THE UNIVERSITY 
 
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 LIBRARY 
 
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 \J.Z 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
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HENRY FOTHERGXLL CHORLEY. 
 
HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY: 
 
 Utemoxr, mtir fliers. 
 
 COMPILED BY 
 
 HENRY G. HEWLETT. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 YOL. II. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 !jhil)lts!)rrs in ©rimuuit to |jcr ||1ajc5iji. 
 
 1873. 
 
m 
 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS. 
 
 STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. 
 
B 
 
 Q55lh 
 
 V.z- 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 Literary life from 1841 to 1851 — Connection with 
 ‘ Athenaeum’ — Relations with the proprietors and 
 editor — Characteristics of criticism — Contributions 
 to other serials — Jerrold’s opinion of him — Edits 
 ‘Lady’s Companion ’ — Minor poems — Drama of 
 “Old Love and New Fortune” — Miss Mitford’s 
 opinion of it — Successful performance — Novel of 
 “ Pomfret ” — Letter from Mr. Browning — Studies 
 for a work on Genius ...... 1 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Private and social life from 1841 to 1851 — Residence 
 in Victoria Square — An affaire du coeur — Artistic 
 friendships — Mrs. Browning — Sir William Moles- 
 worth — George B. Maule — Travels — Extracts from 
 journals — Notes on pictures —Professor Bendemann 
 — Kaulbach — Letters and sonnets in ‘ Athenaeum 
 Last letter from Mendelssohn — Visit to Interlachen 
 — List of acquaintances — Langtree — Thomas Camp- 
 bell — Rejection of offer of marriage — Pressure of 
 calamities— Illness of his sister — Death of Mrs. 
 Chorley 28 
 
 (COuuox 
 
vi 
 
 CONTENTS . 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Musical criticism between 1841 and 1851 — Recognition 
 of bis influence —Mercenary propositions — Letter 
 from Meyerbeer — Employment as a librettist— Dis- 
 appointments and vexations — Intimacies with M. 
 Liszt and Madame Yiardot— Chopin — Sonnet on his 
 death — Berlioz — Mr. Hullah’s system of vocal in- 
 struction — Relations between artists and critics — A 
 'protege ........ 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Literary life from 1852 to 1872 — Critical labours in 
 ‘ Athenaeum ’ — Changes observable in tone— Severity 
 to works of friends — Discernment — Letter from Mr. 
 Procter — Letters from Nathaniel and Mrs. Haw- 
 thorne — Versatility — Examples — Reviews of Mr. 
 Ruskin, Mr. Wilkie Collins, and Mr. Coventry Pat- 
 more — Dramatic authorship — “ The Lovelock ” 
 “ Duchess Eleanour” — Analysis and extracts — 
 Publishes " Roccabella ” — Analysis and extracts — 
 Letters from Dickens and Hawthorne — Dedication 
 to Mrs. Browning — Letter from Mr. Browning — 
 Translation of “ Eairy Gold ” — Biographical sketch 
 of Mendelssohn— Lyrics — “ Alone ” — Publishes “ The 
 Prodigy 5 ’ — Edits Miss Mitford’s Letters — Engaged 
 on autobiography until his death .... 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Career as a musical critic from 1852 to 1868 — Recog- 
 nition of his influence — Estimates by Sir Michael 
 Costa and Mr. Henry Leslie — Thanks of Lablache— 
 Practical testimony— Employment as a writer for 
 
CONTENTS . 
 
 music— Difference of opinion with musicians — Effects 
 of his criticism— u Modern German Music ’’—Extracts 
 — “ Thirty Years’ Musical Recollections ” — Ex- 
 tracts — Ballads — Lectures — Interest in musical 
 enterprise — Birmingham festivals — Crystal Palace 
 Concerts and Handel Festivals — Retirement from 
 ‘ Athenaeum,’ &c. ...... 183 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Private and social life from 1852 to 1872 — Residence 
 at No. 13, Eaton Place West — Description of the 
 house — Parties — Extract from letter to Liverpool 
 — Opposition to “ Spiritualistic ” mania — Friendship 
 with Charles Dickens— Letters from him— Visits to 
 Gad’s Hill — Miss Dickens’ reminiscences — Mr. Proc- 
 ter — Hawthorne — Other Associates — Deaths of Miss 
 Mitford and Sir Wm. Molesworth — Letter to Liver- 
 pool — Illness and death of his sister — Memorial 
 sketch of his brother John’s career — Letter from 
 Mr. Carlyle — Professor Ticknor — Accession of for- 
 tune — Mental depression, loneliness, and failing 
 health— A fatal expedient — Travels — Letter from 
 Spain — Scarborough — Wakehurst Place — Memory 
 of early friendship — Letters — Affectionate relations 
 with Mr. Benson Rathbone — Friendship with the 
 writer — Reminiscences — Death of Dickens — Letters 
 to the writer — Employment on autobiography — 
 Preface — Acceleration of organic disease — Letters to 
 Liverpool — His death, and funeral . . 214 
 
 Appendix 
 
 . 337 
 
HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY : 
 
 ^uRbkrgrajjfpr, f$moir, aittr letters. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Literary Life from 1841 to 1851 — Connection with f Athen- 
 83nm > ' — Relations with the proprietors and editor — 
 Characteristics of criticism — Contributions to other serials 
 — Jerrold’s opinion of him— Edits ‘ Lady’s Companion' 
 — Minor poems— Drama of “ Old Love and New Fortune ” 
 — Miss Mitford’s opinion of it — Successful performance — 
 Novel of “ Pomfret ” — Letter from Mr. Browning— Studies 
 
 for a work on Genius. 
 
 • 
 
 Chorlet’s connection with the £ Athenaeum’’ 
 during these years remained so much on its 
 former footing, that little need he added re- 
 specting it. The relations between himself 
 and its proprietors, Mr. Dilke and his son Sir 
 Wentworth Dilke, continued to he thoroughly 
 cordial, and their good understanding elfec- 
 
2 
 
 ‘ A THENjEUM ’ CRITICISMS. 
 
 tually made up for any deficiency in con- 
 sideration that may have been shown him on 
 the part of the late Mr. T. K. Hervey, who 
 then filled the post of editor. Chorley was 
 under the impression that, during this gentle- 
 man’s reign, an undue proportion of inferior 
 literature was allotted to his province as a 
 reviewer; but how far the impression was 
 warranted by the fact, I have no means of 
 judging. The list which he has preserved 
 of the hooks then submitted to his criticism 
 doubtless includes a large preponderance of 
 chaff over wheat ; but would not every such 
 record present the like discrepancy ? It con- 
 tains, nevertheless, some works unquestion- 
 ably of the highest rank, and others which, 
 if their place be more doubtful, have as yet, 
 at all events, stood the test of time. In the 
 former category may be named Mr. Tenny- 
 son’s miscellaneous poems, the dramas and 
 lyrics of Mr. and Mrs. Browning, Hawthorne’s 
 “ Mosses from an old Manse ” and “ Scarlet 
 Letter,” Dickens’ “ Martin Chuzzlewit,” “ Da- 
 vid Copperfield,” and “ Christmas Carol 
 
‘ATHENAEUM’ CRITICISMS. 
 
 3 
 
 in the latter, Macaulay’s “ Lays,” Barham’s 
 “ Ingoldsby Legends,” Thackeray’s minor 
 sketches, and several novels of Lord Lytton, 
 Captain Marryat, Miss Bronte, and Mr. Dis- 
 raeli. 
 
 So far as gleanings, which have been neces- 
 sarily limited, have enabled me to form an 
 estimate of the average merit of Chorley’s 
 criticisms at this period, as compared with 
 those of an earlier date, they appear to in- 
 dicate an advance in acumen, and increasing 
 evidence of his aim to be at once candid 
 and sympathetic — the author’s interpreter as 
 well as his judge. If the subtlety of per- 
 ception and breadth of generalisation which 
 characterise the critical faculty in its highest 
 development, (such as one seems to recog- 
 nise, for instance, in the contemporary essays 
 of Mr. Richard Hutton,) were in great mea- 
 sure denied to Chorley, he was, I think, 
 more than ordinarily gifted with those 
 instincts of felicitous selection and prompt 
 appreciation which are scarcely less service- 
 able to the professional critic. When a book 
 
4 
 
 PROMPT DISCERNMENT. 
 
 fell into his hands, its author might be toler- 
 ably confident that, whether it were praised 
 or condemned, the passages which best repre- 
 sented its prevailing tone and purpose would 
 he those chosen for extract. Chorley’s prompt- 
 ness in divining the early indications of genius 
 was not less observable in his literary than in 
 his musical criticism. Though not habitually 
 boastful, he took a pardonable pride in the 
 consciousness of this gift, and delighted to 
 remember that he was among the few who 
 detected “ the print of a man’s foot in the 
 sand ” when Mr. Browning’s “ Pauline ” ap- 
 peared in the ‘ Monthly Repository ;’ how he 
 had proclaimed the advent of a great poetess 
 after reading Miss Barrett’s “ Romaunt of 
 Margret” in the ‘New Monthly/ and had 
 been the first English reviewer who called 
 attention to the “ Twice-told Tales ” of Haw- 
 thorne. 
 
 . In addition to his weekly work for the 
 ‘ Athenseum/ he contributed during these 
 years several articles to the ‘ British and 
 Foreign’ and ‘New Quarterly’ Reviews, 
 
JERROLD’S ESTIMATE OF HIM. 
 
 1 Bentley’s Miscellany,’ the ‘ People’s Jour- 
 nal,’ and ‘ Jerrold’s Magazine.’ He appears 
 to have been upon the regular staff of the 
 last-named journal ; and the letters which he 
 received from Jerrold — no mean judge of lite- 
 rary ability — attest the high value which was 
 set upon his services. The transmission of 
 proofs and cheques from an editor to a contri- 
 butor is too rarely accompanied by such expres- 
 sions of approval as some of these letters con- 
 tain — “ your touching and beautiful verse 
 “ papers each of which ought to be a bank- 
 note ” — phrases which from such plain-speaking 
 lips as Jerrold’s can scarcely have been mean- 
 ingless. Most of these letters relate too much 
 to details of business to be generally interesting, 
 but one is sufficiently characteristic of the 
 writer to deserve insertion. 
 
 [Undated, but between 1845 and 1848.] 
 “My Dear Chorley, 
 
 “ I have given directions that your proof 
 be immediately sent. Will you forward the 
 October to Tomlins ? 
 
6 
 
 ‘LADY’S companion: 
 
 “ I am off on Saturday. Shall you be near 
 the Museum Club any time from six to nine 
 on Thursday ? I shall be there. I send you 
 cheque, with best wishes for all comfort in 
 your approaching holiday. I go to solitude 
 in Sark, ‘ far amid the melancholy main.’ 
 Such a place for a man to lie upon his back, 
 and hear ‘ the waves moan for sleep that 
 never comes.’ 
 
 “ Yours ever, 
 
 “D. J.”* 
 
 On the retirement of Mrs. Loudon from the 
 editorship of the ‘ Lady’s Companion,’ the 
 proprietor offered the post to Chorley, at a 
 remuneration which, as he wrote to his friend 
 in Liverpool, ‘for the first time in my life, 
 ‘ put me entirely at ease in my circumstances.’ 
 He conducted this serial from Midsummer, 
 1850, to Midsummer, 1851, and wrote much 
 for it, both in prose and verse. 
 
 His lyrical gift was never more fertile than 
 
 * [On the fly-leaf.] “June, il.\ July, 71. ,10s. ; August, 
 71. 5s. ; Total, 18. 15s.” 
 
LYRICS. * 7 
 
 at this period. Notwithstanding a limited 
 range of thought and fancy, and a “ fatal 
 facility ” which precluded his attaining 
 thorough mastery of the art, several of his 
 poems leave so little to he desired in point 
 either of form or expression, that a critic who 
 should quarrel with their incompleteness 
 would probably be thought fastidious by nine 
 readers out of ten. Chorley displays con- 
 siderable command of the language proper to 
 various moods of emotion and sentiment, but 
 never soars into any exalted strain of passion. 
 The vein of tender or melancholy reverie is, 
 perhaps, that in which he excels. In two of 
 the poems which follow, a few happy touches 
 of description lend an added charm. 
 
 “ Bid me not the lady praise 
 
 Who has changed vows with mine. 
 Nor reveal her to yonr gaze. 
 
 As a relish for yonr wine. 
 
 Love afloat a watch shonld keep. 
 Lest his fragile bark be drowned, 
 With a finger on his lip. 
 
 And an oar without a sound. 
 
 All that you shall hear or see 
 Is — my Love hath chosen me. 
 
8 
 
 LYRICS. 
 
 “ Bid me not describe her eyes, 
 Violet-blue or hazel-brown : 
 
 If her lip or smiles or sighs, 
 
 Need the tale to all be known ? 
 
 Can I bid you to forbear, 
 
 Having bid you first admire ? 
 Fools but fan a flame with air. 
 
 Then bewail a world on fire. 
 
 Go and find a maiden free, 
 
 For my Love hath chosen me.” * 
 
 A FIRE-SIDE SONG. 
 
 When the children are asleep, and the early stars retire, 
 
 What a pleasant world comes back in the toil of day forgot ; 
 
 And the shadows of the past, how they gather round the 
 fire, 
 
 With the friends beloved in years when the fear of death 
 was not. 
 
 Then we see the hawthorn hedge newly silver’d o’er by 
 May, 
 
 And the ash-tree lithe and tall, where the mavis loved to 
 sing; 
 
 And the orchard on the slope, with its rosy apples gay. 
 
 And the elder, dark with fruit, that was mirror’d in the 
 spring. 
 
 Vide p. 209, post. 
 
LYRICS . 
 
 9 
 
 And the angels of our youth, that so long in earth are cold; 
 They are calling us again, with their voices mild and low ; 
 Till our minds refuse to dwell by the coffin in the mould. 
 And arise with them to Heaven, where in glory they are 
 now. 
 
 Then with thoughts of rest at eve, be so ever hard the day, 
 On our spirits cometh down a contentment calm and deep ; 
 0 better than the joys of the noisy and the gay 
 Is our quiet hour of dreams when the children are asleep!* 
 
 THE ENCHANTRESS TO HER LOVER. 
 
 By the lore of ages far. 
 
 By the rites which cowards shun, 
 
 I, from grave, and herb, and star. 
 
 Have my wand of triumph won : 
 Warriors I have brought to .shame, 
 Turning glory to disgrace ; 
 
 Kings have trembled when I came, 
 Reading doom upon my face : 
 
 But for thee, but for thee, 
 
 My wild hair shall braided be. 
 
 With the rose of richest breath. 
 
 With the jasmine white as death ; 
 
 And my voice in music flow, 
 
 And mine eyes all gently glow. 
 
 * These verses have been set to graceful music by the late 
 Vincent Wallace. 
 
10 
 
 LYRICS . . 
 
 0, believe me, love like ours, 
 
 Is the power of magic powers ! 
 
 I know where the storm is born, 
 
 That shall break the strong earth’s frame. 
 From the fierce volcano’s horn. 
 
 Brimming o’er with living flame ; 
 
 I could name the very cloud 
 Whence the tempest forth did sweep, 
 Which the strongest ship hath bowed. 
 
 Built to rule the rebel deep. 
 
 But for thee, but for thee, 
 
 Shall be calm on earth and sea, 
 
 Gentle rivers, teeming mines, 
 
 Golden harvests, fragrant vines ; 
 
 And a sunlight bland and warm. 
 
 And a moon of dreamy charm . } 
 
 For, believe me, love like ours. 
 
 Is the power of magic powers.* 
 
 MEMOBIALS OF THE BHINE-LAND. 
 
 The Laacher See. 
 
 All fairest things a faery garland make 
 For that enchanted caldron on the hill : 
 
 The cistus spreads its gold— the wild pinks fill 
 The air with odours : soft wood-pigeons wake 
 The coy and timid echoes of the lake ; 
 
 And all day long the hum minute and shrill 
 Of dragon-flies’ gold wings is never still. 
 
 Appropriately set to music by Mr. J. L. Hatton. 
 
VERS BE S0C1ETE. 
 
 11 
 
 Where bells and mellow psalms were wont to break 
 The holy calm. Oh, on this bank to lie 
 In the rich sunshine of an antumn day. 
 
 Till Fancy, drunk with sweets, began to play 
 With time, and substance, and reality. 
 
 And watched to see the turrets melt away 
 Of that forsaken church, like pictures in the sky ! 
 
 In many of his vers de societe, of which a 
 sample follows, an agreeable flavour of humour 
 mingles with the predominant sentiment. 
 
 A LADY AND HER FAN. 
 
 Gentle Lady ! with that painted book 
 Fluttering open in your lily hand, 
 
 Turning from its pages with a look 
 That can mirth or sadness understand ; 
 
 Do you number Woman’s myriad wiles. 
 
 Or the bold expectancies of Man, 
 
 How to make them suppliants for your smiles 
 (Victims ever since the world began). 
 
 Gathering meditation from your fan ? 
 
 There hath Coypel daintily expressed 
 Hercules at Queen Omphale’s knee. 
 
 Showing how a club, if well caressed, 
 
 To a harmless distaff changed may be? — 
 
 There hath Boucher touched the dainty troops 
 Who still people blissful Arcadies ; 
 
 Bound-eyed Delias mincing o’er their hoops. 
 
 Satin Strephons under willow-trees. 
 
12 
 
 VERS BE SOCIE'TE. 
 
 Spangled Cupids dancing in a grove, 
 
 Where Court ladies sacrifice to Pan, 
 
 And the patched and powdered Queen of Love 
 Travels aether in a pearl sedan ; 
 
 While your very heart within you droops, 
 Thinking how Earth’s glories are but prose, 
 Cheapside revels, as compared with those 
 
 Breathed by charming Genius on your fan ? 
 
 There doth Poesy with bays and lute, 
 
 Floating on a cloud of Sevres blue, 
 
 Point to trim Parnassus under-foot, 
 
 With the peaked toe of high-heeled shoe ? 
 
 Listen, Lady ! what the syren sings 
 To the fair one who instruction seeks : 
 
 “ Angels wear false feathers in their wings. 
 Every rose has rouge upon its cheeks ; 
 
 Did you dream the cowslip real gold ? 
 
 Try it, fond enthusiast, in the fire ! — 
 
 There ’s in every robe an awkward fold, 
 
 One false note in every seraph’s lyre ; 
 
 Truth is spotted, and Belief a jest ; 
 
 Sip of pleasant pastime while you can, 
 
 Age will come too soon your joy to waste, — 
 Lure the men, and laugh behind your fan !” 
 
 “ ’Tis a glad and pretty world, in truth, 
 
 Where cotillons last the live-long day ; 
 
 And the eye of each enamoured youth 
 Looks a thousand things he dares not say ; . 
 
 And the warmest heart is wooed and won 
 By rare bribes from India or Japan; 
 
 And since all are false, are none undone,” — 
 Saith the Sybil singing on your fan. 
 
13 
 
 VERS DE SOCIETE. 
 
 " How could Lady Clara break her heart ? 
 
 Should a popinjay’s desertion kill ? 
 
 Why did slander Guy from Marion part ? 
 
 Grace, his first-beloved, was falser still. . . . 
 Faith is but a dream— Belief a jest — 
 
 Woman is a doll, an ape is Man. 
 
 Dance, and sing, and scheme like all the rest,”— 
 Saith the Muse enthroned upon your fan. 
 
 Thus a worldling, tripping wearily 
 On the path that down Life’s mountain leans. 
 With experience old and worn, jper die , 
 
 Babbled of the morals writ on screens ; 
 
 When the flowers that faded things rebuke. 
 
 And the summer breezes, singing on 
 To the echoes of the distant brook. 
 
 Gathered round the lady fair and lone, 
 Murmuring, — “ Hence with all thy quips and wiles ! 
 
 Leave her to the incense that we breathe ; 
 
 Leave her to the heavens, whose changing smiles 
 Soothe and gladden the sad world beneath ! 
 
 Take thy lore to whom it doth beseem ; 
 
 Worldly maiden greet with worldly tongue; 
 
 But for her be music still a dream. 
 
 And the odour of the roses stream 
 Bound the unconscious beauty of the young ! — 
 Not till Time hath chilled her joyous heart, 
 
 Till her eyes grow dim, her forehead wan, 
 
 Till her early blush and tear depart, 
 
 Bid her learn to mock, and doubt, and plan. 
 From the pictures painted on her fan.” 
 
 One of Cliorley’s uncompleted designs 
 
14 
 
 OLD LOVE AND NEW FORTUNE: 
 
 towards the close of his life, was to collect for 
 publication the best of the poems which he 
 had contributed to the serial literature of the 
 past thirty years ; and he has left in manu- 
 script a considerable portion of such a volume, 
 which was to he ‘ gratefully and affectionately ’ 
 inscribed to ‘ Barry Cornwall, as the first poet 
 4 who honoured ’ him 4 with a word of kind- 
 4 ness.’ 
 
 The most ambitious poetical effort of 
 these years was the construction of a five-act 
 play, after the pattern of the post-Elizabethan 
 domestic drama, which, in the hands of Sheri- 
 dan Knowles, had proved so successful upon 
 the modern stage. Its title of 44 Old Love 
 and New Fortune ”* was appropriately ex- 
 pressive of the moral agencies set in motion — 
 the immemorial antagonism of affection and 
 pride. The plot is, unfortunately, too elabo- 
 rate to admit of compression into the shape of 
 an argument which would be readily intelli- 
 gible. If not framed with much regard to 
 probabilities, it is undeniably skilful, and 
 * Chapman and Hall, 1850. 
 
OLD LOVE AND NEW FORTUNE: 
 
 15 
 
 abounds in effective situations. The two prin- 
 cipal personages — La Roque, a wild, generous 
 gallant, and Sybil Harcourt, the wilful beauty 
 whom he loves — are creations of real flesh 
 and blood, spiritedly and consistently con- 
 ceived. Admirable as a contrast to Sybil 
 is the other heroine, Eve, a gentle, earnest 
 girl, whose unacknowledged love for Sir 
 Archibald, her guardian and Sybil’s father, 
 is portrayed with singular delicacy and 
 tenderness. A scene wherein the two girls 
 are brought into collision is one of the most 
 dramatic situations in the piece. La Roque, 
 with the hope of winning back his truant 
 mistress, who, still loving him, has cast him 
 off for a wealthy suitor, takes Eve into confi- 
 dence, and induces her to let him make feigned 
 love to her. Sybil, who has guessed Eve’s 
 secret, surmises that her sufferance of La 
 Roque’s addresses is intended at once as a 
 triumph over herself and a lure to Sir Archi- 
 bald. Irritated to madness by the assumed 
 provocation, she reproaches Eve with her 
 treacherous and unmaidenly arts : 
 
16 
 
 “ OLD LOVE AND NEW FORTUNE. 
 
 “ The blush, the panting bosom and the tear .... 
 
 A trick of trade ! 
 
 To pique your grey protector’s jealousy ; 
 
 When I see 
 
 Your gradual heavenly smile, and hear your voice 
 Drawl out its smooth and hypocritic psalm, 
 
 ’Tis more than generous nature can endure.” 
 
 Eve, at first barely comprehending their 
 drift, answers these taunts meekly ; but when 
 they culminate in an insinuation of her wil- 
 lingness to accept a baser place than that of 
 wife, the slander, which amounts to a sentence 
 of exile, rouses her into indignant recrimina- 
 tion : 
 
 “ You stir not hence — and, if need be, not wed — 
 
 Till this be cleared between us. Stand in the light ! 
 Repeat your taunt, and look me in the face . . . 
 
 . . . You dare not, Sybil ! There is still a touch 
 Of woman in your nature ! 
 
 Sybil. Woman, stung 
 
 By most intolerable wrong. 
 
 Eve. And whose 
 
 The wrong, and whose the sting? Your own proud 
 heart ! 
 
 Is it not enough 
 
 Yourself have cast to the winds the richest store 
 Which ever Heaven on thankless mortal showered ? — 
 With your own frantic hands have riven the ties 
 Of household blessing, and of virgin love ? 
 
“ OLD LOVE AND NEW FORTUNE: 
 
 17 
 
 And is the dark and dismal wreck too small. 
 
 Or lacks there wider ruin to content 
 The insatiate fury gnawing at your heart ? 
 
 And you with cold and wicked words 
 
 Would tarnish my good name, and drive me forth 
 To the one refuge open, whatsoe’er 
 The sorrow and the storm. Content you, Sybil ! 
 Content your pride. The arrow hath struck home. 
 When maiden turns on maiden, then the world 
 Is so disjoint, ’twere best at once to pass 
 To the unslandering silence of the shroud. 
 
 Go, and be decked ! Go ! barter for base things 
 Your stainless beauty ! I can weep for you. 
 
 My grave is better than your bridal bed !” 
 
 This extract is, perhaps, an unusually fa- 
 vourable specimen of Chorley’s dramatic vein 
 in the play, but fairly represents its style, 
 which, if unequal in power, is uniformly clear, 
 and occasionally rises into dignity. As a 
 reading play, it may he open to the ob- 
 jection made to it by the author’s friend, 
 Mr. Harness, (after a warm eulogy of its “ de- 
 lightful style and moral sense ”) of having 
 “ too much story hut this does not seem 
 to have been felt in representation. Other 
 friends, to whom it was shown in MS., were 
 more enthusiastic in their praise ; among 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 LETTERS FROM MISS M1TF0RD. 
 
 them Miss Mitford, whose own dramatic suc- 
 cesses entitled her to forecast with some con- 
 fidence the chances of a fellow-playwright. 
 The letters from which the following extracts 
 are made are undated, according to the 
 writer’s wont, but must be anterior to 1846. 
 The day after first hearing it read, she wrote 
 as follows : — 
 
 “ My very dear Friend, 
 
 “ Between crying and excitement, I never 
 closed my eyes all night, and can hardly see 
 out of them to-day : (Jane declared that next 
 time I went to Mr. Chorley’s she would provide 
 two pocket-handkerchiefs) ; and, as I would 
 fain share all such troubled joys with one who 
 dearly loves them, Miss Barrett, I have to en- 
 treat that you will let her see “Sir Archibald.” 
 She is most desirous of the favour, and will 
 esteem it as it deserves. You could hardly 
 have a reader of more true sensibility to 
 beauty, or more thoroughly willing to admire 
 all that is sweet, and true, and tender, in you 
 especially, of whom she has heard so much. 
 
LETTERS FROM MISS MITFORD. 
 
 19 
 
 ... I can think of nothing hut that play. I 
 am as sure of a high success as I should have 
 been with “ Yirginius,” or “William Tell,” or 
 “ The Honeymoon ” — the three greatest plays 
 of this century ; yours is better than either. 
 Be sure to tell me what Macready says.” 
 
 Some time later she wrote again : — 
 
 “ The recollection of that play is as vivid 
 as if I had read it only yesterday, and so 
 it will continue. Certain things burn them- 
 selves in upon the memory and the heart, 
 and there they are for life. I am sure of the 
 success of that lovely play whenever you find 
 a stage to produce it — not caring very much 
 about the actors. It will take care of itself.” 
 
 The writer’s shrewd perception (to which 
 her effusive utterance does some injustice) 
 was not at fault. The piece was accepted for 
 the Surrey Theatre, Mr. Creswick playing the 
 principal part, and the performance (Feb- 
 ruary 18th, 1850) was a thorough success : 
 
 ‘ carefully listened to, w T ell applauded, and 
 
20 
 
 '•pomfret: 
 
 ‘myself called for at the end,’ as Chorley’s 
 journal commemorates. The press was fairly 
 appreciative. Congratulatory letters poured 
 in from all his friends, Mr. Browning writing 
 from Florence to express the warm gratifica- 
 tion of Mrs. Browning and himself, and rally 
 him upon having been prematurely despon- 
 dent about his “ old luck,” of which the spell 
 was surely now broken. By an oversight on 
 the part of the manager, the necessary licence 
 of the Lord Chamberlain had not been ob- 
 tained; and when the play was withdrawn 
 from the bills on the day after his triumph, 
 Chorley’s half-serious, half-jesting belief that 
 he was doomed to failure seemed really 
 justified. But the difficulty was soon got over, 
 and the piece enjoyed an honourable tenure 
 of popular favour. 
 
 His principal prose work of this period was 
 “ Pomfret ; or, Public Opinion and Private 
 Judgment,”* a novel in two volumes, which he 
 commenced in 1843, and completed and pub- 
 lished in 1845. Perhaps none of his writings 
 
 Colburn, 1845. 
 
“pomfret: 
 
 21 
 
 are more characteristic of him than this very 
 unequal but impressive work. Its plan is as 
 clumsy and incoherent as possible, the narra- 
 tive being put into the mouth of an individual 
 admittedly unacquainted even with the outer 
 presentment of some of the principal per- 
 sonages, with whose inner life he neverthe- 
 less manifests a thorough intimacy, and to 
 whose most secret soliloquies, private diaries, 
 and letters he has unrestricted access. The 
 story nominally turns upon the conscientious 
 scruples of a beneficed clergyman of the 
 Established Church, and the conflict with the 
 combined forces of personal affection and 
 social opinion which their avowal entail 
 upon him ; but too little is told of the man 
 and the nature of his difficulties to enlist the 
 reader’s sympathy with him ; and the fortunes 
 of the other actors, who really interest us, are 
 so unconnected with his that he sinks into 
 comparative insignificance. Setting aside, 
 however, these inherent defects of structure 
 and proportion, the book has artistic qualities 
 which entitle it to high praise. Prominent 
 
22 
 
 “ POMFEET: 
 
 among them is its vivid characterisation' — 
 always the writer’s strong point, but rarely 
 displayed to better advantage. The canvas 
 is somewhat crowded ; but almost all the 
 figures, except the hero, are definitely indi- 
 vidualised beyond the reach of mistake. The 
 purely passionate and high-minded Grace, 
 whose delicate fancy and sensitive affection 
 exact an ideal impossible of fulfilment, but 
 whose courage is equal to the sacrifice they 
 impose; Carew, her lover, intellectually re- 
 fined, impulsively generous, unstable of will, 
 capable of genuine love and manly effort, but 
 uncertain of himself and distrustful of the 
 heart he has won ; the artiste , Helena Porz- 
 heim, the slow development of whose genius, 
 from its impassive dullness in the chrysalis 
 state to the vigour and brilliance of its life on 
 the wing, constitutes an elaborate picture ; 
 Golstein, the accomplished, unprincipled, wily 
 Austrian adventurer, the evil genius of the 
 piece ; Checco, the Italian servant, as shrewd 
 as he is ignorant, as affectionate as he is 
 cowardly ; Carew’s friend, Rose, the incarna- 
 
“pomfret: 
 
 23 
 
 tion of pragmatic conventionality and com- 
 mon sense ; Abel Risdon, tbe romantic, sham- 
 bling, shiftless painter ; Mrs. Drake, the 
 county leader of fashion, and her tawdry 
 circle ; Harriet Grey, the frank, caustic old 
 maid, of whose criticism they have to run the 
 gauntlet ; and Tyrrhwitt, Pomfret’s base and 
 vulgar fellow-clergyman, who serves at once 
 for his bugbear and his foil — these, with others 
 of less importance as actors, are types which 
 the reader will scarcely forget when once he 
 has made their acquaintance. Here and there 
 a touch of caricature mars the effect intended, 
 but too seldom to dispel the predominant 
 impression of truthfulness. The action of 
 the love-story, which is the main source of 
 interest, is freshly and powerfully sustained 
 to the last ; and the denoument falls as a 
 surprise which, if disappointing at the first 
 blush, has a moral and artistic fitness. Occa- 
 sional situations in the narrative are ad- 
 mirably dramatic in their conception and 
 treatment ; one especially, in which the Aus- 
 trian adventurer is matched with the Italian 
 
24 
 
 “POMFEET: 
 
 servant in a game of cajolery, and ignomi- 
 niously worsted, is a bit of genuine comedy. 
 Graphic descriptions of town and country 
 life at home and abroad (the scenes in Venice 
 being drawn from the writer’s recent experi- 
 ence), episodes of adventure and legend, and 
 passing observations on life and manners, 
 amply diversify the current of the story. 
 The style is, for the most part, even and 
 readable, and has a pleasant tone of quaint- 
 ness appropriate to the idiosyncrasy of the 
 supposed narrator. It is impossible to se- 
 lect from a book which owes so much of its 
 charm to skilful play of character and per- 
 vading harmony of treatment any passage 
 that adequately represents it. The following, 
 however, may serve as a specimen of Chorley’s 
 ability as an analyst : — 
 
 “ After all, Golstein was not a villain, as tlie word is usually 
 understood in novels. He was but a schemer, who had re- 
 fined away what little heart he was born with — a loss of 
 which he was unaware. He would have told you that he 
 had known very heavy trials, loss of wealth, loss of friends, 
 disappointment in love, failure in ambition. And it was true 
 that all these things had happened to him. But with the 
 effect of a blow the nature of the substance struck has some- 
 
LETTER FROM MR. BROWNING. 
 
 25 
 
 thing to do ; and what he had experienced on the occasion 
 of change and casualty, had been but slight aches, compared 
 with the agonies which the generous and susceptible know. 
 Yet they stood in his record as emotions, and he was wont to 
 picture himself to himse]f as a man worn with grief no less 
 than experience ; and when the head was weary of combining, 
 and the hands of working cunning, to mistake this exhaustion 
 for the real void left behind them by profound passions and 
 acute sorrows.” — (Yol. ii. p. 103.) 
 
 Lest the praise above given to “ Pomfret ” 
 should be deemed extravagant, it must be 
 shown that if one has erred it has been 
 in good company. Having sent a copy to 
 Mr. Browning, Chorley received from him 
 the following note, which I have the writer’s 
 kind permission to print : — 
 
 “ Friday morning. 
 
 “ How, dear Chorley, take the very 
 hearty thanks of one gratified much, very 
 much, by your “ Pomfret;” it is full of beauty 
 and truth, and the power that is in both — 
 and I do think that when I bend the 4 quiet 
 of a loving eye ’ on the whole of it now 
 clearly in my mind, I do not lose in my 
 general admiration one point of good artistry 
 
26 
 
 LETTER FROM MR. BROWNING. 
 
 and happy contrivance ; for it is all well, from 
 the charming framing round of those quaint, 
 kind Grays, to the quiet, indefinite, hut no 
 less assured comfort of the end ; and I would 
 write about it all, Vami Rose and Cousin 
 Harriet, had I not the memory of last week’s 
 letter from you — and that stops me, as I 
 would not ‘ set off’ my encouragement against 
 yours if I could. Besides it is now an old 
 story — my reading your letters and criticisms, 
 verses and prose stories, and enjoying every- 
 thing and saying nothing. But I let none of 
 your kindness fall to the ground, nor much of 
 your cleverness even; and this “ Pomfret” is 
 more than clever every way. Thank you 
 once more, and always, too. 
 
 “ Believe me yours faithfully, 
 
 “ R. Browning.” 
 
 A performance which has obtained one 
 such verdict from a critic so competent, 
 can in no event be held to have been un- 
 successful ; nor is it to he supposed that this 
 was the only vote in its favour. But the 
 
STUDIES FOB WOBK ON GENIUS. 
 
 27 
 
 many did not follow the few, and Chorley 
 laconically chronicles its fate in his journal 
 of February, 1846, as ‘another failure.’ 
 
 Between 1846 and 1849, he gave much 
 thought and study to the consideration of a 
 subject which has more than once been named 
 as possessing special attraction for him — the 
 obligations of Genius. He proposed to him- 
 self to treat it in a more abstract form than 
 heretofore, and with particular relation to the 
 claims of religion and morality, but, after 
 collecting materials for some time, he seems 
 to have felt unable to do it justice, and laid it 
 aside. As he has endorsed his manuscripts 
 ‘ to be entirely re-written,’ it would be unfair 
 to his memory to make any extracts from 
 them. 
 
28 
 
 PRIVATE AND SOCIAL LIFE . 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Private and Social Life from 1841 to 1851 — Residence in 
 Victoria Square — An affaire du coeur — Artistic friend- 
 ships — Mrs. Browning — Sir William Molesworth — George 
 B. Maule — Travels — Extracts from journals — Notes on 
 pictures — Professor Bendemann — Kaulbach — Letters and 
 sonnets in ‘ Athenaeum’ — Last letter from Mendelssohn 
 — Visit to Interlachen — List of acquaintances — Langtree 
 — Thomas Campbell — Rejection of offer of marriage — 
 Pressure of calamities — Illness of his sister — Death of 
 Mrs. Chorley. 
 
 The bachelor-partnership which Chorley had 
 enjoyed with Mr. Reeve for nearly four years 
 was determined by the latter’s marriage in 
 the winter of 1 841 ; and, in default of finding 
 another companionship so agreeable under the 
 same roof, Chorley gave up the lodgings, and 
 took a house of his own, No. 15, Victoria 
 Square, where he resided for the next ten 
 years. This relapse into solitariness told 
 
ARTISTIC FRIENDSHIPS. 
 
 29 
 
 unfavourably on his spirits, and before he had 
 time to become reconciled to the change, they 
 experienced a fresh access of depression, con- 
 sequent on the unexpected marriage of a 
 distinguished artiste of his acquaintance, 
 whose fascinations had tempted him to in- 
 dulge in dreams which that event dispelled. 
 The announcement gave occasion- to this 
 outburst of reflection on the peril of forming 
 artistic intimacies : — 
 
 ‘ One gives out so much more sympathy to 
 ‘ them than to those of any other class ; one 
 ‘ gets back so much less. They are not things 
 ‘ for long leases ! .... If one could, how 
 ‘ much the best would it be to live totally 
 ‘ alone ! I think I have had to uncoil my 
 ‘ tendrils so often, that I shall come to this 
 ‘ before very long — to the smooth face which 
 ‘ tells nothing, and the smooth heart which 
 ‘ feels little !’ 
 
 The mood in which this was written was 
 very shortlived, and however prudent the 
 reflection may have been, it had no practical 
 effect whatever on the writer’s future conduct. 
 
30 
 
 MRS. BROWNING. 
 
 Among his closest intimacies through life 
 were those which he formed with men and 
 women more or less eminent in some one of 
 the various callings consecrated to Art; and 
 this period was as rich in such intimacies as 
 any. His friends of former years, Mr. Proc- 
 ter, Mr. Browning, Mendelssohn, Kenyon, 
 Miss Mitford, and Lady Blessington, were 
 retained, and names not less illustrious in 
 literature than Mrs. Browning, in music and 
 the drama than M. Liszt and Madame Yiardot 
 Garcia, were added to the number. To the 
 record of his friendship with the first-named 
 only of these can publication justifiably be 
 given, and this is, unfortunately, more than 
 usually incomplete. No sketch, however, can 
 fail to interest which, like the following, con- 
 tributes a particle to our knowledge of so 
 remarkable a woman : — 
 
 ‘ Mrs. Browning and her writings claim 
 ‘ affectionate commemoration on the part of 
 ‘ those who knew her personally, and consider 
 ‘ the high place she must ever hold among the 
 * recognised poetesses of this country. In the 
 
MBS. BE OWNING. 
 
 31 
 
 ‘ first class only five can be named — Joanna 
 ‘ Baillie and Miss Mitford, in right of their 
 * tragedies (the former, too, one of Great Bri- 
 ‘ tain’s most exquisite lyrists) ; Mrs. Hemans, 
 ‘ the musical, high-hearted, and impassioned ; 
 ‘ and herself — less complete in execution, it 
 ‘ may be, than the three women of genius 
 c already named, but bolder in imagination 
 ‘ and deeper in learning, with a wider (and 
 ‘ wilder) flow of inspiration than any of those 
 ‘ with whom she is here classed. She has a 
 ‘ place of her own — rare, noble, daring, and 
 ‘ pure beyond reproach — in the Golden Book 
 ‘ of gifted women. There has been only one 
 ‘ since, Adelaide Anne Procter, less ambitious, 
 ‘ perhaps, than her predecessors, but, as a 
 ‘ lyrist, more complete, more delicate, not less 
 ‘ original therefore, than any among them, 
 
 ‘ whose verses have a beauty and a finish that 
 ‘ owe nothing to any model. 
 
 ‘ It must be at least thirty years ago that I 
 ‘ was startled by a new pleasure — a published 
 ‘ ballad, signed, I think, with only initials — 
 ‘ in 4 The New Monthly Magazine ’ — “ The 
 
32 
 
 MBS. BE OWNING. 
 
 4 Romaunt of Margret.” I got it by heart : 
 ‘ if I copied it once, I copied it ten times, and 
 4 must have made myself a nuisance, as imma- 
 4 ture enthusiasts are apt to do, by talking of 
 4 it, in season and out of season, as an appear- 
 4 ance of a strange, seizing, original genius. 
 4 I was doubted and put aside accordingly, in 
 4 obedience to English law and usage, which 
 4 (as it were) make us set our teeth and 
 4 lean our backs against the door whenever 
 4 the same is to be opened to a real novelty. 
 
 4 The chance, however, that brought me 
 4 to the knowledge of that munificent man 
 4 and indulgent friend, John Kenyon, Miss 
 4 Barrett’s relative, brought me also the 
 4 privilege of writing to one whom I so 
 4 sincerely admired, and of being on the 
 4 list of those to whom she was willing to 
 4 write. 
 
 4 In those days, no other intercourse was 
 4 possible ; for she was an invalid — thought 
 4 to be a hopeless one — as such, not to be 
 4 intruded on, (were the candidates as per- 
 4 severing, gifted, and charming as the 
 
MIIS. BROWNING. 
 
 33 
 
 ‘ American “ interviewers ”) save by a very 
 4 few old friends. 
 
 £ Her letters ought to be published. In 
 ‘ power, versatility, liveliness, and finesse ; in 
 ‘ perfect originality of glance, and vigour of 
 ‘ grasp at every topic of the hour; in their 
 ‘ enthusiastic preferences, prejudices, and in- 
 4 consistencies, I have never met with any, 
 ‘ written by men or by women, more brilliant, 
 ‘ spontaneous, and characteristic. This was 
 £ her form of conversation. I have never 
 £ done a duty more against the grain than in 
 ‘ restoring those addressed to me to their 
 £ rightful possessor — the true poet whom she 
 £ married, after an intimacy suspected by 
 1 none save a very few, under circumstances 
 £ of no ordinary romance, and in marrying 
 ‘ whom she secured for the residue, of her life 
 ‘ an emancipation from prison and an amount 
 £ of happiness delightful to think of, as falling 
 £ to the lot of one who, from a darkened 
 ‘ chamber, had still exercised such a power of 
 ‘ delighting others. It was more like a faery 
 * tale than anything in real life I have ever 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 MRS. BROWNING. 
 
 4 known, to read, one morning, in the papers, 
 
 ‘ of her marriage with the author of “ Para- 
 4 celsus,” and to learn, in the course of the 
 4 day, that not only was she married, hut 
 4 that she was absolutely on her way to 
 ‘ Italy. The energy and resolution implied 
 4 were amazing on the part of one who had 
 4 long, as her own poems tell us, resigned 
 4 herself to lie down and die. I cannot re- 
 ‘ collect when I have been more moved and 
 ‘ excited by any surprise, beyond the circle of 
 4 my immediate hopes and fears. 
 
 ‘ Every letter of hers from Florence told 
 ‘ me of one prospect after another brighten- 
 4 ing, of one hope after another fulfilled — told 
 4 with a piquant originality and prejudice 
 ‘ not to be over-stated nor under-praised. 
 
 4 I never met Mrs. Browning face to face 
 4 till after her return to England. The time 
 £ is too recent for me to tell how we met — as 
 4 correspondents who had become friends. 
 4 And her indulgent friendship never failed 
 4 me to the last, in spite of serious differences 
 4 of opinion concerning a matter which she 
 
MRS. BROWNING. 
 
 35 
 
 ‘ took terribly to heart — the strange, wierd 
 ‘ question of mesmerism, including clair- 
 ‘ voyance. To the marvels of these two 
 1 phenomena (admitting both as incomplete 
 ‘ discoveries) she lent an ear as credulous as 
 ‘ her trust was sincere and her heart high- 
 ‘ minded. But with women far more ex- 
 ‘ perienced in falsity than one so noble and 
 ‘ one who had been so secluded from the 
 ‘ world as herself, after they have once 
 ‘ crossed the threshold, there is seldom 
 ‘ chance of after-retreat. Only, they become 
 ‘ bewildered by their tenacious notions of 
 £ loyalty. It is over these very best and 
 ‘ most generous of their sex that impostors 
 ‘ have the most power. They are no matches, 
 ‘ as men are, for those miserable creatures 
 ‘ who creep about with insinuating manners, 
 ‘ and would pass off legerdemain, the tricks 
 ‘ of cup and ball, for real, portentous dis- 
 ‘ coveries. 
 
 ‘ I have never seen one more nobly simple, 
 ‘ more entirely guiltless of the feminine pro- 
 ‘ pensity of talking for effect, more earnest in 
 
36 
 
 MSS. BBOWNING. 
 
 4 assertion, more gentle yet pertinacious in 
 c difference, than she was. Like all whose 
 4 early nurture has chiefly been from books, 
 
 4 she had a child’s curiosity regarding the life 
 4 beyond her books, co-existing with opinions 
 4 accepted as certainties concerning things of 
 4 which (even with the intuition of genius) 
 4 she could know little. She was at once for- 
 ‘ bearing and dogmatic, willing to accept 
 ‘ differences, resolute to admit no argument; 
 4 without any more practical knowledge of 
 4 social life than a nun might have, when, 
 4 after long years, she emerged from her cloister 
 4 and her shroud. How she used her ex- 
 4 periences as a great poetess, is to be felt and 
 4 is evidenced in her 44 Aurora Leigh,” after 
 4 every allowance has been made for an ex- 
 4 treme fearlessness in certain passages of the 
 4 story and forms of expression, and that want 
 4 of finish in execution with which almost 
 4 all her efforts are chargeable. 
 
 4 The success of 44 Aurora Leigh ” (with all 
 4 its drawbacks) was immediate, wide, and, I 
 4 conceive, is one likely to last. The noble 
 
MRS. BROWNING. 
 
 %7 
 
 4 and impassioned passages which printed 
 ‘ themselves on memory as I hurried through 
 4 the tale, carried along by its deep interest, 
 4 the brilliancy of allusion, the felicity of 
 ‘ description, separate it from any effort of the 
 4 kind which I could name. Those who care 
 4 for comparison may come to something like 
 4 a right appreciation of this poem, on com- 
 4 paring it with efforts in the same form by 
 4 M. de Lamartine, or an English novel in 
 4 verse which followed it, by the accomplished 
 4 but imitative author of 44 Lucille.” In Mrs. 
 
 4 Browning’s ballad poems, the- same pre- 
 4 eminence in fantasy may be ascribed to her. 
 
 4 I refer to the 44 Rhyme of the Duchess May,” 
 
 4 44 The Brown Rosarie,” 44 The Romaunt of 
 4 the Page,” 44 Lady Geraldine’s Courtship,” 
 
 4 and 44 Bertha in the Lane.” It is idle to talk 
 4 of halting tones and occasional platitudes, 
 
 4 (what fertile writer has been exempt from 
 4 them ?) when so much vigour and variety 
 4 are to be counted on the other side of the 
 4 question. Some of Mrs. Browning’s minor 
 4 lyrics can hardly he exceeded in beauty and 
 
S3 
 
 MRS. BROWNING. 
 
 ‘ tenderness. The verse from one entitled 
 ‘ “ Sleeping and Watching,” which begins, 
 
 “ And God knows, who sees us twain,” 
 
 ‘ has a pathos which will speak to every one 
 ‘ who has had experience in the darkened 
 * chambers of life.’ 
 
 It may be added to this unfinished notice, 
 that, on the occasion of Miss Barrett’s marriage 
 in 1846, Chorley was selected as one of the 
 trustees of her settlement. The cordiality of 
 her subsequent relations with him was once 
 imperilled, as will be shown, by an act of 
 indiscretion on his part ; but this was condoned 
 by “ her indulgent friendship,” and, to the 
 close of her life, he suffered no diminution of 
 what Mr. Browning testifies to have been her 
 “ very deep and true regard.” 
 
 The only other memorial of one of Chorley ’s 
 intimates at this period, which admits of 
 present publication, is of a man widely different 
 in intellectual type and vocation from those 
 among whom his intimates were usually se- 
 lected — the late Sir W illiam Moles worth . How 
 
SIR WILLIAM MOLESWORTE. 
 
 39 
 
 they became acquainted does not appear ; hut 
 there were moral qualities in each that proved 
 mutually attractive, and united with sufficient 
 affinity in their tastes to cement a friendship 
 of which Chorley was justly proud, and which 
 he has thus worthily commemorated : — 
 
 ‘ Among my betters, with whom it has been 
 ‘ always my desire and my good fortune to 
 ‘ live, I have known no man, as regards heart, 
 ‘ head, and capacity, superior to Sir William 
 £ Molesworth. Our acquaintance was strangely 
 ‘ made ; hut it ripened into what I have a 
 ‘ right to call a friendship, which lasted to 
 ‘ the end of his life. That he trusted me I 
 ‘ have good reason to know ; and howsoever 
 ‘ wide apart our pursuits were (one alone 
 ‘ excepted — love of flowers and trees), I was 
 ‘ never by him made to feel the inferiority of 
 ‘ my flimsy knowledge to his massive com- 
 ‘ mand of the greatest subjects which can 
 ‘ engage a serious man’s attention. I was, 
 ‘ from first to last, at ease when I was with 
 * him, and have not to remember a single 
 ‘ depreciating word or doubtful look on his part. 
 
40 
 
 SIB WILLIAM MOLESWOBTH. 
 
 ‘ Sir William Molesworth was in no respect 
 ‘ brilliant, but earnest ; perfect in mastery 
 ‘ over every subject be took in hand, open to 
 ‘ any testimony which interfered with his 
 ‘ own views ; a man of a high and truthful 
 ‘ nature, under the cover of whose deeds and 
 1 strong opinions, call them prejudices, the 
 ‘ least gifted of those whom he met and 
 ‘ harboured must have felt safe. He was just 
 ‘ rather than habitually generous ; but when 
 * he chose to be generous, he was munificent, 
 ‘ and without regard to his good deeds being 
 ‘ blazoned. He was well, aware of his own 
 ‘ value, as every sincere man must be who 
 ‘ has any value at all ; but in private life, never 
 ‘ was any great man less self-asserting. He 
 { seemed to love to rest in it by way of enjoy- 
 ‘ ment, not to shew shows or to make speeches, 
 ‘ on the strength of his position as a man of 
 ‘ letters or a statesman. 
 
 ‘ It is curious to recall how, as a young 
 ‘ leader in the Radical party, wealthy to boot, 
 ‘ and with an honourable family name and 
 ‘ estate, Sir William Molesworth was pursued 
 
SIR WILLIAM MOLESWOETH. 
 
 41 
 
 4 by squadrons of strong-minded women, 
 4 or terrible mothers, “ shallow-hearted ” (as 
 4 Tennyson sings), having daughters to whom 
 4 the name, and the fame, and the position of 
 4 his wife would have been a promotion little 
 4 short of heavenly advancement on earth. 
 ‘ It is excellent to recollect how quietly he 
 ‘ put aside everything like control, or intrigue, 
 4 or suggestion ; and, by choosing for himself, 
 4 secured as complete a happiness for two 
 4 married people as the world has ever seen. 
 
 4 This could not have been more emphatically 
 4 attested than by his testamentary disposi- 
 4 tions. 
 
 4 A deliberation and persistence, not to say 
 4 heaviness of nature, were among his remark- 
 4 able characteristics, and had no small share 
 4 in his success. Whatever he attempted to 
 4 do he did thoroughly ; let the thing be ever 
 4 so great or ever so small, the shaping of 
 4 a course of political service, the gathering 
 4 together testimony as regarded Colonial 
 4 affairs, in which field of action he has never 
 4 been replaced, the fulfilment of a task no 
 
42 
 
 SIR WILLIAM MOLESWORTH. 
 
 4 less dry than the editing of the philosophical 
 ‘ works of Hobbes of Malmesbury, which 
 ‘ called down on him that rancorous abuse 
 4 of his opinions, then too fiercely used against 
 4 all those suspected of Liberal heresies by 
 4 the high Tory party — all that he did was 
 4 thoroughly done. This peculiar charac- 
 4 teristic was carried out to the most trifling 
 4 occupation. I have seen him for a couple 
 4 of hours absorbed in the solving of a chess 
 4 problem ; or in disentangling a skein of silk, 
 4 while his mind was steadily pursuing some 
 4 train of thought and speculation. But he 
 4 never used his accuracy as an engine of 
 4 oppression, as meaner men are too apt to do. 
 4 When, at last, his worth and his weight 
 4 could be no longer overlooked, and he entered 
 4 the Ministry as responsible for the 44 Woods 
 4 and Forests,” the question of a new National 
 4 Gallery was on the carpet. He was resolute 
 4 not to move in it till he was in possession of 
 4 the fullest information as to the merits and 
 * demerits of foreign picture-galleries. How 
 4 carefully he received, and how patiently he 
 
SIR WILLIAM MOLESWORTH. 
 
 43 
 
 ‘ sifted this, I am in case to record. He 
 4 gathered specifications, working plans, and 
 4 estimates of what had been the cost, of what 
 4 was the nature, of what the success, of the 
 ‘ great European establishments of the kind, 
 ‘ and was preparing to present the result of 
 4 his comparisons to the nation in a tangible 
 4 form, when changes occurred in our adminis- 
 4 tration, and he was promoted to the Secre- 
 4 taryship of the Colonies. According to 
 4 certain established principles of English 
 4 policy and private judgment, which imply 
 4 English destructive waste at the expense of 
 4 public money, his successor, as small as he 
 4 was a great man, swept away all the fruits 
 4 of his care and provision into some unseen 
 4 official closet, where, probably, they may be 
 4 mouldering at this day, and began anew a 
 4 series of inquiries and perquisitions, just 
 4 as if the subject was still a virgin subject. 
 
 4 Corollary. — We have no National Gallery, 
 
 4 save a building originally penurious and in- 
 4 efficiently patched up, even to this present 
 
44 
 
 SIB WILLIAM MOLESWORTH. 
 
 4 From all abominable waste like this, the 
 4 experience and counsel of such men as Sir 
 4 William Molesworth — were there many such 
 ‘ — might have protected this country. But 
 4 the name of such is not legion. When he 
 4 came to be promoted, as was inevitable, to 
 ‘ his legitimate sphere of action, as Colonial 
 4 Secretary, the frame, by nature not a healthy 
 4 one, was worn out. He had a very few days 
 4 of consciousness of reward, due to a power 
 4 and probity as priceless as they are uncom- 
 4 mon, and died peacefully, with perfect con- 
 4 sciousness that he was dying. 
 
 4 His sense of humour was not keen, but no 
 4 man delighted in such quaint stories and 
 4 conundrums as he seized and relished more 
 4 thoroughly than himself. As has been often 
 4 the case, he took a positive pleasure in hear- 
 4 ing the same tale or jest told over and over 
 4 again, let him know it ever so well by heart. 
 4 He would begin it wrong, as children do, 
 4 with the intention of hearing it corrected. 
 4 He rarely produced or paraded the results 
 4 of his grave thought and deep reading ; but 
 
SIR WILLIAM MOLESWORTE. 
 
 45 
 
 4 when he did speak, he was apt to close the 
 4 question in debate. 
 
 ‘ It was curious to observe how one so 
 4 mathematical, and so sparingly endowed with 
 ‘ the poetic faculty of appreciation, had so 
 4 strong a tendency to occupy himself with 
 4 those recondite and mysterious subjects re- 
 4 garding which no clear conclusion can be 
 4 arrived at. He had a theory of dreams of 
 4 his own, which, I think, he put forward in 
 4 the 4 Westminster Review ’ during his brief 
 4 proprietorship of that periodical. He was 
 4 patient and clear in investigating the pre- 
 4 tensions of mesmerism, separating the phe. 
 4 nomena of cataleptic sleep from those of 
 4 pretended clairvoyance , with that resolution 
 4 to sift evidence, and to discriminate betwixt 
 4 truth and falsity, which the more mercurial 
 4 and imaginative seldom retain. He was a 
 4 willing and diligent reader of foreign novels. 
 4 Without an atom of taste for music, or care 
 4 about the drama above melodrama, he en- 
 4 dured both, in indulgence to other persons, 
 4 but not very willingly. It is comical to 
 
46 SIR WILLIAM MOLESWORTH. 
 
 4 recall how, after the first performance of 
 4 “ Le Prophete,” he never again entered his 
 4 own opera box ; driven thence, he said (and, 
 4 I suspect, not averse to the excuse,) by the 
 4 psalmody of the Three Anabaptists ! 
 
 4 But his real enjoyments, as apart from 
 4 the pleasurable cares of ambition, were at 
 4 home in Cornwall, in the place which he 
 4 had decorated and beautified with the hand 
 4 of a master.* The lovely Italian garden 
 4 before his house, the plantations so choicely 
 4 adjusted, the long descending avenue, flanked 
 4 by a collection of rare firs and evergreens 
 4 only equalled by those of the Pinetum at 
 4 Dropmore ; the hot-houses, with their strange, 
 
 4 weird-looking orchidaceous plants, were a 
 4 perpetual source of pleasure to him — the 
 4 pleasure belonging to rich and accurate 
 4 knowledge. He knew every tree he had 
 4 set ; the quickness of its growth and its 
 4 chances of health or disease were duly noted 
 4 by him in his garden diary ; and his de- 
 4 liberate afternoon walks through his beautiful 
 
 Pencarrow.. 
 
SIR WILLIAM MOLESWORTE. 
 
 47 
 
 4 grounds were among his pleasantest solitary 
 4 hours of the day — a wholesome relief from 
 4 the coil and cumber of state measures and 
 4 treaties, the verbiage of blue-books to be 
 4 fathomed, and the strong excitements of 
 ‘ political ambition. I have often and again 
 4 thus walked with him, and heard him talk 
 4 — a pleasure and a privilege not to he for- 
 4 gotten. His indulgence and regard for me 
 4 are among the most precious of my recol- 
 4 lections. I must change more than I hope 
 4 I ever shall before I cease to be aware of 
 4 their distinction and their value.’ 
 
 Another and a very close friend of Chorley 
 during these years was the late George B. 
 Maule, a man who has left no mark by which the 
 world will remember him, but who must have 
 possessed mental and moral gifts of no ordinary 
 attractiveness to have inspired such regret as 
 was occasioned by his sudden death in the 
 autumn of 1850. The qualities which endeared 
 him to his associates are well summed up in the 
 following entry from Chorley’s journal, w T ritten 
 after receiving the announcement : — 
 
48 
 
 GEORGE B. MAULE. 
 
 4 Saturday, Sept. 28 th, 1850. — A truly heavy 
 4 day ! Knocked up by Kenyon, the strange- 
 4 ness of whose appearance at my bedside did 
 4 not strike me, till, on my greeting him jocu- 
 4 larly, 44 1 must check your cheerfulness,” 
 4 said he, and, opening a letter from the consul 
 4 at Barcelona, communicated to me the news of 
 4 poor Maule and Nicholson being drowned in 
 4 a diligence betwixt Barcelona and Yalencia. 
 4 The road is along a rock-ledge above the 
 4 sea, crossed, it seems, by torrents, one of 
 4 which must have been swollen by the heavy 
 4 rain, and the wind carried over the vehicle. 
 4 All perished ! It is a loss not to be re- 
 4 paired. I have never known a completer 
 4 man than Maule ; never had to mourn a life 
 4 of greater value, round which more love, re- 
 4 spect, and confidence had gathered. He had 
 4 the sweetest temper without insipidity ; the 
 4 evenest spirits without becoming wearisome. 
 
 4 He was considerately kind without protes- 
 4 tation ; wondrously and accurately versatile 
 4 in his knowledge, without a grain of conceit 
 4 or pedantry. He was strong, punctual, 
 
GEORGE B. MAULE. 
 
 49 
 
 ‘ cheerful, humorous. One reposed in his 
 ‘ regard, one trusted his judgment, one 
 ‘ would have relied upon his testimony had 
 ‘ it even been at variance with one’s own 
 £ senses. 
 
 ‘ We travelled three times together, and 
 ‘ his face in my house often supplied the face 
 ‘ of one of my own family. He was always 
 ‘ ready to help, to oblige, to enjoy with one ; 
 
 £ and his loving sympathy was to me par- 
 ‘ ticularly agreeable, from its being so un- 
 ‘ demonstrative. Travelling will never be to 
 ‘ me the same thing again ; for to him I 
 ‘ largely owe my little experience on the 
 4 subject.’ 
 
 Travel seems to have been a passion with 
 Maule, some of whose letters, addressed to his 
 friend from various parts of Europe, are 
 scarcely less detailed than the elaborate diaries 
 which Chorley himself was in the habit of keep- 
 ing of his Continental tours. These holiday 
 journeys — three of which were undertaken in 
 company with Maule, others with his brother 
 John, Kenyon, or Mr. Reeve, and some alone : 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 E 
 
50 
 
 TEA VELS. 
 
 — were annual occurrences at this period of 
 his life, and form one of its brightest chapters. 
 Apart from their additions to his fund of 
 musical experience, they contributed largely 
 to his general culture. From the observations 
 gathered in the course of them were derived 
 some of the most striking passages in his best 
 works, and the prevailing fidelity of his 
 descriptions of national character and local 
 scenery. Though, I believe, he never exceeded 
 a term of two months, and was often obliged 
 to travel over familiar ground, he contrived 
 to make himself pretty intimately acquainted 
 with all that is most beautiful and memorable 
 in Europe, whether of Nature or Art — Swiss 
 mountains, German rivers, and Italian lakes ; 
 the architecture, painting, and sculpture of 
 the principal cities from Paris to Palermo. 
 Many travellers may have seen more, but few 
 can have ever worked harder than Chorley 
 on these journeys. His toil was animated by 
 a genuine enthusiasm for knowledge and an 
 artist’s love of beauty ; not a mere sight- 
 seer’s craving for marvel. Of all that at- 
 
NOTES ON PIOTURES. 
 
 51 
 
 tracted his imagination he was a diligent 
 student. Thanks to his early self-culture, he 
 was a facile draughtsman, and his diaries are 
 interspersed with slight, but often effective, 
 sketches of landscape, novelties of architec- 
 tural design, droll faces and costumes, &c., 
 intended to serve as aids to a memory already 
 exceptionally retentive. Of scenes and pic- 
 tures which fascinated him, the descriptions 
 in these volumes are not unfrequently graphic, 
 as, for example, the following of Lucas Cra- 
 nach’s ‘ Bath of Youth,’ in the Berlin Gallery, 
 afterwards inserted with more elaboration in 
 “ Music and Manners 
 
 ‘ On the one side are waggons full of, and 
 ‘ pillions laden with, old women in every stage 
 ‘ of age, ugliness, and decrepitude, pressing 
 ‘ forward with a thirst wonderfully expressed 
 ‘ towards the magical fountain, gaping with 
 ‘ appetite to find their beauty and enchant- 
 1 ments renewed. In the midst is the tank 
 ‘ itself, half-filled with withered, naked spectres, 
 
 ‘ half with 
 
 ‘ “ Young budding virgins, fair and fresh and sweet.” 
 
52 
 
 NOTES ON PICTURES. 
 
 4 On the one side, all the ravenous impatience 
 4 for the transformation; on the other, the 
 4 languid basking of young beauty, conscious, 
 ‘ pleased, and indolent ; and behind, a banquet, 
 ‘ where the fair are pledged by the brave, 
 ‘ and bosehetti, for the telling of love-tales and 
 ‘ what-not. I have rarely seen a more curious 
 4 or a deeper picture. There is a grim Gothic 
 4 truth in it not easy to put down in words. 
 
 ‘ It is a piece of life seen through a devil’s 
 4 distorting-glass.’ 
 
 These critical notes on pictures are often 
 marked by the same fineness of discrimination 
 that is to be found in his best estimates of 
 literature and music. An example may be 
 selected from the journal of his visit to Rome 
 in 1851, where, referring to Michael Angelo’s 
 ‘ Last Judgment,’ he remarks on the grandeur 
 of 4 those celestially mighty clarion-bearers, 
 4 who perform their function of admission or 
 4 exclusion without ruth or exultation. I 
 ‘ think it was Gaudenzio Ferrari who made 
 4 the Angels of Doom look sorrowful. This 
 4 is making them into so many Christs, with 
 
PROFESSOR BENDEMANN. 
 
 53 
 
 ‘ complete knowledge and perfect sympathies, 
 4 and thus leaves nothing for the Highest. I 
 ‘ like the ministry better, which is unconscious 
 ‘ and unparticipating.’ 
 
 That Chorley never lost an opportunity of 
 extending his acquaintance among artists and 
 men of letters has already been seen. His 
 Continental diaries of these years are not less 
 interesting than those of earlier date in their 
 accounts of his interviews with distinguished 
 members of both callings to whom he obtained 
 introductions. One or two examples may he 
 given. A visit to Professor Bendemann, at 
 Dresden, is thus described : — 
 
 4 Bendemann is reputed to be the first of 
 ‘ Herman modern artists. He has a thin face, 
 4 of a sweet and melancholy expression, large, 
 4 intense thoughtful eyes, of a painter’s keen- 
 4 ness and poetry — a countenance not wholly 
 4 unlike Weber’s in its pattern, with mild, 
 4 gentlemanly manners. ... I found him 
 4 in his atelier at the great hall of the palace, 
 4 which he has been employed to decorate with 
 4 frescoes. He was at work on a very high 
 
54 
 
 PROFESSOR BENDEMANN. 
 
 4 scaffolding, -without a cravat, in a blue blouse, 
 4 and with a long pipe. ... I had an ex- 
 4 ceedingly pleasant half-hour of conversation 
 4 with him, though I could not, I fear, come 
 4 far enough upon his own ground to be ac- 
 4 ceptable to him ; and I will never talk more 
 4 than I understand. There is a sort of frieze 
 4 in compartments running round the room, 
 4 which he is filling with a series of paintings 
 4 imaging the progress of human life, begin- 
 4 ning with the Paradise of Nature, when 
 4 there was no death, and ending with the 
 4 Paradise of Redemption, when life eternal 
 4 shall be restored, and between the two, em- 
 4 bracing the ages of man from the cradle to 
 4 the grave. Some of these were not complete, 
 4 but those which were, were very beautiful — 
 4 a dance of children, for instance, and a group 
 4 representing a wedding, all youth and joy, 
 4 and motion and hope. . . . Besides this, 
 
 4 he showed me two very noble cartoons of 
 4 single figures of sages, lawgivers, &c., with 
 4 which he is going to surround the hall. 
 
 4 Zoroaster and Solomon were the subjects. 
 
PROFESSOR BENDEMANN. 
 
 55 
 
 ‘ The one, with the Magian censer in his hand, 
 ‘ was very grand, and Chaldaic, and im- 
 ‘ posing, and, if forcibly wrought out, will 
 ‘ make the breath stop of those who look at 
 ‘ it. But dare I say that it is this very want 
 ‘ of forcible working-out which makes the 
 ‘ long step between the modern Germans 
 ‘ and the great ancients whom they so nobly 
 ‘ aspire to approach ? They make “ shadows 
 ‘ of beauty, shadows of power the others 
 ‘ called up real kings and apostles, and the 
 ‘ real Divinity, who needs hut touch the hills 
 1 to make them smoke ! I know next to no- 
 ‘ thing of the works of modern German 
 ‘ painters ; but the few I have seen appear to 
 ‘ me, with all their beauty of drawing and 
 ‘ sentiment, to want body. I like Bendemann 
 ‘ very much. He was very patient with my 
 ‘ platitudes ; and I liked him, who hears the 
 ‘ reputation of being among the first painters, 
 ‘ telling me that Kaulbach, of Munich, was 
 ‘ their first man, and speaking of his works 
 ‘ with such enthusiasm.’ 
 
 When at Munich on another occasion (in 
 
56 
 
 KAULBACE. 
 
 1841) Chorley obtained an introduction to 
 Kaulbach, whom he found at his studio in a 
 country-house in the environs. 
 
 ‘ He is a very thin man, with a little long, 
 glossy, black hair smoothed over his forehead 
 4 . . . with deep, tender, shining, humor- 
 
 4 ous eyes. ... In his manner a mixture 
 ‘ of simplicity, friendliness, fun, and enthu- 
 4 siasm. . . . He was painting a man 
 
 ‘ handsomer than himself, but not so much of 
 ‘ a genius. . . . Several magnificent full- 
 
 4 length portraits were about; one of a fal- 
 ‘ coner. The one on which he was occupied 
 4 was the chief of a company of Lanz-knechts. 
 ‘ Their originals were young artists who, 
 4 with their wives, had, last winter, appeared 
 4 to the number of two hundred in a pa- 
 4 geant at the theatre, on the return of 
 4 Prince Max ; and the king had commanded 
 4 three of their portraits for Schleissheim. 
 4 “After all,” said Kaulbach, 44 it was an 
 4 honour to paint such fine fellows.” One 
 4 that was finished struck me more than any 
 4 modern portrait I have ever seen : the full- 
 
KA VLB A OH. 
 
 57 
 
 ‘ length of a knight, with sanguine complexion 
 ‘ and red hair ; a metal bonnet on the head, 
 ‘ a cuirass, a scarlet dress slashed with white, 
 1 and a gorgeous furred mantle. When Kaul- 
 ‘ bach drew up the blind, and let in the light 
 ‘ upon it, it seemed to float out of the canvas 
 ‘ with its force and brilliancy. . . .We saw 
 ‘ some illustrations to “ Faust,” which I did 
 ‘ not like. They were clever, but grim and 
 ‘ ungraceful compared with those by Eetszch 
 ‘ — and yet the one has no honour here ! We 
 ‘ saw, too, three admirable designs for a new 
 ‘ edition of “ Reinecke der Fuchs.” . . . 
 
 ‘ But the most remarkable picture of all was 
 * an enormous cartoon of the Destruction of 
 ‘ Jerusalem. Above are the three prophets 
 ‘ watching the angels, who are sounding the 
 ‘ trumpets and pouring out the vials of wrath 
 ‘ at their feet — noble winged figures of a 
 ‘ superb Apocalyptic sublimity. In the centre, 
 ‘ to the left, the Jews, in all the agonies of 
 ‘ terror, distress, famine, dissension, murder, 
 ‘ and blasphemy ; the degrees being indicated 
 ‘ by a mother entreated of her children, the 
 
58 
 
 KAULBAOII. 
 
 ‘ high-priest about to slay himself, and the 
 ‘ Wandering Jew spurred on his way by 
 ‘ fiends above his head — the last free Israelite 
 ‘ who will issue from that scene. To the ex- 
 ‘ treme left, Titus riding calmly into the city 
 ‘ with an air of solemn astonishment at the 
 ‘ frenzy around him, and the portents which 
 ‘ attend his conquest. The most magnificent 
 ‘ subject of all time, done (may we not say 
 ‘ it ?) full justice to. All the effete and pe- 
 ‘ dantic efforts which good King Louis has 
 ‘ called forth are assuredly well bestowed, if 
 ‘ they have formed and fostered a school of 
 ‘ Art of which such a noble work was the sole 
 ‘ result.’ 
 
 The foregoing are among the most note- 
 worthy extracts from Chorley’s journals ; but 
 it would be impossible, without a considerable 
 expenditure of space, to give an adequate 
 notion of their diversified contents, which 
 range from aesthetic criticism to table-d’hote 
 gossip, and reflections on national traits to 
 the minutiae of personal experience. No 
 better illustration could be found than in these 
 
DIVERSIFIED CONTENTS OF JOURNALS. 59 
 
 pages of the tonic virtues of travel. Com- 
 menced at the close of a long London season, 
 when the writer was thoroughly wearied in 
 body and mind, their opening entries are 
 often monotonously doleful ; hut the lapse of 
 a few days, under altered conditions, is usually 
 sufficient to indicate signs of returning health ; 
 and ere the journey is half done its records 
 tell only of incessant activity, nerves that are 
 almost robust, spirits that ignore depression, 
 an observation to which nothing comes amiss. 
 Of the impressions obtained in these seasons 
 of refreshment many lively transcripts ap- 
 peared among the Foreign Correspondence 
 of the ‘ Athenseum,’ in much of which, ad- 
 dressed from Italy, Germany, France, or Hol- 
 land, Chorley’s hand will be readily traced. 
 They are, for the most part, elaborated from the 
 rough notes entered in his journals at the time, 
 occasionally, perhaps, at the expense of the 
 original freshness.* The letter in the ‘ Athe- 
 
 * His casual observations are often humorously pithy, as 
 when he sums up his impression of an Italian crowd — 
 <( Much garlic and little soap.” 
 
60 
 
 LETTERS IN VERSE. 
 
 ngeum’ of September 2nd, 1846, beaded “A 
 Royal Bringing-home,” which describes the 
 picturesque entry of the Princess Olga of 
 Russia into Stuttgart, on her marriage with 
 the Crown Prince of Wurtemburg, is one of 
 the most graphic. In the ‘ Athenaeum ’ too will 
 he found many of the sonnets and lyrics 
 of which a plentiful crop was always pro- 
 duced at these times. The year of revolutions, 
 1848, when his mind was deeply moved, and, 
 I think, a little needlessly alarmed, by the 
 aspect of Europe, was very prolific in these 
 outbursts of feeling ; hut the success attained 
 in their expression was not greater than 
 usually attends the translation of politics into 
 poetry. 
 
 More worthy of preservation — not on ac- 
 count of their literary merit, which is incon- 
 siderable, but because they are characterised 
 by the playful fancy that was habitual to 
 him in his brighter moods — are the letters in 
 verse addressed from abroad to two or three 
 of his intimate friends. An extract from one 
 of the best of these (inserted entire in “ Music 
 
LETTERS IN VERSE. 
 
 61 
 
 and Manners”) has already been given (vol. i. 
 p. 339). Another, of which Lady Blessing- 
 ton was the subject as well as the recipient, 
 contains a few good verses. It accompanied 
 a pipe-bowl, painted with her portrait, which 
 he had happened to meet with in Switzer- 
 land : — 
 
 “ ’Tis charming, wheresoe’er I go — 
 
 Whether my track through fickle France is, 
 
 Or ’neath the Splugen’s crags and snow, 
 
 By Como’s lake I learn to know 
 The land of lemons and romances — 
 
 To meet your face, to hear your name ; 
 
 Nay — where the North lone wastes discloses, 
 And daylight’s but a blubber-flame, 
 
 Dull Esquimaux repeat the same 
 In intervals of rubbing noses. 
 
 Grim boors delight your face to see, 
 
 By Don and Dnieper, Drave and Dwina ; 
 
 And long-eyed Yang or prim Pee-Lee, 
 Simpering above their yellow tea, 
 
 Praise your smooth picture on their china. 
 
 Westward, enchanting stone and stock, 
 You hold all Congress fast in fetters ; 
 And Jonathan, in citron frock, 
 
 Carves f Blessington ’ on every rock, 
 And for a county sells her letters. 
 
62 
 
 LETTERS IN VERSE . 
 
 ’Tis well, ■ tis fit this should be so, 
 
 For is ’t not, sure, a sacred duty, 
 
 That heart like yours o’er Earth should go 
 On angel mission, to and fro, 
 
 Thus symbolled by its outward beauty ? 
 
 Then take, nor scorn this humble clay, 
 
 In vulgar guise a truth expressing, 
 
 That even in our ungrateful day, 
 
 Mankind, for all the cynics say. 
 
 Still know the value of a blessing.” 
 
 5 Twixt Zurich and Brugg, Oct. 5, 1841. 
 
 A similar missive to Kenyon, in 1848, ac- 
 companying a present of Westphalian wine- 
 cheeses, told him not to infer from their dimi- 
 nutive size that they were the product of 
 
 “ fairy cows, 
 
 For Mustard’s fun-day feast bespoken,” 
 
 since they were prosaically churned by 
 
 “ bumpkins holding abbey-lands 
 In rich Westphalia’s swinish dairies. 
 
 In Monastery’s fattest field 
 The kingcups grew their milk which yellowed, 
 
 And the deep bells of Munster pealed 
 Above the press where they were mellowed. 
 
 For, lack-a-day ! — though Bishop’s seat 
 Was filled sometimes by scoundrel arrant, 
 
 For every succulent receipt 
 His rubric was a certain warrant. 
 
LETTERS IN VERSE. 
 
 63 
 
 Since of their best the anointed folk 
 Did pond, and croft, and covert rifle, 
 
 Till genial Luther’s trumpet spoke, 
 
 And won for layman too his trifle. 
 
 Now, since departed is the day 
 When cates for priestly maws were coffered. 
 
 To whom than Kenyon’s self, I pray, 
 
 More fitly could be relish offered ? 
 
 Despising Bigots’ sty and stall, 
 
 ’Gainst Pope and King no rabid stormer ; 
 
 Genial as purplest Cardinal, 
 
 Yet, to the core, a staunch Beformer.” 
 
 In the letters addressed to his friends in 
 Liverpool, the sense of delight and profit 
 which Chorley derived from these holiday 
 tours is expressed in homelier prose. Here is 
 an extract from one that describes his first 
 impressions of Italy, which he entered by the 
 plains of Lombardy : — 
 
 “ The mulberry-trees, festooned by vines — 
 so many Dryads’ hands all round in a 
 choral dance — are like things on an old 
 frieze. Then there is the maize ; and there 
 are the dour, enormous, white bullocks, 
 plunging and plodding on their way, with 
 a disproportionately small load behind them ; 
 
64 
 
 IMPRESSIONS OF ITALY. 
 
 and again and again, face after face and 
 form after form to be encountered among 
 the roadside peasantry that help (without 
 affectation) to make one positively drunk 
 with beauty. I knew Italy well before I 
 saw it; but it has a foison of everything 
 rich and goodly which no preconception can 
 give. I do not know what is henceforth to 
 become of my hunger and thirst for colour ; 
 but this I do know, that no life is complete 
 without the eye having once had its feast 
 here.” 
 
 Writing to another friend after his Italian 
 tour of 1845, he says : “ I am almost afraid to 
 boast of health and strength, but never had 
 so much cause as at the present moment. 
 What I did in Italy seems almost fabulous on 
 looking back to it, but for the two thick 
 journals which assure me that ‘ in the body 
 or out of the body,’ as the Swedenborgians 
 say, I did walk over the Stelvio, and (even a 
 harder exercise) that I did stand some ten 
 hours a day on my feet in the Florence 
 churches and galleries. These are, perhaps, 
 
LETTERS TO LIVERPOOL ERLENDS. 
 
 65 
 
 the only pleasures (besides the remem- 
 bered intercourse of friends) of which no- 
 thing save the loss of faculties can deprive 
 one, since they bring no after regrets as to 
 the expenditure of time, money, or the like ; 
 and, for* one leading a life like mine, they 
 are very precious as stores of material, illus- 
 tration, &c., &c. It was rather tantalizing 
 to be so near Rome, but, D.V., one will take 
 other journeys. How often I thought of you 
 among the pictures I won’t pretend to tell 
 you. I was very favourably circumstanced 
 for enjoying them in some respects ; a sort 
 of committee of English artists* having gone 
 to Florence to study the varieties of the old 
 fresco painters, with whom I went about a 
 good deal, taking care, moreover, to get some 
 solitary observation; since, after a while of 
 such companionship, one is dangerously apt 
 to find one’s self leavened with prejudices and 
 distinctions more technical than poetical ; and, 
 however needful training be, there is such a 
 
 * The artists mentioned by name in his journals of this 
 tour are Mr. Cope, Mr. Horsley, and Mr. Richmond. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 F 
 
60 
 
 VISIT TO IN TERLA CEEN. 
 
 thing as private judgment — the throwing 
 one’s self loose of which, ends in the cant, not 
 the sincerity, of admiration. And nowadays 
 especially, the immoderate fashion for the very 
 earliest schools of art seems to me very apt 
 to mislead and narrow one. It is hot very 
 easy work to keep one’s ears very wide open 
 to all enthusiasts, and afterwards to see with 
 one’s very own eyes.” 
 
 One of his journeys, the most enjoyed at 
 the time, was the most mournful in retro- 
 spect — that of 1847, when he spent a few 
 days at Interlachen, where Mendelssohn had 
 gone to recover from the severe shock occa- 
 sioned by the death of his sister, Madame 
 Hensel. The composer’s last letter to Chorley 
 is thence dated, and though its strict con- 
 nection is with the musical topics adverted 
 to in another chapter, may be more fitly in- 
 serted here. 
 
LAST LETTER FROM MENDELSSOHN. 
 
 67 
 
 “ Hotel en Interlachen * 
 
 “ 19th July, 1847. 
 
 “ Mr Dear Chorley, 
 
 “ I write these lines to thank you for the 
 letter I found here, and to beg you will not 
 grow tired with being bored with my pro- 
 jects. The thing came thus : while I passed 
 through Zurich, Mr. Herrmann had a con- 
 versation with me, told me that they wanted 
 something of my music for the opening of 
 their new room, and added that he was sure 
 you would feel interested in the matter, and 
 as to the poetry, would either write it or, at 
 least, give your advice, &c., &c. Of course 
 nothing could be more agreeable to me than 
 this intelligence; but pray believe me, that 
 I would not have made him write to you 
 without his having begun to talk of it, and 
 this just for the same reasons with which you 
 begin your letter to me. Well, then, be that 
 as it may, have many thanks for your letter, 
 and for the advice it contains. I shall read 
 Wordsworth’s poem as soon as I can get it, 
 
 * Inscribed by Chorley, “ The last letter I had from him.” 
 
G8 LETTER FROM MENDELSSOHN. 
 
 and, perhaps, I shall hear of other ideas from 
 you. For the present moment, I am not yet 
 able to think seriously of new projects and. of 
 new music. The very sad time I have just 
 passed is still so much connected with all my 
 ideas, that I can only begin by degrees to go 
 on with my life and music as I was accustomed 
 to do. This is also the reason that I did not 
 yet write to you and thank you for the opera- 
 sketch, which I read and re-read several times, 
 and liked it very much, and am almost sure 
 that something must be made of it ; but in 
 happier days, if God is willing ! Excuse these 
 niclits-sagende lines, but I wanted not to leave 
 your letter or your kindness without an answer 
 and without my thanks. Always yours very 
 truly, 
 
 “ Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.” 
 
 Chorley’s visit occurred about a month after 
 the receipt of this letter. In his “ Modern 
 German Music” (Yol. ii., pp. 383-400) he 
 has chronicled these “last days of Mendels- 
 sohn ” with genuine pathos. The composer’s 
 
VISIT TO INTERLACHEN. 
 
 69 
 
 worn and aged aspect, the forebodings of 
 death which were haunting his mind, the fitful 
 bursts of hope and energy which alternated 
 with these moods of depression, as he discussed 
 the various projects referred to in the fore- 
 going letter,* combined with the brightness 
 and beauty of the season and the scene, to 
 leave an impression on Chorley’s mind too 
 vivid “ for a topic, or a trait, or a characteristic 
 expression to be forgotten.” The last day 
 which they spent together at Ringgenberg, 
 a hamlet by the lake of Brienz, in the little 
 church of which Mendelssohn played the 
 organ to him for nearly an hour, was thence- 
 forth a sacred memory. The following sonnet, 
 written while the associations of time and 
 place were still fresh, attests how little he 
 anticipated that his friend’s forebodings would 
 be realised : — 
 
 “ Are there not spots like relics we adore 
 In happy Memory’s most hallowed cell ? 
 
 Are there not honrs which leave on ns the spell 
 Of light and pleasantness for evermore ? 
 
 * Wordsworth’s “Ode on the Power of Sound,” which 
 Chorley had suggested as suitable for a cantata, is the poem 
 alluded to. 
 
70 
 
 DEATH OF MENDELSSOHN . 
 
 There is a little church upon the shore 
 Of a Swiss lake, whence the unlooked-for swell 
 Of music, heard one autumn day, could tell 
 Of such a haunt and such an hour in store. 
 
 The rocky stair, o’ergrown with fern and flower— 
 
 The pealing organ in its gilded frame — 
 
 And he who struck the keys with poet’s power, 
 
 Till living music rolled abroad like flame — 
 
 Make up delight without an after-blame, 
 
 And in the wreath of joy one bright and perfect flower.” 
 
 Mendelssohn’s death occurred within a 
 month or two after Chorley’s return to Eng- 
 land. He records the blow (Nov. 19th, 1847) 
 as having ‘ almost shaken me loose of all 
 ‘ interest to come in music. I think, take him 
 4 for all in all, he was the most perfect artist- 
 4 musician whom the world has seen. . . . He 
 4 had everything — fame, fortune, freshness of 
 4 spirit — was as good as he was great.’ * Writ- 
 ing to Liverpool at the close of the year, he 
 says : 44 This has been a very hard autumn. I 
 suffered much indeed from the loss of my 
 dear friend Mendelssohn, to whom I was 
 personally much attached, and with whom I 
 
 * A more elaborate estimate of his friend’s character and 
 genius, from Chorley’s pen, is prefixed to Lady Wallace’s 
 translation of “Letters from Italy and Switzerland,” pub- 
 lished in 1861 . 
 
DEATH OF MENDELSSOHN. 
 
 71 
 
 had spent two of his last well days in Switzer- 
 land in September. We were to have gone 
 to Liverpool together next autumn, for the 
 opening of the New Philharmonic Concert- 
 room.” This loss was the heaviest that had 
 befallen him since the death of Mr. Benson 
 Rathbone, and was the more keenly felt that 
 Mendelssohn was within a few months of his 
 own age, and that both had looked forward 
 with mutual sympathy to the prospect of 
 linking their names in connection with the 
 art which was the common object of their 
 love. 
 
 The future was dark with other clouds, 
 but the present was brightened by pleasures 
 of no mean order. The list of distinguished 
 persons, English and foreign, with whom 
 during these years Chorley was on terms of 
 good-fellowship, as yet falling short of friend- 
 ship, but extending in a greater or less degree 
 to the interchange of intellectual sympathy, 
 might easily be made a long one. Reserving 
 reference to those eminent in the world of 
 music for another chapter, I need only name 
 
72 
 
 LITERARY ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 a few of the best known among men and 
 women of letters : — Mr. Carlyle, Charles 
 Dickens, Mr. Milnes (Lord Houghton), 
 Douglas Jerrold, M. Tourgueneff, Herr Freili- 
 grath, Miss Martineau, and Mrs. Jameson. 
 Of his relations with Jerrold I have already 
 spoken, and shall have to say more of his 
 acquaintance with Dickens when it ripened 
 into intimacy. With the four last named in 
 this list Chorley was in the habit of cor- 
 responding, and was appealed to more than 
 once for kind offices, which brought the writers 
 and himself into closer accord. No one was 
 readier to lend such friendly aid as he was 
 able, whenever it was needed. Literary services 
 were those most commonly asked of and 
 rendered by him. Occasionally he was called 
 upon to undertake the responsibility of. be- 
 coming chaperon to a promising aspirant in 
 literature or art. The tragic story of one 
 such tyro who was intrusted to his care is 
 narrated in the following passage of reminis- 
 cence. The circumstances occurred in 1845. 
 
 ‘ One of my most pathetic recollections has 
 
LAN CTREE. 
 
 73 
 
 ‘ to do with the life and death of a young man 
 ‘ who came up to London to busy himself in 
 ‘ literature as I had done, fuller of dreams, 
 ‘ however, than of powers for their fulfilment. 
 ‘ He was committed to me by Miss Martineau, 
 4 with whom I was then an habitual cor- 
 ‘ respondent, and who must be always com- 
 ‘ memorated with esteem and regard, howso- 
 ‘ ever capricious her prejudices have proved, 
 4 as one eager to promote what seemed right 
 4 to herself and what was helpful to others. 
 4 The list of those whom she befriended suh- 
 ‘ stantially, without any vanity concerned in 
 4 it, would be a long one. Among others 
 ‘ was poor Mr. Langtree. I may name him 
 ‘ because I have reason to believe that he had 
 4 not; a relative or kinsman whom he could 
 4 claim in any part of the world. A brother, 
 4 his only one, had set out to Australia, there 
 4 to make his fortune. The ship was never 
 4 heard of more. 
 
 4 It possessed this youth, as it has done 
 4 others before him, to come up to London 
 4 and maintain himself by his pen. There 
 
74 
 
 LANG TREE. 
 
 ' were indications in Lis writing that, with 
 ‘ time and patience to abide the struggle, he 
 4 might have done so, however slenderly, and 
 4 the more, because he was patient, modest, 
 
 ‘ industrious, and not vexed by the terrible 
 ‘ demon of self-assertion, which has wrought 
 ‘ such fearful havoc in the lives and fortunes 
 ‘ of self-accepted men of genius. He was 
 4 making his way quietly, and doing the best 
 4 he could to cultivate himself and enrich his 
 4 stores of thought and knowledge, when his 
 4 health suddenly and ominously failed him. 
 4 He was sitting with me in the twilight one 
 4 summer evening, when he was suddenly 
 4 stricken down by a warning beyond mistake, 
 4 the symptoms of consumption in its worst 
 4 form. I did what I could for the moment, 
 4 but it was clearly a bad case — frightful and 
 4 costly illness of a man without friends and 
 4 without resource. 
 
 4 In those days there was an establishment 
 4 in the New Road (now closed ), — 44 The 
 4 Sanatorium,” originally organised by Dr. 
 4 South wood Smith, where, for a moderate 
 
LANGTREE. 
 
 75 
 
 * payment, invalids, averse to the publicity of 
 ‘ hospitals, could receive care and medical 
 ‘ treatment. Poor Lang' tree was placed there ; 
 ‘ and I cannot now (the story is one of many 
 ‘ years ago) recollect without emotion how 
 ‘ he was sustained there during many weary 
 ‘ months of decay. But among others of 
 ‘ the few who were as ready as they were 
 ‘ abundant to help him was my dear, genial 
 ‘ friend, John Kenyon. I may name him, for 
 ‘ he is now no more. And I must not forget 
 ‘ how my own servant, a Bavarian, who went 
 ‘ to and fro of his own unsolicited accord, 
 ‘ established near the sick youth’s bedside 
 ‘ one of his own treasures — a wooden clock 
 ‘ from the Black Forest, to tell the poor 
 4 fading man the hours as they went on. The 
 ‘ heart grows full and the eyes dim as one 
 ‘ recalls these things. The generosity of 
 ‘ every one, great or small, about this poor, 
 ‘ dying, almost nameless man, is a thing never 
 ‘ to be forgotten. 
 
 ‘ The end came after a long time of weari- 
 ‘ ness and prostration. The poor fellow died, 
 
76 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 4 and was laid in the Marylebone burial- 
 ‘ ground, not in a pauper grave, but with a 
 ‘ stone over his remains, to tell any one who 
 ‘ might haply come to inquire for him where 
 ‘ was his place of rest. I walked behind the 
 4 body to the grave on a bright sunny morn- 
 ‘ ing, the only mourner. Anything more 
 4 strange and more sad I cannot recall.’ 
 
 Among the literary acquaintances made at 
 this period, whose characters Chorley had op- 
 portunities of studying without feeling any 
 inducement to convert them into friends, was 
 the poet Campbell. They had first met in 
 1837, when Chorley describes him as ‘ a little 
 4 man, with a shrewd eye, and a sort of peda- 
 4 goguish, parboiled voice ; plenty to say for 
 4 himself, especially about other people, and 
 4 not restrained from saying whatever seemed 
 4 good to him by any caution ; speaking with 
 4 a violent antipathy of Theodore Hook (by- 
 4 the-way, the new editor of the ‘New Monthly 
 4 Magazine ’ ), and yet not more violently 
 4 than the latter deserves ; dressing up his 
 4 good stories, and looking about him while he 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 77 
 
 ‘ did them, with the unmistakeable air of a 
 4 diner-out, which is so amusing — more amus- 
 ‘ ing, by the way, than agreeable. To myself 
 4 he was very complaisant.’ What else 
 Chorley knew and thought of Campbell is 
 told in the following sketch : — 
 
 4 It would be hard to name an English poet 
 4 of greater refinement and sweetness, alter- 
 4 nating with outbreaks of the most manly 
 4 vigour and high heroic spirit, than Thomas 
 4 Campbell. It would be equally hard to 
 4 name an author of any country whose per- 
 4 sonality was more entirely at variance with 
 4 his poetry than his — at least, during the 
 4 second half of his life. A man, be his habits 
 4 what they may, does not deteriorate uniformly 
 4 and steadily from every promise and sign of 
 4 grace which he may have shown in earlier 
 4 years, without showing, from time to time, 
 4 some flashes of the olden brightness, let them 
 4 be ever so few and far between. What I saw 
 4 and knew of Campbell, at least, made it very 
 4 hard to credit the possibility of there having 
 4 been days much better essentially. If sucb 
 
78 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 1 had been the case, his latter state was not 
 ‘ one so much of enfeeblement as of metamor- 
 ‘ phosis — of what was pure having become 
 ‘ gross — of what was intellectual and appre- 
 ‘ ciative losing itself in a prosy and common- 
 ‘ place stupidity. 
 
 ‘ I first heard of him when he was deliver- 
 ‘ ing his lectures on Poetry at Liverpool, more 
 4 than forty years ago. The extent to which 
 ‘ these were overrated, in consequence of the 
 ‘ beauty, power, and finish of the poet’s 
 ‘ poetry, only revealed itself when the poet’s 
 ‘ prose came to be published. They are as 
 ‘ completely forgotten to-day as if they had 
 ‘ never been — the fate, perhaps, of all lectures ; 
 ‘ hut Campbell was prodigiously lionised in 
 ‘ circles which, I have always felt, were too 
 ‘ prone to lionise. How all ease, grace, and 
 ‘ nature of intercourse are destroyed by the 
 ‘ extravagance of social idolatry ; how talk 
 ‘ for effect must be the consequence of 
 
 " Wonder with a foolish face of praise,” 
 
 4 have been truths as clear as day to me, ever 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 79 
 
 4 since I was in a case to observe and com- 
 ‘ pare. Then, I could but stare, as a very 
 4 young boy, and remark bow the best, and 
 4 most refined, and most beautiful of men and 
 4 women laid themselves at the lecturer’s feet. 
 
 4 Of himself, at that time, I recollect nothing ; 
 
 ‘ but he must have had something, in show, 
 
 4 at least, better to offer in return than the 
 4 gifts and graces displayed by him later in 
 4 London — the paltry conversation, when it 
 ‘ was not coarsened by convivial excesses to a 
 4 point which would not to-day be endured, 
 
 4 were the poet thrice as god-like as he was. 
 
 4 In fact, as years went on, Campbell slipped 
 ‘ out of society as steadily as though he had 
 4 been a false prophet, and not the author of 
 ‘ “ The Pleasures of Hope,” 44 Hohenlinden,” 
 ‘ 44 The Battle of the Baltic,” “ Ye Mariners 
 ‘ of England,” “ The Exile of Erin,” “ O’Con- 
 4 nor’s Child,” and “The Last Man” — poems 
 4 which will endure so long as a single lover 
 4 of imperishable thought, feeling and fancy, 
 4 enshrined in most musical verse, shall be 
 4 left in England. Their spell is strong now, 
 
80 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 1 even in this age of jargon, this time when 
 ‘ “ whitings’ eyes.” by so many are permitted 
 ‘ to pass as “pearls.” 
 
 ‘ He was my neighbour in Victoria Square, 
 
 ‘ Pimlico, during the last years passed by 
 ‘ him in England, and was willing to bestow 
 ‘ much of his leisure on a poetaster so much 
 ‘ younger a man as I was. I can hardly de- 
 ‘ scribe how painful it was to he sought by 
 ‘ one whose notice should have been such an 
 ‘ honour, but whom it was hardly possible for 
 ‘ youthful fastidiousness and want of charity 
 ‘ to endure as a companion. It was woeful, 
 ‘ weary work, unredeemed, so far as I recol- 
 ‘ lect, by one passing flash of the spirit which 
 ‘ had shone with such brilliancy and beauty in 
 ‘ the verse ; and great was the relief when he 
 ‘ withdrew from London ; — to die, in all but 
 ‘ utter neglect, at Boulogne. 
 
 ‘ One friend, however, Campbell retained, 
 ‘ who believed in and ministered to him till 
 ‘ the end came — the friend, as I have grateful 
 ‘ reason to commemorate, of many more ob- 
 ‘ scure literary men — Dr. Beattie, himself an 
 
A SUCCESSION OF SORROWS. 
 
 81 
 
 ‘ author of modest pretensions, and who, in 
 ‘ the fulness of sincere admiration, wrote the 
 ‘ only English biography of the poet which 
 * has appeared. It must not be forgotten, 
 ‘ when writing about Campbell, that the poet 
 ‘ of “ The Pleasures of Hope,” like the poet 
 ‘ of “ The Pleasures of Memory,” was from 
 ‘ first to last fond of children. So it should 
 ‘ be with those alike who look forward or look 
 ‘ back.’ 
 
 The concluding years of this section of 
 Chorley’s life registered a succession of sor- 
 itows, by which retrospect and prospect alike 
 were darkened. In 1844 occurred a second 
 misadventure in love, more serious than the 
 first — the rejection of what I believe was the 
 only offer of marriage he ever made. As the 
 lady is probably still living, nothing can here 
 be added to the bare mention of the fact. 
 Suffice it that, though the disappointment was 
 a very severe one, his subsequent relations 
 with the author of it were frank and unem- 
 bittered. The literary failures and musical 
 perplexities elsewhere adverted to were not 
 
 VOL II. 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 ILLNESS OF HIS SISTER. 
 
 calculated to remove liis depression ; though, 
 compared with the troubles which followed, 
 they were but passing clouds. In 1847, oc- 
 curred the death of Mendelssohn; that of 
 Maule in 1850. The next blow fell amidst 
 his own family, with whom he had of late 
 been in constant intercourse ; his mother and 
 sister having removed from Liverpool in 
 1845, and at this time residing with his brother 
 John, in Chester Square. The sister, to whom 
 he was tenderly attached, was here stricken 
 with disease, an affection of the spine, which 
 for the rest of her life — more than twelve 
 years — rendered her a hopeless cripple. His 
 mother was spared the pain of witnessing the 
 protraction of this suffering, as her death oc- 
 curred in the autumn of 1851, during Chor- 
 ley’s absence from England. 
 
 The exceptionally morbid tone of his 
 journals attests how heavily the burden of 
 these calamities pressed upon his health and 
 spirits. An increase in his income, which 
 resulted from his mother’s death, brought 
 some alleviation in “ the sense of easier for- 
 
DEATH OF MRS. CHORLEY. 
 
 83 
 
 tunes.” This was followed by a change of 
 residence, which operated as a healthy dis- 
 traction from the past, and inaugurated a 
 brighter future. The events of the twenty 
 years which he spent in Eaton Place West 
 must be narrated in another chapter. 
 
84 
 
 MUSICAL CELTICISM. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Musical criticism between 1841 and 1851 — Recognition of his 
 influence — Mercenary propositions — Letter from Meyer- 
 beer — Employment as a librettist — Disappointments and 
 vexations — Intimacies with M. Liszt and Madame Yiardot 
 — Chopin — Sonnet on his death— Berlioz— Mr. Hullah’s 
 system of vocal instruction — Relations between artists and 
 critics — A protege. 
 
 The chapter devoted to the consideration of 
 Chorley’s earlier career as a musical critic has 
 necessarily anticipated much that strictly be- 
 longs to the history of his later life. To the 
 observations there made upon the general 
 characteristics of his professional workman- 
 ship, nothing material need here be added. 
 Whatever increase of acumen may he discern- 
 ible in the average tone of his judgments in 
 the ‘ Athenaeum ’ at this period is not of a 
 nature to commend itself to the apprehension 
 
RECOGNITION OF HIS INFLUENCE. 
 
 85 
 
 of untrained eyes, and I shall not risk the 
 failure of attempting to indicate it. That he 
 had by this time become a “ power ” in the 
 musical world is sufficiently evident. The 
 position of antagonism which he felt bound 
 to occupy in reference to the system of operatic 
 “ puffery,” and other devices of musical mis- 
 management, for awhile brought him nothing 
 but obloquy ; but he was not long in disco- 
 vering how his assaults had told. That the 
 enemy’s confession of defeat took a mercenary 
 form is not surprising. One entry in his 
 journal chronicles the receipt of an offer from 
 the manager of the opera-house whose system 
 he had most persistently denounced, that he 
 should undertake to translate the libretti. The 
 tenor of his answer may be surmised from the 
 contemptuous comment which follows : ‘ As 
 ‘ clumsy a device to stop a mouth as has often 
 ‘ been attempted.’ Another entry recounts a 
 visit from a musician of some celebrity, known 
 to him as interested in a concert scheme set 
 up in opposition to one which the ‘ Athenmum ’ 
 had recently condemned. ‘ After a profusion 
 
86 
 
 INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 ‘ of compliments, this person had the insolence 
 ‘ to ask me,’ says Chorley, ‘ to write a letter to 
 ‘ the editor of the ‘ Athenaeum,’ thanking 
 ‘ him, in the name of the profession, for the 
 ‘ spirited, &c., &c. — to myself in short ! And 
 ‘ on my shrinking hack, really hardly knowing 
 ‘ whether I should show disgust or diversion, 
 ‘ added — ■“ You know it would he in confi- 
 ‘ “ dence /” ’ What has been elsewhere said 
 respecting the status of artistic journalism when 
 Chorley entered its ranks, receives unsavoury 
 confirmation from the foregoing illustrations. 
 
 The tone of scornful independence that he 
 maintained on such occasions as these was not 
 calculated to make him popular in the lower 
 circles of the profession with which he was 
 brought in contact ; nor was the attitude he 
 assumed towards the outer world a whit more 
 conciliatory. During the “ Lind fever ” of 
 1847 especially, his candour in raising a single 
 voice of protest against the “chorus of 
 idolatry,” which ignored the existence of any 
 defects in the public favourite, and forbade 
 the discussion of any other claims than hers, 
 
LETTER FROM MEYERBEER. 
 
 87 
 
 brought upon him, to adopt his own words, 
 4 such ignominy as belongs to the idiotic 
 4 slanderer. Old and seemingly solid friend- 
 4 ships were broken for ever in that year.’* 
 The courage with which he 44 defied the oppro- 
 brium his honest dealings raised has at last 
 obtained recognition ; but there can be no 
 doubt that for some years his neutrality — be- 
 tween unscrupulousness on the one hand and 
 partisanship on the other — was a position of 
 extreme discomfort. 
 
 Occasionally, however, he received proof of 
 the most unexceptionable kind, that the discri- 
 mination with which he meted out praise and 
 censure gave them real value in the estimation 
 of competent judges. The following letter from 
 Meyerbeer scarcely requires any antecedent 
 
 explanation. The opera referred to is 44 Le 
 
 * 
 
 Prophete,” of which, on its production at the 
 Grand Opera in Paris, Chorley had written an 
 elaborate review ( 4 Athenaeum,’ April 21st, 
 
 * “ Thirty Years’ Musical Recollections,” vol. i. p. 304. 
 
 *t “ Musical Recollections of the last Half Century” (1872), 
 vol. ii. p. 201. 
 
88 
 
 LETTER FROM MEYERBEER. 
 
 1849). On hearing from his brother-critic, 
 Mr. Griineisen, that Meyerbeer was under 
 the impression it had been unfavourable, 
 Chorley wrote to undeceive him, and received 
 this in reply : 
 
 “ Monsieur, 
 
 “ J’ai lu la lettre que vous m’avez fait 
 l’honneur de m’adresser avec un double plaisir : 
 d’abord parcequ’elle exprime des sentiments si 
 bienveillants et si aimables pour ma personne 
 et mon dernier ouvrage a l’opera ; et puis 
 parcequ’elle m’apprend que j’etais dans l’erreur 
 en croyant le contraire. Je comprends mal- 
 heureusement trop peu l’anglais pour le lire 
 seul. J’avais done prie une personne de ma 
 connaissance de me donner un aper^u de votre 
 article dans ‘ 1’ Athenaeum,’ desireux que 
 j’etais de connaitre le jugement d’un critique 
 aussi eclaire et aussi eminent que vous, 
 monsieur. C’est d’apres l’apercu qui m’en a 
 ete donne que j’ai du croire que l’article etait 
 tres-defavorable, et que j’ai emis cette opinion 
 envers Monsieur Griineisen : j’ai done ete bien 
 
LETTER FROM MEYERBEER. 
 
 89 
 
 heureux d’apprendre par votre lettre que mon 
 traducteur n’a pas bien saisi le veritable sens 
 de votre article, car justement parceque j’ai la 
 plus haute estime de vos ecrits et de votre 
 jugement musical, monsieur, j’aurais ete 
 d’autant plus peine de ne pas avoir su gagner 
 votre approbation. 
 
 “ Permettez-moi de profiter de cette occa- 
 sion pour vous faire mes excuses de ne pas 
 vous avoir rendu la visite que vous avez bien 
 voulu me faire a Paris. Mais j’etais alors si 
 occupe par les repetitions et les travaux qui 
 s’y rattachaientque je n’avais pas un moment de 
 libre. Mais voyageurs comme nous le sommes 
 tous les deux, j’ai l’espoir que nous [nous] 
 rencontrerons bientot de nouveaux quelque 
 part, pour pouvoir avoir le plaisir de vous 
 exprimer de vive voix les sentiments affec- 
 tueux et de haute estime avec lesquels j’ai 
 l’honneur d’etre, 
 
 “ Monsieur, 
 
 “ Votre tres-devoue 
 
 “ Meyerbeer. 
 
 “ Paris, le 8 mai, 1841.” 
 
90 EMPLOYMENT AS A LIBRETTIST. 
 
 The offer of a commission to translate opera 
 libretti, as above mentioned, was made to 
 Chorley towards the close of this section of 
 his career, and after he had already obtained 
 some distinction as a writer for the musical 
 drama. The conditions under which such a 
 writer labours exempt his work from ordinary 
 criticism, and relegate it to a province of 
 technical literature governed by laws of its 
 own. If it conform to these — whatever be its 
 worth in other respects — he may he held to 
 have achieved success. That Chorley’s libretti, 
 original and translated, fulfilled the requisite 
 condition of adaptability to the music for 
 which he wrote them, may be reasonably in- 
 ferred from the increasing number of his 
 commissions. His first undertaking was to 
 dramatize George Sand’s “ L’Uscoque,” his 
 version of which was subsequently adapted to 
 an opera by Mr. (now Sir Julius) Benedict. 
 This was followed by a libretto for the same 
 composer’s opera of “Red-Beard,” translations 
 of Mercadante’s “Elena da Feltre,” Cimarosa’s 
 “ II Matrimonio Segreto,” Herold’s “ Zampa,” 
 
EMPLOYMENT AS A LIBRETTIST. 
 
 91 
 
 Donizetti’s “ Fille du Regiment,” Gluck’s 
 “ Iphigenie en Tauride,” Auber’s “Haydee” 
 and Mendelssohn’s “ Son and Stranger,” a ver- 
 sion of “ The Amber Witch ” for an opera by 
 the late Vincent Wallace, and an original ope- 
 retta called “ White Magic,” for Signor Biletta. 
 “ The May Queen,” a cantata written for music 
 by Dr. Sterndale Bennett, the words for 
 several songs by Moscheles, Balfe, Mr. Hullah, 
 Sir J. Benedict, Mr. Barnett, and others, were 
 also the product of these years.* Of this 
 number, however, only a few works saw the 
 light. The reputation for uncertainty pro- 
 verbially attaching to all enterprises connected 
 with the stage was never more justified than 
 by the events of this period of its annals. For 
 one success there were* three failures ; and 
 Chorley’s destiny usually associated him with 
 the latter. The detailed history of these mis- 
 
 * Two or three songs by these composers, in the success of 
 which he must be credited with a share, still retain popu- 
 larity ; e.g., Loder’s “ Song of the Oak,” Benedict’s “ By the 
 sad Sea Waves,” and Wallace’s “ Fireside Song.” The two 
 first are of somewhat earlier date than the period here re- 
 ferred to. 
 
92 
 
 THEATRICAL INTRIGUES. 
 
 fortunes, however interesting to those con- 
 cerned in them, would he tedious enough to 
 the generality of readers, and may be briefly 
 dismissed. The collapse of Charles Kemble’s 
 management at Covent Garden was followed 
 by that of Bunn, and his by that of Jullien at 
 Drury Lane. Chorley was a sufferer on each 
 occasion — severely on the last, which involved 
 the loss, not only of all his labour, hut the 
 greater part of his remuneration. ■ More an- 
 noying to him, however, than either failure or 
 loss seems to have been the forced entanglement 
 in theatrical intrigues which his commissions 
 entailed. Specially distasteful were his dealings 
 with Bunn, his opinion of whom is graphically 
 expressed in one entry of his journal : 
 
 ‘ I never undertook anything with greater 
 ‘ disgust (a soupqon of curiosity intermingled 
 ‘ therewith) than my interview with that 
 ‘ arch-blackguard, Bunn, on Monday, to see if 
 ‘ it were possible to arrange matters. He had 
 ‘ been burning pastilles in his room. I 
 ‘ thought of the devil getting up incense to 
 ‘ overcome the smell of brimstone.’ 
 
MUSICAL INTIMACIES. 
 
 93 
 
 However irritated by these vexations at the • 
 time, Chorley had, happily, too much manly 
 stuff in his temperament to over-estimate their 
 importance ; and, as another entry in his 
 journal shows, was not of the number of those 
 who 
 
 " think the rustic cackle of their bourg 
 The murmur of the world.” 
 
 Late in the year 1848, he writes : 
 
 ‘ Attacked by some of the musical folk, 
 
 ‘ with their petty squabbles, grievances, and 
 ‘ miseries, just as if the world were not in such 
 ‘ a desperate plight as it is — with every chance 
 ‘ that ere long there may be no room for 
 ‘ music in it !’ 
 
 The animosities referred to seem to have 
 been confined to the lower ranks of the pro- 
 fession. Among its leading members his 
 acquaintance was very large at this time, his 
 relations with most of them being amicable, 
 and in two or three cases cordially intimate. 
 Next to Mendelssohn, among his male friends, 
 was M. Liszt, whom he had known since the 
 latter’s visit to England in 1840 ; much cor- 
 
94 
 
 MADAME VIARDOT: M. GOUNOD 
 
 . respondence and repeated meetings on the 
 Continent in succeeding years having ripened 
 their mutual regard. Foremost among Chor- 
 lev’s Parisian friends was Madame Viardot, 
 for whom his personal esteem was equal to 
 his admiration of her genius. The memorials 
 that he has preserved of his intercourse with 
 both are full of interest, and well entitled, at 
 a future time, to the publicity which cannot 
 now be given them. 
 
 Among the acquaintance introduced to him 
 by Madame Viardot was M. Gounod, of whom, 
 in 1850 and subsequent years, he saw and 
 heard much, and of whose future renown he 
 entertained from the first a profound con- 
 viction. The substance of many persistently 
 repeated predictions upon this point is con- 
 densed into an entry in his journal of March, 
 1850 : ‘ It was a great pleasure to me in Paris 
 ‘ to add to my list of sensations Gounod, of 
 ‘ whom the world will one day hear as the 
 ‘ composer, or else H. F. C. is much mistaken.’ 
 
 In Paris, too, between 1847 and 1849, 
 Chorley cultivated his acquaintance with 
 
CHOPIN: BERLIOZ. 
 
 95 
 
 Chopin, of whom, however, he has left no 
 record, beyond merely general expressions of 
 gratification at their intimacy, and the follow- 
 ing sonnet, written soon after the composer’s 
 death, after a protracted illness, in October, 
 1849.* It commemorates, with much grace 
 and pathos, the writer’s admiration for the 
 artist and regret for the man. 
 
 CHOPIN. 
 
 Like to the murmur of a weary stream, 
 
 Like to the dance of yellow leaves that fall 
 Fantastically slow, — like to the call 
 Of spirit to far spirit in a dream, 
 
 Thy music — save by times, when joyous theme 
 Of clarion- note blown from a castle wall, 
 
 Or pageant dance for Southern carnival — 
 
 Bade through the shadow pomp and pleasure beam. 
 
 Years wore, and years— and paler burned the light, 
 And lower, softer breathed the dying song; 
 
 Thus fainteth day, gray willow-banks among, 
 
 So gently that we know not when Tis night. 
 
 0, who dare mourn the loss of our delight, 
 
 Pain was so earnest and Decay so long ! 
 
 Of another French musician of genius, the 
 late Hector Berlioz, Chorley saw a good deal 
 
 * See also the obituary notice in the ‘ Athenaeum ’ of 
 27th October. 
 
96 
 
 BERLIOZ. 
 
 at this period, but without feeling much 
 sympathy either with himself or his works. 
 Of the former, we have a glimpse in the fol- 
 lowing journal-entry of November, 1847 : — 
 ‘ Berlioz dined here on Wednesday, before 
 ‘ going to the “ Elijah.” What a different 
 4 nature (from Mendelssohn’s), and how strong 
 ‘ the bitter drop in him ! I have seen few 
 ‘ who tell a sarcastic anecdote with greater 
 
 ‘ gusto. He enjoyed the tale of , the 
 
 ‘ journalist, being thrashed in the Palais-Royal 
 ‘ by some infuriate person outraged by his 
 ‘ blame or praise, as heartily as poor M. used 
 4 to enjoy some merry joke for its own in- 
 4 trinsic whimsicality.’ 
 
 Of his music Chorley writes : ‘ I have been 
 4 looking over the scores of some of this music 
 4 by Berlioz, in which, as in the case of his 
 4 44 Episode d’une Vie d’ Artiste,” his design to 
 4 me seems clear enough, but the dressing-up 
 4 of it affectedly complicated. The figure is 
 4 complete, but commonplace ; its clothing is 
 4 queer — cuffs up at the elbow, ruffles round 
 4 the waist, a buckle where buckle never was 
 
BERLIOZ. 
 
 97 
 
 ‘ before, and feathers on the shoes ! In short 
 ‘ an elaborate use of topsy-turvy principles, 
 ‘ which I must hear proved to be good ere I 
 ‘ can accept them as such.’ 
 
 A few years later, when they met in 
 Weimar, where Berlioz had come to attend 
 the performance of his “ Benvenuto Cellini,” a 
 similar impression was produced on Chorley’s 
 mind : — 
 
 * Betwixt bitter criticism,’ he writes, ‘ un- 
 ‘ wholesome private relations, and arrogant 
 ‘ disregard of musical study in his early years, 
 ‘ this poor Berlioz has got himself into a 
 ‘ thoroughly painful and exceptional attitude, 
 ‘ musical and moral. I felt the tale of his 
 ‘ wrangles with the G-rand Opera, detailed 
 ‘ with such extreme gusto, emphasis and 
 ‘ vitriolic spirit, at supper (after the rehearsal 
 ‘ of the “ Benvenuto ”), to be something too 
 ‘ miserable for a grown man to descant on. 
 
 ‘ There is a falseness and an impurity, a con- 
 ‘ scious insufficiency in his proceedings, which 
 ‘ stand betwixt him and distinction in his art. 
 ‘ • • . I like the “ Benvenuto ” much better 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 THALBERG AND ERNST. 
 
 ‘ than I had conceived possible. Brightness 
 ‘ of orchestration I had expected, but not so 
 ‘ much beauty of idea, or tangible symmetry 
 ‘ of form. It is terribly overwrought, hut 
 ‘ richer in fancy than I had thought it would 
 ‘ be ; some of the instrumentation is delicious. 
 
 ‘ But alas ! one hears the arrogant, resisting 
 ‘ man, that I have described, in every note 
 ‘ of it.’ 
 
 The two great instrumentalists of this pe- 
 riod, Thalberg and Ernst, were also among 
 Chorley’s associates, and the latter in frequent 
 correspondence with him ;* hut there is not 
 sufficient individuality in his reminiscences of 
 either to justify their insertion here. 
 
 His active co-operation with Mr. Hullah, as 
 already mentioned, in the task of establishing 
 in this country the popular system of vocal 
 
 * Under a portrait of himself, which Ernst presented to 
 Chorley, are inscribed a few bars of “The Erl-King,” fol- 
 lowed by the words 
 
 “ Eappelez-vous quelquefois le Eoi des aulnes. Moi je 
 n’onblierai jamais le Eoley-Poley. 
 
 “ Souvenir d’amitie et de reconnaissance. 
 
 “ H. W. Eknst. 
 
 “ Londres, 13 juillet, 1844.” 
 
JENNY LIND. 
 
 99 
 
 instruction with which that gentleman’s name 
 is honourably associated, often brought them 
 into friendly contact. Few events in his 
 musical life gave Chorley more satisfaction 
 than the part he took in this movement, and 
 the success which attended it. 
 
 Among the leading singers of the time, his 
 list of acquaintance included Mdlle. Lind 
 (Madame Goldschmidt). The following note 
 from Mendelssohn was probably the medium 
 of introduction : 
 
 “ My dear Chorley, 
 
 “ When I got to Frankfort I felt so 
 homesick (is that a word?) that I could not 
 wait, and hurried back to Leipsic, and here I 
 am, and found all well, and very happy and 
 thankful I am ! This is a letter to Jenny 
 Lind, which I beg you will give her if she 
 comes to Frankfort, and if she should not come 
 pray send it, poste restante, to Munich for her. 
 
 I ask her to sing something to you at her 
 piano, where I like her still better than on the 
 stage and in the concert-room, and I hope 
 
100 
 
 ARTISTS AND CRITICS. 
 
 you will like her as well as I do, and that is a 
 great deal. And now — auf Wiedersehen ! 
 auf Wiedersehen ! and have a happy journey, 
 and a happy Riickkehr and remember me, 
 your old Hamlet and friend, 
 
 
 k -•>- 
 
 P— < m P f- 
 
 & 
 
 i m - 
 
 ts^=-S5£r-r F E 
 
 “Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy. 
 
 “ Leipsic, 23 Sept. 1846.” 
 
 These intimacies with the leading members 
 of the profession of which he was an habitual 
 censor were enjoyed for their own sake, and 
 without inducing him to concede an iota of 
 his critical independence. It was only with 
 those who were content to accept his friend- 
 ship unreservedly that he cared to mix. The 
 canons by which, in his opinion, the relations 
 between artist and critic should be regulated 
 are thus summed up in a passage of his 
 “ Modern German Music and his practice 
 seems to have been uniformly in accordance 
 with his theory : 
 
 . . . “ A desire to merit honest and 
 
RELATIONS BETWEEN ARTIST AND CRITIC. 101 
 
 well-reasoned praise does not mean that me- 
 lancholy ante-chamber work of prostration and 
 propitiation to the coarse and the venal, which 
 some had hoped died with the death of the 
 old-world aristocratic patronage. It should 
 he recollected that those whom artists really 
 trust and esteem do not require such humbling 
 civilities ; that the critic moves the most freely, 
 lives the most happily, and performs his task 
 the most uprightly, when the privacy of his 
 reserve is respected, and when no man ap- 
 proaches him to insinuate into his mouth his 
 own hopes and fears, his own words and 
 thoughts, concerning himself and his works. 
 Beyond this, by the slightest interference, do 
 artists trammel and vitiate that private dis- 
 cussion and interchange of opinion which 
 might, on both sides, he so valuable and in- 
 teresting.” — (Yol. ii. p. 70.) 
 
 But while he had nothing to concede or to 
 demand for himself in his musical friendships, 
 he was not less willing than able to turn them 
 to account for the benefit of others. An in- 
 stance in point belongs to the narrative of 
 
102 A PROTEGE. 
 
 these years. A Sicilian gentleman, of con- 
 siderable natural gift as a singer, whom com- 
 plicity in the revolutions of 1848-9 had de- 
 prived- of fortune and driven into exile, was 
 recommended to his kind offices. Writing to 
 his friend at Liverpool on the subject, Chorley 
 says : ‘ I have had the wondrous good fortune 
 
 ‘ of being able to put him (Signor M ) in 
 
 ‘ the way of the very highest and most costly 
 ‘ professional training gratuitously. You can- 
 ‘ not have an idea how munificent the best 
 ‘ artists are. And so, to make him fit to profit 
 ‘ to the utmost by such a rare advantage, I 
 ‘ am “ guider,” as they say in the colleges, 
 ‘ and we go on for about an hour a day read- 
 ‘ ing music at sight/ 
 
 The successful debut of his protege was the 
 gratifying result of such substantial kindness. 
 That this was not the only instance of the 
 kind, I believe there are persons living who 
 can testify. 
 
CONNECTION WITH THE ( ATHENHEUM 103 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Literary life from 1852 to 1872— Critical labours in f Athe- 
 naeum* — Changes observable in tone — Severity to works 
 of friends — Discernment — Letter from Mr. Procter — 
 Letters from Nathaniel and Mrs. Hawthorne — Versatility 
 — Examples — Eeviews of Mr. Buskin, Mr. Wilkie Collins, 
 and Mr. Coventry Patmore — Dramatic authorship — “ The 
 Love-lock” — “Duchess Eleanour” — Analysis and extracts — 
 Publishes “ Boccabella Analysis and extracts — Letters 
 from Dickens and Hawthorne — Dedication to Mrs. Brown- 
 ing — Letter from Mr. Browning— Translation of “Fairy 
 Gold” — Biographical sketch of Mendelssohn — Lyrics — 
 “Alone” — Publishes “The Prodigy” — Edits Miss Mit- 
 ford’s Letters — Engaged on autobiography until his death. 
 
 No material change occurred in Chorley’s 
 literary connection with the ‘ Athenaeum ’ 
 down to the year 1866, when he ceased to 
 contribute upon other than musical subjects. 
 A fair proportion of the best works in belles- 
 lettres issued during these years seems to 
 have been assigned to him for review. Haw- 
 
104 
 
 'ATHENAEUM’ CRITICISMS. 
 
 thorn e’s “ Blithedale Romance ” and “ Trans- 
 formation Dickens’ “ Bleak House” and 
 “Our Mutual Friend;” Mrs. Browning’s 
 “Aurora Leigh,” “Poems Before Congress,” 
 and “ Last Poems ;’ Mr. Browning’s “ Men 
 and Women;” Mr. Ruskin’s “Stones of 
 Venice ” and “ Modern Painters” (vols. iii. and 
 iv.) ; Thackeray’s “ English Humourists ” and 
 “Philip;” Mrs.Gaskell’s “Cranford ’’and “Wives 
 and Daughters ;” Miss Procter’s “ Legends and 
 Lyrics ;” Beranger’s “ Last Songs ;” Mr. Mor- 
 ris’s “ Defence of G-uenevere ; ” Dr. Holmes’s 
 “ Professor at the Breakfast-table ;” Yictor 
 Hugo’s “ Les Miserables ;” and the tales of 
 MM. Erckmann-Chatrian, may be named — 
 without attempt at assortment — as among the 
 most memorable. Though certain changes 
 may, I think, he discerned in the tone of his 
 later criticism, as compared with that of for- 
 mer years, they are rather due to the exagge- 
 ration of old than the acquisition of new 
 features. In two essential characteristics, his 
 prompt recognition of genius and fine tact in 
 selection, there is no apparent diminution. 
 
CHANGES IN CRITICAL TONE. 
 
 105 
 
 On the other hand, there is an obvious in- 
 crease of severity in his censure, a soupcon 
 of intolerance in his invective; while his 
 style is marked by a persistent mannerism 
 more easily recognised than defined, its 
 prominent signs being an excessive use of 
 illustrative detail, and a preference for pa- 
 rentheses and dashes as substitutes for punc- 
 tuation. 
 
 A literary critic may he justified in exer- 
 cising any amount of judicial sternness when 
 the interests of morals or of Art are concerned, 
 but oversteps his province and misuses his 
 power when he disparages a work of art on 
 account of his individual disagreement with 
 the opinions to which the artist has given ex- 
 pression. Though not often chargeable with 
 this reproach, Chorley cannot be altogether 
 acquitted of it. His review of Mrs. Browning’s 
 “ Poems Before Congress,” for example,* is 
 severe to the point of asperity ; and scarcely 
 any pains are taken to conceal that the poli- 
 tical opinions conveyed in them constitute the 
 * ‘ Athenseum/ 1860 
 
106 
 
 SEVERITY TO FRIENDS. 
 
 ground of offence. It is noteworthy, how- 
 ever, as evidence of his honesty of purpose, 
 that some of his harshest criticisms are of 
 books written by his personal friends. The 
 children of a conscientious schoolmaster are 
 apt to find that, in his desire to avoid any 
 imputation of favouritism, he treats them with 
 far greater rigour than their schoolfellows. 
 The analogy is one likely to have suggested 
 itself to some of Chorley’s intimates, when 
 they met with ill-fare at his hands, hut they 
 did not always give him credit for the motive 
 that actuated it. Miss Mitford’s soreness at 
 his unfavourable critique of her “Atherton ” 
 provoked her into what he has mildly charac- 
 terised as a “ spurt of temper,” but which 
 better deserves to be called an outburst of 
 spite.* In her case, however, literary resent- 
 ment was not carried so far as to sunder the 
 ties of personal friendship ; an extreme which 
 had been reached in his experience, as I have 
 
 * See Miss Mitford’s “ Letters ” (2nd series), edited by 
 Chorley, vol. ii. p. 214. The review was not in the f Athe- 
 naeum/ but where it appeared I have not ascertained. 
 
ADELAIDE PROCTER’S POEMS. 
 
 107 
 
 heard him deplore. Such demonstrations 
 doubtless bore testimony to the power he was 
 able to tvield, hut he was glad to be occa- 
 sionally assured of this in a less violent 
 fashion. 
 
 Those who care to turn to the ‘Athenaeum’ 
 of the 5th of June, 1858, will find in his review 
 of Adelaide Procter’s first volume of poems, 
 “ Legends and Lyrics,” an excellent illustra- 
 tion of the accuracy in discernment and felicity 
 in selection to which I have called attention. 
 It brought a note of grateful acknowledgment 
 from Mr. Procter, which, like all his writings, 
 has a touch of character. 
 
 “ 32 Weymouth Street. 
 “9th June, 1858. 
 
 “ My dear Chorley, 
 
 “ Your letter followed me into the 
 country, and found me in Northumberland. 
 I did not answer it, for it did not seem to 
 demand any particular answer ; but, on reach- 
 ing London, I read a very kind and graceful 
 notice of Adelaide’s book in the ‘ Athenaeum,’ 
 
108 
 
 HAWTHORNE. 
 
 and I refer it to the friendly hand of H. F. C. 
 We are all very much pleased with it. In- 
 deed, several persons have spoken of it as an 
 amiable and graceful notice, bringing out 
 some of the best things that the volume con- 
 tains with the critic’s taste and sagacity. 
 Some of these days you will turn back to 
 your little notice (I mean some fifty years 
 hence) and say, I hope, with that pleasant 
 smile that will become your middle age so 
 well, 4 Well, I was right, after all, in giving 
 that child her first lift over the stepping-stones 
 of the world.’ Meminisse juvabit l 
 “ Yours ever, 
 
 “ B. W. Procter.” 
 
 Another of Chorley’s reviews deserves to 
 he remembered, less on its own account than 
 for the spirited reply which it elicited. For 
 the creative genius of Hawthorne he had al- 
 ways entertained the highest admiration, and 
 was proud, as I have already noted, of having 
 been the first English critic who drew atten- 
 tion to its manifestation in the “ Twice-Told 
 
HAWTHORNE. 
 
 109 
 
 Tales.” The novelist’s subsequent works had 
 received his lavish praise, both in public and 
 private ; especially the “ Scarlet Letter,” 
 which he commended to a friend at Liverpool 
 as “ the most powerful and most painful story 
 of modern times — the only tale in its argu- 
 ment in which the purity overtops the pas- 
 sion. ... It has struck me prodigiously ; 
 and I think will end in taking a very re- 
 markable place among stories of its quality.” 
 This impression of Hawthorne’s power was con- 
 firmed by the personal intercourse with him 
 elsewhere referred to, the terms of which were 
 extremely cordial. Chorley was therefore dis- 
 appointed, when a new work by Hawthorne 
 was published soon after their acquaintance 
 had been established, to find himself unable 
 to render it as high a tribute as he had 
 rendered to its predecessors. The short- 
 comings of “ Transformation ” were accord- 
 ingly criticised in the ‘ Athenaeum ’ of March 
 3rd, 1860, with some keenness; ample praise 
 being accorded to its subtlety and beauty, 
 but a marked stress laid upon the poverty of 
 
110 
 
 LETTER FROM MRS. HAWTHORNE. 
 
 invention which the author had shown in 
 repeating the types of his former fictions : 
 Hilda, for example, being “ own cousin ” to 
 Phoebe in the “ House of the Seven Gables.” 
 Other faults, too, were found, whether justly 
 or unjustly matters little, since it was well 
 worth being mistaken to be set right so charm- 
 ingly. It will he understood that the fol- 
 lowing letters were written on the same 
 sheet ; Mrs. Hawthorne occupying all hut 
 the last leaf, which was reserved for her 
 husband. 
 
 “ My dear Mr. Chorley, 
 
 “ Why do you run with your fine lance 
 directly into the face of Hilda ? You were 
 so fierce and wrathful at being shut out from 
 the mysteries (for which we are all disap- 
 pointed), that you struck in your spurs and 
 plunged with your visor down. For indeed 
 and in truth Hilda is not Phoebe, no more 
 than a wild rose is a calla lily. They are 
 alike only in purity and innocence ; and I am 
 
LETTER FROM MRS. HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 sure you will see this whenever you read the 
 romance a second time. I am very much 
 grieved that Mr. Chorley should seem not to 
 be nicely discriminating ; for what are we to 
 do in that case? The artistic, pensive, re- 
 served, contemplative, delicately appreciative 
 Hilda can in no wise be related to the en- 
 chanting little housewife, whose energy, ra- 
 diance, and eglantine sweetness fill her daily 
 homely duties with joy, animation, and fra- 
 grance. Tell me, then, is it not so ? I utterly 
 protest against being supposed partial because 
 I am Mrs. Hawthorne. But it is so very 
 naughty of you to demolish this new growth 
 in such a hurry, that I cannot help a dis- 
 claimer; and I am so sure of your friendli- 
 ness and largeness, that I am not in the least 
 afraid. You took all the fright out of me by 
 that exquisite, gem-like, gesthetic dinner and 
 tea which you gave us at the fairiest of 
 houses last summer. It was a prettier and 
 more mignonne thing than I thought could 
 happen in London ; so safe, and so quiet, and 
 so very satisfactory, with the light of thought 
 
112 
 
 LETTER FROM MRS. HAWTHORNE. 
 
 playing all about. I have a good deal of 
 fight left in me still about Kenyon, and the 
 ‘ of-course ’ union of Kenyon and Hilda ; but 
 I will not say more, except that Mr. Haw- 
 thorne had no idea that they were destined 
 for each other. Mr. Hawthorne is driven by 
 his Muse, but does not drive her ; and I have 
 known him to be in inextricable doubt in the 
 midst of a book or sketch as to its probable 
 issue, waiting upon the Muse for the rounding 
 in of the sphere which every work of true 
 art is. I am surprised to find that Mr, Haw- 
 thorne was so absorbed in Italy that he had 
 no idea that the story, as such, was interest- 
 ing ! and, therefore, is somewhat absolved from 
 having ruthlessly ‘ excited our interest to 
 voracity.’ 
 
 “ ¥e are much troubled that you have 
 been suffering this winter. We also have 
 had a great deal of illness, and I am only just 
 lifting up my head, after seven weeks of 
 serious struggle with acute bronchitis. I 
 dare say you are laughing (gently) at my 
 explosion of small muskets. But I feel more 
 
LETTER FROM HAWTHORNE. 113 
 
 comfortable now I have discharged a little of 
 my opposition. 
 
 “ With sincere regard, I am, dear Mr. 
 Chorley, yours, 
 
 “ Sophia Hawthorne. 
 
 “ Leamington, March 5th, 1860. 
 
 “ 21 Bath Street.” 
 
 “ Dear Mr. Chorley, 
 
 u You see how fortunate I am in having 
 a critic close at hand, whose favourable ver- 
 dict consoles me for any lack of appreciation 
 in other quarters. Really, I think you were 
 wrong in assaulting the individuality of my 
 poor Hilda. If her portrait bears any resem- 
 blance to that of Phoebe, it must be the fault 
 of my mannerism as a painter. But I thank 
 you for the kind spirit of your notice ; and if 
 you had found ten times as much fault, you 
 are amply entitled to do so, by the quantity 
 of generous praise heretofore bestowed. 
 
 “ Sincerely yours, 
 
 “ Hath. Hawthorne. 
 
 “ 21 Bath Street, Leamington.” 
 
 VOL. IT. 
 
 I 
 
114 
 
 VERSATILITY. 
 
 Before parting from the subject of Chorley’s 
 characteristics as a literary critic, an illustra- 
 tion or two must he given of what has not 
 yet been noticed — his versatility. The pro- 
 vince of belles-lettres is one of the least 
 limited in literature ; poetry, novels, essays, 
 and sketches falling within its strictest 
 definition. According to his interpre- 
 tation of it, biographies, records of travel, 
 and treatises upon Art were also included. 
 The limit was put here, it being his wont, as 
 has been seen,* to decline the discussion of 
 any subject of which he had not a com- 
 petent knowledge; but the field, even then, 
 was a larger one than most men of letters in 
 our generation would feel' honestly qualified 
 to explore. 
 
 With much mannerism of style he united 
 considerable variety of method, and could be 
 not less earnest in reproof of a grave offender 
 on a point of art or ethics, than willing desipere 
 in loco when it was only the sentimentality of 
 a “ minor minstrel ” which deserved a little 
 
 See yoI. i. pages 90 and 274. 
 
REVIEW OF MR. RU SKIN'S WORKS. 
 
 115 
 
 gentle ridicule. Extracts from an article 
 which he contributed to the ‘ Edinburgh 
 Review ’ on the works of Mr. Ruskin, and 
 from two criticisms in the ‘ Athenaeum,’ one of 
 Mr. Wilkie Collins’ “ Armadale ” the other of 
 Mr. Coventry Patmore’s “ Angel in the 
 House,” may exemplify his modes of dealing 
 with such contrasted subjects. 
 
 “ Modern Painters ,*’ &c., by John Ruskin . 
 
 “ The third volume of “ Modern Painters,” if viewed in 
 context with its writer’s former works, shows the extent to 
 which excessive pretensions and imperfect acquirements have 
 bewildered and corrupted a mind rich in ingenious know- 
 ledge of detail, and gifted with rhetorical powers which 
 ought, if better guided, to have done service to the study 
 and the philosophy of Art. If we examine how far in Mr. 
 Buskin’s writings desire for display has superseded the love 
 of truth, the task is entered on, not because it is agreeable, 
 but because it is seasonable. After having made a fame by 
 hanging on to the skirts of a famous artist — after deluding 
 those craving for novelty into the belief that a dashing style 
 must imply precious discoveries — after having met the 
 humour of the time by preaching the religion of architecture, 
 with a freedom in the use of sacred names and sacred things 
 from which a more reverential man would have shrunk— 
 after having served as an eloquent though too flattering guide 
 to the treasures of Venice— after having enriched the citizens 
 of this Scottish metropolis with receipts how to amend the 
 architecture of our city by patching Palladian squares, 
 
116 
 
 BE VIEW OF MR. BUSKIN'S WOBKS. 
 
 streets, and crescents with Gothic windows, balconies, and 
 pinnacles — after having lectured to decorators on the beauty 
 and virtue of painting illegible letters on signboards and shop- 
 fronts— the wisdom of Mr. Euskin has of late begun to cry in 
 the streets. He attempts to erect the most extravagant 
 paradoxes into new canons of taste ; and the virulence of his 
 personalities is only exceeded by the eccentricity of his 
 judgments. He now periodically enters the Exhibition-room 
 as an overseer, summoning gallery-loungers to stand and 
 deliver their sympathies, calling on bad painters to tremble, 
 and assailing those whom he dislikes with menaces and 
 insults. Thus, in the third edition of his “ Royal Academy 
 Yade-mecum for 1855, ” after having referred to a former 
 vituperation of a picture by Mr. Roberts, f I have great personal 
 regard for Mr. Roberts/ says our oracle, ( but it may be well 
 f to state that whenever I blame a painting, I do so as gently 
 f as is consistent with just explanation of its principal defects. 
 ‘ I never say half of what I could say in its disfavour ; and 
 c it will hereafter be found that when once I have felt it my 
 ‘ duty to attack a picture, the worst policy which the friends 
 f of the artist can possibly adopt will be to defend it 9 (Notes, 
 third edition, p. 86). Absurd and impertinent as this lan- 
 guage is, especially when addressed to artists who do not 
 owe their fame to Mr. Ruskin’s favour, it may be worth 
 while to inquire what right he has to use it. It may be 
 conceded that few English writers have devoted themselves 
 to the study of Art who have been more richly gifted by 
 Nature than Mr. Ruskin. He has that warmth of admiration 
 which is eminently quickening to the spirits of colder 
 pilgrims; he has that brightness of imagination which 
 enables him to seize what is subtle in intention and to com- 
 prehend what is noble in design. He commands an expres- 
 sive style, fluent, versatile, and sonorous in no common 
 degree. He can allow for the varying relations which exist 
 
REVIEW OF MR. R US KIN’S WORKS. 
 
 117 
 
 betwixt Art and society. Mr. Ruskin, too, has wrought 
 industriously, travelled far, seen much, collected largely. 
 These are precious attributes and qualifications; yet rarely 
 has the value of such gifts been more completely neutralised 
 than in the case of the author of “ Modern Painters.” Rarely 
 has vanity so overweening in stature, so unblushing in front, 
 so magisterial in language, risen up between a writer and his 
 
 public All who desire to be taught have a right to 
 
 claim from those who profess to teach them, besides the name 
 of truth, something of its nature; truth in research, truth 
 
 in definition, truth in reasoning, truth in interpretation 
 
 No one has ever exposed his claims to truthfulness to a 
 sterner examination than Mr. Ruskin; since rarely has the 
 serviceable cry been raised more loudly than by him, whether 
 to authenticate the examples he has collected, to recommend 
 the principles he expounds, or to praise the artists whom he 
 delights to honour. * He will not,’ he says, f put forth an 
 ‘ example of Raphael’s tree- work without having copied the 
 ‘ trees leaf for leaf’ (“ Modern Painters,” vol. iii. p. 320). He 
 will not defend the irregularities on the fagade of Pisa 
 Cathedral without having precisely counted the arches in 
 each arcade. He does not specify merely the coloured 
 marbles which harmoniously encrust a Murano ar chi volt, 
 but he calls attention to the very spots in some of the 
 fragments. The speciousness of such professed accuracy is 
 calculated to inspire confidence, and to discourage all counter- 
 examination. Yet those who rely on Mr. Ruskin’s precision 
 of detail will receive severe shocks when they come to test 
 it precisely. We have ourselves detected more than one 
 gross misrepresentation in the recondite and remote examples 
 which he is much given to quote. If any one, for example, 
 examine, with these lectures in hand, the bracket from the 
 front of Lyons Cathedral, engraved (plate ix. fig. 15) for the 
 “ Edinburgh Discourses on Architecture and Painting,” and 
 
118 
 
 REVIEW OF MR. RUS KIN’S WORKS . 
 
 there elaborately descanted on, he will find that the lecturer 
 sketched that quaint morsel of stone-work through a glass 
 as delusive as the veriest lilac or orange pane which bears 
 the name of Mr. Buskin’s peculiar aversion — Claude Lorraine. 
 Or again, let the student of architectural detail search in 
 the portal of Bourges Cathedral for the hawthorn wreath 
 more than once referred to by Mr. Buskin as a lovely specimen 
 of rural realism applied to the purposes of devotional art. 
 He may search long before he finds what stands to Mr. 
 Buskin for hawthorn, and will turn away from his discovery, 
 when he has made it, astounded at the imagination of the 
 writer who has wrought up an example so unimportant and 
 so questionable into a type of disproportionate value. Or 
 (to offer a last example) let him take Mr. Buskin’s rapturous 
 exposition of the Mosaic olive-tree ( vide “ Stones of Venice,” 
 vol. ii., p. 178) and then compare it with the lecturer’s 
 contemptuous mention of such Greek patterns as represent 
 the waves of the sea, the flowers of the honeysuckle, or the 
 leaves of the acanthus. We are satisfied that the stilted 
 exaggeration of such praise and the injustice of such blame 
 will strike the student as among the artifices of partisanship, 
 which amount, in every sense of the word, to partial 
 
 abandonment of veracity and a total want of candour 
 
 Let us proceed to illustrate Mr. Buskin’s appreciation of 
 truthfulness in performance, as exhibited by his favourites 
 among painters When he speaks of a modern land- 
 
 scape-painter whom he wishes to demolish, because of his 
 over-neatness, in order to extol Turner’s slovenliness as 
 sublime, he becomes poetical in the deification of dirt. f And 
 ‘ this by the way ’ (says^Mr. Buskin apropos of Mr. Stanfield) 
 f ought to be added respecting modern painters in general? 
 ‘ that they have not a proper sense of the value of dirt. 
 ‘ Cottage children never appear but in freshly got-up caps and 
 * aprons, and white-handed beggars excite compassion in un- 
 
REVIEW OF “ARMADALE: 
 
 119 
 
 f exceptionable rags. In reality, all the colours of things asso- 
 ‘ ciated with human life derive something of their expression 
 ' and value from the tones of impurity’ (“ Modern Painters/’ 
 revised ed., p. 120). But when it suits Mr. Buskin to prate 
 concerning ' the nature of Gothic,’ in order that he may 
 destroy all art and artists that are not Gothic, Byzantine, 
 or Pre-Baphaelite, he changes his tone and reverses his 
 sentences. Listen to him when, in the “ Stones of Venice,” it 
 suits his humour to make an end of Murillo as a painter of 
 beggar-boys : ‘ But observe another point in the lower figure 
 ‘ of the Dulwich Gallery picture. It lies so that the sole of 
 ‘ the foot is turned towards the spectator, not because it 
 ' would have lain less easily in another attitude, but that the 
 f painter may draw and exhibit the grey dust engrained in 
 < the foot. Do not call this the painting of nature ; it is mere 
 ‘ delight in foulness. The lesson, if there be any in the 
 ‘ picture, is not one whit the stronger. We all know that a 
 ‘ beggar’s bare foot cannot be clean; there is no need to thrust 
 ' its degradation into the sight, as if no human imagination 
 * were vigorous enough for its conception.’ — Vol. ii. p. 193. 
 
 * * * * t*s 
 
 “ We have already bestowed upon this volume more space 
 than its merits deserve, but its gross and glaring extravagancies 
 and defects constitute a strong claim to notice. It is the 
 worst book of a bad series of books, mischievous to Art, 
 mischievous to literature, but mischievous most of all to 
 those young and eager minds, animated by the love of Art and 
 of literature, which may mistake this declamatory trash for 
 substantial or stimulating food.” — 'Edinburgh Be view,’ April, 
 1856, pp. 535-557. 
 
 “ Armadale” by Wilkie Collins . 
 
 “ It is not pleasant to speak as we must speak of this 
 powerful story, but in the interests of everything that is to be 
 
120 
 
 REVIEW OF “ARMADALE: 
 
 cherished in life, in poetry, in Art, it is impossible to be 
 over-explicit in the expression of judgment. Mr. W. Collins 
 stands in a position too distinguished among novelists not 
 to be amenable to the plainest censure when he commits 
 himself to a false course of literary creation. “ Armadale ” is 
 a sensation novel with a vengeance; one, however, which 
 could hardly fail to follow “ No Name.” Those who make 
 plot their first consideration and humanity the second — 
 those, again, who represent the decencies of life as too often 
 so many hypocrisies, have placed themselves in a groove 
 which goes and must go in a downward direction, whether 
 
 as regards fiction or morals We are in a period of 
 
 diseased invention, and the coming phase of it may be palsy. 
 Mr. Collins belongs to the class of professing satirists who 
 are eager to lay bare the ‘ blotches and blains ’ which foster 
 beneath the skin and taint the blood of humanity. He is 
 ready with those hackneyed and specious protests against 
 the cant of conventionalism. These may amount to a cant 
 more unwholesome than that against which it is aimed. This 
 time the interest of his tale centres upon one of the most 
 hardened female villains whose devices and desires have 
 ever blackened fiction — a forger, a convicted adulteress, 
 murderess, and thief — a woman who deliberately, by the aid 
 of a couple of wretches whose practices belong to the police- 
 cells, but not to pages over which honest people should 
 employ and enjoy their leisure, sits down to make her way 
 to fortune and apparent respectability by imposture, deliberate 
 murder, and, lastly, by cold-blooded unfaithfulness to the man 
 who had really loved her and rescued her from her bad life, 
 and for whom she is said to have entertained her solitary 
 
 feeling of real attachment Doubtless such writhen 
 
 creatures may live and breathe in the ‘ sinks and sewers 9 of 
 society, engendered by the secret vices and infirmities of 
 those who were answerable for their existence, and who 
 
REVIEW OF “ TEE ANGEL IN TEE BOUSE.” 121 
 
 encourage their misdoings, but when we see them displayed 
 in fiction with all the loving care of a consummate artist (and 
 without any such genuine motive as had formerly Hogarth, 
 and latterly Mr. Dickens, not to show a horror without a 
 suggestion towards its cure), we are oddly reminded of a line 
 in Granger’s West Indian poem, “ The Sugar Cane ” — 
 
 ‘ Now, Muse, let’s sing of rats !’ 
 
 What artist would choose vermin as his subjects?” — 
 Athenaeum, June 2nd, 1866. 
 
 “ The Angel in the Eouse — The Betrothal 
 “ The gentle reader we apprise, That this new Angel in 
 the House Contains a tale not very wise, About a person 
 and a spouse. The author, gentle as a lamb, Has managed 
 his rhymes to fit, And haply fancies he has writ Another “ In 
 Memoriam.” How his intended gathered flowers, And took 
 her tea and after sung. Is told in style somewhat like ours, 
 For delectation of the young. But, reader, lest you say we 
 quiz The poet’s record of his she, Some little pictures you 
 shall see, Not in our language, but in his. 
 
 “ ‘ While thus I grieved and kissed her glove. 
 
 My man brought in her note to say 
 Papa had bid her send his love, 
 
 And hoped I’d dine with them next day ; 
 
 They had learned and practised Purcell’s glee. 
 
 To sing it by to-morrow night : 
 
 The postscript was — her sisters and she 
 Enclosed some violets blue and white. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 “ s Restless and sick of long exile, 
 
 From those sweet friends I rode, to see 
 The church repairs, and after awhile 
 Waylaying the Dean, was asked to tea. 
 
122 
 
 CONTRIBUTIONS TO QUARTERLIES. 
 
 They introduced the Cousin Fred 
 I’d heard of, Honors favourite ; grave, 
 
 Dark, handsome, bluff, but gently bred, 
 
 And with an air of the salt wave/ 
 
 “Fear not this saline Cousin Fred; He gives no tragic 
 mischief birth ; There are no tears for you to shed, Unless 
 they may be tears of mirth. From ball to bed, from field to 
 farm, The tale flows nicely purling on ; With much conceit 
 there is no harm, In the love-legend here begun. The rest 
 will come another day, If public sympathy allows ; And this 
 is all we have to say About the “ Angel in the House.” ” — 
 Athenaeum, Jan. 20th, 1855. 
 
 The article in the ‘ Edinburgh Review ’ 
 from which the first of these extracts is taken, 
 in its searching exposure and trenchant casti- 
 gation of the inconsistent extravagance of 
 he writer arraigned, is one of Chorley’s most 
 elaborate criticisms. Among others of more 
 pretension than he usually attempted may 
 be named an article on the life and works of 
 Handel (‘Edinburgh Review,’ July, 1857); 
 one on Beranger (ib., July, 1858) ; and one 
 on Miss Austin and Miss Mitford (‘ Quarterly 
 Review,’ Jan. 1870). It must suffice to dismiss 
 these with a bare reference, and here close 
 the consideration of Chorley’s critical career. 
 
DRAMATIC VENTURES. 
 
 123 
 
 More stress has been laid upon it than its 
 actual results might seem to warrant, from 
 a belief that the qualities of candour, courage, 
 and discrimination are still rare enough in lite- 
 rary censorship to maintain the highest value, 
 and that the example of a veteran, of whom 
 these were the uniform characteristics, may in- 
 cite some of us, who follow his calling, to a 
 frankness in the declaration of facts and a 
 caution in the employment of epithets, by 
 which authors and readers would alike benefit. 
 
 Among his published works of these years 
 I must refer at some length to two by 
 which he justly set considerable store, and 
 one of which may possibly yet be destined 
 to attain the success denied to it in his 
 lifetime. This was the second of two dra- 
 matic ventures of which the year 1854 regis- 
 tered the failure. 
 
 In a detached fragment of material for 
 his Autobiography — which I conjecture was 
 intended to preface the narrative of these 
 failures — he thus refers to the irresistible 
 impulse by which he felt attracted to what 
 
124 
 
 WRITING FOR TIIE STAGE. 
 
 Dickens has somewhere described as the “ load- 
 stone rock ” of literature : 
 
 ‘ I had, and always shall have, a strong 
 ‘ desire to write for the stage, because there 
 ‘ one is brought face to face with those who 
 ‘ accept or those who refuse the offering. 
 ‘ Of course the pitfalls in that world are by the 
 ‘ thousand. Jealousy and intrigue must he 
 ‘ faced and disconcerted, and this without re- 
 ‘ course to jealousy or intrigue on the part of 
 ‘ the defendant. There must be, especially as 
 ‘ our stage now stands, the author’s perpetual, 
 ‘ gnawing anxiety, caused by the wonderful 
 ‘ inefficiency — nay, even want of intelligence — 
 £ of two-thirds of his interpreters. How vast 
 ‘ and wide and blank this is, can hardly be cre- 
 £ dited by ninety-nine out of the hundred per- 
 £ sons who witness a representation and judge 
 ‘ the work by the manner in which it is set 
 £ forth. Yet these disheartening truths, as old 
 £ as the drama — let them have been ever so 
 £ well got by heart beforehand — will not dis- 
 £ courage any one in whom instincts for the 
 £ stage are born. I never presumed to con- 
 
DRAMATIC VENTURES. 
 
 125 
 
 4 ceive that I should fare better than my better 
 4 predecessors ; but, had the difficulties been 
 ‘ multiplied tenfold, I must still have tried my 
 4 fortune ; and I can sincerely say that my 
 4 preliminary knowledge was of use, as sparing 
 4 me from the blank misery which attends dis- 
 4 appointed expectation. It is an experience of 
 4 life and emotion, and knowledge of a strange 
 4 world, peopled by strange figures, which I 
 4 would undergo again had I to begin my career 
 4 over again. There is no reasoning on these 
 4 things — no taking or giving counsel. Every 
 4 heart knoweth its own bitterness, but also 
 4 its devices and desires, and its powers of 
 4 endurance. Unless a man can (so to say) 
 4 survey or measure himself, it is perilous work 
 4 for him to put to sea in the wildest of weather 
 4 and on the roughest of waters. The sea 
 4 tempts sailors. But the sensations of him 
 4 who, whether wrecked or saved, is cast on 
 4 shore are as strong as they are serious. 
 4 They mark an advance in life, a deepening 
 4 of every emotion. I repeat (and without 
 4 grimace), I would not be without such expe- 
 
126 
 
 “ THE love-lock: 
 
 * rience, even had I been saved from the suf- 
 ‘ fering which, for the moment, can he sharp 
 ‘ enough, as I can testify.’ 
 
 The above confession bears on its face the 
 evidence of its sincerity ; but it is curious, to 
 say the least, that the knowledge he had 
 acquired of the perils of dramatic enterprise 
 should not have dissuaded him from encoun- 
 tering them in a vessel that he suspected to 
 be unseaworthy. Yet the first of the two ven- 
 tures referred to was risked with a serious ex- 
 pectation that it would fail ; and in deference 
 only to the contrary opinion of a higher autho- 
 rity. “ The Love-lock,” according to Chorley’s 
 account of it, was originally intended as ‘ a 
 ‘ fantastic sort of ‘ morality ’ in dialogued verse 
 ‘ with lyrics interspersed the idea being 
 suggested by Tieck’s tale of “ The Lunen- 
 burg ” (in Mr. Carlyle’s translation), and 
 the motive being to denounce the Australian 
 gold-fever which had set in with so much 
 virulence during 1852. The conversion of 
 this lyrical structure into a dramatic • shape 
 was undertaken at the instance of Mr. Alfred 
 
THE LOVE-LOCK. 
 
 127 
 
 Wigan, whose 4 rapid progress and popu- 
 ‘ larity as an actor ’ Chorley had 4 followed 
 ‘ with more than ordinary interest.’ The drama 
 4 was shown to Mr. Wigan 4 in every stage of 
 4 its progress, accepted by him when incomplete,’ 
 and its completion urged, 4 in order that, 
 4 when forming his company for the Olympic 
 4 Theatre, he might provide for its representa- 
 4 tion ; he at one time expressing his intention 
 4 of opening his management with it. Against 
 4 this ’ — continues Chorley — 4 1 protested from 
 4 the first moment, being satisfied that the 
 4 experiment of playing 44 The Love-lock” was 
 4 one in which the chances were even betwixt 
 4 a fair success and a thorough failure, and not 
 4 choosing by any essay of mine to expose a new 
 4 enterprise to a risque so severe. For once, 
 
 4 foresight proved a piece of real good fortune 
 4 to its owner. The failure of 44 The Love-lock ” 
 
 4 when it was played on the 13th of February, 
 
 4 1854, was dismal enough (if I wished it) to 
 4 establish my sagacity as a calculator of alter- 
 4 natives, and, if any evil-wishers of myself or 
 4 the theatre were there, to give them the live- 
 
128 
 
 “ THE love-lock: 
 
 4 liest satisfaction. I have witnessed more 
 4 than one scene of the kind, but I think I 
 ‘ never saw disapprobation more violent. . . . 
 4 After all, the damage done was fatal to no 
 4 one concerned in the affair. The theatre suf- 
 4 fered less by the disappointment than it 
 4 must have done had the ‘ morality ’ been 
 4 presented at a more critical period. The 
 4 luckless author was in reality, and not in 
 4 seeming, prepared for the possibility of such 
 4 an issue.” * 
 
 I must confess, after reading the play, 
 that it does not seem to me to have deserved 
 a better fate. Its unreality alone would con- 
 demn it. In opera or extravaganza such an 
 abstract personage as Mammon might pass 
 muster on the stage, but, to be tolerated 
 in serious drama, must assume some more 
 concrete presentment. The plot is not un- 
 skilful, but the dialogue lacks point, and the 
 
 * Accordingly he bore the disappointment, even at the 
 time, very philosophically, writing to the editor of the 
 ‘ Athenaeum 9 next morning to promise a review on which he 
 was working — “in proof that though damned , I am not 
 dead I” 
 
A FIVE- ACT TRAGEDY. 
 
 129 
 
 characters, with scarcely an exception, fail to 
 interest. 
 
 His second venture was of a higher 
 order, a five-act tragedy. Though not com- 
 pleted for performance until 1854, it had 
 been planned and in great part executed in 
 1846. The American actress Miss Cushman, 
 who was then fulfilling an engagement in 
 England, had greatly impressed him with 
 her power of poetic apprehension ; and the 
 part of his heroine was designed with express 
 accommodation to her role. Some negotiations 
 for its representation appear to have been 
 made in this year, as I infer from a note 
 addressed to him by Mr. Browning, which 
 contains a few golden words of appreciation, 
 not to be omitted by any biographer to whom 
 Chorley’s memory is dear. 
 
 “ Tell me of your success in your own nego- 
 tiations, which I confidently expect, and be- 
 forehand rejoice in. ... I do feel that you 
 are safe in the hands of those truthful-looking 
 Cushmans ; and being very glad you have got 
 them, shall be yet gladder when the world gets 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 “DUCHESS eleanour: 
 
 you , and helps to realise the good wishes of 
 such as myself, with only wishes at their dis- 
 posal, for a most conscientious artist, honest 
 critic, and loyal friend.” The project, however, 
 was abandoned until 1854, when Miss Cushman 
 was again in England, and “ Duchess Elea- 
 nour ” * was prepared for the stage. 
 
 For a mediaeval story of Italian intrigue, 
 the plot is tolerably simple. In the opening 
 scene, one Count Soranzo, an adventurer of 
 doubtful origin and undoubted villainy, hav- 
 ing occasion to evade the pursuit of justice, 
 arrives in disguise at Ferrara. He had a few 
 years before rendered some services to its 
 Duke, an impulsive dissolute youth, when on 
 a visit to Naples, who gave him in recom- 
 pense a pledge to marry his daughter Yiolet, 
 then at a convent, where she had been bred 
 in ignorance of her parentage. Soon after 
 obtaining this promise and sending Yiolet 
 to Ferrara, Soranzo had to fly for his life, and 
 was supposed to have perished at sea. The 
 Duke, pursuing his travels to Rome, there 
 * Thomas Hailes Lacy, Strand. 1854. 
 
DUCHESS ELEA N OUT;: 
 
 131 . 
 
 fell in love with and married an eminent 
 actress, Leonora Nardi, also the daughter of 
 Soranzo, hut by another mother. Forced upon 
 the stage by her father’s cruelty, and robbed 
 by his greed of the profits of her genius, she 
 had been relieved from torture by the news 
 of his death, and was careful to hide so shame- 
 ful a connection from the knowledge of her 
 husband, who, in the early days of their 
 union, had invested her with the dignity 
 proper to noble extraction and a share of his 
 own authority. At the time of Soranzo’s 
 arrival at Ferrara, however, the aspect of 
 fortune was ominous. The charm of her 
 stately beauty and moral purity still retained 
 the Duke’s admiration, but his passion was 
 on the wane, and he half regretted the non- 
 fulfilment of his pledge to marry Yiolet, 
 whom he had introduced at Court as his 
 cousin. She, a blithe innocent girl, had been 
 taken by the Duchess into particular favour, 
 and, with her sanction, had recently exchanged 
 vows of affection with Count Raphael, the 
 Duke’s near kinsman. Another courtier, 
 
132 
 
 DUCHESS ELEANOUE. 
 
 Count Abelard, whose suit she had rejected 
 at the instance of the Duchess, had just re- 
 turned to Ferrara, after a year’s absence, and 
 from him, as a fellow-traveller, Soranzo learnt 
 the story of Leonora’s marriage. 
 
 By the hands of Bel lotto, a professional char- 
 latan with whom he finds refuge, he sends her 
 proof that the report of his death was false. 
 She swoons on reading the announcement, 
 but manages to deceive the Duke as to the 
 cause. The waning of his love is evidenced 
 in his indifference to her plea of illness, and 
 his angry refusal to sanction, at her request, 
 the marriage of Violet and Raphael. This 
 redoubles her anxiety to prevent his discovery 
 of the truth ; and she sends for Bellotto 
 privately, in the hope, by his agency, of in- 
 ducing her father to leave Ferrara. Abelard, 
 who longs to be revenged on her for having 
 frustrated his suit, suspects a mystery, and 
 hides himself behind the pavilion where she 
 recei ves Bellotto. Inferring from w hat he hears 
 of their conversation that Soranzo is a former 
 lover, he interrupts the interview, leaving 
 
DUCHESS ELEANOUR: 
 
 133 
 
 her barely time to conceal the charlatan. 
 Affecting zeal for her interests, he suggests 
 that the Duke’s refusal to sanction Violet’s 
 marriage arises from the illicit relations which 
 exist between them, and lays at her feet 
 the offering of his own truer devotion ; but 
 when she spurns his advances and threatens 
 exposure, he doffs the mask and avows that 
 he has heard her conversation with Bellotto, 
 whom he drags from concealment. The Duke 
 and several courtiers coming up at this moment 
 the Duchess sees herself in her enemy’s 
 power, and is forced to bargain for his 
 silence : 
 
 f Sir — I cannot choose — this night at least, 
 
 ‘ Silence between ns ! (Aside.) Father, I give np 
 ‘ All I have left — mine honoured stainless name — 
 f To a fiend’s keeping F 
 
 Explaining that her interview with Abelard 
 had been sought by him in order to effect 
 a reconciliation, the Duchess feigns an un- 
 wonted gaiety, which excites the Duke’s sur- 
 prise. At a convivial tete-a-tete with him 
 next day, Abelard takes advantage of this to 
 sow the seeds of suspicion and discord : 
 
134 
 
 DUCHESS eleanour: 
 
 f ’Tis aye your stateliest dames 
 f Who run to most exuberance in their mirth ; 
 c Giants have mighty passions — quaff their joys 
 f In beakers full, then all intoxicate 
 
 ‘ Dance in wild ring 
 
 f Such are no mates for moderate men likq me, 
 
 ' But for the North Wind, or the God of Fire, 
 f Who leaves his swart hill-chasms to riot among 
 ‘ The large-limbed nymphs of some abundant vale : 
 f Give me some softer charmer, with a heart 
 ‘ Which trembles at a touch — a cheek that keeps 
 f Its bloom close to the surface ; a prompt eye 
 ‘ That weeps or sparkles at Love’s tale of tears 
 ‘ Or joy !' 
 
 The Duke recognises the intended com- 
 parison with Violet, but deprecates any dis- 
 paragement of his Duchess, in whose fidelity 
 he confidently reposes. Abelard is at first 
 content to hint his doubts, but soon advances 
 to assertion : 
 
 ‘ I jest not, sir, nor slander ; this your charge 
 ‘ Hath made me grave. Your wife is woman still, 
 f And had — hath — lovers. 
 f Duke. Sir! (Drops his glass.} 
 
 f Count A. Why, your glass broke 
 
 ‘ Because ’twas glass and brittle. But last night, 
 
 ‘ I marked a lady in a lone alcove, 
 
 ‘ With a man near, low kneeling at her feet ; 
 
 ‘ I heard their muttered talk 
 
 f Why, my lord, 
 
 ‘ You married the great actress, and yet wonder 
 ‘ That she can act !’ 
 
DUCHESS eleanour: 
 
 135 
 
 The Duke’s jealousy is aroused, and he con- 
 sents to put his wife’s loyalty to the test by 
 making overtures of love to Yiolet, and setting 
 his officers in search of the hidden gallant, 
 whom Abelard identifies with the criminal 
 re.cently reported to have arrived in Ferrara. 
 
 In the next scene the Duchess goes, dis- 
 guised in a dress of Yiolet’s, to meet her 
 father at the house of Bellotto. Soranzo, re- 
 lying on the power he wields over the Duke 
 and herself alike, laughs at her entreaties that 
 he should escape, and defies her threats of ex- 
 posure ; ending the interview by asserting that 
 the Duke has brought Yiolet to court as his 
 mistress, and adducing as proof the written 
 pledge of marriage given by him at Naples. 
 The Duchess retires, believing the paper 
 forged ; but all hope dies within her when, in 
 returning to the court, Abelard’s emissary, de- 
 ceived by her disguise, slips into her hand the 
 Duke’s love-tokens to Yiolet. Meantime, the 
 latter has been lured by her father to seek an 
 interview with him, at which the secret of her 
 birth will be revealed. Going disguised in a 
 
136 
 
 “ D UOHESS ELEANO UR: 
 
 dress belonging to the Duchess, she is met and 
 mistaken for her by Abelard. Indignation at 
 the insinuations he ventures to make under 
 this impression, provokes Yiolet to unmask ; 
 but his craft is equal to the emergency, and 
 revenge is gratified when Count Raphael finds 
 them in colloquy, and hastily imagines her 
 unfaithful. 
 
 The next scene shows the Duchess driven 
 by mental torture almost to the brink of 
 suicide. When Yiolet enters, with the inten- 
 tion of revealing Abelard’s slander and her 
 own misunderstanding with Raphael, the 
 Duchess assails her with bitter, passionate 
 sarcasm as a successful rival. This bitterness 
 is unrestrained by the Duke’s entry, and con- 
 firms his suspicions : 
 
 £ This mood of yours too thinly cloaks your fears. 
 f Beware ! yon play with sharp-edged tools ! Methinks 
 ‘ They who themselves have secrets in the dark 
 f Have lost the right of Virtue starched to rail 
 ‘ If Youth be glad because the noon is bright, 
 
 ‘ And Beauty that the world is kind/ 
 
 The Duchess replies with dignity, but, firm 
 in her purpose of screening her father from 
 
duchess eleanour: 
 
 137 
 
 punishment and her husband from dishonour, 
 restrains herself from the avowal which would 
 clear her name, when the crisis suddenly cul- 
 minates by the entrance of Soranzo. Driven 
 to bay by the search made for him as a cri- 
 minal, he resolves to stake his double chance 
 of safety at one cast. Addressing himself 
 first to the Duke, he boldly claims him as a 
 former intimate, and reminds him of his bargain 
 to marry Violet. Taken by surprise, the Duke 
 is unable to find an answer ; but before 
 Soranzo has time to continue his revelations, 
 the Duchess interposes, and, on her knees, im- 
 plores the Duke to let him go free. Still 
 believing him her lover, the Duke refuses, 
 when Soranzo appeals to the paper he has 
 given her in proof of his assertion. She at 
 once produces and destroys it unread, so that 
 her husband may be free from his thrall, and 
 then renews her plea. The Duke, though 
 touched by her generosity, still refuses this 
 for her own sake, and orders the arrest of 
 Soranzo, who, in the struggle, stabs him 
 and escapes. The Duchess, in her agony, 
 
138 
 
 duchess eleanour: 
 
 shrieks out the word “ Father !” and the 
 Duke, in dying, recognises her secret and her 
 faith. 
 
 The last scene is laid in the church where 
 the body of the Duke lies in state. Soranzo 
 and Bellotto have both disappeared ; and sus- 
 picion of having caused the murder has fallen 
 on the Duchess, to which she has given colour 
 by her haste in assuming the sceptre, and 
 conferring the rank of chamberlain upon 
 Abelard, by whom the charge has been bruited. 
 Her motive is evident when she appears at 
 the obsequies, before the incensed crowd of 
 citizens, to challenge the right of ordeal for 
 herself, denounce her slanderer, and appoint 
 Count Raphael as her successor. Abelard has 
 been honoured only that he may he disgraced, 
 and his chamberlainship terminates with her 
 reign. The last engine of his malice fails, 
 and the mystery of the murder is solved, when 
 Soranzo, of whom Bellotto has been in pursuit, 
 is dragged in mortally wounded. The Duchess, 
 still intent to save him, refuses to utter a word 
 in condemnation, and when Abelard triumph- 
 
DUCHESS eleanoue: 
 
 139 
 
 antly taunts her with complicity, she falls on 
 her knees in a passion of prayer : 
 
 ‘ Thou, enthroned above 
 f This agony of mortal wreck and pain, 
 
 ‘ Who, for Thy creature’s too unbending pride, 
 
 ‘ And love too wild that scarce had need of Thee, 
 
 ‘ Hast set her in the anguish of this strait — 
 
 ‘ ’Twixt speech and silence — good repute and shame — 
 
 ‘ Heaven and the pit — the living and the dead ! — 
 
 ‘ I turn to Thee that readest as in Thy book 
 c Of the blue heaven whose letters are the stars, 
 
 f My love, my torture, and my innocence 
 
 f As wife who never swerved 
 
 ‘ In thought, word, gesture from her loyalty, 
 f I dare stand upright in Thy holy sight ! 
 
 ‘ And will not answer mine oppressor’s taunts, 
 
 ‘ And will not for the living vex the dead, 
 
 ‘ For the dead wound the living ! Give me pain — 
 
 ‘ Want — shame — an unblessed grave : I wait Thy will. 
 
 ‘ Safer beneath its scourge than in the smile 
 ‘ Of erring human mercy. If Thou wilt, 
 
 ‘ Adjudge this cause— I speak not !’ 
 
 Soranzo, bold in death, publicly avows him- 
 self her father, and the Duke’s murderer. 
 The baffled Abelard is banished, and after 
 joining the hands of Raphael and Violet, whose 
 innocence has been cleared, the Duchess seeks 
 seclusion in a convent. 
 
 With allowance made for certain obvious 
 
140 
 
 “DUCHESS ELEANOUR: 
 
 improbabilities and artifices of construction, 
 the ingenuity displayed in this plot must, I 
 think, be generally conceded. For successful 
 representation there is, perhaps, too much com- 
 plexity of motive, and too little variety in the 
 tenor of a story so painful as almost to deserve 
 the epithet “ repulsive ” applied to it by Mr. 
 Buckstone. Add to this, that the part of the 
 Duchess overweighs the rest — a continuous 
 strain being put upon her action from first to 
 last — and the reception which the play even- 
 tually met from its audience seems to require 
 no other explanation. These defects, however, 
 will not blind the lovers of dramatic literature 
 to its abundant evidences of the writer’s skill 
 in analysing character and delineating pas- 
 sion, noble and ignoble. Distracted by con- 
 tending emotions, the Duchess preserves the 
 large outlines of her heroic nature as con- 
 sistently as Abelard manifests his unalloyed 
 malignity under the influence of a single 
 ambition. Each of the minor characters has 
 an individuality of its own. Soranzo’s reck- 
 less audacity, the Duke’s easy sensualism and 
 
“DUCHESS EL E AN OUR: 
 
 141 
 
 impulsive susceptibility, Bellotto’s humorous 
 combination of knavery and fidelity, Violet’s 
 innocent coquetry, Raphael's generous im- 
 patience, are all distinguishing traits and 
 naturally developed in action. In sustained 
 vigour of language this play is probably supe- 
 rior to any other of Chorley’s writings, though 
 occasionally marred by extravagances that 
 savour of bombast. 
 
 At the instance of Miss Cushman the tra- 
 gedy was accepted for the Haymarket Theatre. 
 The first performance took place on March 
 13th, 1854, and was moderately successful, but 
 the next night reversed its fate. In a letter 
 of the 16th, Mr. Buckstone announced to 
 Chorley with “ the deepest regret,” that in 
 consequence of the disapprobation manifested 
 at the fall of the curtain and the scanty 
 receipts at the box-office, the play must be 
 withdrawn. The reasons which, in the opinion 
 of this experienced manager, sufficiently ac- 
 counted for the failure, left his conviction still 
 unshaken in Chorley’s ability as a dramatist. 
 
 “ The objections,” he writes, “ to the play 
 
142 
 
 “DUCHESS eleanoue: 
 
 consist, not only in its gloomy character, but 
 in its story, which borders on the repulsive. 
 These features in dramatic composition may 
 belong to and he tolerated in the old drama- 
 tists, hut new plays, to he successful in the 
 present day, require to be more genial in their 
 nature. Still, you have shown so much dra- 
 matic power in your dialogue, that) with a more 
 natural and a better subject, I would not hesi- 
 tate to produce another play written by you.” 
 
 It was some consolation that “ Duchess 
 Eleanour” met with more appreciation with- 
 out the theatre than within. The review of 
 it in the ‘ Athen^um,’ a journal, where, as 
 has been seen, a member of its staff could 
 by no means rely upon obtaining a favour- 
 able verdict, seizes with much skill on the 
 features of originality and power by which 
 the figure of the Duchess defines itself in the 
 reader’s memory.* 
 
 * Miss Cushman herself thought highly of the part, thank- 
 ing the author earnestly in one of her letters for the oppor- 
 tunity “ afforded me of giving birth to another child of my 
 intellect, which I love as much as though warm, flesh and 
 blood.” 
 
roccabella: 
 
 143 
 
 Other plays in manuscript, of later date, 
 either wholly or partially complete, attest 
 that the attraction of dramatic composition 
 had in no degree lost its hold on Chorley’s 
 fancy ; hut, as he did not give them publica- 
 tion in his lifetime their consideration does 
 not fall within the limits which I have pre- 
 scribed to myself in writing this account of 
 his literary achievements. 
 
 The only other work of which I shall speak 
 in detail is a novel entitled “ Roccabella,” * 
 which he completed and published in 1859 
 under the pseudonym of Paul Bell. He had 
 commenced it some years before, under the 
 strong impression produced on his mind by 
 the revolutionary aspect of Europe, as already 
 noted, hut had laid it aside until recalled 
 to the subject by the political events of that 
 year. This book appears to me as much 
 superior to the rest of his prose as “ Duchess 
 Eleanour ” to the rest of his poetic fic- 
 tions, and to afford similar evidence of his 
 dramatic power. The story may he thus 
 * James Blackwood, Paternoster Row. 2 vols. 
 
144 
 
 roccabella: 
 
 told. A beautiful and enthusiastic girl, left 
 an orphan and in poverty, marries, for the 
 sake of his wealth, a Liverpool merchant 
 of twice her age. The match proves un- 
 happy. She is repelled by his stolid, unsym- 
 pathetic temperament, and finds her life one 
 of dreary grandeur and restless romantic 
 cravings. He is disappointed that, in re- 
 turn for the tributes of pride which he has 
 laid at her feet, she manifests indifference to 
 all that concerns him. One night, after din- 
 ner, at which two strangers have been pre- 
 sent, Rosamond Westwood is reading a ro- 
 mance in her own room, when her husband 
 enters, and seats himself, “ a dull, dark, 
 heavy shape,” on a little bright sofa at the 
 foot of her bed. He abruptly announces to 
 her, on the authority of one of the strangers, 
 an eminent surgeon, whom he had consulted 
 as to his health, that she will he a widow in 
 a fortnight, and that he has made ample 
 provision for her by his will, which the 
 other stranger, a lawyer, had been called in 
 to make. The announcement shocks her into 
 
“ PiOCCABELLA.” 
 
 145 
 
 remorseful tears, but his manner repels her 
 sympathy to the last ; and in the condition 
 annexed to his bequest, that her fortune is to 
 pass from her if she marries again, there is 
 a semblance of retaliation that provokes her 
 aversion. His death takes place, as antici- 
 pated. At the reading of his will, in the 
 presence of his relatives, the lawyer produces 
 a sealed packet, containing the testator’s in- 
 structions as to the property which his widow 
 would forfeit by her second marriage. She 
 removes to London, with the intention, after 
 a short residence there, of travelling abroad. 
 She makes various acquaintances, including 
 an honest country gentleman, named Shep- 
 herd, who displays an officious devotion which 
 she is constrained to rebuff, but fails to repel. 
 To prepare herself for a tour in Italy, by 
 a previous study of its literature, she engages 
 as her teacher one Count Roccabella, a Re- 
 publican refugee ; a man whose splendid 
 natural gifts, beauty of person, fascina- 
 tion of manner, generosity of temper, and 
 passionate enthusiasm for his cause, are 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 roccabella; 
 
 marred by the corruption of the atmosphere 
 which he has always breathed, by early con- 
 tact with natures debased into becoming either 
 the minions or the victims of tyranny and 
 priestcraft, and habitual association in man- 
 hood with outcasts of every description, banded 
 together by the common tie of hatred to “ the 
 powers that be.” Rosamond sees only his 
 nobler qualities, and falls deeply in love. He 
 is attracted by her beauty and devotion, not 
 less than by the advantage of securing her 
 reputed wealth to the cause, and proposes mar- 
 riage. Forgetful or careless of the condition 
 under which she holds her fortune, and con- 
 tent to share the competence which he derives 
 from his family, she accepts him. He is 
 staggered at learning the facts from her 
 trustee, but is too honourable to recede, and 
 they are married. The sealed packet left 
 by Mr. Westwood proves, when opened, to 
 contain a paper of instructions for applying 
 Rosamond’s forfeited fortune to charitable 
 purposes, together with another enclosure 
 having reference to ulterior contingencies. 
 
ROCCABELLA .” 
 
 147 
 
 Rosamond is at first too happy to care either for 
 the loss, or for what she soon discovers to he 
 the precarious tenure of her husband’s income. 
 Her delicacy, however, is a little hurt by the 
 extreme readiness with which he accepts the 
 offer of her old lover, Shepherd, to put a 
 house at their disposal ; and she becomes 
 seriously disquieted when, after having thrown 
 herself eagerly into Roccabella’s schemes, she 
 finds in what disreputable intimacy they 
 involve him. An allusion to his antecedents 
 made by one of his associates, who pays her 
 a visit in his absence, increases her uneasiness, 
 though she contrives to conceal it. 
 
 The interests of the cause summon the 
 Count and his bride to Paris, where the 
 news awaits him that the income derived 
 from his family will henceforth be with- 
 drawn. In this juncture, an invaluable 
 friend, as he announces to Rosamond, will 
 be found in the Princess Morgenstein, whom 
 he purposes to visit forthwith, a Polish 
 lady living apart from her husband, and 
 devoting her vast fortune and influence to 
 
148 
 
 " roccabella: 
 
 the Republican propaganda. This announce- 
 ment renews Rosamond’s uneasiness, for the 
 allusion made to her husband’s life before 
 marriage had associated the name of this 
 Princess with his. He had, in truth, been 
 her lover, one of a succession whom her 
 wealth and wit, in the absence of all other 
 fascinations, were sufficient to attract. A 
 rival having displaced him, they had parted 
 in anger ; and it was no return of love, but 
 sheer poverty, that induced him to pay her 
 the visit of which he had spoken to Rosa- 
 mond. The charm of the new lover, how- 
 ever, was waning, and the visitor was eagerly 
 welcomed by the Princess. Professing much 
 interest in his marriage, she at once calls 
 upon Rosamond, whose fears are disarmed by 
 her empressement, and who finally consents 
 to accept the hospitable offer of apartments 
 in her hotel, until the Count’s prospects have 
 brightened. The life there proves more 
 strange than agreeable. The “ Red ” society 
 which frequents the salon has a speech and 
 a manner of its own. The equivocal rela- 
 
ROCCABELLA: 
 
 149 
 
 tions between the Princess and the handsome 
 young painter, Agricole Delbar, whom she 
 calls her cousin ; the tone of familiarity which 
 the former assumes towards Roccabella ; and 
 the advances which Delbar, in retaliation, 
 makes to herself, are perplexing phenomena 
 to the modest Englishwoman. The Count, 
 though not really faithless to his wife, weakly 
 falls in with the Princess’s humour, for the 
 sake of the cause, having given his pledge 
 to raise a legion, which her purse now 
 supplies him with the only means of redeem- 
 ing. The Princess, on her part, is scheming 
 to renew her former relations with him, by 
 engrossing his attention while she foments 
 Delbar’s admiration of Rosamond, and, in- 
 duces her to sit for a picture of Judith, the 
 proceeds of which are to be devoted to the 
 cause. Rosamond’s resolution to keep Delbar 
 at a distance frustrates this plan of arousing 
 Roccabella’s jealousy, but the malign influ- 
 ence of the Princess is an increasing cause 
 of alarm. He is suddenly summoned to Italy, 
 and, though Rosamond cannot accompany 
 
150 
 
 “ ROGC ABELL A: 
 
 him, on account of her approaching confine- 
 ment, the bitterness of parting is alleviated by 
 the thought that this influence will he removed. 
 They part tenderly, Roccabella confiding her 
 to the care of a faithful servant, but, to her 
 consternation, leaving funds for her support 
 in trust with Delbar, of whom he has no 
 suspicion. 
 
 To avoid the intolerable dependence thus 
 involved, she takes advantage of the Princess’s 
 expressed intention of leaving Paris for a 
 while to excuse herself from further sojourn 
 in the hotel, and declines to give her ad- 
 dress. Delbar soon discovers it, and, under 
 colour of his trusteeship, renews his hateful 
 advances. On her determined refusal to 
 accept any obligation at his hands, he re- 
 venges himself by announcing to ber that the 
 old relations between her husband and the 
 Princess are about to be renewed, the latter 
 having just left Paris in disguise to join him 
 at Dijon. The announcement carries truth 
 on its face, and Rosamond’s agony culminates 
 in a brain fever and a premature confinement. 
 
“roccabella: 
 
 151 
 
 She owes her life to the chivalry of her old 
 lover, Shepherd, who, happening to he in Paris, 
 has called at the hotel, and thence tracked 
 her to the mean lodging where she has taken 
 refuge. Here he procures her such help as 
 she needs until her English friends arrive. 
 Meantime, Roccabella, whose journey to Italy 
 had been quickened by a desire to escape from 
 the Princess’s meshes, is waiting at Dijon for 
 political intelligence, hut, becoming uneasy 
 at hearing no news of Rosamond, has almost 
 determined to return, when he is startled one 
 evening by the apparition of the princess in 
 boy’s clothes. His inquiry for news of his 
 wife is put aside with an insinuation that she 
 has accepted other protection, and he is 
 plainly told with what intention he has been 
 followed. His ill-concealed repugnance is on 
 the point of avowal, when the crisis is has- 
 tened by the arrival of Delbar, flushed with 
 wine and furious with rage at having been 
 thrown aside by the Princess for Roccabella, 
 only to be spurned by Rosamond. Fierce 
 words lead to fiercer blows, and Roccabella 
 
152 
 
 “ boccabella: 
 
 dies under liis adversary’s weapon. The ca- 
 tastrophe suffices to reconcile the Princess and 
 her paramour, who, under cover of the excite- 
 ment occasioned by news of a revolution in 
 Paris, escape undiscovered across the frontier. 
 Rosamond rises from her sick-bed to learn 
 that her husband is dead, although the details, 
 which Shepherd visits Dijon to ascertain, 
 are mercifully concealed from her. She 
 returns to England to find that the contin- 
 gency of her second widowhood has been 
 provided for by her first husband’s generosity, 
 the final instructions of whose will secure 
 her an ample fortune. 
 
 It may be gathered, even from this im- 
 perfect outline, that the aim of the book is 
 twofold — to bring some of the leading con- 
 tinental types of character into unfavourable 
 contrast with our own, and to discredit, the 
 attempts of revolutionary agents to obtain 
 English sympathy. In the first half of this 
 aim, Chorley’s effort has been based on an 
 observation of national features sufficient to 
 insure success. The uncouth, generous fore- 
 
eoccabella: 
 
 153 
 
 thought of the unloved Westwood, the manly 
 tenderness and delicacy hidden under the 
 unrefined, officious manners of Shepherd, the 
 trustful devotion and modest firmness of 
 Rosamond, and the unselfish simplicity of 
 her friends, the Bells, are happily set off 
 against the brilliant shallow grace, the un- 
 stable principle, the blunted sensibilities of 
 Roccabella, the sinister, crafty, lustful heart- 
 lessness of the Princess, the vicious, cruel 
 spirit allied to the beauty and genius of 
 Delbar. The second half of Chorley’s aim is 
 deprived of its best chance of success by the 
 copious infusion of animus in his portraiture. 
 Admitting the truthfulness of the delineation 
 in the case of Roccabella, it is impossible to 
 accept the sketches, either of his associates 
 or his English sympathisers, as other than 
 political caricatures. The interest of the 
 story so much depends upon its three or four 
 leading figures that, in the outline given 
 above, little has been said of the minor per- 
 sonages, whose presence, nevertheless, is sig- 
 nificant. Bastien, the associate from whom 
 
154 
 
 “ boccabella: 
 
 Rosamond hears of Roccabella’s antecedents, 
 and Yalpliquet, one of the same “Red” 
 circle, who, having contrived to marry a rich 
 Englishwoman of rank, makes his peace with 
 society by turning informer, are the most 
 prominent members of the unscrupulous, in- 
 famous hand here taken to represent the 
 “ Revolution.” Lady Marcia, Yalpliquet’ s 
 wife, weak, sentimental, and unfeeling ; Miss 
 Grace Bessell, her frivolous, pretentious 
 friend ; and Miss Porphyria Tatt, the loud, 
 vulgar propagandist, are selected as types 
 of the English circle wherein the “ Revolu- 
 tion ” meets with sympathy. Here and there, 
 as in the narratives given by Roccabella of 
 Austrian domination in Lombardy, and the 
 sketches of Count Montegrone and his wife, 
 concessions are made to the fundamental jus- 
 tice of the patriot’s plea, and the pure and 
 honourable lives of a section of refugees ; but, 
 with the exception of Rosamond, whose love 
 blinds her judgment, the representative philo- 
 Italians of the story are either sentimental 
 fools or vulgar busybodies. 
 
roccabella: 
 
 155 
 
 This drawback allowed for, “ Roccabella ” 
 has the interest that belongs to the truthful 
 study of character and the rapid movement of 
 passion. If the action drags a little in the first 
 volume, it is maintained with scarcely any 
 abatement from the opening to the end of the 
 second. The critical scene in the inn at Dijon, 
 where Roccabella meets his fate and the Prin- 
 cess and Delbar escape, is charged with vivid 
 power. The dialogue throughout the book is 
 excellently in keeping with the individuality 
 of each speaker, while the scenes in the salon, 
 the theatre, and the revolutionary conclave 
 show a not less dexterous management of 
 grouping. Several of the subordinate persons, 
 who take little part in the plot, are admir- 
 able as sketches, especially Mr. Westwood’s 
 two sisters, one sanctimonious, the other 
 shrewish ; Rosamond’s grandiloquent lady’s 
 maid, and the faithful poltroon who stands for 
 Roccabella’s valet. Unhealthy as the atmo- 
 sphere and painful as the situations often are, 
 the handling is throughout so delicate and 
 unexaggerated that the purest taste cannot 
 
15G 
 
 “ rovcabella: 
 
 take offence. When the subject is sensational 
 the treatment is not ; and whatever objection 
 on the score of Art may attach to the class of 
 “ novels with a purpose,” to which this be- 
 longs, the writer’s evident earnestness must 
 acquit him from impeachment on the score of 
 ethics. The style, though in the descriptive 
 passages marked by Chorley’s characteristic 
 defects of over-elaboration and unevenness, is 
 simple and terse when expressing the language 
 of passion. One or two extracts must be 
 given in illustration of the varied merits of 
 the book ; but, to be judged fairly, it must be 
 read as a whole. 
 
 A Study of Character. 
 
 “ Well-born, without one lingering feeling of respect for 
 her old name — irreligious, inasmuch as she was always 
 toying with some religion or creed, as a romance and a 
 symbol— a woman who never stirred for a day’s villeggiatura 
 without her crucifix and her rosary, as well as her volume of 
 the “ Thkltre Grec,” or the newest emission of Heine’s pathos 
 and sarcasm ; one who could watch death-beds as a study, 
 and who yet had fainted at some piece of acting on the 
 stage which moved no one else— a mother who coldly pro- 
 fessed that it was not her destiny to be encumbered with 
 children, and who had absolutely signed an agreement con- 
 
ROCGABELLA : 
 
 157 
 
 signing her three daughters to the care of the abbess in 
 Austria selected by her husband as equivalent for the 
 unmolested remittance to her of a noble income — a reformer, 
 who defended falsehood as a truth in advance of the age we 
 are living in ; who, to carry out her purposes (purposes which 
 any new book, or spiritual guide, or lover, could utterly 
 reverse and change, as she owned with a frightful candour) 
 would sacrifice the oldest friend, the nearest life, the slave 
 who had served her most faithfully — a woman who would 
 pass from her depths of perfidy and evil knowledge to the 
 shallows of her miserable experience of the great world with 
 
 shameless adroitness whenever the humour seized her 
 
 Every one hated her, every one frequented her house, every 
 one trusted her without trust; for she knew the precise 
 moment at which to fascinate his secret Out of the serpent’s 
 self ; had the tact, by not hiding her wickedness and want 
 of heart, to make them matters of curiosity, nay, of interest, 
 and to recommend herself by showing that requisite oblig- 
 ingness suggested by a quick wit which is more precious 
 than any good office done by sincere awkwardness. To see 
 her, you would never have believed her capable of inspiring 
 or of feeling a moment’s passion. She was a very small 
 woman, meagre in figure, with the thinnest of thin hands, of 
 a yellow pale complexion, and a trace of character about 
 the corners of her mouth and in her dreamy, languid, violet 
 eyes, which rarely looked honestly out from beneath their 
 lids. Her hair was superb in quantity and softness, of that 
 lint-white colour which sounds sweetly in the ballad, but 
 looks so ill in real life Her appearance was through- 
 
 out singular ; she was chiefly dressed in black, in some very 
 precious material, charged with a profusion of minute 
 embroidery. Her ruff or collar, of curious lace, was fastened 
 with a large grey pearl that had been wrought by some 
 artificer’s sick fancy into a death’s head. The one ring which 
 
158 
 
 “ BOCCABELLA: 
 
 she wore (never but one) was always something precious 
 and unique ; the tabatiere on the little table at her side, from 
 which her cigarettes were furnished, had belonged to some 
 cardinal or church dignitary, with its stiff-winged angels 
 enamelled in ultramarine on the gold round its mystic rose 
 in the centre. For screen, she had taken from the frame a 
 St. Veronica handkerchief by Moretto or Bacchiacca. The 
 windows of the salon , in which she saw company from an 
 early hour in the morning till late into the night, were 
 draped and hung with pink brocade and muslin that excluded 
 the light ; so that the pair of massive wax candles, perpetually 
 lit on her writing-table, were not superfluous even at noon 
 on such a black January day. To complete the strange 
 mixture of objects round her, I have but to mention a 
 gigantic wolf-hound, who was stretched in the very depths 
 of indolence on a violet velvet cloth, embroidered with 
 armorial bearings, on one side of the fire, and a profusion of 
 tuberoses in magnificent old Sevres jars, which impregnated 
 the air with their deadly sweetness.” — Vol. ii. pp. 64-68. 
 
 The Last Scene at Dijon . 
 
 “ The men were both armed — the Italian with a dagger in 
 a sheath, the Frenchman with a sword-cane; and the one 
 sprang on the other without observance or preparation, as a 
 pair of savages might have done. Their fierce and frightful 
 encounter lasted but for a moment, with curses and igno- 
 minious language betwixt thrust and thrust. The two were 
 down on the floor together for an instant; then struggled 
 up in close embrace, fiercely and unsteadily, towards the 
 bed. Boccabella fell on the pillow, and Agricole, detaching 
 himself hastily from the stiffening gripe of his adversary, 
 said, ‘ Princess, I have avenged myself and you too ! He 
 
BO C CABELL A: 
 
 159 
 
 f will not make love to anybody more ! Hark ! . . . . That is 
 ‘ the last !’ 
 
 “ The woman had kept a hideons composure during this 
 sudden outbreak of frenzy, like one habituated to provide 
 
 for such junctures She gave no sign of feeling ; moved 
 
 noiselessly to the bed on which the heap of clay, yet warm, 
 that had contained life, was lying; put her hand to where 
 the heart had beaten, touched the pulseless wrist. ‘ Agricole !* 
 said she (her listener being sober by this time), ‘ he is dead 
 ‘ indeed!’ ‘ What is to be done? .... Fiamma, the fault is 
 f yours !’ f No words, or we shall be arrested as his murderers ! 
 
 ‘ Is there anything moving on the stairs ?’ Then, seeing that the 
 man was unnerved, she had the coolness to unlock the door 
 
 and herself to stand out and listen News from Paris 
 
 had by that time reached Dijon — news tempting every one 
 forth from the houses to the cafes, to the barracks. All was 
 dead silence. ‘He must be got into bed/ continued the 
 woman, in the same hoarse and imperative whisper. ‘ He 
 ‘ was always late in the morning; and we have the night 
 ‘ before us, if no one has heard. You must undress him — you 
 ‘ must put him into the bed, Agricole ! Stop, this will not do ! 
 
 * — you will shake the floor, you shake so ! Come ! your own life 
 ‘ depends on it ! Be more cool. I will help you ! His wife/ 
 she muttered betwixt her teeth, as she held aside the 
 draperies and arranged the linen, * will not like this ! What 
 f made you follow me, Agricole ? Now be quiet .... because 
 
 * this is no child’s play. Go down quietly and order a post- 
 ‘ carriage. What ! cannot you ? Shall I go ? No ; because, 
 
 * then, you must stay here alone. Well then, go out on the 
 ‘ landing and call, and the waiter will come up. Let me 
 ‘ look — since it seems that I must be the man. No, all is 
 
 ‘ right ; they will find nothing till to-morrow Put his 
 
 ‘ own dagger into his hand, leave that pocket-book on the 
 ‘ table — it will show that there was no robbery. I have money 
 
160 
 
 “ roccabella: 
 
 c enough to get us to the frontier before they wake him in the 
 ‘ morning. Nay, then, stand by and I will do it all ; and do 
 f you sit still in the dark there, or the people will see your face 
 ‘ twitch. Somebody is coming up !’ And as she spoke, she 
 once again glanced round the room, once more approached 
 the bed — nay, absolutely made her lips say, f Good night, 
 Salvatore,’ that the waiter, standing at the door to announce 
 the vehicle, might hear. But the waiter’s ears were some- 
 where else, and his hurrying downstairs again enabled her 
 to lock the door of that death-chamber on the outside 
 unperceived. Agricole carried the bag and leaped into the 
 darkness of the vehicle. She could still listen for a last cool 
 moment, inquiring of the landlady by which way they would 
 best avoid the tumult of the streets in leaving the town. 
 Then slowly she entered the vehicle, slowly arranged her 
 cloak round herself and her horror-stricken companion, and 
 bade the postilion f drive on/ It was four and twenty hours 
 ere any one in the Chapeau Bleu recollected that there was 
 any one lying in Number 6, who had not stirred since 
 morning. Long ere that time the Princess and the painter 
 were beyond the reach of pursuit and suspicion.” — Yol. ii. 
 pp. 277-282. 
 
 It. may be well to justify what has been said 
 both in praise and dispraise of the book by the 
 citation of high authority. The acquaintance 
 between Chorley and Dickens, referred to in a 
 previous chapter, had now grown into a 
 friendship, the terms of which were mutually 
 understood to tolerate a frank criticism of one 
 
LETTER FROM DICKENS. 
 
 161 
 
 by the other. Of this — though better evidence 
 could be furnished — the following letter affords 
 an interesting proof : — 
 
 “ Tavistock House, 
 
 “ Tavistock Square, London, W.C. 
 
 “ Friday night, Feb. 3, 1860. 
 
 “ My dear Chorley, 
 
 44 I can most honestly assure you that I 
 think “ Roccabella ” a very remarkable book 
 indeed. Apart — quite apart — from my in- 
 terest in you, I am certain that if I had taken 
 it up under any ordinarily favourable circum- 
 stances as a book of which I knew nothing 
 whatever, I should not — could not — have re- 
 linquished it until I had read it through. I 
 had turned but a few pages, and come to the 
 shadow on the bright sofa at the foot of the 
 bed, when I knew myself to be in the hands 
 of an artist. That rare and delightful recog- 
 nition I never lost for a moment until I closed 
 the second volume at the end. I am 4 a good 
 audience ' when I have reason to be, and my 
 girls would testify to you, if there were need, 
 that I cried over it heartily. Your story seems 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 “ ROCCABELLA 
 
 to me remarkably ingenious. I bad not tbe 
 least idea of the purport of tbe sealed paper 
 until you chose to enlighten me ; and then I 
 felt it to be quite natural, quite easy, tho- 
 roughly in keeping with the character and 
 presentation of the Liverpool man. The posi- 
 tion of the Bell family, in the story, has a 
 special air of nature and truth ; is quite new 
 to me, and is so dexterously and delicately 
 done, that I find the deaf daughter no less 
 real and distinct than the clergyman’s wife. 
 The turn of the story round that damnable 
 Princess I pursued with a pleasure with which 
 I could pursue nothing but a true interest ; 
 and I declare to you that if I were put upon 
 finding anything better than the scene of Roc- 
 cabella’s death, I should stare round my book- 
 shelves very much at a loss for a long time. 
 Similarly, your characters have really surprised 
 me. From the lawyer to the Princess, I swear 
 to them as true; and in your fathoming of 
 Rosamond altogether, there is a profound wise 
 knowledge that I admire and respect with a 
 heartiness not easily overstated in words. 
 
LETTER FROM DICKENS. 
 
 163 
 
 “ I am not quite with you as to the Italians. 
 Your knowledge of the Italian character seems 
 to me surprisingly subtle and penetrating ; 
 but I think we owe it to those most unhappy 
 men and their political wretchedness, to ask 
 ourselves mercifully whether their faults are 
 not essentially the faults of a people long 
 oppressed and priest-ridden ? — whether their 
 tendency to slink and conspire is not a 
 tendency that spies in every dress, from the 
 triple crown to a lousy head, have engen- 
 dered in their ancestors through genera- 
 tions? Again, like you, I shudder at the 
 distresses that come of these unavailing 
 risings ; my blood runs hotter, as yours does, 
 at the thought of the leaders safe and the in- 
 struments perishing by hundreds ; yet what is 
 to be done ? Their wrongs are so great that 
 they will rise from time to time, somehow. It 
 would be to doubt the eternal Providence of 
 God to doubt that they will rise successfully at 
 last. Unavailing struggles against a domi- 
 nant tyranny precede all successful turning 
 against it. And is it not a little hard in us 
 
164 
 
 “ EG 'CC ABEL LA! 
 
 Englishmen, whose forefathers have risen so 
 often and striven against so much, to look oii, 
 in our own security, through microscopes, and 
 detect the motes in the brains of men driven 
 mad ? Think, if you and I were Italians, and 
 had grown from boyhood to our present time, 
 menaced in every day through all these years 
 by that infernal confessional, dungeons, and 
 soldiers, could we be better than these men ? 
 Should we be so good ? I should not, I am 
 afraid, if I know myself; such things would 
 make of me a moody, bloodthirsty, implacable 
 man, who would do anything for revenge ; 
 and if I compromised the truth — put it at the 
 worst — habitually, where should I ever have 
 had it before me? In the old Jesuits’ college 
 at Genoa, on the Chiaja at Naples, in the 
 churches of Rome, at the University of Padua, 
 on the Piazzo San Marco at Venice ? — where ? 
 And the Government is in all these places 
 and in all Italian places. I have seen some- 
 thing of these men. I have known Mazzini 
 and Gallenga ; Manin was tutor to my 
 daughters in Paris; I have had long talks 
 
LETTER FROM DICKENS. 
 
 165 
 
 about scores of them with poor Ary Scheffer 
 who was their best friend ; I have gone back 
 to Italy after ten years, and found the best 
 men I bad known there exiled or in jail. I 
 believe they have the faults you ascribe to 
 them (nationally, not individually) ; but I 
 could not find it in my heart, remembering 
 their miseries, to exhibit those faults without 
 referring them back to their causes. You will 
 forgive my writing this, because I write it 
 exactly as I write my cordial little tribute to 
 the high merits of your book. If it were not 
 a living reality to me, I should care nothing 
 about this point of disagreement ; but you are 
 far too earnest a man, and far too able a 
 man, to be left unremonstrated with by an 
 admiring reader. You cannot write so well 
 without influencing many people. If you 
 could tell me that your book had but twenty 
 readers, I would reply, that so good a book 
 will influence more people’s opinions through 
 those twenty than a worthless book would 
 through twenty thousand ; and I express this 
 with the perfect confidence of one in whose 
 
166 
 
 LETTER FROM HAWTHORNE. 
 
 mind the book has taken, for good and all, a 
 separate and distinct place. Accept my thanks 
 for the pleasure you have given me. The poor 
 acknowledgment of testifying to that pleasure 
 wherever I go will be my pleasure in return. 
 And so, my dear Chorley, good-night, and God 
 
 bless vou. 
 
 •/ 
 
 “ Ever faithfully yours, 
 
 “ Charles Dickens.” 
 
 A joint letter from Nathaniel and Mrs. 
 Hawthorne contained another gratifying 
 tribute of appreciation. The former wrote : — 
 
 “ Dear Mr. Chorley, 
 
 “ I became greatly interested in Rocca- 
 bella ; but I have not any art of putting my 
 impressions about books into words, and my 
 wife has done it better than I could.* For 
 my part, however, I think Roccabella is a 
 true Italian, and on the whole, I consent to 
 
 * Mrs. Hawthorne’s letter is only preserved in a fragment, 
 which testifies to her admiration of the “ truth, and sincerity, 
 and earnestness ” of the book. 
 
DEDICATION TO MBS. BROWNING. 
 
 167 
 
 his death, although it shocked me a little at 
 the time. I especially admire the close of the 
 book — your lofty integrity, for example, in 
 not trying to patch up a happiness for Rosa- 
 mond and Shepherd out of the fragments of 
 life that remain. But, as I said before, I can- 
 not give my reasons for like or dislike. I 
 have a deep impression of the power of the 
 book, and can say no more. 
 
 “ Sincerely yours, 
 
 “Nath. Hawthorne.” 
 
 In dedicating “ Roccabella ” to Mrs. Brown- 
 ing, Chorley cannot, I think, be acquitted of a 
 grave error in judgment. The dedication, in- 
 deed, contains no allusion whatever to the 
 political bearing of the novel, and simply 
 offers it as a truthful “ story of a woman’s 
 heart,” in homage to the most distinguished 
 of English poetesses. And, by thus throwing 
 its leading purpose into the background, he 
 probably hoped to avoid any suspicion of a 
 design to offend one whom he desired to 
 honour. But to ignore what is palpable, only 
 
168 DEDICATION TO MRS. BROWNING. 
 
 singles it ont for remark ; and, in this in- 
 stance, it could no more be doubted that Mrs. 
 Browning would regard the book as a conser- 
 vative protest against the cause to which her 
 heart and soul were devoted, and a satire upon 
 the party of which she was the representa- 
 tive and spokeswoman, than that strangers 
 would be divided in opinion as to whether the 
 dedication was meant for a rebuke, or recog- 
 nised a change that had taken place in her 
 sympathies. If he justly felt himself safe from, 
 misconstruction on the part of his friend, he 
 could not rely upon the world’s being equally 
 generous to her ; and I can only explain his 
 defective sympathy as an illustration of the 
 extent to which intense conviction can deaden 
 an acute sensibility. That his indiscretion 
 was condoned by Mrs. Browning has been 
 already seen. Some idea of the admirable 
 temper with which she accepted the honour, 
 and disregarded the inconsideration, may be 
 gathered from the reference made to her reply 
 in the letter of Mr. Browning that accom- 
 panied it. This letter I am glad to be per- 
 
LETTER FROM MR. BROWNING. 
 
 169 
 
 mitted to print. “ Roccabella ” was not 
 written in vain when it evoked so convincing 
 a demonstration of the justice of the cause it 
 had disparaged. 
 
 “ You will have read my wife’s letter, dear 
 Chorley. I know she feels gratified and 
 honoured, as she tries to say — and you must 
 understand that I take that feeling of hers, and 
 add others of my own to it — ‘ thank you most 
 truly.’ I agree, too, in the main, with her 
 estimate of the book, though I should be in- 
 clined to dwell more on the artistic merits 
 (great they are) of the characters, and agree 
 to take more for granted in the pre-supposing 
 a sufficient cause for action of some sort, of 
 which you, in the present case, only choose to 
 consider the irregular and blamable examples. 
 Still, I wish you had given satisfaction on this 
 point to everybody by a paragraph, no longer, 
 of necessity, than a pregnant one I admired 
 in “ Pomfret,” which disposed of the previous 
 question of the right or wrong doctrine, and 
 
170 
 
 LETTER FROM MR. BROWNING. 
 
 then explained that the story would only deal 
 with conscientiousness and its results, upon 
 any conviction whatever, so long as it was 
 honest. After that admission in this case of 
 the existence of a great cause requiring great 
 sacrifices, I should go on to enjoy the por- 
 traiture of the false, cowardly, or foolish in- 
 struments, self- elected or ill-selected, just as 
 one enjoys the castigation of Sir Samuel Luke, 
 ‘ that Mameluke,’ and does not cry out against 
 the outrage to Milton or Yane. I don’t think 
 it would be hard to prove this, by accepting 
 for a moment all your characters as samples 
 of the whole body of professing patriotism ; 
 abolishing them accordingly with hearty good 
 will, and then ‘ beginning over again,' by 
 dropping you into the middle of an Italian pro- 
 vince, suffering, as you would see ; and bidding 
 you, supposed an Italian born, set about reme- 
 dying what you saw, as your conscience should 
 instigate, and with the best means your intel- 
 ligence could suggest. Here is on the table, 
 for instance, an extract from the documents 
 now publishing at Bologna in exemplification 
 
LETTER FROM MR. BROWNING. 17i 
 
 of the Pope’s rule in Romagna ; the first three 
 letters, declaring the simple state of things, 
 written by those who, having caused it, are 
 not interested in understating it, say — that of 
 Cardinal Massimo, the legate of Ravenna, 
 that ‘ tolti i vecchi, le donne, e i fanciulli, il 
 resto della popolazione dai 18 anni in sopra, 
 meno pochissimi spauriti legittimisti, e tutto per 
 massima ostile al Governo for which state of 
 things he simply recommends 1 polizia vigile, 
 giustizia esecutiva rapida, armata, sicura The 
 letter of the Governor of Rome, Marini (now 
 Cardinal) replies to this that ‘ il quadro nero 
 di quella provincia e pur troppo naturale, per le 
 precedenti cospiranti notizie e per la per spicaccia 
 del descrittore ; and the last letter is from 
 Antonelli himself, complaining bitterly that, 
 after a month’s quiet occupation of Bologna 
 by the Austrians, only one citizen had as yet 
 ‘ fatto atto di ossequio a Sua Santita ’ by a letter 
 to the Pope at Portici. Here you have the 
 universal grievance : protest against it in any 
 degree, take the poorest means to make your 
 protest effective, and help the whole population 
 
172 
 
 LETTER FROM MR. BROWNING. 
 
 to a voice, if not a blow, and you begin 
 Roccabellaism ; better than be, because you are 
 better in head and heart ; but when he, or the 
 like of him, begins to imitate you badly, and 
 the rest to simulate you both for worse pur- 
 poses, all I ask is, don’t let yourself be 
 blamed ; don’t condemn all heroes because 
 they breed faquins ! Even these last do call 
 attention to the corrupt carcass, though they 
 feed on the same ; and because of all the last 
 ten years’ Roccabellaism, comes this day of the 
 Congress’s judgment, at worst, or a continu- 
 ance and extension of the present state of 
 things, which would be best of all. Arch- 
 bishop Cullen gets up and declares that the 
 Pope’s subjects love him of all loves, and that 
 nobody but Sir Eardley Wilmot says other- 
 wise ; and what would disprove this had the 
 Roccabellas been silent some ten years ? Even 
 loud talking pulls down a snow-mountain on 
 people’s heads, in default of more active 
 measures; and somehow or other, it does 
 seem rolling down at last. God speed 
 it! 
 
LETTER FROM MR. BROWNING. 
 
 173 
 
 “ I hope you will write another novel, and 
 manage it more dexterously than the book- 
 sellers seem to have done in this case. I never 
 see you advertised, nor, consequently (I sup- 
 pose), noticed ; and your hook just wants that 
 only to succeed. What a notice was that in 
 the ‘ Athenaeum’ ! Your self-abnegation is 
 wrong in the very interests of the journal ; 
 for if a writer, doing deliberately his best, 
 deserves such a comment and no more, what 
 would his weekly thoughts and fancies deserve 
 in the way of paragraph-room ? I expect you 
 will analyse a brace of novels at adequate 
 length, for many a week to come, before you 
 stop the way with somebody else’s “ Rocca- 
 bella.” These are poorer considerations to 
 you, however, than to your friends. And we 
 two here, are, as of old, your fast friends, dear 
 Chorley. I have got stiff at a distance with 
 daily nothings to do and chronicle (in head at 
 least), and my words do not fly out as 
 promptly as I could wish and as once may 
 have been the case ; but I know what I know, 
 and remember all your kindness to us both. 
 
174 
 
 FAIRY GOLD: 
 
 You are often in our mouths, generally in our 
 thoughts, always in our hearts. God bless 
 you! 
 
 “ Yours affectionately ever, 
 
 “ R. Browning.” 
 
 The conditions of its publication, as Mr. 
 Browning hints, were not favourable to the 
 success of “ Roccabella and Chorley’s reso- 
 lution to try if his “ luck” would be equally 
 adverse, whether he announced or withheld 
 his name, imposed an additional restraint upon 
 its circulation. By his express desire, no 
 allusion to his authorship was made in the 
 ‘ Athenaeum,’ where it received a very inade- 
 quate notice ; and beyond the confines of his 
 own set, it seems to have attracted no 
 attention. 
 
 Two or three pages are all that need be 
 given to his minor productions. In 1857 he 
 published, under the title of “ Fairy Gold for 
 Young and Old,”* a paraphrased translation 
 of a series of fairy-tales by M. Savinien 
 
 Koutledge and Co. 
 
SKETCH OF MENDELSSOHN. 
 
 175 
 
 Lapointe, which had obtained the hearty ap- 
 probation of Be'ranger. The poet’s charac- 
 teristic letter is inserted in the preface, which 
 also contains an interesting notice of the 
 author, a Parisian artisan. The translation of 
 the tales appears to be fluent and readable. 
 
 In 1864, Chorley prefixed to the second 
 edition of Lady Wallace’s translation of “ Men- 
 delssohn’s Letters from Italy and Switzer- 
 land,”* a brief biographical sketch of the com- 
 poser. It deals with the man rather than his 
 works, and sums up the fascinating features 
 of his mental and moral personality in lan- 
 guage that, warm as it is, does not savour of 
 the exaggeration which the writer admits the 
 chief difficulty of his task lay in avoiding. It 
 bears, nevertheless, the impress of his earnest 
 affection for its subject, and is, probably on 
 this account, in point of style among the 
 purest and succinctest pieces of English that 
 he ever wrote. 
 
 Of his contributions to serial literature 
 during these years, other than those already 
 * Longman and Co. 
 
176 
 
 LYRICS . 
 
 noticed, I find no catalogue among his MSS! 
 Among them were several sketches and poems 
 inserted in “ Household Words” and “All 
 the Year Round.” A word must be said of 
 his lyrical vein, which flowed freely almost to 
 the last; the season of holiday and travel 
 being, as in former years, that in which he 
 most indulged it. The plaintive and retro- 
 spective mood, which was dominant in his 
 later life, tinges all his verse with a certain 
 monotony. The following is one of the most 
 graceful and cheerful examples : — 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 Dear Eye ! that fillest thy golden wain 
 With the rich harvest of the day, 
 
 That callest shepherds from the plain, 
 
 And hermit from his book to pray. 
 
 I wonder, 0 how wearily ! 
 
 If thy bright car will drop for me 
 No bounty by the way. 
 
 I ask not back the friends of old, 
 
 All in their quiet churchyards laid ; 
 
 Why should they meet the winter cold ? 
 
 Why be anew by Life betrayed ? 
 
 Though some were lost at early noon, 
 
 Better the tree struck down too soon, 
 
 Than living heart- decayed. 
 
177 
 
 “ THE PRODIGY.” 
 
 But let the tree be lightning-dead, 
 
 So please the wind, and please the rain, 
 
 And please the warm sun over-head, 
 
 The Earth from some forgotten grain 
 Shall yield a leaf, and then a stem, 
 
 Till with a rosy diadem 
 The sere trunk blooms again. 
 
 And might not some such faery boon. 
 
 Be given to one bereft like me, 
 
 Though dark hath been the afternoon, 
 
 And wild the ravage of the sea ? 
 
 Dear Eve ! I pray with some sweet thought 
 Enwind me— like the garland wrought 
 By Pity for the tree ! 
 
 Douai, 1857. 
 
 A three-volume novel, entitled “ The Pro- 
 digy : a Tale of Music,”* published in 1866, 
 was Chorley’s latest effort in fiction. Its sub- 
 ject is nearly identical with that of two earlier 
 works, “ Conti ” and “ The Lion,” — the career 
 of a genius — but the treatment is essentially 
 distinct. In point of skill the first admits of 
 no comparison with it ; and the second, in 
 respect of variety of illustration and force of 
 delineation, falls far below it ; but as a realisa- 
 tion of the writer’s intention to preach an 
 
 * Chapman and Hall. 3 vols. . 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 “ TEE PRODIGY.” 
 
 artistic homily to the gifted, it can scarcely be 
 considered more successful than • either. The 
 handsome, brilliant, generous, wilful hoy who 
 is the hero, in so far as he fails, is the victim 
 of the weak and selfish, or bigoted and tyran- 
 nical persons who are responsible for his early 
 training, rather than of his own folly or sin. 
 His main fault is that of over-confidence in 
 the guidance of his noblest impulses and 
 worthiest ambitions ; and the heaviest nemesis 
 which this entails is the temporary forfeiture 
 of domestic happiness. A good angel, how- 
 ever, is waiting for that event, who makes up 
 the loss to him a hundredfold. So far as his 
 musical life is concerned, his success vindi- 
 cates the headstrong resolution which he 
 showed from the first to follow his own bent. 
 As a composer, he attains without difficulty 
 the high eminence to which he aspired ; and 
 the accident which disables him from pursuing 
 his equally fortunate career as an executant 
 would be a poor theatrical expedient if de- 
 signed to “point a moral.” Nor does the 
 story fulfil the promise of its title in re- 
 
THE PRODIGY: 
 
 179 
 
 counting the ruin of powers prematurely de- 
 veloped. The boy, though foolishly praised, 
 does not become spoilt, and his healthy aspi- 
 rations are unexhausted when he reaches 
 manhood. Regarded, therefore, as another 
 “ novel with a purpose,” “ The Prodigy ” may 
 be thought to have failed, but as so often was 
 the case in Chorley’s literary labour, the means 
 are superior to the end, the materials sepa- 
 rately to the structure as a whole. There is 
 some admirable drawing of character in the 
 book, some vivid colouring of passion, much 
 humour, and varied illustration of scenery and 
 manners. The delineation of the hero is 
 throughout consistent and life-like. His wife, 
 Marie Becker, though of an exceptional type, 
 at once frivolous and passionate, unrefined and 
 innocent, insincere and enthusiastic, with the 
 lurid vein of madness running through every 
 development of her nature, is a striking and 
 interesting study. Susanna Openshaw, the 
 young Quakeress, whose love rebuilds the 
 home which Marie has shattered, is a charming 
 and truthful conception. Among the minor 
 
180 
 
 the prodigy: 
 
 personages, Miss Galatea Whitelamb, the old 
 maid, takes the first place ; a Lancashire por- 
 trait, as manifestly faithful as a Dutch frow 
 by Mieris or Jan Steen. Bower, Lord Calder- 
 mere, the titled manufacturer ; Pastor Orelius, 
 the German schoolmaster ; Minna Twiese, 
 the “ trne-souled ” Burgomaster’s daughter ; 
 Countess Baltakis, the vulgar tyrant of 
 fashion, are all incisively sketched. The two 
 exceptions to the predominant fidelity of the 
 portraiture are the characters of Lady Calder- 
 mere and her natural son ; the one displaying 
 too little coherence in the tones of feeling 
 ascribed to her under varying circumstances, 
 and the other being, from first to last, a villain 
 of the approved melodramatic type. The 
 novel is of comparatively recent date, and can 
 be easily procured by any who may be inte- 
 rested in Chorley’s writings ; so that an 
 analysis of the plot, such as was demanded 
 in the case of works now out of print, is 
 here unnecessary. I shall only add that it 
 contains several graphic descriptions of Conti- 
 nental society and manners, and that the 
 
MISS MIT FORD’S LETTERS. 
 
 181 
 
 interest of the tale is sufficient to whet the 
 reader’s appetite, even without the condiment 
 of “ sensation,” of which there is a somewhat 
 plentiful admixture. 
 
 Several literary projects were conceived 
 during the last years of his life, two of which, 
 a biography of Rossini, and a version of 
 Woltmann’s “ Life of Holbein,” made some 
 approach towards execution, but, from one 
 cause or another, all were finally abandoned. 
 The latest work that he lived to complete, pub- 
 lished after his death, was an edition of a 
 second series of Miss Mitford’s Letters,* to 
 which he prefixed a biographical sketch of the 
 writer. The cordial appreciation of ber 
 literary merits, the vigorous and healthy con- 
 demnation of the idolatry to which her life was 
 sacrificed, and the good-humoured tolerance of 
 her occasional sallies of temper in reference to 
 himself, give this brief memoir a worthy place 
 among his minor productions. An incidental 
 allusion at the close of the second volume 
 (pp. 196, 197) to his hope that he may “ one 
 
 * Messrs. Bentley and Son. 1872. 2 yoIs. 
 
182 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 day tell the details ” of an episode in the career 
 of his brother, John Rutter Chorley (with 
 whom one of Miss Mitford’s correspondents 
 had been connected in earlier life), points to 
 the preparation of the Autobiography in which 
 an account of that career was intended to form 
 a special chapter. Upon this Autobiography 
 Chorley was engaged more or less during the 
 last ten years of his life. The materials were 
 largely collected, and the work had so far 
 taken shape that the contract for its speedy 
 publication had been signed, when a sudden 
 summons brought his earthly labours to an 
 end. 
 
CAREER AS MUSICAL CRITIC . 
 
 183 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Career as a musical critic from 1852 to 1868 — Recognition 
 of his influence — Estimates by Sir Michael Costa and Mr. 
 Henry Leslie— Thanks of Lablache — Practical testimony — 
 Employment as a writer for music — Difference of opinion 
 with musicians — Effects of his criticism — “ Modern German 
 Music ” — Extracts — “ Thirty Years ’ Musical Recollections ” 
 — Extracts— Ballads — Lectures — Interest in musical enter- 
 prise — Birmingham Festivals — Crystal Palace Concerts and 
 Handel Festivals — Retirement from ‘ Athenaeum/ &c. 
 
 The leading features of Chorley’s career in 
 connection with music during the last twenty 
 years of his life are probably familiar to the 
 majority of those who are likely to see these 
 pages, and I shall therefore he discharged 
 from the duty of chronicling it minutely. 
 The strength and pertinacity of his convic- 
 tions, and the learning and skill which he 
 brought to sustain them, gave a marked indi- 
 viduality to his critical tone, wdiich could not 
 
184 
 
 RECOGNITION. 
 
 be ignored even by those who liked it the 
 least. His judgment seems by this time to have 
 heen accepted by the first musicians of Eng- 
 land and the Continent as that of a thoroughly 
 competent authority, and listened to by ama- 
 teurs, except in a limited circle, with more 
 deference than that of any other contemporary 
 critic. In many houses, it has been said, the 
 ‘ Athenaeum ’ was habitually read solely for the 
 sake of its musical column. He had by no 
 means outlived obloquy, — receiving, indeed, 
 so late as in 1862, the distinction of a metrical 
 lampoon of several pages, expressly devoted 
 to him, — but he had over-lived any enmity 
 likely to be prejudicial to his influence, and 
 established on a sure basis the friendships he 
 cared to retain. To the weight of that influ- 
 ence, the assured reputation in England of 
 more than one composer and vocalist still 
 bears witness. To the esteem in which his 
 opinion and countenance were held, the wide 
 intercourse and frequent correspondence upon 
 themes of common interest which he main- 
 tained with the leading members of the musical 
 
SIR MICHAEL COSTA. 
 
 185 
 
 world, would supply ample testimony, were it 
 practicable to adduce it. Meyerbeer, Halevy, 
 Berlioz, Ernst, Molique, M. Liszt, M. Gounod, 
 Sir Michael Costa, Mr. Sullivan, Mr. Leslie, 
 Madame Yiardot, Mr. Halle, Herr E. Pauer, 
 Mr. Sims Reeves and Mr. Santley, among com- 
 posers and artistes, Prince Poniatowski, Count 
 Polignac, Baron Alfred von Wolzogen, Mr. S. 
 Waley, Mrs. Tom Taylor, and Miss Gabriel, 
 among amateurs , may be enumerated as repre- 
 sentative names. One or two posthumous 
 tributes to his memory may be cited in pre- 
 ference to words addressed to the living. No 
 musician’s verdict will be more readily ac- 
 cepted as authoritative than that of Sir Michael 
 Costa. His intimate acquaintance with Chor- 
 ley dates from 1845, and the ample opportu- 
 nities it afforded him of putting critical qualifi- 
 cations to the test give special value to the 
 result of his observation. A crucial test was 
 furnished on the occasion of a visit paid to him 
 in the Isle of Wight during 1854, when he was 
 composing his oratorio of “Eli.” The score 
 was examined by Chorley in manuscript ; and 
 
186 
 
 MR. HENRY LESLIE. 
 
 ‘ I found,’ says the composer, ‘ that he knew 
 its orchestral effects as well as I did myself.’ 
 Of the manly independence, excellent judg- 
 ment, and large knowledge displayed in 
 the musical criticism of the ‘ Athenseum,’ Sir 
 Michael speaks in terms of the highest praise. 
 
 Another unimpeachable authority, Mr. 
 Henry Leslie, has kindly responded to my 
 request for his estimate of Chorley’s critical 
 career by the following remarks. The reser- 
 vation which they express upon a single point 
 adds materially to the weight of their unre- 
 served appreciation in other respects. Speak- 
 ing from a familiar intercourse of ‘ nearly 
 thirty years,’ Mr. Leslie says of him, that 
 ‘gifted with a highly sensitive tempera- 
 ‘ ment, he had a natural and intuitive percep- 
 ‘ tion of the good and great in Art. His 
 ‘ acquaintance with musical works was very 
 ‘ extensive, for he deemed no trouble too great 
 ‘ in order to add to his experience, frequently 
 ‘ travelling considerable distances to hear the 
 ‘ performance of works which had no chance 
 ‘ of being produced in England. Thus he 
 
MR. HENRY LESLIE. 
 
 187 
 
 ‘ became known to all the leading Continental 
 4 artistes , by whom he was held in great repute. 
 
 ‘ Enthusiastic in expressing his admiration 
 ‘ of whatever approached the high standard 
 4 by which he judged, be was especially severe 
 4 in censuring all that he deemed false. He 
 4 was fearless in stating his own opinions of 
 ‘ the merits of performances and of composi- 
 ‘ tions ; but those who reached his inner nature 
 ‘ valued the man too much to be offended with 
 ‘ that which they well knew was the honestly 
 ‘ expressed opinion of the critic. 
 
 4 This determined assertion of his own indi- 
 4 vidual ideas, coupled with his knowledge 
 4 and experience, caused him to exercise no 
 4 ordinary influence in musical circles. Full 
 4 of strong prejudices, yet with the highest 
 4 sense of honour, those he most esteemed 
 4 frequently fared worse than those whom he 
 4 personally disliked, so earnest was his desire 
 4 to allow no private feelings to interfere with 
 4 his public duties. 
 
 4 It would have been well had he not 
 4 written in conjunction with others. Musi- 
 
188 
 
 MR. HENRY LESLIE. 
 
 4 cians not unnaturally expect that in the 
 ‘ composition of musical works their ideas 
 4 should be deemed worthy of consideration ; 
 4 hut Mr. Chorley was of a contrary opinion, 
 4 and if was with the utmost difficulty — indeed, 
 4 on many occasions it was an absolute im- 
 4 possibility — for them to obtain from him the 
 4 slightest concession. 
 
 4 For very many years nearly all that was 
 4 distinguished in Art, Science and Literature, 
 4 was constantly to he met at his house. 
 
 4 His kindness, encouragement, and help- 
 4 fulness to young aspirants were unlimited, 
 4 and there was not one of the many cases of 
 4 distress brought to his notice that did not 
 4 benefit from his means, though his name 
 4 but seldom appeared as a donor.’ 
 
 Without weakening the force of this 
 testimony by any observations of my own, I 
 shall only add that I have met with no ex- 
 pression to a contrary effect, proceeding from 
 any quarter to which the smallest importance 
 could be attached. Of the value which indi- 
 vidual artistes have entertained for Chorley ’s 
 
LAB LAO EE. 
 
 189 
 
 favourable opinion, one illustration may be 
 given, which is not the less entitled to respect 
 that he has himself recorded it — the only 
 instance that I remember of his having 
 appealed to such authority on his own behalf. 
 Referring to Lablache’s remarkable persona- 
 tion of Gritzenko in Meyerbeer’s “ L’Etoile 
 du Nord,” he says : ‘ This last personation by 
 Lablache was among those masterpieces which 
 it is as well to remember as to regret, seeing 
 that what man has done, man may do. I 
 think that he was content with it himself. 
 The only time, during a quarter of a cen- 
 tury’ s public intercourse, that I had the 
 honour of speaking to him was when he 
 sought occasion to express his pleasure in 
 respect to a few honest words of mine with 
 regard to this opera and his share in it — 4 You 
 have made,’ he said to me, 4 an old man very 
 happy.’ ” — 44 Thirty Years’ Musical Recol- 
 lections,” vol. ii. pp. 227-8. 
 
 Some more practical recognitions of the 
 position he had attained were afforded in his 
 lifetime. Among these I may specify the 
 
190 
 
 WORDS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 invitations he received from such corporations 
 as the Society of Arts and the Royal Institu- 
 tion to deliver courses of lectures, and from 
 musical societies, both native and foreign, to 
 attend their festivals ; the reliance placed 
 upon his judgment in 1862, when he was 
 requested to select the composers and the 
 themes appropriate to the musical inauguration 
 of the International Exhibition, and the value 
 attached to his evidence before the Commis- 
 sion of 1865, appointed to inquire into the 
 organisation of the Academy of Music. His 
 employment, moreover, as a librettist and 
 adapter of words for the voice, during these 
 years, was almost continuous. Among the 
 best known of his productions were trans- 
 lations of Gluck’s “ Armide,” “ Alceste,” 
 “ Orfeo,” and “ Iphige'nie en Aulide ; ” Mey- 
 erbeer’s “L’Etoile du Nord” and “Dinorah;” 
 Auber’s “ Domino Noir ; ” M. Gounod’s 
 “ Faust;” Berlioz’s “Faust” and trilogy of 
 “ La Sainte Famille,” the books of Mr. Leslie’s 
 oratorio of “Judith ” and cantata of “Holy- 
 rood ; ” Sir J. Benedict’s cantata of “ St. 
 
WORDS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 191 
 
 Cecilia ; ” Mr. Sullivan’s opera of “ The 
 Sapphire Necklace,” and cantata of “ Kenil- 
 worth ; ” and Mr. John Thomas’s cantata of 
 “ The Bride of Neath Valley ; ” the songs for 
 forty melodies by Meyerbeer and twelve by 
 M. Goldschmidt, besides a considerable num- 
 ber by M. Gounod, Mr. Sullivan, and other 
 composers. 
 
 “ As a writer of words for music,” to quote 
 from an obituary notice of him by a well- 
 known pianist, “ he was, of all Englishmen of 
 his time, the most sought after. His name 
 is coupled with that of nearly every eminent 
 composer in this country. ” The success 
 which attended his share in such work was 
 sometimes great, notably, I believe, in the 
 case of the cantata of “ St. Cecilia,” and would 
 of itself have warranted the decided tone he 
 adopted in reference to the form of his com- 
 positions, even had his theoretic views upon 
 questions of Art been less pronounced than 
 they notoriously were. Mr. Leslie’s allusion 
 to the subject on a previous page, however, 
 expresses in temperate language what may 
 
192 
 
 CRITICAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 well have been a general feeling among 
 musicians, that they were not sufficiently con- 
 sulted by the librettist. In one or two in- 
 stances. where a difference of opinion was 
 entertained between Chorley and his colla- 
 borateurs, the language used upon either side 
 was anything but temperate. It is not my 
 intention to revive the outworn interest of 
 these disputes by a more detailed reference. 
 Which of the combatants exhibited the. gravest 
 fault of temper, or the strangest failure of 
 memory, is a question no longer material to 
 determine, and may be allowed to sleep. 
 
 The service rendered to Art by such col- 
 laboration, though by no means contemptible, 
 is, at its best, too subordinate to merit 
 much attention ; and I pass on to speak, for 
 the last time, of the sphere wherein Chorley ’s 
 worthier work was accomplished. His most 
 strenuous critical efforts of this period were 
 made to obtain a wider recognition for the 
 classic and French schools of music, repre- 
 sented by Gluck, Auber, and M. Gounod among 
 composers, and by Madame Yiardot, Madame 
 
CRITICAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 193 
 
 Miolan-Carvalho, and M.Faure, among singers, 
 and to withstand the attempts of the modern 
 German schools, represented by Schumann and 
 Herr Wagner, to obtain a permanent footing 
 here. In the former aim lie was nearly, if 
 not entirely, successful ; in the latter but par- 
 tially. The music of Schumann has, for the 
 present, secured a large share of popularity. 
 The “Music of the Future” has at least attained 
 to notoriety : that its advance in this direction 
 has been very marked since Chorley’s death 
 deserves notice, if only as a coincidence. 
 The difficulty of distinguishing between 
 the post hoc and the propter hoc in a case 
 of this kind is admittedly great. It is 
 certain, at all events, that definite results 
 have been directly attributed to his ex- 
 ertions by observers who are entitled to be 
 heard with respect as professional experts. 
 Two opinions, to this effect, may here be 
 cited, the first of which bears traces of being 
 extorted, by conviction alone, from a re- 
 luctant witness. I refer to a writer in the 
 ‘Orchestra’ of August 1, 1868, who, in re- 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 o 
 
194 
 
 EFFECTS OF CRITICISM. 
 
 viewing Chorley’s career upon the occasion 
 of his retirement from the 4 Athenaeum/ 
 commented with a discriminating adjustment 
 of approval and tolerance upon the services 
 he had rendered. 
 
 “ Whatever he may have said or written on 
 artists and art — whether too much or too 
 little — all was truly and justly done as far as 
 the writer’s means of judging would permit. 
 Not infrequently his judgment stood alone, 
 for he never feared dissenting from his con- 
 temporaries ; and some of these judgments 
 he has lived to see accepted by the public, 
 and verified in every way by the course of 
 events. . . . He takes credit for having 
 at first sight discerned the merits of 
 Gounod ; and he has uniformly pressed the 
 works of this composer upon the attention of 
 his readers. Many would not agree with all 
 that he has written upon Gounod; but he 
 prophesied the success of the “ Faust,” and as 
 his prophecy was fulfilled, he has, so far, 
 the best of the argument.” 
 
 In the obituary notice of Chorley’s labours, 
 
EFFECTS OF CRITICISM. 
 
 195 
 
 written by his able successor in the musical 
 department of the ‘ Athenaeum,’ the follow- 
 ing - passage chronicles them with less stinted 
 satisfaction : — 
 
 “It was once said of a well-known im- 
 pressario that he had ‘ invented Jenny Lind 
 and resuscitated Sontag.’ Mr. Chorley 
 neither invented nor resuscitated, but he 
 created interest in an artist by praising 
 ability, which required only aid to be deve- 
 loped. In the early days of three tenors, 
 Mr. Sims Reeves, Mr. Charles Lockey, 
 and Mr. Vernon Rigby, the discerning 
 criticism of Mr. Chorley was certainly not 
 at fault. In the recognition of the genius 
 of M. Gounod, it was more than the ear 
 which discriminated — it was the intellect. 
 How much Mr. Santley was indebted to the 
 early assistance and friendly councils of 
 Mr. Chorley, that baritone-basso is always 
 ready to admit. We might extend the list 
 if necessary, to show how skilled he was in 
 marking the earliest tokens of a future 
 executant.” 
 
196 
 
 EXCESS. 
 
 It must be allowed as probable, on the other 
 hand, that Chorley’s influence may often have 
 failed of its full effect by reason of his over- 
 earnestness. He could be as lavish of praise 
 as he was unsparing in denunciation ; never, 
 I think, being really indiscriminate in either, 
 but often carrying both to an excess which 
 was apt to provoke reaction. In the artistic, 
 not less than in the political world, an Aris- 
 tides may owe ostracism to his friends, a 
 Henry VIII. “ whitewashing ” to his enemies. 
 That M. Gounod, Madame Viardot, Madame 
 Ristori, or Mr. Sullivan has ever suffered 
 from Chorley’s zealous admiration is perhaps 
 less likely than that his severity has benefited 
 the objects of his aversion. There was a pecu- 
 liar pungency in some of his epithets, a 
 humorous ferocity in his sallies, which piqued 
 one’s curiosity to ascertain how far they were 
 deserved. The audiences of “ La Grande 
 Duchesse de Gerolstein,” for example, were 
 almost sure to be increased by the savagery of 
 his assault upon it as an “ offensive trifle ; ” 
 and the ‘ Christy Minstrels,’ et hoc genus 
 
APPRECIATION. 
 
 197 
 
 omne, could afford to laugh at his sarcastic 
 allusion to those “ who had degraded the 
 sentimental word serenader into something sug- 
 gestive of a monkey and a blacking-brush ! ” 
 
 For good or for evil, however, so far as his 
 own loves and hates were concerned, the 
 vigorous justice with which he wielded the 
 critical baton was frankly acknowledged by 
 friends and foes. The conviction that he was 
 thus appreciated atoned to him for much of 
 the discomfort consequent upon the position 
 of antagonism which he perpetually occu- 
 pied. A characteristic expression of this in 
 a private letter, addressed to the Editor of 
 the * Athenmum ’ in 1855, to explain the tone 
 he had felt it right to adopt in reference to 
 a brother critic’s productions, may fitly con- 
 clude the estimate of his career as a musical 
 journalist : — 
 
 “ I desired to do my best for him, because 
 
 he has always damaged me in the 
 
 whenever he could, and it is just my bit of 
 pride, if I be over-critical, not to be resentful ; 
 the solitary repute which I have won from 
 
198 
 
 “MODERN GERMAN MUSIC ” 
 
 so many years of labour being ‘justice,’ 
 and this from those that dislike me.” 
 
 A more deliberate utterance of his opinions 
 and sympathies in connection with music than 
 he was able to put forth as a journalist, will 
 be found in two published works of this period, 
 of which some account must be given. 
 
 The first of these, which appeared in 1854 
 under the title of “ Modern German Music,”* 
 was, in fact, a republication of the chapters 
 of his former work “ Music and Manners,” 
 which had embraced that branch of the sub- 
 ject, but supplemented with large additions, 
 the fruit of later study. Though not entirely 
 freed from the blemishes which disfigured it 
 in its original shape, the book bears every 
 mark of being carefully revised, and entitled 
 to the honourable reputation which, I believe, 
 it enjoys as a work of authority. A few only 
 of the most important additions can here be 
 noticed. The chapters on Gluck (vol. i. pp. 
 262-279), Spohr and Cherubini (vol. ii. 
 pp. 78-96 ; 224-240), appear to be the most 
 
 * Smith, Elder, and Co. 2 yoIs. 
 
MODERN GERMAN MUSIC.' 
 
 199 
 
 thoughtfully studied; those on Mozart and 
 Beethoven (vol. ii. pp. 159-171 ; 291-319) the 
 most unconventional in criticism ; that on Herr 
 Wagner (vol. i. pp. 348-371) the most tren- 
 chant in censure. The following extracts are 
 selected as illustrations of the writer’s method. 
 Their intrinsic value as expressions of opinion 
 on the respective merits of the two composers 
 named, will be variously estimated. 
 
 “ The operas of Gluck can only be studied as they deserve 
 by being heard and seen ; and, moreover, under conditions of 
 careful and magnificent presentation. The most experienced 
 and imaginative of readers will derive from the closest perusal 
 of the scores of Gluck’s operas feeble and distant impressions 
 
 of their power and beauty He wrote for the stage ; 
 
 and when he has been judged in the closet, he has been either 
 
 half judged, or else curiously misunderstood The 
 
 world requires beauty and variety of tone, as well as power 
 of lungs — some elasticity in the voice, as well as some pre- 
 cision in delivering the words — a company, in short, of great 
 dramatic vocalists of genius — to draw from the music of 
 
 Gluck its whole meaning But leaving such Utopian 
 
 visions of what a represented opera by Gluck should be, there 
 is enough in his music, when reverently sung and played by 
 the inferior singers and coarse operatic actors of modern 
 Germany, to surprise by its beauty, as well as to arrest by its 
 power. What a voluptuous lusciousness of melody floats and 
 dies through the fairy scenes of “Armide ” ! There is no instance 
 of fascination in music more exquisite than the great tenor 
 
200 
 
 MODERN GERMAN MUSIC: 
 
 song of Kinaldo, ‘ Pins j’observe ;’ no melody more allnring in 
 its mellow monotony than Lucinda’s solo in the same opera, 
 f jamais dans ces beanx lieux/ .... In Alceste,” the beauty 
 is more irresistible than the intense magic tenderness of the 
 music. I have never been more moved by delicious sen- 
 sations and deep emotions conjointly, so strongly as by a 
 
 very moderate performance of this opera at Berlin 
 
 In none of the cited instances is there the slightest attempt 
 — born of weakness, and bred by conceit — to force art beyond 
 its own special bounds. None of these specimens is antipa- 
 thetic to the voice or repulsive to the singer, or conciliatory of 
 those strange souls who hold that sincerity and brutality, might 
 
 and ugliness, are one Yet those who would praise, 
 
 and who endeavour while praising also to prove, the beauty 
 of Gluck, are as yet without a public. In like manner, I have 
 never heard one of Gluck’s operas without being surprised 
 by a merit in them for which the annalists (before the time 
 of M. Berlioz, at least) have never given him credit — namely, 
 
 orchestral variety, interest, and invention Certain 
 
 it is that his fancies, as fancies, come out into brighter relief 
 than anything in Mozart’s operas — Taminos ’ flute, Papagenos 3 
 bells, and the tromboni that speak together with II Com - 
 mendatore perhaps excepted. Let me cite, as a few among 
 many instances, the dialogue betwixt the two wind instru- 
 ments to the words f J’entends retentir/ &c., in “ Iphigenie en 
 Aulide the ferocious life given to the chorus of Scythians 
 in “ Iphigenie en Tauride,” by the use of the cymbal ; the lute- 
 like pizzicatto of the violins in the chorus with ballet in 
 the second act of “Alceste,” and then the entire change of 
 intruments on the amoroso in G minor which serves as trio 
 
 (so to say) to this composition His recitative stands 
 
 alone; approached by Mozart only, in some few passages, 
 such, for instance, as Donna Anna’s burst in “ Don Juan,” 
 when she recognises her father’s murderer; emulated by 
 
MODERN GERMAN MUSIC: 
 
 201 
 
 Eossini in his third act of “ Otello but by himself always 
 maintained at the highest point of interest, without ever 
 becoming overwrought or oppressive. By this very charac- 
 teristic, those who have searched the depths of musical inven- 
 tion would have been led to admit the claims of Gluck as a 
 melodist ; seeing that no good recitative will be ever written 
 by those who are ignorant of the balance of cadence — of the 
 sweetness or sadness of certain intervals— of contrast betwixt 
 phrase and phrase— of measured time, least licentious when 
 freest — of all, in short, that goes to make one of the tunes 
 in which the world is to delight/’ — Vol. i. pp. 262-279. 
 
 “ There is probably no musician, living or dead, by whom 
 the same general completeness of beauty has been exhibited 
 as by the composer of “ Don Juan,” and perhaps no more 
 exact parallel can be made than the one which designates 
 him the Raphael of his art. And thus the intense satisfac- 
 tion that Mozart has ministered to every intelligence— lofty, 
 mediocre, lowly — may by many be thought placed above 
 examination and question ; and thus examiners and inquirers 
 may, by the very fact of their inquiry, be unfairly placed side 
 by side with the group of strong and gnarled and gifted 
 and perverse men whose ^re-Baphaelism in painting has 
 become a byword, and given a name to a school. Neverthe- 
 less, though perfect harmony and beauty command the 
 largest congregation, and subdue the large proportion of the 
 mixed intelligence and affectionate faith of the world (this 
 without cant or hypocrisy on the part of true believers); 
 though further, without an overruling feeling for beauty, the 
 imaginative arts can have small existence as arts — harmony 
 is still not the only essential quality — beauty is still not the 
 highest merit — because it may exist without the existence of 
 commanding power, of brilliant genius, of fresh invention. 
 
202 
 
 MODERN GERMAN MUSIC: 
 
 And seeing that Mozart has enchanted rather "than excited 
 the world — seeing that he has provided for the average sen- 
 sations and sympathies of mankind, rather than enlarged the 
 number of these, or exalted their quality, it appears to me 
 impossible entirely to subscribe to his supremacy as affording 
 that Alpha and Omega of musical excellence, which the fond 
 millions of his worshippers have delighted to ascribe to it. 
 To state the argument in another form, let me submit that 
 in art, in literature — in all that concerns appeal to the sym- 
 pathies by imagination — there are few confusions more fre- 
 quently made than that of sentiment for feeling. We lean 
 to the former because it soothes us, afflicts us with a pleasing 
 pain, strews flowers above all corpses, presents the right 
 emotion at the right moment, calling on us neither to scale 
 terrible heights nor to fathom perilous depths, while it in no 
 respect shrinks from the extremes of ecstasy and despair. It 
 is not merely the light of heart, the frivolous of character, 
 the feeble in thought, whom sentiment satisfies, persuades, 
 and fascinates. There are many of a graver, deeper nature, 
 more cruelly afflicted in their own experiences, who object 
 that Art should, in any form, mirror the secrets of their hearts : 
 considering it in some sort as a holiday-land, a place of healing 
 repose, and of easy (not vacant) enjoyment — not as an arena 
 in which the battle of life and suffering may be fought over 
 again, merely by phantom combatants. The perfection, then, 
 of sentimental expression — more generally popular because 
 less disturbing than the deepest feeling or the most poignant 
 dramatic power— is the quality which has universally charmed 
 the world in the music of Mozart, expressed as it is by him 
 in a style where freedom and serenity, Italian sweetness of 
 vocal melody and German variety of instrumental science 
 are combined as they have never been before or since his 
 time. That he could rise above this level is as true as that 
 for the most part he did not rise above it. The opening scene 
 
“ MODERN GERMAN MUSIC: 
 
 203 
 
 of “ Don Juan,” the recitative ‘ Don Ottavio son morto/ the 
 stretto to the finale in the first act, and the cemetery duett in 
 that opera — the “ Confutatis ” in the ‘ Bequiem ’ — the piano- 
 forte fantasia in C minor, and the overture to the “ Zauber- 
 flote,” among his instrumental writings — all instances of what 
 I consider higher in tone than mere sentiment — will perhaps 
 suffice to illustrate my distinction. In the generality of 
 Mozart’s works, however, there is an evenness of beauty, 
 an absence of excitement — dare I say an inattention to 
 characterisation in drama? — which leave something of vigour 
 and variety to be desired. Within the circle of his oratorios 
 and cantatas (their respective musical epochs compared), 
 Handel is more various than the composer of “ Figaro ” in his 
 “ Jupiter Symphony,” his quartettes, his masses, and his piano- 
 forte works. Haydn, in his instrumental works, has fresher 
 inspirations — never any so voluptuous — many more frivo- 
 lous (for Mozart was never frivolous, even when writing a 
 waltz or a quodlibet ) — but some more picturesque in their 
 originality. Gluck is grander and more impassioned in 
 opera. Beethoven, of course, flies many an arrow flight 
 beyond him in symphony, sonata , quartette, and concrto. 
 While no one who has done so much has done so generally 
 well, there is no single work by Mozart, in any style, than 
 which some other single work, having greater interest, by 
 some other composer, could not be cited. We can go back- 
 ward from Mozart to Bach and Handel. We can go forward 
 from him to Beethoven. We can condescend (if it please the 
 purists so to state the case) from “ Don Juan ” and “ Figaro ” 
 to “ Guillaume Tell ” and “ II Barbiere but some of us cannot 
 return from any of these masters to Mozart without feeling 
 as if some of the brightness, so long thought incomparable, 
 had passed away from our divinity ; that while, as a mingler 
 of many powers, he has no peer — if regarded either as a 
 subduer, as an awakener, or as a charmer by mirth— there 
 
204 
 
 “ MODERN GERMAN MUSIC.' 
 
 are separate stars of the first magnitude larger than his 
 star.” — Yol. ii. pp. 159-171. 
 
 As an illustration of Chorley’s catholicity of 
 taste, the following extract from his chapters 
 on the Waltz Music of Vienna may he worth 
 quoting. Keferring to a hall at the Sperl, at 
 which Strauss was the conductor, he says : 
 
 “ There was in the music that strange mixture of pensive- 
 ness and inebriating spirit but faintly represented in the 
 ballrooms of London and Paris, even by the same Strauss 
 when directing the same orchestra, and playing the same 
 tunes, which makes me also remember the evening. The 
 exquisite modulation of the triple tempo which no French 
 orchestra can render— full to the utmost fulness, yet not 
 heavy— round and equal, yet still with a slight propelling 
 accent — the precision and the pleasure among the players, 
 and the unstudied quiet animation of the waltz-master him- 
 self, made up an irresistible charm — a case of that fascination 
 by perfect concord, without any apparent mechanical weari- 
 ness, which long practice only can give — a delicious example 
 of some of the most luscious tones that happy orchestral 
 combination can produce, called out in expression and en- 
 hancement of some of the most beautiful music of modern 
 Europe/ — Yol. ii. p. 147. 
 
 Passing over with an allusion an arrange- 
 ment of verses to “ English tunes,” which 
 he published in 1857, and two productions 
 of his pen in 1859 of which I have not 
 found copies, viz., two parts of a series of 
 
MUSICAL recollections: 
 
 205 
 
 studies on Handel and a small educational 
 treatise on music, I must briefly notice the 
 two volumes of “Recollections,”* which em- 
 bodied the results of his thirty years’ experi- 
 ence. The formal method in which he has 
 arranged his subject, and the unusual sloven- 
 liness of his style in this book, have probably de- 
 terred many readers from doing it justice. It 
 will be found, by those who have courage to 
 overcome the first instinct of repulsion thus 
 occasioned, not only a pithy summary of 
 operatic history during the period it embraces, 
 but abounding in suggestive dicta and graphic 
 descriptions. The careful estimates of indi- 
 vidual composers and singers which it contains 
 give it special interest and value, if some 
 needful allowance be made for the critic’s 
 temptation to be a “ laudator temporis acti ,” 
 when writing of recent celebrities and the 
 tastes “ of the hour.” That no opportunity is 
 lost of proclaiming his favourite theories and 
 denouncing his peculiar aversions in Art will 
 
 * “ Thirty Years’ Musical Recollections.” Hurst and Blackett. 
 1862. 2 vols. 
 
206 
 
 MUSICAL RECOLLECTIONS: 
 
 be taken for granted, without illustrations ; but 
 one or two extracts may be made to exemplify 
 the variety with which he has contrived 
 to treat a theme in itself sufficiently limited. 
 Here, for instance, is a noteworthy observa- 
 tion upon national characteristics : 
 
 “ He (Donizetti) is remarkable as an instance of freshness 
 of fancy brought on by incessant manufacture. Such a 
 change is almost exclusively confined to Italian genius in its 
 workings. It learns and grows, while creating. If it be 
 moved by no deep purpose, it avails itself of self-correction ; 
 it strengthens its force on unconscious experience. Whereas 
 German after German has gone deeper and deeper into fog- 
 land, when aspiring to produce what music cannot give, 
 Italian after Italian has not merely perfected his own peculiar 
 style, but has enlarged his science, and arrived at novelty, 
 at a period of his career when it might have been fancied that 
 nothing but truism remained to be given out.” — Yol. i.p.154. 
 
 Here is a definition of what is involved in 
 the element of time in music : 
 
 “It is not such mere correctness as is insured by the 
 metronome ; not such artful licence in giving and taking as is 
 apt to become artifice and affectation ; but that instinctive 
 feeling for propriety— which no lessons can teach — that due 
 recognition of accent and phrase ; it is that absence of flurry 
 and exaggeration such as make the discourse and behaviour of 
 certain persons remarkable in themselves, be the matter and 
 occasion what they may — that intelligent composure without 
 coldness, which at once impresses and reassures those who 
 see and hear it.”— Yol. i. p. 130. 
 
« MUSICAL recollections: 
 
 207 
 
 The last extract I shall make is an example 
 of Chorley’s skill in description : 
 
 “ There remains a strange scene to be spoken of— the last 
 appearance of this magnificent musical artist (Pasta), when 
 she allowed herself, many years later, to be seduced into 
 giving one performance at Her Majesty’s Theatre, and to 
 sing in a concert for the Italian cause at the Eoyal Italian 
 Opera. Nothing more ill-advised could have been dreamed of. 
 Madame Pasta had long ago thrown off the stage and all 
 
 its belongings Her voice, which, at its best, had 
 
 required ceaseless watching and practice, had been long ago 
 given up by her. Its state of utter ruin on the night in 
 question passes description. She had been neglected by those 
 who, at least, should have presented her person to the best 
 advantage admitted by time. Her queenly robes (she was to 
 sing some scenes from “ Anna Bolena”) in nowise suited or 
 disguised her figure. Her hairdresser had done some tremen- 
 dous thing or other with her head — or rather had left every- 
 thing undone. A more painful and disastrous spectacle could 
 hardly be looked on. There were artists present, who had 
 then, for the first time, to derive some impression of a re- 
 nowned artist— perhaps with the natural feeling that her 
 reputation had been exaggerated. Among these was Rachel 
 — whose bitter ridicule of the entire sad show made itself 
 heard throughout the whole theatre, and drew attention to 
 the place where she sat — one might even say, sarcastically 
 enjoying the scene. Among the audience, however, was 
 another gifted woman, who might far more legitimately have 
 been shocked at the utter wreck of every musical means of 
 expression in the singer ; who might have been more naturally 
 forgiven, if some humour of self-glorification had made her 
 severely just — not worse — to an old prima, donna ; I mean 
 
203 
 
 “MUSICAL recollections: 
 
 Madame Viardot. Then, and not till then, she. was hearing 
 Madame Pasta. Bnt truth will always answer to the appeal 
 of truth. Dismal as was the spectacle — broken, hoarse, and 
 destroyed as was the voice — the great style of the singer 
 spoke to the great singer. The first scene was Anne Boleyn's 
 duet with Jane Seymour. The old spirit was heard and seen 
 in Madame Pasta’s 4 Sorgi/ and the gesture with which she 
 signed to her penitent rival to rise. Later, she attempted 
 the final mad scene of the opera — that most complicated 
 and brilliant among the mad scenes on the modern musical 
 stage — with its two cantabile movements, its snatches of 
 recitative, and its bravura of despair, which may be appealed 
 to as an example of vocal display, till then unparagoned, 
 when turned to the account of frenzy, not frivolity — perhaps, 
 as such, commissioned by the superb creative artist. By 
 that time, tired, unprepared, in ruin as she was, she 
 had rallied a little. When — on Anne Boleyn’s hearing 
 the coronation music for her rival, the heroine searches for 
 her own crown on her brow — Madame Pasta wildly turned 
 in the direction of the festive sounds, the old irresistible 
 charm broke out ; nay, even in the final song, with its roulades 
 and its scales of shakes, ascending by a semi-tone, the con- 
 summate vocalist and tragedian, able to combine form with 
 meaning— the moment of the situation, with such personal 
 and musical display as forms an integral part of operatic art 
 — was indicated, at least to the apprehension of a younger 
 artist. 4 You are right !’ was Madame Yiardot’s quick and 
 heartfelt response (her eyes full of tears) to a friend beside 
 her. 4 You are right !’ it is like the 4 Cenacolo ’ of Da Yinci 
 at Milan— a wreck of a picture, but the picture is the greatest 
 picture in the world !” — Yol. i. pp. 136-189. 
 
 Of the capacity which he felt conscious of 
 
BALLADS: LECTURES. 
 
 209 
 
 possessing, and, under more favourable circum- 
 stances, might have developed as a composer, 
 Chorley has left some trace in his ballads, the 
 “ elegance ” of which has been commended by 
 so competent a judge as Mr. Leslie. Less 
 skilled ears cannot fail to be charmed by the 
 graceful simplicity of the melody in “ When I 
 was young” and “ The Enchanted River,” the 
 admirable fitness of the setting to the chival- 
 rous sentiment and antique expression of 
 “ Bid me not the Lady praise.” Both the air 
 and words in each of these examples are his 
 own ; and the conjunction may be taken as 
 his best attempt to realise the views he held as 
 to the relation between poetry and music. 
 This relation was the subject of a lecture 
 which he delivered before the Royal Institu- 
 tion, February, 1861.* Another lecture given 
 at the Musical Institute was devoted to Moore, 
 the English poet who, in his opinion, had 
 
 * See yoI. i. pp. 134 and 294. His view seems to be nearly 
 identical with that put forth by Gluck, in the preface to 
 “Alceste.” It is improbable, however, that Chorley could 
 have seen this in 1834, when his attention was first drawn 
 to the subject. 
 
 YOL. II. 
 
 P 
 
210 
 
 LECTURES. 
 
 brought the union of verse and song to the 
 highest perfection. Both these lectures are 
 marked by the critic's acumen and learning, 
 but they are less ricb in either than the series 
 of four lectures on National Music read before 
 the Royal Institution in 1862, and subse- 
 quently delivered at Manchester and Bir- 
 mingham. The theme afforded ample scope 
 for research and speculation, and both are to 
 be found here, supported by a profusion of 
 illustration which attests the wide range of 
 Chorley’s experience as a student of the art. 
 It is to be regretted that these, his last con- 
 tributions of moment to musical literature, and 
 into which he has condensed so much cha- 
 racter and observation, should still remain 
 in manuscript. A lecture upon the recogni- 
 tion of music among the Arts, delivered (by 
 request) before the Society of Arts in 1859, 
 and one upon “ Race in connection with 
 Music, ’’read before the Anthropological Society 
 in 1866, will be respectively found among 
 the published transactions of those institu- 
 tions. 
 
INTEREST IN ART. 
 
 211 
 
 Throughout his life, and with unabated force 
 to the last, he showed the warmest interest in 
 all public or private enterprises by which 
 Music was to be served or honoured. The 
 Birmingham Festivals were the special sub- 
 ject of his approbation ; and he was “ never 
 tired,” says a friend who was in constant 
 correspondence with him, “of praising, not 
 only the performances, which he considered 
 the most perfect in the world, but also the 
 general management (under the care of Mr. 
 Peyton), the courteous reception of strangers 
 and the universal holiday feeling and hospi- 
 tality manifested on these occasions by the 
 inhabitants.” The same friend speaks of the 
 keen enjoyment which Chorley took “ in the 
 musical performances at the Crystal Palace ; 
 his appreciation of the readiness shown on 
 the part of the managers to produce new 
 works, and to give young musicians an 
 opportunity of appearing before the public. 
 Of the Handel Festivals he always wrote in 
 the highest terms of admiration, attending 
 them regularly with a party, and laughingly 
 
212 INTEREST IN ART. 
 
 calling his four seats at the Palace ‘ Chorley 
 Row.’ The friends who were fortunate 
 enough to accompany him in his drives 
 to Sydenham, on those days, will recollect 
 how much pleasure he and they derived 
 from excursions which, from breakfast to 
 dinner, he knew so well how to arrange, 
 never forgetting those small details of com- 
 fort and luxury which add much to the 
 amusement of a day passed amid delights of 
 the highest intellectual order. One day 
 Madame Yiardot would be the life and soul 
 of his party ; . on another, Sir John Cole- 
 ridge’s quiet humour and genial spirits com- 
 pelled every one else to enjoy it.” 
 
 Other illustrations might be added to show 
 that Chorley’s long term of service to Art in 
 what modern cynicism is pleased to call the 
 menial capacity of a critic, had not chilled his 
 ardour. That term nominally ended, at 
 Midsummer, 1868, when he retired from the 
 musical department of the £ Athenaeum,’ after 
 thirty-five years’ connection with it.* 
 
 * He celebrated the occasion by giving a farewell dinner at 
 
EE TIE EM EE T FROM TEE 1 A TIIENjE UM.’ 2 1 3 
 
 He continued, however, to communicate 
 occasional articles on musical topics, signed 
 with his name or initials, until the close of 
 1871. A technical organ (‘ The Orchestra’) 
 received contributions from him within two 
 months of his death. 
 
 Wembley Hill, to the employes of the publishing office. His 
 health did not allow of his being present, but through his 
 friend Mr. Francis, the publisher, he addressed a few kindly 
 words of parting to his “ fellow-' workers,” whom he reminded 
 that during all the years of his service, “ not a single angry 
 word or doubtful transaction had passed on either side, and 
 thanked with all his heart for their prompt and courteous 
 punctuality, which had made not the easiest of tasks a com- 
 paratively light one.” 
 
214 
 
 PRIVATE AND SOCIAL LIFE . 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Private and social life, from 1852 to 1872 — Residence at 
 No. 13, Eaton Place West — Description of the house — 
 Parties — Extract from letter to Liverpool — Opposition to 
 “ Spiritualistic” mania — Friendship with Charles Dickens 
 — Letters from him — Visits to Gad’s Hill — Miss Dickens’ 
 reminiscences — Mr. Procter— Hawthorne— -Other asso- 
 ciates — Deaths of Miss Mitford and Sir Wm. Molesworth 
 — Letter to Liverpool — Illness and death of his sister — 
 Memorial sketch of his brother John’s career— Letter 
 from Mr. Carlyle — Professor Ticknor — Accession of for- 
 tune — Mental depression, loneliness, and failing health — 
 A fatal expedient — Travels — Letter from Spain — Scar- 
 borough — Wakehurst Place — Memory of early friendship 
 — Letters — Affectionate relations with Mr. Benson Rath- 
 bone — Friendship with the writer — Reminiscences — Death 
 of Dickens— Letters to the writer — Employment on auto- 
 biography — Preface — Acceleration of organic disease — 
 Letters to Liverpool — His death, and funeral. 
 
 Tee twenty years of Chorley’s residence in 
 Eaton Place West are those by which he is 
 most likely to be remembered in London 
 society. In some respects they were the 
 
PERSONAL LIFE. 
 
 215 
 
 happiest, in others, the saddest of his life. 
 On the bright side may be set the advan- 
 tages of a recognised literary and social posi- 
 tion, the enjoyment of one close and of many 
 cordial intimacies, and the satisfaction of 
 being able to repay a long-cherished debt of 
 gratitude to his oldest friend, by the forma- 
 tion of a new bond of attachment. On the 
 dark side, must be reckoned the increasing 
 burdens of loneliness and ill-health, the loss, 
 in quick succession, of beloved associates by 
 death, and the loss of others by estrangement, 
 the pain of which was aggravated by the 
 sense that it was to some extent attributable 
 to his own conduct. It is scarcely necessary 
 to add to this category the disappointments 
 consequent upon his failures as an author, for 
 these seem to have been more easily borne 
 than they had formerly been. Long habit 
 had doubtless case-hardened him in this re- 
 spect, and their relative importance was sen- 
 sibly diminished by the weight of other trials 
 which pressed upon his affections. 
 
 His new house (No. 13) claims a paragraph 
 
216 
 
 HIS NEW HOUSE. 
 
 or two to itself. However unpretending ex- 
 ternally, its interior was almost dainty enough 
 to deserve the praise bestowed upon it by 
 Mrs. Hawthorne (p. Ill, ante). He used 
 to speak of it as the last house in Bel- 
 gravia proper, i.e., on the Belgrave estate, 
 and extol it as characterised by all the excel- 
 lencies of Cubitt’s building, notwithstanding 
 its small scale. Apropos of its size, I have 
 heard him relate his interview with the estate 
 agent, who showed him over it on the com- 
 pletion of his purchase, and made some apo- 
 logy for the narrowness of the staircase. 
 “ Never mind,” replied Chorley ; “ I shall 
 require a. very narrow coffin.” — “ I have sold 
 a great many leases of similar houses, sir, but 
 I never heard a gentleman make such an ob- 
 servation before !” was the astonished man’s 
 rejoinder. Chorley’s conviction, expressed 
 after this grimly-humorous fashion, that he 
 should spend his last years in the house, was 
 justified by the event, but the staircase was 
 witness to many a pleasant scene before ren- 
 dering him its final service. Always “ given to 
 
HIS NEW HOUSE. 
 
 217 
 
 hospitality,” he had now the means which were 
 wanting in former years to fulfil his desires, 
 and the house lent itself very graciously to 
 that end. The dining-room, to which dark 
 paper and curtains, a tall antique cabinet in 
 carved oak, a projecting armoire, filled with 
 old china, books on each side of the win- 
 dow, and some specimens of Etty, Turner, 
 Patrick Nasmyth, and other artists, gave 
 a certain air of sombre quaintness ; the 
 recessed landings, and the miniature double 
 drawing-room, bright with white and gold, 
 formed singularly attractive reception-rooms 
 for a bachelor with a large acquaintance, while 
 the “ chamber in the wall,” as he used to call 
 his tiny spare bed-room, was big enough for 
 the lodging of any guest who was more than 
 an acquaintance. These details will not seem 
 too trivial to he recalled by those (and their 
 number is considerable) who have habitually 
 partaken of Chorley’s hospitality in this 
 unique little house.* Of the principal guests 
 
 * None were more heartily welcomed there than foreign 
 guests. A large party was expressly given for Meyerbeer on 
 
218 
 
 PARTIES. 
 
 whom he used to assemble during the last ten 
 years of his life, I may speak presently. His 
 parties, during the earlier time of his resi- 
 dence there, were larger than he latterly 
 attempted, and occasionally in excess of the 
 accommodation. An absurd scene at one such 
 party may be still remembered by some who 
 were present. The account he gave of it in a 
 letter to Liverpool is worth extracting, if only 
 to relieve a record which has been, and must 
 be to the close, shadowed with much sadness. 
 The frequently morbid tone of his tempera- 
 ment was consistent with a hearty enjoyment 
 of life in other moods; and no better illustra- 
 tion could be given than the following, of his 
 ability to extract fun out of its most trifling 
 incidents. 
 
 “ Thank you, dear B., for the box of 
 bouquets, which arrived duly, and made me 
 wish anew I had you instead. The week is 
 over now. Peyton, who is a very compa- 
 nionable inmate, is gone. I had the Leslies 
 
 his coming to London in 1855 to attend the performance of 
 L’Etoile du Nord.” 
 
PARTIES. 
 
 219 
 
 with me, and the Santleys one day — the 
 Lehmanns, too. Emily will tell you of my 
 huge party on Thursday, but she could not 
 tell you of one of the most whimsical things 
 I ever saw ; no, I did not see it. But. crino- 
 line had so choked my drawing-room (you 
 could not see a nail of carpet) that when Lady 
 
 M came — you have seen that she is not 
 
 small — in all her bravery from another party, 
 there was no getting into the room. So she 
 stood in the little landing with about ten men 
 — you know how little the landing is. Well, 
 fancy a procession of this kind arriving from 
 below — first, a jug of hot water, second, a flat 
 
 candle, lighted, third, H , very fat, very 
 
 hot, very tired — too much all three to endure 
 a crowd in a little room, and who thought he 
 could creep up to bed ! I found the landing 
 party in fits of entertainment at his face when 
 he turned the corner of the stairs ! 
 
 “ On Friday we were hut four men in the 
 drive to Sydenham (with the Sims Reeves 
 and Miss Cushman to dinner). I took down 
 E , a new acquisition — one, though not 
 
220 
 
 SPIRITUALISM. 
 
 up to Maule (who ever will be ?), who is 
 more in that style — solid, superior, gentle, 
 and gentlemanly — than any one I have 
 lately met — a man of deep learning in 
 Oriental matters, who has taken, too, to me. 
 .... I won’t tell you how far this perform- 
 ance* surpassed that of ’57 — 27,000 people at 
 the ‘ Israel ;’ but I missed Leighton, and I 
 missed you.” .... 
 
 At the houses of his friends, Chorley’s pre- 
 sence was often noteworthy on account of the 
 pronounced tone of his opinions on certain 
 subjects. It will not he forgotten by those 
 among his acquaintance who have subscribed 
 to the tenets of spiritualism, how rigidly, both 
 by word and deed, he was wont to protest 
 against their theory and practice. A refer- 
 ence has already been made to his conflict 
 of opinion on this head with Mrs. Browning. 
 In connection with the resistance that he 
 offered to the wider spread of the contagion 
 by which her lucid mind was affected, he has 
 left a chapter of reminiscence, from which an 
 * The Handel Festival of 1859. 
 
SPIRITUALISM. 
 
 221 
 
 extract must be given, in deference to the 
 earnestness of bis feeling. The interest of the 
 question has so long been exhausted, that 
 without some such justification an apology 
 would be requisite for adding any further to 
 its literature. 
 
 4 I have always, on principle, resisted swell- 
 ‘ ing the crowd of those, professedly anxious 
 £ to wait on experiments, in reality hungerers 
 4 and thirsters after “ sensation the more 
 4 since, when the imagination is once engaged, 
 ‘ those as nervous as myself may well mistrust 
 ‘ that which by way of term is so largely 
 ‘ abused — “the evidence of the senses.” What 
 ‘ do our keenest powers of observation avail, 
 ‘ when they are brought to bear on the leger- 
 ‘ demain of a Robert Houdin, a Bosco (that 
 ‘ distasteful, fat old Italian, who executed his 
 4 wonders by the aid of hands ending arms 
 4 naked to the shoulder) ? What, still more, 
 4 when they attempt to unravel the sorceries 
 4 of such a conjuror as the Chevalier de Caston 
 4 — the man who could name the cards which 
 4 distant persons had silently taken from an 
 
222 
 
 SPIRITUALISM. 
 
 4 unbroken pack, with his back turned and 
 ‘ blindfolded, and at the distance of a draw- 
 4 ing-room and a half? This, further, I saw 
 4 him do. There were three of us sitting 
 4 on an ottoman in the front room, he, as 
 4 I have said, with his back to us, and 
 4 thoroughly blindfolded. Two opaque por- 
 4 celain slates, to all appearance entirely new, 
 4 were brought. On one of these, each of the 
 4 three wrote, in pencil, a question, without 
 4 uttering a word. The slates were laid face 
 4 to face, and bound together with a broad 
 4 ribbon, thus totally clear of transparency. 
 4 My question was, in French, 44 What was 
 4 the colour of Cleopatra’s hair ?” I forget the 
 4 other two. The Chevalier put his hands 
 4 behind his chair. I placed the slates so 
 4 bound in the two hands. He retained them 
 4 a moment, without stirring or turning, and, 
 4 to my amazement, said, 44 Cleopatra dyed her 
 4 hair, so wore all colours.” The other two 
 4 questions, which I have forgotten, were no 
 4 less pertinently and explicitly answered. 
 4 Now, even on the theory of complicity, it 
 
SPIRITUALISM. 
 
 223 
 
 ‘ would be by no means easy to explain this 
 ‘ feat. I can only say that I am satisfied I 
 4 have recounted it accurately.* 
 
 4 When one Alexis was here, who was 
 4 guaranteed to read everything, no matter 
 ‘ how far off, however hermetically sealed up,f 
 4 a friend of mine called on his way to a 
 ‘ seance — no willing co-juggler with Alexis, I 
 ‘ am persuaded, but leaning towards his 
 ‘ marvels. He was anxious that I should 
 ‘ bear him company. I declined, on the argu- 
 4 ment I have stated. 44 Well,” said he, “ what 
 ‘ would satisfy you ?” Said I, 44 Supposing I 
 ‘ were to write an odd word — such a one as 
 ‘ 4 orchestra ’ — and seal it, and satisfy myself 
 4 that no one could read it without break- 
 4 ing the seal, and be equally satisfied that 
 4 no one would mention it who was honestly 
 4 disposed ” — 44 Well ?” 44 Well, then, if it was 
 
 * 4 This Chevalier de Caston, by the way, was the only pro- 
 4 fessor of his art who succeeded in puzzling Charles Dickens, 
 4 himself a consummate and experienced conjuror. 
 
 t 4 Yet the reading of the number of the historical bank- 
 4 note of £1000, payable to him who could pronounce it, has 
 4 never, I believe, been accomplished. 
 
224 
 
 SPIRITUALISM. 
 
 ‘ read, I should say the guess was a good 
 ‘ one — nothing more.” “ Let us try.” I 
 ‘ went into an adjoining room for writing 
 ‘ materials, and thought, as an odd word, of 
 1 “ Pondicherry.” I wrote down this ; I satis- 
 ‘ fied my eyes that no one could read it unless 
 ‘ it was tampered with. It was signed, sealed, 
 ‘ and delivered. I am, at this day of writing, 
 ‘ as satisfied of my friend’s honour as I am of 
 ‘ my own. He was to come back to dine with 
 ‘ me and to report what had happened. He 
 ‘ did come hack, scared considerably, but in 
 ‘ no respect disabused. “ Well,” said I, “ did 
 ‘ he read my note ?” “ Oh, yes, immediately ; 
 ‘ but he read it wrong. He read orchestra .” 
 ‘ That my friend may have whispered, “ Chor- 
 ‘ ley’s test-word ” into some ear can hardly 
 ‘ be doubted by those who are, as Hood says, 
 
 ‘ “ with small belief encumbered but, of his 
 ‘ honest self, he took the performance as a 
 ‘ brilliant illustration of thought-reading. 
 
 * Almost enough of these pitiful matters. 
 
 ‘ One more experience, however, is not un- 
 ‘ worthy of being told, as showing how the 
 
SPIRITUALISM. 
 
 225 
 
 ‘ agitation was kept up, and, when denounced, 
 
 ‘ how those denouncing it were treated. I 
 ‘ was in the house of an old friend given to 
 4 divers amusements and sensations, who, one 
 ‘ evening, having a society rather credu- 
 ‘ lous, mesmeric, and super naturally disposed 
 4 around her, bethought herself, by way of 
 ‘ the evening’s amusement, “ to turn tables 
 ‘ if rappings came, so much the better. I was 
 ‘ about to leave, in the fullness, or emptiness 
 ‘ (which ?), of my unbelief, when I was espe- 
 ‘ cially asked to remain and be convinced. I 
 ‘ felt that inquiry was impossible, and I said 
 ‘ so ; but in answer I was asked, 44 What form 
 4 of inquiry would satisfy me? If I would 
 
 * stay, I might inquire to the utmost.” The 
 ‘ answer was, a row of candles on the floor 
 4 and my seat underneath the table. All this 
 4 was cordially, kindly granted to the unbe- 
 4 liever, who had been persuaded to stay. 
 4 Down sat the believers ; almost on the floor 
 4 sat the unbeliever. The above made a chain 
 
 * of hands ; the low man watched their feet. 
 4 The table, which I am assured bore a fair 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 SPIRITUALISM. 
 
 4 reputation among wooden oracles, was stead- 
 4 fast not to stir. I sat, and they sat, and we 
 4 sat, for nearly a good half-hour. (Happily, 
 4 the abominable pretext at a prayer had been 
 4 omitted.) At length, the eight believers 
 ‘ became tired; and the most enthusiastic 
 4 among them broke up the seance in “ a 
 ‘ temper.” “ There can be no experiments,” 
 4 said he, “ where an infidel spirit prevails.” 
 4 And so I went forth, branded as a “ spoil- 
 4 sport and, as such, in a certain world, 
 4 have never recovered the place before that 
 4 time allowed me. 
 
 4 Long live legerdemain as a useless com- 
 4 bination of ingenuity, memory, and mecha- 
 4 nical appliances — owned as such ! But when, 
 4 after seeing its perfect marvels, exhibited by 
 4 way of dramatic show and paid for by 
 4 money, one is invited and expected to be- 
 ‘ lieve in revelations which have never told 
 f one secret— in oracles from the dead, the 
 4 best of which amount to the sweet spring 
 4 saying, “ Grass is green ” — it is not wholly 
 4 unnatural that with some, be they ever so 
 
SPIRITUALISM. 
 
 227 
 
 4 prosaic, be they ever so imaginative, the 
 4 gorge will rise, and the dogmatism (it may 
 ‘ be) become strong, if only because it is the 
 4 inevitable descendant of the superstition. 
 4 To play with the deepest and most sacred 
 4 mysteries of heart and brain, of love beyond 
 4 the grave, of that yearning affection which 
 4 takes a thousand shapes when distance and 
 4 suspense divide it from its object, is a fear- 
 4 ful, an unholy work. If this dreary chapter, 
 4 which expresses almost the sincerest of con- 
 4 victions that can influence a man towards 
 4 the decline of his life, can make any one dis- 
 4 posed to tamper with 44 wandering thoughts 
 4 and vain imaginations” consider, without 
 4 cant or pedantry, the argument endeavoured 
 4 to be illustrated, it will not have been written 
 4 in vain.’ 
 
 The brightest part of these years was 
 that which was illumined by his friendship 
 with Charles Dickens. Their acquaintance 
 has been referred to as dating from an earlier 
 period ; but they did not become intimate 
 until 1854, when an office of charity, in which 
 
228 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 both were interested, brought them into fre- 
 quent communication. During the last few 
 years of Dickens’s life they were in constant 
 correspondence ; and there was probably no 
 other man of letters, with the exception of 
 Mr. Forster, to whom his confidence was so 
 entirely given. Amid many differences of 
 mental and moral' constitution, there was one 
 salient feature in common. In Dickens this 
 quality of punctuality , as Chorley used to 
 describe it, was manifest in the minutest par- 
 ticulars. He himself was less scrupulously 
 methodical; but in all essential points his 
 thorough trustworthiness was equally promi- 
 nent. One who knew him well says of him, 
 that “ whatever he undertook, he could always 
 he relied upon to perform ; whether it was 
 the review of a book for the ‘ Athenaeum,’ 
 with only twenty-four hours before going to 
 press — a sudden journey to Paris in mid- 
 winter, to hear a new singer — or the ordering 
 of a dinner — all were performed with abso- 
 lute fidelity and certainty, to the best of his 
 ability.” Though both the friends were pro- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 229 
 
 bably self-conscious of possessing this charac- 
 teristic, it seems to have been to each the 
 object of special admiration in the other. 
 Both, too, as has been said, recognised in one 
 another the presence of a generous ' candour 
 that admitted of no bar to the mutual inter- 
 change of criticism. Chorley’s review of 
 “ Bleak House,” in the ‘ Athenaeum ’ of 1853, 
 mingled praise and blame with even more 
 discrimination than Dickens employed in his 
 before-cited estimate of “ Roccabella.” How 
 highly his friend’s favourable verdict was 
 valued by the great novelist may be judged 
 from the following note, addressed to Chorley 
 after the appearance of his review of “ Our 
 Mutual Friend 
 
 “ Office of ‘ All the Year Round/ 
 
 “ No. 20, Wellington Street, Strand, W.C. 
 “ Saturday, 28th of October, 1865. 
 
 “ My dear Chorley, 
 
 “ I find your letter here only to-day. 
 I shall he delighted to dine with you on 
 Tuesday, the 7th, but I cannot answer for 
 Mary, as she is staying with the Lehmanns. 
 
230 
 
 NOTES FROM DICKENS. 
 
 To the best of my belief, she is coming to 
 Glad’s this evening to dine with a neighbour. 
 In that case, she will immediately answer 
 for herself. I have seen the ‘ Athenaeum,’ 
 and most heartily and earnestly thank you. 
 Trust me, there is nothing I could have 
 wished away, and all that I read there affects 
 and delights me. I feel so generous an ap- 
 preciation and sympathy so very strongly, 
 that if I were to try to write more, I should 
 blur the words by seeing them dimly. 
 
 “ Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 “ 0. D.” 
 
 [Inscribed by Chorley :] 
 
 “ I must keep this letter, as referring to my 
 review of ‘ Our Mutual Friend.’ ” 
 
 Such other relics of Dickens’s large corre- 
 spondence with him as Chorley has preserved 
 (the bulk of it having been deliberately de- 
 stroyed), attest the thorough sympathy that 
 subsisted between the two. On no occasion 
 of his life, when he needed help, great or 
 small, whether consolation under affliction, 
 
NOTES FROM DIO KENS. 
 
 231 
 
 counsel in the settlement of a dispute, or as 
 to the adaptation of his voice to a lecture- 
 room, did Dickens fail to render it. More 
 than once during these years, when bowed 
 down by the weight of loneliness, ill-health, 
 and sorrow, he was absorbed in moods 
 of utter depression, or driven to adopt the 
 most fatal of expedients for removing it, the 
 clear healthy sense of Dickens was felt by 
 him as a tower of strength ; and it was doubt- 
 less a remembrance of the influence extended 
 at such times that dictated the language of a 
 grateful bequest to his friend, as to one by 
 whom he had been “ greatly helped.” 
 
 Two or three miscellaneous notes which be 
 received from Dickens are subjoined, to illus- 
 trate the terms on which they stood. 
 
 “ 16 Hyde Park Gate, 
 
 “ South Kensington Gore, W. 
 “ Saturday, 1st March, 1862. 
 
 “My dear Chorley, 
 
 “ I was at your lecture* this afternoon, 
 and I hope I may venture to tell you that 
 
 The first of the series on “ National Music/ 
 
232 
 
 NOTES FROM DICKENS. 
 
 I was extremely pleased and interested. 
 Both the matter of the materials and the 
 manner of their arrangement were quite 
 admirable, and a modesty and complete ab- 
 sence of any kind of affectation pervaded the 
 whole discourse, which was quite an example 
 to the many whom it concerns. If you could 
 be a very little louder, and would never let a 
 sentence go for the thousandth part of an in- 
 stant, until the last word is out, you would 
 find the audience more responsive. A spoken 
 sentence will never run alone in all its life, 
 and is never to be trusted to itself in its most 
 insignificant member. See it well out — with 
 the voice — and the part of the audience is 
 made surprisingly easier. In that excellent 
 description of the Spanish mendicant and his 
 guitar, as well as in the very happy touches 
 about the dance and the castanets, the people 
 were really desirous to express very hearty 
 appreciation ; but by giving them rather too 
 much to do in watching and listening for 
 latter words, you stopped them. I take the 
 liberty of making the remark, as one who has 
 
NOTES FROM DICKENS. 
 
 233 
 
 fought with beasts (oratorically) in divers 
 arenas. For the rest, nothing could be better. 
 Knowledge, ingenuity, neatness, condensation, 
 good sense, and good taste in delightful combi- 
 nation. 
 
 “ Affectionately always, 
 
 “ 0. D.” 
 
 “ Gad’s Hill Place, 
 
 “ Higham by Rochester, Kent. 
 
 “ Friday, December 18th, 1863. 
 
 “My dear Chorley, 
 
 “ This is a 4 Social Science ’ note touching 
 prospective engagements. 
 
 “ If you are obliged, as you were last year, 
 to go away between Christmas Day and New 
 Year’s Day, then we rely upon your coming 
 back to see the old year out. Furthermore, 
 I rely upon you for this : Lady Molesworth 
 says she will come down for a day or two, and 
 I have told her that I shall ask you to be her 
 escort, and to arrange a time. Will you take 
 counsel with her, and arrange accordingly ? 
 After our family visitors are gone, Mary is 
 
234 
 
 NOTES FROM DICKENS. 
 
 going a-hunting in Hampshire ; but if you 
 and Lady Molesworth could make out from 
 Saturday, the 9th of January, as your day of 
 coming together, or for any day between that 
 and Saturday, the 16th, it would he beforehand 
 with her going, and would suit me excellently. 
 There is a new officer at the dockyard, vice 
 
 Mrs. (now an admiral), and I will take 
 
 that opportunity of paying him and his wife 
 the attention of asking them to dine in these 
 gorgeous halls. For all of which reasons, if 
 the Social Science Congress of two could meet 
 and arrive at a conclusion, the conclusion 
 would be thankfully hooked by the illustrious 
 writer of these lines. 
 
 “ On Christmas Eve, there is a train from 
 your own Victoria Station at 4 - 35 P.M., which 
 will bring you to Strood (Rochester Bridge 
 Station) in an hour, and there a majestic 
 form will be descried in a basket. 
 
 “ Yours affectionately, 
 
 “ C. D.” 
 
NOTES FROM DICKENS . 
 
 235 
 
 “ Gad's Hill Place, 
 
 “ Higham by Rochester, Kent. 
 
 “ Sunday, June 2nd, 1867. 
 
 “ My dear Chorley, 
 
 “ Thank God I have come triumph- 
 antly through the heavy work of the fifty- 
 one readings, and am wonderfully fresh. I 
 grieve to hear of your sad occupation.* You 
 know where to find rest, and quiet, and sym- 
 pathy, when you can change the dreary 
 scene. I saw poor dear Stanfield (on a hint 
 from his eldest son) in a day’s interval be- 
 tween two expeditions. It was clear that the 
 shadow of the end had fallen on him. It 
 happened well that I had seen, on a wild 
 day at Tynemouth, a remarkable sea-effect, of 
 which I wrote a description to him, and he 
 had kept it under his pillow. This place is 
 looking very pretty. The freshness and re- 
 pose of it, after all those thousands of gas- 
 lighted faces, sink into the soul.” 
 
 [The remainder has been cut off for the sig- 
 nature.] 
 
 * The allusion, in this and the following letter, is to 
 Chorley’s attendance at his brother’s death-bed. 
 
236 
 
 CEO RLE Y AT GAD'S HILL. 
 
 “ Gad’s Hill Place, 
 
 “ Higham by Rochester, Kent. 
 “ Wednesday, 3rd July, 1867. 
 
 “My dear Chorley, 
 
 “ I am truly sorry to receive your let- 
 ter (it readies me to-day), and yet cannot 
 but feel relieved that your main anxiety and 
 distress are terminated. At this time, as at 
 all others, believe me that you have no truer 
 friend or one more interested in all that inte- 
 rests you than I am. 
 
 “ Affectionately yours ever, 
 
 “ Charles Dickens.” 
 
 At Gad’s Hill, Chorley was always a wel- 
 come guest, and his days of retreat and refresh- 
 ment there were amongst the happiest he ever 
 spent. A fresh and pleasant picture of them 
 is afforded in the subjoined reply which Miss 
 Dickens has kindly made to my inquiries 
 respecting his relations with her father. 
 
 “ 81, Gloucester Terrace. 
 
 “ Aug. 20, 1872. 
 
 “ My dear Mr. Hewlett, 
 
 “I can’t exactly tell you when my 
 
 father first knew Mr. Chorley, but a great 
 
CHOBLEY AT GAD'S HILL. 
 
 237 
 
 many years before be became intimate with 
 him. About the year 1854, my father was 
 much interested about getting a pension for 
 two literary persons, friends both of his and 
 of Mr. Chorley. He then wrote to Mr. 
 Chorley on the subject, and he — always ready 
 to do anything good and kind — exerted him- 
 self a great deal in the matter. This business 
 brought them a good deal together, and from 
 that time till my dear father’s death, they 
 were fast friends. Mr. Chorley used to come 
 constantly to Gad’s Hill, used often to in- 
 vite himself, and was always most welcome. 
 People who were in the habit of seeing him 
 only in London would hardly have known 
 him at Gad’s Hill, I think. He was a 
 brighter and younger being altogether there. 
 He would be down punctually to breakfast 
 by nine o’clock, very often earlier ; would 
 occupy himself writing, or reading, &c., all 
 the morning, and, after luncheon, set off for 
 a long walk with my father. I remember one 
 day our going for a picnic a long way off ; 
 some of our party driving, some walking. 
 
238 
 
 CHOELEY AT GAD’S HILL. 
 
 When we started to return, we all took it for 
 granted that Mr. Chorley would drive. But 
 my father walking, he walked too. It was 
 a hot summer’s day, and they did eighteen 
 miles — walking, as my father always did, at 
 a good pace ; and Mr. Chorley came down 
 to dinner as bright and as fresh as possible. 
 This sort of thing for most men is, of course, 
 no matter for surprise ; but to those who knew 
 Mr. Chorley, and his apparently weak phy- 
 sique, it was quite wonderful to see how much 
 he could do. He was always ready for any 
 game, charade, or impromptu amusement of 
 any sort, and was capital at it. One Christ- 
 mas my father proposed, quite suddenly, that 
 we should have some charades. They were 
 to be in dumb pantomime, and Mr. Chorley 
 was to play the piano. He immediately 
 began to practise music suitable for the 
 different scenes. And when the evening 
 arrived, he came down dressed up in the 
 queerest way, and sat down to the piano, in a 
 meek and unobtrusive manner, being a poor 
 old musician, and very shy, and very shabby, 
 
CHORLEY AT GAD’S HILL. 
 
 239 
 
 and very hungry, and wretched-looking alto- 
 gether. He played this part admirably the 
 whole evening, and his get-up was excellent. 
 A great many of the audience didn’t know 
 him at first. He had made a secret about this 
 dressing-up, and had done it all by himself ; 
 and I met him on the stairs and didn’t know 
 him ! He was most innocently proud of the 
 success of his self-invented part. 
 
 “ I think he was a truly kind and charit- 
 able man, doing all sorts of good and ge- 
 nerous deeds in a quiet, unostentatious way. 
 I do not suppose anybody really in need 
 ever applied to him in vain. And I know 
 he has given a helping hand to several 
 young musicians, who, without the aid of 
 this kind hand, could not have risen to he 
 what, they now are. He was very grateful 
 for any love and attention shown to him, 
 and never forgot a kindness done to him. I 
 believe he loved my father better than any 
 man in the world ; was grateful to him for 
 his friendship, and truly proud of possessing 
 it, which he certainly did to a very large 
 amount. My father was very fond of him, 
 
240 
 
 CHOBLEY AT GAD'S HILL. 
 
 and had the greatest respect for his honest, 
 straightforward, upright, and generous cha- 
 racter. I think, and am very glad to think, 
 that the happiest days of Mr. Chorley’s life — 
 his later life, that is to say — were passed at 
 Gad’s Hill. 
 
 “ After my father’s death, and before we left 
 the dear old home, Mr. Chorley wrote and 
 asked me if I would send him a branch off 
 each of our large cedar-trees, as a remem- 
 brance of the place. My friend, and his dear 
 friend, Mrs. Lehmann, saw him lying calm 
 and peaceful in his coffin, with a large green 
 branch on each side of him. She did not 
 understand what this meant, but I did, and 
 was much touched, as, of course, he had given 
 orders that these branches should he laid 
 with him in his coffin. So a piece of the 
 place he loved so much, for its dear master’s 
 sake, went down to the grave with him. For 
 myself, I have lost as kind, as generous, and 
 as true a friend as it is possible to have had. 
 
 “ I remain, dear Mr. Hewlett, 
 
 “ Yours sincerely, 
 
 “Mamie Dickers. 
 
MR. PROCTER. 
 
 241 
 
 “ I find, on consulting with my aunt, that 
 I have made a m istake about the pension. It 
 was Mr. Chorley who wrote first to my father 
 about it.” 
 
 Of Chorley’s older friends a few still re- 
 mained to him. Among the most valued was 
 Mr. Procter, happily still surviving to us, the 
 last of the “ old poets.” A little note received 
 from him in 1866 has in it so much of the 
 poet’s delicate grace, that I venture to add 
 it to those which already enrich these vo- 
 lumes : 
 
 “ Essington’s Hotel, Malvern Wells, 
 
 “ 7th August, 1866. 
 
 “ Many thanks, my dear Chorley (and they 
 are many), for your kind letter. It has gra- 
 tified me very much. I am so much out of 
 the world now — so far in that dark desert 
 which goes by the name of old age — that a 
 little kindness seems to bring me face to face 
 again with the laughing, moving world. I 
 come out of the wood, and shake hands with 
 pleasant people that I used to know, once 
 more. I think myself young again (i.e. about 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 R 
 
242 
 
 MR. PROCTER. 
 
 sixty or seventy) when, in infirmity of speech 
 and motion, I am almost a century. My 
 soldiers, however are not 100 men, but 100 
 years, which I tread upon and try to forget. 
 W e are here gathering quiet and health (and, 
 it seems, a few compliments) on the side of 
 the Malvern Hills. Edith, I rejoice to say, is 
 much better. Our principal acquaintances 
 are the wonderful strong-winged swallows, 
 which shoot through the air like thought — 
 who never rest, but go gliding through life 
 without noise, and eventually (about Michael- 
 mas) go upwards to near the moon, and are 
 lost. I never was so thoroughly possessed by 
 the power, and swiftness, and beauty of this 
 dream in • feathers before. If I were young 
 again, I would risque some verses upon it. 
 What a fine movement in music it might 
 inspire ! My writing (the mechanical part of it) 
 is done with so much difficulty, that I refrain 
 from saying more than that I am at all times 
 “ Your very sincere 
 
 “ B. W. Procter.” 
 
HAWTHORNE. 
 
 243 
 
 Among new and’distinguished acquaintance 
 made by Chorley in these years was Na- 
 thaniel Hawthorne. An imperfect sketch of 
 the manner in which they met, of the im- 
 pression left by the man, and the mingled 
 admiration and regret inspired by the author, 
 was intended to form part of a chapter of 
 autobiography, devoted to the subject of 
 American characteristics, not otherwise of 
 sufficient importance to deserve insertion. 
 
 ‘March, 1870. — At the instant of closing 
 4 this chapter of recollections I read of the 
 ‘ death of the widow of the greatest and 
 4 choicest author of fiction whom America 
 4 has till now produced, Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
 
 4 This sets me free to write concerning that 
 4 singular original man what I know and 
 4 have seen of him in England. 
 
 4 From the first appearance, in an American 
 4 magazine, of those delicious and individual 
 4 stories, subsequently collected and given 
 4 forth as 44 Twice Told Tales,” it was evident 
 4 that something as exquisite as it was finished 
 4 was added to the world’s stores of fiction. I 
 
244 
 
 HAWTHORNE. 
 
 ‘ am bold to say that there could not be two 
 ‘ opinions among open-minded persons, be the 
 ‘ English ever so “ slow to move ” (as the 
 ‘ author of “De Yere” has it). They were 
 ‘ quicker, however, in Hawthorne’s case than 
 ‘ they were in America. But it is one of my 
 ‘ greatest pleasures, as a journalist, to recollect 
 ‘ that I was the first who had the honour of 
 ‘ calling attention to these tales when they 
 ‘ appeared in the form of periodical articles. 
 ‘ What Hawthorne’s reputation has since 
 ‘ grown into — a universal fame — I need not 
 ‘ recount. From the first, I followed its 
 ‘ growth at a distance, step by step, with the 
 ‘ pleasure which one has of seeing dawn 
 ‘ brightening into day, and day ripening into 
 ‘ noon, without the slightest idea that I should 
 ‘ ever see or ever be known to him. That 
 ‘ I wished to form some idea of the man, 
 ‘ as distinct from the author, is no less true. 
 ‘ The sole idea I could “ realise ” (as the 
 ‘ Americans say) was one of his invincible 
 ‘ shyness. No one had seen him, or met him, 
 
 ‘ or known him ; so ran the legend. It was a 
 
HAWTHORNE. 
 
 245 
 
 ‘ clear case of mystery, in its way, I have 
 4 since come to think, as fondly promoted 
 ‘ and cherished hy the romancer as that of the 
 4 44 Great Unknown.” 
 
 ‘ There is small need to recall how, sub- 
 4 sequently, appeared a second miscellany, 
 ‘ 44 Mosses from an old Manse ” (among other 
 4 legends, containing that ghastliest of stories, 
 4 44 Rapaccini’s Daughter”), then “The Scarlet 
 4 Letter,” and the yet more original 44 House of 
 4 Seven Gables,” 44 The Blithedale Romance,” 
 4 and, lastly, “ Transformation.” Such works 
 4 of art as these, like all real creations, must 
 4 make their way. It was then with no 
 4 common interest I heard that his own 
 4 country, by way of paying due honour to 
 4 Hawthorne, was doing its utmost for him 
 4 by appointing him to the consulate at Liver- 
 4 pool. At the same time it was told me that, 
 4 on accepting the appointment, he inquired 
 4 whether the American consul would, ex 
 4 officio, be obliged to talk much, and on being 
 4 told not, in reply, laconically said, 44 Thank 
 4 God !” 
 
246 
 
 HAWTHORNE. 
 
 ‘ When I heard that Hawthorne was to live 
 ‘ at Liverpool as American consul, it seemed 
 ‘ clear that, with some knowledge of the best, 
 ‘ most liberal, and most delicately-minded of 
 ‘ those who then, as now, dispensed public 
 ‘ hospitality and private kindliness in the 
 ‘ town, I might justifiably write to him, and 
 ‘ refer him to them, in case he should stand in 
 ‘ need of society and private sympathy, totally 
 ‘ apart from anything like the tinselled folly of 
 ‘ lionism. I did so, and received no answer to 
 ‘ my letter. Hawthorne established himself, 
 ‘ as his Memoirs have told us, at Rock Ferry, 
 ‘ in Cheshire, enjoyed as much as he cared to 
 ‘ enjoy, and afterwards retired into that sulky, 
 ‘ suspicious mood (of a consul taking pay ?) 
 ‘ which befits a misunderstood hero. To my- 
 ‘ self, and those to whom I sent him, he re- 
 ‘ sponded by neither “ look, word, nor sign.” 
 
 ‘ After some natural disappointment, I 
 ‘ naturally came to forget the man, and to 
 ‘ think only of his admirable books. It was, 
 ‘ then, with surprise that, some years later, I 
 ‘ received a note from a boarding-house in 
 
HAWTHORNE 1. 
 
 247 
 
 ‘ Golden Square, in which Hawthorne an- 
 4 nounced his arrival in London, and his great 
 4 desire to see me before he returned home 
 ‘ (“as one,” etc., etc., etcetera). I answered this 
 ‘ in person, and found, what I might have been 
 ‘ sure of, a most genial and original man, full 
 4 of life, full of humour, in no respect shy. 
 ‘ He agreed at once to pass a day with me. 
 ‘ I gave him the option of a party or no 
 ‘ party. He chose the latter alternative. A 
 4 pleasanter day than the one in question is 
 ‘ not in my 44 Golden Book.” I think I have 
 4 never heard any one, save my honoured 
 ‘ friend Carlyle, laugh so heartily as did 
 ‘ Hawthorne. It is generally a nervous busi- 
 4 ness to receive those to whom one has long 
 ‘ looked up ; but it was not the least so in his 
 4 case. The impression I received was one of 
 4 a man genial, and not over sensitive, even 
 4 when we could make merry on the subject of 
 4 national differences and susceptibilities. 
 
 4 This experience, it may well be believed, 
 
 4 has made me read with an amazement 
 4 almost approaching distress the book Haw- 
 
248 
 
 HAWTHORNE. 
 
 4 thorne published on bis return home, and, 
 
 4 later, tbe selections from bis manuscript 
 ‘ journals, put forward by his widow. It 
 4 is bard to conceive tbe existence of so 
 4 much pettiness in a man so great and real ; 
 4 of such a resolution to brood over fancied 
 4 slights and strange formalities, yet, withal, 
 4 to generalise so widely on such narrow pre- 
 4 mises ; of such vulgarity in one who bad 
 4 written for the public so exquisitely. It is 
 4 difficult to accept such a writer’s criticisms 
 4 on 44 tbe steaks and sirloins” of English 
 4 ladies. I still remember Hester Prynne 
 4 and Pearl, in tbe 44 Scarlet Letter,” and 
 ‘ Phoebe and Hepzibah, in tbe 44 House of 
 4 tbe Seven Gables,” and ask myself bow 
 4 far tbe case in point proves the adage 
 4 that there is nothing so essentially nasty 
 4 as refinement. The tone of these English 
 4 journals is as small and peevish as if their 
 4 writer had been thwarted and overlooked, in- 
 4 stead of waited on by hearty offers of service, 
 4 which in most cases were declined almost as 
 4 persistently as if they had been so many 
 
INTIMATES. 
 
 249 
 
 ‘ affronts. A more puzzling case of inconsist- 
 ‘ ency and duality has never come before me.’ 
 
 Nearly all the leading names connected 
 with art and literature in this country, besides 
 a considerable number of those prominent in 
 society, were now on the list of Chorley’s 
 acquaintance ; but the few only with whom 
 he was most intimate need here he enume- 
 rated : Mr. Frederick Leighton,* Sir Arthur 
 Helps, Mr. (now Lord) Lytton, Lord Chief 
 Justice Cockburn, Sir John Coleridge, Mr. 
 Eastwick, Dr. Seemann, Lady Downshire, Mrs. 
 Milner Gibson, Mr. and Mrs. Von Glehn, and 
 Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Lehmann. His asso- 
 ciates in the musical world have already been 
 named : in theatrical circles, the late Charles 
 Kean, I Madame Eistori, Mr. A. Wigan, Mr. 
 
 * Mr. Leighton’s future was foreseen by Chorley from the 
 first. Writing of him to a friend in January, 1856, he speaks 
 of him as “ the most promising and accomplished young man 
 of genius whom I have seen for very many years.” 
 
 t A letter from Charles Kean, acknowledging a tribute of 
 Chorley’s critical approval, evinces so high an appreciation of 
 his judgment that it must not be omitted : 
 
 “ My deae Sik, 
 
 “ Amongst the many letters of congratulation I have 
 
250 LOSS OF OLD FRIENDS. 
 
 Fechter, Mr. Sothern, and Mr. and Mrs. Ban- 
 croft, may be particularly mentioned. 
 
 It was fortunate that bis capacity of making 
 new friends remained unexhausted, for the 
 number of bis old associates was fast waning. 
 Two died a few months after each other in 
 1855 : Miss Mitford and Sir William Moles- 
 
 received on Louis XI., none has afforded me such unmingled 
 pleasure as yours, and the more so, that it was quite un- 
 expected, and has taken me by surprise. I had fancied 
 (erroneously or not) that a certain prejudice against me had 
 laid hold of your mind, resulting more from the opinions of 
 others than your own unbiassed judgment. 
 
 “ I have suffered much during my professional career from 
 more than one hostile clique , whose pertinacious efforts have 
 won converts to their views, who were of themselves disposed 
 to be friendly; and I know how readily, and, perhaps, in- 
 sensibly, impressions are taken up under the influence of a 
 prevailing atmosphere. The tone of your letter assures me 
 of your perfect sincerity, and gives a double value to your 
 encomiums. I rejoice that I have gained the good opinion of 
 a sound critic, and, be assured, I fully appreciate the warmth 
 and manly straightforwardness with which you have com- 
 municated it to me. The manner is, if possible, even more 
 satisfactory than the matter. 
 
 “ I remain, my dear Sir, 
 
 “ Yours very truly and obliged, 
 
 “ Chakles Kean. 
 
 24th Jan. 1855/ 
 
DEATH OF SIR W. MOLESWOETH. 
 
 251 
 
 worth. The void made by the latter loss was 
 the widest; his eminent character inspiring 
 an admiration which made his regard as 
 honourable as it was delightful, and oppor- 
 tunities of companionship with him having of 
 late years increased in frequency. Chorley’s 
 new house was close to that of Sir William, 
 in Eaton Place, and Pencarrow was always 
 open to him when the season was over. 
 Dating thence, on the 5th September, 1855, 
 he writes to Liverpool : “ Here we have no 
 party as yet, and I like it all the better. Next 
 week the house will he full, and there is to be 
 a Militia hall, for which I have volunteered 
 the music ; but the perfect liberty of the place 
 and the feeling that one can enjoy it without 
 taking up the room of any more useful guest, 
 are delicious.” A few weeks later, he writes 
 again, and chronicles the mournful change : 
 
 “ 13, Eaton Place West, 
 
 “ 30th October, 1855. 
 
 “ My dear B., 
 
 “ I thank you with all my heart for 
 your affectionate letter, though I should have 
 
252 
 
 DEATH OF SIR W. MOLESWORTH. 
 
 counted on the feelings it conveys, had you 
 not written it. 
 
 “This blow is a serious one; since that house 
 (close to mine) was open to me as a place 
 of warm welcome and sunshine whenever I 
 chose to run in, out of the cold and darkness 
 of my own life. Sir W., I know, had a high 
 esteem for me, since no important change in 
 his career ever took place without his sending 
 for me to tell me of it himself ; and the last time 
 he ever walked in his own beautiful woods he 
 walked with me, and spoke of his private 
 affairs and of mine, in language which I shall 
 always retain among my most precious re- 
 membrances. There was not much compa- 
 nionship of pursuit ; hut I feel I have lost a 
 friend both able and anxious to help me. In 
 face, however, of a loss so limitless as poor 
 Lady M.’s, I have nothing to say. . . . 
 
 But it will not do, dear B., to encourage 
 the fatality-idea — though, as you may sup- 
 pose, it has beset me not seldom. Every man 
 must have his own discipline ; and the inten- 
 tion of these strokes, however it may deprive 
 
MISS CHORLEY. 
 
 253 
 
 a very difficult and laborious life of relief and 
 support, is possibly only a clear intimation 
 that they are needed. I think I have never 
 felt more utterly turned out of doors than I do 
 now. . . . Your aunt, Mrs. R., has been 
 
 (as usual in time of need) affectionate kind- 
 ness itself.” . . . 
 
 A heavier if a less acute trial than be- 
 reavement was prolonged for eleven years, 
 in witnessing the sufferings of his sister, re- 
 ferred to in a previous chapter. This, while 
 it was a constant source of anxiety to him, 
 developed one of his worthiest traits. So 
 long as her condition permitted her to drive 
 in the open air, he made it part of his daily 
 duty, however much occupied, to accompany 
 her on these occasions, relieving the guard of 
 his brother John, at other times her devoted 
 sick nurse. No memorial of Miss Chorley 
 that would be generally interesting can here 
 be added, beyond the impression which she 
 has left of indomitable fortitude. An old 
 friend, who has been present during the 
 paroxysms of her cruel malady, remembers 
 
254 
 
 J. B. GEO BLEY. 
 
 how stoically she would decline the smallest 
 proffer of service. Even the handkerchief 
 that bathed her streaming brow she insisted 
 on lifting with her own trembling fingers.* 
 She was released by death in 1863. 
 
 Of his brother John, the last near relative 
 for whom he retained affection, Chorley has 
 left a detailed reminiscence. It was his 
 cherished hope, that by means of the follow- 
 ing sketch, which was intended to form a 
 prominent chapter of his own memoirs, a 
 tardy tribute of justice might be rendered to 
 the yet unrecognised merits of a remarkable 
 man. The sketch is evidently incomplete, and 
 would, no doubt, have been supplemented by 
 additions, of which only a few are now forth- 
 coming. It is subjoined as it stands, with none 
 but merely verbal alterations. 
 
 * The late Mrs. Gaskell was much attached to her, and 
 would often cheer her sick-bed by a letter. Replying, in 
 1854, to a grateful acknowledgment by Chorley of this kind- 
 ness, Mrs. Gaskell wrote : “ Don’t speak of gratitude. I love 
 Miss Chorley, and am only too glad to do anything that 
 may give her a moment’s pleasure, only I am afraid my 
 letters must be dull.” 
 
J. It. CHORLEY. 
 
 255 
 
 ‘ And here I must turn for a while from 
 ‘ the tale of my own small troubles and smaller 
 ‘ successes, to fulfil what is with me impera- 
 ‘ tive as a duty. 
 
 ‘ To attempt some memorial of a deceased 
 ‘ relative is, under the best of circumstances, 
 
 ‘ a labour of melancholy love. The sadness of 
 ‘ the task, however, is deepened when the 
 ‘ youngest — almost the last of his name — has 
 ‘ to speak of the shadowed life of a noble- 
 ‘ hearted and highly-gifted brother, who 
 ‘ passed away known to only a very few, 
 ‘ and appreciated according to his deserts by 
 ‘ still fewer persons ; nevertheless, one of the 
 ‘ men of mark of his time. This duty I have 
 ‘ to perform in regard to John Rutter Chorley. 
 ‘ It is one of no common difficulty. If any- 
 ‘ thing is to be put on record concerning the 
 ‘ dead, it should ho the whole truth, without 
 ‘ exaggerated praise or plea of mitigation. 
 ‘ There is no single survivor who can protest 
 ‘ against such a course in the present case ; 
 ‘ hut the very solitariness of position on the 
 ‘ part of the memorialist which this implies 
 
256 
 
 J. E. CHOELEY. 
 
 ‘ adds largely to his responsibilities. I have 
 ‘ not written what will follow this, without 
 ‘ questioning myself most strictly. 
 
 ‘ It is hardly possible for two children of the 
 ‘ same parents, who lived to the verge of man- 
 ‘ hood together, and had been interested from 
 ‘ childhood upwards in all that belongs to the 
 ‘ world of imagination, to differ more widely 
 ‘ in disposition, in many matters of opinion, 
 ‘ practice, and the ordering of life, than 
 ‘ did my brother and myself. But though 
 ‘ there was little companionship between 
 ‘ us, there was entire and unbroken confi- 
 ‘ dence till the last. I felt that in any 
 ‘ juncture of perplexity, or where essential 
 ‘ and accurate service was required, I had a 
 ‘ wall of strength to shelter under and to lean 
 ‘ against, which nothing could shake ; so deep 
 ‘ were its foundations, so sound was its 
 ‘ structure. I hope that few will be called on 
 ‘ to experience the desolation of spirit which 
 ‘ came over me as I stood by the side of his 
 ‘ grave, and knew that this was taken away 
 ‘ from me for ever. 
 
J. R. CHORLEY. 
 
 257 
 
 ‘ I may say, in a word, that he was more 
 ‘ gifted than genial — gifted in right of a 
 4 probity, which no provocation could under- 
 ‘ mine and no temptation shake ; in right 
 ‘ of a versatility, combined with accuracy of 
 ‘ knowledge, which I have never known sur- 
 ‘ passed in any human being ; a versatility 
 ‘ which embraced every manly exercise of 
 ‘ body, as well as every mental accomplish- 
 ‘ ment and acquirement ; hut he was endowed 
 * with that almost morbid quickness of insight 
 ‘ into character and motives, accompanied by 
 ‘ a strangely intense physical sensitiveness, 
 4 which is too apt to engender severity and 
 4 impatience of judgment. It might have 
 ‘ been thought by some who came to know 
 ‘ him in the maturity of his life, that he had 
 4 been coerced and warped by those influences 
 4 which bear so fatally on those who are set 
 4 forth as prodigies ; but such was not the 
 c case. What he was, my brother made him- 
 ‘ self, with a direct purpose and a clear view 
 4 of his own, in spite of great and grave dis- 
 4 advantages. And when I think of all that 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 s 
 
258 
 
 J. B. CEO BLEY. 
 
 ‘ he achieved and wrought out, with a finish 
 ‘ and a self-consistency rare in these days of 
 ‘ show and surface, I am justified in saying 
 ‘ that, under happier circumstances, he might 
 ‘ have been one of the leading men of 
 ‘ his time, in whatever world of action, 
 ‘ intellectual and administrative, he had 
 ‘ entered. 
 
 ‘ His imagination was as quick and versa- 
 ‘ tile as his power to retain accurate know- 
 ‘ ledge was great. I have told how, in our 
 ‘ childish days, spent in great seclusion, we 
 ‘ were necessarily thrown on our own re- 
 ‘ sources for variety and entertainment. He 
 ‘ had the precocious fancy of a born poet. 
 ‘ As has been the case with other gifted 
 * children, he could amuse himself by invent- 
 1 ing creatures as little mortal as the Gluins 
 ‘ and the Gowries, finding them with adven- 
 ‘ tures that went on from month to month, fit- 
 ‘ ting them up with vocabularies of their own, 
 ‘ writing their history in neatly-kept books, 
 ‘ and gracing the same with pictures. He 
 
J. It. CHORLEY. 
 
 259 
 
 * had the painter’s hand and the painter’s 
 4 capacity, and drew with force and exact- 
 ‘ ness, with more sense of form than of colour. 
 ‘ As years went on, this accomplishment was 
 4 turned to a peculiar account — that of calli- 
 4 graphy . He was horn, too, with strong musical 
 
 * tastes, and would not rest till he had gained 
 ‘ some proficiency on one or two instruments, 
 4 with the solitary practice of one of which — 
 4 the violoncello — he soothed his harassed 
 4 nerves and wearied spirits in the latter part 
 4 of his life. Boyhood was scarcely over 
 4 when he began to write serious and senti- 
 4 mental verses, with a finish and an absence 
 4 of imitation rare even among those who 
 4 have lived to win repute as great and ori- 
 4 ginal poets. The larger portion of these 
 4 (many of which merited a better fate) were 
 4 disdained and ruthlessly destroyed by him 
 4 a few years before his death. I had some 
 4 share in rescuing a few, which are laid away 
 4 in print, among forgotten books, possibly 
 4 not always to be forgotten ; and when I see 
 4 what verse can be accepted, and make a 
 
2G0 
 
 J. R. GHORLEY. 
 
 ‘ diseased reputation for its authors, in these 
 4 our days, I turn to a tiny volume,* passed 
 4 over on its appearance, save by a very few 
 4 readers, and am assured to myself, that I 
 ‘ am doing neither dead nor living poets 
 4 wrong, by asserting that there is within it 
 4 an amount of fantasy in form, of truth to 
 4 scenery, and of finish in execution which 
 4 are not common at the time lately past or 
 4 present. 
 
 4 On going over the heaps of my brother’s 
 4 papers, arranged and laid away with a scru- 
 4 pulous exactitude and neatness, I came on a 
 4 singular confession, one of those which mark 
 4 a character in a manner not to be misunder- 
 4 stood — a series of reverie-poems, written by 
 4 himself on his birthdays as they came round. 
 4 The healthiness of such a course of perpetual 
 4 retrospect and introspection may well be 
 4 doubted. If the poetry of intimate affection, 
 4 even should it take such a vividly passion- 
 4 ate form as Mrs. Browning’s 44 Sonnets from 
 
 * “ The Wife’s Litany,” and other poems. Chapman and 
 Hall. 1865. 
 
J. R. CHORLEY. 
 
 261 
 
 ‘ the Portuguese,” is to be mistrusted, the reso- 
 ‘ lute soliloquies of a mind preying on itself, 
 
 ‘ and turning from the outer world of sun- 
 ‘ shine, and motion, and change, to the solitary 
 ‘ cloister, paved with the graves of hopes un- 
 ‘ fulfilled and of joys disappointed, are yet 
 ‘ more painful and bootless. I will not dese- 
 ‘ crate these verses (though some of them 
 ‘ are of extreme beauty) by publishing them ; 
 
 ‘ but the fact of their production and the spirit 
 ‘ they breathe are not to be overlooked in 
 ‘ completion of the portrait of a man little 
 ■ understood, because thoroughly original, and, 
 
 ‘ with little exception, self-consistent. 
 
 ‘ My brother was singularly handsome, with 
 ‘ such a sweet, refined, expressive counte- 
 ‘ nance and a perfect figure as are rarely 
 ‘ met with in combination. I have said that 
 1 he was adroit at every manly exercise. 
 ‘ When he was barely eleven years old, I 
 ‘ remember his doing a day’s mowing of 
 ‘ twelve hours by the side of grown labourers. 
 ‘ He used to evade pursuit or summons of jus- 
 
262 
 
 J. E. CEOELET. 
 
 4 tice by climbing trees to a dangerous height, 
 4 and making his own conditions before he 
 4 consented to descend. On our removal to a 
 £ seaport town, he became a skilled waterman, 
 ‘ and took that intimate delight in ships and 
 ‘ shipping which never failed him till the last. 
 4 He could ride and dance well, and was 
 ‘ capable of enduring great fatigue without 
 4 apparent effort. 
 
 4 When my mother removed to Liverpool, 
 4 in the year 1819, he was placed at the school 
 4 of the Royal Institution, which had been 
 4 only recently opened. The classical educa- 
 4 tion there, under the head-mastership of the 
 4 Rev. John Boughey Monk, was excellent. In 
 4 those days, the teaching of modern lan- 
 4 guages (which might have been thought 
 4 indispensable in a town where the scholars 
 4 were principally the sons of merchants, 
 4 destined for commerce,) was strangely neg- 
 4 lected. Mr. Monk, a ripe scholar and an 
 4 amiable man, as every one of his pupils 
 4 has cause gratefully to remember, was soon 
 4 attracted by the singular facility with which 
 
J. 11. CEOELEY. 
 
 263 
 
 ‘ my brother acquired and retained know- 
 ‘ ledge, but almost as much perplexed by its 
 ‘ excess. Of course, there was no teaching 
 ‘ him alone, and though he was one of the 
 ‘ youngest boys in the school, he rose at once 
 ‘ to the head of the first class, making light 
 ‘ of every task and lesson, and mastering the 
 ‘ Greek and Latin classics with a rapidity and 
 ‘ fluency which distanced his schoolmates. 
 ‘ The abundance of spare time was spent in 
 ‘ every sort of mischief, to the delight and 
 ‘ temptation of his class-fellows. They had, 
 l ’ however, generally one advantage over 
 ‘ him, which they were not slow to make him 
 ‘ feel. Most of them were the sons of rich 
 ‘ parents, well-dressed and liberally provided 
 ‘ with pocket-money. He was as hare in both 
 ‘ respects as was ever poor scholar ; and (a 
 6 further disadvantage in a town where 
 ‘ “ Church and State” was so long the reign- 
 ‘ ing motto) was known to belong to a family 
 * whose peculiar form of dissent laid them 
 ‘ open to the sharpest ridicule and contempt. 
 ‘ With all these things against him, his ex- 
 
J. B. CHOELEY. 
 
 2(54 
 
 ‘ treme energy of nature and the conscious- 
 ‘ ness of possessing no ordinary powers bore 
 ‘ him up, not unhappily, through those trying 
 ‘ school-days. I recollect, on one occasion, 
 
 ‘ that in punishment of some freak of more 
 ‘ flagrant insubordination than usual, he was 
 ‘ enjoined to get by heart as much of the 
 ‘ “ iEneid ” as he could, to repeat next morn- 
 ‘ ing before the business of the day com- 
 ‘ menced. He was called up duly, and with- 
 1 out stop or faultering, went through the en- 
 ‘ tire first book, to the great inconvenience, as- 
 ‘ tonishment, and pride of his preceptor. He 
 ■ was beginning the second, with equal cer- 
 ‘ tainty and coolness, when he was bidden to 
 ‘ cease. The master gave in. There was no 
 ‘ bringing such a mercurial being to his senses 
 ‘ by an “ imposition.” Corporal punishment 
 ‘ was not then allowed in the school of the 
 ‘ Royal Institution. It was, probably, a relief 
 ‘ when he left it, qualified, though so young, 
 ‘ as far as the dead languages were concerned, 
 
 ‘ for either University. 
 
 ‘ In what manner he gathered bis know- 
 
J. II. CHORLEY. 
 
 265 
 
 ‘ ledge of French, German, Spanish, and 
 ‘ Italian I cannot form an idea. With the 
 4 exception of a few lessons in the first lan- 
 4 guage from a poor nonentity of a native, 
 
 4 fit only for the very moderate requirements 
 4 of ladies provincial boarding-schools, I be- 
 4 lieve he had no instruction whatsoever. But 
 4 he grasped every opportunity of self-im- 
 4 provement with the eagerness which marked 
 4 his character. He picked up German 
 4 rapidly and with facility from the young 
 4 men of his own age who were sent to 
 4 merchants’ houses in Liverpool, and, for 
 4 awhile, addicted himself with passionate 
 4 admiration to the great authors of the 
 4 country — passionate, because it implied a 
 4 certain comparative disparagement of all 
 4 French literature. Yet he was one of the 
 4 first and best translators of Beranger’s 
 4 lyrics. I think, too, that, as many holding 
 4 like preferences have also done, he exag- 
 4 gerated certain points of national character 
 4 somewhat unfairly. Those who are them- 
 4 selves the most sincere are sometimes, in 
 
266 
 
 J. E. CEORLET. 
 
 ‘ cases elect, the least alive to insincerity and 
 ‘ .profession in others. In brief, as I had 
 ‘ occasion to remark when we travelled in 
 ‘ Germany together, he accepted and made 
 ‘ allowances for peculiarities which would 
 ‘ naturally have been repulsive to him. As 
 ‘ life went on, he became even more strongly 
 ‘ interested in Spanish literature, possibly 
 ‘ because it has been less hackneyed of these 
 ‘ later times. In particular, the rich and 
 ‘ varied drama of the country engaged him, 
 ‘ as the library of the British Museum testifies, 
 ‘ in a rather remarkable fashion. I believe 
 ‘ that the collection of plays by Lope de 
 ‘ Yega, bequeathed by him, with his other 
 1 Spanish books, to that great establishment, 
 ‘ is almost, if not altogether, the most copious 
 ‘ and accurate one in being. It is a monu- 
 ‘ ment of his ingenuity and industry in more 
 f ways than one. Complete copies of many 
 ‘ of the plays are very scarce ; but he laid 
 ‘ hands on incomplete ones wherever they 
 ‘ could be found ; and there are cases where 
 ‘ four or five half-destroyed books were laid 
 
J. Ii. CHORLEY. 
 
 267 
 
 ‘ under contribution, and so artfully connected 
 ‘ as to supply the desideratum. What was 
 ‘ more, when a title page was wanting, his 
 ‘ exquisite power and patience as a calli- 
 ‘ grapher enabled him to supply one, such as 
 ‘ might deceive any save the cleverest of 
 ‘ experts. He had paper bought up and 
 ‘ manufactured for this express purpose. 
 ‘ When I came to look into his library before 
 ‘ its dispersion, I found pamphlet-cases full of 
 ‘ stray leaves carefully husbanded, and leaf 
 ‘ after leaf traced, with as much minute care 
 ‘ as if his life had had no other object or pur- 
 ‘ pose, and preserved as stores of reference. 
 ‘ That his very remarkable attainments in 
 ‘ respect to these subjects gradually became 
 ‘ known, was attested by the fact, that the 
 ‘ Academy of Letters at Madrid requested 
 ‘ permission to print, at its own expense, his 
 ‘ catalogue of the plays of Lope de Mega, 
 ‘ written (with codices) in Spanish, as the 
 ‘ most complete one extant. This was done. 
 ‘ The original beautiful manuscript is to be 
 ‘ found in the Library of the British Museum. 
 
263 
 
 J. E. CEOELEY. 
 
 4 To make the feat more noticeable, it shonld 
 ‘ be added, that the writer during his life 
 ‘ passed only three months in Spain, being 
 4 summoned there by business far more pro- 
 ‘ saic than the haunting of libraries or the 
 4 rummaging of old bookshops. 
 
 ‘ To those who only knew the outer man in 
 4 his maturity, the above description may seem 
 4 over-coloured. But such was my brother 
 ‘ as a hoy, as a young man, and a man of 
 4 letters. I have not overstated one single 
 4 gift or grace. Others, more important to 
 4 the well-being of a man, to himself and all 
 4 around him, have to he added. 
 
 4 His life was complete in another respect : 
 4 from its earliest to its last hours, he was one 
 4 of the most just, high-hearted, and generous 
 4 of human beings. Meanness or falsehood 
 4 were impossible to him, though he was 
 4 tried under circumstances sufficient to have 
 4 warped any one less honourable by justice 
 4 and principle. He was, perhaps, too in- 
 4 dignant and severe on those who fell short 
 4 of his own high standard. He could sacri- 
 
.7. It CHORLEY. 
 
 269 
 
 4 fice liimself, but found it hard to forgive 
 ‘ others less equal to sacrifice. His exqui- 
 ‘ sitely fastidious taste and keen insight into 
 ‘ character made him, in general intercourse, 
 4 especially of later years, too uncompromis- 
 ‘ ing and unwilling to concede in small things. 
 * But that the truth of heart was there, none 
 ‘ of those to whom he professed affection, and 
 ‘ to whom he devoted himself as few have 
 4 done, could doubt. 
 
 4 Such being the boy, with his aspirations 
 4 and his precocious attainments, he was 
 4 nevertheless thrust into a Liverpool mer- 
 4 chant’s office, with a view to livelihood and 
 4 advancement in fortune. His guardian was 
 4 a timid man (save in his own profession as a 
 4 physician), and had no time to consider the 
 4 dispositions and propensities of those thrust 
 4 by ill-fortune on his generous and unselfish 
 4 care. How my brother mastered all the 
 4 drudgery of office-work, and found time for 
 4 mischief to boot, is not to he forgotten. 
 4 When anything had to be done to the mo- 
 
270 
 
 J. R. CHORLEY. 
 
 4 ment, lie was called out and preferred to 
 ‘ elder men of routine. His keen and up- 
 4 right intelligence could not (as was seen in 
 4 the sequel of his life) be misunderstood by 
 ‘ even the exacting men of business whose 
 4 servant he was. 
 
 4 And the exactions of those Liverpool 
 4 mercantile times, before telegraphs were, 
 
 4 or the immediate reproduction of a written 
 4 letter was possible, were terrible — a slavery 
 4 ill-compensated for by any indulgence or 
 4 hope of advancement. The writing of 
 4 44 circulars,” otherwise, the recopying of 
 4 letters addressed at the last moment to the 
 4 American cotton-ports, by the going packet, 
 4 was not a light task. I have known it last 
 4 as long as till two o’clock in the morning. 
 4 The men who ordained such servitude for 
 4 their gain’s sake were the very same men 
 4 who had protested against and broken down 
 4 American slavery ! A clerk in a Liverpool 
 4 merchant’s office, when we were young, 
 4 was expected to be a mere machine — neither 
 4 a gentleman by birth nor a man of educa- 
 
J. R. GHORLEY. 
 
 271 
 
 ‘ tion, still less a man of individual propen- 
 ‘ sities. It was a terrible subjection ; though, 
 ‘ as I can now see, looking back to the whole 
 ‘ story and its system, one taken for granted 
 ‘ by all concerned in the matter, and for which 
 ‘ the authorities were only to blame, in right 
 ‘ of their self-approval. 
 
 ‘ Into such a life as this we were tumbled. 
 ‘ When my turn came, I was incurably un- 
 ‘ punctual, lazy, and inexact ; loathing my 
 ‘ life with a disgust and bitterness not to be 
 ‘ expressed or concealed. When I have a 
 ‘ bad dream, now that I am old, the night- 
 ‘ mare, as often as not, takes some form refer- 
 ‘ able to an abhorred servitude. I see ledgers 
 ‘ which will not be balanced, figures wrongly 
 ‘ set down, and wake in the midst of such 
 ‘ shame and self-disrespect as made up my 
 ‘ normal state in those days. Had I not got 
 ‘ up on summer mornings to draw, or rather 
 ‘ paint, a little, ere the clock struck the 
 ‘ abominable hour, I should not have been 
 ‘ living to tell the tale of my failures in 
 ‘ Cropper, Benson, and Co.’s office, in Para- 
 
272 
 
 J. R. CEORLEY. 
 
 * dise Street, Liverpool. But with my bro- 
 ‘ ther it was different. He was no more 
 
 * fitted for taking down the particulars of 
 ‘ ships’ cargoes, or transcribing the details 
 4 of the day’s cotton-market ten times over 
 4 than I was ; but he could not bear to 
 ‘ do anything short of his best. In those 
 ‘ days, he was neat, shrewd, and ready 
 ‘ beyond many a man twice or thrice as 
 ‘ old as himself ; and as such, in spite of 
 4 conceits and faults of manner, and tastes 
 ‘ which set him apart from his associates (a 
 ‘ strange set of worthy beings), made himself 
 4 respected, as one whose work was of first- 
 ‘ rate quality. 
 
 4 He wanted one thing— that determina- 
 4 tion to break away from an uncongenial 
 4 life which every man, aware of certain tastes 
 4 and aspirations, and willing to take on him- 
 4 self the consequence of his non-conformity, 
 4 will do well to act on and abide by. So he 
 4 wrought out his term of servitude, to enter, 
 4 at its close, on another more characteristic 
 4 of the high respect his sterling qualities had 
 
J. It. CHORLEY. 
 
 273 
 
 ‘ inspired, of responsibilities enormous for 
 ‘ so young a man, under which the joy of his 
 ‘ early manhood was utterly crushed out, 
 ‘ which prematurely aged him, which, in 
 ‘ some sort, separated him from those with 
 ‘ whom he was entitled to consort, till it was 
 ‘ too late for a reserved and fastidious man to 
 ‘ change his habits, and which, I have no 
 ‘ doubt, in no small degree tended to wear 
 ‘ him to his grave. 
 
 ‘ Those were the early days of English rail- 
 ‘ roads. At the time of which I speak one 
 ‘ only, to be traversed by steam, had been 
 ‘ made — the short line between Liverpool and 
 ‘ Manchester, so disastrously inaugurated by 
 ‘ Huskisson’s death. The second * to be was 
 ‘ that from Liverpool to Birmingham — a 
 * scheme pronounced to be a dream by glib 
 ‘ critics of the time, such as Dr. Lardner, 
 
 ‘ who declared an Atlantic steamer to be a 
 
 * The “ Grand Junction ” Railway, as this line was called, 
 was, I believe, the third proposed, that between London and 
 Birmingham being the second, but the former was completed 
 first.— H. G. H. 
 
 YOL. II. 
 
 T 
 
274 
 
 J. E. CHOELET. 
 
 4 castle of tlie air, on the sea. The north- 
 ‘ country men held a stronger faith in the 
 ‘ new discovery ; and it was to he tried on a 
 ‘ more extended scale than betwixt Liverpool 
 ‘ and Manchester. The money was forth- 
 ‘ coming ; the company was formed ; and 
 ‘ when the working features, so to say, of the 
 ‘ scheme were got together, they amounted to 
 4 the promise of Stephenson’s collaboration 
 4 and a writing apparatus in a secretary’s 
 4 office. That secretary was my brother, still 
 4 a very young and untried man ; but the 
 4 solicitor to the concern was a man of rare 
 4 refinement and observation. Chance had 
 4 thrown our family under his notice, and he 
 ‘ had the wise courage to pick out my brother 
 4 as the most competent man he could propose, 
 4 to adventure on duties and functions one 
 4 half of which, at the time referred to, had to 
 4 be created. 
 
 4 The ill-will and opposition which this 
 4 appointment caused are no more to be for- 
 4 gotten than things of yesterday. My brother 
 4 had to enter on his duties without sympathy 
 
J. B< CHORLEY. 
 
 275 
 
 ‘ from any man concerned, save tlie one who 
 ‘ had had the power to insure his nomination. 
 ‘ He had to fight them through in the face of 
 ‘ covert and confessed antipathy, and with 
 ‘ means and materials the insufficiency of 
 ‘ which will be hardly credited now, though 
 ‘ it is a matter of history. The whole staff of 
 ‘ underlings — guards, porters, ticket-officers — 
 ‘ had to he created for such service. There 
 ‘ were difficulties and hindrances in the com- 
 ‘ pletion of the road such as had not occurred 
 ‘ to many persons. As an instance, I may 
 ‘ mention the fall of a tunnel at Preston 
 ‘ Brook, more than twenty miles from Liver- 
 ‘ pool, which intercepted the communication 
 ‘ betwixt Liverpool and Birmingham, making 
 * it necessary for the passengers to dismount, 
 ‘ and pass on foot from the one to the 
 ‘ other point at which the railway again be- 
 ‘ came feasible. I forget how enormous was 
 ‘ the squadron of umbrellas provided to make 
 ‘ the evil as small as possible in wet weather ; 
 
 ‘ but I remember that my brother, harassed 
 ‘ and hampered as he was in his office, went 
 
276 
 
 J. R. CHORLET. 
 
 4 down to the scene of disaster, on a special 
 ‘ engine, twice out and home every day, so 
 ‘ that when the trains passed (there were 
 4 then only two) some one should be at hand 
 4 to answer inquiries and to overlook the ex- 
 4 ceptional service. 
 
 4 If he did not spare himself, he did not 
 4 spare others. Feeling his own responsi- 
 4 bility, he was rightly alive to that of the 
 4 subordinate persons who had to work out 
 4 the undertaking. He would take no excuse 
 4 for any man’s absence from duty. I believe 
 4 that of the staff whom he had to organise 
 4 and to control about a quarter was left at 
 4 the end of the first three months. This may 
 4 sound harsh, but it was right ; and that it 
 4 won the esteem (I will say more, the affec- 
 4 tion) of those with whom, and above whom, 
 4 he worked, there can be no doubt. The 
 ‘ testimonies of appreciation and esteem, when 
 4 lie laid by his railway life, from all classes of 
 4 persons with whom he had had to do, were 
 4 many, real, some of them affecting in their 
 4 simplicity. I have been more than once 
 
J. R. CHORLEY. 
 
 4 claimed, very recently, in out-of-the-way 
 4 places, by total strangers, who had learned 
 ‘ my name, and heard, perhaps, a family voice, 
 ‘ and have offered to show me kindness and 
 4 attention, in memory of him whose high 
 * honour and scrupulous sense of right and 
 4 wrong had laid the key-stones of their for- 
 4 tunes. 
 
 ‘In one respect I hold him to have been 
 4 admirable as the servant of a company of 
 4 capitalists. He would not use his know- 
 4 ledge and prescience to advance his own 
 4 fortunes. I have heard him again and again 
 4 say that his business was to keep his mind 
 4 clear and ready for the duties of the hour, as 
 4 undertaken by him. He had besides the high 
 4 feeling of a thorough gentleman, which pro- 
 4 hibited his profiting by private intelligence. 
 4 This may have been, and was, overstrained in 
 4 point of scruple ; but when the detestable 
 4 and demoralising alternative comes to be 
 4 considered which has made such wild work 
 4 in England, surely the young man who 
 4 stood on the threshold of temptation, with 
 
278 
 
 J. B. CHOBLEY. 
 
 4 ever y means to avail himself of its fruits, 
 4 and who still refrained from so doing, was 
 ‘ one of no common quality, conscience, or 
 4 force in standing to his convictions. But it 
 4 was so with him from first to last. 
 
 4 He was not met by liberal treatment on 
 4 the part of those to whom he devoted him- 
 ‘ self. He was respected and trusted ; but he 
 4 was not popular, partly from a certain re- 
 4 serve and haughtiness of manner, in which 
 4 a consciousness of his superiority to those 
 4 who surrounded him expressed itself. It 
 4 was too evident that he was doing faithful 
 4 and indefatigable service against the grain. 
 4 When, after some years, the extent of his 
 4 duties became too great for one person to 
 4 manage, and he asked for assistance, no 
 4 officer second in command was appointed, 
 4 but a colleague totally inexperienced in 
 4 every detail connected with the concern, and 
 4 who was, from the first, as largely salaried 
 4 as himself. In place, however, of showing 
 4 any irritation at what amounted to an in- 
 4 justice, he applied himself zealously to give 
 
J. It. C IlOIlLE Y. 
 
 279 
 
 ‘ every possible weight, and consequence to 
 ‘ the gentleman placed beside him. The two 
 ‘ became real friends. 
 
 ‘ At last, after years of strain and stress, 
 ‘ which bore cruelly on the strength of one so 
 ‘ sensitive — of hard, responsible work, only 
 £ alternated with diligent, eager study — family 
 ‘ circumstances underwent some change ; and, 
 ‘ with those who were left to him, he removed 
 ‘ to London. I had high hopes that the 
 ‘ society which was open to him, with its 
 £ intercourse and its influences, would melt. 
 ‘ and thaw that which had been made un- 
 ‘ yielding and ungenial in his manners, not his 
 ‘ nature. But the change came too late. He 
 ‘ was averse to society, save on the very pe- 
 ‘ culiar and exclusive terms which suited him. 
 ‘ Though he could discourse on most topics, 
 ‘ with a precision of knowledge and, generally, 
 ‘ a justice of view rarely surpassed or equalled 
 ‘ — though he had a keen sense of wit and 
 ‘ humour, and a rich store of anecdote and 
 ‘ allusion to fall back on — his conversation 
 ‘ wanted flow and lightness, and in truth 
 
280 
 
 J. It. CHORLET. 
 
 ‘ was apt to be oppressive. I could name 
 ‘ those now living, of great genius and learn- 
 ‘ ing, who have been as largely as he was 
 ‘ little, conversant with intellectual society, in 
 whom the same involution and ponderosity 
 might be remarked. Their deep thoughts 
 4 rise too rapidly, and jostle one another too 
 ‘ closely, to allow their full weight and worth 
 ‘ to be felt. Save when he was alone among 
 ‘ his books, with one of the very few friends he 
 4 made, he harangued rather than conversed. 
 
 4 The pleasure he had in books and in the 
 4 intimate knowledge of books, brought one 
 4 reward — his power, seconded by his will, to 
 4 sympathise with and assist the men of letters 
 4 whom he respected. To such earnest men 
 4 of letters as Professor Ticknor, of Boston, 
 4 Don Pascual de Gayangos, of Spain, our 
 4 great historian of the French Revolution 
 4 and of the Life of Cromwell, his time, his 
 4 heart, his labour were always open and to 
 4 be disposed of at their service. So should it 
 4 be and have been. 
 
 ‘ But well-a-day for the smaller fry of lite- 
 
J. R. CEORLEY. 
 
 281 
 
 * rature, unless, perchance, they belonged to 
 ‘ Spain or to G ermany ! Till within a very 
 ‘ few years of his death, I was somewhat mis- 
 ‘ judged by him, as one who had chosen my 
 ‘ life for purposes of mere amusement. That 
 4 my life had been turned aside from its na- 
 ‘ tural current — that whereas he should have 
 4 been a great and ruling power in the world 
 ‘ of letters, I might have become a fair mu- 
 4 sical composer (my ideas, for better for 
 ‘ worse, having always first occurred to me in 
 ‘ that form,) never, during a long portion of 
 4 our two lives, seemed to occur to him. I 
 ‘ never had word or sign from him to testify 
 ‘ that anything I have published gave him 
 4 pleasure. As time drew on, I think he came 
 ‘ to see in my life that which is independent 
 ‘ of accurate scholarship, or bright literary 
 4 success, that to which every man who re- 
 4 spects (as Milton says) 44 the best and 
 4 honourablest things ” may aspire. We met 
 4 rarely, but we met — under every con- 
 4 ceivable disparity of culture and of social 
 4 habits — with mutual respect. His was nobly 
 
282 
 
 J. ft. CflORLEY. 
 
 1 shown to me ; mine is humbly returned to 
 ‘ him, hy telling the whole truth, over the 
 ‘ grave of a man hardly tried, misunderstood, 
 ‘ and undervalued in his lifetime. 
 
 ‘ The peculiarities of his disposition might 
 1 have been smoothed under a happier dis- 
 ‘ pensation of circumstances. But his life 
 ‘ was laid out to be a series of sacrifices, met 
 ‘ by him with a sense of duty which was 
 1 too severe, too unselfish. A more com- 
 
 * plete case of self-effacement has rarely 
 
 * come to my knowledge. He was compelled, 
 ‘ hy circumstances needless to recount, hy 
 6 his own accuracy and justice as a man of 
 ‘ business, to undertake the administration of 
 ‘ family affairs, some of which were of no 
 
 * common perplexity. He watched over the 
 ‘ declining health of my mother till the last ; 
 ‘ and hardly had she departed, when it be- 
 ‘ came evident that another charge of the 
 
 * kind, far more serious, was thrown on him 
 ‘ — the ministry to a hopeless invalid, suffer- 
 ‘ ing and decaying more and more during 
 
J. R. CEORLEY. 
 
 283 
 
 ‘ many years ; one endowed with every gra- 
 ‘ cious gift and capacity for enjoyment, who 
 ‘ was doomed in the prime of life to expect 
 ‘ and to endure the slow extinction of every 
 ‘ hope that cheers, of every talent that alle- 
 
 * viates acute and wearing bodily pain. The 
 ‘ patience'with which this grievous trial was 
 
 * braved is not to be exaggerated ; but the 
 ‘ inevitable result was to increase my brother’s 
 ‘ seclusion among his own pursuits, and his 
 ‘ disinclination to the freshening influences of 
 ‘ outer life, which, be they ever so sparingly 
 ‘ attainable, are not to be despised. Save in 
 ‘ long and solitary walks, early in the morn- 
 ‘ ing, for many years he rarely crossed the 
 ‘ threshold ; haunted by an almost morbid 
 1 fear of mischance which might happen in 
 
 * his absence. He bore up nobly till the long 
 ‘ dreary story closed ; but the spring of life 
 
 * was worn out, and nothing remained to him 
 ‘ but the company of his hooks, in the silence 
 ‘ of a solitary house, entered with so much 
 ‘ hope and prospect of years of rest and enjoy- 
 ‘ ment. 
 
284 
 
 MR. CARLYLE. 
 
 1 1 cannot go further. What I have tried 
 ‘ to do has been to trace a character, not to 
 ‘ narrate a series of trials in detail. The end, 
 4 when it came, was peaceful ; full of faith, 
 ‘ hope and humility. By the few who really 
 ‘ knew my brother, he will not be forgotten ; 
 ‘ but his is not a figure to be left out of a 
 ‘ story which I am attempting to tell faith- 
 ‘ fully/ 
 
 The memorials that can he added to this 
 narrative are few, but one of them is of no 
 common interest. Mr. John Chorley was 
 honoured, during many years of his life, with 
 the intimate friendship of Mr. Carlyle. No 
 higher testimony to the intellectual and 
 moral attractions of the deceased, by which 
 that intimacy was cemented, can be given 
 than in the words of the survivor. 
 
 “ I often urged him to write a hook on 
 Spanish literature — some good book, worthy 
 of himself and of his wide and exact know- 
 ledge, but he would never consent to try. 
 He could have written like few men on 
 
MR. CARLYLE. 
 
 285 
 
 many subjects, but he had proudly pitched 
 his ideal very high. I know no man in 
 these flimsy days, nor shall ever again know 
 one, so well read, so widely and accurately 
 informed, and so completely at home, not 
 only in all fields of worthy literature and 
 scholarship, but in matters practical, tech- 
 nical, naval, mechanical, &c., &c., as well.” 
 
 This estimate of the scholar is extracted 
 from a letter addressed to Henry Chorley 
 after his brother’s death. How deep an affec- 
 tion Mr. Carlyle entertained for the man may 
 be learned from another letter, written in 
 reply to one that announced his dangerous 
 illness. The noble pathos which pervades it 
 silences all comment but that of tears. 
 
 “ Chelsea, 19th June, 1867. 
 
 “ My dear Sir, 
 
 “ Your note of yesterday is a most 
 welcome favour to me; a very great and 
 almost sacred bit of charity and solace done 
 me in the dark and sad element where you 
 yourself are now living and waiting ! The 
 
286 
 
 MR. CARLYLE. 
 
 last time I saw your dear Brother — alas, I 
 little thought it was the last ! — I noticed no 
 fatal symptom in him ; nothing hut very 
 great misery and disquiet, which I lightly 
 supposed the summer weather, and a shift to 
 the shore of the sea, which was always 
 such a favourite with him, would clear 
 
 awav : and I am never since free from an 
 
 •/ 7 
 
 occasional doubt that I may have really 
 pained him and done myself injustice by my 
 light and hopeful way of treating all his 
 misgivings and bad prognostics, which have 
 proved so dismally true — alas, alas ! 
 
 “ From your brother William’s letters to 
 my brother John at Dumfries, I am kept in 
 knowledge of the progress of things from day 
 to day towards their inevitable goal ; and 
 I thank Heaven along with you, that pain 
 and irritation are quite gone, and that sleep 
 and quiet are now the attendants of that 
 ardent soul to its final rest. Final and per- 
 fect, where all the weary do at length rest ! 
 
 “ If in any fit moment you could whisper 
 to him, that I, who owe him so much, did 
 
PROFESSOIt TIGKNOR. 
 
 287 
 
 always honour and esteem him as few others ; 
 am touched to the heart with what is going 
 on, know well what loss I am sustaining, 
 and shall piously regret him all my remain- 
 ing days, the fact will abundantly support 
 you ; and should the opportunity offer ( not 
 otherwise, I beg), it will be a drop of conso- 
 lation to me. 
 
 “ May God he with him ! may God he 
 with us all ! 
 
 “ Yours, with deep sympathy, 
 
 “ T. Carlyle.” 
 
 To the praise which Chorley has bestowed 
 on his brother’s poetry, and the reference 
 made to his intercourse with an eminent 
 American scholar, the late Professor Ticknor, 
 the latter’s own testimony may he added. 
 The following letter from him acknowledged 
 the receipt of John Chorley ’s book : 
 
 “ Boston, United States, 
 “ 3rd March, 1866. 
 
 “Dear Chorley, 
 
 “Your kind letter came a month ago; 
 your little volume came last week. I was 
 
288 
 
 PROFESSOR TICKNOR. 
 
 thankful for both, and especially thankful to 
 hear from you and to have proof of your 
 continued remembrance. The poems ar- 
 rived just before a late dinner, but before I 
 went to bed I had finished them, so attrac- 
 tive were they. I like the drama and the 
 madrigal best, though, very probably, better 
 judges will decide otherwise in England. 
 There, however, you have settled it long 
 ago. But about one point there can be no 
 doubt anywhere. The finish of the work 
 and its pure true English are charming. 
 By an accident, I read the poetry before 
 I read the preface, and, in consequence of 
 this, two things struck me, which otherwise 
 would not have done so in the way they 
 did. The first was, that the drama had a 
 weird air about it, which was not explained, 
 until I found that its earliest origin, and 
 therefore its ground - colours, so to speak, 
 were to he sought in a wild vivid dream. 
 The other was a certain indistinct resem- 
 blance of your versification in the drama to 
 the Spanish, which I naturally attributed 
 
PROFESSOR TICKNOR. 
 
 289 
 
 altogether to your loving familiarity with 
 that delightful mass of popular and poetical 
 extravagances in the ‘ Comedias Famosas,’ 
 but which it seems had so little of such 
 origin, that I must attribute it to your in- 
 stincts rather than to the studies which have 
 done so much for vour later life. But, how- 
 ever this may be, the drama itself is most 
 agreeable, refreshing, and original. Since I 
 wrote the last sentence, I have read nearly 
 the whole of it over again. The effect is 
 still the same. I do not well see how you 
 have brought it all to pass. 
 
 I am much troubled to hear that you have 
 been unwell, and that, although the sciatica 
 has given way, you are still not as fresh and 
 strong as I would have you. My own record 
 is not better, with a good many more years 
 than yours on it, and all their infirmities. I 
 was ill all through December with troubles in 
 the liver, and though I am well enough now 
 for a man between seventy-four and seventy- 
 five, I have been obliged to let my correspond- 
 ence languish a good deal for two or three years 
 
 VOL. II. u 
 
290 
 
 PROFESSOR TIC EE OR. 
 
 back. Except for this, you would certainly 
 have heard from me. I have long had your 
 name at the head of a list that I have kept, 
 like my sins, constantly before me, for my 
 warning and rebuke, that so many of my 
 friends have claims upon me which I have 
 not acknowledged. In this I know that I 
 have neglected my own interests. For a 
 year, I have wanted to ask you two ques- 
 tions, and if I ask them now, I feel that I 
 must rely on your good nature for answers. 
 I will, however, venture : 1st. Can you send 
 me a copy, to be made at my expense, from 
 the preface to Lope’s “Arcadia,” which is 
 the thirteenth of your “ Comedias,” Barcelona, 
 1620, or that in the British Museum, same 
 year, Madrid? If you will take the trouble 
 to turn to Casiano Pellicer, “ Origen y Pro- 
 gresos de la Comedia,” 1804, tomo i. p. 171, 
 you will see in part why I want it.* The 
 play itself I do not need. 2nd. Can you 
 tell me, in general terms, how much Cancer, 
 in his “ Mejor Iiepresentante ” (“ Comedias 
 
 * [Note by John Chorley.] “ Gran memoria.” 
 
PROFESSOR TICKNOR. 
 
 291 
 
 Escogidas,” tomo xxix. 1668), is indebted to 
 Lope’s “Fingido Yerdadero” (“Comedias,” 
 tomo xvi. 1621 and 1622)? I do not care 
 for details, and not even an answer to the 
 question whether Cancer took much or 
 little, if it is likely to give you trouble. 
 Thank you for your congratulations on the 
 end of our civil war, which, God be praised ! 
 is over. I never doubted that we should 
 prevail. I did what I could to secure our 
 success ; but I always felt that great 
 troubles would follow the most assured vic- 
 tories. Since the days of the Moors and 
 Christians, there have been no such hatreds 
 as now prevail between the Northern and 
 Southern States of this Union. How they 
 are to be appeased I do not know, and cer- 
 tainly shall not live to see ; but that there 
 will be no more fighting in my time, I trust 
 and believe. The South is thoroughly 
 beaten, and slavery is really abolished. 
 Whether the blacks will perish from among 
 us, as the aborigines have (by our fault in 
 a great measure), remains in the uncertain 
 
292 
 
 ACCESS OF FORTUNE. 
 
 future ; but I think they can never again be- 
 come bondsmen. 
 
 “ Yours faithfully, 
 
 “ Geo. Ticknor.” 
 
 Professor Ticknor ’s preface to his “ History 
 of Spanish Literature ” acknowledges his in- 
 debtedness to the extensive library collected 
 by John Chorley, and now deposited in the 
 British Museum. I have only to add, that 
 between 1846 and 1854 John Chorley was 
 the principal reviewer of German, Italian, 
 and Spanish publications for the ‘ Athenaeum.’ 
 He died June 29th, 1867, of atrophy. 
 
 Under his brother’s will Chorley received 
 an access of fortune* which left him for the 
 remainder of life in comparative affluence; 
 but the loss he had sustained was not thus to 
 be compensated. To the shock of this event, 
 culminating a series of bereavements, and 
 succeeding a long term of failing health, 
 must be attributed the lapse into the fatal 
 
 * The bulk of John Chorley’s property was inherited, 
 directly or indirectly, from his uncle, Dr. Butter. 
 
LONELINESS. 
 
 293 
 
 habit to which I have already alluded. Some 
 further reference to this melancholy episode 
 cannot be avoided by a faithful biographer, 
 gladly as I would avoid it were it possible. I 
 speak of it with the less reluctance, from a 
 conviction that the extent of the infirmity was 
 exaggerated by many even of his friends, still 
 more by those who knew him slightly. 
 
 The depressing effect of habitual soli- 
 tariness upon his spirits has been repeatedly 
 noticed. Affectionate as his friendships were, 
 they could not atone to him for the lack of 
 wife and child. No one who has not read his 
 journals can estimate how persistently this 
 was felt. Such an entry as the following 
 is but one of a score that might be 
 quoted : — 
 
 ‘La Cava, Wednesday, Oct. 6th, 1858. — 
 ‘ Here again I was glad to get alone, moved 
 ‘ to tears, and full of those hopeless yearnings 
 ‘ for rest, for affection, for something to lean 
 ‘ on, on earth, which I am now sure is not my 
 ‘appointment. As God wills!’ 
 
294 
 
 LETTER TO SIR W. RILKE. 
 
 Even more pathetic, however, to my mind 
 than any complaint, is the evidence of his 
 constant effort to escape from this sense of 
 isolation, by adding to the toils of an already 
 laborious life. A letter addressed to Sir 
 Wentworth Dilke, in 1859, will illustrate this 
 better than any words of mine : — 
 
 “ 13, Eaton Place West, 
 
 “ Wednesday, Eeb. 2, 1859. 
 
 “ Dear Wentworth, 
 
 “ I called on you the other day to 
 trouble you about a very dull subject, my 
 own affairs. A few words on paper will per- 
 haps best explain my meaning. I have been 
 feeling, for the last few years, that things are 
 not quite as they should be with me. I do 
 not mean as to worldly circumstances, since, 
 so long as I can work as now, I can live quite 
 as well as a man need do in my situation* 
 and though I have had a rather unusual share 
 of ill-luck, I have no pinch for the present, 
 no fear for the future. But I am living too 
 much alone. Such family intercourse as I 
 have is entirely confined to my poor sister, 
 
LETTER TO SIR W. DILKE. 
 
 295 
 
 and that is neither supporting nor cheering f 
 and I find my life beginning to weigh so 
 heavily on my nerves and spirits, that I can- 
 not go much further without some attempt to 
 right myself. What I should like would he 
 to find some little occupation which brought 
 me more into contact with companionable and 
 intelligent people. My intercourse with the 
 musicians does not fill this want, since in that 
 I give much, and receive only in return as 
 much as suffices for the necessities of my 
 position before the public. Thus it has oc- 
 curred to me to ask you whether, in some of 
 all these ramifying art-designs, schools, mu- 
 seums, &c., &c., I could not be made of use ; 
 since I do not think that my knowledge 
 (especially on all lower matters connected 
 with decoration, &c., &c.), or my experiences 
 of what exists here and abroad, are less than 
 those of many who appear to succeed and to 
 give satisfaction ; and I fancy that I might 
 he able to turn them to account, without 
 losing my hold on my own peculiar public, 
 which I think I may say, without vanity, is 
 
296 
 
 LETTER TO SIR W. DILKE. 
 
 now very strong, though neither gainful nor 
 refreshing. I think I need not say to you 
 that I would undertake nothing that I could 
 not accomplish ; still less, that I am not afraid 
 of work ; but I feel the necessity of a relief 
 from a state of things brought about by a 
 singular number of deaths, changes, want of 
 ability on my own part to push myself for- 
 ward, and my painfully solitary position as 
 the last of a family, with no living younger 
 relative to look to, and no creature within 
 reach to whom I can speak of what passes in 
 my mind. You will see that this letter is one 
 requiring no answer (I feel secure of your 
 good-will) ; but if occasion should serve, do 
 not forget its contents. Let me again repeat 
 that it is no money-pressure that makes me 
 trouble you. When I cease to be a journalist 
 I can make up £400 a year, on which I can 
 dream out my old days abroad ; and should I 
 survive others of my family, that income must 
 be increased. Thus I cannot, I trust, be mis- 
 understood, while I must also beg you to 
 excuse my prosiness, in explanation of a tale 
 
EFFECT OF HIS BROTHER'S DEATH. 
 
 297 
 
 and a situation other than cheerful, or per- 
 haps much longer tenable by 
 
 “ Yours ever faithfully, 
 
 “ Henry F. Chorley.” 
 
 Long after his need to work for livelihood 
 had ceased, as this letter testifies, he continued 
 to work for self-forgetfulness, his regular avoca- 
 tion as a critic not being surrendered until 
 his sixtieth year, and his mind occupying 
 itself with new literary schemes to the last. 
 The stress of this incessant exertion aggra- 
 vated the chronic disease under which he 
 suffered, and entailed a fresh access of de- 
 pression. To enable him to exact a full 
 quantum of work out of his exhausted frame, 
 he had resort to the strongest tonics. Writing 
 to Liverpool before his sister’s death in 1863, 
 he says : 
 
 “ My poor invalid suffers much, and I my- 
 self have come to the point of almost living 
 without sleep and living upon quinine, with 
 many weeks to get through before I can 
 right myself.” 
 
298 EFFECT OF HIS BROTHER'S DEATH. 
 
 It was when the effect of this medicine had 
 failed, and under the weight of an affliction 
 which temporarily incapacitated him from his 
 wonted distraction in work, that he adopted 
 the disastrous measure of recruiting his 
 strength by stimulants. The blow of his 
 brother’s death for awhile seemed to para- 
 lyse his will. For some time he secluded 
 himself at home, and scarcely admitted a 
 visitor, the foreign servant * who attended 
 him, either ignorantly or culpably, encourag- 
 ing his weakness instead of restraining it. 
 The advice of friends and his own con- 
 viction of the mistake he was making, 
 happily prevailed to bring this habit under 
 control, though it was never entirely shaken 
 off. It had no power over him when on a 
 visit to friends, or when seeking recreation 
 in travel ; a consideration that emphasises 
 the distinction to be drawn between such a 
 habit acquired in despair of other remedial 
 
 * As a rule, Chorley was most fortunate in his servants. 
 One whom he much valued and regretted, Stephen Brake, 
 whose widow remained his housekeeper to the last, died, 
 under very painful circumstances, in the autumn of 1868. 
 
TRAVEL. 
 
 299 
 
 aids, and one engendered by luxurious self- 
 indulgence. That the consequences were not 
 less calamitous must he frankly and sorrow- 
 fully admitted. Shattered health and weak- 
 ened memory, a temper made more irritable 
 and self-assertion more prominent, and, as 
 the natural result of such infirmities, an 
 amount of dissension and estrangement that 
 embittered his declining years ; these were 
 of themselves a sufficient punishment. But 
 as compared with other manifestations of its 
 kind, his error was assuredly venial, and 
 entitled him to the forbearance of his fellows. 
 
 I pass to a more cheerful subject, the holi- 
 day tours so often mentioned as seasons of 
 restoration. Until the last year or two of his 
 life these were spent on the Continent. The 
 diaries kept of them, which extend up to 
 1861 , are for the most part brief, and contain 
 few passages that admit of extract ; but they 
 show no abatement of his interest in mental 
 culture or the progress of contemporary art. 
 Their notes of picturesque scenery, and 
 sketches of architectural novelties attest, as of 
 
300 
 
 TOUR IN SPAIN. 
 
 yore, his close and loving observation. One 
 diary chronicles his extreme delight at meet- 
 ing in Leipsic with an American gentleman, 
 Mr. Perkins, * young, handsome, and rich, who 
 ‘ has come out from home resolutely to work 
 ‘ out a career in art, with the hope of doing 
 * good to his country by its agency when he 
 ‘ goes back.’ With this gentleman, who de- 
 voted himself to the study of music, ‘ with 
 ‘ very many requisites for the task,’ Chorley 
 subsequently became intimate, and, I believe, 
 supplied the words for a cantata composed 
 by him. 
 
 The most interesting of these later tours 
 was made in Spain during the autumn of 1861 , 
 in company with Mr. Frederick Lehmann. 
 Some extracts from a letter thence, addressed 
 to Mrs. R. Rathbone, give an outline of the 
 principal impressions it produced : — - 
 
 “ Granada, Sept. 18th, 1861. 
 
 “My dear Friend, 
 
 “ I have thought of you often since I 
 have written to you. I don’t think there was 
 
LETTER FROM SPAIN. 
 
 301 
 
 a day when you were abroad that I did not 
 pass some part of it with you. Now you have 
 some leisure ; are settled (I take it) in your 
 new house; and the one number of the 
 ‘ Times ’ I have seen since I was out told me 
 of Emily’s marriage : so I have said to myself, 
 ‘I will write.’ You know what I would say, 
 and must feel, about any event that takes 
 place which ever so remotely touches you, 
 since time and trial have done anythingrather 
 than cast me loose of old gratitudes and affec- 
 tions. Credit me, pray then, for having said 
 it on this occasion, and for having felt it. 
 It was rather a desperate expedient in me to 
 come to Spain, so shattered was I by ten 
 months of incessant work in London. With- 
 out some complete change, I could not have 
 held out much longer, and this (by a mere 
 chance thought of F. Lehmann’s) seemed to 
 offer itself. So far as restoring nervous and 
 physical power, it has answered completely. 
 I have rarely felt better ; but the fatigue has 
 been tremendous in places. We are here a 
 month too soon ; in a year of drought— a new 
 
302 
 
 LETTER FROM SPAIN. 
 
 experience to me, and which can only be 
 shown to its full character on a southern 
 landscape, and that as bare a one as the staple 
 landscapes of Spain. The heat and parch 
 give it a kind of savagery which is charac- 
 teristic ; hut the dust — which electroplates 
 vine, and fig, and aloe, and seems to creep 
 into one’s very thoughts, too ! Strange to say, 
 heat and dust have braced, me ; hut my brains 
 have gone to sleep. I feel the utmost diffi- 
 culty in writing up my journal, and in talk- 
 ing more than about four hours in the four- 
 and-twenty. I hope, however, to retain my 
 impressions of this very peculiar country, 
 which has many rich things sown far 
 apart. 
 
 “ We had a glorious week among the pic- 
 tures in the Madrid Gfallery, which I suppose 
 is now the finest collection in Europe. I 
 studied the Spaniards very hard, because here 
 they are at home, and had extraordinary 
 enjoyment in Velasquez, who was in some 
 sort a revelation to me. The Raphaels hardly 
 seemed to me up to their reputation (hut if I 
 
LETTER FROM SPAIN. 
 
 303 
 
 dared say so, I should say that was no new 
 experience) ; the Titians, Tintorettos, and 
 specimens by Paul V eronese admirable. Eight 
 long visits were too few. I would endure 
 the fag over again of the journey from 
 London for a second trial. Toledo pleased 
 us mightily — my first real acquaintance with 
 Moorish architecture and decoration. The 
 town is a very quaint one, and stands nobly. 
 I think the Escurial has been over-praised, 
 though the mausoleum of the kings of Spain is 
 truly a pompous sleeping-place for the com- 
 mon clay of which even Spanish kings are 
 made. Then, in their way, the Cathedral of 
 Cordova (whilom a mosque — a labyrinth of 
 pillars and interlaced arches) and that of 
 Seville, too, could be hardly exceeded. In a 
 building like the latter — so gorgeous, so 
 august — open all day, and where every hour 
 brings out a new light, or shuts up some known 
 object in a strange mystery of form — I can 
 quite understand how those whose spirits 
 and purposes are ruled by impression, must 
 be Roman Catholics — why there is small 
 
304 
 
 LETTER FROM SPAIN. 
 
 chance of that great wicked delusion ever 
 wearing out of the world. We liked the 
 curiosities of Seville much ; hut the people 
 seemed too languid and borne down by the 
 heat to rally to such alacrity as makes a 
 strange place welcome. Cadiz gave us sea 
 breezes, so did Malaga (and big muscatel 
 grapes, the only ripe fruit I have seen in 
 Spain), and now we are here for a week. I 
 shall begin on the Alhambra to-morrow ; to- 
 night (after a sixteen-hours’ rough journey) 
 I have given up to aimless roaming, by such 
 a moonlight ! It is a thing to remember. 
 How I wish I could cut you out my window, 
 and the view it commands, and the light, 
 and send them home ! There is no exag- 
 gerating this side of southern beauty, and 
 Granada lends itself to it very lovingly. 
 It is odd how bodily exhaustion seems utterly 
 to vanish and retire when the spell is so 
 strong. 
 
 “ Sept. 19 th . — I feel powerless to describe 
 the Alhambra ; all that can he told is told 
 by views and photographs, and one knew 
 
LETTER FROM SPAIN. 305 
 
 every bit by heart ere one saw it ; and yet 
 bow much more is there to see ! — and this 
 totally apart from historic associations. When 
 I have been once or twice, I shall be able, 
 perhaps, to record for myself some of the me- 
 morable points which no photograph can give. 
 These remains, like the old Roman and the 
 Gothic antiquities (and, of course, the Egyptian 
 ruins), strike one with a sense of childishness, 
 when one is tempted to connect modern 
 times with anything like artistic achievement. 
 When the Alhambra was in its glory, there 
 must have been acres of the finest lace-hang- 
 ings in plaster (much of it open-work) hung 
 on the walls. As for its towers and ramparts, 
 they were beyond number. I am no wailer 
 after the old times, but to see such proof of 
 their pride and glory (in our world, wherein 
 many interests are embarked still in cockle- 
 shell boats, by comparison,) is very subduing. 
 When one thinks of 10,000£. paid for a. vulgar 
 English picture now-a-days, and sees these 
 wondrous relics of a people — now under the 
 world’s feet — the comparison becomes very 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 X 
 
306 
 
 SCARBOROUGH. 
 
 painful because very humiliating, but very 
 instructive 
 
 “ Very affectionately and gratefully yours, 
 
 “ Henry F. Chorley.” 
 
 Of later years, his favourite place of sojourn 
 in England was Scarborough, where the 
 humours of its mixed society were a source of 
 unfailing enjoyment to him. At the Grand 
 Hotel his was a familiar figure, and with the 
 facility which he always retained of making 
 pleasant acquaintance, he seldom passed a 
 season there without enlarging the number. 
 Next to Gad’s Hill, among his friends’ houses, 
 Lady Downshires’, Wakehurst Place, was the 
 one at which he felt most thoroughly at 
 home. At both, to judge from his letters, 
 he underwent a genuine renewal of youth, 
 and the mental and bodily infirmities which 
 beset him in London seemed for a time for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Another cheerful episode may here be 
 noticed. His faithful attachment to the 
 memory of his first friend, Mr. Benson Rath- 
 
LETTERS TO MRS. R. RATHBONE. 
 
 307 
 
 bone, led him to regard with peculiar and 
 almost romantic interest that gentleman’s 
 nephew and namesake. The earliest expres- 
 sion of this I find in the following letter of 
 March 27th, 1842, addressed to Mrs. Richard 
 Rathbone, when her son was still a boy. 
 
 “ The news,” he writes, “ of the rest of 
 your household are most acceptable to me. 
 I should like to see Benson much : I suppose 
 if some day or other I were to ask you to let 
 me look at him here, and to try and make 
 him feel towards me as I did towards his 
 namesake, it would be thought a random 
 request, and mine a life too exclusively spent 
 among the superfluities, to make such an asso- 
 ciation advisable. But I assure you it is a 
 fantasy which occurs to me very often, and 
 at all events, be it ever realised or not, is 
 a harmless one to play with. How often I 
 think of old days I cannot tell you. I can 
 even refer my taste for making my house 
 pretty (which really has been very success- 
 ful) to my Swansea visit ; only one among 
 many directions which a very wavering 
 
308 
 
 LETTERS TO MRS. R. RATHBONE. 
 
 ill-regulated mind received ; and I some- 
 times wish so strongly that I could show 
 what I have done, or hand over a part of 
 what I am enjoying, that the conviction 
 that an irremovable harrier is between my 
 wishes and fulfilment is as sharp as a pain 
 of yesterday. I have never found anything 
 that has filled up the void, and am endea- 
 vouring to cast about for occupation of some 
 of one’s best feelings among a younger gene- 
 ration, as I cannot bear the thoughts of the 
 lonely egotism of middle age and the still 
 more unlovely years which may succeed it, if 
 the issues of life are not jealously watched.” 
 
 Writing again, in April, 1847, after her 
 son had paid him a visit, he says : — 
 
 “ My dear Friend, 
 
 “ The sight of your Benson has made me 
 so very wakeful, that I must relieve my mind 
 ere I sleep, by telling you that it has given 
 me a pleasure such as I fancied was past and 
 gone for ever. I could have laughed and 
 cried, after the first start, when Joseph brought 
 
LETTERS TO MRS. R. RATHE ONE. 
 
 309 
 
 in his name ; for I have not seen him since 
 he was a baby, and was not prepared for such 
 a reminder of a face, and a blithe voice and 
 ways (though I don’t know which), that I 
 never forget for two days together. It was a 
 smiting of the rock ; a coming back of old 
 times, and hopes, and pleasures in the same 
 moment, and I could have ‘ lifted up my 
 voice and wept,’ had I not put the weight on 
 very hard. I don’t think I could have such 
 a pleasure as if I could be in any wise or 
 way, however humbly, to my own true friend’s 
 nephew and namesake what he was to me ; 
 but the sight of him has given me an inte- 
 rest which I shall not part with readily. I 
 am so habitually compelled to remain on the 
 defensive ; have had so much to suppress, so 
 much to harass me, so long a fight for every 
 inch of my way, and every penny (almost) in 
 my purse, that if I make more of the thing 
 than seems natural, I have good excuse. 
 Now, pray, if you hold me in any regard, let 
 me be rated as having a particular love and 
 liking for this new Benson ; and if he wants 
 
310 
 
 LETTERS TO MRS. R. RATHBONE. 
 
 an uncle extra — be it for bed and board, or 
 some one to go ‘ with on a journey,’ or a 
 scolding, or a soothing, or a nursing — any- 
 thing a poor hard-worked man can do, I am to 
 be come to, as having duly registered a claim. 
 There are very few to whom I durst write 
 such a rhodomontade as this ; but you won’t 
 misunderstand it ; and if you do, it can’t be 
 helped. It seems to me as if not till this 
 afternoon I knew how earnestly I must have 
 loved and how closely treasured every remem- 
 brance of my one true friend. Pray forgive 
 all this, and believe me, with kindest regards 
 from all our people (though they don’t know 
 I am writing) affectionately yours, 
 
 “ Henry F. Chorley.” 
 
 From this time Chorley never ceased to 
 interest himself in his young friend’s welfare, 
 and a mutual regard and interchange of 
 friendly offices continued unbroken to the 
 last. A few extracts from the letters ad- 
 dressed to Mr. Rathbone at various times 
 have already been made ; but one or two 
 
LETTERS TO MR. B. RATHBONE. 
 
 311 
 
 others may be added that attest the writer’s 
 feeling more completely : — 
 
 “ 13, Eaton Place West, 
 
 “ 29 Dec. 1855. 
 
 “ My dear B., 
 
 “ The year is very nearly out, and as I 
 do not quite see my way for the next eight- 
 and-forty hours, I will write, while I have a 
 moment, my new-year’s greeting to you and 
 yours. You would not find it easy to believe 
 how often and how affectionately I think of 
 you and your happy household, unless you 
 had gone through my discipline of loss, and 
 lived to see almost everything fail you on 
 which you had placed reliance. I am sure, as 
 I think I said not long ago, that there is use 
 and blessing in all this; but the effect of 
 repeated bereavements and much anxiety 
 borne in solitude; is to make me dwell with 
 greater earnestness on the few that remain for 
 me to care about. May you have a good and 
 happy year, and as little to fret and worry 
 you as is possible.” .... 
 
312 
 
 LETTERS TO MR. B. RATHBONE. 
 
 “ 13, Eaton Place West, 
 
 “ 8 Dec. 1869. 
 
 “ Dear B., 
 
 “ I should have written to you, had you 
 not written to me, to ask the address of your 
 office. A Christmas consignment will appear 
 there in due time, including ‘ Miss Kilman- 
 segge,’ which I hold to he unique among pic- 
 ture-books. I wish I could have read it to 
 you. You should have it read aloud, but by 
 some one who has first gone over it in private, 
 The amount of wit, humour, pathos, and fun 
 in it is unique, I repeat. 
 
 “ You have misdated my birthday ; it is 
 the 15th, not the 8th ; affectionate thanks 
 for your kind wishes and the coming apricots. 
 I doubt much whether I shall see another ; but 
 I think I have so arranged my affairs as to 
 give very little trouble to those who are kind 
 enough to administer them. . . . Unless 
 
 I rally, I shall not go to Gad’s Hill for my 
 Christmas. It is not fair or fit to other 
 people. My next business is in this memorial 
 fund for dear old Harness, whose death I have 
 
FRIENDSHIP WITH THE WRITER. 
 
 313 
 
 felt more than I could have thought possible. 
 I am trying to write about Miss Mitford ; but 
 my head betrays me when I attempt any- 
 thing more consecutive than this miserable 
 letter. 
 
 “ Meanwhile keep a warm corner in your 
 heart for me, remembering that you need not 
 he anxious, because if I really want help I 
 shall telegraph for you. As for bad spirits, 
 they must be borne and dealt with by their 
 owner. 
 
 ***** 
 
 “ Don’t fancy me in the sulks. I shall write 
 a line by the Christmas packet, and I hope 
 to sign it with a firmer hand, though not more 
 affectionate heart, than the two that go forth 
 conjointly in this. 
 
 “ Yours ever, 
 
 “ Henry F. Chorley.” 
 
 A few words may now he permitted re- 
 specting my own observation of Chorley. 
 Our acquaintance was made under circum- 
 stances apparently unpromising. In the 
 
314 
 
 FRIENDSHIP WITH THE WRITER. 
 
 autumn of 1861, the ‘ Athenaeum ’ contained a 
 critique upon a little hook of mine (not other- 
 wise worth recalling), the mingled severity 
 and sympathy in which excited my curiosity 
 to know the writer personally. A request 
 to that effect, forwarded through the editor, 
 found its way into Chorley’s hands. His re- 
 ply was characteristic enough, deprecating the 
 interview, both on the score of his constitu- 
 tional nervousness and a conviction that no 
 advantage would accrue to myself, hut re- 
 luctantly assenting if I should still urge it. 
 There was no alternative hut to release him 
 from the apprehension, with an expression of 
 satisfaction at having met with a critic whose 
 own writings had always interested me. The 
 immediate rejoinder was a friendly invitation 
 to dinner a few days afterwards, which was 
 duly accepted ; and from that time until his 
 death our intimacy was maintained with un- 
 broken and increasing cordiality. I found 
 him such as I hope these pages have portrayed 
 him — a gentleman, in the truest sense of the 
 word, courteous, frank, and kindly ; learned 
 
FRIENDSHIP WITH THE WRITER. 
 
 315 
 
 in one or two provinces of study, well in- 
 formed and gracefully cultivated in many 
 more ; incisive and humorous in speech, with 
 an odd, nervous manner that, among super- 
 ficial observers, might pass for affectation, 
 but was not thus to be mistaken by his inti- 
 mates. As one came to know him better, his 
 thoroughly upright, sincere, generous, and 
 affectionate nature was transparent. Manly 
 to the core where any question of honour or 
 independence was involved, he was almost 
 womanly in his readiness to proffer and re- 
 spond to sympathy ; the smallest indication of 
 regard sufficing to evoke and retain it. His 
 charities, as may he told since his death, were 
 as unostentatious as they were liberal. “ Don’t 
 let my name appear,” was invariably the re- 
 quest that accompanied the gift. The irrita- 
 bility of temper that characterised him was 
 palpable after a brief acquaintance. That 
 trivial occurrences, at which it was unreason- 
 able to take offence, were sufficient to excite 
 it, there can be no doubt ; but I am equally 
 convinced that he was essentially placable, 
 
316 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 and that if those from whom he became 
 estranged had been as anxious for reconcilia- 
 tion as himself, there was scarcely a dispute 
 of his later life that might not have been 
 arranged. His predilections and antipathies 
 (not to call them prejudices) were many, and 
 he was apt to be opinionated in defence of 
 them ; hut I never found him deaf to reason 
 in a temperate discussion, nor averse to admit 
 an obvious error where it was pointed out. 
 Some of his literary preferences, that were at 
 first sight unaccountable, as, for example, his 
 depreciation of Mr. Tennyson as compared 
 with Crabbe, proved to be owing to the in- 
 fluence of early associations. Whatever thus 
 linked itself with his affections was well-nigh 
 ineradicable. I suspect that his political opi- 
 nions also were more governed by sympathy 
 than by conviction ; and that, while in virtue 
 of the latter he was nominally a Liberal, the 
 former stamped him, to all intents and pur- 
 poses, as a Conservative. With dogmatic 
 theology he was happily unburdened ; but a 
 simple devotional feeling, of which I after- 
 
PARTIES OF INTIMATES. 
 
 317 
 
 wards found evidence in his journals, though 
 never paraded, made itself felt on fitting 
 occasion. 
 
 Towards the close of his life we were in 
 frequent converse, both personally and by 
 letter. Few men were more companionable 
 when tete a tete, his fertile fancy, retentive 
 memory, and large experience supplying 
 ample illustrations of any theme that arose 
 for discussion. At the parties which he was 
 in the habit of assembling of his principal 
 friends, it was always a treat to be present. 
 The guests were often curiously assorted — a 
 grande dame sitting beside a popular comedian, 
 or a grave student by a brilliant artiste; but, as 
 the event usually proved, not inharmoniously 
 blended. One was tolerably sure to meet 
 some person of distinction ; and in such com- 
 pany as that of Dickens, Sir Arthur Helps, 
 Sir John Coleridge, Madame Viardot, Sir Mi- 
 chael Costa, Mr. Sullivan, Mr. Reeve, Mr. East- 
 wick, or Mrs. Procter, a visitor must have been 
 hard to please who did not find his evening 
 agreeable. The dinners, of their kind, were 
 
318 
 
 DEATH OF DICKENS. 
 
 unique, at once informal and recherche's, with 
 certain dishes seldom to he met with else- 
 where, to one or other of which the carte gene- 
 rally called attention in a naive marginal note, 
 such as “Try this; H. F. C.” — all, however 
 elaborate, being made at home, and mythically 
 ascribed to receipts from a wonderful cookery- 
 book, of which the world was one day promised 
 a glimpse. If there was music afterwards, it 
 was always of the best, whether the performers 
 were professional or amateur. The presence 
 of the host, with his genial, old-fashioned 
 courtesy, quaint manner, and humorous per- 
 siflage, lent a peculiar flavour of character to 
 the whole entertainment. Altogether, these 
 gatherings belonged to a type not easily 
 to be matched in the circles of London 
 society. 
 
 My closest intercourse with flim took place 
 at the time of the last great sorrow of his life. 
 The sudden death of Dickens was felt by no 
 one, out of his own family, as a more painful 
 shock. The friends had been in correspon- 
 dence during the past week ; the last note or 
 
DEATH OF DICKENS. 
 
 319 
 
 two from Dickens having reference to an old 
 picture of Ranelagh Gardens, which Chorley 
 had just purchased, after some preliminary 
 negotiation, and was about to forward to Gad’s 
 Hill as a present. These notes, of which the 
 following is a sample, assuredly told of no- 
 thing so little as decay in the health or spirits 
 of the writer : — 
 
 “ Gad’s Hill Place, 
 
 “ Higham by Rochester, Kent. 
 
 “ Sunday, 5th June, 1870. 
 
 “ My dear Chorley, 
 
 “ Believe me, I shall he charmed to 
 have the picture, if you succeed in your ne- 
 gotiation for it. Apart from its own interest 
 (and you know beforehand how the subject 
 attracts me), it will he priceless to me as a 
 token of your regard. I will find a place for 
 it somehow and somewhere, and am already 
 pervading the house with a two-foot rule, 
 measuring in all directions. The improve- 
 ments solicit inspection. Among them a toy- 
 stable, which has the air of being made for 
 horses on wheels, with fur manes and tails. 
 
320 
 
 DEATH OF DICKENS. 
 
 Bring a rocking-horse with you, and it shall 
 have the best stall of state. 
 
 “ Ever faithfully and affectionately 
 
 “ 0. D.” 
 
 The last note, making arrangements for the 
 despatch of the picture, was dated Tuesday, 
 7th June. On the Thursday, one from Miss 
 Dickens announced her father’s seizure on the 
 previous day, and the next brought news of 
 his death. Chorley’s mental prostration, when 
 I called upon him shortly afterwards, was 
 painful to witness, affording as it did a mea- 
 sure of the extent to which his friendship had 
 supported him. It was at this interview that 
 he requested me to undertake an office which 
 he had doubtless hoped would have been 
 more worthily filled. Of my promise to dis- 
 charge it, this book is the imperfect fulfil- 
 ment. At the suggestion of Sir C. W. Dilke, 
 he wrote the obituary notice of Dickens in 
 the ‘ Athenaeum ’ of the following week, un- 
 willing that it should be entrusted to any less 
 reverent hand. The performance redoubled 
 
LETTER TO MR. B. RATEBONE. 
 
 321 
 
 his distress, and bore evidence of the effort it 
 had cost, without satisfying his intention of 
 doing justice to the subject. 
 
 How bitterly the loss was felt all his letters 
 told. Acknowledging a message from Mr. 
 Benson Rathbone just afterwards, he wrote : 
 
 “ God bless you for your kindness. For 
 the hour I am best alone. ... I have a letter 
 from poor Mary. If universal sympathy of 
 the warmest kind in every form could soften 
 the agony of such a trial, they will have it in 
 overflowing measure, hut it will not give 
 back one of the noblest and most gifted men 
 I have ever known, whose regard for me was 
 one of those honours which make amends for 
 much failure and disappointment. I cannot 
 express to any human being the void this will 
 make for me to my dying day.” 
 
 Though he did not survive his friend long 
 
 r 
 
 enough to lose the sense of bereavement, and 
 the painful acceleration of organic disease, 
 from which he thenceforth suffered, may have 
 been consequent upon the shock, he rallied 
 from it sooner than I expected. In phy- 
 
 VOL II. 
 
 Y 
 
322 
 
 LETTERS TO TEE WRITER. 
 
 sical weakness, he was no doubt, during the 
 last two or three years of his life, a prema- 
 turely old man ; but the signs of mental de- 
 cay, which some of his acquaintance ob- 
 served in him, were, I think, illusory. No 
 such traces, at all events, are to he found in 
 his last literary product, the biographical 
 sketch of Miss Mitford, nor in the following 
 letters. The first hears date about three 
 months after the death of Dickens. 
 
 “ Grand Hotel, Scarborough, 
 
 “ Sept. 19, 1870. 
 
 “ Mr dear Hewlett, 
 
 “ I have had it in my mind to write to 
 you for many days past, and it is new for me 
 not to write when I have it in my mind ; but 
 I am only beginning reluctantly, I may almost 
 say, to recover from the torpor into which I 
 have been thrown, by one shock after ano- 
 ther, and to he able to put two and two ideas 
 together without a very great effort ; so that 
 I have let everything go by, and have, in 
 some degree, found my account in the rest. 
 I hope that my letter will find all yours and 
 
LETTERS TO THE WRITER. 
 
 323 
 
 yourself flourishing. I suppose you to he at 
 the sea-side — an excellent change, as I can 
 bear witness, and without that monotony 
 which inland country possesses in some de- 
 gree, and which I think I should feel as 
 pressing on my spirits. To be sure, you are 
 not a solitary man, neither my age. 
 
 “ Scarborough suits me so well, that were 
 it nearer London, I should have my home 
 here, I think , and a pied-a-terre there. One 
 may be as much in the crowd, not of it, as one 
 likes, and I am as entirely out of the way in 
 my own room as if I was a hundred miles 
 away from the spa and its music, which is 
 very good, and the table d'hote , and the nightly 
 dancings, which are full of humours for any 
 one who watches character to gather. I have 
 been prevented from eating my heart out by 
 dwelling too much on one sad subject, though 
 it is still, and will be, so long as I last, ever 
 before my thoughts. Even these tremendous 
 events abroad have not driven out my dear 
 friend’s image ; but how tremendous ! Let 
 me read as pertinaciously as I will, it is all 
 like an ugly dream of horror and insanity. 
 
324 
 
 LETTERS TO THE WRITER. 
 
 I have near and dear friends on both sides, 
 some of whom will be incurably ruined, and 
 many of whom have lost some of their best 
 men, but even this intimate sorrow of partici- 
 pation seems to me a trifle as compared with 
 the wholesale slaughter of those on both sides, 
 who have had no power of choice, save to 
 go and be butchered. I cannot but feel, too, 
 that there may be the worst of the vials yet 
 to be poured out. I was hound this autumn 
 both for France and Germany, having some 
 researches I wished to make. Now I feel as 
 if I never wished to see either country again, 
 since the mourning and desolation will hardly 
 pass in my lifetime. I shall be at home (D.Y.) 
 about a month hence ; after which my plans 
 are uncertain. I should he glad to winter out 
 of England, and am thinking of Lisbon, as 
 ground perfectly new to me ; but after all it 
 does not much matter for the years to come, 
 be they few or fewer. 
 
 “ With best regards to your wife, 
 
 “ I am, 
 
 “ Ever yours most truly, 
 
 “ Henry F. Chorley.” 
 
LETTERS TO THE WRITER. 
 
 325 
 
 The next autumn he wrote again after his 
 return from Scarborough. 
 
 “ 13, Eaton Place West, 
 
 “ Oct. 2, 1871. 
 
 “My dear Hewlett, 
 
 “ I answer your welcome letter .... 
 
 as soon as it was received The year 
 
 has been a deadly one, more than usual ; only 
 one feels the poison more and more every 
 
 year. ‘ The cares of the world,’ &c 
 
 Early in August, I went to Scarborough, and 
 only came back on Wednesday last, very 
 much the better for the change. ... I go 
 down to-morrow to stay at Wakehurst Place, 
 such a lovely old house, till the end of the 
 week, and then I suppose I shall be in town 
 
 again for awhile My autumn work 
 
 (not yet complete) is the arrangement, with 
 notes and a preface, of a second collection of 
 Miss Mitford’s Letters. I have had many 
 reasons for doing this ; but the work is very 
 tiresome. I rather fancy the next thing will 
 be tbe preparation of such of my own me- 
 moirs as I can publish during my lifetime. 
 
326 
 
 LETTERS TO THE WRITER. 
 
 There are things that I feel I ought to put 
 on record, especially as I have destroyed a 
 large correspondence. The book will be a 
 curious one, and I have been writing at it, as 
 I think you know, for the last ten years. One 
 must be in calm health and spirits before one 
 can be trusted to labour among one’s graves, for 
 such is an honest record, of hopes, plans, and. 
 losses. Of the verse plan, I must talk to you 
 when we meet. I hope it will not be long first. 
 
 “ Vers de Societe is a capital subject, too 
 rich a one almost, for a single magazine 
 article ; since, from the days of Horace Wal- 
 pole and Gray, ‘ all the planets ’ (poets) ‘ in 
 their turn ’ have all written something at or 
 for the modes of the hour. The subject is a 
 very bright if not a very big one. Don’t 
 hurry or dwarf yourself in it. More of this 
 too when we meet. I am behindhand, with 
 all periodicals, not even having read up the 
 ‘ Athenaeum.’ My time for them seems to be 
 over, as you would not wonder, did you know 
 what my inner life, during my thirty-five 
 years’ apprenticeship, comprehended. 
 
A UT0BI0GRAPI1Y. 
 
 327 
 
 . “ More last words of rigmarole. I have a 
 dinner here on Gunpowder-day, Sunday, No- 
 vember 5th, half-past seven. I have no choice, 
 save to take a Sunday, because I shall receive 
 some of my theatrical friends — Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bancroft (Madlle. Marie Wilton) and Mr. 
 Hare, and they are free on no other day. If 
 you are disposed to bid for a stall to meet the 
 galaxy (is not that grand ?) I will keep one 
 for your disposal, and a bed for yourself and 
 carpet-bag, after. 
 
 “ With regards to all yours, 
 
 “Henry F. Chorley.” 
 
 The preface to the first portion of his auto- 
 biography which he intended to publish, was 
 written shortly after the date of this letter, 
 and may appropriately follow the reference 
 here made to the subject. 
 
 ‘ This book, which, I hope, is an honest one, 
 ‘ has been many years in progress. The 
 ‘ writing it has never been an easy, often- 
 ‘ times a very painful, task. I have thought 
 ‘ it right to attempt it, in remembrance of 
 
328 
 
 PREFACE TO AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 ‘ warning and comfort that I have derived 
 ‘ from other honest autobiographies, in remem- 
 ‘ brance of many excellent and original per- 
 ■ sons Avhom I have had the honour of ap- 
 ‘ proaching, and in encouragement of those to 
 ‘ whom the position of by-standers, and not 
 ‘ prominent actors, in the drama of life is 
 ‘ allotted by nature' and by circumstance. It 
 ‘ is given to few to rise, or to take a brilliant 
 ‘ position among their fellow-men. It is given 
 ‘ to many to observe, to enjoy, and to recol- 
 ‘ lect ; and, perhaps, these may be on the 
 ‘ whole happier than those who are consumed 
 ‘ by “ wild wish and longing vain.” 
 
 ‘ One difficulty, and not the least, has been 
 ‘ in the amount of materials. By the many 
 ‘ not very cheerful chances of survivorship I 
 ‘ became, some time ago, the depository of a 
 ‘ mass of family correspondence, not a little 
 ‘ of it noticeable from the racy humour of 
 4 its writers. My own letters amounted in 
 ‘ number to many thousands. I have been 
 ‘ largely trusted by my superiors, and this 
 ‘ in matters which can be submitted to no 
 
PREFACE TO AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 329 
 
 4 executor, because there is no placing any 
 4 third person in the attitude of confidence and 
 ‘ competence to speak or select. The letters 
 4 of a Pope, a Swift, a Walpole, a Byron, 
 4 written with the public in view, stand in a 
 ‘ category totally different. I have gone over 
 ‘ and destroyed all this mass of papers ; and 
 ‘ from them, and from ihy recollections, and 
 4 with reference to the journal served by me 
 ‘ for five-and-thirty years, I have combined 
 4 and narrated everything which it has seemed 
 ‘ to me fit and fair to put on record. Every 
 4 year brings its new proof of the discretion, 
 ‘ I may say the necessity, of such a course. 
 
 4 Further, I have considered it best to give 
 4 out a part of these memorials during my life- 
 4 time, because, should I he accused of mis- 
 4 statement or exaggeration, I should be on the 
 4 spot, to confess, to defend, or to apologise. I 
 4 have no near relative nor literary executor 
 4 who can speak of the times, the scenes, and 
 4 the people that I have known. I am willing 
 4 to hear the accusation of vanity, which may 
 4 be brought against such open publication ; 
 
330 
 
 LETTERS TO LIVERPOOL. 
 
 ‘ but I have given my reason for the course 
 ‘ adopted, and I think it will not be mistaken 
 ‘ by those few whose esteem, whether while 
 ‘ living or after death, I desire to preserve. 
 
 ‘Henry P. Chorley.’ 
 
 During the winter of 1871, his health be- 
 came sensibly worse, and compelled him to 
 abandon a visit which he had planned to 
 Liverpool. Writing to Mr. B. Rathbone, 
 on the 3rd December, he says : “ Since 
 
 Christmas-day, when I dined at the L ’s 
 
 (and, by the way, was kissed under the mis- 
 tletoe for the first time in my life), I have 
 been very ill, and last night heard every hour 
 of the twelve strike, not sleeping for more than 
 ten minutes at a time. This, of course, aggra- 
 vates my heart-complaint, and there is nothing 
 but stillness and diet with which to meet the 
 evil. I must not have you think, however, 
 that there is anything of immediate cause for 
 apprehension ; only I am not in holiday trim, 
 that’s all. 
 
LETTERS TO LIVERPOOL. 
 
 331 
 
 “ Did you see in the paper the death of my 
 poor friend, Dr. Seemann, in Nicaragua ? 
 He went there on a last expedition, to re- 
 turn in February, and we were to have gone 
 to Constantinople together after the sea- 
 son. He was the only really companionable 
 friend I had left, since we had many pursuits 
 in common. You will recollect our pleasant 
 day at Kew. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 “ So you cannot wonder that I am out of 
 tune for carol singing. I do not want to 
 sadden you, but I must not be thought capri- 
 cious, and will make as good a fight as I can. 
 My servants take every care of me, and, in 
 some respects, the solitude and absence of 
 
 excitement is the best thing for me. 
 
 # * * * 
 
 “ Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 “ IIenry F. Chorley.” 
 
 The last letter that I shall insert was 
 addressed to Mrs. R. Itatli bone little more 
 than a month before his death. 
 
332 
 
 LETTERS TO LIVERPOOL. 
 
 “ Jan. 3, 1872. 
 
 “ 13, Eaton Place, S.W. 
 
 “Dear Friend, 
 
 “ How kind of you to write to me ; but I 
 am sure I have decided rightly, if only on 
 account of the railway journey, which it would 
 not he safe to undertake in the present state 
 of my heart. This has been at its worst, as 
 was to be expected, not only on the score of 
 age, but as a consequence of very severe 
 and unremitting anxiety. I should he only a 
 nuisance and an incumbrance were I deli- 
 vered safely to your sofa, and the sense of 
 this would make me worse, or else tempt me 
 to efforts beyond my powers. I have always 
 felt that when one is ill it is not right to be- 
 come a burthen on one’s friends, save in case of 
 necessity; and you must remember I have 
 been used to meet trials, bodily and mental, 
 without support. In my dear sister’s life- 
 time, I qpncealed them from her ; and, since 
 her death, I have had no one to whom I could 
 have spoken freely. Meanwhile, I am better 
 
LETTERS TO LIVERPOOL. 
 
 333 
 
 than when I wrote to Benson ; the faintness 
 is subsiding, and I have slept somewhat 
 better ; but I must keep quiet, and am not 
 for the moment going anywhere, nor shall. 
 If I have no new trouble (D.V.), I may work 
 round, and then I will be as much of an in- 
 cumbrance to my friends (or the reverse) as 
 they may be disposed to endure. There are 
 hundreds of things I should like to talk over 
 with you. I shall send B. down a copy of 
 the second series of Mitford’s Letters, which 
 I have edited. You will see that I have been 
 faithful to my theory of biography — that it 
 should be truth , not panegyric. I am sure 
 that if failures and faults are considerately 
 stated and admitted, the dead will be more 
 tenderly loved, because of their mortality, 
 than when (so to say) they are embalmed and 
 rouged in their sepulchres. 
 
 “ I shall be curious and interested some 
 day to hear what you think of Dickens’s life, 
 It is a very sad book, but to me brimful of 
 interest. When it is completed, if 1 am alive, 
 I shall deal with it for one of the large 
 
334 
 
 TEMP OEAR Y EECO VEE Y. 
 
 reviews. Tell Benson that he was slander- 
 ous on the subject of mince-pies as having 
 caused my illness ; and once again believe 
 me to he 
 
 “ Ever affectionately and gratefully yours, 
 
 “ Henry F. Chorley.” 
 
 A partial recovery of strength ensued, but 
 the occupation of his mind with the thought 
 that it would prove transient, showed itself in 
 his frequent references to a future life when 
 conversing with his confidential servant. The 
 expectation of sudden death, however, had 
 become so habitual to him, that he practically 
 disregarded it. He had planned a dinner- 
 party for Friday, the lGth February, the day 
 on which he died, when Sir Michael Costa, 
 Lady Downshire, and other friends (includ- 
 ing myself), were to have been among the 
 guests. On the Wednesday preceding, he 
 was present at a theatrical hall given by 
 Mrs. Bancroft, and on the Thursday, when 
 Mr. Francis, the publisher of the ‘Athenaeum,’ 
 called upon him, he spoke with cheerfulness of 
 
HIS DEATH AND FUNERAL. 
 
 335 
 
 his future plans. Early on the following 
 morning he was seized with sudden syncope, 
 and, after lying a few hours unconscious, ex- 
 pired without apparent suffering. 
 
 He was buried, by his own desire, beside 
 his brother John, in Brompton Cemetery, a 
 large number of his associates, including 
 many representatives of letters and art, fol- 
 lowing his remains to the grave. By his will, 
 an abstract of which will be found on the 
 next leaf, he left the bulk of his property to 
 Mr. Benson Rathbone. He also gave written 
 directions to this gentleman to present his 
 favourite picture by Old Crowe ” to the 
 National Gallery ; to pay 500/. to the faithful 
 servant who had attended him for the last 
 three years ; and distribute tokens of remem- 
 brance to many of his friends. All these 
 requests have been faithfully executed. 
 
 Whatever it has seemed right to say in 
 vindication of his literary claims has already 
 been said, and it would be needless to repeat. 
 To lament the mistaken application and im- 
 perfect training of powers that might, under 
 
336 
 
 THE END. 
 
 wiser culture, have yielded richer fruit, may 
 be permitted to his friends alone : 
 
 " The world, which credits what is done. 
 
 Is cold to all that might have been.” 
 
 That this record of his achievements should 
 tend in any measure to enlarge the circle of 
 his admirers may he a presumptuous hope. 
 But, even though limited to his contempo- 
 raries, it was not a small nor an obscure 
 number, either in England or on the Continent, 
 who felt, at the announcement of Chorley’s 
 death, that an acute and courageous critic, a 
 genuine if incomplete artist, and a warm- 
 hearted honourable gentleman, had gone to 
 his rest. 
 
( 337 ) 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Abstract of the Will of H. F. Chorley, dated 
 8th May, 1868. 
 
 Bequeaths to his friend Charles Dickens, of Gad’s Hill Place, 
 £50 for a ring, in memory of one greatly helped by him. 
 
 To Michael Costa £50 for a ring. 
 
 To the Life-Boat Institution £600, upon condition that the 
 boat which it will suffice to build shall be called the “ John 
 Butter Chorley/’ and its name maintained. 
 
 To Stephen Brake and Mary Brake, servants of the testator, 
 whether in his service at his decease or not, all beds, linen, 
 kitchen furniture, utensils, and common crockery. 
 
 All the residue of his estate, real and personal, testator 
 devises and bequeaths to Benson Bathbone, of Oakwood, 
 Aigburth, Liverpool : 
 
 Upon trust to pay his funeral and testamentary expenses 
 and debts ; 
 
 To set apart or purchase, in his own name, a sufficient sum 
 of Consols to produce £100 a year, and to pay to or permit 
 said Stephen and Mary Brake, during their joint lives, and 
 the survivor during his or her life, to receive the dividends, 
 in memory of faithful service faithfully rendered ; and after 
 
 VOL. IT. 
 
 Z 
 
338 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 / 
 
 the death of the survivor, to transfer or dispose of the Consols 
 to the executors, &c., of the said Stephen Brake ; 
 
 To set apart or invest in Consols such a sum as will 
 produce an annuity of £300 a year, to be paid to the tes- 
 tator’s brother, William Brownsword Chorley, for his life ; 
 
 To set apart or invest in Consols such a sum as will 
 produce £200 a year for Mary, the eldest daughter of said 
 Charles Dickens, for her life. 
 
 Legacies and annuities to be free of duty. 
 
 Appoints Benson Bathbone sole executor. 
 
 Directs him to destroy all family pictures, miniatures, and 
 memorials, rather than turn them adrift as rubbish, except 
 such as he may desire to retain ; and directs that his funeral 
 shall be on the same scale, and conducted by the same persons 
 (Messrs. Mares and Co.), as that of his deceased brother, 
 John Butter Chorley. 
 
 THE END. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED RY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, 
 
 STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS." 
 
/ . 
 
 I 
 
 
 
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