OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 Sketch. 
 18551874. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN H. INGRAM. 
 
 1 Follow out the happiest siftr^ 
 It close*' Joith a to-mb.' 
 
 EMIiU EB,CNT. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTEK ROW, E.G. 
 1883. 
 
TO 
 
 HIS PAEENTS 
 
 THESE MEMORIALS OF 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN 
 
 ABE INSCBIBED BY 
 
 THEIR COLLECTOR. 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 ' ~T~ AM sure that no memoir will ever do Oliver 
 justice,' wrote Mr. Richard Garnett to the 
 youth's father some months ago : ' The wonderful 
 precocity of his genius may be set forth, but the 
 peculiar charm of his character, its sweetness and 
 manliness, its alliance of the most daring origin- 
 ality to the most exquisite ingenuousness, can 
 never be adequately represented, even by those 
 who knew him most intimately. It was some- 
 thing unique and indescribable, and the objective 
 and purely imaginative character of his writings 
 renders even them very inadequate exponents of 
 his mind and heart. I should despair of com- 
 municating any just conception of him to one 
 
viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 who never knew him, and can only say that I 
 should expect anything sooner than to meet with 
 another Oliver Madox Brown/ 
 
 Confronted by this opinion, and by the fact 
 that, personally, Oliver Madox Brown was 
 unknown to me, my attempt to compile a short 
 biography of him will appear to savour of rash- 
 ness. I was, however, prompted to the undertak- 
 ing, not only by admiration for his genius, but by 
 the circumstance that whilst every year lessened 
 the material for a faithful record, no effort 
 appeared to be made by any of his personal 
 friends to produce one ; and that no fuller 
 Memoir existed of him than the few pages pre- 
 fixed to his Literary Remains; to which, to Mr. P. 
 B. Marston's article on ' Oliver Madox Brown ' 
 in Senbner's Magazine, and to an appreciative, 
 able critique on the Literary Remains in the 
 Examiner, I am indebted for various items of 
 value. My researches have been so warmly and 
 generously aided by the friends and relatives of 
 the talented youth, and so many interesting data 
 have been forthcoming, that I am not altogether 
 hopeless of having obtained a sufficiency and 
 
INTRODUCTION. ix 
 
 excellency of material to attract even those who, 
 like myself, were personally unacquainted with 
 Oliver Madox Brown. 
 
 Indeed, whatever interest appertains to this 
 monograph is due to the kind assistance afforded 
 me by those who knew and loved the youthful 
 author : I am little more than the compiler and 
 editor of their communications. To Mr. Ford 
 Madox Brown my warmest thanks are due for 
 kind permission to make full use of his son's 
 correspondence and poems (published and unpub- 
 lished), as also for information and corrections 
 in matters of fact, and, above all, for the use of 
 the illustrations to this volume ; to Mrs. William 
 M. Rossetti I am under deep obligation for 
 valuable assistance ; to Mr. William M. Rossetti 
 I am much beholden for the use of Dante 
 Rossetti's correspondence with Oliver, and to Mr. 
 Philip B. Marston I am greatly indebted for his 
 kindness in placing at my disposal some most 
 interesting correspondence with his deceased 
 friend, and for various items of information. 
 My thanks are also tendered to Mrs. Robertson 
 for the use of the letters addressed by Oliver to 
 
x INTRODUCTION. 
 
 her father, the late Mr. W. Smith Williams, and 
 to Mr. W. Theodore Watts, Mr. John Payne, 
 Dr. T. Gordon Hake, Miss Mathilde Blind, 
 Mr. E. E. Hughes, Mons'eur Y. Barthe, and all 
 others who have generously aided my work 
 by the presentation of original poems ; the use 
 of correspondence; personal information; and 
 similar assistance. 
 
 JOHN H. INGRAM. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 L CHILDHOOD , 1 
 
 II. DAWNINGS OF GENIUS - 21 
 
 III. THE BLACK SWAN - 45 
 
 IV. GABRIEL DENVER - - 67 
 V. FRIENDSHIP - 93 
 
 VI. LIFE IN LONDON AND LECHLADE - 123 
 
 VII. THE DWALE BLUTH - 167 
 
 vin. DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST - - - 217 
 
CHILDHOOD. 
 
OLIVEE MADOX BEOWK 
 
 BOKN 1855. DIED 1874. 
 
 Upon the landscape of his coming life 
 A youth high-gifted gazed, and found it fair : 
 The height of work, the floods of praise, were there. 
 
 What friendships, what desires, what love, what wife ? 
 
 All things to come. The fanned springtide was rife 
 With imminent solstice ; and the ardent air 
 Had summer sweets and autumn fires to bear ; 
 
 Heart's ease full-pulsed with perfect strength for strife. 
 
 A mist has risen : we see the youth no more : 
 Does he see on and strive on ? And may we 
 Late-tottering world worn hence, find his to be 
 
 The young strong hand which helps us up that shore ? 
 
 Or, echoing the No More with Nevermore, 
 Must Night be ours and his ? We hope : and he ? 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL EOSSETTI. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 A DVOCATES of the theory that genius is 
 -j~ hereditary are justified in referring to 
 the ancestry of Oliver Madox Brown. His 
 great-grandfather, founder of the ' Brunonian 
 system,' was scarcely more celebrated in later 
 life for his medical skill than in his youth 
 he was noted for his scholastic precocity. Dr. 
 John Brown left offspring who, if they did 
 not rival their parent in genius, certainly up- 
 held the family reputation for talent. One 
 son, the editor of his father's works and the 
 author of his biography, was Dr. William Cullen 
 Brown, President of the Royal Medical Society 
 of Edinburgh, and a distinguished scholar, 
 whilst another son, Mr. Ford Brown, a Com- 
 
 12 
 
4 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 missary in the Navy, was richly endowed with 
 natural gifts. Mr. Ford Madox Brown, the 
 well-known and most original artist, is son of 
 the latter, and father of Oliver Madox Brown. 
 
 Oliver was born at Finchley on the 20th of 
 January, 1855. More fortunate in his lot than 
 the children of genius usually are, his lines were 
 cast in pleasant places. From his birth he was 
 surrounded by friends and relatives capable of 
 both fostering and comprehending any traces of 
 talent he might exhibit, so it is not surprising 
 to discover that his earliest manifestations of 
 precocity were thoroughly appreciated and 
 lovingly treasured up in the memories of those 
 about him. When but two years of age he 
 made his first acquaintance with death ; and the 
 loss of a baby-brother whom his elder sister 
 found him weeping and lamenting in the nursery, 
 crying out in the bitterness of his own baby 
 heart, ' Arthur ! Arthur ! shall I never see you 
 again ?' seems to have left an indelible impres- 
 sion upon his mind, as towards the close of his 
 own brief career he spoke of it as the earliest 
 recollection of his child-life. 
 
 Reared in so rare a forcing -ground as was his 
 parents' home, little Oliver speedily displayed 
 signs of hereditary genius, and many are the 
 significant anecdotes and remarks related by his 
 
OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 AT THE AGE OF FIVE, 
 FROM A PICTURE CALLED THE ENGLISH BOY, BY F, MADOX BROWN. 
 
' THE ENGLISH BOY: 5 
 
 relatives in proof of his innate cleverness. For 
 instance, it is recollected how one day, before he 
 had completed his fourth year, he gave to a 
 friend of the family so shrewd and critical a 
 description of a landscape of ' Walton-on-the- 
 Naze ' painted by his father, that the visitor 
 declared he felt as astounded as if ' the cat had 
 taken to speaking.' 
 
 Amongst other interesting items told of his 
 early childhood is that, whilst still in his fifth 
 year, Oliver ' would cover the white marble 
 mantel-shelves, and any other available spaces, 
 with designs of hunts, battles, or subjects of that 
 sort/ The same authority informs us that 
 between the age of five and six the little lad 
 stubbornly resisted being taught to read, 'yet 
 set himself most sedulously to acquire any other 
 knowledge that apparently did not concern him, 
 but especially facts relating to natural history.' 
 It was at this point of his brief career that his 
 portrait as The English Boy was painted in oils 
 by his father. Oliver, or ' Nolly ' as he was 
 always termed in his own circle, is portrayed 
 with such characteristic emblems of childhood in 
 his hands as whipping-top and whip, but, inten- 
 tionally or not, so earnest and deep-thoughted 
 an expression has been given to the beautiful 
 face, that the toys seem less appropriate as play- 
 
6 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 things than as artistic accessories. The steady 
 gazing eyes see something beyond the ken of 
 conventional children, whilst the shapely nose 
 and decided oval of the face give the countenance 
 a definiteness of expression rarely beheld in one 
 so young, and clearly foreshadow the future, 
 but scarcely more set, features of the youth. 
 Only in the delicate curves of the lips is beheld 
 the one trait that grows less definite in after 
 life. 
 
 Under his father's careful instruction, and im- 
 pelled by the artistic incentives by which he was 
 environed, Oliver continued to make good pro- 
 gress in painting, and by the age of eight had 
 completed his first picture in water-colours. 
 For ordinary routine study he does not appear 
 to have exhibited much inclination, not, indeed, 
 that any particular pressure was put upon him. 
 At this period he was quite known in the neigh- 
 bourhood for his extraordinary success in obtain- 
 ing possession of small field animals, especially 
 mice : these he usually kept in the lining of 
 his jacket, through which they used to eat their 
 way, to the annoyance' and despair of his 
 mother. 
 
 Even as a child he was deemed an acute physio- 
 gnomist, and a very early instance of his shrewd- 
 ness in this respect is remembered. When he was 
 
A ROUGH VOYAGE. 7 
 
 between seven and eight years of age his mother 
 was needing a cook : young Oliver availed himself 
 of an opportunity to inspect the candidates, and 
 looked hard in the face of one of them for so 
 long a time that at last she said to him, { Well, 
 master, what do you think of me ?' 
 
 ' You will stop here seven years/ he answered. 
 And so she did. 
 
 The child's remark evidently impressed her, 
 for at the expiration of the first seven years she 
 remembered it, and said to him, ' Master Nolly, 
 you said I should stay seven years, and here I 
 am ; what next ? 
 
 'Now you may stop another seven/ was the 
 lad's rejoinder. And she is still with Oliver's 
 parents, after a period of nearly thrice seven years' 
 service. 
 
 In September, 1863, Oliver had his first 
 genuine experience of the sea. He had been 
 staying with his mother at Tynemouth, near 
 Newcastle- on -Tyne, and it was arranged for 
 them to return to London by steamboat. The 
 windows of the house where they were staying 
 overlooked the German Ocean, and enabled the 
 inmates to discern the ominous appearance of 
 the weather. Mrs. Madox Brown, however, 
 determined to undertake the journey, although 
 implored up to the very last moment not to risk 
 
8 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 a voyage with the child in such weather. About 
 five o'clock in the evening the steamer crossed 
 the bar of the Tyne, when the full fury of the 
 storm at once broke around her ; the wind blew 
 a hurricane, the rain poured in torrents, the 
 thunder roared overhead, whilst as the gloom 
 increased the lightning grew vivid and con- 
 tinuous. Swept by spray and rain, the deck was 
 neither comfortable nor safe, and all the pas- 
 sengers went below save Mrs. Madox Brown and 
 her son. Cradled in a coil of rope on the fore- 
 castle, for a long time the little fellow remained 
 intently absorbed in the grandeur of the scene, 
 too interested in it to feel afraid. Succumbing 
 at last to sea-sickness, he was persuaded by the 
 sailors to be carried down to his berth. The 
 next day the storm continued, and all the follow- 
 ing night the vessel had to lie-to in the wash of 
 the Humber, afraid to steam ahead, it even being 
 doubtful where they were, nothing being dis- 
 cernible in the gloom but the white- crested 
 mountainous black waves. The engines got out 
 of order, rockets were fired, and altogether 
 matters seemed to have reached a dangerous 
 pass. Eventually, however, the state of affairs 
 improved, and after all the steamer reached the 
 Thames in safety. Mr. Madox Brown waited 
 vainly for many hours at St. Katherine's Wharf 
 
HIS CHIEF DISTINCTION. 
 
 in a state of anxiety that may well be imagined ; 
 but it was not until long past midnight of the 
 third night that the weary travellers reached 
 their home in the Highgate Koad, having dis- 
 embarked at Tilbury, and finished their journey 
 by train. The wind was still howling round 
 the house, and still furiously tossing the trees in 
 the Grove. The influence of this voyage on the 
 imaginative temperament of such a child as 
 Oliver would be intense and lasting, providing 
 him in after life with valuable material for his 
 literary productions. 
 
 In due course of time, Oliver entered the 
 junior classes of University College, and is said 
 to have been chiefly distinguished among his 
 schoolfellows for his idleness. One day his 
 father called on the late Eev. Mr. Case, then 
 head master of the junior boys, respecting his 
 son's laziness. Mr. Case expressed regret at the 
 fact, remarking that Oliver was as gentlemanly 
 and nice a boy as could be desired, and always 
 gave very clever answers. He added that the 
 boy would be better away from the school, and 
 if carefully looked after he believed he would 
 grow up to distinguish himself. A characteristic 
 scene now took place. Oliver was sent for and 
 lectured kindly and seriously by the master for 
 his idleness and untidiness. 
 
10 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 6 You cannot deny,' said Mr. Case, * that the 
 visitors at their last inspection described you as 
 the dirtiest boy in the school. What a disgrace 
 that was for you.' 
 
 'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver; ' but just before 
 the inspection some big boys had thrown me 
 down in a puddle, so that I was splashed all 
 over/ 
 
 1 Ah, that is just you,' was the master's 
 rejoinder ; ' always such capital answers ; but 
 don't you see, my boy, you would not be known 
 for your excellent excuses, were it not for you 
 so constantly doing things that require excusing. 
 There, you may go now.' 
 
 In the December of 1865, Mr. Madox Brown 
 removed with his family to 37, Fitzroy Square, 
 and in that house Oliver spent nearly the whole 
 remainder of his short life. At this time his father 
 took him from University College and provided 
 instruction for him at home. As yet it was only 
 in painting that he made any considerable pro- 
 gress, his first production of any note after 
 leaving school being a water-colour of Queen 
 Margaret and the Robbers. The subject, which 
 had been selected for him by his father as a task, 
 was thoroughly appropriate for so juvenile an 
 artist ; but Oliver's treatment of it, so far from 
 being weak or puerile, was strikingly original 
 
1 MARGARET AND THE ROBBERS: 11 
 
 and vigorous. The scene is depicted as taking 
 place in the skirts of a forest, where, behind the 
 thickly tangled boughs and bosky stems of great 
 trees, the sun is setting with an angry glare. 
 This little work, say the authors of the intro- 
 ductory memoir to Oliver's Literary Remains, 
 1 which was executed almost entirely without 
 Nature, but with great pains and study, exhibits 
 choice colour and dramatic vitality in the heads, 
 which, when examined minutely, for they are 
 not half the size of a thumb-nail, are really sur- 
 prising, compacted as they are of childish naivete 
 and vivid characterization; the young prince's 
 head is, indeed, as unexceptionable as anything 
 the painter might afterwards have achieved. 1 
 To this analysis may be added that the mingled 
 expressions of princely pride, boyish courage, 
 and struggle to suppress fear, are portrayed with 
 a power of introspection that shows something 
 more matured than mere promise. This water- 
 colour, which became the property of Dante 
 Eossetti, elicited flattering notice from the acute, 
 kind-hearted painter-poet. There are in exist- 
 ence still earlier paintings by Oliver, notably one 
 of Centaurs Hunting, executed before the artist 
 was eleven years old ; but naturally they are of 
 inferior merit to that which invoked the appre- 
 ciative criticism of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 
 
12 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 When about twelve years of age Oliver was 
 taken to Southend, and whilst there beheld for 
 the first time, as the rain swept across the 
 smooth water of the Thames estuary, that phos- 
 phorescent glow of the sea which he afterwards 
 made such effective use of in his initial romance 
 of The Black Swan : it was one of those weird 
 phenomena of nature so calculated to deeply 
 impress a child of his excitable temperament and 
 vivid imagination. A typical incident is related 
 in connection with this sea-side visit. One 
 night Oliver greatly alarmed his mother and 
 sister by prolonging his boyish rambles until 
 past eleven. He returned home with his clothes 
 torn and dirty, but with a collection of glow- 
 worms carefully tied up in his handkerchief. 
 These insects were speedily transferred to a 
 box, which was placed in their captor's room ; 
 but in the night they contrived to escape, and 
 penetrated under the door into his mother's 
 bedroom, much to her dismay, and to the no 
 slight disgust of the landlady, whose proclivities 
 towards natural history were not very strong. 
 The next morning Oliver managed to recapture 
 his entomological pets, and insisted upon re- 
 taining them until the evening, when, after dark, 
 he deposited them upon a bush growing in the 
 front-garden, where they formed a brilliant illu- 
 
NAUTICAL ADVENTURES. 13 
 
 ruination, to the astonishment of the visitors and 
 his own exceeding delight. In The Dwale 
 Bluth Oliver made most effective use of this 
 episode of his boyhood, as, indeed, he did of so 
 many others, apparently basing all leading in- 
 cidents of his works on the personal experiences 
 of himself or of his friends. 
 
 Another picturesque, but somewhat hazardous, 
 adventure appertains to the same year. A friend 
 of Mr. Madox Brown gave a picnic on the 
 Thames, in a flat-bottomed' boat especially pre- 
 pared for the occasion. About thirty guests, 
 including Oliver, were invited and assembled at 
 Southend, whence they sailed to the Nore and 
 about the mouth of the river. The entertain- 
 ment proved a complete success, and the whole 
 party was very joyous. At sunset most of the 
 company were sent home by way of Southend, 
 but a few sailed back to Gravesend and spent 
 the night there. The following day was passed 
 on the water, and the night on shore at Herne 
 Bay. The next morning all, including young 
 Oliver, had to be on board by four o'clock in 
 order to catch the tide ; and a wonderful sail they 
 had back to Southend. The breeze being brisk, 
 and, in nautical phraseology 'full in their teeth/ 
 they had to tack about to reach the estuary of 
 the Thames. The wind having veered round in 
 
U OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 the night, hundreds of colliers that had been 
 wind-bound for days met them on their journey, 
 and in accordance with the rule of the sea had, 
 each of them, to lie-to to let the barge pass ; for 
 a barge having only a captain and one boy for crew 
 was literally helpless in such a crisis, and but 
 for such a rule, might have been run into at any 
 moment. The scene, with the bright morning 
 sun level with the horizon, was magnificent, and 
 with the spice of danger thrown in was quite 
 exciting. The wind continued to blow fresh, 
 and the barge, all open as had been arranged for 
 the picnic, heeled over somewhat more than was 
 desirable, but eventually made Southend and 
 anchored in safety. Oliver and his host went on 
 shore in the small boat to procure some milk for 
 breakfast, but in rowing back to the barge the 
 wind caught them and carried them out to sea. 
 During their desperate efforts to row back, one 
 of the rowlock-pins broke, and had they not 
 been overtaken and rescued by a large cutter 
 sent in pursuit of them, they must have drifted 
 out helplessly to sea. It was in such stirring 
 incidents as these that Oliver found material out 
 of which to fashion, in after years, the realistic 
 scenes of nautical life with which The Black 
 Swan abounds. 
 
 Returned to Fitzroy Square, he resumed the 
 
JUVENILE ART. 15 
 
 even tenor of his way, nothing more exciting 
 happening, so far as our researches show, than 
 the thinking out of poems and the working out 
 ideas on canvas. Writing to his sister on the 
 26th of July, 1868, he said, <I have begun 
 painting my Jason picture : the colour has not 
 come good at present, but I suppose it may come 
 better when I get more of it in.' The painting 
 thus referred to is a water-colour of Chiron 
 receiving the Infant Jason from the Slave; the 
 subject having been selected by the youthful 
 artist himself. This work was exhibited in the 
 Dudley Gallery, in 1869, and it may well be 
 doubted, say the editors of the Remains, f even 
 leaving out of account the question of compara- 
 tive merits, whether any other so juvenile painter 
 ever offered, or obtained admission for, a work 
 in that exhibition/ In the same year that he 
 painted the Jason picture, Oliver drew some 
 sketches of Kittens , now the property of Mr. E. 
 R. Hughes, the artist. These sketches, though 
 roughly executed, are quite remarkable for the 
 knowledge of feline character they display : the 
 difficulty of expressing traits of cat-life correctly 
 is well known, and the happy way in which the 
 young artist has caught and transferred the 
 poses of his unruly sitters demonstrates at least 
 his sympathetic acquaintance with animal life. 
 
16 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 Some time in 1869 Oliver drew two designs 
 for an edition of Byron's poems which his father 
 was illustrating, and Mr. W. M. Kossetti editing, 
 for Messrs. Moxons, and they were published 
 with the other illustrations in the volume re- 
 ferred to. Mazeppa, one of these drawings, he 
 afterwards painted in oils and exhibited at the 
 New British Institution in 1871, whilst the 
 other, illustrating a scene in the Deformed 
 Transformed, he also commenced in oils but 
 never completed. About the time he was paint- 
 ing his Jason picture he also made some sketches 
 of which the ideas if they had possessed no 
 other merit were certainly very remarkable for 
 a lad: one of these tentatives represents two 
 men rowing across a river and meeting the 
 ghosts of all the people who had been drowned 
 in it, walking in procession. Truly an extra- 
 ordinary subject for a boy to conceive ! 
 
 The summer of 1869 Oliver spent with his 
 mother and younger sister (now Mrs. HuefFer), 
 at Gorleston, a village on the mouth of the Yar, 
 by Great Yarmouth. Yarmouth harbour is at 
 the mouth of the river, where there are a couple 
 of rough picturesque piers pushed out into the 
 sea, one at each side of the river's junction with 
 the ocean. Gorleston is a long quaint sort of 
 village skirting the river and bounded by a 
 
LIFE AT GORLESTON. 17 
 
 series -of shipbuilding yards, through each of 
 which a right-of-way exists along the water's 
 edge. Here the lad was quite at home, making 
 friends with the sailors, and listening to their 
 yarns about the sea and shipping, of which 
 themes he was always delighted to hear. He 
 appears to have been allowed, even at that early 
 age, to follow out his own ways and inclinations, 
 but one night his staying out was so prolonged 
 that his mother became anxious, and he had to be 
 sought for. He was finally discovered crossing 
 and recrossing the ferry between the ship-build- 
 ing yards on the one side of the harbour and 
 the race- course on the other, ruining himself in 
 halfpenny journeys in order to study once more 
 that phosphorescence of the water which had 
 so greatly excited his boyish imagination two 
 years before. 
 
 Whilst at Gorleston Oliver did not neglect his 
 artistic studies. Writing to his elder sister, he 
 says, ' For the last four or five days I have been 
 making a sketch of the pier. It is not very 
 pleasant drawing from the top of the cliffs, the 
 weather has been so nasty, and the sand is blown 
 into one's eyes so. When I went yesterday I 
 found that a piece of the cliff, a few yards from 
 where I had been sitting, had fallen away ; there 
 was a lump big enough to crush an ox on the 
 
 2 
 
18 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 sand underneath.' In another letter to his sister, 
 referring to his view of the pier, he says, ' I 
 almost received an offer for my sketch from two 
 fishermen who, after looking over my shoulder 
 for two or three minutes, at last made out 
 that I was sketching the pier. One asked the 
 other in a low tone what I should be likely 
 to ask for it. His friend, however, muttered 
 something that I did not hear, and dragged him 
 away.' 
 
 Apparently Oliver did not get on so well with 
 these men on all occasions. A number of fisher- 
 men were wont to watch him from the upper 
 cliff, and one day they excited his anger by 
 throwing small pieces of earth or turf at him. 
 He climbed up the bank to them and demanded 
 which of them had done it. They asked him 
 what he intended doing to the culprit, and he 
 replied, i I want to throw him over the cliff !' 
 Doubtless they thought he was a plucky boy, so 
 they only looked at him, and at each other, but 
 said nothing. He was, however, on very friendly 
 terms with the man who had charge of the light- 
 house at the pierhead, and often in rough weather 
 they sat shut in together, talking over the secrets 
 of the sea, whilst the waves washed over the 
 jetty. The old salt would say to Mrs. Madox 
 Brown, ' That's a very sharp lad of you'rn, marm.' 
 
A STRA Y D UCKLING. 19 
 
 Another acquaintance Oliver made at Gorle- 
 ston, and one from whom he doubtless obtained 
 much of that quaint out-of-the-way information 
 he sought for everywhere so diligently, was the 
 old landlady's brother, an overseer of the poor. 
 This man used to call for the lad, and take him 
 long drives in his trap, probably beguiling the 
 time by recounting many moving tales and 
 showing many touching scenes of human 
 misery. 
 
 One evening, after a long ramble alone, Oliver 
 returned with a young duck under his coat, say- 
 ing to his mother, ' See what I have brought 
 you/ He had rescued the duckling from some 
 boys who had tied it up and were pelting it with 
 stones. At an expenditure of sixpence he had 
 preserved the poor bird from its tormentors, who 
 had doubtless stolen it, as the old landlady in- 
 sisted ; she objected to its being brought into 
 the house, declaring the police would come and 
 search the premises for it shortly. But Oliver 
 maintained that he had bought it honestly, and 
 would not give it up, and after a few days the 
 landlady became reconciled to her new lodger. 
 On its arrival the duckling was put in a cup- 
 board, whence it was afterwards taken to be placed 
 with some chickens in a hen-house. At first the 
 chickens were afraid of the new arrival, b.ut no 
 
 22 
 
20 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 sooner did they discover its harmlessness than 
 with a malignity perfectly human they began to 
 peck it. Oliver then transferred the poor found- 
 ling to a tub of water, where the poor bird 
 revived and throve, and where it was still enjoy- 
 ing life when its youthful preserver left Gorle- 
 ston. 
 
D AWNINGS OF GENIUS. 
 
Not a gift did he lose in that passage of night 
 When so young he escaped to the skies overhead ! 
 We look for him there, who no longer is dead, 
 But returns to our eyes in a likeness of light. 
 Hope ever is true when it comes from a height, 
 And tells us that we the free passage shall gain, 
 To rejoin him we love on the measureless plain, 
 Where travellers long parted once more come in sight. 
 And Nolly was never so near as to-day, 
 Far off as he seemed at that sorrowful end, 
 But the distance fast dwindles, we tarry half-way, 
 We press on again to recover our friend ; 
 New prospects there open that once coldly lay 
 In the earth-depths but now to the sky-depths extend. 
 
 THOMAS GORDON HAKE. 
 
 April, 1883. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 D AWNINGS OF GENIUS. 
 
 T I iHE year 1869 was a memorable one in the 
 -*- life of Oliver, from the circumstance 
 that therein was revealed to his family the fact 
 that he was a poet. The name of poet is not 
 used in any careless or irreverential mood, 
 but as fitly applied to the lad who, at the 
 age of fourteen, was enabled to produce such 
 artistic and richly worded verse as, from the 
 specimens preserved to us, we know his to have 
 been. At the age mentioned Oliver permitted 
 six or seven sonnets he had written to be seen 
 by some of his relatives ; they were greatly sur- 
 prised at this revelation, as until then it had not 
 even been surmised that he had so much as 
 understood what a ' sonnet ' was. Eventually, 
 with one exception, the whole of these juvenile 
 poems were supposed to have perished, their 
 
24 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 youthful author having destroyed them ' in a fit of 
 morbid irritability or bashfulness caused by their 
 being shown to a few friends. 7 The solitary 
 sonnet believed to have escaped destruction owed 
 its preservation to the fact of its having been 
 printed on the frame of a picture by Mrs. Still- 
 man (then Miss Spartali), for which it had been 
 composed as a motto. This poem, written when 
 its author was only thirteen years of age, has 
 already been published in the Literary Remains 
 of Oliver Madox Brown, but as a specimen of 
 his precocious skill in word-painting, and as the 
 earliest known evidence of his poetic powers 
 extant, must be adduced here, and in the form 
 given on the gilt picture-frame; our variorum 
 readings having been obtained from a recently 
 discovered manuscript copy by the author : 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Leaning against the window, rapt in thought, 
 
 Of what sweet past do thy soft brown* eyes dream 
 That so expressionlessly sweet they seem ? 
 
 Or what great image hath thy fancy wrought 
 
 To wonder round and gaze at ? Or doth aught 
 Of legend move thee, o'er which eyes oft stream, 
 Telling of some sweet saint who rose supreme 
 
 From martyrdom to God, with glory fraught ? 
 
 Or art thou listening to the gondolier, 
 Whose song is dying o'er the waters wide, 
 
 Trying the faintly-sounding tune to hear 
 Before it mixes with the rippling tide ? 
 
 Or dost thou think of one that t comes not near, 
 And whose false heart, in thine, thine own doth chide ? 
 
 * Fair grey. f Who. 
 
UNPUBLISHED SONNET. 25 
 
 There is little in these lines a matured poet 
 need hesitate to own, but when it is remembered 
 that they are the production of a boy of thirteen, 
 wonder and admiration are alike excited. Few 
 poets have produced anything worthy preserva- 
 tion prior to their assumption of the toga virilis, 
 and, taking into consideration his lowly sur- 
 roundings and defective education, Chatterton 
 may be deemed unique among bards, inasmuch 
 as his hapless career was ended at so early an 
 age. But Oliver Madox Brown, despite the 
 peculiarly felicitous incentives by which he was 
 environed, may be considered as marvellously 
 precocious as a poet. The sonnet just cited has 
 many claims for our admiration, but to us it 
 appears to be far out-rivalled in virility of 
 thought in picturesque originality by another 
 sonnet Oliver wrote somewhere about the same 
 time, but the manuscript of which has only 
 recently been discovered. This poem, which has 
 never been published, reads thus : 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Made indistinguishable 'mid the boughs, 
 With saddened weary ever-restless eyes 
 The weird Chameleon of the past world lies, 
 
 Like some old wretched man whom God allows 
 
 To linger on : still joyless life endows 
 His wasted frame, and memory never dies 
 Within him, and his only sympathies 
 
 Withered with his last comrade's last carouse. ^ 
 
26 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 Me thinks great Dante knew thee not of old, 
 Else some fierce glutton all insatiate 
 Compelled within some cage for food to wait 
 
 He must have made thee, and his verse have told 
 How thou in vain thy ravening tried'st to sate 
 
 On flylike souls of triflers overbold. 
 
 There is something truly grandiose and weird 
 in the idea enunciated by the first eight lines of 
 this sonnet. The likening of a surviving mem- 
 ber of the past world's inhabitants to an old 
 reveller who has outlived all his joys, his com- 
 rades, and his sympathies, is not only very 
 striking, but is very unlike what would have 
 been looked for in the work of a boy. 
 
 There exists yet another sonnet by Oliver 
 Madox Brown, which has been prefixed to 
 Chapter IV., entitled Gabriel Denver. It is cer- 
 tainly not one of the six or seven supposed to 
 have been destroyed, and, doubtless, belongs to 
 a somewhat later date in its author's career ; but 
 as this is a matter difficult to unravel, it is as 
 well to refer readers to it, so that it may be 
 perused in conjunction with the other similarly 
 constructed poems.* 
 
 Although this sonnet was found prefixed to 
 the first manuscript copy of its author's earliest 
 known prose work, it does not necessarily follow 
 that it was coeval in date of composition with 
 
 * Tide p. G8. 
 
POETRY AND PAINTING. 27 
 
 TJie Black Swan, especially as we are informed 
 that that romance was originally i thought out ' 
 when Oliver was only fifteen years of age. 
 
 The strict suppression of expletives, and the 
 happy rhymes which characterize these sonnets, 
 are the least of their merits, their chief beauty, 
 indeed, being due to their author's pictorial 
 experience, which enabled him to endow them 
 with vitalizing ideas, and to fully realize for us 
 Coleridge's exquisite conception, ' My eyes make 
 pictures when they are shut/ 
 
 The composition of verses does not seem to 
 have diverted Oliver's attention from his other 
 artistic pursuits. About the time that the pre- 
 mature exposition of his poetry excited his wrath, 
 he appears to have been devoting himself most 
 diligently to his pencil and palette. At this 
 period equestrian subjects found chief favour in 
 his eyes, among the' most notable of the produc- 
 tions painted whilst their influence lasted being 
 a water-colour, styled Obstinacy, which was ex- 
 hibited in 1870 at the Dudley Gallery, where its 
 merits attracted the attention of Mr. King, of 
 Liverpool, by whom it was purchased. It is a 
 picture full of life and action, representing a 
 horse, the rider of which is strenuously endea- 
 vouring to urge the snorting, stubborn brute 
 through the waves as they break foaming on the 
 
28 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 shore. Exercise, a companion painting, was ex- 
 hibited the same year at the Royal Academy by 
 the young artist : it is described as the portrayal 
 of a groom c galloping an Arab horse round and 
 round in the firm sand of the sea-shore, "taking 
 the spirit out of him." to the music of the tumb- 
 ling breakers.' 
 
 No more work of any pretension is recorded 
 to have been completed until the following year, 
 although a very large number of studies of 
 yarious kinds belong to this period, and prove 
 that Oliver was not neglecting his artistic pur- 
 suits. During the summer of 1870 he again 
 visited Gorleston, and would appear from his 
 correspondence to have depicted the quaint old 
 pier anew ; but no striking incidents are recorded 
 of his stay this time. Oliver now became very 
 nearsighted, to which circumstance he was wont 
 to allude in ludicrously exaggerated terms. One 
 day, when visiting his friend, John Payne, the 
 poet, he contrived to march off with his host's 
 gold glasses ; reminded of this by letter, he re- 
 plied, ' I am proud to say that I did succeed in 
 carrying off your spectacles ; but, alas ! there are 
 some victories which are worse than defeats. They 
 are so strong that they nearly wrung my eyes 
 out when I tried to wear them the next day. 
 You shall have them back again to-morrow.' 
 
THE WORSE FOR WEAR. 29 
 
 Eccentric from his earliest childhood, some of 
 Oliver's peculiarities now began to grow very 
 marked, amongst others being his treatment of his 
 watch, a fairly good gold one, which he had pur- 
 chased upon the sale of one of his pictures, either 
 Obstinacy or Jason. After he had been the owner 
 of this watch for a short time, he relinquished, 
 beyond all power of inducement, the task of 
 winding it up. He seemed to like to wear the 
 watch, but the exertion of winding it up soon 
 became intolerable, and even the trouble of de- 
 taching the guard from his waistcoat button-hole 
 at night was too much for him. Neverthe- 
 less he continued to wear the watch long after 
 the interior had become, by rough usage, a com- 
 plete wreck. A watchmaker, who was even- 
 tually spoken to about putting the article in good 
 going order, began to laugh, declaring that 
 nothing but a new inside would ever effect that. 
 The watch was left in its crippled condition, 
 and remains so to this day. 
 
 The records of this portion of Oliver's career 
 are necessarily scanty, and relate chiefly to his 
 artistic labours. The principal painting he had 
 as yet produced was of a scene from The Tempest, 
 a scene admirably suited for pictorial representa- 
 tion, but, it is supposed, never previously painted. 
 The picture, a water-colour, was displayed at the 
 
30 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 International Exhibition at South Kensington, 
 in 1871. It was of Prosper o and the Infant 
 Miranda being sent adrift in ' a rotten carcase of 
 a boat,' by the hired traitors of the usurping 
 Duke of Milan, as related by Prospero to his 
 daughter (Act 1, Scene ii.). This painting, 
 which invoked high praise for its originality and 
 power, was eventually purchased by Mr. Kowley, 
 of Manchester, and by him, after it's artist's 
 death, was generously presented to Mr. Madox 
 Brown. 
 
 In the summer of 1871 Oliver spent five weeks 
 at Lynnmouth, Devonshire, and whilst there 
 painted a water-colour of the river Lynn, much 
 provoking his father, however, by leaving it un- 
 finished and going off on the last day of his visit 
 to see Exmoor. This desertion seemed quite un- 
 reasonable at the time, but the use which he sub- 
 sequently made of the local knowledge thus 
 hastily gained is well known to readers of The 
 Dwale Eluth. 
 
 During a portion of 1871 and the two suc- 
 ceeding years, Oliver, in company with several 
 like-minded young men, attended a life- class 
 held at a studio or atelier at Chelsea. The 
 studio belonged to a Frenchman named Barthe, 
 an amateur enamoured of the artistic career, and 
 was started and maintained on the same system 
 
OLIVER MADOX BROWN. PINX"! 
 
 JTOTYPE COMPANY. 
 
 PROSPERO & MIRANDA. 
 
A WALK HOME. 31 
 
 
 
 as that of Suisse, in Paris. Each of the students 
 and Monsieur Barthe soon gathered several 
 earnest young men about him paid a small 
 sum towards defraying the expenses, but the 
 proprietor, or rather originator, of the class 
 could not have realized much, if any, profit from 
 the enterprise. But Monsieur Barthe was an 
 artist himself, and thoroughly enjoyed these 
 nodes ambrosiance, if so they may be designated. 
 An artistic wardrobe for lending to the students 
 was being gradually gathered together, and a 
 new and more suitable studio than that they 
 originally met in was built for the purposes of 
 the class, which was really for the professional 
 study of the nude. 
 
 After the two lustra or so which have elapsed 
 since Oliver attended at this atelier, it is some- 
 what difficult to obtain much information about 
 the work he did there, yet one or two of the 
 students, and some of them are now distin- 
 guished men, have been found able and willing 
 to furnish reminiscences of what the place and 
 its frequenters were like at that time. One gentle- 
 man, who recalls to mind what a favourite Oliver 
 had made himself by his great good-heartedness 
 and his brilliant wit, remembers taking a walk 
 with him and a third student from Chelsea to 
 Newman Street, but thinks the walk was only 
 
32 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 remarkable for a persistent drizzling rain, and 
 
 for Mr. N wearing his hat (doubtless for 
 
 protection!) under his arm during the whole 
 journey. Other members of this if somewhat 
 Bohemian certainly hardworking class, relate 
 how among the students was a young man 
 
 named C r, of French extraction, but of no 
 
 very salient talent or qualification. Between 
 this young man and Oliver there seems to have 
 existed something of an antipathy or antagonism, 
 which frequently vented itself in wordy warfare. 
 
 One night, C r, palpably alluding to Oliver, 
 
 said, ' One seldom finds that the sons of great 
 men become great.' ' And you will find out/ 
 retorted Oliver, 'that the sons of little men 
 generally turn out still smaller/ at which there 
 
 was much applause, as Monsieur C r was as 
 
 unpopular as Oliver was popular. 
 
 But there are remembrances of the youngest 
 comrade, as was young Madox Brown, of a 
 deeper and more characteristic nature. On one 
 occasion, Monsieur Barthe offered as a prize a 
 month's study gratis for the best drawing 
 executed during the week. One of the students, 
 of a shrewd and energetic mind, suggested that 
 the competitive drawings for this veritable prix 
 d'Jwnneur should be submitted to Mr. Gr. F. 
 Watts, the Eoyal Academician, and his decision 
 
AN UNWISHED-FOR COMPANION. 33 
 
 requested. Mr. Watts was duly consulted, and 
 awarded the prize to Oliver, in adjudicating it 
 pointing out how carefully the feet of the figure 
 that of a boy sitting with one of his feet 
 lifted up and resting on the opposite leg were 
 drawn, although the boy's head was left un- 
 finished. 4 These/ said Mr. Watts, referring to 
 the feet, t are what students chiefly neglect : 
 everyone can do the head/ Most of his fellow- 
 competitors, it should be pointed out, were 
 double the age of Oliver, who at the time of the 
 competition was only fifteen. 
 
 One circumstance which would seem to have 
 made a great impression on the students at 
 Monsieur Barthe's atelier, was that of an elderly 
 Frenchwoman persisting for some time in attend- 
 ing the class in order to sketch from the nude. 
 Against this the young Englishmen rebelled, it 
 being contrary to their insular experience for the 
 sexes in such circumstances to work together, 
 although not unusual abroad. Being unable to 
 get rid of their unwished-for companion in any 
 other way, the students threatened to leave in a 
 body unless she left, whereupon the persevering 
 artiste was compelled to leave, protesting to the 
 last against not being allowed to finish the 
 month out. 
 
 The last and most important result of Oliver's 
 
 3 
 
34 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 artistic studies was a water-colour scene from 
 Silas Marner. This painting, now in the posses- 
 sion of his father, was exhibited at the Exhibition 
 of the Society of French Artists, in Bond Street, 
 in 1872, and is described by the editors of his- 
 works as the most careful, and, on the whole, 
 much the finest of his artistic productions. ' Old 
 Silas/ they say, in their graphic description of 
 the picture, 'with the little girl Eppie tucked 
 under his arm, and a lantern in his hand, is 
 shown finding the body of Godfrey Cass's wife 
 lying on the thickly snow- strewn ground. The 
 small foot-marks and finger-marks, indicating 
 where the infant had crawled away from her 
 dead mother, are seen leading off to the firelit 
 window and open door of the recluse's cottage. 
 The mingled look of kindliness and miserly 
 distrust on the features, and short-sighted 
 spectacled eyes of Silas, on which the lantern- 
 light glares and flickers, have a strange, half- 
 weird impress of truth, contrasted with the 
 distress on the foundling's face a distress 
 chiefly selfish, as infantile sorrow must be. The 
 posture of the mother is beautiful ; and the 
 whole aspect of the composition startling and 
 mournful, but without being either cold in 
 colour or repellant in sentiment. It may be 
 added that this painting does not, in any one 
 
HIS LAST PICTURE, 35 
 
 point, recall the style of the elder painter : that 
 is to say, there is nothing of a kind imitative or 
 reproductive either of the father's colour or of 
 his style of drawing or handling ; while at the 
 same time it is true and not less fortunate than 
 true that those qualities of prompt, solid, and 
 realistic invention, and of dramatic force and 
 directness in story-telling, which are so markedly 
 distinctive in the parent's pictorial work, reap- 
 peared as a genuine and personal inheritance in 
 that of the son.' 
 
 Although it must not be taken for granted 
 that during any portion of his life Oliver had 
 quite abandoned his artistic aspirations and 
 labours, with the production of this painting, so 
 highly but deservedly praised, our hero's artistic 
 career may be said to have fittingly terminated. 
 After its completion he may have occasionally 
 dallied with his brush, but the scene from Silas 
 Marner was the last picture exhibited by Oliver 
 Madox Brown. Nevertheless, artistic aspirations 
 still haunted his mind, and even on his death- 
 bed he spoke of giving up writing, at least for a 
 time, and of going into the country to paint ; and 
 in Dismal Jemmy, apparently one of the latest 
 productions of his pen, he feelingly alludes to the 
 hopes and aspirations of ' that thrilling period of 
 professional life in which the young landscape- 
 
 32 
 
36 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 painter's excited imagination pictures his whole 
 future life and happiness as trembling on the 
 jealous lips of the Suffolk Street hanging com- 
 mittee/ ' What artist is there/ he asks, ' who does 
 not remember how his heart sank, and how his 
 face grew pale, as he inquired striving hard all 
 the while to maintain an aspect of indifference 
 after the fate of his beloved picture ? the first 
 one, may be, which he has dared to consider good 
 enough to submit for its chance of exhibition 
 beside the works of older and of better men. 
 What great painter is there living now,' adds 
 Oliver, ' who does not recollect the wild vicissi- 
 tudes of his early career ? its sacred unutterable 
 delights; and, above all, its profound heart- 
 rending sorrows. Bygone pleasure turns sour in 
 the remembrance of an old man/ is the lad's 
 shrewd comment, ' but how unutterably sweet 
 those ancient sorrows seem to him! how he 
 longs to face them again, if only it were 
 possible !' 
 
 At the house of his parents in Fitzroy Square 
 Oliver mixed with many of the elite of London 
 literary and artistic society. At all times the 
 abode of the Madox Browns has been a favourite 
 rendezvous for men and women of genius, but 
 especially during 1870 and the two succeeding 
 years were their ' At Homes' attended by throngs 
 
A WELCOME ASSOCIATE. 37 
 
 of representative people, sure of a cordial recep- 
 tion from their host and hostess and their 
 daughters (now Mrs. Kossetti and Mrs. Hueffer). 
 Poets and painters, authors and critics, sculptors 
 and musicians, and the leading members of many 
 professions, met at frequent intervals in those 
 hospitable rooms in order to see and be seen, to 
 hear and be heard, and to interchange those 
 sparkling scintillations of wit and wisdom which 
 are thrown off when genius encounters genius. 
 In this attractive society Oliver was quite at 
 home, his youth being lost sight of in the charm 
 of his brilliant conversation and the solidity of 
 his judgment. Already he had been an extensive 
 reader, having either in their original languages, 
 or through the medium of translation, made him- 
 self acquainted with the masterpieces of European 
 literature. Naturally the Belles Lettres had the 
 greatest attraction for him, those of France and 
 England supplying his chief mental pabulum. 
 Among the ancient classics Lucretius was his 
 favourite, and never failed to arouse his interest. 
 Conversant with literature, son of a famous 
 artist, and, apparently, already on the high-road 
 to artistic reputation, Oliver was universally 
 welcomed by his parents' guests as an associate 
 well worth knowing. He was accustomed to say 
 himself, that from childhood he had been sur- 
 
38 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 rounded by men of genius, and when lie was 
 still a child, men whose names are f household 
 words,' but whom to particularize would be 
 needless, were wont to bring him playthings, and 
 joining with him in childlike sport, in order to 
 amuse him would break the toys before they 
 went away. One of the fortunate privileges which 
 Oliver enjoyed was, in the character of pupil, to 
 be closely associated with Monsieur Jules Andrieu 
 during a considerable portion of the years 1870 
 to 1874. M. Andrieu, now French Consul at 
 Jersey, being then resident in London, under- 
 took to instruct Oliver in French and Latin. A 
 first-rate 'humanist/ as his countrymen would 
 say, Monsieur Andrieu was something more than 
 a mere teacher of languages : at the time when 
 political troubles forced him to abandon the 
 career he was making for himself in Paris, he 
 was already favourably known as a writer, 
 having by several works, and notably by his 
 small French History, evinced his learning and 
 capacity. 
 
 What Oliver obtained from M. Andrieu were 
 more frequently the brilliant outpourings of a 
 full mind, or epigrammatic discourse on all con- 
 ceivable literary topics, rather than arid disqui- 
 sitions on the technical difficulties of a foreign 
 tongue. Occasionally, however, the time was 
 
PROFESSOR AND PUPIL. 39 
 
 entirely devoted to the theme proposed for the 
 day, Lucretius being the author generally se- 
 lected; and the pupil must have been dull indeed 
 who did not benefit by the ready reply and apt 
 illustration with which M. Andrieu was at all 
 times prepared. It will readily be comprehended 
 what a deep impression his tutor's intellectual 
 tastes and literary proclivities would produce 
 upon a youth of. Oliver's impressibility, and it 
 is by no means impossible that the lad's earliest 
 efforts in the direction of prose literature were, 
 to some extent, albeit unconsciously, instigated 
 by M. Andrieu's precept and practice. Yet 
 Oliver was, to all appearance, a very idle lad, 
 and his tutor being a great scholar himself, was 
 naturally anxious to see his pupil learn: pro- 
 bably, notwithstanding all his wit and imagina- 
 tion, he was not quite acute enough to compre- 
 hend exactly what the boy was about. One day, 
 therefore, he took occasion to speak sharply to 
 him, writing to him soon afterwards, however, 
 to express the hope that he had not hurt his 
 feelings. Oliver replied, in the only letter of his 
 M. Andrieu has preserved, with a warm declara- 
 tion of friendship and esteem, feelings which no 
 subsequent events served to alienate. 
 
 Among the less important incidents of 1872, 
 the year which ushered in the most remarkable 
 
40 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 event in Oliver's career, was a pedestrian tour 
 which he commenced, but never completed, 
 through Kent and Sussex. A friend had made 
 out for him a route that should lead through 
 several of the most interesting places in these 
 counties, and Oliver, with his usual sturdy inde- 
 pendence started off alone, about the beginning 
 of September. On the 10th of the month he 
 wrote home from Edenbridge: 'I am going 
 to-day as far as East Grinstead. I passed 
 through Chiddingstone yesterday such a 
 wonderful old village. The newest house was 
 built in 1691. The inns are very cheap. I have 
 not spent much as yet. I have seen some fine 
 landscapes, but wish it was not so thing to walk 
 through (them)/ 
 
 It will readily be understood, however, that a 
 youth of Oliver's temperament, loving London, 
 and accustomed to that brilliant life which only 
 appears to arouse itself towards night-tide, would 
 speedily mope and grow weary of the long, dull 
 September evenings spent in solitude, or in the, 
 to him, uninteresting society which is met with in 
 the parlours of country inns. The youth's imagi- 
 nation might be impressed by the associations 
 connected with the time-honoured ancestral homes 
 he visited, and his artistic eye delighted with 
 the natural beauties he beheld, but his delicate 
 
AT A EOADSIDE INN. 41 
 
 physique rebelled against the unwonted exer- 
 cise he had to endure, whilst the solitariness of 
 his journey must have been extremely oppressive 
 to one so accustomed to brilliant conversation 
 and intellectual intercourse as he was. He soon 
 wearied of his journey, and about the third or 
 fourth day after he had left town he returned 
 home unexpectedly, with his feet much chafed by 
 the unaccustomed amount of country walking 
 undergone. All these minor troubles, had they 
 been shared with a genial companion, would 
 have been regarded as amusing trifles to be 
 laughed at ; the mistake was, the having under- 
 taken such a journey alone, especially in the 
 shortening, saddening September days. 
 
 Although Oliver greatly admired the scenery 
 along some portions of his route, and during 
 his last illness spoke of revisiting East Grinstead 
 when better, in order to paint a view of it, he 
 did not much enjoy his solitary walk. Among 
 other matters, he complained of the difficulty of 
 getting things fit to eat. One day, arriving 
 about noon at a small roadside inn, he insisted 
 upon being provided with a regular dinner, and 
 whilst it was being cooked (it consisted of 
 chicken, bacon, and beans out of the adjacent 
 garden, and was pronounced by him to have 
 been 'very nice'), Oliver discovered an old book, 
 
42 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 a kind of antiquated i Joe Miller's ' collection, in 
 which he found various quaint anecdotes that he 
 afterwards related at home with the fresh and 
 fantastic exaggeration he so delighted in. One 
 story in the ancient tome he was accustomed to 
 repeat with great gusto, was something to this 
 effect : 
 
 Once upon a time there was a deeply pious 
 old lady living in some secluded village. A 
 swindler, getting acquainted with her credulity, 
 contrived to introduce himself to her, and even 
 succeeded in persuading her that he was an 
 angelic being in disguise, sent on a mission from 
 heaven. A detective tracked the rascal to his 
 retreat, and soon made himself cognizant of his 
 little game. Desirous of getting the fellow away 
 without much fuss, he informed the good old 
 lady upon whom the rogue was preying that he 
 himself was St. Peter, the .custodian of the gates 
 of heaven, and that this particular angel had 
 left without permission, and that he had been 
 sent to bring him back. Upon hearing this, the 
 saintly dame, who had probably been already 
 heavily mulcted by her celestial guest, joyfully 
 assented to his immediate removal. 
 
 In this recital we have only been enabled to 
 recover the barest outline of the original story, 
 and are not quite certain even of the order in 
 
IGNORANCE OF A LANDSMAN. 43 
 
 which the characters stood to each other in the 
 hierarchy, but in Oliver's bright, keen, but play- 
 ful repetition of the anecdote, it may be well 
 assumed that not a single point was lost sight 
 of or slurred over. 
 
 Beyond his recollections of the old jest-book, 
 the young artist does not seem to have had much 
 to relate of his short tour. One incident, how- 
 ever, that he related with characteristic animation, 
 y^as of meeting with a party of drunken sailors, 
 who favoured him with a volley of abuse because 
 he would not, or could not, tell them the name 
 of some wild plant by the roadside. ' What was 
 the use of his being a landsman/ they shouted, 
 ' if he could not even tell them the name of a 
 plant when they came on shore ?' 
 
THE BLACK SWAN. 
 
DIED NOVEMBER, 1874. 
 
 As one who strives from some fast steamer's side 
 To note amid the backward-spinning foam 
 And keep in view some separate wreath therefrom, 
 
 That cheats him even the while he views it glide 
 
 (Merging in other foam-tracks stretching wide), 
 So strive we to keep clear that day our home 
 First saw you riven a memory thence to roam, 
 
 A shattered blossom on the eternal tide ! 
 
 Oh, broken promises that showed so fair ! 
 Oh, morning sun of wit set in despair ! 
 
 Oh, brows made smooth as with the Muses' chrism ! 
 
 Oh, Oliver ! ourselves Death's cataclysm 
 Must soon o'ertake but not in vain not where 
 
 Some vestige of your thought outspans the abysm ! 
 
 F. M. B, 
 
 April, 1883. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE BLACK SWAN. 
 
 ' Kara avis in terris.' 
 
 OVID. 
 
 THUS far it has not been possible to advert 
 to much in the life of Oliver Madox Brown 
 that might not be paralleled in the lives of many 
 other youths. Following in the footsteps of his 
 father, an artist of first-class reputation, he had 
 instinctively taken to brush and palette, and 
 although he had already displayed considerable 
 talent in the hereditary art, neither relative nor 
 friend could express much more than satisfaction 
 at the not very unusual circumstance of a son 
 following fairly well in the path a parent had 
 marked out so clearly. It is true that whilst 
 little more than a child in years the boy had 
 produced some few sonnets which had excited 
 pleasing hopes hopes, however, a lengthy period 
 
48 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 of silence and apparent distaste for literary 
 honours had long since quelled. 
 
 An important crisis was about to occur in 
 Oliver's life: a startling change that was to 
 open out a brilliant vista of attractive labour 
 and anticipated fame, and that was for the 
 future and for ever to clear him from any further 
 suspicion of wilful idleness. Left, perhaps, 
 somewhat unhopefully, to follow out his own 
 impulses, the youth, all unknown even to his 
 nearest relatives, had been carefully and artisti- 
 cally creating a literary chef d'ceuvre. During 
 the cold winter of 1871-2, closeted in his own 
 room, and without even the comfort of a fire, 
 Oliver had been writing one of those imperish- 
 able works, so few, so far between, which once 
 read imprint the reader's memory as with unef- 
 faceable runes. He had been writing The Black 
 Swan, i the most remarkable prose story,' as his 
 editors truly assert, 'ever penned by a youth not 
 older than from sixteen to seventeen.' Precocious 
 as this story was in execution, in inception it 
 was even more so, for we are informed that its 
 author had first ' thought out his narrative when 
 fifteen years of age, and had at that time pro- 
 jected writing it in verse, a scheme from which, 
 independent and tenacious of his own personality 
 in all things, he was diverted by reflecting that, 
 
A TERRIBLE STORY. 49 
 
 among the authors belonging to, or highly prized 
 in, his own social circle, there were various writers 
 of poetry, but few or none who produced prose 
 fiction/ Such a reflection, and such a determina- 
 tion in a youth of Oliver's age, are in themselves 
 strong evidence of his originality and courage. 
 
 When the young author had completed some 
 few chapters of his story he handed them to his 
 sister Lucy to read, and by Miss Madox Brown 
 (now Mrs. Eossetti) the manuscript was taken 
 to her father, in what may readily be believed to 
 have been an ecstasy of delight. The surprise 
 and pleasure of Mr. Madox Brown at this new 
 and unanticipated evidence of his son's genius 
 were so great, that it was some days, we are 
 informed, f before he could calmly realize the 
 fact.' Encouraged by such a sympathetic audi- 
 ence, 'fit but few,' Oliver worked at his 
 romance with all the energy of youth and hope, 
 and in a comparatively short time had com- 
 pleted it. Happily, the wisdom of his editors has 
 caused them to preserve and publish the story of 
 The Slack Swan in its original and unweakened 
 form. The story, even when stripped of its 
 artistic accessories and denuded of that glamour 
 genius has enveloped it in, is sufficiently terrible. 
 
 Told in our plain prose, the narrative is 
 that a certain Gabriel Denver, an Australian 
 
 4 
 
50 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 colonist of mixed English and Portuguese 
 parentage, lias to embark for England in order 
 to make good his claim to a considerable legacy 
 to which he has become entitled. He is a mar- 
 ried man, his union, however, having been more 
 one of convenience than of affection. Dorothy 
 possessed a sufficient sum of money to .free 
 Denver from the embarrassments ill-judged 
 speculations had cast him into, and being of his 
 own age, evidently enamoured of him, and the 
 most, if not only, suitable parti available, he had 
 married her. If Denver had ever fancied he 
 loved Dorothy, he soon forgot the feeling, and as 
 she was utterly undemonstrative in response to 
 the fire and passion of his semi- southern tempera- 
 ment, he speedily became indifferent and she 
 callous. Of course, he could not leave his wife 
 alone in Australia, and so, on a certain day in 
 December, 1824, he left home in order to secure a 
 passage for himself and Dorothy in The Black Swan, 
 an emigrant vessel just returning to England. 
 
 No one but a writer thoroughly intimate with 
 ships and ship-life could have so technically dis- 
 cussed the merits of The Slack Swan and its 
 surroundings, but into those technicalities there 
 is no necessity to enter here ; it suffices, therefore, 
 to say, that on board this vessel Denver beheld, 
 and utterly oblivious of his marriage vow, at 
 
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. 51 
 
 first sight loved, a young girl just verging on 
 womanhood, and who, accompanied by an old 
 servant, was likewise bound for England. On 
 this first occasion the passionate-hearted colo- 
 nist, as he rowed round the ship, beheld Laura 
 Conway for an instant only, as with bare arms 
 and lightly covered shoulders she leant on the 
 sill of a cabin casement, but in that instant he 
 lived a lifetime. With a fidelity to nature, that 
 it seems impossible could have been gathered at 
 second-hand, and with a natural fidelity a more 
 experienced raconteur would scarcely have dared 
 to express, the young author writes : 
 
 c Laura's beautiful eyes had ensnared his soul 
 with their magnetism, though lie could hardly 
 remember their colour; still less really distinctly 
 the shape of her face. An indistinct impression 
 of sun-sparkling, wind-blown hair, of her bare 
 arms and white shoulders, was all that was left 
 for his imagination to fill up and complete.' 
 4 There is always in the human heart/ Oliver 
 adds to this psychological sketch, c no matter how 
 bad, or dull, or callous ifc may be in other direc- 
 tions, a certain store of conjugal love which can 
 never be wasted by any but legitimate use, how- 
 ever long it may lie unused.' 
 
 Now, and for the first time in his life, Denver 
 really loved. His wife passed out of his mind, 
 
 42 
 
52 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 ' and all the rest of the day as he paced about 
 looking on the ship, a divine ecstasy of yearning 
 
 seemed to have fallen on him It seemed 
 
 strange that all that time he should have shrunk 
 from going on board the ship where she (Laura) 
 was, until the last moment.' f I think,' is one 
 out of the many psychologically true remarks of 
 Oliver, ' it was a kind of anticipation of delight, 
 a prolongation of longing to its uttermost limits 
 of desire, which kept him on shore till his wife 
 arrived.' 
 
 Denver and his wife embarked at night, and 
 ' before morn the signal-lamps of The Black 
 Swan had passed into the gloom over the 
 horizon.' The ship sped on her way, and after 
 some time one of the four passengers, the old 
 servant, died, and Laura was left alone in the 
 world. But Denver loved her blindly, pas- 
 sionately, madly, in such a way as only those 
 Avho love hopelessly can love, for it seems as if 
 it were almost impossible, so hapless is unfor- 
 tunate humanity, for any real love to be lawful 
 or sanctioned by law. The guileless Laura could 
 not help feeling and reciprocating Denver's affec- 
 tion, although she knew he was married, and 
 had daily to see his wife, now the only other 
 female on board. Dorothy, also, knew of her 
 husband's love for their fellow -passenger, and 
 
DUMB PASSIONS. 53 
 
 that she herself had become utterly distasteful 
 in his sight, so her hatred for them both grew 
 deep, intense, and none the less dangerous that 
 the embers of her wrath smouldered awhile. 
 What subtle insight into the mental workings of 
 these folk is expressed by their delineator, and 
 how skilfully he poses them before us, let these 
 words prove : 
 
 c Her mind, scarcely developed yet, was inno- 
 cent as a child's, with the same flow of passionate 
 feelings in its unsounded and unsuspected depths. 
 .... Unsuspected, because as yet no particular 
 aspect of thought or passion was stamped on her 
 face, despite a certain dreamy look, which at 
 times seemed as though it might yet develop, 
 at a touch, into something more defined in 
 character ; and this united, perhaps, with that 
 strange, fitful energy, under which, when re- 
 sisted, the weakest woman sometimes grows 
 terrible, and which all women, moreover, are 
 capable of.' 
 
 ' The commencement and extremes of human 
 passion are dumb, and in speech well nigh ex- 
 pressionless ; only the soul comprehends what 
 the tongue fails to articulate the first prompt- 
 ings of love. Notwithstanding that Denver and 
 Laura were together all the day, save for the 
 sullen unseen presence of the wife, yet I think 
 
54 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 that his heart and will would have failed him had 
 he attempted to say in words what he knew they 
 were thinking of, for a secret instinct told him 
 that she was beginning to love him. Now, to 
 love and be loved was become a new principle in 
 this man's life ; before this vague unexplored 
 something all else seemed to dwindle and die 
 away. His life seemed turned into a trance, like 
 an opium-eater's, and when dragged from it, he 
 could have turned fiercely on his disturber, only 
 to sink back into its unrealized depths with re- 
 doubled longing. At first, his wife, Dorothy, 
 seemed a mere shadow to him, a relic of his 
 former life ; but as this antagonism between her 
 and Laura deepened and developed, and the 
 future began to loom up before him, he saw 
 what step he had taken, and apathy turned into 
 dislike and defiance, and then again into fierce 
 smouldering hatred, as he felt the ties which 
 bound him to this woman, unable as he was 
 ever to avoid her presence in the ship.' 
 
 Confined in the narrow limits of a sailing 
 vessel, it was impossible for these three persons, 
 each one filled with surging passions, to live 
 long together without their feelings finding some 
 means of disclosure. The hour arrived, and the 
 opportunity came. An accidental meeting of 
 Denver and Laura in the dusky twilight afforded 
 
A PRIOR CLAIM. 55 
 
 occasion for a verbal revelation of what both had 
 long silently felt. With passionate impetuosity 
 Denver poured forth his long pent-up feelings, 
 and Laura confessed that she loved him. 
 
 Their words fell in a third person's hearing. 
 Hidden in the shadow, the neglected wife heard 
 the confession, and saw the caresses of the lovers ; 
 but conquering her first impulse of interrupting 
 them, she turned and passed noiselessly along 
 the deck and down into the cabin. Both Laura 
 and Denver had seen a female 'figure emerge 
 from the black mass made by the boat against 
 the luminous sky, and appear with startling 
 distinctness in the moonlight, which streamed 
 by on both sides/ and both knew that it was 
 the discarded wife. ' A dark foreboding filled 
 Laura's mind. During that short half-hour 
 Dorothy's very existence had been driven out 
 of her head ; but now, brought so unexpectedly 
 to her view, she must have foreseen for a moment 
 something of what must follow, sooner or later, 
 shut up for months in the loneliness of the ship 
 as they were. But it was no use thinking ; she 
 had given her love irrecoverably to Denver. 
 
 ' Henceforth he must exist as a part of her 
 being it seemed to her that she could not live 
 without him she trusted blindly in him, and it 
 made her shudder as she thought that Dorothy's 
 
56 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 claim over Denver might necessitate their separa- 
 tion. . . . God had made them for each other, 
 and was she to part them ? . . . Could she have 
 really supposed Dorothy capable of holding them 
 apart, she would have turned on her with fierce 
 unrelenting resistance ; but, as it was, cast off 
 from them and utterly helpless as she seemed, it 
 was impossible to hate her : rather never think 
 of her at all.' 
 
 Therefore, the lovers both, 'as by some common 
 dread, avoided mentioning Dorothy : her name 
 never once passed their lips from the first time 
 they had spoken together.' After the first inter- 
 change of passionate declaration between the 
 two lovers, ' each day seemed like the past one ' ; 
 and whilst Denver ' grew more infatuated with 
 Laura, and more morbid when she was out of 
 sight, as he thought of the heaven which would 
 surround him but for the presence and existence 
 of the brooding revengeful woman his wife/ 
 that injured wife kept silently to herself, medi- 
 tating over a terrible, an unparalleled act of 
 vengeance. So bitter was it at times for the 
 wretched husband to endure the presence of the 
 still more wretched wife, that he could hardly 
 refrain from expressing his fierce hatred of her 
 whenever she came near him, whilst he knew 
 but too truly, 'from her strange silence and 
 
A TERRIBLE MISTAKE. 57 
 
 behaviour, that some act of her resentment would 
 occur before long.' 
 
 With this ill-assorted company on board, the 
 vessel continued to beat up against contrary 
 winds until within five days' sail of the Cape. 
 Becalmed one night, The Black Swan lay 
 almost motionless on the waters. Save two, 
 kept sleepless by their passions, all on board her 
 were asleep : even the helmsman at the wheel was 
 slumbering over it. The two were Dorothy 
 (who had overheard Laura promise to meet 
 Denver on deck after nightfall, and in a fit of 
 the mad jealousy she could no longer restrain 
 had determined to interrupt them), and Denver, 
 who paced the deck in wild impatience. 
 
 After a weary waiting, he beheld the outline 
 of a woman's form ; he went to her impetuously, 
 and clasping her to his breast, whispered in a 
 low, almost trembling voice, words of passionate 
 love. ' Then, as he seemed to kiss her face, a 
 sudden tremor stopped his words, and the woman 
 broke away from, his embrace with an angry 
 exclamation, while he, starting back from her, 
 appeared to stagger for an instant as if a snake 
 had stung him. . . . The woman whom he had 
 embraced so passionately began crying out in an 
 exasperated voice : 
 
 ' " So I've found you out at last, Denver! 
 
58 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 How dare you treat me in this fashion ? I'm 
 not Laura, I'm your own lawful wife. . . . Ah ! 
 you sneak back soon enough now, but you shan't 
 escape me! We two are alone at last. You 
 shall give me an account of your conduct and 
 the way you keep the oath you swore to at 
 God's altar." 
 
 ' " Damn you, will you never let me have one 
 moment to myself, without poisoning it with 
 your presence ? It's bad enough to have to 
 think about you," the man answered fiercely. 
 
 ' " You're a liar!" she interrupted in a pas- 
 sionate, screaming voice. " I've neither been 
 near you nor spoken to you for six weeks. 
 Good God, what gratitude ! I've toiled my life 
 out for you, to sit silently by myself in this 
 dreary, stifling ship, neglected by everyone, 
 watching you make love to another woman, 
 before my very face, hour after hour, day after 
 day, week after week, till it's driven me mad !" 
 
 And with similar reproaches and invectives 
 the wretched woman poured forth the history of 
 her wrongs, and screamed forth her threats of 
 vengeance, until finally, 'her throat seemed 
 quite exhausted with passion, and she broke 
 down into a violent fit of hysterical sobbing.' 
 As Denver moved away she followed him, renew- 
 ing her passionate screaming and maddening re- 
 
A NARROW ESCAPE. 59 
 
 preaches, until at last, exasperated beyond human 
 control by some threatening words he let fall, 
 she dared him to fling her overboard and add 
 murder to his misdeeds. For the moment, stung 
 to desperation by her words, he almost appeared 
 ready to yield to her suggestion, when suddenly 
 a woman's clear, sweet voice rose through the 
 night-air, but a few yards from where they stood, 
 singing : 
 
 * " Alas ! "who knows or cares, my love, 
 
 If our love live or die 
 If thou thy frailty, sweet, should'st prove, 
 
 Or my soul thine deny ? 
 Yet merging sorrow in delight, 
 Love's dream disputes our devious night. 
 
 * " None know, sweet love, nor care a thought 
 
 For our hearts' vague desire, 
 Nor if our longing come to nought, 
 
 Or burn in aimless fire ; 
 Let them alone, we'll waste no sighs : 
 Cling closer, love, and close thine eyes !" ' 
 
 The effect of Laura's song, for it was hers, 
 was as magical on her two hearers as was that 
 of Pippa on Ottima and Sebald : the maddened 
 wife slunk away into the darkness, and the des- 
 perate man forgot his anger in his despair. He 
 leant over the bulwarks, his heart beating wildly 
 as he thought of what might have happened. 
 ' Never could such a deed as his reckless, mad- 
 dened temper so narrowly escaped burdening 
 
60 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 him with, have seemed more degrading and 
 cowardly, and antagonistic to any human being 
 than the past few moments now seemed to 
 Denver. He had, it is true, more than once been 
 unable to restrain the drift of his speculations, 
 yet it had seemed to him that what he had 
 thought of was only a remote impossible possi- 
 bility, something lie could never come to. Now 
 this ordeal he had passed through was a proof of 
 his reckless temper and moral weakness such as 
 made the strong man shudder and shudder again 
 as he thought of what he had escaped from, and 
 what a few more days or even hours might still 
 bring him to.' 
 
 Denver's reflections were suddenly put a stop 
 to by the terrible discovery that the ship, The 
 Black Swa?i, was on fire ! ' No one,' says our 
 author, ' who has not witnessed the effects of 
 such an alarm as this can comprehend the horror 
 of it, or realize the sensations of those who, fail- 
 ing to baffle the flames, see nothing before them, 
 as they retreat foot by foot, but a choice between 
 two deaths, fire or water ; their home a burning 
 furnace, floating, tossed about, on the immense 
 sea. The two elements most utterly opposed to 
 each other, combined for the destruction the 
 pitiless annihilation of the common enemy, 
 man.' 
 
A TRAGEDY AT SEA. 61 
 
 It is not our purpose to dilate upon the fearful 
 scenes which followed the discovery of the fire: it 
 suffices to state that the final result of this 
 calamity was that all on board, save three, 
 perished in the flames, and that those three, by 
 the cruel irony of fate, were Laura, Denver, and 
 Dorothy. These three human beings, through a 
 series of events that appear neither improbable 
 nor unnatural, alone escaped from the burning 
 ship, and for four days, without food and without 
 water, were tossed about helplessly in an open 
 boat on the illimitable, pathless ocean. The 
 horrors of those four days were enough to break 
 down the strongest. Dorothy, if she were not 
 mad before became so now, and having drunk 
 of sea-water to quench her thirst, died raving, 
 in her delirium confessing, what an acute reader 
 of the romance may have already guessed, that it 
 was she who had fired the ship. 
 
 At the expiration of the four days the two 
 survivors were picked up by a passing vessel ; 
 but the exposure and privation had been too 
 much for Laura's delicate frame: she died on 
 board the ship that had rescued them, and thus 
 far Dorothy was avenged. But the tragedy was 
 not yet ended. Night came, and the crew were 
 discussing the burial of the dead girl, when they 
 were startled by seeing above the dark outline of 
 
62 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 the bulwark, near the helm, c a strange, black 
 silhouette appear and pause for a moment a man 
 carrying a dead woman. Her head and neck 
 hangs back passively, and long hair, bright with 
 the moonlight, streams from it in the wind, 
 while her hands fall dangling helplessly this is 
 all seen plainly against the sky; the next instant 
 it is gone.' 
 
 Denver, for it was he, was seen to press one 
 passionate kiss upon the inanimate form, and 
 then, in his delirium, leap with it into the sea. 
 And thus poetic justice was satisfied ! 
 
 This is the barest possible outline, and a natu- 
 rally common-place aspect, of Oliver Madox 
 Brown's wonderful story a story which had to 
 be so manipulated and mangled before it could 
 be transformed into Gabriel Denver, that, in its 
 new plumage, TJie Black Swan is scarcely re- 
 cognisable. But even in its reconstructed form, 
 much was left to call forth the admiration of the 
 critics although they were ignorant in many 
 instances of the author's youth. The elaborate 
 knowledge of nautical affairs, and the fidelity 
 with which the various aspects of the open ocean 
 are described, are quite marvellous when it is 
 remembered that their delineator had never been 
 out of sight of the English coasts ; yet still more 
 surprising is it to find a boy with such deep 
 
INTO THE SHADOW. 63 
 
 insight into abnormal, but not utterly unknown, 
 traits of humanity as he displays. Much that he 
 describes can only have been given from personal 
 experience, but rarely, if ever before, has a lad 
 of seventeen been known to have been endowed 
 with such knowledge. Passing by without allu- 
 sion some of the more complicated physiological 
 emotions described, let us regard such mental 
 problems as are referred to in the following 
 words, and then endeavour to gauge their 
 author's precocity : 
 
 ' To die to cease to exist to look at his arm, 
 still with its old useless strength in it, and feel 
 that in a while he would be without power over 
 its movements; to use his vision, but think that in 
 a while his eyes would darken till they could no 
 longer see Laura's face, that his ear would no 
 longer hear her voice, that voice which once 
 thrilled through his own soul ; to live still, and 
 yet know that his senses were beginning to ebb 
 like a sinking tide, or to dissolve like a pool 
 of water sucked up by the power of the sun. To 
 lie as if paralyzed in helpless contemplation of 
 the future unlived days, the warmth and efful- 
 gency of which shone so brightly in front of 
 him, while the present slowly darkened and 
 vanished around him, as the last sobs of his life 
 breath exhaled into the dreary blank non- 
 
C4 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 existent nothingness which men call death leav- 
 ing the life before him so miserably unlived ; 
 it made him like some thirst -maddened animal 
 tantalized by a transitory desert mirage. It was 
 too terribly incredible.' 
 
 Still more strangely mature are some of this 
 lad's references to sleep and dreams, as when, for 
 instance, he alludes to the c sudden burst of 
 terror, such as all men feel on awakening from 
 the slumber they have begun at night, with 
 hearts over- confident for the morrow's trouble. 
 I think,' is his reflection, * an awakened sleeper 
 always sees his last thoughts in a kind of inver- 
 sion.' Also, among other unyouthful expressions 
 of thought may be noted his continual suggestion 
 all through this romance of the insignificance of 
 a human being as compared with the immensity 
 of nature, and how, all-regardless of his wishes, 
 wants, or woes, the great work of the universe 
 goes on slowly, surely, and irresistibly change- 
 less, despite all the impotent efforts of man to 
 change or even to guide it. 
 
 Appealing more strongly, however, to the 
 feelings of the general reader, will be the magni- 
 ficent description of the ship on fire. The 
 ghastly scenes which occur during the burning 
 of The Black Swan are not only painted with 
 the minute fidelity of a Defoe, or an Edgar Poe, 
 
MAGIC OF FIRE. 65 
 
 but described with all the graphic vraisemblance 
 of a personal spectator. However unsympathetic 
 a reader the peruser of the work may be, it will 
 be as impossible for him to escape being fasci- 
 nated by the grand picture of the fire as it was 
 for the unfortunate albatross to escape from the 
 vivid attraction of the flames themselves. 
 
 After the wonderfully realistic account of 
 the conflagration, these thoroughly characteristic 
 expressions are invoked : ' There is, perhaps, 
 nothing in nature more strange to reflect on, 
 than this magic transmutation by fire which we 
 witness daily with so little thought or comment. 
 To see a substantial object take light and vanish 
 away in flame before our very eyes, not dying 
 invisibly, as our souls or lives do, but simply 
 vanishing from sight, while only an utterly dis- 
 proportionate sediment of its ashes remains 
 behind, is miraculous.' 
 
 It may safely be averred that, take it for all in 
 all, it will be difficult in the whole range of 
 English literature to discover a more terribly 
 dramatic, or more weirdly picturesque tableau, 
 than that of those three strangely-brought- to- 
 gether human beings, Laura, Denver, and 
 Dorothy, tossed about in that frail, oarless boat, 
 on the angry, hungry ocean. However puny 
 the passions of these powerless creatures may 
 
 5 
 
66 OLIVER HADOX BROWN. 
 
 appear in comparison with the stupendous 
 sublimity of the eternal ocean they drift upon, 
 it is they, tiny specks on the face of nature 
 though they be, who kindle our hearts to pity 
 or contemn : their awful environments scarcely 
 invoke a shudder whilst their all-absorbing fate 
 still trembles in the balance. Till the tragedy 
 is complete by the death of the last actor, the 
 terrific magnificence of their entourage scarcely 
 attracts the admiration of the awe- stricken 
 spectator ; but when that spell is broken by the 
 disappearance of the last victim of the fated trio, 
 we are enabled to award due meed of praise to 
 the wonderfully realistic scenery by which the 
 dramatis personce are surrounded. 
 
GABEIEL DENVEB. 
 
:Bffjre& tx> tfje tot Jfflamtfcrtpt of Ijfe Earliest 
 Spring foa$ tfjfe bonnet* 
 
 No more these passion-worn faces shall men's eyes 
 Behold in life. Death leaves no trace behind 
 Of their wild hate and wilder love, grown blind 
 
 In desperate longing, more than the foam which lies 
 
 Splashed up awhile where the showered spray descries 
 The waves whereto their cold limbs were resigned ; 
 Yet ever doth the sea-wind's undefined 
 
 Vague wailing shudder with their dying sighs. 
 
 For all men's souls 'twixt sorrow and love are cast 
 As on the earth each lingers his brief space, 
 While surely nightfall comes where each man's face 
 
 In death's obliteration sinks at last 
 As a deserted wind-tossed sea's foam-trace 
 
 Life's chilled boughs emptied by death's autumn blast. 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 GABRIEL DENVER. 
 
 TO comprehend the enormous chasm which 
 gapes between genius and the conventional, 
 it is only necessary to contrast The Blade Swan 
 in its original condition with the white-washed 
 foundling, Gabriel Denver, commercial prudence 
 bargained for. In the terrible narrative as con- 
 ceived and as executed by its author, the three im- 
 portant personages of the tragedy are beheld from 
 the first struggling as helplessly as the characters 
 of a Greek drama against their cruel, irresistible 
 fate. For Laura, Gabriel, and Dorothy, the final 
 catastrophe was unavoidable, whilst the string 
 upon which these puppets of circumstance were 
 strung was the hapless marriage- cord by which 
 Gabriel was bound to Dorothy. Yet to satisfy 
 the supposed prudery of a temporary public, 
 this raison d'etre of the story had to be sacrificed, 
 
70 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 and the outraged wife transformed into a spiteful 
 cousin, whilst the stern poetic justice which so 
 unerringly overtook the couple who loved not 
 wisely, had, to please the enervated palate of 
 circulating-library-subscribers, to be harlequin - 
 aded into the stock nostrum of bridal favours, 
 beautiful progeny, and 4 they lived happily ever 
 afterwards !' Oh, what a fall was there from the 
 weird and appropriate end of the tragedy ! How 
 it wrung young Oliver's heart to mutilate his 
 first-born thus may never be revealed, but some 
 glimpses of his grief will be gained by those 
 who read his correspondence on the subject. 
 
 However, the throes of literary labour are 
 fruitless without the intervention of a publisher, 
 and a publisher had to be found ere The Black 
 Swan could be ushered into the world of letters. 
 Probably the search was not a prolonged one in 
 Oliver's case ; at any rate, there does not seem to 
 be any reason for concealing the interesting fact 
 that it was due to female intervention that the 
 romance ultimately found its way into the hands 
 of Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co. The late Mrs. 
 Lomes Dickinson, wife of the artist, and daughter 
 of Mr. W. Smith Williams, having had an oppor- 
 tunity of reading the story in manuscript, was 
 so greatly struck by its power and originality 
 that she did all she could to interest her father 
 
A MODEST REPLY. 71 
 
 in it. He read it, and that he was highly im- 
 pressed by it his acts and words will show. He 
 wrote to the young author, criticizing certain 
 things in the work in a friendly way, but re- 
 questing him to offer it to Messrs. Smith, Elder 
 and Co., for publication. Oliver's reply, dated 
 27th September, 1872, was in a very different 
 tone to the confident one generally adopted by 
 juvenile authors: 
 
 ' 1 trust you will excuse my delay in not 
 having answered your kind and encouraging letter 
 before this, but I have been for the last week so 
 ill that at first I was scarcely able even to read 
 it. With regard to submitting my novel to 
 Messrs. Smith and Elder, I hardly know what 
 to say. If you consider it worth while I should 
 certainly have no objection to offering it for 
 publication if on the contrary you were to 
 think it has positively no chance of being ac- 
 cepted, I should prefer not to offer it : in fact, I 
 would trust implicitly to whatever you yourself 
 may think best on the subject. I have not the 
 slightest objection to modifying the harshness of 
 the plot so far as I am able, for I perfectly 
 recognise the truth and usefulness of the altera- 
 tions you have so kindly suggested. However, 
 I do not see how I could make Dorothy merely 
 
72 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. . 
 
 Denver's cousin and not his wife. The only 
 excuse that can be offered for Denver's conduct 
 seems to me to be the utterly isolated situation he 
 is placed in, and the extreme and unexpected sud- 
 denness of his passion. He, undoubtedly, behaves 
 badly, and the tragic ending he comes to is 
 supposed to be a just retaliation upon him. The 
 passage you mention in Chap. VIII. I will 
 remove I had, indeed, intended to alter it from 
 the first. I have been for more than three 
 months engaged on a second work a story of 
 Dartmoor and Devonshire country life, and have 
 in consequence had no time to make many of 
 the alterations I have intended in the MS. of 
 Gabriel Denver. I cannot think how I can have 
 made such a blunder as to forget the gold that 
 was in the boat for I certainly thought of what 
 the sailors would do with it, when I first de- 
 scribed its falling out of the man's pocket. The 
 first chapter will have to be considerably re- 
 modelled. ... If you do not think Gabriel Denver 
 fit to be shown to Messrs. Smith and Elder, 
 would you kindly allow me, in a short while, 
 to submit to you the first four or five chapters of 
 my new story ? With many thanks for the encour- 
 agement your kind and long letter has given me, 
 Believe me, dear sir, 
 
 Yery faithfully yours, 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN.' 
 
A MENTAL STRUGGLE. 73 
 
 The reply of Mr. Smith Williams was so encou- 
 raging that Oliver felt not only persuaded to offer 
 his romance to that gentleman's firm, but also to 
 endeavour to remodel it in accordance with his 
 suggestions, little as they agreed with his own 
 more artistic views. This, however, it must be 
 confessed, not until much correspondence and 
 some interviews had taken place, and, doubtless, 
 not without a severe mental struggle. In one 
 letter he writes, l Of course, in the case of my 
 making any very material alterations in the MS. 
 of Gabriel Denver ,' for so the story was to be 
 renamed, 4 1 shall be only too glad to avail 
 myself of the many valuable suggestions you 
 were kind enough to offer me after reading it. 
 In fact, I should completely rewrite the whole 
 story page by page. It is scarcely ten months 
 since I have written it ; but there are, neverthe- 
 less, a good many things in it which, now, I 
 should not care to publish as my own.' In the 
 following month, January, 1873, he writes to 
 his younger sister: 'Although I have, at last, 
 come to an understanding with my publisher 
 with respect to Gabriel Denver, some time will 
 still elapse (owing to certain alterations I have 
 consented very unwillingly to make) before its 
 final publication/ 
 
 On the 17th of January he wrote to Mr. 
 
74 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 Smith Williams : ' Would you care to look at 
 the first three chapters of Gabriel Denver? I 
 have rewritten them, and one is quite new. . . . 
 I should at any rate like you to look at the 
 opening chapter, as I think you particularly 
 mentioned it to me.' The rewritten chapters 
 were looked at, and further objections raised as 
 to their suitability, especially with respect to the 
 position of one which Oliver desired to commence 
 the work with, justly deeming, from a truly 
 artistic point of view, that the introductory 
 pages should be of a highly attractive nature, 
 whilst Mr. Smith Williams objected, on almost 
 equally tenable grounds, that they should not be 
 retrospective or anticipatory, which they were. 
 Of course, Oliver had to give way, relinquishing 
 one point after another, until, finally, he was 
 driven out of his very last entrenchment. 
 Writing to Mr. Smith Williams on the 24th of 
 January, he says : 
 
 DEAE SIR, 
 
 I am sorry to differ from you in opinion 
 respecting the chapter that ought to stand first 
 the more so, when I think of the very large 
 experience you must have had in dealing with 
 novels ; but I cannot help feeling that it would 
 considerably damp the reader's interest in the 
 
CONCESSIONS. 75 
 
 book, were the opening chapter to be a weak 
 one. I have hitherto considered, that with all 
 model works of art, the impetuousness of the 
 first chapter is a sine qua non. 
 
 The Dorothy point I am willing enough to 
 yield, because I fancy your reasons must be 
 extremely just : we might call her Deborah. I 
 think on the whole that it would perhaps be 
 best not to give her the same surname as her 
 cousin Denver. I have, therefore, decided upon 
 Deborah Mallinson, as the name most suited to 
 her. 
 
 The other point I will, of course, yield also, 
 should you absolutely require it but it would 
 not be without reluctance on my part. 
 
 Could you give me any idea of when you 
 would be able to publish my story, or if there 
 would be any particular season in which it 
 would be desirable to bring it out ? I shall 
 scarcely be a month longer over it, and will 
 send you the MS. by about the end of February. 
 With many thanks for your kindness, 
 Believe me, dear sir, 
 
 Very faithfully yours, 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN/ 
 
 On the 10th March Oliver writes to Mr. 
 Williams to say that he has completed the 
 
76 OLIVER HADOX BROWN. 
 
 story as well as lie is able, and trusts that it 
 will now be considered satisfactorily ended : he 
 remarks that he is still prepared to make any 
 other alterations deemed necessary, being, pro- 
 bably, by this time quite ready to turn his black 
 swan into a white goose, or an { ugly duckling,' 
 or, indeed, prepared to sacrifice it altogether. 
 He points out that chapters i., ix., xviii., xix., 
 and the Conclusion are entirely new, and that 
 certain other changes have been made in the 
 work. 
 
 At last the publisher's literary adviser was 
 satisfied, whatever the author may have been, 
 and gave an intimation that the story might be 
 used in the Cornhill Magazine, which would, of 
 course, have been a very valuable and flattering 
 introduction for so young and unknown an 
 author. On the 13th instant, acknowledging 
 this letter, Oliver writes : 
 
 i I am extremely glad to learn that you are 
 pleased with the end of Gabriel Denver, as some 
 little time and trouble have been taken in 
 thinking it out and composing it. ... It is 
 exceedingly kind of you to have submitted the 
 manuscript to the editor of the Cornhill. Should 
 Mr. Stephen consider it worthy of acceptance 
 it would be a most unexpected piece of good 
 
AN A UTHORS TRIALS. 77 
 
 fortune to such an inexperienced writer as 
 myself.' 
 
 The romance was placed in the hands of the 
 Cornliill editor, who wrote on the 26th of 
 March offering to make an appointment with 
 its author. On the following day Oliver appears 
 to have called on Mr. Leslie Stephen, but no 
 definite arrangement was come to, and for 
 some weeks the poor lad was kept in a state of 
 uncertainty and suspense. At last a communi- 
 cation was received from Mr. Smith Williams, 
 wherein he states : c Your story of Gabriel 
 Denver has been under consideration of the 
 editor of the Cornhill Magazine, who begs me 
 to say he is very sorry that he cannot accept 
 it ; but he found it necessary to choose another 
 story, which, for various reasons, was better 
 suited for the magazine. He adds, however, " I 
 am still of opinion that Mr. Brown's story 
 shows much power and promise." Notwith- 
 standing this editorial modicum of ' faint praise/ 
 the publishers had the justice, after all the 
 pains Oliver had taken to adapt his story to 
 their wishes, to offer what Mr. Williams trusted 
 would be a compensation for Oliver's dis- 
 appointment, to purchase Gabriel Denver for 
 fifty pounds. ' It will make only one volume 
 
78 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 of the usual novel size/ adds that gentleman, 
 ' and though your name is not yet known to the 
 public as a writer, I hope that your first book 
 will make so strong an impression on the novel 
 readers as to establish your popularity as a 
 writer of romance/ 
 
 Thus it was agreed that the work of art 
 which had been so mutilated to please the novel 
 readers should be published by Messrs. Smith, 
 Elder and Co. The usual suggestions took 
 place as to the technicalities of the work's i get- 
 up/ both as to its inside and outside appearance. 
 On one occasion, Mr. Williams writes to ask for 
 i some suitable motto to suggest the character 
 of the story, or excite attention, and which 
 would lessen the blank space of the title-page/ 
 Oliver was unable to discover anything English 
 which he cared for, but was enabled to forward 
 the following highly appropriate French motto, 
 suggested or invented by, it is believed, his friend, 
 M. Andrieu : ' Le bonheur vient souvent bien 
 tard apres la mort de toutes nos esperances. 
 Aussi faut-il aux malheureux beaucoup cC esprit 
 pour le reconnoitre, et de force pour Varreter au 
 passage. 1 
 
 The blank space thus happily filled in, the 
 next matter to be considered was the dedication, 
 and on the 16th of July, Oliver is found writ- 
 
A SUITABLE DEDICATION. 79 
 
 ing about that and other connected items thus : 
 4 1 have just had a sudden idea that I should 
 like to dedicate Gabriel Denver to my father, 
 and am desirous to know if you think this 
 would be advisable. I have, certainly, not 
 asked his consent, but I can see no reason why 
 he should object. The only drawback is that I 
 might be thought rather conceited for consider- 
 ing my first work worth dedicating to anybody. 
 Anyhow, I should like very much to do it, if 
 there still remain time.' To this idea of the 
 young author there could not, happily, be any 
 objection ; and so he had the proud gratifica- 
 tion of seeing his first work inscribed, ' To MY 
 FATHER,' 
 
 In the letter quoted from above, Oliver 
 proceeds : c Thank you for the title-page. As 
 far as I can see, the motto seems to hit off the 
 story well enough. All the proofs are corrected 
 now, so that the volume will be quite ready for 
 publication when the proper season comes round. 
 I don't know if you would care to have any 
 ornament or design made for the binding if 
 you would, I could easily get them done for you 
 but I think it might be well to let the 
 cover be as plain as possible/ ' Many thanks 
 for the offer of a design for the cover, which is 
 too good to be neglected,' responded Mr. 
 
80 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 Williams, ' as a striking outside might attract 
 notice to a powerful story. If, therefore, you 
 will favour me with a sketch, we will get the 
 binder to engrave it. The only hindrance is 
 Mudie's labels, which interfere with a handsome 
 cover. 7 Notwithstanding the library labels, a 
 handsome covering was provided for Gabriel 
 Denver. At first the young author thought of 
 designing it himself, and wrote to his friend, 
 Mr. Philip B. Marston, ' I am designing a binding 
 for my unfortunate little book, and find it a 
 very difficult and laborious task. There will 
 be a great curling flame very much blown about 
 by the sea-wind, springing and shooting out 
 from the foam of a large wave. It is supposed 
 to be night : a little light falls on the water 
 beneath and on the clouds above, just dimly 
 outlining them while two or three stars are 
 visible, and all the rest is hidden in the dark- 
 ness. Of course, it is purely ornamental and 
 not realistic/ 
 
 Oliver, however, relinquished the task of 
 making the desiderated design when he found 
 that his father was willing to undertake it. 
 Accordingly, Mr. Ford Madox Brown made the 
 design himself, and, as will readily be compre- 
 hended, a most striking and suggestive one it 
 is. It depicts a ship at sea, on fire, and already 
 
FIRE AT SEA. 81 
 
 partially eaten away by the hungry flames ; 
 dense volumes of smoke roll up through the 
 reddened sky, and whirl away into fantastic 
 curls about the book. But the design is treated 
 decoratively rather than pictorially, the burning 
 ship being placed in an emblematic circle, in 
 which the conflagration rages so fiercely that it 
 bursts it, whilst through the attenuated smoke 
 is seen the constellation of the Southern Cross, 
 and the albatross which figures in the story. 
 At the bottom of the cover some large rats, of 
 whose behaviour on the burning ship such sug- 
 gestive use is made, are seen in characteristic 
 attitudes endeavouring to effect their escape from 
 the ill-fated vessel. 
 
 The story was written and rewritten ; the 
 design for the cover provided ; dedication made 
 and motto selected, and there appeared to be 
 nothing left to do save publish. But another 
 disappointment had to be endured. No wonder 
 if authors are the irritable class the proverbialist 
 would have them be, when the worries, anxieties 
 and annoyances they are subjected to are taken 
 count of. Publishers have an idea that books, like 
 geese, should arrive in flocks, and that the best 
 season for their hatching or addling is a few 
 weeks before Christmas. Poor Oliver's work 
 had to share the common lot, so we find him 
 
 6 
 
82 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 writing to his father in the summer of 1873, 
 saying, C I went this morning to call on Mr. 
 Williams about something connected with the 
 printing of Gabriel Denver, and he told me that 
 he considered it would be best to put off its 
 publication till October. I suppose he knows 
 what he's about, but it seems to me a great 
 nuisance that the book cannot appear at once/ 
 
 However, like Purgatory, everything must 
 come to an end, and so, finally, the long weeks 
 of waiting were over, and on the 5th of November, 
 1873, Gabriel Denver was published. Slowly, 
 but surely, the applause of all those whose 
 approbation Oliver counted worth the winning 
 was gained. Dr. Westland Marston, who had 
 read the proofs of the work, wrote enthusiastically 
 to its young author, ' I really think there is, 
 scarcely any crown of fiction which may not 
 eventually be won by a writer who has so begun 
 his career.' Other most gratifying proofs of the 
 profound impression his work had made, and 
 made at once, came to the youth from other 
 valued sources ; but what gave him the chiefest 
 and most intense delight was this letter he received 
 from Dante Gr. Eossetti, for whom he entertained 
 feelings of an almost reverential character : 
 
STRONG PRAISE. 83 
 
 ' Kelmscott, Lechlade, 
 
 10 Nov., 1873. 
 
 MY DEAR OLIVER, 
 
 I have read Gabriel Denver, and been 
 much astonished and impressed by it. I really 
 believe it must be the most robust literary effort 
 of any imaginative kind that anyone has pro- 
 duced at the age at which you wrote it, and 
 probably even at your present age ; though I am 
 uncertain as to the exact time of life at which 
 the Bronte girls wrote their first books. I 
 remember advising you very strongly to make 
 any modifications thought necessary for the 
 circulation of the book; but I fully expected 
 your story to suffer by changes. Still, from 
 what I saw of it in its first form, I think you 
 have managed so well that the strength of the 
 situation is retained, while much is abated of 
 what is unavoidably repelling in it. The posi- 
 tion of Deborah must remain a sore in the 
 reader's heart, for all her incendiarism and for 
 all the sympathy the lovers excite. 
 
 i The literary quality of the work is sur- 
 prisingly accomplished and even. However, the 
 last hundred pages or so do not seem to me for 
 the most part quite so finished in execution as 
 the rest. I mean particularly to refer to a cer- 
 tain deliberateness and obviousness of expres- 
 sion amounting now and then almost to a 
 
 62 
 
84 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 gossiping tone which seems to me to be what 
 you have to guard against, but which you have 
 probably fallen into at times (if indeed it strikes 
 others as it does me) by a laudable desire to 
 avoid a flurried tone of sensational narrative. 
 Perhaps I might refer to part of pp. 244 245 as 
 somewhat illustrating what I mean. The de- 
 scription at bottom of 244 seems to require to 
 be more agitated and fitful in its mode of ex- 
 pression for such a moment, the " beautifully- 
 modelled ankle " seems to me specially deliberate. 
 " Most likely Denver expected," etc., seems a 
 little too much from the outside, and the 
 " Stranger than fiction," with which the next 
 paragraph closes, reads almost like intentional 
 bathos. 
 
 I hope you will pardon my expressing what 
 I mean in this way, and I do not intend to say 
 that such instances seem to me frequent; but 
 the sustained and almost self-repressed style 
 does appear occasionally to be chargeable with a 
 slight want of infectious electricity, so to speak. 
 But all this is very subordinate and only partially 
 applicable criticism, and the book is undoubtedly 
 quite a wonder. There seems to me no question 
 that you may reach any degree of success in the 
 future, if your interest in your work remains 
 undiminished. Nothing else can influence per- 
 
ROSSETTPS OPINION. 85 
 
 manently a man's powers or their due recognition. 
 You are fully armed for the work you are under- 
 taking, and the little song at page 91* shows 
 that you can even write, when called for, verse 
 well able to stand by itself. 
 
 With affectionate remembrances, 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 D. G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 P.S. Cover excellent. Obverse perhaps a 
 little Japanese. 
 
 P. P.S. In another edition I would cut out 
 all the italics? 
 
 Dante Rossetti's goodness of heart, and the 
 sympathy which he was always ready to accord 
 to any manifestation of talent in youth, were not 
 sufficient in themselves to have prompted him to 
 write in such a laudatory strain: he could not 
 have told his youthful friend that his work was 
 ' the most robust literary effort of any imaginative 
 kind that anyone has produced ' at Oliver's age, 
 unless his critical conscience had been fully 
 satisfied that what he said was fact. Oliver, even 
 if he fully recognised his own power, could not 
 fail to feel deeply gratified at this prompt and 
 ungrudging acknowledgment of it from such 
 
 Beginning, ' Alas ! who knows or cares, my love.' vide p. 59. 
 
86 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 a quarter. On November the 29th he replied to 
 his kind critic : 
 
 c DEAR MR. KOSSETTI, 
 
 You must really excuse me for having 
 delayed answering your kind letter till now. I 
 thank you most cordially and sincerely for the 
 gratifying and encouraging things you say in it : 
 I only fear you must err far too much on the 
 side of leniency in the very few weaknesses and 
 blemishes you have called my attention to. 
 Your letter surprised and delighted me in more 
 ways than one ; for while writing my book, I 
 often thought of you and of what you were likely 
 to say of it, but did not venture to think you 
 would interest yourself so much in it. Certainly 
 I would rather have your approbation for my 
 work after my father's than that of any other 
 man living. 
 
 I hope you will not mind my having sent 
 your letter on to Messrs. Smith and Elder, but 
 the fact is that Mr. Williams, who took up 
 Gabriel Denver first, has been very anxious to 
 know what your opinion would be about it, and 
 I should not have liked to ask you to write 
 to him yourself although I believe you are 
 acquainted with him. 
 
 One review has appeared up to the present 
 
AN A UTHORS JEST. 87 
 
 (in the Academy for Saturday last), which, upon 
 the whole, is remarkably favourable. . . . 
 Yours most sincerely, 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN.' 
 
 On the same day that he wrote the above the 
 elated lad forwarded Dante Kossetti's letter to 
 Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co.'s reader for his 
 perusal. Mr. "Williams, in returning the valuable 
 and much valued communication, heartily con- 
 gratulated Oliver upon such encouraging criticism, 
 adding, ' Mr. Simcox's critique in the Academy 
 is appreciative of your powers, and will help the 
 book/ 
 
 Before the young author had had time to taste 
 the full bitterness of having written a book, and 
 ere reviews less appreciative than that of Mr. 
 Simcox had had time to appear, in the first flush 
 of authorship Oliver wrote off the following 
 amusing jeu d' esprit to his friend, Mr. Philip 
 Bourke Marston : 
 
 1 November 8, 1873. 
 
 MY DEAR PHILIP, 
 
 You will be glad to hear my book is out 
 at last. 
 
 I have just written an elaborate review thereof, 
 and having copied it out seven times, with a few 
 alterations here and there, I am about to post 
 
88 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 it to the principal newspapers of the United 
 Kingdom, accompanied by an equal number of 
 Post Office orders (for ten and sixpence each). 
 N.B. If you don't insert this, keep the money 
 and write one yourself. I shall await in great 
 anxiety the result of this new and interesting 
 experiment ' 
 
 In a letter written to the same friend eighteen 
 days later a different tone had to be adopted: 
 the real ' slings and arrows ' of criticism now 
 began to assail the youthful and highly sensitive 
 
 romancer. ' Have you seen/ he asks, ' 's 
 
 notice of Gabriel Denver in last week's Athenceum? 
 I'm told it's of a kind likely to clap a stopper on his 
 circulation for some little time to come. Applied 
 by one novelist to another, " coarse, disagreeable, 
 and hideous," be decidedly sarcastic, if not biting 
 terms. I imagine he read the book through 
 (here and there) and found he didn't like it, so 
 being highmindedness and respectability per- 
 sonified he has felt it his duty to say so. As 
 far as I am concerned, anyone may say what he 
 likes about the book, but what I fear is, that 
 Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co. will be for chuck- 
 ing me overboard if G. D. don't grow as pros- 
 perous as they expected him to ; and this prospect 
 is, of course, not by any means the one I am 
 
A SATURDAY REVIEWER. 89 
 
 hoping for. However, one mustn't cry out be- 
 fore one's hurt. I'm precious glad his lordship 
 let me off so easy ; it's not a fiftieth part so 
 harsh as the lathering . . . had in the same paper. 
 What I fear is, that he is reserving himself for my 
 next venture although the story I am now 
 working at is fifty times better than Gabriel Z>., 
 as, indeed, it can well afford to be/ 
 
 Nor was this the only unpleasing notice 
 Oliver's book invoked : one that appeared in the 
 Saturday Review (of which there will be some- 
 thing to say hereafter) seems to have wounded his 
 feelings some what more than slightly. Writing to 
 Mr. Williams, he says : ' I should be glad to 
 know if Gabriel Denver in any way answered 
 the expectations you kindly expressed about it? 
 I have seen many, on the whole, highly favour- 
 able reviews though I am quite aware that 
 these are no absolute gauge of superiority in a 
 commercial point of view: the slashing, if not 
 eccentric, notice which you doubtless saw in the 
 Saturday some eight or nine weeks back could 
 not, I should think, have been very favourable 
 to the latter though more than one mutual 
 friend has. tried to argue me into believing it 
 written in a perfectly candid and conciliatory 
 spirit, and as likely to be of use to me, both 
 morally and commercially. I confess honestly 
 
DO OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 that I do not quite see this myself in either 
 light. I shall, in any case, be glad to hear from 
 you with regard to my last book, when you can 
 spare time. 7 
 
 In reply to this inquiry, Mr. Williams stated 
 that up to that date, July, 1874, only 300 copies 
 of Gabriel Denver had been sold, so that the sole 
 advantage received from its publication had been 
 the recognition of its author's powers by the 
 press. Publishers' accounts are mysterious 
 matters which only the elect can understand, 
 so that these figures matter little ; it therefore 
 suffices to add that an original copy of Gabriel 
 Denver is a rarity difficult to obtain, although 
 there is a cheap reprint procurable. Mr. Wil- 
 liams, to revert to his communication, deprecated 
 any particular attention being paid to the offen- 
 sive notice, and expressed curiosity to know 
 something about the work Oliver had in hand, 
 making passing allusion to the inestimable 
 advantage possessed by his correspondent in the 
 advice and opinion of such friends as Dante and 
 William Eossetti. This last remark called forth 
 from Oliver, in his next letter, the response : * I 
 may take this opportunity of explaining that the 
 only advice I ever received as to the course of 
 my stories, either from D. G. Kossetti or his 
 brother William, was the advice, strongly urged 
 
HIS INDEPENDENCE. 91 
 
 by the former, to follow your advice with regard 
 to my last book, which he had not then seen. 
 You may remember I was at first disinclined to 
 do this, though I subsequently became more 
 reasonable, and so enabled you to publish 
 the story.' This explanation was undoubtedly 
 dictated by Oliver's intense independence and 
 desire to vindicate his own originality. 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 
 
More than eight years have passed and still, my friend, 
 The place thou had'st stands empty in my heart ; 
 New friendships come, I know, and they depart, 
 
 But ours endures unto the very end. 
 
 Oft, battling here, to thee my cry I send. 
 If in some distant, conscious world thou art 
 I know thy soul will hear that cry and start, 
 
 And all the things that are will apprehend, 
 
 Because thou wast so close to me so long. 
 Nay, hush, my song, thine individual moan ! 
 Grieve for the whole world whence his light has flown, 
 His light of splendid sunrise, charged with song. 
 
 Poet and friend and brother, my brother alone 
 These words are weak, but, O, my love is strong ! 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 February, 1883. 
 
^li^v^Tvi-^ 
 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 i We talked about our future many times, 
 Planned work together, jested, and were grave.' 
 
 A Lament. PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 ONE of the brightest rays by which Oliver's short 
 springtide of life was lit was his friendship with 
 Mr. Philip Bourke Marston. ' From 1872 till 
 near the end of 1874,' says Mr. Marston,* 'I 
 had the privilege of counting Oliver Madox 
 Brown as my most intimate friend. I had, 
 however, made his acquaintance before the 
 former date, having two years previously met 
 him frequently at his father's house, and at the 
 houses of mutual friends. He was then fifteen, 
 and even at that early age devoted to art. His 
 
 In Scribner's Monthly Magazine, 1876. 
 
96 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 manner was remarkable for his boyish straight- 
 forwardness ; for instance, on hearing any facts 
 which taxed too keenly his credulity, he would 
 deny their authenticity with a blunt frankness 
 characteristic of one even younger. Yet at this 
 time I was struck by his large knowledge of 
 poetry, and the extreme justice of his observa- 
 tions. He selected almost unfailingly, for his 
 special admiration, passages so subtly exquisite 
 that they had often escaped the attention even of 
 professed critics. 
 
 1 After the period of our first acquaintance/ 
 continues Mr. Marston, ' I did not meet him 
 again until June, 1872, when he asked me to 
 hear a story in manuscript, purporting to be 
 written by a friend of his. The night of his 
 visit I must always now regard with the most 
 tender and melancholy interest. The sweet pro- 
 longed summer twilight was almost at an end, 
 and I was sitting quite alone in my study, when 
 Oliver entered. In a short time I perceived that 
 the two years had worked a considerable change 
 in him. The boyish simplicity of his nature was 
 still unchanged ; but certain angularities of 
 manner, noticeable before, had been wholly 
 rounded off. 
 
 1 He often afterwards alluded to that first 
 night of our friendship, recalling the thunder- 
 
LETTER-WRITING AGE. 97 
 
 storm which, imminent in the air, and bursting 
 at length, seemed strangely in harmony with the 
 tale of tempest and passion he had to read.* Not 
 till the reading had been completed, the work 
 discussed and criticized, did he reveal to me its 
 authorship. I was fully prepared for his ulti- 
 mately achieving great triumphs in the art in 
 which his father has won an undying name ; but 
 this manifestation of genius in a direction totally 
 new to him, thoroughly took me by surprise/ 
 
 The youthful poet and the young artist-author 
 now became bosom friends, and although they 
 met one another constantly, they maintained a 
 continuous interchange of notes. It can scarcely 
 be claimed for Oliver that he was a letter- writer: 
 he hated correspondence and, as a rule, only 
 followed it up from necessity. He never ac- 
 quired the natural facility of an accomplished 
 correspondent, although, as an eminent poet 
 (Mr. W. B. Scott) remarks, this might have 
 come later, as he had not yet reached the age 
 when letter-writing is usually entered upon, ere 
 he was snatched away from life. But of his 
 correspondence, whatever its value may be 
 deemed, his Mend Philip would appear to have 
 culled the choicest specimens. 
 
 Notes of more or less interest seem to have 
 
 * The story of The Blade Swan. 
 
98 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 commenced in 1872, and to have been exchanged 
 between the friends until within a week or two 
 of Oliver's death. Until the 24th March, 1873, 
 nothing calling for notice, however, occurs in the 
 correspondence, except occasional allusions to 
 ill-health by the young novelist, in such signifi- 
 cant terms as these : ' My head troubles me 
 dreadfully, and renders me utterly incapable of 
 exertion/ 
 
 About the above date, Marston wrote to his 
 friend in the following terms, addressing Oliver 
 in the patriarchal way set forth on account of 
 his grave lectures and prudential advice, and 
 subscribing himself ' grandson ' for the same 
 reason : 
 
 'Mr DEAK G-KAN, 
 
 I dreamt this morning we were quar- 
 relling furiously. The language employed freely 
 on both sides was, not to put too fine a point on 
 it, more remarkable for power than for elegance. 
 
 I was up very early yesterday, and went with 
 my sister to Slough. We walked altogether 
 about eleven miles, and had tea at a delightful 
 old inn, and heard larks, thrushes, and black- 
 birds all singing together; did they not just 
 sing ! I don't think there could have been room 
 to stick another song in, in all the air. "We sat 
 
CAT AND DOG LIFE. 99 
 
 under old trees and read Blake. I never knew 
 so fine a day in March before so full of com- 
 passion for what had been and promise for the 
 future. But Nature's promises, on the whole, 
 are just a little more worthless than the promises 
 of men : see in summer what cold wet noons 
 we are led to|by exquisite dawns. . . . 
 
 I am rathe/ hopeless of making the dogs and 
 the cat friends ; Lisette, of the two dogs, being 
 the older and more sagacious, soon knew her 
 (the cat) for what she was and to whom she 
 belonged; but dear Toodles (the little black dog 
 and mine) she" exercises a strong fascination on ; 
 especially are Toodles' wonder and admiration 
 excited by the splendour of pussy's tail, which 
 she will examine most curiously. Now, a cat 
 like mine does not care about being investigated 
 by what, in|her inmost heart, she calls " a little, 
 black, short- coated, sheep-barking toy -terrier." 
 If Lady (that is my cat) could be a little less 
 dignified, Toodles a little less curious, some 
 arrangement might be made. 
 
 I remain, with deep respect, 
 
 Your dutiful grandson, 
 
 FLIP/ 
 
 To this communication Oliver responded in 
 his most usual his humorous strain : 
 
 72 
 
100 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 1 MY DEAR PHILIP, 
 
 If you want to make your cat and 
 dogs agree together, catch them, then tie them 
 all up in one large bag, and next hang them to 
 the chandelier over the table of your sitting- 
 room. Should the inmates of the said bag 
 happen to growl at each other, or give any signs 
 whatsoever of mutual discontent, take a big 
 stick, and hit out right and left at them. Hang 
 them up in this fashion for two hours and a 
 half, every day for a fortnight. If, after this, 
 they ever fall out with each other again, nothing 
 ever will make them friends.* 
 
 Yours in great haste, 
 0. M. B. 
 
 * This brilliantly original idea has been sug- 
 gested by the famous aphorism of the illustrious 
 philosopher, Schopenhauer : " The memory of a 
 common misfortune makes the hardest hearted 
 men love one another." It is to be found in 
 page 1359 of vol. vi. of The World is Will or 
 Imagination. Berlin, 1834.' 
 
 These facetious remarks were, doubtless, not 
 only called forth by his friend's letter, but as a 
 skit on certain German characteristics, and as 
 
AN ELIZABETHAN MANSION. 101 
 
 the sequence of a discussion between the two 
 young authors. In an epistle of the following 
 month, Oliver indulges in a little more jocularity 
 to this effect : 
 
 4 1 cannot honestly say that I admire the 
 diction of the sentence in your letter to 
 which you especially called my attention. It 
 might be decidedly improved by the addition 
 of a semi-colon, or half a dozen commas. Stick 
 to poetry it don't want no punctuation : but 
 let prose alone, whatever you do/ 
 
 It need scarcely be remarked that these words 
 were intended for pure fun, and that really 
 Oliver was a true admirer of his friend's prose 
 as well as of his poesy, and was, indeed, much 
 interested in all his work. On one occasion 
 Philip was desirous of obtaining a graphic 
 description of an Elizabethan mansion in order 
 to embody it in, or rather to model from it for, 
 a story he was writing. Oliver undertook the 
 labour of love, and wrote the following pictur- 
 esque delineation of what was wanted : 
 
 4 Thurlestone Hall lay in a secluded, densely 
 wooded hollow of the hills, out by the peaceful 
 and antiquated village of Bond (sic) Church, in 
 the Isle of Wight. In the year 1849, no other 
 human habitation was visible from the windows 
 of the Hall : the only church lay so far off that 
 

 102 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 you could barely catch sound of its bells on 
 Sunday mornings. For many miles its pleasure- 
 grounds stretched around in lonely, magnificent, 
 and yet well-regulated profusion. Looking out 
 on to the deep blue sea through the great ravine, 
 which fronted the entrance, or back on to the 
 enormous rock -strewn summits of the hills 
 behind, you would have thought Sir Roderick 
 Thurlestone's ancestors, the proud old Earls of 
 Bolton and Lanawar, must have been men of 
 equal affluence and originality, for you could 
 not have chosen a more commanding or bewitch- 
 ing situation along that whole sea-coast, beautiful 
 and desolate though it is. It was a stately red- 
 bricked mansion, faced with grey stone, and 
 built in the reign of our once gracious and 
 Sovereign Lady Queen Elizabeth ; one of those 
 old English country houses which seem made as 
 much for the convenience of the swallows, which 
 take refuge under their eaves, as for the comfort 
 of their own proper inhabitants ; full of strange, 
 sinister, wind-bitten crevices and angularities ; 
 half-hidden, too, in a luxuriant growth of dark- 
 leaved ivy so luxuriant, indeed, that its 
 wanton tendrils had crawled up around the very 
 chimneys and run down some of the unused 
 ones. In the spring the apple-orchard in the 
 rear of the house became an almost magical 
 
THE HAUNTED HALL. 103 
 
 sight; but there were very few of the gnarled 
 old elms among which it stood whose topmost 
 wind-blown branches overlooked its red-tiled 
 roofs. 
 
 Usually a perfect and faultless silence reigned 
 all round the place : though you would have 
 heard strange eery sounds about the chambers 
 of the " Hall " on windy nights shrill, ominous 
 moanings and cries, such as would have made a 
 stranger's very blood run cold in his veins ; but 
 the inmates were used to the place, and loved it, 
 may be, for Sir Roderick and his family were 
 seldom absent from the county. 7 
 
 Written hastily as was this sketch, and left 
 unrevised and in the rough, it has, nevertheless, 
 a flavour of its young author's style about it 
 that is very charming, and produces one of those 
 permanent impressions on the mind objects seen 
 visually frequently imprint, but which written 
 descriptions rarely do : it leaves us desirous of 
 more, and longing to know what quaint, weird 
 legend was attached to the building thus pictur- 
 esquely portrayed. 
 
 On a certain day in April of this same 1873, 
 Oliver is found writing in the following character- 
 istic strain with reference to Marston's projected 
 new volume of poems, All in All, a work in 
 which he naturally took great interest : 
 
104 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 1 MY DEAR PHILIP, 
 
 .... I should have been round 
 before now to see you myself, only for the last 
 two or three days I have been slightly indis- 
 posed. The firm I spoke to you about is 
 
 and Co. Up to the present day they have only 
 published what they are pleased to term " works 
 on the subject of Fine Art," but in the fulfil- 
 ment of time they intend to vomit and eject 
 other publications into the astounded world. 
 But at the present they are a not prepared to 
 treat " for the aforesaid publications. Excuse 
 me for not having told you of this ere now : but 
 having been slightly unwell I seem to have for- 
 gotten all about the matter. I trust you haven't 
 lost your beautiful cat yet ; she is a very credit- 
 able beast, but she is not half so grand as mine. 
 The only drawback about mine is that she seems 
 becoming rather selfish : not content with a fair 
 share of the bed, which I have been confined 
 to for the past three days, she does her best to 
 turn me out of it altogether. Now I call this 
 going a trifle too far, as I did my best to explain 
 to the animal. . . . 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN.' 
 
 The next letter to the same friend, sent on the 
 19th of May, is interesting from the fact that it 
 
THE NIGHTINGALE INCIDENT. 105 
 
 contains the germ of what may be termed c the 
 Nightingale incident ' in Oliver's subsequently 
 written romance of The Dwale Bluth. Inditing 
 his communication from Lower Merton, he says : 
 
 c MY DEAR PHILIP, 
 
 I can't turn up at your rooms to-morrow 
 evening. I came down here Saturday morning, 
 and am going on to Dorking this afternoon. Shall 
 not be back till Thursday. I'll bring you back 
 two or three " Dorking fowls," if I can catch any. 
 
 Speaking of fowls reminds me that I haven't 
 slept a wink here all night. There is a large 
 chestnut-tree outside my bedroom window the 
 blossoms of which have erected themselves finely 
 by now and hidden by the dense foliage of this 
 tree, a godless and dissipated nightingale per- 
 sisted in filling the air of the night with 
 " harmony," until I wished it at the very devil. 
 I tried to fling my jug of water over it ; but this 
 made slight difference, for the rain was coming 
 down in a perfect deluge at the time ; so the 
 disreputable and conceited beast only screamed 
 the louder. I suppose it took me to be some 
 blockhead of a Philistine critic, for it defied me 
 in a truly Swinburnian fashion, and was, no 
 doubt, wonderfully satirical. Just before sun- 
 rise it desisted ; and, as I thought, took flight 
 
106 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 for good. But, alas ! it came back soon after 
 with two others: and then the trio seemingly 
 began a violent fight ! during the progress of 
 which they sang louder than ever. 
 
 It's astonishing how cantankerous these birds 
 seem to be ! I know you like them : in fact, I 
 remember your having once informed me of the 
 existence of a kind of " elective affinity " between 
 yourself and the nightingale tribe, so I give you 
 these little details in order that you may learn 
 what they really are. I've no sympathy for 
 song-birds myself more especially when they 
 keep one awake it's even worse than being sent 
 to sleep by them. 
 
 0. M. B.' 
 
 It was not Marston, as Oliver was of course 
 aware, but another poet of our era, who claimed 
 1 elective affinity ' with the nightingale, but the 
 point was too good to be passed over. His next 
 letter refers chiefly to Philip Marston' s projected 
 new volume of poems, and apart from its interest 
 in that direction is attractive as showing the 
 anxiety also displayed in other ways Oliver 
 experienced on behalf of his friend's success. 
 
 c MY DEAR PHILIP, 
 
 Just a line in great haste to tell you 
 I've seen .... to-day, and (have) been speaking 
 
MARSTON'S NEW WORK. 107 
 
 with him about the volume of yours which he 
 has. I am very, very glad to say that he really 
 seems to appreciate the poetry in it, and thinks 
 it very beautiful. The only thing he is uncertain 
 about is that he thinks it will make rather a 
 small volume. He has not quite finished with 
 it, and I thought you wouldn't mind my leaving 
 it with him for a day or two longer. . . . I've 
 no doubt hell be able to serve you in some way. 
 I know he had a very high opinion of your other 
 volume ; but he told me that he thought this a 
 very great advance upon it. I've just been look- 
 ing over Graves's book ; some of its contents are 
 very charming. My proofs are coming in now 
 faster and faster like damned souls in hell. I 
 get more and more disgusted every moment. . . .' 
 
 Another communication, sent, apparently, 
 about the 10th of September, after referring to 
 the same subject of his friend's new work, 
 launches out into one of those humorous, highly 
 exaggerated narratives, Oliver so delighted to 
 relate. The epistle runs thus : 
 
 ' MY DEAR PHILIP, 
 
 I have just seen .... who has brought 
 your MS. back from Kelniscott. Rossetti has not 
 gone quite through the book ; but he and .... 
 
108 OLIVER MADOX BRO WN. 
 
 spent several evenings over it with great pleasure 
 and satisfaction. The sonnets were chiefly liked 
 and read. Eossetti in fact seems to have been 
 very much impressed by them. 
 
 is this week going to call on C 
 
 about the book .... he seems quite to have 
 set his mind on bringing the book through in 
 some form or other, and I have very little doubt 
 of his succeeding. 
 
 What a frightful thing it is to keep house all 
 by one's self ! The silence and monotony of living 
 all alone in a big house is so depressing that I 
 sometimes think of going and jumping down the 
 back staircase by way of varying it a little. 
 The absence of sound is so intense that the 
 ticking of the hall-clock is audible from the top 
 of the roof. Last night, however, the servants 
 
 made enough row to satisfy the D himself. 
 
 It appears that they secretly gave a dinner-party, 
 and arranged to give a little ball after it. As 
 far as I could make out, the ladies and gentlemen 
 who had not been asked to the dinner considered 
 themselves grievously insulted, and commenced 
 making themselves very disagreeable to those 
 who had been. Two gentlemen, respectable and 
 married, challenged each other on the spot ; and 
 adjourning to the pavement, did their little best 
 to knock each other's brains out on it. I came 
 
FIGHT IN FITZROY SQUARE. 109 
 
 home unexpectedly about one o'clock and found 
 them in this position, with the rest of the com- 
 pany looking on through the area railings. The 
 wives of the above-mentioned combatants were 
 only held from tearing each other's eyes out by 
 main force. Just imagine such a scene in a 
 respectable household ! 
 
 Of course I remonstrated with the cook in 
 the morning. The creature burst into tears, 
 and said that if this was the way I treated her 
 " after hall the nice little puddin's and custards 
 she'd been making me for the past week, she 
 didn't know what I'd come to." 
 
 What could I say after this ? I can't bear to 
 see a woman in tears! Don't you pity your 
 unfortunate friend, 
 
 OLIVER M. BROWN?' 
 
 And, strange to say, Master Oliver does not 
 appear to have ever betrayed the weeping cook 
 or her accomplices, nor does the whole truth of 
 this skirmish at the area railings in Fitzroy 
 Square which happened during the temporary 
 absence on account of ill health of the faithful 
 Charlotte seem ever to have reached the ears of 
 any members of the ' respectable household ' after 
 their return to town. In his reply to this letter, 
 Marston says: 'All that you tell me about 
 
110 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 .... and Eossetti is very gratifying. I am 
 proud to know they like my book. It is con- 
 soling to hear that .... will try and carry the 
 matter through. ... I think the party at your 
 house must have been great fan. I can sympa- 
 thize thoroughly with your feeling of loneliness, 
 for my room seems terribly dreary when my 
 sister goes away, and I find, as you do, the 
 silence quite unbearable. I was in bed last night 
 by twelve o'clock; but don't be frightened it 
 was the beginning of no reform. What a fearful 
 thing it would be if we did reform and became 
 proper members of society; but I don't think 
 we need be alarmed. What nice letters you write. 
 Will you come and see me on Monday? . . . 
 Don't have a headache, or gout, or any ailment, 
 mental or physical. I want to hear from you 
 the words of wisdom, and to be instructed by 
 you in the way in which I should go.' 
 
 The above extract gives a slight hint of what 
 in a letter written by Oliver to Philip towards 
 the end of October in this year may clearly be 
 detected, one very palpable cause of the lad's 
 headaches, and the reason of his frequent com- 
 plaints to his correspondent of ill- health. After 
 explaining his inability to keep an appointment 
 made for the following Sunday, Oliver says : 
 ' I trust sincerely that I am not putting you 
 
MYSTERIOUS ENGAGEMENTS. Ill 
 
 out in any particularly troublesome way but, 
 " alas ! I have no control over my destiny !" as 
 the heroes of romance usually say when they 
 have committed any particularly abominable 
 crime.' And he proceeds, ' When I see you 
 again we really must arrange some plan by 
 which you will agree to let me go away at 
 twelve o'clock in future, when I come to your 
 rooms. I am as ill as possible to-day, owing to 
 sitting up till four last night ; and never will I 
 do the like again, though I live to be a hundred 
 and three. Your martyrized friend/ 
 
 1 My dear Noll,' was the chaffing rejoinder, 
 ' what is this wonderful and mysterious engage- 
 ment that so jostles aside an engagement of 
 nearly ten days' standing? . . . You amuse 
 me excessively by your earnest pleading to be 
 let away early! If you remember, when you 
 came to see me on Tuesday, you remarked early 
 in the evening that you " should like to go not 
 later than one/' and though it may seem to you 
 now incredible, and altogether impossible to 
 believe, I replied, without even fainting or 
 even changing colour, that you should go just 
 when you wished, and as I answered you then 
 I shall always answer you. ... If your extreme 
 ill-health, and numerous and mysterious engage- 
 ments will let you come to me on Monday, I 
 
112 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 shall be very pleased t6 see you. Always 
 yours very sincerely, P. B. M.' To this Oliver 
 immediately replied : ' Pray forgive me, but I 
 find the reasons which I imagined were going to 
 keep me at home Sunday morning are no longer 
 in existence, so please be ready at a quarter to 
 twelve, as before decided. I have, as is usually 
 the case with me, behaved very selfishly and 
 impolitely, yet I hope you will overlook this in 
 consideration of my sincere repentance. Doubt- 
 less, I shall end on the treadmill, or in a mad- 
 house, as my father is in the habit of telling me 
 at times. I will tell you why I fancied I should 
 have to stop at home on Sunday morning when 
 I see you. You will be quite satisfied of my 
 plain dealing and unquestionable veracity/ 
 
 Writing to his friend on the 8th of November, 
 the young novelist says : 
 
 ' MY DEAR PHILIP, 
 
 I have been out every blessed evening 
 this week, and I really don't feel up to coming 
 out to-night again. "Will you allow me, there- 
 fore, to come Tuesday night instead? Just 
 write and tell me if I may. You will be glad 
 to hear my book is out at last. ... I am very 
 proud of the following quotation for the heading 
 of the chapter I am now writing on. "What do 
 
AN ORIGINAL QUOTATION. 113 
 
 you think of it ? - " A worthy axium hath 
 "been surmized Reader! and a will deserv- 
 ing of Inquisition. That (In this Worlde) : 
 Either thou mayest act accordant to thine owne 
 welfare, thus bringing to pass the detryment of 
 Others : Or to thine owne proper detryment, that 
 these Others may come about to Profit thereby : 
 And (forsooth!) that there existeth none other 
 Eule of Life." " The DevylJs Owne Touchstone: 
 Being an infallible Sevenfolde Exposition thereof. 
 Englished by J. Sparrow, barrister of the Inner 
 Temple, from the German, 1647." 
 
 This will, doubtless, remind you of my 
 costermonger's story: but it is from Jacob 
 Bohme himself. It proves, however, what 
 an upright and just-spirited man that said 
 costermonger was leaving out the oaths, of 
 course. . . . 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN.' 
 
 The following note appears to have been 
 Philip's reply to the deferred appointment, 
 
 ' MY DEAR NOLL, 
 
 I may go to Reading to-morrow with 
 my father, but I shall be back in my rooms at 
 eleven, if you like to chance it. We shall not 
 go if it is cold or a fog. I have been made 
 
 8 
 
114 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 very happy by the kindest letter from Eossetti, 
 respecting a little poem which, I think I told 
 you, was written by a friend of mine, and 
 published in Good Words. What a supreme 
 man is Eossetti! Why is he not some great 
 exiled king, that we might give our lives in 
 trying to restore him to his kingdom ! I wonder 
 shall I ever be able to let him know how I love 
 and honour him! You seemed to me dull at 
 the concert, old boy ; I hope nothing was wrong. 
 You know what pleasure your visits give me, 
 and now, very sincerely, 
 
 I am yours, 
 
 P. B. M; 
 
 On the 19th Oliver wrote to ask Marston if 
 he had seen the review the first out of 
 Gabriel Denver, in the Academy, 'from the 
 justice -dealing hand of that amaranthine and 
 comfortable luminary, Mr. Simcox? 7 A few 
 days later, when less satisfactory critiques had 
 appeared, he wrote : 
 
 ' MY DEAR PHILIP, 
 
 I have been slightly unwell for the 
 past five or six days ; so that (particularly as I 
 have only got up to-day for the first time since 
 Friday evening) you will understand my reluc- 
 tance to venture out into the infernal fog at 
 
TRANSATLANTIC LIBEL GAZETTE. 115 
 
 present rampaging round Fitzroy Square and its 
 vicinity. After God .... having given .... 
 the sun, moon, earth, etc., in such agreeable 
 juxtaposition, it seems hard that a fog like this 
 should be capable of interposing its impertinent 
 self and cutting them off so completely from one 
 another! .... Excuse the obviously shaky 
 condition of this epistle. 0. M. B ' 
 
 * I called on Mr. Swinburne the other day, and 
 found that he had gone to Henley-on- Thames, 
 having been very ill for several days previously, 
 according to the housekeeper. ... I am sorry to 
 say that there has been an article on him in 
 some Transatlantic " Libel Gazette," of a very 
 base, scurrilous, description ; written and signed 
 by an eccentric friend of Mr. C. K. Miller, (one 
 " Olive Harper " by name ; a blonde-haired, 
 strong-minded, and slightly mendacious female 
 party, who has been " making tracks," to use 
 her own expression, through various European 
 capitals ; and writing astounding reports thereof 
 to her native journals,) which contains among 
 certain matters obviously evolved from her own 
 self- consciousness certain other matters which 
 .... declares can only have come from the evil 
 speaking lips of Mr. Miller lui-meme. 
 
 If this be true Mr. Miller must be a cad of 
 the very lowest description. I have a very poor 
 
 82 
 
116 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 opinion of him through certain other matters, 
 but I hardly like to believe this for that he 
 possesses great talent only Mr. J. himself would 
 deny/ 
 
 About the middle of December, writing to 
 excuse a with him not very unusual fit of for- 
 getfulness, Oliver explains, ' I was writing all 
 night, and forgot all about your letter till I left 
 off at half-past two, when, of course, it was too 
 late, let alone the fact that it was raining hard/ 
 
 On the 27th of the same month, after making 
 some seasonable gratulations, Oliver indulges in 
 a little literary tittle-tattle, anent an amusing 
 attempt made by some friends of his to concoct 
 a sonnet in imitation of certain peculiarities of 
 style supposed to appertain to the author of 
 Paracelsus. 'A great friend of Mr. Eobert 
 Browning/ is his mock earnest assertion, 'was 
 telling us a great deal concerning Mr. Brown- 
 ing's new poem, which seems about to appear 
 the opening of which consists of a series of 
 Shakespearian sonnets. Of the first, entitled 
 Past Chronology, he possesses the MS., and he 
 was kind enough to permit me to copy it. Now, 
 I am not a bad hand at these here kind of things, 
 but I'll be hanged if I can make head or tail of 
 it ! Can you ? I fancy it must refer to some- 
 thing in the construction or plot of the story 
 
PAST CHRONOLOGY. H7 
 
 which follows, so that it would most likely be 
 unfair to judge or read it without the context. 
 Isn't it stupendous?' A copy of the pseudo- 
 Browning sonnet accompanied the communica- 
 tion, and is now reproduced for the edification of 
 our readers : 
 
 A chronologic skull, sir ! 'twas a poet's ; 
 
 But Mother's wasn't my friend's friend's, I say. 
 Our first a Lombard were the wind to blow its 
 Loudest, could not daunt him, loved to pray 
 Too, in all the English language is no rhyme 
 Describes him thoroughly. You should have watched him 
 
 knit 
 
 Those brows of his, black brows, sir, scarred by time 
 And scowling like a pent-house. But your sonnet 
 Should have a moral, let's to it, tooth and nail. 
 You'd never catch it, were you to fall on it 
 Without premeditation. Work like a snail 
 Gnawing a lotus leaf, you're on the brink of it 
 How now, Sir Numbskull, turn and think of it. 
 
 The first letter of the series appertaining to 
 1874 is dated January the 15th, and although 
 lit up with Oliver's wonted ' pawky ' humour, 
 contains, as usual, allusions to his ill-health. ' I 
 don't think I shall be able to get out for two or 
 three nights yet/ it begins, 'as I am afflicted 
 with a hoarse sore throat, which prevents me 
 speaking. Couldn't you manage to turn up 
 here some evening ? We shall all be delighted 
 to see you. I have just been forced to swallow 
 a wine-glassful of the most disgusting medicine 
 
118 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 I ever tasted which is saying something. It 
 smells like a combination of old gas-pipe, nico- 
 tine, and turpentine, with a dash of peppermint 
 and garlic to flavour it. My unfortunate cat 
 demanded, as usual, a share of what I was par- 
 taking of but, oh! the expression of her face 
 when I gave her the glass to smell F 
 
 In a letter to Oliver, sent in the month of 
 February, Philip Marston alluded to a disturb- 
 ance which had occurred next door. A police- 
 man had been summoned but declined to enter 
 the house unless one of the disturbers cried 
 
 * murder/ Eventually one of them, a female, 
 did scream the necessary word, when the place 
 was entered and quietude restored. In the 
 course of his letter, Mr. Marston also asked 
 whether there is 'anything in the poetry of 
 L. E. L., and why she is so written up ?' One 
 of the usual exaggerated, humorous epistles 
 was elicited, containing the following remarks : 
 
 * I am sorry to hear of your neighbour's obstre- 
 perousness my conscience stings me somewhat 
 in the matter ; for if he did succeed in doing for 
 the young lady you mention, I, who by tapping 
 on the wall with my walking-stick apparently 
 aggravated him to madness, must in a moral 
 sense be responsible for the deed. Never mind ; 
 God's will be done ! Who L. E. L. was is a 
 
STRAIT-LACED FATHERS. 119 
 
 profound, inexplicable mystery, as far as I am 
 concerned ; she was an authoress of some talent, 
 my father says, and was, I believe, unfortunate 
 in some fashion or other went mad, or was 
 eaten by the natives of the Sandwich Islands, or 
 something or other. It isn't difficult to invent 
 an end for her ; but I really don't know any- 
 thing whatever of the matter/ In this letter 
 was returned a Stores-ticket, belonging to the 
 late Arthur O'Shaughnessy, Mr. Philip B. Mar- 
 ston's brother-in-law, which Oliver had borrowed, 
 and which he now sent back with some of his 
 customary banter, such as, ' I swore solemnly to 
 my identity with your sister's husband. They 
 seemed to think I'd got rather untidy since I 
 was there last, or had changed in some way.' 
 
 The next communication carries the corres- 
 pondence up to the end of April, and shows 
 Oliver still as interested and as anxious as ever 
 despite his c poking fun at him ' about his 
 friend's literary projects. ' Dear Philip,' he 
 rattles on, ' I find I shan't be able to come to- 
 morrow (or rather the day after to-morrow) 
 evening, no how. I am so sorry ; but I propose 
 and my mother disposes, just at present. I hope 
 
 you will think over the affair of and 
 
 (publishers), while there yet remains time ; you 
 will have a splendid chance of playing one off 
 
120 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 against the other if you are dissatisfied ... the 
 strictest secrecy must be preserved, of course. I 
 think your father's notions are too strait-laced 
 he seems rather like my own father, in fact. 
 There is no good in dealing honestly with pub- 
 lishers you must oppose fraud to fraud, swind- 
 ling to swindling, villainy to villainy, if you 
 mean to get anything out of them. I should 
 even recommend violence, if need be. Ever 
 yours, 0. M. B.' 
 
 Another note from Oliver, referring to the same 
 business, and written about the same time, 
 begins in a more serious strain, although it 
 rapidly reverts to the customary humorous 
 tone : it is undated and reads thus : 
 
 'DEAR PHILIP, 
 
 I am most anxious to learn if any com- 
 munications have again passed between yourself 
 
 and C ? . . . Write me a line if you have 
 
 any news. 
 
 My father came back unexpectedly while I 
 was out last night, and had to tackle the door as 
 Jupiter did the Titans with thunderbolts, or 
 the nearest approach he could make to them for 
 half an hour. I was out and the rest in bed. . . . 
 Ever yours most faithfully, 
 
 o. M. B; 
 
A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. 121 
 
 Friends are as sensitive as lovers, and are 
 therefore as likely to have ' tiffs/ Words, which 
 if spoken by a stranger or by a mere acquaint- 
 ance, would float unnoted by, when uttered by a 
 dear one, wound deeply, and if not quickly 
 medicined, rankle sorely. Some slight i differ- 
 ence/ happily cured by the speedy and drastic 
 measures of both concerned, is foreshadowed by 
 the following correspondence which passed be- 
 tween Oliver and Philip during the latter part of 
 July. Philip's letter is as follows : 
 
 ( Sunday Night. 
 
 MY DEAR OLIVER, 
 
 That no misunderstanding may arise 
 between us, and that our friendship may be done 
 full justice to, I write to say that you hurt me 
 deeply on Thursday night, for I must tell you 
 what I thought perhaps you would have known, 
 that those poems are, to me at least, sacred; they 
 can bear no jesting allusion, far less allusions 
 which go still further. I have written this not 
 without pain to myself, and I have, you see, been 
 quite frank with you. I leave town on Thurs- 
 day, I think, and I shall be very pleased to see 
 you between now and then, if you can manage it. 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 PHILIP BOUKKE MARSTON.' 
 
122 OLIVER HADOX BROWN. 
 
 In response to this remonstrance for the unin- 
 tentional infliction of pain, the warm-hearted 
 youth instantly returned the following manly 
 letter : 
 
 ' MY DEAR PHILIP, 
 
 It gives me the greatest sorrow to think 
 I should ever (unwittingly) have made any 
 single allusion to your poems which could in 
 any way be capable of wounding your feelings. 
 I have always prized your poetry at its highest 
 worth, and I am exceedingly glad you give me 
 an opportunity of confirming the many words I 
 have spoken on the subject, both to yourself and 
 others as of apologizing for a misunderstood 
 inadvertence in my speech, of which I should 
 otherwise have not been cognizant. I will come 
 round Tuesday evening. Till then, with all best 
 wishes, 
 
 Yours as ever, 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN.' 
 
 The offence, so frankly proclaimed and so 
 promptly repaired, was instantly obliterated from 
 the minds of the two friends, who became, if it 
 were possible, more friendly than ever. 
 
LIFE IN LONDON AND LECHLADE. 
 
In Spring I rambled through an Alpine land, 
 And in snow-hollows marked a print of feet, 
 A youth's elastic footsteps : screened from heat 
 
 Of sunshine, death-white snow on either hand. 
 
 Impenetrable heaven unmeasured spanned 
 The crags where mountain-sheep and lambkins bleat. 
 Turning a point where bay with yew leaves meet, 
 
 To hear an eagle scream I took my stand. 
 
 There to the sheer edge of a precipice 
 That foot-track reached and ceased. A cairn of stones 
 Was piled and lettered ' No man found his bones.' 
 A village-girl at twilight sang a song 
 In youthful and in manful passion strong 
 
 And said, ' The youth who vanished taught me this." 
 
 W. M. ROSSETTI. 
 April 1883. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LIFE IN LONDON AND LECHLADE. 
 
 1 London I never loved for London's sake, 
 
 Her crowds oppressed me more than solitude ; 
 But some far music his fine ear could take, 
 
 Mine failed to catch ; yea, since he found her good, 
 Loved the strong ebb and flow of fluctuant life, 
 The night's uneasy calm, the day's loud strife, 
 Found all her ancient streets with memories rife, 
 Shall I not love her too, asleep, awake ?' 
 
 A Lament PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 A SOMEWHAT retrospective glance must 
 -^- be taken across that interval of Oliver's 
 life which his correspondence with Philip Marston 
 covers. In September, 1872, when negotiations 
 for offering Gabriel Denver to Messrs. Smith, 
 Elder and Co. were opened with Mr. Smith 
 Williams, the youthful author informed that 
 gentleman that for more than three months he 
 
126 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 had been engaged on a second romance, a story of 
 Devonshire country life. This story, afterwards 
 to be known as The Dwale Bluih, subsequent 
 events caused Oliver to put on one side for some 
 months, and apparently without reluctance, for, 
 as he wrote to Mr. Williams, ' doubtless at the end 
 of that time I could see my way to making a great 
 many alterations, which I should scarcely care to 
 effect without some little time for consideration/ 
 The two months or so spent in hacking and 
 hewing from his initial romance its pristine glory, 
 caused Oliver to lose interest for a while in his 
 Devonshire novel, and to divert his energies to 
 the composition of ' an entirely new story of a 
 somewhat more dramatic order the end of which 
 will/ he wrote Mr. Smith Williams, 'in some 
 degree resemble the conclusion of Gabriel 
 Denver. I am not quite certain about a title for 
 it as yet, 7 he added, ' but I think of calling it 
 To All Eternity. If you think this would sound 
 too vague or bombastic, the book might simply 
 be named after its heroine, Agnes Desborougli. 
 There will be no retrospective writing in the 
 course of this story, if it can possibly be avoided, 
 and, as the scene is laid in London, there will be 
 no opportunity for indulging in too many de- 
 scriptive passages, although there are many 
 aspects of London street-scenery which have been 
 
TO ALL ETERNITY. 127 
 
 hitherto utterly overlooked and neglected. I 
 hope you will allow me to send you the first 
 two or three chapters as soon as I can work 
 them into shape.' 
 
 The new story of London life thus shadowed 
 forth ultimately took shape under the title of 
 HebditcKs Legacy, but the germ of it also budded 
 forth into a poem haplessly for us, but a 
 fragment. To All Eternity, in its poetic form, 
 was to enunciate the belief that 
 
 ' There's no standard 
 
 In heaven above or hell beneath, o'er which 
 A woman's soul may not predominate 
 May not aspire to or degrade itself !' 
 
 But little of this theory in verse has been pre- 
 served, even if much were written ; but from the 
 virile and vigorous lines which are extant is 
 learnt that the heroine's eyes 
 
 ' Kindled and shone like flames blown in the wind. 
 
 They made 
 
 A boy's soul luminous, where now they burn 
 The grown man's soul to death !' 
 
 This fine imagery is followed by a magnificent 
 burst of passion, which, though called forth by 
 the oldest theme of human song, sounds as if 
 drawn from the crushed lees of a full-lived man's 
 experience, rather than from the intuitive feelings 
 of a mere lad : 
 
 'Ah love ! love ! love ! 
 Whose unintelligible promptings lure 
 
128 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 Earth's mightiest nerves to thraldom whose deep magic, 
 
 Too swift for timorous afterthought, too deep 
 
 For present doubt, makes blind the brain whose hands 
 
 Mould this man's heaven from that man's hell whose gaze 
 
 Infatuates whose wind-shod feet resume 
 
 The joys its hands disperse whose yearnings storm 
 
 Heaven with their high intentions, ere God paves 
 
 Hell's wildest depths with them !' 
 
 This passionate outbreak is followed by a 
 charming picture of forest scenery and quiet 
 woodland life, as opposite in tone and tenor as 
 can well be devised. The story and the heroine 
 are both thus naturally, yet artistically, intro- 
 duced : 
 
 ' The wood 
 
 Grew thinner thereabouts for presently 
 I broke into a glade where the warm sun 
 Pierced through at random, and, just slipping round 
 The weather-beaten trunk of a huge oak, 
 Stepped out into the light. How shall I tell 
 What happened there ? For first I stood half -dazed 
 In one great blaze of sunlight. Then there came 
 A sharp stroke on my side, and I reeled back, 
 Breathless and stupefied ; whilst a shrill scream 
 Kang in mine ears. Just hovering past my face 
 I saw the suspended figure of a girl 
 Nigh grown to womanhood mount high i' the air 
 Some moments yet ere she could stay herself. 
 She had been swinging as she sang, her rope 
 Fast to the boughs o'erhead ; and I, it seemed, 
 Had stepped before her unawares, her song 
 Still on her lips low-lingering ; till it changed 
 Into that frightened scream. 
 
 And now she stopped, 
 Sprang to the earth, and disappeared ere I 
 Could gain my feet again ; I only caught 
 One brief glance of her face then she was gone. 3 
 
HEBDITCH'S LEGACY. 129 
 
 And with this short episode the fragment 
 finishes, it being only just long enough to prove 
 that the author, had he lived and laboured at 
 poesy, might therein have fully rivalled his 
 success in prose. 
 
 The story styled Hebditctis Legacy does not 
 appear to us equally attractive with Oliver's 
 other longer works, and, indeed, in its present 
 condition, fails to take such hold on the imagina- 
 tion as does the weirdly fascinating Black Swan, 
 or that sweetly human, albeit unfinished master- 
 piece, The Dwale Bluth. Hebditctis Legacy, which 
 was never completed by its author, and had, 
 therefore, to be made up by his editors from 
 notes or remembrance of what he had said, runs 
 too much in the common groove of ordinary 
 fiction to exercise that wonderful charm origi- 
 nality only can wield. Its complicated plot 
 needs more space for working out than the limits 
 within which its author left it, whilst the story 
 itself deals too much with hidden wills, conven- 
 tional coincidences, and the usual paraphernalia 
 of three volume sensation-mongers. Its chief 
 drawback, apart from the fact of its unfinished- 
 ness, is that it competes too closely with the 
 productions of the ordinary routine novelist ; 
 yet, as the composition of a boy in his teens, it is, 
 like nearly all Oliver's work, simply marvellous. 
 
 9 
 
130 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 Indeed, Hebditclis Legacy contains many fine 
 bits of portraiture, characteristic glimpses of 
 deep thought, and some clever descriptive word- 
 painting. Several of the personages in this 
 novel, we are assured, were drawn from life, 
 and the sketch of the lawyer, Mr. Blackoder, 
 was accurately copied from a veritable solicitor, 
 as will readily be believed by those who read it. 
 He is introduced as sitting in his office, where 
 4 the light of his lamp fell full on his face, in 
 which that strange look, theoretically so essential 
 to success in life, the look of the man who knows 
 the value of silence, was unmistakably visible. 
 For success, in its ordinary sense, consists not so 
 much in talking yourself as in making others 
 talk. This man's swarthy skin, emphasizing the 
 greyness of his hair, plainly indicated the traces 
 of some foreign (perhaps even Eastern) blood in 
 his veins ; his eyes, grey, piercingly luminous, 
 and never still for an instant, possessed that 
 penetrating, yet indirect, look which we in- 
 separably connect with the Oriental physiognomy. 
 Not the faintest shadow of an emotion seemed 
 discernible in them. His black crooked shadow, 
 cast high up on the wall behind, craned over 
 him furtively ; so still and motionless that it 
 grew at last like some evil familiar spirit, trying 
 to guess what new wizardry its master could 
 have found to ponder over. 7 
 
DEATH-BED SCENE. 131 
 
 The death -bed scene in Mrs. Helmore's 
 chamber is most powerfully told, and affects us 
 as if described direct from nature ; and who can 
 believe such remarks as follow to proceed from 
 aught but actual observation? 
 
 ' Nothing in all nature seems more weird or 
 fantastic than the delirium, born of prolonged 
 exhaustion, which so often precedes the death 
 brought about by consumption. Perhaps one 
 should hardly term it delirium at all ; as the 
 mind breaks down with the failure of the body, 
 its imagination seems to strengthen and gain 
 force, until at last the sense of life merges into a 
 dream, and the profound last sleep falls upon it. 
 A form of death long drawn out and with an 
 incredibly unexpected ending ! The whole room 
 was filled with her quick, difficult breathing it 
 was like the rasping of a file. To judge from 
 her face, she must have been young still scarcely 
 thirty -three, perhaps. Once she might have 
 been beautiful, but now her features were ema- 
 ciated in the extreme, the eyes sunken, and the 
 cheeks utterly hollowed and wasted away. For 
 others, the light and frivolity of life ; for her, 
 the solemnity and pathos of death ; for others, 
 the radiance ; for her, the silence of the sun. At 
 times one can discover beauty in a dying face 
 .such as might baffle description. The com- 
 
 92 
 
132 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 plexion grows so diaphanous, the eyes glitter so 
 strangely, that quite at last the first vague rays 
 of some new existence seem fallen on the fea- 
 tures : 
 
 ' " Some say that gleams of a remoter world 
 Visit the soul in sleep, that death is slumber ; 
 And that its dreams the busy thoughts outnumber 
 Of those that wake and live." 
 
 Or it often happens that the act of death looks 
 as though the body were dissolving away and 
 leaving the soul behind rather than the soul 
 the body. 
 
 4 But here it was otherwise : a profound, un- 
 endurable horror of death, as it were, lay on all 
 the features death, which had stamped them for 
 its own so unmistakably ; her lips quivering and 
 muttering incessantly, her eyes dilated and filled 
 with sombre, unluminous fire, as though her 
 whole life had been as a flame self- consuming 
 and those eyes were the last particles left of 
 it/ 
 
 That that London, whose street scenery pre- 
 sented, according to his own words, many as- 
 pects utterly overlooked and neglected, had 
 received his deep study, numberless touches in 
 this novel of Hebditch's Legacy evince ; take, 
 for instance, the fine description of the metropolis 
 in a fog : 
 
A LONDON FOG. 133 
 
 Early one November afternoon ... an im- 
 mense squalid volume of fog swept down across 
 the central parishes of London ; blocking out 
 the residue of the brief wintry sunlight, and 
 suffocating their crowded, tumultuous thorough- 
 fares. It was as though some horrid dream, 
 some dismal nightmare, had suddenly enthralled 
 the town ; it was tohu va bohu realized again, for 
 London is essentially the city of dyspepsia of 
 morbid self- torturing imagination ; and there 
 are certain days towards the fall of the year on 
 which its sense of degradation and of misery 
 appears to transcend al^ bounds grown too 
 uncontrollably poignant even for suppression. 
 Sinister and poisonous, and hiding the sun away, 
 it seemed just such a vapour as that which once 
 upon a time rolled forth and embodied itself from 
 the magic jar of Suleyman unsealed by the Arab 
 fisherman a sullen, long imprisoned monster, 
 an Efreet, consecrating its recovered liberty only 
 in the blood of its deliverer. Or it was as 
 though the houses had been swept off the visible 
 face of the earth by some stupendous conflagra- 
 tion emptied and dissolved into the drifts o 
 lurid smoke that yet enwrapped their ruins. All 
 the atmosphere was full of vague palpitating 
 sounds and rumours. In the streets (save for 
 the city link -bearers, round whose torches the 
 
134 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 flame -irradiated vapour florentia lumina flammis 
 seemed to take fire and glare so fantastically) 
 men lost sight of each other's corporeal identities, 
 or shrank into mere sound-creating shadows. 
 Every visible object became the disembodied 
 phantom of some former self. The fog was at 
 its worst round Chancery Lane. . . . Ere long 
 the whole centre of London seethed into one 
 illimitable chaos. 
 
 ' Clifford's Inn, never an animated spot at the 
 brightest seasons, under the paralyzing unwhole- 
 some tutelage of this fog, grew dreary and dila- 
 pidated indeed. The soot-corroded corners of 
 its houses looked gloomily through the nauseous 
 obscurity ; the skeleton-silhouettes of what were 
 once its trees (dotted still with the last nests of 
 a once populous rookery, clothed with fog in 
 lieu of foliage, and shrivelled in their winter's 
 atrophy) looked more like weeds, stagnating in 
 the mud- discoloured depths of some Brobding- 
 nagian horsepond. What the rooks, which then 
 patronized the " Inn," did with themselves that 
 day, Heaven alone knows ! At last, towards 
 four saving one dimly lighted window, whose 
 vague rays produced an aureole round its sills 
 such as might once have graced the brows of a 
 rebellious angel its whole interior courtyards 
 were blurred together and blotted out of sight.' 
 
A LONDON CROWD. 135 
 
 Another phase of London life noted by the 
 youth's observant eye is thus pointed out : ' A 
 large crowd had collected round them already, 
 strange to say. No better idea of the immensity 
 of London can be acquired than by watching 
 the way in which one of these crowds swarms 
 together in a street where previously no single 
 soul seemed visible. In this fog it looked more 
 mysterious than ever. A crowd rises in London 
 like a cloud in the sky it comes one knows not 
 whence, and seems to dissolve back again into 
 bricks and mortar/ 
 
 But finer far than these metropolitan chiaro- 
 oscuro sketches are the brilliant little snatches of 
 thought with which the Legacy is begemmed, as, 
 'once more in the sunlight . . . his shadow 
 (which hitherto had stopped modestly outside at 
 the entrance) flew to his feet again ;' and such 
 original similes as ' the moonbeams shrank back 
 through the intersecting boughs like the horns of 
 a disturbed snail, leaving all the garden in 
 perfect darkness/ And still finer thoughts and 
 veritably grand conceptions are imbedded in this, 
 as in all Oliver's work. Take, for instance, the 
 following picturesque description, which none 
 but an artist with a poet's eye or poet with an 
 artist's hand could have written : 
 
 ' There still exists a sketch in pencil in the 
 
136 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 possession of some friend or relative by an 
 artist who died comparatively young* a sketch 
 entitled Man and His Conscience, which repre- 
 sents two wild-visaged figures, stark stripped and 
 running swiftly down the damp sand of a desolate 
 sea-beach ; one in the footsteps of the other. It 
 might have been designed by Michelangelo. 
 The waves are an inspiration in themselves ; 
 wild, cold, and inveterate, a few strokes of the 
 pencil have set them dashing and surging for 
 ever. Behind, the sky grey, dumb, speech- 
 bound, as it were " aweary with her wings " 
 leans vaporously on the horizon, and rests there. 
 The whole sketch is filled with the monotony 
 and foam- speckled desolation of these waves, and 
 with the steel-grey frozen neutrality of the 
 horizon beyond ; with the sense of movement and 
 of gradually quickening flight. You can hear 
 the waves hiss through the pebbles the wind 
 whistles round the limbs and the nakedness of the 
 fugitives. And nothing else save these two 
 figures visible subtly designed ; incredibly 
 swift in action ; one running in the other's 
 footsteps. Where will the race end ? Will the 
 pursuer ever look fully in the eyes of the pursued, 
 as he strains to do even now ? Will the foremost 
 be forced to remove the convulsive fingers from 
 * David Scott, B.S.A. 
 
MAN AND HIS CONSCIENCE. 137 
 
 his ears ? Will the one who follows unburthen 
 his tight-shut lips at last ? None can tell ! It 
 may perhaps be they will face each other in 
 some final goal (out of sight now and to all 
 eternity) when the fatal sea, rising, will drive 
 them in, till they can run no further where they 
 may be Mends at last: while the waves will 
 sweep them away in their embraces and their 
 reconciliation, even as it now consumes the 
 mutual footprints of their hostility and flight. 
 
 i This sketch is an epitome of the human mind 
 what soul so guiltless who has not undergone 
 these struggles once. . . . 
 
 4 How is it possible that things so visible to 
 one mind are not real and visible to all others ? 
 How can it be that the secret which burns for 
 ever on the lips has never yet found utterance 
 unconsciously in sleep in momentary forgetful- 
 ness ? No. The soul flies, the accuser pursues : 
 and the soul (the body's identity) day after day 
 follows its occupations, and mingles in the 
 turmoil of the city and the haunts of its fellow- 
 men each with his own heart gnawing per- 
 haps . . . 
 
 6 But it is a result of civilization, that no man 
 having once done wrong can escape the moral 
 consequences of his action unless, indeed, he be 
 not mentally responsible for it : unless his mind 
 
133 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 be deranged for the nerves vibrate perpetually 
 to it, and the brain never forgets its wrong- 
 doing. The punishment is so severe for infringe- 
 ment of the laws in force, the fall so terrible, the 
 mingling of the mental and physical agony so 
 intense and the discovery, above all, so easy, so 
 overwhelmingly imminent that there can be no 
 rest after, save in the severest toil and bodily 
 ailment.' 
 
 How the youth acquired the psychological 
 insight to fit him to say these things is a wonder, 
 for no amount of training nothing but ex- 
 perience, one would deem could have driven 
 these results of matured reasoning into his brain. 
 Although in this ' Hamlet of the Centuries ' such 
 speculations are rife, and in Edgar Poe's Man of 
 the Crowd some such mental contemplation of 
 conscience is indulged in, the originality of 
 Oliver Madox Brown's views cannot be gainsaid. 
 
 But it is necessary to dismiss HebditcKs Legacy, 
 and, for a while, turning from the literary aspects 
 of Oliver's career, revert to more directly personal 
 matters. In such a life as was his, so happy but 
 so short, there seems little left to chronicle beyond 
 the production of his romances and the analysis 
 of his personal story as divulged in his corres- 
 pondence, so naive and simple as it is as con- 
 trasted with the experience and virility of his 
 
FRATERNAL CORRESPONDENCE. 130 
 
 mental life. In the early summer of 1873 he is 
 found writing to his sister Lucy, then travelling 
 in Italy, in the following terms : 
 
 1 MY DEAR LUCY, 
 
 I don't know how to excuse myself for not 
 having written to you long ere this, but we have 
 been so occupied with one thing and another 
 that I have scarcelv known whether I was stand- 
 
 V 
 
 ing on my head or on my heels. Papa and mamma 
 are now away at Kelmscott, and the house is 
 dreadfully dull and lonely. I am just correcting 
 the last of my proofs, though I am sorry to say 
 that what with one thing and another the book 
 has been so delayed that its owners " think best 
 to reserve it for the autumn," as Mr. Williams 
 has just informed me. However, there is plenty 
 of time, I suppose. 
 
 I am very pleased to learn how you are 
 enjoying yourself; but you mustn't exaggerate 
 your adventures too much when you return. I 
 am fully resolved to make a trip somewhere 
 abroad myself if the next " romance " sells well. 
 Mr. W. was talking about it as though he were 
 quite prepared to treat for it when finished. 
 
 I really can't think of anything to tell you, 
 excepting that J. C. Hotten, the publisher, is 
 dead, which .... may like to hear. 
 
140 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 Thank you for the nightshade. I have just 
 been hearing a story read by the elder brother of 
 the Mackays, which seems full of promise and 
 talent. It is just a sketch, but a very clever one. 
 I should fancy from the look of him that he lacks 
 the perseverance and invention necessary to get 
 through anything more mature or longer. 
 
 Papa has just finished a wonderful chalk 
 drawing of old Mr. Miller. Are you doing any 
 professional work? I suppose you have very 
 little time to think of that. Have you recognised 
 much of Koine? One often retains a perfect 
 memory of things seen in childhood, without 
 remembering where one has seen them, until 
 coming upon them again one finds that they 
 coincide exactly with the remembrance of them. 
 It is quite startling sometimes to find that a 
 place one has supposed only to exist in one's own 
 imagination has really a material existence of 
 its own. What wonderful enigmas childrens' 
 minds are! I don't think they have ever 
 been analyzed or understood properly. You 
 must excuse the bad handwriting of this letter 
 as, also, the jerky and involved style of it 
 for I have got a severe headache ; although I 
 put off writing to you for so long that I am 
 ashamed to delay it any longer. Trusting that 
 this will reach you safely, and with kindest 
 
A HUMAN INSTITUTION. 141 
 
 regards to all your party, believe me, my dear 
 Lucy, 
 
 Your very affectionate brother, 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN/ 
 
 In a letter written to his father about the same 
 time as that just quoted, he again adverts to the 
 suggestion that his next novel is to pass into the 
 hands of the publishers of his first, remarking that 
 their reader had spoken about the story Oliver was 
 then engaged on ' as though it were quite settled 
 that it was to be published by his own firm: for he 
 begged me/ he says, ' not to send it them too 
 quickly, "as it never did to publish two works by 
 the same author without some little time inter- 
 vening between the dates of publication." They 
 would be prepared for it by about January or 
 December.' 
 
 During the progress of his romance Oliver 
 found it necessary to refer to various works of 
 an out-of-the-way nature, works which he did 
 not possess, and might find it difficult, or even 
 impossible, to procure. Naturally, he thought 
 of visiting the British Museum Eeading-room, 
 that resort of all in similar difficulty that 
 epitome of human wit, wisdom, and folly. He 
 appears to have applied for a ticket of admission 
 in the usual way, but was met by an unforeseen 
 
142 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 obstacle ; he was labouring under the delightful 
 drawback of youth ; he was still in his teens, and 
 no person could be admitted as a reader until 
 he had attained his majority had reached the 
 magical age of one-and-twenty ! Oliver Madox 
 Brown, having some knowledge of his own 
 powers, feeling the real need of his requirements, 
 and well aware of the trivial nature of many 
 persons' studies at the Keading-room, deemed 
 that the exercise of a little personal influence 
 that great lever of English life would obtain 
 him what he wanted entrance to the biblio- 
 graphists' paradise. But he was as quickly un- 
 deceived as was Moore's Peri : the laws of the 
 Museum, if not as stringent as those of Media 
 and Persia, were not to be departed from for the 
 sake of genius, however brilliant. 
 
 Appealing to a literary friend for advice, he re- 
 ceived a characteristic reply, in which were these 
 remarks : ' With regard to the officials of the 
 British Museum, I don't know that I can blame 
 them very severely. The Museum, like Nature 
 herself, is governed by general, not special laws, 
 and if among the thousand nineteen-year-olds who 
 would if they could turn the Eeading-room into 
 a bear-garden, there now and then turns up one 
 who is a genius why, genius is always an 
 anomaly of which general laws take no cogniz- 
 
A DISTURBING ELEMENT. 143 
 
 ance, and can take none. Neither Nature nor 
 man's institutions can take the casuistic view of 
 affairs. I forget what is the age under which ad- 
 mittance is refused, but if it is twenty, I fear that 
 appeal would not stand much chance. Perhaps I 
 may be able to get some of the books you want/ 
 
 Unfortunately, man's institutions do not 
 recognise the anomaly of genius, and very 
 resolutely turn their backs upon such a dis- 
 turbing element when Nature so far forgets 
 herself as to introduce it; therefore Oliver's 
 remonstrance, or appeal, or whatever it may be 
 termed, was not successful, and owing to the 
 mishap of youth the one mishap which all 
 legislators would envy him he could not 
 become a visitor at the British Museum 
 Reading-room. 
 
 Amongst the works needed for his guidance 
 were some of a legal character, and as he could 
 not be admitted to the Museum Library, Mr. J. 
 Winter Jones, then principal Librarian at the 
 suggestion of Oliver's friend, Mr. Richard 
 Garnett kindly forwarded him a letter of intro- 
 duction to the Superintendent of the Inner Temple 
 Library. This recommendatory letter, however, 
 Oliver does not appear to have made use of, by 
 this time, probably, having been sickened of the 
 whole affair, and obliged to execute his work in 
 
144 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 the best way he could, without resort to any of 
 these carefully environed institutions. 
 
 His ineffectual attempt to break down the 
 barriers of routine terminated at the end of 
 October, 1873, and for some months there are 
 no further data of Oliver's life beyond those 
 already given in the correspondence with his 
 friend Philip. On a certain Monday, early in 
 1874, he indited one of his wonted humoristic 
 epistles to a lady friend, using such boyish 
 badinage as this : 
 
 ' I was quite taken by surprise, while surrep- 
 titiously reading your last letter to Lucy this 
 afternoon, at coming across an unexpected 
 allusion to your son and heir's nose, eyes, and 
 other personal appendages for it appears that I 
 had quite forgotten all about the said son and 
 heir's very existence up till that moment. How 
 is it getting on? I suppose it must quite have 
 forgotten my existence, too, by this time. You 
 forgot to say what the number of its toes and 
 fingers are, explicit as you seem with regard to 
 other particulars; but, I suppose they are the same 
 as usual. Still, I cannot help wondering at so 
 unnatural an instance of inadvertence on your 
 part not to use a stronger expression. Are its 
 eyes quite as blue as when I saw them last ? . . . 
 
INVITATION TO KELMSCOTT. 145 
 
 P.S. Papa is very much better to-day, and 
 has been writing hard at his lecture since Satur- 
 day morning. Mamma seems all right again for 
 the present : both send their best love to you. 
 
 P.P.S. It has just struck me that the best 
 way to bring your son and heir would be in a 
 band-box, if you come as you promised. The 
 interstices would require to be stuffed up with 
 cotton-wool, and you would be obliged to cord 
 the package well to prevent its inmate from 
 knocking the top off, of course. Only, if you 
 do this, you had better not let the porters lay 
 hands on it, and it would perhaps be best to 
 take it into the cab with you instead of placing 
 it on the outside? 
 
 In March Oliver received an invitation to 
 visit Dante Eossetti at Kelmscott, couched in 
 the following terms : 
 
 1 Saturday. 
 
 MY DEAR NOLLY, 
 
 I am writing Hiiffer, asking him to 
 come down next Saturday. He seemed to think 
 a Saturday to Monday visit would suit him best 
 at present, pending the time when he might 
 come with Cathy for a longer stay. Would you 
 accompany him next Saturday to stay a week 
 
 10 
 
146 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 with us here? And do you think you could get 
 your father to come with you? Perhaps it 
 really might be good for him. There are no 
 floods at present, and though everything is 
 looking bleakish just now, I dare say a week 
 may bring improvement. Give him my love, 
 and say how very glad I should be if he could 
 come. You at any rate I will hope to see, and 
 when I know I may expect Buffer and yourself, 
 I will send word to one or other about trains. 
 When you come, bring your work and let us 
 hear it. I heard you had been poetizing as well 
 as novel-writing. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 D. G-. KOSSETTI/ 
 
 Of the poetizing referred to evidently To 
 All Eternity some specimens have already been 
 cited, whilst the following irregular but beautiful 
 production, apparently of the same period, is 
 simply entitled 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 ' Oh, delicious sweetness which lingers 
 
 Over the fond lips of love ! 
 Hair-tendrils clinging to fingers 
 
 Tangled in blossom above ! 
 Intense eyes which burn with a light made 
 
 No man knows whereof ! 
 Sweet lips grown more subtle than nightshade, 
 
 More soft than plumes of a dove ! 
 
THE OLD MANOR-HOUSE. 147 
 
 ' But love, like a fleet dream eluding 
 
 The desire of a wakening sleeper, 
 Love, grown too fondly excluding, 
 
 Consumes the heart deeper and deeper 
 In a passionate waste of desire ! 
 
 Like the flame of a desert which rages, 
 
 Our love shall extend through the ages 
 Though our souls blow asunder like fire. 
 
 ' Oh, reluctantly lingering breath ! 
 
 Oh, longing with sorrow requited ! 
 Oh, blossom the storm- winds have blighted 
 Deep down in the shadow of death !' 
 
 Anyone bearing such offerings in his hands as 
 this, was certain of a welcome at Kelmscott 
 whilst Dante Eossetti was there. Kossetti was 
 living near Lechlade in an old manor-house which 
 he rented jointly at that time with Mr. William 
 Morris, the poet, who was not, however, a resi- 
 dent then. Kelmscott has been described to us 
 as an ancient, grey stone mansion, with grey stone 
 roofs flecked with black and yellow lichens. 
 Fundamentally, its architecture was of that 
 Tudor style which for some centuries pervaded 
 English country residences, but the upper por- 
 tion of the building showed signs of a transition 
 to Jacobean, the result either of alterations or 
 more recent additions. The interior was, if 
 somewhat roughly, picturesquely furnished by 
 Eossetti and Morris. Two rooms, one tapestried 
 and the other a wainscoted chamber of the 
 
 102 
 
148 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 Jacobean period, were used by Rossetti as studios, 
 and charmingly appropriate studios they must 
 have been for the painter-poet. 
 
 The house at Lechlade, and its beautiful old 
 garden enclosed by walls, with a few picturesque 
 trees about it, stood on a gentle knoll, just suffi- 
 ciently elevated to be high and dry above the 
 Thames floods, which, however, at certain sea- 
 sons would surround the dwelling. A small 
 channel brought a boat right up to the boathouse 
 from the river. Every convenience of a country 
 residence, stables, kennels, yards, orchards, and 
 so forth, was attached to the place. A small 
 pony Mr. Morris had brought from Iceland, and 
 a number of beautiful dogs belonging to Mr. 
 George Hake, who was then residing with 
 Rossetti, were among the inhabitants. Mr. Hake's 
 celebrated black-and-tan terrier, ' Dizzy,' was 
 one of the guests, and always had a plate pro- 
 vided for him at dinner, dining like the rest of 
 the company, and keeping proudly aloof from 
 the great plebeian out-of-door dogs. 
 
 The whole place was exquisitely beautiful, 
 romantic, and thoroughly adapted to the highly 
 susceptible imagination of a youth of Oliver's 
 temperament, whilst the culture and originality 
 of his companions, much older though they were 
 than he in years, were highly delightful, and kept 
 
ItOSSETTPS OPINIONS. 149 
 
 him from regretting London society. Near by 
 the river flowed away through reed and rush 
 and flower-bordered meadows, whilst somewhat 
 further distant stood a fantastic footbridge, lead- 
 ing to a row of desolate cottages which were 
 frequently, in flood time, half under water. 
 
 Writing to his father from Kelmscott, on a 
 certain Monday in March, Oliver says : 
 
 ' DEAR PAPA, 
 
 I am sorry not to have written to you 
 long before this, but until Hiiffer went this 
 morning I really have not had a moment to 
 myself. It rained so hard the afternoon of the 
 day we started, that we were forced to come 
 straight on here ; but with a few exceptions we 
 have had very good weather since. Rossetti 
 seems in a wonderfully good temper at present : 
 George says he has not seen him in such high 
 spirits for a long time past. He has had several 
 long discussions with me on the subject of novel 
 writing, from which I see plainly that he has 
 great facility of expression, but that he would be 
 a dangerous preceptor. Thackeray he will hardly 
 hear the name of ; George Eliot is vulgarity per- 
 sonified ; Balzac is melodramatic in plot, con- 
 ceited, wishy-washy, and dull. Dumas is the 
 one great and supreme man, the sole descendant 
 
150 OLIVER MADOX DROWN. 
 
 of Shakespeare. For the last three evenings he 
 has played cards with Frantz, George, and what 
 they call a " dummy." . . . 
 
 I find I am a very good rider, although the 
 pony tries to throw one off every five minutes ; 
 as to rowing, I am almost as good as George, 
 and go two or three miles down the river every 
 morning, all by myself. I have a rather bad 
 sore throat at present. ... I shall be back on 
 Friday night. With best love to mamma and 
 yourself, believe me, 
 
 Very affectionately yours, 
 
 OLIVER M. BROWN/ 
 
 Instead of returning on the Friday, as pro- 
 mised in his interesting communication, Oliver 
 wrote home on that day, 
 
 4 DEAR PAPA, 
 
 Thank you very much for your card. 
 George has gone to London on some business. 
 Eossetti has asked me particularly to stop till he 
 comes back. He is not expected here before 
 Saturday evening, so I shall return Sunday 
 instead of to-day. I am very glad indeed to 
 hear you are going so soon. 
 
 Most affectionately yours, 
 
 o. M. B; 
 
' A BOATING ADVENTURE. 151 
 
 During the interim between the time this 
 letter was written and Oliver's return home, an 
 incident occurred of no slight interest in the 
 even tenor of his uneventful life. As his letter 
 of Monday shows, whilst at Kelmscott, he in- 
 dulged daily in boating. One afternoon, pro- 
 bably his last in the place, he was absent so long 
 that Dante Rossetti, who was at that time in a 
 state of extreme nervous excitement, grew quite 
 terrified with suspense, picturing all kinds of 
 horrors as having happened to his youthful 
 guest. He paced up and down the rooms, 
 leaving his dinner untouched, and. as he did not 
 dine till ten at that time, it must have been late. 
 When at ]ast the truant appeared, Rossetti broke 
 into reproaches, telling the youth that he was 
 responsible to his father for his safety, that he 
 had suffered agonies on his account, that he had 
 pictured his corpse in the ooze of the river, and that 
 he ought to write and tell Mr. Madox Brown the 
 whole affair. Oliver, who at home was indulged 
 with a latch-key, and allowed to come in at any 
 hour of the night without a question being 
 asked, was somewhat at a loss to comprehend 
 his host's excitement. Taking matters very 
 coolly, he merely said, i I am very hungry, and 
 should like something to eat !' 
 
 For the rest of Oliver's stay matters seem 
 
152 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 to have quieted down, but after his departure the 
 boat was found to have been damaged, and, 
 apparently, a book belonging to Rossetti to have 
 also suffered hurt or loss. The poet sent a letter 
 upbraiding the youth with his enormities, who, 
 on the receipt of it, was terribly alarmed in his 
 inexperience of such matters, evidently deeming 
 the old boat's repairs would cost nothing less 
 than a hundred pounds or so. Rossetti was not, 
 of course, concerned about the cost of the boat, 
 but about the possible horror of having had to 
 communicate the youth's death by drowning or 
 some other calamity to his parents. Oliver was 
 equally distressed at the idea of his father's being 
 written to, in his usual imaginative way, 
 exaggerating the cost of the damage and his 
 own impecuniosity ; the fact being that his father 
 allowed him a pound weekly for dress and pocket 
 money, but that the moment he received any 
 cash he spent it in books. His reply to Rossetti, 
 evidently sent off in hot haste, is most character- 
 istic : 
 
 * 37, Fitzroy Square, W., 
 Thursday. 
 
 DEAK ME. ROSSETTI, 
 
 I cannot tell you how perturbed I am to 
 have received your last letter, or how bitterly 
 disgusted I am with myself to think that any of 
 
AN EXPLANA TION. 153 
 
 my actions during my short stay with you 
 should have deserved it. One thing, however, I 
 can assure you solemnly, on my honour as a 
 gentleman, which is that I knew nothing (as 
 your letter seems to hint) of there being any- 
 thing wrong with the boat when I arrived at 
 Eadcot. I am quite ignorant of all boating 
 matters I went too far down the stream, and 
 only managed to pull back with the greatest 
 difficulty. When I reached the spot where the 
 boat was left, I was utterly exhausted ; it was 
 drizzling with rain ; the fog was rising every- 
 where, and it had grown quite dark : in short, I 
 dared not come further up the stream by myself, 
 and there was nothing to be done but to stop. 
 The man promised it (the boat) should be safe, 
 and I got out. I had on at the moment only a 
 small overcoat with one pocket to it, which was 
 already stuffed up, so I asked him to take care 
 of the book as well, which he also promised to 
 do. How he came to leave it in the boat I can't 
 tell. I do hope and trust you will not tell my 
 father anything about the matter ; I have already 
 such a bad character with him, and have done 
 so many things which (God knows !) I ought 
 not to have done, that I fear he would take a 
 positive dislike to me if you did. I hope also the, 
 charge for mending the boat will not come to 
 
154 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 very much ; I have not a farthing of money at 
 present, and I fear that (owing to the non- 
 success of my book in a pecuniary point of view), 
 I may be prevented from obtaining any more for 
 my work for some little time to come ; but I 
 promise to pay you the moment I can get any. 
 I am, dear Mr. Kossetti, 
 
 Yours very faithfully, 
 
 0. M. B.' 
 
 In the period between the writing of this 
 letter and the time within which he could receive 
 a reply, Oliver's imagination doubtless conjured up 
 all kinds of horrors in connection with the heavy 
 debt he deemed he had incurred ; but the receipt of 
 Rossetti's reply must have at once removed the 
 imaginary incubus from off the lad's mind : 
 
 ' MY DEAR NOLLY, 
 
 To preach to you is one thing (and that 
 was only on the spur of the moment), but to 
 peach to your dad would be quite another 
 thing, and no moment will spur me to that 
 fiendish act. 
 
 The photos have just returned here. I was 
 relieved to learn that the thing at the sale is only 
 a replica. Will you let me have your father's 
 address at Cardiff, as I want to write him a word 
 about Llandaff. 
 
NO NEED FOR MONEY. 155 
 
 Of course no assaults will be made on your 
 purse. The boat may perhaps be exchanged, 
 as it has seen service. If you are needing funds, 
 and like to sell the unfinished picture by .... 
 I will give 20 for it almost immediately not 
 just at this moment, but in a few weeks' time. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 D. G. E. 
 
 Mind, I don't in the least want to press you to 
 sell the picture if you prefer keeping it, but 
 should like to buy it if you' are willing, and am 
 not making the offer merely in case it should be 
 convenient to you/ 
 
 Now that his mind was relieved, Oliver's pride 
 was aroused, and he replied : 
 
 * 37, Fitzroy Square, W., 
 Monday. 
 
 DEAR ME. EOSSETTI, 
 
 I am sorry that any careless wording in 
 my last communication should in any way have 
 caused you to look upon it in the light of a 
 begging letter ; I have not the slightest necessity 
 for money at present, nor am I at all likely to 
 have any necessity for it. It is only on the very 
 rarest or remotest occasions that I ever dream of 
 spending a farthing. Thank you very much for 
 
156 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 your offer, however. If you really want the 
 picture mentioned, I should be only too glad 
 that you should accept it as a present, as far as 
 any ownership in it of my own is concerned. 
 
 Mr certainly told me I might have it. (I 
 
 rather suspect he is hard-up himself at present, 
 in which case he might like you to pay the 
 money to him instead.) Anyhow, if the picture 
 really does belong to me, you shall have it. I 
 will look it up forthwith. With best regards, 
 Yours most faithfully, 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 P.S. You seem under some slight mis- 
 apprehension with regard to my father's where- 
 abouts. Last Monday he was prevented from 
 starting, and he did not really get off till 
 yesterday evening (Sunday). 
 
 I am not as yet aware of his address myself, 
 but the moment I get it, it shall be sent on to 
 you/ 
 
 The allusion in the above letter which like 
 so many of its writer's was wrongly dated to 
 Mr being l hard-up/ must have been in- 
 tended by Oliver as irony, as it is scarcely likely 
 that even he, with all his inexperience of pecuniary 
 matters, could have deemed the gentleman alluded 
 to to have been in want of money. Dante Eossetti 
 
SUGGESTED EXCHANGE. 157 
 
 would seem to have at first declined to receive 
 the painting in question as an unconditional gift, 
 although he still expressed his desire to make 
 it his own. To meet his wishes, Oliver pro- 
 posed to exchange the portrait for something of 
 Eossetti's own work, to which suggestion came 
 this reply: 
 
 ' MY DEAR NOLLY, 
 
 Thanks for your portrait (not a bad 
 one at all) and for your letter about the picture. 
 My wish to possess the latter is solely as an 
 early portrait of its original, of whom I have 
 made so many studies myself thus, as long as 
 there is any question of the work becoming mine, 
 please don't touch the figure on any account in 
 the least. 
 
 From what you say of the picture, however, 
 it strikes me that I really might not be able 
 with any sort of fairness to meet its value by 
 such exchange as would be in my power, which 
 could merely be represented by some chalk head 
 or other, or something of that sort. I fancy we 
 had better let the subject remain pending till I 
 could see it at your house, but if sent anywhere 
 at present, better to Euston Square, only I don't 
 know when I should be there to look at it. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 D. G. E; 
 
158 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 I am writing Wm. a line on the matter in case 
 you do send it to his house/ 
 
 Of course Oliver did send it, and as a present, 
 and of course it remained the property of his 
 friend. There is another letter from Rossetti, 
 seemingly written about the same time, referring 
 to another painting, and which is very interesting 
 as evidence of the highly susceptible temperament 
 of the painter-poet : 
 
 < Thursday. 
 
 DEAR NOLLY, 
 
 I am disquieted by the enclosed entry 
 in a catalogue of sale at Christie's for Saturday 
 whether your father ought to know of it or not. 
 I think you should go to the rooms King 
 Street, St. James's and see if it is the original 
 picture of the Last of England* or only one of 
 the several replicas which I think exist. I fancy 
 the size of the original was larger than fourteen 
 inches diameter, but am not sure. If you thought 
 it necessary, you might telegraph to your father 
 
 at Cardiff, and he might telegraph to L or 
 
 any probable buyer, who again might telegraph 
 to some one to bid. You will best judge, I 
 suppose. I don't think it worth while unless it 
 
 Cr One of Mr. Ford Madox Brown's best known paintings. 
 
MUSIC AND MOONLIGHT. 159 
 
 is the original oil picture possibly not even 
 then if you think it would bother him too 
 much. I would have sent catalogue before, 
 but only got it last night too late for post, 
 being sent on by hand from Lechlade mid-day 
 post. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 D. G. E; 
 
 Some short time earlier than the above cor- 
 respondence, that is to say, just after Oliver's 
 return from Kelmscott, his interest was aroused 
 for Music and Moonlight, the last volume of 
 poetry by Arthur O'Shaughnessy published 
 during its author's lifetime ; and moved by that 
 sympathetic feeling which he ever showed for 
 writers whose works he deemed unduly de- 
 pressed, he wrote to an esteemed friend on its 
 behalf: 
 
 1 March 18, 1874. 
 
 DEAR Miss BLIND, 
 
 O'Shaughnessy's new book is just 
 coming out (as you may perhaps have heard), 
 and I assure you there will be some very power- 
 ful poems in it. I should be very sorry to give 
 you any trouble if it were for myself ; but could 
 you manage to review it anywhere ? I have 
 
160 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 been greatly disgusted to learn (through Philip 
 Mars ton) that the copies sent to the .... and the 
 .... have by some mischance fallen into adverse 
 hands, and are not by any means likely to have 
 justice done them : which (unless some other 
 more favourable review follows) will be quite 
 enough to do for and sink the book. This 
 would be intolerable, for there are many and 
 great beauties in it, with which I am sure you 
 will sympathize. The .... was able in a great 
 measure to stop the circulation of my own book 
 by an unfavourable review ; but just at present 
 it is all powerful with regard to poetry, and 
 might ruin O'Shaughnessy for good. The 
 Philistines are making such headway nowa- 
 days. 
 
 At any rate, I hope you will look out for the 
 book and read it. I happened casually to take 
 it up and glance through it, and was instantly 
 struck by the great vivacity and beauty of the 
 verse it contains, and felt indignant that nobody 
 had as yet taken notice of it. It would be a 
 great personal favour to me were you to exert 
 any of the influence you possess in its favour. 
 With best wishes, 
 
 Believe me, 
 
 Yours always faithfully, 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN.' 
 
NEWS FROM HOME. 161 
 
 On the 31st of this month a momentous event 
 happened in the Fitzroy Square household : 
 Miss Lucy Madox Brown, Oliver's elder sister, 
 was married to Mr. William Michael Rossetti, the 
 well-known author. The newly married couple 
 started at once for the Continent, and on the 2nd 
 of April Oliver wrote to the bride in the follow- 
 ing terms : 
 
 ' DEAR LUCY, 
 
 I have just received William's letter, 
 and fear my own will be somewhat late in con- 
 sequence. We were all very much tired after 
 you left, but papa (up to the present) seems in 
 no degree the worse for it indeed, as far as 
 I can observe, seems better. I have noticed 
 before that any great excitement or exertion 
 seems to do him good in some way or other, 
 and I think that this rule decidedly holds good 
 at present. He is sorting his letters in the old 
 cabinet he began them yesterday, but was 
 interrupted by the simultaneous entrance of 
 Swinburne and Miss Blind, who both stopped 
 to dinner/ 
 
 Some amusing gossip respecting various 
 literary personages then follows, but, unfortu- 
 nately, it is of too personal a character for 
 
 11 
 
162 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 citation here. The youthful correspondent then 
 reverting to his domestic intelligence says : 
 
 ' Mamma seems also tolerably well at present. 
 I myself had a bad attack of sciatica, or some- 
 thing like it, in the nerves of my left arm, which 
 has gone now, however. Hiiffer and Cathy went 
 off to Merton the next day with the infant. 
 Papa and mamma are both going to-night to 
 dine with Miss Blind, to meet Swinburne, Watts, 
 the Bells, and Mr. Stuart G-lennie. I am not 
 asked, and am going elsewhere. I went yester- 
 day evening to the . . . ., who are an incredibly 
 queer lot, to say the least of it ! 
 
 "With best wishes to yourself and William, 
 Ever your affectionate brother, 
 
 OLIVER M. BROWN.' 
 
 Towards the end of the month, Mr. Madox 
 Brown went to Wales to paint, and thither, on 
 the 2nd of May, his son sent him this letter : 
 
 ' DEAR PAPA, 
 
 We are going on very well up to the 
 present ; Cathy left us two days ago. The new 
 housemaid came last night she is certainly very 
 ugly, indeed, but seems energetic. Late last 
 night I went to meet . . . ., the novelist, who is, 
 to say the least, as commonplace-looking a man 
 
NEWS FROM HOME. 163 
 
 as one could meet was there too, as bad 
 
 as he could be, but hugely polite to everyone, 
 and paying outrageous compliments to . . . ., 
 whom, in company with himself, he held up to 
 me as examples of what industrious habits may 
 
 bring young men of genius to. Poor Mr 
 
 scarcely knew which way to turn, and blushed 
 up to the roots of his hair. He seems very 
 modest, to judge by his talk ; all he writes for is 
 to make money, as he said. I can't say that I 
 should care to take him as a preceptor. 
 
 Mr. Prange and three other gentlemen called 
 here yesterday : we were out at the time. He 
 wished to know whether you would be back any 
 time this week and of course was told no, at 
 which he expressed regret. A ticket for the 
 private view of the Eoyal Academy came here 
 Tuesday morning, and was sent to Brookbank 
 immediately, to Manchester. There is no other 
 news whatever. We are going to-night to the 
 Conways', of course. Mamma is going for a few 
 days to Merton on Sunday. 
 
 Hoping soon to hear from you, 
 
 Ever yours affectionately, 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BKOWN/ 
 
 In connection with this letter to his father at 
 Cardiff, it may be remarked that the card for the 
 
 112 
 
164 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 Royal Academy private view, sent off in such 
 hot haste to Manchester, should have been sent 
 to an address in London ; indeed, there is too 
 much reason to fear that Oliver's habitual want 
 of care in regard to the common things of life 
 was frequently productive of very tiresome com- 
 plications. 
 
 At this epoch our youthful author spent much 
 of his time in congenial society, both at home 
 and abroad. His company was always in re- 
 quest, people of mature age never appearing to 
 deem it extraordinary, or condescension, to con- 
 verse with the lad as an equal, and this not- 
 withstanding his naivete and almost childish 
 inexperience on many worldly matters. It is 
 the common remark of his friends that his youth 
 was the last thing one thought of when con- 
 versing with him. Although he was most 
 deliberate 'in utterance, his conversation sparkled 
 with lively and brilliant sayings ; but at least 
 outside his most familiar circle, where he was, as 
 it were, off his guard was chiefly distinguished 
 for its cynical tone, and it was this, doubtless, 
 that gave him, as has been remarked, the appear- 
 ance of being older than his father. 
 
 In May he was elected member of the Savage 
 Club, and about the same time, if not a member 
 of, he was a frequent visitor at, many other well- 
 
ONE SONG OF TWENTY. 165 
 
 known clubs. However, notwithstanding his gre- 
 garious inclinations, he still contrived to pursue 
 his linguistic and other studies, as well as keep 
 steadily at work on his literary labours. 
 
 Poetry was occasionally essayed, and in a 
 letter of this date to an esteemed friend enclosing 
 a most beautiful lyric, he thus excuses what was 
 naturally an uncontrollable impulse to write 
 verse : 
 
 ' 37, Fitzroy Square, W. 
 
 DEAR Miss BLIND, 
 
 Should you consider the enclosed worth 
 ten and sixpence or anything whatever, will you 
 forward it and have it printed in the Examiner, 
 as you kindly promised ? I should not trouble 
 about the matter, were it not that I find myself 
 so long in writing my present novel, that I fear 
 the public may forget all about me again if I 
 don't manage to bring myself in some way to 
 their notice. If you think it puerile (as I dare 
 say it is), throw it in the fire at once : it is one 
 out of some twenty short songs I have been 
 compelled to write (much against my will) for a 
 future novel, The Dwale Bluth, of which you 
 heard some portions last year. 
 
 With best regards, and in great haste, 
 Very faithfully yours, 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN.' 
 
166 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 This fi one out of some twenty short songs ' 
 was never included in the romance it was pro- 
 fessedly written for, nor has it, indeed, yet been 
 published. It is the most elaborate, if not the 
 most artistic, piece of workmanship in verse that 
 survives of its author, and makes one sigh fco 
 think, if the foreshadowing of his poetic career 
 were so sadly sweet, how sweetly grand might 
 not have been the ripeness of his matured man- 
 hood. Of the two differing versions of this lyric 
 which are extant, the following is the later : 
 
 BEFORE AND AFTER. 
 
 1 Ah ! long ago since I or thou 
 Glanced past these moorlands brow to brow, 
 Our mixed hair streaming down the wind 
 
 So fleet ! So sweet ! 
 I loved thy footsteps more than thou 
 Loved my whole soul or body through 
 
 So sweet ! so fleet ! ere Fate outgrew the days wherein 
 Life sinned ! 
 
 And ah ! the deep steep days of shame, 
 Whose dread hopes shrivelled ere they came, 
 Or vanished down Love's nameless void 
 
 So dread ! so dead ! 
 
 Dread hope stripped dead from each soul's shame 
 Soulless alike for praise or blame 
 Too dead to dread the eternities whose heaven its shame 
 destroyed !' 
 
THE DWALE BLUTH. 
 
AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 
 
 vn. 
 
 THOU shalt not be of those whom Time effaces, 
 Whilst yet the mould is moist above their head, 
 Whose memories fade and pass, and all is said ; 
 Nay, for us all who loved thee and who love, 
 
 Shining life's fret above, 
 
 Thy thought shall throne it in our hearts' high places, 
 Till Death blot past and present from our faces ; 
 Thou shalt not be of the forgotten dead. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And if thy life's untimely ended story 
 Thy life, so thick with many an early bloom 
 And seed of blooms far brighter hold no room, 
 For very ratheness, in the inconstant ken 
 
 Of quick-forgetting men, 
 
 Yet, for our hearts, though Time himself grow hoary, 
 The lily of love, if not the rose of glory, 
 Shall flower and fade not on thy timeless tomb. 
 
 JOHN PAYNE. 
 February, 1883. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE DWALE BLUTH. 
 
 A S early as the 27th of September, 1872, 
 -*-^* Oliver wrote, as has already been said, to 
 Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co.'s reader, that for 
 more than three months he had been engaged on 
 a new romance, a story of Dartmoor and Devon- 
 shire country life. ' I intend to name the tale I 
 am now working on,' he wrote, ' either Deadly 
 Nightshade, or else to call it by the name of its 
 heroine, Helen Serpleton. Although I imagine its 
 style may be said to resemble in some degree 
 that of my first work, yet I think that, as it is 
 much more quiet and dignified, it would stand 
 a better chance of success. I suppose it will 
 make about three volumes. If you do not think 
 Gabriel Denver fit to be shown to Messrs. Smith 
 
170 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 and Elder, would you kindly allow me in a short 
 while to submit to you the first four or five 
 chapters of my new story ?' 
 
 That Mr. Smith Williams did think Gabriel 
 Denver fit to be shown to Messrs. Smith, Elder 
 and Co., is already known, as is also its fate ; 
 but probably the instance is unique in literature 
 of a young and quite unknown author deliberately 
 proposing to forego the projected publication of 
 his first novel in order that a second, 'more 
 quiet and dignified,' but as yet unwritten, may 
 be proffered in its stead. The publisher's reader, 
 well satisfied as to the reality of his young cor- 
 respondent's genius, certainly encouraged him 
 not to remain contented with his initial effort, 
 but to persevere, for the following letter was 
 sent to Mr. Smith Williams on the 15th of 
 November : 
 
 ' MY DEAK SIR, 
 
 I will certainly finish my story as 
 thoroughly and well as I can, and have no 
 doubt that within the next four or five months, 
 at the latest, it will be ready to submit to you. 
 At the risk of troubling you too much, I should 
 be very glad to have your own personal opinion 
 on the chapters which are now in progress. 
 Should you at any time have leisure enough to 
 
DEADLY NIGHTSHADE. 171 
 
 read them, I could bring them to your office. 
 It is very easy to alter faults while one is at 
 work : but it becomes a difficult and troublesome 
 thing to alter work which has been once set 
 aside as finished, even though the defects pointed 
 out are perfectly recognisable. But at present 
 there is scarcely a third of the story written. 
 
 As you do not seem to consider Deadly Night- 
 shade a good name, I have thought of calling it 
 Nightshade alone. Should this not suit, it might 
 still be called The Dwale Bluth which is an old 
 North Devonshire word for the plant. This 
 could at any rate have nothing repulsive about 
 it and being original, and somewhat mysterious 
 as well, it might possess a certain interest. I at 
 first intended to call the tale Belladonna, a title 
 which would have been very applicable and 
 suggestive ; but a friend informed me that there 
 was already a novel with that name, so it was 
 out of the question. I might still call it by the 
 scientific name, Atropa Belladonna. However, 
 there is no very great necessity to decide upon 
 this point at present, though I should like to 
 settle it. 
 
 Believe me, dear sir, 
 
 Very faithfully yours, 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN/ 
 
172 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 The life Oliver now led did not allow him 
 much leisure for his literary labours. His 
 studies naturally absorbed some portion of his 
 time, whilst a still larger section of it was taken 
 up with visiting and being visited ; nor was his 
 health good, terrible headaches and, as has been 
 seen, other ailments making frequent chasms in 
 the few precious hours that remained. All 
 things considered, it is not, therefore, surprising 
 to find him writing to Mr. Williams on the 24th 
 of December in such terms as these : ' I have not 
 been working at my story during the last four 
 weeks ; and, indeed, have had very little time 
 for anything. Before setting to work on it 
 again, I shall take the liberty of calling upon 
 you, and if you could spare the time of in- 
 forming you of a project I have thought of for 
 rewriting the first story I submitted to you.' 
 That the project of rewriting Gabriel Denver was 
 carried out, although in a very different way to 
 what the author designed, has already been 
 explained. Two months or so were wasted in 
 the mutilation of the unfortunate Gabriel Denver, 
 or rather its progenitor, The Black Swan, at the 
 end of which period Oliver's thoughts were 
 diverted in another direction, the result of which 
 was so much of Hebditch's Legacy as remains 
 to us. 
 
THREE NOVELS IN HAND. 173 
 
 Ultimately Oliver returned to his old love, 
 and recommenced work on The Dwale Bluth, a 
 fact which towards the end of July, 1874, he 
 communicated to Messrs. Smith, Elder and 
 Co/s reader in the following very characteristic 
 manner : 
 
 'You may perhaps have expected to see or 
 hear from me again before now, after the kind 
 spirit in which you took up my last book. I 
 have, however, felt disinclined to encroach on 
 your valuable time without good reason, or some 
 work near enough completion to show you, 
 which I have not as yet. I have, indeed, begun 
 and carried considerably forward three novels 
 within the last nine months ; but the one I have 
 decided to go on with for the present is a rather 
 long story, of which only some twenty-two 
 chapters are written ; but which cannot possibly 
 be finished before the close of the year, if even 
 then. ... I shall in any case be glad to hear 
 from you. . . . 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN/ 
 
 In response to the young author's communi- 
 cation, Mr. Smith Williams expressed his 
 pleasure at hearing that another novel was in 
 progress, and hoped ' the subject may be more 
 
174 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 agreeable than the first, for people read novels/ 
 he opined, 4 to be amused, and have surfeited on 
 painful stories ; in short, the public has " supped 
 full of horrors." If it should be a two- volume 
 book,' said Mr. Williams, i so much the better ; 
 single volumes do not pay, and people are rather 
 tired of three- volume novels. I hope you will 
 take your time over your new fiction, by only 
 writing when in the vein, which is the only 
 surety for real good work. Feeling a strong 
 interest in your new work, I must confess to a 
 wish to know something of it, though from 
 curiosity only/ 
 
 A few days later, on the 4th of August, Mr. 
 Williams wrote to Oliver : ' I take the earliest 
 opportunity of telling you that there may be an 
 opening in the Cornhill Magazine by the time 
 you have finished your story,' and added, ' if you 
 can spare what is written of the MS. I shall be 
 happy to submit it to the editor at once before 
 he leaves town/ 
 
 Warned by the treatment his first romance 
 had received at the hands of the Cornhill editor, 
 Oliver's pride did not permit him to feel greatly 
 elated at the prize dangled before his eyes by 
 the kindly reader, to whom he replied on the 
 5th of August : 
 
THE SA TURD A Y REVIEWER. 175 
 
 i MY DEAR SlE, 
 
 I feel much gratified by both the kind 
 letters you have written me ; I was just about 
 to reply to the first when the second one came, 
 and caused me again to defer answering, as I 
 had to consider your valued suggestion. 
 
 You may not have heard yourself what I have 
 been told on excellent authority that the editor 
 of the Cornhill is the writer of the notice referred 
 to in my last letter on Gabriel Denver, in the 
 Saturday Review; but I think you will agree with 
 me, seeing this to be the case, that I have very 
 good reason for not again wishing to offer any 
 work of my own to that magazine. To your- 
 self, however, you must probably be well aware 
 (both from our previous correspondence and 
 from your last letter to me), that I shall have 
 the greatest pleasure in showing my manuscript 
 in due time, should no at present unforeseen 
 circumstance deter its completion : and you may 
 be certain that should the nature of my future 
 writings permit, I would much rather publish 
 them under your auspices than with any other 
 house. ... I shall ever remain with sincerity, 
 my dear sir, 
 
 Yours very faithfully, 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN.' 
 
176 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 The friendly feelings Mr. Smith Williams had 
 grown to entertain for his youthful correspondent, 
 and the firm belief he had in his genius, would 
 not allow him to let slip the fancied opening for 
 his romance ; he, therefore, upon receipt of 
 Oliver's reply, wrote to him : ' Without ques- 
 tioning your authority, I venture to doubt the 
 fact you mention. But be it as it may, I would 
 strongly recommend you to let me show your 
 MS. to the editor of the Cornhill Magazine ; and 
 when I tell you that he was inclined to accept 
 Gabriel Denver, I hope you will not object. I 
 may mention,' added Mr. Williams in a post- 
 script, c that my showing the MS. will not im- 
 plicate you in any way ; but I don't want to let 
 this opportunity slip.' 
 
 Persuaded, if not convinced, Oliver gave his 
 consent ; and ultimately altered the plan of his 
 projected romance, in order to suit it to the re- 
 quirements of the Cornhill editor. After having 
 the story under revision for some time, he wrote 
 the following letter to Mr. Williams : 
 
 1 MY DEAR SlE, 
 
 I have delayed sending you the accom- 
 panying chapter until now, in order to finish the 
 eighth, which, I think, is rather an important 
 one. In reading it you will doubtless notice that 
 
HEART-BREAKING SYSTEM. 177 
 
 (in compliance with Mr. Stephen's remark), I 
 have attempted to bring Helen Serpleton more 
 forward, and have, also, completely modified 
 the country dialect. I shall in a few days have 
 finished the third part. 
 
 I have done nothing as yet to preceding 
 chapters, and should very much like to have 
 your opinion on them although I hope you 
 will not put yourself to inconvenience by looking 
 over them until you can thoroughly spare the 
 necessary time. 
 
 Believe me, dear sir. 
 
 Very faithfully yours, 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN.' 
 
 As will thus be seen, the same heart-breaking 
 system of mutilation and alteration that had 
 sufficed to injure T/ie Black Swan was now at 
 work to destroy the vitality of The Dwale Bluth. 
 In order to satisfy the suggestions of the 
 magazine editor, as he had had formerly to 
 give way to the publisher's reader, Oliver now 
 deviated from, the plan originally laid down for 
 his story, a story even finer in many respects 
 than his initial romance, and one that, had it 
 ever been completed, would alone have won its 
 author an extensive and all-enduring repu- 
 tation. As it is, The Dwale Bluth is such a 
 
 12 
 
178 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 grand fragment in prose as is the Hyperion of 
 Keats in poetry, and while the magnificent 
 torso Keats left half-hewn was the production 
 of a man of twenty-five, the wonderful fabric 
 Oliver left unfinished was the work of a lad but 
 little over nineteen ! 
 
 After the revised manuscript of the earlier 
 chapters had been retained by the editor of the 
 Cornhill Magazine for some time, it was sent back 
 to Oliver without a word! Deferring for the 
 present any allusion to the injurious effects this 
 proceeding exercised upon the poor lad's highly 
 sensitive temperament, let us advert to the story 
 of The Dwale Blutli itself. 
 
 ' The moment that we begin the first chapter,' 
 says an appreciative critic in reviewing the 
 Literary Remains of Oliver Madox Brown,* ' we 
 perceive that the author has got into a new 
 world. We perceive that he has taken a leap 
 from the realm of exaggeration and riotous 
 exercise of lawless power, to the world of truth 
 and beauty where alone art can live a leap 
 such, perhaps, as no young writer ever took so 
 suddenly before. We perceive, too, that we, on 
 our part, have come upon something new upon 
 a kind of precocity that is very likely unique, in 
 our country at least. . . . That the work of 
 
 * The Examiner, January 29, 1876. 
 
LITERARY HUMOUR. 179 
 
 youth should ever be otherwise than crude and 
 acrid is wonderful, indeed. Still more wonder- 
 ful is it if the humour of youth is anything 
 more than exaggeration, caricature, phantasy. 
 " Humour is always a late growth," says Barry 
 Cornwall in regard to Lamb. But in The Dwale 
 Sluth we get humour humour which is philo- 
 sophic, at once, and dramatic humour which 
 unquestionably affines the writer to the great 
 prose humourists. If the highest humour is 
 that which is at the same time truthful repre- 
 sentation, the greatest humourist of our century 
 is George Eliot. Yet there are scenes in The 
 Dwale Bluth, which, though not equal to hers, 
 may be compared with them/ 
 
 The Dwale Sluth is a Devonian name for 
 ' Deadly Nightshade ' a blossom which literally, 
 as well as symbolically, plays an important part 
 in the story and signifies 'Frenzy-flower,' or 
 1 Craze-bloom.' But the romance, its appropriate 
 title notwithstanding, concerns the fortunes of 
 the Serpleton family, and more particularly 
 Helen, the last representative of the ruined race. 
 The scions of this family were ever wayward 
 and graceless, and in some occult manner were 
 connected with the Tracy s, the ancestor of 
 whom was ringleader in the martyrdom of 
 Thomas a Becket, and consequently, transmitter 
 
 122 
 
180 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 to his descendants of the curse laid on the 
 murderers and his progeny; for, says the ballad: 
 
 1 Woe to the unborn sons of the Tracys ! 
 
 (Say what redemption is left through all time) 
 O could they reach to the land where God's grace is, 
 Baffled and faint with the storm- wind's embraces 
 
 (The wind that wails for their forefather's crime) 
 With ever the wind and rain in their faces 
 
 Never again till the end of time.' 
 
 In the introductory chapter to the romance, a 
 rapid survey of the fortunes of the Serpleton 
 family in more modern times, shows that if some 
 members did not succeed in purging themselves 
 from ancestral sin by attaining the Holy Land, 
 they contrived to have an extremely lively time 
 of it in their own country, notwithstanding the 
 barometrical malediction they lay under. The 
 unobtrusive but suggestive way in which this 
 hereditary curse is seen from time to time over- 
 taking the members of the afflicted race is most 
 artistically wrought into the texture of the story, 
 and certainly equals, if it resemble, the manner- 
 ism of Hawthorne. The critic just quoted, as 
 evidence of Oliver's humouristic power, cites the 
 following scene from the history of the Serpletons : 
 
 ' Sir GeoiFrey, the third baronet, then lived 
 till near sixty, though they called him the 
 hardest drinker for nearly twenty miles around, 
 
A CHRISTMAS PARTY. 181 
 
 which was saying something at that time, and 
 truly, for the last five years of his existence he 
 is affirmed only once to have been found sober 
 after nightfall. 
 
 ' On this memorable occasion ifc would appear 
 that old Sir Geoffrey Serpleton and a party of 
 sworn friends met together one Christ mastide, in 
 the year of our Lord 1727, with a firm intention 
 of enjoying themselves after their own fashion ; 
 and ere they parted, many were the songs whose 
 choruses the walls of Serpleton House echoed 
 under that night; riotous old love or hunting 
 catches, more or less melodious, long-lost or 
 forgotten ; and many were the jests they broke 
 between them. Never had Sir Geoffrey seemed 
 in better spirits, jovial-hearted as he ever was ; 
 you could have heard him out on the hills round 
 Watern Tor. Anyhow, the carouse of these 
 doughty topers was prolonged through the night 
 to an early hour the next morning. But at last 
 Mrs. Drusilla Hibbledeen, the baronet's house- 
 keeper, rousing from her slumbers at the 
 customary hour, found it still dark, and not 
 wishing to waste candle-light, determined to lie 
 quiet in her bed a few minutes longer. 
 
 ' Half awake and half asleep, she listened 
 drowsily to the din and confusion overhead. 
 
 ' Presently, just as she was dropping off to 
 
182 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 sleep again, she was called to mind by one of 
 the revellers above, who slid helplessly from his 
 chair, shaking the floor and rattling the windows 
 sharply in their sashes. 
 
 4 It was a familiar sound enough to her. 
 
 ' On her wrinkled finger-joints, she in the course 
 of half an hour had added eleven other thuds to 
 that, as the guests, following their friend's ex- 
 ample, gave way one after another and rolled pro- 
 miscuously under her master's hospitable board. 
 
 ' But there was a thirteenth to the party, and she 
 lay a long while listening for him too. Nothing 
 happened, however ; his wits had given in before 
 she woke, seemingly. 
 
 1 Then, throwing off her nightcap, and with her 
 teeth chattering (just as the yellow dawn broke 
 vaguely among the frost-bitten clouds in the 
 east), she got out of bed ; preparing, as was her 
 wont, to set to rights the room in w T hich they all 
 lay to move a leg or an arm here and there, or 
 loosen a cravat. The door was not easy to open, 
 however, for one of the inmates had fallen against 
 it. At last she affected an entrance, and glanced 
 round her. ... A cheerless frosty sunbeam, 
 streaming in through the half- opened shutters, 
 had fallen full on the puckered face and gray 
 hairs of Sir Geoffrey Serpletoii, the baronet, who 
 still sat bolt upright in his chair, grasping a 
 
THE THIRTEENTH. : 183 
 
 glass, half-filled, and with its stem knocked off. 
 His eyes stared straight in front of him with a 
 ghastly unaverted look his features were con- 
 vulsed but motionless his arms and hands were 
 rigid. The fire had long gone out ; but two or 
 three of the candles still guttered in their sockets. 
 These, with the pallid resplendence of the sun- 
 beam, enabled the old servant to perceive the 
 warm breath issuing from the open lips and 
 nostrils of her master's comrades not to mention 
 other tokens given forth among them ; but there 
 was no perceptible sense of vitality on Sir 
 Geoffrey's own lips. And, indeed, terrified as 
 she was, she saw in an instant how her master 
 was in a condition of sobriety destined never 
 again to be disturbed. 
 
 ' It seemed, from the expression of his face, as 
 though the sunlight had reached him ere he was 
 quite dead, and he had been striving helplessly 
 to shut his paralyzed eyelids, or to avoid it in 
 some way. 
 
 ' The first of the party that regained sufficient 
 sensibility to articulate plainly, is said to have 
 been, of all men in the world, the parish clergy- 
 man! There was, however, an utter blank in 
 his memory, save that he recollected noting the 
 ominous number who sat down the day before, 
 at which Sir Geoffrey burst into wild laughter, to 
 
184 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 the dismay of all present for a time, until they 
 had forgotten it again. And as to the others, put 
 out of countenance, as one may expect them to 
 have been, they remembered nothing whatsoever.' 
 
 * This scene/ remarks the reviewer, c so full 
 of humour, yet so self- restrained, so full of 
 dramatic life and philosophic observation, was 
 written by a boy of eighteen. And note the 
 close observation, the brief and rapid selection of 
 physiognomic details in the words italicized by 
 us. Here we have another characteristic, too, 
 that is almost never seen in so young a writer. 
 The impetuous imagination of youth seeing its 
 images hanging, as it were, in the air leaps to- 
 wards its realization of them, scorning details, 
 and too impatient to take care, save for broad 
 and general effects. Accuracy of detail conies 
 afterwards, comes of that loving outlook upon the 
 world which is born of greatly living in it, en- 
 joying greatly, and greatly suffering.' 
 
 Deservedly high as the reviewer praises the 
 scene just cited, it is certain that many other 
 extracts might be made from The Dwale Bluth 
 of still greater excellence. For instance, the 
 description of the death of the fourth baronet, Sir 
 Jasper, and his burial after no little delay and 
 inconvenience is drawn by a most masterful 
 
MARGERY'S MANOEUVRES. 185 
 
 hand, and with an amazing power of local colour, 
 fully bearing out the critic's assertion, ' you 
 seem to be breathing Devonshire air/ When 
 this baronet's death took place, his elder son 
 [another Jeffery, like his grandfather a notori- 
 ous ( blind-blossom/ and a fit representative of 
 the restless, wayward, and eccentric character- 
 istics of his race] was rambling in unknown 
 parts, but ultimately, and when least expected, 
 returned, in company with a young woman, 
 apparently of gipsy origin, whom he had picked 
 up somewhere in Spain, and 'married at first 
 sight/ 
 
 The only person who appeared to be in any 
 way interested in the baronet's return was old 
 Margery grand- daughter of the Mrs. Hibble- 
 deen above named to whom Serpleton House 
 had so long been left in undisturbed possession, 
 that to have to relinquish the command to a 
 mistress and she an uncomprehended foreigner 
 was a terrible blow. Many were the attempts 
 she made to express her indignation to the 
 master's wife, but in vain, as were also her re- 
 peated attempts to make out what she talked to 
 her husband about. ' In the privacy of the back 
 kitchen (where long seclusion had given Mar- 
 gery a habit of holding conversation with her- 
 self), she would express her opinion with 
 
18G OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 astonishing volubility concerning the wild " out- 
 landisher," as she called her mistress. Then, 
 when in a more than usually bitter frame of 
 mind, slie would sweep the floor, worry the 
 saucepans, shake her well-fed cat out of its 
 favourite chair, and even fling dish-clouts or 
 saucepan-lids after the astonished animal, till it 
 must have thought its mistress had taken leave 
 of her senses.' 
 
 After a while a baby was born, and ' even 
 Margery was moved by the devotion Dolores 
 displayed for the offspring. Many were the re- 
 cipes . and remedies she longed vainly to bestow 
 upon the devoted baby ; at the slightest mani- 
 festation of blackness in the face, or the faintest 
 symptoms of rigidity about the toes and fingers, 
 her anxiety would become dreadful to contem- 
 plate ;' but of course, as neither understood the 
 other's language, no verbal communication was 
 possible. ' Helen had the sweetest little hands 
 and feet ; they were so small that the fond 
 mother could place them in her own mouth, 
 though the baby was usually employed perform- 
 ing this service for herself ; now and then, aided 
 by her soft gums, she seemed to be making long 
 and careful calculations as to the actual amount 
 of fingers and toes she really possessed, but it 
 was a difficult and problematical point, if one 
 
A DEVONIAN ORIGINAL. 187 
 
 could have judged by the frown which dimpled 
 her wide brows at such intervals.' Another 
 little picture of baby-life is presented, where the 
 mother is seen carrying Helen downstairs one 
 night, when the yellow flickering candlelight 
 ' fell upon its little face, in which even now a 
 promise of future health and beauty was visible. 
 Its mouth was clasping her bosom, and its little 
 tender hands were seen pushing out energetically, 
 just in the way one sometimes notices a suckled 
 kitten forcing a larger supply of nutriment with 
 its forepaws.' 
 
 But, however naturally infant life and animal 
 life are portrayed in The Dwale Bluth, it is in his 
 grasp of character and clever delineation of indi- 
 viduality that Oliver manifests his great power. 
 Old Margery, with her crusty temper and strong 
 Devonian dialect, is a wonderful portraiture, and 
 in her shrewdness and sarcastic repartee would 
 have been a match for Mrs. Poyser herself. In- 
 deed, the keen sense of humour and quick per- 
 ception of the ridiculous which Oliver shows in 
 this romance are, all things considered, his most 
 marvellous traits, and those least to be expected 
 in so youthful an author. The whole episode of 
 the robbery of the chicken-house by the gipsies, 
 the rescue of the solitary survivor, and the re- 
 paying the outraged Margery with fowls stolen 
 
188 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 from some one else, is an unsurpassed piece of 
 humouristic fiction. 
 
 The old housekeeper's discussions with the 
 various personages of the story are most charac- 
 teristic, and her biting sarcasm always ready. 
 The old woman was especially wrathful with the 
 servant of the late Mrs. Oliver Serpleton, Jenny, 
 who for some months after her mistress's death 
 remained a member of the household, till she was 
 expelled for insubordination. Margery, alarmed 
 at the maid's ' squanderous ' ways, had taken her 
 thoroughly to task in a speech full of Devonshire 
 vituperation and insinuation. 
 
 6 This tirade naturally provoked Jenny into 
 retorting that she was c quite good enoo' for 
 Margery,' she being 'just as the Lord had 
 chuzzin ter mek her, naught else !' ' More's th' 
 pity !' quoth Margery sorrowfully. { A* must 
 a' been cruel hard up fer summat ter dew th' 
 marn; squandering a's hendyw r erk on a frizzle- 
 de-Morndy loik ter thicker !' 
 
 The story can scarcely be deemed to com- 
 mence, however, until Jeifery departs with his 
 wife and baby, and leaves the old place to the 
 occupation of his brother, the Eev. Oliver Ser- 
 pleton, and his menage. Oliver Serpleton is 
 assuredly, his creator's masterpiece : his eccentri- 
 cities are so lovingly displayed and his various 
 
A FAVOURITE NOOK. 189 
 
 idiosyncrasies so shrewdly described, that we 
 seem to know the man thoroughly and, despite 
 his peculiarities, like him or at any rate sympa- 
 thize with him heartily. Even his apparent in- 
 sensibility at his poor wife's death is only, as we 
 know, in seeming, and at the bottom of his heart 
 there is a deep reservoir of kindness and humanity. 
 For, as our author says w r hen referring to Mr. 
 Serpleton's supposed indifference, ' It is some- 
 times awful to think how little we really are 
 capable of fathoming the minds of the very 
 people who are nearest and dearest to us ; and 
 seeing this is the case, it is easy to understand 
 the way our actions are misinterpreted by 
 strangers.' 
 
 The simplicity and good-nature of the ex- 
 clergyman are admirably portrayed by such 
 typical little verbal vignettes as is this account 
 of the persecution he endures at the instance 
 of a kitten of too exuberant spirits : 
 
 4 Mr. Serpleton's favourite place of study con- 
 sisted of the landing-stage outsicle his bedroom, 
 where there was a settle fixed under the window : 
 there he would sit absorbed for hours in the con- 
 templation of some old mouldy volume or other. 
 It was here that Margery once found him, 
 remonstrating feebly and ineffectually with a 
 
190 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 sportively-inclined kitten, which, having knocked 
 the book out of his hands, had not been content 
 thereat, but had mounted on the window-sill, 
 and thence had maintained a fierce and uninter- 
 mittent warfare on the black ribbons of his 
 queue. Then this feline imp proceeded to clasp 
 him round the neck with her soft fore-paws, and 
 to go through many wonderful gymnastic evolu- 
 tions on his shoulders, until, with the old 
 servant's assistance, it was dislodged, only to 
 return to the assault when she was gone. In 
 fact, the poor man fell a martyr to this animal, 
 and always promptly disappeared when it met 
 his view. But at last the animal grew up, 
 became more grave in demeanour, and left him 
 in peace/ 
 
 Mr. Serpleton's introduction to his own 
 daughter Leah when she was three years old is 
 another amusing and naturally told incident ; but 
 a still more important matter, so far as the plot 
 and interest of the romance are concerned, is that 
 of his first interview with his niece Helen, when 
 her father Jeffrey, meeting the clergyman, informs 
 him of his wife's death, and leaves his only child 
 in his brother's charge. Helen, when introduced 
 to Uncle Nolly, was about five or six years old, 
 and at the interview is described as a little girl 
 4 whose acute eyes seemed to sparkle even in the 
 
A CHILD'S FACE. 191 
 
 darkness. Her hair (which was so black as to 
 form a still blacker spot in the obscurity of the 
 night) was filled with a most extraordinary 
 display of moving lights ; in fact, a multitude 
 of living glow-worms were crawling about in it.' 
 Left in Mr. Serpleton's charge, little Helen, the 
 heroine of the book, f clasped her uncle's hand 
 with her own icily cold little fingers (for the 
 unreasoning desire to hold a " grown-up's " 
 hand amounts to an instinct in all children),' 
 and went home to her new and unknown abode. 
 How scandalized Margery was at receiving this 
 unexpected and unprovided -for charge, and how 
 tormented she was by the hapless glow-worms, 
 must be gathered from The Dwale Elutli it- 
 self. 
 
 The second book of the romance opens with a 
 charming, realistic account of Serpleton House, 
 followed by a description of the inmates. 
 Helen's childish beauty inspires such thoughts 
 as these: 4 A child's face resembles an unex- 
 panded bud. As a thinker examines the unde- 
 veloped promise of the coming blossom, he sees 
 the remote future lying before it : filled, may be, 
 with the vague ineffable luxuriousness of the 
 dream which beauty weaves around itself, but 
 also pregnant with the old and shadowy threaten- 
 ings of sorrow and decay. . . . There is some- 
 
192 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 thing very sorrowful in the sight of a human 
 being so utterly unaware of what things life may 
 have one day in store for it.' The half-gipsy 
 child in her rambles about the precincts of 
 Serpleton House has a companion, which Oliver, 
 from his intimate acquaintance with domestic 
 animal life, is enabled to characteristically depict. 
 4 She was accompanied/ he says, ; by a weird- 
 looking grey cat, just emerging from kittenhood, 
 not yet grown dignified or lazy enough to be 
 capable of resisting such allurements as were 
 presented to its youthful feline nature by chasing 
 and capturing the quick grasshoppers, or the 
 gilded flies buzzing over the grass and in and 
 out of the speckled sunshine.' Sometimes the 
 kitten, which singularly resembled its little 
 mistress in many respects, did not succeed in 
 capturing its prey; 'after these failures the 
 animal, writhing in and out of the girl's feet, 
 while she stood still, seemed to talk and purr 
 as though it were convinced its mistress under- 
 stood its inarticulate language, and was probably 
 endeavouring to encourage her to fresh exertions. 7 
 And thus the pretty picture of the two youthful 
 comrades proceeds, showing its author's most 
 familiar knowledge of both child and animal life. 
 Little Helen Serpleton has not forgotten the 
 Zingali teachings of her mother, and sings such 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 193 
 
 little snatches of song in the Spanish gipsy 
 dialect as this : 
 
 ' I love very well 
 
 The first blossoming 
 (I love well I ween) 
 
 That blooms in the spring ; 
 Its purple and green 
 Seem meet for some queen, 
 
 To bind in her hair's loosening. 
 
 1 " I should love well to match me ! 
 
 (The light of high heaven 
 Burns in my eyes !) 
 
 And I love well," she cries, 
 " The young men to watch me. 
 But, ah ! who can catch me ? 
 For I run with feet fleeter than wind through the skies." ' 
 
 A theory of Oliver Madox Brown, but by no 
 means peculiar to him, is thus succinctly pro- 
 pounded for him by Philip Bourke Marston, in 
 his Lament for his friend : 
 
 * I know it was of his a favourite creed 
 
 That when the body dies the existing soul 
 Of other souls becomes a fruitful seed, 
 Changing, existing through the years that roll '; 
 
 and amid the curious reflections suggested to 
 the young author's mind by the thought of the 
 many generations of singers through whom the 
 Zingali songs had been transmitted, he does not 
 fail to refer to this theory. Thus he says : 
 
 13 
 
194 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 ' Those gracious lips, burnt red by the sun, 
 which had first learnt to pronounce them in the 
 sultry splendour of the eastern climes they had 
 issued from, had long since been silenced ; even 
 the very dust the limbs of the singers had dis- 
 solved into must have perished and been drawn 
 up and reinhaled into fresh flesh and blood, which 
 had itself perished again. The disused vital 
 forces of their souls might even now be suffused 
 among the gusts of wind which blew about the 
 unconscious child's tangles of hair ; for it was one 
 of those songs which are handed down through 
 remote long centuries from generation to genera- 
 tion; dying away from echo to echo fainter and 
 fainter, as it were a voice among the mountains. 
 There is nothing more saddening than the plea- 
 sure given by an old melody; one knows not 
 what long-passionless hearts may once have been 
 inspired with rapture over its still undiminished 
 sweetness ; but indeed there are very few things 
 in this world which are utterly unmingled with 
 any suggestion of the final mystery of our 
 existences.' 
 
 But such psychological speculations are not so 
 frequent in The Dwale Bluth as in their author's 
 initial romance; in the later work his strength 
 being chiefly displayed in the portrayal of 
 character more by its outer and visible, than its 
 
DEADLY NIGHTSHADE. 195 
 
 inner and hidden idiosyncrasies. A character- 
 istic and life-like scene is that between Oliver 
 Serpleton, his daughter Leah, and niece Helen, 
 wherein the Deadly Nightshade, the ill-omened 
 plant after which the book is named, makes its 
 first appearance in the story. Attracted by the 
 strange blossom and glittering berries of a spray 
 of The Dwale Blutli, the two girls had had a 
 scramble for it, and Leah was the successful one, 
 yet scarcely had clasped it ere her cousin Helen 
 snatched the prize out of her hand. Mr. Serpleton 
 being appealed to, took the spray, and after ex- 
 amination pronounced it to be the dreaded and 
 dangerous atropa belladonna. ' " Look here, 
 Nelly, and you, too, Leah," he said, " they call 
 this the deadly nightshade sometimes. You 
 must never disturb it, or it will send you to 
 sleep so soundly that you won't be able to wake 
 up again. It's poison, mark you !" 
 
 i Leah shuddered childishly, and seemed to 
 recede from the place where she plucked it, rub- 
 bing her small hands and fingers on her frock. 
 Helen, who had remained silent during this 
 slowly and painfully delivered dialogue, merely 
 looked with deep curiosity on the leaves which 
 hung out of the pocket he had placed the plant 
 in when he had ceased speaking. Had he thrown 
 it away at once, as he should have done, much 
 
 132 
 
196 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 of this narrative would have remained un- 
 written. 
 
 ' Apparently out of bravado, the child stretched 
 out her ten fingers (which, by-the-bye, were not 
 over-clean already), and touched the leaves with 
 them, and then, having contaminated them suffi- 
 ciently, put them all to her dark-red lips. "What 
 her object could be was inconceivable. 
 
 ' Leah merely nodded her head, and remarked 
 with more real penetration than one would have 
 expected from her (though children among them- 
 selves realize each other's dispositions far better 
 than we can), "Ay! ay! it's th' very daps o' 
 tha' !" '* 
 
 Naturally all the originality and truthful aspect 
 of such a scene is lost when torn from its sur- 
 roundings : to comprehend its force and beauty 
 one must know and appreciate the characters of 
 the absent-minded savant and the two children, 
 every word and action of the book being stages 
 in the development of our knowledge of them. 
 The wonderful description of the storm which 
 follows speedily after the discovery of the deadly 
 nightshade is a magnificent piece of word- 
 painting, in every respect fit to match the terrible 
 tableau of the ship on fire in The Black Swan. 
 This really good picture is too lengthy for ex- 
 'It's just what one might have expected from you.' 
 
' DAMPINGNESS: 197 
 
 tract in full, occupying as it does nearly two 
 whole chapters, and to mutilate it by abridg- 
 ment would be sacrilege. Oliver Madox Brown 
 might very contentedly have based his claims to 
 remembrance upon the two rival but com- 
 plementary pictures so realistically and power- 
 fully drawn in the pages of his chief romances : 
 both so grand and yet so utterly unlike each other. 
 A very different but thoroughly idiosyncratic 
 scene is that following the storm, and describing 
 Helen's reception by old Margery when the truant 
 comes home wet and draggletailed from the mist 
 and rain, whilst the incident of her feline friend's 
 return is described with Oliver's usual intimate 
 and sympathetic knowledge of animal life. The 
 drenched child was holding the kitten in her 
 arms, out of which it jumped suddenly as Helen 
 approached the house, sprang into the doorway, 
 4 and in spite of the zealous efforts made by the 
 old servant to frustrate its " dampingness," made 
 good its way on to the polished reflecting tiles of 
 the passage. A dripping trail of moisture be- 
 trayed every place in which it set its feet the 
 whole way through the basement of the house, 
 till it reached and crouched down panting on the 
 clean white hearth, in front of the kitchen fire, 
 diffusing a damp patch of moisture all round it 
 on the absorbing whitening of the stone. The 
 
198 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 large black cat, its mother, after advancing 
 eagerly to welcome the prodigal, started back in 
 utter dismay at its dismal condition, and dis- 
 creetly laid aside all present ebullitions of mater- 
 nal solicitude.' 
 
 In the third book of The Dwale Bluth, entitled 
 c The Growth of a Soul/ Helen's friendship for 
 her constant companion, the kitten, is thus com- 
 mented upon : 
 
 c Now Helen must have had some particles of 
 good in her nature, if she were not wholly imma- 
 culate, like some heroines, for no one acquainted 
 with the feline disposition could ever believe in 
 the existence of a cat capable of forming an en- 
 thusiastic friendship with a person of utterly 
 vitiated and unprincipled morals. 
 
 6 The child once found this animal in the 
 garden, growling angrily over something which 
 she at first mistook for a stone, but afterwards 
 discovered to be nothing more or less than a 
 large and venerable toad. She had probably 
 never seen or heard of such an animal before. 
 
 'At any rate, this delightful beast was im- 
 mediately rescued and examined with great 
 curiosity ; its ridiculous shape, cold skin, and 
 palpitating throat, seemed to have something 
 highly attractive to her, for she laughed over 
 them till she nearly dropped the impassive 
 
TOAD-LIFE. 199 
 
 animal into the claws of the expectant cat. At 
 last she placed it on a large stone and bent over 
 it to watch its movements. 
 
 4 It turned its clumsy feet and toes in quietly, 
 and then sat upright with equanimity, seemingly 
 quite undisturbed by all it had undergone ; but 
 presently it turned its flat head knowingly on 
 one side. A fly was approaching. 
 
 1 The unconscious fly pursued its zigzag course, 
 its golden scales glistening in the sunlight. 
 Nearer and nearer ! Helen's eyes glittered with 
 excitement. 
 
 ' The toad's cunning gold-rimmed eyes glittered 
 too a white hungry streak flashed out of its 
 distended mouth. The fly was gone, and its 
 captor seemed undergoing a slight internal con- 
 vulsion, which required the immediate thrusting 
 of his forepaws down his capacious throat. 
 
 ' After this he winked in a pleasant and sug- 
 gestive fashion, which can only be thoroughly 
 appreciated by those who have watched a toad 
 wink. The child thought he was winking right 
 in her face making, in fact, a sign of approval 
 to her. This enraptured her very soul. After 
 winking he commenced patting his flabby- 
 speckled stomach with both paws, for the un- 
 happy insect was most likely tickling him. 
 Helen grew wild with excitement and enthu- 
 
200 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 siasm. She carried him with her into the 
 kitchen, and the cat followed them, growling with 
 disappointment. 
 
 ' But to her amazement Margery no sooner 
 saw what she held in her hand than she dropped 
 her broom, threw her apron over her face, 
 screamed, and scurried out of the room. 
 
 ' So, seeing that her nurse was too narrow- 
 minded to appreciate her last acquisition in the 
 way of the fauna of Watern Tor, she carried the 
 animal up to her uncle's room. Now Helen 
 noticed that he was not at all frightened at it ; 
 for, on the contrary, he took the poor despised 
 beast up in his hands and bestowed a learned 
 Latin surname upon it. 
 
 ' " Child," said he, handing it carefully back 
 to her, " what do you mean to do with this 
 animal ?" 
 
 c " Keep him," said Helen. 
 
 ' " Very well," answered Mr. Serpleton ; " but 
 you must not hurt it, and, perhaps . . . upon 
 the whole you would do best . . . not to show 
 it to Margery. It does eat, although I have 
 heard the contrary asserted." 
 
 ' " He does !" remarked Helen. 
 
 1 In a short while the animal grew tame 
 enough to delight in having its head and ears 
 tickled with a blade of grass ; and its owner did 
 
NOCTURNAL WATCHERS. 201 
 
 nothing but wander over the house and garden 
 watching for flies almost as intently as it could 
 have done itself. 
 
 ' But Margery never could be reconciled to 
 its presence, and she even went so far as to 
 complain to her master, though without avail. 
 This offended her sense of dignity ; but all she 
 could do in her own defence was to refuse 
 sternly to admit the abomination into her 
 sanctuary, the kitchen. She never went to bed 
 at night without trembling lest she should find 
 the animal somewhere among the blankets. She 
 seemed, indeed, to look upon a toad as a kind of 
 hybrid between a viper and a scorpion.' 
 
 The Dwale Bluth is replete with such charming 
 little incidents of animal and child life, the 
 result, as numerous allusions prove, of actual 
 observation and experience, and not of mere 
 inference from reading. The introduction into 
 the story of the nightingales is roughly paralleled 
 in some passages already cited from a letter to 
 Philip Bourke Marston, and needs not quotation 
 here ; but the happy touches of humour which 
 Oliver loved to mingle, not discordantly, but 
 harmoniously, with the poetry and pathos of his 
 prose, is amusingly illustrated in such an 
 instance as that wherein the account of Helen, 
 rising from her bed to listen in a kind of ecstasy 
 
202 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 to the birds, ' with her white face pressed against 
 the cold window-panes/ is followed by the 
 remark that 'the cat also would leave the bed, 
 mount the window still, and gaze through the 
 misty glass with an extremely earnest expres- 
 sion, though, probably, it took this trouble from, 
 less acsthetical motives.' 
 
 If the current of the story runs somewhat 
 sluggishly, at least at first, 'the reader has no 
 reason to regret it, nor does he find need to 
 1 skip ' a single page, so interesting and delight- 
 ful are the digressions, if such the necessary 
 developments of the character of the persons and 
 places introduced may be termed. The reappear- 
 ance of the ill-omened deadly nightshade suffices 
 for an event, and, indeed, its second advent is 
 fraught with consequences almost tragical. When 
 Mr. Serpleton had returned home on the day in 
 which he had placed the baneful bloom in his 
 pocket, he found and turned it out on to a table. 
 Margery seized the spray and flung it into the 
 garden, where it fell within the shelter of an 
 old cucumber frame and there took root, and 
 says Oliver, ' prospered, as poisonous weeds will 
 sometimes prosper in this world.' 
 
 Some w r eeks passed by, and Helen had never 
 succeeded in discovering any more blossoms or 
 berries of the fascinating plant, although, it is 
 
THE POISON PLANT. 203 
 
 intimated, she had long sought them. One 
 autumnal day, after a stormy interview with 
 Margery, she found herself cooling her passion 
 in the garden. ' She sat down on the edge of 
 the cucumber-frame, drumming her small feet 
 against the side in an impatient way. ... Of 
 a sudden she started, and bent over the broken 
 bars. There was what she had been looking 
 after, for her downcast eyes fell, with an instan- 
 taneous revival of interest, on the tendrils of the 
 deadly nightshade, loaded with poison flowers 
 and berries, crawling stealthily round the inside 
 of the frame, or crouching ignominiously along 
 the damp ground. The traces of snail-tracks 
 went all over the bricks and mould, and the 
 leaves were bitten here and there; but it was 
 singular to note what a number of empty snail- 
 shells were lying among its foliage. In spite of 
 this, it had grown into a goodly plant. 
 
 ' The Dwale Bluth is a cowardly creeper, and 
 knows no means of rising above the earth it 
 springs from, unless by insinuating itself among 
 the leaves of some bolder parasite. There it 
 now lay beneath her gaze, even throwing a grim 
 and sinister reflection on to her dark-com- 
 plexioned face, and into her eyes ; there it lay 
 at her feet, prone and helpless, as though it 
 were entreating her to lift it/ 
 
204 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 The result of this unfortunate discovery of the 
 poison flower was that Helen, although aware to 
 some extent of its evil qualities, in her wild rage 
 at having been thwarted by Margery, ate of the 
 malign berries. ' Some two hours afterwards 
 Margery found the child moaning in a strange 
 and pitiful manner. She had gone up to her 
 bedroom and was lying on the bed, with her 
 small brown hands clenched in the counterpane ; 
 her eyeballs had grown dark and luminous, but 
 seemed no longer to retain the acute and piercing 
 look which usually distinguished them. Indeed, 
 there was an expression of pain all over her 
 face, and her red curved lips twitched constantly/ 
 The old nurse concluded the child had a sick 
 headache, so undressed her and put her to 
 bed. 
 
 When Margery returned in a little while with 
 some lemonade decoction, she was horrified to find 
 Helen suffering from paroxysms of a mysterious 
 kind: her alarm was broken in upon by the 
 entrance of Mr. Serpleton. He quickly perceived 
 that the child was suffering from the effects of 
 poisoning, but for some time could 'not detect 
 what was the nature of the venom. Eventually 
 he discovered the cause of the evil and ad- 
 ministered a suitable draught, and although 
 Margery, who had been despatched for the 
 
THE BLIND POET. 205 
 
 nearest medical man, had to return without him, 
 she found her master had ably fulfilled the 
 duties of nurse and doctor too. For a long time 
 Helen lay in a state of delirium, the psychological 
 phases of which are wonderfully depicted, but, 
 owing to the terrible gap in this weird, un- 
 finished romance, we have no record of her 
 recovery, nor of those incidents of her girlhood 
 which the author doubtless intended to supply. 
 The end of the third book, so far as it has been 
 published, leaves Helen Serpleton as a child, 
 suffering from the poisonous effects of the deadly 
 nightshade, whilst the opening chapter of the 
 fourth book introduces her as a grown woman 
 the widowed mistress of Thurlstone deprived of 
 her uncle, and with a very uncanny reputation 
 amongst her rustic neighbours. How the author 
 would have bridged the chasm can but be 
 guessed at. 
 
 The fourth book introduces Helen loitering 
 with her lover, Arthur Haenton, about the rocks 
 overhanging the sea, talking with him of her 
 past, and planning bright schemes for the future. 
 Arthur, whose prototype is so easy to guess at, 
 is both a poet and blind, and Helen sings 
 snatches of his own songs to him as they saunter 
 along in the twilight. Their feet are arrested by 
 voices, and in the nearness they hear, sung by a 
 
206 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 shrill chorus of childish throats, this simple 
 Devonshire song : 
 
 ' A dwalin* drumble-drone f i' th' rewts, 
 
 An apple-dreane aboo : 
 
 Th' yapple-dreane sturtled an' stugged i' th' f reuts, 
 Th' drone i' th' yavil || flew. 
 
 1 An' apple-drene an' a drumble-drone 
 
 Wert aw' ther' wert ter zee. 
 Th' drumble-drone lay dead i' th' snaw, 
 Th' yapple-dreane i' th' dree.' 
 
 The purport of this charming rustic lyric, which 
 breaks in upon the impassioned lovers' talk, is to 
 relate the story of a bee and wasp, one of whom 
 lived in the roots, the other in the branches of an 
 apple-tree, and who, overtaken by a snow-storm, 
 both came to untimely ends. The chatter of the 
 youngsters and their dread of the 'witch/ as 
 they deem Helen to be, is an amusing and 
 realistic picture of pastoral life that serves to 
 set off and deepen the sombreness and gloom of 
 a tragic tale. 
 
 Mrs. Thurlstone and her lover passed up to- 
 wards the Castle Rock overlooking the sea, 
 followed at a very respectable distance by the 
 youngsters, who, however, were soon put to 
 flight by a man they deemed they recognised as 
 
 * Delirious. f Bee. J Wasp. 
 
 Buzzed. || Common. 
 
THE GRAVE GIVES UP ITS DEAD. 207 
 
 the apparition of Mr. Thurlstone, who, it was 
 supposed, had perished abroad. The lovers, un- 
 conscious of the danger impending, passed to the 
 lofty summit of a crag overhanging the sea and 
 then on a fallen stone, sat under the shelter of a 
 natural cave formed by large fragments of rock. 
 Thither the returned husband, for it was 
 Thurlstone himself, cautiously followed them. 
 
 A while he stood and watched the 'dark 
 clearly denned outlines of two figures sitting 
 clasped together on the stone seat at the en- 
 trance. . . . His wife's arms were entwined 
 round the blind poet's neck, her cheek was 
 pressed fondly to his, and her long dishevelled 
 hair was spread out over his shoulders and round 
 his neck. . . . The great black rock which was 
 suspended over their heads looked as though it 
 were every instant about to fall and crush them 
 for their unconscious sin. 
 
 ' Helen's husband stood outside in the moon- 
 light, unmindful of the place he was in and the 
 profound obscurity of the abysses under his feet. 
 . . . Everything in outer nature had suddenly 
 lost its existence or reality to him all his facul- 
 ties were concentrated on the spectacle before 
 him. . . . The sky was very luminous beyond 
 the dark walls of the cavern: the two heads 
 were as if crowned with a brilliant cluster of 
 
208 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 stars, some of which appeared to hang like 
 blossoms festooned in Helen's loosened hair as 
 they were seen through its openings. . . . These 
 two lovers, while their minds were involved in 
 the delirious intoxication of reciprocal passion, 
 how little they dreamt what the fulfilment of 
 fate had in store for them ! There was no con- 
 cealment between their hearts ; each mingled with 
 free speech in the other's confidence. The man 
 watched them and listened to their enraptured 
 words as though he were paralyzed by his con- 
 flicting passions and could only stand there 
 helplessly. At last his constrained inaction 
 became dreadful, contrasted with their freedom. 
 In the darkness and silence of the night it would 
 be impossible to describe how utterly they would 
 be under his power whenever he chose to inter- 
 rupt them. . . . 
 
 6 Suddenly, as the man stood there, he heard 
 far off in the distance the measured solemn vibra- 
 tions of a clock, as it slowly beat out the hour in 
 some remote village belfry . . . what hour it 
 struck was impossible to determine, for the 
 strokes were all mingled together in the one 
 common reverberation which lingered among the 
 rocky hills they passed over. In the disturbed 
 state of his brain it seemed a mysterious inde- 
 cipherable warning, as from some other long-for- 
 
LOVE AND SILENCE. 209 
 
 gotten world which he had once lived in. ... 
 One hour nearer the end had sounded. . . . 
 
 1 This noise, reminding him as it were that 
 other people existed in the world besides the two 
 before him, roused him a little out of his fierce 
 bewilderment. . . . His sun-browned hands were 
 clutched convulsively behind his back, with a 
 kind of nervous twitching in the fingers ; one 
 foot was advanced as though he were minded to 
 go to them, did not some irresistible power hold 
 him back. . . . 
 
 4 He stood full in the light without thought of 
 concealment. If Helen had turned her head she 
 must unfailingly have seen him ; if Haenton had 
 listened he might have heard his breathing : but 
 they were too infatuated, too much immersed in 
 themselves for that. . . . 
 
 ' " Don't you hear the old Countisbury church 
 clock striking? It must be ten. You'll have 
 to lead me home, Arthur, since you know the 
 ground so well, for it's dark all over down below. 
 How secure and happy one feels up here !" said 
 poor Helen, breaking the long and rapturous 
 silence which had lasted between them, with a 
 kind of lingering sigh. There is more meaning 
 in a half-hour's silence between two human 
 beings who love each other than in a whole day's 
 
 14 
 
2JO OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 conversation between ordinary men and women. 
 Silence and love are inseparable !' 
 
 Then, in the midst of her caresses breaking 
 into song, Helen sang : 
 
 ' Love is a desultory fire, 
 Blown by a wind made musical with sighs ; 
 A void and wonderfully vague desire, 
 Which comes and flies. 
 
 1 Of once-sown passion who knows what the crop is ? 
 Alas ! my love, love's eyes are very blind. 
 What would they have us do ? Sunflowers and poppies 
 Stoop with the wind.' 
 
 ' " Oh, Haenton," proceeds the heroine, " what a 
 bitter, bitter mockery the unknown love I 
 always bore for you made my marriage seem 
 to me ! ... I half forgot your very existence ; 
 but I never forgot for one instant the passion 
 that always slumbered so restlessly in my heart, 
 even if I did not know what I yearned for. It 
 all burst into flame at last, when I saw you. . . 
 I often wondered what I had been made for till 
 then." 
 
 ' If Helen had looked back through the rocks, 
 she would have seen a man pressing his hands 
 over his face, as though to shut out some sight 
 he dared not look upon/ But Helen did not 
 look, and proceeded with her caresses, all the 
 while recounting the reasons why she had 
 
THURLSTONE. 211 
 
 married Thurlstone, for whom, so she averred, 
 she never really cared, and to whom she had 
 engaged herself in a moment of impulse. After 
 these confessions she was proceeding to sing 
 one of her lover's songs, when she suddenly 
 stopped, startled by the deep baying of a dog. 
 With her arm still about Haenton's neck, Helen 
 half rose and turned round. Doing so, and still 
 listening in a startled way, she caught sight of 
 the man's figure ; she must have recognised him 
 instantly, for she greeted him with a bewildered 
 scream. 
 
 ' " Ay, it's my dog, Helen. We've both been 
 half-drowned, but we've come home again : he 
 has been very faithful to me, but then, you see, 
 he's only a dumb animal." He said this with a 
 great effort to articulate calmly, which was very 
 evident. . . . "Who's that man there?" . . . 
 
 1 There was dignity in Thurlstone's voice and 
 figure as he stood there. Nothing in the world 
 is more ennobling than an unmerited injury. 
 Mrs. Thurlstone had started up suddenly, and 
 with an instinctive effort to conceal her lover 
 behind her dress and hands, and even her hair. 
 It was terrible. 
 
 'As her husband spoke, she gave a second 
 shrill cry or scream, like that of a despairing 
 animal, and passed over the fragment of rock 
 
 142 
 
212 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 they had been sitting on, so as to keep herself in 
 front of the blind man. . . . 
 
 ' " Spare him, oh spare him ! He is not a 
 man like you. I placed myself under your 
 direction, I know, and I am weak as only a 
 woman is ; but if you touch one hair of his 
 head, oh God, you shall rue it ! ... How was 
 I to guess you were coming back from the jaws 
 of death to blast the only happiness I care for in 
 life?" . . . 
 
 ' " And this is all the return you give me for 
 all the years of love I have wasted on you ! You 
 tell me to my face that I destroy your happi- 
 ness," the man interrupted in a wild strident 
 voice that rang sharply among the rocks, while 
 he made a step towards her. She recoiled from 
 him, but it was only to get more in front of 
 Haenton. As her husband stood looking on her, 
 he seemed for an instant about to catch her up 
 in his arms, but the impulse left him. 
 
 ' " Look you !" said Thurlstone, with a deep 
 and quivering voice. " I love you still, Helen, 
 come what may, so I won't give you any oppor- 
 tunity for inventing lies. . . . Either you come 
 home with me to Waters-meet follow me now 
 or by the heaven above us. ... I'll cast the 
 blind man there off this summit on to the sea- 
 rocks! Will you come quietly, Helen, or not? 
 
BIRDS OF ILL-OMEN. 213 
 
 Take your choice .... no one could blame or 
 punish me, I know very well, and I don't care if 
 they can ! . . ." 
 
 ' " Oh, I shall go mad ! My heart's bursting !" 
 was all she said: she stood irresolutely for a 
 moment, and then burst into tears. Perhaps 
 the poor girl's imagination pictured a little swirl 
 of blood staining the sea-water below, for, still 
 shuddering, she made a movement as though 
 she would consent to follow her husband. She 
 cast an imploring look behind her to where she 
 had left her lover, and seemed to be about to 
 speak, and then stopped, evidently to avoid 
 calling Thurlstone's attention towards him. 
 
 ' They both stood facing each other still a 
 little while longer. A pair of evil-looking black- 
 feathered birds, seen dimly in the moonlight, 
 were balancing themselves on the angle of the 
 white rock overhead, and twisting their black 
 beaks on one side to gaze down on them. They 
 seemed to be sleepily taking note of what was 
 passing beneath, and croaking drowsy comments 
 to each other. These birds were a couple of 
 ravens, and had probably been disturbed from 
 the nest they had built in one of the clefts; 
 there was something indescribably sinister in 
 their sudden appearance at such a juncture. 
 
 " Remember!" said Thurstone sternly, with a 
 
214 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 look towards where Haenton was. Helen started 
 again with a shudder, but this time she sup- 
 pressed any cry she might have uttered. Then 
 they went down the path together, he in front 
 and she following, for she was in deadly fear lest 
 he should turn back if he got between her and 
 her blind lover. The dog went last of all, 
 still smelling the hem of her garment. The last 
 that was plainly seen of them, just before they 
 plunged into the shadow, was a glimpse of 
 Helen's bloodless face turned upwards to where 
 she had left Haenton. 7 
 
 Arthur Haenton, after causing the rocks to 
 re-echo vainly with Helen's name, was left to 
 grope his way home alone. 
 
 Thus far Oliver carried the story of TJie Dwale 
 Bluth himself, and although he never lived to 
 
 ' O 
 
 revise and correct it, a very large portion of his 
 manuscript was, doubtless, as it would have been 
 left by its author even after he had completed the 
 work. The great chasm between books three and 
 four would probably have been more artistically 
 bridged over, and many things altered and im- 
 proved, at any rate in the final chapters. From 
 what was known of his design, at least at one 
 period of its progress, the editors of his works 
 were enabled to furnish a brief analysis of how it 
 was intended The Dwale Bluth should end. Helen, 
 
HELEN'S FATE. 215 
 
 watched and guarded by her husband until the 
 restraint upon her excitable temperament pro- 
 duced brain fever, during a paroxysm of the 
 disease that occurred whilst her nurse slept, 
 strangled herself with her hair. 
 
 Not to embitter Helen's condition, Arthur 
 Haenton forbore for some days to make inquiries 
 about her of the neighbours, ' who were glad 
 enough to avoid the task of repeating to him the 
 dark whispers that went around. But he wan- 
 dered about the well-known, well-loved paths he 
 had so often trodden with -his love.' Yet he 
 could not long remain ignorant of her fate. 
 Straying along the narrow zigzag footway which 
 was then the only road connecting Lynmouth 
 with the town of Linton on the heights above, 
 Arthur arrived at a place where there was scarcely 
 room for more than two persons to walk abreast: 
 here he met a funeral procession, i and in the 
 straitness of the way, the blind man had to feel 
 the coffin as it was borne by ; asking one of the 
 followers whose funeral it was, he was answered, 
 " Mrs. Thurlstone's of the Waters-meet."' 
 
 The unfortunate poet wandered about in the 
 wilderness and gloom for three days, and on the 
 night of the third, with strength almost ex- 
 hausted, he found his way to Linton church- 
 yard, and there, after hours of weary search, came 
 
216 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 upon a newly -made grave whereon some hand 
 had placed a large spray of The Dwale Bluth, the 
 plant which had been so strangely interwoven 
 with Helen's history. ' Arthur, who was dying of 
 inanition, ravenously ate of the berries. They 
 appeased his craving for food, they appeased his 
 longing for death. It was a sacrifice to her 
 shade, and he was the victim.' 
 
 And thus ends The Dwale Bluth, the work 
 which its author never lived to complete, but 
 which, despite its fragmentary unfinished nature, 
 is his chef d'ceuvre. The latter portion is de- 
 cidedly inferior to the three first books, so replete 
 as they are with genuine unforced pathos and 
 humour, and presenting as they do such faithful 
 presentations of the mingled mirth and misery 
 of life's complexities. If the last book of this 
 romance, needing though it does the author's 
 finishing touches, is full of the passion and mis- 
 fortune of love, it lacks sadly those inimitable 
 strokes of humour which place the characters of 
 Oliver Serpleton and old Margery among the 
 immortals created by the genius of man. 
 
DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. 
 
Jn a 
 
 12TH NOVEMBER, 1874. 
 
 [Two intimate friends of Oliver Madox Brown spent the night 
 preceding his funeral in talk upon the sad mystery of Ids early 
 dmth. The result was the following sonnet and the one given 
 on page 2, ante, composed during the drive from the funeral.'] 
 
 Farewell to thee and to our dreams farewell 
 Dreams of high deeds and golden days of thine, 
 Where once again should Art's twin powers combine 
 
 The painter's wizard- wand, the poet's spell ! 
 
 Though Death strikes free, careless of Heaven and Hell 
 Careless of Man of Love's most lovely shrine 
 Yet must Man speak must ask of Heaven a sign 
 
 That this wild world is God's and all is well. 
 
 Last night we mourned thee, cursing eyeless Death, 
 Who, sparing sons of Baal and Ashtoreth, 
 Must needs slay thee, with all the world to slay ; 
 But round this grave the winds of winter say : 
 * On earth what hath the poet ? An alien breath ; 
 Death holds the keys that ope the doors of Day. 7 
 
 THEODORE WATTS. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. 
 
 1 Oh reluctantly lingering breath ! 
 
 Oh longing with sorrow requited ! 
 Oh blossom the storm-winds have blighted, 
 Deep down in the shadow of death !' 
 
 Stanzas. OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 IN our analysis of The JDwale Bluth, the fact 
 has already been adverted to that its author 
 had made certain alterations in the earlier 
 portions of his romance, in accordance with the 
 suggestion of the CornhilVs editor; that subse- 
 quently he was reluctantly induced to allow his 
 revised manuscript to be submitted to that 
 gentleman with a probable view to its use in the 
 magazine under his control, and that after it had 
 been retained for some time, it was returned to 
 Oliver without a word of explanation. 
 
220 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 The effects of the disappointment, and appar- 
 ently the method by which it was brought 
 about, seem to have had a most injurious effect 
 upon the young author's highly susceptible 
 organization. Instead of regarding the return 
 of his manuscript as the result of a want of 
 appreciation by one person only, or as capable 
 of explanation on personal or general grounds, 
 the sensitive youth took the affair seriously to 
 heart, and henceforward would appear to have 
 lost confidence in his own powers. After the 
 prospect of getting his books published through 
 Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co/s co-operation was 
 thus suddenly, unexpectedly, and curtly closed 
 to him, it was noticed that Oliver became dis- 
 satisfied with everything that he wrote. His 
 relatives were unable to overlook the fact, 
 although they paid no particular attention to 
 it at the moment, that henceforth he began to 
 tear up his writings, sometimes whole chapters 
 at a time, and became a constant prey to irrita- 
 tion. He could no longer find satisfaction in 
 anything he wrote, yet steadfastly refused all 
 advice or comfort, and declined to allow anyone 
 to see his work, letting ' concealment, like a 
 worm i' the bud/ canker his boyish hopes. 
 
 During 1874, besides his occasional work on 
 Hebditch's Legacy and The Dicale Bluth, he 
 
LONDON LIFE. 221 
 
 commenced various other stories; one, a short 
 tale connected with his Devonian studies entitled 
 The Yeth- Hounds, is founded on the ancient, 
 widely diffused myth that these 
 
 ' Undefined sounds 
 
 That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, 
 And wither dreamily on barren moors,' 
 
 are the noises made by a spectral huntsman and 
 his hounds, as they urge on their ghostly course 
 in mad pursuit of a demon lady. Into this short 
 and unfinished legendary story Oliver contrived 
 to instil some charming vraisemblant spirit of 
 child-life, made the more realistic by its flavour- 
 ing of local idiom and folk-lore. The prattle of 
 the little ones who were lost on Dartmoor, and 
 were 'cold to th' backbone, trembling like wet 
 grass-blades/ supplied a very natural setting 
 for the time-honoured legend. 
 
 . Dismal Jemmy, as well as The Last Story, 
 dictated during his fatal illness, were both 
 intended by Oliver to illustrate certain phases 
 which he deemed had hitherto been overlooked 
 in the life and aspect of that London which he 
 was born in, lived in, died in, and loved so well, 
 and which he hoped to treat as Balzac had 'treated 
 Paris. These tales, the fragment of an Irish 
 story, and some few verses besides those cited in 
 
222 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 the present volume, form, with those works 
 special mention has already been made of, the 
 literary remains of Oliver Madox Brown. 
 
 What will chiefly strike the reader in the 
 perusal of Oliver's work, is the intimate and 
 sympathetic knowledge of the life of children 
 and animals which it so prominently displays. 
 His pets were numerous and unusual, his collec- 
 tion including white rats, green frogs, a large 
 toad which occasionally swallowed one of the 
 frogs, and also contrived to gulp down its own 
 skin after it had carefully divested itself of the 
 superfluous covering and rolled it into a ball 
 two chameleons, two Japanese salamanders, 
 striped and patched with flame -colour and 
 black, and flies innumerable, which he hatched, 
 if it may be so termed, from gentles, breeding 
 them to serve as reserve food for the other 
 occupants of his menagerie. The rats, well 
 known to the habitues of 37, Fitzroy Square, as 
 * Nolly's rats/ were kept separate from the rest 
 of the collection.; they were white, and quite 
 domesticated, at least so far as concerned their 
 owner, at whose call they would come, and along 
 whose arms and shoulders they would scamper 
 familiarly. His long acquaintanceship with these 
 animals, and his close inspection of their habits, 
 stood him in good stead in his literary labours, 
 
RAT-LIFE. 223 
 
 wherein, indeed, he seems to have rarely hazarded 
 anything of moment not derived from his own 
 or his friends' observation. In The Black Swan, 
 for instance, how natural and telling is the 
 discovery of the ship being on fire foreshadowed 
 to Gabriel Denver by the behaviour of the rats : 
 
 4 Just at that instant, as he sat trying to 
 collect his thoughts, he felt something scramble 
 over his feet, and looking down and into the 
 circle of light near him, he saw two or three 
 rats, emerging from the shadow, cross through 
 the light and hurry into the opposite obscurity 
 again. One stood up in the manner so character- 
 istic of its kind, no matter what danger they may 
 be flying from, rubbing its neck and whiskers 
 carefully with its wet paws ; then it deliberately 
 inspected the end of its tail and disappeared after 
 them, followed by others. He could see their 
 keen teeth and fierce little eyes glistening as 
 they caught the light. These animals, usually 
 so watchful, did not appear at all attracted by 
 his movements, and they were evidently scared 
 already, as if in the presence of some greater 
 and common danger ; thus they roused Denver's 
 attention in spite of himself; he could not make 
 out what was the matter with them, and had 
 never before noticed a rat in the ship. 1 
 
 Oliver was never deterred by the prejudices 
 
224 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 of ordinary people: rats are dreaded by those 
 who -know nothing about them, so he determined 
 to study the manners and customs of the little 
 furry fellows. Toads, again, are held in general 
 abhorrence, therefore Oliver made them an 
 object of his closest personal observation, with 
 what result readers of TJie Divale Blutli know. 
 After all, however, it must be acknowledged 
 that it was with cats that his most intimate 
 animal friendships were made. He appeared to 
 exercise a peculiar mesmeric attraction over the 
 feline race, not only with domestic, but even with 
 semi-savage members of the family. It is within 
 the knowledge of many that a number of wild 
 cats up till recently infested Fitzroy Square, 
 holding high carnival within the railed enclosure. 
 These unfortunate creatures, living on sparrows, 
 or any garbage they could discover, or often 
 starving, prowled about the neighbourhood in a 
 state of desperate warfare with all other beings ; 
 every creature's hands, feet, paws, beaks, and 
 claws against them, and their teeth and claws 
 against everything, even against one another. 
 And yet, marvellous to relate, these all-sus- 
 picious animals, though avoiding everyone else, 
 were accustomed to near Oliver, and even gambol 
 round him when he entered the Square. Indeed, 
 it is averred that no feline pariah, however 
 
IDIOSYNCRASIES. 225 
 
 miserable or distraught, but would readily en- 
 trust itself to the magnetism of his merciful care. 
 It is also remembered that when he was detained 
 one night at a friend's house, the cat at home, 
 which was very fond of him, sat by the street- 
 door, watching for him the whole night through. 
 
 Oliver's fondness for children and their ways 
 was doubtless closely connected with his love of 
 animals : the helplessness and dependence of 
 infancy apparently aroused his tenderest interest, 
 and invoked that intense sympathy he reserved 
 chiefly for the unfortunate or powerless. TJie 
 Dwale Bluth is replete with instances of his in- 
 timacy with childhood, and evinces a knowledge 
 of child-life rarely paralleled outside the sacred 
 sisterhood of matrons, whilst anecdotes are 
 related by his friends corroborative of the be- 
 lief that he evinced in actual life that love for 
 infancy, and that susceptibility to its feelings, 
 which his works give evidence of. 
 
 His constitutional carelessness about worldly 
 matters has already been adverted to, and it is 
 by no means improbable that a knowledge of 
 his own infirmity was partly accountable for his 
 portraiture of the Rev. Oliver Serpleton's eccen- 
 tricities, although a living model has been found 
 for that personage. Whether a longer life would 
 have developed this idiosyncrasy into such ex- 
 
 15 
 
226 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 tremes with our Oliver as with his namesake, it 
 is idle to speculate. In some cases it is possible 
 that he had reasons for his apparently unreason- 
 able habits, as, for instance, when his sister sent 
 him from abroad a spray of the real deadly 
 Belladonna, he omitted perhaps purposely 
 to avail himself of the opportunity, retaining his 
 own already written less correct, albeit more 
 picturesque, description of the plant. Again, in 
 HebditcKs Legacy, having once drawn from his 
 own vivid imagination a description of the banks 
 of the Medway, he positively refused to alter it to 
 one more correct. * Truth, 7 we have been in- 
 formed, ' either from a psychological or pictorial 
 point of view, he revered, but seems to have 
 despised small details of facts.* Certainly he 
 never despised artistic nor picturesque elements, 
 and in his mania there was always method. In 
 his personal habits and attire he avoided both 
 foppishness and negligence, and although he de- 
 tested conventionality, was careful not to de- 
 velop eccentricities ; the only partiality for any 
 particular article he was known to show having 
 been for a large ebony Indian walking-stick, in- 
 laid with ivory, and having a handle shaped 
 somewhat like a bishop's crosier. This stick 
 was the constant and favourite companion of his 
 rambles ; it had been given to him by 
 
APPEARANCE AND HABITS. 227 
 
 brother-in-law, Mr. William M. Kossetti, and 
 was doubtless much prized on that account ; but 
 it also possessed an artistic, not to say historic, 
 interest that must have enhanced its value in his 
 eyes : previous to the stick having been presented 
 to Oliver, it had been lent to Dante Rossetti, 
 and by him was introduced in the picture of 
 Marianne, and then to Ford Madox Brown, who 
 depicted it in his painting of Joseph's Coat. 
 Truly a relic to be prized and guarded ! 
 
 When he was about fourteen or fifteen he 
 commenced wearing glasses, and used them to 
 the end of his life. Somewhere about sixteen 
 he took to smoking, and, at one time, would 
 appear to have indulged somewhat extensively 
 in the habit. His hair was brown, streaked 
 with gold, and was worn parted down the centre. 
 His eyes were grey. When animated, his features 
 assumed a sort of intensified keenness, mingled 
 at times with a sweet playfulness of expression. 
 His habitual uninspired expression was some- 
 what blase, whilst his customary mode of talk 
 used as a shield against the commonplace chatter 
 of others was a mingling of common-sense with 
 contempt for weak enthusiasm. 
 
 Oliver was a remarkably fine reader, especially 
 of anything humorous, and Philip Bourke 
 Marston says, ' I shall always remember one 
 
 152 
 
228 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 night, when I was feeling particularly out of 
 sorts, his coming in and reading the great trial 
 scene out of Pickwick. There is no doubt that 
 he had in this line great dramatic capabilities.' 
 He was an ardent admirer of The City of 
 Dreadful Nig '/it , and read it through one night 
 at Fitzroy Square in company with Mr. Marston, 
 the two sitting up very late in order to accom- 
 plish the perusal. 
 
 ' He gave to his work,' says Mr. Marston, ' all 
 that love and devotion that a great artist gives 
 to a great art ; he probably possessed more than 
 any writer of the present time that complete 
 objectivity, not requisite to the poet, but indis- 
 pensable to the dramatist and novelist. It was 
 difficult to satisfy him with his own work ; he 
 would frequently, when half-way through a 
 story, without a regret cast aside all he had 
 done, and write it afresh. 
 
 1 Of his conscientious method of working you 
 may form some idea when I tell you that the 
 walls of his room, in which he habitually wrote, 
 were covered with sheets of paper containing 
 some hundreds of names collected from different 
 sources, which were to pass before him in review, 
 till he lighted on such names as he deemed 
 suitable to his character.' 
 
 Oliver possessed a fairly large collection of 
 
HIS STANDARD OF LIFE. 229 
 
 books, with the contents of which he seems to 
 have been thoroughly acquainted. The poets 
 were his favourite authors, but at first hand, or 
 through the medium of translation, he managed 
 not only to peruse the chief masterpieces of 
 English and foreign Belles Lettres, but, also, 
 much that was curious and outre: indeed, his 
 library was a medley of all sorts of ' odds and 
 ends/ gathered together with a view to becoming, 
 one day or another, useful aids to the working 
 out of his imagination. It was his custom to 
 read a book directly after he had purchased it. 
 
 ' I may say/ writes Mr. Marston, ' that all who 
 knew him loved him. He was the best and 
 truest of friends, possessing a nature warm and 
 sympathetic ; yet I never knew any occasion on 
 which his friendship dimmed his sense of justice. 
 More than once I have benefited by his keen 
 intellect, which often detected my wrong from 
 right, as I afterwards came to see. Had he 
 lived, he would have developed into one of those 
 men to whom other men in their sore need look 
 for strength and counsel. His standard of life 
 was a high one. I remember how once, for 
 nearly an hour, he talked almost uninterruptedly, 
 to show me how large an influence man has on 
 the world, by simply living out his life to its 
 highest possibilities. That night he was in one 
 
230 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 of his gravest and most thoughtful moods. His 
 conversation generally was quick with repartee, 
 which sometimes hurt just a little ; but his 
 bright smile and cordial shake of the hand 
 always healed instantly the slight wound which 
 his tongue might have unwittingly caused. 
 
 ' He was free from the slightest trace of senti- 
 mentality ; his nature was essentially masculine 
 and robust, having that almost maternal tender- 
 ness which in noble natures is generally coupled 
 with strength. His friendship evinced itself in 
 those little acts of consideration and tact which 
 help so materially to sweeten life. It was, more- 
 over, equal to the highest test, as I have personal 
 reasons for knowing/ 
 
 Notwithstanding the fact that during the last 
 few months Oliver must have frequently endured 
 severe bodily suffering, and that his imaginative 
 susceptibility caused him to feel deeply the 
 editorial rejection of his last romance, his 
 life on the whole was one of much happiness. 
 As Mr. Marston has said : ' During his brief and 
 remarkable life he enjoyed the friendship of some 
 of the most distinguished men of his tune, who 
 yielded him their admiration with no stint/ The 
 idol of his relatives and many friends ; the 
 author, whilst still in his teens, of a popular and 
 much applauded romance; known as a clever 
 
ILL-HEALTH. 231 
 
 artist and a true poet, and with no real worldly 
 cares to cumber his mind, he must have enjoyed 
 no small share of earthly happiness. He was 
 spared the misery of manhood and the apathetic 
 despair of old age, living only long enough to 
 taste the unsatiating pleasure of youth. 
 
 His various attacks of ill-health had not 
 created any particular anxiety among his 
 relatives. In September, 1874, however, he 
 was too unwell, suffering from gout in the foot, 
 to accompany the various members of his family 
 to Margate. An extra bedroom, nevertheless, 
 was taken for him, and he was shortly expected 
 to rejoin the party at the sea-side, little or no 
 danger being apprehended. On the loth of the 
 month he wrote to his friend Marston : 
 
 1 37, Fitzroy Square. 
 
 DEAR PHILIP, 
 
 You asked me to write and tell you how 
 I felt when I should reach home. I have been 
 very bad, and can hardly hold my pen even now. 
 I luckily found a cab at the corner in the Hamp- 
 stead Road, or I don't know how I should have 
 got home at all and I have had a violent pain 
 in my side ever since, which has something to do 
 with enlargement of the liver, I am told, by way 
 of encouragement. Cheerful this ! I am going 
 
232 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 down to Margate to-morrow, if well enough, 
 which I have my doubts of, and so expect I shall 
 not see you for some time to come. So you see 
 I was really ill for once in a way, maugre your 
 scepticism which is some faint consolation after 
 all, I take it. Believe me, till we meet again, 
 Affectionately yours, 
 
 0. MADOX BROWN/ 
 
 On the morrow, however, Oliver was still too 
 unwell to leave home, and on the 19th, being yet 
 detained by his failing health, he wrote the 
 following (his last) letter to his dear friend: 
 
 1 37, Fitzroy Square. 
 
 DEAK P. B. M., 
 
 I am still laid up and grievously afflicted 
 by the Lord to whom, etc., etc., etc. The 
 family are all departed, however, as it was 
 necessary for my sister that they should wait no 
 longer. I hope to be able to rejoin them in a 
 few days. But for the present I have to content 
 myself with a minute survey of a newly white- 
 washed ceiling I have the honour of sleeping 
 under of nights, and with saying my prayers, as 
 I am quite alone. I am not blasphemous at 
 heart contrary wise, I am truly reverential; but 
 I wish I could control creation for a little while. 
 
HIS LAST LETTER. 233 
 
 .... What I want to ask is whether you could 
 by any possibility call and spend a few hours 
 here to-morrow Saturday. I should be only too 
 glad to see you, if you will send a line to say you 
 can beforehand. Only be sure not to come unless 
 I send you a telegram in the course of the day 
 saying I am really ready to see you. I am 
 writing in bed, so please excuse spelling and 
 handwriting, and believe me, 
 Always yours, 
 
 OLIVER MADOX BROWN.' 
 
 His health appeared to improve, and he re- 
 joined his relatives at the sea-side, but was never 
 really enabled to throw oif the hectic fever which 
 had followed the attack of rheumatic gout. 
 Within a week he returned to London without 
 having derived any benefit from his journey, and 
 again took to his bed. The fatal malady from 
 which he was suffering ultimately developed into 
 pyaemia, or blood-poisoning. 'Full of energy, 
 of hope, of noble aspirations, with (i mountains of 
 work" before him/ says the critic in the article 
 already cited from, ' the most promising young 
 man perhaps of our time the most variously 
 endowed, surely was one day crossed in his 
 path by an enemy unseen and little recked 
 a poison gemmule floating in the air, and 
 
234 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 merely seeking a nidus, just as the young poet 
 himself was seeking his goal the goal to which 
 he was to devote his life ; and in a week or two 
 Oliver Madox Brown is but a memory!' 
 
 During the progress of his final illness Oliver 
 either read or dictated. The Last Story, the frag- 
 ment of a tale of London life already alluded to, 
 was taken down from the dying lad's lips, partly 
 by his mother and partly by his brother-in-law, 
 Mr. William M. Rossetti. i Wasted and exhausted 
 as he was with fever,' writes Mr. Rossetti, l the 
 brain still worked, though the hand was incapable 
 of holding the pen.' And it was his long 
 cherished thought of popularizing and making 
 better known the hidden secrets of the mighty 
 metropolis that still swayed the last scintillations 
 of the lad's powerful mind. With what fidelity 
 to fact and with what vigour did the dying youth 
 portray the misery of young children of the 
 lowest classes of the earth's wealthiest city. 
 * How we children managed to live up our ally/ 
 is the supposed autobiographical record of the 
 hero of the Last Story, ' swarming as we were, 
 God alone knows ! It is not often that one of us 
 survives to attain any other position save that of 
 a dwarfed and beery imbecility. But the faculties 
 are sharpened like those of rats : not the slightest 
 thing eatable wedged into the crannies of the 
 
LOWEST LONDON LIFE. 235 
 
 pavement or splashed upon the wall; no piece of 
 carrot or end of cabbage-leaf, can possibly elude 
 our attention. We swarm and live like animals 
 it almost seems as though on one another. I 
 remember I often used to sit watching the 
 sparrows on the parapets, wondering whether they 
 were as hungry as I, convincing myself that 
 they were not, and even feeling jealous of them. 
 .... The children I lived amongst were 
 simply like rats. We neither bit nor choked 
 each other ; but if any piece of garbage had been 
 flung suddenly up the alley, we should have fought 
 each other wildly for it with our teeth and nails/ 
 Even this slight fragment of a fragment, di- 
 vested, too, of all its interest and vraisemblance, 
 as it necessarily is, when standing by itself, 
 proves the vitality of the author's intellect up to 
 within a few days of his death, and that had he 
 been spared to fulfil his purpose of writing a 
 tale of London life of the very lowest class 
 with the intention of its being serious and pathe- 
 tic, in contradistinction to the habit of repre- 
 senting these classes from the ridiculous point of 
 view, something new but true, and worthy of 
 the highest aims of Fiction, might have been 
 given to the world. But it was not to be, for, 
 as his friend Marston wrote, ' A wonderful future 
 lay in front ; but before the strong heart and 
 
23G OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 brain could weary on the way, Death withdrew 
 him/ The sad, strange, but too truthful tableaux 
 of children in police-courts, gin-sodden females 
 fighting in barely habitable dens, and infants 
 kicked, spurned, and starved by the authors of 
 their existence, which the dying youth described, 
 are only faint sketches of what, had fate been 
 more propitious, would have proved imperish- 
 able masterpieces of our literature. 
 
 Whilst on his death-bed Oliver became ac- 
 quainted with Mr. Blackmore's Lorna Doone, a 
 novel dealing with that same Devonshire scenery 
 he had described in his own romance of The 
 Dwale Bluth. Over and over again the poor 
 youth read the book, thinking, doubtless, of his 
 own unfinished and unpublished work. And 
 during this last wasting illness he read or. had 
 read to him the first chapters of Far from the 
 Madding Crowd, as they appeared in the Corn- 
 hill Magazine, and after coming to that where 
 Gabriel Oak cares for the young lambs through 
 the winter night, he generously exclaimed, ' No 
 wonder they did not want my writing!' alluding 
 to the non-acceptance of The Dwale Bluth by 
 the editor of the periodical in which Mr. Hardy's 
 tale was publishing. 
 
 For five weeks Oliver lay wasting away from 
 the fatal blood-poisoning, the cause of which has 
 
THE HAND OF TIME. 237 
 
 never been discovered, until, as his brother-in-law 
 says, ' the once healthy and active youth had 
 become but a trembling hectic incurable, bereft 
 of hearing, and without hope from medical aid. 
 Acute pain had, after a while, given way to 
 feverous restlessness, as this in turn was to be 
 succeeded by delirium.' And so the end came, 
 and the young life, the flush of hope and youth 
 still full upon it, faded away. It was on the 
 5th of November, the anniversary of the publi- 
 cation of Gabriel Denver that 'night of all 
 nights in the year' the spirit of its youthful 
 author passed away. Well might Dante Eossetti 
 write to the father then, l Alas, alas ! what can 
 one say ? Is it lost everywhere as here ? If so, 
 there is neither gain nor loss in anything, for all 
 is dross.' 
 
 But with the forethought of one acquainted 
 with grief when on the twelfth of the weary 
 month the earthly remains of their beloved one 
 were consigned to the bosom of the universal 
 mother Mr. Moncure D. Conway said to the 
 parents and sisters : c At length, wintry as this 
 grave now seems, grass will cover it and flowers 
 bloom over it ; and over the deeper wounds in 
 hearts the healing hand of Time will bring the 
 softening growths : it may be even flowers in the 
 end/ 
 
238 OLIVER MADOX BROWN. 
 
 And now it is even so : the grass has grown 
 and the flowers have blossomed, and the pro- 
 phetic words of Oliver's friend Philip are ful- 
 filling : 
 
 * But though he has gone out from us, his name 
 Shall lessen not with time, and his young fame 
 Shall burn for ever, an enduring flame, 
 A steadfast light that may not wax or wane/ 
 
 THE END. 
 
 ELLIOT STOCK, LONDON. 
 
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