tftf; i4-f )> > "5 Dec. 25th „ 42 May ? „ . 116 Jan. ? 1874 . . 46 „ 21st, „ 117 i3 th > » 47 July 6th, „ 119 Feb. 1 6th, „ 50 Aug. 28th, „ 121 April 10th, „ 5 1 Oct. 2nd, „ 122 May 4th, ,, 52 1876 (?) . . 125 » 23rd, „ 54 Dec. 2nd, 1876 . 126 June 3rd, „ • 56 Christmas, „ 126 ,, 8th, ,, 58 Feb. ? 1877 • 128 July 5th, „ 60 April 9th, ,, 13° Oct. 6th, „ 61 June 29th, „ 132 „ 20th, „ • 63 Oct. „ 133 Nov. 4th, „ 64 Dec. 26th, ,, . 136 „ I3 th > » 66 April 8th, 1 88 1 . i37 Jan. 5th, 1875 . 68 „ 3rd, 1883 . 139 » I5 tn > » 72 Sept. 20th, ,, 140 „ 26th, „ 75 Oct. 9th, „ 140 Feb. 13th, „ 76 April ? 1884 . 141 March 10th, „ 78 „ 4 th, 1885 . H3 April 29th, „ 82 Sept. 4th, „ H5 June ? ,, 83 „ 9th, „ H7 July 5th, „ 84 Oct. 2 1st, ,, 148 viii FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS LETTER PACE LETTER PAGE Nov. 2nd, 1885 . . .51 Feb. 22nd, 1888. 169 Dec. 2nd, ,, • »53 Sept. 29th, „ . I70 13th, „ 156 Nov 17th, 1889 . 172 Jan. 24th, 1886 . I58 Oct. 23rd, 1890 . 173 Feb. 28th, „ 159 >> 23rd, 1891 . • 174 March 30th, „ l6l Nov. 5th, „ . J 75 Aug. 29th, „ l62 Feb. 20th, 1892 . 177 Oct. 1 6th, „ 163 July 5) 177 March 20th, 1887 . 164 Sept. 1 6th, „ . 179 July 26th, „ 165 Oct. 2nd, „ . 180 Nov. 28th, „ 167 Sept. 5th, 1895 . 182 " One scene of unfinished dramatic poem called, The Affair f June 1 5th " • • . • • 184 Index . • . • • • 191 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Edward Dowden at Kilross, July 1892 From a Photograph by Miss A. LysTER (Photogravure*) E. D. W Frontispiece FACING PAGE 151 J. R. West 157 Kilross: E. D. W.'s Cottage in 1892 178 i FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS VOL. II In Letter of July 9, 1 87 1 Your judgment of my "Whitman" is very satisfactory, and generally, what you say of my critical attempts interests me. There was something factitious about my " Landor." • I took to admiring him in a hurry. My fear about myself — as a critic — is that in trying to get inside, my method is coarse and unfeeling. The flush and changing colour on the cheek tells of life as much as count- ing the beats of the big muscle, the heart ; but I seem to overlook this fact. Criticism, full of enjoyment (like some, say, of Leigh Hunt's), is perhaps as deep as any. The deep things are on the surface, and I lose them by trying to get to the centre and make myself unhappy. (I know these are all half-truths.) And I cannot be a good critic, because it is a grief and a loss to me to write about poetry •, nor can I be a good poet, because I hanker after criticism (half-truths again !). Your present vague outlook on things is about the most enriching mood one can know. One becomes a part of nature, and grows. If you care for Whitman's "Democratic Vistas" or for Miller's " Songs of the Sierras," I can lend them to you. Miller, I think, is getting perhaps overpraised. One doesn't yet know whether he will rise and become something lasting, or pass out of sight. I saw a good deal of him in London a few weeks ago. As a man he is to be liked — not a person of refinement, nor affectedly barbaric, but frank, energetic, A 2 1 2 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS genuine, ambitious, sensible, and superior to the foolish lionizing he gets as the novelty of the season. — Yours truly, E. Dowden. 50 "Wellington Road May ljth, 1872 (Extract) I have been knocked about a good deal by various things for the last week, and have settled to nothing happily ; now I get a quiet time for some days, I think. ... I may not be so easily able to escape from some prose-writing. Mr Morley wishes to print my "Laprade" in the June Fortnightly Review, and perhaps I shall write two or three articles in continuation from time to time. "Laprade" I don't think you'll care for. I hope R. Buchanan has not honoured you with his vile reprint of the " Fleshly School " ; if he has, you will think Baudelaire more atrocious than he sometimes is. But Baudelaire's studies of vice I can't imagine would do anyone harm (though some of them have no right to exist), and there is a great deal of real beauty and pure feeling in his poetry. My " Progress " book would be absorbing. I can never do two things at the same time, and the knowledge of this and not the mere vain case of taking extreme measures with myself, made me resolve to make the experiment of verse- writing, a complete experiment, by giving up prose (as I must) for the time. A large subject does occur to me, but I have not drawn it out of the distance to look at face to face, because one should then go on or suffer loss. It will, if ever written (which of course is most doubtful), move around an attempt at revolution, probably in Paris. The leading spirit,- a grey old socialist and perhaps atheist, of a powerful personality, but not wise in knowledge of men and events. His second in command, a kind of Cassius, FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 3 knowing what is right, but without personal influence, and never able to effect what he knows. A young man, ardent, a literary Republican, with his commonplace ideal enthusi- asms, is solicited to join — his name being important — his true tendency is in an altogether different direction. The old fellow overcomes his conscience of what is best. Women would be introduced — perhaps an Ophelia — lover of the young man, incapable of understanding or helping him, from whom he breaks partly away, and partly remains attached to ; and perhaps a shrill revolutionary female, and perhaps a noble conservative woman. The miserable little scheme would fail and my old hero be shot. I think the young one would drift off into some ignoble life and lose faith in his (never realised) ideas. I have said nothing of this to anyone — not that it is any secret or need be — but talk is a foolish thing. The form, dramatic and possibly descriptive, like the " Spanish Gipsy." I think letters needn't be answers, so I won't go after you into talk about Robertson. I like to indulge a pre- judice here and there extravagantly ! (to keep my mind in tone, I say, but don't explain how), and one such prejudice is directed against X. Y. Z., of whom or whose writings I hardly know anything. He is such a conceited fellow, and says such liberal things and enlightened, artistic, advanced, beautiful things, and never with the accent of conviction — and I am sure writes the most beautiful letters, ten sheets long, to Broad-church ladies about their spiritual trials and difficulties, and I do not doubt feels himself in Robertson's mantle with the much finer mantle of X. Y. Z. worn gracefully in addition ! If in your way, M'Leod Campbell's "Christ the Bread of Life" will repay you and not distract you. I have just read it in Mr Graves' copy. He has fully the dfctjba of conviction, and uses his Christian experience as a kind of organon in truth-seeking — (but, of course, there's only a moderate amount 4 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS to be got out of a small book on a great subject). I don't think he'd consider me a Christian in any right sense of the word. I got for a while rather impatient to send you such little things as I have written in verse, but I will delay, because the delay adds a motive to try and do something better than the poor little things already done. (A few years ago I wanted sympathy at once ; now I can wait for the particular expression of it which is pleasantest to me — wait ever t>o long.) For the same reason I have sent nothing to Yeats, who has been very kind on former occasions, and partly because he would not care for my more recent way of feeling. Positivist art would please him, or strangely different art like Blake's. I suppose we shall soon be reading " Fifine at the Fair." • ••*••• I hope some time, when we come back for the autumn, you and your brother will come and look through such books as we have, to see if there is anything new to you in them. What are we to do if our letters cross again ? — Yours truly, E. Dowden. Greystones Sunday, July '72 Dear Miss West, I delayed writing until I could say something that was not doubtful. I think we are now fairly through our troubles. Essie is now, we think, nearly well. I am ashamed to confess that I myself have been criminal enough (in an " Erewhonian " sense) to catch cold also, but it does not keep me indoors, and I can predict that I shall be gradually getting well, and be quite well before end of this week. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 5 I had been bathing every day, and was up the Little Sugar-Loaf by myself. While on the top a curious pheno- menon appeared — a cloud rolled up, broke against the point of the mountain, racing off on each side below me (with an occasional gust of white mist across the summit). The sun was shining westward, and on the eastern mist or cloud arose a small but perfect rainbow — exactly in the centre of which stood my own shadow, dark in the luminous mist, and so definite that it responded to each movement and gesture of my own. I had never seen this before. The solitude was great and delightful. I haven't got a proof of my " G. Eliot," though it was said to be in the printer's hands ; so I suppose it won't appear in August. I have not read nor written. I expect an access of new life after the cold goes off; the restraint of illness and anxiety, making ease of mind and physical health a stimulating possession. It was bad to have to face a great deal of heather and a little furze on the side of the mountain, with little to show in return for exhortations they give me, — yet they blamed less than they encouraged me. The chief conscious possession left by the last fortnight consists of one or two hours by the seaside among rocks, and one on the mountain. "We are sorry to lose Mr Story from our little Greystones community. I have finished ''Robert Falconer"; all you say of G. MacDonald is true. His optimism does not produce con- viction ; yet his purity of heart and mind are such that his happiness of faith makes one question oneself whether some of the moral difficulties which appear to one may not be the projection of an eye less pure and single than his. I cannot think of G. M. as even temporarily a positivist. That creed is too strenuous in its comfort and despair for his attaining. I can hardly say why I am not more in sympathy 6 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS with G. MacDonald, for his words would agree with my own, that life is inexpressibly good, and death at any time a going on to yet better things. But he says it in a way of his own that has not force with me. Two rainbows run side by side — but one seems " fainter, flusher and flighter " — so with much in the book — with me and my faith. E. D. 8 MONTENOTTE, CoRK January I, 1 873 My Dear Miss West, We came down here last Monday week, and have lived in an almost constant downpour of rain. If we had not April, June and August •within us, we should come to believe the world a great sponge and ourselves insects crawling through it. However, we all keep well. I began " Danton and Robespierre" in the train, and have read Hamerling tolerably steadily ever since ; going over " Ahasver " — which I had never finished — again, and bringing it to an end. I have long felt, and have lately felt more than before — that I want an organ in not being able to read German with moderate ease, and it is one of my good resolu- tions that I shall not now give up working at it till I have got over my difficulty with words and sentences. I am not yet competent to form an opinion of Hamerling, and have your feeling that one ought to know Schopenhauer to under- stand him. I can see, through the Athenaums annual review of European literature, that Schopenhauer is a remarkable force acting on German poetry ; it speaks of a cynical sensuousness as being the most recent phenomenon succeeding the celebra- tion of Death and Nirvana. I feel too, beforehand, that there are one or two other German living poets worth making acquaintance with — Hebbel and Lingg — whom Hamerling mentions, perhaps in chief. I cannot help having some wish FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 7 to complete the view I have of contemporary European poetry, English, French, German ; and to see whether there are any common tendencies, as well as to see what spiritual development accompanies the stupendous development of material force in Germany. But I am not possessed by any impatience, and shall not make any haste to hear and to see the new things. " Danton and Robespierre" pleases me on the whole more than " Ahasver." In both I miss repose and the artistic grace of charity. It gives me also an uncomfort- able feeling to see such a paradoxical emotion as Hamerling's interest in the tumult and glare and confusion of life, which yet he stands remote from and looks upon with the coldness of a dead philosopher. My impression is that he does more than justice to Robespierre and less than justice to Danton. Robespierre was vain and was a flatterer of the people. I had for some time a book by Dr Robinet (the "Comtist") on Danton, which I am sorry I did not read, but I could see from it that the writer looked on Danton as a man of great ideas — of a positive beneficent kind, I suppose. Robespierre's conscientiousness, faithfulness to disinterested ideas — and his freedom from cruelty of an active kind, I believe, are all unquestionable facts. I didn't go on with Nichol's " Hannibal " (as you say, the minor prophets in poetry may be generally wisely dismissed). In Morris's "Love is Enough" I stopped in like manner. But I mean to get (and I think, read) one book — " Ranolf and Amohia," by Alfred Domett. I was sure from the few extracts I read, that the writer is a " nature" (Goethe's word), moreover, he is a friend and lover of Browning. Here in Cork, with never-ending rain and often a want of opportunity of writing (for which with me, solitude is indispensable), I have been obliged to read a great deal. It would not be easy for me to loaf here, and indeed loafing is often more exciting and exhausting than what gets the name of work. Sermon-time in church, when in forced 8 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS inaction I study the walls or the windows, is a most exhaust- ing half-hour of thinking and imagining — with me usually ; and also an hour or two during which I lie awake in the morning. It was really very grateful — cordial — some such word is the right one, to hear what your brother reported of my college class liking me. This is the 6th year of my college work, and I had never heard so much about myself as you wrote — not that that of course means a very great deal. One or two or three students had continued very friendly towards me after having taken their degree, however, and I keep up occasional relations with them still. I thank you for giving me this pleasure. I hope you will consider the Goethe books and any more of mine you care for, common property for the present. They are quite procurable by me at the Deanery if I should want them. I hope if it makes reference convenient, that you will mark them as suits your purpose ; I have nearly always found doing so save a great deal of time. As to writing about Goethe in letters I am, you know, much interested in what you make out about him. . . . Your little note on the character of Eckermann's book, for example, seems to me to say just the right thing about it and the view it presents of Goethe. I send you such portions of my dramatic poem as I have written. I thought of the name, "The Affair of June 15th.'' There would be a significance in the outbreak being thus classed and disposed of and assigned a place historically, while viewed from the spiritual side its significance would be some- thing incommensurable I don't want any detailed criticism, but chiefly a general record of your main impression, tending to determine whether I ought to go on or fall back on shorter things. It will not depress me to hear that you don't think I am likely to succeed at present. I think I may do much FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 9 better scenes than those ; but, nevertheless, I believe it fairer to present what I have done as an average passage and portions may be worse. (Don't return the MS., I have a copy.) The names of my characters are provisional ; one or two touches in one scene are from V. Hugo's " Les Miserables." We finished " Middlemarch " just before leaving Dublin. I don't know that I ever read a book with more (sane) excite- ment — not, or but little, for the plot-interest (for I knew the end before we got the last part), but for the perpetual and great discovery of truth — moral and emotional truth — in the book. Here, I have been reading portions of "The Spanish Gypsy" again, and I find it far greater than I believed in the spring. G. Eliot has grown upon me to my own surprise ; her heart is as massive as her brain, and (like the strongest forces always) is sensitive in proportion to its strength, and delicate as it is powerful. I can imagine her doing hard things to others if they were right things. • •*•••• We expect to return to Dublin about the loth. Thank you for your last letter, it was all very true and satisfactory. — Very truly yours, E. Dowden. Jan. 10th, 1873 My College work begins on Thursday, with Examinations. Last week went very fruitlessly. I wrote nothing and read very little, though at times I sat down to write and read. . . . The only thing I have to tell you worth telling is that I have got two designs of Nettleship's. They are characteristic of his work, and of the man. One is an illustration for Homer. Ulysses, seated, touching the string of his great bow, the suitors of Penelope feasting, but suddenly thrown into varied excitement by the threatening aspect of Ulysses. It is classic, and at the same time intensely modern. The other is a dove flying towards Passion — a nude virginal figure standing, one io FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS arm about to receive the dove. The dove has flown swiftly and passionately, cooing all the way. Passion stands upon the upper convex of a globe, and is supreme. A crowd of faces (foiled desires, loves and lusts perhaps) are below her. She is flame-haired, wears a coronet, and is looking down towards the dove. But she stands between the knees of Death — a young man seated ; one hand of hers, half turned behind her, touches his head. He is gazing intently at the bird, and you can see that it must fly beyond Passion to Death. Then its cooing will cease. He fascinates the bird with his intense eyes. Above to right and left are an orchestra of male performers — violin and violincello players. They hold their bows and cease to play, stopped by the cooing of the dove, and becoming merely onlookers. All the figures are nude. It is very beautiful, but hopeless. Some time you will see it. — Yours truly, E. Dowden. 8 MONTENOTTE, CoRK April I $th, 1873 Dear Miss West, Yesterday I came down here, repeating last year's visit and return next Friday, as I also did in 1872. Mr Yeats and a young Scotchman named Wilson — who also is an artist — went over to Sligo for Easter, and are coming up to Dublin on Friday or Saturday to stay for 2 or 3 days. Mr Yeats, with my brother and Wilson with us, and I must go back to meet them. Towards end of next week my college work re- commences with examinations, and soon after lectures follow, which said lectures, though they will be only twelve or thirteen, are always rather a puzzle to me. They will be partly occupied with Shakespere ; and how to say anything of value about Shakespere is what I have not yet made out. All I can really do is to try to make out for my class the order in which the plays were written, and tell them to read them for themselves. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS n The week after my " Victor Hugo " lecture was rather an unproductive one, and the presence of a visitor in the house prevented me from getting at anything in the way of work. Our visitor — Mr Cross — is a master in Drogheda School, and had been previously curate to Archdeacon Stopford. He is a man made for not getting on in the world. His own interests seem to him a matter of so very little importance ; yet he enjoys life very sufficiently (without much attachment to it). He is more really disinterested and modest than almost any man I know ; with plenty of ability and a reserve of quiet strength. He is to me like the poetry of life turning itself for practical use into very true unostentatious prose. And everyone likes such prose (because it is not hard and dry but full of a plain beauty and charity). My eyes are getting refreshed while I write by what lies in front of the window. We are on the side of a moderate hill, which slopes down in an awkward green field to a road, at the other side of which runs the river ; up the river town- wards are docks (with battered ships, timber sheds, with steam hammer and clatter in them), downwards the river goes on winding till it widens into a lough surrounded (apparently) on all sides by low hills. Directly opposite our house, on the other side of the Lee, is the "Park" — a great field, a race course covered partly with rain water, and beyond that very tenderly outlined hills, retreating gently to a considerable height dotted with houses, and divided into irregular patches of wood and field. I said nearly all my lessons before I went to college in this window. The town lies to the right in the hollow of a basin of hills, which rise around and beyond it. This is rather a topographical than a pictorial description of the place. The feeling of the whole is a soft, unenergetic, vaguely pleasurable one, with which I am now quite out of harmony, but which long ago was my milieu. Even the docks, though they are ugly enough to save one from the 12 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS soft beauty of Cork landscape, are not energetic enough to give one a sense of human effort. They seem to go on because it is their way, not because they have to accomplish anything, and, like Irish workmen, you expect them to stop and look on at the world for an hour or two every now and then. This would now be a very unsatisfactory surrounding for me, and it strikes me as immensely to Armstrong's credit that he can go on designing and writing his energetic volumes of poetical rhetoric here. I told you in a letter some time ago that my Athenian curiosity was interested by the name of Hebbel, which Hamerling mentions with honour. I found I had a long essay on him at hand since 1866, but never read. This, which you would read in an hour or two, would repay you to look through. I have also a much less favourable criticism on him by Julian Schmidt. He impresses me, rendered thus at second-hand, as somewhat like a poetical Nathaniel Haw- thorne, creating for his imagination curious psychological problems, and working them out with pitiless rigour. "Judith" seems to be his most remarkable drama (which was his first), and he has made her spiritual relation with Holo- phernes very elaborate — a complex piece of the mechanics of human passion. I wrote to Mr Morley asking if he would care to have my " Victor Hugo." This I thought it right to do, as I had spoken to him of a projected series of articles on con- temporary French poets, but I have felt of late a disinclina- tion, which perhaps is a foolish one, to support a Review, the tone of which, on the whole, is atheistic. (I know, however, that any belief which made one insensible to the high sense of right and justice in Mr Morley's character and writings, would be really more pernicious than beneficial ; and the Fortnightly distinctly declines to pledge itself to any set of opinions; so, perhaps, this feeling will pass away.) It was a FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 13 satisfaction to me to find that neither Mr Graves nor you nor my brother confirmed my fear that the lecture might be inclining towards the dithyrambic or verbose. In one respect, it differs from my former attempts at criticism. In giving my brief accounts of the volumes of Victor Hugo's poems, in some instances I ventured on what I will name ideal criticism, that is to say, I did not give a real account of the contents, but took a few highest passages as containing the true essential element, and disengaged this and gave it pro- minence which it might not seem to have to every reader. I am, therefore, in one or two, passages liable to the charge of having read meaning into Victor Hugo's poetry ; but I believe I have not actually erred in any instance in this way. But the omission of his dramatic poetry makes the essay very imperfect as an exposition of Victor Hugo. It gave me yet more satisfaction to find that you were of opinion that my "Andromeda" poem has succeeded in re- presenting truly the character I intended to represent. (I see that you are right about the Tennysonian line. I will alter it when I again look through the poem.) The monster was my difficulty, and led me to see how very different the powers of artists are in representing the horrible or terrible. In the Hibernian Academy you will see, if you go, a drawing of the Perseus by Poynter (Mr Yeats' master), preparatory to a large painting exhibited in the Royal Academy last year. The monster and Perseus are very poor creatures. Andromeda, with a huge scarf fluttering in the air, is a fine piece of drawing, but, I think, a poor piece of imagining. I have a St George, by Diirer, which I put up in the study, and always delight in. He and his horse are very weary (and you can see that he looks forward to many another fight), but victorious. There is no bright joy — only a strong satisfaction in the accomplishment. The dragon has bit the dust, is utterly vanquished, left to his shame and his 14 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS disagreeable death by St George, who looks before him and upward with sad, high strength. There is no virgin or king's daughter to thank or praise him. I have also a picture on the same subject by Raphael, a beautiful youth mounted on a noble horse is lightly but surely cutting down his antagonist. There is no great effort. The timid Princess is in flight ; the monster is an attempt to conceive an ugly thing — and not a successful attempt. But either in this or a St Michael, although the monsters are contemptible, Raphael introduces certain eerie nondescript creatures, small, but so singularly uncanny, that you feel your mind dislocated, un- hinged, and don't know what strange or odd thing may not happen next. But if nothing does happen, in a moment you will be laughing at the absurd creatures. Spenser's dragon in Book I. of " Faerie Queene," is very overdone, I think, and unsuccessful, while his " Acrasia " and "Bower of Bliss," in Book II., are thoroughly seductive and dangerous to one exposed to such temptations. In contrast to all these I think of a Python, a drawing by Michael Angelo — with involved neck and tail, which is a true imaging of terrible strength. • •••••» I cannot yet write the S. Teresa Poem, and had better say no more about it. Nothing has ever seemed to me more real than the story itself, so real that perhaps I shall not venture to touch it. The priest died within a year, and the form of my poem, if written, will be a monologue spoken by him before his strength failed. I would require probably for the poem, as I conceive it, some little local colour which ought to be right rather than wrong, and therefore I must read a little about Spain. I read yesterday a thing which greatly laid hold of me, and which I feel to be beyond any touching by the imagination — about Michael Angelo and Vittoria Colonna. He was an old FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 15 man when he came to know her — she well away from youth ; she died before him, and he visited her on her death-bed. He confessed that he repented of nothing so much as that he had only kissed her hands and not her forehead and cheek. Remembering the austere solitary strength of Michael Angelo, does not this become very touching ? Meaning that the last sacramental act had been left imperfect through his intense spirituality and Puritan re- moteness from rites and ceremony — and yet — that he was not pure spirit to whom symbol is needless — after all. Let me give you my most hearty congratulations on the good report of your brother (and son) Hercules. I who watch for signs of thoughtfulness and good sense and ardour in Essie, and delight in any sign of them, know how glad you must be. Thank you for all your last letter. — Truly yours, E. DOWDEN. June 6th, 1873 ... A short tour has been proposed for Mr Wright, my brother and myself, from Dublin to Southampton, from Southampton to Havre, and so into the " Red Cotton Night- cap country" (perhaps "Mrs Mulhausen" is still to be got sight of). My brother in one of his flights of fancy substi- tuted the Pyrenees for Normandy, but I have strong doubts of my accomplishing either excursion. If we went, it would be about June 25th. If I go, I shall of course go in for pleasure and good fellowship, not for solitude or mooning about. My College work is just done. I came to no end or place of halt with my Shakespere notes, but simply stopped short. The task has been more one of fingers and eyes than of brain- work (and my eyes do feel a little tired of printed type). At some time I should like to make over these Shakespere 1 6 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS lectures to you, on the chance of your picking some informa- tion out of them. If I do anything now, it will be verse- writing. As to publishing my essays — 1 think I'll write to Macmillan and see if he doesn't reject the idea of publishing. When I ask myself, " What sufficient motive there is for collecting these essays at all?" I fear I have no satisfactory answer to give, except that it might at some time turn out of practical service to have such a credential to refer to, as a vol. of pretty good essays. But I imagine the Board will let me keep my Professorship now as long as I choose to apply for it, and though for a good while I did not look forward with satisfaction to settling permanently in Dublin, now, and for some time past, I have found that one part of the world is as good as another — ay, and better, too ! If I chose I might give prominence to the fact that a number of the essays are leaders of Democracy in Literature — but that fact seems a superficial one which I should not care to make prominent. I thoughtof the name "Studiesin Literature" as a suitableone, and in a preface I might say something of the common method of most of them, viz. : that in each there is an attempt to ascertain the dominant law or tendency of a writer. Pater perhaps gets at the same thing in a better and more delight- ful way through enquiring " what is the unique pleasure each artist gives ? " In mine, except in one or two instances, I either nervously or deliberately abstained from much play of my own mind, trying to make the study of each writer a scientific study — the observation or ascertainment of an objective fact — some law of the writer's mind, and then colligating a number of facts under this law or idea. My supposed law was not always (as you point out in the case or my " Browning") the highest one, but still it seemed as an hypothesis for the colligation of facts, and helped to approxi- mate to the true and ultimate law. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 17 It is very pleasant to think of you as at Howth. You fit very well into Howth, better, I think, than into the Deanery, though perhaps if I knew its roof I could accommodate you there. The feeling which Howth gives me is that as man is composed of four elements (i.e. the perfect man) — earth, air, fire and water — they all have their correlatives in Howth. There is the air and fire of the sky and the substantial earth to tread on and the sea around one's feet — and further, though the external powers are so vigorous and simple and play through one, so that one becomes part of the magic web, the place seems to reinforce one's own personality in equal pro- portion, so that I never feel my own reality and also the real work of the world more than here. These are the metaphysics of Howth — its law — (the unique pleasure it gives). I am sure you miss Miss Emily Dickinson and your little cousin Bessie very much. We both got quite the impression of Miss E. Dickinson's substantial and warm nature, which you confirm. The last day she was here I said of Essie's sudden love for Bessie, " I fear Essie is an idealist," and I fancied I saw a very satisfactory resentment in Miss Dickinson at any slur being thrown on idealists — which seemed to convict her of being one herselr. But my truth was the better one and best of all — that the solid facts of the world are more great and more blessed than any dreams or self projections. I may be now idealiz- ing, but I always feel towards that child Bessie a strong wish that her life may be a very happy one, arising from a sense that her grave and thoughtful side as well as the brighter could grow to beauty and perfection without very bitter discipline of pain (and one who can learn from joy, learns perhaps rarer lessons than people who can learn only from sorrow.) Mrs Graves' Alexandra party was the Epilogue or Envoy B 2 1 8 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS to the Saturday lectures. It went satisfactorily, I think. There was reading of poetry (which I suppose was not much taken in). I was put on to read, and in adherence to a rule Mr Carmichael lays down for himself " Never funk anything," I went through " The Italian in England." Mr Graves read a mystical poem by Crashaw on S. Teresa — and one of his nephew's Killarney songs, which last he read standing with a beautiful assumed enthusiasm in a manner Wordswortho- Hibernian, which had a strange effect ! Mr Wright gave us some of ''Alice "and the "White Knight" and somewhat too much of it, for the soup for supper had been poured out, and was cooling rapidly. Mr Wright in his mellifluous voice, reading away — Mrs Graves unhappy about the soup — Mrs Lloyd (who hadn't known "Alice") in undignified convulsions — Mrs Trench simpering, Mrs Jellicoe radiant, and a huddle of forty young ladies in white tarlatene and a group of gentlemen about the door. Mrs Dowden would think my smile at Mr Graves reading " O'Farrell the Fiddler" a treason ! but it really is not (and I think I cannot recall one thought ever about Mr Graves which was not a loving one). He first wished to see me because I said something in a Vice-Chancellor's Essay of which he heard — about my obligation to Wordsworth. Lately he sent me a message by Mrs Dowden " that he had a unique love for me, between that for a son and a brother." He surprised us by making Mrs Dowden and myself sharers in the most sacred facts of his life, now lying forty years in the past. Wellington Road Later, June 1 873 I had hoped to have delivered myself from the madness of reading (you make allowances for my half unwise utterances, so I shan't try with you to be always wise) by some walks in the Dublin mountains, but for some days I had a suspicion that I FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 19 was going to get into the doctor's hands and I stayed quiet, and the disease of reading prolonged itself. Now I am letting the strain of knowledge escape, and getting clear of the desire for culture, i.e. for " disintegration and confusion of mind." . . . I suppose I didn't read Morley's "Rousseau" in the right mood, for tho' I saw that there was a good deal of value, I didn't feel that it was helpful reading ; so don't mind my judgment of the book ; if you like you can have it, but I think the 2nd vol. (on Rousseau's writings) is better worth knowing than the first. I doubt whether you would gain much by the book, and indeed I am put a little out of conceit with J. Morley by reading him at such length. He seems to throw his mind too much into the foreground : having got a vigorous per- sonality and the strong position of a creed, he accumulates knowledge and then writes away, keeping his forte and bravura passages (contrasts between Christianity and Positivism very admirably done) for the ends of chapters. I mean that there is a want of richness and leisure about his mind. It has not recesses and shade, it doesn't tempt one to go on, it is all in the foreground ; he has not rich moods (but this perhaps all means that I read him in the wrong mood myself), he is too uniformly energetic. • •••••• We had Mr Story and Mr Graham the idealist here to tea last night and hoped to see your brother. I wish I knew your brother J. R. W. better, and only fear he might think my regard for him an outcome of my having got near you, instead of being independent of you. If we go to Brittany it may be on the 25th. I will write again before then. It was good of you to have only an amiable smile at my doing "interesting young dark-haired poet" (you know as a fact that I don't — and have no right to — affect so dis- tinguished a part !). But all the same I hold my conviction that solitude is sane as well as society, and that society with- 2o FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS out solitude would be very soon moral life in death for one like me. Mrs Dowden urges me to go away (as well as E. D. W.), so very probably I shall. The pleasure at all events will be over soon, and I shall be back again if I do go (and I shall while away take every kind of fun that turns up). • • • • • • • Keep Pater. If you'd like any books I have, I'd leave them at the Deanery before Saturday. Should you be taking to reading philosophy, I strongly recommend your using for a general view, if you don't know it, Schwegler's " History of Philosophy," translated by Sterling ; I can lend it to you. What strikes me as so good in this History is that it doesn't bewilder you with a succession of disconnected schemes of the Universe, but the whole history of philosophy becomes one, each development of thought leading inevitably to the next. Perhaps I exaggerate its merit, but with me it had a plot-interest like a novel j and from Descartes onward, one feels held by strong curiosity to see what will become of certain ideas through their successive adventures. It's not at all a large book, and as far as I can judge, is singularly trustworthy. It was very inconsiderate of you to occupy my time, that of a grand literary man like Gigadibs, with those trifling matters of sixteen years ago ! I forgive you. • • • • • • I can't possibly send my " Atalanta and Milanion " in this letter, but I report to you that I am not doing nothing, and you must be willing to accept inevitable failures among my attempts (of which this may be one). • • • • • • My mind is delivering itself for a time from the pain of some weeks ago. I see no good reason for believing there is not God and immortality, — that I have never been able to find — and certainly the isolation and pain which follows wrong- doing, and also the pain of doubt, are as like as can be to FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 21 what we would feel if a real Father were. In this whole matter the aid you have given me has been substantial. You have helped very much to deliver me from dependence on my own moods. Of late my attitude has been this — that the materialistic construing of the facts of the world, is after all only a construing — not an experience at all — that a different construing is altogether as possible — but that the scientific movement at present gives the materialistic a great advantage, that the pressure of contemporary manners of thought must necessarily be felt by us very largely, but that the 19th century will only advance the problems of thought — not close them — that we are very ignorant and ought to be modest. I incline, too, towards the belief that no real reduction of thoughts to material phenomena is possible, nor any proof attainable that matter and motion is the cause of thought. In fact, after a materialistic period I am almost sure that the diffi- culties of materialism will be felt very strongly and that men will return to the other hypothesis in some new form as the less difficult of the two. But I must stop, and not let writing, and the ease of writing, tempt me to say I have found more than I have found (which is an earnest hope). • • • • • • • I shall have examinations on the mornings of Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, the Downes Divinity prizes ; after that, holidays and kicking up of heels on the grass of idleness ! • •••■-• Dr Atkinson suggested a year ago that some of us should give evening lectures to the young men in shops who might care to learn things. I think next winter I might revive the design and try to carry it out as far as English literature is concerned. — Always truly yours, E. D. July yd, 1873 Our Brittany excursion had the fates dead against it. Mr 22 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Wright had to go to London. Last week I went into and got out of a doctor's hands, and my brother was kept busy getting ready for the printers a sermon he preached at St Patrick's on the Synod and the Black-letter saints, which when preached at St Stephen's (with some additional sentences containing strong epithets), created a small sensation and compelled some of the congregation to vacate their seats ! I haven't heard the sermon, and I'm sorry to say the Church taught me very little about "Black-letter saints" — (I hear Ambrose and Augustine are amongst them) — but I agree with the general feeling of my brother that it is a provincial and anti-historical act to exclude their names and confine the Hagiography to " Bible saints." The little cluster of epithets I fancy was unnecessary and indiscreet. But I am often in doubt how much or how little frank one ought to be with individuals or with composite bodies (not that even the Protestant Episcopal Church of Ireland need much mind what one of us thinks). I feel horribly ashamed of convicting anyone of being a thief or imposter or a lazy dog or a fool, and I am sure it would be much more for the good of a goose to be told in downright fashion to what order of the animal kingdom he belongs, than to let him go off, as I am tempted to let him, with a sense that I am greatly impressed by his profundity. Thank you for your criticism of the closing lines of my " Atalanta." I believe you are right, still I have a feeling that in this instance I must have a line or two following Atalanta's utterance — though I see how likely to degenerate into a trick this way of ending would be. . . . ... A wild and gross story of witchcraft which I found in an old French collection, " Histoires tragiques," has gained a certain fascination for me by its contrast with the classic myths, and possibly I may attempt it — but just as likely not. I have been looking into a book which seems worth read- ing, " The Mystery of Matter." I can't report on it yet, but FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 23 it seems written by a man who has an acquaintance with the results of science, and who has also a religious and literary temperament. (It is an attempt to make out a certain scientific Christian Pantheism.) I confess, to me personality, science, the will, the sense of right and wrong, become infinitely more real and precious when I look at them as manifestations of a transcendent Unknown somewhat : — then one rejoices in their development as something far worthier than self-aggrandise- ment, or the mere development of a race of ever perishing units — then, too, the impersonal, the sinking back, the approaches to that Unknown are all precious — and the two movements out and in — centrifugal and centripetal — the systole and diastole — make up a pulse of life. (The pulse which has always been that which has sent blood circulating through me at least.) I send you Sterling's 2nd letter. Please send it on to Mr Kaufmann. I don't agree in disparagement of the criticism of the letter. It seems to me important to prove when John wrote his Gospel, and whether Jesus rose from the dead — important even if John be no more significant than Virgil, and the Colenso kind of criticism seems to me the right instru- ment for effecting the purpose he aims at. — Truly yours, E. Dowden. July \%th, 1873 Mr Yeats and I will go down to you to-morrow by the I.30 train (to Howth). I hope your brother will be able to have a holiday and be with us. Mr Yeats is killing the time before he leaves for Killarney — by attempting a picture of me. In the end I daresay it will be good. I am much flattered by his telling me that I sit " as well as a model" (without the reward of is. an hour). The last time, two or three years ago, I sat very badly, impatiently and irritably, and I take my better conduct now as a sign of 24 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS good health, satisfaction in living, and self-control in some degree. It is interesting enough to see Mr Yeats at work — he gets so thoroughly into the "fluid and attaching" state, every glance at one's face seems to give him a shock, and through a series of such shocks he progresses. He finishes nothing, but gets his whole picture just into an embryo existence, out of which it gradually emerges by a series of incalculable develop- ments ; and all the while he is indulging in endless gossip of the peculiar Teatsian kind, i.e. telling trivial facts and reducing them under laws of character founded on ethical classifications on down to Aristotle or any other student of character — classi- fications which are perpetually growing and dissolving ! I shouldn't wonder if I really went off somewhere next week and not, I think, to London. Before Yeats came I was feeling (perfectly well, but) like the trees in summer, a little dusty and droughty, and my efforts at reading and writing flagged. If I don't go, I intend to take to afternoon walks towards the Dublin mountains. I am very glad you've been reading Herbert Spencer, and find him carry you with him. I have not read him carefully enough to speak as a critic (even if I were otherwise qualified), but I could have no doubt about the position he brought one to, being, to myself personally, greatly more satisfactory than that of Comte. I should suppress a very real part of the life in me to be a happy disciple of Comte. I don't feel that about H. Spencer. What you say with respect to Hutton and the Mansellites is thoroughly at one with my feeling. Why, even with respect to a fellow human being, one's knowledge is forever incomplete, though for ever becoming less inadequate. The satisfactory thing is not when every- thing is plumbed and measured, but when the eye is perpetu- ally traversing depths which are as open as the sky or the sea, but equally unfathomable. (This I know applies only FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 25 by a kind of analogy to the relativity of our knowledge and the relation of that to what we think and feel of the Unknowable.) When you read that book, " The Mystery of Matter," I hope its attempt to give a more positive religious character to Spencer's philosophy, will not have only the effect of disturb- ing the satisfaction one feels in the certitude of something of which Spencer's book brings. There is also a chance of Picton's alienating you by the emotional way in which many pages are written. One likes clear, precise thinking in an attempt at philosophy — not rhetoric or sentiment — neverthe- less I believe you will find that the writer does really think. — Very truly yours, E. Dowden. But I think you ought to surround yourself a good deal with concrete things. With First Principles, read such a book as Benvenuto Cellini's " Memoirs " for the life and colour and noise in it. You must have read H. Spencer very eagerly. (Mr Yeats noticed and liked your eagerness.) Life and noise and colour give one a certain rest. July 21th, 1873 Out of our vagueness and mist, M'Kenny's Hotel, Howth, emerges as a solid fact. We expect to go down on Tuesday afternoon. The next thing with me will be the English Lakes — being back sometime before September ends. But get away I shall. I wish you were off somewhere with your brothers, because you ought to be superior to that feminine weakness of being able to dispense with amusement. Couldn't you go ? So Mr Wright is really leaving us ! I am very sorry, and shall miss him ; but I am not at all sure that a district church 16 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS with plenty of work to be done, and a high standard of preaching, may not get the best work out of him. He did not seek it at all, and he seems to wish this fact to be known. This Grosvenor Chapel seems a much more suitable thing than Maurice's Vere Street Church. I wish my brother could follow him, for I believe England would now suit him better than this country. He, who always wished to live in Dublin, ought to be in London; and I, who wanted often to get to London, am at work where I never intended to be, and am well pleased to stay where I am. For some little time past I have somehow not been in good working condition. Sometimes things occur to me which might, at another season, be worked out successfully ; and they don't succeed in getting themselves expressed. Howth air and salt water will make this all right. I was up with Mr Graves to-day, and he wants me to write a review of Sara Coleridge's memories and letters — but it is just the sort of thing I shouldn't care to do (an article of miscellaneous extracts and comments thereon). I don't know if you are apprised of Mr Graves' own literary task ? A " Life and Letters of Sir William Rowan Hamilton." I think (if it be ever done) it will be well done, and a valuable book. The mass of material is quite stupendous. Sir William was a man of very wide cultivation, and his letters full of varied interest ; while the history of the emotional man is as abso- lutely important as the intellectual man. His life was a very deep tragedy, and how to approach and present this, will bring into exercise all Mr Graves' tact and judgment and delicacy. The thing I most enjoyed last week was a chapter in Shadworth Hodgson's "Theory of Practice" (a book they here put into the Trinity College Fellowship course) on classes of character and the foundation of character. I haven't yet attempted, nor do I intend, to get at Hodgson's Metaphysics. (He says the problem of philo- FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 27 sophy, and that which he attempts, is to bring together Comte and Hegel), but this chapter was intelligible by itself. The great division of characters is that between the active and the sluggish. He has some new and very suggestive phraseology — e.g. the emotion and the framework of the emotion — and with the two types of character which concern themselves chiefly (1) with the emotion, (2) with its frame- work. Another good phrase perpetually recurring is the " career " of an emotion, and he shows (what is a deadly blow, I think, to pessimism) that it is only the most excellent emotions which have an indefinite career. Revenge is not an object to itself, and destroys its career by its very success — not so love of duty — or love of man by man. Here is his description of the highest type of character: "where the sympathetic emotions are combined with this character of the love of duty, there the character of the whole man is most loveable and admirable, strong, chivalrous, and tender ; and where the poetically imaginative and religious feelings are added besides, there will arise a total character of the most completely heroic type which human nature can assume." (This I think describes the character of Jesus.) The distinction of active and sluggish rests on the dynamical view of character. In the statical view, characters are primarily divided — according as they tend towards the formal elements of consciousness and make wholes of these, (i.e. the intellectual character) ; or the materia/ elements (emotional). And I note that Shadworth Hodgson dis- tinguishes prose and poetry as you did to Mr Yeats, and mentions that some prose is poetry. What Mr Yeats was feeling after is that the direct expression of emotion is not art (e.g. a shake of the hands or a blow) : it must acquire an impersonal element — what Mr Yeats calls " reserve." He finds a want of reserve in what I write, and cites one of Shakespere's songs, e.g. " Tell me where is fancy bred," as a perfect example of it. There is the song, and you never need 28 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS think of Shakespere. This reserve Mr Yeats looks on as a sign of immense strength in the artist. The Adelphi Hotel Harrogate, August 24th, 1873 Dear Miss West, I have just ended a letter of gossip to Mrs Dowden, and I should like to go on writing — moreover, I want, if you have been reading or thinking, or doing anything, to hear of it. My father and I left on Friday evening and came on to Manchester, where we arrived about four o'clock by the light of a gray morning. My impressions, as far as Man- chester, are of little more than light and darkness — a slow fading sunset, Howth Head, dark against the sky, then a clear skyful of stars, and the dark movement of waters ; finally, a wonderfully large and strange morning star that held out against the dawn, intense and palpitating. I have no series of things to describe in travellers' fashion. Each time I come to England it seems newer and more foreign. I think on the whole I am glad to be Anglo-Irish rather than English. The British breed has certainly the robust frame and the energy, out of which, in the end, all good will come ; but, so far, I think they have evolved out of this fine material as much barbarity as most peoples. Life is something quite dreadful in a city like Manchester. The air is a thick grey damp ; the river a foul stream ; the buildings a medley of every kind of incongruous attempt at beauty ; the statues are black with soot and the trees grimy. Even near St Patrick's (Dublin) the people are not so marred. I saw them in great crowds on Saturday, and both men and women looked as if they had been pressed for the coarsest uses of life and ruined. Yet they hadn't the melancholy laisser aller aspect of FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 29 Irish wretchedness, but seemed full of energy on the alert for any strong excitement ; and capable of being tremendously violent and truculent if occasion called for it. They seem to have a far stronger sense of the reality of living than we \ but then life for them is a brutal affair. I should like to know the intelligent artizan who loves to profess Atheism of a crude kind and a crude Republicanism ; but setting him aside, I should say you have to go high up in the social scale in England to get real humanity — a good deal higher than in Ireland. This hotel, which is a good one and very full, is resorted to chiefly by the married business people of Leeds and Brad- ford and Huddersfield, and the rich impenetrable vulgarity of these Britishers is without parallel, I fancy, among us. (I who am one of the bourgeoisie, can't help feeling this.) The women are great carnassiers, flesh eaters, with large beefy fingers and redundant physique. The men discuss stocks and shares, and their God is one who loves polished hats on Sundays and heavy meals — a gloomy, middle-class Deity (who would dishonour the shafts of Apollo). I begin to understand many things. I begin to think Matthew Arnold's dilettante refinement of former days natural (since he is not Browning or Luther). His languid "scratching at the surface" has its functions (besides, is it the surface ? Does not vulgarity indicate some moral defi- ciency nearly as fatal to human progress as a great many energetic vices ?). I also sympathize with Ruskin's con- servatism and hatred of English Society and 19th century progress. (But his piece of truth is only a piece, I know.) I understand also a little the source of the grotesque extra- vagance of English Dissent, and I bless the Church of England in spite of its prudential spirit and timidity, and sometimes chilly aspect — for grace, sanity, and beautiful piety — for the shapely parish churches and for a character like Keble's. So FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS My Father and I have as yet been one another's only companions. Life begins here early, about seven o'clock, when it is a duty to go and swallow glass No. I of some rather, or exceedingly, disagreeable water ; according to taste, or the orders of a doctor. I mean to get to see York Minster and Fountains Abbey. I brought with me " Wuthering Heights," Emily Bronte's novel ; it is a north-country book. I have been for about two years getting various provocatives to read this book, but as yet it has not interested me. It is very vividly imagined, but as yet I have come across nothing that it has been good to have forced thus on one's imagination. In Manchester we went to a grimy place (entered thro' a Moorish archway) facing the river and the barrack-like factories, called Peel Park. Here there is a museum of a very heterogeneous kind, with the usual stuffed monkey, and ostrich eggs, and Sand- wich-Island clubs. Besides there are some pictures, chiefly of Manchester worthies, mayors, aldermen, eminent dissent- ing ministers, and such like. In a place of honour thrown out by abundant blue velvet, are shining marble busts of a smiling Albert Edward idealized, and a smiling Alexandra. What I looked at most curiously was a portrait by Hogarth of Thomas Chatterton. It verifies itself, and is the face of a genius without will or moral character (moral sweetness there is). If he had lived he might have been an incomplete poet or a fanatic, religious or political, or have been put into a lunatic asylum. I said inwardly : " It is pleasant, poor boy, to think that the world didn't lose a great deal when you drank poison ; only a brilliant insanity, I believe, at best. (I should never think this of Shelley's face.) I saw also an engraving from a portrait of Ary SchefFer, and was surprised to see a face so materially robust, and so full of excitability and almost disorder. It made me think his paintings were used as means of acquiring self-control. After these a FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 31 chromolithograph of a lovely entombment of St Catherine by Luini (sorrow so beautiful that it becomes more har- monious than joy — three angels sustaining her quiet body in air just over the tomb); after that I was most edified by a big gilt Idol. I wanted Mr Hoare so much to be with me ! It was Gautama Buddha — his friend and oars ! (at least we have heard of him) — cross-legged, and whether male or female I couldn't determine. Buddha's face was all one bland, inane smile, eyes downcast ; it was the quintessence of piety and mindlessness. I think Socrates with his Silenus face and his habit of asking inconvenient questions ought to occupy a decidedly higher place in Mr Hoare's Pantheon, than this painfully amiable and pitifully devout Gautama Buddha! 1 I read last week more than twelve books of Worsley's translation of the " Odyssey " with great interest. The self- reticence of Ulysses is strongly insisted on — not his fortitude in adversity, but his refusing to advance on his long desired joy until every means of complete success is put in train. Athene assumes the form of a shepherd, and asks Ulysses his story (after his landing in Ithaca). He invents a feigned tale. She is delighted. "Other men," she says, "would have hurried to house and wife, but you test and try all things first." Then after his long and perfect self-restraint comes the complete vengeance and the perfect joy. He is the man who must succeed. I shall be on the look out to see if Achilles was not meant to be the man of splendid powers who must fail. The "Odyssey" must have been a great moral power in Greece, and have helped to make strong men stronger. The book I am reading in part here is ridiculously out of keeping with Harrogate — " Obermann " — that Matthew Arnold writes about. It is utterly Matthew Arnoldish, and represents in detail exactly his form of moral malady — the 1 Our friend J. N. Hoare's Buddhist proclivities were treated by his friends as a standing joke. One can afford a laugh at loved and respected friends. 32 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS history of a purely egoistic attempt to bring harmony into a discordant nature in which will is very feeble. I suppose wc shall be a fortnight here, and then I return and mean to do some work — good work if I can. — Truly yours, E. Dowden. Adelphi Hotel Harrogate, September jth, 1873 We purpose to leave Harrogate to-morrow and reach Dublin on Tuesday evening. I shall have no grudge against Harrogate ; it has been very pleasant to have an opportunity of being my Father's com- panion on grown-up terms, and I have had the satisfaction of finding myself, though not as good as my brother would have been, a less dull companion for him than I had feared. Then for more private satisfaction I have had York and Fountains Abbey and some reading, and letters from Mrs Dowden, Mr Graves, and you, which helped to make Harro- gate by no means a place of ennui or discontent. We went one day to Fountains Abbey : drove in an open carriage to Ripon, eleven miles off, through rich, wide- spreading, but somewhat tame country, the day fine with gathering and scattering clouds. Thence three miles to Studley Park, in which Nature has become a stately English lady with aristocratic habits and feelings — noble and beautiful, and of her kind almost perfection. I should not, if I tried, succeed in describing Fountains Abbey ; of bits of it I bring back photographic records. It is the largest and most inter- esting ecclesiastical ruin I have seen. The Chapel, which is very large and beautiful, having grouped around it remains more or less perfect of nearly every part of the monastic building — chapter-house, cloisters, refectory, kitchen, porter- house (for Lay brothers), hospital, abbot's house, etc., and each of these with beauty of its own. It is set between FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 23 wooded hills, and a little river runs by its side (murmuring a monotonous litany all day — poor river !). I went a second time to York, this time by myself. I started off early and went to morning prayers. It did not win upon me by any means. The service was a highly respectable piece of official piety, and one or two of the visitors were presumably devout (I was not one of these !). The organ was silent — the vergers were waiting till prayers were over to take the sightseers round the Church. I know with what overpowering logic my brother could prove to me that all this was very right, and that the great piece of homage was offered to God all the same. I was put at a disadvantage — seated in a deep, massive, carved oak stall ! And not being able to get stability or assurance through material things and organizations and history, if I were not to perish I should try to make out for myself other realities than these ; and then, necessarily, priests, choir, vergers, sightseers, cathedral and history (including a son of Edward III. and several old Yorkshire families) all grew somewhat shadowy and unreal. After that experience I went hither and thither and up and down the town. It is in one particular less beautiful than Exeter. Exeter is a city set upon a hill. York is richer in memorials of the past. Quaint little streets, tiny quadrangles, small Gothic churches turning up in every quarter. The city walls, the castle, the bridge, the river with the swans upon it, and a canal (I think) with sedge growing on its banks, and the wind blowing, made up my ideal York ; and over all the Cathedral, which had the oddest fashion of appearing and dis- appearing as you moved, and shifting from right to left in the most irrational way; (and in a little epistle I wrote to Mr Graves I say that I was sure Turner's pictures of cities got made out for him in this way, and that they are more the fact than the fact itself — they are not views but essences. My reading here has been chiefly Darwin's " Expression c 2 34 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS of the Emotions," Max Muller's "Science of Religion," and Dr Maudsley's " Body and Mind." (My brother declared I would come to reading all the murders and shocking acci- dents in the Leeds Mercury, but as yet I have not come to this ! !) Dr Maudsley's book is interesting, yet I hardly think you'd like to go in for as much pathology. It leaves the impression of the most intimate and fateful connection between mind and body (not brain alone, but every portion of the body). The only thing I think worth copying out of Max Miiller for you is that the worship of the Semitic races is the worship of God in history — God is the Strong, the Exalted, the Lord, the King. The Aryan race worship God in Nature (and in man, I suppose, as part of Nature). I quite understand your "nonsense" about poetry and meteorology. As I write nonsense to you whenever I feel disposed, I hope you won't feel unwilling to give me the advantage of seeing your mind in its moods which may not be quite scientific. I doubt whether you can find any day that reminds you of Shakespere ! We have all sorts of people here now. Some nice enough people, but then I don't get much value out of nice enough people. Still I can talk to anyone and everyone, and take a hand at whist when I am asked. 50 Wellington Road October nth, 1 87 3 Dear Miss West, You will care to hear how I fared in my Wicklow excursion. I cannot maintain (with the Celtic facility for inventing agreeable falsehoods, examples of which the despatches of French generals during the Prussian war supply, I can't maintain that the Wicklow campaign was a very brilliant success ! Still it was not a failure altogether; and I am certainly refreshed and the better for it. We FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 35 left — Mr Graham and I — on "Wednesday, and had a fine, sunny afternoon at Woodenbridge (Ovoca). The year is a little autumnal or winterly for perfect beauty. The fields are getting a little of the grey, wintry aspect, and the trees are a degree beyond their best autumn look, and have a perceptable sereness even at a distance. The sound of the wind in the trees has something of a dryness and rustle, quite different from the full and vital movement of the leaves in summer ; and the silence was autumnal as well as the sounds. Still, Ovoca has advantages over Grafton Street, which I admitted and enjoyed. And then, after a stupendous dinner, we had a moonlight walk on a road by a riverside, seeing the river, through trees, bright and moving under the moon, and discussing — a little too much — " HeegV (Mr Graham's absolute in philosophy), and things heavenly and earthly ! Mr Graham has been a kind and pleasant companion. I am almost ashamed to confess a feminine distaste for much reek of tobacco indoors, so, after an honest effort at masculine good fellowship, I had to fall back on my habitual cups of tea. In this, your brother John and I would have agreed. However, Mr Graham was by no means a bad companion, and knowing Wicklow and its hotels and land- lords better than I, I put myself under his conduct, and was as free from responsibility as a bride on the honeymoon. On Thursday my unluckiness in small things declared itself. The day was only not quite hopeless all the morning, and the oakwoods opposite our hotel windows were watched for some hours through moving and rising and descending veils of rain. We succeeded in getting a short walk and took train to Rathdrum, hoping to get on by car to Glendalough if there were any chance of a fine hour. But such chance was gradually diminished and finally abolished ; so in our small carpetless, dingy room, with one of the dreariest of Irish country-town looks out, we made ourselves comfortable with 36 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS a fire and books. I had a novel, and got through it in a determined fashion. We had the hotel all to ourselves until late, when a gentleman on his way somewhere in the dark, in the rain on an outside car, dropped in for a brief interval of punch and cigars, and left us a copy of Fun. We had also an Irish Times of comparatively recent date. In the back room, separated from us by closed folding-doors, the landlord and his wife and their little girls were strumming a piano and singing — and I had quite enough domesticity in my nature to enjoy their evening, which seemed to be a very happy and innocent one. Yesterday morning we started for DrumgofF on an outside car. It was blowy and showery, with occasional gleams of flying sunlight. The stormy night had brought down a good many yellow leaves, and the hillsides were covered with great rusty patches of withered fern. The rivers were full and swift and beautiful, and not discoloured by the rain ; and the autumn berries — which I never saw so many or so bright, were some compensation for flowers, brilliant wild-rose hips, and great bunches of haws, and sloes, and most beautiful of all the mountain ash trees seen among birch trees overhanging the river or in among the young oaks of a slope. At DrumgofF we saw up the vale of Glenmalure and declined to go further towards its head. We crossed by a military road over a small mountain to Glendalough, but a few minutes after we arrived the rain came on in a dense, small, most discouraging form. I am not sure that Glendalough oughtn't to be seen at least once under such circumstances — and our having been unable to wander about much, has left with me one very complete and beautiful memory of the place. We retreated to the hotel, and while waiting for the rain to lighten, studied the royal and noble autographs which are framed in the coffee-room, and the dreadful evidences of human nullity and folly to be found in the Visitors' book. Then when things were growing rather worse than better, FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 37 we started, and I, at all events, resolving to be indifferent to a wetting, succeeded in enjoying the drive and the dripping highly. Just at the right point in the Vale of Clara, it cleared up and we reached Rathdrum, which we had left in the morning, after a day which was on the whole a success, and quite ready for the largest of cutlets swimming in the least refined of gravies. Finally, after an hour's wait for the last train, kept late by a fair at Enniscorthy, we reached Dublin in a 2nd class carriage with a company of well-to-do farmers who slept and smoked and spat and discussed the points of horses and oxen in a weighty con- sequential manner. This is a faithful account of our doings, and I am encouraged by this little excursion to make other little dashes into Wicklow or Wales on future occasions. Perhaps I may take Mrs Dowden and Essie and Richard and a nurse down next spring for a few days. I found all well here. To-morrow will be your last Sunday in Howth, and you would have valedictory feelings — only that you don't feel the proper feelings at correct times. When you have got things to rights at the Deanery, and have time to spare, I hope you will come and see the boy and his mother. I begin examining on Wednesday. I still hesitate about undertaking a course of lectures on the Elizabethan literature. Criticism can't rise much higher than the thing criticised, and the truth is that there was then only one dramatic poet of real importance — Shakespere. I could not encourage anyone to read the other dramatic writers — or any one of them, except by way of extract. Still the literature, taken as a body of literature, is full of life and energy and importance. J. R. W., Mr Story and Mr Latchford kindly called here last Sunday. I wish I could make your brother, J. R. W., stronger physically and more joyous and hopeful and justly self-confident. But these things, if they don't come at his 3 8 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS age, may come at middle age. I think he underrates himself because no great occasions have proved to him his adequacy for them. Most men fail through some moral flaw, such as he is quite free from. His strength he will discover in time. I suppose your brother R. has returned to Cambridge. I hope he will get a Fellowship ; he would enjoy it, and I think is made for success. — Truly yours, E. D. (//; letter November \$th, 1 87 3) (Other part already published in "Fragments.") In this chapter H. Spencer speaks of Professor Boole's " Laws of Thought," by its application of mathematical methods to Logic, having constituted a step "far greater in originality and importance than any taken since Aristotle." My brother was for a year or two in Boole's class in Queen's College, Cork, and I, who attended Greek and Latin lectures for a year as non-matriculated student (when about fifteen years old), knew him. As I remember him he re- minds me of Mr Gladstone's face and figure, with a much sweeter expression and purer, more ideal than the photo- graphs give Gladstone. He was in every way quite unlike Dr Salmon (the only other great mathematician I have known). He had not the innocent big childishness of Dr Salmon, but a kind of strong intellectual simplicity, and a grave moral energy. He used apparently to enjoy the Cathedral music much, and join (out of tune I used to be told) in the singing. On one occasion there was something dishonest or dis- honourable done in some gas company in which he had shares, and I remember vaguely how he came forward and made himself suddenly a conscience in the middle of men of business. He used to talk to me as if I were full-grown and his equal (this was after I had been in Trinity College) - y FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 39 and I remember his arguing that there was a kind of aesthetics in mathematics (his own books, I heard, were conspicuous for their beauty of process as Dr Salmon's are for their efficient un-beautiful originality). His wife was a woman of intellect and attainment in mathematics, with a bright pure face, and they had two or three beautiful little girls. The Cork matrons had stories, partly mythical I am sure, concerning their novel experiments with the children ; e.g. that one baby girl was found naked and tethered in a grass plot, chewing pebbles ; which stories meant, I suppose, that they did not conform to all domestic conventions. Dr Boole was self-taught and never at a College. He was a real lover of literature, both classical and modern, and told me he learnt languages without a dictionary, fixing a new word in his memory until he met it again, and so gaining a richer feeling of the atmosphere and associations of a word than is got from finding a dictionary definition of it. I remember his talking to me about Heine. All this I have gone over, partly for the pleasure of recalling all I can about him, and partly for the pleasure of telling you. • •••••• I am certainly at present not a Utilitarian, i.e. I do not positively believe in the doctrine (to which your application of H. Spencer's words is just, I think). Whenever I did look into the matter, it seemed to me that in mere point of argument the Utilitarian side was not always the stronger, and that they strained and perverted facts (if others invented facts). But Darwinism and the Evolution theory applied to Morals does much to relieve the Utilitarian theory of difficult positions — the sense of right being now supposed to be inherited free from any consciousness of the usefulness of certain actions, there will be less forcing of the facts of consciousness. Still it does seem to me that apart from argument, the anti-Utilitarian thinkers have on the whole a 4 o FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS finer sense of moral phenomena. How, for example, the moral sense of James Mill was perverted and almost stulti- fied by his determination to look upon actions as the sole appropriate objects of praise and blame. To me the fact of conscience doesn't suggest the notion of a law and a law-giver. It rather takes the form with my feeling and imagination of an injuring or invigorating of vital power j and if the yielding to a certain kind of motive does really tend to depress one's vitality (shown ultimately by very grave consequences), and if acting upon other motives tends to heighten and enlarge one's vital power, I don't see why this fact should not make itself immediately felt in conscious- ness — felt acutely or feebly in proportion to one's powers of sensibility, i.e. one's health ; and this without any high-flying intentional theories, and even without the postulating of a moral governor of the Universe. If the child feels injury when a coal falls on his hand, why should he not feel injury when he yields to an unsocial motive such as revenge — a motive which if largely indulged will impair and distort his humanity ? Do you know the effective turning against himself ot Mill's remarkable passage ending : " To hell I -will go," by Mivart ? (However, the Darwinian theory would come to the defence of Mill, as it might be maintained that, though originally of Utilitarian origin, yet the love of truth had now become a supreme motive, and untruthfulness a source in itself of more pain than the pains of Hell. But if there is, in this tendency of human morality through centuries of inheritance to free itself from utilitarian motive of the original kind — a standard of happiness very new and wonderful is created, and, as you say, the question ''What is happiness ?" is as difficult to answer as the old question what is right. • • • • • . . J. R. W. was here last Sunday and borrowed one or two FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 41 of my Whitman papers for R. W. W., including the Westminster article. I since had a line from R. W. W., which says that he was " intensely pleased " with the Westminster article. He says he has a friend who is an -extreme Walt Whitmaniac. Perhaps R. would like to get Burroughs's book ? I have been nursing (in such masculine fashion as I can) the boy, and he has begun to laugh in a silent pretty way, and I confess that I think him as nice as a baby of seven weeks old need be ! ! I am going to hear "The Creation" this evening with Mrs Dowden, and I went to Haydn's "Spring" last week. I don't care for either much. One longs for something to break the uniform mellifluousness — "something craggy to break one's mind on" (Byron), and as a piece of the interpretation of nature "Spring" and the "Creation" may rank, I think, with the descriptive poetry so much in fashion in the 18th century. I forgot to say that I do know Chopin's Funeral March very well. All Chopin's music that I know is very beautiful, but hopeless, music. There is some music of Beethoven's called, without authority, "Funeral," which, if it be so, seems to grow full of resurrection joy or such joy of endless life as Whitman expresses — but I suppose it may just as likely have nothing to do with the grave and victory over the grave. — Always truly yours, E. Dowden. November 2^lh, 1 87 3 I am going to give one of my oldest Alexandra lectures to-day — a little improved — that on " Beowulf." Please don't take any more trouble about looking for Burroughs's book. In Coventry Patmore's poem, Vaughan lends Honoria a Tasso worth its weight in gold, and adds •" / hoped shed lose it." /am not quite so devoted to curious 42 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS pleasures, but I could be magnanimous and extend pardon, notwithstanding the injury. I have been getting into the depths with Shakespere, reading his plays of criticism on the base things of life ("Timon of Athens," Acts iv. and v. in particular) and finding it hard to be sure of their true significance. My own impression is that Shakespere could see all things as bitterly almost savagely as Swift — but knew that this was a disease of the soul and controlled it. The "Prospero" of "The Tempest" — beneath whom pass the wrongs of common men and the loves of a Miranda and Ferdinand, like clouds bright or dark behind some high mountain of vision. I look on Prospero as Shakespere at height of attainment (" The Tempest" was his last play), and as Prospero goes back to his Dukedom (dismissing his airy spirit and breaking his magic wand) accepting the little lot of Duke-hood as the bit of the world's work for him (while standing high above it by virtue of his mage-ship). So Shakespere going back to Stratford. This theory of Prospero-Shakespeare — is not my own, not original, but I don't know that its moral significance has been felt as I seem to feel it now. " Timon " and the "Tempest" explain one another. Timon was connoisseur of art — Prospero was artist. ...... A noble, pathetic resignation to things as they are is the spirit of Prospero. I feel there is a good deal to be worked out in this — Shakespere didn't attain it quickly. 50 Wellington Road December 2$tb, 1 873 My Dear Miss West, We are in Dublin, you see. I somehow misled you FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 43 into supposing that we intended to go this year, as last, to Cork for Christmas. I shall go there early in January (I am to lecture on the 9th and I may stay a few days). Richard has had various little ups and downs, but now he is well. Sometimes his little face looks small and white, but at other times he looks well enough. We can't be sure whether he distinguishes one person from another yet, but he watches us and follows with his eyes — laughs silently or with a tiny chuckle. I am not going to moralize because it happens to be near December 31st. The year has been a good one, though I admit that of sight of visible beauty it has hardly yielded me enough. My employment just at present is that of getting quickly through the 1st Book of the "Faerie Oueene " — partly for my class, partly with the object of making an exam, paper for Miss J. Lee. I must show you sometime a few MS. pages of my lectures comparing the F. Queen with the " Pilgrim's Progress." "When about fifteen years old I read the whole of the "Faerie Queene" with enjoyment, and I remember feeling that it was a spiritual power. I rather think that reading must have in great measure exhausted its influence with me, for I have never felt it a source of special light or impulse since. But I should like to read it all over once again. Enough has been said about Spenser from the artistic or aesthetic side, but I don't think anyone has at all adequately tried to make out what things Spenser had to say about Justice and Friendship and Constancy and Temperance, etc. etc. This I should like at some time to do. I see a piece of bookmaking at some distance ahead of me, a set of chapters made of such College lectures as contain anything worth preserving. I should not care to add 44 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS another to the many tiresome manuals of English Literature ; but a dozen chapters or thereabouts of the most thorough criticism I could make of the few writers I have tried to understand, would make a volume saleable I think, and useful for schools and College classes (my essays on Milton and Browning and Tennyson are the kind of thing I mean). • •••••• Another thing now often recurring to me which I wish someone would work at is this, the study of philosophy, not in G. H. Lewes's biographical way, but in connection with general history. I feel sure that either by way of sympathy with, or antagonism to the spirit of an age, much in its philosophy is to be interpreted. The thinkers are not wholly removed from the general moral temperament and atmosphere of a period, and exist by virtue of a certain agreement between their organism and their environment. Schopenhauer and his school belong to the 19th century Zeitgeist as much, I suppose, as Byron does ; and Schelling, Coleridge and Wordsworth had some of the same common tendencies graining through them. So that such a method of interpreting the history of philosophy as that of Schwegler, the tacking on each philosophy to the philosophy which preceded it, by some logical coupling — though it looks so single and so solid, is too neat and clever and intelligible to be true ; and one must go into the vital obscurities of a race and of a people to come into the presence of these facts. De Tocqueville, I think, has done something towards what I mean, in trying to determine the philosophy which will appear in a democratic period. A good deal of what you say on hymns, about their peculiar relation to the " Spirit of the age" applies, I think, to philosophies. • •••••• What you told me about Mr H. Winterbotham was very interesting. My brother met him once in Sligo. I heard FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 45 him once speak in public, before he was in the Government, at an Education League Meeting in Exeter Hall. It was a big and somewhat truculent Radical and nonconformist meeting. J. S. Mill had promised to speak, and our chief sensation of the evening (Mrs Dowden was with me) was one of disappointment at not seeing or hearing Mill. Mr Odgers was there, and Edmund Beales, who was hoarser than one of Hecate's ravens, and croaked out fierce radical sentiments ; — thunderously pounding the railing in front of him to supply emphasis to sentences which his voice was unable to modulate, while his whole body see-sawed violently. In the midst of this, Mr Winterbotham had the unction of intelligence, self-possession, and goodness. The Hon. Aubertin Herbert spoke also in the fiery, somewhat-in-the-air " aristocrat-democrat " doctrinaire style. There was an impression of beauty produced by Mr Winterbotham, and one of thorough mental and moral soundness and health. There was an article, which I should suppose not an un- appreciative one, on Mr Winterbotham in the Saturday Review for last Saturday. I shall be interested to see John Morley's article on J. S. Mill's " Autobiography " in the Fortnightly Review for January. I will next week send you the Athenaum for its reviews of Continental literature. Thank you for telling me that piece of the history of your childhood you did. I like to think this kind of happiness in childhood was with you, and I think the grief for the dead boy ought always to continue (among the griefs which years make sober). If (as Paracelsus told Festus he dared believe) " we do not wholly die," and if I ever come to know this friend of yours, we shall have a sense of fellowship and shall agree about some things — he and I. (Such a hypothetical state- 46 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS ment requires, I know, the introductory if — but granting the " xf n what follows is certain. — Yours trulv, E. D. In January 1 874 I feared that you would find the French " History of the Middle Ages " unsatisfactory for your sister's lessons with you, and I should say you have done well in choosing Motley's "Dutch Republic." All one of us can hope for, I fear, is to have the dense cloud of ignorance about the general history of Europe broken, and to know one or two little bits fairly well ; and big books which are yet com- pendiums, and go over a great space, must, I should think, be very heavy and unprofitable reading. In the same way in trying to know about the visible world, I hope only to be not disgracefully ignorant of geography in general, and to have gone studiously and lovingly over one or two spots on the globe and absorbed and assimilated them. My Molyneux lecture is over. I did feel a little like the wrong man in the wrong place, and half feared that my expositions of modern poetry would have resulted in some- thing like what happened at the " Fortnightly Club," the evening you were there. But this evening had no incident. There was nothing which was intended to offend. One or two conciliatory phrases, which I thought might appear like truckling to the standards of the " Molyneux," I removed (although I had given them before my secular audience in Cork). The lecture was framed, and glazed, and gilded in a setting of hymns and prayers, and Dr N. took away any sting that might be in it, out of it, by some concluding remarks about our happiness in having the key to unlock all the difficulties which here perplexed the writers of whom the lecturer told us ! The curate proposed a vote of thanks in a most absurd FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 47 speech — a delightfully absurd ! — and the secretary seconded the vote, and said that " even from poor Shelley moral lessons might be derived." I have had strength of mind to refuse two invitations to lecture, but the engagement remains — a lecture in Drogheda in February on Milton. After this, my stumping the country will be ended, and I think I shall not renew it for some years to come. The sense that I must get some better work done is growing upon me. We went to Pauer's lecture on Wednesday on Haydn and Mozart. The lecture was more interesting than I had expected. There is something very genuine and attractive in the man Pauer ; and his enthusiasm about great men and their works is delightfully fresh, true, and intelligent. But he played one or two things I didn't care for — some improvised variations of Mozart on the air of Gliick's we know as an air for " Rock of Ages," and I don't ever care for variations. I should like to hear the Sonata Appassionata. Its three movements impress me as, 1st, emotion unresolved into harmony — and desiring it ; 2nd, self-possession and enforced calm; 3rd, the discovery of the secret and renewed passion, larger and swifter than ever, but harmonious and tending right to its desired end — but all such formulae are, of course, somewhat unvital ways of feeling music. Mr Culwick sat near us at Pauer's lecture. I like Mr Culwick's face greatly. It has got an expression of ardour without being extravagant. And his hands, which I saw well, seem like the large hands which delicate manipulators have. Jan. 13, 1874 My dear Miss West, As I have nothing particular to say, it is perhaps 48 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS foolish to write ; nevertheless, after over-much reading, to write is pleasant, and I am not in a fit condition for anything better than a letter. My lecture in Cork was a decided success. I had a large audience. Civic dignitaries (whose acquaintance with Browning and Morris was perhaps not very extensive) on the platform, and a vote of thanks duly proposed and seconded, exhausted all the vague superlatives of compli- ment. This is performed with equal unction for every lecturer in Cork. I should certainly have entertained you with a Cork Constitution if I had been reported, but the editor trusted to getting my MS., which I declined, and sent no reporter. So oblivion swallowed me up on the morning of the nth, and my brother, the "contumacious curate of St Stephen's," and "the gentleman-organ-grinder, again" superseded me in the interest of the public ! My little visit to Cork was a pleasant one. . . . Coming back I had a lovely day, and there is just one bit of the journey (most of which is dull) which is beautiful, where a mountain range is moderately near. It looked never so beautiful as on Saturday. A great luminous white cloud behind the clear edges of the mountains having shed here and there loose borders or trails of vapour across and over the mountain edges, while other little white clouds were lying like animals couched asleep in odd places. . . . Then it was very pleasant to find all well at home, and to feel a domestic animal, with a wife and two children and a dog and a cat, and to descend from being learned and profound and analytic — to tea, slippers, and nonsense ! Not that I ever can become as domestic as those beauti- ful and genial natures one reads about in Charles Dickens' novels. There is an unction of domesticity about those happy clerks in their suburban villas, with a dozen children and fifty pounds a-year, to which I make no pretension. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 49 My brother's affair at St Stephen's has of course interested me. . . . The Archbishop, it seems to me, shrank in a timorous way from what a man with the instinct of govern- ing would have known to be his duty. . . . On the side of books the Archbishop has some strength, but on the human side he is inefficient : such sensitiveness and fear of sinning makes him a kind of ecclesiastical Henry VI. — as Shakespere shows him. A bold shaper of events must have the courage not to fear possible sin even, knowing that he will overmatch the casual crime by continuity of deliberate virtue. (I am thinking here a little of an old hero of mine, one of my earliest objects of hero-worship — Oliver Cromwell.) I cannot put my piece of work as Examiner in History in any light which shows it as other than a piece of ill-luck. For these two examinations, which come on in about ten days, I shall have carried my eyes over perhaps about fifteen hundred pages or more, and the nett result will be two or three permanent impressions. I refuse to interest myself about incredible Edwys and Elgivas before the Conquest. (This part of Lingard is one of my books.) Ecclesiastical or literary history I can read, but this jumble of confused interests which makes up -natural- history is to me, as yet, without harmony or beauty, and so unintel- ligible. Another book I am getting through is Burnett's " History of my own Time." That (which is written in vile style) is really edifying. Such an embroilment of selfishness, factions, party-spirit, corruption, intrigue, dishonesty, violence, that one cannot but believe that the world has been tending to good since the beginning of last century. William, with his taciturn strength and almost inhuman equanimity in success and disaster, is an interesting figure ; but I had already got an impression of what he was from Macaulay's history, all of which I read once, and utterly forget! Facts and persons fade out of me " like forms in D 2 5 o FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS chalk painted on rich men's floors for one feast night" (Yet, I always had a hankering after the reading of history. I am now finally delivered from this, and shall be at ease hence- forth in the densest ignorance.) This you will set down as one of my half-unwise utterances. — Truly yours, E. D. February l6th, 1 874 (Extract) I know you will be anxious to hear about Richard. • •••••* His little face looks white and small enough, but I am sure he will, as soon as he is well, soon recover ground j and the little man has always a silent laugh, or some nice inarticu- late talk when I go near him, so I am fatuous enough to think him, in spite of his misdemeanour in the way of health — a satisfactory little baby. I'll send you another bulletin in a couple of days. I'm driving away this morning at a few pages of a College lecture on Raleigh's " History of the World." Such writing as this is not intellectual work, and not quite mechanical, but something between the two. Mr Yeats was here for a good while yesterday, He and I in our talks constantly glide by one another rather than meet, and then we look up and see, and understand it ; because he spontaneously judges of things first as they appeal to his imagination (but not a mere curious delicate subtle Pater-like imagination), while /can't help thinking first of how things are related to the conscience and the emotions ; — and I find to have no compromise or accommodations, but to say one's own piece of truth out absolutely, is the best way with him. My brother and I meet and clash in a friendly May — and Mr Yeats and I glide past. The best of all is, to have one's own piece of truth taken up and interpreted, set in a fuller FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 51 and a higher key — strengthened and enriched by the company of facts (before only dimly surmised) to which it belongs, and shown to be part of a nobler system of things than one had conceived. Such progressing into the truth of things and service by promptings and anticipations, Browning has somehow got expressed (as I think of it) more than any other writer. • •••••• The Academy this week will be worth sending to you, for the sake of a little article on Wagner's musical theories. I can't help being moved towards them by the absurdities of existing opera — but on the other hand, I think, any deliberate maintaining of the equipollence of music and of poetry, must lead to a fictitious product — for, according to theme and mood, verse or music ought to take the lead (e.g., as in recitative and song). — Yours truly, E. Dowden. 50 Wellington Road April 10th, 1874 Dear Miss West, I am driving away at the last pages of my lecture, and will find it better than going into the garden (by way of refreshment), to scribble a little. I should like to hear how you really are. I know you have been far from well, and I can't help the foolish appre- hension that in spite of the West vitality, some spring will come when some unlucky accident will conjoin with the malign influence of St Patrick's neighbourhood, and make you seriously ill. I don't know whether you allow enough for the highly nervous organisation [of Portia] which I described in my "Julius Caesar" lecture! I know how this vexes you, but I consider myself licensed to be disagreeable. My lecture, this " Humour of Shakspere" is half really good 5 2 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS — the latter half. After groping about for a good while, a way of considering the matter chronologically occurred to me on Thursday evening, but I have not had space or time to work it out for this lecture. However, you will find it in its sugges- tions, and afterwards I will go over and try to make it right. I have a number of books which possibly might interest you. V. Hugo's novel. Carpenter's "Mental Physiology" (easy reading), and Shakspeare Society publications, if you care for them. Mr Fleay makes out that all the Marina parts of "Pericles" are by Shakspeare and no more (a comfort — the other parts are so brutal and the Marina parts so beautiful) and that " Marina" ought to be printed in our Shakspeares and only Marina. I have got also a new edition of David Gray's poems. Did you ever read them ? Some of his sonnets are very beautiful and very sorrowful. H. S. King & Co. have asked me to send my lectures for them to consider, so I will send the first six. As to my poems — I was looking over them, and some of them seemed really good ; but I half think it would be better to wait now, and add until they would make not a tiny volume but a fair-sized one. I really want not to get any praise from many people for these (if such were forthcoming), but to leave on record what I have found of joy, for any one who would understand it. And I think a year or two might make my little store of poems fuller. However, I am not anxious either way. This is all about myself, but what I write for really is to get a letter from you. — Yours truly, E. D. $o Wellington Road May 4, 1874 My Dear Miss West, Mrs Dowden and I signed an agreement to-day for a FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 53 furnished house, about a mile inland from Bray, off the Old Connaught Road, with an acre of ground around it, which seemed not far from hills covered with furze. We pay £6$ for it (and eat a little out of what money I possess — not for the first time — to make up the sum). . . . Perhaps the summer will be an enjoyable one. I shall have a good deal of work to do on my Shakspere lectures [re-writing for publication], and if I can I'll write some verse. . . . We may perhaps go before the end of May — in that case I would come up to town three times a week to my lectures until the term ended. . . . The end of my Saturday lectures is like the end of a short period of my life — however they carried on only half of the writer's self, and left half in abeyance. (They were written as if I had suppressed all sympathy with Mysticism and almost with Theism — and the latter is certainly very far from being the case.) No feeling of vacancy has come, however, because I have a good deal still to do. . . . On Wednesday College lectures begin, and I have somehow imprudently run out of lectures, through discarding unsatisfactory ones, and I don't yet know what my twelve or fourteen lectures this term will be about. Mrs Dowden is putting before me the duty of giving a small Shakspere reading party next week, getting Mr Graves, the Fergusons and Ingrams and Dr Todhunter to come. We are both dissenters from the " Shakspere-Reading" religion, and are only outsiders of the big reading Society which Mrs Ferguson is very animated about, and Dr Ingram seems to believe in. If we employ Shakspere for the purpose of filling part of an evening, we think of getting "The Birth and Life of Marina" read, (Shakspere's part of Pericles which Mr Fleay has printed separately, and which contains nothing to give offence). But like most designs of this kind, my stolidity may get the better of my sociality. How- ever, I think you'd like to know Dr Ingram. To-morrow 54 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS evening " Much Ado" is to be read at Mr Graves', and we have to go. I began "The Cloister and the Hearth" to-day in the train, and have read some ten or fifteen pages. That is too little to let me say whether I like it — but I do — and a hearti- ness and homeliness of manner is very pleasant to me, it means that the prose of life needn't try to be poetry, because human joys and sorrows have made it poetry already. Amongst books I happened to get lately was Lenz on " Beethoven's Three Styles." If you or Carrie care for it I can lend it. — Truly yours, E. Dowden. Extract (in letter of 23rd May 1 874) Yesterday I was at the meeting of the Governess' Asso- ciation and made a little speech. It was to the effect that fathers and mothers ought to surrender a good deal of them- selves to their children, and as far as possible be in vital relation to them. . . . Then I depreciated the good of competitive exams., and said they only afforded an imperfect test of certain second- rate qualities, and I urged that some fineness and largeness of character was more important than a knowledge of the dates of the accession of Kings of England, and said a word about the chance of finding a person of such character being more if we sought among people in our neighbourhood, than if we trusted to the luck of lighting on one among wanderers from France or Germany. {Tour old Swiss nursery-governess was luck or grace.) Yesterday also I tried a new experiment in my lecture system. I got the students to lecture me, not I them. I gave them a week before a number of books on Shakspere's Sonnets, and required them to bring abstracts and reports of these books, which they did — and I think, although the hour was by no means brilliant, it was satisfactory in its result, FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 5 5 and taught them both about certain books and how to pick out and present the drift of them. I have not lectured yet on Clough, nor shall until Friday next at soonest. I gave a second, unwritten lecture on Browning, chiefly giving a simple sketch of the subject or story of the poems from the " Ring and the Book" onwards. One or two things have come with a pleasant shock upon me. The first was to find how thoroughly Browning had laid hold of me as soon as I approached him. He never seemed more living and true ; except that I felt his excessive reliance, which you note in your 2nd "Dark Blue" article, on internal evidence, but all the human side of him I felt very real and true. He impressed me as having the zeal and enthusiasm of a Shelley without Shelley's habit of living in the abstract. He feels how difficult and perplexing a thing life is : he sees ten sides of a thing where Shelley sees only one side : and where Shelley would make one wanting in sanity or commonsense Browning only inspires one with courage and boldness. I suspect that I shall not be satisfied without bringing Browning down to May field. Another surprise was to find myself on absolutely equal terms with Mr Yeats. He used to have a power of attract- ing undercurrents of my being in strange ways. But now I feel that I stand upon my own-pin point of the Universe. For him the ethical disappears in the sesthetic. This is anent of a very admirable criticism of his of the character of Shakespere's " Richard II." (it is a little amusing to be discovering at 31 that one is adult and has taken one's station and degree) which came from him, and which is truth relative to him and heresy for me. Mr Yeats comes up from the country this week and brings his picture — some children singing. I am sure it will be beautiful, but some parts, he says, are incurably raw, and he will, I think, decline orders he has got in 56 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Dublin and perhaps go to London to spend yet more time in his apprenticeship. •••••• There is a book, of Stopford Brooke's just published. It contains eight lectures on Wordsworth, which on a hasty glance seemed good but not new to you or me. Swinburne's " Bothwell " is reviewed in the Athemzum. It is a gigantic poem, it says, and incoherent with fine passages. The extracts are not good. I fear Swinburne's soul is perished. I'll send you an Athenaum with such a very characteristic letter by Keats ! It is nearly as Keatsian as many of his poems. I send you a receipt for subscription to the " Nenv Sbakspere Society? (Mr Furnivall says, " Get Miss West to write a paper for us.") Mr Hales is reading one on " King Lear," considered as a typical Kelt. I think the idea has nothing in it, though Shakspere did certainly consider a good deal the subject of Nationality. G. Macdonald has just given a lecture, Mr Furnivall tells me, on Hamlet, trying to show he wasn't a weak hesitator, but was unconvinced of the king's guilt until the confession of Laertes. (I think such a paradox is much too new to be true.) Mr Furnivall was pleased with my 8th lecture (particularly the ship bit, about Chapman's lines), but urges that Shakspere was dramatically seeking, not rendering, forgiveness. Both may be true. ... I am sure Shakspere never reached forty-five without having some forgiveness to ask as well as to render, so perhaps both got into his final plays. — Yours truly, E. Dowden. In June "^rd, 1 874 We were yesterday at Herr Elsners's concert. There was no really good music except a Beethoven Quintet. The FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 57 ** stars" were a chorus of gentlemen strollers who sang nothing interesting, and a player on the flute, an instrument I do not like — not only because it gives the countenance an extravagantly benevolent appearance, but because its tones are all so smooth and sweet. I don't think wind instru- ments (unless the organ be one) speak to one's nerve- centres, but rather to one's adipose tissue (and I haven't very much of that) or one's animal energies. They please the ear, but they don't touch the soul. I shall ask you at some time to read a paper by a German named Werner on "Hamlet," which has been to me the most illuminating exposition of the play that I have ever seen. I read it yesterday, and perhaps over-estimate it now. Instead of studying Hamlet solitary, it studies him in his world — a world all of appearance and unreality — a seemingly kingly king — really shreds and patches — with a mockery of religion — a seemingly loyal wife, Hamlet's mother, who could never have truly loved — Polonius with seeming wisdom, and real knave, no-wisdom. Laertes, with seem- ing chivalry and real baseness — Rosencrantz and Guilden- stern — seeming friends, with no true friendship. Ophelia, loving with no energy or inspiration of heart — the Priests (in the grave scene), formalists, and not true priests. And Hamlet, the man of noble gifts and who measures things by ideal standards, is to set this world right. He might fight against this world by boldness and truth, or by its own weapons of cunning and espionage. He chooses a little of both ways, for this evil world does not leave Hamlet uninfluenced : it confuses his knowledge of himself and all else. And with his manifold gifts he is not a man of action supremely, nor a daemonic man. So he gets perplexed, and gropes about both within himself and without. And he satisfies his need of achieving something, — or, rather, dulls the edge of his purpose, by his versatile small achievements, and by his clever play with each of his adversaries, — adopting 58 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS so clearly the manner of each, and mocking his enemies rather than slaying or destroying them. This is an im- perfect summing-up of part of a long paper. W. M. Rossetti will write a little notice of the Shelley book, for the Academy. Sir Percy Shelley has a copy, but no other had been known to exist. And T. J. Furnivall will make a little notice of the other book I told you about, " The Heroinae." It is the lives of various noble ladies (Lucretia using up bits of Shakspere), and the author dedi- cates it — in language which strains itself for words of devotion — to Lady Dorothy Sidney. The style is often mannered, which gives it a grotesque appearance ; but I think the essential part of the book is genuine and pathetic, being the attempt of a man of the Shelley kind, but with a more excitable and less intellectual personality, to unburden him- self of a wonder and delight. All his "Heroinae" are Stoics — and (which one doesn't approve) — kill themselves (including the one who chiefly concerned me, Lucretia). I suspect Lady Dorothy was a great person, who sent this very shrill little lark singing for eighteen years. One dis- covers — and what is pathetic and amusing — he follows each life (except one Areta-phila — whom he indentifies with Lady Dorothy) with a pro and contra for and against each "Heroine," as if he said, "Now I can see both sides of a question, and am very reasonable," or had a way of going over his thoughts a second time. 1639 is its date — G. Rivers, the writer's name; and it is a poor little book of no worth in itself, except as showing a trace of Shakspere reading. — Yours truly, E. D. June Sth, 1874 Dear Miss West, — I'll write a few lines on the chance of their catching you on Wednesday at Jordan's Hotel ; and if they don't reach you, you will have lost nothing. You have FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 59 had a glorious first day for your excursion ; very different from my weather there last year — and now I must include some of June in my feeling for Glendalough and^Ovoca. Still the autumnal impression will remain also, and although at the time I did not greatly enjoy that little excursion, except for moments, now I do enjoy it. But we hardly saw Glendalough at all. We had hardly quarter of an hour outside the hotel, it rained so continually. Thanks to the rain I read then the whole of " La Femme de Trente Ans," by Balzac, and I shall always associate it — a story with much of passionate human nature in it (and a great deal of only French human nature, I suppose) — with the hopeless rain and dreary out- look and carpetless room and enormous cutlets of the Hotel at Rathdrum, and with Mr Graham's metaphysics and tobacco ! . . . We were not at the College Choral Concert. I find that of late, though perhaps my sympathy with music (such as that sympathy is) may have grown a little, I can count less than formerly on being in the right mood to enjoy music, and so I often fail to understand music that I ought. Only, as yet, I have never been unable to yield myself to Beethoven. /, Thank youM:he photograph ; it is good, but not by any means quite satisfactory. Carrie's makes fifteen years old look beautiful as Shakespere thought it — we, middle-aged folk, can feel this now ! My brother goes on end of August to Scotland. I shall certainly miss him. In spite of our diversities, we under- stand each other in most matters. I saw Swinburne's " Bothwell " to-day, but did not venture on buying it — it looked very big. Perhaps Prof. Blackie will lecture instead of me at the ACD to-day \_E. D. was taking some of Dr Todhunter s lectures there]. He was with us last Wednesday, a most amazing old man for fervid energy and intolerable high spirits ! I 60 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS am sure he must kill a number of people annually with his unflagging spirits ! July $th 1874 Last week was rather an unprogressive week with me — as far as writing and reading are concerned. I cannot help being a little impatient to get more work done. I wrote to King & Co. on the subject of a translation into German of my Shakespere lectures, and they approve it : but say to wait until they appear first in English, when they will make an arrangement on my behalf. Yesterday Dr Atkinson was with us, and was very pleasant. He is excellent : he has such a high idea of scholarship, and expends such incalculable work on being complete and accurate in his results. R. Browning's "Grammarian" was not more zealous ! while he sternly suppresses the haunting question "What is the claim which a grammatical particle has to exhaust a human being's life?" He knows that "whatsoever one's hand findeth to do" must be done with all one's might. My classman Harold Littledale seems bent on a similar career. I don't dissuade. The London Shaks- pere Society has entrusted to him the preparation of an edition of the " Two Noble Kinsmen." It will, I suppose, occupy him a couple of years, and if it is well done (which I believe it will be), it will do him and us credit, but of course such work will do a good deal towards determining his whole career. Did I tell you of the way in which the temporary zeal of the University Shakespeare Society has shown itself? The students have divided among them a great part of the Elizabethan Drama, and each taking one author, have pro- mised to have an essay on that author ready for the Society FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 61 next session. And at the same time they know little of Browning, Clough, or Newman. Mr Cross had somehow heard of the vacancy at St Anne's. I don't know whether he would wish to leave Bray — and perhaps no congregation could be expected to tolerate two such genuine men as Mr Russell and Mr Cross ! 50 "Wellington Road October 6th, 1 874 Dear Miss West, Although there was not any of the "higher culture" (perhaps Mrs Jellicoe is with you now!) in your last letter, it seemed very pleasant to get it and to hear that you were all well. For the same reason I suppose you will like to get this. We accomplished our autumn migration very successfully with the aid of a big yellow van, and the day was a particu- larly beautiful one. I, with two servants, had to stay an hour behind the rest of our household (Richard having to be taken off while the day was warm), and I enjoyed that vale- dictory hour very well. Next week is full of examinations, and I am making a drive to get my Shakespere job done by Saturday. The 9th and least interesting lecture on Shakespere's " Humour " remains to be rewritten and a bit of " Lear " to be made. King & Co. promise me proofs of a part of the book soon. Mayfield is now quite a satisfactory piece of history — I cared for it more in September than in June. I shall always have some of the same kind of love I have for Howth, for this Bray neighbourhood. I returned "Enigmas of Life" to Mr Sherlock before we left. I had known little of W. R. Greg before. I had supposed him to be quite a hard-headed thinker — it was a surprise to find him so different. The book certainly settles 62 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS nothing as far as I read ; but if it doesn't go too far and become sentimental, mere self-confession of those whose hearts have been strained and pained by their intellects is not without some uses. It takes away some of the poignancy of pain to know that pain is being endured and resisted by an age, and not merely by one's private personality. It makes one think when an army is marching through the desert, "If we ourselves die in the sands, others may reach across them." Not that I — who doubt as you know now and then — say all this quite personally (I do not know whether I repre- sent Tom Toodles or his "uncle") but I know that your brother Charles' classic song is a song of strength and enfranchisement ! ! ! x I have been adding a bit to my 2nd lecture on " Measure for Measure" and " All's Well." Isabella (conscience) and Helena (will) standing at the entrance to Shakespere's tragic period. Through admiration of the one central quality of Helena's character I have found myself unable to say anything of its inadequacies in other respects. Shakespere tried to make them disappear (and this kind of partial rendering of the whole fact gets into a good deal of what I write — in spite of my seeing it clearly enough). I wish I had thought of making a study of Shakespere's women chronologically. I see it would yield interesting results. 7. Shrewish and termagant women ; and the dreadful historical woman, torn and shattered by events. — The women Shakespere 1 " Tom Toodles he knew that his Uncle was well ; And his Uncle he knew that Tom Toodles was well: So they each of them knew that the other was well." One of the ditties of the workmen in the mechanical engineering work- shops, imported by C. D. West, sung to a monotonous drawling tune. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 6 3 liked in the early plays are ardent and impulsive — but not yet perfectly refined ; or — (forwardly) clever or witty. Both of these types are refined and made beautiful afterwards — e.g. Portia in " Merchant of Venice " — Viola in " Twelfth Night." Before the tragedies come women in whom will is strong, created for the sake of a single quality sometimes — Helena and Isabella. Perfected womanly strength in Portia, of "Julius Caesar" (1602). Weakness in Ophelia, Cressida, Gertrude (1602). Then come the tragedies with the victories of love, Cordelia, Desdemona. Then finally two types : — The great sufferers, calm and strong : — Hermione, Queen Katharine. The girlish figures (tenderly bent over by Shakespere) : — Perdita, Miranda, Marina. Could not something be made of this ? Oct. 20, 1874 It became impossible to get to Cork this week. In addition to my proper examinations, I have been doing work at Ordinary and Entrance exams, in English, and in Locke and Mansell, and have more in prospect. This additional examining is of course drudgery pure and simple, but some drudgery agrees with me (it is badly or half done intellectual work that vexes me), so I don't at all groan over being a fragment of the College machine for a while ; and I earn a few additional guineas, which no professed admirer of Shakspere has a right to despise ! Your letter brought me the last smell of the fields and breath of the sea which 1874 will bring me. What a day of rain it was. To extract pleasure from the sea and sky was 64 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS a little heroic, but I know that on a hopeless day one can discover the soul of goodness in things evil. My valedictory hour at Mayfield was in deep but not languid sunshine. What we shall do next year I cannot conjecture. Mayfield, in spite of my optimistic sayings, had its unsatisfactorinesses as well as the reverse for me. It is a foolish way I have of denying the imperfections of things when they are right in essentials — a disciple of Shakspere (I am a bad one) ought to admit the entire fact. When I get my foot on the neck of the snake, pain, I say he is annihilated, and certainly it is a great deal better than having him holding one's arm as in a vice. To " bruise his head," though he " bites 'one's heel," is as much as has been on record. ... I saw Mr S. at the " Stabat Mater," and I did really enjoy it, and had never done so before. It seems to me a piece of the florid Paganism which is part of Catholicism — worldly Bishops and sensual crowds would find it very beautiful and devout : and I became a Catholic and a Pagan for that occasion ! 8 MONTENOTTE, CORK November qth, 1 8 74 Dear Miss West, Your letter to-day was not a pleasant surprise, but a pleasant fulfilling of an expectation. I do not think I shall say a great deal ; — and as the best equivalent for what I got — I posted to-day the MS., written very lately, of " King Lear." It has been through the printer's hands and is soiled, but I think you will not mind their fine, workman-like thumb- marks much, and when you have read it you can light a fire with it, as I have no want of it, nor will you have. You see that part of it is by you — not me. I don't suppose you FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 65 would care that I should announce the fact to the public at present. Some time if I ever do anything good, they ought to know it. • •••••• Thank you for not writing a bright little gossipy epistle. It is infinitely more satisfactory to hear of all that concerns your welfare. Towards J. R. W. — though I don't care to profess it — my feeling is one of real fraternity. I share in your concerns. I think in 1872 there was nothing I could not have talked to you about, and there is nothing now, but it has grown more of a habit, and possibly before we are very old white haired people, or when we are, we may have a long day or two together to talk out every- thing. And meanwhile there will, at least, be work to be done. • •••••• Since I came down, I was made a little anxious for some hours by news from home of Richard's being ill — but it was only a brief little alarm, and he is well again. We are thinking of getting a governess for Essie. I have Mill's book with me, but I have not read it yet. Morley's essay I got a glance at to-day, but it is only Part I., and from my glance I thought it not particularly valuable. But I was necessarily more interested for the few minutes during which I had the Review, in Pater's fragment on "Measure for Measure." The one thought in it is that true justice is not the application of general laws of morality to particular cases — but seeing each thing, each case, each person, as it is — and this is to be done by sym- pathy, by love, by art. But the greater part of the little essay is in Pater's peculiar style, in which he feels so delicately the pictorial grace and pathos and beauty of men and women moving before him ; and the ethical view of life is subordinate. E 2 66 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Claudio in prison is a "flower-like young man" in the darkness, and looks "brave," etc. etc. This kind of criticism goes a good way towards exhausting Luca della Robbia and Sandro Botticelli, but doesn't go near exhaust- ing Shakespere. • •••••• This reminds me that I lately added to my portfolio an Arundel-Society chromo-lithograph of a picture by Botticelli in Florence which Pater describes. He says it admits one more into the spirit of Greek Art than the works of the Greeks themselves ! I should say beforehand that you would not care for it at all at first, but by and by would see its beauty (and its unsatisfactoriness). Venus, tall, slender, with chesnut hair blown across her, and a dreamy, sad ////passionate, ////intellectual face, stands poised on the edge of a conch. The sea is sad-coloured, and crisp waves rise on it. The winds, two male figures, blow the conch, and the air is filled with roses which will drop into the sad sea •, an attendant with a robe sprinkled with daisies, hastens from a laurel grove to robe the goddess ! It is dawn — a pale dawn — and the long sweet day of Love is before her. This is a picture after Pater's own heart. Another different accession is a portrait of Wordsworth, aged 48, by Haydon, which I greatly like ; it is a noble, strong face, not like the sentimental Wordsworth of Pickers- gill — is much younger and more ardent than the Haydon portrait which Mr Graves and I have got. 50 Wellington Road, Dublin November iyh, 1 874 Dear Miss West, You are getting some very bright days to bring the out-of-doors part of 1874 to an enc '» — even in town it makes existence much more glad to have these days instead of the FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 67 pea-soup-like atmosphere and low roof of clouds which tempts one sometimes to long for the " palms and temples of the south," even on this land of settled liberty, "where freedom broadens down from precedent to precedent" (in the Corporation and Public Health Committee !) • •••••• My Shakespere is all printed except the page or two of preface, — but I have 200 pp. of revised proofs still to go through. Littledale — who has a very keen eye for printers' errors — (he copied the whole of the 1st quarto of " The Noble Kinsmen " last summer) is helping me. So I look on this as nearly brought to an end. No one has turned up in my class since I began whom I like better than Littledale, and I think he has a friendly feeling to me. This evening at the "Shakespere Society," Dr Ingram will read a really valuable paper, which he is also contributing to the London Society, on the weak-ending test. I think he goes far to settle what are Shakespere's last plays and their order, viz. : " Macbeth," " Antony and Cleopatra," " Corio- lanus," "Pericles," "Tempest," " Cymbeline," " Winter's Tale," " The Noble Kinsmen," "Henry VIII. " ; I class the first three aesthetically with the preceding rather than the succeeding plays — with " Lear" and " Othello" ; and of the remainder, all are fragments except the plays underlined. I think Shakespere was only partially interested in his work as artist at that period, and on this account allowed his work to go with the wretched stuff of Fletcher and others. I went on Wednesday to a very interesting and amusing lecture of Mr Barlow (seven persons present) on the Paris doctors of Louis XIV. time, Moliere's time. He has cut out this little subject for a short course of lectures, and contrived to make what doesn't look a very attractive sub- ject, quite pleasant. And its real unimportance makes it a recreation. 68 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Yesterday I went again to a lecture, Dr M'lvor's on 11 our Philosophical Whereabouts." He is a very able and earnest man, but I found the lecture only wonder-producing (wonder is the seed of knowledge) with its grand cosmogony and ethics. He told us that by the attraction of heat for ethereal substance, it becomes (2) material (solar systems, bodies of you and me) and that nue, partly material and partly spiritual, are on our way not to being unclothed, but to being clothed upon as (3) spiritual substance of which the glorified body of Jesus is an example. He also gave a criticism of Darwin — the struggle for existence is only a minor part of the great struggle for advance which is to the imagination glorious and morally beautiful, and can always be kept up by the withdrawal of heat (1) from ethereal substance, urging on to the spiritual and to the highest possible spiritual substance craving perfection. He addressed his seven auditors like a Gnostic prophet, or like some Lamennais without Lamennais' prodigious force of will, or his tenderness and melancholy ; and he backed up all this with chemistry and modern science — which I could neither refute nor accept. Did I tell you that at the time of our Senate meeting I felt so much moved by Dr M'lvor's speech, addressed to a most unsympathetic audience, on making the basis of educa- tion, religion ? He spoke till he forgot his crutches, and the sweat stood upon his face — and he got no one to appear as seconder of his motion in favour of a Catholic College under the University. I have some thought of asking Mr Grosart, the editor of Wordsworth's prose works, to send me proof sheets, and have a review ready for Contemporary Review when it appears. — Always truly yours, E. D. January $th, 1 875 . . . Richard's fatuity about his father continues. But if FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 69 he lives, I think I shall have fortitude enough to see him with satisfaction strike boldly into pond or sea. I carry about with me such a sense that my own " Weltanschauung " is limited and relative, that I don't think I could be separated from anyone who had an admirable nature, by difference of view. If he have virtue in him I shall be pretty well content ; but that he should be good-for-nothing or worldly would bring all satisfaction to an end. John Henry Newman in the Oratory and Walt Whitman on the top of a tram-car fit very well into the world. I have been reading a good deal. The hardest has been no harder than Dr Salmon's two sermons on "Theism" (and bits of Mill and "Ihe Grammar of Assent," in con- nection with this). As far as I can judge of mere argument, Theism has the best of it at present — but if I say anything of this it must not be until I have tried to get the whole debate in hands, which may never be. I am again this year Examiner in History, and for my own sake am choosing other books to examine in from those I took last year ; so I have had to read some of Gibbon (which will go clean out of my head, like most histories, in some months), and I read with enjoyment Joinville's " Memoirs of St Louis." From that I shall keep something — at best an impression of its picturesqueness and na'i've mediaeval imagina- tive feeling. There is, for example, a very nice story of how a Saracen knight went up a hill, and saw at the top a King with a crown on his head, and a lady kneeling before him and winged attendants, who turns out to be God, and when the Saracen fears he may not be able to find his way back, the King turns to one of his servants and says, " George, show this man to his quarters." I doubt whether the subject of Allegory could be managed without carrying one into the whole of mediaeval art, and if so it would be beyond my reach. Two years ago for my class I wrote in May and June the lectures on Shakespere out of 70 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS which my Shakespere book emerged. It occurs to me that for the same term this year, it would be good husbandry (as lectures necessarily keep me somewhat busy with critical work) — to write a connected set of palavers to be afterwards re-written on the poets of this century who have ever since I was a boy been carrying off my time and feeling. In my magazine articles it was somewhat my mistake to look for the remote and curious (tho' necessary enough to get such average magazine papers as mine were, accepted at all), but when I am not writing for magazines I think it would be a mistake to go far afield for subjects. The large and near ones such as Shakespere are the best, and I think my knowledge and enjoyment of the poets of this century has been a talent of mine stowed away in a napkin for fear of the coin getting rubbed or soiled. I think they might be judged from new points of view now in this fourth quarter of the century. So I propose to read over very carefully, and write studies of (first in my class), Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, Byron (whom I don't know), Tennyson, Browning, and others. I am now reading every- thing of value on Shelley. Wordsworth can't be done until Grosart publishes his prose works. The Shelley books (Hogg, Medwin, Middleton, Trelawny, and Rossetti) are all utterly unworthy of Shelley ; and Lady Shelley's " Memorials," though trustworthy and well written, are brief. Wordsworth has been very fortunate in his critics and lovers, and Shelley very much the reverse. (Indeed when a man professes to admire Shelley I suspect him of being an inferior nature ; and no one I have ever known really admired Wordsworth who was not in some way elect and precious.) A book which some one ought to write — I don't say you or I — would be a spiritual autobiography which would resume as far as possible the doubt and difficulty, vacillation and FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 71 progression of religious thought and feeling during the past 25 years. It should be anonymous, and we should ascribe it to Mr Gladstone or the Bishop of Ilfracombe and Tenby, and so get three editions sold. We might call it " How I lost my Faith," and in a very short preface, a sub- sequent volume, " How I gained a Faith " (which we need never write). If it were written, not argumentatively but with a genius of spiritual sympathy for moral alteration, and were made interesting with incident, it would sell like wild- fire, and we would cynically snigger at the public, and rake up the gold. It should tell how, by a series of scarcely per- ceptible thrills and touches, one was lured and pushed on from belief in Inspiration and creeds, not without recalcitra- tion and waverings, up to and over the steep rock of Agnos- ticism. Nor should it be merely negative — but adumbrate also the growing up of a positive creed which in some measure replaces the old faith. Running under jury-masts (when the true masts have gone by the board), is very common now-a-days. Did you see Lightfoot's first article on " Supernatural Religion" ? It seems to me to expose an impostor to Learn- ing very satisfactorily and finally. He replies, I see, in the Fortnightly Review. But I think it must be the writing of one who is crushed and broken. • •••••• Aubrey de Vere sent me Coventry Patmore's " Odes." Coventry Patmore is an old favourite of mine. His " Angel in the House " is a record of pure curiosities of love. (Ros- setti's sonnets contain curiosities and felicities of another kind.) But as I was brutal enough to say to Aubrey de Vere (before the " Odes" came), I always found in Coventry Patmore's love a certain spooniriess, an absence of manly strength : he decks a certain mortal like a shrine and does worship of a ritualistic kind before it, (This I said before the " Odes" came), and that I could conceive a hardier and 72 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS better comradeship. These "Odes" were not published, partly because the writer thought in a land where the Eng- lish nobles and their Jew (Disraeli) had passed a Reform Bill to do justice to lodgers and small landholders — that in such a land there could be no audience for his refined con- servative song. But also I think that one motive of non- publication must have been that — oh defection ! — the Angel in the House had left her place vacant, and a second wife had entered into it. There is a very delicate Ode of apology, in which he describes how after relic-worship of glove and girdle, a sense of utter weariness and desolation followed — and then the fair stranger's life and his were joined. But the whole tone admits that there was a lapse and a defection. And I could not help confirming my first impression from " The Angel in the House" — that the fellowship which survives absence and death is of another kind than this. • •••••• 1875 is begun. It will no doubt have some troubles and difficulties as had 1 874, but this year and that are now substantially good. — Truly yours, E. D. {Continuation of letter in January 15//6, 1 875, part published in " Fragments," 1st Series) I am much confirmed and assured to find you think my study of 19th century poets worth making. Nothing is written yet ; only very little can be before some months. There are loads and loads of rubbish to cart away. I can do nothing without a vast deal of drudgery. I am now clearing all Shelley literature out of the way before I get at Shelley — this is only a fortnight or three weeks work — but the Byron "Lives" and "Letters" and "Conversations" appal me; and yet I can only do my work in this my own way. Then FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 73 some of the summer I may turn to the use of poetry (for one volume of verse I must live to write). You do not know how differently time goes when I am trying to write prose and verse ; the former is all hard up-hill work •, and the other is for the time — delight — though often disappointment afterwards. Thank you for Mr S 's verses and pamphlet. I don't think there is any one of the verses in itself precious or perfect, but they are all of a kind to make one like and think well of their writer. Thank you also for having confidence in me to own to certain transient def alliances of soul. A well-to-do-ness of manner in my letters may have in an indefinable way suggested that I was strong and satisfied. And so I am essentially — having a pin-point in the universe whereon to stand and deal with all that shifts and is shadow — an elected point of central rock — a gain firm, indefeasible, appertaining from, " ivho performed the feat by God's grace and Alans luill." Yet there has been much and long waste of spirit in the last twelve months, a sense of accidental loss and failure. . . . • ••*••• And then I throw myself on work, and after a while am pleased with work and on good terms with earth and sky again. Dr Salmon's sermons are argumentative, and I have too mixed up, tumbled together brains to be much helped by argument. I have found a single phrase or the expression on the countenance of a book, act as a solvent of my beliefs — and, in like manner, a gleam of joy or a wonder and admira- tion help me unexpectedly, the revealing of things as ad- mirable or beautiful which I had never truly loved or admired until they were revealed, has been more helpful than anything else. 74 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS I put aside your letter and perhaps forgot to answer some things. I have withered my brain with reading of Gibbon. I hate his sustained pomp of manner, and the labouring through masses of intricate history, all new to me, is very fatiguing. Still I cannot help finding some interest in it — but I don't know anyone with a mind so sieve-like as mine for facts with which it has not affinity. A telegram has come from my brother with very good news. (J. D. had gone to Cork and found his father rather seriously ill, unexpectedly.) It says, " Great improvement to-day." The letter which came this morning spoke of my father's strength declining — so this telegram is doubly welcome and fills me with good spirits. Examinations on Monday and Tuesday and a Council meeting on Wednesday, keep me in Dublin unless I am required in Cork. This illness, when (as I trust he will) my father recovers, will probably decide what he has long been tending towards, his freeing himself from his business. At 75, he owes himself some rest after a life of endless work fur others (and even now all his concern is for persons who might suffer through being thrown out of employment, or through his means of giving away becoming limited. Apart from personal feeling, I think Dr Webster was not far wrong when he called my father the " best man he knew." To live in all things "for the glory of God" is what we have seen in him ever since we could see anything. My whereabouts being uncertain, I cannot tell you where next to write to me. I shall go some time next week and stay with my father six or seven days. I will in some way let you know when my plans fix themselves, and until you hear you may conclude that all is well. — Yours truly, E. 1). FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 75 {Continuation of Letter in January 26th, 1875, in " Fragments," 1st Series, in which E. D. has spoken of Byron) Of Shelley I have here and there come across many foolish sayings and doings, but positively in no biography a single ignoble (authenticated) word or deed. I have now read in letters and records so many accounts of the last few days of Shelley's life, and of the burning of his body, that events and places and persons have become almost visibly present. It wasn't, I daresay, worth while doing this ; but there is a fascination in getting at a little bit of the fact of human history, so tragic and complete in itself with the group or human figures, two widows among them — enveloped by the luminous air of Italy — the heat and radiance and the moun- tains and the sea ; — a fascination in getting at this minutely and wholly as it was. • •«•••• That book of Symonds I had out of the Library and read part of. The Story of S. Catherine of Siena I saw con- tained possibilities of poetical treatment. Then I forgot it : and now in your abstract of it I feel those possibilities more vividly than at first. Still I have as yet to go forth towards it, while the S. Teresa story came into me. The priest spoke much of light during the last year of his life, and that luminous year seemed intelligible to me. There is bleaker grandeur in the achievement with Tuldo's soul. The way in which it impresses me chiefly is the contrast between the spiritual truths or doctrines taught by the priests and the spiritual reality and presence of Catherine's very self, with her breadth and squareness of brow and firm eye-brows and strong soul behind them. I have got Symonds' book on "Greek Poets" and on "Dante," but have read neither. I believe the "Greek Poets" is very good — "Dante" is slight. There was rather too much of word-painting in the book Mr S. lent you. y6 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS In Dora Wordsworth's diary it's a comfort that she just sets down the point of spiritual contact which was the key, secret, centre or hint of a certain bit of nature, but doesn't attempt to set it all in form or colour before your eyes. When that can be done in a few effective or delicate strokes, all is well ; still that is rather etching than painting ; and before half an oil-painting in words is completed, my imagination succumbs. Did you see in a recent Fortnightly Review a very striking article by Symonds on Lucretius ? It is well worth reading, and there is another good article by him on the Blank Verse of Milton. He has written very warmly to Whitman and of Whitman. — Truly yours, E. Dowden. February iyh, 1 875 Dear Miss West, This is the end of a rather busy week. On Wednesday afternoon I got a telegram from Mr Furnivall, asking me to supply a paper for the London Shakespere Society on Friday, as the essayist had failed them. So I got Dr Ingram to write a letter on a new (?) verse test, and I set to myself, in one evening and in one morning sitting performed my quickest feat of authorship, some notes on German Shakspere Literature, which by writing with a style on paper pre- pared for duplicate copies, I was able to read at our Trinity College Society last evening, at the same time that it was read in London. It is not interesting, but would be useful to anyone desirous to plunge into German Shakspere study. I'll send it to you, such as it is, some time. This morning I should like to be near the sea or in fields and to be immensely idle, but as that cannot be, I sit down to scribble a little to you. The spring is sensibly at hand, crocuses in our garden are not timid as they were even a week ago, but seem at their ease and happy. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS yy This morning I have been sufficiently idle, having read in a pleasurable mood a story called " The Fountain of Youth," translated from the chief living Danish poet, Paludan- M'uller. It tells how a Spaniard in the time of Cortez, eager though old, took out wife and children to San Domingo, and renewed his youth in the magical foun- tain in the island of Bimini (what a soft siren-like name — Bimini !). The result is that inevitable divorce between him and the wife and children he loves, follows ; and he has to construct a new solitary life for himself. The ardour of youth and the experience and discretion of age divide his nature and paralyse his will. He is loved by a beautiful Dorothea, who yet is repelled by the old man that lurks in his eyes, and he cannot return her love. Finally he becomes a hermit and grows old once more and calm, and at the last Death comes to renew his youth for ever. It is a slight pretty story — and not more than pretty. This day week I heard from you last, and that too was an idle morning, because certain words in your letter set me sinking deep and deep into the best realities of my life, and I could not get to the end of that "sober certainty of waking bliss." It is pleasant to hear from you at any time, but pleasantest of all I think to get your greeting as I did that day, in the morning and possess it during the working hours. In the beginning of 1875 — it is certain, dear friend, that your help is more needed and your comradeship more precious than at any time before. (Have not I too, though I possess a sprinkling of white hairs and in no island of Bimini, bathed in the Fountain of youth — not with the tragic consequences, however, that befell Don Diego, and certainly not to end my life in a hermitage ! In the Academy of to-day look out for a very interesting 78 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS letter by S. T. Coleridge on Jeremy Taylor. Swinburne's article on Wills' poem of "Joseph in Egypt" in the Fortnightly is worth reading. I have other things I want to send you — a letter from Walt Whitman to an American paper which he sent me, on Burns, very good and just and loving I think. And you will understand, I know how it is not vanity which makes me wish to show you a letter from Mr Furnivall about my book. It can wait however. Richard, Hester and Mary Dowden are well. I hope you can say as much of yourself and the Deanery folk. — Yours truly, E. Dowden. 50 Wellington Road March loth, 1 875 Dear Miss West, If you once took me a little to task for my doing only partial justice to Milton, I have now my revenge! When you say that Shelley was not unselfish, you must be speaking out of a vague or imperfect knowledge of certain facts. The Cornhill articles are very poor stuff, never falling below, and never rising above mediocrity, and adding nothing to the knowledge of Shelley, but they are not wrong in their presentation of his moral character. There is, as far as I know, only one passage in Shelley's life which will not suggest a verdict of extreme and perhaps extravagant un- selfishness ; that is the matter of his separation from his first wife. Now, even if he had for one brief period lapsed from his ordinary standard of the highest generosity, his whole life and his character could bear that blot, and still remain of extraordinary beauty and nobleness. But when one looks into it, this series of events cannot be made to convict Shelley of hard-heartedness. His running off with Harriett was invited by her. She threw herself on FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 79 him for protection from her family, and Shelley with his chivalrous inexperience (liking Harriett and being interested in her, and pleased with her, but not strongly loving her), could not do otherwise than devote himself to her service. Then he grew to love her with a kind of superior tender- ness ; but after a time dissatisfactions and inadequacies accumulated to a point which led Shelley to the conviction that it would be better that he and she should part (he had no sense of any peculiar sanctity or formality in the mere act of marriage, nor had she), she to return to her father's house, to be provided for in part by him, and to remain in possession of her children. To this she — although probably with reluctance, was brought to consent. One act does seem positively cruel, he left Harriett suddenly for a short period unprovided for. This, looked on as an act of cruel desertion, finds nothing to fall in with it, or explain it, in Shelley's whole life — but there are several other acts of his life determined by positive hallucinations with which it may class, and at the precise time he was taking opium in large quantities. (Thus he supposed, and so did Harriett, that he had fought with an assassin in Wales — he supposed that an English lady had had a strange interview with him in London — that an Englishman had knocked him down in an Italian post office.) As to Harriett's death, Shelley, though deeply distressed by it, was, and felt that he was, entirely innocent of the causes which led to it. This fact is said to be established beyond question by documents in existence. But leaving this matter of Shelley's separation from Harriett, the whole remainder of his life (though flaws and errors of judgment are frequent in it — and yet less frequent than is commonly supposed) is merely lovely. To give pain to any living creature, down to the least, was impossible to him — while horrifying the public with his revolutionary theories of society and religion, he lived the life of a hermit 80 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS as far as his few simple aud exquisite pleasures are concerned, but never so deeply abandoned to the pure elementary de- lights of his own being as to forgot the sorrows and claims of others, — visiting the poor and sick again and again — reducing himself to extreme want in order to relieve the needs of others (on one occasion when his income was small, he headed a subscription list for Welsh peasants ruined by a flood, with £500 — and such things he repeated again and again), and being at the same time filled with a reforming enthusiasm, so that without ever being laboriously ascetic, the one thing he by instinct did not do, was to think of or indulge himself. And it naturally followed that the love and enthusiasm for Shelley in everyone who knew him, were eager, intense and permanent passions, and were high in proportion to the nobleness of nature of each of his friends. I believe I have stated too definitely the circumstance of Shelley's abandonment of Harriett. All that can be said at present is that he did leave her for some short time in a way which seems to have been cruel, if he was entirely re- sponsible for his acts. Also it is true that he subsequently tried to obtain the custody of his children, and that it was more bitter to him than if they had died, that they should be reared so as to look on all that he believed truth as false- hood, and all that he believed sacred as blasphemous. Then that Shelley who suffered so much in body and mind all through his life, should never have been irritable or resentful or misanthropic, counts for much ; and his admiration for the genius of other writers, and his real and undue depreciation of his own in comparison with theirs, show him to have been free from the author's selfishness of vanity. For his own life and its value to the world he had altogether too slight a regard. I haven't written with the least wish to make Shelley more angelic than he was. It is only because, as far as can FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 81 be made out, the fact was the beautiful and rare fact of a man's having been and lived so, that I state it so (and the facts may serve to vindicate a sonnet I have read which imagines the united life of co-operancy of Shelley with Browning in a possible other state of existence). • • • • • • • Small bits of work of inferior value have accumulated on me. I shall not now add to them but shall try to work my hands free. Macmillan proposes that I shall write a Shakespere Primer in the series of History and Literature Primers edited by J. R. Green. It would not be meant for children, would be a very nice little task to do perfectly, and besides being most useful, I think, has also the attraction which none of my other work has had of being, from the commercial point of view, remunerative. I still doubt whether I shall send G. Eliot a copy of my book (" Shakespere, his Mind and Art"), my article having sufficiently assured her of my good will, and I fear I should send my book chiefly for the sake of learning whether she approved it. But after my article and sending my book — she might be unwilling to express in its full strength an unfavourable opinion. Perhaps I shall do so however. Anyhow the best thing for me is to detach myself from this book as much as possible. I did my best for my child until it was of age, now it must make its own way in the world. These various little activities of mine keep me a good deal over books and more than I like. Yet I am still more indis- posed for "Society" (notwithstanding which, I must go to a masculine dinner at Dr Salmon's to-morrow, and on Friday must assist at a Shakespere Society meeting in College). On Sunday I got out into the country, and heard the first lark sing (and saw the delightful fellow up in the sky) — and read the " Wanderer " (in the Excursion) and entered into Wordsworth very fully for a while. We were at the Royal Hibernian Academy yesterday ; F 2 82 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS there are about five interesting pictures there ; chief and best a sea and shore piece by a Dutch artist Messdag, next a milking of cattle (by a Belgian) on a dull day, when a gleam of vague light and breeze come on — the colouring so rich, quiet and true in tone. These, also a delightful little picture called "on the Thames," by a man called Dearie. April 29th, 1875 . . . I am in the Examination Hall and shall be so again to-morrow. On Friday, I think, Mr Furnivall will come to us. I hope to get him to Wicklow, perhaps on Sunday and Mon- day — and after that the poor man (and perhaps myself with him) is threatened with daily invitations — lectures or meet- ings till he leaves. I believe ive are going to do our duty to Society on Tuesday evening. " O for a lodge in a vast wilderness — A boundless con- tiguity of shade ! ! " • •••••• Ruskin's books, of which I got a quantity, are of two kinds — on Art, of which I hope there will be more, or flowers and birds in connection with Art ; and on social subjects (together with amusing autobiographical digressions), of these latter some are very good — others are absurd — a weak chaffing of the public, being Ruskin's form of self-indulgence. Altogether I am forced, against my will, to consider him a very weak prophet, with exquisite and unique gifts — but deficient in largeness and saneness of ivill. I cannot hide my soul under the shadow of his wing — it flickers and flutters too uneasily. And I don't think you'd be happy if you had to spend your life in pinning flowers in his buttonhole ! x I find Dr Atkinson willing to come to Wicklow and 1 Allusion to an incident at a dinner party in Dublin when Ruskin asked the lady on one side of him for a flower from her bouquet, and gave E D. W the favour of pinning it into his coat. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 83 desirous to start on Saturday evening. Perhaps I shall get Dr Ingram to join us ; wish us fine weather. But my ill- luck in small things will make it rain. However, I never feel or think of my small ill-lucks now. G. Eliot hasn't written to me and I am a little glad. Of course I should think her approval of anything I did, absolute evidence of its worth ; but this Shakespere book has only a kind of worth hidden behind its weakness, which I do not feel the least want of anyone's discovering. I know it is there and how it came there, and I suspect that in any- thing I do there will be something of the same strength joined to weakness. Browning's new poem ("Aristophanes' Apology") I have made some way in. It is full of vigorous life. But reaches of it are hard wading in classical lore — sand to me who hardly unify its crowded allusions — but sand with a live and sing- ing sea within hearing — and some scattered flowers — rough like sea-holly or delicate like sea-convolvulus. I have as yet come on no passage about E. B .B., but I suspect that in "Balaustion" herself there is not a little of Mrs Browning. — Truly yours, E. D. Melrose, Bray In June 1 875 To-day I despatched to the Academy a notice of the " Jahr- buch " founded on three articles — one on the " Children of Shakspere's Plays," one on " Hamlet in Spain," and one on " Shakspere's Death Mask." I should like you to know and see this Death Mask, so I'll post to you a Scribners Magazine, together with a photograph of the mask. . . . The Scribner contains a valuable article on the subject. On the whole, I think the claim for the Mask a very fair one, and the face seems to me a most beautiful, sensitive, noble and somewhat sad face. Let the impression of Death, which 84 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS at first is strong (much more strong than in the case of the alleged Dante death mask), fade away, and I think, you will agree with me that one could be content to believe Shakspere was like this. When you have read the article, post the Scribner and photograph to F. J. Furnivall. If I do not hear from you, I shall expect that you will come before long and " view Fair Melrose aright " {i.e. its interior). Tuesday was to me a day in 1875 which it is pleasant to remember. ... I want you, dear friend, to be at all times conscious that the good which knowing you brings to me is always a living and growing fact of the present. If some monumental words expressing this were cut in brass or granite, I suppose they might get weather-worn, and be, themselves, a thing of the past ; but they are to be seen by you, if you choose, cut in living tables of the heart. And though, as you know, I should like your brain to play among the forces that alter things, for my own part I can accept you as sufficient without your unwritten opus magnum. — Always truly yours, E. D. Melrose, Bray July $th, 1875 Dear Miss West, Our move was successfully made last Thursday, and we find that this place is to be liked very well. It is a great improvement on Mayfield, which was enervating though with beauty of its own. The near view of the Head from my study window, and from its other window of the Sugar- loaf Mountain, is a festival for eyes that have pored a good deal in the last six months over printed type. The evening we came down was calm and yet fresh feel- ing, and I couldn't resist the temptation of taking an hour by myself in a boat — to be with the sea and without the promenaders is a pleasant possibility here. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 85 That evening I felt it to be no less than an act of virtue to trespass, climbing over the wall, and went to the topmost point of the Head, where I lay for a while and was among the heath. When I came down, I got a very pleasant letter of London news from Dr Todhunter about himself and Mr Yeats and Wagner's music and Irving's "Hamlet" and Salvini's " Othello," whereupon I found myself replying in the form of a sonnet, copied here, though it does not profess to be of any special value : — Whence may I glean a just return, my friend, For tidings of your great world hither borne. 1 To-morrow I shall be in town the greater part of the day ; we have a Committee meeting on Medical Schools, and since we came here I have not done much, — but I must set to. There is only a bare possibility of my article on " German Shakespere Literature" (for which I am allowed 33 pp.) getting into the Quarterly before January ; so my immediate piece of work will be the "Wordsworth Prose Works" article, for which I shall have got all the material by to-morrow I expect, and the Shakespere Primer ; both of these are due before or by October, and I promised my "Selections from Wordsworth" to Longmans on January 1st, 1876, but I shall probably fail to keep my promise and get an extension of time. Such mere journeyman's work (yet that of a skilled journeyman) as the revision of the Shakespere and Chaucer chapters in Smith's " E. Literature," I never did before. The first proofs came this morning and my journeyman's wages, ;£20. It was satisfactory work because I knew I was doing it sufficiently well, and I spent no time fitted for higher work upon it. I wish I were more entirely in 1 See E. D.'s " Poems," published by Dent & Sons, in reprint, or old 1876 volume. 86 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS harmony with Wordsworth while working over him — but it cannot be. Since coming here I read Calderon's "The Constant Prince " in MacCarthy's translation. MacCarthy's work may be accurate, but it is dreadfully lame and dull English verse, so that one suffers at seeing the beauty of the original striving to pierce through. Calderon's passion for sea-beauty and colour and flower-like foam, and also for vividly-coloured blossoms, sea-like motion of leaves and foam-like flowers — is a wonderful and unique thing as far as I know. With regard to human character also, I surmise his feeling is similar, for vivid, enthusiastic, chivalrous natures — for the Christian heroism of martyrs rather than for Corneille's somewhat pagan and stoical idea of devotion and fortitude. Perhaps Calderon may be a useful make-weight against one tendency of Shakespere reading. The evening before I came down here I had a pleasant couple of hours in my carpetless little study with Aubrey de Vere. He has written his drama " Thomas a Becket," but says it will take him as long again to revise it. Such energy in creative work comes only by entire abandonment to it and forsaking of critical ; and if ever poetry is written by me, it will be by making it my absorbing occupation. Melrose, Bray July loth, 1875 Dear Miss West, There has been little to record since we met last week. That average day — which however became extra- ordinarily beautiful in the evening (lovely lights and mists coming over the little Sugar-loaf mountain) was a middle way of happiness made for our earthly uses between the extreme glory of Monday and the disaster and disgrace of Wednesday. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 87 This morning, news comes that my father will come to us to-day ; and I am going to town to meet him. My time will be divided between my father and my study. On Sunday, in spite of the rain, Dr Atkinson came down to us, and after an early dinner, when the rain ceased — although Bray Head was still under a slowly shifting mist — he and I sallied forth and had a couple of hours scrambling over all manner of impossible rocks. There was a large slow swell on the sea, and we watched the rush and conflict between certain little straits and the zeals and aspirings of the true element at odds with its boundary of circumstance. Dr Atkinson of course could not pause, and pursued all the difficult points of rock as if they were prey to be hunted down. I have just started my "Wordsworth Prose Works" paper, and if my father's presence does not too much interrupt me, I expect it will not take long to write. Wordsworth's relation to the French Revolution has exercised me a good deal. I don't think he ever accepted the fact as a whole — nor perhaps ought it to be so accepted. One so entirely alien to the 18th-century clearing-up in France must be thrown off sooner or later by one side of the Revolution. As to the comparatively early settling and fixation of Wordsworth's mind, and the subsiding of his poetical im- pulse, I think it arose partly from his manner of contempla- tion being so much to him. It was less the object itself that interested him than the aspect of the object presented to his contemplative eye and heart, and this gift or faculty of a mode of perceiving things, worked out its chief results by about 1815 — it could not be inexhaustible as Shakespere's real dramatic seizure of material is. The thing in Words- worth's poetry is neither the thing in itself nor is it a mere lyrical singing forth of inward emotion ; the thing is an emanation from both subject and object, a tertium quid. 88 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS The Archbishop got Macmillan to send me a copy of Miss Maria Trench's " St Teresa." She has read the sources of the " Life," and put together selections from the writings carefully. As far as I have gone the spirit is one of unvarying sympathy (in the lower and feebler sense of the word sympathy). She does not boldly press forward to explore the personality of S. Teresa, but gently and ad- miringly accepts her views and statements. And instead of trusting to the ennobling resultant of approaching a great nature like Teresa's, she appends to each incident a gently edifying comment ! A portrait is given, but no existing portrait is said to be good. In recording the incident which I thought of making the foundation of a dramatic monologue, Miss Trench's remark amounts to: "What a shocking state of things when a priest could confide such a gross piece of his life to a girl, and how it must have stained her mind." The truth being that the Priest could confess to her as to a pure soul in God's presence — one soul standing naked before another, with absolute confidence that his confession could dwell for harm upon her imagination — less than water drops upon a white-hot sword blade. However, Miss Trench's book deserves, I think, some faint half-praise. I have no intention of reviewing it, but if S. Teresa took any genuine hold of me I would yield. Crashaw has said much in a few lines of his : — "O thou undaunted daughter of desires, By all thy dower of lights and fires, By all the eagle in thte — all the dove, By all thy lives and deaths of love." Melrose, Aug. 4th, 1875 Dear Miss West, Out of the very few days on which I have gone to town since we came here, two were days on which FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 89 you called at Melrose. I was more sorry last Wednesday than was at all reasonable to have missed you. However, your letter with its Wordsworth discoursing was, I after- wards said to myself, better than the odds and ends of talk in a visit. Last Wednesday, when I suppose I was made to see things in a little disordered light by the fatigue of travelling with Essie from New York to San Francisco in Mr H. Gillard's Panorama ! it did seem quite a serious misfortune that you are not going to have the pleasure of a visit to Skye. It would have enriched your life with new and strong hours of delight (and one, at least, of your friends thinks he could be content to ''lie in cold extinction" if your life were full of adequate energizing and its attendant joy). But I know that you may be trusted to have decided rightly in this. The argument that accidentals are not to be cared for because they don't alter essentials of life, must not be pushed too far. I say this rather against myself than against you. For I am again and again tempted to say that to keep a little circle of folk around me as comfortable and happy as possible is doing just as well as if I tried to do more; and that it matters little whether I spend my time grubbing for a material consideration, or in trying to find what is best in me for the use of verse — the essentials of good being inde- pendent and apart. But this is a self-deception. And one ought to carry up the non-essential part of one's existence to its highest possible level. The proposed trip to the Lakes is not likely to be carried out. Mr Graves has been far from strong lately. He suggests next Easter as a possible time for carrying out our plan, if at all. To see certain spots with my own eyes, I felt, would have been very helpful, if not needful in my attempt to re-enter into Wordsworth's poetry. 9 o FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS The article for the Fortnightly will be in part good. It is almost wholly on Wordsworth's political feeling and its history, and the best parts of it have the merit of entire sincerity to my present consciousness. This quality of sincerity, if I possess it partly, and with it the escape from clever half-insincerity, is due to you more than to any other influence. Mr Graves, with his usual capacity for sympathy, did not fail to understand (when I confessed to him my present feeling towards Wordsworth) that one can pass out of his influence without any disloyalty to him ; and he acknow- ledged that such an experience had occurred with himself, though, I suppose, not precisely as it occurred with you or with me. All that you say in your letter seems to me most true and worth saying. Yesterday I spent with Mr Grosart, and I believe next Tuesday is likely to be again given up to him, from morning till night, as he proposes to come to Glendalough with Dr Ingram, if I can get Dr Ingram to come. Mr Grosart will always be a friendly acquaintance and no more — a Presbyterian minister of Blackburn, with a most clerical intonation, thoroughly evangelical ; yet to his honour, an admirer of J. H. Newman and J. Martineau. His energy and the amount of work he has done are almost a miracle (Furnivall's work even seems less than his). He is a great book collector and has the greatest collection of Puritan Fathers in existence. He is exceedingly learned in the lesser Elizabethan poets non-dramatic, and in the Puritan writers. His talk never lapses into any subject of which he himself is not a conspicuous part, e.g. he talks not of Sidney, but of Sidney Grosart or Grosart Sidney. This is the fly in the apothecaries' ointment, and an ill-savoured fly ! But I am bound to speak gratefully ; for he has a certain wantonness of generosity towards me, and is now about to FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 91 give me a quantity of engravings of worthies, including a Wordsworth, an Archbishop Leighton, a Donne, which I ought to be very glad to get. Still this won't do, unless the man himself attracts ! and the blue-neck-tied Chaucer scholar, who was really very far from egotism, and thinks he'll be extinct for ever when the breath is out of him, was a much more likeable fellow. Grosart is now publishing a minor Elizabethan — " Barnabe Barnes" — who, I think, turns out a veritable "find" of an exquisite neglected poet. I can't get him, as according to the detestable system Grosart adopts, only thirty copies are printed, but I'll borrow him, for he is like a slender thread of light, or a little threaded lock of gold Apollo's hair in the Elizabethan world. The most interesting thing that Grosart told me was about G. Eliot, how when about eighteen she went through agonies of spiritual distress, with passionate, uncontrollable outbursts of weeping as she was sundering from her faith. How intense and real everything one hears of her is. I had a long letter enclosed by Yeats from Edwin Ellis, an artist, from Perugia, chiefly about Ruskin. Ruskin, he says, is a delightful enemy, he discourses long, eagerly and closely. He slips nothing, and pays minute attention to all you say, answers to the point, and gives you the best of his brains, without calculation and without pretence. He brings a philosophic courtesy into the thing, which is evidently the result of a self-control, which from being a pain has become a pleasure, as skill in it has been acquired. His general way is deliberate, punctilious, gentle, and old- fashioned. This, in contrast to Ruskin's manner with girl graduates in their golden hair, is interesting. Ellis is a stout young man with a big head and a preter- naturally swift and clever set of brains, and if possessed of a certain faculty of reverence of his own, certainly finely devoid of what we ordinarily call reverence. But I must end this long and rambling letter. Write me 92 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS when you write, a good stiff discussion of some problem in the higher algebra — or in the history of colonial policy? or some such important subject. — Yours truly, E. D. Melrose, Bray August 2yd, 1875 Dear Miss West, Richard is well. It was very pleasant to learn from your note which came this morning that you thought my Wordsworth paper satisfactory. I don't know whether this will reach you before you start for Wicklow, but it doesn't matter much — as I have nothing particular to tell. My eyes were haunted for some time after last Tuesday evening by the beautiful life and motion of the waves breaking on the sand. • •••••• As I came home I saw pacing in the moonlight, a noticeable man with dark grey eyes and iron grey hair who had attracted me more than anyone I have seen in Bray, by his wistful and intellectual face and by the fact of his deafness which I observed — by his friendliness with children and his solitary meditative ways. He lived in a cottage just below us. He turned out to be C. J. Kickham — the pardoned Fenian prisoner : and he went away the next day. For the first time for years Dr Todhunter sent me spon- taneously some poems this morning. It is an act of friendship which I feel very pleasant, and I suppose this set me writing the following : — SONNET Not in some lulled island of the South A naked boy among the myrtle bloom, With rainbow-wings a-shift and rose-bud mouth, Fingering a restless dart, the God has come ; FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 93 Rough, northern hills are these — the sea winds roam Great and as free as in our earth's wild youth, Through pine-paths steep up to a heathery home Of clear aerial silences — where Truth Clings speechless to the soul. Here in wide day, And when the mystic twilights took the world, A Presence was above me — here dread eyes Searched deep if any base thing in me lay ; A right hand touched me ; and my life unfurled As fresh as primrose buds to April skies. • • • • • • I must post this now if it is to have any chance of catching you. — Yours truly, E. D. Winstead, Temple Road Oct. yd, 1875 Dear Miss West, We had a fine, bright, breezy day for our move from Bray — purple cloud-shadows flying over a green sea spotted white with the wind. Since then I have acted, not thought ! I have felt like one of our primitive ancestors struggling against the chaos of the early world, and now, though apparently all around us is confusion still, there is (as a recent writer finely remarks of " King Lear") " a logic of the storm " — perceptible to myself — out of which a cosmos will, in the course of some cycles of time, evolve itself or be evolved. Outside my study I become a subordinate to the more experienced, if not more comprehensive, genius of my wife — but ivithin it, the field for my efforts, single-handed, has been wide enough. I get into grooves and ruts about household matters, while she invents new and better ways, and therefore I wisely accept, in the general arrangement of things, a secondary place. When we arrived, in this my room there was a litter of books breast-high. I have gone through every one of these and got them on my shelves in 94 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS some moderate degree of order. There is a quantity of various work pressing, for my examinations come in a heap on and after the 1 2th, but I cannot work while surrounded by disorder (i.e. disorder in the things that specially interest me). We like this house and its surroundings. From the back beyond the garden, which is a large rough space of earth at present, there are fields and trees, and it looks almost more country-like than the front view looking to the hills, which appear very fairly in the intervals left by detached houses opposite. The name of this house, which was chosen by a general convergence of the intellect of the household out of about thirty submitted by me (and most of which were picked out of Drayton's " Polyolbion") is Winstead, and this, as I have lately rediscovered, was suggested by the name of Andrew Marvell's birthplace, " Winestead," a small old-world English village or hamlet — but what led me to be acquainted with the existence of a Winestead (from which I omit the e), was that Mr Graves is giving me a large portrait of Andrew Marvell, and Mr Grosart has given me a copy of all his works and a small portrait. Perhaps I shall feel bound to learn more about the "great men" who "have been among us" — Sidney, Marvell, Harrington, and others who called Milton "friend." . . . The tumbling over and putting right my books has had a demoralizing effect — opening all sorts of possible delightful vistas of reading : and though they are not very numerous, I had once or twice the feeling, "Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years." Other possessions and household goods make life seem all the more unsubstantial and phenomenal. " Is not parchment made of sheepskins?" "Ay,' my lord, and of calfskins too. They are sheep and calves that seek assurance in that." But although at times literature seems to lie so much on the surface and away from the eternal^ roots of things — books " Are a substantial world both pure and good. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 95 Round these with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow." They are at least the best thing in life. I shall be well content if I am now done with unprofitable reviews of my book. I think the circle has been nearly completed by a favourable review in the Spectator. These reviews have taught me, I believe, absolutely nothing, and I don't think it was my own fault. The nett profit, perhaps, is that R. Simpson's article in the Academy made me feel more fully what I was well aware of — my own ignorance of the political currents of Elizabeth's reign. The " Hausvater," the goodman of the house, predomi- nates in me at present. Neither Essie nor Richard is in the most flourishing condition, and Mrs Dowden is over-fatigued and must rest wholly, which it is hard to do with the sense that there are things to be done. However, I hope in a few days things will come more to rights. — Truly yours, E. D. October loth, 1 87 5 I went to town on Friday for some work in the College Library, leaving the household in a prosperous state, and came back to find a series of troubles mushroom-like grown up. But these have again all disappeared, and to-day, although so responsible (and I maintain so excellent !) a " Hausvater," I feel less hausvaterlich than for several days, and more capable of entering into other thoughts than those of making and securing a sheltered region for these fledgeling creatures. But this week work tumbles in, of multifarious kinds, all of a heap — examinations, collecting for Mr Grosart, another German picture to be furnished with letterpress, proof-sheets to correct, talks about business for the Council, etc., etc. It must be a trial of your faith in your friend to believe that .some virtue will survive, when I grow so uninteresting as I 96 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS have necessarily grown through things which do not more than insufficiently interest myself, yet which must be done. It is like answering the Lord of the Feast — "I have bought a yoke of oxen, etc. I pray thee have me excused." But the truth is, that what I send as my message to the Lord- Love or the Lord-Thought or the Lord-Song whose feast has been prepared, is, " Let me come after others and eat at least some relics of the Feast"; and I think such a petition will not be refused, especially when no one is so glad as I to think that the feast is set and others are rilled with the new wine's foaming flow and with the presence of the Master's ardent face — which I too shall hereafter see. To-morrow evening it is likely that, if all goes well, I shall go to " Lohengrin." I don't suppose I shall go to any other opera, but it would be a pity to miss the one chance in Dublin of hearing Wagner's music. My fore-feeiing. which is sometimes right, is that Wagner is too theoretical to be a great musical genius — and I have little doubt that he has the German characteristic, that of Cornelius and others, of loving a great studious composition illustrating a self- conscious idea. Such a work can only be appreciated after a training in such a school, and such a training is a misleading one. . . . Munich, I have come to conclude somehow, is about the central place of art which is everything except — art; learned, laborious, inspiring, filled with (false) ideas, and strong with volition •, but true art is simple and childlike, yet strong as one of the archangels of Orcagna. " Who- soever will not become as a little child shall in no wise enter into the Kingdom of Art." Examination Hall, T.C.D. October lyh, 1 875 It is a disappointment to me that I shall be unable to meet FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 97 the Shanganagh household and Mr Wright to-morrow. . . . I cannot hope to get away as far as Shanganagh. Mr Wright I saw for a moment on Wednesday, and had a short talk at the door of the Examination Hall. I felt it my duty to charge him (in the absence of all evidence of the fact) with having recently acquired several "new bronzes," and after an attempt not to incriminate himself he owned to having got possession of a " clapping Faun." If it is a good copy I can excuse the offence. I went in a vile spirit to " Lohengrin," that of doing a duty rather than accepting a pleasure. Mr Culwick was there and kindly lent me his score. He will, if you interro- gate him, say something articulate about it. /cannot. My impression, however, being no more than the germ of a belief, is that in the essential difference between " Lohengrin" and " Don Giovanni " there is nothing more logical or realistic in " Lohengrin," while Mozart's Shakspearian dramatic genius gives all the advantage to " Don Giovanni" (certain postulates must be granted in all dramatic music, but I find myself quite as well able to grant the postulate which justifies passion expressing itself (in an ideal work of art) in melody, as that which justifies the Wagnerian system). Nevertheless I am not repelled by anything illegitimate in Wagner, and there is evidence of great volition and great intellect all through — marred somewhat by the splayness of the German mind. The elaborate apparatus of counts, servitors, etc., with several instructions for the entry of each count, was not unlike the tiresome landscape gardening in the " Wahlverwandschaften." One has to be in a docile mood for the acceptance of ideality to accept this story of the Saint Grael knight in his swan car, as of more rational and deeper significance than the romanticism of Weber. Mozart is neither romantic nor ideal, but Shakspearianly passionate. The love-scenes between Lohengrin and Elsa seem to me somewhat Schilleresque in their ideality, and wonderfully 98 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS free from any sensuous element (which is really present in Gounod's music, as it is in some of Shakspere's plays), and I don't take this absence of sensuousness as proof of a nobler aesthetical or ethic nature, any more than I should take Schiller's for a nobler nature than Shakspere's. However, as I say, I am left simply as an enquirer, and an anxious enquirer, not hostile to Wagner, but rather the reverse. To-morrow my ill-luck in small things so decreed — some 1 20 or so of papers lie before me. My precise task will be the least agreeable of the twelve months, doing the extra duty of examining in Logic at the ordinary Little-go examina- tion. It is my privilege to have the right to refuse ; but I do not think it well to assert my dignity as Professor and Doctor. There is a small struggle going on now between Fellows and Professors in the matter of examining. . . . Into this deep matter I need not go further, though so full of interest ! Excuse my being a little cynical. The cynicism does not go very deep, but it is one of the unsatisfactorinesses of adult life to find amongst most of one's fellows so many petty self-interests, follies, spites ; and even my small in- creased acquaintance with College politics reveals a little wormy nest of these. To return for a moment to " Lohengrin." I distrust every word I have said. One important fact remains to be stated. It was less of a new thing, less of an unique sensa- tion, than I had expected. And also I went in a vexed mood, when things affected me only in a disjointed way — a kind of spiritual toothache filling up the intervals. And in spite of all this, I could see things which, if I could have advanced towards them and thrown myself upon them, would have carried me away. — Always truly yours, E. D. Nov. 8t!>, 1875 I have fallen so much in arrear with my Quarterly FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 99 article that I am not sure whether I may not be altogether too late with it. However, except for the money and the connection with the Quarterly I shouldn't be sorry, for I never wrote anything more unwillingly. It is extreme pain to me to write until I get thoroughly interested in a subject. Just at present I am reading a large book sent to me for review by the Academy, " Ward's History of English Litera- ture," in 2 vols. It is an excellent book for a Professor to have written and for a Professor to read — full of information, judgmatical criticism, neither cold nor enthusiastic, and I go through it with real interest. But it is not a dangerously exciting book ! I have three little articles in prospect for the Academy — one on Hamlet studies — this on Ward's "History" — and one unwritten still, on Barnes's " Parthenope and Parthenophile," Elizabethan love-sonnets. For amusement I am reading aloud, in convenient odds and ends of time, " The Princess of Thule," and like it better than any recent novel I've read, but the number of these is very small indeed. My book for edification has been Dante, which I read in Carlyle's prose-translation. I have read nothing that so fills the mind since Shakspere. I keep an eye on the Italian as I go along, and get a little gleaming light from it — much like a shade. I think at the rate of about a Canto a day I shall come at the end some time. — Yrs., E. D. In Novr. 22ndy 1 875 On Thursday I may go to the opening meeting of the Phil. Society. On the following Monday I believe I am to fill a gap in the Fortnightly Club by something about Whitman, and on Saturday afternoon I am going to read for my College class the old lectures on French Poetry, some of which is part of their course for honours. ioo FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS I believe it would be worth my while to go over the ground of the old French Lectures again, and with my article on Victor Hugo, and a study of the idea of progress and self- renouncement in G. Eliot — progress and order in Tennyson — progress and disorder in Swinburne — and so to work out a continuous study. Victor Hugo and Whitman, the joyous prophets of this idea — Morris, and some of the French poets turning aside from its " banalite," Leconte de Lisle, the critic of the developments of religion (Indian, Greek, Christian), some such working up of my old materials would give more interest and importance to them than if they remained detached essays. You, with your St Patrick's traditions around you, ought to get Foster's "Life of Swift" from the library and read it. I don't mean to read it at present, but I have always had a feeling that Swift was the ruined idealist of the age of Anne, greater than Berkeley, the saved idealist, by virtue of his having a stronger positive unideal side, by which the evil world took hold of him and dragged him into the abyss. We have finished the "Princess of Thule," and I think you hardly do it justice when you say the story is very poor. That feeling comes from your expecting a great deal too much. The whole book gives me the feeling of a very charming water-colour sketch, and after coming from George Eliot's laborious modelling and finished, strong oil painting, this looks slight and thin. But of its kind it seems to me excellent, the figures and feelings all rather faint and pale. Sheila is a feature in the landscape pleasanter and brighter than a wave or a rock, and as needful. The whole has a light delicate harmony. Somehow I shouldn't care for the human part of the story to take any great hold on me — to clutch me and carry me to heights or depths. I imagine that you and I pretty well agree in our estimate FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 101 of the book, only that its pleasantness strikes me more, and its slightness and inadequacy — you. I have been just now at a rather grotesque little meeting of the Senate, where of three Senior Fellows present, each two proposed the other two for re-election on the Council. About nine-tenths of life and the world seem at times rather ridiculous ; but the tenth, which is sometimes the Samaritan, while the nine are the respectable Jews of this life, returns to give thanks to God. — Yrs. E. D. Winstead Deer. l%th, 1875 Dear Miss West, I don't think I shall dutifully answer in detail your letters, but say whatever occurs to me to say. • •••••* Here I find great rest for eyes and mind in vague gazing at the Dublin mountains (a low use to make of them, but still a use), and I should feel considerable loss if a garden and fields, pleasant though they are, were substituted for the view I see from my study window. My lectures are ended . . . The Christmas Vacation will, I hope, not be idle. . . . My long announced "Primer" must be written, and that as soon as may be. . . . For a big prose book, if I were to write one, I should like a study made quite anew of 19th-century influences, taking in France and Germany, as well as England, with Goethe not omitted. And I think I could say something worth saying on this subject. But the mountain ranges to be conquered appal me. Byron alone would take some months for me to master. Still, in the end, to get the main forces, personal and impersonal, lying before me, as well learned as I now feel Shakspere to be (and that is io2 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS very imperfectly !), would be a substantial piece of acquisi- tion — something to stand on in this confused welter, and grow calmer by standing upon it. Every secret one learns about the world adds to one's serenity, and in the end to see a good fragment of the whole clearly is much, and would partly appease. Only in trying to see widely, is there not a risk of ceasing to see deeply ? I see a book which ought to be most interesting — Stigand's "Life of Heinrich Heine." This and Taine's ist vol. of his "French Revolution" ought to be things to bite on among this season's viands. I had a newspaper from Whitman directed in a firm hand, and containing an account of some sayings and doings of his at the Edgar Allan Poe re-burial ceremonies. He talks with great beauty of Poe, and of how he had condemned and been alienated from him, but is now drawn to him by the pathos of his wrecked manhood and genius. I was glad you thought our baby grown. She is the quietest, and (according to the standards of nursery ethics) the " best" baby of our household. We have had a wonder- fully quiet autumn and winter, so far, with no alarms. Winstead, Temple Road January 6th, l8j6 Dear Miss West, I had hoped you would send Browning a copy of your "Verses," and am very glad to see his letter. It is of value apart from its special value to you — as really containing some of the Browning brave advance of spirit and single and strong " elan," which saves Browning's complex intellect from perplexing his heart or moral nature. I don't find it easy to make an interval between myself and these verses sufficiently clear and wide to look at them FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 103 as a spectator — what was helpful in them has gone into my blood. My Primer is well struck into, and I shall now get on. It will be as full of information — to use a John Bunyan simile — " as an egg is full of meat." I am reading aloud Stigand's "Life of Heine" slowly, for my wife only gets an odd hour to be with me in the study. The subject makes it interesting, and the large translations from Heine's prose ; but Stigand himself makes commonplace reflections which irritate a reader who has a sense of the shortness of life. In the Fortnightly Review for January is an interesting Shakespere article by Swinburne, in which he avers that Fletcher didn't write any of " Henry VIII." (which may be possible), and treats the play as a 2nd period play of Shakespere, which is certainly and utterly wrong. The very contrast between Constance of King John and Katherine of Henry VIII., whom he classes together, might have suggested the truth. There is also a paper by Pater ; but Morley has been guilty of the atrocious crime of publishing only half of it and promising the rest. It would have been as fitting to put up a Luca della Robbia plaque in two pieces ! However, the article is somewhat less unique in feeling (so far) than his other essays. Did you see the advertisement of G. Eliot's new novel, "Daniel Deronda"? There was an absurd report that it was to be a story of American life. G. Eliot knows her roots of life too well to try to transplant herself into modern America (far more unnatural to her than a migration to mediaeval Florence). The "Inn Album" struck me as very characteristic of Browning, he likes to make a ravelled knot of right and wrong — of sin and shame — and to cut it with a sudden leap of noble passion, and the old sinner being offered one 104 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS chance in his life of salvation through a woman, and supinely- letting it slip, and so being given over to the devil, is like Browning. The noble simplicity of attitude in which the two figures confront the Satan of the poem at the close, is quite in the manner of incidents in his early dramas. But I get no addition to thought or feeling from the book. In fact the motives suggested by Browning's heart and imagination are few, and he cannot vary them or multiply them ; any addition, I think he feels rightly, can now be made only by his intellect working out the right and wrong of cases of greater and greater perplexity, referring always to the decision of the heart — as ultimate court of appeal. The old decisions of former years — these " arrets d'amour" — were uttered most finely in his shorter early poems. His best later ones are the studies of complex problems. These interest me less than the earlier poems — and the inferior poems of later years are those in which the case studied is a case of inferior interest — and such I think the case of the "Inn Album" to be. Perhaps I said all this before — for I thought it. Then it is an extraordinary mistake of Browning if he thinks he is really dramatic. His own ideas are shared in all his books between two sets of characters — the intellectual casuist, like Aristophanes, who say the partial truths he is resolved to reject, and the ardent souls — often women — like Balaustion, whose utterances are Browning's highest intui- tions of truth. Sometimes one and the same character contains both these persons, or, containing both, suppresses one of the two — but neither Browning's mind is dramatic in the Shakespere sense, nor can he vary his voice which through 30,000 lines would never write one that was in a dialect other than his own. • ••••■■ Swinburne's " Erechtheus " is out; I have seen two reviews of it, and the passages quoted made me think FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 105 very highly of the poem. I am prepared to find it greater than " Atalanta," and to love it less. Jan. lyth, 1876 Dear Miss West, Although it seems a good while since I wrote to you, there is not much to tell. I was in the house nearly the whole of last week with a troublesome cold, which had a dull stupefying effect on my brain, but without attaining the dignity of serious illness. On Sunday I went to lunch with Stopford Brooke. My impression of him is now more precise and definite. I think it very unlucky that he should be a Christian priest, even with the vague and genial gospel of aesthetic liberalism, but he has got genuine gifts as a litterateur. If you go expecting convictions or discipline, it is not likely that you will get them, but he has animation and play of mind ; and life is always a pleasant spectacle to me whether it be shallow or profound. If one doesn't see colour on a mountain side or a great solitary moor, then the colour of a bird's neck is pleasant to look at. Stopford Brooke has written Macmillan's " English Literature Primer," and seems much concerned about its success. Green and Green's " History" have stirred his hopes and ambitions, and if his " Primer " is approved, he would like to fill up its outline, and write a " History of English Literature " to sweep away all others, and dazzle the universe like Green's " History " ! He talked about Matthew Arnold, whose vanity, he says, is quite attractive, being so unaggressive, like the bloom and flourish of a flower, and he told us various stories, such as London folk seem to refresh their souls with. J. S. Mill's feeling towards his wife he described as that of Miranda to Ferdinand, Mill having lived in original solitude on his Island until this marvellous new creation — a woman — appeared 106 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS to him in the person of Mrs Taylor. He saw all his thoughts and feelings — the same yet different — modified into the feminine of them, and it was a new revelation of truth, (all this time the litterateur-apostle was puffing forth the abundant fume of a cheroot through lips and nostrils). I have read great part of Swinburne's " Erechtheus." The reviews can hardly recover from the shock of wonder at its greatness and beauty, to gasp forth their ecstasies. Me it leaves not deeply moved. The subject is a beautiful one, and it is beautifully conceived, but the poem is swamped in a flood of words. Though " Atalanta " is more romantic, it seems to me really more severe. The thought and feeling in " Erechtheus " thins itself like a cloud that is dismembering and vanishing on a summer's day, but the verses sullied each other with an undiminished pomp of phrase and sound. I have also read my friend Armstrong's "King Solomon," it really seems to me good. I never experienced a thrill, cold water on my back, or the " mother," the climbing hysterico-passio, clutching at my heartstrings ; but it is all kept up to a good high level of secondary poetry, and I could have written nothing one- tenth as good myself. His Solomon is a kind of Jewish Goethe, whose spiritualities, in opposition to his tribe of spiritual absolutists, are that he feels the presence of spirit in and not alone outside of Nature, and is perpetually conscious of the Hamiltonian truth of the relativity of all human cognition. In letter of January 2<)tb, 1 8 J 6 You quite converted me to satisfaction with the " Inn Album " for an hour and thirty-six minutes and a quarter: but then my mind recovered its tone of natural health, and immorality ; and I saw things again without the corrupting influence of your energy and virtue of heart. The fact was FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 107 I read the poem at a stretch, and in quite an intense spirit of attention, and was held by it and carried along to the end ; but then I exclaimed, " I am done with this poem ! it does not purify the passions by pity and terror ; I am not the better for it ; I knew before, the old story that a noble woman may be cheated of her life by a London roue, and that she may be sorrowfully noble still. I don't see that I have gained anything adequate to the odiousness of having been in company with this old Iniquity, and his big-bodied vulgar friend (not without his human virtue which a noble woman can sting into life), for some three hours. They leave an ugly blot on my memory. " But it is real? and you must in this ugly world endure such blots ; and Browning courageously shews you the meaning of them, and is a servant here of suffering humanity ? " Not in a degree, I think, which justifies the choice of story and persons. No doubt hardly a case comes before a criminal court which could not be made, by an explorer of Browning's genius, to yield up some precious grain of truth and nobleness. But I want better things from poetry, and to attain these it must make choice of really noble themes. The woman of the poem is a mere sketch ; and the two other dramatis persona are eminently uninteresting specimens of crime and mediocrity. If I could draw large conclusions from slight premises, like Ruskin, I should say that "the beautiful description of the elm condemns the whole poem, and with it all modern poetry," for so incapable (I am still writing as Ruskin!) of common observation has Browning become through his absorb- ing interest in the analysis of evil, that he speaks of the '* elm's smooth bole," evidently taking his elm for a beech ! We have had the happiness of reading the first book of "Daniel Deronda" before, perhaps, any one else in Dublin. Is not that a thing to envy ? By a lucky accident I got a copy intended for the trade and not for sale, a week ago. The book will be, I expect, a great one — the hero, about io8 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS whom one's curiosity is sufficiently roused, is still unexplained, but the heroine (so far) is essentially — though, of course, in many ways different, a Tito in petticoats, a spoilt child — the centre of her own universe, yet aware at moments of the vast universe surrounding her, and of her homelessness and isolation in it. I anticipate that this first book contains certain premonitory hints and emblems of incidents of larger mould in the subsequent tragedy. Gwendolen has some of Tito's beauty and charm too, but, of course, while I note this ethical connection, an English girl of the period of crinolines is no mere reproduction of the young Renaissance Italian (or Greek was he ?). — The word Renaissance reminds me that I wrote a few days since a notice of a vol. of Elizabethan sonnets and madrigals, "Parthenope and Parthenophil," for the Academy — which is a very pure example of early English Renaissance poetry. It would have been easy to have thundered upon these slight and beautiful things from an ethical point of view. But that would have been to dance a war-dance among bits of Sevres china — and therefore I simply tried to enter into relation with them as sensuously beautiful — as things which have no reference to standards of ethics (though, of course, the type of character they satisfy has such reference) : and the result was a column or two of Paterish criticism such as expresses a small fragment of myself, the rest being held in abeyance. George Eliot's book I suspect is going to be a very terrible one — like "Romola." — She keeps up the play of life with its diversity and selfishnesses, and little pathos and tendernesses — as freely and fully as in " Middlemarch " ; but all the while lie in the background the dread, inexorable laws of being. I had a meeting in the street some days ago, and a pleasant talk with your brother John. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 109 I don't know whether I have answered your letter or not, mine has wandered where it willed. I am sorry you are coming back. I wish you could stay till violets were out in the country, and then till lambs and primroses were abroad. — Yours truly, E. D. In letter of Feb. 20th, 1 876 Yesterday came to me a short letter from Whitman, enclosing a cutting of a paper which he says gives a true account of the situation in America. It amounts to absolute ignoring or violent hostility from all but a small following of American men and women, and I fear that Whitman, if not in downright poverty, is not far from it. Some friends he has who I am sure would never let him starve — John Burroughs and others : but no doubt he prefers, if possible, to earn enough to support himself. No publishing house will print his books, and no magazine accept his articles. He has printed, partly with his own hands, a small edition of " Leaves of Grass," and his new book, " Two Rivulets," of which I shall get a copy by and by. He says he is feeling ''pretty comfortable, no worse than for the last two years, but he believes he is pretty well at the end of his rope." Either Rossetti or I will try to get the Academy to insert a true statement of how he is received in America. Of my Shakspere, he says, " I find it full of vitality, and suggestiveness," and the following ending of his letter gives me the satisfaction of knowing that he recognises the personal attachment I feel towards him. " Moncure Conway has called upon me. He is a good and intellectual man — but I don't think I either get hold of him, nor he of me at all. My friend, I must still put ofF for another letter, some things I have had in my mind for months to say to you — your letters past, what John Burroughs tells me (and your Shakespere book too) have grafted you more in my good will and memory than you perhaps know." no FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS The joker of the Fortnightly Club, a very clubable man, Mr J. Bennett Little, is to open a discussion at the F. Club next Monday evening on Whitman. It will be a funny speech — showing, no doubt, that Walt is a fool and a beast. I feel repugnance to going, but I shall not allow this to prevent me from going and trying to make Mr Little's jokes look small. I shall first be good-humoured — then become severe, and practise, in as refined a manner as I can, some suitable vivisection: and finally dismiss the Fortnightly Club into space, and address only an audience of eternal verities. If on this important occasion you have anything to bid me say, you must post your letter on Sunday, so that I shall get it on Monday morning. But perhaps, after all, I shall change my mind and " let the potsherds of the earth strive with the potsherds " — no feminine potsherds will be present. Yesterday the potsherds of the Council were striving. The College is like a big girls' school, and full of little squabbles. Dr Traill on Saturday was before the Board to plead, in opposition to Dr Carson, that the Fellows might have ice-pudding for dinner ! Dr Carson gave some Bis- marckian answer about the refrigerator and the cook, but I believe the Fellows are to have ice if they long for it very much. This question was not, however, within the province of the council, as only indirectly, by its effects on the internal systems of the Junior Fellows, affecting the interests of education. Then there is the matter of the battle-axes ! Dr Atkinson had borrowed a MS. " Life of St Alban," with illuminated pictures. On its return to the library, oh, horror ! six battle-axes appeared nicely shaded with lead pencil. Dr Atkinson asseverates his innocence ! He has certainly put the MS. to good use, having now published an edition of it, with six years of most laborious work in notes, glossary, etc. I have never essayed Farrar's " Life of Christ." Do you remember the Spectator described it as the Life of Christ by FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS m the special correspondent of the Daily Telegraph? But it has hit off the taste of the British public by its safe, liberal views and its magnificent, masterful style. In letter of March l$th, 1 876 I have some thought of running over to London for a week at the end of this month to see some friends, and have a look at the Blake Exhibition, of which you will see a notice in this week's Academy. I have also been promised a sight of W. Rossetti's baby, whom Swinburne has called " the youngest of God's birds " in a very pretty poem to her printed in the Athen&um. " The youngest of God's birds " is now six months old, but though Swinburne's poem puts the attraction strongly, I hardly think one could go to London to see the baby alone ! Having, however, made love to Olivia, the "sweet, small, olive shoot," I shall then, perhaps, ask to be shown Dante Rossetti's studio, and to see that, I believe, would be worth a visit to London. Of Blake's Book-Illustrations, I have lately become pos- sessor of 43 -, in his " Young's Night Thoughts " they are unequal — some with little inspiration, others very great. . . . Vast figures of Death and Time occur frequently. Last Friday evening I read notes on Shakspere's Sonnets at our University Sh. Society. I spoke from notes, and inflicted on an audience of students over an hour's talk in the way of very minute criticism. They bore it well. I have worked over and over and over again the Sonnets, trying to leave no word not understood, and really have gained several detached lights, though nothing at all in proportion to the trouble taken. I think I could demon- strate that the Sonnets are connected almost throughout, with only two or three breaks at most, and that they stand in their due order. Next Monday evening I hope to go to " Der Freyschiitz," ii2 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS and on Wednesday to "William Tell." I have not heard either of these operas, and I fear the Company at present here will hardly give them satisfactorily. Still, it is a good thing to have one's first impression over, for — with me at least — it always carries with it a number of illusions and errors which are inevitable, and which a second impression seems to correct. I thought I had told you most of my concernments, but at this moment I have got a prospectus from Mr Grosart, in which he announces me as a coadjutor in a very magnificent Spenser. I had decided against this, and said so, for two reasons — ist, that I did not care to associate myself with Mr Grosart, who, with all his erudition, is strangely unre- generate (the fact is, the spirit is what gives regenerating power to the baptism of literature, and those who attend chiefly to the latter, only partially receive its grace) ; 2ndly, I had resolved to undertake no more editing at present. But he has taken much of the force out of both objections. He has put me down for an essay on the " Ethical Teaching of Spenser," and no editing, and he has associated with him- self some regenerated and sanctified persons among whom I should not be unwilling to work in the white garments of my election — Prof. Child of Harvard, Palgrave, Aubrey de Vere, Lord Coleridge, G. Saintsbury — some of the very best men for such work in England and America. So I shall think of it. I have got W. Bell Scott's Poems — there are some admirable, fresh and genuine and artist like. — Yours truly, E. D. Examination Hall, T.C.D. April loth, 1876 Dear Miss West, I returned on the morning of this day week. On the Tuesday preceding Dr Ingram and myself went FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 113 to Oxford and there met Dr Salmon. It was a cold showery day, but bright between the showers. We worked hard in literal obedience to an excellent guide-book of Parker's for six hours on Tuesday and two hours on Wednesday morning, not indulging in any mood of pleasure, or " sitting on any old grey stone " — but living strictly under the law (of Parker). I felt that this was merely breaking the ground, and that to make any acquaintance with Oxford a future visit will be necessary. But one gets a substantial gain, and pleasure of a kind for such a merely moral and unspiritual piece of work as our Oxford investigation. The only incident that leaves a sense of pain behind it, was that, it being more convenient, we went into Jesus College (I think, before Exeter ; whereas the guide-book had told us to do otherwise). I have felt remorseful ever since ! Had I been alone and with two days instead of one, I think I should have wandered about and have looked at just such things as I liked, and have learned the name of no place. From Oxford, on Wednesday, we went by various little cross lines into the heart of England, Warwickshire ; and had about three hours at Stratford. There two or three things stand out as clearly to be seen. Shakespere's alleged birth-place in Henley Street — the church where he is buried — and Anne Hathaway's Cottage at Shottery. Somehow although our visit was so brief, and although of the Avon we saw nothing, the spirit of Stratford and of the country round it seemed very willing to receive one and be comprehended — beautiful, peaceful country with the good substantial qualities of English quiet landscape — and a slow- moving, slow-thinking population — such as one's soul might accept after " Lear" and " Othello," as one would accept the wholesome ruminating cattle and undulating unambitious hills. I do not quite remember what particulars of our London H 2 ii 4 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS visit I told you. Did I say that we, with Dr Todhunter, heard in the Albert Hall the " Elijah " ? The room was too vast for the solo parts, but some of the choruses lifted me out of a mood of rather low and stagnant kind which came on like a sudden and unaccountable cloud. I now look back with some pleasure at the Congreve's household, it was made excellent by one feature — its coherence and simplicity — all founded on and embodying one way of thinking and feeling, without any weak parts and compromises and imperfect functions ; and though the type may not be a wholly satisfactory one, it is pleasant to see a household embodying and expressing clearly any high and coherent spirit. From my two hours with G. Eliot, I cannot report any great sayings of hers — only each thing she said was the most right and best thing (best from an intellectual and spiritual point of view), the occasion suggested, and was said in the most perfect words. Millais and G. H. Lewes were the chief talkers, and Millais said much that was interesting about his work. Mr Lewes is vivacious, clever, like a Frenchman, and I can believe that G. Eliot's superiority is not squandered on one who cannot give back intelligence and versatile gifts and loyalty to one known to be above him. I liked him, and he was very friendly with me (but that I fancy is his way). She was very kind, and if the word had no soft or saccharine suggestion about it, I should say very siveet, gracious and beautiful in manner. • •••••• t Yesterday Mrs Dowden and I dined with the Ingrams and went with them to see Salvini in " Othello." Having seen Irving in London, I was kept in a critical spirit — making involuntary comparisons between the two Othellos. Irving's is a piece of intellectual construction — Salvini's an inspiration — but Irving is on the right Shakesperian track. Salvini makes the basis of Othello's nature the barbaric Moorish FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 115 element. Accepting that theory, he is more satisfying to one's senses and imagination than any artist I have seen — his body and action being swayed by violence of impulse and passion as a tree is by the stress of the wind — but my feelings constantly reacted against this interpretation of Othello. Salvini is sometimes hardly distinguishable from a splendid wild beast. While delaying Desdemona's death, he prowls up and down the room (in a way which is most real and unmanufactured) like a panther in his den, and he whirls Desdemona away into the bed-chamber like some natural violence of tempest or of wave ; and his anguish is equally simple and over-mastering. In Irving, the man was not a mere prey to his impulses — he was meant to be a noble and a civilized man, with complexities of feeling, though simpler and on a larger scale than are common with us of northern lands ; and the Moor — an element of Moorishness being never absent — broke out in relief in culminating moments and points of passion, and of oriental rapture of imagination; — so although conspicuously inferior in natural gifts, in voice and in genius, stalking often stiffly, and enunciating his English in a vile, artificial way, I was more moved by his " Othello" than by Salvini's. I do not know whether we shall go again. I have no wish to see his " Macbeth " or " Hamlet." • ••■••• I read a second time the " Inn Album." While still not won to love the poem as I do the earlier poems of Browning, I think perhaps the fault is in myself. I fully recognise its sustained intellectual force throughout, and that unabated potency of heart — that virtue of loving and of willing, which is the most precious thing in Browning. Though the char- acters still seem to me unbeautiful (the woman's being only a most vigorous outline of a Browning ideal) I see in the embroilment of good with evil, and the flame-like leaping- up of good — its clear white victory, and the black abolishment n6 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS of the adversary — the horror and the shame, a beauty pecu- liarly Browningesque. So, without designing it, my judgment comes round very much to yours ; but I don't receive as much strong and thrilling pleasure from this as from other poems of Browning, and not as much, perhaps, as I ought. I have got through a good deal of work since my return. Part of Easter Sunday 1876 was spent in the effort to work my way through a pile of Women's examination papers. I try to recompense myself for some of my many causes of dis- content with myself by doing uncongenial work as well as I can, and, I fear, plume myself a little on this as if it were something virtuous, while it is only common honesty. " Tug oar, bend back, fix eyes where feet project, Nor dare lift nose to blue magnificence, Outspread o'erhead, or guess what things stir wind That fans the forehead, lifts the clotted hair : Lest oarsmen straight drop tool, and utter shriek, Might shock the dreaming passengers astern." I hope it doesn't shock you to be irreverent to Browning, knowing my reverence sincere, and I think the " strong ; ' style of expression which disdains articles and relatives is faithfully reproduced in all but my last line, which is not like Browning. — Yours truly, E. Dowden. (Extract) May 1876 I do not think I ever heard Bach's " My Spirit was in heaviness." I may have spoken to you of Bach as intellec- tual, but I have for a long time felt his deep emotional nature. What I am struck with in some things, however, is his love of music — as such, apart from non-musical, barren feeling, and apart from ideas. It seems as if to translate such bits of music into anything human, other than pure music, were a piece of false criticism. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 117 A Greek myth has been soliciting me to attempt verse once more — a lament (in stanzas) of Apollo for Hyacinth, whom he killed by accident in disc playing. My notion is a little too near being a conceit, and yet it is true, and if successfully worked out, would avoid the danger. It is that the sculpturesque and almost monumental form of the hyacinth is the expression of Apollo's inability to shed abroad his sorrow in the facile human way, and of the severity and yet sweetness of his soul, which had to trans- form every pang into some almost marmoreal perfection of beauty. But I fear verse will not come at present. — Truly yours, E. D. May 2\st, 1876 Dear Miss West, Mrs Dowden asked me to write and thank you for the lovely contents of the box which came to us (early roses). So fresh and beautiful and in such abundance. I wrote a few days ago making a proposal to Blackwood, the publishers, which I should be pleased if they were to agree to — namely, to enlarge my essay on G. Eliot into a volume the size of the book of "Daniel Deronda," to be published by them one month after "Daniel Deronda" ceases to appear, i.e. on October 1st. You see I inherit some commercial ability, and this would be for Messrs Blackwood and for Dowden & Co. a good stroke of business. I only fear G. Eliot herself, with her strong view of the duty of keeping a gulf between author and critic, will object to this impudent proposal of approximating my criticism to the back-parts of " Daniel Deronda." I also hope she won't suppose I went to "interview" her in April in sight of this designed criticism. I should have liked best to have inter- viewed her, as Moses did Javeh his god, " from the cleft of n8 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS a rock." At least, that is one feeling. Another is that all noble human qualities produce a sense of fellowship and raise one to an equality which is not one's own, while one frankly stands in their presence (so I have written of the Venus of Melos — " a man may grow like Plutarch's men by standing at thy side"). I don't know whether I mentioned one experience of London which surprised me. The oceanic amplitude and rush of London give me far less exhilaration than on former visits, and this became emphasized by Dr Ingram's so often expressing his feeling of joy in the throng and stir of life. On the morning we went to the boat-race — this difference came out strikingly, /felt the absence of any persons that seemed admirable as individual men and women, really depressing ; while he sympathised with the energising of the play-instinct of humanity. It must be said that the low types of London come to the surface on a day of athletics, and the fragrant and flower-like faces hide away in little homes like that of " Mrs Meyrick and her daughters." But what alarmed me was the fear that I might be losing the democratic sympathies, and be growing into an aristocrat, who looked out only for the eminent individualistic. I think some such change has been in part effected. Having read Morley's excellent essay on Lord Macaulay, you ought in fairness to read also what another Positivist, j. Cotter Morrison, says in Macmillan for this month. My judgment and feeling go in all essentials with you ; but I think such modifications and admissions ought to be made as the Macmillan article indicates. That is to say, I don't like to give my dislike of Macaulay unqualified play, for he had great vulgar abilities. This too is part of the democracy question. The greatest men like Shakspere and Raffaele, have need of the commonplace and vulgar part of humanity (though with them it is not commonplace or vulgar as it is with Macaulay), while smaller natures are FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 119 more "recherche" and select. The great men are beef- eaters, and it turns into perfect flesh and blood of man. The Philistines also eat beef, and it turns into the flesh of oxen ; and the rare choice exquisite natures live on nectar and ambrosia, and are clothed upon with a house not made with hands — like Shelley. Macmillan r Magazine is also noticeable for an excellent article on the Blake Exhibition — to me very interesting. July 6th, 1876 The days have passed rapidly since Dr Todhunter and I were at Shankhill with you — between a little work each day, so pleasant after the uncongenial work of my last College month, and a good deal of pleasantly filled idleness. Quite a number of friends have made their appearance at this time when I least expected them. Dr Todhunter, Miss Walker, Mr Yeats and others, and of Dr Ingram I have seen some- thing. To-morrow (Friday) he comes to town, and we are to spend the evening together in College with Dr Appleton, Editor of the Academy, and Mr Sayce, who have come over for a tour in Ireland with Mr MahafFy. Though I am not much of a good companion myself, I like to watch and listen to human creatures. I love them better with their curious ways than any other class of the vertebrates — only they have a greater power than the other verteDrates of spoiling themselves with morality and ideas and good habits. You must find the transition from George Eliot to Charlotte Bronte a difficult one to make successfully. With me I find no difficulty in going to and fro between Scott and " Daniel Deronda." The one is so much the book of a soul of the elite on whom lies the burden and privilege of the higher rule. Scott is one of the most admirable of those natures which are of the earth — of the good beneficent earth. And he is so genial 120 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS and generous and productive an artist. George Eliot's humour has some cynicism always in it, the selfishness and vulgarity of human nature are never smiled at as the happy gods and the pure artist can smile at them. But Scott, while so human, has Chaucer's (and more than Chaucer's) artistic genial pleasure in the moral foibles of human character. I think, for everyday uses, and for those who are not of the small number of the elect spirits (of whom G. Eliot is certainly one), Scott is a very beautiful teacher. I remember when his want of spirituality deprived him and his books of interest for me. But now I have found them good, though not the highest good. Just as I have come to care for the historical plays of Shakespere and for some (few) parts of history itself. And this broad basis of sub- stantial earthliness, lifted well into the sunlight and air, as Scott lifts it, is not in antagonism to any higher ascent to an empyrean. To me he makes life altogether a larger, richer and happier thing than it would be without him. It seems ridiculous to write such a commonplace as that Scott is enjoyable, but to me it comes as something new, for I have hardly read a book of his from the time that I came to care for Wordsworth, and that was when I was still quite a boy — perhaps sixteen years old. Still the pleasure, or the misery of my life is that I serve many masters, and I should rebel against Scott if I could not wear his livery loosely and don a hundred others. My own true costume I suppose must be motley, made up of scraps from many garments, — " no seamless vesture" such as prophets wear and soldiers " part among them," — or (that I may not have the costume of a jester) let me call my coat one of many colours, such as a well-beloved son may wear. Among all paths, somehow one treads a way of one's own, and tacking with many breezes, still bears on to a quarter of the sky. < FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 121 This is a letter with nothing in it, and I will not look through it to find out what that nothing is. I will write next week for the purpose of saying something wise ; now I scribble for no better reason than that it is agreeable. On Saturday I am promised a reading of his poems by Dr Todhunter. — Yours truly, E. D. August 2%th, 1876 I go to Cork to-morrow for a few days. . . . We did not succeed in getting my father to come up to us — therefore I take this little run to effect a meeting, also to see a little of my sister (Mrs Allen). I shall be glad to get a little blowing on the boats in Cork Harbour, as my brain — after the copying of my verses and Richard's illness had got accomplished, — had got somewhat dulled, and I was acquiring a curious appetite for sleep in the evenings, like an octogenarian woman. The other day, however, a break in this dull temper of mine was made by a capital tramp over the Three Rock, and, I believe, the Two Rock mountains, which are now dazzling as one walks over them, with brilliance of ling and autumn furze. The colour surrounds you like a sea, and persists on the retina, after you close your eyes. Apart from tokens of senile decay, I am very vigorous just at present — the senile decay only affecting my intellect, not my limbs. When I say life seems a good thing to me, it is saying a great deal. For while reading " Middlemarch," as I have been doing for a week, it sometimes becomes uphill work to have a good opinion of life. It has surprised me to find how vividly I remember the book — for history (and " Middle- march" is a history more than a poem) fades wonderfully out of me. I feared "Middlemarch" would lose upon a second reading — but the contrary is true, and Dorothea seems to me to gain much in beauty of soul and of action — 122 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS to glow with pure beauty. How George Eliot loves to make her beauty and that of "Daniel Deronda" felt. She spends on them her most perfect thoughts and feelings. This indeed, G. Eliot's endless exposition of her characters, makes the books a little unstimulating to the imagination. Everything is so complete and definite that one has only passively to accept. Shakespeare and all poetry, I think, fires your imagination and sends it beyond ; but G. Eliot, though she does this with reference to life — so that her books are the starting-points of many thoughts and resolves about this life — and of ardour too, — leaves nothing for the imagina- tion to do with respect to her men and women, save to accept them. Hence, though all her writings are suggestive, and each one in a vivid practical way — I don't think each one would lend itself easily to such literary criticism as I attempted with Shakspere's plays — and one could only repeat what G. Eiiot herself has said, as chorus. I con- gratulate myself on not having undertaken a task which would have set me seeking for things to say about her books. Seeking for things to say is about the poorest possible way of approaching them. Oct. 2? id, 1876 To-morrow evening, unless something unforeseen prevents, we are going to "Faust" and take Essie. I enjoy "Faust" more retrospectively than in the present. The passages I care for call up states of rich sesthesis of a good many years since, when I went to hear it on several successive nights. I expect it will be poorly rendered to-morrow evening without Trebelli or Tietjens. Last Thursday we had a most rousing, free- ing, dilating, recital by Miss Walker, of some of the very latest written music of Beethoven. It made me a firm believer in his last period as even greater, more sublime, if less beautiful than the period of the " Sonata Appassionata " FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 123 and "Sonata in D Minor." That was the best incident of the week. If this volume of mine is liked by some half dozen strangers of competent judgment, I shall not let it be my sole and only poetical achievement. I should be still only too happy to have a chance of overwhelming myself for ten years in poetry and so shame " the Demon lie that no to all things saith." Meanwhile — exams, beginning in a few days — my chief occupation has been reading manuals of European History — Freemen, Michelet and others. I have cared for history more than perhaps ever before. The map-like view of Freeman's " History " has something satisfying about it to the intellect, and it is pleasant to have great blanks of this ignorance pieced out into large outlines of knowledge. Michelet favours one with a vivid point of colour, here and there — a bonne bonche after the hay with which, like the Red King, one has been staying oneself. I fed long upon a story of Rene of Anjou, father of Shakespeare's terrible Margaret. How when he heard that somebody, Louis XL I suppose, had seized upon Anjou, I suppose he was engaged in painting a grey pheasant and continued undisturbed, trying to get his colour quite faithful. It is delightful that the pheasant was grey — such a cool sweet colour. Then there is a charming story of the assassination of the Duke of Guise by Henry III. (which, perhaps, every schoolboy knows), how he asked for sweetmeats and offered some to the 45 gentlemen in waiting. How Providence takes care to have every detail of its gems of old art right ! and how as he walked on, he took his beard in his hand and looked over his shoulder, and how when the king came m from Mass to see his dead enemy, he said, "My God, how tall he is ! he looks longer than in life ! Now that I am a student of history I want badly to find out the colour of the i2 4 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Duke's beard. I cannot but believe that it was red — or •what our old dramatists call Judas-coloured. I think too well of Providence to suppose any other colour could have been tolerated, but I should be happier to have documentary evidence to that effect. I had intended to say something about " Daniel Deronda," but history took precedence in my mind, after so much scholarly reading of it — over romance. As to your realistic question, "What of Dan and his plan?" I think the book moves throughout on a plane of idealistic thought, which saves it from the necessity of answering your question. It is quite right that Dan's great purpose should have just enough validity (and I maintain it has fully that validity) to give it a verisimilitude for the imagination : but if it were an actual piece of work — a school in the East of London, for example — it would drop out of the book as a hard bit of positive fact, out of keeping with the entire work of art. G. Eliot wants to say in pursuance of the thesis of " Middle- march," that though our epoch is a disorganized one, the world is not exhausted. Great ideas and great purposes may yet be found by the discoverers, and from this new thesis — a poem — not a pure story like " Middlemarch " — is the issue. I maintain also that Daniel Deronda ought to marry Mirah. She is no disturbing element in his great enterprise, but a talisman binding him to that enterprise, and borne upon his breast. Her perfection, if it were in the slightest degree artificial — if she were in any degree a constructed nature — would be depressing. But as it is, her perfection is only satisfying and enriching. She has all the infiniteness which a blossom living from the root of things, or a dew drop, or the song a bird has. One can descend infinite depths from any one of these — they have for a background all of Nature or of God. Mirah is a pure and faultless emotional nature. And the large tender attitude of bending over and blessing is a FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 125 natural one to Dan. Then that he should have buttons on his shirts, Mirah is endowed with an unerring practical good sense. As to Gwendolen — no purgation would have burned her into a right spirit — but one (and that one in an hour was equipollent to an aeon of all other pain), the absolute loss of the first and nearest place to Deronda. This was barely enough — but it was enough to save her life — and George Eliot, if she cauterizes skilfully — operates without flinching. In 1876? Symonds " Michael Angelo and Canpanella " seemed to me a book to live in for a time, not merely to read. I wish some adventurous person would attack the Philosophers of the Renaissance and give us some account of men whose names are so full of interest, as Giordano Bruno, Campanella, Vanuini, and the Spanish Vives. I do not think Symonds' books on the Renaissance are as good as they ought to be. He doesn't let things soak into him enough. He is too much on the alert for the word to say about them, too much of a bookmaker and a sentence-turner. A man whose health is as bad as his is, and whose necessity to write is small or none, has advantages which Symonds foregoes. He is too industrious and too clever. I think his translations much his most valuable work. Among all the bookmakers I feel that I have found one master in the last year, Stubbs, whose "Constitutional History" is just completed. Such solid learning and such sound judgment ! But for me the pity is that my interest in constitutional history of Henry VII.'s reign is rather an acquired interest, and will never come to anything. Still it is pleasant to have Stubbs to set over against Green in one's thoughts, and to see solid foundations after seeing light upholstery in the Crystal Palace style of modern history — which has so delighted the great Philistine. 126 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Nothing in the reviews has been so interesting to me as Mrs Boole's papers in the University on her great husband. You ought to read them. In letter of Deer. 2nd, 1 876 (Extract) • • • • • • • Under this layer of sentences about Shakespeare-Primers, I interpolate a sentence to say that while digging my little cabbage-gardens, an assured confidence abides of reserved force, larger, I believe, than at any earlier time, for the high adventure of true living. Of course life escapes meanwhile — and it may all escape with nothing adequate done, thought, said or lived — nevertheless, even so, I shall look upon it as a drawn battle, self-chosen, — not as a defeat. My primer shall be accurate — verse tests rightly tabulated — and my sonnets in good form — rhymes all right ; even though the Magnum Opus be less than achieved. This, which is not egoistic, but the reverse, describes the abiding granite on which my world is built ; and it does abide quite steadfastly and invisibly. Christmas Day, 1 8/6 How very kind of you to send such beautiful books to Essie and Richard. Your books of former years proved very successful and I had to become grievously familiar with them, but I suspect these will prove still more so — and will often in the coming year cultivate my powers of paternal endurance ! These powers are already considerable. I had an uncommon holiday feeling on Friday, when my last bit of enforced work was done. Last term was the busiest College term I ever had. But FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 127 the holiday feeling passes rapidly away at my elderly period of life. I have a pile of books waiting for review for the Academy, and plenty of other work to do, besides the sense of unmeasured country ahead to be trotted over in connection with my " Introduction to the Study of English Literature." Mrs Dowden and I were at " St Paul." As far as I could take in the Oratorio, I thought it strong coherent work with fine ideas and adequate means of working them out. Mendelssohn seems to me always sufficient to his subject as he conceives it I don't know that he is thrown all abroad on a world infinitely great. His world seems to me a beautiful and strong intelligible world presided over by a magnified Mendelssohn-God, very noble and orderly. I thought the conversion of Saul particularly beautiful, there is something like mystical feeling in the "Saul, Saul, why kickest thou against the pricks ? " Then the massive ordered exultation in heaven over " one sinner that repenteth," — then the return to earth and trial and resolution in the Chorale — and finally Paul's prostration of penitence in the Solo from the fifty-first Psalm. Still it does not dilate beyond comprehension — it is not like Beethoven, or King Lear, or Nature — it is the image of a man well provided with faculties — not of to irav. So likewise, as it seemed to me, with Irving and Hamlet. You were quite right, as I thought, in speaking of the performance as " Irving's commentary on Shakespere," and " a valuable and scholarly commentary" — but I can conceive of acting which is no commentary, but which is life, or art, or living art, a synthesis not an analysis, the result of genius not intellect — such acting as I suppose that of Mrs Siddons (whose portrait inspires) to have been. It seems to grow more hopeless with me to keep abreast of all the interesting books people are writing. I haven't read " Harold " yet ; Morris's " Volsungs and Niblungs," I mean to master some day — and Leslie Stephen's " 18th Century" is 128 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS staring me in the face; whereupon out comes Herbert Spencer's "Sociology"! It is too bad — and I wish people would stop writing for a while ! Then one's friends and acquaintances must be regarded. Mr Mahaffy's " Rambles in Greece" are too necessary a part of culture to be omitted. Dr Todhunter's volume I read for love (with respect to what seems best to me in it, I feel real enthusiasm), and I have spent not a little time in going over in MS., with the original, Professor Webb's translation of " Faust." It is the closest and most brilliant of all the transla- tions, in fact errs sometimes by excess of brilliancy ; the work of an extravagantly clever man who has spared no pains in doing his very best. Professor Webb preserves the number of lines, the metres and generally the double rhymes of the original — beating, I think, in nearly all the cruxes, Bayard Taylor and Kegan Paul ; one claps one's hands at the conquest of difficulty — but does not therefore call him a poet. Dr Anster was of his kind a poet — but his Faustus is a reconstruction — or re-creation. In 1877 [Editor — In this letter half a page is torn slanttuays off, causing thus gaps in the sentences here and there.] " . . . difficulty of attempt to combine a vigorous . . . of mechanism with receptivity to the wind of the spirit which bloweth where it listeth to finish off pieces of work for egoistic advantage of having a clear conscience, and after that, preserve as much independence of inferior work as circumstances will admit. I feel how much the moral under- lies intellectual and imaginative work, at least with me, and that my imagination becomes cloudy unless (to use Scriptural language) my heart and "will" are "right with God and man." What will devour a great part of my energy until FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 129 June, will be an effort to write new lectures for my class. I have actually never given a lecture on any writer of the 18th century. Now, moved by King's proposed book, and by Leslie Stephen's book, I am going to set myself to get a rough series of lectures written on writers from Dryden to Cowper — prose and verse. My knowledge of this period is chiefly that of my boyhood when I read a good deal in it, and now I shall' enjoy the satisfaction of seeing to some extent the veil rise, and things appear. For the same reason I am off and on, diving into European history of the same period ; and during the Christmas holidays I read a good deal of Coxe's " House of Austria." There is too much campaigning in it to be very interesting to me. Still one gets a little light into a world that has shaped our own. So with me the 19th century must wait. Brandes' book I have got, and know parts of it, but I have now to put it by. At present my sails are set for a run across eighteenth-cen- tury literature, and may good winds blow them. I do not think your sister only ought to have got some amusement out of the Drawing-room. It is surely a pleasant spectacle to see a parade of the genus homo. The little animal, flesh of my flesh, is more interesting than an ant or a squirrel, and his habits are more curious and grotesque, and when people talk of ceremony as superficial, they forget that the constitution of creatures particularly . . . [Ed. — Gap caused by torn page occurs again here.] Herbert Spencer's ... is a book that would interest you perhaps more than it interests me, though that is much. I have given, and am giving, the Positivist in me a fair chance, but I shall not be surprised if in the end that limber trans- cendentalist in me should take the other fellow by the throat and make an end of him. "The Dwale Bluth" I have only read reviews of, but I had some slight acquaintance with Oliver Madox Brown. i 2 130 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS He was the oldest young man anyone ever set eyes on — not pert and self-sufficient, but bent with years and heavy with the weight of life. He might have passed for one of the Struldborgs of Laputa. [Torn page makes gap again^\ . . . selections from Wordsworth . . . All this wild weather has not been wholly unpleasant here, bare trees and some visible fields and the hills, with the stars which shine far more brightly here than in town, make winter less sad and grim than he is said to be. — Truly yours, E. Dowden. Winstead, Temple Road April yth, 1877 Dear Miss West, When Mrs Dowden and I were returning from Rubinstein's first concert, we met your brother returning also. He, I am sure, if he writes, will have told you about Rubinstein better than I can. I am moved by music in the end a good deal, but it comes slowly ; and a good share of Rubinstein's music was new to me, and impossible for me to do more than imperfectly approach on a first hearing. Still, I had no doubt that I was listening to the greatest, the most inspired of pianists. I thought — (but I don't much trust my own thoughts about music or musicians in detail) — that he had become greater than when I heard him in 1868. Then he was, I thought, less of a musical God and more of a musical Demon. You know Joachim is the absolute Olympian, but now Rubinstein seems to me a Demon elevated into a God. But this talk is quite Victor Hugo-ish, and I suppose his new and wonderful volumes of " La Legende des Siecles" have infected me with a love of the Sublime in conjunction with the Nonsensical. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 131 Rubinstein — (to continue my Victor Hugo manner) — is the Poet of his instrument, and shows us Pauer as the mere Professor (one can't be a professor and poet together), and Halle as the Pedant. Thalberg was a Rhetorician, and Miss Goddard a machine — Madame Schumann I should place (of these) next to Rubinstein, but second at a distance. His capacity for wonderful errors (such as a great gap in a Bach piece) is one of the defects of his qualities. He has a way of caressing the notes, like a gentle pawing without asking them for sound, which shows that a divine dialogue is going on between his soul and the piano, of which the heard melodies are only a fragment. I had supposed that the hierarchy of faculties on the piano was, first intelligence, 2nd imagination, grd emotions — while the violin reversed the order ; but Rubinstein's grand male piano, an Erard — (not a charming Lady Broadwood) — pro- claimed that it was a Positivist, and placed the emotions above the intellect. He seemed very exhausted and pale after his concert, and I met him in the door-way going to receive the honour of presentation to that honest body the Duchess of M . I suppose such substantial Delft could even have touched his fingers charged with electrical power, and have remained unshattered. As usual, my fingers are busy in several small pies. My last bit of work was a careful scrutinizing of Matt. Arnold's criticism of Butler's " Analogy," which I find to be one tissue of inaccuracies of fact and of thought. I am dis- patching my adverse opinion of it to-day to the Academy. In the Nineteetith Century there is a new kind of fare offered in "A Literary Symposium" — short essays on a single subject by several writers. Much the most attaching speeches at this Banquet to me are James Martineau and Professor Clifford — Yours truly, E. Dowden. 132 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS June 2$th, 1877 Probably on Monday morning, if it is fair, Mrs Dowden and I start for a fortnight in the English Lakes. We think of getting first to Furness, then Coniston, Winder- mere, and thence to Keswick, last Ulswater, but may alter our route according to weather. Then I suppose I shall find some days' work accumulated at home — but if I can get away, we hope to go to Cork for a little while with Essie and Richard. Since last October my holidays have really consisted only of short periods of — in a small way — collapse after special spells of work. The work has not been very spontaneous or valuable perhaps — (I don't look on it as a virtue) — but on the whole has been of interest and of average usefulness, and was not too sustained to prevent little gusts of the wind " that bloweth where it listeth " blowing through the interstices of habit. From one quarter or another, things are proposed a good deal in excess of what I could do — some I decline, but not all ; and so my hands are full, but under and over these I keep before me certain elect designs of my own choice or by which I feel chosen, which are my chief guides. I have just read R.Buchanan's "Balder the Beautiful " j it is pleasant after the tiny jewel-work of so many contem- porary verse-makers, to come upon something with a free and large design. But Buchanan has, I fear, no real pro- phetic gift, though he assumes the prophetic mantle. His work wants reality and wants purity and truth of style. He has a number of fine qualities, but a kind of artistic insincerity spoils them. One ought, for one's sake, I suspect, never open a book by these secondary writers, except for the sake of securing idleness and vacuity, but I yield to the curiosity for some- thing new, or to the vain hope that some grain of gold may be found, which might otherwise be lost. (But the Masters FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 133 give the only gold that buys immortal things.) I expect something, however, from a recently published drama or dramatic study by Ch. de Remusat, on " Abelard," written long since, and published by his son. This, with Victor Hugo's poems, have been the events in French Literature of this year. I discern a reaction in French poetry about to set in after the academic school — the school of style, and art for art, which was the characteristic school of the Empire. The mere love of change, however, wiil effect little good, unless they have the breath of true thought and real passions. One's predictions about France at present must be subject to divers contingencies. The preponderance of the execu- tive Power, and all its secret manipulations joined with the priests, may once more defeat the people. This is surely a more interesting struggle than that in the East ; it makes one do honour to the old Whigs, whom one is tempted to call Philistines, to see how England has gained its virtual democracy although so conservative in comparison with France. If I had another gold medal now, I should like to devote it to defeat the Marshal ; but I trust there may be some more powerful agencies at work to that good end than my wishes. Two interesting announcements of English Poetry : Swinburne's new "Poems and Ballads" and Browning's " Agamemnon of ^Eschylus." I am very desirous to see Principal Shairp's book on " Poetic Interpretation of Nature," and I think I shall write something on occasion of it. How the imagination with reference to External Nature will be influenced by Science is a subject that haunts me. — Truly yours, E. Dowden. Winstead, October 1877 Dear Miss West, I left your last letter unanswered (although a part of a i 3 4 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS letter to you was written) until some of the pressure of my examinations for the Queen's University was over. The week you kindly invited us to Crinken was wholly occupied. Indeed, I have not had until yesterday one vacant day. These Exams, end on Tuesday, and those of Trin. Coll. begin on Wednesday. I attempted the piece of work, be- lieving it to be very light, and it proved quite the contrary, as I found I had to examine in not only literature, but also History, Logic, and Metaphysics. However I made it the occasion for learning something about the 30 years' war, and something about France under Richelieu, Mazarin, and Colbert. I had to brush up my old knowledge of Mill and Hamilton, and I made acquaintance with some Queen's University Professors who are worth knowing. On the other hand, the most beautiful days of the year glided over me unnoticed, but then other people got the good of them if I didn't. Weighing loss and gain, the loss preponderated a little, but there was some gain. I acquired expertness, too, in doing Examination-work upon methods different from ours in Trinity College. I know that you are still in the country, but I suppose you must soon return. It was pleasant to hear that you had enjoyed your stay at Mullaghmore. I think I saw it once in the distance from a hill near Sligo of the Ben-Bulben range. Our English Lake and Killarney excursions have been a possession to me this autumn — the visible beauty coming back along the nerves and in the brain at unexpected moments. I have read nothing of late except for my examinations. It amuses me to see how I can now read history with toler- able interest. This results partly from the materializing of one's spiritual force with middle age — partly from one's discovering how much of spiritual virtue there is in reality. Then too I had never before read history except as children do — in bits and scraps ; and now that the veil is lifted ever FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 135 so little, I get a glimpse of the whole, or of smaller wholes. But I don't feel the power of independent judgment about historical facts as yet come, or coming, perhaps it will by and by. I think at about forty-five or fifty years of age one ought to have something like a large and strong grasp of life, and ought to have true and real thoughts and robust passions nourished with fact. • •••*•• Your reading of "Tristram Shandy" is very pleasant to think of! I don't suppose there is much of Sterne in your composition. There's too much of will, of purpose, in your mind to permit of enjoyment of the Shandean qualities. But it is quite possible with me to do so. Then, too, you haven't had much practice in reading down your mind to the great masterpieces of humour. Take a course of Ben Jonson, "Hudibras," Smollett, and a few other standard works, and you will in due time see that while it is grim earnest to laugh at them, and you can only do so by a machinery of cogs and springs to be inserted in one, laboriously, Sterne really does now and then, with his feather of humour, tickle a smile out of you. I don't agree with what you say of science being antagonistic to poetic power. The experiment of a great life will be conducted under more favourable conditions ; the poetical excitement will remain, only it will be like that of a player in an orchestra, or a great investigator of nature — more ordered, less feverish excitement, more massive and more sane. Serenity and ardour will approach one another. I don't fear a want of enthusiasm, because the enthusiasm is to be wisely directed and guided into fruitful or fructifying channels. And a great resignation underlying all effort (as Christian saints have proved) is not a source of ignoble quietude. But I don't believe science is going to be atheistic. 136 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS My Primer is published — I did not think it worth dignifying into a gift to you. But it is a good little book and ought to do something towards bringing people under the influence of Shakespere's personality (and I am inclined to think that a better work than to vex people with one's own insignificance). To write another volume of poetry will also, I feel more and more, be a necessity for my own sake, if I live. I wrote reviews of Swinburne's "Charlotte Bronte" and of Shairp for Academy, and Kegan Paul & Co., successors to King & Co., have in hand a volume of Essays which I call "Studies in Literature, 1789-1877." My letter has grown a long one, and I have much to do, many examination papers to write. — Yours truly, E. D. 26th Deer. 1877 Your so kindly given presents have been greatly enjoyed by the children. Nothing could have been a luckier selection for Hilda than the " Baby's Opera," it is her favourite book, and she has worn out with use her old copy of it. She can name each tune, and fehows an earlier power of reproducing a tune than either Elsie or Dick did. This fat, bright, and very good-tempered baby is made a pet of by the whole household. I think of giving a portion of my time to doing an edition of Shakespere, with the idea of filling up that want of a Shakespere containing a good text and short explanation of every difficulty. I believe I could make it a success, and some such work is very useful to me as a restful kind of exercise, both vacancy and more original work become too wearying. Shakespeare is to me now like fields and woods to wander in — and be appeased by. My little Primer, of which 10,000 sold in England in three FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 137 months, and a separate edition has been selling in America, would help on my future edition very largely. I imagine this as a helpful book, in the hands of young students for many years to come. I am going to read Spenser again carefully, and I hope to work at Bacon. I think, setting aside the beauty of the work, Spenser will squeeze into a small compass. His mind is not a great one to travel over. Plans or dreams of certain poems to be written complete my outlook into the abyss named 1878. J. B. Story was here on Sunday, and told me your brother John's room is becoming the emporium of a bric-a-brac collector ! I know what portion of truth there is in this. I think J. R. W. is quite right to let beauty have its perfect work with him from the " Messiah " even to a tobacco jar. With my divided nature, I should like to have a luxurious room and an ascetic cell, and I could pass from one to the other as nature summoned. We were very glad to get your card about poor C. E. Wright. I hope he has been making progress towards life again. — Truly yrs., E. D. S. MONTENOTTE, CORK April m, 1881 Dear Miss West, I am actually sitting in the Examination Hall here in Cork, while the pens of the girls are scraping away at their papers. Up to the present my fingers have been very busy at my Carlyle paper — not a paper on Carlyle, but by him — that is formed from a large manuscript which I have, being the transcript of a very full report of twelve lectures given by him in 1 838 on the periods of European culture (from Homer to Goethe), unpublished lectures, but partly absorbed 138 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS into the later "Heroes and Hero-worship." I have made a long and, I think, an interesting article, but I do not yet know how or where I shall publish it. My Father is well and looks well. He is now in his 82nd year, and I who am more an admirer of old than of young men, find his presence a very good thing. I get good news from home, the children all well, and if this goes on till my return on Tuesday, my visit, in spite of this old godless east wind, will have been a success. I don't know that I really cared much about the Provost- ship, but the long suspense and nearly even chances created that kind of betting interest which interests us now so much in Lord Beaconsfield. . . . Dr Ingram, I suspect, is happier where he is. Of Mr Jellett I saw a great deal as Secretary to the Council. There is a good deal to admire in him ; he has a kind of chivalry of character and intellect, but it is like that chivalry of Schiller's which in the end somewhat alienates a solid mind. He deals with the world too much through abstractions, and this gives a thinness to his intellect and a hardness to his lines of action. It was delightful to see Dr Salmon at the Council wallowing in realities ; while Dr Jellett was up aloft on the wobbling wings of an enthymeme or a sorites ! I spent far more time that it was worth over an edition of Shakespeare's " Sonnets," which Kegan Paul has ready to bring out in the same series with Gosse's book. I shall never be able to explain why I wasted so much time since, some thirty or at least 25 years ago, over the " Sonnets." The last form the lunacy took was to make out a sequence of imagery and idea in the series as commonly printed, and this is the chief thing of interest in my edition. Perhaps there may be a second edition giving the matter I could not use in this small one. I can only explain my interest, by supposing they got into my mind as a splinter does into one's flesh, and FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 139 that a festering curiosity gathered about them — I think the splinter is extracted now. April Ird, 1 883 I will write to Miss Hickey about the " Browning Society " meeting, and keep it doubtful for the present. If I were there I should take care not to praise your paper ! We do think of a holiday trip to London and places near London from about the 16th for a fortnight. I feel that Mrs Dowden greatly needs a change, yet she is ill-qualified for the fuss of sight-seeing. We think of taking Essie and my niece Alice Allen, and through their eyes we shall renew our youth. As to the Cambridge Lectureship. ... I am sure it is right to try. ... I have put together a large body of testi- monials, and expect some others from America, Germany, and France. This precious document you must see when it gets printed. I fancy outsiders, perhaps you amongst them, exaggerate the sweetness and light of Oxford and Cambridge. I should like always to live in the heart of the country or near a large town. I imagine the University towns very provincial, very full of University shop and gossip and personalities. I like to be near trade, law, etc. — a life of all mixed kinds, as well as the life of scholarship. I should like to have a great river near me, and if not that, a tide of human life. I am now bringing ten years of Shakespere work to a close with my present undertaking. My business is to prepare a text for my American collaborator to annotate (Rolfe, an excellent scholar), and also I am to write a short introduction to each play. It is not wholly irksome work, and I shall in a shorter time earn money (.£350) (which is not a thing I can be magnanimous enough to scorn) in this i 4 o FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS way than in any other. Of course it retards work in which I am more interested. But I die to live. What you say about getting out of a groove has a good deal in it. But I don't want after May 3rd to be younger than 40 — rather to extract the fortifying virtues which belong to the forties, and so prepare to grow old. — Ever yours, E. D. I am not a bibliomaniac, but I have entered with zeal into the situation of the Bibliomaniac within this last day. I saw in a London catalogue of a library (Hookham's) for sale a copy of " A Refutation of Deism," by P. B. Shelley, for five shillings. This is one of the rarest of books. Mr Rossetti says, "Probably no human being but Hogg ever owned or inspected a copy," and Hogg's copy was presented to him by P. B. S. I telegraphed, and am now possessor of this Shelley treasure. Mr Thomas Hookham was a friend of Shelley, and this was his copy, and his successor, or son, or heir, the present Thomas Hookham, the librarian, is the book- seller from whom I have got it. It is evidently not in the British Museum, or Mr Rossetti would have seen it (clearly Shelley treasures are attracted by me, and fly for shelter to my possession, for this is the second rare book I have owned. The other I gave to Garnett, but I am too selfish to part with this). Winstead, Oct. yth, 1883 Dear Miss West, We got our boy back safe and sound last night after a very happy day. You have been most kind to him, and we all thank you. " Awfully kind" you are in his phrase, and his father, though officially bound to be a guardian of the FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 141 English language, finds something suitable in the adverb. My own day at Bray with Essie was a pleasant one, and I hold fast and firm the time, the place, the rocks, sea, sky, the pair of blissful sea-birds, our convalescent steersman [J. R. W.], my swim, " the water impatient for me and meeting me with little cries," the basket of fruit, the motion of the oars (and Lyster's oar punching me now and then in the back !). " Sing, ' Rowing's a joy ! for me, I row.' " We were troubled to hear that J. R. W. has not been so well, but there must be ups and downs in the way to complete recovery. I have been busy with Examinations, which keep me from being lost or hidden wholly in Shelley, like the morning star in the Dawn (a pretty morning star with my grey head!). To me Shelley has never been a master, but his poetry has been vinum dsemonum (or angelorum), and like wine, it makes that untameable muscle which thumps too fast in one's left side thump still more eagerly. I am glad you heard of the gift which Shelley and Mary sent me, 1 the gift which he had given her in 1 8 14. He had several times communicated with me before, ending with the request to write the story of his life. But it was not until I had come to know Mary aright that he sent me this little token of their love. He knows that I think she was the best influence of his life, and mean to maintain her cause against the Trelawneys and Rossettis. — Always truly yours, E. D. April 1884 My Shelley is fairly started, but not far on. Although I have done a good deal, much remains to be done in the way of research, not now among books, for I have exhausted 1 Book found by E. D. on cart in back street, and sold for id. 142 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS them, but among persons who may possess documents or traditions. Very strange material has come into my hands, about which I am at present pledged to silence, and only say so much, which you will not repeat, in order to share with you the sense of good future, though I cannot define its precise nature. A number of minor successes have rewarded my peerings into old newspapers and magazines. These being certainly guided, as has been the case all through, by some friendly demon or spirit ! Only time and diligence is needed to produce a life, possibly not final, but far less inadequate than anything existing. Last week a commission, of which I heard a threat, came to supply 8000 words on Dublin to the "Century" (late Scribner*/). This was very much out of my line, but I set to> and in a week had got together and arranged about 9000 words, wise or foolish, and sent them off to America. I have had a board put up over our hall door, Dealer in words, licensed to sell polysyllables. In connection with Shelley's visit to Ireland, I had read a good deal of Irish history, and now know more than I ever thought I should about Grattan, Curran, Wolfe Tone, Robert Emmett, Napper Tandy, and other heroes. I have found it a most fascinating piece of history, and I thank my stars that I have been born out of due season — for as sure as that I sit here — a literary Epicurean, I should have been by Wolfe Tone's side in those days, and have known the rapture of standing on three planks with a hempen halter around my neck. But I have known moments as ineffable. The day my order for words came I visited Christchurch, saw three ladies hearing evening prayers. Visited St Patrick's — found Walter Osborne painting in the interior. Visited Patrick Street and smelt it to great advantage. The central point of Dublin is the Deanery — the old Deanery with the room in it on whose windows flashed the light of torches on the night of Stella's funeral, while Swift ill FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 143 and sick at heart sat in a room where the torch-light could not play — and set himself to continue his character of Stella. Towards the end of this month I think of leaving home. I have to go into Sussex to stay with a Mr Stack who has Shelley papers, and in London I shall be guest of Mr Bell Scott. I want to see Marlow, and later on visit the Welsh Shelleyan villages. Possibly I may run down to Bourn- mouth for a night or two. My most important business will be to call on Buxton Forman and see whether I can get anything from him in the way of help. I don't hope for much. You can't think how diplomatic and deep and insidious this Sheliey business has made me. I have succeeded with everyone except Forman, and, as to him, I must only hope for help from the good Demon. By going at the end of this month, I shall get a look at the Academy and the Grosvenor. April 4th, 1885 I sent you a post card two or three days ago to say that all was well with us, and to acknowledge your letter. It was a pleasure to be able to follow you so accurately in time and place, for when my imagination spread its wings of a sea- bird and gave you chase, it only saw a speck toiling somewhere through seas that seemed strange, and on the toiling steamer a tinier speck, moving or stationary, which was yourself. So you have seen Rome ! — and it has not caused an absolute bouleversement of all your old ideas and past history. I take your first impressions of St Peter's as a phase or facet of the total truth. One has to come to great things in active moods and in passive moods, and try them on one's strength and one's weakness, and one's fresh spirit, and one's weary. I believe I should myself get more absolute satisfaction from certain statues than from anything else in Rome, and 144 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS these I know already in part through photographs. I think I should be more excited during a short visit to Venice, both by Venice itself and by Venetian painting, than by Rome. But I believe for a long period Rome would serve to build up and reform my being (much as it did Goethe's). You must make yourself familiar with Goethe's Roman and generally his Italian period. I dare not look at him at present, for the attraction of Jupiter would draw me from the orbit of my Shelleyan sphere, which, if it be nearer the sun, — and I don't know that it is, — is certainly a slight and narrow orbit compared with Goethe's. I have never read " Corinne," and I purpose to do so ; but a very different book, and admirable in its way — Stendhal's "Rome, Naples, and Florence" and other Italian books of his, I partly know. Shelley's charming letters I hope you will keep. I have a second copy. I am disappointed to hear that J. R. W. is not looking a superbly vigorous Roman. If winds like those of to-day continue in Dublin he must keep in the south. It was a bright blue — yet grey-blue day, and the wind put a knife through one's breast-bone. But of course the year will burst into bloom when the Prince of Wales sets foot in Dublin next week. We are rapidly reaching boiling-point of loyalty. I find myself invited to meet Him at Leinster House, but my hat is too battered, and my coat is too shiny, and my breeches are too baggy at the knees. So that even if I bought gloves and wore an umbrella, I should hardly make a favourable impression ! Thus is life strewn with lost opportunities ! I told you that I was reading Sir Henry Taylor's " Auto- biography " — a wise, old poet-statesman. I wish, sailing steadily and nobly as he does, he carried more sail, and some- times ran on his side, and drank water. It is a highly interesting book, and I am the better for having read it — the Jess willing to be foolish, and the less willing to be always FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 145 wise. The book contains a gallery of well-studied portraits of great contemporaries. I have continued to feed myself on this — on Mark Pattison's and George Eliot's lives, while getting forward with Shelley. Since we met, came an invitation to lecture in Baltimore' and elsewhere in U.S. America next session, 1 885-6, which I shoved off to the future, and to-day brings an invitation to go a lecturing to Leicester in the autumn, which possibly I may accept. There is a Professorship of English Literature created at Oxford, £900 a-year, 42 lectures. I give about 5° here for not quite £600. No really eminent man has yet turned up among the Oxford candidates. It is suggested to me to apply, by Yorke Powell (their chief Scandinavian Scholar). I may perhaps send in my name at the last moment, but I am not sure ; and I am told that if I desire to succeed I should lose no time, and should use all the personal influence available. This I cannot bring myself to do. My feeling is that if they liked to elect me, I might be content to go, but that I could not push my way. So I count on remaining a fixture where I am. All best Easter wishes. — Ever my dearest friend, yours, E. D. September 4th, 1 885 Dear Friend, Many of your letters speak of your brother J. R. W., but the passage I particularly thought of yesterday is in a postcript to a letter dated December gist, 12 o'c- January [i.e., 1871-72]. I copy it : " A few of them [E. D.'s letters] that had not reference to yourself were read by that brother. You must forgive me for letting them serve as an introduction of part of you into K 2 146 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS the sympathies of the only one of my own people (except Mr Russell), who would appreciate or understand you. I mean intellectually. This third brother of mine is the one I once told you of as a convert to Whitman. I should not exactly call him clever, but he has the kind of nature that is better than cleverness, a sort of large growing- ness and capacity for taking in thought and feeling from all sides. He and I have had a very thorough friendship since he got to manhood, (he is some years younger than myself) and have helped each other (or as the general opinion of our house goes, have greatly increased each other's crazy heretical tendencies !) Perhaps it is slightly absurd to praise one's own relations, so I won't say anything more, except that you would find a good deal in my brother John. He has lately chosen a profession (medicine), which will keep him in Dublin. He is now in T.C.D. Until a year ago, he had always intended to be a clergyman. His change of purpose originated in his own intense reality of feeling about things, a letting-go of some earlier notions, and a deeper faith in some. He too, ' sank into Wordsworth,' and is now getting into Browning too. Mr Wright knows him very well, but I doubt whether Mr W. (though he is so much beyond the average of men in cleverness and likeableness) has enough of vital personality himself to quite appreciate this quality in my brother." I do not find it troublesome to find this letter altho' I know the contents of your letters less by my Shakespearian chronological method than by the look and feel of each. Of course I have nothing to say since yesterday when we met. I don't know that I feel ten years younger than before ascending Snowdon, but I do feel ten times stronger and better able to work. I think my work 1 will be better, though it may not be of the kind that chiefly interests you, 1 Life of Shelley. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 147 for I aim at a delightful narrative above all things, believing that such, if successful, has a better claim to long life than most kinds of writing. I wish Shelley had had some more sternness of nature — a core of Puritanism, a power of re- nunciation — (but so he wouldn't have been Shelley !) No other formula seems to say as much of what I mean as the old one, " God bless you," my dear, dear friend. — Yours truly, E. D. WlNSTEAD September yth, 1885 I am highly pleased to get your sun and wind-drenched missive from Howth, and to know that all the old "furze and heather -glow" is not gone from the moor nor "herbs of house- hold use" too inordinately flagrant. I ought to tell the Psychical Society that just about 2.30 to-day, I had a sudden and strong impression that you were at Howth, and that I checked myself in calling to the children, " Who will come with me to see Mr Graves ? " (though I don't think I really intended to go). One thing I do not like, that you got wet and perhaps did all you could to aid the showers to give you cold. The Dublin hills were full of lovely colour to-day. (I know Ticknock and the Ballinteer Road are familiar to you), I worked for a while with my window open, and my airy citadel was full of delicious rumours from trees tossed by sunny and jainy gusts. Then I went off towards the hills for a walk by myself, thinking of many things and taking occasional dips into a little volume of Shakespeare. I know Browning's lyric with its " ivaft of soul's ivitig." I am not less inclined to trust the spiritual intuitions " or grasps of guess" of our highest human souls, than I was in the earlier days. But setting Faith aside, there remain these three, Memory, 148 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Love and Hope, and these assuredly may grow ampler and deeper with our years. You letter told me many things about my dead friend [J. R. West]. I shall not forget his good gift to me. Sometime, perhaps, on Nov. 2 [J. R. W.'s birthday] perhaps at some other date, when it happens to be in unison with my mood, I shall like to lay some memorial of flowers from myself on his grave. His death, and your last visit here, have made me wish to make fuller and more exact provision for the disposition of certain things in the event of my oivn death. Besides all your own letters to me, you shall get several MSS. of mine, and the authority to determine whether any- thing, and if so, what of mine, MS. or scattered in periodicals, letters or what not, should be published. [Certain prospective little bequests followed here.~\ But you know I am a hearty lover of life, and I intend to be an ancient Mage if possible. Please resolve to be also a woman " Rabbi Ben Ezra." I think too, old comrades like we two ought to know for certain that neither ever gets seriously ill without telling the other all about it. I want no answer nor assurance, for I consider the assurance I for my part give, as involving the exchange which is neccessary for my comfort. The last book I have been reading is Blosius's " Mirror for Monks " edited by Sir J. D. Coleridge. — I hope soon to see or write to R. W. West, perhaps he would come and lunch here. Oct. 21 st, 1885 Dear Friend, I promised you a letter of gossip, but I find that my bricks must be made without straw ! On Monday Mr left us. He was not an inspiring or FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 149 stimulating presence. If I could have discussed Anglo- Saxon Grammar or Phonetics, he might have been delightful. The specialist seemed to have devoured the man, or at least the man remained inaccessible. He was a learned tortoise. . . . Last Wednesday I acted as showman to him of the sights of Dublin. On Saturday we went to Bray, drove to the Dargle Gate and walked through the Dargle to Enniskerry, and thence through the Scalp to Carrickmines Station. It was an afternoon of unheroic autumn sadness. No "good gigantic smile," but the earth weary and listless, a robin now and again piping uncourageously — and a great yellow leaf of chestnut or sycamore dropping languidly to the earth. Only the Dargle River was foaming and full, and sent up its voice through the decaying woods, yet with an undertone of grief in it. Perhaps I wronged the earth, and it was only wanting " to sleep now over its best." At all events the strenuous pain of the thoughts connected with No. 4 Royal Marine Terrace, which we passed by, was a relief to me after the languor of the afternoon. Believe me that a piece of my life too was over, when you and your household returned to town at end of that summer of sorrow. The letter I got at Charing Cross Hotel on August 1 8th [telling of J. R. West's death on the 17th Aug. at Royal Marine Terrace, Bray] made 1 885, for me also, a year of loss and sorrow. Yet to have lived a fair, clear, truthful, kind, beautiful life, is to have done well, and for us it remains as a precious possession. And in our lives his loving wisdom still lives and bears its blessed fruit. Maybe, too, he now sees irpoarwirov 7T/30? Trpocrwirov : in presence of the grave this great reflux toward life and faith seems stronger than elsewhere, and it is acknowledged by the common heart of humanity, since Christ brought immortality to light, with which common heart it is not unwise or untrue that ours should beat in harmony. The morning of your quitting Bray [after the iSo FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS summer] was a dark and raining one. I wanted to be near you, dear friend, in the Deanery, as I was on August 20th, the day of J. R. W.'s funeral, so in the dusk I made my call at the Deanery door. One of our chief events is the visit to Dublin from St Petersburgh of our musical friend, Miss "Walker. She has been studying last under Henselt, and has acquired a very beautiful, self-possessed manner, most pure and fine, of rendering things that are beautiful rather than passionate. In 1872, at Greystones, she wore me out on some days with excess of emotion when she was playing Beethoven, but then music possessed her, and now she possesses music — yet with singular uncertainty, for she varies from day to day. On Nov. 19, I am to lecture at Wallasey, near Liverpool. They asked me, of course, for a lecture on Shakespeare, to which I unwisely yielded, calling my discourse, " Shakespeare, a Teacher of the Conduct of Life." I mean rather an inspirer of courage, love, etc. These ought to be enough to say. The same lecture is to be delivered as one of a course given for York St. Independent Church on Feb. 1. I am always ready to lecture for any kind of Christians, and I know I could not do so for any organised system of Anti- theists, so I discover to myself some of my own tendencies in this way — though with non-Theists of a kind I can get on individually better than with some Christians. I hope I shall some time three years hence get back to Goethe. I am deeply pledged to the study of him, but I shall go to him now, feeling that, unless he knows and teaches the truth of the joy of self-sacrificing love, he can only be in part my master. But that is still far off". Mean- time, Shelley. I fear I am too old to enter fully into his spirit, and also that in some ways the century has grown too old. But at least I can try to paint my portrait like a good craftsman. E. D. W. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 151 At all events now, at 43, I rejoice that I was called into existence, and in its essentials pronounce life inexpressibly well worth living. It has been not worse, but far better than I ever hoped or dreamed. — I am, truly yours, E. Dowden. The Philosophical Institution of Edinburgh have invited me to give two lectures, which I have declined as an interrup- tion of my present work. Winstead November 2nd, 1 885 Many little engagements, examinations, lectures, meetings, occupy this week and part of next. Let me say my say to you to-day. • •••••• I like Lafayette's carte of you. Don't forget to send me the photograph of 1 875 (1875 was nearer in date to the Annus Mirabilis, 1872). Thanks for the group of 1862 (was it not ?) — a bit of old life — five years before those extended feminine skirts tripped up a certain Professor of A.C.D. in the lecture room ! Well ! William of Normandy stumbled on leaping to English soil, and discovered that it was a good omen ! • •••••• Since I wrote last I have been admitted by the Bishop of Durham's Chaplain as a "White Crusader." I vowed to do certain " duties of a Christian in the strength of God." I did not, individually, object to the phrases, which mean something for me ; but I think the man here ought to be the agent and not the Christian, at least primarily. Whether I shall also join a local branch will depend on the chance of its chief promoters being persons I could work with harmoniously. 152 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS In my business of maintaining the dignity and just freedom of literature (while I heartily detest a large class of evil books), I shall probably yet have brushes with Priests when I side with the Prophets. There is no wisdom in courting annoyance, or in forgetting the opinion of one of my clerical censors, that I was " the more dangerous because my life was not vicious"; I don't want to ''take Sanctuary " among white-cross folk, and then to become a rock of offence. But I am glad to have declared myself by joining the central body, and I can, at most, act as a free lance on the side of good. I am glad you vote for my return to Goethe. There was no merit or demerit in submitting to your decision, for I simply should have no power to carry out a big task in opposition to your conviction or feelings. And this must be increasingly the case as our lives run on. But before getting to Goethe, I have to write a 4th volume of a " History of English Literature," 350 pages (of the size of my "Southey"). Stopford Brooke, E. Gosse, and S. Saintsbury undertake earlier volumes, I, the delight- ful period from 1 780 onwards. It will bring much of my reading to a point, and ought to be a book of thoughts as well as of fact (if some one will help me who could well do so !). I hardly know what I shall say at the Theological Society (if I attempt to speak) about the Oxford Movement. It seems to me that the forward-looking destructiveness and the uncompromising individualism of the Revolutionary free- thinkers, induced, by reaction, the reference to a revered past, and the sense oi a spiritual unity and continuity in the Church. . , . If I touch on things of to-day, I should like to urge young men going to England to be ardent for the spirituality of the great hungry democracy ; and to aim at this by genuine means, by human, and therefore God's, means, not by Ecclesiastical Magic. And I should express a hope that FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 153 in the inevitable popularising of the Church (if it is to live) it may not be brutalised, but preserve some wisdom, beauty, tolerance. ... I think the social reform movement may save the Church from spinning over and over again spurious theologies of 1833 — or others, with Byzantine ingenuity. Indeed, I think literature, too, may be saved as a spiritual power, by the warmth infused from these endeavours for bettering the life of men. I had feared we were in for a period of mere research and arrangement of knowledge, but the life of the people will give the heart and soul play as well as the head. I look forward to an intensely interesting period in English history, when something may be done towards a beginning of some better life, founded on higher ideals than that of our competitive industrial slave-labour existence. . . . My heart is at present conservative. My head is radical, more than in former days. But I have wandered away from Oxford to Babylon ! Should you have any helpful suggestions they will be in time so late as Saturday. What you say of " relative values " in a biographical portrait is very just. The rock I fear to split on in my Shelley, is the necessity of printing material which is unpublished and of importance. The rock in my " Southey " was how to shape a unity out of a life eventful, in some degree, up to about mid-way, and then absolutely stationary and without incident. I think I mastered that difficulty skilfully. — Yours truly, E. Dowden. I have got a book on Dante in German, very good and solid, I believe ; an English book on Jacob Boehme, and Lectures of Ruskin. Do you care for any ? Deer. 2nd, 1 885 I write in my College rooms, having to wait during the i 5 4 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS interval between my lecture and a meeting of the Council, to which I have been again elected for a term of four years. We were sorry to miss you when we called at the Deanery yesterday, but your sister was a gracious and graceful hostess. I don't know whether I told you that I saw several interesting pictures at Liverpool, amongst others, Rossetti's Dante and Beatrice. I looked to see if R. W. West was exhibiting at Liverpool, but found he was not. I must record that after perhaps ten years of knocking in faith at the door of Genius, it has at last been opened to me ! I have entered into the chambers of imagery created by George Meredith. I always believe against myself, in one who has an audience of elite spirits. But I always failed to get to the end of every novel of his that I tried : " Evan Harrington," " The Egoist," "The Comic Tragedians," — I found each clever, but stuck fast in it. Coming back from Liverpool I bought "The Ordeal of Richard Feverel," and discovered a wonderful fund of life and wisdom, and wit and pathos and humour in it. Not that I accept it throughout as wholly true, but there seems to me more — almost Shaks- perian — life in it than in any other novel I have read for many years. If you do not know it, I ought to say that a couple of chapters take one into company the reverse of edifying, or at least respectable ; but its spirit is entirely for good (though, as I say, I don't accept all its facts as true to manhood. Tennyson's "Vastness" had one or two lines of great felicity of expression, but it did not bring me much beyond that. I think Whitman has sometimes succeeded far better in giving the feeling of vastness, and he makes one feel that the vastness is a kosmos. Chaos (as you assert) is not come again if we deny immortality — only all grows sterner and sadder. Chaos only comes when one fails to discern some higher Being or higher Law to which the individual atoms FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 155 belong. As to immortality, for my own part I can only leave it in His hands who brought me into existence and sustained me so far (and when I use anthropomorphic phrases I know they may be only symbolical — symbolical, however, of something not lower but higher than our human person- ality, which often seems like the shadow of some truer kind of personality). Tennyson's appeal is here, as always, to the heart — to introduce a law into the chaos of life to right its wrongs. But the spiritual argument is, as you say, and as Browning's poems put it, that good exists here, which may and must persist through the unknown change we call death. I am still harassed by Shelley diplomacies. Harriet Shelley's grandchildren are living, and are naturally jealous for her memory. I have got at evidence showing that Shelley believed her faithless to him before he separated from her, and in his vindication this must be produced, but some of my most interesting material — unpublished poems — comes from these Esdailes, and I have to try to bring them round to my views, or else forfeit, perhaps, the use of my material. On the other hand, Sir Percy and Lady Shelley think me a champion of Harriett, much to their dissatis- faction ; for, poor drowned woman, she shall be as tenderly dealt with by me as possible, and my belief is that her graver errors commenced after Shelley's parting with her. Such are some of a biographer's vexations ! Amongst the most singular incidents of my book was the obtaining of a number of letters of Harriett's and one of Shelley's, which were lurking in the house of an odd old lady here in Dublin. No Shelley student has ever seen them, and they are of deep interest, but I can only transfer matter from them without actual quotation. The copies I have obtained were made without express permission by an acquaintance of mine who alone has seen them, and he has pledged me to the most profound secrecy (I have sworn by 156 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS the Styx and all other fearful oaths) as to my having seen them, and his part in the business. It needed some skill to obtain them — this old lady would throw them into the fire, he says, if I addressed her on the subject ! It was quite an interesting and dramatic incident, my fixing the quarter in which the letters originally lay, to my friend's surprise, who thereupon confessed, and let me have them. I expected his visit, shrouded myself in a dark, part of my study, placed the lamplight on his face, came forth with my conjecture, and watched his guilty countenance like Horatio and the King. "His occulted guilt unkennelled itself" straightway, and that night I had a triumph, and sat up till very late over my literary spoil. — Ever truly yours, dear friend, E. D. Deer. iyh, 1885 Your account of your visit to Bray and its delights helped, I fancy, to move me out of my study this Sunday morning (it is now Sunday night), and the clear west wind and bright sun aided, so I set off by the 1 1. 30 train, as I did two or three times in August and September, and spent, as then, about an hour and a half near the sea. It was long enough to take me and my book (which I didn't read) a good bit up Bray Head until Greystones came in sight, and the sound of the waves, the green stripes and purple spots of sea, the sunshine, and shadow of the rocks, the blue sky, and pleasant dun-coloured and dove-coloured clouds, washed into me, and began to break up the crust of dulness which comes from the use and wont of lecture times. (I am afraid if these are metaphors they must be very mixed, but I only state facts, and the metaphors must take care of themselves). I even saw a little pale blossoming furze, and thought of the surf and sea of furze and heather through which I had waded in September. J. R. WEST FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 157 To-day it seemed to me that winter is no season of barren- ness or death, but only a good breathing-time for life, when joy has recoiled for a while upon the heart. The bare trees and grass refused to be pitied, and said that all was well and waiting for a new outbreak of gladness, gathering strength and happy in so doing. Just as I reached the point at which I had to turn I con- fronted a queer little old Christian Jew, a foreigner, Mr Salatier, who grinds divinity students in Hebrew. I passed on with a salute, but he turned and button-holed me, so that I submitted with a sense that Fate had comically laid hold of me. He unburthened his mind of much perilous stuff, holding forth with great earnestness and much emphasis in a slightly foreign accent, on the iniquities of the Revisers of the Old Testament, specially with reference to the Messianic pro- phecies of Isaiah ; and secondly, on the interesting topic of Christ's Descent into Hell. " Thou shalt not leave my soul in Hell, Sheol — Hades" " Went and preached to the Spirits in prison," and some third passage which I forget, were disposed of much to Mr Salatier's satisfaction, and of course to mine, (while I was thinking of my own descent into Hades and my preaching the gospel of Goethe to the spirits in prison, and finally of the Anastasis, which made the winter sky and earth so radiant). We parted near the railway station, and I returned refreshed in spirit, in spite of Sheol, Hades, and Mr Salatier. In R. M. Terrace I saw the upper window where I had sat in J. R. W.'s armchair on August 23, a morning when you granted me the happiness of sharing your sorrow — a gift more precious than the right to share any joy could be. Mr Furnivall is a Demiurge who sits in the centre of his rolling worlds, and he says, " Let there be a Society," — and there is a Society, and he beholds that it is all very good ! 158 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS The Presidency of his new Shelley Society was designed for Browning, and in case of his refusal, for me ; but both Browning and myself have discouraged the formation of the Society, which, however, may do some good work, as I see Forman and Rossetti give it their support. To-morrow evening I take the chair at a farewell dinner to W. F. Stockley, and I have it on my conscience that he owes his exile to me. An old Trin. Coll. man, now President of the University of New Brunswick, wrote to me to recommend a Professor of English and French, and I asked Stockley to be my candi- date. It is not of much money value. On Tuesday of next week he and Lyster and some other men will take a farewell tea and smoke with me. Mr Lyster doesn't smoke, nor have I been guilty of such enormity for some months past. Don't send me a letter on that Tuesday evening, for I should have to postpone reading it until my guests depart, which might make me desire that event. — Always truly yrs., E. D. In letter of Jan. iqth, 1 886 Since January began I have had only two ideas — one to make progress with my Shelley ; the other to keep Dick well up to his work at Mr Strangways' school. Every even- ing I give him a good piece of my time, a-Topyi'i I suppose accounts for my willingness, but also I have some sense of duty, and I think I shall be repaid, if he doesn't go in any way to the Devil, by a future sense of equality and com- panionship with his father. As to my Shelley — it has lingered long, now I hope not to relax my toil until it is completed. Last year for some time I found it impossible to occupy my mind really with it. But since Jan. 1st I have hardly lost a day, and I think by FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 159 June I ought to be near the close, and have a good piece perhaps in type. 1 am now at July 18 16, when Shelley met Byron at Geneva. From July 18 14 the character of the book alters a good deal. Up to that point I worked almost all my documents into a narrative, quoting the interesting pieces ; but now many unprinted documents prove worth printing in extenso. To compensate, however, the life grows in interest towards the close. How glad I am that I have not before me to write of, a vast life of 80 years ! The six years still in pro- spect will, I reckon, require about 400 pages. Feb. 28/A, 1886 Your last letter came just when I was beginning to wish for news of you, and it made me happy by containing no ill news. . . . For my part I have little to tell. My visit to my father was a happy one, for I found him well and very bright of mind. There was little to betray any decline of strength, and in most respects he seemed no older than he was ten years ago. I have worked very hard and very steadily. Four months more of such work would finish my book. I am reaping now the advantage of infinite pains in collecting, arranging, and mastering my material. I have just got through a long episode — the Chancery Court case about the children, which extended from January 181 7 to July 18 18. It has never been told before, and a mass of legal documents had to be mastered to tell my story. You won't agree with me, but I think I mistook my voca- tion in not being a lawyer ! I am only half serious, for of course my bent to literature was strong, and would have tripped me up. 1 6c FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS The Royal Dublin Society is getting up a course of popular lectures, and asked me to give one. I consented, and thus have burdened myself with a superfluity of work. On March 17 I'm to lecture, and I have named my discourse " On the Interpretation of Literature." If I can put well together what is in my head, it will make, I think, an interesting lecture. The title is mysterious, but I mean to speak about the ways of getting at the heart of books and their authors, and of the difficulties of so doing. I feel with you that it is a little trying to have to read 1000 such letters as Goethe wrote to his " Liebste und Beste ! " And yet they contain things beautifully felt and beautifully said. You must remember that when these notes were written, Goethe was doing a world of hard masculine work in Weimar, much of it alien to his genius, yet admir- ably executed. And he was a poet hindered at the time in uttering himself as a poet. Moreover, in all time all the world over, little caresses have been in the language of affection. And further, he was defrauded of the power of sobering and, as it were, solidifying his passion by the union which would have been natural under other circumstances. (Few good judges agree with Lichtenherger.) These little notes are lyrics manquies, and are the poetry of the Weimar ten years. He was himself so large and strong a character that per- haps exquisiteness and feminine refinement did more for him than strength of womanly character could have done. If you want to see how he could conduct a beautiful autumnal friendship you ought to get his letters to Marianne von Willemer. Marianne was an excellent person, and the pleasant friendship was untouched by cause for regret. I frankly admit unmanly passages in his conduct towards Frau von Stein. But this world in which we live has ugly tracts in it, yet it is a good nourishing big globe. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 161 I know I could die on a barricade, or to save a woman from heartbreak, and probably Goethe couldn't. So then I don't want the company of martyrs, knights, or saints (knowing, at least imaginatively or fantastically, some of the wisdom and folly of the tribe) ; while I do want the com- pany of noble children of the world. For I can grow a certain double self most needful to me in their image. But of course I blush and flush with joy when I meet a saint, a knight, or a martyr, and we kiss each other, and I weep on his neck, and then I find he says the same things I know so well — and I sneak off to a child of this world and bask in his wisdom and grow strong. I learn now from Lyster that it has been decided to ask Matthew Arnold to be President of the New Goethe Society, and if he declines, to ask me. If elected I will accept the office, but I have no wish to be elected. On March 22nd I, if elected, shall have to read an address in London. Should I be thus High Priest and celebrant at the Altar of the False Prophet, with Lyster and Coupland for acolytes swinging censers, how terrible if glancing round when the bell tinkles, I should espy you standing defiant. I should with a bleeding heart be compelled to pronounce the major excommunication against you. I should command my appari- tors to seize you and cast you into a burning, fiery furnace seven times heated, to the praise and glory of Goethe — after which I would with dreadful calm proceed with the celebration ! ! March ^oth, 1 886 I write not to answer your last letter, but only to say how gladly (and sadly) I shall receive from you the gift of R. W. W.'s painting of Poets' Corner. As a memorial of J. R. W. I shall like it much better than a book, because my books crowd one another, so that an added one, unless T 2 i62 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS of some peculiar kind, comes before me only now and again, but the picture (which may some day be again yours) will be constantly present with me, and its giver and its maker and the subject will have an interest for me. I commend your decision to keep the various things which J. R. W. cared for still in your possession. I could have wished almost that I had some right of 3rd or 4th or 20th cousinhood to have shared your heavy and sorrowful task [the final breaking up of J. R. JV.'s house, lent after he left it, to a friend], but in any case you would have wished to see everything personally. I applaud your courageous words suggested by Goethe, but I will not now discuss books. Well, if you take care of your health, and write to me sometimes, I shall be glad. And if ever two old, old people sit in the sun beside each other now and again, would not decrepitude be the crown of life and better than youth or manhood ? But have they not given each other their strength ? ... I lose some kind friends. Sir Henry Taylor, whom I can see lying back dead in his arm-chair, with his grand head and his white beard flowing over his scarlet poncho ; and not long since Mrs Gilchrist, whom I cared for much, though I saw her but little. Aug. 29th, 1886 My Dear Friend, You will have known that I have been, and still am, under much pressure. By absolute steadfastness I keep it from becoming over-pressure. For a few weeks it must go on, and then I shall see my task complete. I crossed from the North Wall, arrived late in London, learnt next morning from the Times the fact of my brother's election [as Bishop of Edinburgh], saw my publishers, and was away to Boscombe. There, during two days and a half, my pen travelled over some acres of paper ; but there FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 163 were moments when the beauty of the southern sea and headland pierced to my heart. Your letter was welcome to me. I did not like to hear that you were at all less strong this summer than in former years. But it seemed some selfish compensation to me to feel that I had a right to know this, and all else that concerns my dear friend. I am very well, the last relics of my cough nearly gone. Mary gave me a vivid account of the beauty of the Dargle, in her walk through it with you [E. D.'s Shelley work had hindered him from accompanying M. E. D. to Bray to the Wests], and a little bunch of heather. Although I did not write, the anniversaries of your days ot sorrow (of last year) did not come and go without thoughts and thoughts. Since my return home I was one hour in Bray by special request to see Dick swim, which art he had learned by himself. At present it is not possible to take even a half holiday. — Yours ever, E. D. Oct. 1 6th, 1 886 My Dear Friend, I had thought of going to Bray for an hour to-morrow morning if fine. If I go I shall call on the chance of seeing you and your brother, R. W. W. Some day soon I may go to Cork, where my stay can be but brief, but it seems an age since I saw my father. Old Mommsen says that his new vol. of the great " Roman History" is the fruit of " Entsagung." So in a certain sense has been my lighter piece of work [Shelley]. My only day of idleness was one on which I went to Mr Fleming Stevenson's funeral at Mount Jerome, after which I could do nothing. My work this year has been a kind of impersonal self in which I have lived. The mere quantity has been for me 1 64 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS very great, probably not far from 800 MS. pages, with constant turning over of note-books, and all my printed material. But the Martha cumbered with serving has not quite banished out of doors the Mary to whom one thing is needful ; or, to vary my metaphor, I have felt like one breasting a pleasant Alpine ascent, and sometimes weary, but with a crystalline depth overhead. Providence provides workers with a happy delusion (perhaps not all delusion) that the work each one does is necessary to God. In this faith I have grubbed after minute grains of fact. The Fortnightly article cost me no trouble except at Boscombe. It is merely a transcript from a MS. of Shelley. Possibly I may take with me to you to-morrow some slips or proofs, but I am not sure. As I was using Shelley MSS. I thought it right to send my slips regularly to Sir Percy and Lady Shelley. Always my own dear friend. — Yours, E. D. {Continuation of Letter dated March 20th, 1 887) Since my return from Cork I have been slowly advancing with several things, reading through the great mass of Sir Henry Taylor's letters, which are full of varied interest — literature, state affairs, society, wisdom, tenderness, and grace — lecturing my class on Spenser, reading the Dial (the short-lived periodical edited about 1 840 by Emerson and Margaret Fuller), and answering letters, which takes far more time than I like. On this day week, at latest, I must leave for Edinburgh, and must stay till the following Friday morning. My address will be c/o the Right Rev. the Bishop of Edinburgh, Lynn House. I hope to be back at the earliest possible moment ; it seems a cruel fate brought on me by myself, but I must go. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 165 Three weeks later is Degree day, and I must go again to receive an Hon. LL.D. Such distinctions give me no satis- faction, and I must hope that my friends like them more than I do myself. I speak as though I had received several, but I had in my thoughts a medal which the R. Irish Academy gave me long ago, and which I placed in Essie's cabinet. Reviews of my Shelley are not yet at an end. One came from Australia yesterday, which says that I have "prostituted my talents to rake up forgotten scandals in the mud-heaps of the past," and yesterday also two German articles from Frankfort announcing that the book is " incomparably beautiful." A really excellent and accurate article came from the leading weekly American Review, which uses no strong language, and pleased me by its exact knowledge of the contents of the book, and by showing that that book is effecting its purpose by making the truth of the story known. I feel profoundly that it has passed away from me, and that except to set small errors right I have nothing more to do with it. We all enjoyed Mr Culwick's concert much, and thought that your sister did her part most excellently, and a very difficult part it was. I counted on seeing her and you at that concert, and on hearing music under a conductor who always aims at honest and high-minded work. I will not allow myself to run on further, but say good-bye, dearest, and remain ever truly yours, E. D. 3 Cavendish Villas Buxton, July 26th, 1887 Your letter came on the day on which we made an excursion to Haddon Hill and Chatsworth, some 12 or 15 miles hence. We waited humbly at the gilded gate of 1 66 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Chatsworth, until a crowd of what an American would call "one horse" Britishers had assembled, when a vast and gorgeous flunkey condescended to admit the drove, and we were conducted through all the tiresome rooms in which were duly pointed out the " gifts of the Emperor Nicholas of Russia," the " portrait of his grace's lady," and other treasures, at which we gazed with awe. Haddon Hall, a very perfect piece of Tudor domestic architecture, with one or two peculiarly rich effects, as of a place created for graceful enjoyment, pleased us better, yet on the whole it made me think such Tudor architecture devoid of the higher qualities of invention and beauty. Yesterday I walked about 2 and \ miles on rough ground through Chee Dale. That i\ miles walk is good evidence that I am well. I have been taking daily doses of electricity, as strong as I can conveniently bear, and this seems to rout my enemy out of his little lairs between bone and bone. We intend to stay here till August 10, by which time I hope to be well. We return to Dublin, whence I shall go to see my father and idle on the water in the little Queenstown boats. Then I shall return to Dublin, and recast my Edinburgh lectures on Shelley into an article for the Fortnightly, to be named last words on Shelley. I know the book Mr Crossley lent to you— know it in its English translation and with its English title, "Crime and Punishment." No book made more real for my imagination the goodness that may live on among castaways. Certainly the martyr-harlot, Sonia, whom I believe in as quite possible, will enter the kingdom of heaven before all virtuous Pharisees of her sex or of mine. Any story in which I can believe, I can read, and I can fully believe in the salvation through Sonia's love of Dostoievsky's (I forget the way to spell the name) rather sorry hero. The last number of the Century contained an article on FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 167 Count Tolstoi worth reading. I liked much a story of his called " Katia," which I read in French, and from what I hear of "Anna Karenina " and "Peace and War" I feel assured that they are books which ought to be read. I wish your stay at Bray were broken in upon by some incident. I myself like long, monotonous tracts, for it is in them that I do the mechanical part of my work. But it is hours and moments that live in my memory and are the vital centres of life for me. I think my habit of accepting as cheerfully as may be whatever comes, kills out one's lyrical impulses — yet some remain, and also having in any way found salvation tends to create a certain equanimity which makes one somewhat indifferent to circumstances. I don't think loss of health, fortune, or repute would make me groan, but I don't know how I should bear the dangerous illness or the death of anyone of those who are dearest to me (perhaps well and quietly). If you can get away, it will do me good to hear that you have got the change. — Dear friend, always yours, E. D. Novr. 28th 1887 I will write a few lines to let you know of our state. 1 am greatly better, and about to give my College Lecture to-day. It is true that I am much pressed with work which demands time, though not much brain work. It took time to read the proofs of my vol. of Essays. It took a good deal of time to attend Committees which sat daily preparing for the Unionist Meeting and Banquet. Then I had exami- nations and lectures, and finally, Longmans wrote demanding the Henry Taylor correspondence 5 and though this was nearly all copied by my typewriters, I had to collate the copies with the originals, and still some three days' work remains to be done. On three successive evenings in this week my politics take me into places less pleasant than my 1 68 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS study. On Tuesday the Big Meeting. On Wednesday the Banquet. 1 On Thursday Vice-Regal dinner. I shall be glad to get a breathing-time, and to gain it I am dropping an article which I promised to the Fortnightly in January. I shall be curious to see what Matt. Arnold says of Tolstoi in the next Fortnightly. I think Matt., on the whole, has done best hitherto with small subjects, a Maurice de Guerin and such-like — and Tolstoi is oceanic. I think I see pretty clearly his (Tolstoi's) limitations compared with such a universe as we call Shakspere, but I can hardly doubt that he is the largest among living creatures. " Anna Karenina" I have not yet read. I keep it for my next holidays. I am content to base my claim on behalf of Tolstoi on "War and Peace." As to the "Death of Ivan Uliitch," I found it painful, but wholesome to read, instead of a piece of base realism. I wondered how truly Tolstoi had discovered the Ivan Uliitch whose germ at least is in my own breast, and by a true ideal power has created him from that germ in all his mean deformity. But I might have felt as you did if I had not known the writer through his " War and Peace." Having read that one book, one feels as one feels to masters about whom no doubt is henceforth possible — a feeling expressed by the words, " We know in whom we have believed." • ••••• • I have a strong conviction that your friends are wrong who encourage you to keep too close a watch on the Dean. The freedom of one's old habits is better than life. My mother, having been paralysed, had to be watched : death would have been happier. Probably the worst that is likely to happen to my father or yours, through trouble of the heart, is a euthanasy as happy as that of Sir Henry Taylor, who was found dead in his arm-chair. Whether it happen in one's 1 Unionist Demonstrations in Dublin, at which the Marquess of Harrington and Right Hon. George Goschen were present. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 169 arm-chair or not matters little, except to the survivors. Such a death is not a disaster, but a sunset. — Always truly yours, E« D- Feb. 22nd, 1 888 Since I wrote last I have done two things and no more — read proofs which the printers sent at the rate of a sheet a day, of Sir Henry Taylor's Correspondence, now happily done, or as good as done, and secondly, written a paper on the study of English literature for the Fortnightly. In this I fell back on my memory of the outline of my old Alexandra College lecture, and filled in the blanks with some newer material. To-morrow morning I shall be in my seat at College Chapel, at the funeral of the Provost. It surprised me to find he was Jo years old, for my memory of him as a man of very vigorous and almost heroic presence ran on, and did not ever leave him, though he was so much altered. Though he and I had some differences, I think there was a personal liking on both sides, and our cordiality increased whenever we met of late. I had wished Dr Ingram to be Provost Lloyd's successor, and had an opportunity of letting Mr Forster know what I thought, and this, having worked against Mr Jellett's appointment, gave me the only uncom- fortable feeling (though, or because, he never knew the fact) that I had in my intercourse with him. The last time we met was at the Loyal and Patriotic meeting, when he spoke with vigour and almost ardour. It is mere guess-work as to his successor ; I hope it may be Dr Salmon or Dr Ingram. In some respects Dr Salmon is the more suitable, but though he is my cousin, I have in some ways a closer kinship with Dr Ingram, and have worked more in connexion with him. If anyone else be appointed, a grievous blunder will have been made. 170 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS The nearest approach I have ever made to popularity has been the consequence of my bad jokes at the Loyal and Patriotic meeting. They seem to have hit the taste of the average Philistine very happily, and I have had to accept unexpected congratulations with an inward shrug of the shoulders of my spirit. * • • • • • • Mr Gladstone's Bill united all the evils of connexion with and separation from England. . . . The direction of such work as I have done in literature has been (to give it a grand name) Imperial or cosmopolitan, and though I think a literature ought to be rooted in the soil, I don't think a self- conscious effort to promote a provincial spirit tends in that direction. My politics are therefore only a translation of other tendencies, not a fresh start. . . . We must do our best, whether winning or losing, if we choose to play. And though I agree with Emerson that scamps and blackguards are often beneficent forces in history, I am clear that it is right for those who are not blackguards to try to keep them in what we (tho' not Providence) think their right place ! But I am sensible of the danger of growing respectable in politics, and of having, in ecclesiastical affairs at least, an orthodox brother. I fear that, in order to save my soul, I shall soon have to do something seditious or immoral. Shelley has helped me little, but perhaps Goethe may come to my aid. " Frenetic to be free ! And do you know, there beats Something within my breast, as sensitive ? — repeats The fever of the flag ? " 8 MONTENOTTE, CORK Sept. 29th, 1 888 In every way that I can think of, your news, 1 dear Friend, 1 Engagement of E. D. W.'s sister to Edward Lyttelton, of Eton. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 171 seems to be solidly good news, making the world a bit the better, and in particular one household in which I have special interest. And what is good for you is necessarily good for me. Good this morning because any occasion of much joy as well as of great sorrow is an occasion for our taking hands in comradeship. All is well still and always. What you have given to me of help and strength seems as if it had been given for once and for all, and also as being given every day afresh enough. Our visit here has been a very happy one. My father wonderfully well, my sister a little better. Yesterday radiant with sunshine and autumn colours, the other days dull and misty. We return to Dublin to-day. I do not quite resign the thought of a couple of days away somewhere before my work begins. I am very glad you care for Barnes. The poems are true idylls. Do not miss a lovely one which opens the section " Summer," I think, in the earlier volume : — the verses about the village maidens at evening, like those of the time of " My Fanny," to be followed by other maidens as beautiful. This note of pathos and joy in the endless succession of transitory lovelinesses, is often struck by Barnes. If you care for Meredith, we can lend you his books. Three or four are most admirable, but I have stuck in some of them. I think he clearly ranks first of living novelists, and his power is only felt when several books have been read, and his range in comedy and tragedy perceived — when, too, one can accept his defects as things known and allowed for. I have idled, and perhaps may be urged to write for the November Fortnightly. (If I can I will put off till December.) I am not at all discomposed by the thought that some of the tunes I have played are variations on old airs. My pay- 172 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS masters give me gladly thirty shillings a page for the stuff I spin, and I don't want reputation more or less, now at all as much as I want to give Essie a trip abroad, or Dick what- ever pleases and is good for him. Perhaps I shall go at a paper on James Martineau. — Always yrs., E. D. Nov. ijtb, 1889 Since I last heard from you, many of the days were anxious ones. We daily expected that I would be sum- moned to Cork by my father's death, but he has made more than a rally and is now free from any ailment except old age. During those days of anxiety my work somehow must have suffered. I seemed always trying to get on, and yet made little way. My wheels drove heavily, though I hardly was aware of the fact till afterwards. My days at Abbeyleix were before our anxiety about my father. Very pleasant days they were, the autumn sunshine among great trees, and by the river banks, was a benediction. Lord de Vesci is one of the best type of landlord — and I was much attracted by Lady de Vesci — who conducted me personally through Italy, Sicily, and Athens — an excellent guide with the help of a collection of photographs. Mr Goschen was endless in clever talk and bright stories ; and there were one or two other guests who had something interesting to say — but I liked the sunshine — the oaks, and Lady de Vesci and a baby — best. To-morrow evening I go to Chester, and with me Mr Mahaffy. We both speak at a Unionist dinner at Oxford on Tuesday. I lecture on Wednesday, and return probably Tuesday night. If you are disposed to write to Oxford, my address will be c/o Rev. G. Moore, D.D., Principal of St Edmund's Hall. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 173 Dr Moore is a distinguished Dante scholar, with, Mr MahafFy says, a charming young wife. I am now getting proofs of a reprint of a little book Nutt is reprinting for me, "Lyrical Ballads, 1798," I shall add a few notes. It will be an interesting little volume. I shall some day have a copy for my friend, E. D. W. Oct. 2yd, 1890 Welcome to Ireland. I think I got all you wrote to me, but I rather imagine you missed the only letter I sent on its wayfaring As you conjecture, I am in the midst of College work, and, moreover, in my lazy way I let various bits of work slide — for publishers and reviews — and now they come all in a heap. This morning came a card from William Sharp from Heidelberg, en route for Rome, telling me that a newspaper has said I am about to spend the winter in Italy. It shows how much imagination is employed in modern journalism ! On the day you crossed I was at Maretimo (which sounds Italian, and that is as near the newspaper paragraph as truth requires !). There I sat between the authoress who, Mr Lecky says, is to rival Scott, and the authoress who has invented a new religion, " Elsmerism," — Miss Lawless and Mrs Ward. And no other masculine creature was present — not even a butler ! I felt like Numa with the inspiration of tivo Egerias. I had provided myself with " Robert Elsmere " a year since, and with " With Essex in Ireland " recently, but if the truth must be confessed I stuck in early chapters of both. Mrs Ward, however, is very nice, as you know (if only she wasn't so much in earnest about the Gospel of St John and the Synoptic Evangelists and the German critics), and Miss Lawless gave some very truthful and funny sketches — not unkindly — of entertainments at the Palace in the Trench's days. Later on I met Mr Armstrong 174 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS the poet, who lately presented to the Queen of Roumania his stories of Wicklow, and Carmen Sylva wrote through her secretary, that they gave her immense pleasure. I wish some queen would say anything half as pretty to me ! Oct. i^rd, 1 89 1 Dear Friend, I am in the Examination Hall again, and very busy, but I must send you one line at least to thank you for the postscript of your letter, and to say that all is well. My particular business just now, besides this exam. (Mr. Barlow broke his arm tricycling, and I am taking some of his work), is correcting a proof of an amusing article, written very hurriedly for the next Fortnightly, and dashing through two volumes of Ruskin's poems (poems of value only, or at least chiefly, as connected with Ruskin's early growth), which came to me this morning, and of which a short notice has to be written by Sunday morning. I am not wrong then in having Our Lady of Melos rather than the Rafael in my study ! I am a lover of Rafael, but I like him best when he does not soar. An Italian Contadina Virgin Mother is delightful to contemplate, if not adorable . . . (and after all perhaps everything may be found by one who seeks, in such perfect humanity), but the supreme moments of the soul are seldom in Raffaele's range. I take them as implied in the liberal humanity of his men and women. It will be pleasant to see you before very very long. Our house is now got to rights. I like well the walk to College. I like the people sitting on benches in Stephen's Green, and I like the ducks and the mist which hangs or floats at morning among the trees. I like water in every form from a puddle to the ocean, and the little artificial waterway in Stephen's Green is bright and clean at present. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 175 There is really nothing to tell you except what you know already, and I must turn to my work. — Always, dear E. D. W., Yours, E. D. 1 Appian Way Day of St Guido Fauhes, 1 89 1 It is pleasant to think of you in the best of Earth's lands — the best after all, though you may have grey clouds over- head instead of what a British private soldier, wearied of the East, once described as " those bloody blue skies," and among kinsfolk instead of among the shadows that come and and so depart in foreign hotels. And the brave adventure of your voyaging, so well concluded ! If you are in Bedford Park now with your brother H. you will be near Dr Todhunter, whose house has the pretty name Orchardscroft. I fear he thinks that I have turned indifferent to him, and grown narrow and tame, but I think of him with great regard. Perhaps it will arrange itself that after a visit to Ireland, you will return and spend the winter in Bedford Park : it would have many gains — your brother's company and the music and pictures and pleasant acquaintances. But first I shall see your face in the Temple of Concord, Appian Way. I shall rather like to see your face. I am still busy with exami- nations, and the joyless dissipation of Committees, from some of which — if I am ever to save my soul — I must break away. Since I wrote last we have been in nearly as good company as Mr M could desire, for Mr Balfour's short visit before assuming his place as Leader of the House, has led to a round of dinner-parties. The first was a very pleasant one at Lord Wolseley's. The great soldier was most amiable and gay ; but I enjoyed as much a dear boy Guardsman, rosy-cheeked, who made the most gallant efforts at conversation. Then for literary talk there was Mr 176 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS "Wyndham, the handsomest man in the House, a quite too delicious man with raven hair and alabaster forehead, and an excellent talker. Two days later the same troupe figured at Sir West Ridgeway's, and last night we had a male gathering in College. The students hoisted the long person of the Chief Secretary on their shoulders, disarranging one leg with its stocking and trousers, and showing that Mr Balfour, like the hero (is it not ?) of the " Egoist," has a " leg," though I should not care to write a whole chapter about it ! I wish I could think it true that — with serenity or cynicism — I have any of Heine's peculiar quality in anything I write. But it is certainlv true that I am not always understanded. A little while since some good Catholic in the Lyceum quoted some of my mild irony about Shelley and Emilia Viviani as if it were in earnest ; and yet indicated a faint suspicion that it might be not entirely so. I did not think that you would have remembered that Oct. 23rd was my silver-wedding day. A good utilitarian addition to the domestic utensils was the gift of the bridegroom. The children made offerings, and the kindly Provost, who somehow became aware of the facts, did his duty like a man and a cousin. Well, the quarter of a century has, on the whole, been a good one for both bride and bridegroom, and growing old has its satisfactions. If the precious metals belong to other alliances than that of wedlock, there are two friends, not named Cadmus and Harmonia, who are silvering fast — '• Two bright and aged snakes " (but this is not complimentary) — who may soon or some day <: Bask in the ";lens or on the warm sea-shore In breathless quiet after all their ills." But all the silver is on the head of Mr Cadmus ! and Miss Harmonia is still — unfairness of nature ! — all golden. May it be so long. — Ever yours, E. D. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 177 I Appian Way, Dublin Feb. loth, 1892 I feel unhappy at your not having had any direct report of my well-doing since the day when you brought the sunshine and the scent of wild things into my room. I have got on steadily on the whole. The occasional low, chilly fits have passed away, but I have had a good deal ot rather prolonged pain, which I did not at all suppose to be connected with the heart, but which was in that region. To ease the household I allowed Dr Walter Smith to be recalled. He made a careful examination, and said that the pain had nothing to do with the heart, but that there is still a sneak- ing residue of trouble at the base of the left lung of no importance, but enough to make continued idleness desirable for a while. So I remain effaced for a bit longer — it is not difficult, and I can enjoy life well among my books. At my worst time of the bacillus, Howth did me good. I sat again on the edge of a sea-cliff and looked down on the waters. Yes, Carissima mia — no one since the world came out of chaos had a better moment of existence than I have had — no one has had better possessions. I have been reading novels galore. " Tess of the Durbervilles," Du Maurier's " Peter Ibbetson," " Richard Feverel" again, one of Dickens, one and a half of Jane Austen. Now I am reading Wordsworth's life, and making notes on it. Everyone of my home and without it, loads me with kindness, and I think it nice ! Spring is coming, and we — even such a solid piece of timber as I, shall soon be alive with blossom and song. — Truly yrs., E. D. Kilross, Dalkey Monday, July 1 892 My Dear Friend, — It is half-past seven in the morning, M 2 178 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS and I am sitting in the little study looking at the hedge of roses, and beyond that to the sparkle of the sea. Bray is clear from the mid-window, and Greystones is visible. It is a very good hour for saying to Somebody or Something, a sincere " thank you," but as you won't care to hear it said, I will let it go into the void. The scenery is good to look at. There is a kind of feed- ing on beauty, which now that I am too old for it (except at times), I intend to consider gross. The pleasant things come in a subtler way. Yesterday I took up your copy of Landor's "Conversa- tions," and I found the playful dialogue, Bossuet and the Duchess, and the beautiful one, Leofric and Godiva, far more bright and penetrating than they would have been under the apple boughs in the garden on the " Roman Road." Yesterday — being Sunday — I went down to the rocks and made love to the sea. Then I returned and found the little book you had recommended to me, Wicksteed's " Lectures on Ibsen," and read of his minings in darkness while I sat saturated by the sun. I had a pleasant time at Abbeyleix, and I cannot say I feel the dividing line between the Brahmin and the Sudra which I professed to you to feel. I look on Lady de Vesci as a friend. She is a very noble creature, large in both intellect and character, and quietly raying out goodness to all about her. Miss White was there in great activity about the Cottagers' Flower Show, and had brought with her Miss Perrin to act as a Judge. The prizes were given by Lady de Vesci's little daughter, Mary, three years old, but tall and graceful. I wandered away through oak and beech-woods during the day. The pleasantest to me of the visitors was a British envoy at Buda Pesth, who had been for a time at Athens, and for three years in Persia, and was only about thirty-eight, Sir Arthur Nicholson, and he gradually let a good deal of all On CO O i3 H O Q O a! FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 179 that had soaked into him and which the diplomatic service forbids to appear in print, escape for my instruction. A bright, pleasant little British envoy, married to a sister of Lady DufFerin's. On the day after the Flower Show I drove over with Lady de Vesci to their neighbours the Castletowns. They asked me to assist at a small Unionist meeting at Rathdowney. Among the faces of the farmers and their sons were several full of intelligence and of humour. Half my time before breakfast has gone in scribbling to you, my best friend. — Truly yours, E. D. Sept. \6th, 1892 We, Mary and I, were on our way to Kilross to-day — having been to Bray to see my sister, but to our disappoint- ment it became impossible to carry out our intention. . . . I had with me to-day a novel, " Tha'i's," by Anatole France, which I think would amuse you. It will place you in the company of saints and sinners, but if the saints of the Thebaid can't do you much good, I think the courtesans ot Alexandria won't much injure your morals ! There is a good deal of re-translation from the 19th century into an ancient dialect, in it. I'll send it to you. I have a couple of Pierre Loti's books, but no good one. That which I wished to lend you — " Mon Frere Tves" I fear is made away with by some borrower. I am glad you liked " Grania" [Emily Lawless]. On that island they had all the essentials of life — the sea and the sky, love, and God, and human devotion ; and so I didn't find it a sad book. I get two little routings out of my study. On Monday I go with Hester to Abbeyleix for a couple of days to meet a Baron von Hiigel, whom I met before at Sir H. Taylor's, an interesting man, an Austrian, and on Oct. 3 I give a 180 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS lecture at Belfast to inaugurate a series by Mr M'Neile Dixon. Sunday, Oct. 2, 1 89 2 If you write a line to Mary or Hester, I shall have news ot you when I return from Belfast. . . . ... I am rather overwhelmed with proofs and examina- tions — Wordsworth proofs without end — and now the publishers of the " Henry Irving Shakespeare " want me to revise a long Introduction I wrote for them, in order that they may issue it as a book. I don't want a third Shakespeare book by me to be issued, partly from a mercenary fear of diminishing my gains — but the copyright is theirs, and all I can ask them is to issue it at a price and with a title which will make me as little as possible a rival to myself. In the early part of the week, the " Tree" civilities and reciprocities were in progress. . . . I saw "Hamlet" and supped at the Shelbourne. I found the Hamlet interesting, and noted a good many bits of actor's business and interpretation. But it is not the intellectual Hamlet — it is a preponderatingly emotional Hamlet — or, as the actor would call him, a " lyrical Hamlet." He sprawls about the ground more than one usually sees even lyrical human beings do. However, the mirror which the stage holds up to nature — is a magic mirror which alters life a little. Mrs Tree was the best Ophelia any of us have ever seen — far better than Ellen Terry. And in nothing else that I know of has she shown any dramatic gift. •••••• In my Wordsworth studies this last week I have been much struck by the contrast in his treatment of sorrow, after his own great grief of 1805 (his brother's death), and before that date. In the earlier poems he represents an unrelieved misery with great power. It is observed — or dramatically studied. But after his own grief, sorrow FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 181 becomes sanctified and purified from the alloy of anguish without hope. • • • • • • • I congratulate you on reading a book so brimming over with vitality as the Autobiography of that artistic ruffian Benvenuto. (I have a copy of the first edition of Symonds's translation.) He had a passion for perfection which made him interested in a button or in a Perseus — and there is something superb in the fellow's dash and effrontery. — Always yours, E. Dowden. 1 82 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Mount Hoeyfield Delgany, Co. Wicklow Sept. 5, 1895 ... I am not sure whether this will find you at Renvyle, but I suppose it will reach you somewhere. The bulletin you despatched was highly satisfactory. At last Mother Earth seems to have supplied her antidote to the poison of influenza. Here have been vicissitudes of blue days and grey — just now is very gray, and the clouds hang low. I think Mount Hoeyfield will be looked back on with pleasure. Hester and Hilda have taken many good walks, and we have had visits from many budding M.D.'s. One afternoon Hilda and I climbed the Sugar-loaf. One Saturday we went to a " Carl Rosa" Opera, "Hansel and Grettel" — a pretty fairy-tale with bright music, a German Christmas domesticity. And on several days I have had to go to Dublin to do bits of business. To-day we expect two of my brother's daughters. For the rest, my time has been a mere debauch of reading. I don't think I ever devoured more paper in the like time, and all with a certain activity and interest — though any result will be worth little. I read aloud in the evenings Du Maurier's "Trilby," and hardly cared for it at all ; a good deal of Thackeray, which was better ; a clever little story by Gyp — vilely translated, and some admirable stories of Balzac. For my own edification, when I had read enough of my 17 th century folk, I returned to Mark Rutherford's books. I don't remember your ever speaking of them. But each profoundly impressed me as I first read it, and the impression is as deep on a second reading. They do a little to fortify one's spirit. The writer (W. Hale White) who had given me some Shelley information, kindly volunteered to read the " Aldine Wordsworth" proofs — a large task — but I didn't FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 183 allow him. I daresay his books are the fullest of reality and experience, and the most spirit-searching of any now written ; but he lacks the joyous play of the great sons of God who disport themselves in art. Yet there is much beauty of its grey kind, pierced by divine illuminations here and there — in them. I should give a reader the little story " Miriam's Schooling" and "Catherine Furze" before the "Mark Rutherford" book, and the " Revolution in Tanners Lane." Whatever he writes seems to come out of the reality of a life — and I value that quality. But it is better to hear the morning stars sing — although they do not think of one's own infirmity, — to look on at the sports at God's big children — in which one has no part. If I had been somewhat other than what I am, my wish to sing nunc dlmittis to politics might have been a little tested since I came here. I suppose it is true that David Plunket will be made a peer — for I had a letter from Edward Carson (marked private) urging me to be his fellow-member, by and by, for the University. I daresay it would be possible, but, of course, it was no test at all, and I said a decided "No.' The clods of the valley are sweet to me, and not a new and unsuitable world. On the 16th we return to Dublin. — Yrs. truly, E. D. (One Scene of a Dramatic Poem, written by E. D. in 1873, called, tentatively, "The Affair of June 15//6." It was never finished.') Scene I An upper room in a house in the Rue Barbes. Baschet seatea at a table — papers before him — Durand standing — several young men around — amongst them Simon. Durand. In brief, gentlemen, two things are necessary — absolute silence — then one swift stroke — and the deed is accomplished. Simon (to a companion). Why lose time in balancing probabilities? Why argue about failure or success ? For me the deed already is accomplished — since Baschet spoke to me. A Young Man. I know a gunsmith in our street — an honest fellow. May I sound him ? Durand. Address no one. I will take his name. Another Young Man. Baschet looks up : will he bid us farewell ? Simon (the tender and confirming gaze). No, not with words. Durand. Friends, my comrade desires to speak with you before you go. Baschet (calmly, still seated). Brothers, made ours to-day, I shall not speak One word save that this day our words are deeds : We well might part in silence, having known Our mother's kiss upon our lips — the seal Of sonhood. But the elder son am I And elder brother, and you younger ones, Almost my children ; and since 1 am proud For you, and would be careful for you, too, I speak to try you once before the end. High gales of passion which upbear the heart 184 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 185 May whirl you where you would not ; and to drink Clear air is hard for untried lungs. Then, pause — Which of you is too young for dying ? — which Dares not be victor ? Who would fain postpone His hour of witnessing ? What soul is flawed By any secret rift which by and by Will gape to its destruction ? — Speak. Several Voices. None ! None ! Baschet. Forgive me, children, I have tempted you, I have not tried you fairly. I have been Part of your passion. Now I claim from you A perfect prudence, temperance absolute, The adult will, from you — and you — and you ! — See, thus I take your arm, and bend you round And bid you scan to the end the paths you quit, Plain, peaceful, easy to the feet — unlike These obscure ways we tread — consider therefore — [A pause) Now hear my word, and find in it your law, Leave us — return to private lives, calm lives, Lives not unworthy, if not worthiest. Not useless, if of lower use — turn back Unless it be not possible to turn. Unless your conscience be your Fate — and France Have doomed you for her saviours. We shall blame Never — never cast sidelong glance at you :' t Never remind you of the higher choice, The harder way — Now speak. A Young Man. The harder way Is ours, and easier — prove us — search us through ! We have chosen ! — let us take the final oath. Baschet, rising. The ring of true shields beaten ! I rejoice That you have made election virtuously, And know it is not / accept your youth, These sacrifices of glad eyes, bright hair, 1 86 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS And strength and love — not / — but the good Cause Incarnated in you — the better Faith That needs her martyrs, prophets, soldiers, saints. Now be light-hearted ! life that was a whirl Of barren dust — dances with all the stars In ordered freedom. You shall hear our plans, Or partly hear them, with my comrades' leave. Durand. In due time fully. Baschet. Good plans, prudent plans, For who is prudent but the man who dares, Whose passion is clear wisdom set aflame, Whose foot pursues his unresisted thought, Whose banner-bearers are the Storm and Calm ? — Trust me, we do not fail — ours is the strife Of Light with Darkness, on the edge of day. Look forth ; there lies a grey world — void of thought, A welter of negation ; 'tis the night Broken and rolling sullenly away. And we are of the morning. Can a shaft Shot from the rear of darkness pierce the day, Wound it and slay it ? See how they are weak, And in their weakness wretched ; every man Mistrusts his fellow. Wherefore ? Each mistrusts Himself — mistrusts his faith, his love, his will. Poor world ! the festered corpse, bound hand and foot, Shredding its vileness in the shroud — its life A fret of wormy interests, cares and greeds. O mark not their believers, lest your scorn Should wake a cruel laughter, patchers up Of crazy gods they finger tenderly, Lest to the swing of the thick-breathed censer The idol tumble. Ye, what may ye do, Compact of faith among these drifts of men, Loose clouds the winds divide. All ancient tales Of angels turning tyrannous power to flight — Of nameless young men armed who shone and smote — Were told of you. Issue some common day FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 187 Into our careless mercenary streets, Each man of you becomes a miracle Compelling credence ! Children, now we part Have I beguiled you ? snared you ? captured you ? Or saved you ? set you free ? bid you to claim The birthright which is yours ! New powers, I think, Are dealing with you, making you their own : How find you them ? As phrases in your ears ? Pale pictures for the eye ? or highest law. The inexpugnable fact ? Hush ! no speech more — Go each one to his work and way — no oath Must steal away your spirits' living bond ; Their innermost fidelity. To-night Come, when my comrade will instruct you more, And if need be receive your formal pledge. Till when, farewell, and welcome. Simon. (This peace is peace To lay one's soul down in his hand.) Come, friends, There is no more to say — no more. The day — Would that it were to-morrow. Hold the leash, Or we slip forward rashly. Durand. Gentlemen, Do not go out together, wait below, And singly leave the house. ( All leave except Durand and Baschet. ) Baschet. To-day our purpose prospers ! Here were youths Whose brightness turns the soldier's musket down — These were not made for slaughter. Durand. There have been, As fair heads on the pavement. But indeed We prosper. Now this Viardot comes to us. I have seen him, and seen through him. Leave him out. Baschet. Why ? I have read his words and find them right — Eager — a spirit of action in them. 1 88 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Durand. Words Which are observed and noted : the old snake Who lodges yonder, Seine-ward, will lift up A heavy lid — blink swiftly — we are lost. Baschet. He is gorged, and softly mumbles with red lips Over the relics of his feast. Why must The cause reject a lover of the cause ? Durand. A lover of phrases ! Oh, I know the tribe ; He is your literary Republican, A setter forth of sentiments, whose meat And drink is platitude and paradox, Whose fingers itch to get at sentence-turning, A fellow who makes the faith of men like you. Merely a novel cant : the world to him Is a soft dream, which yields him images For idyls. Leave him out. Baschet. Durand, in searching for the sacred founts Hid in the souls of men — the wand you bear Haply has too slight magic in it — held By fingers musing of the trigger touch, Not trembling to the water's secret stir — I will essay his spirit. Durand. He is ours If we reject him not. His vanity Nosed at the bait I softly drew along. He is a self-observer ; loves to see The soul in chivalrous attitudes, requires The moral picturesque, holds dying well A province of fine art. He comes to us As if our business were a three-act play, With you for first conspirator, and me Second : he will make studies of our heads For Judas and for John. FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS 189 Baschet. Friend, I accept This man, he dreams — but he dreams graciously. Let but the sunlight strike him, he awakes. Confused some moments 'twixt the false and true, Still seeing his own figure as in dreams. But fainter till it vanish. When the words Which haunted him in dreams — the gracious words Rise round him like live armed men, then look Whether he dare abandon them. Tempt me To no mistrust. I claim this Viardot's soul, And I tuill have it. Durand. Ay, it may be so, Tour eyes which peer against the page you read, And cannot count yon soot-stains as mine can, See the horizon clearer. It may be In the large circuit of the souls of men, I miss the margin-streaks of coming day. This Index has been compiled by Mr. J. D. M'Quisten of the National Library of Ireland. INDEX Academy, article on German Shakespeare Literature in, i. 138 — contributions to, on Shake- speare, ii. 83 — review work for, ii. 127, 136 Acting, the art of, i. 155-° Actors, in Shakespearian drama, i. 155. ^Esthesis, i. 18 " Affair of June 15th, The," dram- atic poem by Edward Dow- den, ii. 8 — dramatic poem by Edward Dowden, unfinished, Scene I., ii. 184-9 " Ahasver," by Robert Hamerling, ii. 6-7 Alban, Life of Saint, edited by Dr Atkinson, ii. no " Alexander the Great " [by Aubrey De Vere], criticism of, i. 101 " Alexandra " [poem by Alfred Tennyson], i. 84 Alexandra College, Dublin, i. 72 — lecture on study of English lite- rature by Edward Dowden, ii. 169 Alexandra lectures, i. 2, 6 Allegory, ii. 69 " All's Well that Ends Well," criticism of, i. 106 Alps, the, i. 118 American Riflemen in Dublin, i. 136 " Amiel's Journal," criticism of, i. 181 " Andromeda," poem by Edward Dowden, i. 65 ; ii. 13 " Angel in the House," by Coventry Patmore, note on, ii. 7 1 Angelo, Michael. See Buonarroti, Michael Angelo Annihilation, i. 126 Anster, John, " Faust," ii. 128 Anti - theists, Edward Dowden and, ii. 150 Apollo, lament of, for Hyacinth, ii. 117 " Apologia," by J. H. Newman, note on, i. 47 Appian Way [Dublin], descrip- tion of Edward Dowden's house in, i. 196-7, 199 " Aristophanes' Apology," by Robert Browning, ii. 83 Armstrong, George Francis Sav- age, poetry of, ii. 12 — " King Solomon," criticism of, ii. 106 — presents his poems to Carmen Sylva, ii. 174 Arnold Matthew, lecture on, by Edward Dowden, i. 28 — criticism of " Literature and Dogma," i. 66 — on Shelley, i. 193 — dilettante refinement of, ii. 29 — criticism of Butler's " Ana- logy," ii. 131 — Tolstoi, criticism of, ii. 168 — referred to, i. 21, 30, 78, 79 ; ii. 31, 105 Art, and historical science, i. 62 — and life, i. 68 — nature of, ii. 96 Asceticism, i. 6, n " Atalanta," poem by Edward Dowden, i. 62, 69 ; ii. 20, 22 " Athalie " [by Racine], note on, i. 205 192 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Atkinson, Dr Robert, on evening lectures for shop people, ii.21 — character of, ii. 60 — " Life of St Alban," edited by, ii. no — referred to, i. 145 ; ii. 87 Augustine, Saint, note on, i. 24 Austin, Alfred, on Matthew Arnold's paper on Shelley, i. 193 Bach, Johann Sebastian, music of. i. 125, 144 ; ii. 116 Baily Lighthouse, Howth, i. 65 Bain, Alexander, criticism of, i. 137 " Balder the Beautiful," by R. Buchanan, criticism of, ii. 132 Balfour, Rt. Hon. Arthur, dinner to, in Trinity College, Dublin, ii. 176 Ball, Benjamin, i. 64 Baltimore [U.S.A.], invitation to lecture at, ii. 145 Balzac, Honore de, criticism of, i. in Banville, Theodore de, on verse, i. 29 Barlow, Rev. J. W., F.T.C.D., lecture on Paris doctors of Louis XIV. time, ii. 67 Barnes, Barnabe, poems of, ii. 91 — " Parthenope and Partheno- phile," ii. 99 Barnes, Rev. William, poems of, ii. 171 Baudelaire, Charles, article on, in Fortnightly Review, i. 141 — criticism of, ii. 2 Bayne, Peter, on Walt Whitman, i. 145 Beales, Edmund, speech by, ii. 45 Beards, colour and character in, ii. 124 Beaumont, Francis and John Fletcher, note on plays of, i. 72 Beauty, delight in, i. 180 Beethoven, Ludwig Van, music by 71 on, ii. 41 " La Dame 200 of, in Dogma," 1. of, i. 34» 35. 4°. 96, 125 ; ii. 41, 122 Belief, on religious, ii. " Beowulf," lecture Edward Dowden, Bernhardt, Sarah, in aux Camelias," i. Bible, interpretation " Literature and i. 67 — Bunyan and the, i. 132 Bible saints, ii. 22 Biblical quotations, i. 16 Birds and human fellowship, 147 " Birth and Life of Marina, The " [from Shakespeare's " Peri- cles "], ii. 52, 53 Blackie, Prof. John Stuart, ii. 59 Blackwood, Messrs, proposed book on G. Eliot, by Ed. Dowden, ii. 117 Blake, William, quotation from, i. 139, 144 — pictures, criticism of, i. 152 — ' Book of Job," note on, i. 140 — book illustrations of, ii. 1 1 1 Blake and Michael Angelo, com- parison of, i. 19 Blake Exhibition, the [London, 1876], visit to, i. 151 Blank verse, English, greatness of, i. 61 Blaze, Henri, translation of " Faust," i. 56 " Blessed Damozel, The," by D. G. Rossetti, i. 28 Blosius, Franciscus Ludovicus, " Mirror for Monks," ii. 148 " Blue Bedroom," i. 73 Bohemianism in Dublin, i. 119 Books, difficulty of keeping abreast of interesting, ii. 127 — and life, i. 43 — value of, ii. 94 — on reading, by secondary writers, ii. 132 Boole, George, " Laws of Thought," ii. 38 — character of, ii. 39 — Mrs [George], ii. 126 Botticelli, Alessandro, description of picture by, ii. 66 INDEX l 93 Bray [Co. Wicklow], i. 85 ; ii. 84, '141 Bray Head [Co. Wicklow], climb up, i. 3 8 ; ii. 87, 156 Breton, Nicholas, note on, i. 129 British Association [1874 meet- ing], i. 113 Bronte, Charlotte, ii. 119 Brooke, Stopford, lectures on Wordsworth, ii. 56 — character of, ii. 105 Brown, Oliver Madox, " The Dwale Bluth," ii. 129 Browning, Robert, article on, by Elizabeth D. West, i. 7, 8, 16 — letter to Elizabeth D. West, i. 13, 17, 86 ; ii. 102 — poetry of, criticism of, i. 51, 186 — " Dramatis Personae," i. 59 — and death, i. 79 — description of an elm, i. 148 — paper on, by E. D. West, i. 166 — letters, on, i. 176 — and Percy Bysshe Shelley, ii. 55 — lecture on, by Edward Dowden, ii. 55 — " Aristophanes' Apology," note on, ii. 83 — dramatic power of, ii. 104 — " Agamemnon of iEschylus," ii. 133 — on immortality, ii. 155 — referred to, i. '5, 16, 19, 30, 77, 78, 84, 99, 147, 153 ; ii. 147 Browning Society, paper by E. D. West, read before, i. 158 Bryce, James, " Holy Roman Empire," note on, i. 115 Buchanan, George, i. 189 Buchanan, Robert, estimate of, i. 16 — " Fleshly School," note on, ii. 2 " — Balder the Beautiful," criticism of, ii. 132 Biichner, F., note on, i. 67 Bunyan, John, lecture on, i. 132 Buonarroti, Michael Angelo, poems of, i. 34 — and his art, i. 135 — Python, a drawing by, ii. 14 — and Vittoria Colonna, ii. 14-5 N 2 Buonarroti, Michael Angelo, re- ferred to, i. 18, 19, 74 Burke, Edmund, as a political thinker, i. 100 — referred to, i. 129, 195 Burnet, Gilbert, " History of my own time," note on, ii. 49 Burroughs, John, and Whitman, i. 16, 17 — referred to, i. 34, 130 ; ii. 109 Butler, Bishop, " Analogy," criticism of, by M. Arnold, ii. 131 Byron, George Gordon Noel, Lord, character of, i. 122 — influence of French Revolution on, i. 130 — books on, ii. 72 Calderon, Pedro, " The Constant Prince," criticism of, ii. 86 Calvinistic doctrine, note on, i. 39 Cambridge University, Clark Lectureship, Edward Dowden a candidate for, ii. 139 Campbell, J. M'Leod, " Christ the Bread of Life," ii. 3 " Canterbury Tales," i. 123 Carlyle, Thomas, and work, i. 94 — presentation of address to, i. 145 — on Cromwell, i. 150 — unpublished lectures on Eur- opean culture, article on, by Edward Dowden, ii. 137 Carmen Sylva [Queen of Rou- mania], and G. F. S. Arm- strong, ii. 174 Carriere, M., i. 139 Carson, [Sir] Edward, ii. 183 Catherine, Saint, entombment of. by Luini, ii. 31 — of Siena, ii. 75 Cellini, Benvenuto, " Autobiog- raDhy," criticism of, ii. 25, 181 Cenchor Cottage [Howth], i. 174 Century Magazine, article on Dublin, by Edward Dowden for, ii. 142 1 94 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Chaos, nature of, ii. 154 Chapman, George, quotation from, i. 92, 129 — note on some lines of, by Edward Dowden, ii. 56 Character, Christian, i. 6 — human, i. 39 — baseness of, and forgiveness, i. 81 — Shadworth Hodgson on, ii. 27 Chatsworth, visit to, ii. 166 Chatterton, Thomas, portrait of, by Hogarth, ii. 30 Chaucer, Geoffrey, human char- acter and, ii. 120 — on reading, i. 123 Children, education of. ii. 54 Chopin, Frederick, music of, i. 125 ; ii. 41 Christian bodies, lectures to, ii. 150 — life, nature of the, i. 168, 190-1 — Pantheism, ii. 23 Christianity, as expressed by " La Marseillaise," i. 4 — Jesus Christ and, i. 166 Church, nature of the, i. 4 — the Evangelical system in the, i. 173 — the, and the Oxford movement, ii. 152-3 — Church of England, spirit of the, ii. 29 Claudio, character in " Measure for Measure," ii. 66 Cleverness, nature of, i. 1 " Cloister and the Hearth," note on, i. 112 ; ii. 54 Clough, A. H., projected lecture on, i. 94 ; ii. 55 " Cluff Prize," Trinity College, Dublin, examining for, i. 150 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, influence of French Revolution on, i. 130 — referred to, i. 143 Coleridge, Sara, and Aubrey De Vere, i. 124 — Memories and letters, ii. 26 Commonwealth [English History], memoirs of, i. 139 Comte, Auguste, note on, i. 54 ; ii. 24 ' Comus " [poem by John Milton], i. 79 Congreve, Mr and Mrs R., note on, i. 153 — on George Eliot, i. 154 — household of, ii. 114 Conscience, consciousness of, ii. 4° Contemporary Review, i. 7 " Convention of Cintra " ["Prose Works of Wordsworth"], note on, i. 127 Conway, Moncure, ii. 109 Cordelia [character in Shakes- peare's Lear], i. 9, 104 Cork, covered cars in, i. 104 — Library, Old, description of, i. 105 — large fire at, i. 187 — lecture by Edward Dowden at, i. 157 ; ii. 48 Cork landscape, beauty of, ii. 12 Corson, Hiram, i. 163 Country life, charm of, i. 132 Coupland, William Chatterton, ii. 161 Courbet, Gustave, note on, i. 106 Coxe, William, " House of Austria," ii. 129 Crabbe, George, Life of, by his son, note on, i. 184 Crashaw, Richard, poems of, i. 126 — quotation from, ii. 88 " Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard, Le," i. 205 " Crime and Punishment," by Dostoieffsky, criticism of, ii. 166 Crinoline dresses, ii. 151 Criticism, art of, ii. 1 Cromwell, Oliver, his belief in God, i. 150 — referred to, ii. 49 Cross, John, ii. 11, 61 Culwick, James C, note on, ii. 47 — concert of, ii. 165 " Cymbeline," note on, i. 73 INDEX l 95 D " Dame aux Camelias, La," Sarah Bernhardt in, i. 200 " Daniel Deronda " [by G. Eliot], criticism of, i. 156-7 ; ii. 103, 107-8, 117, 122, 124-5 Dante, i. 76, 144, 175 ; ii. 99 Danton, Georges- Jacques, ii. 7 " Danton and Robespierre," by Hamerling, ii. 6-7 Dargle, The, Co. Wicklow, ii. 149 Dark Blue, Dowden gives group of sonnets to, i. 15 — article on Browning by E. D. West, ii. 55 — referred to, i. 13, 16, 20 Darwin, Charles, " Expression of the Emotions," ii. 33 — criticism of his theory, ii. 68 Darwinism, and interpretation of life, i. 170 — applied to morals, ii. 39 David, King [Biblical character], i. 180 Day, Mr, collection of Irish antiquities, i. 187-8 Dead, inner life of the, i. 177 " Death of Ivan Iliitch," by Tolstoi, ii. 168 Deer in the Phoenix Park, i. 89 Deism, i. 116 " Der Freischiitz," opera by Weber, ii. 111 Desdemona [character in Shake- speare's " Othello "], i. 87 De Vere, Aubrey, visits Edward Dowden, i. 92 — his appearance, i. 93 — " Alexander the Great," note on, i. 101 — conversion of, i. 124 — recollections of Wordsworth by, i. 129 — " Thomas a Becket," by, ii. 86 — referred to, i. 118 ; ii. 71 De Vesci, Lord and Lady, ii. 172 — Lady, character of, ii. 178 Dial, periodical, edited by R. W. Emerson, ii. 164 " Diana of the Crossways," i. 176 Dickens, Charles, domestic char- acters in his novels, ii. 48 Dickinson, Emily [Miss], ii. 17 Dinner, description of a, at Kings- town, i. 103 Divine grace, in human life, i. 58, 59 Domett, Alfred, note on, ii. 7 " Don Giovanni," ii. 97 Donne, John, i. 126 " Don Quixote," John Ruskin's criticism of, i. 198 Dowden, Edward, books, dis- order among his, ii. 93, 94 — childhood, anecdote of, i. 131 — committee meetings, and, i 156 ; ii. 175 — critic, as a, ii. 1 — democratic sympathies, ii. 118 — disposal of unpublished MSS. on his death, ii. 148 — and his " Dr " degree, i. 20 — university degrees, on his, i. 201 — distinctions, on his, ii. 165 — made LL.D. of Edinburgh University, i. 188-9 — dream announcing his death, i. 183 — essays of, i. 71 plan of, ii. 16 publication of, ii. 16 — examination work at Trinity College, Dublin, ii. 63 distaste of, ii. 98 at Queen's College, Cork, ii. 134 — French writers, liking for, 1. 149 — Goethe Society [English], and the Presidency of the, i. 179 elected President of, i. 193 — Grasmere, visit to, i. 159 — " History of English Litera- ture " author of vol. iv. of, ii. 152 — lectures, on publishing his college, ii. 44 on his, i. 24 — lecture system of, experiment in, ii. 54 — lecturing, on, ii. 46 — literature, on sifting, i. 192 his bent for, ii. 159 196 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Dowden, Edward, nineteenth century, influences of litera- ture in, proposed book on, ii. ioi — old age, on living to an, ii. 148 — Oxford University, Professor- ship of English Literature at, ii. 145 — photograph of himself, on a, i. 174 — poems of, i. 8, 27, 38, 39, 40, 44, 197 ; ii. 4. 52, 123 edition of, burnt in Kegan Paul & Co.'s fire, i. 158 subjects for, i. 59 — poem, revolution plot as sub- ject for a [The Affair of June 15], ii. 2-3 — sonnets of, i. 17, 173 quotation from his, ii. 85 — sonnet by, ii. 92-3 — poetry, his desire to write, i. 14, 22, 23, 33, 93. !37- 8 J ii- 2, 73 — politics of, i. 181 ; ii. 167, 170, 183 — Parliamentary representation of Dublin University, name suggested, ii. 183 — positivist tendencies of, ii. 129 — progress during 1872-4, i. 89 — reading, holiday, i. 31 note on his, i. 102 ; ii. 120 taste in, i. 12, 13 — religious belief of, i. 166-7, 168-9, 170 — silver-wedding of, ii. 176 — Shakespeare, lectures on, i. 97 — " Shakespeare : His Mind and Art," dedication of, i. 121 ready for publication, ii. 67 — Shakespeare, and the influence of, i. 99 — Shakespearian criticism, on, i. 108 — Shakespere Primer for Mac- millan's, asked to write a, ii. 81 — smoking, i. 70 — society gatherings, objection to, ii. 81, 82 — South of Ireland, and the, i. 107 Dowden, Edward, sport, and, i. 136 — students, relationship with, i. 198 ; ii. 8 — swimming, fondness for, ii. 141 — Trinity College, Dublin, Aca- demic Council, elected member of, i. 119 ; ii. 154 re-elected secretary to, i. 145 income as Professor of English Literature in, ii. 145 professorship at, ii. 16 — Wordsworth and Shakespeare, influence of, on, i. 133 — Wordsworth, work on notes to, i. 199 — work, on his, ii. 126, 129, 132, 164, 167 Dowden, Hester, i. 159, 183 ; ii. 15, 117, 126, 172 Dowden, Hilda, i. 141, 143, 144, 158, 183 ; ii. 136 Dowden, John [Bishop of Edin- burgh], Edinburgh, and the Bishopric of, i. 181 — qualities of good bishop, i. 184 — sermon on the Black-letter saints, ii. 22 — elected Bishop of Edinburgh, ii. 162 — referred to, i. 24, 62 ; ii. 26, 48, 49. 59 Dowden, John W. [Edward Dow- den's father], appreciation of, i. 29 character of, ii. 74 — referred to, i. 120, 157, 187, 195. ; ii. 30, 32. 87, 138, 172 Dowden, J. W. & Co., Ltd., note on, i. 157 Dowden, Richard, referred to, i. 75. 77. 84, 86, 91, 112, 114, 144, 138, 183; ii. 43, 50, 68, 126, 158, 172 Dowie, John, note on, i. 195 Dragon, the, in art and literature, ii. 14 Dramatic poetry, i. 72, 136 " Dream of Gerontius," poem by J. H. Newman, i. 58, 93 Drumgoff, Co. Wicklow, ii. 36 Dublin, life in, i. 147 INDEX 197 Dublin Mountains, ii. 147 Dublin University. See Trinity College, Dublin Duddon [River] and Wordsworth, i. 108 Diirer, Albert, St George and the Dragon, by, ii. 13 — referred to, i. 19, 33 " Dwale Bluth, The," by Oliver Madox Brown, ii. 129 E Eckermann, John P., i. 47 ; ii. 8 Edge, Edward, the old West gardener, made famous by H. H. West's " Edgiana," i. 199, 202 Edinburgh, description of dinner at, i. 188-9 — lectures on Shelley by Edward Dowden, at, i. 184 Edinburgh Review and Words- worth, i. 128 Edinburgh University, Edward Dowden made LL.D. of, i. 188-9 Edmund [character in Shake- speare's " Lear "], i. 87 Education of men, compared with women, i. 2 " Edwin the Fair," by Sir Henry Taylor, i. 101 Eighteenth century, lectures on the writers of, ii. 129 " Elective Affinities " [by Goethe], river scene in, i. no Eliot, George, article on, by Edward Dowden, ii. 5 — lecture on by Edward Dowden, i. 21, 23 — proposed book on, for Messrs Blackwood, by Edward Dowden, ii. 117 — change of faith, i. 163 — change of faith, Grosart on, ii. 91 — character of, i. 154 — conversation with Edward Dowden, ii. 114 — criticism of, literary, ii. 9, 122, 124-5 Eliot, George, critics, and, ii. 117 — and Dowden's " Shakespere : His Mind and Art," ii. 81, 83 — God, and, i. 45 — humour of, ii. 120 — influence of her husband [G. H. Lewes], i. 154 — novels of, ii. 108 characters of her, ii. 122 — poems by, criticism of, i. 93-4 — and political thought, i. 100 — style of, ii. 100 — - referred to, i. 78, 142, 153 " Elijah," Mendelssohn's oratorio, ii. 114 Elizabethan dramatists, note on, i. 72 Elizabethan literature, lectures on, ii. 37 Elizabethan Romance, lecture on, by Edward Dowden, i. 201 Ellis, Edwin, note on, ii. 91 Ellison, Henry, " Mad Moments of a born Natural," by, i. 135 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, on black guards in history, ii. 170 — lecture on, by Dowden at Royal Dublin Society, i. 190 English middle-classes, ii. 29 English people, character of the, ii. 28 English verse, note on, i. 35 " Enigmas of Life," by W. R. Greg, criticism of, ii. 61-2 Environment, and daily life, i. 182 Epic, and dramatic art, i. 91-2 " Epipsychidion " [poem by Shelley], i. 82, 164 Erard piano, ii. 131 " Essays in Ecclesiastical Bio- graphy," by Sir J. Stephen, i. 185 " Europa," poem by Edward Dowden, i. 62 European history, on reading, i. 83 ; ii. 46 — poetry, common tendencies of, ii. 7 " Eurydice," poem by Edward Dowden, i. 65 Evil, necessary for perception of beauty, i. 31 198 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Evil, nature of, i, 113 Evolution theory, ii. 39 Examination work, not favourable for literary work, i. 48 " Excursion " [poem by Words- worth], i. 129 Faber, Frederick Wm., religious poetry of, i. 45-6 "Faerie Queen" and the " Pil- grim's" Progress," lectures on, ii. 43 Faith, nature of, i. 39 Falk, J. D., " conversations with Goethe," i. 47 Farrar, Frederick William, " Life of Christ," note on, ii. no " Faust," criticism of, i. 41-2, 43- 4. 49, 55. 57-9 ; ii. 122 — ethics of, i. 59 — translated by T. E. Webb, criticism of, ii. 128 — translations of, i. 56 Fichte, ]. G., i. 18 " Fifine at the Fair," ii. 4 Fleay, F. G., on Shakespeare's " Pericles," ii. 52, 53 Flute, music of the, ii. 57 Ford, John, note on, i. 72 Form, in art, i. 135, 142 Forman, Buxton, edition of P. B Shelley's works, ii. 143 Fortnightly Club, dinner at Kingstown, i. 103 — discussion on Walt Whitman, ii. no Fortnightly Review, article by Dowden on " English Liter- ature of the Universities," i. 193 — article on " Study of English Literature " by Edward Dowden in, ii. 169 — article on Laprade by Dowden in, ii. 2 — article by Dowden on Victorian literature, i. 190 — article on Wordsworth by Edward Dowden, i. 123; If. 90 Fortnightly Review, contributions to, ii. 171 — tone of [in 1873], ii. 12 Foster, John, " Life of Swift," ii. 100 " Foundations of Saint Teresa," i. 66 " Fountain of Youth, The," by Paludan-Miiller, ii. 77 Fountains Abbey, description of, ii. 32 France, Anatole, criticism of, i. 205 — " Thais," criticism of, ii. 179 France, democracy in, ii. 133 " France and Prussia," article by Edward Dowden, i. 9 — paper by Edward Dowden, i. 172 Francis, Saint [of Assisi], i. 6, 168, 177 Fraser, Alexander C, l. 189 French actors, i. 155 — literature, Dowden's interest in the younger writers, i. 197 — novels, Dowden and, i. in — poetry, lectures on, ii. 99-100 reaction in, ii. 133 — Revolution, developments of, i. 172 and English nineteenth-cen- tury poetry, i. 130 note on, i. 10 Wordsworth on, i. 1 28; ii.87 — verse, note on, i. 35, 61 Furnivall, F. J., and the New Shakespeare Society, i. 82 — foundation of a Shelley Society, ii. 157- 8 — referred to, i. 125, 134, 154 ; ii. 56, 82 Gautama Buddha, ii. 31 German poetry, note on, i. 35 ; ii. 6-7 German Shakespeare Literature, paper on, by Edward Dow- den, ii. 76 — article on, for the Quarterly, i. 124 ; ii. 85, 99 INDEX '99 Gervinus, G. G., i. 87 Gibbon, Edward, " Decline and fall of the Roman Empire," ii. 74 Gilchrist, Anne [Mrs], A Woman's estimate of Walt Whitman," i. 17 — referred to, ii. 162 Gladstone, William Ewart, on the Irish Question, ii. 170 Glendalough, Co. Wicklow, ii. 36, God, belief in, i. 44-5 — conception of, i. 66 — middle-class Englishman's, ii. 29 — man, and, i. 170 — nature of, i. 167 — Puritan, the, i. 151 Godwin, William, philosophy of, i. 185 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, criticism of, i. 40-41, 48-50, 51. !94 — Dowden and the study of, ii. 15°. 152 — Italian Journey, thoughts sug- gested by quotation from, i. 182 — Italy, in,_i. 194 — Letters, i. 199 — love affairs of, i. 175; ii. 1 60- 1 — love letters of, ii. 160 — moral character of, i. 179 — Schiller, and, i. 70 — sin, and, i. 57 — Wilhelm Meister's Lehrjahre, criticism of, i. 37-8 — referred to, i. 12, 179, 184 — Society [English], Max Muller elected President of, i. 179 elects Edward Dowden Pre- sident, i. 193 Edward Dowden re-elected President, i. 201 Dowden's address to, i. 193 Edward Dowden and the Presidency of, ii. 161 Goschen, Rt. Hon. George, ii. 172 Gounod, Charles, music of, ii. 98 Governess's Association, speech j by Edward Dowden at, ii. 54 ; Grace, the virtue of, i. 58 Graham, W., ii. 35 " Grammar of Assent," by J. H. Newman, note on, i. 46-7 " Grania," by Emily Lawless, ii. 179 Grasmere, visit to, i. 159 Graves, Mrs Robert Perceval, description of Alexandra party at, ii. 17-8 Graves, Robert Perceval, " Life and letters of Sir William Rowan Hamilton," edited by, ii. 26 — referred to, ii. 18, 89, 90 Gray, David, poems of, ii. 52 Green, John Richard, " History of the English People," criticism of, i. 141 ; ii. 105 — style of writing history, ii. 125 Greg, W. R., " Enigmas of Life," by ii. 61-2 Gretchen [character in " Faust "], note on, i. 57 Greystones [Co. Wicklow], i. 31 Grosart, Alexander, character of, ii. 90 — Spenser, edition of, by, ii. 112 — Wordsworth's prose works, proofs of, ii. 68 — referred to, i. 123, 124, 126 Guerin, Eugenie de, note on, i. 149 — Maurice de, note on, i. 149 Guildhall, London, collection of pictures in, i. 200 Guise, Duke of, story of the assassination, by Henry III., ii. 123 Guizot, F. P. G., " European Civilization," note on, i. 115 Guyon, Mme., i. 4 Gwynn, Rev. John, D.D., i. 81 H Haddon Hall, visit to, ii. 166 Halle, Sir Charles, i. 29 Hamerling, Robert, criticism of, ii. 6-7 — - philosophy of, i. 53 — poetry of, i. 34-35 — note on, i. 19, 20, 78 ; ii. 12 2oo FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Hamilton, Sir William Rowan, " Life and letters," edited by R. P. Graves, ii. 26 " Hamlet," an idealist, i. 114 — lecture on, by G. Macdonald, ii. 56 — paper on, by Werner, criticism of, ii. 57-8 — played by Herbert Tree, ii. 180 . — referred to, i. 9, 101, 107, 138 Handel, George F., music of, i. 125, 177 " Hannibal," by John Nichol, 11. 7 " Hansel and Gretel " [opera], by E. Humperdinck, ii. 182 Happiness, nature of, compared with pleasure, i. 96 Harrogate, visit to, ii. 32 Haughton, Rev. Samuel, i. 96 Hawthorne, Nathaniel ii. 12 Haydn, Joseph, " The Creation," and " Spring," note on, ii. — note on the Mass of, l. 97 Hebbel, Friedrich, criticism of, ii. 6, 12 Heine, Heinrich, prose works of, i. 139 — Shakespeare's women, on, i. 138 — Stigand's " Life of Heinrich Heine," ii. 102, 103 — Dowden on reading, i. 35 Helena [character in " All's Well that Ends Well "], criticism of, i. 106-7 : ii« ° 2 Hemans, Felicia, poetry of, i. 75 Herbert, George, poems edited by Grosart, i. 124 — referred to, i. 126 " Heroes and Hero-worship," by Thomas Carlyle, ii. 138 " Heroine, The," by G. Rivers, criticism of, ii. 58 Hesse, Professor, note on, i. 70 High Churchmen, i. 172 Hill, G. B., i. 201 " Histoires tragiques," note on, ii. 22 History, on reading, i. 115 ; ii. 49, 123, 134-5 " History of Henry VII.," by Lord Bacon, i. 83 Hoare, J. N., ii. 31 Hodgson, Shad worth, " Theory of Practice " by, ii. 26 Hogg, Thomas J., author of life of Shelley, ii. 140 Homer " Odyssey," translated by Worsley, ii. 31 Hookham, Thomas, ii. 140 Hopkins, Miss Ellice, i. 169 Howth [Co. Dublin], i. 25, 65, 88, 95 ; ii. 17, 147 177 — sketches of, by R. W. West, of, i. 168 Hiigel, Baron von, note on, i. 204 ; ii. 179 Hugo, Victor, article on, by Edward Dowden, offered to Fortnightly Review, ii. 12 — children in his novels, i. no — lecture on, by Edward Dowden, i. 54, 61 ; ii. n, 13 — paper on, by Edward Dowden, — " Les Miserables," ii. 9 — poetry of, ii. 13, 133 ( — " Cjuatre vingt-treize,"note on, i. 102, 104 — referred to, i. 78, 85, 129; ii. 100 Human nature, spiritualities of, i. 80 Humanity, child's view of, i. 21 • — in English and Irish peoples, ii. 29 — in man, i. 180 Humboldt, Wilhelm von, criticism of, i. 42-3 Humour in Shakespeare's plays, i. 90 Hunt, Holman, criticism of, "Shadow of Death," i. 131, 134 — referred to, i. 82 Hutchinson, Thomas, i. 199 Hutton, R. H, i. 22 Hymns, French, i. 4 — article by Elizabeth D. West, i. 5 " Hypatia " compared with " Thais," i. 204 INDEX 20 1 Iachimo [character in Cymbeline], i. 73 Ibsen, Henrik, criticism of, 1. 195 Idealism, i. 63 ; ii. 17 — in Shakespeare, i. 116 Immortality, i. 49-50, 126, 166, 171 ; ii. 20, 154-5 Individual, worth of the, i. 63 Ingram, John Kells, on Edward Dowden, i. 98 — lecture on order of Shakes- peare's last plays, ii. 67 — referred to, i. 12, 22, 89, 96 ii. 76, 138, 169 " Inn Album," by Robert Brown- ing, criticism of, i. 145-6, 148; ii. 103-4, 106-7, IX 5 Irish antiquities, Mr Day's col- lection of, i. 187 — silversmith work, i. 188 — workmen, ii. 12 Irving, Sir Henrv, anecdote of, i. 155 — and Hamlet, ii. 127 — in " Othello," i. 152 ; ii. 114 " Israel in Egypt," i. 91 Italian opera, i. 40 J " Jacob's Dream " [design by Wm. Blake], note on, i. 152 Jellett, John Hewitt, i. 95 ; ii. 138, 169 Jesus Christ, the place of, i. 166 — and sinners, i. 169 — character of, ii. 27 Joachim, Joseph, i. 84 ; ii. 130 Joan of Arc, as a subject for a poem, i. 139 John, Saint, the Gospel of, ii. 123 John of the Cross, Saint, i. 204 Joinville, " Memoirs of St Louis," criticism of, ii. 69 Jonson, Ben, quotation from, i. 129 — note on, i. 72 Joy, nature of, i. 96 " Judith," by Hebbel, ii. 12 " Julian and Maddalo," note on, i. 187 " Julius Caesar," note on, i. 71, 106 — lecture on, ii. 51 K " Katia " [by Tolstoy], note on, i. 191-2 Kaulbach, Wilhelm von, illustra- tions to Shakespeare, i. 139 Keats, John, letters to Fanny Brawne, i. 177 — letter of, in Athencsum, ii. 56 — quotation from, i. 79 — referred to, i. 130 Keble, John, and the Oxford Movement, i. 173 — religious poetry of, i. 46 — referred to, i. 6, 78, 81 Kegan Paul & Co., fire at, i. 158 — Dowden's Poems, burnt in fire at, i. 173 Kickham, C. J., note on, ii. 92 Kilross, Dalkey [E. D. West's house], Dowden's visit to, i. 202 — view from, i. 203 ; ij. 178 King, H. S. & Co., and Dowden's lectures, ii. 52 — Dowden's Shakespeare lectures, publication of, i. 93 in the press, ii. 61 — — translation of, into German, ii. 60 — and Miss Lee's edition of Shakespeare, i. 134 " King Lear," criticism on, i. 85, 87-8, 115 — fool in, i. 90 — Charles Lamb and the char- acter of, i. 155 — lecture on by Edward Dowden, ii. 64 — paper on, by Mr Hales, ii. 56 " King Solomon," by G. F. S. Armstrong, ii. 106 Kingsley, Charles, criticism of, i. 205 202 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS " La Femme de Trente Ans," by Balzac, ii. 59 Lake District, visit to, ii. 132 Lamennais, Felicite Robert de, article by Edward Dowden, 1 i. 3 — article by Edward Dowden, i- 5 — essay on, by Mazzini, i. 97-8 Landor, Walter Savage, article on, by Edward Dowden, i. 5, 6 ; ii. 1 — lecture on, by Edward Dowden, i. 47 — " Conversations," 11. 178 Langland, William, i. 36 Landscape, aesthetic of, i. 109 Laprade, Victor de, article on, by Edward Dowden, ii. 2 Lark, suggested poem on a, i. 95 " Last Judgment, The " [design by Wm. Blake], note on, i. 152 Lawless, Hon. Emily, conversa- tion with, ii. 173 — " Grania," ii. 179 " Leaves of Grass," by Walt Whitman, scheme of, i. 150 — note on, ii. 109 Leconte de Lisle, Charles Marie, poetry of, i. 60-61 — projected essay on, i. 71 — a poet of despair, i. 78 — and religion, ii. 100 Lectures, on preparing, i. 20 Lee, Dr William, i. 69 — Jane [Miss], i. 134 " Legende des Siecles, La," by V. Hugo, ii. 130 " Les Miserables," by Victor Hugo, ii. 9 Letters, Dowden on writing, i. 88, 161 — value of old, i. 176 Lewes, George Henry, character of, ii. 114 — on Dowden's " George Eliot," i. 30-31 — " History of Philosophy," LI. 44 — referred to, 1. 125, 131, 153 Life, accidentals and essentials of, ii. 89 — Browning and Shakespeare on, i. 10 — conception of, in play by George Chapman, i. 92 — hills as a symbol of, i. 88 — and intellect, i. 25-27 — and joy, i. 109 — joy of, ii. 121-2 — and its relation to God, i. 23 — theory of, i. 190-1 — thoughts on, i. 10 the usefulness of, i. 63-4 — worth living, ii. 151 Lightfoot, Joseph Barker, " Super- natural Religion," ii. 71 Lingg, Hermann, ii. 7 " Literary Symposium, A," article in Nineteenth Century, ii. 131 Literary boyishness, i. 40 — style, i. 84-5 Literature, cosmopolitanism in, ii. 170 — difficulty of criticizing foreign, i. 194 — freedom of, ii. 152 — and life, i. 98 — 19th-century influences in, proposed book on, ii. 101 — the Oxford movement and, ii. 153 — on reading, i. 192 " Literature and Dogma," by Matthew Arnold, criticism of, i. 66-7 Little, J. Bennett, and Walt Whitman, ii. no Littledale, Harold, helps Edward Dowden in reading proofs of " Shakespeare : His Mind and Art," ii. 67 — referred to, i. 81 ; ii. 60 Littre, Maximilien P. E\, on Comte, i. 19 " Lohengrin," criticism of, ii. 96, 97. 98 London, visit to, ii. 114 — people, types of, ii. 118 Long Parliament, documents re- lating to the period of, i. 121 Love is Enough,' Morris, ii. 7 by William INDEX 203 Low Churchmen, i. 172 Lowell, James Russell, article on " Essays," by Edward Dow- den, i. 50 "Lyrical Ballads, 1798," by William Wordsworth, re- print of, edited by Edward Dowden, ii. 173 Lyttelton, Rev. the Hon. Edward, ii. 170 Lyster, Thomas William, i. 167 ; ii. 141, 158, 161 M MacCarthy, D. F., translation of Calderon's " The Constant Prince," ii. 86 Macaulay, Thomas Babington, Lord, criticism of, ii. 118 — " History of England," ii. 49 Macdonald, George, criticism of, ii. 5-6 — Dowden's estimate of , " Robert Falconer," i. 31 Macgill, Dr, funeral of, i. 200 MTvor, Rev. James, i. 96 ; ii. 68 " Mad Moments of a born Natural," by Henry Ellison, i. 135 Mahaffy, John Pentland, 1. 95 ; ii. 128 Manchester, visit to, ii. 28 Manchester Goethe Society, i. 185 Marlborough Street Cathedral, organ recital at, i. 35 Marlowe, Christopher, article by Edward Dowden, i. 5 " Marseillaise, La," i. 4 Marvell, Andrew, ii. 94 Masson, David, on Shakespeare and Goethe, i. 83 — edition of " Milton's Poems," note on, i. 117 — referred to, i. 121, 188 Materialism, ii. 21 Maudsley, Henry, " Body and Mind," ii. 34 Mayfield, Old Connaught [Co. Dublin], i. 97, 98, 103 ; ii. 61 Mazzini, Giuseppe, literary essays of, i. 97 Mazzini, literary writings, i. 105 — passages in the life of, i. 133 " Measure for Measure," Walter Pater on ii. 65 " Memoirs of Phillippe de Co- mines," i. 83 Mendelssohn, Felix, music of, i. 96-7 ; ii. 127 Menzies, W., on " Forest Trees," criticism of, i. 148 Mephistopheles and Faust, i. 55-6 " Merchant of Venice," i. 138 Meredith, George, novels of, ii. 154. I7 1 — style of, i. 1 76 Metaphysics and Shakespeare, i. 83 Michael Angelo. See Buonarroti. Michelet, Jules, " History of France," note on, ii. 123 " Middlemarch " _ by G. Eliot, criticism of, i. 82 ; ii. 9, 121, 124 Mill, John Stuart, Autobiography of, i. 75. 7 6 — on actions as objects of praise or blame, ii. 40 — and Goethe, i. 63 — projected lecture on, i. 132 — relations with his wife, ii. 105 — referred to, i. 76-7, 137 ; ii. 45 " Mill on the Floss," river scene in, i. no Millais, Sir John E., ii. 114 Miller, Joaquin, " Songs of the Sierras," ii. 1 — referred to, i. 15, 17 Millet, J. F., note on, i. 187 Milsand, M., i. 7 Milton, John, idealism of, i. 117 — paper on, by Edward Dowden, i. 20 — poetry of, i. 12 — - quotation from, i. 148 — referred to, i. 78 ; ii. 78 Mommsen, Theodor, " Roman History," ii. 163 Montenotte, Cork, view from windows of, ii. n Monsters, in art, ii. 13-14 Moore, Rev. G., ii. 173 Moral powers and Shakespeare, i. 52 2o 4 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Morley, John [Lord], criticism of, ii. 19 — essays of, i. 12 — on J. S. Mill, i. 63__ — referred to, i. 3 ; ii. 2, 12 Morris, William, i. 78 Morrison, J. Cotter, ii. 118 Motley, John L., " Dutch Re- public," ii. 46 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, music of, ii. 97 Miiller, Max, elected President of the Goethe Society, i. 179 — " Science of Religion," ii. 34 Munich, and art, ii. 96 Munro, Sir W., i. 188 " Mystery of Matter, The," by J. A. Picton, criticism of, ii. 22, 25 Mysticism, i. 121 N National Gallery of Ireland, visit to, i. 59 Nature, aesthetic of, i. 109 — and human existence, i. no — and science, ii. 133 Nettleship, J. T., sketches by, ii. 9 New Shakespeare Society started, i. 82 — paper on, i. 124 Newman, John H. [Cardinal], his intellect, i. 46-7 — lecture on his poems by Ed- ward Dowden, i. 43, 45 — poems of, i. 93, 94 — referred to, i. 60, 163 ; ii. 69 Nichol, John, " Hannibal," i. 52 ; ii. 7 Nicholson, Sir Arthur, ii. 178 Nothing, art of saying, i. 141-2 " Nun's Priest, The " [poem by Edward Dowden], i. 206 O " Obermann," by, ii. 31 " Odyssey," moral power of, in Greece, ii. 31 *' O'Farrell the Fiddler," by Alfred Perceval Graves, ii. 18 Ophelia, played by Mrs Tree, ii. 180 " Ordeal of Richard Feverel," by George Meredith, criticism of, ii. 154 Organ playing, i. 35 " Othello," criticism of, i. 87-8 — played by Sir Henry Irving, i. 153 — - played by Salvini, i. 155 — as played by Salvini and Irving, ii. 115 Ovoca, Co. Wicklow, ii. 35 Oxford, description of visit to, ii. "3 Oxford movement, strength of, i. 172 — future of, ii. 152 Oxford University, Professorship of English Literature, created, ii. 145 Oxford v. Cambridge boat race, ii. 1, 8 Pachmann, Vladimer de, music of, i. 178 Painting, the true and false in, i. 19 Paludan-Muller, Frederik, " The Fountain of Youth," by, ii. 77 Pantheism, i. 116 Parker, James, guide-book to Oxford, ii. 113 " Parthenope and Parthenophil," criticism of, ii. 108 Passion, picture representing, by Nettleship, ii. 9-10 Pater, Walter, criticism of, i. 68 — on a picture by Botticelli, ii. 66 — quotation from, i. 119 — style of, ii. 65 — referred to, i. 62 ; ii. 16, 103 Patmore, Coventry, criticism of poetry of, ii. 71-2 — quotation from, ii. 41 — referred to, i. 118 INDEX 205 Patrick's, Saint," Cathedral, Dublin, ii. 28 — the old Deanery of, ii. 142 Pattison, Mark, criticism of, i. 163 Pauer, Ernst, lecture on Mozart and Haydn, ii. 47 — music of, i. 29 ; ii. 131 " Paul, St," oratorio by Mendels- sohn, criticism of, ii. 127 " Peace and War " [by Tolstoi], note on, i. 191-2 Peel Park, Manchester, museum at, ii. 30 Perseus, a drawing, by Sir E. J. Poynter, ii. 13 " Perseus and Andromeda," poem by Edward Dowden, i. 62 Personality, middle life and, i. 145 Pessimism, i. 114 Peter's, Saint, Rome, ii. 143 " Philip van Artevelde," by Sir Henry Taylor, note on, i. 93 Philosophical Institution of Edin- burgh, lectures for, declined, ii. 151 Philosophy, on writing a history of, ii. 44 Phoenix Park, Dublin, visit to, i. 89 Photographs, value of, i. 112 Physical science, note on, i. 113 Picton, James Allanson, ii. 25 " Pier's Plowman," spurious lines, i. 36 Plato and Shelley, i. 32 " Plato's Banquet " [by Shelley], note on, i. 121 Pleasure, nature of, compared with happiness, i. 96 Plunket, Rt. Hon. David Robert, ii. 183 " Plutarch's Lives," note on, i. 135 Poe, Edgar Allan, Whitman on, H. 102 Poetry, art of writing, i. 14, 30 — choice of themes for, ii. 107 — contemporary, lecture on, at Cork, i. 77 — and forest trees, i. 148 — lyrical, essentials of, i. 36 Poetry of the nineteenth cen- tury, lectures on, ii. 70, 72 " Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey," sketch by R. W West, i. 178 Poppies, i. 160 Portraits and character, i. 140 — painters and, i. 112 Positive sacerdotalism, i. 153 Positivism, i. 23 — terminology of, i. 164 — and Theism, i. 21 " Possession," sonnet by Edward Dowden, i. 39 Presbyterian ministers, i. 200 Prince of Wales [afterwards Edward VII. 1, visit to Dublin, ii. 144 " Princess of Thule," criticism of, ii. 100 " Prometheus," as a subject for a lecture, i. 47 " Prometheus Unbound," article by Mr O'Grady, i. 90 — note on, i. 120 Proof-correcting, art of, i. 142 Prospero [character in Shake- speare's "Tempest"], char- acter of, i. 84 ; ii. 42 Proudhon, P. -J., on art, i. 106 Psalm, 42nd, note on, i. 96 Publicity, a certain privacy in, i. 177 Puritan literature, lectures on, i. 133 Puritanism, i. 46 Q Quarterly Review, Dowden asked for article on " German Shakespeare Literature" for, i. 124 " Quatre vingt-trieze," note on, i. 102, 104 " Queen Mary," by Alfred Tenny- son, criticism of, i. 136 Queen's College, Cork, Dowden and professorship at, i. 15 Queenstown, Co. Cork, i. 108 2o6 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Ouinet, Edgar, article on, by- Edward Dowden, i. 5, 9 — referred to, i. 129 R Race, worth of the, i. 63 Racine, J., " Athalie," note on, i. 205 Raleigh, Sir Walter, " History of the World," ii. 50 " Ranolf and Amohia," by Alfred Domett, note on, ii. 7 Raphael, St George and the Dragon, by, ii. 14 — women of, i. 174 — work of, ii. 118, 174 Rathdrum, Co. Wicklow, ii. 35 " Red Cotton Night-cap Country " [poem by Robert Browning], i. 69, 81 ; ii. 15 "Refutation of Deism, A," by P. B. Shelley, sold for five shillings, ii. 140 Reichel, Rev. Charles P., i. 95 Religion, revealed, i. 116 Religious thought, suggested book on, ii. 70-1 Rembrandt, H. van Ryn, i. 104 Remusat, Ch. de, " Abelard," ii. 133 Renaissance, J. A. Symonds on the, ii. 125 Renan, E., " Souvenirs," i. 160 Renanism, i. 205 Rene of Anjou, anecdote of, ii. 123 Republican government, i. 80 " Resting Place, The," poem by Edward Dowden, i. 38, 65 Restoration literature, i. 133 Reynolds, Sir Joshua, engravings of literary men after, i. 140 Rhine, the, i. 108 ' Richard II.," note on, ii. 55 Rings, finger, collection of, i. 188 River beauty, how to appreciate i. 108 Rivers, G., " The Heroina?," by, criticism of, ii. 58 " Robert Elsmere," by Mrs Humphry Ward, ii. 173 " Robert Falconer," by George Macdonald, note on, ii. 5 Robespierre, Maximilien, ii. 7 Robinet, Dr, on Danton, ii. 7 " Roman Elegies," by Goethe, i. 180 Romanticism, i. 61 Rome, ii. 143 " Romeo and Juliet," criticism of, i. 73-5 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, poetry of, i. 27-8, 30 — studio of, ii. in — referred to, i. 29, 62, 68 — W. M., ii. 58 — on "A Refutation of Deism," by P. B. Shelley, ii. 140 Rossini, Gioacchino A., music of, i. 40 Rousseau, J. J., " Confessions," i. 160 — life of, by John Morley, criti- cism of, ii. 19 Rowley, J., on " Green's History of England," i. 141 Royal Dublin Society, lecture at " On the Interpretation of Literature," ii. 160 Royal Hibernian Academy, ii. 81 Rubinstein, Anton, music of, i. 29, 84, 178 ; ii. 130-1 Ruskin, John, and colour, i. 75 — criticism of, ii. 82 — and " Don Quixote," i. 198 — as an enemy, ii. 91 — and English society, ii. 29 — parody of his style, ii. 107 — poems of, ii. 174 Rutherford, Mark [W. Hale White], novels of, criticism of, ii. 182 Salatier, Mr, ii. 157 Salmon, Rev. George, sermons of, ii. 69, 73 — referred to, i. 69, 70, 95 ; ii. 38, 138, 169 Salvini, Tommaso, in " Othello," i. 155 ; ii. 114 INDEX 207 Sand, George, " Jeanne," criticism of, i. in Scheffer, Ary, engraving after, ii. 30 Scherer, W., " History of German Literature," i. 175 Schiller, Johann F. von, note on, i. 63 — and Goethe, i. 70 Scholarship, Edward Dowden and, i- 134 Schopenhauer, Arthur, criticism of, ii. 6 — pessimism of, i. 53-4 — philosophy of, i. 52-3 ; ii. 44 Schumann, Mme., recital by, i. 151 — referred to, ii. 131 Schwegler, Albert, " History of Philosophy," criticism of, ii. 20, 44 Science and literature, i. 61 — and poetic power, ii. 135 Scientific discovery, passion for, i. 113 Scott, Sir Walter, criticism of, ii. 119, 120 — influence of French Revolution on, i. 130 — W. Bell, poems of, ii. 112 Semitic races, the worship of, ii. 34 Sensation, nature of, i. 18 Sensier, Alfred, " Life of Millet," note on, i. 187 " Shadow of Death" [picture by Holman Hunt], note on, i. 131. 134 Shairp, John Campbell, " Poetic Interpretation of Nature," ii. 133 Shakespeare, William, E. Dowden collaborator of an edition of, with W. J. Rolfe, ii. 139 — criticism of, i. 52, 83-4, 108, 115, 171-2 ; ii. 122 — death mask of, ii. 83 — German literature on, ii. 76, 85 — " Henry Irving Shakespeare," introduction for, by Edward Dowden, i. 195 ; ii. 180 — humour of, lecture on the, by Edward Dowden, i. 90 ; ii. 51-2, 61 Shakespeare, William, idealism of, i. 116 — influence on readers, i. 171 — influence of society on the in- dividual, i. 101 — lectures on, by Edward Dowden, i. 71-2, 86 ; ii. 10, 16, 53, 60 — "Shakespeare: His Mind and Art," by Edward Dowden, i. 115 ; ii. 67, 81, 95 — nationality in, ii. 56 — and nature, i. 74 — order of, last plays of, ii. 67 — pagan pathos of, i. 8 — people of Shakespeare's plays, i. 100 — and political thought, i. 100 — " Shakespere Primer," by Edward Dowden, ii. 85, 101, 103, 126, 136 — projected edition of, by Ed- ward Dowden, ii. 136 — Reading Society, ii. 53 — " Sonnets," edited by Edward Dowden for Kegan Paul & Co., ii. in, 138 — "A Teacher of the Conduct of Life," lecture on, ii. 150 — and truth, i. 103 — vulgar part of humanity, and the, ii. 118 — article by Werner on, i. 99-100 — women characters of, types of, ii. 62-3 — referred to, i. 36, 73, 82 — [see also entries under in- dividual plays] Shakespeare Society, Trinity College, Dublin, Elizabethan drama, studied by, ii. 60 — lecture by Dr Ingram on the order of the last plays of Shakespeare, ii. 67 — lecture on Shakespeare's Sonnets, by Edward Dowden, ii. in Shakespearian drama, actors in, i. 155 Shanganagh [Co. Dublin], i. 91, 95 Shankhill, Co. Dublin, i. 105 2o8 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Shelley, Harriet [wife of P. B. Shelley], relations with her husband, ii. 155 — Mary, influence of, on P. B. Shelley, ii. 141 — Sir Percy, i. 179, 182 ; ii. 58, 155 — Percy Bysshe, " A Refutation of Deism," by, sold for five shillings, ii. 140 — books on, ii. 70, 72 — book found [" A Refutation of Deism"] on second-hand book cart, bought for two- pence, ii. 141 — Chancery Court case about his children, ii. 159 — character of, i. 185 — criticism of, i. 126 — criticism of his domestic affairs, ii. 78-81 — and Emilia Viviani, ii. 176 — " Epipsychidion," note on, i. 82 — and God, i. 45 — grave of, water colour sketch of, i. 186 — influence of French Revolution on, i. 130 — lectures on, by Edward Dow- den, at Edinburgh, i. 185 ; ii. 166 — letters of, i. 177 — life of, by Edward Dowden, i. 160, 162, 181, 182, 184 ; ii. 141, 144, 145, 146-7, 153, 155-6, 158-9, 162-3, 164, 165 — Shelley manuscripts, i. 181 — marriage with Miss Harriett Westbrook, i. 159 — relations with Harriett West- brook [Mrs Shelley], ii. 78-81 — monument by Onslow Ford, unveiled, i. 201 — poetry of, i. 32, 51 — unpublished poems and letters of, ii. 155-6 — " Prometheus Unbound," note on, i. 120 — prose writings of, i. 120 — unrecorded passages in his life, ii. 75 — unselfishness of his life, ii. 78-81 Shelley, visit to Ireland, ii. 142 — referred to, i. 30, 123, 127, 187, 191, ii. 119 Shelley Socety, founded by Furnivall, ii. 157-8 Shore, Arabella [Mis?], on " Julian and Maddalo," i. 187 Siddons, Sarah [Mrs], i. 197 Sidney, Lady Dorothy, ii. 58 — Sir Philip, poems edited by Grosart, i. 124 "Sir Percival," by J. H. Short- house, i. 186 Smith, John C, collector of en- gravings, i. 140 Smith, Sir William, " English Literature " [T. B. Shaw's], chapters on Shakespeare and Chaucer, revised by Edward Dowden, ii. 85 Social reform movement and the Church, ii. 153 Socrates, ii. 31 " Sonata Appassionata," note on, ii. 47, 122 Sophocles, character of, i. 169 Southey, Robert, Life of, by Edward Dowden, i. 173 ; ii. 153 " Spanish Gipsy, The," by G Eliot, note on, ii. 9 Spectator on Farrar's " Life of Christ," ii. no — on J. S. Mill's Autobiography, i. 76-7 — note on, i. 16 Spencer, Herbert, and J. S. Mill, i. 79 — philosophy of, ii. 24-5 — on sociology, i. 79-80 — i. 71 ; ii. 3 8 - !29 Spenser, Edmund, Dowden and Grosart's edition of, ii. 112 — " Faerie Queen," dragon in, ii. 14 — quotation from, i. 146 — on reading, i. 123 — referred to, i. 12 ; ii. 43, 137 Spinoza, Benedict, i. 175 Spiritual life, the, i. 190-1 Spiritual things, growth of, i. 25 Spiritual truths, apprehension of, i. 5° INDEX 209 Spirituality, Northern and Southern views of, i. 46 Spring, effects of, i. 146 " Stabat Mater," by Rossini, ii. 64 Stein, Charlotte Albertine von, and Goethe, i. 175 Stendhal, Italian travel,' books on, ii. 144 Stephen, Sir J., note on, i. 185 Stephen's [St.] Green, Dublin, ii. 174 Sterling, J. letter from, on the Gospel of John, ii. 23 Sterne, Lawrence, criticism of, ii. 135 Stigand, William, " Life of Hein- rich Heine," ii. 102, 103 Stockley, W. F., farewell dinner to, ii. 158 Stoicism, i. 58 Stoney, G. J., i. 96 Story, J. B., ii. 137 Stubbs, Willam, " Constitutional History of England," criti- cism, of, ii. 125 " Studies in Literature," title for volume of Dowden's essays, ii. 16 " Studies in Literature, 1789- 1877," essays by Edward Dowden, ii. 136 Stratford-on-Avon, visit to, ii. "3 Style (literary), note on, i. 84-5, 142 Sugar-Loaf, Little [mountain], climb up, ii. 5 Sunset, seen at Shankhill, i. 102 Swift, Jonathan, note on, ii. 100, 142 Swinburne, Algernon Charles, " Atalanta," ii. 106 — " Bothwell," ii. 56, 59 — " Erechtheus," ii. 104, 106 — poem on W. Rossetti's baby, ii. in — " Poems and Ballads," ii. 133 — article on Shakespeare, in Fortnightly, ii. 103 Switzerland, tour in, by Edward Dowden, i. 64, 70, 78 O 2 Symonds, John Addington, articles in Fortnightly Review by, ii. 76 — criticism of, ii. 125 — " Greek Poets," note on, ii. 75 — " Michael Angelo and Cam- panella," note on, ii. 125 — referred to, i. 34 Taylor, Bayard, translation of " Faust," i. 56 ; ii. 128 Taylor, Sir Henry, " Autobiog- raphy," criticism of, ii. M4-5 — correspondence of, edited by Edward Dowden, i. 185, 192 ; ii. 164, 167, 169 — death of, ii. 162, 168 — " Edwin the Fair," i. 101 — poetry of, i. 118 — note on, i. 93, 129, 176 Taylor, Mrs John [afterwards J. S. Mill's wife], ii. 106 " Tempest, The," note on, ii. 42 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, and New Shakespeare Society, i. 82 — style of, i. 85 — " Vastness," note on, ii. 154 — on Whitman's " Leaves of Grass," i. 15 — referred to, i. 3, 5, 17, 145 Teresa, Saint, autobiography, i. 24, 33, 66 — character, of, i. 65, 66 — episode in life of, i. 59 — " Foundations of St Teresa," i. 66 — and Fra Gratian, i. 154 — projected poem on, by Edward Dowden, i. 62, 65, 120 ; ii. 14. 75 — unfinished poem on, by Ed- ward Dowden, i. 60, 206 — " St Teresa," by Miss Maria Trench, criticism of, ii. 88 " Thais," by Anatole France, criti- cism of, ii. 179 — compared with " Hypatia," i. 204 Thalberg, Sigismond, ii. 131 2io FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Theism, i. 166-7, 170 ; ii. 69 — and Positivism, i. 21 " Theists " [sonnet by Edward Dowden], i. 167 Theological Society, Trinity College, Dublin, speech by Edward Dowden at, i. 172 " Thomas a Becket," drama by Aubrey de Vere, ii. 86 Three Rock Mountain [Co. Dublin], i. 69, 145, 160 ; ii. 121 Thirwall, Bishop, i. 172 Thoreau, Henry D., quotation from, i. 177 " Timon of Athens," ii. 42 Titian, women of, i. 174 Tocqueville, Alexis de, ii. 44 Todhunter, John, i. 73, 129 ; ii. 85, 92, 119, 121, 128, 175 Tolstoi, Leo, Matthew Arnold's criticism of, ii. 168 — novels of, ii. 167, 168 — " Peace and War," and " Katia," i. 191 Tone, Theobald Wolfe, ii. 142 Travel, on foreign, i. 198 Trees, description of, by poets, i. 148 Trelawney, Edward John, " Re- collections of Shelley and Byron," note on, i. 121- 122 "Trilby," by G. Du Maurier, ii. 182 Trinity College, Dublin, Aca- demic Council, new [1874], i. 96 Edward Dowden elected to, i. 119^ — library of, i. 3, 4 — literature class at [1873-4], i. 80-1, 98 — Provostship of, ii. 138 — Provostship [1888], probable candidates for the, ii. 169 — Senate, description of the [1874], i. 95 meeting of the, ii. 101 " Tristram Shandy," by Lawrence Sterne, ii. 135 " Troilus and Cressida," note on, i. 90 " True Conservatism," article by Edward Dowden, i. 11 Truth, i. 26 — Wordsworth, Whitman, and Hugo, and, i. 54 Turner, J. M. W., i. 62 ; ii. 33 " Two Noble Kinsmen, The," note on, i. 94 — edition of, by Harold Little- dale, ii. 60 " Two Rivulets," by Walt Whit- man, ii. 109 Tyndall, John, address to British Association, 1874, i. 113 U Ulysses, character of, ii. 31 " Ulysses " [poem by Tennyson], quotation from, i. 49 Unionist banquet in Dublin, [Novr. 1887], ii. 168 — dinner at Oxford, ii. 172 — meeting at Rathdowney, ii. 179 Rotunda, Dublin, Dowden speaks at, i. 181 University towns, life in, ii. 139 Utihtarianism, ii. 39, 40 Vaughan, Henry, i. 126 Venice, ii. 144 Venus of Melos, i. 166, 169, 197; ii. 118 Vulpius, Christiane, and Goethe, i. 175 W Wagner, Richard, music of, ii. 96, 97 — musical theories, article in Academy on, ii. 51 Walker, B. [Miss], i. 99 ; ii. 122, 150 Wallasey [near Liverpool], lecture at, on " Shakespeare, a Teacher of the Conduct of Life," i. 171 ; ii. 150 INDEX 2 1 I '* War and Peace," by Tolstoi, ii. 168 Ward, A. W., *' History of English Dramatic Literature," ii. 99 — Mrs Humphrey, conversation with, ii. 173 Webb, Thomas E., translation of " Faust," criticism of, ii. 128 Werder, K., " Lectures on Ham- let," i. 138 Werner, H. A., paper on " Ham- let," criticism of, i. 99-101 ; ii. 57-8 West, John [Dean], illness of, ii. 168 West, John Russell, character of, ii. 145-6 — death of, ii. 148, 149-50 — Edward Dowden, at the grave of, i. 171 — effects of, ii. 1 61 -2 — photograph of, i. 164 — and physical science, i. 113 — profession of, i. 117 — referred to, i. 24, 178; ii. 19, 37- 65, 137. ML H4 West, R. W., criticism of his work, i. 178 — Howth sketches of, i. 174 — painting of the Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey, ii. 161 — sketches by, i. 167 — and the Sketching Club [Dublin], i. 174 — referred to, i. 163 ; ii. 41, 154 Westbrook, Harriet [wife of P. B. Shelley], relations with P. B. Shelley, ii. 78-81 Westcott, B. F., " Gospel of the Resurrection," i. 116 " White Cross Armv," league of, Edward Dowden, joins, i. 169; ii. 151-2 Whitman, Walt, article on, by Edward Dowden, i. 5, 7 ; ii. 1 — on Dowden's article on " Whit- man," i. 15 — attitude of American public to, ii. 109 — on Burns, ii. 78 — character of, i. 16, 17 - — criticism of, by Peter Bayne, i. 145 — complete writings of, note on, i. 149-50 — democracy of, i. 4 — discussion on, at Fortnightly Club, ii. no — on Dowden's " Shakespeare : Mind and Art," i. 130 — and form, i. 135 — on Edgar Allan Poe, ii. 102 — poem on France, i. 20 — proposed visit to London, i. 34 — and his readers, i. 21 — referred to, i. 78, 163 ; ii. 1, 41, 100 " Whitman and Miller," i. 14 Wicklow, County, excursion in, ii. 34-5 — scenery of, ii. 34-7 "Wilhelm Meister's Lehrjahre," criticism of, i. 37-8 " William Tell," opera by Rossini, ii. 112 Winstead [Edward Dowden's residence in 1875], origin of name, ii. 94 Winter, a breathing time for life, ii. 157 — and spring, effects of, i. 146 Winterbotham, H., speech by, ii. 44-5 Wit, in Shakespeare's plays, i. 90 " With Essex in Ireland," by Hon. Emily Lawless, ii. 173 Wolseley, Lord, dinner at, ii. 175 — dinner to, at Kingstown, i. 103 Women, as aids to men, i. 169-70, — the middle-class in England ii. 29 Woods, Mrs [Esther Vanhomrigh], i. 201 Wordsworth, Dorothy, diary of, ii. 76 — portrait of, i. 124 — William, Aldine edition of, edited by Edward Dowden, ii. 182 — article on his political feeling and its history, in Fortnightly, by Edward Dowden, ii. 90 — books on, ii. 70 — French Revolution, influence of, on, i. 130 relation to, ii. 87 2i2 FRAGMENTS FROM OLD LETTERS Wordsworth, William, garden chair of, purchased by Edward Dowden, i. 160 — lecture on, i. 133 — love sonnet, note on his, i. 92 — and nature, i. 109 — and the Oxford movement, i. 173 — poetry of, criticism of, 1. 12 ; ii. 87 — Dowden's notes on the poetry of, i. 199 — political opinions of, i. 128 — portrait of, by Haydon, ii. 66 — " Prose Works," i. 127 — prose works of, article on, by Edward Dowden, ii. 85, 187 — prose writings of, i. 115 — quotation from, i. 148 — Republican opinions of, i. 128 — River Duddon, and, i. 108 — " Selections," edited by Edward Dowden, i. 123 — treatment of sorrow, ii. 180 — referred to, i. 22, 30, 32, 77, 99, 185, 186 Work and pleasure, i. 161 Wright, Charles Edward, i. 24, 29, 40, 69, 82, 114 ; ii. 15, 18, 2 5. 97. 137. r 46 Writing, use of pronouns in, i. 8 ' Wuthering Heights," by Emily Bronte, ii. 30 Wyndham, Rt. Hon. George, ii. 176 Yeats, J. B., on Dowden's " Hugo," i. 71 — on emotion and art, ii. 27 — method of work, ii. 24 — portrait of Edward Dowden, ii. 23 — referred to, i. 44, 64, 65, 76, 77, 82, 137 ; ii. 4, 10, 55 York, visit to, ii. 33 — Cathedral, a service in, ii. 33 Youghal, i. 107 TURNBULI. AND SI'BARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-50m-4,'61(B8994s4)444 3 1158 00481 7374 IWi| S Himifii,?K REGI0NAL LIBRARY FACILITY A A 000 292 023 PR 29 D6i^32w v.2