Cornell University Library 
 PR 5795.W8B43 1884 
 
 A forgotten geniusiCharies Whitehead; a 
 
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Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013569961 
 
A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 In crown 8vo., pp. xxiv., 308, cloth, price 6s. 
 
 OLD YEAR LEAVES. 
 
 3t '53irlmiu nt ©xrlUttel) '^zt%z. 
 
 * The poems appear to have undergone some careful revision, and they 
 are the better for the pains bestowed upon them. The introductory 
 sonnet . . . realizes an adequate idea adequately. . . . The "Keeping 
 of the Vow" is a stirring reproduction of the stor^ of Bruce sending his 
 heart to the Holy Land. The sbnnet on visiting Rossetti's ^ grave 
 appeared in the American Literary World. . . . Mr.^ Mackenzie Bell 
 prefaces his volume with a short dissertation on the kinds and uses ,of 
 minor poetry. The little essay is certainly amusing. . . . We see that 
 Mr. Mackenzie Bell intends to produce a monograph on Charles White- 
 head. ., . .. The author of "Richard Savage" was a genius of a high 
 order, and yet he is almost unknown to our own generation.' — Academy^ 
 January 26, 1884. 
 
 'We have great pleasure indeed in commending these poems to our 
 readers.* — Literary World, January i8th, 1882J 
 
 * This volume of poems is far beyond the usual run of verse, and we 
 hope soon to see something more from the same skilful pen. This 
 deserves to be a most successful book, for the merits are of no common 
 order.' — Public Opinion, March 8, 1884. 
 
 ' 'As a singer he touches, not without a certain skill, "the simple 
 loves and hopes and aims, the simple.faith and creed," with which his 
 heart is well conteftt. His poems of travel come from many places that 
 have rarely been sun]g by English poets. . . . The " Keeping of the 
 Vow " deserves special mention.! — Literary Worlds Boston, U.S.A., 
 February 23, 1884. 
 
 LONDON-: Elliot Stock, 62, Paternoster Row, E.C. 
 
A FORGOTTEN GENIUS 
 
 CHARLES WHITEHEAD. 
 
 ^ Critical i^onograph. 
 
 BY 
 
 H. T. MACKENZIE BELL. 
 
 ' Alas I for all the miseries that strew 
 
 The common ^ath our trackless footsteps make, 
 As we creep on this maze of darkness through : 
 
 The hearts that break, the hearts that cannot break, 
 The hearts that bury meir last hopes and take 
 E'en comfort from the grave and struggle still. 
 
 And lingering on for very misery s sake 
 Live — not because they would but that, they will ; 
 And die when baffled Death is left no power to kill/ 
 
 Charles Whitehead. 
 
 LONDON : 
 ELLIOT STOCK, 6z, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.G. 
 
 1884. 
 [All Rights I^eserved.l 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Vicissitudes of fortune are as frequent in literature 
 as in other departments of intellectual activity. The 
 rank held by an author is constantly Hable to change. 
 Literary reputation is frequently a thing of chance, 
 and is due almost as much to a favourable con- 
 catenation of circumstances as to intrinsic excellence. 
 Perhaps it is an ierror to conclude that merit is the final 
 test to which fame is brought, that the guerdon of 
 praise is the ultimate and certain recompense of genius. 
 We know that it has sometimes happened that men 
 whose work has eventually proved to be good and 
 even great, have been for years, perhaps for generations, 
 unrecognised. The inference is a reasonable one, that. 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 but for some accidental circumstance, they might have 
 escaped observation altogether. It certainly does not 
 often happen that a man of unmistakable genius, after 
 he has once attained to recognition, falls entirely out 
 of sight. Charles Wells and Ebenezer Jones — not to 
 speak of WiUiam Blake — are, however, examples of men 
 who have suffered such freaks of fortune. I believe 
 Charles "Whitehead to be a further example, and I 
 have undertaken this work in the hope of doing justice, 
 however tardy and inadequate, to one whom I regard 
 as a neglected genius. My attention was first drawn 
 to Whitehead and his works by observing . the high 
 estimation in which the late Dante Gabriel Bossetti 
 held the latter, both in verse "and prose. Since then, 
 I have discovered that Christopher North admired 
 Whitehead's early poetry, and that at least one of 
 Whitehead's novels inspired Dickens with warm ad- 
 miration. Some of Whitehead's surviving friends con- 
 sider that in natural powers he was hardly less gifted 
 than Dickens himself, and that, had it not been for 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 a single infipmity ^f temperament, he would have 
 achieved the highest distinction in one or both of his 
 ■walks in literature. Unhappily, he was beset by a 
 great weakness: his life was overshadowed by the 
 same serious failing that lends so sad an interest to 
 the life and genius of Poe — an author to whom White- 
 head, on one side, and one side only, bears a curious 
 affinity. It will be agreed that a writer who has 
 called forth so many and such warm eulogiums from 
 competent critics as it wiU be my pleasure to quote is 
 at least deserving of consideration ; and it is in the 
 hope that, thus late, the public wiU give him a fair 
 and sympathetic trial, that I now present this mono- 
 graph. 
 
 My best thanks are due to Mr. George Bentley, Mr. 
 E. L. Blanchard, Mr. Cornelius Pearson, Mr. A. Schulze, 
 and to Mr. F. Blackburn, for valuable information 
 most kindly given respecting Whitehead's" private and 
 public life. 
 
 I have to acknowledge my obligations to the 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 publishers, who have generously permitted me to quote 
 from copyright works. Wherever I have been cogni- 
 sant of copyright claims I have been careful to recog- 
 nise them. Any omission in this respect will, I trust, 
 be regarded as an inadvertence. 
 
 H. T. Mackenzie Bell. 
 
 London : May, 1884. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 -Preface. 
 
 FACE 
 
 Literary Vicissitudes — Neglected Genius . . . v 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 Birth — Parentage — EarlyEflorts — Successes— Christopher 
 North and Charles Dickens — Critical Verdicts — Writing 
 for a Living — The Mulberry Club — Personal Excesses — 
 Failure in Life — Emigration to AustraUa— Still Lower 
 Depths — Death from Destitution . . .1 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 
 
 The Solitary— ^Jaspe/r Brooke — Ippolito, The Cavalier, etc. 
 -^Of the School of Shelley — Forecastings of the School 
 of Rossetti . . . . . .36 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHITEHEAD AS A HrMOITRIST. 
 
 Jack Ketch— English Highwaymen — Orimaldi Memoirs, etc. 
 — The Forerunner of Dickens — The Manner of Victor 
 Hugo . . . . . . .95 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WHITEHEAD AS WRITER OP SKETCHES. 
 
 PAQE 
 
 Umiles and Tears^Francis Loosefish— Edward Saville — 
 ' Confessions of a Lazy Man, etc. — Later Contributions to 
 Periodical Literature— rAe Wife's Tragedy — The Spanish 
 Marriage ....... 126 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST AND HISTORIAN. 
 
 Earl of Essex— IBUi Relation to Queen Eliaabeth — To 
 Bacon — To Ralegh — Sir Walter Ralegh — Spelling of the 
 Name — As Poet and Man of Letters — As Statesman 
 — His Conduct in Ireland — Summary of his Character . 162 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 
 
 Richard Savage — The Eighteenth Century Novelists — 
 Whitehead's Methods — The Richard Savage of History 
 — Johnson, Boswell, etc. ..... 206 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CRITICAL SURVEY. 
 
 Whitehead's Place as a Poet — As a Novelist — His Ulti- 
 mate Rank ...... 291 
 
 Chronological and Bibliographical Table . . . 295 
 
A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 It is a melancholy reflection that as fast as a man of 
 letters rises into repute he may sink into obscurity. 
 Between popularity and fame there is, of course, a 
 •wide difference ; fame is that higher kind of distinc- 
 tion which, as Falstaff says of honour, cannot usually 
 live with the living, because detraction will not suffer 
 it "It keeps company with the man who died o' 
 Wednesday." Fame is essentially a dead man's pos- 
 session, and of him who has ever possessed it, it were 
 not rash to say that, whatever the nature or quality of 
 his doings, he is never wholly forgotten. That lower 
 kind of reputation called popularity has usually 
 another fate. It is almost entirely a Hving man's pos- 
 session. It never kept company with " the man who 
 died o' Wednesday." At whatever part of a man's 
 career it begins, it perforce ceases at his tomb. It is 
 the inheritance of every ephemeral demagogue, who 
 no sooner makes his exit from his little stage of life 
 
 1 
 
2 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 than popularity deserts him, and he remains only open 
 to the test of how far he is or is not an inheritor of 
 fame. 'And as popularity is necessarily the commoner, 
 and fame the rarer possession, what a mighty sweep- 
 ing-down of the world's little deities every succeeding 
 age must of necessity have witnessed ! It is well that 
 it should be so : well that the great army of momentary 
 heroes should give place to the much smaller company 
 of Time's true great ones. But; in the general deluge, 
 it sometimes happens that great men with little ones 
 are submerged : often disappearing entirely and for 
 ever out of the world's cognisance: occasionally rescued 
 from the densest obscurity by the labours of the 
 student who rummages in forgotten comers. 
 
 Marlowe is not, strictly speaking, a forgotten con- 
 temporary of Shakespeare ; but there is a sense in 
 which he could almost be said to be so. We do not 
 read his plays as we read Shakespeare's : we never act 
 them. He is in the hands of the specialists, not the 
 people ; and who shall say how far the championship 
 of such men as Mr. Swinburne contributes to keep him 
 in memory? Yet Marlowe was the master of Shake- 
 speare, and was doubtless at one time the more popular 
 of the two. Beaumont and Fletcher are of course re- 
 membered, and so are Webster and Ford ; but there 
 may well be a difference of opinion as to the value of 
 the reputation that is limited in its operation to a 
 comparatively small circle of enthusiastic readers. 
 But, outside these greater names, who shall say how 
 long is the list "of the contemporaries of Shakespeare 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 3 
 
 who are entirely unknown to the general reader, and 
 therefore practically forgotten ? 
 
 How many, too, of the contemporaries of Pope are 
 in a like position I Not to speak of the large corps of 
 criticasters headed by Dennis, or the small corps of 
 poetasters of whom Tickell was the tail, ther6 were 
 not a few men of rare and high genius, like Christopher 
 Smart,/ the author of The Song to David, who are 
 now no longer remembered. 
 
 To come to later times, we find that Keats's gifted 
 friend, the author of the Scriptural drama of Joseph 
 and his Brethren, has only within recent years been 
 revived. Within our own time, also, Thomas Lovell 
 Beddoes, the Elizabethan pbet of the Victorian era, 
 Alexander Smith and Sidney Dobell, the leaders 
 of what was called the Spasmodic School — high as 
 their several ranks were in their day — have for all 
 practical purposes, so far as vital poetic exiistence is 
 concerned, been permitted to fall largely out of siglit. 
 
 And now I take upon myself, with all modesty of 
 personal motive, but with all possible admiration and 
 enthusiasm for my subject, to endeavour to show that 
 the world has permitted itself entirely to forget a man 
 whose genius is exceptional in several walks of litera- 
 ture, and in one of those walks falls short only of 
 absolute greatness. Charles Whitehead is a name so 
 largely forgotten, though the owner thereof is little 
 more than twenty years dead, that I can readily amuse 
 myself by fancying I overhear the remarks which the 
 title-pag© to my volume wiU call forth : 
 
 1—2 
 
4 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 " Charles "Whitehead, does he say ? Oh yes, I know. 
 But does he not mean William Whitehead, the con- 
 temporary of Colley Gibber, and his successor in the 
 laureateship ?" 
 
 There is one fact of Whitehead's life which makes the 
 obscurity of his name a thing of the most melancholy 
 interest. That fact may be stated at once without 
 further reserve. Whitehead died from the effects of 
 want in a hospital at Melbourne, Australia, after living 
 for some years in that colony, without relatives, entirely 
 friendless, and alone. The pathos, the abjectness, the 
 squalor of poor Whitehead's end,make up as sad a record 
 as can be conceived. It is no less than the truth that this 
 man had written one of the niost remarkable novels 
 produced in his time ; he had written a volume of 
 verse that had enjoyed the recognition of one of the 
 most powerful critics of his age; he had written a 
 play which, whatever its success as an acted drama, 
 had been compared with Massinger as a literary pro- 
 duct. For thirty years he was actively engaged on the 
 best periodical press in London : his name was widely 
 known there ; he was at one time the friend and col- 
 league ' of Charles Dickens, the club associate of 
 Douglas Jerrold, and the acquaintance of Thackeray 
 and Lord Lytton. From one sad infirmity of cha- 
 racter, this man was driven from the only city in the 
 world that was fit for him, to a country opposed to all 
 his instincts, his habits, and his weaknesses, and he 
 died there in obscurity and of destitution — unknown 
 and almost unnamed/probably without a Hne in the 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 5 
 
 local newspaper of the city of his adoption, certainly 
 ■without fitting record in the proper places at home. 
 
 When we think of men of letters who have been 
 cruelly neglected by the world, the mind turns first to 
 Otway, dying of the results of a fit of gourmandizing 
 after a period of destitution ; to Chatterton in his 
 garret in Brooke Street, Holbom ; to Schiller, huddled 
 at last into a deal cofiSn, for which his family were 
 scarcely able to pay ten poor shiUingSj and all but 
 borne to the grave by hirelings, and buried at mid- 
 night and as if by stealth ; and among the poets of 
 our own time, the mind turns to poor James Thom- 
 son, composing his weird poem. The, City of Dread- 
 ful Night, in the weary vigils he kept, night after 
 night, in the streets of London, walking there from 
 sunset to dawn, knowing not whither or wherefore, 
 only that by so doing he seemed to chase away the 
 poverty and misery that hung about him as a load 
 that was pulling him down to the grave. -But none 
 of these sad examples of men of letters on whom 
 the world turned its back — not Otway's case, nor 
 Chatterton's, nor Schiller's, nor Thomson's, nor yet 
 Savage's case, though he died in a debtors' prison in 
 Bristol; nor Steele's case, though he was banished 
 from London at the end; nor Sheridan's case, though 
 his creditors tried to arrest him even while he lay 
 dead ; nor Bums's case, though on his deathbed he was 
 tormented with anxiety as , to how to save himself 
 from arrest at the hands of the hosier to whom he 
 owed £10 — not any of these seems to me a case of 
 
6 - A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 neglect of high genius more complete than that of 
 "Whitehead, more cruel, more tragic. 
 
 The materials for a biography of Whitehead are so 
 scanty, that it is doubtful whether any such phenomenon 
 of inadequate personal data exists in the case of any 
 other man of letters of modern days. It would appear 
 that his near relatives are aU dead, and of his intimate 
 friends there survive only one or two. Any more 
 perplexing problem, therefore, than that of writing a 
 biographical sketch under these conditions can hardly 
 be conceived. Nevertheless, I have, after much effort, 
 brought together a number of facts, which, meagre 
 though they are, yet afford a realizable idea of the 
 man, and a sufficiently connected account of his 
 career. 
 
 He was horn in London, iu 1804, and was an 
 eldest son. His father was a wine-merchant in the 
 City. He was a genial old man, and on the day he 
 attained his seventy-fifth year, he slapped his son 
 Charles on the back, saying, "Well, my boy, when 
 I have lived twenty-five years longer, I shall be a 
 hundred." He died the next year by an accident. 
 One of Charles Whitehead's brothers was dearly loved 
 by him, and it would appear from a note appended to 
 the first edition of The Solitary that this brother 
 was drowned. His ^arly and untimely death is ■ the 
 origin of some of the most beautiful and pathetic 
 stanzas in that poem. Charles had two other brothers, 
 'Alfred and Frank, and one of them, probably Alfred, 
 assisted Charles in writing one of his earlier romances 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. > 
 
 ^-^Jckck Ketch - He had three sisters, Glara, Esther, 
 and another of name unknown. Esther had literary 
 ability, and she ' appears to have possessed' practical 
 qualities, which the suibjeet of this volume lacked. 
 
 Both Alfred and Frank wrote for the magazines. 
 Alfred died early, and long before Frank. Brothers 
 and sisters are all now dead, and probably Charles was 
 the last to survive. Charles had not a University 
 career, but otherwise his education was carefuUy 
 attended to. There is an impression that he was a 
 Christ's Hospital School man, but this seems improb- 
 able, for the hea(^-master, who has kindly, searched the 
 registers, tells me that Whitehead's name does not- 
 appear there. 
 
 Whitehead began life as a clerk in a commercial 
 house in London. He first appeared as an author 
 in 1831. The Solitary ■ was his earliest work,, its 
 publisher being Effingham Wilson, wKo about the 
 same date produced Tennyson's first volume of 
 poems — that is, the first volume written solely by 
 himself. 
 
 The Solitary appeared in a thin octavo, and was 
 prefaced by an introdu'ctoty p06m in which the author 
 spoke touchingly of his personal isolation — an isolation 
 for which there seems to have been scarcely so much 
 foundation in fact as might be expected frqm a sincere 
 writer, for there is little reason to doubt that at 
 the time in question Whitehead was living in com- 
 ,plete harmony with his family, as yet undisturbed by 
 death. To deny to a young writer, however, a certain 
 
'8 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Byronic license to suck the eggs of a sweet melancholy 
 would be to deprive him of a dainty, if not a very 
 substantial dish. Whitehead's melancholy has at 
 least the merit, of being poetical 
 
 " Of joy, or pious sorrow, to rehearse; 
 Or sweet afFections, often told in verse ; 
 Or all the blessings of a sylvan state ; 
 Or all the wretched splendour of the great; 
 Or all the comforts that, unbidden, come 
 Like pilgrims, to the simple latch of home ; 
 The father's tender smile^ — the mother's kiss — 
 And all the dear security of bliss ; 
 These are not mine : expect no gentle theme, 
 No graceful woes that lovers best beseem, 
 No soft Italian tale, or Oriental dream. 
 
 " My Muse vouchsafes me but a little space, 
 And leaves to swifter feet the longer race ; 
 Th' o'erburdea'd heart of sorrow, ere it break. 
 Trembling with jarring harmony, to wake ; 
 To fling a reckless hand along the chords. 
 And dash the unform'd breathings into words ; 
 To wrest one satisfaction from the tomb, 
 
 ' And, if I can, anticipate my doom ; 
 This, Fate permits me ; should we meet again. 
 Why, theuT have not struck the lyre in vain; 
 If not, I do not owe the less to thee 
 Who would be blind, tho' all the world could see : 
 Meanwhile — nor hope, nor fear — I am content. 
 If, when this sickly dream of life is spent, 
 When Hate has done his worst, and Fate is past, , 
 I anchor in the bay of Truth at last." 
 
 The reception of the book seems on the whole to 
 hav« been favourable. The Atkenmum accepted it as 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. , 9 
 
 a protest against those old poetic heresies which 
 required that poetry should be stripped of all its 
 mystery, at the same time that it recognised in the 
 author one of those followers of Shelley who were 
 said to measure their depth by their darkness, and 
 to fancy themselves profound when they were merfely 
 perplexed. Speaking of the moral habit of mind 
 whence The, Solita/ry had emanated, the critic pro- 
 tested against the disposition to be moody, melan- 
 choly, and fuU of complaint against Life, Hope, Time, 
 Pity, Youth, Manhood, Old Age — everything, in short, 
 that exists, has existed, or will^exist in this world, where 
 there are six days of labour for one of rest. 
 
 " A little super-transcendentalism," says the Athenceum, 
 "we have no objection to, upon occasion, nor, upon occa- 
 sion, to a good, and if melodious, hearty fit of passion with 
 the world and its inhabitants ; but when we get nothing but 
 si^hs, and tears, and groans, witherings of spirit, blastings 
 of memory, searings of brain,and drying up of heart— when 
 poetry is turned into Niobe, — and without having lost nine 
 children, — it is hard, first, to help laughing, and, next, to 
 avoid feeling a stern regret at such gross' misapplication of 
 mind and sensibility. Melancholy and levity are in their 
 extremes alike irrational. We now bid ' The Solitary ' fare- 
 well, hoping to see him again, purified from what looks like 
 affectation, and writing as gpod verses as we think he has . 
 power to write." 
 
 The Literary Gazette a year later, takes shame 
 to itself that The Solitary should furnish matter for 
 review in 1832, and asks the author's indulgence 
 when it makes the acknowledgment that the poem, 
 in which power and beauty are so unmistakably 
 
10 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 evident; should have been reviewed months before. 
 But perhaps the warmest tribute of praise came three 
 years after the publication of the poem, when Professor 
 Wilsoil wrote- as follows in the Nodes AmbrosiAnce : 
 
 ■ "North. , No politics, Sam. Pray, did either of you ever 
 read 'The Solitary,' a poem in three parts, by Charles White^ 
 head 1 
 
 "Both. No. 
 
 " North. It is full of fine thoughts and feelings, and con- 
 tains some noble descriptions. Some of the stanzas com- 
 mitted themselves to my memory, and I think I can recite 
 three, suggested by the quiet of this scene, for they are 
 pregnant with tempest : 
 
 " ' As when, of amorous night uncertain birth, 
 The giant of still noontide, weary grown. 
 Crawls sultrily along the steaming earth, 
 And basks him in the meadows sunbeam-strown, 
 Anon, his brow collapses to a frown, 
 Unto his feet he springs, and bellows loud, 
 
 With uncouth rage pulls the rude tempest down. 
 Shatters the woods, beneath his fury bow'd, 
 And hunts the frighted winds, and huddles cloud on cloud. 
 
 " ' Nor rests, but by the heat to madness stung, 
 
 With headlong speed tramples the golden grain, 
 And, at a bound, over the mountains flung, 
 Grasps the reluctant thunder by the mane, 
 And drag? it back, girt with a sudden chain 
 Of thrice-braced lightning ; now, more fiercely dire, 
 Slipt from its holds, flies down the hissing rain ; 
 The labouring welkin teems with leaping fire. 
 That strikes the straining oak, and smites the glimmering 
 spire. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL A^D BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. it 
 
 " ' And yet at length, appeas'd he sinfcs,' and spent, : ' 
 . Gibbers far qff over the misty hills, 
 And the staiu'd sun, through a cloud's jagged rent, 
 Goes doY^n, and all the west with glory, fills; 
 A fresher bloom the odorous earth distils ; 
 A richer green reviving Nature spreads ; 
 
 The water-braided rainbow, melting, spills 
 Her liquid light into the, air, and sheds 
 Her lovely, hues upon the flowers' dejected heads.' " 
 
 , Such an allusion to tliis poem seems all the more 
 valuable when we remember how severe a critic 
 Christopher North usually was. He found praptieratUy 
 nothing to admire in Keats, but little in Shelley; 
 nothing in Leigh Hunt, and a good deal to reprehend 
 in Byron, his admiration going out mostly to the 
 Lake School. 
 
 It would certainly appear that for some years later 
 The, Solita/ry had its special circle of admirers, pro- 
 bably among the young poets of the school of Shelley ; 
 and, due no doubt to this encouraging reception, 
 Mr. Bentley re-issued the poem in 1849, together with 
 a drama, some narrative poems {Jasper Brooke, 
 Ippolito, etc.), lyrics and sonnets composed in the 
 intervening eighteen years. The late Dante Gabriel 
 Eossetti, who among his other distinctions enjoyed the 
 rare and. enviable one of having an eye constantly 
 open for merit in obscure places, and who was the 
 chief agent in the revival of Charles Wells and 
 Ebenezer Jones, was an ardent upholder of "Whitehead. 
 |n his. posthumous letters* he writes : 
 
 : • . * Becolleeliom of Eossetti, p. 252. 
 
12 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 "I'll copy you over page a sonnet, which I consider a 
 very fine one, but which may be said to be quite unknown. 
 It is by Charles Whitehead, who wrote the very admirable 
 and exceptional novel of ' Richard Savage,* published some- 
 where about 184:0. 
 
 " 'Even as yon lamp within my vacant room 
 
 With arduous flame disputes the doubtful night, 
 And can with its involuntary light 
 
 But lifeless things that near it stand illume ; 
 
 Yet all the while it doth consume, 
 
 And ere the sun hath reached his morning height 
 With courier beams that greet the shepherd's sight, 
 
 Then where its life arose must be its tomb :^ 
 
 " ' So wastes my life away, perforce confined 
 
 To common things, a limit to its sphere. 
 It gleams on worthless trifles undesign'd, 
 
 With fainter ray each hoiir imprison'd here. 
 Alas, to know that the consuming mind 
 
 Must leave its lamp cold ere the sun appear !' 
 
 I am sure you will agree with me in admiring that. I quote 
 from memory, and am not sure that I have given line 6 quite 
 correctly. ..." 
 And again, (p. 195) : 
 
 " Charles Whitehead's principal poem is ' The Solitary,' 
 which in its day had admirers. It perhaps most recalls 
 Goldsmith. He also wrote a supernatural poem called 
 'Ippolito.' There was a volume of his poems published 
 about 1848, or perhaps a little later, by Bentley. It is dis- 
 appointing, on the whole, from the decided superiority of 
 its best points to the rest. . . . But the novel of ' Richard 
 Savage ' is very remarkable — a real character really worked 
 out." 
 
 Though not limiting his claim to that of a poet, 
 Whitehead appears to have exercised his poetic 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. J3 
 
 function down to the last, years of his life. It is 
 doubtful, however, whether any subsequent poetic 
 production enhanced the reputation secured by his 
 fii;st effort. What further triumphs he had to win 
 were to be achieved in another department of literary 
 activity, that, namely, of the poetic romance, and his 
 first essay was certainly not of an ambitious character. 
 It was entitled Lives and Exploits of English High- 
 waymen, Pirates, and Mobbers, and was probably 
 produced merely for what it would fetch as literary 
 task-work, the conditions of which it must surely have 
 satisfied, for the book passed through many editions. 
 The Athenceum gave a lengthy review of the book, 
 censuring the author for trusting to unreliable 
 authorities for his materials. It animadverted on a 
 rather foolish paragraph in the preface, in which 
 the author speaks of his work as a " collection of 
 biographies of two distinct classes of persons, interest- 
 ing in themselves, and displayiag actions and adven- 
 tures which are never likely to be performed in 
 this country, or by the natives of these islands, again :" 
 after which it referred in detail to some of the contents 
 of the book, and wound up by drawing a fanciful and 
 amusing picture of the education and training of the 
 man who should be fit to undertake worthily this taskj 
 in which Whitehead, according to the critical journal, 
 had egregiously failed. 
 
 In the same year Whitehead published anonymously 
 the romance of Jack Ketch, vrith fourteen illustra- 
 tions by Kenny Meadows. The book was for the 
 
14 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 most part a farcical travesty on the broadly grotesque 
 and semi-gruesome idea of the inner life of the public 
 hangman. Nevertheless, it contained passages of the 
 utmost seriousness, and of almost pathetic gravity, 
 evincing throughout the dexterous hand of a skilful 
 literary workman, and in its more notable passages 
 the powerful grasp of a master of tragic art. The 
 book was received with a good deal of favour, which 
 was, naturally enough, not unintermingled with .some 
 good-natured banter and some censure on the choice 
 of a ghastly theme. The Examiner said : 
 
 " Well hath he performed the interesting and subtle task. 
 We have little doubt that his book will prove as tempting a 
 piece of literature as the admirers of ' Moll Flanders ' have 
 for a long period encountered. We wish it may force its 
 way into a few of her more immediately devoted subjects : 
 it inculcates a capital lesson, and might serve to give, a 
 genteel young hero pause on the path of glory leading to 
 the felon's grave. Much of the same sort of [power, indeed, 
 that belongs to Hogarth's graphic biography of the 'Idle 
 Apprentice ' distinguishes the production ; and we may, in 
 conclusion, remark that the woodcuts with which it is illus- 
 trated would scarcely, some of them, have been unworthy of 
 Hogarth. They present admirably characteristic likenesses 
 of the hero of the tale under various circumstances — dis- 
 playing, in all that villainous compound of vulgarity, the 
 accomplished depravity which belongs to inveterate scoun- 
 drelism." 
 
 The AthencBum was more severe in its strictures. 
 After admitting that nothing tends more to harden 
 the heart than that pampered sickliness of feeling 
 which refuses to contemplate the dark consequeiices 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 15 
 
 of cringe or error, the journal says that while it 
 may be -well occasionally to look into the unblessed 
 haunts of the profligate, and to hear the clank of 
 the prisoner's chain, the impression which such scenes 
 leave on the healthy mind is rather one of humiliation 
 than of gratified curiosity. There can hardly be a 
 doubt that there is justice in this view, but it opens 
 up a much larger question as to the use of the horrible 
 in art than can properly be discussed in this place. 
 
 "Thus it is,"continues ^hiRAtheiuRum, "with the book before 
 us j and while we acknowledge the coarse power with which 
 it is written, we cannot say that its perusal has given us 
 pleasure ; the history begins in low Grime^ proceeds through 
 scenes of profligacy and murder, and ends with the appoint- 
 ment of its hero, Jack Ketch, to his odious office. We feel 
 that he is well worthy to be so promoted ; the progress of 
 his villainy has been sufficiently laid before us, and were it 
 only for the brutal indiffereince with which he could regard 
 the breaking heart of his innocent and gentle wife, who 
 niay be likened to the flower trampled on and crushed by 
 the criminal on his way to the scaffold, we are sure that he 
 has nerve and cruelty enough to discharge the duties of his 
 calling, and are content to leave the rope in his hands and 
 to see its fatal coil twined round his picture. The characters 
 throughout are well sustained. Misty, the poor patient 
 schoolmaster, with his nose pink with dram-drinking — ^Wisp • 
 Haynes, the conscience-stricken rogue— Snavel, the dishonest 
 attorney, and Mr. Wilmot, who avenged his knavery, have 
 all individuality and distinctness. The Confession of James: 
 Wilson, too, is a fearful story. Still, we shall make no ex- 
 tract from the book, and while we leave it, expressing our 
 conviction of the power its author has put forth in its pages, 
 we must also express a hope that when we next meet him 
 
i6 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 it will be under a pleasanter guise than the executioner'8 
 mask, and in a less dismal place than on the drop." 
 
 It will be seen that this notice, whilst fully admit- 
 ting the power of the book, takes exception to its 
 occasional ghastliness, and it cannot be doubted that 
 there is propriety in this view. Were it not for this 
 defect, the book could not fail to take a high place, 
 for there are passages in it which are descriptive 
 and analytical of emotion of the highest order. It 
 has passed through numerous editions. 
 
 I have little doubt that the success of this book 
 gave rise to one of the most interesting incidents 
 in Whitehead's career. Whitehead was now about 
 thirty years of age; he had probably relinquished 
 commercial pursuits, and was devoting his talents and 
 energies to literature. He must have been reasonably 
 prosperous in the profession he had adopted. He was 
 a fecund and facile writer, whose books found accept- 
 ance. Moreover, he must have- contracted an intimate 
 alliance with more than one publishing-house putting 
 forth periodical literature; and it would appear, from 
 an allusion in Forster's Life of Dickens, that in 1836 
 Whitehead was acting as the editor of a Hbrary of 
 fiction. In this connection arose his intimacy with 
 Dickens, then a young writer producing his earliest 
 sketches. Mr. George Hodder, in his Memories of 
 my Time, says that at this period Whitehead was 
 asked to associate himself with Seymour in the 
 production of the book which afterwards became 
 famous as the Pickwick Papers. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 17 
 
 I have sifted this statement and find it to be correct. 
 When the publishers, Messrs. Chapman and Hall, 
 offered Whitehead the conmiission to write to Sey- 
 mour's sketches, he declined it on the ground that 
 he was not equal to the task of producing the copy 
 with sufficient regularity. He then recommended 
 to the' publishers the young author of the Sketches 
 by Boz. Kb, a result of this piece of good fellowship 
 on Whitehead's part (which was doubtless warmly 
 appreciated by Dickens), the two writers continued 
 good friends for some time. , It is even possible that 
 the title Pickwick Pa/pers may have been suggested 
 to Dickens by a passage in the preface to Jack 
 Ketch, where a humorous allusion is made to the 
 possibility of the author producing " his more mature 
 experience under the unambitious title of The Ketch 
 Papers." 
 
 Charles Whitehead soon afterwards became a 
 dramatic author. On the 15th of September, 1836, 
 a play by him entitled The Oa/vaUer was produced 
 at the Haymarket Theatre, with Vandenhoff and 
 Miss EUen Tree in the principal parts. I shall else- 
 where detail in full the plot; it is sufficient here 
 to say that the scene is laid in the years immediately 
 succeeding the Restoration, and that the play deals 
 with somewhat delicate questions. It was performed 
 occasionally in the provinces, and in 1850 it wap re- 
 vived with great success at Sadler's WeUs. 
 
 The issue of the Exa/mimer succeeding the first pro- 
 duction of the play contains a long and very severe 
 
 2 
 
1 8 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 critique bn it, probably written by Leigt Hunt. One 
 of the chief allegations against the play is its want of 
 originality of theme, and this much may to some 
 extent be conceded, but the admitted excellence of 
 the dialogue ought surely to have redeemed it in the 
 ■eyes'of the severest censor. The Tvmes, after detailing 
 the plot, proceeds to censure the piece for its supposed 
 improbability. But it admits that the first two acts 
 are written " with considerable talent," and that " the 
 language is highly dramatic without bombast." It 
 condemns severely the last scene, and says that 
 the curtain fell amid " a conflict of hisses and clapping 
 of hands," and that when Mr. Haines (I presume 
 the manager) >came forward to announce the repetition 
 of the piece, " the same struggle of 'Ayes ' and ' Noes ' 
 tobk place." Having given a word of praise to the , 
 "excellent acting," the Times concludes its remarks 
 by saymg : 
 
 " Since these observations were written, we have received 
 the following announcement : ' The catastrophe of the new 
 piece will be altered.' " 
 
 The play appears to have found more favourable 
 critics elsewhere, for after the first night's performance 
 it was said that the plot was ably carried out to 
 a touching and effective conclusion, and that the 
 dialogue was written with so much passion' knd 
 vigour as to be worthy of Massinger in its best, 
 passages. Mr. Hodder tells us that on the night 
 of the production it was hstened to with the pro- 
 foundest attention, and was vehemently applauded 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 19 
 
 tlirougiiout, until the final scene; but this being 
 of too painful a character, the audience gave signs 
 of dissatisfaction, and when the piece was announced 
 for repetition there was a general cry of " "With altera- 
 tions." The alterations were made, and The Gavalier 
 had a prosperous career. 
 
 The happier climax, however, certainly involved an 
 artistic loss. The Cavalier was revived at the 
 Lyceum Theatre in 1856, but soon gave place to The 
 Lady of Lyons. 
 
 Whitehead is described as being at this period 
 (184iO-50) a man of singularly nervous temperament. 
 Indications are not wanting that he was already 
 becoming a victim to the infirmity which over- 
 shadowed his later years. That infirmity was, it 
 is to be feared, the result of a passion for a certain 
 type of social intercourse acting on a man of his 
 years and temperament. There existed a tavern 
 which has since been pulled down, called the 
 Grotto, in Southampton Buildings, Holbom, and 
 it was at this resort, which was much frequented by 
 young literary men, artists, and some few actors^ that 
 a firiend of Whitehead's, who has been good enough 
 to give me many interesting particulars respecting 
 him, first met the author of The Cavalier. This 
 gentleman was attracted to Whitehead by his great 
 geniality of manner and remarkable brilliance of 
 conversational wit and, humour. He, however, only 
 went occasionally to the Grotto for the sake 
 of the company, which was of the usual Bohemian 
 
 2—2 
 
20 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 order. Charles Whitehead was the leading spirit of 
 the place, being there every night. Shortly afterwards 
 Whitehead and his friend, my informant, were together 
 elected members of the famous Mulberry Club, so 
 called in honour of Shakespeare's mulberry-tree at 
 Stratford-on-Avon. In this club were many persons 
 connected with literature and the stage, and it was 
 there that Douglas Jerrold gave forth many of the 
 sparkling witticisms which made his name so cele- 
 brated. One can readily imagine what pleasurable 
 gatherings must oftentimes have taken place : one 
 can fancy the withering sarcasm and the sparkling 
 repartee. The club first held its meetings at a tavern 
 in Cockspur Street, but subsequently removed to 
 a tavern which then stood opposite Covent Garden 
 Theatre, in Bow Street, and on that tavern being 
 demolished in order that Bow Street PoHce Court 
 might be erected, they adjourned to the Wrekin 
 Tavern in Broad Court, Bow Street. This last resort, 
 however, has long ere this shared the usual fate of 
 such places, and is now no more. 
 
 But few appear to have entered on life with fairer 
 prospects than Whitehead. His family were in easy 
 circumstances, and he himself was much beloved by 
 them. He had been well educated, and had great 
 and acknowledged talents, and, what is almost equal 
 iu value for aiding a man striving after fame, an 
 excellent constitution and vigorous health. Moreover, 
 I am told that on his father's death he received in aU 
 probability a considerable sum of money. He was 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 21 
 
 acquainted with the most distinguished men of letters 
 of his day, who all regarded him as a man possessing 
 the highest gifts, and able, ,if he so willed, to achieve 
 almost any position in literature. But all these 
 advantages were rendered of little avail, and his career 
 irreparably marredby one fatal propensity — a propensity 
 which he acquired early in life, perchance at the Grotto 
 tavern. He seems never to have conquered this 
 baneful habit, and in time it led to his being often 
 in most straitened circumstances, the force of which 
 made him guilty of many little indiscretions otherwise 
 foreign to his nature, and by-and-by the very friends 
 who admired his genius most were compelled to 
 shun him. Dickens, for instance, began to observe 
 his weakness after a time, and was from this cause 
 alone gradually compelled to cease to hold intercourse 
 with him. 
 
 I must now speak of what is unquestionably White- 
 head's greatest work. Richard Savage, a Romance, 
 appeared in Bentley's Miscellany for 1841-2, and 
 before the close of the year 1842, was published 
 separately in three volumes illustrated by Leech, who 
 had also illustrated it in its serial form. The Literary 
 Gazette thus speaks concerning the book : 
 
 " This romance has been running for a good many months 
 in ' Bentley's Miscellany/ and is unquestionably one of the 
 most interesting productions of its class which has appeared 
 in that way. The actual record of Savage, as left us by 
 Johnson and other biographers, is one of such deep diversity 
 and incident, and appeals so forcibly to the mind, that it 
 needed only an author of such talents as Mr. Whitehead 
 
22 , A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 possesses to make the fouiidation and staple of a narrative 
 which should throughout possess very strong attractions. 
 And such is the work before us, elaborated with much skill 
 and power, never flagging, and cleverly embellished with 
 characteristic scenes by John Leech. So generally redd as 
 the portion has been which has appeared in Bentley's popu- 
 lar periodical, we may well dispense with the custom of 
 quotation, and leave • Eichard Savage ' to the public favour 
 he so truly deserves." 
 
 The AthencBum, however, is more severe : 
 
 " Unpleasing subjects are not less destructive of a writer's 
 chances of popularity than that mode of treatment which 
 concerns itself only with the mean or repulsive objects of 
 humanity. The clever author of ' Eichard Savage ' would 
 do well to lay our remark to heart. There was force and 
 talent enough in his ' Jack Ketch ' to set up half a dozen 
 novelists. But the story was one of naked want, crime, 
 and cheatery ; and where is it now ? Thus, again, ' Eichard 
 Savage' contains conceptions of character and pages of 
 dialogue beyond the reach of the common-place observer of 
 human nature, or the common-place reporter of conversa- 
 tion ; and yet the work is so disagreeable, that few will have 
 patienfce enough to read it, still fewer to give it credit for 
 the talent which it contains, rather than exhibits." 
 
 , It must be acknowledged that there is considerable 
 force in the objections urged against the book in 
 the earlier part of. the latter notice. It may fairly be 
 maintained agaipst Whitehead that he is too fond of 
 depicting the mean aspects of humanity, and that, 
 in all probability, his stories would have been much 
 more popular had he dealt with brighter themes. 
 We must, however, remember that the tendency, to 
 depict the sad and terrible in life was his natural 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 23 
 
 idiosyncrasy, and having chosen a character such ^s, 
 Richard Savage, with a substratum of historical fact, 
 pertaining to it, it was impossible to delineate. his. h,ero 
 in-any other, manner than that which he hj9.s adopte^d. 
 In. any case the Athewmm's remark " that, few will 
 have patience to read it," is an instance of misjudged 
 opinion. The book passed through at least thpee 
 editions, and was included in Mr, Bentley's " Sljandiard 
 Novels " at a popular price. The Examiner contained, 
 a- long review of Richard Savage, and it is worthy 
 of note that the review preceded one of Dickens's 
 American Notes. Severe censurfe is passed op White- 
 head because in the scenes of strong emotipn the. 
 style is said to be JBrky.- Doubtless it is so; but 
 when did anyone make an oration while strongly- 
 agitated ? A well-known niodem, writer makeS;. a 
 most pertinent remark concerning such a point, . She 
 says that every true critic can readily (distinguish 
 between the roughness imparted to . style . by the 
 literary artist for the purpose of effect and the 
 angularity arising from crudity . and inexperience. 
 Undoubtedly in this instance the reviewer in the 
 Eocaminer was deficient in critical insighl His lack 
 of perception is further shown by quoting with warm 
 praise the long and somewhat tedious account given 
 in the book of Savage's treatment and. conduct when 
 apprenticed to a cobbler. His remark concerning 
 Ludlow-^ani altogether -fiotitious character^ and in 
 most respects Whitehead's greatest creation: — "that 
 he is no less intelligible when mad than when supposed 
 
24 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 to be sane," verges on the ludicrous. Altogether, 
 however, it is quite evident that, despite' these faults 
 which the critic finds with his work, the Examvmr 
 places a very high value on Whitehead's powers. 
 Richard Savage is dedicated to a Mr. Elton, pro- 
 bably the same to whose family Dickens was so 
 kind after Elton's unfortunate death by drowning. 
 
 One of the most important pieces of intelligence 
 that I have received is from Miss Hogarth, who 
 tells me ,that she had often heard Dickens speak 
 with "great admiration " of the hovel Richard Savage. 
 
 Charles Whitehead's next work was The Earl 
 of Essex, an historical romance in three volumes, 
 published by Mr. Bentley in 1843. It is in some 
 respects the most popular and interesting of his 
 works, using the' words in their colloquial 'sense, 
 and contains passages full of vivid writing. It deals 
 with that portion of Essex's career subsequent to the 
 rebellion of Tyrone. The Literary Gazette has a 
 favourable account of the book ; but as I have already 
 given such frequent extracts from contemporaneous 
 criticism, I must refrain in this instance from making 
 an excerpt. 
 
 In 1847 appeared Smiles and Tears, or the 
 Romance of Life, in three volumes, the pubHsher 
 being again Mr. Bentley. This work consists mainly 
 of a, reproduction of numerous tales and sketches 
 originally contributed to periodical literature. There 
 is much in the book which is humorous in the 
 highest degree ; there are also tones of deepest pathos. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 25 
 
 and here and there there are passages rising to the 
 dignity of real tragedy. The volumes are, therefore, 
 fitly named. It is worthy of note, however, that long 
 before this work appeared, there came into existence 
 a volume called Smiles and Tears, consisting of col- 
 lected essays by various writers. But in all probability 
 Whitehead never heaid of this book, and he certainly 
 borrowed none of its contents. Eespecting the later 
 Smiles and Tears the Athencewm says : 
 
 •Those, like ourselves, whom Mr. Whitehead's former^ 
 imaginary productions have prepared to expect clever and 
 vigorous writing from his hand, will not be disappointed in 
 his • Smiles and Tears.' His touch, however — to borrow a 
 painter's word — is hard rather than sweet. He seems to 
 catch hold, by instinct and predilection, of the sharp corners 
 and blemishes of life — to know all its wants, without com- 
 forting himself sometimes with thoughts of its riches. Such 
 a tendency is a serious drawback on the success of a 
 humourist The reader becomes tired of meanness and folly 
 and distress; and though the sort of optimism and false 
 pathos in which too many comic writers find relief and 
 refuge is, to ourselves, little more moving and genuine than 
 the maudlin benevolence of a gentleman ' in his cups ' — the 
 very recourse to the expedient clearly shows the nature of 
 the contrast required. The public is not so nice as the pro- 
 fessional critic in discriminating the paste from ,th'e real 
 diamond — the rant of the stage from the utterance of real 
 passion. Thus much to account for the comparatively 
 limited success of Mr. Whitehead, as compared with that 
 of others to whom he is superior. For. the rest, we need 
 but say that we apprehend these ' Smiles and Tears ' to be 
 a republication of papers which have already appeared in 
 the periodicals, and that they make up a ,good parlour- 
 window book after its kind." 
 
26 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 .-.'Whitekead's last book was The Life of Sir Walter 
 Balegh in the Illustrated Library, published by N. 
 Gooke. This volume was issued in 1854. Th& work 
 ig an excellent one of its kind, showing the author 
 inri4ihe. capacity of a competent and conscientious^ 
 book-maker, and not destitute in occasional paragraphs- 
 of valuable historical criticism^ Naturally, however, 
 it would^ not be right to -judge of the book by the 
 high standard which we can apply to some of his 
 other eiforts. 
 
 ■ In addition to the more important works, which 
 I: have here enumerated at some length, Charles 
 Whitehead revised the Memoirs of Orimaldi, edited 
 by Dickens under his pseudonym of "Boz," and 
 this was published by Mr. . Bentley . in 1846. The 
 book has run through many editions, and in a recent 
 one issued by Messrs. Eoutledge, undated, but 
 probably pubhshed between 1876 and 1880, Charles 
 Whitehead's name is not given on the title-page, 
 though his notes are used. I only mention this as a 
 most striking instance of how utterly a man of rare 
 and conspicuous genius may be forgotten. It was not 
 thought worth while to mention that the work of 
 Dickens's juvenile pen had passed through the hands 
 of a novelist of whose genius that great author' had 
 a very high opinion. Whitehead wrote much for 
 periodical literature, largely,, but by no means exclu- 
 sively, for Bentley'a Miscellany and it is probable 
 that he at one time edited the New Monthly 
 Magazine, He also did a good deal of journalism,. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 27 
 
 though for what journals he wrote I have been 
 unable to ascertain. 
 
 It is always a tempting study to seek to discover in 
 an author's writing .hints of his own personality, but 
 in this case the task is not an easy one, for White- 
 head's prose is of so objective a character, that it 
 is difficult to trace the individuality of the writer in 
 it. It might be said that Richard Savage had 
 some angles of resemblance, and this no doubt is 
 to some extent true. A man does not go out of 
 his way to depict with every show of sympathy 
 a singular character, without having soBde subjective 
 impulse ; and that Whitehead was in some sense a 
 Richard Savage in his pride, in his suspicion of those 
 who did him favours, and in his irresolute moral 
 character, must be sufficiently obvious. But that 
 Whitehead should himself desire to repudiate the 
 allegation that he had drawn from himself in the 
 person of Savage is not to be wondered at, 'especially, 
 when we remember that the book was written before 
 its author had fallen into the lowest depths of that 
 abject condition of which it is my melancholy task to 
 speak. In the preface to an early edition of Richard 
 ^avagre the author says : 
 
 " I have drawn his character to the best of my ability, 
 and as I believe he himself would have portrayed it, for 
 Savage was never careful to conceal his faults. To those 
 who have hinted I drew from niyself; I.haVe nothing 
 to say. Words are wasted upon men who from malice 
 will not, or from ignorance fcannot, dissociate the author 
 from his subject The calumny or dulness, as the case may 
 
28 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 be, is old, applied to those who write fiction in the first 
 person.' 
 
 However this may be, I am myself fully persuaded 
 that into the person of Misty, the poor outcast 
 schoolmaster in Jaoh Ketch, Whitehead put a great 
 deal of his own personality. Misty is described 
 as a man of highly strung poetic nature, entirely 
 destitute of practical genius, being buffeted about 
 by a cruel world until he falls into habits of intemper- 
 ance as a relief from the pressure of untoward circum- 
 stances, and all the best aspirations of a lofty soul 
 are bartered and sold for a dram. Nothing can 
 exceed the picturesqueness or the pathos of the, 
 conception or the rendering of this character, which 
 in its vivid humanity leaves httle doubt that the 
 author was drawing from his own character for 
 the backbone of sentiment to a story in which the 
 individual incidents are of course wholly fictitious. 
 Eeaders will be glad to have the following masterly 
 passages reproduced : 
 
 " It was very early in my youth that I discovered that I 
 was not constituted as other natures are. A mellow even- 
 ing, a tone of voice that struck upon the chord of memory 
 — the tone, I say, and not the thing spoken, whatever it, 
 might be — a trait of generosity in others, a word of praise 
 spoken to myself — all these would bring tears into my eyes, 
 and sometimes induce a melancholy that preyed upon me for 
 hours. I had been taught to look up to my father as' to a 
 superior being ; and his invariable harshness and cruelty to 
 me helped, perhaps, to break my spirit, and to poison my 
 nature. Do not mistake me ; my nature was gentle, but it 
 was not healtluy ; it was inoffensive because it wds weak I 
 
'BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 29 
 
 became distrustful of everything^ — of everybody — of myself. 
 I dare not appear to feel, when not to feel were to be a 
 brute ; I was afraid lest I should be made a mockery — lest 
 I should be held up to the world as one upon whom it might 
 exercise its scorn and ridicule with success and impunity. 
 
 " ' Depend upon it, my good friend,' resumed Misty, 
 ' that a wounded spirit must be assuaged, or healed, or got 
 rid of, by some means or the other. Hence drunkenness, 
 desperation, suicide. The first frequently precedes the other 
 two, and sometimes causes a recourse to them ; but drinking 
 will suflSce to keep out the foul fiend Despair for many 
 years. I invoked the aid of the benignant spirit Drunken- 
 ness. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " * Oh, Mr. Ketch, how dreadful a thing it is to be proud 
 and poor ! I felt it — it was hell to me : not the physical 
 want — not starvation — not tramping the streets all night 
 without a shelter for the head, or a resting-place for the sole 
 of the foot — ^but the insult — the contumely-^the scorn : I 
 felt it until my nature was changed — until my feelings turned 
 into gall, and burst forth into bitterness. The proudest man 
 must condescend to live ; and to do so without means, what 
 must he do % Beg. I could not do that. You may natu- 
 rally inquire how a man of my education and acquirements 
 could possibly be suffered to linger in penury, if I made 
 known my capabilities to the world. Alas ! I was not the 
 man to blazon my own merits, such as they were ; besides, 
 I would rather have broken stones on the road than be at 
 the mercy of men who, aware of the superiority of another 
 in mental endowments, vindicate their actual superiority in 
 secular advantages by compelling him to feel how dependent 
 he is upon their bounty. For these men do not feel, or will 
 not acknowledge, that the services you render are the labour 
 for which you ought to be paid, but pocket the advantage, 
 
30 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 and lay claim to the merit of benevolence. Better for a 
 proud man, Mr. Ketch, to be far below his real station than 
 just under it; it is easier to bear extreme poverty-^nay, 
 want — than to endure the unworthy insolence of a patron, 
 a friend so called. T9 friends, therefore, I applied but 
 seldom, and never with much advantage to myself. 
 ****** 
 
 " ' You have never, perhaps, seen your face in a particular 
 looking-glass after an interval of some years ; if you had done 
 so, you would have detected the changes that time had 
 worked upon you in a moment— a change which your daily 
 looking-glass had failed to discover to yoii. This is associar 
 tion. In like manner a scene — a place — the home of your 
 youth, familiar to the past, brought before you once more, 
 discloses the altered aspect of the mind within.' " 
 
 Whitehead was very dilatory in his habits of work, 
 owing doubtless in a great measure to the sad 
 failing I have named, and after receiving a sum 
 of money from his publishers in advance, he was 
 too ready to neglect the punctual performance of his 
 task, until importuned by them to do so. He had 
 also family troubles. There was the hereditary 
 taint of insanity in his race, and his brother Alfrbd, 
 as well as. one of his sisters, became mentally afflicted. 
 
 He resided in various places, but remained for 
 a long while in " very mediocre apartments "on the 
 first floor of a house in Great Ormond Street (pro- 
 bably the third on the right, entering from South- 
 ampton Eow), and he was Hving here when Richard 
 Savage was passing through the press. Mr. Hodder 
 tells us that when he knew Whitehead (about 1852), 
 the novelist lived iti a little back street off Red Lion 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 31 
 
 Sq^uare. A striking picture is given of the poverty of 
 his surroundings. His study was a little parlour on 
 the ground floor, with no better prospect than the 
 gutter below. As a literary craftsman it may be said 
 of him that he made but few alterations in his proofs, 
 and rarely an erasure in his MS., unless he took the 
 trouble to re-copy the whole passage. His reading 
 of the period of Queen Anne to George III. was 
 extensive, and Mr. George Bentley, who knew him 
 well and loved him, and retains an affectionate respect 
 for his memory and a high opinion of his gifts, says 
 that he spoke of Steele as if he had known him 
 and spent some time with him. Nothing that could be 
 said in description or criticism could bring us closer to 
 the man Whitehead than this happy and penetrating 
 observation. "Whitehead possessed an extraordinary 
 fund of humour, and in his early years was well-fitted 
 to be the life of any company into which he was 
 thrown. One of his early friends teUs me that, were 
 he now able to recall a number of Whitehead's puns, 
 they would give him distinction in that lower depart- 
 ment of humour; he remembers Whitehead telHng 
 him that he hoped Ja/ik Ketch, would not be con- 
 sidered "a Ketch-penny publication"! As a young 
 man, one of Whitehead's whims was to project ridicu- 
 lous works with impossible titles. He once informed 
 the friend to whom I refer that he intended to write 
 a book to be entitled The, Flash Gove's Vade Mecum : 
 or Svery Man His own Vagabond, the volume to 
 consist of short whimsical rules for the performance 
 
3 J A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 of various peccadilloes. As might be expected of a 
 man of his temperament, he had a keen apprecia- 
 tion of the ludicrous, and could amuse his friends 
 with felicitous saUies of wit, and could recount his 
 own experiences with great point and comicaHty. I 
 have been favoured by several friends with a minute 
 description of his appearance in later life, and although 
 it wiU perhaps be thought that some of my previous 
 remarks are inconsistent with a man so described, 
 it must be remembered how time changes even the 
 least mutable of us, and most of all a man who, 
 like Whitehead, had been long buffeted by a relentless 
 fate. He was tall, and of a dark complexion, with 
 a hollow chest and stooping gait, giving the appearance 
 of great fragility. He had a long, careworn face. 
 His voice was pleasant, but very low-pitched, and 
 sometimes in conversation he spoke so low as to 
 be scarcely audible. His manner was modest and 
 diffident; so diffident indeed, that except to his 
 intimate friends he appeared almost too shy and 
 sensitive. One of his favourite attitudes when talking 
 was to stand with arms folded across his chest, and 
 he sometimes seemed awakened by a remark, as if 
 his thoughts had previously been far away. One 
 who knew him slightly tells me that Whitehead looked 
 to him " the personification of one of the authors 
 of Grub Street." The handwriting in which he wrote 
 reports on books for one or two of the publishing 
 houses was peculiarly small, but very precise. Owing 
 doubtless in a great measure to the one pernicious 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 33 
 
 habit, the influence of whicli lie could never throw 
 off, his natural vivacity deserted him as years went on, 
 and he became often moody and morose, and some- 
 times, when not sober, even quarrelsome. His wife 
 is described by an acquaintance, as a very retiring 
 lady; a friend, however, who knew both husband 
 and wife for years, says that she was not without a 
 temper of her own, and was a little inclined to 
 shrewishness. Though not what may be described 
 as an amiable woman, and not by any means one 
 of education, she seems to have been a woman of 
 some force of character, and, as such, a very suitable 
 wife for a man so deficient in practical resolution. 
 There is evidence that she exercised a salutary control 
 over her husband. It would appear, also, that in his 
 better moments his conduct towards her was exem- 
 plary. At other times he doubtless gave way to 
 the irritation peculiar to men of his habits, but on 
 the whole it may be said that his domestic relations 
 were all that could be desired. Unfortunately for 
 Whitehead, his wife died before him. They had 
 no children. As years went on he began to' experi- 
 ence a certain want of success, and this feeling 
 probably became gradually intensified rather than 
 diipinished, primarily, no doubt, from the mental 
 and physical effects upon him of his deplorable habits. 
 He was now in his fifty-third year — an age long before 
 which a man's ways and modes of thought have been 
 moulded into their life-long shape. A man can 
 rarely emigrate with success after middle life. The 
 
 3 
 
34 A FORGOTTEN <iENIUS. 
 
 emigrant should always be young ; for if not, however 
 friendly the people with whom he casts in his lot, 
 there still remains the inevitable change of scene, 
 and altered conditions of existence and modes of 
 thought, which make travelling to the young so 
 deUghtful, and to the aged so irksome. It was there- 
 fore unwise of Whitehead to change his sphere, not- 
 withstanding the known hospitahty of the people 
 and the de^ghtful cHmate of Austraha. It was, as 
 Mr: George Bentley fitly remarks, "carrying an 
 eighteenth-century mind into a twentieth-century 
 country, with certain collapse " Perhaps. Whitehead 
 thought that the voyage would improve Jiis health, 
 and possibly even permanently renovate his already 
 shattered constitution. He left London, accompanied 
 by his wife, in 1857, having accepted a literary engage- 
 ment on a Melbourne newspaper, probably the 
 Melbourne Argus; but I am told that at the time 
 of his death, which occurred at Melbourne on the 
 5th July, 1862, he was a " Free Lance," writing for any 
 journal which would take his copy; and this state- 
 ment is confirmed by an entry in the books of the 
 Registrar-General's Office for Victoria. ' He is therein 
 described as being "engaged on newspapers," fifty^ 
 eight years of age, and having died in the Melbourne 
 Hospital It is also certified that he had been five 
 years in Victoria. The pathetic and the common- 
 place are oftentimes one, and surely never more so 
 than in these few prosaic words narrating Whitehead's 
 end. How low had sunk the author of Richard 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 35 
 
 Savage, The Solitary, and Jasper Brooke, when 
 the only epithet suitable for him which occurred 
 to the clerk who made the entry was that of " en- 
 gaged on newspapers"! The last and saddest fact 
 made known to me concerning Whitehead comes from 
 the secretary of the Melbourne Hospital, who furnishes 
 me with an entry from the books stating that White- 
 head died from the effects of destitution. 
 
 Whitehead has been compg,red to Thomas LoveU 
 Beddoes. They were certainly alike in some respects. 
 Both were wanderers from their earliest and probably 
 best friends, and from the land of their nativity ; both 
 died in hospital, and both were, in aU probability, 
 interred in that peculiarly mournful plot of ground 
 wherein rest the remains of those whose last days 
 were frequently days of more than ordinary suffering 
 and sorrow, and who died, knowing that the last sad 
 offices would be done to them by strangers, and that 
 their burial would be unhallowed by the tears of their 
 kindred. Viewed as a whole, Whitehead's was a 
 strange life, a sad life, but by no means a life without 
 a moral. 
 
 3—2 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 
 
 As a poet Charles Whitehead clearly belongs to the 
 school of Shelley, with a certain affinity to that of Keats. 
 The Solitary, the first in order of his collected poetical 
 works, is a poem in the Spenserian stanza. It is a 
 poem of reflection rather than incident, with here and 
 there a few lines of description, but mainly depending 
 for its interest on the originality and force of its 
 abstract reflections. > 
 
 It is here, on the very threshold of his book, that 
 we first perceive unequivocal signs that Charles 
 Whitehead was no mere writer of verse. Had he 
 been so, he would most probably have conceived it 
 impossible to write anything which the world would 
 care to read, on subjects which have been the staple 
 theme of poets for the last thousand years. The 
 Solitary is a noble poem, full of thought, and dealing 
 with many of the constantly absorbing themes of life 
 about which, from a true poet, we are never tired of 
 listening, and which, according to Mr. Matthew 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. . 37 
 
 Arnold's theory, it is the highest function of poetry to 
 discuss. 
 
 In some important particulars Charles Whitehead 
 seems to have been the forerunner of the modem 
 School of Poetry, known by the slang title of 
 "-(Esthetic." This he was in a similar sense to, that 
 in which Cowper was the harbinger of the romantic 
 movement at the beginning of this century, though 
 Whitehead was obviously a lesser agent. He is 
 master of much of the technical perfection which has 
 become indissolubly associated ^ith the names of Mr. 
 Swinburne, and Dante Gabriel Eossetti ; he. has also 
 a great deal of the weird supernatural quality so 
 prominent in the iatter poet. His life was sad, and 
 his poetry reflects without affectation the mournful 
 side of his career. Charles Whitehead may thus be 
 said to have stood between Coleridge and Eossetti, and 
 though most painfully unequal, he is, in my judg- 
 ment, in his very best moods not far below the average 
 level of either, and assuredly much above the lowest 
 level of both. 
 
 In the poem of The Solitary we see with quite 
 remarkable clearness some incidents of the poet's 
 inner life. It would appear from the sc^,ttered and 
 somewhat mystical allusions which float into a poem- 
 like this,' that Whitehead had a brother who was accom- 
 plished and highly gifted, but that he died before he 
 "spoke to fame." Whitehead tells us in a powerful 
 and touching passage how at the grave of this brother 
 he resolved to consecrate his life to noble purposes ; 
 
38 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 but how, at first insensibly, and for. a long time so 
 gradually tbat he scarce perceived it, he drifted from 
 this secure anchorage into a stream of evil tendency, 
 which, broadening and increasing in strength, carried 
 the hapless barque on its bosom into a maelstrom 
 of utter ruin — in other words, he fell away into a 
 species of deep social degradation, from which, as 
 we know, he never wholly extricated himself The 
 poem • is fuU of reflections on life and its varied 
 emotions, on sin and sorrow, from the standpoint of 
 one who, in the circumstances I have sketched, suffers 
 from the world-weariness that springs partly from 
 remorse. A few examples of these reflections _ wEl 
 perhaps be welcome. 
 
 Whitehead is notably a phrase-maker — one who 
 loved nicely to balance his words until he obtained 
 the exact shade of meaning he required. Many of 
 his phrases are so felicitous that they can hardly 
 fail to hve in the memory. To this quality of his 
 writing the following extracts wiU bear abundant testi- 
 mony. The first extract is a passage of personal 
 recoHection respecting the brother* to whom reference 
 has been made. 
 
 " A sweet and lovely evening : — Heaven and earth 
 Do lend each other beauty, and the cloud 
 Blushes auspicious of to-morrow's birth. 
 
 * The following note appears in the 1831 edition of 
 The SolUary :. "The author's brother was drowned some 
 years ago at the age of seventeen." 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 39 
 
 Let not thy spirit be too rudely bow'd 
 By the tumultuous throng and busy crowd, 
 
 , That memory doth ev'n by this scene restore ; 
 And bid my throbbing heart speak not so loud ; 
 For oh ! my brother, crush'd and stricken sore, 
 
 Unto thy silent grave I bend my steps once more. 
 
 " And many a Spring hath died above thy head, 
 And many a Summer flower thai; blooms to fade ; 
 And Autumn many a leafy offering shed. 
 
 Whereof the Winter his cold couch hath made : 
 The young green tree affords an ampler shade ; 
 And many a musing stranger, wandering by, 
 
 Hath pass'd the lowly turf where thou art laid, 
 And heav'd perchance the involuntary sigh, 
 Since thy neglected grave thy brother hath been nigh. 
 
 " And now he comes — ah ! can he be the same 
 That with religious step, in early youth, 
 Awe-struck and tremblitfg to thy chamber came 
 • And kiss'd thy forehead pale — in earnest sooth 
 Vowing to dedicate his soul to truth, 
 ' For ever, for thy sake % Ah ! bootless vow ! 
 But pity, fare thee well, and thankless ruth — 
 For they must reap who sow, who sow must plough, 
 And as thine ashes then, cold is his bosom now." 
 
 The closing lines are inexpressibly, sad. It is in 
 truth the cry of a weary soul, who has the unutter- 
 able wretchedness of feeling that most of his sorrow is 
 self-inflicted ; the cry of one who bitterly bemoans his 
 pitiable state, and would willingly escape from it ; of 
 one, the fortress of whose moral courage has been so 
 sapped by the enervating influence of excess, that he 
 
40 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 is no longer able to break tbrougb the barriers which 
 environ him. All this may have been autobiograph- 
 ical, or it may have been merely an idea dramatically 
 projected into art; in any case, it remains what I 
 have described. 
 
 The next passage I would quote is striking, coming 
 from such a man. It is a subjective word-picture in 
 verse of siich an one as Richard Ravage, whom Charles 
 Whitehead has elsewhere so vigorously delineated in 
 prose. 
 
 ' Judge him not harshly ; he is sunk too low 
 For thee to exalt thy worthier self upon ; 
 The happiness he sought thou canst not know, 
 The misery he found thou hast not known : 
 • The meed of glory was not his alone : 
 Bare'is the summit of Parnassus' station, 
 
 And cold the fountain pure of Helicon, ■ 
 Thou hast not felt the great, the mad temptation, 
 The hell — the heaven — the paradise — the deep damnation !' 
 
 This is what Charles Whitehead has to say about 
 unrest — the longing and vague disappointed hope 
 which men such as he so often feel : 
 
 " Why not content ? The hour runs to its close ; 
 The day, the month, and the unfruitful year : 
 The jet of life more free and wider ilows, 
 As Youth's contracted channels disappear : 
 Youth ! false treacherous stream, for ever dear. 
 We turn — the better prospect dim is seen 
 Before us, and we wipe the bitter tear ; 
 The shallop in the, haven rides serene ; — 
 Oh for eternal shores, and fields for ever green !" 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 41 
 
 ITiese lines strike a higher note in the gamut of 
 Truth : 
 
 " Oh ! better not to live than live the death 
 Of being without impulse, and supply 
 A daily portion of superfluous breath 
 To animate a pulse that scarce can die : 
 The strength to soar, Avithout the will to fly ; 
 The soul still brooding on its own estate 
 
 Like desolation aping destiny ; 
 The heart that will not love, and cannot hate, 
 For which Heaven hath no joy, and Hell can find no bait." 
 
 In this stania we see a notable example of White- 
 head's phrase-making. It would not be easy to find a 
 more succinct phrase to denote the existence of those 
 who, with food and raiment and with a sufficiency of 
 worldly goods, abandon theinselves to a life of virtuous 
 sloth, than in the line— 
 
 "A daily portion of superfluous breath " — 
 
 and, which is more, not only do we find this phrase to 
 be succinct, but we feel it, notwithstanding its -wither- 
 ing sarcasm, to be true. 
 
 In the following lines we perceive that Whitehead, 
 with the instinct and some of the egotism of the 
 true poet, discerns at once one of the real rewards 
 of the muse to be the sweet conviction which she 
 imparts to her true disciples, that ,they alone can 
 analyze and exhibit to the world the mysteries of 
 our sorrows and the beautiful phantasies of our 
 dreams. 
 
42 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 " Nor for herself, nor for the wealth shebrings, 
 Is the Muse woo'd and won ; but for the deep, 
 Occult, profound, unfathomable things, 
 The engines of our tears whene'er we weep, 
 The impulse of our dreams whene'er we sleep, 
 The mysteries that our sad hearts possess. 
 
 Which, and the keys of which, the Muse doth keep. 
 Oh ! may the trust her young disciple bless, 
 Whene'er she yields her gifts in faith and gentleness !" 
 
 In the following stanzas Whiteliead deals with the 
 interesting subject of the isolation of great natures. 
 Such lines remind us by inverse association of what 
 Byron says in the third canto of Childe Harold on 
 the loneliness of greatness — that worst form of lone- 
 liness which is most frequently felt amid crowds — 
 even when these are crowds of admirers. The 
 concluding lines of this passage are truly magni- 
 ficent. 
 
 "Meanwhile, these Alpine natures, plac'd alone, 
 Wrapt in the clouds, a frozen harvest reap 
 Of an unkindly seed too early sown ; 
 
 Nor can they the pree^arious summit keep, 
 But rush untimely to the gloomy deep : 
 As though an avalanche, hurtless before, 
 
 The sunbeam's nearest favourite, should leap 
 From the high cliff which its vast pressure bore. 
 Never to threaten fate or tempt the thunder more. 
 
 " Alas ! for all the miseries that strew 
 
 The common path our trackless footsteps make, 
 As we creep on this maze of darkness through : 
 
 The hearts that break, the hearts that cannot break, 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 43 
 
 The hearts -that bury their last hopes, and take ■ 
 E'en comfort from the grave, and struggle still, 
 
 And lingering on for very misery?s sake ' . 
 Live — not because they would, but that they will ; 
 And die when baffled Death is left no power to kill." 
 
 Whitehead had a great admiration of Shelley ; 
 
 witness the following passage : 
 
 " Ah ! would I couldrecall him from the past," 
 Untimely, sudden, and for ever gone ; 
 That gentle spirit to the waters cast, 
 Whose restless planet, edg'd with darkness, shone 
 With mournful light and yet of Heaven alone ; 
 Who with intrenchant shield and temper'd sword. 
 
 Plume-crested, like a new Bellerophon, 
 Had with fresh strength a nobler verse restor'd, 
 And left a name for raseless marble to record. 
 
 " But he was sunk in the devouring wave, 
 
 Wak'd into rage by Ocean's tyrannous nod. 
 Masterless Ocean, ne'er but once a slave, 
 
 Th^n only to the only Son of Grod, ,. 
 
 Who, on his neck proud-lifted, meekly trod , 
 And smil'd him into peace-r-shall he withhold , , ^ 
 
 His vengeance, lightning-wing'd and thunder-shod, 
 When the frail bark rips up his bosom cold ? 
 No — o'er thatlaurell'd head the atheist billows roU'd. 
 
 " Yet, lest Apollo, for the outrage done, 
 In mockery of his power, and in despite, 
 To his disciple and the Muses' son, 
 
 Should henceforth, in his all-resistless might, 
 Eemit his beams, nor crown the deep with light, 
 The hoary monarch bade, with timely heed, / 
 
 The auxiliar tempest to reluctant flight, 
 And summon'd all his billows in his need. 
 Bidding his daughter haste with more than utmost speed. 
 
44 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 " And Aretliusa came, and with dear care 
 
 Eais'd the sunk form that nd'er should suflfer more, 
 And strain'd the salt ooze from his clotted hair, 
 And, laid in her cerulean bosom, bore 
 The hapless bard to the Italian shore ; 
 And there he lay whom pity ne'er forgave, 
 
 Whom life might ne'er recall, nor love restore, 
 A sight all powerful and strong to save 
 The souls of those who deem no life beyond the grave. 
 
 " Yet to his urn there came a motley crew. 
 
 More base, more blind — and earthlier than the worm ; 
 Much marvell'd they, and sage conclusions drew. 
 Much did their solemn minds rebuke the storm ; 
 One beat his breast to keep his bosom warm : 
 The moralist pursued his saw, ' to die j' 
 
 The nice-brain'd sophist, full of phrase and form, 
 Affirm'd the wherefore, and assum'd the why ; 
 While ever and anon they shouted ' Charity !' 
 
 " Such charity-as leaves all hate behind 
 
 In bitter earnestness of wrath — such speed 
 As oversteps the fleet feet of the wind, 
 
 Bearing the sponge, the hyssop, and the reed. 
 When Truth cries out in her extremest need. 
 Was theirs ; — such subtle praise as fain would be 
 
 Eeputed back as their own honour's meed ; 
 Such censure as the smirking Pharisee, 
 When he hath thank'd his God, was theirs, and their decree. 
 
 " Oh, Shelley ! not a word — no, not one word. 
 The voice of censure or of pity's breath. 
 Take all that my unskilful h^nds afford. 
 
 This bunch of cypress, this unfashioned wreath 
 Hung at the postern of remorseless Death. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 45 
 
 Meanwhile, let be, if aught these words avail, 
 
 The sword of Justice laid in Mercy's sheath ; 
 Sure we are fallen enough, and false, and frail, 
 And have scarce space to pray — then wherefore should we 
 rail?" 
 
 Where could we find a finer poetical description of 
 Shelley's death than occurs in these lines ? — and how 
 true it was that SheUey's 
 
 " Restless planet, edg'd with darkness, shone 
 With mournful light and yet of Heaven alone." 
 
 The mythological conceit of ApoUo sending Arethusa 
 to succour his hapless disciple is at least pretty, and is 
 artistically woven into the weft of the verse. Such 
 classical allusions require , the most skilful care and 
 adroit handling ; otherwise, especiallyin modern verse, 
 they show a tendency tO' become insipid and inane. 
 The foregoing classical parable, however, beautifies the 
 passage, and in the concluding lines there is much 
 forcible reflection. 
 
 In the following lines Whitehead beautifully states 
 one of his conceptions of the true poet's mission : 
 
 "To kindle soft humanity; to raise. 
 
 With gentle strength infus'd, the spirit bow'd ; 
 To pour a second sunlight on our days. 
 And draw, the restless lightning from our cloud ; 
 To cheer the humble, and to dash the proud ; 
 What heaven withholds more largely to supply. 
 And fringe with joy our ever-weaving shroud ; 
 ' Besought in peace to live, and taught to die ; 
 The poet's task is done — Oh Immortality !" 
 
46 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 In these almost prayerful lines lie touchingly asks 
 for the greatest of all gifts — the gift of Charity : 
 
 " Oh ! grant us yet, nor be this prayer unheard, 
 Whatever else at our request denied, 
 Meek Charity in thought, in deed, in word ; 
 HumiUty that walks by the wayside. 
 And with the pilgrim Patience doth abide. 
 In such low state as the worn peasant knows ; 
 
 Content at least, whatever fate betide. 
 How few our joys, how multiplied our woes, 
 To bear our life to its probationary close !" 
 
 Here are some powerful, though painful, lines on 
 baffled hopes, strikingly showing the bitter blight that 
 was even then — so early in his life — preventing the 
 fruition of his powers. Such phrases as the following 
 live in the memory : 
 
 " Time's December comes before our May, 
 Yesterday's to-morrow is to-day;" 
 
 and a line in a subsequent passage, too long for 
 complete quotation, 
 
 " The present is the futiire of tfie past." 
 
 This is the passage referred to above : 
 
 " And thus, and to this consummation wrought, 
 The Spring we yet were hoping fades away, 
 Even in the very ecstasy of thought. 
 And Time's December comes before our May. 
 The wintry sun looks down with slanting ray, 
 And something must be finish'd or begun, 
 
 And yesterday's to-morrow is to-day, 
 Commence the promis'd race you vow'd to run — 
 Ah ! past-redemption wretch, thou, art indeed undone !" 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 47. 
 
 On one of Hamlet's pregnant themes Whitehead 
 speaks thus : 
 
 " Strange paradox ! Eternal contradiction ! , 
 
 Man ! Who shall know thee, who shall seek to'^now ? 
 Great without aim, and base against conviction, , 
 Still sowing, and still reaping what you sow, 
 A harvest whereof even the seed is woe ; 
 Stubborn caprice, taking the name of will ; 
 Vice, swift to enter, to depart how slow ; 
 Despair that will not die, and cannot kill, 
 And empty toys to mock the empty brain they fill !" 
 
 On another of Hamlet's themes this is said : 
 
 " What were the world without thee? a long sleep' 
 Untenanted by dreams ; a narrow tomb 
 Wherein, the worm's reversion, we should creep 
 Like worms, impatient, eager of our doom. 
 The sun would rise, hut only to illume 
 Blank Horror — Nature, eflSgy of dearth. 
 
 The wombless daughter of creation's womb, 
 With dewless eyes would sad bewail her birth. 
 Cursing the espoused vow wliich gave her to the earth. 
 
 " But Love's mysterious sympathies pervade 
 Creation, with strange impulses imbued ; 
 Which, if the soul be yet unquench'd, are made. 
 Spite of the heart's inconstant habitude, 
 To turn the bitter to toaturest good ; 
 So that, whate'er remain to tempt desire 
 
 Is from our wither'd, hopes themselves, renew'd 
 To worthier growth, as a fast-fading fire 
 Doth, by dead branches fed, a livelier strength acquire." 
 
 The first stanza is worthy of praise, although the 
 imagery is painful,' and also in some slight degree 
 
48 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 coarse ; but very true and noble is the thougbt em- 
 bodied in the opening lines of the succeeding passage. 
 This stanza is probably reminiscent — the simile with 
 ■which it closes is apt and new. 
 Of music Whitehead speaks thus : 
 
 " Music ! in thy more impassioned sway 
 
 Thou mak'st me wild, e'en till my ravish'd brain, 
 Into the heaven of transports borne away, 
 Knows its own griefs no longer ; and the pain 
 It nourish'd till existence grew the bane 
 Of time, is eas'd of its most weary load, 
 
 And the soul trembles from the breast again, 
 • Call'd by thy blithe strain from its dark abode. 
 Where, as it seem'd, it lay almost unseen of God ! 
 
 " But if thy mood be of a sadder measure, 
 
 Thou dost my heart in deeper anguish steep ) 
 And all the past, foregone, .or vanish'd pleasure. 
 Before me doth in sad procession creep ; 
 And I could dash me on the earth and weep, 
 But that mine eyes forbid the burning tears ; 
 
 Or yield a life I can no longer keep, 
 To fill with sorry hope's dissembling fears 
 A calendar of woe, made up of days and years." 
 
 Hope which we bless, and Hatred with which we 
 frequently vainly strive, Wisdom which we are taught 
 to reverence, and Love which we are elsewhere told is 
 our greatest earthly possession, are all referred to in 
 these lines ; but unhappily the beauty of the passage 
 is somewhat marred by the bitter morbidity which is 
 far too apparent at its close : , 
 
 " Beware of Folly, she is wondrous wise ; 
 Beware of Wisdom, she is half a fool ; 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 49 
 
 Of Love beware, so blind with Argus' eyes ; 
 
 Of Hate, so passing hot, so lasting cool ; 
 
 Of all that work by word, or prate by rule ; 
 Of speculation built upon desert ; 
 
 Of Hope, the brittle reed in Fortune's pool, 
 Which our clear-imag'd Heaven doth invert ; 
 What granted prayer could now re-form thee as thou wert] 
 
 " Let be the baser drudgery of life 
 
 To those who toil for plenty, or increase ; 
 'Twixt knaves and fools what look ye for but strife ? 
 'Twixt fate and thee let fruitless discord cease ; 
 For life is but a flaw'd and blotted lease ; 
 And 'twixt thyself and all the world preserve 
 
 An arm'd neutrality, a barren peace ; 
 Lean not to one, nor from the other swerve, 
 Thy way is straight ; — proceed with an ungalled nerve." 
 
 How vivid is the description of Time and Change ! 
 
 " Lost — we ourselves seek our own miseries : 
 Unconsciously above itself, the mind 
 Lends its immortal yearnings to the eyes, 
 And with a treacherous fondness, undesign'd. 
 Still makes the beauty which it cannot find. 
 Ah me ! the sad mutation is not slow, 
 
 And reason errs, but is not ever blind ; 
 For blest or curst did never mortal grow. 
 But time and change in league together made him so. 
 
 " Change, change, for ever change — the eternal chime 
 Eings in our startled ears with eager knell, 
 Mocking the solemn audit of old Time 
 With bitsy interruption ; — we rebel, 
 Eevolt, and yet are reconcil'd too well ; 
 
 4 
 
so A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 For lie doth rivet all things, or estrange, 
 
 And to his undisputed will compel ; 
 Even Nature's uniformity is change ; 
 The unbounded universe is his permitted range." 
 
 py Hardly anything could be more beautiful than the 
 short description given in the following stanza of a 
 sweet summer evening in the country. The poet ex- 
 presses well, by a beautiful simile, the stillness of such 
 a scene — a stillness which almost all of us have fre- 
 quently felt, and have oftentimes vainly striven to 
 translate into words. The lines are almost as perfect 
 a presentment of the scene described as Wordsworth's 
 sonnet beginning — 
 
 "It is a beauteous evening, calm and free." 
 
 " How still ! as though Silence herself were dead. 
 And her wan ghost were floating in the air : 
 The moon glides o'er the heaven with printless tread, 
 And to her far-off frontier doth repair ; 
 O'er-wearied lids are closing everywhere ; — 
 All living things that own the touch of sleep 
 
 Are beckon'd as the wasting moments wear. 
 Till one by one, in valley, or from steep. 
 Unto their several homes they, and their shadows, creep." 
 
 Our poet has this felicitous line on a familiar 
 subject : 
 
 "The Gospel of the stars, great Nature's Holy Writ." 
 
 These impressive hues deal with one of the greatest 
 themes of literature and life : 
 
 " And if ye needs must moralise, behold 
 Diligent Death, unseen of man, employ'd 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 51 
 
 Prowling with full-fed leisure through the fold, 
 Each stride an ample grave of yet untroubled mould. 
 
 " For sometimes doffing his superfluous stafcj 
 In res^lms below our lower hemisphere 
 Bridle and bit he flings aside elate', 
 And casts his crown away, and brandish'd spear, 
 And leaves his pallid steed in mid career. 
 Which, joyous of the unincumbered rein, 
 
 Neighs madly through the echoing meadows drear ; 
 Bites the vague air, and bounds along the plain, . 
 With fire-shot eyes surcharg'd, and wild abandon'd mane. 
 
 "Come then, Death ! for thou art welcome ever, 
 Whether thou come, with darkling brow austere, 
 To crush out life with lingering, slow en,deavour ; 
 Or like young Cupid, crown'd with stars appear, 
 Beside thee Psyche, in thy hand a spear, 
 Tipp'd with a beam of heaven's interior light. 
 
 Still blessed be the hour that brings thee here. 
 And I will hail thine unaccustom'd sight. 
 And follow thee with joy where'er thy steps invite." 
 
 " For still to be, and be a'erthrown by sorrow. 
 To wrestle with our weakness from our birth. 
 And all the strength we know constrain'd to borrow, 
 Antseus-like, from the reluctant earth. 
 If this be life, then of how little worth ! — 
 Eeceiv'd in thy dominion. Death, we fling 
 
 Aside Ahe harness, and disdain the girth ; 
 No sorrow there — no grief — no suffering — 
 Peace, peace, 'tis much for man — Death ! where is thy 
 sting 1 
 
 The Solitary closes with the following beautiful 
 description of dawn, while the saddened and hopeless 
 
 4—2 
 
Sz A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 man — one of ttose whose "heart cannot break" — 
 returns once more to his diurnal penance : 
 
 " But soft a motion trembles in the sky, 
 
 And with a timid stfeak of dubious glow, 
 Curdles the east, and from his terrace high, 
 The glad procession of the light doth go : 
 Clear, and more clear, all neighbouring objects grow, 
 Wrought from the sable texture of the dark, 
 And now a fresh chill air begins to blow, 
 And now springs up the voluntary lark. 
 And the sun appears, Heaven's glorious hierarch ! 
 
 " Another day breaks forth — another day — 
 Then let me close this ineffectual strain, 
 From painful, passive torture call'd away, 
 To quick reality of active pain. 
 Enough, enough, the rest is on the chain : — 
 Eetura'd to do diurnal penance still, 
 
 To the last dregs the bitter cup to drain. 
 The gloomy circuit of my fate fulfil. 
 This is my measur'd task— this the Almighty's will ! 
 
 The next poem in the volume is the Story of Jasper 
 Brooke. This poem is the reverse of the Solitary, 
 being full of incident rather than reflection. 
 
 The scene of the story is laid in the reign of one of 
 the Henrys. Its plot is as follows. A father of 
 ample wealth forms the project of marrying his son 
 Philip to the daughter of a neighbour equally well 
 furnished with worldly goods. He accordingly sum- 
 mons this son, and in a few jesting words Ig-ys his 
 project before him. The son is thrown by the com- 
 municatipn into a state which is described as neither 
 wonder nor surprise, and equivocatingly responds to 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 53 
 
 I 
 
 his father's appeal, by saying that the maiden selected 
 for him is too worthy for his poor deserts. The father 
 sneeringly insinuates that the son loves a poor girl 
 named Julia, whose parent had claimed for her, some 
 time previous to his death, the protection of his' mer- 
 cantile connection with Jasper Brooke. Philip, in the 
 most humble manner, conveys to his father the start- 
 ling intelligence that he and this Julia are already 
 wedded. The father in a paroxysm of rage bids him 
 begone. Jasper then conceives the infamous project 
 of inducing the old family servant, Kirke, by the 
 promise. of a large pecuniary bribe, to commit perjury. 
 Acting on Kirke's information, the son is arrested and 
 conveyed to prison. Before the examination the old 
 servant is filled with compunction at the part he has 
 to play, and eJarnestly begs that his master will relieve 
 him from his promise; but this Jasper absolutely 
 refuses to do. When the case is called for trial, Jasper 
 hypocritically murmurs a few cominonplaces as to his 
 wish to have died before things had come to such a, 
 pass, and refers the Judge to his old servant, who 
 (having been sworn) proceeds to tell how various 
 valuable jewels had been stolen ; how his master had 
 in the first instance impeached his own honesty; how, 
 troubled and miserable, he had eagerly watched, and 
 how (agonizing discovery!) he had found Master 
 Philip (whom as a child he had dangled on his knee) 
 filching the jewels ; how, when he told his . master 
 this, he was wroth with him for traducing his ancient 
 name of spotless purity ; and how, finally, he was only 
 
S4 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 convinced of the justice of tlie charge by himself be- 
 holding the jewels in his son's wrenched trunk. 
 
 The Judge, on hearing this extraordinary state- 
 ment, is deeply distressed, and urges the fathbr to be 
 more lenient, saying that justice would be enhanced 
 by mercy. At last, however, the Judge commits 
 Philip for trial, and in a powerful passage Whitehead 
 describes how the two old men, Jasper and Kirke, 
 leave the court, each well satisfied with his share in 
 the viUainy — the one that he has at least obtained 
 revenge, the other that, the unpleasant and dirty work 
 of his perjury being done, he wiU obtain a rich golden 
 reward ; and Whitehead parenthetically remarks, that 
 the two passions which never grow cold in men of 
 whatever age are the love of revenge and the lust for 
 money. 
 
 Phihp is 'of course committed to prison, his girl' 
 wife, JuUa, being permitted to be with him. A very 
 touching and pathetic description is given of their 
 intercourse in the prison. Julia is full of sadness and 
 anguish ; sometimes awakening to the fact that friends 
 could assist her beloved one, and importuning him, to 
 teU. her where sh& might find some of the many pos- 
 sessed of influence, who would come forward to swear 
 Kirke's statements untrue, in order to save him. 
 Philip, brave youth, with all ■ dignity and composure, 
 seeks tenderly to soothe Julia, whilst himself hopeless 
 of rescue from his impending fate. But when Julia 
 becomes more than usually hysterical in her entreaties 
 he is sometimes unmanned. Then he feels bitterly 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. ■ 5-5 
 
 the poignant grief of having, been the cause of bring- 
 ing on her this sorrow. From his father he expects 
 nothing ; sometimes, liowever, he experiences a strange 
 sort of satisfaction in sheltering, if it be but for a few 
 moments or hours, the maiden he loves, and doing so 
 as her husband. 
 
 Little or nothing is said in the poem of a formal 
 conviction. But it is presumed that the law will 
 speedily take its course, and that Philip will be exe- 
 cuted. The lovers eventually sink to rest in each 
 other's arms ; and even the gaoler, entering the cell to 
 remove Julia, is so touched with the pathos of their 
 situation,, that he forbears to awaken them. In a few 
 words of soliloquy he says that he has seen many 
 prisoners and ma,ny ways of taking approaching death, 
 but never did he see any one with composure hke this. 
 The yovaag prisoner must be innocent, and the bell 
 shall awaken him to misery — not he. 
 
 Meanwhile Jasper invites Kirke to make merry 
 with him, and they sit down to a sumptuous feast. 
 Jasper I presses Kirke to eat. The servant is almost 
 totally unable to do so, but he drinks deeply of 
 the wine. Its influence begins to creep over him 
 powerfully, and he loses discretion. Presently, he 
 darkly hints to his lord, but in a sort of half-jest, 
 that he, Jasper, had made away with Uberti (JuUa's 
 father) by foul play ; asks whether he died rich, and 
 whether these goblets from which they are now (grain- 
 ing, their wine were his. Jasper indignantly orders 
 him " to take his cheer and stint his prate." Shortly 
 
56 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 after they part for the night, and, sobered by Jasper's 
 anger, old Kirke retires tremblingly and for the last 
 time to his accustomed bed, fearful lest Jasper, in 
 wrath for his foUy when overcome with wine, should 
 kill him during the night. 
 
 Jasper is visited by a dir'eful dream. His past life 
 comes before him in all its hideousness, and also in 
 all its joyousness. He thinks of his marriage mom ; 
 of his wife's trustful love ; he thinks of her death-bed 
 and of the pain which he caused to her pious soul. He 
 remembers his deed of darkness to Uberti. When in 
 the morning the old crone who waits on him finds 
 him, she imagine? him dead, and rushes for Earke. 
 Together, however, they revive him, and his first cry 
 to Kirke is to rush to the prison, proclaim that they 
 had sworn a lie, and stay the execution of his son. 
 Kirke asks whether this will save their lives ? — exr- 
 claiming that he in dreams saw them both hanging 
 on the gallows tree. Jasper says that he laaj be 
 saved ; as for himself, his stone has only to be en- 
 graved. He tells him also to send a scrivener, and 
 hints that if he does his will in these respects he 
 shall not have cause to repent it. Kirke hastens 
 to the gaol ; but he returns an altered man ; and 
 the scrivener is more aghast at his appearance than 
 when he hears Jasper's tale of infamy and guilt. 
 And Kirke comes not alone. Julia's sorrows have 
 overwhelmed her reason, and she — now an idiot — 
 comes with him. Jasper swoons when he sees her— 
 his dream was not more dreadful than this. When 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 57 
 
 he revives, Kirke, who evidently believes the tryth of 
 ^ statement, teUs the father that Philip died " before 
 his hour," and that he has brought his wife for a 
 fresh dowry — that the law is on their track, and that 
 he must bid him farewell. 
 
 Jasper commands the scrivener so to make his will 
 as to leave all his money for masses for, his soul- 
 Graves, the scrivener, beseeches him to remember the 
 girL But the end hastens on. The leech comes ; but 
 aU his skill is in vain, and Jasper dies raving. When 
 the scrivener and leech, awe-stricken, leave the death- 
 chamber, they behold a hideous thing on the staircase 
 beneath them ! It is Kirke, hanging dead from a noose 
 which he himself has made. 
 
 This is how the poem of Jasper Brooke opens. The 
 lines quoted below show that Whitehead had a large 
 command over the octosyllabic measure, and could 
 write excellent descriptive verse : 
 
 " It was a dark and ancient room . 
 la which old Jasper sat alone ; 
 Within, the sun had never shone : 
 But Jasper was cheerful amid the gloom, 
 As a light that burneth in a tomb. 
 ' Ha ! ha !' he chuckled, and rubb'd his hands ; 
 ' The sunshine that the ripple bears 
 Casteth its colour on the sands, 
 As yellow as harvest ears ; 
 And why are we young, or why are we old, 
 If we see not our sunshine turn to gold V " 
 
 How fine is the following passage, in which, after 
 Philip's temporizing reply to his father's request to 
 
S8 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 WOO the maid chosen for him by the latter, old Jasper 
 goes at once to the root of the difficulty, and sneer- 
 ingly taunts him with a love for Julia. 
 
 " ' Hear me : Twelve years my memory dates, 
 Since the good ship, from Genoa's port, 
 (Would it had been the tempest's sport, 
 Wreck'd in the fell Gibraltar straits !) 
 Sail'd hither, .bringing with her one, 
 By woe and bankruptcy undone. 
 Carlo Uberti was his name. 
 He sought me ; urg'd a piteous claim 
 Of former merchandise consign'd ; 
 (Weak fool ! to think within his mind, 
 Who eats the fruit must love the rind.) 
 I was the fool. His story wrought 
 Upon my heart — his child he brought — 
 A lit.tle tender, touching thing, 
 A summer cheek, an eye of spring. 
 What more to move me cmdd he bring ? 
 My house receiv'd'him and his child ; 
 The father wept, the daughter smil'd ; 
 Thus, like a fool, was I beguil'd. 
 He died. What more ? The child remains ; 
 The child whom I have fostered still ; 
 And how does she requite my pains. 
 My care repay, my hopes fulfil 1 
 And thou, would'st thou, of simple wit. 
 Lure a poor sparrow to the sill, , 
 And frame a cage, and cherish it, 
 As though its russet feathers vied 
 With birds, the sun's adopted pride. 
 Of Ecarlet plumage, golden-dyed 1 
 Thou lov'st this Julia ; spare the lie 
 That rises in thee to deny, 
 What thy cheek tells me, and thine eye.' " 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. $9 
 
 Then follows Philip's confession. Jasper in fierce 
 wrath bids PhUip begone, and forthwith takes 
 measures for his unnatural and terrible revenge. 
 He persuades, as we have seen, the old servant, 
 Kirke, to bear false witness against his son ; but 
 when this old man relents, we find that the implac- 
 able Jasper is compelled to use persuasion rather 
 thaja force to attain his ends. This is the vivid 
 passage in which it is done ; 
 
 " ' Yet Kirke, good Kirke,' — but Jasper's eye 
 And teeth tight-clench'd with malice fell, 
 Suit not with soft persuasion well ; — 
 ' Hast thou not promis'd ? woiild'st begone , 
 From what we have struck hands upon V 
 But Kirke took up his former strain : 
 ' The little lad ; I see him now ; 
 How did he tend me— soothe my pain, 
 
 - And bring me cooling drink, and how 
 For hours and hours watch by my side— ' 
 Would 'twere God's pleasure I had died ! 
 I have done sin for you, but this ■' 
 
 " ' The holy book hath had tby kiss,' 
 Urg'd Jasper ; ' and to be forsworn,- 
 Better that thou had'st ne'er been born. 
 Thou'rt outcast by thine own consent ^ 
 An oath when broken is not sprent j 
 But with a curse of Heaven re-knit ;', 
 For angels have attested it. 
 Dost thou forget ; dost thou regard 
 What I have pledg'd — that rich reward 
 Which hath been, during fifty years, 
 The texture of thy hopes and fears. 
 Which makes thee lord of time, with power, 
 
6o A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Blithe, sprightly as a paramour, 
 To turn to pleasure every hour?" 
 
 PMlip is brought before the Justice, and tbus tbe 
 old servant tells bis plausible, thougb perjured tale : 
 
 " Then Kirke heaves up his voice to tell 
 A tale which he had conn'd too well ; 
 No lesson had he wont to spell, 
 Which, when 'twas learn'd and turned to deed, 
 Gain'd brave broad pieces for its meed. 
 ' May't please you, my good master here, — 
 When I have serv'd this fifty year, 
 \ Had lost — mislaid at first he thought — 
 
 Treasures from foreign countries brought. 
 He ask'd knew I of these things aught ? 
 God's mercy! I ! I do protest 
 Methought my master spoke in jest. 
 A rope of pearls ; a Venice chain 
 Which on a king's breast might have lain ; 
 A golden cup a king might drain. 
 He questioned me of these — alack ! 
 No wish of mine could fetch them back. 
 Unless I owned a magic ring, 
 The lost, or like the lost, to bring 
 Safe, by a genie, as they sing. 
 I watch'd, as Master Brooke beseech'd ; 
 My honesty in part impeach'd. 
 My duty, my fidelity, 
 Quicken'd my sense, sharpen'd my eye ; 
 And what at length did it descry? 
 That I should live to see so clear ! — 
 That I should live to tell it here ! 
 Heaven aid me as I hope to thrive ! 
 Young Master Philip, as I live. 
 Have I not sworn it ? and 'tis truth — 
 True as the creed — I saw the youth. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 6r 
 
 Myself behind the arras hid, 
 
 Saw him creep past me where I stood, 
 
 And softly raise the casket-lid. 
 
 Wherein lay, by the Holy Eood ! 
 
 A ruby, red as fairies' blood. 
 
 Telling whose worth, belief would fail, 
 
 Pric'd at its carats by the tale. 
 
 Committed to the goldsmith's scale. 
 
 This did I see him filch ; he fled, 
 
 I following, fiU'd with grief and dread. 
 
 And to his chamber did he go, 
 
 And in his trunk the gem bestow. 
 
 Now when I told this work of woe 
 
 To Master Brooke, as duty bade, ^ 
 
 Beshrew me, he was well nigh mad ; — 
 
 Call'd me opprobrious names and swore 
 
 I did belie the youth, traduce 
 
 The virtuous mother who him bore ; 
 
 Curs'd me and the pernicious use 
 
 He had put me to ; in fine, we clomb 
 
 Like wretches to a midnight tomb. 
 
 Trembling, to Master Philip's room ; 
 
 And there the wrench'd trunk render'd up 
 
 The ruby, chain, and pearls and cup.' " 
 
 Philip is completely overwlielmed by this cruelly 
 false, yet seemingly probable testimony against him. 
 His first thoughts are to proclaim it all an infamous 
 lie; but he glances at his father, and the diabolical 
 aspect of his face causes his resolution to falter. 
 
 " So he said nothing ; but sank down 
 A leaden grief from sole to crown, 
 Into the anguish of a swoon. 
 
 " ' He stands committed !' This — no more 
 The Justice said, and to a door 
 
62 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Points Kirke and Jasper and — 'tis o'er, 
 And thence the two old men depart 
 By a by-passage, hght of heart ; 
 One, that revenge is on its way, 
 And one that he hath earn'd his pay. 
 Of the two hideous passions say. 
 Thou who canst human hearts unfold, 
 Which sooner will itself allay. 
 The thirst of blood, or thirst of gold ? 
 Neither is quench'd as men grow oldi" 
 
 Tlie extremely fine, tliougli terribly painful lines 
 quoted above, sbow bow powerfully Wbitehead could 
 analyze human passions. 
 
 Philip has one solace in his crushing sorrow — ^^Julia 
 is with him ; a single ray of sunshine to mitigate the 
 darkness of impending doom. 
 
 " And his young wife his prison shares ; 
 Now stilly lying where he lies, 
 Her own soft mingling with his prayers ; 
 Now, bearing in her voice Despair's, 
 Whom she awakens with her cries. 
 She will go somewhere ; she will raise — 
 It hath been done so many ways, 
 So many times, — ^friends who shall speak ' 
 Truth in such cadence, as shall wreak 
 Eemorse on sin ; dread as the sound 
 Of trumpets when the angels blow. 
 Who dash the guilty to the ground, 
 Plant triumph on the guiltless brow, 
 And make earth just again : but how % 
 Ah ! dreams dissolving into pain ! 
 Thrust back to consciousness again, 
 How wild her projects, and how vain ! . 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 63 
 
 A huddled creature on his Jjreast, 
 
 With a strange quietude of brain, 
 
 Which seeming to solicit rest, 
 
 Is torpid madness at the best — 
 
 Shp lies and murmurs as she lies, 
 
 Words of inquiry and surmise ; 
 
 Consoling flatteries soft and low, 
 
 Then piteous sentences of woe, 
 
 In loose uncertain ebb and flow. 
 
 Yet, be they wprds of joy or grief, 
 
 Love speaks them well doth Philip know. 
 
 'Tis to his spirit a relief 
 
 On his last day, now waxing brief, 
 
 As a warm bird in a lorn nest 
 
 To hold his widow in his breast." 
 
 This is the description of tlie feast to which Jasper 
 invites Kirke : 
 
 " Kirke twitch'd him by the sleeve-: — ' Old lad. 
 Thou com'st in time to be made glad ; 
 Sit down ; art hungry 1 and prepare. 
 To let thy spirit dauce in air. 
 I have wine here so ripe and rare, 
 That in a trice the leaden, soul, 
 Groping in darkness like a mole, 
 Touph'd by the blessing springs to light, 
 And mounts to heaven, as of right :— 
 Down — we will have a merry night.' 
 They sit : but Kirke, though press'd to eat. 
 Tastes sparingly the luscious meat. 
 And kneaded bread of whitest wheat ; 
 But lifts his cup full oft, and drinks 
 Till his eyes sparkle through his winks. 
 ' 'Tis good : I trace it as it sinks. 
 And note it prancing through my veins, 
 
64 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Like a gay troop through narrow lanes. 
 Ha! Ha!' 
 
 'Yet, eat, good Kirke.' 
 
 ' I can't ; 
 This is the minister I want, 
 Heart-cheering wine : my throat is tight, 
 As though bound by a silken cord. 
 The self-same cord which, on that night, 
 Sent old Uberti to the Lord. 
 Did he die rich ? was this his gear ? 
 These goblets that do service here V 
 
 " ' Peace, fool !' cried Jasper, ' take thy cheer, 
 And stint thy prate : the past retriev'd, 
 Is a new missal interleav'd 
 With an old sermon : let it pass.. 
 Why is flesh liken'd unto grass. 
 But that it is cut down f 
 
 ' Aye, true, 
 
 And turn'd into beast's profit, too.' 
 
 " ' How say'st thou V — the white anger came 
 On Jasper's cheek, quenching the flame ; — 
 A moment — and the wolf is tame.'' 
 
 Here is Jasper's dream : 
 
 " Lo ! 'tis his marriage morn ; his bride, 
 His other life, sits by his side, 
 A joy, a comfort, and a pride ; , 
 Eelinquish'd to his. love, and blest 
 To think her heart by one possest, 
 Who is her synonyme of best. 
 
 " Again that sacred feeling fills 
 His soul, and through his being thrills, 
 Of tenderness that would secure 
 The bliss of one so good and pure. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 6^ 
 
 That feeling which would not endure. 
 
 And now be sees her still as good, 
 
 A fading form of womanhood ; 
 
 A casket fiU'd with holy grief, 
 
 A frost-wrung flower that leaf by leaf 
 
 Tends to the ground : a pious shrine. 
 
 Wrought by a sinner, yet, divine. 
 
 Sees her he had made worthy heaven. 
 
 And to the heavenly gate had drivjen, 
 
 Upon her dying bed, and hears 
 
 Her parting voice, and sees her tears, 
 
 And joins her last, low, lingering prayer 
 
 " How ! 'tis Uberti he sees there. 
 Pleading for mercy in such tones 
 As freeze the marrow in the bones ; 
 Yet own no potency, to work 
 In him or his accomplice Kirke, 
 Who clings about the dying man. 
 And does what share of death he can. 
 
 " Horror ! o'erlaid by the strong dream, 
 Old Jasper gasps, but cannot scream : 
 The past is on ; writhe as thou wilt, 
 Thou canst not loose the serpent — ^guilt. " 
 
 This is what follows, Jasper to Kirke : 
 
 " ' Away,' cried Jasper, ' hence — away ; 
 'Tis vain for thee to talk, thy words 
 Are human, and thy voice affords 
 A comfort ; yet speed hence, and stay 
 The death which now is on its way. 
 Proclaim all we have sworn, a lie.' 
 
 " ' And shall we save our lives thereby V 
 Cried Kirke. 'I saw both you and me 
 Hanging upon the gallows tree ; 
 
66 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. . 
 
 This,' in the darkness, did I see. 
 Shall we escape V 
 
 ' Thou may'st be saved ; 
 My stone waits but to be engrav'd ; 
 'Tis, hewn and shap'd : my life is nought : 
 Stay ! let a scrivener be brought : 
 Thou dost my bidding? be but true ; 
 My will shall leave no cause to rue.' 
 Kirke did not hasten thence — he flew. 
 
 " But he returns a different man ; 
 Never was wretch so wild and wan. 
 The scrivener who first doth scan 
 His visage is more struck with dread. 
 Than when, rejnov'd unto his bed, 
 Jasper confess'd his guilt, and bade 
 His deposition quick be made. 
 
 "But Kirke comes not alone; he brings 
 A wayward thing who mows and sings. 
 Peers through his fingers, and is pleas'd, 
 Then pouts, and will not be appeas'd. 
 Jasper beholds and swoons— I wis, 
 His dream was not more dread than this." 
 
 The poem proceeds thus : 
 
 " Soft ! he revives. ' Now hear me, Brooke, 
 Said Kirke, and on his bosom strook, 
 ' I saw him, and the sight hath dried 
 My blood, and now what may betide 
 I care not : — he is dead and gone ; 
 Be this engraven on thy stone. 
 Poor knave ! he died before his hour ; 
 I bring his wife for a fresh dower. 
 The law comes for us; I can smell 
 The dogs are nigh, and hear their yell ; 
 I go my;journey — so farewell !' 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. , (>j 
 
 " He goes, and the poor witless girl 
 
 Draws up her lip in a proud curl, 
 
 And says, ' "Well done !' and with mock ire, 
 
 Commands the scrivener to admire, 
 
 Then pours such tales into his ear, 
 . As almost craze the listener." 
 
 Jasper continues : — 
 
 "All — all — ^in masses for my soul ; 
 Dost hear me, Graves ? I say the whole : 
 Straight pen it down, let it he sign'd : • 
 
 O ! what a weight is on my mind !' 
 Then Graves draws nigt — ' Good sir, my speech 
 A moment would your ear heseech — 
 The girl'— -here Julia, nodding, smil'd — 
 ' Spoke of the father of her child.' 
 ' Do what thou wilt — do what thou wilt — 
 
 God ! what way to lessen guilt ! 
 
 1 tell thee, man, I must not die; 
 It is my flesh that fails, not I.' " 
 
 . The poem closes in the following manner — was ever 
 the terrible retribution which iniquity consciously 
 indulged in inevitably brings with it more clearly! 
 depicted than here ? 
 
 "The leech is come, hut 'strives in vain ; 
 To soothe the fever of the brain. 
 Jasper dies rating : — close the scene — 
 'Tis fearful to heboid, I ween, 
 But now he lies, as calm, as mild, 
 <As silent as a sleeping child. 
 
 '" Now when the scrivener and the leech. 
 Awe-stricken, leave the place of death, 
 
 ■ 5—2 ' 
 
68 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 What is the hideous thing that each 
 Beholds, down-looking far beneath ] 
 The two descend, holding their breath/ 
 Fearing, from death above they go, 
 To meet him once again below. 
 Nor are they wrong ; 'tis even so. 
 Kirke in a noose his hands had made, 
 Hangs from the lowest balustrade : — 
 His journey had not been delay'd." 
 
 I have said that the poem closes, and so in a 
 sense it does, where the description of the main 
 incident ends. There still remains, however, a few 
 lines, which form a sort of epilogue ; and in which 
 Whitehead, with a touch of somethirig akin to the 
 quiet art of Turgenieff, tells us how Philip long years 
 after became a prosperous merchant and succoured the 
 poor. 
 
 Although it will be seen that I have quoted exten- 
 sively from r^e Btory of Jasper Brooke, its striking 
 passages are by no means exhausted. Here is one 
 remarkable phrase which Jasper in wrath makes use 
 of to Philip, referring to the latter's marriage : 
 
 " ' First to do ill, and next to rue, 
 Is to tie knots in censure's thong, 
 Then beg exemption from its smart.' " 
 
 The passage in which the Justice recommends 
 Jasper to consider mercy in PhiHp's case is powerfully 
 expressed. Throughout the whole poem there is 
 hardly a superfluous word, or an instance of literary 
 " padding." 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 69 
 
 In the Ilhuminated Magazine, edited by Douglas 
 Jerrold, and published in 1845, two* acknowledged 
 contributions by Whitehead appear, and perhaps a 
 few scraps beside to which his name is not signed. 
 The Story of Jasper Brooke appeared here in the first 
 instance, illustrated with two woodcuts by the well- 
 known Kenny Meadows. The first of these represents 
 Jasper, the tall old man of the Mephistophelean caste 
 of countenance, with a pointed velvet skull-cup on his 
 head, dressed in the picturesque costume of his period, 
 and seated easily in a carved high-backed chair, 
 engaged in making the suggestion of marriage to his 
 son Philip, who stands demurely by the table. The 
 second illustration represents the feast prepared for 
 Jasper and Kirke, Kirke has just given utterance to 
 the splenetic outbiirst in which he reminds Jasper of 
 his former crimes. The artist depicts the master in a 
 menacing attitude over the servant, who grovels at his 
 feet. 
 
 The next poem in Whitehead's volume is entitled 
 The Death of Chatterton. It is "in many respects a 
 powerful one. This is how Whitehead describes 
 Chatterton's dejected attitude : 
 
 " Hands clench'd, eyes closed, he sits, but not in sleep, 
 Hands never wont'to pray, or eyes to weep." 
 
 WTiitehead appears to have been drawn to Chatterton, 
 not only by the exceedingly interesting character of 
 
 * The other acknowledged poem being The Wife's Tragedy, 
 dealt with elsewhere. 
 
JO A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 the boy-poet (which never fails to fascinate men of 
 genius, and even those of that exceedingly large class 
 who, possessing literary sentiments and feeUngs, are 
 not by any means men of genius), but also by an 
 interest of a more personal kind. Some of the 
 passages in this poem have an autobiographical 
 character. The poet is ever mentally associating his 
 much loved and deeply mourned brother with 
 Chatterton. This feeling is observable in the following 
 
 " Blest toy, whose doom, when I was young as thou, 
 Drew my rash love towards thee, and controH'd 
 My better reason ; why is it that now 
 Thou risest like a vision as of old ; 
 And bringest with thee one of dearer name, 
 More hapless— dying ere he spoke to fame 1" ' 
 
 If we are ' to trust Whitehead's judgment, this 
 brother mtust have been a man of genius; at least, 
 Whitehead's sentiment respecting him is not unlike 
 that of the Laureate towards Arthur HaUam. Here 
 again he expresses the feeling to which I have referred 
 above in yet more poetical — even passionate language : 
 
 " Ye come together — yet ye stand apart ; 
 And like as brothers twins of heaven ye seem, 
 And mingled love and sorrow fill my heart ; — 
 Ye vanish — for ye met but in a dream. 
 I wake ! — alike except in death, farewell ! 
 One in my mind — one in my heart — to dwell." 
 
 In our examination of Whitehead's poems we next 
 come to the Ode to a River. This poem shows a 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 71. 
 
 capacity for revelling in the delights of inanimate, 
 nature. It has that peculiar note of pleasure which 
 might reasonably be expected from one of a poetic 
 temperament, who had been, as Keats says, " Long in 
 city pent." 
 
 " Bright glittering river, that dost run, 
 From thy cool crystal chamber freed, 
 A green-hair'd darling of the sun, 
 I'hrough glowing plain, and scented mead ; 
 With silent motion flowing still. 
 Thou calm'st the west-wind to thy will, 
 And woo'st the summer for thy bride, 
 Who, with her hoarded lap, is smiling by thy side. 
 
 " In thy translucent wave is seen . 
 The restless sunbeam glancing bright. 
 And flowers hang o'er thy margin green, 
 Like gems of many-coloured light ; 
 And where the deepest shade is spread, 
 Birds sing above thine umber'd head ; 
 Each swells his overflowing throat, 
 ■ And makes thy waters thrUl with his redundant note. 
 
 " But when upon the mountain top. 
 The clouds shall lay their burden down, 
 And linger darkly where they drop. 
 Until the imprison'd winds are blown ; 
 With headlong strength's resistless force. 
 The rushing torrent tears thy source ; — 
 Down, down its loaded weight is driven ; 
 Thy bed is chok'd with earth, and tree-trunks thunder-riven," 
 
 The, Riddle of Life iS a somewhat unpleasant poem, 
 because it seems to indicate that in this life evil 
 
72 4 FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 triumphs over good. It is only another attempt of 
 the darkly struggling heart to penetrate the mysteries 
 of existence. These shoutings at soundless caverns 
 for echoes are peculiar to passionate natures. Here 
 are some extracts : 
 
 " Now then, thou sage philosopher, 
 If to the infant we recur, 
 And trace him through each onward stage, 
 To the long journey's end of age ; 
 What by philosophy is found 
 That reason may admit % expound — 
 Tell me, was this unsullied child 
 From infancy to age beguil'd % 
 Cozen'd by counters falsely play'd 
 And to his dying hour betray'd ; 
 The book of virtue interleav'dj 
 And by the gloss of vice deceiv'd ? 
 Was this, or that, or what you will. 
 The active cause, the impulse still ? 
 Say, is there some external sin, 
 That works into the heart witbio ; 
 Did outward influence control. 
 Or was the bias in the bowl ? 
 Why ponder? thou perhaps canst show 
 More than to me was given to know ; 
 Thou may'st unwind the stubborn mesh 
 That holds alike'the soul and flesh ; 
 Thou may'st with nicest skill define 
 What error is, and what design ; 
 And how, when virtues stagnant bropd. 
 Evil is formed from weaker good, 
 As petrified by water, wood. 
 
 " Enough : the problem is advanc'd. 
 Solve me this riddle, if thou canst." 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 73 
 
 Next follow Whitehead's sonnets. The second is as 
 iinder ; 
 
 " As yonder lamp in my vacated room 
 With arduous flame disputes the darksome night, 
 And can, with its involuntary light, 
 But lifeless things that near it stand, illume ; 
 Yet all the while it doth itself consume ; 
 And, ere the sun begin its heavenly height 
 With courier beams that meet the shepherd's sight, 
 There, whence its life arose, shall be its tomb. 
 So wastes my light away. Perforce confin'd 
 To common things, a limit to its sphere. 
 It shines on worthless trifles undesign'd, 
 With fainter ray each hour imprison'd here. 
 Alas ! to know that the consuming mind 
 Shall leave its lamp cold, ere the sun appear !" 
 
 This sonnet appears in Sonnets of Three Centuries, 
 edited by Mr, Hall Caine. It is, however, altered in many 
 particulars, and I find from that editor, on incjuiry, 
 that the version given there was repeated to him from 
 memory by the late Dante Gabriel Eossetti, who had 
 not read the sonnet in Whitehead's poems for more 
 than twenty years. The sonnet has gained vastly by 
 passing through the medium of Eossetti's mind, and 
 now possesses in the version above mentioned, quoted 
 on page 12, much of the resonant force of which the 
 author of The House of Life is so great a master. 
 
 Here is the fourth sonnet : 
 
 " My gentle friend, last refuge of a soul 
 From which the world too soon hath turn'd away, 
 Take thy long silent lute, and softly play 
 Some air which childhood from oblivion stole j 
 
;74 ^ FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 That heavenly dew shall melt without control, 
 My sullen griefs, that rule with stubborn sway ; 
 That strain all harsher feelings shall allay, 
 And fuse my heart into one tender whole. 
 Then pause upon thte strings, and with thy voice 
 Lure from the silent deep a radiant form 
 Of earlier days and happier hours the choice, 
 Ere yet iny troubled spirit felt the storm ; 
 And having call'd it into being, cease : 
 And crown it with a smile and name it Peace." 
 
 There is mucli truth in the following sonnet. It 
 shows thdt whatever Whitehead's faults' of life may- 
 have been, he at least knew what ' was right in con- 
 duct: 
 
 " When first my heart by sorrow was o'ertaken, 
 And every blossom of my youth destroy'd ; 
 Wherefore, thought I, should hope my "breast avoid. 
 And why my heart of the fresh Spring forsaken 1 > 
 Then old philosophy did I awaken. 
 And moral^truths by error unalloy'd, 
 And ancient maxims, evergreens, employ'd, 
 To guard my heart, that should no more be shaken. 
 .0 vanity ! the worst that e'er befel ! 
 What use,^with ceaseless labour, to commit 
 A golden bucket to an empty well. 
 Or for Heaven's wisdom seek in human wit ? 
 I planted strength that flourish'd not, and why 1 
 The fount that should have water'd it was dry." 
 
 The seventh sonnet, which is the last I shall quote, 
 although not comparable with that given in Sonnets 
 of Three Centuries, has many qualities of symbolic 
 and literal beauty, and it shows Whitehead in his 
 brighter, mood : 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 75 
 
 " Methought, upon a sullen ocean toss'jd, 
 The batter'd hull of an old vessel lay, 
 Drifting to rearward darkness far away ; 
 Till presently, a gallant shallop cross'd 
 The horizon's line, and at a moment's cost, 
 Shot to the wreck with streaming pennons gay ; 
 Some left it, and were sav'd, while others, gray 
 With sorrow, clung to ruin, and were lost. 
 'Tis good, quoth I, awaking, as the bell 
 Fill'd with a merry peal the morning clear, 
 This vanish'd dream of mine should surely tell 
 The fortunes of the old and coming year. 
 Our joys are on another voyage bound. 
 And with the lastyear'^ wreck Our sorrows drown'd." 
 
 Evening is a pretty, reflective poem. In it there 
 occurs the following good phrase : 
 
 "And night is floating on the lake." 
 
 Ophelia — A Dirge, is a graceful poem, but does not, 
 contain anything specially remarkable. It is, however, 
 not wanting in the pathos necessary to the subject. 
 
 Ippolito — A Chimera in Rhyme, is a wild and weird 
 tale of Venetian life and sorcery in the Middle Ages. 
 It has the peculiarity of not having malice involved 
 in it. 
 
 Ippolito is represented as a young man surrounded 
 by the adjuncts of wealth and refinement, who had 
 been dabbUng in the secret arts. He conceives the 
 monstrous idea of testing these arts even upon that 
 being he loves the most. Beneath her star he takes 
 up a toad and the roots of a mandrake, puts 'them 
 into a box, and drops honey-dew, upon them in a, way 
 
76 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 which is describedVith great minuteness. He expects 
 that when the toad dies, his lady will die also ; and 
 she does. Then he has recourse to magic, to bring 
 her back to life, and dropping the dead toad into one 
 of the canals, he goes through certain formulas, such 
 as scattering a powder over the withered mandrake. 
 In due course the lady is presumed to return to life, 
 but it is simply a fiendish personation of her, for by- 
 and-by, when Ippolito's senses begin to assert them- 
 selves, he involuntarily breathes a prayer, beginning — 
 
 and 
 
 " Holy One, Thy servant hear ;" 
 
 " The fiend hath heard the holy word ; 
 The fiend hath heard the name abhorred ; 
 Faint and fading more and more, 
 Without a look, without a sound, 
 It passed away from the steadfast floor, 
 And silence closed around." 
 
 IppoUto (remorseful as to the result of his sorcery) 
 dies also, and is buried by his lady's side. 
 
 Unlike Keats's La Belle Dame Sans Merci, and 
 Kossetti's Sister Helen, or his Rose Mary, there is, as 
 I have said before, no guilt involved in the poem, 
 except that embraced by the monstrous idea which 
 has taken possession of Ippolito's mind. 
 
 Ippolito has, like Faust, become so devoted to the 
 secret arts that he is their slave. The poem is most 
 fittingly termed " a chimera." It is not at all on a level 
 with the author's realistic work, yet- it exhibits a great 
 deal of imagination, and a tendency to the mystic 
 
"WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 77 
 
 ■whicli is strange in one who has elsewhere shown such 
 a hold of fact. 
 
 The following extract shows Ippolito at the com- 
 mencement of his proceedings : 
 
 " ' This is the night — the very, night — 
 Have I not read the stars aright J' 
 With an eye of fear and a brow of pain, 
 Ippolito gaz'd at his books again, 
 And clos'd them-7-'twas in vain ! 
 
 " Two vessels stood on the table ; — 
 Ippolito to him the vessels drew ; 
 One was fiU'd with honey-deW, 
 One with hemlock sable. 
 Steadily as he was able, 
 Of poison he poured a single drop. 
 On the honey-dew it fell, 
 Stillas water in a well. 
 And it floated on the top. 
 
 " ' Hast thou not bitten the moon-grown plant V 
 Ippolito lifted the cover of lead. 
 The toad was shrunk with eager want, 
 For it never would be fed. 
 It lifted its eyes like a human thing ; — 
 ' Poor wretch !' he mutter'd, ' it pines and pines 
 And cries to my soul with its piteous signs ; 
 Eftsoons,' — and with a hasty fling, 
 Down he shut the box of lead, , 
 ' To-night it will be dead !' 
 
 " ' Every token tells me true : 
 The poison rests on the honey-dew. 
 And the toad is dying too. 
 I took it as it sat alone, 
 
78 ' A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Drawing the coldness out of a stone, 
 
 And I plucked the shrieking mandrake's root, 
 
 And the plant beneath its shiny foot. 
 
 Of all the stars that in Heaven are, 
 
 Was it not under the very star? 
 
 And know I not, by that star in the sky. 
 
 That it dies that she must die ?' " 
 
 Ippolito muses on life in tiie foUowin^^ magnifice] 
 passage: - - 
 
 " Ippolito gnash'd his teeth with rage : 
 ' Well, there is neither youth nor^ age, 
 Which child or grandson ever wore, 
 That human power may not restore !' 
 And he smil'd, and the pale fire burnt in his eye, 
 ' What is life but a mockery ? 
 
 " ' Paint me a picture — happiness 
 Shall be the unexhausted theme, 
 Nor be the shadows more or less,' 
 Nor the tints brighter than they seeni : 
 ' Is it not a sorry dream ? 
 A vision fancy hath endow'd, 
 A day-dream painted on a cloud ! 
 Draw ye these colours from the sky, 
 Prom fountains of the orient day. 
 Behold ! the very flood is dry. 
 Not faster, but as soon as they. 
 To-morrow shall those tints renew, 
 Will it re-touch ^;hese colours too ? 
 
 " ' Paint me a torrent in its pride, 
 Seething in its tempestuous stress. 
 And call it life ; — and paint beside, 
 A feather borne upon, the tide. 
 Arid call that feather-;— Happiness !' " 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 79 
 
 Ippolito goes to visit his betrothed. Her loveliness 
 and death are thus described : 
 
 ' " Ippolito knelt beside the girl : 
 Oh ! how beautiful she was ! 
 Though her eye was the blue of glass, 
 Though her brow was the white of pearl ; 
 On her shoulders her golden hair 
 Had fallen in many a waving curl, 
 And her small cold hands so fair, 
 Were palm to palm on her breast in prayer. 
 
 " ' Wilt thou not be mine, my bride, 
 Though death our bosoms may divide, 
 Or whatever else betide % 
 Wheresoe'er our bodies are, 
 Soul to soul and heart to heart, 
 Dearest, we must never part.' 
 
 " Gently he press'd his lips to hers, 
 The breath beneath them scarcely stirs, 
 ' Softly and gently his hand he press'd 
 'On her soft and gentle breast ; 
 And every throb in strength decreas'd : — 
 Gracious Heaven ! hath it ceased 1 
 
 " Perchance, before her inward eye. 
 Her happy youth was passing by. 
 Or whence that short but heavy sigh ? 
 'Twas but a momentary check 
 To hopes that other mansions seek, 
 'Twas the last billow o'er the wreck. 
 Ere the horizon's gilded streak. 
 She felt her arms around his neck. 
 And drew his lips unto her cheek. 
 And in his bosott, like a bride, 
 Laid[her head at peace, and died." 
 
8o A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 It is now time for Ippolito to set his charm to 
 •work. We are told how he does so in the following 
 lines: 
 
 " Ippolito lifted the cover of lead ; 
 Forty hours the toad had been dead, 
 The wither'd mandrake was its bed. 
 ' Thou hast serv'd thy turn full well ; 
 Thou told'st me what the stars could tell.' 
 From the casement he let it fall, 
 Far below in the canal ; — 
 He listen'd as it fell. 
 Next with anxious care he drew 
 The vessel fill'd with honey-dew : 
 The poison-drop had fallen through, 
 Down the crystal clear, and lay 
 Like earth beneath the liquid day. 
 
 " Ippolito a powder threw. 
 Swiftly into the honey-dew : 
 It creams, it scintillates, it glows ; 
 Crimson, orange, umber, blue. 
 Pure vivid sparkless rose. 
 
 " Ippolito smote his hands with glee : 
 ' Auspicious sign ! my thanks to thee. 
 That bring'st such tidings unto me. 
 My Isabella, rest awhile. 
 No taint of death shall thee defile : 
 Like a pestilential air. 
 Traversing a plain of snow. 
 Gathering pureness it shall go 
 O'er thy bosom fair. 
 Soon, Nature ! in thy name, 
 My Isabella will I claim.'" 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 8i 
 
 Ippolito's disappointmenfe is narrated, and the poem 
 thus closes : 
 
 " The sun has risen from his bed : — 
 Ippolito is cold and dead. 
 Look ye to that vault of death 1 
 ■No mystic power of mortal breath 
 That virgin hath disquieted, 
 Since with holy chant and prayer, 
 Her earthly part hath rested there. 
 Nor is Ippolito denied, 
 To lie close resting by his bride. 
 Peace be with the hapless pair, 
 And the joys of Heaven beside." 
 
 There is peculiar appropriateness in the scene of 
 this poem being laid in Venice. 
 
 Whitehead's poems have this appropriate motto 
 from Lord Bacon affixed to them : 
 
 "Yet, even if you listen to David's harp, you shall hear 
 as many hearse-like airs as carols.'' 
 
 The poetical works are well arranged. First, as we 
 have seen, there is a powerful reflective poem ; then 
 we find the realistic and general work ; a,nd lastly we 
 have an important example of the mystic mood. 
 
 The volume concludes with the drama entitled The 
 Cavalier. The plot of this play is as follows, its 
 date being presumably shortly after the Restoration. 
 Captain Hargrave, a brave soldier, had fought diuring 
 the Civil War on behalf of the King, and from the 
 time when as a youth he had known his first 
 battle at Edgehill, until his cause was completely 
 
 6 
 
82 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 oyerwhelmed at Naseby, he had conducted himself 
 valiantly. But for so doing, as may readily be sup- 
 posed^ his ancestral estate had been' confiscated by the 
 Eoundheads, and through some strange misadventure 
 of justice it had not been restored to him when the 
 second Charles returned to his throne. This circum- 
 stance caused him to remain poor ; and accordingly, 
 with his beautiful young wife and his children, he 
 repaired to London; to importune the Council, and, if 
 need be, even the King himself, to restore, to him 
 what was rightfully his. During his sojourn in London' 
 he stayed in the house of one Maynard — an honest 
 merchant who had married his sister — and, for some 
 reason not specifically stated, he usually sent his wife 
 to make application to the Council instead of going 
 personally. 
 
 All his efforts seem, however, to have been fruitless, 
 and, the play opens in a room in Maynard's house, 
 where Hargrave is telling Maynard and his sister that 
 it is no longer right for him to continue to accept 
 their generous and lavish hospitality, which had ex- 
 tended even to the use of their purse, seeing that he 
 has little further hope of being able to requite them. 
 He sees that by his sword alone can he in the future 
 hope for success; and, in short, he wishes' to quit 
 their dwelling at once. From this step they are aU 
 doing their best to dissuade him, when a letter is 
 brought in addressed to Captain Hargrave, which, 
 proves to be from the Lord Moreton, couched in the 
 most friendly terms, hiiiting that all his strong in- 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 83 
 
 iiuence will 'be used ;ia his favour, and containing an 
 invitation to meet him " at the Dolphin Tavern over 
 against Paul's." Sargrave and his friends are de- 
 lighted at the receipt of this letter, as they remember 
 that Hargrave had in one of the battles saved the 
 life of the Earl of Belmont, of whom Lord Moreton 
 is the only son. 
 
 The second scene represents a room in the Dolphin 
 Tavern, whither Hargrave has iminediately repaired. 
 Here he finds Lord Moreton, and his lordship's friend, 
 Beauchamp, awaiting him. Lord Moreton, who is a 
 young man, mates use of a few friendly common- 
 places to Hargrave, and introducing him' to his friend, 
 remarks how hard a case it is that so worthy a 
 Qavalier should be thus deprived of his rights. He 
 trusts, however, that ere long justice may be done. 
 He urges Hargrave to accept his purse as a gift, and 
 when the latter' demurs, he almost forces him to take 
 it as a loan, protesting that Hargrave is too proud. 
 Telling Hargrave that he (Lord Moreton) must at 
 once go to obtain the influence of a certain powerful 
 Duke in his favour, and apologizing for so speedily 
 quitting him, he leaves him a little while with 
 Beauchamp. This, as but too soon appears, has been 
 a mere ruse; for Beauchamp immediately begins to 
 unfold to Hargrave an infamous scheme, clearly hint- 
 ing that if he (Hargrave) will permit his wife to 
 minister to Lord Moreton's passion, he will reap most 
 material pecuniary advantages Hargrave is filled 
 ■jrith indignation, and, on Lord Moreton's return, 
 
 6—2 
 
84 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 thrusts back the purse, and threatens that if he does 
 not at once leave the house, he cannot be answerable 
 for the consequences. 
 
 In the next scene Hargrave, weary with grief and 
 wUd with anger, returns to Maynard's dwelling to 
 find his wife waiting for him in joyful expectation. 
 There are powerful elements here. We have the con- 
 trast between two persons bound by the closest ties, 
 loving one another dearly, having no concealments or 
 reservations, yet the wife is pained because for the 
 first time the husband cannot bring himself to speak ; 
 and the husband, on his part, is grieved because his 
 wife seems to misconstrue his silence. Thus there 
 very nearly arises a serious misunderstanding through 
 no fault of either. At length, however, enough is 
 explained. 
 
 In the following scene we find that Hargrave has 
 determined to make one final effort to obtain his 
 rights, and for this purpose determines once more to 
 send his wife to the Council. She departs on this 
 errand— certainly an extraordinary, if not an unnatural 
 one, in view of the fact that Hargrave knew that Lord 
 Moreton had previously practised against her honour. 
 Time elapses. She does not return ; and Hargrave, 
 filled with anxiety, rushes to .the house of Lord 
 Moreton, and with drawn sword demands to know 
 where his wife is. It should, perhaps, be said that 
 before he appears on this errand, we are distinctly 
 given to imderstand, from a hurried conversation 
 between Beauchamp and a creature of Lord Moreton's 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 8$ 
 
 named Madam de Grave, that the nobleman (?) had 
 compelled Mrs. Hargrave by force to enter his house. 
 Beauchamp puts Hargrave off with sneering and 
 lying words; and so the scene closes. 
 
 The succeeding scene again occurs in Maynard's 
 house, where in a bitter and somewhat unwarrantable 
 vein, Hargrave speaks doubtingly of his wife's fidelity. 
 She has not yet returned, and he presumes that she 
 has wantonly left him for Lord Moreton. Presently, 
 when all is bitterness and gloom, Mrs. Hargrave 
 bursts suddenly into the apartment. Being some- 
 what calmed, she slowly, and with many pauses most 
 natural under the circumstances, narrates her seizure 
 by Lord Moreton's hireUngs ; how Lord Moreton him- 
 self presently approached her, and repeatedly strove 
 to violate her honour. At length he had almost 
 effected k's purpose, when, in desperation, she per- 
 ceived a knife lying close at hand. She seized it, and 
 killed him. 
 
 This tragic recital is scarcely concluded when 
 Beauchamp, with officers of justice, bursts into the 
 room, and crying out that this, woman has murdered 
 Lord Moreton, seizes Mrs. Hargrave. Her husband 
 and the Maynards soothe and console her, telling 
 her that she wiU soon be released, and she is led 
 away. 
 
 Once more we see a chamber in Maynard's house. 
 Hargrave is anxiously awaiting tidings of his wife's 
 trial. Maynard enters, and tenderly breaks to him 
 the dreadful news that she is condemned. It is the 
 
86 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 old story — ^a trumped-up tale and perjured witnesses. 
 The fabrication in this instance being that Mrs. Har- 
 grave had already had a liaison with Lord Moreton, 
 and that she had killed him owing to his' refusal to 
 give Jier some jewels she wished to possess. The 
 friends are in agony, but Hargrave, controlling ihim- 
 self as much as possible, seeks an interview with his 
 wife. 
 
 Shortly after his departure. Madam de Grave appears, 
 and earnestly begging to see him, is in his absence 
 met by the Maynards. To them, with deep contrition 
 of heart, she tells that so great are the pangs of con- 
 science that she is unable longer to conceal her share 
 in the infamous plot which has resulted in Mrs. Har- 
 grave's condemnation. She beseeches them to go at 
 once, state the true facts of the case, and stay the 
 execution of the sentence ; a request which it is need- 
 less to say they accede to with alacrity. 
 
 The last scene is in some respects the most beauti< 
 ful. Mrs. Hargrave is discovered lying on a couch at 
 the back of the stage. Her husband enters the cell, 
 and their discourse is most touching. At length 
 Maynard joyfully arrives, makes known the happy 
 change of events, and tells how he has obtained a 
 respite preparatory to the King's pardon. 
 
 The Cavalier is written throughout in blank verse, 
 and with the single exception of the letter from Lord 
 Moreton to Hargrave, there is no prose dialogue what- 
 ever. The verse is always melodious and correct, but 
 there is sometimes rather too much of a tendency to 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 87 
 
 degenerate into prose diction cut into lengths. This is 
 perhaps, however, more owing to Whitehead's desire 
 to avoid theatrical bombast, and to make his characters 
 speak about the subjects which would naturally occupy 
 their talk in real life, rather than from any weakness 
 in the lines themselves. There is also an, absence of 
 the striking phrases which are so prominent elsewhere 
 in Whitehead's writings. 
 
 Here, however, is an exception. Hargrave says that 
 a temporary alleviation of grief is — 
 
 " Like the beam shot from a clouded moon, 
 Borrowed — and spent on darkness." 
 
 The following extract from the first scene is in- 
 teresting, and I quote the last scene in its entirety 
 as a favourable specimen of Whitehead's dramatic 
 powers. 
 
 Here is the extract from the first scene : 
 
 Mrs. M. Dear brother, be persuaded. Let not pride, 
 The weakness of great natures, and of mean ones 
 The poor disguise, find entrance in your bosom, 
 Displacing worthier inmates. Still be just 
 To us who love you, and your own noble heart : 
 We know what you would say ; leave it unsaid, 
 And what you really think us, show indeed. 
 By liberal acquiescence. 
 
 Ear. My dear sister, — 
 And Maynard, trusty and most trusted friend, 
 Lend me a moment's patience. Full two years 
 Have we been shelter'd by your roof, partaken 
 Your hospitable board, shar'd your free purse. 
 And for all benefits, of word, or depd. 
 Or of those nameless courtesies that make 
 
88 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 The vital air of friendship, have been still 
 Your grateful debtors : well, but hear me, Maynard, 
 I have beseech'd, nay,)have besieg'd the Council, 
 That they would lend an ear to my just claims ; 
 I would recover my estate, — 'tis mine 
 As truly as the King's crown his, — by blood ; 
 Blood which was shed, and freely, in his cause. 
 My claims are not allow'd ; well, what remains ? 
 I cannot stay with you : too long already 
 , Have I been wrapp'djin a deceitful hope, 
 Which is now worn to a shred : my sword alone 
 Must help me now, and it points out a road 
 To honourable service. 
 
 May. When we see 
 The road you speak of,^will I stay you ? No. 
 Like a tir'd host, I'll show you to the door, 
 Aye, hold the stirrup for you, and with smiles 
 Bid you good speed. Look you, proud Captain Hargrave ;- 
 Seated once more in your estate,|which yet 
 I must believe you will be, and^once more 
 First of the shire, with your broad lands before you. 
 O'er which the crow flies'wearily to roost 
 On your old tree-tops, you may hug your pride . 
 As closely as you will, but here you shall not. 
 
 B.ar. Maynard, it is not pride. 
 
 May. I'll warrant now, 
 Should fortune suddenly with one hand raise you. 
 And with the other thrust me to the earth, — 
 And should your sister here, and I, come to you, 
 With piteous tale of bankruptcy and ruin, 
 You would receive us with cold scorn — nay, bid us 
 Trace back the path we came. 
 
 Har. You do not think so : 
 You know me better, Maynard. 
 
 Mrs. M. He but jests 
 
 Forgive him, brother. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 89 
 
 May. "What, then, you would house us ? 
 You'd entertain us for a month, a year, 
 Would you % — a longer time, perhaps ? 
 
 Har. For ever, — 
 Or were I not tlie vilest slave alive. 
 What ! could I see my sister and yourself 
 In want, and I in want of heart to serve you, — 
 To bid you welcome to my house and lands, 
 And ask you share them ? Sir, you wrong me. 
 
 May. Well, then: 
 What pride is this that takes not, but must give ; 
 And asking sufferance for the thing it is, 
 
 Denies it to another % Come, no more 
 
 I shall be angry else. 
 
 This extract may not show Whitehead's dramatic 
 powers at their highest point, but it at least proves 
 his command over his materials, and his capacity for 
 expressing in the dramatic mould an unoriginal, even 
 commonplace, situation. 
 
 The following is the second scene of Act III., and con- 
 cludes the play. Few would be willing to deny its 
 powerful character, a power which grows more intense 
 towards the close. How fine are the. words of the 
 heroic wife when dissuading from self-destruction : 
 
 (Jfrs. Ear grave discovered lying on a couch at the back of the 
 
 stage.) 
 
 Enter Hargrave. 
 
 Har. She sleeps. Now, mercy, with thy sacred balm, 
 Anoint her soul, and the sweet dew of peace 
 Drop on her heart, that she may glow of Heaven, 
 Ere Heaven receive her pure and gentle spirit. 
 
90 A FORGOTTEN GEN/US. 
 
 (Mrs. Eargrave rises, and, perceiving her husband, approaches. 
 
 him.) 
 
 • Mrs. H. I have wish'd to see you, Henry; they have 
 
 made me 
 Guiltier than truth could make me — they have sought 
 My life, and they will take my life, by means 
 That even murder's self would shudder at. 
 One fear, and only one, remains : can you 
 Believe me the vile wretch they falsely make me ? 
 
 Ear. I have deserv'd this at your hands, and feel 
 The deep reproach. Oh, Margaret, Margaret, 
 My words are words that have no space to hold 
 The feelings that oppress me. Could my soul speak, 
 You had not ask'd that question. 
 
 Mrs. E, It has spoken. 
 Thank God for that. Forgive me — I am happy. 
 
 Ear. Can you be happy, in an hour like this ? 
 
 Mr^. E. I could — but to leave you and the dear children— 
 This is death's bitterness. i 
 
 Ear. They are protected. 
 
 Mrs. E. And you, dear Henry ? 
 
 Ear. Heaven will not desert me. 
 
 Mrs. E. In whom I trust. Oh, Henry, I have pray'd, 
 And have not pray'd in vain. No heart so weak. 
 But Heaven can iill it with an angel's strength : 
 That strength, my husband, is eflfus'd from prayer. 
 The world, which once, I fear, we lov'd too well. 
 Thought of too much — applied ourselves too long 
 In vain to satisfy, is pass'd away : 
 
 Like a thin shadow — which it is — 'tis vanish'd, - 
 
 Melted, and all my hopes are gone before me, 
 To the one kingdom. 
 
 Eoff. Why, 'tis well — 'tis well — 
 You have done with a most worthless world — 'tis well — 
 And through the wide and ever-open gate 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 91 
 
 Of death, would pass to glory — but the death, — 
 You have not thought of that — the ignominy-r- 
 The hideous shame, whose engines cauterise 
 Our name for ever : that might be escap'd. 
 Might it not be escap'd % I would out-tire 
 A thousand years in prison, so that this 
 Dishonour might be spar'd. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Do not talk thus : 
 Pray for me, rather, that my nature fail not 
 In the last dreadful moment. 
 
 Har. I cannot. 
 The time is near at hand, and I must speak. 
 This shall not bej I should go mad to know it — 
 I must not see you perish on the scaffold, 
 A public spectacle of shame — a show 
 For myriads to gaze upon with horror. 
 
 Mrs. Ear. Speak not thus wildly to me — ^it must be — > 
 My life is forfeit to the laws, and I 
 Must pay the penalty. 
 
 Har. Yes, but how ? but how 1 
 Forestall the act — anticipate the doom, — 
 We have the precious means in our hands. 
 
 Mrs. Har. What means are these ? 
 
 Har. Here ! {Produces a phial.) Let us die together. 
 
 Mrs. Har. Oh, weak, rash man ! what is a shameful death, 
 If this is glorious ? Because the night is dark. 
 Who calls the lightning? Do you wish to die 
 Because you fear to live, and yet would rush 
 Into a world of never-ending life, 
 And endless woe to those that come unsought. 
 Promise me this — swear to live— you will live. 
 We are not as ourselves, but as our keepers 
 In trust for others, dearer than ourselves, 
 And for their sake 
 
 Har. You torture me in vain. 
 I cannot bear the thought — must not endure it. 
 
92 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 You plead as ever, like yourself and virtue, 
 But ndw your words rebound from my full heart, 
 And fall unheeded. 
 
 Mrs. Ear. Yet reflect, reflect — 
 The power that has permitted the event 
 Forecasts the issue. Trust that — mistrust yourself. 
 
 May. (without.) Where are they? Conduct me to them 
 instantly. 
 
 Ear. They come to take their last farewell of you : 
 The time's at hand, and they will bear you hence 
 To instant execution. I will not live 
 To see it. 
 
 {Ear grave is about to take the poison, when Mrs. Eargrave, 
 with a shriek, snatches itfrorn, his hand.) 
 
 Enter Maynard, followed by his wife. 
 
 May. I have such tidings for you. 
 
 Mrs. Ear. Oh, speak them- — speak them ! 
 
 May. The woman has confess'd — Beauchamp's secur'd — 
 A respite has been granted — the King's pardon 
 Will follow it betimes. 
 
 {Eargrave drops upon his knees. ) 
 
 Mrs. E. {after aj)ause.) Oh, my friend — ' ,_; ,;;> 
 
 Your timely news has saved two lives — ^perhaps, '■' 
 
 Two souls — but that must not be dwelt on now. 
 My husband ! 
 
 Ear. Margaret ! \ITmi. embrace. 
 
 Mrs. Ear. Let none with impious doubt. 
 Suggest to Providence the way to guide him. 
 Who, when he least perceives, and would defy her, 
 Is then most prompt to serve him. 
 
 In Duncombe's British Theatre there is an acting 
 edition of The Cavalier. Duncombe's volume is with- 
 out date, but the copy at the British Museum bears 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A POET. 93 
 
 the British Museum mark, 7 June, 1852. The 
 edition of The Cavalier therein is stated to be 
 the "only edition correctly marked by permission 
 from the prompter's box"; to which is added a de- 
 scription of the costumes, cast of the characters, the 
 whole of the stage business, situations, entrances, 
 exits, properties and directions, as performed at ■ the 
 London theatres. It is also stated to be "embellished" 
 with an illustration " by Mr. Findlay, from a drawing 
 taken expressly in the theatre." This, however, is 
 neither specially remarkable nor attractive. 
 
 The character of Hargrave was played by the elder 
 Vandenhoff, the actor of classical parts ; and Miss 
 Ellen Tree, the tragedienne, appeared as Mrs. Har- 
 grave. Mr. J. Vining was also in the cast, as was 
 likewise Mr. Elton — I presume the same Elton to 
 whose family Charles Dickens was so kind after the 
 actor's death by drowning. 
 
 Although, as I have before said, there is considerable 
 force and pathos in the closing scene of The, Cavalier, 
 there is no doubt that in such a case poetic justice 
 dfeinanded that in order to complete a picture of 
 misfortune, every piece of good fortune should have 
 come to the hero and heroine too late. This would 
 have intensified the feeling of sympathy and regret 
 for their wrongs ; and it was thus that the play origin- 
 ally ended. Whitehead, however, in defereAce to popu- 
 lar clamour, changed the catastrophe. Thus a fine 
 poetic close was sensibly marred. 
 
 Whitehead nevertheless retained the altered version, 
 
94 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 and it appears botli in Buncombe's British Theatre 
 and in the collected edition of the poetical works, 
 pubHshed in 1849. There can be little doubt that, 
 with all its faults. The Cavalier entitles Whitehead to 
 recognition as a writer of poetical drama. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. 
 
 Charles Whitehead wrote, probably in conjunction 
 with his brother Alfred, and published anonymously 
 in 1834, The Autobiography of a Notorious Legal 
 Fvmctiono/ry, with fourteen illustrations from designs 
 by the well-known caricaturist, Kenny Meadows. Such 
 is the title on the title-page ; but on the half-title-page 
 it is simply termed The Autobiography of Jack Ketch. 
 This is the only book by Whitehead which appeared 
 without his name. Perhaps his reason for anonymity 
 is to be found in the character of its contents ; perhaps 
 in the fact that, haying produced in the same year 
 The Lives and Exploits of English HighAvaymen, 
 Pirates and Robbers, in two volumes, he did not wish 
 to be further identified by name at so short £^n interval 
 with subjects of such doubtful savour. It is signifi- 
 cant, also, that notwithstanding aU Whitehead's love of 
 Hterary extravagance, he never seems to have appended 
 his name to Jack Ketch, though the work ran through 
 many editions. 
 
 It is supposed to be the history of the functionary 
 whose name it bears, before he assumes his office. As 
 
96 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 we gather from the title, it is in the autobiographical 
 form, and in order to account for the diction being 
 more brilliant and the orthography more correct than 
 we should naturally expect from the person who 
 appears to speak. Whitehead has prefixed the fol- 
 lowing " Advertisement :" 
 
 " It may be deemed a pleasing evidence of candour to 
 confess that, in accordance with a modern usage adopted 
 by other great authors, our autobiographer has called in the 
 aid of an obscure man of letters, for the purpose of adjust- 
 ing his somewhat capricious orthography — of clipping his 
 vernacular tongue, so that it may speak with fluency and 
 correctness — and of applying salutary bandages to Priscian's 
 head. 
 
 " He has also employed him to stick a flower here and 
 there, throughbut the volume; and to throw in the re- 
 quired amount of mora! reflection. 
 
 " He has been further advised to announce the publica- 
 tion of his more mature experience, under the unambitious 
 title of Th& Ketch Papers, should the public receive with 
 due favour the performance which he now trenlblingly com- 
 mits to its merciful consideration." 
 
 One would almost have expected from the title of 
 the book that its subject-matter would have either 
 been treated in a light humourous manner, or from 
 the standpoint of broad farce. It is hardly conceiv- 
 able that any writer would produce in a serious mood 
 a volume loaded with such painful and often loathsome 
 details as a book dealing in sober earnest with the 
 hangman's life, especially in the older days, must 
 necessarily contain. But this work is a strange com- 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. 97 
 
 bination. Much of it is written in the lively, frolic- 
 some vein just alluded to, with a good deal of melo- 
 dramatic hysteria ; but there is not a little that is quite 
 tragical in its terrible and natural earnestness. This 
 is to be noticed in portions of the narrative of JoLck 
 Ketch proper, but pre-eminently in the incidental 
 episode entitled The Confession of JamesWUson, which 
 contains, despite its being at times far too terrible, the 
 finest writing in the book. 
 
 The Ketch Papers never seem to have been published, 
 at least there is no record of their existence in the cata- 
 logue of the British Museum. 
 
 Mr. John Ketch, according to this veracious auto- 
 biography, was born in the charming neighbourhood 
 of a narrow lane in the almost pathetically appropriate 
 vicinity of Newgate. When one thinks of the sweet 
 character this neighbourhood possesses even now, we 
 can readily mirror to ourselves the Elysium it would 
 be then. His father's " vocation, or rather vacation," 
 was that of a waiter. His mother was nominally a 
 washerwoman, and we are told that from behind these 
 two " masked batteries, these two defenders of our 
 small garrison were enabled to make such reprisals 
 on their common enemy — the world — as permitted 
 them to display as respectable an appearance in the 
 court as any of the few other inhabitants of that 
 colony could contrive to establish." 
 
 From the foregoing remarks it will be seen that the 
 book opens with plaj^ul humour and with little coarse- 
 ness. Any discerning reader may also catch the note 
 
 7 
 
98 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 on which Dickens afterwards produced such wonderful 
 effects. Years go on, and John is aheady a stirring 
 little boy, when one morning. his mother receives aii 
 intimation that his father has at length been caught 
 in the pursuit of his true calling, or, as Whitehead 
 .wittily puts it, " in the act of investing himself with 
 the authority of a distraining broker without any legal 
 warrant for such an investment." Themis was in- 
 exorable, and he' paid the usual penalty enforced in 
 those days, and that, speedily. Jack presently gets 
 admission to the parish school, and iills up the iater- 
 vals of learning by endeavouring to acquire the 
 initiatory gradations of the noble art of picking 
 pockets. His schoolmaster at the parish school is a 
 man named Misty, " a taU, thin, placid creature," and 
 it is remarkable that his character, as sketched in the 
 book, bears, as wiU be seen by my reference to it in a 
 previous chapter, distinct points of resemblance to 
 that of Charles Whitehead himself. He is a marked 
 personality in the book, and meets and converses with 
 Ketch long after a change of fortune had caused him 
 to cease to be a scholastic drudge. 
 
 Ketch's uijcle is the hangman; and upon his mother's 
 being obhged to take a lengthened voyage abroad at 
 Government exjpense, he went to live with this relative. 
 By-and-by, however, there ensued in, the avuncular 
 household a connubial quarrel, and in consequence of it 
 John goes to an attorney's office, where as a junior he 
 is also to reside. Snavel, the, attorney, proves an un- 
 scrupulous practitioner, and Ketch is not slow jn 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. 99 
 
 acquirmg the more disreputable of his attaiaments. 
 On his attemptiag to decamp with a client's money, 
 Ketch and another clerk, Wisp; prevent his doing so 
 until they have extorted black-mail. 
 
 Ketch soon commences a career of petty larceny, thus 
 enabling Whitehead to show his intimate knowledge of 
 the life of the lower classes in London. Ketch marries 
 a sweet young girl, who soon dies, in a great measure 
 owing to his unconscious cruelty, want of sympathy, 
 and misapprehension of her character. It is note- 
 worthy that, at this point in the narrative. Whitehead 
 makes Ketch exhibit emotions and express sentiments 
 altogether more noble than we conceive the mind of such 
 ' a man capable of, and for a while the style of writing 
 ceases entirely to be farcical and becomes genuinely 
 pathetic. It does not continue so, however, but gradu- 
 ally grows pregnant once more with too much false melo- 
 drama. Ihavebeen in great doubt as to whether to quote 
 the following passage. It has reference to the death of 
 Ketch's uncle, and exemplifies in a marvellous manner 
 Whitehead's grim humour and also his remarkable 
 dramatic instinct. Indeed, the embryo hangman's 
 admiration of the "new tie" is matchless from a 
 certain point of view. I cannot, however, but entertain 
 doubts as to whether a writer is justified in making a 
 humorous use of such a situation. Ketch has been 
 summoned to his uncle's house, and entering hurriedly, 
 wonders for what he can be wanted. He is told to go 
 upstairs into a certain room. The extract must now 
 speak for itself: 
 
 7—2 
 
100 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 " Here the mystery was at an end. Suspended from a 
 beam by a brand new rope, which he had exhibited to me on 
 the Saturday evening as the particular line he had selected 
 for the suspension of Wilmot,* hung my imprudent, and, 
 perhaps, culpably rash uncle ; and at the corner of his left 
 ear stuck out a knot which for intricacy of tie and ingenuity 
 of construction, rivalled that which is termed, 'par excellence, 
 a true-lover's knot. The chair by which he had raised him- 
 self to a line with the fatal noose, had either fallen or had 
 been kicked from beneath his feet ; and methought, as he 
 hung, surely never had twisted hemp borne so interesting 
 an appendix. He looked like a pair of sugar nippers ; but 
 alas ! unlike in this, — that he was never more to nip the 
 sweets of existence in this sublunary world. 
 
 " I cut him down ; but life had, I dare say, been long 
 extinct ; and to endeavour to recall him to this lower world, 
 would have been not only a fruitless and unprofitable, but 
 also an absurd, task : — for the debt of Nature once satisfied 
 is not easily renewable, — the old lady bearing an antipathy 
 to such proceedings, similar to that of Falstaff, — who ' liked 
 not that paying back.' 
 
 " In default of any available elixir, therefore, I was fain 
 to set my ingenuity at work to discover some probable or 
 plausible reasons for the commission of so unexpected a 
 climax to my uncle's period of sojourn in the flesh, and was 
 baffled and perplexed at all points. Could any considera- 
 tion in which Wilmot was included — any unaccountable 
 tenderness on that score, have superinduced this paltry 
 evasion of his professional duties 1 Impossible ! the whole 
 tenor of his life forbade the humiliating conclusion. Could 
 the memory of his wife so distract his sea 'of troubles as to 
 cause him to run into this unfriendly harbour i If so, he 
 
 The criminal who was to suffer that morning. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. loi 
 
 deserved thes, rope's-end to which he had subjected himself, 
 as a hopeless and pusillanimous lubber. No ; it was clearly 
 an unsuccessful experiment. I examined the knot again 
 and again ; it was a new tie ; simple, and yet how complex J 
 admirable for its completeness, and yet, in its negligence, 
 how picturesque ! . Tyburn had never witnessed such a tie ; 
 nor had Newgate hitherto glanced at such a noose. I 
 preserved it as an invaluable work of art. I admired the 
 design while its execution I deplored." 
 
 Writing like this is certainly open to the charge of 
 excess ; nay more, even to that of irreverence, using 
 the word in its broadest sense, and there is too much 
 self-consciousness in it, but it is nevertheless, dramati- 
 cally, very striking. 
 
 Jack desires to succeed his uncle in his office, and 
 with this view he writes an eloquent letter to the 
 Sheriff. The Sheriff appoints an interview, and with 
 much trepidation of spirit Jack goes. This is the 
 account of that interview : 
 
 '"Can you hang?' 
 
 " ' I can, sir ; I studied under my late uncle, by whom I 
 was considered ' 
 
 II ( ( 
 
 ' Silence ! Are you fully alive to the particular duties 
 which the important office you will occupy calls upon you 
 to discharge % Hold your tongue, and don't interrupt me. 
 Do you know that you may be required to hang your own 
 father, mother, grandfather, grandmother, — nay, every 
 relative you have in the world ; and that you will be called 
 upon to swear that you will do these things if occasion 
 demands V 
 
 "I answered that I was perfectly aware of these con- 
 tingencies, and quite willing to take the required oath. 
 
I02 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 " ' Good,' said the ordinary. ' Are you aware,' he con- 
 tinued, ' of the responsibility and the respectability of the 
 office?' 
 
 " I looked blank at this question. Was Kilderkin, serious? 
 He was. 
 
 "'Consider,' said he encouragingly, — 'consider for a 
 moment. You are performing an operation properly belong- 
 ing to the sheriff — ^you are the representative of the sheriff 
 — ^you are equal with the sheriff.' , 
 
 "'Equal with the sheriff?' cried Hopkins, turning sud- 
 denly round ; ' nay, Mr. Kilderkin, not exactly so, surely.' 
 Kilderkin nodded his head. 
 
 " Hopkins scratched his. ' Eh ?' said he, ' do you class 
 us together? Do we go abreast like horses in a curricle, 
 jpassibus equis, as we used to say at Merchant Taylors' ?' 
 
 " ' Passibus asinis,' cried the ordinary ; ' stuff — nonsense 
 . — ^fudge. I say, Mr. Hopkins, that for the time, mark me, 
 for the time, Mr. Ketch fills your situation. ^ He is your 
 lomm tenens — ^he does your work. Qui facit per alivm, fadt 
 per se — ^he who does a thing through another, does it virtually 
 himself. If you. pick a man's pocket with a dead man's 
 fingers, I'll warrant you won't get dummy to hold up his 
 hand in the dock : you suffer in projprid persond.' Here 
 Kilderkin chuckled amazingly, while a no less amazing 
 gravity drew down the visage of Hopkins. 
 
 "'Do you understand all that I have said to you?' 
 resumed the ordinary ; ' do you subscribe to it ; are you 
 willing to undertake the situation, and to perform every- 
 thing that shall be required of you, proper iand peculiar to 
 it?' 
 
 "I expressed my readiness to do all these things, 
 and manifested my gratitude by raany broken sentences 
 of thankfulness and respect, and slidings of the foot 
 behind me; and every other ceremony proper to the 
 occasion. 
 
 " 'Very good,' said Kilderkin, 'very good. Now, then. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. 103 
 
 take one word of advice. Never hang the wrong. man — 
 never fail to hang the right one ; and never hang yourself, 
 as your poor simple uncle did. ' And now,' and he rose and 
 approached Hopkins, ' I think we may say that this young 
 man may take it for granted that he is to succeed his kins- 
 man in his duties, .and that he may prepare to get his hand 
 in, at kll events, forthwith.' 
 
 '■' ' I think so,' said Hopkins. ' You may prepare, young 
 man, to get your hand in forthwith ; and in due time you 
 will be sworn into your office.' 
 
 "Again I mumbled the same sentiments of gratitude and 
 respect, and with many profound bows retired from their 
 presence." 
 
 , Jack Ketch was first published by Edward Churton, 
 of 26, Holies Street, Cavendish Square, one of the 
 co-pubhshers of the Highwayvxen, but from some 
 cause or another the third edition, appearing in 1838, 
 and of which I possess a copy, was published by J. 
 Chidley, of 123, Aldersgate Street. Perhaps Mr. 
 Ghurton found that his library subscribers no longer 
 liked his connection with so " notorious " a work. The 
 justice of this supposition is further strengthened by 
 the fact that an edition of the ' Highwaymen was 
 published in 1842 by Bohn. Anyhowj Mr. Churton's 
 firm was still in existence in 1838, for a hst of, his 
 books appears at the end of the Jack Ketch edition of 
 that year. 
 
 I have thought it best to deal separately with The 
 Confession of James Wilson, both because of its being 
 entirely distinct from" the rest of the book, and also 
 because it is incomparably the finest thing in it. It is 
 
104 ^ FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 introduced by Whitehead as & manuscript which has 
 been given by a criminal, before he ascended the 
 scaffold, to Ketch's uncle, who requested Ketch to read 
 it to him. 
 
 It is the history of a very sad, crime-stained life, 
 and is supposed to be an account of the criminal's 
 career, written by himself the night before he suffered, 
 in the hope that by writing it he might, in some degree, 
 lessen his load of guilt-^a load which to him had been 
 life-long. It may perhaps be well here to state that 
 though this episode is unquestionably one of the 
 finest single things in the book, it is not so beca;Use the 
 story itself or the characters present notable points 
 of novelty, but because of the literary workmanship, 
 which is singularly powerful It is hardly too much 
 to say that the story is one of the most realistic pro- 
 ducts which Whitehead has given us, even if it were 
 Tash to affirm that it is one of the most extraordinary 
 products of its kind in our literature. The analysis of 
 r-emotion is thrilling in its detail, and the descriptive 
 passages are quite the finest of theit kind in White- 
 head. 
 
 I shall endeavour briefly to give a summary of the 
 tale ; but in such a case it is very difficult — indeed, im- 
 possible — to convey any idea of the force and vitality 
 of diction which gives to the tale its chief interest. 
 
 James Wilson is the son of a poor country clergy- 
 man. He is an only child, and his mother has died in 
 i.is early childhood. His boyhood is spent among the 
 .(jgnnoblilig influences appertaining to a quiet rural exist- 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. 105 
 
 ence. His father constantly endeavours to instil into 
 his mind religious and moral principles. By-and-by 
 a sister of his mother's dies, leaving an only daughter 
 of about his own age. This girl, named Lucy Cowley, 
 is possessed of a small competence, and it was her 
 mother's last wish that she should go to reside with 
 Wilson's father. The. inmates of the little household 
 soon begin to discover that this addition to their small 
 circle is„a very pleasant one, and James, who had been 
 formerly rather backward in his studies, and has been 
 of an untractable disposition, becomes softened by his 
 ge&de companion's influence. Of course, the familiar 
 result ensues, and the older members of the house- 
 hiold begin already to speak among themselves of a 
 union in the far future. 
 
 As time passes, it happens that the clergyman has 
 occasion to go to London, and while there, casually 
 meets with a former college companion who is possessed 
 of ample means. This gentleman has a son whom he 
 is anxious to place for two or three years with a 
 clergyman in order to prepare him for the University, 
 and he proposes to place him under his friend's care. 
 Yery naturally, Wilson's father is willing to accede to 
 this proposal, and returns to his country home accom- 
 panied by the youth, whose name is Beaumont. 
 Beaumont is about a year older than James,' and in 
 the sketch of his personahty Whitehead gives us a 
 beautiful study of a frank, noble, high-spirited lad, as 
 generous as he is gifted. He is one whom it is im- 
 jpossible to know without loving, and James himself 
 
i65 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 becomes sincerely attached to him, and strange as it 
 may seem, ever remains so. Francis Beaumont has 
 greater ability than James Wilson, and is also hand- 
 somer. His superiority in the former of thege respects 
 is so marked, that almost unconsciously even Wilson's 
 father would remind his son of it indirectly ; and on 
 one occasion he congratulates him on his progress in 
 study, and adds that he is not as far behind his friend 
 Frank " as might be expected." These remarks have 
 a distinct effect on the peculiarly morbid vindictive- 
 ness of the boy's nature, and at length, when .he begins 
 to perceive that even Lucy's girlish affection has gone 
 forth to Beaupaont and been reciprocated, he broods 
 constantly over his wrongs, and entertains vague 
 thoughts of vengeance. And. yet he loves Beaumont. 
 One day he is so overcome by suspicion and jealousy 
 as to listen secretly at a door and overhear a conver- 
 sation between Beaumont and Lucy, in which they 
 speak of their mutual love and their future marriage. 
 Lucy also ridicules James's personal defects. A little 
 while afterwards James meets Beaumont in the orchard 
 and accuses him of listening to what " that girl " had 
 said concerning himself. A quarrel ensues, Beaumont 
 accusing James of eavesdropping, and they almost 
 come to blows. Presently Beaumont enters James's 
 room and offers a full and manly apology. But this 
 has come too late as far as James is concerned. He 
 begs that their friendship may be considered at an 
 end. So they part. Beaumont is to go the same 
 afternoon to visit some friends at ^ neighbouring 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. 107 
 
 country town, arid, not expecting to return until late, 
 he obtains tlie key of the door, so as to avoid keeping 
 any of the family out of bed on his account. James 
 is now maddened by revenge, and, urged by some half- 
 determined idea, he resolves to meet Beaumont as he 
 returns. 
 
 The following extract tells what immediately 
 ensues : — 
 
 "It was a beautiful moonlight midsummer night. I 
 raised the window cautiously, and looked out. All was 
 silent. The roof of a wash-house rose within a foot of my 
 window, grown over with stone-crop and aged moss : it was 
 a safe venture for the feet. I got out, and thence descended 
 into the garden by a ladder, which I had placed against the 
 tUes during the afternoon. But I had forgotten to close 
 my window, and climbed up again for that purpose. 
 Within my chamber all was stillness and peace : it was full 
 of the moonlight, and every object around was distinctly 
 visible. There was my ^iWe lying upon the drawers by 
 my bedside — oh! should I return? should I delay my 
 purpose ? should I cast it from me for ever, and step once 
 more into the pale of heavenly forgiveness ? My head swam 
 round, and my eyes were dizzy and full of a watery humour; 
 — they were not tears. Eternity hung upon that moment. 
 I closed the window, and descended into the garden. A 
 few minutes' hasty walk, and I had crossed the orchard, and 
 getting over a ditch, and proceeding along a field-path, I 
 found myself in the highroad. 
 
 " What had I come forth at this hour of the night to do ? 
 What was I about to become ? Who was I % These ques- 
 tions whirled through my brain as I reeled aloiig like a 
 drunken man ; but I dare not, or could not, answer them 
 to myself. And now my mind misgave me, and my knees 
 smote together with dreadful violence. When I think upon 
 
io8 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 that hour I almost pity myself, for then indeed I was a 
 wretched creature. I had left my father's house at dead of 
 night, liable to be discovered, and yet afraid to return; 
 something commanded me to proceed, and I wrung my 
 hands together, and moaned in the direful agony of my 
 spirit. At this moment the sound of coach wheels arrested' 
 my attention. I had just time to conceal myself behind a 
 hedge when the London mail drove rapidly past, and the 
 sound of the horn announced its approach to our village.. 
 A thought struck me — should I hasten to London 1 — fly at 
 once and for ever from a place where nothing but mortifica- 
 tion and misery awaited me, and, seeking for employment 
 in some obscure corner of the metropolis, endeavour to 
 procure a living for myself, and become a respectable and a 
 happy man 1 Alas ! I had but a few shillings about me ; 
 and, utterly without recommendations or knowledge of man- 
 kind, how should I fare in a place like London 1 Besides, 
 should I leave the field to Beaumont? Should I relinquish 
 Lucy, whom I had sworn to obtain 1 abandon my father, 
 whose declining years I had promised to watch over and 
 protect 1 ' No, no,' I muttered, and my self-possession 
 returned ; ' I will not verify their opinion of me at home — 
 I will not turn out the fool they think me. Beaumont 
 shall not live to exult over my downfall ; and my father 
 shall, perhaps, live long enough to know that he has been 
 the unconscious instrument of embittering the youth, and 
 blighting the aspirations of his son. I can forgive him and 
 
 Lucy ; but Beaumont ' I started, for a well-known 
 
 whistle reached my ear. Beaumont was returning, evidently 
 in high spirits, whistling a tune which I knew to be a 
 favourite." 
 
 This familiar sound, which indicated Beaumont's 
 approach, had the effect of rousing into uncontrollable 
 fierceness Wilson's rage against him. He seized a 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. log 
 
 sharp flint and struck him violently. Beaumont was 
 much injured, but succeeded in rising and struggling 
 forward a few paces. He said a few words of mingled 
 pity and reproach to Wilson. Wilson/after giving him 
 the first blow, had, by a strange revulsion of feeling, 
 run towards him murmuring that he did not know 
 what he had done. But instead of being made peni- 
 tent by hearing Beaumont's words, his former feelings 
 returned, and he sought to stab him with an old knife 
 he had found the previous afternoon. There was a 
 brief but desperate struggle. Beaumont, with the 
 fearful energy which contends for life, tried to parry 
 the thrusts of his adversary, and for a little while 
 succeeded in doing so with his hands. At length; 
 however, the fatal thrust was given, and he fell 
 dead. 
 
 Terrible now is Wilson's agony. With a loud cry 
 he flings his weapon from him, and, distracted, is over- 
 whelmed with the thought of what he has done. But 
 even in such straits of mind the instinct of self-pre- 
 servation makes itself felt ; and acting according to its 
 dictates, Wilsph rifles Beaumont's pockets of what they 
 contain, and flinging a heavy purse into a neighbouring 
 pond, so that the motive of the cririie might be sup- 
 posed to be robbery, he creeps stealthily back to the 
 house. 
 
 I have thus endeavoured to give some idea of this 
 part of the story. The incident as told by Whitehead is 
 intensely real We seem to see the very scene enacted 
 before us. But his account has many elements of the 
 
no A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 terrible and ghastly, and wliilst thus in style very fine, 
 is almost too horrible for quotation. The horror of 
 the succeeding hours of that night Wilson never could 
 forget. At first, as forsooth his vengeance (?) was 
 satisfied, he began to reflect on his amiable class-mate 
 whom he had formerly loved, and even now loves as 
 a brother. But soon come more ignoble thoughts ; he 
 is concerned for his personal > safety, and wonders how 
 he can avoid suspicion, fearing that his very looks will 
 betray him. The morning comes.. Lying in agony on 
 his bed, he has seen the " grey night wear away," and 
 hears the first twitter of the birds among the boughs, 
 and perceives the' first " streak of morning " tinge the 
 eastern clouds.. (Whitehead, with the true knowledge 
 of the contrast which would be most striking here, has 
 represented the dawn of a glorious day.) Presently 
 Wilson hears the man-servant go forth, and knows 
 that ere long the murder wiU be discovered. His sur- 
 mises are correct. Soon he hears the sound of excited 
 voices, then footsteps, and well he knows what dtead 
 burden is being carried into the house. Very shortly 
 afterwards his father seeks to awaken him (for he has 
 feigned deep sleep), and in great distress brings Tiim 
 the direful tidings. Wilson is fiUed with emotion, an 
 emotion which his father naturally misconstrues. ' 
 
 "Beaumont looks beautiful in death. They have 
 covered his wounds and strewn flowers on his corpse. 
 Wilson is deeply and sincerely affected, and sits down 
 by the body of his former comrade. Lucy and his father 
 leave the room, and, perhaps scarce conscious of what 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. in 
 
 he is doing, lie takes the hand of his " injured friend " 
 Suddenly some blood exudes from the wound, and with 
 a loud cry he faints. 
 
 ., When he once more becomes conscious, he finds his 
 father and the housekeeper near him, and the former 
 tenderly yeproves him for overmuch sorrow. He is 
 filled with fear which almost amounts to superstition. 
 He resolves to devote his life to repentance, is over- 
 whelmed with remorse, and remains almost incessantly 
 watching the corpse until the funeral is over. The mur- 
 dered boy's father, who has been summoned, conceiyes 
 such a favourable impression of his character from his 
 conduct, that, before leaving, he places a twenty-pound 
 note in his hand. A day or two afterwards, Wilson's 
 father informs him that a man has been arrested on sus- 
 picion of having committed the murder. James is fiUed 
 with renewed anguish at his words, and becomes so ill 
 that he is carried to bed with a strong tendency to fever. 
 This, however, he overcomes with a great effort, as he 
 fears the disclosures of delirium. By-and-by James 
 learns that the man has been released through want 
 of sufficient evidence, and something prompts him to 
 go at once to him and give him the twenty pounds as 
 a smaU recompense for the' loss of character he must 
 sustain. The man, whose name is Williams, is some- 
 what astonished at this unexpected generosity, and for 
 a moment looks suspicious, but the shade of doubt 
 appears to pass away, and they part. 
 
 Years roU on. Beaumont's murder ceases even in 
 this quiet country place to be the perpetual theme of 
 
112 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 conversation. Wilson has never been tlie same since, 
 but his former hopes have revived, and he is presently 
 to marry Lucy. 
 
 On the night preceding his marriage he has a dream, 
 a dream which has ' visited him often, and in which 
 every circumstance of the never-to-be-forgotten event 
 which has embittered aU his life is enacted over 
 again, with, perchance, increased horror. He awakes, 
 " feverish and unrefreshed," and with the undefinable 
 dread which sometimes remains with him for months, 
 and then only leaves him to return with even greater 
 force. The subsequent portion of the narrative is one 
 of the very finest in Whitehead. It narrates how 
 WUson, terrified lest his friends should perceive his 
 strange demeanour, had to feign previous sickness as 
 an excuse for it ; how very soon he recovered his 
 composure, and marvelled at his previous fears ; how 
 his bride was calm and apparently happy ; how by-and- 
 by, when the nuptial procession set out on its way to 
 the church, the villagers thronged round, anxious to 
 testify to the general rejoicing, and to show that the 
 two persons most nearly concerned were the chief 
 favourites of the place; how many a blessing and 
 good wish were heard by James, and each one of them 
 " fell like a curse " on his soul. During these moments 
 his thoughts are aU of Beaumont. He reflects on the 
 main cause of his former hatred to him, and recollects 
 that it was in reality the fear lest Beaumont, not him- 
 self, should marry Lucy. His is the triumph ; he has 
 won the day ; but what has he lost ? 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. 113 
 
 Lucy and himself are now in the church, and he 
 suddenly remembers that he must pass near Beau- 
 mont's tomb, and that the very echoes of his foot- 
 steps -will vibrate through the ashes of his murdered 
 companion. 
 
 " As we knelt before the altar, my feet were resting on 
 the gravestone ; and as my father proceeded with the ser- 
 vice, and I looked up to make the responses, my eyes fell 
 upon the Ten Commandments, nor had I power to avert 
 them. As I gazed, were my eyes dazzled ? Was it strong 
 imagination % No, no, there was the terrible sixth com- 
 mandment, ' Thou shalt do no murder.' A vivid and close 
 lire burnt along each letter of each word, and gradually 
 brought the divine prohibition before me, so that I might 
 have touched it with my hand. It was no human power 
 that supported me till the conclusion of the ceremony, when 
 with a heavy groan I fell back senseless." 
 
 At length they restore him to consciousness, and 
 he finds himself surrounded by solicitous friends con- 
 cerned at his sudden illness. But they do not guess 
 his secret. How can they ? He has kept it so well. 
 How bitterly he feels the mockery implied in this 
 phrase : 
 
 " I attempted to rise, but something held me back : I 
 looked down ; I had been lying on the grave of Beaumont4 
 Was it an angel of heaven that whispered to me at that 
 moment in mercy to my wretchedness ] I bowed my head, 
 and breathed a prayer — a short prayer to my poor friend ; 
 and I knew that from that hour forgiveness would be ex- 
 tended to me, and that he would intercede for me, and 
 that I should at length find pardon from above." 
 
 He arose far more calm and tranquil than he had 
 
 8 
 
114 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 felt for years, and vowed that for Beaumont's sake be 
 would make his young wife as happy as such a man as 
 he was could. 
 
 " « Poor Beaumont !' sighed my father, as we prepared 
 to leave the church. He had been musing over the short 
 and simple inscription. Lucy sighed also, and her hand 
 was pressed against my arm involuntarily. ' Poor Beau- 
 mont !' I repeated to myself; 'happy — happy— thrice happy 
 — lamented with sincerityr— moUrned by the wise and good, 
 and dying ere sin or sorrow could mar or obscure that noble 
 heart !' Could I have exchanged my fate with his ? but no, 
 I wished not that. Had I but died, and, were he living to 
 enjoy the happiness which he might have deserved, and 
 which I could never hope to attain in this world ! But let 
 me draw my narrative to a close ; for the night wears apace, 
 and my strength is almost spent." 
 
 All this is the very highest style of art. The 
 passages descriptive of the marriage ceremony are 
 truly magnificent in their intensity and imagiriative 
 ardour. 
 
 During seven years all went well. James was com- 
 paratively happy, ahd his father still lived to rejoice in 
 the innocent pleasures of his grandchildren. He was 
 growing old, however, and one day, finding himself Ul, 
 he knew that he was dying. His son was alone with 
 him at his bedside, and the father, in pathetic tones, 
 - thanked him for having been throughout life a dutiful 
 son, and told him that he had never given his father 
 a moment's uneasiness. Very naturally the son expe- 
 rienced defep agony of mind on hearing this. His 
 conscience could not bear the strain of so much unde- 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. iij 
 
 served eulogy. He felt that he must now reveal to 
 his father the secret of his crime. He began to do 
 so, but the thought of embittering his father's last 
 moments caused him to pause. Perceiving his reti- 
 cence, his father begged to hear what it was that 
 preyed upon him, and referred to the " foolish quarrel " 
 James had had with Beaumont the day before the 
 latter's murder. James, horror-stricken, ejaculated an 
 inquiry as to when he had heard of this. His father 
 told him that the housekeeper had overheard them, 
 and told him years ago, but that he had never men- 
 tioned the fact, lest it should grieve his son. But 
 while in the very act of saying this, something in 
 James's look told him the sequel of the quarrel. He 
 strove to speak, but fell back dead. 
 
 I have dwelt too long already on this episode in the 
 book, and wiU not attempt to recount Wilson's subse- 
 quent agony of mind, an agony of mind which he had 
 to bear alone ; nor the humiliating interview which he 
 soon after had with Williams, whose silence he was 
 forced to buy in an ignominious manner. I will 
 hasten on to the last incident in this direful history. 
 • One fine summer evening Wilson's children had, as 
 usual, been playing in the fields, and on their return 
 were eagerly conversing among themselves, when their 
 father entered the room. More with a view to divert 
 his thoughts than for any real interest in the matter, 
 he desired them to tell him the subject of discussion, 
 when his eldest boy came forward and showed him an 
 old rusty knife which he said they had found " in the 
 
 8—2 
 
Ii6 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 hedge of the orchard field." It was the knife with 
 which their father had murdered Beaumont so many 
 years before. Great was Wilson's anguish at beholding 
 this evidence of his guilt, and he was hardly able to 
 ask his children to go to their mother ; but at length, 
 with a great effort, he did so. He felt as if he were 
 going mad. His wife entered the room, and inquired 
 whether anything had occurred. He replied in the 
 negative, but asked her to take the children to bed. 
 She perceived that something was greatly amiss, and 
 left him for awhile to his own distempered musing, 
 and he heard her whispering to the children to ascend 
 the stairs softly, as their father was very ill. By-and- 
 by she re-enters the room, and then her husband 
 makes the terrible disclosure. 
 
 She becomes insensible, and for hours remains in 
 this condition ; and when at length she recovers con- 
 sciousness, she spurns her husband from her. He en- 
 treats her to have pity on him, but in vain, and for 
 three days he tends, her, but aU his endeavours to 
 shake her obduracy are fruitless. On the night of 
 the third day he goes downstairs, and the old evil 
 thoughts which he had once encouraged return to 
 tempt him ; and, alas ! he yields to them. Next morn- 
 ing he rises early, and drawing a phial from his pocket 
 which he had carried for years, " lest it should be re- 
 quired in a case of sudden emergency," he pours its 
 contents into a warm drink which he has prepared. 
 This he takes to his wife, but as usual she refuses 
 anything from his hands. In this instance, however, 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. 117 
 
 he insists, and she obeys. He knows little more until 
 his youngest child enters an upper room where he is, 
 and tells him that her mother is very ill. He enters 
 his wife's room, and finds her dying. She speaks 
 pitying words to him, words of forgiveness. Ah, how 
 he regrets that these words had not been spoken sooner ! 
 She dies, and he disappears, hardly knowing for what 
 purpose, for the gift of life is to him no longer worth 
 possessing. The next morning he is found by one of 
 his own men, and given up to justice. The closing 
 lines of the confession are very pathetic, and exem- 
 pHfy clearly what would, in the imagined situation, be 
 naturally the reflections of a man of this character at 
 such a moment. 
 
 There can be no doubt that The Confession of James 
 Wilson, as a whole, is exceedingly fine, not so much, 
 as 1 have said, from any points of novelty in the cha- 
 racters themselves, or in the situations depicted, as 
 from the brilliant workmanship and the thrilling 
 analysis of emotion. Wilson is not by nature a bad 
 man. He has been betrayed into one bad action, and 
 that deed, once committed, entails the rest. I think it 
 was, however, an artistic mistake on Whitehead's part 
 to make Wilson poison his wife. We can bring our- 
 selves to extenuate the boyish crime, but we can hardly 
 forgive the outrage on our sympathies caused by the 
 later atrocity. Had Whitehead permitted Mrs. Wil- 
 son to live on after a knowledge of her husband's 
 crime, the vestige of former love and a regard for her 
 children would have been sufiBcient to deter her from 
 
ii8 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 bringing him to justice,' and the mingled emotions of 
 their future intercourse would have enabled White- 
 head to employ one of his finest gifts — the gift of 
 creating and describing varied impulses and moods 
 of mind. But even as it stands, The Confession, in its 
 , entirety, is almost, if not quite, equal to Victor Hugo's 
 Last Day of a Condemned Man. 
 
 Whitehead published in 1834 — although I am in- 
 clined to believe he may have written it many years' 
 earher — a book entitled Lives and Exploits of English 
 Highwaymen, Pirates, and Robbers. On the title- 
 page we are informed that the contents of the book 
 are " drawn from the earUest and most authentic 
 sources, and brought down to the present time ; with 
 sixteen engravings by Messrs. Bagg." Considering 
 the direful and awe-inspiring character of the narra^ 
 tives, it is truly, dreadful to reflect that there were 
 materials for them down to 1834. The present writer 
 does not remember 1834, but he knows many per- 
 sons who do, and as he has never heard from them 
 such terrifying details as are here given, he would fain 
 beheve that the statement that his great book was 
 brought down to date was made by that important 
 personage " C. Whitehead, Esq.," in order, if possible, 
 to heighten the gloomy and tragical char9,cter of the 
 communications he is about to make to his readers. 
 
 The following are some specimens of the contents 
 of the book. It were well to state that W^hitehead is 
 far too gallant to exclude ladies from this category of 
 eminent persons, and not to be outdone by him in this 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. 119 
 
 respect, I shall deal with them first. I presume they 
 belong to the last-named class on the title-page, for 
 they call hardly be called highwaymen, and I never 
 yet heard of a female pirate, unless it be a young lady 
 novelist who; pirates from a more ingenious romancer 
 the salient features of one of hi^ plots. 
 
 Eighteen pages are taken up in the first volume 
 with an account of the "German Princess." This 
 madam was born at Canterbury in a humble station, 
 but through her pre-eminent arilatory abilities, and 
 the amazing faculties she possessed of getting scot- 
 free from her numerous lovers when she had fleeced 
 them, she lived for a long period in great affluence. 
 She was at length hanged. 
 
 Ann Harris was an exceedingly juvenile young lady 
 when she matriculated at the coUege of Crime, and in 
 three years she was " thrice a hempen widow." A re- 
 markable story is told about her, which, if true, goes 
 to prove that she was endowed with much originality 
 of invention and fertility of resource. Qne day she 
 resolved to commit an extensive robbery, but before 
 doing so, called on a physician who kept a private 
 ■lunatic asylum, representing herself as an unfortunate 
 matron whose husband she much feared was becoming 
 mentally deranged, and would soon require to be placed 
 under restraint. His principal hallucination was that 
 his wife owed him money in payment of goods supplied 
 to her. She heard what the -doctor had to say, and, 
 agreeing if necessary to place her husband under his 
 care, went her way. In the afternoon of the same day she 
 
120 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 went to the shop of a large mercer and bought very 
 extensively from him. She then agreed with him that 
 he should return with her in her coach to her residence 
 in order to receive payment ; but instead of driving to 
 where she lived, the carriage was driven to the lunatic 
 asylum mentioned above. Here, at a sign from her, 
 several lusty men seized the unfortunate mercer and 
 nolcThs volena dragged him inside. In a few lachry- 
 mose words she explained the situation to the phy- 
 sician, who listened to her with a willing ear. The 
 . doctor immediately proceeded to examine his patient, 
 and said that he, poor gentleman, was very bad in- 
 deed ; the more so as he, on being accused of lunacy, 
 and being still held with anything but a fairy touch by 
 the strong men, bellowed for his money or his goods, 
 in addition to, it is. needless to say, stoutly asserting 
 his sanity. 
 
 In short. Madam Harris's little stratagem succeeded 
 to admiration, and on her retirement from the scene, 
 the doctor gave the most drastic instructions as to the 
 mode of treatment and regimen to be given to the 
 patient, the principal feature of the dietary being weak 
 barley-water until his mind was restored, Ann Harris 
 had, however, the grace, as soon as she had got a 
 sufficient distance away with her booty, to write 
 to the mercer's wife, telling her of her husband's 
 deplorable phght, and pohtely requesting her to 
 release him. 
 
 It is always sad to record the early end of genius, 
 but truth compels me to state that according to this 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. 121 
 
 adpiirable book an ungrateful State soon deprived Ann 
 Harris of her existence. 
 
 Now for tlie gentlemen. William Cady is a young 
 man who begins life as a physician, and' cures his uncle 
 of an exposthume by making him laugh; and Mr. 
 Charles Whitehead very gravely instances several re- 
 liable examples of similar cures which are on record, 
 the most striking one being that of a reverend and 
 puissant cardinal who, being in articulo mortis with 
 the same complaint, was cured by seeing his favourite 
 monkey dancing on his state bed crowned with his 
 stately nightcap. 
 
 Very speedily, however, Mr. WiUiam Cady grows 
 weary of the tame duties of an ordinary physician, and 
 feels that there is no scope for his abilities, in that walk 
 of life. Accordingly, he takes to the road, and having 
 robbed Viscount Dundee, he is fain, in order to escape 
 the consequences from a non-appreciative world, to 
 hide his brUliant light under the dark habit of a friar 
 at the English seminary of Douay. Here he speedily 
 acquires a pre-eminent measure of the odour of sanctity, 
 and becomes the fashionable confessor of the young 
 ladies of that town. At length one day, by the gentle 
 persuasion of a loaded pistol held to the head of his 
 fair penitents, he extorts from them an adhesion to 
 one of the first principles of Communism, at least a 
 century before that word came to be uged by a world 
 ever dull to accept any new doctrine, however good. In 
 brief, after making them share with him their goods, 
 he decamped. Needless to say, he also was hanged. 
 
122 A FORGOTTEf{^ GENIUS. 
 
 We do not hear of Patrick O'Brian, the ndxt worthy 
 of whom I shall speak, that he had the nine Uves 
 which appertain to the Kilkenny cats of his native 
 isle, but we are certainly led to suppose that he had 
 two. For it is told of him that being hanged for- the 
 first time he entered on his second life, took oncfe 
 more to the road with great success, and did not close 
 his career till another and more efficacious application 
 of the' hempen rope was vouchsafed him. 
 
 This work of Whitehead of which I have been 
 speaking originally came out in two volumes, pub- 
 lished by Messrs. Bull and Churton, Holies Street. 
 The copy in the British Museum is now in one volume, 
 but with two distinct title-pages. The first, illustrated,, 
 beariog date 1833, the other 1834. The preface is 
 amusing, and shows decided marks of juvenility. It 
 strives to prove that it were not well to think of thiis 
 book simply as one from which to receive a certain 
 kind of entertainment. It asserts that by thus holding 
 the mirror up to vice, it will advocate virtue in the 
 strongest possible manner, and it ends with the moral 
 reflection from Dr. Paley, that even were expediency 
 our sole guide, it alone would tell us that honesty Is 
 not only the best but the sole policy. The book, not- 
 withstanding its somewhat ludicrous, character, ex- 
 emphfies clearly the dreadful barbarity of the times 
 when events such as it chronicles were possible. The 
 volume is almost destitute of hterary merit, and fre- 
 quently the style is so bad that with every allowance 
 for the conditions under which it was produced (being. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. 123 
 
 no doubt, task work) we could reasonably expect better 
 things from the man Avho afterwards wrote RichQ,rd 
 Savage. 
 
 Whitehead wrote and published, somewhere about 
 1838, Victoria Victrix, and the Athencewm on the 
 4th of August of that year reviews it. It terms the 
 production " a little gay pamphlet," and calls it a, song 
 suited to the times. It also playfully rallies the 
 minstrel for prophesying. The hope which the- follow- 
 ing lines express has, however, been realized more 
 fully than is the usual fate of such predictions : — 
 
 "Hark ! stealing softly upward, float around ' 
 Dissolving strains, that the rapt soul enthral ; 
 Ne'er issued from the crystal urn of sound 
 Sweeter^ or at the sea-nymph's festival, 
 Arose from pearl shells in Nereus' hall. 
 Italian and Teutonic airs too, long 
 
 Have charmed our English Muse ; she will recall: — 
 She has recalled at length her nativ,e song, 
 And bids us to forget her self-inflicted wrong. 
 
 " But, oh ! shall Poetry revive ©nee more ? 
 
 (Would that some loftier voice her cause would plead !) 
 Will npt thy hand, thy youthful hand restore 
 Her-glories, and award her honour'd meed 1 
 
 " But thou shg,lt flourish : if my hopes be true, 
 Thy sons no longer upon chance shall wait, 
 Or humbly still at Fortune's threshold sue 
 For alms that never com.e, or come too late. 
 The penalty of daring to be great 
 
124 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Has been too often paid ! by fortune thrust 
 
 With spurns from her inhospitable gate, 
 In whom should outraged Genius place his trust f 
 In whom but thee,^young Queen, the gentle and the just." 
 
 The poem is in the Spenserian stanza, but how 
 different is it from Tke, Solitary ! That is not seldom 
 despairing, but] always impressive. This, a lively 
 utterance filled with the evanescent sentiments of a 
 particular period — sentiments, though the feelings 
 which produce them ever remain in a rightly consti- 
 tuted citizen, yet the mood in which they are here 
 expressed is not often indulged. 
 
 Mr. Bentley, Whitehead's subsequent pubhshe^j 
 advertises in the number of the AthenoBwm previous 
 to that in which the notice mentioned above appears. 
 It is not stated, however, by whom Victoria Victrix 
 was published, nor is it included in Mr. Bentley's list. 
 
 The Memoirs of Joseph Qrimaldi, the celebrated 
 clown, were edited by Charles Dickens, or, as he pre- 
 ferred to style himself on the title-page, " Boz ;" and 
 in some subsequent editions Whitehead seems to have 
 been concerned. In the British Museum catalogue, 
 the first edition of this work with which he seems to 
 have anything to do is dated 1846, and is there stated 
 to be "revised by Charles Whitehead." From the 
 same sourpe I learn that the next edition of the book 
 in which he was concerned is dated 1853, and is 
 stated in the catalogue to be "revised by Charles 
 Whitehead, with notes and additions." There is also 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A HUMOURIST. iJS 
 
 a further edition, similar in all respects to the last- 
 named, illustrated by George Cruikshank. It was 
 published by Messrs. George Routledge and Sons. 
 
 To the . Grimaldi Memoirs, which at the British 
 Museum have been re-bound with an outer cover of 
 sober green, very different from the flaring one on 
 which is portrayed a comical portrait of the hero, 
 which stiU remains as the inner cover. Whitehead 
 contributes some interesting notes elucidatory of the 
 subject, but nothing of any special importance. 
 
 The Grimaldi Memoirs may certainly be accepted 
 as one of the remaining evidences of Whitehead's 
 friendly intercourse with the young novelist who was 
 then rising into fame — Charles Dickens. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WHTTEHEAD AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 
 
 Similes and Tears; or, The Romance of Life, was 
 published by Mr. Bentley in 1847. The work is in 
 three volumes, and it is perhaps worthy of remark 
 that it has no dedication or preface, but is introduced 
 simply by a few lines of what> is termed " Advertise- 
 ment," dated London, 8th April of the above-mentioned 
 year. The volumes are clearly a compilation from 
 fugitive sources, , and they must be judged as such. 
 Nevertheless, the style and workmanship evince 
 cleverness throughout. It would appear from Mr. 
 George Hodder's Memories of My Time (Tinsleys', 
 1870) that the first sketch in the book, entitled 
 Passages in the Life of Francis Loosejlsh, Esq., was 
 originally called Passages in the Life of Jonathan^ 
 Loosejisk, Esq. Again, the last story, entitled The 
 Stockbroker, has clearly been reprinted, with a few 
 verbal alterations, from Heads of the People; or. 
 Portraits of the English, a miscellany of tales and 
 sketches, contributed by Thackeray, Leigh Hunt, 
 R H. Home, Samuel Lover, Douglas Jerrold, and 
 other writers of distinction. 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 127 
 
 It is somewhat remarkable tliat Whiteliead has 
 not included his other contribution to Heads of the 
 People — Tavern Heads — in Smiles and Tears. ■ This 
 ■was probably because to his mature judgment, 
 despite its cleverness, it appeared at times rather 
 coarse. 
 
 The stories and sketches, composing Similes and 
 Tears, are in three different forms of composition. 
 First, the roUickiug farce as seen in Loosefish, the 
 thing which comes straight, out of the comedy of the 
 Wycherly and FarqUhar period, with a complete 
 absence, however, of the grossness which disfigures 
 these authors and the general literature of their epoch. 
 Second, a sombre type of story, which occasionally 
 drops into a style that is sometimes reminiscent of 
 Edgar AUan Poe, but without his morbidness. The 
 . story of Edward Saville belongs to this class. While 
 making this general remark, I would not wish to 
 affirm that Whitehead borrowed from Poe, or that 
 Poe drew any of his inspiration from Whitehead. 
 Third, quietly humourous sketches, cast in the mould 
 of Leigh Hunt. Confessions of a Lazy Man is one 
 such. Some Passages in the Life of Francis Loosefish, 
 Esq., is a series of mad harum-scarum adventures 
 invented to illustrate the career of an adventurer. 
 From this sketch I' give the following representative 
 extract, which wUl sufficiently Ulustrate the character 
 of the whole : — 
 
 , "And now Magson's bill was falling due. The days of 
 
128 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 grace had commenced, the day after to-morrow, and pre- 
 sentation must ensue. Sooth to say, it was hardly conve- 
 nient to me to meet this bill ; the alternative, therefore, 
 must be to run away from it. How did I curse the foolish 
 delicacy that had withheld me from writing to my uncle 
 Grindley, explaining my connubial intentions and soliciting 
 fifty pounds to enable me to carry into effect that desirable 
 arrangement. I had felt, however, that an abrupt intimation 
 of that nature might prove fatal to my cousin Ellen, whose 
 love for me was altogether, of a romantic character. Mag- 
 son, then, must be once more applied to. I must raise ten 
 pounds under pretence of taking up the bill, and then start 
 into the country, and rely upon splendid eloquence, embel- 
 lished by the most persuasive, and, if necessary, pathetic 
 diction. Some affected purists would, I know, condemn this 
 step as rash and unadvised. I can only say that it is 
 frequently resorted to by persons of the highest respectar 
 bility. 
 
 " The very first thing on the following morning I found 
 myself at Magson's door. As I entered, the odour of coffee 
 was pleasingly fragrant, and the girl was just bringing in 
 the hot rolls. 
 
 " ' Magson,' said I, shaking him heartily by the hand, ' I 
 am come to breakfast with you ; your bill falls due to- 
 morrow. I can't wait half an hour — must conduct Charlotte 
 to the morning concert : we are to be married, you dog, on 
 Tuesday next.' 
 
 " ' Well, that is most extraordinary,' said Magson ; ' the 
 very day on which I am to be married.' 
 
 " ' You — you going to be married !' And I gazed at the 
 old-fashioned juvenile with astonishmeht. ' Well, but let 
 me tell you. Ten pounds ' 
 
 " ' Two years ago,' interrupted Magson, making an arch 
 in the centre-piece of a hot roll, ' I went into the country 
 on a month's leave. There I met a young lady and her 
 excellent parent, with whom I became acquainted. I 
 
^5 A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 129 
 
 renewed the intimacy last year, when I paid my addresses 
 to the. young lady, which were rejected. But this year, on 
 renewing my proposals, the old gentleman gave his consent, 
 stating that he believed his daughter's objection to me had 
 been weakened, an attachment she had formerly conceived 
 for some worthless spendthrift of a nephew of his having 
 subsided.' 
 
 " ' Well, my dear fellow, I give you joy,' said I, not paying 
 rnuch attention to this narrative. " But, touching business, 
 I want you to lend me ten pounds for a day or two, to 
 enable me to meet your bill. I must not appear to want 
 money, you know, until I get my wife's property.' 
 
 " 'Impossible, Loosefish^ impossible !' cried Magson, setting 
 down his coffee-tsup. 'Didn't you tell me that the bill 
 should be taken up ? It must be taken up. Your father-in- 
 law, Mr. - ' 
 
 ."'Trotter,' said I. 
 
 " 'Mr. Trotter will lend you iifty pounds instantly.' 
 (Poor, short-sighted wretch, how little he knew Trotter !) 
 
 " ' Besides,' he continued, ' I want every farthing I can 
 lay my hands upon at this moment. I must cut a dash for 
 a month or two. I told the old fellow I had six hundred 
 a-year in the Mint, and, you know, I only get a hundred 
 and fifty. The girl has lots.' 
 
 " Here was a sordid villain ! At that moment I could 
 have drugged his coffee with, hellebore. 
 
 "'And so you won't lend me the ten pounds? Very 
 well, Mr. Magson.' 
 
 " ' 1 can't,' he replied ; ' and I wish you'd be off now. I 
 expect my wife, that is to be, and her father, every instant. 
 Oh ! here they are ! , Now, go, that's a good fellow.', 
 
 "Urged by curiosity, I approached the window! ' Ha ! 
 can it be ?' cried I, in an ecstasy. 
 " ' Can it be ?— It is !' said Magson. 
 " ' My uncle and cousin,' I rejoined ; and rushing to thfe 
 street-door, which I opened, I flung myself into the arms of 
 
 9 
 
130 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 the old gentleman, embraced my cousin with that warmth . 
 ■which is my chief and most amiable characteristic, and 
 drew them into the parlour. 
 
 " Magson's face, as we enterfed, assumed the sourness of 
 small beer with which thunder has been making too 
 free. 
 
 " ' Very strange !' said he ; ' a most extraordinary co- 
 incidence.' 
 
 " ' Very,' replied the old gentleman, wiping, his forehead. 
 ' So then, nephew, you know Mr. Magson V 
 
 " ' He was a friend,' said I, with bitterness ; ' but now — oh, 
 uncle ! Well, how have you been V And I. drew my chair 
 towards my relatives, and entered into an interesting con- 
 versation. 
 
 '"Loosefish, a word with you for one moment,' cried 
 Magson, with an air of chagrin. 
 
 " I approached him. 
 
 " ' Now, can't you be ofiF,' said he, appealing to me. ' You 
 see you are not wanted ; you can meet your friends some 
 other time.' 
 
 " I turned away from him in disgust. ' Oh ! my dear 
 uncle,' said I, with emotion, ' what a viper you were about 
 to take to your bosom ! Oh ! my beloved cousin, how 
 nearly you were sacrificed ! What do you think that 
 monster gets per annum at the Mint V 
 
 " ' Six hundred, on the rise,' said Grindley. 
 
 " ' One hundred and fifty, and the salaries are about to 
 be reduced; and to my certain knowledge his mother keeps 
 a cake-shop in futile opposition to the Chelsea bun-house.' 
 
 , " Magson held down his head in utter confusion,, while the , 
 head of my revered uncle appeared to be twisting round on, 
 a pivot with inconceivable rapidity, so instantaneously did 
 his eyes glare upon every article in the room. 
 
 " ' Let us retire from the odious wretch !' said Ellen, with 
 a thrill of horror. 
 
 "'Nay, hear me,' cried the crest-fallen culprit. 'It is 
 
AS, A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 131 
 
 true I have been guilty of duplicity, bub let me plead my love 
 for — -'., ' , , - , 
 
 " I generously rushed between Magson and the incensed 
 parent, and caught the descending -walking-stick ere it clave 
 open the skull of the former. 
 
 " ' Leave, him to his conscience,' said I, with dignity; and 
 I drew my cousin's arm between my own. 'Adieu, sir !' 
 and we marched in triumph from the forlorn villain." 
 
 Ed/ward Saville is a story of love, jealousy, and 
 madness. Saville is a young man of violent temper 
 and unbending will, and the sequel will show that he 
 was slow to forgive and relentless in his hatred. 
 
 At the age of twenty-three he became his own 
 master, and followed a course of pleasure frequently 
 pursued by young men in his situation, partly, as he 
 himself tells us (for thd tale is couched in the auto- 
 biographical form), to reheve a feiehng of lonehness. 
 One evening he was at the theatre, and the friend who 
 accompanied him directed his attention to a very lovely 
 girl, who, with her mother, occupied the next box. 
 He was smitten by her beauty, and the usual result — 
 at least in stories of this class — followed. When the 
 play was over, he watched her to her home. At length 
 he obtained an introduction \6 thefamilyj and upon 
 personal acquaintance he was more fascinated than 
 ever by the object of his devotion. Her name was 
 Isabella Denham, the daughter of an oflScer killed in 
 the Peninsular War. 
 
 They were at length married, and for four years 
 knew no diminution in their^ happiness. A son had 
 been born, and that circumstance had auginented their 
 
 9—2 
 
132 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 felicity. One day, by the merest chancej Edward 
 Saville encountered in the street a young man namfed 
 Hastings. They had been schoolfellows at Eton, and 
 at college their intimacy had become friendship^ but, 
 as frequently happens, they had not met for several 
 years. Next day Hastings dined with his friend, and 
 very soon became a most frequent visitor. He was 
 one of those men often to be met with, who, living for 
 pleasure, had no apparent vice. He was living, more-, 
 over, on expectancy, and consequently had little ready 
 money ; and Edward Saville went so far as to help 
 him in a pecuniary sense. By-and-by Edward Saville 
 became much engaged with some troublesome business ' 
 connected with his estate, to conclude which it was 
 necessary that he should visit his property. He ex- 
 pected to be absent about six weeks, and as the London 
 season was at its height, he deemed it cruel to tear 
 away his wife from the conventional round of festivity 
 in which she was then taking even more pleasure than 
 formerly. Begging Hastings to look in now and then, 
 and see that his wife was not lonely or out of spiritSy 
 Edward Saville left for the country. He was detained 
 more than two months, but at length, finding himself: 
 released from an irksome attendance on very unpleasant 
 business, he returned " with all the ardour of a lover " 
 to his home. Hearing. his step, his little boy went to 
 greet him, but his child's mother was not there. Pre- 
 , sently. his housekeeper entered and he knew the worst: 
 his wife had forsaken him for Hastings. 
 
 Overcome by this terrible blow, his reason for two 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 133 
 
 years was dethroned,' but at length he awoke from what 
 he fitly termed this "long, long, hideous dream." Slowly 
 he recovered strength both of mind and body, and at 
 length he was restored to his house. But the memory of 
 his wrong remained with him, and when he strove to 
 banish it, the endeavour almost distrsicted him ; ac- 
 cordingly, whether for good or evil it is not neces- 
 sary here to say, he encouraged feelings of revenge. 
 He had never had sufficient firmness to see his child 
 since his recovery, but one evening, hearing the boy 
 asking of one of the servants who " that white-haired 
 gentleman" was [his hair had become grey through, 
 grief], and "why he lived in the house?" he sent 
 for him. He found him much grown, and a fine 
 boy. At first , the child did not know him, but at 
 length was induced to overcome his shyness sufficiently 
 to sit on his father's knee. His parent, putting back 
 the hair from his forehead, asked him if he would not 
 give him a kiss. But when the child lifted his face to 
 do so, and looked at his father, the glance recalled to 
 the latter with such painful fidelity the son's un- 
 worthy mother, as to cause a sudden faintness to over- 
 come him. He was thankful to permit the servant 
 to remove his poor child from his sight ; and he did 
 not see him again. 
 
 Edward Saville was never weary of tracking the 
 destroyer of his peace, and the unhappy participator 
 in the betrayer's guilt and infamy. He sought them 
 in Paris, but found they had returned to London. 
 Here, however, for a while he seemed to be baffled, for 
 
134" A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 all his endeavours to circumvent Hastings in his old 
 haunts were fruitless. But one day when walking 
 down a wretched street in the vicinity of Clare Market, 
 he encountered a degraded creature issuing from a low 
 tavern. None but Edward Saville could have recog- 
 nised who it was, but he did so instantly. The man 
 strove to escape, but Saville struggled to capture him, 
 and very soon, with " savage triumph," dashed him to 
 the ground. Saville, however, was in his turn seized 
 by several of the by-standers, who, regardless of his 
 entreaties and ravings, held him firmly until the other 
 had escaped. This encounter made Saville ill once 
 more, but in a month he was well again. With much 
 difficulty he at length discovered the pubHc-house from, 
 which Hastings had emerged, and from the landlord 
 he obtained every particular he needed. Hastings 
 had changed his name to Harris, and existed, rather, 
 than lived, in a small room in a filthy court near at 
 hand. Easily Edward Saville found the place; he 
 ascended the stairs and burst suddenly into the room. 
 A man and a woman occupied it. They were not 
 Harris and his unhappy companion. Saville demanded 
 to know where Harris was. No sooner had he spoken 
 than he heard a shriek from a sadly too well known 
 voice, and a woman dropped to the ground in a fit. 
 Saville again fiercely demanded to know where Harris 
 was. " He is there," gasped the man, pointing towards 
 a bed, on which Saville, for the first time, perceived a 
 shrouded corpse lying. Hastings had indeed escaped 
 him. 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. - 135 
 
 The injured husband, at the advice of his physician, 
 settled a competence upon his former wife, and hoping 
 that the worst had passed, and that time and occupa- 
 tion would do much to relieve his state of mind, he 
 resolvfed to strive to forget what was irremediable. 
 One day he was told that a woman desired to see him; 
 Imagining that she was one who came perchance to 
 crave for money, he ordered her to be admitted. A 
 woman, meanly dressed, appeared, whose countenance 
 was concealed. Moviug towards him, she sank on her 
 knees ; her lips quivered, she would have spoken had 
 she had power, but with a groan she fell senseless upon 
 the floor. It was his wife ! Summoning his house- 
 keeper, he ordered that she should take care of the 
 poor creature, and let her want nothing, but remain 
 in his house till she recovered and other arrangements 
 could be made. 
 
 ■ Some days afterwards his housekeeper informed him 
 that her charge was dying. He bade her tafe his child to 
 the sick-room, saying that doubtless its occupant would 
 wish to see him ; and then he heard for the first time 
 that the mother had seen the boy every day since her 
 strange return ; and that, moreover, she had seen him 
 many times during the last two years, when he, the 
 father, was mad. In extenuation of this breach of 
 trust, the housekeeper told him how her former mistress 
 had come, and falling at her feet, had implored her 
 ■permission to see the child. This she could not refuse. 
 That afternoon Edward Saville went towards the 
 lodging which Hastings had formerly occupied. The 
 
136 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 woman of tHe house told him a sad tale. It appeared 
 that Hastings had fallen into a life of- the lowest de- 
 bauchery, and had constantly ill-used his companion, 
 striking her, and telling her "to go to her Mr. Saville." 
 The people in the house were very conscious of her 
 obedience and gentleness amid these trials, and 
 esteemed and admired her much, supposing her the 
 wife, of the man who maltreated her — an impression 
 Saville did not disturb. 
 
 Feelings of forgiveness began to steal into his bosom 
 as he thought of the happy, beautiful, and innocent 
 girl he had met at first — ^how she had never received 
 a single glance of unkindness from him ; and to think 
 that she "had: become the slave, the drudge — the 
 spumed and beaten drudge — of a cruel miscreant." 
 The thought was too horrible ! In this mood of mind 
 he returned to his home. The rest of the story will 
 be best told by the following extract : 
 
 " I had scarcely entered my own house, when Mrs. Martin 
 sought me. 
 
 " 'For mercy's sake, sir,' she said, in agitation, ' come and 
 take your last leave of my mistress. She is dying, and has 
 prayed to see you once more !' 
 
 " I followed her in silence. I met Herbert [his physician] 
 at the door of the room. 
 
 " ' I am glad you are come,' said he. He was in tears. 
 
 " ' I am too weak, Herbert ; am I not ?' 
 
 " He pressed my hand. ' No, no !' and he left me. I 
 entered the room, and sat down by her side. She spoke 
 not for some minutes. 
 
 " ' I wished to see you once more, Mr. Saville,' she said at 
 length, in a low tone, and without raising lier eyes to my 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 137 
 
 face, ' to implore, not your pardon, for that I dare not ex- 
 pect, but that you 'will not curse my memory when I am 
 gone. You would not, Edward,^—', and she tremblingly 
 touched my hand as it lay upon the bed,^" if you knew 
 all, or if I could tell you all.' 
 
 " I answered something, but I know not what. 
 
 " ' I have been guilty,' she resumed, ' but I did not medi- 
 tate guilt. Heaven is my witness that I speak the truth. 
 I was betrayed, and the rest was fear, and frenzy, and 
 despair !' > 
 
 " I could conceive that now. I could believe it. I did 
 believe it ; and I was human. I took both her hands in 
 mine. 
 
 " ' Look at me, Isabella ! look in my face !' 
 
 " She did so, but with hesitation ; and as she did so sh'e 
 started. 
 
 " ' Nay, we are both altered ; but other miseries might 
 have done this. I forgive you from my heart and from my 
 soul. As we first met, so shall we now part. All shall be 
 forgotten, — all is forgiven. May God bless you !' 
 
 " Those words had killed her. Her eyes dwelt upon me 
 for one moment with their first sweetness in them ; a sigh, 
 and earth alone remained !" 
 
 There is considerable power in the tale of which I 
 have just given a rdsumd The theme is an unpleasant, 
 even a painful one, and it is questionable whether the 
 portrayal of such feelings as those of Edward Saville 
 after his wife's misconduct are likely to be produc- 
 tive of good, or — to put the objection in another 
 form, 'for the benefit of those who deny the didactic 
 functions of romance — whether such delineation is 
 good art. The scene wherein the sinful mother suppli- 
 cates a menial on her knees for a sight of her child, is 
 
138 4 FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 finely conceived and brilliantly "brought out, and is, 
 perhaps, the finest thing, as a unit, in the tale. 
 
 Confessions of a Lazy Man is a piece of playfully 
 insincere writing : writing, indeed, with no pretence to 
 sincerity. From the following clever passage the tone 
 of this, and of many similar articles, may be gathered: 
 
 "I am not inclined to place much faith in the sincerity 
 of Thomson's laziness. He has the credit of having been 
 the laziest of men, but I do not think that he deserves it. 
 There were, I doubt not, Thomson's seasons of activity.. 
 His ' Castle of Indolence ' is not a sincere or a well- 
 imagined poem, I could have suggested ; but, no matter, I 
 will not boast of my perfections. The persons introduced 
 into that poem always appeared to me rathpr bustling people 
 than otherwise. Eating peaches from a tree with one's 
 hands supporting the skirts of one's coat, as Thomson did, 
 was an awkward and laborious process. Have them plucked 
 for you, say I. Nor is the popular anecdote related of the 
 bard a whit more in his favour. It is recorded that a 
 gentleman calling upon Thomson found him in bed, and 
 foolishly inquired why he did not rise ? The reply of the 
 poet is altogether paltry and contemptible. 
 
 "'I had no motive, young man. , Could any earthly 
 motive induce me to get up, unless, indeed, it involved a 
 solemn guarantee of a softer couch in the immediate 
 vicinity ?' 
 
 " Besides, Thomson altogether forgot (let me hope that 
 he was too lazy) to dwell upon his motives for lying still. 
 
 " I had great faith in Mr. Coleridge. From all I heard 
 of that great man, I was inclined to feel a friendly interest 
 in his welfare. I would have extended my hand to him, 
 had he been lying in an adjacent bed. He has himself told 
 us that he composed his fine fragment of ' Kubla Khan ' in 
 his sleep, thereby causing the claims of occupation to give 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 139 
 
 place to the demands of repose. I can picture to myself 
 the venerable poet and philosopher in his study. My mind 
 will only permit me to conceive him perusing the shortest, 
 and therefore the most exquisite, pieces of our approved 
 authors. A paper, perhaps, of the 'Idler,' or the 'Lounger,' 
 the least long of Horace's Odes, or Anacreon's ; elegies, epi- 
 grams, an occasional Idyll — it should be called an Idle — of 
 Theocritus, or the ' Ode to Tranquillity,' by his friend Mr. 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 "For my own part, I glory in what fools consider my 
 shame. I have almost discovered the perpetual immobility. 
 The revolution of the earth is motion enough for me, and 
 for any reasonable man, can anyone conceive a more lament- 
 able figure than a bustling impertinent, busy in other 
 people's affairs or his own, and laughed at for his pains, or 
 baffled in his projects ? Who cuts the more philosophical 
 figure of the two, the locomotive blockhead who bursts into 
 a bedroom to apprise the sleeper that his house was on fire ; 
 or the disturbed sage, who, calmly addressing himself again 
 to sleep, remarked, that when it reached the first floor it 
 was time enough to rise % 
 
 " What young man ever left the University with more 
 gratifying credentials than those conveyed in the following 
 concise summary of his merits by one of the Fellows of the 
 College, 'Sir, he had nothing to do, and, he did it.'" 
 
 As a whole, Smiles and Tears is not a book upon 
 ■which can be founded a claim on behalf of Whitehead's 
 genius ; that claim must rest on other work. But 
 though the volumes are by no means equal to his best, , 
 indeed, are perhaps his worst work in book form, they 
 are by no means contemptible. 
 
 Among Whitehead's miscellaneous contributions to 
 periodical literature not included in Smiles and Tears 
 is, as I have said, one paper contributed to Heads .of the 
 
140 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 People ; or. Portraits of the English, a highly amusing 
 and most cleverly written miscellany. " The Heads," 
 or character portraits, were all by that admirable illus- 
 trator, Kenny Meadows, many, indeed, being worthy of 
 the highest praise. The Miscellany appeared in 1839- 
 1841 in two volumes, the publisher being, Mr. Eobert 
 Tyas, Cheapside. It was subsequently reprinted in 
 one volume, the publisher then being Mr. David Bryce, 
 48, Paternoster Kow. This later edition (of which I. 
 possess a copy) is without date. 
 
 Whitehead's only contribution, with the exception 
 of a brief one entitled The StockhroTcer, is called Tavern 
 Heads'. ~ It is a light rambling paper, sometimes coarse 
 in a slight degree, but always vivacious, descriptive of 
 tavern life in London, with racy sketches of different 
 types of revellers, and here and there snatches of 
 original humorous verse. It often exhibits clever 
 writing, but it is not comparable with the author's 
 higher works. In common also with a great deal of 
 Whitehead's other writing, it leaves an impression on 
 the mind that he was deeply impregnated with the 
 Cockney character. The pictorial illustrations are not 
 very refined, but two of them, " The Parlour Orator," 
 and " The Last Go," are most exquisitely humorous. **■''• ^ 
 
 Whitehead was an early contributor to Bentley's 
 Miscellany, for the first half-yearly volume of this 
 magazine, which closes with the preface signed "Boz," 
 dated London, June, 1837, contains Edward Saville,^ 
 and a poem entitled The Youth's New Vade Mecum. 
 The latter opens with a most humorous letter from 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 141 
 
 Whitehead to the editor of Bentley's Miscellany, 
 Charles Dickens. The letter states (by a transparent 
 fiction) that the enclosed poem is by an intimate 
 friend, now a " sexagenarian sire." He goes on to say 
 that the love of such a parent is the concentrated 
 essence of the love of mother, grandmother, aunt, 
 great-aunt, uncle, and great-uncle, besides that of all 
 conceivable agfed relatives, all fused into one. 
 
 The subject of the poem is advice to his son by 
 this father who married §0 late in life. The poem is 
 characterized by a good deal of vivacity throughout, 
 and as I have given no other specimen of White- 
 head's vein of humorous verse, I now append the 
 following example : 
 
 " My son, whose infant head I now survey, 
 Guiltless of hair, whilst mine, alas ! is grey, — 
 Whose feeble wailings through my bosom thrill, 
 And cause my heart to shake my very frill, — 
 Incline thine ear, quick summon all thy thought, 
 And take this wisdom which my love has brought : 
 Perpend these precepts ; sift, compare, combine ; 
 And be my brain's results transferr'd to thine. 
 
 "Soon as thy judgment shall grow ripe and strong, 
 Learn to distinguish between right" and wrong : 
 yet ponder with deliberation slow, 
 , Whether thy judgment be yet ripe or no ; 
 
 For wrong, when look'd at in a different light, 
 Behold ! is oft discover'd to be right. 
 And vice vers4 — (such the schoolmen's phrase) — 
 Right becomes wrong, so devious Season's maze ! 
 
 " Take only the best authors' mental food, 
 For too much reading is by no means good ; 
 
142 , A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 And, since opinions are not alj correct, 
 Thy books thyself must for thyself select. 
 Accumulate ideas : yet despise 
 Eeputed wisdom, — folly oft is wise ; 
 And wisdom, if the mass be not kept cool, 
 Mothers, and is the father of, a fool. 
 
 "Be virtuous and be happy: good ! but, stop, — 
 They sow the seed who never reap the crop; 
 For virtue oft, which men so much exact, 
 Like ancient china, is more precious crack'd : 
 And happiness, forsooth, not over-nice, 
 Sometimes enjoys a pot and pipe with vice. 
 
 " Get rich ; 'tis well for mind and body's health : 
 But never, never be the slave of wealth. 
 The gain of riches is the spirit's loss ; 
 And, oh ! my son, remember gold is dross. 
 
 " Be honest, ^not as fools or bigots rave ; 
 Your honest man is often half a knave. 
 Let justice guide you ; but still bear in mind 
 The goddess may mislead, — for she is blind. 
 
 " Hygeia's dictates let me now declare, 
 
 For health must be your most especial care. 
 , Rise early, but beware the matin chill ; 
 "Tis fresh, but fatal, — ^healthy, but may kill ; 
 Nor leave thy couch, nor break the bonds of sleep. 
 Till morning's beams from out the ocean leap; 
 Lest, crawling, groping, stumbling on the stair. 
 Your head descend, your heels aspire in the air ; 
 As down the flight your body swiftly steals. 
 Useless to know your head has sav'd your heels. 
 Prone on your face with dislocated neck. 
 You find that slumber which you sought to check. 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 143 
 
 " Early to bed, but not till nature call. 
 Be moderate at meals, nor drink at all, 
 Save when with friends you toast the faithful lass, 
 And raise the sparkling, oft-repeated glass ; 
 Then, graver cares and worthless scruples sunk, 
 Drink with the best, my son, — but ne'er get drunk. 
 
 "Bathe in cold water : cautious, and yet bold, 
 Dive, — but the water must not be too cold : 
 And still take care lest as you gaily swim, 
 Cramp should distort and dislocate eacb limb. 
 When such the case, howe'er thy fancy urge, 
 Postpone the bracing pastime, and emerge. 
 Dangers on land as well as water teem. 
 But now the bank is safer than the stream. 
 
 " Say you should chance be ill (for, after all, 
 Men are but men on this terrestrial ball); 
 
 ■ Should sickness with her frightful train invade, 
 Lose not a moment, but apply for aid. — 
 Yet fancy oft imagined symptoms sees. 
 And nervous megrim simulates disease.;;— 
 Lo ! at your call — the cry of coward, fear — 
 A chemist and a cane-sucker appear : 
 The one tough roots, from earth's intestines dug, 
 Pounds with strong arm, dissolves the nauseous drug; \ 
 The other, gazing with portentous air. 
 Surveys the foolish tongue that call'd him there ; 
 To dulcet tones that breathe deceptive calm. 
 Your cash expires in his diurnal palm, ' 
 And, sick of physic you were forced to swill. 
 Long-labelled phials indicate the bill." 
 
 To the volume comprising tKe six montjis'.produc- 
 tions whose vitality kept alive Bentley's Misoellatvy 
 during the closing months of 1837, Whitehead con- 
 
144 ^ FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 tributed John Ward Oihson (included in Smiles and 
 Tears), and Rather Hard to Take, another humorous 
 poem. The latter is descriptive of a poor artist's trouble 
 on being asked by a family to paint their grandfather's 
 likeness, that venerable relative being now dead, and 
 the artist having never seen him in life. Pathetically 
 the. painter asks whether the relatives have any portrait 
 of the dear departed, any memento, anything to recall 
 him as he appeared in joyous existence ? No ! They 
 have nothing! But stay, one of the ladies becomes 
 possessed, of a happy idea.. She leaves the room, 
 signifying the general purpose, but not the particular 
 object, of her quest. The artist's hopes are raised ; he 
 anticipates that now he can execute his commission 
 in such a way as to add to his fame, and, what is stUl 
 more iAiportant,repWnish his scantyfinances. Presently 
 the absent one returns, carrying carefully in her arms 
 an old hat — the sole memorial. Deplorable is the con- 
 sternation and agony of the unfortunate limner. 
 
 T'rom this brief summary it will be seen that there 
 are materials here for an amusing poem, but unfor- 
 tunately the execution is not on a level with the con- 
 ception. 
 
 Flora MacdonaM, The Heroine of the Rebellion of 
 1745, is an historical article, presumably consisting of 
 a review of a certain Mrs. Thompson's Lives of the 
 Jacobites. Our author begins well in a philosophic 
 manner, but subsequently appears to be cramped for 
 space. It shows Whitehead as having a sincere regard 
 and affection for. all that was heroic and chivalrous in 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 145 
 
 the prejudices and feelings whicli prompted the last 
 struggle for the Stuarts. This article appears in . 
 Benthy's Miscellany for 1846. 
 
 Piza/rro and Ms Followers is an epitome of the 
 early part of that adventurer's career, chiefly gathered 
 from Prescot's History of Peru, for which work the 
 writer evinces a sincere admiration. 
 
 The Wooden Walls of Old England is a somewhat 
 commonplace article of the hackneyed type. 
 
 The Insurrection in St Petersburg in 1825, with 
 some Account of the Conspirators, is a much more 
 able article, giving a full account of a Russian in- 
 surrection which occurred in that year, and which was 
 unwittingly aided by a conflict of generosity between 
 two brothers, the elder declining to reign. 
 
 AUwal and Sir Harry Smith (with a portrait of 
 that officer), gives an interesting account of the battle, 
 one of those in the Sikh War of 1845. This contribu- 
 tion is not signed by Whitehead, but it is noted as 
 his in the index to Bentley's Miscellany, 1848. He 
 also contributed two able articles which were signed to 
 Bentley's Miscellany for the same year •.-^Caricature 
 and Caricaturists, and a Memoir of Captain Marry att 
 In the first named he claims for the British nation 
 great distinction as caricaturists, but he especially 
 deals with the life and times of James Gillray. A 
 portrait of him, and fac-similes of several of his fampus 
 or most successful caricatures, are given. One of them 
 appeared at the time of the threatened French inva- 
 sion, and represented George III. as King of Brob* 
 
 10 
 
146 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. . 
 
 dignag, looking through his telescope with amused 
 curiosity at Gulliver (Napoleon), who was standing on 
 the opposite cHff brandishing a httle sword. This 
 cartoon helped grfeatly to, sustain the national spirit. 
 
 The Memoir of Captain Marryatt is a pleasant and 
 comprehensive sketch, written very shortly after the 
 death of that gallant officer and successful litterateur. 
 
 As far as I have been able to see, Whitehead ceased 
 to contribute to Bentley's Miscellany after 1848. At 
 least, I cannot find any signed contributions subsequent 
 to that year. 
 
 A poem by Whitehead, entitled The Wife's Tragedy, 
 appeared in the new series of the IllwmiThated 
 Magazine for 1845. It is a somewhat lengthy poem 
 for a periodical, as it extends' to nearly 500 lines., The 
 metre is a species of ottava rima, and the characters 
 introduced are a young man whose name is Henry 
 Eustace, a young lady named Louisa, whom he marries, 
 and a girl named Julia, cousin to Louisa, who, a 
 short while after their marriage, comes to pay them a 
 long visit. 
 
 Henry Eustace . is a young man whose father had 
 diqd when he was yet a mere child. He had a good 
 position and prospects, and we are told that conse- 
 quently, when he attained, to a responsible age, he 
 added ofne more votary to pleasura But by-and-by 
 he beheld a certain maiden, and, greatly to the sur- 
 prise of his " wise predicting friends," he wooed her, 
 although she had neither "beauty, wit, nor wealth." 
 Despite, however, her lack of what many are pleased 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 147 
 
 to consider the three most desirable qualifications in a 
 wife, she was endowed with numerous pre-enqinent 
 charms, and one of the prettiest passages in the poem 
 is that which describes what these were. 
 
 No little rift came in the lute of their happiness, 
 and they were married. There had been a promise 
 long standing made between Louisa and her cousin 
 Julia, that whichever of them should be made a matron 
 first, the other should come to her new home for a 
 long sojourn. Consequently an invitation was sent to 
 Julia. Juha came ; and, as we might have expected, 
 is represented as very beautiful. She is delineated 
 as flippant and thoughtless, although not possessed, of 
 any positively evil intentions. We are now told once 
 more the tale which we have heard over and over 
 again, with merely a change of names, and occasionally 
 a slight variation of incident. The youthful husband 
 is attracted by the loveliness of his guest, until he 
 forgets his sense of duty so much as to reveal his 
 feeUngs towards her. She puts him off, teUiag him 
 she can never be his whUe Louisa lives. He is 
 crushed; but presently his better nature seems to 
 return to him; and soon entering once more into the 
 presence of his wife, seizes her hands and kisses them. 
 She is pleased, and, tenderly accusing him. of his long 
 absence, they are reconciled ; at least, as far as that 
 word can be used in a case where we are led to 
 suppose that the wife was totally unaware of her 
 husband's defalcation from duty. 
 
 This unsatisfactory story ends in an unsatisfactory 
 
 10—2 
 
148 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 manner, as the last few lines would seem to indicate 
 that Louisa had, if possible, greater trials before her 
 than those through which she had just passed. Viewed 
 from a critical standpoint, this tale is very far from 
 being equal to Whitehead's best productions, either in 
 its conception or execution. Compared with Jasper 
 Brooke, it is indeed weak. Here are some illustrative 
 extracts. The poem opens with the lines which 
 follow: 
 
 " A youthful couple at the altar stood, 
 And in hushed order, ranged on either side 
 Were relatives, the nearest of their blood , 
 And friends, by feelings of the heart allied ; 
 And, as the rite proceeded, all of good 
 That might befall the bridegroom and the bride 
 Was wished by these, and wafted thence on high 
 With many a prayer not in the Liturgy." 
 
 The next stanza I quote, describes, not without 
 vigour, the youthful pleasures amidst the meshes of 
 which Henry Eustace had been entangled: 
 
 " And all delights that youthful passions seek 
 • And think they find, were his, such vain delights i 
 As on the mind the body's vices wreak. 
 And make their very shames their parasites ; 
 Suggesting manhood in a hollow cheek, 
 True wisdom in well-nurtured appetites, 
 Deep knowledge of the world in scenes that make 
 The soul sick, and the heart of memory ache." 
 
 But the writer — rather unreasonably, considering the 
 manner of young man his subject is represented as 
 having been — soon tells us in the following words how 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 149 
 
 Eustace became deeply attached to a maiden possess- 
 ing all the virtues and charms except that of loveh- 
 ness: 
 
 " There was a maiden whom, as though to chide 
 The rashness of his wise predicting friends, 
 Eustace beheld, wooing her for his bride ; 
 And they who charged him with ambitious ends, 
 And talked of his hereditary pride. 
 Now deemed him mad, or made him frank amends. 
 Certain, the girl had gained his heart by stealth. 
 For she had neither beauty, wit, nor wealth. 
 
 " She was not beautiful : yet how to trace 
 Worthier perfections which my power defy : 
 That decency of mien transcending grace ; 
 That gentleness, which was veiled dignity ; 
 That sweet serenity of air and face, 
 Which of her inward heaven was the sky ; 
 That purity of a plain- heart, made wise 
 By nature beaming from her Sabbath eyes." 
 
 Julia's loveliness is well described in this stanza : 
 
 " She came : in truth there was rare beauty here. 
 Behold the dark complexion of the south, 
 The broad black eye as moonlit water clear. 
 The arch audacity of the rich mouth, 
 Whose lips capricious, playfully severe. 
 Now staid as age, now flexible as youth, 
 Aye-varied loveliness, had still their cue 
 From one who all their fascination knew." 
 
 The revulsion of feeling caused by Julia's refusal of 
 his unworthy proposals brings back to him by-and-by 
 fond memories of his wife. He seems to see her, and 
 
ISO A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 he can no longer resist his impulse to go at once into 
 her presence. The poem closes with these two 
 stanzas : 
 
 " 0, Earth and Heaven conjoined, in thought abused ! 
 He could not bear the sight, but rose and seized , 
 With quivering limbs, teeth clenched, and eyes sufifused. 
 Her hands and kissed them — and the girl was pleased, 
 And his long absence tenderly accused, 
 But spoke dear nothings, that his heart was eased ; 
 Then laid his throbbing temples on her breast. 
 And fondly dreamed he as herself was blest. 
 
 " A little while — a little longer while — 
 Be blest ; for 0, what meets thee, or awaits — 
 How Hell this instant his infernal guile. 
 About to be triumphant, celebrates ; 
 How, to engrave thy name, the lifted style 
 Prepares, in that dark book which men called Fate's, 
 Thou knowest not : be blessed then, and be blind : — 
 Sweet flower ! guilt casts thee hence, but Heaven shall find!" 
 
 The Spanish Marriage — A Dramatic Story, was 
 contributed by Charles Whitehe^.d to the Victorian 
 Movthly Magazine (Melbourne), July, 1859. It ■ is 
 stated to be a dramatic story in three parts, but of 
 these only the first appears in the above-mentioned 
 magazine of th^t date, and as no more copies of it are 
 in the British Museum, it is not improbable that the 
 magazine was discontinued before any further numbers 
 were issued. The magazine was even then in its in- 
 fancy, the first number having been issued in June, 
 1859. 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. jjd 
 
 The period of the story is 1567,- and the plot of the 
 drama is as follows : 
 
 Don Charles, son of Philip II. of Spain, loves, and 
 is affianced to, Elizabeth. of Valois. Philip, his father, 
 who is a widower, has been secretly paying suit to 
 Elizabeth, Queen of England, and has been rejected 
 by her, when he turns his eyes to France, and ad- 
 dresses with success his son's betrothed. From what 
 cause the lady's infidelity arises does not appear, but 
 she is married to her regal suitor, and the portion of 
 the play which is published deals with the son's anger 
 at his desertion, with the father's suspicion of his son's 
 disloyalty, and the disclosure that despite the lady's 
 kingly alliance, she has been unable entirely to over- 
 come her former affection for the prince. The cha- 
 racter of Don Charles, though exhibiting a morose- 
 ness perhaps natural under his somewhat trying cir- 
 cumstances, is cast in an heroic mould. That of Eliza- 
 beth exhibits purity and sweetness, and lends itself to 
 the inference that the author meant to extenuate her 
 offence by subsequent disclosures. The character of 
 the King is vindictive, treacherous, and cruel, capable 
 of any unnatural persecution of his own flesh and 
 blood to appease his passions. 
 
 Philip, iudeed, as depicted by Whitehead, bears< a 
 certain affinity to the King Claudius in Hamlet ; and 
 this perhaps suggests a parallel of some closeness. 
 Don Charles, both in naltural bias of mind and in his 
 bearing towards the King who has wronged him, is not 
 whoUy unlike Hamlet; while Elizabeth stands between 
 
IS? A FORGOTTEN GENIUS: 
 
 the elder and younger man pretty much as Gertrude 
 does in 'Shakespeare's far greater play. The atmo- 
 sphere of these earlier scenes, the first of which I am 
 about to quote, is not unlike that of the first scenes in 
 Hamlet, less, of course, the incalculable difference that 
 ■will suggest itself to every mind : 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 The exterior of a fiafhedral at the back of the stage. Enter 
 from the door Charles and Posa, who descend the steps and 
 advance hurriedly to the front of the stage. 
 
 Charles. These impious marriage rites ! Oh holy nature, 
 How art thou'now profaned ! 
 
 Posa, , But yet, my lord. 
 
 Permit the friend who ventured to dissuade you 
 From being present at this ceremony, 
 To urge the danger of a seeming scorn 
 Cast on the king by your abrupt departure, 
 Before the benediction had been given. 
 
 Charles. The benediction ! frightful mockery ! 
 Had I stayed longer, Henry, I had rushed 
 To the high altar, and in tones to thrill 
 The ashes of the dead beneath my feet, 
 , Proclaimed the scene a most unrighteous lie. 
 
 Posa. Let me implore be calm. 
 
 Charles. Be calm ! and love ? 
 
 You know she was affianced unto me ; 
 She knows it too ; letters have passed between us, 
 Our portraits been exchanged. — You know the king 
 Made overtures to Elizabeth, Qiieen of England, 
 Who said her hand was otherwise engaged 
 In grasping tight the sceptre. Thwarted there, 
 This father casts his eye tow'rds France and sees 
 His son's betroth'd — thence, and now, weds her. Shame 
 
' ASA WHITE J? OF SKETCHES. 153 
 
 On royal contract oaths ! I am a slave, 
 A thing for men to whet their wits upon, 
 Tp have suffered this. 
 
 Posa. I grieve for all the wrongs, 
 
 Scorns and indignities which— — 
 
 Charles. From my birth. 
 
 Forget not that ! — 
 
 Posa. The king has heaped upon you 
 
 But he is absolute, and waves his will 
 O'er every head at pleasure. Hear me now : 
 There is no being on the earth so helpless 
 As a king's son and heir ; he's sought and flattered 
 And lov'd for that which may be, not which is ; 
 All in expectancy, and meanwhile nothing — 
 (Aside) He does not listen. 
 
 Charles. Stay, they are about 
 
 To leave the church ; the sacrifice is ended : 
 Stand close : you shall see pomp and majesty, 
 A king and queen, pass by — a stately "sight ! 
 You would not think, sir, that the king bears with him 
 A perjured heart — the queen a blighted one. 
 (The doors of the Cathedral are thrown open, and a marriage 
 
 procession comes slowly forth and passes out.) 
 Didst thou behold? all is accomplished now. 
 And nought remains for me but to begone. 
 After to-day I must not see her more. 
 Must not 1 who shall prevent me but the king, 
 Who knows not what a heaven shines through her eyes 
 Into my soul 1 Oh thou hast triumphed o'er me. 
 Thou ruthless father, and I must submit, 
 In meek endurance of thy sharpest taunts, 
 So I may live here in her presence. 
 
 The following scene between Philip and one of his 
 courtiers and confederates has something in common 
 
1 34 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 with the scene between Claudius and Hamlet's school- 
 fellows, Kosencrantz and Guildenstem : 
 
 A Chamber in the Palace. 
 Enter Philip and Gomez. 
 
 Philip. You know I trust you — place full faith in you 1 
 
 Gomez. That knowledge quickens all my forces in me 
 To show myself your servant, and to merit 
 Your instant confidence. 
 
 Philip. I can believe it. 
 
 'Tis three weeks since our proxy, Alva, brought 
 Our to-day's queen to Spain. Four days ago — 
 (Didst mark his sudden flight out of the church ?) 
 You, hinted something touching the prince and — well ? 
 
 Gofiez. My gracious lord, 
 I spake but as my duty prompted me. 
 
 Philip. I know : you said so — my own doubts had, travelled 
 The ways of yours before them. Do not speak yet. 
 Gomez, all private feelings in this case 
 (Even had I stronger warrant of suspicion 
 Than yet I dare to dream of) shall be thrust 
 Out of my heart, or into it so deep 
 That their persuasions be not heard. Attend — 
 It is a fearful, a most dangerous thing 
 For subjects, .howsoe'er in place exalted. 
 To peer and play the spy upon a prince ; 
 To tread upon his shadow when he walks, 
 Make tiptoe steps into his steps, and then 
 Vanish to some convenient refuge, where 
 Both eye and ear can be employed. 
 
 Gomez. , Your highness ! . 
 
 Philip. But still more fearful, still more dangerous, when 
 The lynx becomes a jackal which would lure 
 The lion to his prey — ^that prey a son. 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 155 
 
 Gomes. Your 'Highness misconceives my honest purpose, 
 Which my too active fears perhaps suggested : 
 I sought to warn your grace, who even now , 
 
 Were pleased to speak of your precedent doubts. 
 
 PhUip. And if I did — what then ? Yours were projected 
 Into my ear before you knew of mine. . . 
 
 Now Gomez, mark ! If I do not commend 
 (As how should I do that ?) the officious zeal 
 With which yourself, arid, I suspect, your wife. 
 Have plunged into this perilous matter, still 
 I think your love and loyalty have been ' 
 
 The incitements to it — aad I grant you pardon : 
 And now what you have gathered with such pains 
 Must be more fully told me, and confirm'd 
 By such addition as your vigilance— 
 Your wife's, too,- brought to aid — may haply furnish. 
 
 Gomez. It shall be done. 
 
 Philip. Yet further : howsoe'er 
 
 I move in this, what I design to do, 
 What I may do, shall be made known to you ; 
 Your counsel may direct me. But, I warn you, 
 By the love I bear you, by the pregnant hate, 
 Pregnant with ruin if thou be not faithful, 
 Whate'er I meditate, design, or do. 
 Be silence thy good angel ; be thou secret 
 As the deep dungeon, or the deeper grave * 
 
 To which thou goest if thou be not so. 
 
 Gomez. I am entirely yours, my lord ; so wholly, 
 That graves and dungeons of your highness' pointiflg 
 Affright me not. I am not wont to make 
 My tongue the herald of my thoughts. 
 
 PJiilip. You are not, 
 
 'Tis therefore that I trust you ; presently , 
 Attend me ; I would spell the inmost souj , 
 Of my rash son. I bring the queen with me. 
 You know my object — note him. 
 
IS6 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 - Gomez. And the queen % 
 
 Philip. 60 to : have you two eyes ? In a short space 
 Attend my pleasure in the antechamber, t 
 
 \ExU Philip. 
 
 Better, however, than either of the foregoing scenes, 
 more dramatic, exhibiting more subtlety of character, 
 more by-play of passion, disclosing more perfidy on the 
 part of PhiUp, and more cynical scorn on the part of 
 Don Charles, with simple, girlish, self-betraying affec- 
 tion on the part of Elizabeth, is the following scene, in 
 which the king and Gomez set traps to catch the 
 prince, pretty much as Hamlet and Horatio set traps 
 to catch Claudius : 
 
 Elizabeth. Doubt it,not ; 
 
 If you but understood the prince's nature — 
 Nayi — but you do not smile : — I am strange to Spain — 
 Eather I mean, — oh, pardon my rash boldness ! 
 If you had studied it 
 
 Philip. As you have done- 
 
 Elizaheth. If envious courtiers had not interposed 
 
 Gomez (hastily). Madam — the king 
 
 Elizabeth. Well, sir, is here; and here 
 
 Is the king's son ; and you are here. What then ? 
 May I not speak 1 {To Gomez) Forgive my childish haste. 
 
 Philip. We see your gen'rous ardour, and approve it : 
 But if you can restrain it for a while — 
 (To Charles) Have you e'er thought of marriage ? You are 
 
 silent, 
 Must I repeat the question ? 
 
 Charles. Once, my lord, 
 
 You know I did ; now, 'tis no thought of mine. 
 
 Philip. But if I could demand the hand for you 
 Of a princess, as young and fair as — (glancing at the queen) — 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. 157 
 
 Charles. Who ] 
 
 Philip. As young imagination might depict, 
 Were there no pattern. She is one whose beauty 
 Is nature's copy of her inward graces. 
 
 Elizdbeth. Who is the lady whom your majesty 
 With such unwonted earnestness commends ? 
 
 Philip. First, how our son inclines to this proposal 
 We would fain hear. 
 
 Charles. ' My duty made no question, 
 
 I would in all humility submit 
 My own unworthiness. Such paragons 
 Are not for one who has been long a shame 
 To you and to himself opprobrious. 
 
 Philip. Let the past trip to rearward, and accept 
 My present love. You turn away, Don Charles, 
 You need some better spirit to direct you ; 
 You are still wayward, unamenable 
 To the behests of reason and of duty. 
 . Charles. I am sorry for it. 
 
 Philip. Sorrow leads to mendiAg, 
 
 And I would have you mend. 
 
 Charles. And so I shall. 
 
 This fatherly solicitude, expressed 
 So s,ensibly, must cause a change in me. 
 I feel it work already. Pr'y thee, your Grace, 
 Who is the fair princess you have selected 
 To help my reformation ? 
 
 Philip. Were you worthy. 
 
 As I now see you are not— — 
 
 Blizabeth. Oh, my lord. 
 
 Touch not his pride too nearly ; pardon me, 
 This is not gracious in you. 
 
 Philip. Were you worthy. 
 As now I See you are not, to espouse her, 
 Her name and title had been told. But now 
 
IS8 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Charles. That princess, ages since drown'd with Atlantes, 
 What was her name — her title ? 
 
 Philip. Would you mock me ? 
 
 Charles. I would I knew the lady's name ; — ^perchance 
 Elizabeth of England ? 
 
 (Philip rising hastily, all rise.) 
 
 Philip. Trifling babbler ! 
 
 I am not angry with you, but lament 
 A weakness of the brain which, day by day, 
 Seems to increase. I can but grieve for you. 
 
 Charles. Not love me, as you promised? 
 
 Philip {to Gomez). Come with me. 
 
 [Exeunt Philip and Gomez. 
 
 The final scene of the first part is enacted in a 
 garden avenue. Philip enters, followed by Gomez, 
 and later in the scene Elizabeth appears. Philip is 
 now more than ever certain that Elizabeth is loved by 
 his son, and seems to be firmly convinced, though 
 without any real reason, that Charles not only loved" 
 Elizabeth before she married, but that their love, how- 
 ever pure then, has become guilty now. Philip seerns 
 pleased to see his son suffer mental anguish. This is 
 how Part I. closes — Philip speaks to his wife : 
 
 Philip. Elizabeth of Valois, mine own wife — 
 Mine — mine — what do I seek 1 what do I seel 
 A brow, as 'twere, the rainbow to those eyes 
 That never more should weep — clear cloudless eyes 
 And blushes made for Love to light his torch by, 
 You are my beautiful— how ? silent still 1 
 
 Elizabeth. Your gaze confuses me. 
 
 Philip. , Does it affright you ? 
 
ASA WRITER OF SKETCHES. 159 
 
 Elizabeth. My lord will suflfer me to leave him now. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Philip. Oh God ! she loves him — everything denotes it. 
 The tongufe may lie, but looks give up the truth. 
 Said I too much ? Will she suspect ? No matter. 
 AiiA.thou would'st shake the tree, and crush thyself 
 With the fruit that falls from it 1 forbear ! 'twere pity 
 Two should be sped at once — ^but if — ^but if — 
 Not zig-zag, but straight lightning. \Exit. 
 
 The " Duke of Alva " is ranged among the dramatis 
 personce, but no dialogue is assigned to him in the first 
 part, the only one which I have been able to see. There 
 are in this work several striking passages which re- 
 call the power of phraseology evinced in Whitehead's 
 earlier poems. Here is a notable instance of what I 
 refer to : 
 
 " What do I see ? 
 A brow, as 'twere, the rainbow to those eyes 
 That never more should weep — clear cloudless eyes 
 And blushes made for Love to light his torch by." 
 
 The principal objection which can be urged against 
 the work is the absence of local colour, and to one who 
 has Hved in the country in which the scene is laid this 
 deficiency is very marked ; but it could hardly be ex- 
 pected that Whitehead, unacquainted with the country, 
 could give this local colouring, when, as every one 
 knows who has tried to do so, it is most difficult to 
 impart it in a realistic and truthful manner. On the 
 whole, therefore, it may fairly be said that Whitehead 
 did well in not attempting to describe or to give local 
 allusions concerning a country he did not know. 
 
i6o A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Readers of modem English poetry are tired of tawdry 
 second-hand descriptions of Spanish life and scenes. 
 It is a pity, however,. that Whitehead had not lived in 
 Spain for awhile. He might have given us as reaUstic 
 and true a picture of how men and women lived and 
 loved in the Spain of that epoch as Longfellow 
 gives of the Spain of a later day in his Spanish 
 Student. 
 
 Altogether this fragment of aj play seems to me a 
 powerful one, more pictorial, more' human, than The 
 Cavalier, while the dialogue is more forcible and 
 sinewy. 
 
 We meet with Whitehead as a poet on the first 
 kndwn occasion of his becoming an author ; we meet 
 with him again here in the same capacity after 
 eight-and-twenty years have checkered his career; 
 and one cannot help thinking with something akin 
 to emotion of the gravely different feelings with 
 which he must have written at these widely separated 
 periods. 
 
 We imagine with what proud hopes the young and 
 ' highly-gifted man in the full fervour of early man- 
 hood published not only his first long poem, but his 
 most important poetical work ; a poem of whose power 
 he must have been conscious. One reflects with what 
 hopelessness the weary, toil-worn man, over whom the 
 sorrows of fifty-five hard years had passed, saw the 
 publication of his last signed work. For he must 
 have said to himself that if the efforts of his best 
 years had only resulted in disappointment, neglect. 
 
AS A WRITER OF SKETCHES. i6i 
 
 poverty, and at length banishment from the World's 
 uaetropplis of Uterature, how could he expect that 
 this drama, the labour of his declining days, published 
 in a country, however friendly, stiU in all probability 
 alien to his sympathies, and therefore unlikely to ap- 
 preciate his best work, could retrieve his position ? 
 
 11 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 WHITEHEAD AS A EOMANCIST AND HISTORIAN. 
 
 In his preface to tlie Ecurl of Essex, Whitehead apolor 
 gizes in the following terms for touching so delicate 
 and difficult a theme : 
 
 " The subject I have chosen is a great one ; and, to do it 
 fall justice, might task faculties far greater than I have to 
 employ. 
 
 " ' The words that Bacon and brave Ealegh spake,' are 
 not easily imitable ; and it were indeed ' conjuration aind 
 mighty magic,' whereby the illustrious personages who pre- 
 sent themselves in these volumes should be worthily evoked. 
 One has already been called up by a mighty magician who, 
 in the vigorous delineation of historical character, stands 
 second only to Shakespeare. 'Wherefore, then, did you 
 rashly make choice of such a theme V I canno.t reply. But 
 let not my silence be my own condemnation." 
 
 As will be seen from the above, the work is an 
 historical one. It has an affinity to the historical 
 romances of Scott, but differs from that novelist's mode 
 of treating history in some important particulars. We 
 must remember that Scott's sympathies were with the 
 age of chivalry, an age which had hardly ceased to 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. 163 
 
 exist at the epocli during whicla the incidents narrated 
 in the Earl of Essex were supposed to take place, and 
 that Whitehead's mind, on the other hand, belonged 
 in its characteristic features to the Bohemia of a 
 later age. 
 
 The romance deals almost entirely with the notable 
 points of the career of the Earl of Essex subsequent 
 to the rebellion of Tyrone, and principally concerns 
 itself with depicting the inner life of Essex, Ralegh, 
 Bacon, and Queen Elizabeth during the closing years 
 4of that sovereign's reign. Although the scenes are 
 necessarily heightened in a romantic manner, and a 
 number of characters foreign to authentic records 
 introduced fdr the purpose of picturesqueness and 
 variety, yet in the main the proprieties of history are 
 carefuUy preserved. Occasionally, and probably also 
 for the sake of picturesqueness. Whitehead even varies 
 the spelling of proper names, calling Sir Ferdinand 
 Gorge " Sir Ferdinando Gorges," and Blunt " Blount." 
 In his Life of Ralegh, thb above-mentioned knight 
 appears likewise as " Gorges." 
 
 Naturally, in a romance of this sort, the chief interest 
 centres in the author's views of the historical per- 
 sonages dealt with. Whitehead puts the following 
 estimate of Essex into the mouth of one of the minor 
 personages : 
 
 " ' Had my Lord of Essex,' thought Cuffe, as he went his 
 way on his mission to Bacon, ' had yonder feverish being 
 my cool brains in his skull, to qualify his hot ones — he 
 might yet arrive at a greatness of which he never dreamed. 
 
 11—2 
 
i64 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. ' 
 
 Or had I his hot brains in my skull, to give action to the 
 torpid mass that slumbers there, I might conduct myself to 
 greatness of which I have dreamed often. Towards this, 
 Master Bacon plods. And for lack of that vital heat in his 
 brain-pan, which, with nought beside, makes men mad, but 
 seasoned with what is called prudence, makes them great — 
 for lack of this, perchance. Master Bacon, with all his 
 wisdom, will plod in vaiu. In sooth, then, what is coolest 
 in my brain, shall be levelled at what is hottest in the brain 
 of Essex, as air at fire, which coolly blows it into a blaze. 
 It shall go hard, but we burn out a path between us, o'er 
 which we may walk abreast' " 
 
 Whitehead thinks, concerning Ralegh, that he never 
 courted public opinion, but did what he deemed right, 
 and left the result to time. Essex, he avers, ever did 
 what he could to conciliate public favour and com- 
 mend himself to it, and would generally sink any 
 principle, however important in his own judgment, in 
 order to flatter or pander to the popular taste. 
 Characters so Radically opposed very speedily come 
 into collision, and the following is the first scene in 
 which they appear together : 
 
 " ' My Lord of Essex,' resumed Ealegh, ' I have heard 
 that high words passed between you and Sir Kobert Cecil 
 at the council-table to-day. I am here to offer my services 
 as mediator betwixt ye.' 
 
 "Esse^ heard him in evident wonder. ' You !— come as 
 mediator ! Grace -of God ! Sir Walter Ealegh ! — ^you !' — 
 and he broke into a short quiet laugh. ' Of this world's 
 marvels ' 
 
 " ' This is not one,' said Ealegh, quietly finishing the sen- 
 tence. ' Is this the first time I have been here on a work like 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. 165 
 
 this ? Have I not closed your two hands in one, ere now ? 
 Who but I made peace between your lordship and the Earl 
 of Nottingham ? What marvel in this ? Why, sir,' and 
 Ealegh smiled good-humouredly as he said it, 'I am the 
 great peacemaker.' 
 
 " Essex smiled not in return. On the contrary, his face 
 became clouded with rising displeasure. 
 
 " ' You moved on the part of my Lord of Nottingham, by 
 command of the Queen,' said he ; ' and in the former case 
 at the request of Sir Eobert Cecil ?' 
 
 " ' I grant that.' 
 
 " ' May I ask, then,' continued Essex, ' whether, upon the 
 pi^eseut occasion, you are sent by the Secretary ?' 
 
 " ' My Lord of Essex,' returned Ealegh, with some 
 warmth, ' I am not one to be sent anywhere, or to any man, 
 or by any man, and this you know right well. I brook no 
 sending but from the Queen. Sir Eobert Cecil knows not 
 of my coming.' 
 
 " ' Then, wherefore do you come V asked Essex, with 
 affected indifference, raising his brows. 
 
 " ' It is ill, and of bad example, at the least,' returned 
 Ealegh, ' in these times generally, but in particular at this 
 time, that there should be open division between yourself 
 and Cecil. It may, as I conceive, breed danger to the 
 State.' 
 
 " ' Is not your concern for the State somewhat of the 
 youngest ?' asked Essex, with a sneer. ' When, Sir Walter, 
 was it born %' 
 
 " ' About the time that you were,' returned Ealegh ; 
 * when I first drew sword against the Queen's enemies.' 
 
 " ' Is it not, then, somewhat of the idlest ?' pursued Essex. 
 ' You are not a Privy Councillor.' 
 
 " Ealegh arose from his seat. ' Is not this talk somewhat 
 of the idlest, my Lord of Essex ?' he inquired, with a frown. 
 ' I am not a Privy Councillor, but I have assisted at councils 
 when sworn heads lacked brains.' 
 
i66 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 '"Which you have brought with you, doubtless?' said 
 
 " ' Yes.'j answered Eaiegh promptly. ' Enough of this. 
 One word, and I am gone. Do you reject the oflEices I have 
 profiered ?' 
 
 " ' I do.' 
 
 " ' You seek no reconciliation with Sir Eobert Cecil V . 
 
 " ' I do not. I scorn, and I defy him.' 
 
 " ' It suifices,' said Ralegh, proceeding towards the door. 
 
 " ' Stay,' exclaimed Essex ; ' a few Vrords of our owlv 
 differences.' 
 
 "As Ealegh returned into the middle of the room, Essex 
 came forward and met him, so that they stood face to face, 
 scarce a foot's length between them. 
 
 " ' Sir Walter Ealegh,' said Essex, with unusual calmness 
 — for when addressing an enemy, or one whom he supposed 
 to be an enemy, his anger commonly endured no check from 
 his reason — ' I know you love me not.' 
 
 " ' You know it. I will not gainsay it,' replied Ealegh. 
 ' I have no cause to love you.' 
 
 " ' Let that be. You have ho cause to hate me.' 
 
 " ' I bear a good memory, my lord,' said Ealegh ; ' but I 
 do not hate you." , 
 
 " ' What less than hatred could have prompted you to 
 stab my reputation in the back V cried Essex vehemently ; 
 ' with gibes and jeers to scoff at my proceedings in Ireland, 
 and this to our gracious Queen ? By Heaven ! Sir Walter 
 Ealegh ; by Heaven !' , . , 
 
 " ' By Heaven ! I understand you not,' broke in Ealegh. 
 ' What mean you ? If ever I spoke a word ' 
 
 " ' Oh ! you can speak words enow, dr,' exclaimed Essex. 
 
 " ' I can, sir,' . replied Ealegh, recovering his coolness,- 
 which he had well-nigh lost; 'and I can justify them. I 
 spoke not in my life a word- yet I dare not justify. Thus 
 much I tell you. If ever word dropt frOm my lips of your 
 conduct in Ireland, it was in answer Jto questions urged 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. 167 
 
 by the Queen's grace, which I, her servant, .was bound to 
 answer, touching points, too, upon which I am competent 
 to speak. But gibe and jeer ! that, on my soul, did I 
 never.' 
 
 " ' I have proof that you have wronged me to the Queen,' 
 said Essex. 
 
 " ' You lend too ready an ear to base poor villains,' re- 
 turned EaJegh, ' who abuse it grievously. Their proof, my 
 lord, were, like their courage, most absent when most 
 wanted.' 
 
 " ' That we shall see,' rejoined Essex., ' In my letters to 
 the Queen, from Ireland, I have charged you, Ealegh, with 
 what I have this minute spoken to your teeth. That touches 
 you, I perceive. I am frank with you.' 
 
 "It was more than a minute ere Ealegh replied. Ko 
 motion of the man betrayed the wrath that boiled within 
 him. His eye, nevertheless, which in his calmest mood men 
 in general almost feared to look upon, shone out, disclosing 
 with a glance of fire all that was passing inwardly. 
 
 " ' Years gone, my Lord of Essex,' he said at length, ' I 
 had brought yon to a quick reckoning for this.' 
 
 " ' A quick reckoning ! This to me !' cried Essex, stepping 
 back, and laying his hand upon the hilt of his rapier. ' Can- 
 not it be told now % What hinders ?' 
 
 "'What mus,t servp for both — my discretion,' said 
 Ealegh. 
 
 " ' You keep your temper well, sir,' observed Essex scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 " ' I do \ but know you not, the sword is as keen in its 
 scabbard as when it is drawn % Having taken thought, I 
 thank you, my Lord of Essex. It is you, I findj who can 
 stab reputations in the back. But I am now in the Queen's 
 hands. If you seek your proof from her, and if you findit,' 
 stepping up to Essex, and tapping his sword-hilt gently with 
 his finger, ' then, my lord, we will come to a short and to a 
 sure reckoning.' 
 
i68 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 " With this he turned upon his heel, and taking his hat, 
 left his antagonist without further word." 
 
 Most readers will agree with me in thinking that 
 this is a well described and vivid scene. 
 
 The Queen Elizabeth of Whitehead is an impetuous 
 and somewhat arrogant lady, tempered, however, with 
 occasional promptings of a gentle disposition such as 
 are not usually associated with that Sovereign. It is 
 true that in the fine scene I am about to quote these 
 softer qualities are not apparent ; but they neverthe- 
 less exist in. Whitehead's delineation of the Virgin 
 Queen, as a subsequent extract wiU show. 
 
 " ' Had you not all you required,' returned the Queen, 
 ' when you proceeded to Ireland 1 Did you not engage, with 
 the force you carried with you, to destroy this jebel Tyrone 
 ^-long ere this to destroy him f 
 
 " ' I deny it not,' said Essex. 
 
 " ' Where, then, is performance?' cried the Queen. ' The 
 rude raw levies of the rebel flout us — nay, by God's right 
 arm ! fight us, beat us. The head of Tyrone waggles with 
 laughter, which months since should have been sheared from 
 his shoulders.' 
 
 " ' I spoke rashly, and like a fool, when I engaged so much 
 to your majesty,' returned Essex. ' I knew God's justice 
 never fails in this world, and that He was with us ; but I 
 forgot that His ways are not our ways ; nor His time our 
 time ; and that when He pleases to work by us. He makes 
 us His instruments, not His ministers ; His limited slaves, 
 not His discretionairy servauts. Sickness has wasted your 
 majesty's troops ; death has been busy with them. I pro- 
 vided not against that.' 
 
 " ' Now, by God's justice, of which you speak, Essex, you 
 make me mad,' exclaimed the Queen vehemently. ' Why 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. 169 
 
 had you not led them against the rebel ere sickness wasted 
 or death smote them? This truce — this dishonourable 
 truce !' 
 
 " ' Dishonourable, madam !' cried the Earl. ' Heaven 
 forbid his Queen should be dishonoured by Essex. That 
 truce was made but to gain time.' 
 
 " ' Gain time !' echoed the Queen contemptuously. ' Why 
 had you not gained. Tyrone, and brained him? A truce, to 
 gain time ! What terms are made with rebels ? When 
 rebellion stalks, all the time between the avenging 
 sword and its punishment is disgrace. Go to ; I thought 
 I sent a soldier to Ireland, but I find I despatched a 
 scrivener.' 
 
 '"Let me be judged,' cried Essex, in scarce smothered 
 tones of anger, ' by those who have carried arms, by those 
 who have led an army into the field.' 
 
 '"You have been, my Lord of Essex, judged and con- 
 demned,' said the Queen. . 
 
 " ' By Ralegh, doubtless,' exclaimed the Earl quickly. 
 
 " ' Oh, sir !' said the Queen, , stepping up to him, ' once 
 more harping on Sir Walter Ralegh ? We read your letters, 
 my Lord of Essex, in which you touched our honour nearly, 
 as flinging upon us a suspicion that we harboured about our 
 person calumnious tale-bearers and sycophants. You pointed 
 at Ralegh therein. By our sacred honour as a Queen, as 
 gallant a gentleman and as faithful a servant as ever prince 
 had.' 
 
 " ' He hath practised against me,' said Essex. 
 
 " ' Do I speak twice 1 I tell thee, thou temerarious and 
 froward youth, he hath not. He is no practiser, as thou art, 
 who wouldst this moment, if thou couldst, destroy him. 
 'Tis fitting he should know of this.' The Queen walked to 
 the door, which she flung back, ' Send hither Sir Walter 
 Ralegh.' 
 
 " ' I bring him hither to shame you,' said the Queen, re- 
 turning. ' Had you taken pattern by him, ungovernable boy, 
 
170 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 you had not stood before me now for censure and for punish- 
 ment.' 
 
 " The last words were scarcely spoken, when Sir Walter 
 Ealegh entered. Essex gnawed his lip, and frowned darkly 
 upon his rival, whose face, however, was directed towards 
 the Queen. 
 
 " ' By Heaven ! this is not to be borne,' muttered the Earl. 
 • Chid like a whipped schoolboy, and in his hearing. But, 
 time — -tiine — oh, hasten it, Queen Elizabeth !' 
 
 " The thought that came into his brain, at that moment, 
 gave him ease. His brow cleared again. 
 
 " ' Soh ! Sir Walter,' cried the Queen, ' we have sent for 
 you in good time. Sir Walter ; come forward and answer to 
 us. Do you know that you have been busy with the repu- 
 tation of this our faithful cousin and servant; Eobert Earl of 
 Essex — this patient, but, chief of all, this obedient subject ? 
 Do you know that you have slandered him to our ear during 
 his absence on our affairs in Ireland ?' 
 
 " ' Your Majesty knows, right well, I am not this thing,' 
 answered Ealegh, in a sonorous and deliberate voice, casting 
 a look of defiance at the Earl. 
 
 " ' Is not the Queen of England in presence here ?' ex- 
 claimed the Queen angrily. 'Bend your eye upon us. Sir 
 Walter, and to us direct your speech.' 
 ' " ' I humbly crave your majesty's pardon,' said the knight. 
 ' My Lord of Essex charged me with as much (I thank him), 
 to my face, yesterday. To-day, as I conjecture, it has been 
 repe?,ted to my sovereign, but for whose dread presence ' 
 
 "'Swords were leaping, and blood staining the floor of. 
 our palace ?' interrupted the Queen. 'I cry you mercy, 
 gentlemen. Peace, Ealegh, I command you. These looks and 
 gestures we endure not in our presence. How, sir ? — not a 
 word — one word, and ye speak next, both of ye, through 
 walls of stone.' 
 
 " ' Yet must I speak, or choke,' exclaimed the Earl, strid- 
 ing towards Ealegh. ' Sir Walter, you know — death ! why 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. 171 
 
 am I thus fooled ? — Do you not know you have wronged 
 me?' 
 
 "Elizabeth stepped between. Holding forth her right 
 hand, the forefinger of which she shook in the Earl's face, 
 she said: 'Robert Devereux, on your allegiance, we com-- 
 mand you, silence. Kalegh, leave our presence instantly. 
 From this ungovernable man you have nought to fear.' 
 
 " ' To fear, gracious madam ?' said Sir Walter. ' I have 
 not been used to fear your majesty's enemies. My own,' he 
 added significantly, 'I have been used to despise and to 
 defy.' 
 
 " ' From his words, I meant, foolish caviller,' returned the 
 Queen, ' you have nought to fear. He cannot wrong you here. 
 I know your worth and service. Begone. I speak not again.' 
 
 " ' I am commanded,' said Ealegh, with a deep reverence. 
 When he again raised his eyes, and directed them sedately 
 to the face of the Queen, not a glance or a feature disclosed 
 even the vestige of passioii. The Earl looked in vain for an 
 exchange of mute defiance. The knight retired unmoved, as 
 he had come. 
 
 " The peremptory dismissal of Ealegh, whichj under a less 
 critical aspect of his fortunes, or in a calmer condition of his 
 mind, Essex might have regarded as an evidence of the 
 Queen's partiality towards himself, or of an inclination to his 
 cause, he was not, at the present moment, disposed to hold 
 in any account. That Ralegh should have been suffered tp 
 make his appearance at all-^that he should have been sum- 
 moned, evidently (for so it seemed to him) to descry, that he 
 might report, the Queen's anger against him — that he might 
 share the triumph of his humiliation — these, and the rough' 
 fibres of feeling which instantaneously shot out of them, 
 were damning vexations that made it the most difiScult task 
 he ever experienced to control his temper within the bounds 
 of reason^ even in the presence- of his royal mistress. 
 
 "As it wasi if no outbreak of fury was heard, the struggle- 
 to repress it was seen, and seen distinctly. 
 
172 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 " ' Speak, sir,' cried the Queen ; ' if you have aught to say 
 let your words come forth. Stand not thus — ^heaving and 
 swelling, like — what shall we say 1 — like a rebel. Methinks 
 we see before us Tyrone ; or is it his ambassador we see, 
 come to propose terms of treason f 
 
 " ' Not treason, your majesty, will I utter, but truth,' ex- 
 claimed. Essex, speaking very rapidly — 'but truth. You have 
 done me wrong — shame added to wrong — why should I not 
 say it ? — shameful wrong, therefore.' 
 
 " ' Take care, Essex — take care, my Lord of Essex,' said 
 the Queen, wrath striving to put on solemnity. ' Not an 
 inch of further ground have you. One step more, and the 
 guli: Your wrong — your shame — what are they ? — ^where 
 are theyf 
 
 " 'Is it not enough,' answered Essex, ' that I stand here 
 before you to undergo your majesty's reproof — charged with 
 I know not what — -since nothing but vague charges, or charges 
 vaguely urged, have I yet heard — I, who have devoted my 
 life, my fortune, my honour, ease of body, peace of mind— 
 my whole soul, to your service — is it not enough that I bear 
 with patience your displeasure — (oh, madam ! how unde- 
 served, let time, when Essex is no longer of it, show) ; but 
 that I must be made also a spectacle to my worst enemy^a 
 puppet for his laughter — a butt for his derision V 
 
 " ' I hope your patience may play you no jade's trick, for 
 yet further have you to journey with her — or without her,' 
 returned the Queen. ' Thou malapert boy, if this is bad, 
 thou must bear more and worse.' 
 
 " ' Never !' exclaimed the Earl. ' More I cannot bear, nor 
 can you impose.' 
 
 " ' We shall see that,' returned the Queen, nodding her 
 head slowly. 
 
 " ' We shall see,' repeated Essex scornfully ; ' we — who 
 are of the world — not you, who are above it — ^that princes 
 can sometimes err, and may sometimes be censured for their 
 errors.' 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. 173 
 
 " So saying, he flung from her in disdain. , 
 
 " ' God's death, my Lord of Essex,' cried the Qaeen, follow- 
 ing him. ' Eememher ! See you this hand ? ' Eememher ! 
 I can chastise insolence. Your ears are red already.' 
 
 " ' Just and merciful ,God !' cried Essex, raising his hands 
 towards Heaven, and then dashing them, half clenched, into 
 his hosom, as though he would fain pluck forth his heart. 
 'Mjy dearest, mo^t honoured, most gracious mistress,' for 
 with these soft words did he seek to soothe, to flatter his rage 
 into needful submission, 'have me before your council — have 
 me into your Star Chamber — let me be tried by my p.eers, and 
 judged — judged — not cast without judgment. If I am guilty, 
 censure me ; fine me ; let me be imprisoned — kill me ; but 
 oh ! madam, damn me not thus before death, which now 
 
 were most welcome. If I am proved innocent, then ' 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " ' What. then?' asked the Queen. 
 
 " The thought that had suggested, or was about to prompt 
 his words, had, it seemed, flown off. He waved his hand, 
 and broke into a short quick laugh, tears of vexation, whether 
 he would or no, bursting from his eyes. 
 
 " ' Then, madam, when next I take a leading-staS', I will 
 come to your majesty to teach me how to command.' 
 
 " ' In the meanwhile,' said the Queen, very calmly, ' I will 
 teach you how to obey.' 
 
 " It was a forced calmness, lasting no longer than till she 
 reached the door, which she flung so violently open that it 
 recoiled, -jarring on its hinges. Twenty years seemed to 
 have been shaken from her, as she flamed into the outer 
 room. 
 
 " ' Come forth, sir,' she exclaimed, one arm extended back- 
 wards towards the door from which she had just emerged, her 
 eyes glancing exultingly at the lords and gentlemen' of the 
 court, with whom the , chamber was well-nigh filled. ' Noble 
 lords and gentlemen, you are here in good time met, to see the 
 beginning of justice. My Lord of Essex, come forth.' ■ 
 
174 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 "The Earl was already at the door, and now descended the 
 steps. He was ghastly pale, as though a sudden presenti- 
 ment of impending ruin possessed him, which he could 
 neither avoid nor resist. 
 
 " ' Who was that fool,' the Queen said to him in a low 
 voice, 'who thought the lion slept, because his own eyes 
 blinked ? Come forward, Sir Eichard Berkeley; fuMl your 
 office.' 
 
 " That functionary advanced on the instant, more like a 
 machine than a man, with so formal and measured a step, 
 and so impassive a countenance, did he make towards the 
 Earl. He laid his hand upon the shoulder of Essex, saying, 
 in a cold, equal voice : 
 
 " ' Eobert Devereux, Earl of Essex, I arrest you in the 
 Queen's name.' 
 
 " With g, like utterance, as cold, as equal, the Queen said : 
 
 " 'My Lord Keeper, the Lord of Essex stands committed 
 to your charge, to await our pleasure.' 
 
 " The Earl turned his head with a sorrowing but reproach- 
 ful look towards the spot where the Queen the moment be- 
 fore had stood ; but she was gone. There was a short, deep, 
 silence. Not a word^a whisper of triumph^ — not an eye that 
 spoke gladness ; and yet Ealegh, and Cecil, and Cobham, 
 and the Lord Grey of Wilton were there — foes against 
 whom he had sworn irreconcilable enmity." 
 
 This courtly quarrel is perhaps one of the most 
 vividly described scenes in the three volumes. The 
 characters live before our eyes. We see their 
 excited gestures, and almost hear their wrathful 
 tones. 
 
 One of the main features of the book deals with the 
 relation between Bacon and Essex, and into this it 
 will be necessary to enter at some length. Bacon's 
 character as given by Whitehead is that of an am- 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. 175 
 
 bitious man : a man who would not allow any friend- 
 ship, however intimate or endearing, or however he 
 might have been indebted in the past • to the man to 
 ■pfhom he owed this friendship, to stand in the way of ' 
 his own self-advancement. 
 
 Let us deal with some considerations arising out 
 of the conduct of Francis Bacon in the famous trial 
 of the Earl of Essex : a trial which, with its surround- 
 ing incidents, occupies a great space in Whitehiead's 
 romance. In the Earl of Essex we have a man who 
 is in a certain sense condemned beforehand by his 
 sovereign, and that sovereign requires Bacon to engage 
 in the trial. Bacon was the friend of Essex, and had 
 been materially benefited by him. The question 
 therefore arises, what course should Bacon have pur- 
 sued? To assist ourselves in finding data for a 
 correct answer, it will be needful to look at the 
 matter in several aspects. 
 
 I. — If a true friend and just man : 
 
 (a) He must still have accepted the task, or have 
 forfeited for ever all hope of worldly advancement. 
 A monarch's request, especially if that monarch were 
 of the House of Tudor, must be obeyed. 
 
 (6) He might have undertaken the task in order to 
 keep it out of imfriendlyhands. "When a friend conducts 
 a case against a prisoner, it may be safely presumed 
 that all will be done consistent with truth to minimise 
 the points which will teU against him, and to increase 
 the importance of the circumstances which tell in his 
 favour. 
 
176 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 (c) Bacon might have shown in his pleading that 
 duty went against inclination. 
 
 II. — If a disloyal friend and unjust man : 
 
 (a) He would show pleasure in the work. 
 
 (6) He would also be glad of an opportunity to 
 throw back Essex's favours under the semblance of 
 enforced duty. 
 
 III. — But without being a disloyal friend, or an 
 unjust man. Bacon might have reasoned thus : 
 
 (a) He had received favours in his private capacity. 
 
 (&) He was about to impeach Essex in his public 
 capacity. 
 
 (c) The two things were quite distinct. 
 
 As some of the following extracts wiU sufficiently 
 show, Whitehead takes a rather unfavourable view of 
 Bacon's conduct towards Essex. He represents him 
 as wanting in gratitude for that nobleman's previous 
 generosity, and that part of his speech at the trial 
 referring directly to Essex is not what it should have 
 been — a mournful and painful leave-taking of a friend 
 at the command of duty. 
 
 Here is a passage describing how the Earl bore him- 
 self during his trial. Whitehead rarely gives Essex 
 credit for possessing much self-control; but making 
 all due allowance for this, it is nevertheless sad that a 
 man in such favourable circumstances and of such rare 
 abilities should have so frequently, failed to exercise 
 the cool and collected judgment which was perhaps 
 the only quality lacking to have enabled him to be of 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. 177 
 
 the utmost value to his coqntry, as well as to gratify his 
 highest personal ambition. 
 
 " The Earl, although, indeed, there was but little of con- 
 tei»pt in his nature, which was formed rather to resent 
 
 insult, whencesoever it proceeded, than to rise superior to it, 
 might have listened, perhaps, with some appearance of that 
 meekness and patience which the circumstances of his pre- 
 sent condition could hardly, fail to point out to him the 
 necessity of assuming, to Coke's insolent presentment of 
 charges aflfecting himself singly; but he was ill able to rest 
 upon his knees when Mr. Attorney, first recalling to the 
 remembrance of the commissioners how greatly the Earl of 
 Southampton had oflfended his royal mistress by marrying 
 Mistress Vernon, the cousin of the prisoner, without having 
 previously asked the Queen's permission — proceeded to tax 
 Essex with partiality and injustice in permitting his affec- 
 tion for his friend not merely to overlook, but to disregard, 
 at once the incompetence of Southampton for the oflSce into 
 which he had been thrust, and the claims of others who had 
 a better right to it. With more difficulty, if possible, did 
 he restrain himself when Coke, urging the preposterous 
 number of knights created in Ireland by the Earl, scorn- 
 fully reiterated an interrogation which, it was generally be- 
 lieved, had been put to him by the Queen at Nonsuch ; 
 namely, ere he made so many knights, why had he not built 
 almshouses for them ; and he fairly sprang to his feet, hurl- 
 ing a glance of fury at the impudent calumniator, when 
 Coke, at the close of his speech, recurring to the treaty the 
 
 ■ Earl had, at a moment's thought, concluded with Tyrone, 
 charged him with hastening back to England, as much to 
 avoid the personal consequences to himself, if he tarried 
 near the rebels his incapacity had strengthened, as to obtain 
 his pardon from the Queen, ere that incapacity and those 
 consequences became apparent. 
 
 " At the moment that Essex thus suddenly arose, a 
 
 12 
 
I7_8 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 female hand was, for an instant, stretched forth from be- 
 tween the velvet curtains behind the chair of the Lord 
 Keeper. It touched him slightly on the shoulder, and 
 Was again withdrawn. Egerton took no seeming heed of 
 the interruption. As though the signal had' been 'pre- 
 concerted in anticipation of some such impatient demon- 
 stration on the part of the Earl, the Lord Keeper half- 
 raised himself from his seat, and said : 
 
 " ' My Lord of Essex, you may continue standing ; or if 
 you are weary, it is permitted to you to be seated. Use 
 your pleasure. A stool hither for my Lord of Essex.' 
 
 " The command was instantly obeyed ; and Essex, trem- 
 bling with anger, took a seat. There was nothing in the 
 speech of the Solicitor-General Fleming to add fuel to his 
 resentment, or even to keep it alive. Fleming insisted upon 
 the unhappy events which followed the Earl's departure 
 from Ireland — Tyrone having broken the huddled truce 
 agreed upon between them. He concluded, but in no acri- 
 monious spirit, by reminding the Earl that such an oppor- 
 tunity, as he had foregone or forfeited, of advancing his 
 honour and establishing an illustrious reputation by the re- 
 duction of the Irish rebels, he could no more expect should 
 ever again be presented to him, than that from off him the 
 heavy disgrace could be removed of having pretermitted so 
 fair an occasion. 
 
 "Affected by the solemnity of Fleming's peroration, and, 
 perhaps, moved by a conviction of its truth, the Earl could 
 not avoid showing deep concern in his countenance ; and it 
 was with these altered feelings, whose shadows had been so 
 called up into his face, that he was now to listen to Bacon, 
 who had it in charge to conclude the accusations against 
 him." 
 
 The extract wMcli follows describes Bacon's speech 
 at the trial, and the effect produced by it on Essex.. 
 Nothing could give a clearer idea of Whitehead's 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. 179 
 
 liigh opinion of Bacon as an orator than the remarks 
 which "close the passage. If the speech could influence 
 a man such as "Whitehead describes Essex to have been, 
 and that even against his will, it must indeed have been 
 pregnant with the highest attributes of- forensic elo- 
 quence. 
 
 " His vpice, nevertheless, faltered as he commenced ; and 
 beyond a wandering consciousness that he was uttering words 
 he had already many times rehearsed, he could hardly be said 
 to know what he was fepeaking. He began by aeknowledgr 
 ing the benefits he had received at the hands of the Earl, 
 and he declared the gratitude they had inspired within him; 
 The language, however conveyed, was as elegant and per- 
 spicuous as the best that was wont to proceed from his 
 lips ; and by the time he had made an end of this, his self- 
 possession was restored to him. He proceeded. But now, 
 he said, he bade all present bear witness — and here he 
 turned, and stood facing the Earl; — there must be an end of 
 the connection that had so long |subsisted between them ; 
 there must no longer-he the clainls of friendship on the one 
 hand, or its duties on the oiherl They were, henceforth, 
 single and separated. For his own part, from this day, he 
 lived for the Queen, and was h^'s alone — wholly, entirely 
 the servant of his gracious mistr^s. 
 
 " The manner in which the wards, whereof the above is 
 the substance, were spoken, was Jingularly inappropriate to 
 the matter. Whether it was thai Bacon, feeling or fearing 
 a recurrence of the painful weight of obligation that had 
 but now oppressed him, adopted a louder and more resolute 
 tone of voice, that his emotion should not rise, or that it 
 might not be seen — or that he was vexed into angry impa- 
 tience by seeing before him (for with some the inopportune 
 presence of a benefactor suflBces to cancel all obligations), 
 the man who had caused his pain — whether of these, is 
 
 12—2 
 
,i8o A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 matter of conjecture. Certain, however, it is, that instead 
 of that mournful and tender leave-taking of a friend at the 
 command of duty, which had been alike touching and 
 graceful, his tone was that of a man who rebukes the gene- 
 rosity of his benefactor, and who throws back, even into his 
 face, obligations of which he.has long been weary. 
 
 "This prefatory matter dismissed. Bacon forthwith 
 proceeded with the charges he had been required to urge. 
 ' He recounted certain speeches disrespectful of the Queen 
 which had been uttered by the Earl ; and read portions of 
 his letters to her, of expostulation or of complaint, couched 
 in language to the, last degree unbecoming in a subject 
 addressing his Sovereign. Bacon, when, in the first instance, 
 he had sat down to frame the accusations it was his province 
 to bring forward against the Earl, had taxed his ingenuity 
 to devise such a form of presenting them as should satisfy 
 the Queen, without offending or injuring Essex; but the 
 feelings of the advocate carried him much further than he 
 designed ; and the man who had just before formally re- 
 leased himself from the obligations of friendship, was now 
 with eloquent fervour inveighing against the heinous crime 
 of ingratitude. 
 
 "There was more than one smile ere this speech was 
 concluded. That upon the lip of Coke was so villainously 
 disdainful, that Bacon, had he seen, must have been struck 
 dumb by it. But, however it influenced others, the effect 
 of this speech upon the Earl was of a very different nature. 
 There was truth in it — truth told in language so forcibly 
 significant and impressive — not an expletive word — no 
 arrowy phrases overshooting or falling short of the mark — •-. 
 so admirably consequential an adjustment of one sentence! 
 to another, and yet each sentence cpmplete in its sense, and 
 until the next arose (it seemed so) sufficient to the end— - 
 nothing more being to be said, and yet more and more suc- 
 ceeding, which piled up, not extended, the accusation — that 
 Essex, spite of himself, his pride, his self-love, his sense of 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. i8i 
 
 wrong, his wilful shutting-to the door against conscience, 
 felt for the time (and could not choose but feel) that he 
 was that very monster of opprobrious turpitude which 
 Bacon had conjured up, and shown with a full glaring 
 ghastly light upon it — not naming it — leaving it to himself' 
 to name." 
 
 No wonder tiiat even the prisoner at the bar, on 
 hearing these words of brilliant pleading, felt, despite 
 bis pride, at least for a moment, that he was the " very 
 monster of opprobrious turpitude" that he was charged 
 with being. But despite all its excellences, this speech 
 had one fault. The fact that Bacon, though treating 
 so lightly in his opening words the sense of former 
 oblig'iations, yet dwelt so much in his peroration on 
 ingratitude, laid his flowing periods open to derision, 
 and his enemies were not slow to accuse him (and 
 with considerable appearance of reason) of contempt- 
 ible time-serving and hypocrisy. 
 
 I must allow "Whitehead to tell in his own words 
 the touching and impressive interview between the 
 Earl of Essex and Francis Bacon, which follows : 
 
 " ' My most noble lord,' began Bacon, 'in the performance 
 of a grievous command ■' 
 
 " ' No more,' interrupted the Earl. ' Make of it what 
 thou wilt, Bacon, it will not hence out of my bosom. Arid 
 yet— there,' and he seized his hand, and shook it, grasping 
 it tightly. 'Francis, I have ever honoured you for that 
 great eflluence of the Godhead which hath already, and 
 which, I trust, in a greater measure, will yet come' forth 
 from you. O ! let not the world — the time o'ermaster you. 
 Here is my hand; and, by m^ soul, never did it more 
 heartily press yours. I love you ; but henceforth we must 
 
i82 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 ,j ; 
 be as friends who have lo&t each the other, but who trust to 
 meet once more in Heaven. Fare yon well !' " 
 
 Despite the acknowledgment of the better qualities 
 of the two men indirectly made by introducing such a 
 scene, it must be allowed that Whitehead has frequenipy 
 treated Essex rather badly, a;nd that while he does not 
 refuse to admit that Bacon had some virtues, he evi- 
 dently does not consider him a good mafi. 
 
 Respecting such an important point as the conduct 
 of Bacon towards Essex, it is well to ascertain the views 
 of historians. Mr. James Spedding, in his Letters 
 and Life of Francis Bacon (vol. ii., p. 159), dealing 
 with the years 1599;' 1600, says, that the people 
 of the time thought tliat Bacon was plotting againsfe 
 Essex, whereas he was really doing what he could to 
 dissuade the Queen from bringing the Earl's case in 
 question publicly, and to induce her to pardon him 
 on certain conditions. . Again (vol. ii., p. 190) Mr. Sped- 
 ding represents Bacon as acting a worthy part towards 
 Essex, in endeavouring to restrain him from clandestine 
 or treasonable proceedings. Mr. Spedding does not 
 appear to think that ■ Bacon did any wrong towards 
 Essex in his great speech at the trial. The historian^' 
 (vol. ii., p. 366) thus sums up the matter from his point 
 of view : ' ; 
 
 "With the publication of the Declaration of Treasons, 
 as now set forth, the history of the relation between Bacon 
 and Essex may be considered as concluded and complete. 
 For though I shall have to recur to it hereafter in connection 
 with the 'Apology' — a work which belongs to a later period 
 — I shall have nothing material to add, having already: 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. 183 
 
 taken into my account the disclosures for whicli we are 
 indebted to that most interesting narrative. In a note to 
 Dr. Eawley's ' Life of Bacon,' I said that I had no fault to 
 find with, him for any part of his conduct towards Essex, 
 and that I thought many people would agree with me when 
 •they saw the case fairly stated. Closer examination has not 
 at all altered my opinion on either point. And if I have 
 taken no notice of what has been said on the other side, 
 it is because I do not wish to encumber this book with 
 answers to objections which a competent judgment would 
 not raise ; and I cannot think that any of the objections 
 which have been urged against Bacon's conduct in this 
 matter would naturally suggest themselves to a reasonable 
 person in reading the story as I have told it." 
 
 From a certain aspect, this summary is very con- 
 clusive; but it must be urged against it that Mr. 
 Spedding seems to feel that be is as much holding 
 a brief for Bacon, as Whitehead seems to hold a brief 
 for Ealegh. It has been well said that truth is 
 many-sided, and the aphorism is very apphcable to 
 this case ; so much can be truly said in support of 
 diametrically opposed opinions respecting the conduct 
 of Bacon towards Essex. Certainly, to say that Bacon 
 should not have taken part in the trial would be to 
 judge him too severely, but there can be equally little 
 doubt that the tone of his speech was sometimes 
 needlessly inconsistent with former friendship. 
 
 The most striking feature of the novel's close is the 
 Queen's attitude before and after the trial. Here is a 
 fine extract, showing one of Whitehead's excellences 
 as a writer of fiction — ^his power of introspective 
 analysis of mingled feelings and emotions. In this 
 
1 84 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 passage the Queen refers with surprise to the fact that 
 Essex had not sohcited his life from her. She was 
 mistaken; he had sent a message to her, and that in 
 the manner most agreeable to her, by one whom he 
 supposed to be a friend. It was only by the perfidious 
 conduct of Nottingham that his wife did not fulfil her 
 promise to Essex. 
 
 " The account they speedily brought her of the conditioa J 
 in which they had found their spiritual charge at once 
 astonished, perplexed, and affected the Queen. Could it 
 be that this man, erewhile so rash, impetuous, disdainful, 
 could be so soon wrought to a most sincere and self-reproach- 
 ing contrition % Was this feigned 1 Was it a cunning 
 expedient to preserve his life? No. Over and over had 
 he proclaimed that he was weary of his life — that the pre- 
 servation of it did not consist with her majesty's safety — 
 that he wished to die. 
 
 "There was no resisting the belief that there was no 
 feigning here. Yet, he was an enthusiast; his mind had 
 become weakened; he knew not what his real feelings were, 
 and was rather prostrated than penitent. His life ' did not 
 consist with her majesty's safety.' 
 
 " The Queen liked not that. ' Poor, fond, weak fool — ^^. 
 that even in this most ignominious strait of fortune, canst 
 prate of power thou hast not, and never hadst — whose 
 treason was crushed ere it could crawl — how should I fear ' 
 thee now ?' 
 
 "It was not long ere her working mind made his penitence 
 itself an argument against him. He repented of his treason, 
 as treason, not as it had been practised against her ; and he 
 would fain make his peace with God, but cared not to offer 
 to her the reparation of a contrite soul. This was to re- 
 proach her. There was human pride and petulance in this. 
 
 " ' Lo ! no traitor am I — or if — I seek no pardon from 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. 185 
 
 my Sovereign. I am a martyr. Eobert Devereux, thou 
 shalt not live.' 
 
 " The Queen was inexorable. 
 
 " What of absolute power Queen Elizabeth did not pos- 
 sess, was rather in the theory than in the practice of the 
 constitution. Nature had given her a most absolute will. 
 Great as she undoubtedly was, the magnitude of her mind 
 made her so ; not a grand and sovereign authority over its 
 operations. She seldom subjected herself or her feelings 
 to examination. 
 
 " Yet, as the day drew nigh for the execution of Essex — 
 of her erring and peevish favourite, whom to forgive had 
 almost grown into a habit and a pleasure ; who had once 
 been possessed of so large a share of her affection, and 
 whose very frailties had made him more dear to her than 
 the virtues of 'her Philip' Sydney had ever done — she 
 could not but reflect that, let him be the worst the good or 
 the best could pronounce him, she herself had gone far to 
 make him so. She had borne, nay, she had sometimes en- 
 couraged; his arrogance towards others, in the day of his 
 pride and triumph ; could she wonder at — ought she so 
 strongly to resent— his injurious conduct towards herself? 
 Is it not ever thus, that they, who are rewarded far beyond 
 their deserts, and not- because of them, but for the love 
 that is borne towards their possessors, wantonly turn 
 against their benefactors, making provocation to them- 
 selves out of a juster, however niggard, reward of others' 
 merit? Does not the spoiled child strike- his mother, and 
 take most delight in torturing her who is his fondest, 
 although not his best friend ? And, since folly should meet 
 its punishment, is it not just that it should be so ? 
 
 "Again, had she not driven, goaded him to these despe- 
 rate courses for which he was about to suffer ? Had she 
 not tempted and trifled with him, by too harsh and too 
 prolonged a show of resentment ? When he would have 
 made a submission which, until he offered it, she would 
 
1 86 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 have deemed sufficient, had she not exacted more and 
 more, and more abject still, and this many times,, until the 
 man's soul became possessed with titter weariness and 
 disgust ? She could hardly deny to herself a tittle of these 
 accusations which her mind brought against her. ^ •( 
 
 "Still, to mar the salutary effects thab might have pro- 
 ceeded frorn this self- questioning, true to her nature 
 (which was likewise the nature of Essex, to which, also, 
 he had proved too true), there arose constantly the all- 
 prevailing plea, that he should have conceded everything; 
 the creature of her hands, whom she had made, for her 
 pleasure, and might unmake at her discretion,, he .had 
 nought to do or to desire, but to permit himself to be 
 disposed of as she willed — thfe more readily, since be knew, 
 or should have kpown, that her partiality for him was 
 such, that it was not likely he would lie long under her 
 displeasure. And now, naught of the game remained to 
 play, but the last stake. Would he beg his life of her ! 
 .He would not, as it seemed. 'Then, perverse and obstinatS 
 and sinful wretch !' (she spoke not of herself, but of Essex|^' 
 ' he shall die.' 
 
 " Meanwhile, neither Cecil nor Eaiegh, nor any of the 
 reputed enemies of the Earl, were suffered to come into 
 her presence, a circumstance from which some of his friends 
 augured that it might be well and profitable to urge what 
 they could in his behalf. They were .speedily made to feel 
 the mistake they had committed, in a perpetual banishmetpj 
 from the court. There was one nobleman, indeed, to whoii 
 she spoke unreseWedly of Essex, save in relation to the feel^ 
 ings respecting him which perplexed her heart, and now, on 
 the last day, agitated her inmost soul. She had never sus- 
 f)ected the enmity of Nottingham to Essex ; and since the 
 imprisonment of the latter in the Tower, he had been in 
 almost constant attendance upon him, and had even per- 
 suaded Essex into a belief of his friendship. 
 
 " To the Countess of Nottingham the Queen, on this 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A ROMANCIST. 187 
 
 eventful day, -would probably have unbosomed herself, less 
 with a view to derive counsel or comfort from her, than 
 from a desire to ease her heart of a load which oppressed it 
 almost to bursting. But the Countess, some four days 
 since, feeling unwell, had taken an airing in her coach ; 
 and afterwards waiting upon her majesty, had fallen down 
 suddenly in a swoon, and was still confined to her apartments 
 in the palace. 
 
 "The most abject and miserable of her subjects suffered 
 not as did Queen Elizabeth on that day. Yet she would 
 not relax or relent — the more inflexible as every passing 
 hour brought on the speedy night which, rolling away, was 
 to reveal her victim on the scaffold. At length, impatient 
 of his obduracy — maddened to think that her mercy was 
 scorned and despised — she sat down and signed the warrant 
 for his execution, which, an hour afterwards, she despatched- 
 by a trusty hand to the Constable of the Tower. That fatal 
 document is still in existence. The firmness and decision 
 of the Signature are indeed remarkable, if it be not re- 
 membered that the hand which wrote, could cancel ; and 
 that she yet hoped she might be entreated to do so. 
 
 "Scarcely was the warrant despatched, when a revulsion 
 of feeling took place. God ! it must not be. So young 
 to die — the son of him who had met no noble treatment 
 from her hands — of Walter Devereux, the gallant soldier, 
 noble in person as in honour, who, scarce a year older than 
 was now his unhappy son, had been stretched in his grave. 
 No warning voice called from it; no awful shadow thence, 
 or from above, stood a pale horror in her sight ; yet, for the 
 moment, voice nor vision could more have shaken her soul. 
 Affrighted, almost frantic, she summoned Sir Henry Cary to 
 her presence, to whom she gave it in terrible commaind to 
 hasten to the Tower and countermand the execution. 
 
 " ' Begone ! I charge you ; and do my bidding as you 
 value my favour or your life. Stay ! I am very foolish. 
 How now 1 we have forgot ourself. , It is past.' 
 
i88 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 " She walked the length of the apartment, and returned. 
 
 " ' Gary, you may go. Tell our Constable of the Tower he 
 shall hear from us again by twelve of the clock. Meanwhile, 
 as we have ordered you.' 
 
 "Gary bowed reverently; nor raised his head till the Queen 
 had pntered the ante-room of her privy-chamber ; then, 
 instead of hastening out of the palace to the Tower, in obedi- 
 ence to the command of his royal mistress, he struck down 
 the gallery and made for the apartments of the Earl of 
 Nottingham, who was, by marriage, nearly allied to him, 
 the Countess being his sister. 
 
 "He called the Earl forth, and drawing him aside, com- 
 municated to him the Queen's change of purpose — a piece 
 of news he had reason to believe would be most unpalat- 
 able to his brother-in-law. Nor was he mistaken. 
 
 "The Earl, crossed, enraged, 'yet withal alarmed in no 
 common degree, hastened with Gary down the gallery to a 
 retired chamber, where, although he could not, hope, and if 
 he could, would not have dared, to dissuade the other from 
 obeying the Queen's orders ; yet, representing that there was 
 no haste, since the countermand could derive no additional 
 force from its early delivery, and suflfer no diminution of its 
 virtue by delay, he induced Gary to tarry awhile till he had 
 taken counsel with Cecil how the untoward lenity of the 
 Queen might best, if at all, be thwarted. 
 
 " He returned to Gary in a couple of hours, with a very 
 troubled countenance, and bade him begone, telling him 
 that the Secretary was fearful of intruding himself into the 
 presence of the Queen, and that the matter must take its 
 course.'' 
 
 It would take too much space to narrate in detail 
 the final episodes ; how the Queen again changed her 
 mind, her misery on the day of execution, and the 
 gloom which was cast over her remaiining days. It 
 
WHITEHEAD AS AN HISTORIAN. 1S9 
 
 must be sufficient to say that these things are well 
 told, that the work, as it approaches conclusion, in- 
 creases in interest, and that passages at the end reach 
 a high point of almost epic grandeur. 
 
 Altogether the book, though in some respects the 
 most popular in style of Whitehead's works, is, viewed 
 as an historical romance, not on the highest level. 
 But it is certainly equal to the best works of such 
 writers as G. P. R. James or Harrison Ainsworth: 
 The period dealt with was not Whitehead's period, 
 and therefore the book could not be Whitehead's 
 best work. 
 
 Whitehead published in 1854 The Life, and Times 
 of Sir Walter Ralegh, with copious extracts from his 
 History of the World. This work partakes of the 
 character of an historical disquisition on Sir Walter 
 Ralegh. It will therefore be' best to deal with it by 
 showing Whitehead's views on various aspects of 
 Ralegh's individuality. It is thus that the author 
 refers to the lineage of his subject : — 
 
 " Whilst Sir Walter was yet — not smarting under, but^ 
 smiling disdainfully at the envy and detraction that sur- 
 rounded him, John Hooker,* an eminent antiquary, and 
 related to Ealegh, in a dedication to the knight of his 
 translation and continuation of the ' Chronicles of Ireland,' 
 tells him that the family of Ealegh — sometimes written 
 Rale and Ralega in ancient deeds — were settled in Devon- 
 
 * He was uncle of the illustrious :Richard Hooker, author 
 of the " Ecclesiastical Polity," who is commonly styled by , 
 divines and others learned in divinity, "the judicious 
 Hooker." 
 
igo A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 shire, and in possessian of the seat of Smalridge, befor-e the ' 
 Norman Conquest, and that one of the family huilt a chapel , 
 there, in gratitude [for his deliverance on St. Leonard's , 
 day from the Gauls, hy whom he had been taken prisoner ; 
 and that he hung up therein, as a monument, his target.*"' 
 (The records of this foundation are said to have been given 
 by a priest ,of Axminster to Sir Walter, as their most; 
 rightful owner.) ; 
 
 " So much for the antiquity of the family ; but Hooker 
 avouches that his kinsman and friend was allied to the 
 Courtenays, Earls of Devon, and other illustrious houses,; 
 nay, that he- can] trace the stream of consanguinity up to 
 the Kings of England ; for he says, ' that one of his ancestors • 
 in the directest line, Sir John de Ealegh, of Fardel (another,; 
 seat of their ancient inheritance, in the parish of Cornwood, 
 eight miles east of Plymouth), espoused the daughter of Sir 
 Eichard d'Amerei, who married Elizabeth, daughter of Gil-' 
 bert Earl of Gloucester, by Joan, d' Acres, daughter of King 
 Edward I., which Gilbert was descended of Robert, Earl of - 
 Gloucester, son of .King Henry L' So he goes up to the 
 Conqueror, adding further, ' that in like manner he may be 
 derived by his mother out of the same house.' " 
 
 It is quite apparent, however, from the remark 
 which Whitehead appends to this somewhat lengthy 
 statement, that in hi» opinion Kalegh so little regarded 
 his high ancestral claims as to think that their only* 
 advantage was that they "silenced and tended to put" 
 to shame his traducers on the score of birth;" and in 
 yindication of his opinion, Whitehead quotes a long 
 extract from the History of the World, in which 
 Kalegh discusses in his quaint manner the claims 
 of descent versus those of personal merit. 
 
 In this connection it may be well to refer briefly to 
 
WHITEHEAD AS AN HISTORIAN. 191 
 
 the somewhat remarkable fact that there is diversity 
 even in spelling the name Ralegh. Whitehead uni- 
 formly spells it without the i, and gives us as his 
 warrant for so doing a facsimile of Ralegh's seal, which 
 one would think, if it be genuine, would entirely settle 
 the question ; and yet Hume, Southey, and innumer- 
 able writers, invariably insert the letter referred to. A 
 very recent author, however (Sir John Pope Hennessey) 
 omits the %. 
 
 Whitehead had an exalted, not to say extravagant, 
 opinion of Ralegh's powers as a poet. Of the well- 
 known sonnet on the " Fairy Queen," he says that it is 
 " one of the finest in the English language, and would 
 almost justify any hyperbole that a conjecture of future, 
 poetical greatness might raise upon it." 
 
 Whitehead says this apropos of the fact that Spenser 
 is reputed to have remarked that his friend Ralegh 
 " had a more ethereal genius than his own " — a com- 
 phment which Whitehead conceives to be flattery; not- 
 withstanding the foregoing praise. 
 
 Another example which he gives shows Ralegh's 
 muse in her courtly dress, but this sonnet no more 
 than the preceding one justifies the eulogium passed 
 upon bim. 
 
 It is curious to notice that, notwithstanding all 
 Queen Elizabeth's liking for Sir Walter Ralegh, she 
 stUl felt unwilling that he should obtain what was 
 then deemed one of the highest honours which could 
 be conferred on a man eminent as a scholar or in 
 literature. Perhaps the Queen thought that were he 
 
192 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 always to obtain Ms desires, lie would become intract- 
 able ; a quality which no Sovereign could brook in 
 courtiers less than Elizabeth. 
 
 The matter is thus referred to in the book under 
 notice : — 
 
 "A little before Leicester's death, the University of 
 Oxford, like her sister, ever sagacious of a rising sun, and 
 with a fervid Persian disposition to worship it, which later 
 times have not abated, had incorporated him Master of 
 Arts, that he might be the more capable of becoming their 
 Chancellor when the office should become vacant, as it did 
 shortly afterwards by the death of Leicester. Elizabeth^ 
 however, did not please that this high honour* should be 
 conferred upon him, and Sir Christopher Hatton was 
 elected." 
 
 It is very natural that there should be many opinion? 
 as to the interesting question of Ralegh's statesman-, 
 ship. Not only was the age in which he lived one 
 which could be viewed from innumerable standpoin^^ 
 but it was an age in which many problems, social and 
 religious, as yet. unsolved, were^ so perplexing men's 
 minds and insensibly modifying their conduct as to 
 make it difficult— indeed, well nigh impossible — for 
 us to pass an impartial judgment on it. Try as we 
 may, we cannot, being possessed of nineteenth century 
 
 * The University of Cambridge about five-and-twenty 
 years afterwards elected Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset, their 
 Chancellor — the miscreant who a year or two subsequent^ 
 was convicted of poisoning Sir Thomas Overbury. Why 
 should not the highest honour a University has it in hei 
 power to bestow be conferred upon genius or learning ? 
 
WHITEHEAD AS AN HISTORIAN. 193 
 
 intellects, acquire the habits of thought proper to the 
 sixteenth. Then, again, there is a special difficulty in 
 this particular case, for Ralegh's character was many- 
 sided. Few, however, will question Ralegh's conduct 
 in the following instance : 
 
 "The alarm of the Spanish preparations against England 
 being now at its height, Sir Walter, in November, 1587, 
 was one of the Council of War appointed to consider what 
 was best to be done in this emergency, upon which occasion 
 he drew up a scheme of operations, which is cited as a proof 
 of his exquisite judgment and rare abilities. This document 
 is still in existence, and fully bears out the eulogium it has 
 called forth ; but in his History of the World he has en- 
 larged upon his favourite doctrine,* and insisted upon what 
 he always maintained, namely — that a country is ever better 
 defended by sea than on land — so eloquently and convinc- 
 ingly that we only wonder some of the disputants, two 
 years ago, had not reprinted it, when we were all to be 
 terrified into a belief of an invasion by France." 
 
 The next extract which I shall give has reference to 
 Essex. 'Referring to Leicester, he says : 
 
 " It was now that he introduced his step-son, Essex, a lad 
 of twenty (but who had been Leicester's general of the 
 horse), to Elizabeth. This young nobleman had, when a 
 boy, conceived a strong aversion against the Earl, which that 
 wily person had so effectually succeeded in removing, that 
 
 * What powerful and weighty language Ralegh would 
 have used in condemnation of the scheme to do away with 
 our natural marine defence by tunnelling under the English 
 Channel !— H. T. M. B. 
 
 13 
 
194 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 his protegi had imbibed from him certain rules for his 
 Conduct as a courtier which, being of high spirit, and of a 
 frank, although by no means of a noble nature, he knew not 
 well how to apply. Too proud to stoop for favour, he had 
 not the abilities to rise by desert. Courteous and liberal to 
 his fri^ends, by whom he was beloved, he was the darling; of 
 the people, whom he courted ;* but he must needs play the 
 antics of a froward, spoiled child before a Tudor, to whom 
 Henry the Eighth has transmitted some of the tiger, and he 
 suffered at length for his ingratitude and presumption. 
 
 It is curious to notice Whitehead's estimate of Essex 
 in this passage, and to compare it with the more 
 finished and elaborated portrayal of him which our 
 author has given us in his historical romance The Earl 
 of Essex. > But, both here and in that work, he has 
 rigidly adhered to that unfavourable view of Essex's 
 character of which 1 have already said enough when 
 dealing directly with the work in question. It is suffi- 
 cient at present to remark that this paragraph, no less 
 than that romance, testifies to Whitehead's knowledge 
 of .and insight into that period, though, as I have 
 said, it does not show that his sympathy was with it' 
 In contrasting Ralegh and Essex he almost invari- 
 ably does so to the advantage of the former ; neverth$|| 
 less his conception of Essex is a just one. There is 
 little doubt that one of Ralegh's chief failings was his 
 under-estimation of what would now be termed popular 
 
 * The Lord l^reasurer, Burghley, had noticed this love of 
 popularity in Essex, and the disdain of, it in Sir Walter. 
 " Seek not to be Essex : shun to be Ealegh," he says in his 
 precepts to his son. Sir Robert Cecil. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS AN HISTORIAN. \% 
 
 opinion. Perhaps, however, this fault was more owing 
 to the prejudices of the time in which he Hved than 
 we can ever now realize. It is difficult not to believe 
 that the complaisance of Essex towards the people 
 had its origin more from a feeling that their support 
 would facilitate his personal ambition rather than 
 from a sincere conviction of the justice of their 
 claims. 
 
 Concerning Sir Walter Ralegh's religious views we 
 have the following : 
 
 " Meanwhile, what are we to think of Archbishop Abbot, 
 who, in a letter dated February 19, 1619* (four months 
 after Ralegh's death, and nearly five years after the ,publica- 
 tion of ' History of the World '), expressly charges him 
 with ' questioning God's being and omnipotence, which,' his 
 grace adds, ' that just Judge made good upon himself, in 
 overtumbling his estate, and last of all bringing him to an 
 execution by law '? Must we in charity suppose that Abbot 
 was the only man in England who did not, by this time, 
 know the wretched falsehood of the calumny, and that Sir 
 Henry Montague, the judge who passed sentence upon him, 
 had released him from that aspersion ? Was an Archbishop 
 of Canterbury the only scholar in the nd,tion who had not 
 looked into so remarkable a book (more than remarkable) 
 as the ' History of the World,' or, having done so, who had 
 omitted to read the very first paragraph ? +" 
 
 * To Sir Thomas Eoe, then ambassador at the Court of 
 the Mogul. 
 
 t It is a solemn and majestic passage : " Gody whom the 
 wisest men acknowledge to be a power ineffable, and virtue 
 infinite, a light by abundant charity invisible, and under- 
 
 13—2 
 
196 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 It is painful to be obliged to descend from the 
 sublimity of these closing words to deal with the sub- 
 ject to which reference must now be made, for it is 
 the antipodes, so to speak, of Kalegh's character from 
 that which formed the theme of the last extract. 
 Here are Whitehead's words : 
 
 "Ealegh, however, has been accused by his enemies — ■ 
 many of whom have shown little mercy to his memory — 
 of having exercised excessive and needless cruelty in Ireland. 
 It is not true : this great man had not an atom of cruelty 
 or vindictiveness in his composition ; nor has any author, 
 
 standing which itself can only comprehend — aft essence 
 .eternal and spiritual, of absolute pureness a^d simplicity, 
 was, and is, pleased to make Himself known by the work 
 of the world, in the wonderful magnitude whereof (all which 
 He embraceth, filleth, and sustaineth) we behold the image 
 of that glory which cannot be measured, and withal that 
 one, and yet universal nature, which cannot be defined. In 
 the glorious lights of heaven we perceive a shadow of His 
 divine countenance ; in His merciful provision for all that 
 live, His manifold goodness, and, lastly, in creating and 
 making existent the world universal by the absolute art of 
 His own word. His power and almightiness : which power, 
 light, virtue, wisdom, and goodness, being all but attributes 
 of one simple essence, and one God we in all admire, and 
 in part discern, per speculum creaturarrtm, that is, in the dis- 
 position, order and variety of celestial and terrestrial bodies 
 — terrestrial in their strange and manifold diversities ; celes-, 
 tial in their beauty and magnitude — which, in their continual 
 and contrary motions, are neither repugnant, intermixed; nor 
 confounded. By these potent effects we approach to the 
 knowledge of the Omnipotent Cause, and, by these motions, 
 their Almighty Mover." 
 
WHITEHEAD AS AN HISTORIAN, 197 
 
 treating of military affairs, more earnestly and more elo- 
 quently, or more often, denounced the cruelty of conquerors, 
 deplored the miseries of war, and advocated the rights and 
 duties of mercy. He has himself said, speaking on a very 
 different subject, ' Whosoever is the workman, it is reason- 
 able he should give an account of his work to the work- 
 master ;' and since to subordinates seldom falls any portion 
 of the honour they have been instrumental in procuring for 
 their commander, nay, since it is dangerous to lay. claim to 
 it (we have Shakespeare's warrant for it*), let the shame of 
 any action — ^if shame there be — light upon the workmaster 
 to whom the workman renders his account." 
 
 "With all Whitehead's partiality for Kalegh, he 
 does not seek in this passage directly to combat 
 those who accuse Ealegh of cruelty in Ireland. His 
 language is rather that of a skilful counsel concealing 
 a weak point in his client's case by an eloquent 
 argument in favour of his innocence in general. This 
 is significant. We shall by-and-by see what excellent 
 reasons Whitehead had for adopting this course. 
 Here is a remarkable letter. It refers to a period 
 mentioned also in Whitehead's romance of The Earl 
 of Essex, when Ealegh was in temporary disgrace. 
 It was certainly a clever device : 
 
 " It seems clear to me that Arthur Gforges intended to 
 do a friend's turn for Ealegh by drawing up this narrative 
 for Cecil (at the very time very intimate with Sir Walter), 
 who would laugh at the description of the scene, see its 
 intent, and make the best use of it for the captive's delivery 
 from prison. Ealegh, however, must have stimulated his 
 merriment and quickened his activity in his behalf by the 
 
 * Antony and Cleopatra, Act III. Scene 1. 
 
198 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 following letter, which commences in a very business-like 
 manner : — 
 
 " ' Sir, — I pray be a mean to her majesty for the signing 
 of the bills for the guard's coats, which are to be made now 
 for the progress, and which the clerk of the check hath im- 
 portuned me to write for. My heart was never broken till 
 this day, that I hear the Queen goes away so far off, whom 
 I have followed for so many years with so great love and 
 desire in so many journeys, and am now left behind her in 
 a dark prison, all alone. ' While she was yet near at hand, 
 that I might hear of her once in two or three days, my 
 sorrows were the less, but even now my heart is cast into 
 the depth of all misery. I that was wont to behold her 
 riding like Alexander, hunting like Diana, walking like 
 Venus, the gentle wind blowing her fair hair about her pure 
 cheeks, like a nymph, sometime sitting in the shade like a 
 goddess, sometime singing like an angel, sometime playing 
 like Orpheus !* Behold the sorrow of this world ! — one 
 amiss hath bereaved me of all ! Oh, glory that only shineth 
 in misfortune, what has become of thy. assurance? All 
 wounds leave scars but that of fantasy ; all afflictions, their 
 relenting but that of woman-kind ! Who is to judge df 
 friendship but adversity 1 or when is grace witnessed but 
 in offences ? There were no divinity but by reason of com- 
 passion, for revenges are brutish and mortal All those 
 times past — the loves, the sighs, the sorrows, the desires — 
 can they not weigh down one frail misfortune ? Cannot one 
 drop of gall be hidden in some great heaps of sweetness ? 
 I may thus conclude, Spes et Fortuna, valete / She is gone 
 on whom I trusted, and of me hath not one thoughtj^jof 
 mercy, nor any respect of that that was. Do with me npw, 
 ^therefore, what you list ! I am more weary of life than 
 .they are desirous I should perish j which if it had been /or 
 
 * This paragon was in tjie sixty-second year of her age/ 
 
WHITEHEAD AS AN HISTORIAN. 199 
 
 her, as it is hy her, I had heen too happily born. Yours 
 not worthy any name or title, W. K.'" 
 
 'Superlative adulation was characteristic of the 
 period, as witness even the translators' preface pre- 
 fixed to most 'of our Bibles ; but, notwithstanding all 
 possible allowance for time and circumstance, it can 
 hardly be questioned that Ralegh was somewhat of a 
 sycophant towards Elizabeth. 
 
 Whitehead has the following to say about the 
 material that Shakespeare may have obtained from 
 conversation with Sir Walter Ralegh or from th& 
 perusal of his works. He also imagines that MUton. 
 may have obtained something from the same source •. 
 
 " It is certain that Shakespeare had read attentively the' 
 narrative of Ralegh's voyage. In the Tempest we read of 
 'the still- vexed Bermoothes.' Ralegh says — 'The rest of 
 the Indies for calms and diseases very troublesome, and the 
 Bermudas a hellish sea for thunder, lightning, and storms.' 
 In the same play, the honest councillor, Gonzala, asks, 
 ' Who would believe 
 
 " ' that there were such men 
 Whose heads stood in their breasts ? which now we find 
 Each putter-out of one for five will bring us 
 Good warrant of V 
 
 "And in Othello, where the Moor tells of having seen 
 
 men ' whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders,' we are 
 
 to understand that a man of honour and veracity is speak- 
 
 , ing, not that a Mendez Pinto is telling travellers' tales to 
 
 the Council of Ten. 
 
 " Seventy years after Shakespeare, Milton, in his Paradise 
 
20O A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Lost, when the Archangel Michael shows the other hemi- 
 sphere to Adam, says : 
 
 " ' In spirit perhaps he also saw 
 Rich Mexico, the seat of Montezume 
 And Cusco in Peru, the richest seat 
 Of Atabalipa, and yet unspoil'd 
 Guiana, whose great city Geryon's sons 
 Call El Dorado.' " 
 
 It is thus that Whitehead deals with former 
 biographers of Ralegh : 
 
 " However afflicted at the fatal misadventure, of his 
 brother Ealegh was nothing daunted. The discoveries of 
 Columbus, the conquests of Cortez and Pizarro, had formed 
 a congenial portion of his early reading, and in his conver- 
 sation as a youth these had been his prominent subjects. 
 ' Moreover, he was,' says Southey, ' one of those who are 
 so thoroughly possessed by the spirit of adventure, that 
 they neither, learn to be wise by others' harms nor by J.heir 
 •own.' In other words (and this meaning may be wrung 
 out of the ungenerous, narrow-minded, and false allegation 
 of the recluse of Keswick), he was not a man to sit in a 
 study, and complacently pass judgment upon more active 
 spirits, who are content to encounter formidable difficulties, 
 undreamed of by the fireside, when they can be of practical 
 service to their country."* 
 
 * Dr. Southey should not have attempted a life of Sir 
 Walter Ealegh^ at any rate not in the space to which he con- 
 fined himself, or to which he was restricted ; for, regarding 
 his illustrious subject with no friendly eye, he sometimes 
 makes hostile and unsupported assertions, which demand 
 proof; and proof, even when it is not difficult,- sometimes 
 requires a lengthened presentation of itself. Ealegh was 
 
WHITEHEAD AS AN HISTORIAN. 201 
 
 This is severe criticism on Southey. It may be 
 incidentally mentioned here that Whitehead would be 
 prejudiced against a writer who supported an asser- 
 tion on the authority of the elder Disraeli. That 
 author defends King James I. of England, and White- 
 head uses a porcine appellation in speaking of the 
 monarch. 
 
 I have in the above extracts endeavoured to convey 
 an idea of the volume under notice, and it may be 
 well, before concluding this chapter, to give some of 
 the views of Southey and other writers on the same 
 subject. 
 
 Southey, in his life of Ralegh contained in his 
 fourth volume of the lAms of British Admirals, con- 
 demns Ralegh severely for his cruelty in Ireland, and 
 
 not a man to Southey's mind. Had the knight been a 
 soldier-captain singly, or a sea-captain, or a courtier, or a 
 statesman, or a chemist, or a philosopher, or an historian, 
 Southey would have presented us with a fair, as he has 
 not failed of giving an eloquent, life of Sir Walter; but 
 being " the universal Ealegh," his biographer could not con- 
 ceal his sympathy with the evil and heart-vexihg passion 
 which possesses myriads of inferior natures. From a man 
 of various learning and literary accomplishments like 
 Southey, we might have looked for no niggard admiration 
 of that marvel of labour, learning, and genius, The History 
 of the World ; but he has devoted four lines to it, and, in 
 the forty-one words of which they are composed, has quali- 
 fied the praise due to the author by calling his great work 
 a ' compilation,' and by asserting, on the rotten authority of 
 the elder Disraeli, that some of the best wits in England 
 assisted Ealegh with their researches. 
 
202 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 especially for putting to death some Spaniards wlio, in 
 the license of those times, had come to help the Irish 
 rebels. Southey further says that. Queen Elizabeth 
 "detested from her heart such cruelty," and "was 
 greatly displeased." He also accuses Ealegh of " hold- 
 ing out fallacious allurements to other adventurers." 
 Southey remarks that Sir Walter Ralegh had " many 
 great qualities and some good ones," but that his bane 
 was want of rectitude. 
 
 One of Hume's chief contentions against Ealegh 
 is, that having gone on an expedition to the " inland ' 
 parts of South America, called Guiana," he did not 
 find "anything to answer his expectations," but, on 
 his return, he published an account of the country 
 " full of the grosseist and most palpable lies that were 
 ever attempted to be imposed on the credulity of 
 mankind." As his authority for this assertion, Hume 
 quotes Camden (p. 584), and likewise accuses Ralegh 
 of sycophancy, and dwells on his jealousy of EsseXi : ' 
 He tells a story of how on one occasion, when Essex 
 had fallen into disgrace and was sick, the Queen sent 
 him a kindly message. But Ralegh, the "most 
 violent " of the enemies of Essex, " was so affected " 
 a,t the prospect of his regaining favour, that he 
 (Ralegh) likewise became sick; "and the Queen was 
 obliged to apply the same salve to his wound, and to 
 send him a favourable message expressing her desire . 
 of his recovery." This story is amplified in White- 
 head's Earl of Essex, but there it is Essex that is made . 
 to be the envious .courtier. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS AN HISTORIAN. 203 
 
 Sir John Pope Hennessy, in his volume Sir Walter 
 Ralegh in Ireland, censures Ralegh severely for his 
 conduct there, and especially, like Southey, condemns 
 him for the Smerwick massacre. Sir John says that 
 Bacon, Camden, and a whole chorus of historians, 
 declare that the Queen was " much displeased " at the 
 barbarous execution ; but when, a few years ago, the 
 State Papers in the Record Office were calendered, 
 two letters were found speaking of it as " greatly to 
 our lyking." Sir John also states that Ralegh had 
 Elizabeth's approval for " assassination and poisoning 
 of chiefs." In Sir John's opinion, it had been well had 
 the treaty which Essex made with the chiefs been 
 ratified and adhered to. It was this compact which 
 ultimately led to the downfall of Essex, as clearly 
 shown in Whitehead's romance. The Academy, in 
 reviewing Sir John's book, is exceeding severe on 
 Ralegh ; but the Athenceum defends him, and expresses 
 very forcibly the view I endeavoured to state in an 
 earlier part of this chapter, and which had previously 
 occurred, to me on purely independent grounds. It 
 says, "The fallacy involved in the present work is 
 that men of the sixteenth ceiitury should be subjected 
 
 to the moral code of the nineteenth century 
 
 In practical life, no intelligent person falls into this 
 
 mistake. The author of this, work would not judge 
 
 of the c()nduct of a Chinese by the rules of Christian 
 
 morality." 
 
 . .In his preface, Charles Whitehead says, "Of the 
 
 many biographers of Sir Walter, a few have been. 
 
204 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 perhaps, indiscreetly panegyrical, whilst some (Hume 
 and Southey, for instance) have attacked his fame 
 with a virulence for which an envy of his extra- 
 ordinary abilities can alone account." But further on, 
 even Whitehead admits him to have been a flatterer, 
 and regrets that he never sought to please the 
 people, saying that this is " perhaps to be lamented," 
 and remarking that during his later voyages he" was 
 jealous and envious. Conceding all this, however, he 
 can still close his preface in these terms : 
 
 "But the operation here has not been of compression, 
 but of extract; and I trust that they and the rest of my, 
 or rather of his, readers, will find enough to. assure them 
 that of the three great men of Elizabeth and James's time, 
 Walter Ealegb was one, and that the companion of Shake- 
 speare and the friend of Bacon can neither be depressed 
 by malignity nor exalted by praise." 
 
 Sir Walter Ralegh was a highly remarkable man, 
 and was probably entitled to the place which White- 
 head claims for him. Unquestionably subservience 
 to the great, disregard of the people, and sometimes 
 cruelty, were among his faults. But aU of these are 
 among the failings — shall I say weaknesses ? — of the 
 period in which he lived. 
 
 Whitehead's lAfe and Times of Sir Walter Ralegh 
 is, as far as I am aware, the last book he published 
 before leaving England. As to its literary merit, not- 
 withstanding its various excellences, I cannot but 
 think that it only shows Whitehead as a clever and 
 competent bookmaker. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS AN HISTORIAN. 205 
 
 It is significant, however, that a great modern poet, 
 who probably had never even heard of thin book of 
 Whitehead's, and whose mode of looking at historical 
 personages was doubtless very different, held the same 
 exalted view of Ralegh's character, as will be strikingly 
 shown in the following sonnet : 
 
 " Here writ was the World's History by his hand 
 Whose steps knew all the earth ; albeit his world 
 In these few piteous paces then was furled. 
 Here daily, hourly, have his proud feet spanned 
 This smaller speck than the receding land 
 
 Had ever shown his ships ; what time he hurled 
 Abroad o'er new-found regions spiced and pearled 
 His country's high dominion and command. 
 
 " Here dwelt two spheres. The vast terrestrial zone 
 His spirit traversed ; and that spirit was 
 Itself the zone celestial, round whose birth 
 The planets played within the Zodiac's girth ; 
 Till hence, through unjust death unfeared did pass 
 His spirit to the only land unknown." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST, 
 
 Richard Savage, described on the title-page as A 
 Romance of Real, Life, edited with occasional notes 
 by Charles Whitehead, author of The Solitary, illus- 
 trated by John Leech, appeared in Bentley's Miscellany 
 for the years 1841-42. Evidently it took some hold of 
 the public, for before it had quite completed its course 
 in that periodical, it was produced in volume form. 
 To the illustrations I will subsequently refer. In the 
 magazine the contents of each chapter are summarised 
 at the beginning of it. It is probably significant of 
 the great carefulness with which Charles Whitehead 
 at this period poUshed his productions before they 
 left his hand to appear in the first instance in print, 
 that in the various editions of Richard Savage in 
 book-form there is not even a verbal change from the 
 text as it appears in the magazine. In volume-form, 
 however, the pretence or pretext of editorial function 
 is dropped, and the title simply becomes Richard 
 Savage, a Romance of Real Life. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 207 
 
 Richard Savage has tlie merit of vivifying/ in a 
 marvellously realistic manner an historical personage. 
 This is a matter always difficult to accomplish, and 
 even Whitehead, who in this case so brilliantly suc- 
 ceeded, subsequently failed considerably when making 
 a similar essay in the Earl of JSssex. In this instance 
 Charles Whitehead has achieved the difficult task of 
 being faithful to history, whilst weaving into the, weft ' 
 of his story much human passion, and creating some 
 powerfully delineated characters. Indeed, some of the 
 purely fictitious personages are the most finely por- 
 trayed in the book. Whitehead displayed not a little 
 boldness in choosing such a central figure — not hero 
 — as Savage, but the manner in which he has exe- 
 cuted his presumably self-imposed task justifies his 
 having done so. JRichard Savage is not only a story 
 of incidents occurring in the eighteenth century, but 
 it is a story of the type to which Fielding's stories 
 belong, though happUy entirely without the gross 
 animaUsm which sometimes disfigures that writer. 
 It partakes of the character of an eighteenth century 
 story in the following respects : 
 
 First, its large plot — a plot embracing a greater 
 number of incidents, and probably a larger number of 
 characters, than are to be met with in a novel of the 
 same kind and treatment in the present age. Second, 
 its being the story of a life, not of an incident or series 
 of incidents in a life. Third, its being designed to 
 chronicle events^ not to analyze character or to depict 
 situations. Fourth, its movement being continuous, 
 
2o8 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 something is always going on. People come and go 
 in its pages ; that which is a prominent character now 
 ■may by-and-by drop out of the narrative altogether. 
 It . is a primitive type of novel, designed before 
 novelists had got to their wits' end to devise interest- 
 ing and thrilling adventures. Fifth, it being English 
 life it depicts, but life in England in England's well-nigh 
 least English period. For except in the hey-day of 
 the revulsion of feehng which ensued at the Restora- 
 tion from the excessive rigidity, of Puritan thought, 
 when the returning monarch brought with hiln and 
 kept in fashion by personal example the manners and 
 habits appertaining to the worst GalUc dissoluteness > 
 and depravity, eighteenth century life in England, \i 
 and especially in London, was more largely tinged 
 and tainted by injurious French influence than at any 
 other era. It was French in its excess of manners, 
 French in its defective morality. 
 
 In proof of what I have just been saying, let us 
 compare Richard Savage with Fielding's Tom Jones. 
 Like Richard Savage, Tom Jones has an extensive 
 plot, comprehending a vast variety of incidents. It 
 may fairly be termed a' life-story, designed to record .-' 
 events, and, with httle ulterior moral object. In it 
 there is constant movement — Fielding, like White- 
 head, writes of things that he sees ; he does not rack 
 his brain to devise unfamiliar situations. We find 
 that Tom Jones and Richard Savage represent the ' 
 same type of English life with similar fidelity; and 
 that this was more remarkable in Whitehead, who 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 209 
 
 lived in the nineteenth century, than in Fielding, who 
 lived in the eighteenth century, and who simply de- 
 scribed what he saw ; that there is much less grasp of 
 humour in Whitehead than in Fielding, who was per- 
 haps the master of. all English humourists ; and that 
 there is more hold of tragic passion, for Fielding has 
 no such terrible picture of mingled bravery and 
 cowardice as Ludlow — the most powerfully delineated 
 fictitious personage Whitehead presents. Fielding has 
 nothing comparable in terribleness to Ludlow's mad- 
 ness and death. This personage is absolutely White- 
 head's own creation, no such type of character having 
 existed before it in English fiction. Perhaps the, nearest 
 approach to it is in Scott, and in, the madness and 
 awe-inspiring death of one of the abandoned friends of 
 Lovelace in Eichardson's Clarissa. ■ 
 
 Richard Savage is written in the autobiographical 
 form. Savage is of course represented as the illegiti- 
 mate son of Earl Rivers and. the Countess of Maccles- 
 field, and the spirit in which the author wishes his 
 character to be examined is sufficiently obvious from 
 the following extract from his preface : — 
 
 " In conclusion, although nearly a century has elapsed 
 since the death of this unfortunate and erring man, let me 
 bespeak for him, a ' wretch,' as he aifectingly calla himself 
 in the dedication of a poem to Queen Caroline, ' whose days 
 were fewer than his sorrows ;' let me bespeak, fpi; him, I 
 say, that indulgent and charitable construction of his 
 conduct which, a year after his death, was pleaded for him 
 with so touching an earnestness by Samuel Johnson, his 
 illustrious biographer and friend." 
 
 14 
 
2IO A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 His mother, who, very shortly after his Birth, was 
 divorced from her husband, and eventually became the 
 •wife of Colonel Brett, is a personage the origin of 
 whose motives it is very difficult to discover. Even 
 Dr. Johnson, in his ii/e of Savage, is unable to come 
 to a satisfactory conclusion, though he certainly pre^ 
 sents a very ingenious theory on the subject.. But, 
 from whatever cause, let it suffice to say that she soon 
 regarded the child with implacable hatred,- and desired 
 to put him away. Her mother, Jjady Mason, a tender- 
 hearted but irresolute woman, steps in to succour the 
 infant. She hands it over to a confidential servant, 
 Ludlow, who gives it out to nurse to a sister of his own, 
 a woman without marked vices, yet destitute of all 
 higher principle — a woman utterly mercenary in 
 motive, and a slave to that spirit of sycophancy which, 
 perhaps, more frequently degraded the lower classes of 
 her time than of our own. Her husband, a dissolute"'' 
 fellow, was by trade a baiHff, and early initiated Richard 
 into the bestial amusements then so prevalent... In, 
 this undesirable household the boy remained until 
 about the age of ten, when Lady Mason sent for him, 
 and shortly afterwards despatched him under the guid- 
 ance of Ludlow to a school at St. Albans. The master 
 of this school, whose name was Burridge, was a remark- 
 able man. He had once been a gay fellow about town, 
 but meeting with losses, had matured into a middle- 
 aged preceptor of good habits and nature, with a whim, 
 to pose as a cynical philosopher, not always even 
 sparing his own early foibles. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 2ii 
 
 After Eiciard has been several years at schpol, 
 Ludlow rather suddenly appears, and informs Burridge- 
 that it is unfortunately necessary that the lad should 
 be removed. The schoolmaster is naturally not un- 
 impressed by the mystery enveloping the boy^ which 
 this sudden rem;oval from school considerably intensi- 
 fies. ' Something in Ludlow's manner also attracts his 
 attention, and he relieves his feelings by expressing 
 himself in the following characteristic liianner : 
 
 " ' A great secret, sir !' faltered Ludlow. 
 
 " ' Yes, sir, a great secret that has outgrown its clothes, 
 and soon won't have a rag to cover it. I was one of the 
 close gentlemen myself, once ; and I brought myself to a 
 fine pass with my closeness. Thus it was : I married a 
 young and pretty woman without a farthing, and I kept the 
 marriage secret ; but, I was found out, nevertheless. Then 
 my father disinherited me — that, also, I strove to keep 
 particularly secret ; but it got wind and blew all over the 
 town. Then ray creditors hunted me in and out, and out 
 and in, to all manner of lodgings, where I designed to be 
 very secret. Next, my^ wife, poor dear ! died of a broken 
 heart, having kept that, all along, a profomd secret. Then 
 I fell into extreme poverty, and all my friends left me ; but 
 that is no secret. Never tO' conficje. or to harbour secrets — 
 that is a secret worth knowing." 
 
 The reason for taking Richard from school was at 
 first very carefully concealed even from himself; but 
 by-and-by it became known that his father had died 
 without leaving him anything. Ludlow brings him at 
 once from St. Albans to London, and he is forthwith 
 apprenticed to a cobbler, very much against his will. 
 The restiveness which Richard evinced in what he 
 
 '' 14—2 
 
212 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 deemed this menial employment was rather increased 
 than diminished by time. At school he had been led 
 to think that his lot was that of a gentleman, and now 
 this contemptible position excited his chagrin. Pre- 
 sently his high spirit engages him in a brawl with his 
 cobbler-master, and taking advantage of the confusion 
 he escapes, and repairs ^ to Ludlow, at Lady Mason's 
 house. On hearing his story, LudloW is at first wroth 
 with him, and threatens him with Lady Mason's severe 
 displeasure, which he tells him may, in the. present 
 crisis, damage him for life. He exhorts him to return 
 to Short the cobbler, but Richard distinctly refuses so 
 to do. Ludlow also finds him unpleasantly persistent 
 in his interrogatories respecting the mystery of his 
 birth ; he even threatens to demand an explanation 
 from Lady Mason, or to go before a magistrate with a 
 like purpose. After a while Ludlow hits upon an expe- . 
 dient which he imagines will meet the difficulties: of 
 the case. Unknown to Lady Mason, who will still 
 think him with the cobbler, he will place Richard 
 with a friend of his, Mr. Myte. To this person's house 
 he forthwith takes Richard, and installs him there. : 
 Myte's occupation is thus described, and his quaint 
 whimsical character hinted at : 
 
 " ' That won't be while you're here,' returned Myte. 
 'Look you, my ingenious young friend, I sell houses when I 
 have houses to sell, to certain persons; — when. I can find 
 them ; and I buy houses, when thereare houses to be bought, 
 from certain persons who may wish, to sell them ; but at 
 present I have neither houses to be sold nor persons ta 
 purchase, nor do I wish to have. All my business, there- 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 213 
 
 fore, is to do nothing, and look as though I had plenty to 
 do ; and all yours will be to look as though you had plenty 
 to do, and do nothing.' 
 
 " ' An easy life, sir,' I said, laughing. 
 
 " ' So so, for that,' replied Myte ; ' I've found yawning 
 hard work before now. But you can carry a letter, and 
 bring an answer, and draw a bill, and say I'm out when I 
 wish I were not in, and all that V 
 
 " ' Oh yes.' 
 
 " ' And all these things you promise solemnly to perform ]' 
 
 " ' I do.' 
 
 " ' And you faithfully engage to talk no more than your 
 tongue will let you, and as little good sense as you can ; not 
 " two and two make four — two and two make four," in the 
 moral or maxim way, for all that I hate ; besides, I know, 
 in morals, two and two often make five.' 
 
 " ' I promise all this, sir.' 
 
 " ' Good lad, very good lad,' said Myte.' ' Kiss that book,' 
 handing me a volume of the Tatler. ' But come,' said 
 he, ' let's go upstairs and see " Heaven's last, best gift,'' as 
 the poet has it, — the fair creation, three samples of which I 
 have upstairs. Why, I have a wife and two daughters.' 
 
 " ' Indeed !' said I. 
 
 "'Why indeed? you should have said, "Joy be with 
 you, Colbrand," for that's my name. Mind that stair. 
 That's been two summersets, seven sprained ankles, and 
 bruised hips out of number. I've been thinking of having 
 -it mended these twelve years. When it comes to a broken 
 leg, I'll have the leg and it set to rights together.' 
 
 " ' Here,' said he, handing me forward, .and presenting me 
 to his wife and daughters, ' good people, I've brought you a 
 young friend whom I commend to your especial good offices. 
 This, Eicardo, is Mrs. Myte, known in this house (but only 
 so addressed by me) by the style and title of Flusterina. 
 My love,' with assumed surprise, ' I once told you, many 
 years ago, that I loved the very ground you trod upon, and 
 
214 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 you're always' reminding me of it by carrying some upon 
 your face." 
 
 " Mrs. Myte appealed to her daughters. 
 
 " ' Is my face dirty, my loves V 
 
 " The young ladies smiled, and shook their heads. A 
 slight tap with the fan upon the small skull of Myte, was 
 the gentle punishment meted out to the delinquent. ' And 
 here,' continued Myte, ' are Madam Margaret and Mistress 
 Martha, commonly called my Goth and Vandal ; they will 
 permit you to salute their cheeks.' 
 
 '^ The girls blushed, while I promptly availed myself of 
 the privilege. 
 
 " 'And now,' said Myte, 'since you will have plenty of 
 leisure to cultivate the esteem of these ladies, let me show 
 you your dormitory. ■ You must know,' he resumed, as we 
 ascended the stairs, ' that I slept in that room for ten years, 
 before I was married, and I used to call it — that's Signor 
 Tomaso,'- — in parenthesis, pointing to a large cat which had 
 been asleep on the landing, but which now came forward, 
 and placing its fore-paws upon Myte's knee-pan, stretched 
 itself leisurely. ' I used to call it paradise,' he proceeded, 
 ' it was such a snug room, till the fire broke out, and I 
 had to jump out of the window into a large blanket.' 
 
 " Having taken me into every room in the house, com- , 
 mentin'g upon each, and inquiring at intervals whether I 
 thought I could be comfortable under his roof, he brought 
 me back again to the drawing-room. 
 
 " ' Go in there,' said he, ' and make interest for a dish of 
 chocolate. I am going to meet a gehtlerdan at White's.' 
 
 " The ladies vied in their attentions tdwards me ; and I 
 soon bfegan to feel, that if I were not as happy as I could 
 wish with Myte and his fanlily, it would be entirely my 
 own fault. When Myte returned, and during the after- 
 noon, he amused me with his innocent freaks and fooleries. 
 In the evening he played upon the fiddle, and riiade,hi9 
 wife sing and his daughters dance, and tried to sing him- 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 215 
 
 self; and, finally, would have accomplished a dance, but 
 that the potency of a sneaker of punch of which he had 
 partaken had so impaired the stability of his small legs, 
 that his family judged it inexpedient that he should hazard 
 the feat. I, myself, confess to having seen two candles in 
 my hand when I retired to bed ; and had Myte's disastrous 
 stair been upon the flight I had occasion to ascend, I think 
 it very likely I might have added to the, list of casualties 
 in his possession." 
 
 Myte's peculiar personality and quaintly humorous 
 conversation is further aptly illustrated by this tirade, 
 which he addresses banteringly to his prospective son- 
 in-law Langley : 
 
 " ' Toiling in a perpetual round,' continued Myte, ' run- 
 ning fruitlessly after happiness, when, if you stand still, 
 you have it. I say, Wildgoose,' he added, 'did you ever 
 see a kitten in pursuit of its own' tail? round and round 
 goes the little creature, now on one haunch, then on the 
 other, gravely kicking and grinning, and allfor what % Why, 
 if it sat still, there's its tail under its nose. Now, that's the 
 moral of a young fellow of pleasure.' " 
 
 There can be no doubt that Myte is a distinct 
 creation. His presence in the book gives abundant 
 evidence of Whitehead's power to invent a humorous 
 character of almost absolute originality. 
 
 Eichard's residence at the house of Myte gave him 
 abundant means and leisure to see life as it then was, 
 and he soon aspired to the pretensions of a " pretty 
 fellow." But none of the occupations or diversions of 
 his years or circumstances could prevent his mind from 
 dwelling on the mystery of his birth. Dr. Johnson 
 
2i6 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 tells us that about this period Savage's old nurse died, 
 and that in reading over her papers the youth dis- 
 covered some letters from Lady Mason explaining his 
 birth and the reason for its being concealed. White- 
 head has, however, in this instance, not adhered to 
 the facts' of history, probably deeming it better for the 
 interest of his novel to adopt a different course. He 
 therefore makes it appear that Mrs. Freeman, the old 
 nurse, had herself no knowledge whatever respecting 
 Richard'si parentage, that she impprtuned Ludlow on 
 the subject, and that Richard solved the enigma of his 
 origin in the following manner : One day Mrs. JBrett 
 called on Myte, and after her departure, Myte began to 
 narrate her history to his young clerk, telling him how 
 she had once a. son who, it was supposed, had died. 
 Richard inquires as to dates, and perceives that if that 
 son were alive he would be about his own age. Little 
 by little the truth dawns upon him ; he remembers 
 with what peculiar significance Ludlow had once 
 pointed out to him the house of Earl Rivers. Thus 
 the mystery of his birth is dispelled. Whitehead 
 leads us to infer that, in this matter. Savage shows 
 considerable power of deduction for a " pretty fellow " 
 of his years. 
 
 On discovering the, all-important point, his first im- 
 pulse is to seek an interviewwith his mother. For many 
 days he haunts the front of her dwelling at nightfall, 
 that,- unperceived himself, he may perchance perceive 
 her. He is satisfied for a while if he sees her crossing 
 her brilliantly lighted saloon, or going forth in gorgeous 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 217 
 
 attire to an assembly. At length, however, a crisis 
 comes, and he resolves forthwith to present himself be- 
 fore Mrs. Brett. In the first portion of the extract 
 which I am about to give, Whitehead describes 
 Eichard's vacillating state of feeling, as previously 
 mentioned ; in the second, his reception by Mrs. Brett : 
 
 "It was not, however, till I got to the door that. I 
 bethought me of the probable effect so sudden and un- 
 looked-for a discovery must produce upon the delicate con- 
 stitution of a woman. Here, again, my imagination was 
 at work to magnify the consequences of my visit, and, 
 ^perhaps, to palliate to myself the weakness, that absolutely 
 overwhelmed me, causing my fingers to withdraw from the 
 knocker, and my feet to betake themselves to the other 
 end of the street. During some hours I wandered up and 
 down on the other side of the way, looking wistfully at the 
 house as I passed and repassed it, striving to extract 
 resolution from the steadfast bricks and mortar, which each 
 successive time looked more awfully prohibitory. Ought I 
 to' be ashamed to acknowledge that I went home that night 
 as wise as I came, satisfying myself with excuses for my 
 pusillanimity which I had occasion to make use of on the 
 next night— and on the next ? 
 
 " I saw her once in the course of these perambulations. 
 She came for an instant to the window. Her back was to 
 the light, so that I co'uld not distinguish her face ; but her 
 figure was not to be mistaken. Upon this occasion I was 
 so agitated, that when I recovered myself I resolved, and 
 , fortified my determination with an oath, that on the follow- 
 ing evening I would make my way to her feet. I could 
 no longer bear this state of suspense. 
 
 "I was there at the accustomed time, at my old spot, 
 opposite the house. Again I beheld her at the window. 
 She was gorgeously attired — I conjectured for an assembly ; 
 
2i8 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 and looked out, as though observing the night.' Presently 
 a footman opened the street door, and ran to the corner. 
 He was gone to engage a chair. No time was to be lost. 
 He had left the door open. I crossed the way, and entered 
 the house. Not a soul in the hall, or on the staircase. 
 The door of the room was partially open. I glided in — how, 
 I know not — nor did I approach her and throw myself^ at 
 her feet, as I had intended; but I stood stock-still — no, 
 not so : still, that is to say silent ; but trembling violently. 
 
 " I think I must have looked wofully white, for when 
 Mrs. Brett saw me she uttered a half scream. 
 
 " ' Who are you, sir ?' at length she said imperiously ; 
 ' what do you want ? , You should have knocked before you 
 entered the room. Were you admitted by the servants ?' 
 
 " I took courage, and approached. 
 
 " ' Ha ! I see — Mr. Myte's young man — ^Ludlow's nephew. 
 What is your business here, young gentleman ?' 
 
 " I fell upon my knees before her. 
 
 " 'Bless me, madam.' 
 
 " 'Bless you !' she exclaimed, with a laugh. 'Bless mt, 
 boy ! what is the meaning of this ? Why do you apply 
 to mfi ? What can I do for you ?' 
 
 " ' Bless me, madam !' I repeated. ' You see before you 
 your son — :I am your son.' 
 
 ' " ' You are a mad-brained boy, who deserve a whipping 
 for your impertinence,' she said, after a minute's pause, and 
 she laid her hand upon the bell-rope. 'Rise, you young 
 fool, and go away, or jny people shall take you where you 
 will be well punished. This is one of your master's sorry 
 jests — insolent old coxcomb 1 Else ' stamping her. feet. 
 
 " I found my feet and my tongue too. The worst was 
 over, and I was not to be so repulsed. Snatching her hand, 
 I said : 
 
 " ' Nay, but hear me, madam ; you must — you shall hear 
 me. This is no jest — it is the trutji. I am your son — the 
 son you have so long believed dead.' . 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NO VELIST. 2 1 9 
 
 "Her lips were parted for a scornful laugh — her eyes 
 dilated — her brows raised; and then she saw me — gazed 
 at me- — into me. An unmoved eye confronted hers. A 
 sudden change — a change as ghastly as sudden. There was 
 paint upon her 'cheeks and on her lips, the rest was ashy. 
 
 " ' Good God ! good God !' she exclaimed;, not smoothing, 
 but dashing the hair from my forehead, ' it cannot be ! 
 Who are you !' quickly — ' you are Ludlow's nephew V 
 
 '"Your son, madam,' I replied, 'your son, as there is 
 truth in Heaven. Lady Mason knows it. Ludlow can 
 vouch for it, and shall be made to do so. Lord Ei'vers ' 
 
 "I had scarcely uttered the name when she frantically 
 flung me from her. 
 
 " ' Base, unheard-of imposture !' she cried, her eyes flash- 
 ing as she spoke. 'He shall answer it, Ludlow shall 
 answer it, I say. Hence, at once, or I will alarm the house.' 
 
 " Again my eye caught hers, and again she scanned me, 
 drawing herself up proudly. ' Cunning, clever tool of an 
 awkward journeyman,' she said contemptuously. ' If he 
 knew how to use you ! but he does not. You will cut his 
 fingers, fellow— ^or I vrill.' 
 
 " ' Yoii do him wrong, madam,' Said I hastily, * if you 
 mean Ludlow. He knows not of my visit here ; he is igno- 
 rant of it, and that I have made this discovery.' 
 
 "By this time she had completely regained her self- 
 possession. I watched her face. It was calm, cold, and 
 malignant. She rang the bell violently, slowly nodding her 
 head to me as she did so. 
 
 " ' We will make another discovery between us, young 
 gentleman,' she said ; ' we will discqver whether my house 
 is my own or no.' She heard feet upon' the stairs. ' Help ! 
 murder ! thieves ! Lucas ! John f where are you V 
 
 " I cast myself at her feet. ' For Heaven's sake, 
 madam, if you will not own, do not endeavour to degrade 
 me.' 
 
 " ' Where are my servants V she said (what a hideous face 
 
220 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 it was at that moment !), addressing a little girl about twelve 
 years of age who ran into the room. 
 
 " ' I hear them coming, madam,' answered the girl ; ' what 
 is the matter V 
 
 '"A thief has broken into the house! Oh! you are 
 come at last !' turning to two brawny rogues, as they 
 entered. ' Secure that young robber !' 
 
 The fellows laid hold upon me, and began to pull me 
 zealously about the room. 
 
 " 'Oh, madam !' interrupted the girl, 'he is not a thief : 
 I know he is not. He is a young gentleman. You did not 
 mean to rob, did you, sir V 
 
 " 'I am no thief,' T cried, breaking from the men who 
 held me, 'and she,' pointing to Mrs. Brett, 'knows that I 
 am not. She shall know that I am ' 
 
 " ' Silence him ! away with him !' vociferated Mrs. 
 Brett. 
 
 " ' Shall we give him to the watch, my lady V said one, 
 seizing me by the throat. 
 
 " ' Yes — no,' she answered ; ' turn him out of the house. 
 He will not repeat his visit, I dare say,' she added, with a 
 shocking smile. 
 
 " ' Do not hurt him, Thomas,' cried the little girl ; ' you 
 will strangle him.' 
 
 " ' He's kicking my shins to splinters, miss I' remonstrated 
 Thomas, dragging me, with the assistance of his felloW-ser- 
 vant, to the door. 
 
 " What could I do against the well-fed villains, who now 
 forced me from the room with blind impetuosity, precipi- 
 tating my head as they did so into the stomach of an old 
 gentleman who had been listening on the landing ? 
 
 " ' I beg pardon, Mr. Lucas !' cried the more strenuous of 
 the two ; ' we have got a thief.' 
 
 " ' What ! eh ? what ! what !' cried the old man, heaving 
 and panting. ' A thief ! No such thing. He's Mr. Myte's 
 youth ; I've seen him ther&. A thief ! He's nearly stolen 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 221 
 
 all the breath out of my body, if that's being a thief; and 
 I haven't much to lose. My lady is mistaken. I must let 
 her know\\vho he is. Stay where you are;' and the old 
 gentleman walked into the room. 
 
 " ' A pretty business this,' said one of the men to the 
 other, as they waited for orders, wiping his perspiring face ; 
 ' thief-catching must be hard bread.' 
 
 " ' And keeping when you have caught,' said the other ; 
 ' that's all crust.' 
 
 " Lucas now came out of the room, closing the door after 
 him. 
 
 " ' Let him go quietly now,' he said. ' You have terri- 
 fied Mrs. Brett very much, young man,' he added, turning 
 to me ; ' but you won't do it again — eh ? what ! what ! — 
 no, you won't.' 
 
 " ' They will treat me with more respect when I come a 
 second time,' said I, ' and so will she^your mistress, and 
 'jours, fellows.' " 
 
 After this repulse Eichard Savage . sought Ludlow, 
 whom he found as usual at the house of Lady Mason, 
 and to whom he at once imparted his tale. At first 
 the old servant is terror-stricken, and cannot under- 
 stand how the youth has discovered his secret. After- 
 wards he is still more terrified when he hears a certain 
 ominous sound. What that sound was the following 
 extract will explain : — 
 
 "It was Mrs. Brett's voice; we heard, her ascend the 
 stairs rapidly. 
 
 " ' There'll be high words presently,' said he, looking 
 back ; ' what if we get our hats and make off— just for a 
 walk, eh f 
 
 " f I'd not stir an inch for an Empress,' I replied; 'I'm 
 glad she's come.' 
 
222 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 " ' Are you V he rejoined. ' Wliat a spirit you have ! So 
 am I glad ! — at least, I ought to be so. Do you know, Dick, 
 when I was a boy — a country boy — I was benighted on 
 Corley Moor. A storm came on. Well, I saw a tree — : 
 there was but one — all waste around — the lightning showed 
 it to me. Well — well — the lightning came down, and played 
 around it, and about it, and seemed to lick the trunk, and 
 run along the branches ; and presently down came a thunder- 
 bolt — down it came, and clove the tree asunder. Down t 
 fell like a stone.' 
 
 " ' Well, and what of that V I inquired. ' Here you are, 
 none the worse.' 
 
 " ' What of that V said he. ' I don't know j only, some- 
 how, this reminds me of it.' 
 
 " I could not forbear laughing in the pitiable face of the 
 narrator. 
 
 "■' Pish !' said I. , 'Courage, Ludlow; this is a storm that'll 
 soon blow over. What part do you propose playing in this 
 tempest — tree or thunderbolt V 
 
 (i) 77 
 
 Yery shortly afterwards Ludlow and Richard are 
 summoned into Lady Mason's presence, and the follow- 
 ing scene forthwith ensues between Lady Mason, Mrs. 
 Brett, Ludlow, and Richard. The description of this 
 scene contains some of the finest writing in the book. 
 The main contention is, of course, respecting Savage's- 
 origin, and the character of the whole rencounter can 
 readily be gatherefi from what follows : 
 
 " ' Ludlow,' cried Lady Mason, looking up, ' you must 
 not presume to insult my daughter.' 
 
 " ' Oh, my lady, but he may !' returned Mrs. Brett ; ' he 
 has your warrant for it. But not with impunity,' she added 
 suddenly, approaching Ludlow, and striking him, a violent 
 blow upon the face with her fan. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 223 
 
 " l4udlow bore it without flinching — nay, not merely that, 
 but he projected his face as though courting a second salute 
 of the same nature. 
 
 " ' What is the meaningof this ?' cried Mrs. Brett, humour- 
 ing his conceit by bestowing upon him a second and a third 
 blow with additional force, which he received in the same 
 manner. 
 
 " After a time he spoke, calmly and quietly. 
 
 " ' Madam, you remember Jane Barton ?' 
 
 "'Jane Barton?' 
 
 " ' Afterwards my wife.' 
 
 " ' I do remember the creature,' said Mrs. Brett. ' Go 
 on, sir. Well V 
 
 " ' Well !' said Ludlow ; ' well !' 
 
 " ' What does the fool mean 1' cried Mrs. Brett, looking 
 around. ' Nephew,' turning to me, ' expound ; this, I sup- 
 pose, is another of your joint performances.' 
 
 " ' I do not know what he means, madam,' I replied ; 
 ' and I cannot expound mysteries.' 
 
 " ' Madam,' resumed Ludlow, ' since you remember her, 
 perhaps you have not forgotten Mr. Bennett — the gay, the 
 handsome Mr. Bennett — your friend Mr. Bennett.' 
 
 " ' I have not forgotten Mr. Bennett.' 
 
 " 'I say " well" again, then,' cried Ludlow. 
 
 " ' Thank you, boy !' exclaimed Mrs. Brett, turning to me, 
 and patting my head ; ' you are a very good boy ; indeed, a 
 very good boy. You would not second this branch of the 
 lie. Madam,' to her mother, ' I hope you now see the gross 
 web this poor thing has woven out of his worsted brains. 
 And so, because his wife was young, and vain, and giddy, 
 and he had neither sense nor spirit to control her ; and be- 
 cause our friend Bennett (you know the whole story) was 
 young and handsome — and fortunate,' she added, with a 
 provoking shake of the head at Ludlow, 'has this. fellow 
 harboured a resentment against me, which he geeks to gratify 
 by palming off his nephew upon me for my son. Begone, 
 
Fold out 
 
224 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 thou wretched animal ! Out of my path, thou base and 
 spiritless worm !' 
 
 " Ludlow met her as she advanced, and grinned in her 
 face. 
 
 " ' Worm, am I ?' he said. ' How do you know that I am 
 a worm f How do you judge I am a worm ? How do you 
 know a worm? By its shape ? By its size ? By its crawl? 
 Ha ! ha ! you may be mistaken in your worm ; perhaps I am 
 an adder — an adder. They are alike — but one stings.'" 
 
 When the storm caused by this angry interview* had 
 to some extent abated, Kichard quesJtknijid Ludlow as 
 to his hatred of Mrs. Brett : 
 
 'Xell me the reason,' saiMMBfvhy you nourish jthis 
 
 extraordinary enmity agalfli 
 " ' Did I not hipi at it,' 1 
 
 :t-. 
 
 ,,*"?^d,^quickly, ' last night, 
 when we were iipstairs ? Bq;. yiiint Vi.is plaiupaiicwik to 
 
 her. She knows, now, hoiHMiue cause I BS^ to love her 
 — ^how much — how much tonfte her.' 
 
 " ' You said something abovt your wife,' I rejoined, ' and 
 
 a certain Mr. I forget^is name.' 
 
 " ' I don't,' said he ; ' Mr. Bennett, that was his name.' 
 " ' I never knew that/y'ou had been married,' I observed, 
 " ' Oh ! but I have,' he replied. 'Married? Yes,' cover- 
 ing his face with his hands, ' and miserable too — how miser- 
 able no one can ever know. Shall I tell you all?— very 
 shortly — if I can. You will not despise me — -you will not 
 laugh at me ; for these things are laughed at ; they are plea- 
 sant jests to some, but not to me. I could not bear it from 
 you, Richard.' 
 
 " I entreated him to compose himself, for, when he un- 
 covered his face, 1 perceived it was ghastly pale, and assured 
 him of my sympathy,, I began to suspect what it was he 
 was about to communicate. 
 
 " ' Let me see,' he said, after a long pause. ' How shall 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 225 
 
 I begin ? I entered the service of Lady Mason a mere boy 
 — a boy from the country. After a time I was taken into 
 favour by her, but found no favour in the eyes of the 
 daughter — your mother — then a very young woman. I 
 was glad when she was married to Lord Macclesfield. My 
 only trouble, or discomfort, rather, was removed with her. 
 Well, I grew up into manhood. A young girl — Jane Barton 
 — came into the service of my lady. She was lively, good- 
 natured — or seemed so — and pretty. Our fellow-servants 
 said that she was very vain and giddy. I did not think so. 
 I became attached to her, and she to me. It is a lie of those 
 who said she never loved me. She did love me— I know 
 it. At length', I mustered courage to ask my lady's per- 
 mission to marry Jane. It was granted; Lady Mason kindly 
 adding that we should continue in her service till she could 
 find means to set us up in a small way of business. We 
 were married.' Here Ludlow sighed heavily. 
 
 " ' Oh my God !' he said suddenly, striking his bosom with 
 his clenched hands, ' there is no other name for it that I 
 feel here, and that I have felt since then — no other name but 
 anguish — anguish. I must- go on. We had not been long 
 married when Mrs. Brett (oh ! that cursed woman, not then 
 Mrs. Brett !) returned to her mother, divorced — about to be 
 so — disgraced — infamous; It was natural — was it not ? — 
 although she had ever treated me with ridicule and con- 
 tempt (why, she used commonly to call me a sneaking 
 hound, a creeping parasite, a base wretch) — still, it was only 
 proper, she, the daughter of my excellent mistress, that I ' 
 should treat her with all outward and becoming respect. I' 
 pitied her (she would hate me worse than she ever did, or does, 
 if she knew that I pitied her), and I conducted myself before 
 her with more than my former reverence. This might have 
 conciliated — melted any other woman — but her heart is flint. 
 As the sense of her disgrace wore off — or, perhaps I should 
 say, when the time had elapsed during which it was decent 
 to aflfect some sense of her disgrace— the old unfeeling inso- 
 
 15 
 
226 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 lence returned. My wife waited upon her as her tirewoman, 
 and in the innocence of her heart: — for she was then inno- 
 cen:t-^(oh, Dick !) — she would relate to me from time to time 
 what her mistress said to her about her recent marriage — 
 what she thought of the choice she had made — ^what a silly 
 girl she was that she had not looked higher — how extra- 
 ordinary that women woidd throw themselves away — devilish 
 seeds that pollute the soil in which they are sown, let that 
 soil have been as fair before as the garden of Paradise. 
 
 " ' And yet to others of our fellow-servants— for she would 
 be familiar with her inferiors — ^they have told me that she 
 frequently said to them that Jane would come to no good — 
 that she was too vain and heedless — ^unrestrained in her 
 Speech and manner — and that " poor Ludlow " must take 
 as much" care of her as though she were worth keeping. 
 You may say this was light talk merely, forgotten as soon 
 as uttered, and that I was a fool to think about it. 
 Judge.' " 
 
 Savage found in the sequel that Ludlow had ample 
 justification for his feeling ; that Mrs. Brett had treated 
 him infamously, had abetted his wife's dishonour, and 
 had taken advantage of his servile position to load 
 him with contumely and scorn almost too grievous to 
 be borne. The passage in which this is told is a very 
 powerful one, but bearing in mind the length of the 
 other quotations, I have deemed it desirable not to, 
 give it. 
 
 Time goes on, and Kichard's cause makes no head-- 
 way; on the contrary, Mrs. Brett persecntes him by 
 every means in her power ; and having acquired com- 
 plete naastery over her mother. Lady Mason, now grotm 
 feeble both in body and mind, she procures the igno-i 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 227 
 
 minioiis dismissal of Ludlow, averring that Richard is 
 his nephew, whom (by a contemptible plot) he is wish- 
 ful to palm off as ier son. Ludlow has fortunately, 
 while in the service of her ladyship, been provident, 
 and is therefore able at this juncture to retire to com- 
 fortable lodgings. His wife is not dead, and now comes 
 to him, dangerously ill, apparently dying, but humbly 
 begging his pardon for the past. He forgives her, 
 freely and fuUy, and she goes once more to live with 
 him. Richard sees them frequently, but does not at 
 this time reside with them. 
 
 One day he is passing along the street when a man 
 accosts him, inquiring whether his name is Savage. 
 On his answering in the affirmative, he is firmly seized 
 and forcibly captured ; his captors thrust him into a 
 coach, and menacing him with threats of direst import 
 should he seek to escape, they drive off rapidly to an 
 unknown destination. It is perfectly evident to Richard 
 that the ruffians who have caught him are simply the 
 paid tools of a more powerful enemy. It is almost 
 needless to say who the enemy is ; and Savage soon 
 learns from the dastardly hirelings themselves that 
 his suspicions are well-founded. The men, whose re- 
 spective names are Rugby and Watson, inform him 
 that he is about to he sent secretly out of the country. 
 The vehicle is at length stopped, and he is conveyed 
 into an old and disreputable-looking inn. He is then 
 made io ascend to a small room, into which he is 
 pushed and the door locked upon him, the villains 
 telling him that he wiU have to remain there until 
 
 15—2 
 
228 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 nine o'clock, when it was supposed that the ship that 
 was to bear him away would sail. So agreeable had 
 it been to their feelings to imprison an innocent man, 
 that one of the servants at the inn had accompanied 
 them upstairs to assist in this delightful employment, 
 and to aid in jeering at their hapless captive. The 
 manner in which Savage at length succeeded in effect- 
 ing his escape is described in the following extract. 
 The passage is almost too long for quotation,, but it 
 cannot well be divided, and it is withal so fine a piece 
 of writing, that I have judged it advisable to quote it 
 entire : — 
 
 " With a burst of boisterous aud, I dare say, heart-felt 
 merriment, the three rogues left me to my own reflectionS/iti; 
 
 " And sad and bitter they were for a time^and then, 
 revengeful. But her revenge, it was too apparent, would 
 precede mine, perhaps prevent it. Was it certain — what- 
 ever Watson might have hinted to the contrary — that my 
 life would not be attempted— that I should not be murdered ; 
 in this den ? That I had full reason to believe would be the 
 disposal of me most satisfactory to Mrs. Brett. For of what 
 avail — blasting avail — to send me to Jamaica, if I chanced to, 
 come back again, the possibility of my doing which my 
 mother, guilty, I remembered, as well, as malignant and re- 
 vengeful, must have resolved, before she decided upon this 
 step ? Murdered — the decree had gone forth — I was to be 
 murdered — drowned, it occurred to me, by the jolly tars of 
 whom Watson, had spoken, whose jollity would suffer little 
 diminution from the trivial circumstance of having sent a 
 poor devil to the bottom of the Thames. My hair stood 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 229 
 
 on end at this suggestion, and the sweat gathered into drops 
 upon my forehead. 
 
 " The moon at the instant broke through the darkness — 
 bland goddess ! she never walked out of a cloud to supply 
 the exigence of the hide-bound brains of a poetaster more 
 opportunely than she seemed to visit me in my prison 
 now. 
 
 " Through one of the small windows, high above my 
 reach, and barred, her light streamed into the room, dis- 
 closing its dimensions. It was tolerably large and square. 
 A huge, old-fashioned bedstead against the wall opposite the 
 windows, the sole thing in the room, except myself— and I, 
 indeed, a thing — entrapped, outwitted — brought to my pleas, 
 and my knees too ; yes, my prayers, my tears, my cries, my 
 wild bowlings for mercy — for life — by a woman, and that 
 woman (it was a lie — a fiend !) my mother ! 
 
 "It would have done her heart — ^good, I was about to 
 ■write, but it had, long ago, been past that — to have heard 
 me curse and swear, as I ran madly about the room, seek- 
 ing some impossible outlet. No chimney — no trap-door in 
 floor or ceiling; no chance of scaling the windows'; no 
 chance if I could do so. Exhausted at length by these 
 unavailing and weak efforts, I flung myself upon the mat- 
 tress. I would sleep out the interval between this and 
 nine o'clock. I wished the time were come. Suspense was 
 agony. 
 
 " It would not do. Sleep was out of the question. So 
 was it to lie passive, whilst dreadful thoughts of horror and 
 of death came quickly, the last more hideous than the 
 former, aivd wreaked themselves upon my brain. I could 
 not bear it. Starting up violently, my arm came in contact 
 with something that protruded from the wall — was it merely 
 the wall? — at the back of the bed. There was a sort of 
 dingy curtain — I know not what to call it — which prevented 
 
230 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 my seeing what this something was. I rent a hole in the 
 rotten piece of linen. It was a key — a key in the lock of 
 a door. 1 tried it. It turned easily. Already I could open 
 the door some inches — remove the bedstead, and I should 
 at once find myself in another room — a room they had pro- 
 bably forgotten, and the door of which they had most likely 
 omitted to secure. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! I sprang from the bed in a transport, and 
 was at my work in a trice. These villains were not adepts 
 ^they had something of their business yet to learn. My 
 escape would teach them foresight, caution. They would 
 make all fast beforehand next bout. I did not think, at the 
 time, of my successor, whoever he might be, with whom, it 
 would go hard in consequence of their acquired caution and 
 foresight. : ,j , 
 
 "Never, surely, was there such a huge, unmanagea^^;; 
 impracticable bedstead. Invoking imprecations upon the 
 joiner, I laboured away at the vast effort of woodwork, and 
 had nearly drawn it from the wall far enough to enable me 
 to open the door and. to squeeze myself through, when a 
 loud knocking arrested my attention and suspended my 
 labours. 
 
 " ' Hilloah ! young; fellow !' cried the gruff voice of 
 Eugby. 
 
 " ' Well, what do you want V I answered in a courageolis 
 tone. ' Are, you going to let me out V 
 
 " It occurred to me that, Eugby being alone, and by no 
 means a powerful man, if he opened the door, I would' have 
 a struggle for it. Could I force him into the room, and 
 succeed in bolting and barring him quietly within, I mi^ht 
 silip downstairs, but at the door, and then — "Mrs. Brett, 
 my service to yoii !" My, heart leapt at the possibiliis^'of 
 it. The reply of Rugby, however, dispelled this pleasing 
 anticipation. 
 
 " ' Going to let you out f said he. ' Not I, till your time 
 comes. Mr. Watson's a kind-hearted, considerate' gentle- 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 231 
 
 man, and he wants to know whether you'll have anything. 
 If you will, me and Bill Sims '11 bring it to you.' 
 
 " ' I want nothing ; go away, and leave me,' I said. 
 
 "'You might put a handle to my name, and call me 
 mister,' said Rugby; ' neither hog, dog, nor devil. " I want 
 nothing ; go away !" I should like to have the teaching 
 of you manners. I'd cut 'em into you, I would, that you'd 
 never forget 'em j' and the fellow retired, muttering. 
 
 " When he was well gone, I resumed my employment 
 with renewed vigour. I had been on tenter-hooks whilst 
 the man stayed, lest he should be reminded of the door of 
 the inner room, which I concluded to be immediately on 
 his right hand. In a short time I had suflSciently removed 
 the bedstead to press myself through the opening of the 
 door behind it, which I did with such precipitation as to 
 fall headlong down a couple of steps that led into the 
 inner room. I got up regardless of the accident, and pro- 
 ceeded, as well as I was able, to explore the apartment. 
 It was a small garret, or rather hole, lighted in the day- 
 time by a casement ; but this I did not at the moment 
 observe. My first impulse was to make towards that part 
 of the wall in which I had assured myself I should find a 
 door. Like many other assurances which a man makes to 
 himself, mine had no foundation in reality. After care- 
 fully (in both senses carefully) feeling the whole superflties 
 of the walls, and of the ceiling — for that I could ' reach 
 with my hands — not a door was to be found, except, 
 indeed, the door that opened into my prison. , The help- 
 lessness of my condition now returned to me with tenfold 
 poignancy. I sat me down on the two steps, and could 
 have wept with very anguish; but of what avail, thought 
 I, when I somewhat recovered my composure, to wring 
 one's hands and to disturb one's spirits, when work is to be 
 done, that perhaps, after all, may be done 1 ' 
 
 " Springing up — for a new hope broke in upon me — I 
 hastened to the casement, which, with some diflSculty, I 
 
232 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 opened. Could I get out, and makb my escape over the 
 roofs of the houses ? ' Some friendly neighbour would, 
 perhaps, receive me, and assist my deliverance out of the 
 hands of these murderers. Or if no window were accessible, 
 I could alarm the passengers in the street by my outcries, 
 who might insist upon, nay, who would compel my libera- 
 tion. But would they so ? I was not so certain of that. 
 I decided that this should be my last resort; for I was 
 well aware that unless I had an opportunity of telling my 
 story first, I should stand small chance of obtaining credit 
 for it, against the combined contradiction of three hard- 
 fronted ruffians who could, doubtless, utter a lie with more 
 confidence than an honest man could relate the truth. 
 
 " The great fiend fly away with Rugby, and invent a new 
 and exquisite torture expressly for him ! His house had 
 been built for the purpose,, and he had taken it with the 
 view of accommodating young gentlemen, who might happen 
 to fall under thdr mothers' displeasure, with a few hours'- 
 lodgings 'Preparatory to their embarkation for the planta- 
 tions. I could not stretch myself sufficiently far out of the 
 casement to distinguish whether there were houses on either 
 side of us. I began to fear that our house (mr house !) 
 was detached, in which case no hope was left to me. All 
 was silence. Before, and widely extended before, was a 
 space of ground, diversified, here, and there, with patches 
 of hungry grass and ponds of accumulated rain. Not a 
 soul— and I watched for half an hour — dotted the surface 
 of this lost waste ; not a house was to be seen. 
 
 " Next, as to escape from the hole in which I was. The 
 edge of the roof-:— a steep one — was barely a yard and a 
 half below the casement. There was not even the common 
 wpoden gutter to convey the rain from the eaves; and 
 now I turned from the casement and placed this question 
 straight before me. I repeated it aloud, that, as it were, 
 my mind should distinctly see it. 
 
 " ' Shall I stay here and submit myself to certain death, 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 233 
 
 or, if that be not certain, to a life-long captivity worse 
 than death, or shall I avail myself of this chance for my 
 life which Providence has pointed out to me i' 
 
 " No time was to be lost ; nor could there be any hesita- 
 tion. Having taken off my shoes, and put them in my 
 pockets, I fell upon my knees, and commended myself to 
 God — and I arose, strengthened. 
 
 " It was a matter of no small difficulty to get myself, in 
 a collected form, outside the casement, and when I had done 
 so, to project myself upwards by its side, which was raised 
 from the roof. One glance below would have been inevit- 
 able destruction. I threw myself forward, and on hands 
 and feet made my way tovfards the ridge of the roof in an 
 oblique direction, purposing to reach the next house, if 
 there were one. I had proceeded some distance, when one 
 tile, and then another, and another, gave way from beneath 
 my feet, which could effect no hold or stay — neither could 
 my fingers, the nails of which I vainly endeavoured to infix 
 into the mortar. I was now sliding downwards at full 
 length. God ! what a moment was that ! My eyes closed 
 -r-my senses reeled — and yet one thought — one vision 
 horribly distinct within me. I saw myself below — on the 
 ground- — on the flinty-jagged stones— and what I saw — 
 what figure, if figure it may be called — the reader shall 
 imagine, for I cannot, or if I can, will not, describe it. 
 
 " Merciful powers ! what superhuman hand, outstretched 
 from Heaven, has stayed — has saved me ? Yes — my feet 
 were stayed — restrained by a firm bulwark. I looked 
 round — a secure wall it seemed, against which I leaned — 
 against which I lay my bursting temples. A flood of tears 
 relieved me; my heart was thankful to the Almighty ; but 
 I could not as yet speak, nor could my mind yet form a 
 prayer. 
 
 "I had fallen against a stack of chimneys, placed, as 
 well as I could guess, between the partition that divided 
 Kugby's house from its neighbour. As yet, I could dis- 
 
'234 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 cover no garret-window corresponding with the one I had 
 (and yet how long the time appeared !) just left. I decided, 
 therefore, upon again venturing to the ridge of the roof, 
 taking care to keep the chimneys immediately in my rear, 
 that, should my feet betray me a second time, they might 
 once more stand me in good stead. This time I was more 
 fortunate. Having reached the summit, I placed myself 
 astride upon the roof, and took a survey of the prospect on my 
 right hand, which I had not yet seen. • The river lay before me 
 and beside me, with its multifarious craft, whose half-formed 
 shadows hung beneath the water, black and almost as 
 motionless as themselves. The beauty — if any there were 
 — of this scene, was lost upon me. The picturesque must 
 give wa,y to the pressing, and I was in haste. Placing 
 my hands before, and impelling myself by my heels on 
 either side of the roof, I got forward some distance till I 
 was on a level with the second stack of chimneys, similar 
 to the former. I slid down to these easily ; and lo ! not 
 far off — but beneath me — the flat top of a garret-window ! 
 There was a long iron bar ; a hold-fast, I think it is called, 
 attached to the chimneys and to the roof I took off my 
 cravat and tied it with a strong knot to my handkerchief, 
 which I fastened to the bar; and winding the other end 
 tightly round my wrist, let myself down to the small plat- 
 form.. There was barely space to crouch down upon it, 
 which I did. The horriblp yard and a half of steep tiles 
 was under this Window also. I shuddered at the thought 
 of trusting myself to the frail security of the framework. 
 I dare not attempt to crawl down by the side of the 
 window, lest a single false step phould precipitate me to 
 the ground. And yet, how otherwise could I hope to get 
 into it ? Perhaps, by some blessed chance, the room was 
 occupied. I stretched my hand over the, edge, and strove 
 to discover whether there was a light in it. I had hardly 
 done so, when, methought, I heard voices; nor was I 
 deceived ; and the[momentary radiance of a candle illumined 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 235 
 
 a small portion of the atmosphere beneath me. Thrusting 
 my arm down as low as it could reach, I laid hold of one 
 side of the casement, and burst it open with a violent 
 crash. 
 
 " ' Christ Jesus ! a ghost !' cried a voice, and then a heavy 
 tumble upon the ground. 
 
 "'What's the matter now?' exclaimed a second and 
 more powerful voice. 'Why, Simon, have you gone 
 crazed ?' 
 
 " ' There !' cried the prostrate Simon — ' there !' pointing, 
 as I supposed, to the open casement. 
 
 " ' You fool,' said the other, ' the fastening has given 
 way, that's all.' 
 
 " I heard him approach the window. It was now my 
 turn to join in the conversation. 
 
 " ' For God's sake,' I began, ' lend me some assistance.' 
 " ' Hilloah !' cried the man, looking out. ' Who the 
 devil are you ? What do you want f 
 
 " ' Your assistance,' I exclaimed. ' I am an unfortunate 
 young gentleman just escaped from murdererfe.' 
 "'Where from?' 
 
 " ' From a fellow named Eugby — the alehouse hard by.' 
 " ' The devil !' said the man, ' How did you contrive — 
 but a pretty fellow am I to be asking questions instead of 
 lending a hand. Young man, turn yourself round, and let 
 us see your feet over here instead of your chin; only, 
 gently ; mind, gently.' 
 
 " I was not long about that. Unwinding the end of my 
 cravat from my wrist, I did as he directed. Taking me 
 with a firm gripe by the ankles, he guarded my feet till 
 they rested upon the ledge of the window ; then, seizing 
 me by the waistband with one hand, he clasped me tightly 
 round the body with his arms, and drew me into the 
 room." 
 
 Notliing could be finer than much of the foregoing 
 
236 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 description. At times it is so vividly realistic that one 
 almost trembles at the hapless fate of the poor boy, 
 should his foot slip, or should he become for a 
 moment dizzy. The honest tradesman in whose house 
 he now finds himself is solicitous for his welfare, as is 
 likewise his wife, and Simon, a grown-up son. They 
 gather round him, and interchange glances of com- 
 miseration and sympathy. At once they supply him 
 with the comforts which his sorry plight so pitiably 
 needs, and of which he has too long been deprived. 
 In the whole romance there is not a more pleasant 
 picture than that of the Martin family. From them 
 he learns that he is at Wapping ; and after a family 
 council, it is resolved to endeavour forthwith to cap- 
 ture his whilom captors. By means of a very clever 
 stratagem this is effected, greatly to the ruffians' 
 consternation, and they are handed over to the 
 watch. , 
 
 It transpires that the elder Martin had once been 
 soldier, and had served under Colonel Brett. Ac- 
 cordingly, next morning he goes with Kichard to that 
 gentleman's house, and demands an interview. Pre- 
 sently Colonel Brett enters the room, and is at first 
 disposed to appear in great anger on account of their 
 intrusion. When, however, their story is told to him 
 with full and circumstantial detail down to the point 
 at which Watson and Rugby are arrested on so heavy 
 and criminal a charge, he perceives at once not only 
 the enormity of his wife's offence, but the fact that 
 Richard Savage has now her, and (so complicated 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. lyj 
 
 are such matters) even himself, in his power. Imme- 
 diately he alters his tone. 
 
 A long parley and conference ensue, and at length 
 Savage, by the advice of several of his friends, agrees 
 that the matter shall not be pushed further. The 
 watch are bribed to let the prisoners go ; and so for 
 the present things subside into their former groove. 
 
 It is probable that Eichard thought by this act of 
 leniency and forbearance to cajole his mother into 
 recognising the justice of his claims. He may have 
 thought that the very fact of his now being able to 
 bruit abroad a tale so shameless, and so much to her 
 discredit, would induce her to be complacent towards 
 him, lest, stung by resentment, he should take this 
 form of revenge. But if such were his surmises, the 
 result falsified them. Mrs. Brett abated not a jot of 
 her hatred towards him ; and though she abstained 
 from open violence, her animosity was unceasing, and 
 she ere long contrived what proved in the end a much 
 more damaging stratagem for his injury. Of this I 
 shaU speak in due course. 
 
 Richard Savage gradually drops into his former 
 mode of life once more. He sees a good deal of 
 Ludlow, and also of Ludlow's wife, who still appears 
 to be dying. Mrs. Ludlow seems to be truly penitent, 
 deeply grateful to her husband for his forgiveness, 
 and quite resigned. Presently, however, she shows 
 signs of recovery, and before long becomes almost 
 convalescent. One day she goes forth and does not 
 return. Soon Ludlow and Richard are aware that she 
 
238 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 has become accessory to a despicable fraud invented 
 by Mrs. Brett. She has signed a document stating 
 that Kichard Savage is her son ; and very naturally 
 terrified at what will be the consequences of her 
 treachery, she has again left her husband. Ludlow's 
 despair at this is most terrible. It seems to him that 
 all his projects have been thwarted; and Whitehead has 
 a splendid opportunity for delineating varied forms of 
 passionate emotion, and of showing what insight he 
 possessed into the hidden springs from whence such 
 emotion comes. This opportunity he has availed 
 himself of to the uttermost, and in the whole work 
 we have nothing finer than the introspective glimpses 
 he gives us into Ludlow's mind. Ludlow's ravings 
 are not the melodramatic hysteria of a second-rate 
 novelist. 
 
 The account given of his closing days is only such 
 as an author highly dowered with the great gift 
 of dramatic insight could afford. Ludlow's mental 
 distress ends in bringing on physical illness, and he 
 gradually sinks; Savage meanwhile attending him 
 with assiduity and loving devotion. 
 
 On the last evening of his life Ludlow , becomes 
 unhappy concerning his worldly arrangements, and 
 would have had them altered in Richard's favour, 
 but at the moment he lacks the requisite strength, 
 and at Savage's suggestion puts off the matter until 
 the morrow — a morrow which never comes for him on 
 earth. . This will explain a reference in the "following 
 most pathetic extract : 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 23I) 
 
 " My heart was heavy when Digby [the doctor] left me, 
 and I sat down by Ludlow's bedside. 
 
 " ' How do you feel now V I inquired, when he awoke. 
 There was a serenity, almost angelic, upon his countenance. 
 
 " ' Better than ever I did in my life, my dear and constant 
 friend Dick, who are ever near me,' he replied, ' so light, so 
 airy, as it were. Why, I feel as though I should be wafted 
 into the air if I were to attempt to walk. I have been 
 asleep ; but what a dream has my life been ! All passing 
 away — well ; so that you were not left behind, I should be 
 quite happy — if an humble, ignorant man, like myself, 
 might presume to advise you — to guide you, Eichard ' 
 
 " ' You shall do so — oh, Ludlow !" 
 
 *' ' No, I might be wrong, after all. I guide ! I advise ! 
 What, then, brought me to this, my ^deathbed ? My wis- 
 dom ! Will human presumption never have an end ? 
 Dick,' he added more calmly, ' I wish to see Mr. Myte.' 
 
 " ' Shall I fetch him ? Will not to-morrow do ] It is 
 too late to-night.' 
 
 " ' To-morrow will do, I dare say ; but I will tell you now 
 why I wish to see him. The money I have saved is in his 
 hands. It was honestly got, and will be properly left — to 
 the grandson of my dear mistress — for dear she is to me, 
 who had been nothing without her.' 
 
 " I was about to expostulate ; for, to say the truth, I felt 
 I had no claim to the money. 
 
 " 'I have no relations in the world,' laying his hand upon 
 my arm ; ' if I had, it might be different. I shall leave my 
 wife nothing, for if I did, it would bej mis-spent. You 
 must know that when she first went wrong — I can talk 
 calmly of it now — it hurt me very much, and my mind was 
 turned to a consideration of the influence of bad example 
 upon young minds. I had, even then, saved some money. 
 Well, I lodged it in Mr. Myte's hands, and with it a will, 
 devising the whole of it, whatever the sum might be that I 
 had accumulated when L died, to the Society for the Kefor- 
 
240 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 mation of Manners ; and many a joke has the pleasant little 
 man made at my expense, on account of my will, which I 
 now wish to cancel. He can tell me in a moment the exact 
 amount I have in his hands. In the meanwhile, take all 
 that is in the house — in the box, I mean, which was picked 
 up. I almost wish she had taken it with her. Poor thing ! 
 But all that is gone by.' 
 
 "I insisted upon remaining with him the whole of that 
 night. I had a book which I particularly wished to read. 
 He was at length prevailed upon to let me sta,y with him. 
 
 " After he sank to sleep, I drew to the fire, and read for 
 several hours; ■ Unused,- however, to sitting up at night 
 (then, not since), I dropped to sleep. It was what Shake- 
 speare calls, with wonderful happiness of phrase, the ' dead 
 waste ' of the night, when I was awakened by a slight noise 
 — a noise as of something, or somebody, near me. I opened 
 my eyes suddenly, and looked up. A figure — it was Ludlow 
 — stood before me. Merciful God ! I could not shriek. 
 No face of living man was ever so shocking ! Yet, as I 
 gazed upon it, it was the face of a conscious being. He 
 pointed to his mouth with one hand, indicating — I dis- 
 covered that at last — that he could not speak, and motioned 
 with the other as if he wished to write-. \ 
 
 "I had arisen. 'For heaven's sake return to bed. Do 
 you want pen and ink V 
 
 An inarticulate sound. He nodded his head. At that 
 moment his eyes were fixed upon the wall, and his head 
 was turned slowly round. He appeared to see some 
 moving object. A strong shudder — his feet carried him 
 to the bed--he fell upon it w'ith a groan ; and then, taking 
 my hand, guided it to his lips, and thence to his heart- 
 pressing it to his heart. I fell upon my knees and prayed, 
 and when I raised my head all was over. He was gone for 
 ever ! 
 
 •"'Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of 
 women.' So said David of Jonathan, and so say I, aftei 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 241 
 
 many years, Ludlow, of thee. And yet no, not so. And 
 yet, again, let the grateful hyperbole stand. Gentle and 
 dear, and ever-remembered, and never to be forgotten 
 whilst memory holds a seat in this distracted (and now, 
 alas ! contracted) brain, once more — Farewell !" 
 
 Eichard Savage performed in a fitting manner the 
 various duties which now devolved upon him in 
 making the final arrangements concerning his deceased 
 friend. 
 
 Soon after these events he has an opportunity of 
 seeing Mrs. Brett, and the many-sided passions of his 
 complex nature being called into action by the occa- 
 sion, the following dialogue takes place. Whoever was 
 to blame, these were bitter words, and their impression 
 was never obliterated by softer tones ; a pitiable last 
 interview between mother and son : 
 
 " ' Thou foolish novice,' she said leisurely, between her 
 white set teeth, 'and what wouldst thou be, and what 
 wouldst thou do, and what canst thou do V 
 
 " ' I can tell you what you have done,' I replied. ' What 
 you will do, who can tell ? Ludlow — he is dead.' 
 
 " ' Well, sir, proceed.' 
 
 '"Your mother lies dying. These are your doings.' 
 
 " She turned pale at that, 
 
 " 'Insolent villain ! You dare not say this to me.' 
 
 " ' I dare — I will — I have — said it. These are yo^ir 
 doings, Mrs. Brett. I will now be plain with you. Not 
 satisfied with disowning your son, you would have spirited 
 him from England. Where was I to be sent? To the 
 West Indies ] or was I to be murdered on the passage ? 
 But worse than this (I thought, madam, you were a proud 
 lady), you stooped to accept my niercy ; and afterwards 
 
 16 
 
244 . A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 suborned an infamous wretch to prop your falsehood with 
 another. You have her hand to it, I hear.' 
 
 ' " ' I have,' she replied ; ' and she has signed to what is 
 false ; I know it,'and I confess it.' 
 
 "'What of that?' 
 
 " She laughed, but it was not carried off well. Oh, God ! 
 how exquisitely mean she looked at that moment; and 
 she felt she looked so. She was disconcerted ; shockingly, 
 painfully self-abased. Ludlow ! thou hadst had thy re- 
 venge then, couldst thou but have seen her. Too ample 
 it had been for thy gentle spirit to have borne. I could 
 have wept for the poor soul in that beautiful body, so 
 cursedly employed. It was some minutes before she re- 
 covered her composure. When she did, she said : • 
 
 " ' I repeat, I know that what the woman has signed is 
 false. I tell yoii, that you may know me. Beware of me, 
 Eichard Freeman.' 
 
 " ' I must be Eichard Savage, madam. My mother's 
 shame is yours, my father's name is mine.' 
 
 " ' As you will,' she replied, her bosom heaving. 'Richard 
 Savage, then, that woman is your mother. You understand 
 mer 
 
 " ' I. do. As you will, as you havesaid. Upon my word, 
 madam, I believe, after all, you have some consideration for 
 me. Though you yourself disown me, you kindly procure 
 one who is willing to acknowledge me. I ought to be, and 
 am, obliged to you. So little to choose between the 
 two ' 
 
 She flashed forth at this, coming towards me with an eye 
 ,of fire. 
 
 " ' Richard Savage ' her hand held forth ; she checked 
 
 herself. ' But no, we will have no theatrical show. I hate 
 you. When I say that, it is enough.' 
 
 "I threw forth my hand and caught her descending 
 fingers. 
 
 " 'Mrs. Brett, I do not hate — t despise you.' 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 243 
 
 " She strove to look me down, but her eyes fell under 
 mine. She measured me from head to foot, and I her. 
 
 " ' Am I not your son, madam f 
 
 " And we parted, never to meet again, eye to eye, face 
 to face, breath to breath. And was there to be no 
 theatrical show ? Not Booth and Mrs. Barry ever stalked 
 from the stage at opposite sides with a more taking dignity. 
 I am told she has a keen sense of the ridiculous. She 
 must have laughed over the remembrance of this often, as 
 I have done. It is well that we should have supplied 
 each to the other one occasion of mirth, and all, perhaps, 
 that has passed between us, rightly taken, is ridiculous. 
 Then, if it be so, let others laugh." 
 
 ' Some considerable time before the events last nar- 
 rateid, Richard Savage had sought Colonel Brett in 
 order to plead his c^/Use, and had discovered him at 
 Button's coffee-house in Co vent Garden. There h6 
 had found that gentleman in conversation with Sir 
 Richard Steele, who, in his kindly, bantering way, said 
 a few pleasant words to him, and eventually they 
 became very friendly. One day Richard Savage re- 
 ceived a message from Sir Richard begging him to 
 come to see him at his house. On his arrival he found 
 Sir Richard engaged in a peculiarly characteristic 
 occupation, namely, that of interviewing an irascible 
 creditor. In a manner altogether his own he shuffled 
 Savage into an adjoinipg room, introducing him to a 
 young lady who was there, and bidding her entertain 
 him until he himself was disengaged. In the course 
 of conversation it transpired that she was the little 
 girl who ran into the room on the occasion of Savage's 
 first interview with Mrs. Brett, when it wUl be remem- 
 
 16—2 
 
244 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 bered that she had taken his part, and deprecated, in 
 her sweet child-like way, Mrs." Brett's coarse severity 
 towards him. This nautual reminiscence served aa an 
 interesting link between them, and on each occasion 
 of their meeting their interest in one another grew 
 until it expanded into a warmer feeling, and they were 
 affianced to one another. The, lady was Elizabeth 
 vWilfred, natural daughter of Sir Richard Steele, whose 
 affection for her was very great, and who gave his un- 
 hesitating consent to their contemplated union. He 
 invariably spoke of securing a desirable situation for 
 Savage, as, according to the habits of patronage at the 
 time, he could so easily have done ; but such was his 
 liabitual procrastination that even this promise re- 
 mained unfulfilled. 
 
 One of Richard's former schoolmates, named Sin- 
 clair, had now succeeded to an ample patrimony and 
 had come to town. He met Miss Wilfred frequently, 
 and, attracted by her beauty, paid his addresses to her. 
 These, however, she unhesitatingly rejected, and the 
 feelings of affection which Sinclair formerly cherished 
 towards her became changed to bitterest hatred. He 
 conceived the infamous scheme of inveigling her into 
 a mock marriage. To carry out this project he formed, 
 with Mrs. Brett's connivance, a plan which was executed 
 as follows : One day, driving with the ladies- in the 
 capacity of cavaliere servente, Mrs. Brett left Miss 
 Wilfred and himself on the pretext of some call, agree- 
 ing to meet them ere long. ^ 
 
 Seizing the opportunity thus afforded him, Sinclaii 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 245 
 
 instantly conveyed Miss Wilfred to Robinson's coffee- 
 house, a disreputable resort near Charing Cross. They 
 were shown into a private room, where were already 
 waiting two low fellows who had been hired, the one to 
 personate a clergyman, the other his clerk and witness. 
 An hour or two before, by the merest accident. Savage 
 had encountered an acquaintance named Marchant, a 
 man who, though by no means a rogue, had a rather 
 too miscellaneous circle. This man, in the early part 
 of Savage's career, had been useful to him as a literary 
 censor and guide. 
 
 Marchant incidentally told Savage, in the course of 
 conversation, that there was to be a mock marriage 
 that day at Robinson's coffee-house. Savage's con- 
 sternation and horror may easily be imagined when 
 Miss Wilfred's name was mentioned, and, strangely 
 enough, Marchant did not know of his friend's interest 
 in the lady. Rushing wildly to the place. Savage 
 violently entered, and dashing aside the woman of 
 the house, who vainly sought to detain him, he forced 
 his way to the door of the private room. This he 
 found locked, but energy such as his was not long in 
 bursting it open, to the dismay of the terrified culprits, 
 and to the intense relief of Miss Wilfred, whom he 
 found fruitlessly sueing for release. Inflicting a severe 
 blow on Sinclair, and contemptuously flinging aside 
 the scoundrel's hirelings, he bore his betrothed away 
 from a scene so unfitted for her, and as her father was 
 absent from London, he left her,, temporarily, with the 
 family of Myte. It is almost needless to say that Mrs. 
 
246 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Brett's share in this episodejustlyearned for her much 
 ' opprobrium. 
 
 Time goes on, and Richard Savage finds himself in- 
 creasing in literary reputation, the result of certain 
 poems he has put forth. Miss WUfred. accepts the 
 invitation of a noble family to reside with them, and 
 Eichard is permitted to visit her as an accepted suitor. 
 
 The episode just narrated was much conve^rsed about, 
 and canvassed in all its bearings, and Richard's' share in 
 it was narrated much to his advantage. The wrongs 
 which he endured at the hands of Mrs. Brett also 
 secured him much commiseration and sympathy, and 
 his great ability and growing fame as an author like- 
 wise contributed to bring him into, and to keep him 
 in, popular favour. Moreover, in each of his prbduc-^ 
 tions he ceased not to remind the world of his sorrows, 
 in a more or less pointed manner, and to reserve his 
 bitterest epigram for her who had caused then;i. 
 
 And now we arrive at the gravest event in Savage's 
 career. One day he came to London^ from Richmond^ 
 where he was at the time residing, in order that he 
 might have the more quiet in which to compose an 
 important poem which was finally to establish his 
 reputation, his purpose being to discharge a lodging 
 which he possessed at Westminster, and which, with 
 characteristic wastefulness of money, he had retained 
 long after it had ceased to be needful for him. After 
 executing his errand, he was strolling through St. 
 James's Park, when he accidentally met his two friends,' 
 Gregory and Marchant. Dr. Johnson, in Ms account 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVEL/ST. 247: 
 
 of the affair, says that they all repaired to a neigh- 
 bouring coffee-house ; Whitehead, hpwevef, says that 
 they all went to Chelsea, and there sat drinking for the 
 remainder of the day. Whitehead follows Johnson in 
 making Savage say that he would willingly have re- 
 mained in the house for the night, but this was out of 
 the question, as all the beds were engaged. Accord- 
 ingly the three friends, naturally in no very sedate 
 humour, agreed to sally forth and seek adventures tUl 
 the morning. By-and-by they found themselves near 
 Charing Cross, and Marchant, perceiving a light in 
 Robinson's coffee-house, in an evil moment resolved to 
 enter, and did so, rudely demanding a room. He was 
 told that he would be shown into one immediately, 
 but not satisfied with this answer, he rushed uninvited 
 into a room, and was followed by Gregory and Savage. 
 There they discovered Sinclair and a discreditable 
 company ; instantly a quarrel ensued, swords were ' 
 drawn, and in a moment there was a general me'Z^e. 
 Savage, at all times incensed against Sinclair, was in 
 his present excited state infiu-iated against him, and 
 straightway attacked him. Sinclair defended himself, 
 but soon Savage gave him a mortal wound. So great, 
 however, was the confusion at the time, that no one 
 seemed aware of the exact state of matters at the 
 instant at which it was given. Savage and Gregory 
 escaped, but such was their irresolution as to flight, 
 that they were speedily taken, and confined in the 
 Gate-house, and after appearing before the justices 
 were conveyed, with Marchant, to Newgate. 
 
248 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Ere long they were placed on their trial; and 
 although the witnesses did not agree in their testi- 
 mony and were persons of a character which, as Dr. 
 Johnson rightly observes "did not entitle them to 
 much credit," Marchant and Savage were found guilty 
 of murder. Their judge was the infamous Page, who 
 prejudiced the jury against the prisoners. Four days 
 afterwards, on the prisoners returning into court to 
 receive sentence, Savage made a most eloquent speech 
 in extenuation of his conduct,' and in ,the endeavour 
 to procure the release of his companion in bonds, 
 having little hope for himself except through the 
 clemency of the 'Crown. Considerable, endeavours 
 were made to interest the Queen on his behalf, but all 
 efforts appeared likely to be fruitless, as her Majesty 
 had heard a perverted story respecting his first endea- 
 vour to see Mrs. Brett at her house, which was to the 
 effect that he had there attempted to murder his 
 mother. It was Mrs. Brett who had circulated this 
 tale in order to prejudice the Queen against Savage, 
 and had it not been for the kind offices of the 
 Countess of Hertford, who went personally to tell the 
 Queen the facts of the case, it would have had the 
 effect, desired by Mrs. Brett. As it was, however. 
 Savage and Gregory were pardoned. On his release. 
 Savage, feeling mpre and more exasperated with Mrs. 
 Brett, began to wonder if he could not at least obtain 
 from her the means of "support, by threatening that, 
 if she did not allow him a pension, he would more 
 than ever make her the subject pf satire, and as the 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 249 
 
 events which had taken place had brought him into 
 still greater public notice, he could now hope to do 
 this with more galling effect. At this juncture, Lord 
 Tyrconnel, a connection of Mrs. Brett's, came forward 
 with an offer to receive Savage into his house as an 
 equal, and to allow him two hundred pounds a year. 
 It is a little uncertain what Lord Tyrconnel's motives 
 were in this matter. Although not denying ulterior' 
 motives, his lordship himself said that his object was 
 mainly to reheve a man of genius, but the truth of 
 this explanation is more than questionable. Alto- 
 gether, it would appear that Savage's expedient had 
 proved successful, and that the pension really came 
 from Mrs. Brett. For a while all went prosperously 
 with Savage ; for the first time in his life he was in 
 opulent circumstances, and, if he had been able to 
 resist his inherent temptations to unworthy pleasures, 
 all might have been weU. But Savage's was a nature 
 which, while it knew poverty, could not value pros- 
 perity, and very soon he was driven once more from 
 his comfortable haven of refUge, and in such a manner 
 as to make the world feel that in expelling him Lord 
 Tyrconnel was not wholly to blame. His quarrel 
 with Lord Tyrconnel began in a way most charac- 
 teristic. In the first flush of friendship that noble- 
 man had told Savage that he had instructed the 
 butler that all . orders given by Mr. Savage to that 
 functionary were to be treated as if from himself ; and 
 had likewise given the poet some valuable books 
 bearing his coat of arms. Great therefore was his 
 
2 so , A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. - , 
 
 mortification when he found that Savage was still far 
 too fond of frequenting taverns, and not unfrequently 
 invited his boon companions to his apartments, 
 abusing the generous privileges granted to him by 
 demanding of the butler in an imperibus manner to 
 supply them with the best wine: Moreover, he had 
 soon the no small annoyance of perceiving some of 
 the handsome volumes he had given his guest ex- 
 posed for sale, as it prove^ to be Savage's frequent 
 custom,: when he wanted a small sum of ready money, 
 to take a book to the pawnbroker's. 
 
 Lord Tyrconnel naturally remonstrated with Savage 
 respecting these improprieties, urging him to dis- 
 continue them, and venturing to hint that as he was 
 now in receipt of a settled income, he should no 
 longer be under any necessity to resort to this paltry 
 means of procuring money. He likewise exhorted 
 him not to spend so much time in taverns, but to let 
 more of his hours be passed with, himself These 
 requests Savage took in very bad part. It was, 
 perhaps, his gravest fault never to be able to bear 
 patiently a rebuke, however well deserved. Thus 
 matters went on for a long while, both parties feeling 
 aggrieved, and, though rarely referring to disagreeable 
 subjects, being more and more incensed against one 
 another day by day. One night, Eichard Savage 
 having been (from a cause which I shall shortly 
 mention) very deservedly angry with himself, ^went 
 to a tavern, and found even a more rollicking and 
 disreputable company than usually congregated there. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 251 
 
 They reminded him of a promise which he had 
 made/when in an unfit state to make any promise, 
 to entertain them all at his lordly home. It was a 
 marked feature in Savage that, at the very time when 
 he felt most that he ,had been always doing wrong, 
 instead of being humbled and made penitent by the 
 consciousness of guilt, he sisemed to run all the more 
 eagerly into depravity. Accordingly, no sooner had 
 he been reminded of this foolish and most culpable 
 piece of bravado, than he agreed immediately to carry 
 it into effect. The band of revellers at once pro- 
 ceeded to Lord Tyrconnel's house. Arrived there, 
 Savage, insolently usurping all the privileges of the 
 master of the house; demanded the best wine. The 
 servants did all they could to prevent the accomplish- 
 ment of his wishes. There was an altercation ; but at 
 length they were obliged to yield, and a scene of 
 wild debauchery ensued, in the midst of which Lord 
 Tyrconnel himself appeared. The next' morning. 
 Savage deft Lord Tyrconnel's house for ever. 
 
 It is now desirable to revert to another phase of 
 Savage's life, namely, that concerning Miss Wilfred. 
 I have said that Miss Wilfred had taken up her resi- 
 dence with a noble family, that of the Countess of 
 Hertford ; and during the greater part of Savage's 
 connection with Lord Tyrconnel, he was permitted to 
 go to thq house in the character of an accepted suitor. 
 By-and-by, however. Lady Hertford began to hear 
 accounts of the unworthy life he was leading about 
 town, ^nd evinced a coldness towards him. Miss 
 
252 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Wilfred also, though loving him with an affection as 
 sincere as ever, was deeply grieved at what came to 
 her ears. At last it would appear probable that Lady 
 Hertford had gently intimated to Miss Wilfred that 
 she could no longer permit her to receive the visits of 
 so unworthy a person at her house. This placed 
 Miss Wilfred in a very painful situation, the more so 
 as her father. Sir Richard- Steele, was no longer in a 
 position to receive her. She confided her dilemma to 
 Savage, and he instantly proposed that she should 
 leave Lady Hertford and go into apartments in the 
 house of a respectable matron until such time as they 
 could be united in marriage, which he promised her 
 should be soon. This step she consented to take. 
 For a considerable period all went well, Savage con- 
 ducting himself as a man of honour. Indeed, during 
 the whole of this attachment, which lasted his hfe, his 
 conduct respecting it was altogether, blameless, except 
 on one occasion. In truth, his being capable of such 
 an attachment is one of the redeeming features of his 
 character. The exception just referred to occurred at 
 this time. Finding himself growing day by day on less 
 friendly terms with Lord Tyrconnel, and fearing that 
 not only his means of subsistence, but also those of 
 Miss W ilfred (which all came through him), would be 
 cut off in the very probable event of a quarrel, Savage 
 is represented as on one occasion going to Miss 
 Wilfred and making a proposal to her not consistent 
 with honour. It is not the description of this inci- 
 ■dent which is vile ; it is the sentiment which the 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 253 
 
 description may occasion to an intelligent reader. 
 The ipere idea that any man of parts -would make 
 overtures against the honour of a lady placed under 
 the peculiarly trying circumstances of Miss Elizabeth 
 Wilfred is unpleasant to read of, but that such an one 
 as Richard Savage, whose writings (considering their 
 period) evinced a somewhat lofty code of morality, 
 and who professed not only to be guided by high 
 principles but to be deeply devoted to Miss Wilfred 
 should do so, makes his conduct inexpKcable. But 
 when we consider that the circumstances which he 
 pleads as his only extenuation were circumstances 
 arising solely out of his own bad conduct — when he 
 attempts the rash arguments, not after weeks of 
 physical or mental suffering which it might be pre- 
 sumed would have impaired or deranged his moral 
 perceptions, but simply through being heated with 
 wine, he is made to attempt the most serious ruin to 
 all his prospects without any overmastering reason — 
 this is still more inexplicable. The mysteries of our 
 fallen natures are indeed inscrutable; and as White- 
 head distinctly assumes that this incident is true to 
 nature, I presume we must believe him. But, setting 
 aside for the present any higher questions of the pro- 
 motion of religion and morality in literature, there 
 still remains the contention whether it is good art in 
 a work of this sort to rob the hero (for, whatever 
 Whitehead may say of its naturalness, this incident 
 does so rob him) of the one redeeming quality for the 
 sake of which we pardon, or at least condone, his 
 
254 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS^ 
 
 many follies and excesses, and to demean him by- 
 parading him before us divested of all claim to our 
 respect. To a question of this sort there are doubt- 
 less many answers, but personally I feel that this 
 incident constitutes the greatest blot on Whitehead's 
 artistic conception of this romance. 
 
 Miss Wilfred's conduct in this terrible ordeal was 
 worthy of her, and consistent with her sweet and 
 spotless character. She left the room, refused to see 
 him that day, and the next day when he .called, he 
 discovered that she had gone, leaving no address, nor 
 could he by his utmost efforts find her whereabouts. 
 It was after a day spent in fruitless endeavours, his 
 mind distracted with conflicting emotions, that he 
 sought the tavern where his quondam friends re- 
 minded him of his luckless promise. It may well be 
 imagined that on the following morning, when he left 
 Lord T3rrconners mansion, he did so with a heavy heart. 
 Even he must have felt the bitter pangs of remorse, 
 when he reflected that he had in two days^and that 
 entirely through his own faultr-lost the means of sub- 
 , sistence and comfort, and, what was infinitely worse, 
 all just claim to a love which had hitherto softened 
 and elevated his whole being. The cold, caUous 
 streets must indeed havQ appeared cold and caUous 
 to him then. Henceforth they were to be oftentimes 
 the sole place to which he could resort. Henceforth 
 his Hfe lies almost constantly in the shadows ; his 
 vices and degradations are continually before us ; but 
 even in him we sometimes ineet with good deeds 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NO VELIST. , 255 
 
 ■wliicli are all the more refreshing from their being 
 entirely unexpected. Witness the occasion when he 
 relieved — himseK in great destitution — that infamous 
 woman, formerly called Mrs. Ludlow — the person who, 
 after Mrs. Brett, had probably done him the most 
 injury. Once and again he is brought into temporary 
 prominence by some peculiarly bitter or effective 
 sarcasm launched against Mrs. Brett in the numerous 
 literary efforts which, appearing one by one, prevented 
 the public from forgetting his wrongs. But even 
 though he had the satisfaction of driving Mrs. Brett 
 from Bath, and compelling her " to shelter her- 
 self among the crowds of London," as Dr. Johnson 
 tells us, and though the sale of the poem which had 
 so decided ah effect was considerable, and its recep- 
 tion general, yet it brought no permanent benefit to 
 its author. It may easily be imagined that, whatever 
 his pecuniary resources, bearing in mind his habits 
 and his reckless squandering of money, he would soon 
 be in debt; how much more readily, then, would this 
 be the case when he had absolutely no other source 
 of income than the pittance which he might extort 
 from an unwilling bookseller, the bag of guineas he 
 might casually obtain from a patron, or the helps 
 which might be given him to procure a meal or to 
 settle a tavern bill, by some stranger charmed by the 
 briUiance of his conversation. At one period he would 
 be able to afford some miserable lodging, at another 
 he must perforce lie for the night on a bulk in Clare 
 Market. 
 
2S6 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 At last some of the most sincere of his few remain- 
 ing friends, seeing, as he himself says, that he would 
 no longer do any good in London, resolved to induce 
 him to abandon it for ever, and to go into Wales 
 under the conditions of receiving a small pension. 
 He has never seen Miss Wilfred since the day the 
 painful episode which I have previously, narrated 
 occurred, but of late he has had reminders of her 
 unwavering love in the form of letters, and, perchance, 
 even of pecuniary assistance. 
 
 The following magnificent passage will describe the 
 incident set forth infinitely better than words of 
 mine: 
 
 " My kind dictatorial friends must have their way. I 
 must be banished from London for ever. I should do no 
 good there. They would have it so. Bemonstrance or 
 complaint or resentment was useless. I was compelled, 
 therefore, to feign an acquiescence in their wishes : to feign, 
 because what they intended as perpetual banishment, I 
 designed should be merely temporary rustication. My in- 
 tention was to retire to Wales and finish my tragedy : 
 that completed, to return to London, to bring it upon the 
 stage, and-, with the profits in my fist, to wait upon my 
 persecuting benefactors severally, and to thrust into their 
 hands the money they had advanced to me. They had 
 sent a tailor to me to measure me for a new suit of clothes 
 — (that insult shall be discharged at the same time with 
 the other debts) — and on the following week I was to be 
 wafted to Llanelly. 
 
 "It was a Sunday afternoon, declining into evening. I 
 had heard — for the room I occupied was a back room on 
 the ground floor, and not, as poets use, the garret — I had 
 heard the old woman of the house remark to a neighbour 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 257 
 
 gossip, as she returned home with her baked meat, that it 
 was a tine day. I guessed as much as I lay on my truckle 
 bed ; for when the sun shone, a whiter light came down 
 between my wretched casement and a high wall, about a 
 yard in distance from it. 
 
 "I had a reason for lying a-bed, which your men of 
 spread cloths, your daily, raisers of the knife and fork, 
 will hardly understand : 1 was without money or food, 
 and had fared scantily the day before. As the light re- 
 ceded from the window, however, I bethought me of rising; 
 and, since no future opportunity might be afforded me, I 
 resolved on bending my steps to a spot— a visit to which I 
 had long meditated as a duty. A strange and deep melan- 
 choly, which had settled upon my spirits when I awoke in 
 the morning, and which, though I marshalled my philosophy 
 to disperse it, increased upon me as the day wore, favoured 
 my intention, and to St. James's Churchyard — to Ludlow's 
 grave therein — I directed my course. < 
 
 "On my way I met my old friend Mrs. Martin, with 
 whom I had kept up an acquaintance in adverse times and 
 in, prosperity. She was going to see her son Simon, who 
 had left the army, and was now one of the turnkeys of the 
 Fleet Prison, within the liberties of which I had prudently 
 taken my lodging. The .worthy old creature was rejoiced 
 to see me. She recalled old times, and dwelt upon them, 
 crying at one moment, laughing at the next. She wrung 
 my hands, calling me a dear, sweet, unfortunate gentleman,: 
 -and wanted to force upon me some small money, which her 
 poor hard hands, I doubt not, had earned most hardly. 
 The simple tones, the rapturous phrase of this dear genuine 
 woman affected me, I cannot say how strongly, and I was 
 glad to break away, from her, which I did abruptly. 
 
 "I needed no softening to approach the grave of Ludlow. 
 I hung over it in wrapt and mournful reflection. , , My 
 gentle — my honest friend ! whose tenderheart my froward- 
 ness, my obstinacy, my ingratitude, had so often made to' 
 
 17 
 
358 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 bleed, whose life was bound up in mine — who loved me ! 
 In imagination, I supposed him to have been a witness to 
 all the sufferings I had endured since his eyes closed upon 
 me. That thought, how much more than my misfortunes 
 had ever done, wrung me. The expectations he had in- 
 dulged-Mihe hopes he had cherished of me — which, perhaps, 
 thrilled along the thread of life at the very moment it snapped 
 for ever — all destroyed, all come to nought ! And this at 
 last ! a wretch returning to a dead man's grave, craving a 
 like resolution with himself of the weary flesh into the dust 
 whereof it was composed — it may be (oh God ! there was 
 that hideous wish!) an extinctipn, likewise, of the soul 
 which it contained. 
 
 " The beadle warned me from the grave once, and again. 
 I retired before him without a word. It was evening 
 service ; I entered the church modestly, for the temple of 
 God in England is no place for misery that wears old 
 wooUien. The woman whose duty it was to open the pew- 
 doors was grounded in this religion. She scanned me closely 
 and contemptuously, but presently motioned me to go into 
 an obscure pew at the entrance of the church. I did so, and 
 was the sole occupant of it during the service. Sinners, 
 who came to pray for the mediation of the meek and lowly 
 Jesus, shrank from the contamination of proximity to me. 
 
 " How many years since I had entered a church ! 
 
 " The bitterness that sornetimes, though not often, pos- 
 sessed me, rose upon my mind as I gazed around me. 
 'Dreadful, decent rogues, the major part of these; mum- 
 bling prayers thtey feel not ; trembling upon their knees 
 in mock devotion; uttering and muttering responses to 
 appeals for mercy, whilst their hearts are hatching the 
 young of wrath and persecution, which soon with strong- 
 plumed pinions shall go forth to devour and to destroy.'- 
 
 "But these unworthy thoughts dispersed, were chased 
 away, when the psalm was given out — when the organ 
 heaved forth its volumes, its throes of ravishing and still- 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 259 
 
 swelling sound — when the accordant voices of the children 
 gushed out, making one full, concurrent, sublime descant of 
 prayer, of praise, of petition. My heart wept within me 
 from all its- issues ; my soul sank prostrate before the altar., 
 I grasped the partition with my hands, or I should have 
 fallen upon the ground ; the sweat hung heavy upon my 
 forehead, a trembling shook my whole frame. 
 
 " Dark as was the corner into which I had slunk, the 
 pew-opener saw my ghastly face through the obscurity. She 
 made signs to me to leave the church j but I stood, or rather 
 continued upright, where I was, spell-bound, fixed. To have 
 left the place I must have been dragged thence. Nor did 
 I recover my calmness during the delivery of the sermon. 
 The preacher was a simple, unaffected, and yet earnest man; 
 he spoke of truths that I had heard when I was a boy, 
 and in almost the self-same language. I had not been a 
 scoffer, for I never was a trifler or a fool. Devoutly believing 
 in a God, and knowing perfectly well the beauty and dignity 
 of virtue, still I had contented myself, during my whole life, 
 with avowing my belief when it was necessary, and main- 
 taining my opinions when they were called for. ' I was not 
 a man in the practice of piety, either to myself or to the 
 world ; that is to say, I had never prayed in secret that God 
 might hear, or gone to church that man might, see. 
 
 "Shall I wrong truth so deeply as to assert that this 
 accidental visit to St. James' Church made a convert or a 
 penitent of me ? No j moved as I was, it was no motion 
 from Heaven that called me thither. It was the. memory of 
 the past that smote me, not apprehensions of the future. 
 
 " The service being ended, I would have left, but had a 
 difficulty in finding my hat. In the meanwhile, a concourse 
 pf gaily attired people crowded the aisle.. My dress forbade 
 the presumption of thrusting myself amongst them. I was 
 fain, therefore, to wait till they were passed by. 
 
 " But two or three remained on this side of the church,, 
 and these not so advanced towards the, entrance, as to 
 
 17—2 
 
26o A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 obstruct the opening of my pew. As I stepped out, a 
 short sharp cry caused me to turn my head. My arm was 
 at the same instant gently, but quickly, laid hold upon. 
 
 " ' Eichard !— Mr. Savage !' 
 
 " Had I not known the voice, I had hardly recognised 
 that face^though it was the face of Elizabeth Wilfred. 
 Not that the face was changed, but its expression, which 
 was one of the most profound melancholy. The joy of 
 seeing me (for joy it was) irradiated for a moment that 
 aspect of sorrow, making it more sweetly piteous. A heavy 
 groan burst from my bosom when I beheld her ; — a groan 
 of shame, of contrition, of despair. But mouths were agape, 
 and the old pew-opener was about to interfere." They might 
 well marvel at a recognition between two such persons ! I 
 turned, and fled out of the church. 
 
 " She followed and overtook me. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, dear Eichard, do not leave me. I 
 must not lose you again. Stay for me one moment, while I 
 tell the coachman to drive home. Promise me ; say that 
 you will wait till I return.' 
 
 "I answered, 'I will wait.' Perplexed, confounded, I 
 knew not what to do or to' say. She came back in a 
 minute. 
 
 " ' Where are you going V she said ; ' you must let me 
 accompany you. You are very ill, Eichard. I wish you 
 would take my arm.' 
 
 " ' We are observed here.' 
 
 " I knew, for I had seen, that we were observed ; indeed, 
 some dozen humane or inquisitive people, who had been 
 standing a short distance from us, were now approaching 
 Aom several quarters, halting. A circle would soon have 
 formed around us. I made an effort to rouse myself,- 
 although scarce able to stand, and moved towards the gate 
 of the churchyard, Elizabeth supporting me. She beckoned 
 to a coach. 
 ' " ' Whither are you -going, dear Eichard V, 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVEL/ST. 261 
 
 " ' Home — home ; I must go home.' 
 
 " I whispered my direction to the driver, and was helped 
 into the coach. ' She was instantly at my side: 
 
 " Few words were exchanged between us during the time 
 we were in the coach. At intervals she pressed my hand, 
 which she held between her own, and inquired whether I 
 was better ; questions which I answered in the affirmative. 
 And if an unnatural strength, wrought out of a determina- 
 tion to acquit myself with firmness through a fearful im- 
 pending scene — if this which I summoned together, and 
 held, may be called being better — I was so. ' I dreaded that 
 she should see where I lodged. My squalid wretchedness 
 of figure had been seen : could I have fled, that might have 
 been borne — that had passed. But now, by Heaven ! when 
 the coach stopped was the most terrible moment of my 
 life. Had it been a Tyburn cart, and I in it, about to be 
 paraded before the yelling mob, a craven murderer, I could 
 not have felt a more sickening sense of abject terror. 
 
 " We got out of the coach. I told the driver to wait, 
 that he might carry the lady to her own house. The 
 wretch bowed to the gentleman with nauseous gravity — a 
 jaw-locked grin. My old woman came to the door, wonder- 
 ing whether her spectacles were bewitched. Such light 
 and such darkness together ! ' Never had so fine a lady 
 stepped over her threshold before ;' so said the old woman 
 on the following day. True, Mrs. Markham, very true ! 
 1 borrowed a candle from her, and led the way to my room. 
 Closing the door upon us, I set down the light upon the 
 table, and sank upon a box placed against the wall. 
 
 "'I am at home. Dearest, best of women, leave me. 
 Elizabeth Wilfr6d, I implore you leave me.' 
 
 " ' Here ?' surveying the apartment with a chilly shudder 
 — ' here ? Eichard !' 
 
 " ' Here. This is where I live — my home. I am better 
 now.' 
 
 " She came and sat down by my side, and placed her arm 
 
262 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 around me, the hand resting on my shoulder. I dared not 
 look upon her, and yet I could not help doing so. It was 
 maddening to see that sweet face as she wiped my damp 
 forehead with' her handkerchief, with a smile upon her 
 lips, although her eyes began to fill with tears. Her gentle 
 nature could not bear to see the wretched ruin — the ghastly 
 wreck before her. Her bosom heaved, a sob choked her 
 utterance. She threw herself into my arms, her head upon 
 my breast, and burst into a passion of weeping. 
 
 " ' Great God of heaven ! this is too much — to6 much !' 
 I exclaimed, almost with a' shriek, striving to disengage 
 myself ; but very gently now, for she would cling to me. 
 ' Elizabeth, if you have pity, if a miserable man may 
 claim ' 
 
 " ' Yes, yes, forgive me, dear Eichard, I would not pain 
 you ; it is but joy that I have seen y6u once again.' 
 
 " That dear falsehood might be forgiven. The joy of 
 seeing me ! Joy hath its tears, 'tis true ; but never such 
 tears upon such a face. The , misery of seeing me thus — 
 this drew forth those tears. She wiped them from her 
 face, and endeavoured at calmness ; but sobs would rise at 
 intervals. 
 
 " ' Do let me speak,' she said at length ; ' you must not 
 stay here. It is not fit that Eichard Savage should live 
 here. I have money. What is it you owe, dear sir % You 
 never would permit it to be mentioned. From those we 
 love, I have heard you say, it is a mark of love and of 
 confidence to receive it. I am sure you will not disdain to 
 accept it from me. You will not be so unkind to me as 
 to refuse it. Conie, now,' tenderly, and looking me appeal- 
 ingly in the face. 
 
 ' " This speech, to which at one time I had listened with 
 rapture, now was torture to me to hear. I left my seat 
 hastily. She also arose, and in alarm. Taking her hands 
 between my own, I held her my arm's distance from me. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 263 
 
 my teeth clenched, my eyes fixed upon her with fond 
 bitterness. 
 
 " ' Thou loveliest, gentlest, most cruel creature !' I ex- 
 claimed, 'and is it thus you requite the wrong I have 
 done you? Is it thus you damn me with generosity I 
 deserve not, with tenderness that makes me mad, with pity 
 that blasts me ? Am I not sunk enough already — abased— 
 degraded ? Oh, Elizabeth ! that my brain be not rent in 
 twain ; that my heart burst not asunder ; leave me — leave 
 me !' and I stamped upon the ground. ' On my knees I 
 pray you to leave me.' 
 
 " ' I would not offend you for the world, she cried, in 
 aJgitation, wringing my hands, 'for mercy's sake compose 
 yourself. I will leave you. Do you wish, Richard, that I 
 should leave you 1' 
 
 " ' Oh, my God ! yes — yes —yes !' falling upon the ground 
 at her feet, and dashing my fists upon the floor ; ' I cannot 
 bear this ! cannot bear it !' 
 
 "' Hysterica passio / down, thou climbing sorrow;' 
 
 But it would not down : such ravings as devils might have 
 heard — perhaps, did hear rejoicingly — followed. She was 
 at my side ; on her knees. at my side. 
 
 " ' I will go,' she said, attempting to soothe me. ' I will 
 go. I did not know my presence would have disturbed 
 you so, or I would not have intruded. Pray forgive me, I 
 will rid you of my sight directly ; bu,t I cannot leave you 
 till you are more yourself.' 
 
 " That piteous imploring face close to mine, those hand$ 
 pressing my burning temples ! Nature will have way. 
 With a deep groan I hid my face, and wept aloud like a 
 child. Oh ! then the world had passed away from me ! 
 
 " How long it was ere I recovered froin this paroxysm, I 
 know not. When I did so, I discovered Elizabeth sitting 
 near me on the chest, trembling violently, her hands clasped 
 before her, and paler than ever before I saw the face of 
 
264 4 FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 woman. I arose collected, the man of yesterday, or of to- 
 morrow, and seated myself by her side. 
 
 "'Elizabeth,' I said, 'you have witnessed a strange 
 weakness. I am ashamed of myself; but it is the first and 
 last.' Then, kissing her hands fervently, ' I dare not call 
 you my love, though that I love you — ^how much more than 
 my life ! — Heaven is ray witness, who knows how valueless 
 life is to me.' 
 
 " She sighed. ' Oh, Richard ! not now such words. We 
 are friends, are we not V 
 
 " Blessed, admirable woman, yes ; and I am now happy 
 beyond expression that I have seen you once more before I 
 leave London, perhaps for ever. I thank God for it, and 
 shall learn to thank him for all things, knowing that- His 
 providence watches over me. Our meeting proves it.' 
 
 "itwas more than an hour after this ere she left. Saying 
 she would see me on the following day, she at length arose. 
 I handed her to the door, and passing my arm around her 
 waist, drew her gently towards me, and kissed her. 
 
 " ' God will bless you, my Elizabeth, even for your kind- 
 ness to so sad a wretch as Richard Savage.' 
 
 " ' You must not talk so, Richard,' she replied. ' He 
 ■will bless you too, when you ask His blessing.' 
 
 "When I could no longer hear the coachwheels, I returned 
 to my room. She had left her purse upon the seat. By 
 mistake, I thought at the first instant— but no. All the 
 blood in my body rushed to my face. Any other man in 
 the world would have shrunk, probably, even to think how 
 he looked in such a moment. Not I. I raised the bit of 
 glass from the mantelpiece, and gazed at this proud, 
 honourable, lofty — scoundrel ! Pitiful — very pitiful was that 
 countenance ! 
 
 " Averse as I had been from leaving London, from this 
 night I was as anxious to go as my friends could be that I 
 should be gone. I saw Elizabeth Wilfred every day until 
 my departure. I promised a thorough amendment of my 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELISI. ,265 
 
 life, and intended to set about it. She believed me and was 
 happy. 
 
 " My friend Johnson attended me to the coach, murmur- 
 ing comfort and philosophy, whilst the tears stood in his 
 eyes. Nor was I less affected. I embraced him tenderly, 
 and, springing into the coach, if not with a light, with a 
 buoyant heart, I bade farewell to London, for, as I be- 
 lieved and designed, a short time. Sight and sound of 
 the vast city were soon lost to me. Longer, London ! 
 have I kept from thee than I contemplated ; but a few 
 days longer, and I shall be with thee once again. " Al- 
 ready the rumble of the leathern vehicle fills my ears — 
 mine eyes are already full of thee. 1 come. Foes who 
 have- rejoiced that I retired, friends who will lament 
 that I return — I come. A little older — a little sadder — 
 a little, also, wiser." 
 
 He never returned, however. His friends had only 
 power to change the scene ; they had no power to 
 change his nature. He acts in Bristol exactly as he 
 would have acted in London. At length he is cast 
 into a debtors' prison for the non-payment of a paltry 
 sum. He bears his imprisonment with equanimity, 
 until one day he receives a letter containing a charge 
 of ingratitude which disturbs him much, and presently 
 he becomes ill, and in a few days is dead. Dr. Johnson 
 in his life of the poet gives no foundation in fact for 
 some particulars which are here introduced into the 
 story ; but Whitehead had too keen an apprehension 
 of and insight into what is necessary in good art not to 
 perceive that it was needful here to introduce some 
 ray of sunshine to penetrate in some measure the 
 prevailing gloom. Accordingly, in the novel. Miss 
 
266 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS, 
 
 Wilfred is summoned to his bedside, and arrives after 
 a long and painful journey, just in time to see the 
 end. She herself has for a long while been in most 
 delicate health, and is so overcome with fatigue and 
 the shock of his death, that in a few days she herself 
 is no more. The lovers are buried in the same grave. 
 The close of the novel is told in a fictitious letter of a 
 touching character, purporting to have been sent by 
 Mr. Thomas Dagge, the keeper of the prison, to Dr. 
 Johnson. 
 
 In this novel there are two characters most power- 
 fully depicted — Ludlow (a pure invention), and Savage. 
 Steele as a character is more slightly treated thaij 
 we could desire, though a quarrel between him and 
 Savage is well narrated ; as when Savage says to him, 
 " You imagined you were cheapening a dog, to bark at 
 your bidding and to fawn and cringe at'your call." 
 
 The speech just quoted brings vividly before us the 
 mingled pride and scorn of Savage's nature. We feel 
 that the words are true to life, but are' glad that there 
 are not many who could thus insolently forget the 
 disinterested favour of a generous heart. It is a pity 
 that Johnson is scarcely touched on at all ; for there 
 is hardly anything more striking, amusingly pathetic, 
 or'' suitable for a novelist's use, than the traditions- of 
 Johnson and Savage walking through the streets of 
 London at night, when destitute of a lodging; and, 
 declaring that come what might in politics, ttey at 
 least (poor homeless creatures !) " would stand by their 
 country." All this, as the ^ajamiwer justly said in its 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 267 
 
 review of the novel at the time of its first appearance, 
 might have been "nobly told." It is also: to be re- 
 gretted that the habits of Savage are sometimes more 
 revealed in the novel than is necessary, or quite con- 
 sistent with good taste or good art. The language 
 likewise, though the language of the time, is occasion- 
 ally needlessly full of expletives and undesirable 
 expressions. 
 
 The study of this book (as indeed of all eighteenth 
 century literature) brings before us the corruption and 
 shameless venality of these times. In our days we 
 hear much of the badness of public morals, and, sooth 
 to say, they may be weU esteemed capable of improve- 
 ment. But in the older days, with, .as far as we can 
 perceive, even greater iniquity, there was an utter 
 absence of shame or decent concealment. In this 
 novel, for example, with the exceptions of Elizabeth 
 Wilfred and Ludlow, nearly all the characters are 
 tainted with some form of positive sin. Examined 
 from a moral point of view, it is in truth a sorry story. 
 The portrayal of the miscarriage 6f justice in the trial 
 of Savage andGregoryfor murder is most vividlyshown. 
 Consequently the whole passage, although so powerfully 
 written as to live before our eyes, is painful reading. 
 There is one pleasing reflection to be drawn from all 
 of this, viz., that it clearly indicates that we have at 
 least attained in these times to a somewhat higher 
 level, of true progress. 
 
 .At the close of an edition of Fielding's Tom Jones, 
 illustrated by George Cruikshank (London, George Bell 
 
268 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 and Sons, 1876), this paragraph appears in an " Ap- 
 pendix " : 
 
 " The following notes have been found written on some 
 of the pages of a copy of ' Tom Jones,' of the date 1773. 
 They are in the autograph of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and 
 appear to have sufficient interest to justify their being 
 appended here : 
 
 "'Let the requisite allowance be made for the increased 
 refinement -of our manners, and then I dare believe that 
 no young man who consulted his heart and conscience 
 only, without adverting to what iM world would say, could 
 rise from the perusal of Fielding's Tom Jones, Joseph An- 
 drews, and Amelia, without feeling himself a better man — 
 at least, without an intense conviction that he could not 
 be guilty of a base act.' " 
 
 A similar remark might be fittingly made concern- 
 ing Richard .Savage. > 
 
 As I have before mentioned, , the first edition in 
 volume form was illustrated by Leech, and appeared 
 in 1842. It contains seventeen illustrations, and a 
 second edition, also containing the illustrations, ap- 
 peared in 1844. It is somewhat remarkable that the 
 edition just mentioned is not stated to be the second 
 one. The illustrations are, in many cases, not only 
 admirable in themselves, but Leech has shown in them 
 that he grasped the spirit of the situation depicted. 
 The illustration which faces the title-page represents 
 Eichard retaliating upon the cobbler. The figure of the 
 cobbler is very characteristic of Leech. Richard is por- 
 trayed as a fine chivalrous youth; indeed, his appearance 
 in this illustration is more pleasing than in any other in 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 269 
 
 the work. Mrs. Short, the cobbler's wife, seems a veri- 
 table Amazon, and is about to "pommel" Richard 
 The hypocritical Carnaby is admirably delineated. 
 There is an illustration of Richard's first presen- 
 tation to Lady Mason by Mrs. Freeman. Lady Mason 
 seems old arid feeble, and Mrs. Freeman smirks. If 
 Leech is correct in the matter, it would appear that 
 the costume of boys at that period was exactly identi- 
 cal with that of men. " The First Day at School" has 
 nothing remarkable in it. " Savage* with Mr. and 
 Mrs. L'Estrange " is excessively ludicrous. The im- 
 posing Mr. L'Estrange, with the stateliness of a 
 monarch full of pomposity on a great national occa- 
 sion, is haranguing poor little crestfallen Richard, 
 while his lady is making fruitless efforts to faint. I do 
 not like the conception of the illustration wherein 
 Mrs. Brett is represented as interrogating Ludlow. 
 The " Interview between Myte and his new Son-in-law" 
 is well drawn, and the figure of Mr. Myte " on his 
 return from the wedding dinner," is humorously de- 
 picted, especially the benevolent smile on his serene 
 features. " The Crimps surprised by Martin" is inter- 
 esting, as showing the costume of the lower classes. 
 The " Despair of Ludlow at his Wife's Misconduct " is 
 a painful picture. Opposite the title-page of vol. ii. 
 is a somewhat commonplace illustration of the " Mock 
 Marriage." " Savage introduced to LoveU t at the 
 
 * A trivial incident of his cobbler days, 
 t A Grub Street author. 
 
270 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Club " is eminently Leech-esque. Lovell, and a figure 
 to the extreme right of the picture, are -wonderfully- 
 drawn. "Savage introduced by Sir Eichard Steele to 
 Miss Wilfred " is very good. Miss Wilfred is pleasing, 
 but Leech never depicts young ladies -well,, "Mr. 
 Clutterbuck receiving a Hint that he cannot Mistake" 
 is amusing. It would appear that the name of Clutter- 
 buck is an invention by Leech, as Lemery is the name 
 in the novel. " The Death of Sinclair " is the frontis- 
 piece to vol. iii. There are also illustration^ of the 
 trial, in which the smirk on the features of Sir Arthur 
 Page is pecuharly visible. There is an illustration of 
 the "Interview between Miss Wilfred and Richard 
 Savage in Newgate," in which the . starchy expression 
 of the warder is particularly ridiculous. " Carousal 
 of Savage and his Friends at Lord Tyrconnel's " is a 
 striking, picture. Tyrconn,el is entering the room, and 
 Savage is rising to address him. 
 
 The " Introduction " to this edition (the first) is 
 different to that in the copy in the British Museum. 
 In the earlier edition. Whitehead says that he found 
 the^manuscript in " no oak chest " from the Hbrary 
 " of a certain nobleman," nor did he purchase it from 
 a cheesemonger. The first remark may possibly be a 
 humorous allusion to the prefalce to the Ingoldsby. 
 Legends. 
 
 An edition of Uichard Savage was published by 
 Mr. Bentley in 1845, in his " Standard Novels," a series 
 of novels with one illustration, by Leechy facing, the 
 title-page. The introduction to the 1845 edition deals 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST.. 271 
 
 "with, the question of the validity of Savage's claims, 
 to "which, in the introduction to the illustrated edition, 
 "Whitehead says he "will not particularly allude, or "words 
 of similar import. 
 
 There are five English editions of Jbhnson's Life of 
 Savage in the British Museum, and a French transla- 
 tion. The first of these editions is dated 1767, the last 
 1777. On looking carefully through the book, I find 
 that, making all due allo"wance for the necessities of 
 romance, Charles Whitehead, in delineating his ideal 
 Richard Savage, has followed very closely the model of 
 the real one. The principal point in "which Whitehead 
 differs from Johnson is in rieference to the love-making 
 between Richard Savage and Miss Wilfred. Johnson' 
 scarcely refers to this, except incidentally ; in fact, as 
 far as I can notice. Miss Wilfred is only once referred 
 to, and then not by name ; and the engagement 
 between Richard Savage and herself is mentioned 
 simply as one of Sir Richard Steele's projects. White- 
 head, "with an artistic sense of -what is correct in -writing 
 a romance, deepens and intensifies the love interest by 
 every means in his po-wer, until it becomes one of the 
 salient features in the "work. With becoming modesty, 
 Johnson, rarely mentions himself in connection with 
 the subject of his memoir, and no letter of Mr. Dagge, 
 the keeper of the Bristol gaol, such as, appears in 
 extenso at the close of the romance, is given by him. 
 , We can readily point out the faults of others ; it is 
 not so easy to see or correct the same faults in our- 
 selves. Johnson, who is not celebrated for the early ^ 
 
272 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 hours at which he retired to rest, wrote as follows, in 
 his serious style, at the very period when his own hours 
 were probably of the earliest in another sense of the 
 term. He is speaking of the time just before Savage 
 went into the Bristol debtors' prison : 
 
 "In this Exigence he once more found a Friend who 
 sheltered him in his House, though at the usual incon- 
 veniences with whi.ch his Company was attended ; for he 
 could neither be persuaded to go to bed in the Night, nor 
 to rise in the Day." 
 
 Johnson's habits apart, however, Richard Savage 
 must indeed have been a troublesome guest. On the 
 veracity of Richard Savage's statements as to his 
 parentage, it is not for me to pass judgment. I have, 
 however, compared with attention the views expressed 
 by Johnson, Boswell, and Whitehead, and it may be 
 desirable to state some of these opinions here, dealing 
 with these writers in the order of their date. Johnson 
 appears to have entertained no doubt at all respecting 
 the justice of Savage's claims, and makes, Mrs. Brett's 
 conduct even blacker than in Whitehead's romance, 
 saying that she put off Earl Rivers with lying answers 
 when he made natural inquiries as to his child, and 
 finally, that when he was dying and wished' to provide 
 for his son, she told him the astounding falsehood 
 (knowing it to be such) that that son was dead. 
 Johnson deems her conduct most extraordinary and 
 unaccountable, as he thinks she had neither the fear 
 of poverty nor of shame to cause her to act as she did. 
 
 Boswell, in his Life of Johnson, goes at length into 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 273 
 
 the whole question, and the strongest arguments which 
 he brings to bear against Savage are that he could not 
 obtain a legacy, and that he (Boswell) had been unable 
 to find the entry of baptism to which Savage refers. , 
 Whitehead's answer to this objection seems a very 
 strong one ; it is that Boswell looked for the wrong 
 name. Indeed, in Whitehead's preface to the later 
 editions of his romance, the arguments in favour of 
 Richard Savage's claims are most powerfully stated, 
 but at such length that it is impossible to enter fully 
 into them here. Of course, the strongest point in 
 Savage's favour (even Boswell admits this), is that the 
 three different accounts of the life of Bichard Savage, 
 one in the Plain-dealer in 1724, another in 1727, and 
 another, as Boswell says, " by the ; powerful pen of 
 Johnson" in 1744, should all have been published 
 during Mrs. Brett's — or, as Boswell inaccurately calls 
 her, "Lady Macclesfield^s" — ^lifetime, without any public 
 or effectual contradiction. 
 
 Boswell thus sums up his statement (which is 
 quoted by Whitehead in his preface) : 
 
 " I have thus endeavoured to sum up the evidence upon 
 the case as far as I can ; and the result seems to be that 
 the world must vibrate in a state of uncertainty as to what 
 was the truth." 
 
 Of those who have written about Richard Savage, 
 Boswell was the most hostile to his claims ; and yet, 
 after stating that the strongest argument in Savage's 
 favour was to be found in the fact that these accounts 
 of his life were published under the circumstances 
 
 18 
 
274 A FORGOTTEN- GENIUS. 
 
 mentioned above, he coiicludes witli the words I have 
 just quoted. Is it conceivable that Mrs. Brett; hating- 
 Savage as she undoubtedly did, -would not have, con- 
 tradicted these narratives effectually had she been- 
 able to do so ? Is it not upon the -whole reasonable; 
 to suppose that Savage's statement, vouiched for by- 
 such a contemporary -witness as Johason, is likely to 
 be correct? ' : 
 
 The characteristics of Richard Savage^ are a deeply 
 interesting study; and there can be- no doubt that the 
 Richard Savage of Whitehead's romance differs in 
 some respects from the Richard Savage of real life. ' 
 He is represented as handsome, easy and attrflictive in 
 manners, and -with an excellent- address. The chief 
 defect in him, -which a casual acquaintanceship should 
 show, would be an unreasonableness when opposed, 
 a quick and sometimes violent temper, not even 
 under moderate control, and occasionally a forgetful- 
 ness of former small kindnesses. The Richard Savage 
 of the novel, for it is about him that I am alone: at 
 present speaking, is represented as ha-ving recei-v^ed 
 an excellent education for a gentleman of that period. 
 The sole advantage which he did not receive was a 
 University course, and for this he was himself solely 
 responsible, for Mr. Burridge, with the large-hearted^ 
 ness of a true friend, offered him every facility for 
 going to Cambridge. The manner in which Savage 
 declined this timely offer gives us one of our first real 
 ghmpses into his inner character. Had he been a 
 youth of discretion and judgment instead of impulsci 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 275 
 
 lie -would doubtless have accepted the offer ; and it 
 seems at least questionable whether the reason which 
 he gives for his conduct, viz., his disinclination to 
 leave Ludlow at that juncture in his sickness and 
 sorrow, was the motive which in truth actuated him. 
 Was it not rather (though he himself perchance never 
 perceived it) a foolish disinclination to submit to 
 Burridge's fatherly guidance, a thing which a resi- 
 dence at a University in .the manner proposed would 
 have involved ? His intellect appears to have been 
 bright rather than profound ; his sallies of wit were 
 brilliant, and he could conceive admirable projects — 
 projects which, alas ! he but rarely had the industry 
 and perseverance to carry out. He was fond, like all 
 wits of his day, of indulging much in the satisfaction 
 apparently to be . derived from garnishing the dish 
 of his conversation with suitable Latin quotations ; 
 frequently, however, sadly hackneyed. Of other clas- 
 sical allusions he was also full, and in these he was 
 sometimes extremely happy. There is one thing 
 which strikes us in considering his intellectual cha- 
 racter, and we have felt the same respecting other 
 such men of his age. In Eiohard Savage we have a 
 poet and man of letters yrho mixes with the best 
 class of men of letters of the period. Do we there- 
 fore find him a studious man — a man devoted to- 
 books — a man who is never happier than when in 
 solitude and peace he is communing with them, or 
 with a small circle of intimate friends of similar 
 tastes — a man who, whatever his occasional excesses, 
 
 IS— 2 
 
276 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 deeply regretted them and speedily recovered from 
 them ? This, perhaps, ■ is what we might have ex- 
 pected ; but what do we find ? — a; man who never 
 once refers to the pleasures of reading — a man who 
 never seems to have engaged in research — a man of 
 whom we do not hear that he possessed any books of 
 his own, except those given him by Lord Tyrconnel, 
 and these he speedily pawned, though in receipt of 
 a handsome allowance and free board and lodging — a 
 man who is never happier than when seated with his 
 second bottle of wine before him at a common tavern, 
 in the company of boon companions whose conversa- 
 tion was certainly not of an intellectual type, and 
 who never onpe complains of the lack of intellect in 
 others — a man who could be diverted from any work, 
 however pressing and important, by a call to some 
 grovelling pleasure. It is certainly remarkable, how- 
 ever, that in these respects he was sadly similar to, and 
 no worse than, nearly all the men of genius of his 
 time, such men as Locke, and perhaps Pope and 
 Johnson, alone excepted. 
 
 It is difficult to give in a few words an adequate 
 conception of his moral nature, there was so much 
 both of good and evil in it. Generosity was ever a 
 prominent quality in his mind ; and there is no doubt 
 that he had a deep and sincere reverence for good, 
 and in the inner recesses of his soul the instincts 
 of a good man. It is an easy thing to exemplify his 
 generosity: to his friends he was always a friend; 
 with his money, when he had any, even lavish ; and 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 277 
 
 his noble conduct towards Mrs. Ludlow, when, after 
 all she had done against him, he not only succoured 
 her by giving her pecuniary aid, but actually entered 
 a den of infamy, which he had resolved never to enter 
 more, to procure her assistance, shows fipe qualities 
 of heart. The way he bore himself tOT^ards Mr. 
 Dagge during the latter days of his Ufe in the 
 debtors' prison at Bristol was magnanimous. The 
 exquisite description of his feelings when, as a poor 
 outcast, he entered a church once more, after many 
 years of absence, represents him as at that moment, 
 at least, not far from the kingdom of God. The great 
 blot on his moral nature during the greater part of 
 his Hfe was his fierce and uncontrolled animosity 
 towards Mrs. Brett. If she were his mother, such 
 feelings were from that cause alone all the more 
 inexcusable. If she were not his mother, even he 
 must have felt there was something to be said in 
 extenuation of her conduct, as, with the exception of 
 her atrocious attempt to entrap him, and compel him 
 by force to leave the country, her treatment of him 
 was not so scandalous as he would wish us to believe. 
 Even he must have thought that some blame attached 
 to Lady Mason and Ludlow, and that his pretensions 
 and claims could hardly fail to be a grievous trial to 
 one like Mrs. Brett. 
 
 In his mode of life he had many excesses ; gluttony, 
 however, was not among the number of these ; but 
 he was, beyond question, a persistent and continuous 
 drunkard. Drunkenness was a habit pf his age, but 
 
278 ' A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 lie was- the worst of tis associates in this respect.' ■ He 
 speaks of going, through money v6ry raipidly ; and it 
 may with too good reason be feared that he had 
 other excesses than' the one named, although this is 
 not hinted at in the romance. He had, however, 
 .despite,' all his faults, a capacity for pure love, and 
 his affection! for Miss Wilfred seems to have been of 
 the purest: She, dike many of the heroines in the 
 novels written at this period, 'though beautiful and 
 pure in character, is somewhat faintly sketched, and 
 is consequently a little wanting in individuality.' In 
 portraying her, Whitehead has followed closely the 
 model set him by the novelists of the eighteenlli 
 century. Be' this as it may, however, Eichard Savage's 
 affection for her seems to have been a most real 
 thing, and had, as all true love should, a purifying 
 ©ffect on his character. Once he sinned against the^ 
 purity of his love, and then almost irreparably ; and 
 this, take it d,ll in all, is the darkest stain on his 
 life' : he expiates it by years of penitence and suffer- 
 ing, and at length, in a few 'brief moments of the old 
 loving communion, reaped the fruits of that forgive- 
 'ness which long ere then had been vouchsafed to 
 him. There is nothing more beautiful in fiction than 
 the pathos of the reconciliation between the worlds 
 despised outcast Richard Savage and Elizabeth 
 Wilfred, who, amid all • the ' allurements of rank and 
 .wealth, loved him still.* .■', 
 
 * Miss Wilfred haii immediately before the reconciliatiba 
 been. residing with aristocratic friends. ; 
 
' WHITEHEAEf AS A NOVELIST. 279 
 
 The career of Eichard Savage, both in faet and in 
 Whitehead's fiction, was marred by his own want of 
 self-control and inability to deny hinaself the gratifica- 
 tion of any whim which .promised a moment's plea- 
 sure. It might: have been entirely different, but that 
 (ia his own words, prefixed to the book) — 
 
 "No mother's cate 
 Shielded my infant innocence with prayer, 
 No father's guardian' hand my youth maintained, . . 
 Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd," 
 
 The character of Mrs. Brett is powerfully sketched. 
 We see a subtle delineation of the inner motives and 
 
 . character of a remarkable woman^a woman, however 
 wicked, not devoid of some traits of worth — ^witness 
 her avowal of the parentage of Savage, when such 
 avowal not only ruined her position, but placed her 
 entirely in the power of the man who had been, 
 wicked or weak enough to destroy her honour. Had 
 
 -there not been true love for Earl Kivers, she could 
 hardly have taken this course. Her conduct towards 
 Elizabeth also, until she was cajoled by Sinclair into 
 connivance at his rash act, seems to be animated by 
 
 .. good feelings. Her treatment of Savage, again, viewed 
 from what was presumably her point of view, is far 
 from -being inexplicable ; indeed, a great part of the 
 blame for this must be laid at the door of Lady 
 Mason and Ludlow, and in any case she hardly 
 deserved the opprobrium Savage flung on her. 
 
 Of Lady Mason not much can be said in praise: 
 Granting that the story of Savage's parentage was 
 
28o A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 authentic, she may have had reasons which she 
 thought at the tinie were good ones for representing 
 to her daughter, Mrs. Brett, that her child was dead, 
 but there is no doubt that in this- instance, as in all 
 others, it would have been better policy to have been 
 perfectly straightforward. Had Lady Mason not made 
 concealment, in a case where concealment was emi- 
 nently undesirable, the greater part of the misery and 
 hate in subsequent years would have been avoided. 
 When in early youth she removed Savage from the 
 care of Mrs. Freeman and sent him to the good school 
 at St. Alban's, she evidently intended adequately to 
 provide for him ; but time went on, she procrastinated, 
 and her good intentions were never carried out. In- 
 deed, her feelings towards Savage probably became 
 less warm, and there is no doubt that when she re- 
 moved him from school, and made him, sorely against 
 his wiU, a cobbler's apprentice, she quite hoped that 
 she had got rid of him by enabling him in this humble 
 manner to earn his bread. When, as was natural, 
 Richard's pride does not permit him to brook this 
 indignity, she first becomes angry with him, and Lud- 
 low foolishly tells . her what was not the case ; viz., 
 that Richard has returned to the cobbler. Presently 
 she finds that she has been deceived, and also that 
 Richard is persistent in his endeavour to obtain recog- 
 nition. Her better qualities revive, and sh^ sets herself 
 as far as possible to support his claims ; but she bitterly 
 feels the fruit of her formerequivocation, her daughter,, 
 naturally believing that it was not very reasonable to 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 281 
 
 suppose that lier mother would lead her to accept a 
 falsehood in past years. Was it not more conceivable 
 that Lady Mason, agfed and infirm, even mentally 
 evincing signs of senility, should have been so in- 
 fluenced by an old servant like Ludlow as to have 
 grown to believe that his nephew was Richard Savage, 
 her daughter's son ? Be this as it may, however, Mrs. 
 Brett altogether declines to believe in Savage's claims, 
 albeit she had her mother's almost dying asseverations 
 in their favour. 
 
 Ludlow is the type of his class — a man who, though 
 he possessed some good, even noble qualities, was never- 
 theless in many respects weak and apt to swerve from 
 the right. He seems to have been a most exemplary 
 servant, attentive to his duties, solicitous for his mis- 
 tress's interests, sober and honest. When first we hear 
 of' him, it seems evident that he simply thought there 
 was good reason for keeping Richard Savage's ante- 
 cedents quiet, and that doubtless sooner or later such 
 concealment would come to an end. Thus his con- 
 duct during the whole of Savage's school- days is per- 
 fectly reasonable and consistent ; but always granting 
 that Savage's claims were reaUy just ones, it does 
 appear that after Lady Mason forcibly removed Savage 
 from school, he exceeded in his subsequent conduct 
 what it was proper to do in the matter. There are 
 sometimes reasons why family affairs should not be 
 spoken of for some years ; but in a case of this sort, 
 when a young man would become a sufferer owing to 
 the continued non-recognition of his claims, when the 
 
382 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 only other witness, except himself, of their justice was 
 an aged lady who at anytime might be stricken by the 
 great silencer, Death, then it was clearly Ludlow's duty 
 to go at once to Mrs. Brett and lay the case fully before 
 her. Of course, his error was merely an error of judg-- 
 ment. We must also remember that in these days it 
 was deemed far more necessary for servants to obey 
 their orders without reflection or appeal. • He suffered 
 fully the consequences of his error by losing, notwithr 
 standing, his situation, and by having his words of 
 truth laughed to scorn when he at length uttered 
 them. 
 
 He seems to have had a genuine affection for Richard 
 Savage, and some of the description of his latter days 
 is not a little pathetic. His forbearance and' tender- 
 ness towards his unworthy wife is a truly generous 
 trait, and we can well imagine the dreadful feelings of 
 mortification when he discovered that she had rewarded 
 all his kindness by making the perjured confession to 
 Mrs. Brett which appeared to ruin his veracity and 
 certainly ruined his hopes, It might, perhaps, be said 
 that had he been able to carry out his intention of 
 leaving his money to Savage, much of the latter's 
 career might have been different. It. might also be 
 said that Savage had an innate tendency to extrava- 
 gance and excess, and of whatever money he had been 
 possessed,, it would only have been a question of time 
 as to how long it would take to dissipate it. Savage's 
 real wants were prudence and self-control. 
 
 The character of Myte is a somewhat complex one. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 283 
 
 Whilst being in some senses the comic man of the 
 book, he is in others the type of the worldly philo- 
 sopher who, although necessarily possessing a blood- 
 circulating machine, appears utterly destitute of what 
 is conventionally known as a heart. Yet on other 
 occasions and from different points of view he is not 
 without feeling. He is at all times, on the surfaeej.a 
 good-natured man, full of epigra;m, wittioism,-,and other 
 smart talk, ever alert and anxious to do a good turn 
 ■to a friend, especially if in so doing ke can contrive to do 
 himself no harm. When his friends get into real diffi^- 
 cultieSjhe prefers from prudential motives to leave them 
 alone, and not to appear in any sense identiiied with 
 them. But when without his aid they have succeeded 
 in vanquishing the aforesaid difficultieSi he is most 
 profuse- in acknowledging to them the weakness and 
 temerity of his conduct in deserting them while in 
 straits, ^nd his sincere trust and confidence that the 
 nobility of their disposition is such that they wiU 
 graciously overlook his shortcomings, and a(^mit. him 
 once more into their confidence and respects. There 
 can be no doubt that with him mercenary motives 
 were uppermost. He had as -much love for his 
 wife and daughters as a man of •■ his stamp could 
 havei and occasionally, when he was in more than a 
 usually good frame; even a little to spare for his 
 friends. 
 
 There are no such difficulties . in determining the 
 :character of Marchant as meet us when we strive to 
 examine Myte. Such as he is, everything abput him , 
 
284 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 ■r 
 
 is quite clear. A man of good parts, in the main of 
 good impulses and principles, yet sadly too liable to 
 swerve from rectitude. He is a thorough Bohemian 
 in the very worst sense of the term. Everything he 
 does or says is tinged with the influence of the hap- 
 hazard mode of life which men of this class invariably 
 lived, at least in the eighteenth century. At the com-, 
 mencement of Savage's career he very kindly directed 
 him wisely in his literary endeavours ; but when, follow- 
 ing up such advice, Savage had succeeded in producing 
 a marketable pla,y, he was careless as to the proper 
 steps for enabling Savage to secure the full financial 
 results from it. He attended with Savage to see its 
 first pubUc representation, and forthwith resolved to 
 have a debauch on the strength of its being so well 
 received. On this occasion Savage joins him, and 
 Marchant does not return to his lodgings that night, 
 muchsmoney being uselessly and reprehensibly spent at 
 a tavern at a time just before which they had been both 
 starving. 
 
 Marchant's character is seen in the worst light in 
 the way he acts during the important Sinclair in- 
 cident. There, after having provoked a quarrel, like 
 a craven he deserts his friends in the midst of the diffi- 
 culties which he himself alone caused. It would ap- 
 pear, however, that his conduct in this instance arose 
 rather from natural temerity at a moment of fright 
 than from baser motives. His end is deplorable. On 
 the whole, notwithstanding all his faults, one cannot 
 help liking the man. 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 285 
 
 Of the Martins, husband, wife, and son, it is perhaps 
 well that a few words should be said. With the ex- 
 ception of Ludlow, they are the only persons moving 
 in humble life of whom in this romance we hear much; 
 and their exemplification of unsophisticated virtue is 
 a great relief after the wickedness, misrepresentations, 
 and shams in the other parts of the book. They prac-. 
 tise good, hardly knowing it to be so, but as it were by 
 simple injpulse. The father, probably owing to having 
 been an old soldier, and therefore seeing a good deal of 
 life, is not only possessed of much common sense, but 
 worldly sagacity, and the dexterous way in which, after 
 Richard's escape from the ruffians who had entrapped 
 him, he (Martin) conducted the capture of his whilom 
 captors, reflects great credit on his strategy. His con- 
 duct subsequently towards Colonel Brett is also worthy 
 of praise. The account given later of his fatherly con- 
 duct towards Richard, when resident on various occa- 
 sions in his house, is pleasant reading. Of the son, 
 Simon, little can be said. He is a fine, stoaightforward 
 young Englishman in humble life. His mother is a 
 woman who merits our respect. Probably quite un- 
 educated, her deficiencies are amply atoned for by her 
 goodness of heart. To Richard she is as a mother. 
 She must have been the only woman from whom he 
 could learn what motherly instincts were. It is also 
 striking that this worthy couple never seemed to for- 
 get that Richard was a gentleman, or to cease to call 
 to mind their social inferiority to him. One of the 
 very few patches of brightness which relieve the black- 
 
286 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 ness and degradation of Richard's trial for murder' is 
 the habbling and incoherent, but touching and natural, 
 evidence of Mrs. Martin, which was aU the more natural 
 because most probably quite voluntary and spontaneous. 
 In Richard's last years of misery he is never afraid to 
 make himself known to Mrs. Martin, for, whatever his 
 plight, he can always depend upon receiving a kind 
 word from her. 
 
 Burridge is life-like,; though of course we Jiave met 
 him before— that is to say, he is not one of the original 
 conceptions of the book. He is simply the type of 
 his class in that period. He is a gentleman of great 
 pomposity when we first mdet with him. He is fond of 
 reheving himself by taking off his wig, and talking in 
 classical quotations on all occasions,, besides being full' 
 of moral maxims after Horace^ At bottom he is 
 a thoroughly good man, despite his foibles, although 
 he is not one who stands in need of the KiLnamock- 
 weaver's prayer, " Lord, give us a good conceit of our- 
 selves." He makes, the fact of having overcome his 
 youthful errors a great source of self-glorification. 
 Later on, however, when, giving up his school, he 
 returns to Lbndon to spend the remainder of his 
 days, his character . becomes much more mellow, and 
 eventually one cannot help getting ,to love the good 
 old man. He does not desert Savage or Gregory in 
 their great trouble. He honestly seeks to reconcile 
 Mrs. Brett and her soi-disant son, and at the end, 
 despite all Savage's vagaries, he is among the sincerest' 
 of his well-wishers. It, is , noteworthy that Savage's 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 287 
 
 Tyay of speaking about him varies considerably with 
 varying moods on different oceasions. 
 
 The character of Gregory, though it may fairly be 
 termed one of the minor ones, is at least among the 
 pleasantest. It is a bright ray of sunshine shed over 
 the sombre landscape of the book. . From the first 
 time when Gregory is introduced shielding the young 
 and friendless Richard from the boy-tyranny of Sin- 
 clair, until the last occasion when, before leaving 
 England, 'he extends hospitality to his somewhat un- 
 worthy friend, we' see nothing but good of him. He 
 is always the same manly fellow : ever striving with- 
 out cant to act rightly, and guileless enough to suppose 
 that all the world are actuated by the same high 
 principles. When he becomes attached to Martha 
 Myte, he becomes so simply from motives of sincere 
 affection, and is totally unable to comprehend the 
 mercenary motives of his future father-in-law, when, 
 for the sake of lucre, Myte is anxious that Sinclair 
 shoijld supplant him in his daughter's esteem. Again, 
 when unfortunately embroiled with Savage in the 
 calamitous escapade which resulted in the killing of 
 Sinclair, perceiving, as indeed was the case, that his 
 father had just ground for indignation, he was noble 
 enough to be neither surprised nor incensed at his 
 parent's refusal either to see him or to afford him 
 assistance. But so little did he comprehend Myte's 
 real character, that he was more grieved than angry 
 at his refusal of aid. Indeed, he appears to have felt 
 more keenly the pain which he was unwittingly giving 
 
288 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 to his betrothed, than fear at his own impending fate. 
 To Savage he was always a true friend. He bestirred 
 himself much to procure Savage, at the beginning of 
 the latter's career, a suitable introduction to managers, 
 when the stage appeared the most likely field for 
 financial success, and he never, like so many of 
 Savage's so-called friends, refused to fraternize with 
 him when in " sorry plight." 
 
 As I have indicated in my remarks on the character 
 of Richard Savage, the Ciharacter of Miss Elizabeth 
 Wilfred is a somewhat colourless one. In person she 
 is represented as being very beautiful. When she is 
 first introduced to our notice, it is under circumstances 
 which, to say the least, are somewhat embarrassing ; 
 but she comports herself with the utmost sweet- 
 ness and amiability, tempered with all due maidenly 
 reserve. We also, then, see for the first time what 
 soon. becomes sadly evident, that one of her deepest 
 trials is the consequence of her birth acting on a 
 sensitive mind ; and even Savage, on the first inter- 
 view (Savage, whp loved her at first sight), unwittingly 
 probed the wound. We do not hear anything about 
 her education, and therefore, although we must of 
 course assume that she had the ordinary accomplish- 
 ments of ladies of that period, there is no evidence to 
 show that she was highly educated. Neither was she 
 clever or witty, for in the whole book not a single 
 smart saying or clever remark is attributed to her ; ' 
 and, strive as we may, we cannot rid ourselves of the 
 impression that her character is but dimly sketched, 
 
WHITEHEAD AS A NOVELIST. 289 
 
 except from one point of view, on which. I will shortly 
 speak. The way she is dealt with in the romance 
 brings viyidly before, us the difference between the 
 novelists of the present day and those of the last 
 century. A competent novelist of to-day would not 
 have failed to bring before us in a most striking hght 
 this sweet and most interesting personality. She 
 would, perchance, have become the most , important 
 personage in this novel ^he would have been for 
 us a living person, perhaps almost a friend. She is 
 represented by (Whitehead as possessed of all the gifts 
 and graces which make her sex endearing — benevolent, 
 tender, kind, and generous. The only trait of Eliza- 
 beth Wilfred's character which is plaped clearly before 
 us is her deep, pure, and unchanging love for Richard 
 Savage. She loves him whUe stiU with Mrs. Brett; 
 she rebuts the insinuations against him whispered in 
 her ear by Sinclair. After his rescue of her from the 
 mock-marriage with Sinclair she loves him, as well 
 she may, with even deeper devotion, and her love 
 withstands the severest temptation by which it were 
 possible to test it — the indubitable proof that the 
 loved one was unworthy of it. Like a true woman, 
 she refuses to become an accomplice in Richard's 
 execrable scheme against her honour, but whilst adopt- 
 ing the only course open to her, that of leaving him 
 in such a manner that he is unable to trace her, yet 
 she loves him none the less. As time goes on, she 
 writes him beautiful letters, and succours him in his 
 self-inflicted distresses, and no doubt, with the sweet 
 
 19 
 
290 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 delusiveness of love, looks forward -witli hope and 
 confidence to the period when they wiU again be 
 united in joyful prosperity. This halcyon time was 
 never to come. I have elsewhere referred to the 
 marvellous pathos of their meeting at the church, 
 and to the exquisitely tender manner with which she 
 solaced him in the degradation of the vile spot, he 
 called home. Of their last meeting on earth, when, 
 in weatqiess and sorrow, ^he traversed the length of 
 England — in those days when the slightest journey 
 was a matter of importance — to be with her loved 
 one, no words of mine can add to the beauty.- So 
 great was her previous sickness that she had been 
 unable to leave her room, and yet so strong was the 
 strength of desire that, though unable to take any 
 nourishment, she was able to undertake this great 
 exertion. We are made happy when her wish is 
 granted, and she is besidd her darling at his end ; and, 
 as no doubt it would have been her choice, she rests 
 beside him in the grave. Coleridge somewhere says, 
 that the highest type of womanhood is a womanhood 
 pure, gentle, tender, but witjiout a too marked in- 
 dividuality. Had he read this romance, he might 
 have thought of Elizabeth Wilfred when giving the 
 definition. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CRITICAL SURVEY. 
 
 Necessarily, a man like Cliarles Whitehead, who lived 
 by his pen, had to devote a great deal of time to that 
 drudgery of literature whereby he made his Uving. 
 Who shall say how many noble and immortal works 
 have been lost to the world owing to the men who 
 had the power to produce them being compelled to 
 devote themselves almost exclusively to anonymous 
 routine journalism, or to the weU-nigh equally barren 
 labour of mere compilation ? But, nevertheless, the 
 position of the " hack " writer is that in which most of 
 all a man exhibits any gifts he may possess. A man of 
 no inventive faculty would simply throw off ephemeral 
 products which could not possibly be reproduced, be- 
 cause they would depend for their interest on passing 
 events of the moment. On the other hand, a man 
 possessed of the very highest inventive powers would 
 so treat passing events as to give them a permanent 
 value. Whitehead has not done either of these things, 
 but he has taken a middle course. His fugitive work 
 has faults, the chief being morbidity, occasional coarse- 
 
 19—2 
 
292 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 ness, and a strong tendency to Cockneyism, if I may 
 be permitted tlie use of so mongrel a word, but it 
 has nevertheless.come down to us in books sufficiently 
 good to be saleable, and it has an interest, although 
 not of the most permanent kind. When, however, 
 one comes to estimate the actual value of the work, it 
 is perceived that it is not very great ; but we have to 
 remember the mass of work by fine hands, so situated, 
 on which an almost similar judgment. would have to 
 be pronounced were it criticised from the same stand- 
 point. 
 
 It would be just as unfair to Judge of Whitehead's 
 genius by the work produced for a living as of that of 
 Coleridge by his leaders in the Mornvtig Post, or of 
 that of Chatterton by the poems written for the fees 
 of his conceited friends. On the whole,! am incHned 
 to believe that Whitehead's fugitive work is not dis- 
 creditable to his genius, and more than that can rarely 
 be said of similar work produced undei: such condi- 
 tions by any man. 
 
 It is remarkable that, perhaps in the whole of White- 
 head's writings, there is not an example of the essay 
 pure and simple, using the word in its eighteenth cen- 
 tury sense. It may be said that such a -whimsical paper 
 as the Confessions of a Lazy Man is an essay, So it 
 undoubtedly is in our modem acceptation of the term, 
 but it is not cast in- the approved form of the essay. 
 
 I have already printed in an earlier chapter a note 
 on Whitehead, by Rossetti, and this testimony by a 
 great poet would almost express an ultimate view both 
 
CRITICAL SURVEY. 293 
 
 of the extent and limitations of Whitehead's poetic 
 genius. Personal inquiry, however, justifies it. The. 
 poetry is unequal. Its best -things are perfectly 
 wonderful ; its worst are puzzling. In - estimating 
 Whitehead's place as a pdet, it must be remembered 
 •'that his most important "poeticar work was produced 
 at probably not more than twenty-five years of age, 
 for, as will be gathered from my opening chapter. The 
 Solitary was first published in isSl. Therefore this 
 important poem must be compared with the work of 
 other poets in the first period of their creative activity- 
 It may fairly be said of it that, while not so rich as 
 Keats's Endymion, or so fuU of impetuous passion as 
 The Revolt of Islam, it is infinitely more real and 
 human than either. Eeality of passion is the dis- 
 tinguishing note of Whitehead's poetry. • On the whole, 
 he is a subjective poet, for even in Jasper Brooke, 
 in some respects the most objective of his poems, the ' 
 subjective interest largely predominates ;' and there 
 moans through his song iu all its cadences the burden 
 of a soul weighed down with life's sorrows. One 
 would be disposed to place him almost on a level with 
 Goldsmith, but lower than Cowper. 
 
 As a writer of fiction he must be classed not as a 
 pictorial novelist, but among the Romancists of the age , 
 ■ of George II. That period, and not our own, was the 
 period in which his spirit lived. If Whitehead is 
 not equal to the greatest writer of fiction in the earlier 
 Georgian era. Fielding, and of course he is not, he 
 is at least equal to some of Fielding's immediate 
 
294 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 followers. It is a matter for grave disappointment 
 that a man with his powers should have done so little 
 permanent poetical work ; just as it is a matter for 
 regret that one possessed of Jiis abilities should have 
 executed so little, comp^iratively speaking, in the hi|[her 
 walks of fiction. But I think that even what he has 
 done in both these departments of literature entitles 
 him to a far higher place than he at present holds. 
 
CHRONO'LOGIGAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL 
 TABLE. 
 
 1804. Charles Whitehead born in London. 
 
 1831. First publication of The Solitary (a Poem), 3 parts, 
 8vo. London : Effingham Wilson. 
 
 1834. Publication of AutoUographij of Jack Ketch : Lives 
 of English Highwaymen, 2 vols., 8vo. London : 
 Bull and Churton. 
 
 1836. Production of The Cavalier at the Haymarket 
 Theatre, 15th September. Edition (the second) 
 of English Highwaymen, 12mo. Washbourne. 
 
 1836-37. November to Ju.ne (first half-year of Bentley's 
 Miscellany), *Edwa/rdSamlle and The- Youth's New 
 VadeMecum (a Poem). June toDecember (second 
 half-year of Bentley's Miscellany), Rather Hard to 
 Take (a Poem), and ^The Narrative of John Ward 
 Gibson. *Some Passages in the Life ofFramcis Loose- 
 fish, Esq., was probably contributed to a popular 
 shilling magazine between the years 1830 and 
 1836 ; but its name I have been unable to ascer- 
 tain. It may have originally appeared as Jona- 
 than Loosefish, Esq., etc. 
 
 1838. Victoria Fictrix (a, 'Poem). Third edition of The 
 
 * The stories marked with an asterisk were included in 
 Smiles am,d Tears. Allibone wrongly attributed to the 
 author of Richard Savage a pamphlet entitled Cottages of 
 Labourers. Whitehead wrote a play for the Surrey Theatre, 
 but I have been unable to ascertain particulars respecting it. 
 
296 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS. 
 
 Autobiography of Jack Ketch. London : J. Chud- 
 ley, Aldersgate Street. 
 
 1839-41. *The Stock-Broker and Tavern Heads. Both con- 
 tributed to Heads of the People ; or, Portraits of 
 the English — a Miscellany. London : Eobert 
 Tyas, Cheapside. Later edition, without date, 
 David Bryce, 48, Paternoster Eow. Edition of 
 Lives of Highwaymen, Philadelphia. 2 vols. 
 
 1841-42. Richard Savage appeared in serial form in Bentley's 
 Miscellany, ilFustrated by John Leech ; in 1842, 
 published in three volume form, 12mo. Fourth 
 edition of English Highwaymen, etc. London : 
 Henry G. Bohn. 
 
 1843. The Earl of Essex : an Historical Romance ; 3 vols, 
 12mo. London : Bentley. Wrlando Griffin, and 
 *Five-and-Thirty or Thereabouts : .Bentley's Miscel- 
 
 1844. Edition of Bichard Savage, illustrated by Leech. 
 
 Bentley. 
 
 1845. *De Loude Chisleham, and *Mr. Yellowby's Doings; 
 
 *A Curvet or Two in the Career of Tom Wilkins. 
 Bentleffs Miscellany. Edition of Richard Savage in 
 Bentley's Standard Novels. Jasper Brooke, and 
 JVife's Tragedy : Illuminated Magazine. London. 
 
 1846. Memoirs of Ghimaldi, edited by Boz, with notes 
 
 and additions, revised by Charles Whitehead. 
 London : Bentley. 8vo. Flora Macdonald. 
 London : Bentley's Miscellany. 
 
 1847. Smiles and Tears ; or, the Romance of Life (a series 
 
 of collected stories). 3 vols., 12mo. London : 
 Bentley. Pizarro and his Followers; The Wooden 
 Walls ' of Old England ; The Insurrection at St. 
 Petersburg : Bentley's Miscellany. 
 
 1848. Memoir of Captain Marryatt; Caricature and Cariea- 
 
 tvrisis-; Sir Harry Smith: Bentley's Miscellany. 
 
CHRONOLOGICAL S- BIBLIOGRAPHICAL TABLE. 297 
 
 1849. The Solitary, and other Poems. London : Bentley. 
 
 12mo. 
 
 1850. September 20th, Revival of The Cavalier, at 
 
 Sadler's Wells Theatre. 
 
 1852. -fThe Orphan. 
 
 1853. Second Edition of Grimaldi Memoirs, with notes 
 
 and additions, revised by Charles Whitehead. 
 London. 8vo. 
 
 1854. Life of Sir Walter Ralegh {Illustrated Library). 
 
 London : N. Cooke. 
 
 1856. November 3rd, revival of The Cavalier at the 
 
 Lyceum Theatre. Third edition of Richard 
 Savage. Bryce. 
 
 1857. Left for Australia in the ship Deamia. 
 
 1859. The Spanish Marriage in Fictbrian Monthly Maga- 
 
 zine for July. Melbourne, Australia : Gordon 
 and Gotch. 
 
 1860. New edition of Joseph Grimaldi, with additions by 
 
 Charles Whitehead. London : Bentley. 
 1862. July 5th, Charles Whitehead died of destitution 
 
 in Melbourne Hospital. 
 1866. *Third edition of Grimaldi Memoirs, edited by 
 
 Boz, with notes and additions, revised by 
 
 Charles Whitehead. London. 8vo. 
 
 f A story contributed to a London weekly newspaper ; 
 I cannot discover the name of the paper. 
 
 Elliot Stock, Paternoster How, LoTtdon.