THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 DREAMTHORP
 
 - / 
 
 Drawn by ScoTT Rankin /row a photograph />y Mr. John Moffat, 
 
 o/ Edinburgh, specially printed /or this book from an 
 
 early negative.
 
 DREAMTHORP 
 
 A BOOK OF ESSAYS WRITTEN 
 IN THE COUNTRY 
 
 BY 
 
 ALEXANDER SMITH 
 
 WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN HOGBEN 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 ANDREW MELROSE 
 
 1 6 Pilgrim Street, E.G. 
 
 1906
 
 
 C O N T E N T S 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 I. DREAMTHORP 
 II. ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 
 
 III. ON DEATH AND THE FEAR OF DYING 
 
 IV. WILLIAM DUNBAR . 
 V. A lark's FLIGHT . 
 
 VI. CHRISTMAS .... 
 VII. MEN OF LETTERS . 
 VIII. ON THE IMPORTANCE OF A MAN TO 
 HIMSELF .... 
 IX. A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 
 X. GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 XI. BOOKS AND GARDENS 
 XII. ON VAGABONDS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 vii 
 
 I 
 
 20 
 
 44 
 
 63 
 
 89 
 
 108 
 
 130 
 
 159 
 178 
 200 
 234 
 
 255
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " T ET no poet," writes Jean Paul, "suffer 
 
 J J himself to be born or educated in a 
 
 metropolis, but if possible, in a hamlet, at the 
 highest, a village." No pause need be made here 
 to inquire how many poets, great and small, have 
 first seen the sunlight in a metropolis. Certainly 
 their name is legion. Be the real benefit of locality 
 what it may, the choice lies not with mortal 
 men. 
 
 On the last day of the year 1829,^ Alexander 
 
 1 It may seem a bold thing to set down 1829 in face of 
 the authorities that give 1830 (or, more specifically, 31st 
 December 1830) as the year of Alexander Smith's birth, but 
 it is deliberately done. The Kncyclopadia Britannica ; 
 Chambers's Encydopcedia ; Chambers's Cyclopedia of English 
 Literature; Dictionary of National Biography ; Irving's 
 Biographical Dictionary of Eminent Scotsmen ; General 
 Grant Wilson's Poets and Poetry 0/ Scotland ; AUibone's 
 Dictionary of English Literature ; Men of the Time (1866) ; 
 Archibald McKay's History of Kilmarnock, all state the year 
 as 1830. It is true the array is imposing and formidable ; 
 yet when one comes with open mind to search for adequate 
 reasons, there is nothing forthcoming to justify the conclusion. 
 The question was raised in that extremely useful, but long- 
 suffering publication, known as Notes and Queries (8th 
 series, xii., 7, 57, 118, 174, 311) without result, although 
 one writer makes the extraordinary statement that Alexander
 
 viii INTRODUCTION 
 
 Smith was born at Kilmarnock — not a metropolis, 
 exactly, but something much more than the village 
 
 Smith was born at a certain manse on another date altogether. 
 When the Registration Act for Scotland, of 7th August 1854, 
 was passed, all Parochial Registers found their way to the 
 General Registry Office, Edinburgh, where, after making 
 careful search, I have failed to find any record of the birth — 
 probably owing to Smith's parents being Dissenters. Under 
 such circumstances one must fall back on what other evidence 
 there may be. Beginning with the History of Kilmarnock — 
 which appears to have been blindly followed as an authority — 
 the entry runs thus : "Alexander Smith was born 3 1 st December 
 1830 — according to Alexander Nicolson in Good Words, 
 1829." It will be observed that McKay does not feel equal 
 to debating the point with Sheriff Nicolson, who, like Rev. 
 T. Brisbane and Pat. P. Alexander, was exceedingly 
 intimate with Smith. All three give the year as 1829. 
 McKay's date, it may further be noted, was directly 
 challenged in an article, in the Kihnarnock Standard of 
 26th March 1881, written by Mr. Allan Andrew, who still 
 survives, and who knew not only Alexander Smith but his 
 parents as well. For the defence it may also be mentioned 
 that the Catalogue of the Advocate's Library — a carefully 
 kept record — gives 1829. Moreover the grave-stone in 
 Warriston sets forth 1829 as the year of birth. It is hardly 
 conceivable that here, at all events, an error should be made, 
 for both of Smith's parents survived him. One can, indeed, 
 understand that a man, said to have been born on the last 
 day of a year, might be described as having opened his eyes 
 on the world after midnight, and thus have his real birthday 
 on the first day of a year. Probably this view explains much, 
 and I am confirmed in it by a communication, for which I am 
 indebted to the only one of Alexander Smith's surviving 
 children resident in tliis country. My informant writes : 
 " I remember my brother telling me that there was a doubt 
 as to whether it was in the last hour of 1829 or the first hour 
 of 1830 that he was born. My brother used to see a great 
 deal of Alexander Smith's mother, so would have received
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 which marked Richter's limit. In " A Boy's Poem " 
 Smith refers to the old year bringing him — a gift — 
 in its dying arms. His father was engaged in lace 
 pattern-designing. His mother — Helen Murray by 
 name — is described as of good Highland lineage. 
 While Alexander, the eldest born, was but a child, 
 the family removed to Paisley, and thence, after a 
 short time, to Glasgow. Particulars of the boyhood 
 and youth of the subject of this sketch may be 
 found in the volume entitled The Early Years of 
 Alexander Smith, Poet and Essayist, by the 
 Rev. T. Brisbane, published in 1869. The book 
 consists mainly of reminiscences of ten years' 
 intimate friendship, and throws an interesting light 
 on the days when Smith was practically unknown. 
 The other chief source of information regarding 
 the singularly quiet and unobtrusive life of the 
 poet is, of course, the Memoir, written by his friend 
 Patrick Proctor Alexander in 1869, and prefixed 
 to the volume of Essays known as Last Leaves. 
 
 Smith had some thought of choosing the pulpit as 
 his sphere in life, but this was soon abandoned, and 
 the boy was sent to follow his father as a designer. 
 It is said that in after years he was never known to 
 lift a pencil. Very likely. Yet it is quite possible 
 that the early training which required a delicate 
 gift for lines and curves, had something to do with 
 that characteristic filigree work of his fancy, so 
 plentifully shown in both his prose and verse. 
 
 the information from her." There is nothing in this, 
 however, to warrant any one setting down 31st December 
 1830 as the date of birth, and the matter may surely now lie 
 allowed to rest as stated above.
 
 X INTRODUCTION 
 
 Some subtle connection may have bound the two 
 things together. The Glasgow Citizen was in those 
 days edited by James Heddenvick — himself a poet 
 — and before long Smith's verses began to appear 
 in it above the name of " Smith Murray." How 
 many men of literary tastes, I wonder, who are 
 over middle age, find themselves responding 
 warmly to the very mention of the Citizen. It 
 is, however, to the Weekly Citizen that reference is 
 made. It cost but a halfpenny, and it was issued 
 every Friday night — a thin little paper not over- 
 well printed but packed full of good things. There 
 were copious extracts from the best books, and 
 much of the verse that appeared in it was carefully 
 chosen from the higher class journals with, of 
 course, due acknowledgment. One felt the 
 unmistakable presence of a hand that knew its 
 way. Long before papers of the snippety order 
 came into vogue, this modest literary journal reigned 
 supreme in many quarters, as week by week it 
 came forth filled with things rich and rare, readable 
 from start to finish. It had a circulation, too, that 
 travelled far beyond Glasgow. The paper still 
 survives, but it now costs a penny and much of its 
 charm has fled. 
 
 It was in 1851 that Alexander Smith ventured 
 to forward some specimens of his verse, in 
 manuscript, to the Rev. George Gilfillan, of 
 Dundee — who was himself in degree a " spasmodic " 
 poet, as anyone may see who labours through the 
 nine books that make up his Night. At that 
 time Gilfillan's was a name to conjure with. It 
 was not, it is true, a name that stood for "safe"
 
 INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 theology, but it was certainly one that was honour- 
 ably associated with generous, eloquent, and 
 outspoken criticism of men and books. The 
 critic did not take long to find room for ardent 
 praise, and through his influence poems by Smith 
 began to show themselves with a certain regularity 
 in the Critic and the Eclectic Review. George 
 Henry Lewes at once became interested in the 
 new voice, and made use of his considerable 
 influence, as editor of the Leader newspaper, to 
 further Smith's claims to a wider reputation. In 
 this he was helped by Herbert Spencer and 
 Arthur (later Sir Arthur) Helps. It was Gilfillan 
 himself, however, who did most to introduce the 
 poet to the public, and he was well entitled to the 
 claim of having " something of a paternal interest 
 in Alexander Smith." " Ever since," writes 
 Gilfillan, "the stragghng, scratching MS., along 
 with its accompanying letter, reached our still 
 study, we have loved the author of A Life Drama, 
 and all the more since we met him in his quiet yet 
 distinct, modest yet manly personality." We see 
 that instead of being at that time, as the nature of 
 his verse might perhaps suggest, a young man of 
 exuberant self-importance, he was precisely the 
 reverse. He is described by one of his friends as 
 having been " one of the most simple, quiet, modest 
 and unassuming of men " ; and another writes : 
 "The most remarkable thing about him was his 
 wonderful quietness of demeanour. There was 
 never a quieter man." These are descriptions 
 that, so far as may be gathered from all reliable 
 accounts, remained true of him up to the very last.
 
 xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 He seems to have been one possessed of that rare 
 thing, " a considerable talent for silence," though, 
 when he did speak, he spoke to the point. His 
 outward appearance has been described by one 
 who knew him well, in these words: "What at 
 first meeting struck me as remarkable about him 
 was his forehead, which really, I think, was 
 remarkable — a fine square block of brain, such as 
 I have seldom seen the like of, with dark hair 
 massed heavily over it. Otherwise — except for 
 something of a squint, a little startling at first, but 
 which afterward you would not have wished away — 
 his face, though comely and expressive, was not 
 such as to strongly arrest attention. Afterwards, 
 as the years dealt with him, he changed somewhat 
 in appearance. As he neared middle age, face and 
 figure became fuller, and the first, as the fashion 
 of the day suggested, was improved by a moustache 
 and an ample beard, brown in colour, and of 
 almost exceptionally fine proportions." Although 
 he changed in outward aspect as time passed, the 
 same authority was able to write : "In himself he 
 changed not a jot ; remaining throughout and to 
 the last hour, precisely the same simple, quiet, 
 unassuming, undemonstrative man who met me on 
 that first evening ; without a suspicion in him of 
 anything like small affectation ; averse in his own 
 person from every form of self-exhibition, and with 
 a humorous and kindly contempt for that variety 
 as it showed itself in others." 
 
 About this time (1851) Smith's life was enriched 
 by friendship with Hugh Macdonald, a man who 
 attained considerable fame in the West of Scotland,
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 mainly through his two books, Rambles 7-(nind 
 Glasgow and Days at the Coast. Macdonald 
 began Ufe in a factory, and blossomed into some- 
 thing of a poet, and something of a naturalist as 
 well. Like Biirns — his idol — he was great in 
 conversation, and there can be no doubt that his 
 silent friend derived much benefit from his talk. 
 Under James Hedderwick's guidance and help, 
 Macdonald became a journalist, and, finally, sub- 
 editor of the Glasgow Citizen, in which paper 
 most of his own verse, naturally, appeared. 
 Macdonald's genuine affection for Smith did not 
 prevent him from entertaining a great contempt 
 for the latter's poetry. He is reported as saying : 
 " It may be poetry ; I'm no sayin' it isna ; the 
 creetics say it's poetry, an' nae doot they suld ken ; 
 but it's no my kind o' poetry. Jist a blatter o' 
 braw words, to my mind, an' bit whirly-whas, they 
 ca' eemages ! " Such a tirade against himself — 
 with, you will observe, a modicum of truth in it — 
 Smith is said to have mightily enjoyed. But 
 Macdonald was wont to deal as mercilessly with 
 greater poets than Alexander Smith. All were 
 tried by his touchstone of Burns, and Shakspere 
 himself suffered under the ordeal. According to 
 P. P. Alexander, who knew both men so well, 
 three-fourths of what Smith knew of Nature, in 
 bird and flower, was taught him by Macdonald. 
 You will come upon this boast in Dreavithorp : 
 " I am acquainted with birds and the building 
 of nests, with wild-flowers and the seasons in 
 which they blow ! " It is only just to add that 
 the author of Dreavithorp never forgot his in-
 
 xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 debtedness, and long afterwards wrote thus of his 
 
 friend : " Mr. Macdonald was a man of genius, a 
 
 song-writer, and antiquary ; a devout lover of beast 
 
 and bird, of snowdrop and lucken-gowan, of the 
 
 sun setting on Bothwell Bank, of the moon shining 
 
 down on Clydesdale barley fields. He was in his 
 
 degree one of those poets who have, since Burns's 
 
 time, made nearly every portion of Scotland vocal. 
 
 Just as Tannahill has made Gleniffer hills greener 
 
 by his songs, as Thom of Inverury has lent a new 
 
 interest to the banks of the Dee, as Scott Riddell 
 
 has added a note to the Border Minstrelsy, has 
 
 Mr. Macdonald taken possession of the country 
 
 round about Glasgow." A more intimate note 
 
 is struck in the following words, with which 
 
 Alexander Smith closes his reminiscences of his 
 
 friend: "Why have I written of this man so? 
 
 Because it was my fortune to come into more 
 
 frequent and more intimate contact with him than 
 
 most. . . . Since his removal there are perhaps 
 
 some half-dozen persons in the world who feel that 
 
 the 'strange superfluous glory of the air' lacks 
 
 something, and that because an eye and an ear are 
 
 gone, the colour of the flower is duller, the song 
 
 of the bird less sweet, than in a time they can 
 
 remember." 
 
 The hour had now struck for a wider appeal, 
 and A Life Drama made its appearance in 
 1852 — being launched, by Bogue of London, on 
 what turned out to be, in turn, a prosperous and 
 a hazardous voyage. Its effect was immediate. 
 It is easy for us now to use the scalpel — and 
 indeed it was easy then. For the most part.
 
 INTRODUCTION xv 
 
 however, there followed a long round of applause. 
 The poet's youth was held in remembrance, and 
 as a first work it was considered not only full of 
 promise but weighted with actual accomplishment. 
 Seldom in the history of poetry has there fallen 
 upon one of its votaries so sudden, so complete a 
 success. On the face of it, A Life Drama bore 
 the most pronounced signs of scrappiness. It 
 was, in fact, a brilliant tangle of images strung 
 upon a thin, and not always clear narrative. The 
 best portions were obviously the gatherings of 
 years; and while, separately, they had much to 
 commend them, the reading of the Drama as 
 a whole emphasised at once their rounded, gem- 
 like qualities and their want of relation to each 
 other. As I have written elsewhere regarding 
 Alexander Smith : " In Marvell's words he seems 
 to roll all his strength and sweetness into balls, 
 with which he literally pelts his readers as at a 
 floral fete." 
 
 In April 1853, John Forster reviewed A Life 
 Drama in the Exatniner, — Matthew Arnold 
 saying at the time, " Alexander Smith has certainly 
 an extraordinary faculty," but taking the precaution 
 to add, "I think he is a phenomenon of a very 
 dubious character." Clough expressed himself 
 favourably: and "Shirley " (John Skelton, latterly 
 Sir John), in Eraser's Magazine, frankly advised 
 Smith to resist the temptation of throwing his 
 work into the form of drama, for which he had no 
 talent. As for the Westminster Review, it perhaps 
 went farthest of all — declaring Smith to be "a 
 born singer ; a man of genius ; not a musical echo
 
 xvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 of other singers." " He has faults enough," it 
 went on to say, " to occupy an academy of critics ; 
 . . . but the faults are mainly those of youth. 
 No such first publication can we remember." 
 Others followed. All the critics were at one in 
 detecting an inordinate desire to bring to birth, 
 sometimes all too painfully, poetic images, big 
 with fancy. In an autobiographical touch, indeed, 
 Smith confesses that his chief joy was " to draw 
 images from everything." The habit had become 
 a gentle tyranny with him. Long after the publica- 
 tion of A Life JDrajna he could frankly write : 
 " I would rather be the discoverer of a new image 
 than the discoverer of a new planet. Fine phrases 
 I value more than bank-notes." The stars literally 
 ruled over him. We know that Byron described 
 the stars as "the poetry of heaven," but Smith 
 did not leave them there, but made them do duty 
 everywhere. A Life Drama scintillates with 
 stars. Like the Alfred Hagart he described at a 
 later date, "wherever he looked he saw a star 
 glittering." I picked up one day on a bookstall 
 a copy of A Life Draina^ and found that some 
 industrious reader had marked every reference to 
 a star with a blue ring and a number. I cannot 
 charge my memory with the total, nor do I con- 
 sider that my time would be profitably spent in 
 repeating the task, but I fancy the references ran 
 into three figures. But for all that, " it is too late 
 a week " to fall in with the stupid old criticism that 
 phrases are all he has to show. No doubt one 
 feels, as Sebastian puts it, that " he's winding up 
 the watch of his wit," and that " by and by it will
 
 INTRODUCTION xvii 
 
 strike." Yet allowing for all this, even in A 
 Life Dravia there are passages of sustained 
 beauty of which none but the incompetent can 
 possibly fail to feel the charm. The story, as has 
 been said, is slight and airy, yet there is plenty 
 of passion in it — too much, many have felt. The 
 central character — AV^alter — passes through purga- 
 torial flames of his own lighting to better things. 
 The cry, which was at the beginning for " Fame ! 
 Fame ! next grandest word to God ! " becomes 
 essentially ennobled, as it passes through varying 
 phases, up to the richly worded confession and 
 aspiration at the close. It is here that one may 
 call in question Tennyson's careless and inadequate 
 summing up of Alexander Smith. Speaking to 
 Mrs. Bradley, the late laureate said : " He has 
 plenty of promise, but he must learn a different 
 creed to that he preaches in those lines : ' Fame, 
 fame, thou art next to God.' Next to God — next 
 to the Devil, say I. Fame might be worth having 
 if it helped us to do good to a single mortal, but 
 what is it ? only the pleasure of hearing one's self 
 talked of up and down the street." Tennyson, 
 you will observe, misquotes as well as misjudges. 
 He had probably not taken the trouble to read 
 A Life Drama throughout its slender compass, 
 and yet he ventured to pronounce a verdict on 
 what he rashly concluded to be Smith's central 
 doctrine. It looks, indeed, as if Tennyson had 
 not read more than the first scene, for it is im- 
 possible to believe that he could have failed to 
 admire much in later scenes, and especially in the 
 ending of A Life Drama^ which indicates, in no 
 b
 
 xvlii INTRODUCTION 
 
 uncertain way, the journey traversed, and the 
 heights attained, by the hero of the Drama — if 
 such Walter may be called. It was also quite 
 absurd for Rossetti to write : " The Life Drama 
 has nothing particular to say, except that it seems 
 to bear vaguely towards the favourite doctrine that 
 scoundrelism is a sacred probation of the soul." 
 
 To attempt to quote from A Life Drama is out 
 of the question, although there is much that is 
 worth quoting in the wild, sombre, incoherent, 
 youthful effort. The lyric about Love in the first 
 scene ; the story of Lady Blanche ; the picture of 
 the grim old king's death, and the lines in the 
 measure of " Locksley Hall," in the second scene, 
 are all in their way notable ; while the unrhymed 
 stanzas beginning, "The callow young were 
 huddling in the nests," in the sixth scene, have a 
 tenderness of their own (see Dreamthorp, p. lo). 
 It takes some courage, perhaps, to say it in these 
 days, but it shall be said here and now : How 
 plentiful are the footprints of Beauty in and about 
 those loosely joined scenes ! 
 
 "'You should give the world,' she murmured, 'such 
 delicious thoughts as these.' 
 ' They are fit to line portmanteaus : ' ' Nay,' she 
 whispered, ' Memories.' " 
 
 The lady had the better judgment. 
 
 Of the lengthy poems, published along with 
 A Life Drama, Lady Barbara is easily first 
 favourite ; and of the eight sonnets included in 
 the volume, perhaps the best is that beginning, 
 " Beauty still walketh on the earth and air," which
 
 INTRODUCTION xix 
 
 has found its way into more than one anthology : 
 of the fifth it need only be said that it is even 
 warmer than Keats's last sonnet. Several of the 
 sonnets are marred by inroads of aggressive prose, 
 for example : " 'Tis fine to loiter through the 
 lighted streets at Christmas time ; " and all of them, 
 with one exception, would be ruled out of order by 
 sticklers for structural perfection. In spite of what 
 Professor Saintsbury has called the " tendency to 
 rant," and in full remembrance of the mass of 
 criticism that has been passed on Smith's first 
 volume, there seems to me to be substantial truth 
 in the language of one who wrote in the Natio)ial 
 Observer ten years ago : " We have yet to see justice 
 done to the poetical capacity of Alexander Smith. 
 The solid excellence of A Life Dravia . . . ought 
 to be universally admitted." 
 
 This, then, was Alexander Smith's first important 
 achievement. In money it brought him ^loo 
 (which was supplemented at a later date) ; in fame ? 
 — we shall see. The book sold to the number of 
 10,000 in Great Britain and the Colonies, leaving 
 the American edition out of view. It has been 
 stated that as many as 30,000 copies were sold 
 abroad. Up to the date of Smith's death, the 
 book had gone through ten editions. Despite the 
 warm gusts of praise and flattery that played upon 
 him, the poet kept his head. This was, I think, a 
 feature of the man that has been less noticed than 
 it deserved to be. The test was one from which 
 lesser men would not have issued unspoiled — 
 greater men too, perhaps. To be called, here and 
 there, "a finer poet than Keats was in the very
 
 XX INTRODUCTION 
 
 qualities in which Keats is finest," or, "the greatest 
 poet Scotland has ever produced," would have 
 been more than enough for most men, yet "now, 
 as always," wrote one of his most intimate friends, 
 " his bearing was distinguished by a quiet and 
 manly simplicity." 
 
 The first thing that Smith did on receiving his 
 ;^ioo was — so like a poet, was it not? — to give 
 up his pattern-designing, in which, at least one 
 authority says, he had shown some skill. I fear, 
 however, that the statement must be overruled by 
 P. P. Alexander's explicit words : "This I chance 
 to know from a sure source, having had it of one 
 of his employers. This gentleman, some time after, 
 along with another Glasgow friend of Smith's, I 
 happened to meet at an inn in the Highlands. In 
 the course of the evening he fell into a state which 
 I will tenderly call comvnmicative ; and my friend — ■ 
 well known in the ^Vest as a humorist — could not 
 resist the temptation to draw him out on the 
 subject of Smith and his poetry. His critique of 
 the Life Drama was exquisite, and curiously 
 accordant with the opinion of some of its later 
 critics. Of the Bard's designing talent (of which 
 he might be admitted a better judge) he made so 
 little, that he asserted the poetry had been written 
 
 ' at my expense, sir, every line of it.' ... Of 
 
 course, on the first opportunity. Smith was regaled 
 with this little anecdote, and it seemed to delight 
 him extremely." 
 
 Having freed himself from his uncongenial work, 
 Smith started for London with his friend John 
 Nichol, — who subsequently became Professor of
 
 INTRODUCTION xxi 
 
 English Literature in Glasgow University. Pro- 
 ceeding in leisurely fashion by the Lake District, 
 the travellers called on Miss Martineau, at 
 Ambleside. Smith loved to tell a rather ludicrous 
 story about the visit. Miss Martineau was not a 
 little deaf. There were several ladies present, and 
 chairs were, doubtless, drawn in a circle round the 
 already famous young poet and his companion. 
 Nichol kept the conversation going. A lull 
 occurred, and Smith hazarded the remark : " It 
 has been a very fine day." Miss Martineau bent 
 forward, anxious not to miss a word. Possibly she 
 had lost some phrase of golden imagery ! Poor 
 Smith repeated the words. Still she could not 
 hear. "Would Mr. Smith be so good as to 
 repeat what he h.:.d said ? " He obliged — and yet 
 she could not hear. The ear-trumpet was brought, 
 into which the creator of so many starry metaphors 
 bawled his weather-retrospect. The story breaks 
 off at this interesting point. Before reaching 
 London a visit was paid to Philip James Bailey, of 
 Festus fame. Among those who received the 
 poet kindly in London were George Henry Lewes, 
 Herbert Spencer, and Arthur Helps. 
 
 Much was now being made of Smith. There 
 would seem, indeed, to have been a proposal to 
 send him to Oxford or Cambridge — the latter of 
 which he had visited — for we find Mrs. Browning 
 writing thus sensibly to Miss Mitford : " What can 
 be more absurd than the proposition of ' finishing ' 
 Alexander Smith at Oxford or Cambridge? We 
 don't know how to deal with literary genius in 
 England, certainly. We are apt to treat poets
 
 xxii INTRODUCTION 
 
 (when we condescend to treat them at all) as over- 
 masculine papas do babies ; and Monckton Milnes 
 was accused of only touching his in order to poke 
 out its eyes, for instance. Why not put the poet 
 in a public Ubrary? There are such situations 
 even among us, and something of the kind was 
 done for Patmore." While making mention of 
 Mrs. Browning, it may be fitting, at this point, to 
 state her opinion of Alexander Smith as a poet. 
 Writing to Miss E. F. Haworth, Mrs. Browning 
 says : " Your Alexander Smith has noble stuff in 
 him. It's undeniable, indeed. It strikes me, 
 however, that he has more imagery than verity, 
 more colour than form. He will learn to be less 
 arbitrary in the use of his figures — of which the 
 opulence is so striking — and attain, as he ripens, 
 more clearness of outline and depth of intention. 
 Meanwhile none but a poet could write this, and 
 this, and this." It must be added, however, that 
 three months later she expressed herself not quite 
 so favourably to Mr. Westwood. 
 
 The new poet was asked out a good deal. He 
 visited Inveraray for a week, on the invitation of 
 the Duke of Argyll — himself a pleasant and 
 effective writer of verse, as well as a trenchant prose 
 author — and some time afterwards he was invited 
 by Lord Dufferin to visit him in Ireland. But 
 this was not enough. The accustomed means of 
 bread-winning had been forsaken : What was to 
 be done? Life Dramas were not the sort of things 
 to rain down on him. Much time had gone to 
 the making of his book ; so many years of patient 
 image-worship were in it, that its author might
 
 INTRODUCTION xxiii 
 
 have been excused had he given hospitahty to 
 Nello's fear that the good wine of his understanding 
 had all run off "at the spigot of authorship," 
 leaving him, like an empty cask, " with an odour 
 of dregs." For a time he became editor of the 
 Glasi^mu MisccUa?iy, a literary weekly, belonging 
 to R. Buchanan, the proprietor of the Glasgow 
 Sentinel, and the father of the Robert Buchanan 
 of whom we all know something. The paper was 
 not a success, but happily, when, in 1854, the 
 post of Secretary to Edinburgh University became 
 vacant, Alexander Smith received the appointment, 
 principally, it is said, through the influence of 
 Duncan McLaren (who married John Bright's 
 sister, and whose name is still honourably re- 
 membered in Edinburgh — his son being one of 
 the present Lords of Session), at that time Lord 
 Provost, and later, one of the members of 
 Parliament for the city. It is true the salary was 
 only ;^i5o — although it was some years afterwards 
 raised on Smith's undertaking the duties of 
 Registrar and Secretary to the University Council. 
 For these additional duties he received ;^40 and 
 yQio respectively. There were, however, great 
 advantages in being resident in Edinburgh. He 
 had, at least, obtained what he sought. He w^as 
 himself such a one as Chaucer's lean " clerk," of 
 whom he writes : " He will never be rich, I fear. 
 . . . He would rather have a few books bound in 
 black and red hanging above his bed than be 
 sheriff of the county." One recalls the words that 
 occur in an early letter to the Rev. T. Brisbane : 
 "What I would like is just some way of living.
 
 xxiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 which would feed and cover this carcase, and allow 
 much time to roam through book-world and the 
 world of my own spirit." This way of life was 
 now his ; and as regards the city of his adoption, 
 one also recalls the proud phrases he used at a 
 much later date : " Residence in Edinburgh is an 
 education in itself. Its beauty refines one like 
 being in love. It is perennial like a play of 
 Shakespeare's. Nothing can stale its infinite 
 variety." Again : "Of all British cities, Edinburgh 
 — Weimar-like in its intellectual and sesthetic 
 leanings, Florence-like in its freedom from the 
 stains of trade, and more than Florence-like in 
 its beauty — is the one best suited for the conduct 
 of a lettered life. The city as an entity does not 
 stimulate like London, the present moment is not 
 nearly so intense, life does not roar and chafe — 
 it murmurs only; and this interest of the hour, 
 mingled with something of the quietude of distance 
 and the past — which is the spiritual atmosphere 
 of the city — is the most favourable of all conditions 
 for intellectual work and intellectual enjoyment." 
 Business hours of from ten to four — not requiring, 
 if all accounts are true, to be too punctually kept 
 — left wide openings for the use of his pen on 
 other and pleasanter excursions. Of these, as 
 will be seen, full advantage was taken. He was 
 an extremely sociable man, despite his quiet 
 demeanour, and the Raleigh Club (called after 
 Sir Walter) was probably founded about this 
 time by him. He was, at all events, secretary to 
 the club, which held weekly meetings, when 
 social conversation and criticism were indulged in
 
 INTRODUCTION xxv 
 
 under the misty and fragrant auspices of Lady 
 Nicotine. Sheriff Nicolson has explicitly stated 
 that Smith was ' ' the man whom all the members 
 loved most." 
 
 In spite of his University connection, nay, 
 because of it, Ale.Kander Smith was now fairly 
 launched as a poet on the perilous seas of the 
 world's fickle favours. To begin with, he had 
 an extraordinarily common name to maintain in 
 present honour, and to raise, perhaps, to permanent 
 fame. What a sweet savour — itself a bid for 
 remembrance — lingers round the very names 
 of Waller, Cowley, Marvell, Hawthorne ; what 
 strength there is about those of Emerson, Marlowe, 
 Drayton, Byron, Milton, Arnold. Plainly, the 
 name, Alexander Smith, required much extraneous 
 glory to make it famous. And yet how common 
 are the names of Scott and Burns ! They are 
 magic words all the same. Pronounced aloud, 
 they awake the mind as with a trumpet-tone. 
 So great a part has genius in the alchemy of 
 sound. At any rate there it was — Alexander 
 Smith ! Why, the Smiths (taking the ordinary 
 spelling only) who have risen high enough on 
 the ladder of life to receive mention in the 
 Dictionary of National Biography^ including the 
 Supplement, cover 170 pages — the Alexander 
 Smiths being four in number, and the subject of 
 this essay occupying nearly two pages, while the 
 other three together have to content themselves 
 with little more than a fourth of that space. It 
 never seems to have occurred to our poet to 
 alter the simple spelling, or to use a double name
 
 xxvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 and glorify it by the device of a hyphen, as the 
 manner of some is. After all, as the bearer of 
 the name wrote in his essay, " On the Importance 
 of a Man to Himself," "a man should be known 
 by something else than his name." As it turned 
 out, whatever was lacking in the name was made 
 up by the pcean of praise that continued to 
 sound in his ears. An article on A Life Drama 
 appeared even in the Revue des deux Mondes. 
 But this was not to last. 
 
 An ostensible review of a coming volume, to 
 be entitled Firmilian, attracted attention in May 
 1854, and, in the same year, there was published 
 Firmilian ; or, the Shident of Badajoz : A Spasmodic 
 Tragedy, by P. Percy Jones. It was at first 
 taken seriously, but it soon became manifest that 
 it was a satirical onslaught, by Professor Aytoun, 
 on the poetry of Bailey, Dobell, and Alexander 
 Smith. Henceforth the word "spasmodic" was 
 a kind of burr that was thrown about, at times 
 by the least critical — by men even who knew 
 nothing of the writers but their names. But it had 
 the qualities of a burr — it stuck. It cannot be 
 shaken off even to-day. The epithet was not 
 Aytoun's own, for it was applied by Carlyle to 
 Byron, though it seems to me that it might more 
 fitly be applied to Carlyle himself. In any case, 
 it is but partially applicable to Smith's poetry, 
 and when it is so, it is chiefly of A Life Drama 
 that we think. Smith himself took the matter 
 very philosophically, and when the charge of 
 wholesale plagiarism was added, and pressed 
 home upon him, he showed little resentment,
 
 INTRODUCTION xxvii 
 
 although now and again he passed, and continued 
 to pass, by word of mouth and written statement, 
 caustic remarks upon the silliness of the charge. 
 Some of these may be found in his essay on 
 Scottish Ballads and in A Summer in Skye. 
 *' Never," writes one, " was such pecking. The 
 feathers flew about, green, blue, and crimson, as 
 at the murder of a parrot." But the best critics 
 took his part, and Punch aided Smith's side 
 mightily, in the shape of brilliant parody — for 
 which Shirley Brooks generally receives credit — 
 that reduced the charge to sheer nonsense. It 
 has been asserted — but it is not easy of belief — 
 that Aytoun hardly intended to include Smith in 
 the obloquy of the "spasmodic school." It is 
 certain, however, that Aytoun was on a very 
 friendly footing with the poet. It was he, indeed, 
 who, in a kindly way, recommended Smith to write 
 prose, as more money was to be made thereby 
 than by verse, and who further paved the way 
 for the admission of his work to Blackwood's 
 Magazine. You may remember that Smith makes 
 appreciative reference to Aytoun's Ballads of 
 Scotland in his essay " A Shelf in my Bookcase," 
 and also mentions the Professor in A Summer 
 in Skye, as — 
 
 "Aytoun — with silver bugle at his side, 
 That echoes through the gorges of romance — 
 Pity that 'tis so seldom at his lips ! " 
 
 But it is not necessary to pursue the question of 
 Alexander Smith's plagiarism. It is a deadly dull 
 subject; and those who like such things may be 
 referred to the Appendix to Last Leaves.
 
 xxviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 In the winter of 1854, Sydney Thompson Dobell, 
 better known simply as Sydney Dobell, came to 
 Edinburgh. We have almost forgotten him now, 
 but The Roman and Balder^ both published in the 
 eighteen fifties, were widely read in their day, and 
 recognised as containing, in spite of numerous 
 faults, much that is admirable and worthy of 
 lengthened life. Yet, possibly, his Keith of 
 Ravelston will outlive the mass of his work. 
 Smith's friendship with Dobell became a very 
 close and affectionate one. In the following year 
 the two poets jointly brought out a little volume 
 of Sonnets on the Criniean War. This venture, 
 although creditable enough to both poets, did not 
 materially advance Smith's reputation. 
 
 Time passed; and we now come to an event 
 that filled Smith's life with happiness, and opened 
 out for him a new world of interest and enjoy- 
 ment in Skye. Had he missed this Skye con- 
 nection, there would, undoubtedly, have passed 
 out of his unusually quiet life, as we know it to-day, 
 much of its colour and literary fruitfulness. Early 
 in 1857 he married Flora Macdonald, of Skye, the 
 eldest daughter of Mr. Macdonald of Ord, and a 
 blood relation of the Flora Macdonald of unfading 
 romance and fame. In course of time a villa was 
 taken at Wardie — then at some little distance 
 from the city, but now having railway station and 
 cable car close at hand. Everyone who knows 
 Edinburgh well will remember that from no other 
 spot does the fairest of cities spread out its beauty 
 to better advantage than it does as seen from 
 Wardie. The outline is superb. The eye travels
 
 INTRODUCTION xxix 
 
 from the Calton Hill, past the sheer bulk of the 
 Castle Rock, and spires innumerable, on to the 
 hospitals, that look like palaces in the west. In 
 the clear air of morning, or in the rosy light of 
 sunset, the city makes a brave and a proiid show. 
 Behind it, in the east, Arthur's Seat towers up like a 
 watchful lion, while the long wavy line of the 
 Pentlands, with their purple hollows, passes 
 gradually out of sight into the far west. To the 
 north lies the Firth of Forth, with its islands and 
 its pleasant places by the marge. Yes, Wardie is 
 still a beautiful place, and one may say, without 
 much exaggeration, on a fine evening, when the 
 air is still and sharp with coming winter — 
 
 "Earth has not anything to show more fair." 
 
 But why dwell on the subject ? Has not Alexander 
 Smith himself written in its praise in Wardie — 
 Spri/ig-iinie} Even apart from money considera- 
 tions it was a fitting place for this dreamer to live — 
 and here he lived until his death. A house in a 
 fashionable square or crescent in the city would 
 have had no charm for him. He had had his 
 fill of city life, as many of the autobiographical 
 parts in A Life Drama and other of his poems 
 amply prove. Here, then, at Wardie, he used to 
 dispense modest but warm hospitality to the friends 
 who sauntered down the steep hill by the Botanic 
 Gardens, or by Crewe Toll, on Saturday or 
 Sunday afternoons. "The poet," writes one who 
 shared his friendship, " would placidly sit beaming 
 on his friends a quiet kindliness, and vomiting 
 voloimes of smoke upon them — not for the most
 
 XXX INTRODUCTION 
 
 part himself very greatly caring to talk, but simply 
 dropping into conversation from time to time some 
 pertinence of sense or humour, and plainly with 
 his whole soul lapped in easy, indolent delight." 
 
 The year of his marriage saw Smith's second 
 volume through the press. City Poems was 
 published by Messrs. Macmillan, who gave j[,2oo 
 for the book. Its reception was, on the whole, 
 disheartening. Much of the criticism it provoked 
 was narrow and unsympathetic — the AthencBum, 
 for example, professing to find in it " mutilated 
 property of the bards." Taking up the thin 
 volume to-day, one finds in it much to commend, 
 and httle to condemn. There is already less of 
 "spasm." The book consists of half a dozen 
 poems, and there is much autobiographical matter 
 present. The verse deals with common things. 
 It is not in any way high-flown, and yet its writer 
 seems to bring a new light upon " the familiar face 
 of every day." No one was more open to accept, 
 and welcome, an imaginative hint than Smith was. 
 Wherever he happened to be — there he was only 
 in part. Some touch, some word — and his 
 immediate surroundings vanished. An oyster-man 
 came crying down the street — 
 
 "And straight, as if I stood on dusky shores, 
 I saw the tremulous silver of the sea, 
 Set to some coast beneath the mighty moon." 
 
 It is this faculty of sudden vision that gives to 
 much of his, and all other poetry, its perennial 
 beauty. It is his own gift that he describes in 
 " Horton " as that power which, " for one immortal
 
 INTRODUCTION xxxi 
 
 moment," makes us one with things and people 
 long gone, and gives the assurance that one blood 
 beats in all. Instead of the cry for ," Fame ! 
 Fame!" we have now, in City Foetus, the view 
 expressed, that unless a poet can find his chief joy 
 in " the grace and the beauty of his song," he 
 should not sing at all. His poem " Glasgow " is 
 no doubt the finest thing ever addressed to the 
 great city which is sometimes badly conceived of 
 by those who do not know it. The mere visitor to 
 Glasgow streets knows nothing of the beauties by 
 which the vast, Clyde-divided, haunt of men is 
 surrounded. Smith knew these well — the reaches 
 of the river, before, fouled and slow, it slides 
 through the city bridges ; the Campsie Hills, the 
 pleasant places south and west, to make no 
 mention of the unsurpassed waterways, where the 
 Firth of Clyde broadens and branches. These 
 were all certainly well known to him in manhood, 
 but as a boy he knew little beyond the pavements. 
 He knew what he called the tragic heart of the 
 town as he knew his mother's face. " Squire 
 Maurice " deals with the eternal question of 
 marriage — ill-assorted. As for "A Boy's Poem" — 
 a tale of poverty and love — it has surely been 
 unduly decried. It is not a pretentious thing, and 
 it answers well to its own statement that in it 
 nothing more was sought than the " sweet relief " 
 which dwells in verse-making. It is a boy's 
 poem, indeed, but such as few boys could write — 
 and there an end. It is interesting, by the way, 
 to compare the love episode in it, with the prose 
 description of something of the same sort in the
 
 xxxii INTRODUCTION 
 
 first essay in Dreamthorp. The last stanzas in 
 the book have more to commend them than their 
 stately cadence. They show an altered stand- 
 point, and teach an old but ever necessary lesson. 
 In short, there was really nothing in the book to 
 excite men — even critics. A better second to A 
 Life Drama might have been, but a much worse 
 might easily have followed that exhausting per- 
 formance. The fact is, the undue appreciation of 
 Smith was beginning, according to the Socratic 
 method, to breed its opposite, for A Life 
 Drama was anew severely handled in some 
 quarters, and City Foe?ns therewith. 
 
 Edwin of Deira followed in 1861. Although 
 the book passed through a second edition within a 
 reasonable time, it did not give the poet back his 
 past. Once more misfortune dogged his steps. 
 The manuscript of the poem was actually seen 
 by several people before Tennyson's Ldylls of the 
 King had been even announced as coming, and yet 
 the younger man's book had the bad luck to be 
 published after the late poet-laureate's great work. 
 By some it was regarded as a deliberate imitation. 
 It is idle to deny that Edwin has much that is 
 Tennysonian about it, but what serious poet of the 
 time escaped the dominating influence of that lord 
 of song? There are, however, other and older 
 influences to be traced. Imitation ? No. There 
 can be no question that Edwin is a noble pro- 
 duction, artistically handled, rhythmic, fluent, 
 unspasmodic. There may not be so much verbal 
 embroidery as was present in earlier work, but the 
 texture of the fabric is finer throughout. The
 
 INTRODUCTION xxxiii 
 
 progress shown is, in fact, enormous, and as 
 Edwin was the last of his books of verse, this 
 seems a fitting place to say that if you wish to see 
 how far Alexander Smith travelled from his early 
 ideal of poetry, you have but to turn to the 
 illuminative passages in which Scottish ballads and 
 German hymns are dwelt upon in " A Shelf in my 
 Bookcase." 
 
 Moving cautiously, after their experience with 
 City Foe^ns, Messrs. Macmillan offered half profit 
 terms to Smith, and the money result of the four 
 years' labour spent upon the book was ;!^ 15 5 s. 3d. 
 — the odd shillings and pence more, it is true, than 
 Milton received for Paradise Lost. This com- 
 parison, however — if it occurred to the poet to 
 make it — can scarcely have proved equal to the 
 task of consolation. Edwin is, of course, Edwin of 
 Northumbria. Deira comprehended what are now 
 known as Cumberland, Durham, Westmoreland, 
 York, and Lancashire. The story is told by Bede 
 and others. Edwin was thirty-two v.-hen he became 
 king in 617, and he reigned until 633 — ruling 
 in Northumbria from mid-England to the Firth of 
 Forth, whereon he founded Edwin's Burgh or 
 Edinburgh. In 633 the king was killed, at the 
 age of forty-eight, at Hatfield. Yorkshire. It will 
 be seen that Smith had chosen a subject which 
 lay very close to his affections, for no writer — not 
 Stevenson nor another — has written of Edinburgh 
 with more distinction than has the author of 
 Edzviii of Deira. The story, as given by Bede, is 
 followed fairly closely, though not slavishly. The 
 poem has a spacious air about it, a rich commingling 
 c
 
 xxxiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 of love and valour. It is like a tapestry, showing 
 olden things at which we partly smile and partly 
 wonder, but which we love for a certain far-removed 
 beauty and romance. Yet there are, as in the 
 Idylls of the King, modern hints and reflections 
 which keep the remoteness from sinking back 
 beyond everyday vision. Passages of great charm 
 are freely come upon, yet the general level is so 
 high that these are not so outstanding as in the 
 poet's earlier volumes. Attention may be called 
 to the picture of the old king introducing Edwin to 
 his daughter Bertha, and to the passage descriptive 
 of the return from the hunt, when Edwin and 
 Bertha first experience mutual love — that "un- 
 known sweet land of delicate light divinely aired." 
 Touching, too, is the song that Bertha sings in her 
 " eastern turret," when war is abroad, and she fears 
 the worst and weeps. Not less real than these, 
 and infinitely tender, is the description of the 
 coming of Bertha's child. And when the time has 
 come — when fearing, yet fascinated, the king 
 resolves to make his realm Christian, under the 
 spell of the Christ that seemed to break on him 
 " like a strange dawn within whose light The world 
 takes other hues," the whole transition-period is 
 graphically yet delicately depicted. Bound up 
 with Edwin of Deira were two Skye poems : 
 " Torquil and Oona " and " Blaavin " — the latter 
 being touched to fine issues by tender references to 
 the poet's domestic life. His little daughter 
 Flora, of whom he writes so lovingly, survived her 
 father only by two months. 
 
 Dreamthorp was published by Messrs. Strahan in
 
 INTRODUCTION xxxv 
 
 1863. It need hardly be said in this place, that it 
 is described by its author as " A Book of Essays 
 written in the Country." Ureamthorp, with its 
 old castle and its lake, is, of course, Linlithgow. 
 On the whole, perhaps this may be regarded as 
 Alexander Smith's most characteristic work. It 
 has certainly more readers than any other of his 
 books, and it is not too much to say that there are 
 passages in it that may deliberately challenge com- 
 parison with the work of any English essayist. 
 Holding the little volume, and feeling the worth 
 of it warm the hand, one cannot but let certain 
 thoughts have their way. It may well be, indeed, 
 that this book will present victorious claims to 
 remembrance when vastly more ambitious works 
 of erudite professors have passed, on an ascending 
 scale, from shelf to shelf, until they find rest in 
 dusty oblivion at the top. Some of these gentle- 
 men, it may be (although we know that, at least, 
 Professor Blackie and Professor Aytoun were his 
 friends) looked loftily out of eye-corners at the 
 unassuming Secretary as they passed him in the 
 quadrangle, or between the mighty pillars of the 
 University gateway. Be that as it may, it is no 
 disparagement to say such things of their books. 
 They dealt, necessarily, with a different material — a 
 material, however pretentious, that crumbles early 
 and readily under the relentless tooth of time. 
 For consider : a book of science is out of date 
 in a few years ; books of philosophy and theology 
 may be said to live by devouring each other; 
 while a little work of delicate and suggestive fancy 
 and sentiment, like Dremntkorp, has an assured
 
 xxxvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 place and a long life. It depends for its renewed 
 existence and appeal on the undying qualities of 
 the natural mind and heart, which, as generation 
 succeeds generation, remain in large degree 
 essentially the same. This is, however, I well 
 know, rather a first thought than a last word on 
 a great question. No wonder Drea^tithorp was a 
 success, and is still a thing of beauty and joy to 
 all who have hearts for its fresh charm, seductive 
 humour, and gentle irony ! The book is here, and 
 speaks soberly, yet with chastened eloquence, for 
 itself. There is no call to linger over it now. 
 The general remarks on Smith as an essayist, 
 towards the close of this Introduction, may, how- 
 ever, be taken as applying especially to Dream- 
 thorp. In one of the Literary Competitions in the 
 Academy a few years ago, Dreamthorp was freely 
 named as the most deserving of neglected books. 
 May the present reprint in some small way, help 
 to remove it from such a category. 
 
 No one who has read A Summer in Skye — 
 published by ISIessrs. Strahan in 1865 — needs to 
 be told how much the Misty Island meant to 
 Alexander Smith. Every August he went there 
 with his entire household. The book may be 
 said, in the old phrase, to provide " fine confused 
 feeding," for the writer rambles about, here, there, 
 and everywhere — the two things absolutely certain 
 being his enjoyment in his own work, and the 
 constant power to make his readers share in that 
 pleasure. He takes well-nigh a hundred pages to 
 bring you to Skye, but what of that? See how 
 he entertains you by the way. He begins with
 
 INTRODUCTION xxxvii 
 
 Edinburgh, and can hardly leave it for love's sake 
 — passing from glowing passage to passage devoted 
 to the grand old city. The "Mr. MTan" of A 
 Summer in Skye was, as is well known, Smith's 
 own father-in-law. Here and there one finds, of 
 necessity, a weird strain in the book. The air is 
 misty, the peat-reek is in the nostrils, and, whether 
 the reader will or not, his mouth is never long free 
 from the flavour of whisky. Smith recounts that, 
 for a wager, he himself once saw a Skye man drink 
 a bottle in ten minutes. These islanders, one 
 feels, are a strangely self-respecting people — as 
 islanders always are. The past is as often re- 
 ferred to, brooded over, longed for, as it is in 
 Ossian. Highland lairds, be they ever so poor, 
 never forget their lineage. M'lan, we are told, 
 " would have regarded the trader worth a million 
 as nothing better than a scullion." Besides the 
 picturesqueness that makes the book delightful 
 reading, there is much information of a useful kind 
 regarding sheep, horses, house-building, and so 
 forth. That quiet eye of his, probably seeming 
 to be preoccupied the while, took in everything. 
 To Smith the mighty Cuchullins were not merely 
 "immense protuberances," as Dr. Johnson, with 
 eyes homesick for Fleet Street, called them ; they 
 were things of awe, seeming, themselves, to brood 
 over some unutterable woe. The tiniest thatched 
 cottage, and its youngest inhabitant — things hardly 
 possible to recognise from the seat of a motor car 
 — were folded affectionately in a web of tender 
 fancy, and recognised as objects of keen and 
 pathetic human interest. On such a hut Smith
 
 xxxviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 passes a panegyric which no reader of A Slimmer 
 in Skye is Hkely to forget. Subjects of all sorts 
 come suddenly on the scene, pass through a gay 
 summer atmosphere of the mind, and enter, in due 
 time, sombre twilights that have taken colourings 
 from the thoughts of a man who habitually " kept 
 watch o'er man's mortality." For Death has 
 always a haunting charm for him, as myriad 
 passages both in his verse and prose eloquently 
 witness. There is, indeed, scarcely one essay in 
 Dreamt}i07'p that is not here and there laden with 
 thoughts of death. But it is not all gloom in 
 Skye — far from it. Visits are made to fairs, and 
 various mansion-houses — old buildings steeped in 
 memories, and in eerie, as well as lively, traditions. 
 Patiently Smith goes through the islesman's year 
 with you ; carries you here and there with him, 
 but nowhere, possibly, without adding to your 
 pleasure and information. If you are in a position 
 to boast that you have nothing to learn, you will 
 not deny that on common things he throws a light 
 and glamour that make for newness. " I am," he 
 writes, " the fool of association, and the tree under 
 which a king has rested, the stone on which a 
 banner was planted on the morning of some 
 victorious day, the house in which some great man 
 first saw the light, are to me the sacredest things." 
 Such a man is a guide worth following " over the 
 sea to Skye " — or anywhere else. Naturally there 
 is a good deal about the Macdonalds — and about 
 Flora Macdonald, "noticeable to this day in 
 history walking demurely with the white rose in 
 her bosom." The chapter "In a Skye Bothy"
 
 INTRODUCTION xxxix 
 
 is one of unusual interest. As for the civilisation 
 he had left behind him, he thought of it in this 
 way : " It is like a soldier's stock, it makes you 
 carry your head a good deal higher, makes the 
 angels weep a little more at your fantastic tricks, 
 and half suffocates you the while. I have thrown 
 it away, and breathe freely." He belonged to 
 what he called " the motley nation of Bohemians," 
 and the irksome forms of society covered him only 
 as a thin and semi-transparent skin ; their uni- 
 formity troubled him, and he would have liked to 
 see "a moral game law passed for the preservation 
 of the wild and vagrant feelings of human nature." 
 He went further, and boldly asserted that no man 
 is worth much who is not something of a vagabond. 
 But it rains, rains, rains in Skye, as the hotel 
 visitors' books all painfully reiterate, and the 
 " Bothy " becomes a study as at home, out of 
 which poems emerge under the title of Poems 
 written in a Skye Bothy (in one of which, oddly 
 enough, Smith condescends to rhyme " cracks " 
 with " cataracts " ), although it is easy to arrive at 
 the conclusion that the verse was carried to Skye, 
 half-finished, for a rainy day's employment, and, 
 weather favouring, received the waited-for gloss 
 from the polisher's hand. 
 
 A Simimer in Skye is made up of many summers 
 in Skye. The book is no mere guide-book. It is 
 of no use to people who are content to " do " 
 places. It is filled with, and redolent of, the ways 
 of the people, the play of the sunshine, the weight 
 of the clinging, low-lying clouds, the glamour and 
 romance of Skye. As such it will be more enjoyed
 
 xl INTRODUCTION 
 
 at home by those who can recreate for themselves, 
 out of such materials, the glens, the narrowing sea- 
 arms lit by a crescent moon, the swamps, the mists, 
 the mountains, even if they have never seen the 
 island, than by those who rush over it, with brain, 
 it may be, made barren by the heat, bustle, and 
 confined outlook of what is called a successful 
 business career (an excellent enough thing in its 
 own little way) on this or the other side of the 
 Atlantic, and who draw a long bow about it all 
 ever afterwards. The book is written by one who 
 made haste to reach Skye as each autumn came 
 round, and who was inclined to hang a weeper on 
 his cuff at the home-coming. But he makes no 
 such haste in his book. As it took a hundred 
 pages to convey us to Skye, he is consistent in 
 requiring close upon a hundred to bring us home 
 again. Here, once more, we are ready to exclaim : 
 Why hurry ? we are in excellent company. 
 
 Alexander Smith's only novel, Alfred Hagarfs 
 Household, was now running its course in Good 
 Words. It created considerable interest both in 
 magazine and subsequent book form. As a first 
 attempt its author was well entitled to regard it as 
 a success, and as a promise of future efforts in the 
 same line. I have only as yet come upon one 
 critic, however, who has had the courage to account 
 it "undoubtedly his greatest work." The truth is, 
 Smith had not large constructive ability, and he 
 knew it himself. He loved to festoon things ; but 
 the porch, the trellis, the pergola, he preferred not 
 to be of his making. Still, the story deserved its 
 popularity, and its author was meditating another
 
 INTRODUCTION xli 
 
 tale, when the illness, from which he never really 
 recovered, fell upon him. We have P. P. 
 Alexander's word for it that the new story was 
 to have included a Scottish element. " About the 
 very last time I dined with him," writes Smith's 
 friend, " I remember retailing a highly ludicrous 
 scene I had just chanced to be witness of, illus- 
 trating the fierce theological proclivities of the 
 Scottish carter ; and the little amusement it caused 
 being over, I generously said, ' I don't mind 
 making you a present of that for your novel. 
 Smith ? ' ' Thank you for nothing, old fellow ! ' 
 with base ingratitude, he answered. ' I spotted 
 it as it left your lips ; and one or other of these 
 fine days, perhaps, you'll see it in print.' This 
 was, however, not to be." 
 
 To return to Alfred Hagarfs Household, while 
 it must be admitted that it had nothing in it of 
 what Scott called the big "bow-wow" style, it was, 
 nevertheless, a simple tale told with something of 
 the charm that was never wholly absent from any- 
 thing its author wrote. It was, in fact, largely the 
 story of his own life. Kilmarnock was the 
 Spiggleton, Paisley the Greysley, and Glasgow 
 the Haw^khead of the novel. As regards the 
 characters, it is said that these were all drawn from 
 the circle of his relations or friends. Though the 
 novel is in turn tender, fanciful, humorous, the 
 air is cool and deliberate throughout. If it has 
 not the heat and hurry, it has also none of the 
 slovenHness, the forced frivolity, or what Tennyson 
 called the "dandy pathos," of much of our 
 favourite present-day fiction. It moves slowly, but
 
 xlii INTRODUCTION 
 
 it would surely be a mistake to say that in any 
 part it can be called uninteresting, although, 
 probably, the pages of the copy that does service 
 in most public libraries may be found to grow 
 cleaner as the story proceeds. This means much, 
 but the reflection that rises to the lips does not 
 pass in the direction of Alexander Smith. Poor 
 Hagart, a pattern-designer, has a good deal of 
 human nature about him. In the expressive 
 words of his wife — he was always lighting all his 
 candles. He leapt to conclusions which were, in 
 reason, miles beyond his reach — full of buoyancy 
 and self-confidence. A large part of his philosophy 
 of life came forth when he played Polonius to his 
 son, and said among other things, " If you turn 
 tail, the world runs after you and smites you hip 
 and thigh. If you charge the world boldly, the 
 chances are it runs away and allows you to gather 
 up the spoils." Mrs. Hagart is quiet, dignified, 
 sentimental. Both characters are well drawn, as 
 are also the M'Quarrie girls (John said he could 
 not see the face of one of them for her eyes !) and 
 the faithful Martha. But the greatest piece of 
 work in the book is, unquestionably. Miss Kate 
 M'Quarrie. How that strong, stern, self-suppress- 
 ing, yet deeply affectionate old woman stands out 
 from the page — like a little Vandyck ! How 
 sombre, moving, and powerful is the record of 
 her death ! Surely in this Smith excelled himself. 
 Whether he could have repeated such a success is 
 doubtful. If longer life had been given him, he 
 would certainly have gone on with novel-writing. 
 And there is, as usual, so much to be had by the
 
 INTRODUCTION xliii 
 
 way. There are felicitous insets on Milton, on the 
 dawning of love, on poverty and prosperity, on Sir 
 Thomas Browne, and Jeremy Taylor. It will be 
 noted, however, that these passages are all in the 
 second volume. That is not surprising, for the 
 story was intended to be only half its length, but 
 was so well liked by the readers of Good Words 
 that it was ultimately extended, and, in this way, 
 its author had room— no doubt at the expense 
 of the mere tale in the first place— to dilate on 
 favourite subjects after his own charming and 
 desultory manner. 
 
 While Alfred Hagarfs Household concludes the 
 short list of Alexander Smith's books, it by no 
 means ends the record of his Uterary industry. 
 He did a considerable amount of work for the 
 Ejicydopcsdia Britannica, Chambers's Encyclopedia, 
 and Mackenzie's Biographical Dictionary. His 
 was the " Life of Cowper " in the first mentioned, 
 and he edited Bi(rns for Messrs. Macmillan. His 
 introductory essay has been well thought of in 
 high quarters. Room for one quotation from it 
 must be found : " To the wretched, out of the 
 Bible there is no such solace as the poetry of 
 Burns. His genius comes to their hovels, their 
 poor bread wetted with tears, as Howard came to 
 the strong places of pestilence— irradiating, con- 
 soling; like the hearing of soft tones, like the 
 touches of tender hands." Smith also edited John 
 W. S. Hows's Golden Leaves from American Poets. 
 His contributions to magazines and newspapers 
 were numerous. Among the former were Black- 
 wood, Macmillan, Good Words, The Argosy, and
 
 xHv INTRODUCTION 
 
 The Quiver : among the latter, the Edinburgh 
 Coiirant, the London Review, the Glasgow Citizen, 
 and the Caledonian Mercury. Each year as the 
 Royal Scottish Academy opened its Exhibition he 
 furnished an account of it to the Caledonian 
 Meratry. He knew many of the artists who 
 helped to cover the walls of the galleries at the 
 Mound in those days. Special mention may be 
 made of Horatio Macculloch, who lived near him 
 at Wardie, and who, besides being a " sort of elder 
 brother to him," was related to his wife. But 
 Smith was a heretic, for he held, poor man, that 
 the landscapes he saw from his window at Dream- 
 thorp, painted by no greater artists than Sunrise 
 and Sunset, were better executed " than those 
 which adorn the walls of the Royal Academy " ; 
 and we know that many artists, nowadays, say 
 in veiled words what Whistler said in unveiled 
 language regarding Nature. There can be no 
 manner of doubt that Alexander Smith hastened 
 his death by overwork. He himself considered 
 literary work the most exhausting of all work, and 
 he certainly did not spare his powers. His last 
 completed effort in prose was the essay on his 
 friend, Sydney Dobell, and his last published poem 
 was " A Spring Chanson." Both of these appear 
 in Last Leaves. The " Chanson " ends with a 
 reference to the blackbird's song in May, which, 
 strangely enough, is best sung, in the poet's view, 
 "to happy lovers and to dying men." "A Spring 
 Chanson" was not, however, Smith's very last 
 piece of work in verse. At the time of his death 
 he was engaged on a poem entitled " Edinburgh."
 
 INTRODUCTION xlv 
 
 It was his intention to give it rank with his 
 " Glasgow," but any judge may see from the draft 
 of the stanzas left us that it would have far 
 exceeded the earlier production in reach and in 
 beauty. It is only a fragment as we have it ; still, 
 there are intense freshness and fitness in some of 
 its descriptions. 
 
 On the 2oth of November 1866, Alexander 
 Smith was finally laid aside. He had tasted of 
 life's every dish, except what he loved to call 
 " the Covered One " — and the Hand was now on 
 the cover ! His illness was typhoid fever, com- 
 plicated with diphtheria. All that was possible was 
 done by his physicians — Dr. Malcolm and Dr. 
 (afterwards Sir Robert) Christison. Times of 
 delirium were with him towards the end, and in 
 these he babbled, not "of green fields," but of his 
 University duties (see page 60) and of those he 
 loved and was to leave behind. He died on the 
 5th of January 1867, at the age of thirty-seven. 
 " Thirty is the age of the gods," he had written in 
 " An Essay on an Old Subject." Like Burns and 
 Byron, he was old at thirty-seven — the age at which 
 all three died. In his essays Smith liked to pose 
 as an old man, yet "pose" is scarcely the word to 
 use. He had an early maturity. His death was 
 keenly felt by his friends, and no wonder. It is 
 seldom that a man is singled out from amongst all 
 his fellows and written of as Alexander Smith has 
 been by Sheriff Nicolson : " Of all the men whom 
 I have known that drew forth love as well as 
 admiration, Alexander Smith was the most lovable. 
 It was impossible not to love him, as impossible as
 
 xlvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 it was to provoke him to do or say anything mean 
 or unkind. Unlike many whose whole goodness 
 and fine sentiment is put into their books, his life 
 and character were as beautiful as anything he 
 wrote." 
 
 There is no more beautiful cemetery in 
 Edinburgh than Warriston. The Dean may have 
 a more dignified solemnity, with its sentinel yews, 
 but Warriston heaves the green but marbled 
 shoulders of God's Acre to the sun and to 
 the south. From its heights the views of 
 Edinburgh are wonderfully fine, and it is musical 
 with birds that help to keep the thoughts above 
 the daisy-starred grass that grows and withers over 
 the silent dead. It was here — notwithstanding 
 what is written on the second page of Dream- 
 thorp — that the body of Alexander Smith was 
 laid. The burial-place is in the extreme north-east 
 corner of the cemetery, and it is marked by a 
 finely decorated lona Cross, bearing the words 
 "Alexander Smith, Poet and Essayist." The 
 Cross was designed by his friend James Drummond, 
 R.S.A., but Sir J. Noel Paton, R.S.A., had also 
 some share in the decoration. The bronze 
 medallion likeness was the work of a third 
 friend— William Brodie, R.S.A. 
 
 "Youth" — these are his own words — "is a 
 lyrical poet, middle age a quiet essayist, fond of 
 recounting his experiences, and of appending a 
 moral to every incident." " Poet and Essayist ! " 
 By which of these titles will Alexander Smith be 
 the longer remembered ? Possibly he may be 
 equally remembered by both. Not by either, say
 
 INTRODUCTION xlvii 
 
 some— the kind of people, perhaps, who ask you 
 to take their word for it that George EUot was no 
 novelist, and Lowell no poet. In spite of this, it 
 will doubtless be held against all odds by many, 
 that he was more than what he called a " Squatter " 
 on the sacred mount of Parnassus. There is little 
 prose in his poetry, but his prose is filled with 
 poetry. For this reason it may be that "Poet- 
 Essayist" might better serve than "Poet and 
 Essayist." Let it be remembered that he himself 
 conceived of the essayist as "a kind of poet in 
 prose" as well as "a chartered libertine, and a law 
 unto himself." It seems a safe conclusion that 
 lines with so much magic in them — and these are 
 many — and passages that appear, when detached 
 from their fellows, to be equal to the work of the 
 greatest of writers — and these are not few — must 
 take long to die. From time to time they will 
 force themselves on the attention, belonging as 
 they do to an insistent order, and he who said, " To 
 be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for," 
 may well sleep sound in the faith that his desire 
 has been granted. 
 
 It will not do to forget that these pages profess 
 to form, in some sort, an Introduction to one of 
 the most delightful books of essays a man may 
 place on his shelf, and that, therefore, it is as an 
 essayist that Alexander Smith specially concerns 
 us here. In these circumstances a few more words 
 seem necessary, and anything said must be regarded 
 as applying equally to the eleven essays — most of 
 them of great merit — that are included in the 
 volume known as Last Leaves.
 
 xlviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 Alexander Smith is not a builder of the 
 ponderous essay. He has neither muscle nor 
 mallet for that. Indeed, he frankly avows that it 
 is not the essayist's duty to inform, to build path- 
 ways through metaphysical morasses, to cancel 
 abuses." It is quite true also that he has no 
 "finger of scorn to point at anything under the 
 sun ; " that he has a hearty " Amen " for every good 
 wish ; and that, in most unpleasant cases, he leans 
 to a verdict of " Not Proven." He may not thus 
 commend himself to those who always, and easily, 
 take a side, but to others these very things count 
 for much. Although he tells us frankly, in the 
 first essay in Drea7nthorp, that he long ago lost the 
 power of following a sermon, and although he is 
 reticent, generally, on the subject of religion, surely 
 the man who wrote " A Boy's Poem," the essay on 
 "Christmas," the eloquent and penetrative para- 
 graphs on the Lyra Germanica in " A Shelf in my 
 Bookcase," and the exquisite closing passage of 
 "An Essay on an Old Subject," cannot be called 
 irreligious. It is admitted that there is suggestion 
 rather than statement in his writings ; but we must 
 take the man as we find him. For the rest, we 
 have seen that he wanders about with open eyes, 
 and a heart that makes fitting response to his 
 vision. The world, he feels, "is everywhere 
 whispering essays, and one need only be the world's 
 amanuensis." In accepting the conditions, and 
 having hearing and attentive ears, he became a 
 true essayist. His fancy is ever on the alert. Old 
 things become new by simply turning them about, 
 although, in truth, he never seems specially to aim
 
 INTRODUCTION xlix 
 
 at novelty. On the nail of a cottage door he could 
 " hang the mantle of his thought, heavily brocaded 
 with the gold of rhetoric." He weaves together 
 what seem, to the cold reason, to be things remote 
 from each other. 
 
 Granted that he has not the great imagination 
 which Tennyson, Mrs. Browning, and even his 
 best admirers deny him, he has the quality — call 
 it what you will — that he describes in these words : 
 " Imagination lights the torch of joy, it deepens 
 the carmine on the sleek cheek of the girl, it makes 
 wine sparkle, makes music speak, gives rays to the 
 rising sun." Of that kind he has abundance. His 
 is the brooding mood that gently, and almost 
 imperceptibly, draws out of a subject its best. He 
 might well have said, in the language of another : 
 
 ' ' Tax not my sloth, that I 
 
 Fold my arms beside the brook : 
 Each cloud that floated in the sky 
 \Yrites a letter in my book." 
 
 In his own way, as he writes of Montaigne, he too 
 " pursues vagrant lines of thought," and enlists your 
 changing interest ere you are aware ; but he never 
 borrows the ermine gown in order to write like 
 Bacon. He throws the rein, as he says, on the 
 neck of his whim, and you would not for the world 
 stop his pace. The phrase is his own, but it is 
 faulty in so far as it suggests speed, for there is no 
 quieter essayist than Alexander Smith. His richest 
 passages unroll, a" it were, to slow music. His 
 wisdom — and he has much — is like flowing water. 
 You are never preached at, but you feel that your 
 d
 
 1 INTRODUCTION 
 
 heart has been bettered by a touch you are scarcely 
 conscious of before it is gone. 
 
 As has already been said, the Past tyrannises 
 over him ! Yesterday to him " is richer far than 
 fifty years to come." He was, as we have seen, 
 something of a vagabond withal — in the gentler 
 sense of the word. No man could write as he has 
 done of Shakspere's As You Like If without 
 being so. He chafed under the drill of what he 
 called "Adjutant Fashion" — an "awful Martinet," 
 who is, as he conceived, slowly killing us by the 
 everlasting pother over things not worth the falling 
 of an eyelid. Infinitely rather would he have been 
 waiter behind Shakspere's chair at the Mermaid, 
 than have dined with what is termed Royalty every 
 day of his life. The last words of Dreamthorp 
 are characteristic : " Suppose we try ' standing at 
 ease ' for a little." In following the suggestion we 
 may be sure that the harvest of a quiet eye, which 
 is our own, will be a better portion than fussy futil- 
 ities, in the observance of which we so carefully 
 follow each other. Surely, to the wise, the fact that 
 we are so soon to bid farewell to life is an argu- 
 ment in favour of being ourselves while it lasts. 
 Stevenson taught us many things in his Apology 
 for Idlers, but no whit better than did Alexander 
 Smith — who was called Stevenson's "forerunner" 
 by James Ashcroft Noble — in his essay " On 
 Vagabonds." You will remember, in this connec- 
 tion, his boast, in Dreamthorp, that he had "the 
 satisfaction of differing from the world as to the 
 meaning of "idleness." It is also worth re- 
 membering that his sympathy with Hawthorne's
 
 INTRODUCTION 11 
 
 Seve7i Vagabonds was so great that he called it 
 " almost the most exquisite thing which has flowed 
 from its author's pen." How continually, too, as 
 already said, is the ending of life kept in view : 
 indeed, he plays with Death "as Hamlet plays with 
 Yorick's skull," being assured that "nothing 
 interests men so much as Death." 
 
 "That subtle sense of death 
 That sighs through all our happy days, that shakes 
 All raptures of our breath " 
 
 is always present, and has a singularly steadying 
 influence. To my mind, Alexander Smith has few 
 tedious pages, and I except nothing that he has 
 written. He was simply incapable of writing with 
 a dull pen. Colour and radiance are his in no 
 common degree. How smoothly do these essays 
 of his move to their conclusions ! How little there 
 is of the " brewer's cart upon the stones " — to use 
 Ben Jonson's phrase — a sound which not in- 
 frequently accompanies wise and witty writings. 
 What is it, after all, that causes a book to endure ? 
 Many things, no doubt. Yet it may be said of 
 this writer, at least, that it is his charm that will 
 prevail against time, and of the chief spices that 
 embalm literature, the chiefest of all is charm. 
 
 But some may ask such questions as these : Is 
 Alexander Smith's fame not a thing of the past? 
 Have not other men crowds of admirers, while he 
 has but few ? I do not believe that either of these 
 questions can to-day be answered in an unqualified 
 affirmative ; but even if we admit that he has been 
 to a large degree crowded out of popular favour,
 
 lii INTRODUCTION 
 
 the reply may well be : If his is a little clan, yet it 
 is loyal. Take it in his own words : " If devoted- 
 ness of attachment is in these matters to be con- 
 sidered and valued, the love of six readers of the 
 unpopular poet may outweigh the love of a hundred 
 readers of the popular one. In the old Scottish 
 days, 'The King over the water' was pledged far 
 seldomer; but when pledged, with a thousand 
 times more enthusiasm, than was ever King 
 George." 
 
 J. H. 
 
 Marcli 1906.
 
 From the Medallion at Warriston Cemetery by the 
 late James Drummond, R.S.A.
 
 DREAMTHORP. 
 
 IT matters not to relate how or when I became 
 a denizen of Dreamthorp ; it will be sufficient 
 to say that I am not a born native, but that I 
 came to reside in it a good while ago now. The 
 several towns and villages in which, in my time, 
 I have pitched a tent did not please, for one 
 obscure reason or another : this one was too large, 
 t'other too small ; but when, on a summer evening 
 about the hour of eight, I first beheld Dreamthorp, 
 with its westward-looking windows painted by 
 sunset, its children playing in the single straggling 
 street, the mothers knitting at the open doors, 
 the fathers standing about in long white blouses, 
 chatting or smoking ; the great tower of the 
 ruined castle rising high into the rosy air, with a 
 whole troop of swallows — by distance made as 
 small as gnats — skimming about its rents and 
 fissures ; — when I first beheld all this, I felt 
 instinctively that my knapsack might be taken off 
 my shoulders, that my tired feet might wander no 
 more, that at last, on the planet, I had found a 
 home. From that evening I have dwelt here, and 
 the only journey I am like now to make, is the 
 I
 
 2 DREAMTHORP 
 
 very inconsiderable one, so far at least as distance 
 is concerned, from the house in which I live to 
 the graveyard beside the ruined castle. There, 
 with the former inhabitants of the place, I trust to 
 sleep quietly enough, and nature will draw over 
 our heads her coverlet of green sod, and tenderly 
 tuck us in, as a mother her sleeping ones, so that 
 no sound from the world shall ever reach us, and 
 no sorrow trouble us any more. 
 
 The village stands far inland ; and the streams 
 that trot through the soft green valleys all about 
 have as little knowledge of the sea, as the three- 
 years' child of the storms and passions of manhood. 
 The surrounding country is smooth and green, 
 full of undulations ; and pleasant country roads 
 strike through it in every direction, bound for 
 distant towns and villages, yet in no hurry to 
 reach them. On these roads the lark in summer 
 is continually heard ; nests are plentiful in the 
 hedges and dry ditches ; and on the grassy banks, 
 and at the feet of the bowed dikes, the blue-eyed 
 speedwell smiles its benison on the passing way- 
 farer. On these roads you may walk for a year 
 and encounter nothing more remarkable than the 
 country cart, troops of tawny children from the 
 woods, laden with primroses, and at long intervals 
 — for people in this district live to a ripe age — a 
 black funeral creeping in from some remote 
 hamlet; and to this last the people reverently 
 doff their hats and stand aside. Death does not 
 walk about here often, but when he does, he re- 
 ceives as much respect as the squire himself. 
 Everything round one is unhurried, quiet, moss-
 
 DREAMTHORP 3 
 
 grown, and orderly. Season follows in the track 
 of season, and one year can hardly be distinguished 
 from another. Time should be measured here by 
 the silent dial, rather than by the ticking clock, 
 or by the chimes of the church. Dreamthorp can 
 boast of a respectable antiquity, and in it the 
 trade of the builder is unknown. Ever since I 
 remember, not a single stone has been laid on the 
 top of another. The castle, inhabited now by 
 jackdaws and starlings, is old ; the chapel which 
 adjoins it is older still ; and the lake behind both, 
 and in which their shadows sleep, is, I suppose, as 
 old as Adam. A fountain in the market-place, 
 all mouths and faces and curious arabesques — 
 as dry, however, as the castle moat — has a tradi- 
 tion connected with it ; and a great noble riding 
 through the street one day several hundred years 
 ago, was shot from a window by a man whom he 
 had injured. The death of this noble is the 
 chief link which connects the place with authentic 
 history. The houses are old, and remote dates 
 may yet be deciphered on the stones above the 
 doors ; the apple trees are mossed and ancient ; 
 countless generations of sparrows have bred in 
 the thatched roofs, and thereon have chirped out 
 their lives. In every room of the place men have 
 been born, men have died. On Dreamthorp 
 centuries have fallen, and have left no more trace 
 than have last winter's snowflakes. This common- 
 place sequence and flowing on of life is im- 
 measurably affecting. That winter morning when 
 Charles lost his head in front of the banquetrng- 
 hall of his own palace, the icicles hung from the
 
 4 DREAMTHORP 
 
 eaves of the houses here, and the clown kicked 
 the snowballs from his clouted shoon, and thought 
 but of his supper when, at three o'clock, the red 
 sun set in the purple mist. On that Sunday in 
 June while Waterloo was going on, the gossips, 
 after morning service, stood on the country roads 
 discussing agricultural prospects, without the 
 slightest suspicion that the day passing over their 
 heads would be a famous one in the calendar. 
 Battles have been fought, kings have died, history 
 has transacted itself; but, all unheeding and un- 
 touched, Dreamthorp has watched apple trees 
 redden, and wheat ripen, and smoked its pipe, 
 and quaffed its mug of beer, and rejoiced over its 
 new-born children, and with proper solemnity 
 carried its dead to the churchyard. As I gaze on 
 the village of my adoption, I think of many things 
 very far removed, and seem to get closer to them. 
 The last setting sun that Shakspeare saw reddened 
 the windows here, and struck warmly on the faces 
 of the hinds coming home from the fields. The 
 mighty storm that raged while Cromwell lay a- 
 dying made all the oak woods groan round about 
 here, and tore the thatch from the very roofs I 
 gaze upon. When I think of this, I can almost, 
 so to speak, lay my hand on Shakspeare and on 
 Cromwell. These poor walls were contemporaries 
 of both, and I find something affecting in the 
 thought. The mere soil is, of course, far older 
 than either, but // does not touch one in the same 
 way. A wall is the creation of a human hand, the 
 soil is not. 
 
 This place suits my whim, and I like it better
 
 DREAMTHORP 5 
 
 year after year. As with everything else, since I 
 began to love it I find it gradually growing 
 beautiful. Dreamthorp — a castle, a chapel, a 
 lake, a straggling strip of grey houses, with a blue 
 film of smoke over all — lies embosomed in emerald. 
 Summer, with its daisies, runs up to every cottage 
 door. From the little height where I am now 
 sitting, I see it beneath me. Nothing could be 
 more peaceful. The wind and the birds fly over 
 it. A passing sunbeam makes brilliant a white 
 gable-end, and brings out the colours of the 
 blossomed apple tree beyond, and disappears. I 
 see figures in the street, but hear them not. The 
 hands on the church clock seem always pointing 
 to one hour. Time has fallen asleep in the 
 afternoon sunshine. I make a frame of my 
 fingers, and look at my picture. On the walls of 
 the next Academy's Exhibition will hang nothing 
 half so beautiful ! 
 
 My village is, I think, a special favourite of 
 summer's. Every window-sill in it she touches 
 with colour and fragrance ; everywhere she wakens 
 the drowsy murmurs of the hives ; every place 
 she scents with apple blossom. Traces of her 
 hand are to be seen on the weir beside the 
 ruined mill ; and even the canal, along which the 
 barges come and go, has a great white water-lily 
 asleep on its olive-coloured face. Never was 
 velvet on a monarch's robe so gorgeous as the 
 green mosses that be-ruff the roofs of farm and 
 cottage, when the sunbeam slants on them and 
 goes. The old road out towards the common, 
 and the hoary dikes that might have been built
 
 6 DREAMTHORP 
 
 in the reign of Alfred, have not been forgotten by 
 the generous adorning season ; for every fissure 
 has its mossy cushion, and the old blocks them- 
 selves are washed by the loveliest grey-green 
 lichens in the world, and the large loose stones 
 lying on the ground have gathered to themselves 
 the peacefullest mossy coverings. Some of these 
 have not been disturbed for a century. Summer 
 has adorned my village as gaily, and taken as 
 much pleasure in the task, as the people of old, 
 when Elizabeth was queen, took in the adornment 
 of the Maypole against a summer festival. And, 
 just think, not only Dreamthorp, but every 
 English village she has made beautiful after one 
 fashion or another — making vivid green the hill 
 slope on which straggling white Welsh hamlets 
 hang right opposite the sea; drowning in apple 
 blossom the red Sussex ones in the fat valley. 
 And think, once more, every spear of grass in 
 England she has touched with a livelier green ; 
 the crest of every bird she has burnished ; every 
 old wall between the four seas has received her 
 mossy and licheny attentions; every nook in 
 every forest she has sown with pale flowers, every 
 marsh she has dashed with the fires of the marigold. 
 And in the wonderful night the moon knows, 
 she hangs — the planet on which so many millions 
 of us fight, and sin, and agonise, and die — a 
 sphere of glow-worm light. 
 
 Having discoursed so long about Dreamthorp, 
 it is but fair that I should now introduce you to 
 her lions. These are, for the most part, of a 
 commonplace kind ; and I am afraid that, if you
 
 DREAMTHORP 7 
 
 wish to find romance in them, you must bring it 
 with you. I might speak of the old church-tower, 
 or of the churchyard beneath it, in which the 
 village holds its dead, each resting-place marked 
 by a simple stone, on which is inscribed the 
 name and age of the sleeper, and a Scripture text 
 beneath, in which live our hopes of immortality. 
 But, on the whole, perhaps it will be better to 
 begin with the canal, which wears on its olive- 
 coloured face the big white water-lily already 
 chronicled. 
 
 Such a secluded place is Dreamthorp that the 
 railway does not come near, and the canal is the 
 only thing that connects it with the world. It 
 stands high, and from it the undulating country 
 may be seen stretching away into the grey of 
 distance, with hills and woods, and stains of 
 smoke which mark the sites of villages. Every 
 now and then a horse comes staggering along 
 the towing-path, trailing a sleepy barge filled with 
 merchandise. A quiet, indolent life these barge- 
 men lead in the summer days. One lies stretched 
 at his length on the sun-heated plank ; his comrade 
 sits smoking in the little dog-hutch, which I 
 suppose he calls a cabin. Silently they come and 
 go ; silently the wooden bridge lifts to let them 
 through. The horse stops at the bridge-house 
 for a drink, and there I like to talk a little with 
 the men. They serve instead of a newspaper, 
 and retail with great willingness the news they 
 have picked up in their progress from town to 
 town. I am told they sometimes marvel who 
 the old gentleman is who accosts them from
 
 8 DREAMTHORP 
 
 beneath a huge umbrella in the sun, and that 
 they think him either very wise or very foolish. 
 Not in the least unnatural ! We are great friends, 
 I believe — evidence of which they occasionally 
 exhibit by requesting me to disburse a trifle for 
 drink-money. This canal is a great haunt of 
 mine of an evening. The water hardly invites 
 one to bathe in it, and a delicate stomach might 
 suspect the flavour of the eels caught therein ; 
 yet, to my thinking, it is not in the least destitute 
 of beauty. A barge trailing up through it in the 
 sunset is a pretty sight ; and the heavenly crimsons 
 and purples sleep quite lovingly upon its glossy 
 ripples. Nor does the evening star disdain it, 
 for as I walk along I see it mirrored therein as 
 clearly as in the waters of the Mediterranean 
 itself. 
 
 The old castle and chapel already alluded to 
 are, perhaps, to a stranger, the points of attraction 
 in Dreamthorp. Back from the houses is the 
 lake, on the green sloping banks of which, with 
 broken windows and tombs, the ruins stand. As 
 it is noon, and the weather is warm, let us go and 
 sit on a turret. Here, on these very steps, as old 
 ballads tell, a queen sat once, day after day, 
 looking southward for the light of returning 
 spears. I bethink me that yesterday, no farther 
 gone, I went to visit a consumptive shoemaker; 
 seated here I can single out his very house, nay, 
 the very window of the room in which he is lying. 
 On that straw roof might the raven alight, and 
 flap his sable wings. There, at this moment, is 
 the supreme tragedy being enacted. A woman
 
 DREAMTHORP 9 
 
 is weeping there, and little children are looking 
 on with a sore bewilderment. Before nightfall 
 the poor peaked face of the bowed artisan will 
 have gathered its ineffable peace, and the widow 
 will be led away from the bedside by the tender- 
 ness of neighbours, and the cries of the orphan 
 brood will be stilled. And yet this present 
 indubitable suffering and loss does not touch me 
 like the sorrow of the woman of the ballad, the 
 phantom probably of a minstrel's brain. The 
 shoemaker will be forgotten — I shall be forgotten ; 
 and long after visitors will sit here and look out 
 on the landscape and murmur the simple lines. 
 But why do death and dying obtrude themselves 
 at the present moment? 
 
 On the turret opposite, about the distance of 
 a gunshot, is as pretty a sight as eye could wish 
 to see. Two young people, strangers apparently, 
 have come to visit the ruin. Neither the ballad 
 queen, nor the shoemaker down yonder, whose 
 respirations are getting shorter and shorter, touches 
 them in the least. They are merry and happy, 
 and the greybeard turret has not the heart to 
 thrust a foolish moral upon them. They would 
 not thank him if he did, I daresay. Perhaps 
 they could not understand him. Time enough ! 
 Twenty years hence they will be able to sit down 
 at his feet, and count griefs with him, and tell 
 him tale for tale. Human hearts get ruinous in 
 so much less time than stone walls and towers. 
 See, the young man has thrown himself down at 
 the girl's feet on a little space of grass. In her 
 scarlet cloak she looks like a blossom springing out
 
 lo DREAMTHORP 
 
 of a crevice on the ruined steps. He gives her a 
 flower, and she bows her face down over it almost 
 to her knees. What did the flower say ? Is it to 
 hide a blush ? He looks delighted ; and I almost 
 fancy I see a proud colour on his brow. As I 
 gaze, these young people make for me a perfect 
 idyl. The generous, ungrudging sun, the melan- 
 choly ruin, decked, like mad Lear, w'ith the flowers 
 and ivies of forgetfulness and grief, and between 
 them, sweet and evanescent, human truth and 
 love ! 
 
 Love ! — does it yet walk the world, or is it im- 
 prisoned in poems and romances? Has not the 
 circulating library become the sole home of the 
 passion? Is love not become the exclusive pro- 
 perty of novelists and playwrights, to be used by 
 them only for professional purposes? Surely, if 
 the men I see are lovers, or ever have been lovers, 
 they would be nobler than they are. The know- 
 ledge that he is beloved should — must make a man 
 tender, gentle, upright, pure. While yet a youngster 
 in a jacket, I can remember falling desperately in 
 love with a young lady several years my senior, — 
 after the fashion of youngsters in jackets. Could 
 I have fibbed in these days? Could I have 
 betrayed a comrade ? Could I have stolen eggs or 
 callow young from the nest ? Could I have stood 
 quietly by and seen the weak or the maimed 
 bullied ? Nay verily ! In these absurd days she 
 lighted up the whole world for me. To sit in the 
 same room with her was like the happiness of per- 
 petual holiday ; when she asked me to run a message 
 for her, or to do any, the slightest, service for her,
 
 DREAMTHORP ii 
 
 I felt as if a patent of nobility were conferred on 
 me. I kept my passion to myself, like a cake, and 
 nibbled it in private. Juliet was several years my 
 senior, and had a lover — was, in point of fact, 
 actually engaged; and, in looking back, I can 
 remember I was too much in love to feel the 
 slightest twinge of jealousy. I remember also 
 seeing Romeo for the first time, and thinking him ■ 
 a greater man than Caesar or Napoleon. The 
 worth I credited him with, the cleverness, the 
 goodness, the everything ! He awed me by his 
 manner and bearing. He accepted that girl's love 
 coolly and as a matter of course : it put him no 
 more about than a crown and sceptre puts about a 
 king. ^Vhat I would have given my life to possess 
 — being only fourteen, it was not much to part 
 with after all — he wore lightly, as he wore his 
 gloves or his cane. It did not seem a bit too 
 good for him. His self-possession appalled me. 
 If I had seen him take the sun out of the 
 sky, and put it into his breeches' pocket, I don't 
 think I should have been in the least degree 
 surprised. 
 
 Well, years after, when I had discarded my 
 passion with my jacket, I have assisted this middle- 
 aged Romeo home from a roystering wine-party, 
 and heard him hiccup out his marital annoyances, 
 with the strangest remembrances of old times, and 
 the strangest deductions therefrom. Did that man 
 with the idiotic laugh and the blurred utterance 
 ever love ? Was he ever capable of loving ? I 
 protest I have my doubts. But where are my 
 young people ? Gone ! So it is always. We
 
 12 DREAMTHORP 
 
 begin to moralise and look wise, and Beauty, who 
 is something of a coquette, and of an exacting turn 
 of mind, and likes attentions, gets disgusted with 
 our wisdom or our stupidity, and goes off in a 
 huff. Let the baggage go ! 
 
 The ruined chapel adjoins the ruined castle on 
 which I am now sitting, and is evidently a building 
 of much older date. It is a mere shell now. It 
 is quite roofless, ivy covers it in part ; the stone 
 tracery of the great western window is yet intact, 
 but the coloured glass is gone with the splendid 
 vestments of the abbot, the fuming incense, the 
 chanting choirs, and the patient, sad-eyed monks, 
 who muttered Aves, shrived guilt, and illuminated 
 missals. Time was when this place breathed 
 actual benedictions, and was a home of active 
 peace. At present it is visited only by the 
 stranger, and delights but the antiquary. The 
 village people have so little respect for it, that 
 they do not even consider it haunted. There are 
 several tombs in the interior bearing knights' 
 escutcheons, which time has sadly defaced. The 
 dust you stand upon is noble. Earls have been 
 brought here in dinted mail from battle, and earls' 
 wives from the pangs of child-bearing. The last 
 trumpet will break the slumber of a right honour- 
 able company. One of the tombs — the most 
 perfect of all in point of preservation — I look at 
 often, and try to conjecture what it commemorates. 
 With all my fancies, I can get no further than the 
 old story of love and death. There, on the slab, 
 the white figures sleep ; marble hands, folded in 
 prayer, on marble breasts. And I like to think
 
 DREAMTHORP 13 
 
 that he was brave, she beautiful ; that although 
 the monument is worn by time, and sullied by 
 the stains of the weather, the qualities which it 
 commemorates — husbandly and wifely affection, 
 courtesy, courage, knightly scorn of wrong and 
 falsehood, meekness, penitence, charity — are exist- 
 ing yet somewhere, recognisable by each other. 
 The man who in this world can keep the white- 
 ness of his soul, is not likely to lose it in any 
 other. 
 
 In summer I spent a good deal of time floating 
 about the lake. The landing-place to which my 
 boat is tethered is ruinous, like the chapel and 
 palace, and my embarkation causes quite a stir 
 in the sleepy little village. Small boys leave 
 their games and mud-pies, and gather round in 
 silence ; they have seen me get off a hundred 
 times, but their interest in the matter seems 
 always new. Not unfrequently an idle cobbler, in 
 red nightcap and leathern apron, leans on a broken 
 stile, and honours my proceedings with his atten- 
 tion. I shoot off, and the human knot dissolves. 
 The lake contains three islands, each with a solitary 
 tree, and on these islands the swans breed. I feed 
 the birds daily with bits of bread. See, one comes 
 gliding towards me, with superbly arched neck, to 
 receive its customary alms ! How wildly beauti- 
 ful its motions ! How haughtily it begs ! The 
 green pasture lands run down to the edge of the 
 water, and into it in the afternoons the red kine 
 wade and stand knee-deep in their shadows, sur- 
 rounded by troops of flies. Patiently the honest 
 creatures abide the attacks of their tormentors.
 
 14 DREAMTHORP 
 
 Now one swishes itself with its tail — now its 
 neighbour flaps a huge ear. I draw my oars along- 
 side, and let my boat float at its own will. The 
 soft blue heavenly abysses, the wandering streams 
 of vapour, the long beaches of rippled cloud, are 
 glassed and repeated in the lake. Dreamthorp 
 is silent as a picture, the voices of the children are 
 mute ; and the smoke from the houses, the blue 
 pillars all sloping in one angle, float upward as if 
 in sleep. Grave and stern the old castle rises from 
 its emerald banks, which long ago came down to 
 the lake in terrace on terrace, gay with fruits and 
 flowers, and with stone nymph and satyrs hid in 
 every nook. Silent and empty enough to-day ! A 
 flock of daws suddenly bursts out from a turret, 
 and round and round they wheel, as if in panic. 
 Has some great scandal exploded? Has a con- 
 spiracy been discovered ? Has a revolution broken 
 out? The excitement has subsided, and one of 
 them, perched on the old banner-staff, chatters 
 confidentially to himself as he, sideways, eyes the 
 world beneath him. Floating about thus, time 
 passes swiftly, for, before I know where I am, the 
 kine have withdrawn from the lake to couch on 
 the herbage, while one on a little height is lowing 
 for the milkmaid and her pails. Along the road I 
 see the labourers coming home for supper, while 
 the sun setting behind me makes the village 
 windows blaze ; and so I take out my oars, and 
 pull leisurely through waters faintly flushed with 
 evening colours. 
 
 I do not think that Mr. Buckle could have 
 written his History of Civilisation in Dreamthorp,
 
 DREAMTHORP 15 
 
 because in it books, conversation, and the other 
 appurtenances of intellectual life are not to be 
 procured. I am acquainted with birds, and the 
 building of nests — with wild-flowers, and the 
 seasons in which they blow, — but with the big 
 world far away, with what men and women are 
 thinking, and doing, and saying, I am acquainted 
 only through the Times, and the occasional 
 magazine or review, sent by friends whom I have 
 not looked upon for years, but by whom, it seems, 
 I am not yet forgotten. The village has but few 
 intellectual wants, and the intellectual supply is 
 strictly measured by the demand. Still there is 
 something. 
 
 Down in the village, and opposite the curiously 
 carved fountain, is a schoolroom which can accom- 
 modate a couple of hundred people on a pinch. 
 There are our public meetings held. Musical 
 entertainments have been given there by a single 
 performer. In that schoolroom last winter an 
 American biologist terrified the villagers, and, to 
 their simple understandings, mingled up the next 
 world with this. Now and again some rare bird 
 of an itinerant lecturer covers dead walls with 
 posters, yellow and blue, and to that school-room 
 we flock to hear him. His rounded periods the 
 eloquent gentleman devolves amidst a respectful 
 silence. His audience do not understand him, 
 but they see that the clergyman does, and the 
 doctor does ; and so they are content, and look as 
 attentive and wise as possible. Then, in connec- 
 tion with the schoolroom, there is a public library, 
 where books are exchanged once a month. This
 
 i6 DREAMTHORP 
 
 library is a kind of Greenwich Hospital for disabled 
 novels and romances. Each of these books has 
 been in the wars ; some are unquestionable 
 antiques. The tears of three generations have 
 fallen upon their dusky pages. The heroes and 
 the heroines are of another age than ours. Sir 
 Charles Grandison is standing with his hat under 
 his arm. Tom Jones plops from the tree into the 
 water, to the infinite distress of Sophia. Moses 
 comes home from market with his stock of 
 shagreen spectacles. Lovers, warriors, and villains 
 — as dead to the present generation of readers as 
 Cambyses — are weeping, fighting, and intriguing. 
 These books, tattered and torn as they are, are 
 read with delight to-day. The viands are celestial 
 if set forth on a dingy tablecloth. The gaps and 
 chasms which occur in pathetic or perilous chapters 
 are felt to be personal calamities. 
 
 It is with a certain feeling of tenderness that I 
 look upon these books ; I think of the dead fingers 
 that have turned over the leaves, of the dead eyes 
 that have travelled along the lines. An old novel 
 has a history of its own. When fresh and new, and 
 before it had breathed its secret, it lay on my 
 lady's table. She killed the weary day with it, and 
 when night came it was placed beneath her pillow. 
 At the seaside a couple of foolish heads have bent 
 over it, hands have touched and tingled, and it 
 has heard vows and protestations as passionate as 
 any its pages contained. Coming down in the 
 world, Cinderella in the kitchen has blubbered 
 over it by the light of a surreptitious candle, 
 conceiving herself the while the magnificent
 
 DREAMTHORP 
 
 17 
 
 Georgiana, and Lord Mordaunt, Georgiana's lover, 
 the pot-boy round the corner. Tied up with many 
 a dingy brother, the auctioneer knocks the bundle 
 down to the bidder of a few pence, and it finds its 
 way to the quiet cove of some village library, 
 where with some difificulty — as if from want of 
 teeth — and with numerous interruptions — as if 
 from lack of memory — it tells its old stories, and 
 wakes tears, and blushes, and laughter as of yore. 
 Thus it spends its age, and in a few years it will 
 become unintelligible, and then, in the dustbin, 
 like poor human mortals in the grave, it will rest 
 from all its labours. 
 
 It is impossible to estimate the benefit which 
 such books have conferred. How often have they 
 loosed the chain of circumstance ! What un- 
 familiar tears — what unfamiliar laughter they have 
 caused ! What chivalry and tenderness they have 
 infused into rustic loves ! Of what weary hours 
 they have cheated and beguiled their readers ! 
 The big, solemn history-books are in excellent 
 preservation ; the story-books are defaced and 
 frayed, and their out-of-elbows condition is their 
 pride, and the best justification of their existence. 
 They are tashed, as roses are, by being eagerly 
 handled and smelt. I observe, too, that the most 
 ancient romances are not in every case the most 
 severely worn. It is the pace that tells in horses, 
 men, and books. There are Nestors wonderfully 
 hale ; there are juveniles in a state of dilapidation. 
 One of the youngest books. The Old Curiosity 
 Shop, is absolutely falling to pieces. That book, 
 like Italy, is possessor of the fatal gift ; but happily, 
 2
 
 i8 DREAMTHORP 
 
 in its case, everything can be rectified by a new 
 edition. We have buried warriors and poets, 
 princes and queens, but no one of these was 
 followed to the grave by sincerer mourners than 
 was little Nell. 
 
 Besides the itinerant lecturer, and the permanent 
 library, we have the Sunday sermon. These sum 
 up the intellectual aids and furtherances of the 
 whole place. We have a church and a chapel, 
 and I attend both. The Dreamthorp people are 
 Dissenters, for the most part ; why, I never could 
 understand ; because dissent implies a certain 
 intellectual effort. But Dissenters they are, and 
 Dissenters they are likely to remain. In an un- 
 gainly building, filled with hard, gaunt pews, without 
 an organ, without a touch of colour in the 
 windows, with nothing to stir the imagination or 
 the devotional sense, the simple people worship. 
 On Sunday, they are put upon a diet of spiritual 
 bread-and-water. Personally, I should desire more 
 generous food. But the labouring people listen 
 attentively, till once they fall asleep, and they wake 
 up to receive the benediction with a feeling of 
 having done their duty. They know they ought 
 to go to chapel, and they go. I go likewise, from 
 habit, although I have long ago lost the power of 
 following a discourse. In my pew, and whilst the 
 clergyman is going on, I think of the strangest 
 things — of the tree at the window, of the congrega- 
 tion of the dead outside, of the wheat-fields and 
 the corn-fields beyond and all around. And the 
 odd thing is, that it is during sermon only that my 
 mind flies off at a tangent and busies itself with
 
 DREAMTHORP 19 
 
 things removed from the place and the circum- 
 stances. Whenever it is finished fancy returns 
 from her wanderings, and I am alive to the objects 
 around me. The clergyman knows my humour, 
 and is good Christian enough to forgive me ; and 
 he smiles good-humouredly when I ask him to let 
 me have the chapel keys, that I may enter, when 
 in the mood, and preach a sermon to myself. To 
 my mind, an empty chapel is impressive; a 
 crowded one, comparatively a commonplace affair. 
 Alone, I could choose my own text, and my silent 
 discourse would not be without its practical 
 applications. 
 
 An idle life I live in this place, as the world 
 counts it ; but then I have the satisfaction of 
 differing from the world as to the meaning of 
 idleness. A windmill twirling its arms all day is 
 admirable only when there is corn to grind. 
 Twirling its arms for the mere barren pleasure of 
 twirling them, or for the sake of looking busy, 
 does not deserve any rapturous prean of praise. 
 I must be made happy after my own fashion, not 
 after the fashion of other people. Here I can live 
 as I please, here I can throw the reins on the neck 
 of my whim. Here I play with my own thoughts, 
 here I ripen for the grave.
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS. 
 
 I HAVE already described my environments 
 and my mode of life, and out of both I con- 
 trive to extract a very tolerable amount of satis- 
 faction. Love in a cottage, with a broken window- 
 to let in the rain, is not my idea of comfort ; no 
 more is Dignity, walking forth richly clad, to whom 
 every head uncovers, every knee grows supple. 
 Bruin in winter-time fondly sucking his own paws, 
 loses flesh ; and love, feeding upon itself, dies of 
 inanition. Take the candle of death in your hand, 
 and walk through the stately galleries of the world, 
 and their splendid furniture and array are as the 
 tinsel armour and pasteboard goblets of a penny 
 theatre; fame is but an inscription on a grave, 
 and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid. 
 We argue fiercely about happiness. One insists 
 that she is found in the cottage which the 
 hawthorn shades. Another that she is a lady 
 of fashion, and treads on cloth of gold. Wisdom, 
 listening to both, shakes a white head, and 
 considers that "a good deal may be said on 
 both sides." 
 
 There is a wise saying to the effect that " a man
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 21 
 
 can eat no more that he can hold." Every man 
 sets about the same satisfaction out of life. Mr. 
 Suddlechops, the barber of Seven Dials, is as 
 happy as Alexander at the head of his legions. 
 The business of the one is to depopulate kingdoms, 
 the business of the other to reap beards seven days 
 old ; but their relative positions do not affect the 
 question. The one works with razors and soap- 
 lather, the other with battle-cries and well-greaved 
 Greeks. The one of a Saturday night counts up 
 his shabby gains and grumbles ; the^ other on his 
 Saturday night sits down and weeps for other 
 worlds to conquer. The pence to Mr. Suddle- 
 chops are as important as are the worlds to 
 Alexander. Every condition of life has its 
 peculiar advantages, and wisdom points these 
 out and is contented with them. The varlet 
 who sang — 
 
 ' ' A king cannot swagger 
 Or get drunk like a beggar, 
 Nor be half so happy as I '' — 
 
 had the soul of a philosopher in him. The 
 harshness of the parlour is revenged at night in the 
 servants' hall. The coarse rich man rates his 
 domestic, but there is a thought in the domestic's 
 brain, docile and respectful as he looks, which 
 makes the matter equal, which would madden the 
 rich man if he knew it — make him wince as with a 
 shrewdest twinge of hereditary gout. For insult 
 and degradation are not without their peculiar 
 solaces. You may spit upon Shylock's gaberdine, 
 but the day comes when he demands his pound
 
 22 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 
 
 of flesh ; every blow, every insult, not without a 
 certain satisfaction, he adds to the account running 
 up against you in the day-book and ledger of his 
 hate — which at the proper time he will ask you to 
 discharge. Every way we look we see even-handed 
 nature administering her laws of compensation. 
 Grandeur has a heavy tax to pay. The usurper 
 rolls along like a god, surrounded by his guards. 
 He dazzles the crowd — all very fine; but look 
 beneath his splendid trappings and you see a 
 shirt of mail, and beneath that a heart cowering 
 in terror of an air-drawn dagger. Whom did the 
 memory of Austerlitz most keenly sting? The 
 beaten emperors ? or the mighty Napoleon, 
 dying like an untended watch - fire on St. 
 Helena ? 
 
 Giddy people may think the life I lead here 
 staid and humdrum, but they are mistaken. It 
 is true, I hear no concerts, save those in which 
 the thrushes are performers in the spring mornings. 
 I see no pictures, save those painted on the wide 
 sky-canvas with the colours of sunrise and sunset. 
 I attend neither rout nor ball ; I have no deeper 
 dissipation than the tea-table ; I hear no more 
 exciting scandal than quiet village gossip. Yet 
 I enjoy my concerts more than I would the great 
 London ones. I like the pictures I see, and think 
 them better painted, too, than those which adorn 
 the walls of the Royal Academy ; and the village 
 gossip is more after my turn of mind than the 
 scandals that convulse the clubs. It is wonderful 
 how the whole world reflects itself in the simple 
 village life. The people around me are full of
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 23 
 
 their own affairs and interests ; were they of im- 
 perial magnitude, they could not be excited more 
 strongly. Farmer Worthy is anxious about the 
 next market ; the likelihood of a fall in the price 
 of butter and eggs hardly allows him to sleep o' 
 nights. The village doctor — happily we have only 
 one — skirrs hither and thither in his gig, as if man 
 could neither die nor be born without his assist- 
 ance. He is continually standing on the confines 
 of existence, welcoming the new-comer, bidding 
 farewell to the goer-away. And the robustious 
 fellow who sits at the head of the table when the 
 Jolly Swillers meet at the Blue Lion on Wednesday 
 evenings is a great politician, sound of lung metal, 
 and wields the village in the taproom, as my Lord 
 Palmerston wields the nation in the House. His 
 listeners think him a wiser personage than the 
 Premier, and he is inclined to lean to that opinion 
 himself. I find everything here that other men 
 find in the big world. London is but a magnified 
 Dreamthorp. 
 
 And just as the Rev. Mr. White took note of 
 the ongoings of the seasons in and around 
 Hampshire Selborne, watched the colonies of the 
 rooks in the tall elms, looked after the swallows in 
 the cottage and rectory eaves, played the affec- 
 tionate spy on the private lives of chaffinch and 
 hedge-sparrow, was eavesdropper to the solitary 
 cuckoo ; so here I keep eye and ear open ; take 
 note of man, woman, and child ; find many a 
 pregnant text imbedded in the commonplace of 
 village life; and, out of what I see and hear, 
 weave in my own room my essays as solitarily as
 
 24 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 
 
 the spider weaves his web in the darkened corner. 
 The essay, as a Hterary form, resembles the lyric, 
 in so far as it is moulded by some central mood 
 — whimsical, serious, or satirical. Give the mood, 
 and the essay, from the first sentence to the last, 
 grows around it as the cocoon grows around the 
 silkworm. 
 
 The essay- writer is a chartered libertine, and a 
 law unto himself. A quick ear and eye, an ability 
 to discern the infinite suggestiveness of common 
 things, a brooding meditative spirit, are all that the 
 essayist requires to start business with. Jacques, in 
 As You Like It, had the makings of a charming 
 essayist. It is not the essayist's duly to inform, 
 to build pathways through metaphysical morasses, 
 to cancel abuses, any more than it is the duty of 
 the poet to do these things. Incidentally he may 
 do something in that way, just as the poet may, 
 but it is not his duty, and should not be expected 
 of him. Skylarks are primarily created to sing, 
 although a whole choir of them may be baked in 
 pies and brought to table; they were born to 
 make music, although they may incidentally stay 
 the pangs of vulgar hunger. The essayist is a 
 kind of poet in prose, and if questioned harshly 
 as to his uses, he might be unable to render a 
 better apology for his existence than a flower 
 might. The essay should be pure literature as 
 the poem is pure literature. The essayist wears 
 a lance, but he cares more for the sharpness of its 
 point than for the pennon that flutters on it, than 
 for the banner of the captain under whom he 
 serves. He plays with death as Hamlet plays with
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 25 
 
 Yorick's skull, and he reads the morals — strangely- 
 stern, often, for such fragrant lodging — which are 
 folded up in the bosoms of roses. He has no 
 pride, and is deficient in a sense of the congruity 
 and fitness of things. He lifts a pebble from the 
 ground, and puts it aside more carefully than any 
 gem ; and on a nail in a cottage door he will hang 
 the mantle of his thought, heavily brocaded with 
 the gold of rhetoric. He finds his way into the 
 Elysian fields through portals the most shabby and 
 commonplace. 
 
 The essayist plays with his subject, now in 
 whimsical, now in grave, now in melancholy mood. 
 He lies upon the idle grassy bank, like Jacques, 
 letting the world flow past him, and from this 
 thing and the other he extracts his mirth and his 
 moralities. His main gift is an eye to discover 
 the suggestiveness of common things ; to find a 
 sermon in the most unpromising texts. Beyond 
 the vital hint, the first step, his discourses are not 
 beholden to their titles. Let him take up the 
 most trivial subject, and it will lead him away to 
 the great questions over which the serious imagina- 
 tion loves to brood — fortune, mutability, death — 
 just as inevitably as the runnel, trickling among 
 the summer hills, on which sheep are bleating, 
 leads you to the sea ; or as, turning down the first 
 street you come to in the city, you are led finally, 
 albeit by many an intricacy, out into the open 
 country, with its waste places and its woods, where 
 you are lost in a sense of strangeness and solitari- 
 ness. The world is to the meditative man what 
 the mulberry plant is to the silkworm. The essay-
 
 26 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 
 
 writer has no lack of subject-matter. He has the 
 day that is passing over his head; and if un- 
 satisfied with that, he has the world's six thousand 
 years to depasture his gay or serious humour upon. 
 I idle away my time here, and I am finding new 
 subjects every hour. Everything I see or hear 
 is an essay in bud. The world is everywhere 
 whispering essays, and one need only be the 
 world's amanuensis. The proverbial expression 
 which last evening the clown dropped as he 
 trudged homeward to supper, the light of the 
 setting sun on his face, expands before me to a 
 dozen pages. 
 
 The coffin of the pauper, which to-day I saw 
 carried carelessly along, is as good a subject as 
 the funeral procession of an emperor. Craped 
 drum and banner add nothing to death ; penury 
 and disrespect take nothing away. Incontinently 
 my thought moves like a slow-paced hearse with 
 sable nodding plumes. Two rustic lovers, whisper- 
 ing between the darkening hedges, is as potent to 
 project my mind into the tender passion as if I 
 had seen Romeo touch the cheek of Juliet in the 
 moonlight garden. Seeing a curly-headed child 
 asleep in the sunshine before a cottage door is 
 sufficient excuse for a discourse on childhood ; 
 quite as good as if I had seen infant Cain asleep 
 in the lap of Eve with Adam looking on. A lark 
 cannot rise to heaven without raising as many 
 thoughts as there are notes in its song. Dawn 
 cannot pour its white light on my village without 
 starting from their dim lair a hundred remini- 
 scences ; nor can sunset burn above yonder trees
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 27 
 
 in the west without attracting to itself the melan- 
 choly of a lifetime. When spring unfolds her green 
 leaves I would be provoked to indite an essay on 
 hope and youth, were it not that it is already writ 
 in the carols of the birds ; and I might be tempted 
 in autumn to improve the occasion, were it not for 
 the rustle of the withered leaves as I walk through 
 the woods. Compared with that simple music, 
 the saddest-cadenced words have but a shallow 
 meaning. 
 
 The essayist who feeds his thoughts upon the 
 segment of the world which surrounds him cannot 
 avoid being an egotist ; but then his egotism is 
 not unpleasing. If he be without taint of boastful- 
 ness, of self-sufficiency, of hungry vanity, the world 
 will not press the charge home. If a man dis- 
 courses continually of his wines, his plate, his 
 titled acquaintances, the number and quality of 
 his horses, his men-servants and maid-servants, he 
 must discourse very skilfully indeed if he escapes 
 being called a coxcomb. If a man speaks of death 
 — tells you that the idea of it continually haunts 
 him, that he has the most insatiable curiosity as to 
 death and dying, that his thought mines in church- 
 yards like a "demon-mole"- — no one is specially 
 offended, and that this is a dull fellow is the 
 hardest thing likely to be said of him. Only, the 
 egotism that over-crows you is offensive, that 
 exalts trifles and takes pleasure in them, that 
 suggests superiority in matters of equipage and 
 furniture ; and the egotism is offensive, because it 
 runs counter to and jostles your self-complacency. 
 The egotism which rises no higher than the grave
 
 28 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 
 
 is of a solitary and a hermit kind — it crosses no 
 man's path, it disturbs no man's amour propre. 
 You may offend a man if you say you are as rich 
 as he, as wise as he, as handsome as he. You 
 offend no man if you tell him that, like him, you 
 have to die. The king, in his crown and corona- 
 tion robes, will allow the beggar to claim that 
 relationship with him. 
 
 To have to die is a distinction of which flo 
 man is proud. The speaking about one's self 
 is not necessarily offensive. A modest, truth- 
 ful man speaks better about himself than about 
 anything else, and on that subject his speech 
 is likely to be most profitable to his hearers. 
 Certainly, there is no subject with which he is 
 better acquainted, and on which he has a better 
 title to be heard. And it is this egotism, this 
 perpetual reference to self, in which the charm 
 of the essayist resides. If a man is worth 
 knowing at all, he is worth knowing well. The 
 essayist gives you his thoughts, and lets you 
 know, in addition, how he came by them. He 
 has nothing to conceal ; he throws open his doors 
 and windows, and lets him enter who will. You 
 like to walk round peculiar or important men as 
 you like to walk round a building, to view it 
 from different points, and in different lights. Of 
 the essayist, when his mood is communicative, 
 you obtain a full picture. You are made his 
 contemporary and familiar friend. You enter 
 into his humours and his seriousness. You are 
 made heir of his whims, prejudices, and playful- 
 ness. You walk through the whole nature of
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 29 
 
 him, as you walk through the streets of Pompeii, 
 looking into the interior of stately mansions, 
 reading the satirical scribblings on the walls. 
 And the essayist's habit of not only giving you 
 his thoughts, but telling you how he came by them, 
 is interesting, because it shows you by what 
 alchemy the ruder world becomes transmuted 
 into the finer. We like to know the lineage of 
 ideas, just as we like to know the lineage of great 
 earls and swift racehorses. We like to know that 
 the discovery of the law of gravitation was born 
 of the fall of an apple in an English garden on 
 a summer afternoon. Essays written after this 
 fashion are racy of the soil in which they grow, 
 as you taste the lava in the vines grown on the 
 slopes of Etna, they say. There is a healthy 
 Gascon flavour in Montaigne's Essays; and 
 Charles Lamb's are scented with the primroses 
 of Covent Garden. 
 
 The essayist does not usually appear early in the 
 literary history of a country : he comes naturally 
 after the poet and the chronicler. His habit of 
 mind is leisurely; he does not write from any 
 special stress of passionate impulse ; he does not 
 create material so much as he comments upon 
 material already existing. It is essential for him 
 that books should have been written, and that 
 they should, at least to some extent, have been 
 read and digested. He is usually full of allusions 
 and references, and these his reader must be able 
 to follow and understand. And in this literary 
 walk, as in most others, the giants came first : 
 Montaigne and Lord Bacon were our earliest
 
 30 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 
 
 essayists, and, as yet, they are our best. In point 
 of style, these essays are different from anything 
 that could now be produced. Not only is the 
 thinking different — the manner of setting forth the 
 thinking is different also. We despair of reaching 
 the thought, we despair equally of reaching the 
 language. We can no more bring back their turns 
 of sentence than we can bring back their tourna- 
 ments. 
 
 Montaigne, in his serious moods, has a curiously 
 rich and intricate eloquence ; and Bacon's sentence 
 bends beneath the weight of his thought, like a 
 branch beneath the weight of its fruit. Bacon 
 seems to have written his essays with Shak- 
 speare's pen. There is a certain want of ease 
 about the old writers which has an irresistible 
 charm. The language flows like a stream over 
 a pebbled bed, with propulsion, eddy, and sweet 
 recoil — the pebbles, if retarding movement, giving 
 ring and dimple to the surface, and breaking the 
 whole into babbling music. There is a ceremoni- 
 ousness in the mental habits of these ancients. 
 Their intellectual garniture is picturesque, like 
 the garniture of their bodies. Their thoughts are 
 courtly and high mannered. A singular analogy 
 exists between the personal attire of a period and 
 its written style. The peaked beard, the starched 
 collar, the quilted doublet, have their correspond- 
 ences in the high sentence and elaborate ornament 
 (worked upon the thought like figures upon 
 tapestry) of Sidney and Spenser. In Pope's day 
 men wore rapiers, and their weapons they carried 
 with them into literature, and frequently un-
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 31 
 
 sheathed them too. They knew how to stab to 
 the heart with an epigram. Style went out with 
 the men who wore knee-breeches and buckles in 
 their shoes. We write more easily now ; but 
 in our easy writing there is ever a taint of 
 flippancy : our writing is to theirs, what 
 shooting-coat and wide-awake are to doublet 
 and plumed hat. 
 
 Montaigne and Bacon are our earliest and 
 greatest essayists, and likeness and unlikeness 
 exist between the men. Bacon was constitu- 
 tionally the graver nature. He writes like one on 
 whom presses the weight of affairs, and he 
 approaches a subject always on its serious side. 
 He does not play with it fantastically. He lives 
 amongst great ideas, as with great nobles, with 
 whom he dare not be too familiar. In the tone 
 of his mind there is ever something imperial. 
 When he writes on building, he speaks of a 
 palace with spacious entrances, and courts, and 
 banqueting-halls ; when he writes on gardens, he 
 speaks of alleys and mounts, waste places and 
 fountains, of a garden "which is indeed prince- 
 like." To read over his table of contents, is like 
 reading over a roll of peers' names. We have, 
 taking them as they stand, essays treating Of Great 
 Place, Of Boldness, Of Goodtiess, and Goodness of 
 Nature, Of Nobility, Of Seditions and Troubles, Of 
 Atheism, Of Superstition, Of Travel, Of Empire, 
 Of Counsel — a book plainly to lie in the closets 
 of statesmen and princes, and designed to nurture 
 the noblest natures. Bacon always seems to write 
 with his ermine on. Montaigne was different from
 
 32 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 
 
 all this. His table of contents reads in com- 
 parison like a medley, or a catalogue of an auction. 
 He was quite as wise as Bacon; he could look 
 through men quite as clearly, and search them 
 quite as narrowly ; certain of his moods were 
 quite as serious, and in one corner of his heart 
 he kept a yet profounder melancholy ; but he was 
 volatile, a humorist, and a gossip. He could be 
 dignified enough on great occasions, but dignity 
 and great occasions bored him. He could stand 
 in the presence with propriety enough, but then 
 he got out of the presence as rapidly as possible. 
 When, in the thirty-eighth year of his age, he — 
 somewhat world-weary, and with more scars on 
 his heart than he cared to discover — retired to his 
 chateau, he placed his library " in the great tower 
 overlooking the entrance to the court," and over 
 the central rafter he inscribed in large letters the 
 device — " I do not understand ; I pause ; I 
 
 EXAMINE." 
 
 When he began to write his Essays he had 
 no great desire to shine as an author; he wrote 
 simply to relieve teeming heart and brain. The 
 best method to lay the spectres of the mind 
 is to commit them to paper. Speaking of the 
 Essays, he says, "This book has a domestic and 
 private object. It is intended for the use of my 
 relations and friends ; so that, when they have 
 lost me, which they will soon do, they may find in 
 it some features of my condition and humours ; 
 and by this means keep up more completely, and 
 in a more lively manner, the knowledge they have 
 of me." In his Essays he meant to portray him-
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 33 
 
 self, his habits, his modes of thought, his opinions, 
 what fruit of wisdom he had gathered from ex- 
 perience sweet and bitter ; and the task he has 
 executed with wonderful fidelity. He does not 
 make himself a hero. Cromwell would have his 
 warts painted ; and Montaigne paints his, and 
 paints them too with a certain fondness. He is 
 perfectly tolerant of himself and of everybody else. 
 Whatever be the subject, the writing flows on easy, 
 equable, self-satisfied, almost always with a per- 
 sonal anecdote floating on the surface. Each 
 event of his past life he considers a fact of nature ; 
 creditable or the reverse, there it is ; sometimes 
 to be speculated upon, not in the least to be 
 regretted. If it is worth nothing else, it may be 
 made the subject of an essay, or, at least, be 
 useful as an illustration. We have not only his 
 thoughts, we see also how and from what they 
 arose. When he presents you with a bouquet, 
 you notice that the flowers have been plucked 
 up by the roots, and to the roots a portion of the 
 soil still adheres. 
 
 On his daily life his Essays grew like lichens 
 upon rocks. If a thing is useful to him, he is 
 not squeamish as to where he picks it up. In his 
 eyes there is nothing common or unclean ; and 
 he accepts a favour as willingly from a beggar 
 as from a prince. When it serves his purpose, 
 he quotes a tavern catch, or the smart saying of 
 a kitchen wench, with as much relish as the fine 
 sentiment of a classical poet, or the gallant don 
 mot of a king. Everything is important which 
 relates to himself. That his moustache, if stroked 
 3
 
 34 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 
 
 with his perfumed glove, or handkerchief, will 
 retain the odour a whole day, is related with as 
 much gravity as the loss of a battle, or the march 
 of a desolating plague. Montaigne, in his grave 
 passages, reaches an eloquence intricate and highly 
 wrought ; but then his moods are Protean, and he 
 is constantly alternating his stateliness with familiar- 
 ity, anecdote, humour, coarseness. His Essays 
 are like a mythological landscape — you hear the 
 pipe of Pan in the distance, the naked goddess 
 moves past, the satyr leers from the thicket. At 
 the core of him profoundly melancholy, and con- 
 sumed by a hunger for truth, he stands like 
 Prospero in the enchanted island, and he has 
 Ariel and Caliban to do his behests and run his 
 errands. Sudden alternations are very character- 
 istic of him. Whatever he says suggests its 
 opposite. He laughs at himself and his reader. 
 He builds his castle of cards for the mere pleasure 
 of knocking it down again. He is ever unexpected 
 and surprising. And with this curious mental 
 activity, this play and linked dance of discordant 
 elements, his page is alive and restless, like the 
 constant flicker of light and shadow in a mass of 
 foliage which the wind is stirring. 
 
 Montaigne is avowedly an egotist ; and by those 
 who are inclined to make this a matter of reproach, 
 it should be remembered that the value of egotism 
 depends entirely on the egotist. If the egotist is 
 weak, his egotism is worthless. If the egotist is 
 strong, acute, full of distinctive character, his egot- 
 ism is precious, and remains a possession of the 
 race. If Shakspeare had left personal revelations,
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 35 
 
 how we should value them ; if, indeed, he has not 
 in some sense left them — if the tragedies and 
 comedies are not personal revelations altogether — 
 the multiform nature of the man rushing toward 
 the sun at once in Falstaff, Hamlet, and Romeo. 
 But calling Montaigne an egotist does not go a 
 great way to decipher him. No writer takes the 
 reader so much into his confidence, and no one 
 so entirely escapes the penalty of confidence. He 
 tells us everything about himself, we think ; and 
 when all is told, it is astonishing how little we 
 really know. The esplanades of Montaigne's 
 palace are thoroughfares, men from every European 
 country rub clothes there, but somewhere in 
 the building there is a secret room in which the 
 master sits, of which no one but himself wears 
 the key. 
 
 We read in the Essays about his wife, his daughter, 
 his daughter's governess, of his cook, of his page, 
 "who was never found guilty of telling the truth," 
 of his library, the Gascon harvest outside his 
 chateau, his habits of composition, his favourite 
 speculations; but somehow the man himself is 
 constantly eluding us. His daughter's governess, 
 his page, the ripening Gascon fields, are never 
 introduced for their own sakes ; they are employed 
 to illustrate and set off the subject on which he 
 happens to be writing. A brawl in his own kitchen 
 he does not consider worthy of being specially set 
 down, but he has seen and heard everything ; it 
 comes in his way when travelling in some remote 
 region, and accordingly it finds a place. He is the 
 frankest, most outspoken of writers ; and that very
 
 36 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 
 
 frankness and outspokenness puts the reader off 
 his guard. If you wish to preserve your secret, 
 wrap it up in frankness. The Essays are full of 
 this trick. The frankness is as well simulated as 
 the grape branches of the Grecian artist which the 
 birds flew towards and pecked. When Montaigne 
 retreats, he does so like a skilful general, leaving 
 his fires burning. In other ways, too, he is an 
 adept in putting his reader out. He discourses 
 with the utmost gravity, but you suspect mockery 
 or banter in his tones. He is serious with the 
 most trifling subjects, and he trifles with the most 
 serious. " He broods eternally over his own 
 thought," but who can tell what his thought 
 may be for the nonce? He is of all writers the 
 most vagrant, surprising, and, to many minds, 
 illogical. 
 
 His sequences are not the sequences of other 
 men. His writings are as full of transformations 
 as a pantomime or a fairy tale. His arid wastes 
 lead up to glittering palaces, his banqueting-halls 
 end in a dog-hutch. He begins an essay about 
 trivialities, and the conclusion is in the other world. 
 And the peculiar character of his writing, like the 
 peculiar character of all writing which is worth 
 anything, arises from constitutional turn of mind. 
 He is constantly playing at fast and loose with 
 himself and his reader. He mocks and scorns 
 his deeper nature ; and, like Shakspeare in Hamlet, 
 says his deepest things in a jesting way. When 
 he is gayest, be sure there is a serious design in his 
 gaiety. Singularly shrewd and penetrating — sad, 
 not only from sensibility of exquisite nerve and
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 37 
 
 tissue, but from meditation, and an eye that 
 pierced the surfaces of things — fond of pleasure, 
 yet strangely fascinated by death — sceptical, yet 
 clinging to what the Church taught and believed 
 — lazily possessed by a high ideal of life, yet 
 unable to reach it, careless perhaps often to strive 
 after it, and with no very high opinion of his own 
 goodness, or of the goodness of his fellows — and 
 with all these serious elements, an element of 
 humour, mobile as flame, which assumed a variety 
 of forms, now pure fun, now mischievous banter, 
 now blistering scorn — humour in all its shapes, 
 carelessly exercised on himself and his readers — 
 with all this variety, complexity, riot, and con- 
 tradiction almost of intellectual forces within, 
 Montaigne wrote his bewildering Essays — with the 
 exception of Rabelais, the greatest modern French- 
 man—the creator of a distinct literary form, and to 
 whom, down even to our own day, even in point 
 of subject-matter, every essayist has been more or 
 less indebted. 
 
 Bacon is the greatest of the serious and stately 
 essayists, — Montaigne the greatest of the garrulous 
 and communicative. The one gives you his 
 thoughts on Death, Travel, Government, and the 
 like, and lets you make the best of them ; the 
 other gives you his on the same subjects, but he 
 wraps them up in personal gossip and reminiscence. 
 With the last it is never Death or Travel alone ; it 
 is always Death one-fourth, and Montaigne three- 
 fourths ; or Travel one-fourth, and Montaigne 
 three-fourths. He pours his thought into the water 
 of gossip, and gives you to drink. He gilds his
 
 38 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 
 
 pill always, and he always gilds it with himself. 
 The general characteristics of his Essays have been 
 indicated, and it is worth while inquiring what 
 they teach, what positive good they have done, 
 and why for three centuries they have charmed 
 and still continue to charm. 
 
 The Essays contain a philosophy of life, which 
 is not specially high, yet which is certain to 
 find acceptance more or less with men who have 
 passed out beyond the glow of youth, and who 
 have made trial of the actual world. The essence 
 of his philosophy is a kind of cynical common 
 sense. 
 
 He will risk nothing in life ; he will keep to the 
 beaten track ; he will not let passion blind or 
 enslave him ; he will gather around him what 
 good he can, and will therewith endeavour to be 
 content. He will be, as far as possible, self- 
 sustained ; he will not risk his happiness in the 
 hands of man, or of woman either. He is shy of 
 friendship, he fears love, for he knows that both 
 are dangerous. He knows that life is full of 
 bitters, and he holds it wisdom that a man should 
 console himself, as far as possible, with its sweets, 
 the principal of which are peace, travel, leisure, 
 and the writing of essays. He values obtainable 
 Gascon bread and cheese more than the unobtain- 
 able stars. He thinks crying for the moon the 
 foolishest thing in the world. He will remain 
 where he is. He will not deny that a new world 
 may exist beyond the sunset, but he knows that to 
 reach the new world there is a troublesome 
 Atlantic to cross ; and he is not in the least certain
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 39 
 
 that, putting aside the chance of being drowned on 
 the way, he will be one whit happier in the new 
 world than he is in the old. For his part he will 
 embark with no Columbus. He feels that life is 
 but a sad thing at best ; but as he has little hope 
 of making it better, he accepts it, and will not 
 make it worse by murmuring. When the chain 
 galls him, he can at least revenge himself by 
 jests on it. He will temper the despotism of 
 nature by epigrams. He has read y^^sop's fable, 
 and is the last man in the world to relinquish 
 the shabbiest substance to grasp at the finest 
 shadow. 
 
 Of nothing under the sun w^as Montaigne quite 
 certain, except that every man — whatever his 
 station — might travel farther and fare worse ; and 
 that the playing with his own thoughts, in the 
 shape of essay-writing, was the most harmless of 
 amusements. His practical acquiescence in things 
 does not promise much fruit, save to himself; yet 
 in virtue of it he became one of the forces of the 
 world — a very visible agent in bringing about the 
 Europe which surrounds us to-day. He lived in the 
 midst of the French religious wars. The rulers of 
 his country were execrable Christians, but most 
 orthodox Catholics. The burning of heretics was 
 a public amusement, and the court ladies sat out 
 the play. On the queen-mother and on her 
 miserable son lay all the blood of the St. Bartholo- 
 mew. The country was torn asunder ; everywhere 
 was battle, murder, pillage, and such woeful 
 partings as Mr. Millais has represented in his 
 incomparable picture. To the solitary humorous
 
 40 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 
 
 essayist this state of things was hateful. He was 
 a good Catholic in his easy way; he attended 
 divine service regularly ; he crossed himself when 
 he yawned. He conformed in practice to every 
 rule of the Church ; but if orthodox in these 
 matters, he was daring in speculation. There was 
 nothing he was not bold enough to question. He 
 waged war after his peculiar fashion with every 
 form of superstition. He worked under the 
 foundations of priestcraft. But while serving the 
 Reformed cause, he had no sympathy with 
 Reformers. If they would but remain quiet, but 
 keep their peculiar notions to themselves, France 
 would rest ! 
 
 That a man should go to the stake for an 
 opinion, was as incomprehensible to him as that 
 a priest or king should send him there for an 
 opinion. He thought the persecuted and the 
 persecutors fools about equally matched. He 
 was easy tempered and humane — in the hunting- 
 field, he could not bear the cry of a dying hare 
 with composure — martyr-burning had consequently 
 no attraction for such a man. His scepticism 
 came into play, his melancholy humour, his sense 
 of the illimitable which surrounds man's life, and 
 which mocks, defeats, flings back his thought upon 
 himself. Man is here, he said, with bounded 
 powers, with limited knowledge, with an unknown 
 behind, an unknown in front, assured of nothing 
 but that he was born, and that he must die ; why, 
 then, in Heaven's name should he burn his fellow 
 for a difference of opinion in the matter of sur- 
 plices, or as to the proper fashion of conducting
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 41 
 
 devotion ? Out of his scepticism and his merciful 
 disposition grew, in that fiercely intolerant age, 
 the idea of toleration, of which he was the apostle. 
 Widely read, charming every one by his wit and 
 wisdom, his influence spread from mind to mind, 
 and assisted in bringing about the change which 
 has taken place in European thought. His ideas, 
 perhaps, did not spring from the highest sources. 
 He was no ascetic, he loved pleasure, he was 
 tolerant of everything except cruelty ; but on that 
 account we should not grudge him his meed. It 
 is in this indirect way that great writers take their 
 place among the forces of the world. In the long 
 run, genius and wit side with the right cause. And 
 the man fighting against wrong to-day is assisted, 
 in a greater degree than perhaps he is himself 
 aware, by the sarcasm of this writer, the metaphor 
 of that, the song of the other, although the writers 
 themselves professed indifference, or were even 
 counted as belonging to the enemy. 
 
 Montaigne's hold on his readers arises from 
 many causes. There is his frank and curious self- 
 delineation ; that interests, because it is the revela- 
 tion of a very peculiar nature. Then there is the 
 positive value of separate thoughts imbedded in 
 his strange whimsicality and humour. Lastly, 
 there is the perennial charm of style, which is 
 never a separate quality, but rather the amalgam 
 and issue of all the mental and moral qualities in 
 a man's possession, and which bears the same 
 relation to these that light bears to the mingled 
 elements that make up the orb of the sun. And 
 style, after all, rather than thought, is the im-
 
 42 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 
 
 mortal thing in literature. In literature, the charm 
 of style is indefinable, yet all-subduing, just as fine 
 manners are in social life. In reality, it is not of 
 so much consequence what you say, as how you 
 say it. Memorable sentences are memorable on 
 account of some single irradiating word. " But 
 Shadwell never deviates into sense," for instance. 
 Young Roscius, in his provincial barn, will repeat 
 you the great soliloquy of Hamlet, and although 
 every word may be given with tolerable correctness, 
 you find it just as commonplace as himself; the 
 great actor speaks it, and you "read Shakspeare 
 as by a flash of lightning." And it is in Montaigne's 
 style, in the strange freaks and turnings of his 
 thought, his constant surprises, his curious alterna- 
 tions of humour and melancholy, his careless, 
 familiar form of address, and the grace with which 
 everything is done, that his charm lies, and which 
 makes the hundredth perusal of him as pleasant as 
 the first. 
 
 And on style depends the success of the essayist. 
 Montaigne said the most familiar things in the 
 finest way. Goldsmith could not be termed a 
 thinker ; but everything he touched he brightened, 
 as after a month of dry weather, the shower 
 brightens the dusty shrubbery of a suburban villa. 
 The world is not so much in need of new thoughts 
 as that when thought grows old and worn with 
 usage it should, like current coin, be called in, 
 and, from the mint of genius, reissued fresh and 
 new. Love is an old story enough, but in every 
 generation it is re-born, in the downcast eyes and 
 blushes of young maidens. And so, although he
 
 ON THE WRITING OF ESSAYS 43 
 
 fluttered in Eden, Cupid is young to-day. If 
 Montaigne had lived in Dreamthorp, as I am now 
 living, had he written essays as I am now writing 
 them, his English Essays would have been as good 
 as his Gascon ones. Looking on, the country 
 cart would not for nothing have passed him on the 
 road to market, the setting sun would be arrested in 
 its splendid colours, the idle chimes of the church 
 would be translated into a thoughtful music. As 
 it is, the village life goes on, and there is no result. 
 My sentences are not much more brilliant than 
 the speeches of the clowns ; in my book there is 
 little more life than there is in the market-place on 
 the days when there is no market.
 
 ON DEATH AND THE FEAR OF 
 DYING. 
 
 LET me curiously analyse eternal farewells, 
 and the last pressures of loving hands. 
 Let me smile at faces bevvept, and the nodding 
 plumes and slow paces of funerals. Let me write 
 down brave heroical sentences — sentences that 
 defy death, as brazen Goliath the hosts of Israel. 
 
 " When death waits for us is uncertain ; let us 
 everywhere look for him. The premeditation of 
 death is the premeditation of liberty; who has 
 learnt to die, has forgot to serve. There is nothing 
 of evil in life for him who rightly comprehends 
 that death is no evil ; to know how to die delivers 
 us from all subjection and constraint. Pauliis 
 /Emilius answered him whom the miserable King 
 of Macedon, his prisoner, sent to entreat him that 
 he would not lead him in his triumph, 'Let hhn 
 make that request to himself.' In truth, in all 
 things, if nature do not help a little, it is very 
 hard for art and industry to perform anything to 
 purpose. I am, in my own nature, not melancholy, 
 but thoughtful ; and there is nothing I have more 
 continually entertained myself withal than the
 
 DEATH AND DYING 45 
 
 imaginations of death, even in the gayest and 
 most wanton time of my age. In the company 
 of ladies, and in the height of mirth, some have 
 perhaps thought me possessed of some jealousy, 
 or meditating upon the uncertainty of some 
 imagined hope, whilst I was entertaining myself 
 with the remembrance of some one surprised a 
 few days before with a burning fever, of which 
 he died, returning from an entertainment like 
 this, with his head full of idle fancies of love and 
 jollity, as mine was then ; and for aught I knew, 
 the same destiny was attending me. Yet did not 
 this thought wrinkle my forehead any more than 
 any other." . . . "Why dost thou fear this last 
 day ? It contributes no more to thy destruction 
 than every one of the rest. The last step is not 
 the cause of lassitude, it does but confer it. Every 
 day travels toward death; the last only arrives 
 at it. 
 
 These are the good lessons our mother nature 
 teaches. I have often considered with myself 
 whence it should proceed, that in war the image 
 of death — whether we look upon it as to our own 
 particular danger, or that of another — should, 
 without comparison, appear less dreadful than at 
 home in our own houses (for if it were not so, it 
 would be an army of whining milk-sops), and that 
 being still in all places the same, there should be, 
 notwithstanding, much more assurance in peasants 
 and the meaner sort of people, than others of 
 better quality and education ; and I do verily 
 believe, that it is those terrible ceremonies and 
 preparations wherewith we set it out, that more
 
 46 DEATH AND DYING 
 
 terrify us than the thing itself; a new, quite 
 contrary way of living, the cries of mothers, wives, 
 and children, the visits of astonished and affected 
 friends, the attendance of pale and blubbered 
 servants, a dark room set round with burning 
 tapers, our beds environed with physicians and 
 divines ; in fine, nothing but ghostliness and 
 horror round about us, render it so formidable, 
 that a man almost fancies himself dead and buried 
 already. Children are afraid even of those they 
 love best, and are best acquainted with, when 
 disguised in a vizor, and so are we; the vizor 
 must be removed as well from things as persons ; 
 which being taken away, we shall find nothing 
 underneath but the very same death that a mean 
 servant, or a poor chambermaid, died a day or 
 two ago, without any manner of apprehension or 
 concern."^ 
 
 " Men feare death as children feare to goe in the 
 darke ; and as that natural feare in children is 
 increased with tales, so in the other. Certainly 
 the contemplation of death as the wages of sinne, 
 and passage to another world, is holy and religious ; 
 but the feare of it as a tribute due unto nature, is 
 weake. Yet in religious meditations there is 
 sometimes mixture of vanitie and of superstition. 
 You shal reade in some of the friars' books of 
 mortification, that a man should thinke unto 
 himself what the paine is if he have but his finger- 
 end pressed or tortured ; and thereby imagine 
 what the paines of death are when the whole 
 body is corrupted and dissolved; when many 
 
 ^ Montaigne,
 
 DEATH AND DYING 47 
 
 times death passeth with lesse paine than the 
 torture of a Lemme. For the most vitall parts are 
 not the quickest of sense. Groanes and con- 
 vulsions, and a discoloured face, and friends 
 weeping, and blackes and obsequies, and the like, 
 shew death terrible. It is worthy the observing, 
 that there is no passion in the minde of man so 
 weake but it mates and masters the feare of death ; 
 and therefore death is no such terrible enemy 
 when a man hath so many attendants about him 
 that can winne the combat of him. Revenge 
 triumphs over death, love subjects it, honour aspireth 
 to it, griefe fleeth to \\., feare pre-occupieth it ; nay, 
 we read, after Otho the emperour had slaine 
 himselfe, pitty (which is the tenderest of affections) 
 provoked many to die, out of meer compassion 
 to their soveraigne, and as the truest sort of 
 followers. ... It is as naturall to die as to be 
 borne ; and to a little infant, perhaps, the one 
 is as painfull as the other. He that dies in an 
 earnest pursuit is like one that is wounded in hot 
 blood, who for the time scarce feels the hurt ; 
 and, therefore, a minde fixt and bent upon some- 
 what that is good, doth avert the sadness of death. 
 But above all, believe it, the sweetest canticle is. 
 Nunc Dimittis, when a man hath obtained worthy 
 ends and expectations. Death hath this also ; 
 that it openeth the gate to good fame, and 
 extinguisheth envie." ^ 
 
 These sentences of the great essayists are brave 
 and ineffectual as Leonidas and his Greeks. 
 Death cares very little for sarcasm or trope ; hurl 
 
 ^ Bacon.
 
 48 DEATH AND DYING 
 
 at him a javelin or a rose, it is all one. We build 
 around ourselves ramparts of stoical maxims, 
 edifying to witness, but when the terror comes 
 these yield as the knots of river flags to the 
 shoulder of Behemoth. 
 
 Death is terrible only in presence. When 
 distant, or supposed to be distant, we can call 
 him hard or tender names, nay, even poke our 
 poor fun at him. Mr. Punchy on one occasion, 
 when he wished to ridicule the useful-information 
 leanings of a certain periodical publication, quoted 
 from its pages the sentence, " Man is mortal," 
 and people were found to grin broadly over the 
 exquisite stroke of humour. Certainly the words, 
 and the fact they contain, are trite enough. Utter 
 the sentence gravely in any company, and you are 
 certain to provoke laughter. And yet some 
 subtle recognition of the fact of death runs con- 
 stantly through the warp and woof of the most 
 ordinary human existence. And this recognition 
 does not always terrify. The spectre has the 
 most cunning disguises, and often when near us 
 we are unaware of the fact of proximity. Un- 
 suspected, this idea of death lurks in the sweetness 
 of music ; it has something to do with the pleasure 
 with which we behold the vapours of morning ; it 
 comes between the passionate lips of lovers ; it 
 lives in the thrill of kisses. "An inch deeper, 
 and you will find the emperor." Probe joy to its 
 last fibre, and you will find death. And it is the 
 most merciful of all the merciful provisions of 
 nature, that a haunting sense of insecurity should 
 deepen the enjoyment of what we have secured ;
 
 DEATH AND DYING 49 
 
 that the pleasure of our warm human day and its 
 activities should to some extent arise from a 
 vague consciousness of the waste night which 
 environs it, in which no arm is raised, in which no 
 voice is ever heard. Death is the ugly fact which 
 nature has to hide, and she hides it well. Human 
 life were otherwise an impossibility. The panto- 
 mime runs on merrily enough ; but when once 
 Harlequin lifts his vizor, Columbine disappears, 
 the jest is frozen on the Clown's lips, and the hand 
 of the filching Pantaloon is arrested in the act. 
 Wherever death looks, there is silence and tremb- 
 ling. But although on every man he will one day 
 or another look, he is coy of revealing himself 
 till the appointed time. He makes his approaches 
 like an Indian warrior, under covers and ambushes. 
 We have our parts to play, and he remains hooded 
 till they are played out. We are agitated by our 
 passions, we busily pursue our ambitions, we are 
 acquiring money or reputation, and all at once, in 
 the centre of our desires, we discover the " Shadow 
 feared of man." And so nature fools the poor 
 human mortal evermore. When she means to be 
 deadly, she dresses her face in smiles ; when she 
 selects a victim, she sends him a poisoned rose. 
 There is no pleasure, no shape of good fortune, no 
 form of glory in which death has not hid himself, 
 and waited silently for his prey. 
 
 And death is the most ordinary thing in the world. 
 It is as common as births : it is of more frequent 
 occurrence than marriages and the attainment of 
 majorities. But the difference between death and 
 other forms of human experience lies in this, that 
 4
 
 50 DEATH AND DYING 
 
 we can gain no information about it. The dead 
 man is wise, but he is silent. We cannot wring his 
 secret from him. We cannot interpret the ineffable 
 calm which gathers on the rigid face. As a conse- 
 quence, when our thought rests on death we are 
 smitten with isolation and loneliness. We are 
 without company on the dark road ; and we have 
 advanced so far upon it that we cannot hear the 
 voices of our friends. It is in this sense of loneli- 
 ness, this consciousness of identity and nothing 
 more, that the terror of dying consists. And yet, 
 compared to that road, the most populous thorough- 
 fare of London or Pekin is a desert. What 
 enumerator will take for us the census of the 
 dead? 
 
 And this matter of death and dying, like most 
 things else in the world, may be exaggerated by our 
 own fears and hopes. Death, terrible to look 
 forward to, may be pleasant even to look back at. 
 Could we be admitted to the happy fields, and hear 
 the conversations which blessed spirits hold, one 
 might discover that to conquer death a man has 
 but to die ; that by that act terror is softened into 
 familiarity, and that the remembrance of death 
 becomes but as the remembrance of yesterday. 
 To these fortunate ones death may be but a date, 
 and dying a subject fruitful in comparisons, a 
 matter on which experiences may be serenely 
 compared. Meantime, however, we have not yet 
 reached that measureless content, and death scares, 
 piques, tantalises, as mind and nerve are built. 
 Situated as we are, knowing that it is inevitable, 
 we cannot keep our thoughts from resting on it
 
 DEATH AND DYING 51 
 
 curiously, at times. Nothing interests us so much. 
 The Highland seer pretended that he could see the 
 winding-sheet high upon the breast of the man for 
 whom death was waiting. Could we behold any 
 such visible sign, the man who bore it, no matter 
 where he stood — even if he were a slave watching 
 Caesar pass — would usurp every eye. At the 
 coronation of a king, the wearing of that order 
 would dim royal robe, quench the sparkle of the 
 diadem, and turn to vanity the herald's cry. Death 
 makes the meanest beggar august, and that august- 
 ness would assert itself in the presence of a king. 
 And it is this curiosity with regard to everything 
 related to death and dying which makes us treasure 
 up the last sayings of great men, and attempt to 
 wring out of them tangible meanings. Was Goethe's 
 "Light— light, more light!" a prayer, or a state- 
 ment of spiritual experience, or simply an utterance 
 of the fact that the room in which he lay was filling 
 with the last twilight? In consonance with our 
 own natures we interpret it the one way or the other 
 — he is beyond our questioning. For the same 
 reason it is that men take interest in executions — 
 from Charles i. on the scaffold at Whitehall, to 
 Porteous in the Grassmarket execrated by the mob. 
 These men are not dulled by disease, they are not 
 delirious with fever; they look death in the face, 
 and what in these circumstances they say and do 
 has the strangest fascination for us. 
 
 What does the murderer think when his eyes are 
 for ever blinded by the accursed nightcap? In 
 what form did thought condense itself between the 
 gleam of the lifted axe and the rolling of King
 
 52 DEATH AND DYING 
 
 Charles's head in the sawdust? This kind of 
 speculation may be morbid, but it is not necessarily 
 so. All extremes of human experience touch us ; 
 and we have all the deepest personal interest in the 
 experience of death. Out of all we know about 
 dying we strive to clutch something which may 
 break its solitariness, and relieve us by a touch 
 of companionship. 
 
 To denude death of its terrible associations were 
 a vain attempt. The atmosphere is always cold 
 around an iceberg. In the contemplation of dying 
 the spirit may not flinch, but pulse and heart, 
 colour and articulation, are always cowards. No 
 philosophy will teach them bravery in the stern 
 presence. And yet there are considerations which 
 rob death of its ghastliness, and help to reconcile 
 us to it. The thoughtful happiness of a human 
 being is complex, and in certain moved moments, 
 which, after they have gone, we can recognise to 
 have been our happiest, some subtle thought of 
 death has been curiously intermixed. And this 
 subtle intermixture it is which gives the happy 
 moment its character — which makes the difference 
 between the gladness of a child, resident in mere 
 animal health and impulse, and too volatile to be 
 remembered, and the serious joy of a man, which 
 looks before and after, and takes in both this world 
 and the next. Speaking broadly, it may be said 
 that it is from some obscure recognition of the fact 
 of death that life draws its final sweetness. An 
 obscure, haunting recognition, of course ; for if 
 more than that, if the thought becomes palpable, 
 defined, and present, it swallows up everything.
 
 DEATH AND DYING 53 
 
 The howling of the winter wind outside increases 
 the warm satisfaction of a man in bed; but 
 this satisfaction is succeeded by quite another 
 feeling when the wind grows into a tempest, and 
 threatens to blow the house down. And this 
 remote recognition of death may exist almost con- 
 stantly in a man's mind, and give to his life keener 
 zest and relish. His lights may burn the brighter 
 for it, and his wines taste sweeter. For it is 
 on the tapestry of a dim ground that the figures 
 come in out the boldest relief and the brightest 
 colour. 
 
 If we were to live here always, with no other care 
 than how to feed, clothe, and house ourselves, life 
 would be a very sorry business. It is immeasurably 
 heightened by the solemnity of death. The brutes 
 die even as we ; but it is our knowledge that we 
 have to die which makes us human. If nature 
 cunningly hides death, and so permits us to play 
 out our little games, it is easily seen that our 
 knowing it to be inevitable, that to every one of us 
 it will come one day or another, is a wonderful 
 spur to action. We really do work while it is 
 called to-day, because the night cometh when no 
 man can work. We may not expect it soon — it 
 may not have sent us a single avaiit-courier — yet 
 we all know that every day brings it nearer. On 
 the supposition that we were to live here always, 
 there would be little inducement to exertion. But, 
 having some work at heart, the knowledge that we 
 may be, any day, finally interrupted, is an incentive 
 to diligence. We naturally desire to have it com- 
 pleted, or at least far advanced toward completion,
 
 54 DEATH AND DYING 
 
 before that final interruption takes place. And 
 knowing that his existence here is limited, a man's 
 workings have reference to others rather than to 
 himself, and thereby into his nature comes a new 
 influx of nobility. If a man plants a tree, he knows 
 that other hands than his will gather the fruit ; and 
 when he plants it, he thinks quite as much of those 
 other hands as of his own. Thus to the poet there 
 is the dearer life after life; and posterity's single 
 laurel leaf is valued more than a multitude of con- 
 temporary bays. Even the man immersed in 
 money-making does not make money so much for 
 himself as for those who may come after him. 
 Riches in noble natures have a double sweetness. 
 The possessor enjoys his wealth, and he heightens 
 that enjoyment by an imaginative entrance into the 
 pleasure which his son or his nephew may derive 
 from it when he is away, or the high uses to which 
 he may turn it. Seeing that we have no perpetual 
 lease of life and its adjuncts, we do not live for 
 ourselves. 
 
 And thus it is that death, which we are accus- 
 tomed to consider an evil, really acts for us the 
 friendliest part, and takes away the commonplace 
 of existence. My life, and your life, flowing on 
 thus day by day, is a vapid enough piece of 
 business ; but when we think that it must dose, a 
 multitude of considerations, not connected with 
 ourselves, but with others, rush in, and vapidity 
 vanishes at once. Life, if it were to flow on for 
 ever and thus, would stagnate and rot. The hopes, 
 and fears, and regrets, which move and trouble it, 
 keep it fresh and healthy, as the sea is kept alive
 
 DEATH AND DYING 55 
 
 by the trouble of its tides. In a tolerably comfort- 
 able world, where death is not, it is difficult to see 
 from what quarter these healthful fears, regrets, and 
 hopes could come. As it is, there are agitations and 
 sufferings in our lots enough; but we must re- 
 member that it is on account of these sufferings 
 and agitations that we become creatures breathing 
 thoughtful breath. As has already been said, 
 death takes away the commonplace of life. And 
 positively, when one looks on the thousand and one 
 poor, foolish, ignoble faces of this world, and listens 
 to the chatter as poor and foolish as the faces, one, 
 in order to have any proper respect for them, is 
 forced to remember that solemnity of death, which 
 is silently waiting. The foolishest person will look 
 grand enough one day. The features are poor now, 
 but the hottest tears and the most passionate 
 embraces will not seem out of place then. If you 
 wish to make a man look noble, your best course 
 is to kill him. What superiority he may have 
 inherited from his race, what superiority nature may 
 have personally gifted him with, comes out in death. 
 The passions which agitate, distort, and change, are 
 gone away for ever, and the features settle back 
 into a marble calm, which is the man's truest image. 
 Then the most affected look sincere, the most 
 volatile serious — all noble, more or less. And 
 nature will not be surprised into disclosures. The 
 man stretched out there may have been voluble as 
 a swallow, but now — when he could speak to some 
 purpose — neither pyramid nor sphynx holds a 
 secret more tenaciously. 
 
 Consider, then, how the sense of impermanence
 
 S6 DEATH AND DYING 
 
 brightens beauty and elevates happiness. Melan- 
 choly is always attendant on beauty, and that 
 melancholy brings out its keenness as the dark 
 green corrugated leaf brings out the wan loveliness 
 of the primrose. The spectator enjoys the beauty, 
 but his knowledge that // is fleeting, and that he 
 is fleeting, adds a pathetic something to it ; and 
 by that something the beautiful object and the 
 gazer are alike raised. 
 
 Everything is sweetened by risk. The pleasant 
 emotion is mixed and deepened by a sense 
 of mortality. Those lovers who have never 
 encountered the possibility of last embraces and 
 farewells are novices in the passion. Sunset 
 affects us more powerfully than sunrise, simply 
 because it is a setting sun, and suggests a 
 thousand analogies. A mother is never happier 
 than when her eyes fill over her sleeping child,, 
 never does she kiss it more fondly, never does 
 she pray for it more fervently ; and yet there is 
 more in her heart than visible red cheek and 
 yellow curl ; possession and bereavement are 
 strangely mingled in the exquisite maternal mood, 
 the one heightening the other. All great joys are 
 serious ; and emotion must be measured by its 
 complexity and the deepness of its reach. A 
 musician may draw pretty notes enough from a 
 single key, but the richest music is that in which 
 the whole force of the instrument is employed, 
 in the production of which every key is vibrating ; 
 and although full of solemn touches and majestic 
 tones, the final effect may be exuberant and gay. 
 Pleasures which rise beyond the mere gratification
 
 DEATH AND DYING 57 
 
 of the senses are dependant for their exquisiteness 
 on the number and variety of the thoughts which 
 they evoke. And that joy is the greatest which, 
 while felt to be joy, can include the thought of death, 
 and clothe itself with that crowning pathos. And 
 in the minds of thoughtful persons every joy does, 
 more or less, with that crowning pathos clothe 
 itself. 
 
 In life there is nothing more unexpected and 
 surprising than the arrivals and departures of 
 pleasure. If we find it in one place to-day, it is 
 vain to seek it there to-morrow. You cannot lay 
 a trap for it. It will fall into no ambuscade, 
 concert it ever so cunningly. Pleasure has no 
 logic ; it never treads in its own footsteps. Into 
 our commonplace existence it comes with a 
 surprise, like a pure white swan from the airy 
 void into the ordinary village lake ; and just as 
 the swan, for no reason that can be discovered, 
 lifts itself on its wings and betakes itself to the 
 void again, // leaves us, and our sole possession 
 is its memory. And it is characteristic of pleasure 
 that we can never recognise it to be pleasure 
 till after it is gone. Happiness never lays its 
 finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a 
 glimpse of its features, it disappears. It is a 
 gleam of unreckoned gold. From the nature of 
 the case, our happiness, such as in its degree 
 it has been, lives in memory. We have not the 
 voice itself ; we have only its echo. We are never 
 happy ; we can only remember that we were so 
 once. And while in the very heart and structure 
 of the happy moment there lurked an obscure
 
 58 DEATH AND DYING 
 
 consciousness of death, the memory in which past 
 happiness dwells is always a regretful memory. 
 This is why the tritest utterance about the past, 
 youth, early love, and the like, has always about 
 it an indefinable flavour of poetry, which pleases 
 and affects. In the wake of a ship there is always 
 a melancholy splendour. The finest set of verses 
 of our modern time describes how the poet gazed 
 on the " happy autumn fields," and remembered 
 the " days that were no more." After all, a 
 man's real possession is his memory. In nothing 
 else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor. 
 
 In our warm imaginative youth, death is far 
 removed from us, and attains thereby a certain 
 picturesqueness. The grim thought stands in 
 the ideal world as a ruin stands in a blooming 
 landscape. The thought of death sheds a pathetic 
 charm over everything then. The young man 
 cools himself with a thought of the winding-sheet 
 and the charnel, as the heated dancer cools 
 himself on the balcony with the night air. The 
 young imagination plays with the idea of death, 
 makes a toy of it, just as a child plays with edge- 
 tools till once it cuts its fingers. The most 
 lugubrious poetry is written by very young and 
 tolerably comfortable persons. When a man's 
 mood becomes really serious he has little taste 
 for such foolery. The man who has a grave or 
 two in his heart, does not need to haunt church- 
 yards. The young poet uses death as an antithesis ; 
 and when he shocks his reader by some flippant 
 use of it in that way, he considers he has written 
 something mightily fine. In his gloomiest mood
 
 DEATH AND DYING 59 
 
 he is most insincere, most egotistical, most preten- 
 tious. The older and wiser poet avoids the 
 subject as he does the memory of pain ; or, when 
 he does refer to it, he does so in a reverential 
 manner, and with some sense of its solemnity 
 and of the magnitude of its issues. It was in 
 that year of revelry, 18 14, and while undressing 
 from balls, that Lord Byron wrote his " Lara," as 
 he informs us. Disrobing, and haunted, in all 
 probability, by eyes in whose light he was happy 
 enough, the spoiled young man, who then affected 
 death-pallors, and wished the world to believe 
 that he felt his richest wines powdered with the 
 dust of graves — of which wine, notwithstanding, 
 he frequently took more than was good for 
 him — wrote, 
 
 "That sleep the loveliest, since it dreams the least." 
 
 The sleep referred to being death. This was 
 meant to take away the reader's breath; and 
 after performing the feat, Byron betook himself 
 to his pillow with a sense of supreme cleverness. 
 Contrast with this Shakspeare's far outlooking 
 and thought-heavy lines — lines which, under the 
 same image, represent death — 
 
 " To die — to sleep ; — 
 To sleep ! perchance to dream ; — ay, there's the rub ; 
 For in that sleep of death what dreams may come I " 
 
 And you see at once how a man's notions of 
 death and dying are deepened by a wider 
 experience. Middle age may fear death quite as 
 little as youth fears it ; but it has learned serious-
 
 6o DEATH AND DYING 
 
 ness, and it has no heart to poke fun at the 
 lean ribs, or to call it fond names like a lover, 
 or to stick a primrose in its grinning chaps, and 
 draw a strange pleasure from the irrelevancy. 
 
 The man who has reached thirty, feels at times 
 as if he had come out of a great battle. Comrade 
 after comrade has fallen ; his own life seems to 
 have been charmed. And knowing how it fared 
 with his friends — perfect health one day, a catarrh 
 the next, blinds drawn down, silence in the house, 
 blubbered faces of widow and orphans, intimation 
 of the event in the newspapers, with a request that 
 friends will accept of it, the day after — a man, as 
 he draws near middle age, begins to suspect every 
 transient indisposition ; to be careful of being 
 caught in a shower, to shudder at sitting in wet 
 shoes ; he feels his pulse, he anxiously peruses his 
 face in a mirror, he becomes critical as to the 
 colour of his tongue. In early life illness is a 
 luxury, and draws out toward the sufferer curious 
 and delicious tendernesses, which are felt to be 
 a full over-payment of pain and weakness ; then 
 there is the pleasant period of convalescence, when 
 one tastes a core and marrow of delight in meats, 
 drinks, sleep, silence ; the bunch of newly-plucked 
 flowers on the table, the sedulous attentions and 
 patient forbearance of nurses and friends. Later 
 in life, when one occupies a post, and is in dis- 
 charge of duties which are accumulating against 
 recovery, illness and convalescence cease to be 
 luxuries. Illness is felt to be a cruel interruption 
 of the ordinary course of things, and the sick 
 person is harassed by a sense of the loss of time
 
 DEATH AND DYING 6i 
 
 and the loss of strength. He is placed hors de 
 combat; all the while he is conscious that the 
 battle is going on around him, and he feels his 
 temporary withdrawal a misfortune. Of course, 
 unless a man is very unhappily circumstanced, he 
 has in his later illnesses all the love, patience, and 
 attention which sweetened his earlier ones ; but 
 then he cannot rest in them, and accept them as 
 before as compensation in full. The world is ever 
 with him ; through his interests and his affections 
 he has meshed himself in an intricate network of 
 relationships and other dependences, and a fatal 
 issue — which in such cases is ever on the cards — 
 would destroy all these, and bring about more 
 serious matters than the shedding of tears. In a 
 man's earlier illnesses, too, he had not only no 
 such definite future to work out, he had a stronger 
 spring of life and hope ; he was rich in time, and 
 could wait ; and lying in his chamber now, he 
 cannot help remembering that, as Mr. Thackeray 
 expresses it, there comes at last an illness to which 
 there may be no convalescence. What if that 
 illness be already come ? And so there is nothing 
 left for him, but to bear the rod with patience, and 
 to exercise a humble faith in the Ruler of all. If 
 he recovers, some half-dozen people will be made 
 happy ; if he does not recover, the same number 
 of people will be made miserable for a little while, 
 and during the next two or three days acquaint- 
 ances will meet in the street — "You've heard of 
 poor So-and-so ? Very sudden ! Who would 
 
 have thought it ? Expect to meet you at 's on 
 
 Thursday. Good-bye." And so the end. Your
 
 62 DEATH AND DYING 
 
 death and my death are mainly of importance to 
 ourselves. The black plumes will be stripped off 
 our hearses within the hour; tears will dry, hurt 
 hearts close again, our graves grow level with the 
 churchyard, and although we are away, the world 
 wags on. It does not miss us ; and those who 
 are near us, when the first strangeness of vacancy 
 wears off, will not miss us much either. 
 
 We are curious as to deathbeds and deathbed 
 sayings ; we wish to know how the matter stands ; 
 how the whole thing looks to the dying. Un- 
 happily — perhaps, on the whole, happily — we can 
 gather no information from these. The dying are 
 nearly as reticent as the dead. The inferences we 
 draw from the circumstances of death, the pallor, 
 the sob, the glazing eye, are just as likely to 
 mislead us as not. Manfred exclaims, " Old man, 
 'tis not so difficult to die ! " Sterling wrote Carlyle 
 " that it was all very strange, yet not so strange as 
 it seemed to the lookers on." And so, perhaps, 
 on the whole it is. The world has lasted six 
 thousand years now, and, with the exception of 
 those at present alive, the millions who have 
 breathed upon it — splendid emperors, horny-fisted 
 clowns, little children, in whom thought has never 
 stirred — have died, and what they have done, we 
 also shall be able to do. It may not be so 
 difficult, may not be so terrible, as our fears 
 whisper. The dead keep their secrets, and in a 
 little while we shall be as wise as they — and as 
 taciturn.
 
 WILLIAM DUNBAR. 
 
 IF it be assumed that the North Briton is, to 
 an appreciable extent, a different creature 
 from the Enghshman, the assumption is not Ukely 
 to provoke dispute. No one will deny us the pro- 
 minence of our cheekbones, and our pride in the 
 same. How far the difference extends, whether it 
 involves merit or demerit, are questions not now 
 sought to be settled. Nor is it important to 
 discover how the difference arose ; how far chiller 
 climate and sourer soil, centuries of unequal yet 
 not inglorious conflict, a separate race of kings, a 
 body of separate traditions, and a peculiar crisis of 
 reformation issuing in peculiar forms of religious 
 worship, confirmed and strengthened the national 
 idiosyncrasy. If a difference between the races be 
 allowed, it is sufficient for the present purpose. 
 That allowed, and Scot and Southern being fecund 
 in literary genius, it becomes an interesting inquiry 
 to what extent the great literary men of the one 
 race have influenced the great literary men of the 
 other. On the whole, perhaps, the two races may 
 fairly cry quits. Not unfrequently, indeed, have 
 literary influences arisen in the north and travelled 
 
 63
 
 64 DUNBAR 
 
 southwards. There were the Scottish ballads, for 
 instance, there was Burjis, there was Sir Walter 
 Scott, there is Mr. Carlyle. The literary influence 
 represented by each of these arose in Scotland, 
 and has either passed or is passing " in music out 
 of sight " in England. The energy of the northern 
 wave has rolled into the southern waters. On the 
 other hand, we can mark the literary influences 
 travelling from the south northward. The English 
 Chaucer rises, and the current of his influence is 
 long afterwards visible in the Scottish King James, 
 and the Scottish poet Dunbar. That which was 
 Prior and Gay in London, became Allan Ramsay 
 when it reached Edinburgh. Inspiration, not 
 unfrequently, has travelled, like summer, from the 
 south northwards ; just as, when the day is over, 
 and the lamps are lighted in London, the radiance 
 of the setting sun is lingering on the splintered 
 peaks and rosy friths of the Hebrides. All this, 
 however, is a matter of the past ; literary influence 
 can no longer be expected to travel leisurely from 
 south to north, or from north to south. In times 
 of literary activity, as at the beginning of the 
 present century, the atmosphere of passion or 
 speculation envelopes the entire island, and Scottish 
 and English writers simultaneously draw from it 
 what their peculiar natures prompt — just as in the 
 same garden the rose drinks crimson and the con- 
 volvulus azure from the superincumbent air. 
 
 Chaucer must always remain a name in British 
 literary history. He appeared at a time when the 
 Saxon and Norman races had become fused, and 
 when ancient bitternesses were lost in the proud
 
 DUNBAR 65 
 
 title of Englishman, He was the first great poet 
 the island produced ; and he wrote for the most 
 part in the language of the people, with just the 
 slightest infusion of the courtlier Norman element, 
 which gives to his writings something of the high- 
 bred air that the short upper lip gives to the human 
 countenance. In his earlier poems he was under 
 the influence of the Provencal Troubadours, and 
 in his " Flower and the Leaf," and other works of 
 a similar class, he riots in allegory ; he represents 
 the cardinal virtues walking about in human shape ; 
 his forests are full of beautiful ladies with coronals 
 on their heads ; courts of love are held beneath 
 the spreading elm, and metaphysical goldfinches 
 and nightingales, perched among the branches 
 green, wrangle melodiously about the tender 
 passion. 
 
 In these poems he is fresh, charming, fanciful 
 as the spring-time itself: ever picturesque, ever 
 musical, and with a homely touch and stroke 
 of irony here and there, suggesting a depth of 
 serious matter in him which it needed years only 
 to develop. He lived in a brilliant and stirring 
 lime ; he was connected with the court ; he served 
 in armies ; he visited the Continent ; and although 
 a silent man, he carried with him, wherever he 
 went, and into whatever company he was thrown, 
 the most observant eyes perhaps that ever looked 
 curiously out upon the world. There was nothing 
 too mean or too tri^■ial for his regard. After part- 
 ing with a man, one fancies that he knew every line 
 and wrinkle of his face, had marked the travel- 
 stains on his boots, and had counted the slashes on 
 
 5
 
 66 DUNBAR 
 
 his doublet. And so it was that, after mixing in 
 kings' courts, and sitting with friars in taverns, and 
 tallving with people on country roads, and travelling 
 in France and Italy, and making himself master of 
 the literature, science, and theology of his time, 
 and when perhaps touched with misfortune and 
 sorrow, he came to see the depth of interest that 
 resides in actual life, — that the rudest clown even, 
 with his sordid humours and coarse speech, is 
 intrinsically more valuable than a whole forest full 
 of goddesses, or innumerable processions of cardinal 
 virtues, however well mounted and splendidly 
 attired. 
 
 It was in some such mood of mind that Chaucer 
 penned those unparalleled pictures of contem- 
 porary life that delight yet, after five centuries 
 have come and gone. It is difficult to define 
 Chaucer's charm. He does not indulge in fine 
 sentiment ; he has no bravura passages ; he is 
 ever master of himself and of his subject. The 
 light upon his page is the light of common day. 
 Although powerful delineations of passion may 
 be found in his Tales and wonderful descriptions 
 of nature, and although certain of the passages 
 relating to Constance and Griselda in their deep 
 distresses are unrivalled in tenderness, neither 
 passion, nor natural description, nor pathos, are 
 his striking characteristics. It is his shrewdness, 
 his conciseness, his ever-present humour, his fre- 
 quent irony, and his short, homely line — effective 
 as the play of the short Roman sword — which 
 strikes the reader most. In the " Prologue to the 
 Canterbury Tales " — by far the ripest thing he has
 
 DUNBAR 67 
 
 done — he seems to be writing the easiest, most 
 idiomatic prose, but it is poetry all the while. He 
 is a poet of natural manner, dealing with outdoor 
 life. Perhaps, on the whole, the writer who most 
 resembles him — superficial differences apart — is 
 Fielding. In both there is constant shrewdness 
 and common sense, a constant feeling of the comic 
 side of things, a moral instinct which escapes in 
 irony, never in denunciation or fanaticism ; no 
 remarkable spirituality of feeling, an acceptance of 
 the world as a pleasant enough place, provided 
 good dinners and a sufficiency of cash are to be 
 had, and that healthy relish for fact and reality, 
 and scorn of humbug of all kinds, especially of 
 that particular phase of it which makes one appear 
 better than one is, which — for want of a better 
 term — we are accustomed to call English. Chaucer 
 was a Conservative in all his feelings ; he liked to 
 poke his fun at the clergy, but he was not of the 
 stuff of which martyrs are made. He loved good 
 eating and drinking, and studious leisure and 
 peace ; and although in his ordinary moods 
 shrewd, and observant, and satirical, his higher 
 genius would now and then splendidly assert 
 itself — and behold the tournament at Athens, 
 where kings are combatants and Emily the prize ; 
 or the little boat, containing the brain-bewildered 
 Constance and her child, wandering hither and 
 thither on the friendly sea. 
 
 Chaucer was born about 1328, and died about 
 1380; and although he had, both in Scotland and 
 England, contemporaries and immediate successors, 
 no one of them can be compared with him for a
 
 68 DUNBAR 
 
 moment. The " Moral Gower " was his friend, 
 and inherited his tediousness and pedantry with- 
 out a sparkie of his fancy, passion, humour, 
 wisdom, and good spirits. Occleve and Lydgate 
 followed in the next generation ; and although 
 their names are retained in literary histories, no 
 line or sentence of theirs has found a place in 
 human memory. The Scottish contemporary of 
 Chaucer was Barbour, who, although deficient in 
 tenderness and imagination, deserves praise for his 
 sinewy and occasionally picturesque verse. " The 
 Bruce " is really a fine poem. The hero is noble, 
 resolute, and wise. Sir James Douglas is a very 
 perfect, gentle knight. The old Churchman had 
 the true poetic fire in him. He rises into eloquence 
 in an apostrophe to Freedom, and he fights the 
 battle of Bannockburn over again with great 
 valour, shouting, and flapping of standards. In 
 England, nature seemed to have exhausted her- 
 self in Chaucer, and she lay quiescent till Lord 
 Surrey and Sir Thomas Wyatt came, the immediate 
 precursors of Spenser, Shakspeare, and their 
 companions. 
 
 While in England the note of the nightingale 
 suddenly ceased, to be succeeded by the mere 
 chirping of barn-door sparrows, the divine and 
 melancholy voice began to be heard farther north. 
 It was during that most barren period of English 
 poetry — extending from Chaucer's death till the 
 beginning of Elizabeth's reign — that Scottish poetry 
 arose, suddenly, splendidly — to be matched only 
 by that other uprising nearer our own time, equally 
 unexpected and splendid, of Burns and Scott.
 
 DUNBAR 69 
 
 And it is curious to notice in this brilliant out- 
 burst of northern genius how much is owing to 
 Chaucer: the cast of language is identical, the 
 literary form is the same, there is the same way of 
 looking at nature, the same allegorical forests, the 
 troops of ladies, the same processions of cardinal 
 virtues. James i., whose long captivity in England 
 made him acquainted with Chaucer's works, was the 
 leader of the poetic movement which culminated 
 in Dunbar, and died away in Sir David Lindsay 
 just before the noise and turmoil of the Reforma- 
 tion set in. In the concluding stanza of the 
 "Quair," James records his obligation to those — 
 
 " Masters dear, 
 Gower and Chaucer, that on the steppes sale 
 
 Of retorick, while they were livand here, 
 Superlative as poets laureate 
 Of morality and eloquence ornate." 
 
 But while, during the reigns of the Jameses, 
 Scottish genius was being acted upon by the 
 broader and deeper genius of England, Scotland, 
 quite unconsciously to herself, was preparing a 
 liquidation in full of all spiritual obligations. For 
 even then, in obscure nooks and corners, the 
 Scottish ballads were growing up, quite uncon- 
 trolled by critical rules, rude in structure and 
 expression, yet, at the same time, full of vitality, 
 retaining in all their keenness the mirth of rustic 
 festivals, and the piteousness of domestic tragedies. 
 The stormy feudal time out of which they arose 
 crumbled by process of gradual decay, but they 
 remained, made brighter by each succeeding 
 summer, like the wild-flowers that blow in the
 
 70 DUNBAR 
 
 chinks of ruins. And when English poetry had 
 become artificial and cold, the lucubrations of 
 forgotten Scottish minstrels, full of the touches 
 that make the whole world kin, brought new life 
 with them. Scotland had invaded England more 
 than once, but the blue bonnets never went over 
 the Border so triumphantly as when they did so in 
 the shape of songs and ballads. 
 
 James iv., if not the wisest, was certainly the 
 most brilliant monarch of his name ; and he was 
 fortunate beyond the later Stuarts in this, that 
 during his lifetime no new popular tide had set 
 in which it behoved him to oppose or to float 
 upon. For him in all its essentials to-day had 
 flowed quietly out of yesterday, and he lived 
 unperplexed by fear of change. With something 
 of a Southern gaiety of spirit, he was a merrier 
 monarch than his dark-featured and saturnine 
 descendant who bore the appellation. He was 
 fond of martial sports, he loved to glitter at tourna- 
 ments, his court was crowded with singing men 
 and singing women. Yet he had his gloomy 
 moods and superstitious despondencies. He could 
 not forget that he had appeared in arms against 
 his father ; even while he whispered in the ear of 
 beauty, the iron belt of penance was fretting his 
 side, and he alternated the splendid revel with the 
 cell of the monk. In these days, and for long 
 after, the Borders were disturbed, and the High- 
 land clans, setting royal authority at defiance, were 
 throttling each other in their mists. The Catholic 
 religion was yet unsapped, and the wealth of the 
 country resided in the hands of the nobles and the
 
 DUNBAR 71 
 
 churchmen. Edinburgh towered high on the 
 ridge between Holyrood and the Castle, its 
 streets reddened with feud at intervals, and its 
 merchants clustering round the Cathedral of St. 
 Giles like bees in a honeycomb ; and the king, 
 when he looked across the faint azure of the 
 Forth, beheld the long coast of Fife dotted with 
 little towns, where ships were moored that traded 
 with France and Holland, and brought with them 
 cargoes of silks and wines. James was a popular 
 monarch ; he was beloved by the nobles and by 
 the people. He loved justice, he cultivated his 
 marine, and he built the Great Michael — the 
 Great Eastern of that day. He had valiant seamen, 
 and more than once Barton sailed into Leith with 
 a string of English prizes. When he fell with all 
 his nobility at Flodden, there came upon Scotland 
 the woe with which she was so familiar — 
 
 "Woe to that realnie that hailh an owev young king." 
 
 A long regency followed ; disturbing elements of 
 religion entered into the life of the nation, and the 
 historical stream which had flowed smoothly for a 
 series of years became all at once convulsed and 
 turbulent, as if it had entered upon a gorge of 
 rapids. It was in this pleasant interregnum of 
 the reign of the fourth James, when ancient 
 disorders had to a certain extent been repressed, 
 and when religious difficulties ahead were yet 
 undreamed of, that the poet Dunbar flourished — a 
 nightingale singing in a sunny lull of the Scottish 
 historical storm. 
 
 Modern readers are acquainted with Dunbar
 
 72 DUNBAR 
 
 chiefly through the medium of Mr. David Laing's 
 beautiful edition of his works pubHshed in 1834, 
 and by good Dr. Irving's intelligent and admirable 
 compacted History of Scottish Poetry, published 
 the other day. Irving's work, if deficient some- 
 what in fluency and grace of style, is characterised 
 by conscientiousness of statement and by the 
 ripest knowledge. Yet, despite the researches of 
 these competent writers, of the events of the poet's 
 life not much is known. He was born about 1460, 
 and from an unquotable allusion in one of his 
 poems, he is supposed to have been a native of 
 the Lothians. His name occurs in the register of 
 the University of St. Andrews as a Bachelor of 
 Arts. 
 
 With the exception of these entries in the 
 college register, there is nothing authentically 
 known of his early life. We have no portrait of 
 him, and cannot by that means decipher him. 
 We do not know with certainty from what family 
 he sprang. Beyond what light his poems may 
 throw on them, we have no knowledge of his 
 habits and personal tastes. He exists for the most 
 part in rumour, and the vague shadows of things. 
 It appears that in early life he became a friar of 
 the order of St. Francis ; and in the capacity of a 
 travelling priest he tells us that " he preached in 
 Derntown kirk and in Canterbury"; that he 
 "passed at Dover across the Channel, and went 
 through ricardy teaching the people." He does 
 not seem to have taken kindly to his profession. 
 His works are full of sarcastic allusions to the 
 clergy, and in no measured terms he denounces
 
 DUNBAR 73 
 
 their luxury, their worldly-mindedness, and their 
 desire for high place and fat livings. Yet these 
 denunciations have no very spiritual origin. His 
 rage is the rage of a disappointed candidate, rather 
 than of a prophet ; and, to the last, he seems to 
 have expected preferment in the Church. Not 
 without a certain pathos he writes, when he had 
 become familiar with disappointment and the 
 sickness of hope deferred — 
 
 "I wcs in youth an miveiss knee, 
 Uandely ! bischop, dandely ! 
 And cjuhcn Ihal age now dois mc giciT, 
 Anc scmpill vicar I can nochl Ijc." 
 
 It is not known when he entered the service of 
 King James. From his poems it appears that he 
 was employed as a clerk or secretary in several of 
 the missions despatched to foreign courts. It is 
 difficult to guess in what capacity Dunbar served 
 at Holyrood. He was all his life a priest, and 
 expected preferment from his royal patron. We 
 know that he performed mass in the presence. 
 Yet when the king in one of his dark moods had 
 withdrawn from the gaieties of the capital to the 
 religious gloom of the convent of Franciscans at 
 Stirling, we find the poet inditing a parody on the 
 machinery of the Church, calling on Father, Son, 
 and Holy Spirit, and on all the saints of the 
 calendar, to transport the princely penitent from 
 Stirling, "where ale is thin and small," to 
 l!^dinburgh, where there is abundance of swans, 
 cranes, and plovers, and the fragrant clarets of 
 France. And in another of his poems he 
 describes himself as dancing in the queen's
 
 74 DUNBAR 
 
 chamber so zealously that he lost one of his 
 slippers, a mishap which provoked her Majesty 
 to great mirth. Probably, as the king was 
 possessed of considerable literary taste, and 
 could appreciate Dunbar's fancy and satire, he 
 kept him attached to his person, with the inten- 
 tion of conferring a benefice on him when one 
 fell vacant; and when a benefice did fall vacant, 
 felt compelled to bestow it on the cadet of some 
 powerful family in the state, — for it was always the 
 policy of James to stand well with his nobles. 
 He remembered too well the deaths of his father 
 and great-grandfather to give unnecessary offence 
 to his great barons. From his connection with the 
 court, the poet's life may be briefly epitomised. 
 In August 1500, his royal master granted Dunbar 
 an annual pension of ^10 for life, or till such 
 time as he should be promoted to a benefice of 
 the annual value of ^1^40. In 1501, he visited 
 England in the train of the ambassadors sent 
 thither to negotiate the king's marriage. The 
 marriage took place in May 1503, on which 
 occasion the high-piled capital wore holiday attire, 
 balconies blazed with scarlet cloth, and the loyal 
 multitude shouted as bride and bridegroom rode 
 past, with the chivalry of two kingdoms in their 
 train. Early in May, Dunbar composed his most 
 celebrated poem in honour of the event. Next 
 year he said mass in the king's presence for the 
 first time, and received a liberal reward. In 1505, 
 he received a sum in addition to his stated 
 pension, and two years thereafter his pension was 
 doubled. In August 15 10, his pension was in
 
 DUNBAR 75 
 
 creased to ^80 per annum, until he became 
 possessed of a benefice of the annual value 
 of ;£ioo or upwards. In 1513, Flodden was 
 fought, and in the confusion consequent on 
 the king's death, Dunbar and his slowly increas- 
 ing pensions disappear from the records of 
 things. We do not know whether he received 
 his benefice ; we do not know the date of his 
 death, and to this day his grave is secret as the 
 grave of Moses. 
 
 Knowing but little of Dunbar's life, our interest 
 is naturally concentrated on what of his writings 
 remain to us. And to modern eyes the old poet 
 is a singular spectacle. His language is different 
 from ours ; his mental structure and modes of 
 thought are unfamiliar; in his intellectual world, 
 as we map it out to ourselves, it is difficult to 
 conceive how a comfortable existence could be 
 attained. Times, manners, and ideas have changed, 
 and we look upon Dunbar with a certain reverential 
 wonder and curiosity as we look upon Tantallon, 
 standing up, grim and grey, in the midst of the 
 modern landscape. The grand old fortress is a 
 remnant of a state of things which have utterly 
 passed away. Curiously, as we walk beside it, 
 we think of the actual human life its walls con- 
 tained. In those great fireplaces logs actually 
 burned once, and in winter nights men-at-arms 
 spread out big palms against the grateful heat. 
 In those empty apartments was laughter, and 
 feasting, and serious talk enough in troublous 
 times, and births, and deaths, and the bringing 
 home of brides in their blushes. This empty
 
 76 DUNBAR 
 
 moat was filled with water, to keep at bay long- 
 forgotten enemies, and yonder loophole was made 
 narrow, as a protection from long-moulded arrows. 
 In Tantallon we know the Douglasses lived in 
 state, and bearded kings, and hung out banners 
 to the breeze ; but a sense of wonder is mingled 
 with our knowledge, for the bothy of the Lothian 
 farmer is even more in accordance with our 
 methods of conducting life. Dunbar affects us 
 similarly. We know that he possessed a keen 
 intellect, a blossoming fancy, a satiric touch that 
 blistered, a melody that enchanted Northern ears ; 
 but then we have lost the story of his life, and 
 from his poems, with their wonderful contrasts, 
 the delicacy and spring-like flush of feeling, the 
 piety, the freedom of speech, the irreverent use 
 of the sacredest names, the "Flyting" and the 
 "Lament for the Makars," there is difificulty in 
 making one's ideas of him cohere. He is present 
 to the imagination, and yet remote. Like Tantallon, 
 he is a portion of the past. We are separated 
 from him by centuries, and that chasm we are 
 unable to bridge properly. 
 
 The first thing that strikes the reader of these 
 poems is their variety and intellectual range. It 
 may be said that — partly from constitutional turn 
 of thought, partly from the turbulent and chaotic 
 time in which he lived, when families rose to 
 splendour and as suddenly collapsed, when the 
 steed that bore his rider at morning to the hunting- 
 field returned at evening masterless to the castle- 
 gate — Dunbar's prevailing mood of mind is 
 melancholy ; that he, with a certain fondness for
 
 DUNBAR 77 
 
 the subject, as if it gave him actual relief, moralised 
 over the sandy foundations of mortal prosperity, 
 the advance of age putting out the lights of 
 youth, and cancelling the rapture of the lover, 
 and the certainty of death. This is a favourite 
 path of contemplation with him, and he pursues 
 it with a gloomy sedateness of acquiescence, which 
 is more affecting than if he raved and foamed 
 against the inevitable. But he has the mobility 
 of the poetic nature, and the sad ground-tone is 
 often drowned in the ecstasy of lighter notes. All 
 at once the " bare ruined choirs " are covered with 
 the glad light-green of spring. His genius com- 
 bined the excellences of many masters. 
 
 His "Golden Targe" and the "Thistle and the 
 Rose " are allegorical poems, full of colour, fancy, 
 and music. His "Two ISIarried Women and the 
 Widow " has a good deal of Chaucer's slyness 
 and humour. " The Dance of the Deadly Sins," 
 with its fiery bursts of imaginative energy, its 
 pictures finished at a stroke, is a prophecy of 
 Spenser and Collins, and as fine as anything 
 they have accomplished ; while his " Flytings " 
 are torrents of the coarsest vituperation. And 
 there are whole flights of occasional poems, many 
 of them sombre-coloured enough, with an ever- 
 recurring mournful refrain, others satirical, but 
 all flung off, one can see, at a sitting ; in the few 
 verses the mood is exhausted, and while the 
 result remains, the cause is forgotton even by 
 himself. Several of these short poems are 
 almost perfect in feeUng and execution. The 
 melancholy ones are full of a serious grace.
 
 78 DUNBAR 
 
 while in the satirical a laughing devil of glee and 
 malice sparkles in every line. Some of these 
 latter are dangerous to touch as a thistle — all 
 bristling and angry with the spikes of satiric 
 scorn. 
 
 In his allegorical poems — "The Golden Targe," 
 " The Merle and the Nightingale," " The Thistle 
 and the Rose," — Dunbar's fancy has full scope. 
 As allegories, they are, perhaps, not worth much ; 
 at all events, modern readers do not care for the 
 adventures of " Quaking Dread and Humble 
 Obedience " ; nor are they affected by descriptions 
 of Beauty, attended by her damsels, Fair Having, 
 Fine Portraiture, Pleasance, and Lusty Cheer. 
 The whole conduct and machinery of such things 
 are too artificial and stilted for modern tastes. 
 Stately masques are no longer performed in earls' 
 mansions ; and when a sovereign enters a city, a 
 fair lady, with wings, representing Loyalty, does 
 not burst out of a pasteboard cloud and recite a 
 poetical address to Majesty. In our theatres the 
 pantomime, which was originally an adumbration 
 of human life, has become degraded. Symbolism 
 has departed from the boards, and burlesque 
 reigns in its stead. The Lord Mayor's Show, 
 the last remnant of the antique spectacular taste, 
 does not move us now ; it is held a public nuisance ; 
 it provokes the rude "chaff" of the streets. Our 
 very mobs have become critical. Gog and Magog 
 are dethroned. The knight feels the satiric com- 
 ments through his armour. The very steeds are 
 uneasy, as if ashamed. But in Dunbar the 
 allegorical machinery is saved from contempt by
 
 DUNBAR 79 
 
 colour, poetry, and music. Quick surprises of 
 beauty, and a rapid succession of pictures, keep 
 the attention awake. Now it is — 
 
 " May, of niiiiliful moneihis queen, 
 Betwixt April and June, her sisters sheen, 
 Within the garden walking up and down."' 
 
 Now — 
 
 " The god of windis, Eohis, 
 With variand look, richl Jilcc a lord unstable." 
 
 Now the nightingale — 
 
 "Never sweeter noise was heard wiili livin' man, 
 Nor made this merry, gentle nightingale ; 
 Her sound went with the river as il ran 
 Out throw the fresh and flourished lusty vale." 
 
 And now a spring morning — 
 
 " Ere Phcebus was in purple cape revest, 
 Up raise the lark, the heaven's minstrel fine 
 In May, in till a morrow mirthfullesl. 
 
 "Full angel-like thir birdis sang their hours 
 Within their curtains green, in to their hours, 
 Apparelled white and red with bloomes sweet ; 
 Enamelled was the field with all colours. 
 The pearly droppis shook in silver shours ; 
 While all in balm did branch and leavis fleet. 
 To part fra Phrebus did Aurora greet, 
 Her crystal tears I saw hing on the flours, 
 Whilk he for love all drank up with his heal. 
 
 "For mirth of May, with skippis and with hops 
 The birdis sang upon the lender crops. 
 With curious notes, as Venus' chapel clerks ; 
 The roses young, new spreading of their knops. 
 Were powderit bricht with heavenly beriall drops.
 
 8o DUNBAR 
 
 Through beames red, burning as ruby sparks; 
 The skies rang for shouting of the larks, 
 The purple heaven once scal't in silver slops, 
 Oure gilt the trees, branches, leaves, and barks." 
 
 The finest of Dunbar's poems in this style is 
 the "Thistle and the Rose." It was written in 
 celebration of the marriage of James with the 
 Princess Margaret of England, and the royal pair 
 are happily represented as the national emblems. 
 It, of course, opens with a description of a spring 
 morning. Dame Nature resolves that every bird, 
 beast, and flower should compeer before her 
 highness ; the roe is commanded to summon 
 the animals, the restless swallow the birds, and 
 the "conjured" yarrow the herbs and flowers. 
 In the twinkling of an eye they stand before the 
 queen. The lion and the eagle are crowned, and 
 are instructed to be humble and just, and to 
 exercise their powers mercifully : 
 
 '"Then callil she all flouris that grew in field, 
 Discerning all their seasons and efieirs, 
 Upon the awful thistle she beheld 
 
 And saw him keepit with a bush of spears : 
 Consid'ring him so able for the weirs, 
 A radius crown of rubies she him gave. 
 And said, 'In field, go forth and fend the lave.'" 
 
 The rose also is crowned, and the poet gives 
 utterance to the universal joy on occasion of the 
 marriage — type of peace between two kingdoms. 
 Listen to the rich music of according voices : 
 
 "Then all the birds sang with voice on hichi, 
 
 Whose mirthful soun' was marvellous to hear ;
 
 DUNBAR 8i 
 
 The inavib sang, Hail Rose, ino;>l rich and richt, 
 That does up flouiibh under Phccbus' sphere, 
 Hail plant of youth, hail Princcbs, dochter dear ; 
 
 Hail blosom breaking out of the bluid royal, 
 
 Whose precious virtue is imperial. 
 
 "The merle she sang. Hail Rose of most delight. 
 Hail, of all floris queen an' sovereign ! 
 
 The lark she sang. Hail Rose both red and white ; 
 Most pleasant flower, of michty colours twane : 
 The nichtingale sang. Hail, Nature's suffragane, 
 
 In beauty, nurture, and every nobleness, 
 
 In rich arraj', renown, and gentleness. 
 
 "The common voice up raise of birdes small, 
 Upon this wise. Oh, blessit be the hour 
 
 That thou was chosen to be our principal ! 
 Welcome to be our Princess of honour, 
 Our pearl, our pleasance, and our paramour. 
 
 Our peace, our play, our plain felicity ; 
 
 Christ thee comfort from all adversity." 
 
 But beautiful as these poems are, it is as a 
 satirist that Dunbar has performed his greatest 
 feats. He was by nature "dowered with the 
 scorn of scorn," and its edge was whetted by Hfe- 
 long disappointment. Like Spenser, he knew — 
 
 "What Hell it is in suing long to bide." 
 
 And even in poems where the mood is melan- 
 choly, where the burden is the shortness of life 
 and the unpermanence of felicity, his satiric rage 
 breaks out in single lines of fire. And although 
 his satire is often almost inconceivably coarse, 
 the prompting instinct is healthy at bottom. He 
 hates Vice, although his hand is too often in the 
 kennel to pelt her withal. He lays his grasp on 
 6
 
 82 DUNBAR 
 
 the bi idle ruin of Ihc sleek prelalc, and upbraids 
 liini with his secret sins in language unsuited to 
 modern ears. His greater satires have a wild 
 sheen of imagination about them. I'hey are 
 far from being cold moral homilies. His wrath 
 or his contempt breaks through the bounds of 
 time and space, and brings the spiritual world 
 on the stage. He wishes to rebuke the citizens 
 of Edinburgh for their habits of profane swearing, 
 and the result is a poem, which probably gave 
 Coleridge the hint of his "Devil's Walk." 
 Dunbar's satire is entitled the " Devil's Inquest." 
 He represents the Fiend passing up through the 
 market, and chuckling as he listens to the strange 
 oaths of cobbler, maltman, tailor, courtier, and 
 minstrel. He comments on what he hears and 
 sees with great pleasantry and satisfaction. Here 
 is the conclusion of the piece : 
 
 " Ane thief said, God that ever I chaip, 
 Nor ane stark widdy gar me gaip, 
 But I in hell for geir wald be. 
 The Devil said, * Welcome in a raip : 
 Renounce thy God, and cum to me.' 
 
 " The fishwives flet and swore with granes, 
 And to the Fiend saul flesh and banes ; 
 
 They gave them, with ane shout on hie. 
 The Devil said, ' Welcome all at anes : 
 
 Renounce your God, and cum to nic.' 
 
 " 'llic rcs.t of craflis great ailhs swair, 
 Their wark and craft had nae compair, 
 
 Ilk ane unto their (jualitic. 
 The Devil said then, withouten mair, 
 
 'Renounce your God, and cum to me.'""
 
 DUNBAR 8:? 
 
 iSui the greatest of Dunbar's satires — in fact, 
 the greatest of all his poems — is that entitled 
 "The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins/" It is 
 short, but within its compass most swift, vivid, 
 and weird. The pictures rise on the readers 
 eye, and fade at once. It is a singular compound 
 of farce and earnest. It is Spenser and Hogarth 
 combined — the wildest grotesquerie wrought on 
 a background of penal flame. The poet conceives 
 himself in a dream, on the evening preceding 
 Lent, and in his vision he heard Mahoun com- 
 mand that the wretched who "had ne'er been 
 shriven " should dance before him. Immediately 
 a hideous rout present themselves ; " holy harlots " 
 appear in their finery, and never a smile wrinkles 
 the faces of the onlookers ; but when a. string of 
 "priests with their shaven necks" come in, the 
 arches of the unnameable place shakes with the 
 laughter of all the fiends. Then "The Seven 
 Deadly Sins " began to leap at once : 
 
 "And firsl of all the dance was Pride, 
 \Vilh hair W3'ld Vjack and bonnet on side." 
 
 He, with all his train, came skipping through the 
 fire. 
 
 "Then Ire came in with sturt and strife; 
 His hand was aye upon his knife ; " 
 
 and with him came armed boasters and braggarts, 
 smiting each other with swords, jagging each other 
 with knives. Then Envy, trembling with secret 
 hatred, accompanied by his court of flatterers, 
 backbiters, and calumniators, and all the human
 
 84 DUNBAR 
 
 serpentry that lurk in the palaces of kings. Then 
 came Covetousness, ^vith his hoarders and misers, 
 and these the fiends gave to drink of newly molten 
 gold. 
 
 " Syne Swearness, at the second bidding, 
 Came like a sow out of a midding : " 
 
 and with him danced a sleepy crew, and Belial 
 lashed them with a bridle-rein, and the fiends gave 
 them a turn in the fire to make them nimbler. 
 Then came Lechery, led by Idleness, with a host of 
 evil companions, " full strange of countenance, like 
 torches burning bright." Then came Gluttony, so 
 unwieldy that he could hardly move : 
 
 "Him followed mony foul drunkarl 
 With can and callop, cup and quart, 
 In surfeit and excess." 
 
 " Drink, aye," they cried, with their parched lips ; 
 and the fiends gave them hot lead to lap. 
 Minstrels, it appears, are not to be found in that 
 dismal place : 
 
 "Nae minstrels played to them but doubt, 
 For gleemen there were halden out 
 
 By day and eik by nicht : 
 Except a minstrel that slew a man, 
 So to his heritage he wan. 
 
 And entered Ijy brieve of richt." 
 
 And to the music of the solitary poet in hell, the 
 strange shapes pass. The conclusion of this singu- 
 lar poem is entirely farcical. The Devil is resolved 
 to make high holiday : 
 
 "Then cried Mahoun for a Ilielan Padyane, 
 Syne ran a fiend to fetch Makfadyane, 
 Far north-wast in a neuck ;
 
 DUNBAR 85 
 
 Be he the coronach had done shout, 
 Ersche men so gatherit him about, 
 
 In hell great room they took. 
 Thae tarmigants, with tag and tatter, 
 Full loud in Ersche begoud to clatter, 
 
 And roup hke raven and rook. 
 The Devil sae deaved was with their yell, 
 That in the deepest pot of hell 
 
 He smorit ihcm with smook." 
 
 There is one other poem of Dtmbar's which 
 may be quoted as a contrast to what has been 
 already given. It is remarkable as being the 
 only one in which he assumes the character 
 of a lover. The style of thought is quite 
 modern ; bereave it of its uncouth orthography, 
 and it might have been written to-day. It 
 is turned with much skill and grace. The 
 constitutional melancholy of the man comes 
 out in it ; as, indeed, it always does when he 
 finds a serious topic. It possesses more tender- 
 ness and sentiment than is his usual. It is the 
 night-flower among his poems, breathing a mourn 
 ful fragrance : 
 
 "Sweit rose of vertew and of gentilnes, 
 Delytsum lyllie of everie lustynes, 
 Richest in bontie, and in beutie cleir, 
 And every vcrlew that to hevin is dear, 
 Except onlie that ye ar mercyles. 
 
 "Into your garthe this day I did perscw : 
 Thair saw I flowris that fresche wer of dew, 
 Baith quhyte and reid most lustye wer to seyne, 
 And halsum herbis upone slalkis grene : 
 Yet leif nor flour fynd could I nane of rew.
 
 86 DUNBAR 
 
 " I doute that March, with his cauld blastis keyne, 
 lies slane this genlill herbe, that I of mene ; 
 Quhois pitewous deilhe dois to my hart sic pane, 
 That I wald mak to plant his rate agane, 
 So comfortand his levis unto me bene." 
 
 The extracts already given will enable the reader 
 to form some idea of the old poet's general power 
 — his music, his picturesque faculty, his colour, 
 his satire. Yet it is difficult from what he has left 
 to form any very definite image of the man. 
 Although his poems are for the most part 
 occasional, founded upon actual circumstances, or 
 written to relieve him from the over-pressure of 
 angry or melancholy moods, and although the 
 writer is by no means shy or indisposed to speak 
 of himself, his personality is not made clear to us. 
 There is a great gap of time between him and the 
 modern reader ; and the mixture of gold and clay 
 in the products of his genius, the discrepancy of 
 elements, beauty, and coarseness, Apollo's cheek, 
 and the satyr's shaggy limbs, are explainable partly 
 from awant of harmony and completeness in himself, 
 and partly from the pressure of the half-barbaric 
 time. His rudeness offends, his narrowness 
 astonishes. But then we must remember that 
 our advantages in these respects do not necessarily 
 arise from our being of a purer and nobler essence. 
 We have these things by inheritance ; they have 
 been transmitted to us along a line of ancestors. 
 Five centuries share with us the merit of the result. 
 Modern delicacy of taste and intellectual purity — 
 although we hold them in possession, and may add 
 to their sheen before we hand them on to our
 
 DUNBAR 87 
 
 children — are no more to be placed to our 
 personal credits than Dryden's satire, Pope's 
 epigram, Marlborough's battles, Burke's speeches, 
 and the victories of Trafalgar and Waterloo. 
 Intellectual delicacy has grown like our political 
 constitution. The English duke is not the creator 
 of his own wealth, although in his keeping it makes 
 the earth around him a garden, and the walls of 
 his house bright with pictures. But our inability 
 to conceive satisfactorily of Dunbar does not arise 
 from this alone. We have his works, but then they 
 are not supplemented by personal anecdote and 
 letters, and the reminiscences of contemporaries. 
 Burns, for instance — if limited to his works for 
 our knowledge of him — would be a puzzling 
 phenomenon. He was in his poems quite as 
 outspoken as Dunbar, but then they describe so 
 wide an area, they appear so contradictory, they 
 seem often to lead in opposite directions. It is, to 
 a large extent, through his letters that Burns is 
 known, through his short, careless, pithy sayings, 
 which imbedded themselves in the memories of 
 his hearers, from the recollections of his contem- 
 poraries and their expressed judgments, and the 
 multiform reverberations of fame lingering around 
 such a man — these fill up interstices between 
 works, bring apparent opposition into intimate 
 relationship, and make wholeness out of con- 
 fusion. 
 
 Not on the stage alone, in the world also, a 
 man's real character comes out best in his asides. 
 With Dunbar there is nothing of this. He is a 
 name, and little more. He exists in a region to
 
 88 DUNBAR 
 
 which rumour and conjecture have never penetrated. 
 He was long neglected by his countrymen, and 
 was brought to light as if by accident. He is the 
 Pompeii of British poetry. We have his works, 
 but they are like the circumvallations of a Roman 
 camp on the Scottish hillside. We see lines 
 stretching hither and thither, but we cannot make 
 out the plan, or divine what purposes were served. 
 We only know that every crumbled rampart was 
 once a defence; that every half-obliterated fosse 
 once swarmed with men ; that it was once a station 
 and abiding-place of human Hfe, although for 
 centuries now remitted to silence and blank 
 summer sunshine.
 
 A LARK'S FLIGHT. 
 
 RIGHTLY or wrongly, during the last twenty 
 or thirty years strong feeling has grown 
 up in the public mind against the principle, 
 and a still stronger feeling against the practice, 
 of capital punishments. Many people who will 
 admit that the execution of the murderer may be, 
 abstractly considered, just enough, sincerely doubt 
 whether such execution be expedient, and are in 
 their own minds perfectly certain that it cannot 
 fail to demoralise the spectators. In consequence 
 of this, executions have become rare ; and it is 
 quite clear that many scoundrels, well worthy of 
 the noose, contrive to escape it. 
 
 When, on the occasion of a wretch being turned 
 off, the spectators are few, it is remarked by the 
 newspapers that the mob is beginning to lose its 
 proverbial cruelty, and to be stirred by humane 
 pulses ; when they are numerous, and especially 
 when girls and women form a majority, the cir- 
 cumstance is noticed and deplored. It is plain 
 enough that, if the newspaper considered such an 
 exhibition beneficial, it would not lament over a 
 few thousand eager witnesses : if the sermon be 
 
 89
 
 90 A LARK'S FLIGHT 
 
 edifying, you cannot have too large a congregation ; 
 if you teach a moral lesson in a grand, impressive 
 way, it is difficult to see how you can have too 
 many pupils. Of course, neither the justice nor 
 the expediency of capital punishments falls to be 
 discussed here. This, however, may be said, that 
 the popular feeling against them may not be so 
 admirable a proof of enlightenment as many 
 believe. It is true that the spectacle is painful, 
 horrible ; but in pain and horror there is often 
 hidden a certain salutariness, and the repulsion of 
 which we are conscious is as likely to arise from 
 debilitation of public nerve, as from a higher 
 reach of public feeling. To my own thinking, 
 it is out of this pain and hatefulness that an 
 execution becomes invested with an ideal grandeur. 
 It is sheer horror to all concerned — sheriffs, hal- 
 bertmen, chaplain, spectators. Jack Ketch, and 
 culprit ; but out of all this, and towering behind 
 the vulgar and hideous accessories of the scaffold, 
 gleams the majesty of implacable law. When 
 every other fine morning a dozen cut-purses were 
 hanged at Tyburn, and when such sights did not 
 run very strongly against the popular current, the 
 spectacle 7vas vulgar, and could be of use only to 
 the possible cut-purses congregated around the 
 foot of the scaffold. Now, when the law has 
 become so far merciful ; when the punishment of 
 death is reserved for the murderer ; when he can 
 be condemned only on the clearest evidence ; 
 when, as the days draw slowly on to doom, the 
 frightful event impending over one stricken wretch 
 throws its shadow over the heart of every man.
 
 A LARK'S FLIGHT 91 
 
 woman, and child in the great city; and when 
 the official persons whose duty it is to see the 
 letter of the law carried out perform that duty at 
 the expense of personal pain — a public execution 
 is not vulgar, it becomes positively sublime. It 
 is dreadful, of course; but its dreadfulness melts 
 into pure awfulness. The attention is taken off 
 the criminal, and is lost in a sense of the grandeur 
 of justice ; and the spectator who beholds an 
 execution, solely as it appears to the eye, without 
 recognition of the idea which towers behind it, 
 must be a very unspiritual and unimaginative 
 spectator indeed. 
 
 It is taken for granted that the spectators of 
 public executions — the artisans and country people 
 who take up their stations over-night as close to 
 the barriers as possible, and the wealthier classes 
 who occupy hired windows and employ opera- 
 glasses — are merely drawn together by a morbid 
 relish for horrible sights. He is a bold man who 
 will stand forward as the advocate of such persons 
 — so completely is the popular mind made up as 
 to their tastes and motives. It is not disputed 
 that the large body of the mob, and of the 
 occupants of windows, have been drawn together 
 by an appetite for excitement ; but it is quite 
 possible that many come there from an impulse 
 altogether different. Just consider the nature of 
 the expected sight — a man in tolerable health 
 probably, in possession of all his faculties, per- 
 fectly able to realise his position, conscious that 
 for him this world and the next are so near that 
 only a few seconds divide them — such a man
 
 92 A LARK'S FLIGHT 
 
 stands in the seeing of several thousand eyes. 
 He is so pecuUarly circumstanced, so utterly 
 lonely — hearing the tolling of his own death-bell, 
 yet living, wearing the mourning clothes for his 
 own funeral — that he holds the multitude together 
 by a shuddering fascination. The sight is a 
 peculiar one, you must admit, and every peculi- 
 arity has its attractions. Your volcano is more 
 attractive than your ordinary mountain. 
 
 Then consider the unappeasable curiosity as to 
 death which haunts every human being, and how 
 pathetic that curiosity is, in so far as it suggests 
 our own ignorance and helplessness, and we see 
 at once that people may flock to public executions 
 for other purposes than the gratification of morbid 
 tastes : that they would pluck if they could some 
 little knowledge of what death is ; that imagina- 
 tively they attempt to reach to it, to touch and 
 handle it through an experience which is not their 
 own. It is some obscure desire of this kind, a 
 movement of curiosity not altogether ignoble, but 
 in some degree pathetic ; some rude attempt of 
 the imagination to wrest from the death of the 
 criminal information as to the great secret in which 
 each is profoundly interested, which draws around 
 the scaffold people from the country harvest-fields, 
 and from the streets and alleys of the town. 
 Nothing interests men so much as death. Age 
 cannot wither it, nor custom stale it. " A greater 
 crowd would come to see me hanged," Cromwell 
 is reported to have said when the populace came 
 forth on a public occasion. The Lord Protector 
 was right, in a sense of which perhaps, at the
 
 A LARK'S FLIGHT 93 
 
 moment he was not aware. Death is greater than 
 official position. When a man has to die, he may 
 safely dispense with stars and ribands. He is 
 invested with a greater dignity than is held in the 
 gift of kings. A greater crowd tvould have gathered 
 to see Cromwell hanged, but the compliment 
 would have been paid to death rather than to 
 Cromwell. Never were the motions of Charles i. 
 so scrutinised as when he stood for a few moments 
 on the scaffold that winter morning at Whitehall. 
 King Louis was no great orator usually, but when 
 on the 2d January 1793 he attempted to speak a 
 few words in the Place De la Revolution, it was 
 found necessary to drown his voice in a harsh 
 roll of soldiers' drums. Not without a meaning 
 do people come forth to see men die. ^Ve stand 
 in the valley, they on the hilltop, and on their 
 faces strikes the light of the other world, and from 
 some sign or signal of theirs we attempt to dis- 
 cover or extract a hint of what it is all like. 
 
 To be publicly put to death, for whatever reason, 
 must ever be a serious matter. It is always bitter, 
 but there are degrees in its bitterness. It is easy 
 to die like Stephen, with an opened heaven above 
 you, crowded with angel faces. It is easy to die 
 like Balmerino, with a chivalrous sigh for the White 
 Rose, and an audible "God bless King James." 
 Such men die for a cause in which they glory, and 
 are supported thereby ; they are conducted to the 
 portals of the next world by the angels, Faith, Pity, 
 Admiration. But it is not easy to die in expiation 
 of a crime like murder, which engirdles you with 
 trembling and horror even in the loneliest places,
 
 94 A LARK'S FLIGHT 
 
 which cuts you oft" from the sympathies of your 
 kind, which reduces the universe to two elements 
 — a sense of personal identity, and a memory of 
 guilt. In so dying, there must be inconceivable 
 bitterness : a man can have no other support than 
 what strength he may pluck from despair, or from 
 the iron with which nature may have originally 
 braced heart and nerve. Yet, taken as a whole, 
 criminals on the scaffold comport themselves 
 creditably. They look Death in the face when 
 he wears his cruellest aspect, and if they flinch 
 somewhat, they can at least bear to look. 
 
 I believe that, for the criminal, execution within 
 the prison walls, with no witnesses save some 
 half-dozen official persons, would be infinitely 
 more terrible than execution in the presence of 
 a curious, glaring mob. The daylight and the 
 publicity are alien elements, which wean the man 
 a little from himself. He steadies his dizzy brain 
 on the crowd beneath and around him. He has 
 his last part to play, and his manhood rallies to 
 play it well. Nay, so subtly is vanity intertwined 
 with our motives, the noblest and the most ignoble, 
 that I can fancy a poor wretch with the noose 
 dangling at his ear, and with barely five minutes 
 to live, soothed somewhat with the idea that his 
 firmness and composure will earn him the appro- 
 bation, perhaps the pity, of the spectators. He 
 would take with him, if he could, the good opinion 
 of his fellows. This composure of criminals puzzles 
 one. Have they looked at death so long and 
 closely, that familiarity has robbed it of terror? 
 Has life treated them so harshly, that they are
 
 A LARK'S FLIGHT 95 
 
 lolciably well pleased to be (juit uf it on any 
 terms? Or is the whole thing mere blind stupor 
 and delirium, in which tliought is paralysed, and 
 the man an automaton ? Speculation is useless. 
 The fact remains that criminals for the most part 
 die well and bravely. It is said that the champion- 
 ship of England was to be decided at some little 
 distance from London on the morning of the day 
 on which Thurtell was executed, and that, when 
 he came out on the scaffold, he incjuired privily 
 of the executioner if the result had yet become 
 known. Jack Ketch was not aware, and Thurtell 
 expressed his regret that the ceremony in which 
 he was chief actor should take place so incon- 
 veniently early in the day. Think of a poor 
 Thurtell forced to take his long journey an hour, 
 perhaps, before the arrival of intelligence so 
 important ! 
 
 More than twenty years ago I saw two men 
 executed, and the impression then made remains 
 fresh to this day. For this there were many 
 reasons. The deed for which the men suffered 
 created an immense sensation. They were hanged 
 on the spot where the murder was committed — 
 on a rising ground, some four miles north-east of 
 the city; and as an attempt at rescue was appre- 
 hended, there was a considerable display of 
 military force on the occasion. And when, in 
 the dead silence of thousands, the criminals 
 stood beneath the halters, an incident occurred, 
 cjuite natural and slight in itself, but when taken 
 in connection with the business then proceeding, 
 so unutterably tragic, so overwhelming in its
 
 96 A LARK'S FLIGHT 
 
 pathetic suggestion of contrast, that the feeUng 
 of it has never departed, and never will. At 
 the time, too, I speak of, I was very young ; the 
 world was like a die newly cut, whose every im- 
 pression is fresh and vivid. 
 
 While the railway which connects two northern 
 capitals was being built, two brothers from Ireland, 
 named Doolan, were engaged upon it in the capa- 
 city of navvies. For some fault or negligence, 
 one of the brothers was dismissed by the overseer 
 — a Mr. Green — of that particular portion of the 
 line on which they were employed. The dismissed 
 brother went off in search of work, and the brother 
 who remained — Dennis was the Christian name 
 of him — brooded over this supposed wrong, and 
 in his dull, twilighted brain revolved projects of 
 vengeance. He did not absolutely mean to take 
 Green's life, but he meant to thrash him to within 
 an inch of it. Dennis, anxious to thrash Green, 
 but not quite seeing his way to it, opened his 
 mind one afternoon, when work was over, to 
 his friends — fellow-Irishmen and navvies — Messrs. 
 Redding and Hickie. These took up Doolan's 
 wrong as their own, and that evening, by the 
 dull light of a bothy fire, they held a rude par- 
 liament, discussing ways and means of revenge. 
 It was arranged that Green should be thrashed 
 — the amount of thrashing left an open question, 
 to be decided, unhappily, when the blood was up 
 and the cinder of rage blown into a flame. Hickie's 
 spirit was found not to be a mounting one, and it 
 was arranged that the active partners in the game 
 should be Doolan and Redding. Doolan, as the
 
 A LARK'S FLIGHT 97 
 
 aggrieved party, was to strike the first blow, and 
 Redding, as the aggrieved party's particular friend, 
 asked and obtained permission to strike the second. 
 The main conspirators, with a fine regard for the 
 feelings of the weaker Hickie, allowed him to 
 provide the weapons of assault — so that by some 
 slight filament of aid he might connect himself 
 with the good cause. The unambitious Hickie 
 at once applied himself to his duty. He went 
 out, and in due time returned with two sufificient 
 iron pokers. The weapons were examined, ap- 
 proved of, and carefully laid aside. Doolan, 
 Redding, and Hickie ate their suppers, and 
 retired to their several couches to sleep, peace- 
 fully enough no doubt. About the same time, 
 too, Green, the English overseer, threw down his 
 weary limbs, and entered on his last sleep — little 
 dreaming what the morning had in store for 
 him. 
 
 Uprose the sun, and uprose Doolan and Red- 
 ding, and dressed, and thrust each his sufScient iron 
 poker up the sleeve of his blouse, and went forth. 
 They took up their station on a temporary wooden 
 bridge which spanned the line, and waited there. 
 Across the bridge, as was expected, did Green 
 ultimately come. He gave them good-morning ; 
 asked " Why they were loafing about ? " received 
 no very pertinent answer, perhaps did not care 
 to receive one ; whistled — the unsuspecting man ! 
 — thrust his hands into his breeches pockets, 
 turned his back on them, and leaned over the 
 railing of the bridge, inspecting the progress of 
 the works beneath. The temptation was really 
 
 7
 
 98 A LARK'S FLIGHT 
 
 too great. What could wild Irish flesh and blood 
 do ? In a moment out from the sleeve of Doolan's 
 blouse came the hidden poker, and the first blow 
 was struck, bringing Green to the ground. The 
 friendly Redding who had bargained for the second, 
 and who, naturally enough, was in fear of being cut 
 out altogether, jumped on the prostrate man, and 
 fulfilled his share of the bargain with a will. It 
 was Redding, it was supposed, who sped the un- 
 happy Green. They overdid their work — like 
 young authors — giving many more blows than 
 were sufficient, and then fled. The works, of 
 course, were that morning in consternation. 
 Redding and Hickie were, if I remember 
 rightly, apprehended in the course of the day. 
 Doolan got off, leaving no trace of his where- 
 abouts. 
 
 These particulars were all learned subsequently. 
 The first intimation which we schoolboys received 
 of anything unusual having occurred, was the 
 sight of a detachment of soldiers w^ith fixed 
 bayonets, trousers rolled up over muddy boots, 
 marching past the front of the Cathedral hurriedly 
 home to barracks. This was a circumstance some- 
 what unusual. We had, of course, frequently 
 seen a couple of soldiers trudging along with 
 sloped muskets, and that cruel glitter of steel 
 which no one of us could look upon quite un- 
 moved; but in such cases, the deserter walking 
 between them in his shirt-sleeves, his pinioned 
 hands covered from public gaze by the loose folds 
 of his greatcoat, explained everything. But from 
 the hurried march of these mud-splashed men.
 
 A LARK'S FLIGHT 99 
 
 nothing could be gathered, and we were left to 
 speculate upon its meaning. Gradually, however, 
 before the evening fell, the rumour of a murder 
 having been committed spread through the city, 
 and with that I instinctively connected the appari- 
 tion of the file of muddy soldiers. Next day, 
 murder was in every mouth. My schoolfellows 
 talked of it to the detriment of their lessons ; it 
 flavoured the tobacco of the fustian artisan as he 
 smoked to work after breakfast ; it walked on 
 'Change amongst the merchants. It was known 
 that two of the persons implicated had been 
 captured, but that the other, and guiltiest,' was 
 still at large ; and in a few days out on every piece 
 of boarding and blank wall came the " Hue and 
 cry" — describing Doolan like a photograph, to 
 the colour and cut of his whiskers, and offering 
 ;^ioo as reward for his apprehension, or for such 
 information as would lead to his apprehension — 
 like a silent, implacable bloodhound following 
 close on the track of the murderer. This terrible 
 broad-sheet I read, was certain that he had read 
 it also, and fancy ran riot over the ghastly fact. 
 For him no hope, no rest, no peace, no touch ot 
 hands gentler than the hangman's ; all the world 
 is after him like a roaring prairie of flame ! I 
 thought of Doolan, weary, footsore, heartsore, 
 entering some quiet village of an evening ; and to 
 quench his thirst, going up to the public well, 
 around which the gossips are talking, and hearing 
 that they were talking of him ; and seeing from the 
 well itself, it glaring upon him, as if conscious of 
 his presence, with a hundred eyes of vengeance.
 
 loo A LARK'S FLIGHT 
 
 I thought of him asleep in outhouses, and starting 
 up in wild dreams of the policeman's hand upon 
 his shoulder fifty times ere morning. He had 
 committed the crime of Cain, and the weird of 
 Cain he had to endure. But yesterday innocent, 
 how unimportant; to-day bloody-handed, the 
 whole world is talking of him, and everything he 
 touches, the very bed he sleeps on, steals from him 
 his secret, and is eager to betray ! 
 
 Doolan was finally captured in Liverpool, and 
 in the Spring Assize the three men were brought 
 to trial. The jury found them guilty, but recom- 
 mended Hickie to mercy on account of some 
 supposed weakness of mind on his part. Sentence 
 was, of course, pronounced with the usual 
 solemnities. They were set apart to die ; and 
 when snug abed o' nights — for imagination is most 
 mightily moved by contrast — I crept into their 
 desolate hearts, and tasted a misery which was 
 not my own. As already said, Hickie was re- 
 commended to mercy, and the recommendation 
 was ultimately in the proper quarter given 
 effect to. 
 
 The evening before the execution has arrived, 
 and the reader has now to imagine the early May 
 sunset falling pleasantly on the outskirts of the 
 city. The houses looking out upon an open 
 square or space, have little plots of garden ground 
 in their fronts, in which mahogany-coloured wall- 
 flowers and mealy auriculas are growing. The 
 side of this square, along which the City Road 
 stretches northward, is occupied by a blind asylum, 
 a brick building, the bricks painted red and picked
 
 A LARK'S FLIGHT loi 
 
 out with white, after the tidy English fashion, and 
 a high white cemetery wall, over which peers the 
 spire of the Gothic Cathedral ; and beyond that, 
 on the other side of the ravine, rising out of a 
 populous city of the dead, a stone John Knox 
 looks down on the Cathedral, a Bible clutched in 
 his outstretched and menacing hand. On all this 
 the May sunset is striking, dressing everything in 
 its warm, pleasant pink, lingering in the tufts of 
 foliage that nestle around the asylum, and dipping 
 the building itself one half in light, one half in 
 tender shade. This open space or square is an 
 excellent place for the games of us boys, and 
 "Prisoner's Base" is being carried out with as 
 much earnestness as the business of life now by 
 those of us who are left. The girls, too, have 
 their games of a quiet kind, which we hold in 
 huge scorn and contempt. In two files, linked 
 arm-in-arm, ,they alternately dance towards each 
 other and then retire, singing the while, in their 
 clear, girlish treble, verses, the meaning and 
 pertinence of which time has worn away — 
 
 "The Campsie Duke's a-riding, a-riding, a-riding," 
 
 being the oft-recurring "owercome" or refrain. 
 All this is going on in the pleasant sunset light, 
 when by the apparition of certain waggons coming 
 up from the city, piled high with blocks and beams, 
 and guarded by a dozen dragoons, on whose 
 brazen helmets the sunset danced, every game is 
 dismembered, and we are in a moment a mere 
 mixed mob of boys and girls, flocking around to 
 stare and wonder. Just at this place something
 
 I02 A LARK'S FLIGHT 
 
 went wrong with one of the waggon wheels, and 
 the procession came to a stop. A crowd collected, 
 and we heard some of the grown-up people say, 
 that the scaffold was being carried out for the 
 ceremony of to-morrow. Then, more intensely 
 than ever, one realised the condition of the 
 doomed men. We were at our happy games in 
 the sunset, they were entering on their last night 
 on earth. After hammering and delay the wheel 
 was put to rights, the sunset died out, waggons 
 and dragoons got into motion and disappeared ; 
 and all the night through, whether awake or 
 asleep, I saw the torches burning, and heard the 
 hammers clinking, and witnessed as clearly as if 
 I had been an onlooker, the horrid structure 
 rising, till it stood complete, with a huge cross- 
 beam from which two empty halters hung, in 
 the early morning light. 
 
 Next morning the whole city was in commotion. 
 Whether the authorities were apprehensive that a 
 rescue would be attempted, or were anxious merely 
 to strike terror into the hundreds of wild Irishry 
 engaged on the railway, I cannot say ; in any case, 
 there was a display of military force quite unusual. 
 The carriage in which the criminals — Catholics 
 both — and their attendant priests were seated, was 
 guarded by soldiers with fixed bayonets ; indeed, 
 the whole regiment then lying in the city was 
 massed in front and behind, with a cold, frightful 
 glitter of steel. Besides the foot soldiers, there 
 were dragoons, and two pieces of cannon ; a whole 
 little army, in fact. With a slenderer force battles 
 have been won which have made a mark in history.
 
 A LARK'S FLIGHT lOJ 
 
 What did the prisoners think of their strange 
 importance, and of the tramp and hurly-burly all 
 around ? When the procession moved out of the 
 city, it seemed to draw with it almost the entire 
 population ; and when once the country roads were 
 reached, the crowd spread over the fields on either 
 side, ruthlessly treading down the tender wheat 
 braird. I got a glimpse of the doomed, blanched 
 faces which had haunted me so long, at the turn 
 of the road, where, for the first time, the black 
 cross-beam with its empty halters first became 
 visible to them. Both turned and regarded it with 
 a long, steady look ; that done, they again bent 
 their heads attentively to the words of the clergy- 
 man. I suppose in that long, eager, fascinated 
 gaze they practically died — that for them death had 
 no additional bitterness. When the mound was 
 reached on which the scaffold stood, there was 
 immense confusion. Around it a wide space was 
 kept clear by the military ; the cannon were placed 
 in position; out flashed the swords of the dragoons; 
 beneath and around on every side was the crowd. 
 Between two brass helmets I could see the scaffold 
 clearly enough, and when in a little while the men, 
 bareheaded and with their attendants, appeared 
 upon it, the surging crowd became stiffened with 
 fear and awe. And now it was that the incident 
 so simple, so natural, so much in the ordinary 
 course of things, and yet so frightful in its tragic 
 suggestions, took place. Be it remembered that 
 the season was early May, that the day was fine, 
 that the wheat-fields were clothing themselves in 
 the green of the young crop, and that around the
 
 I04 A LARK'S FLIGHT 
 
 scaffold, standing on a sunny mound, a wide space 
 was kept clear. When the men appeared beneath 
 the beam, each under his proper halter, there was 
 a dead silence — every one was gazing too intently 
 to whisper to his neighbour even. Just then, out 
 of the grassy space at the foot of the scaffold, in 
 the dead silence audible to all, a lark rose from 
 the side of its nest, and went singing upward in its 
 happy flight. O heaven ! how did that song trans- 
 late itself into dying ears ? Did it bring in one 
 wild burning moment father, and mother, and poor 
 Irish cabin, and prayers said at bedtime, and the 
 smell of turf fires, and innocent sweethearting, and 
 rising and setting suns ? Did it — but the dragoon's 
 horse has become restive, and his brass helmet 
 bobs up and down and blots everything; and 
 there is a sharp sound, and I feel the great crowd 
 heave and swing, and hear it torn by a sharp shiver 
 of pity, and the men whom I saw so near but a 
 moment ago are at immeasurable distance, and have 
 solved the great enigma — and the lark has not yet 
 finished his flight : you can see and hear him 
 yonder in the fringe of a white May cloud. 
 
 This ghastly lark's flight, when the circumstances 
 are taken into consideration, is, I am inclined to 
 think, more terrible than anything of the same 
 kind which I have encountered in books. The 
 artistic uses of contrast as background and accom- 
 paniment, are well known to nature and the poets. 
 Joy is continually worked on sorrow, sorrow on 
 joy; riot is framed in peace, peace in riot. Lear 
 and the Fool always go together. Trafalgar is 
 being fought while Napoleon is sitting on horse-
 
 A LARK'S FLIGHT 105 
 
 back watching the Austrian army laying down its 
 arms at Ulm. In Hood's poem, it is when looking 
 on the released schoolboys at their games that 
 Eugene Aram remembers he is a murderer. And 
 these two poor Irish labourers could not die with- 
 out hearing a lark singing in their ears. It is 
 Nature's fashion. She never quite goes along with 
 us. She is sombre at weddings, sunny at funerals, 
 and she frowns on ninety-nine out of a hundred 
 picnics. 
 
 There is a stronger element of terror in this inci- 
 dent of the lark than in any story of a similar kind 
 I can remember. 
 
 A good story is told of an Irish gentleman — still 
 known in London society — who inherited the 
 family estates and the family banshee. The 
 estates he lost — no uncommon circumstance in 
 the history of Irish gentlemen — but the banshee, 
 who expected no favours, stuck to him in his 
 adversity, and crossed the channel with him, mak- 
 ing herself known only on occasions of deathbeds 
 and sharp family misfortunes. This gentleman had 
 an ear, and, seated one night at the opera, the 
 keen — heard once or twice before on memorable 
 occasions — thrilled through the din of the orchestra 
 and the passion of the singers. He hurried home, 
 of course, found his immediate family well, but on 
 the morrow a telegram arrived with the announce- 
 ment of a brother's death. Surely of all super- 
 stitions that is the most imposing which makes the 
 other world interested in the events which befall 
 our mortal lot. For the mere pomp and pride of 
 it, your ghost is worth a dozen retainers, and it is
 
 io6 A LARK'S FLIGHT 
 
 entirely inexpensive. The peculiarity and super- 
 natural worth of this story lies in the idea of the 
 old wail piercing through the sweet entanglement 
 of stringed instruments and extinguishing Grisi. 
 Modern circumstances and luxury crack, as it 
 were, and reveal for a moment misty and ab- 
 original time big with portent. 
 
 There is a ridiculous Scotch story in which 
 one gruesome touch lives. A clergyman's female 
 servant was seated in the kitchen one Saturday 
 night reading the Scriptures, when she was some- 
 what startled by hearing at the door the tap and 
 voice of her sweetheart. Not expecting him, and 
 the hour being somewhat late, she opened it in 
 astonishment, and was still more astonished to 
 hear him on entering abuse Scripture-reading. He 
 behaved altogether in an unprecedented manner, 
 and in many ways terrified the poor girl. Ulti- 
 mately he knelt before her, and laid his head 
 on her lap. You can fancy her consternation 
 when glancing down she discovered that, instead 
 of hair, the head was covered with the moss of 
 the moorland. By a sacred name she adjured 
 him to tell who he was, and in a moment the 
 figure was gone. It was the Fiend, of course — 
 diminished sadly since Milton saw him bridge 
 chaos — fallen from worlds to kitchen- wenches. 
 But just think how, in the story, in half-pity, in 
 half-terror, the popular feeling of homelessness, 
 of being outcast, of being unsheltered as waste 
 and desert places, has incarnated itself in that 
 strange covering of the head. It is a true super- 
 natural touch. One other story I have heard
 
 A LARK'S FLIGHT 107 
 
 in the misty Hebrides : A Skye gentleman was 
 riding along an empty moorland road. All at 
 once, as if it had sprung from the ground, the 
 empty road was crowded by a funeral procession. 
 Instinctively he drew his horse to a side to let 
 it pass, which it did without sound of voice, 
 without tread of foot. Then he knew it was 
 an apparition. Staring on it, he knew every 
 person who either bore the corpse or who walked 
 behind as mourners. There were the neighbour- 
 ing proprietors at whose houses he dined, there 
 were the members of his own kirk-session, there 
 were the men to whom he was wont to give 
 good-morning when he met them on the road 
 or at market. Unable to discover his own 
 image in the throng, he was inwardly marvelling 
 whose funeral it could be, when the troop of 
 spectres vanished, and the road was empty as 
 before. Then, remembering that the cofifin had 
 an invisible occupant, he cried out, " It is my 
 funeral ! " and, with all his strength taken out 
 of him, rode home to die. 
 
 All these stories have their own touches of 
 terror ; yet I am inclined to think that my lark 
 rising from the scaffold foot, and singing to two 
 such auditors, is more terrible than any one of 
 them.
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 OVER the dial-face of the year, on which the 
 hours are months, the apex resting in sun- 
 shine, the base in withered leaves and snows, the 
 finger of time does not travel with the same rapidity. 
 Slowly it creeps up from snow to sunshine ; when 
 it has gained the summit it seems almost to rest 
 for a little ; rapidly it rushes down from sunshine 
 to the snow. Judging from my own feelings, the 
 distance from January to June is greater than from 
 June to January — the period from Christmas to 
 Midsummer seems longer than the period from 
 Midsummer to Christmas. This feeling arises, I 
 should fancy, from the preponderance of light on 
 that half of the dial on which the finger seems to 
 be travelling upwards, compared with the half on 
 which it seems to be travelling downwards. This 
 light to the eye, the mind translates into time. 
 Summer days are long, often wearisomely so. 
 The long-lighted days are bracketed together by a 
 little bar of twilight, in which but a star or two find 
 time to twinkle. Usually one has less occupation 
 in summer than in winter, and the surplusage of 
 
 summer light, a stage too large for the play, wearies, 
 
 1 08
 
 CHRISTMAS 109 
 
 oppresses, sometimes appals. From the sense of 
 time we can only shelter ourselves by occupation ; 
 and when occupation ceases while yet some three 
 or four hours of light remain, the burden falls down, 
 and is often greater than we can bear. 
 
 I have a certain morbid fear of those endless 
 summer twilights. A space of light stretching 
 from half-past 2 a.m. to 11 p.m. affects me with a 
 sense of infinity, of horrid sameness, just as the sea 
 or the desert would do. I feel that for too long a 
 period I am under the eye of a taskmaster. Twi- 
 light is always in itself, or at least in its suggestions, 
 melancholy ; and these midsummer twilights are 
 so long, they pass through such series of lovely 
 change, they are throughout so mournfully beauti- 
 ful, that in the brain they beget strange thoughts, 
 and in the heart strange feelings. We see too 
 much of the sky, and the long, lovely, pathetic, 
 lingering evening light, with its suggestions of 
 eternity and death, which one cannot for the soul 
 of one put into words, is somewhat too much for 
 the comfort of a sensitive human mortal. The day 
 dies, and makes no apology for being such an 
 unconscionable time in dying ; and all the while 
 it colours our thoughts with its own solemnity. 
 
 There is no relief from this kind of thing at 
 mid-summer. You cannot close your shutters and 
 light your candles ; that, in the tone of mind which 
 circumstances superinduce, would be brutality. 
 You cannot take Pickwick to the window and read 
 it by the dying light ; that is profanation. If you 
 have a friend with you, you can't talk ; the hour 
 makes you silent. You are driven in on your self-
 
 no CHRISTMAS 
 
 consciousness. The long light wearies the eye, a 
 sense of time disturbs and saddens the spirit ; and 
 that is the reason, I think, that one half of the 
 year seems so much longer than the other half ; 
 that on the dial-plate whose hours are months, the 
 restless finger seems to move more slowly when travel- 
 ling upward from autumn leaves and snow to light, 
 than when it is travelling downward from light to 
 snow and withered leaves. 
 
 Of all the seasons of the year, I like winter best. 
 That peculiar burden of time I have been speaking 
 of, does not affect me now. The day is short, and 
 I can fill it with work ; when evening comes, I 
 have my lighted room and my books. Should 
 black care haunt me, I throw it off the scent in 
 Spenser's forests, or seek refuge from it among 
 Shakspeare's men and women, who are by far the 
 best company I have met with, or am like to meet 
 with, on earth. I am sitting at this present 
 moment with my curtains drawn ; the cheerful 
 fire is winking at all the furniture in the room, and 
 from every leg and arm the furniture is winking to 
 the fire in return. I put off the outer world with 
 my greatcoat and boots, and put on contentment 
 and idleness with my slippers. On the hearth-rug, 
 Pepper, coiled in a shaggy ball, is asleep in the 
 ruddy light and heat. An imaginative sense of the 
 cold outside increases my present comfort — just as 
 one never hugs one's own good luck so affection- 
 ately as when listening to the relation of some 
 horrible misfortune which has overtaken others. 
 VVmter has fallen on Dreamthorp, and it looks as 
 pretty when covered with snow, as when covered
 
 CHRISTMAS III 
 
 with apple blossom. Outside, the ground is hard 
 as iron ; and over the low dark hill, lo ! the 
 tender radiance that precedes the moon. Every 
 window in the little village has its light, and to the 
 traveller coming on, enveloped in his breath, the 
 whole place shines like a congregation of glow- 
 worms. A pleasant enough sight to him if his 
 home be there ! At this present season, the canal 
 is not such a pleasant promenade as it was in 
 summer. The barges come and go as usual, but 
 at this time I do not envy the bargemen quite so 
 much. The horse comes smoking along ; the 
 tarpaulin which covers the merchandise is sprinkled 
 with hoar frost ; and the helmsman, smoking his 
 short pipe for the mere heat of it, cowers over a 
 few red cinders contained in a framework of iron. 
 The labour of the poor fellows will soon be over 
 for a time ; for if this frost continues, the canal 
 will be sheathed in a night, and next day stones 
 will be thrown upon it, and a daring urchin 
 venturing upon it will go souse head over heels, 
 and run home with his teeth in a chatter ; and the 
 day after, the lake beneath the old castle will be 
 sheeted, and the next, the villagers will be sliding 
 on its gleaming face from ruddy dawn at nine to 
 ruddy eve at three; and hours later, skaters yet 
 unsatisfied will be moving ghost-like in the gloom 
 — now one, now another, shooting on sounding 
 irons into a clear space of frosty light, chasing the 
 moon, or the flying image of a star ! Happy youths 
 leaning against the frosty wind ! 
 
 I am a Christian, I hope, although far from a 
 muscular one — consequently I cannot join the
 
 112 CHRISTMAS 
 
 skaters on the lake. The floor of ice, with the 
 people upon it, will be but a picture to me. And, 
 in truth, it is in its pictorial aspect that I chiefly 
 love the bleak season. As an artist, winter can 
 match summer any day. The heavy, feathery 
 flakes have been falling all the night through, we 
 shall suppose, and when you get up in the morning 
 the world is draped in white. What a sight it is ! 
 It is the world you knew, but yet a different one. 
 The familiar look has gone, and another has taken 
 its place ; and a not unpleasant puzzlement arises 
 in your mind, born of the patent and the re- 
 membered aspect. It reminds you of a friend who 
 has been suddenly placed in new circumstances, 
 in whom there is much that you recognise, and 
 much that is entirely strange. How purely, 
 divinely white when the last snow-flake has just 
 fallen ! How exquisite and virginal the repose ! 
 It touches you like some perfection of music. 
 And winter does not work only on a broad scale ; 
 he is careful in trifles. Pluck a single ivy leaf from 
 the old wall, and see what a jeweller he is ! How 
 he has silvered over the dark-green reticulations 
 with his frosts ! The faggot which the Tramp 
 gathers for his fire is thicklier incrusted with gems 
 than ever was sceptre of the Moguls. Go into the 
 woods, and behold on the black boughs his glories 
 of pearl and diamond — pendant splendours that, 
 smitten by the noon-ray, melt into tears and fall 
 but to congeal into splendours again. Nor does 
 he work in black and white alone. He has on his 
 palette more gorgeous colours than those in which 
 swim the summer setting suns ; and with these,
 
 CHRISTMAS 113 
 
 about three o'clock, he begins to adorn his west, stick- 
 ing his red-hot ball of a sun in the very midst : and 
 a couple of hours later, when the orb has fallen, and 
 the flaming crimson has mellowed into licjuid orange, 
 you can see the black skeletons of trees scribbled 
 upon the melancholy glory. Nor need I speak of 
 the magnificence of a winter midnight, when space, 
 sombre blue, crowded with star and planet, " bur- 
 nished by the frost," is glittering like the harness 
 of an archangel full panoplied against a battle day. 
 For years and years now I have watched the 
 seasons come and go around Dreamthorp, and 
 each in its turn interests me as if I saw it for the 
 first time. But the other week it seems that I saw 
 the grain ripen ; then by day a motley crew of 
 reapers were in the fields, and at night a big red 
 moon looked down upon the stooks of oats and 
 barley ; then in mighty wains the plenteous harvest 
 came swaying home, leaving a largess on the roads 
 for every bird ; then the round, yellow, comfortable- 
 looking stacks stood around the farmhouses, hiding 
 them to the chimneys ; then the woods reddened, 
 the beech hedges became russet, and every puff of 
 wind made rustle the withered leaves ; then the 
 sunset came before the early dark, and in the east 
 lay banks of bleak pink vapour, which are ever 
 a prophecy of cold ; then out of a low dingy heaven 
 came all day, thick and silent, the whirling snow ; 
 — and so by exquisite succession of sight and sound 
 have I been taken from the top of the year to the 
 bottom of it, from midsummer, with its unreaped 
 harvests, to the night on which I am sitting here 
 — Christmas 1862. 
 8
 
 114 ■ CHRISTMAS 
 
 Sitting here, I incontinently find myself holding 
 a levee of departed Christmas nights. Silently, 
 and without special call, into my study of imagina- 
 tion come these apparitions, clad in snowy mantles, 
 brooched and gemmed with frosts. Their numbers 
 I do not care to count, for I know they are the 
 numbers of my years. The visages of two or three 
 are sad enough, but on the whole 'tis a congregation 
 of jolly ghosts. The nostrils of my memory are 
 assailed by a faint odour of plum-pudding and 
 burnt brandy. I hear a sound as of light music, 
 a whisk of women's dresses whirled round in dance, 
 a click as of glasses pledged by friends. Before one 
 of these apparitions is a mound, as of a new-made 
 grave, on which the snow is lying. I know, I 
 know ! Drape thyself not in white like the others, 
 but in mourning stole of crape ; and instead of 
 dance music, let there haunt around thee the 
 service for the dead ! I know that sprig of 
 Mistletoe, O Spirit in the midst ! Under it I 
 swung the girl I loved — girl no more now than I 
 am boy — and kissed her spite of blush and pretty 
 shriek. And thee, too, with fragrant trencher in 
 hand, over which blue tongues of flame are 
 playing, do I know — most ancient apparition of 
 them all. I remember thy reigning night. Back 
 to very days of childhood am I taken by thy 
 ghostly raisins simmering in a ghostly brandy flame. 
 Where now the merry boys and girls that thrust 
 their fingers in thy blaze ? And now, when I 
 think of it, thee also would I drape in black 
 raiment, around thee also would I make the burial 
 service murmur.
 
 CHRISTMAS 115 
 
 Men hold the anniversaries of their birth, of 
 their marriage, of the birth of their first-born, and 
 they hold — although they spread no feast, and ask 
 no friends to assist — many another anniversary 
 besides. On many a day in every year does a 
 man remember what took place on that self-same 
 day in some former year, and chews the sweet or 
 bitter herb of memory, as the case may be. Could 
 I ever hope to write a decent Essay, I should like 
 to write one " On the Revisiting of Places." It is 
 strange how important the poorest human being is 
 to himself ! how he likes to double back on his 
 experiences, to stand on the place he has stood 
 before, to meet himself face to face as it were ! 
 
 I go to the great city in which my early life was 
 spent, and I love to indulge myself in this whim. 
 The only thing I care about is that portion of the 
 city which is connected with myself. I don't think 
 this passion of reminiscence is debased by the 
 slightest taint of vanity. The lamp-post, under 
 the light of which in the winter rain there was a 
 parting so many years ago, I contemplate with the 
 most curious interest. I stare on the windows of 
 the houses in which I once lived, with a feeling 
 which I should find difficult to express in words. 
 I think of the life I led there, of the good and 
 the bad news that came, of the sister who died, 
 of the brother who was born ; and were it at 
 all possible, I should like to knock at the once 
 familiar door, and look at the old walls — which 
 could speak to me so strangely — once again. To 
 revisit that city is like walking away back into my 
 yesterdays. I startle myself with myself at the
 
 ii6 CHRISTMAS 
 
 corners of streets, I confront forgotten bits of 
 myself at the entrance to houses. In windows 
 which to another man would seem blank and 
 meaningless, I find personal poems too deep to 
 be ever turned into rhymes — more pathetic, 
 mayhap, than I have ever found on printed page. 
 The spot of ground on which a man has stood 
 is for ever interesting to him. Every experience 
 is an anchor holding him the more firmly to 
 existence. It is for this reason that we hold our 
 sacred days, silent and solitary anniversaries of 
 joy and bitterness, renewing ourselves thereby, 
 going back upon ourselves, living over again the 
 memorable experience. The full yellow moon 
 of next September will gather into itself the light 
 of the full yellow moons of Septembers long ago. 
 In this Christmas night all the other Christmas 
 nights of my life live. How warm, breathing, full 
 of myself is the year 1862, now almost gone! 
 How bare, cheerless, unknown, the year 1863, 
 about to come in ! It stretches before me in 
 imagination like some great, gaunt untenanted 
 ruin of a Colosseum, in which no footstep falls, 
 no voice is heard ; and by this night year its 
 naked chambers and windows, three hundred and 
 sixty-five in number, will be clothed all over, and 
 hidden by myself as if with covering ivies. Look- 
 ing forward into an empty year strikes one with 
 a certain awe, because one finds therein no 
 recognition. The years behind have a friendly 
 aspect, and they are warmed by the fires we have 
 kindled, and all their echoes are the echoes of our 
 own voices.
 
 CHRISTMAS 117 
 
 This, then, is Christmas 1862. Everything is 
 silent in Dreamthorp. The smith's hammer re- 
 poses beside the anvil. The weaver's flying shuttle 
 is at rest. Through the clear wintry sunshine the 
 bells this morning rang from the grey church 
 tower amid the leafless elms, and up the walk the 
 villagers trooped in their best dresses and their 
 best faces — the latter a little reddened by the 
 sharp wind : mere redness in the middle aged ; in 
 the maids, wonderful bloom to the eyes of their 
 lovers — and took their places decently in the ancient 
 pews. The clerk read the beautiful prayers of our 
 Church, which seem more beautiful at Christmas 
 than at any other period. For that very feeling which 
 breaks down at this time the barriers which custom, 
 birth, or wealth have erected between man and 
 man, strikes down the barrier of time which inter- 
 venes between the worshipper of to-day and the 
 great body of worshippers who are at rest in their 
 graves. On such a day as this, hearing these 
 prayers, we feel a kinship with the devout genera- 
 tions who heard them long ago. The devout lips 
 of the Christian dead murmured the reponses which 
 we now murmur ; along this road of prayer did 
 their thoughts of our innumerable dead, our 
 brothers and sisters in faith and hope, approach 
 the Maker, even as ours at present approach Him. 
 Prayers over, the clergyman — who is no Boanerges, 
 or Chrysostom, golden-mouthed, but a loving, 
 genial-hearted, pious man, the whole extent of his 
 life from boyhood until now, full of charity and 
 kindly deeds, as autumn fields with heavy wheaten 
 ears : the clergyman, I say — for the sentence is
 
 ii8 CHRISTMAS 
 
 becoming unwieldly on my hands, and one must 
 double back to secure connection — read out in 
 that silvery voice of his, which is sweeter than any 
 music to my ear, those chapters of the New Testa- 
 ment that deal with the birth of the Saviour. 
 And the red-faced rustic congregation hung on the 
 good man's voice as he spoke of the Infant brought 
 forth in a manger, of the shining angels that 
 appeared in midair to the shepherds, of the 
 miraculous star that took its station in the sky, and 
 of the wise men who came from afar and laid their 
 gifts of frankincense and myrrh at the feet of the 
 child. With the story every one was familiar, but 
 on that day, and backed by the persuasive melody 
 of the reader's voice, it seemed to all quite new — 
 at least, they listened attentively as if it were. The 
 discourse that followed possessed no remarkable 
 thoughts ; it dealt simply with the goodness of the 
 Maker of heaven and earth, and the shortness of 
 time, with the duties of thankfulness and charity to 
 the poor ; and I am persuaded that every one who 
 heard returned to his house in a better frame of 
 mind. And so the service remitted us all to our 
 own homes, to what roast-beef and plum-pudding 
 slender means permitted, to gatherings around 
 cheerful fires, to half-pleasant, half-sad remem- 
 brances of the dead and the absent. 
 
 From sermon I have returned like the others, 
 and it is my purpose to hold Christmas alone. I 
 have no one with me at table, and my own thoughts 
 must be my Christmas guests. Sitting here, it is 
 pleasant to think how much kindly feeling exists 
 this present night in England. By imagination I
 
 CHRISTMAS 119 
 
 can taste of every table, pledge every toast, silently 
 join in every roar of merriment. I become a 
 sort of universal guest. With what propriety is 
 this jovial season placed amid dismal December 
 rains and snows ! How one pities the unhappy 
 Australians, with whom everything is turned topsy- 
 turvy, and who hold Christmas at midsummer ! 
 The face of Christmas glows all the brighter for 
 the cold. The heart warms as the frost increases. 
 Estrangements which have embittered the whole 
 year, melt in to-night's hospitable smile. There 
 are warmer hand-shakings on this night than during 
 the bypast twelve months. Friend lives in the 
 mind of friend. There is more charity at this 
 time than at any other. You get up at midnight 
 and toss your spare coppers to the half-benumbed 
 musicians whiffling beneath your windows, although 
 at any other time you would consider their per- 
 formance a nuisance, and call angrily for the 
 police. 
 
 Poverty, and scanty clothing, and fireless grates, 
 come home at this season to the bosoms of the 
 rich, and they give of their abundance. The 
 very redbreast of the woods enjoys his Christmas 
 feast. Good feeling incarnates itself in plum- 
 pudding. The Master's words, " The poor ye have 
 always with you," wear at this time a deep signific- 
 ance. For at least one night on each year over all 
 Christendom there is brotherhood. And good 
 men, sitting amongst their families, or by a solitary 
 fire like me, when they remember the light that 
 shone over the poor clowns huddling on the 
 Bethlehem plains eighteen hundred years ago, the
 
 I20 CHRISTMAS 
 
 apparition of shining angels overhead, the song 
 " Peace on earth and goodwill toward men," which 
 for the first time hallowed the midnight air — pray 
 for that strain's fulfilment, that battle and strife 
 may vex the nations no more, that not only on 
 Christmas Eve, but the whole year round, men 
 shall be brethren, owning one Father in heaven. 
 
 Although suggested by the season, and by a 
 solitary dinner, it is not my purpose to indulge in 
 personal reminiscence and talk. Let all that pass. 
 This is Christmas Day, the anniversary of the 
 world's greatest event. To one day all the early 
 world looked forward ; to the same day the later 
 world looks back. That day holds time together. 
 Isaiah, standing on the peaks of prophecy, looked 
 across ruined empires and the desolations of many 
 centuries, and saw on the horizon the new star 
 arise, and was glad. On this night eighteen 
 hundred years ago, Jove was discrowned, the Pagan 
 heaven emptied of its divinities, and Olympus left 
 to the solitude of its snows. On this night, so 
 many hundred years bygone, the despairing voice 
 was heard shrieking on the ^gean, "Pan is dead ! 
 great Pan is dead ! " On this night, according to 
 the fine reverence of the poets, all things that blast 
 and blight are powerless, disarmed by sweet influ- 
 ences : 
 
 "Some say that ever 'gainst the season comes 
 Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
 The bird of dawning singeth all night long ; 
 And then they say no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
 The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike ; 
 No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm : 
 So hallow'd and so gracious is the time."
 
 CHRISTMAS 121 
 
 The flight of the Pagan mythology before the 
 new faith has been a favourite subject with the 
 poets ; and it has been my custom for many 
 seasons to read Milton's " Hymn to the Nativity " 
 on the evening of Christmas Day. The bass of 
 heaven's deep organ seems to blow in the lines, 
 and slowly and with many echoes the strain melts 
 into silence. To my ear the lines sound like the 
 full-voiced choir and the rolling organ of a 
 cathedral, when the afternoon light streaming 
 through the painted windows fills the place with 
 solemn colours and masses of gorgeous gloom. 
 To-night I shall float my lonely hours away 
 on music : 
 
 "The oracles are dumb, 
 No voice or hideous hum 
 Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving : 
 Apollo from his shrine 
 Can no more divine 
 With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. 
 No nightly trance or breathed spell 
 Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 
 
 "The lonely mountains o'er, 
 And the resounding shore, 
 A voice of weeping heard and loud lament : 
 From haunting spring, and dale 
 Edged with poplars pale. 
 The parting genius is with sighing sent : 
 With flower-enwoven tresses torn 
 The nymphs in twilight shades of tangled thickets mourn. 
 
 " Peer and Baalim 
 
 Forsake their temples dim 
 With that twice- batter'd god of Palestine,
 
 122 CHRISTMAS 
 
 And mooned Ashtaroth, 
 Heaven's queen and mother both, 
 Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ! 
 The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, 
 In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. 
 
 "And sullen Moloch, fled, 
 Hath left in shadows dread 
 His burning idol, all of blackest hue : 
 In vain with cymbals' ring 
 They call the grisly king 
 In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 
 The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
 Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste. 
 
 "He feels from Juda's land 
 The dreaded Infant's hand. 
 The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne : 
 Nor all the gods beside 
 Dare longer there abide, 
 Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine. 
 Our Babe to shew his Godhead true 
 Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew." 
 
 These verses, as if loath to die, Hnger with a 
 certain presistence in mind and ear. This is the 
 " mighty line " which critics talk about ! And just 
 as in an infant's face you may discern the rudiments 
 of the future man, so in the glorious hymn may 
 be traced the more majestic lineaments of the 
 " Paradise Lost." 
 
 Strangely enough, the next noblest dirge for 
 the unrealmed divinities which I can call to re- 
 membrance, and at the same time the most 
 eloquent celebration of the new power and 
 prophecy of its triumph, has been uttered by 
 Shelley, who cannot in any sense be termed a
 
 CHRISTMAS 123 
 
 Christian poet. It is one of the choruses in 
 "Hellas," and perhaps had he lived longer 
 amongst us, it would have been the prelude to 
 higher strains. Of this I am certain, that before 
 his death the mind of that brilliant genius was 
 rapidly changing — that for him the cross was 
 gathering attractions round it — that the wall which 
 he complained had been built up between his 
 heart and his intellect was being broken down, 
 and that rays of a strange splendour were already 
 streaming upon him through the interstices. What 
 a contrast between the darkened glory of " Queen 
 Mab " — of which in after-life he was ashamed, 
 both as a literary work and as an expression of 
 opinion — and the intense, clear, lyrical light of this 
 triumphant poem ! 
 
 "A power from the unknown God, 
 A Promethean conqueror came : 
 Like a triumphal path he trod 
 The thorns of death and shame. 
 
 A mortal shape to him 
 
 Was like the vapour dim 
 Which the orient planet animates with light. 
 
 Hell, sin, and slavery came, 
 
 Like bloodhounds mild and tame, 
 Nor prey'd until their lord had taken flight. 
 
 The moon of Mahomet 
 
 Arose, and it shall set ; 
 While blazon'd, as on heaven's immortal noon, 
 
 The Cross leads generations on. 
 
 " Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep, 
 From one whose dreams are paradise, 
 Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to weep. 
 And day peers forth with her blank eyes ;
 
 124 CHRISTMAS 
 
 So fleet, so faint, so fair, 
 
 The powers of earth and air 
 Fled from the folding star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Apollo, Pan, and Love, 
 
 And even Olympian Jove, 
 Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared on them. 
 
 Our hills, and seas, and streams, 
 
 Dispeopled of their dreams. 
 Their waters turn"d to blood, their dew to tears, 
 
 Wail'd for the golden years." 
 
 For my own part, I cannot read these lines without 
 emotion — not so much for their beauty as for the 
 change in the writer's mind which they suggest. 
 The self-sacrifice which lies at the centre of 
 Christianity should have touched this man more 
 deeply than almost any other. That it was 
 beginning to touch and mould him, I verily 
 believe. He died and made that sign. Of what 
 music did that storm in Spezia Bay rob the 
 world ! 
 
 " The Cross leads generations on." Believing 
 as I do that my own personal decease is not more 
 certain than that our religion will subdue the world, 
 I own that it is with a somewhat saddened heart 
 that I pass my thoughts around the globe, and 
 consider how distant is yet that triumph. There 
 are the realms on which the Crescent beams, the 
 monstrous many-headed gods of India, the China- 
 man's heathenism, the African's devil-rites. These 
 are, to a large extent, principalities and powers of 
 darkness with which our religion has never been 
 brought into collision, save at trivial and far- 
 separated points, and in these cases the attack has 
 never been made in strength. But what of our
 
 CHRISTMAS 125 
 
 own Europe — the home of philosophy, of poetry, 
 and painting? Europe, which has produced 
 Greece, and Rome, and England's centuries of 
 glory ; which has been illumined by the fires of 
 martyrdom ; which has heard a Luther preach ; 
 which has listened to Dante's " mystic unfathom- 
 able song " ; to which Milton has opened the door 
 of heaven — what of it? And what, too, of that 
 younger America, starting in its career with all our 
 good things, and enfranchised of many of our evils ? 
 Did not the December sun now shining look down 
 on thousands slaughtered at Fredericksburg, in a 
 most mad, most incomprehensible quarrel? And 
 is not the public air which European nations 
 breathe at this moment, as it has been for several 
 years back, charged with thunder? Despots are 
 plotting, ships are building, man's ingenuity is 
 bent, as it never was bent before, on the invention 
 and improvement of instruments of death ; Europe 
 is bristling with five millions of bayonets : and 
 this is the condition of a world for which the Son 
 of God died eighteen hundred and sixty-two years 
 ago! 
 
 There is no mystery of Providence so in- 
 scrutable as this ; and yet, is not the very sense 
 of its mournfulness a proof that the spirit of 
 Christianity is living in the minds of men ? For, 
 of a verity, military glory is becoming in our best 
 thoughts a bloody rag, and conquest the first in 
 the catalogue of mighty crimes, and a throned 
 tyrant, with armies, and treasures, and the cheers 
 of millions rising up like a cloud of incense 
 around him, but a mark for the thunderbolt of
 
 126 CHRISTMAS 
 
 Almighty God — in reality poorer than Lazarus 
 stretched at the gate of Dives. Besides, all these 
 things are getting themselves to some extent 
 mitigated. Florence Nightingale — for the first 
 time in the history of the world — walks through 
 the Scutari hospitals, and "poor, noble, wounded, 
 and sick men," to use her Majesty's tender phrases, 
 kiss her shadow as it falls on them. The Emperor 
 Napoleon does not make war to employ his 
 armies, or to consolidate his power; he does so 
 for the sake of an "idea" more or less generous 
 and disinterested. The soul of mankind would 
 revolt at the blunt, naked truth ; and the taciturn 
 emperor knows this, as he knows most things. 
 This imperial hypocrisy, like every other hypocrisy, 
 is a homage which vice pays to virtue. There 
 cannot be a doubt that when the political crimes 
 of kings and governments, the sores that fester in 
 the heart of society, and all "the burden of the 
 uninteUigible world," weigh heaviest on the mind, 
 we have to thank Christianity for it. That pure 
 light makes visible the darkness. The Sermon 
 on the Mount makes the morality of the nations 
 ghastly. The Divine love makes human hate 
 stand out in dark relief. 
 
 This sadness, in the essence of it nobler 
 than any joy, is the heritage of the Christian. 
 An ancient Roman could not have felt so. 
 Everything runs on smoothly enough so long as 
 Jove wields the thunder. But Venus, Mars, 
 and Minerva are far behind us now; the 
 Cross is before us ; and self-denial and sorrow for 
 sin, and the remembrance of the poor, and the
 
 CHRISTMAS 127 
 
 cleansing of our own hearts, are duties incumbent 
 upon every one of us. If the Christian is less 
 happy than the Pagan, and at times I think he is 
 so, it arises from the reproach of the Christian's 
 unreached ideal, and from the stings of his finer 
 and more scrupulous conscience. His whole 
 moral organisation is finer, and he must pay the 
 noble penalty of finer organisations. 
 
 Once again, for the purpose of taking away all 
 solitariness of feeling, and of connecting myself, 
 albeit only in fancy, with the proper gladness of 
 the time, let me think of the comfortable family 
 dinners now being drawn to a close, of the good 
 wishes uttered, and the presents made, quite 
 valueless in themselves, yet felt to be invaluable 
 from the feelings from which they spring ; of the 
 little children, by sweetmeats lapped in Elysium ; 
 and of the pantomime, pleasantest Christmas sight 
 of all, with the pit a sea of grinning delight, the 
 boxes a tier of beaming juvenility, the galleries, 
 piled up to the far-receding roof, a mass of happy 
 laughter which a clown's joke brings down in 
 mighty avalanches. In the pit, sober people relax 
 themselves, and suck oranges, and quaff ginger- 
 pop ; in the boxes. Miss, gazing through her curls, 
 thinks the Fairy Prince the prettiest creature she 
 ever beheld, and Master, that to be a clown must 
 be the pinnacle of human happiness ; while up in 
 the galleries the hard literal world is for an hour 
 sponged out and obliterated; the chimney-sweep 
 forgets, in his delight when the policeman comes 
 to grief, the harsh call of his master, and Cinderella, 
 when the demons are foiled, and the long-parted
 
 128 CHRISTMAS 
 
 lovers meet and embrace in a paradise of light and 
 pink gauze, the grates that must be scrubbed to- 
 morrow. All bands and trappings of toil are for 
 one hour loosened by the hands of imaginative 
 sympathy. \\'hat happiness a single theatre can 
 contain ! And those of maturer years, or of more 
 meditative temperament, sitting at the pantomime, 
 can extract out of the shifting scenes meanings 
 suitable to themselves ; for the pantomime is a 
 symbol or adumbration of human life. Have we 
 not all known Harlequin, who rules the roast, and 
 has the pretty Columbine to himself? Do we not 
 aU know that rogue of a clown with his peculating 
 fingers, who brazens out of every scrape, and who 
 conquers the world by good humour and ready 
 wit? And have we not seen Pantaloons not a 
 few, whose fate it is to get all the kicks and lose 
 all the halfpence, to fall through all the trap-doors, 
 break their shins over all the barrows, and be for 
 ever captured by the policeman, while the true 
 pilferer, the clown, makes his escape with the 
 booty in his possession? Methinks I know the 
 realities of which these things are but the shadows ; 
 have met with them in business, have sat with 
 them at dinner. But to-night no such notions as 
 these intrude; and when the torrent of fun, and 
 transformation, and practical joking which rushed 
 out of the beautiful fairy world, is in the beautiful 
 fairy world gathered up again, the high-heaped 
 happiness of the theatre will disperse itself, and 
 the Christmas pantomime will be a pleasant 
 memory the whole year through. Thousands on 
 thousands of people are having their midriffs
 
 CHRISTMAS 129 
 
 tickled at this moment ; in fancy I see their 
 lighted faces, in memory I hear their mirth. 
 
 By this time I should think every Christmas 
 dinner at Dreamthorp or elsewhere has come to 
 an end. Even now in the great cities the theatres 
 will be dispersing. The clown has wiped the 
 paint off his face. Harlequin has laid aside his 
 wand, and divested himself of his glittering rai- 
 ment ; Pantaloon, after refreshing himself with a 
 pint of porter, is rubbing his aching joints ; and 
 Columbine, wrapped up in a shawi, and with 
 sleepy eyelids, has gone home in a cab. Soon, 
 in the great theatre, the lights will be put out, and 
 the empty stage will be left to ghosts. Hark ! 
 midnight from the church tower vibrates through 
 the frosty air. I look out on the brilliant heaven, 
 and see a milky way of powdery splendour wander- 
 ing through it, and clusters and knots of stars and 
 planets shining serenely in the blue frosty spaces ; 
 and the armed apparition of Orion, his spear 
 pointing away into immeasurable space, gleaming 
 overhead ; and the familiar constellation of the 
 Plough dipping down into the west ; and I think 
 when I go in again that there is one Christmas the 
 less between me and my grave.
 
 MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 MR. HAZLITT has written many pleasant 
 essays, but none pleasanter than that 
 entitled " My First Acquaintance with Poets," 
 which, in the edition edited by his son, opens 
 the Wintersloe series. It relates almost entirely to 
 Coleridge ; containing sketches of his personal 
 appearance, fragments of his conversation, and is 
 filled with a young man's generous enthusiasm, 
 belief, admiration, as with sunrise. He had met 
 Coleridge, walked with him, talked with him, and 
 the high intellectual experience not only made him 
 better acquainted with his own spirit and its folded 
 powers, but — as is ever the case with such spiritual 
 encounters — it touched and illuminated the dead 
 outer world. The road between Wem and Shrews- 
 bury was familiar enough to Hazlitt, but as the 
 twain passed along it on that winter day, it became 
 ethereaUsed, poetic — wonderful, as if leading across 
 the Delectable Mountains to the Golden City, 
 whose gleam is discernible on the horizon. The 
 milestones were mute with attention, the pines 
 upon the hill had ears for the stranger as he 
 passed. Eloquence made the red leaves rustle on 
 
 130
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 131 
 
 the oak ; made the depth of heaven seem as if 
 swept by a breath of spring ; and when the evening 
 star appeared, Hazlitt saw it as Adam did while in 
 Paradise and but one day old. "As we passed 
 along," writes the essayist, " between Wem and 
 Shrewsbury, and I eyed the blue hilltops seen 
 through the wintry branches, or the red, rustling 
 leaves of the sturdy oak trees by the wayside, a 
 sound was in my ears as of a syren's song. I was 
 stunned, startled with it as from deep sleep ; but I 
 had no notion that I should ever be able to express 
 my admiration to others in motley imagery or 
 quaint allusion, till the light of his genius shone 
 into my soul, like the sun's rays glittering in the 
 puddles of the road. I was at that time dumb, 
 inarticulate, helpless, like a worm by the wayside, 
 crushed, bleeding, lifeless ; but now, bursting from 
 the deadly bands that bound them, my ideas float 
 on winged words, and as they expand their plumes, 
 catch the golden light of other years. My soul 
 has indeed remained in its original bondage, dark, 
 obscure, with longings infinite and unsatisfied ; 
 my heart, shut up in the prison-house of this 
 rude clay, has never found, nor will it ever find, 
 a heart to speak to ; but that my understanding 
 also did not remain dumb and brutish, or at length 
 found a language to express itself, I owe to 
 Coleridge." 
 
 Time and sorrow, personal ambition thwarted 
 and fruitlessly driven back on itself, hopes for the 
 world defeated and unrealised, changed the en- 
 thusiastic youth into a petulant, unsocial man ; 
 yet ever as he remembered that meeting and his
 
 132 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 wintry walk from Wem to Shrewsbury, the early 
 glow came back, and again a "sound was in his 
 ears as of a syren's song." 
 
 We are not all hero-worshippers like Hazlitt, but 
 most of us are so to a large extent. A large pro- 
 portion of mankind feel a quite peculiar interest in 
 famous writers. They like to read about them, to 
 know what they said on this or the other occasion, 
 what sort of house they inhabited, what fashion of 
 dress they wore, if they liked any particular dish 
 for dinner, what kind of women they fell in love 
 with, and whether their domestic atmosphere was 
 stormy or the reverse. Concerning such men no 
 bit of information is too trifling ; everything helps 
 to make out the mental image we have dimly 
 formed for ourselves. And this kind of interest is 
 heightened by the artistic way in which time 
 occasionally groups them. The race is gregarious, 
 they are visible to us in clumps like primroses, 
 they are brought into neighbourhood and flash 
 light on each other like gems in a diadem. We 
 think of the wild geniuses who came up from the 
 universities to London in the dawn of the English 
 drama. Greene, Nash, Marlowe — our first profes- 
 sional men of letters — how they cracked their 
 satirical whips, how they brawled in taverns, how 
 pinched they were at times, how, when they 
 possessed money, they flung it from them as if it 
 were poison, with what fierce speed they wrote, 
 how they shook the stage. Then we think of 
 the " Mermaid " in session, with Shakspeare's 
 bland, oval face,* the light of a smile spread 
 over it, and Ben Jonson's truculent visage, and
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 133 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher sitting together in their 
 beautiful friendship, and fancy as best we can 
 the drollery, the repartee, the sage sentences, 
 the lightning gleams of wit, the thunder-peals of 
 laughter. 
 
 ' ' What things have we seen 
 Done at the Mermaid? Heard words that hath been 
 So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
 As if that every one from whence they came 
 Had meant to put his whole soul in a jest, 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 Of his dull life." 
 
 Then there is the " Literary Club," with Johnson, 
 and Garrick, and Burke, and Reynolds, and 
 Goldsmith sitting in perpetuity in Boswell. The 
 Doctor has been talking there for a hundred years, 
 and there will he talk for many a hundred more. 
 And we of another generation, and with other 
 things to think about, can enter any night we 
 please, and hear what is going on. Then we have 
 the swarthy ploughman from Ayrshire sitting at 
 Lord Monboddo's with Dr. Blair, Dugald Stewart, 
 Henry Mackenzie, and the rest. These went into 
 the presence of the wonderful rustic thoughtlessly 
 enough, and now they cannot return even if they 
 would. They are defrauded of oblivion. Not yet 
 have they tasted forgetfulness and the grave. The 
 day may come when Burns shall be forgotten, but 
 till that day arrives — and the eastern sky as yet 
 gives no token of its approach — him they must 
 attend as satellites the sun, as courtiers their king. 
 Then there are the Lakers — Wordsworth, Cole- 
 ridge, Southey, De Quincey burdened with his
 
 134 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 tremendous dream, Wilson in his splendid youth. 
 What talk, what argument, what readings of lyrical 
 and other ballads, what contempt of critics, what 
 a hail of fine things ! Then there is Charles 
 Lamb's room in Inner Temple Lane, the hush of 
 a whist table in one corner, the host stuttering 
 puns as he deals the cards ; and sitting round 
 about, Hunt, whose every sentence is flavoured 
 with the hawthorn and the primrose, and Hazlitt 
 maddened by Waterloo and St. Helena, and 
 Godwin with his wild theories, and Kemble with 
 his Roman look. And before the morning comes, 
 and Lamb stutters yet more thickly — for there is 
 a slight flavour of punch in the apartment — what 
 talk there has been of Hogarth's prints, of Isaac 
 Walton, of the old dramatists, of Sir Thomas 
 Browne's " Urn Burial," with Elia's quaint humour 
 breaking through every interstice, and flower- 
 ing in every fissure and cranny of the conver- 
 sation ! 
 
 One likes to think of these social gatherings of 
 wits and geniuses ; they are more interesting than 
 conclaves of kings or convocations of bishops. 
 One would like to have been the waiter at the 
 " Mermaid," and to have stood behind Shak- 
 speare's chair. What was that functionary's 
 opinion of his guests ? Did he listen and become 
 witty by infection ? or did he, when his task was 
 over, retire unconcernedly to chalk up the tavern 
 score? One envies somewhat the damsel who 
 brought Lamb the spirit-case and the hot water. 
 I think of these meetings, and, in lack of compan- 
 ionship, frame for myself imaginary conversations
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 135 
 
 — not so brillant, of course, as Mr. Landor's, but 
 yet sufficient to make pleasant for me the twilight 
 hour while the lamp is yet unlit, and my solitary 
 room is filled with the ruddy lights and shadows 
 of the fire. 
 
 Of human notabilities men of letters are the 
 most interesting, and this arises mainly from their 
 outspokenness as a class. The writer makes him- 
 self known in a way that no other man makes 
 himself known. The distinguished engineer may 
 be as great a man as the distinguished writer, but 
 as a rule we know little about him. We see him 
 invent a locomotive, or bridge a strait, but there 
 our knowledge stops ; we look at the engine, we 
 walk across the bridge, we admire the ingenuity of 
 the one, we are grateful for the conveniency of the 
 other, but to our apprehensions the engineer is 
 undeciphered all the while. Doubtless he reveals 
 himself in his work as the poet reveals himself 
 in his song, but then this revelation is made 
 in a tongue unknown to the majority. After 
 all, we do not feel that we get nearer him. The 
 man of letters, on the other hand, is outspoken, he 
 takes you into his confidence, he keeps no secret 
 from you. Be you beggar, be you king, you are 
 welcome. He is no respector of persons. He 
 gives without reserve his fancies, his wit, his 
 wisdom ; he makes you a present of all that the 
 painful or the happy years have brought him. The 
 writer makes his reader heir in full. Men of 
 letters are a peculiar class. They are never com- 
 monplace or prosaic — at least those of them that 
 mankind care for. They are airy, wise, gloomy,
 
 136 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 melodious spirits. They give us the language we 
 speak, they furnish the subjects of our best talk. 
 They are full of generous impulses and sentiments, 
 and keep the world young. They have said fine 
 things on every phase of human experience. The 
 air is full of their voices. Their books are the 
 world's holiday and playground, and into these 
 neither care, nor the dun, nor despondency can 
 follow the enfranchised man. Men of letters 
 forerun science as the morning star the dawn. 
 Nothing has been invented, nothing has been 
 achieved, but has gleamed a bright-coloured Utopia 
 in the eyes of one or the other of these men. 
 Several centuries before the Great Exhibition 
 of 185 1 rose in Hyde Park, a wondrous hall of 
 glass stood, radiant in sunlight, in the verse of 
 Chaucer. 
 
 The electric telegraph is not so swift as the flight 
 of Puck. We have not yet realised the hippogriff 
 of Ariosto. Just consider what a world this would 
 be if ruled by the best thoughts of men of letters ! 
 Ignorance would die at once, war would cease, 
 taxation would be lightened, not only every 
 Frenchman, but every man in the world, would 
 have his hen in the pot. May would not marry 
 January. The race of lawyers and physicians 
 would be extinct. Fancy a world, the affairs of 
 which are directed by Goethe's wisdom and 
 Goldsmith's heart ! In such a case methinks the 
 millennium were already come. Books are a finer 
 world within the world. With books are connected 
 all my desires and aspirations. When I go to my 
 long sleep, on a book will my head be pillowed.
 
 MEN OF LETTERS' 137 
 
 I care for no other fashion of greatness. I'd as 
 lief not be remembered at all as remembered in 
 connection with anything else. I would rather be 
 Charles Lamb than Charles xii. I would rather 
 be remembered by a song than by a victory. I 
 would rather build a fine sonnet than have built 
 St. Paul's. I would rather be the discoverer of a 
 new image than the discoverer of a new planet. 
 Fine phrases I value more than banknotes. I 
 have ear for no other harmony than the harmony 
 of words. To be occasionally quoted is the only 
 fame I care for. 
 
 But what of the literary life ? How fares it with 
 the men whose days and nights are devoted to the 
 writing of books ? We know the famous men of 
 letters, we give them the highest place in our 
 regards ; we crown them with laurels so thickly 
 that we hide the furrows on their foreheads. Yet 
 we must remember that there are men of letters 
 who have been equally sanguine, equally ardent, 
 who have pursued perfection equally unselfishly, 
 but who have failed to make themselves famous. 
 We know the ships that come with streaming 
 pennons into the immortal ports ; we know but 
 little of the ships that have gone on fire on the 
 way thither — that have gone down at sea. Even 
 with successful men we cannot know precisely how 
 matters have gone. We read the fine raptures of 
 the poet, but we do not know into what kind of 
 being he relapses when the inspiration is over, 
 any more than, seeing and hearing the lark shrilling 
 at the gate of heaven, we know with what effort it 
 has climbed thither, or into what kind of nest it
 
 138 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 must descend. The lark is not always singing ; 
 no more is the poet. The lark is only interesting 
 while singing, at other times it is but a plain brown 
 bird. We may not be able to recognise the poet 
 when he doffs his singing robes ; he may then sink 
 to the level of his admirers. We laugh at the 
 fancies of the humorist, but he may have written 
 his brilliant things in a dismal enough mood. 
 The writer is not continually dwelling amongst 
 the roses and lilies of life, he is not continually 
 uttering generous sentiments, and saying fine 
 things. On him, as on his brethren, the world 
 presses with its prosaic needs. He has to make 
 love and marry, and run the usual matrimonial 
 risks. The income-tax collector visits him as 
 well as others. Around his head at Christmas- 
 times drives a snowstorm of bills. He must keep 
 the wolf from the door, and he has only his 
 goose-quills to confront it with. And here it is, 
 having to deal with alien powers, that his special 
 temperament comes into play, and may work him 
 evil. 
 
 Wit is not worldly wisdom. A man gazing 
 on the stars is proverbially at the mercy of the 
 puddles on the road. A man may be able to 
 disentangle intricate problems, be able to recall 
 the past, and yet be cozened by an ordinary knave. 
 The finest expression will not liquidate a butcher's 
 account. If Apollo puts his name to a bill, he 
 must meet it when it becomes due, or go into the 
 Gazette. Armies are not always cheering on the 
 heights which they have won; there are forced 
 marches, occasional shortness of provisions.
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 139 
 
 bivouacs on muddy plains, driving in of pickets, 
 and the like, although these inglorious items are 
 forgotten when we read the roll of victories 
 inscribed on their banners. The books of the 
 great writer are only portions of the great writer. 
 His life acts on his writings : his writings react 
 on his life. His life may impoverish his books ; 
 his books may impoverish his life. Apollo's 
 
 "branch that might have grown full straight," 
 
 may have the worm of a vulgar misery gnawing 
 at its roots. The heat of inspiration may be 
 subtracted from the household fire ; and those 
 who sit by it may be the colder in consequence. 
 A man may put all his good things in his books, 
 and leave none for his hfe, just as a man may 
 expend his fortune on a splendid dress, and carry 
 a pang of hunger beneath it. 
 
 There are few less exhilarating books than the 
 biographies of men of letters, and of artists 
 generally ; and this arises from the pictures of 
 comparative defeat which, in almost every instance, 
 such books contain. In these books we see failure 
 more or less — seldom clear, victorious effort. If 
 the art is exquisite, the marble is flawed; if the 
 marble is pure, there is defect in art. There is 
 always something lacking in the poem ; there is 
 always irremediable defect in the picture. In the 
 biography we see persistent, passionate effort, and 
 almost constant repulse. If, on the whole, victory 
 is gained, one wing of the army has been thrown 
 into confusion. In the hfe of a successful farmer, 
 for instance, one feels nothing of this kind ; his
 
 I40 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 year flows on harmoniously, fortunately : through 
 ploughing, seed-time, growth of grain, the yellowing 
 of it beneath meek autumn suns and big autumn 
 moons, the cutting of it down, riotous harvest- 
 home, final sale, and large balance at the banker's. 
 From the point of view of almost unvarying success 
 the farmer's life becomes beautiful, poetic. Every- 
 thing is an aid and help to him. Nature puts her 
 shoulder to his wheel. He takes the winds, the 
 clouds, the sunbeams, the rolling stars into 
 partnership, and, asking no dividend, they let 
 him retain the entire profits. As a rule, the lives 
 of men of letters do not flow on in this successful 
 way. In their case there is always either defect 
 in the soil or defect in the husbandry. Like the 
 Old Guard at Waterloo, they are fighting bravely 
 on a lost field. In literary biography there is 
 always an element of tragedy, and the love we 
 bear the dead is mingled with pity. Of course 
 the life of a man of letters is more perilous than 
 the life of a farmer; more perilous than almost 
 any other kind of life which it is given a human 
 being to conduct. It is more difficult to obtain 
 the mastery over spiritual ways and means than 
 over material ones, and he must command both. 
 Properly to conduct his life he must not only 
 take large crops off his fields, he must also 
 leave in his fields the capacity of producing 
 large crops. It is easy to drive in your chariot 
 two horses of one breed; not so easy when the 
 one is of terrestrial stock, the other of celestial ; 
 in every respect different — in colour, temper, 
 and pace.
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 141 
 
 At the outset of his career, the man of letters 
 is confronted by the fact that he must Uve. The 
 obtaining of a UveHhood is preHminary to every- 
 thing else. Poets and cobblers are placed on the 
 same level so far. If the writer can barter MSS. 
 for sufficient coin, he may proceed to develop 
 himself; if he cannot so barter it, there is a 
 speedy end of himself, and of his development 
 also. Literature has become a profession ; but 
 it is in several respects different from the pro- 
 fessions by which other human beings earn their 
 bread. The man of letters, unlike the clergy- 
 man, the physician, or the lawyer, has to undergo 
 no special preliminary training for his work, and 
 while engaged in it, unlike the professional 
 persons named, he has no accredited status. Of 
 course, to earn any success, he must start with 
 as much special knowledge, with as much dex- 
 terity in his craft, as your ordinary physician ; 
 but then he is not recognised till once he is 
 successful. 
 
 When a man takes a physician's degree, he has 
 done something; when a man betakes himself 
 to literary pursuits, he has done nothing — till 
 once he is lucky enough to make his mark. 
 There is no special preliminary training for men 
 of letters, and, as a consequence, their ranks are 
 recruited from the vagrant talent of the world. 
 Men that break loose from the professions, who 
 stray from the beaten tracks of life, take refuge 
 in literature. Li it are to be found doctors, 
 lawyers, clergymen, and the motley nation of 
 Bohemians. Any one possessed of a nimble
 
 142 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 brain, a quire of paper, a steel pen and ink-bottle, 
 can start business. Any one who chooses may 
 enter the lists, and no questions are asked con- 
 cerning his antecedents. The battle is won by 
 sheer strength of brain. From all this it comes 
 that the man of letters has usually a history of his 
 own : his individuality is more pronounced than 
 the individuality of other men ; he has been 
 knocked about by passion and circumstance. 
 All his life he has had a dislike for iron rules and 
 commonplace maxims. There is something of 
 the gipsy in his nature. He is to some extent 
 eccentric, and he indulges his eccentricity. And 
 the misfortunes of men of letters — the vulgar and 
 patient misfortunes, I mean — arise mainly from 
 the want of harmony between their impulsiveness 
 and volatility, and the staid unmercurial world 
 with which they were brought into conflict. They 
 are unconventional in a world of conventions ; 
 they are fanciful, and are constantly misunderstood 
 in prosaic relations. They are wise enough in 
 their books, for there they are sovereigns, and 
 can shape everything to their own likings ; out 
 of their books, they are not unfrequently extremely 
 foolish, for they exist then in the territory of an 
 alien power, and are constantly knocking their 
 heads against existing orders of things. 
 
 Men of letters take prosaic men out of them- 
 selves ; but they are weak where the prosaic men 
 are strong. They have their own way in the world 
 of ideas, prosaic men in the world of facts. From 
 his practical errors the writer learns something, if 
 not always humility and amendment. A memorial
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 143 
 
 flower grows on every spot where he has come 
 to grief; and the chasm he cannot overleap he 
 bridges with a rainbow. 
 
 But the man of letters has not only to live, he 
 has to develop himself; and his earning of money 
 and his intellectual development should proceed 
 simultaneously and in proportionate degrees. 
 Herein lies the main difificulty of the literary life. 
 Out of his thought the man must bring fire, food, 
 clothing; and fire, food, clothing must in their 
 turns subserve thought. It is necessary, for the 
 proper conduct of such a life, that while the 
 balance at the banker's increases, intellectual re- 
 source should increase at the same ratio. Progress 
 should not be made in the faculty of expression 
 alone — progress at the same time should be made 
 in thought; for thought is the material on which 
 expression feeds. Should sufficient advance not 
 be made in this last direction, in a short time the 
 man feels that he has expressed himself — that now 
 he can only more or less dexterously repeat himself 
 — more or less prettily become his own echo. It 
 is comparatively easy to acquire facility in writing ; 
 but it is an evil thing for the man of letters when 
 such facility is the only thing he has acquired — 
 when it has been, perhaps, the only thing he has 
 striven to acquire. Such miscalculation of ways 
 and means suggests vulgarity of aspiration, and a 
 fatal material taint. In the life in which this 
 error has been committed there can be no proper 
 harmony, no satisfaction, no spontaneous delight 
 in effort. The man does not create — he is only 
 desperately keeping up appearances. He has at
 
 1^4 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 once become "a base mechanical," and his suc- 
 cesses are not much higher than the successes of 
 the acrobat or the rope-dancer. This want of 
 proper relationship between resources of expression 
 and resources of thought, or subject-matter for 
 expression, is common enough, and some slight 
 suspicion of it flashes across the mind at times in 
 reading even the best authors. It lies at the bottom 
 of every catastrophe in the literary life. Frequently 
 a man's first book is good, and all his after pro- 
 ductions but faint and yet fainter reverberations of 
 the first. The men who act thus are in the long 
 run deserted like worked-out mines. A man 
 reaches his limits as to thought long before he 
 reaches his limits as to expression ; and a haunting 
 suspicion of this is one of the peculiar bitters of 
 the literary life. Hazlitt tells us that, after one of 
 his early interviews with Coleridge, he sat down to 
 his Essay on the Natural Disinterestedness of the 
 Human Mind. " I sat down to the task shortly 
 afterwards for the twentieth time, got new pens and 
 paper, determined to make clean work of it, wrote 
 a few sentences in the skeleton style of a mathema- 
 tical demonstration, stopped half-way down the 
 second page, and, after trying in vain to pump up 
 any words, images, notions, apprehensions, facts, or 
 observations, from that gulf of abstraction in which 
 I had plunged myself for four or five years pre- 
 ceding, gave up the attempt as labour in vain, and 
 shed tears of hopeless despondency on the blank 
 unfinished paper. I can write fast enough now. 
 Am I better than I was then ? oh no ! One truth 
 discovered, one pang of regret at not being able to
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 145 
 
 express it, is worth all the fluency and flippancy in 
 the world." This regretful looking back to the 
 past, when emotions were keen and sharp, and 
 when tliought wore the novel dress of a stranger, 
 and this dissatisfaction with the acquirements of the 
 present, is common enough with the man of letters. 
 The years have come and gone, and he is conscious 
 that he is not intrinsically richer — he has only 
 learned to assort and display his riches to advan- 
 tage. His wares have neither increased in (quantity 
 nor improved in quality — he has only procured a 
 window in a leading thoroughfare. He can catch 
 his butterflies more cunningly, he can pin them on 
 his cards more skilfully, but their wings are fingered 
 and tawdry compared with the time when they 
 winnowed before him in the sunshine over the 
 meadows of youth. This species of regret is pecu- 
 liar to the class of which I am speaking, and they 
 often discern failure in what the world counts 
 success. 
 
 The veteran does not look back to the time 
 when he was in the awkward squad ; the account- 
 ant does not sigh over the time when he was 
 bewildered by the mysteries of double-entry. And 
 the reason is obvious. The dexterity which time 
 and practice have brought to the soldier and 
 the accountant is pure gain : the dexterity of ex- 
 pression which time and practice have brought to 
 the writer is gain too, in its way, but not quite so 
 pure. It may have been cultivated and brought to 
 its degree of excellence at the expense of higher 
 things. The man of letters lives by thought and 
 expression, and his two powers may not be perfectly 
 10
 
 146 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 balanced. And, putting aside its effect on the 
 reader, and through that, on the writer's pecuniary 
 prosperity, the tragedy of want of equipoise Ues in 
 this. When the writer expresses his thought, it is 
 immediately dead to him, however life-giving it 
 may be to others ; he pauses midway in his career, 
 he looks back over his uttered past — brown desert 
 to him, in which there is no sustenance — he looks 
 forward to the green ?(;«uttered future, and beholding 
 its narrow limits, knows it is all that he can call his 
 own — on that vivid strip he must pasture his intel- 
 lectual life. 
 
 Is the literary life, on the whole, a happy one ? 
 Granted that the writer is productive, that he 
 possesses abundance of material, that he has 
 secured the ear of the world, one is inclined to 
 fancy that no life could be happier. Such a man 
 seems to live on the finest of the wheat. If a poet, 
 he is continually singing ; if a novelist, he is 
 supreme in his ideal world ; if a humorist, every- 
 thing smiles back upon his smile ; if an essayist, he 
 is continually saying the wisest, most memorable 
 things. He breathes habitually the serener air 
 which ordinary mortals can only at intervals respire, 
 and in their happiest moments. Such conceptions 
 of great writers are to some extent erroneous. 
 Through the medium of their books we know 
 them only in their active mental states — in their 
 triumphs ; we do not see them when sluggishness 
 has succeeded the effort which was delight. The 
 statue does not come to her white limbs all at 
 once. It is the bronze wrestler, not the flesh and 
 blood one, that stands for ever over a fallen adver-
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 147 
 
 sary with the pride of victory on his face. Of the 
 labour, the weariness, the self-distrust, the utter 
 despondency of the great writer, we know nothing. 
 Then, for the attainment of mere happiness or 
 contentment, any high faculty of imagination is a 
 questionable help. Of course imagination lights 
 the torch of joy, it deepens the carmine on the 
 sleek cheek of the girl, it makes wine sparkle, 
 makes music speak, gives rays to the rising sun. 
 But in all its supreme sweetnesses there is a perilous 
 admixture of deceit, which is suspected even at 
 the moment when the senses tingle keenliest. 
 
 And it must be remembered that this potent 
 faculty can darken as well as brighten. It is the very 
 soul of pain. While the trumpets are blowing in 
 Ambition's ear, it whispers of the grave. It drapes 
 Death in austere solemnities, and surrounds him 
 with a gloomy court of terrors. The life of the 
 imaginative man is never a commonplace one : 
 his lights are brighter, his glooms are darker, than 
 the lights and glooms of the vulgar. His ecstasies 
 are as restless as his pains. The great writer has 
 this perilous faculty in excess ; and through it he 
 will, as a matter of course, draw out of the atmo- 
 sphere of circumstance surrounding him the keen- 
 ness of pleasure and pain. To my own notion, 
 the best gifts of the gods are neither the most 
 glittering nor the most admired. These gifts I 
 take to be, a moderate ambition, a taste for repose 
 with circumstances favourable thereto, a certain 
 mildness of passion, an even-beating pulse, an 
 even-beating heart. I do not consider heroes and 
 celebrated persons the happiest of mankind. I do
 
 148 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 not envy Alexander the shouting of his armies 
 nor Dante his laurel wreath. Even were I able, I 
 would not purchase these at the prices the poet 
 the and warrior paid. So far, then, as great writers 
 — great poets, especially — are of imagination all 
 compact — a peculiarity of mental constitution 
 which makes a man go shares with every one he 
 is brought into contact with ; which makes him 
 enter into Romeo's rapture when he touches 
 Juliet's cheek among cypresses silvered by the 
 Verona moonlight, and the stupor of the blinded 
 and pinioned wretch on the scaffold before the 
 bolt is drawn — so far as this special gift goes, I 
 do not think the great poet — and by virtue of it 
 he is a poet — is likely to be happier than your 
 more ordinary mortal. On the whole, perhaps, it 
 is the great readers rather than the great writers 
 who are entirely to be envied. They pluck the 
 ; fruits, and are spared the trouble of rearing them. 
 Prometheus filched fire from heaven, and had for 
 reward the crag of Caucasus, the chain, the vul- 
 ture ; while they for whom he stole it cook their 
 suppers upon it, stretch out benumbed hands 
 towards it, and see its light reflected in their 
 children's faces. They are comfortable : he, 
 roofed by the keen crystals of the stars, groans 
 above. 
 
 Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of 
 mortal life. The majority of men slip into their 
 graves without having encountered on their way 
 thither any signal catastrophe or exaltation of 
 fortune or feeling. Collect a thousand ignited 
 sticks into a heap, and you have a bonfire which
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 149 
 
 may be seen over three counties. If, during 
 thirty years, the annoyances connected with shirt- 
 buttons found missing when you are hurriedly 
 dressing for dinner, were gathered into a mass 
 and endured at once, it would be misery equal to 
 a public execution. If, from the same space of 
 time, all the little titillations of a man's vanity 
 were gathered into one lump of honey and enjoyed 
 at once, the pleasure of being crowned would 
 not perhaps be much greater. If the equanimity 
 of an ordinary man be at the mercy of trifles, how 
 much more will the equanimity of the man of 
 letters, who is usually the most sensitive of the 
 race, and whose peculiar avocation makes sad 
 work with the fine tissues of the nerves. 
 
 Literary composition is, I take it, with the excep- 
 tion of the crank, in which there is neither hope 
 nor result, the most exhausting to which a human 
 being can apply himself. Just consider the 
 situation. Here is your man of letters, tender- 
 hearted as Cowper, who would not count upon 
 his list of friends the man who tramples heedlessly 
 upon a worm ; as light of sleep and abhorrent of 
 noise as Beattie, who denounces chanticleer for 
 his lusty proclamation of morning to his own and 
 the neighbouring farmyards in terms that would 
 be unmeasured if applied to Nero ; as alive to 
 blame as Byron, who declared that the praise of 
 the greatest of the race could not take the sting 
 from the censure of the meanest. Fancy the 
 sufferings of a creature so built and strung in a 
 world which creaks so vilely on its hinges as this ! 
 Will such a man confront a dun with an imperturb-
 
 ISO MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 able countenance? Will he throw himself back 
 in his chair and smile blandly when his chamber 
 is lanced through and through by the notes of a 
 street bagpiper ? When his harassed brain should 
 be solaced by music, will he listen patiently to 
 stupid remarks ? I fear not. The man of letters 
 suffers keenlier than people suspect from sharp, 
 cruel noises, from witless observations, from social 
 misconceptions of him of every kind, from hard 
 utilitarian wisdom, and from his own good things 
 going to the grave unrecognised and unhonoured. 
 And, forced to live by his pen, to extract from 
 his brain bread and beer, clothing, lodging, and 
 income-tax, I am not surprised that he is often- 
 times nervous, querulous, impatient. Thinking 
 of these things, I do not wonder at Hazlitt's 
 spleen, at Charles Lamb's punch, at Coleridge's 
 opium. 
 
 I think of the days spent in writing, and of 
 the nights which repeat the day in dream, and 
 in which there is no refreshment. I think of 
 the brain which must be worked out at length : 
 of Scott, when the wand of the enchanter was 
 broken, writing poor romances ; of Southey sitting 
 vacantly in his library, and drawing a feeble 
 satisfaction from the faces of his books. And 
 for the man of letters there is more than the mere 
 labour : he writes his book, and has frequently 
 the mortification of seeing it neglected or torn to 
 pieces. Above all men, he longs for sympathy, 
 recognition, applause. He respects his fellow- 
 creature, because he beholds in him a possible 
 reader. To write a book, to send it forth to the
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 151 
 
 world and the critics, is to a sensitive person likt 
 plunging mother-naked into tropic waters where 
 sharks abound. It is true that, like death, the 
 terror of criticism lives most in apprehension ; 
 still, to have been frequently criticised, and to be 
 constantly liable to it, are disagreeable items in 
 a man's life. Most men endure criticism with 
 commendable fortitude, just as most criminals 
 when under the drop conduct themselves with 
 calmness. They bleed, but they bleed inwardly. 
 To be flayed in the Saturday Review, for in- 
 stance — a whole amused public looking on — 
 is far from pleasant : and, after the operation, 
 the ordinary annoyances of life probably magnify 
 themselves into tortures. The grasshopper be- 
 comes a burden. Touch a flayed man ever so 
 lightly, and with ever so kindly an intention, and 
 he is sure to wince. The skin of the man of 
 letters is peculiarly sensitive to the bite of the 
 critical mosquito ; and he lives in a climate in which 
 such mosquitoes swarm. He is seldom stabbed 
 to the heart — he is often killed by pin-pricks. 
 
 But to leave palisade and outwork, and come 
 to the interior of the citadel, it may be said that 
 great writers, although they must ever remain 
 shining objects of regard to us, are not exempted 
 from ordinary limitations and conditions. They 
 are cabined, cribbed, confined, even as their 
 more prosaic brethren. It is in the nature of 
 every man to be endued with that he works in. 
 Thus, in course of time, the merchant becomes 
 bound up in his ventures and his ledger; an 
 indefinable flavour of the pharmacopoeia lingers
 
 152 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 about the physician ; the bombazin and horse-hair 
 of the lawyer eat into his soul — his experiences 
 are docqueted in a clerkly hand, bound together 
 with red tape, and put away in professional pigeon- 
 holes. A man naturally becomes leavened by the 
 profession which he has adopted. He thinks, 
 speaks, and dreams "shop," as the colloquial 
 phrase has it. Men of letters are affected by 
 their profession just as merchants, physicians, and 
 lawyers are. In course of time the inner man 
 becomes stained with ink, like blotting-paper. 
 The agriculturist talks constantly of bullocks — the 
 man of letters constantly of books. The printing- 
 press seems constantly in his immediate neighbour- 
 hood. He is stretched on the rack of an unfavour- 
 able review — he is lapped in the Elysium of a 
 new edition. The narrowing effect of a profession 
 is in every man a defect, albeit an inevitable one. 
 Byron, who had a larger amount of common sense 
 that any poet of his day, tells us, in " Beppo," 
 
 ' ' One hates an author that's all author ; fellows 
 In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink." 
 
 And his lordship's " hate " in the matter is under- 
 standable enough. In his own day, Scott and 
 himself were almost the only distinguished authors 
 who were not "all authors," just as Mr. Helps 
 and Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton are almost the 
 only representatives of the class in ours. This 
 professional taint not only resides in the writer, 
 impairing his fulness and completion ; it flows 
 out of him into his work, and impairs it also. 
 It is the professional character which authorship
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 153 
 
 has assumed which has taken individuahty and 
 
 personal flavour from so much of our writing, 
 
 and prevented to a large extent the production of 
 
 enduring books. Our writing is done too hurriedly, 
 
 and to serve a purpose too immediate. Literature 
 
 is not so much an art as a manufacture. There 
 
 is a demand, and too many crops are taken off 
 
 the soil ; it is never allowed to lie fallow, and to 
 
 nourish itself in peacefulness and silence. When 
 
 so many cups are to be filled, too much water 
 
 is certain to be put into the teapot. Letters 
 
 have become a profession, and probably of all 
 
 professions it is, in the long run, the least 
 
 conducive to personal happiness. It is the 
 
 most precarious. Li it, above all others, to be 
 
 weak is to be miserable. It is the least 
 
 mechanical, consequently the most exhausting ; 
 
 and in its higher walks it deals with a man's 
 
 most vital material — utilises his emotions, trades 
 
 on his faculties of love and imagination, uses 
 
 for its own purposes the human heart by which 
 
 he lives. These things a man requires for 
 
 himself; and when they are in a large proportion 
 
 transported to an ideal world, they make the 
 
 ideal world all the more brilliant and furnished, 
 
 and leave his ordinary existence all the more 
 
 arid and commonplace. You cannot spend money 
 
 and have it ; you cannot use emotion and 
 possess it. 
 
 The poet who sings loudly of love and love's 
 
 delights, may in the ordinary intercourse of life 
 
 be all the colder for his singing. The man who 
 
 has been moved while describing an imaginary
 
 154 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 death-bed to-day, is all the more likely to be 
 unmoved while standing by his friend's grave 
 to-morrow. Shakspeare, after emerging from the 
 moonlight in the Verona orchard, and Romeo 
 and Juliet's silvery interchange of vows, was, 
 I fear me, not marvellously enamoured of the 
 autumn on Ann Hathaway's cheek. It is in 
 some such way as this that a man's books 
 may impoverish his life; that the fire and 
 heat of his genius may make his hearth all 
 the colder. From considerations like these, 
 one can explain satisfactorily enough to one's 
 self the domestic misadventures of men of 
 letters — of poets especially. We know the 
 poets only in their books ; their wives know 
 them out of them. Their wives see the other 
 side of the moon ; and we have been made 
 pretty well aware how they have appreciated 
 that 
 
 The man engaged in the writing of books is 
 tempted to make such writing the be-all and 
 end-all of his existence — to grow his literature 
 out of his history, experience, or observation, as 
 the gardener grows out of soils brought from a 
 distance the plants which he intends to exhibit. 
 The cup of life foams fiercely over into first 
 books ; materials for the second, third, and fourth 
 must be carefully sought for. The man of letters, 
 as time passes on, and the professional impulse 
 works deeper, ceases to regard the world with a 
 single eye. The man slowly merges into the 
 artist. He values new emotions and experiences, 
 because he can turn these into artistic shapes.
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 155 
 
 He plucks "copy" from rising and setting suns. 
 He sees marketable pathos in his friend's death- 
 bed. He carries the peal of his daughter's 
 marriage bells into his sentences or his rhymes ; 
 and in these the music sounds sweeter to him 
 than in the sunshine and the wind. If originally 
 of a meditative, introspective mood, his profession 
 can hardly fail to confirm and deepen his peculiar 
 temperament. He begins to feel his own pulse 
 curiously, and for a purpose. As a spy in the 
 service of literature, he lives in the world and its 
 concerns. Out of everything he seeks thoughts 
 and images, as out of everything the bee seeks 
 wax and honey. A curious instance of this mode 
 of looking at things occurs in Goethe's " Letters 
 from Italy," with whom, indeed, it was a fashion, 
 and who helped himself out of the teeming world 
 to more effect than any man of his time : 
 
 '* From Botzen to Trent the stage is nine 
 leagues, and runs through a valley which con- 
 stantly increases in fertilit}'. All that merely 
 struggles into vegetation on the higher mountains 
 has here more strength and vitality. The sun 
 shines with warmth, and there is once more belief 
 in a Deity. 
 
 "A poor woman cried out to me to take her 
 child into my vehicle, as the soil was burning its 
 feet. I did her this service out of honour to the 
 strong light of Heaven. The child was strangely 
 decked out, but I could get nothing from it in any 
 
 It is clear that out of all this the reader gains ; 
 but I cannot help thinking that for the writer it
 
 i;;6 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 3 
 
 tends to destroy entire and simple living — all 
 hearty and final enjoyment in life. Joy and 
 sorrow, death and marriage, the comic circum- 
 stance and the tragic, what befalls him, what he 
 observes, what he is brought into contact with, 
 do not affect him as they affect other men ; they 
 are secrets to be rifled, stones to be built with, 
 clays to be moulded into artistic shape. In 
 giving emotional material artistic form, there is 
 indisputably a certain noble pleasure ; but it is 
 of a solitary and severe complexion, and takes 
 a man out of the circle and sympathies of his 
 fellows. 
 
 I do not say that this kind of life makes a man 
 selfish, but it often makes him seem so ; and the 
 results of this seeming, on friendship and the 
 domestic relationships, for instance, are as bale- 
 ful as if selfishness really existed. The peculiar 
 temptation which besets men of letters, the curious 
 playing with thought and emotion, the tendency 
 to analyse and take everything to pieces, has two 
 results, and neither aids his happiness nor even 
 his literary success. On the one hand, and in 
 relation to the social relations, it gives him some- 
 what of an icy aspect, and so breaks the spring 
 and eagerness of affectionate response. For the 
 best affection is shy, reticent, undemonstrative, 
 and needs to be drawn out by its like. If un- 
 recognised, like an acquaintance on the street, 
 it passes by, making no sign, and is for the time 
 being a stranger. On the other hand, the desire 
 to say a fine thing about a phenomenon, whether 
 natural or moral, prevents a man from reaching
 
 MEN OF LETTERS 157 
 
 the inmost core of the phenomenon. Entrance 
 into these matters will never be obtained by the 
 most sedulous seeking. The man who has found 
 an entrance cannot tell how he came there, and 
 he will never find his way back again by the same 
 road. From this law arises all the dreary conceits 
 and artifices of the poets ; it is through the 
 operation of the same law that many of our 
 simple songs and ballads are inexpressibly 
 affecting, because in them there is no conscious- 
 ness of authorship ; emotion and utterance are 
 twin-born, consentaneous — like sorrow and tears, 
 a blow and its pain, a kiss and its thrill. When 
 a man is happy, every effort to express his happi- 
 ness mars its completeness. I am not happy at 
 all unless I am happier than I know. When the 
 tide is full there is silence in channel and creek. 
 The silence of the lover when he clasps the maid 
 is better than the passionate murmur of the song 
 which celebrates her charms. If to be near the 
 rose makes the nightingale tipsy with delight, what 
 must it be to be the rose herself? One feeling of 
 the " wild joys of living — the leaping from rock to 
 rock," is better than the " muscular-Christianity " 
 literature which our time has produced. I am 
 afraid that the profession of letters interferes with 
 the elemental feelings of life ; and I am afraid, 
 too, that in the majority of cases this interference 
 is not justified by its results. The entireness and 
 simplicity of life is flawed by the intrusion of an 
 inquisitive element, and this inquisitive element 
 never yet found anything which was much worth 
 the finding. Men live by the primal energies of
 
 158 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 love, faith, imagination ; and happily it is not 
 given to every one to live^ in the pecuniary sense, 
 by the artistic utilisation and sale of these. You 
 cannot make ideas ; they must come unsought if 
 they come at all. 
 
 "From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine" 
 
 is a profitable occupation enough, if you stumble 
 on the little churchyard covered over with silence, 
 and folded among the hills. If you go to the 
 churchyard with intent to procure thoughts, as 
 you go into the woods to gather anemones, you 
 are wasting your time. Thoughts must come 
 naturally, like wild flowers ; they cannot be 
 forced in a hotbed — even although aided by 
 the leaf-mould of your past — like exotics. And 
 it is the misfortune of men of letters of our day 
 that they cannot afford to wait for this natural 
 flowering of thought, but are driven to the 
 forcing process, with the results which were to 
 be expected.
 
 ON THE IMPORTANCE OF A 
 MAN TO HIMSELF. 
 
 THE present writer remembers to have been 
 visited once by a strange feeling of puzzle- 
 ment; and the puzzled feeling arose out of the 
 following circumstance : He was seated in a 
 railway carriage, five minutes or so before starting, 
 and had time to contemplate certain waggons or 
 trucks filled with cattle, drawn up on a parallel 
 line, and quite close to the window at which he 
 sat. The cattle wore a much-enduring aspect ; 
 and as he looked into their large, patient, melan- 
 choly eyes — for, as before mentioned, there was 
 no space to speak of intervening — the feeling of 
 puzzlement alluded to arose in his mind. And 
 it consisted in an attempt to solve the existence 
 before him, to enter into it, to understand it, and 
 his inability to accomplish it, or indeed to make 
 any way toward the accomplishment of it. The 
 much-enduring animals in the trucks opposite had 
 unquestionably some rude twilight of a notion of a 
 world ; of objects they had some unknown cogniz- 
 ance ; but he could not get behind the melancholy 
 eye within a yard of him, and look through it. 
 
 159
 
 i6o ON THE IMPORTANCE 
 
 How, from that window, the world shaped itself, 
 he could not discover, could not even fancy ; and 
 yet, staring on the animals, he was conscious of a 
 certain fascination in which there lurked an 
 element of terror. These wild, unkempt brutes, 
 with slavering muzzles, penned together, lived, 
 could choose between this thing and the other, 
 could be frightened, could be enraged, could even 
 love and hate ; and, gazing into a placid, heavy 
 countenance, and the depths of a patient eye, not 
 a yard away, he was conscious of an obscure and 
 shuddering recognition, of a life akin so far with 
 his own. But to enter into that life imaginatively, 
 and to conceive it, he found impossible. Eye 
 looked upon eye, but the one could not flash 
 recognition on the other ; and, thinking of this, 
 he remembers, with what a sense of ludicrous 
 hori-or, the idea came — what, if looking on one 
 another thus, some spark of recognition could be 
 elicited ; if some rudiment of thought could be 
 detected : if there were indeed a point at which 
 man and ox could meet and compare notes? 
 vSuppose some gleam or scintillation of humour 
 had lighted up the unwinking, amber eye ? 
 Heavens, the bellow of the weaning calf would be 
 pathetic, shoe-leather would be forsworn, the 
 eating of roast meat, hot or cold, would be 
 cannibalism, the terrified world would make a 
 sudden dash into vegetarianism ! Happily, before 
 fancy had time to play another vagary, with a 
 snort and a pull the train moved on, and my 
 truckful of horned friends were left gazing into 
 empty space, with the same wistful, patient, and
 
 OF A MAN TO HIMSELF i6i 
 
 melancholy expression with which, for the space 
 of five minutes or so, they had surveyed and 
 bewildered me. 
 
 A similar feeling of puzzlement to that which I 
 have indicated, besets one not unfrequently in the 
 contemplation of men and women. You are 
 brought in contact with a person, you attempt 
 to comprehend him, to enter into him, in a word 
 to be him, and if you are not utterly foiled in the 
 attempt, you cannot flatter yourself that you have 
 been successful to the measure of your desire. A 
 {)erson interests, or piques, or tantalises you, you 
 do your best to make him out, yet strive as you 
 will, you cannot read the riddle of his personality. 
 From the invulnerable fortress of his own nature 
 he smiles contemptuously on the beleaguering 
 armies of your curiosity and analysis. 
 
 And it is not only the stranger that thus defeats 
 you ; it may be the brother brought up by the same 
 fireside with you, the best friend whom you have 
 known from early school and college days, the 
 very child, perhaps, that bears your name, and 
 with whose moral and mental apparatus you 
 think you are as familiar as with your own. In 
 the midst of the most amicable relationships and 
 the best understandings, human beings are, at 
 times, conscious of a cold feeling of strangeness — 
 the friend is actuated by a feeling which never 
 could actuate you, some hitherto unknown part 
 of his character becomes visible, and while at 
 one moment you stood in such close neighbour- 
 hood that you could feel his arm touch your own, 
 in the next there is a feeling of removal, of distance, 
 1 1
 
 i62 ON THE IMPORTANCE 
 
 of empty space betwixt him and you in which the 
 wind is blowing. You and he become separate 
 entities. He is related to you as Border peel is 
 related to Border peel on Tweedside, or as ship 
 is related to ship on the sea. It is not meant 
 that any quarrel or direct misunderstanding should 
 have taken place, simply that feeling of foreignness 
 is meant to be indicated which occurs now and 
 then in the intercourse of the most affectionate ; 
 which comes as a harsh reminder to friends and 
 lovers that with whatsoever flowery bands they 
 may be linked, they are separated persons, who 
 understand, and can only understand, each other 
 partially. It is annoying to be put out in our 
 notions of men and women thus, and to be forced 
 to rearrange them. It is a misfortune to have to 
 manoeuvre one's heart as a general has to 
 manoeuvre his army. The globe has been 
 circumnavigated, but no man ever yet has ; you 
 may survey a kingdom and note the result in 
 maps, but all the savants in the world could not 
 produce a reliable map of the poorest human 
 personality. y\nd the worst of all this is, that 
 love and friendship may be the outcome of a 
 certain condition of knowledge ; increase the 
 knowledge, and love and friendship beat their 
 wings and go. Every man's road in life is marked 
 by the graves of his personal likings. Intimacy is 
 frequently the road to indifference, and marriage, 
 a parricide. From these accidents to the affec- 
 tions, and from the efforts to repair them, life has 
 in many a patched. and tinkered look. 
 
 Love and friendship are the discoveries of
 
 OF A MAN TO HIMSELF 163 
 
 ourselves in others, and our delight in the recogni- 
 tion ; and in men, as in books, we only know 
 that, the parallel of which we have in ourselves. 
 We know only that portion of the world which we 
 have travelled over ; and we are never a whit 
 wiser than our own experiences. Imagination, 
 the falcon, sits on the wrist of Experience, the 
 falconer ; she can never soar beyond the reach of 
 his whistle, and when tired she must return to her 
 perch. Our knowledge is limited by ourselves, 
 and so also are our imaginations. And so it 
 comes about, that a man measures everything by 
 his own footrule ; that if he is ignoble, all the 
 ignobleness that is in the world looks out upon 
 him, and claims kindred with him ; if noble, all 
 the nobleness in the world does the like. Shak- 
 speare is always the same height with his reader ; 
 and when a thousand Christians subscribe to one 
 Confession of Faith, hardly to two of them does 
 it mean the same thing. The world is a great 
 warehouse of raiment, to which every one has 
 access and is allowed free use; and the remark- 
 able thing is, what coarse stuffs are often chosen, 
 and how scantily some people are attired. 
 
 We never get quit of ourselves. While I am 
 writing, the spring is outside, and this season of 
 the year touches my spirit always with a sense 
 of newness, of strangeness, of resurrection. It 
 shoots boyhood again into the blood of middle 
 age. That tender greening of the black bough 
 and the red field — that coming again of the new- 
 old flowers — that re-birth of love in all the family 
 of birds, with cooings, and caressings, and building
 
 i64 ON THE IMPORTANCE 
 
 of nests in wood and brake — that strange glory of 
 sunshine in the air — that stirring of hfe in the 
 green mould, making even churchyards beautiful, 
 — seems like the creation of a new world. And 
 yet — and yet, even with the lamb in the sunny 
 field, the lark mile-high in the blue, Spring has 
 her melancholy side, and bears a sadder burden 
 to the heart than Autumn, preaching of decay 
 with all his painted woods. For the flowers that 
 make sweet the moist places in the forest are not 
 the same that bloomed the year before. Another 
 lark sings above the furrowed field. Nature rolls 
 on in her eternal course, repeating her tale of 
 spring, summer, autumn, winter; but life in man 
 and beast is transitory, and other living creatures 
 take their places. It is quite certain that one or 
 other of the next twenty springs will come unseen 
 by me, will awake no throb of transport in my 
 veins. But will it be less bright on that account ? 
 Will the lamb be saddened in the field ? Will the 
 lark be less happy in the air ? The sunshine will 
 draw the daisy from the mound under which I 
 sleep, as carelessly as she draws the cowslip from 
 the meadow by the riverside. The seasons have 
 no ruth, no compunction. They care not for our 
 petty lives. The light falls sweetly on graveyards, 
 and on brown labourers among the hay-swathes. 
 Were the world depopulated to-morrow, next spring 
 would break pitilessly bright, flowers would bloom, 
 fruit-tree boughs wear pink and white ; and although 
 there would be no eye to witness. Summer would 
 not adorn herself with one blossom the less. It 
 is curious to think how important a creature a man
 
 OF A MAN TO HIMSELF 165 
 
 is to himself. We cannot help thinking that all 
 things exist for our particular selves. The sun, 
 in whose light a system lives, warms me; makes 
 the trees grow for me ; paints the evening sky in 
 gorgeous colours for me. The mould I till, pro- 
 duced from the beds of extinct oceans and the 
 grating of rock and mountain during countless 
 centuries, exists that I may have muffins to break- 
 fast. Animal life, with its strange instincts and 
 affections, is to be recognised and cherished — 
 for does it not draw my burdens for me, and 
 carry me from place to place, and yield me 
 comfortable broadcloth, and succulent joints to 
 dinner.? I think it matter of complaint that 
 Nature, like a personal friend to whom I have 
 done kind services, will not wear crape at my 
 funeral. I think it cruel that the sun should 
 shine, and birds sing, and I lying in my grave. 
 People talk of the age of the world ! So far as 
 I am concerned, it began with my consciousness, 
 and will end with my decease. 
 
 And yet, this self-consciousness, which so con- 
 tinually besets us, is in itself a misery and a 
 galling chain. We are never happy till by im- 
 agination we are taken out of the pales and limits 
 of self. We receive happiness at second hand : 
 the spring of it may be in ourselves, but we do 
 not know it to be happiness, till, like the sun's 
 light from the moon, it is reflected on us from 
 an object outside. The admixture of a foreign 
 element sweetens and unfamiliarises it. Sheridan 
 prepared his good things in solitude, but he tasted 
 for the first time his jest's prosperity when it came
 
 i66 ON THE IMPORTANCE 
 
 back to him in illumined faces and a roar of 
 applause. Your oldest story becomes new when 
 you have a new auditor. A young man is truth- 
 loving and amiable : but it is only when these 
 fair qualities shine upon him from a girl's face 
 that he is smitten by transport — only then is he 
 truly happy. In that junction of hearts, in that 
 ecstasy of mutual admiration and delight, the 
 finest epithalamium ever writ by poet is hardly 
 worthy of the occasion. The countryman pur- 
 chases oranges at a fair for his little ones ; and 
 when he brings them home in the evening, and 
 watches his chubby urchins, sitting up among 
 the bedclothes, peel and devour the fruit, he 
 is for the time being richer than if he drew the 
 rental of the orange-groves of Seville. To eat 
 an orange himself is nothing ; to see them eat 
 it is a pleasure worth the price of the fruit a 
 thousand times over. There is no happiness in 
 the world in which love does not enter ; and 
 love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, 
 and the delight in the recognition. Apart from 
 others, no man can make his happiness ; just 
 as, apart from a mirror of one kind or another, 
 no man can become acquainted with his own 
 lineaments. 
 
 The accomplishment of a man is the light by 
 which we are enabled to discover the limits of 
 his personality. Every man brings into the world 
 with him a certain amount of pith and force, and 
 to that pith or force his amount of accomplishment 
 is exactly proportioned. It is in this way that 
 every spoken word, every action of a man, becomes
 
 OF A MAN TO HIMSELF 167 
 
 biographical. Everything a man says or does is 
 in consistency with himself; and it is by looking 
 back on his sayings and doings that we arrive at 
 the truth concerning him. A man is one ; and 
 every outcome of him has a family resemblance. 
 Goldsmith did not "write like an angel and talk 
 like poor Poll," as we may in part discern from 
 Boswell's "Johnson." Strange, indeed, if a man 
 talked continually the sheerest nonsense, and wrote 
 continually the gracefullest humours ; if a man was 
 lame on the street, and the finest dancer in the 
 ballroom. 
 
 To describe a character by antithesis is like 
 painting a portrait in black and white — all the 
 curious intermixtures and gradations of colour 
 are lost. The accomplishment of a human being 
 is measured by his strength, or by his nice tact 
 in using his strength. The distance to which 
 your gun, whether rifled or smooth-bored, will 
 carry its shot, depends upon the force of its 
 charge. A runner's speed and endurance de- 
 pends upon his depth of chest and elasticity of 
 limb. If a poet's lines lack harmony, it instructs 
 us that there is a certain lack of harmony in him- 
 self. We see why Haydon failed as an artist 
 when we read his life. No one can dip into 
 the " Excursion " without discovering that 
 Wordsworth was devoid of humour, and that 
 he cared more for the narrow Cumberland vale 
 than he did for the big world. The flavour of 
 opium can be detected in the "Ancient Mariner"' 
 and "Christabel." A man's word or deed takes 
 us back to himself, as the sunbeam takes us back
 
 i68 ON THE IMPORTANCE 
 
 to the sun. It is the sternest philosophy, but on 
 the whole the truest, that, in the wide arena of 
 the world, failure and success are not accidents, 
 as we so frequently suppose, but the strictest 
 justice. If you do your fair day's work, you are 
 certain to get your fair day's wage — in praise or 
 pudding, which ever happens to suit your taste. 
 You may have seen at country fairs a machine 
 by which the rustics test their strength of arm. 
 A country fellow strikes vigorously a buffer, which 
 recoils, and the amount of the recoil — dependent, 
 of course, on the force with which it is struck — is 
 represented by a series of notches or marks. The 
 world is such a buffer. A man strikes it with all 
 his might : his mark may be p<i'40,ooo, a peerage, 
 and Westminster Abbey, a name in literature or 
 art ; but in every case his mark is nicely deter- 
 mined by the force or the art with which the 
 buffer is struck. Into the world a man brings 
 his personality, and his biography is simply a 
 catalogue of its results. 
 
 There are some men who have no individuality, 
 just as there are some men who have no face. 
 These are to be described by generals, not by 
 particulars. They are thin, vapid, inconclusive. 
 They are important solely on account of their 
 numbers. For them the census enumerator 
 labours ; they form majorities ; they crowd voting- 
 booths ; they make the money ; they do the 
 ordinary work of the world. They are valuable 
 when well officered. They are plastic matter 
 to be shaped by a workman's hand ; and are built 
 with as bricks are built with. In the aggregate,
 
 OF A MAN TO HIMSELF 169 
 
 they form public opinion ; but then, in every age, 
 public opinion is the disseminated thoughts of 
 some half a dozen men, who are in all probability 
 sleeping quietly in their graves. They retain dead 
 men's ideas, just as the atmosphere retains the 
 light and heat of the set sun. They are not light 
 — they are twilight. To know how to deal with 
 such men — to know how to use them — is the 
 problem which ambitious force is called upon to 
 solve. Personality, individuality, force of char- 
 acter, or by whatever name we choose to designate 
 original and vigorous manhood, is the best thing 
 which nature has in her gift. The forceful man 
 is a prophecy of the future. The wind blows 
 here, but long after it is spent, the big wave which 
 is its creature, breaks on a shore a thousand miles 
 away. 
 
 It is curious how swiftly influences travel from 
 centre to circumference. A certain empress 
 invents a gracefully pendulous crinoline, and 
 immediately, from Paris to the pole, the female 
 world is behooped ; and neither objurgation of 
 brother, lover, or husband, deaths by burning or 
 machinery, nor all the wit of the satirists, are 
 likely to affect its vitality. Never did an idea go 
 round civilisation so rapidly. Crinoline has already 
 a heavier martyrology than many a creed. The 
 world is used easily, if one can only hit on the 
 proper method ; and force of character, originality, 
 of whatever kind, is always certain to make its 
 mark. It is a diamond, and the world is its pane 
 of glass. In a world so commonplace as this, the 
 peculiar man even should be considered a blessing.
 
 I70 ON THE IMPORTANCE 
 
 Humorousness, eccentricity, the habit of looking at 
 men and things from an odd angle, are valuable, 
 because they break the dead level of society, and 
 take away its sameness. It is well that a man 
 should be known by something else than his 
 name : there are few of us who can be known by 
 anything else, and Brown, Jones, and Robinson 
 are the names of the majority. 
 
 In literature and art, this personal outcome is of 
 the highest value ; in fact, it is the only thing truly 
 valuable. The greatness of an artist or a writer 
 does not depend on what he has in common with 
 other artists and writers, but on what he has 
 peculiar to himself. The great man is the man 
 who does a thing for the first time. It was a 
 difficult thing to discover America ; since it has 
 been discovered, it has been found an easy enough 
 task to sail thither. It is this peculiar something 
 resident in a poem or a painting which is its final 
 test — at all events, possessing it, it has the 
 elements of endurance. Apart from its other 
 values, it has, in virtue of that, a biographical one ; 
 it becomes a study of character; it is a window 
 through which you can look into a human interior. 
 There is a cleverness in the world which seems 
 to have neither father nor mother. It exists, but 
 it is impossible to tell from whence it comes — 
 just as it is impossible to lift the shed apple 
 blossom of an orchard, and to discover, from its 
 bloom and odour, to what branch it belonged. 
 Such cleverness illustrates nothing : it is an 
 anonymous letter. Look at it ever so long, and 
 you cannot tell its lineage. It lives in the
 
 OF A MAN TO HIMSELF 171 
 
 catalogue of waifs and strays. On the other hand, 
 there are men whose every expression is character- 
 istic, whose every idea seems to come out of a 
 mould. In the short sentence, or curt, careless 
 saying of such, when laid bare, you can read their 
 histories so far, as in the smallest segment of a 
 tree you can trace the markings of its rings. The 
 first dies, because it is shallow-rooted, and has no 
 vitality beyond its own ; the second lives, because 
 it is related to and fed by something higher than 
 itself. The famous axiom of Mrs, Glass, that in 
 order to make hare-soup you " must first catch your 
 hare," has a wide significance. In art, literature, 
 social life, morals even, you must first catch your 
 man : that done, everything else follows as a 
 matter of course. A man may learn much; but 
 for the most important thing of all he can find 
 neither teachers nor schools. 
 
 Each man is the most important thing in the 
 world to himself; but why is he to himself so 
 important? Simply because he is a personality 
 with capacities of pleasure, of pain, who can be 
 hurt, who can be pleased, who can be dis- 
 appointed, who labours and expects his hire, in 
 whose consciousness, in fact, for the time being, 
 the whole universe lives. He is, and everything 
 else is relative. Confined to his own personality, 
 making it his tower of outlook, from which only 
 he can survey the outer world, he naturally enough 
 forms a rather high estimate of its value, of its 
 dignity, of its intrinsic worth. This high estimate 
 is useful in so far as it makes his condition 
 pleasant, and it — or rather our proneness to form
 
 172 ON THE IMPORTANCE 
 
 it — we are accustomed to call vanity. Vanity — 
 which really helps to keep the race alive — has 
 been treated harshly by the moralists and satirists. 
 It does not quite deserve the hard names it has 
 been called. It interpenetrates everything a man 
 says or does, but it interpenetrates for a useful 
 purpose. If it is always an alloy in the pure gold 
 of virtue, it at least does the service of an alloy — 
 making the precious metal workable. 
 
 Nature gave man his powers, appetites, aspira- 
 tions, and along with these a pan of incense, which 
 fumes from the birth of consciousness to its decease, 
 making the best part of life rapture, and the worst 
 part endurable. But for vanity the race would have 
 died out long ago. There are some men whose 
 lives seem to us as undesirable as the lives of 
 toads or serpents ; yet these men breathe in 
 tolerable content and satisfaction. If a man could 
 hear all that his fellows say of him — that he is 
 stupid, that he is henpecked, that he will be in the 
 Gazette in a week, that his brain is softening, that 
 he has said all his best things — and if he could 
 believe that these pleasant things are true, he 
 would be in his grave before the month was out. 
 Happily no man does hear these things ; and if he 
 did, they would only provoke inextinguishable 
 wrath or inextinguishable laughter. A man 
 receives the shocks of life on the buffer of his 
 vanity. Vanity acts as his second and bottleholder 
 in the world's prize-ring, and it fights him well, 
 bringing him smilingly up to time after the fiercest 
 knock-down blows. Vanity is to a man what the 
 oily secretion is to a bird, with which it sleeks and
 
 OF A MAN TO HIMSELF 173 
 
 adjusts the plumage ruffled by whatever causes. 
 Vanity is not only instrumental in keeping a man 
 alive and in heart, but, in its lighter manifesta- 
 tions, it is the great sweetener of social existence. 
 It is the creator of dress and fashion ; it is the 
 inventor of forms and ceremonies ; to it we are 
 indebted for all our traditions of civility. For 
 vanity in its idler moments is benevolent, is as 
 willing to give pleasure as to take it, and accepts 
 as sufficient reward for its services a kind word or 
 an approving smile. It delights to bask in the 
 sunshine of approbation. Out of man -vanity 
 makes genf/eman. The proud man is cold, the 
 selfish man hard and griping — the vain man desires 
 to shine, to please, to make himself agreeable ; 
 and this amiable feeling works to the outside 
 in suavity and charm of manner. The French 
 are the vainest people in Europe, and the most 
 polite. 
 
 As each man is to himself the most important 
 thing in the world, each man is an egotist in his 
 thinkings, in his desires, in his fears. It does not, 
 however, follow that each man must be an egotist 
 — as the word is popularly understood — in his 
 speech. IJut even although this were the case, 
 the world would be divided into egotists, likeable 
 and unlikeable. There are two kinds of egotism, 
 a trifling vain-glorious kind, a mere burning of 
 personal incense, in which the man is at once 
 altar, priest, censer, and divinity ; a kind which 
 deals with the accidents and wrappages of the 
 speaker, his equipage, his riches, his family, his 
 servants, his furniture and array. The other kind
 
 174 ON THE IMPORTANCE 
 
 has no taint of self-aggrandisement, but is rooted 
 in the faculties of love and humour : and this 
 latter kind is never offensive, because it includes 
 others, and knows no scorn or exclusiveness. The 
 one is the offspring of a narrow and unimaginat- 
 ive personality; the other of a large and genial 
 one. 
 
 There are persons who are the terrors of 
 society. Perfectly innocent of evil intention, 
 they are yet, with a certain brutal unconsciousness, 
 continually trampling on other people's corns. 
 They touch you every now and again like a red-hot 
 iron. You wince, acquit them of any desire to 
 wound, but find forgiveness a hard task. These 
 persons remember everj'thing about themselves, 
 and forget everything about you. They have the 
 instinct of a flesh-fly for a raw. .Should your great- 
 grandfather have had the misfortune to be hanged, 
 such a person is certain, on some public occasion, to 
 make allusion to your pedigree. He will probably 
 insist on your furnishing him with a sketch of your 
 family tree. If your daughter has made a runaway 
 marriage — on which subject yourself and friends 
 maintain a judicious silence — he is certain to 
 stumble upon it, and make the old sore smart 
 again. In all this there is no malice, no desire to 
 wound ; it arises simply from want of imagination, 
 from profound immersion in self.. An imaginative 
 man recognises at once a portion of himself in 
 his fellow, and speaks to that. To hurt you is to 
 hurt himself. Much of the rudeness we encounter 
 in life cannot be properly set down to cruelty or 
 badness of heart. The unimaginative man is
 
 OF A MAX TO HIMSELF 175 
 
 callous, and although he hurts easily, he cannot 
 be easily hurt in return. The imaginative man is 
 sensitive and merciful to others out of the merest 
 mercy to himself. 
 
 In literature, as in social life, the attractiveness 
 of egotism depends entirely upon the egotist. If 
 he be a conceited man, full of self-admirations 
 and vain-glories, his egotism will disgust and 
 repel. When he sings his own praises, his reader 
 feels that reflections are being thrown on himself, 
 and in a natural revenge he calls the writer a 
 coxcomb. If, on the other hand, he be loving, 
 genial, humorous, with a sympathy for others, his 
 garrulousness and his personal allusions are 
 forgiven, because, while revealing himself, he is 
 revealing his reader as well. A man may write 
 about himself during his whole life without once 
 tiring or offending; but to accomplish this, he 
 must be interesting in himself — be a man of 
 curious and vagrant moods, gifted with the 
 cunningest tact and humour : and the experience 
 which he relates must at a thousand points touch 
 the experiences of his readers, so that they, as it 
 were, become partners in liis game, ^^^len X. 
 tells me, with an evident swell of pride, that he 
 dines constantly with half a dozen men-ser\-ants 
 in attendance, or that he never drives abroad 
 save in a coach-and-six, I am not conscious of 
 any special gratitude to X. for the information. 
 Possibly, if my establishment boasts only of 
 Cinderella, and if a cab is the only vehicle in 
 which I can afford to ride, and all the more if I 
 can indulge in that only on occasions of solemnity,
 
 176 ON THE IMPORTANCE 
 
 I fly into a rage, pitch the book to the other end 
 of the room, and may never afterwards be brought 
 to admit that X. is possessor of a solitary ounce 
 of brains. 
 
 If, on the other hand, Z. informs me that every 
 February he goes out to the leafless woods to 
 hunt early snowdrops, and brings home bunches 
 of them in his hat ; or that he prefers in woman 
 a brown eye to a blue, and explains by early 
 love passages his reasons for the preference, I 
 do not get angry ; on the contrary, I feel quite 
 pleased; perhaps, if the matter is related with 
 unusual grace and tenderness, it is read with a 
 certain moisture and dimness of eye. And the 
 reason is obvious. The egotistical X. is barren, 
 and suggests nothing beyond himself, save that 
 he is a good deal better off than I am — a reflection 
 much pleasanter to him than it is to me ; whereas 
 the equally egotistical Z., with a single sentence 
 about his snowdrops, or his liking for brown eyes 
 rather than for blue, sends my thoughts wandering 
 away back among my dead spring-times, or wafts 
 me the odours of the roses of those summers 
 when the colour of an eye was of more importance 
 than it now is. X.'s men-servants and coach-and- 
 six do not fit into the life of his reader, because 
 in all probability his reader knows as much about 
 these things as he knows about Pharaoh ; Z.'s 
 snowdrops and preferences of colour do, because 
 every one knows what the spring thirst is, and 
 every one in his time has been enslaved by eyes 
 whose colour he could not tell for his life, but 
 which he knew were the tenderest that ever
 
 OF A MAN TO HIMSELF 177 
 
 looked love, the brightest that ever flashed 
 sunlight. Montaigne and Charles Lamb are 
 egotists of the Z. class, and the world never 
 wearies reading them ; nor are egotists of the 
 X. school absolutely without entertainment. 
 Several of these the world reads assiduously too, 
 although for another reason. The avid vanity of 
 Mr. Pepys would be gratified if made aware of 
 the success of his Diary ; but curiously to inquire 
 into the reason of that success, 7vhv his Diary has 
 been found so amusing, would not conduce to his 
 comfort. 
 
 After all, the only thing a man knows is himself. 
 The world outside he can know only by hearsay. 
 His shred of personality is all he has ; than that, 
 he is nothing richer, nothing poorer. Everything 
 else is mere accident and appendage. Alexander 
 must not be measured by the shoutings of his 
 armies, nor Lazarus at Dives' gates by his sores. 
 And a man knows himself only in part. In every 
 nature, as in Australia, there is an unexplored 
 territory — green, well-watered regions or mere 
 sandy deserts ; and into that territory experience 
 is making progress day by day. We can remember 
 when we knew only the outer childish rim — and 
 from the crescent guessed the sphere ; whether, as 
 we advanced, these guesses have been realised, 
 each knows for himself. 
 
 12
 
 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE. 
 
 WHEN a man glances critically through the 
 circle of his intimate friends, he is 
 obliged to confess that they are far from being 
 perfect. They possess neither the beauty of 
 Apollo, nor the wisdom of Solon, nor the wit of 
 Mercutio, nor the reticence of Napoleon iii. If 
 pushed hard, he will be constrained to admit that 
 he has known each and all get angry without 
 sufficient occasion, make at times the foolishest 
 remarks, and act as if personal comfort were the 
 highest thing in their estimation. Yet, driven 
 thus to the wall, forced to make such uncomfort- 
 able confessions, our supposed man does not 
 like his friends one whit the less ; nay more, he 
 is aware that if they were very superior and fault- 
 less persons he would not be conscious of so 
 much kindly feeling towards them. The tide of 
 friendship does not rise high on the bank of 
 perfection. Amiable weaknesses and short-com- 
 ings are the food of love. It is from the rough- 
 nesses and imperfect breaks in a man that you 
 are able to lay hold of him. If a man be an 
 
 entire and perfect chrysolite, you slide off him 
 
 178
 
 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 179 
 
 and fall back into ignorance. My friends are 
 not perfect — no more am I — and so we suit each 
 other admirably. Their weaknesses keep mine 
 in countenance, and so save me from humiliation 
 and shame. We give and take, bear and forbear ; 
 the stupidity they utter to-day salves the recollec- 
 tion of the stupidity I uttered yesterday ; in their 
 want of wit I see my own, and so feel satisfied 
 and kindly disposed. It is one of the charitable 
 dispensations of Providence that perfection is 
 not essential to friendship. If I had to seek my 
 perfect man, I should wander the world a good 
 while, and when I found him, and was down on 
 my knees before him, he would, to a certainty, 
 turn the cold shoulder on me — and so life would 
 be an eternal search, broken by the coldness of 
 repulse and loneliness. Only to the perfect being 
 in an imperfect world, or the imperfect being in 
 a perfect world, is everything irretrievably out of 
 joint. 
 
 On a certain shelf, in the bookcase which stands 
 in the room in which I am at present sitting — 
 bookcase surmounted by a white Dante, looking 
 out with blind, majestic eyes — are collected a 
 number of volumes which look somewhat the 
 worse for wear. Those of them which originally 
 possessed gilding have had it fingered off, each 
 of them has leaves turned down, and they open 
 of themselves at places wherein I have been 
 happy, and with whose every word I am familiar 
 as with the furniture of the room in which I 
 nightly slumber; each of them has remarks 
 relevant and irrelevant scribbled on their margins.
 
 i8o A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 
 
 These favourite volumes cannot be called peculiar 
 glories of literature ; but out of the world of books 
 have I singled them, as I have singled my 
 intimates out of the world of men. I am on 
 easy terms with them, and feel that they are no 
 higher than my heart. Milton is not there, 
 neither is Wordsworth ; Shakspeare, if he had 
 written comedies only, would have been there to 
 a certainty, but the presence of the five great 
 tragedies — Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, Lear, 
 Antony and Cleopatra — for this last should be 
 always included among his supreme efforts — has 
 made me place him on the shelf where the 
 mighty men repose, himself the mightiest of all. 
 Reading Milton is like dining off gold plate in a 
 company of kings ; very splendid, very cere- 
 monious, and not a little appalling. Him I read 
 but seldom, and only on high days and festivals 
 of the spirit. Him I never lay down without 
 feeling my appreciation increased for lesser men — 
 never without the same kind of comfort that one 
 returning from the presence feels when he doffs 
 respectful attitude and dress of ceremony, and 
 subsides into old coat, familiar arm-chair, and 
 slippers. After long-continued organ-music, the 
 jangle of the Jew's harp is felt as an exquisite 
 relief. With the volumes on the special shelf I 
 have spoken of, I am quite at home, and I feel 
 somehow as if they were at home with me. And 
 as to-day the trees bend to the blast, and the 
 rain comes in dashes against my window, and as 
 I have nothing to do and cannot get out, and 
 wish to kill the hours in as pleasant a manner as
 
 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE i8i 
 
 I can, I shall even talk about them, as in sheer 
 liking a man talks about the trees in his garden, 
 or the pictures on his wall. I can't expect to 
 say anything very new or striking, but I can give 
 utterance to sincere affection, and that is always 
 pleasant to one's self and generally not ungrateful 
 to others. 
 
 First, then, on this special shelf stands 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne's Trvke-Told Tales. It is 
 difficult to explain w^hy I like these short sketches 
 and essays, written in the author's early youth, 
 better than his later, more finished, and better- 
 known novels and romances. The world sets 
 greater store by The Scarlet Letter and Transforma- 
 tion than by this little book — and, in such matters 
 of liking against the judgment of the world, there 
 is no appeal. I think the reason of my liking 
 consists in this — that the novels were written for 
 the world, while the tales seem written for the 
 author ; in these he is actor and audience in one. 
 Consequently, one gets nearer him, just as one 
 gets nearer an artist in his first sketch than in 
 his finished picture. And after all, one takes the 
 greatest pleasure in those books in which a 
 peculiar personality is most clearly revealed. A 
 thought may be very commendable as a thought, 
 but I value it chiefly as a window through which 
 I can obtain insight on the thinker; and Mr. 
 Hawthorne's personality is peculiar, and specially 
 peculiar in a new country like America. He is 
 quiet, fanciful, quaint, and his humour is shaded 
 by a certain meditativeness of spirit. Although a 
 Yankee, he partakes of none of the characteristics
 
 i82 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 
 
 of a Yankee. His thinking and his style have an 
 antique air. His roots strike down through the 
 visible mould of the present, and draw sustenance 
 from the generations under ground. The ghosts 
 that haunt the chamber of his mind are the 
 ghosts of dead men and women. He has a 
 strong smack of the Puritan ; he wears around 
 him, in the New England town, something of 
 the darkness and mystery of the aboriginal forest. 
 He is a shy, silent, sensitive, much-ruminating 
 man, with no special overflow of animal spirits. 
 He loves solitude and the things which age has 
 made reverent. There is nothing modern about 
 him. Emerson's writing has a cold, cheerless 
 glitter, like the new furniture in a warehouse, 
 which will come of use by and by ; Hawthorne's, 
 the rich, subdued colour of furniture in a Tudor 
 mansion-house — which has winked to long- 
 extinguished fires, which has been toned by the 
 usage of departed generations. In many of the 
 Twice-Told Tales this peculiar personality is 
 charmingly exhibited. He writes of the street or 
 the seashore, his eye takes in every object, 
 however trifling, and on these he hangs comments 
 melancholy and humorous. He does not require 
 to go far for a subject ; he will stare on the 
 puddles in the street of a New England village, 
 and immediately it becomes a Mediterranean Sea 
 with empires lying on its muddy shores. If the 
 sermon be written out fully in your heart, almost 
 any text will be suitable — if you have to find your 
 sermon in your text, you ma^ search the Testa- 
 ment, New and Old, and be as poor at the close of
 
 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 183 
 
 Revelation as when you started at the first book of 
 Genesis. Several of the papers which I like best are 
 monologues, fanciful, humorous, or melancholy ; 
 and of these, my chief favourites are : " Sunday 
 At Home," " Night Sketches," " Footprints on the 
 Seashore," and the " Seven Vagabonds." This 
 last seems to me almost the most exquisite thing 
 which has flowed from its author's pen — a perfect 
 little drama, the place a showman's waggon, the 
 time the falling of a summer shower, full of subtle 
 suggestions, which, if followed, will lead the 
 reader away out of the story altogether ; and illumin- 
 ated by a grave, wistful kind of humour, which 
 plays in turns upon the author's companions, and 
 upon the author himself. Of all Mr. Hawthorne's 
 gifts, this gift of humour — which would light up 
 the skull and cross-bones of a village churchyard, 
 which would be silent at a dinner-table — is to me 
 the most delightful. 
 
 Then this writer has a strangely weird power. 
 He loves ruins like the Wy, he skims the twilight 
 like the bat, he makes himself a familiar of the 
 phantoms of the heart and brain. He believes in 
 ghosts ; perhaps he has seen one burst on him 
 from the impalpable air. He is fascinated by the 
 jarred brain and the ruined heart. Other men 
 collect china, books, pictures, jewels ; this writer 
 collects singular human experiences, ancient wrongs 
 and agonies, murders done on unfrequented roads, 
 crimes that seem to have no motive, and all the 
 dreary mysteries of the world of will. To his 
 chamber of horrors Madame Tussaud's is no- 
 thing. With proud, prosperous, healthy men, Mr.
 
 i84 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 
 
 Hawthorne has little sympathy; he prefers a 
 cracked piano to a new one, he likes cobwebs 
 in the corner of his rooms. All this peculiar taste 
 comes out strongly in the little book in whose 
 praise I am writing. I read " The Minister's Black 
 Veil," and find it the first sketch of the Scarlet 
 Letter. In " Wakefield " — the story of the man who 
 left his wife, remaining away twenty years, but who 
 yet looked upon her every day to appease his 
 burning curiosity as to her manner of enduring 
 his absence — I find the keenest analysis of an 
 almost incomprehensible act. And then Mr, 
 Hawthorne has a skill in constructing allegories 
 which no one of his contemporaries, either English 
 or American, possesses. These allegorical papers 
 may be read with pleasure, for their ingenuity, 
 their grace, their poetical feeling; but just as, 
 gazing on the surface of a stream, admiring the 
 ripples and eddies, and the widening rings made 
 by the butterfly falling into it, you begin to be 
 conscious that there is something at the bottom, 
 and gradually a dead face wavers upwards from the 
 oozy weeds, becoming every moment more clearly 
 defined, so through Mr. Hawthorne's graceful 
 sentences, if read attentively, begins to flash the 
 hidden meaning, a meaning, perhaps, the writer did 
 not care to express formally and in set terms, and 
 which he merely suggests and leaves the reader to 
 make out for himself. If you have the book I am 
 writing about, turn up " David Swan," " The Great 
 Carbuncle," "The Fancy Show-box," and after you 
 have read these, you will understand what I 
 mean.
 
 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 185 
 
 The next two books on my shelf — books at this 
 moment leaning on the Twice-Told Tales — are 
 Professor Aytoun's Ballads of Scotland, and the 
 Lyra Germauica. These books I keep side by 
 side with a purpose. The forms of existence with 
 which they deal seem widely separated ; but a 
 strong kinship exists between them for all that. I 
 open Professor Aytoun's book, and all this modern 
 life — with its railways, its newspapers, its crowded 
 cities, its Lancashire distresses, its debates in 
 Parliament — fades into nothingness and silence. 
 Scotland, from Edinburgh Rock to the Tweed, 
 stretches away in rude spaces of meor and forest. 
 The wind blows across it, unpolluted by the smoke 
 of towns. That which lives now has not yet come 
 into existence ; what are to-day crumbling and 
 ivied ruins, are warm with household lires, and 
 filled with human activities. Every Border keep 
 is a home : brides are taken there in their blushes ; 
 children are born there ; grey men, the crucifix 
 held over them, die there. The moon dances on 
 a plump of spears, as the moss-troopers, by secret 
 and desert paths, ride over into England to lift a 
 prey, and the bale-fire on the hill gives the alarm 
 to Cumberland. Men live and marry, and sup- 
 port wife and little ones by steel-jacket and spear ; 
 and the Flower of Yarrow, when her larder is 
 empty, claps a pair of spurs in her husband's 
 platter. A time of strife and foray, of plundering 
 and burning, of stealing and reaving ; when hate 
 waits half a lifetime for revenge, and where 
 difficulties are solved by the slash of a sword- 
 blade. I open the German hook, and find a war-
 
 i86 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 
 
 fare conducted in a different manner. Here the 
 Devil rides about wasting and destroying. Here 
 temptations lie in wait for the soul ; here pleasures, 
 like glittering meteors, lure it into marshes and 
 abysses. Watch and ward are kept here, and to 
 sleep at the post is death. Fortresses are built on 
 the rock 'Of God's promises — inaccessible to the 
 arrows of the wicked — and therein dwell many 
 trembling souls. Conflict rages around, not con- 
 ducted by Border spear on barren moorland, but 
 by weapons of faith and prayer in the devout 
 German heart ; — a strife earnest as the other, with 
 issues of life • and death. And the resemblance 
 between the books lies in this, that when we open 
 them these past experiences and conditions of life 
 gleam visibly to us far down like submerged cities 
 — all empty and hollow now, though once filled 
 with life as real as our own — through transparent 
 waters. 
 
 In glancing over these German hymns, one is 
 struck by their adaptation to the seasons and 
 occurrences of ordinary life. Obviously, too, the 
 writer's religion was not a Sunday matter only, it 
 had its place in week-days as well. In these 
 hymns there is little gloom ; a healthy human 
 cheerfulness pervades many of them, and this is 
 surely as it ought to be. These hymns, as I have 
 said, are adapted to the occasions of ordinary life, 
 and this speaks favourably of the piety which 
 produced them. I do not suppose that we English 
 are less religious than other nations, but we are 
 undemonstrative in this, as in most things. We 
 have the sincerest horror of over-dressing ourselves
 
 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 187 
 
 in fine sentiments. We are a little shy of religion. 
 We give it a day entirely to itself, and make it a 
 stranger to the other six. We confine it in 
 churches, or in the closet at home, and never 
 think of taking it with us to the street, or into 
 our business, or with us to the festival, or the 
 gathering of friends. Dr. Arnold used to com- 
 plain that he could get religious subjects treated 
 in a masterly way, but could not get common 
 subjects treated in a religious spirit. The Germans 
 have done better : they have melted down the 
 Sunday into the week. They have hymns em- 
 bodying confessions of sin, hymns in the near 
 prospect of death ; and they have — what is more 
 important — spiritual songs that may be sung by 
 soldiers on the march, by the artisan at the loom, 
 by the peasant following his team, by the mother 
 among her children, and by the maiden sitting at 
 her wheel listening for the step of her lover. 
 Religion is thus brought in to refine and hallow 
 the sweet necessities and emotions of life, to cheer 
 its weariness, and to exalt its sordidness. The 
 German life revolves like the village festival with 
 the pastor in the midst — ^joy and laughter and 
 merry games do not fear the holy man, for he 
 wears no unkindness in his eye, but his presence 
 checks everything boisterous or unseemly — the 
 rude word, the petulant act — and when it has 
 run its course, he uplifts his hands and leaves his 
 benediction on his children. 
 
 The Lyra Germanica contains the utterances 
 of pious German souls in all conditions of life 
 during many centuries. In it hymns are to be
 
 i88 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 
 
 found written not only by poor clergymen, and still 
 poorer precentors, by riband manufacturers and 
 shoemakers, who, amid rude environments, had a 
 touch of celestial melody in their hearts, but by 
 noble ladies and gentlemen, and crowned kings. 
 The oldest in the collection is one written by King 
 Robert of France about the year looo. It is 
 beautifully simple and pathetic. State is laid aside 
 with the crown, pride with the royal robe, and 
 Lazarus at Dives' gate could not have written out 
 of a lowlier heart. The kingly brow may bear 
 itself high enough before men, the voice may 
 be commanding and imperious enough, cutting 
 through contradiction as with a sword, but before 
 the Highest all is humbleness and bended knees. 
 Other compositions there are, scattered through 
 the volume, by great personages — several by 
 Louisa Henrietta, Electress of Brandenburg, and 
 Anton Ulrick, Duke of Brunswick — all written two 
 hundred years ago. These are genuine poems, full 
 of faith and charity, and calm trust in God. They 
 are all dead now, these noble gentlemen and 
 gentlewoman ; their warfare, successful or adverse, 
 has been long closed, ,but they gleam yet in my 
 fancy, like the white effigies on tombs in dim 
 cathedrals, the marble palms pressed together on 
 the marble breast, the sword by the side of the 
 knight, the psalter by the side of the lady, and 
 flowing around them the scrolls on which are 
 inscribed the texts of resurrection. 
 
 This book contains surely one of the most 
 touching of human compositions — a song of 
 Luther's. The great Reformer's music resounds
 
 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 189 
 
 to this day in our churches ; and one of the rude 
 hymns he wrote has such a step of thunder in it, 
 that the father of Frederick the Great, Mr. Carlyle 
 tells us, used to call it " God Almighty's Grenadier 
 March." This one I speak of is of another mood, 
 and is soft as tears. To appreciate it thoroughly, 
 one must think of the burly, resolute, humorous, 
 and withal tender-hearted man, and of the work he 
 accomplished. He it was, the Franklin's kite, led 
 by the highest hand, that went up into the papal 
 thundercloud hanging black over Europe ; and 
 the angry fire that broke upon it burned it not, 
 and in roars of boltless thunder the apparition 
 collapsed, and the sun of truth broke through the 
 inky fragments on the nations once again. He it 
 was who, when advised not to trust himself in 
 Worms, declared, "Although there be as many 
 devils in Worms as there are tiles on the house- 
 tops, I will go." He it was who, when brought to 
 bay in the splendid assemblage, said, " It is neither 
 safe nor prudent to do aught against conscience. 
 Here stand I — I cannot do otherwise. God help 
 me. Amen." The rock cannot move — the 
 lightnings may splinter it. Think of these things, 
 and then read Luther's Christmas Carol with its 
 tender inscription, " Luther — written for his little 
 son Hans, 1546." Coming from another pen, the 
 stanzas were perhaps not much ; coming from his, 
 they move one like the finest eloquence. This 
 song sunk deep into the hearts of the common 
 people, and is still sung from the dome of the 
 Kreuz Kirche in Dresden before daybreak on 
 Christmas morning.
 
 igo A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 
 
 There is no more delightful reading in the world 
 than these Scottish ballads. The mailed knight, 
 the Border peel, the moonlight raid, the lady at 
 her bower window — all these have disappeared 
 from the actual world, and lead existence now as 
 songs. Verses and snatches of these ballads are 
 continually haunting and twittering about my 
 memory, as in summer the swallows haunt and 
 twitter about the eaves of my dwelling. I know 
 them so well, and they meet a mortal man's 
 experience so fully, that I am sure — with, perhaps, 
 a little help from Shakspeare — I could conduct the 
 whole of my business by quotation — do all its 
 love-making, pay all its tavern scores, quarrel and 
 make friends again in their words, far better than 
 I could in my own. If you know these ballads, 
 you will find that they mirror perfectly your every 
 mood. If you are w^eary and down-hearted, behold, 
 a verse starts to your memory trembling with the 
 very sigh you have heaved. If you are merry, a 
 stanza is dancing to the tune of your own mirth. 
 If you love, be you ever so much a Romeo, here is 
 the finest language for your using. If you hate, 
 here are words which are daggers. If you like 
 battle, here for two hundred years have trumpets 
 been blowing and banners flapping. If you are 
 dying, plentiful are the broken words here Avhich 
 have hovered on failing lips. Turn where you 
 will, some fragment of a ballad is sure to meet you. 
 Go into the loneliest places of experience and 
 passion, and you discover that you are walking in 
 human footprints. If you should happen to lift 
 the first volume of Professor Aytoun's Ballads of
 
 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 191 
 
 Scotland, the book of its own accord will open at 
 " Clerk Saunders," and by that token you will 
 guess that the ballad has been read and reread a 
 thousand times. And what a ballad it is ! The 
 story in parts is somewhat perilous to deal with, 
 but with what instinctive delicacy the whole matter 
 is managed ! Then what tragic pictures, what 
 pathos, what manly and womanly love ! Just fancy 
 how the sleeping lovers, the raised torches, and the 
 faces of the seven brothers looking on, would gleam 
 on the canvas of Mr. Millais ! 
 
 "'For in may come my seven bauld brothers, 
 Wi' torches burning bright.' 
 
 " It was about the midnight hour, 
 And they were fa'en asleep, 
 When in and came her seven brothers. 
 And stood at her bed feet. 
 
 ' ' Then out and spake the first o' them, 
 'We'll awa' and let them be.' 
 Then out and spake the second o' them, 
 ' His father has nae mair than he.' 
 
 "Then out and spake the third o' them, 
 'I wot they are lovers dear.' 
 Then out and spake the fourth o' them, 
 'They ha'e lo'ed for mony a year.' 
 
 "Then out and spake the fifth o' them, 
 'It were sin true love to twain.' 
 ' 'Twere shame,' out spake the sixth o' them, 
 ' To slay a sleeping man ! ' 
 
 "Then up and gat the seventh o' them, 
 And never a word spake he, 
 But he has striped his bright-brown brand 
 Through Saunders's fair bodie.
 
 192 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 
 
 "Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn'd 
 Into his arms as asleep she lay, 
 And sad and silent was the night 
 That was atween thir twae." 
 
 Could a word be added or taken from these 
 verses without spoiling the effect? You never 
 think of the language, so vividly is the picture 
 impressed on the imagination. I see at this 
 moment the sleeping pair, the bright-burning 
 torches, the lowering faces of the brethren, and 
 the one fiercer and darker than the others. 
 
 Pass we now to the Second Part : 
 
 "Sae painfully she clam' the wa', 
 She clam' the wa' up after him ; 
 Hosen nor shoon upon her feet, 
 She had na time to put them on, 
 
 "'Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? 
 Is there ony room at your feet ? 
 Or ony room at your side, Saunders, 
 Where fain, fain I wad sleep ? ' " 
 
 In that last line the very heart-strings crack. 
 She is to be pitied far more than Clerk Saunders, 
 lying stark with the cruel wound beneath his 
 side, the love-kisses hardly cold yet upon his 
 lips. 
 
 It may be said that the books of which 1 have 
 been speaking attain to the highest literary 
 excellence by favour of simplicity and uncon- 
 sciousness. Neither the German nor the Scotsman 
 considered himself an artist. The Scot sings a 
 successful foray, in which perhaps he was engaged, 
 and he sings as he fought. In combat he did
 
 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASK 193 
 
 not dream of putting himself in a heroic position, 
 or of flourishing his blade in a manner to be 
 admired. A thrust of a lance would soon have 
 finished him if he had. The pious German is 
 over-laden with grief, or touched by some blessing 
 into sudden thankfulness, and he breaks into song 
 as he laughs from gladness or groans from pain. 
 This directness and naturalness give Scottish 
 ballad and German hymn their highest charm. 
 The poetic gold, if rough and unpolished, and 
 with no elaborate devices carved upon it, is free 
 at least from the alloy of conceit and simulation. 
 Modern writers might, with benefit to themselves, 
 barter something of their finish and dexterity for 
 that pure innocence of nature, and childHke 
 simplicity and fearlessness, full of its own emotion, 
 and unthinking of others or of their opinions, 
 which characterise these old writings. 
 
 The eighteenth century must ever remain the 
 most brilliant and interesting period of English 
 literary history. It is interesting not only on 
 account of its splendour, but because it is so well 
 known. We are familiar with the faces of its 
 great men by portraits, and with the events of 
 their lives by innumerable biographies. Every 
 reader is acquainted with Pope's restless jealousy, 
 Goldsmith's pitted countenance and plum-coloured 
 coat, Johnson's surly manners and countless 
 eccentricities, and with the tribe of poets who 
 lived for months ignorant of clean linen, who 
 were hunted by bailiffs, who smelt of stale punch, 
 and who wrote descriptions of the feasts of the 
 gods in twopenny cook-shops. Manners and 
 13
 
 194 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 
 
 modes of thought had greatly changed since the 
 century before. Macbeth, in silk stockings and 
 scarlet coat, slew King Duncan, and the pit 
 admired the wild force occasionally exhibited 
 by the barbarian Shakspeare. In those days the 
 Muse wore patches, and sat in a sumptuous 
 boudoir, and her worshippers surrounded her 
 in high-heeled shoes, ruffles, and powdered wigs. 
 When the poets wished to paint nature, they 
 described Chloe sitting on a green bank watch- 
 ing her sheep, or sighing when Strephon confessed 
 his flame. And yet, with all this apparent 
 shallowness, the age was earnest enough in its 
 way. It was a good hater. It was filled with 
 relentless literary feuds. Just recall the lawless 
 state of things on the Scottish Border in the 
 olden time — the cattle-lifting, the house-burning, 
 the midnight murders, the powerful marauders, 
 who, safe in numerous retainers and moated keep, 
 bade defiance to law — recall this state of things, 
 and imagine the quarrels and raids literary, the 
 weapons satire and wit, and you have a good idea 
 of the darker aspect of the time. There were 
 literary bravoes, who hired themselves to assas- 
 sinate reputations. There were literary reavers, 
 who laid desolate at a foray a whole generation 
 of wits. There were literary duels, fought out 
 in grim hate to the very death. It was dangerous 
 to interfere in the literary melee. Every now and 
 then a fine gentleman was run through with a 
 jest, or a foolish Maecenas stabbed to the heart 
 with an epigram, and his foolishness settled for 
 ever.
 
 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 195 
 
 As a matter of course, on this special shelf of 
 books will be found Boswell's " Life of Johnson " 
 — a work in our literature unique, priceless. 
 That altogether unvenerable yet profoundly 
 venerating Scottish gentleman — that queerest 
 mixture of qualities, of force and weakness, 
 blindness and insight, vanity and solid worth — 
 has written the finest book of its kind which 
 our nation possesses. It is quite impossible to 
 over-state its worth. You lift it, and immediately 
 the intervening years disappear, and you are in 
 the presence of the Doctor. You are made free 
 of the last century, as you are free of the present. 
 You double your existence. The book is a letter 
 of introduction to a whole knot of departed 
 English worthies. In virtue of Boswell's labours, 
 we know Johnson — the central man of his time — 
 better than Burke did, or Reynolds, — far better 
 even than Boswell did. We know how he ex- 
 pressed himself, in what grooves his thoughts 
 ran, how he dressed, how he ate, drank, and 
 slept. BoswelFs unconscious art is wonderful, 
 and so is the result attained. This book has 
 arrested, as never book did before, time and 
 decay. Bozzy is really a wizard : he makes the 
 sun stand still. Till his work is done, the future 
 stands respectfully aloof. Out of ever-shifting 
 time he has made fixed and permanent certain 
 years, and in these Johnson talks and argues, 
 while Burke listens, and Reynolds takes snuff, 
 and Goldsmith, with hollowed hand, whispers a 
 sly remark to his neighbour. There have they 
 sat, these ghosts, for seventy years now, looked
 
 196 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 
 
 at and listened to by the passing generations ; 
 and there they still sit, the one voice going on ! 
 Smile at Boswell as we may, he was a spiritual 
 phenomenon quite as rare as Johnson. More 
 than most he deserves our gratitude. Let us 
 hope that when next Heaven sends England a 
 man like Johnson, a companion and listener 
 like Boswell will be provided. The Literary 
 Club sits for ever. What if the Mermaid were 
 in like eternal session, with Shakspeare's laughter 
 ringing through the fire and hail of wit ! 
 
 By the strange freak of chance or liking, the next 
 book on my shelf contains the poems of Ebenezer 
 Elliott, the Corn - law Rhymer. This volume, 
 adorned by a hideous portrait in lithograph of the 
 author, I can well remember picking up at a book- 
 stall for a few pence many years ago. It seems 
 curious to me that this man is not in these days 
 better known. A more singular man has seldom 
 existed — seldom a more genuine. His first busi- 
 ness speculation failed, but when about forty he 
 commenced again, and this time fortune made 
 amends for her former ill-treatment. His ware- 
 house was a small, dingy place, filled with bars of 
 iron, with a bust of Shakspeare looking down on 
 the whole. His country house contained busts of 
 Achilles, Ajax, and Napoleon. Here is a poet who 
 earned a competence as an iron-merchant ; here is 
 a monomaniac on the Corn-laws, who loved nature 
 as intensely as ever did Burns or Wordsworth. 
 Here is a John Bright uttering himself in fiery and 
 melodious verse — Apollo with iron-dust on his 
 face, wandering among the Sheflield knife-grinders !
 
 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 197 
 
 If you wish to form some idea of the fierce discon- 
 tent which thirty years ago existed amongst the 
 working men of England, you should read the Corn- 
 law Rhymes. The Corn-laws are to him the twelve 
 plagues of Egypt rolled together. On account of 
 them, he denounces his country as the Hebrew 
 prophets were wont to denounce Tyre and Sidon. 
 His rage breaks out into curses, which are not 
 forgiveness. He is maddened by the memory of 
 Peterloo. Never, perhaps, was a sane human 
 being so tyrannised over by a single idea. 
 
 A skeleton was found on one of the Derbyshire 
 hills. Had the man been crossed in love ? had 
 he crept up there to die in presence of the stars ? 
 " Not at all," cries Elliott ; "he was a victim of the 
 Corn-laws, who preferred dying on the mountain- 
 top to receiving parish pay." In his wild poem all 
 the evil kings in Hades descend from their thrones 
 when King George enters. They only let slip the 
 dogs of war; //^ taxed the people's bread. "Sleep 
 on, proud Britoness ! " he exclaims over a woman 
 at rest in the grave she had purchased. In one of 
 his articles in Taifs Magazine, he seriously pro- 
 posed that tragedies should be written showing the 
 evils of the Corn-laws, and that on a given night 
 they should be performed in every theatre of the 
 kingdom, so that the nation might, by the speedi- 
 est possible process, be converted to the gospel of 
 Free-trade. In his eyes the Corn-laws had gathered 
 into their black bosoms every human wrong; 
 repeal them, and lo ! the new heavens and the new 
 earth ! A poor and shallow theory of the universe, 
 you will say ; but it is astonishing what poetry he
 
 igS A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 
 
 contrives to extract out of it. It is hardly possible, 
 without quotation, to give an idea of the rage and 
 fury which pervade these poems. He curses his 
 political opponents with his whole heart and soul. 
 He pillories them, and pelts them with dead cats 
 and rotten eggs. The earnestness of his mood has 
 a certain terror in it for meek and quiet people. 
 His poems are of the angriest, but their anger is 
 not altogether undivine. His scorn blisters and 
 scalds, his sarcasm flays ; but then outside nature 
 is constantly touching him with a summer breeze 
 or a branch of pink and white apple blossom, and 
 his mood becomes tenderness itself. He is far 
 from being lachrymose ; and when he is pathetic, 
 he affects one as when a strong man sobs. His 
 anger is not nearly so frightful as his tears. 
 
 I cannot understand why Elliott is so little read. 
 Other names not particularly remarkable I meet in 
 the current reviews — his never. His book stands 
 on my shelf, but on no other have I seen it. This 
 I think strange, because, apart from the intrinsic 
 value of his verse as verse, it has an historical value. 
 Evil times, and embittered feelings, now happily 
 passed away, are preserved in his books, like 
 Pompeii and Herculaneum in Vesuvian lava. He 
 was a poet of the poor, but in a quite pecuhar sense. 
 Burns, Crabbe, Wordsworth, were poets of the 
 poor, but mainly of the peasant poor. Elliott 
 is the poet of English artisans — men who read 
 newspapers and books, who are members of me- 
 chanics' institutes, who attend debating societies, 
 who discuss political measures and political men, who 
 are tormented by ideas — a very different kind of
 
 A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE 199 
 
 persons altogether. It is easier to find poetry be- 
 neath the blowing hawthorn than beneath the plumes 
 of factory or furnace smoke. In such uninviting 
 atmospheres Ebenezer Elliott found his ; and I am 
 amazed that the world does not hold it in greater 
 regard, if for nothing else than for its singularity. 
 
 There is many another book on my shelf on 
 which I might dilate, but this gossiping must be 
 drawn to a close, ^^'hen I began, the wind was 
 bending the trees, and the rain came against the 
 window in quick, petulant dashes. For hours 
 now, wind and rain have ceased, the trees are 
 motionless, the garden walk is dry. The early 
 light of wintry sunset is falling across my paper, 
 and, as I look up, the white Dante opposite is 
 dipped in tender rose. Less stern he looks, but 
 not less sad, than he did in the morning. The sky 
 is clear, and an arm of bleak pink vapour stretches 
 up into its depths. The air is cold with frost, and 
 the rain which those dark clouds in the east hold 
 will fall during the night in silent, feathery flakes. 
 When I wake to-morrow, the world will be changed, 
 frosty forests will cover my bedroom panes, the 
 tree branches will be furred with snows; and to 
 the crumbs which it is my daily custom to sprinkle 
 on the shrubbery walk will come the lineal descend- 
 ant of the charitable redbreast that covered up with 
 leaves the sleeping Children in the Wood.
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 
 
 CHAUCER is admitted on all hands to be a 
 great poet, but, by the general public at 
 least, he is not frequently read. He is like a 
 cardinal virtue, a good deal talked about, a 
 good deal praised, honoured by a vast amount 
 of distant admiration, but with little practical 
 acquaintance. And for this there are many 
 and obvious reasons. He is an ancient, and the 
 rich old mahogany is neglected for the new and 
 glittering veneer. He is occasionally gross ; 
 often tedious and obscure; he frequently leaves 
 a couple of lovers to cite the opinions of Greek 
 and Roman authors ; and practice and patience 
 are required to melt the frost of his orthography, 
 and let his music flow freely. In the conduct 
 of his stories he is garrulous, homely, and slow- 
 paced. He wrote in a leisurely world, when 
 there was plenty of time for writing and reading ; 
 long before the advent of the printer's devil or 
 of Mr. Mudie. There is little of the lyrical 
 element in him. He does not dazzle by 
 sentences. He is not quotable. He does not 
 shine in extracts so much as in entire poems.
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 201 
 
 There is a pleasant equality about his writing : 
 he advances through a story at an even pace, 
 glancing round him on everything with curious, 
 humorous eyes, and having his say about every- 
 thing. He is the prince of story-tellers, and 
 however much he may move others, he is not 
 moved himself. His mood is so kindly that he 
 seems always to have written after dinner, or 
 after hearing good news — that he had received 
 from the king Another grant of wine, for instance 
 — and he discourses of love and lovers' raptures, 
 and the disappointments of life, half -sportively, 
 half- sadly, like one who has passed through all, 
 felt the sweetness and the bitterness of it, and 
 been able to strike a balance. He had his share 
 of crosses and misfortunes, but his was a nature 
 which time and sorrow could only mellow and 
 sweeten ; and for all that had come and gone, 
 he loved his " books clothed in black and red," 
 to sit at good men's feasts ; and if silent at table, 
 as the Countess of Pembroke reported, the 
 "stain upon his lip was wine." 
 
 Chaucer's face is to his writings the best preface 
 and commentary ; it is contented-looking, like 
 one familiar with pleasant thoughts, shy and self- 
 contained somewhat, as if he preferred his own 
 company to the noisy and rude companionship 
 of his fellows; and the outlines are bland, 
 fleshy, voluptuous, as of one who had a keen 
 relish for the pleasures that leave no bitter 
 traces. Tears and mental trouble, and the 
 agonies of doubt, you cannot think of in con- 
 nection with it; laughter is sheathed in it, the
 
 202 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 light of a smile is diffused over it. In face and 
 turn of genius he differs in every respect from 
 his successor, Spenser ; and in truth, in Chaucer 
 and Spenser we see the fountains of the two 
 main streams of British song : the one flowing 
 through the drama and the humorous narrative, 
 the other through the epic and the didactic 
 poem. Chaucer rooted himself firmly in fact, 
 and looked out upon the world in a half- 
 humorous, half-melancholy mood. Spenser had 
 but little knowledge of men as men ; the cardinal 
 virtues were the personages he was acquainted 
 with ; in everything he was " high fantastical," and, 
 as a consequence, he exhibits neither humour 
 nor pathos. Chaucer was thoroughly national ; his 
 characters, place them where he may — in Thebes 
 or Tartary — are natives of one or other of the 
 English shires. 
 
 Spenser's genius was countryless as Ariel; 
 search ever so diligently, you will not find an 
 English daisy in all his enchanted forests. 
 Chaucer was tolerant of everything, the vices not 
 excepted; morally speaking, an easy-going man, 
 he took the world as it came, and did not fancy 
 himself a whit better than his fellows. Spenser 
 was a Platonist, and fed his grave spirit on high 
 speculations and moralities. Severe and chival- 
 rous, dreaming of things to come, unsuppled 
 by luxury, unenslaved by passion, somewhat 
 scornful and self-sustained, it needed but a 
 tyrannous king, an electrical political atmosphere, 
 and a deeper interest in theology, to make a 
 Puritan of him, as these things made a Puritan
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 203 
 
 of Milton. The differences between Chaucer 
 and Spenser are seen at a glance in their portraits. 
 Chaucer's face is round, good-humoured, con- 
 stitutionally pensive, and thoughtful. You see 
 in it that he has often been amused, and that 
 he may easily be amused again. Spenser's is 
 of sharper and keener feature, disdainful, and 
 breathing that severity which appertains to so 
 many of the Elizabethan men. A fourteenth- 
 century child, with delicate prescience, would 
 have asked Chaucer to assist her in a strait, 
 and would not have been disappointed. A 
 sixteenth-century child in like circumstances 
 would have shrunk from drawing on herself the 
 regards of the sterner-looking man. We can 
 trace the descent of the Chaucerian face and 
 genius in Shakspeare and Scott, of the Spenserian 
 in Milton and Wordsworth. In our own day, 
 Mr. Browning takes after Chaucer, Mr. Tennyson 
 takes after Spenser. 
 
 Hazlitt, writing of the four great English poets, 
 tells us Chaucer's characteristic is intensity, 
 Spenser's remoteness, Milton's sublimity, and 
 Shakspeare's everything. The sentence is epi- 
 grammatic and memorable enough ; but, so far 
 as Chaucer is concerned, it requires a little 
 explanation. He is not intense, for instance, 
 as Byron is intense, or as Wordsworth is intense. 
 He does not see man like the one, nor nature like 
 the other. He would not have cared much for 
 either of these poets. And yet, so far as straight- 
 forwardness in dealing with a subject, and com- 
 plete though quiet realisation of it goes to make
 
 204 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 up intensity of poetic mood, Chaucer amply 
 justifies his critic. There is no wastefulness or 
 explosiveness about the old writer. He does 
 his work silently, and with no appearance of 
 effort. His poetry shines upon us like a May 
 morning, but the streak over the eastern hill, 
 the dew on the grass, the wind that bathes the 
 brows of the wayfarer, are not there by hap- 
 hazard; they are the results of occult forces, a 
 whole solar system has had a hand in their pro- 
 duction. From the apparent ease with which 
 an artist works, one does not readily give him 
 credit for the mental force he is continuously 
 puttmg forth. To many people a chaotic 
 "Festus" is more wonderful than a rounded, 
 melodious "Princess." The load which a strong 
 man bears gracefully does not seem so heavy as 
 the load which the weaker man staggers under. 
 Incompletion is force fighting; completion is 
 force quiescent, its work done. Nature's forces 
 are patent enough in some scarred volcanic moon 
 in which no creature can breathe ; only the sage, 
 in some soft green earth, can discover the same 
 forces reft of fierceness and terror, and translated 
 into sunshine and falling dew, and the rainbow 
 gleaming on the shower. It is somewhat in this 
 way that the propriety of Hazlitt's criticism is to 
 be vindicated. Chaucer is the most simple, 
 natural, and homely of our poets, and whatever 
 he attempts he does thoroughly. The Wife of 
 Bath is so distinctly limned that she 'could sit for 
 her portrait. You can count the embroidered 
 sprigs in the jerkin of the squire. You hear the
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 205 
 
 pilgrims laugh as they ride to Canterbury. The 
 whole thing is admirably lifelike and seems easy, 
 and in the seeming easiness we are apt to forget 
 the imaginative sympathy which bodies forth the 
 characters, and the joy and sorrow from which 
 that sympathy has drawn nurture. Unseen by 
 us the ore has been dug, and smelted in secret 
 furnaces, and when it is poured into perfect 
 moulds, we are apt to forget by what potency the 
 whole thing has been brought about. 
 
 And, with his noticing eyes, into what a brilliant, 
 many-tinted world was Chaucer born. In his day 
 life had a certain breadth, colour, and picturesque- 
 ness which it does not possess now. It wore a 
 braver dress, and flaunted more in the sun. Five 
 centuries effect a great change on manners. A 
 man may nowadays, and without the slightest 
 suspicion of the fact, brush clothes with half the 
 English peerage on a sunny afternoon in Pall Mall. 
 Then it was quite different. The fourteenth 
 century loved magnificence and show. Great 
 lords kept princely state in the country ; and when 
 thev came abroad, what a retinue, what waving of 
 plumes, and shaking of banners, and glittering 
 of rich dresses ! Religion was picturesque, with 
 dignitaries and cathedrals, and fuming incense, 
 and the Host carried through the streets. The 
 franklin kept open house, the city merchant feasted 
 kings, the outlaw roasted his venison beneath the 
 greenwood tree. There was a gallant monarch and 
 a gallant court. The eyes of the Countess of 
 SaUsbury shed influence ; Maid Marian laughed in 
 Sherwood. London is already a considerable place,
 
 2o6 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 numbering, perhaps, two hundred thousand inhabit- 
 ants, the houses clustering close and high along 
 the river banks ; and on the beautiful April nights 
 the nightingales are singing round the suburban 
 villages of Strand, Holborn, and Charing. It is 
 rich withal ; for after the battle of Poitiers, Harry 
 Picard, wine-merchant and Lord Mayor, entertained 
 in the city four kings — to wit, Edward, King of 
 England, John, King of France, David, King of 
 Scotland, and the King of Cyprus — and the last- 
 named potentate, slightly heated with Harry's wine, 
 engaged him at dice, and being nearly ruined 
 thereby, the honest wine-merchant returned the 
 poor king his money, which was received with all 
 thankfulness. There is great stir on a summer's 
 morning in that Warwickshire castle — pawing of 
 horses, tossing of bridles, clanking of spurs. The 
 old lord climbs at last into his saddle, and rides 
 ofif to court, his favourite falcon on his wrist, four 
 squires in immediate attendance carrying his arms, 
 and behind these stretches a merry cavalcade, on 
 which the chestnuts shed their milky blossoms. 
 In the absence of the old peer, young Hopeful 
 spends his time as befits his rank and expectations. 
 He grooms his steed, plays with his hawks, feeds 
 his hounds, and labours diligently to acquire 
 grace and dexterity in the use of arms. At noon 
 the portcullis is lowered, and out shoots a brilliant 
 array of ladies and gentlemen, and falconers with 
 hawks. They bend their course to the river, over 
 which a rainbow is rising from a shower. Yonder 
 young lady is laughing at our stripling squire, who 
 seems half-angry, half-pleased : they are lovers,
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 207 
 
 depend upon ii. A few years, and the merry 
 beauty will have become a noble, gracious woman, 
 and the young fellow, sitting by a watch-fire on 
 the eve of Cressy, will wonder if she is thinking 
 of him. But the river is already reached. Up 
 flies the alarmed heron, his long blue legs trailing 
 behind him ; a hawk is let loose ; the young lady's 
 laugh has ceased, as with gloved hand shading 
 fair forehead and sweet grey eye, she watches 
 hawk and heron lessening in heaven. 
 
 The Crusades are now over, but the religious 
 fervour which inspired them lingered behind; so 
 that, even in Chaucer's day. Christian kings, when 
 their consciences were oppressed by a crime 
 more than usually weighty, talked of making an 
 effort before they died to wrest Jerusalem and the 
 sepulchre of Christ from the grasp of the infidel. 
 England had at this time several holy shrines, the 
 most famous being that of Thomas a Becket at 
 Canterbury, which attracted crowds of pilgrims. 
 The devout travelled in large companies; and, in 
 the May mornings, a merry sight it was, as, with 
 infinite clatter and merriment, with bells, minstrels, 
 and buffoons, they passed through thorp and 
 village, bound for the tomb of St. Thomas. The 
 pageant of events, which seems enchantment when 
 chronicled by Froissart's splendid pen, was to 
 Chaucer contemporaneous incident : the chivalric 
 richness was the familiar and everyday dress of 
 his time. Into this princely element he was 
 endued, and he saw every side of it — the frieze 
 as well as the cloth of gold. In the Canterbury 
 Tales the fourteenth century murmurs, as the
 
 2o8 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 sea murmurs in the pink- mouthed shells upon 
 our mantelpieces. 
 
 Of his life we do not know much. In his 
 youth he studied law and disliked it — a circum- 
 stance common enough in the lives of men of 
 letters, from his time to that of Shirley Brooks. 
 How he lived, what he did, when he was a student, 
 we are unable to discover. Only for a moment is the 
 curtain lifted, and we behold, in the old, quaint- 
 peaked and gabled Fleet Street of that day, Chaucer 
 thrashing a Franciscan friar (friar's offence un- 
 known), for which amusement he was next morning 
 fined two shillings. History has preserved this 
 for us, but has forgotten all the rest of his early 
 life and the chronology of all his poems. What 
 curious flies are sometimes found in the historic 
 amber ! On Chaucer's own authority, we know 
 that he served under Edward iii. in his French 
 campaign, and that he for some time lay in a 
 French prison. On his return from captivity he 
 married ; he was a valet in the king's household ; 
 he was sent on an embassy to Genoa, and is 
 supposed to have visited Petrarch, then resident 
 at Padua, and to have heard from his lips the 
 story of " Griselda " — a tradition which one would 
 like to believe. He had his share of the sweets 
 and the bitters of life. He enjoyed offices and 
 gifts of wine, and he felt the pangs of poverty 
 and the sickness of hope deferred. He was 
 comptroller of the customs for wools ; from which 
 post he was dismissed — ivhy, we know not, 
 although one cannot help remembering that 
 Edward made the writing out of the accounts in
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 209 
 
 Chaucer's own hand the condition of his holding 
 office, and having one's surmises. P'oreign coun- 
 tries, strange manners, meetings with celebrated 
 men, love of wife and children, and their deaths, 
 freedom and captivity, the light of a king's smile 
 and its withdrawal, furnished ample matter of 
 meditation to his humane and thoughtful spirit. 
 In his youth he wrote allegories, full of ladies 
 and knights dwelling in impossible forests, and 
 nursing impossible passions, but, in his declining 
 years, when fortune had done all it could for him 
 and all it could against him, he discarded these 
 dreams, and betook himself to the actual stuff of 
 human nature. Instead of the Romance of the 
 Rose, we have the Canterbury Tales, and the 
 first great English poet. One likes to fancy 
 Chaucer in his declining days, living at Woodstock, 
 with his books about him, and where he could 
 watch the daisies opening themselves at sunrise, 
 shutting themselves at sunset, and composing his 
 wonderful stories in which the fourteenth century 
 lives — riding to battle in iron gear, hawking in 
 embroidered jerkin and waving plume, sitting in 
 rich and solemn feast, the monarch on the dais. 
 
 Chaucer's early poems have music and fancy, 
 they are full of a natural delight in sunshine 
 and the greenness of foliage, but they have 
 little human interest. They are allegories for 
 the most part, more or less satisfactorily wrought 
 out. The allegorical turn of thought, the delight 
 in pageantry, the " clothing upon "' of abstrac- 
 tions with human forms, flowered originally out 
 of chivalry and the feudal times. Chaucer im- 
 14
 
 2IO GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 ported it from the French, and was proud of it 
 in his early poems, as a young fellow of that 
 day might be proud of his horse furniture, his 
 attire, his waving plume. And the poetic fashion 
 thus set retained its vitality for a long while — 
 indeed, it was only thoroughly made an end of 
 by the French Revolution, which made an end 
 of so much else. About the last trace of its 
 influence is to be found in Burns' sentimental 
 correspondence with Mrs. M'Lehose, in which 
 the lady is addressed as Clarinda, and the poet 
 signs himself Sylvander. It was at best a mere 
 beautiful gauze screen drawn between the poet 
 and nature, and passion put his foot through it 
 at once. After Chaucer's youth was over, he 
 discarded somewhat scornfully these abstractions 
 and shows of things. The "Flower and the 
 Leaf" is a beautifully tinted dream; the Canter- 
 bury Tales are as real as anything in Shakspeare 
 or Burns. 
 
 The ladies in the earlier poems dwell in 
 forests, and wear coronals on their heads ; the 
 people in the Tales are engaged in the actual 
 concerns of life, and you can see the splashes 
 of mire upon their clothes. The separate poems 
 which make up the Canterbury Tales were 
 probably written at different periods, after youth 
 was gone, and when he had fallen out of love 
 with florid imagery and allegorical conceits ; and 
 we can fancy him, perhaps fallen on evil days 
 and in retirement, anxious to gather up these 
 loose efforts into one consummate whole. If 
 of his flowers he would make a bouquet for pos-
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 211 
 
 terity, it was of course necessary to procure a 
 string to tie them together. These necessities, 
 which ruin other men, are the fortunate chances 
 of great poets. Then it was that the idea arose 
 of a meeting of pilgrims at the Tabard in South- 
 wark, of their riding to Canterbury, and of the 
 different personages relating stories to beguile 
 the tedium of the journey. The notion was a 
 happy one, and the execution is superb. In 
 those days, as we know, pilgrimages were of 
 frequent occurrence ; and in the motley group 
 that congregated on such occasions, the painter 
 of character had full scope. All conditions of 
 people are comprised in the noisy band issuing 
 from the courtyard of the Southwark Inn on 
 that May morning in the fourteenth century. 
 Let us go nearer and have a look at them ! 
 
 There is a grave and gentle knight, who has 
 fought in many wars, and who has many a time 
 hurled his adversary down in tournament before 
 the eyes of all the ladies there, and who has 
 taken the place of honour at many a mighty 
 feast. There, riding beside him, is a blooming 
 squire, his son, fresh as the month of May, sing- 
 ing day and night from very gladness of heart 
 — an impetuous young fellow, who is looking 
 forward to the time when he wdll flesh his maiden 
 sword and shout his first warcry in a stricken 
 field. There is an abbot mounted on a brown 
 steed. He is middle-aged ; his bald crown shines 
 like glass, and his face looks as if it were anointed 
 with oil. He has been a valiant trencher-man 
 at many a well-furnished feast. Above all things,
 
 212 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 he loves hunting; and when he rides, men can 
 hear his bridle ringing in the whistling wind loud 
 and clear as a chapel bell. There is a thin, ill- 
 conditioned clerk, perched perilously on a steed 
 as thin and ill-conditioned as himself. He will 
 never be rich, I fear. He is a great student, 
 and would rather have a few books bound in 
 black and red hanging above his bed than be 
 sheriff of the county. There is a prioress so 
 gentle and tender-hearted, that she weeps if she 
 hears the whimper of a beaten hound, or sees a 
 mouse caught in a trap. There rides the laugh- 
 ing Wife of Bath, bold-faced and fair. She is 
 an adept in love-matters. Five husbands already 
 "she has fried in their own grease" till they 
 were glad to get into their graves to escape the 
 scourge of her tongue — Heaven rest their souls, 
 and swiftly send a sixth! She wears a hat large 
 as a targe or buckler, brings the artillery of her 
 eyes to bear on the young squire, and jokes him 
 about his sweetheart. Beside her is a worthy 
 parson, who delivers faithfully the message of 
 his Master. Although he is poor, he gives away 
 the half of his tithes in charity. His parish is 
 waste and wide, yet if sickness or misfortune 
 should befall one of his flock, he rides in spite of 
 wind, or rain, or thunder, to administer con- 
 solation. 
 
 Among the crowd rides a rich franklin, who sits 
 in the Guildhall on the dais. He is profuse and 
 hospitable as summer. All day his table stands 
 in the hall covered with meats and drinks, and 
 every one who enters is welcome. There is a
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 213 
 
 ship-man, whose beard has been shaken by many 
 a tempest, whose cheek knows the kiss of the 
 salt sea spray ; a merchant, with a grave look, 
 clean and neat in his attire, and with plenty of 
 gold in his purse. There is a doctor of physic, 
 who has killed more men than the knight, talk- 
 ing to a clerk of laws. There is a merry friar, 
 a lover of good cheer; and when seated in a 
 tavern among his companions, singing songs it 
 would be scarcely decorous to repeat, you may 
 see his eyes, twinkling in his head for joy, like 
 stars on a frosty night. Beside him is a ruby- 
 faced Sompnour, whose breath stinks of garlic 
 and onions ; who is ever roaring for wine — strong 
 wine, wine red as blood; and when drunk, he 
 disdains English — nothing but Latin will serve 
 his turn. In front of all is a miller, who has 
 been drinking over-night, and is now but indiffer- 
 ently sober. There is not a door in the country 
 that he cannot break by running at it with his 
 head. The pilgrims are all ready, the host gives 
 the word, and they defile through the arch. The 
 miller blows his bagpipes as they issue from the 
 town ; and away they ride to Canterbury, through 
 the boon sunshine, and between the white hedges 
 of the English May. 
 
 Had Chaucer spent his whole life in seeking, 
 he could not have selected a better contemporary 
 circumstance for securing variety of character 
 than a pilgrimage to Canterbury. It comprises, 
 as we see, all kinds and conditions of people. 
 It is the fourteenth-century England in little. 
 In our time, the only thing that could match it
 
 214 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 in this respect is Epsom down on the great 
 race day. But then Epsom down is too unwieldy ; 
 the crowd is too great, and it does not cohere, save 
 for the few seconds when the gay jackets are 
 streaming towards the winning-post. The Pro- 
 logue to the Canterhiry Tales, in which we 
 make the acquaintance of the pilgrims, is the 
 ripest, most genial, and humorous — altogether 
 the most masterly thing which Chaucer has left 
 us. In its own way, and within its own limits, it 
 is the most wonderful thing in the language. 
 
 The people we read about are as real as the 
 people we brush clothes with in the street — nay, 
 much 7twre real, for we not only see their faces, 
 and the fashion and texture of their garments, 
 we know also what they think, how they express 
 themselves, and with what eyes they look out on 
 the world. Chaucer's art in this prologue is 
 simple perfection. He indulges in no irrelevant 
 description ; he airs no fine sentiments ; he takes 
 no special pains as to style or poetic ornament ; 
 but every careless touch tells — every sly line 
 reveals character; the description of each man's 
 horse-furniture and array reads like a memoir. 
 The nun's pretty oath bewrays her. We see 
 the bold, well favoured countenance of the Wife 
 of Bath beneath her hat, as " broad as a buckler 
 or a targe " ; and the horse of the clerk, " as lean 
 as is a rake," tells tales of his master's cheer. 
 Our modern dress is worthless as an indication 
 of the character, or even of the social rank, of 
 the wearer; in the olden time it was significant 
 of personal tastes and appetites, of profession,
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 215 
 
 and condition of life generally. See how 
 Chaucer brings out a character by touching 
 merely on a few points uf attire and personal 
 appearance : 
 
 " I saw Ills sleeves were purfil'd al the liaml 
 With fur, and that tlic finest of tlic land ; 
 And for to fasten his hood under his chin 
 He had of gold y' wrought a curious pin. 
 A love-knot in the greater end there was ; 
 His head was bald, and shone as any glass, 
 And eke his face as if it was anoint." 
 
 What more would you have? You could not 
 have known the monk better if you had lived all 
 your life in the monastery with him. The sleeves 
 daintily purfiled with fur give one side of him, 
 the curious pin with the love-knot another, and 
 the shining crown and face complete the character 
 and the picture. The sun itself could not photo- 
 graph more truly. 
 
 On their way the pilgrims tell tales, and these 
 are as various as their relaters ; in fact, the 
 Prologue is the soil out of which they all grow. 
 Dramatic propriety is everywhere instinctively pre- 
 served. "The Knight's Tale" is noble, splendid, 
 and chivalric as his own nature ; the tale told 
 by the Wife of Bath is exactly what one would 
 expect. With what good humour the rosy sinner 
 confesses her sins ! how hilarious she is in her 
 repentance! "The Miller's Tale " is coarse and 
 full-flavoured, just the kind of thing to be told 
 by a rough, humorous fellow who is hardly yet 
 sober. And here it may be said, that although there 
 is a good deal of coarseness in the Canterbury
 
 2i6 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 Tah's, there is not the shghtest tinge of pruriency. 
 There is such a single-heartedness and innocence 
 in Chaucer's vulgarest and broadest stories, such 
 a keen eye for humour, and such a hearty 
 enjoyment of it, and at the same time such an 
 absence of any dehght in impurity for impurity's 
 sake, that but httle danger can arise from their 
 perusal. He is so fond of fun that he will drink 
 it out of a cup that is only indifferently clean. 
 He writes often like Fielding, he never writes as 
 Smollett sometimes does. These stories, ranging 
 from the noble romance of Palanion and Arcite, 
 to the rude intrigues of Clerk Nicholas — the 
 one fitted to draw tears down the cheeks of ladies 
 and gentlemen, the other to convulse with laughter 
 the midriffs of illiterate clowns — gives one an idea 
 of the astonishing range of Chaucer's powers. 
 
 He can suit himself to every company, make 
 himself at home in every circumstance of life; 
 can mingle in tournaments where beauty is leaning 
 from balconies, and the knights, with spear in 
 rest, wait for the blast of the trumpet; and he 
 can with equal ease sit with a couple of drunken 
 friars in a tavern laughing over the confessions 
 they hear, and singing questionable catches 
 between whiles. Chaucer's range is wide as that 
 of Shakspeare — if we omit that side of Shakspeare's 
 mind which confronts the other world, and out 
 of which Hamlet sprang — and his men and 
 women are even more real, and more easily 
 matched in the living and breathing world. For 
 in Shakspeare's characters, as in his language, 
 there is surplusage, superabundance : the measure
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 217 
 
 is heaped and running over. From his sheer 
 wealth he is often the most ««dramatic of writers. 
 He is so frequently greater than his occasion, 
 he has no small change to suit emergencies, 
 and we have guineas in place of groats. 
 Romeo is more than a mortal lover, and Mer- 
 cutio more than a mortal wit; the kings in the 
 Shakspearian world are more kingly than earthly 
 sovereigns; Rosalind's laughter was never heard 
 save in the forest of Arden. His madmen seem 
 to have eaten of some " strange root." No such 
 boon companion as Falstaff ever heard chimes 
 at midnight. His very clowns are transcendental, 
 with scraps of wisdom springing out of their 
 foolishest speech. 
 
 Chaucer, lacking Shakspeare's excess and pro- 
 digality of genius, could not so gloriously err, 
 and his creations have a harder, drier, more 
 realistic look ; are more like the people we 
 hear uttering ordinary EngUsh speech, and see 
 on ordinary country roads against an ordinary 
 English sky. If need were, any one of them 
 could drive pigs to market. Chaucer's char- 
 acters are individual enough, their idiosyncrasies 
 are sharply enough defined, but they are to some 
 extent literal and prosaic; they are of the "earth, 
 earthy"; out of his imagination no Ariel ever 
 sprang, no half-human, half-brutish Caliban ever 
 crept. He does not effloresce in illustrations and 
 images, the flowers do not hide the grass; his 
 pictures are masterpieces, but they are portraits, 
 and the man is brought out by a multiplicity of 
 short touches — caustic, satirical, and matter of
 
 2i8 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 fact. His poetry may be said to resemble an 
 English country road, on which passengers of 
 different degrees of rank are continually passing 
 — now knight, now boor, now abbot : Spenser's, 
 for instance, and all the more fanciful styles, to 
 a tapestry on which a whole Olympus has been 
 wrought. The figures on the tapestry are much 
 the more noble-looking, it is true, but then they 
 are dreams and phantoms, whereas the people 
 on the country road actually exist. 
 
 "The Knight's Tale"— which is the first told on 
 the way to Canterbury — is a chivalrous legend, 
 full of hunting, battle, and tournament. Into it, 
 although the scene is laid in Greece, Chaucer 
 has, with a fine scorn of anachronism, poured 
 all the splendour, colour, pomp, and circumstance 
 of the fourteenth century. It is briUiant as a 
 banner displayed to the sunlight. It is real 
 cloth of gold. Compared with it, Ivanhoe is a 
 spectacle at Astley's. The style is everywhere 
 more adorned than is usual, although even here, 
 and in the richest parts, the short, homely, caustic 
 Chaucerian line is largely employed. " The Man 
 of Law's Tale," again, is distinguished by quite a 
 different merit. It relates the sorrows and patience 
 of Constance, and is filled with the beauty of 
 holiness. Constance might have been sister to 
 Cordelia : she is one of the white lilies of 
 womanhood. Her story is almost the tenderest 
 in our literature. And Chaucer's art comes out 
 in this, that although she would spread her hair, 
 nay, put her very heart beneath the feet of those 
 who wrong her, we do not cease for one moment
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 219 
 
 to respect her. This is a feat which has but 
 seldom been achieved. It has long been a matter 
 of reproach to Mr. Thackeray, for instance, that 
 the only faculty with which he gifts his good 
 women is a supreme faculty of tears. To draw 
 any very high degree of female patience is one 
 of the most difficult of tasks. If you represent 
 a woman bearing wrong with a continuous un- 
 murmuring meekness, presenting to blows, come 
 from what quarter they may, nothing but a bent 
 neck, and eyelids humbly drooped, you are in 
 nine cases out of ten painting elaborately the 
 portrait of a fool; and if you miss making her 
 a fool, you are certain to make her a bore. 
 
 Your patient woman, in books and in life, does 
 not draw on our gratitude. When her goodness is 
 not stupidity — which it frequently is — it is insult- 
 ing. She walks about an incarnate rebuke. Her 
 silence is an incessant complaint. A teacup 
 thrown at your head is not half so alarming 
 as her meek, much-wronged, unretorting face. 
 You begin to suspect that she consoles herself 
 with the thought that there is another world 
 where brutal brothers and husbands are settled 
 with for their behaviour to their angelic wives 
 and sisters in this. Chaucer's Constance is neither 
 fool nor bore, although, in the hands of anybody 
 else, she would have been one or other, or both. 
 Like the holy religion which she symbolises, her 
 sweet face draws blessing and love wherever it 
 goes; it heals old wounds with its beauty, it 
 carries peace into the heart of discord, it touches 
 murder itself into soft and penitential tears. In
 
 220 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 reading the old tender-hearted poet, we feel that 
 there is something in a woman's sweetness and 
 forgiveness that the masculine mind cannot 
 fathom; and we adore the hushed step and 
 still countenance of Constance almost as if an 
 angel passed. 
 
 Chaucer's orthography is unquestionably un- 
 couth at first sight ; but it is not difficult to read, 
 if you keep a good glossary beside you for occa- 
 sional reference, and are willing to undergo a 
 little trouble. The language is antique, but it 
 is full of antique flavour. Wine of excellent 
 vintage originally, it has improved through all 
 the years it has been kept. A very little trouble 
 on the reader's part, in the reign of Anne, would 
 have made him as intelligible as Addison ; a very 
 little more, in the reign of Queen Victoria, will 
 make him more intelligible than Mr. Browning. 
 Yet somehow it has been a favourite idea with 
 many poets that he required modernisation, and 
 that they were the men to do it. Dryden, Pope, 
 and Wordsworth have tried their hands on him. 
 Wordsworth performed his work in a reverential 
 enough spirit; but it may be doubted whether 
 his efforts have brought the old poet a single 
 new reader. Dryden and Pope did not translate 
 or modernise Chaucer — they committed assault 
 and battery upon him. They turned his exquisitely 
 naive humour into their own coarseness ; they put 
 doubles entendre into his mouth ; they blurred his 
 female faces — as a picture is blurred when the 
 hand of a Vandal is drawn over its yet wet 
 colours— and they turned his natural descriptions
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 221 
 
 into the natural descriptions of " Windsor Forest " 
 and the " Fables." The grand old writer does not 
 need translation or modernisation ; but, perhaps, 
 if it be done at all, it had better be done through 
 the medium of prose. What is characteristic about 
 him will be better reached in that way. For the 
 benefit of young readers, I subjoin short prose 
 versions of two of the Canterbury Tales — a story- 
 book than which the world does not possess a 
 better. Listen, then, to the tale the Knight told 
 as the pilgrims rode to Canterbury : 
 
 "There was once, as old stories tell, a certain 
 Duke Theseus, lord and governor of Athens. The 
 same was a great warrior and conqueror of realms. 
 He defeated the Amazons, and wedded the queen 
 of that country, Hypolita. After his marriage, the 
 duke, his wife, and his sister Emily, with all their 
 host, were riding towards Athens, when they were 
 aware that a company of ladies, clad in black, 
 were kneeling two by two on the highwa}', wring- 
 ing their hands, and filling the air with lamenta- 
 tions. The duke, beholding this piteous sight, 
 reined in his steed, and inquired the reason of 
 their grief. Whereat one of the ladies, queen to 
 the slain King Capaneus, told him that at the siege 
 of Thebes (of which town they were), Creon, the 
 conqueror, had thrown the bodies of their husbands 
 in a heap, and would on no account allow them 
 to be buried, so that their limbs were mangled by 
 vultures and wild beasts. At the hearing of this 
 great wrong, the duke started down from his 
 horse, took the ladies one by one in his arms 
 and comforted them, sent Hypolita and Emily
 
 222 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 home, displayed his great white banner, and 
 immediately rode towards Thebes with his host. 
 Arriving at the city, he attacked it boldly, slew the 
 tyrant Creon with his own hand, tore down the 
 houses — wall, roof, and rafter — and then gave 
 the bodies to the weeping ladies that they might 
 be honourably interred. ^Vhile searching amongst 
 the slain Thebans, two young knights were found 
 grievously wounded, and by the richness of their 
 armour they were known to be of the blood-royal. 
 These young knights, Palamon and Arcite by 
 name, the duke carried to Athens, and flung into 
 perpetual prison. Here they lived year by year 
 in mourning and woe. It happened one May 
 morning that Palamon, who by the clemency of 
 his keeper was roaming about in an upper chamber, 
 looked out and beheld Emily singing in the garden 
 and gathering flowers. At the sight of the beauti- 
 ful apparition he started and cried ' Ha I ' Arcite 
 rose up, crj'ing, ' Dear cousin, what is the matter?' 
 when he too was stricken to the heart by the shaft 
 of her beauty. Then the prisoners began to 
 dispute as to which of them had the better right 
 to love her. Palamon said that he had seen her 
 first; Arcite said that in love each man fought for 
 himself; and so they disputed day by day. 
 
 Now it so happened that at this time the Duke 
 Perotheus came to visit his old playfellow and 
 friend Theseus, and at his intercession Arcite was 
 liberated, on the condition that on pain of death 
 he should never again be found in the Athenian 
 dominions. Then the two knights grieved in their 
 hearts. 'What matters Uberty?' said Arcite — 'I
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 223 
 
 ain a banished man ! Palamon in his dungeon 
 is happier than I. He can see Emily, and be 
 gladdened by her beauty!' 'Woe is me!' said 
 Palamon, ' here must I remain in durance. Arcite 
 is abroad ; he may make sharp war on the Athenian 
 border, and win Emily by the sword.' AN'hen 
 Arcite returned to his native city, he became so 
 thin and pale with sorrow that his friends scarcely 
 knew him. One night the god Mercury appeared 
 lo him in a dream, and told him to return to 
 Athens, for in that city destiny had shaped an end 
 of his woes. 
 
 He arose next morning and went. He entered 
 as a menial into the service of the Duke Theseus, 
 and in a short time was promoted to be page 
 of the chamber to Emily the bright. Mean- 
 while, by the help of a friend, Palamon, who 
 had drugged his jailor with spiced wine, made his 
 escape, and, as morning began to dawn, he hid 
 himself in a grove. That very morning Arcite had 
 ridden from Athens to gather some green branches 
 to do honour to the month of May, and entered 
 the grove in which Palamon was concealed. 
 ^^llen he had gathered his green branches, he sat 
 down, and, after the manner of lovers (who have 
 no constancy of spirits) he began to pour forth 
 his sorrows to the empty air. Palamon, knowing 
 his voice, started up with a white face — 'False 
 traitor, Arcite ! now I have found thee. Thou 
 hast deceived the Duke Theseus ! I am the 
 lover of Emily, and thy mortal foe ! Had I a 
 weapon, one of us should never leave this grove 
 alive : ' 'By God, who sitteth above ! ' cried the
 
 224 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 fierce Arcite, ' were it not that thou art sick and 
 mad for love, I would slay thee here with my own 
 hand ! Meats and drinks and bedding I shall 
 bring thee to-night, to-morrow swords and two 
 suits of armour ; take thou the better, leave me 
 the worse, and then let us see who can win the 
 lady.' 'Agreed,' said Palamon ; and Arcite rode 
 away in great fierce joy of heart. Next morning, 
 at the crowing of the cock, Arcite placed two suits 
 of armour before him on his horse, and rode toward 
 the grove. When they met, the colour of their 
 faces changed. Each thought, ' Here comes my 
 mortal enemy ; one of us must be dead.' Then 
 friend-like, as if they had been brothers, they 
 assisted each the other to rivet on the armour; 
 that done, the great bright swords went to and 
 fro, and they were soon standing ankle-deep in 
 blood. 
 
 That same morning the Duke Theseus, his 
 wife, and Emily, went forth to hunt the hart with 
 hound and horn, and, as destiny ordered it, the 
 chase led them to the very grove in which the 
 knights were fighting. Theseus, shading his eyes 
 from the sunlight with his hand, saw them, and, 
 spurring his horse between them, cried, 'What 
 manner of men are ye, fighting here without judge 
 or officer ? ' Whereupon Palamon said, ' I am 
 that Palamon who has broken your prison ; this 
 is Arcite the banished man, who, by returning to 
 Athens, has forfeited his head. Do with us as 
 you list. I have no more to say.' 'You have 
 condemned yourselves I ' cried the duke ; ' by 
 mighty Mars the red, both of you shall die ! '
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 225 
 
 Then Emily and the queen fell at his feet, and 
 with prayers and tears and white hands lifted up 
 besought the lives of the young knights, which was 
 soon granted. Theseus began to laugh when he 
 thought of his own young days. * What a mighty 
 god is Love 1 ' quoth he. ' Here are Palamon 
 and Arcite fighting for my sister, while they know 
 she can only marry one. Fight they ever so much, 
 she cannot marry both. I therefore ordain that 
 both of you go away and return this day year, 
 each bringing with him a hundred knights, and 
 let the victor in solemn tournament have Emily 
 for wife.' Who was glad now but Palamon! who 
 sprang up for joy but Arcite ! 
 
 " When the twelve months had nearly passed 
 away, there was in Athens a great noise of work- 
 men and hammers. The duke was busy with 
 preparations. He built a large amphitheatre, 
 seated round and round, to hold thousands of 
 people. He erected also three temples — one for 
 Diana, one for Mars, one for Venus ; how rich 
 these were, how full of paintings and images, 
 the tongue cannot tell ! Never was such prepara- 
 tion made in the world. At last the day arrived 
 in which the knights were to make their entrance 
 into the city. A noise of trumpets was heard, 
 and through the city rode Palamon and his train. 
 With him came Lycurgus, the King of Thrace. 
 He stood in a great car of gold, drawn by four 
 white bulls, and his face was like a griffin when he 
 looked about. Twenty or more hounds used for 
 hunting the Hon and the bear ran about the 
 wheels of his car; at his back rode a hundred 
 
 15
 
 226 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 lords, stern and stout. Another burst of trumpets, 
 and Arcite entered with his troop. By his side 
 rode Emetrius, the King of India, on a bay steed 
 covered with cloth of gold. His hair was yellow, 
 and glittered Uke the sun ; when he looked upon 
 the people, they thought his face was like the 
 face of a lion ; his voice was like the thunder of 
 a trumpet. He bore a white eagle on his wrist, 
 and tame lions and leopards ran among the horses 
 of his train. They came to the city on a Sunday 
 morning, and the jousts were to begin on Monday. 
 What pricking of squires backwards and forwards, 
 what clanking of hammeVs, what baying of hounds, 
 that day ! 
 
 At last it was noon of Monday. Theseus 
 declared from his throne that no blood was to 
 be shed — that they should take prisoners only, 
 and that he who was once taken prisoner should 
 on no account again mingle in the fray. Then 
 the duke, the queen, Emily, and the rest, rode 
 to the lists with trumpets and melody. They had 
 no sooner taken their places than through the 
 gate of Mars rode Arcite and his hundred, dis- 
 playing a red banner. At the self-same moment 
 Palamon and his company entered by the gate of 
 Venus, with a banner white as milk. They were 
 then arranged in two ranks, their names were 
 called over, the gates were shut, the herald gave 
 his cry, loud and clear rang the trumpet, and 
 crash went the spears as if made of glass when the 
 knights met in battle shock. There might you see 
 a knight unhorsed, a second crushing his way 
 through the press, armed with a mighty mace,
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 227 
 
 a third hurt and taken prisoner. Many a time 
 that day in the swaying battle did the two Thebans 
 meet, and thrice were they unhorsed. At last, 
 near the setting of the sun, when Palamon was 
 fighting with Arcite, he was wounded by Emetrius, 
 and the battle thickened at the place. Emetrius 
 is thrown out of his saddle a spear's length. 
 Lycurgus is overthrown, and rolls on the ground, 
 horse and man ; and Palamon is dragged by main 
 force to the stake. Then Theseus rose up where 
 he sat, and cried, ' Ho ! no more ; Arcite of 
 Thebes hath won Emily ! ' at which the people 
 shouted so loudly, that it almost seemed the 
 mighty lists would fall. Arcite now put up his 
 helmet, and, curveting his horse through the open 
 space, smiled to Emily, when a fire from Pluto 
 started out of the earth ; the horse shied, and his 
 rider was thrown on his head on the ground. 
 When he was lifted, his breast was broken, and 
 his face was as black as coal. Then there was 
 grief in Athens — every one wept. Soon after, 
 Arcite, feeling the cold death creeping up from his 
 feet and darkening his face and eyes, called 
 Palamon and Emily to his bedside, when he 
 joined their hands, and died. The dead body 
 was laid on a pile, dressed in splendid war-gear, 
 his naked sword was placed by his side, the pile 
 was heaped with gums, frankincense, and odours ; 
 a torch was applied, and when the flames rose up, 
 and the smoky fragrance rolled to heaven, the 
 Greeks galloped round three times, with a great 
 shouting and clashing of shields." 
 
 " The Man of Law's Tale " runs in this wise :
 
 228 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 " There dwelt in Syria once a company of 
 merchants, who scented every land with their 
 spices. They dealt in jewels, and cloth of gold, 
 and sheeny satins. It so happened that, while 
 some of them were dwelling in Rome for traffic, 
 the people talked of nothing save the wonderful 
 beauty of Constance, the daughter of the emperor. 
 She was so fair, that every one who looked upon 
 her face fell in love with her. In a short time 
 the ships of the merchants, laden with rich wares, 
 were furrowing the green sea going home. When 
 they came to their native city, they could talk of 
 nothing but the marvellous beauty of Constance. 
 Their words being reported to the Sultan, he 
 determined that none other should be his wife ; 
 and for this purpose he abandoned the religion of 
 the false Prophet, and was baptized in the Christian 
 faith. Ambassadors passed between the courts, 
 and the day came at length when Constance was 
 to leave Rome for her husband's palace in Syria. 
 What kisses and tears and lingering embraces ! 
 What blessings on the little golden head which 
 was so soon to lie in the bosom of a stranger ! 
 What state and solemnity in the procession which 
 wound down from the shore to the ship ! At last 
 it was Syria. Crowds of people were standing 
 on the beach. The mother of the Sultan was 
 there ; and when Constance stepped ashore, she 
 took her in her arms and kissed her as if she had 
 been her own child. Soon after, with trumpets 
 and melody, and the trampling of innumerable 
 horses, the Sultan came. Everything was joy and 
 happiness.
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 229 
 
 "But the smiling demoness, his mother, could 
 not forgive him for changing his faith, and she 
 resolved to slay him that very night, and seize 
 the government of the kingdom. He and all his 
 lords were stabbed in the rich hall while they were 
 sitting at their wine. Constance alone escaped. 
 She was then put into a ship alone, with food and 
 clothes, and told that she might find her way back 
 to Italy. She sailed away, and was never seen by 
 that people. For five years she wandered to and 
 fro upon the sea. Do you ask who preserved her ? 
 The same God who fed Elijah with ravens, and 
 saved Daniel in the horrible den. At last she 
 floated into the English seas, and was thrown by 
 the waves on the Northumberland shore, near 
 which stood a great castle. The constable of the 
 castle came down in the morning to see the woeful 
 woman. She spoke a kind of corrupt Latin, and 
 could neither tell her name nor the name of the 
 country of which she was a native. She said she 
 was so bewildered in the sea that she remembered 
 nothing. The man could not help loving her, 
 and so took her home to live with hi?nself and 
 his wife. Now, through the example and teach- 
 ing of Constance, Dame Hermigild was con- 
 verted to Christianity. It happened also that 
 three aged Christian Britons were living near 
 that place in great fear of their pagan neighbours, 
 and one of these men was blind. 
 
 One day, as the constable, his wife, and Con- 
 stance were walking along the seashore, they 
 were met by the blind man, who called out, ' In 
 the name of Christ, give me my sight. Dame
 
 230 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 Hermigild ! ' At this, on account of her husband, 
 she was sore afraid, but, encouraged by Constance, 
 she-wrought a great miracle, and gave the bb'nd 
 man his sight. 
 
 " But Satan, the enemy of all, wanted to destroy 
 Constance, and he employed a young knight for 
 that purpose. This knight had loved her with a 
 foul affection, to which she could give no return. 
 At last, wild for revenge, he crept at night into 
 Hermigild's chamber, slew her, and laid the 
 bloody knife on the innocent pillow of Constance. 
 The next morning there was woe and dolour in 
 the house. She was brought before Alia, the 
 king, charged with the murder. The people 
 could not believe that she had done this thing 
 — they knew she loved Hermigild so. Constance 
 fell down on her knees and prayed to God for 
 succour. Have you ever been in a crowd in 
 which a man is being led to death, and, seeing a 
 wild, pale face, know by that sign that you are 
 looking upon the doomed creature? — so wild, so 
 pale looked Constance when she stood before the 
 king and 'people. The tears ran down AUa's face. 
 ' Go fetch a book,' cried he ; ' and if this knight 
 swears that the woman is guilty, she shall surely 
 die.' The book was brought, the knight took 
 the oath, and that moment an unseen hand smote 
 him on the neck, so that he fell down on the 
 floor, his eyes bursting out of his head. Then a 
 celestial voice was heard in the midst, crying, 
 ' Thou hast slandered a daughter of Holy Church 
 in high presence, and yet I hold my peace.' A 
 great awe fell on all who heard, and the king and
 
 GEOFFREV CHAUCER 231 
 
 multitudes of his people were converted. Shortly 
 after this, Alia wedded Constance with great 
 richness and solemnity. At length he was called 
 to defend his border against the predatory Scots, 
 and in his absence a man-child was born. A 
 messenger was sent with the blissful tidings to 
 the king's camp ; but, on his way, the messenger 
 turned aside to the dwelling of Donegild, the 
 king's mother, and said, 'Be blithe, madam; the 
 queen has given birth to a son, and joy is in the 
 land. Here is the letter I bear to the king.' The 
 wicked Donegild said, ' You must be already tired 
 — ^here are refreshments.' And while the simple 
 man drank ale and wine, she forged a letter, 
 saying that the queen had been delivered of a 
 creature so fiendish and horrible, that no one in 
 the castle could bear to look upon it. This letter 
 the messenger gave to the king, and who can tell 
 his grief! But he wrote in reply, 'Welcome be 
 the child that Christ sends ! Welcome, O Lord, 
 be Thy pleasure ! Be careful of my wife and 
 child till my return.' The messenger on his 
 return slept at Donegild's court, with the letter 
 under his girdle. It was stolen while in his 
 drunken sleep, and another put in its place, 
 charging the constable not to let Constance 
 remain three days in the kingdom, but to send 
 her and her child away in the same ship in which 
 she had come. 
 
 " The constable could not help himself. Thou- 
 sands are gathered on the shore. With a face 
 wild and pale as when she came from the sea, 
 and bearing her crying infant in her arms, she
 
 232 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
 
 comes through the crowd, which shrinks back, 
 leaving a lane for her sorrow. She takes her seat 
 in the little boat ; and while the cruel people gaze 
 hour by hour from the shore, she passes into the 
 sunset, and away out into the night under the 
 stars. When Alia returned from the war, and 
 found how he had been deceived, he slew his 
 mother in the bitterness of his heart. 
 
 " News had come to Rome of the cruelty of the 
 Sultan's mother to Constance, and an army was 
 sent to waste her country. After the land had 
 been burned and desolated, the commander was 
 crossing the seas in triumph, when he met the 
 ship sailing in which sat Constance and her little 
 boy. They were both brought to Rome, and 
 although the commander's wife and Constance 
 were cousins, the one did not know the other. 
 
 "By this time, remorse for the slaying of his 
 mother had seized Alla's mind, and he could 
 find no rest. He resolved to make a pilgrimage 
 to Rome in search of peace. He crossed the 
 Alps with his train, and entered the city with 
 great glory and magnificence. One day he feasted 
 at the commander's house, at which Constance 
 dwelt ; and at her request her little son was 
 admitted, and during the progress of the feast 
 the child went and stood looking in the king's 
 face. ' What fair child is that standing yonder .'' ' 
 said the king. ' By St. John, I know not ! ' quoth 
 the commander ; ' he has a mother, but no father, 
 that I know of.' And then he told the king — who 
 seemed all the while like a man stunned — how he 
 had found the mother and child floating about on
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 233 
 
 the sea. The king rose from the table and sent 
 for Constance, and when he saw her and thought 
 on all her wrongs, he could not refrain from tears. 
 * This is your little son, Maurice,' she said, as she 
 led him in by the hand. Next day she met the 
 emperor her father in the street, and, falling down 
 on her knees before him, said, ' Father, has the 
 remembrance of your young child Constance gone 
 out of your mind ? I am that Constance, whom 
 you sent to Syria, and who was thought to be lost 
 in the sea.' 
 
 "That day there was great joy in Rome ; and 
 soon afterwards. Alia, with his wife and child, 
 returned to England, where they lived in great 
 prosperity till he died."
 
 BOOKS AND GARDENS. 
 
 MOST men seek solitude from wounded 
 vanity, from disappointed ambition, from 
 a miscarriage in the passions ; but some others 
 from native instinct, as a duckling seeks water. I 
 have taken to my solitude, such as it is, from an 
 indolent turn of mind ; and this solitude I sweeten 
 by an imaginative sympathy which recreates the 
 past for me — the past of the world, as well as the 
 past which belongs to me as an individual — and 
 which makes me independent of the passing 
 moment. I see every one struggling after the 
 unattainable, but I struggle not, and so spare 
 myself the pangs of disappointment and disgust. 
 I have no ventures at sea, and, consequently, do 
 not fear the arrival of evil tidings. I have no 
 desire to act any prominent part in the world, but 
 I am devoured by an unappeasable curiosity as to 
 the men who do act. I am not an actor, I am a 
 spectator only. My sole occupation is sight-seeing. 
 In a certain imperial idleness, I amuse myself with 
 the world. Ambition ! What do I care for 
 ambition ? The oyster with much pain produces 
 its pearl. I take the pearl. Why should I produce 
 
 234
 
 BOOKS AND GARDENS 235 
 
 one after this miserable, painful fashion ? It would 
 be but a flawed one at best. These pearls I can 
 pick up by the dozen. The production of them 
 is going on all around me, and there will be a nice 
 crop for the solitary man of the next century. 
 Look at a certain silent emperor, for instance ; a 
 hundred years hence his pearl will be handed 
 about from hand to hand ; will be curiously 
 scrutinised and valued ; will be set in its place in 
 the world's cabinet. I confess I should like to see 
 the completion of that filmy orb. Will it be pure 
 in colour? Will its purity be marred by an 
 ominous bloody streak? Of this I am certain, 
 that in the cabinet in which the world keeps these 
 peculiar treasures, no one will be looked at more 
 frequently, or will provoke a greater variety of 
 opinions as to its intrinsic worth. Why should I 
 be ambitious ? Shall I write verses ? I am not 
 likely to surpass Mr. Tennyson or Mr. Browning 
 in that walk. Shall I be a musician ? The black- 
 bird singing this moment somewhere in my 
 garden shrubbery puts me to instant shame. 
 Shall I paint ? The intensest scarlet on an artist's 
 palette is but ochre to that I saw this morning at 
 sunrise. No, no; let me enjoy Mr. Tennyson's 
 verse, and the blackbird's song, and the colours of 
 sunrise, but do not let me emulate them. I am 
 happier as it is. I do not need to make history — 
 there are plenty of people willing to save me 
 trouble on that score. The cook makes the 
 dinner, the guest eats it, and the last, not without 
 reason, is considered the happier man. 
 
 In my garden I spend my days ; in my library I
 
 236 BOOKS AND GARDENS 
 
 spend my nights. My interests are divided 
 between my geraniums and my books. With the 
 flower I am in the present ; with the book I am 
 in the past. I go into my library, and all history 
 unrolls before me. I breathe the morning air of 
 the world while the scent of Eden's roses yet 
 lingered in it, while it vibrated only to the world's 
 first brood of nightingales, and to the laugh of Eve. 
 I see the pyramids building ; I hear the shoutings 
 of the armies of Alexander; I feel the ground 
 shake beneath the march of Cambyses. I sit as 
 in a theatre — the stage is time, the play is the play 
 of the world. What a spectacle it is ! What 
 kingly pomp, what processions file past, what 
 cities burn to heaven, what crowds of captives 
 are dragged at the chariot-wheels of conquerors ! 
 I hiss or cry " Bravo " when the great actors come 
 on shaking the stage. I am a Roman emperor 
 when I look at a Roman coin. I lift Homer, and 
 I shout with Achilles in the trenches. The silence 
 of the unpeopled Syrian plains, the outcomings 
 and ingoings of the patriarchs, Abraham and 
 Ishmael, Isaac in the fields at eventide, Rebekah 
 at the well, Jacob's guile, Esau's face reddened by 
 desert sun-heat, Joseph's splendid funeral pro- 
 cession — all these things I find within the boards 
 of my Old Testament. What a silence in those 
 old books as of a half-peopled world — what bleat- 
 ing of flocks — what green pastoral rest — what 
 indubitable human existence ! Across brawling 
 centuries of blood and war, I hear the bleating of 
 Abraham's flocks, the tinkling of the bells of 
 Rebekah's camels. O men and women, so far
 
 BOOKS AND GARDENS 237 
 
 separated yet so near, so strange yet so well known, 
 by what miraculous power do I know ye all ! 
 Books are the true Elysian fields where the spirits 
 of the dead converse, and into these fields a mortal 
 may venture unappalled. What king's court can 
 boast such company ? What school of philosophy 
 such wisdom? The wit of the ancient world is 
 glancing and flashing there. There is Pan's pipe, 
 there are the songs of Apollo. Seated in my 
 library at night, and looking on the silent faces of 
 my books, I am occasionally visited by a strange 
 sense of the supernatural. They are not col- 
 lections of printed pages, they are ghosts. I take 
 one down and it speaks with me in a tongue 
 not now heard on earth, and of men and things of 
 which it alone possesses knowledge. I call myself 
 a solitary, but sometimes I think I misapply the 
 term. No man sees more company than I do. 
 I travel with mightier cohorts around me than 
 ever did Timour or Genghis Khan on their fiery 
 marches. I am a sovereign in my library, but it is 
 the dead, not the living that attend my levees. 
 
 The house I dwell in stands apart from the little 
 town, and relates itself to the houses as I do to the 
 inhabitants. It sees everything, but is itself un- 
 seen, or, at all events, unregarded. My study 
 window looks down upon Dreamthorp like a 
 meditative eye. Without meaning it, I feel I am 
 a spy on the ongoings of the quiet place. Around 
 my house there is an old-fashioned rambling 
 garden, with close-shaven grassy plots, and fan- 
 tastically clipped yews, which have gathered their 
 darkness from a hundred summers and winters ;
 
 238 BOOKS AND GARDENS 
 
 and sun-dials, in which the sun is constantly 
 telling his age ; and statues, green with neglect and 
 the stains of the weather. The garden I love more 
 than any place on earth ; it is a better study than 
 the room inside the house which is dignified by 
 that name. I like to pace its gravelled walks, to 
 sit in the mosshouse, which is warm and cosy as 
 a bird's nest, and wherein twilight dwells at noon- 
 day ; to enjoy the feast of colour spread for me in 
 the curiously shaped floral spaces. My garden, 
 with its silence and the pulses of fragrance that 
 come and go on the airy undulations, affects me 
 like sweet music. Care stops at the gates, and 
 gazes at me wistfully through the bars. Among 
 my flowers and trees nature takes me into her own 
 hands, and I breathe freely as the first man. It is 
 curious, pathetic almost, I sometimes think, how 
 deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for 
 gardens and gardening. The sickly seamstress in 
 the narrow city lane tends her box of sicklier 
 mignonette. The retired merchant is as fond of 
 tulips as ever was Dutchman during the famous 
 mania. The author finds a garden the best place 
 to think out his thought. In the disabled states- 
 man every restless throb of regret or ambition is 
 stilled when he looks upon his blossomed apple 
 trees. Is the fancy too far brought, that this love 
 for gardens is a reminiscence haunting the race of 
 that remote time in the world's dawn when but two 
 persons existed — a gardener named Adam, and a 
 gardener's wife called Eve? 
 
 When I walk out of my house into my garden I 
 walk out of my habitual self, my everyday thoughts,
 
 BOOKS AND GARDENS 239 
 
 my customariness of joy or sorrow by which I re- 
 cognise and assure myself of my own identity. 
 These I leave behind me for a time as the bather 
 leaves his garments on the beach. This piece of 
 garden-ground, in extent barely a square acre, is 
 a kingdom with its own interests, annals, and 
 incidents. Something is always happening in it. 
 To-day is always different from yesterday. This 
 spring a chaffinch built a nest in one of my yew 
 trees. The particular yew which the bird did me 
 the honour to select had been clipped long ago 
 into a similitude of Adam, and, in fact, went by 
 his name. The resemblance to a human figure 
 was, of course, remote, but the intention was 
 evident. In the black shock head of our first 
 parent did the birds establish their habitation. 
 A prettier, rounder, more comfortable nest I never 
 saw, and many a wild swing it got when Adam 
 bent his back, and bobbed and shook his head 
 when the bitter east wind was blowing. The nest 
 interested me, and I visited it every day from the 
 time that the first stained turquoise sphere was laid 
 in the warm lining of moss and horse hair, till, 
 when I chirped, four red hungry throats, eager 
 for worm or slug, opened out of a confused mass 
 of feathery down. What a hungry brood it was, 
 to be sure, and how often father and mother were 
 put to it to provide them sustenance ! I went but 
 the other day to have a peep, and, behold, brood 
 and parent-birds were gone, the nest -was empty, 
 Adam's visitors had departed. In the corners of 
 my bedroom window I have a couple of swallows' 
 nests, and nothing can be pleasanter in thes^
 
 240 BOOKS AND GARDENS 
 
 summer mornings than to lie in a kind of half- 
 dream, conscious all the time of the chatterings 
 and endearments of the man-loving creatures. 
 They are beautifully restless, and are continually 
 darting around their nests in the window corners. 
 All at once there is a great twittering and noise ; 
 something of moment has been witnessed, some- 
 thing of importance has occurred in swallow-world, 
 perhaps a fly of unusual size or savour has been 
 ' bolted. Clinging with their feet, and with heads 
 turned charmingly aside, they chatter away with 
 voluble sweetness, then with a gleam of silver they 
 are gone, and in a trice one is poising itself in the 
 wind above my treetops, while the other dips her 
 wing as she darts after a fly through the arches of 
 the bridge which lets the slow stream down to the 
 sea. I go to the southern wall, against which I 
 have trained my fruit trees, and find it a sheet of 
 white and vermeil blossom, and as I know it by 
 heart, I can notice what changes take place on it 
 day by day, what later clumps of buds have burst 
 into colour and odour. What beauty in that 
 blooming wall — the wedding-presents of a princess 
 ranged for admiration would not please me half so 
 much ; what delicate colouring, what fragrance the 
 thievish winds steal from it without making it one 
 odour the poorer, with what a complacent hum the 
 bee goes past. My chaffinch's nest, my swallows 
 — twittering but a few months ago around the 
 kraal of the Hottentot, or chasing flies around the 
 six solitary pillars of Baalbec — with their nests in 
 the corners of my bedroom windows, my long- 
 armed fruit trees flowering against my sunny wall
 
 BOOKS AND GARDENS 241 
 
 are not mighty pleasures, but then they are my 
 own, and I have not to go in search of them. 
 And so, Hke a wise man, I am content with what 
 I have, and make it richer by my fancy, which is 
 as cheap as sunlight, and gilds objects quite as 
 prettily. It is the coins in my own pocket, not the 
 coins in the pockets of my neighbour, that are of 
 use to me. Discontent has never a doit in her 
 purse, and envy is the most poverty-stricken of the 
 passions. 
 
 His own children, and the children he happens 
 to meet on the country road, a man regards with 
 quite different eyes. The strange, sunburnt brats 
 returning from a primrose-hunt and laden with 
 floral spoils, may be as healthy-looking, as pretty, 
 as well-behaved, as sweet-tempered, as neatly 
 dressed, as those that bear his name — may be 
 in every respect as worthy of love and admiration, 
 but then they have the misfortune not to belong 
 to him. That little fact makes a great difference. 
 He knows nothing about them — his acquaintance 
 with them is born and dead in a moment. I like 
 my garden better than any other garden for the 
 same reason. It is my own. And ownership 
 in such a matter implies a great deal. When I 
 first settled here, the ground around the house 
 was sour moorland. I made the walk, planted 
 the trees, built the mosshouse, erected the 
 sun-dial, brought home the rhododendrons and 
 fed them with the mould which they love so 
 well. I am the creator of every blossom, of every 
 odour that comes and goes in the wind. The 
 rustle of my trees is to my ear what his child's 
 16
 
 242 BOOKS AND GARDENS 
 
 voice is to my friends the village doctor or the 
 village clergyman. I know the genealogy of 
 every tree and plant in my garden. I watch 
 their growth as a father watches the growth of his 
 children. It is curious enough, as showing from 
 what sources objects derive their importance, that 
 if you have once planted a tree for other than 
 mere commercial purposes — and in that case it is 
 usually done by your orders and by the hands 
 of hirelings — you have always in it a quite 
 peculiar interest. You care more for it than you 
 care for all the forests of Norway or America. 
 Vou have planted it, and that is sufficient to make 
 it peculiar amongst the trees of the world. This 
 personal interest I take in every inmate of my 
 garden, and this interest I have increased by 
 sedulous watching. But really trees and plants 
 resemble human beings in many ways. You 
 shake a packet of seed into your forcing-frame, 
 and while some grow, others pine and die, or 
 struggle on under hereditary defect, showing 
 indifferent blossoms late in the season, and 
 succumb at length. So far as one could discover, 
 the seeds were originally alike — they received 
 the same care, they were fed by the same moisture 
 and sunlight, but of no two of them are the issues 
 the same. Do I not see something of this 
 kind in the world of men, and can I not please 
 myself with quaint analogies? These plants and 
 trees have their seasons of illness, and their 
 sudden deaths. Your best rose tree, whose fame 
 has spread for twenty miles, is smitten by some 
 fell disease; its leaves take an unhealthy hue,
 
 BOOKS AND GARDENS 243 
 
 and in a day or so it is sapless — dead. A tree 
 of mine, the first last spring to put out its leaves, 
 and which wore them till November, made this 
 spring no green response to the call of the 
 sunshine. Marvelling what ailed it, I went to 
 examine, and found it had been dead for months 
 — and yet during the winter there had been 
 no frost to speak of, and more than its brothers 
 and sisters it was in no way exposed. These 
 are the tragedies of the garden, and they shadow 
 forth other tragedies nearer us. In everything 
 we find a kind of dim mirror of ourselves. Sterne, 
 if placed in a desert, said he would love a tree ; 
 and I can fancy such a love would not be 
 altogether unsatisfying. Love of trees and plants 
 is safe. You do not run risk in your affections. 
 They are my children, silent and beautiful, 
 untouched by any passion, unpolluted by evil 
 tempers ; for me they leaf and flower themselves. 
 In autumn they put off their rich apparel, but 
 next year they are back again with dresses fair 
 as ever; and — one can extract a kind of fanciful 
 bitterness from the thought — should I be laid 
 in my grave in winter, they would all in spring 
 be back again with faces as bright and with 
 breaths as sweet, missing me not at all. Un- 
 grateful, the one I am fondest of would blossom 
 very prettily if planted on the soil that covers 
 me — where my dog would die, where my best 
 friend would perhaps raise an inscription ! 
 
 I like flowering plants, but I like trees more, 
 for the reason, I suppose, that they are slower 
 in coming to maturity, are longer-lived, that you
 
 244 BOOKS AND GARDENS 
 
 can become better acquainted with them, and 
 that in the course of years memories and 
 associations hang as thickly on their boughs as 
 do leaves in summer or fruits in autumn. I 
 do not wonder that great earls value their trees, 
 and never, save in direst extremity, lift upon 
 them the axe. Ancient descent and glory are 
 made audible in the proud murmur of immemorial 
 woods. There are forests in England whose 
 leafy noises may be shaped into Agincourt 
 and the names of the battlefields of the Roses ; 
 oaks that dropped their acorns in the year that 
 Henry viii. held his field of the Cloth of Gold, 
 and beeches that gave shelter to the deer when 
 Shakspeare was a boy. There they stand, in 
 sun and shower, the broad-armed witnesses of 
 perished centuries ; and sore must his need be 
 who commands a woodland massacre. A great 
 English tree, the rings of a century in its bole, 
 is one of the noblest of natural objects; and 
 it touches the imagination no less than the eye, 
 for it grows out of tradition and a past order 
 of things, and is pathetic with the suggestions 
 of dead generations. Trees waving a colony 
 of rooks in the wind "to-day, are older than historic 
 lines. Trees are your best antiques. There 
 are cedars on Lebanon which the axes of Solomon 
 spared, they say, when he was busy with his 
 Temple ; there are olives on Olivet that might 
 have rustled in the ears of the Master and the 
 Twelve ; there are oaks in Sherwood, which 
 have tingled to the horn of Robin Hood, and 
 have hstened to Maid Marian's laugh. Think
 
 BOOKS AND GARDENS 245 
 
 of an existing Syrian cedar which is nearly as 
 old as history, which was middle-aged before 
 the wolf suckled Romulus ; think of an existing 
 English elm in whose branches the heron was 
 reared which the hawks of Saxon Harold killed ! 
 If you are a notable, and wish to be remembered, 
 better plant a tree than build a city or strike 
 a medal — it will outlast both. 
 
 My trees are young enough, and if they do not 
 take me away into the past, they project me into 
 the future. When I planted them, I knew I was 
 performing an act, the issues of which would 
 outlast me long. My oaks are but saplings ; but 
 what undreamed-of English kings will they not 
 outlive ? I pluck my apples, my pears, my plums ; 
 and I know that from the same branches other 
 hands will pluck apples, pears, and plums when 
 this body of mine will have shrunk into a pinch of 
 dust. I cannot dream with what year these hands 
 will date their letters. A man does not plant a 
 tree for himself, he plants it for posterity. And 
 sitting idly in the sunshine, I think at times of the 
 unborn people who will, to some small extent, be 
 indebted to me. Remember me kindly, ye future 
 men and women ! When I am dead, the juice of 
 my apples will foam and spirt in your cider presses, 
 my plums will gather for you their misty bloom ; 
 and that any of your youngsters should be choked 
 by one of my cherry-stones, merciful Heaven 
 forfend ! 
 
 In this pleasant summer weather I hold my 
 audience in my garden rather than in my house. 
 In all my interviews the sun is a third party.
 
 246 BOOKS AND GARDENS 
 
 Every village has its Fool, and, of course. Dream- 
 thorp is not without one. Him I get to run my 
 messages for me, and he occasionally turns my 
 garden borders with a neat hand enough. He 
 and I hold frequent converse, and people here, I 
 have been told, think we have certain points of 
 sympathy. Although this is not meant for a 
 compliment, I take it for one. The poor, faithful 
 creature's brain has strange visitors : now 'tis fun, 
 now wisdom, and now something which seems in 
 the queerest way a compound of both. He lives 
 in a kind of twilight which obscures objects, and 
 his remarks seem to come from another world than 
 that in which ordinary people live. He is the only 
 original person of my acquaintance ; his views of 
 life are his own, and form a singular commentary 
 on those generally accepted. He is dull enough 
 at times, poor fellow ; but anon he startles you with 
 something, and you think he must have wandered 
 out of Shakspeare's plays into this out-of-the-way 
 place. Up from the village now and then comes 
 to visit me the tall, gaunt, atrabilious confectioner, 
 who has a hankering after Red-republicanism, and 
 the destruction of Queen, Lords, and Commons. 
 Guy Fawkes is, I believe, the only martyr in his 
 calendar. The sourest-tempered man, I think, 
 that ever engaged in the manufacture of sweet- 
 meats. I wonder that the oddity of the thing 
 never strikes himself. To be at all consistent, he 
 should put poison in his lozenges, and become the 
 Herod of the village innocents. One of his many 
 eccentricities is a love for flowers, and he visits me 
 often to have a look at my greenhouse and my
 
 BOOKS AND GARDENS 247 
 
 borders. I listen to his truculent and revolu- 
 tionary speeches, and take my revenge by sending 
 the gloomy egotist away with a nosegay in his 
 hand, and a gay-coloured flower stuck in a button- 
 hole. He goes quite unconscious of my floral 
 satire. 
 
 The village clergyman and the village doctor are 
 great friends of mine ; they come to visit me often, 
 and smoke a pipe with me in my garden. The 
 twain love and respect each other, but they regard 
 the world from different points of view, and I am 
 now and again made witness of a good-humoured 
 passage of arms. The clergyman is old, unmarried, 
 and a humorist. His sallies and his gentle 
 eccentricities seldom provoke laughter, but they 
 are continually awakening the pleasantest smiles. 
 Perhaps what he has seen of the world, its sins, its 
 sorrows, its deathbeds, its widows and orphans, 
 has tamed his spirit, and put a tenderness into his 
 wit. I do not think I have ever encountered a 
 man who so adorns his sacred profession. His 
 pious, devout nature produces sermons just as 
 naturally as my apple trees produce apples. He is 
 a tree that flowers every Sunday. Very beautiful 
 is his reverence for the Book, his trust in it; 
 through long acquaintance, its ideas have come to 
 colour his entire thought, and you come upon its 
 phrases in his ordinary speech. He is more 
 himself in the pulpit than anywhere else, and you 
 get nearer him in his sermons than you do sitting 
 with him at his tea-table, or walking with him on 
 the country roads. He does not feel confined in 
 his orthodoxy ; in it he is free as a bird in the air.
 
 248 BOOKS AND GARDENS 
 
 The doctor is, I conceive, as good a Christian as 
 the clergyman, but he is impatient of pale or limit ; 
 he never comes to a fence without feeling a desire 
 to get over it. He is a great hunter of insects, and 
 he thinks that the wings of his butterflies might 
 yield very excellent texts ; he is fond of geology, 
 and cannot, especially when he is in the company 
 of the clergyman, resist the temptation of hurling 
 a fossil at Moses. He wears his scepticism as a 
 coquette wears her ribands — to annoy if he cannot 
 subdue — and when his purpose is served, he puts 
 his scepticism aside — as the coquette puts her 
 ribands. Great arguments arise between them, 
 and the doctor loses his field through his loss 
 of temper, which, however, he regains before 
 any harm is done. For the worthy man is 
 irascible withal, and opposition draws fire from 
 him. 
 
 After an outburst, there is a truce between the 
 friends for a while, till it is broken by theological 
 battle over the age of the world, or some other 
 the like remote matter, which seems important to 
 me only in so far as it affords ground for disputa- 
 tion. These truces are broken sometimes by the 
 doctor, sometimes by the clergyman. T'other 
 evening the doctor and myself were sitting in the 
 garden, smoking each a meditative pipe. Dream- 
 thorp lay below, with its old castle and its lake, 
 and its hundred wreaths of smoke floating upward 
 into the sunset. Where we sat the voices of 
 children playing in the street could hardly reach 
 us. Suddenly a step was heard on the gravel, and 
 the next moment the clergyman appeared, as it
 
 BOOKS AND GARDENS 249 
 
 seemed to me, with a peculiar airiness of aspect, 
 and the light of a humorous satisfaction in his eye. 
 After the usual salutations, he took his seat beside 
 us, lifted a pipe of the kind called " church- 
 warden" from the box on the ground, filled and 
 lighted it, and for a little while we were silent all 
 three. The clergyman then drew an old magazine 
 from his side pocket, opened it at a place where 
 the leaf had been carefully turned down, and drew 
 my attention to a short poem, which had for its 
 title, "Vanity Fair," imprinted in German text. 
 This poem he desired me to read aloud. Laying 
 down my pipe carefully beside me, I complied 
 with his request. It ran thus, for, as after my 
 friends went it was left behind, I have written it 
 down word for word : 
 
 "The world-old Fair of Vanity 
 
 Since Bunyan's day has grown discreeter : 
 No more it flocks in crowds to see 
 A blazing Paul or Peter. 
 
 "Not that a single inch it swerves 
 
 From hate of saint, or love of sinner ; 
 But martyrs shock aesthetic nerves, 
 And spoil the gorit of dinner. 
 
 "Raise but a shout, or flaunt a scarf — 
 Its mobs are all agog and flying ; 
 They'll cram the levee of a dwarf, 
 And leave a Haydon dying. 
 
 ' ' They live upon each newest thing, 
 They fill their idle days with seeing : 
 Fresh news of courtier and of king 
 Sustains their empty being.
 
 250 BOOKS AND GARDENS 
 
 " The statelier, from year to year, 
 
 Maintain their comfortable stations 
 At the wide windows that o'erpeer 
 The public square of nations ; 
 
 "While through it heaves, with cheers and groans, 
 Harsh drums of battle in the distance. 
 Frightful with gallows, ropes, and thrones, 
 The medley of existence ; 
 
 "Amongst them tongues are wagging much: 
 Hark to the philosophic sisters ! 
 To his, whose keen satiric touch. 
 Like the Medusa, blisters ! 
 
 ' ' All things are made for talk — St. Paul— 
 The pattern of an altar cushion — 
 A Paris wild with carnival, 
 Or red with revolution. 
 
 " And much they knew, that sneering crew, 
 Of things above the world and under : 
 They search'd the hoary deep ; they knew 
 The secret of the thunder ; 
 
 " The pure white arrow of the light 
 They split into its colours seven ; 
 They weigh'd the sun ; they dwelt, like night, 
 Among the stars of heaven ; 
 
 "They've found out life and death — the first 
 Is known but to the upper classes — 
 The second, pooh ! 'tis at the worst 
 A dissolution into gases ; 
 
 "And vice and virtue are akin 
 
 As black and white from Adam issue — 
 One flesh, one blood, though sheeted in 
 A different colour'd tissue.
 
 BOOKS AND GARDENS 251 
 
 "Their science groped from star to star, 
 
 But than herself found nothing greater — 
 What wonder? in a Leyden jar 
 They bottled the Creator. 
 
 *• Fires flutter'd on their lightning-rod ; 
 
 They clcar'd the human mind from error ; 
 They emptied heaven of its God, 
 And Tophet of its terror. 
 
 "Better the savage in his dance 
 
 Than these acute and syllogistic ! 
 Better a reverent ignorance 
 Than knowledge atheistic ! 
 
 "Have they dispell'd one cloud that lowers ■ 
 So darkly on the human creature ? 
 They with their irreligious powers 
 Have subjugated nature. 
 
 " But as a satyr wins the charms 
 Of maiden in a forest hearted — 
 Who finds, when clasp'd within his arms, 
 The outraged soul departed." 
 
 When I had done reading these verses, the 
 clergyman glanced slyly along to see the effect of 
 his shot. The doctor drew two or three hurried 
 whiffs, gave a huge grunt of scorn, then turning 
 sharply, asked, " What is ' a reverent ignorance?' 
 What is 'a knowledge atheistic'?" The clergy- 
 man, skewered by the sudden question, wriggled 
 a little, and then began to explain — with no great 
 heart, however, for he had had his little joke out, 
 and did not care to carry it further. The doctor 
 listened for a little, and then, laying down his 
 pipe, said with some heat, " It won't do. ' Reverent
 
 252 BOOKS AND GARDENS 
 
 ignorance' and such trash is a mere jingle of 
 words : that you know as well as I. You stumbled 
 on these verses, and brought them up here to 
 throw them at me. They don't harm me in the 
 least, I can assure you. There is no use," con- 
 tinued the doctor, mollifying at the sight of his 
 friend's countenance, and seeing how the land 
 lay — " there is no use speaking on such matters to 
 our incurious, solitary friend here, who could bask 
 comfortably in sunshine for a century, without 
 once inquiring whence came the light and heat. 
 But let me tell you," lifting his pipe and shaking 
 it across me at the clergyman, " that science has 
 done services to your cloth which have not always 
 received the most grateful acknowledgments. 
 Why, man," here he began to fill his pipe slowly, 
 " the theologian and the man of science, although 
 they seem to diverge and lose sight of each other, 
 are all the while working to one end. Two 
 exploring parties in Australia set out from one 
 point ; the one goes east and the other west. 
 They lose sight of each other — they know nothing 
 of one another's whereabouts — but they are all 
 steering to one point " — the sharp spurt of a fusee 
 on the garden seat came in here, followed by an 
 aromatic flavour in the air — "and when they do 
 meet, which they are certain to do in the long 
 run " — here the doctor put the pipe in his mouth, 
 and finished his speech with it there — " the figure 
 of the continent has become known, and may be 
 set down in maps. The exploring parties have 
 started long ago. What folly in the one to pooh- 
 pooh, or be suspicious of the exertions of the
 
 BOOKS AND GARDENS 253 
 
 other. That party deserves the greatest credit 
 which meets the other more than half way." — 
 " Bravo ! " cried the clergyman, when the doctor 
 had finished his oration ; " I don't know that I 
 could fill fyour place at the bedside, but I am 
 quite sure that you could fill mine in the pulpit." 
 — "I am not sure that the congregation would 
 approve of the change — I might disturb their 
 slumbers ; " and, pleased with his retort, his 
 cheery laugh rose through a cloud of smoke into 
 the sunset. 
 
 Heigho ! mine is a dull life, I fear, when this 
 little affair of the doctor and the clergyman takes 
 the dignity of an incident, and seems worthy of 
 being recorded. 
 
 The doctor was anxious that, during the follow- 
 ing winter, a short course of lectures should be 
 delivered in the village schoolroom, and in my 
 garden he held several conferences on the matter 
 with the clergyman and myself. It was arranged 
 finally that the lectures should be delivered, and 
 that one of them should be delivered by m.e. I 
 need not say how pleasant was the writing out of 
 my discourse, and how the pleasure was heightened 
 by the slightest thrill of alarm at my own temerity. 
 My lecture I copied out in my most careful hand, 
 and as I had it by heart, I used to declaim 
 passages of it ensconced in my mosshouse, or 
 concealed behind my shrubbery irees. In these 
 places I tried it all over sentence by sentence. 
 The evening came at last which had been looked 
 forward to for a couple of months or more. The 
 small schoolroom was filled by forms on which
 
 254 BOOKS AND GARDENS 
 
 the people sat, and a small reading-desk, with a 
 tumbler of water on it, at the farther end, waited 
 for me. When I took my seat, the couple of 
 hundred eyes struck into me a certain awe. I 
 discovered in a moment why the orator of the 
 hustings is so deferential to the mob. You may 
 despise every individual member of your audience, 
 but these despised individuals, in their capacity 
 of a collective body, overpower you. I addressed 
 the people with the most unfeigned respect. When 
 I began, too, I found what a dreadful thing it is to 
 hear your own voice inhabiting the silence. You 
 are related to your voice, and yet divorced from it. 
 It is you, and yet a thing apart. All the time it is 
 going on, you can be critical as to its tone, volume, 
 cadence, and other qualities, as if it was the voice of 
 a stranger. Gradually, however, I got accustomed 
 to my voice, and the respect which I entertained 
 for my hearers so far relaxed that I was at last able 
 to look them in the face. I saw the doctor and the 
 clergyman smile encouragingly, and my half-witted 
 gardener looking up at me with open mouth, and 
 the atrabilious confectioner clap his hands, which 
 made me take refuge in my paper again. I got 
 to the end of my task without any remarkable 
 incident, if I except the doctor's once calling out 
 " hear " loudly, which brought the heart into my 
 mouth, and blurred half a sentence. When I sat 
 down, there werg the usual sounds of approbation, 
 and the confectioner returned thanks in the name 
 of the audience.
 
 ON VAGABONDS. 
 
 BEING A DISCOURSE DELIVERED BEFORE THE 
 DREAMTHORP LITERARY INSTITUTE, SESSION 
 1862-63. 
 
 CALL it oddity, eccentricity, humour, or what 
 you please, it is evident that the special 
 flavour of mind or manner, which, independently 
 of fortune, station, or profession, sets a man apart 
 and makes him distinguishable from his fellows, 
 and which gives the charm of picturesqueness to 
 society, is fast disappearing from amongst us. A 
 man may count the odd people of his acquaintance 
 on his fingers ; and it is observable that these odd 
 people are generally well stricken in years. They 
 belong more to the past generation than to the 
 present. Our young men are terribly alike. For 
 these many years back the young gentlemen I have 
 had the fortune to encounter are clever, knowing, 
 selfish, disagreeable ; the young ladies are of one 
 pattern, like minted sovereigns of the same reign — 
 excellent gold, I have no doubt, but each bearing 
 the same awfully proper image and superscription. 
 There are no blanks in the matrimonial lottery 
 
 255
 
 256 ON VAGABONDS 
 
 nowadays, but the prizes are all of a value, and 
 there is but one kind of article given for the ticket. 
 Courtship is an absurdity, and a sheer waste of 
 time. If a man could but close his eyes in a 
 ballroom, dash into a bevy of muslin beauties, 
 carry off the fair one that accident gives to his 
 arms, his raid would be as reasonable and as 
 likely to produce happiness as the more ordinary 
 methods of procuring a spouse. If a man has 
 to choose one guinea out of a bag containing 
 one hundred and fifty, what can he do? What 
 wonderful wisdom can he display in his choice? 
 There is no appreciable difference of value in the 
 golden pieces. The latest coined are a little 
 fresher, that's all. An act of uniformity, with 
 heavy penalties for recusants, seems to have been 
 passed upon the English race. That we can quite 
 well account for this state of things, does not make 
 the matter better, does not make it the less our 
 duty to fight against it. We are apt to be told 
 that men are too busy and women too accom- 
 plished for humour of speech or originality of 
 character or manner. In the truth of this lies 
 the pity of it. If, with the exceptions of hedges 
 that divide fields, and streams that run as marches 
 between farms, every inch of soil were drained, 
 ploughed, manured, and under that improved 
 cultivation rushing up into astonishing wheaten 
 and oaten crops, enriching tenant and proprietor, 
 the aspect of the country would be decidedly 
 uninteresting, and would present scant attraction 
 to the man riding or walking through it. In such 
 a world the tourists would be few. Personally, I
 
 ON VAGABONDS 257 
 
 should detest a world all red and ruled with the 
 ploughshare in spring, all covered with harvest in 
 autumn. I wish a little variety. I desiderate 
 moors and barren places ; the copse where you 
 can flush the woodcock ; the warren where, when 
 you approach, you can see the twinkle of in- 
 numerable raljbit tails ; and, to tell the truth, 
 would not feel sorry although Reynard himself 
 had a hole beneath the wooded bank, even if 
 the demands of his rising family cost Farmer 
 Yellowleas a fat capon or two in the season. The 
 fresh, rough, heathery parts of human nature, where 
 the air is freshest, and where the linnets sing, is 
 getting encroached upon by cultivated fields. 
 Every one is making himself and herself useful. 
 Every one is producing something. Everybody 
 is clever. Everybody is a philanthropist. I don't 
 like it. I love a little eccentricity. I respect 
 honest prejudices. I admire foolish enthusiasm 
 in a young head better than a wise scepticism. 
 It is high time, it seems to me, that a moral 
 game law were passed for the preservation of the 
 wild and vagrant feelings of human nature. 
 
 1 have advertised myself to speak of vagado?ids, 
 and I must explain what I mean by the term. We 
 all know what was the doom of the first child born 
 of man, and it is needless for me to say that I do 
 not wish the spirit of Cain more widely diffused 
 amongst my fellow-creatures. By vagabond, I do 
 not mean a tramp, or a gipsy, or a thimblerigger, 
 or a brawler who is brought up with a black eye 
 before a magistrate of a morning. The vagabond 
 as I have him in my mind's eye, and whom I dearly 
 17
 
 258 ON VAGABONDS 
 
 love, comes out of quite a different mould. The 
 man I speak of seldom, it is true, attains to the 
 dignity of a churchwarden ; he is never found 
 sitting at a reformed town-council board ; he has 
 a horror of public platforms • he never by any 
 chance heads a subscription-list with a donation 
 of fifty pounds. On the other hand, he is very 
 far from being a "ne'er-do-weel," as the Scotch 
 phrase it, or an imprudent person. He does not 
 play at " Aunt Sally " on a public racecourse ; he 
 does not wrench knockers from the doors of 
 slumbering citizens ; he has never seen the interior 
 of a police cell. It is quite true, he has a peculiar 
 way of looking at many things. If, for instance, 
 he is brought up with Cousin Milly, and loves her 
 dearly, and the childish affection grows up and 
 strengthens in the woman's heart, and there is a 
 fair chance for them fighting the world side by side, 
 he marries her without too curiously considering 
 whether his income will permit him to give dinner- 
 parties, and otherwise fashionably see his friends. 
 Very imprudent, no doubt. But you cannot 
 convince my vagabond. With the strangest logical 
 twist, which seems natural to him, he conceives 
 that he marries for his own sake, and not for the 
 sake of his acquaintances, and that the possession 
 of a loving heart and a conscience void of reproach, 
 is worth, at any time, an odd sovereign in his 
 pocket. The vagabond is not a favourite with the 
 respectable classes. He is particularly feared by 
 mammas who have daughters to dispose of — not 
 that he is a bad son, or likely to prove a bad 
 husband, or a treacherous friend, but somehow
 
 ON VAGABONDS 259 
 
 gold does not stick to his fingers as it does to the 
 fingers of some men. He is regardless of appear- 
 ances. He chooses his friends neither for their fine 
 houses nor their rare wines, but for their humours, 
 their goodness of heart, their capacities of making 
 a joke and of seeing one, and for their abilities, 
 unknown often as the woodland violet, but not the 
 less sweet for obscurity. As a consequence his 
 acquaintance is miscellaneous, and he is often seen 
 at other places than rich men's feasts. I do believe 
 he is a gainer by reason of his vagrant ways. He 
 comes in contact with the queer corners and the 
 out-of-the-way places of human life. He knows 
 more of our common nature, just as the man who 
 walks through a country, and who strikes off the 
 main road now and then to visit a ruin, or a 
 legendary cairn of stones, who drops into village 
 inns, and talks with the people he meets on the 
 road, becomes better acquainted with it than the 
 man who rolls haughtily along the turnpike in a 
 carriage-and-four. We lose a great deal by foolish 
 hauteur. No man is worth much who has not a 
 touch of the vagabond in him. Could I have 
 visited London thirty years ago, I would rather 
 have spent an hour with Charles Lamb than with 
 any other of its residents. He was a fine specimen 
 of the vagabond, as I conceive him. His mind 
 was as full of queer nooks and tortuous passages as 
 any mansion-house of Elizabeth's day or earlier, 
 where the rooms are cosy, albeit a little low in the 
 roof ; where dusty stained lights are falling on old 
 oaken panellings ; where every bit of furniture has a 
 reverend flavour of ancientness ; where portraits of
 
 26o ON VAGABONDS 
 
 noble men and women, all dead long ago, are 
 hanging on the walls ; and where a black-letter 
 Chaucer with silver clasps is lying open on a seat in 
 the window. There was nothing modern about 
 him. The garden of his mind did not flaunt in 
 gay parterres ; it resembled those that Cowley and 
 Evelyn delighted in, with clipped trees, and shaven 
 lawns, and stone satyrs, and dark, shadowing yews, 
 and a sun-dial with a Latin motto sculptured on it, 
 standing at the farther end. Lamb was the slave 
 of quip and whimsey : he stuttered out puns to the 
 detriment of all serious and improving conversation, 
 and twice or so in the year he was overtaken in 
 liquor. Well, in spite of these things, perhaps on 
 account of these things, I love his memory. For 
 love and charity ripened in that nature as peaches 
 ripen on the wall that fronts the sun. Although he 
 did not blow his trumpet in the corners of the 
 streets, he was tried, as few men are, and fell not. 
 He jested that he might not weep. He wore a 
 martyr's heart beneath his suit of motley. And 
 only years after his death, when to admiration or 
 censure he was alike insensible, did the world know 
 his story, and that of his sister Mary. 
 
 Ah me ! what a world this was to live in two 
 or three centuries ago, when it was getting itself 
 discovered — when the sunset gave up America, 
 when a steel hand had the spoiling of Mexico and 
 Peru ! Then were the Arabiaft Nights common- 
 place, enchantments a matter of course, and 
 romance the most ordinary thing in the world. 
 Then man was courting Nature, now he has married 
 her. Every mystery is dissipated. The planet is
 
 ON VAGABONDS 261 
 
 familiar as the trodden pathway running between 
 towns. We no longer gaze wistfully to the west, 
 dreaming of the Fortunate Isles. We seek our 
 wonders now on the ebbed seashore ; we discover 
 our new worlds with the microscope. Yet, for all 
 that time has brought and taken away, I am glad 
 to know that the vagabond sleeps in our blood and 
 awakes now and then. Overlay human nature as 
 you please, here and there some bit of rock, or 
 mound of aboriginal soil, will crop out with the 
 wild flowers growing upon it, sweetening the air. 
 ^^'hen the boy throws his Delectus or his Euclid 
 aside, and takes passionately to the reading of 
 Robinson Crusoe or Bruce's African Travels, do 
 not shake your head despondingly over him and 
 prophesy evil issues. Let the wild hawk try its 
 wings. It will be hooded, and will sit quietly 
 enough on the falconer's perch ere long. Let the 
 wild horse career over its boundless pampas ; the 
 jerk of the lasso will bring it down soon enough. 
 Soon enough will the snaffle in the mouth and the 
 spur of the tamer subdue the high spirit to the 
 bridle, or the carriage-trace. Perhaps not, and if 
 so, the better for all parties. Once more there will 
 be a new man and new deeds in the world. For 
 Genius is a vagabond. Art is a vagabond. Enterprise 
 is a vagabond. Vagabonds have moulded the 
 world into its present shape ; they have made the 
 houses in which we dwell, the roads on which we 
 ride and drive, the very laws that govern us. 
 Respectable people swarm in the track of the 
 vagabond as rooks in the track of the ploughshare. 
 Respectable people do little in the world except
 
 262 ON VAGABONDS 
 
 storing wine-cellars and amassing fortunes for the 
 benefit of spendthrift heirs. Respectable well-to- 
 do Grecians shook their heads over Leonidas and 
 his three hundred when they went down to 
 Thermopylae. Respectable Spanish churchmen 
 with shaven crowns scouted the dream of Columbus. 
 Respectable German folks attempted to dissuade 
 Luther from appearing before Charles and the 
 princes and electors of the empire, and were 
 scandalised when he declared that " were there as 
 many devils in Worms as there were tiles on the 
 housetops, still would he on." Nature makes us 
 vagabonds, the world makes us respectable. 
 
 In the fine sense in which I take the word, the 
 English are the greatest vagabonds on the earth, 
 and it is the healthiest trait in their national 
 character. The first fine day in spring awakes 
 the gipsy in the blood of the English workman, 
 and incontinently he "babbles of green fields." 
 On the English gentleman, lapped in the most 
 luxurious civilisation, and with the thousand 
 powers and resources of wealth at his command, 
 descends oftentimes a fierce unrest, a Bedouin- 
 like horror of cities and the cry of the money- 
 changer, and in a month the fiery dust rises in 
 the track of his desert steed, or in the six months' 
 polar midnight he hears the big wave clashing on 
 the icy shore. The close presence of the sea feeds 
 the Englishman's restlessness. .She takes posses- 
 sion of his heart like some fair capricious mistress. 
 Before the boy awakes to the beauty of Cousin 
 Mary, he is crazed by the fascinations of ocean. 
 With her voices of ebb and flow she weaves her
 
 ON VAGABONDS 263 
 
 siren song round the Englishman's coasts day 
 and night. Nothing that dwells on land can keep 
 from her embrace the boy who has gazed upon 
 her dangerous beauty, and who has heard her 
 singing songs of foreign shores at the foot of the 
 summer crag. It is well that in the modern 
 gentleman the fierce heart of the Berserker lives 
 yet. The English are eminently a nation of 
 vagabonds. The sun paints English faces with 
 all the colours of his climes. The Englishman 
 is ubiquitous. He shakes with fever and ague 
 in the swampy valley of the Mississippi ; he is 
 drowned in the sand pillars as they waltz across 
 the desert on the purple breath of the simoom ; 
 he stands on the icy scalp of Mont Blanc ; his fly 
 falls in the sullen Norwegian fiords ; he invades 
 the solitude of the Cape lion; he rides on his 
 donkey through the uncausewayed Cairo streets. 
 That wealthy people, under a despotism, should 
 be travellers seems a natural thing enough. It 
 is a way of escape from the rigours of their 
 condition. But that England — where activity 
 rages so keenly and engrosses every class ; where 
 the prizes of Parliament, literature, commerce, 
 the bar, the church ; are hungered and thirsted 
 after ; where the stress and intensity of life ages 
 a man before his time ; where so many of the 
 noblest break down in harness hardly half-way 
 to the goal— should, year after year, send off 
 swarms of men to roam the world, and to seek 
 out danger for the mere thrill and enjoyment of 
 it, is significant of the indomitable pluck and 
 spirit of the race. There is scant danger that the
 
 264 ON VAGABONDS 
 
 lust o( sloth will eat into the virtue of EngUsh 
 steel. The English do the hard work and the 
 travelling of the world. The least revolutionary 
 nation of Europe, the one with the greatest 
 temptations to stay at home, with the greatest 
 faculty for work, with perhaps the sincerest regard 
 for wealth, is also the most nomadic. How is 
 this ? It is because they are a nation of vaga- 
 bonds ; they have the " hungry heart " that one 
 of their poets speaks about. 
 
 There is an amiability about the genuine 
 vagabond which takes captive the heart. We do 
 not love a man for his respectability, his prudence 
 and foresight in business, his capacity of living 
 within his income, or his balance at his banker's. 
 VVe all admit that prudence is an admirable 
 virtue, and occasionally lament, about Christmas, 
 when bills fall in, that we do not inherit it in 
 a greater degree. But we speak about it in quite 
 a cool way. It does not touch us with enthusiasm. 
 If a calculating machine had a hand to wring, it 
 would find few to wring it warmly. The things 
 that really move liking in human beings are the 
 gnarled nodosities of character, vagrant humours, 
 freaks of generosity, some little unextinguishable 
 spark of the aboriginal savage, some little sweet 
 savour of the old Adam. It is quite wonderful 
 how far simple generosity and kindliness of heart 
 go in securing affection ; and, when these exist, 
 what a host of apologists spring up for faults and 
 vices even. A country squire goes recklessly to 
 the dogs, yet if he has a kind word for his tenant 
 when he meets him, a frank greeting for the
 
 ON VAGABONDS 265 
 
 rustic beauty when she drops a curtsey to huii 
 on the highway, he hves for a whole generation 
 in an odour of sanctity. If he had been a dis- 
 dainful, hook-nosed prime minister, who had 
 carried his country triumphantly through some 
 frightful crisis of war, these people would, perhaps, 
 never have been aware of the fact ; and most 
 certainly never would have tendered him a word 
 of thanks, even if they had. When that important 
 question, " Which is the greatest foe to the public 
 weal — the miser or the spendthrift?" is discussed 
 at the artisans' debating club, the spendthrift has 
 all the eloquence on his side — the miser all the 
 votes. The miser's advocate is nowhere, and he 
 pleads the cause of his client with only half his 
 heart. In the theatre, Charles Surface is 
 applauded, and Joseph Surface is hissed. The 
 novel-reader's affection goes out to Tom Jones, 
 his hatred to Blifil. Joseph Surface and Blifil are 
 scoundrels, it is true, but deduct the scoundrelism, 
 let Joseph be but a stale proverb-monger and 
 BHfil a conceited prig, and the issue remains the 
 same. Good humour and generosity carry the 
 day with the popular heart all the world over. 
 Tom Jones and Charles Surface are not vagabonds 
 to my taste. They were shabby fellows both, and 
 were treated a great deal too well. But there are 
 other vagabonds Avhom I love, and whom I do 
 well to love. With what affection do I follow 
 little Ishraael and his broken-hearted mother out 
 into the great and terrible wilderness, and see 
 them faint beneath the ardours of the sunlight. 
 And we feel it to be strict poetic justice and
 
 266 ON VAGABONDS 
 
 compensation, that the lad so driven forth from 
 human tents should become the father of wild 
 Arabian men, to whom the air of cities is poison, 
 who work not with any tool, and on whose Hmbs 
 no conqueror has ever yet been able to rivet 
 shackle or chain. Then there are Abraham's 
 grand-children, Jacob and Esau — the former, I 
 confess, no favourite of mine. His, up at least to 
 his closing years, when parental affection and strong 
 sorrow softened him, was a character not amiable. 
 He lacked generosity, and had too keen an eye 
 on his own advancement. He did not inherit 
 the noble strain of his ancestors. He was a 
 prosperous man ; yet in spite of his increase in 
 flocks and herds — in spite of his vision of the 
 ladder with the angels ascending and decending 
 upon it — in spite of the success of his beloved 
 son — in spite of the weeping and lamentation 
 of the Egyptians at his death — in spite of his 
 splendid funeral, winding from the city by the 
 pyramid and the sphinx — in spite of all these 
 things, I would rather have been the hunter Esau, 
 with birthright filched away, bankrupt in the 
 promise, rich only in fleet foot and keen spear ; 
 for he carried into the wilds with him an 
 essentially noble nature — no brother with his 
 mess of pottage could mulct him of that. And 
 he had a fine revenge ; for when Jacob, on his 
 journey, heard that his brother was near with 
 four hundred men, and made division of his flocks 
 and herds, his man-servants and maid-servants, 
 impetuous as a swollen hill-torrent, the fierce son 
 of the desert, baked red with Syrian light, leaped
 
 ON VAGABONDS 267 
 
 down upon him, and fell on his neck and wept. 
 And Esau said, " What meanest thou by all this 
 drove which I met?" And Jacob said, "These 
 are to find grace in the sight of my lord." Then 
 Esau said, " I have enough, my brother ; keep that 
 thou hast unto thyself." O mighty prince, didst 
 thou remember thy mother's guile, the skins upon 
 thy hands and neck, and the lie put upon the 
 patriarch, as, blind with years, he sat up in his 
 bed snuffing the savoury meat ? An ugly memory, 
 I should fancy ! 
 
 Commend me to Shakspeare's vagabonds, the 
 most delightful in the world ! His sweet-blooded 
 and liberal nature blossomed into all fine 
 generosities as naturally as an apple bough into 
 pink blossoms and odours. Listen to Gonsalo 
 talking to the shipwrecked Milan nobles camped 
 for the night in Prospero's isle, full of sweet 
 voices, with Ariel shooting through the enchanted 
 air like a falling star : 
 
 " Had I the plantation of ihis isle, my lord, 
 r the commonwealth I would by contraries 
 Execute all things ; for no kind of traffic 
 Would I admit ; no name of magistrate ; 
 Letters should not be known ; riches, poverty, 
 And use of service none ; contract, succession, 
 Bourne, bound of land, tilth, title, vineyard none ; 
 No use of metal coin, or wine, or oil ; 
 No occupation — all men idle — all ! 
 And women loo, but innocent and pure ; 
 No sovereignty ; 
 
 All things in common nature should produce, 
 Without sweat or endurance ; treason, felony, 
 Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine 
 Wmild I not have ; but nature would bring forth
 
 268 ON VAGABONDS 
 
 Of its own kind all foison, all abundance, 
 To feed my innocent people. 
 I would with such perfection govern, sir, 
 To excel the golden age," 
 
 ^Vhat think you of a world after that pattern ? 
 As You Like It is a vagabond play, and verily, 
 if there waved in any wind that blows a forest 
 peopled like Arden's, with an exiled king drawing 
 the sweetest humanest lessons from misfortune ; 
 a melancholy Jacques, stretched by the river 
 bank, moralising on the bleeding deer; a fair 
 Rosalind, chanting her saucy cuckoo song ; fools 
 like Touchstone — not like those of our acquaint- 
 ance, my friends ; and the whole place, from 
 centre to circumference, filled with mighty oak 
 boles, all carven with lovers' names — if such a 
 forest waved in wind, I say, I would, be my 
 worldly prospects what they might, pack up at 
 once, and cast in my lot with that vagabond 
 company. For there I should find more gallant 
 courtesies, finer sentiments, completer innocence 
 and happiness, more wit and wisdom, than I am 
 like to do here even, though I search for them 
 from shepherd's cot to king's palace. Just to 
 think how those people lived ! Carelessly as 
 the blossoming trees, happily as the singing 
 birds, time measured only by the patter of the 
 acorn on the fruitful soil ! A world without 
 debtor or creditor, passing rich, yet with never 
 a doit in its purse, with no sordid care, no regard 
 for appearances ; nothing to occupy the young 
 but love-making, nothing to occupy the old but 
 perusing the "sermons in stones" and the
 
 ON VAGABONDS 269 
 
 musical wisdom which dwells in "running 
 brooks ! " But Arden forest draws its sus- 
 tenance from a poet's brain : the light that 
 sleeps on its leafy pillows is "the light that 
 never was on sea or shore." We hut please and 
 tantalise ourselves with beautiful dreams. 
 
 The children of the brain become to us actual 
 existences, more actual indeed than the people 
 who impinge upon us in the street, or who live 
 next door. We are more intimate with Shakspeare's 
 men and women than we are with our contem- 
 poraries, and they are, on the whole, better 
 company. They are more beautiful in form and 
 feature, and they express themselves in a way 
 that the most gifted strive after in vain. What 
 if Shakspeare's people could walk out of the play- 
 books and settle down upon some spot of earth 
 and conduct life there ! There would be found 
 humanity's whitest wheat, the world's unalloyed 
 gold. The very winds could not visit the place 
 roughly. No king's court could present you 
 such an array. Where else could we find a 
 philosopher like Hamlet? a friend like Antonio? 
 a witty fellow like Mercutio ? where else Imogen's 
 piquant face? Portia's gravity and womanly 
 sweetness? Rosalind's true heart and silvery 
 laughter ? Cordelia's beauty of holiness ? These 
 would form the centre of the court, but the 
 purlieus, how many coloured ! Malvolio would 
 walk mincingly in the sunshine there; Autolycus 
 would filch purses. Sir Andrew Aguecheek and 
 Sir Toby Belch would be eternal boon com- 
 panions. And as Falstaff sets out homeward
 
 270 ON VAGABONDS 
 
 from the tavern, the portly knight leadhig the 
 revellers like a three-decker a line of frigates, 
 they are encountered by Dogberry, who summons 
 them to stand and answer to the v/atch as they 
 are honest men. If Mr. Dickens's characters 
 were gathered together, they would constitute a 
 town populous enough to send a representative 
 to Parliament. Let us enter. The style of 
 architecture is unparalleled. There is an in- 
 dividuality about the buildings. In some obscure 
 way they remind one of human faces. There 
 are houses sly-looking, houses wicked-looking, 
 houses pompous-looking. Heaven bless us ! what 
 a rakish pump ! what a self-important town-hall ! 
 what a hard-hearted prison ! The dead walls 
 are covered with advertisements of Mr. Slearey's 
 circus. Newman Noggs comes shambling along. 
 Mr. and the Misses Pecksniff come sailing down 
 the sunny side of the street. Miss Mercy's 
 parasol is gay; papa's neckcloth is white, and 
 terribly starched. Dick Svviveller leans against 
 a wall, his hands in his pockets, a primrose held 
 between his teeth, contemplating the opera of 
 Punch and Judy, which is being conducted 
 under the management of Messrs. Codlin and 
 Short. You turn a corner and you meet the coffin 
 of little Paul Dombey borne along. Who would 
 have thought of encountering a funeral in this 
 place? In the afternoon you hear the rich tones 
 of the organ from Miss La Creevy's first floor, for 
 Tom Pinch has gone to live there now; and as 
 you know all the people as you know your own 
 brothers and sisters, and consequently require no
 
 ON VAGABONDS 271 
 
 letters of introduction, you go up and tallc with 
 the dear old fellow about all his friends and your 
 friends, and towards evening he takes your arm, 
 and you walk out to see poor Nelly's grave — a 
 place where he visits often, and which he dresses 
 with flowers with his own hands. I know this is 
 the idlest dreaming, but all of us have a sympathy 
 with the creatures of the drama and the novel. 
 Around the hardest cark and toil lies the imagina- 
 tive world of the poets and romancists, and 
 thither we sometimes escape to snatch a mouthful 
 of serener air. There our best lost feelings have 
 taken a human shape. We suppose that boyhood 
 with its impulses and enthusiasms has subsided 
 with the grey cynical man whom we have known 
 these many years. Not a bit of it. It has 
 escaped into the world of the poet, and walks a 
 love-flushed Romeo in immortal youth. We 
 suppose that the Mary of fifty years since, the 
 rose-bud of a girl that crazed our hearts, blossomed 
 into the spouse of Jenkins, the stockbroker, and 
 is now a grandmother. Not at all. She is Juliet 
 leaning from the balcony, or Portia talking on 
 the moonlight lawns at Belmont. There walk 
 the shadows of our former selves. All that Time 
 steals he takes thither ; and to live in that world 
 is to live in our lost youth, our lost generosities, 
 illusions, and romances. 
 
 In middle-class life, and in the professions, 
 when a standard or ideal is tacitly set up, to 
 which every member is expected to conform 
 on pain of having himself talked about, and 
 wise heads shaken over him, the quick feelings
 
 272 ON VAGABONDS 
 
 of the vagabond are not frequently found. Yet, 
 thanks to Nature ! who sends her leafage and 
 flowerage up through all kinds of debris, and 
 who takes a blossomy possession of ruined walls 
 and desert places, it is never altogether dead. 
 And of vagabonds not the least delightful is he 
 who retains poetry and boyish spirits beneath 
 the crust of a profession. Mr. Carlyle commends 
 " central fire," and very properly commends it 
 most when "well covered in." In the case of 
 a professional man, this "central fire" does 
 not manifest itself in wasteful explosiveness, but 
 in secret genial heat visible in fruits of charity 
 and pleasant humour. The physician who is 
 a humorist commends himself doubly to a sick- 
 bed. His patients are as much indebted for 
 their cure to his smile, his voice, and a certain 
 irresistible healthfulness that surrounds him, 
 as they are to his skill and his prescriptions. 
 The lawyer who is a humorist is a man of ten 
 thousand. How easily the worldly-wise face 
 puckered over a stiff brief relaxes into the lines 
 of laughter. He sees many an evil side of human 
 nature, he is familiar with slanders and injustice, 
 all kinds of human bitterness and falsity ; but 
 neither his hand nor his heart becomes " embued 
 with that it works in " ; and the little admixture 
 of acid, inevitable from his circumstances and 
 mode of life, but heightens the flavour of his 
 humour. But of all humorists of the professional 
 class, I prefer the clergyman, especially if he is 
 well stricken in years, and has been anchored all 
 his life in a country charge. He is none of
 
 ON VAGABONDS 273 
 
 your loud wits. There is a lady-like delicacy 
 in his mind, a constant sense of his holy ofifice, 
 which warn him off dangerous subjects. This 
 reserve, however, does but improve the quality 
 of his mirth. ^Vhat his humour loses in bold- 
 ness it gains in depth and slyness. And as the 
 good man has seldom the opportunity of making 
 a joke, or of procuring an auditor who can under- 
 stand one, the dewy glitter of his eyes, as you 
 sit opposite him, and his heartfelt enjoyment 
 of the matter in hand, are worth going a con- 
 siderable way to witness. 
 
 It is not, however, in the professions that the 
 vagabond is commonly found. Over these that 
 awful and ubiquitous female, Mrs. Grundy — 
 at once Fate, Nemesis, and Fury — presides. 
 The glare of her eye is professional danger, 
 the pointing of her finger is professional death. 
 When she utters a man's name, he is lost. 
 The true vagabond is to be met with in 
 other walks of life — among actors, poets, painters. 
 These may grow in any way their nature 
 directs. They are not required to conform to 
 any traditional pattern. With regard to the 
 respectabilities and .the "minor morals," the 
 world permits them to be libertines. Besides, 
 it is a temperament peculiarly sensitive, or 
 generous, or enjoying, which at the beginning 
 impels these to their special pursuits ; and that 
 temperament, like everything else in the world, 
 strengthens with use, and grows with what it 
 feeds on. We look upon an actor, sitting 
 amongst ordinary men and women, with a certain 
 18
 
 274 ON VAGABONDS 
 
 curiosity — we regard him as a creature from 
 another planet, almost. His life and his world 
 are quite different from ours. The orchestra, 
 the footlights, and the green baize curtain divide 
 us. He is a monarch half his time — his entrance 
 and his exit proclaimed by flourish of trumpet. 
 He speaks in blank verse, is wont to take his 
 seat at gilded banquets, to drink nothing out of 
 a pasteboard goblet. The actor's world has a 
 history amusing to read, and lines of noble and 
 splendid traditions, stretching back to charming 
 Nelly's time and earlier. The actor has strange 
 experiences. He sees the other side of the 
 moon. We roar at Grimaldi's funny face : he 
 sees the lines of pain in it. We hear Romeo 
 wish to be "a glove upon that hand, that he 
 might touch that cheek " : three miuutes after- 
 wards he beholds Romeo refresh himself with 
 a pot of porter. We see the IMoor, who "loved 
 not wisely but too Avell," smother Desdemona 
 with the nuptial bolster : he sees them sit down 
 to a hot supper. We always think of the actor 
 as on the stage : he always thinks of us as in 
 the boxes. 
 
 In justice to the poets of the present day, 
 it may be noticed that they have improved 
 on their brethren in Johnson's time, who were, 
 according to Lord Macaulay, hunted by bailiffs 
 and familiar with sponging-houses, and who, 
 when hospitably entertained, were wont to dis- 
 turb the household of the entertainer by roaring 
 for hot punch at four o'clock in the morning. 
 Since that period the poets have improved in
 
 ON VAGABONDS 275 
 
 the decencies of life : they wear broadcloth, 
 and settle their tailors' accounts even as other 
 men. At this present moment her Majesty's 
 poets are perhaps the most respectable of her 
 Majesty's subjects. They are all teetotalers; 
 if they sin, it is in rhyme, and then only to point 
 a moral. In past days the poet flew from flower 
 to flower gathering his honey, but he bore a 
 sting, too, as the rude hand that touched him 
 could testify. He freely gathers his honey as 
 of old, but the satiric sting has been taken away. 
 He lives at peace with all men— his brethren 
 excepted. About the true poet still there is 
 something of the ancient spirit — the old "flash 
 and outbreak of the fiery mind" — the old 
 enthusiasm and dash of humorous eccentricity. 
 But he is fast disappearing from the catalogue 
 of vagabonds — fast getting commonplace, I fear. 
 Many people suspect him of dulness. Besides, 
 such a crowd of well-meaning, amiable, most 
 respectable men have broken down of late years 
 the pales of Parnassus, and become squatters 
 on the sacred mount, that the claim of poets to 
 be a peculiar people is getting disallowed. Never 
 in this world's history were they so numerous ; 
 and although some people deny that they are poets, 
 few are cantankerous enough or intrepid enough 
 to assert that they are vagabonds. 
 
 The painter is the most agreeable of vagabonds. 
 His art is a pleasant one : it demands some little 
 manual exertion, and it takes him at times into 
 the open air. It is pleasant, too, in this, that 
 lines and colours are so much more palpable
 
 276 ON VAGABONDS 
 
 than words, and the appeal of his work to 
 his practised eye has some satisfaction in it. He 
 knows what he is about. He does not altogether 
 lose his critical sense, as the poet does, when 
 familiarity stales his subject, and takes the 
 splendour out of his images. Moreover, his work 
 is more profitable than the poet's, I suppose 
 there are just as few great painters at the present 
 day as there are great poets ; yet the yearly receipts 
 of the artists of England far exceed the receipts 
 of the singers. A picture can usually be painted 
 in less time than a poem can be written. A 
 second-rate picture has a certain market value — 
 its frame is at least something. A second-rate 
 poem is utterly worthless, and no one will buy it 
 on account of its binding. A picture is your own 
 exclusive property : it is a costly article of furniture. 
 You hang it on your walls to be admired by all 
 the world. Pictures represent wealth : the posses- 
 sion of them is a luxury. The portrait-painter is 
 of all men the most beloved. You sit to him 
 willingly, and put on your best looks. You are 
 inclined to be pleased with his work, on account 
 of the strong prepossession you entertain for his 
 subject. To sit for one's portrait is like being 
 present at one's own creation. It is an admirable 
 excuse for egotism. You would not discourse of 
 the falcon-like curve which distinguishes your nose, 
 or the sweet serenity of your reposing lips, or the 
 mildness of the eye that spreads a light over your 
 countenance, in the presence of a fellow-creature 
 for the whole world, yet you do not hesitate to 
 express the most favourable opinion of the features
 
 ON VAGABONDS 277 
 
 starting out on you from the wet canvas. The 
 interest the painter takes in his task flatters you. 
 And when the sittings are over, and you behold 
 yourself hanging on your own wall, looking as if 
 you could direct kingdoms or lead armies, you 
 feel grateful to the artist. He ministers to your 
 self-love, and you pay him his hire without wincing. 
 Your heart warms towards him as it would towards 
 a poet who addresses you in an ode of panegyric, 
 the kindling terms of which — a little astonishing 
 to your friends — you believe in your heart of 
 hearts to be the simple truth, and, in the matter 
 of expression, not over-coloured in the very least. 
 The portrait-painter has a shrewd eye for character, 
 and is usually the best anecdote-monger in the 
 world. His craft brings him into contact with 
 many faces, and he learns to compare them 
 curiously, and to extract their meanings. He can 
 interpret wrinkles ; he can look through the eyes 
 into the man ; he can read a whole foregone 
 history in the lines about the mouth. Besides, 
 from the good understanding which usually exists 
 between the artist and his sitter, the latter is 
 incHned somewhat to unbosom himself; little 
 things leak out in conversation, not much in 
 themselves, but pregnant enough to the painter's 
 sense, who pieces them together, and constitutes 
 a tolerably definite image. The man who paints 
 your face knows you better than your intimate 
 friends do, and has a clearer knowledge of your 
 amiable weaknesses, and of the secret motives 
 which influence your conduct, than you oftentimes 
 have yourself. A good portrait is a kind of
 
 278 ON VAGABONDS 
 
 biography, and neither painter nor biographer can 
 carry out his task satisfactorily unless he be 
 admitted behind the scenes. I think that the 
 landscape-painter, who has acquired sufificient 
 mastery in his art to satisfy his own critical sense, 
 and who is appreciated enough to find purchasers, 
 and thereby to keep the wolf from the door, must 
 be of all mankind the happiest. Other men live 
 in cities, bound down to some settled task and 
 order of life, but he is a nomad, and wherever he 
 goes "Beauty pitches her tents before him." He 
 is smitten by a passionate love for Nature, and is 
 privileged to follow her into her solitary haunts 
 and recesses. Nature is his mistress, and he is 
 continually making declarations of his love. When 
 one thinks of ordinary occupations, how one 
 envies him, flecking his oak tree bole with sunlight, 
 tinging with rose the cloud of the morning in 
 which the lark is hid, making the sea's svdft fringe 
 of foaming lace outspread itself on the level sands, 
 in which the pebbles gleam for ever wet. The 
 landscape-painter's memory is inhabited by the 
 fairest visions : — dawn burning on the splintered 
 peaks that the eagles know, while the valleys 
 beneath are yet filled with uncertain light — the 
 bright blue morn stretching over miles of moor 
 and mountain — the slow up-gathering of the 
 bellied thundercloud — summer lakes, and cattle 
 knee-deep in them — rustic bridges for ever crossed 
 by old women in scarlet cloaks — old-fashioned 
 waggons resting on the scrubby common, the 
 waggoner lazy and wayworn, the dog couched on 
 the ground, its tongue hanging out in the heat —
 
 ON VAGABONDS 279 
 
 boats drawn up on the shore at sunset ; the fisher's 
 children looking seawards, the red light full on 
 their dresses and faces ; farther back, a clump of 
 cottages, with bait-baskets about the door, and 
 the smoke of the evening meal coiling up into the 
 coloured air. These things are for ever with him. 
 Beauty, which is a luxury to other men, is his 
 daily food. Happy vagabond, who lives the whole 
 summer through in the light of his mistress's face, 
 and who does nothing the whole winter except 
 recall the splendour of her smiles ! 
 
 The vagabond, as I have explained and 
 sketched him, is not a man to tremble at, or 
 avoid as if he wore contagion in his touch. He 
 is upright, generous, innocent, is conscientious 
 in the performance of his duties ; and if a little 
 eccentric and fond of the open air, he is full of 
 good nature and mirthful charity. He may not 
 make money so rapidly as you do, but I cannot 
 help thinking that he enjoys life a great deal 
 more. The quick feeling of life, the exuberance 
 of animal spirits which break out in the traveller, 
 the sportsman, the poet, the painter, should be 
 more generally diffused. We should be all the 
 better and all the happier for it. Life ought to 
 be freer, heartier, more enjoyable than it is at 
 present. If the professional fetter must be worn, 
 let it be worn as lightly as possible. It should 
 never be permitted to canker the limbs. We are 
 a free people — we have an unshackled press — 
 we have an open platform, and can say our say 
 upon it, no king or despot making us afraid. 
 We send representatives to Parliament; the
 
 28o ON VAGABONDS 
 
 franchise is always going to be extended. All 
 this is very fine, and we do well to glory in our 
 privileges as Britons. But although we enjoy 
 greater political freedom than any other people, 
 we are the victims of a petty social tyranny. We 
 are our own despots — we tremble at a neighbour's 
 whisper. A man may say what he likes on a 
 public platform — he may publish whatever opinion 
 he chooses — but he dare not wear a peculiar 
 fashion of hat on the street. Eccentricity is an 
 outlaw. Public opinion blows like the east 
 wind, blighting bud and blossom on the human 
 bough. 
 
 As a consequence of all this, society is losing 
 picturesqueness and variety — we are all growing 
 up after one pattern. In other matters than 
 architecture past times may be represented by 
 the wonderful ridge of the Old Town of Edinburgh, 
 where everything is individual and characteristic : 
 the present time by the streets and squares of 
 the New Town, where everything is grey, cold, 
 and respectable ; where every house is the other's 
 alter ego. It is true that life is healthier in the 
 formal square than in the piled-up picturesque- 
 ness of the Canongate — quite true that sanitary 
 conditions are better observed — that pure water 
 flows through every tenement like blood through 
 a human body — that daylight has free access, 
 and that the apartments are larger and higher in 
 the roof. But every gain is purchased at the 
 expense of some loss ; and it is best to combine, 
 if possible, the excellences of the old and the 
 new. By all means retain the modern breadth
 
 ON VAGABONDS 281 
 
 of light and range of space — by all means have 
 water plentiful and bed-chambers ventilated — 
 but at the same time have some little freak of 
 fancy without — some ornament about the door, 
 some device about the window — something to 
 break the cold, grey, stony uniformity ; or, to 
 leave metaphor, which is always dangerous ground 
 — for I really don't wish to advocate Ruskinism 
 and the Gothic — it would be better to have, 
 along with our modern enlightenment, our higher 
 tastes, and purer habits, a greater individuality 
 of thought and manner; better, while retaining 
 all that we have gained, that harmless eccentricity 
 should be respected — that every man should be 
 allowed to grow in his own way, so long as he 
 does not infringe on the rights of his neighbour, 
 or insolently thrust himself between him and the 
 sun. 
 
 A little more air and light should be let in 
 upon life. I should think the world has stood 
 long enough under the drill of Adjutant Fashion. 
 It is hard work ; the posture is wearisome, and 
 Fashion is an awful martinet, and has a quick 
 eye, and comes down mercilessly on the un- 
 fortunate wight who cannot square his toes to 
 the approved pattern, or who appears upon parade 
 with a darn in his coat, or with a shoulder-belt 
 insufficiently pipe-clayed. It is killing work. 
 Suppose we try "standing at ease" for a little! 
 
 THE END.
 
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