
 It was as we stood in the moonlight looking across 
 the river to Canvey Island that he told me of a 
 strange foreboding. He had a work on which he 
 had been engaged for many years — it was finished, 
 yet he feared to let it see the light. " I believe," he 
 said, " that whenever that poem is published it will 
 be my last effort. I shall never do anything great 
 again." The poem was eventually published. The 
 foreboding proved correct. It was the last great work 
 that he gave to the world. 
 
 We met but little after that, for our collaboration 
 ceased, and he went to live at a distance. I did not 
 see him in his last illness when the burly form was 
 wasted and the vigorous leonine head was bowed. 
 I was glad that I was spared the pain, for I think 
 of him always as I knew him, vigorous, buoyant, and 
 full of the mellow wine of life, a strong man to 
 admire, a brilliant work-fellow to reverence, a 
 smiling friend to love.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 ON THE TURF. WRITTEN BY MR. HENRY MURRAY 
 
 IT cannot be said that pleasure played any great 
 part in the life of Robert Buchanan, yet at one 
 period of his career he was supposed to have drunk 
 at its fountain pretty deeply. It was at the period of 
 play- writing and play-producing, when he was making 
 money hand over hand, and disposing of it in the 
 same rapid fashion. He was a born gambler, as his 
 father had been before him, and although he was full 
 fifty years of age before he ever saw a race-course, he 
 took to the sport of racing with the same youthful 
 ardour which characterised his pursuit of all that 
 attracted his attention. " We are all gamblers," he 
 used to say. " Man is a gambler by nature and 
 predestination, and life itself is a gamble. The 
 tradesman, the City man, the professional man, the 
 artist, are gamblers alike, and the artist is the biggest 
 of all, for he stakes his brains against the public 
 stupidity, and the odds are heavily against him." 
 Whenever he had a little money he never rested 
 until he had ventured it in some kind of specula- 
 tion, and, whatever that speculation might be, lie 
 never by any chance came off an eventual winner, 
 If he took a theatre he invariably lost by hundreds 
 and sometimes by thousands, and that too on the 
 
 253
 
 2 54 Robert Buchanan 
 
 very plays which founded the fortunes of others, as, 
 for instance, when he sold " Alone in London " for a 
 mere song, to see it patrol the provinces year in year 
 out, reaping a golden harvest for its lucky purchasers, 
 who confessed that within ten years they had amassed 
 ;^i 4,000 clear profit by the transaction. 
 
 This untoward luck pursued him in his specula- 
 tions on the turf, to which he was first introduced 
 by Mr. G. R. Sims during their long collaboration 
 in Adelphi melodrama. The most sanguine of men, 
 he never went to a race meeting without some 
 splendid " certainties " up his sleeve, but, persistent 
 as was his courtship of capricious Fortune, it was 
 seldom that he returned home a penny the richer. 
 It was therefore lucky for him that he was a good 
 loser, and bore alike his losses and the troubles in 
 which they involved him with a wonderfully light 
 heart. He had his moments of depression, of course, 
 and it was during such a moment that he once wrote 
 to Dr. Stodart Walker (in 1893), " It has been a 
 damnable year for me in every way, and at times 
 I've felt quite helpless, 'Tis all very well for me to 
 croak anathemas on the dismal folk, but I'm a dismal, 
 despairing, self-tormenting creature myself, and as for 
 the joy of life, my share of it is a flickering candle. 
 Friday next is my birthday. I shall keep it in the 
 coal cellar, a sheet round me, and ashes on my head. 
 Why the deuce was I ever born ? " I should conjec- 
 ture that this was written one evening on his return 
 from Sandown, after a bad day, but the probability 
 is that next morning he would be up with the lark, 
 brilliant and confident, and ready to try his luck 
 again. His temperament was too sanguine, his 
 spirits too buoyant, for any reverse of fortune to 
 have any lasting effect upon him. Things, he
 
 On the Turf 255 
 
 averred, always righted themselves somehow with a 
 man who kept to work, and that he did with unfaiHng 
 regularity. The race-course might monopoHse his 
 afternoons, but early morning and late night found 
 him at his desk labouring with unfailing fecundity 
 and industry. Nay, he even carried his literary 
 labours on to the turf. At the time when he was 
 preparing a long commentary on Renan's views 
 regarding certain Scriptural episodes we went to- 
 gether to Sandown, and in an interval between two 
 races I found him standing in the middle of Tatter- 
 sail's ring, serenely unconscious of the charivari about 
 him, reading his Greek Testament. When the bell 
 rang he slipped the volume into his pocket, marking 
 the place with a tip telegram, and plunged into the 
 fray, apparently greatly refreshed by his studies. 
 
 Pleasure taken alone — " bread eaten in secret " — 
 was no pleasure to Robert Buchanan. He loved 
 like Charles Lamb, to taste good flavours "on the 
 palate of others." When he went to a race meeting 
 he drove down with a party of congenial friends to 
 share the contents of his well-provided luncheon 
 basket, and his carriage was invariably surrounded 
 by a sorry-looking crew whose pinched faces, 
 brightened up at sight of him. " Glad to see you 
 here, Mr. Buchanan," I've heard again and again 
 from the lips of runner, gipsy, nigger minstrel, and 
 correct-card seller alike. " I've had a bad time 
 lately, sir, I have indeed, and I hope you'll win, 
 sir." Whether he won or lost made little difference ; 
 there was always plenty of silver left at the end of 
 the day for the poor helots of the turf. 
 
 I don't think I ever saw Buchanan's wonderful 
 equanimity of temper better illustrated than on a 
 certain afternoon at Lingfield. We had gone down
 
 256 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 specially to back a certain horse called Theseus, re- 
 garding which we had received private and valuable 
 advice from a person whose counsel was well worth 
 listening to. We took our station on the carriage 
 rank, about a quarter of a mile from the ring, and had 
 merely trifling bets on the first three races, reserving 
 our capital for Theseus, who ran in the fourth event 
 on the card. We were desperately anxious to win, for 
 things were going badly at the Opera Comique, where 
 the ill-starred "Society Butterfly "was running, and 
 Theseus, being an absolute outsider, was certain to 
 start at a long price. We resolved to risk a hundred 
 pounds on him, but, abstracted in our calculations, we 
 failed to notice the flight of time, and, by a cruel 
 freak of bad luck, the horses engaged in the race, 
 instead of parading as usual before the stands and 
 carriages, passed straight to the starting-post by the 
 other end of the oval. We were startled by the roar 
 of the ring — " They're off!" I had the notes in my 
 pocket, and dashed away full pelt for the ring. I 
 had a quarter of a mile to cover, the horses two miles, 
 so the result of my tardy effort may be guessed. As 
 I was nearing the gate of Tattersall's a universal roar 
 of " Theseus ! Theseus ! " rose on the air, and turning 
 my head I saw little W. Jones, in a brimstone- 
 coloured jacket, all but walking home, with the rest 
 of the field the length of a street behind him. " What 
 price did he start at?" I asked an acquaintance. 
 " Twenty to one !"...! don't remember — I don't 
 want to remember — what I said as I walked back to 
 the carriage. Two thousand pounds actually within 
 our grasp, and we had missed it ! Buchanan received 
 the news with a laugh. " Better luck next time," he 
 said. " You look bowled over, old man. You'll find 
 some whiskey in the hamper." And half of the
 
 On the Turf 257 
 
 money thus missed would have saved the " Butter- 
 fly" from failure, and himself from bankruptcy! 
 
 Luck could be kinder on occasion, as it showed in 
 the Cesarewitch of 1893, when Cypria, starting at 66 
 to I, ran a dead heat with the favourite, Red Eyes, at 
 5 to I. Buchanan, by a happy inspiration, backed 
 both pretty freely, and is indeed historical among the 
 " pencillers " as being the only man in the ring that 
 day who had a penny on Cypria. But such lucky 
 hauls were few and far between, and he found the 
 turf a dear amusement on the whole, though he never 
 wavered in his love for it, or regretted the money it 
 cost him. 
 
 18
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 "THE WANDERING JEW" 
 
 WHILE writing plays and books for the market 
 he had never ceased to write poetry to please 
 himself, and to concern himself to an extent which 
 some of his critics thought deplorable with the great 
 social and political questions of the hour. If an ideal 
 poet is one who is completely indifferent to public 
 questions, he was never an ideal poet. First and 
 foremost, he was problem-haunted, the one thing 
 worthy of study in this world being, as he thought, 
 the question of man's destiny and its relation to the 
 mystery of religion. Next he was still soaked through 
 and through with the radicalism of his early days, 
 never having wavered one inch from the conviction 
 that the whole structure of modern society, with its 
 arbitrary divisions between wealth and poverty, was 
 radically wrong. Finally, he was a humanitarian to 
 the core, unable to rest or sleep or possess himself in 
 patience when he heard of a wrong done to or offered 
 by any human soul. The outcome of this, in his 
 busy days, was much newspaper correspondence, 
 which earned for him from Mr. Zangwill the epithet 
 of " Buchanan, the complete letter writer," and from 
 Mrs. Lynn Linton the doubtful compliment, a propos 
 
 of his championship of chivalry towards women, 
 
 358
 
 "The Wandering Jew" 259 
 
 that he wrote " sentimental buncum with splendid 
 literary power." Much of his best work in that way 
 was reprinted in 1891, in a volume entitled "The 
 Coming Terror," containing much interesting matter, 
 among the rest an attempt to vindicate Herbert 
 Spencer from the attacks of Professor Huxley, 
 a propos of the question, " Are men born free and 
 equal ? " 
 
 On a careful review of the letters which he from 
 time to time contributed to the public Press, I feel 
 glad that he devoted so much of his time to what 
 many would consider thankless work, for on more 
 than one occasion, as in the cases of Mrs. Osborne and 
 Mr. Parnell, he earned the lasting gratitude of those 
 on whose behalf he spoke the needful word. More 
 than one obscure martyr owed something to his inter- 
 cession, and he saved at least one fellow-creature from 
 death upon the gallows. However, he was still 
 determined to prove himself a poet in the technical 
 sense of the word, so in the winter of 1893 he 
 published " The Wandering Jew." 
 
 This work was commenced in the year 1866, its 
 conception being, as I have said, the direct outcome 
 of the death of his father, to whose memory it was 
 dedicated in the following lines : — 
 
 '& 
 
 " Father on Earth, for whom I wept bereaven, 
 Father more dear than any Father in Heaven, 
 Flesh of my flesh, heart of this heart of mine, 
 Still quick, though dead, in me, true son of thine, 
 I draw the gravecloth from thy dear dead face, 
 I kiss thee gently sleeping, while I place 
 This wreath of Song upon thy holy head. 
 
 For since I live, I know thou art quick not dead, 
 
 And since thou art quick, yet drawest no living breath, 
 
 I know, dear Father, that there is Life in Death.
 
 26o Robert Buchanan 
 
 This, too, my Soul hatli found — that if there were 
 No liope in Heaven, the world might well despair. 
 That thro' tlic mystery of my hope and love 
 I reach the M3'stery that dwells aliove. . . . 
 Father on Earth, still lying calm and blest 
 After long years of trouble and sad unrest, 
 Sleep — while the Christ I paint for men to see 
 Seeketh the Fatherhood I found in thee 1" 
 
 " The Wandering Jew " was finished and ready for 
 press some years before its publication. The MS. 
 was kept locked in the desk of its author ; it was 
 taken out from time to time, pondered over, then 
 carefully replaced, for it was ever his favourite child. 
 His reason for withholding it from the world was a 
 curious one, inexplicable even to himself, for he was 
 not a superstitious man, and he always laughed at 
 superstition in others, but in some unaccountable way 
 the idea had taken hold of him that with the publi- 
 cation of this work his career would come to an end, 
 and so fixed was this in his mind that he could not 
 shake himself free of it. When he at last resolved to 
 publish the book, he did so in spite of the superstition 
 which still clung to him, and I remember his telling 
 with a curious smile that while he was correcting the 
 last proofs a dog came and howled mournfully under 
 his study windows. 
 
 The conception of the poem was a terrible as well 
 as a pathetic one — that of a Christ grown grey and 
 old, despairing and heartbroken, surviving through 
 the ages, and finding at every stage that He is 
 forgotten by the very Churches and denied even 
 the poor tribute of occasional imitation. The poet 
 wandering in the streets of London meets the errant 
 Jew, whom at first he takes for Ahasuerus, but 
 whom he presently discovers to be the Saviour 
 Himself.
 
 "The Wandering Jew" 261 
 
 " Lo, now the Moonlight lit his features wan 
 With spectral beams, and o'er his hoary hair 
 A halo of brightness fell, and rested there ! 
 And while upon his face mine eyes were bent 
 In utterness of woeful wonderment, 
 Into mine ear the strange voice crept once more : 
 ' Far have I wandered, weary and spirit-sore, 
 And lo ! wherever I have chanced to be. 
 All things, save men alone, have pitied me ! ' 
 
 Then — then — even as he spake, forlornly crown'd 
 
 By the cold light that wrapt him round and round, 
 
 I saw upon his twain hands raised to Heaven 
 
 Stigmata bloody as of sharp nails driven 
 
 Thro' the soft palms of mortals cruciiicd ! 
 
 And swiftly glancing downward I descried 
 
 Stigmata bloody on the naked feet 
 
 Set feebly on the cold stones of the street — 
 
 And moveless in the frosty light he stood 
 
 Ev'n as one hanging on the Cross of wood ! 
 
 Then, like a lone man in the north, to whom 
 The auroral lights on the world's edge assume 
 The likeness of his gods, I seem'd to swoon 
 To a sick horror ; and the stars and moon 
 Reel'd wildly o'er me, swift as sparks that blow 
 Out of a forge ; and the cold stones below 
 Chattered like teeth ! For lo, at last I knew 
 The lineaments of that diviner Jew 
 Who like a Phantom passeth everywhere, 
 The World's last hope and bitterest despair, 
 Deathless, yet dead ! — 
 
 Unto my knees I sank, 
 And with an eye glaz'd like the dying's drank 
 The wonder of that Presence ! 
 
 White and tall 
 And awful grew He in the mystical 
 Chill air around Him— at His mouth a mist 
 Made by His frosty breathing — Then I kissed 
 His frozen raiment-hem, and murmured 
 Adonai ! Master ! Lord of Quick and Dead ! ' 
 'Twas more than heart could suffer and still beat — 
 So with a hollow moan I fainted at His feet ! " 
 
 In a cutting from an old newspaper I find the 
 following quaint interview. I give it here because
 
 262 Robert Buchanan 
 
 it bears solely with the subject I have now in 
 hand : — 
 
 " Robert Buchanan Interviews Himself. 
 
 " The Editor having asked me to interview myself 
 with a view to answering certain questions which 
 might interest his readers, I have endeavoured as 
 delicately as possible to approach my subject At 
 the moment when the request arrived I was not in 
 the most amiable of tempers, but I gradually yielded 
 to temptation and unbosomed myself to the cross- 
 questioner. The first question suggested by the 
 Editor and put by myself to myself was categorical. 
 
 " With what object did vou write the ' Wandering 
 Jew ? ' 
 
 " Because, I replied, I thought that only one subject 
 remained to the modern singer — that of Jin-de-siecle 
 Christianity, and because, in my opinion, the 
 legendary Christ of the Gospels was the one im- 
 mortal spirit which had never been faithfully repre- 
 sented in poetry. All my life I had been haunted by 
 the conception of a worn-out Saviour, snowed over 
 with the sorrow of centuries, old, weary, despairing, 
 yet indignant at the enormities committed in his 
 name. This figure was no fancy to me, but an 
 awful ever-present Reality. I could not believe in 
 his power to save the world or to discover the God 
 of his promise. But I did believe in his suffering, in 
 the beauty of his character, in his supremely loving 
 tenderness to human sorrow. No longer the beautiful 
 Good Shepherd of early imagination, he seemed to me 
 sad with the piteous sadness of old age, still haunted 
 by his youthful Dream, but scarcely hoping now that 
 it would ever be realised. I was asked : —
 
 "The Wandering Jew" 263 
 
 Did you intend in the poem to satirise the progress 
 of Christianity among the Churches ? 
 
 " Well, not to satirise — the subject, I think, being 
 too pitiful for satire — but to describe in a succession 
 of vivid pictures how Christianity had been a cloak 
 to cover an infinity of human wickedness ; how 
 Churchmen had juggled and cheated and lied in 
 the name of Christ, and forgotten the real sweetness 
 of his humanity. Here I was only to do in verse 
 what the great historians from Gibbon to Lecky had 
 done before me. There was to be nothing in my 
 poem, and there is nothing in it, which could not be 
 justified and illustrated by overwhelming historical 
 testimony. 
 
 " WJiy did you omit to describe such things as the 
 cruelty of the Inqtiisition atidthe terrors of the Massacre 
 of St. BartJiolomezv ? " 
 
 " Because my book was to adumbrate the truth, 
 not to support it by a mere catalogue of horrors. 
 Because I wished to say just enough and no more, to 
 point home the charge on which Jesus Christ was to 
 be arraigned, historically, and condemned. That 
 charge was not to be the gist of my poem ; otherwise 
 I should be doing no more than other writers had 
 done before me. What I desired to show was the 
 despair of a supremely loving being who began in 
 divine hope and has ended in apparent failure, 
 not because his moral conceptions were false, but 
 because his supernatural promises have never been 
 verified. ' Are men worth saving ? ' Jesus was then to 
 ask himself at the end of eighteen centuries of wasted 
 effort. History, the record of man's experience, was 
 to supply the answer. Yet my Christ, clinging still 
 to the hope of a heavenly explanation, clinging to that 
 hope as men of his temperament will ever cling to it
 
 264 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 was not wholly to despair. Had I made him con- 
 tinue to assert his miraculous pretensions, I should 
 have pleased the so-called Christians. Had I made 
 him admit his utter failure, I should have pleased 
 the Materialists. I desired to please neither. 
 
 ^'' Do you believe, then, that Christianity is a failure? 
 " Here I referred myself rather irritably to my own 
 letter in a contemporary. 
 
 " One journal says vou are an A theist. Is that so, 
 Robert Buchanan ? 
 
 " I should not be the least ashamed of that, even if I 
 deserved it. Unfortunately, I am not an Atheist." 
 " Why unfortunately ? 
 
 " Because then the whole question would be easy to 
 me. I should not be lost in wonder at the eternal 
 conflict between Good and Evil. 
 " Do you believe i7i another life ? 
 " Do I believe I breathe and live ? Do 1 believe I 
 came into this world to lose, not to find, my personality? 
 To one who thinks as I do, the question is absurd. 
 
 " But that other life was Chrisfs solution of the 
 problem. 
 
 " And it is mine — but it is only a belief, not a 
 certainty, a hope, a faith even, not a reality. The 
 testimony of all Science is against it. The spectacle 
 of human Stupidity, of the colossal selfishness and 
 folly of Humanity, makes the mind despair often as 
 Christ despaired. And even the theory of another 
 life, of an ever-continuing evolution, does not explain 
 the horrible waste and anarchy of Nature." 
 
 " Here I took myself severely to task, cornered 
 myself, so to speak, on the subject of my irresolution. 
 There was no escape — I had to answer. 
 
 " Come, I said to myself, are you not falling 
 between two stools ? You think the failure of Jesus
 
 "The Wandering Jew" 265 
 
 was his faithfulness to the conception of a personal 
 immortality, of a God and of a heavenly kingdom — 
 you believe centuries have been wasted over dogmas 
 concerning the absolutely Unknowable — you know 
 Herbert Spencer better, and really venerate him more 
 than your Bible (here I winced), and yet you have 
 not the courage to say boldly this world is the only 
 one, and all we can do is to make the best of it ! 
 You are not a Christian, you are not a Theist, and 
 yet you absolutely and indignantly reject not merely 
 Atheism, but Pantheism. Your own ' Flying Dutch- 
 man ' indeed was damned by reading the philosophy 
 of Spinoza. What in the name of common sense are 
 you ? You reject all known creeds, and offer yourself 
 no new one as a substitute. 
 
 " All creeds, I answered, are to me attempts to verify 
 through the intellect what can only be apprehended 
 by the insight. Just as in so far as a creed repels 
 me on the human side, just in so far as it is dogmatic, 
 arrogant, tyrannous over the will, do I cease to follow 
 it. I have absolute, or comparatively absolute, know- 
 ledge of only one thing in the Universe — Myself. 
 All beyond myself exists only as phenomena." 
 
 '^ In that sense, metapliysically speaking, yoii are 
 God? 
 
 » Just so." 
 
 " God ? You, — Robert Buchanati ? — who collaborate 
 in Adelphi dramas, write letters to the newspapers, and 
 interview yourself to gratify the zvhini of an editor and 
 your own self-conceit ? 
 
 " At all events, my own nature is the only touch- 
 stone by which I can apprehend the malevolence or 
 beneficence of Nature at large. I love (when I am 
 rational) my fellow-men. I sicken at the sight of 
 human suffering. I would, if I were able, abolish all
 
 266 Robert Buchanan 
 
 sin and sorrow. Surveying myself, I am chiefly 
 conscious of one thing — that, without some more 
 ample life than this I live, my functions would be 
 incomplete ; I should have existed for no purpose 
 whatever. I yearn for the eternal help and sympathy 
 of those most dear to me. I have held them in my arms 
 as they died ; I have been certain, I a^n certain that 
 they cannot be dead at all. Personally, I would not 
 care to live a day longer if I were not to live indefinitely. 
 Personally, again, I have no interest in a God outside 
 of myself whom so many say they " love," to meet 
 that God I would not care to step one foot beyond 
 the grave ! I wish to be reunited to those I have 
 loved, and who have loved me. All Heaven, all hope, 
 all faith, all continuance, is merely an image of my 
 own personality, my own love. 
 
 *' We are getting too metaphysical. The Editor wants 
 to know what you meant by those two lines in thg dedi- 
 cation of the ' Wandering Jew ' — 
 
 " ' Father on Earth, for whom I wept bereaven, 
 Father more dear than any Father in Heaven.' 
 
 " What I meant is expressed in my previous 
 answer, I meant that it is impossible to love what is 
 beyond our comprehension. To love God is to love 
 the mystery of one's own existence. 
 
 " You appreciate the ties of this world so deeply, yet 
 you suggest in your poem that hwnafi beings, after all, 
 may not be worth saving ? 
 
 " That is the mood of despair which I have expressed 
 through Jesus in the ' Wandering Jew.' Human 
 baseness and, above all, human stupidity, as expressed 
 in history, and corroborated in everyday experience 
 are so appalling, the aims of life are so trivial, the
 
 "The Wandering Jew" 267 
 
 business of life is so mechanical ! But here and there 
 we catch a gleam of comfort, we come face to face 
 with one of those quasi-divine characters, like Jesus. 
 
 " ' Who are the salt of the earth, and without whom 
 The world would smell like what it is — a Tomb.' 
 
 These things restore our faith — at least for a 
 moment. 
 
 " Yotir faith in what ? 
 
 " In Humanity, in the perfectibility of human 
 nature. If we deny that, we take away the basis of 
 all Religion, and become pessimists pure and simple. 
 Pessimism is moral Death, and since the root-idea of 
 modern Christianity is pessimism, or a belief in 
 natural depravity, Christianity is already a dead creed. 
 
 " / am sorry for }>02i, Robert Buchanan. Believer 
 and unbeliever, outcast from all camps, enemy to all 
 dogmas, where are you to rest your feet ? 
 
 " Here, on the rock of my own personality. If I 
 admit my own baseness I destroy all the godhead in 
 the world. If I lose faith in my own infinite capacities 
 of love and sympathy I abolish the last hope of 
 immortality. If I despise this life, this world, even 
 the flesh and its happiness, I spit in the Fountain of 
 all Grace, I accept everything that is human, I reject 
 all the Christian cant about ' sin ' and ' atonement.' 
 It is because this life at its highest is supremely 
 beautiful and sane that I believe it will continue. I 
 respect my body too much to call myself a Christian, 
 I loathe the phenomena of evil too utterly to admit 
 myself a Pantheist, and I have too little reverence for 
 what I do not understand to think myself a Theist. 
 I might dub myself a Humanist, if that word did not 
 imply some sort of satisfaction with the intellectual
 
 268 Robert Buchanan 
 
 juggleries of Positivism. But I really do not wish to 
 label myself at all. I am content to be in sympathy 
 with all religions just in so far as they respond to 
 my yearning for personal sympathy and love." Here, 
 having had quite enough of myself, I cut short the 
 interview. 
 
 The publication of the " Wandering Jew," caused 
 more stir than anything which the poet had given to 
 the world for many years. It was taken up by the 
 clergy and made the text of innumerable sermons 
 both in London and the country, and finally it was 
 made the subject of a most interesting series of 
 letters which appeared in the columns of the Daily 
 Chronicle under the heading " Is Christianity Played 
 Out? " The poet, I need hardly say, was responsible 
 for some of the most interesting of these letters, from 
 which, as well as from a few others, it may not be 
 amiss to quote. 
 
 " Many thanks for your kindly criticism of my 
 'Wandering Jew '" (wrote Mr. Buchanan in January 
 1892). " It is, as you say, 'a queer Carol,' but then 
 life itself is very queer, and among the queerest 
 phenomena of life is literature. Had you spent the 
 whole of your space in fault-finding, I should still 
 have been grateful to you for admitting that the 
 spirit of the thing is absolutely ' reverential ' ; and I 
 will make bold to add that neither you nor any other 
 reader will ever escape from the memory of the 
 Christ whom I have painted — the patient, long- 
 suffering, ever-misunderstood, eternally-condemned 
 and outcast Christ of the Nineteenth Century. I 
 have simply expressed in a pathetic image what 
 thousands of living men now see and feel, and what, 
 as I have said, they can never forget." 
 
 To this Mr. le Gallienne replied : " Mr. Buchanan
 
 ''The Wandering Jew" 269 
 
 makes bold to say that his phantom Christ will 
 haunt us to the end of our days. He might have left 
 others to say so, perhaps, and I, for one, am not so 
 sure of that as Mr. Buchanan. I have, as every fair- 
 minded man must have, a great respect for Mr. 
 Buchanan at his best. ' The Shadow of the Sword ' 
 is one of my moving memories, lines from ' Balder 
 the Beautiful ' do haunt me. ' The Vision of the Man 
 Accurst,' and ' The Ballad of Judas Iscariot ' must 
 leave lurid tracks on the worst memory. Of the 
 cleverness of ' The Outcast ' I ventured to offer my 
 humble appreciation at its publication ; but the 
 ' Wandering Jew ' is another matter. It bids higher 
 than any of the poems I have mentioned, and, judged 
 by the only standard it suggests, it seems to me to 
 fall proportionally lower. The fact is that Christ all 
 through is too literally a phantom. Phantoms in art, 
 as on the stage, must have something of the sustaining 
 elements of flesh and blood. The phantom of a 
 phantom will not need to wait for cockcrow to 
 dissolve ; and, with all due respect to Mr. Buchanan's 
 past and possible future achievements, I venture to 
 express my opinion (for whatever, of course, it is 
 worth) that his Christ is such a phantom — mere 
 muslin and limelight, snowed on by paper snow. 
 
 " And why ? Simply because Mr. Buchanan would 
 not be at the pains to do his work thoroughly, be- 
 cause he did not work and wait and wait and work 
 upon his conception, in many respects as your reviewer 
 says, forceful and picturesque ; because, in short, he 
 has ' no respect whatever for mere art or mere 
 literature.' " 
 
 Mr. Buchanan's reply to this was characteristic : 
 " Mr. Richard le Gallienne now comes forward to re- 
 proach me for despising the art by which I live, since
 
 270 Robert Buchanan 
 
 as he truthfully though somewhat irrelevantly ob- 
 serves, ' Literature is literature ' with or without the 
 * mere.' Yes, sir, and twaddle is twaddle under any 
 circumstances. Before I attempt to justify my words, 
 which only a literary person could misunderstand, let 
 me correct Mr. le Gallienne on a minor point. So far 
 from having been conceived or written hurriedly, so 
 far from having been flung at the public without such 
 care and thought as every serious work imperatively 
 demands, the ' Wandering Jew ' was begun and partly 
 written twenty years ago, has been revised and turned 
 over, weighed and sifted times without number, and 
 has only been kept back because I hesitated to com- 
 mit myself finally to the expression of religious con- 
 viction which it contains. Mr. le Gallienne is quite 
 within his right in saying that it is badly written and 
 unworthy of its subject ; he travels far beyond his right 
 when he charges me with indifference to the quality 
 of my own work. The labour of a serious writer 
 who knows what he wishes to express, and chooses 
 the form of expression after years of deliberation, 
 surely compares favourably with the labour of the 
 critic who receives a book on Monday, gobbles it up 
 on Tuesday, and then rushes into print to inform the 
 public that it was written on club paper and finished 
 in a hansom cab. . . . Mr. le Gallienne calls the 
 ' Wandering Jew ' an Adelphi miracle-play ! I wish 
 to heaven it were ! I wish that it had been possible 
 so to have presented the theme which I have chosen 
 as to have brought it as closely home to common 
 sense and common perception as the drama which 
 delights the groundlings. For let the literary quality 
 of a so-called Adelphi play be low or high, let its 
 subject be what it may, one thing is demanded of 
 its producers — straightforwardness, clearness, con-
 
 "The Wandering Jew" 271 
 
 sistency, and honest presentation of an idea for just 
 what it is worth, without embroidery, with all due 
 calling of a spade a spade, with a constant reference 
 to the rule that the creatures presented, however 
 familiar and conventional, have to make themselves 
 clearly understood. To have written an Adelphi 
 miracle-play would have been to have escaped 
 triumphantly from the toils of mere literature, and to 
 have done for the world in one way what Goethe did 
 for it in another. If the crude realism of the 
 ' Wandering Jew ' reminds my critic of the Adelphi, 
 the cheap naturalism of ' Faust ' reminds me of the 
 Prince of Wales's under the Robertsonian regime. 
 The story of the young lady who meets a young 
 gentleman, and after a few hours' acquaintance drugs 
 her only relation and offers up the key of her bed- 
 chamber, is, taken with its after-consequences, an 
 eternal theme for both poet and dramatist, and its 
 success, under adequate treatment, is always certain. 
 ' Faust ' has succeeded less on account of its splendid 
 literary embroidery than because its subject must 
 always interest the great human public who love the 
 Family Herald, and who are never tired of a Personal 
 Devil. 
 
 " Who in the world disagrees with Mr. le Gallienne 
 that to make a work of art great, pains and great 
 labour are necessary ? But a book's literary quality 
 should be, like a lady's virtue, taken for granted, or at 
 any rate not chattered about. When society tells us 
 that a lady is terribly good I am never surprised to 
 find her in the Divorce Court. When the critics tell 
 me that the style of a book is bad, I am always 
 tempted to buy that book. For this reason in my 
 young days I bought Walt Whitman. For this 
 reason I made the acquaintance of Robert Browning.
 
 2"] 2 Robert Buchanan 
 
 For this reason, when the critics exclaimed that 
 Tennyson was played out, and was writing without 
 regard to his old ' perfect form,' I began to think that 
 Tennyson was at last freeing himself from the ' clog ' 
 of ' beautiful ideas ' and from the shadow of Rugby. 
 And in all these cases I was right. Had I been alive 
 at the time when Jeffrey said of Wordsworth's great 
 ode, ' Paulo majora canamus,' that it was utterly 
 stupid and ' unintelligible,' I should have known at 
 once that Wordsworth was writing good poetry — at 
 any rate, such poetry as I wanted. There is no 
 writer of any rank whatsoever who, when all else 
 failed, has not been arraigned on the ground of his 
 literary carelessness or incompetency. Dickens was 
 * cheap' and ' vulgar,' Thackeray was ' no gentleman ' 
 Browning had no ' style,' Whitman was a dirty and 
 unwashed barbarian, Zola could not write a sentence 
 of decent French ; and ' all on account of Eliza ' — 
 all on account of the literary gentlemen who flutter 
 round the petticoats of the ' merely ' literary Muse. 
 
 "All this Mr. le Gallienne may say is neither here 
 nor there ; he thinks my verses bad, and there's an end. 
 Well, is he not welcome to his opinion ? I think no 
 less of him because he has the courage to utter it, and 
 the still mightier courage to aver that he thinks 
 secularism discredited, and to quote the good old 
 literary twaddle about the ' Christ that is to be,' His 
 last question, whether Christianity is indeed effete as 
 a religious system, is far too pregnant to be answered 
 in this letter, though I fancy it expresses \k\Q.fons et 
 origo of Mr. le Gallienne's dissatisfaction. With your 
 permission I will reply to it in a second communica- 
 tion. Here indeed we shall get upon solid ground — 
 there will no longer be any question of style and 
 expression, good or bad. We shall reach the
 
 "The Wandering Jew" 273 
 
 crucial problem of Religion itself, far more vital to 
 me, and to all humanity, than any arguments about 
 ' mere literature.'" . . . 
 
 "My poem, 'The Wandering Jew' (wrote Mr. 
 Buchanan in another of these letters), " was written to 
 picture, not the nebulous Christ ' which is to be,' but 
 the living Christ which is, the Divine Anarchist, the 
 revolutionary Dreamer, the Man who was martyred 
 once by His own failure to realise the necessities, the 
 conditions, and the laws of average human nature. 
 He is with us, He is alive, saying as I have made 
 Him say : — 
 
 " ' Woe to ye all ! and endless Woe to Me 
 Who deem'd that I could save Humanity ! 
 My Father knew men better when He sent 
 His Angel Death to be His instrument 
 And smite them ever down as with a sword ! . . . 
 I plough'd the rocks, and cast in rifts of stone 
 The seeds of Life Divine that ne'er have grown ; 
 And now the winter of Mine age is here, . . .' 
 
 " His mission has failed. No ingenuities of ex- 
 planation, no juggling with eternal truths can make 
 us believe that He has ' essentially ' succeeded. His 
 cry to the universe now is ' Let Me sleep ! Men are 
 not worth saving ! ' Terrible and awful utterance of 
 a great heart broken ! And wherein then remains 
 the eternal claim of this Man, the very genius of 
 failure, on the tenderness of humanity ? In His 
 humility. His sorrow. His human limitations, His 
 very failure and despair. Do not a thousand hearts 
 cry out to Him with the Magdalen ? — 
 
 " ' Not for thy godhead did I hold Thee dear, 
 Not for Thy Father, who hath left thee here 
 Hopeless, unpitied, homeless, 'neath the skies, 
 But for the human love within thine eyes ! 
 
 19
 
 2 74 Robert Buchanan 
 
 And whcreso'cr thou goest, howsoc'er 
 Thou fallcst, the' it be to Hell's despair, 
 I, thy poor handmaid, still will follow thee, 
 For in thy face is Love's Eternity ! ' 
 
 For this, be sure, is the pathos and pity of it all. He 
 was a man, even as we are men, and He dreamed the 
 same dream. His words have comforted millions of 
 aching hearts, but Christianity, the creed built up in 
 His name, has saved no living soul. 
 
 " Let me be explicit. I distinguish absolutely 
 between the character of Jesus and the character of 
 Christianity — in other words, between Jesus of 
 Nazareth and Jesus the Christ. Shorn of all super- 
 natural pretensions, Jesus emerges from the great 
 mass of human beings as an almost perfect type of 
 simplicity, veracity, and natural affection. ' Love 
 one another' was the Alpha and Omega of His 
 teaching, and He carried out the precept through 
 every hour of His too brief life. Then looking round 
 on His fellows, realising the extent of human misery, 
 and perceiving the follies of human existence, He 
 thought : ' Surely there must be some Divine solution 
 to the problem ! Surely there must be another and a 
 fairer life to justify a life so ephemeral ! ' Therein 
 He was right — without some such justification this life 
 of ours is only dust and ashes. But with His insight 
 beeran His sorrow. He turned from this world as from 
 something in its very nature base and detestable. He 
 conceived the soul as removed altogether from the 
 necessities and privileges of the flesh. He recom- 
 mended a policy of complete quiescence and stagna- 
 tion. He affirmed that Heaven was here impossible, 
 because man was imperfect. He dreamed of a 
 Divine Kingdom, where every riddle would be solved, 
 the wicked would cease from troubling, and the weary
 
 "The Wandering Jew" 275 
 
 would be at rest ; but in so doing He forgot that the 
 Divine Kingdom, if it is to exist at all, must begin 
 where God first localised it — on this planet. 
 
 " The whole thesis of my poem, then, is this : that 
 the Spirit of Jesus, surviving on into the present 
 generation, still stands apart from the strife and 
 tumult of the human race, and most of all from 
 Christianity. In my arraignment of Jesus before 
 humanity I have not feared to state the whole case 
 as conceived by men against Him, to chronicle the 
 endless enormities committed in His name. But how 
 blindly, how foolishly my critics have interpreted the 
 inner spirit of my argument, how utterly have they 
 failed to realise that the whole aim of the work is to 
 justify Jesus against the folly, the cruelty, the infamy, 
 the ignorance of the creed upbuilt upon His grave. I 
 show in cipher, as it were, that those who crucified 
 Him once would crucify Him again, were He to 
 return amongst us. I imply that among the first to 
 crucify Him would be the members of His own 
 Church. But nowhere surely do I imply that His 
 soul, in its purely personal elements, in its tender and 
 sympathising humanity, was not the very divinest that 
 ever wore earth about it. He judged men far too 
 gently. He was far too sanguine about human per- 
 fectibility, that is all. . . . Well, the dream of Jesus 
 was of God, and so is ours. That it will be realised 
 somehow and somewhere is my living faith. Nothing 
 beautiful or true can perish, and this world would be 
 a charnel house if eternal death were possible." ^ 
 
 One of the results of this discussion was to facilitate 
 the sale of the book, which passed very rapidly into 
 several editions. People might disagree with it, but 
 they read it, and this knowledge brought balm to the 
 
 ' Daily Chronicle.
 
 276 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 soul of its author. One incident in this connection 
 may be worth recording before I close this chapter. 
 The postman left one day a small parcel addressed to 
 the poet, which, on being opened, was thought to be 
 a hoax (though it was not the ist of April), for the 
 box contained nothing but a few blackened and 
 charred remains. A careful search, however, brought 
 to light a small scrap of printed paper which had 
 been allowed to escape the flames. The poet read, 
 and smiled. An indignant reader had sent him the 
 charred remains of his book, " The Wandering Jew."
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE LAST SHADOW 
 
 IT was towards the close of the year 1894 that he 
 had to face the third and greatest sorrow of his 
 life. I say greatest advisedly, for when for the third 
 time the hand of God was laid heavily upon him, he 
 was a broken man — broken both in health and fortune 
 — and was consequently less able to bear the sorrow 
 which weighed him down. 
 
 The story of the Last Shadow will perhaps be told 
 most pathetically in his own language. On October 
 29, 1894, he wrote to Doctor Stodart Walker : — 
 
 " I am very anxious about my mother. For a fort- 
 night past she has been very ill, and about ten days ago 
 
 I called in Dr. to see her. He expressed his doubt 
 
 whether she would ever be about again. A few days 
 ago, in sheer despair, I thought I'd try your old prescrip- 
 tion, and it has undoubtedly been of benefit to her. It 
 occurs to me, therefore, that you might be able to 
 suggest something further. Of course you must be 
 in the dark so far away, but you know something of 
 her case. Her present condition is much as when 
 you saw her, only that since the dropsy supervened 
 the asthmatical symptoms have disappeared, and such 
 difficulty as she has in breathing clearly comes from 
 
 277
 
 278 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 heart debility. She has very little appetite, and can 
 take no solids. 
 
 " I myself believe that the case is not hopeless. 
 Perhaps you could tell me of some expert in this sort 
 of thing whom I could call in. I need not tell you 
 what this means to me — with what despair and grief 
 I write — and if you can do anything I shall be deeply 
 grateful. I think the loss of my mother, coming upon 
 me after so many prior troubles, would about end the 
 life of 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 "R. B." 
 
 " Nov. 6th. 
 
 "Dear Walker, — The end has come with cruel 
 swiftness. My darling Mother passed away at 1 1 a.m. 
 yesterday. 
 
 " God bless you for trying to help her. I am heart- 
 broken. 
 
 "Robert Buchanan." 
 
 Extract from Diary. 
 
 "At II a.m. to-day, after several days of suffering, 
 my beloved mother died, leaving me heart-broken. 
 Worn out with days and nights of watching, I was 
 dazed and stupefied. O mother, mother, if we are 
 never to meet again, the whole universe contains 
 nothing to live for ! But we must, we shall ! " 
 
 Nov. 6th. 
 
 " In the shadow of death my darling lies at peace — 
 beautiful and holy. Harrie is with me to comfort and 
 help me, and, with God's will, will never leave me this 
 side death."
 
 Mahgakkt Buchanan. 
 (The Poet's Mother.) 
 
 7o Jiii-n 'page 278.
 
 The Last Shadow 279 
 
 Nov. Zth. 
 
 " To-day I took my darling to Southend and laid 
 her in her grave beside poor Polly." 
 
 Nov. lotk. 
 
 " Dear Walker, — Many thanks for your kind 
 letter. I know indeed without any words that you 
 felt for me in my trouble, and she, she was so grateful 
 to you for the relief you had given her. I have laid 
 her to rest at Southend, in a beautiful graveyard by 
 the sea, close to places where she used to be very 
 happy. What I shall do now I hardly know. My 
 wits seem numbed, and my whole grasp of things 
 gone. Sometimes I hardly seem to grieve at all, at 
 others all my desolation comes back like a torrent. I 
 thought on Sunday that my last hour had come. 
 
 " In my terrible trial my dear Harriett has proved a 
 blessed comforter. I could not have fought it through 
 without her help. And now, in more ways than one, 
 my darling's death has been fraught with blessing. 
 Friends who had grown bitter against me came back 
 for her sake and gave me their hands. All her influ- 
 ence has been good and holy like herself; there was 
 never such a mother, the world can never match such 
 love. 
 
 " I would give everything now for such faith as I once 
 felt. I have none. Christianity especially repels me 
 more than ever. Some time before she died my 
 mother said : ' What kind of a God can it be who 
 permits such suffering all over the earth? Strange 
 the ideas people have of a Providence,' and I feel 
 more and more that the ordinary religious ideas are 
 hateful. A man must accept Christianity all along 
 the line, i.e., miracles and all, or reject it altogether.
 
 2 8o Robert Buchanan 
 
 And then what is left if we abandon the idea of 
 eternal life, as reason teaches us to do? Only a 
 horrible nightmare — a devil's dream. 
 
 " Yours, 
 " Robert Buchanan." 
 
 Feb. 22, 1895. 
 
 " Dear Walker, — I am so sorry you have been ill, 
 and as glad to hear you are all right again. It is 
 see-saw with us all, and I am now myself a little 
 seedy and over-worked. I am hoping to get out of 
 town very soon, for indeed I require a rest. 
 
 " Of course I'll send you the ' Devil's Case,' and 
 any work of mine which possesses my affection as 
 this does. It is a book which will be torn in pieces, 
 which will be thought by many to be the very acme 
 of human blasphemy ; but it is true for all that, and it 
 will live. I had just finished it when my beloved 
 mother died, and for a time I hesitated about pub- 
 lishing it, and I do so now because I am convinced 
 that she would have approved it, for even in her last 
 illness she clearly and penetratingly held to her old 
 eclectic faith. This is the dedication to her, which I 
 transcribe for the first time to you. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 November, 1894. 
 
 While the life blood was spun 
 
 From the heart in her breast, 
 She look'd on her son, 
 
 Smiled, and rock'd him to rest. . . . 
 
 How swift the hours run 
 
 From the east to the west ! 
 Erect stood the son, 
 
 And the mother was blest !
 
 The Last Shadow 281 
 
 Of all the joys won 
 
 Love like his seemed the best, 
 
 He was ever her son 
 Whom she rock'd on the breast ! 
 
 Yet lo ! all is done ! 
 
 ('Twas, my God, Thy behest) 
 In his turn the gray son 
 
 Rocks the mother to rest ! 
 
 All is o'er, ere begun ! . . . 
 
 O my dearest and best, 
 Sleep in peace ! till thy son 
 
 Creepeth down to thy breast ! 
 
 " The book itself ends with a new verse edition of 
 the Litany which will sadden the scribes and pharisees 
 of modern Christianity. Thanks for the lecture, and 
 for the kind allusion to your friend. It touched me 
 greatly, for I saw in it a fresh proof of your affection. 
 
 " I hope the Professor is mending a little — the 
 milder weather, which seems approaching, should help 
 him. Give my affectionate regards to him and to 
 Mrs. Blackie, who is well I trust, and believe me, 
 
 " Always yours, 
 
 " Robert Buchanan." 
 
 While the wound caused by his mother's death was 
 still open he wrote the following, which I give just as 
 I found it pinned to the pages of his diary. In judg- 
 ing it I trust the reader will remember that it was 
 written at a time when he was not in his normal 
 condition, that it came as it were from a despairing, 
 broken heart, but it possesses a peculiar interest 
 because it deals with the problem over which he 
 pondered all his life, 
 
 " In an article by the late Professor Clifford, entitled 
 ' Virchow on the Teaching of Science,' and published
 
 282 Robert Buchanan 
 
 in the Nineteenth Century, there is a very remarkable 
 passage concerning the expediency of promulgating 
 unproved doctrines, and especially the doctrine of 
 personal immortality. Professor Clifford was not the 
 sort of teacher from whom a thoughtful man could 
 learn much — he was far too rectangular and dogmatic 
 a thinker, but here, as on several other occasions, he 
 touched the very quick of truth. After pointing out 
 the necessity of caution in teaching the doctrine of 
 another life to the young, he asks the reader carefully 
 to consider two things. The first thing is, that by 
 teaching the doctrine too early we weaken its effect. 
 ' Teach your children,' he said, ' to do good and to 
 eschew evil ; if in later life they can find hope of an 
 eternity of such action, it will make them happier, and 
 may make them better.' The next thing to be con- 
 sidered (and it is the only one of the two worth 
 serious thought at all, the other being a disingenuous 
 mode of suggesting ' don't teach religion at all ') is 
 ' the frightful loss and disappointment you prepare for 
 your child if, as is possible in these days, he becomes 
 convinced later on that the doctrine is founded on in- 
 sufficient evidence.' It is not merely that you have 
 brought him up as a prince to find himself a pauper 
 at eighteen, he may have allowed this doctrine to get 
 inextricably mixed with his notions of right and 
 wrong. Then the overthrow of one will, at least for 
 a time, endanger the other. You leave him the sad 
 task of gathering together the wrecks of a life broken 
 by disappointment, and wondering whether honour 
 itself is left to him among them. Leave him free of 
 this doctrine, and his conscience will rest upon its true 
 base, safe against all storms, for it is built upon a 
 rock. Then he can never reproach you with having 
 raised hopes in him which knowledge is fated to blast.
 
 The Last Shadow 283 
 
 and with them, it may be, to blast the promise of his 
 life. 
 
 " These are terrible words — terrible because they 
 are absolutely true. The loss of a belief in the 
 permanence of human personality, to a man who has 
 once entertained that belief, may be worse than dis- 
 illusion — it may be the very apocalypse of moral 
 despair. To some men, of course, the loss may mean 
 little or nothing, they have held their faith too lightly, 
 too indifferently, to murmur much over its departure. 
 But to the majority of men, and to all men of great 
 capacities of love, the awakening must be awful, full 
 of horror too deep for words. 
 
 " Well, that experience has in a sense been mine. 
 It has been lessened for only one reason, that it is 
 even as yet incomplete ; that I do not, even now, 
 quite believe the inexorable voice which, having 
 spoken the word of promise to the ear, has broken it 
 to the Soul. On every side of me, this almost absolute 
 darkness, with hardly a gleam of hope or light ; behind 
 me, the gate of that lost Paradise ; before me the 
 inevitable end of all. My faith has not quite for- 
 saken me, but so far from being upon a rock, it is 
 fixed on ever-shifting sands. 
 
 " It is time, I think, that a grown man, a man who 
 all his life fought on the side of the gods, should open 
 his heart out fully on this subject, narrate his ex- 
 perience, honestly avow his condition. Candour is 
 not in fashion, honesty will never be in fashion ; men 
 lie, and lie, and lie, often from the best of motives, 
 sometimes from the meanest, but now as yesterday 
 Hume's statement is true, that no prudent man speaks 
 openly of his real religion. I do not claim to be a 
 prudent man ; I know, long experience has taught 
 me, that I am a very imprudent one. But I am, by
 
 284 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 temperament, by early education, by long habit, a 
 believer in things supernatural, and I have been 
 many years, even more surely than Spinoza, ' God 
 intoxicated.' All my wish, all my prayer, all my 
 endeavour, has been to believe certain things — and 
 I have failed to do so. 
 
 " The doctrine of immortality was not taught me at 
 home when I was a child. My father was a Socialist, 
 my mother the daughter of a solicitor in Staffordshire, 
 with strongly heterodox views. I first heard the 
 name of God at a boarding-school near London, 
 where I was sent at a very early age. From that 
 moment I imbibed the natural superstition ; it 
 became part of the air I breathed. For many years 
 I believed as others do, and was happy enough. 
 Then, year after year, my belief lessened, and my 
 ideas changed. But it was not until I was nearly 
 fifty years of age that I rejected altogether the 
 sacrificial ideas of Christianity, then Christianity 
 itself and finally many of the ordinary articles of 
 natural religion. All that time I suffered no little 
 pain, parting one by one with my cherished halluci- 
 nations. I am not sorry however, that I once 
 cherished them. I am glad that I did not found 
 myself at the first on Professor Clifford's rock. I 
 have never found that the gain of any living truth 
 involved any sacrifice of honour. 
 
 " I know of course, the easy answer to all this, 
 ready in a thousand mouths, utterable from countless 
 newspapers and pulpits. I know how the lisping 
 Christian must scorn me, and how the honest 
 Christian will pity me. I shall be denounced again, 
 as I have often been, as an unbeliever, an atheist — as 
 if unbelief or atheism were crimes, as if any honest 
 opinion was an outrage ! How many of those who
 
 The Last Shadow 285 
 
 answer me thus have been pondering the subject for 
 fifty years, honestly endeavouring, with all the zeal 
 of heart and soul, to believe? If I have failed to 
 believe, it is because, with every temptation to self- 
 deception, I have never closed my eyes when seeking 
 for the light. 
 
 " Here then is my conclusion on the subject which 
 to my thinking is the one of paramount importance 
 to human beings. It is a conclusion, remember, 
 framed at a time when my temperament is as ardent, 
 my spiritual vision as clear, my desire to believe as 
 overmastering as when I was a happy, credulous 
 child. Well, the belief in personal immortality, in 
 the survival of the Soul after death, is, as a matter of 
 practical reason, wholly untenable. Every proven 
 fact of Nature is against it. It has no kind of 
 corroboration in knowledge, in phenomena, in ex- 
 perience. The arguments brought to support it 
 would, if advanced in favour of any less eagerly 
 desired conclusion, be rejected with contemptuous 
 laughter. 
 
 " I put aside as irrelevant, of course, all that is 
 advanced in the way of what is called ' revelation,' 
 for to me there is no revelation in any statement 
 which conflicts with personal knowledge of the world 
 I live in. I am certain that miracles never happened, 
 and never will happen ; I am as certain of that as I 
 am that I live, and that I shall die. How, then, can 
 I get any help from creeds which are based on the 
 idea of miracles, and of that utterest miracle of all, 
 the personal Incarnation of a Jewish peasant, of an 
 unknown and unknowable God ? 
 
 " The belief in another life is, then, more than an 
 unproved doctrine — it is a doctrine at variance with 
 all human and natural phenomena, a doctrine
 
 2 86 Robert Buchanan 
 
 maintained against overbalancing evidence on the 
 other side. If maintained at all it can only be in 
 the region of metaphysics, not that of empirical 
 reason. Stated briefly, the only possible argument 
 in favour of immortality is the negative argument 
 that human life is black as a drunkard's dream 
 without it This is Keats's assumption. 
 
 " Many able men, of course, like Professor Clifford, 
 maintain the contrary. The Materialist and the 
 Positivist alike aver that the world, even for men 
 who have to die, is an excellent world, and that it is 
 sheer sentiment to whine over the inevitable. My 
 present purpose, however, is not to deal with the 
 feelings of others, but with my own. I am quite 
 sure that I am a believer by temperament, just as 
 other men are by temperament unbelievers, and that 
 Professor Clifford's ' rock,' had I reached it in early 
 life, would never have appeased my longings. To 
 me, therefore, that one argument for another life is 
 still valid. When it becomes invalid to me, I shall 
 resign the hope of immortality altogether. I thank 
 God, however, it has not become so. 
 
 " At the same time I have looked Death in the 
 face, and realised that the belief I cling to, against 
 all practical reason, is naturally untenable. Let 
 me record as fully as I dare, when every word is 
 a rending of the heartstrings, a personal experience. 
 
 " Among all the troubles and vicissitudes of a 
 somewhat stormy life, one crowning blessing was 
 given to me, that of a love so supreme, a sympathy 
 so complete, that I sometimes feel as if it must have 
 been exceptional. For many years one light, one 
 consolation had never failed me. Whatever my sins 
 had been, whatever my follies (and they were many), 
 I was sure of the light on one dear face, and to that,
 
 The Last Shadow 287 
 
 both in despair and happiness, I ever turned. A 
 time of worldly trouble came, I was struck down by 
 personal calamity ; I lay like a beaten slave in the 
 arena amid execrations from every side. Well, it did 
 not matter ; the one light was with me still, the one 
 voice still said, ' God bless you — all is well.' Now, the 
 sainted soul of whom I write had been educated, like 
 myself, in complete religious infidelity, a fact which 
 did not prevent her from being loving, large-minded, 
 compassionate to all created things ; but she too, like 
 myself, kept in her heart a faith, a hope, which she 
 seldom or never uttered — faith in the power of an 
 all-loving and all-merciful God. 
 
 " Suddenly, almost unexpectedly the end came, or 
 the beginning of the end, and I was sitting by the 
 bedside of her I loved, with the shadow of Death 
 upon us both. I will not speak of those sufferings, 
 those cruel and inexplicable tortures which it was my 
 doom to witness ; they were too horrible to behold, 
 too ghastly to remember. My sleepless nights were 
 divided between wild and despairing attempts to 
 retain the departing life, and by mad appeals to God 
 for mercy, for a little respite, for a few hours more of 
 love. Once as I sat there in the night I heard the 
 dear lips murmur thus : ' What strange ideas men 
 have of God ! What kind of a God must it be that 
 causes His creatures so much pain ? ' Then one 
 evening, when I had thrown myself down to snatch 
 a few minutes' rest, I was called, and from the sick- 
 bed came this last appeal, in tones so faint with 
 agony as to be almost inaudible : ' Don't keep me 
 here ! I want to go ! ' And after that we refrained 
 from trying to draw back the dear fluttering life, and 
 at last, Nature being unable to bear the load of pain 
 any longer, the spirit passed away. What followed
 
 2 88 Robert Buchanan 
 
 must be familiar to all who have loved and lost : the 
 horrible stony change from life to nothingness, from 
 beauty to horror ; the hideous accompaniments of 
 hideous Death ; the pain and despair, the terror, the 
 desolation, the cry for help that has never come, the 
 prayer for belief that is seldom if ever granted. The 
 grave opened and closed and all was done. 
 
 " Again and again during my life I had dwelt with 
 death and sorrow — they were no new guests in my 
 desolate house ; but they had never till that hour 
 come in forms so terrible, so fatal to all hope. Now 
 mark what followed. The orthodox believer will 
 frown or smile at it, while the materialist will shrug 
 his shoulders. Sitting by the death-bed of one who 
 was dearer to me than my own life, I said to myself: 
 ' I am not insane enough to ask God for any sign out 
 of the way of Nature, but I will accept any token, 
 however faint, as crowning proof that we must meet 
 again. If, for example, when I fall to sleep she 
 comes to me even in dreams, I will believe. Of one 
 thing I am certain, that if her spirit still survives, and 
 if any disembodied spirit can communicate with those 
 it loves, her spirit will communicate with me ; for I 
 to her, as she to me, am all the world, all happiness, 
 all life, all being.' That was my foolish feeling. 
 How was it answered ? When I managed to get a 
 little rest my consciousness was a dead blank. 
 Night after night, though every night I knelt by the 
 beloved dead and prayed for a token which never 
 came, my dreams were empty of that one dear face. 
 From that hour to this, though from the dawn of 
 every day to the coming of every night my thoughts 
 are full of the love that I have lost, the beloved 
 spirit has never come back to me even in the 
 dimmest dream.
 
 The Last Shadow 289 
 
 " I shall be told, nay, I have been told, that this is 
 God's way of punishing me for my want of ' faith.' 
 But it is borne in upon me, as upon so many others, 
 that the experience of which I have spoken, i.e., the 
 absolute absence, even in moments of great suffering 
 and insight of any assurance, however faint, of the 
 survival of personality after death, is quite in harmony 
 with what we know of the physical basis of mind and 
 quite out of harmony with our unverified dream of 
 another life. God grants no signs, offers no corro- 
 borations. No spirit comes to tell us of the unknown 
 world, no dead man has ever slipped his shroud. 
 Every circumstance connected with the awful phe- 
 nomenon of Death points to the total extinction of 
 the living personality, or Soul. 
 
 " In the face of all this we are assured that miracles 
 of corroboration were done once to give us assurance 
 that we should believe, and that God, having once 
 proclaimed His secret to a small group of believers, 
 will never unveil His face again. We hear a great 
 deal moreover of the beauty of Death, of the divine 
 glimpses given at deathbeds, of the dim, pathetic 
 intimations received during the i?st moments of those 
 we love. Well, that is not my experience. I have 
 been again and again face to face with Death, and I 
 have never found it beautiful, have never had one of 
 those divine glimpses or pathetic intimations. All 
 my remembrance of Death is, that it is, when it 
 comes, invariably hideous, horrible, hopeless, and 
 awful. In our pitiful despair we try to flatter the 
 hateful grinning face, and to cheat ourselves into 
 some kind of blind faith in divine beneficence. But 
 Death is hideous, and every assurance that it gives 
 corroborates the scientific view of the evanescence of 
 individual life. 
 
 20
 
 290 Robert Buchanan 
 
 " Feeling this, realising this, why have I not the 
 courage to admit to myself that Death is the inevit- 
 able end of all consciousness, and the dream of 
 another life is simply a mirage certain to fade away? 
 Cardinal Newman himself admitted with a sigh that 
 Nature as we know it gave no indication whatever of 
 divine goodness or beneficence, and that to believe in 
 God at all, blind faith was necessary. I have no such 
 faith ; but I retain my hope, simply and solely because 
 without it life is unexplainable. If this is the only 
 life we are to know, there is certainly no God, and if 
 there is no God, life is certainly, as I have said, a mere 
 drunkard's dream. This, I must repeat, is merely my 
 personal impression. Other men are content to 
 accept the world and its fleeting joys and sorrows, 
 and to ask no more, at least they say so and I must 
 believe them. 
 
 " We postulate another life, therefore, because this 
 life is incomplete and horrible without it ; but when 
 all is said and done the belief remains unverified, even 
 contradicted, daily by practical experience. It is a 
 nebulous hope, not a belief at all. As a hope it helps 
 and strengthens us ; as a fixed belief, connected with 
 any possible dogma, it would continue to do infinite 
 harm as it had done in the past."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 CLOSING SCENES 
 
 FROM the blow of his mother's death he never 
 really recovered, and though he returned to 
 his work it was not with the same heart, the same 
 enthusiasm. It was at this time (1895) that he 
 carried out an idea over which he had pondered for 
 some time, that of becoming his own publisher. In 
 this way he issued his last two volumes of poetry, 
 " The Devil's Case " and " The Ballad of Mary the 
 Mother," but the experiment was not successful, and 
 he tired of it almost as soon as it had been begun, 
 indeed so little interested was he in this new 
 departure that his stories " Effie Hetherington," 
 " Marriage by Capture," and " Diana's Hunting " 
 were at that very time sold to and issued by Mr, 
 Fisher Unwin. In conjunction with myself he wrote 
 a couple of plays, " The Strange Adventures of Miss 
 Brown," produced by Mr. Frederick Kerr at the 
 Vaudeville Theatre, and the " Shopwalker," produced 
 by Mr. Weedon Grossmith also at the Vaudeville ; 
 and his last dramatic production was a version of 
 "Les Demoiselles de St. Cyr," and entitled, "Two 
 Little Maids from School." This adaptation, which 
 was also our joint work, was produced for a trial trip 
 
 at the Metropolc Theatre, Camberwell. It was staged 
 
 291
 
 292 Robert Buchanan 
 
 under his sole direction, and at his own expense, and 
 was successfully produced on November 21, 1898, the 
 whole performance being creditable to every one 
 concerned in it. He was determined to do it well, 
 and to that end he spared no expense. The dresses, 
 supplied by Mrs. May, were sumptuous, and new 
 scenery was painted by the late Mr. Hall. The 
 company, too, was most efficient, and Miss Annie 
 Hughes, by her finished performance of Louise, took 
 Camberwell by storm. 
 
 The expense of new scenery, new dresses, new 
 music, 8z:c., being particularly heavy, it was a foregone 
 conclusion that, as the play was to be performed for 
 one week only, its author-manager could not come 
 out a gainer. As a matter of fact, however, his loss 
 was not great, and so delighted was he with the 
 result of his experiment, that he determined to re- 
 produce the piece in the spring for a run at a West 
 End theatre. But the play in question has never 
 since seen the light, for in the spring Robert 
 Buchanan had been stricken down by the illness 
 which ultimately caused his death. 
 
 At the time of the production of " Two Little 
 Maids from School " his health, which had been 
 indifferent for some time, seemed to have become 
 entirely re-established, for in looking over his diaries 
 I find the following entry made about a week after 
 the play had been withdrawn from representation. 
 
 " During the last few weeks I have felt particularly 
 well, better than I have done for months. I was 
 able to attend all the rehearsals of ' Two Little 
 Maids,' which were more than usually arduous, without 
 experiencing much fatigue. Intellectually, too, I 
 feel stronger, more fitted for the work I want and 
 mean to do, if I can keep in tolerably good form."
 
 closing Scenes 29'^ 
 
 J 
 
 During that Christmastide he was particularly jolly 
 and particularly happy. We filled the house with 
 guests, and he was the life and soul of the party, and 
 when the holidays were over he seemed to be all the 
 better for the fun and festivity, and was eager to take 
 up his work again. On the morning of January 5 
 1 899, he was going on some business to town, and I 
 was preparing to accompany him, when he strolled 
 into the dining-room and asked the maid to give him 
 some whiskey, remarking that he felt the morning very 
 cold. She was about to comply with his request 
 when she was startled by a wild cry of " O my God ! " 
 Looking up she saw that his face had become ghastly 
 white, that the expression of it was agonised, and 
 that he was pressing his left hand to his heart. It 
 needed but a moment to summon me to his side, and 
 by that time the perspiration was rolling down his 
 face and dripping from his hair. When we succeeded 
 in getting him to his room we tried every remedy 
 conceivable to alleviate the pain, but it was all of no 
 avail. Thus he remained till the arrival of the 
 doctor, when he gained relief from an injection of 
 morphia. 
 
 The illness which followed this attack lasted several 
 weeks, and though at the end of that time the patient 
 seemed to get better, he could not get well. He was 
 subject to intermittent attacks of pain which were 
 more or less severe, and which were only alleviated by 
 injections of morphia. The doctors advised a change 
 and we went to Brighton. From there he wrote to 
 Dr. Harry Campbell : " Thanks for your kind letter. 
 The day after being weighed at the chemist's and 
 scaling i6st. 81bs., I went on the pier and weighed 
 myself on one of the automatic things, scaling exactly 
 I 5st. Bibs., so that I am losing a sionc a day, and at
 
 294 Robert Buchanan 
 
 the end of a week shall weigh about 8st. odd and be 
 able to ride in flat races ! Are you satisfied ? I still 
 keep very seedy and shan't stay here long if I don't 
 improve. 
 
 " Your remarks about the ' New Rome ' are very 
 kind. The book has been more or less boycotted, 
 owing to its non-patriotic character. Depend upon 
 it, it is a mistake to have any ideas of one's own on 
 any possible subject. The only way to thrive is to 
 shout with the crowd, and alas ! I can't do it. I 
 maun ' gang my ain gait,' and be content with the 
 esteem of the fit and few." 
 
 We remained in Brighton for about a fortnight, 
 then, as his health showed no sign of improvement, 
 and as his pulse kept alarmingly high, we returned 
 home. We arrived at Clapham on a bitterly cold day 
 at the end of February, and found the air thick with 
 fog and the Common covered with snow. A few 
 days later he was stricken with influenza, which was 
 quickly followed by double pneumonia. When the 
 violence of this second attack had passed away, and 
 while he was still confined to his bed, he managed, 
 with no little difficulty, to write the following : — 
 
 " To the Right Hon. W. E. H. Lecky. 
 
 " Dear Mr. Lecky, — I am at last able to sit up 
 and write a few letters, and my first impulse is to 
 send you my affectionate thanks for your great 
 sympathy and kindness to me at a time when I was 
 so helpless. It is good to think that there are such 
 men as you among us, to brighten the not too 
 abundant sunshine. 
 
 " I have never had so long an illness, or one in 
 which I was so completely incapable of thought of
 
 Closing Scenes 295 
 
 any kind. I suppose it was fundamentally influenza, 
 but if so, Influenza is a frightful thing. The doctors 
 gave me up just before Broadbent was called, but 
 when he came I had taken a turn for the better. 
 
 " I shall not be equal to much for some time, I 
 fancy, but God willing, I shall soon put everything 
 right again. 
 
 " With thanks and thanks again for all your 
 sympathy, 
 
 " Believe me, always yours, 
 
 "Robert Buchanan." 
 
 As this last attack passed off I noticed a great 
 change in him. A restlessness had seized him, he 
 could not settle for any time either to read or write. 
 His pulse was constantly intermittent, and was never 
 lower than ninety. About the beginning of June we 
 again left town, going this time to a small furnished 
 house in Pevensey Bay. The house was not very 
 comfortable, and it was, moreover, somewhat depress- 
 ing, but the quiet and perfect unconventionality of 
 the little spot suited him so well that he resolved to 
 remain. At this time he learned by some means 
 that the first attack had been one of angina pectoris, 
 and he wrote to Dr. Harry Campbell : " I shall be in 
 London this week, from to-morrow till about Friday, 
 when we return to another house here. Should like 
 to see you when in town. Have had a very good 
 time on the whole, bathed about eight or nine times, 
 and been much out of doors. I want to find out once 
 for all if that a?igina attack is bound to return, or 
 whether there is any chance of escape from it ? You 
 have not been quite frank with me about it, I'm afraid! 
 I shall cross-examine you when we meet, and you 
 won't be able to hoodwink me on the subject."
 
 296 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 During that visit to town his fears were partially 
 allayed, and he returned to the second house in better 
 spirits than he had been for some time. We remained 
 at Pevensey Bay till the second week in October, and 
 had a very happy time there. The roads were good, 
 and he took up his cycling with relish, and he equally 
 enjoyed his dips in the sea. We made one or two 
 excursions to Bexhill, visiting together the places 
 which we had known so many years before ; we put 
 up a tent on the shore and spent most of our time 
 in the open air, taking our meals in the tent even on 
 wet days. We had a succession of visitors, and only 
 a few hundred yards from our front door stood the 
 house occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Walter Slaughter, 
 both jovial and most delightful companions. They, 
 too, had their visitors, and we formed a little colony 
 in ourselves. We all cycled, we all played cricket, 
 we all enjoyed to the full the sunny blue skies and 
 the rippling waves of the sea, and it seemed to me 
 that Mr. Buchanan was laying in a stock of health 
 which would last him for many years. 
 
 It was about this time that his attention was called 
 to a book which dealt with the cure of heart disease 
 by means of the Nauheim Baths, and on our return to 
 town he consulted the author of the work in question 
 and was advised by him to undergo a course of 
 treatment. It was not the season to go to Nauheim, 
 but he was assured that certain ingredients could 
 be used and the baths taken quite as effectively at 
 home. Two courses were open to him — he could 
 either remain in London, or he could go to Hastings 
 and place himself under the care of a local doctor 
 and a nurse, the special attention of both a doctor 
 and a nurse being necessary, as the patient while 
 undergoing the treatment required to be very care-
 
 closing Scenes 297 
 
 fully watched. Mr. Buchanan chose to adopt the 
 latter course. We arrived at Hastings during the 
 first week in December, and a few days after our 
 arrival the first bath was taken ; after the second bath 
 the patient was prostrated by a severe stomach 
 attack, and so for a time they were discontinued, and 
 he took to his bed, passing his Christmas Day in the 
 endurance of much pain. The attack, however, 
 passed off, leaving him little, if any, the worse for it — 
 indeed, between Christmas Day and New Year's Day 
 he was sufficiently recovered to write the following 
 article, which appeared in the Sunday Special. I give 
 it in its entirety, because, being almost the last thing 
 he wrote, it will have become invested with special 
 interest to the public. 
 
 " The End of the Century. 
 
 " Sitting apart by the troubled waters of the Sea, 
 close to the Eve of the last Year of a wonderful 
 Century, I, the writer of these leaves, am conscious of 
 three great Personalities, with each of whom I have 
 had more or less personal communication. Of the 
 first I wrote only a few days ago in these columns, 
 to the second I carried my affection and my homage, 
 somewhat over a decade ago, in America ; the third 
 is still with us in England, flashing the light of his 
 inspiration far away into the Age to come. All 
 three, I fear, have been Dreamers, staking their 
 eternal salvation on ideas which are still more or less 
 indifferent to our latter-day Civilisation ; all three 
 represent what is visionary rather than what is fixed 
 and real ; yet the influence of all three is potent still, 
 in spite of the World's forgetfulncss, indifference, or 
 neglect. The first represents Fairyland, the second
 
 298 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 Democracy, the third Philosophy ; and strange to 
 say all three words, like all three men, possess a 
 meaning which is interchangeable ; for when the 
 hope of Democracy is realised, the prophecy of 
 Philosophy will be fulfilled, and finally we shall 
 discover that the World is Fairyland after all! 
 
 " ' The World knows little of its wisest men.' On 
 my arrival in the United States some twelve years 
 ago, I discovered to my amazement that the one 
 great poet whom America had produced, the one man 
 whose electric thought had travelled into Europe to 
 illuminate the Eastern mind, was practically non- 
 existent to the popular or Bostonian intelligence, 
 while innumerable men of straw (or snow, or mud, or 
 plaster) were set up in every literary market-place 
 and photographed in every magazine. ' Where are 
 your gods, O Americans ? ' I demanded ; and, ' Look 
 round,' they answered, * they are here ! ' I looked 
 around and I beheld them : divers deft man-milliners 
 and drapers, busy in the manufacture of European 
 underclothing and the importation of fashionable hats 
 from Paris; an amiable old gentleman playing old 
 Lutheran hymns on a musical-box made in Germany, 
 a belated Quarterly Reviewer, plus Poetaster, posing 
 in an English court dress as a lover of Liberty and a 
 pioneer ; and half a hundred other deities of the 
 same sort, from a good-humoured medical prac- 
 titioner and Chatterbox in Boston to a Byron in red 
 shirt and breeches just discovered out West. I asked 
 for bread, and they offered me Publisher's or Nestl6's 
 food ; I inquired about Walt Whitman, and they 
 volubly assured me that Lowell and Holmes and 
 Longfellow were still alive ! Then faintly remember- 
 ing that the literary classes in America had not used 
 Whitman very kindly, I said as much to an authori-
 
 Closing Scenes 299 
 
 tative city Scribe, who combined the avocations of 
 banking and poetical criticism. ' O you are quite 
 mistaken,' was his reply, ' we have never been unkind 
 to Whitman. On the contrary, we all like the old 
 fellow exceedingly, and are very sorry for him ! ' 
 
 " There it was— they liked him exceedingly, and 
 were very sorry for him ! — as the learned gentlemen 
 in Greece were sorry for Socrates, as the more 
 strenuous gentlemen in Palestine were sorry for one 
 still Divine. 
 
 " I sent my New Year's greetings to Walt 
 Whitman, with the assurance that at least half a 
 dozen Englishmen joined with me in that message of 
 affectionate homage ; and shortly afterwards I visited 
 him personally in his lonely lodgings in New Jersey, 
 across the ferry from Philadelphia. He was old, 
 worn, weary and weather-beaten but when the 
 chord of fellowship was struck as gently dominant 
 and simply wise as ever. The rooms where he dwelt 
 were very poor, his diet appeared chiefly to consist of 
 brackish tea and custard pie — many English labourers 
 indeed have better shelter and more sumptuous fare. 
 And his talk ! Well, I have heard Scottish peasants 
 and English mariners talk as simjaly, with something 
 of the same grave faith in the Law of Life which flows 
 to righteousness. His very vanity was beautiful and 
 childlike. I had with me a lady who had been 
 reared in the belief that Walt was a great and Christ- 
 like man, and when she asked for his photograph he 
 offered her not one but many, writing his autograph 
 under each with boyish satisfaction and delight. Yet 
 with all this he was sublimely free of the slightest 
 literary self-consciousness, only it seemed to him the 
 most natural thing in the world that we should be 
 there with him, offering him the eager tribute of our
 
 300 Robert Buchanan 
 
 love. He had not one word of regret over his pitiable 
 poverty, or of bitterness towards the literary classes 
 which had insulted and neglected him ; he was 
 perfectly satisfied with himself, with the world, with 
 all Humanity. Though he loved such simple fame 
 as came to him, though praise and sympathy made 
 him happy, he did not live for these things — his 
 thoughts were fixed higher, in the region of a perfectly 
 peaceful and innocent Joy of Life. 
 
 " ' Pioneers, O Pioneers ! ' As I sat and looked at 
 Walt, with his own brave words ringing in my brain, 
 I thought of that other great Personality (first of the 
 three to be memorised in this article), who, unlike 
 the American, had spent all his days in the full light 
 and prosperity of earthly Fame. At a first glance no 
 two writers could seem so different, so utterly unlike, as 
 Walt Whitman and Charles Dickens ; yet the instant 
 that I shook hands with Walt, and shared his custard 
 pie, and saw how simple and sweet and childlike he 
 was to the bottom of his big heart, I knew that 
 Democracy, too, meant Fairyland, the one real 
 Fairyland of Brotherhood and Love. It would need 
 the pen of Dickens himself to describe the good grey 
 Poet as he sat there, despised by all the Talents, but 
 surrounded by all the Elves ! His own countrymen 
 knew him not, but the spirits of Democracy had 
 woven for him an immortal crown ! 
 
 " What Dickens found in the dark streets of this 
 City of London, Walt discovered everywhere in the 
 many-coloured life of x'\merica, the spirit of natural 
 Love and Sympathy filling every occupation with 
 enchantment and turning Earth into Wonderland. 
 Whitman expressed in colossal cypher the same 
 rudimentary Joy of Life, the same elemental passions 
 and affections, which Dickens expressed in delightful
 
 closing Scenes 301 
 
 Fairy Tales ; and in both one faith was supreme and 
 dominant, faith in Man and in the divinity of Man's 
 human destiny. Democracy to Walt was Fairyland, 
 because it meant Joy and Love incarnate, emerging 
 wherever human beings lived and breathed. Walt 
 was a great Poet and Philosopher, Dickens was a 
 great Poet and Romancist, but both were close akin 
 in that elemental faith of which I have spoken, and 
 both were simple, lovable, child-like men — Dickens 
 in spite of his popularity and waistcoats, Walt in 
 spite of that florid diffusiveness which caused him to 
 be christened by an English criticaster as ' the Jack 
 Bunsby of Parnassus ! ' 
 
 " It was not until some years later that I found 
 myself face to face with the third of the great 
 Personalities to whom my thoughts are turning at 
 this close of the Year, and of whom, since he still 
 lives, I must speak more guardedly, though not less 
 reverently. At the first glance, again, he was utterly 
 unlike the others, yet the instant that we met I 
 realised that the Philosopher, as well as the Romancist 
 and the Democrat, was a Wanderer from Fairyland ! 
 For many a long day I had drunk knowledge and 
 inspiration from his inspired pages, and once or twice 
 we had corresponded, and now it fell about that we 
 were near neighbours, I dwelling at Hampstead, he 
 at Avenue Road, Regent's Park. Little did I fancy 
 as I entered his doors for the first time that I should 
 find the Elves of Dreamland even there ! He who had 
 proclaimed the doom of all the gods, who had ex- 
 plored all the Heavens of Theology, and found every 
 throne therein empty, was as veritable a dreamer, as 
 gentle and child-like an optimist as either Dickens 
 or Whitman. And moreover his Dream was their 
 Dream — the perfectibility of human nature the
 
 302 Robert Buchanan 
 
 gradual growth of Love and Altruism among men, 
 until the Earth in the good time coming should be 
 a Fairy Place indeed ! 
 
 " As full as either of those others of the beautiful 
 Joy of Life, as simple as Dickens, as brave and fearless 
 as Whitman, Herbert Spencer sat there apart, ' hold- 
 ing no form of creed yet contemplating all' For 
 year after year, in the face of constant physical 
 illness, with the flame of life often flickering so low 
 as to threaten to go out altogether, he had devoted 
 himself to the perfection of that great Synthesis 
 which has made his name memorable wherever 
 human Science is known and understood. For so 
 mighty an achievement, so splendid a devotion to 
 pure thought, we must go as far back as Spinoza, 
 but Spinoza was never so stretched upon the rack of 
 pain, he had never to fight so wearily for very breath. 
 But what was most wonderful in the personality of Mr. 
 Spencer was the cheerfulness, the sweet reasonable- 
 ness, the simplicity of his outlook on Life, and his 
 buoyant delight in human activity and joy. There 
 was indignation, of course, and deep resentment 
 against things evil in our political and social systems, 
 but no faltering, no bitterness, no despair ! 
 
 " The kernel of Herbert Spencer's moral teaching 
 is that Race is continually advancing through the 
 gradual adaptation of human nature to the con- 
 ditions of social life ; that, in other words, the 
 egoistic impulses are decreasing in favour of the 
 impulses which are altruistic. It is far outside 
 the scope of the present paper to criticise a philo- 
 sophy which is illustrated with such a perfection of 
 illustrative detail, and illuminated with all the light 
 of modern Science. One feature of it however, is of 
 extraordinary interest at the present moment, when
 
 Closing Scenes 303 
 
 the Century is drawing to a close, and that is the 
 beHef that as Humanity advances, Wars must de- 
 crease. Instead of the miHtant type characterising 
 the struggle of Nations as well as of individuals for 
 existence, the industrial type triumphs. Life becomes 
 less painful and more beneficent, and the race grows 
 nearer and nearer to a state of ultimate perfection. 
 This is the belief of the profoundest thinker of the 
 century, and without daring to assert whether it is 
 true or false, justified or not justified by the teachings 
 of History, I still think that it is in its very essence a 
 beautiful Dream, like Dickens's Dream of human 
 Fairyland, like Whitman's Dream of a triumphant 
 Democracy. At the present juncture particularly, 
 when a great wave of Militantism appears to be 
 sweeping us back bodily into Barbarism, it is as 
 difficult to believe in one Dream as in either of the 
 others. 
 
 *' New Year's Eve comes again, and in little more 
 than a year the wonderful Century will be completed. 
 What has it taught us ? What has it brought to us, 
 and what has it taken away? The delight in Fairy- 
 land has vanished with Dickens and the other 
 Dreamers. Democracy has dwindled and become 
 half-hearted with the passing away of Whitman 
 and his fellow humanitarians. Herbert Spencer sur- 
 vives, holding aloft the torch of Science, and flashing 
 its rays into the dark Future. When he too leaves 
 us, who will seize the torch of the Optimist, and pass 
 the inspiring message on ? 
 
 " Reflect for a moment how the last Century ended, 
 after the thrones of Empire had been shaken, and 
 Humanity had hailed its Avatar, who melted away 
 in his season like a man of Snow. The Dream 
 of human perfection filled the air. Prophets in
 
 304 Robert Buchanan 
 
 England echoed the cry which Rousseau and the 
 rest had raised in France, and which had passed from 
 mouth to mouth as far away as the remotest East 
 and West. Great Poets were singing the hopes of 
 the human race ; Byron and Shelley, Schiller and 
 Goethe were full of the Golden Age to come. War 
 was indeed decreasing. Industrialism, and Altruism 
 were indeed triumphing. With the advance of the 
 Century came the final apotheosis of natural Science, 
 the discrediting of Superstition and Supernaturalism, 
 and the realising of Goethe's great Vision, ' The 
 Draining of the Marsh ! ' More practical good was 
 done in a decade for poor Humanity by human Know- 
 ledge than had been done by Supernaturalism in 
 hundreds of years. It seemed indeed that the Earth 
 was to become a fairy place, the fit habitation of 
 creatures who were slowly learning to love one another. 
 " But, alas ! as the new Century grew older and 
 older, men awoke to the fact that something had 
 been lost, although so much had been achieved and 
 gained. In its exultation at the discovery of new 
 truths. Humanity had forgotten that deeper than all 
 Science, more paramount than all progress, had been 
 the belief in God — the God emerging — the God that 
 has been, is, and is to be. That belief being practi- 
 cally dead, the voices of all the Prophets suddenly 
 became silent, the music of great Poets was heard no 
 more. True, here and there a voice was heard crying 
 vainly for light and comfort. Poor Tennyson turned 
 his eyes from the human God emerging, to bewail 
 the God who was dead and buried, the militant 
 and national God of a discredited supernaturalism. 
 Carlyle, a broken-hearted, grey-hair'd child, cried 
 aloud in his despair that ' God did nothing,' and 
 so passed wearily away.
 
 closing Scenes 305 
 
 " And now ? 
 
 "The Poets and the Fairy Tale-tellers are silent, 
 Democracy and Humanitarianism are almost as dis- 
 credited as Christianity, the Dream of perfection is 
 over, and instead of the old Fairyland we have the 
 endless babble of journalism and the triumph of the 
 Banjo in the Street ! Among all the great Prophets 
 of the dying Century, only one remains to us — Herbert 
 Spencer, on his sick-bed, still proclaiming Utopia, 
 in the very face of a steadily increasing Darkness ! 
 Great indeed must be his faith if it has survived until 
 this moment. So far, unfortunately, it has only been 
 translated into the literature of imagination by the 
 inspired pupil-teacher, who turned its moral axioms 
 into the vocabulary of Miss Pinkerton's Academy for 
 Young Ladies ; but George Eliot is already forgotten, 
 or is remembered, if at all, only for her occasional 
 somewhat flat-footed ventures into Fairyland. 
 
 " ' Pioneers, O pioneers ! ' Whence will they come 
 now, and what will they preach ? The new Century 
 is close upon us, and all the old Creeds (including 
 the last despairing Dream of a transcendental Ethics, 
 offered to poor men and women as a substitute for 
 the Joy of Life) have been contemptuously rejected. 
 Up to the present hour no one has suggested a 
 reasonable substitute. Are we drifting carelessly 
 back to Barbarism after all, and beginning all over 
 again by cutting each other's throats ? " ^ 
 
 ' " Latter Day Leaves." 
 
 21
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE LAST SCENE OF ALL 
 
 ONCE the New Year had fairly begun, Mr. 
 Buchanan, who had not lost faith in the 
 Nauheim system, determined to recommence the 
 baths. He took them with the utmost regularity, 
 and with strict adherence to all the rules, but the 
 result was disastrous. His pulse, instead of falling, 
 rose, and was often intermittent and irregular. 
 Added to this he was rapidly losing flesh. He 
 became alarmed, had a serious talk with his doctor, 
 and on learning from him that his disease was 
 mortal and that there was absolutely no hope of 
 cure, he hastily returned to London. 
 
 From the moment of his return to the great city 
 his strength steadily declined. The doctors did all 
 they could to reassure him, but his spirit seemed 
 broken and his old hopefulness and cheerfulness 
 gone. On March i6th he wrote to Dr. Stodart 
 Walker : " Since I wrote to you I have been suffering 
 infinite torments. I went to Hastings to try 
 some Nauheim baths, and they did me more harm 
 than good, and since then I have had a series of 
 illnesses with much pain. I had to use morphia and 
 
 it upset my nervous system terribly. Just now I am 
 
 30G
 
 The Last Scene of All 307 
 
 trying vainly to conquer the nightly pain without 
 resorting again to the infernal drug. 
 
 " My only prayer is that I may live for a year or 
 two and complete certain work. I am miserable too, 
 because if I go now my dear and only companion 
 will be left penniless, at the mercy of the world. 
 With a very little more time I can alter that. 
 Imagine, my dear friend, how deep my sorrow has 
 been during the last few months ! Sometimes 
 indeed I have felt as if my heart was broken. But 
 after all why should I grieve ? " " Dear Friend " (he 
 wrote a few months later), " thanks for your kind 
 letter. For the last two months I have been troubled 
 with pain in the chest, chiefly at night, and lately I 
 have dreaded the coming of the dark. Broadbent 
 suggested morphia (injected) and while it brought 
 relief the morphia made me miserably ill. I am now 
 under the care of Doctor Morrison, trying to fight 
 the pain without morphia, hitherto without avail. 
 Morrison is confident of pulling me round. I will 
 never, he says, be altogether ' fit ' but the affection of 
 the heart is slight and is not in fact the cause of my 
 present pain and trouble. I hope he is right, and 
 that I shall put in a few more years." 
 
 The trying of a new system under a new doctor 
 seemed to give him fresh hope. His health im- 
 proved, and though the improvement was not great it 
 was enough to relieve the state of terrible depression 
 into which he had fallen. As the weather grew warmer 
 he longed to get away from London, so we went to 
 a small furnished house at Deal. " We are here by 
 the briny" (he wrote to Dr. Gorham); "and I have 
 had one or two runs on the cycle with quite pleasant 
 results. The weather is delightful though a little cold, 
 and I am looking forward to seeing you down."
 
 3o8 
 
 Robert Buchanan 
 
 Though the air of Deal was very health giving and 
 was certainly doing him much good, he was soon 
 eager to be on the move again. " I expect to be in 
 town for a few days after this week, so don't have a 
 fit if you see my spectre at your door ! " A few days 
 later he wrote, " I don't think the new cycle cure for 
 heart-disease wholly commendable ! I have had 
 several accidents — once being chucked at a dead 
 wall in trying to avoid child-slaughter, and only two 
 days ago being nearly run over ! In the last affair I 
 was walking, wheeling the bike, and I got into trouble 
 in trying to save Betsy, and only escaped by 
 turning a summersault under the carriage wheels ! 
 Seriously, apart from these accidents, I don't seem 
 any the worse, but the weather is beastly, and does 
 not give me a fair chance." ^ 
 
 Our visit to London lasted a fortnight ; at the end 
 of that time we set out for France, our destination 
 being Cap Gris-nez, where we were to occupy a small 
 furnished house called Villa Gris-nez, the property of 
 Monsieur Ducloy. At first is seemed that this move 
 would be productive of much happiness. The villa 
 was charming, and attached to it was a French cook 
 called Rosalie, who was an artist in her way, and 
 who produced dainties which would have tempted 
 the most fastidious appetite in the world. Only a 
 few yards from our door was the residence of 
 Monsieur Ducloy's daughter, Madame Paul, whose 
 house was filled with guests of all nationalities. We 
 were constantly invited to join their social evenings 
 or picnics on the shore, but Mr. Buchanan elected to 
 live the life of a recluse, his sole recreation being 
 short cycle rides which we took together, while in 
 the evenings he would sit in the flower garden in 
 
 ' Letter to Dr. Gorham.
 
 KnliKltl l!l ( IIANAN AM) "]>i;TSV." 
 
 (Last Portrait.) 
 
 To /(ice jxiyf Iill!s
 
 The Last Scene of All 309 
 
 front of the villa and smoke his cigarette and chat 
 with Monsieur Ducloy or play a game of chess with 
 Monsieur Paul. He had brought with him boxes 
 full of books and papers, but he could not settle his 
 thoughts sufficiently to be able either to read or 
 write. Our occupation of the villa lasted only four 
 weeks, and during that time we had a visit from 
 Dr. Gorham, who was so alarmed at the state of 
 mind in which he found his patient that he urged 
 him at once to take up his work again. The two 
 had many long, earnest conversations on the subject, 
 and on his return to London the doctor emphasised 
 his advice by writing and urging it even more 
 strongly. " Thanks for your letter " (wrote Mr. 
 Buchanan). " I quite gather what you mean about 
 uphill cycling, &c., but really if one cycles at all there 
 must be ups and downs. Anyhow I purpose 
 migrating at the end of my month, but I think it will 
 be back to your side of the water. Since you left 
 I've had horrible neuralgia, and neuralgic headaches, 
 damp plays the devil with me and always did. 
 To-day the weather is sunnier and brighter, thank 
 God ! I shall try my best to work, but alas ! I never 
 could do anything unless I felt the afflatus. I dor^t 
 misunderstand your diagnosis ; it was good advice to 
 tell me to shake off my restlessness and work a little 
 daily, and since you were here I've tried to follow it. 
 " Our month expires on Wednesday, August 22nd, 
 and we shall certainly leave then — whither to go I am 
 not yet quite certain. I don't think I should hasten 
 back to perfidious Albion, if it were not that I am 
 dying to see Betsy!! After all, she is the only 
 thing, pace Miss Jay, that reconciles me to human 
 life." I 
 
 ' Letter to Dr. Gorham.
 
 3IO Robert Buchanan 
 
 On August 25th we left Cap Gris-nez, and on our 
 arrival in London he wrote, " We stopped last night 
 at Folkestone, and I hate, hate, HATE everything 
 English after the earwigs and Rosalie ! I don't 
 purpose remaining here many days, but I shall look 
 you up and curse you for luring me from France." ^ 
 
 He was now exercised in his mind as to where we 
 should spend the winter. To remain in London 
 seemed impossible on account of the delicacy of his 
 chest, so after some discussion we fixed upon Bos- 
 combe, where we arrived early in September. Here 
 again disappointment faced him. " I don't think I 
 shall ever care for Bournemouth " (he wrote) ; " it is 
 too noisy and suburban, full of fly-blown lodging: 
 houses and streets disinfected by the water-cart. 
 No, it won't do — and I wonder what led people to 
 recommend it." ^ 
 
 After much persuasion I induced him to remain 
 and familiarise himself a little with his new sur- 
 roundings, hoping by that means to induce him to 
 settle down quietly for the winter months. Our stay 
 in Boscombe lasted four or five weeks. We did a 
 good deal of cycling, which he enjoyed hugely, and 
 he returned to his work, writing chiefly at his poetry. 
 He was at this time comparatively free from pain, 
 and very gradually his restlessness and bitterness 
 passed away. He began to enjoy his life again, and 
 his heart grew more than usually tender to all living 
 things. But although his mind became more com- 
 posed and his health improved in many ways, he did 
 not seem able to settle at Boscombe. " I think of 
 coming to London " (he wrote on October 3rd), 
 " and am writing for some rooms near the Langham. 
 You will be glad, I know, to hear that during the last 
 ' Letter to Dr. Gorham.
 
 The Last Scene of All 311 
 
 few weeks I have been getting on famously with 
 work. You were quite right, and I had to get back 
 my writing power or lose it for ever. At first the 
 place seemed lowering, and we had constant colds, 
 but we are beginning to like it and shall possibly 
 return later." ^ 
 
 The next and last communication from him which 
 I am able to quote is a postcard, written to Dr. 
 Gorham. It runs thus : — 
 
 " Our address for a few days after to-morrow 
 (Monday, October 8th) will be 9, Duchess Street 
 Portland Place W. 
 
 " We shall of course try to see you, but if you are 
 passing westward, pray look in. — Always, R. B." 
 
 We arrived at the rooms in Duchess Street on 
 Monday, October 8, 1900, and all those friends who 
 saw him at that time were amazed at the wonderful 
 improvement in his health, for his old gaiety of spirit 
 seemed to have come back to stay. His interest in 
 his work was keener than it had been for years, and 
 he was never tired of talking over future plans. 
 Although we had taken rooms in the busiest part of 
 London he continued his cycling as before, going 
 about among the traffic with an intrepidity which 
 filled me with terror. On Wednesday, October 17th, 
 he went to the Avenue Theatre, saw and greatly 
 enjoyed the performance of " A Messenger from 
 Mars." On the Thursday morning he interviewed 
 several people on business, and got a little excited in 
 conversation, and just before dinner, when we were 
 again alone, he took up the evening paper, and after 
 looking at it for a few minutes put it down again, 
 saying he could not see very well. I thought he 
 must have tired himself, and persuaded him to cease 
 ' Letters to Dr. Gorham.
 
 312 Robert Buchanan 
 
 reading till after dinner. The symptom passed away 
 and he thought no more of it. 
 
 The next morning, Friday, October 19th, his high 
 spirits had not deserted him, for I heard him whistling 
 merrily before he came in to breakfast. I asked him 
 if the muddled vision had troubled him again, and he 
 replied in the negative, assuring me that he felt par- 
 ticularly well in every way. Breakfast over and the 
 morning papers read, we set off on our bicycles 
 together. 
 
 After a ride in Regent's Park, which lasted close 
 upon two hours, we returned home. He partook of 
 a hearty lunch, and then fell asleep in an easy chair 
 beside the fire. He awoke refreshed, and after he 
 had drunk a cup of tea and had written some half- 
 dozen letters, proposed that we should cycle again. 
 " I should like to have a good spin down Regent 
 Street," he said. Those were the last words he ever 
 spoke, for five minutes later the cruel stroke had 
 descended upon him which rendered him helpless as 
 a little child. 
 
 For eight months, passed in the endurance of much 
 pain, his life was spared. On the morning of the 
 1 0th of June, 1901, he passed away in blessed 
 unconsciousness, in the sixtieth year of his age. 
 
 At the Graveside. 
 
 By Henry Murray. 
 
 As the train winds swiftly from the turmoil and 
 clangour of Liverpool Street, through the bustling 
 city and the squalid suburbs, making its way at last 
 into the fresh open country, where the golden glint 
 of the gorse and the ruddy splendour of the poppy
 
 Thk Pokt's Gkavk. 
 
 To face page :!12.
 
 The Last Scene of All 313 
 
 contrast with the tranquil verdure of the grass and 
 the soft blue of the over-arching sky, the journey 
 seems to present a confused allegory of the passage 
 of a Soul from the troubled waters of existence to 
 the calm of death. The temper of the day would 
 almost seem in purposed keeping with the mood of 
 the little band of friends who are escorting all that 
 is mortal of Robert Buchanan to its last resting-place. 
 Twice during the brief journey the fleeting clouds 
 which chequer the blue of the air disperse themselves 
 in a light rain, leaving the heavens fresh and fair 
 again. We are precisely such a company as our 
 friend would have desired to have about him at this 
 moment ; not a swarm of perfunctory mourners 
 attracted by the splendour of a reputation, but a 
 chosen few whose days have been brightened by his 
 friendship. His sister-in-law and adopted daughter, 
 the gentle lady whose affectionate care made bear- 
 able so many hours of pain ; the good physician, 
 most genial of Irishmen, whose kindly skill made 
 smooth the rugged path he trod so patiently ; the 
 old servant who represents the faithful service of the 
 antique world — these, and a handful of his closest 
 friends, whose faces were often seen about his table, 
 and, in these sad days about his bed, form the 
 
 cortege. 
 
 Through the monotonous clank of the train which 
 bears us down to Southend-on-Sea ; through the 
 hush which silences the babble of the passengers in 
 the streets of the little town as the funeral procession 
 slowly passes to the churchyard ; mingling, not in- 
 appropriately nor unworthily with the sublime and 
 pathetic cadences of the Burial Office and the 
 yearning voice of the organ, with the murmur of 
 prayer and the muttered response^ at the grave-side,
 
 314 Robert Buchanan 
 
 and the soft rustle of the over-arching trees, the lines 
 addressed by the dead poet to the mother who lies 
 beneath the flower-strewn coffin are beating in my 
 brain : — 
 
 " When the life-thread was spun 
 From the blood in her breast, 
 She look'd on her Son, 
 Smiled, and rocked him to rest. . . . 
 
 How swift the Hours run 
 
 From the East to the West ! 
 Erect stood the son. 
 
 And the Mother was blest. 
 
 Yet lo ! all is done ! 
 
 ('Twas, O God, Thy behest !) 
 In his turn the gray son 
 
 Rocks the Mother to rest. 
 
 AH is o'er, ere begun ! . . . . 
 
 O my dearest and best, 
 Sleep in peace — till thy Son 
 
 Creepeth down to thy breast ! " 
 
 The ever-rolling, silent hours have done their work, 
 and Robert Buchanan stands on the other side of 
 the great gulf impassable, side by side with the mother 
 he worshipped and the wife he loved. Those simple 
 and terrible lines, which were so often on his lips, as 
 the problem they suggest dwelt so constantly in his 
 mind — 
 
 " Le passe n'est pour nous qu'un triste souvenir, 
 Le present est affreux, s'il n'est point d'avenir. 
 Si la nuit du tombeau detruit I'etre qui pense " — 
 
 ring in my ears a sad antiphony to his tender and 
 beautiful verses, almost as if I heard them again 
 spoken by his voice. What is it that is here in the 
 coffin at my feet — the husk and shell, the outworn
 
 The Last Scene of All 315 
 
 envelope, the discarded garment — or alH The gene- 
 rous hand whose pressure was so warm within my 
 own is cold, the brilliant brain is darkened, the eyes 
 which looked so frankly and bravely on the world 
 are closed, the kindly lips have spoken their last 
 word of hope and counsel. Is it indeed the end? 
 For us, yes. For him ? He thought not so. Only 
 a few hours before the falling of the swift and cruel 
 stroke which severed him, eight months ago, from 
 the society of living men, he had said that " God and 
 his own soul were the only entities of whose real 
 existence he had living proof." To one who knows 
 with what reluctance he said farewell to so many 
 once passionately cherished beliefs, may it not be 
 permitted at this last moment to wish, if not to hope, 
 that the pleasant dream may be something more 
 than merely a dream ; that Robert Buchanan and 
 his mother, his wife, and the long-lost friend of his 
 youth, David Gray, have met again, and are awaiting 
 in the peace of perfect understanding and of certain 
 hope, the advent of those other friends they left 
 behind on earth ?
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE POETICAL 
 AND PROSE WRITINGS OF ROBERT 
 BUCHANAN. 
 
 " Poems and Lo\'e Lyrics." Published by Thomas Murray and 
 Son, of Glasgow ; Sutherland and Knox, of Edinburgh ; 
 Hall, Virtue and Co., of London. 
 
 1863. 
 
 " Undertones." (Poems.) Published by Edward Moxon 
 
 and Co. 
 
 1865. 
 
 " Idyls and Legends of Inverburn.'' (Poems.) Published 
 
 by Alexander Strahan. 
 
 1866. 
 " London Poems." Published by Alexander Strahan. 
 " Ballad Stories of the Affections." (Translated from the 
 
 Danish.) Published by George Routledge and Sons. 
 
 1867. 
 " North Coast and other Poems." Published by George 
 Routledge and Sons. 
 
 1868. 
 " David Gray and other Essays." Published by Sampson, 
 Low, Son and Marston. 
 
 1870. 
 
 "The Book of Orm." (Poem.) Pubhshed by Alexander 
 
 Strahan. 
 
 " Napoleon Fallen." (Lyrical Drama.) Published by 
 
 Alexander Strahan. 
 
 316
 
 Poetical and Prose Works 317 
 
 1871. 
 
 "The Drama of Kings." (Dramatic Poem.) Published by 
 Alexander Strahan. 
 
 "The Land of Lome." (Sketches in the Hebrides.) Pub- 
 lished by Chapman and Hall. 
 
 1872. 
 "The Fleshly School of Poetry." (Pamphlet.) Published by 
 
 Alexander Strahan. 
 "St. Abe and his Seven Wives." (Poem.) Published 
 
 anonymously by Alexander Strahan, 
 
 1873- 
 "White Rose and Red." (Poem.) Published anonymously 
 by Alexander Strahan. 
 
 1874. 
 
 " Master Spirits.'' (Essays.) Published by Henry S. King 
 and Co. 
 
 1876. 
 
 "The Shadow of the Sword," (Novel.) Published by 
 Richard Bentley and Son. 
 
 1877. 
 " Balder the Beautiful." (Poem.) Published by W. Mullan. 
 
 1881. 
 "God and the Man." (Novel.) Published by Chatto and 
 
 Windus, 
 "A Child of Nature." (Novel.) Published by Richard 
 
 Bentley and Son. 
 
 1882. 
 
 "The Martyrdom of Madeline." (Novel.) Published by 
 
 Chatto and Windus. 
 "Ballads of Life, Love, and Humour." Published by Chatto 
 
 and Windus. 
 "Love Me for Ever." (Novel.) Published by Chatto and 
 
 Windus. 
 "Annan Water." (Novel.) Pubhshcd by Chatto and 
 
 Windus.
 
 3i8 Poetical and Prose Works 
 
 1884. 
 
 "Foxglove Manor." (Novel.) Published by Chatto and 
 
 Windus. 
 " The Now Abelard." (Novel.) Published by Chatto and 
 
 Windus. 
 
 1885. 
 
 "The Earthquake." (Poem.) Published by Chatto and 
 
 Windus. 
 " The Master of the Mine." (Novel.) Published by Chatto 
 
 and Windus. 
 " Matt." (Novel.) Published by Chatto and Windus. 
 " Stormy Waters." (Novel.) Published by John Maxwell. 
 
 1886. 
 "That Winter Night. (Novel.) Published by Simpkin, 
 Marshall, and Co. 
 
 1887. 
 
 " A Look Round Literature." (Essays.) Published by Ward 
 
 and Downey. 
 "The Heir of Linne." (Novel.) Published by Chatto and 
 
 Windus. 
 
 1888. 
 
 "The City of Dream." (Poem.) Published by Chatto and 
 Windus. 
 
 1890. 
 
 "The Moment After." (Story.) Published by William 
 
 Heinemann. 
 
 1891. 
 
 " The Outcast." (Poem.) Published by Chatto and Windus. 
 
 "The Coming Terror, and Other Essays." Published by 
 
 William Heinemann. 
 
 1892. 
 
 " Come Live with Me and be My Love." (Novel.) Published 
 
 by William Heinemann. 
 " The Buchanan Ballads." Published by John Haddon. 
 
 1893. 
 "The Wandering Jew. (Poem.) Published by Chatto and 
 
 Windus. 
 "Woman and the Man." (Novel.) Published by Chatto and 
 
 Windus.
 
 Poetical and Prose Works 319 
 
 1894. 
 
 " Red and White Heather." (Tales and Ballads.) Published 
 by Chatto and Windus. 
 
 1895- 
 
 "Lady Kilpatrick." (Novel.) Published by Chatto and 
 
 Windus. 
 " The Charlatan." (Novel written in collaboration witli 
 
 Henry Murray.) Published by Chatto and Windus. 
 
 1896. 
 " The Devil's Case." (Poem.) Published by the Author. 
 "Diana's Hunting." (Story.) PubHshed by Fisher Unwin. 
 "Marriage by Capture." (Story.) Published by Fisher 
 
 Unwin. 
 " Effie Hetherington." (Novel.) Published by Fisher Unwin. 
 
 1897. 
 " The Ballad of Mary the Mother." Published by the Author. 
 
 1898. 
 
 " Father Anthony." (Novel.) Published by John Long. 
 " The Rev. Anabel Lee." (Novel.) Published by Pearson 
 and Co. 
 
 1900. 
 
 "The New Rome." (Poems.) Published by Walter Scott, 
 
 of Edinburgh. 
 " Andromeda." (Novel.) Published by Chatto and Windus.
 
 INDEX 
 
 "Aloxe in London," production 
 of, 226 ; success of, 236 
 
 Andersen, Hans Christian, Robert 
 Buchanan meets, loi 
 
 "Annan Water," when written, 
 
 "Balder the Beautiful," 209 ; 
 
 proem to, 210 
 "Ballad of Mary the Mother, 
 
 The," publication of, 291 
 " Ballad Stories of the Affections," 
 
 when written, 136 
 "Ballads of Life, Love, and 
 
 Humour," publication of, 228 
 Bexhill, life at, n8 
 Blanc, Louis, 13, 14 
 Black, William, 104, 137 
 " Black Domino, The," production 
 
 of, 243 
 
 " Book of Orm, The," when writ- 
 ten, 136 ; extracts from, 139, 140 
 
 Braddon, Miss M. E., 95 
 
 " Bride of Love, The," production 
 of, 244 ; Mr. Bronson Howard's 
 opinion of, 245 
 
 Browning, Robert, his first meet- 
 ing with Robert Buchanan, iio ; 
 Robert Buchanan's first impres- 
 sion of, 110 ; his love of praise, 
 no ; Robert Buchanan his 
 kindest critic, in ; Robert 
 Buchanan's attitude towards, 
 III ; his horror of sudden death, 
 112 ; his last meeting with 
 Robert Buchanan, 114 
 
 Buchanan, Robert, his birth, 1,3, 
 8 ; his feelings towards his 
 parents, 8 ; his upbringing, 9 ; 
 
 his early recollections, 10-16 ; 
 goes to Glasgow, 17 ; among 
 the Socialists, 18 ; is persecuted 
 on account of his father's views, 
 
 18 ; his early religious instincts, 
 
 19 ; his yearnings for immor- 
 tality, 20 ; his homesickness, 
 23 ; his first scribblings in 
 verse, 23 ; his restlessness at 
 school, 24 ; his first love, 25 ; 
 his first contributions to the 
 press, 26 ; his first poem is 
 sold and published, 27 ; his 
 dramatic yearnings, 31 ; in- 
 fluence of " King Lear " on, 
 31-35 ; his poetic yearnings, 
 41 ; proposes going to London 
 to seek his fortune, 44 ; his 
 journey to London, 45 ; his 
 arrival and first wanderings in 
 London, 46 ; his first friend 
 and first night in London, 47 ; 
 his second day in London, 48 ; 
 his lack of hero-worship, 55 ; 
 his love of " Bohemia," 56 ; his 
 pride, 56 ; his charity, 86 ; his 
 loneliness in London, 88 ; 
 edits the Welcome Guest, 95 ; 
 returns to his father's house, 
 96 ; his first and only appear- 
 ance as an actor, 97 ; turns 
 aside from the theatre, 99 ; his 
 marriage, 100 ; visits Denmark, 
 loi ; contributes to Temple Bar, 
 102 ; his first visit to Etretat, 
 125 ; returns to Scotland, 129 ; 
 his feelings with regard to 
 sport, 137 ; his love of animals, 
 140-142 ; his first breakdown 
 
 320
 
 Index 
 
 321 
 
 in health, 156 ; his monetary 
 difficulties, 156 ; his public 
 readings, 157 ; receives a pen- 
 sion from Government, 158 ; 
 brings an action for libel, 166 ; 
 leaves Oban, 169 ; his first visit 
 to Malvern, 170 ; his second 
 visit to Malvern, 171 ; his first 
 visit to Ireland, 172 ; his first 
 idea of novel-writing, 183 ; 
 publishes and edits Li^hf, 214 ; 
 his second visit to Ireland, 214 ; 
 his first visit to Southend, 219 ; 
 his views on Christianity, 222- 
 224 ; his pantomime, 228 ; his 
 trip to America, 226 ; offered 
 the editorship of the North 
 American Review, 227 ; writes 
 ode for the opening of the 
 Glasgow Exhibition, 245 ; his 
 bankruptcy, 248 ; interviews 
 himself, 262-268 ; his views on 
 immortality, 281-290 ; becomes 
 his own publisher, 291 ; his 
 first attack of heart-disease, 
 293 ; goes to Brighton, 293 ; 
 goes to Pevensey Baj-, 295 ; 
 tries the Nauheim baths at 
 Hastings, 297 ; his strength 
 declines, 306 ; visits Cap Gris- 
 nez, 308 ; visits Bournemouth, 
 310 ; returns to London, 311 ; 
 is struck by paralysis, 312 ; his 
 death, 312 
 Buchanan, Mrs. Robert, serious 
 illness of, 208 ; her death, 220 
 
 Campbell, Dr. Harry, letters 
 from Robert Buchanan to, 293, 
 
 295 
 
 Canton, William, letters from 
 Robert Buchanan to, 138, 141, 
 172, 173, 183-196, 209, 214, 217, 
 220-222, 233, 234 
 
 Caussidiere, 13 
 
 " Charlatan, The," production of, 
 247 
 
 " City of Dream, The," publica- 
 tion of, 228 ; the Right Hon. 
 W. E. H. Lecky's opinion of, 228 
 
 " Clarissa," production of, 244 
 
 Clifford, Professor, his views on 
 immortality, 282 
 
 " Coming Terror, The," publica- 
 tion of, 259 
 " Corinne," production of, 223 
 
 D.-VNVERS, Edwin, 88-90 
 
 " David Gray and other Essays," 
 
 when written, 136 
 " Devil's Case, The," extract from, 
 
 147 ; publication of, 291 
 " Diana's Hunting," publication 
 
 of, 291 
 Diary, Robert Buchanan's, ex- 
 tracts from, 120, 171, 278, 279, 
 
 292 
 Diary, Mrs. Robert Buchanan's, 
 
 extracts from, 170, 171 
 Dickens, Charles, 297-305 
 " Dick Sheridan," production of, 
 
 247 
 Dobell, Sydney, his kindness to 
 
 David Graj', 66 
 " Doctor Cupid," production of, 
 
 240 
 " Drama of Kings, The," when 
 
 written, 136 
 
 " Earthquake, The," publication 
 
 of, 228 
 "Effie Hetherington," publication 
 
 of, 291 
 Eliot, George, Robert Buchanan's 
 
 opinion of and attitude towards, 
 
 108, 305 ; Robert Buchanan's 
 
 last meeting with, 109 
 " End of the Century, The," 297- 
 
 305 
 " English Rose, The," production 
 of, 242 
 
 Father, Robert Buchanan's, 3 ; 
 his personality, 8 ; his marriage, 
 8 ; writes for the press, 10 ; a 
 newsvendor, 10 ; branded as an 
 Atheist, 15 ; edits the Glasgow 
 Sentinel, 17 ; starts the Glas- 
 goiv Times and Penny Post, 26 ; 
 his insolvency, 42 ; his death, 
 
 125 
 
 " Fisher, Jonas," 165 
 
 " Fleshly School of Poetry, The, 
 159-168 
 
 " Foxglove Manor," when writ- 
 ten, 225 
 
 22
 
 322 
 
 Index 
 
 Francillnn, R. E., " an impres- 
 sion " by, 197-202 
 
 Freeland, William, recollection of 
 Robert Buchanan by, 29 ; and 
 David Gray, 77 
 
 Gentle's, Mr., extracts from let- 
 ters from Robert Buchanan to, 
 23, 38-40, 43, 45, 47, 48, 54, 91 
 
 Gilibon, Charles, 92 ; goes to 
 live at 66 Stamford Street, 
 92 ; collaborates with Robert 
 Buchanan, 97 
 
 Glasgow, religious atmosphere 
 of, in 1850-1856, 18 ; Robert 
 Buchanan's school life in, 26 ; 
 poetic atmosphere of, in 1850- 
 1856, 29 ; Robert Buchanan's 
 University life in, 31 ; life 
 among the Players in, 36 
 
 Glover, Edmund, 35 
 
 " God and the Man," first concep- 
 tion of, 205 ; Robert Buchanan 
 explains, 206 ; dramatisation of, 
 207 
 
 Gorham, Dr., letters from Robert 
 Buchanan to, 307-311 
 
 Gowing, Richard, letter from 
 Robert Buchanan to, 203 
 
 Gray, David, first meets Robert 
 Buchanan, 38 ; Robert Bucha- 
 nan's influence on, 38 ; his life, 
 letters, and death, 57-80 ; his 
 father, 81 ; Robert Buchanan's 
 benevolence to his father, 81-86 
 
 Ham Common, the community at, 
 10 
 
 Hamlet Court, 227 
 
 Hampton-Wick, Robert Bucha- 
 nan's school life at, 12 
 
 Houghton, Lord, his kindness to 
 David Gray, 61, 62, 67, 69 
 
 Hunt, Clari Leigh, 103 
 
 Hutton, R. H., his criticism on 
 Robert Buchanan, 29 
 
 " Idyls and Legends of Inver- 
 burn," G. H. Lewes's criticism 
 of, 106 ; publication of, 1 16 ; 
 press criticisms of, 116 
 
 Irving, Henry, 37 
 
 Jones, Lloyd, 14 ; his influence 
 on Robert Buchanan, 15 
 
 "Joseph's Sweetheart," produc- 
 tion of, 238 ; prologue to, 238 
 
 " Killing a Publisher, 93-95 
 
 " Lady Clare," production of, 
 236 
 
 " Land of Lome, The," quotation 
 from, 129-135 ; when written, 
 136 
 
 "Latter Day Leaves," extracts 
 from, 2-6, 10-16, 19-20, 31-37, 
 93-95. 105-106, 107, 160, 297-305 
 
 Law of Infanticide, the, extract 
 from article on, 149 
 
 Lecky, the Right Hon. W. E. H., 
 letters from Robert Buchanan 
 to, 229, 294 
 
 Lewes, George Henry, his first 
 meeting with RobertBuchanan, 
 106 ; advises Robert Buchanan 
 to write the story of David 
 Gray, 107 ; his last meeting 
 with Robert Buchanan, 109 
 
 " Lights of Home, The," produc- 
 tion of, 243 
 
 Linton, Mrs. Lynn, her opinion 
 of Robert Buchanan, 258 
 
 " London Poems," publication of, 
 126 ; William Canton's criti- 
 cism of, 126 ; quotation from 
 preface to, 126 ; G. H. Lewes's 
 first and second criticism of, 
 127 ; Robert Buchanan's ex- 
 planation of, 127 
 
 " Love me for ever," when writ- 
 ten, 225 
 
 Love, William, 17 
 
 " Lucy Brandon," production of, 
 236 
 
 Macdonald, Hugh, 27 ; his in- 
 fluence on Robert Buchanan, 28 
 
 "Madcap Prince, The," produc- 
 of, 232 ; press opinions of, 233 
 
 " Man o' Airlie, The," 91 
 
 " Man's Shadow, A," production 
 of, 240 
 
 M. A. P., extracts from, 100, loi- 
 103 (" In the Days of my 
 Youth,"), 214
 
 Index 
 
 323 
 
 ■' Marriage by Capture," publica- 
 tion of. 291 
 
 Marston, Westland, 90 
 
 Marston, Mrs. Westland, 90 
 
 " Martyrdom of Madeline, The," 
 when written, 225 
 
 " Master of the Mine, The," when 
 written, 225 
 
 " Master Spirits," when written, 
 136 
 
 " Matt," when written, 225 
 
 Maxwell, John, 93-95 
 
 Melvin, Father John, inscription 
 to, in " Feather Anthony," 176 
 
 Merriman, Mr., 49 
 
 Merton, Robert Buchanan's 
 school life at, 12 
 
 " Miss Tomboy," production of, 
 244 
 
 Mother, Robert Buchanan's, 3 ; 
 her birth, 7 ; her relations to 
 the Socialists and attachment 
 to Robert Owen, 7 ; her mar- 
 riage, 3, 8 ; her son's memories 
 of her, 8 ; letter from her son, 
 51 ; her illness, 277 ; her death, 
 278 
 
 Muloch, Dinah, 91 
 
 Mulranny, 215 
 
 Murray, Henry, quotation from 
 " Robert Buchanan and other 
 Essays " by, 19, 86 ; reminis- 
 cence by, 253-257 ; "At the 
 Graveside " by, 312-315 
 
 " Napoleon Fallen," when writ- 
 ten, 136 
 
 " New Abelard, The," when writ- 
 ten, 225 
 
 " Newest Thing in Journalism, 
 The," 102 
 
 " New Harmony," 10 
 
 " New Rome, The," 150 ; ex- 
 tracts from, 151 ; extract from 
 preface to, 152 
 
 " Nine Days' Queen, A," produc- 
 tion of, 236 
 
 Noel, the Hon. Roden, his first 
 meeting with Robert Buchanan, 
 119 ; friendship between 
 Robert Buchanan and, 120 ; 
 extracts from preface to the 
 " Canterbury " edition of the 
 
 poems of, 119, 121-124; letters 
 from Robert Buchanan to, 154, 
 171, 173, 210, 220, 222, 227 
 " North Coast and other Poems," 
 136, 153 
 
 Oldh.-vm, William, 10 
 Owen, Robert, 2-6, 11 ; his mis- 
 sionaries, 4 ; his benevolence, 
 
 4 ; his success, 4 ; political 
 state of England at the time of, 
 
 5 ; his influence wanes, 5 ; his 
 views on religion and marriage, 
 5 ; denunciation of, by the pub- 
 lic, 6 ; Robert Buchanan in- 
 fluenced by his doctrines, 12 
 
 " Partners," production of, 241 
 
 Peacock, Thomas Love, 103 ; his 
 influence on Robert Buchanan, 
 103 
 
 Pevensey Bay, 296 
 
 "Pied Piper of Hamelin, The," 
 production of, 247 
 
 Proctor, Bryan (" Barry Corn- 
 wall"), extract from letter by, 
 53 ; Robert Buchanan's inter- 
 view with, 54 
 
 " Queen of Connaught, The," 
 Charles Reade and, 234 ; idea 
 of dramatising, 235 ; production 
 of the play of, 235 
 
 Queenwood, community at, 11 
 
 " Rathboys, The," 97 
 
 Reade, Charles, reminiscence of, 
 
 178-182 
 Rossport, life at, 174 
 Rothesay, Robert Buchanan's 
 
 school life at, 22 
 
 " St. Abe and his Seven Wives," 
 13O, 164, 177 
 
 Salt, Henry S., " Humanitarian- 
 ism " by, 144-152 ; extracts 
 from letters from Robert Bu- 
 chanan to, 145, 146, 148, 150 
 
 " Selected Poems," dedication to, 
 221 
 
 "Shadow of the Sword, The," 
 plans for writing, 183, 194 ; 
 writing of, 204 ; publication of.
 
 324 
 
 Index 
 
 205 ; press criticisms on, 205 ; 
 
 production of dramatic version 
 
 of, 236 
 " Shop-walker, The," production 
 
 of, 291 
 Sims, G. K., extract from article 
 
 in the Morniiii^ Leader by, 
 
 226 ; collaborates with Robert 
 
 Buchanan, 241 ; " reminis- 
 cence " by, 250-2S2 
 " Sixth Commandment, The," 
 
 production of, 247 
 Socialistic revolution, 3 
 "Society Butterfly, The," pro- 
 duction of, 248 
 " Sophia," production of, 237 
 Southend, 227, 230 
 Spencer, Herbert, 297-305' 
 Stamford Street, No. 66, life at, 
 
 49, 53 ; dark days at, 56 
 Steadman, Mr., criticism of 
 
 Robert Buchanan by, 30 
 Stephens, Leslie, extract from 
 
 letter from Robert Buchanan 
 
 to, 21 
 " Stormbeaten," production of, 
 
 207, 226 
 "Stormy Waters," when written, 
 
 225 
 Strahan, Alexander, letter to 
 
 Harriett Jay from, 117 
 " Strange Adventures of Miss 
 
 Brown, The," production of, 
 
 291 
 " Sweet Nancy," production of, 
 
 246 
 
 "Trumpet Call, The," production 
 
 of, 243 ; Mrs. Patrick Campbell 
 
 in, 243 
 " Truth About the Game Laws, 
 
 The," extract from preface to, 
 
 148 
 "Two Little Maids from School," 
 
 production of, 291 
 
 " Undertones," publication of, 
 116 
 
 Vandenhoff, the elder, 31 
 Vandenhoff, Miss, 31 
 Vezin, Hermann, 91 
 
 Walkek, Dr. Stodart, letters 
 from Robert Buchanan to, 277- 
 281, 306 
 
 " Wandering" Jew, The," first con- 
 ception of, 126 ; publication of, 
 259 ; dedication to, 259 ; the 
 author's superstition regarding, 
 260 ; extract from, 261 ; news- 
 paper correspondence on, 268- 
 275 ; success of, 275 
 
 " White Rose, The," production 
 of, 243 
 
 " White Rose and Red," 164 ; 
 Robert Browning's opinion of, 
 
 115 
 
 Whitman, Walt, 297-305 ; Robert 
 
 Browning's opinion of, 113 ; 
 
 Robert Buchanan meets, 227 
 Williams, " Lawyer " (Robert 
 
 Buchanan's grandfather), 6 
 " Witchfinder, the," 96 ; Fechter's 
 
 opinion of, 97 ; production of, 
 
 98 
 Wordsworth, his influence on 
 
 Robert Buchanan, 41 
 Wylie, Mr., extracts from letters 
 
 to Robert Buchanan from, 140, 
 
 142 
 Wylie, Rev. W. H., article in the 
 
 Christian World by, 165 
 
 Yates, Edmund, extract from 
 letter to Robert Buchanan from, 
 102 ; Robert Buchanan first 
 meets, 102 ; personality of, 102 ; 
 and Thackeray, 102 
 
 Zangwill, his opinion of Robert 
 
 Buchanan, 258 
 Zoophilist, The, extract from 
 
 article in, 149 
 
 UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRFSHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.
 
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