l£L J 2- < 2— *3 
 
 A 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 JOKE aid MB. BAM R. HTT, 
 
 WASHINGTON. D. C 
 
 - 1931 - 
 
 (lass 
 
 Book ■l) c 
 
 PRESENTED ICC 
 
 

 v: \ '- 
 
 
DIES BOREALES, 
 
^■ptbhrSi 1 1 v BY 
 MKS. ISAAC R. 
 
 5HINGTON, D 
 - 1 Q^1 
 
 DIES BOREALES; 
 
 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANYASS. 
 
 BY 
 
 PROFESSOR JOHN WILSON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "NOCTES AMBROSIANJE," "RECREATIONS OF 
 CHRISTOPHER NORTH," &C. &C. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 A. HART, late CAREY AND HART, 
 
 1850. 
 
PR 582,7 
 
 •its-" 
 
 Gift 
 
 Jvdge and Mrs. Isaac R.Httt 
 July 6, 1931 
 
 PHILADELPHIA! 
 
 T. K. AND P. G. COLLINS, PRINTERS. 
 
DIES BOREALES. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANYASS 
 
 Scene — Cladich, Lochawe-side. 
 
 Time — Sunrise. 
 
 North — Buller — Seward. 
 
 North. " Under the opening eyelids of the Morn!" Me- 
 feels, Amici, at this moment, the charm of that Impersonation. 
 Slowly awaking from sleep — scarcely conscious of her where- 
 abouts — bewildered by the beauty of the revelation, nor recog- 
 nizing her beloved lochs and mountains — visionary and name- 
 less all as if an uncertain prolongation of her Summer's Night's 
 dream.* 
 
 Seward. I was not going to speak, my dear sir. 
 
 North. And now she is broad awake. She sees the heaven 
 and the earth, nor thinks, Grod bless her, that 'tis herself that 
 beautifies them ! 
 
 Seward. Twenty years since I stood on this knoll, honored 
 sir, by your side — twenty years to a day— and now the same 
 perfect peace possesses me — mysterious return — as if all the 
 2 
 
14 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 intervening time slid away — and this were not a renewed but 
 a continuous happiness. 
 
 North. And let it slide away into the still recesses of 
 Memory — the Present has its privileges — and they may be 
 blamelessly, wisely, virtuously enjoyed — and without irreve- 
 rence to the sanctity of the Past. Let it slide away — but not 
 into oblivion — no danger, no fear of oblivion — even joys will 
 return on their wings of gossamer; — sorrows may be buried, 
 but they are immortal. 
 
 Seward. I see not the slightest change on this Grove of 
 Sycamores. Twenty years tell not on boles that have for 
 centuries been in their prime. Yes — that one a little way 
 down — and that one still farther off — have grown, and those 
 striplings, then but saplings, may now be called Trees. 
 
 Bullcr. I never heard such a noise. 
 
 North. A cigar in your mouth at four o'clock in the 
 morning ! Well — well. 
 
 Duller. There, my dear sir, keep me in countenance with 
 a Manilla. 
 
 North. The Herb ! You have high authority — Spenser's 
 for " noise." 
 
 Buller. I said noise — because it is a noise. Why the hum 
 of bees overhead is absolutely like soft sustained thunder, and 
 yet no bees visible in the umbrage. The sound is like that of 
 one single bee, and he must be a giant. Ay — there I see a 
 few working like mad — and I guess there must be myriads. 
 The Grove must be full of bees' nests. 
 
 North. Not one. Hundreds of smokes are stealing up 
 from hidden or apparent cottages — for the region is not un- 
 populous, and not a garden without its hives — and early risers 
 though we be, the matutvn.se apes are still before us, and so 
 are the birds. 
 
 Buller. They,' too, are making a noise. Who says a shilfa 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 15 
 
 cannot sing? Of the fifty now "pouring his throat," as the 
 poet well says, I defy you to tell which sings best. That 
 splendid fellow on the birch-tree top — or yonder gorgeous tyke 
 on the yellow oak — or 
 
 North. "In shadiest covert hid" the leader of the chorus 
 that thrills the many-nested underwood with connubial bliss. 
 
 Seward. Not till this moment heard I the waterfall. 
 
 Buller. You did, though, all along — a felt accompaniment. 
 
 North. I know few glens more beautiful than Cladich- 
 Cleugh! 
 
 Buller. Pardon me, sir, if I do not attempt that name. 
 
 North. How mellifluous ! — Cladich-Cleugh ! 
 
 Buller. Great is the power of gutturals. 
 
 North. It is not inaccessible. But you must skirt it till 
 you reach the meadow where the cattle are beginning to 
 browse. And then threading your way through a coppice, 
 where you are almost sure to see a roe, you come down upon a 
 series of little pools, in such weather as this so clear that you 
 can count the trouts; and then the verdurous walls begin to 
 rise on either side and right before you; and you begin to feel 
 that the beauty is becoming magnificence, for the pools are 
 now black, and the stems are old, and the cliffs intercept the 
 sky, and there are caves, and that waterfall has dominion 
 in the gloom, and there is sublimity in the sounding solitude. 
 
 Buller. Cladick-Cloock. 
 
 North. A miserable failure. 
 
 Buller. Cladig-Cloog. 
 
 North. Worser and worser. 
 
 Seward. Any footpath, sir? 
 
 North. Yes — for the roe and the goat. 
 
 Buller. And the man of the Crutch. 
 
 North. Good. But I speak of days when the Crutch was 
 in its tree-bole 
 
16 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Butter. As the Apollo was in its marble block. 
 
 North. Not so good. But, believe me, gentlemen, I have 
 done it with the Crutch. 
 
 Seward. Ay, sir, and could do it again. 
 
 North. No. But you two are yet boys — on the sunny 
 side of fifty — and I leave you, Seward, to act the guide to 
 Buller up Cladich-Cleugh. 
 
 Butter. Pray, Mr. North, what may be the name of that 
 sheet of water? 
 
 North. In Scotland we call it Loch- A we. 
 
 Butter. I am so happy — sir — that I talk nonsense. 
 
 North. Much nonsense may you talk. 
 
 Butter. Twas a foolish question — but you know, sir, that 
 by some strange fatality or another I have been three times 
 called away from Scotland without having seen Loch-Awe. 
 
 North. Make good use of your eyes now, sirrah, and you 
 will remember it all the days of your life. That is Cruachan— 
 no usurper he — by divine right a king. The sun is up, and 
 there is motion in the clouds. Saw you ever such shadows? 
 How majestically they stalk ! And now how beautifully they 
 glide ! And now see you that broad black forest, half-way up 
 the mountain? 
 
 Butter. I do. 
 
 North. You arc sure you do. 
 
 Butter. I am. 
 
 North. You arc mistaken. It is no broad black forest — 
 it is mere gloom — shadow that in a minute will pass away, 
 though now seeming steadfast as the woods. 
 
 Butter. I could swear it is a forest. 
 
 North. Swear not at all. Shut your eyes. Open them. 
 Where now your wood? 
 
 Butter. Most extraordinary ocular deception. 
 
 North. Quite common. Yet no poet has described it. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 17 
 
 See again. The same forest a mile off. No need of trees — 
 sun and cloud make our visionary mountains sylvan : and the 
 grandest visions are ever those that are transitory — ask your 
 soul. 
 
 Buller. Your Manilla is out, my dear sir. There is the 
 case. 
 
 North. Caught like a cricketer. You must ascend Cruachan. 
 "This morning gives us promise of a glorious day;" you 
 cannot do better than take time by the forelock, and be off 
 now. Say the word — and I will myself row you over the 
 Loch. No need of a guide : inclining to the left for an hour 
 or two after you have cleared yonder real timber and sap 
 wood — and then for an hour or two to the right — and then for 
 another hour or two straight forwards — and then you will see 
 the highest of the three peaks within an hour or two's walk of 
 you — and thus, by mid-day, find yourself seated on the summit. 
 
 Buller. Seated on the summit. 
 
 North. Not too long, for the air is often very sharp at that 
 altitude — and so rare, that I have heard tell of people fainting. 
 
 Buller. I am occasionally troubled with a palpitation of 
 the heart — 
 
 North. Pooh, nonsense. Only the stomach. 
 
 Buller. And occasionally with a determination of blood to 
 the head — 
 
 North. Pooh, nonsense. Only the stomach. Take a 
 calker every two hours on your way up — and I warrant both 
 heart and head — 
 
 Buller. Not to-day. It looks cloudy. 
 
 North. Why, I don't much care though I should accom- 
 pany you— 
 
 Buller. I knew you would offer to do so, and I feel the 
 delicacy of putting a decided negative on the proposal. Let 
 us defer it till to morrow. For my sake, my dear sir, if not 
 
 2* 
 
18 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 for your own, do not think of it; it will be no disappointment 
 to me to remain with you here — and I shudder at the thought 
 of your fainting on the summit. Be advised, my dear sir, be 
 advised — 
 
 North. Well, then, be it so — I am not obstinate; but such 
 another day for the ascent there may not be during the summer. 
 On just such a day I made the ascent some half-century ago. 
 I took it from Tyanuilt — having walked that morning from 
 Dalmally, some dozen miles, for a breathing on level ground, 
 before facing the steepish shoulder that roughens into Loch 
 Etive. The fox-hunter from Gleno gave me his company 
 with his hounds and terriers nearly half-way up, and after 
 killing some cubs we parted — not without a tinful of the 
 creature at the Fairies' Well — 
 
 Buller. A tinful of the creature at the Fairies' Well ! 
 
 North. Yea — a tinful of the creature at the Fairies' Well. 
 Now I am a total abstinent. 
 
 Buller. A total abstinent ! 
 
 North. By heavens ! he echoes me. Pleasant, but mourn- 
 ful to the soul is the memory of joys that are past! A tinful 
 of the unchristencd creature to the health of the Silent People. 
 Oh ! Buller, there are no Silent People now. 
 
 Buller. In your company, sir, I am always willing to be a 
 listener. 
 
 North. Well, on I flew as on wings. 
 
 Buller. What! Up Cruachan? 
 
 North. On feet, then, if you will; but the feet of a deer. 
 
 Buller. On all-fours? 
 
 North. Yes — sometimes on all-fours. On all-fours, like a 
 frog in his prime, clearing tiny obstructions with a spang. On 
 all-fours, like an ourang-outang, who, in difficult places, brings 
 his arms into play. On all-fours, like the — 
 
 Bailer. I cry you mercy. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 19 
 
 North. Without palpitation of the heart; without deter- 
 mination of blood to the head; without panting; without 
 dizziness; with merely a slight acceleration of the breath, and 
 now and then something like a gasp after a run to a knowe 
 which we foresaw as a momentary resting-place — we felt that 
 we were conquering Cruachan ! Lovely level places, like plat- 
 forms — level as if water had formed them, flowing up just so 
 far continually, and then ebbing back to some unimaginable 
 sea — awaited our arrival, that on them we might lie down, 
 and from beds of state survey our empire, for our empire it 
 was felt to be, far away into the lowlands, with many a hill 
 between — many a hill, that, in its own neighborhood, is be- 
 lieved to be a mountain — just as many a man of moderate 
 mental dimensions is believed by those who live beneath his 
 shade to be of the first order of magnitude, and with funeral 
 honors is interred. 
 
 Boiler. Well for him that he is a hill at all — eminent on 
 a flat, or among humbler undulations. All is comparative. 
 
 North. Just so. From a site on a mountain's side — far 
 from the summit — the ascender hath sometimes a sublimer — 
 often a lovelier vision — than from its most commanding peak. 
 Yet still he has the feeling of ascension — stifle that, and the 
 discontent of insufficiency dwarfs and darkens all that lies 
 below. 
 
 Buller. Words to the wise. 
 
 North. We fear to ascend higher lest we should lose what 
 we comprehend : yet we will ascend higher, though we know 
 the clouds are gathering, and we are already enveloped in mist. 
 But there were no clouds — no mist on that day — and the secret 
 top of Cruachan was clear as a good man's conscience, and the 
 whole world below like a promised land. 
 
 Buller. Let us go — let us go — let us go. 
 
 North. All knowledge, my dear boy, may be likened to 
 
20 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 stupendous ranges of mountain— clear and clouded, smooth and 
 precipitous; and you or I in youth assail them in joy and 
 pride of soul, not blind, but blindfolded often, and ignorant of 
 their inclination; so that we often are met by a beetling cliff 
 with its cataract, and must keep ascending and descending, 
 ignorant of our whereabouts, and summit-seeking in vain. 
 Yet all the while are we glorified. In maturer mind, when 
 experience is like an instinct, we ascertain levels without a 
 theodolite, and know assuredly where dwell the peaks. We 
 know how to ascend — sideways or right on; we know which 
 are midway heights; we can walk in mist and cloud as surely 
 as in light, and we learn to know the Inaccessible. 
 
 Bidler. I fear you will fatigue yourself — 
 
 North, Or another image. You sail down a stream, my 
 good Buller, which widens as it flows, and will lead through 
 inland seas — or lochs — down to the mighty ocean; what that 
 is I need not say : you sail down it, sometimes with hoisted 
 sail — sometimes with oars — on a quest or mission all unde- 
 fined; but often anchoring where no need is, and leaping 
 ashore, and engaging in pursuits or pastimes forbidden or vain 
 — vith the natives — 
 
 Bailer. The natives! 
 
 North. Nay — adopting their dress — though dress it be 
 • none at all — and becoming one of themselves — naturalized ; 
 forgetting your mission clean out of mind! Fishing and 
 hunting with the natives — 
 
 Buller. Whom ? 
 
 North. The natives — when you ought to have been pur- 
 suing your voyage on — on — on. Such arc youth's pastimes 
 all. But you had not deserted — not you : and you return of 
 your own accord to this ship. 
 
 Bailer. What ship? 
 
 North. The ship of life — leaving some to lament you, who 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 21 
 
 knew you only as a jolly mariner, who was bound afar ! 
 They believed that you had drawn up your pinnace for ever 
 on that shore, in that lovely little haven, among weeds and 
 palms — unknowing that you would relaunch her some day 
 soon, and, bounding in her over the billows, rejoin your ship, 
 waiting for you in the offing, and revisit the simple natives no 
 more! 
 
 Buller. Methinks I understand now your mysterious meaning. 
 
 North. You do. But where was I? 
 
 Buller. Ascending Cruachan, and near the summit. 
 
 North. On the summit. Not a whit tired — not a bit 
 fatigued; strong as ten — active as twenty ownselves on the 
 flat — divinely drunk on draughts of ether — happier a thousand 
 times, greater and more glorious, than Jupiter, with all his 
 gods, enthroned on Olympus. 
 
 Buller. Moderately speaking. 
 
 North. In imagination I hear him barking now as he barked 
 then — a sharp, short, savage, angry, and hungry bark — 
 
 Buller. What? A dog? A Fox? 
 
 North. No — no — no. An Eagle — the Golden Eagle from 
 Ben-Slarive, known — no mistaking him — to generations of 
 Shepherds for a hundred years. 
 
 Buller. Do you see him? 
 
 North. Now I do. I see his eyes — for he came — he 
 comes sughing close by me — and there he shoots up in terror 
 a thousand feet into the sky. 
 
 Buller. I did not know the bird was so timid — 
 
 North. He is not timid — he is bold; but an Eagle does 
 not like to come all at once within ten yards of an unexpected 
 man — any more than you would like suddenly to face a ghost. 
 
 Buller. What brought him there ? 
 ' Noi*th. Wings nine feet wide. 
 
 Buller. Has he no sense of smell ? 
 
22 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. What do you mean, sir ? 
 
 Boiler. No offence. 
 
 North. He has. But we have not always all our senses 
 about us, Buller, nor our wits either — he had been somewhat 
 scared, a league up Glen Etive, by the Huntsman of Gleno — 
 the scent of powder was in his nostrils; but fury follows fear, 
 and in a minute I heard his bark again — as now I hear it — on 
 the highway to Benlura. 
 
 Buller. He must have had enormous talons. 
 
 North. My hand is none of the smallest — 
 
 Buller. God bless you, my dear sir — give me a grasp. 
 
 North. There. 
 
 Buller. Oh ! thumbikins ! 
 
 North. And one of his son's talons — whom I shot — was 
 twice the length of mine; his yellow knobby loof at least 
 as broad — and his leg like my wrist. He killed a man. 
 Knocked him down a precipice, like a cannon-ball. He had 
 the credit of it all over the country — but I believe his wife 
 did the business, for she was half-again as big as himself; and 
 no devil like a she-devil fighting for her imp. 
 
 Buller. Did you ever rob an Eyrie, sir? 
 
 North. Did you ever rob a lion's den? No, no, Buller. 
 I never — except on duty — placed my life in danger. I have 
 been in many dangerous-looking places among the Mountains, 
 but a cautious activity ruled, all my movements. I scanned 
 my cliff before I scaled him — and as for jumping chasms — 
 though I had a spring in me — I looked imaginatively down 
 the abyss, and then sensibly turned its flank where it leaned 
 on the greensward, and the liberated streamlet might be forded, 
 without swimming, by the silly sheep. 
 
 Buller. And are all those stories lies? 
 
 North. All. I have sometimes swam a loch or a river in 
 my clothes, but never except when they lay in my way, or 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 23 
 
 when I was on an angling excursion ; and what danger could 
 there possibly be in doing that? 
 
 Bulla'. You might have taken the Cramp, sir. 
 
 North. And the Cramp might have taken me — but neither of 
 us ever did — and a man, with a short neck or a long one, might 
 as well shun the streets in perpetual fear of apoplexy as a good 
 swimmer evade water in dread of being drowned. As for 
 swimming in my clothes, had I left them on the hither, how 
 should I have looked on the thither side? 
 
 Seward. No man, in such circumstances, could, with any 
 satisfaction to himself, have pursued his journey, even through 
 the most lonesome places. 
 
 Bidler. Describe the view from the summit. 
 
 North. I have no descriptive power, but, even though I 
 had, I know better than that. Why, between Cruachan and 
 Buchail-Etive lie hundreds on hundreds of mountains of the 
 first, second, and third order, and, for a while at first, your 
 eyes are so bewildered that you cannot see any one in particu- 
 lar; yet, in your astonishment, have a strange vision of them 
 all, and might think they were interchanging places, shouldering 
 one another off into altering shapes in the uncertain region, 
 did not the awful stillness assure you that there they had all 
 stood in their places since the Creation, and would stand till 
 the day of doom. 
 
 Bidler. You have no descriptive power ! 
 
 North. All at once dominion is given you over the Whole. 
 You gradually see Order in what seemed a Chaos; you under- 
 stand the character of the Region — its formation — for you are a 
 Geologist, else you have no business, no right there; and you 
 know where the valleys are singing for joy, though you hear 
 them not — where there is provision for the cattle on a hundred 
 hills — where are the cottages of Christian men on the green 
 braes sheltered by the mountains, and where may stand, be- 
 
24 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 neath the granite rocks out of which it was built, the not un- 
 frequent House of God. 
 
 Buller. To-morrow we shall attend Divine Service — 
 
 North. At Dalmally. 
 
 Buller. I long ago learned to like the ritual of the Kirk. 
 I should like to believe in a high-minded, purified Calvinist, who 
 could embrace, in his brotherly heart, a high-minded, purified 
 English Bishop, with all his Episcopacy. 
 
 North. And why should he not, if he can recognize the 
 Divine Spirit flowing through the two sets of sensible demon- 
 strations ? He can; unless the constitution of the Anglican 
 Christian Religion wars, either by its dogmas or by its ecclesiasti- 
 cal ordinances, against his essential intelligence of Christianity. 
 
 Buller. And who shall say it does? 
 
 North. Many say it, not I. 
 
 Buller. And you are wise and good. 
 
 North. Many thousands, and hundreds of thousands, wiser 
 and better. I can easily suppose a mind, strong in thought, 
 warm in feeling, of an imagination susceptible and creative, by 
 magnanimity, study, and experience of the world, disengaged 
 from all sectarian tenets, yet holding the absolute conviction of 
 religion, and contemplating, with reverence and tenderness, 
 many different ways of expression which this inmost spiritual 
 disposition has produced or put on — having a firmest holding on 
 to Christianity as pure, holy, august, divine, true, beyond all 
 other modes of religion upon the earth — partly from intuition 
 of its essential fitness to our nature, partly from intense grati- 
 tude, partly, perhaps, from the original entwining of it with 
 his own faculties, thoughts, feelings, history, being. Well, he 
 looks with affectionate admiration upon the Scottish, with affec- 
 tionate admiration on the English Church, old affection agreeing 
 with new affection; and I can imagine in him as much generosity 
 required to love his own Church, the Presbyterian, as yours the 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 25 
 
 Episcopalian, and that, Latitudinarian as lie may be called, he 
 loves them both. For myself, you know how I love England, 
 all that belongs to her, all that makes her what she is ; scarcely 
 more — surely not less — Scotland. The ground of the Scottish 
 Form is the overbearing consciousness that religion is imme- 
 diately between man and his Maker. All hallowing of things 
 outward is to that consciousness a placing of such earthly things 
 as interpositions and separating intermediates in that interval 
 unavoidable between the Finite and the Infinite, but which 
 should remain blank and clear for the immediate communica- 
 tions of the Worshipper and the Worshipped. 
 
 Buller. I believe, sir, you are a Presbyterian ? 
 
 North. He that worships in spirit and in truth cannot 
 endure, cannot imagine, that anything but his own sin shall 
 stand betwixt him and Grod. 
 
 Buller. That, until it be in some way or another extin- 
 guished, shall and must. 
 
 North. True as Holy Writ. But intervening saints, images, 
 and elaborate rituals, the contrivance of human wit — all these 
 the fire of the Spirit has consumed, and consumes. 
 
 Buller. The fire of the Presbyterian spirit? 
 
 North. Add history. War and persecution have afforded 
 an element of human hate for strengthening the sternness 
 
 Buller. Of Presbyterian Scotland. 
 
 North. Drop that word, for I more than doubt if you un- 
 derstand it. 
 
 Buller. I beg pardon, sir. 
 
 North. The Scottish service, Mr. Buller, comprehends 
 Prayer, Praise, Doctrine, all three necessary verbal acts 
 amongst Christians met, but each in utmost simplicity. 
 
 Buller. Episcopalian as I am, that simplicity I have felt 
 to be most affecting. 
 
 North. The Praise, which unites the voices of the congre- 
 3 
 
26 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 gation, must be written. The Prayer, which is the burning 
 towards God of the soul of the Shepherd upon the behalf of 
 the Flock, and upon his own, must be unwritten, unpreme- 
 ditated, else it is not prayer. Can the heart ever want fitting 
 words ? The teaching must be to the utmost, forethought, at 
 some time or at another, as to the Matter. The Teacher must 
 have secured his intelligence of the Matter ere he opens his 
 mouth. But the Form, which is of expediency only, he may 
 very loosely have considered. That is the Theory. 
 
 Buller. Often liable in practice, I should fear, to sad abuse. 
 
 North. May be so. But it presumes that capable men, full 
 of zeal, and sincerity, and love — fervent servants and careful 
 shepherds — have been chosen, under higher guidance. It sup- 
 poses the holy fire of the new-born Reformation, of the newly- 
 regenerated Church 
 
 Buller. Kirk. 
 
 North. Of the newly-regenerated Church, to continue un- 
 damped, inextinguishable. 
 
 Buller. And is it so? 
 
 North. The Fact answers to the Theory more or less. The 
 original Thought — simplicity of worship — is to the utmost ex- 
 pressed, when the chased Covenanters are met on the green- 
 sward, between the hillside and the brawling brook, under the 
 colored or uncolored sky. Understand that, when their de- 
 scendants meet within walls and beneath roofs, they would 
 worship after the manner of their hunted ancestors. 
 
 Buller. I wish I were better read than I am in the history 
 of Scotland, civil and ecclesiastic. 
 
 North. I wish you were. I say, then, my excellent friend, 
 that the Ritual and whole ordering of the Scottish Church is 
 moulded upon, or issues out of, the human spirit kindling in 
 conscious communication of the Divine Spirit. The power of the 
 Infinite — that is, the Sense of Infinitude, of Eternity — reigns 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 27 
 
 there ; and the Sense is the inmost soul of the sustaining contact 
 v> ith Omnipotence, and self-consciousness intense, and elation of 
 Divine favor personally vouchsafed, and joy of anticipated 
 everlasting bliss, and triumph over Satan, death, and hell, and 
 immeasurable desire to win souls to the King of the Worlds. 
 
 Buller. In England we are, I am ashamed to say it, ill in- 
 formed on 
 
 North. In Scotland we are, I am ashamed to say it, ill in- 
 formed on 
 
 Buller. But go on, sir. 
 
 North . What place is there for Forms of any kind in the 
 presence of these immense overpowering realities ? For Forms, 
 Buller, are of the Imagination; the Faculty that inhales and 
 lives by the Unreal. But some concession to the humanity of 
 our nature intrudes. Imagination may be subordinated, sub- 
 jugated, but will not, may not, forego all its rights. There- 
 fore, forms and hallowing associations enter. 
 
 Buller. Into all Worship. 
 
 North. Form, too, is in part, Necessary Order. 
 
 Buller. Perhaps, sir, you may be not unwilling to say a 
 few words of our Ritual. 
 
 North. I tremble to speak of your Ritual ; for it appears to 
 me as bearing on its front an excellence which might be found 
 incompatible with religious truth and sincerity. 
 
 Buller. I confess that I hardly understand you, sir. 
 
 North. The Liturgy looks to be that which the old Churches 
 are, the Work of a Fine Art. 
 
 Buller. You do not urge that as an objection to it, I trust, 
 sir? 
 
 North. A Poetical sensibility, a wakeful, just, delicate, 
 simple Taste, seem to have ruled over the composition of each 
 Prayer, and the ordering of the whole Service. 
 
28 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Buller. You do not urge that as an objection to it, I trust, 
 sir? 
 
 North. I am not urging objections, sir. I seldom — never, 
 indeed — urge objections to anything. I desire only to place all 
 things in their true light. 
 
 Buller. Don't frown, sir — smile. Enough. 
 
 North. The whole composition of the Service is copious 
 and various. Human Supplication, the lifting up of the hands 
 of the creature, knowing his own weakness, dependence, lapses, 
 and liability to slip — man's own part, dictated by his own expe- 
 rience of himself — is the basis. Readings from the Old and 
 New Volume of the Written "Word are ingrafted, as if God 
 audibly spoke in his own House; the Authoritative added to 
 the Supplicatory. 
 
 Buller. Finely true. We Church of England men love 
 you, Mr. North — we do indeed. 
 
 North. The hymns of the sweet Singer of Israel, in literal 
 translation, adopted as a holier inspired language of the heart. 
 
 Buller. These, sir, are surely three powerful elements of a 
 Ritual Service. 
 
 North. Throughout, the People divide the service with the 
 Minister. They have in it their own personal function. 
 
 Buller. Then the Homily, sir. 
 
 North. Ay, the Homily, which, one might say, interprets 
 between Sunday and the Week — fixes the holiness of the Day 
 in precepts, doctrines, reflections, which may be carried home 
 to guide and nourish. 
 
 Buller. Altogether, sir, it seems a meet work of worshippers 
 met in their Christian Land upon the day of rest and aspira- 
 tion. The Scottish worship might seem to remember the flame 
 and the sword. The persecuted Iconoclasts of two centuries 
 ago, live in their descendants. 
 
 North. Rut the Ritual of England breathes a divine calm. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 29 
 
 You think of the people walking through ripening fields on a 
 mild day to their Church door. It is the work of a nation 
 sitting in peace, possessing their land. It is the work of a 
 wealthy nation, that, by dedicating a part of its wealth, conse- 
 crates the remainder — that acknowledges the Fountain from 
 which all flows. The prayers are devout, humble, fervent. They 
 are not impassioned. A wonderful temperance and sobriety of 
 discretion; that which, in worldly things, would be called good 
 sense, prevails in them; but you must name it better in things 
 spiritual. The framers evidently bore in mind the continual con- 
 sciousness of writing for all. That is the guiding, tempering, 
 calming spirit that keeps in the Whole one tone — that, and 
 the hallowing, chastening awe which subdues vehemence, even 
 in the asking for the Infinite, by those who have nothing but 
 that which they earnestly ask, and who know that unless they 
 ask infinitely, they ask nothing. In every word, the whole 
 Congregation, the whole nation prays— not the Individual 
 Minister; the officiating Divine Functionary, not the Man. 
 Nor must it be forgotten that the received Version and the Book 
 of Common Prayer— observe the word Common, expressing 
 exactly what I affirm — are beautiful by the words; that there is 
 no other such English — simple, touching, apt, venerable, hued 
 as the thoughts are— musical — the most English English that is 
 known — of a Hebraic strength and antiquity, yet lucid and 
 gracious, as if of and for to-day. 
 
 Buller. I trust that many Presbyterians sympathize with 
 you in these sentiments. 
 
 North. Not many — few. Nor do I say I wish there were 
 more. 
 
 Buller. Are you serious, sir? 
 
 North. I am. But cannot explain myself now. What are 
 the Three Pillars of the Love of any Church ? Innate Religion, 
 Humanity, Imagination. The Scottish worship better satisfies 
 
 3* 
 
30 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 the first principle, that of England the last; the Roman Catholic 
 still more the last — and are not your Cathedrals Roman Catholic? 
 I think that the Scottish and English, better than the Roman 
 Catholic, satisfy the Middle Principle — Humanity — being truer 
 to the highest requisitions of our Nature, and nourish our 
 faculties better, both of Will and Understanding, into their 
 strength and beauty. Yet what divine-minded Roman Catholics 
 there have been, and are, and will be ! 
 
 Buller. Pause for a moment, sir — here comes Seward. 
 
 North. Seward ! Is he not with us ? Surely he was, an 
 hour or two ago — but I never missed him, your conversation 
 has been so interesting and instructive. Seward ! why you are 
 all the world like a drowned rat ! 
 
 Seward. But I am none, but a stanch Conservative. 
 Would I had had a Protectionist with me to keep me right on 
 the Navigation Laws. 
 
 North. What do you mean ? What's the matter? 
 
 Seward. Why, your description of the Pools in Cladich- 
 Cleugh inspired me with a passion for one of the Naiads. 
 
 North. And you have had a ducking? 
 
 Seward. I have indeed. Plashed souse, head over heels, 
 into one of the prettiest pools, from a slippery ledge some 
 dozen feet above the sleeping beauty. Were you both deaf that 
 you did not hear me bawl? 
 
 North. I have a faint recollection of hearing something 
 bray, but I suppose I thought it came from the Gipsies' Camp. 
 
 Buller. Are you wet? 
 
 Seward. Come, come, Buller. 
 
 BuUer. Why so dry ? 
 
 North. Sair drooket. 
 
 Buller. Where's your Tile? 
 
 Seicard. I hate slang. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 31 
 
 Buller. Why, you have lost a shoe, and much delightful 
 conversation. 
 
 North. I must say, Seward, that I was hurt by your with- 
 drawing yourself from our Colloquy. 
 
 Seward. Sir, you are beginning to get so prosy 
 
 Buller. I insist, Seward, on your making an apology on 
 your knees to our Father for your shocking impiety. I shudder 
 to repeat the word, which you must swallow — P — R — — S — Y. 
 
 Seward. On my knees ! Look at them. 
 
 North. My dear, dearer, dearest, Mr. Seward, you are 
 bleeding — I fear a fracture. Let me — — 
 
 Seward. I am not bleeding, only a knap on the knee-pan, 
 sir. 
 
 Buller. Not bleeding! Why you must be drenched in 
 blood, your face is so white. 
 
 North. A non-sequitur, Buller. But from a knap on the 
 knee-pan I have known a man a lamiter for life. 
 
 Seioard. I lament the loss of my Sketch-Book. 
 
 Buller. It is a judgment on you for that Caricature. 
 
 North. "What caricature ? 
 
 Buller. Since you will force me to tell it, a caricature 
 
 of Yourself, sir. I saw him working away at it with a 
 
 most wicked leer on his face, while you supposed he was 
 taking notes. He held it up to me for a moment, clapped the 
 boards together with the grin of a fiend, and then off to Cladick- 
 Cloock, where he met with Nemesis. 
 
 North. Is that a true bill, Mr. Seward ? 
 
 Seward. On my honor as a gentleman, and my skill as an 
 artist, it is not. It is a most malignant misrepresentation 
 
 Buller. It was indeed. 
 
 Seward. It was no caricature. I promised to Mrs. Seward 
 to send her a sketch of the illustrious Mr. North; and finding 
 you in one of the happiest of your many-sided attitudes 
 
32 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. The act is to be judged by the intention. You are 
 acquitted of the charge. 
 
 Buller. To make a caricature of You, sir, under any cir- 
 cumstances, and for any purpose, would be sufficiently shock- 
 ing; but here and now, and that he might send it to his 
 Wife, so transcends all previous perpetration of crimen Isesse 
 majcstatis, that I am beginning to be incredulous of what these 
 eyes beheld — nay, to disbelieve what, if told to any human 
 being, however depraved, would seem to him impossible, even 
 in the mystery of iniquity, and an insane libel on our fallen 
 nature. 
 
 Seward. I did my best. Nor am I, sir, without hope that 
 my Sketch-Book may be recovered, and then you will judge 
 for yourself, sir, if it be a caricature. A failure, sir, it as- 
 suredly was, for what artist has succeeded with you? 
 
 North. To the Inn, and put on dry clothes. 
 
 Seward, No. What care I about dry or wet clothes! 
 Here let me lie down and bask in this patch of intense sun- 
 shine at your feet. Don't stir, sir; the Crutch is not the 
 least in the way. 
 
 North. We must be all up and doing — the Hour and the 
 Men. The Cavalcade. Hush ! Hark ! the Bagpipe ! The 
 Cavalcade can't be more than a mile off. 
 
 &t ward. Why staring thus like a Goshawk, sir? 
 
 Buller. I hear nothing. Seward, do you? 
 
 Seward. Nothing. And what can he mean by Cavalcade? 
 Yet I believe he has the Second Sight. I have heard it is in 
 the Family. 
 
 North. Hear nothing? Then both of you must be deaf. 
 But I forget, we Mountaineers have Fine Ears — your sense of 
 hearing has been educated on the Flat. Not now? "The 
 Campbell's are coming" — that's the march — that's the go — 
 that's the gathering. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 33 
 
 Buller. A Horn — a Drum, sure enough — and — and — that 
 incomprehensible mixture of groans and yells must be the 
 Bagpipe. 
 
 North. See, yonder they come, oyer the hill-top, the ninth 
 mile-stone from Inverary! There's the Van, by the Boad- 
 Surveyor lent me for the occasion, drawn by Four Horses. 
 And there's the Waggon, once the property of the lessee of 
 the Swiss Giantess, a noble unicorn. And there the Six Tent- 
 Carts, Two-steeded; and there the Two Boat- Carriages, 
 horsed I know not how. But don't you see the bonny Barges 
 aloft in the air? And Men on horseback — count them — there 
 should be four. You hear the Bagpipe now, surely, "The 
 Campbells are coming." And here is the whole Concern, gen- 
 tlemen, close at hand, deploying across the Bridge. 
 
 Buller. Has he lost his senses at last? 
 
 Seward. Have we lost ours? A Cavalcade it is, with a 
 vengeance. 
 
 North. One minute past Seven ! True to their time within 
 sixty seconds. This way, this way. Here is the Spot, the 
 Centre of the Grove. Bagpipe, Drum and Horn — music all — 
 silence. Silence, . I cry — will nobody assist me in crying 
 silence ! 
 
 Seward and Buller. Silence, silence, silence. 
 
 North. Give me the Speaking-Trumpet that I may call 
 silence. 
 
 Seward. Stentor may put down the Drum, the Horns, the 
 Fifes, and the Serpent, but the Bagpipe is above him- — the 
 Drone is deaf as the sea — the Piper moves in a sphere of his own. 
 
 Buller. I don't hear a syllable you are saying — ah ! the 
 storm is dead, and now what a blessed calm. 
 
 North. Wheel into line — Prepare to— pitch tents. 
 
34 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Enter tlie Field of (he Sycamore Grove on Horseback, 
 ushered % Archy M' Caelum, Harry Seward, Mar- 
 
 MADUKE BULLER, YaLLANCE YOLUSENE, NEPOS WOOD- 
 BURN. Van Waggon, Carriages, and Carts, &c, form 
 a Barricade between the Rear of the Grove and the Road 
 to Dalmatty. 
 
 Adjutant Archy M'Calluui! call the Roll of the Troops. 
 
 Adjutant. Peter of the Lodge, Sewer and Seneschal, 
 Here. Peterson ditto, Comptroller of the cellars, Here. Kit 
 Peterson, tiger there, Here. Michael Dods, cook at that place, 
 Here. Ben Brawn, maniciple, Here. Roderick M'Crirnmon, 
 king of the Pipes, Here. Pyni and stretch, body-men to the 
 young Englishers, Here, Here. Tom Moody, huntsman at 
 Under-cliff Hall, North Devon, Here. The Cornwall clipper, 
 head game-keeper at Pendragon, Here. Billy Balmcr of 
 Bowness, Windermere, Commodore, Here. 
 
 North. Attention ! Each man will be held answerable for 
 his subordinates. The roll will be called an hour after sun- 
 rise, and an hour before sunset. Men, remember you are under 
 martial law. Camp-master M'Kellar, Here. Let the Mid 
 Peak of Cruachan be your pitching point. Old Bee-side tent 
 in the centre, right in Front. Dormitories to the east. To 
 the west the Pavilion. Kitchen range in the rear. Donald 
 Dim, late Sergeant in the Black Watch, see to the Barricade. 
 The Impediments in your charge. In three hours I command 
 the Encampment to be complete. Admittance to the Field on 
 the Queen's Birth-day. Crowd disperse. Old Boys! What 
 do you think of this? You have often called me a Wizard, a 
 Warlock — no glamour here — 'tis real all, and all the WORK ok 
 the Crutch. Sons, your Fathers! Fathers, your Sons! 
 Your hand, Yoluscne — and Woodburn, yours. 
 
 S'ward. Hal, how arc you? 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 35 
 
 Buller. How are you, Marmy? 
 
 North. On the stage — in the theatre of fictitious life — such 
 a meeting as this would require explanation, but in the Drama 
 of Real Life, on the Banks of Lochawe, it needs none. Friends 
 of my soul ! you will come to understand it all in two minutes' 
 talk with your progeny. Progeny, welcome for your sires' 
 sakes, and your Lady Mothers, and your own, to Lochawe-side. 
 I see you are two Trumps. Yolusene, Woodburn, from your 
 faces all well at home. Come, my two old Bucks, let us Three, 
 to be out of the bustle, retire to the Inn. Did you ever see 
 Christopher fling the Crutch ? There — I knew it would clear 
 the Sycamore Grove. 
 
 Scene II. — Interior of the Pavilion. 
 
 Time — Two p. m. 
 
 North — Seward — Buller. 
 
 Seward. Still at his siesta in his swing-chair. Pew faces 
 bear to be looked on asleep. 
 
 Buller. Men's faces. 
 
 Seward. His bears it well. Awake, it is sometimes too 
 full of expression. And then, how it fluctuates ! Perpetual play 
 and interchange as Thought, Feeling, Fancy, Imagination — 
 
 Buller. The gay, the grave, the sad, the serious, the pa- 
 thetic, the humorous, the tragic, the whimsical rules the 
 minute — 
 
 " 'Tis everything by fits, and nothing long." 
 
 Seward. Don't exaggerate. An inapt quotation. 
 Buller. I was merely carrying on your eulogium of his 
 wide-awake face. 
 
 Seward. The prevalent expression is still, the Benign. 
 
36 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Buller. A singular mixture of tenderness and truculence. 
 
 Seward. Asleep, it is absolutely saint-like. 
 
 Buller. It reminds me of the faces of Chantry's Sleeping 
 Children in Litchfield Cathedral. 
 
 Seicard. Composure is the word. Composure is mute 
 Harmony. 
 
 Buller. It may be so — but you will not deny that his nose 
 is just a minim too long, and his mouth, at this moment, just a 
 minim too open, and the crow-feet 
 
 Seward. Enhance the power of those large drooping eye- 
 lids, heavy with meditation, of that high broad forehead, with 
 the lines, not the wrinkles, of age. 
 
 Buller. He is much balder than he was on Deeside. 
 
 Seioard. Or fifty years before. They say that, in youth, 
 the sight of his head of hair once silenced Mirabeau. 
 
 BulleY. Why, Mirabeau' s was black, and my grandmother 
 told me North's was yellow, or rather green, like a star. 
 
 North. Your Grandmother, Buller, was the finest woman 
 of her time. 
 
 Buller. Sleepers hear. Sometimes a single word from with- 
 out, reaching the spiritual region, changes by its touch the 
 whole current of their dreams. 
 
 North. I once told you that, Buller. At present, I happen 
 to be awake. But surely a man may sit on a swing-chair with 
 his eyes shut, and his mouth open, without incurring the 
 charge of somnolency. Where have you been ? 
 
 Seicard. You told us, sir, not to disturb you till two 
 
 North. But where have you been ? 
 
 Seicard. We have written our dispatches, read our London 
 papers, and had a pull in gutta percha to and from Port 
 Sonachan. 
 
 North. How does she pull? 
 
 Buller. Like a winner. I have written to the builder — 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 37 
 
 Taylor of Newcastle — to match her against any craft of her keel 
 in the kingdom. 
 
 North. Sit down. Where are the Boys ? 
 
 Seicard. Off hours ago to Kilchurn. They have just sig- 
 nalized, " Two o'clock. 1 Salmo Ferox, lb. 12 ; 20 Yel- 
 low-fins, lb. 15; 6 Pike, lb. 36." 
 
 North. And not bad sport, either. They know the dinner 
 hour. Seven sharp. 
 
 Seicard. They do, and they are not the lads to disregard 
 orders. 
 
 North. Four finer fellows are not in Christendom. 
 
 Seward. May I presume to ask, sir, what volumes these 
 are lying open on your knees? 
 
 North. The Iliad, and Paradise Lost. 
 
 Seward. I fear, sir, you may not be disposed to enlighten 
 us, at this hour. 
 
 North. But I am disposed to be enlightened. Oxonians, 
 and Double First-Class Men, nor truants since, you will find in 
 me a docile pupil rather than a Teacher. I am no great 
 Grecian. 
 
 Buller. But you are, sir; and a fine old Trojan too, me- 
 thinks ! What audacious word has escaped my lips ! 
 
 North. Epic Poetry ! Tell but a Tale, and see Childhood — 
 the harmless, the trustful, the wondering — listen, " all ear ;" and 
 so has the wilder and mightier Childhood of Nations listened, 
 trustful, wondering, a all ear," to Tales lofty, profound — said, 
 or, as Art grew up, sung. 
 
 Seward. EIIE, Say or Tell. 
 
 Butter. AEIAE, Sing. 
 
 North. Yes, my lads, these were the received formulas of 
 
 beseeching with which the Minstrels of Hellas invoked succor 
 
 of the Divine Muse, when their burning tongue would fit well 
 
 to the Harp transmitted Tales, fraught with old heroic reniem- 
 
 4 
 
38 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 brance, with solemn belief, with oracular wisdom. EnE, Tell, 
 EriOS, The Tale. And when, step after step, the Harp model- 
 iog the Verse, and the Verse charming power and beauty, and 
 splendor, and pathos — -like a newly-created and newly- creating 
 soul — into its ancestral Tradition — when insensibly the benign 
 Usurper, the Muse, had made the magnificent dream rightly 
 and wholly her own at last. Enos, The Sung Tale. 
 Homer, to all following ages the chief Master of Eloquence 
 whether in Verse or in Prose, has yet maintained the simplicity 
 of Telling. 
 
 " For he came beside the swift ships of the Achaeans, 
 Proposing to release his daughter, and bringing immense ransom ; 
 Having in his hand the fillet of the far shooting Apollo, 
 On the golden rod : and he implored of the Achaeans, 
 And the sons of Atreus, most of all, the two Orders of the People." 
 
 These few words of a tongue stately, resplendent, sonorous, 
 and numerous, more than ours — and already the near Scaman- 
 drian Field feels, and fears, and trembles. Milton ! The 
 world has rolled round, and again round, from the day of that 
 earlier to that of the later Masonides. All the soul- wealth hoarded 
 n words, which merciful Time held aloft, unsubmerged by the 
 Gothic, by the Ottoman inundation; all the light shrined in the 
 Second, the Intellectual Ark that, divinely built and guided, 
 rode tilting over the tempestuous waste of waters; all the mind, 
 bred and fostered by new Europe, down to within two hundred 
 years of this year that runs : these have put differences between 
 the Iliad and the Paradise Lost, in matter and in style, 
 which to state and illustrate would hold me speaking till 
 sunset. 
 
 Buller. And us listening. 
 
 North. The Fall of Hector and of his Troy ! The Fall of 
 Adam and of his World ! 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 39 
 
 Buller. "What concise expression ! Multum in parvo, in- 
 deed, Seward. 
 
 North. Men and gods mingled in glittering conflict upon 
 the ground that spreads between Ida's foot and the Hellespont ! 
 At the foot of the Omnipotent Throne, archangels and angels 
 distracting their native Heaven with arms, and Heaven dis- 
 burdening her lap of her self-lost sons for the peopling of 
 Hell! 
 
 Seward. Hush! Buller, hush! 
 
 North. In way of an Episode — yes, an Episode — see the 
 Seventh Book, our Visible Universe willed into being ! 
 
 Seward. Hush ! Buller, hush ! 
 
 North. For a few risings and settings of yon since-bedimmed 
 Sun, Love and celestial Bliss dwelling amidst the shades and 
 flowers of Eden yet sinless — then from a more fatal apple, 
 Discord clashing into and subverting the harmonies of Creation. 
 
 " Sin, and her Shadow, Death ; and Misery, 
 Death's Harbinger." 
 
 The Iliad, indeed ! 
 
 Seward. I wish you could be persuaded, sir, to give us an 
 edition of Milton. 
 
 North. No. I must not take it out of the Doctor's hands. 
 Then, as to Milton's style. If the Christian Theologian must 
 be held bold who has dared to mix the Delivered Writings with 
 his own inventions — bold, too, was he, the heir of the mind that 
 was nursed in the Aristotelian Schools, to unite, as he did, on 
 the other hand, the gait of an understanding accomplished in 
 logic, with the spontaneous and unstudied step of Poetry. The 
 style of Milton, gentlemen, has been praised for simplicity ; and 
 it is true that the style of the Paradise Lost has often an austere 
 simplicity; but one sort of it you miss — the proper epic simpli- 
 city — that Homeric simplicity of the Telling. 
 
40 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Seward. Perhaps, sir, in such a Poem such simplicity could 
 not be. 
 
 North. Perhaps not. Homer adds thought to thought, and 
 so builds up. Milton involves thought with thought, and so 
 constructs. Relation is with him argumentative also, and His- 
 tory both Philosophy and Oratory. This was unavoidable. He 
 brought the mind of the latter age to the Form of Composition 
 produced by the primitive time. Again, the style is fitted to 
 the general intention of a Poem essentially didactic and argu- 
 mentative. Again, the style is personal to himself. He has 
 learnedly availed himself of all antecedent art — minutely availed 
 himself, yet he is no imitator. The style is like no other; 
 it is intensely and completely original. It expresses himself. 
 Lofty, capacious, acute, luminous, thoroughly disciplined, 
 ratiocinative powers wonderfully blend their action with an 
 imagination of the most delicate and profound sensibility to the 
 beautiful, and of a sublimity that no theme can excel. 
 
 Seward. Lord Bacon, sir, I believe, has defined Poetry, 
 Peigned History — has he not? 
 
 North. He has; and no wonder that he thought much of 
 " Feigned History," for he had a view to Epos and Tragedy, the 
 Iliad and Odyssey, the Attic Theatre, the JEneid, Dante, Ariosto, 
 Tasso, the Romances of Chivalry : moreover, the whole immense 
 Greek Fable, whereof part and parcel remain, but more is 
 perished. Which fables, you know, existed, and were trans- 
 mitted in Prose — that is, by Oral Tradition in the words of the 
 relator — long before they came into Homeric Verse, or any verse. 
 He saw, Seward, the Memory of Mankind possessed by two 
 kinds of history, both once alike credited. True History which 
 remains True History, and Fabulous History, now acknowledged 
 as Poetry only. It is no wonder that other Poetry vanished 
 from importance in his estimation. 
 
 Buller. I follow you, sir, with some difficulty. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 41 
 
 North. You may with ease. Fabulous History holds place, 
 side by side, with True History, as a rival in dignity, credence, 
 and power, and in peopling the Earth with Persons and Events. 
 For, of a verity, the Personages and Events created by Poesy 
 hold place in our Mind, not in our imagination only, but in 
 our understanding, along with events and personages historically 
 remembered. 
 
 Seward. An imposing Parallelism ! 
 
 North. It is ; but does it hold good ? And if it does, with 
 what limitations ? 
 
 Seward. With what limitations, sir? 
 
 North. I wish Lord Bacon were here, that I might ask him 
 to explain. Take Homer and Thucydides, the Iliad and the 
 History of the Peloponnesian War. We thus sever, at the 
 widest, the Telling of Calliope from the Telling of Clio, holding- 
 each at the height of honor. 
 
 Butter. At the widest? 
 
 North. Yes; for how far from Thucydides is, at once, the 
 Book of the Games ! Look through the Iliad, and see how much 
 and minute picturing of a world with which the Historian had 
 nothing to do ! Shall the Historian, in Prose, of the Ten Years' 
 War, stop to describe the Funeral G-ames of a Patroclus ? Yes ; 
 if he stop to describe the Burying of every Hero who falls. 
 But the Historian in Prose assumes that a People know their 
 own Manners, and therefore he omits painting their manners to 
 themselves. The Historian in verse assumes the same thing, 
 and, therefore, strange to say, he paints the manners! See, 
 then, in the Iliad, how much memorizing of a whole departed 
 scheme of human existence, with which the Prose Historian had 
 nothing to do, the Historian in regulated Metre has had the in- 
 spiration and the skill to inweave in the narrative of his ever- 
 advancing Action. 
 
 Butter. Would his lordship were with us ! 
 4* 
 
42 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. Give allt his to — the Hexameter. Kemember 
 always, my dear Seward, the shield of Achilles — itself a world in 
 miniature, a compendium of the world. 
 
 Seward. Of the Universe. 
 
 North. Even so; for Sun, and Moon, and Stars are there, 
 Astronomy and all the learned sisterhood ! 
 
 Seward. Then to what species of narrative in prose, to one 
 removed at what interval from the history of the Peloponnesian 
 War, "belongs that scene of Helen on the Walls of Troy? That 
 scene at the Scsean gate? In the tent of Achilles, where 
 Achilles sits, and Priam kneels? 
 
 North. Good. The general difference is obviously this, 
 Publicity almost solely stamps the Thucydidean story — Privacy, 
 more than in equal part, interfused with Publicity, the Homeric. 
 You must allow Publicity and Privacy to signify, besides that 
 which is done in public and in private, that which proceeds of 
 the Public and of the Private will. 
 
 Seward. In other words, if I apprehend you aright, the 
 Theme given being some affair of Public moment, Prose tends 
 to gather up the acts of the individual agents, under general 
 aspects, into masses. 
 
 North. Just so. Verse, whenever it dare, resolves the 
 mass of action into the individual acts, puts aside the collective 
 doer — the Public, and puts forward individual persons. Glory, 
 I say again, to the Hexameter ! 
 
 Buller. Glory to the Hexameter ! The Hexameter, like 
 the Queen, has done it all. 
 
 North. Or let us return to the Paradise Lost ! If the 
 mustering of the Fallen Legions in the Pirst Book — if the In- 
 fernal Council held in the Second — if the Angelic Rebellion 
 and Warfare in the Fifth and Sixth — resemble Public History, 
 civil and military, as we commonly speak — if the Seventh 
 Book, relating the Creation by describing the kinds created, 
 
CIIRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 43 
 
 be the assumption into Heroic Poetry of Natural History — to 
 what kind of History, I earnestly ask you both, does that scene 
 belong, of Eve's relation of her dream, in the Fifth Book, and 
 Adam's consolation of her uneasiness under its involuntary sin? 
 To what, in the Fourth Book, her own innocent relation of her 
 first impressions upon awaking into Life and Consciousness? 
 
 Buller. Ay ! — to what kind of History ? More easily asked 
 than answered. 
 
 North. And Adam's relation to the Affable Archangel of 
 his own suddenly-dawned morning from the night of non-ex- 
 istence, aptly and happily crowned upon the relation made to 
 him by Raphael in the Seventh Book of his own forming under 
 the Omnipotent Hand? 
 
 Seward. Simply, I venture to say, sir, to the most interior 
 autobiography — to that confidence of audible words, which 
 
 flows when the face of a friend sharpens the heart of a man 
 
 and Eaphael was Adam's Friend. 
 
 North. Seward, you are right. You speak well — as you 
 always do — when you choose. Behold, then, I beseech you, the 
 comprehending power of that little magical band — Our Accent- 
 ual Iambic Pentameter. 
 
 Seward. " Glory be with them, and eternal praise, 
 
 The Poets who on earth have made us heirs 
 Of Truth and pure Delight by heavenly lays." 
 
 North. Glory to Verse, for its power is great. Man from 
 the garden in Eden, to the purifying by fire of the redeemed 
 Earth — the creation of things visible — Angels Upright and 
 Fallen — and Higher than Angels — all the Regions of Space — - 
 Infinitude and Eternity — the Universality of Being — this is the 
 copious matter of the Song. And herein there is place found, 
 proper, distinct, and large, and prominent, for that whispered 
 call to visit, in the freshness of morning, the dropping Myrrh — 
 
44 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 to study the opening beauty of the Flowers — to watch the Bee 
 in her sweet labor— which tenderly dissipates from the lids of 
 Eve her ominously-troubled sleep— free room for two tears, 
 which, falling from a woman's eyes, are wiped with her hair — - 
 and for two more, which her pitying husband kisses away ere 
 they fall. All these things Verse disposes, and composes, in 
 One Presentment. 
 
 Butter. Glory to Yerse, for its power is great — glory to 
 our Accentual Iambic Pentameter. 
 
 North. Let us return to the Iliad. The Iliad is a history 
 told by a mind that is arbiter, to a certain extent only, of its 
 own facts. For Homer takes his decennial War and its Heroes, 
 nay, the tenor of the story too, from long-descended Tradition. 
 To his cotemporary countrymen he appears as a Historian — 
 not feigning, but commemorating and glorifying, transmitted 
 facts. 
 
 Seicard. Ottfried Muller, asking how far Homer is tied 
 up in his Traditions, ventures to suspect that the names of the 
 Heroes whom Achilles kills, in such or such a fight, are all 
 traditionary. 
 
 North. Where, then, is the Feigned History ? Lord Bacon, 
 Ottfried Muller, and Jacob Bryant, are here not in the main 
 unagreed. " I nothing doubt/' says Bacon, " but the Fables, 
 which Homer having received, transmits, had originally a pro- 
 found and excellent sense, although I greatly doubt if Homer 
 any longer knew that sense." 
 
 Butter. What right, may I ask, had Lord Bacon to doubt, 
 and Ottfried Muller to suspect 
 
 North. Smoke your cigar. Ottfried Muller 
 
 Butter. Whew ! — poo ! 
 
 North. Ottfried Muller imagines that there was in Greece 
 a pre-Homeric Age, of which the principal intellectual employ- 
 ment was Myth-making. And Bryant, we know, shocked the 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 45 
 
 opinion of his own day by referring the "War of Troy to 
 Mythology. Now, observe, Buller, how there is feigning and 
 feigning — Poet after Poet — and the Poem that comes to us at 
 last is the Poem of Homer; but in truth, of successive ages, 
 ending in Homer 
 
 Seward. Who was then a real living flesh and blood Indi- 
 vidual of the human species. 
 
 North. That he was 
 
 Seward. And wrote the Iliad. 
 
 North. That he did — but how I have hinted rather than 
 told. In the Paradise Lost, the part of Milton is, then, in- 
 finitely bolder than Homer's in the Iliad. He is far more of 
 a Creator. 
 
 Seward. Can an innermost bond of Unity, sir, be shown 
 for the Iliad? ■ - 
 
 North. Yes. The Iliad is a Tale of a Wrong 
 Righted. Zeus, upon the secret top of Olympus, decrees this 
 Righting with his omnipotent Nod. Upon the top of Ida he 
 conducts it. But that is done, and the Fates resume their 
 tenor, Hector falls, and Troy shall fall. That is again the 
 Righting oe a Wrong, done amongst men. This is the 
 broadly- written admonition : " Discite Justitiam." 
 
 Seivard. You are always great, sir, on Homer. 
 
 North. Agamemnon, in insolence of self-will, offends Chryses 
 and a G-od. He refused Chryses — He robs Achilles. In 
 Agamemnon the Insolence of Human Self-will is humbled, first 
 under the hand of Apollo — then of Jupiter — say, altogether, 
 of Heaven. He suffers and submits. And now Achilles, who 
 has no less interest in the Courts of Heaven than Chryses — 
 indeed higher — in over-weening anger fashions out a redress 
 for himself which the Father of Gods and Men grants. And 
 what follows? Agamemnon again suffers and submits. For 
 Achilles — Patroclus' bloody corse ! Kzittu Itatpox'hos — that is 
 
46 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 the voice that rings ! Now he accepts the proffered reconciliation 
 of Agamemnon, before scornfully refused; and in the son of 
 Thetis, too, the insolence of Human Self-will is chastened under 
 the hand of Heaven. 
 
 Seward. He suffers, but submits not till Hector lies trans- 
 fixed — till Twelve noble youths of the Trojans and their Allies 
 have bled on Patroclus' Pyre. And does he submit then? 
 No. For twelve days ever and anon he drags the insensible 
 corse at his horses' heels round that sepulchral earth. 
 
 Butter. Mad, if ever a man was. 
 
 North. The G-ods murmur — and will that the unseemly 
 Revenge cease. Jove sends Thetis to him — and what meeter 
 messenger for minister of mercy than a mother to her son ! 
 God-bidden by that voice, he submits — he remits his Revenge. 
 The Human Will, infuriated, bows under the Heavenly. 
 
 JSeward. Touched by the prayers and the sight of that 
 kneeling gray-haired Father, he has given him back his dead 
 son — and from the ransom a costly pall of honor, to hide the 
 dead son from the father's eyes — and of his own Will and 
 Power Twelve Days' truce : and the days have expired, and 
 the Funeral is performed — and the pyre is burned out — and 
 the mound over the slayer of Patroclus is heaped — and the 
 Iliad is done — and this Moral indelibly writes itself on the 
 heart — the words of Apollo in that Council — 
 
 T'hTq'tov yap ®vfxov Motpat ©v^tfotcw sSwxav, 
 
 The Fates have appointed to mortals a Spirit that 
 shall submit and endure. 
 
 North. Right and good. Thvjtov is more than "shall 
 suffer." It is, that shall accept suffering — that shall bear. 
 
 Seward. Compare this one Verse and the Twenty-four 
 Books, and you have the poetical simplicity and the poetical 
 multiplicity side by side. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 47 
 
 Butter. Right and good. 
 
 North. Yes, my friends, the teaching of the Iliad is Piety 
 to the Gods — 
 
 Seward. Reverence for the rights of Men — 
 
 North. A Will humbled, conformed to the Will of Heaven. 
 
 Butter. That the Earth is justly governed. 
 
 North. Dim foreshadowings, which Milton, I doubt not, 
 discerned and cherished. The Iliad was the natural and 
 spiritual father of the Paradise Lost — 
 
 Seward. And the son is greater than the sire. 
 
 North. I see in the Iliad the love of Homer to Greece and 
 to humankind. He was a legislator to Grreece before Solon 
 and Lycurgus — greater than either — after the manner fabled 
 of Orpheus. 
 
 Seward. Sprung from the bosom of heroic life, the Iliad 
 asked heroic listeners. 
 
 North. See with what large-hearted love he draws the Men 
 — Hector, and Priam, and Sarpedon — as well as the Woman 
 Andromache — enemies! Can he so paint humanity and not 
 humanize ? He humanizes us — who have literature and refined 
 G-reece and Rome — who have Spenser, and Shakspeare, and 
 Milton — who are Christendom. 
 
 Seward. He loves the inferior creatures, and the face of 
 nature. 
 
 North. The Iliad has been called a Song of War. I see in 
 it — a Song of Peace. Think of all the fiery Iliad ending in — 
 Reconciled Submission ! 
 
 Seward. " Murder Impossibility," and believe that there 
 might have been an Iliad or a Paradise Lost in Prose. 
 
 North. It could never have been, by human power, our 
 Paradise Lost. What would have become of the Seventh 
 Book ? This is now occupied with describing the Six Days of 
 Creation. A few verses of the First Chapter of Genesis ex- 
 
48 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 tended into so many hundred lines. The Book, as it stands, 
 has full poetical reason. First, it has a sufficient motive. 
 It founds the existence of Adam and Eve, which is otherwise 
 not duly led to. The revolted Angels, you know, have fallen, 
 and the Almighty will create a new race of worshippers to 
 supply their place — Mankind. 
 
 Seward. For this race that is to be created, a Home is 
 previously to be built — or this World is to be created. 
 
 North. I initiated you into Milton nearly thirty years ago, 
 my dear Seward; and I rejoice to find that you still have hirn 
 by heart. Between the fall of the Angels, and that inhabiting 
 of Paradise by our first parents, which is largely related by 
 Raphael, there would be in the history which the poem under- 
 takes, an unfilled gap and blank without this book. The chain 
 of events which is unrolled would be broken — interrupted — 
 incomplete. 
 
 Seivard. And, sir, when Raphael has told the Rebellion and 
 Fall of the Angels, Adam, with a natural movement of curiosity, 
 asks of this " Divine Interpreter" how this frame of things 
 began ? 
 
 North. And Raphael answers by declaring at large the 
 Purpose and the Manner. The Mission of Raphael is to 
 strengthen, if it be practicable, the Human Pair in their 
 obedience. To this end, how apt his discourse, showing how 
 dear they are to the Universal Maker, how eminent in his 
 Universe ! 
 
 Seward. The causes, then, of the Archangelic Narrative 
 abound. And the personal interest with which the Two Audit- 
 ors must hear such a revelation of wonders from such a Speaker, 
 and that so intimately concerns themselves, falls nothing short 
 of what Poetry justly requires in relations put into the mouth 
 of the poetical Persons. 
 
 North. And can the interest — not now of Raphael's, but 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 49 
 
 of Milton's "fit audience" — be sustained throughout? The 
 answer is triumphant. The Book is, from beginning to end, 
 a stream of the most beautiful descriptive Poetry that exists. 
 Not, however, mind you, Seward, of stationary description. 
 
 JSeicard. Sir? 
 
 North. A proceeding work is described; and the Book is 
 replete and alive with motion — with progress — with action — 
 yes, of action — of an order unusual indeed to the Epos, but 
 unexcelled in dignity — the Creative Action of Deity ! 
 
 Seward. What should hinder, then, but that this same 
 Seventh Book should have been written in Prose ? 
 
 North. Why this only — that without Verse it could not 
 have been read ! The Verse makes present. You listen with 
 Adam and Eve, and you hear the Archangel. In Prose this 
 illusion could not have been carried through such a subject- 
 matter. The conditio sine qua non of the Book was the 
 ineffable charm of the Description. But what would a series 
 of botanical and zoological descriptions, for instance, have been, 
 in Prose ? The vivida vis that is in Verse is the quickening 
 spirit of the whole. 
 
 Buller. But who doubts it? 
 
 North. Lord Bacon said that Poetry — that is, Feigned His- 
 tory — might be worded in Prose. And it may be; but how 
 inadequately is known to Us Three. 
 
 Buller. And to all the world. 
 
 North. No — nor, to the million who do know it, so well as 
 to Us, nor the reason why. But hear me a moment longer. 
 Wordsworth, in his famous Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, 
 asserts that the language of Prose and the language of Verse 
 differ but in this — that in Verse there is metre — and metre 
 he calls an adjunct. With all reverence, I say that metre is 
 not an adjunct — but vitality and essence; and that verse, in 
 virtue thereof, so transfigures language, that it ceases to be the 
 
50 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 language of prose as spoken, out of verse, by any of the chil- 
 dren of men. 
 
 Seward. Remove the metre, and the language will not be 
 the language of Prose ? 
 
 North. Not — if you remove the metre only — and leave 
 otherwise the order of the words — the collocation unchanged — 
 and unchanged any one of the two hundred figures of speech, 
 one and all of which are differently presented in the language 
 of Verse from what they are in Prose. 
 
 Seward. It must be so. 
 
 North. The fountain of Law to Composition in Prose is the 
 Understanding. The fountain of Law to Composition in Verse 
 is the Will. 
 
 Seivard. ? 
 
 North. A discourse in prose resembles a chain. The sen- 
 tences are the successive links — all holding to one another 
 and holding one another. All is bound. 
 
 Seivard. Well? 
 
 North. A discourse in verse resembles a billowy sea. The 
 verses are the waves that rise and fall — to our apprehension — 
 each by impulse, life, will of its own. All is free. 
 
 Seivard. Ay. Now your meaning emerges. 
 
 North. Eprofundis clamavi. In eloquent prose, the feeling 
 fits itself into the process of the thinking. In true verse, the 
 thinking fits itself into the process of the feeling. 
 
 Seivard. I perpend. 
 
 North. In prose, the general distribution and composition 
 of the matter belong to the reign of Necessity. The order of 
 the parts, and the connection of part with part, are obliged — 
 logically justifiable— say, then, are demonstrable. See an 
 Oration of Demosthenes. In verse, that distribution and com- 
 position belong to the reign of Liberty. That order and con- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 51 
 
 nection are arbitrary — passionately justifiable — say, then, are 
 delectable. See an Ode of Pindar. 
 
 Seward. Publish — publish. 
 
 North. In prose the style is last — in verse first; in prose 
 the sense controls the sound — in verse the sound the sense ; in 
 prose you speak — in verse you sing; in prose you live in the 
 abstract — in verse in the concrete j in prose you present motions 
 — in verse visions; in prose you expound — in verse you en- 
 chant; in prose it is much if now and then you are held in the 
 sphere of the fascinated senses — in verse if of the calm under- 
 standing. 
 
 Buller. Will you have the goodness, sir, to say all that over 
 again ? 
 
 North. I have forgot it. The lines in the countenance of 
 Prose are austere. The look is shy, reserved, governed — like 
 the fixed steady lineaments of mountains. The hues that suf- 
 fuse the face of her sister Yerse vary faster than those with 
 which the western or the eastern sky momently reports the 
 progress of the sinking, of the fallen, but not yet lost, of the 
 coming or of the risen sun. 
 
 Buller. I have jotted that down, sir. 
 
 North. And I hope you will come to understand it. Can- 
 didly speaking, His more than I do. 
 
 Seward. I do perfectly — and it is as true as beautiful, sir. 
 
 Buller. Equally so. 
 
 North. I venerate Wordsworth. Wordsworth's poetry stands 
 distinct in the world. That which to other men is an occasional 
 pleasure, or possibly delight, and to other poets an occasional 
 transport, the seeing this visible universe, is to him — a 
 Life — one Individual Human Life — namely, his Own — travel- 
 ing its whole journey from the Cradle to the Grave. And that 
 Life — for what else could he do with it? — he has verified — 
 sung. And there is no other such Song. It is a Memorable 
 
52 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Fact of our Civilization — a Memorable Fact in the History of 
 Human Kind — that one perpetual song. Perpetual but infi- 
 nitely various — as a river of a thousand miles, traversing, from 
 its birthplace in the mountains, diverse regions, wild and in- 
 habited, to the ocean receptacle. 
 
 Buller. Confoundedly prosaic at times. 
 
 North. He, more than any other true poet, approaches Yerse 
 to Prose — never, I believe, or hardly ever, quite blends them. 
 
 Buller. Often — often — often, my dear sir. 
 
 North. Seldom — seldom — seldom if ever, my dear sir. He 
 tells his Life. His Poems are, of necessity, an Autobiography. 
 The matter of them, then, is his personal reality; but Prose 
 is, all over and properly, the language of Personal Realities. 
 Even with him, however, so peculiarly conditioned, and, as 
 well as I am able to understand his Proposition, against his 
 own Theory of writing, Verse maintains, as by the laws of our 
 insuppressible nature it always will maintain, its sacred Right 
 and indefeasible Prerogative. 
 
 To conclude our conversation — 
 
 Buller. Or Monologue. 
 
 North. Epos is Human History in its magnitude in Verse. 
 In Prose, National History offers itself in parallelism. The 
 coincidence is broad and unquestioned; but on closer inspection, 
 differences great and innumerable spring up and unfold them- 
 selves, until at last you might almost persuade yourself that 
 the first striking resemblance deceived you, and that the two 
 species lack analogy, so many other kinds does the Species in 
 Verse embosom, and so escaping are the lines of agreement in 
 the instant in which you attempt fixing them. 
 
 Buller. Would that Lord Bacon were here ! 
 
 North. And thus we are led to a deeper truth. The Metrical 
 Epos imitates History, without doubt, as Lord Bacon says — it 
 borrows thence its mould, not rigorously, but with exceeding 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 53 
 
 bold and free adaptations, as the Iliad unfolds the Ten Years' 
 War in Seven Weeks. But for the Poet, more than another, 
 
 ALL IS IN ALL. 
 
 Seicard. Sir? 
 
 North. What is the Paradise Lost, ultimately considered ? 
 
 Buller. Oh! 
 
 North. It is, my friends, the arguing in verse of a question 
 in Natural Theology. Whence are Wrong and Pain ? Moral 
 and Physical Evil, as we call them, in all their overwhelming 
 extent of complexity sprung ? How permitted in the Kingdom 
 of an All- wise and Almighty Love? To this question, con- 
 cerning the origin of Evil, Milton answers as a Christian 
 Theologian, agreeably to his own understanding of his Reli- 
 gion — so justifying the Universal Government of God, and, 
 in particular, his Government of Man. The Poem is, there- 
 fore, Theological, Argumentative, Didactic, in Epic Form. 
 Being in the constitution of his soul a Poet, mightiest of the 
 mighty, the intention is hidden in the Form. The Verse has 
 transformed the matter. Now, then, the Paradise Lost is not 
 history told for itself. But this One Truth, in two answering 
 Propositions, that the Will of Man spontaneously consorting 
 with God's Will is Man's Good, spontaneously dissenting, Man's 
 Evil. This is created into an awful and solemn narrative of a 
 Matter exactly adapted, and long since authoritatively told. 
 But this Truth, springing up in the shape of narrative, will 
 now take its own determination into Events of unsurpassed 
 magnitude, now of the tenderest individuality and minuteness; 
 and all is, hence, in keeping — as one power of life springs up 
 on one spot, in oak-tree, moss, and violet, and the difference 
 of stature, thus understood, gives a deep harmony, so deep and 
 embracing, that none without injury to the whole could be 
 taken away. 
 
 Buller. What's all this ! Hang that Drone — confound that 
 5* 
 
54 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Chanter. Burst, thou most unseasonable of Bagpipes ! Silence ■ 
 that dreadful Drum. Draw in your Horns — 
 
 Seward. Musketry ! cannon ! huzza ! The enemy are storming 
 the Camp. The Delhis bear down on the Pavilion. The life 
 is in danger. Let us save the King. 
 
 North. See to it, gentlemen. I await the issue in my 
 Swing-chair. Let the Barbarians but look on me and their 
 weapons will drop. 
 
 Buller. All's right. A false alarm. 
 
 North. There was no alarm. 
 
 Buller. 'Twas but a Salute. The Boys have come back 
 from Kilchurn. They are standing in front beside the spoil. 
 
 North. Widen the Portal. Artistically disposed ! The 
 whole like one huge Star-fish. Salmo ferox, centre — Pike, 
 radii — Yellow-fins, circumference — Weight I should say the 
 tenth of a ton. Call the Manciple. Manciple, you are re- 
 sponsible for the preservation of that Star-fish. 
 
 Buller. Sir, you forget yourself. The People must be fed. 
 We are Seven. Twelve are on the troop roll — Nine strangers 
 have sent in their cards — the Gillies are growing upon us — 
 the Camp-followers have doubled the population since morn, 
 and the circumambient Natives are waxing strong. Hunger 
 is in the Camp — but for this supply Famine; Iliacos intra 
 muros peccatur et extra; Dods reports that the Boiler is 
 wroth, the furnace at a red heat, Pots and Pans a-simmer — 
 the Culinary Spirit impatient to be at work. In such circum- 
 stances, the tenth of a ton is no great matter; but it is better 
 than nothing. The mind of the Manciple may lie at rest, for 
 that Star-fish will never see to-morrow's Sun; and motionless 
 as he looks, he is hastening to the Shades. 
 
 North. Sir, you forget yourself. There is other animal 
 matter in the world besides Fish. No penury of it in camp. 
 I have here the Manciple's report. "One dozen plucked 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 55 
 
 Earochs— one ditto ditto Ducklings— d. d. d. March Chick- 
 one Bubblyjock — one Side of Mutton — -four Necks— six Sheep- 
 heads, and their complement of Trotters — two Sheep, just 
 slaughtered and yet in wholes— four Lambs ditto — the late 
 Cladich-Calf — one small Stot— two lb. 40 Rounds in pickle- 
 four Miscellaneous Pies of the First Order — six Hams— four 
 dozen of Rein-deer Tongues — one dozen of Bears' Paws — two 
 Barrels of " 
 
 Buller. Stop. Let that suffice for the meanwhile. 
 
 North. The short shadow-hand on the face of Dial-Cruachan, 
 to my instructed sense, stands at six. You young Oxonians, 
 I know, always adorn for dinner, even when roughing it on 
 service; and so, Y. and W. do you. These two elderly gen- 
 tlemen here are seen to most advantage in white neckcloths, 
 and the old one is never so like himself as in a suit of black 
 velvet. To your tents and toilets. In an hour we meet in 
 the — Deeside. 
 
DIES BOREALES. 
 
 No. II. 
 
 Encampment at Cladich. Time— Eleven a. m. 
 
 Scene— The Portal of the Pavilion. 
 
 North— Buller— Seward. 
 
 Butter. I know there is nothing you dislike so much as 
 personal observations 
 
 North. On myself to myself — not at all on others. 
 
 Butter. Yet I cannot help telling you to your face, sir, 
 that you are one of the finest looking old men 
 
 North. Elderly gentlemen, if you please, sir. 
 
 Butter. In Britain, in Europe, in the World. I am per- 
 fectly serious, sir. You are. 
 
 North. You needed not to say you were perfectly serious; 
 for I suffer no man to be ironical on Me, Mr. Buller. I am. 
 
 Butter. Such a change since we came to Cladich ! Seward 
 was equally shocked, with myself, at your looks on board the 
 Steamer. So lean — so bent — so sallow— so haggard — in a 
 word — so aged ! 
 
 North. Were you shocked, Seward? 
 
 Seward. Buller has such a blunt way with him that he 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 57 
 
 often makes me blush. I was not shocked, my dear sir, but I 
 was affected. 
 
 Butter. Turning to me, he said in a whisper, "What a 
 wreck !" 
 
 North. I saw little alteration on you, Mr. Seward ; but as 
 to Buller, it was with the utmost difficulty I could be brought, 
 by his reiterated asseverations, into a sort of quasi-belief in his 
 personal identity; and even now, it is far from amounting to 
 anything like a settled conviction. Why, his face is twice the 
 breadth it used to be — and so red ! It used to be narrow and 
 pale. Then, what a bushy head — now, cocker it as he will, 
 bald. In figure was he not slim? Now, stout's the word. 
 Stout — stout — yes, Buller, you have grown stout, and will 
 grow stouter — your doom is to be fat — I prophesy punch 
 
 Buller. Spare me — spare me, sir. Seward should not 
 have interrupted me — 'twas but the first impression — and soon 
 wore off — those Edinboro' people have much to answer for — 
 unmercifully wearing you out at their ceaseless soirees — but 
 since you came to Cladich, sir, Christopher's himself again 
 — pardon my familiarity — nor can I now, after the minutest 
 inspection, and severest scrutiny, detect one single additional 
 wrinkle on face or forehead — nay, not a wrinkle at all — not 
 one — so fresh of color, too, sir, that the irradiation is at times 
 ruddy — and without losing an atom of expression, the coun- 
 tenance absolutely — plump. Yes, sir, plump's the word — 
 plump, plump, plump. 
 
 North. Now you speak sensibly, and like yourself, my dear 
 Buller. I wear well. 
 
 Buller. Your enemies circulated a report — 
 
 North. I did not think I had an enemy in the world. 
 
 Buller. Your friends, sir, had heard a rumor — that you 
 had mounted a wig. 
 
 North. And was there, among them all, one so weak- 
 
58 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 minded as to believe it? But to be sure, there are no bounds 
 to the credulity of mankind. 
 
 Buller. That you had lost your hair — and that, like 
 Samson — 
 
 North. And by what Delilah had my locks been shorn ? 
 
 Seward. It all originated, I verily believe, sir, in the moved 
 imagination of the Pensive Public : 
 
 " Res est soliciti plena timoris Amor." 
 
 North. Buller, I see little, if any — no change whatever — 
 on you, since the days of Deeside — nor on you, Seward. Yes, 
 I do. Not now, when by yourselves; but when your boys are 
 in Tent, ah ! then I do indeed — a pleasant, a happy, a blessed 
 change ! Bright boys they are — delightful lads — noble youths 
 — and so are my Two — emphasis on my — 
 
 Seward and Buller. Yes, all emphasis, and may the Four 
 be friends for life. 
 
 North. In presence of us old folks, composed and respect- 
 ful — in manly modesty attentive to every word we say — at 
 times no doubt wearisome enough ! Yet each ready, at a look 
 or pause, to join in when we are at our gravest — and the 
 solemn may be getting dull — enlivening the sleepy flow of our 
 conversation as with rivulets issuing from pure sources in the 
 hills of the morning — 
 
 Seward. Ay — ay; heaven bless them all ! 
 
 North. Why, there is more than sense — more than talent 
 — there is genius among them — in their eyes and on their 
 tongues — though they have no suspicion of it — and that is the 
 charm. Then how they rally one another ! Witty fellows all 
 Four. And the right sort of raillery. Gentlemen by birth 
 and breeding, to whom in their wildest sallies vulgarity is im- 
 possible — to whom, on the giddy brink — the perilous edge — 
 still adheres a native decorum superior to that of all the Schools. 
 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 59 
 
 Seward. They have their faults, sir — 
 
 North. So have we. And His well for us. Without faults 
 we should be unlovable. 
 
 Seward. In affection I spake. 
 
 North. I know you did. There is no such hateful sight 
 on earth as a perfect character. He is one mass of corruption 
 — for he is a hypocrite — intus et in cute — by the necessity of 
 nature. The moment a perfect character enters a room — I 
 leave it. 
 
 Seward. What if you happened to live in the neighborhood 
 of the nuisance ? 
 
 North. Emigrate. Or remain here — encamped for life — 
 with imperfect characters — till the orders should issue — Strike 
 Tent. 
 
 Buller. My Boy has a temper of his own. 
 
 North. Original — or acquired? 
 
 Buller. Naturally sweet-blooded — assuredly by the mother's 
 side — but in her goodness she did all she could to spoil him. 
 Some excuse — We have but Marmy. 
 
 North. And his father, naturally not quite so sweet-blooded, 
 does all he can to preserve him? Between the two, a pretty 
 Pickle he is. Has thine a temper of his own, too, Seward ? 
 
 Seward. Hot. 
 
 North. Hereditary. 
 
 Seward. No — North. A milder, meeker, Christian Lady 
 than his mother is not in England. 
 
 North. I confess I was at the moment not thinking of 
 his mother. But somewhat too much of this. I hereby 
 authorize the Boys of this Empire to have what tempers they 
 choose — with one sole exception — The Sulky. 
 
 Buller. The Edict is promulged. 
 
 North. Once, and once only, during one of the longest and 
 best-spent lives on record, was I in the mood proscribed — and 
 
60 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 it endured most part of a whole day. The Anniversary of that 
 day I observe, in severest solitude, with a salutary horror. 
 And it is my Birthday. Ask me not, my friends, to reveal 
 the Cause. Aloof from confession before man — we must keep 
 to ourselves — as John Foster says — a corner of our own souls. 
 A black corner it is — and enter it with or without a light — 
 you see, here and there, something dismal — hideous — shape- 
 less — nameless — each lying in its own place on the floor. 
 There lies the Cause. It was the morning of my Ninth Year. 
 As I kept sitting high upstairs by myself — one familiar face after 
 another kept ever and anon looking in upon me — all with one 
 expression! And one familiar voice after another — all with 
 one tone — kept muttering at me — "He's still in the Sulks!" 
 How I hated them with an intenser hatred — and chief them I 
 before had loved best — at each opening and each shutting of 
 that door! How I hated myself, as my blubbered face felt 
 hotter and hotter — and I knew how ugly I must be, with my 
 fixed fiery eyes. It was painful to sit on such a chair for 
 hours in one posture, and to have so chained a child would 
 have been great cruelty — but I was resolved to die, rather than 
 change it; and had I been told by any one under an angel to 
 get up and go to play, I would have spat in his face. It was 
 a lonesome attic, and I had the fear of ghosts. But not then — 
 my superstitious fancy was quelled by my troubled heart. 
 Had I not deserved to be allowed to go? Did they not all 
 know that all my happiness in this life depended on my being 
 allowed to go ? Could any one of them give a reason for not 
 allowing me to go ? "What right had they to say that if I did 
 go, I should never be able to find my way, by myself, back ? 
 What right had they to say that Roundy was a blackguard, 
 and that he would lead me to the gallows? Never before, in 
 all the world, had a good boy been used so on his birthday. 
 They pretend to be sorry when I am sick — and when I say my 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 61 
 
 prayers, they say theirs too; but I am sicker now — and they 
 are not sorry, but angry — there's no use in prayers — and I 
 won't read one verse in the Bible this night, should my aunt 
 go down on her knees. And in the midst of such unworded 
 soliloquies did the young blasphemer fall asleep. 
 
 Buller. Young Christopher North ! Incredible. 
 
 North. I know not how long I slept; but on awaking, I 
 saw an angel with a most beautiful face and most beautiful 
 hair — a little young angel — about the same size as myself — 
 sitting on a stool by my feet. " Are you quite well now, 
 Christopher ? Let us go to the meadows and gather flowers." 
 Shame, sorrow, remorse, contrition, came to me with those 
 innocent words — we wept together, and I was comforted. " I 
 have been sinful" — "but you are forgiven." Down all the 
 stairs hand in hand we glided; and there was no longer anger 
 in any eyes — the whole house was happy. All voices were 
 kinder — if that were possible — than they had been when I rose 
 in the morning — a Boy in his Ninth Year. Parental hands 
 smoothed my hair — parental lips kissed it — and parental 
 greetings, only a little more cheerful than prayers, restored me 
 to the Love I had never lost, and which I felt now had animated 
 that brief and just displeasure. I had never heard then of 
 Elysian fields; but I had often heard, and often had dreamt 
 happy, happy dreams of fields of light in heaven. And such 
 looked the fields to be, where fairest Mary Grordon and I 
 gathered flowers, and spoke to the birds, and to one another, 
 all day long — and again, when the day was gone, and the 
 evening going, on till moontime, below and among the soft- 
 burning stars. 
 
 Buller. And never has Christopher been in the Sulks since 
 that day. 
 
 North. Under heaven I owe it all to that child's eyes. 
 Still I sternly keep the Anniversary — for, beyond doubt, I was 
 6 
 
62 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 that day possessed with a Devil — and an angel it was, though 
 human, that drove him out. 
 
 Seward. Your first Love ? 
 
 North. In a week she was in heaven. My friends — in 
 childhood — our whole future life would sometimes seem to be 
 at the mercy of such small events as these. Small call them 
 not — for they are great for good or for evil — because of the un- 
 fathomable mysteries that lie shrouded in the growth, on 
 earth, of an immortal soul. 
 
 Seward. May I dare to ask you, sir — it is indeed a deli- 
 cate — a more than delicate question — if the Anniversary — has 
 been brought round with the revolving year since we encamped ? 
 
 North. It has. 
 
 Seward. Ah ! Buller ! we know now the reason of his ab- 
 sence that day from the Pavilion and Deeside — of his utter 
 seclusion — he was doing penance in the Swiss Giantess — a 
 severe sojourn. 
 
 North. A Good Temper, friends — not a good Conscience — 
 is the Blessing of Life. 
 
 Buller. Shocked to hear you say so, sir. Unsay it, my 
 dear sir — unsay it — pernicious doctrine. It may get abroad. 
 
 North. The Sulks! — the Celestials. The Sulks are 
 hell, sirs — the Celestials, by the very name, heaven. I take 
 temper in its all-embracing sense of Physical, Mental, and 
 Moral Atmosphere. Pure and serene — then we respire God's 
 gifts, and are happier than we desire ! Is not that divine ? 
 Foul and disturbed — then we are stifled by God's gifts — and 
 are wickeder than we fear! Is not that devilish? A good 
 Conscience and a bad Temper ! Talk not to me, Young Men, 
 of pernicious doctrine — it is a soul-saving doctrine — " millions 
 of spiritual creatures walk unseen" teaching it — men's 
 Thoughts, communing with heaven, have been teaching it — 
 surely not all in vain — since Cain slew Abel. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. G\> 
 
 Seward. The Sage ! 
 
 Buller. Socrates. 
 
 North. Morose! Think for five minutes on what that 
 word means — and on what that word contains — and you see 
 the Man must be an Atheist. Sitting in the House of God 
 morosely! Bright, bold, beautiful boys of ours, ye are not 
 morose — heaven's air has free access through your open souls 
 — a clear conscience carries the Friends in ther pastimes up 
 the Mountains. 
 
 Seward. And their fathers before them. 
 
 North. And their great-grandfather — I mean their spiritual 
 great-grandfather — myself — Christopher North. They are 
 gathering up — even as we gathered up — images that will never 
 die. Evanescent ! Clouds — lights — shadows — glooms, the fall- 
 ing sound — the running murmur — and the swinging roar — as 
 cataract, stream, and forest all alike seem wheeling by — these 
 are not evanescent— for they will all keep coming and going — 
 before their Imagination — all life-long at the bidding of the 
 Will— or obedient to a Wish! Or by benign Law, whose 
 might is a mystery, coming back from the far profound — 
 remembered apparitions ! 
 
 Seward. Dear sir. 
 
 North. Even my Image will sometimes reappear — and the 
 Tents of Cladich — the Camp on Lochawe-side. 
 
 Buller. My dear sir — it will not be evanescent 
 
 North. And withal such Devils ! But I have given them 
 carte hlanche. 
 
 Seica'rd. Nor will they abuse it. 
 
 North. I wonder when they sleep. Each has his own dor- 
 mitory—the cluster forming the left wing of the Camp — but 
 Deeside is not seldom broad awake till midnight; and though 
 I am always up and out by six at the latest, never once have I 
 caught a man of them napping, but either there they are each 
 
64 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 more blooming than the other, getting ready their gear for a 
 start; — or, on sweeping the Loch with my glass, I see their 
 heads, like wild ducks — swimming — round Rabbit Island-— as 
 some wretch has baptized Inishail — or away to Inistrynish — 
 or, for anything I know, to Port-Sonachan — swimming for a 
 Medal given by the Club ! Or there goes Gutta Percha by 
 the Pass of Brandir or shooting away into the woods near 
 Kilchurn. Twice have they been on the top of Cruachan — 
 once for a clear hour, and once for a dark day — the very next 
 morning, Marmaduke said, they would have " some more moun- 
 tain," and the Four Cloud-compellers swept the whole range 
 of Ben Bhuridh and Bein-Lurachan as far as the head of 
 Grlensrea. Though they said nothing about it, I heard of their 
 having been over the hills behind us, t'other night, at Cairn- 
 dow at a wedding. Why, only think, sirs, yesterday they were 
 off by daylight to try their luck in Loch Dochart, and again I 
 heard their merriment soon after we had retired. They must 
 have footed it above forty miles. That Cornwall Clipper will 
 be their death. And off again this morning — all on foot — to 
 the Black Mount. 
 
 Buller. For what? 
 
 North. By permission of the Marquis, to shoot an Eagle. 
 She is said to be again on egg — and to cliff-climbers her eyrie 
 is within rifle-range. But let us forget the Boys — as they 
 have forgot us. 
 
 Seward. The Loch is calmer to-day, sir, than we have yet 
 seen it; but the calm is of a different character from yesterday's 
 — that was serene, this is solemn — I had almost said austere. 
 Yesterday there were few clouds; and such was the prevailing 
 power of all those lovely woods on the islands, and along the 
 mainland shores — that the whole reflection seemed sylvan. 
 When gazing on such a sight, does not our feeling of the 
 unrealities — the shadows — attach to the realities — the sub- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 65 
 
 stances? So that the living trees — earth-rooted, and growing 
 upwards — become almost as visionary as their inverted sem- 
 blances in that commingling clime? Or is it that the life of 
 the trees gives life to the images, and imagination believes that 
 the whole, in its beauty, must belong by the same law, to the 
 same world? 
 
 North. Let us understand, without seeking to destroy, our 
 delusions — for has not this life of ours been wisely called the 
 dream of a shadow ! 
 
 Seward. To-day there are many clouds, and aloft they are 
 beautiful; nor is the light of the sun not most gracious; but 
 the repose of all that downward world affects me — I know not 
 why — with sadness — it is beginning to look almost gloomy— 
 and I seem to see the hush not of sleep, but of death. There 
 is not the unboundaried expanse of yesterday — the loch looks 
 narrower — and Cruachan closer to us, with all his heights. 
 
 Buller. I felt a drop of rain on the back of my hand. 
 
 Seward. It must have been, then, from your nose. There 
 will be no rain this week. But a breath of air there is some- 
 where — for the mirror is dimmed, and the vision gone. 
 
 North. The drop was not from his nose, Seward, for here 
 are three — and clear, pure drops too — on my Milton. I should 
 not be at all surprised if we were to have a little rain. 
 
 Seward. Odd enough. I cannot conjecture where it comes 
 from. It must be dew. 
 
 Buller. Who ever heard of dew dropping in large fat 
 globules at meridan on a summer's day ? It is getting very 
 close and sultry. The interior must be, as Wordsworth says, 
 " Like a Lion's den." Did you whisper, sir? 
 
 North. No. But something did. Look at the silver, 
 Buller. 
 
 Buller. Thermometer 85. Barometer I can say nothing 
 6* 
 
66 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 about — "but that it is very low indeed. A long way below 
 Stormy. 
 
 North. What color would you call that glare about the 
 the Crown of Cruachan? Yellow? 
 
 Seward. You may just as well call it yellow as not. I 
 never saw such a color before — and don't care though I never 
 see such again — for it is horrid. That is a — Glare. 
 
 North. Qowper says grandly, 
 
 "A terrible sagacity informs 
 The Poet's heart : he looks to distant storms ; 
 He hears the thunder ere the tempest lowers." 
 
 He is speaking of tempests in the moral world. You know 
 the passage — it is a fine one — so indeed is the whole Epistle — 
 Table-Talk. I am a bit of a Poet myself in smelling thunder. 
 Early this morning I set it down for mid-day — and it is mid- 
 day now. 
 
 Buller. Liker Evening. 
 
 North. Dimmish and darkish, certainly — but unlike Even- 
 ing. I pray you look at the Sun. 
 
 Buller. What about him? 
 
 North. Though unclouded — he seems shrouded in his own 
 solemn light — expecting thunder. 
 
 Buller. There is not much motion among the clouds. 
 
 North. Not yet. Merely what in Scotland we call a carry 
 — yet that great central mass is double the size it was ten 
 minutes ago — the City Churches are crowding round the 
 Cathedral — and the whole assemblage lies under the shadow of 
 the Citadel — with battlements and colonnades at once Fort 
 and Temple. 
 
 Buller. Still some blue sky. Not very much. But some. 
 
 North. Cruachan ! you are changing color. 
 
 Buller. Grim — very. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 67 
 
 North. The Loch's like ink. I could dip my pen in it. 
 
 Seward. We are about to have thunder. , 
 
 North. Weather-wise wizard — we are. That mutter was 
 thunder. In five seconds you will hear some more. One — 
 two — three — four — there; that was a growl. I call that good 
 growling — sulky-sullen, savage growling, that makes the heart 
 of Silence quake. 
 
 Seward. And mine. 
 
 North. What? Dying away! Some incomprehensible 
 cause is turning the thunderous masses round towards Appin. 
 
 Seioard. And I wish them a safe journey. 
 
 North. All right. They are coming this way — all at once 
 — the whole Thunder-storm. Flash — roar. 
 
 " Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France ; 
 For ere thou canst report I will be there, 
 The thunder of my cannon shall be heard." 
 
 Who but Willy could have said that! 
 
 Seward. Who said what? 
 
 North. How ghastly all the trees ! 
 
 Seward. I see no trees — nor anything else. 
 
 North. How can you, with that Flying Dutchman over 
 your eyes? 
 
 Buller. I gave him my handkerchief — for at this moment I 
 know his head is like to rend. I wish. I had kept it to myself; 
 but no use — the lightning is seen through lids and hands, and 
 would be through stone walls. 
 
 North. Each flash has, of course, a thunder-clap of its own 
 — if we knew where to look for it; but, to our senses, all con- 
 nection between cause and effect is lost — such incessant flash- 
 ings — and such multitudinous outbreaks — and such a con- 
 tinuous roll of outrageous echoes ! 
 
 Buller. Coruscation— explosion — are but feeble words. 
 
68 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. The Cathedral's on Fire. 
 
 Butler. I don't mind so much those wide flarings among 
 the piled clouds, as these gleams oh ! 
 
 North. Where art thou, Cruachan? Ay — methinks I see 
 thee — methinks I do not— thy Three Peaks may not pierce the 
 masses that now oppress thee— but behind the broken midway 
 clouds, those black purple breadths of solid earth are thine-^-thine 
 those unmistakeable Cliffs — thine the assured beauty of that 
 fearless Forest— and may the lightning scathe not one single 
 tree! 
 
 Buller. Nor man. 
 
 North. This is your true total Eclipse of the Sun. Day, 
 not night, is the time for thunder and lightning. Night can 
 be dark of itself — nay, cannot help it; but when Day grows 
 black, then is the blackness of darkness in the Bright One 
 terrible; — and terror — Burke said well — is at the heart of the 
 sublime. The Light, such as it is, sets off the power of the 
 lightning— it pales to that flashing — and is forgotten in Fire. 
 It smells of hell. 
 
 Seward. It is constitutional in the Sewards. North, I am 
 sick. 
 
 North. Give way to gasping — and lie down — nothing can 
 be done for you. The danger is not — 
 
 Seward. I am not afraid — I am faint. 
 
 North. You must speak louder, if you expect to be heard 
 by ears of clay. Peals is not the word. " Peals on peals re- 
 doubled" is worse. There never was — and never will be a 
 word in any language — for all that. 
 
 Buller. Unreasonable to expect it. Try twenty — in twenty 
 languages. 
 
 North. Buller, you may count ten individual deluges — 
 besides the descent of three at hand — conspicuous in the 
 general Kain, which without them would be Rain sufficient for 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 69 
 
 a Flood. Now the Camp has it — and let us enter the Pavilion. 
 I don't think there is much wind here — yet far down the black 
 Loch is silently whitening with waves like breakers; for here 
 the Rain alone rules, and its rushing deadens the retiring 
 thunder. The ebbing thunder ! Still louder than any sea on 
 any shore — but a diminishing loudness, though really vast, 
 seems quelled ; and, losing its power over the present, imagina- 
 tion follows it not into the distant region where it may be raging 
 as bad as ever. Buller? 
 
 Buller. What? 
 
 North. How's Seward? 
 
 Seward. Much better. It is very, very kind of you, my 
 dear sir, to carry me in your arms, and place me in your own 
 Swing-chair. The change of atmosphere has revived me — 
 but the Boys? 
 
 North. The Boys — why, they went to the Black Mount to 
 shoot an eagle, and see a thunder-storm, and long before this 
 they have had their hearts' desire. There are caves, Seward, 
 in Buachail-Mor; and one recess I know — not a cave — but 
 grander far than any cave — near the Fall of Eas-a-Bhrogich — 
 far down below the bottom of the Fall, which in its long descent 
 whitens the sable cliffs. Thither leads a winding access no 
 storm can shake. In that recess you sit rock-surrounded — but 
 with elbow-room for five hundred men — and all the light you 
 have — and you would not wish for more — comes down upon 
 you from a cupola far nearer heaven than that hung by Michael 
 Angelo. 
 
 Seward. The Boys are safe. 
 
 North. Or the lone House of Dalness has received them— 
 hospitable now as of yore — or the Huntsman's hut — or Shep- 
 herd's shieling — that word I love, and shall use it now — i 
 though shieling it is not, but a comfortable cottage — and the 
 dwellers there fear not the thunder and the lightning — for 
 
70 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 they know they are in His hands — and talk cheerfully in the 
 storm. 
 
 Seward. Over and gone. How breathable the atmosphere ! 
 
 North. In the Forest of the Marquis and of Monzie, the 
 horns of the Red-deer are again in motion. In my mind's eye 
 — Harry — I see one — an enormous fellow — bigger than the 
 big stag of Benmore himself — and not to be so easily brought 
 to perform, by particular desire, the part of Moriens — giving 
 himself a shake of his whole huge bulk, and a caive of his whole 
 wide antlery — and then leading down from the Corrie, with 
 Platonic affection, a herd of Hinds to the greensward islanded 
 among brackens and heather — a spot equally adapted for feed, 
 play, rumination, and sleep. And the Roes are glinting 
 through the glades — and the Fleece are nibbling on the moun- 
 tains' glittering breast — and the Cattle are grazing, and gal- 
 loping, and lowing on the hills — and the furred folk, who are 
 always dry, come out from crevices for a mouthful of the fresh 
 air; and the whole four-footed creation are jocund — are happy! 
 
 Buller. What a picture ! 
 
 North. And the Fowls of the Air — think ye not the Eagle, 
 storm-driven not unalarmed along that league-long face of cliff, 
 is now glad at heart, pruning the wing that shall carry him 
 again, like a meteor, into the subsided skies? 
 
 Buller. What it is to have an imagination ! Worth all my 
 Estate. 
 
 North. Let us exchange. 
 
 Buller. Not possible. Strictly entailed. 
 
 North. Dock. 
 
 Buller. Mno. 
 
 North. And the little wren flits out from the back-door of 
 her nest — too happy she to sing- — and in a minute is back 
 again, with a worm in her mouth, to her half-score gaping babies 
 — the sole family in all the dell. And the sea-mews, sore 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 71 
 
 against their will driven seawards, are returning by ones and 
 twos, and thirties, and thousands, up Loch-Etive, and, dallying 
 with what wind is still alive above the green transparency, drop 
 down in successive parties of pleasure on the silver sands of 
 Ardmatty, or lured onwards into the still leas of Gllenliver, or 
 the profounder quietude of the low mounds of Dalness. 
 
 Seicard. My fancy is contented to feed on what is before 
 my eyes. 
 
 Bidler. Doff, then, the Flying Dutchman. 
 
 North. And thousands of Rills, on the first day of their 
 apparent existence, are all happy too, and make me happy to 
 look on them leaping and dancing down the rocks — and the 
 River Etive, rejoicing in his strength, from far Kingshouse all 
 along to the end of his journey, is happiest of them all; for 
 the storm that has swollen has not discolored him, and with a 
 pomp of clouds on his breast, he is flowing in his expanded 
 beauty into his own desired Loch. 
 
 Seicard. Graze with me, my dear sir, on what lies before 
 our eyes. 
 
 North. The Rainbow ! 
 
 Bidler. Four miles wide, and half a mile broad. 
 
 North. Thy own Rainbow, Cruachan — from end to end. 
 
 Seward. Is it fading — or is it brightening? — no, it is not 
 fading — and to brighten is impossible. It is the beautiful at 
 perfection — it is dissolving — it is gone. 
 
 Bidler. I asked you, sir, have the Poets well handled 
 Thunder ? 
 
 North. I was waiting for the Rainbow. Many eyes besides 
 ours are now regarding it — many hearts gladdened — but have 
 you not often felt, Seward, as if such Apparitions came 
 at a silent call in our" souls — that we might behold them — and 
 that the hour — or the moment — was given to us alone ! So 
 
72 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 have I felt when walking alone among the great solitudes of 
 Nature. 
 
 Seward. Lochawe is the name now for a dozen little lovely 
 lakes ! For, lo ! as the vapors are rising, they disclose, here 
 a bay that does not seem to be a bay, but complete in its own 
 encircled stillness — there a bare grass island — yes it is Inishail 
 — with a shore of mists — and there, with its Pines and Castle, 
 Freoch, as if it were Loch Freoch, and not itself an Isle. 
 Beautiful bewilderment ! but of our own creating ! — for thus 
 Fancy is fain to dally with what we love — and would seek to 
 estrange the familiar — as if Lochawe in its own simple grandeur 
 were not all-sufficient for our gaze. 
 
 Buller. Let me try my hand. No — no — no — I can see 
 and feel, have an eye and a heart for Scenery, as it is called, 
 but am no hand at a description. My dear, sweet, soft-breasted, 
 fair-fronted, bright-haired, delightful Cruachan — thy very 
 name, how liquid with open vowels — not a consonant among 
 them all — no Man-Mountain Thou — Thou art the Lady of the 
 Lake. I am in love with Thee — Thou must not think of 
 retiring from the earth — Thou must not take the veil — off with 
 it — off with it from those glorious shoulders — and come, in all 
 Thy loveliness, to my long — my longing arms ! 
 
 Seward. Is that the singing of larks? 
 
 North. No larks live here. The laverock is a Lowland 
 bird, and loves our brairded fields and our pastoral braes; but 
 the Highland mountains are not for him — he knows by instinct 
 that they are haunted — though he never saw the shadow nor 
 heard the sugh of the eagle's wing. 
 
 Seward. The singing from the woods seems to reach the 
 sky. They have utterly forgotten their fear; or think you, 
 sir, that birds know that what frightened them is gone, and 
 that they sing with intenser joy because of the fear that kept 
 them mute? 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 73 
 
 North. The lambs are frisking — and the sheep staring 
 placidly at the Tents. I hear the hum of bees — -returned — 
 and returning from their straw-built Citadels. In the primal 
 hour of his winged life, that wavering butterfly goes by in 
 search of the sunshine that meets him ; and happy for this gene- 
 ration of ephemerals that they first took wing on the afternoon 
 of the day of the Great Storm. 
 
 B idler. How have the Poets, sir, handled thunder and 
 lightning? 
 
 North. " Saepe ego, cum flavis messorem induceret arvis 
 Agricola, et fragili jam stringeret hordea culmo, 
 Omnia ventorum concurrere proelia vidi, 
 Quae gravidam late segetem ab radicibus imis 
 Sublime expulsam eruerent : ita turbine nigro 
 Ferret hyems culmumque levem, stipulasque volantes. 
 Saepe etiam immensum coelo venit agmen aquarum, 
 Et foedam glomerant tempestatem imbribus atris 
 Collectae ex alto nubes : ruit arduus aether, 
 Et pluvia ingenti sata laeta, boumque labores 
 Diluit : implentur fossae, et cava flumina crescunt 
 Cum sonitu, fervetque fretis spirantibus aequor. 
 Ipse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, corusca 
 Fulmina molitur dextra : quo maxima motu 
 Terra tremit : fugere ferae, et mortalia corda 
 Per gentes humilis stravit pavor : ille flagranti 
 Aut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo 
 Dejicit : ingeminant Austri, et densissimus imber: 
 Nunc nemora ingenti vento, nunc littora plangunt." 
 Buller. You recite well, sir, and Latin better than English 
 — not so sing-songy — and as sonorous : then Virgil, to be sure, 
 
 is fitter for recitation than any Laker of you all 
 
 North. I am not a Laker — I am a Locher. 
 Buller. Tweedledum — tweedledee. 
 7 
 
74 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. That means the Tweed and the Dee? Content. 
 One might have thought, Buller, that our Scottish Critics 
 would have been puzzled to find a fault in that strain- 
 
 Butler. It is faultless; but not a Scotch critic worth a curse 
 but yourself 
 
 North. I cannot accept a compliment at the expense of all 
 the rest of my countrymen. I cannot indeed. 
 
 Buller. Yes, you can. 
 
 North. There was Lord Karnes—- a man of great talents— a 
 most ingenious man — and with an insight- 
 
 Buller. I never heard of him — was he a Scotch Peer? 
 
 North. One of the Fifteen. " A strained elevation " — says 
 his Lordship — I am sure of the words, though I have not seen 
 his Elements of Criticism for fifty years ■ 
 
 Buller. You are a creature of a wonderful memory. 
 
 North. u A strained elevation is attended with another in- 
 convenience, that the author is apt to fall suddenly, as well as 
 the reader; because it is not a little difficult to descend sweetly 
 and easily from such elevation to the ordinary tone of the sub- 
 ject. The following is a good illustration of that observation" 
 — and then his Lordship quotes the passage I recited — stopping 
 with the words " densissimus imber" which are thus made to 
 conclude the description ! 
 
 Buller. Oh ! oh ! oh ! That's murder. 
 
 North. In the description of a storm — continues his Lord- 
 ship — " to figure Jupiter throwing down huge mountains with 
 his thunderbolts, is hyperbolically sublime, if I may use the ex- 
 pression; the tone of mind produced by that image is so dis- 
 tinct from the tone produced by a thick shower of rain, that 
 the sudden transition must be very unpleasant." 
 
 Buller. Suggestive of a great-coat. That's the way to deal 
 with a great Poet. Clap your hand on the Poet's mouth in its 
 fervor — shut up the words in mid-volley — and then tell him 
 
CHRISTOrHER UNDER CANVASS. 75 
 
 that he does not know how to descend sweetly and easily from 
 strained elevation ! 
 
 North. Nor do I agree with his Lordship that u to figure 
 Jupiter throwing down huge mountains with his thunderbolts 
 is hyperbolically sublime." As a part for a whole is a figure 
 of speech, so is a whole for a part. Virgil says, "dejicit;" 
 but he did not mean to say that Jupiter "tumbled down" 
 Athos or Rhodope or the Acroceraunian range. He knew — 
 for he saw them — that there they were in all their altitude 
 after the storm— little if at all the worse. But Jupiter had 
 struck — smitten — splintered — rent — trees and rocks — midway 
 or on the summits — and the sight was terrific — and " dejicit" 
 brings it before our imagination, which not for a moment pic- 
 tures the whole mountain tumbling down. But great Poets 
 know the power of words, and on great occasions how to use 
 them — in this case — one— and small critics will not suffer their 
 own senses to instruct them in Poetry — and hence the Ele- 
 ments of Criticism are not the Elements of Nature, and assist 
 us not in comprehending the grandeur of reported storms. 
 
 Buller. Lay it into them, sir. 
 
 North. Good Dr. Hugh Blair again, who in his day had a 
 high character for taste and judgment, agreed with Henry 
 Home that " the transition is made too hastily — I am afraid — 
 from the preceding sublime images, to a thick shower and the 
 blowing of the south wind, and shows how difficult it frequently 
 is to descend with grace, without seeming to fall." Nay, even 
 Mr. Alison himself— one of the finest spirits that ever breathed 
 on earth, says— " I acknowledge, indeed, that the ' pluvia ingenti 
 sata lseta, boumque labores diluit/ is defensible from the con- 
 nection of the imagery with the subject of the poem; but the 
 1 implentur fossge' is both an unnecessary and a degrading cir- 
 cumstance when compared with the magnificent effects that are 
 
76 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 described in the rest of the passage." In this quotation, too, 
 the final grand line is inadvertently omitted — 
 
 " Nunc nemora ingenti vento, nunc littora plangunt." 
 
 Buller. I never read Hugh Blair — but I have read — often, 
 and always with increased delight — Mr. Alison's exquisite 
 Essays on the nature and Principles of Taste, and Lord Jeffrey's 
 admirable exposition of the Theory — in statement so clear, and 
 in illustration so rich — worth all the ^Esthetics of the Germans 
 — Schiller excepted — in one Volume of Mist. 
 
 North. Mr. Alison had an original as well as a fine mind; 
 and here he seems to have been momentarily beguiled into 
 mistake by unconscious deference to the judgment of men — in 
 his province far inferior to himself — whom in his modesty he 
 admired. Mark. Virgil's main purpose is to describe the 
 dangers— the losses to which the agriculturist is at all seasons 
 exposed from wind and weather. And he sets them before us 
 in plain and perspicuous language, not rising above the proper 
 level of the didactic. Yet being a Poet he puts poetry into 
 his description from the first and throughout. To say that the 
 line " Et pluvia," &c, is " defensible from the connection of the 
 imagery with the subject of the Poem" is not enough. It is 
 necessitated. Strike it out and you abolish the subject. And 
 just so with "implentur fossae." The " fossae" we know in 
 that country were numerous and wide, and, when swollen, 
 dangerous — and the "cava flumina" well follow instantly — for 
 the "fossae" were their feeders — and we hear as well as see the 
 rivers rushing to the sea — and we hear, too, as well as see, the 
 sea itself. There the description ends. Virgil has done his 
 work. But his imagination is moved, and there arises a new 
 strain altogether. He is done with the agriculturists. And 
 now he deals with man at large — with the whole human race. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 77 
 
 He is now a Boanerges— a son of thunder— and he begins with 
 Jove. The sublimity comes in a moment. u Ipse Pater, 
 media nimborum in nocte" — and is sustained to the close— 
 the last line being great as the first — and all between accordant, 
 and all true to nature. Without rain and wind, what would 
 be a thunder-storm ? The " densissimus imber I" obeys the laws 
 — and so do the ingeminanting Austri — and the shaken woods 
 and the stricken shores. 
 
 Bailer Well done, "Virgil — well done, North. 
 
 North. I cannot rest, Buller — I can have no peace of mind 
 but in a successful defence of these Ditches. Why is a Ditch 
 to be despised? Because it is dug? So is a grave. Is the 
 Ditch — wet or dry — -that must be passed by the Volunteers of 
 the Fighting Division before the Fort can be stormed, too low 
 a word for a Poet to use ? Alas ! on such an occasion well 
 might he say, as he looked after the assault and saw the floating 
 tartans — implentur fossse — the Ditch is filled! 
 
 Buller. Ay, Mr. North, in that case the word Ditch — and 
 the thing — would be dignified by danger, daring, and death. 
 But here 
 
 North. The case is the same — with a difference, for there 
 is all the Danger — all the Daring — all the Death — that the 
 incident or event admits of — and they are not small. Think 
 for a moment. The Rain falls over the whole broad heart of 
 the tilled earth — from the face of the fields it runs into the 
 Ditches — the first unavoidable receptacles — these pour into the 
 rivers — the rivers' into the river mouths — and then you are in 
 the Sea. 
 
 Bailer. Go on sir, go on. 
 
 North. I am amazed — I am indignant, Buller. Ruit arduus 
 eetlier. The steep or high ether rushes down ! as we saw it 
 rush down a few minutes ago. What happens ? 
 
 7* 
 
78 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 " Et pluvia ingenti sata Iseta bourn que labores 
 Diluit S" 
 
 Alas ! for the hopeful— -hopeless husbandman now. What a 
 multiplied and magnified expression have we here for the 
 arable lands. All the glad seed-time vain — vain all industry 
 of man and oxen — there you have the true agricultural pathos 
 —washed away — set in a swim — deluged ! Well has the Poet 
 — in one great line — spoke the greatness of a great matter. 
 Sudden affliction— visible desolation — imagined dearth. 
 
 Buller. Don't stop, sir, you speak to the President of our 
 Agricultural Society — go on, sir, go on. 
 
 North. Now drop in — in its veriest place, and in two words, 
 the necessitated Implentur fossse. No pretence — no display — 
 no phraseology — the nakedest, but quite effectual statement of 
 the fact — which the farmer — I love that word farmer — has wit- 
 nessed as often as he has ever seen the Coming — the Ditches 
 that were dry ran full to the brim. The homely rustic fact, 
 strong and impressive to the husbandman, cannot be dealt with 
 by poetry otherwise than by setting it down in its bald simpli- 
 city. Seek to raise — to dress — to disguise — and you make it 
 ridiculous. The Mantuan knew better — he says what must be 
 said — and goes on — 
 
 Buller. He goes on — so do you, sir you both get on. 
 
 North. And now again begins Magnification, 
 
 " Et cava flumina crescunt 
 cum sonitu." 
 
 The " hollow-bedded rivers" grow, swell, visibly wax mighty 
 and turbulent. You imagine that you stand on the bank and 
 see the river that had shrunk into a thread getting broad 
 enough to fill the capacity of its whole hollow bed. The rushing 
 of arduous ether would not of itself have proved sufficient. 
 Therefore glory to the Italian Ditches and glory to the Dum- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 79 
 
 friesshire Drains, which I have seen, in an hour, change the 
 white murmuring Esk into a red rolling river, with as sweeping 
 sway as ever attended the Arno on its way to inundate Florence. 
 
 Buller. Glory to the Ditches of the Yale of Arno — glory 
 to the Drains of Dumfriesshire. Draw breath, sir. Now, go 
 on, sir. 
 
 North. "Cum sonitu." Not as Father Thames rises — 
 silently — till the flow lapse over lateral meadow-grounds for a 
 mile on either side. But " cum sonitu," with a voice — with a 
 roar — a mischievous roar — a roar of — ten thousand Ditches. 
 
 Boiler. And then the "flurnina" — "cava" no more — will 
 be as clear as mud. 
 
 North. You have hit it. They will be — for the Arno in 
 flood is like liquid mud — by no means enamoring, perhaps 
 not even sublime — but showing you that it comes off the fields 
 and along the Ditches — that you see swillings of the " sata 
 lseta boumque labores." 
 
 Buller. Agricultural Produce ! 
 
 North. For a moment — a single moment — leave out the 
 Ditches, and say merely, u The rain falls over the fields — the 
 rivers swell roaring." No picture at all. You must have the 
 fall over the surface — the gathering in the narrower artificial 
 — the delivery into the wider natural channels — the fight of 
 spate and surge at river mouth — 
 
 " Fervetque fretis spirantibus sequor." 
 
 The Ditches are indispensable in nature and in Yirgil. 
 
 Buller. Put this glass of water to your lips, sir — not that 
 I would recommend water to a man in a fit of eloquence — but 
 I know you are abstinent — infatuated in your abjuration of 
 wine. Gro on — half-minute time. 
 
 North. I swear to defend — at the pen's point — against all 
 Comers — the position — that the line 
 
80 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 " Diluit : implentur fossse, cava fluraina crescunt 
 Cum sonitu — " 
 
 is, where it stands — and looking before and after — a perfect 
 line; and that to strike out " implentur fossae" would be an 
 outrage on it— just equal, Buller, to my knocking out, without 
 hesitation, your brains — for your brains do not contribute more 
 to the flow of our conversation— than do the Ditches to that 
 other spate. 
 
 Butter. That will do — you may stop. 
 
 North. I ask no man's permission — I obey no man's man- 
 date — to stop. Now Virgil takes wing — now he blazes and 
 soars. Now comes the power and spirit of the Storm gathered 
 in the Person of the Sire— of him who wields the thunderbolt 
 into which the Cyclops have forged storms of all sorts — wind and 
 rain together — " Tres Imbri lorti radios /" &c. You remember 
 the magnificent mixture. And there we have Virgilius versus 
 
 HOMERUM. 
 
 Butter. You may sit down, sir. 
 
 North. I did not know I had stood up. Beg pardon. 
 
 Buller. I am putting Swing to rights for you, sir. 
 
 North. Methinks Jupiter is tivice apparent — the first time, 
 as the President of the Storm, which is agreeable to the dictates 
 of reason and necessity; — the second — to my fancy — as de- 
 lighting himself in the conscious exertion of power. What is 
 he splintering Athos, or Rhodope, or the Acroceraunians for ? 
 The divine use of the Fulmen is to quell Titans, and to kill 
 that mad fellow who was running up the ladder at Thebes, 
 Capaneus. Let the Great Gods find out their enemies now — 
 find out and finish them — and enemies they must have not a 
 few among those prostrate crowds — " per gentes humilis stravit 
 pavor." But shattering and shivering the mountain tops — 
 which, as I take it, is here the prominent affair — and, as I 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 81 
 
 said, the true meaning of "dejicit" — is mere pastime — as if 
 Jupiter Tonans were disporting himself on a holiday. 
 
 Bailer. Oh! sir, you have exhausted the subject — if not 
 yourself — and us; — I beseech you sit down; — see, Swing 
 solicits you — and oh ! sir, you — we — all of us will find in a few 
 minutes' silence a great relief after all that thunder. 
 
 North. You remember Lucretius ? 
 
 Bailer. No, I don't. To you I am not ashamed to confess 
 that I read him with some difficulty. With ease, sir, do you ? 
 
 North. I never knew a man who did but Bobus Smith ; and 
 so thoroughly was he imbued with the spirit of the great Epicu- 
 rean, that Landor — himself the best Latinist living — equals him 
 with Lucretius. The famous Thunder passage is very fine, but I 
 cannot recollect every word; and the man who, in recitation, 
 haggles and boggles at a great strain of a great poet deserves 
 death without benefit of clergy. I do remember, however, 
 that he does not descend from his elevation with such ease and 
 grace as would have satisfied Henry Home and Hugh Blair — 
 for he has so little notion of true dignity as to mention rain, 
 as Yirgil afterwards did, in immediate connection with thunder. 
 
 " Quo de concussu sequitur gravis imber et uber, 
 Omnis utei videatur in irabrem vortier aether, 
 Atque ita praecipitans ad diluviem revocare." 
 
 Buller. What think you of the thunder in Thomson's 
 Seasons? 
 
 North. What all the world thinks — that it is our very best 
 British Thunder. He gives the Gathering, the General en- 
 gagement, and the Retreat. In the Gathering there are touches 
 and strokes that make all mankind shudder — the foreboding — 
 the ominous ! And the terror, when it comes, aggrandizes the 
 premonitory symptoms. "Follows the loosened aggravated 
 roar" is a line of power to bring the voice of thunder upon 
 
82 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 your soul on the most peaceable day. He, too — prevailing 
 poet — feels the grandeur of the Rain. For instant on the 
 words, " convulsing heaven and earth/' ensue, 
 
 " Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail, 
 Or prone-descending rain." 
 
 Thomson had been in the heart of thunder-storms many a time 
 before he left Scotland; and what always impresses me is the 
 want of method — the confusion, I might almost say — in his 
 description. Nothing contradictory in the proceedings of the 
 storm; they all go on obediently to what we know of Nature's 
 laws. But the effects of their agency on man and nature are 
 given — not according to any scheme — but as they happen to 
 come before the Poet's imagination, as they happened in reality. 
 The pine is struck first — then the cattle and the sheep below — ■ 
 and then the castled cliff — and then the 
 
 " Gloomy woods 
 Start at the flash, and from their deep recess 
 Wide-flaming out, their trembling inmates shake." 
 
 No regular ascending— or descending scale here; but wherever 
 the lightning chooses to go, there it goes — the blind agent of 
 indiscriminating destruction. 
 
 Buller. Capricious Zigzag. 
 
 North. Jemmy was overmuch given to mouthing in the 
 Seasons; and in this description — matchless though it be — he 
 sometimes out-mouths the big-mouthed thunder at his own 
 bombast. Perhaps that is inevitable — you must, in confabu- 
 lating with that Meteor, either imitate him, to keep him and 
 yourself in countenance, or be, if not mute as a mouse, as thin- 
 piped as a fly. In youth I used to go sounding to myself 
 among the mountains the concluding lines of the Retreat. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 83 
 
 "Amid Carnarvon's mountains rages loud 
 The repercussive roar ; with mighty crush, 
 Into the flashing deep, from the rude rocks 
 Of Penmanmaur heaped hideous to the sky, 
 Tumble the smitten cliffs, and Snowdon's peak 
 Dissolving, instant yields his winery load : 
 Far seen, the heights of heathy Cheviot blaze, 
 And Thule bellows through her utmost isles. 
 
 Are they good — or are they bad ? I fear — not good. But I 
 am dubious. The previous picture has been of one locality — 
 a wide one — but within the visible horizon — enlarged somewhat 
 by the imagination, which, as the schoolmen said, inflows into 
 every act of the senses — and powerfully, no doubt, into the 
 senses engaged in witnessing a thunder-storm. Many of the 
 effects so faithfully, and some of them so tenderly painted, 
 interest us by their picturesque particularity. 
 
 " Here the soft flocks, with that same harmless look 
 They wore alive, and ruminating still 
 In fancy's eye; and there the frowning bull, 
 And ox half-raised." 
 
 We are here in a confined world — close to us and near; and 
 our sympathies with its inhabitants — human or brute — com- 
 prehend the very attitudes or postures in which the lightning 
 found and left them; but the final verses waft us away from all 
 that terror and pity — -the geographical takes place of the 
 pathetic — a visionary panorama of material objects supersedes 
 the heart-throbbing region of the spiritual — for a mournful 
 song instinct with the humanities, an ambitious bravura dis- 
 playing the power and pride of the musician, now thinking not 
 at all of us, and following the thunder only as affording him 
 an opportunity for the display of his own art. 
 
 Boiler. Are they good — or are they bad ? I am dubious. 
 
 North. Thunder-storms travel fast and far — but here they 
 
84 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 seem simultaneous; Thule is more vociferous than the whole 
 of Wales together — yet perhaps the sound itself of the verses 
 is the loudest of all — and we cease to hear the thunder in the 
 din that describes it. 
 
 Buller. Severe — but just. 
 
 North. Ha ! Thou comest in such a questionable shape — 
 
 Entrant. That I will speak to thee. How do you do, my 
 dear sir ? God bless you, how do you do ? 
 
 North. Art thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned? 
 
 Entrant. A spirit of health. 
 
 North. It is — it is the voice of Talboys. Don't move an 
 inch. Stand still for ten seconds — on the very same site, that 
 I may have one steady look at you, to make assurance doubly 
 sure — and then let us meet each other half-way in a Cornish 
 hug. 
 
 Talboys. Are we going to wrestle already, Mr. North? 
 
 North. Stand still ten seconds more. He is He — You 
 are you — gentlemen — H. Gr. Talboys — Seward, my crutch — 
 Buller, your arm — 
 
 Talboys. Wonderful feat of agility! Feet up to the 
 ceiling — 
 
 North. Don't say ceiling — 
 
 Talboys. Why not? ceiling — cceluin. Feet up to heaven. 
 
 North. An involuntary feat — the fault of Swing — sole fault 
 — but I always forget it when agitated — 
 
 Buller. Some time or other, sir, you will fly backwards and 
 fracture your skull. 
 
 North. There, we have recovered our equilibrium — now we 
 are in grips, don't fear a fall — I hope you are not displeased 
 with your reception. 
 
 Talboys. I wrote last night, sir, to say I was coming — but 
 there being no speedier conveyance — I put the letter iu my 
 pocket, and there it is — 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 85 
 
 North. (On reading "Dies Boreales. — No. 1.") 
 A friend returned ! spring bursting forth again ! 
 The song of other years ! which, when we roam, 
 Brings up all sweet and common things of home, 
 And sinks into the thirsty heart like rain ! 
 Such the strong influence of the thrilling strain 
 By human love made sad and musical, 
 Yet full of high philosophy withal, 
 Poured from thy wizard harp o'er land and main ! 
 
 A thousand hearts will waken at its call, 
 And breathe the prayer they breathed in earlier youth, — 
 
 May o'er thy brow no envious shadow fall ! 
 Blaze in thine eye the eloquence of truth ! ■ 
 
 Thy righteous wrath the soul of guilt appal, 
 As lion's streaming hair or dragon's fiery tooth ! 
 TaTboys. I blush to think I have given you the wrong 
 paper. 
 
 North. It is the right one. But may I ask what you have 
 on your head? 
 
 Talboys. A hat. At least it was so an hour ago. 
 North. It never will be a hat again. 
 
 Talboys. A patent hat — a water proof hat — it was swim- 
 ming, when I purchased it yesterday, in a pail — warranted 
 against Lammas floods — 
 
 North. And in an hour it has come to this ! Why, it has 
 no more shape than a coal-heaver's. 
 
 Talboys. Oh ! then it can be little the worse. For that is 
 its natural artificial shape. It is constructed on that principle 
 — and the patentee prides himself on its affording equal pro- 
 tection to head, shoulders, and back — helmet at once and 
 shield. 
 
 North. But you must immediately put on dry clothes — 
 Talboys. The clothes I have on are as dry as if they had 
 
86 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 been taking horse-exercise all morning before a laundry-fire. 
 I am water proof all over — and I bad need to be so — for be- 
 tween Inverary and Cladich there was much moisture in the 
 atmosphere. 
 
 North. Do — do — go and put on dry clothes. Why the 
 spot you stand on is absolutely swimming — 
 
 Talboys. My Sporting-jacket, sir, is a new invention — an 
 invention of my own — to the sight silk — to the feel feathers — 
 and of feathers is the texture — but that is a secret, don't blab 
 it — and to rain I am impervious as a plover. 
 
 North. Do — do — go and put on dry clothes. 
 
 Talboys. Intended to have been here last night — left Glas- 
 gow yesterday morning — and had a most delightful forenoon 
 of it in the Steamer to Tarbert. Loch Lomond fairly outshone 
 herself — never before had I felt the full force of the words 
 — "Fortunate Isles." The Bens were magnificent. At 
 Tarbert — just as I was disembarking — who should be em- 
 barking but our friends Outram, M'Culloch, Macnee 
 
 North. And why are they not here? 
 
 Talboys. And I was induced — I could not resist them — to 
 take a trip on to Inverarnan. We returned to Tarbert and 
 had a glorious afternoon till two this morning — thought I might 
 lie down for an hour or two — but, after undressing, it occurred 
 to me that it was advisable to redress — and be off instanter — 
 so, wheeling round the head of Loch Long — never beheld the 
 day so lovely — I glided up the gentle slope of Grlencroe and 
 sat down on "Rest and be thankful" — to hold a minute's 
 colloquy with a hawk — or some sort of eagle or another, who 
 seemed to think nobody at that hour had a right to be there 
 but himself — covered him to a nicety with my rod — and had it 
 been a gun, he was a dead bird. Down the other — that is, this 
 side of the glen, which, so far from being precipitous, is known 
 to be a descent but by the pretty little cataractettes playing at 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 87 
 
 leap-frog — from your description I knew that must be Loch 
 Fine — and that St. Catherine's. Shall I drop down and sig- 
 nalize the Inverary Steamer? I have not time — so through 
 the woods of Ardkinglass — surely the most beautiful in this 
 world — to Cairndow. Looked at my watch — had forgot to wind 
 her up — set her by the sun — and on nearing the inn door an 
 unaccountable impulse landed me in the parlor to the right. 
 Breakfast on the table for somebody up stairs — whom nobody — ■ 
 so the girl said — could awaken — ate it — and the ten miles were 
 but one to that celebrated Circuit Town. Saluted Dun-nu- 
 quech for your sake — and the Castle for the Duke's — and could 
 have lingered all June among those gorgeous groves. 
 
 North. Do — do — go and put on dry clothes. 
 
 Talboys. Hitherto it had been cool — shady — breezy — the 
 very day for such a saunter — when all at once it was an oven. 
 I had occasion to note that fine line of the Poet's — " Where 
 not a lime-leaf moves," as I passed under a tree of that species, 
 with an umbrage some hundred feet in circumference, and a 
 presentiment of what was coming whispered "Stop here" — 
 but the Fates tempted me on — and if I am rather wet, sir, 
 there is some excuse for it — for there was thunder and lightning, 
 and a great tempest. 
 
 North. Not to-day? Here all has been hush. 
 
 Talboys. It came at once from all points of the compass — 
 and they all met — all the storms — every mother's son of them 
 — at a central point — where I happened to be. Of course, no 
 house. Look for a house on an emergency, and if once in a 
 million times you see one — -the door is locked, and the people 
 gone to Australia. 
 
 North. I insist on you putting on dry clothes. Don't try 
 my temper. 
 
 Talboys. By-and-by I began to have my suspicions that I 
 had been distracted from the road — and was in the Channel of 
 
88 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 the Airey. But on looking down I saw the Airey in his own 
 channel — almost as drumly as the mire-burn — vulgarly called 
 road — I was plashing up. Altogether the scene was most ani- 
 mating — and in a moment of intense exhilaration — not to 
 weather-fend, but in defiance — I unfurled my Umbrella. 
 
 North. What, a Plover with a Parapluie ? 
 
 Talboys. I use it, sir, but as a Parasol. Never but on this 
 one occasion had it afTronted rain. 
 
 North. The same we sat under, that dog-day, at Dunoon? 
 
 Talboys. The same. Whew ! Up into the sky like the in- 
 carnation of a whirlwind ! No turning outside in — too strong- 
 ribbed for inversion — before the wind he flew — like a creature 
 of the element — and gracefully accomplished the descent on an 
 eminence about a mile off. 
 
 North. Near Orain-imali-chauan-mala-chuilish? 
 
 Talboys. I eyed him where he lay — not without anger. It 
 had manifestly been a wilful act — he had torn himself from 
 my grasp — and now he kept looking at me — at safe distance 
 as he thought — like a wild animal suddenly undomesticated — 
 and escaped into his native liberty. If he had sailed before 
 the wind — why might not I? No need to stalk him — so I 
 went at him right in front — but such another flounder ! Then, 
 sir, I first knew fatigue. 
 
 North. 
 
 "So eagerly The Fiend 
 O'er bog, or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, 
 With head, hands, wings, or feet pursues his way, 
 And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies." 
 
 Talboys. Finally I reached him — closed on him — when 
 Eolus, or Eurus, or Notus, or Favonius — for all the heathen 
 wind-gods were abroad? — inflated him, and away he flew — 
 rustling like a dragon-fly — and zig-zagging all fiery green in 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 89 
 
 the gloom — sat down — as composedly as you would yourself, 
 sir — on a knoll, in another region — engirdled with young birch- 
 groves — as beautiful a resting-place, I must acknowledge, as, 
 after a lyrical flight, could have been selected for repose by Mr. 
 "Wordsworth. 
 
 North. I know it — -Arash-alaba-chalin-ora-begota-la-chona- 
 hurie. Archy will go for it in the evening— all safe. But do 
 go and put on dry clothes. "What now, Billy ? 
 
 Billy Balmer. Here are Mr. Talboy trunk, sir. 
 
 North. Who brought it? 
 
 Billy. Nea, Maister — I dan't kna' — I 'spose Carrier. I 
 ken't reet weell — ance at Windermere- watter. 
 
 North. Swiss Giantess — Billy. 
 
 Billy. Ay— ay— sir. 
 
 North. You will find the Swiss Giantess as complete a dor- 
 mitory as man can desire, Talboys. I reserve it for myself in 
 event of rheumatism. Though lined with velvet, it is always 
 cool — ventilated on a new principle — of which I took merely a 
 hint from the Punka. My cot hangs in what- used to be the 
 Exhibition-room — and her Ketreat is now a commodious Dress- 
 ing-room. Billy, show Mr. Talboys to the Swiss Giantess. 
 
 Billy. Ay — ay, sir. This way, Mr. Talboy — this way, 
 sir. 
 
 Talboys. What is your dinner-hour, Mr. North ? 
 
 North. Sharp seven — seven sharp. 
 
 Talboys. And now 'tis but half-past two. Four hours for 
 work. The Cladich — or whatever you call him — is rumbling 
 disorderly in the wood; and I noted, as I crossed the bridge, 
 that he was proud as a piper of being in Spate — but he looks 
 more rational down in yonder meadows — and Heaven 
 
 HAVE MERCY ON ME ! THERE' S LOCH AWE ! ! 
 
 North. I thought it queer that you never looked at it. 
 Talboys. Looked at it? How could I look at it? I don't 
 8* 
 
90 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 believe it was there. If it was— from the hill-top I had eyes 
 but for the Camp— the Tents and the Trees— and u Thee the 
 spirit of them all !" Let me have another eye-full— another 
 soul-full of the Loch. But 'twill never do to be losing time 
 in this way. Where's my creel— where' s my creel? 
 
 North. On your shoulders — 
 
 Talhoys. And my Book ? Lost — lost — lost ! Not in any 
 one of all my pockets. I shall go mad. 
 
 North. Not far to go. Why your Book's in your hand. 
 
 Talboys. At eight? 
 
 North. Seven. Archy, follow him. In that state of ex- 
 citement he will be walking with his spectacles on over some 
 precipice. Keep your eye on him, Archy. 
 
 Archy. I can pretend to be carrying the landing-net, sir. 
 
 North. There's a specimen of a Scottish Lawyer, gentlemen. 
 What do you think of him? 
 
 Butter* That he is without exception the most agreeable 
 fellow, at first sight, I ever met in my life. 
 
 North. And so you would continue to think him, were you 
 to see him twice a-week for twenty years. But he is far more 
 than that — though, as the world goes, that is much : his mind 
 is steel to the back-bone — his heart is sound as his lungs — his 
 talents great — in literature, had he liked it, he might have ex- 
 celled; but he has wisely chosen a better Profession — and 
 his character now stands high as a Lawyer and a Judge. 
 Yonder he goes ! As fresh as a kitten after a score and three 
 quarter miles at the least. 
 
 Bulltr. Seward — let's after him. Billy — the minnows. 
 
 Billy. Here's the Can, sirs. 
 
 Scene closes. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS, 91 
 
 Scene II. — Interior of Beeside. . 
 Time — Seven p. M. 
 North— Talboys- — Btjller — Seward. 
 
 North. Seward, face Buller. Talboys, face North, Fall t(? ? 
 gentlemen; to-day we dispense with regular service. Each 
 man has his own distinct dinner before him, or in the imme- 
 diate vicinity — soup, fish, flesh, fowl — and with all necessary 
 accompaniments and sequences. How do you like the arrange- 
 ment of the table, Talboys? 
 
 Talboys. The principle shows a profound knowledge of 
 human nature, sir. In theory, self-love and social are the 
 same — but in practice, self-love looks to your own plate— social 
 to your neighbors'. By this felicitous multiplication of dinners 
 — this One in Four — this Four in One— the harmony of the 
 moral system is preserved — and all works together for the 
 general good. Looked at artistically, we have here what the 
 Germans and others say is essential to the beautiful and the 
 sublime — Unity. 
 
 North. I believe the Four Dinners — if weighed separately 
 — would be found not to differ by a pound. This man's fish 
 might prove in the scale a few ounces heavier than that man's 
 — but in such case, his fowl would be found just so many 
 ounces lighter. And so on. The Puddings are cast in the 
 same mould — and the things equal to the same thing, are equal 
 to one another. 
 
 Talboys. The weight of each repast? 
 
 North. Calculated at twenty-five pounds. 
 
 Talboys. Grand total, one hundred. The golden mean, 
 
92 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. From these general views,, to descend to particulars. 
 Soup (turtle) two pounds— Hotch, ditto — Fish (Trout) two 
 pounds — Flesh (Jigot— black face five year old) six pounds — 
 Fowl (Howtowdie boiled) five pounds — Duck (wild) three 
 pounds — Tart (gooseberry) one pound— Pud (Variorum Edi- 
 tion) two pounds. 
 
 Buller. That is but twenty-three, sir ! I have taken down 
 the gentleman's words. 
 
 North. Polite — and grateful. But you have omitted sauces 
 and creams, breads and cheeses. Did you ever know me in- 
 correct in my figures, in any affirmation or denial, private or 
 public ? 
 
 Buller. Never. Beg pardon. 
 
 North. Now that the soups and fishes seem disposed of, I 
 boldly ask you, one and all, gentlemen, if you ever beheld Four 
 more tempting Jigots? 
 
 Talboys. I am still at my Fish. No fish so sweet as of 
 one's own catching — so I have the advantage of you all. This 
 one here — the one I am eating at this blessed moment — I 
 killed in what the man with the Landing-net called the Birk 
 Pool. I know him by his peculiar physiognomy — an odd cast 
 in his eye — which has not left him on the gridiron. That 
 Trout of my killing on your plate, Mr. Seward, made the fatal 
 plunge at the tail of the stream so overhung with Alders that 
 you can take it successfully only by the tail — and I know him 
 by his color, almost as silvery as a whitling. Yours, Mr. Buller, 
 was the third I killed— just where the river— for a river he is 
 to-day, whatever he may be to-morrow — goes whirling into the 
 Loch — and I can swear to him from his leopard spots. Illus- 
 trious sir, of him whom you have now disposed of — the finest 
 of the Four — I remember saying inwardly, as with difficulty I 
 encreeled him — for his shoulders were like a hog's — this for 
 the King. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 93 
 
 North. Your perfect Pounder, Talboys, is the beau-ideal 
 of a Scottish Trout. How he cuts up ! If much heavier — 
 you are frustrated in your attempts to eat him thoroughly — 
 have to search — probably in vain — for what in a perfect Pounder 
 lies patent to the day — he is to back-bone comeatable — from 
 gill to fork. Seward, you are an artist. Good creel ? 
 
 Seward. I gave Mr. Talboys the first of the water, and 
 followed him— a mere caprice — with the Archimedean Minnow. 
 I had a run — but just as the monster opened his jaws to ab- 
 sorb — he suddenly eschewed the scentless phenomenon, and 
 with a sullen plunge, sunk into the deep. 
 
 Butter. I tried the natural minnow after Seward — but I 
 wished Archimedes at Syracuse — for the Screw had spread a 
 panic — and in a panic the scaly people lose all power of discri- 
 mination, and fear to touch a minnow, lest it turn up a bit of 
 tin or some other precious metal. 
 
 North. I have often been lost in conjecturing how you al- 
 ways manage to fill your creel, Talboys; for the truth is — and 
 it must be spoken — you are no angler. 
 
 Talboys. I can afford to smile ! I was no angler, sir, ten 
 years ago — now I am. But how did I become one? By at- 
 tending you, sir — for seven seasons — along the Tweed and the 
 Yarrow, the Clyde and the Daer, the Tay and the Tummel, 
 the Don and the Dee — and treasuring up lessons from the 
 Great Master of the Art. 
 
 North. You surprise me ! Why, you never put a single 
 question to me about the art— always declined taking rod in 
 hand — -seemed reading some book or other, held close to your 
 eyes — or lying on banks a-dose or poetizing — or facetious with 
 the Old Man — or with the Old Man serious— and sometimes 
 more than serious, as, sauntering along our winding way, we 
 conversed of man, of nature, and of human life. 
 
 Talboys. I never lost a single word you said, sir, during 
 
91 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 those days, breathing in every sense " vernal delight and joy/ 7 
 yet all the while I was taking lessons in the art. The flexure 
 of your shoulder — the sweep of your arm — the twist of your 
 wrist — your Delivery, and your Recovery — that union of grace 
 and power— the utmost delicacy, with the most perfect precision 
 — All these qualities of a heaven-born Angler, by which you 
 might be known from all other men on the banks of the Whit- 
 tadder on a Fast-day 
 
 North. I never angled on a Fast-day. 
 
 Talboys. A lajisus linguae — From a hundred anglers on 
 the Daer, on the Queen's Birth-day 
 
 North. ~ My dear Friend, you ex- 
 
 Talboys. All those qualities of a heaven-born Angler I 
 learned first to admire — then to understand — and then to imi- 
 tate. For three years I practiced on the carpet — for three I 
 essayed on a pond — for three I strove by the running, waters — 
 and still the Image of Christopher North was before me — till, 
 emboldened by conscious acquisition and constant success, I 
 came forth and took my place among the anglers of my country. 
 
 Bidler. To-day I saw you fast in a tree. 
 
 Talboys. You mean my Fly. 
 
 Bidler. First your Fly, and then, I think, yourself. 
 
 Talboys. I have seen 11 Maestro himself in Timber, and in 
 brushwood too. From him I learned to disentangle knots, in- 
 tricate and perplexed far beyond the Gordian — " with frizzled 
 hair implicit" — round twig, branch, or bole. Not more than 
 half-a-dozen times of the forty that I may have been fast aloft — 
 I speak mainly of my noviciate — have I had to effect liberation 
 by sacrifice. 
 
 Seward. Pardon me, Mr. Talboys, for hinting that you 
 smacked off your tail-fly to-day — I knew it by the sound. 
 
 Talboys. The sound! No trusting to an uncertain sound, 
 Mr. Seward. Oh ! I did so once — but intentionally — the hook 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 95 
 
 had lost the barb — not a fish would it hold — so I whipped it 
 off, and on with a Professor. 
 
 Bullet. You lost one good fish in rather an awkward manner, 
 Mr. Talboys. 
 
 Talboys. I did — that metal minnow of yours came with a 
 splash within an inch of his nose — and no wonder he broke 
 me — nay, I believe it was the minnow that broke me — and 
 yet you can speak of my losing a good fish in rather an awkward 
 manner ! 
 
 North. It is melancholy to think that I have taught Young 
 Scotland to excel myself in all the Arts that adorn and dignify 
 life. Till I rose, Scotland was a barbarous country — 
 
 Talboys. Do say, nry dear sir, semi-civilized. 
 
 North. Now it heads the Nations — and I may set. 
 
 Talboys. And why should that be a melancholy thought, 
 sir ? 
 
 North. Oh, Talboys — National Ingratitude ! They are fast 
 forgetting the man who made them what they are — in a few 
 fleeting centuries the name of Christopher North will be in ob- 
 livion ! Would you believe it possible, gentlemen, that even 
 now, there are Scotsmen who never heard of the Fly that bears 
 the name of me, its inventor — Killing Kit ! 
 
 Butter. In Cornwall it is a household word. 
 
 Seward. And in all the Devons. 
 
 Butter. Men in Scotland who never heard the name of 
 North ! 
 
 North. Christopher North — who is he ? Who do you 
 mean by the Man of the Crutch ? — The Knight of the Knout ? 
 Better never to have been born than thus to be virtually dead. 
 
 Seward. Sir, be comforted — you are under a delusion — 
 Britain is ringing with your name. 
 
 North. Not that I care for noisy fame — but I do dearly 
 love thee still. 
 
yb CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Talboys. And you have it, sir — enjoy it and be thankful. 
 
 North. But it may be too still. 
 
 Talboys. My dear sir, what would you have ? 
 
 North. I taught you, Talboys, to play Chess — and now you 
 trumpet Staunton. 
 
 Talboys. Chess — where's the board? Let us have a game. 
 
 North. Drafts — and you quote Anderson and the Shepherd 
 Laddie. 
 
 Talboys. Mr. North, why so querulous ? 
 
 North. Where was the Art of Criticism ? Where Prose ? 
 Young Scotland owes all her Composition to me — buries me 
 in the earth — and then claims inspiration from heaven. 
 " How sharper than a Serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless 
 Child!" Peter — Peterkin — Pym — Stretch — where are your 
 lazinesses — clear decks. 
 
 " Away with Melancholy — 
 Nor doleful changes ring 
 On Life and human Folly, 
 But merrily, merrily sing — fal la!" 
 
 Buller. What a sweet pipe ! A single snatch of an old 
 song from you, sir — 
 
 North. Why are you glowering at me, Talboys ? 
 
 Talboys. It has come into my head, I know not how, to 
 ask you a question. 
 
 North. Let it be an easy one — for I am languid. 
 
 Talboys. Pray, sir, what is the precise signification of the 
 word "Classical?" 
 
 North. My dear Talboys, you seem to think that I have the 
 power of answering, off-hand, any and every question a first-rate 
 fellow chooses to ask me. Classical — classical ! Why, I should 
 say, in the first place — One and one other Mighty People — 
 Those, the Kings of Thought — These, the Kings of the Earth. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 97 
 
 Talboys. The Greeks — and Romans. 
 
 North. In the second place — 
 
 Talboys. Attend — do attend ; gentlemen. And I hope I 
 am not too much presuming on our not ancient friendship — 
 for I feel that a few hours on Lochawe-side give the privilege 
 of years — in suggesting that you will have the goodness to use 
 the metal nut-crackers; they are more euphonious than ivory 
 with walnuts. 
 
 North. In the second place — let me consider — Mr. Talboys 
 — I should say — in the second place — yes, I have it — a Cha- 
 racter of Art expressing itself by words : a mode — a mode of 
 Poetry and Eloquence — Fitness and Beauty. 
 
 Talboys. Thank you, sir. Fitness and Beauty. Anything 
 
 more 
 
 North. Much more. We think of the Greeks and Romans, 
 sir, as those in whom the Human Mind reached Superhuman 
 Power. 
 
 Talboys. Superhuman ? 
 
 North. We think so — comparing ourselves with them, we 
 cannot help it. In the Hellenic Wit, we suppose Genius and 
 Taste met at their height — the Inspiration Omnipotent — the 
 Instinct unerring! The creations of Greek Poetry l—Uoi^as — 
 a Making ! There the soul seems to be free from its chains — 
 happily self-lawed. " The Earth we pace" is there peopled 
 with divine forms. Sculpture was the human Form glorified — 
 deified. And as in marble, so in Song. Something common 
 — terrestrial — adheres to our being, and weighs us down. 
 They — the Hellenes — appear to us to have really walked — : as 
 we walk in our visions of exaltation — as if the Graces and the 
 Muses held sway over daily and hourly existence, and not alone 
 over work of Art and solemn occasion. No moral stain or im- 
 perfection can hinder them from appearing to us as the Light 
 9 
 
y» CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 of human kind. Singular, that in Greece we reconcile ourselves 
 to Heathenism. 
 
 Talboys. It may be that we are all Heathens at heart. 
 
 North. The enthusiast adores Greece — not knowing that 
 Greece monarchizes over him, only because it is a miraculous 
 mirror that resplendently and more beautifully reflects — him- 
 self— 
 
 " Divisque videbit 
 Permixtos Heroas, et Ipse videbitur illis." 
 
 Seward. Yery fine. 
 
 North. life of old, and long, long ago ! In the meek, 
 solemn, soul-stilling hush of Academic Bowers ! 
 
 Seward. The Isis ! 
 
 North. My youth returns. Come, spirits of the world that 
 has been ! Throw open the valvules of these your shrines, in 
 which you stand around me, niched side by side, in visible pre- 
 sence, in this cathedral-like library ! I read Historian, Poet, 
 Orator, Voyager — a life that slid silently away in shades, or 
 that bounded like a bark over the billows. I lift up the curtain 
 of all ages — I stand under all skies — on the Capitol — on the 
 Acropolis. Like that magician whose spirit, with a magical 
 word, could leave his own bosom to inhabit another, I take 
 upon myself every mode of existence. I read Thucydides, and 
 I would be a Historian — Demosthenes, and I would be an 
 orator — Homer, and I dread to believe myself called to be, in 
 some shape or other, a servant of the Muse. Heroes and 
 Hermits of Thought — Seers of the Invisible — Prophets of the 
 Ineffable — Hierophants of profitable mysteries — Oracles of the 
 Nations — Luminaries of that spiritual Heaven! I bid ye 
 hail ! 
 
 Butter. The fit is on him — he has not the slightest idea 
 that he is in Deeside. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 99 
 
 North. Ay — from the beginning a part of the race have 
 separated themselves from the dusty, and the dust-devoured, 
 turmoil of Action to Contemplation. Have thought — known 
 — worshipped! And such knowledge Books keep. Books 
 now crumbling like Towers and Pyramids — now outlasting 
 them ! Books that from age to age, and all the sections of 
 mankind helping, build up the pile of Knowledge — a trophied 
 Citadel. He who can read books as they should be read, 
 peruses the operation of the Creator in his conscious, and in 
 his unconscious Works, which yet we call upon to join, as if 
 conscious, in our worship. Yet why — oh ! why all this pains 
 to attain that, through the labor of ages, which in the dewy, 
 sunny prime of morn, one thrill of transport gives to me and 
 to the Lark alike, summoning, lifting both heavenwards ? Ah ! 
 perchance because the dewy, sunny prime does not last through 
 the day! Because light poured into the eyes, and sweet 
 breath inhaled, are not the whole of man's life here below — 
 and because there is an Hereafter ! 
 
 Seward. I know where he is, Buller. He called it well a 
 Cathedral-like Library. 
 
 North. The breath of departed years floats here for my 
 respiration. The pure air of heaven flows round about, but 
 enters not. The sunbeams glide in, bedimmed as if in some 
 haunt half-separated from Life, yet on our side of Death. 
 Recess, hardly accessible — profound — of which I, the sole in- 
 mate, held under an uncomprehended restraint, breathe, move, 
 and follow my own way and wise, apart from human mortals ! 
 Ye! tall, thick Volumes, that are each a treasure-house of 
 austere or blazing thoughts, which of you shall I touch with 
 sensitive fingers, of which violate the calmy austere repose? 
 I dread what I desire. You may disturb — you may destroy 
 me ! Knowledge pulsates in me, as I receive it, communing 
 with myself on my unquiet or tearful pillow — or as it visits 
 
100 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 me, brought on the streaming moonlight, or from the fields 
 afire with noon-splendor, or looking at me from human eyes, 
 and stirring round and around me in the tumult of men — Your 
 knowledge comes in a holy stillness and dullness, as if spelt 
 off tombstones. 
 
 Seward. Magdalen College Library, I do believe. Mr. 
 North — Mr. North — awake — awake — here we are all in Dee- 
 side. 
 
 North. Ay — ay — you say well, Seward. "Look at the 
 studies of the Great Scholar, and see from how many quarters 
 of the mind impulses may mingle to compose the motives that 
 bear him on with indefatigable strength in his laborious career." 
 
 Seward. These were not my very words, sir — 
 
 North. Ay, Seward, you say well. From how many in- 
 deed! First among the prime, that peculiar aptitude and 
 faculty, which may be called — a Taste and Genius for — 
 Words. 
 
 Buller. I rather failed there in the Schools. 
 
 North. Yet you were in the First Class. There is implied 
 in it, Seward, a readiness of logical discrimination in the Un- 
 derstanding, which apprehends the propriety of Words. 
 
 Buller. I got up my Logic passably and a little more. 
 
 North. For, Seward, the Thoughts, the Notions themselves 
 — must be distinctly dissevered in the mind, which shall exactly 
 apply to each Thought — Notion — its appropriate signs, its own 
 Word. 
 
 Bidler. You might as well have said "Buller" — for I beat 
 Seward in my Logic. 
 
 North. But even to this task, Seward, of rightly distin- 
 guishing the meaning of Words, more than a mere precision of 
 thinking — more than a clearness and strictness of the intel- 
 lectual action is requisite. 
 
 Bidler. And in Classics we were equal. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 101 
 
 North. You will be convinced of this, Buller, if you recol- 
 lect what Words express. The mind itself. For all its affec- 
 tions and sensibilities, Talboys, furnish a whole host of meanings, 
 which must have names in Language. For mankind do not 
 rest from enriching and refining their languages, until they 
 have made them capable of giving the representation of their 
 whole Spirit. 
 
 Talboys. The pupil of language, therefore, sir— pardon my 
 presumption— before he can recognize the appropriation of the 
 Sign, must recognize the thing signified? 
 
 North. And if the thing signified, Talboys, by the Word, 
 be some profound, solemn, and moral affection — or if it be 
 some wild, fanciful impression-^-or if it be some delicate shade 
 or tinge of a tender sensibility— -can anything be more evident 
 than that the Scholar must have experienced in himself the 
 solemn, or the wild, or the tenderly delicate feeling, before he 
 is in the condition of affixing the right and true sense to the 
 Word that expresses it ? 
 
 Talboys. I should think so, sir. 
 
 Seward. The Words of Man paint the spirit of Man. The 
 Words of a People depicture the Spirit of a people. 
 
 North. Well said, Seward. And, therefore, the Under- 
 standing that is to possess the Words of a language, in the 
 Spirit in which they were or are spoken and written, must, by 
 self-experience and sympathy, be able to converse, and have 
 conversed, with the Spirit of the People, now and of old. 
 
 Buller. And yet what coarse fellows hold up their dunder- 
 heads as Scholars, forsooth, in these our days ! 
 
 North. Hence it is an impossibility that a low and hard 
 moral nature should furnish a high and fine Scholar. The in- 
 tellectual endowments must be supported and made available 
 by the concurrence of the sensitive nature — of the moral and 
 the imaginative sensibilities. 
 
 9* 
 
102 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Buller. What moral and imaginative sensibilities have they 
 - — the blear-eyed — the purblind — the pompous and the pedantic ! 
 But we have some true scholars- — for example- 
 
 North. No names, Buller. Yes, Seward, the knowledge of 
 Words is the Gate of Scholarship. Therefore I lay down upon 
 the threshold of the Scholar's Studies this first condition of his 
 high and worthy success, that he will not pluck the loftiest 
 palm by means of acute, quick, clear, penetrating, sagacious, 
 intellectual faculties alone — let him not hope it : that he re- 
 quires to the highest renown also a capacious, profound, and 
 tender soul. 
 
 Seward. Ay, sir, and I say so in all humility, this at the 
 gateway, and upon the threshold. How much more when he 
 reads ! 
 
 North. Ay, Seward, you laid the emphasis well there — 
 reads. 
 
 Seward. When the written Volumes of Mind from different 
 and distant ages of the world, from its different and distant 
 climates, are successively unrolled before his insatiable sight 
 and his insatiable soul ! 
 
 Buller. Take all things in moderation. 
 
 North. No — not the sacred hunger and thirst of the soul. 
 
 Buller. Greed — give — give. 
 
 North. From what unknown recesses, from what unlocked 
 fountains in the depth of his own being, shall he bring into the 
 light of day the thoughts by means of which he shall under- 
 stand Homer, Pindar, JEschylus, Demosthenes, Plato, Aristotle 
 — discoursing ! Shall understand them, as the younger did 
 the elder — the cotemporaries did the cotemporaries — as each 
 sublime spirit understood — himself? 
 
 Buller. Did each sublime spirit always understand himself? 
 
 Talloys. Urge that, Mr. Buller. 
 
 North. So — and so only — to read, is to be a Scholar. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 103 
 
 Buller. Then I am none. 
 
 North, I did not say you were. 
 
 Buller. Thank you. What do you think of that, Mr. Tal- 
 boys? Address Seward, sir. 
 
 North. I address you all three. Is the student smitten 
 with the sacred love of Song? Is he sensible to the profound 
 allurement of philosophic truth ? Does he yearn to acquaint 
 himself with the fates and fortunes of his kind? All these 
 several desires are so many several inducements of learned study. 
 
 Buller. I understand that. 
 
 Talboijs. Ditto. 
 
 North. And another inducement to such study is — an ear 
 sensible to the Beauty of the Music of "Words — and the meta- 
 physical faculty of unraveling the causal process which the 
 human mind followed in imparting to a Word, originally the 
 sign of one Thought only, the power to signify a cognate second 
 Thought, which shall displace the first possessor and exponent, 
 usurp the throne, and rule for ever over an extended empire 
 in the minds, or the hearts, or the souls of men. 
 
 Buller. Let him have his swing, Mr. Talboys. 
 
 Talboys. He has it in that chair. 
 
 North. A Taste and a Genius for Words ! An ear for the 
 beautiful music of Words ! A happy justness in the percep- 
 tion of their strict proprieties ! A fine skill in apprehending 
 the secret relations of Thought with Thought — relations along 
 which the mind moves with creative power, to find out for its 
 own use, and for the use of all minds to come, some hitherto 
 uncreated expression of an idea — an image — a sentiment — a 
 passion ? These dispositions, and these faculties of the Scholar 
 in another Mind falling in with other faculties of genius, pro- 
 duce a student of a different name — The Poet. 
 
 Buller. Oh! my dear, dear sir, of Poetry we surely had 
 enough — I don't say more than enough — a few days ago, sir. 
 
104 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. Who is the Poet? 
 
 Butter. I beseech you let the Poet alone for this evening. 
 
 North. Well-— I will. I remember the time, Seward, when 
 there was a great clamor for a Standard of Taste. A definite 
 measure of the indefinite ! 
 
 Talboys. Which is impossible. 
 
 North. And there is a great clamor for a Standard of 
 Morals. A definite measure of the indefinite ! 
 
 Talboys. Which is impossible. 
 
 North. Why, gentlemen, the Faculty of Beauty lives; and 
 in finite beings, which we are, Life changes incessantly. The 
 Faculty of Moral Perception lives— and thereby it too changes 
 for better and for worse. This is the Divine Law — at once 
 encouraging and fearful — that Obedience brightens the moral 
 eyesight — Sin darkens. Let all men know this, and keep it 
 in mind always — that a single narrowest, simplest Duty, steadily 
 practiced day after day, does more to support, and may do 
 more to enlighten the soul of the Doer, than a course of Moral 
 Philosophy taught by a tongue which a soul compounded cT 
 Bacon, Spenser, Shakspeare, Homer, Demosthenes, and Burke 
 — to say nothing of Socrates, and Plato, and Aristotle, should 
 inspire. 
 
 Bailer. You put it strongly, sir. 
 
 Talboys. Undeniable doctrine. 
 
 North. Gentlemen, you will often find this question — u Is 
 there a. Standard of Taste?" inextricably confused with the 
 question u Is there a true and a false Taste ?" He who denies 
 the one seems to deny the other. In like manner, " Is there 
 a Bight and Wrong?" And "is there accessible to us an in- 
 fallible measure of Bight and Wrong" are two questions entirely 
 distinct, but often confused— for Logic fled the earth with 
 Astraea. 
 
 Talboys. She did. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 105 
 
 North. Talboys, you understand well enough the sense and 
 culture of the Beautiful? 
 
 Talboys. Something of it, perhaps I do. 
 
 North. To feel — to love — to be swallowed up in the spirit 
 and works of the Beautiful — in verse and in the visible Uni- 
 verse ! That is a life — an enthusiasm — a worship. You find 
 those who would if they could, and who pretend they can, 
 attain the same end at less cost. They have taken lessons, and 
 they will have their formalities go valid against their intuitions 
 of the dedicated soul. 
 
 Talboys. But the lessons perish — the dedicated soul is a 
 Power in all emergencies and extremities. 
 
 North. There are Pharisees of Beauty — and Pharisees of 
 Morality. 
 
 Seward. At this day spiritual Christians lament that nine- 
 tenths of Christians Judaize. 
 
 North. Nor without good reason. The Gospel is the 
 Standard of Christian Morality. That is unquestionable. It 
 is an authority without appeal, and under which undoubtedly 
 all matters, uncertain before, will fall. But pray mark this— 
 it is not a positive standard, in the ordinary meaning of that 
 word — it is not one of which our common human understanding 
 has only to require and to obtain the indications — which it has 
 only to apply and observe. 
 
 Seward. I see your meaning, sir. The Gospel refers all 
 moral intelligence to the Light of Love within our hearts. 
 Therefore, the very reading of the canons, of every prescriptive 
 line in it, must be by this light. 
 
 North. That is my meaning — but not my whole meaning, 
 dear Seward. For take it, as it unequivocally declares itself 
 to be, a Kevelation — not simply of instruction, committed now 
 and for ever to men in written human words, and so left — but 
 accompanied with a perpetual agency to enable Will and Un- 
 derstanding to receive it; and then it will follow, I believe, 
 
106 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 that it is at every moment intelligible and applicable in its full 
 sense, only by a direct and present inspiration — is it too much to 
 say — anew revealing itself? " They shall be taught of God." 
 
 Seward. So far, then, from the Christian Morality being 
 one of which the Standard is applicable by every Understanding, 
 with like result in given cases, it is one that is different to every 
 Christian in proportion to his obedience ? 
 
 North. Even so. I suppose that none have ever reached 
 the full understanding of it. It is an ever-growing illumination 
 — a light more and more unto the perfect day — which day I 
 suppose cannot be of the same life, in which we see as through 
 a glass darkly. 
 
 TaTboys. May I offer an illustration? The land shall de- 
 scend to the eldest son — you shall love your neighbor as your- 
 self. In the two codes these are foundation-stones. But see 
 how they differ? There is the land — here is the eldest son — 
 the right is clear and fast — and the case done with. But — do 
 to thy neighbor ? Do what ? and to whom ? 
 
 North. All human actions, all human affections, all human 
 thoughts are then contained in the one Law — as the subject of 
 which it defines the disposal. All mankind, but distributed 
 into communities, and individuals all differently related to 
 me, are contained in it, as the parties in respect of whom it 
 defines the disposal ! 
 
 Seward. And what is the Form ? Do as thou wouldst it 
 be done to thee ! 
 
 North. Ay — my dear friend — the form resolves into a 
 feeling. Love thy neighbor. That is all. Is a measure given ? 
 As thyself. 
 
 Setoard. And is there no limitation ? 
 
 North. By the whole apposition, thy love to thyself and 
 thy neighbor are both to be put together in subordination to, 
 and limitation and regulation by, thy Love to God. Love Him 
 utterly— infinitely- — with all thy mind, all thy heart, all thy 
 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 107 
 
 strength. This is the entire book or canon — the Standard. 
 How wholly indefinite and formless to the Understanding! 
 How full of light and form to the believing and loving Heart ! 
 
 Seicard. The Moon is up — how calm the night after all 
 that tempest — and how steady the Stars ! Images of enduring 
 peace in the heart of nature — and of man. They, too, are a 
 Revelation. 
 
 North, They, too, are the legible Book of God. Try to 
 conceive how different the World must be to its rational inha- 
 bitant — with or without a Maker ! Think of it as a soulless — 
 will-less World. In one sense, it abounds as much with good 
 to enjoy. But there is no good-giver. The banquet spread, 
 but the Lord of the Mansion away. The feast — and neither 
 grace nor welcome. The heaped enjoyment, without the 
 gratitude. 
 
 Seicard. Yet there have been Philosophers who so mis- 
 believed. 
 
 North. Alas ! there have been — and alas ! there are. And 
 what low souls must be theirs ! The tone and temper of our 
 feelings are determined by the objects with which we habitually 
 converse. If we see beautiful scenes, they impart serenity — if 
 sublime scenes, they elevate us. Will no serenity, no elevation 
 come from contemplating Him, of whose Thought the Beautiful 
 and the Sublime are but shadows ! 
 
 Seward. No sincere or elevating influence be lost out of a 
 World out of which He is lost ? 
 
 North. Now we look upon Planets and Suns, and see Intel- 
 ligence ruling them — on Seasons that succeed each other, and 
 we apprehend Design — on plant and animal fitted to its place 
 in the world, and furnished with its due means of existence, 
 and repeated for ever in its kind — and we admire Wisdom. 
 Oh ! Atheist or Skeptic ! — what a difference to Us if the mar- 
 vellous Laws are here without a Lawgiver — if Design be here 
 
108 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 without a Designer — all the Order that wisdom could mean 
 and effect, and not the Wisdom — if Chance, or Necessity, or 
 Fate reigns here, and not Mind — if this Universe is matter of 
 Astonishment merely, and not of adoration ! 
 
 Seward. We are made better, nobler, sir, by the society of 
 the good and the noble. Perhaps of ourselves unable to think 
 high thoughts, and without the bold warmth that dares gene- 
 rously, we catch by degrees something of the mounting spirit, 
 and of the ardor proper to the stronger souls with whom we 
 live familiarly, and become sharers and imitators of virtues to 
 which we could not have given birth. The devoted courage of 
 a leader turns his followers into heroes — the patient death of 
 one martyr inflames in a thousand slumbering bosoms a zeal 
 answering to his own. And shall Perfect Goodness contem- 
 plated move no goodness in us? Shall His Holiness and Purity 
 raise in us no desire to be holy and pure ? — His infinite Love 
 towards His creatures kindle no spark of love in us towards 
 our fellow-creatures ? 
 
 North. G-od bless you, my dear Seward — but you speak 
 well. Our fellow-creatures ! The name, the binding title, dis- 
 solves in air, if He is not our common Creator. Take away 
 that bond of relationship among men, and according to circum- 
 stances they confront one another as friends or foes — but 
 Brothers no longer — if not children of one Celestial Father. 
 
 Talboys. And if they no longer have immortal souls ! 
 
 North. Oh ! my friends ! — if this winged and swift life be all 
 our life, what a mournful taste have we had of possible happi- 
 ness? AYe have, as it were, from some dark and cold edge of 
 a bright world, just looked in and been plucked away again? 
 Have we come to experience pleasure by fits and glimpses; but 
 intertwined with pain, burdensome labor, with weariness, and 
 with indifference ? Have we come to try the solace and joy of 
 a warm, fearless, and confiding affection, to be then chilled or 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 109 
 
 blighted by bitterness, by separation, by change of heart, or by 
 the dread sunderer of loves — Death ? Have we found the glad- 
 ness and the strength' of knowledge, when some rays of truth 
 have flashed in upon our souls, in the midst of error and un- 
 certainty, or amidst continuous, necessitated, uninstructive avo- 
 cations of the Understanding— and is that all? Have we felt in 
 fortunate hour the charm of the Beautiful, that invests, as with 
 a mantle, this visible Creation, or have we found ourselves 
 lifted above the earth by sudden apprehension of sublimity? 
 Plave we had the consciousness of such feelings, which have 
 seemed to us as if they might themselves make up a life — 
 almost an angel's life — and were they " instant come and instant 
 gone T" Have we known the consolation of Doing Eight, in 
 the midst of much that we have done wrong ? and was that 
 also a coruscation of a transient sunshine ? Have we lifted up 
 our thoughts to see Him who is Love, and Light, and Truth, 
 and Bliss, to be in the next instant plunged into the darkness 
 of annihilation I Have all these things been but flowers that 
 wo have pulled by the side of a hard and tedious way, and that, 
 after gladdening us for a brief season with hue and odor, wither 
 in our hands, and are like ourselves — nothing ? 
 
 Bailer. I love you, sir, better and better every day. 
 
 North. We step the earth — we look abroad over it, and it 
 seems immense — so does the sea. What ages had men lived— 
 and knew but a small portion. They circumnavigate it now 
 with a speed under which its vast bulk shrinks. But let the 
 astronomer lift up his glass and he learns to believe in a total 
 mass of matter, compared with which this great globe itself 
 becomes an imponderable grain of dust. And so to each of us 
 walking along the road of life, a year, a day, or an hour shall 
 seem long. As we grow older, the time shortens ; but when 
 we lift up our eyes to look beyond this earth, our seventy 
 years, and the few thousands of years which have rolled over 
 10 
 
110 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 the human race, vanish into a point ; for then we are measuring 
 Time against Eternity. 
 
 Talboys. And if we can find ground for believing that this 
 quickly-measured span of Life is hut the beginning — the dim 
 daybreak of a Life immeasurable, never attaining to its night 
 — what weight shall we any longer allow to the cares, fears, 
 toils, troubles, afflictions — which here have sometimes bowed 
 down our strength to the ground — a burden more than we 
 could bear. 
 
 North. They then all acquire a new character. That they 
 are then felt as transitory must do something towards lightening 
 their load. But more is disclosed in them ; for they then 
 appear as having an unsuspected worth and use. If this life 
 be but the beginning of another, then it may be believed that 
 the accidents and passages thereof have some bearing upon the 
 conditions of that other, and we learn to look on this as a state 
 of Probation. Let us out, and look at the sky. 
 
DIES BOIIEALES 
 
 No. III. 
 
 Scene — Gutta Percha. 
 
 Time — Early Evening. 
 
 North — Bulle'r — Seward — Talboys. 
 
 North. Trim — trim — trim — 
 
 Talboys. Gentlemen, are you all seated? 
 
 North. Why into such strange vagaries fall as you would 
 dance, Longfellow ? Seize his skirts, Seward. Buller, cling to 
 his knees. Billy, the boat hook — he will be — he is — over- 
 board. 
 
 Talboys. Not at all. G-utta Percha is somewhat crank — 
 and I am steadying her, sir. 
 
 North. What is that round your waist ? 
 
 Talboys. My Air-girdle. 
 
 North. I insist upon you dropping it, Longman. It makes 
 you reckless. I did not think you were such a selfish cha- 
 racter. 
 
 Talboys. Alas ! in this world, how are our noblest inten- 
 tions misunderstood ! I put it on, sir, that, in case of a capsize, 
 I might more buoyantly bear you ashore. 
 
112 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. Forgive me, my friend. But — be seated. Our 
 craft is but indifferently well adapted to the gallopade. Be 
 seated, I beseech you ! Or if you will stand, do plant both feet 
 — do not — do not alternate so — and above all do not, I implore 
 you — show off on one, as if you were composiDg and reciting 
 verses — There, down you are — and if there be not a hole in 
 her bottom, Gutta Percha is safe against all the hidden rocks 
 in Loch Awe. 
 
 Talboys. Let me take the stroke oar. 
 
 North. For sake of the ancient houses of the Sewards and 
 the Bullers, sit where you are. We are already in four fathom 
 water. 
 
 Talboys. The Lines. 
 
 Billy. Nea, nea — Mister Talboy. Nane shall steer Perch 
 when He's afloat, but t'auld commodore. 
 
 North. Shove off, lads. 
 
 Talboys. Are we on earth, or in heaven ? 
 
 Billy. On t' water. 
 
 North. Billy — mum. 
 
 Talboys. The Heavens are high — and they are deep. Fear 
 would rise up from that Profound, if fear there could be in the 
 perfectly Beautiful ! 
 
 Seward. Perhaps there is — though it wants a name. 
 
 North. We know there is no danger — and therefore we 
 should feel no fear. But we cannot wholly disencumber our- 
 selves of the emotions that ordinarily great depth inspires — and 
 verily I hold with Seward, while thus we hang over the sky- 
 abyss below with suspended oars. 
 
 Seward. The Ideal rests on the Real — Imagination on 
 Memory — and the Visionary, at its utmost, still retains relations 
 with Truth. 
 
 Buller. Pray you to look at our Encampment. Nothing 
 visionary there — 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 113 
 
 Talboys. Which Encampment? 
 
 Buller. On the hill-side — up yonder — at Cladich. 
 
 Talboys. You should have said so at first. I thought you 
 meant that other down — 
 
 Buller. When I speak to you, I mean the bona fide flesh 
 and blood Talboys, sitting by the side of the bona fide flesh and 
 blood Christopher North, in Gutta Percha, and not that some- 
 what absurd, and, I trust, ideal personage, standing on his head 
 in the water, or it may be the air, some fathoms below her keel 
 — like a pearl-diver. 
 
 Talboys. Put up your hands — so — my dear Mr. North, and 
 frame the picture. 
 
 North. And Maculloch not here! Why the hills behind 
 Cladich, that people call tame, make a background that no art 
 might meliorate. Cultivation climbs the green slopes, and 
 overlays the green hill-ridges, while higher up all is rough, 
 brown, heathery, rocky — and behind that undulating line, for 
 the first time in my life, I see the peaks of mountains. From 
 afar they are looking at the Tents. And far off as they are* 
 the power of that Sycamore Grove connects them with our 
 Encampment. 
 
 Talboys. Are you sure, sir, they are not clouds ? 
 
 North. If clouds, so much the better. If mountains, they 
 deserve to be clouds ; and if clouds, they deserve to be moun- 
 tains. 
 
 Seward. The long broad shadow of the Grove tames the 
 white of the Tents — tones it-^-reduces it into harmony with the 
 surrounding color — into keeping with the brown huts of the 
 villagers, clustering on bank and brae on both sides of the 
 hollow river. 
 
 North. The cozey Inn itself from its position is picturesque. 
 
 Talboys. The Swiss Giantess looks imposing — 
 10* 
 
114 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Butter. So does the Van. But Deeside is the Pandemo- 
 nium — 
 
 Tatboys. Well translated by Paterson in his Notes on Mil- 
 ton, "All-Devil's-Hall." 
 
 North. Hush. And how lovely the foreground! Sloping 
 upland— with single trees standing one by one, at distances 
 wide enough to allow to each its own little grassy domain — with 
 its circle of bracken or broom — or its own golden gorse grove 
 — divided by the sylvan course of the hidden river itself, visi- 
 ble only when it glimpses into the Lock — Here, friends, we 
 seem to see the united occupations of pastoral, agricultural — 
 and — 
 
 Butter. Pardon me, sir, I have a proposition to make. 
 
 North. You might have waited a moment till — 
 
 Butter. Not a moment. We all Four see the background 
 — and the middle-ground and the foreground — and all the 
 ground round and about — and all the islands and their shadows 
 — and all the mountains and theirs — and, towering high above 
 all, that Cruachan of yours, who I firmly believe, is behind us 
 — though 'twould twist my neck now to get a vizzy of him. 
 No use then in describing all that lies within the visible hori- 
 zon — there it is — let us enjoy it and be thankful — and let us 
 talk this evening of whatever may happen to come into our re- 
 spective heads — and I beg leave to add, sir, with all reverence, 
 let's have fair play — let no single man — young or old — take 
 more than his own lawful share — 
 
 North. Sir? 
 
 Butter. And let the subject of angling be tabooed — and all 
 its endless botheration about baskets and rods, and reels and 
 tackle — salmon, sea-trout, yellow-fin, perch, pike, and the Ferox 
 — and no drivel about Deer and Eagles — 
 
 North. Sir? What's the meaning of all this — Seward, say 
 —tell Talboys. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 115 
 
 Buller. And let each man on opening his mouth be timed 
 — and let it be two-minute time — and let me be time-keeper — 
 but, in consideration of your years and habits, and presidency, 
 let time to you, sir, be extended to two minutes and thirty 
 seconds — and let us all talk time about — and let no man seek to 
 nullify the law by talking at railway rate — and let no man who 
 waives his right of turn, however often, think to make up for 
 the loss by claiming quarter of an hour afterwards — and that, 
 too, perhaps at the smartest of the soiree — and let there be no 
 contradiction, either, round, flat, or angular — and let no man 
 speak about what he understands — that is, has long studied and 
 made himself master of — for that w.ould be giving him an unfair 
 — I had almost said — would be taking a mean advantage — and 
 let no man — 
 
 North. Why, the mutiny at the Nore was nothing to this. 
 
 Buller. Lord High Admiral though you be, sir, you must 
 obey the laws of the service — 
 
 North. I see how it is. 
 
 Buller. How is it? 
 
 North. But it will soon wear off — that's the saving virtue 
 of Champagne. 
 
 Butter. Champagne, indeed ! Small Beer, smaller than the 
 smallest size. You have not the heart, sir, to give Champagne. 
 
 North. We had better put about, gentlemen, and go ashore. 
 
 Butter. My ever honored, long revered sir ! I have got 
 intoxicated on our Teetotal debauchery. The fumes of the 
 water have gone to my head — and I need but a few drops of 
 brandy to set me all right. Billy — the flask. There — I am 
 as sober as a Judge. 
 
 North. Ay, 'tis thus, Buller, you wise wag, that you would 
 let the "old man garrulous" into the secret of his own tenden- 
 cies — too often unconscious he of the powers that have set so 
 
116 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 many asleep. I accept the law — but let it — do let it be three- 
 minute time. 
 
 Buller. Five — ten— twenty — "with thee conversing, I for- 
 get all time." 
 
 North. Strike medium — Ten. 
 
 Buller. My dear sir, for a moment let me have that Spy- 
 glass. 
 
 North. I must lay it down — for a Bevy of Fair Women are 
 on the Mount — and are brought so near that I hear them laugh- 
 ing — especially the Prima Donna, whose Glass is in dangerous 
 proximity with my nose. 
 
 Buller. Fling her a kiss ; sir. 
 
 North. There — and how prettily she returns it ! 
 
 Buller. Happy old man ! Go where you will — 
 
 Talboys. Ulysses and the Syrens. Had he my air-girdle, 
 he would swim ashore. 
 
 North. u Oh, mihi prseteritos referat si Jupiter annos V- 
 
 Talboys. The words are regretful — but there is no regret 
 in the voice that syllables them — it is clear as a bell ; and as 
 gladsome. 
 
 North. Talking of kissing, I hear one of the most melodious 
 songs that ever flowed from lady's lip — 
 
 "The current that with gentle motion glides, 
 Thou knowest, being stopped, impatiently doth rage ; 
 But when his fair course is not hindered, 
 He makes sweet music with the enameled stones, 
 Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 
 He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; 
 And so by many winding nooks he strays 
 With willing sport to the wild ocean." 
 
 Is it not perfect? 
 
 Seicard. It is. Music — Painting, and Poetry. 
 Buller. Sculpture and Architecture. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 117 
 
 North. Buller, you're a blockhead. Dear Mr. Alison, in 
 his charming Essays on Taste, finds a little fault in what seems 
 to me a great beauty in this one of the sweetest passages in 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Boiler. Sweetest, That's a miss-mollyish word. 
 
 North. Ass. One of the sweetest passages in Shakspeare. 
 He finds fault with the Current kissing the Sedges. "The 
 pleasing personification which we attribute to a brook is founded 
 upon the faint belief of voluntary motion, and is immediately 
 checked when the Poet descends to any minute or particular 
 resemblance." 
 
 Seward. Descends ! 
 
 North. The word, to my ear, does sound strangely; and 
 though his expression, "faint belief," is a true and a fine one, 
 yet here the doctrine does not apply. Nay, here we have a 
 true notion inconsiderately misapplied. Without doubt Poets 
 of more wit than sensibility do follow on a similitude beyond 
 the suggestion of the contemplated subject. But the rippling 
 of water against a sedge suggests a kiss — is, I believe, a kiss — 
 liquid, soft, loving, lipped. 
 
 Buller. Beautiful. 
 
 North. Buller, you are a fellow of fine taste. Compare the 
 whole catalogue of metaphorical kisses — admitted and claimable 
 — and you will find this one of the most natural of them all. 
 Pilgrimage, in Shakspeare's day, had clropt, in the speech of 
 our Poets, from its early religious propriety, of seeking a holy 
 place under a vow, into a roving of the region. See his u Pas- 
 sionate Pilgrim." If Shakspeare found the word so far gene- 
 ralized, then "wanderer through the woods," or plains, or 
 through anything else, is the suggestion of the beholding. The 
 river is more, indeed; being, like the pilgrim, on his way to a 
 term, and an obliged way — " the wild ocean." 
 
 Seicard. The "faint belief of voluntary motion" — Mr. 
 
118 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Alison's fine phrase — is one, and possibly the grounding incen- 
 tive to impersonating the " current" here ; but other elements 
 enter in j liquidity — transparency — which suggests a spiritual 
 nature, and Beauty which moves Love. 
 
 North,. Ay, and the Poets of that age, in the fresher alac- 
 rity of their fancy, had a justification of comparisons, which do 
 not occur as promptly to us, nor, when presented to us, delight 
 so much as they would, were our fancy as alive as theirs. You 
 might suspect, a priori, Ovid, Cowley, and Dryden, as likely to 
 be led by indulgence of their ingenuity into passionless simili- 
 tudes — and you may misdoubt even that Shakspeare was in dan- 
 ger of being so run away with. But let us have clear and un- 
 equivocal instances. This one assuredly is not of the number. 
 It is exquisite. 
 
 Talboys. Mr. Alison, I presume to think, sir, should either 
 have quoted the whole speech, or kept the whole in view, when 
 animadverting on those two lines about the kissing Pilgrim. 
 Julia, a Lady of Verona, beloved by Proteus, is only half-done 
 — and now she comes — to herself. 
 
 " Then let me go, and hinder not my course ; 
 I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, 
 And make a pastime of each weary step, 
 Till the last step have brought me to my love; 
 And there I'll rest, as, after much turmoil, 
 A blessed soul doth in Elysium." 
 
 The language of Shakspeare's Ladies is not the language we 
 hear in real life. I wish it were. Real life would then be 
 delightful indeed. Julia is privileged to be poetical far beyond 
 the usage of the very best circles — far beyond that of any mor- 
 tal creatures. For the G-od Shakspeare has made her and all 
 her kin poetical — and if you object to any of the lines, you 
 must object to them all. Eminently beautiful, sir, they are; 
 and their beauty lies in the passionate, imaginative spirit that 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 119 
 
 pervades the whole, and sustains the Similitude throughout, 
 without a moment's flagging of the fancy, without a moment's 
 departure from the truthfulness of the heart. 
 
 North. Talboys, I thank you — you are at the root. 
 
 Seward. A wonderful thing — altogether — is Impersona- 
 tion. 
 
 North. It is indeed. If we would know the magnitude of 
 the dominion which the disposition constraining us to imper- 
 sonate has exercised over the human mind, we should have to 
 go back unto those ages of the world when it exerted itself, un- 
 controlled by philosophy, and in obedience to religious impulses 
 — when Impersonations of Natural Objects and Powers, of 
 31 oral Powers and of Notions entertained by the Understanding, 
 filled the Temples of the Nations with visible Deities, and were 
 worshiped with altars and incense, hymns and sacrifices. 
 
 £ idler. Was ever before such disquisition begotten by — an 
 imaginary kiss among the Sedges ! 
 
 North. Hold your tongue, Buller. But if you wsuld see 
 how hard this dominion is to eradicate, look to the most civil- 
 ized and enlightened times, when severe Truth has to the ut- 
 most cleansed the Understanding of illusions — and observe 
 how tenaciously these imaginary Beings, endowed with imagi- 
 nary life, hold their place in our Sculpture, Painting, and 
 Poetry, and Eloquence — nay, in our common and quiet speech. 
 
 Seward. It is all full of them. The most prosaic of prosers 
 uses poetical language without knowing it — and Poets without 
 knowing to what extent and degree. 
 
 North. Ay, Seward, and were we to expatiate in the walks 
 of the profounder emotions, we should sometimes be startled by 
 the sudden apparitions of boldly impersonated Thoughts, upon 
 occasions that did not seem to promise them — where you might 
 have thought that interests of overwhelming moment would 
 have effectually banished the play of imagination. 
 
120 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Talboys. Shakspeare is justified, then — and the Lady Julia 
 spoke like a Lady in Love with all nature — and with Proteus. 
 
 Butter. A most "beautiful day is this indeed — but it is a 
 Puzzler. 
 
 " The Swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
 Floats double, Swan and Shadow;" 
 
 But here all the islands float double — and all the castles and 
 abbeys — and all the hills and mountains — and all the clouds 
 and boats and men — double, did I say — triple — quadruple — 
 we are here, and there, and everywhere, and nowhere, all at 
 the same moment. Inishail, I have you — no — Grutta Percha 
 slides over you, and you have no material existence. Very 
 well. 
 
 Seward. Is there no house on Inishail? 
 
 North. Not one — but the house appointed for all living. 
 A Burial-place. I see it — but not one of you — -for it is little 
 noticeable, and seldom used — on an average, one funeral in the 
 year. Forty years ago I stepped into a small snuff- shop in the 
 Saltmarket, Glasgow, to replenish my shell — and found my 
 friend was from Lochawe-side. I asked him if he often revisited 
 his native shore, and he answered — seldom, and had not for a 
 long time— but that though his lot did not allow him to live 
 there, he hoped to be buried in Inishail. We struck up a 
 friendship — his snuff was good, and so was his whisky, for it 
 was unexcised. A few years ago, trolling for Feroces, I met a 
 boat with a coffin, and in it the body of the old tobacconist. 
 
 Seward. " The Churchyard among the Mountains," in 
 Wordsworth's Excursion, is alone sufficient for his immortality 
 on earth. 
 
 North.— It is. So for Gray's is his Elegy. But some 
 hundred and forty lines in all — no more — yet how compre- 
 hensive — how complete ! " In a Country Churchyard I" Every 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 121 
 
 generation there buries the whole hamlet — which is much the 
 same as burying the whole world — or a whole world. 
 Seward. 
 
 " The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep !" 
 All Peasants — diers and mourners ! Utmost simplicity of all 
 belonging to life — utmost simplicity of all belonging to death. 
 Therefore, universally affecting. 
 North. Then the — Grayishness. 
 Butter. The what, sir? 
 
 Xortli. The Grayishness. The exquisite scholarship, and 
 the high artifice of the words and music — yet all in perfect 
 adaptation to the scene and its essential character. Is there not 
 in that union and communion of the solemn-profound, and the 
 delicate- exquisite, something Cathedral-like? Which has the 
 awe and infinitude of Deity and Eternity, and the prostrations 
 and aspirations of adoration for its basis — expressed in the gene- 
 ral structure and forms; and all this meeting and blent into 
 the minute and fine elaboration of the ornaments ? Like the 
 odors that steal and creep on the soft, moist, evening air, 
 whilst the dim hush of the Universal Temple dilates and elates. 
 The least and the greatest in one. Why not? Is not that 
 spiritual — angelical — divine ! The least is not too exiguous for 
 apprehension — the amplest exceeds not comprehension — and 
 their united power is felt when not understood. I speak, Sew- 
 ard, of that which might be suggested for a primary fault in the 
 Elegy — the contrast of the most artful, scholarly style, and the 
 simple, rude, lowly, homely matter. But you shall see that every 
 fancy seizes, and every memory holds especially those verses 
 and wordings which bring out this contrast — that richest line — 
 
 " The breezy call of incense-breathing morn !"' 
 is felt to be soon followed well by that simplest — 
 
 "No more shall ronse them from their lowly bed" — 
 11 
 
122 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 where — I take " lowly" to imply low in earth — humbly turfed 
 or flowered — and of the lowly. 
 
 Seward. And so, sir, the pomp of a Cathedral is described, 
 though a village Church alone is in presence. So Milton, Crom- 
 well, and other great powers are set in array — that which these 
 were not, against that which those were. 
 
 North. Yet hear Dr. Thomas Brown — an acute metaphysi- 
 cian — but an obtuse critic — and no Poet at all. "The two 
 images in this stanza ('Full many a gem/ &c.) certainly produce 
 very different degrees of poetical delight. That which is bor- 
 rowed from the rose blooming in solitude pleases in a very high 
 degree, both as it contains a just and beautiful similitude, and 
 still more as the similitude, is one of the most likely to have 
 arisen in such a situation. But the simile in the first two lines 
 of the stanza, though it may perhaps philosophically be as just, 
 has no other charm, and strikes us immediately as not the na- 
 tural suggestion of such a moment and such a scene. To a per- 
 son moralizing amid a simple Churchyard, there is perhaps no 
 object that would not sooner have occurred than this piece of 
 minute jewelry — <a gem of purest ray serene, in the un- 
 fathomed caves of ocean.' " 
 
 Seward. A person moralizing ! He forgot that person was 
 Thomas Gray. And he never knew what you have told us 
 now. 
 
 North. Why, my dear Seward, the G-em is the recognized 
 most intense expression, from the natural world, of worth — 
 inestimable priceless price — dependent on rarity and beauty. 
 The Flower is a like intense expression, from the same world, 
 of the power to call forth love. The first image is felt by every 
 reader to be high, and exalting its object; the second to be 
 tender, and openly pathetic. Of course it moves more, and of 
 course it comes last. The Poet has just before spoken of Mil- 
 ton and Cromwell — of bards and kings — and history with all 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 123 
 
 her wealth. Is the transition violent from these objects to 
 Gems? He is moved by, but he is not bound to, the scene and 
 time. His own thoughts emancipate. Brown seems utterly 
 to have forgotten that the Poet himself is the Dramatic person 
 of the Monologue. Shall he be restricted from using the rich- 
 ness and splendor of his own thoughts ? That one stanza sums 
 up the two or three preceding — and is perfectly attuned to the 
 reigning mood, temper, or pathos. 
 
 Bailer. Thank you, gentlemen. The Doctor is done brown. 
 
 North. 
 
 "The paths of glory lead but to the grave! 
 
 Methinks I could read you a homily on that Text. 
 
 Buller. To-morrow, sir, if you please. To-morrow is Sun- 
 day — and you may read it to us as we glide to Divine Service 
 at Dalmally — two of us to the Established and two of us to the 
 Free Kirk. 
 
 North. Be it so. But you will not be displeased with me 
 for quoting now, from heart-memory, a single sentence on the 
 great line, from Beattie, and from Adam Fergusson. " It pre- 
 sents to the imagination a wide plain, where several roads ap- 
 pear, crowded with glittering multitudes, and issuing from dif- 
 ferent quarters, but drawing nearer and nearer as they advance, 
 till they terminate in a dark and narrow house, where all their 
 glories enter in succession, and disappear for ever." 
 
 Seward. Thank you, sir. That is Beattie? 
 
 North. It is. Fergusson' s memorable words are — "If from 
 this we are disposed to collect any inference adverse to the pur- 
 suits of glory, it may be asked whither do the paths of igno- 
 miny lead ? If to the grave, also, then our choice of a life re- 
 mains to be made on the grounds of its intrinsic value, without 
 regard to an end which is common to every station of life we 
 can lead, whether illustrious or obscure." 
 
124 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Seward. Very fine. Who says it ? Fergusson — who was 
 he? 
 
 North. The best of you Englishers are intolerably ignorant 
 about Scotland. Do you know the Eev. John Mitford? 
 
 Seward. I do — and have for him the greatest respect. 
 
 North. So have I. He is one of our best editors — as Pick- 
 ering is one of our best Publishers of the Poets. But I am 
 somewhat doubtful of the truthfulness of his remarks on the 
 opening of the Elegy, in the Appendix to his excellent Life of 
 Gray. " The Curfew 'toll' is not the appropriate word — it was 
 not a slow bell tolling for the dead." 
 
 Seward. True enough, not for the dead — but Gray then 
 felt as if it were for the dying — and chose to say so — the~ part- 
 ing day. Was it quick and "merry as a marriage-bell ?" I 
 can't think it — nor did Milton, " swinging slow with sullen 
 roar." Gray was II Penseroso. Prospero calls it the " solemn 
 curfew." Toll is right. 
 
 North. But, says my friend Mitford, "there is another error, 
 a confusion of time. The curfew tolls, and the ploughman re- 
 turns from work. Now the ploughman returns two or three 
 hours before the curfew rings ; and ' the glimmering landscape' 
 has 'long ceased to fade' before the curfew. The 'parting day' 
 is also incorrect ; the day had long finished. But if the word 
 Curfew is taken simply for ' the Evening Bell,' then also is the 
 time incorrect — and a hnell is not tolled for the parting, but 
 for the parted — 'and leaves the world to darkness and to me.' 
 'Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.' Here the 
 incidents, instead of being progressive, fall back, and make the 
 picture confused and inharmonious; especially as it appears 
 soon after that it was not dark. For ' the moping owl does to 
 the moon complain.' " 
 
 Seward. Pardon me, sir, I cannot venture to answer all that 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 125 
 
 — but if Mitford be right, Gray must be very wrong indeed. 
 Let me see — -give us it over again— sentence by sentence — 
 
 Buller. No — no — no. Once is enough — and enough is as 
 good as a feast. 
 
 North. Talboys? 
 
 Talboys. Since you have a great respect for Mr. Mitford, 
 sir, so have I. But hitherto I have been a stranger to his 
 merits. 
 
 Seward. The best of you Scottishers are intolerably igno- 
 rant about England. 
 
 Talhoys. In the first place, Mr. North, when does the 
 Curfew toll, or ring ? — for hang me if I remember — or rather 
 ever knew. And in the second place, when does the Evening 
 Bell give tongue? — for hang me if I am much better informed 
 as to his motions. Yet I should know something of the family 
 of the Bells. Say — eight o'clock. Well. It is summer-time, 
 I suppose ; for you cannot believe that so dainty a person in 
 health and habits, as the Poet Gray, would write an Elegy in 
 a Country Churchyard in winter, and well on towards night. 
 True, that is a way of speaking ; he did not write it with his 
 crow-quill, in his neat hand, on his neat vellum, on the only 
 horizontal tomb-stone. But in the Churchyard he assumes to 
 sit — probably under a Plane-tree, for sake of the congenial 
 Gloom. Season of the year ascertained — Summer — time of 
 Curfew — eight — then I can find no fault with the Ploughman. 
 He comes in well — either as an image or a man. He must 
 have been an honest, hard-working fellow, and worth the high- 
 est wages going between the years 1745 and 1750. At what 
 hour do ploughmen leave the stilts in Cambridgeshire? We 
 must not say at six. Different hours • in different counties, 
 Buller. 
 
 Buller. Go on — all's right, Talboys. 
 Talboys. It is not too much to believe that Hodge did not 
 11* 
 
126 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 grudge, occasionally, a half hour over, to a good master. Then 
 he had to stable his horses — Star and Smiler — rub them down 
 — bed them — fill rack and manger — -water them — make sure 
 their noses were in the oats — lock the stable before the nags 
 were stolen— and then, and not till then, 
 
 "The Ploughman homeward plods his weary way." 
 
 For he does not sleep on the Farm — he has a wife and small 
 family — that is, a large family of smallish children — in a Ham- 
 let, at least two miles off — and he does not walk for a wager of 
 a flitch of bacon and barrel of beer — but for his accustomed 
 rasher and a jug — and such endearments as will restore his 
 weariness up to the proper pitch for a sound night's sleep. God 
 bless him ! 
 
 Buller. Shorn of your beams, Mr. North eclipsed. 
 
 Talboys. The ploughman, then, does not return "two or 
 three hours before the curfew rings." Nor has "the glimmer- 
 ing landscape long ceased to fade before the curfew." Nor is 
 "the parting day incorrect." Nor "has the day long finished." 
 Nor, when it may have finished, or may finish, can any man in 
 the hamlet, during all that gradual subsiding of light and sound, 
 take upon him to give any opinion at all. 
 
 North. My boy, Talboys. 
 
 Talboys. "And leave the world to darkness and to me." 
 Ay — into his hut goes the ploughman, and leaves the world 
 and me to darkness — which is coming — but not yet come — the 
 Poet knows it is coming — near at hand its coming glooms; and 
 Darkness shows her divinity as she is preparing to mount her 
 throne. 
 
 North. Nothing can be better. 
 
 Talboys. < u Now fades the glimmering landscape on the 
 sight.' Here the incident, instead of being progressive, falls 
 back, and makes the picture confused and inharmonious." 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 127 
 
 Confused and inharmonious ? By no manner of means. Nothing 
 of the sort. There is no retrogression — -the day has been un- 
 willing to die — cannot believe she is dying — and cannot think 
 'tis for her the curfew is tolling; but the Poet feels it is even 
 so; the glimmering and the fading, beautiful as they are, are 
 sure symptoms — she is dying into Evening, and Evening will 
 soon be the dying into Night; but to the Poet's eye how beau- 
 tiful the transmutations ! Nor knows he that the Moon has 
 arisen, till, at the voice of the night-bird, he looks up the ivied 
 church-tower, and there she is, whether full, waning, or cres- 
 cent, there are not data for the Astronomer to declare. 
 
 North. My friend Mr. Mitford says of the line, "No more 
 shall rouse them from their lowly bed" — That "here the epi- 
 thet lowly, as applied to bed, occasions an ambiguity, as to 
 whether the Poet means the bed on which they sleep, or the 
 grave in which they are laid;" and he adds, "there can be no 
 greater fault in composition than a doubtful meaning." 
 
 Talboys. There cannot be a more touching beauty. Lowly 
 applies to both. From their lowly bed in their lowly dwellings 
 among the quick, those joyous sounds used to awaken them; 
 from their lowly bed in their lowly dwellings among the dead, 
 those joyous sounds will awaken them never more : but a sound 
 will awaken them when He comes to judge both the quick and 
 the dead ; and for them there is Christian hope — from 
 
 " Many a holy text around them strewed 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die." 
 
 North. 
 
 " Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe hath broke; 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke !" 
 
 This stanza— says Mr. Mitford — "is made up of various pieces 
 inlaid' — ' Stubborn glebe' is from Gay ; ' drive afield' from 
 
128 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Milton j l sturdy stroke' from Spenser. Such is too much the 
 system of Gray's composition, and therefore such the cause of 
 his imperfections. Purity of language, accuracy of thought, 
 and even similarity of rhyme, all give way to the introduction 
 of certain poetical expressions; in fact, the beautiful jewel, 
 when brought, does not fit into the new setting, or socket. 
 Such is the difference between the flower stuck into the ground 
 and those that grow from it." Talboys ? 
 
 Buller. Why not— Buller ? 
 
 Talboys. I give way to the gentleman. 
 
 Buller. Nor for worlds would I take the word out of any 
 man's mouth. 
 
 Talboys. Gray took " stubborn glebe" from Gay. Why 
 from Gay? It has been familiar in men's mouths from the 
 introduction of agriculture into this Island. May not a Saxon 
 gentleman say "drive their teams a-field" without charge of 
 theft from Milton, who said "drove a-field." Who first said 
 et Gee-ho, Dobbin ?" Was Spenser the first — the only man be- 
 fore Milton — who used "sturdy stroke V* — and has nobody used 
 it since Gray? 
 
 Buller. You could give a "sturdy stroke" yourself, Talboys. 
 What's your weight? 
 
 Talboys. Gray's style is sometimes too composite — you 
 yourself, sir, would not deny it is so — but Mr. Mitford's in- 
 stances here are absurd, and the charge founded on them false. 
 Gray seldom, if ever — say never, " sacrifices purity of language, 
 and accuracy of thought," for the sake of introducing certain 
 poetical expressions. "All give way" is a gross exaggeration. 
 The beautiful words of the brethren, with which his loving 
 memory was stored, came up in the hour of imagination, and 
 took their place among the words as beautiful of his own con- 
 genial inspirations; the flowers he transplanted from poetry 
 "languished not, grew dim, nor died;" for he had taken them 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 129 
 
 up gently by the roots, and with some of the old mould adher- 
 ing to their tendrils, and, true florist as he was, had prepared 
 for them a richest "soil in his own garden, which he held from 
 nature, and which the sun and the dew of nature nourished, 
 and will nourish for ever. 
 
 Bailer. That face is not pleasant, sir. Nothing so disfigures 
 a face as envy. Old Poets at last grow ugly all — but you, sir, 
 are a Philosopher — and on your benign countenance 'twas but 
 a passing cloud. There — you are as beautiful as ever — how 
 comely in critical old age ! Any farther fault to find with our 
 friend Mitford? 
 
 North. 
 
 " On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
 Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
 Even in our ashes live their wonted fires." ■ 
 
 tu Pious drops' is from Ovid — pise lachrymae; 'closing eye' is 
 from Pope — 'voice of nature' from the Anthologia, and the last 
 line from Chaucer — ' Yet on our ashes cold is fire yreken.' 
 From so many quarries are the stones brought to form this ela- 
 borate Mosaic pavement." I say, for " pise lachrymse" all 
 honor to Ovid — for " pious drops" all honor to Gray. " Closing 
 eye" is not from Pope's Elegy; "voice of nature" is not from the 
 Anthologia, but from Nature herself; Chaucer's line may have 
 suggested G-ray's, but the reader of Chaucer knows that Gray's 
 has a tender and profound meaning which is not in Chaucer's 
 at all — and he knows, too, that Mr. Mitford is not a reader of 
 Chaucer — for were he, he could not have written a ashes" for 
 "ashen." There were no quarries — there is no Mosaic. Mo- 
 saic pavement ! Worse, if possible — more ostentatiously pedan- 
 tic — even than stuck in flowers, jewels, settings, and sockets, 
 Talboys. The stanza is sacred to sorrow. 
 
130 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. "From this Stanza/' quoth Mitford, "the style of 
 the composition drops into a lower hey ; the language is plainer, 
 and is not in harmony with the splendid and elaborate diction 
 of the former part/' This objection is disposed of by what I 
 said some minutes ago 
 
 Boiler. Half an hour ago — on Grayishness. 
 
 North. And I have only this farther to say, gentlemen, that 
 though the language is plainer — yet it is solemn ; nor is it un- 
 poetical — for the hoary-headed swain was moved as he spake j 
 the style, if it drop into a lower key, is accordant with that 
 higher key on which the music was pitched that has not yet 
 left our hearing. An Elegy is not an Ode — the close should 
 be mournful as the opening — with loftier strain between — and 
 it is so; and whatever we might have to say of the Epitaph — 
 its final lines are " awful" — as every man must have felt them 
 to be— whether thought on in our own lonely night-room — in 
 the Churchyard of Granchester, where it is said Gray mused 
 the Elegy — or by that Burial-ground in Inishail— or here afloat 
 in the joyous sunshine for an hour privileged to be happy in a 
 world of grief. 
 
 Buller. Let's change the subject, sir. May I ask what 
 author you have in your other hand ? 
 
 North. Alison on Taste. 
 
 Buller. You don't say so ! I thought you quoted from 
 memory. 
 
 North. So I did; but I have dog-eared a page or two. 
 
 Buller. I see no books lying about in the Pavilion — only 
 Newspapers — and Magazines — and Reviews — and trash of that 
 kind 
 
 North. "Without which, you, my good fellow, could not live 
 a week. 
 
 Buller. The Spirit of the Age! The Age should be 
 ashamed of herself for living from hand to mouth on Periodi- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 131 
 
 cal Literature. The old Lady should indeed, sir. If the 
 Pensive Public conceits herself to be the Thinking World — 
 
 North. Let us help to make her so. I have a decent little 
 Library of some three hundred select volumes in the Yan — my 
 Plate-chest — and a few dozens of choice wines for my friends 
 — of Champagne, which you, Buller, call small beer 
 
 Bullcr. I retracted and apologized. Is that the key of the 
 Van at your watch-chain ? 
 
 North. It is. So many hundred people about the Encamp- 
 ment — sometimes among them suspicious strangers in paletots 
 in search of the picturesque, and perhaps the pecuniary — that 
 it is well to intrust the key to my own body-guard. It does 
 not weigh an ounce. And that lock is not to be picked by the 
 ghost of Huffey White. 
 
 Seward. But of the book in hand, sir? 
 
 North. "In that fine passage in the Second Book of the 
 Georgics," says Mr. Alison, "in which Virgil celebrates the 
 praises of his native country, after these fine lines — 
 
 ' Hie ver assiduum, atque alienis mensibus aestas ; 
 Bis gravida? pecudes, his pomis utilis arbos. 
 At rabidse tigres absunt, et saeva leonum 
 Semina : nee miseros fallunt aconita legentes : 
 Nee rapit immensos orbes per humum, neque tanto 
 Squameus in spiram tractu se colligit anguis.' 
 
 There is no reader whose enthusiasm is not checked by the cold 
 and prosaic line which follows, — 
 
 'Adde tot egregias urbes, operumque laborem.' 
 
 The tameness and vulgarity of the transition dissipates at once 
 the emotion we had shared with the Poet, and reduces him, in 
 our opinion, to the level of a mere describer." 
 
 Seward. Cold and prosaic line ! Tameness and vulgarity ! 
 I am struck mute. 
 
132 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. I have no doubt that Mr. Alison distressed himself 
 with " Adde." It is a word from a merchant's counting-house, 
 reckoning up his gains. And so much the better. Yirgil is 
 making out the balance-sheet of Italy — he is inventorying her 
 wealth. Mr. Alison would have every word away from reality. 
 Not so the Poet. Every now and then, they — the Poets- 
 amuse themselves with dipping their pencils into the real, the 
 common, the everyday, the homely. By so doing they arrest 
 belief, which above everything they desire to hold fast. I 
 should not wonder if you might catch Spenser at it, even. 
 Shakspeare is full of it. There is nothing else prosaic in the 
 passage; and if Yirgil had had the bad taste to say "Ecce," 
 instead of "Adde," I suppose no fault would have been found. 
 
 Seward. But what can Mr. Alison mean by the charge of 
 tameness and vulgarity? 
 
 North. I have told you, sir. 
 
 Seward. You have not, sir. 
 
 North. I have, sir. 
 
 Seward. Yes — yes — yes. "Adde" is vulgar! I cannot 
 think so. * 
 
 North. The Cities of Italy, and the "operum labor," always 
 have been and are an admiration. The words "Egregias urbcs" 
 suggest the general stateliness and wealth — "operumque labo- 
 rem," the particular buildings — Temples, Basilicas, Theatres, 
 and Great Works of the lower Utility. A summary and most 
 vivid expression of a land possessed by intelligent, civilized, 
 active, spirited, vigorous, tasteful inhabitants — also an eminent 
 adorning of the land. 
 
 Seward. Lucretius says, that in spring the Cities are in 
 flower — or on flower — or a flower — with children. And Lucan, 
 at the beginning of the Pharsalia, describes the Ancient or 
 Greek Cities desolate. They were fond and proud of their 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 133 
 
 "tot egregise urbes" as the Modern Italians are — and with 
 good reason. 
 
 North. How judiciously the Critics stop short of the lines 
 that would overthrow their criterion always ! The present case 
 is an extraordinary example. Had Mr. Alison looked to the 
 lines immediately following, he would not have objected to that 
 One. For 
 
 "Tot congesta manu praruptis oppida saxis, 
 Fluminaque antiqubs subter labentia muros" 
 
 is very beautiful — brings the whole under the domain of Poetry, 
 by singular Picturesqueness, and by gathering the whole past 
 history of Italy up — fetching it in with a word — antiquos. 
 
 Sewarck I can form no conjecture as to the meaning of 
 Mr. Alison's objections. He quotes a few fine lines from the 
 " Praise of Italy/' and then one line which he calls prosaic, and 
 would have us to hold up our hands in wonder at the lame aud 
 impotent conclusion — at the sudden transformation of Yirgil 
 the Poet into Yirgil the most prosaic of Prosers. You have 
 said enough already, sir, to prove that he is in error even on 
 his own showing; — but how can this fragmentary — this piece- 
 meal mode of quotation — so common among critics of the lower 
 school, and so unworthy of those of the higher — have found 
 favor with Mr. Alison, one of the most candid and most en- 
 lightened of men? Some accidental prejudice from mere care- 
 lessness — but, once formed, retained in spite of the fine and 
 true Taste which, unfettered, would have felt the fallacy, and 
 vindicated his admired Yirgil. 
 
 North. The "Laudes" — to which the Poet is brought by 
 the preceding bold, sweeping, winged, and poetical strain about 
 the indigenous vines of Italy — have twofold root — Trees and 
 the glory of Lands. Yirgil kindles on the double suggestion 
 — the trees of Italy compared to the trees of other regions. 
 12 
 
 
134 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 They are the trees of primary human service and gladness — 
 Oil and Wine. For see at once the deep, sound natural ground 
 in human wants — the bounty of Nature — of Mother Earth — 
 " whatever Earth, all bearing Mother, yields"— -to her human 
 children. That is the gate of entrance; but not prosaically— 
 but two gate-posts of a most poetical my thus-fed husbandman. 
 For we have Jason's fire-mouthed Bulls ploughing, and Cadmus- 
 sown teeth of the dragon springing up in armed men. Then 
 comes, instead, mild, benign, Man-loving Italy — "gravidas 
 fruges" — the heavy-eared corn — or rather 'big-teeming — the 
 juice of Bacchus — the Olives, and the " broad herds of Cattle." 
 Note — ye Virgilians — the Corn of Book First — the Oil and 
 Wine of Book Second — and the Cattle of Book Third — for the 
 sustaining Thought — the organic life of his Work moves in his 
 heart. 
 
 Butter. And the Fourth— Bees — honey — and honey-makers 
 are like Milkers — in a way small Milch-cows. 
 
 North. They are. Once a-foot — or a-wing — he hurries and 
 rushes along, all through the "Laudes." The majestic victim- 
 Bull of the Clitumnus — the incipient Spring — the double Sum- 
 mer — the absence of all envenomed and deadly broods — tigers 
 — lions — aconite — serpents. This is Nature's Favor. 
 Then Man's Works — cities and forts — (rock-fortresses) — the 
 great lakes of Northern Italy — showing Man again in their 
 vast edifications. Then Nature in veins of metals precious or 
 useful — then Nature in her production of Man — the Marsi — 
 the Sabellian youth — the Ligurian inured to labor — and the 
 Volscian darters — then single mighty shapes and powers of 
 Man — Romans — the Decii, the Marii, the Camilli, 
 
 " Scipiadas duros bcllo, et te, maxime Caesar," 
 
 The King of Men — the Lord of the Earth — the pacificator of the 
 distracted Empire — which, to a Roman, is as much as to say 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 135 
 
 the World. Then — hail Saturnian Land ! Mother of Corn ! 
 Saturnian, because golden Saturn had reigned there — Mother, 
 I suppose the rather because in his time corn sprung unsown 
 — sine semine — She gave it from out of her own loving* and 
 cherishing bosom. To Thee, Italy, sing I my Ascraean or 
 Hesiodic song. The "Works and Days — the Greek Georgics are 
 his avowed prototype — rude prototype to magnificence — like 
 the Arab of the Desert transplanted to rear his empire of daz- 
 zling and picturesque civilization in the Pyrenean Peninsula. 
 Buller. Take breath, sir. Virgil said well — 
 
 " Adde tot egregias urbes operumque laborem." 
 
 Seward. Allow me one other word. Yirgil — in the vivid 
 lines quoted with admiration by Mr. Alison — lauds his beloved 
 Italy for the absence of wild beasts and serpents — and he mag- 
 nifies the whole race of serpents by his picture of One — the Ser- 
 pent King — yet with subjects all equal in size to himself in our 
 imagination. The Serpent is in the Poetry, but he is not in 
 Italy. Is this a false artifice of composition — a vain ornament? 
 Oh, no ! He describes the Saturnian Land — the mother of 
 corn and of men — bounteous, benign, golden, maternal Italy. 
 The negation has the plenitude of life, which the fabulous 
 absence of noxious reptiles has for the sacred Island of Ierne. 
 
 Buller. Erin-go-bragh ! 
 
 Seward. Suddenly he sees another vision — not of what is 
 absent but present; and then comes the line arraigned and con- 
 demned — followed by lines as great — 
 
 " Adde tot egregias urbes, operumque laborem, 
 Tot congesta manu prasruptis oppida saxis, 
 Fluminaque antiquos subter labentia muros." 
 
 The first line grasps in one handful all the mighty, fair, wealthy 
 Cities of Italy — the second all the rock-cresting Forts of Italy 
 — from the Alpine head to the sea-washed foot of the Peninsula. 
 
136 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 The collective One Thought of the Human Might and Glory of 
 Italy — as it appears on the countenance of the Land — or visible 
 in its utmost concentration in the girdled Towns and Cities of 
 Men.* 
 
 Bailer. "Adde" then is right, Seward. On that North and 
 you are at one. 
 
 North. Yes, it is right, and any other word would be wrong. 
 Adde! Note the sharpness, Buller, of the significance — the 
 vivacity of the short open sound. Fling it out — ring it out — 
 sing it out. Look at the very repetition of the powerful "tot" 
 — " tot egregias" — "tot congesta" — witnessing by one of the 
 first and commonest rules in the grammar of rhetoric — whether 
 Virgil speaks in prose or in fire. 
 
 Buller. In fire. 
 
 North. Mr. Alison then goes on to say, " that the effect of the 
 following nervous and beautiful lines, in the conclusion of the 
 same Book, is nearly destroyed by a similar defect. After these 
 lines, 
 
 "Hanc olira veteres vitam coluere Sabini, 
 Hanc Remus et Frater ; sic fortis Etiuria crevit, 
 Scilicet et rerum facta est pulcherrima Roma;" 
 
 We little expect the following spiritless conclusion : — 
 
 " Septemqae una sibi muro circumdedit arces." 
 
 Seward. Oh ! why does Mr. Alison call that line spiritless? 
 
 North, He gives no reason — assured by his own dissatisfac- 
 tion, that he has but to quote it, and leave it in its own naked 
 impotence. 
 
 Seward. I hope you do not think it spiritless, sir. 
 
 North. I think it contains the concentrated essence of spirit 
 and of power. Let any one think of Rome, piled up in great- 
 ness, and grandeur, and glory — and a Wall round about — and 
 in a moment his imagination is filled. What sort of a Wall ? 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 137 
 
 A garden wall to keep out orchard thieves — or a modern wall 
 of a French or Italian town to keep out wine and meat, that 
 they may come in at the gate and pay toll ? I trow not. But 
 a Wall against the World armed and assailing? Remember 
 that Virgil saw Rome — and that his hearers did — and that in 
 his eyes and theirs she was Empress of the inhabited Earth. 
 She held and called herself such — it was written in her face 
 and on her forehead. The visible, tangible splendor and mag- 
 nificence meant this, or they meant nothing. The stone and 
 lime said this — and Virgil's line says it, sedately and in plain, 
 simple phrase, which yet is a Climax. 
 
 Seward. As the dreaded Semiramis was flesh and blood — 
 corporeal — made of the four elements — yet her soul and her 
 empire spoke out of her — so spake they from the Face of Rome. 
 
 North. Ay, Seward — put these two things together — the 
 Aspect that speaks Domination of the World, and the Wall that 
 girds her with strength impregnable — and what more could you 
 possibly demand from her Great Poet ? 
 
 Seward. Arx is a Citadel — we may say an Acropolis. 
 Athens had one Arx — so had Corinth. One Arx is enough to 
 one Queenly City. But this Queen, within her one Wall, has 
 enclosed Seven Arces — as if she were Seven Queens. 
 
 North. Well said, Seward. The Seven Hills appeared — 
 and to this day do — to characterize the Supremacy of Rome. 
 The Seven-Hilled City ! You seem to have said everything — 
 the Seven Hills are as a seven-pillared Throne — and all that is 
 in one line — given by Virgil. Delete it — no, not for a thousand 
 gold crowns. 
 
 Bidler. Not for the Pigot Diamond — not for the Sea of 
 Light. 
 
 North. Imagine Romulus tracingthe circuit on which the 
 walls were to rise of his little Rome — the walls ominously lus- 
 trated with a brother's blood. War after war humbles neigh- 
 
 12* 
 
138 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 boring town after town, till the seas that bathe, and the moun- 
 tains that guard Italy, enclose the confederated Republic. It 
 is a step — a beginning. East and West, North and South, 
 flies the Eagle, dipping its beak in the blood of battle-fields. 
 Where it swoops, there fanning away the pride, and fame, and 
 freedom of nations, with the wafture of its wings. Kingdoms 
 and Empires that were, are no more than Provinces; till the 
 haughty Roman, stretching out the fact to the limits of his am- 
 bitious desires, can with some plausibility deceive himself, and 
 call the edges of the Earth the boundaries of his unmeasured 
 Dominion. 
 
 Seward. a O Italy! Italy! would Thou wert stronger or 
 less beautiful!" — was the mournful apostrophe of an Italian 
 Poet, who saw, in the latter ages, his refined but enervated 
 countrymen trampled under the foot of a more martial people 
 from far beyond the Alps. 
 
 North. Grood Manners giving a vital energy and efficacy to 
 good Laws — in these few words, gentlemen, may be comprised 
 the needful constituents of National Happiness and Prosperity 
 — the foremost conditions. 
 
 Talboys. Ay — ay — sir. For good Laws without good 
 Manners are an empty breath — whilst good Manners ask the 
 protecting and preserving succor of good Laws. But the good 
 Manners are of the first necessity, for they naturally produce 
 the good Laws. 
 
 North. What does history show, Talboys, but nations risen 
 up to flourish in wealth, power, and greatness, that with cor- 
 rupted and luxurious manners have again sunk from their pre- 
 eminence; whilst another purer and simpler people has in turn 
 grown mighty, and taken their room in the world's eye — some 
 hardy, simple, frugal race, perhaps, whom the seeming disfavor 
 of nature constrains to assiduous labour, and who maintain in 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 139 
 
 the lap of their mountains their independence and their pure 
 and happy homes. 
 
 Talboys. The Luxury — the invading Goth and Hun — the 
 dismembering — and new States uprisen upon the ruins of the 
 World's fallen Empire. There is one line in Collins' Ode to 
 Ireedom — Mr. North — which I doubt if I understand. 
 
 North. Which ? 
 
 Talboijs. 
 
 "No, Freedom, no- — I will not tell 
 How Rome before thy weeping face 
 Pushed by a wild and artless race 
 From off its wide, ambitious base, 
 With heaviest sound a giant-statue fell — - 
 . What time the northern Sons of Spoil awoke, 
 
 And all the blended work of strength and grace, 
 
 With many a rude repeated stroke, 
 
 And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke. ; ' 
 
 North. Which? 
 
 Talboys. "How Rome before thy weeping face" 
 
 North. Freedom wept at Rome's overthrow — though she 
 had long been Freedom's enemy — and though her destroyers 
 were Freedom's children — and " Spoil's Sons" — for how could 
 Freedom look unmoved at the wreck "of all that blended work 
 of strength and grace" — though raised by slaves at the beck of 
 Tyrants? It was not always so. 
 
 Buller. Let me, Apollo-like, my dear sir, pinch your ear, 
 and admonish you to return to the point from which, in discur- 
 sive gyrations, you and Seward have been 
 
 North. Like an Eagle giving an Eaglet lessons how to 
 
 % — 
 
 Buller. You promised solemnly, sir, not to mention Eagles 
 this evening. 
 
 North. I did not, sir. 
 
140 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Buller. But, then, Seward is no Eaglet — lie is, and long 
 has been, a full-fledged bird, and can fly as well's yourself, sir. 
 
 North. There you're right. But then, making a discursive 
 gyration round a point is not leaving it — and there you're wrong. 
 Silly folk— not you, Buller, for you are a strong-minded, strong- 
 bodied man — say "keep to the point" — knowing that if you 
 quit it one inch, you will from their range of vision disappear 
 — and then they comfort themselves by charging you with hav- 
 ing melted among the clouds. 
 
 Buller. I was afraid, my dear sir, that having got your 
 Eaglet on your back — or your Eaglet having got old Aquila on 
 his — you would sail away with him — or he with you — "to prey 
 in distant isles." 
 
 North. You promised solemnly, sir, not to mention Eagles 
 this evening. 
 
 Buller. I did not, sir. But don't let us quarrel. 
 
 JSeicard. What does Yirgil mean, sir, by "Rerum," in the 
 line in which Mr. Alison thinks should have concluded the 
 strain — 
 
 " Scilicet et rerura facta est pulcherrima Roma." 
 
 North. "Rerum" — what does he mean by "Reruni?" Let 
 me perpend. Why, Seward, the legitimate meaning of Res 
 here is a State — a Commonwealth. " The fairest of Powers — 
 then — of Polities — of States." 
 
 Seward. Is that all the word means here? 
 
 North. Why, methinks we must explain. Observe, then, 
 Seward, that Borne is the Town, as England the Island. Thus 
 " England has become the fairest among the kingdoms of the 
 Earth." This is equivalent, good English; and the only satis- 
 factory and literal translation of the Latin verse. But here, 
 the Physical and the Political are identified, — that is, England. 
 England is the name at once of the Island — of so much earth 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 141 
 
 limited out on the surface of the terraqueous globe — and of 
 what besides? Of the Inhabitants? Yes? but of the Inhabit- 
 ants (as the King never dies) perpetuated from generation to 
 generation. Moreover, of this immortal inhabitation, further 
 made one by blood and speech, laws, manners, and everything 
 that makes a people. In short, England, properly the name of 
 the land, is intended to be, at the same time, the name of the 
 Nation. 
 
 " England, with all thy faults, I love Thee still." 
 
 There Cowper speaks to both at once — the faults are of the men 
 only — moral — for he does not mean fogs, and March east winds, 
 and fever and agues. I love thee — is to the green fields and 
 the white cliffs, as well as to all that still survives of the English 
 heart and thought and character. And this absorption, sir, 
 and compenetration of the two ideas — land into people, people 
 i nto land— the exposition of which might, in good hands, be 
 made beautiful — is a fruitful germ of Patriotism — -an infinite 
 blending of the spiritual and the corporeal. To Virgil, Rome 
 the city was also Rome the Romans; and, therefore, sir, those 
 Houses and Palaces, and that Wall, Were to him as those 
 green fields, and hills, and streams, and towns, and those cliffs 
 are to Us. The girdled-in compendium of the Heaven's Favor 
 and the Earth's Glory and Power. 
 
 " Scilicet et Rerum facta est pulcherrima Roma, 
 Septemque una sibi muro circumdedit arces." 
 
 Do you all comprehend and adopt my explanation, gentlemen? 
 
 Talhoys. I do. 
 
 Boiler. I do 
 
 Seward. I ask myself whether Virgil's "Rerum Pulcher- 
 rima" may not mean " Fairest of Things" — of Creatures — of 
 earthly existences ? To a young English reader, probably that 
 is the first impression. It was, I think, mine. But fairest of 
 
142 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 earthly States and Seats of State is so much more idiomatic 
 and to the purpose, that I conceive it — indubitable. 
 
 North. You all remember what Horatio sayeth to the sol- 
 diers in Hamlet, on the coming and going of the Ghost. 
 
 " In the most high and palmy state of Rome, 
 A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, 
 The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead 
 Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; 
 Stars shone with trains of fire, dews of blood fell; 
 Disasters veiled the sun, and the moist star 
 Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stan&s, 
 Was sick almost to Doomsday with eclipse." 
 
 What does Horatio mean by high and palmy state ? That Rome 
 was in a flourishing condition ? 
 
 Butter. That, I believe, sir, is a common impression. 
 Hitherto it has been mine. 
 
 North. Let it be erased henceforth and for ever. 
 
 Buller. It is erased — I erase it. 
 
 North. Read henceforth and for ever high and palmy State. 
 Write henceforth and for ever State with a towering Capital. 
 Res ! " Most high and palmy State" is precisely and literally 
 "Berum Pulcherrima." 
 
 Seward. At your bidding — you cannot err. 
 
 North. I err not unfrequently — but not now, nor I believe 
 this evening. Horatio, the Scholar, speaks to the two Danish 
 Soldiers. They have brought him to be of their watch because 
 he is a Scholar — and they are none. This relation of distinc- 
 tion is indeed the ground and life of the Scene. 
 
 " Therefore I have entreated him, along 
 With us to watch the minutes of the night ; 
 That if again this apparition come, 
 He may approve our eyes, and speak to it." 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 143 
 
 Talboys. 
 
 "Thou art a Scholar — speak to it, Horatio." 
 
 North. You know, Talboys, that Scholars were actual Con- 
 jurors, in the mediaeval belief, which has tales enow about 
 Scholars in that capacity. Horatio conies, then, possessed with 
 an especial Power; he knows how to deal with Ghosts — he 
 could lay one, if need were. He is not merely a man of supe- 
 rior and cultivated intellect, whom intellectual inferiors engage 
 to assist them in an emergency above the grasp — but he is the 
 very man for the work. 
 
 Talboys. Have not the Commentators said as much, sir ? 
 
 North. Perhaps — probably — who? If they have in pleni- 
 tude, I say it again — because I once did not know it — or think 
 of it — and I suppose that a great many persons die believing 
 that the Two resort in the way of general dependence merely 
 on Horatio. 
 
 Talboys. I believed, but I shall not die believing so. 
 
 North. Therefore, the scholarship of Horatio, and the non- 
 scholarship of Bernardo and Marcellus, strike into the life, soul, 
 essence, ground, foundation, fabric, and organization of this 
 First Ghost Scene — sustain and build the whole Play. 
 
 Talboys. Eh? 
 
 North. Eh? Yes. But to the Point in hand. The Ghost 
 has come and gone; and the Scholar addresses his Mates the 
 two Non-Scholars. And show me the living Scholar who could 
 speak as Horatio spake. Touching the matter that is in all 
 their minds oppressively, he will transport their minds a flight 
 suddenly of a thousand years, and a thousand miles or leagues 
 — their untutored minds into the Region of History. He will 
 take them to Rome — "a little ere" — and, therefore, before nam- 
 ing Rome, he lifts and he directs their imagination — "In the 
 most high and palmy State." There had been Four Great 
 
144 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Empires of the World — and he will by these few words evoke 
 in their minds the Image of the last and greatest. And now 
 observe with what decision, as well as with what majesty, the 
 nomination ensues — or Rome. 
 
 Talboys. I feel it, sir. 
 
 North. Try, Talboys, to render " State" by any other word, 
 and you will be put to it. You may analogize. It is for the 
 Republic and City, what Realm or Kingdom is to us — at once 
 place and indwelling Power. " State" — properly Republic — 
 here specifically and pointedly means Reigning City. The 
 Ghosts walked in the City — not in the Republic. 
 
 Talboys. I think I have you, sir — am not sure. 
 
 North. You have me — you are sure. Now suppose that, 
 instead of the solemn, ceremonious, and stately robes in which 
 Horatio attires the Glorious Rome, he had said simply, "in 
 Rome," or "at Rome," where then his ^v^aywyia — his leading 
 of their spirits? Where his own scholar-enthusiasm, and love, 
 and joy, and wonder? All gone? And where, Talboys, are 
 they who, by here understanding "state" for "condition" — 
 which every man alive does — 
 
 Talboys. Every man alive? 
 
 North. Yes, you did — confess you did. Where are they, 
 I ask, who thus oblige Horatio to introduce his nomination of 
 Rome — thus nakedly — and prosaically ? Every hackneyer of 
 this phrase — state — as every man alive hackneys it — is a nine- 
 fold Murderer. He murders the Phrase; he murders the 
 Speech; he murders Horatio; he murders the Ghost; he mur- 
 ders the Scene; he murders the Play; he murders Rome; he 
 murders Shakspeare — and he murders Me. 
 
 Talboys. I am innocent. 
 
 North. Why, suppose Horatio to mean — "in the most glo- 
 rious and victorious condition of Rome, on the Eve of Caesar's 
 death, the graves stood tenantless" — You ask — Where? See 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 145 
 
 where you have got. A story told with two determinations of 
 Time, and none of Place ! Is that the way that Shakspeare, 
 the intelligent and intelligible, recites a fact ? No ! But my 
 explanation shows the Congruity or Parallelism. " In the most 
 high and palmy State'' — that is, City of Rome — ceremonious 
 determination of Place — " a little ere the mightiest Julius/ell" 
 — ceremonious determination of Time. 
 
 Talboys. But is not the use of State, sir, for City, bold and 
 singular ? 
 
 North. It is. For Verse v has her own Speech — though 
 "Wordsworth denies it in his Preface — and proves it by his 
 Poetry, like his brethren Shakspeare and Milton. The lan- 
 guage of Verse is rapid — abrept and abrupt. Horatio wants 
 the notion of Republic; because properly the Republic is high 
 and palmy, and not the wood, stone, and marble. So he ma- 
 nages an expeditious word that shall include both, and strike 
 you at once. The word of a Poet strikes like a flash of light- 
 ning — it penetrates — it does not stay to be scanned — " probed, 
 vexed, and criticised," — it illuminates and is gone. But you 
 must have eyes — and suffer nobody to shut them. I ask, then 
 — Can any lawful, well-behaved Citizen, having weighed all 
 this, and reviewed all these things, again violate the Poesy of 
 the Avonian Swan, and his own muse-enlightened intelligence, 
 by lending hand or tongue to the convicted and condemned 
 Vulgarism ? 
 
 Talboys. Now, then, and not till now, we Three know the 
 full power of the lines— 
 
 "Scilicet et Rerum facta est pulcherrima Roma, 
 Septemque una sibi muro circumdedit arces." 
 
 North. Another word anent Virgil. Mr. Alison says — 
 u There is a still more surprising instance of this fault in one 
 of the most pathetic passages of the whole Poem, in the descrip- 
 
146 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 tion of the disease among the cattle, which concludes the Third 
 Greorgic. The passage is as follows :— - 
 
 ' Ecce autem duro furaans sub vomere Taurus 
 Concidit, et mixtum spumis vomit ore cruorem 
 Extremosque ciet gemitus ; it tristis arator, 
 Mcerentem abjungens fraterna rnorte juvencum, 
 Atque opere in medio derlxa relinquit aratra.' 
 
 The unhappy image in the second line is less calculated to 
 excite compassion than disgust, and is singularly ill suited to 
 the tone of tenderness and delicacy which the Poet has every- 
 where else so successfully maintained, in describing the progress 
 of the loathsome disease. " The line here objected to is the 
 life of the description — and instead of offence, it is the clench- 
 ing of the pathos. First of all, it is that which the poets always 
 will have and the critics won't — the Necessitated — the Thing 
 itself — the Matter in hand. It shapes — features — characterizes 
 that particular Murrain. Leave it out — "the one Ox drops 
 dead in the furrow, and the Ploughman detaches the other." 
 It's a great pity, and very surprising — but that is NO plague. 
 Suddenly he falls, and. blood and foam gush mixed with his 
 expiring breath. That is a plague. It has terror — affright — 
 sensible horror — life vitiated, poisoned in its fountains. Vomit 
 — a settled word, and one of the foremost, of the reversed, un- 
 natural vital function. Besides, it is the true and proper word. 
 Besides, it is vivid and picturesque, being the word of the 
 Mouth. Effundit (which they would prefer — I do not mean 
 it would stand in the verse) is general — might be from the ears. 
 Vomit in itself says mouth. The poor mouth ! whose function 
 is to breathe, and to eat grass, and to caress — the visible organ 
 of life — of vivification — and now of mortification. Taken from 
 the dominion of the holy powers, and given up to the dark and 
 nameless destroyer. " Vomit ore Cruorem !" The verse moans 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 147 
 
 and groans for him — it may have in it a death rattle. How 
 much more helpless and hopeless the real picture makes Arator's 
 distress ! Now, " it tristis" comes with effect. 
 
 Seward. Yes, Virgil, as in duty bound to do, faced the 
 Cattle Plague in all its horrors. Had he not, he would have 
 been false to Pales, the Goddess of Shepherds — to Apollo, who 
 fed the herds of Admetus. So did his Master, Lucretius — 
 whom he emulated — equalled, but not surpassed, in execution 
 of the dismal but inevitable work. The whole land groaned 
 under the visitation— nor was it confined to Cattle — it seemed 
 as if the brute creation were about to perish. But his tender 
 heart, near the close, singled out from the thousands one yoke 
 of Steers — in two lines and a half told the death of one — in 
 two lines and a half told the sadness of its owner — and in as 
 many lines more told, too, of the survivor sinking, because his 
 brother "was not"— and in as many more a lament for the 
 cruel sufferings of the harmless creature — lines which, Scaliger 
 says, he would rather have written than have been honored by 
 the Lydian or the Persian king. 
 
 Bailer. Perhaps you have said enough, Seward. It might 
 have been better, perhaps, to have recited the whole passage. 
 
 North. Here is a sentence or two about Homer. 
 
 Butter. Then you are off. Oh ! Sir — why not for an hour 
 imitate that Moon and those Stars? How silently they shine ! 
 but what care you for the heavenly luminaries ? In the ma- 
 jestic beauty of the nocturnal heavens vain man will not hold 
 his peace. 
 
 Seward. Is that the murmur of the far off sea? 
 
 North. It is — the tide, may be, is on its return — is at 
 " Connal's raging Ferry" — from Loch Etive— yet this is not 
 its hour — 'tis but the mysterious voice of Night. 
 
 Buller. Hush ! 
 
 North. By moonlight and starlight, and to the voice of 
 
148 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Night, I read these words from Mr. Alison — "In the speech 
 of Agamemnon to Idomeneus, in the Fourth Book of the Iliad, 
 a circumstance is introduced altogether inconsistent both with 
 the dignity of the speech, and the Majesty of Epic Poetry : — 
 
 'Divine Idomeneus! what thanks we owe 
 To worth like thine, what praise shall we bestow ! 
 To Thee the foremost honors are decreed, 
 First in the fight, and every graceful -deed. 
 For this, in banquets, when the generous bowls 
 Restore our blood, and raise the warriors' souls, 
 Though all the rest with stated rules be bound, 
 Unmixed, unmeasured, are thy goblets crowned.' " 
 
 Seward. That is Pope. Do you remember Homer himself, 
 sir? 
 
 North. I do. 
 
 'ifyaeveu, <rrspi {A.ev art t/<w AavaSv 7a.%v7rcii\ct)V : 
 hjw.ev ivt Trr^sfxa) %$' a\/\o us im spy®, 
 Jj'o' Iv S'a 8\ ore irkp te yepovtriov aWoTra oTvov 
 'Apyslw ol apia-Toi svl xprnnptrt xtpavrai. 
 s'lTrep yap r aWot yi nap-n ofxowvreg *A%aiol 
 Sanpov Trlvctiaiv, ah H rrXshv S'sTraj alii 
 Eo-Tn% coirTrep e,uol, theejv, ote Bvjuqs avtuyoi t 
 aXX' opasv 7roXiy.l\Vy oios Trapof £v%so elvctit 
 
 I believe you will find that in general men praise more truly, 
 that is justly, deservedly, than they condemn. They praise 
 from an impulse of love — that is, from a capacity. Nature 
 protects love more than hate. Their condemnation is often 
 mere incapacity — want of insight. Mr. Alison had elegance of 
 apprehension — truth of taste — a fine sense of the beautiful — a 
 sense of the sublime. His instances for praise are always well 
 — often newly chosen, from an attraction felt in his own genial 
 and noble breast. The true chord struck then. But he was 
 somewhat too dainty-schooled — school-nursed and school-born. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 149 
 
 A Judge and critic of Poetry should have been caught wild, 
 and tamed; he should carry about him to the last some relish 
 of the wood and the wilderness, as if he were ever in some dan- 
 ger of breaking away, and relapsing to them. He should know 
 Poetry as a great power of the Universe — a sun — of which the 
 Song — whosesoever — only catches and fixes a few rays. How 
 different in thought was Epos to him and to Homer ! Homer 
 paints Manners—archaic, simple manners. Everybody feels— 
 everybody says this — Mr. Alison must have known it — and 
 could have said it as well as the best — 
 
 Seward. But the best often forget it. They seem to hold 
 to this knowledge better now, Mr. North; and they do not 
 make Homer answerable as a Poet, for the facts of which he is 
 the historian — Why not rather accept than criticize ? 
 
 North. I am sorry, Seward, for the Achaean Chiefs who 
 had to drink Sat^poi/ — that is all. I had hoped that they 
 had helped themselves. 
 
 Seward. Perhaps, sir, the Stint was a custom of only the 
 oivov yfpotxjtov — a ceremonious Bowl! — and if so, undoubtedly 
 with religious institution. The Feast is not honorary — only 
 the Bowl : for anything that appears, Agamemnon, feasting his 
 Princess, might say, "Now, for the Bowl of Honor" — and 
 Idomeneus alone drinks. Or let the whole Feast be honorific, 
 and the Bowl the sealing, and crowning, and characterizing 
 solemnity. Now the distinction of the Stint, and the Full 
 Bowl, selected for a signal of different honoring, has to me no 
 longer anything irksome. It is no longer a grudged and scanted 
 cheer — but lawful Assignment of Place. 
 
 Talboys. The moment you take it for Ceremonial, sir, you 
 don't know what profound meaning may, or may not be in it. 
 The phrase is very remarkable. 
 
 North. When the " Best of the Argives" mix in the Bowl 
 u the honorific dark-glowing wine," or the dark-glowing wine 
 
 13* 
 
159 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 of honor — when, 6ts — quite a specific and peculiar occasion, 
 and confined to the wine — you would almost think that the 
 Chiefs themselves are the wine-mixers, and not the usual minis- 
 trants — which would perhaps express the descent of an antique 
 use from a time and manners of still greater simplicity than 
 those which Homer describes. Or take it merely, that in 
 great solemnities, high persons do the functions proper to Ser- 
 vants. This we do know, that usually a servant, the Ta^ifDj, 
 or the otvo%oog, does mix the Bowl. By the way, Talboys, I 
 think you will be not a little amused with old Chapman's trans- 
 lation of the passage. 
 
 Talboys. A fiery old Chap was George. 
 
 North. It runs thus — 
 
 " O Idomen, I ever loved thyself past all the Greeks, 
 In war, or any work of peace, at table, everywhere; 
 For when the best of Greeks, besides, mix ever at our cheer 
 My good old ardent wine with small, and our inferior mates 
 Drink ever that mixt wine measured too, thou drink'st without 
 
 those rates 
 Our old wine neat; and ever more thy bowl stands like to mine; 
 To drink still when and what thou wilt; then rouse that heart of 
 
 thine ; 
 And whatsoever heretofore thou hast assumed to be, 
 This day be greater." 
 
 Talboys. Well done, Old Buck! This fervor and par- 
 ticularity are admirable. But, methinks, if I caught the 
 words rightly, that George mistakes the meaning of yepotxsiov — ■ 
 honorary ; he has yspov yspovto$, an old man, singing in his 
 ears; but old for wine would be quite a different word. 
 
 North. And he makes Agamemnon commend Idomeneus 
 for drinking generously and honestly, whilst the others are 
 afraid of their cups — as Claudius, King of Denmark, might 
 praise one of his strong-headed courtiers, and laugh at Polonius. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 151 
 
 Agamemnon does not say that Idomeneus's goblet was not 
 mixed — was neat — rather we use to think that wine was always 
 mixed — but whether " with small/' as old Chapman says, or 
 with water, I don't know — but I fancied water ! But perhaps, 
 Seward, the investigation of a Grecian Feast in heroic time, 
 and in Attic, becomes an exigency. Chapman is at least deter- 
 mined — and wisely — to show that he is not afraid of the matter 
 — that he saw nothing in it " altogether inconsistent with the 
 dignity of the speech and the majesty of Epic Poetry." 
 
 Seward. Dignity! Majesty! They stand, sir, in the whole 
 together — in the Manners taken collectively by themselves 
 throughout the entire Iliad — and then taken as a part of the 
 total delineation. Apply our modern notions of dignity and 
 majesty to the Homeric Poetry, and we shall get a shock in 
 every other page. 
 
 North. The Homeric, heroic manners ! Heyne has a Treat- 
 ise or Excursus — as you know — on the avtapxsia — I think he 
 calls it — of the Homeric Heroes- — their waiting on themselves, 
 or their self-sufficiency — where I think that he collects the 
 picture. 
 
 Seward. I am ashamed to say I do not know it. 
 
 North. No matter. You see how this connects with the 
 scheme of the Poem — in which, prevalent or conspicuous by 
 the amplitude of the space whieh it occupies, is the individual 
 prowess of heroes in field — conspicuous, too, by its moment 
 in action. This is another and loftier mode of the avtapxuu. 
 The human bosom is a seat or fountain of power. Power goes 
 forth, emanates in all directions, high and low, right and left. 
 The Man is a terrestrial God. He takes counsel with his own 
 heart, and he acts. " He conversed with his own magnanimous 
 spirit" — or as Milton says of Abdiel meeting Satan — " And 
 thus his own undaunted heart explored." 
 
 Seicard. Yes, Mr. North, the Man is as a terrestrial God; 
 
152 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 but — with continual recognition by the Poet and his heroes— 
 as under the celestial Gods. And I apprehend, sir, that this 
 two-fold way of representing man ; in himself and towards them, 
 is that which first separates the Homeric from and above all 
 other Poetry, is its proper element of grandeur, in which we 
 never bathe without coming out aggrandized. 
 North. Seward, you instruct me by 
 
 Seward. Oh, no, sir ! You instruct me- 
 
 North. "We instruct each other. For this the heroes are 
 all Demigods— that is, the son of a God, or Goddess, or the 
 Descendant at a few Generations. Sarpedon is the Son of 
 Jupiter, and his death by Patroclus is perhaps the passage of 
 the whole Iliad that most specially and energetically, and most 
 profoundly and pathetically, makes the Gods intimate to the life 
 and being of men — presents the conduct of divinity and hu- 
 manity with condescension there, and for elevation here. I do 
 not mean that there is not more pomp of glorification about 
 Achilles, for whom Jupiter comes from Olympus to Ida, 
 and Vulcan forges arms — whose Mother- Goddess is Messenger 
 to and from Jupiter, and into whose lips, when he is faint with 
 toil and want of nourishment — abstaining in his passion of 
 sorrow and vengeance — Minerva, descending, instils Nectar. 
 But I doubt if there be anything so touching — under this rela- 
 tion — and so intimately aggrandiziDg as that. other whole place 
 — the hesitation of Jupiter whether he shall violate Fate, in 
 order to save his own flesh and blood from its decreed stroke — 
 the consolatory device of Juno (in remonstrating and dissuading) 
 that he shall send Apollo to call Death and Sleep — a God-Mes- 
 senger to God-Ministers — to bear the dead body from the 
 battle-field to his own land and kin for due obsequies. And, 
 lastly, those droj)s of blood which fall from the sky to the earth, 
 as if the heart-tears of the Sire of all the worlds and their in- 
 habitants. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 153 
 
 B idler. You are always great, sir, on Homer. But, pray, 
 have you any intention of returning to the avtapxtiat 
 
 North. Ha ! Buller — do you speak? I have not wandered 
 from it. But since you seem to think I have, think of Patro- 
 clus lighting a fire under a tripod with his own hands, to boil 
 meat for Achilles' guests — of- Achilles himself helping to lay 
 the ransomed body of Hector on the car that was to take it 
 away. This last is honorific and pathetic. Ministrations of 
 all degrees for themselves, in their own affairs, characterize 
 them all. From the least of these to Achilles fighting the 
 Kiver-Grod — which is an excess — all holds together — is of one 
 meaning — and here, as everywhere, the least, and the familiar, 
 and most homely, attests, vouches, makes evident, probable, 
 and facile to credence, the highest, most uncouth, remote, and 
 difficult otherwise of acceptation. Pitching the speculation 
 lower, plentitude of the most robust, ardent, vigorous life over- 
 flows the Iliad — up from the animal to the divine — from the 
 beautiful tall poplar by the river-side, which the wheelwright 
 or wainwright fells. Eating, drinking, sleeping, thrusting 
 through with spears, and hacking the live flesh off the bone — 
 all go together and help one another — and make the " Majesty 
 and Dignity" — or what not — of the Homeric Epos. But I 
 see, Buller, that you are timeing me — and I am ashamed to 
 confess that I have exceeded the assigned limit. G-entlemen, 
 I ask all your pardons. 
 
 Buller. Timeing you — my dear sir ! Look — 'tis only my 
 snuff-box — your own gift — with your own haunted Head on 
 the lid — inspired work of Laurence Macdonald. 
 
 North. Give it me — why there — there — by your own 
 unhappy awkwardness— it has gone — gone — to the bottom of 
 the deepest part of the Loch ! 
 
 Buller. I don't care. It teas my chronometer ! The Box is 
 safe. 
 
154 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. And so is the Chronometer. Here it is — I was 
 laughing at you in my sleeve. 
 
 Butter. Another Herman Boaz ! — Bless my eyes, there is 
 Kilchurn ! It must be — there is no other such huge Castle, 
 surely, at the head of the Loch — and no other such mountains — 
 
 North. You promised solemnly, sir, not to say a single word 
 about Loch Awe or its appurtenance, this Evening — so did every 
 mother's son of us at your order — and 'twas well — for we have 
 seen them and felt them all — at times not the less profoundly 
 — as the visionary pomp keeps all the while gliding slowly by 
 — perpetual accompaniment of our discourse, not uninspired, 
 perhaps, by the beauty or the grandeur, as our imagination was 
 among the ideal creations of genius — with the far-off in place 
 and in time — with generations and empires. 
 
 " When dark oblivion swallows cities up, 
 And mighty States, characterless, are grated 
 To dusty nothing." 
 
 Seward. In the declining light I wonder your eyes can see 
 to read print. 
 
 North. My eyes are at a loss with Small Pica — but veritable 
 Pica I can master, yet, after sunset. Indeed, I am sharpest- 
 sighted by twilight, like a cat or an owl. 
 
 Bidler. Have you any more annotations on Alison? 
 
 North. Many. The flaws are few. I verily believe these 
 are all. To elucidate his Truths — in Taste and in Morals — 
 would require from us Four a far longer Dialogue. Alison's 
 Essays should be reprinted in one Pocket Volume — Wisdom 
 and Goodness are in that family hereditary — the editing would 
 be a work of Love — and in Bonn's Standard Library they 
 would confer benefit on thousands who now know but their 
 name. 
 
 Seicard. My dear sir, last time we voyaged the Loch, you 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 155 
 
 said a few words — perhaps you may remember it — about those 
 philosophers — Alison — the " Man of Taste/' as Thomas Camp- 
 bell loved to call him — assuredly is not of the number — who 
 have insisted on the natural Beauty of Virtue, and natural 
 Deformity of Vice, and have appeared to place our capacity of 
 distinguishing Right from Wrong chiefly, if not solely, on the 
 sense of this Beauty and of this Deformity — 
 
 North. I remember saying, my dear Seward, that they have 
 drawn their views too much from the consideration of the state 
 of these feelings in men who had been long exercised in the 
 pure speculative contemplation of moral Goodness and Truth, 
 as well as in the calmness and purity of a tranquil, virtuous 
 life. Was it so ? 
 
 Seward. It was. 
 
 North. In such minds, when all the calm faculties of the 
 soul are wedded in happy union to the image of Virtue, there 
 is, I have no doubt, that habitual feeling for which the term 
 Beauty furnishes a natural and just expression. But I appre- 
 hend that this is not the true expression of that serious and 
 solemn feeling which accompanies the understanding of the 
 qualities of Moral Action in the minds of the generality of men. 
 They who in the midst of their own unhappy perversions, are 
 visited with knowledge of those immutable distinctions, and they 
 who in the ordinary struggles and trials incident to our con- 
 dition, maintain their conduct in unison with their strongly 
 grounded principles and better aspirations, would seldom, I 
 apprehend, employ this language for the description of feel- 
 ings which can hardly be separated from the ideas of an awful 
 responsibility involving the happiness and misery of the ac- 
 countable subjects of a moral order of Government. 
 
 Seward. You think, sir, that to assign this perception of 
 Beauty and Deformity, as the groundwork of our Moral Nature, 
 
156 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 is to rest on too slight a foundatioa that part of man's consti- 
 tution which is first in importance to his welfare? 
 
 North. Assuredly, my dear friend, I do. Nay, I do not 
 fear to say that the Emotion, which may properly be termed a 
 Feeling of Beauty in Virtue, takes place at those times when the 
 deepest affection of our souls towards G-ood and Evil acts less 
 strongly, and when the Emotion we feel is derived more from 
 Imagination — and — 
 
 Seward. And may I venture to suggest, sir, that as Imagi- 
 nation, which is so strong a principle in our minds, will take 
 its temper from any prevalent feelings, and even from any fixed 
 and permanent habits of mind, so our Feeling of Beauty and 
 Deformity shall be different to different men, either according 
 to the predominant strength of natural principles, or according 
 to their course of life ? 
 
 North. Even so. And therefore this general disposition of 
 Imagination to receive its character will apply, no doubt, where 
 the prevailing feelings and habits are of a Moral cast; and 
 hence in minds engaged in calm intellectual speculation, and 
 maintaining their own moral nature rather in innocence and 
 simplicity of life than in the midst of difficult and trying situa- 
 tions and in conflict with passions, there can be no doubt that 
 the Imagination will give itself up to this general Moral Cast 
 of Mind, and feel Beauty and Deformity vividly and uniformly 
 in the contemplation of the moral quality of actions and moral 
 states of character. 
 
 Seicard. But your words imply — do they not, sir? — that 
 such is the temper of their calmer minds, and not the emotion 
 which is known when, from any great act of Virtue, or Crime, 
 which comes suddenly upon them, their Moral Spirit rises up 
 in its native strength, to declare its own Affection and its own 
 Judgment? 
 
 North. Just so. Besides, my excellent friend, if you con- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 157 
 
 sider well the feeling which takes possession of us, on contem- 
 plating some splendid act of heroic and self-devoting Virtue, 
 we shall find that the sort of enthusiastic transport which may- 
 kindle towards him who has performed it, is not perfectly a 
 moral transport at all; but it is a burst of love and admiration. 
 Take out, then, from any such emotion, what Imagination, and 
 Love, and Sympathy have supplied, and leave only what the 
 Moral Spirit recognizes of Moral Will in the act, and you will 
 find that much of that dazzling and splendid Beauty which pro- 
 duced the transport of loving admiration is removed. 
 
 Seioard. And if so, sir, then must it be very important that 
 we should not deceive ourselves, and rely upon the warmth of 
 emotion we may feel towards generous and heroic actions as 
 evidence of the force of Moral Principle in our own breasts, 
 which requires to be ascertained by a very different test — 
 
 North. Ay, Seward ; and it is important, also, that we should 
 learn to acknowledge and to respect, in those who, without the 
 capacity of such vivid feelings, are yet conscientiously faithful 
 to the known Moral Law, the merit and dignity of their Moral 
 Obedience. We must allow to Virtue, my dearest Seward, all 
 that is her due — her countenance beautiful in its sweet serenity 
 — her voice gentle and mild — her demeanor graceful — and a 
 simple majesty in the flowing folds of her stainless raiment. 
 So may we picture her to our imagination, and to our hearts. 
 But we must beware of making such abstractions fantastic and 
 visionary, lest we come at last to think of emotions of Virtue 
 and Taste as one and the same — a fatal error indeed — and that 
 would rob human life of much of its melancholy grandeur. 
 The beauty of Virtue is but the smile on her celestial counte- 
 nance — and may be admired — loved — by those who hold but 
 little communion with her inner heart — and it may be over- 
 looked by those who pay to her the most devout worship. 
 
 Talboys. Methinks, sir, that the moral emotion, with which 
 14 
 
158 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 we regard actions greatly right or greatly wrong, is no trans- 
 port; it is an earnest, solemn feeling of a mind knowing there 
 is no peace for living souls, except in their Moral Obedience, 
 and therefore receiving a deep and grateful assurance of the 
 peace of one soul more, in witnessing its adherence to its 
 virtue; and the pain which is suffered from crime is much more 
 allied to sorrow, in contemplating the wilful departure of a 
 spirit from its only possible Good, than to those feelings of 
 repugnance and hate which characterize the temper of our 
 common human emotion towards crimes offering violence and 
 outrage to humanity. 
 
 North. I believe that, though darkness lies round and about 
 us seeking to solve such questions, a feeling of deep satisfaction 
 in witnessing the adherence to Moral Rectitude, and of deep 
 pain in witnessing the departure from it, are the necessary 
 results of a moral sensibility ; but, taken in their elementary sim- 
 plicity, they have, I think, a character distinct from those many 
 other emotions which will necessarily blend with them, in the 
 heart of one human being looking upon the actions of another 
 — " because that we have all one human heart." 
 
 Talhoys. Who can doubt that Religion infuses power and 
 exaltation into the Arts ? The bare History teaches this. In 
 Greece, Poetry sang of Gods, and of Heroes, in whose transac- 
 tions Gods moved. Sculpture moulded forms which were at- 
 tempted expressions of Divine Attributes. Architecture con- 
 structed Temples. Be facto, the Grecian Arts rose out of Re- 
 ligion. And were not the same Arts, of revived Italy, re- 
 ligious ? 
 
 Butter. They all require for their foundation and support 
 a great pervading sympathy — some Feeling that holds a whole 
 national breast. This is needed to munificently defraying the 
 Costlier Arts — no base consideration at bottom. For it is a 
 life-bond of this life, that is freely dropped, when men freely 
 
CHRISTOrnER UNDER CANVASS. 159 
 
 and generously contribute their means to the honor of Reli- 
 gion. There is a sentiment in opening your purse. 
 
 Seward. Yes, Buller — without that sentiment no man can 
 love noble Art. The true, deep, grand support of Genius is 
 the confidence of universal sympathy. Homer sings because 
 Greece listens. Phidias pours out his soul over marble, gold, 
 and ivory, because he knows that at Olympia united Greece 
 will wonder and will worship. Think how Poet is dumb and 
 Sculptor lame, who foreknows that what he would sing, what 
 he would carve, will neither be felt nor understood. 
 
 Buller. The Religion of a people furnishes the sympathy 
 which both pays and applauds. 
 
 TaTboys. And Religion affords to the Artist in "Words or 
 Forms the highest Norms of Thought — sublime, beautiful, 
 solemn — withal the sense of Aspiration — possibly of Inspi- 
 ration. 
 
 North. And it guards Philosophy — and preserves it, by 
 spiritual influence, from degradation worse than death. The 
 mind is first excited into activity through the impressions made 
 by external objects on the senses. The French metaphysicians 
 — pretending to follow Locke — proceeded to discover in the 
 mind a mere compound of Sensations, and of Ideas drawn from 
 Sensations. Sensations, and Ideas that were the Relics of 
 Sensations — nothing more. 
 
 TaTboys. And thus, sir, by degrees, the Mind appeared to 
 them to be nothing else than a product of the body — say rather 
 a state of the body. 
 
 North. A self-degradation, my friend, which to the utmost 
 removes the mind from God. And this Creed was welcome to 
 those to whom the belief in Him was irksome. That which 
 we see and touch became to such Philosophers the whole of 
 Reality. Deity — -the Relation of the Creation to the Creator 
 
160 CHRISTOPHER UNHER CANVASS. 
 
 — the hope of a Futurity beyond the grave — vanished from the 
 Belief of Materialists living in, and by, and to — Sensation. 
 
 Seward. And with what a horrid sympathy was the creed 
 welcomed ! 
 
 North. Ay, Seward, I who lived nearer the time — perhaps 
 better than you can — know the evil. Not in the schools alone, 
 or in the solitude of philosophical thought, the doctrine of an 
 arid speculation circulated, like a thin and unwholesome blood, 
 through the veins of polite literature; not in the schools alone, 
 but in the gorgeous and gay saloons, where the highly-born, 
 the courtly, and the wealthy, winged the lazy hours with light 
 or dissolute pleasures — there the Philosophy which fettered 
 the soul in the pleasing bands of the Senses, which plucked it 
 back from a feared immortality, which opened a gulf of infinite 
 separation between it and its Maker, was cordially entertained 
 — there it pointed the jest and the jibe. Skepticism a study — 
 the zeal of Unbelief! Principles of false thought appeared 
 suddenly and widely as principles of false passion and of false 
 action. Doubts, difficulties, guesses, fine spinnings of the per- 
 verse brain, seized upon the temper of the times— became the 
 springs of public and popular movements — engines of political 
 change. The Venerations of Time were changed into Abomi- 
 nations. A Will strong to overthrow — hostile to Order — 
 anarchical — "intended siege and defiance to Heaven." The 
 irreligious Philosophy of the calmer time now bore its fruits. 
 The Century had prepared the explosion that signalized its 
 close — Impiety was the name of the Giant whom these throes 
 of the convulsed earth had borne into the day, and down to- 
 gether went Throne and Altar. But where are we? 
 
 Buller. At the river mouth. 
 
 North. What! at home. 
 
 Buller. See the Tent-Lights — hear the Tent-Music. 
 
 North. Your arm, Talboys — till I disembark. Up to the 
 Mount I shall then climb, unassisted but by the Crutch. 
 
DIES BOREALES 
 
 No. IV. 
 
 Scene — The Pavilion. 
 
 Time— One p. M. 
 
 Buller — Seward— Talboys— North. 
 
 Talboys. Here he is — here he is ! I traced him by Crutch- 
 print to the Van — like an old Stag of Ten to his lair by the 
 Slot. 
 
 Seward. Thank Heaven! But was this right, my dear 
 sir? 
 
 Buller. Your Majesty ought not thus to have secreted your- 
 self from your subjects. 
 
 Seward. We feared you had absconded — abdicated — and 
 retired into a Monastery. 
 
 Buller. We have all been miserable about you since an 
 early hour in the morning — invisible to mortal eye since yester 
 bed-going gong — regal couch manifestly un slept in — tent after 
 tent scrutinized as narrowly as if for a mouse — Swiss Giantess 
 searched as if by custom-house officers — no Christopher in the 
 Encampment — what can I compare it to — but a Bee-hive that 
 had lost its Queen. The very Drones were in a ferment — the 
 
 14* 
 
162 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 workers demented-— dismal the hum of grief and rage — of na- 
 tional lamentation and civil war. 
 
 North. Billy could have told you of my retreat. 
 
 Seward. Billy was in a state of distraction — rushed to 
 the Van — and, finding it empty, fainted. 
 
 North. Billy saw me in the Van— and I told him to shut 
 the spring smartly — and be mum. 
 
 Buller. Villain ! 
 
 North. Obedience to orders is the sum-total of Duty. Most 
 of the men seem tolerably sober — those whom despair had 
 driven to drink have been sent to sleeping-quarters — the Camp 
 has recovered from its alarm — and is fit for Inspection by the 
 General Commanding the Forces. 
 
 Seward. But have you breakfasted, my dear sir ? 
 
 North. Leave me alone for that. What have you all been 
 about? 
 
 Talboys. We three started at Five for Luib, in high glee. 
 
 North. What ! in face of my prediction ? Did I not tell 
 you that in that dull, dingy, dirty, ochre sunset — in that wan 
 moon and those tallow-candle stars — I saw the morning's 
 Deluge. 
 
 Buller. But did you not also quote Sir David Brewster? 
 "In the atmosphere in which he lives and breathes, and the 
 phenomena of which he daily sees, and feels, and describes, and 
 measures, the philosopher stands in acknowledged ignorance of 
 the laws which govern it. He has ascertained, indeed, its ex- 
 tent, its weight, and its composition; but though he has mas- 
 tered the law of heat and moisture, and studied the electric 
 agencies which influence its condition, he cannot predict, or 
 even approximate to a prediction, whether on the morrow the 
 sun shall shine, or the rain fall, or the wind blow, or the light- 
 ning descend." 
 
 North. And all that is perfectly true. Nevertheless, we 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 163 
 
 weather-wise and weather-foolish people — not Philosophers but 
 Empirics — sailors and shepherds — with all our eyes on the 
 lower and the higher heavens — gather up prognostications of 
 the character of the coming time — -an hour or a day — take in 
 our canvass and set our storm-jib — or run for some bay where 
 the prudent ship shall ride at anchor, as safe and almost as 
 motionless as if she were in a dry-dock; or off to the far hill- 
 side to look after the silly sheep — yet not so silly either — for 
 there they are, instinctive of a change, lying secured by that 
 black belt of Scotch-Firs against the tempest brewing over 
 Lockerby or Lochmaben — far from the loun Bilholm Braes ! — • 
 You Three started at Five o'clock for Luib ? 
 
 Talboys. I rejoice we did. A close carriage is in all 
 weathers detestable — your vehicle should be open to all skyey 
 influences — with nothing about it that can be set up or let 
 down — otherwise some one or other of the party — on some pre- 
 tence or other — will be for shutting you all in. And then — 
 Farewell, Thou green Earth — Thou fair Day — and ye Skies ! 
 It had apparently been raining for some little time — 
 
 North. For six hours, and more heavily, I do think, than I 
 ever heard it rain before in this watery world. Having detected 
 a few drops in the ceiling of my cubiculum, I had slipt away 
 to the Van on the first blash of the business — and from that 
 hour to this have been under the Waterfall- — as snug as a Kel- 
 pie. 
 
 Talboys. In we got — well jammed together— a single gen- 
 tleman, or even two, would have been blown out — and after 
 some remonstrances with the old Greys, we were off to Luib. 
 Long before we were nearly half-way up the brae behind the 
 Camp, Seward complained that the water was running down 
 his back — but ere we reached the top, that inconvenience and 
 every other was merged. The carriage seemed to be in a sink- 
 ing state, somewhere about Achlian; and rolling before the 
 
164 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 rain-storm — horses we saw none — it needed no great power of 
 imagination to fear we were in the Loch. At this juncture we 
 came all at once close upon — -and into — an appalling crash, and 
 squash, and splash — a plunging, rushing, groaning, and moan- 
 ing, and roaring — which for half-a-minute baffled conjecture. 
 The Bridge — you know it, sir — the old Bridge, that Seward 
 was never tired of sketching — going — going — gone; down it 
 went — men, horses, all, at the very parapet, and sent us with a 
 jaujp in among the "Woods. 
 
 North. Do you mean to say you were on the Bridge as it 
 sunk? 
 
 Talboys. I know nothing about it. How should I ? We 
 were in the heart of the Noise — we were in the heart of the 
 Water — we were in the heart of the Wood — we, the vehicle, 
 the horses — the same horses, I believe, that were standing be- 
 hind the Camp when we mounted — though I had not seen them 
 distinctly since, till I recognized them madly galloping in their 
 traces up and down the foaming banks. 
 
 North. Were you all on this side of the river ? 
 
 Talboys. Ultimately we were — else how could we have got 
 here ? You seem incredulous, sir. Mind me — I don't say we 
 were on the Bridge — and went down with it. It is an open 
 question — and in the absence of dispassionate witnesses must 
 be settled by probabilities. Sorry that, though the Driver 
 saved himself, the Vehicle in the mean time should be lost — 
 with all the Rods. 
 
 North. They will be recovered on a change of weather. 
 How and when got ye back? 
 
 Talboys. On horseback. Buller behind Seward — myself be- 
 fore a man who occasionally wore a look of the Driver. I hope 
 it was he — if it was not — the Driver must have been drowned. 
 We had now the wind — that is, the storm — that is, the hurri- 
 cane, in our faces — and the animals every other minute wheeled 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 165 
 
 about and stood rooted for many minutes to the road, with their 
 tails towards Cladich. My body had fortunately lost all sensa- 
 tion hours before we regained the Camp. 
 
 North. Hours! How long did it take you to accomplish 
 the two miles ? 
 
 Talboys. I did not time it; but we entered the Great Grate 
 of the Camp to the sound of the Breakfast Bagpipes. 
 
 Seicard. As soon as we had changed ourselves — as you say 
 in Scotland 
 
 Talboys. Let's bother Mr. North no more about it. With 
 exception of the Bridge, 'tis not worth talking of — and we ought 
 to be thankful it was not Night. Then what a delightful feeling 
 of security now, sir, from all intrusion of vagrant visitors from 
 the Dalmally side ! By this time communication must be cut 
 off with Edinburgh and Glasgow — via Inverary — so the Camp 
 is virtually insulated. In ordinary weather, there is no calling 
 the Camp our own. So far back as yesterday only, 8 English 
 — 4 German — 3 French — 2 Italian — 1 Irish, all Male, many 
 mustached — and from those and other countries, nearly an 
 equal number of Female — some mustached too — " but that not 
 much." 
 
 North. Impossible indeed it is to enjoy one hour's conscious- 
 ness of secure solitude, in this most unsedentary age of the 
 world. — Look there. Who the deuce are you, sir ? Do you 
 belong to Cloud-land — and have you made an involuntary de- 
 scent in the deluge ? Or are you of the earth earthy ? Off, 
 sir, — off to the back premises. Enter the Pavilion at your 
 peril, you Phenomenon. Turn him out, Talboys. 
 
 Talboys. Then I must turn out myself. I stepped forth for 
 a moment to the Front 
 
 North. And have in that moment been transmogrified into 
 the Man of the Moon. A false alarm. But methinks you 
 might have been satisfied with the Bridge. 
 
166 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Talboys. It is clearing up, sir — it is clearing up — pails and 
 buckets, barrels and hogsheads, fountains and tanks, are no 
 longer the order of the day. Jupiter Pluvius is descending on 
 Juno with moderated impetuosity — is restricting himself to 
 watering pans and garden engines — there is reason to suspect, 
 from the look of the atmosphere, that the supplies are running 
 short — that in a few hours the glass will be up to Stormy — and 
 hurrah, then, for a week of fine, sunshiny, shadowy, breezy, 
 balmy, angling Weather ! Why, it is almost fair now. I do 
 trust that we shall have no more of those dry, dusty, sandy, 
 gravelly days, so unlike Lochawe-side, and natural only in 
 Modern Athens or the Great Desert. Hark ! it is clearing up. 
 That is always the way with thorough-bred-rain — desperate 
 spurt or rush at the end — a burst when blown — dead-beat 
 
 Seward. Mr. North, matters are looking serious, sir. 
 
 North. I believe there is no real danger. 
 
 Seward. The Pole is cracking 
 
 Talboys. Creacking. All the difference in the world be- 
 tween these two words. The insertion of the letter E converts 
 danger into safety— "trepidation into confidence — a tent into a 
 Kock. 
 
 Buller. I have always forgot to ask if the Camp is in- 
 sured ? 
 
 North. An insurance was effected, on favorable terms, on 
 the Swiss Griantess before she came into my possession — the 
 Trustees are answerable for the Van — the texture of the Tents 
 is tough to resist the Winds — and the stuff itself was re-steeped 
 during winter in pyroligneous acid of my own invention, which 
 has been found as successful with canvass as with timber. Dee- 
 side, the Pavilion and her fair Sisterhood are impervious alike 
 to Wet and Dry Rot — Fire and Water. 
 
 Talboys. You can have no idea, sir, of the beautiful run- 
 ning of our drains. When were they dug ? 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 167 
 
 NortJi. Yestreen — at dusk. Not a field in Scotland the 
 worse of being drained — my lease from Monzie allows it — a 
 good landlord deserves a good tenant; and though it is rather 
 late in the year for such operations; I ventured on the experi- 
 ment — partly for sake of the field itself, and partly for sake of 
 self-preservation. Not pioneers, and miners, and sappers alone 
 — the whole Force were employed under the Knave of Spades 
 — open drains meanwhile — to be all covered in — with tiles— 
 ere we shift quarters. 
 
 Talboys. A continuance of this weather for a day or two 
 will bring them up in shoals from the Lock — Undoubtedly we 
 shall have Eels. I delight in drain-angling. Silver Eels! 
 Gold fish ! You shall be wheeled out, my dear sir, in Swing, 
 and the hand of your own Talboys shall disengage the first 
 " Fish without Fins" from the Wizard's Hook. 
 
 Seward. And he shall be sketched by his own Seward, in 
 a moment of triumph, and lithographed by Schenck for the 
 forthcoming Edition of Tom Stoddart. 
 
 Bailer. And his own Buller shall make the chips fly like 
 Michael Angelo — and from the marble block evolve a Chris- 
 topher Piscator not unworthy a Steele — or a Macdonald. 
 
 Xorth. Lay aside your tackle, Talboys, and let us talk. 
 
 Talboys. I am never so talkative as over my tackle. 
 
 Buller. Lay it aside, then, Talboys, at Mr. North's request. 
 
 Talboys. Would, my dear Sir, you had been with me on 
 Thursday, to witness the exploits of this Griesly Palmer. 
 Miles up Glensrae, you come — suddenly on the left — in a little 
 glen of its own — on such a jewel of a Waterfall. Not ten feet 
 fall — in the pleasure-grounds of a lowland mansion 'twould be 
 called a Cascade. But soft as its voice is, there is something 
 in it that speaks the Cataract. You discern the Gaelic gurgle 
 — and feel that the Fountain is high up in some spot of green- 
 sward among heather-hills. Snow-white it is not — almost as 
 
168 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 translucent as the pool into which it glides. You see through 
 it the green ledge it slides over with a gentle touch— and seek- 
 ing its own way, for a few moments, among some mossy cones, 
 it slips, without being wearied, into its place of rest, which it 
 disturbs not beyond a dimple that beautifies the quivering re- 
 flection of the sky. A few birch-trees — one much taller than 
 the rest — are all the trees that are there — but that sweetest of 
 all scents assures you of the hawthorn — and old as the hills — 
 stunted in size — but full-leaved and budded as if in their prime 
 — a few hawthorns close by among the clefts. But why prat- 
 tle thus to you, my dear sir ? — no doubt you know it well — for 
 what beautiful secret in the Highlands is unknown to Chris- 
 topher North ? 
 
 North. I do know it well; and your description — so much 
 better than I could have drawn — has brought it from the dim- 
 mer regions of memory, "into the study of imagination." 
 
 Talboys. After a few circling sweeps to show myself my 
 command of my gear, and to give the Naiad warning to take 
 care of her nose, I let drop this griesly palmer, who alighted 
 as if he had wings. A Grilse ! I cried — a Grilse ! No a Sea- 
 trout — an amber Witch — a White Lady — a Daughter of Pearl 
 — whom with gentle violence and quick dispatch I solicited to 
 the yellow sands — and folding not my arms, as is usual in 
 works of fiction, slightly round her waist — but both hands, 
 with all their ten fingers, grasping her neck and shoulders to 
 put the fair creature out of pain — in with her — in with her 
 into my Creel — and again to business. It is on the First Vic- 
 tim of the Day, especially if, as in this case, a Bouncer, an 
 angler fondly dwells in reminiscence — each successive captive 
 — however engrossing the capture — loses its distinct individu- 
 ality in the fast accumulating crowd; and when, at close of 
 day, sitting down among the broom, to empty and to count, it 
 is on the First Victim that the angler's eye reposes — in refill- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 169 
 
 ing, it is the first victim you lay aside to crown the treasure — 
 in wending homewards it is on the First Victim's biography 
 you muse ; and at home — in the Pavilion^ — it is the First Vic- 
 tim you submit to the critical ken of Christopher 
 
 Bailer. Especially if, as in this case, she be a Bouncer. 
 
 North. You pride yourself on your recitation of poetry, 
 Talboys. Charm us with the finest descriptive passage you can 
 remember from the British Poets. Not too loud — not too 
 loud — this is not Exeter Hall — nor are you about to address the 
 Water^witch from the top of Ben-Lomond. 
 
 Talboys. 
 
 " But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 
 Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
 The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
 Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
 Thy grassy banks, whereon the milk-white steer 
 Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
 And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
 Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters— 
 A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters! 
 
 " And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 
 Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
 Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
 Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
 Thy current's calmness: oft from out it leaps 
 The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
 Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
 While, chance, some scattered water-lily sails 
 Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. 
 
 «• " Pass not unblest the genius of the place ! 
 If through the air a zephyr more serene 
 Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
 Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
 If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
 
 15 
 
170 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
 Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
 With Nature's baptism — 'tis to him ye must 
 Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust." 
 
 North. Admirably said and sung. Your low tones, Talboys, 
 are earnest and impressive; and you recite, like all true lovers 
 of song, in the spirit of soliloquy, as if you were yourself the 
 sole listener. How I hate Spouting. Your elocutionist makes 
 his mouth a jet d'eau — and by his gestures calls on all the 
 auditors to behold the performance. From the lips of the man 
 who has music in his soul, the words of inspiration flow as 
 from a natural fountain, for his soul has made them its own — 
 and delights to feel in their beauty an adequate expression of 
 its own emotions. 
 
 Talboys. I spoke them to myself — but I was still aware of 
 your presence, my dear sir. 
 
 North. The Stanzas are fine — but are they the finest in 
 Descriptive Poetry? 
 
 Talboys. I do not say so, sir. Any request of yours I in- 
 terpret liberally, and accede to at once. Finer stanzas there 
 may be — many ; but I took them because they first came to 
 heart. " Beautiful exceedingly" they are — they may not be 
 faultless. 
 
 North. Sir "Walter has said — "Perhaps there are no verses 
 in our language of happier descriptive power than the two 
 stanzas which characterize the Clitumnus." 
 
 Talboys. Then I am right. 
 
 North. Perhaps you are. Scott loved Byron — and it is 
 ennobling to hear one great Poet praising another: yet the 
 stanzas which so delighted our Minstrel may not be so felici- 
 tous as they seemed to be to his moved imagination. 
 
 Talboys. Possibly not. 
 
 North. In the First Stanza what do we find ? An apos- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 171 
 
 trophe — u Thou, Clitumnus," not yet quite an Impersonation — 
 a few lines on, an Impersonation of the Stream — 
 
 " the purest God of gentlest waters ! 
 
 And most serene of aspect, and most clear." 
 
 What is gained by this Impersonation ? Nothing. For the quali- 
 ties here attributed to the Kiver-God are the very same that 
 had already been attributed to the water — purity — serenity — 
 clearness. " Sweetest wave of the most living crystal" — affects 
 us just as much — here I think more than the two lines about 
 the God. And observe, that no sooner is the God introduced 
 than he disappears. His coming and his going are alike un- 
 satisfactory — for his coming gives us no new emotion, and his 
 going is instantly followed by lines that have no relation to his 
 Godship at all. 
 
 TaTboys. Why — why — I really don't know. 
 
 North. I have mildly — and inoffensively to all the world — 
 that is, to all us Four — shown one imperfection ; and I think 
 — I feel there is another — in this Stanza. "The sweetest wave 
 of the most living crystal" is visioned to us in the opening lines 
 as the haunt "of river nymph, to gaze and lave her limbs 
 where nothing hid them," — and we are pleased ; it is visioned 
 to us, in the concluding line, as "the mirror and the bath for 
 Beauty's youngest daughters" — and we are not pleased; or if 
 we are, but for a moment — for it is, as nearly as may be, the 
 same vision over again — a mirror and a bath ! 
 
 Talboys. But then, sir — 
 
 North. Well? 
 
 TaTboys. Go on, sir. 
 
 North. I am not sure that I understand " Beauty's young- 
 est daughters." 
 
 Talboys. Why, small maidens from ten to twelve years old. 
 
172 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 who in their innocent beauty may bathe without danger ; and in 
 their innocent self-admiration may gaze without fear. 
 
 North. Then is the expression at once commonplace and 
 obscure. 
 
 Talboys. Don't say so, sir. 
 
 North. Think you Byron means the Graces? 
 
 Talboys. He does — he does — the Graces sure enough — the 
 Graces. 
 
 North. Whatever it means — it means no more than we had 
 before. A descriptive Stanza should ever be progressive, and 
 at the close complete. To my feeling, " slaughters" had better 
 been kept far away from the imagination as from the eyes. I 
 know Byron alludes here to the Sanguinetto of the preceding 
 Stanza. But he ought not to have alluded to it — the contrast 
 was complete without such reference — between the river we 
 are delighting in and the blood-named torrent that has passed 
 away. Why, then, force such an image back upon us — when 
 of ourselves we should never have thought of it, and it is the 
 last image we should desire to see? 
 
 Talboys. Allow me a few minutes to consider — 
 
 North. A day. Will you be so good, Talboys, as tell me 
 in ten words the meaning of — in the next Stanza— " keeps its 
 memory of Thee?" 
 
 Talboys. I will immediately. 
 
 North. To my mind — angler as I am — 
 
 Talboys. The Prince of Anglers. 
 
 North. To my mind, two lines and a half about Fishes are 
 here too much — "finny darter" seems conceited — and " dwells 
 and revels" needlessly strong — and the frequent rising of "finny 
 darters with the glittering scales" to me seems hardly consist- 
 ent with the solemn serenity inspired by the Temple " of small 
 and delicate proportion" "keeping its memory of Thee," — what- 
 ever that may mean; — nor do I think that a poetical mind like 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 173 
 
 Byron's, if fully possessed in ideal contemplation with the 
 beauty of the whole, would have thought so much of such an 
 occurrence, or dwelt upon it with so many words. 
 
 TaJhojjs. I wish that finny darters with the glittering scales 
 had oft leaped from out thy current's calmness, Thou Grlenor- 
 chy, yesterday— hut not a fin could I stir with finest tackle and 
 Double-Nothings. 
 
 North. That is no answer, either one way or another, to my 
 gentle demur to the perfection of the stanzas. The "scattered 
 water-lily" may be well enough — so let it pass — with this ob, 
 that the flower of the water-lily is not easily separated from its 
 stalk — and is not, in that state, eligible as an image of peace. 
 
 Talhoys. It is of beauty. 
 
 North. Be it so. But is "scattered" the right word? No. 
 A water-lily to be scattered must be torn—- for you scatter many, 
 not one — a fleet, not a ship — a flock of sheep, not one lamb. 
 A solitary water-lily — broken off and drifting by, has, as you 
 said, its own beauty — and Byron doubtlessly intended that — 
 but he has not said it — he has said the reverse — for a " scat- 
 tered" water-lily is a dishevelled water-lily — a water-lily no 
 more — a dispersed or dispersing multitude of leaves — of what 
 had been a moment before — a Flower. 
 
 Talhoys. The image pleases every body — take it as you find 
 it, and be content. 
 
 North. I take it as I find it, and am not content; I take it 
 as I don't find it, and am. Then I gently demur to "still tells 
 its bubbling tales." In Gray's line — 
 
 "And pore upon the brook that babbles by," 
 
 the word "babbles" is the right one — a mitigated "brawling" 
 — a continuous murmur without meaning, till you give it one 
 or many — like that of some ceaseless female human being, 
 pleasantly accompanying your reveries that have no relation to 
 
 15* 
 
174 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 what you hear. Her blameless babble bas that effect — and 
 were it to stop, you would awake. But Byron's " shallower 
 wave still tells its bubbling talcs" — a tale is still about some- 
 thing — however small — and pray what is that something? 
 Nothing. " Tales," then, is not the very word here — nor will 
 "bubbling" make it so — at best it is a prettyism rather than 
 Poetry. The Poet is becoming a Poetaster. 
 
 Talboys. I shall never recite another finest descriptive pas- 
 sage from the whole range of our British Poets — during the 
 course of my life — in this Pavilion.. 
 
 North. Let us look at the Temple. 
 
 Talboys. Be done, I beseech you, sir. 
 
 North. Talboys, you have as logical — as legal a head as 
 any man I know. 
 
 Talboys. What has a logical or legal head to do with Byron's 
 description of the Clitumnus ? 
 
 North. As much as with any other "Process." And you 
 know it. But you are in a most contradictory — I had almost 
 said captious mood, this forenoon — and will not imbibe geni- 
 ally- 
 
 Talboys. Imbibe genially — acids — after having imbibed in 
 the body immeasurable rain. 
 
 North. Let us look at the Temple. "A Temple still" 
 might mean a still temple. 
 
 Talboys. But it doesn't. 
 
 North. A Poet's meaning should never, through awkward- 
 ness, be ambiguous. But no more of that. " Keeps its Mem- 
 ory of Thee" suggests to my mind that the Temple, dedicated 
 of old to the River-God, retains, under the new religion of the 
 land, evidence of the old Deification and Worship. The Tem- 
 ple survives to express to us of another day and faith, a Deifica- 
 tion and worship of Thee — Clitumnus — dictated by the same 
 apprehension of thy characteristic Beauty in the hearts of those 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 175 
 
 old worshippers that now possesses ours looking on Thee. Thou 
 art unchanged — the sensitive and imaginative intelligence of 
 Thee in man is unchanged — although times have changed — 
 states, nations— and, to the eyes of man, the heavens them- 
 selves ! If all this be meant — all this is not said — in the words 
 you admire. 
 
 Talboys. I cannot say, as an honest man, that I distinctly 
 understand you, my dear sir. 
 
 North. You understand me better than you understand 
 Byron. 
 
 Talboys. I understand neither of you. 
 
 North. The poetical thought seems to be here — that the 
 Temple rises up spontaneously on the bank — under the power 
 of the Beautiful in the river — a permanent self-sprung reflection 
 of that Beautiful — as indeed, to imagination, all things appear 
 to create themselves ! 
 
 Talboys. You speak like yourself now, sir. 
 
 North. But look here, my good Talboys. The statue of 
 Achilles may "keep its memory" — granting the locution to be 
 good, which it is not — of Achilles — for Achilles is no more. 
 Sink — in a rapture of thought — the hand of the artist — think 
 that the statues of Achilles came of themselves — as unsown 
 flowers come — for poets to express to all ages the departed 
 Achilles. They keep — as long as they remain unperished — 
 "their memory of Achilles" — they were from the beginning 
 voluntary and intentional conservators of the Memory of the 
 Hero. But Clitumnus is here — alive to this hour, and with 
 every prospect of outliving his own Temple. What do you 
 say to that? 
 
 Talboys. To what? 
 
 North. Finally — if that reminiscence of the Heathen Deifi- 
 cation, which I first proposed, was in Byron's mind — and he 
 means by "still keeps its memory of Thee" memory of the 
 
176 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 River-God — and of the Worship of the River-God — then all he 
 says about the mere natural river — its leaping fishes, and so 
 forth, is wide of his own purpose — and what is worse — implies 
 an absurdity — a reminiscence— not of the past — but of the 
 present. 
 
 Talboys. If all that were submitted to me for the Pursuer, 
 in Printed Papers — I should appoint answers to be given in by 
 the Defender — within seven days — and within seven days after 
 that — give judgment. 
 
 North. Keep your temper, Mr. Testy. As I have no wish 
 to sour you for the rest of the day, I shall say little about the 
 Third Stanza. "Pass not unblest the Genius of the Place," 
 would to me be a more impressive prayer, if there were more 
 spirituality in the preceding stanzas — and in the lines which 
 follow it; for the Genius of the Place has been acting, and con- 
 tinues to act, almost solely on the Senses. And who is the 
 Genius of the Place ! The River-God — he to whom the Gen- 
 tile worship built that Temple. But Byron says, most unpoet- 
 ically, "along his margin" — along the margin of the Genius of 
 the Place ! Then, how flat — how poor — after " the Genius of 
 the Place" — " the freshness of the Scene" — for the freshness of 
 the Scene bless the genius of the Place ! Is that language flow- 
 ing from the emotion of a Poet's heart? And the last line 
 spoils all; for he whom we are to bless — the River-God — or the 
 Genius of the Place — has given the heart but a "moment's" 
 cleanness from dry dust — but a moment's, and no more ! And 
 never did hard, coarse Misanthropy so mar a Poet's purpose 
 as by the shocking prose that is left grating on our souls — 
 " suspension of disgust!" So, after all this beauty — and all 
 this enjoyment of beauty — well or ill painted by the Poet — 
 you must pay orisons to the River-God or the Genius — whom 
 you had been called on to bless — for a mere momentary suspen- 
 sion of disgust to all our fellow-creatures — a disgust that would 
 
CI1RIST0PHER UNDER CANVASS. 177 
 
 return as strong — or stronger than ever — as soon as you got to 
 Home. 
 
 Talboys. I confess I don't like it. 
 
 North. " Must !" There are Needs of all sorts, shapes, and 
 sizes. There is terrible necessity — there is hitter necessity — 
 there is grinding necessity — there is fine — delicate — loving — 
 playful necessity. 
 
 Talboys. Sir? 
 
 North. There are Musts that fly upon the wings of devils — 
 Musts that fly upon the wings of angels — Musts that walk upon 
 the feet of men — Musts that flutter upon the wings of Fairies 
 — But I am dreaming ! — Say on. 
 
 Talboys. I think the day's clearing— let us launch Grutta 
 Percha, Buller, and troll for a Ferox. 
 
 North. Then fling that Tarpaulin over your Feather- Jacket, 
 on which you plume yourself, and don't forget your Gig-Para- 
 sol, Longfellow — for the rain-gauge is running over, so are the 
 water-butts, and I hear the Loch surging its way up to the 
 Camp. The Cladich Cataract is a stunner. Sit down, my 
 dear Talboys. Recite away. 
 
 Talboys. No. 
 
 North. G-entlemen, I call on Mister Buller. 
 
 Buller. 
 
 " The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
 Velino cleaves the way-worn precipice; 
 The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
 The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
 The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, 
 And boil in endless torture; while the sweat 
 Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
 Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
 
 That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 
 
 "And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
 Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
 
178 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain 
 Is an eternal April to the ground, 
 Making it all one emerald! how profound 
 The gulf! and how the giant element 
 From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound 
 Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
 With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 
 
 " To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
 More like the fountain of an infant sea 
 Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
 Of a new world, than only thus to be 
 Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly 
 "With many windings, through the vale; — Look back; 
 Lo ! where it comes like an eternity, 
 As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
 Charming the eye with dread— a matchless cataract, 
 
 "Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, 
 
 From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
 
 An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 
 
 Like Hope upon a death-bed, and unworn 
 
 Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
 
 By the distracted waters, hears serene 
 
 Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn ; 
 
 Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
 Love watching Madness with unalterable mien." 
 
 North. In the First Stanza there is a very peculiar and a 
 very striking form — or construction — The Roar of Waters — 
 The Fall of Waters— The Hell of Waters. 
 
 Buller. You admire it. 
 
 North. I do. 
 
 Talboys. Don't believe him, Buller. Let's be off — there 
 is no rain worth mentioning — see — there 's a Fly. Oh ! 'tis 
 but a Red Professor dangling from my bonnet — a Red Profes- 
 sor with tinsy and a tail. Come, Seward, here's the Chess- 
 Board. Let us make out the Main. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 179 
 
 good 
 
 Talboys. Indeed, sir. 
 
 North. Mind your game, sir. Seward, you may give him 
 a Pawn. The next four — about Hell — are bad. 
 
 Talboys. Indeed, sir. 
 
 North. Seward, you may likewise give him a Knight. As 
 bad as can be. For there is an incredible confusion of tormented 
 and tormentor. They howl, and hiss, and boil in endless tor- 
 ture — they are suffering the Pains of Hell — they are in Hell. 
 " But the sweat of their great agony is wrung out from this 
 their Phlegethon." Where is this their Phlegethon ? Why, 
 this their Phlegethon is — themselves ! Look down — there is 
 no other river — but the Velino. 
 
 Butler. Hear Virgil — 
 
 " Moenia lata videt, triplici circumdata muro, 
 Quae rapidus flammis ambit torrentibus amnis 
 Tartareus Phlegethon, torquetque sonantia saxa." 
 
 No Phlegethon with torrents of fire surrounding and shaking 
 Byron's Hell. I do not understand it — an unaccountable 
 blunder. 
 
 North. In next stanza, what is gained by 
 
 " How profound 
 The gulf! and how the giant element 
 From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound !" 
 
 Nothing. In the First Stanza, we had the "abyss," "the 
 gulf," and the agony — all and more than we have here. 
 
 Seward. Check-mate. 
 
 Talboys. Confound the board! — no, not the board — but 
 Hurwitz himself could not play in such an infernal clatter. 
 
 North. Buller has not got to the word "infernal" yet, 
 Phillidor — but he will by-and-by. " Crushing the Cliffs" — 
 
180 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 crushing is not the right word — it is the wrong one — for not such 
 is the process — visible or invisible. "Dowmvard worn" is silly. 
 " Fierce footsteps/' to my imagination, is tame and out of 
 place — though it may not be to yours; — and I thunder in the 
 ears of the Chess-players that the first half of the next stanza — 
 the third — is as bad writing as is to be found in Byron. 
 
 Talboys. Or in North. 
 
 North. Seward — you may give him likewise a Bishop-— 
 
 " Look back : 
 Lo ! where it comes like an Eternity." 
 
 I do not say that is not sublime. If it is an image of 
 Eternity — sublime it must be — but the Poet has chosen his 
 time badly for inspiring us with that thought — for we look 
 back on what he had pictured to us as falling into hell — and 
 then flowing diffused " only thus to be parents of rivers that 
 flow gushingly with many windings through the vale" — images 
 of Time. 
 
 " As if to sweep down all things in its track," 
 
 is well enough for an ordinary cataract, but not for a cataract 
 that comes " like an Eternity." 
 Talboys. 
 
 " Charming the eye with dread — a matchless cataract, 
 Horribly beautiful." 
 
 Scivard. One game each. 
 
 Talboys. Let us go to the Swiss Giantess to play out the 
 Main. 
 
 North. In Stanza Fourth — " But on the verge/' is very 
 like nonsense — 
 
 Talboys. Not at all. 
 
 North. The Swiss Giantess is expecting you — good-by, 
 

 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 181 
 
 my dear Talboys. Now, Buller, I wish you, seriously and 
 calmly, to think on this image — 
 
 " An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 
 Like Hope upon a death-bed." 
 
 Did Hope — could Hope ever sit by such a death-bed ! The 
 infernal surge — the hell of waters — the howling — the hissing — 
 the boiling in endless torture — the sweat of the great agony 
 wrung out — and more of the same sort — these image the death- 
 led. Hope has sat beside many a sad — many a miserable 
 death-bed — but not by such as this; and yet, here, such a 
 death-bed is hinted at as not uncommon — in a few words — 
 " like Hope upon a death-bed." The smile came not of itself — 
 it was sought for — and had far better have been away. There is 
 much bad writing here, too — " unworn" — " unshorn" — cc torn" 
 — " dyes" — u hues" — " beams" — u torture of the scene" — epi- 
 thet heaped on epithet, without any clear perception or sincere 
 emotion — the Iris changing from Hope upon a death-bed to 
 Love watching Madness — both of which I pronounce, before 
 that portion of mankind assembled in this Tent, to be on the 
 falsetto — and wide from the thoughts that visit the suffering 
 souls of the children of men remembering this life's greatest 
 calamities. 
 
 Seward. Yet throughout, sir, there is Power. 
 
 North. Power! My dear Seward, who denies it? But 
 great Power — true poetical Power — is self-collected — not tur- 
 bulent though dealing with turbulence — in its own stately pas- 
 sion dominating physical nature in its utmost distraction — and 
 in her blind forces seeing a grandeur — a sublimity that only be- 
 comes visible or audible to the senses, through the action of 
 imagination creating its own consistent ideal world out of that 
 turmoil — making the fury of falling waters appeal to our Moral 
 Being, from whose depths and heights rise emotions echoing 
 16 
 
182 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 all the tones of the thundering cataract. In these stanzas of 
 Byron, the main Power is in the Cataract — not in the Poetry 
 — loud to the ear — to the eye flashing and foaming — full of 
 noise and fury, signifying not much to the soul, as it stuns and 
 confounds the senses — while its more spiritual significations are 
 uncertain or unintelligible, accepted with doubt, or rejected 
 without hesitation, because felt to be false and deceitful, and 
 but brilliant mockeries of the Truth. 
 
 Talboys. Spare Byron, who is a Poet — and castigate some 
 popular Versifier. 
 
 North. I will not spare Byron — and just because he is a 
 Poet. For popular Versifiers, they may pipe at their pleasure, 
 but aloof from our Tents — chirp anywhere but in this En- 
 campment; and if there be a Gowdspink or Yellow-hammer 
 among them, let us incline our ear kindly to his chattering or 
 his yammering, " low doun in the broom," or high up on his 
 apple-tree, in outfield or orchard, and pray that never naughty 
 schoolboy may harry his nest. 
 
 Seward. Would Sir Walter's Poetry stand such critical 
 examination ? 
 
 North. All — or nearly so — directly dealing with War — 
 Fighting in all its branches. Indeed, with any kind of Ac- 
 tion he seldom fails — in Reflection, often — and, strange to say, 
 almost as often in description of Nature, though there in his 
 happier hours he excels. 
 
 Seward. I was always expecting, during that discussion 
 about the Clitumnus, that you would have brought in Virgil. 
 
 North. Ay, Maro — in description — is superior to them all 
 — in the iEneid as well as in the Greorgics. But we have no 
 time to speak of his Pictures now — only just let me ask you — 
 Do you remember what Payne Knight says of iEneas? 
 
 Seward. No, for I never read it. 
 
 North. Payne Knight, in his Analytical Inquiry into the 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 183 
 
 Principles of Taste — a work of higb. authority in his own day, 
 and containing many truths vigorously expounded, though 
 characterized throughout by arrogance and presumption — speaks 
 of that " selfish coldness with which the JEneas of Virgil treats 
 the unfortunate princess, ichose affections he had seduced," and 
 adds, that " Every modern reader of the iEneid finds that the 
 Episode of Dido, though in itself the most exquisite piece of 
 composition existing, weakens extremely the subsequent interest 
 of the Poem, it being impossible to sympathize either cordially 
 or kindly with the fortunes or exertions of a hero who sneaks 
 away from his high-minded and much-injured benefactress in a 
 manner so base and unmanly. When, too, we find him soon 
 after imitating all the atrocities, and surpassing the utmost 
 arrogance, of the furious and vindictive Achilles, without dis- 
 playing any of his generosity, pride, or energy, he becomes at 
 once mean and odious, and only excites scorn and indignation ; 
 especially when, at the conclusion, he presents to Lavinia a 
 hand stained with the blood of her favored lover, whom he had 
 stabbed while begging for quarter, and after being rendered 
 incapable of resistance." Is not this, Seward, much too 
 strong ? 
 
 Seward. I think, sir, it is not only much too strong, but 
 outrageous; and that we are bound, in justice to Virgil, to have 
 clearly before our mind his own Idea of his Hero. 
 
 Talboys. To try that iEneas by the rules of poetry and of 
 morality; and if we find his character such as neither our 
 imagination nor our moral sense will suffer us to regard with 
 favor — to admire either in Hero or Man — then to throw the 
 iEneid aside. 
 
 Buller. And take up his G-eorgics. 
 
 Talboys. To love Virgil we need not forget Homer — but 
 to sympathize with iEneas, our imaginations must not be filled 
 with Achilles. 
 
18Jt CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Seward. Troy is dust — the Son of Thetis dead. Let us 
 go with the Fugitives and their Leader. 
 
 Talboys. Let us believe from the first that they seek a 
 Destined Seat — under One Man, who knows his mission, and is 
 worthy to fulfil it. Has Yirgil so sustained the character of that 
 Man — of that Hero? Or has he, from ineptitude, and unequal 
 to so great a subject — let him sink below our nobler sym- 
 pathies — nay, unconscious of failure of his purpose, as Payne 
 Knight says, accommodated him to our contempt ? 
 
 Seward. For seven years he has been that Man — that 
 Hero. One Night's Tale has shown him — as he is — for I pre- 
 sume that Yirgil — and not Payne Knight — was his Maker. 
 If that speech was all a lie — and the Son of Anchises, not a 
 gallant and pious Prince, but a hypocrite and a coward — shut 
 the Book or burn it. 
 
 Talboys. Much gossip — of which any honest old woman, 
 had she uttered the half of it, would have been ashamed before 
 she had finished her tea — has been scribbled by divers male 
 pens — stupid or spritely — on that magnificent Recital. iEneas, 
 it has been said, by his own account, skulked during the Town 
 Sack — and funked during the Sea Storm. And how, it has 
 been asked, came he to lose Creusa? Pious indeed! A truly 
 pious man, say they, does not speak of his piety — he takes care 
 of his household gods without talking about Lares and Penates. 
 Many critics — some not without name — have been such — un- 
 repentant — old women. Come we to Dido. 
 
 North. Be cautious for I fear I have been in fault myself 
 towards iEneas for his part in that transaction. 
 
 Talboys. I take the account of it from Virgil. Indeed, I 
 do not know of any scandalous chronicle of Carthage or Tyre. 
 A Trojan Prince and a Tyrian Queen — say at once a Man and 
 a Woman — on sudden temptation and unforeseen opportunity 
 • — Sin — and they continue to sin. As pious men as iEneas— 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 185 
 
 and as kingly and heroic too, have so sinned far worse than 
 that — yet have not been excommunicated from the fellowship 
 of saints, kings, or heroes. 
 
 Seward. To say that iEneas " seduces Dido," in the sense 
 that Payne Knight uses the word, is a calumnious vulgarism. 
 
 Talboys. And shows a sulky resolution to shut his eyes — 
 and keep them shut. 
 
 Seward. Had he said that in the Schools at Oxford, he 
 would have been plucked at his Little-go. But I forget — there 
 was no plucking in those days — and indeed I rather think he 
 was not an University Man. 
 
 North. Nevertheless he was a Scholar. 
 
 Seward. Not nevertheless, sir — notwithstanding, sir. 
 
 North. I sit corrected. 
 
 Seward. Neither did Infelix Elissa seduce him — desperately 
 in love as she was— 'twas not the storm of her own will that 
 drove her into that fatal cave. 
 
 Talboys. Against Yenus and Juno combined, alas! for 
 poor Dido at last ! 
 
 Seward. iEneas was in her eyes what Othello was in Des- 
 demona's. No Desdemona she — no " gentle lady" — nor was 
 Virgil a Shakspeare. Yet those remonstrances — and that 
 raving— and that suicide ! 
 
 Talboys. Ay, Dan Yirgil feared not to put the condemna- 
 tion of his Hero into those lips of fire — to let her winged curses 
 pursue the Pious Perfidious as he puts to sea. But what is 
 truth — passion— nature from the reproachful and raving — the 
 tender and the truculent — the repentant and the revengeful — 
 the true and the false Dido — for she had forgot and she remem- 
 bers Sychseus — >when cut up into bits of bad law, and framed 
 into an Indictment through which the Junior Jehu at the 
 Scottish Bar might drive a Coach and Six ! 
 
 Seivard. But he forsook her ! He did — and in obedience 
 16* 
 
186 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 to the will of heaven. Throughout the whole of his Tale of 
 Troy, at that fatal banquet, he tells her whither, and to what 
 fated region, the fleet is bound — he is not sailing under sealed 
 orders — Dido hears the Hero's destiny from the lips of Moestis- 
 simus Hector, from the lips of Creusa's Shade. But Dido is 
 deaf to all those solemn enunciations — none so deaf as those 
 who will not hear; the Likeness of Ascanius lying by her on 
 her Royal Couch fired her vital blood — and she already is so 
 insane as to dream of lying ere long on that God-like breast. 
 He had forgot — and he remembers his duty — yes — his duty; 
 according to the Creed of his country — of the whole heathen 
 world — in deserting Dido, he obeyed the Gods. 
 
 Talboys. He sneaked away ! says Knight. Go he must — 
 would it have been more heroic to set fire to the Town, and 
 embark in the General Illumination? 
 
 Seward. Would Payne Knight have seriously advised Virgil 
 to marry iEneas, in good earnest, to Dido, and make him King 
 of Carthage? 
 
 Butter. Would they have been a happy couple ? 
 
 Seward. Does not our sympathy go with iEneas to the 
 Shades? Is he unworthy to look on the Campos Lugentes? 
 On the Elysian Fields ? To be shown by Anchises the Shades 
 of the predestined Heroes of unexisting Rome ? 
 
 Talboys. Do we — because of Dido — despise him when first 
 he kens, on a calm bright morning, that great Grove on the 
 Latian shore near the mouth of the Tiber. 
 
 " iEneas, primique duces, et pulcher lulus, 
 Corpora sub ramis deponunt arboris altae, 
 Instituuntque dapes." 
 
 Seivard. But he was a robber — a pirate — an invader — an 
 usurper — so say the Payne Knights. Virgil sanctifies the 
 Landing with the spirit of peace — and a hundred olive-crowned 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 187 
 
 Envoys are sent to Laurentum with such peace- offerings as had 
 never been laid at the feet of an Ausonian King. 
 
 Talboys. Nothing can exceed in simple grandeur the advent 
 of iEneas — the reception of the Envoys by old Latinus. The 
 right of the Prince to the region he has reached is established 
 by grant human and divine. Surely a father, who is a king, 
 may dispose of his daughter in marriage — and here he must ; 
 he knew, from omen, and oracle, the Hour and the Man. La- 
 vinia belonged to iEneas — not to Turnus — though we must 
 not severely blame the fiery Rutulian because he would not 
 give her up. Amata, in and out of her wits, was on his side; 
 but their betrothment — if betrothed they were — was unhallowed 
 — and might not blind in face of Fate. 
 
 Buller. Turnus was in the wrong from beginning to end. 
 Virgil, however, has made him a hero— and idiots have said 
 that he eclipses IEneas — the same idiots, who, at the same 
 time, have told us that Yirgil could not paint a hero at all. 
 
 Talboys. That his genius has no martial fervor. Had the 
 blockheads read the Rising — the Gathering — in the Seventh 
 iEneid? 
 
 North. Sir Walter himself had much of it by heart — and 
 I have seen the " repeated air" kindle the aspect, and uplift 
 the Lion-Port of the greatest War-Poet that ever blew the 
 trumpet. 
 
 Seward. iEneas at the Court of Evander — that fine old 
 Grecian ! There he is a Hero to be loved — and Pallas loved 
 him — and he loved Pallas — and all men with hearts love Yirgil 
 for their sakes. 
 
 Talboys. And is he not a Hero, when relanding from sea 
 at the mouth of his own Tiber, with his Etrurian Allies — some 
 thousands strong? And does he not then act the Hero? 
 Yirgil was no War-Poet ! Second only to Homer, I hold — 
 
 Seward. An imitator of Homer! With fights of the 
 
188 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Homeric age — how could lie help it? But he is, in much, 
 original on the battle-field— and is there in all the Iliad a 
 Lausus, or a Pallas?— 
 
 Butter. Or a Camilla? 
 
 Seward. Fighting is at the best a sad business—but Payne 
 Knight is offensive on the cruelty— the ferocity of iEneas. I 
 wish Virgil had not made him seize and sacrifice the Eight 
 Young Men to appease the Manes of Pallas. Such sacrifice 
 Virgil believed to be agreeable to the manners of the time — 
 and, if usual to the most worthy, here assuredly due. In the 
 final Great Battle, 
 
 " Away to heaven, respective Lenity, 
 And fire-eyed Fury be my conduct now." 
 
 Butter. Knight is a ninny on the Single Combat. In all 
 the previous circumstances regarding it, Turnus behaved ill — 
 now that he must fight, he fights well : 'tis as fair a fight as 
 ever was fought in the field of old Epic Poetry; tutelary inter- 
 position alternates in favor of either Prince ; the bare notion 
 of either outliving defeat never entered any mind but Payne 
 Knight's : nor did any other fingers ever fumble such a charge 
 against the hero of an Epic as " Stabbing while begging for 
 quarter" — but a momentary weakness in Turnus which was 
 not without its effect on iEneas, till at sight of that Belt, he 
 sheathed the steel. 
 
 Talboys. Payne works himself up, in the conclusion of the 
 passage, into an absolute maniac. 
 
 North. Good manners, Talboys — no insult — remember Mr. 
 Knight has been long dead. 
 
 Talboys. So has JEneas — so has Virgil. 
 
 North . True. Young gentlemen, I have listened with much 
 pleasure to your animated and judicious dialogue. Shall I 
 now give Judgment? 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 189 
 
 Buller. Lengthy? 
 
 North. Not more than an hour. 
 
 Buller. Then, if you please, my Lord, to-morrow. 
 
 North. You must all three be somewhat fatigued by the 
 exercise of so much critical acumen. So do you, Talboys, and 
 Seward, unbend the bow at another game of Chess; and you, 
 Buller, reanimate the jaded Moral Sentiments by a sharp letter 
 to Marmaduke, insinuating that if he don't return to the Tents 
 within a week, or at least write to say that he and Hal, Volusene 
 and Woodburn, are not going to return at all, but to join the 
 Eajah of Sarawak, the Grand Lama, or Prester John — which 
 I fear is- but too probable from the general tone and tenor of 
 their life and conversation for some days before their Secession 
 from the Established Camp — there will be a general breaking 
 of Mothers' hearts, and in his own particular case, a cutting 
 off with a shilling, or disinheriting of the heir apparent of one 
 of the finest Estates in Cornwall. But I forget — these Entails 
 will be the ruin of England. What ! Billy, is that you ? 
 
 Billy. Measter, here's a Fish and a Ferocious. 
 
 Talboys. Ha ! what Whappers ! 
 
 Buller. More like Fish before the Flood than after it. 
 
 Seicard. After it, indeed! During it. What is Billy 
 saying, Mr. North? That Coomerlan' dialect's Hottentot to 
 my Devonshire ears. 
 
 North. They have been spoiled by the Doric delicacies of 
 the "Exmoor Courship." He tells me that Archy M'Callum, 
 the Cornwall Clipper, and himself, each in a cow-hide, having 
 ventured down to the River Mouth to look after and bale 
 Gutta Perch a, foregathered with an involuntary invasion of 
 divers gigantic Fishes, who had made bad their landing on our 
 shores, and that after a desperate resistance they succeeded in 
 securing the Two Leaders — a Salmo Salar and a Salmo Ferox 
 — see on snout and shoulder tokens of the Oar. Thirty— and 
 
190 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Twenty Pounders — Billy says; I should have thought they 
 were respectively a third more. No mean Windfall. They 
 will tell on the Spread. I retire to my Sanctum for my 
 Siesta. 
 
 Talboys. Let me invest you, my dear Sir, with my Feathers. 
 
 Butter. Do — do take my Tarpaulin. 
 
 Seioard. Billy, your Cow-hide. 
 
 North. I need none of Jyour gimcracks — for I seek the 
 Sanctum by a subterranean — beg your pardon — a Subter- 
 Awning Passage. 
 
 Scene II. — Deeside. 
 
 Time — Seven p. c. 
 
 North — Buller — Seward — Talboys. 
 
 North. How little time or disposition for anything like 
 serious Thinking, or Beading, out of people's own profession 
 or trade, in this Railway World! The busy-bodies of these 
 rattling times, even in their leisure hours, do not affect an in- 
 terest in studies their fathers and their grandfathers, in the 
 same rank of life, pursued, even systematically, on many an 
 Evening sacred from the distraction that ceased with the day. 
 
 Talboys. Not all busy-bodies, my good sir — think of 
 
 North. I have thought of them — and I know their worth — 
 their liberality and their enlightenment. In all our cities and 
 towns — and villages — and in all orders of the people — there is 
 Mind — Intelligence, and Knowledge; and the more's the shame 
 in that too general appetence for mere amusement in litera- 
 ture, perpetually craving for a change of diet — for something 
 new in the light way — while anything of any substance is 
 "with sputtering noise rejected" as tough to the teeth, and 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 191 
 
 hard of digestion — however sweet and nutritious; would they 
 but taste and try. 
 
 Seicard. I hope you don't mean to allude to Charles 
 Dickens ? 
 
 North. Assuredly not. Charles Dickens is a man of original 
 and genial genius — his popularity is a proof of the goodness of 
 the heart of the people ; and the love of him and his writings — 
 though not so thoughtful as it might be — does honor to that 
 strength in the English character which is indestructible by 
 any influences, and survives in the midst of frivolity, and folly, 
 and of mental depravations, worse than both. 
 
 Seward. Don't look so savage, sir. 
 
 North. I am not savage — I am serene. Set the Literature 
 of the day aside altogether — and tell me if you think our con- 
 versation since dinner would not have been thought dull by 
 many not altogether uneducated persons, who pride themselves 
 not a little on their intellectuality and on their full participation 
 in the Spirit of the Age? 
 
 Talboi/s. Our conversation since dinner dull ! ! No — no — 
 no. Many poor creatures, indeed, there are among them — even 
 among those of them who work the Press— pigmies with pap 
 feeding a Giant who sneezes them away when sick of them into 
 small offices in the Customs or Excise ; — but not one of our 
 privileged brethren of the Guild — with a true ticket to show — 
 but would have been delighted with such dialogue — but would 
 be delighted with its continuation — and thankful to know that 
 he, " a wiser and a better man, will rise to-morrow morn." 
 
 Seicard. Do, my dear sir — resume your discoursing about 
 those Greeks. 
 
 North. I was about to say, Seward, that those shrewd and 
 just observers, and at the same time delicate thinkers, the an- 
 cient Greeks did, as you well know, snatch from amongst the 
 ordinary processes which nature pursues, in respect of inferior 
 
192 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 animal life, a singularly beautiful Type or Emblem, express- 
 ively imaging to Fancy that bursting disclosure of Life from 
 the bosom of Death, which is implied in the extrication of the 
 soul from its corporeal prison, when this astonishing change is 
 highly, ardently, and joyfully contemplated. Those old festal 
 religionists — who carried into the solemnities of their worship 
 the buoyant gladsomeness of their own sprightly and fervid 
 secular life, and contrived to invest even the artful splendor and 
 passionate human interest of their dramatic representations 
 with the name and character of a sacred ceremony — found for 
 that soaring and refulgent escape of a spirit from the dungeon 
 and chains of the flesh, into its native celestial day, a fine and 
 touching similitude in the liberation of a beautiful Insect, the 
 gorgeously-winged aerial Butterfly, from the living tomb in 
 which nature has, during a season, cased and urned its torpid 
 and death-like repose. 
 
 Seward. Nor, my dear sir, was this life -conscious penetra- 
 tion or intuition of a keen and kindling intelligence into the 
 dreadful, the desolate, the cloud-covered Future, the casual 
 thought of adventuring G-enius, transmitted in some happier 
 verse only, or in some gracious and visible poesy of a fine 
 chisel; but the Symbol and the Thing symbolized were so 
 bound together in the understanding of the nation, that in the 
 G-reek language the name borne by the Insect and the name 
 designating the Soul is one and the same — WXH. 
 
 North. Insects ! They have come out, by their original 
 egg-birth, into an active life. They have crept and eaten — and 
 slept and eaten — creeping and sleeping, and eating — still 
 waxing in size, and travelling on from fitted pasture to pasture, 
 they have in not many suns reached the utmost of the minute 
 dimensions allotted them — the goal of their slow-footed wander- 
 ings, and the term, shall we say — of their life. 
 
 Seward. No ! But of that first period, through which they 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 193 
 
 have made some display of themselves as living agents. They 
 have reached this term. And look at them — now. 
 
 N&rik. Ay — look at them — now. Wonder on wonder! 
 For now a miraculous instinct guides and compels the creature 
 — who has, as it were, completed one life — who has accom- 
 plished one stage of his existence — to entomb himself. And 
 he accordingly builds or spins himself a tomb — or he buries 
 himself in his grave. Shall I say, that she herself, his guardian, 
 his directress, Great Nature, coffins him ? Enclosed in a firm 
 shell — hidden from all eyes — torpid, in a death-like sleep — 
 not dead — he waits the appointed hour, which the days and 
 nights bring, and which having come — his renovation, his 
 resuscitation is come. And now the sepulture no longer holds 
 him ! Now the prisoner of the tomb has right again to con- 
 verse with embalmed air and with glittering sunbeams — now, 
 the reptile that was — unrecognizably transformed from himself 
 — a glad, bright, mounting creature, unfurls on either side the 
 translucent or the richly-hued pinions that shall waft him at 
 his liking from blossom, to blossom or lift him in a rapture of 
 aimless joyancy to disport and rock himself on the soft-flowing 
 undulating breeze. 
 
 Seward. My dearest sir, the Greek in his darkness, or un- 
 certain twilight of belief, has culled and perpetuated his beautiful 
 emblem. Will the Christian look unmoved upon the singular 
 imaging, which, amidst the manifold strangely-charactered 
 secrets of nature, he finds of his own sealed and sure faith ? 
 
 North. No, Seward. The philosophical Theologian claims 
 in this likeness more than an apt simile, pleasing to the stirred 
 fancy. He sees here an Analogy — and this Analogy he pro- 
 poses as one link in a chain of argumentation, by which he 
 would show that Eeason might dare to win from Nature, as 
 a Hope, the truth which it holds from God as revealed 
 knowledge. 
 17 
 
194 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Seward. I presume, sir, you allude to Butler's Analogy. 
 I have studied it. 
 
 North. I do — to the First Chapter of that Great Work. 
 This parallelism, or apprehended resemblance between an event 
 continually occurring and seen in nature, and one unseen but 
 continually conceived as occurring upon the uttermost brink 
 and edge of nature — this correspondency, which took such fast 
 hold of the Imagination of the Greeks, has, as you know, my 
 dear friends, in these latter days been acknowledged by calm 
 and profound Reason, looking around on every side for evidences 
 or imitations of the Immortality of the Soul. 
 
 Buller. Will you be so good, sir, as let me have the volume 
 to study of an evening in my own Tent ? 
 
 North. Certainly. And for many other evenings — in your 
 own Library at home. 
 
 Talboys. Please, sir, to state Butler's argument in your 
 own words and way. 
 
 North. For Butler's style is hard and dry. A living being 
 undergoes a vicissitude by which on a sudden he passes from a 
 state in which he has long continued into a new state, and with 
 it into a new scene of existence. The transition is from a 
 narrow confinement into an ample liberty — and this change of 
 circumstances is accompanied in the subject with a large and 
 congruous increment of powers. They believe this who believe 
 the Immortality of the Soul. But the fact is, that changes 
 bearing this description do indeed happen in Nature, under our 
 very eyes, at every moment; this method of progress being 
 universal in her living kingdoms. Such a marvellous change 
 is literally undergone by innumerable kinds, the human animal 
 included, in the instant in which they pass out from the darkness 
 and imprisonment of the womb into the light and open liberty of 
 this breathing world. Birth has been the image of a death, which 
 is itself nothing else than a birth from one straightened life into 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 195 
 
 another ampler and freer. The ordering of Nature, then, is an 
 ordering of Progression, whereby new and enlarged states are 
 attained, and, simultaneously therewith, new and enlarged 
 powers; and all this is not slowly, gradually, and insensibly, 
 but suddenly and per solium. 
 
 Talboys. This analogy, then, sir, or whatever there is that 
 is in common to birth as we know it, and to death as we con- 
 ceive it, is to be understood as an evidence set in the ordering 
 of Nature, and justifying or tending to justify such our concep- 
 tion of Death ? 
 
 North. Exactly so. And you say well, my good Talboys, 
 "justifying or tending to justify." For we are all along fully 
 sensible that a vast difference — a difference prodigious and 
 utterly confounding to the imagination — holds betwixt the case 
 from which we reason, birth — or that further expansion of life 
 in some breathing kinds which might he held as a second birth 
 — betwixt these cases, I say, and the case to which we reason, 
 Death ! 
 
 Talboys. Prodigious and utterly confounding to the imagi- 
 nation indeed ! For in these physiological instances, either the 
 same body, or a body changing by such slow and insensible 
 degrees that it seems to us to be the same body, accompanies, 
 encloses, and contains the same life — from the first moment in 
 which that life comes under our observation to that in which it 
 vanishes from our cognizance ; whereas, sir, in the case to which 
 we apply the Analogy — our own Death— 'the life is supposed 
 to survive in complete separation from the body, in and by its 
 union with which we have known it and seen it manifested. 
 
 North. Excellently well put, my friend. I see you have 
 studied Butler. 
 
 Talboys. I have — but not for some years. The Analogy 
 is not a Book to be forgotten. 
 
 North. This difference between the case from which we 
 
196 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 reason, and the case to which we reason, there is no attempt 
 whatever at concealing — quite the contrary — -it stands written, 
 you know, my friend, upon the very Front of the Argument. 
 This difference itself is the very motive and occasion of the 
 Whole Argument ! Were there not this difference between the 
 cases which furnish the Analogy, and the case to which the 
 Analogy is applied — had we certainly known and seen a Life 
 continued, although suddenly passing out from the body where 
 it had hitherto resided — or were Death not ^the formidable dis- 
 ruption which it is of a hitherto subsisting union — the cases 
 would be identical, and there would be nothing to reason about 
 or to inquire. There is this startling difference — and accord- 
 ingly the Analogy described has been proposed by Butler 
 merely as a first step in the Argument. 
 
 TaTboys. It remains to be seen, then, whether any further 
 considerations can be proposed which will bring the cases nearer 
 together, and diminish to our minds the difficulty presented by 
 the sudden separation. 
 
 North. Just so. What ground, then, my dear young 
 friends — for you seem and are young to me — what ground, my 
 friends, is there for believing that the Death which we see, can 
 affect the living agent which we do not see ? Butler makes 
 his approaches cautiously, and his attack manfully — and this 
 is the course of his Argument. I begin with examining my 
 present condition of existence, and find myself to be a being 
 endowed with certain Powers and Capacities — for I act, I enjoy, 
 I suffer. 
 
 Talboys. Of this much there can be no doubt; for of all 
 this an unerring consciousness assures me. Therefore, at the 
 outset, I hold this one secure position — that I exist, the pos- 
 sessor of certain powers and capacities. 
 
 North. But that I do now before Death exist, endued with 
 certain powers and capacities, affords a presumptive or prima 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 197 
 
 facie probability that I shall after death continue to exist, pos- 
 sessing these powers and capacities — 
 
 Butter. How is that, sir ? 
 
 North. You do well to put that question, my dear Buller 
 — a prima facie probability, unless there be some positive 
 reason to think that death is the " destruction of Me, the living 
 Being, and of these my living Faculties." 
 
 Bailer. A presumptive or prima facie probability, sir? 
 Why does Butler say so? 
 
 North. u Because there is in every case a probability that 
 all things will continue as we experience they are, in all respects, 
 except those in which we have some reason to think they will 
 be altered." 
 
 Buller. You will pardon me, sir, I am sure, for having 
 asked the question. 
 
 North. It was not only a proper question, but a necessary 
 one. Butler wisely says — " This is that kind of Presumption 
 or Probability from Analogy, expressed in the very word Con- 
 tinuance, which seems our only natural reason for believing 
 the course of the world will continue to-morrow, as it has done 
 so far as our experience or knowledge of history can carry us 
 back." I give you, here, the Bishop's very words — and I 
 believe that in them is affirmed a truth that no skepticism can 
 shake. 
 
 Talhoys. If I mistake not, sir, the Bishop here frankly 
 admits, that were we not fortified against a natural impression, 
 with some better instruction than unreflecting Nature's, the 
 spontaneous disposition of our Mind would undoubtedly be an 
 expectation that in this great catastrophe of our mortal estate, 
 We Ourselves must perish; but he contends — does he not, 
 sir? — that it would be a blind fear, and without rational 
 ground. 
 
 North. Yes— that it is an impression of the illusory faculty, 
 17* 
 
198 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Imagination, and not an inference of Reason. There would 
 arise, he says, " a general confused suspicion, that in the great 
 shock and alteration which we shall undergo by death, We, i. e. 
 our living Powers, might be wholly destroyed •" — but he adds 
 solemnly, " there is no particular distinct ground or reason 
 for this apprehension, so far as I can find." 
 
 Talboys. Such " general confused suspicion," then, is not 
 j ustified ? 
 
 North. Butler holds that any justifying ground of the ap- 
 prehension that, in the shock of death, I, the living Being, 
 or, which is the same thing, These my powers of acting, en- 
 joying, and suffering, shall be extinguished and cease, must be 
 found either in " the reason of the Thing," itself, or in " the 
 Analogy of Nature." To say that a legitimate ground of attri- 
 buting to the sensible mortal change a power of extinguishing 
 the inward life is to be found in the Reason of the Thing, is as 
 much as to say, that when considering the essential nature of 
 this great and tremendous, or at least dreaded change, Death, 
 and upon also considering toliat these powers of acting, of en- 
 joying, of suffering, truly are, and in what manner, absolutely, 
 they subsist in us — there does appear to lie therein demonstra- 
 tion, or evidence, or likelihood, that the change, Death, will 
 swallow up such living Powers — and that "We shall no longer be. 
 
 Talboys. In short, sir, that from considering what Death 
 is, and upon what these Powers and their exercise depend, there 
 is reason to think, that the Powers or their exercise will or must 
 cease with Death. 
 
 North. The very point. And the Bishop's answer is bold, 
 short, and decisive. We cannot from considering what Death 
 is, draw this or any other conclusion, for we do not know ivhat 
 Death is! We know only certain effects of Death — the 
 stopping of certain sensible actions — the dissolution of certain 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 199 
 
 sensible parts. We can draw no conclusion; for we do not 
 possess the premises. 
 
 Seward. From your Exposition, sir, I feel that the meaning 
 of the First Chapter of the Analogy is dawning into clearer and 
 clearer light. 
 
 North. Inconsiderately, my dear sir, we seem indeed to our- 
 selves to know what Death is; but this is from confounding the 
 Thing and its Effects. For we see effects : at first the stoppage of 
 certain sensible actions — afterwards, the dissolution of certain 
 sensible parts. But what it is that has happened — wherefore 
 the blood no longer flows — the limbs no longer move — that we 
 do not see. We do not see it with our eyes — we do not discern 
 it by any inference of our understanding. It is a fact that 
 seems to lie shrouded forever from our faculties in awful and 
 impenetrable mystery. That fact — the produce of an instant 
 — which has happened within, and in the dark — that fact come 
 to pass in an indivisible point of time — that stern fact — ere the 
 happening of which the Man was alive — an inhabitant of this 
 
 breathing world — united to ourselves our Father, Brother, 
 
 Friend — at least our Fellow Creature — by the happening, he 
 is gone — is forever irrecoverably sundered from this world, and 
 from us its inhabitants — is Dead — and that which lies out- 
 stretched before our saddened eyes is only his mortal remains — 
 a breathless corpse — an inanimate, insensible clod of clay : — 
 Upon that interior sudden fact — sudden, at last, how slowly 
 and gradually soever prepared — since the utmost attenuation 
 of a thread is a thing totally distinct from its ending, from its 
 becoming no thread at all, and since, up to that moment, there 
 was a possibility that some extraordinary, perhaps physical ap- 
 plication might for an hour or a few minutes have rallied life, 
 
 or might have reawakened consciousness, and eye, and voice 
 
 upon that elusive Essence and self of Death no curious searching 
 of ours has laid, or, it may be well assumed, will ever lay 
 
200 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 hold. When the organs of sense no longer minister to Percep- 
 tion, or the organs of motion to any change of posture- — when 
 the blood stopped in its flow thickens and grows cold — and the 
 fair and stately form, the glory of the Almighty's Hand, the 
 burning shrine of a Spirit that lately rejoiced in feeling, in 
 thought, and in power, lies like a garment done with and thrown 
 away — "a kneaded clod" — ready to lose feature and substance 
 — and to yield back its atoms to the dominion of the blind 
 
 elements from which they were gathered and compacted 
 
 What is Death? And what grounds have we for inferring 
 that an event manifested to us as a phenomenon of the Body, 
 which alone we touch, and hear, and see, has or has not reached 
 into the Mind, which is for us Now just as it always was, a 
 Thing utterly removed and exempt from the cognizance and 
 apprehension of our bodily senses ? The Mind, or Spirit, the 
 unknown Substance, in which Feeling, and Thought, and Will, 
 and the Spring of Life were — was united to this corporeal 
 frame; and, being united to it, animated it, poured through it 
 sensibility and motion, glowing and creative life — crimsoned 
 the lips and cheeks — flashed in the eye — and murmured music 
 from the tongue; now, the two — Body and Soul — are disunited 
 — and we behold one-half the consequence — the Thing of dust 
 relapses to the dust : — we dare to divine the other half of the 
 consequence — the quickening Spark, the sentient Intelligence, 
 the Being gifted with Life, the Image of the Maker, in Man, 
 has reascended, has returned thither whence it came, into the 
 Hand of God. 
 
 Seward. If, sir, we were without light from the revealed 
 Word of Grod, if we were left, by the help of reason, standing 
 upon the brink of Time, dimly guessing, and inquiringly ex- 
 ploring, to find for ourselves the grounds of Hope and Fear, 
 would your description, my dear Master, of that which has hap- 
 pened, seem to our Natural Faculties impossible ? Surely not. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 201 
 
 North. My dear Seward, we Lave the means of rendering 
 some answer to that question. The nations of the world have 
 been, more or less, in the condition supposed. Self-left, they 
 have borne the burden of the dread secret, which for them only 
 the grave could resolve; but they never were able to sit at rest 
 in the darkness. Importunate and insuppressible desire, in 
 their bosoms, knocked at the gate of the invisible world, and 
 seemed to hear an answer from beyond. The belief in a long 
 life of ages to follow this fleet dream — imaginary revelations 
 of regions bright or dark — the mansions of bliss or of sorrow — 
 an existence to come, and often of retribution to come — has 
 been the religion of Mankind — here in the rudest elementary 
 shape — here in elaborated systems. 
 
 Seward. Ay, sir; methinks the Hell of Yirgil — and his 
 Elysian Fields are examples of a high, solemn, and beautiful 
 poetry. But they have a much deeper interest for a man 
 studious, in earnest, of his fellow-men. Since they really ex- 
 press the notions under which men have with serious belief 
 shadowed out for themselves the worlds to which the grave is 
 a portal. The true moral spirit that breathes in his enumera- 
 tion of the Crimes that are punished, of the Virtues that have 
 earned and found their reward, and some scattered awful warn- 
 ings — are impressive even to us Christians. 
 
 JSorth. Yes, Seward, they are. Hearken to the attestation 
 of the civilized and the barbarous. Universally there is a cry 
 from the human heart, beseeching, as it were, of the Unknown 
 Power which reigns in the Order and in the Mutations of 
 Things, the prolongation of this vanishing breath — the reno- 
 vation, in undiscovered spheres, of this too brief existence — an 
 appeal from the tyranny of the tomb— a prayer against annihi- 
 lation. Only at the top of Civilization, sometimes a cold and 
 barren philosophy, degenerate from nature, and bastard to 
 reason, has limited its sullen view to the horizon of this 
 
202 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Earth — has shut out and refused all ulterior, happy, or dreary 
 anticipation. 
 
 Seward. You may now, assured of our profound attention 
 — return to Butler — if indeed you have left him 
 
 North. I have and I have not. A few minutes ago I was 
 expounding — in my own words — and for the reason assigned, 
 will continue to do so — his argument. If, not knowing what 
 death is, we are not entitled to argue, from the nature of death, 
 that this change must put an end to Ourselves, and those essen- 
 tial powers in our mind which we are conscious of exerting — 
 just as little can we argue from the nature of these powers, and 
 from their manner of subsisting in us, that they are liable to 
 be affected and impaired, or destroyed by death. For what do 
 we know of these powers, and of the conditions on which we 
 hold them, and of the mind in which they dwell ? Just as 
 much as we do of the great change, Death itself — that is to 
 say — Nothing. 
 
 Talboys. We know the powers of our mind solely by their 
 manifestations. 
 
 North. But people in general do not think so — and many 
 metaphysicians have written as if they had forgot that it is 
 only from the manifestation that we give name to the Power. 
 We know the fact of Seeing, Hearing, Remembering, Reasoning 
 — the feeling of Beauty — the actual pleasure of Moral Appro- 
 bation, the pain of Moral Disapprobation — the state — pleasure 
 or pain of loving — the state — pleasure or pain of hating — the 
 fire of anger — the frost of fear — the curiosity to know — 'the 
 thirst for distinction — the exultation of conscious Power — all 
 these, and a thousand more, we know abundantly : our conscious 
 Life is nothing else but such knowledge endlessly diversified. 
 But the Powers themselves, which are thus exerted — what 
 they are — how they subsist in us ready for exertion — of this 
 we know— Nothing. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 203 
 
 Talboys. We know something of the Conditions upon which 
 the exercise of these Powers depends — or by which it is in- 
 fluenced. Thus we know, that for seeing, we must possess that 
 wondrous piece of living mechanism, the eye, in its healthy 
 condition. We know further, that a delicate and complicated 
 system of nerves, which convey the visual impressions from the 
 eye itself to the seeing power, must be healthy and unobstructed. 
 We know that a sound and healthy state of the brain is neces- 
 sary to these manifestations — that accidents befalling the Brain 
 totally disorder the manifestations of these powers — turning the 
 clear, self-possessed mind into a wild anarchy — a Chaos — that 
 other accidents befalling the same organ suspend all manifesta- 
 tions. We know that sleep stops the use of many powers— and 
 that deep sleep — at least as far as any intimations that reach our 
 waking state go — stops them all. We know that a nerve tied 
 or cut stops the sensation — stops the motory volition which 
 usually travels along it. We know how bodily lassitude — 
 how abstinence — how excess — affects the ability of the mind 
 to exert its powers. In short, the most untutored experience 
 of every one amongst us all shows bodily conditions, upon which 
 the activity of the faculties which are seated in the mind, de- 
 pends. And within the mind itself we know how one mani- 
 festation aids or counteracts another — how Hope invigorates 
 — how Fear disables — how Intrepidity keeps the understanding 
 clear — 
 
 North. You are well illustrating Butler, Talboys. Then again 
 we know that for Seeing, we must have that wonderful piece of 
 living mechanism perfectly constructed and in good order — that 
 a certain delicate and complicated system of nerves extending 
 from the eye inwards, is appointed to transmit the immediate 
 impressions of light from this exterior organ of sight to the 
 percipient Mind — that these nerves allotted to the function of 
 seeing, must be free from any accidental pressure ; knowledge 
 admirable, curious, useful ; but when all is done, all investi- 
 
204 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 gated, that our eyes, and fingers, and instruments, and thoughts, 
 can reach — What, beyond all this marvellous Apparatus of 
 seeing, is That ivhich sees — what the percipient Hind is — that 
 is a mystery into which no created Being ever had a glimpse. 
 Or what is that immediate connection between the Mind itself, 
 and those delicate corporeal adjustments — whereby certain 
 tremblings, or other momentary changes of state in a set of 
 nerves, upon the sudden, turn into Colors — into Sight — into 
 the Vision or a Universe. 
 
 Seward. Does Butler say all that, sir? 
 
 North. In his own dry way perhaps he may. These, my 
 friends, are "Wonders into which Reason looks, astonished; or, 
 more properly speaking, into which she looks not, nor, self- 
 knowing, attempts to look. But, reverent and afraid, she re- 
 peats that attitude which the Great Poet has ascribed to 
 "brightest cherubim " before the footstool of the Omnipotent 
 Throne, who 
 
 " Approach not, but with both wings veil their eyes." 
 
 TaTboys. For indeed at the next step beyond lies only the 
 mystery of Omnipotence — that mystery which connects the 
 world, open and known to us, to the world withheld and un- 
 known. 
 
 North. The same with regard to Pleasure and Pain. What 
 enjoys Pleasure or suffers Pain? — all that is, to our clearest, 
 sharpest-sighted science, nothing else but darkness — but black 
 unfathomable night. Therefore, since we know not what Death 
 itself is — and since we know not what this Living Mind is, nor 
 what any of its powers and capacities are — what conclusion, 
 taken in the nature of these unknown subjects, can we possibly 
 be warranted in drawing as to the influence which this unknown 
 change, Death, will exert upon this unknown Being — Mind — 
 and upon its unknown faculties and sensibilities? — None. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 205 
 
 Seward. Shall unknown Death destroy this unknown Mind 
 and its unknown capacities? It is just as likely, for anything 
 that Keason can see, that it will set them free to a larger and 
 more powerful existence. And if we have any reason upon 
 other grounds to expect this — then by so much the more 
 likely. 
 
 North. We know that this Eye and its apparatus of nerves 
 no longer shall serve for seeing — we know that these muscles 
 and their nerves shall no longer serve for moving — we know 
 that this marvellous Brain itself no longer shall serve, as we 
 are led to believe that it now serves, for iTtinJcvng — we know 
 that this bounding heart never again shall throb and quicken, 
 with all its leapiug pulses, with joy — that pain of this body 
 shall never again tire the mind, and that pain of this mind 
 shall never again tire this body, once pillowed and covered up 
 in its bed of imperturbable slumber. And there ends our know- 
 ledge. But that this Mind, which, united to these muscles 
 and their nerves, sent out vigorous and swift motions through 
 them — which, united to this Brain, compelled this Brain to 
 serve it as the minister of its thinkings upon this Earth and 
 in this mode of its Being—which, united to this Frame, in it, 
 and through it, and from it, felt for Happiness and for Misery 
 — that this Mind, once disunited from all these, its instruments 
 and servants, shall therefore perish, or shall therefore forego 
 the endowment of its powers, which it manifested by these its 
 instruments — of that we have no warranty — of that there is no 
 probability. 
 
 Talhoys. Much rather, sir, might a probability lie quite the 
 other way. For if the structure of this corporeal frame places 
 at the service of the Mind some five or six senses, enabling it, 
 by so many avenues, to communicate with this external world, 
 this very structure shuts up the Mind in those few senses, ties 
 it down to the capacities of exactness and sensibility for which 
 18 
 
206 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 they are framed. But we have no reason at all to think that 
 these few modes of sensibility, which we call our external senses, 
 are 2J.I the modes of sensibility of which our spirits are capable. 
 Much rather we must believe that, if it pleased, or shall ever 
 please, the Creator to open in this Mind, in a new world, new 
 modes of sensation, the susceptibility for these modes is already 
 there for another set of senses. Now we are confined to an 
 eye that sees distinctly at a few paces of distance. We have 
 no reason for thinkiDg that, united with a finer organ of sight, 
 we should not see far more exquisitely; and thus, sir, our notices 
 of the dependence in which the Mind now subsists upon the 
 body do of themselves lead us to infer its own self-subsistency. 
 
 North. What we are called upon to do, my friends, is to 
 set Reason against Imagination and against Habit. We have 
 to lift ourselves up above the limited sphere of sensible expe- 
 rience. We have to believe that something more is than that 
 which we see — than that which we know. 
 
 TaTboys. Yet, sir, even the facts of Mind, revealed to us 
 living in these bodies, are enough to show us that more is than 
 these bodies — since we feel that We are, and that it is im- 
 possible for us to regard these bodies otherwise than as pos- 
 sessions of ours — utterly impossible to regard them as Our- 
 selves. 
 
 North. We distinguish between the acts of Mind, inwardly 
 exerted — the acts, for instance, of Reason, of Memory, and of 
 Affection — and acts of the Mind communicating through the 
 senses with the external world. But Butler seems to me to go 
 too far when he says, " I confess that in sensation the mind 
 uses the body; but in reflection I have no reason to think that 
 the mind uses the body." But, my dear friends, I, Christopher 
 North, think, on the contrary, that the Mind uses the Brain for 
 a thinking instrument; and that much thought fatigues the 
 Brain, and causes an oppressive flow of the blood to the Brain, 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 207 
 
 and otherwise disorders that organ. And altogether I should 
 be exceedingly sorry to rest the Immortality of the Soul upon 
 so doubtful an assumption as that the Brain is not, in any 
 respect or sort, the Mind's Organ of Thinking. I see no need 
 for so timid a sheltering of the argument. On the contrary, 
 the simple doctrine, to my thought, is this — The Mind, as we 
 know it, is implicated and mixed up with the Body — throughout 
 — in all its ordinary actions. This corporeal frame is a system 
 of organs, or Instruments, which the Mind employs in a thou- 
 sand ways. They are its instruments — all of them are — and 
 none of them is itself. What does it matter to me that there 
 is one more organ — the Brain — for one more function — think- 
 ing ? Unless the Mind were in itself a seeing thing — that is, a 
 thing able to see — it could not use the Eye for seeing; and 
 unless the Mind were a thinking thing, it could not use the 
 Brain for thinking. The most intimate implication of itself 
 with its instruments in the functions which constitute our con- 
 sciousness, proves nothing in the world to me, against its essen- 
 tial distinctness from them, and against the possibility of its 
 living and acting in separation from them, and when they are 
 dissolved. So far from it, when I see that the body chills with 
 fear, and glows with love, I am ready to call fear a cold, and 
 love a warm passion, and to say that the Mind uses its bodily 
 frame in fearing and in loving. All these things have to do 
 with manifestations of my mind to itself, Now, whilst impli- 
 cated in this body. Let me lift myself above imagination — or 
 let my imagination soar and carry my reason on its wings — I 
 leave the body to moulder, and I go sentient, volent, intelligent, 
 whithersoever /am called. 
 
 Talboys. It seems a timidity unworthy of Butler to make 
 the distinction. Such a distinction might be used to invalidate 
 his whole doctrine. 
 
 North. It might— if granted— and legitimately. But the 
 
208 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 course is plain, and the tenor steadfast. As a child, you think 
 that your finger is a part of yourself, and that you feel with it. 
 Afterwards, you find that it can be cut off without diminishing 
 you: and physiologists tell you, and you believe, that it does 
 not feel, but sends up antecedents of feeling to the brain. Am 
 I to stop anywhere ? Not in the body. As my finger is no 
 part of Me, no more is my liver, or my stomach, or my heart — 
 or my brain. When I have overworked myself, I feel a lassi- 
 tude, distinctly local, in my brain — inside of my head — and 
 therewithal an indolence, inertness, inability of thinking. If 
 reflection — as Butler more than insinuates — hesitatingly says — 
 is independent of my brain and body, whence the lassitude ? 
 And how did James TVatt get unconquerable headaches with 
 meditating Steam-engines ? 
 
 Talboys. It is childish, sir, to stagger at degrees, when we 
 have admitted the kind. The Bishop's whole argument is to 
 show, that the thing in us which feels, wills, thinks, is distinct 
 from our body j that I am one thing, and my body another. 
 
 North. Have we Souls? If we have — they can live 
 after the body — cannot perish with it; if we have not — wo 
 betide us all ! 
 
 Seward. Will you, sir, be pleased to sum up the Argument 
 of the First Chapter of the Analogy? 
 
 North. No. Do you. You have heard it — and you un- 
 derstand it. 
 
 Seward. I cannot venture on it. 
 
 North. Do you, my excellent Talboys — for you know the 
 Book as well as I do myself. 
 
 Talboys. That the Order of Nature shows us great and 
 wonderful changes, which the living being undergoes — and 
 arising from beginnings inconceivably low, to higher and higher 
 conditions of consciousness and action; — That hence an exal- 
 tation of our Powers by the change Death, would be congruous 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 200 
 
 to the progress — which we have witnessed in other creatures, 
 and have experienced in ourselves; — That the fact, that before 
 Death we possess Powers of acting, and suffering, and enjoying, 
 affords a primfi facie probability that, after death, we shall 
 continue to possess them ; because it is a constant presumption 
 in Nature, and one upon which we constantly reason and rely, 
 speculatively and practically, that all things will continue as 
 they are, unless a cause appear sufficient for changing them; — 
 But that in Death nothing appears which should suffice to 
 destroy the Powers of Action, Enjoyment, and Suffering, in a 
 Living Being; — For that in all we know of Death we know the 
 destruction of parts instrumental to the uses of a Living Being; 
 — But that of any destruction reaching, or that we have reason 
 to suppose to reach the Living Being, we know nothing; — 
 That the Unity of Consciousness persuades us that o the Being 
 in which Consciousness essentially resides is one and indivi- 
 sible—by any accident, Death inclusive, indiscerptible ; — That 
 the progress of diseases, growing till they kill the mortal body, 
 but leaving the Faculties of the Soul in full force to the last 
 gasp of living breath, is a particular argument, establishing 
 this independence of the Living Being — the Spirit — which is 
 the Man himself — upon the accidents which may befall the 
 perishable Frame. 
 
 North. Having seen, then, a Natural Probability that the 
 principle within us, which is the seat and source of Thought 
 and Feeling, and of such Life as can be imparted to the Body, 
 will subsist undestroyed by the changes of the Body — and hav- 
 ing recognized the undoubted Power of the Creator — if it pleases 
 Him — indefinitely to prolong the life which He has given — 
 how would you and I, my dear Friends, proceed — from the 
 ground thus gained — and on which — with Butler — we take our 
 stand — to speak farther of reasons for believing in the Immor- 
 tality of the Soul ? 
 
 18* 
 
210 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Seicard. I feel, sir, that I have already taken more than 
 my own part in this conversation. We should have to inquire, 
 sir, whether in His known attributes, and in the known modes 
 of His government, we could ascertain any causes making it 
 probable that He will thus prolong our existence — and we find 
 many such grounds of confidence. 
 
 North. Go on, my dear Seward. 
 
 Seioard. If you please, sir, be yours the closing words — 
 for the Night. 
 
 North. The implanted longing in every human bosom for 
 such permanent existence — the fixed anticipation of it — and 
 the recoil from annihilation — seem to us intimation vouchsafed 
 by the Creator of His designs towards us; — the horror with 
 which Remorse awakened by sin looks beyond the Grave, par- 
 takes of the same prophetical inspiration. We see how pre- 
 cisely the lower animals are fitted to the places which they hold 
 upon the earth, with instincts that exactly supply their needs, 
 with no powers that are not here satisfied — while we, as if out 
 of place, only through much difficult experience can adapt our- 
 selves to the physical circumstances into which we are intro- 
 duced — and thus, in one respect, furnished below our condition, 
 are, on the other hand, by the aspirations of our higher facul- 
 ties, raised infinitely above it — as if intimating that whilst those 
 creatures here fulfil the purpose of their creation, here we do 
 not — and, therefore, look onward; — That whilst our other 
 Powers, of which the use is over, decline in the course of nature 
 as Death approaches, our Moral and Intellectual Faculties often 
 go on advancing to the last, as if showing that they were drawing 
 nigh to their proper sphere of action; — That whilst the Laws 
 regulating the Course of Human Affairs visibly proceed from a 
 Ruler who favors Virtue, and who frowns upon Vice, yet that 
 a just retribution does not seem uniformly carried out in the good 
 success of well-doers, and the ill success of evil-doers — so that 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 211 
 
 we are led on by the constitution of our souls to look forward 
 to a world in which that which here looks like Moral Disorder, 
 might be reduced into Order, and the Justice of the Ruler and 
 the consistency of his Laws vindicated; — That in studying the 
 arrangements of this world, we see that in many cases dispo- 
 sitions of Human affairs, which, upon their first aspect, ap- 
 peared to us evil, being more clearly examined and better known, 
 resulted in good — and thence draw a hope that the stroke which 
 daunts our imagination, as though it were the worst of evils, 
 will prove, when known, a dispensation of bounty- — "Death 
 the Gate of Life," opening into a world in which His beneficent 
 hand, if not nearer to us than here, will be more steadily visible 
 — no clouds interposing between the eyes of our soul and their 
 Sun; — That the perplexity which oppresses our Understanding 
 from the sight of this world, in which the Good and Evil seem 
 intermixed and crossing each other, almost vanishes, when we 
 lift up our thoughts to contemplate this mutable scene as a 
 place of Probation and of Discipline, where sorrows and Suffer- 
 ings are given to school us to Virtue — as the Arena where 
 "Virtue strives in the laborious and perilous contest, of which it 
 shall hereafter receive the well-won and glorious crown ; — That 
 we draw confidence in the same conclusions, from observing how 
 closely allied and agreeing to each other are the Two Great 
 Truths of Natural Religion, the Belief in God and the Belief 
 in our own Immortality; so that, when we have received the 
 idea of God, as the Great Governor of the Universe, the belief 
 in our own prolonged existence appears to us as a necessary 
 part of that Government; or if, upon the physical arguments, 
 we have admitted the independent conviction of our Immor- 
 tality, this doctrine appears to us barren and comfortless, until 
 we understand that this continuance of our Being is to bring 
 us into the more untroubled fruition of that Light, which here 
 shines upon us, often through mist and cloud; — That in all 
 
212 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 these high doctrines we are instructed to rest more securely, as 
 we find the growing harmony of one solemn conviction with 
 another— as we find that all our better and nobler Faculties co- 
 operate with one another — and these predominating principles 
 carry us to these convictions— so that our Understanding then 
 first begins to possess itself in strength and light when the 
 heart has accepted the Moral Law;— But that our Under- 
 standing is only fully at ease, and our Moral Nature itself, with 
 all its affections, only fully supported and expanded, when both 
 together have borne us on to the knowledge of Him who is the 
 sole Source of Law — the highest Object of Thought — the 
 Favorer of Virtue — towards whom Love may eternally grow, 
 and still be infinitely less than His due— -till we have reached 
 this knowledge, and with it the steadfast hope that the last act 
 of this Life joins us to Him — does not for ever shut us up in the 
 night of Oblivion; — And we have strengthened ourselves in 
 inferences forced upon us by remembering how humankind has 
 consented in these Beliefs, as if they were a part of our Nature 
 — and by remembering further, how, by the force of these 
 Beliefs, human Societies have subsisted and been held together 
 • — how Laws have been sanctioned, and how Virtues, Wisdom, 
 and all the good and great works of the Human Spirit, have, 
 under these influences, been produced; — Surely great is the 
 power of all these concurrent considerations brought from 
 every part of our Nature — from the Material and the Imma- 
 terial — from the Intellectual and Moral — from the Individual 
 and the Social — from that which respects our existence on this 
 side of the grave, and that which respects our existence beyond 
 it — from that which looks down upon the Earth, and that 
 which looks up towards Heaven. 
 
DIES BOREALES 
 
 No. V. 
 
 Camp at Cladich. Scene — The Pavilion. 
 
 Time — After breakfast. 
 
 North — Talboys — Seward — Buller. 
 
 North. I begin to "be doubtful of this day. On your visits 
 to us, Talboys, you Lave been most unfortunate in weather. 
 This is more like August than June. 
 
 Talboys. The very word, my dear sir. It is indeed most 
 august weather. 
 
 North. Five weeks to-day since we pitched our camp — and 
 we have had the Beautiful of the Year in all its varieties; but 
 the spiteful Season seems to owe you some old grudge, Talboys 
 — and to make it a point still to assail your arrival with 
 u thunder, lightning, and with rain." 
 
 Talboys. " I tax not you, ye Elements ! with unkindness." 
 I feel assured they mean nothing personal to me — and though 
 this sort of work may not be very favorable to Angling, 'tis 
 quite a day for tidying our Tackle — and making up our Books. 
 But don't you think, sir, that the Tent would look nothing 
 
214 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 the worse with some artificial light in the obscuration of the 
 natural? 
 
 North. Put on the gas. Pretty invention, the Grutta Percha 
 tube, isn't it? The Electric Telegraph is nothing to it. Tent 
 illuminated in a moment, at a pig's whisper. 
 
 Talboys. Were I to wish, sir, for anything to happen now 
 to the weather at all, it would be just ever so little toning down 
 of that one constituent of the orchestral harmony of the Storm 
 which men call — howling. The thunder is perfect — but that 
 one Wind Instrument is slightly out of tune — he is most anxious 
 to do his best — his motive is unimpeachable; but he has no 
 idea how much more impressive — how much more popular — 
 would be a somewhat subdued style. There again — that's posi- 
 tive discord — does he mean to disconcert the Concert — or does 
 he forget that he is not a Solo ? 
 
 Bailer. That must be a deluge of — hail. 
 
 Talboys. So much the better. Hitherto wc have had but 
 rain. " Mysterious horrors ! Hail !" 
 
 '"Twas a rough night. 
 My young remembrance cannot parallel 
 A fellow to it." 
 
 North. Suppose we resume yesterday's conversation ? 
 
 Talboys. By all manner of means. Let's sit close — and 
 speak loud — else all will be dumb show. The whole world's 
 one waterfall. 
 
 North. Take up Knight on Taste. Look at the dog-ear. 
 
 Talboys. " The most perfect instance of this kind is the 
 Tragedy of Macbeth, in which the character of an ungrateful 
 traitor, murderer, usurper, and tyrant, is made in the highest 
 degree interesting by the sublime flashes of generosity, magna- 
 nimity, courage, and tenderness, which continually burst forth 
 in the manly but ineffective struggle of every exalted quality 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 215 
 
 that can dignify and adorn the human mind, first against the 
 allurements of ambition, and afterwards against the pangs of 
 remorse and horrors of despair. Though his wife has been the 
 cause of all his crimes and sufferings, neither the agony of his 
 distress, nor the fury of his rage, ever draw from him an angry 
 word, or upbraiding expression towards her; but even when, at 
 her instigation, he is about to add the murder of his friend and 
 late colleague to that of his sovereign, kinsman, and benefactor, 
 he is chiefly anxious that she should not share the guilt of his 
 blood: — 'Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck! till 
 thou applaud the deed.' How much more real grandeur and 
 exaltation of character is displayed in one such simple expression 
 from the heart, than in all the labored pomp of rhetorical am- 
 plification." 
 
 North. What think you of that, Talboys ? 
 
 Talboys. Why, like much of the cant of criticism, it sounds 
 at once queer and common-place. I seem to have heard it 
 before many thousand times, and yet never to have heard it at 
 all till this moment. 
 
 North. Seward ? 
 
 Seward. Full of audacious assertions, that can be forgiven 
 but in the belief that Payne Knight had never read the tragedy, 
 even with the most ordinary attention. 
 
 North. Buller? 
 
 Butter. Cursed nonsense. Beg pardon, sir — sink cursed — 
 mere nonsense — out and out nonsense — nonsense by itself 
 nonsense. 
 
 North. How so? 
 
 Butter. A foolish libel on Shakspeare. Was he the man to 
 make the character of an ungrateful traitor, murderer, usurper, 
 and tyrant, interesting by sublime flashes of generosity, magna- 
 nimity, courage, and tenderness, and — do I repeat the words 
 
216 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 correctly ?— of every exalted quality that can dignify and adorn 
 the human mind ? 
 
 North. Buller — keep up that face — you are positively 
 beautiful — 
 
 Buller. No quizzing — I am ugly — hut I have a good figure 
 — look at that leg, sir ! 
 
 North. I prefer the other. 
 
 Talboys. There have been Poets among us who fain would 
 — if they could — have so violated nature; but their fabrications 
 have been felt to be falsehoods — and no quackery may resus- 
 citate drowned lies. 
 
 North. Shakspeare nowhere insists on the virtues of Mac- 
 beth — -he leaves their measure indeterminate. That the villain 
 may have had some good points we are all willing to believe — 
 few people are without them; — nor have I any quarrel with 
 those who believe he had high qualities, and is corrupted by 
 ambition. But what high qualities had he shown before 
 Shakspeare sets him personally before us to judge for ourselves ? 
 Valor — courage — intrepidity — call it what you will — -Martial 
 Virtue. 
 
 " For brave Macbeth, (well he deserves that name,) 
 Disdaining fortune, with his brandished steel, 
 Which smoked with bloody execution 
 Like valor's minion, 
 
 Carved out his passage till he faced the slave; 
 And ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, 
 Till he unseam*d him from the nave to the chaps, 
 And fixed his head upon our battlements." 
 
 The "bleeding Serjeant" pursues his panegyric till he grows 
 faint — and is led off speechless; others take it up — and we are 
 thus — and in other ways — prepared to look on Macbeth as a 
 paragon of bravery, loyalty, and patriotism. 
 Talboys. So had seemed Cawdor. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 217 
 
 North. Good. Shakspeare sets Macbeth before us under 
 the most imposing circumstances of a warlike age; but of his 
 inner character as yet he has told us nothing — -we are to find 
 that out for ourselves during the Drama. If there be sublime 
 flashes of generosity, magnanimity, and every exalted virtue, 
 we have eyes to see, unless indeed blinded by the lightning — 
 and if the sublime flashes be frequent, and the struggle of every 
 exalted quality that can adorn the human mind, though inef- 
 fectual, yet strong — why, then, we must not only pity and for- 
 give, but admire and love the " traitor, murderer, usurper, and 
 tyrant," with all the poetical and philosophical fervor of that 
 amiable enthusiast, Mr. Payne Knight. 
 
 Butter. Somehow or other I cannot help having an affec- 
 tion for Macbeth. 
 
 North. You had better leave the Tent, sir. 
 
 Butter. No. I won't. 
 
 North. Give us then, my dear Buller, your Theory of the 
 Thane's character. 
 
 Buller. " Theory, God bless you, I have none to give, sir." 
 Warlike valor, as you said, is marked first and last' — at the 
 opening, and at the end. Surely a good and great quality, at 
 least for poetical purposes. High general reputation won and 
 held. The opinion of the wounded soldier was that of the 
 whole army; and when he himself says, " I have bought golden 
 opinions from all sorts of people, which would be worn now in 
 their newest gloss, not thrown aside so soon," I accept that he 
 then truly describes his position in men's minds. 
 
 North. All true. But we soon gain, too, this insight into 
 his constitution, that the pillar upon which he has built up life 
 is Reputation, and not Respect of Law — not Self-Sespect ; that 
 the point which Shakspeare above all others intends in him, is 
 that his is a spirit not self-stayed— leaning upon outward stays 
 ■—and therefore— 
 19 
 
218 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Buller. Liable to all — 
 
 North. Don't take the words out of my mouth, sir ; or 
 rather, don't put them into my mouth, sir. 
 
 Buller. Touchy to-day. 
 
 North. The strongest expression of this charactor is his 
 throwing himself upon the illicit divinings of futurity, upon 
 counsellors known for infernal; and you see what subjugating 
 sway the Three Spirits take at once over him. On the con- 
 trary, the Thaness is self-stayed; and this difference grounds 
 the poetical opposition of the two personages. In Macbeth, I 
 suppose a certain splendor of character — magnificence of action 
 high — a certain impure generosity — mixed up of some kindli- 
 ness and sympathy, and of the pleasure from self-elation and 
 self-expansion in a victorious career, and of that ambition which 
 feeds on public esteem. 
 
 Buller. Ay — just so, sir. 
 
 North. Now mark, Buller — this is a character which, if the 
 path of duty and the path of personal ambition were laid out by 
 the Sisters to be one and the same path, might walk through 
 life in sunlight and honor, and invest the tomb with proud and 
 revered trophies. To show such a spirit wrecked and hurled 
 into infamy — the ill- woven sails rent into shreds by the whirl- 
 wind — is a lesson worthy the Play and the Poet — and such a 
 lesson as I think Shakspeare likely to have designed — or, 
 without preaching about lessons, such an ethical revelation as 
 I think likely to have caught hold upon Shakspeare's intelli- 
 gence. It would seem to me a dramatically-poetical subject. 
 The mightiest of temptations occurs to a mind, full of powers, 
 endowed with available moral elements, but without set virtue 
 — without principles — " and down goes all before it." If the 
 essential delineation of Macbeth be this conflict of Moral ele- 
 ments — of good and evil — of light and darkness — I see a very 
 poetical conception; if merely a hardened and bloody hypocrite 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 219 
 
 from the beginning, I see none. But I need not say to you, 
 gentlemen, that all this is as far as may be from the exaggerated 
 panegyric on his character by Payne Knight. 
 
 Talboys. Macbeth is a brave man — so is Banquo — so are 
 we Four, brave men — they in their way and day — we in ours — 
 they as Celts and Soldiers — we as Saxons and Civilians — and 
 we had all need to be so — for hark ! in the midst of ours ; 
 " Thunder and Lightning, and enter Three Witches." 
 
 Butter. I cannot say that I understand distinctly their first 
 Confabulation. 
 
 North. That's a pity. A sensible man like you should 
 understand everything. But what if Shakspeare himself did 
 not distinctly understand it? There may have been original 
 errata in the report, as extended by himself from notes taken 
 in short-hand on the spot — light bad — noise worse — voices of 
 Weird Sisters worst — matter obscure — manner uncouth — -why 
 really, Buller, all things considered, Shakspeare has shown 
 himself a very pretty Penny-a-liner. 
 
 Buller. I cry you mercy, sir. 
 
 Seward. Where are the Witches on their first appearance, 
 at the very opening of the Wonderful Tragedy? 
 
 North. An open Place, with thunder and lightning. 
 
 Seward. I know that — the words are written down. 
 
 North. Somewhere or other — anywhere — nowhere. 
 
 Buller. In Fife or Forfar? Or some one or other of your 
 outlandish, or inlandish, Lowland or Highland Counties? 
 
 North. Not knowing, can't say. Probably. 
 
 Seward. 
 
 "When the Hurly Burly's done, 
 When the Battle's lost arid won." 
 
 What Hurly Burly ? What Battle ? That in which Macbeth 
 
220 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 is then engaged? And which is to be brought to issue ere 
 u set of sun" of the day on which " enter Three Witches ?" 
 
 North. Let it be so. 
 
 Seward. 
 
 " Upon the heath, 
 There to meet with Macbeth." 
 
 The Witches, then, are to meet with Macbeth on the heath 
 on the evening of the Battle ? 
 
 North. It would seem so. 
 
 Seward. They are " posters over sea and land" — and, like 
 whiffs of lightning, can outsail and outride the sound of 
 thunder. But Macbeth and Banquo must have had on their 
 seven-league boots. 
 
 North. They must. 
 
 Seward. 
 
 " A drum, a drum ! 
 Macbeth doth come." 
 
 Was he with the advance guard of the Army? 
 
 North. Not unlikely — attended by his staff. Generals, on 
 such occasions, usually ride — but perhaps Macbeth and Banquo, 
 being in kilts, preferred walking in their seven-league boots. 
 Thomas Campbell has said, " When the drum of the Scottish 
 Army is heard on the wild heath, and when I fancy it advanc- 
 ing with its bowmen in front, and its spears and banners in 
 the distance, I am always disappointed with Macbeth' s entrance 
 at the head of a few kilted actors." The army may have been 
 there — but they did not see the Weirds — nor, I believe, did 
 the Weirds see them. With Macbeth and Banquo alone had 
 they to do; we see no Army at that hour — we hear no drums 
 — we are deaf even to the Great Highland Bagpipe, though 
 He, you may be sure, was not dumb — all " plaided and plumed 
 in their tartan array" the Highland Host ceased to be — like 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 221 
 
 vanished shadows — at the first apparition of " those so withered 
 and so wild in their attire" — not of the earth though on it, and 
 alive somewhere till this day — while generations after genera- 
 tions of mere Fighting Men have been disbanded by dusty 
 Death. 
 
 Seward. I wish to know where and when had been the 
 Fighting? The Norwegian — one Sweno, had come down very 
 handsomely at Inchcolm with ten thousand dollars — a sum in 
 those days equal to a million of money in Scotland 
 
 North. Seward, speak on subjects you understand. What 
 do you know, sir, of the value of money in those days in Scot- 
 land? 
 
 Seward. But where had been all the Fighting? There 
 would seem to have been two hurley-burleys. 
 
 North. I see your drift, Seward. Time and place, through 
 the First Scene of the First Act, are past finding out. It has 
 been asked — Was Shakspeare ever in Scotland? Never. 
 There is not one word in this Tragedy leading a Scotsman to 
 think so — many showing he never had that happiness. Let 
 him deal with our localities according to his own sovereign 
 will and pleasure, as a Prevailing Poet. But let no man point 
 out his dealings with our localities as proofs of his having such 
 knowledge of them as implies personal acquaintance with them 
 gained by a longer or shorter visit in Scotland. The Fights 
 at the beginning seem to be in Fife. The Soldier, there 
 wounded, delivers his relation at the King's Camp before Forres. 
 He has crawled, in half an hour, or an hour — or two hours — 
 say seventy, eighty, or a hundred miles or more — crossing the 
 ridge of the Grampians. Rather smart. I do not know what you 
 think here of Time; but I think that Space is here pretty well 
 done for. The Time of the Action of Shakspeare's Plays has 
 never yet, so far as I know, been, in any one Flay, carefully 
 investigated — never investigated at all; and I now announce 
 
 19* 
 
222 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 to you Three—don't mention it—that I have made discoveries 
 here that will astound the whole world, and demand a New 
 Criticism of the entire Shakspearean Drama. 
 
 Buller. Let us have one now, I beseech you ; sir. 
 
 North. Not now. 
 
 Buller. No sleep in the Tent till we have it, sir. I do 
 dearly love astounding discoveries—and at this time of day, 
 an astounding discovery in Shakspeare ! May it not prove a 
 Mare's Nest ! 
 
 North. The tragedy of Macbeth is a prodigious Tragedy, 
 because in it the Chariot of Nemesis visibly rides in the lurid 
 thunder-sky. Because in it the ill motions of a human soul, 
 which Theologians account for by referring them all to sugges- 
 tions of Beelzebub, are expounded in visible, mysterious, tan- 
 gible, terrible shape and symbolization by the Witches. It is 
 great by the character and person, workings and sufferings, of 
 Lady Macbeth — by the immense poetical power in doing the 
 Witches — mingling for once in the world the Homely, Grotesque 
 and the Sublime — extinguishing the Vulgar in the Sublime — 
 by the bond, whatsoever it be, between Macbeth and his wife 
 — by making us tolerate her and him 
 
 Buller. Didn't I say that in my own way, sir? And didn't 
 you reprove me for saying it, and order me out of the Tent ? 
 
 North. And what of the Witches? 
 
 Buller. Had you not stopt me. I say now, sir, that no- 
 body understands Shakspeare's Hecate. Who is she? Each 
 of the Three Weirds is = one Witch + one of the Three Fates 
 —therefore the union of two incompatible natures — more than 
 in a Centaur. Oh ! sir ! what a hand that was which bound 
 the two into one — inseverably ! There they are for ever as the 
 Centaurs are. But the gross Witch prevails ; which Shakspeare 
 needed for securing belief, and he has it, full. Hecate, sir, 
 comes in to balance the disproportion — she lifts into Mythology 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 223 
 
 — and strengthens the mythological tincture. So does the 
 " Pit of Acheron." That is classical. To the best of my re- 
 membrance, no mention of any such Pit in the Old or New 
 Statistical Account of Scotland. 
 
 North. And, in the incantation Scene, those Apparitions ! 
 Mysterious, ominous, picturesque — and self-willed. They are 
 commanded by the Witches, but under a limitation. Their 
 oracular power is their own. They are of unknown orders — as 
 if for the occasion created in Hell. 
 
 North. Talboys, are you asleep — or are you at Chess with 
 your eyes shut? 
 
 Talboys. At Chess with my eyes shut. I shall send off 
 my move to my friend Stirling by first post. But my ears 
 were open — and I ask — when did Macbeth first design the 
 murder of Duncan ? Does not everybody think — in the mo- 
 ment after the Witches have first accosted and left him ? Does 
 not — it may be asked — the whole moral significancy of the 
 Witches disappear, unless the invasion of hell into Macbeth' s 
 bosom is first made by their presence and voices ? 
 
 North. No. The whole moral significancy of the Witches 
 only then appears, when we are assured that they address them- 
 selves only to those who already have been tampering with 
 their conscience. " Good sir ! why do you start, and seem to 
 fear things that do sound so fair?" That question put to Mac- 
 beth by Banquo turns our eyes to his face- — and we see Guilt. 
 There was no start at " Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor," — but 
 at the word " King," well might he start; for eh? 
 
 Talboys. We must look up the Scene. 
 
 North. No need for that. You have it by heart — recite it. 
 
 Talboys. 
 
 K Macbeth. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. 
 
 Banquo. How far is't called to Forres ? — What are these, 
 So wither'd, and so wild in their attire ; 
 
224 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 That look not like the inhabitants of the earth, 
 
 And yet are on't ? Live you 1 or are you aught 
 
 That man may question ? You seem to understand me, 
 
 By each at once her choppy ringer laying 
 
 Upon her skinny lips :— -You should be women, 
 
 And yet your beards forbid me to interpret 
 
 That you are so. 
 
 Macbeth. Speak, if you can ;— What are you ? 
 
 1st Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, thane of Glamis ! 
 
 2d Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, thane of Cawdor ! 
 
 3d Witch. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter. 
 
 Banquo. Good sir, why do you start ; and seem to fear 
 Things that do sound so fair? — I' the name of truth, 
 Are ye fantastical, or that indeed 
 Which outwardly ye show ? My noble partner 
 You greet with present grace, and great prediction 
 Of noble having, and of royal hope, 
 That he seems rapt withal; to me you speak not : 
 If you can look into the seeds of time, 
 And say which grain will grow, and which will not; 
 Speak then to me, who neither beg, nor fear 
 Your favors nor your hate. 
 
 1st Witch. Hail! 
 
 2d Witch. Hail! 
 
 3d Witch. Hail! 
 
 1st Witch. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. 
 
 2c? Witch. Not so happy, yet much happier. 
 
 3d Witch. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none : 
 So, all hail, Macbeth and Banquo. 
 
 1st Witch. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail ! 
 
 Macbeth. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more ; 
 By Sinel's death, I know, I am thane of Glamis : 
 But how of Cawdor 1 the thane of Cawdor lives, 
 A prosperous gentleman ; and to be king, 
 Stands not within the prospect of belief, 
 No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from whence 
 You owe this strange intelligence ? or why 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 225 
 
 Upon this blasted heath you stop our way 
 
 With such prophetic greeting? — Speak, I charge you. 
 
 [ Witches vanish. 
 
 Banquo. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, 
 And these are of them : — Whither are they vanished ? 
 
 Macbeth. Into the air, and what seem'd corporal, melted 
 As breath into the wind. Would they had staid ! 
 
 Banquo. Were such things here, as we do speak about ? 
 Or have we eaten of the insane root 
 That takes the reason prisoner. 
 
 Macbeth. Your children shall be kings. 
 
 Banquo. You shall he king. 
 
 Macbeth. And thane of Cawdor too; went it not so? 
 
 Banquo. To the self-same tune, and words." 
 
 North. Charles Kemble himself could not have given it 
 more impressively. 
 
 Bullet. You make him blush, sir. 
 
 North. Attend to that " start" of Macbeth, Talboys. 
 
 Talboys. He might well start on being told of a sudden, by 
 such seers, that he was hereafter to be King of Scotland. 
 
 North. There was more in the start than that, my lad, else 
 Shakspeare would not have directed our eyes to it. I say 
 again — it was the start — of a murderer. 
 
 Talboys. And what if I say it was not ? But I have the 
 candor to confess, that I am not familiar with the starts of 
 murderers — so may possibly be mistaken. 
 
 North. Omit what intervenes — and give us the Soliloquy, 
 Talboys. But before you do so, let me merely remind you that 
 Macbeth' s mind, from the little he says in the interim, is 
 manifestly ruminating on something bad, ere he breaks out into 
 Soliloquy. 
 
 Talboys. 
 
 " Two truths are told, 
 As happy prologues to the swelling act 
 
226 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Of the Imperial theme. — I thank you, gentlemen. — 
 
 This supernatural soliciting 
 
 Cannot be ill — cannot be good: — If ill, 
 
 Why hath it given me earnest of success, 
 
 Commencing in a truth ? I am Thane of Cawdor : 
 
 If good, why do I yield to that suggestion 
 
 Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, 
 
 And make my seated heart knock at my ribs 
 
 Against the use of nature ? Present fears 
 
 Are less than horrible imaginings : 
 
 My thought whose murder is yet but fantastical 
 
 Shakes so my single state of man, that function 
 
 Is smothered in surmise ; and nothing is, 
 
 But what is not." 
 
 North. Now, my dear Talboys, you will agree with me in 
 thinking that this first great and pregnant, although brief solilo- 
 quy, stands for germ, type, and law of the whole Play, and of 
 its criticism — and for clue to the labyrinth of the Thane's cha- 
 racter. " Out of this wood do not desire to go." Out of it I 
 do not expect soon to go. I regard William as a fair Poet and 
 a reasonable Philosopher; but as a supereminent Play-wright. 
 The First Soliloquy must speak the nature of Macbeth, else the 
 Craftsman has no skill in his trade. A Soliloquy reveals. 
 That is its function. Therein is the soul heard and seen dis- 
 coursing with itself — within itself; and if you carry your eye 
 through — up to the First Appearance of Lady Macbeth — this 
 Soliloquy is distinctly the highest point of the Tragedy — the 
 tragic acme — or dome — or pinnacle — therefore of power indefi- 
 nite, infinite. On this rock I stand, a Colossus ready to be 
 thrown down by — an Earthquake. 
 
 Buller. Pushed off by — a shove. 
 
 North. Not by a thousand Buller-power. Can you believe, 
 Buller, that the word of the Third Witch ; "that shalt be King 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 227 
 
 Hereafter," soics the murder in Macbeth's heart, and that it 
 springs up, flowers, and fruits with such fearful rapidity? 
 
 Bailer. Why — Yes and No. 
 
 North. Attend, Talboys, to the words " supernatural solicit- 
 ing." "What " supernatural soliciting" to evil is there here? 
 Not a syllable had the Weird Sisters breathed about Murder. 
 But now there is much soliloquizing — and Cawdor contemplates 
 himself objectively — seen busy upon an elderly gentleman called 
 Duncan — after a fashion that so frightens him subjectively — that 
 Banquo cannot help whispering to Eosse and Angus — 
 
 "See how our partner's rapt!" 
 
 Talboys. "My thought whose murder's yet fantastical." I 
 agree with you, sir, in suspecting that he must have thought of 
 the murder. 
 
 North. It is from no leaning towards the Weird Sisters — 
 whom I never set eyes on but once, and then without inter- 
 changing a word, leapt momentarily out of this world into that 
 pitch-pot of a pond in Grlenco — it is, I say, from no leaning 
 towards the Weird Sisters that I take this view of Macbeth's 
 character. No " sublime flashes of generosity, magnanimity, 
 tenderness, and every exalted quality that can dignify and 
 adorn the human mind," do I ever suffer to pass by without 
 approbation, when coruscating from the character of any well- 
 disposed man, real or imaginary, however unaccountable at 
 other times his conduct may appear to^be; but Shakspeare, who 
 knew Macbeth better than any of us, has here assured us that 
 he was in heart a murderer — for how long he does not specify 
 — before he had ever seen a birse on any of the Weird Sisters' 
 beards. But let's be canny. Talboys — pray, what is the 
 meaning of the word "soliciting," "preternatural soliciting," 
 in this Soliloquy? 
 
228 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Talboys. Soliciting, sir ; is, in my interpreting, "an appeal- 
 ing, intimate visitation." 
 
 North. Right. The appeal is general — as that challenge of 
 a trumpet — Fairy Queen, book III., canto, xii., stanza 1 — 
 
 "Signe of nigh battail or got victorye" — 
 
 •which, all indeterminate, is notwithstanding a challenge — ope- 
 rates, and is felt as such. 
 
 Talboys. , So a thundering knock at your door — which may 
 be a friend or an enemy. It comes as a summoning. It is 
 more than internal urging and inciting of me by my own 
 thoughts— for mark, sir, the rigor of the word "supernatural," 
 which throws the soliciting off his own soul upon the Weirds. 
 The word is really undetermined to pleasure or pain — the essen- 
 tial thought being that there is a searching or penetrating pro- 
 vocative — a stirring up of that which lay dead and still. Next 
 is the debate whether this intrusive, and pungent, and simulant 
 assault of a presence and an oracle be good or ill ? 
 
 North. Does the hope live in him for a moment that this 
 home-visiting is not ill — that the Spirits are not ill? They 
 have spoken truth so far — ergo, the Third " All hail !" shall be 
 true, too. But more than that — they have spoken truth. Ergo, 
 they are not spirits of Evil. That hope dies in the same in- 
 stant, submerged in the stormy waves which the blast from hell 
 arouses. The infernal revelation glares clear before him — a 
 Crown held out by the hand of Murder. One or two struggles 
 occur. Then the truth stands before him fixed and immutable 
 — "Evil, be thou my good." He is dedicated: and passive to 
 fate. I cannot comprehend this so feeble debate in the mind 
 of a good man — I cannot comprehend any such debate at all in 
 the mind of a previously settled and determined murderer; but 
 I can comprehend and feel its awful significancy in the mind of 
 a man already in a most perilous moral condition, 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 229 
 
 Seicard. The "start" shows that the spark has caught — it 
 has fallen into a tun of gunpowder. 
 
 Talboys. The touch of Ithuriel's spear. 
 
 North. May we not say, then, that perhaps the Witches 
 have shown no more than this — the Fascination of Contact be- 
 tween Passion and Opportunity? 
 
 Seward. To Philosophy reading the hieroglyphic; but to 
 the People what? To them they are a reality. They seize the 
 imagination with all power. They come like " blasts from hell" 
 — like spirits of Plague, whose breath — whose very sight kills. 
 
 " Within them Hell 
 They bring, and round about them; nor from Hell 
 One step, no more than from themselves, can fly." 
 
 The contagion of their presence, in spite of what we have been 
 saying, almost reconciles my understanding to what it would 
 otherwise revolt from, the suddenness with which the penetra- 
 tion of Macbeth into futurity lays fast hold upon Murder. 
 
 Bidler. Pretty fast — though it gives a twist or two in his 
 handling. 
 
 Seward. Lady Macbeth herself corroborates your judgment 
 and Shakspeare's on her husband's character. 
 
 Talboys. Does she ? 
 
 Seward. She does. In that dreadful parley between them 
 on the night of the Murder — she reminds them of a time when 
 
 " Nor time nor place 
 Did then adhere, and yet you would make both; 
 They have made themselves, and that their fitness now 
 Does unmake you." 
 
 This — mark you, sir — must have been before the Play began ! 
 
 North. I have often thought of the words — and Shakspeare 
 
 himself has so adjusted the action of the Play as that, since the 
 
 encounter vrith the Weirds, no opportunity had occurred to Mac- 
 
 20 
 
230 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 beth for the "making of time and place." Therefore it must, 
 as you say, have been before it. Buller, what say you now ? 
 
 Butter. Gagged. 
 
 North. True, she speaks of his being "full of the milk of 
 human kindness." The words have become favorites with us, 
 who are an affectionate and domestic people — and are lovingly 
 applied to the loving; but Lady Macbeth attached no such pro- 
 found sense to them as we do; and meant merely that she 
 thought her husband would, after all, much prefer greatness 
 unbought by blood; and, at the time she referred to, it is proba- 
 ble he would; but that she meant no more than that, is plain 
 from the continuation of her praise, in which her ideas get not 
 a little confused; and her words, interpret them as you will, 
 leave nothing "milky" in Macbeth at all. Milk of human 
 kindness, indeed ! 
 
 Talboys. 
 
 " What thou would'st highly, 
 That would'st thou holily; would'st not play false, 
 And yet would'st wrongly win : thoud'st have great Glamis, 
 That which cries, 'Thus thou must do, if thou have it; 
 And that which rather thou dost fear to do, 
 Than wishest should be undone.' " 
 
 That is her Ladyship's notion of the "milk of human kind- 
 ness!" "I wish somebody would murder Duncan — as for 
 murdering him myself, I am much too tender-hearted and hu- 
 mane for perpetrating such cruelty with my own hand !" 
 
 Butter. Won't you believe a Wife to be a good judge of 
 her Husband's disposition? 
 
 North. Not Lady Macbeth. For does not she herself tell 
 us, at the same time, that he had formerly schemed how to 
 commit Murder? 
 
 Butter. Gagged again. 
 
 North. I see no reason for doubting that she was attached 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 231 
 
 to her husband; and Shakspeare loved to put into the lips of 
 women beautiful expressions of love — but he did not intend 
 that we should be deceived thereby in our moral judgments. 
 
 Seiuard. Did this ever occur to you, sir? Macbeth, when 
 hiring the murderers who are to look after Banquo and Fleance, 
 cites a conversation in which he had demonstrated to them that 
 the oppression under which they had long suffered, and which 
 they had supposed to proceed from Macbeth, proceeded really 
 from Banquo ? My firm belief is that it proceeded from Mac- 
 beth — that their suspicion was right — that Macbeth is mislead- 
 ing them — and that Shakspeare means you to apprehend this. 
 But why should Macbeth have oppressed his inferiors, unless 
 he had been — long since — of a tyrannical nature? He op- 
 presses his inferiors — they are sickened and angered with the 
 world — by his oppression — he tells them 'twas not he but an- 
 other who had oppressed them — and that other — at his instiga- 
 tion — they willingly murder. An ugly affair altogether. 
 
 North. Very. But let us keep to the First Act — and see 
 what a hypocrite Macbeth has so very soon become — what a 
 savage assassin ! He has just followed up his Soliloquy with 
 these significant lines — 
 
 " Come what come may, 
 Time and the hour run through the roughest day ;" 
 
 when he recollects that Banquo, Rosse, and Angus are standing 
 near. Richard himself is not more wily — guily — smily — and 
 oily; to the Lords his condescension is already quite kingly — 
 
 "Kind gentlemen, your pains 
 Are registered where every day I turn 
 The leaf to read them' 1 — 
 
 Talboys. And soon after, to the King how 
 
 " The service and the loyalty I owe, 
 In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness' part 
 
232 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Is to receive our duties ; and our duties 
 Are to your throne and state, children, and servants; 
 Which do but what they should by doing everything 
 Safe toward you love and honor." 
 
 What would Payne Knight have said to all that ? This to his 
 
 King, whom he has resolved, first good opportunity, to murder ? 
 
 North. Duncan is now too happy for this wicked world. 
 
 " My plenteous joys, 
 Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves 
 In drops of sorrow." 
 
 Invaders — traitors — now there are none. Peace is restored to 
 the Land — the Throne rock-fast — the line secure — 
 
 " We will establish our estate upon 
 Our eldest, Malcolm ; whom we name hereafter, 
 The Prince of Cumberland : which honor must 
 Not, unaccompanied, invest him only, 
 But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine 
 On all deservers. 1 ' 
 
 Now was the time for "the manly but ineffectual struggle of 
 every exalted quality that can dignify and exalt the human 
 mind" — for a few sublime flashes at least of generosity and 
 tenderness, et cetera — now when the Gracious Duncan is load- 
 ing him with honors, and, better than all honors, lavishing on 
 him the boundless effusions of a grateful and royal heart. The 
 Prince of Cumberland ! Ha, ha ! 
 
 "The Prince of Cumberland! — That is a step 
 On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, 
 For in my way it lies." 
 
 But the remorseless miscreant becomes poetical — 
 
 " Stars, hide your fires ! 
 Let not light see my black and deep desires : 
 The eye wink at the hand ! yet let that be, 
 Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see !" 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 233 
 
 The milk of human kindness has coagulated into the curd of 
 inhuman ferocity — and all this — slanderers say — is the sole 
 work of the Weird Sisters ! No. His wicked heart — because 
 it is wicked — believes in their Prophecy — the end is assured to 
 him — and the means are at once suggested to his own slaughter- 
 ous nature. No supernatural soliciting here, which a better 
 man would not successively have resisted. I again repudiate— 
 should it be preferred against me — the charge of a tendresse 
 towards the Bearded Beauties of the Blasted Heath ; but rather 
 would I marry them all Three — one after the other — nay all 
 three at once, and as many more as there may be in our Celtic 
 Mythology — than see your Sophia, Seward, or Buller, your — 
 
 Butter. We have but Marmy. 
 
 North. Wedded to a Macbeth. 
 
 Seward. We know your affection, my dear sir, for your 
 goddaughter. She is insured. 
 
 North. Well, this Milk of Human Kindness is off at a 
 hand-gallop to Inverness. The King has announced a Royal 
 Visit to Macbeth's own Castle. But Cawdor had before this 
 despatched a letter to his lady, from which Shakspeare has 
 given us an extract. And then, as I understand it, a special 
 messenger besides, to say "the King comes here to-night." 
 Which of the two is the more impatient to be at work 'tis hard 
 to say; but the idea of the murder originated with the male 
 Prisoner. We have his Wife's word for it — she told him so to 
 his face — and he did not deny it. We have his own word for 
 it — he told himself so to his own face — and he never denies it 
 at any time during the play. 
 
 Talboys. You said, a little while ago, sir, that you believed 
 Macbeth and his wife were a happy couple. 
 
 North. Not I. I said she was attached to him — and I say 
 now that the wise men are not of the Seven, who point to her 
 reception of her husband, on his arrival at home, as a proof of 
 
 20* 
 
234 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 her want of affection. They seem to think she ought to have 
 rushed into his arms — slobbered upon his shoulder — and so 
 forth. For had he not been at the Wars? Pshaw! The 
 most tender-hearted Thanesses of those days — even those that 
 kept albums — would have been ashamed of weeping on sending 
 their Thanes off to battle — much more on receiving them back 
 in a sound skin — with new honors nodding on their plumes. 
 Lady Macbeth was not one of the tui tie-doves — fit mate she 
 for the King of „the Vultures. I am too good an ornithologist 
 to call them Eagles. She received her mate fittingly — with 
 murder in her soul; but more cruel — more selfish than he, she 
 could not be — nor, perhaps, was she less; but she was more 
 resolute — and resolution even in evil — in such circumstances 
 as hers — seems to argue a superior nature to his, who, while 
 he keeps vacillating, as if it were between good and evil, betrays 
 all the time the bias that is surely inclining him to evil, into 
 which he makes a sudden and sure wheel at last. 
 
 Buller. The Weirds — the Weirds ! — the Weirds have done 
 it all! 
 
 North. Macbeth — Macbeth ! — Macbeth hath done it all ! 
 
 Buller. Furies and Fates ! 
 
 North. Who make the wicked their victims ! 
 
 Seward. Is she sublime in her wickedness? 
 
 North. It would, I fear, be wrong to say so. But I was 
 speaking of Macbeth's character — not of hers — and, in compari- 
 son with him, she may seem a great creature. They are now 
 utterly alone — and of the two he has been the more familiar 
 with murder. Between them, Duncan already is a dead man. 
 But how pitiful — at such a time and at such a greeting — Mac- 
 beth's cautions 
 
 " My dearest love, 
 Duncan conies here to night! 
 Lady. — And when goes hence? 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 235 
 
 Macbeth. — To-morrow, as he purposes. 
 Lady. — Oh, never 
 
 Shall sun that morrow see !" 
 
 Why, Talboys, does not the poor devil — 
 
 Talboys. Poor devil ! Macbeth a poor devil ? 
 
 North. Why, Buller, does not the poor devil — 
 
 Butler. Poor devil ! Macbeth a poor devil ? 
 
 North. Why, Seward, does not the poor devil — 
 
 Seward. Speak up — speak out? Is lie afraid of the spi- 
 ders? You know him, sir — you see through him. 
 
 North. Ay, Seward — reserved and close as he is — -he wants 
 nerve — pluck — he is close upon the coward — and that would 
 be well, were there the slightest tendency towards change of 
 purpose in the Pale Face; but there is none — he is as cruel as 
 ever — the more close the more cruel — the more irresolute the 
 more murderous — for to murder he is sure to come. Seward, 
 you said well — why does not the poor devil speak up — speak 
 out ? Is he afraid of the spiders ? 
 
 Talboys. Murderous-looking villain — no need of words. 
 
 North. I did not say, sir, there was any need of words. 
 Why will you always be contradicting one ? 
 
 Talboys. Me? I? I hope I shall never live to see the 
 day on which I contradict Christopher North in his own Tent. 
 At least — rudely. 
 
 North. Do it rudely — not as you did now — and often do — 
 as if you were agreeing with me — but you are incurable. I 
 say, my dear Talboys, that Macbeth so bold in a "twa-haun'd 
 crack" with himself in a Soliloquy — so figurative — and so fond 
 of swearing by the Stars and old Mother Night, who were not 
 aware of his existence — should not have been thus tongue-tied 
 to his own wife in their own secretest chamber — should have 
 unlocked and flung open the door of his heart to her-— like a 
 man. I blush for him — I do. So did his wife. 
 
236 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Buller. I don't find that in the record. 
 
 North. Don't you? "Your face, my Thane, is as a book 
 where men may read strange matters." She sees in his face 
 self-alarm at his own murderous intentions. And so she coun- 
 sels him about his face — like a self-collected, trustworthy wo- 
 man. "To beguile the time, look like the time;" with further 
 good stern advice. But — "We shall speak farther," is all she 
 can get from him in answer to conjugal assurances that should 
 have given him a palpitation at the heart, and set his eyes on 
 fire — 
 
 " He that's coming 
 Must be provided for; and you shall put 
 This night's great business into my despatch; 
 Which shall, to all our nights and days to come, 
 Give solely sovereign sway and Masterdom." 
 
 There spoke one worthy to be a Queen ! 
 
 Seward. Worthy ! 
 
 North. Ay — in that age — in that country. 'Twas not then 
 the custom "to speak daggers but use none." Did Shakspeare 
 mean to dignify, to magnify Macbeth by such demeanor ? No 
 — to degrade and minimize the murderer. 
 
 Talboys. My dear sir, I cordially agree with every word 
 you utter. Go on — my dear sir — to instruct — to illumine — 
 
 Seward. To bring out "sublime flashes of magnanimity, 
 courage, tenderness," in Macbeth — 
 
 Buller. "Of every exalted quality that can dignify and 
 adorn the human mind" — the mind of Macbeth in his struggle 
 with the allurements of ambition ! 
 
 North. Observe, how this reticence — on the part of Mac- 
 beth — contrasted with his wife's eagerness and exultation, makes 
 her, for the moment, seem the wickeder of the two — the fiercer 
 and the more cruel. For the moment only; for we soon ask 
 ourselves what means this unhusbandly reserve in him who had 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 237 
 
 sent her that letter — and then a messenger to tell her the king 
 was coming — and who had sworn to himself as savagely as she 
 now does, not to let slip this opportunity of cutting his king's 
 throat. He is well pleased to see that his wife is as bloody- 
 minded as himself — that she will not only give all necessary 
 assistance — as an associate — but concert the when, and the 
 where, and the how — and if need be, with her own hand deal 
 the blow. 
 
 Seward. She did not then know that Macbeth had made 
 up his mind to murder Duncan that very night. But we know 
 it. She has instantly made up hers — we know how; but being 
 as yet unassured of her husband, she welcomes him home with 
 a Declaration that must have more than answered his fondest 
 hopes; and, therefore, he is almost mute — the few words he 
 does utter seemed to indicate no settled purpose — Duncan may 
 fulfil his intention of going in the morning, or he may not; but 
 we know that the silence of the murderer now is because the 
 murderess is manifestly all he could wish — and that, had she 
 shown any reluctance, he would have resumed his eloquence, 
 and, to convert her to his way of thinking, argued as powerfully 
 as he did when converting himself. 
 
 Butter. You carry on at such a pace, sir, there's no keep- 
 ing up with you. Pull up, that I may ask you a very simple 
 question. On his arrival at his castle, Macbeth finds his wife 
 reading a letter from her amiable spouse, about the Weird Sis- 
 ters. Pray, when was that letter written ? 
 
 North. At what hour precisely? That I can't say. It 
 must, however, have been written before Macbeth had been 
 presented to the king — for there is no allusion in it to the 
 King's intention to visit their Castle. I believe it to have been 
 written about an hour or so after the prophecy of the Weirds — 
 either in some place of refreshment by the road-side — or in 
 such a Tent as this — kept ready for the General in the King's 
 
238 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Camp at Forres. He despatched it by a Gilly — a fast one like 
 your Cornwall Clipper — and then tumbled in. 
 
 Buller. When did she receive it? 
 
 North. Early next morning. 
 
 Buller. How could that be, since she is reading it, as her 
 husband steps in, well on, as I take it, in the afternoon? 
 
 North. Buller, you are a blockhead. There had she, for 
 many hours, been sitting, and walking about with it, now 
 rumpled up in her fist — now crunkled up between her breasts 
 — now locked up in a safe — now spread out like a sampler on 
 that tasty little oak table — and sometimes she might have been 
 heard by the servants— had they had the unusual curiosity to 
 listen at the door — murmuring like a stock-dove — anon hooting 
 like an owl — by-and-by barking like an eagle — then bellowing 
 liker a hart than a hind — almost howling like a wolf — and why 
 not? — now singing a snatch of an old Gaelic air, with a clear, 
 wild, sweet voice, like that of a " human !" 
 
 " Glamis thou art, and Cawdor ; and shalt be 
 What thou art promised." 
 
 " Hie thee hither, 
 That I may pour my spirits in thine ear. 
 And chastise with the valor of my tongue, 
 All that impedes thee from the golden round, 
 Which Fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 
 To have thee crown'd withal." 
 
 Buller. Grand indeed. 
 
 North. It is grand indeed. But, my dear Buller, was that 
 all she had said to herself, think you? No — no — no. But it 
 was all Shakspeare had time for on the Stage. Oh, sirs ! The 
 Time of the Stage is but a simulacrum of true Time. That 
 must be done at one stroke, on the Stage, which in a Life takes 
 ten. The Stage persuades that in one conversation, or soliloquy, 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 239 
 
 which Life may do in twenty — you have not leisure or good 
 will for the ambages and iterations of the Real. 
 
 Seioard. See an artist with a pen in his hand, challenged; 
 and with a few lines he will exhibit a pathetic story. From 
 how many millions has he given you — One ? The units which 
 he abstracts, represent sufficiently and satisfactorily the millions 
 of lines and surfaces which he neglects. 
 
 North. So in Poetry. You take little for much. You 
 need not wonder, then, that on an attendant entering and say- 
 ing, "The King comes here to-night," she cries, "Thou art 
 mad to say it !" Had you happened to tell her so half an hour 
 ago, who knows but that she might have received it with a 
 stately smile, that hardly moved a muscle on her high-featured 
 front, and gave a merciful look to her green eyes even when 
 she was communing with Murder ! 
 
 North. What hurry and haste had been on all sides to get 
 into the House of Murder ! 
 
 "Where's the Thane of Cawdor'? 
 We coursed him, at the heels, and had a purpose 
 To be his purveyor : but he rides well : 
 And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him 
 To his home before us — Fair and noble Hostess, 
 We are your guest to night." 
 
 Ay, where is the Thane of Cawdor ? I, for one, not knowing, 
 can't say. The gracious Duncan desires much to see him as 
 well as his gracious Hostess. 
 
 " Give me your hand: 
 Conduct me to mine host; we love him highly, 
 And shall continue our graces towards him. 
 By your leave, hostess." 
 
 Ay — where's the Thane of Cawdor? Why did not Shakspeare 
 show him to us, sitting at supper with the King? 
 
240 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Talboys. Did he sup with the King? 
 
 Buller. I believe he sat down — but got up again — and left 
 the Chamber. 
 
 Talboys. His wife seeks him out. " He has almost supped. 
 "Why have you left the Chamber ?" "Has he asked for me?" 
 "Know ye not he has?" 
 
 North. On Macbeth's Soliloquy, which his wife's entrance 
 here interrupts, how much inconsiderate comment have not 
 moralists made ! Here — they have said — is the struggle of a 
 good man with temptation. Hearken, say they — to the voice 
 of Conscience ! What does the good man, in this hour of trial, 
 say to himself? He says to himself — "I have made up my 
 mind to assassinate my benefactor in my own house — the only 
 doubt I have, is about the consequences to myself in the world 
 to come." Well, then — "We'd jump the world to come. But 
 if I murder him — may not others murder me? Retribution 
 even in this world." Call you that the voice of Conscience ? 
 
 Seward. Hardly. 
 
 North. He then goes on to descant to himself about the 
 relation in which he stands to Duncan, and apparently discovers 
 for the first time, that "he's here in double trust;" and that 
 as his host, his kinsman, and his subject, he should " against 
 his murderer shut the door, not bear the knife myself." 
 
 Seward. A man of genius. 
 
 North. Besides, Duncan is not only a King, but a good 
 King— 
 
 " So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
 Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against 
 The deep damnation of his taking off." 
 
 That is much better morality — keep there, Macbeth — or there- 
 abouts — and Duncan's life is tolerably safe — at least for one 
 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 241 
 
 night. But Shakspeare knew his man — and what manner of 
 man he is we hear in the unbearable context, that never yet 
 has been quoted by any one who had ears to distinguish between 
 the true and the false. 
 
 " And pity, like a naked new-born babe, 
 Striding tbe blast, or heaven's cherubim, hors'd 
 Upon the sightless couriers of the air, 
 Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, 
 That tears shall drown the wind." 
 
 Cant and fustian. Shakspeare knew that cant and fustian 
 would come at that moment from the mouth of Macbeth. Ac- 
 cordingly, he offers but a poor resistance to the rhetoric that 
 comes rushing from his wife's heart— even that sentiment 
 which is thought so fine — and 'tis well enough in its way — 
 
 " I" dare do all that may become a man ; 
 Who dares do more is none" — 
 
 is set aside at once by— 
 
 " What beast was it, then, 
 That made you break this enterprise to me ?" 
 
 We hear no more of "Pity like a naked new-born babe" — but 
 at her horrid scheme of the murder — 
 
 "Bring forth men children only! 
 For thy undaunted metal should compose 
 Nothing but males !" 
 
 Shakspeare does not paint here a grand and desperate struggle 
 between good and evil thoughts in Macbeth' s mind — but a 
 mock fight; had there been any deep sincerity in the feeling 
 expressed in the bombast — had there been any true feeling at 
 all — it would have revived and deepened — not faded and died 
 almost — at the picture drawn by Lady Macbeth of their victim — 
 21 
 
242 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 " When Duncan is asleep, 
 Whereto the rather shall this day's hard journey 
 Soundly invite him," 
 
 the words that had just left his own lips — 
 
 " His virtues 
 Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against 
 The deep damnation of his taking-off," 
 
 would have re-rung in his ears; and a strange medley — words 
 and music — would they have made — with his wife's 
 
 "When in swinish sleep 
 Their drenched natures lie, as in a death, 
 What cannot you and I perfurm upon 
 The unguarded Duncan?" 
 
 That is my idea of the Soliloquy. Think on it. 
 
 Talboys. The best critics tell us that Shakspeare's Lady 
 Macbeth has a commanding Intellect. Certes she has a com- 
 manding Will. I do not see what a commanding Intellect has 
 to do in a Tragedy of this kind — or what opportunity she has 
 of showing it. Do you, sir? 
 
 North. I do not. 
 
 Talboys. Her Intellect seems pretty much on a par with 
 Macbeth' s in the planning of the murder. 
 
 North. I defy any human Intellect to devise well an atro- 
 cious Murder. Pray, how would you have murdered Duncan ? 
 
 Talboys. Ask me rather howl would — this night — murder 
 Christopher North. 
 
 North. No more of that — no dallying in that direction. You 
 make me shudder. Shakspeare knew that a circumspect mur- 
 der is an impossibility — that a murder of a King in the mur- 
 derer's own house, with expectation of non-discovery, is the 
 irrationality of infatuation. The poor Idiot chuckles at the 
 poor Fury's device as at once original and plausible — and, next 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 243 
 
 hour, what single soul in the Castle does not know who did the 
 deed? 
 
 Seward. High intellect indeed ! 
 
 Talboys. The original murder is bad to the uttermost. I 
 mean badly contrived. What color was there in coloring the 
 two Grooms? No two men kill their master, and then go to 
 bed again in his room with bloody faces and poignards. 
 
 Buller. If this was really a very bad plot altogether, it 
 is her Ladyship's as much — far more than his Lordship's. 
 Against whom, then, do we conclude ? Her ? I think not — 
 but the Poet. He is the badly-contriving assassin. He does 
 not intend lowering your esteem for her Ladyship's talents. 
 Am I, sir, to think that William himself, after the same game, 
 would have hunted no better? I believe he would; but he 
 thinks that this will carry the Plot through for the Stage well 
 enough. The House, seeing and hearing, will not stay to criti- 
 cise. The Horror persuades Belief. He knew the whole mys- 
 tery of murder. 
 
 North. My dear Buller, wheel nearer me. I would not lose 
 a word you say. 
 
 Buller. Did Macbeth commit an error in killing the two 
 Grooms ? And does his Lady think so ? 
 
 Talhoys. A gross error, and his Lady thinks so. 
 
 Buller. Why was it a gross error — and why did his lady 
 think so? 
 
 Talhoys. Because — why — I really can't tell. 
 
 Buller. Nor I. The question leads to formidable difficul- 
 ties — either way. But answer me this. Is her swooning at 
 the close of her husband's most graphic picture of the position 
 of the corpses — real or pretended ? 
 
 Seward. Real. 
 
 Talboys. Pretended. 
 
 Buller. Sir? 
 
244 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. I reserve my opinion. 
 
 Talboys. Not a faint — but a feint. She cannot undo that 
 which is done; nor hinder that which he will do next. She 
 must mind her own business. Now distinctly her own business 
 — is to faint. A high-bred, sensitive, innocent Lady, startled 
 from her sleep to find her guest and King murdered, and the 
 room full of aghast nobles, cannot possibly do anything else but 
 faint. Lady Macbeth, who " all particulars of duty knows," 
 faints accordingly. 
 
 North. Seward, we are ready to hear you. 
 
 Seward. She has been about a business that must have 
 somewhat shook her nerves — granting them to be of iron. She 
 would herself have murdered Duncan had he not resembled her 
 Father as he slept; and on sudden discernment of that dreadful 
 resemblance, her soul must have shuddered, if her body served 
 her to stagger away from parricide. On the deed being done, 
 she is terrified after a different manner from the doer of the 
 deed; but her terror is as great; and though she says — 
 
 " The sleeping and the dead 
 Are but as pictures — "tis the eye of childhood 
 That fears a painted Devil — ■' 
 
 believe me that her face was like ashes, as she returned to the 
 chamber to gild the faces of the grooms with the dead man's 
 blood. That knocking, too, alarmed the Lady, believe me, as 
 much as her husband; and to keep cool and collected before 
 him, so as to be able to support him at that moment with her 
 advice, must have tried the utmost strength of her nature. 
 Call her Fiend — she was Woman. Down stairs she comes — 
 and stands among them all, at first like one alarmed only — 
 astounded by what she hears — and striving to simulate the 
 ignorance of the innocent — "What, in our house?" "Too 
 cruel anywhere !" What she must have suffered then, Shak- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 245 
 
 speare lets us conceive for ourselves; and what on her husband's 
 elaborate description of his inconsiderate additional murders. 
 "The whole is too much for her" — she "is perplexed in the 
 extreme" — and the sinner swoons. 
 
 North. Seward suggests a bold, strong; deep, tragical turn 
 of the scene— that she faints actually. Well— so be it. I 
 shall say, first, that I think it a weakness in my favorite; but 
 I will go so far as to add that I can let it pass for a not unpar- 
 donable weakness — the occasion given. But I must deal other- 
 wise with her biographer. Him I shall hold to a strict render- 
 ing of account. I will know of him what he is about, and 
 what she is about. If she faints really, and against her will, 
 having forcible reasons for holding her will clear, she must be 
 shown fighting to the last effort of will, against the assault of 
 womanly nature, and drop, vanquished, as one dead, without a 
 sound. But the Thaness calls out lustily — she remembers, 
 "as we shall make our griefs and clamors roar upon his death." 
 She makes noise enough — takes good care to attract every- 
 body's attention to her performance — for which lieommend her. 
 Calculate as nicely as you will — she distracts or diverts specula- 
 tion, and makes an interesting and agreeable break in the con- 
 versation. — I think that the obvious meaning is the right mean- 
 ing — and that she faints on purpose. 
 
 Talboys. Decided in favor of Feint. 
 
 Butler. You might have had the good manners to ask for 
 my opinion. 
 
 North. I beg a thousand pardons, Buller. 
 
 Butter. A hundred will do, North. In Davies' Anecdotes 
 of the Stage, I remember reading that Garrick would not trust 
 Mrs. Pritchard with the Swoon — and that Macklin thought 
 Mrs. Porter alone could have been endured by the audience. 
 Therefore, by the Great Manager, Lady Macbeth was not 
 allowed in the Scene to appear at all. His belief was, that 
 
 21* 
 
246 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 with her Ladyship it was a feint — and that the Gods, aware of 
 that, unless restrained by profound respect for the actress, 
 would have laughed — as at something rather comic. If the 
 Gods, in Shakspeare's days, were as the Gods in Garrick's, 
 William, methinks, would not, on any account, have exposed 
 the Lady to derision at such a time. But I suspect the Gods 
 of the Globe would not have laughed, whatever they might 
 have thought of her sincerity, and that she did appear before 
 them in a Scene from which nothing could account for her 
 absence. She was not, I verily believe, given to fainting — 
 perhaps this was the first time she had ever fainted since she 
 was a girl. JSfoiv I believe she did. She would have stood by 
 her husband at all hazards, had she been able, both on his 
 account and her own ; she would not have so deserted him at 
 such a critical juncture; her character was of boldness rather 
 than duplicity; her business now — her duty — was to brazen it 
 out; but she grew sick — qualms of conscience, however terrible, 
 can be borne by sinners standing upright at the mouth of hell 
 — but the fl^k of man is weak, in its utmost strength, when 
 moulded to woman's form — other qualms assail suddenly the 
 earthly tenement — the breath is choked — the " distracted globe" 
 grows dizzy — they that look out of the windows know not what 
 they see — the body reels, lapses, sinks, and at full length smites 
 the floor. 
 
 Seward. "Well said — Chairman of the Quarter-sessions. 
 
 Buller. Nor, with all submission, my dear Sir, can I think 
 you treat your favorite murderess, on this trying occasion, with 
 your usual fairness and candor. All she says is, "Help me 
 hence, ho!" Macduff says, "Look to the Lady" — and Banquo 
 says "Look to the Lady"— and she is carried off. Some 
 critic or other — I think Malone — says that Macbeth shows he 
 knows "'tis a feint" by not going to her assistance. Perhaps 
 he was mistaken — know it he could not. And nothing more 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 247 
 
 likely to make a woman faint than that reveling and wallowing 
 of his in that bloody description. 
 
 North. By the Casting Vote of the President — Feint. 
 
 Talboys. Let's to Lunch. 
 
 North. Go. You will find me sitting here when you come 
 back. 
 
 Scene II. — The Pavilion. 
 
 Time — after Lunch. 
 
 North — Talboys — Buller — Seward. 
 
 North. Claudius, the Uncle-king in Hamlet, is perhaps the 
 most odious character in all Shakspeare. But he«does no un- 
 necessary murders. He has killed the Father, and will the 
 Son, all in regular order. But Macbeth plunges himself, like 
 a drunken man, into unnecessary and injurious cruelties. He 
 throws like a reckless gamester. If I am to own the truth, I 
 don't know why he is so cruel. I don't think that he takes any 
 in mere cruelty, like Nero — 
 
 Buller. What do we know of Nero ? Was he mad ? 
 
 North. I don't think that he takes any pleasure in mere 
 cruelty, like Nero; but he seems to be under some infatuation 
 that drags or drives him along. To kill is, in every difficulty, 
 the ready resource that occurs to him — as if to go on murdering 
 were, by some law of the Universe, the penalty which you must 
 pay for having once murdered. 
 
 Seward. I think, Sir, that without contradicting anything 
 we said before Lunch about his Lordship or his Kingship, we 
 may conceive in the natural Macbeth considerable force of 
 Moral Intuition. 
 
 North. We may. 
 
248 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Seward. Of Moral Intelligence? 
 
 North. Yes. 
 
 Seward. Of Moral Obedience ? 
 
 North. No. 
 
 Seward. Moral Intuition, and Moral Intelligence breaking 
 out, from time to time, all through — we understand how there 
 is engendered in him strong self-dissatisfaction-— thence per- 
 petual goadings on — and desperate attempts to loose conscience 
 in more and more crime. 
 
 North. Ay — Seward — even so. He tells you that he 
 stakes soul and body upon the throw for a Crown. He has 
 got the Crown — and paid for it. He must keep it — else he 
 has bartered soul and body — for nothing ! To make his first 
 crime good — he strides gigantically along the road of which it 
 opened the* gate. 
 
 Talboys. An almost morbid impressibility of imagination 
 is energetically stamped, and universally recognized in the 
 Thane, and I think, sir, that it warrants, to a certain extent, a 
 sincerity of the mental movements. He really sees a fantas- 
 tical dagger — he really hears fantastical voices — perhaps he 
 really sees a fantastical Ghost. All this in him is Nature — 
 not artifice — and a nature deeply, terribly, tempestuously corn- 
 moved by the near contact of a murder imminent — doing — done. 
 It is more like a murder a-making than a murderer made. 
 
 Seward. See, sir, how precisely this characteristic is pro- 
 posed. 
 
 Buller. By whom ? 
 
 Seicard. By Shakspeare in that first Soliloquy. The poetry 
 coloring, throughout his discourse, is its natural efflorescence. 
 
 North. Talboys, Seward, you have spoken well. 
 
 Buller. And I have spoken ill. 
 
 North. I have not said so. 
 
 Buller. We have all Four of us spoken well — we have all 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 249 
 
 Four of us spoken ill — and we have all Four of us spoken but 
 so-so — now and heretofore — in this Tent — hang the wind — 
 there's no hearing twelve words in ten a body says. Honored 
 sir, I beg permission to say that I cannot admit the Canon 
 laid down by your Reverence, an hour or two ago, or a minute 
 or two ago, that Macbeth' s extravagant language is designed 
 by Shakspeare to designate hypocrisy. 
 
 North. Why? 
 
 Buller. You commended Talboys and Seward for noticing 
 the imaginative — the poetical character of Macbeth' s mind. 
 There we find the reason of his extravagant language. It may, 
 as you said, be cant and fustian — or it may not — but why attri- 
 bute to hypocrisy — as you did — what may have flowed from 
 his genius ? Poets may rant as loud as he, and yet be honest 
 men. " In a fine frenzy rolling," their eyes may fasten on 
 fustian. 
 
 North. G-ood — go on. Deduct. 
 
 Buller. Besides, sir, the Stage had such a language of its 
 own ) and I cannot help thinking that Shakspeare often, and 
 too frankly, gave in to it. 
 
 North. He did. 
 
 Buller. I would, however, much rather believe that if 
 Shakspeare meant anything by it in Macbeth' s Oratory or 
 Poetry, he intended thereby rather to impress on us that last 
 noticed constituent of his nature — a vehement seizure of ima- 
 gination. I believe, sir, that in the hortatory scene Lady Mac- 
 beth really vanquishes — as the scene ostensibly shows — his 
 irresolution. And if Shakspeare means irresolution, I do not 
 know why the grounds thereof which Shakspeare assigns to 
 Macbeth should not be accepted as the true grounds. The 
 Dramatist would seem to demand too much of me, if, under 
 the grounds which he expresses, he requires me to discard these^ 
 and to discover and express others, 
 
250 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Seward. I do not know, sir, if that horrible Invocation of 
 hers to the Spirits of Murder to unsex her, be held by many 
 to imply that she has no need of their help ! 
 
 North. It is held by many to prove that she was not a 
 woman but a fiend. It proves the reverse. I infer from it 
 that she does need their help — and, what is more, that she gets 
 it. Nothing so dreadful, in the whole range of Man's Tragic 
 Drama, as that Murder. But I see Seward is growing pale — 
 we know his infirmity — and for the present shun it. 
 
 Seward. Thank you, sir. 
 
 North. I may, however, ask a question about Banquo's Ghost. 
 
 Seward. Well — well — do so. 
 
 Talhoys. You put the question to me, sir? I am inclined 
 to think, sir, that no real Ghost sits on the Stool — but that 
 Shakspeare meant it as with the Daggers. On the Stage he 
 appears — that is an abuse. 
 
 North. Not so sure of that, Talboys. 
 
 Talhoys. Had Macbeth himself continued to believe that 
 the first seen Ghost was a real Ghost, he would not, could not 
 have ventured so soon after his disappearance to say again, 
 u And to our dear friend Banquo." He does say it — and then 
 again diseased imagination assails him at the rash words. 
 Lady Macbeth reasons with him again, and he finally is per- 
 suaded that the Ghost, both times, had been but brain-sick 
 creations. 
 
 " .My strange and self-abuse 
 Is the initiate fear, that wants hard use : — 
 I am but young in deed." 
 
 Butter. That certainly looks as if he did then know he had 
 been deceived. But perhaps he only censures himself for being 
 too much agitated by a real ghost. 
 
 Talboys. That won't do. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 251 
 
 North. But go back, my dear Talboys, to the first enacting 
 of the Play. What could the audience have understood to be 
 happening, without other direction of their thoughts than the 
 terrified Macbeth's bewildered words? He never mentions 
 Banquo's name— and recollect that nobody sitting there then 
 knew that Banquo had been murdered. The dagger is not in 
 point. Then the spectators heard him say, " Is this a dagger 
 that I see before me?" And if no dagger was there, they 
 could at once see that 'twas fantasy. 
 
 Talboys. Something in that. 
 
 Buller. A settler. 
 
 North. I entirely separate the two questions' — first, how did 
 the Manager of the Globe Theatre have the King's Seat at the 
 Feast filled; and second, what does the highest poetical Canon 
 deliver? I speak now, but to the first. Now, here the rule 
 is — " the audience must understand, and at once, what that 
 which they see and hear means" — that Rule must govern the art 
 of the drama in the Manager's practice. You allow that, Talboys. 
 
 Talboys. I do. 
 
 Buller. Rash — Talboys — rash; he's getting you into a net. 
 
 North. That is not my way, Buller. "Well, then, suppose 
 Macbeth acted for the first time to an audience, who are to es- 
 tablish it for a stock-play or to damn it. Would the Manager 
 commit the whole power of a scene which is perhaps the most 
 — singly — effective of the whole Play — 
 
 Buller. No — no — not the most effective of the whole 
 Play— 
 
 North. The rival, then, of the Murder Scene — the Sleep- 
 Walking stands aloof and aloft — to the chance of a true divi- 
 nation by the whole G-lobe audience ? I think not. The 
 argument is of a vulgar tone, I confess, and extremely literal, 
 but it is after the measure of my poor faculties. 
 
 Seivard. In confirmation of what you say, it has been 
 
252 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS.. 
 
 lately asserted that one of the two appearings at least is not 
 Banquo's — but Duncan's. How is that to be settled but by a 
 real G-host — or Ghosts? 
 
 North. And I ask, what has Shakspeare himself undeniably 
 done elsewhere? In Henry VIII., Queen Katharine sleeps 
 and dreams. Her Dream enters, and performs various acts- 
 somewhat expressive — minutely contrived and prescribed. It 
 is a mute Dream, which she with shut eyes sees — which you in 
 pit, boxes, and gallery see — which her attendants watching 
 about her upon the stage, do not see. 
 
 Seicard. And in Richard III. — He dreams, and so does 
 Richmond. Eight Grhosts rise in succession and speak to 
 Richard first, and to the Earl next — each hears, I suppose, 
 what concerns himself — they seem to be present in the two 
 Tents at once. 
 
 North. In Cymbeline, Posthumus dreams. His Dream 
 enters — Grhosts and even Jupiter ! They act and speak; and 
 this Dream has a reality — for Jupiter hands or tosses a parch- 
 ment-roll to one of the Grhosts, who lays it, as bidden, on the 
 breast of the Dreamer, where he, on awaking, perceives it ! I 
 call all this physically strong, sir, for the representation of the 
 metaphysically thought. 
 
 Bidler. If Duller may speak, Buller would observe, that 
 once or twice both Ariel and Prospero come forward " invi- 
 sible." And in Spenser, the Dream of which Morpheus lends 
 the use to Archimago, is — carried. 
 
 Seward. We all remember the Dream which Jupiter sends 
 to Agamemnon, and which, while standing at his bed's-head, 
 puts on the shape of Nestor and speaks; — the Grhost of Patro- 
 clus — the actual Ghost which stands at the bed's-head of Achil- 
 les, and is his Dream. 
 
 North. My friends, Poetry gives a body to the bodiless. 
 The Stage of Shakspeare was rude, and gross. In my boyhood, 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 253 
 
 I saw the Ghosts appear to John Kemble in Richard III. 
 Now they may be abolished with Banquo. So may be Queen 
 Katherine's Angels. But Shakspeare and his Audience had 
 no difficulty about one person's seeing what another does not — 
 or one's not seeing, rather, that which another does. Nor had 
 Homer, when Achilles alone, in the Quarrel Scene, sees Mi- 
 nerva. Shakspeare and his Audience had no difficulty about 
 the bodily representation of Thoughts — the inward by the out- 
 ward. Shakspeare and the Great Old Poets leave vague, 
 shadowy, mist-shrouded, and indeterminate the boundaries be- 
 tween the Thought and the Existent- — the Real and the Unreal. 
 I am able to believe with you, Talboys, that Banquo' s Ghost 
 was understood by Shakspeare, the Poet, to be the Phantasm of 
 the murderer's guilt-and-fear-shaken soul; but was required by 
 Shakspeare, the Manager of the Globe Theatre, to rise up 
 through a trap-door, mealy-faced and blood-boultered, and so 
 make " the Table full." 
 
 Bidler. Seward, do bid him speak of Lady Macbeth. 
 
 Seward. Oblige me, sir — don't now — after dinner, if you 
 will. 
 
 North. I shall merely allude now, as exceedingly poetical 
 treatment, to the discretion throughout used in the showing 
 of Lady Macbeth. You might almost say that she never takes 
 a step on the stage, that does not thrill the Theatre. Not a 
 waste word, gesture, or look. All at the studied fulness of 
 sublime tragical power — yet all wonderfully tempered and 
 governed. I doubt if Shakspeare could have given a good ac- 
 count of everything that he makes Macbeth say — but of all 
 that She says he could. 
 
 Talboys. As far as I am able to judge, she but cnce in the 
 whole Play loses her perfect self-mastery — when the servant 
 surprises her by announcing the King's coming. She answers, 
 " thou'rt mad to say it :" which is a manner of speaking used by 
 
254 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 those who cannot, or can hardly believe tidings that fill them 
 with exceeding joy. It is not the manner of a lady to her ser- 
 vant who unexpectedly announces the arrival of a high — of the 
 highest visitor. She recovers herself instantly. "Is not thy 
 master with him, who, wer't so, would have informed for pre- 
 paration ?" This is a turn coloring her exclamation, and is 
 spoken in the most self-possessed, argumentative, demonstrative 
 tone. The preceding words had been torn from her; now she 
 has passed, with inimitable dexterity, from the dreamed Queen, 
 to the usual mistress of her household—to the housewife. 
 
 North. In the Fourth Act — she is not seen at all. But in 
 the Fifth, lo ! and behold ! and at once we know why she had 
 been absent — we see and are turned to living stone by the reve- 
 lation of the terrible truth. I am always inclined to conceive 
 Lady Macbeth's night-walking as the summit, or topmost peak 
 of all tragic conception and execution — in Prose, too, the crown- 
 ing of Poetry ! But it must be, because these are the ipsissima 
 verba — yea, the escaping sighs and moans of the bared soul. 
 There must be nothing, not even the thin and translucent veil of 
 the verse, betwixt her soul showing itself, and yours beholding. 
 Words which your "hearing latches" from the threefold abyss of 
 Night, Sleep, and Conscience ! What place for the enchantment 
 of any music is here ? Besides, she speaks in a whisper. The 
 Siddons did — audible distinctly, throughout the stilled immense 
 theatre. Here music is not — sound is not — only an anguished 
 soul's faint breathings — gaspings. And observe that Lady 
 Macbeth carries — a candle — besides washing her hands — and 
 besides speaking prose — three departures from the severe and 
 elect method, to bring out that supreme revelation. I have 
 been told that the great Sirs. Pritchard used to touch the palm 
 with the tips of her fingers, for the washing, keeping candle in 
 hand: — that the Siddons first set down her candle, that she 
 might come forwards, nud wash her bnnds in earnest, one over 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. ' 255 
 
 the other, as if she were at her wash-hand stand, with plenty of 
 water in her basin — that when Sheridan got intelligence of her 
 design so to do, he ran shrieking to her, and, with tears in his 
 eyes, besought that she would not, at one stroke, overthrow 
 Drury Lane — that she persisted, and turned the thousands of 
 bosoms to marble. 
 
 Talboys. Our dear, dear Master. 
 
 North. You will remember, my friends, her four rhymed 
 lines — uttered to herself in Act Third. They are very remark- 
 able — 
 
 " Nought's bad, all's spent, 
 Where our desire is got without content: 
 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy, 
 Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy." 
 
 They are her only waking acknowledgments of having mis- 
 taken life! So — they forbode the Sleep-Walking, and the 
 Death — as an owl, or a raven, or vulture, or any fowl of obscene 
 wing, might flit between the sun and a crowned but doomed 
 head — the shadow but of a moment, yet ominous, for the augur, 
 of an entire fatal catastrophe. 
 
 Seward. They do. But to say the truth, I had either for- 
 got them or never discovered their significancy. that Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare! 
 
 Talboys. that Christopher North! 
 
 North. Speak so, friends — 'tis absurd, but I like it. 
 
 Talboys. It is sincere. 
 
 North. At last they call him, "black Macbeth/' and "this 
 dead Butcher." And with good reason. They also call her 
 "his fiend-like Queen," which last expression I regard as highly 
 offensive. 
 
 B idler. And they call her so not without strong reason. 
 
 North. A bold, bad woman — not a Fiend. I ask— Did she. 
 
256 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 cr did she not, "with violent hand foredo her life?" They 
 mention it as a rumour. The Doctor desires that all means of 
 self-harm may be kept out of her way. Yet the impression on 
 us, as the thing proceeds, is that she dies of pure remorse — : 
 which I believe. She is visibly dying. The cry of women, 
 announcing her death, is rather as of those who stood around 
 the bed watching, and when the heart at the touch of the in- 
 visible finger stops, shriek — than of one after the other coming 
 in and finding the self-slain — a confused, informal, perplexing, 
 and perplext proceeding — but the Cry of Woman is formal, 
 regular for the stated occasion. You may say, indeed, that she 
 poisoned herself — and so died in bed — watched. Under the 
 precautions, that is unlikely — too refined. The manner of Sey- 
 ton, " The Queen, my Lord, is dead," shows to me that it was 
 hourly expected. How these few words would seek into you, 
 did you first read the Play in mature age ! She died a natural 
 death — of remorse. Take my word for it — the rumor to the 
 contrary was natural to the lip and ear of Hate. 
 
 Talhovs. A question of primary import is — What is the 
 relation of feeling between him and her ? The natural impres- 
 sion, I think, is, that the confiding affection — the intimate con- 
 fidence — is " there" — of a husband and wife who love one an- 
 other — to whom all interests are in common, and are consulted 
 in common. Without this belief, the Magic of the Tragedy 
 perishes — -vanishes to me. "My dearest love, Duncan comes 
 here to-night." " Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck," 
 — a marvelous phrase for Melpomene. It is the full union — 
 for ill purposes — that we know habitually for good purposes — 
 that to me tempers- the Murder Tragedy. 
 
 North. Yet believe me, dear Talboys — that of all the mur- 
 ders Macbeth may have committed, she knew beforehand but 
 of one — Duncan's. The haunted somnambulist speaks the 
 truth — the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 257 
 
 Talboys. "The Thane of Fife had a wife." Does not that 
 imply that she was privy to that Murder? 
 
 North. No. Except that she takes upon herself all the 
 murders that are the offspring, legitimate or illegitimate, of that 
 First Murder. But we know that Macbeth, in a sudden fit of 
 fury, ordered the Macduff's to be massacred when on leaving 
 the Cave Lenox told him of the Thane's flight. 
 
 Talboys. That is decisive. 
 
 North. A woman, she feels for a murdered woman. That 
 is all — a touch of nature — from Shakspeare's profound and 
 pitiful heart. 
 
 Talboys. "The Queen, my Lord, is dead." "She should 
 have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a 
 word" — Often have I meditated on the meaning of these words 
 — -yet even now I do not fully feel or understand them. 
 
 North. Nor I. This seems to look from them — " so pressed 
 by outward besiegings I have not capacity to entertain the blow 
 as it requires to be entertained. With a free soul I could have 
 measured it. Now I cannot." 
 
 Talboys. Give us, sir, a commentary on the Revelations of 
 the Sleeping Spectre. 
 
 North. I dare not. Let's be cheerful. I ask this — when 
 you see and hear Kemble-Macbeth — and Siddons-Macbeth — 
 whom do you believe that you see and hear ? I affirm that you 
 at one and the same instant — or at the most in two immediately 
 successive instants — yet I believe in one and the same instant, 
 — know that you see and hear Kemble — or if that accomplished 
 gentleman and admirable actor — Macready be performing the 
 part — then Macready ; — and yet believe that you see and hear 
 Lord Macbeth. I aver that you entertain a mixt — confused — 
 self-contradictory state of mind — that two elements of thought 
 which cannot co-subsist do co-subsist. 
 
 Talboys. Be jure they cannot— -de facto they do. 
 22* 
 
258 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. Just so. 
 
 Talboys. They co-subsist fighting, and yet harmonizing — 
 there is half-belief— semi-illusion. 
 
 North. I claim the acknowledgment of such a state — which 
 any one who chooses may better describe, but which shall come 
 to that effect — for the lowest substratum of all science and cri- 
 ticism concerning Poesy. Will anybody grant me this, then 
 I will reason with him about Poesy, for we begin with some- 
 thing in common. Will anybody deny me this, then I will 
 not argue with him about Poesy, for we set out with nothing in 
 common. 
 
 Buller. We grant you all you ask — we are all agreed — 
 "our unanimity is wonderful." 
 
 North. Leave out the great Brother and Sister, and take 
 the Personated alone. I know that Othello and Desdemona 
 never existed — that an Italian Novelist began, and an English 
 Dramatist ended them — and there they are. But I do not 
 believe in their existence, " their loves and woes?" Yes, I do 
 believe in their existence, in their loves and woes — and I hate 
 Iago accordingly with a vicious, unchristian, personal, active, 
 malignant hatred. 
 
 Talboys. Dr. Johnson's celebrated expression, "all the be- 
 lief that Poetry claims"- 
 
 Buller. Celebrated ! Where is it ? 
 
 Talboys. Preface to Shakspeare — is idle, and frivolous, and 
 false? 
 
 North. It is. He belies his own experience. He cannot 
 make up his mind to admit the irrational thought of belief 
 which you at once reject and accept. But exactly the half ac- 
 ceptance, and the half rejection, separates poetry from — prose. 
 
 Talboys. That is, sir, the poetical from the prosaic. 
 
 North. Just so. It is the life and soul of all poetry — the 
 lusus — the make-believe — the glamour and the gramarye. I 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 259 
 
 do not know — gentlemen — I wish to be told, whether I am not 
 throwing away words upon the setting up of a pyramid which 
 was built by Cheops, and is only here and there crumbling a 
 little, or whether the world requires that the position shall be 
 formally argued and acknowledged. Johnson, as you remind 
 me, Talboys, did not admit it. 
 
 Talboys. That he tells us in so many words. Has any 
 more versed and profound master in criticism, before or since, 
 authentically and authoritatively, luminously, cogently, explici- 
 tly, psychologically, metaphysically, physiosologically, psycho- 
 gogically, propounded, reasoned out, legislated, and enthroned 
 the Dogma? 
 
 North. I know not, Talboys. Do you admit the Dogma ? 
 
 Talboys. I do. 
 
 North. Impersonation— -Apostrophe — -of the absent ; every 
 poetical motion of the Soul; the whole pathetic beholding of 
 Nature— involve the secret existence and necessity of this irra- 
 tional psychical state of grounding the Logic of Poesy. 
 
 Butter. Go on, sir. 
 
 North. I will — -but in a new direction. Before everything 
 else, I desire, for the settlement of this particular question, a 
 foundation for, and some progress in the science of Murder 
 Tragedies. 
 
 Seward. I know properly two. 
 
 Butter. Two only ? Pray name. 
 
 Seward. This of Macbeth and Eichard III. 
 
 Butter. The Agamemnon — the Choephorse — the Eiectra— 
 the Medea — 
 
 Seward. In the Agamemnon, your regard is drawn to Aga- 
 memnon himself and to Cassandra. However, it is after a 
 measure a prototype. Clytemnestra has in it a principality. 
 Medea stands eminent — but then she is in the right. 
 
 Butter. In the right? 
 
260 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Seward. Jason at least is altogether in the wrong. But 
 we must — for obvious reasons — discuss the Greek drama by it- 
 self; and therefore not a word more about it now. 
 
 North. Richard III., and Macbeth and his wife, are in their 
 Plays the principal people. You must go along with them to 
 a certain guarded extent — else the Play is done for. To be 
 kept abhorring and abhorring, for Five Acts together, you can't 
 stand. 
 
 Seicard. Oh ! that the difference between Poetry and Life 
 were once for all set down — and not only once for all, but every 
 time that it comes in question. 
 
 Buller. My dear sir, do gratify Seward's very reasonable 
 desire, and once for all set down the difference. 
 
 Seicard. You bear suicides on the stage, and tyrannicides 
 and other cides — all simple homicide — much murder. Even 
 Romeo's killing Tybalt in the street, in reparation for Mercu- 
 tio's death, you would take rather differently, if happening to- 
 day in Pall Mall, or Moray Place. 
 
 North. We have assuredly for the Stage a qualified scheme 
 of sentiment — grounded no doubt on our modern of every-day 
 morality — but specifically modified by Imagination — by Poetry 
 — for the use of the dramatist. Till we have set down what we 
 do bear, and why, we are not prepared for distinguishing what 
 we won't bear, and why. 
 
 Buller. Oracular ! 
 
 Seicard. Suggestive. 
 
 North. And if so, sufficient fur the nonce. Hamlet's uncle, 
 Claudius, seems to me to be the most that can be borne of one 
 purely abhorrible. He is made disgusting besides — drunken 
 and foul. Able he is — for he won the Queen by " witchcraft 
 of his wit:" but he is made endurable by his diminished propor- 
 tion in the Play — many others overpowering and hiding him. 
 
 Buller. Pardon me, sir, but I have occasionally felt, in 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 261 
 
 the course of this conversation, that you were seeking — in oppo- 
 sition to Payne Knight — to reduce Macbeth to a species of 
 Claudius. I agree with you in thinking that Shakspeare would 
 not give a Claudius so large a proportion of his drama. The 
 pain would be predominant and insupportable. 
 
 North. I would fain hope you have misunderstood me ; Buller. 
 
 Butter. Sometimes, sir, it is not easy for a plain man to 
 know what you would be at. 
 
 North. I? 
 
 Butter. Yea — you. 
 
 North. Richard III. is a hypocrite — a hard, cold murderer 
 from of old — and yet you bear him. I suppose, friends, chiefly 
 from his pre-eminent intellectual Faculties, and his perfectly 
 courageous and self-possessed Will. You do support your con- 
 science — or traffic with it- — by saying all along — we are only 
 conducting him to the retribution of Bosworth Field. But, 
 friends, if these motions in Macbeth, which look like revealings 
 and breathings of some better elements, are sheer and vile 
 hypocrisy — if it is merely his manhood that quails, which his 
 wife has to virilify — a dastard and a hypocrite, and no more 
 — I cannot abide him — there is too much of a bad business^ 
 and then I must think Shakspeare has committed an egregious 
 error in poetry. Richard III. is a bold, heroic hypocrite. He 
 knows he is one. He lies to man— never to his own Conscience^ 
 or to Heaven. 
 
 Talboys. What? 
 
 North. Never. There he is clear-sighted, and stands, like 
 Satan, in open and impious rebellion. 
 
 Buller. But your Macbeth, sir, would be a shuffling Puritan 
 — a mixture of Holy Willie and Greenacre. Forgive me- — - 
 
 Seward. Order — order — order. 
 
 Talboys. Chair — chair — chair. 
 
 Butter, Swing— Swing — Swing, 
 
282 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. My dear Buller— you have misunderstood me — I 
 assure you you have. Some of my expressions may have been 
 too strong — not sufficiently qualified. 
 
 Buller. I accept the explanation. But be more guarded in 
 future, my dear sir. 
 
 North. I will. 
 
 Buller. On that assurance I ask you, sir, how is the Tragedy 
 of Macbeth morally saved? That is, how does the degree of 
 complacency with which we consider the two murderers not 
 morally taint ourselves — not leave us predisposed murderers ? 
 
 North. That is a question of infinite compass and fathom — 
 answered then only when the whole Theory of Poesy has been 
 expounded. 
 
 Buller. Whew ! 
 
 North. The difference established between our contempla- 
 tion of the Stage and of Life. 
 
 Buller. I hardly expect that to be done this Summer in this 
 Tent. 
 
 North. Friends! Utilitarians and Religionists shudder and 
 shun. They consider the Stage and Life as of one and the 
 same kind — look on both through one glass. 
 
 Buller. Eh? 
 
 North. The Utilitarian will settle the whole question of 
 Life upon half its data — the lowest half. He accepts Agricul- 
 ture, which he understands logically — but rejects Imagination 
 which he does not understand at all — because, if you sow it in 
 the track of his plough, no wheat springs. Assuredly not; a 
 different plough must furrow a different soil for that seed and 
 that harvest. 
 
 Buller. Now, my dear sir, you speak like yourself. You 
 always do so — the rashness was all on my side. 
 
 Seward. Nobody cares — hold your tongue. 
 
 North. The religionist errs from the opposite quarter. lie 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 263 
 
 brings measures from Heaven to measure tilings of the Earth. 
 He weighs Clay in the balance of Spirit. I call him a Religionist 
 who overruns with religious rules and conceptions things that 
 do not come under them — completely distinct from the native 
 simplicity and sovereignty of Religion in a piously religious 
 heart. Both of them are confounders of the sciences which in- 
 vestigate the Facts and the Laws of Nature, visible and invisi- 
 ble — subduing inquiry under preconception. 
 
 Butter. Was that the Gong— or but thunder? 
 
 North. The Gong. 
 
 Talboys. I smell sea-trout. 
 
 Scene III. — Deeside, 
 
 Time — after dinner. 
 
 North— -Buller — Seward — Talbots. 
 
 North. One hour more— and no more — to Shakspeare. 
 
 Buller. May we crack nuts? 
 
 North. By all means. And here they are for you to crack, 
 
 Buller. Now for some of your astounding Discoveries. 
 
 North. If jow. gather the Movement, scene by scene, of the 
 Action of this Drama, you see a few weeks, or it may be 
 months. There must be time to hear that Malcolm and his 
 brother have reached England and Ireland — time for the King 
 of England to interest himself in behalf of Malcolm, and mus- 
 ter his array. More than this seems unrequired. But the 
 zenith of tyranny to which Macbeth has arrived, and particu- 
 larly the . manner of describing the desolation of Scotland by 
 the speakers in England, conveys to you the notion of a long, 
 long dismal reign. Of old it always used to do so with me; 
 so that when I came to visit the question of the Time, I felt 
 
264 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 myself as if baffled and puzzled, not finding the time I had 
 looked for, demonstrable. Samuel Johnson has had the same 
 impression, but has not scrutinized the data. He goes probably 
 by the old Chronicler for the actual time, and this, one would 
 think, must have floated before Shakspeare's own mind. 
 
 Talboys. Nobody can read the Scenes in England without 
 seeing long-protracted time. 
 
 " Malcolm. Let-us seek out some desolate shade, and there 
 Weep our sad bosoms empty. 
 
 Macduff. Let us rather 
 
 Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men, 
 Bestride our down-fallen birthdom : Each new morn, 
 New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows 
 Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds 
 As if it felt with Scotland, and yeli'd oat 
 Like syllable of dolour/' 
 
 North. Ay, Talboys, that is true Shakspeare. No Poet — 
 before or since — has in so few words presented such a picture. 
 No poet, before or since, has used such words. He writes like 
 a man inspired. 
 
 Talboys. And in the same dialogue Malcolm says — 
 
 ' ; I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; 
 It weeps, it bleeds; ond eaeli new day a gash 
 Is added to her wounds." 
 
 North. Go on, ray dear Talboys. Your memory is a trea- 
 sury of all the highest Poetry of Shakspeare. Go on. 
 
 Talboys. And hear Rosse, on his joining Malcolm and 
 Macduff in this scene, the latest arrival from Scotland; — 
 
 " Macduff. Stands Scotland where it did ? 
 Rosse. Alas, poor country ! 
 
 Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot 
 Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing, 
 But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; 
 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 265 
 
 Where sighs and groans, and shrieks that rent the air, 
 
 Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems 
 
 A modern ecstacy; the dead man's knell 
 
 Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good men's lives 
 
 Expire before the flowers in their caps, 
 
 Dying, or ere they sicken." 
 
 North. "Words known to all the world, yet coming on the 
 ear of each individual listener with force unweaken'd "by fami- 
 liarity, power increased by repetition, as it will be over all Scot- 
 tish breasts in secula seculorum. 
 
 Talboys. By Heavens ! he smiles ! There is a sarcastic 
 smile on that incomprehensible face of yours, sir — of which no 
 man in this Tent, I am sure, may divine the reason. 
 
 North. I was not aware of it. Now, my dear Talboys, let 
 us here endeavor to ascertain Shakspeare's Time. Here we 
 have long time with a vengeance — and here ice have short time; 
 
 FOR THIS IS THE PICTURE OF THE STATE OF POOR SCOTLAND 
 BEFORE THE MURDER OF MACDUFF'S TVlFE AND CHILDREN. 
 
 Boiler. What? 
 Seward. Eh? 
 
 North. Macduff moved by Eosse's words, asks him, you 
 know, Talboys, "how does my wife?" And then ensues the 
 affecting account of her murder, which you need not recite. 
 Now, I ask, when was the mui'der of Lady Macduff perpetrated ? 
 Two days — certainly not more — after the murder of Banquo. 
 Macbeth, incensed by the flight of Fleance, goes, the morning 
 after the murder of Banquo, to the Weirds, to know by " the 
 worst means, the worst." You know what they showed him 
 — and that, as they vanished, he exclaimed — 
 
 " Where are they ? Gone ? — Let this pernicious hour 
 Stand aye accursed in the calendar ! — 
 Come in, without there ! 
 
 23 
 
266 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Enter Lenox. 
 
 Lea. What's your grace's will i 
 
 Macb. Saw you the weird sisters? 
 
 Len. No, my lord. 
 
 Macb. Came they not by you 1 
 . Len. No, indeed, my lord. 
 
 Macb. Infected by the air whereon they ride ; 
 And damn'd all those that trust them ! — I did hear 
 The galloping of horse : Who was't came by ? 
 
 Len. : Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you worJ, 
 Macduff is fled to England. 
 
 Macb. Fled to England? 
 
 Len. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits : 
 The flighty purpose never is o'ertook, 
 Unless the deed go with it : from this moment, 
 The very firstlings of my heart shall be 
 The firstlings of my band. And even now 
 To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: 
 The castle of Macduff I will surprise ; 
 Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword 
 His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls 
 That trace his line. No boasting like a fool: 
 This deed I'll do, before this purpose cool." 
 
 And his purpose does not cool — for the whole Family are mur- 
 dered. When, then, took place the murder of Banquo ? Why, 
 a week or two after the Murder of Duncan. A very short time 
 indeed, then, intervened between the first and the last of these 
 Murders. And yet from those pictures of Scotland, painted in 
 England for our information and horror, we have before us a 
 long, long time, all filled up with butchery over all the land ! 
 But I say there had been no such butchery — or anything re- 
 sembling it. There was, as yet, little amiss with Scotland. 
 Look at the Unking of Acts IT. and III. End of Act II., Mac- 
 beth is gone to Scone — to be invested. Beginning of Act III., 
 
I 
 
 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 267 
 
 Banquo says, in soliloquy, in Palace of Fores, " Thou bast it 
 nou:." I ask, when is this now? Assuredly just after the 
 Coronation. The Court was moved from Scone to Fores, which, 
 we may gather from finding Duncan there formerly, to be the 
 usual Eoyal Residence. " Enter Macbeth as King." "Our 
 great Feast" — our "solemn Supper" — "this day's Council" — 
 all have the aspect of new taking on the style of Royalty. 
 " Thou hast it now," is formal — weighed — and in a position 
 that gives it authority — at the very beginning of an Act — there- 
 fore intended to mark time — a very pointing of the finger on 
 the dial. 
 
 Bailer. Good image — short and apt. 
 
 Talhoys. Let me perpend. 
 
 Butter. Do, sir, let him perpend. 
 
 North. Banquo fears " Thou play'dst most foully for it :" 
 he goes no farther — not a word of any tyranny done. All the 
 style of an incipient, dangerous Rule — clouds, but no red rain 
 yet. And I need not point out to you, Talboys, who carry Shak- 
 speare unnecessarily in a secret pocket of that strange Sporting 
 Jacket, which the more I look at it the greater is my wonder 
 — that Macbeth' s behavior at the Banquet, on seeing Banquo 
 nodding at him from his own stool, proves him to have been 
 then young in blood. 
 
 "My strange and self abuse 
 Is the initiate fear that wants hard use. 
 We are yet but young in deed." 
 
 He had a week or two before committed a first-rate murder, 
 Duncan's — that night he had, by hired hands, got a second-rate 
 job done, Banquo' s — and the day following he gave orders for 
 a bloody business on a more extended scale, the Macduffs. But 
 nothing here the least like Rosse's, or Macduff's, or Malcolm's 
 Picture of Scotland — during those few weeks. For Shakspeare 
 
268 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 forgot what the true time was — -his own time — the short time; 
 and introduced long time at the same time — why, he himself 
 no doubt knew — and you no doubt, Talboys, know also — and 
 will you have the goodness to tell the "why" to the Tent? 
 
 Talboys. In ten minutes. Are you done ? 
 
 North. Not quite. Meanwhile — Two Clocks are going at 
 once — which of the two gives the true time of Day ? 
 
 Buller. Short and apt. Go on, Sir. 
 
 North. I call that an Astounding Discovery. Macduff 
 speaks as if he knew that Scotland had been for ever so long 
 desolated by the Tyrant — and yet till Rosse told him, never 
 had he heard of the Murder of his own Wife ! Here Shaks- 
 peare either forgot himself wholly, and the short time he had 
 himself assigned — or, with his eyes open, forced in the long 
 time upon the short — in wilful violation of possibility ! All 
 silent? 
 
 Talboys. After supper — you shall be answered. 
 
 North. Not by any man now sitting here — or elsewhere. 
 
 Talboys. That remains to be heard. 
 
 North. Pray, Talboys, explain to me this. The Banquet 
 scene breaks up in most admired disorder — " stand not upon 
 the order of your going — but go at once," — quoth the Queen. 
 The King, in a state of great excitement, says to her — 
 
 " I will to-morrow, 
 (Betimes I will,) unto the weird sisters : 
 More shall they speak ; for now I am bent to know, 
 By the worst means, the worst: for mine own good, 
 All causes shall give way ; I am in blood 
 Stept in so far, that, should I wade no more, 
 Returning were as tedious as go o'er." 
 
 One might have thought not quite so tedious; as yet he had 
 murdered only Duncan and his grooms, and to-night Banquo. 
 Well, he does go " to-morrow and by times" to the Cave. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 269 
 
 " Witch. By the pricking of my thumbs, 
 Something wicked this way comes; 
 Open locks, whoever knocks. 
 Macbeth. How now, you secret, Black, and midnight Hags ?" 
 
 It is a "dark Cave/' — dark at all times— and now "by times" 
 of the morning ! Now — observe — Lenox goes along with. Mac- 
 beth — on such occasions His natural to wish "one of ourselves" 
 to be at hand. And Lenox had been at the Banquet. Had 
 he gone to bed after that strange Supper? No doubt, for an 
 hour or two — like the rest of " the Family." But whether he 
 went to bed or not, then and there he and another Lord had a 
 confidential and miraculous conversation. 
 
 Butter. Miraculous! What's Miraculous about it? 
 
 North. Lenox says to the other Lord — ■ 
 
 "My. former speeches have but hit your thoughts, 
 Which can interpret further; only, I say, 
 Things have been strangely borne : the gracious Duncan 
 Was pitied of Macbeth — marry he was dead. 
 And the right valiant Banquo walked too late; 
 Whom, you may say, if it please you, Fleance killed, 
 For Fleance fled.'''' 
 
 "Who told him all this about Banquo and Fleance ? He speaks 
 of it quite familiarly to the "other lord/' as a thing well known 
 in all its bearings. But not a soul but Macbeth, and the Three 
 Murderers themselves, could possibly have known anything 
 about it ! As for Banquo, " Safe in a ditch he hides," — and 
 Fleance had fled. The body may, perhaps in a few days, be 
 found, and, though "with twenty trenched gashes on its head," 
 identified as Banquo's, and, in a few weeks, Fleance may turn 
 up in Wales. Nay, the Three Murderers may confess. But 
 now all is hush; and Lenox, unless endowed with second sight, 
 or clairvoyance, could know nothing of the murder. Yet, from 
 his way of speaking of it, one might imagine crowner's 'quest 
 
 23* 
 
270 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 had sitten on the body — and the report been in the Times be- 
 tween supper and that after-supper confab ! I am overthrown 
 — everted — subverted — the contradiction is flagrant — the im- 
 possibility monstrous — I swoon. 
 
 Butter. Water — water. 
 
 North. Thank you, Buller. That's revivifying — I see now 
 all objects distinctly. Where was I? 0, ay. The "other 
 Lord" seems as warlock-wise as Lenox — for he looks forward 
 to times when 
 
 " We may again 
 Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights ; 
 Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives." 
 
 An allusion, beyond doubt, to the murder of Banquo ! A sud- 
 den thought strikes me. Why, not only must the real, actual, 
 spiritual, corporeal ghost of Banquo sat on the stool, but " Lenox 
 and the other Lord," as well as Macbeth, saw him. 
 
 Buller. Are you serious, sir ? 
 
 North. So serious that I can scarcely hope to recover my 
 usual spirits to-day. Have you, gentlemen, among you any 
 more plausible solution to offer? All mum. One word more 
 with you. Lenox tells the other Lord" 
 
 "From broad words, and 'cause he fail'd 
 His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear, 
 Macduff lives in disgrace; Sib, can you tell 
 Where he bestows himself?" 
 
 And the " other Lord," who is wonderfully well informed for 
 a person "strictly anonymous," replies that Macduff — 
 
 "Is gone to pray the holy king, (Edward) on his aid 
 To wake Northumberland, and warlike Siward." 
 
 Nay, he minutely describes Macduff's surly reception of the 
 King's messenger, sent to invite him to the Banquet, and the 
 

 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 271 
 
 happy style of that official on getting the Thane of Fife's " ab- 
 solute, Sir, not I," and D. I. 0. ! and the same nameless 
 " Lord in waiting" says to Lenox, that 
 
 " this report 
 Hath so exasperate the king, that he 
 Prepares for some attempt of war" 
 
 I should like to know first where and when these two gifted 
 individuals picked up all this information ? The king himself 
 had told the Queen, that same night, that he had not sent to 
 Macduff — but that he had heard "by the way" that he was not 
 coming to the Banquet — and he only learns the flight of Mac- 
 duff after the Cauldron Scene — that is at end of it : — 
 
 " Macbeth. Come in, without there ! 
 Enter Lenox. 
 
 Lenox. What's your Grace's will? 
 
 Macbeth. Saw you the Weird Sisters 1 
 
 Lenox. No, indeed, my Lord. 
 
 Macbeth. Infected be the air whereon they ride; 
 And damn'd all those that trust them ! — I did hear 
 The galloping of horse : Who was't came by? 
 
 Lenox. 'Tis tivo or three, my Lord, that bring you word, 
 Macduff is fled to England. 
 
 Macbeth. Fled to Ekgeand?" 
 
 For an Usurper and Tyrant, his Majesty is singularly ill-in- 
 formed about the movements of his most dangerous Thanes ! 
 But Lenox, I think, must have been not a little surprised at 
 that moment to find that, so far from the exasperated Tyrant 
 having il prepared for some attempt of war" with England — he 
 had not till then positively known that Macduff had fled ! I 
 pause, as a man pauses who has no more to say — not for a re- 
 ply. But to be sure, Talboys will reply to anything — and were 
 I to say that the Moon is made of green cheese, he would say 
 — yellow — 
 
272 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Talhoys. If of weeping Parmesan, then I— of the " cheese 
 without a tear" — Double Grloster. 
 
 North. The whole Dialogue between Lenox and the Lord 
 is miraculous. It abounds with knowledge of events that had 
 not happened — and could not have happened — on the showing 
 of Shakspeare himself; but I do not believe that there is an- 
 other man now alive who knows that Lenox and the u other 
 Lord" are caught up and strangled in that noose of Time. Did 
 the Poet ? You would think, from the way they go on, that 
 one ground of war, one motive of Macduff's going, is the mur- 
 der of Banquo — perpetrated since he is gone off! 
 
 Talboys. Eh ? 
 
 North. Gentlemen, I have given you a specimen or two of 
 Shakspeare' s way of dealing with time — and I can elicit no re- 
 ply. You are one and all dumb-foundered. What will you 
 be — where will you be— when I — 
 
 Butter. Have announced "all my astounding discoveries!" 
 and where, also, will be poor Shakspeare — where his Critics ? 
 
 North. Friends, Countrymen, and Romans, lend me your 
 ears ! A dazzling spell is upon us that veils from our appre- 
 hension all incompatibilities — all impossibilities — for he dips the 
 Swan-quill in Power — and Power is that which you must accept 
 from him, and so to the utter oblivion, while we read or behold, 
 of them all. To go to work with such inquiries is to try to 
 articulate thunder. r What do I intend ? That Shakspeare is 
 only to be thus criticised? Apollo forbid — forbid the Nine! 
 I intend Prologemena to the Criticism of Shakspeare. I intend 
 mowing and burning the brambles before ploughing the soil. 
 I intend showing where we must not look for the Art and the 
 Genius of Shakspeare, as a step to discovering where we must. 
 I suspect — I know — that Criticism has oscillated from one ex- 
 treme to another, in the mind of the country — from denying 
 all art, to acknowledging consummated art, and no flaw. I 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 273 
 
 would find the true Point. Stamped and staring upon the front 
 of these Tragedies as a conflict. He, the Poet, beholds Life, — 
 he, the Poet, is on the Stage. The littleness of the Globe 
 Theatre mixes with the greatness of human affairs. You think 
 of the Green-room and the Scene-shifters. I think that when 
 we have stripped away the disguises and incumbrances of the 
 Power, we shall see, naked, and strong, and beautiful, the 
 statue moulded by Jupiter, 
 
DIES BOREALES 
 
 No. VI. 
 
 Camp at Cladich. Scene I. — The Wren's Nest. 
 
 Time — Six a. m. 
 
 Nor th — Tale o ys — Seward . 
 
 North. You recollect the words of Edmund in Lear — 
 
 " A credulous father, and a brother noble, 
 Whose nature is so far from doing harm 
 That he suspects none ; on whose foolish honesty- 
 One's practices ride easy." 
 
 This is exactly Iago with Othello — believing in virtue, using, 
 despising it. These idolators of self think the virtuous worship 
 imaginary, unreal Gods. But they never doubt the sincerity 
 of the worship ; and therein show a larger intelligence, a clearer 
 insight than those other idolators who, shut up in their own 
 character, ascribe their own motives to all; and in virtues can 
 see only different shapes of hypocrisy. 
 
 Talboys. The Devil himself knows better, sir. He knows 
 that virtue exists; only he natters himself that he can under- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 275 
 
 mine its foundations. "And ofttimes does succeed"— seeking 
 Evil "as contrary to His High Will whom we resist !" 
 
 North. The Evil principle at war with the Grood. 
 
 Talboys. In what war soever, sir, you are once engaged, 
 you soon feel yourself pledged to it. A few blows given on 
 both sides settle you fast, and you no longer inquire about the 
 cause. 
 
 North. To an evil soul all good is a reproach; therefore he 
 wars on it. To the self-dissatisfied the happiness of the good 
 is a reproach ; therefore, if he be thoroughly selfish, he pulls it 
 down. \ 
 
 Talboys. Every one's impulse is 1 to throw off pain; and if 
 no pity, no awe, no love be there to stay him, he pulls down of 
 course. 
 
 North. My dear Talboys, believe me, that for a moment, 
 every man has motives fit for a fiend. Perhaps he obeys — 
 perhaps rejects them. The true fiend is constant. 
 
 Talboys. Every man has motives fit for a fiend! I beg 
 you to speak for yourself, my dear sir. 
 
 North. I speak of myself, of you, and of Iago. What is 
 the popular apprehension or theory of the malice disclosed in 
 "mine Ancient" — not the Old One, but the Standard-bearer? 
 
 Talboys. Why, the prompt, apt, and natural answer will be, 
 he is a Devil. 
 
 North. And pray what is a Devil ? 
 
 Talboys. Iago. 
 
 North. Don't reason in a circle, sir. 
 
 Talboys. I'd rather reason in a circle, sir, than not reason 
 at all. I like reasoning in a circle — it is pleasant pastime in a 
 cold, raw morning — far preferable to ascending Cruachan; for 
 you are never far from homeland when tired can leap out at 
 your own pleasure, and take some reasoning in a straight line. 
 
276 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North. You are always so pleasant, Talboys, circular or 
 zig-zag. Whence is the malice in the heart of a Devil? 
 
 Talboys. I want data, sir. Milton has given some historical 
 elucidation of it; but the People reason less, and are no philo- 
 sophers. 
 
 North. Hate in a devil is like Love in an Angel — uncaused, 
 or self-causing; it is his natural function — his Essence, his 
 Being. Herein the seraph is a seraph — the fiend is a fiend. 
 
 Talboys. 
 
 "Evil! be Thou my good! By Thee at least 
 Divided Empire with Heaven's King I hold, 
 By Thee, and more perhaps than half will reign." 
 
 Reason — Motive — Cause. 
 
 North. Prospero calls Caliban a devil — a born Devil. 
 
 Talboys. Also a demi-Devil — as Othello calls Iago. 
 
 North. The Philosopher knows — in humanity — of no born 
 devil. He follows, or tries to follow, the causes which have 
 turned the imperfect nature into the worst. The popular sense 
 takes things as it finds them, and acknowledges "born devils," 
 Iago being one, and "of the prime." The totality of monster 
 in the moral world seems to that unphilosophical, sincere, and 
 mueh-to-the-purpose intuition, expressed under the image of a 
 nativity. The popular sense recognizes a temper of man which 
 elects evil for evil's sake — which inflicts pain, because it likes 
 to see pain suffered — which destroys, because it revels in misery. 
 
 Talboys. Coleridge calls Iago's "a motiveless malignity." 
 He hated Othello for not promoting him, but Cassio. That 
 seems to me the real, tangible motive — a haunting, goading, 
 fretting preference — an affront — an insult — a curbing of power 
 — wounding him where alone he is sensitive — in self-esteem 
 and pride. See his contempt for Cassio as a book- warrior — and 
 "for a fair life" — simply like our notion of a "milksop." 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 277 
 
 Why Othello, who so prizes him for his honesty as to call him 
 ever "honest Iago," keeps him down, I have not a guess — 
 
 North. Haven't you. And pray what right have you to 
 interfere with the practice of promotion in the army of the 
 Venetian State? 
 
 Talhoys. I cannot approve of this particular instance-— it 
 looks like favoritism. Othello fancied Cassio — Cassio was the 
 genteeler young fellow of the two — the better-born — Iago had 
 risen from the ranks — and was a stout soldier — 
 
 North. You don't take your character of Cassio from Iago? 
 
 Talhoys. I do. Iaga was a liar — but here I think he spoke 
 truth — there is nothing in the Play indicating that Cassio had 
 seen much service — he had never been at Cyprus — nor any- 
 where else— he had never seen a Turk — he had never — 
 
 North. Hold your tongue. 
 
 Talhoys. A more disgraceful Brawl — 
 
 North. Hold your tongue, I say. 
 
 Talhoys. Don't keep pouring out your excuses for him, sir, 
 with such overwhelming volubility — it won't do. He knew 
 his own wretched head. "I have very poor and unhappy 
 brains for drinking," yet drink he would, — "I have drunk but 
 one cup to-night, and that was craftily qualified too" — worse 
 than shirking — " behold what innovation it makes here,"— and 
 yet he would not join the Teetotalers. Ou ton such a Lieu- 
 tenant ! Iago teas an ill-used man. 
 
 North. Talboys — 
 
 Talhoys. that ceaseless volubility! Shakspeare after- 
 wards makes Iago say that Cassio "has a daily beauty in his 
 life." Where do we see it ? In his liaison with that "fitchew?" 
 From pleading with the Divine Desdemona on a question to 
 him of life or death, to go straight to sup — and sleep with 
 Bianca ! 
 
 North. Othello's "Now thou art my Lieutenant," shows 
 24 
 
278 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 the importance meant by Shakspeare to be attached to the 
 previous oppression — or "holding down" of Iago. Alas ! how 
 that allocution instigating Iago to murder by more than a 
 promise of promotion, sadly lowers Othello to me — I hardly 
 know why. I feel a descent from his own passion to a sym- 
 pathy with Iago's desire to step into his superior officer's shoes. 
 I can fancy that Shakspeare meant this. Ay, that he did; for 
 I believe that turbulent passion, in some of its moods, lowers 
 — degrades— debases a great and generous nature. 
 
 Talboys. Iago was jealous of Othello. He says he was, 
 and either believes it, or tries to believe it. His own words 
 intimate the doubt, and the determination to believe. Malig- 
 nity and hate indulge in giving acceptance to slight grounds — 
 such he says, in his own coarse way, was the rumour — and per- 
 haps it was true — 
 
 North. Certainly it was false. High characters, as Corio- 
 lanus, Hotspur, Othello, are, by a native majesty of spirit, 
 saved and exalted from the pursuit of illicit pleasure. 
 
 Talboys. They are. But let his jealousy of Othello — sin- 
 cere or assumed — or mixed or alternating — enter as an ele- 
 ment into the hatred. 
 
 North. Let it. Iago was, you said truly, a stout Soldier — 
 and I add, a hard, unfeeling, unprincipled Soldier. Of all 
 trades in the world, that of a Soldier is the worst and the best 
 •—witness an Iago — an Othello. The same trade helped to 
 make both. In Othello we almost see Wordsworth's Happy 
 Warrior — in Iago one — 
 
 " Yet ill he lived, much evil saw, 
 'Mongst men to whom no better law 
 Nor better life was known ; 
 Deliberately and undeceived, 
 Those bad men's vices he received 
 And gave them back his own !" 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 279 
 
 You are convinced, without a hint, that he is infidel — atheist : 
 everything shaped like religion, like moral conscience — his 
 mind shakes off and rejects with scorn. He does not, however, 
 as I said, disbelieve in Virtues. He believes in them, and uses 
 them to the destruction of the havers. What he disbelieves is the 
 worth of Virtues. To that savage Idol, Self, the more bleeding 
 and noble victims, the more grateful the sacrifice. 
 
 Talboys. A singular combination in him, sir, is his wily 
 Italian wit — like Iachimo's — and his rough — soldierlike — plain, 
 blunt, jovial manners — the tone of the Camp, and of the wild- 
 living, reckless Camp — -plenty of hardihood — fit for toil, peril, 
 privation. You never for a moment doubt his courage — his 
 presence of mind — his resources — he does not once quail in 
 presence of Othello at his utmost fury. He does not stir up 
 the Lion from without, through the bars of his cage, with an 
 invisible rod of iron — that is, a whip of scorpions ; he lashes up 
 the Wild Beast, and flinches not an inch from paw that would 
 smite, or tusk that would tear — a veritable Lion Queller and 
 King. 
 
 North. I cannot but believe that the Othello of Shakspeare 
 is black, and all black. I cannot conceive the ethnography of 
 that age drawing — on the stage especially — the finer distinction 
 which we know between a Moor and a Blackamoor or Negro. 
 The opposition, entertained by nature, is between White and 
 Black — not between White and Brown. You want the opposition 
 to tell with all its power. "I saw Othello's visage in his mind" 
 is nothing, unless the visible visage is one to be conquered — to 
 be accepted by losing sight of it. I say again, that I cannot 
 myself imagine the eotemporary audience of Shakspeare decid- 
 ing color between a Moor and a Negro. The tradition of the 
 Stage, too, seems to have made Othello jet black. Such, I 
 opine, was the notion of the Moor, thm 7 to the People, to the 
 Court, to the Stage, to Shakspeare. 
 
280 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Talboys. Wooly-headed ? 
 
 North. Why, yes — if you choose — in opposition to the 
 "curled darlings." 
 
 Talboys,. Yet Coleridge has said it would be " something 
 monstrous to conceive this beautiful Venetian girl falling in 
 love with a veritable Negro." 
 
 North. Coleridge almost always thought, felt, wrote, and 
 spoke finely, as a Critic — but may I venture, in all love and 
 admiration of that name, to suggest that the removal which the 
 stage makes of a subject from reality must never be forgotten. 
 In life you cannot bear that the "White Woman shall marry the 
 Black Man. You could not bear that an English Lady Des- 
 demona — Lady Blanche Howard — should — under any imagin- 
 able greatness — marry General Toussaint or the Duke of Mar- 
 malade. Your senses revolt with offence and loathing. But 
 on the Stage some consciousness that everything is not as lite- 
 rally meant as it seems — that symbols of humanity, and not 
 actual men and women, are before you — saves the Play. 
 
 Talboys. I believe that Wordsworth's line — 
 
 "The gentle Lady married to the Moor,' : 
 
 expresses explicitly the feeling of the general English heart — ■ 
 pity for the contrast, and a thought of the immense love which 
 has overcome it. 
 
 North. White and Black is the utter antithesis — as, at in- 
 tensity, Night and Day. Yes — Talboys — Every jot of soot you 
 take from his complexion, you take an iota from the signified 
 power of love. 
 
 Talboys. As you say, sir, the gap which is between the 
 Stage and Reality must prevent, in our hearts, anything like 
 loathing of the conjunction. 
 
 North. The touch of such an emotion would annul the 
 whole Tragedy. A disparity, or a discrepency, vast as myste- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 281 
 
 rious — but which love, at the full, is entitled to overlook — 
 overstep ! Whether Fate dare allow prosperity to a union con- 
 taining so mighty an element of disruption, is another question. 
 It seems like an attempt at overruling the " iEterna foedera 
 reruin." 
 
 Talhoys. For half an hour after her death, Othello "believes 
 her guilty. You must take it for a representation of what his 
 feelings would have been, if she had really been guilty. 
 
 North. Unless the fact of her innocence have a secret po- 
 tency that reaches, through all appearance and evidence of her 
 guilt, into his innermost soul. Be that as it may, he is, after 
 the deed, perplexed and unmanned, totally unlike a man who 
 has performed a great sacrifice to the offended gods. You may 
 say that the convulsion of uptorn love is too fresh, and that he 
 would in time have regained his strength — that had she been 
 guilty, the first half-hour must have been just what it was. 
 All I know is, that his mind first becomes clear, when he knows 
 her innocent. Then he is, in a measure, himself, and sees his 
 way. Had she been guilty, he would have lived two years 
 with a stern, desolate soul — not harsh, perhaps, to honest folks, 
 though — and have then fallen in battle. 
 
 Talboys. But how is Iago affected by the blackness? No 
 doubt, with more hate and aversion at being commanded by 
 and outshone by him. High military rank and command — 
 high favor by the Senate — high power and esteem in the world 
 — high royalty of spirit — happiness in marriage — all these in 
 Othello are proper subjects of envy, and motives of hate in Iago. 
 The Nigger ! 
 
 North. Antipathy of bad to good — of base to noble — exac- 
 erbated by physical antipathy of color! But I never could 
 fathom the hate and malice and revenge of Iago. 
 
 Talboys. It is unfathomable — and therefore fit agent in 
 Tragedy. 
 
 24* 
 
282 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 North- Even so. I don't believe that Shakspeare always 
 means you to be able to lay motives in the balance and weigh 
 them. Far otherwise. 
 
 Talboys. Ay — Think how the Murder of Duncan leaps up, 
 Hell-born, into the heart of Macbeth — at the breath of the 
 Weird Sisters ! 
 
 North. Perhaps. Poetry shaping out an action, distin- 
 guishes herself, amongst other points of distinction herein, from 
 History, that while she shows lucidly and of her own clear 
 knowledge, the concatenation of Cause and Effect, yet passion 
 and imagination require the indefinite. There is then a conflict 
 of claims and powers ; and the part of logic is hence imperfectly 
 rendered. You see the river sweeping by you, without know- 
 ing all the springs that have fed it. 
 
 Talboys. Say that again, sir. 
 
 North. There is the hatred — a tragical power, which the 
 Poet is principally concerned to use — less to explain. 
 
 Talboys. You said, sir, the noble Moor must have been 
 much disennobled ere he could have cried to Iago, "Now thou 
 art my lieutenant." 
 
 North. I did, and you think so too. 
 
 Talboys. I do. Othello and Iago are joint conspirators to 
 two double murders. Can you conspire to a murder — a private 
 assassination — without lowering yourself— even on the Stage ? 
 Othello takes on himself the murder of Desdemona — act, respon- 
 sibility, consequences; but does he not seem to hire Iago to 
 assassinate Cassio? 
 
 North. What did Othello intend to do — after all was accom- 
 plished? Consequences indeed! He was stone-blind to the 
 future. What does he expect ? that when he has killed his 
 wife, everything is to go on as smoothly as before? That no 
 notice will be taken of it ? or that he will have to make another 
 speech to the Senate ? He has told them how he married her 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 283 
 
 — the counterpart will be to relate "a plain unvarnished tale of 
 my whole course" of smothering and stabbing her with bolster 
 and dagger. "Now thou art my lieutenant" — shows — if not 
 stone-blindness — a singular confidence in the future. 
 
 Talboys. The Personages who come in at the End look at 
 the matter contrariwise. Othello exalts the killing of his wife 
 into a sacrifice to Justice. But Cassio? That is mere — pure 
 Revenge. " that the slave had forty thousand lives, — one 
 is too poor, too weak for my revenge." 
 
 North. Upon what pedestal does Othello stand now — engag- 
 ing another to kill Cassio in the dark, for his own revenge ? I 
 repeat it, surely the Noble Moor is now very much disennobled. 
 
 Talboys. I rejoice, my dear sir, that you have so completely 
 got rid of that nasty cough — your voice is as clear as a bell. 
 Lungs sound — 
 
 North. As those of a prize bagpiper. Talboys, I cannot 
 help thinking that Shakspeare shows up in Othello foul pas- 
 sions — that you see in him two natures conjoined — the moral 
 Caucasian White, and the animal tropical Black. In the 
 Caucasian, the spiritual or angelical in us attains its manifesta- 
 tion. In the offspring of the tropics, amongst the sands, and 
 under the suns of Africa, the animal nature takes domination. 
 The sands and suns that breed Lions, breed Men with Lions' 
 hearts in them. The Lion is for himself noble, but blood of 
 the Irrational in the veins of the Rational is a contradiction. 
 The noblest moral nature and the hot blind rage of animal 
 blood! 
 
 Talboys. Ay, the noblest moral nature, and high above 
 every other evidence of it, his love of Her — which, what it was, 
 and what it would have remained, or become — and what he 
 was and would have been, had Iago not been there — we may 
 imagine ! With all the Power of a warrior, and a ruler, he 
 has the sensibility of a Lover — with all spontaneous dignity 
 
284 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 and nobility, he has the self-mastery of reason — before his 
 overthrow. 
 
 North. Wherefore, my dear Sheriff, I prefer Othello as a 
 specimen of the Ethical Marvelous. Like, as in another king- 
 dom, a Winged Horse or a Centaur — the meeting of two natures 
 which readily hold asunder. All this has under the iEthiop 
 complexion its full force — less if you mitigate — if not mitigate 
 merely, but take away, where are we all? The innate repug- 
 nance of the White Christian to the Black Moorish blood, is 
 the ultimate tragic substratum — the " must" of all that follows. 
 Else — make Othello White — and, I say again, see where we 
 are! 
 
 Talhoys. Shakspeare, sir, is not one to flinch from the 
 utmost severity of a Case. 
 
 North. Not he, indeed — therefore I swear Othello is a 
 Blackamoor. 
 
 Talhoys. And I take it, sir, that Othello's natural demeanor 
 is one of great gravity, to which the passionate moods induced 
 are in extremity of contrast. I conceive that by these mixtures 
 and contrasts, he is rendered picturesque and poetical. 
 
 North. I swear Othello was a Blackamoor — and that Des- 
 demona was the Whitest Lady in Europe. 
 
 Talhoys. Had he lived to be tried for murder, I think his 
 counsel might have successfully set up the plea of insanity. 
 
 North. They might have successfully set it up — but I, the 
 Judge, would have successfully put it down. Honestly, I don't 
 think Othello mad; and for this reason, that the thought never 
 before came into my head. An incident that appears to me most 
 wonderful in dramatic invention is — the Swooning. Look at the 
 precise words preceding his falling down. To me it has no other 
 effect or sense, than that of the blood being driven up into the 
 head, and oppressing with physical pressure that bodily organ 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 285 
 
 — the brain. The soul strikes the body like a hammer, and 
 knocks it down. 
 
 Talboys. Ay, how his words waver — " That's not so good 
 now" — from a man believing, or on the point of believing. 
 There is to me a physical faintness in these words, and in the 
 pby upon the words " lie with her/' &c, intellect reeling to 
 fall. 
 
 North. Good. But I believe body and soul of Othello — 
 or the relation between body and soul — to be physiologically 
 right and sound. The swooning goes soon off — the accident 
 of an hour — the mind is else in full vigor, sound, and misled. 
 You must recollect that a mind of supereminent physical (may 
 one say so ?) and moral power — a mind that would have been 
 strong and calm through the Eussian Campaign of Napoleon — 
 is not in a day stricken into a state which requires the medical 
 skill and attention of Dr. Willis. Othello had an immensely 
 strong physical constitution undoubtedly — had he not, the ad- 
 ventures related would long ago have extinguished him. This 
 is one meaning of that sudden and strange narrative which 
 children are taught by rote, and which men may not have quite 
 fathomed; but a strong body and strong soul conjoined do not 
 lightly admit of disjunction. Madness, properly so called is 
 a disjunction, in some way or kind, of the natural union between 
 soul and body. A few days disrupt the ties in the aged Lear. 
 You may think that in Othello — -I suppose iEtat. 40 or 45 — ■ 
 the ties would bear some wrenching of the rack, ere snapping. 
 I think that they held firm. 
 
 Talboys. True, sir, insanity would even detract from the 
 moral majesty and splendor of Othello. 
 
 North. It would. The time comes back to me when I did 
 not care for the Play or the Man. The Play now seems to me 
 wonderful, more even than Hamlet or Lear — and the Man ; in 
 poetical invention, a match for Achilles or Satan. 
 
286 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Talboys. Sir — sir. 
 
 North. Passion in the blood like that of a Negro — and 
 right in the soul as of Socrates or Epaminondas. Yes, Talboys, 
 the Majesty of the Moral soul in Othello seems to me the most 
 prophetic, or divining or inconceivable of Shakspeare's con- 
 ceptions. 
 
 Talboys. Nay — nay — my dear sir. 
 
 North. Everything else might seem to offer its own reason — 
 
 Talboys. Nay — nay— my dear sir. Compare the gross 
 Hamlet of Saxo Grammaticus with Ours. 
 
 North. "Well, do — but Othello — you don't know whence 
 he is derived. He is a tropical animal — kindred to the lion — 
 the tiger — the dragon — and, on the other hand, he has the ra- 
 tional equipoise of the faculties that stamp the Philosopher — 
 and he is everything between the two. 
 
 Talboys. An Eloge, indeed — perhaps a leetle too eulogistic. 
 
 North. No. What a simple sincerity colors the narrative 
 of his love-making ! Is your imagination bewitched by the 
 wild story of his adventurous life 1 Hers, doubtless, was fasci- 
 nated. But your soul, methinks, is won to approving the 
 Venetian Maiden's choice by a profounder, a more legitimate 
 charm. Who ever heard Othello relate, and hung back from 
 believing him ? He is honest, and she is honest. That is the 
 bond whereby the Paras united their souls and their threads. 
 Why they disunited both — how that infernal intervention of 
 Lachesis and Atropos crossed their pure souls in their pure 
 conjunction, let Clotho — if she can — tell. 
 
 Talboys. Let's be more cheerful. 
 
 North. Ay — let's. 
 
 Talboys. Othello shows that our Good — our excellence — 
 our capacity of happiness — lies all in Love. That our light 
 in which we walk — our light which we give forth — -is Love. 
 He declares this, by cleaving to this Good — by having it — by 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 287 
 
 losing it — by recovering it. The self-consciousness of Othello 
 returns to its unison with universal being — with heaven's har- 
 mony of the worlds. Iago denies this Good— never acknow- 
 ledges it — although he serves involuntarily to demonstrate the 
 truth — of which Othello perishes the self-sacrificed witness. It 
 is great, sir, in the Tragedy, but in Him the House of Love 
 is divided against itself. His jealousy, child of his love, lifts 
 up a parricidal hand, wounds and is wounded — but only unto 
 its own death. And what is the feeling left by the catas- 
 trophe ? 
 
 North. Say, my friend, say. 
 
 Talboys. Peace — rest — repose — depth of tranquillity — like 
 the sea stilled from storms. 
 
 North. The charmed calm that reflects heaven. 
 
 Talboys. Peace grounded in this proved thought— that 
 Loye is best. Of all the Persons, whose stars will you ac- 
 cept to be your own ? If you are a man, Othello's; if woman, 
 the wronged and murdered Desdemona's. Study for ever the 
 two closing and summing up verses — u I hissed thee ere I 
 killed thee; no way but this—Killing myself to die upon a 
 kiss !" To gather up all the terror that is past, as if not only 
 the winds were upgathered like sleeping flowers, but upgathered 
 into the sleeping flowers. I don't know how to avoid com- 
 paring — all alike as the characters are — the end of Romeo and 
 Juliet — Lear and Cordelia — Othello and Desdemona. I never 
 can separate them. Loye the mightiest torn asunder in life — 
 reunited in death. Love — the solace of lapsed and mortal 
 humanity. 
 
 North. Lend the Old Hobbler your arm. 
 
288 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Scene II. — Pavilion. 
 
 Time— After breakfast. 
 
 North — Talboys — Seward — Buller. 
 
 North. NOW FOR THE GRAND INQUIRY. 
 
 How long think you was Othello Governor of Cyprus, and 
 Desdeinona the General's wife ? 
 
 Talboys. How long? Why some weeks, or some months; 
 quarter of a year, half a year, a year. 
 
 North. A most satisfactory answer indeed to a simple ques- 
 tion. How long have I been Commander of the forces at 
 Cladich! 
 
 Talboys. Tents pitched on the 14th May 1849— This is 
 the 24th of June Ditto. You, like Michael Cassio, are "a 
 great arithmetician" — and can calculate the Days. 
 
 North. That's precise. Let's have some small attempt at 
 precision with respect to the time at Cyprus. 
 
 Talboys. Well then — a month — Two Months. 
 
 North. And you are a Student — a Scholar — in Shakspeare ! 
 
 Talboys. What the ace do you mean ? 
 
 North. Just Two Days. 
 
 Talboys. What the deuce do you mean ? The Man has 
 lost his Senses. 
 
 North. Who ? Shakspeare ? 
 
 Talboys. Really, sir, you are getting daily more and more 
 paradoxical — and I begin to tremble for your wits. 
 
 North. See that your own have not gone a wool-gathering, 
 Talboys. Two Months ! For two Months read Two Days — I 
 insist on it. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 289 
 
 Talboys. Gentlemen, the case seems serious. What would 
 you propose ? 
 
 Seward. Let's hear the Sage. 
 
 North. Open Shakspeares. Act II. — Scene I. 
 
 Buller. All ready, sir. 
 
 North. A Sea-port Town in Cyprus — not Nicosia, the 
 capital of the Island, which is inland — thirty miles from the 
 Sea — but Famagusta. 
 
 Talboys. So says in a note Malone — what's that to the 
 purpose ? 
 
 North. I wish to be precise. Ship ahoy ! 
 
 Talboys. 
 
 " The ship is here put in, 
 A Veronese; Michael Cassio, 
 Lieutenant to the warlike Moor, Othello, 
 Is come on shore." — 
 
 North. 
 
 Buller. 
 Talboys. 
 Buller. 
 North. 
 
 " A sail — a sail — a sail! 
 My hopes do shape him for the Governor." 
 
 " Tis one Iago, Ancient to the General." 
 
 " The riches of the ship is come on shore!" 
 " Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. 
 The Moor ! I know his trumpet." 
 
 There's the power of poetry for you — I do pity poor prose. 
 
 The sea-beach — town — fortifications — all crowded with people 
 
 on the gaze-out — for hours. For ships on the stormy sea. 
 
 But not a ship to be seen. Obedient to the passion of the 
 
 25 
 
290 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 people, one ship after another appears in the offing — salutes 
 and is saluted — -is within the Bay — inside the Breakwater- 
 drops anchor — the divine Desdemona has landed — Othello has 
 her in his arms — 
 
 " O my soul's joy ! 
 If after every tempest comes such calms, 
 May the winds blow till they have waken'd death ! 
 And let the laboring bark climb bills of seas 
 Olympus-high ; and duck again as low- 
 As hell's from heaven!" 
 
 all in jive minutes — in three minutes — in one minute — in no 
 time — in less than no time. 
 
 Talboys. What's your drift? 
 
 North. Handle Shakspeares ! Scene II. — A Street — On 
 the day of Othello's arrival — the Proclamation is issued " that 
 there is full liberty of feasting for this present hour of Five, 
 till the bell has told Eleven "■ — For besides the mere perdition 
 of the Turkish Fleet, it is the " celebration of his nuptials." 
 
 Talboys. We all know that — go on. 
 
 Seward. His nuptials ! Why, I thought he had been mar- 
 ried at Venice ! 
 
 North. Who cares what you think? Scene III. — A Hall 
 in the Castle — and enter Othello, Desdemona, Cassio, and at- 
 tendants. Othello says — 
 
 " Good Michael, look you to the guard to-night; 
 Lets teach ourselves that honorable stop, 
 Not to outsport discretion." 
 
 And before retiring for the night with Desdemona, he 
 
 " Michael, good night; To-morrow with our earliest, 
 Let me have speechivith youP 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 291 
 
 Talboys. Why lay you such emphasis on these unimportant 
 words ? 
 
 North. They are not unimportant. Then comes the Night 
 Brawl — as schemed by Iago. Othello, on the spot, cashiers 
 Cassio — and at that very moment, Desdemona entering dis- 
 turbed, with attendants, he says — 
 
 "Look if my gentle love is not rais'd up. — 
 Come, Desclemona; 'tis the soldiers' life, 
 To have their balmy slumbers wak'd with strife." 
 
 Iago advises the unfortunate Cassio to " confess himself freely" 
 to Desdemona — who will help to put him in his place again — 
 and Cassio replies — " betimes in the morning I will beseech the 
 virtuous Desclemona to undertake for me: I am desperate of 
 my fortunes, if they check me here; — and the Scene concludes 
 with these words of Logo's — 
 
 " Two things are to be done. — * 
 My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress; 
 I'll set her on; 
 
 Myself, the while, to draw the Moor apart, 
 And bring him jump when he may Cassio find 
 Soliciting his wife : Ay, that's the way • 
 Dull not device by coldness and delay.''' 
 
 11 By the mass, His morning," quoth Iago — and Act II. closes 
 with the dawn of the Second Day at Cyprus. You don't deny 
 that? 
 
 Talboys. Nobody denies it — nobody ever denied it — nobody 
 ever will deny it. 
 
 North. Act Third. Now for Act III. 
 
 Talboys. Our six eyes and our six ears are all wide awake, 
 sir. 
 
 North. It opens before the Castle — as the same morning is 
 
292 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 pretty well advanced — and Cassio is ordering some musicians 
 to play " Good-morrow, General." 
 
 Talboys. On the same morning? I am not sure of that, 
 sir. 
 
 North. Nobody denies it — nobody ever did deny it — nobody 
 ever will deny it, 
 
 Talboys. Not so fast, sir. 
 
 North. Why, you slow coach ! Cassio says to the Clown, 
 who is with the Musicians, " There's a poor piece of gold for 
 thee : if the Gentlewoman that attends the General's wife be 
 stirring, tell her, there's one Cassio entreats her a little favor 
 of speech;" — and as the Clown goes off, Iago enters and says 
 to Cassio — 
 
 " You have not been a-bed, then?" 
 
 And Cassio answers — 
 
 " Why, no ; the day had broke 
 Before we parted. I have made bold, Iago, 
 To send in to your wife. My suit to her 
 Is, that she will to virtuous Desdemona 
 Procure me some access. 
 
 Iago. I'll send her to you presently; 
 
 And I'll devise a mean to draw the Moor 
 Out of the way, that your converse and business 
 May be more free." 
 
 Emilia then enters, and tells Cassio that all will soon be well 
 — " the General and his Wife are talking of it — and she speaks 
 for you stoutly." — 
 
 Talboys. All this does not positively imply that the pre- 
 ceding night was the night of the Brawl. Cassio, though 
 originally intending it, on reflection may have thought it to 
 precipitate to apply to Desdemona the very next day; and 
 there is nothing improbable in his having been with Iago till 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 293 
 
 daybreak on some subsequent night. It is not quite clear, 
 then, that the Third Act commences on the morning after 
 Cassio's dismissal. 
 
 North. rash and inconsiderate man ! 
 
 Talloys. Who is? 
 
 North. You. It is not quite clear ! I say ; tis clear as mud 
 or amber. lago has with such hellish haste conceived and 
 executed his machinations, that Cassio has been cashiered some 
 few hours after landing in Cyprus. In the pride of success, 
 he urges on Cassio to apply without delay to Desdemona in the 
 morning. We see the demi-deyil determined to destroy — " By 
 the mass, 'tis morning — pleasure and action make the hours 
 seem short." Iago may have gone to bed for a few liours — 
 Cassio had not — " You have not been a-bed, then." u Why, 
 no; the day had broke before we parted." The time of the 
 end of Second Act, and of the beginning of Third Act, are thus 
 connected as firmly as words and deeds can connect. You say 
 there is nothing improbable in Cassio's having been with Iago 
 till daybreak on some subsequent night ? Why, who the devil 
 cares to know that Cassio had not been to bed on some other 
 night ? His not having been to bed on this night is an indi- 
 cation of his anxiety, and Iago's question is a manifestation of 
 his malevolence cloaked with an appearance of concern. In each 
 case an appropriate trait of character is brought before us; but 
 the main purpose of the words is to fix the time, which they 
 do without the possibility of a doubt. They demonstrate that 
 the Third Act opens on the morning immediately subsequent 
 to the night on which Act Second closes. This morning 
 dovetails into that night with an exactness which nothing 
 could improve. 
 
 Talboys. Why so fierce, my good sir? 
 
 North. Fierce! I may well be fierce. What! Cassio's 
 desire to see Desdemona cool before morning — Iago's desire to 
 
 25* 
 
294 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 drive him on to his destruction cool too — and both walk away 
 without further heed— and when next seen, after an interval of 
 some weeks or months, talking about not having been in bed 
 during some other night on which nothing particular has hap- 
 pened ! Bah ! 
 
 Talboys. Sir, I do not like to see you so much excited. 
 You mistake me — I was merely, at your bidding, assisting you 
 in your expiscation of the Time — we are at one about it. 
 
 North. My dear Talboys, forgive me — my irascibility is a 
 disease — 
 
 Talboys. Health — health — exuberant health of mind and 
 body — May you live a thousand years. 
 
 North. The Third Act, then, you allow, opens on the morn- 
 ing of the day following the night on which the Second Act 
 closes. 
 
 Talboys. I not only allow, my dear sir, I insist on it. Let 
 me hear any man deny it, and I will knock the breath out of 
 his body. Proceed, sir. 
 
 North. Obstinate ? I never called you obstinate, my dear 
 Talboys. Well — let me proceed, with you for an ally. In 
 this same scene, First of Act Third, Cassio says to Emilia, 
 
 "Yet, I beseech you, 
 If you think fit, or that it may be done, 
 Give me advantage of some brief discourse 
 With Desdemona alone." 
 
 And Emilia says to him, 
 
 K Pray you, come in ; 
 I will bestow you where you shall have time 
 To speak your bosom freely. 
 
 Cassio. I am much bound to you." 
 
 And off they go to sue to the gentle Desdemona. 
 Talboys. Alas ! somewhat too gentle. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 295 
 
 North, Then follows Scene II. of Act III. — a very short 
 one — let me read it aloud. 
 
 « A Room in the Castle." 
 
 Enter Othello, Iago, and Gentlemen. 
 
 Othello. These letters give, Iago, to the pilot; 
 And, by him, do my duties to the State; 
 That done, I will be walking on the works; 
 Repair there to me. 
 
 Iago. Well, my good Lord, I'll do't. 
 
 Othello. This fortification, gentlemen, — shall we see't? 
 
 Gent. We'll wait upon your lordship. [Exeunt." 
 
 That this Scene is on the same day as Scene Second — and with 
 little intermission of time — is too plain to require proof. 
 Othello here sends off his first dispatches to Venice by the pilot 
 who had brought him safely to Cyprus, and then goes out to 
 inspect the fortification. That is in the natural course of things 
 — such a scene at any subsequent time would be altogether 
 without meaning. 
 
 Talboys. I cannot see that, sir. 
 
 North. None so blind as they who will not see. 
 
 Talboys. There again. 
 
 North. "What do you want, Talboys ? 
 
 Talboys. Have the goodness, my dear sir, to pause a 
 moment — and go back to the close of the Scene preceding this 
 short one. Then and there, Cassio, as we saw, goes into the 
 Castle with Emilia, " to be bestowed" that he may have an op- 
 portunity of asking Desdemona to intercede for him with Othello. 
 But "to be bestowed" may mean to have apartments there — 
 and he may have been living in the Castle for several days, 
 with or without Othello's knowledge, before that short Scene 
 which you have just now quoted. 
 
 North. Living in the Castle for several days ! With or 
 without Othello's knowledge! Prodigious! All that Cassio 
 
296 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 asked was, " the advantage of some brief discourse?' and, that 
 he might have that advantage, Emilia gave him apartments 
 in the Castle ! And there we may suppose him living at rack 
 and manger, lying perdu in the Governor's House ! Emilia 
 was a queer customer enough, but she could hardly have taken 
 upon herself the responsibility of secreting a man under the 
 same roof with Desdemona, without the sanction of her Mistress 
 • — and if with her sanction, what must we think of the " gentle 
 Lady married to the Moor?" Talboys, you are quizzing the 
 old Gentleman. 
 
 Talboys. I give it up. 
 
 North. The short Scene I quoted, then, immediately fol- 
 lows the preceding — in time ; and that short Scene is manifestly 
 introduced by Shakspeare, merely to get Othello out on the 
 ramparts with Iago, that Iago may bring the Moor " plump on 
 Cassio soliciting his wife." Scene Third oe Act III. Un- 
 furl. 
 
 Talboys. Ay, ay, sir. Scene Third of Act III. That is 
 the Scene of Scenes. 
 
 North. Scene Third of Act III., accordingly, shows us Des- 
 demona, Cassio, and Emilia before the Castle — and while Cassio 
 is u soliciting his wife" — "enter Othello and Iago at a dis- 
 tance." 
 
 " Emilia. Madam, here comes 
 
 My Lord. 
 
 Cassio. Madam, I'll take my leave. 
 
 Desdemona. Why stay, 
 
 And hear me speak. 
 
 Cassio. Madam, not now : I am very ill at ease — 
 Unfit for my own purposes. 
 
 Desdemona. Well — well — 
 Do your discretion. [Exit Cassio." 
 
 Down to this exit of Cassio, we are on the morning or forenoon 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 297 
 
 of the Second Day at Cyprus. Every word said proves we are. 
 Cassio's parting words prove it. " Madam, not note — I'm very 
 ill at ease — unfit for my own purposes." He bad been up all 
 night — had been drunk — cashiered. He sees Othello coming 
 — his heart sinks — and he retreats in shame and fear — " unfit 
 for his own purposes." 
 
 Talboys. Eh? 
 
 North. In Scene First of Act III., Emilia tells Cassio that 
 she will do a particular thing — do it of course — quam jprimum 
 — as a thing that requires no delay, and demands haste — and 
 in Scene III. she appears having done it. In Scene First she 
 tells Cassio that she will bring him to speak with Desdemona 
 about his replacement — and in Scene Third, before the Castle, 
 we find that she has done this. The opportunity came imme- 
 diately — it was made to her hand — all that was necessary was 
 that Othello should not be present — and he was not present. 
 He had gone out on business. Now was just the nick of time 
 for Cassio to bespeak Desdeniona's intercession, and now was 
 just the nick of time on which that intercession was by him 
 bespoken. Nothing could be more nicely critical or opportune. 
 
 Talboys. Between us, sir, we have tied down Scene III. of 
 Act Third to the Forenoon of the Second Day at Cyprus. 
 
 North. We have tied down Shakspeare thus far to Short 
 Time at Cyprus — and to Short Time we shall tie him down 
 till the Catastrophe. Othello murdered Desdemona that 
 
 VERY NIGHT. 
 
 Talboys. No — no — no. Impossible. 
 
 North. Inevitably — and of a dead certainty. 
 
 Talboys. How — how, sir? 
 
 North. Why will an Eagle be an Owl? 
 
 Talboys. A compliment and a banter — 
 
 North. Why, you Owl ! we have just seen Cassio slink 
 
298 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 away — all is plain sailing now — Talboys — for Iago by four 
 words seals her doom. 
 
 « Ha ! I like not that ! 
 
 Othello. What dost thou say 1 
 
 Iago. Nothing, my lord: or if — I know not what. 
 
 Othello. Was not that Cassio parted from my wife ? 
 
 Iago. Cassio, my Lord 1 ? No, sure; I cannot think it, 
 That he would steal away so guilty like 
 Seeing you coming." 
 
 Mark what follows — there is not a moment of intermission in 
 the Action down to end of this Scene Third of Act Third, 
 which you well call the Scene of Scenes, by which time Othello 
 has been convinced of Desdemona' s guilt, and has resolved on 
 her Death and Cassio's. 
 
 Talboys. Not a moment of intermission ! Let's look to it 
 — if it indeed be so — 
 
 North. See — hear Desdemona pleading for Cassio — see, 
 hear Othello — saying — "Not now, sweet Desdemona;" and 
 then again — " Pry thee, no more : let him come when he will 
 I — will deny thee nothing." And again— 
 
 " I will deny thee nothing. 
 Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this, 
 To leave me but a little to myself. 
 
 Des. Shall I deny you? no : Farewell, my lord. 
 
 [Exit with Emilia.' 1 '' 
 
 Turn over leaf after leaf — without allowing yourself to read 
 that dreadful colloquy between the Victim and his Destroyer — 
 but letting it glimmer luridly by — -till Desdemona comes back 
 — and Othello, under the power of the Angel Innocence, ex- 
 claims — 
 
 "If she be false, 0, then heaven mocks itself! — 
 I'll not believe it." 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 299 
 
 Talboys. I behold her! I hear her voice — " gentle and 
 low, an excellent thing in woman." 
 
 " Why is your speech so faint? are you not well 1 
 Oth. I have a pain upon my forehead here." 
 
 She drops that fatal handkerchief— 
 
 : ' I am very sorry that you are not well." 
 What touching words ! They go out together — -ignorant she 
 that her husband hath heartache, worse than any headache — 
 
 North. Both to be effectually cured that night by — bleeding. 
 
 Talboys. By bleeding? 
 
 North. You Owl — yea. 
 
 Talboys. A sudden thought strikes me, sir. Desdemona 
 has said to Othello — 
 
 " Your dinner, and the generous Islanders 
 By you invited, do attend your presence." 
 
 How's this? This looks like long time — 
 
 North. It may look what it chooses — -but we have 'proved 
 that we are now on the forenoon of the Second Day at Cyprus. 
 
 Talboys. Would it not have been treating them too un- 
 ceremoniously to have sent round the cards of invitation only 
 the night before ? As far as I have been able to learn, they 
 have long been in the habit of giving not less than a week's in- 
 vitation to dinner at Cyprus. In Glasgow it is commonly three 
 weeks. And why "generous?" Because they, the Islanders, 
 have given a series of splendid entertainments to Othello and 
 his Bride. 
 
 North. No nonsense, sir. Othello had done what you or I 
 would have done, had either of us been Governor of Cyprus. 
 He had invited the "generous Islanders," immediately on his 
 landing, to dine at the Castle " next day." Had he not done 
 so, he had been a hunks. " Generous," you know, as well as 
 I do, means high-born — -men of birth— not generous of enter- 
 tamments. 
 
300 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Tdlboys. True, too. But how conies it to be the dinner 
 hour ? 
 
 North. People dined in those days all England over, about 
 eleven A. m. — probably they dined still earlier in the unfashion- 
 able region of Cyprus. You are still hankering after the heresy 
 of long time — but no more of that now — let us keep to our 
 demonstration of short time — by-and-by you shall see the Gen- 
 tleman with the Scythe — the Scythian at full swing — as long 
 as yourself. 
 
 Talboys. I sit corrected. Go on. 
 
 North. Othello and Desdemona have just gone out — to do 
 the honors at the Dinner Table to the generous Islanders. He 
 must have been a strange Chairman — for though not yet abso- 
 lutely mad 7 his soul was sorely changed. Perhaps he made 
 some apology, and was not at that Dinner at all — perhaps it 
 was never eaten — but we lose sight of him for a little while; 
 and Emilia, who remains behind, picks up the fatal hankerchief, 
 and, with a strange wilfulness, or worse, says— 
 
 " I'll have the work ta'en out, 
 And give't Iago." 
 
 Iago snatches it from her — and in soliloquy says — ■ 
 
 " I will in Cassio's lodgings lose this napkin, 
 And let him find it." 
 
 " This may do something, — 
 The Moor already changes with the poison : 
 Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons, 
 Which at the first, are scarce found to distaste ; 
 But, with a little, act upon the blood, 
 Burn like the mines of sulphur. — I did say so : — 
 
 Enter Othello. 
 Look ! where he comes ! Not poppy, nor mandragora, 
 Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, 
 Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet deep 
 Which thou oufdst yesterday.'' 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 301 
 
 Then follows, without break, all the rest of this dreadful Third 
 Scene. The first dose of the poison — the second, and third, 
 and fourth — are all given on one and the same day. The 
 mineral has gnawed through all the coats of the stomach — and 
 He has sworn to murder Her — all in one day. We have Logo's 
 word for it. Yesterday his sleep was sweet — how happy he 
 was then we can imagine — how miserable he is now we see — 
 " what a difference to him/' and in him, between Saturday 
 and Sunday ! 
 
 " 0, blood ! la go, blood ! 
 
 * * # 
 
 Now by yond' marble heaven, 
 
 In the due reverence of a sacred vow, 
 
 I here engage my words. 
 
 Iago. Do not rise yet. Kneels. 
 
 Witness, you ever-burning lights above ! 
 " You elements, that clip us round about! 
 Witness, that here Iago doth give up, 
 The execution of his wit, hands heart, 
 To wrong'd Othello's service ! Let him command, 
 And to obey shall be in me remorse, 
 What bloody work soever." 
 
 Talboys. Thou Great original Short-Timeist ! Unanswerable 
 art Thou. But let us look at the close of this dreadful Third 
 Act. 
 
 " Othello. I greet thy love, 
 Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous, 
 And will upon the instant put thee to't : 
 Within these three days let me hear thee say 
 That Cassio's not alive. 
 
 Iago. My friend is dead ; 'tis done at your request: 
 But let her live. 
 
 Othello. Damn her, lewd minx ! O, damn her! 
 Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw, 
 
 26 
 
302 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 To furnish me with some swift means of death 
 To the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant. 
 Iago. I am your own for ever." 
 
 In three days — at the longest— for Cassio; — but Iago under- 
 stood, and did it that very night. And swift means of death 
 for the fair devil were in Othello's own hands — ay — he 
 smothered her that night to a dead certainty — a dead certainty 
 at last — though his hands seem to have faltered. 
 
 North. In the next Scene— Scene IV. — we find Desdemona 
 anxious about the loss of the handkerchief, but still totally un- 
 apprehensive of the Moor's jealousy — «, 
 
 " Who — he ? I think the sun, where he was born, 
 Drew all such humors from him." 
 
 Othello enters, saying, " Well, my good Lady," — and mutters 
 aside, " Oh ! hardness to dissemble,"— and very ill he does 
 dissemble, for he leaves Desdemona and Emilia amazed at his 
 mad deportment, the latter exclaiming — " Is not this man 
 jealous?" Iago had told Othello of Cassio's possessing the 
 handkerchief in the previous Scene, and Othello takes the first 
 opportunity, that same afternoon, to ascertain for himself whether 
 she had parted with it. Would he have let an hour elapse 
 before making the inquiry? Can it be for a moment imagined 
 that he passed days and nights with Desdemona without at- 
 tempting to sound her regarding this most pregnant proof of 
 her guilt? This Scene concludes the Third Act — and the time 
 is not long after dinner. 
 
 Talboys. All this being proved, it is unnecessary to scru- 
 tinize the consecution of the Scenes of Acts Fourth and Fifth. 
 — logo's work is done — one day has sufficed — and what folly 
 to bring in lorig time after this — when his presence would have 
 been unsupportable — had it not been impossible. Death must 
 follow doom. 
 
 North. Death must follow doom. In these four words you 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 303 
 
 have settled the question of time. Long time seemed necessary 
 to change Othello into a murderer — and all the world but you 
 and I believe that long time there was; but you and I know 
 better — and have demonstrated short time — for at the end of 
 the "dreadful Third Act" Othello is a murderer — and what 
 matters it now when he really seized the pillow to smother 
 her, or unsheathed the knife ? 
 
 Talboys. It matters not a jot. But he did the deed that 
 same night — or he had not been Othello. 
 
 North. There again — or he " had not been Othello." In 
 these four words, you have settled the question of time — now 
 and for ever. 
 
 Talboys. It would be a waste of words, sir, to seek to prove 
 by the consecution of the Scenes in Acts Fourth and Fifth — 
 though nothing could be easier — that he did murder her that 
 very night. 
 
 North. Very few will suffice. Act IV. begins a little be- 
 fore supper-time. Bianca enters in Scene I. inviting Cassio 
 to supper — " An you'll come to supper to-night, you may." 
 If anything were wanting to connect the closing Scene of Act 
 
 III. with this opening Scene of Act IV., it is fully supplied by 
 Bianca, who at the end of Act III. gets the handkerchief, in 
 order that she may copy it, and in the scene of this IVth Act, 
 comes back in a fury. " Let the devil and his dam haunt you 
 — what did you mean by that same handkerchief you gave me 
 even now? I was a fine fool to take it." Cassio had given it 
 to her a little after dinner, and Bianca, inviting him to supper, 
 says he had given it to her even now. This Scene I. of Act 
 
 IV. ends with Othello's invitation to the newly-arrived Lodo- 
 vico — " I do intreat that we may sup together." Scene II. 
 comprehends the interview between Othello and Emilia; Othello 
 and Desdemona — Desdemona, Emilia and Iago. The whole 
 do not occupy an hour of time — they follow one another natu- 
 rally, and the action is continuous. Scene III. shows Lodovico 
 
304 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 and the Noble "Venetians still at the Castle — but now it is after 
 supper. Lodovico is departing — 
 
 8 I do beseech you, sir, trouble yourself no farther. 
 
 Othello. O pardon me ; 'twill do me good to walk, 
 O Desdemona ! 
 
 Desdemona. My Lord ? 
 
 Othello. Get you to bed on the instant, 1 ivill be returned forthwith." 
 
 Desdemona obeys — the bed-scene follows — and she is murdered. 
 What say you, Seward ? 
 
 Seward. " I say ditto to Mr. Burke." 
 
 North. Buller? 
 
 Buller. I say ditto to Mr. North. 
 
 North. Why have both of you been so silent? 
 
 Seward. I knew it all before. 
 
 Talboys. What a bouncer ! 
 
 Buller. I never speak when I am busking Flies. There's 
 a Professor for you — (six red and six black) — pretty full in 
 the body — long-winged — liker eagle than insect — sharper than 
 needle — and with barb " inextricable as the gored Lion's bite." 
 Lunch-gong. To the Deeside. 
 
 North. Yerdict : Desdemona Murdered by Othello on 
 the Second Night in Cyprus. 
 
 Scene ILL — Deeside. 
 
 Time — At and after Lunch. 
 
 North — Talboys — Seward — Buller. 
 
 North. Having demonstrated Short Time at Cyprus, let 
 us now, if it please you, gentlemen, show forth Long Time at 
 Cyprus. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 305 
 
 Talboys. With all our heart. We have demonstrated the 
 one, let us show forth the other. 
 
 North. And as, in our Demonstration of Short Time, we 
 kept Long Time out of sight — excluded him from the Tent — 
 
 Butter. Pardon me, sir. I for one was beginning to feel 
 his influence. 
 
 North. How? 
 
 Butter. In that contraction and expansion of the jaws de- 
 noted by that most expressive and characteristic word Yawn; 
 for Seward and I were but listeners. 
 
 North. I don't believe you heard one word. 
 
 Butter. I did— several; and spoiled a promising Palmer in 
 idly trying to audit your discourse at the interesting point of 
 quarrel — just as you, sir, threw yourself back on your Swing, 
 with an angry jerk, and Talboys started up, " like Teneriffe or 
 Atlas removed," endangering the stability of the Tent. 
 
 North. My dear Talboys, I was saying to you, when rudely 
 interrupted by Buller, that as in our demonstration of Short 
 Time at Cyprus, we, purposely and determinedly, and wisely 
 kept Long Time out of sight, on account of the inextricable 
 perplexity and confusion that would otherwise have involved 
 the argument, so now let us, in showing forth Long Time at 
 Cyprus, keep out of sight Short — and then shall we finally 
 have before our ken Two Times at Cyprus, each firmly esta- 
 blished on its own ground — and imperiously demanding of the 
 Critics of this great Tragedy — Reconcilement. Reconcilement 
 it may be beyond their power to give — but let them first see 
 the Great Fact which not one of the whole set have seen — 
 
 HAND IN HAND ONE DAY AND UNASSIGNED WEEKS ! The 
 
 condition is altogether anomalous — 
 
 Talboys. A Day of the calendar, and a Month op 
 the calendar ! No human soul ever dreams of the dreadful 
 sayings and doings all coming off in a day ! till he looks — till 
 
 26* 
 
306 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 he is made to look — -as we have made Seward and Buller to 
 look — for they heard every word we said — and finds himself 
 nailed by Act and Scene. 
 
 North. To some fifteen hours. 
 
 Buller. I thought you were going to show forth Long Time 
 at Cyprus. 
 
 North. "Why, there it is, staring you in the face every- 
 where — you may see it with your eyes shut — and as most 
 people read with their eyes shut, they see it — and they see it 
 only — while — 
 
 Buller. Why, sir, since you won't get on a little faster, 
 Talboys and I must be Ushers to Long Time. 
 
 North. Be — do. 
 
 Talboys. Long time cunningly insinuates itself, serpentwise, 
 throughout Desdemona's first recorded conversation with Cassio, 
 at the beginning of Scene III., Act III. — the " Dreadful 
 Scene." Thus— 
 
 " Assure thee, 
 If I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it 
 To the last article : my lord shall never rest ; 
 I'll watch him tame, and talk him out of patience ; 
 His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift ; 
 I'll intermingle everything he does 
 With Cassio's suit; Therefore be merry, Cassio; 
 For tby solicitor shall rather die 
 Than give thy cause away." 
 
 This points to a protracted time in the future — and though 
 announcing an intention merely, yet somehow it leaves an im- 
 pression that Desdemona carries her intention into effect — that 
 she does, "watch him tame," does make his "bed seem a 
 school" — does "intermingle everything she does with Cas- 
 sio' s suit." The passage recurred to my mind, I recollect, 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 307 
 
 when you first hinted to me the question of time; and no doubt 
 it tells so on the minds of many — 
 
 North. Inconsiderate people. 
 
 TaTboys. All people are more or less inconsiderate, sir. 
 
 North. True. 
 
 Talboys. Then Desdemona says — 
 
 " How now, my lord ? 
 I have been talking with a suitor here, 
 A man that languishes in your displeasure." 
 
 I cannot listen to that line, even now, without a feeling of the 
 heart-sickness of protracted time — " hope deferred maketh the 
 heart sick" — languishes! even unto death. I think of that 
 fine line in "Wordsworth — 
 
 " So fades — so languishes — grows dim, and dies." 
 
 Seward. Poo ! 
 
 North. Seward, the remark is a fine one. 
 
 Talboys. Far in this Scene, Othello says to Iago — 
 
 " If more thou dost perceive, let me no more : 
 Set on thy wife to observe." 
 
 Iago has not said that he had perceived anything, but Othello, 
 greatly disturbed, speaks as if Iago had said that he had per- 
 ceived a good deal; and we might believe that they had been a 
 long time at Cyprus. Othello then says — 
 
 " This honest creature, doubtless, 
 Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds." 
 
 In all this, sir, we surely have a feeling of longish time. 
 Seward. Poo ! 
 North. Heed him not — English manners. We have— 
 
308 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Talboys. 
 
 " curse of marriage ! 
 That we can call those delicate creatures ours — 
 And not their appetites." 
 
 This is the language of a some time married man — not of a 
 man the morning after his nuptials. 
 
 North. The Handkerchief. 
 
 Talboys. Ay — Emilia's words. 
 
 " I am glad I have found this napkin ; 
 This was her first remembrance from the Moor — 
 My wayward husband hath a hundred times 
 Woo'd me to steal it; but she so loves the token, 
 (For he conjured her she would ever keep it,) 
 That she reserves it evermore about her, 
 To kiss, and talk to." 
 
 Here we have long time, and no mistake. Iago has wooed her 
 to steal it a hundred times ? When and where ? Since their 
 arrival at Cyprus. 
 
 Seward. I don't know that. 
 
 Talboys. Nor do I. But I say the words naturally give us 
 the impression of long time. In none of his soliloquies at 
 Venice, or at Cyprus on their first arrival, has Iago once men- 
 tioned that Handkerchief as the chief instrument of his wicked 
 design — and therefore Emilia's words imply weeks at Cyprus — 
 
 u What will you give me now 
 For that same handkerchief? 
 
 Iago. What handkerchief? 
 
 Emilia. Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona ; 
 That which so often you did bid me steal." 
 
 North. Go on. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 309 
 
 Talboys. 
 
 " What sense had I of her stolen hours of lust! 
 I saw it not — thought it not — it harm'd not me — 
 I slept the next night well — was free and merry ; 
 I found not Cassio's kisses on her lips." 
 
 Next night — night after night — many nights — many wedded 
 nights — long time at Cyprus. 
 
 North. And then Cassio's dream. 
 
 Talboys. "I lay with Cassio — lately." Where, but at 
 Cyprus ? " Cursed fate ! that gave thee to the Moor." 
 
 Seward. Of that by-and-by. 
 
 Talboys. Of that now. What? 
 
 Seward. By-and-by. 
 
 North. Better be a dumb dog, Seward, than snarl so. 
 
 Talboys. And on Othello going off in a rage about the 
 handkerchief — what saith Desdemona ? 
 
 " I ne'er saw this before" 
 
 These few words are full charged with long time. 
 
 North. They are. And Emilia's — " Tis not a year or two 
 shows us a man." True, that is a kind of general reflection — 
 but a most foolish general reflection, indeed, if made to a Wife 
 weeping at her husband's harshness the day after marriage. 
 
 Talboys. Emilia's " year or two" cannot mean one day — 
 it implies weeks — or months. Desdemona then says — 
 
 " Something, sure, of state, 
 Either from Venice, or some unhatch'd practice," &c. 
 
 Does not that look like long time at Cyprus ? Unlike the lan- 
 guage of one who had herself arrived at Cyprus from Venice 
 but the day before. And in continuation, Desdemona's 
 
310 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 " Nay, we must think, men are not gods ; 
 Nor of them look for such observances 
 As fit the bridal" 
 
 And that thought brings sudden comfort to poor Desdeniona, 
 who says sweetly — 
 
 u Beshrew me much, Emilia, 
 I was (unhandsome warrior as I am), 
 Arraigning his unkindness with my soul; 
 But now, I find, I had suborn'd the witness, 
 And he's indicted falsely." 
 
 That is — why did I, a married woman some months old, forget 
 that the honey-moon is gone, and that my Othello, hero as he 
 is, is now not a Bridegroom — but a husband ? " Men are not 
 gods." 
 
 North. And Bianca ? She's a puzzler. 
 
 Talboys. A puzzler, and something more. 
 
 11 Bianca. Save you, friend Cassio ! 
 
 Cassio. What make you from home? 
 
 How is it with you, my most fair Bianca ? 
 I'faith, sweet love, I was coming to your house. 
 
 Bianca. And I was going to your lodging, Cassio. 
 What! keep a week away? seven days and nights'? 
 Eight score eight hours? And lovers' absent hours, 
 More tedious than the dial eight score times ? 
 
 weary reckoning! 
 
 Cassio. Pardon me, Bianca ; 
 
 1 have this while with leaden thoughts been press'd • 
 But I shall, in a more continuate time, 
 
 Strike off the score of absence." 
 
 Here the reproaches of Bianca to Cassio develop long time. 
 For, besides his week's absence from her house, there is im- 
 plied the preceding time necessary for contracting and habitually 
 carrying on the illicit attachment. Bianca is a Cyprus house- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 311 
 
 holder; Cassio sups at her house; his intimacy, which has 
 various expressions of continuance, has been formed with her 
 there; he has found her, and grown acquainted with her there, 
 not at Venice. I know it has been suggested that she was his 
 mistress at Venice — that she came with the squadron from 
 Venice; and that her last cohabitation with Cassio had taken 
 place in Venice about a week ago — but for believing this there 
 is here not the slightest ground. " What ! keep a week away ?" 
 would be a strange exclamation, indeed, from one who knew 
 that he had been but a day on shore — had landed along with 
 herself yesterday from the same ship — and had been a week 
 cooped up from her in a separate berth. And Bianca, seeing 
 the handkerchief, and being told to " take me this work out," 
 cries — 
 
 " Cassio! whence came tins'? 
 This is some token from a newer friend. 
 To the felt absence now I feel a cause.' 1 
 
 " To the felt absence," Eight score eight hours ! the cause ? 
 Some new mistress at Cyprus — not forced separation at sea. 
 
 North. Then, Talboys, in Act. IV., Scene L, Othello is 
 listening to the conversation of Iago and Cassio, which he be- 
 lieves relates to his wife. Iago says — 
 
 " She gives it out that you shall marry her ; 
 Do you intend it ! 
 
 Cassio. Ha! ha ! ha! 
 
 Othello. Do you triumph, "Roman? Do you triumph"? 
 
 Iago. Faith ! the cry goes, that you shall marry her. 
 
 Cassio. Pr'ythee, say true. 
 
 Iago. I am a very villain else. 
 
 Othello. Have you scored me % Well." 
 
 That is, have you marked me for destruction, in order that you 
 may marry my wife ? Othello believes that Cassio is said to 
 
312 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 entertain an intention of marrying Desdemona, and infers that, 
 as a preliminary, he must he put out of the way. This on the 
 first day after marriage ? No, surely — long time at Cyprus. 
 Talboys. Iago says to Cassio, 
 
 " My Lord is fallen into an epilepsy ; 
 This is his second fit : he had one yesterday. 
 Cassio. Rub him about the temples. 
 Iago. No, forbear ; 
 
 The lethargy must have his quiet course : 
 If not, he foams at mouth ; and, by-and by, 
 Breaks out to savage madness." 
 
 This is a lie — but Cassio believes it. Cassio could not have 
 believed it, and therefore Iago would not have told it, had 
 " yesterday" been the day of the triumphant, joyful, and happy 
 arrival at Cyprus. Assuredly, Cassio knew that Othello had 
 no fit that day; that day he was Othello's lieutenant — Iago but 
 his Ancient — and Iago could know nothing of any fits that 
 Cassio knew not of — therefore — Long Time. 
 North. 
 
 " For I will make him tell the tale anew, 
 Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when, 
 He hath — and is again to — " 
 
 He does so — and Othello believes what he hears Cassio tell of 
 Bianca to be of Desdemona. Madness any way we take it — 
 but madness possible only — on long time at Cyprus. 
 
 Talboys. Then, sir, the trumpet announcing the arrival of 
 Lodovico from Venice, at the close of Iago's and Othello's 
 murderous colloquy, and Lodovico giving Othello a packet con- 
 taining — his recall! 
 
 " They do command him home, 
 Deputing Cassio in his government." 
 
 What are we to make of that ? 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 313 
 
 North. The Kecall, except after considerable time, would 
 make the policy of the Senate frivolous — a thing Shakspeare 
 never does, for the greatness of political movements lies every- 
 where for a support to the strength and power of his tragical 
 fable. Half that we know of Othello out of the Scenes is, that 
 he is the trusted General of the Senate. What gravity his 
 esteem with you derives hence, and can we bear to think of 
 him superseded without cause? Had Lodovico, who brings 
 the new commission, set off the day after Othello from Venice ? 
 No. You imagine an intercourse, which has required time, 
 between Othello, since his appointment, and the Senate. Why, 
 in all the world, do they thus suddenly depose him, and put 
 Cassio in his place? You cannot very well think that the 
 next measure of the Senate, after entrusting the command of 
 Cyprus, their principal Island, to their most tried General, in 
 most critical and perilous times, was to displace him ere they 
 hear a word from him. They have not had time to know that 
 the Turkish fleet is wrecked and scattered, unless they sit be- 
 hind Scenes in the Green-room. 
 
 Talboys. We must conclude that the Senate must give 
 weeks or months to this New Governor ere interfering with 
 him. — To recall him before they know he has reached Cyprus 
 — nay, to send a ship after him next day — or a day or two 
 following his departure — would make these "most potent, 
 grave, and reverend Signors," enigmas, and the Doge an Idiot. 
 What though a steamer had brought tidings back to Venice 
 that the Turks had been "banged" and " drowned?" That 
 was not a sufficient reason to order Othello back before he 
 could have well set his foot on shore, or taken more than a look 
 at the state of the fortifications, in case the Ottoman should fit 
 out another fleet. 
 
 North. Then mark Lodovico's language. He asks, seeing 
 Othello strike his wife — as well he may — " Is it his use?" Or 
 27 
 
314 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 did the letters " work upon his blood, and new-create this fault V* 
 And Iago answers, " It is not honesty in me to speak what I 
 have seen and known." Lodovico says, "The noble Moor, 
 whom our Senate call all in all sufficient?" Then they have 
 not quarreled with him, at least — nor lost their good opinion 
 of him ! Iago answers, " He is much changed V What, in a 
 day ? And again — " It is not honesty in me to speak what I 
 have seen and known." What, in a day? Lodovico comes 
 evidently to Othello after a long separation — such as affords 
 room for a moral transformation; and Iago's words — lies as 
 they are — and seen to be lies by the most unthinking person — 
 yet to refer to much that has passed in an ample time — to a 
 continued course of procedure. 
 
 North. But in all the Play nothing is so conclusive of loug 
 time as the Second Scene of the Third Act. 
 
 " Othello. You have seen nothing then 1 
 
 Emilia. Nor ever heard ; nor ever did suspect. 
 
 Othello. Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together. 
 
 Emilia. But then I saw no harm; and the'n I heard 
 Each syllable, that breath made up between them. 
 
 Othello. What, did they never whisper ? 
 Emilia. Never, my Lord. 
 
 Othello. Nor send you out o' the way 1 
 Emilia. Never. 
 
 Othello. To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing? 
 
 Emilia. Never, my Lord. 
 Othello. That*s strange." 
 
 If all this relates to their residence at Cyprus, it indicates many 
 weeks. 
 
 Seward. Ay — if. 
 
 North. What wicked whisper was that? Did you whisper, 
 Buller? 
 
 Buller. No. I have not once whispered for a quarter of a 
 century — My whispering days have long been over. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 315 
 
 North. Then a word about Emilia. " I prythee, let thy 
 wife attend on her/' says Othello, going on board at Venice, 
 to Iago. In the slight way in which such arrangements can 
 be touched, this request is conclusive evidence to Emilia's being 
 thenars* placed about Desdemona' s person. It has no sense 
 else; nor is there the slightest ground for supposing a prior 
 acquaintance, at least intimacy. What had an Ensign's wife 
 to do with a Nobleman's daughter? and now she is attached 
 as an Attendant. Now, consider, first, Emilia's character. She 
 seems not very principled, not very chaste. She gives you the 
 notion of a tolerably well-practiced Venetian Wife. Hear 
 Iago's opinion, who suspects her with two persons, and one on 
 general rumor. Yet how strong her affection for Desdemona, 
 and her faith in her purity ! She witnesses for her, and she 
 dies for her ! I ask, how long did that affection and that opinion 
 take to grow? a few days at Venice, and a week while they 
 were sea-sick aboard ship ? No. Weeks — months. A gentle 
 lady once made to me that fine remark, — " Emilia has not 
 much worth in herself, but is raised into worth by her contact 
 with Desdemona — into heroic worth I" " I care not for thy 
 sword — I'll make thee known, though I lost twenty lives." 
 And that bodeful " Perchance, Iago, I will ne'er go home V 
 what does it mean ? but a dim surmise, or a clear, that what 
 she will disclose will bring the death upon her from his dagger, 
 which it brings. The impure dying a voluntary martyr for 
 the pure is to the highest degree affecting — is the very manner 
 of Shakspeare, to express a principal character by its influence 
 on subordinate ones — has its own moral sublimity; but more 
 than all, for our purpose, it witnesses time. Love and Faith, 
 and Fidelity, won from her in whom these virtues are to be 
 first created ! 
 
 Seward, Very fine. My dear sir, you are not angry with 
 me? 
 
316 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Talboys. Angry. Not he. Look on his face — how mild ! 
 
 North. Othello in his wrath, calls Emilia " a closet-lock-and- 
 key of villanous secrets: and yet she'll kneel and pray; I have 
 seen her do't." Where and when? It could only have been 
 at Cyprus; and such language denotes a somewhat long at- 
 tendance there on Desdemona. 
 
 Seward. Ingenious — and better than so. 
 
 North. " Some of your function, mistress," renewed to 
 Emilia — when, after conversing with Desdemona, Othello is 
 going out — is his treatment of one whom he supposes to have 
 been serviceable to his wife's and Cassio's amour. Where? 
 There, only there, in Cyprus, by all witnessing, palpably. 
 She could not before. He speaks to her as professional in 
 such services, therefore long dealing in them; but this all 
 respects this one intrigue, not her previous life. The wicked 
 energy of the forced attribution vanishes, if this respects any- 
 thing but her helpfulness to his wife and her paramour, and at 
 Cyprus — there — only there. Nothing points to a farther back 
 looking suspicion. Iago's " thousand times committed" can 
 only lengthen out the stay at Cyprus. Othello still believes 
 that she once loved him — that she has fallen to corruption. 
 
 Butter. Antenuptial ? 
 
 North. Faugh ! Could he have the most horrible, revolting, 
 and loathsome of all thoughts, that he wedded her impure? 
 and not a hint given of that most atrocious pang? Incredible 
 — impossible ! I can never believe, if Shakspeare intended an 
 infidelity taking precedency of the marriage, that he would not 
 by word or by hint have said so. Think how momentous to 
 our intelligence of the jealousy the date is; not as to Tuesday 
 or Wednesday, but as to before or after the nuptial knot — 
 before or after the first religious loosing of the virgin zone. 
 That a man's wife has turned into a wanton — hell and horror ! 
 But that he wedded one — Pah! Faugh! Could Iago, could 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 317 
 
 Othello, could Shakspeare have left this point in the chronology 
 of guilt to be argued out doubtfully ? No. The greatest of 
 Poets for pit, boxes, and gallery, must have written intelligibly 
 to pit, boxes, and gallery; and extrication, unveiled, after two 
 hundred and fifty years, by studious men, in a fit of perplexity, 
 cannot be the thunderbolt which Shakspeare flung to his 
 audience at the Grlobe Theatre. 
 
 Talboys. You remember poor, dear, sweet Mrs. Henry Sid- 
 dons — the Desdemona — how she gave utterance to those words 
 
 " It was his bidding — therefore, good Emilia, 
 Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu; 
 We must not now displease him. 
 
 Emilia. I would you had never seen him ! 
 
 Desdemona. So would not I ; my love doth so approve him, 
 That even his stubbornness, his checks, and frowns, — 
 Prythee unpin me. — have grace and favor in them. 
 
 Emilia. I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed. 
 
 Desdemona. All's one : Good father ! how foolish are our minds ! 
 If I do die before thee — prythee shroud me 
 In one of those same sheets." 
 
 The wedding sheets were reserved. They had been laid by 
 for weeks — months — time long enough to give a saddest cha- 
 racter to the bringing them out again — a serious, ominous 
 meaning — disturbed from the quietude, the sanctity of their 
 sleep by a wife's mortal presentiment that they may be her 
 shroud. 
 
 North. Long time established at Cyprus. 
 
 Verdict — Desdemona murdered by Othello heaven 
 
 KNOWS WHEN. 
 
 27 ; 
 
318 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Scene IV. — The Grove. 
 
 Time — After Lunch. 
 
 North — Talboys — Seward — Buller. 
 
 Seward. On rising sir, to 
 
 North. Sit down — no gentleman speaks on his legs before, 
 at, or after meals in a private Party. 
 
 Seward. Except in Scotland. On sitting down, sir, to 
 state my Theory, I trust that I shall not lay myself open to 
 the im 
 
 North. Speak with your natural tone as if you were sitting, 
 Seward, and not with that Parliamentary sing-song in which 
 Statesmen, with their coat-tails perked up behind, declaim on 
 the state of Europe — 
 
 Seward. I imagine, sir, that Shakspeare assumed 
 
 THE MARRIAGE TO HAVE TAKEN PLACE SOME TIME BEFORE 
 THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE PLAY SUFFICIENTLY LONG TO 
 ADMIT THE POSSIBILITY OF A COURSE OF GUILT BEFORE THE 
 
 play opens. I imagine that, with this general idea in his 
 mind, he gave his full and unfettered attention to the working 
 out of the Plot, which has no reference to the time, circum- 
 stances, or history of the Marriage, but relates exclusively to 
 the Moor's Jealousy. Therefore the indications of past time 
 at Venice are vague, and rarely scattered through the dialogue. 
 
 Talboys. A more astounding discovery indeed, Seward, 
 than any yet announced by that stunner, Christopher North. 
 Pardon me, sir. 
 
 North. "We have said our say, Shirra; let the Lord-Lieu- 
 tenant of his County say his — 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 319 
 
 Talboys. And the Chairman of the Quarter Sessions, and 
 President of the Agricultural Society of the Land's End say his. 
 
 Buller. I can beat you at chess. 
 
 Talboys. You!!! 
 
 North. Gentlemen, let there be no bad blood. 
 
 Seward. Supposing that this was Shakspeare's general idea 
 of the Plot, I would first beg your attention to the fact that 
 the marriage has taken place — none of us know how long — 
 before the beginning of the Play. 
 
 Talboys. The same night — the same night. 
 
 Seward. I said — none of us know how long; and as you 
 are a Lawyer, Mr. Talboys — 
 
 Talboys. For goodness 7 sake, my dear Seward, don't mister 
 me — 
 
 Seward. The only evidence, my dear Talboys, as to the 
 history of the marriage is that given by Roderigo in the First 
 Scene. He, with the most manifest anxiety to prove himself 
 an honest witness, declares that now, at midnight, Desdemona 
 had eloped — not with the Moor, but with no "worse nor 
 better guard, but with a knave of common hire, a gondolier, 
 to" &c. &c. She has fled alone from her father's house; and 
 Roderigo, being interrogated, " Are they married, think ye V* 
 answers, " Truly I think they are." 
 
 Talboys. What do you say to Iago's saying to Cassio— 
 
 " Faith he tonight has boarded a land Carrack ; 
 If it prove lawful prize, he's made for ever. 
 Cassio. I do not understand. 
 Iago. He's married." 
 
 Seward. It cannot be inferred, from these words, that this 
 was the first occasion on which Desdemona and Othello had 
 come together as man and wife. The words are quite consistent 
 with the supposition that their marriage had taken place some 
 
320 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 time before; also quite consistent with Iago's knowledge of 
 that event. It was not his cue or his humor to say more than 
 he did. "Why should he ? 
 
 Talboys. It cannot be inferred ! It can — I infer it. And 
 pray, how do you account for Othello saying to Desdemona, on 
 the day of their arrival at Cyprus, 
 
 " The purchase made — the fruits are to ensue ; 
 That profits yet to come 'twixt me and you." 
 
 Seward. " The purchase made " — refers to the price which 
 Othello had paid for connubial delight with Desdemona awaiting 
 him at Cyprus. That price was the peril which he had under- 
 gone during his stormy voyage. In his exuberant satisfaction, 
 simply expressing a self-evident truth, that his happiness was 
 yet before him. Had Desdemona been then a virgin bride, 
 Othello would hardly have used such language. Iago speaks 
 in his usual characteristic coarse way — so no need to say a 
 word more on the subject. 
 
 Talboys. Very well. Be it so. But why should such a 
 private marriage have been resorted to; and if privacy was de- 
 sirable at first, what change had occurred to cause the public 
 declaration of it ? 
 
 Seward. Othello had been nine months unemployed in war 
 — the Yenetian State was at peace — and he had been in con- 
 stant intercouse with Brabantios — 
 
 " Her father lov'd me — oft invited me ;" 
 
 and he " took once a pliant hour" to ask Desdemona to be his 
 wife. That " once " cannot refer to the day on which the Play 
 commences; and that their marriage took place some time 
 before, is alike reconcileable with the character of the " gentle 
 Lady/' and with that of the impetuous Hero. 
 
 Talboys. Truly ! 
 
 Seward. Still, a private marriage is, under any circum 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 321 
 
 stances, a questionable proceeding; and our great Dramatist 
 was desirous that as little of the questionable as possible should 
 either be or appear in the conduct of the " Divine Desdemona;" 
 and therefore he has left the private marriage very much in 
 the shade. 
 
 Talboys. Very much in the shade indeed. 
 
 Seward. Her duplicity must be admitted, and allowance 
 must be made for it. It was wrong, but not in the least un- 
 natural, and perfectly excusable — 
 
 Talboys. No. 
 
 Seward. And grievously expiated. 
 
 Talboys. It was indeed. Poor dear Desdemona ! 
 
 Seward. It is, you know, part of the proof of her capacity 
 for guilt, that she ingeniously deceived her father. 
 
 Talboys. But why reveal it now? 
 
 Seward. Circumstances are changed. The Cyprus wars 
 have broke out, and Othello is about to be commissioned to take 
 the command of the Venetian force. 
 
 " I do know, the State 
 Cannot with safety cast him, for he's embarked 
 With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars, 
 Which even now stand in act, that for their souls 
 Another of his fathom have they not 
 To lead this business." 
 
 It was therefore necessary that the marriage should be declared, 
 if Desdemona was to accompany her husband to Cyprus. And 
 the elopment from her father to her husband did take place 
 just in time. 
 
 Talboys. Is that what people call plausible? 
 
 Seward. All the difficulties of Time are thus removed in a 
 moment. In a blaze of light we see Long Time at Venice — 
 Short Time at Cyprus. 
 
 Butter. Long Time at Venice — Short Time at Cyprus. 
 
322 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 That's the Ticket. You Scotsmen are not wholly without in- 
 sight; but for seeing into the heart of the hole — or of the 
 stone — 
 
 Talboys. Give me a Devonshire Cider-swiller or a Cornish 
 Miner. 
 
 North. What ! Can't we discuss a Great Question in the 
 Drama without these unseemly personal and national broils. 
 For shame, Talboys. 
 
 Talboys. You Scotsmen indeed ! 
 
 " Nay, but he prated, 
 And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms 
 Against tour Hojtor." 
 
 North. My dear Seward, let's hear how you support your 
 Theory. 
 
 Seioard. A great deal of weight, my dear Mr. North, is to 
 be attached to the calm tone — the husband-like and matron-like 
 demeanor of Othello and Desdemona when confronted with 
 the Senate. That scene certainly impresses one with the con- 
 viction that they had been man and wife for a considerable 
 period of time. 
 
 North. Very good, Seward — very good. 
 
 Seward. I do indeed think, sir, that the bride and bride- 
 groom show much more composure throughout the whole of 
 that Scene, than is very reconcileable with the idea that this 
 was their nuptial night. Othello's " natural and prompt 
 alacrity" in undertaking the wars was scarcely complimentary 
 to his virgin Spouse upon this supposition; and Desdemona's 
 cool distinguishings between the paternal and marital claims on 
 her duty seem also somewhat too matronly for the occasion. 
 
 North. Yery good — very good — my dear Seward, I like 
 your observation much, that the demeanor of the married pair 
 before the Senate has a stamp of composure. That is finely 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 323 
 
 felt; but I venture to aver, my dear friend, that we must 
 otherwise understand it. The dignity of their spirits it is that 
 holds them both composed. Invincible self-collectedness is by 
 more than one person in the Play held up for a characteristic 
 quality of Othello. To a mind high and strong, which Desde- 
 mona' s is, the exigency of a grand crisis, which overthrows 
 weaker and lower minds, produces composure; from a sense of 
 the necessity for self-possession; and involuntarily from the 
 tension of the powers — their sole direction to the business that 
 passes — which leaves no thought free to stray into disorder, 
 and the inquietude of personal regards. Add, on the part of 
 Othello, the gravity, and on that of Desdemona the awe of the 
 Presence in which they stand, speak, and act; and you have 
 ennobling and sufficing tragical, that is loftily and pathetically 
 poetical, motives for that elate presence of mind which both 
 show. Now all the greatness and grace vanish, if you suppose 
 them calm simply because they have been married these two 
 months. That is a reason fit for Thalia, not for Melpomene. 
 
 Talboys. Let any one English among all the two of you 
 answer that. 
 
 Seward. The Duke says — 
 
 " You must hence to-night. 
 Desdemona. Tonight, my Lord"? 
 Othello. With all my heart." 
 
 This faint expression of Desdemona' s slight surprise and reluc- 
 tance, and no more — is, I allow — natural and delicate in her — 
 whether wife, bride, or Maid — But Othello's " with all my 
 heart" is — 
 
 Talboys. Equally worthy of Othello. You know it is. 
 
 North. My dear Seward — do the Doge — Brabantio — the 
 Senate understand and believe what Othello has been telling 
 them — and that he has now disclosed to them the fact of a 
 
324 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 private marriage with Desdemona, of some weeks' or months' 
 standing? Is that their impression? 
 
 Seward. I cannot say. 
 
 North. I can. Or has Othello been reserved — cautious — 
 crafty in all his apparent candor — and Desdemona equally 
 so ? Are they indeed oldish-married folk ? 
 
 Talboys. Shocking — shocking. That Scene in the Council 
 Chamber of itself deals your " Theory !" its death-blow. 
 
 Seward. I look on it in quite another light. I shall be glad 
 to know what you think is meant by Desdemona' s to the Duke 
 
 " If I be left behind 
 The rites for which I love him are denied mep 
 
 What are the rites which are thus all comprehensive of Desde- 
 mona's love for Othello? The phrase is, to the habit of our 
 ears, perhaps somewhat startling; yet five lines before she said 
 truly "I saw Othello's visage in his mind" — a love of spirit 
 for spirit. And Again — 
 
 " To his honor and his valiant parts 
 Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate." 
 
 I think they had been married some time. 
 
 Talboys. The word rites is the very word most fitting the 
 Lady's lips — used in a generous, free, capacious sense — as of 
 the solace entire which the wife of a soldier has, following him; 
 as to dress his wounds, wind his laurels, hear his councils, cheer 
 his darker mood, smile away the lowering of the Elements — 
 
 Seward. You won't understand me. 
 
 North. No — no— -no. It won't go down. I have opened 
 my mouth far and wide, and it won't go down. Our friend 
 Isaac Widethroat himself could not bolt it. The moral impos- 
 sibility would choke him — that Othello would marry Desde- 
 mona to leave her at her Father's House, for which most 
 perilous and entangling proceeding quite out of his character, 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 325 
 
 no motive is offered, or imaginable. The love-making might 
 go on long — and I accept a good interval since he drew from 
 her the prayer for his history. The pressure of the war might 
 give a decisive moment for the final step, which must have 
 been in agitation for some time on Desdemona's behalf and 
 part, who would require some persuasion for a step so desperate, 
 and would not at once give up all hope of her father's consent, 
 who " loved" Othello. 
 
 Talboys. If they were married, how base and unmanly to 
 steal o?ie's Wedded wife out of one's Father-in-law's house! 
 The only course was to have gone in the middle of the day to 
 Brabantio and say, " this we have done" — or "this I have 
 done. Forgive us, if you can — we are Man and Wife." Men 
 less kingly than Othello have often done it. To steal in order 
 to marry was a temptation with a circumstantial necessity — 
 a gallant adventure in usual estimation. 
 
 North. The thing most preposterous to me in a long mar- 
 riage at Venice, is the continued lying position in which it 
 places Othello and Desdemona towards her father. Two months 
 — say — or three or four — of difficult deception ! when the upper- 
 most characteristic of both is clear-souledness — the most mag- 
 nanimous sincerity. By that, before anything else, are they 
 kindred and fit for one another. On that, before anything 
 else, is the tragedy grounded — on his suspicious openness which 
 is drawn against its own nature, to suspect her purity that lies 
 open as earth's bosom to the sun. And she is to be killed for 
 a dissembler ! In either, immense contrast between the person 
 and fate. That These Two should truckle to a domestic lie ! 
 
 Talboys. No. The Abduction and Marriage were of one 
 stroke — one effort — one plot. When Othello says, "That I 
 have ta'en away — that I have married her" — he tells literally 
 and simply that which has happened as it happened, in the 
 order of events. 
 28 
 
326 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Seward. Why should not Othello marry Desdemona, and 
 keep her at her father's, as theorised? 
 
 North. It is out of his character. He has the spirit of 
 command, of lordship, of dominion — an animus imperiosus. 
 This element must be granted to fit him for his place ; and it 
 is intimated, and is consistent with and essential to his whole 
 fabric of mind. Then, he would not put that which belonged 
 to him out of his power, in hostile keeping — his wife and not 
 his wife. It is contrary to his great love, which desires and 
 would feed upon her continual presence. And against his dis- 
 cretion, prudence or common sense, to risk that Brabantio, dis- 
 covering, might in fury take sudden violent measures — shut 
 her up in a convent, or turn her into the streets, or who knows 
 what — kill her. 
 
 Talhoys. Then the insupportable consideration and question, 
 how do they come together as man and wife ? Does she come 
 to his bed-room at his private Lodgings, or his quarters at the 
 Sagittary ? Or does he go to hers at her father's, climbing a 
 garden wall every night like Romeo, bribing the porter, or 
 trusting Ancilla? You cannot figure it out any way without 
 degradation, and something ludicrous; and a sense of being en- 
 tangled in the impracticable. 
 
 North. The least that can be said is, that it invests the sanc- 
 timony of marriage with the air of an illicit amour. 
 
 Talhoys. Then the high-minded Othello running the per- 
 petual and imminent risk of being caught thieving — slipping 
 through loop-holes — mouse-holes — key-holes. What in Romeo 
 and Juliet is romance, between Othello and Desdemona is 
 almost pollution. 
 
 North. What a desolating of the Manners of the Play ! 
 Will you, then, in order to evade a difficulty of the mechanical 
 construction, clog and whelm the poetry, and moral greatness 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 327 
 
 of the Play, with a preliminary debasement? Introduce your 
 Hero and Heroine under a cloud ? 
 
 Talboys. And how can you show that Othello could not at 
 any moment have taken her away, as at last you suppose him 
 to do, having a motive ? Mind — he knows that the wars are 
 on — he does not know he shall be sent for that night. He 
 does not know that he may not have to keep her a week at his 
 quarters. 
 
 North. My dear Seward — pray, meditate but for a moment 
 on these words of Desdemona in the Council Chamber — 
 
 " My noble Father, 
 I do perceive here a divided duty : 
 My life and education both do learn me 
 How to respect you ; you are the Lord of Duty, 
 I am hitherto your Daughter: But here's mi Husbaxd; 
 And so much duty as my mother showed 
 To you, preferring you before her Father, 
 So much I challenge that I may profess 
 Due to the Moor,. my Lord." 
 
 These are weighty words — of grave and solemn import — and 
 the time has come when Desdemona the Daughter is to be Des- 
 demona the Wife. She tells simply and sedately — affection- 
 ately and gratefully — the great primal Truth of this our human 
 and social life. Hitherto her Father has been to her the Lord 
 of Duty — the Lord of Duty henceforth is to be her Husband. 
 Othello, up to that night, had been but her Lover; and up to 
 that night — for the hidden wooing was nothing to be ashamed 
 of or repented — there had been to her no " divided Duty" — to 
 her Father's happiness had been devoted her whole filial heart. 
 But had she been a married woman for weeks or months before, 
 how insincere — how hypocritical had that appeal been felt by 
 herself to be ; as it issued from her lips ! The Duty had, in 
 
328 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 that case, been " divided " before — and in a way not pleasant 
 for us to think of — to her Father violated or extinct. 
 
 Talboys. I engage, Seward, over and above what our Master 
 has made manifest, to show that though this Theory of yours 
 would remove some difficulties attending the time in Cyprus, 
 it would leave others just where they are — and create many 
 more. 
 
 North. Grant that Othello and Desdemona must be married 
 for two months before he murders her — -that our hearts and imagi- 
 nations require it. The resemblance to the ordinary course of 
 human affairs asks it. We cannot bear that he shall extinguish 
 her and himself — both having sipped only, and not quaffed 
 from the cup of hymeneal felicity. Your soul is outraged by 
 so harsh and malignant a procedure of the Three Sisters. 
 Besides, in proper poetical equilibration, he should have enjoyed 
 to the full, with soul and with body, the happiness which his 
 soul annihilates. And men do not kill their wives the first week. 
 It would be too exceptional a case. Extended time is required 
 for the probability — the steps of change in the heart of Othello 
 require it — the construction and accumulation of proofs require 
 it — the wheel of events usually rolls with something of leisure 
 and measure. So is it in the real World — so must it seem to 
 be on the Stage — else no versimilitude — no "veluti in 
 speculum/' " Two months shall elapse between marriage and 
 murder," says Shakspeare — going to write. They must pass 
 at Venice, or they must pass at Cyprus. Place Shakspeare in 
 this position, and which will he choose ? If at Venice, a main 
 requiring condition is not satisfied. For in the fits and snatches 
 of the clandestine marriage, Othello has never possessed with 
 full embrace, and heart overflowing, the happiness which he 
 destroys. If an earthquake is to ruin a palace, it must be 
 built up to the battlements and pinnacles ; furnished, occupied, 
 made the seat Pleasure, Pomp, and Power; and then shaken 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 329 
 
 into heaps — or you have but half a story. Only at Cyprus 
 Othello possesses Desdemona. There where he is Lord of his 
 Office, Lord over the Allegiance of soldier and civilian — of a 
 whole population — Lord of the Island, which, sea-surrounded, 
 is as a world of itself — Lord of his will — Lord of his wife. 
 
 Talhoys. I feel, sir, in this view much poetical demonstration 
 — although mathematical none — and in such a case Poetry is 
 your only Principia. 
 
 North. Your hand. But if, my dear Seward, Shakspeare 
 elects time at Venice, he wilfully clouds his two excellent 
 Persons with many shadows of indecorum, and clogs his Action 
 with a procedure and a state of affairs, which your Imagination 
 loses itself in attempting to define — with improbabilities — with 
 impracticabilities — with impossibilities. If he was resolute to 
 have a well-sustained logic of Time, I say it was better for him 
 to have his Two Months distinct at Cyprus. I say that, with 
 his creative powers, if he was determined to have Two Calendar 
 Months, from the First of May to the First of July, and then 
 in one Day distinctly the first suspicion sown and the murder 
 done, nothing could have been easier to him than to have 
 imagined, and indicated, and hurried over the required gap of 
 time; and that he would have been bound to prefer this course 
 to that inexplicable marriage and no marriage at Venice. 
 
 Buller. How he clears his way ! 
 
 North. But Shakspeare, my dear Boys, had a better es- 
 cape. Wittingly or unwittingly, he exempted himself from 
 the obligation of walking by the Calendar. He knew — or he 
 felt that the fair proportionate structure of the Action required 
 liberal time at Cyprus.' He took it; for there it is, recognized 
 in the consciousness of every sitting or standing spectator. He 
 knew, or he felt, that the passionate expectation to be sustained 
 in the bosoms of his audience required a rapidity of movement 
 in his Murder-Plot ; and it moves on feet of fire. 
 
 28* 
 

 330 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Seward. Venice is beginning to fade from my ken. 
 
 North. The first of all necessities towards the Criticism of 
 the Play, Seward, is to convince yourself that there was not — 
 could not be a time of concealed marriage at Venice — that it is 
 not hinted, and is not inferable. 
 
 Buller. Shall we give in, Seward? 
 
 Seward. Yes. 
 
 North. You must go to the Tremendous Trouble Time at 
 Cyprus, knowing that the solution is to be had there, or no- 
 where. If you cast back a longing lingering look towards Venice, 
 you are lost. Put the mountains and waves between you and 
 the Queen of the Sea. Push yourself through at Cyprus, or 
 perish in the adventure. 
 
 Talboys. Through that Mystery, you alone, sir, are the Man 
 to help us through — and you must. 
 
 North. Not now — to-morrow. Till then, be revolving the 
 subject occasionally in your minds. 
 
 Talboys. Let's off to the Pike-ground at Kilchurn. 
 
DIES BOREALES, 
 
 No. VII. 
 
 Camp at Cladich. Scene— The 'Wren's Nest. 
 
 Time — Three o'clock A. M. 
 
 North — Talbots. 
 
 North. Perturbed Spirit ! why won't you rest ? What 
 brings thee here ? 
 
 Talhoys. Seward snores. 
 
 North. Why select Seward? 
 
 Talhoys. I do not select him — he selects himself- — singles 
 himself out from the whole host; so that you hear his Snore 
 loud over that of the Camp — say rather his Snore alone — like 
 Lablache singing a Solo in a chorus. 
 
 North. It must be Buller. 
 
 TaTboys. Buller began it 
 
 North. List I^JIow harmonious in the hush the blended 
 Snore of Camp and Village ! How tuned to unison- — as if by 
 pitch-pipe — with the dreamy din of our lapsing friend here, 
 who by and by will awake into a positive Waterfall. 
 
 Talhoys. The Snore of either army stilly sounds. At this 
 
832 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 distance, the Snore disposes to sleep. Seward must have 
 awakened himself — there goes Buller 
 
 North. Where ? 
 
 Talboys. Shriller than Seward — quite a childish treble — 
 liker the Snore of a female — 
 
 North. Females never snore. 
 
 Talboys. How dow you know? I won't answer for some 
 of them. Lionesses do — not perhaps in their wild state — but 
 in Zoological Gardens. 
 
 North. Not quite so loud, Chanticleer — you will disturb 
 my people. 
 
 Talboys. Disturb your people! Why ; he has already 
 stirred up the Solar System. 
 
 B The Cock that is the Trumpet of the Morn, 
 Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat. 
 Awake the God of Day." 
 
 Taking the distance of the Earth from the Sun, in round num- 
 bers, at Ninety-Five Millions of Miles, pretty well for a bird 
 probably weighing some six pounds not merely to make himself 
 heard by the God of Bay, but by one single crow to startle Dan 
 Phoebus from his sleep, and force him nolens volens to show 
 his shining morning face at Cladich. 
 
 North. Out of Science, we seldom think of the vastness of 
 the System of the Universe. Our hearts and imaginations di- 
 minish it for the delight of love. In our usual moods we are 
 all Children with respect to Nature; and gather up Stars as if 
 they were flowers of the field — to form a coronet for Neaera's 
 hair. 
 
 Talboys. What ailed poor dear Doctor Beattie at Cocks in 
 general ? I never could understand the Curse. 
 
 " Proud harbinger of Day, 
 Who scarest my visions with thy clarion shrill, 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 333 
 
 Fell Chanticleer ! who oft hath reft away 
 
 My fancied good, and brought substantial ill ! 
 
 Oh, to thy cursed scream discordant still 
 
 Let Harmony aye shut her gentle ear; 
 
 Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill, 
 
 Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear, 
 
 And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear." 
 
 You poets, in your own persons, are a savage set. 
 
 North. I am not a poet, sir; nor will I allow any man with 
 impunity to call me so. 
 
 Talboys. But Doctor Beattie was, and a Professor of Moral 
 Philosophy to boot, at Aberdeen or St. Andrews, or some other 
 one of our ancient Universities — for every stone-and-lime build- 
 ing in Scotland is ancient; and goodness me! hear him cursing 
 cocks, and dooming the whole G-allic race to every variety of 
 cruel and ignominious deaths, in revenge for having been dis- 
 turbed from his morning dreams by a Gentleman with Comb 
 and Wattles crowing on his own Dunghill, in red jacket, 
 speckled waistcoat, and gray beaks, the admiration of Earochs 
 and How-Towdies. 
 
 North. Doctor Beattie was a true Poet — and had an eye 
 and an ear for Nature. Yet now and then he shut both — 
 
 " Hence the sacred owl on pinions gray 
 
 Breaks from the rustling boughs ; 
 And down the lone vale sails away 
 
 To more profound repose. 1 ' 
 
 I have seen that Stanza quoted many thousand times as exqui- 
 site. It is criminal. An owl was never heard, scared or un- 
 scared, to "break from the rustling boughs." Silently as a 
 leaf he leaves his perch; you hear no rustle, for he makes 
 none — any more than a ghost. 
 
 Talboys. Nor are the other lines good — for they present 
 the image of a long rectilinear flight, which that of an owl in 
 
334 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 no circumstances is; and ; in a fright, he would take the first 
 blind shelter. 
 
 North. Poets seldom err so — yet I remember a mistake of 
 Coleridge's about that commonest of all birds, the Rook. 
 
 " My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last Rook 
 Bent its straight path along the dusky air 
 Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing 
 (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) 
 Had crossed the mighty orb's dilated glory, 
 When thou stood'st gazing; or, when all was still, 
 Flew creaking o'er thy head ; and had a charm 
 For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 
 No sound is dissonant which tells of life." 
 
 Talboys. There is much stillness in the Sibylline Leaves. 
 For Charles read Charlotte. ; Tis more like love than friend- 
 ship — effeminate exceedingly; and, " no sound is dissonant 
 which tells of life," reminds one of the Sunday Jackasses on 
 Blackkeath. 
 
 North. " l Flew creaking.' Some months after I had writ- 
 ten this line," says Coleridge, in a note, " it gave me pleasure 
 to find that Bartram had observed the same circumstance of the 
 Savanna Crane. ' When these birds move their wings in flight, 
 their strokes are slow, moderate, and regular; and even when 
 at a considerable distance, or high above us, we plainly hear 
 the quill-feathers; their shafts and webs, upon one another, 
 creak as the joints or working of a vessel in a tempestuous sea.' " 
 That a Rook may fly " creaking" when moulting, or otherwise 
 out of feather, I shall not take upon me to deny; but in ordi- 
 nary condition, he does not fly " creaking." Coleridge was 
 wont, in his younger days, to mistake exceptions for general 
 rules. In such a case as this, a moment's reflection would 
 have sufficed to tell him that there could not have been " creak- 
 ing" without let or hindrance to flight — and that the flight 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 335 
 
 of a rook is easy and equable — " The blackening train o' craws 
 to their repose. " What creaking must have been there ! But 
 Burns never heard it. 
 
 Talboys. One Burns, as an observer of nature, is worth 
 fifty Coleridges. 
 
 North. Not an arithmetical question. Why, even dear Sir 
 Walter himself occasionally makes a slip in this way. 
 
 "Beneath the broad and ample bone, 
 That buckled heart to fear unknown, 
 A feeble and a tim'rous guest 
 The field-fare framed her lowly nest !" 
 
 The field- fare is migratory — and does not build here; in Norway, 
 where it is native, it builds in trees — often high up on lofty 
 trees — and in crowds. 
 
 Talboys. I believe, sir, they have been known to breed in 
 this country — and perhaps here they build on the ground. 
 
 North. Don't be nonsensical. Our Great Minstrel knew 
 wood-craft well; and hill-craft and river-craft; yet in his fine 
 picture of Coriskin and Coolin, 
 
 " The wildest glen but this can show 
 Some touch of nature's genial glow : 
 On high Benmore green mosses grow, 
 And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe, 
 And Copse on Cruachan Ben ; 
 But here, above, around, below, 
 Jn mountain or in glen, 
 Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, 
 Nor aught of vegetative power 
 The weary eye may ken. 
 For all is rocks at random strewn, 
 Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone, 
 As if were here denied 
 The summer's sun, the spring's sweet dew, 
 
336 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 That clothe with many a varied hue 
 The bleakest mountain's head ;" 
 
 would you believe it, that he introduces Deer — fallow Deer ! 
 Talboys. 
 
 " Call it not vain ; they do not err 
 Who say that, when the Poet dies, 
 Mute nature mourns her worshiper, 
 And celebrates his obsequies; 
 Who say tall cliff and cavern lone 
 For the departed bard make moan ; 
 That mountains meet in crystal rill, 
 That flowers in tears of balm distil; 
 Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, 
 And oaks in deeper groan repiy, 
 And rivers teach their rushing wave 
 To murmur dirges round his grave." 
 
 North. And there the last Minstrel should have ceased. 
 What follows spoils all — fanciful, fantastic — not imaginative, 
 poetical. The Minstrel is at pains to let us know that 
 
 " Mute nature does not mourn her worshiper !" 
 
 that not 
 
 " O'er mortal urn 
 These things inanimate can mourn." 
 
 What, then, is the truth? To explain the mystery of flowers 
 distilling tears of balm ; we are told that 
 
 " The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot, 
 That love, true love, should be forgot, 
 From rose and heather shakes the tear 
 Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier — " 
 
 The Phantom Knight shrieks upon the wild blast — and the 
 Chief, from his misty throne on the mountains, fills the lonely 
 caverns with his groans — while his 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 337 
 
 "Tears of rage impel the rill! 
 All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung, 
 Their name unknown, their praise unsung!'' 
 
 Had Sir Walter been speaking in his own person he never 
 would have written thus — nor thus contradicted and extin- 
 guished the Passion in the stanzas you so feelingly recited. 
 But he puts the words into the lips of an old Harper impro- 
 vising at a Feast — on which occasion anything will pass for 
 poetry — even to the mind of the true Poet himself — but, be- 
 lieve me, it is sheer nonsense — and by the power of contrast re- 
 calls Wordsworth's profound saying — 
 
 " The Poets, in their elegies and lays 
 Lamenting the departed, call the groves — 
 They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, 
 And senseless rocks : nor idly ; for they speak 
 In these their invocation, with a voice 
 Obedient to the strong creative power 
 Of human passion. Sympathies there are 
 More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 
 That steal upon the meditative mind, 
 And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood, 
 And eyed its waters, till we seemed to feel 
 One sadness, they and I. For then a bond 
 Of brotherhood is broken; time has been 
 "When, every day, the touch of human hand 
 Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 
 In mortal stillness; and they ministered 
 To human comfort." 
 
 Talboys. Are all these the Cladich Cock and his echoes ? No, 
 surely. Farm Crows to Farm, from Auchlian to Sonnachan. 
 You might also believe them bagpipes. And so it is — that is 
 a bagpipe. On which side of the Loch ? Why, on neither — beg 
 pardon — on both; forgive me — on the Water; — incredible — in 
 the Camp ! No snore can long outlive that — the People are 
 29 
 
338 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 up and doing. In my mind's eye I see women slipping easily 
 into petticoats — men laboriously into breeches 
 
 North. My more Celtic imagination sees chiefly kilts. But 
 pray, may I ask again, Talboys, what brought you here at this 
 untimeous hour of the Morn ? 
 
 Talboys. I feel that I ought to apologize for my unwelcome 
 intrusion on your privacy, sir ; but on my honor I believed you 
 were in the Yan. Yesterday I was so engrossed by you and 
 Shakspeare, that during our colloquy I had not a moment to 
 look at the Wren's Nest. 
 
 North. Its existence is believed in by few of the natives. 
 I know no such place for a murder. There would be no need 
 to bury the body — here at this Table he might be left sitting 
 for centuries — a dead secret in a Safe. 
 
 Talboys. No need to bury the body ! You have no anti- 
 pathy, I trust, sir, to me? 
 
 North. We are not responsible for our antipathies 
 
 Talboys. I allow that — but we are for every single murder 
 we commit; and though there may be no need to bury the 
 body, murder will spank out 
 
 North. We are willing to run the risk. What infatuation 
 to seek the Lion in his Den — the Wren in his Nest ! Sit 
 down, sir, and let us have, in the form of dialogue, your last 
 speech and dying words on Othello. 
 
 Talboys. Hamlet, sir? 
 
 North. Othello. 
 
 Talboys. Romeo and Juliet ? 
 
 North. Othello. 
 
 Talboys. Well — Lear let it be. 
 
 North. Mind what are you about, Talboys. There are 
 limits to human forbearance. Swear that after this morning's 
 breakfast you will never again utter the words Othello — Iago 
 — Cassio — Desdemona 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 339 
 
 Talhoys. I swear. Meanwhile, let us recur to the Question 
 of Short and Long Time. 
 
 North. When Shakspeare was inditing the scenes of the 
 "the Decline and Fall"— "The Temptation "— " The Seduc- 
 tion " — or whatsoever else you choose to call it — the Sequence 
 of Cause and Effect — the bringing out into prominence and 
 power the successive Essential Movements of the pro- 
 ceeding transformation were intents possessing his whole spirit. 
 We can easily conceive that they might occupy it absolutely 
 and exclusively — that is to say, excluding the computation and 
 all consideration of actual time. If this be an excessive ex- 
 ample, yet I believe that a huddling up of time is a part of the 
 poetical state; that you must, and, what is more, may, crowd 
 into a Theatrical or Epic Day, far more of transaction between 
 parties, and of changes psychological, than a natural day will 
 hold — ay, ten times over. The time on the Stage and in Verse 
 is not literal time. Not it, indeed; and if it be thus with time, 
 which is so palpable, so self-evidencing an entity, what must 
 be the law, and how wide-ranging, for everything else, when 
 we have once got fairly into the Region of Poetry? 
 
 Talhoys. The usefulness of the Two Times is palpable from 
 first to last — of the Short Time for maintaining the tension of 
 the passion — of the long for a thousand general needs. Thus 
 Bianca must be used for convincing Othello very potently, posi- 
 tively, unanswerably. But she cannot be used without sup- 
 posing a protracted intercourse between her and Cassio. Iago's 
 dialogue with him falls to the ground, if the acquaintance began 
 yesterday. But superincumbent over all is the necessity of our 
 not knowing that Iago begins the Temptation, and that Othello 
 extinguishes the Light of his Life all in one day. 
 
 North. And observe, Talboys, how this concatenation of the 
 passionate scenes operates. Marvellously ! Let the Entrances 
 of Othello be four — A, B, C, D. You feel the close connection 
 
340 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 of A with B, of B with C, of C with D. You feel the coherence, 
 the nextness J and all the force of the impetuous Action and Pas- 
 sion resulting. But the logically-consequent near connection of 
 A with C, and much more with D, as again of B with D, you 
 do not feel. Why? When you are at C, and feeling the 
 pressure of B upon C, you have lost sight of the pressure of A 
 upon B. At each entrance you go back one step — you do not 
 go back two. The suggested intervals continually keep displac- 
 ing to distances in your memory the formerly felt connections. 
 This could not so well happen in real life, where the relations 
 of time are strictly bound upon your memory. Though some- 
 thing of it happens when passion devours memory. But in 
 fiction, the conception being loosely held, and shadowy, the feat 
 becomes easily practicable. Thus the Short Time tells for the 
 support of the Passion, along with the Long Time, by means 
 of virtuous installations from the hand or wing of Oblivion. 
 From one to two you feel no intermission — from two to three 
 you feel none — from three to four you feel none; but I defy 
 any man to say that from one to four he has felt none. I defy 
 any man to say honestly, that " sitting at the Play" he has 
 kept count from one to four. 
 
 Talboys. If you come to that, nobody keeps watch over the 
 time in listening to Shakspeare. I much doubt if anybody 
 knows at the theatre that Iago's first suggestion of doubt occurs 
 the day after the landing. I never knew it till you made me 
 look for it — 
 
 North. For which boon I trust you are truly grateful. 
 
 Talboys. ? Tis folly to be wise. 
 
 North. Why, Heaven help us ! if we did not go to bed, and 
 did not dine, which of us could ever keep count from Monday 
 to Saturday ! As it is, we have some of us hard work to know 
 what happened yesterday, and what the day before. On Tues- 
 day I killed that Salmo Ferox ? 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 341 
 
 Talhoi/s. No — -but on Wednesday I did. You forget your- 
 self, my dear sir, just like Shakspeare. 
 
 North. Ay, Willy forgets himself. He is not withheld by 
 the chain of time he is linking, for he has lost sight of the pre- 
 vious links. Put yourself into the transport of composition, 
 and answer. But besides, every past scene — or to speak more 
 suitably to the technical distribution of the Scenes, in our Edi- 
 tions — every past changed occupation of the Stage oy one com- 
 ing in or one going out, (which different occupation, according 
 to the technicality of the French stage, of the Italian, of the 
 Attic, of Plautus, of Terence, constitutes a Scene) — every such 
 past marked moment in the progress of the Play has the effect 
 for the Poet, as well as for you, of protracting the time in re- 
 trospect — throwing everything that has passed further back. 
 As if, in traveling fifty miles, you passed fifty Castles, fifty 
 Churches, fifty Villages, fifty Towns, fifty Mountains, fifty 
 Valleys, and fifty cataracts — fifty Camels, fifty Elephants, fifty 
 Caravans, fifty Processions, and fifty Armies — the said fifty 
 miles would seem a good stretch larger to your recollection, and 
 the five hours of traveling a pretty considerable deal longer, 
 than another fifty miles and another five hours in which you 
 had passed only three Old Women. 
 
 Talboys. My persuasion is, sir, that nobody alive knows — 
 of the auditors— that the first suggestion of doubt and the con- 
 clusion to kill are in one scene of the Play. I do, indeed, be- 
 lieve, with you, sir, that the goings-out and re-enterings of 
 Othello have a strangely deluding effect — that they disconnect 
 the time more than you can think — and that all the changes of 
 persons on the stage — all shiftings of scenes and droppings of 
 curtains, break and dislocate and dilate the time to your imagi- 
 nation, till you do not in the least know where you are. In 
 this laxity of your conception, all hints of extended time sink 
 
 29* 
 
342 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 in and spring up, like that fungus which^ on an apt soil, in a 
 night grows to a foot diameter. 
 
 North. You have hit it there, Talboys. Shakspeare, we 
 have seen, in his calmer constructions, shows, in a score of ways, 
 weeks, months ; that is therefore the true time, or call it the 
 historical time. Hurried himself, and hurrying you on the 
 torrent of passion, he forgets time, and a false show of time, to 
 the utmost contracted, arises. I do not know whether he did 
 not perceive this false exhibition of time, or perceiving he did 
 not care. But we all must see a reason, and a cogent one, why 
 he should not let in the markings of protraction upon his dia* 
 logues of the Seduced and the Seducer. You can conceive 
 nothing better than that the Poet, in the moment of composition, 
 seizes the views which at that moment offer themselves as effect- 
 ive — unconscious or regardless of incompatibility. He is whole 
 to the present; and as all is feigned, he does not remember how 
 the foregone makes the ongoing impracticable. Have you ever 
 before, Talboys, examined time in a play of Shakspeare ? Much 
 more, have you ever examined the treatment of time on the 
 Stage to which Shakspeare came, upon which he lived, and 
 which he left ? 
 
 Talboys. A good deal. 
 
 North. Not much, I suspect. 
 
 Talboys. Why, not at all — except t'other day along with 
 you — in Macbeth. 
 
 North. He came to a Stage which certainly had not culti- 
 vated the logic of time as a branch of the Dramatic Art. It 
 appears to me that those old people, when they were enwrapt 
 in the transport of their creative power, totally forgot all regard, 
 lost all consciousness of time. Passion does not know the clock 
 or the calendar. Intimations of time, now vague, now positive, 
 will continually occur; but also the Scenes float, like the Cy- 
 clades in a Sea of Time, at distances utterly indeterminate — 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 343 
 
 Most near? Most remote? That is a Stage of Power, and not of 
 Rules — Dynamic, not Formal. I say again at last as at first, 
 that the time of Othello, tried by the notions of time in our 
 Art, or tried if you will, by the type of prosaic and literal time, 
 
 is INSOLUBLE. 
 
 Talboys. To the first question, therefore, being What is the 
 truth of the matter? the answer stands, I conceive without a 
 shadow of doubt or difficulty, " The time of Othello is — as real 
 time — insoluble/' 
 
 North. By heavens, he echoes me ! 
 
 Talboys. Or, it is proposed incongruously, impossibly. Then 
 arises the question, How stood the time in the mind of Shak- 
 speare ? 
 
 North. I answer, I do not know. The question splits itself 
 into two — first, "How did he project the time?" Second, 
 "How did he conceive it in the progress of the Play?" My 
 impression is, that he projected extended time. If so, did he 
 or did he not know that in managing the Seduction he departed 
 from that design by contracting into a Day? Did he delibe- 
 rately entertain a double design ? If he did, how did he excuse 
 this to himself? Did he say, " A stage necessity, or a theatrical 
 or dramatic necessity" — namely, that of sustaining at the ut- 
 most possible reach of altitude the tragical passion and interest 
 — "requires the precipitation of the passion from the first 
 breathing of suspicion — the ' Ha ! Ha ! I like not that/ of the 
 suggesting Fiend to the consecrated ' killing myself, to die upon 
 a kiss Y — all in the course of fifteen hours — and this tragical 
 vehemency, this impetuous energy, this torrent of power I will 
 have; at the same time I have many reasons — amongst them 
 the general probability of the action — for a dilated time; and 
 I, being a magician of the first water, will so dazzle, blind, and 
 bewilder my auditors, that they shall accept the double time 
 with a double belief — shall feel the unstayed rushing on of ac- 
 
344 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 tion and passion, from the first suggestion to the cloud of deaths 
 —and yet shall remain with a conviction that Othello was for 
 months Governor of Cyprus — they being on the whole unre- 
 flective and uncritical persons ?" 
 
 Talboys. And, after all, who willingly criticises his dreams 
 or his pleasures ? 
 
 North. And the Audience of the Globe Theatre shall not 
 ■ — for " I hurl my dazzing spells into the spungy air/' and " the 
 spell shall sit when the curtain has fallen." Shakspeare might, 
 in the consciousness of power, say this. For this is that which 
 he has — knowingly or unknowingly — done. Unknowingly? 
 Perhaps — himself borne on by the successively rising waves of 
 his work. For you see, Talboys, with what prolonged and 
 severe labor we two have arrived at knowing the reality of the 
 case which now lies open to us in broad light. We have needed 
 time and pains, and the slow settling of our understandings, to 
 unwind the threads of delusion in which we were encoiled and 
 entoiled. If a strange and unexplained power could undeniably 
 so beguile us — a possibility of which, previously to this exami- 
 nation, we never have dreamt — how do we warrant that the 
 same dark, nameless mysterious power shall not equally blind 
 the " Artificer of Fraud?" This is matter of proposed investi- 
 gation and divination, which let whoever has will, wit, and 
 time presently undertake, 
 
 Talboys. Why, we are doing it, sir. He will be a bold 
 man who treats of Othello — after Us. 
 
 North. Another question is — What is the Censure of Art 
 on the demonstrated inconsistency in Othello ? I propose, but 
 now deal not with it. Observe that we have laid open a new 
 and starling inquiry. We have demonstrated the double time 
 of Othello — the Chronological Fact. That is the first step set 
 in light — the first required piece of the work — done. Beyond 
 this, we have ploughed a furrow or two, to show and lead further 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. . 345 
 
 direction of the work in the wide field. We have touched on 
 the gain to the work by means of the duplicity — we have pro- 
 posed to the self-consciousness of all hearers and readers the 
 psychological fact of their own unconsciousness of the guile 
 used towards thern, or of the success of the fallacy ; and we 
 have asked the solution of the psychological fact. We have 
 also asked the Criticism of Art on the government of the time 
 in Othello — supposing the Poet in pride and audacity of power 
 to have designed that which he has done. Was it High Art ? 
 
 Talboys. Ay — was it High Art? 
 
 North. I dare hardly opine. Effect of high and most de- 
 fying art it has surely; but you ask again — did he know? I 
 seem to see often that the spirit of the Scene possessed Skak- 
 speare, and that he fairly forgot the logical ties which he had 
 encoiled about him. We know the written Play, and we may, 
 if we are capable, know its power upon ourselves. There are 
 the Two Times, the Long and the Short; and each exerts upon 
 you its especial virtue. I can believe that Skakspeare uncon- 
 sciously did what Necessity claimed — the impetuous motion on, 
 on, on of the Passion — the long time asked by the successive 
 events; the forces that swayed him, each in its turn, its own 
 way. 
 
 Talboys. Unconsciously ? 
 
 North. Oh heavens! Yes — yes — no — no. Yes — no. No 
 — yes. What you will. 
 
 " Willingly my jaws I close, 
 Leave ! oh! leave me to repose.'' 
 
 Talboys. Consciously or unconsciously? 
 
 North. Talboys, Longfellow, Perpetual Prgeses of the Seven 
 Feet Club, we want Troy, Priam, Achilles, Hector, to have 
 been. Perhaps they were — perhaps they were not. We must 
 be ready for two states of mind — simple belief, which is the 
 
34:6 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 temper of childhood and youth — recognition of illusion with 
 self-surrender, which is the attained state of criticism wise and 
 childlike. At last we voluntarily take on the faith which was 
 in the goldener age. The child believed; and the man believes. 
 But the child believes this; and the man who perceives how 
 this is a shadow, believes that beyond. This he believes in 
 play — that in earnest. The child mixed the two — the tail of 
 the fairies and the hope of hereafter. Union, my dear Boys, 
 is the faculty of the young, but division of the old. I speak 
 of Shakspeare at five years of age ; not of Us, whom, ere we can 
 polysyllable men's names, dominies instruct how to do old men's 
 Work and to distinguish. 
 
 Talboys. My dear sir, I do so love to hear your talkee 
 talkee; but be just ever so little a little more intelligible to or- 
 dinary mortals — 
 
 North. You ask what really happened ? The Play bewilders 
 you from answering — accept it as it rushes along through your 
 soul, reading or sitting to hear and see- The main and strange 
 fact is, that these questions of Time, which, reading the Play 
 backwards, force themselves on us, never occur to us leaning 
 straight forwards. Two Necessities lie upon your soul. 
 
 Talboys. Two Necessities, sir? 
 
 North. Two Necessities lie upon your soul. You cannot 
 believe that Othello, suspecting his Wife, folds his arms 
 night after night about her disrobed bosom. As little can you 
 believe that in the course of twelve hours the spirit of infinite 
 love has changed into a dagger-armed slayer. The Two Times 
 — marvelous as it is to say — take you into alternate possession. 
 The impetuous motion forwards, in the scenes and in the tenor 
 of action, which belong to the same Bay, you feel ; and you ask 
 no questions. When Othello and Iago speak together, you lose 
 the knowledge of time. You see power and not form. You 
 feel the aroused Spirit of Jealousy : you see, in the field of be- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 347 
 
 lief, a thought sown and sprung — a thought changed into a 
 doubt — a doubt into a dread — a dread into the cloud of death. 
 Evidences press, one after the other — the spirit endures change 
 — you feel succession — as cause and effect must succeed — you 
 do not compute hours, days, weeks, months; — yet confess I 
 must, and confess you must, and confess all the world and his 
 wife must, that the condition is altogether anomalous — that a 
 time which is at once a day of the Calendar and a month of 
 the Calendar, does not happen anywhere out of Cyprus. 
 
 Talboys. It has arisen just as you say, sir — because Two 
 Necessities pressed. The passion must have its torrent, else 
 you will never endure that Othello shall kill Desdemona. 
 Events must have their concatenation, else — but I stop at this 
 the incredible anomaly, that for Othello himself you require 
 the double time ! You cannot imagine him embracing his wife, 
 misdoubted false; as little can you his Love measureless, be- 
 tween sunrise and sunset turned into Murder. 
 
 North. Even so. 
 
 Talboys. My dear sir, what really happened? 
 
 North. Oh! Talboys, Talboys. Well then— wotfthat Othello 
 killed her upon the first night after the arrival at Cyprus. The 
 Cycle could not have been so run through. 
 
 Talboys. How then in reality did the Weeks pass ? 
 
 North. That's a good one ! Why I was just about to ask 
 you — and 'tis your indisputable duty to tell me and the anxious 
 world — how. 
 
 Talboys. I do not choose to commit myself in such a serious 
 affair. 
 
 North. Suppose the framing of the tale into a Prose Ro- 
 mance. Surely, surely, surely, no human romancer, com- 
 pounding the unhappy transactions into a prose narrative, could, 
 could could have put the first sowing of doubt, and the smother- 
 ing r under the pillows, for incidents of one day. He would 
 
348 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 have made Othello for a time laugh at the doubt, toss it to the 
 •winds. Iago would have wormed about him a deal slowlier. 
 The course of the transactions in the Novel would have been 
 much nearer the course of reality. 
 
 Talboys. In Cinthio's Novel — 
 
 North. Curse Cinthio. 
 
 Talboys. My Lord, I bow to your superior politeness. 
 
 North. Confound Chesterfield. My dear friend, Reality 
 has its own reasons — a Novel its own — and its own a Drama. 
 Every work of art brings its own conditions, which divide you 
 from the literal representation of human experience. Ask 
 Painter, Sculptor, and Architect. Every fine art exercises its 
 own sleights. 
 
 Talboys. In the Novel, I guess or admit that they would 
 have been a month at Cyprus ere Iago had stirred. What 
 hurry? He would have watched his time — ever and anon 
 would have thrown in a hundred suggestions of which we know 
 nothing. Let any man, romancer or other, set himself to con- 
 ceive the Prose Novel. He cannot, by any possibility, conceive 
 that he should have been led to make but a day of it. Ergo, 
 the Drama proceeds upon its own Laws. No representation in 
 art is the literal transcript of experience. 
 
 North. The question is, what deviations — to what extent — 
 does the particular Art need ? And why? The talked Attic 
 Unity of Time instructs us. But Sophocles and Shakspeare 
 must have one view of the Stage, in essence. You must sit 
 out your three or four hours. You must listen and see with 
 expectation intended, like a bow drawn. To which intent Ac- 
 tion and Passion must press on. 
 
 Talboys. Compare, sir, the One Day of Othello to the Six- 
 teen Years of Hermione ! There, intensest Passion sustained ; 
 here, the unrolling of a romantic adventnre. Each true to the 
 temper imposed on the hearing spectator. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 349 
 
 North. Good. The Novel is not a Transcript — the Play is 
 not a Transcript. Ask not for a Transcript, for not one of 
 those who could give it you, will. A conditional imitation 
 we desire and demand — and we have it in Othello. 
 
 Talboys. And put up we must with Two Times — one for 
 your sympathy with his tempest of heart — one for the verisimili- 
 tude of the transaction. 
 
 North. Think on the facility with which, in the Novel, 
 Iago could have strewn an atom of arsenic a-day on Othello's 
 platter, to use him to the taste ; and how, in the Play, this re- 
 presentation is impossible. Then, the original remaining 
 the same, each manner of portraiture leaves it, and each after 
 its own Laws. 
 
 Talboys. Did not Shakspeare know as much about the Time 
 which he was himself making as we efo,as much and more? 
 
 North. I doubt it. I see no necessity for believing it. 
 We judge him as we judge ourselves. He came to his Art 
 as it was, and created — improving it — from that point. An 
 Art grows in all its constituents. The management of the 
 Time is a constituent in the Art of "feigned history," as 
 Poetry is called by Lord Bacon. But I contend that on our 
 Stage, to which Shakspeare came, the management of Time 
 was in utter neglect — an undreamed entity; and I claim for the 
 first foundation of any Canon respective to this matter acute 
 sifting of all Plays previous. 
 
 Talboys. Not so very many — 
 
 North. Nor so very few. Shakspeare took up the sprawling, 
 forlorn infant, dramatic Time. He cradled, rocked, and fed it. 
 The bantling throve, and crawled vigorously about on all-fours. 
 Bat since then, thou Tallometer, imagine the study that we 
 have made. Count not our Epic Poems — not our Metrical 
 Romances — not our Tragedies. Count our Comedies, and count 
 above all our Novels. I do not say that you can settle Time 
 30 
 
350 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 in these by the Almanac. They are the less poetical when you 
 can do so; but I say that we have with wonderful and immense 
 diligence studied the working out of a Story. Time being 
 here an essential constituent, it cannot be but that, in our more 
 exact and critical laying-out of the chain of occurrences, we have 
 arrived at a tutored and jealous respect of Time — To say nothing 
 of our Aristotelian lessons — totally unlike anything that existed 
 under Eliza and James, as a general proficiency of the Art — 
 as a step gained in the National Criticism. 
 
 Talboys. Ay, it must be difficult in the extreme for us so 
 to divest ourselves of our own intellectual habits and proficiency 
 as to take up, and into our own, the mind of that age. But, 
 unless we do so, we are unable to judge what might or might 
 not happen to any one mind of that age; and when we affirm 
 that Shakspeare must have known what he was doing in regard 
 to the Time of Othello, we are suffering under the described 
 difficulty or disability — 
 
 North. Why, Talboys, you are coming day after day, to 
 talk better and better sense — -take care you get not too sen- 
 sible — 
 
 Talboys. We must never forget, sir, that the management 
 of the Time was on that Stage a slighted and trampled element 
 — that what Willy gives us of it is gratuitous, and what we 
 must be thankful for — and finally that he did not distinctly 
 scheme out, in his own conception, the Time of Othello — very 
 far from it. 
 
 North. I verily believe that if you or I had shown him t\iQ 
 Time, tied up as it is, he would have said,. "Let it go hang. 
 They won't find it out; and, if they do, let them make the best, 
 the worst, and the most of it. The Play is a good Play, and 
 I shall spoil it with mending it." Why, Talboys, if Queen 
 Elizabeth had required that the Time should be set straight, it 
 could not have been done. One — two — six changes would not 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 351 
 
 have done it. The Time is an entangled skein that can only 
 be disentangled by breaking it. For the fervor of action on 
 the Stage, Iago could not have delayed the beginning beyond 
 the next day. And yet think of the Moral Absurdity — to 
 begin — really as if the day after Marriage, to show Jealousy ! 
 The thing is out of nature the whole diameter of the globe. 
 His project was " after a time t' abuse Othello's ear," which 
 is according to nature, and is de facto the impression made — 
 strange to say — 'from beginning to end. But the truth is, that 
 the Stage three hours are so soon gone, that you submit yourself 
 to everything to come within compass. Your imagination is 
 bound to the wheels of the Theatre Clock. 
 
 Talboys. Yet, in your conversation on Macbeth, you called 
 your discovery an " astounding discovery "—and it is so. The 
 Duplicity of Time in Othello is a hundred times more as- 
 tounding — 
 
 North. And the discovery of it will immortalize my name. 
 I grieve to think that the Pensive Public is sadly deficient in 
 Imagination. I remember or invent that she once resisted me, 
 when I said that "Illusion" is one constituent of Poetry. 
 Illusion, the Pensive Public must be made to know, is when 
 the same thing is, and is not. Pa— God bless him !— 
 makes believe to be a Lion. He roars and springs upon his 
 prey. He at once believes himself to be a Lion, and knows 
 himself to be Pa. Just so with the Shakspeare Club— many 
 millions strong. The two times at Cyprus are there; the reason 
 for the two times — to wit, probability of the Action, storm of 
 the Passion is there; and if any wiseacre should ask, " How do 
 we manage to stand the known together-proceeding of two 
 times?" The wiseacre is answered— " We don't stand it — for 
 we know nothing about it. We are held in a confusion and a 
 delusion about the time." We have effect of both— distinct 
 knowledge of neither. We have suggestions to our Under- 
 
352 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 standing of extended time — we have movements of our Will 
 by precipitated time. 
 
 Talboys. We have — we have — we have. Oh, sir ! sir ! sir ! 
 
 North. Does any man by possibility ask for a scheme 
 and an exposition, by which it shall be made luminous to the 
 smallest capacity, how we are able distinctly all along to know, 
 and bear in mind, that the preceding transactions are accom- 
 plished in a day, and at the same time and therewithal, dis- 
 tinctly all along to know and bear in mind that the same trans- 
 actions proceeding before our eyes take about three months to 
 accomplish ? Then, I am obliged — like the musicians, when 
 they are told that, if they have any music that may not be 
 heard, Othello desires them to play it — to make answer, " Sir, 
 we have none such." It is to ask that a deception shall be not 
 only seemingly but really a truth ! Jedediah Buxton, and 
 Blair the Chronologist would, " sitting at this play," have 
 broken their hearts. You need not. If you ask me — which 
 judiciously you may — what or how much did the Swan of Avon 
 intend and know of all this astonishing legerdemain, when he 
 sang thus astonishingly ? Was he the juggler juggled by aerial 
 spirits — as Puck and Ariel? I put my finger to my lip, and 
 nod on him to do the same; and if I am asked, " Shall a modern 
 artificer of the Drama, having the same pressure from within 
 and from without, adopt this resource of evasion?" I can an- 
 swer, with great confidence, " He had better look before he 
 leap." If any spectator, upon the mere persuasion and power 
 of the Bepresentation, ends with believing that the seed sown 
 and the harvest reaped are of one day, I believe that he may 
 yet have the belief of extended time at Cyprus. I should say 
 by carrying the one day with him on forwards from day to day! 
 Or if you wish this more intelligibly said, that he shall continu- 
 ally forget the past notices. Once for all, he shall forget that 
 the first suggestion icas on the day after the arrival. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 353 
 
 Talboys. Inquire, sir, what intelligent auditors, who have 
 not gone into the study, have thought; for that, after all, is 
 the only testimony that means anything. 
 
 North. "Well, Talboys, suppose that one of them should ac- 
 tually say, " Why, upon my word, if I am to tell the truth, I 
 did take note that Iago began ' abusing Othello's ear, the day 
 after the arrival. I did, in the course of the Play, gather up 
 an impression that some good space of time was passing at Cy- 
 prus — and I did, when the murder came, put it down upon the 
 same day with the sowing of the suspicion, and I was not aware 
 of the contradiction. In short, now that you put me upon it, 
 I see that I did that which thousands of us do in thousands of 
 subjects — keep in different corners of the brain two beliefs — - 
 of which, if they had come upon the same ground, the one must 
 have annihilated the other. But I did not at the time bring 
 the data together. / suppose that I had something else to 
 think of." 
 
 Talboys. Assume, sir, for simplicity's sake, that Shakspeare 
 knew what he was doing. 
 
 North. Then the Double Time is to be called — an Imposture. 
 
 Talboys. Oh, my dear sir — oh, oh ! 
 
 North. A good-natured Juggler, my dear Talboys, has 
 cheated your eyes. You ask him to show you how he did it. 
 He does the trick slowly — and you see. " Now, good Con- 
 juror, do it slowly j and cheat us." "I can't. I cheat you by 
 doing it quickly. To be cheated, you must not see what I do ; 
 but you must think that you see." When we inspect the Play 
 in our closets, the Juggler does his tricks slowly. We sit at 
 the Play, and he does it quick. When you see the trick again 
 done the right way — that is quick — you cannot conceive how 
 it is that you no longer see that which you saw when it was 
 done slowly! Again the impression returns of a magical 
 feat. 
 
 30* 
 
354 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 Talboys. I doubt if we saw Othello perfectly acted, whether 
 all our study would preserve us from the returning imposture. 
 
 North. I will defy any one most skillful theatrical connoisseur, 
 even at the tenth, or twentieth, or fiftieth Representation, so to 
 have followed the comings-in and the goings-out, as to satisfy 
 himself to demonstration, that interval into which a month or 
 a week or a day can be dropped — there is none. 
 
 Talboys. When do you propose publishing this your " as- 
 tounding Discovery?" 
 
 North. Not till after my death. 
 
 Talboys. I shall attend to it. 
 
 North. In comparing Shakspeare and the Attic Three, we 
 seem to ourselves, but really do not, to exhaust the Criticism 
 of the Drama. Is Mr. Sheriff Alison right, when he said that 
 the method of Shakspeare is justified only by the genius of 
 Shakspeare? That less genius needs the art of antiquity? 
 Our own art inclines to a method between the two; and we 
 should have to account for the theatrical success, during a century 
 or more, of such Plays as the Fair Penitent, Jane Shore, &c. 
 
 Talboys. Why, sir, does Tragedy displace often from our 
 contemplation, Comedy? Not when we are contemplating 
 Shakspeare. To me his method, in reading him, appears jus- 
 tified by the omnipotent Art, which, despite refractoriness, 
 binds together the most refractory times, things, persons, 
 events in Unity. 
 
 North. Most true. We feel, in reading, the self-compact- 
 ness and self-completeness of each Play. Thus in Lear — 
 
 Talboys. In Lear the ethical ground is the Relation of 
 Parent to Child, specifically Father and Daughter. If the 
 treatment of that Relation is full to your satisfaction, that may 
 effect you as a Unity. Full is not exhaustive; but one part 
 of treatment demands another. Thus the violated relation re- 
 quires for its complement the consecrated relation. 
 
 North. In Hamlet? 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 355 
 
 Talboys. The ethical ground in Hamlet, sir, is the relation 
 of Father and Son, very peculiarly determined, or specialtied. 
 Observe, sir, how the like relation between Father and Daughter, 
 the same between Father and Son occurs in Polonius's House. 
 Here too, a slain Father — a part of the specialty. Compare, 
 particularly, the dilatory revenge of Hamlet, and the dispatchful 
 of Laertes. Again, the relation of G-ertrude the Mother and 
 Hamlet the Son — so many differences ! And the strange dis- 
 cords upon the same relation — my Uncle-Father and Aunt- 
 Mother — the tragic grotesque. 
 
 North. Eh? 
 
 Talboys. Then in Lear the House of Gloster counterparts 
 Lear's. And compare the ill-disposed Son-in-law Cornwall, 
 and the well-disposed Son-in-law Albany. The very Fool has 
 a sort of filial relation to Lear — "Nuncle" — and "come on, 
 my Boy." At least the relation is in the same direction — old 
 to young — protecting to dependent — spontaneous love to grate- 
 ful, requiting love, and an intimate, fondling familiarity. Com- 
 pare in Hamlet, Ophelia's way of taking her father's death — 
 madness and unconscious suicide — the susceptible girl, — and 
 the brother to kill the slayer, " to cut his throat i' the church" 
 — the energetic youthy man, ferox juvenis — fiery — full of exu- 
 berant strength; — all variations of the grounding thought — 
 relation of Parent and Child. 
 
 North. Of Othello? 
 
 Talboys. The moral Unity of Othello can be nothing but 
 the Connubial Relation. How is this dealt with ? Othello and 
 Desdemona deserve one another — both are excellent — both im- 
 passioned, but very differently — both frank, simple, confiding 
 —both unbounded in love. But they have married against 
 the father's wish — privily, and — he dies — so here is from 
 another sacred quarter an influence thwarting — a law violated, 
 and of which the violation shall be made good to the uttermost. 
 
356 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 So somebody remarks that Brabantio involves the fact in the 
 Nemesis, ""She has deceived her Father, and may thee." 
 Then the pretended corrupt love of her and Cassio is a reflec- 
 tion in divers ways of the prevailing relation — for a corrupt 
 union of man and woman images ex opposite the true union — 
 and then it comes as the wounding to the death. Again, 
 Rodrigo's wicked pursuit of her is an imperfect, false reflection. 
 And then there is the false relation — in Cassio and Bianca — 
 woven in essentially when Iago, talking to Cassio, of Bianca, 
 makes Othello believe that they are speaking of Desdemona. 
 Then the married estate of Iago and Emilia is another image 
 — an actual marriage, and so far the same thing, but an in- 
 wardly unbound wedlock — between heart and heart no tie — and 
 so far not the same thing — the same with a difference, exactly 
 what Poetry requires. Note that this image is also participant 
 in the Action, essentially, penetratively to the core; since 
 hereby Iago gets the handkerchief, and hereby too, the knot is 
 resolved by Emilia's final disclosures and asseverations sealed 
 by her death. Observe that each husband kills, and indeed 
 stabs his wife — motives a little different — as heaven and hell. 
 
 North. The method of Shakspeare makes his Drama the 
 more absolute reflection of our own Life, wherein are to be con- 
 sidered two things 
 
 Talboys. First — if the innermost grounding feeling of all 
 our other feelings is and must be that of Self — the next, or in 
 close proximity, Sympathy with our life — then by the over- 
 powering similitude of those Plays to our Lives — of the method 
 of the Plays to the method of our life — that Sympathy is by 
 Shakspeare seized and possessed as by no other dramatist — the 
 persuasion of reality being immense and stupendous. Elements 
 of the method are, the mixture of comic and tragic — the crossing 
 presentment of different interests — presentment of the same in- 
 terests from divided places and times — multiplying of agents, 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 357 
 
 that is number and variety — being of all ranks, ages, qualities, 
 offices — coming in contact — immixt in Action and Passion. 
 This frank, liberal, unreserved, spontaneous and natural method 
 of imitation must ravish our sympathy — and we know that the 
 plays of Shakspeare are to us like another world of our own in 
 its exuberant plenitude — a full second humanity. 
 
 North. Opposed to this is the severe method of the Greek 
 Stage — selecting and simplifying. 
 
 Talboys. Of the modern craftsmen, to my thinking Alfieri 
 has carried the Attic severity to the utmost; and I am obliged 
 to say, sir, that in them all — those Greeks and this Italian — 
 the severity oppresses me — I feel the rule of Art — not the 
 free movement of human existence. That I feel overpower- 
 ingly, only in Shakspeare. 
 
 North. Ay. 
 
 Talboys. Alfieri says that the constitueut Element of Tragedy 
 is Conflict — as of Duty and Passion — as of conscious Election 
 in the breast of Man and Fate. 
 
 North. He does — does he? 
 
 Talboys. There is Conflict — or Contrast — or Antithesis — 
 the Jar of Two Opposites — a Discord — a Rending — -in Lear; 
 between his misplaced confidence and its requital — between 
 his misplaced displeasure and the true love that is working 
 towards his weal. And, again, between the Desert and the 
 Reward of Cordelia — with more in the same Play. 
 
 North. Schiller says of Tragic Fate, 
 
 " The great gigantic Destiny 
 That exalts Man in crushing him." 
 
 Welcker has, I believe, written on the Fate of the Greek 
 Tragedy, which I desire to see. 
 
 Talboys. Are Waves breaking against a Rock the true 
 image of Tragedy? 
 
 North. Hardly; any more than a man running his head 
 
358 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 against a post, or stone wall is. The two antagonistic Forces, 
 Talboys, must each of them have, or seem to have, the possi- 
 bility of yielding; the Conflict or Strife must have a certain 
 play. Therefore I inquire — Is the Greek Fate the most excel- 
 lent of Dramatic means? and is the Greek Fate inflexible? 
 And, granting that the Hellenic Fate is thoroughly sublime 
 and fitting to Greek Tragedy, and withal inflexible — does it 
 follow that Modern Tragedy must have a like overhanging 
 tyrannical Necessity? 
 
 Talboys. No. 
 
 North. No. The Greek Tragedy representing a received 
 religious Mythology, we may conceive the poetical, or esthetical 
 hardness of a Fate known for unalterable, to have been tem- 
 pered by the inherent Awe — the Holiness. There is a certain 
 swallowing-up of human interests, hopes, passions — this tur- 
 moiling, struggling life — in a revealed Infinitude. Our Stage 
 is human — built on the Moral Nature of Man, and on his terres- 
 trial Manner of Being. It stands under the Heavens — upon 
 the Earth. In Hamlet, the Ghost, with his command of Re- 
 venge, represents the Impassive, inflexible — with a breath 
 freezing the movable human blood into stillness — everything 
 else is in agitation. 
 
 Talboys. Say it again, sir. 
 
 North. Beg my pardon and your own, fully and uncondi- 
 tionally, Talboys, this very instant, for talking slightingly of 
 the Greek Drama. 
 
 Talboys. Not guilty, my Lord. Of all Dramas that ever 
 were dramatized on the Stage of this unintelligible world, the 
 Greek Drama is the most dramatic, saving and excepting Shak- 
 speare's. 
 
 North. Ay, wonderful, my dear Talboys, to see the holy 
 affections demonstrated mighty on the heathen Proscenium. 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 359 
 
 Antigone ! Daughter and Sister. Or in another House, Ores- 
 tes, Electra. 
 
 Ihlboys. Macbeth murders a King, who happens to be his 
 kinsman; but Cljtemnestra murders her husband, who happens 
 to be a King — the profounder and more interior crime. 
 
 North. We see how grave are the undertakings of Poetry, 
 which engages itself to please, that it may accomplish sublimer 
 aims. By pleasure she wins you to your greater good — to Love 
 and Intelligence. The heathen Legislator, the heathen Philo- 
 sopher, the heathen Poet, looks upon Man with love and awe. 
 He desires and conceives his welfare — his wellbeing — his Hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Talboys. And the Poet, you believe, sir, with intenser love 
 — -with more solemn awe — with more penetrant intuition. 
 North. I do. And he has his way clearer before him. 
 Talboys. The Legislator, sir, will alchemize the most re- 
 fractory of all substances — Man. His materials are in truth 
 the lowest and grossest, and most external relations of Man's 
 life. 
 
 North. They are. 
 
 Talboys. And these he would, with instrumentality of low, 
 gross, outward means, subjugate or subdue under his own most 
 spiritual intuitions. 
 
 North. A vain task, my dear Talboys, for an impossible. 
 He must lower his intuition — his aim — to his means and mate- 
 rials. The Philosopher walks in a more etherial region. Com- 
 pared to the Legislator, he is at advantage. But he has his 
 own difficulties. He must think feelings ! 
 
 Talboys. He might as well try, sir, to trace outline, and 
 measure capacity of a mist which varies its form momently, and, 
 without determinate boundary loses itself in the contiguous air. 
 His work is to define the indefinite. 
 
 North. And then he comes from the Schools, which in 
 
360 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 qualifying disqualify also — from the Schools of the Senses — of 
 the Physical Arts — of Natural Philosophy — of Logical, Meta- 
 physical, Mathematical Science. These have quickened, 
 strengthened, and sharpened his wit; they have lifted him at 
 last from emotions to notions : but — Love is understood by lov- 
 ing — Hate by hating — and only so! Sensations — notions — 
 Emotions ! I say, Talboys, that in all these inferior schools 
 you may understand a part by itself, and ascend by items to 
 the Sum, the All. But in the Philosophy of the Will, you 
 must from the centre look along the radii, and with a sweep 
 command the circumference. You must know as it were No- 
 thing, or All. 
 
 Talboys. Ay, indeed, sir; looking at the Doctrines of the 
 Moral Philosophers, you are always dissatisfied — and why? 
 
 North Because they contradict your self-experience. Some- 
 times they speak as you feel. Your self-intelligence answers, 
 and from time to time, acknowledges and avouches a strain or 
 two; but then comes discord. The Sage stands on a radius. 
 If he looks along the radius towards the circumference, he sees 
 in the same direction with him who stands at the centre; but 
 in every other direction, inversely or transversely. Every work 
 of a Philosopher gives you the notion of glimpses caught, 
 snatched in the midst of clouds and of rolling darknesses. The 
 truth is, Talboys, that the Moral Philosopher is in the Moral 
 Universe a schoolboy; he is gaining, from time to time, informa- 
 tion by which, if he shall persevere and prosper, he shall at 
 last understand. Hitherto he but prepares to understand. If 
 he knows this, good; but if the schoolboy who has mastered his 
 Greek Alphabet, will forthwith proceed to expound Homer and 
 Plato, what sort of an ex cathedra may we not expect ? Rather, 
 what expectation can approach the burlesque that is in store ! 
 
 Talboys. All are not such. 
 
 North. The Moral sage may be the Schoolboy in the Magis- 
 
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 361 
 
 terial Chair. With only this difference, that he of the beard 
 has been installed in form, and the Doctor's hat set on his head 
 by the hand of authority. But the ground of confusion is the 
 same. He will from initial glimpses of information expound 
 the world. He will — and the worst of it is that — he must. 
 
 Talboys. A Legislator, a Philosopher, a Poet, all know that 
 the stability and welfare of a man — of a fellowship of men— is 
 "Virtue. But see how they deal with it. 
 
 North. Don't look to me, Talboys ; go on of yourself and 
 for yourself — I am a pupil. 
 
 Talboys. The Legislator, sir, can hardly do more than re- 
 ward Valor in war ; and punish overt crime. The Philosopher 
 will have Good either tangible, like an ox, or a tree, or a tower, 
 or a piece of land; or a rigorous and precise rational abstraction, 
 like the quantities of a mathematician. For Good substantial 
 and impalpable, go to the Poet. For Good — -for Virtue — con- 
 crete, go to the Poet. 
 
 North. The Philosopher separates Virtue from all other mo- 
 tions and states of the human will. The Poet loses or hides 
 Virtue in the other motions and states of the human will. 
 Orestes, obeyiDg the Command of Apollo, avenges his Father, 
 by slaying his Mother, and her murderous and adulterous 
 Paramour. So awfully, solemnly, terribly — with such implica- 
 tion and involution in human affections and passions, works 
 and interests and sufferings, the Poet demonstrates Virtue. 
 
 Talboys. And we go along with Orestes, sir; the Greeks 
 did — if our feebler soul cannot. 
 
 North. Yes, Talboys, we do go along with Orestes. He 
 does that which he must do — which he is under a moral obliga- 
 tion to do — under a moral necessity of doing. Necessity ! ay, 
 an Avayxr t — stern, stiong, adamantine as that which links the 
 Chain of Causes and Events in the natural universe — which 
 compels the equable and unalterable celestial motions beheld 
 31 
 
362 CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS. 
 
 by our eyes — such a bounden, irresistible agency sends on the 
 son of the murdered, with hidden sword, against the bosom that 
 has lulled, fed, made him ! — He must. 
 
 Talboys. Love, hate, horror — the furies of kinned shed 
 blood ready to spring up from the black inscrutable earth wet- 
 ted by the red drops, and to dog the heels of the new Slayer — 
 of the divinely-appointed Parricide ? So a Poet teaches Virtue. 
 
 North. Ay, even so; convulsing your soul — convulsing the 
 worlds, he shows you Law — the archaic, the primal, sprung, 
 ere Time, from the bosom of Jupiter — Law the bond of the 
 worlds, Law the inviolate violated, and avenging her Violation, 
 vindicating her own everlasting stability, purity, divinity. 
 
 Talboys. Divine Law and humble, faithful, acquiescent hu- 
 man Obedience ! Obedience self-sacrificing, blind to the con- 
 sequences, hearing the God, hearing the Ghost, deaf to all other 
 Voices — deaf to fear, deaf to pity ! 
 
 North. Now call in the Philosopher, and hear what he has 
 to preach. Something exquisite and unintelligible about the 
 Middle between two Extremes ! 
 
 Talboys. Shade of the Staygrite ! 
 
 North. The pure Earth shakes crime from herself, and the 
 pure stars follow their eternal courses. The Mother slays the 
 children of a brother for the father's repast. And the sun, 
 stopt in the heavens, veils his resplendent face. So a Poet in- 
 culcates Law — Law running through all things, and binding all 
 things in unity and in Sympathy — Law entwined in the primal 
 relations of Man with Man. To reconcile Man with Law — to 
 make him its " willing bondsman" — is the great Moral and 
 Political Problem — the first Social need of the day — the inner- 
 most craving need of all time since the Fall. The Poet is its 
 greatest teacher — a wily preceptor, who lessons you, unaware, 
 unsuspecting of the supreme benefit purposed you — done you 
 by him, the Hierophant of Harmonia. 
 
CIIRISTOPIIER UNDER CANVASS. 363 
 
 Talhoys. You ordered me, sir, some few or many hours ago 
 — some Short or Long Time since — to swear that after this 
 Morning's Breakfast I would never more so much as confiden- 
 tially whisper into a friend's ear the words — Othello ! Desde- 
 mona ! And I swore it. I am now eager to swear it over 
 again; but I begin, sir, to entertain the most serious apprehen- 
 sions that that time will never arrive. 
 
 North. What time ? 
 
 Talhoys. After Breakfast. "We have been sitting here, sir, 
 before Breakfast for ages, in the Wren's Nest. During our in- 
 cubation, what a succession of changes may there not have been 
 in Europe ! Revolution on Revolution — blood poured out like 
 water Hark, the Tocsin ! 
 
 North. The Gong. 
 
 Talboys. The Breakfast Gong! The tremulous thunder 
 meets an answering chord within me. Six o'clock in the Morn- 
 ing — and no victuals have I gorged since Eleven Yestreen. 
 Good-by to the Wren's Nest — the very Cave of Famine. This 
 is Turkey-egg — Goose-egg — Swan-egg — Ostrich-egg day. I 
 see Buller eyeing open-mouthed, with premeditating mastication, 
 my pile of muffins. Gormandizing sans Grace. Take care 
 you don't trip, sir, over the precipice-— 'twould be an ugly fall 
 — into the basin. Now we are out of danger. But don't skip, 
 sir — don't skip—till we emerge — on the open ground— then 
 we may dance among the daisies. 
 
A. HART'S STANDARD WORKS. 
 
 THE MODERN BRITISH ESSAY 
 At less than Half Price. 
 
 STS 
 
 The great success that has attended the publication of 
 THE MODERN ESSAYISTS. 
 Comprising the Critical and Miscellaneous Writings of the Most Distinguished Author* 
 of Modern Times, has induced the publishers to issue a New, Revised and very Cheap 
 Edition, with Finely Engraved Portraits of the Authors; and wiiile they have added to 
 '.lie series the writings of several distinguished authors, they have reduced the price more 
 dian 
 
 ONE HAIiF. 
 The writings of each author will generally be comprised in a single octavo volume, 
 well printed from new type, on fine white paper manufactured expressly for this edition. 
 The series will contain all the most able papers that have ever appeared in 
 
 THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, 
 
 &f)e 3LonTron ©,uarterli> 35Ubteto, ana SSlacfctoooTi's HHagajfne. 
 
 and may indeed be called the cream of those publications. 
 
 It is only necessary to mention the names of the authors whose writings will appear. T. 
 Babington Macaulay, Archibald Alison, Rev. Sydney Smith, Professor Wilson 
 James Stephen, Robert Southey, Sir Walter Scott, Lord Jeffrey, Sir James Mack- 
 intosh, T. Noon Talfourd, J. G. Lockhart, Reg - sald Heber. 
 
 The popularity of the authors and the extreme moderaticii of the price, recommend 
 
 THE MODERN ESSAYISTS, 
 
 To heads of Families for their Children, as perfect models of style. 
 
 To Managers of Book Societies, Book Clubs, &c. 
 
 To School Inspectors, Schoolmasters and Tutors, as suitable gifts and prizes, or 
 adapted for School Libraries. 
 
 Travellers on a Journey will find in these portable and cheap volumes something to 
 read on the road, adapted to fill a corner in a portmanteau or carpet-bag. 
 
 To Passengers on board a Ship, here are ample materials in a narrow compass for 
 whiling away the monotonous hours of a sea voyage. 
 
 To Officers in the Army and Navy, and to all Economists in space or pocket, who, 
 having limited chambers, and small book-shelves, desire to lay up for themselves a concen- 
 trated Library, at a moderate expenditure. 
 
 To all who have Friends in Distant Countries, as an acceptable present to send 
 out to them. 
 
 The Modern Essayists will yield to the Settler in the Backwoods of America the most 
 valuable and interesting writings of all the most distinguished authors of our time at less 
 than one quarter the price they could be obtained in any other form. 
 
 The Student and Lover of Literature at Home, who has hitherto been compelled 
 to wade through volumes of Reviews for a single article, may now become possessed of 
 every article worth reading for little more than the cost of the annual subscription. 
 
 Ranke's History of the Popes. Cowley and 
 Milton, Mitford's History of Greece, The 
 Athenian Orators, Comic Dramatists of the 
 Restoration, Lord Holland, Warren Hast- 
 ings, Frederic the Great, Lays of Ancient 
 Rome, Madame D'Arblay, Addison, Ba- 
 rere's Memoirs, Montgomery's Poems, Civil 
 Disabilities of the Jews, Mill on Govern- 
 ment. Bentham's Defence of Mill, Utilita- 
 rian Theory of Government, and Earl Chat- 
 ham, second part, &c. 
 
 " It may now be asked by some sapient 
 critics. Why make all this coil about a mere 
 periodical essayist ? Of what possible con- 
 cern is it to anybody, whether Mr. Thomas 
 Babington Macaulay be, or be not, overrun 
 with faults, since he is nothing more than 
 one of the three-day immortals who contri- 
 bute flashy and ' taking' articles to a Quar- 
 terly Review ? What great work has he 
 written ? Such questions as these might be 
 put by the same men who place the Specta- 
 tor, Tattler and Rambler among the British 
 classics, yet judge of the size of a cotempo- 
 rary's mind by that of his book, and who 
 can hardly recognize amplitude of compre- 
 ; hension, unless it be spread over the six 
 > hundred pages of octavos and quartos.—- 
 
 MACAUXtAlT. 
 
 CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 WRITINGS OF 
 
 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 
 In One Volume, with a finely engraved 
 portrait, from an original picture 
 by Henry Inman. Cloth Gilt, 
 $2 00. 
 Contents* 
 Milton, Maehiavelli, Dryden, History, 
 Hallam's' Constitutional History, Southey's 
 Colloquies on Society, Moore's Life of By- 
 ron, Southey's Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, 
 Croker's Boswell's Life of Johnson, Lord 
 Nugent's Memoirs of Hampden, Nare's Me- 
 moirs of Lord Burghley, Dumont's Recol- 
 lections of Mirabeau, Lord Mahon's War of 
 the Succession, Walpole's Letters to Sir H. 
 Mann, Thackaray's History of Earl Chat- 
 ham, Lord Bacon, Mackintosh's History of 
 the Revolution of England, Sir John Mal- 
 colm's Life of Lord Clive, Life and Writings 
 of Sir W. Temple, Church and State, 
 12 
 
A. HART'S STANDARD WORKS. 
 
 Such men would place Bancroft above Web- 
 ster, and Sparlts above Calhoun, Adams and 
 Everett— deny a posterity for Bryant's Tha- 
 natopsis, and predict longevity to Pollok's 
 Course of Time. It is singular that the sa- 
 gacity which can detect thought only in a 
 state of dilution, is not sadly graveled when 
 it thinks of the sententious aphorisms which 
 have survived whole libraries of folios, and 
 the little songs which have outrun, in the 
 race of fame, so many enormous epics. — 
 While it can easily be demonstrated that 
 Macaulay's writings contain a hundred-fold 
 more matter and thought, than an equal 
 number of volumes taken from what are 
 called, par eminence, the ' British Essay- 
 ists,' it is not broaching any literary heresy 
 to predict, that they will sail as far down 
 the stream of time, as those eminent mem- 
 bers of the illustrious family of British elas- 
 tics." 
 
 ARCHIBALD AXiXSOCT. 
 
 THE CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 WRITINGS OF 
 
 ARCHIBALD ALISON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE HISTORY OF EUROPE," 
 
 In One Volume, 8vo. with a portrait. 
 
 Price $1 25. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Chateaubriand, Napoleon, Bossuet, Po- 
 land, Madame de Stael, National Monu- 
 ments, Marshal Ney, Robert Bruce, Paris 
 in 1814, The Louvre in 1814, Tyrol, France 
 m 1833, Italy, Scott, Campbell and Byron, 
 Schools of Design, Lamartine, The Copy- 
 right Question, Michelet's France, Military 
 Treason and Civic Soldiers, Arnold's Rome, 
 Mirabeau, Bulwer's Athens, The Reign of 
 Terror, The French Revolution of 1830, 
 The Fall of Turkey, The Spanish Revolu- 
 tion of 1820, Karamsin's Russia, Effects of 
 the French Revolution of 1830, Desertion of 
 Portugal, Wellington, Carlist Struggle in 
 Spain, The Afghanistan Expedition, The 
 Future, &c. &c. 
 
 in. 
 SVBNXTCSimTH. 
 
 THE WORKS OF THE 
 
 REV. SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 Fine Edition. In One Volume, with a 
 portrait. Price $1 00. 
 
 "Almost every thing he has written is so 
 characteristic that it would be difficult to 
 attribute it to any other man. The marked 
 individual features and the rare combina- 
 tion of power displayed in his works, give 
 them a fascination unconnected with the 
 subject of which he treatsor the general cor- 
 rectness of his views. He sometimes hits 
 the mark in the white, he sometimes misses 
 it altogether, for he by no means confines 
 his pen to theories to which he is calculated 
 to do justice; but whether he hits or misses, 
 he is always sparkling and delightful. The 
 charm of his writings is somewhat similar 
 to that of Montaigne or Charles Lamb."— 
 North American Review. 
 
 IV. 
 
 FB.OFXSSSOR WXLSOXJ. 
 
 THE RECREATIONS OF 
 
 CHRISTOPHER NORTH. 
 
 In One Volume 8vo., first American Edition, 
 with a Portrait. Price $1 00. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Christopher in his Sporting Jacket— A 
 Tale of Expiation — Morning Monologue — 
 The Field of Flowers— Cottages — An Hour's 
 Talk about Poetry— Inch Cruin— A Day at 
 Windermere--The Moors— Highland Snow- 
 Slorm— The Holy Child— Our Parish— May- 
 day — Sacred Poetry— Christopher in his 
 Aviary— Dr. Kitchiner— Soliloquy on the 
 Seasons — A Few Words on Thomson — 
 The Snowball Bicker of Piedmont— Christ- 
 mas Dreams— Our Winter Quarters— Stroll 
 to Grafsmere— L'Envoy. 
 
 Extractfrom HoioitCs " Rural Life?'' 
 
 " And not less for that wonderful series 
 of articles by Wilson, in Blackwood's 
 Magazine— in their kind as truly amazing 
 and as truly glorious as the romances of 
 Scott or the poetry of Wordsworth. Far and 
 wide and much as these papers have been 
 admired, wherever the English language is 
 read, I still question whether any one man 
 has a just idea of them as a whole." 
 
 Garlyle's Miscellanies. 
 CRITICAL AND "MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 ESSAYS OF 
 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 In one 8vo. volume, with a Portrait. 
 Price SI 75. 
 CONTENTS. 
 Jean Paul Friedrich Richter— State of 
 German Literature — Werner — Goethe's 
 Helena — Goethe— Burns— Heyne— German 
 Playwrights— Voltaire— Noval is— Signs of 
 the Times— Jean Paul Friedrich Richter 
 again— On History— Schiller— The Nibel- 
 lungen Lied— Early German Literature — 
 Taylor's Historic Survey of German Poetry 
 — Characteristics— Johnson— Death of Go- 
 ethe—Goethe's Works— Diderot— On His- 
 tory again— Count Cagliostro— Corn Law 
 Rhymes— The Diamond Necklace— Mira- 
 beau— French Parliamentary History — 
 Walter Scott, &c. &c. 
 
 "VL 
 TALPOUEDJc STEPHEN. 
 
 THE CRITICAL WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 T. NOON TALFOURD 
 
 AND 
 
 JAMES STEPHEN 
 
 WITH A FINELY ENGRAVED PORTRAIT. 
 
 In One Volume, 8vo. Price $1 25. 
 13 
 
A. UAKT'S STANDARD WORKS. 
 
 Content* of " Talfourd." 
 
 Essays on British Novels and Romances, 
 introductory to a series of Criticisms on ihc 
 Living Novelists— Mackenzie, The Author 
 of Waverley, Godwin. Maturin, Rymer on 
 Tragedy, Colley Cibber's Apology for his 
 Life, John Dennis's Works, Modern Pe- 
 riodical Literature, On the Genius and 
 Writings of Wordsworth. North's Life of! 
 Lord Guilford, Hazlitt's Lectures on the 
 Drama, Wallace's Prospects of Mankind, 
 Nature and Providence, On Pulpit Ora- 
 tory, Recollections of Lisbon, Lloyd's 
 Poems, Mr Oldaker on Modern Improve- 
 ments, A Chapter on Time. On the Profes- 
 sion of the Bar, The Wine Cellar, Destruc- 
 tion of the Brunswick Theatre by Fjre, 
 First Appearance of Miss Fanny Kemble, 
 On the Intellectual Character of the late 
 Win. Hazlitt. 
 
 Contents of " Stephen." 
 
 Life of Wilberforce. Life of Whitfield and 
 Froude, D'Aubigne's Reformation, Life and 
 Times of Baxter, Physical Theory of Ano- 
 ther Life, The Port Royalists. Ignatius Loy? 
 ola, Taylor's Edwin the Fair. 
 
 "His (Talfourd's) Critical writings mani- 
 fest on every page a sincere, earnest and 
 sympathizing love of intellectual excel- 
 lence and moral beauty. The kindliness 
 of temper and tenderness of sentiment with 
 which they are animated, are continually 
 suggesting pleasant thoughts of the author." 
 
 sugg 
 — No 
 
 orth American Review. 
 
 LORD JEFFREY. 
 
 THE CRITICAL WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 FRANCIS LORD JEFFREY. 
 
 In One Volume Svo., with a Portrait. 
 
 From a very able article in the North; 
 British Review we extract the following 
 
 "It is a book not to be read only— but; 
 studied— it is a vast repository ; or rather 
 a system or institute, embracing the whole 
 circle of letters — if we except the exact 
 sciences— and contains within itself, not in 
 a desultory form, but in a well digested 
 scheme, more original conceptions, bold 
 and fearless speculation and just reasoning ; 
 on all kinds and varieties of subjects than ; 
 are to be found in any English writer with ; 
 whom we are acquainted within the pre- 
 sent or the last generation. * * * His 
 choice of words is unbounded and his feli- '< 
 city of expression, to the most impalpable 
 shade of discrimination, almost miraculous. I 
 Playfu., lively, and full of illustration, no! 
 subject is so dull or so dry that he cannot ! 
 invest it with interest, and none so trifling 
 that it cannot acquire dignity or elegance 
 from his pencil. Independently however, 
 of mere style, and apart from the great 
 variety of subjects embraced by his pen, 
 the distinguishing feature of his writings, 
 and that in which he excels his cotempo- 
 rary reviewers, is the deep vein of practical 
 thought which runs throughout them all." : 
 
 V1IT 
 
 SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 
 
 SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH'S 
 CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE EDIN- 
 BURGH REVIEW. 
 
 Collected and Edited by his Son. 
 
 In One Volume 8vo., with a Portrait, $1 75. 
 
 THE POEMS 
 
 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 
 
 Illustrate ig tf)* **** artiste. 
 
 In one volume octavo, uniform with Carey cfi 
 Hart's illustrated Bryant, Willis, dc. 
 
 The following exquisitely finished'line en- 
 gravings are from original designs, by our 
 most celebrated painters, and are executed in 
 the highest style of art -.—Portrait of the Au- 
 thoress; Hope; A Child playing with a 
 Watch ; The Reaper ; Ida ; Old Friends ; The 
 Child's Portrait; Little Red Riding Hood; 
 The Life Boat; Twilight Hours; The Arab 
 and his Steed ; Zuleika. 
 
 " There is nothing mechanical about her ; 
 all is buoyant, overflowing, irrepressible vi- 
 vacity, like the bubbling up of a natural 
 fountain. In her almost childish playful 
 ness, she reminds us of that exquisite crea« 
 tion of Fouque, Undine, who knew no law 
 but that of her own waywardness. The great 
 charm of her poetry is its unaffected simpli- 
 city. It is the transparent simplicity of truth, 
 reflecting the feeling of the moment like a 
 mirror." — Rev. Dr. Davidson. 
 
 "In all the poems of Mrs. Osgood, we find, 
 occasion to aumire the author as well as the 
 works. Her spontaneous and instinctive effu- 
 sions appear, in a higher degree than any 
 others in our literature, to combine the rarest 
 and highest capacities in art with the sincerest 
 and deepest sentiments and the noblest aspi- 
 rations. They would convince us, if the 
 beauty of her life were otherwise unknown, 
 that Mrs. Osgood is one of the loveliest cha- 
 racters in the histories of literature or so- 
 ciety." — Pennsylvania Inquirer and Courier. 
 
 "The position of Mrs. Osgood, as a graceful 
 and womanly poetess, is fixed, and will be 
 enduring. To taste of faultless delicacy, a 
 remarkable command of poetical language, 
 great variety of cadence, and a most musical 
 versification, she has added recently the high- 
 est qualities of inspiration, imagination, and 
 passion, in a degree rarely equalled in the 
 productions of women. . . . The reputation 
 which Mrs. Osgood enjoys, as one of the most 
 amiable, true-hearted, and brilliant ladies in 
 American society, will add to the good for- 
 tune of a book, the intrinsic excellence and 
 beauty of which will secure for it a place 
 among the standard creations of female ge- 
 nius." — Home Journal. 
 
A. HART'S STANDARD WORKS. 
 
 PROSEWRITErToF AMERICA, 
 
 WITH A SURVEY OP THE INTELLECTUAL 
 
 HISTORY, CONDITION, AND PROSPECTS 
 
 OP THE COUNTRY. 
 
 BY RUFUS WILMOT GR1SW0LD. 
 
 SECOND EDITION, REVISED. 
 
 Illustrated with Portraits from Original 
 Pictures. 
 
 Complete in one volume octavo — $3.50. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Intellectual History, Condition, and Pros- 
 pects of the Country — Edwards, Franklin, 
 Jefferson, Madison, Dwight, Marshall, Hamil- 
 ton, -Ames, J. Q. Adams, C. B. Brown, Wirt, 
 Quincy, Allston, Story, Paulding, Flint, Chan- 
 ning, Wheaton, Webster, Audubon, Walsh, 
 Irving, Buckminster, Yerplanck, Norton, San- 
 derson, Dana, Wilde, Cooper, A. H. Everett, 
 Hall, Schoolcraft, Dewey, Sparks, John Neal, 
 Bryant, Edward Everett, Kennedy, Bush, 
 Sedgwick, Way land, Prescott, Edward Robin- 
 son, Leslie, Legare, Ware, Bancroft, Marsh, 
 Hooker, Brownson, Child, Bird, Emerson, 
 Fay, Cheever, Hoffman, Kirkland, Haw- 
 thorne, Willis, Longfellow, Simms, Joseph 
 C. Neal, Poe, Tuckerman, Fuller, Headley, 
 Mathews, Thorpe, Whipple. 
 
 " Mr. Griswold's book has been executed 
 honestlj', ably, and well, and is a valuable 
 contribution to the literature of the country." 
 — Knickerbocker. 
 
 " We deem the book by all odds the best 
 of its kind that has ever been issued ; and we 
 certainly know of no one who could have 
 made it better." — N. T. Courier and Inquirer. 
 
 8L Weto auO (Eiieajp Uottton 
 
 OF THE HISTORY OF 
 
 THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 BY M. A. THIERS, 
 
 LATE PRIME MINISTER OF FRANCE. 
 
 Translated from the French, with Notes and 
 Additions. 
 
 The Four Volumes, complete in Two. 
 Price only $150. 
 
 The edition of the History of the French 
 Revolution now offered to the public is 
 printed on VERY LARGE TYPE,on good 
 paper, and contains upwards of 
 
 'Eighteen Hundred Large Octavo Pages, 
 and is unquestionably the cheapest book 
 ever published, liforms a necessary intro- 
 duction to THE LIFE OF NAPOLEON, 
 bv M. A. THIERS, NOW IN COURSE OF 
 PUBLICATION, and the two works pre- 
 sent a complete 
 
 HISTORY OF FRANCE 
 
 from the commencement of the French Re- 
 volution, down to the death of Napoleon. 
 
 WASHINGTON 
 
 AND THE 
 
 GENERALS OF THE AME 
 
 RICAN REVOLUTION. 
 COMPLETE IN TWO VOLS. ! . 
 
 Illustrated by Sixteen beautiful, t 
 graved Portraits. 
 
 Containing Biographical Sketches oft. 
 nerals Washington, Greene, Wayne, Isir 
 Putnam, Gates, Lord Sterling, Schuyler, 
 Sullivan, Mercer, Armstrong, Knox, Ar- 
 nold, Swallwood, De Haas, St. Clair, El- 
 bert, Irvine, Wieden, Varnum, Woodford, 
 Williams, Moylan, McDougall, Glover, 
 Mcintosh, Thompson, Nixon, Gist, Woos- 
 ter, Spencer, Poor, Moore, Patterson, Jamef 
 Reed, Pomroy, Sumner, Stark, Moultri 
 Joseph Reed, Greaton, Morgan, Marie 
 Lee, Mifflin, Parsons, Lincoln, Montf,, 
 mery, Whitcomb, Cadwalader, Hea 
 Thomas, Geo. Clinton, James Clinton, T . 
 ned, La Fayette, Deborre, Pulaski, Ri 
 Ducoudray, La Neuville, Steuben, ue. 
 Woedtke, Kosciuszko, Tufin, Duport; 
 De Fernoy, Conway, De Kalb, GadsdenJ 
 Hogan, Huger, Hazeni Wilkinson, Sumter, 
 Scott, Pinckney, Howe, Frye, Ward Ru- 
 fus, Putnam, Nash, Stephen, Dayton, H< 
 Muhlenberg, Lewis, Huntington and Mi 
 well. 
 
 "It is a complete, impartial and we 
 written History of the American Revo! 
 tion, and at the same time a faithful biogi 
 phy of the most distinguished actors in tho 
 great struggle, whose memories are en- 
 shrined in our hearts. The typographical 
 execution of the work is excellent, and six- 
 teen portraits on steel are remarkably well 
 done." — City Item. 
 
 JOHNSON'S FARMERS' CYCLO- 
 PEDIA and Dictionary of Rural Affairs, 
 with Engravings, from the last London edi 
 tion, with numerous additions relative to this 
 country, by Gouverneur Emerson, royal 
 8vo. 1156 pp., 17 plates, full bound, raised 
 bands, reduced to $4 00. 
 
 MISS LESLIE'S 
 
 LADY'S RECEIPT BOOK. 
 
 A useful companion for large or sm»ll fa 
 milies— being a sequel to her work on Cook- 
 ery—comprising new and improved direc- 
 tions for preparing Soups, Fish, Meats, Ve- 
 getables, Poultry, Game, Pies, Puddings, 
 Cakes, Confectionery, Jellies, Breakfast 
 and Tea Cakes, Embroidery, Crotchet 
 work, Braiding, Needle work, Cleaning 
 Furs, Merinos, &c, Washing Laces, De- 
 stroying Ants, Bugs and Mice, Cleaning 
 Silver, Preparing Colors, making Artificial 
 Flowers, &c. &c. Complete in one volume, 
 400 pages, price, bound, $1 00. 
 
 ALSO, 
 
 Miss Leslie's Complete Cookery, bd., SI 00 
 Miss Leslie's House Book, bound, . 1 00 
 Miss Leslie's French Cookery, . 25 
 Miss Leslie's Indian Meal Book, • 25 
 11 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: May 2009 
 
 PreservationTechnologies 
 
 A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
 
 111 Thomson Park Drive 
 Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 
 (724)779-2111