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Cornell University Library 
 PR 2935.H22 1889 
 
 Shakespeare's funeral, and other papers, b 
 3 1924 013 152 511 
 
SHAKESPEAEE'S FUNEEAL 
 
 AND OTHER PAPERS 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S FUNERAL 
 
 AND OTHER PAPERS 
 
 BY 
 
 SIE EDWAED HAMLEY 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 
 EDINBUKGH AND LONDON 
 
 MDCCQLXXXIX 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 . SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL, 
 ME DUSKY'S opinions ON ART, . 
 (VICTOR HUGO ON THE GREAT FRENCH PUZZLE, 
 •FALSE COIN IN POETRY, 
 THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN, 
 fMR FECHTER'S OTHELLO, 
 
 ■ THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON, . 
 
 ' THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT, 
 
 ' THE PICTURES OF RICHARD DOYLE, 
 
 , ME HAYWARD AND HIS LETTERS, . 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 72 
 
 E, 
 
 87 
 
 . 
 
 118 
 
 
 156 
 
 • 
 
 170 
 
 • 
 
 180 
 
 • 
 
 215 
 
 • 
 
 271 
 
 
 290 
 
SHAKESPEAEE'S FUNEEAL 
 
 Place. — Steatford-on-Avon. 
 Time. — The 25th of April 1616. 
 
 Scene I. — The Twproom of the Falcon Tavern 
 in the High Street, hept by Eleanor Comyng. 
 
 Hostess and Sly. 
 
 Hostess. TZIT SLY, Kit Sly, dost thou hear ? 
 -*^ There be guests ahghting in the 
 yard ; run thou and help Robin ostler hold 
 their stirrups, and so do somewhat for the ale 
 thou ne'er pay'st for. 
 
 Sly. If I do, wilt thou let this one day slip 
 without rating and prating of thy score that I 
 owe thee ? 
 
 Hostess. Yea, good Kit, if thou run quickly. 
 
 Sly. But wilt thou bid Francis draw me what 
 ale I may chance call for ? 
 
2 SHAKESPEAEES EUNEBAL. 
 
 Hostess. Nay, that will I not, or thou wouldst 
 empty my great tun. Thou wouldst serve me 
 as thou didst the ale-wife of Wincot,^ who says, 
 poor soul, that she ne'er had cask in cellar these 
 twelve years but thou wert more fatal to it than 
 a leaking tap. By these ears, I heard her say 
 so when the deputy's men were seizing her 
 goods. Thou shalt not cozen me as thou didst 
 Marian. 
 
 Sly. Hold stirrup thyself then. I'll not 
 budge. I'U to sleep again by the chimney till 
 it please God send me drink. 
 
 Enter Drayton^ {the poet) and Young 
 Raleigh ^ {son of Sir Walter). 
 
 Drayton. Sly, said she ! Didst thou not hear, 
 Walter, yon varlet's name ? but 'twas scarce 
 needful. The sodden face, the shaking nether 
 lip, the eye watery and impudent, the paunch 
 ale-swelled, the doublet liquor-stained, the hat 
 
 1 " Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-'wif e of Wincot, if she know 
 me not," says Kit Sly in the " Taming of the Shrew." Wincot 
 is a village about three miles from Stratford. 
 
 2 Michael Drayton, a Warwickshire poet of great repute in his 
 day, was about a year older than Shakespeare, and had known 
 him long and familiarly. 
 
 5 Young Walter Raleigh was Sir Walter's eldest son, and was 
 now twenty-two years old. He accompanied his father, soon 
 after, to South America, as commander of one of the companies 
 that formed the military part of the expedition, to prepare for 
 which was the express condition on which Sir Walter was re- 
 leased from the Tower in January 1616. 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 3 
 
 crushed from being much slept in, the apparel 
 ruinous, because the tapster intercepts the fee 
 that should be the tailor's and the cobbler's 
 — hath not the master, without cataloguing 
 one of these things, implied all, in half-a- 
 score of pregnant words, for all the future ? 
 What a skill is that can make a poor sot 
 immortal ! 
 
 Sly. Sot, saidst thou ! — but I care not. Will 
 ye stand me, gentles, in a pot of ale ? 
 
 Raleigh. Wilt thou answer, then, a few ques- 
 tions I would put to thee ? 
 
 Sly. Ay — but the ale first ; and be brief ; I 
 love not much question. Say on, and let the 
 world slide. 
 
 Raleigh. A pot of ale, drawer, for this 
 worthy man. And now tell me. Sly, is't not 
 thy custom to use that phrase ' let the world 
 slide ' ? 1 
 
 Sly. It may well be ; 'tis a maxim I love ; 
 'tis a cure for much. I am cold — let the 
 world slide, for anon I shall be warmer. I 
 am dry — let the world slide, for time will 
 bring ale. I sit, pottle-pot in hand, i' the 
 chimney -nook — let the world slide while I 
 taste it. 
 
 Drayton. 'Tis a pretty philosophy, and might 
 
 1 A phrase much affected by Sly the Tinker in the prelude to 
 the "Taming of the Shrew." 
 
4 shakespeabe's funeral. 
 
 serve for greater uses. But, for a further ques- 
 tion — Wert thou acquainted with old John 
 Naps of Greece ? ^ 
 
 Sly. John Naps, quotha ! what, old John ! by 
 Jeronimy, I knew him many a year, mended his 
 pots and helped him empty them. 'A had been 
 a sailor, or to say pirate would be to shoot 
 nearer the clout ; when sober his fashion was to 
 say nought, but when drunk his talk was of the 
 things 'a had seen in Greece — whereby they 
 called him Naps of Greece. 
 
 Drayton. And didst thou know, too, Peter 
 Turf and Henry Pimpernell ? 
 
 Sly. Yea, as this pot-handle knows these 
 fingers. For Turf, he was deputy-sexton of 
 Wincot, and indeed digged Naps's grave, and 
 was found lying drunk therein, with his spade 
 beside him, at the hour of burial. For Pimper- 
 nell, 'twas a half-witted companion, but his 
 grandam kept money in 's purse, and 'a served 
 to pay scores, and 'a could join in a catch on 
 occasion, thof 'a had but a small, cracked voice, 
 and mostly sung his part to psalm-tunes. And 
 now, masters, a question to ye — an ye answer 
 
 1 One of Sly's acquaintances at Wincot. 
 
 " Stephen Sly, and Old Jolin Naps of Greece, 
 And Peter Turf and Henry Pimpernell." 
 
 — Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 A manuscript memorandum, in which Stephen Sly is mentioned, 
 written at Stratford in 1614, is still extant. 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 5 
 
 not, faith, I care not — but how should such as 
 ye know Naps and the others ? 
 
 Drayton. They have been recorded, and thou 
 too, in what will outlast your epitaphs. Doubt- 
 less thou hast heard of Master WiUiam Shake- 
 speare of New Place. ^ 
 
 Sly. Heard of him, said he ! Ay, and seen 
 him and talked with him both here and at 
 Wincot when he came thither to his kinsfolk.^ 
 By this malt-juice, a merry gentleman, and a 
 free — 'a should have been a lord, for, look you, 
 to bestow liquor on the thirsty is a lordly 
 fashion, and I have owed him many a skinful. 
 Marry, that tap's dry now. 
 
 Drayton. What, knave, hath he found at last 
 that it is more virtuous to forget thee than to 
 countenance thee ? 
 
 Sly. Nay, I will say nought in his dis- 
 praise ; 'a was good to me, and hath oft spoke 
 with me, and I'll ne'er deny it now's dead 
 and gone. Mayhap ye have come to the 
 burial ? 
 
 Drayton. Dead ! 
 
 Raleigh. Master Shakespeare dead ! 
 
 Hostess. Oh, masters, he hath spoke the 
 
 ' New Place was a large house, with garden attached, in the 
 town of Stratford— built by Sir Hugh Clopton in Henry VII. 's 
 time, and purchased by Shakespeare in 1597. 
 
 2 The Ardens, Shakespeare's relations by the mother's side, 
 lived in the parish of Wincot. 
 
6 SHAKESPBABE S FUNERAL. 
 
 truth, tho' he be no true man ; by these tears, 
 he hath. Master Shakespeare parted o' Tues- 
 day, and he wUl be buried this dientical day ; 
 the coffin will be brought forth of New Place 
 upon the stroke of two. I have talked with 
 the bearers, and all. 
 
 Raleigh. Thus perish the hopes which drew 
 me to Stratford. I thought to look on the fore- 
 most poet of the world — to hear his voice — per- 
 chance to be honoured with some discourse of 
 him — and now I shall look but on his coffin. 
 Oh, Master Drayton ! 
 
 Drayton. We looked not, indeed, for this. 
 'Tis as if the sun were drawn from the firma- 
 ment, and had left us to perpetual twilight. 
 The radiant intellect is gone, and hath left but 
 its pale reflection in his works — tho' these shall 
 be immortal. Methinks, in future, the sky will 
 be less blue, the air less warm, the flowers less 
 gay ; for I honoured this man more than any, 
 and whate'er I essayed to do 'twas with a secret 
 thought of his judgment over me, as if he had 
 been the conscience of mine intellect. 
 
 Hostess. Ye look pale — a cup of sack, sweet 
 sirs ; for, ye know, a cheerful cup the heart 
 bears up. 
 
 Drayton. Nay, woman, nay. 
 
 Hostess. 'Tis of the best, I warrant you ; 'tis 
 from the stores of Master Quiney — him that 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 7 
 
 hath married. Master Shakespeare's daughter 
 Judith, and he deals in none but the best. 
 
 Drayton. 'Tis not sack that will help us. 
 But canst thou tell us, good hostess, aught 
 concerning his end ? 
 
 Hostess. Yea, well-a-day, that can I, for 'twas 
 Gossip Joan Tisick who goeth out nursing, the 
 same, your worships, that brought young Eliza- 
 beth Hall, his gi'andchild, into the world, that 
 was sent for to him when 'twas seen which way 
 'a was likely to go ; whereby, she told me 
 thereof yesternight over a cup of ale and sugar 
 with a toasted crab in 't — for, said she, there's 
 none in Stratford, Mistress Comyng, that Mas- 
 ter Shakespeare thought more on than you. 
 The doctor, Master Hall, says to her, " Have a 
 care, Joan, of my father-in-law Shakespeare, 
 says he ; for 'tis a parlous case, says he ; we be 
 all mortal, says he — and the breath goeth when 
 it listeth — therefore keep thou the better watch, 
 for 'tis a man we could ill spare." " Fear 
 not, Master Hall," quoth Joan, " I'll tend him 
 an 'twere his mother." So, o' Tuesday night he 
 said he felt easier, and he bid Mistress Hall and 
 the doctor that they should leave him and take 
 good rest. And 'a says to Joan, " Art drowsy, 
 good Joan ? " Whereupon she made answer, 
 " A little ; for I have been up," saith she, " all 
 last night at a labour with Mistress Coney her 
 
8 SHAKESPEARE S FUNBKAL. 
 
 thirteenth child." "Ay," quoth he, "in thy 
 calling thou seest both ends of life ; well, thou 
 shalt sleep to-night, and all night if thou wilt." 
 " Nay, sir," saith Joan, " not so ; but your wor- 
 ship being of so good cheer to-night, mayhap if 
 I take a short nap 'twill do no harm." " If thou 
 take a long one, good Joan," said Master Shake- 
 speare, " it matters not, for, I warrant you, I 
 shall take a longer." " It doth me good to hear 
 your worship speak so," says Joan, " for sleep 
 well is keep well, and a night's rest physics 
 best " — and so tucks up the bedclothes, and 
 draws the hangings, and leaves him as 'a was 
 closing his eyes. Well, sweet sirs, aU the night 
 he lay quiet, and with the dawn Joan peeps me 
 in through the curtains, and there he lay, quiet 
 and smiling — and as the sun rose she peeps me 
 in again and he was stiU quiet and smiling — 
 and she touched his forehead ; — and he had 
 been lying for hours (so the doctor said when 
 Joan called him) as dead as his grandam. 
 
 Drayton. 'Twas, then, with good heart that 
 this great soul passed to what himself hath 
 called the undiscovered country : of whose in- 
 habitants he must sure take his place among 
 the most illustrious. Thou art sad, Walter — 
 this grief touches thee, and, sooth, it becomes 
 thee well. It bespeaks thy youth generous ; 
 'tis an assurance that thou hast thy father's 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 9 
 
 spirit, who, great himself, owns near kinship 
 with greatness, and will sorrow for Shake- 
 speare as for a brother. 
 
 Raleigh. 'Twas my father's wish, when he 
 knew I was to be thy guest in Warwickshire, 
 that I should pay my duty to Master Shake- 
 speare, for, said he, there is no worthier thing 
 in life than to take note of the greatest of thy 
 companions in earth's pilgrimage ; in them thou 
 seest the quintessence of man's spirit, cleared of 
 the muddy vapours which make common hu- 
 manity so base and foolish : and this man is of 
 the greatest, a companion indeed for princes, 
 nay, himself a king, whose kingdom is of the 
 imagination, and therefore boundless. Tell 
 him, Walter, said my father, that in my long 
 captivity^ I have oft remembered our pleasant 
 encounters at the Mermaid ; ^ tell him, too, 
 that I have solaced mine enforced solitude in 
 the Tower with studying all of his works 
 that have been given to us ; and entreat him, 
 in my name, not to leave those plays of his to 
 the chances of the world, as fathers leave their 
 misbegotten children, but to make them truly 
 
 • The twelve years' imprisonmeiit in the Tower to which 
 James I. had consigned him. 
 
 2 The Mermaid was a tavern in London where Sir "Walter 
 had estabhshed, before his imprisonment, a club, of which 
 Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, and others were 
 members. 
 
10 SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 
 
 the heirs of his invention, and to spend on them 
 that paternal care which shall prove them 
 worthy of their source. 
 
 Hostess. Please you come in here to the Dol- 
 phin chamber, where Master Shakespeare loved 
 to sit. 
 
 Raleigh. Well — now we are in it, I find it 
 convenient and well lighted : and yet methinks 
 'tis but a small one. 
 
 Drayton. Ay, but seest thou that, through 
 the door, one that sits here can mark the whole 
 company of ale-drinkers in the tap-room with- 
 out, and therefore Shakespeare loved it ; here 
 would he sit and note the humours of such 
 guests as yonder Sly. For in such, he would 
 say, you see humanity with its vizard off; and 
 he held that nurture, though it oft cherishes a 
 good apprehension, yet as oft doth overlay and 
 smother it. He hath said to me, pointing to 
 the company without, " If you find wit here, 
 'tis the bird's own feather, and no borrowed 
 plume ; if you see courtesy 'tis inborn, and will 
 bear the rub ; if you note a quaint humour 'tis 
 in the man by the grace of God or the force of 
 circumstance : your weaver or your tinker, what- 
 soever other gift he hath, hath not the skill to 
 counterfeit, for that comes by art, and leisure, 
 and commerce with men of condition, and de- 
 sire of their good opinion ; wherefore methinks 
 
SHAKESPEAEES FUNERAL. 11 
 
 I oft see deeper through your leathern jerkin 
 than your satin doublet." 
 
 Hostess. Yea, here would 'a come many a 
 time and oft, with Master Ben, that was full of 
 quips as an egg of meat. " Mistress Quickly ! " 
 Ben would say (for so 'a called me, I know not 
 wherefore), " set us in the Dolphin chamber ; ^ 
 and let us have a sea-coal fire," 'a would say — 
 " and I will drink none if thou give me not a 
 parcel-gilt goblet," whereby Master Shakespeare 
 would cast at him out of 's eye a merry glint. 
 " Hast thou thy plate yet ? " Master Ben 
 would ask me, " and the tapestry of thy dining 
 chambers ? Come, let us have Doll Tearsheet 
 meet us at supper." " O Lord,^ sir-," would I 
 say, " I know no Dolls nor Tearsheets neither ; " 
 but 'twas a merry man, I warrant you, tho' I 
 did never know what his meaning was. 
 
 Drayton. These memories of thine breed but 
 sad mirth in me now. 
 
 Hostess. Well-a-day, if there be not Sir 
 Thomas and Master Thynne, rid from Charle- 
 cote,2 and alighting. By your leave, kind sirs, 
 I will go receive them. \_She goes out. 
 
 Drayton. Dear Walter, this stroke is so 
 
 ' For the allusions here made by Master Ben, see the " Second 
 Part of King Henry IV.," act ii. sc. 1. 
 
 2 Charlecote, still the family seat of the Lucys, is some four 
 miles from Stratford. 
 
12 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 sudden that it bewilders me ; methinks I am 
 dreamiag; I discourse, remember, reason, and 
 so forth, and yet my brain all the while wrapt 
 as in a cerement. Coming here with my 
 thoughts full of him, sitting in this room where 
 he and I have sat so oft, what could seem less 
 strange than that he should enter and greet 
 me ; and yet a little word hath made me know 
 that to be impossible for all time. 
 
 Raleigh. Ay, sir, amidst my own pain I re- 
 member how you have been familiar with that 
 divinest man, and must feel a far deeper sorrow 
 than myself, that know him but in the picture 
 my imagination hath formed ; and I perceive 
 by the blank made in mine own present, what 
 a void must be left in yours. Would you have 
 us quit Stratford forthwith ? 
 
 Drayton. Nay, by no means ; let us rather 
 give our sorrow somewhat to feed on ; let us 
 fill it with the sad memories that abound here. 
 For, to me, everything in Stratford speaks of 
 Shakespeare ; 'twas here he lived, while that 
 unmatched apprehension was most waxlike to 
 receive impressions, when wonder and observa- 
 tion were quickest in him ; and 'twas here he 
 began to fill a storehouse from whence to draw 
 at will. For his manner was always to build 
 on a ground of fact, or, rather, to sow fact like 
 a seed, and let it strike in that rich soil till 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 13 
 
 oftentimes none but himself could tell (even if 
 himself could) what the ripened fruit had sprung 
 from. Sometimes he would limn a man in brief 
 as he saw him, and, again, he would so play 
 with his first notion, dressing it and transform- 
 ing it, yet ever working even as nature works, 
 that the citizen of Stratford or Warwick would 
 grow into a Roman or ancient Briton, a lover 
 or a king, a conspirator or a jester, compounded 
 part of fact, part of fancy, yet would the mor- 
 sel of fact leaven the whole with truth. 
 
 Raleigh. Was this Sir Thomas Lucy he whom 
 the world calls Justice Shallow ? 
 
 Drayton. Nay, he hath been dead these 
 many years — this is his son ; but the com- 
 panion that's with him thou mayest have 
 chanced to hear of. 
 
 Enter Sir Thomas Lucy and Master Thynne, 
 in mourning habits. 
 
 Hostess. Wilt please you walk this way, Sir 
 Thomas ? This chamber is warmer, and the 
 day is fresh. There be here, sirs, none but 
 these two gentlemen. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Master Drayton, as I remember 
 me. You are of our county of Warwickshire, I 
 think, sir ? 
 
 Drayton. I am so. Sir Thomas, at your ser- 
 vice. Give me leave to bring you acquainted 
 
14 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 with my friend and comrade in travel, Master 
 Walter Raleigh. 
 
 Sir TJiomas. I salute you, sir. Of the Ral- 
 eighs of Devonshire, mayhap ? 
 
 Raleigh. The same, Sir Thomas. 
 
 Sio- Thomas. An honourable family, sir, and 
 one that hath borne itself among the best these 
 many reigns past. You quarter the arms of 
 Throckmorton, as I think, sir — you bear gules, 
 five fusUs, in bend argent, and your cognisance 
 a stag ; or is't a martlet ? 
 
 Raleigh. I knew not we, being but simple 
 gentlemen, and out of favour, were of that 
 mark that our quarterings should be thus well 
 known. 
 
 Sir Thomas. I am something of a herald, I 
 would have you know, sir. Methinks 'twere 
 well that men of quality were familiar each 
 with the pretensions of all the rest, making as 
 'twere one family in condition : thus should we 
 at once know who are of the better, who of the 
 baser sort. And so, sir, of the leisure I spare 
 from mine office as justice of the peace, and 
 from mine own concerns, I give somewhat to 
 heraldry. 
 
 Drayton. I perceive by the sad hue of your 
 garments that you design to be present at 
 Master Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 Sir TJiomas. Ay, sir. His son-in-law, Doctor 
 
SHAKESPEAEES EUNEEAL. 15 
 
 Hall, is our physician at Charlecote, and I have 
 had dealings with himself, and held him in 
 esteem. 
 
 Raleigh. 'Tis as it should be — the whole 
 world should honour such worth as his. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Nay, good sir, I go not so far 
 with you : though he were indeed so honourable 
 that his neighbours, even of condition, may well 
 accord him a last show of respect. 
 
 Drayton. I am glad that the old grudge be- 
 tween Master Shakespeare and Sir Thomas 
 your father holds not in this generation. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Why, for that. Master Drayton, 
 in respect of the deer stealing, 'twas not such a 
 matter as is ne'er to be forgiven nor forgotten ; 
 he was but a youth then, and he suffered for't ; 
 and, for the scurril ballad concerning which the 
 rumour went 'twas writ by Shakespeare, why, 
 'twas none of his. 
 
 Drayton. I'll be sworn 'twas not. Know we 
 not the hand of the master better than to take 
 such 'prentice-stuff for his ? As well affirm that 
 a daw's feather may drop from an eagle. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Nay, sir, I have better assur- 
 ance ; he himself, of his own motion, told my 
 father (and hath repeated it to myself) that he 
 ne'er wrote it. 
 
 Drayton. He hath told me the same — and 
 for the plays 
 
16 shakespeabe's funeral. 
 
 Sir Thomas. For the plays wherein 'twas 
 said he drew my father, 'twas idle gossip. How 
 should a Gloucestershire justice, one Shallow 
 (for such I am told is what passes for the por- 
 trait), represent Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlecote 
 in Warwickshire ? 
 
 Thynne. 'Twas said, too, that he had set me 
 down along with mine uncle. By the mass ! I 
 should not care though it had been so ; for I 
 saw the play-^ once in London, and Master 
 Slender was a gentleman, and an esquire, and 
 of good means, though the people did laugh, I 
 know not why, at some of his discourse. But 
 he and the rest lived in Harry Fourth's time, 
 'twas said ; and how could I live in Harry 
 Fourth's time that go not back beyond Eliza- 
 beth ? though the Thynnes were well thought 
 on afore that, look you. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Well, sir, I have ne'er seen the 
 play, and love not players. I ever noted that 
 when they came to Stratford there was new 
 business for the justices. The idle sort grew 
 idler — they drew others on to join them that 
 would else have been better conducted — there 
 was less work, more drink, and more disorder. 
 I could never away with the players, sir ; and 
 I was heartily with those who were for inhibit- 
 ing their theatre in Stratford. 
 
 1 " Merry Wives of Windsor.'' 
 
Shakespeare's funeral. 17 
 
 Thynne. And I too, Cousin Lucy, I care not 
 for the play, though, good sooth, I Hked it well 
 enough. But give me for sport a stage with 
 two good back-sword or quarter-staff men ; or a 
 greased pole with a Gloucester cheese atop ; or 
 a bull-running : but of all sport, by the mass ! 
 I love the bear-garden — man and boy, I ever 
 loved it ; 'tis the rarest sport, in good sooth, 
 now. 
 
 Drayton. Methought, Sir Thomas, when you 
 talked of honouring my dear friend, 'twas for 
 his works. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Nay, sir, I make no account of 
 his works, and, indeed, know nought of them. 
 He had won a good station, and maintained it, 
 and therefore he should have his due. 
 
 Drayton. For his descent, that, as all men 
 know, was not above humble citizen's degree. 
 
 Sir Thomas. His mother was an Arden ; and 
 the College granted to his father a coat of arms, 
 a spear or, upon a bend sable, in a field of gold 
 — the crest, a falcon with his wings displayed, 
 standing on a wreath of his colours, supporting 
 a spear ; and he might impale with Arden. 
 And the gentleman himself hath for years been 
 of good havings, with lands and houses, and of 
 good repute in all his dealings ; therefore, say 
 I, that we who be neighbours and gentlemen, 
 should have him in respect. 
 
 B 
 
18 SHAKESPEABES FUNERAL. 
 
 Thynne. Yea, forsooth ! gentlemen should 
 give to other gentlemen (thof they be new-made 
 and quarter not) what countenance they may, 
 for their better advantage, and to maintain 
 them in consideration, look you, and to prosper 
 them ; and therefore 'tis we come to make two 
 at the burial. 
 
 Raleigh. O ye gods ! this of him that con- 
 ceived Lear and Othello ! Sirs, with your 
 leave we will now bid you farewell. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Nay, I pray you that we part 
 not so. I beseech you, Master Raleigh, and 
 you. Master Drayton, that you lie this night 
 at Charlecote. I would have you home to 
 supper, and thank you, too, for your good 
 company. 
 
 Thynne. And I, sirs, have a poor house of 
 mine own within these dozen miles, and thof 
 I be not a knight like my cousin Lucy here, 
 yet I can lodge a guest as well as some ; now 
 that my mother be dead, I live as befits a 
 gentleman, good sooth, and I would bid you 
 welcome truly, now, and show you a mastiff 
 that hath lost an eye by a bear. 
 
 Drayton. Sir, I thank you. For your good 
 kindness. Sir Thomas, we are beholden to you ; 
 but, pray you, let us stand excused. Master 
 Raleigh hath business that 
 
 Raleigh. Nay, Master Drayton, that busi- 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 19 
 
 ness we had is sadly ended, and our whole 
 journey marred. With your good leave, there- 
 fore, I would rejoice that we should take Sir 
 Thomas at his word. 
 
 Sir Thomas. By my troth, sirs, I am glad 
 on't, and you shall be heartily welcome. "We'll 
 e'en meet here at four o' the clock, and ye shall 
 find wherewithal to bear you and your mails to 
 Charlecote. 
 
 Raleigh. Till then, farewell. {To Drayton as 
 they go out.) Seest thou not. Master Michael, 
 that to sit in Master Shallow's house, perchance 
 in his very arbour ^ — to eat a pippin, maybe, of 
 his own graffing — to look on his effigy, clad as 
 he went to the Court with Falstaff — were a 
 chance that would lead me to journey barefoot 
 in the snow to Charlecote ? For being here in 
 the birthplace (alas ! now the deathplace) of 
 him I so reverenced, what better tribute can I 
 pay (now that nought but his memory is left 
 for our worship) than, even as thou saidst but 
 now, to trace the begettings of those bright 
 fancies which he hath embalmed for ever ? 
 
 Drayton. You look on these things, Walter, 
 as I would have you look ; a true disciple art 
 thou of him whom we shall always love and 
 always mourn, and gladly will I go with thee 
 to Charlecote. And now, ere we stand by that 
 
 1 See "Second Part of King Henry IV.," act v. sc. 3. 
 
20 SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 
 
 greedy grave that is presently to swallow so 
 huge a part of what is precious in England, we 
 will see to that other business of thine, the 
 raising of money for thee. 'Tis but a step, as 
 I remember, to Master Sherlock's house. Now 
 I pray thee mark that old man weU — and if 
 we deal not with him, as is likely, 'tis no 
 matter, for I can take thee elsewhere ; but I 
 would thou shouldst see old Master Sherlock. 
 
 Scene II. — Master Sherlock's counting-house. 
 Sherlock sitting at his desk in an inner 
 room. 
 
 Enter Drayton and Raleigh. 
 
 Drayton (aside to Raleigh). Dost thou not 
 spy in him a likeness to an old spider, black, 
 still, and watchful, and in that money-changing 
 den to a cobweb? There be many flies have 
 suffered loss of wings here. 
 
 Raleigh. How old and bent he looks ! and, 
 but that he be a money-lender, I should have 
 deemed him poor. 
 
 Drayton. Nay, 'tis not a spider of the sleek 
 sort — blood-sucking hath not fattened him as 
 it doth some. 
 
 Raleigh. His attire doth not bespeak much 
 wealth. That old gown were dear at two shil- 
 
Shakespeare's funeral. 21 
 
 lings, fur trimmings and all ; nay, 'twere a fair 
 price even were the velvet cap and copper spec- 
 tacles thrown into the bargain. 
 
 Drayton. Soft you, he comes. 
 
 Sherlock. Sirs, your servant. What would 
 you? 
 
 Drayton. Marry this. Master Sherlock — me 
 you remember — Michael Drayton — we have 
 had some small dealings together of yore. 
 
 Sherlock. Ay, sir, I forget none who deal 
 with me. 
 
 Drayton {aside). Nor they thee, I'll be sworn. 
 [To Sherlock.) But thus it is — my friend here, 
 Master Raleigh, hath had a manor in Surrey 
 assigned^ him by his father, Sir Walter, and 
 having pressing need of moneys, inasmuch as 
 he hath been appointed captain in a force which 
 will shortly embark for Guiana, whereof Sir 
 Walter is chief commander, he would raise a 
 sum thereon to furnish him forth. 
 
 Sherlock. Be there none in London that 
 would lend him the moneys ? 
 
 Drayton. Certes ; but he goeth now into 
 Devonshire, and his need is pressing. 
 
 Sherlock. His need is pressing — well, sir ? 
 
 Drayton. To which end he would be be- 
 holden to you for a present loan. 
 
 ^ An estate in Devonshire, thus assigned to him several years 
 before, had been confiscated by James I. 
 
22 Shakespeare's eunebal. 
 
 Sherlock. For a present loan — well, sir ? 
 
 Drayton {aside to Raleigh). Mark you his 
 manner of speech ? 'twas ever thus with him. 
 {To Sherlock.) And for security he hath 
 brought the writings pertaining to the estate ; 
 till thou canst prove which to be sufficient, my- 
 self will be his surety. 
 
 Raleigh. These be they. 
 
 Sherlock. These parchments, these parch- 
 ments — ay, ay — the Manor House — all these 
 messuages and tenements — ay, ay. Well, sir, 
 time is needed to examine these ; what moneys 
 dost thou require ? 
 
 Raleigh. In brief, four hundred pounds. 
 
 Sherlock. Four hundred pounds — well ? 
 
 Raleigh. If upon inquiry and advice the 
 security satisfy thee, at what rate of usance 
 wilt thou lend me ? 
 
 Sherlock. Rate of usance ? — ^why, sir, money 
 is hard to come by at this time ; we have suf- 
 fered great fires in our town,^ and money hath 
 been needed for the rebuilding ; the rate hath 
 risen of late — and there is talk of war with 
 Spain, which wiU raise it further. I must my- 
 self borrow ere I lend, and must needs pay 
 roundly. I cannot supply you at a less yearly 
 rate than fifteen in the hundred. 
 
 1 There had been a conflagration in Stratford in 1614, which 
 had destroyed a great part of the town. 
 
Shakespeare's funeral, 23 
 
 Drayton. Nay, sir, my friend's need is not 
 so great that he should pay so dearly. He 
 laid his account for ten, and by my counsel 
 he will give no more — for, look you, this is 
 no venture, but a surety. 
 
 Sherlock. Then, I fear me, we deal not ; but 
 I will look into these writings — 'tis possible I 
 may be able to lend at fourteen and a half. 
 
 Drayton. Put up your papers, Walter, we 
 will make other shift. This was but part of 
 our business in Stratford, Master Sherlock ; our 
 intent was to visit your most illustrious towns- 
 man, and now, woe the day ! we hear he is 
 dead. 
 
 Sherlock. Aj, who may he be ? 
 
 Raleigh. Who but Master Shakespeare, for 
 whose burial you will straightway hear the bell 
 toll. 
 
 Sherlock. I heard say he was dead. 
 
 Raleigh. Didst not know him ? 
 
 Sherlock. We had dealings together years 
 agone — ay, he hath had money of me more 
 than once or twice ; but he consorted with 
 mine enemy, John-a-Combe,^ and we would 
 none of each other after. 
 
 Drayton. I knew not John-a-Combe was the 
 enemy of any man. 
 
 1 John-a-Combe was a rich banker in Stratford, and a friend 
 of Shakespeare, to whom he left a small legacy. 
 
24 SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 
 
 Sherlock He was mine enemy in the sense 
 that he hindered my dealings. This Shake- 
 speare, too, outbid me for the tithes ^ when 
 they were sold. I had been a richer man had 
 he died a dozen years agone. I spend not, 
 therefore, much sorrow on him. 
 
 Raleigh. Why, this comes nigh to blas- 
 phemy — let us be gone. 
 
 Drayton. Well, God be with you. Master 
 Sherlock, — {aside) though I fear that may 
 hardly be. Come, Walter. But, Master Sher- 
 lock, a moment, I pray you ; I saw jowc 
 daughter. Mistress Visor, of late. 
 
 Sherlock. My daughter. Mistress Visor, ay ! 
 
 Drayton. A woman, sir, that is held in 
 much respect, though not for her worldly, 
 means. In truth, she hath but a sorry life 
 of it. 
 
 Sherlock. She made her own bed when she 
 fled from this house twenty years agone with 
 young Visor. Let her lie on it, and if she find 
 it hard, let her see that she complain not. The 
 curse of disobedience hath been on her. 
 
 Drayton. Well, sir, she hath paid for that 
 long ago, if misery may pay it. She looks like 
 one that the world hath done its worst on, and 
 is ready to quit it. 
 
 ' Shakespeare invested a considerable sum in a lease of these 
 tithes. 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 25 
 
 Sherlock. Sir, sir, I had thought you came 
 here on a business matter. I have somewhat 
 pressing to see to. 
 
 Drayton. One word, Master Sherlock. Her 
 eldest son, your grandson, is a lad of promise, 
 and for education she hath done what she may 
 for him ; but I heard of late that he was driven 
 to hold horses in the market-place, and such 
 chance shifts, for a bare living. 
 
 Sherlock. Let his father look to it ; he took 
 my daughter — let him look to his son — let him 
 look to his son. (To Raleigh.) Will it please 
 you leave the writings ? 
 
 Drayton. Her daughter, near womanhood, 
 
 is fair to look on, but 
 
 ■ Sherlock. Hast thou been set on to this ? 
 Your pardon if I quit you. 
 
 {Retires into the inner room. 
 
 Raleigh. Come, let us away. So, I breathe 
 again, now we are quit of that den. I have 
 heard of such flints, but ne'er saw one till 
 now, 
 
 Drayton. So thou carest not for his money 
 at fifteen in the hundred ? 
 
 Raleigh. Were't five I would not deal with 
 him. 'Tis a stone, sure, that hath been cut in 
 human shape and possessed by some vile spirit 
 from the nether world. I almost marvel. Master 
 Michael, that thou broughtst me to him. 
 
26 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 Drayton. Why, was it not of our compact 
 that I should show thee some of the models 
 whence our master drew ? 
 
 Raleigh. Models ? how, Sherlock ? Yet that 
 name. Soft you, now, soft you ! And money- 
 lender, too. And then his daughter — why, 
 Master Michael, 'tis clear as the sun — it runs 
 on all-fours with the devil in the play ; and 
 yet, but that thou gav'st me the clue, I might 
 have borrowed money from him twenty years 
 without guessing. Well, this passes ! 
 
 Scene III. — The Churchyard of Stratford. 
 A crowd waiting about the gate. 
 
 First Woman. Didst not hear say there would 
 be a dole ? I see no signs of it. 
 
 Second Woman. 'Twas too good to be true ; 
 comfort is chary of coming to poor folk. 
 
 First Man. I have been here since one o' the 
 clock, and with a toothache, for which thou 
 seest my face is tied up, and the wind is keen. 
 I had stayed within four walls but for the word 
 that went about of a dole. 
 
 First Woman. Thou look'st none the comelier, 
 Peter Quince, for the clout about thy yellow 
 chaps, like a blue dish full of butter-mUk. 
 
 Second Man. Thou shouldst have covered the 
 rest of thy face with it, Peter, then wouldst 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 27 
 
 thou have been fairer to look on than e'er thou 
 wert yet. 
 
 Second Woman. I'll warrant thou eatest thy 
 share when thou getst it, crust and all, in 
 despite of thy toothache. 
 
 Peter Quince. Look if here be not lame 
 Davy, coming for the sharing ; how his crutch 
 thumps in 's haste ! — do but mark how he out- 
 speeds blind Harry that feeleth his way by the 
 wall. 
 
 Second Man. Ay, and look, Madge, my buxom 
 lass, at what will please thee better, for here 
 come gentlemen of worship. 
 
 Madge. The younger is as gallant a youth as 
 e'er I set eyes on. 
 
 [The hell tolls for the funeral. 
 
 Enter Drayton and Raleigh. 
 Raleigh. 
 
 " 'So longer mourn for me when I am dead 
 Than ye shall hear the surly sullen beU 
 Give warning to the world that I am fled." ^ 
 
 How strange sound these words of his, with 
 that bell for commentary ! How his own 
 phrases rise to the lips ! 
 
 Drayton. Ay, Walter, you shall find but few 
 occasions in life, solemn or merry, regarding 
 
 1 The opening lines of Shakespeare's Vlst Sonnet. 
 
28 shakespeabe's funeral. 
 
 which something apt, something that goeth 
 deeper than common to the heart of the matter, 
 hath not been said by him that is now silent. 
 
 Raleigh. One that reads him as a student, 
 and lovingly, as my father from my first youth 
 hath taught me to do, and hath moreover a 
 good memory, shall find in him (my father is 
 wont to say) a rich vocabulary. But mark you 
 the crowd here ! 'tis the spontaneous respect of 
 the people for so famous a townsman. Now 
 look I to see (what we have not yet seen) the 
 sorrow of Stratford for the loss of her great son. 
 As the sun lights the hovel no less than the 
 palace, so should his fame reach to, and warm, 
 the poorest here. 
 
 Drayton. Be not too assured that his fame is 
 of a kind to be felt by such as these, though 
 were he a commander who had brought home 
 a Spanish galleon, or a courtier who had set the 
 fashions at Whitehall, or a foolish lord with 
 fifty retainers at his back, no cap so greasy but 
 it would cover an idolater. But let us mark 
 what passes 'twixt the townsfolk and this old 
 beadle who cometh hither with his older 
 satellite. 
 
Shakespeare's funeral. 29 
 
 Enter a Beadle and Assistant-Beadle with 
 Servants hearing baskets. 
 
 Assist.-Beadle. Neighbours, make way, I pray 
 you ; stand aside from the gates. 
 
 Crowd. The dole, the dole ! Good Master 
 Beadle, a word with you — me, sirs, me — look 
 hither, 'tis I, &c. 
 
 First Beadle. "What a consternation is here ! 
 Make not such a clamour. We are charged, I 
 and my partner, with the contribution of this 
 dole, and we will contribute it without respect 
 of persons, save that we will give most to those 
 we think most worthy. Stand you back. Quince 
 and Flute. 
 
 Quince. Yet do not overlook me, good Master 
 Beadle. 
 
 Flute. Remember me, an't please you, Master 
 Derrick. 
 
 Assist.-Beadle. Heard you not what Master 
 Derrick said? Would you set yourselves to 
 teach him in this business ? 
 
 Beadle. Ay, would they, such is their vanity 
 and their greediness. It might be thought they 
 had ne'er seen a funeral before. When did any 
 of you know me overlook one that should be 
 remembered ? Have I been beadle here forty 
 years for nought ? 
 
30 shakespeake's funeral. 
 
 Assist.-Beadle. Ye dare not say he hath for 
 your lives. 
 
 Crowd. The bread ! the bread ! 
 
 Beadle. 'Ods my life, they would tear it out 
 of the baskets, like wolves. Neighbours, though 
 it be customary to give loaves only, yet Master 
 Shakespeare, out of his love for you, and because 
 ye should mourn him fittingly, hath desired that 
 beef should be bestowed along with the bread. 
 
 Several. Worthy gentleman ! 
 
 First Woman. Oh, good soul, this shall profit 
 him, sure, where he's gone. 
 
 Second Woman. Nay, I ever said there were 
 none in Stratford more rememberful of the poor 
 than Master Shakespeare. 
 
 Assist.-Beadle. Ay, and more than that, there 
 be four firkins of ale to be broached after the 
 burial, behind the church. 
 
 Beadle. Neighbour Turgis, wilt thou still go 
 about to forestall me ? I was coming to the 
 ale presently, when time fitted. Do thou stand 
 by the baskets and give out the dole as I shall 
 tell thee. Hast thou the bag of groats ready, 
 too? 
 
 Assist.-Beadle. Yea, Master Derrick. 
 
 [They distribute the provisions and m,oney. 
 
 Flute. Shall I not have a loaf and a groat for 
 my wife? She hath had twins this morning, 
 therefore could not come. 
 
Shakespeare's funeral. 31 
 
 Old Woman. Thy wife, forsooth ! — my son 
 hath worked at New Place, and helped to 
 mend the fence i' th' garden last winter, and 
 now is he rheumaticky and bed-rid. A dole for 
 him, I pray you, sweet Master Derrick. 
 
 Beadle. Be not too forward, woman ; thou 
 art not too well thought on, I warrant thee. 
 
 Old Woman. Is acquaintance and service to 
 count for nought ? — 'tis a shame, then. 
 
 Beadle. Quiet thy tongue, mistress ; it may 
 be I shall be called on to deal with thee in 
 other fashion than doles. Thou art deputed by 
 many for a witch, let me tell thee ; thou art 
 suspect of keeping a toad, and, moreover, 'tis 
 thought thou hast a familiar, one Hopdance.^ 
 [To another.) But wherefore hangst thou back, 
 Cicely Hacket,^ thou that wast once a maid- 
 servant at New Place ? Press nearer, and hold 
 out thine apron. 
 
 Cicely. Oh, sir, I came not here for the dole, 
 but indeed to see the last of him who hath been 
 ever kind to me and mine. 
 
 Beadle. The more reason thou shouldst have 
 thy part. Let her do so, Goodman Turgis, for 
 thou knowst that she that humbleth herself 
 
 1 " Hopdance cries in Tom's belly for two white herrings. 
 Croak not, black angel ! " Edgar {feigning madness) in " King 
 Lear." 
 
 2 Cicely Hacket, described by Sly as " the woman's maid of 
 the house," in the "Taming of the Shrgw." 
 
32 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 should be exhorted ; and 'twere not ill, me- 
 thinks, if thou gav'st her, moreover, a share for 
 her sick mother. {Calling through the gate to 
 hoys in the churchyard.) Young fry, wilt thou 
 leave leaping over the gravestones ? else shall 
 my staff and thy backs be better acquainted. 
 I see thee, young Pickbone, drumming with 
 thine heels on Mistress Keech's epithet ; come 
 off the stone, or 'twill be worse for thee, thou 
 naughty varlet — and thy tall slip of a sis- 
 ter, too, I saw her but now up with her coats 
 and over the railing of yonder tomb like any 
 stag. 
 
 Drayton {to Raleigh). The oldest of these ser- 
 vants that came with the beadles is Shake- 
 speare's own man Adam. I will speak to him. 
 This is a sharp sundering for thee, Adam. 
 Leave thy basket. Step aside, and speak with 
 me of thy good master. 
 
 Adam. O Master Drayton, I looked that 
 he should bury me : would I were with him ! 
 Were I young, I could ne'er hope to see such 
 another master ; and being old, I have no desire 
 but to follow him. 
 
 Drayton. Was his sickness sudden ? 
 
 Adam. Nay, sir, — I have foreboded, this 
 many a day, how 'twas with him. He hath 
 pined and dwindled, and then again he hath 
 mended for a while and would walk abroad ; 
 
SHAKESPBAEE S FUNERAL. 33 
 
 and ever with a kind word and a jest, as was 
 his wont. But I found, from day to day, his 
 step slower, his hand heavier on my shoulder, 
 his breath shorter. 
 
 Drayfon. Did himself look for his end ? 
 
 Adam. Ay, sir ; but made as though he had 
 a long to-come before him. Four days since 
 ('twas o' Sunday) he said to me, " Adam, I 
 have a fancy about my burial ; but say nought 
 of it as yet to my daughter. I have here set 
 down the names of those I desire to bear me to 
 the grave ; " which he thereupon read to me, 
 and they are even now in the house, making 
 ready. 
 
 Drayton. Some of note and condition, may- 
 hap ? 
 
 Adam. Not so, not so, not so. Master Dray- 
 ton ; there art thou wide indeed of the mark. 
 Never trod man among men who looked on 
 gentle and simple with a more equal brotherly 
 eye than Master Shakespeare. A fine coat or 
 a ragged jerkin made no more difference in a 
 man, in his eyes, than whether his hair were 
 black or brown. Nay, strange to tell of a man 
 of his gifts, he seemed oft to find as much mat- 
 ter in a fool as in a wise man ; he would take 
 pleasure in discoursing with many a one of this 
 town that simple I would have fubbed off as a 
 lackwit. So he saith to me, " First have I set 
 
34 shakespeaee's funeral. 
 
 down, to carry the head, of my coffin, Hugh 
 Bardolph and Corporal Nym,"^ poor men, both, 
 Master Drayton. Bardolph, one of many of 
 the name here, was a tapster ; Nym, a pen- 
 sioner of the Earl of Leicester, in whose anny 
 he served in the Low Countries, though I did 
 never hear with much credit. 
 
 Raleigh. Bardolph and Njrm ! O brave 
 Shakespeare ! 
 
 Adam. " Next," he saith, " I have set down 
 John Rugby and James Gurney," ancient 
 serving -men, your worships, and now alms- 
 men. 
 
 Drayton. Whom in his plays he hath allotted, 
 Rugby to Dr Caius^ 
 
 Raleigh. Gurney to the Lady Falcon- 
 bridge.^ 
 
 Adam. " After them Thomas Wart," an old 
 fletcher of this town, sir 
 
 Raleigh. One of FalstaflTs ragged recruits 
 he 
 
 Adam. " And Kit Sly. And, to end the 
 company, Snug the joiner,* and Nick Bottom " 
 — and, the list being thus ended, my dear 
 master laughed so long and so merrily that I 
 cried, " Sure one that can laugh so hath small 
 need to name his bearers." 
 
 1 See " King Henry V." 2 « Merry "Wives of Windsor." 
 3 " King John." * "Midsummer Night's Dream." 
 
SHAKESPEARE S PUNERAL. 35 
 
 Raleigh. Truly did he make Romeo say — 
 
 " How oft, when men were at the point of death, 
 Have they been merry ! " 
 
 Adam. " And be sure, Adam," he said, " that 
 thou have old Derrick, and his ancient comrade 
 Turgis, to. give out the dole — and see it be of 
 good kind and plentiful." And he charged me 
 again I should not tell his daughter, Mistress 
 Hall, of these dispositions — for wherefore, said 
 he, should I add a few days, or hours, to her 
 grief? 
 
 Drayton. Derrick is now in the sixth age, he 
 is the slippered pantaloon ; and Turgis touch- 
 eth on the seventh, that of second childish- 
 ness and mere oblivion — yet are they still the 
 shadows of that pair whom men shall long 
 smile at. 
 
 Beadle. Hath every one his portion ? 
 
 Assist.-Beadle. Yea, Master Derrick. 
 
 Beadle. Then give what's over how you will, 
 and make an end shortly, for we are needed at 
 New Place. 
 
 Drayton. Do ye walk in the procession, Mas- 
 ter Beadle ? 
 
 Beadle. Of a surety, worshipful sir. The 
 funeral might as well make shift without the 
 coffin as without me and my partner ; we walk 
 before choir and parson, at the head of the 
 
36 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 train ; we be its eyebrows. And, neighbour 
 Turgis, if thou shouldst walk half a foot or so 
 to the rearward of me, 'twould be forgiven thee, 
 for so would the people on both sides the way 
 have me in view ; and thou, neighbour, art 
 old — and moreover small — and feeble, moreover 
 — and thy port doth scarce beseem the van of 
 a ceremonial, the gifts for which are, in truth, 
 not given to all. 
 
 Assist. -Beadle. I will govern myself as thou 
 desirest, good neighbour. 
 
 Adam. I have here herbs, for those who will 
 bear them at the funeral. Will ye have cypress 
 or rosemary, sirs ? 
 
 Drayton. Thanks, good Adam ; we will bear 
 each a branch of cypress, and will long wear it 
 in our hearts, too. 
 
 \Tlie Beadles and Servants depart 
 for New Place. Drayton and 
 Raleigh pass into the Church- 
 yard. 
 
 Drayton. 
 
 " Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; 
 Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes 
 Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth." ^ 
 
 [They enter the Cliurch. 
 
 1 " King Richard II.," act iii. sc. 2. 
 
Shakespeare's funeral. 37 
 
 Scene IV. — The inside of the Church. 
 
 Raleigh. I have seen many a great cathedral, 
 both in England and abroad, holding the bones 
 of kings and saints and heroes ; but never one 
 that enshrines dust so sacred as will this we 
 stand in. 
 
 Drayton. 'Tis a fair church, and our poet 
 might find many a less fitting resting - place 
 than amid these pillars and arches, with the 
 plash of Avon for requiem. Yonder, before the 
 altar, yawns the dark portal through which he 
 will pass out of our sphere. [They approach 
 the grave.) What a wealth of ripened thought 
 will be summed up here ! what a world of pro- 
 mise is the future robbed of! This grave 
 divides us not from one man, but from un- 
 numbered men and women that might have 
 taught and delighted us ; it engulfs not one 
 life but a multitude of unacted lives with their 
 passions and vicissitudes ; here will pass away 
 not a solitary figure but a pageant. It may 
 be that, so long as Time hath dominion here, 
 he will never spare such another spirit to 
 eternity. 
 
 Raleigh. Here doth the poet fulfil the pro- 
 phecy he made through the mouth of Prospero, 
 that other enchanter : — 
 
38 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 " I'll break my staff, 
 Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 
 And deeper than did ever plummet sound, 
 I'll drown my book ! " 
 
 [Chanting heard in the distance. 
 
 Drayton. Those choristers tell us that he is 
 on his last journey ; let us go meet the funeral 
 train. 
 
 [They pass out into the porch. The Fune- 
 ral approaches the gate of the Church- 
 yard. The Beadles walk first, the Cho- 
 risters, in white rohes, and the Minister 
 follow, preceding the Coffin; then the 
 mourners, two and two, each hearing a 
 branch of yew, cypress, or rosemary in 
 one hand, a taper in the other. As the 
 Choristers enter the Churchyard they 
 begin to sing the following : — ] 
 
 Funeral Hymn. 
 I. 
 
 Part of our hearts thou bear'st with thee 
 
 To silence and to dust, 
 Fair hopes that now must withered be, 
 
 Unfading love and trust ; 
 So thou wilt He not all alone 
 Beneath thy monumental stone. 
 
Shakespeare's funeral. 39 
 
 II. 
 
 No echoes of this fretful world, 
 
 No glimmer of the day, 
 Can reach thee, in thy shroud enfurled. 
 
 Thou canst not hear us pray, 
 Nor seest our tears, nor heed'st our moan. 
 Beneath thy monumental stone. 
 
 III. 
 
 The good thou didst thy brother here. 
 
 The evil put aside, 
 The victory gained o'er sloth and fear. 
 
 O'er avarice, hate, and pride, 
 These make the wealth thou still canst own 
 Above thy monumental stone. 
 
 IV. 
 
 With these for warrant thou shalt go 
 
 Where sorrows enter not ; 
 Still new thy paths, when here below 
 
 Thy sculptured name's forgot, 
 The roof decayed, the grasses grown 
 Above thy monumental stone. 
 
 Raleigh. Methinks, Master Drayton, these 
 verses might better befit some good husband 
 and father of the common sort, than Shake- 
 speare, whose glorious intellect, shining through 
 his works, is his indefeasible title to remem- 
 
40 SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 
 
 brance. To sing of him thus, is to speak of a 
 falcon and say nought of her wings ; to com- 
 mend Behemoth for other quaHties than his 
 strength ; to sum up Csesar and forget his uni- 
 versal empire. 
 
 Drayton. It is apparent, Walter, that these 
 good citizens believe they have in hand one who 
 differs from them only in that his steps have 
 lain in paths apart from theirs, even as an 
 ostrich differs from a swan in strangeness rather 
 than in excellence. Therefore it may seem to 
 them that this hymn, which hath, doubtless, 
 heralded many an honest alderman to his 
 grave, may also serve very well for Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 Raleigh. Tell me of the mom-ners : who is she 
 that stoops her long hood so low between her 
 taper and her branch of rosemary ? 
 
 Drayton. His daughter, Mistress Hall ; be- 
 side whom walks her husband. Next, with 
 flushed, tear-bedewed face (yet with a corner of 
 an eye to beholders, methinks), his other and 
 younger daughter, the buxom Judith, married, 
 'tis two months since, to that comfortable vint- 
 ner, Master Quiney, who trieth vainly to cover 
 his natural contentment with a decorous mask 
 of woe. 
 
 Raleigh. And who handleth his taper and 
 his branch as 'twere a bottle and a glass. Sir 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 41 
 
 Thomas and Master Thynne I already know, 
 but who are the next ? 
 
 Drayton. He with the shrewd pale face and 
 bushy eyebrows is Julius Shaw, with whom 
 walks jovial WUliam Reynolds — both friends 
 and neighbours of Shakespeare ; and after them 
 come two other of his friends, — Antony Nash, 
 whose face of gloom is the endowment of nature, 
 and lendeth poignancy to his many jests — and 
 Thomas Combe, son of John-a-Combe. The pair 
 that follow are Hamnet and Judith Sadler, 
 the god-parents of Shakespeare's twin- children. 
 And marked you the austere aspect of the 
 minister ? he is one of the Puritan sort,^ much 
 thought of by the Halls, out of favour to whom 
 he comes, doubtless, to do this office. The rest 
 be town dignities, as aldermen and burgesses, 
 and other townsfolk. 
 
 [The Procession passes into the Church, Dray- 
 ton and 'Raiseiqb. joining it, and the service 
 begins. After prayers at the grave, the 
 Minister preaches a short Sermon, which 
 ends in this wise: — j 
 
 " So, ff lends, having essayed to draw from 
 
 ^ Probably the same Preacher who is mentioned in old records 
 of the Stratford Corporation as having been a guest at New 
 Place a year or two before. 
 
42 Shakespeare's funebal. 
 
 the presence of death in our midst some matter 
 for edification, I will speak a word of this par- 
 ticular brother who hath departed, dwelling, as 
 is at these seasons the custom, chiefly on what 
 may do him grace, and serve to sweeten his 
 memory in the nostrils of those whom he hath 
 left still in the bonds of the flesh. And, first, 
 of the fountain of his charities — it hath been 
 known in Stratford for a perennial spring, 
 abundant in refreshment to the poor, and in 
 counsel and all good offices to those who needed 
 countenance of another kind ; and if (as must 
 be said were a man to speak truly) he ever 
 regarded necessity more than deserving, and 
 inquired not over closely into the way of life of 
 those he relieved — nay, would ofttimes succour 
 and comfort the godless no less than the godly, 
 and bestow his bounty where it was like to be 
 ill-spent — yet is that to be accounted better 
 than the withholding altogether of alms, as 
 some use. Next, of his excellent charity of 
 another sort, I mean the brotherly relation he 
 held with aU conditions of men ; it hath been 
 noted among you that he, who was used else- 
 where to consort with the great, and hath been 
 favoured even of princes, would yet converse 
 with the lowly on a general level of goodwill, 
 as if the only apparel he took thought of were 
 the skin we are all born with ; for which, in- 
 
Shakespeare's funeral. 43 
 
 deed, he had great ensample. And, again, he 
 hath ever gone among his fellows with a cheer- 
 ful spirit, so that his presence hath been as 
 wine among friends, and as oil among make- 
 bates. And though I dare not say that he 
 inclined of preference to the conversation of 
 the godly, nor could be counted of the fellow- 
 ship of saints, nor even a favourer of them, yet 
 have I ever found him apt at serious converse, 
 courteous in bearing, weighty in reply, and of 
 unshakeable serenity when I have adventured 
 to press the truth on him somewhat instantly ; 
 insomuch, that I, whose vocation 'tis to battle 
 for the truth, have myself, ere now, been sore 
 put to it to hold mine own, and found me in 
 straits to oppose him, so nimble was his wit ; 
 though I doubt not that (the clear right being 
 with me) I should, with time for recollection, 
 have had vouchsafed to me the wherewithal to 
 give him sufficient answer. And it hath, at 
 these times, seemed to me that he was a goodly 
 vessel full of merchandise, yet driven by the 
 wind apart from the port where alone her cargo 
 could be bartered for that which is bread ; and 
 I have travailed over him with a sore travail ; 
 for I have hardly doubted that, with such gifts, 
 he might, had it been so ordered, have justly 
 aspired to be chief magistrate of your town, 
 or even to serve you in Parliament ; or again, 
 
44 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 with diligent study and prayer, to become a 
 preacher of weight, and have struck in the 
 pulpit a good stroke for God's honour and the 
 devil's discomfiture. But, alas ! it is known 
 to all of you, and I dare not dissemble it, that 
 his calling hath been one that delighteth the 
 carnal - minded, and profiteth the idle, and 
 maketh the godly sad of heart ; while, as for 
 his talent, it hath been put out to use where 
 the only return is the praise which fleeteth 
 as the bubble on the stream, and the repute 
 which perisheth as the leaves of autumn ; for 
 the making of rhymes and verses which flatter 
 the ear, and the art of representing the vain 
 shows of things, howe'er skilfully practised (and 
 I profess not to have that acquaintance with 
 the writings called plays, nor poems other than 
 godly hymns, to judge his handiwork), cannot 
 be held profitable for him that writes nor him 
 that hears them. And therefore, whatsoe'er 
 of wit and sense they may contain must be 
 accounted as water poured out on the sand, 
 which, better bestowed, might have solaced the 
 thirsty, and nourished the herbs and the fruits, 
 whereof many would have eaten and been 
 strengthened. But though I may not alto- 
 gether hold my peace on these matters, yet am 
 I loath to dwell on them at this time ; rather 
 would I point to the hope that our departed 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 45 
 
 brother had, in the soberer Hfe he of late led 
 among you, put aside such toys as unworthy, 
 and given us warrant to forget in him their 
 author, and, moreover, to believe that, had he 
 been spared unto us, he would have removed 
 himself further, year by year, from such vani- 
 ties and lightnesses of his youth, until, haply, 
 by the ensample of a godly household, and the 
 ministrations of faithful expounders of God's 
 Word, he should have attained even to the 
 perfect day." 
 
 \Tlie Sermon ended, the Coffin is home to the 
 grave, the Minister and Mourners stand 
 around, the service is concluded, and all de- 
 part from the Church.] 
 
 Scene V. — The Street near New Place. 
 
 Raleigh (Jiastening to rejoin Drayton). Your 
 pardon, sir, for seeming to forsake you ; I did 
 but stay to throw my branch of cypress into the 
 grave, and have kept only this handful, which 
 I will preserve as a memorial, and make of it 
 an heirloon. But, Master Drayton, I had some 
 ado to refrain from answering that preacher 
 even in the church ; for I have somewhat of 
 my father's bluntness, and cannot abide that 
 folly or conceit, in the guise whether of honesty. 
 
46 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 or religion, or philosophy, should go unchal- 
 lenged ; and here was a man who, having the 
 vision of a mole, mistook Parnassus for a mole- 
 hill, and went about to measure it with his ell- 
 wand, and even thought to do men service by 
 persuading them that the golden lights and 
 purple shadows of the mountain, its fountains 
 and dells, the forests that clothe it, the 
 clouds that crown it, and the Muses that 
 make it their haunt, are all vain illusions to- 
 gether. 
 
 Drayton. You shall find. Master Walter, as 
 you grow older, that all greatness which is not 
 gross and palpable doth require some keenness 
 of vision to discern it ; therefore doth fame 
 ofttimes grow slowly, and from small beginnings, 
 as when a man notes, of a sudden, in the else 
 familiar aspect of the heavens, an eclipse or a 
 comet, and others gather to him, till the crowd 
 swells, and the rumour goes abroad of a portent. 
 And thus will it be with the fame of Shake- 
 speare, who had so much in common with com- 
 mon men that they accounted him one of 
 themselves, as Mercury passed among herdsmen 
 for a herdsman, and Apollo among shepherds 
 for a shepherd. 
 
 Raleigh. Lo you, where the mourners of his 
 household approach the house. Let us wait 
 here while they enter, and I pray you beguUe 
 
Shakespeare's funeral. 47 
 
 the minute by telling me of them. Of what 
 fashion is Mistress Hall ? 
 
 Drayton. Susannah is, from a chUd, of an 
 earnest nature and a serious wit. Learning 
 little from books, she hath learned much from 
 converse and observation, and so in her hath 
 her father found a companion ; somewhat re- 
 tiring at first, but upon occasion speaking 
 warmly with spirit ; devout withal, capable of 
 strict argument for conscience' sake, yet of a 
 becoming humility ; so that I have oft thought 
 her father drew the Isabella of " Measure for 
 Measure" from her, she being about twenty 
 years old when 'twas writ ; even her who says 
 
 " Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good 
 But graciously to know I am no better." 
 
 Raleigh. Is her helpmate worthy of her ? 
 
 Drayton. A worthy man is Doctor Hall — 
 who consorts with Susannah in piety as in 
 love : one who, next his God and his wife, 
 loveth his most honourable calling, and hath 
 grown to a physician of repute here in War- 
 wickshire, much sought after by great ones of 
 the shire. 
 
 Raleigh. Taketh the fair Judith in aught 
 after her father? 
 
 Drayton. Hardly, sir; though her twin- 
 brother, Hamnet, who died young, was a child 
 
48 Shakespeare's euneral. 
 
 of rare promise. The girl is sprightly, but of 
 small depth or substance, favouring the mother. 
 She might have sat for Anne Page, being about 
 sixteen when her father drew Anne ; and she 
 is well matched with Master Quiney, whose 
 wit o'ertops not hers, who is gay and jovial as 
 becometh a vintner, taking pleasure in what 
 pleases her. Marry, he hath the merit of being 
 the son of her father's old friend Richard 
 Quiney. 
 
 Raleigh. Sir, a nobleman might have fitting- 
 ly found in her a mate, she being Shakespeare's 
 child. But what of the wife who helped him 
 to these daughters ? 
 
 Drayton. 'Twas Shakespeare's mishap, sir 
 (and I say it for your warning), to wed at an 
 age when the fancy and heat of youth o'ercrow 
 the judgment. He had seen few women, and 
 none of the finest. Anne Hathaway, Shake- 
 speare's elder by eight years, was buxom as 
 Judith is now ; his fancy dressed her in quali- 
 ties not hers ; the secrecy of their meetings 
 lent a flavour of adventure ; and so he became 
 bound to one who matched with him as finch 
 with falcon, in youth a country lass, in age a 
 mere housewife, something firetful, but, in the 
 sum, contented ; and Shakespeare, who was of 
 a temper to fit himself to what is, dwelt with 
 her here in much kindness. But see — Doctor 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 49 
 
 Hall doth await us on the steps of the en- 
 trance. 
 
 Doctor Hall. Master Drayton, I pray you 
 that you pass not by the house of your depart- 
 ed friend without entering ; I beseech you, sir, 
 you and your friend ; — 'twill be a kindness to 
 come in. You shall not be excused, sirs. 
 
 Scene VI. — A Room in Shakespeare's House. 
 
 Doctor Hall, Drayton, and Ealeigh. 
 
 Doctor Hall. Here, sirs, is my father-in-law's 
 parlour, where he hath mostly abided in this 
 last illness. Be pleased to sit while I fetch my 
 wife, who will part with a few moments of her 
 sorrow in seeing so old a friend. [He goes out. 
 
 Raleigh. By Saint George, sir, the poet was 
 bravely lodged ! How rich the staining of this 
 window, where, through the lower panes, we 
 look on the garden ! and above, there stands 
 emblazoned the falcon with his golden spear, 
 steel - pointed, that Sir Thomas told us of 
 This wainscot, too, is quaintly carved, and 
 the chimney-front of a rich design. But, soft 
 you now — whose graven portrait is this that 
 hangs in the midst of it ? By my troth, 'tis 
 my father's ! 
 
 Drayton. Ay, Master Ealeigh ; think not but 
 t) 
 
50 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 that the poet, with his wide embrace for his 
 fellow men, took such merit as Sir Walter's near 
 his soul. The daring that went forth on the 
 unknown deep, the search for El Dorado, the 
 finding of strange lands and stranger peoples, 
 all these fired his fancy. 'Tis to our great mari- 
 ners we owe the sweet magic of Prospero's isle, 
 the innocence of Miranda, the savageness of 
 Caliban, the witcheries of Ariel. 
 
 Raleigh. And above my father's hangs 
 Bacon's ; these Shakespeare looked on as he 
 sat by the fire, and thus was homage done both 
 to adventure and to thought. And on this 
 side, engraven like the others, from a painting 
 I have seen, hangs the Earl of Southampton's. 
 
 Drayton. Whereby is homage done to friend- 
 ship ; greatly and constantly did the Earl love 
 Shakespeare. And here, when he sat by this 
 window that looks on the garden, he saw on the 
 wall opposite, the presentments of his more 
 level associates — Ben Jonson, Marlow, Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher (twinned in one carven oak 
 frame), Spenser, Sidney, and, lo you, mine un- 
 worthy self 
 
 Raleigh. But what strange company for such 
 progeny of the Muse are these others on the 
 opposing wall ! Calvin and Knox, Kidley and 
 Jewel, and here, portrayed in chalk by a cun- 
 ning hand, the divine who preached to us even 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 51 
 
 now. What do these godly men here ? Did 
 Shakespeare love them ? 
 
 Drayton. Shakespeare, Master Walter, looked 
 on Puritan and Prelatist as the wearers of cer- 
 tain garbs hiding men underneath ; 'twas con- 
 cerning the men he chiefly cared to inquire. 
 'Tis the Doctor and Mistress Hall who have 
 solaced themselves by hanging these here ; the 
 Doctor hath long been a chief of that party in 
 Stratford which, though it forsakes not quite the 
 Church, yet holds by that corner of it which is 
 nearest Geneva ; and his wife, from her natural 
 bent, leans to the austerer (perchance I should 
 say, the more earnest) side of religion. But 
 Shakespeare, in such matters, would, as Polonius 
 advises, gives his ear to all, his voice to few, 
 and tolerated the effigies of these grave divines 
 without any special love for themselves. 
 
 Enter Doctor Hall, his Wife, their young 
 daughter Elizabeth, aged eight, and Shake- 
 speare's Widow. 
 
 Mistress Hall. Master Drayton, your pardon 
 yet awhile if I cannot greet you — the seeing of 
 you stirs up thoughts that rob me of all words. 
 
 \_She turns aside. 
 
 Mistress Shakespeare. O Master Drayton ! — 
 Son Hall, lead me to my great chair. Oh, 
 what a loss is mine ! 
 
52 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 Drayton. Your loss is the world's loss too, 
 good madam. 
 
 Mistress Shakespeare. Oh, sir, who will up- 
 hold me now, a poor, weak woman ? Mr Shake- 
 speare in his merry mood would say, " Come, 
 thou'lt make a brave widow, Anne — who shall 
 be thy next ? " But Lord, sir, I'll ne'er marry 
 again. 
 
 Raleigh. Kings, madam, might be proud of 
 such a predecessor. 
 
 Mistress Shakespeare. Kings, sir ! What 
 should kings have to do with me ! You are 
 pleased to jest, young sir ; though kings and 
 queens, too, have looked with favour on Mr 
 Shakespeare. But the funeral, Susannah — was 
 all becoming ? Did the sermon make good men- 
 tion of my husband ? And the dole — was aU 
 the dole given away ? But oh, my poor brain ! 
 Master Drayton and his friend must eat some- 
 what. There is a stuffed chine. Oh, how he 
 that's gone loved a stuffed chine ! Here be the 
 keys, Elizabeth ; see the chine set forth in the 
 dining chamber. 
 
 Drayton. Nay, nay, good madam, think not 
 of us. 
 
 Mistress Shakespeare. But ye must eat some- 
 what, sirs, indeed, now. Daughter, dost know 
 that my new black hood is sewn awry, and I 
 can go not forth till it be straight ? And for 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 53 
 
 drink, sirs, will ye a posset, or sack with sugar ? 
 The wine is from my son Quiney's cellars, and 
 of his choicest. 
 
 Drayton. Nay, Mistress Shakespeare, we will 
 rather talk than eat or drink. 
 
 Mistress Shakespeare. O Master Michael ! 
 seeing thee minds me of my youth, and of Shot- 
 tery where my husband courted me — the bridge 
 of the stream where he would await me ; but I 
 can talk no more — I can but weep. Lead me 
 forth, son Hall. Go not till you have eaten, 
 Master Drayton ; do but taste the chine. 
 sweet husband ! [The Doctor leads her forth. 
 
 Mistress Hall. Master Drayton, your pardon 
 once again. I feel some shame at being thus 
 o'ermastered — 'tis not meet to let our spirits be 
 held in dominion by a private sorrow — but when 
 I think on him, my heart turns to water. But, 
 Master Drayton, I have marvelled you came not 
 to my father in his sickness. 
 
 Drayton. I knew not of it — think you I could 
 have stayed from him ? I was far beyond ru- 
 mour of his condition, and had come now, 
 heavens ! hoping to behold him and listen to 
 him, as of yore. 
 
 Mistress Hall. Much and oft hath he talked 
 of you ; for it was growing to be his chief 
 pleasure to sit with old friends, or, they absent, 
 to talk of them. His sickness, though it sub- 
 
54 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 dued not his spirit, sobered it ; his mirth fell to 
 the level of cheerfulness ; he was oftener silent 
 and rapt ; and oh, sir, though I dare not aver 
 it, I will yet hope that his thoughts were 
 above. 
 
 Drayton. Trust me. Mistress Hall, 'twould 
 be a narrower heaven than we should all hope 
 for, where room and gracious welcome were not 
 proclaimed for him. Think you his place can 
 be elsewhere than with the greatest and best 
 that have gone before ? 
 
 Mistress Hall. Oh, sir, 'tis that troubles me. 
 Hath he not trusted overmuch to that bright 
 intellect ? Hath he not been as one that look- 
 eth forth from his watch-tower, and beholdeth 
 a fertUe land, and a great dominion, and heed- 
 eth not that the foundations of the buUding are 
 
 of sand ? Hath he not but I will not speak 
 
 of the thorn that, since he is gone, pricketh me 
 sorer than before. He charged me. Master 
 Michael, that you should see what writings he 
 hath left behind. Would, oh would they had 
 dealt with such things as only are of great 
 price ! 
 
 Drayton. Wrote he much in these latter 
 days? 
 
 Mistress Hall. Yea, often, and would call his 
 pen the sluice without which his thoughts 
 would o'erflow his brain, and perchance drown 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 55 
 
 his wits. But now, sir, I will take you to his 
 own chamber, where I will show you the coffer 
 wherein he kept his writings. 
 
 [Drayton follows her out — Ealeigh 
 takes up a hook. 
 
 Doctor Hall {returning). Your pardon, sir, 
 for leaving you without company. 
 
 Raleigh. Nay, I had the best of company — 
 even fancies about the great one that so lately 
 dwelt here. Was this book his ? 
 
 Doctor Hall. Yea, and one of the last he 
 read in. 
 
 Raleigh. Right glad am I to hear it — and 
 right proud will my father be to know that the 
 book he wrote in his captivity was of the last 
 studied by the man he hath ever esteemed the 
 most illustrious of this age. 
 
 Doctor Hall. Thy father ! the History of the 
 World ! you are then the son of Sir Walter 
 Ealeigh ? 
 
 Raleigh. Ay, sir, I am but too forward to 
 own that kinship. 
 
 Doctor Hall. Sir Walter's health must needs 
 have suffered much wrong from his long im- 
 prisonment. I have heard that he hath been 
 mightily shaken of an ague. 
 
 Raleigh. Ay, sir, one contracted years agone 
 in the service of our king's famous predecessor. 
 
 Doctor Hall. Well is it said, put not your 
 
56 SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 
 
 trust in princes. I may tell you, sir, that I 
 do strongly desire to see that time when none 
 shall be so great as to o'ertop the law, and 
 do think it better that the claws of kings 
 should be pared, than that in their breath 
 should lie the liberties of men. But I pray 
 you, sir, hath Sir Walter made trial of the 
 decoction of dittany, or of fumitorie, to correct 
 the malice of this ague ? I have made essay of 
 the root satyrion, in like cases, and found his 
 effects to be good. 
 
 Raleigh. I doubt not, sir, that all approved 
 remedies have been used by his physicians. — 
 Did Master Shakespeare suffer much pain ? 
 
 Doctor Hall. His malady was wasting rather 
 than painful, save that toward the last he 
 was oft seized with a panting and passion of 
 the heart which left him very nigh to death, 
 for the which I found the syrup of gilliflower, 
 and flower of marigold, in wine, of much avail ; 
 the juice of roses also doth greatly comfort the 
 heart. But of your father. I have ever heard 
 Sir Walter reputed for a gentleman of qualities 
 the most diverse, as skill in war by sea and 
 land, courtiership, and statesmanship, the poet's 
 and the chronicler's art, and in all a master — 
 some of which concern not greatly an obscure 
 physician ; but I have also heard that he hath 
 a pretty knowledge of pharmacy. 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 57 
 
 Raleigh. He hath some skill in simples. But 
 I pray you, tell me somewhat of Master Shake- 
 speare, the hope of seeing whom fetched me 
 hither, and, next to that lost contentment, will 
 be the hearing of him from those he loved. 
 Was not a play called the " Tempest " (which 
 I have not yet seen imprinted) one of the latest 
 of his works for the theatre ? 
 
 Doctor Hall. I believe it was. It hath been 
 told me that the famous cordial which bears 
 Sir Walter's name ^ was administered both to 
 the Queen and Prince Henry. I have the recipe 
 writ down, but I doubt me whether I have the 
 ingredients in just quantities. Can you advise 
 me of this ? 
 
 Raleigh. I think my memory may serve me 
 so far. But, sir, 'tis Master Drayton's opinion, 
 as he said but now, that such expeditions by 
 sea as my father hath adventured may have 
 caused conception, in the poet's fancy, of the 
 story of that play. 
 
 Doctor Hall. It may be so : 'tis of a ship- 
 wreck and an enchanted isle, as I remember 
 me to have heard ; good sooth. Master Baleigh, 
 there be so many evils in this world crying for 
 redress, that I bestow not much thought on 
 enchantments, and love-tales, and bygone his- 
 
 '^ A specific, or panacea, well known in that age as Sir Walter's 
 Cordial, the ingredients of which are given in the text. 
 
58 Shakespeare's tunebal. 
 
 tories. [Takes out a memorandum-hook.) First 
 there be, in the cordial, of zedoary and saffron 
 each half a pound. 
 
 Raleigh. True, sir. But talked Master Shake- 
 speare greatly of his plays while he was busied 
 in inditing them ? 
 
 Doctor Hall. Perchance, to others who were 
 poets ; but, indeed, my business in life hath so 
 httle relation with what he writ that I did not 
 greatly seek his confidence at such times. Now, 
 regarding this recipe — as to the powder of crab's 
 claws, I have set it down at fourteen ounces. 
 
 Raleigh. It should be sixteen, sir. 
 
 Doctor Hall. Why, there now, see, good 
 youth, what a service you have done me ; for 
 just proportion is of the essence of a prescript, 
 and I have hitherto compounded this rare 
 • remedy but imperfectly. Of cinnamon and 
 nutmegs, two ounces, — cloves, one, — carda- 
 moms, half an ounce, — sugar, two ounces. 
 
 Raleigh. All these be right. 
 
 Doctor Hall. I thank you heartily for your 
 correction in the matter of the crab's claws. I 
 will note it. [Goes to write at a table.) 
 
 Raleigh (to Elizabeth). Come hither, pretty 
 one, and tell me thy name. 
 
 Elizabeth [whispering). My grandfather called 
 me his Queen Bess ; and said he would Hefer 
 be ruled by me than the older one. {Aloud. 
 
SHAKESPEARE S EUNERAL. 59 
 
 Didst thou not say, sir, thou wouldst like to 
 hear of him from those he loved ? 
 
 Raleigh. Ay, little maid. 
 
 Elizabeth. Then thou must talk of him to 
 me, for he hath oft said 'twas me he loved best, 
 and (iveeping), I shall ne'er be tired talking of 
 him. 
 
 Raleigh. Didst often bear him company, 
 Bess? 
 
 Elizabeth. Ay, for my father goeth much 
 from home, and when my mother was in her 
 store - closet, or visiting the sick, my grand- 
 father and I kept together, we and our two 
 friends. 
 
 Raleigh. Who be they? 
 
 Elizabeth. Mopsa is one — this, look you, is 
 Mopsa [fetching a cat from the hearth). When 
 I would do her pleasure, I scratch her behind 
 the ear, but my grandfather would always 
 tickle her under the chin. Her father and 
 mother were fairies. 
 
 Raleigh. How cam'st thou to know that, 
 Bessie ? 
 
 Elizabeth. She was left by them one night in 
 the snow, where my grandfather found her, and 
 brought her hither wrapped in his cloak ; and 
 he told me all the tale of how she left fairy- 
 land — when there is time I'll tell it thee. And 
 our other friend is BobadU. 
 
60 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 Raleigh. Is Bobadil a man ? 
 
 Elizabeth. Nay, surely you know he is a dog ; 
 kind and civil to us, but with other dogs he 
 quarrelleth and growleth, and then flieth from 
 them in fear, loving not to fight. And I have 
 a little horse which grandfather did buy for me, 
 and a riding-coat like the Queen's maids, and, 
 so long as he could, we did ride together. 
 
 Raleigh. Well, Elizabeth, I am going pres- 
 ently to the wars, and when I come again thou 
 and I shall be married, shall we not ? 
 
 Elizabeth. Ay, if my mother will let me, for 
 thou art handsome and kind. 
 
 Raleigh. Seest thou this chain round my hat, 
 with the pearl clasp ? weU, I have kept it for 
 my lady-love, when I should have one — so 'tis 
 yours — look, I clasp it on your neck for a token, 
 and when we are wedded you shall tell me the 
 story of Mopsa. 
 
 Elizabeth. Sure, 'tis the prettiest chain. I 
 give thee for't these four kisses. I will go show 
 it my grandmother.^ \_She goes out. 
 
 Raleigh. Methinks, Master Hall, that Eliza- 
 beth might serve at a pinch for her grand- 
 father's very faithful chronicler. 
 
 Doctor Hall. Ay, sir, better than most ; she 
 bore him company ever when he was inditing, 
 
 ^ Elizabeth married, at eighteen, Mr Thomas Nash, and 
 secondly, Sir John Bai'nard, leaving no children by either. 
 
SHAKESPEAEE S FUNERAL. 61 
 
 and oft at other seasons. For me, I did greatly 
 love and esteem my good father-in-law, and we 
 lived together in pleasant communion ; but for 
 the works which, as I have heard, those that 
 make a play -place of this world find such con- 
 tent in, he ever knew that ceaseless warring 
 with the diseases of the bodies, and (what is 
 more) of the souls, of my neighbours, and care 
 for those public matters in which I discern a 
 way to a better condition of the world's affairs, 
 have left me small leisure for fancies to which 
 I am, good sooth, noways affected ; therefore 
 he spake not to me of them. But there is 
 one sweet piece of work, of which (not to 
 speak profanely) he was author, that I daily 
 study with reverence and love — and hither it 
 comes. 
 
 Re-enter Mistress Hall and Drayton. 
 
 Drayton. I am like the man in the fable who 
 was privileged to look in the cave where a 
 wizard had collected the treasures of the earth, 
 and was so dazed that he could neither pouch 
 any, nor even take account of what he saw. 
 Only I know there be there, beside plays al- 
 ready acted though never imprinted, and others 
 of which only false copies have gone abroad, a 
 multitude of uncoined ingots and uncut jewels 
 of thought, which that matchless mind hath 
 
62 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 thrown off as in mere exercise and at breathing- 
 time. What measureless delight will these be- 
 stow on the world ! ^ 
 
 Mistress Hall. But I know not, sir, if the 
 world shall ever see them. My father gave me 
 no command in that matter, and it may be 
 that I shall serve his memory better with pious 
 men by keeping them private. 
 
 Drayton. Trust me, Mistress Hall, the holder 
 of these shall owe a heavy debt to thy father's 
 fame. 
 
 Mistress Hall. Nay, sir, what is fame that 
 it must needs be satisfied at aU hazards? the 
 bandying of a name from one idle mouth to 
 another ! — praise as hollow and unavailing as 
 the night wind sighing o'er an epitaph ! — what 
 profit or comfort is in such for the departed ? 
 
 Raleigh. By heaven, madam, not so ! — rather 
 is fame the linking of far-off generations by the 
 common bond of one great name : for the dead, 
 it is a second life among men, in which earthi- 
 ness is purged away, and what is imperishable 
 tarries — and, for the living, their just inherit- 
 ance ; so, to defeat Fame is to commit a double, 
 
 ^ Halliwell says, "According to Roberts, two large chests full 
 of Shakespeai-e's loose papers and manuscripts " (belonging to a 
 baker who had married one of his descendants) " were destroyed 
 in the great fire at Warwick." Falstaff's speech, " T have given 
 them away to bakers' wives, and they have made boulters of 
 them," seems almost prophetic of this. 
 
SHAKESPEAEE S FUNERAL. 63 
 
 nay, a tenfold wrong. Her trumpet sounds no 
 empty strain ; 'tis the appeal against our baser 
 promptings, the summons to action, the meed 
 of achievement, the celebration on earth of the 
 spirit's triumph over the grave : thus it maketh 
 the music to which mankind do march, and 
 which, sUent, would leave them slaves. 
 
 Mistress Hall. Your words, young sir, are 
 manly, but I know not if they be godly. Of 
 what avail that men should march, if not 
 heavenward? How poor be centuries of this 
 fame of yours to one hour of that other life we 
 look for ! Think not, Master Drayton, that I 
 am dull to the spell of my father's verse ; as a 
 maiden it enthralled my fancy and charmed 
 mine ear ; even now could I taste the delights 
 of it ; but I have come to know that in such 
 enchantments lies deadly peril, and I must pass 
 on with my fingers in mine ears. Feeling thus, 
 I know not if, in conscience, I may give a voice 
 to what he hath left, by utterance in books. 
 
 Drayton. I will not do battle with these 
 scruples in the hour of your grief, but will 
 trust to the future for overcoming them. 
 Even if no new matter go forth, it were 
 grievous to withhold the true versions of his 
 plays.^ Methinks I espy, in the depths of 
 
 ' The corrected plays were first published seven years after, 
 in the well-known Folio of 1623. 
 
64 shakespeaee's funeeai,. 
 
 time, his image veiled, and mark the genera- 
 tions of men toiling to unravel his meanings, 
 and piecing out his maimed verses, and dipt 
 fancies, with guess-work ; collecting the while, 
 in pain and doubt, what unthreaded memories 
 tradition may preserve of him. And I do fear 
 me, that if some disciple be not found else- 
 where, more devoted than any his birthplace 
 affords, to tell posterity what manner of man 
 he was, there may, in a brief space, and ere his 
 fame hath reached its zenith, remain of this 
 chief of English poets nothing but a wondrous 
 name. 
 
 [Drayton and Raleigh take their leave, 
 and quit Neiv Place. 
 
 Scene VII. — Tlie Dolphin CJiamber in the 
 Falcon Tavern. Drayton and Raleigh. 
 Tlirough the open door, those who were 
 Bearers at the Funeral are seen drinking 
 in the Taproom. 
 
 Enter Hostess with a hottle of sack, glasses, 
 small loaves in a basket, and a plate of 
 anchovies. 
 
 Drayton. This smaU refection will bring us 
 handsomely to supper with Sir Thomas. So, 
 hostess, now fill to Master Raleigh — and to 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 65 
 
 each a crust. What do these roysterers 
 without ? 
 
 Hostess. Sir, Master Shakespeare, who was 
 ever full of kind thoughts and maleficence, left 
 it in 's testament that the bearers should be 
 entertained at the Falcon with cakes and ale 
 after the burial ; and in truth, sirs, they have 
 borne themselves like men this hour past ; they 
 drink rarely. 
 
 Drayton. What a coil the varlets keep ! 
 Let us listen to them. 
 
 Siy. Well, a health, boys, to Master Shake- 
 speare, wheresome'er he be. 
 
 — {Sings) And we'll trowl the brown bowl 
 To the health of his 
 
 Bardolph. Nay, no singing, except any man 
 knoweth a virtuous psalm-tune. 
 
 Nym. The fitting humour is — melancholy, 
 and pass the ale. 
 
 Sly. Axe we to be mute, then, in our drink, 
 like fish ? 
 
 Bottom. Let us discourse, but no revelry. 
 Let us suit our matter to the occasion, and 
 enjoy the good liquor sadly. Yet, methinks, 
 I could sing something to the purpose. 
 
 — (Sings) Outfiieth breath, 
 In cometh Death 
 With his candle, bell, and booh — a, 
 
 E 
 
66 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 With his prayer so loud 
 And his woollen shroud, 
 And his cell in the churchyard-nooh — a. 
 
 Sly. A less comfortable song I ne'er listened 
 to. I am of the party of silence rather than 
 this. 
 
 Bottom. I can be silent too, an it comes to 
 that, as weU as e'er a man of you. 
 
 Bardolph. More ale, hostess. What, must I 
 take to my old trade again, and turn tapster ? 
 
 Wart. Canst thou mind, Rugby, when the 
 play was held in John-a-Combe's great barn at 
 the end of Chapel-lane, many years agone ? 
 
 Rugby. Aj. 
 
 Wart. There was somewhat played then, 
 writ, 'twas said, by Master Shakespeare, that 
 would have served oiu- turn now ; something of 
 ghosts and a burial. 
 
 Rughy. Was't not the play of "King 
 Hamlet " ? 
 
 Bottom. Ay, that or else the goodly tragedy 
 of " Makebate." 
 
 Bardolph. To see Master Shakespeare sitting 
 there on the bench nighest the stage, with his 
 daughter. Mistress Quiney that now is, beside 
 him, and to think the play he looked-on at was 
 writ by himself— by heaven ! 'twas as a man 
 should say — wonderful. 
 
SHAKESPEAEES EUNERAL. 67 
 
 Wart. I ne'er saw "Makebate," but I saw 
 another. I was lingering by the play-house 
 door with Margery my wife one night, thinking 
 to peep at the stage through a chink in the 
 boards, when Master Shakespeare comes me 
 down the lane. "Art for the play, Wart?" 
 quo' he. " Nay, sir," quo' I ; "no pay no play, 
 and my pockets are e'en like Skinflint's pot." 
 "Never stay for that," quo' he; "thou shalt 
 pass, and Margery too, as freely as coined 
 silver — and I hope, Margery, thou'lt lay the 
 play to heart, for they tell me thou lead'st 
 Wart a terrible life of it." Now, the play, sirs, 
 was of a masterful woman whose goodman got 
 the better of her. Marry, 'twas named — let 
 me see — by the mass, 'twas 
 
 Rughy. Was't not named the " Turning of 
 the Screw," or some such ? 
 
 Several. Ay, 'twas so indeed. 
 
 Bottom. Nay, if you are for remembering 
 names, my masters, I am he that can serve 
 your turn. 'Twas named the " Quelling of the 
 Scold " — 'twas, as Wart truly said, the history 
 of a crowing hen that had her comb cut, as all 
 such should. 
 
 Sly. When wilt cut Goodwife Bottom's, 
 Nick? Folk say she playeth Chanticleer to 
 thy Partlet. 
 
 Bottom. Folk say much, neighbour, that it 
 
68 Shakespeare's funeral. 
 
 beseemeth not a man of sense to hearken to. 
 But touching these plays — I am all for the love 
 passages ; it giveth one, as 'twere, a yearning ; 
 it maketh one feel young again — the billing, 
 now — and the sighing. I have played the 
 lover, neighbours, both on the stage and off 
 it, when my sweetheart hath borne her most 
 tenderly. 
 
 Wart. I also was loved in my youth. 
 
 Sly. Thou loved ! was there ne'er a scare- 
 crow in the parish, then, to set heart on? 
 
 Hostess (entering with fresh ale). Nay, fub 
 not the goodman so, Christopher — thou art 
 ever girding. I warrant me, neighbour Wart 
 hath had his cooings and his wooings like the 
 rest, and could tickle a maiden's ear as well as 
 another. What ! have we not aU been young ! 
 
 Nym. Well, for me, I care not for the love- 
 humours — there is a mawkishness and a queasi- 
 ness in over-much ogling and lipping. I am for 
 your deadlier humours ; give me a murder, now 
 — or the witches. 
 
 Wart. I love the witches, too. 
 
 Bardolph. Since ye talk of witches, saw ye 
 Goody Broom at the burial to-day, hanging on 
 the skirts of the crowd, and lurking behind a 
 gravestone, wiping, the while, her old red eyes 
 with the corner of her ragged cloak? I am 
 weU persuaded that Master Shakespeare had 
 
SHAKESPEARE S FUNERAL. 69 
 
 no truer mourner than that same ancient leman 
 of Lucifer. 
 
 Hostess. And well she may, poor soul ! Be- 
 tween water and fire there was like to have 
 been soon an end of her, but for Master 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Wart. Well, I was one of those that ducked 
 her i' the pond ; and I ran a needle, too, into a 
 mole she had, and she winced not — a sure sign 
 of a witch ; but when Master Shakespeare stept 
 forth and bespoke us, I felt I know not how at 
 his words, and made home an 'twere a dog that 
 hath been caught in the larder. 
 
 Snug. And when they haled her before the 
 justices. Sir Thomas was for burning her, had 
 not Master Shakespeare o'erpersuaded him. 
 
 Sly. Well, he saved her then, but she may 
 chance have her whiskers singed yet. I am not 
 one that favours witches, any more than our 
 good King, and I shall keep eye on her. 
 
 Hostess [entering the Dolphin chamber). Sirs, 
 here be Sir Thomas's men, and the horses, 
 awaiting you in the yard. 
 
 Drayton. Thanks, hostess — our score. Now, 
 Walter, set on. 
 
 Raleigh (passing into the taproom). Good 
 friends 
 
 Bottom^ Hear him ! hear him ! 
 
 Raleigh. Good friends, all simple as ye sit 
 
70 Shakespeare's funeeal. 
 
 here, ye have this day done an office that the 
 foremost nobles of England might envy you, 
 and that might make their children's children 
 proud to say — our forefather was one of those 
 who bore Shakespeare to the grave. 
 
 Bottom. Sir, we did it passing well, and be- 
 comingly, but we boast not of it. 
 
 Bardolph. 'Sblood, sir, to be a bearer is no 
 such great matter — and for nobles, why, we 
 have been paid with one each, and are content. 
 
 Raleigh. Ay, ye have had greatness so near 
 ye, that ye saw it not — ye are as daws that 
 build in a cathedral and take it for an old waU. 
 But I blame ye not — your betters have seen no 
 clearer. And now, to show my goodwill for 
 ye, as those whom Shakespeare hath sometime 
 honoured with a word or look, I will entreat 
 Master Drayton to lodge for me a sum with his 
 friend Master Quiney, which shall suffice to let 
 ye all meet and carouse here once a-month, for 
 a year to come — and each year that I live ^ will 
 I do likewise — and ye shall call it Shakespeare's 
 Holiday. 
 
 Bardolph. By heaven ! a most noble gentle- 
 man, and of a choice conception. 
 
 Nym. This humour likes me passing well. 
 
 1 At the close of the following year he was slain, sword in 
 hand, gallantly fighting the Spaniards, on the banks of the 
 Orinoco. 
 
Shakespeare's euneral. 71 
 
 Sly. I would there were more of your kidney 
 in Stratford. 
 
 Bottom. I will invent a new speech every 
 year in your lordship's honour, and every year 
 it shall be more excellent than the last. My 
 masters, let us, all that can stand, attend these 
 gentles to the door. 
 
 All. Farewell, gallant sirs, 
 
 Raleigh and Drayton. Good friends, farewell. 
 
MR DUSKY'S OPINIONS ON AET. 
 
 ' Blackwood,' July 1858 ; a time when certain smaU books, 
 containing summary judgments, of a very trenchant kind, on the 
 works exhibited in the Royal Academy, were appearing every 
 year. 
 
 ' I am a blessed Glendoveer : 
 'Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear." 
 
 — Rejected Addresses. 
 
 TT is quite clear that the Glendoveer of the 
 -■- above couplet was commissioned to deliver 
 to the world a divine message about Art. I 
 argue thus on account of the air of absolute and 
 uncompromising authority with which he an- 
 nounces the conditions of his teaching, Art 
 being a subject on which two opinions ought 
 not to be permitted. To the culpable neglect 
 with which this high commissioner from the 
 Court of Nature was probably treated by the 
 vain and self-sufficient artists of the time, is 
 
MR DUSKY S OPINIONS ON ART. 73 
 
 chiefly to be attributed the lamentable state of 
 Art in general, and Painting in particular, up 
 to eight or ten years ago, when I took up the 
 subject. Since then I am happy to observe 
 that all artists gifted with any degree of talent, 
 and all the public possessing the slightest 
 measiire of judgment or reflection, have fol- 
 lowed the paths I have so clearly indicated. 
 Of course, as very few artists possess any talent 
 whatever, and the great body of the public is, 
 and must long continue to be, utterly deficient 
 in the qualities I have mentioned, both the 
 authors of fine works and those who patronise 
 and admire them must expect to remain in a 
 minority conspicuously small. But let them be 
 comforted : for as in the stUlness and splendour 
 of a summer's evening, when the golden tor- 
 rents, rushing from their fountains in the west, 
 bathe the sky up to the zenith, where commences 
 that pale green which heralds the approach of 
 twilight, the chirpings of a few grasshoppers 
 resound shrilly amid the glittering grass, while 
 whole armies of sensual caterpillars, mutely 
 feeding on leaf and flower, crawl unheeded ; so, 
 by perpetual self-assertion, and utter contempt 
 of all antagonistic sentiment, may the prophets 
 of Art and their disciples secure to themselves, 
 even among the undiscerning, a share of atten- 
 tion immeasurably greater than their mere 
 
74 MR dusky's opinions on akt. 
 
 numbers or consideration would entitle them 
 to claim. 
 
 Without affecting any diffidence which in 
 me would be transparent pretence, or any mis- 
 givings as to any opinion I have ever delivered, 
 yet I find it necessary to be cautious in wield- 
 ing, as I annually do, the trenchant weapon of 
 irresponsible criticism, lest, in its whirlwind 
 evolutions, it might haply lop a limb from some 
 humble but trusty follower. It grieved me 
 much to find that a single word of censure 
 uttered by me some years ago, and which, 
 though perfectly just, was too keen and search- 
 ing for the sensitive nat\u"e of the artist whose 
 work I was criticising, had the effect of causing 
 him to abandon painting as a profession, and to 
 revert to his original calling of an oil-and-colour 
 man, in which I hear he is realising a moderate 
 competence. Excellent, therefore, as it is to 
 have a giant's strength, it will be easily under- 
 stood how cautious I must be in the exercise of 
 the perilous gift ; and when I refrain from 
 noticing a picture in which I find nothing to 
 praise, it is either because I am unwilling 
 utterly to crush and destroy a painstaking 
 though erring artist, or else because, the painter 
 being a personal friend, I prefer gently correct- 
 ing him in the privacy of social converse to 
 publicly gibbeting him. By these remarks I 
 
MR DUSKY's opinions ON ART. 75 
 
 wish to guard against the imputation of hesi- 
 tating in, or shrinking from, the formation of 
 decided opinion on the merits of any picture 
 that ever was painted, which I am always 
 ready to accompHsh at the shortest notice, my 
 conclusions being generally directly opposite 
 to those which would be arrived at by most 
 other persons, or, in other words, by those less 
 confident than myself in their own infallibility. 
 The first thing that strikes me, in the work 
 of the present year, is, that though all other 
 seasons and times of the day are reproduced in 
 landscape (except the pitch-dark of a winter's 
 night, which it would be difilcult for any one, 
 in the present state of art, to place satisfactor- 
 ily on canvas), yet that particular state of the 
 atmosphere which exists in the month of Aug- 
 ust from about five minutes before two to about 
 twenty minutes after, when the sun's sultry and 
 lavish splendour is tinged with some foreboding 
 of his decline, and when Nature is, as it were, 
 taking her siesta, is nowhere sought to be con- 
 veyed. I thought, on first looking at a small 
 picture in the east room of the Academy, that 
 this hiatus had been filled up ; but, on further 
 study, I perceive that the picture in question 
 had been painted rather earlier (about five-and- 
 twenty minutes before two is the time I should 
 assign to it), and is therefore deficient -in many 
 
76 ME dusky's opinions on art. 
 
 of the chief characteristics of the remarkable 
 period I allude to. How comes it, too, that, 
 amid all the rendering of grass and flowers, 
 there is not a single dandelion — a flower which 
 has often given to me, no less than to Words- 
 worth, " thoughts that do often lie too deep for 
 tears ; " nor a group of toadstools, which can 
 give interest to a foreground else bald and bar- 
 ren ; nor, among the minute studies of insects, 
 a daddy-long-legs, swaying delightedly across 
 the path, and dancing to inaudible music, as 
 the mid-day zephyr waves the slender fabric of 
 his gossamer home. I am surprised, too, to find 
 (so far as my survey has enabled me to note) 
 that there are nowhere any frogs, though every 
 artist who painted out of doors in the first 
 warm days of spring must have heard their 
 choral music from the neighbouring ditches. 
 The old heralds, speaking of the manner of the 
 frog's holding his head, talk of the pride and 
 dignity, or, as they phrase it, " the lording" of 
 frogs, and gave them a place in heraldry ; and 
 their ideas are generally valuable to artists, and 
 worth studying, both for their literal exactness 
 and their allegorical significance. Let us have 
 some frogs next year. 
 
 No. 18.— "A Man Washing his Hands" (J. 
 Prig). A step in the right direction. The 
 painting of the nail-brush, showing where fric- 
 
ME DUSKY S OPINIONS ON ABT. 77 
 
 tion has worn away and channelled the bristles 
 in the middle, is especially good. But how 
 comes it that, the nail - brush having been 
 evidently made use of, the water in the basin 
 is still pellucid, with no soap apparent either 
 superficially or in solution ? This oversight I 
 should not have expected in so clever an artist. 
 Even granting clearness to the water, the pat- 
 tern of the bottom of the basin visible through 
 it is of a different character from the exterior 
 of the vessel, which is not the case in any speci- 
 men of that particular delf which has come 
 under my notice. 
 
 No. 24. — This is directly imitative both of 
 Titian and George Cruikshank, with Smith's 
 handling, and a good deal of Brown's manner. 
 
 No. 29. — As I told this artist last year, he is 
 deficient in fulness of form and looseness of tex- 
 ture. He should, therefore, for some years, 
 paint nothing but mops of various colours (with- 
 out the handles), which would give him wooUi- 
 ness and rotundity. On the other hand, the 
 painter of No. 32 has too much of these quali- 
 ties, with too little firmness in his darks ; and I 
 should recommend him, as a counteracting in- 
 fluence, to study only blocks of coal — not the 
 common coal (which is too dull), but the kennel 
 or candle coal — a perseverance in which practice 
 he will find attended by the happiest results. 
 
78 ME, dusky's opinions on art. 
 
 " The Nativity." — This is nearly perfect. 
 The infant, which at first appears to be wearing 
 a broad-brimmed straw-hat, is distinguished by 
 a peculiar halo, in which there is no trace of 
 servile imitation of those absurd pretenders 
 known as the old masters. Thoughtless and 
 superficial observers have objected to the angel 
 holding the lantern, as an office inconsistent 
 with the dignity of the angelic nature ; saying, 
 too, that the act has some officiousness, since 
 the lantern might have been placed on the 
 ground or hung on a nail. For my own part, I 
 consider the idea eminently happy, and if one 
 of the other angels had been represented as 
 snuffing the candle with her fingers, my admira- 
 tion would have been complete. 
 
 No. 40. — The sky is weak and heavy, the 
 distance too hazy, the middle distance absurd, 
 and the foreground like a cartload of bricks 
 ready for use. However, on the whole, I con- 
 sider this the leading picture of the year. 
 
 No. 501. — T was nearly overlooking this pic- 
 tm-e, which at first sight seemed unworthy of 
 notice, when a second glance showed me what 
 I conceive to be the print of a man's shoe in 
 the dust of the high-road in the corner of the 
 foreground. This little incident gives poetry 
 to the whole composition, and is quite equal to 
 the memorable invention of Defoe, when he 
 
MR DUSKY S OPINIONS ON ART. 79 
 
 makes Robinson Crusoe discover the print of a 
 foot in the sand. The shoe, a hobnailed one, 
 evidently belongs to the owner of the little 
 white-walled cottage in the middle distance, 
 the smoke from whose chimney curls bluely up- 
 ward against a sky which has in itself nothing 
 remarkable, but which the late J. M. W. Tur- 
 ner would have filled with magnificent cloud- 
 forms of grandest outline and miraculous colour. 
 One feels at once that the wearer of that shoe 
 was one of our conscripts, fighting our battles 
 against the barren swamp and the dull clod, 
 and that, tdilworn and careworn, he passed, in 
 his victorious march, up that dusty road, to the 
 domestic haven where rest, if not glory, awaited 
 him. 
 
 " There were his young harbarians all at play ; 
 There was their Saxon mother — he their sire, 
 Sweating to make a rich man's holiday." 
 
 It reconciles me in great measure to the ine- 
 qualities of the gifts of fortune, and to the ne- 
 cessity that almost seems to exist for a class 
 which takes on itself the manual labour of the 
 world, when I consider that we derive from 
 thence the elements of purest pathos in art. 
 
 No. 520. "Venus and Adonis" (D. Corum, 
 R.A.) — The great charm for me in this picture 
 is the total absence of aU sensual imagination 
 in its treatment. The goddess, purified from 
 
80 MR dusky's opinions on art. 
 
 all taint of earth-born passion, with the immor- 
 tal light of divine friendship beaming in her 
 lustrous eyes, invites the reluctant youth to 
 seat himself beside her on the glowing couch 
 of amaranths and asphodels (with some gen- 
 tianella and one or two ragged robins skilfully 
 introduced), which have sprung responsively to 
 the pressure of her roseate feet ; whUe, in the 
 distance, the fatal boar is seen, whetting against 
 the trunk of a blackthorn in full blossom, the 
 remorseless tusks which are shortly to be im- 
 brued in the stream of the boy's young life. 
 A similar purity of thought distinguishes the 
 " Susannah and the Elders," by the same artist, 
 and quite marks a new epoch in art. The El- 
 ders, grave men of most reverend appearance, 
 approach the beautiful woman in her bath, evi- 
 dently for the purpose of studying the flowing 
 outline of her form and the delicate articula- 
 tions of her joints (the ankles are especially weU 
 drawn). Lovers of exalted art, they come, with 
 words of courteous greeting on their lips, to 
 study in leisure and privacy the combinations 
 of lines and gradations of flesh-colour 'with 
 which Nature in her most perfect efforts delights 
 to exercise the reasoning powers of man ; while 
 the matron, " clothed on in chastity," cahnly 
 awaits their coming. The " Satyrs and Nymphs 
 Dancing," by the same hand, is equally removed 
 
MR DUSKY S OPINIONS ON ART. 81 
 
 from the gross impurity which the subject 
 would have derived from the licentious Poussin, 
 and the hideous,, immorality of a modern quad- 
 rille. " Potiphar's Wife " is another illustrious 
 instance of the power of Mr D. Corum to give 
 new life to old subjects. The wife of the great 
 Egyptian noble holds in her hand a roll of 
 papyrus covered with specimens of early Egyp- 
 tian art, to which she seeks to direct Joseph's 
 attention (by the by, the style of these draw- 
 ings, especially the man in profile with two 
 eyes, belongs to the time of the later Pharaohs, 
 and not to the pre-Mosaic period); but without 
 success, for the youth, in whose countenance 
 the struggle between curiosity and bashfulness 
 is exhibited in a very remarkable manner, turns 
 resolutely away from his kind instructress. 
 Altogether the treatment of the whole of these 
 works reminds me strongly of the manner of 
 Era Puritano. 
 
 No. 603. — I formerly had some slight hopes 
 of this artist, and consequently bestowed on 
 him a word or two of ad\dce. But as he seems 
 systematically to defy every principle I have 
 ever laid down, and obstinately to ignore every 
 opinion I have ever enunciated, his whole me- 
 thod has of course become hopelessly and irre- 
 deemably vile, and his works are in painting 
 what ribaldry is in literature. 
 
 F 
 
82 MR dusky's opinions on art. 
 
 No. 650. — This artist had better go without 
 delay to Venice. He will find in one of the 
 vaults of one of the churches there (I forget 
 which) a picture without a name, but which I 
 know to be an indubitable PatJ Veronese. The 
 whole composition is fine ; but I would partic- 
 ularly note the third hair from the top in the 
 right whisker of the cat in the comer, the paint- 
 ing of which is very precious. This he should 
 study in a reverential spirit, and I will answer 
 for the result. 
 
 "The Dead Stonebreaker." — On nothing 
 have I ever insisted more strongly than on the 
 absolute necessity of painting altogether in the 
 open air, with all the accessories of the scene 
 that are to be transferred to the canvas actu- 
 ally present ; and here I am happy to see an 
 illustration of the good effect of following my 
 advice. I have no doubt that this picture was 
 painted strictly under these conditions. Ribald 
 critics may perhaps object that, as atmospheres 
 of that extreme purpleness (as if mulberry -juice 
 were substituted for the ordinary vehicle) are 
 very rare, and that as the mere work of the 
 picture must have occupied several weeks, these 
 infrequent opportunities must have extended 
 over a great length of time, during which the 
 deceased stonebreaker would have become a 
 skeleton, while the weasel could scarcely be 
 
MR DUSKY S OPINIONS ON ABT. 83 
 
 expected to remain so long looking at the body. 
 Nevertheless I adhere entirely to my opinion ; 
 and I am thus reminded of one particular count 
 of the heavy indictment I formerly brought 
 against that perverter of nature and impostor 
 in art, Claude Lorraine. I pointed out that in 
 a picture of his in the National Gallery, the 
 shadows of two different objects are falling in 
 opposite directions ; and this I noted as a blem- 
 ish, or rather one amid a mass of blemishes. 
 I now perceive that this was owing to the fact 
 that, for once, Claude was honestly studying 
 from nature out of doors ; and being absorbed 
 in his miserable work (for the absorption of the 
 artist in his efforts by no means depends on 
 their value), he did not perceive that the sun, 
 which was on his left hand when he began to 
 paint in the morning, had gone round to his 
 right before he left off, and consequently threw 
 the shadows in the opposite direction. This is 
 the only occasion on which I have ever found 
 it necessary to alter an opinion I had once ex- 
 pressed ; and I freely admit that what I for- 
 merly censured I now consider the sole merit 
 to be found in this painter's numerous works, 
 and he is entitled to so much posthumous fame 
 as my approval in this solitary instance can 
 confer. 
 
 No; 902. — A fine example of what may be 
 
84 MR dusky's opinions on art, 
 
 called the botanico-geologico-astronomico style 
 of art. Here the primeval masses of the old 
 red sandstone, the granitic boulders, which, ere 
 they became fixed for ever, hissed in fierce 
 fusion round the sweltering materials of the 
 chaotic globe, the grey slate, the gneiss, the 
 feldspar, and the gypsum, lend their multiform 
 variety of outline to the harmonious forms of 
 the foreground ; while, in the coal-strata of the 
 extreme distance, methinks I can descry the 
 faint impress of ferns and other vegetable de- 
 posits. Note the fossil tooth of the mastodon 
 in the centre as particularly precious, finely 
 relieved as it is against the leathery texture of 
 the wing of the pterodactyle. These superb 
 combinations of the daedal forms of the earth 
 are clothed in lavish magnificence with all 
 known and possible specimens of herbaceous 
 life, from the stupendous Wellingtonia to the 
 small celandine of our native fields ; while over 
 all are set the sentinel stars Orion and the 
 Pleiades, which shed over the dawn of creation 
 the same sweet influences that still gild its 
 decline. The naturalist may study this picture 
 with profit, only second to that derivable fi^om 
 a knowledge of the works of the late J. M. W. 
 Turner, as expounded by myself. Still there 
 are some natural features not to be found in 
 
MR DUSKY S OPINIONS ON AKT. 85 
 
 European landscape, of which I lament the ab- 
 sence. I should therefore recommend the artist 
 to spend the summer on the top of the Peter 
 Bott Mountain, while he may get a suitable 
 foreground in the rich autumnal splendours of 
 the trackless South American forests ; and may, 
 on his return, paint in the less important details 
 from the Botanical Gardens in the Regent's 
 Park. I wish him a pleasant trip, a stout heart, 
 walking-stick, and pair of shoes. 
 
 " Red-deer," by Landseer. — I have already 
 told Mademoiselle Rosa Bonheur, that as she 
 has not yet satisfactorily proved to me that she 
 can paint a man's face, it is a delusion to sup- 
 pose that she paints horses ; they are merely 
 trotting bodies of horses ; so I tell Landseer, 
 that as he has never (that I am aware of) paint- 
 ed a porcupine, it is a popular fallacy to suppose 
 that he can paint red-deer. He merely paints 
 their horns, hoofs, and hides. 
 
 I have now given the public all that it is 
 necessary for them to know, and more than 
 they can appreciate, of my decisions on the Art 
 of this year. The above pictures are all that I 
 have had leisure to look at. Still, the mere 
 fact of my not having seen them, would not 
 prevent me from criticising all the rest, if it 
 were expedient or necessary. On the whole, I 
 
86 MR dusky's opinions on aet. 
 
 consider the works of this year decidedly in 
 advance of those of the last, as that was of its 
 predecessor, which I attribute to my annual 
 critiques ; and I doubt not that, after diligent 
 study of this little brochure, considerable pro- 
 gress will be manifested next summer. 
 
VICTOR HUGO ON THE GREAT 
 FRENCH PUZZLE.^ 
 
 rpHE French ought to be the most ingenious 
 -■- people in the world. There is a great 
 standing problem on which they have been 
 sharpening their wits for fifty years, and which 
 is likely to be their intellectual grindstone for 
 fifty more. That problem, the national squaring 
 of the circle, is. How to explain away the Battle 
 of Waterloo. There it stands, a most substan- 
 tial landmark in the century ; a piece de resist- 
 ance, on which, it is evident, many an exposi- 
 tor, historical, philosophical, military, or merely 
 patriotic, may cut and come again. It will 
 evidently bear no end of explanation. Theories 
 the most ingenious are brought to bear upon 
 it ; it is obscured for a moment, every now and 
 then, in a haze of cloud or gossamer ; but the 
 
 1 ' Les Miserables.' By Victor Hugo. Vol. iii. 
 
88 VICTOR HUGO ON 
 
 next moment there it is, " like Teneriffe or 
 Atlas unremoved," ready for a fresh essay of 
 subtlety. While other people see the matter 
 in an ordinary light, a French writer, when he 
 directs his mind across the Belgian frontier, 
 enters a land of enchantment. The old men 
 see visions and the young men dream dreams. 
 What Britain was to Arthur, the Tauric Cher- 
 sonese to Jason, or the domain of an enchanter 
 to Orlando or Amadis, such is the marvellous 
 region that lies beyond the Sambre to Napoleon. 
 It is a kind of cosmopolitan Pandemonium — a 
 land where evUs gathered from all the mytholo- 
 gies are assembled to oppose the Emperor and 
 his army of knights-errant. Fates and hostile 
 powers from the poetic world of Greece — desti- 
 nies from Arabia and stars from Chaldsea — pit- 
 falls and delusions from the domain of chivalry, 
 a pagan necessity and a modern French Provi- 
 dence, are all arrayed on the road to Brussels 
 to harass and disconcert one conquering mortal. 
 It is true there were also a couple of armies of 
 material foes — but these are for the most part 
 set aside and disregarded, the real opposition 
 being made by the darker powers. Into this 
 tremendous region Napoleon plunged, and into 
 it plunge also the French chroniclers, boldly 
 abandoning the prosaic domain of fact, and 
 finding unlimited space for the play of fancy. 
 
THE GREAT FRENCH PUZZLE. 89 
 
 In this strange land may be discerned a blunder- 
 ing demon, called in French mythology Blucher, 
 and a most besotted enchanter of the name of 
 Wellington, both full of impotent malice, and 
 devising, in their blindness, snares for others 
 into which they are always falling themselves. 
 They lead hosts of inferior demons, who are 
 constantly getting themselves into trouble by 
 their spiteful opposition, who are belaboured, 
 overthrown, cut to pieces, and massacred, and 
 betray not one single demoniac attribute except 
 malignity, and a remarkable power, on some 
 occasions, of reappearing, after all their losses, 
 in their original numbers. Amid these the 
 good Corsican knight moves triumphant. Be- 
 fore him and his invincible followers these foes 
 everywhere recoil — myriads fall " even in the 
 fan and play of his fair sword" — and he goes 
 through the diabolic milee like Mr Greatheart 
 through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. 
 The demon Blucher privily prepares a snare at 
 Ligny, in which he is himself entrapped, and 
 made a terrible example. The foul wizard 
 Wellington constructs another pitfall at Quatre 
 Bras, into which he would inevitably have de- 
 scended head foremost, but for the interposition 
 of a malign power which blinded the eyes of 
 two of the French knights, Ney and D'Erlon, 
 causing the one to boggle vainly before the 
 
90 V^ICTOR HUGO ON 
 
 wood of Bossu, and leading the other far astray 
 by magical devices. But at the approach of the 
 victorious Napoleon the wizard retires in con- 
 fusion, feeling himself detected, and everything 
 would have gone well but for the delusions of 
 which the knight Grouchy is made the sport. 
 He is pursuing the discomfited demon, Blucher, 
 who is believed to be driven headlong in one 
 direction, but who, aided by supernatural power, 
 and lost even to such small sense of virtue and 
 propriety as a demon may be supposed to re- 
 tain, vanishes, leaving the pursuer to chase a 
 shadow, and reappears at a critical moment to 
 aid the stupid enchanter Wellington. From 
 this epoch all is mystery and confusion. The 
 devices of Wellington, though no less mahgnant, 
 are also no less futile, than before. In his fool- 
 ish craftiness he has placed himself where there 
 is no escape. Behind him every avenue is closed 
 — before him is his dazzling and all-conquering 
 foe — all that is left for him is to display the 
 dogged obstinacy suitable to such a situation, 
 which, accordingly, he is said to have shown. 
 But no amount of obstinacy coiild prevent his 
 discomfiture. His feeble plans are easily seen 
 through, and promptly disconcerted — his weak 
 array is dispersed, overturned, cut up, crushed, 
 broken, and destroyed. The peerless knight 
 Ney careers triumphantly over the field, while 
 
THE GEE AT FRENCH PUZZLE. 91 
 
 the above participles become more and more 
 emphatically descriptive of what happens to the 
 foe. But now the dark powers of the air begin 
 to take part in the conflict. According to some 
 chroniclers, Destiny it was that intervened. 
 Others ascribe the disaster that followed to the 
 desertion of the goddess Fortune from the side 
 of the Emperor. There is also a mysterious If, 
 that plays a conspicuous part in this crisis. All 
 authorities agree that if something had not been 
 done which was done, or if something had been 
 done which was not done, the whole event 
 would have been totally different ; though most 
 of them disagree as to what it was that should 
 or should not have been performed. However, 
 generally, it may be stated, that if foes, van- 
 quished by every rule of conflict, had not inop- 
 portunely reappeared to renew the struggle, 
 and if those followers of the Emperor who had 
 unhappily been expended in the fight had been 
 forthcoming when most wanted, and in particu- 
 lar, if the knight Grouchy had not been basely 
 beguiled by the demon Blucher, all would have 
 been well. Many chroniclers, indeed, persist in 
 stating that all was well in reality, and that 
 what passes for the history of subsequent events 
 is necromantic illusion ; but, in general, it is 
 admitted that the Emperor and his followers, 
 assailed by unearthly influences, which no man, 
 
92 VICTOR HUGO ON 
 
 not even a Frenchman, can resist, fled from the 
 enchanted land, and reappeared, what was left 
 of them, in most melancholy plight, in the re- 
 gions of matter-of-fact, and subsequently faded 
 into the light of common day. 
 
 Such in its main features is the marvellous 
 tale that is imparted as the story of Waterloo 
 to the youth of France. Of late, it is true, 
 some sceptics have appeared who, no less sohci- 
 tous than their predecessors for French glory, 
 yet venture to speak of Napoleon as a mere 
 fallible mortal. But these are as yet a small 
 minority. M. Thiers, as we mentioned in re- 
 viewing him last month, adheres to the ancient 
 myth, and will hear of no abatement either of 
 the glory of France or of the glory of Napoleon, 
 for the preservation of which no sacrifices are 
 too great, not even that of the rules of arith- 
 metic. But, however faithful he may be to 
 French traditions, there is assuredly nothing 
 clever or amusing in the romance of Waterloo 
 by M. Thiers. To the old stage properties of 
 " fatality " and the inevitable If, he adds nothing 
 except an audacious falsification of numbers, and 
 a more lavish censure of the Emperor's lieuten- 
 ants. M. Victor Hugo is a spirit of another 
 sort. He is a man of eloquence and imagina- 
 tion. Not driven, hke the clumsy and common- 
 place conjuror Thiers, to rely on such transparent 
 
THE GREAT FRENCH PUZZLE. 93 
 
 devices as telling his audience that two and two 
 make five, he, like a man of resource, invents 
 incidents, revels in fine similes and poetic lan- 
 guage, and philosophises in a strain suited to 
 the region of romantic fable. "With him Napo- 
 leon is not merely the favourite of the gods, but 
 almost their equal. He stands to the unseen 
 powers something in the relation that Pro- 
 metheus stood to Zeus — and like him he is 
 punished rather as an audacious rival than as 
 a presumptuous mortal. M. Hugo also invents 
 a pitfall, not a metaphorical but a veritable pit- 
 fall, to account for the French disaster ; he 
 makes a new use of the great If; — and, last 
 and most wonderful of all his discoveries, he 
 tells us that the destiny of the world was 
 changed by the nod of a Belgian peasant's 
 head. The new features, then, presented by 
 M. Hugo's solution of the great Gallic problem, 
 are — this extraordinary nod, potent as that of 
 Jupiter — the fatal trap or pitfall — and the 
 singular relation in which Napoleon stands to 
 the French Providence, — all of which are per- 
 fectly original ; but the originality of the inci- 
 dents is not greater than that of the language 
 and descriptions. 
 
 And here it is necessary to warn the sensitive 
 reader, that in speaking of the French Provi- 
 dence we mean nothing irreverent, any more 
 
94 VICTOR HUGO ON 
 
 than if we were discussing Pluto or the Parcse. 
 It is a thoroughly Pagan deity, only without 
 the picturesqueness of the gods of Greece. It 
 is a modern French adaptation of an ancient 
 model, and its principal use is, to interpose at 
 critical moments for the benefit of art, to hang 
 sentiments on, to be on terms of respectful in- 
 timacy with, to tag sentences, to point epigrams, 
 and to give zest to obscenity. 
 
 In the year 1861, M. Hugo, it seems, was 
 journeying from Nivelles to La Hulpe on foot, 
 when he reached a picturesque old farm or 
 chateau, which he describes very agreeably and 
 minutely, noting even that a brave Httle bird 
 was singing in a large tree, being, as he observes 
 with true French gallantry, " probably amorous." 
 As he is inspecting some damage done to the 
 building, a peasant woman teUs him that the 
 injuries were caused by bullets, and that the 
 place is called Hougomont. At the word he 
 began to look about him. He presently per- 
 ceived a hillock, surmounted by something that 
 looked in the distance like a lion. He then 
 perceived he was on the field of Waterloo. 
 Such was our author's introduction to that 
 Enchanted Ground where all natives of France 
 become subject to strange delusions. M. Hugo 
 was not exempt from the fate of his country- 
 men. That peasant woman was probably a 
 
THE GREAT PEENCH PUZZLE. 95 
 
 Belgian Circe ; and, after his brief parley with 
 the witch, he began to dream about Waterloo, 
 extravagantly, of course, but still with the ex- 
 travagance of a man of genius and a poet. 
 
 " Hougomont," he exclaims, " 'twas a melan- 
 choly spot ; the commencement of the obstacle, 
 the first resistance met with at Waterloo by 
 the great woodcutter of Europe called Napo- 
 leon ; the first knot under the blow of his axe." 
 He describes the courtyard, " the conquest of 
 which," says he, " was a dream of Napoleon. 
 Could he have taken that corner of ground, it 
 would perhaps have given him the world." And 
 he, more generous than his countrymen, at once 
 conciliates our goodwill by remarking that " the 
 English behaved admirably there. The four 
 companies of the Guards of Cooke maintained 
 themselves there for seven hours against the 
 fury of an army." This shows that M. Hugo's 
 sense of justice, at least, is proof against the 
 influence of the atmosphere, which usually 
 causes the seer to look on the troops of per- 
 fidious Albion in a most contemptible light. 
 
 " The conflict for the entry of the courtyard 
 was furious. For a long time there were 
 visible on the beam of the gate all sorts of 
 marks of bloody hands." That is a real touch 
 of a master of the descriptive ; — the following 
 bit is perhaps better appreciated on the op- 
 
96 VICTOR HUGO ON 
 
 posite side of the Channel than it will be 
 here : — 
 
 " The storm of combat is stUl in this court ; 
 horror is visible there ; the hurly-burly of the 
 fight is there petrified ; that lives, that dies ; 
 it was yesterday. The walls agonise, the stones 
 fall, the gaps cry out ; the holes are wounds ; 
 the trees, bending and trembling, seem trying 
 to flee." 
 
 A massacre took place in the chapel ; where 
 no mass has since been said. The head of an 
 infant Jesus in wood was carried away by a 
 shell. The chapel was partly burnt ; the door 
 and the flooring were destroyed by the flames, 
 but a Christ, in wood, was not burnt. " The 
 fire has consumed the feet, of which only black- 
 ened stumps are left, and there it stopped. 
 The country people call this a miracle," says 
 our author — and adds, with a touch of Voltaire, 
 " Tlie infant Jesus, decapitated, has not been so 
 happy as the Christ." 
 
 The walls, he tells us, are covered with in- 
 scriptions ; " there are French names with notes 
 of exclamation — signs of anger." And there is 
 a well, " from which no one draws water any 
 more. Why does no one draw water any more ? 
 Because it is fuU of skeletons." . . . "They 
 cast into it three hundred dead. Perhaps but 
 too diligently. Were all dead ? Tradition says 
 
THE GREAT FRENCH PUZZLE. 97 
 
 No, It seems that in the night which followed 
 the burial, faint appealing voices were heard to 
 issue from the well." Not groundless, this 
 fancy, we lament to say, however horrible ; for 
 it is indubitable that the bodies laid in the 
 common grave of the battle-field are not always 
 lifeless. 
 
 He then proceeds to describe the garden and 
 orchard. " It was in the garden," he says, 
 " that six voltigeurs of the First Light Infantry, 
 having got in, and not being able to get out, 
 taken and hemmed in, like bears in their cave, 
 accepted battle with two Hanoverian com- 
 panies, one of which was armed with carbines. 
 The Hanoverians, occupying the balustrades of 
 the terrace, fired from above. The voltigeurs 
 replying from below, six against two hundred, 
 intrepid, and having for shelter nothing but 
 gooseberry-bushes, took a quarter of an hour 
 to die." After this the gooseberry-bush must 
 take Iiigh rank among fortifications. It has 
 certainly been too much neglected by military 
 writers. He closes his spirited description with 
 an account of the slaughter in the orchard. 
 " Three thousand men," he moralises, " were in 
 this single ruin of Hougomont, sabred, slashed, 
 run through, shot, and burnt; and all, that 
 to-day a peasant may say to a traveller, ' Mon- 
 sieur, give me three francs ; if you please, I wUl 
 
 G 
 
98 VICTOR HUGO ON 
 
 explain to you the affair of Waterloo.' " This 
 is epigrammatic, but it decidedly contradicts 
 the former epigi'am, which said that "this 
 corner of ground, if he could have taken it, 
 would have perhaps given Napoleon the world." 
 The men who died to prevent that result can 
 hardly be said to have died in vain, nor do the 
 countrymen of those who defended Hougomont 
 look upon their lives as thrown away. 
 
 Quitting this particular spot for a more gen- 
 eral view of the battle, M. Hugo remarks : " If 
 it had not rained in the night between the 
 17th and 18th of June 1815, the future of 
 Europe would have been changed. Some drops 
 of water more or less caused Napoleon to faU. 
 In order that Waterloo might be the end of 
 Austerlitz, Providence wanted nothing but a 
 little rain, and a cloud crossing the sky quite 
 out of season sufficed for the crumbling of a 
 world." We quote this sentence because it 
 exhibits compendiously several favourite points 
 of the French myth — the great If — the cer- 
 tainty that but for the rain Napoleon would 
 have been victorious — the intimate acquaint- 
 ance with the most recondite workings of that 
 mysterious power, the French Providence — the 
 inference that the rain-cloud coming so un- 
 seasonably is a special interposition, as if, in 
 Belgium, rain in June were an unheard-of 
 
THE GEBAT FRENCH PUZZLE. 99 
 
 phenomenon — and lastly, the inference also, 
 that the rain wetted only the French side of 
 the field. " The battle of Waterloo, and this 
 gave Blucher time to arrive, could not begin 
 till half - past eleven. Why ? Because the 
 ground was miry. It was necessary to wait 
 while it got a little firm in order that the 
 artillery might manoeuvre." Many Frenchmen 
 really believe this. After mentioning, more 
 truthfully and honourably than the charlatan 
 historian, Thiers, that Napoleon had a great 
 superiority of artillery, though M. Hugo dimin- 
 ishes it, we daresay inadvertently, by nine 
 guns, he says, " Suppose the ground dry, the 
 artillery able to move, the action would begin 
 at six in the morning. The battle would be 
 gained and finished at two o'clock, three hours 
 before the sudden turn of fortune that the 
 Prussians caused." 
 
 Next he inquires whether the fault was in 
 Napoleon. " He who formerly knew all the 
 paths of triumph, and who from the height of 
 his chair of lightnings showed them with im- 
 perial finger, was he now possessed with this 
 fatal foolhardiness of driving over precipices 
 his tumultuous team of legions ? — did he reach 
 at forty-six years of age a climax of folly ? — 
 this Titanic coachman of destiny, was he noth- 
 ing more than a huge dare-devil ? We by no 
 
100 VICTOR HUGO ON 
 
 means think so." And the reason why he does 
 not think so is, " that his plan of battle was a 
 masterpiece. To go right at the centre of the 
 Allied line, to make a gap in the enemy, to 
 cut them in two, to push the British half on 
 Hal and the Prussian half on Tongres, to make 
 of WeUington and Blucher two fragments, to 
 carry Mont St Jean, to seize Brussels, to cast 
 the Germans into the Khine and the Enghsh 
 into the sea. All this was for Napoleon in this 
 battle." Now, as this highly compendious and 
 decisive plan was not executed, fortunately for 
 the armies predestined to such an uncomfort- 
 able termination of their career, to what was 
 the failure owing ? If not to the fault of Napo- 
 leon, one might venture to ascribe it in some 
 degree to the merit of Wellington, the coiu-se 
 generally taken by public opinion with respect 
 to victories, without good cause shown against 
 such decision. But M. Hugo, after modestly 
 disclaiming any pretensions to military science, 
 though we believe he has quite as much as M. 
 Thiers, and after admitting that he is " only a 
 traveller in the plain, a seeker, bending over 
 this ground paved with human flesh, perhaps 
 taking appearances for realities," reveals to us 
 his theory of the action of Waterloo. It was, 
 he says, " a concatenation of chances dominat- 
 ing the two captains." This is the creed with 
 
THE GEE AT FRENCH PUZZLE. 101 
 
 which we are already so famUiar, and it means 
 that things go quite naturally when the French 
 win, but when they lose it is owing to some 
 astounding fatality. ' 
 
 Having thus stated his general theory, M. 
 Hugo goes on to describe the particular links 
 in the " concatenation." And, first, he tells us 
 that the battle-field was like a great A. " The 
 left limb of the A is the road of Nivelles, the 
 right that of Genappe, the cord of the A is the 
 hollow road from Ohain to Braine I'Alleud. 
 The summit of the A is Mont St Jean, there 
 is Wellington ; the lower left point is Hougo- 
 mont, there is Reille with Jerome Bonaparte ; 
 the lower right point is La Belle Alliance, 
 there is Napoleon. A little below the point 
 where the cord of the A cuts the left limb is 
 La Haie Sainte. In the middle of this cord is 
 the precise point where the final word of the 
 battle was uttered. It is there that a lion 
 has been placed, an involuntary symbol of the 
 supreme heroism " — of what, does the reader 
 think? Possibly of some of the victorious 
 troops, he wUl say. Not at all — " of the su- 
 preme heroism of the Imperial Guard!' 
 
 " The triangle comprised between the top of 
 the A, the two limbs, and the cord, is the pla- 
 teau of Mont St Jean. The dispute for this 
 plateau tvas all the battle," 
 
102 VICTOE HUGO ON 
 
 Will M. Hugo pardon us for hinting that in 
 this description, so compact, he has carried 
 compactness to a fault ? The attack of D'Er- 
 lon's heavy columns against the English left — 
 the death of Picton — the repulse and rout of 
 the French right wing, with such heavy loss 
 that it never renewed the attack — the charge 
 of the heavy brigade, so disastrous to the 
 French infantry and guns, and the severe loss 
 our cavalry experienced in retiring after its 
 gallant charge — are parts of the battle, and are 
 not included in the limits of his triangle — not 
 to mention the advance of the Prussians. 
 
 There is a time, says M. Hugo, " in every 
 battle when all is confusion. A twilight ob- 
 scurity reigns over the melee. Such a crisis 
 occurred at Waterloo when things were looking 
 grave for the English. Hougomont was dam- 
 aged. La Haie was carried, Papelotte was 
 taken. Some incidents apart, the attack had 
 succeeded," says M. Hugo. The incidents are 
 the little misfortunes just mentioned that hap- 
 pened to the French right wing, and it was, of 
 course, not worth while to break the thread of 
 the narrative for the sake of recording matters 
 so unimportant. The field, then, was, from 
 noon till four o'clock, obscured, and the conflict 
 unintelligible, and all that M. Hugo can descry 
 there, is the vast fluctuation of a mixture of 
 
THE GREAT FRENCH PUZZLE. 103 
 
 uniforms, out of the various fashions and col- 
 ours of which he makes a battle-piece worthy 
 of Wouvermans. But all at once, in the after- 
 noon, it cleared up. It was at the moment 
 when Wellington withdrew his line behind the 
 crest of the ridge, and Napoleon exclaimed, 
 " The beginning of the retreat ! " 
 
 The Emperor, we learn in the next chapter, 
 " had never been in such good humour as on 
 this day. Ever since the morning his impene- 
 trability smiled. On the 18th June 1815, this 
 profound soul, masked in marble, was blindly 
 radiant. The man who had been grave at 
 Austerhtz was gay at Waterloo. In the great- 
 est among the predestined are seen these con- 
 tradictions. Our joys are of the shade. The 
 supreme smile is God's." That these last orac- 
 ular sentences mean something very fine, we 
 do not doubt ; but what they mean we do not 
 know in the least. Few plain Englishmen, we 
 imagine, can read the very finest writing of an 
 imaginative Frenchman without experiencing 
 feelings very different from those which the 
 writer expects to excite. 
 
 The Emperor's good spirits, it seemed, had 
 dated from the night before, when " every 
 moment had been marked for him with a de- 
 light." At half-past two he had supposed from 
 a noise he heard that Wellington was retreat- 
 
104 VICTOR HUGO ON. 
 
 ing, and he promised himself the pleasure of 
 making prisoners the 6000 English who had 
 just arrived at Ostend. He spoke banteringly 
 of "Wellington. " This little Englishman wants 
 a lesson," said he. M, Hugo assures us, though 
 how he knows it is a mystery, that it thun- 
 dered while the Emperor spoke. We suppose 
 we are expected to infer that this was the voice 
 of "Dieu" or "destiny" or the French Provi- 
 dence, replying to the boast in ominous tones. 
 At half -past three, however, he was undeceived 
 about the retreat, having learnt that the Eng- 
 lish awaited battle. " So much the better," 
 cried Napoleon. " I like stUl better to over- 
 throw them than to drive them back." In a 
 lesser man we should take the liberty of calling 
 this swagger. 
 
 We now approach one of those original solu- 
 tions of the problem of Waterloo with which 
 M. Hugo entertains us. The road from Ohain 
 to Braine I'Alleud was, he says, a hollow way 
 so narrow, that in 1637 a merchant of Brussels 
 had been ground to death in it by a passing 
 carriage. It was also so deep, that in 1783 a 
 peasant had been crushed by a fall of the shelv- 
 ing bank. And being at the summit of the 
 ridge, it was, says M. Hugo, "invisible, and 
 therefore terrible." This hint, dark as it is, 
 he leaves to germinate in the mind of the 
 
THE GREAT FRENCH PUZZLE. 105 
 
 reader while he tells us something more about 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Not all the ill success he had met with in 
 the battle, the various instances of which are 
 enumerated at length, could, we are told, shake 
 the confidence of the Emperor. But it seems 
 " a mysterious frown became visible in the 
 depths of heaven." This was an ocular mani- 
 festation, we presume, of the same power that 
 had previously replied to Napoleon in thunder. 
 And of course a power that can frown and 
 thunder can do a great deal more when thor- 
 oughly roused. Henceforth, then, we perceive 
 that the Allies are mere instruments, and that 
 the real business will be done by the owner of 
 the celestial eyebrow. And it is a singular fact 
 that these signs of immortal wrath are not re- 
 corded by any French writer to have given 
 warning at Jena or Austerlitz that other 
 great monarchies were about to be over- 
 thrown : so that we learn incidentally, how 
 much more important to Providence are the 
 misfortunes of France, than those of Austria 
 or Prussia. 
 
 "At the moment when Wellington drew 
 back, Napoleon started. He saw the plateau 
 of Mont St Jean suddenly disgarnished, and 
 the front of the English army disappeared. It 
 was rallying, but it withdrew. The Emperor 
 
106 VICTOR HUGO ON 
 
 half raised himself in his stirrups. The light- 
 ning of victory passed into his eyes. 
 
 " Wellington driven on the forest of Soignies 
 and destroyed, that would be the final abase- 
 ment of England by France : that would be 
 Cressy, Poitiers, Malplaquet, and Ramillies 
 avenged. The man of Marengo would blot out 
 Azincourt ! " Delightful vision ! one of those 
 in which French seers love to forget the stern 
 reality. These and the like, are the judicious 
 sentiments that keep alive the spirit of revenge 
 in the bosom of every right-minded French- 
 man. All the army, from the field-marshal to 
 the simple factionnaire, the sleek citizen of 
 Paris and the gaunt exile of Cayenne, the 
 seedy plotter of Leicester Square and the fat 
 " Mosoo " who walked so pacifically about the 
 great Exhibition, become volcanoes at the name 
 of Waterloo, and cherish the most sanguinary 
 hopes of vengeance for the dreadful crime com- 
 mitted by our grandfathers upon theirs, on that 
 iniquitous occasion. 
 
 Wellington, then, had recoiled. Nothing re- 
 mained but to follow him up and crush him. 
 Napoleon was, says M. Hugo, one of those 
 geniuses from whence issues the thunder. He 
 looked about for his thunderbolt. He ordered 
 the cuirassiers to carry the plateau of Mont 
 St Jean. But first he bent down and spoke 
 
THE GREAT FRENCH PUZZLE. 107 
 
 in an undertone to the peasant Lacoste, who 
 acted as his guide. Lacoste made a sign 
 of the head, " probably perfidious," says the 
 chronicler. This is mysterious, but is pres- 
 ently explained. Napoleon had scrutinised the 
 opposite ridge before ordering the cuirassiers 
 to advance, and though he could not see the 
 hollow road of Ohain, he suspected it to be 
 there. " He had therefore put," says M. Hugo, 
 " probably on the chance of an obstacle, a ques- 
 tion to the guide Lacoste. The guide had 
 answered in the negative. One might almost 
 say that from this movement of a peasant's 
 head sprang the catastrophe of Napoleon." 
 
 The unsuspecting cuirassiers then advanced 
 as gaily as if there were no hollow roads in the 
 world, and debouched on the plateau like an 
 earthquake. " On a sudden, tragical to relate, 
 on our right, the head of the column of cuiras- 
 siers drew up with a frightful clamour. Arrived 
 at the culminating point of the crest, all furious 
 and at the height of their exterminating course 
 against the squares and guns, they perceived 
 between them and the English a trench, a 
 grave. It was the hollow roadv of Ohain. 
 
 " The movement was terrific. There was the 
 ravine, unlooked-for, gaping sheer down under 
 the horses' feet, twelve feet deep between its 
 double banks ; the second rank pushed the 
 
108 VICTOE HUGO ON 
 
 first, and the third pushed the second ; the 
 horses drew back, recoiled, fell, slipt up with 
 their feet in the air, bruising and throwing 
 the riders ; unable to retire, the column was 
 a projectile; the force acquired to crush the 
 English crushed the French ; the inexorable 
 ravine could only be closed by being heaped — 
 riders and horses rolled there pell-mell, crushing 
 each other, making but one mass of flesh in the 
 gulf; and, when this grave was full of living 
 men, the rest passed, marching over them. 
 " This commenced the loss of the battle." 
 We said before that the great problem was 
 dealt with in the present instance by a man of 
 invention and imagination, and we think the 
 reader, struck with the splendid conception of 
 the hollow road of Ohain, which is completely 
 original, must admit that we were right. How 
 different this from the paltry commonplace fic- 
 tions of Thiers ! There is nothing at aU enter- 
 taining in being told that two and two make 
 five. But it is extremely interesting to watch 
 the covert movements of the power that had 
 predestined the destruction of Napoleon. With- 
 out M. Hugo's aid we should have failed to 
 trace its machinations. But at the touch of 
 genius all becomes clear — the rain-cloud, the 
 thunder, the frown in heaven, the perfidious 
 nod of the guide, and the hollow road, pre- 
 
THE GREAT FRENCH PUZZLE. 109 
 
 pared since the year 1637 for the destruction 
 of the cuirassiers, are all parts in the scheme 
 of destiny for the Emperor's overthrow. Zad- 
 kiel himself never explained more satisfactorily 
 the operations of the supernatural world. 
 
 From supernaturalism M. Hugo passes by an 
 easy transition to metaphysical speculations. 
 
 " Was it possible," he asks, " that Napoleon 
 should gain this battle ? We answer No. And 
 why ? Because of Wellington ? because of 
 Blucher ? No. Because of God ? " 
 
 This, though full of piety, is perhaps not so 
 intelligible as might be wished. He therefore 
 hastens to explain. 
 
 " Bonaparte, conqueror at Waterloo, that did 
 not come within the law of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury. Another series of acts was in prepara- 
 tion in which Napoleon had no place. Events 
 had long since declared their hostile disposition. 
 
 " It was time this vast man should fall. 
 
 " The excessive weight of this man in human 
 destiny troubled the balance. This individual 
 counted alone more than the universal group. 
 These plethoras of all the vitality of humanity 
 concentrated in a single head, the world mount- 
 ing into the brain of one man, — this would, if 
 it lasted, be fatal to civilisation. The moment 
 was come for the supreme incorruptible equity 
 to consider the matter. Probably the principles 
 
110 VICTOR HUGO ON 
 
 and elements on which depend the regular 
 movements in the moral as in the material 
 world, complained. Smoking blood, gorged 
 graveyards, the tears of mothers, — these are 
 terrible pleaders. 
 
 " Napoleon had been denounced in the in- 
 finite, and his fall was settled. 
 
 "He troubled God." 
 
 Here, then, we have the explanation of the 
 phenomena of Waterloo. As a Homeric deity- 
 conceives a jealousy of a Titan or a demigod, 
 so is the ruler of the French moral world dis- 
 turbed by this tremendous earthly potentate. 
 The matter was evidently getting serious. The 
 Prussians thrown into the Rhine, the English 
 impartially cast into the sea, the whole world 
 at Napoleon's feet, Fate naturally asks. What 
 next ? The conqueror and his army must find 
 employment — and, if not on earth, the infer- 
 ence is clear. Destiny, on seeing him, in oppo- 
 sition to her decrees, escape from Elba, at once 
 goes into training during the Hundred Days, 
 and bethinking herself that he must be en- 
 countered somewhere, and finding herself in 
 first-rate condition, boldly enters the ring at 
 Waterloo. 
 
 Knowing then how, under such circumstances, 
 an earth-born champion must fare, the reader 
 of M. Hugo finds the interest of the event lost 
 
THE GREAT FRENCH PUZZLE. Ill 
 
 in the foregone conclusion. The odds are so 
 great that it becomes a hollow thing. Not 
 but that M. Hugo now and then hints that, 
 if Napoleon had had any luck, he might still 
 have got the best of it. Destiny receives 
 several facers, and about four in the afternoon 
 is decidedly groggy. At five, things look very 
 queer for her, and her backers are beginning 
 to hedge. But the judicious bottle-holder 
 Blucher administers a suck of the lemon at the 
 right moment, when she rallies, and, stepping 
 briskly in, knocks the Emperor out of time. 
 
 There are, however, several episodes worthy 
 of note, though the event be no longer doubt- 
 ful. The manner in which the cuirassiers 
 charged is very remarkable. " Belly to the 
 ground, bridles loose, sabre in the teeth, pistols 
 in hand, such was the attack." No wonder 
 that, as we presently learn, " this extraordinary 
 cavalry petrified Clinton, who had seen Tala- 
 vera and Badajoz." We are sorry that M. 
 Hugo has not told us some particulars about 
 the conduct of the cavalry in the latter action ; 
 whether, for instance, they distinguished them- 
 selves in defence or attack, whether in guard- 
 ing the ramparts or escalading the walls. 
 However, the cuirassiers, besides petrifying 
 Clinton, and causing Wellington, "three parts 
 beaten," to say, in an undertone, " Sublime ! " 
 
112 VICTOR HUGO ON 
 
 also "destroyed seven squares out of thirteen, 
 took or spiked sixty guns, and carried off from 
 the EngHsh regiments six colours, which three 
 cuirassiers and three chasseurs of the Guard 
 took to the Emperor before the farm of Belle 
 Alliance." What chance our troopers would 
 have with these warriors may be gathered 
 from the following fact : "A sergeant of the 
 English Guards, the first boxer of England, 
 reputed by his comrades invulnerable, was 
 killed by a little French drummer." It was 
 no doubt Shaw, the Life-Guardsman, who be- 
 came the drummer's victim, destroyed probably 
 with the drumsticks. We are also supplied 
 with incontestable proof that the cuirassiers 
 were attacked in the rear, because there was 
 a battery in front of them, the balls from 
 which struck some of them in the back, and 
 they could not have turned their backs except 
 for the purpose of meeting an enemy behind 
 them. M. Hugo has seen a French cuirass 
 in the museum, with a shot -hole in the left 
 shoulder-blade. It was recorded, in the epitaph 
 on Commodore Trunnion, that he never showed 
 his poop to the enemy except when he took 
 him in tow. We now learn that a French 
 cuirassier never turns his back on the foe 
 except when attacked in the rear. 
 
 As a tender relief to these scenes of blood, 
 
THE GREAT FRENCH PUZZLE. 113 
 
 the skilful narrator introduces a touching in- 
 cident in most pathetic language. " The square 
 on the extreme right, the most exposed of all, 
 being without support, was nearly destroyed 
 by the first shocks. It was formed of the 75 th 
 Eegiment of Highlanders. The piper in the 
 centre, whilst extermination was dealt around 
 him, casting down, in profound abstraction, his 
 melancholy eye, full of the reflection of the 
 forests and the lakes, seated on a drum, his 
 pibroch under his arm, played his mountain- 
 music. These Scotchmen died in thinking of 
 Ben Lothian, as the Greeks in remembering 
 Argos. The sabre of a cuirassier, striking down 
 the pibroch and the arm which carried it, 
 stopped the music by killing the musician." 
 
 Was ever anything so full of pathos ? The 
 fact that these unfortunate Scotchmen thought 
 of Ben Lothian, shows that their minds were 
 giving way under the pressure of circumstances. 
 What a subject that piper for Thomas Faed or 
 Noel Baton ! though they would probably have 
 to call in the aid of some eminent landscape- 
 painter to represent the eye "full of the re- 
 flection of the forests and lakes." The great 
 difficulty would manifestly be the pibroch under 
 the arm, which must have been there, since the 
 prophet-eye of M. Hugo discerned it, but which 
 no artist could adequately represent. If the 
 
 H 
 
114 VICTOR HUGO ON 
 
 diflficulty be ever solved, however, we may hope 
 for the gratification of seeing the famous Re- 
 quiem introduced into the portrait of Mozart, 
 and the symphony in C under the arm of the 
 sculptured Beethoven. 
 
 The facts that Destiny had already decided 
 against Napoleon, and that he could not have 
 gained the battle in any case, do not preclude 
 a further use of the If. " If the little herd-boy, 
 who served as guide to Bulow, the lieutenant 
 of Blucher, had counselled him to debouch from 
 the forest above Frischermont rather than 
 below Plancenoit, the form of the nineteenth 
 century would perhaps have been different. 
 Napoleon would have gained the battle of 
 Waterloo. By any road except that below 
 Plancenoit the Prussians would have come on 
 a ravine impassable to artillery, and Bulow 
 would not have arrived." Now we not only 
 agree in this, but we will go farther, and say 
 that, if commanders generally allowed them- 
 selves to be led astray by little herd-boys whom 
 they had taken as guides, all the battles that 
 ever were fought would have been quite differ- 
 ent from the reality. But as generals usually 
 select for themselves the points to which they 
 wish to be guided, we do not see why the 
 hypothesis should have been introduced in the 
 present more than in any other case. How- 
 
THE GREAT EEENCH PUZZLE. 115 
 
 ever, M. Hugo has conferred on these humble 
 guides a prominence that they have hardly- 
 attained in war since the Paladins were led to 
 destruction by the traitor Ganelon. 
 
 We regret that we cannot follow M. Hugo 
 farther. He continues the subject in a chapter 
 headed " Cambronne," but it is the most extra- 
 ordinary farrago of nasty nonsense that ever 
 was printed. 
 
 Such, then, is the way in which it pleases 
 our neighbours to write the history of Waterloo. 
 It amuses them, and it does not hurt us. The 
 theme is, for them, like an indeterminate equa- 
 tion, or a charade written about nothing, and 
 which consequently admits of an infinity of 
 solutions. The objection to this method of 
 treatment is, that it may be turned against 
 the inventors. A German writer, for instance, 
 might compose in this fashion an entirely new 
 version of Marengo. He might begin by assert- 
 ing that, if the peasant who conducted Napoleon 
 over the St Bernard had only pushed him into 
 a crevasse of the mountain, there would have 
 been no battle at all, which would be indis- 
 putable ; and not only no battle, but no Con- 
 sulate, no Empire, no Austerlitz, no Waterloo, 
 and the history of the century would have been 
 quite different. He might then state that 
 Destiny was getting alarmed at the progress 
 
116 VICTOR HUGO ON 
 
 of the Austrians in Italy, and had therefore 
 decreed the downfall of Melas \yho commanded 
 them ; and might represent the hostile power 
 as giving signs of displeasure, varied, of course, 
 for the sake of avoiding too close imitation : 
 thus, instead of rain and mud, there might be 
 a hailstorm and a sharp frost ; instead of mut- 
 tering thunder, we might have the whistling of 
 an easterly wind ; and a derisive wink might 
 be substituted for the frown that was seen in 
 the depths of heaven. Next the features of 
 the battle-field might be brought into play ; a 
 great many of the Austrians were actually 
 checked and destroyed by a rivulet, the Fon- 
 tanone ; the singular phenomenon of a rivulet 
 existing on a battle-field might be descanted 
 on, and, to increase the ominous effect of the 
 circumstance, it might be mentioned that an 
 old woman had been drowned in it one dark 
 night in the year 1637. Bonaparte might be 
 slightly alluded to as a second-rate general, the 
 real antagonist being Destiny ; and it might be 
 shown how, by pushing him into the Po and 
 Suchet into the Gulf of Genoa, nobody knows 
 what might have happened ; but that certainly 
 Lonato, Castiglione, and Areola would have 
 been avenged, and the man of Marengo would 
 have blotted out Eivoli. Lastly, to complete 
 the details of the picture, some thrilling inci- 
 
THE GEEAT FBENCH PUZZLE. 117 
 
 dents might be introduced : Desaix might be 
 killed in single combat by an Austrian fifer, 
 and a Parisian musician might be represented 
 as seated amidst the m^lee with something cor- 
 responding to a pibroch under his arm (say the 
 Marseillaise), his melancholy eye full of the 
 reflection of the Place de Grfeve and the ruins 
 of the Bastille, and thinking in his dying mo- 
 ments of the Lac de Boulogne, or the Champ 
 de Venus. Such a course is manifestly open 
 to the opposite party ; but the execution of 
 the idea would create a terrible commotion in 
 France ; besides, impartial people might prefer 
 the real facts ; and on many accounts we think 
 it will be better to let the French enjoy the 
 distinction of being the only nation that write 
 their history in this way. 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETEY. 
 
 TT is perhaps a respectable instinct which in- 
 -*- chnes us to accept as good all the work of 
 him who has come to be recognised as a great 
 writer. The illusion created by the grand 
 novels of Scott (which we maintain to be the 
 best ever written) brightened to the eyes of 
 faithful readers the dreary pages of ' St Ronan's 
 Well; ' The Monastery,' ' Peveril/ and ' Kenil- 
 worth.' Towards the close of his life, Dickens 
 used to announce with the completion of every 
 new novel that he had never before commanded 
 so vast an audience as in that particular work ; 
 and yet every fresh tale showed a wider depart- 
 ure from that astonishing vein of humour which 
 had first made him adored of the British public, 
 and a tendency more and more confirmed to- 
 wards a style of treatment which, instead of 
 being humorous, was merely fantastic, exagger- 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 119 
 
 ated, and grotesque. Tennyson's splendid com- 
 bination of inspiration and art in the " Morte 
 d' Arthur " has drawn up with it into the em- 
 pyrean a whole string of idylls which would 
 scarcely have arrived there without its support ; 
 and, in another region of art, Turner's later 
 extravagances, no less than his early achieve- 
 ments, are worshipped by crowds of devotees 
 following their high priest, E,uskin. 
 
 At first sight this trustfulness seems gener- 
 ous. The great writer has given us of his best ; 
 let us be thankful for this also. His wine is on 
 the lees ; but let us affirm it to be the same 
 wine the body and bouquet of which so charmed 
 us. Kind as this may seem, it is often an in- 
 jury to the author, whose best work is depre- 
 ciated when his worst is equally praised, and 
 with whom future readers may make acquaint- 
 ance through his inferior performances, which 
 they have been induced to accept as just exam- 
 ples of his power. Nor can the exercise of this 
 kind of indulgence give any true satisfaction to 
 him who trustfully accepts as worthy that which 
 is not worthy, since only fancied pleasure can 
 be derived from fancied admiration. 
 
 But apart from the author and his admirers, 
 there is something else deserving of considera- 
 tion in the matter — namely, the preservation of 
 a just standard of excellence ; and if the main- 
 
120 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 tenance of this may properly demand that writ- 
 ers who are both bad and pretentious should be 
 prevented by deserved criticism from corrupting 
 the public taste, even more stringent would 
 seem to be this duty where bad examples pass 
 under the sanction of high names. To do this 
 only is the object of the present paper, and not 
 to discriminate nicely the different degrees of 
 merit displayed by an author, nor the many 
 cases where a stanza or verse less happy than 
 the rest is so far an injury to what else is ex- 
 cellent — as in Cowper's beautiful address " To 
 Mary," where there is one stanza which we 
 have always wished we could blot out — 
 
 " Such feebleness of limbs thou provest 
 That now at every step thou movest 
 Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest 
 My Mary." 
 
 The forced conventional use of " provest " here 
 is quite out of character with the ease and grace 
 of aU the rest of the poem, and the image sug- 
 gested in the remaining lines is dangerously- 
 near the limit which should divide the pathe- 
 tic from the mawkish. And we have always 
 thought, too, that the "Battle of the Baltic" 
 would have been vastly the better for the omis- 
 sion of the last stanza, where " Riou," however 
 "gallant" and "good," jars, in his obtrusive 
 personality, on the vague picturesqueness which 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 121 
 
 is the charm of the piece — and the mermaid, as 
 a minister of condolence and fame, is sadly out 
 of place ; so that in the reader's ear might be 
 left undisturbed the echo of the preceding lines, 
 with all their sweet and melancholy cadence — 
 
 " Let us think of them that sleep 
 Full many a fathom deep, 
 By thy wild, and stormy steep, 
 Elsinore ! " 
 
 And again, one of Wordsworth's best -known 
 sonnets is disfigured by the unpleasing and alto- 
 gether unnecessary ejaculation, " Dear God ! " 
 while the last line — 
 
 " And all that mighty heart is lying still " — 
 
 would imply that part only of a heart might be 
 still or in motion. But in these cases the pas- 
 sages in question have not been specially praised ; 
 perhaps, indeed, many readers have silently 
 protested against them. It is only with the 
 instances where bad work passes for good, or 
 where admiration is demanded for it anew, that 
 we now concern ourselves. In doing so, we 
 shall probably tread on many prejudices, and 
 jar on the links of many old associations, there- 
 by arousing indignation, if not protest ; and we 
 must lay our account chiefly on the chance of 
 being here and there thought to be right by 
 the few. 
 
122 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 The disciples of Wordsworth will admit that 
 his strength lay in interpreting and describing 
 the aspects of nature, and in viewing human 
 life with the eye of a sympathetic philosopher, 
 and not in dramatically presenting strong sit- 
 uations or powerful emotions. Also, he was 
 essentially a British, nay, more, a home poet, 
 only possessed of his fuU strength when his foot 
 touched his native sod. Yet, when he once 
 chanced to take up an ancient classical theme, 
 demanding for its treatment rare dramatic 
 power — for it involved the representation of 
 the feelings and demeanour of a wife whose 
 husband was suddenly brought back to her 
 from the grave — he obtained so much success 
 as this, that the piece "Laodamia" has ever 
 since been quoted with applause, and has found 
 a place in most collections of modern verse, in- 
 cluding a selection from the works of the poet 
 himself, made by his latest and most discriminat- 
 ing critic, Matthew Arnold. But no chorus of 
 praise should render us insensible to the fact 
 that in this case Wordsworth has but shared 
 the general fate of those who deal with matters 
 uncongenial. The very first verse labours, and 
 labours in vain — 
 
 " With sacrifice, before the rising morn " 
 (why " rising " morn ? Morn itself signifies the 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 123 
 
 rising of the day, and the phrase might there- 
 fore be paraphrased, " the rising rising of the 
 day") 
 
 " Performed, my slaughtered lord have I required ; 
 And in thick darkness, amid shades forlorn, 
 Him of the infernal gods have I desired." 
 
 Was ever expression more wooden ? How the 
 joints of the verse creak ! The reader, instead 
 of being transported in an ethereal car, is jolted 
 in a waggon. " Performed," " have I desired," 
 "have I required": how laboured the lines; 
 how prosaic " performed," " required," and " de- 
 sired " ; and how abominable " my slaughtered 
 lord " ! a phrase suggestive of the knacker's 
 yard, rather than of the death of a hero devot- 
 ing himself for his cause, and slain in fighting 
 valiantly with Hector ! 
 
 In the next verse the countenance of Lao- 
 damia, awaiting an answer to her prayer, is 
 described as " like the sun emerging from a 
 cloud," a simile which for some centuries had 
 not proved to be beyond the reach of a great 
 many poetasters. The third runs thus : — 
 
 •' terror ! what hath she perceived ? joy ! 
 
 "V\rhat doth she look on — whom doth she behold 1 
 Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy 1 
 
 His vital presence — his corporeal mould ? 
 It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis he ! 
 And a god leads him — wingM Mercury ! " 
 
124 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 This bald disjointed commonplace is intended 
 to express the profoundest emotion : it is emo- 
 tion made to order, with the usual result. 
 " Vital presence," " corporeal mould," " if sense 
 deceive her not, 'tis he ! " what very queer 
 phraseology for the situation ! Mercury can 
 find nothing more godlike to say than " Such 
 grace hath crowned thy prayer," which is pure 
 nonsense, for how can a prayer be " crowned " ? 
 And then comes the interview, beginning thus : — 
 
 " Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to clasp ; 
 
 Again that consummation she essayed ; 
 But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp 
 
 As often as that eager grasp was made. 
 The phantom parts — but parts to reunite, 
 
 And reassumes his place before her sight." 
 
 No line could be more emptily pretentious than 
 the second ; the third and fourth are very poor ; 
 and the whole stanza feebly endeavours to do 
 what Cowper has so much better done in his 
 translation of the passage where Ulysses de- 
 scribes how he saw the shade of his mother 
 among the ghosts : — 
 
 " Thrice I sprang 
 Toward her, by desire impetuous urged, 
 And thrice she flitted from between my arms, 
 Light as a passing shadow or a dream." 
 
 The interview proceeds, unbrightened by a 
 spark of poetry either from the wife or the 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 125 
 
 spectre, who appears to have acquired in 
 Erebus a taste for preaching, which he un- 
 sparingly exercises on his unfortunate spouse, 
 possibly in retaliation for conjugal lectures on 
 earth : — 
 
 " Be taught, faithful consort, to control 
 Eebellious passion ; for the gods approve 
 
 The depth and not the tumult of the soul — 
 A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
 
 Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 
 When I depart, for brief is my sojourn." 
 
 It appears a doubtful boon to be permitted to 
 see an apparition who goes on in this way. 
 She might have heard something quite as im- 
 pressive from any mundane philosopher with a 
 taste for exhortation. It was rather hard, too, 
 to be reproached for not possessing " depth of 
 soul," an attribute not exactly among those 
 which it is in our power to acquire, while 
 "tumult" might be pardoned to a woman in pres- 
 ence of her husband's ghost. Altogether, if the 
 shade at aU fairly represents what the man had 
 been, Laodamia was well rid of him. He scolds 
 her, for wishing to embrace him, quite in the 
 vein of Mr Chadband, and without any of the 
 effect to be expected from a supernatural moni- 
 tor ; for no sooner does the tedious apparition 
 vanish, than " on the palace floor a lifeless corse 
 she lay." Then comes the moral : — 
 
126 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 " Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, 
 She perished ; and as for a wilful crime. 
 
 By the just gods whom no weak pity moved, 
 "Was doomed to wear out her appointed time, 
 Apart from happy Ghosts that gather flowers 
 Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers." 
 
 What it was that the " just gods " punished — 
 what the poor woman did, or omitted to do, 
 which could only be expiated by this sad doom 
 — we cannot divine. It was no very terrible 
 crime, however it might be an error in taste, to 
 wish to keep her husband when he had come 
 back to her ; and she could hardly be expected, 
 without the phantom's peculiar gifts, to answer 
 him in his own style. The ideas of " blest re- 
 union in the shades below," " happy Ghosts that 
 gather flowers," are not the views of Homeric 
 times about the other world, according to which 
 the ghosts of even the greatest heroes were sad 
 shadows perpetually bewailing the life they had 
 lost ; and the effect of such notions here is to 
 produce a feeble muddle of paganism and Chris- 
 tianity. The redundancy in the fourth hne is 
 quite in character with all the turgid, preten- 
 tious phraseology of the piece — of which Mr 
 Arnold, in the essay prefatory to his volume of 
 selections from Wordsworth, says : " It is style, 
 and the elevation given by style, which chiefly 
 makes the eflectiveness of ' Laodamia.' " To us, 
 on the other hand, it appears altogether unfor- 
 
FALSE COIN IN POBTRY. 127 
 
 tunate for the poet that such a piece, by being 
 enshrined among the selections, should receive 
 a prominence which brings it into comparison 
 with such admirable reproductions of the an- 
 tique as the " (Enone " and " Ulysses " of 
 Tennyson, and, above all, his " Tithonus," 
 where, by an extraordinary effort, the poet 
 projects himself into, and portrays for us, a 
 condition of human life eminently poetical, but 
 which could not exist except in idea. The 
 injury which Wordsworth sustains when such 
 scholastic stuff as " Laodamia " is offered as 
 representative of his genius, may be estimated 
 by contrasting it with the finished excellence 
 of, for example, this stanza of his, describing 
 the Shepherd-Lord : — 
 
 " Love had lie found in huts where poor men lie, 
 His daily teachers had been woods and rills, 
 The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills." 
 
 Such was what the bard of Rydal did at his 
 best ; but, absorbed in the sense which he justly 
 entertained of his mission as a poet, having 
 entire belief in himself, and no sense of humour, 
 he yielded much too unreservedly to the im- 
 pulse to turn every thought that occurred to 
 him into verse. Once put into shape, the piece 
 was religiously enshrined in one or other of the 
 niches which it pleased him to assign to his 
 
128 FALSE COIN IN POETEY. 
 
 verses — " Poems founded on the Affections," 
 " Poems on the Naming of Places," and so 
 forth ; which might just as well have been 
 styled — " Poems written on Mondays," " Poems 
 written on Foolscap Paper," &c. Where so 
 little power of selection of subject was exer- 
 cised, it was inevitable that, however high the 
 quality of some of the results might be, a good 
 deal must be found altogether worthless. It 
 was in recognition of this fact that Mr Arnold, 
 a true though not a bigoted Wordsworthian, 
 and a poet of such repute as to give authority 
 to his work, undertook to perform the friendly 
 office of delivering the bard from the lumber 
 which so needlessly, and perhaps fatally, ob- 
 structed his progress towards posterity. Prob- 
 ably no one could have done this better on the 
 whole ; yet, small as the volume of selections is, 
 we could have wished it to have been still more 
 carefuUy winnowed. For example, what could 
 possibly be expected from such a title as this — 
 " Anecdote for Fathers, showing how the Prac- 
 tice of Lying may be taught " ? It is evidently 
 about as hopeful to look for poetry in this as in 
 the versification of the bard's weekly washing- 
 bills. Accordingly, the simplicity we find here 
 has far overstepped the line which should 
 divide it from childishness and twaddle. Re- 
 counting the incidents of a walk he took with 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 129 
 
 his little boy — the most remarkable of which 
 were that they saw lambs, and heard birds 
 warble — he tells how he asked his offspring 
 whether he would rather live in their present 
 farm, or their former home of Kilve. The boy 
 prefers Kilve, and being pressed " three times " 
 to account for this choice, the important narra- 
 tive goes on thus : — 
 
 " His head he raised — there was in sight, 
 It caught his eye, he saw it plain, 
 Upon the house-top, glittering bright, 
 A broad and gilded vane. 
 
 Then did the boy his tongue unlock. 
 And eased his mind with this reply : 
 
 ' At Ealve there was no weathercock : 
 And that's the reason why.' 
 
 dearest, dearest boy ! my heart 
 For better lore would seldom yearn, 
 
 Could I but teach the hundredth part 
 Of what from thee I learn." 
 
 The reader, who secretly rejoices that the fond 
 parent did not realise the formidable notion of 
 carrying his teachings further, will perhaps 
 wonder why Mr Arnold has retained this piece 
 (unless, indeed, as a specimen of what he has 
 rid the volume of) ; but as we never heard that 
 the " anecdote " ever acquired any fame among 
 " fathers," or any other class of readers, it is 
 only noticed here because offered afresh as 
 
130 PALSB COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 worthy of commendation. But another piece, 
 " Euth," is both retained by Mr Arnold, and 
 is often quoted with approbation, although it 
 begins thus — 
 
 " When Euth was left half desolate, 
 Her Father took another Mate," 
 
 as fathers not uncommonly do ; and also in 
 spite of the fact that the best-known stanza in 
 it, describing the young man who proves false 
 to Ruth, is thus worded : — - 
 
 " He -was a lovely youth ! I guess 
 The panther in the wilderness 
 Was not so fair as he." 
 
 " I guess " is very vulgar, inappropriate — for 
 there is no guessing in the case — and evidently 
 lugged in for the sake of the rhyme, because the 
 poet could not part with " the panther in the 
 wilderness," which does not strike us as a very 
 happy or natural simile in itself; and when the 
 stanza runs on — 
 
 " And, when he chose to sport and play, 
 No dolphin ever was so gay 
 Upon the tropic sea," 
 
 we are not the more reconciled to it by the 
 sudden change from panther to dolphin ; for the 
 latter simUe, besides muddling itself with the 
 former, is equally forced, and the line, " No 
 dolphin ever was so gay," a piece of Words- 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 131 
 
 worthian puerility. Yet this stanza is frequent- 
 ly quoted with approbation, though never, we 
 suppose, without exciting in many readers a 
 prejudice against its author. Next comes a 
 description of American scenery, no better than 
 was to be expected from one who had never 
 seen it : — 
 
 " He told of the magnolia spread 
 High as a cloud, high overhead ! 
 The cypress and her spire, — 
 Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
 To set the hills on fire." 
 
 Why should the magnolia be " high as a 
 cloud " ? and why should " high overhead," 
 with its note of admiration, be added ? A 
 hundred leagues of hills on fire would certainly 
 be a novel but by no means pleasing feature in 
 a landscape, and very unfitly described by the 
 word " gleam," which signifies something tran- 
 sient and fitful ; while the following simile — 
 
 " Of islands that together lie 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 Among the evening clouds," 
 
 is peculiarly inapt, for the blue spaces of water 
 between the islands would more properly be 
 compared to the " spots of sky," and the even- 
 ing clouds to the islands ; but in any case, the 
 presentation of the additional image is no gain 
 
132 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 to the reader, who can realise the appearance 
 of islands in a lake quite as well as that of 
 clouds in a sky. The lover, somewhat oddly 
 addressing Ruth as " my own adopted bride " 
 (as an adopted chUd is somebody else's child, 
 an adopted bride might seem to be somebody 
 else's bride), persuades her in language which is 
 neither prose nor poetry to marry him, while 
 Ruth is said to have been delighted to think 
 
 " That on those lonesome floods 
 And green savannahs, she should share 
 His hoard with lawful joy, and bear 
 His name in the wild woods." 
 
 The next lines are too bad even for Ruth : — 
 
 " But, as you have hefore been told, 
 This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold," &c., 
 
 was not a very good young man, though 
 
 " In his worst pursuits, I ween, 
 That sometimes there did intervene 
 Pure hopes of high intent." 
 
 What are hopes of high intent? Whatever 
 they are, however, they were not realised, for, 
 falling into bad company, 
 
 " His genius and his moral frame 
 Were thus impaired, and he became 
 The slave of low desires : 
 A Man who without self-control 
 Would seek what the degraded soul 
 Unworthily admires ; " 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 133 
 
 and accordingly, 
 
 " Full soon that better mind was gone ; 
 No hope, no wish remained, not one, — 
 They stirred him now no more ; 
 New objects did new pleasures give, 
 And once again he wished to live 
 As lawless as before." 
 
 The consequence of this was, that instead of 
 taking Ruth with him to the green savannahs, 
 he only conducted her to the port of embarka- 
 tion : — 
 
 " But when they thither came, the Youth 
 Deserted his poor Bride, and Euth 
 Could never find him more. 
 
 God help thee, Kuth ! — Siuih pains she had, 
 That she in half a year loas mad, 
 And in a prison housed." 
 
 So the doggerel goes on, describing Ruth in 
 her half-witted state; and the forty -three 
 stanzas of it end thus : — 
 
 " Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 
 lU-fated Euth, in hallowed mould 
 Thy corpse shall buried be : 
 For thee a funeral beU shall ring, 
 And all the congregation sing 
 A Christian psalm for thee." 
 
 Certainly the poor woman had done nothing to 
 cause her to be denied decent burial ; but what 
 there is in this or any part of the dismal, com- 
 
134 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 monplace story to make it seem worth preser- 
 vation, when so much of the same sort was 
 being suppressed, we should Hke to learn from 
 the editor. In his narrative, as in his semi- 
 dramatic attempts, Wordsworth mostly hobbles 
 along with the jaunty air of a rheumatic old 
 gentleman who is resolved to step with dignity 
 in spite of the incurable sciatica and lumbago 
 which afflict him ; and few are the examples in 
 these kinds of composition in which he has 
 borne himself naturally, and which can be 
 quoted with benefit to his fame. It is when 
 this poet, high priest of nature and student of 
 the inner life of man, sets forth his favourite 
 doctrine of the influences of natm-e on the soul 
 of man, that he becomes transfigured, that he 
 rises with easy power into a region of poetry 
 where his reign is as absolute as that of an 
 eagle in certain regions of the sky. It is then 
 that he displays a finished and grand versifica- 
 tion, that he snatches a grace beyond the reach 
 of art, that he imbues his work with distinctive 
 colour, and marks it for his own. Examples of 
 this, conveying perhaps the whole essence of 
 that philosophy which was expanded elsewhere, 
 are the pieces, " Three years she grew," the 
 sonnet beginning " The world is too much 
 with us," the stanza already quoted from the 
 " Feast at Brougham Castle," and some of " Peel 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 135 
 
 Castle in a Storm " and " Revisiting the Banks 
 of the Wye." It would perhaps be too much 
 (remembering the " Prelude " and the " Excur- 
 cursion ") to say that all his work which was in 
 unison with the spirit of these was good ; but it 
 would hardly be too much to say that all which 
 was not was bad. 
 
 It was pleasant to find that Mr Arnold's 
 catholic soul could so thoroughly sympathise 
 with another great but very different order of 
 poet as to impel him also in this case to under- 
 take to free the bard from the impedimenta of 
 his own inferior work. Yet we must confess to 
 some points of difference from him also in this 
 volume of ' Selections from Byron.' To begin, 
 it contains, and thus assigns special distinction 
 to, a piece we could never away with, the " Ode 
 to Napoleon Bonaparte" — -written, as Byron 
 tells us, upon a meal of biscuits and soda-water, 
 and of such flavour as that succulent diet might 
 be expected to develop. On hearing of the 
 Emperor's abdication, and finding that he had 
 not thereupon committed suicide, Byron was 
 filled with noble rage. The ode is written 
 throughout in what Bottom calls " Ercles' vein 
 — a vein to tear a cat in, to make all split," and 
 begins, "'Tis done !" like a speech in a Surrey 
 melodrama. Napoleon's defeat in battle had 
 had the effect, it seems, of rendering him " a 
 
136 FALSE COIN IN POETRY, 
 
 nameless thing," and he is accused of being 
 "abject," and, still worse, "alive" ; after which 
 he is reproached as an " ill-minded man " ! (not 
 a vigorous form of abuse, any more than 
 " throneless homicide ") — of whom it is then 
 said — 
 
 " By gazing on thyself grown 'blind, 
 Thou taught'st the rest to see " — 
 
 an instance of self-contemplation which, as a 
 metaphor, may take rank with " none but him- 
 self can be his parallel," or that in which an 
 inconsistent gentleman was described as " turn- 
 ing his back upon himself." Then he is com- 
 pared to Milo — 
 
 " He who of old would rend the oak, 
 Dreamed not of the rebound ; 
 Chained by the trunk he vainly broke — 
 Alone — how looked he round 1 " 
 
 A most uncomfortable position for circumspec- 
 tion, doubtless, but vilely expressed, and very 
 little to the purpose. By-and-by comes a very 
 impressive reflection : — 
 
 " Weighed in the balance, hero-dust 
 Is vile as vulgar clayj 
 Thy scales, Mortality, are just 
 To all that pass away." 
 
 What Mortality has to do with scales, and 
 where he or she got them, no man can explain 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 137 
 
 — the conclusion is not so profound that it could 
 not be arrived at without introducing this queer 
 personification with its balance. Afterwards 
 Napoleon is exhorted, not too grammatically, 
 to commit suicide without further delay : — 
 
 " Unless, like he of Babylon, 
 All sense is with, thy sceptre gone. 
 
 Life ■wUl not long confine 
 That spirit poured so widely forth — 
 So long obeyed — so little worth ! " 
 
 And is thus scolded — 
 
 " But thou forsooth must be a king. 
 And don the purple vest — 
 As if that foolish robe could wring 
 Eemembrance from thy breast." 
 
 A robe may be wrung, but cannot wring any- 
 thing — and if it could, we are not told why he 
 should desire it to wring remembrance from his 
 breast. 
 
 We find this piece also among the selections 
 in Archbishop Trench's volume of ' Household 
 Poetry,' and in the ' Thousand and One Gems ' 
 of Charles Mackay. Perhaps the reason why 
 it thus keeps a place is, that it forestalls the 
 verdict of the present day on Napoleon, and 
 sees as we see it, the nature of the man and of 
 his power, divested of the illusions of glory. 
 But it is as poetry that it must be judged : tried 
 by that standard, the "gem" is of muddiest 
 
138 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 paste, and the whole performance a villanous 
 travesty of Byron by himself. It is an uncom- 
 fortable thought that such a piece should be so 
 much better known than some of his beautiful 
 work — for instance, than the " Stanzas com- 
 posed during a thunderstorm," — melodious, 
 spontaneous as the song of a bird, the very 
 spray of suddenly excited emotion. With pe- 
 culiar pleasure we recalled them lately while 
 looking on the huge range of Pindus, beneath 
 which the poet was journeying when the storm 
 broke over the mountain. 
 
 Some years ago, Mr Browning, in a volume 
 of poems, took occasion to reflect unfavourably 
 upon that passage at the close of ' Childe 
 Harold' which has come to be known as 
 " Byron's Address to the Ocean." In review- 
 ing Browning's new pieces, the ' Times ' re- 
 marked indignantly on this disparagement of 
 what it called " those grand verses which 
 have stirred the souls of millions of EngHsh- 
 men.'' Thereupon a correspondence ensued in 
 that journal, wherein Mr Murray, the son of 
 Byron's publisher, joined in defending "those 
 glorious stanzas addressed to the Ocean," and 
 various attempts were made by him and others, 
 with very doubtful success, to clear them from 
 certain obscurities. Reading again the stanzas 
 in question on that occasion, we came to con- 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 139 
 
 elusions about them quite at variance with the 
 opinions expressed by their eulogists. And 
 here it is well to premise that the present writer 
 is one of what is, we fear, the diminishing class, 
 who stiU look on Byron as a splendid poet. His 
 vigour, his picturesqueness, his affluence, his 
 lucidity (a quality not too common now), all 
 seem to us admirable. That he may, perhaps, 
 before long, hang " quite out of fashion like a 
 rusty mail," is not his fault ; it is a lot which 
 he will probably share with Scott and other 
 great contemporaries. The Pantheon of any 
 generation can only hold a certain number of 
 divinities, and as new ones appear, old ones 
 must make room. But the tim.e of oblivion will 
 come the sooner for letting bad examples of 
 their genius pass for good. 
 
 The " Address " begins with the line — 
 
 " EoU on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean, — roll ! " 
 
 " Swear me, Kate," says Hotspur, " a good 
 mouth-fiUing oath ; " and this is a good mouth- 
 filling line, but nothing more. Why should the 
 poet teU the ocean to roU on ? Moore, when he 
 says, " Flow on, thou shining river ! " has a good 
 reason for it — the river is to bear a message in 
 the flowers which he casts on its surface. No 
 such motive exists here, and the line, with those 
 
140 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 that follow, shows how sound and manner are 
 accepted as substitutes for thought : — 
 
 " Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain." 
 
 Why in vain ? the fleets might be thought to 
 voyage to some purpose. 
 
 " Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
 Stops with the shore." 
 
 Hurricanes, earthquakes, frost, lightning, mark 
 the earth with ruin, but not man. He marks 
 it with cultivation and construction, the reverse 
 of ruin. If he cuts down a wood, it is to re- 
 place it with a farm or a city. In war he de- 
 stroys — but, for the most part, only what he 
 has himself made. And how can his control be 
 said to stop with the shore, when it is on the 
 deep that his skill and boldness in bending 
 nature to his purposes are most conspicuous? 
 It is there that he makes the winds serve him, 
 and by their aid converts it into innumerable 
 highways. 
 
 " Upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own," 
 
 — that is, the ocean's deed ; yet, in the very 
 next stanza, he mentions Trafalgar, where the 
 bay was covered, after the battle, with wrecks 
 made by " man's ravage." 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETKY. 141 
 
 Next comes a very disputable string of asser- 
 tions : — 
 
 " His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields 
 Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
 And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
 Spuming him from thy hosom to the skies, 
 And send'st him shivering in thy playful spray. 
 And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 And dashest him again to earth : — there let him. lay." 
 
 Except in the very limited sense that footprints 
 do not remain in water — a truism too obvious 
 for mention, and yet the only sense in which 
 any part of this famous passage can be said to 
 be true — it is certainly somewhat audacious to 
 say that man's steps are not upon the paths of 
 ocean — and as to its fields not being a spoil for 
 him, the fisherman will hardly concur in that. 
 What follows is inhuman ; the poet, in his de- 
 sire to add to the indictment which he is always 
 pressing against his feUow-creatures, not only 
 stigmatises the endeavours of man to render 
 his abode habitable as the wielding of " vile 
 strength," but goes on to imply that to sail on 
 the sea is a crime justly punishable by drown- 
 ing, when he makes the frustration of the mari- 
 ner's hopes and prayers by shipwreck matter of 
 exultation — a sentiment continued in the next 
 verse, and extended from a contemplation of 
 
142 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 the drowning of an individual to the sinking of 
 whole armaments. Truly a promising vein in 
 which to address a maritime audience ! To 
 mend the grammar of " there let him lay," all 
 sorts of alterations were suggested in the cor- 
 respondence we have mentioned, aU equally 
 ridiculous: "there let him pray" — "there let 
 him stay " — putting a comma, and carrying it 
 on to the next stanza, &c., &c., while some 
 boldly defended it as rather fine than otherwise. 
 But the next verse was the main puzzle for the 
 eulogists : — 
 
 " Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
 Assyria, Greece, Kome, Carthage, what are they 1 
 Thy waters washed them power while they were free 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
 The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou ; — 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now." 
 
 The third and fourth lines, perceived to be non- 
 sense, have been a sort of conundrum, which 
 Byron himself, it appears, in revising the proof, 
 vainly endeavoured to solve ; the " thou " of the 
 sixth line, to make any kind of sense should be 
 "thee" — "decay has not dried thee up." Of 
 the eighth line it may be said that the im- 
 measurable surface of the ocean can scarcely be 
 styled its brow ; that, if it could, azure is not 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 143 
 
 a very suitable colour for a brow — substitute 
 blue for azure and it becomes ridiculous. But 
 these are venial offences compared with that 
 of talking of Time " writing wrinkles," and 
 of speaking of the sea as unwrinkled — that 
 which another poet has justly called " the wrin- 
 kled sea," whose " azure brow " is seldom seen 
 unfurrowed by waves or ripples. So complete 
 is the badness of the metaphor, that it may 
 take rank as one of the three worst mietaphors 
 we know of, each perpetrated by a great mas- 
 ter. Another of these is Wordsworth's, where 
 he speaks of the poet as gathering 
 
 " the harvest of a quiet eye 
 That broods and sleeps on his own heart." 
 
 To represent as a harvest what the eye ob- 
 serves, is a forced kind of phraseology, pretend- 
 ing to be figurative, but presenting no image 
 to the mind ; and when we are further called 
 on to conceive the harvest to be the result of 
 the brooding and sleeping of the eye on the 
 poet's heart, a degree of inconsequence is reached 
 of which Sir Boyle Roche might have been 
 proud. Not less remarkable for confusion is 
 the passage in " The Princess," where we are 
 
 told of 
 
 "jewels five words long 
 That on the stretched forefinger of all Time 
 Sparkle for ever." 
 
144 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 No doubt Time, who has always possessed a 
 forelock, may also have a forefinger; but all 
 time — that is time not figurative but abstract 
 — cannot ; the word " all " annihilates the per- 
 sonification, and with it aU claim to the digit. 
 But, granting the forefinger, why are the jewels 
 to be placed on it ? True, the forefinger is used 
 for pointing — but it cannot point at the rings 
 upon itself. Moreover, the forefinger can hold 
 but a very limited number of jewels ; yet the 
 novel office assigned to Time, is that of perpet- 
 ually holding out the member, to the neglect 
 of his established duties with his scythe, hour- 
 glass, &c., in order to exhibit these favoured 
 vocables. Lastly, to fiU up the tale of shps in 
 the passage, " sparkle for ever " is wrong in re- 
 ferring to a circumstance of time, and unneces- 
 sary, as an indication of duration, after the 
 phrase " all Time." 
 
 Byron's curious flatteries of the Ocean finish 
 with the startling assertion — 
 
 " even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are bred ; " 
 
 which, supposing the breeding of monsters out 
 of its slime were honourable to the sea, as is 
 apparently imphed, the biologists, even of By- 
 ron's day, would not have allowed to be true. 
 
 If we inquire why all this empty declamation 
 has obtained, and continues to obtain, so much 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETEY. 145 
 
 applause, more even than the grand opening of 
 the same canto, the reason probably is because 
 it (as well as the " Ode to Napoleon ") is in 
 Byron's manner ; — he wears the scornful look, 
 takes up the imposing attitude, speaks in the 
 sonorous tone, which he has assumed before 
 when uttering memorable things, and it is too 
 readily inferred that these outward shows are 
 accompanied by the customary inspiration. 
 
 We so often recognise the justice of Mr Ar- 
 nold's criticisms, both in poetry and in other 
 matters, that we have the less scruple in indi- 
 cating the foregoing points of disagreement in 
 the judgments expressed by his two volumes ; 
 moreover, we find another claim to forgiveness 
 in the circumstance that, in speaking of SheUey, 
 he says wickedly, " In Mr Palgrave's ' Treas- 
 ury ' " (the well-known volume of selections) 
 " may be seen a gallery of his failures." If Mr 
 Arnold should revise his Wordsworth and his 
 Byron, we hope he wiU avoid in them the re- 
 joinder which he has given Mr Palgrave the 
 opportunity to utter. 
 
 To say the truth, Mr Palgrave challenges 
 criticism in announcing, in the preface to his 
 little volume, that he has attempted to include in 
 it "all the best original lyrical pieces and songs 
 in our language by writers not living — and none 
 beside the best." But, not to mention omis- 
 
 K 
 
146 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 sions, we should take exception to many of his 
 pieces as much too shght for a collection so am- 
 bitious. The work of that amorous ecclesiastic, 
 Herrick, though generally thin, was often grace- 
 ful ; and if he were to be admitted at aU, he 
 might have been better represented than by 
 such stuff as this : — 
 
 " Whenas in silks my Julia goes 
 Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows 
 The liquefaction of her clothes. 
 Next when I cast mine eyes and see 
 That brave vibration each, way free ; 
 how that glittering taketh me ! " 
 
 Deep must have been the potations in which 
 the reverend bard had pledged his Julia, pro- 
 ducing general "liquefaction" and much "vi- 
 bration" in his brain, when he penned this 
 nonsense ; his face, the while, suffused with the 
 beaming but foolish smile of complacent inebri- 
 ety, as he foresaw, perhaps, the time, then far 
 distant, when Mr Palgrave would pick this 
 curious gem off the dust-heap and place it in 
 his ' Golden Treasury.' Mr Locker in his ' Lyra 
 Elegantiarum ' has given much better examples 
 of Herrick, besides other worthy pieces not in 
 the ' Treasury.' Again, how can such exag- 
 gerated platitudes be accepted as Waller's " On 
 a Girdle" contains, beginning thus weakly in 
 conception as in expression ?^ 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 147 
 
 " That whicli her slender waist confined 
 Shall now my joyful temples bind : 
 No monarch but would give his crown 
 His arms might do what this has done." 
 
 That Mr Palgrave finds a charm in bald and 
 mawkish simplicity, there is evidence also in 
 such pieces as " The Twa Corbies," " Willie's 
 drowned in Yarrow," and other members of 
 that family of dismal old ballads, with only a 
 few rags of meaning to cover their nakedness, 
 which some people think they admire ; " Bonny 
 Lesley," a very weak example of Burns ; " Sally 
 in our Alley " ! ! and many more. We meet 
 again, too, that ancient impostor, the "Loss 
 of the Royal George," much worthier of Mrs 
 Unwin than of her vigorous companion ; there 
 are specimens of Sam Rogers, as if that acid 
 soul had ever been sweetened by poetic balm ; 
 and when the editor has such a field of selec- 
 tion as the works of Milton, he picks out the 
 sonnet " When the Assault was intended to 
 the City," — the first line of which, 
 
 " Captain or colonel or knight-in-arms," 
 
 can hardly be pronounced good ; the second is 
 very bad — 
 
 " Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize," 
 the third and fourth are still worse — 
 
 " If deed of honour did thee ever please, 
 Guard them, and him within protect from harms." 
 
148 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 How awkward is " did thee ever please " ! — 
 how unnecessary after " guard them " the rest 
 of the line ! — how evidently is " harms " put in 
 the plural for the rhyme, to the damage of the 
 idiom ! The next two lines are good — 
 
 " He can requite thee ; for he knows the charms 
 That call fame on such gentle acts as these ; " 
 
 but not so the two that foUow — 
 
 " And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas — 
 Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms." 
 
 How could Milton do this when English was 
 not read beyond our own islands ? And why 
 make the boast ungrammatical, as well as empty, 
 by the second of the two hnes ? 
 
 " Lift not thy spear against the Muse's bower." 
 
 An axe or a crowbar might be effective against 
 a bower, but not a spear. The " great Emathian 
 conqueror" — meaning Alexander — is not only 
 stilted, but obscure ; for few would remember 
 the name of the district in which he was born. 
 The final line of the sonnet redeems it, and the 
 emphasis given to the adjective " bare " by plac- 
 ing it last, conveys with singular effect the idea 
 of desolation ; but why place a flawed gem of 
 Milton's in such a collection beside his more 
 perfect work? 
 
 So far as reparation for neglect can be made 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 149 
 
 to the departed, it has been amply made to 
 Keats, Though the fine passages he wrote 
 bear small proportion to the pages which are 
 never quoted, and hardly even read, and though 
 his chief poems are but fragments, in his case 
 promise receives the reward which is generally 
 reserved for achievement. Of his completed 
 works — probably of all his works — the favourite 
 is the " Eve of St Agnes." In it we find much 
 graceful quaintness, many fine lines and stanzas, 
 decorating a very slender fabric. The drift of 
 Porphyro's " stratagem," as explained to old 
 Angela, is far from clear — 
 
 " Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
 Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
 Him in a closet, of such privacy 
 That he might see her beauty nnespied, 
 And win perhaps that night a peerless bride ; " 
 
 and not only not clear, but a great deal too 
 much like the proceeding of the hero of a French 
 novel. We have never understood how the 
 closet in the maiden's chamber happened to be 
 a stni-room crammed with preserves and house- 
 keeper's dainties ; still less why Porphyro should 
 have occupied himself, during the maiden's first 
 sleep, in bringing them forth and heaping them 
 " on golden dishes and in baskets bright," ap- 
 parently to no purpose whatever. But no pas- 
 sage of this poem — scarcely any, indeed, in 
 
150 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 modern poetry — has been more warmly praised 
 than the description of MadeHne kneehng to 
 pray before the painted window, " innumerable 
 of stains and splendid dyes " — 
 
 " Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 
 And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair hreast, 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
 Eose-bloom fell on her hands together prest. 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
 And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
 She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, 
 Save wings for heaven." 
 
 Now, considering that the poet had given him- 
 self an unlimited range of colours to choose 
 from, he has shown an extraordinary incapacity 
 to make use of the opportunity. Qn her breast 
 is thrown gules — that is, sanguine hue ; on her 
 hands rose-bloom ; while the silver of the cross 
 is turned in colour to amethyst. These three, 
 blood-colour, rose-colour, and amethyst, are all 
 that the window, so richly and variously stained, 
 can supply ; and whether the maiden's charms 
 were likely to be heightened by the substitu- 
 tion of these for the natural tints, and whether 
 they would cause her to look like " a splendid 
 angel," we leave those who have an eye for col- 
 our and natural beauty to decide. 
 
 One of the most enthusiastic of the idolaters 
 of Shakespeare asserts somewhere that not only 
 may every speech in his plays be assigned to 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 151 
 
 its proper character, but eV-en every line. The 
 absurdity is evident when it is considered that 
 to assert this is equivalent to saying that no 
 two characters of Shakespeare could have con- 
 ceived the same idea, or have expressed it in 
 the same way. Far from sharing this opinion, 
 we have often fancied that certain passages, 
 even famous passages, had been noted down 
 when they occurred to the poet, and had sub- 
 sequently been assigned, thus ready-made, to 
 some character during the writing of a play. 
 The " Seven Ages " (not, for Shakespeare, of 
 first-rate excellence, perhaps, as giving a com- 
 pendium of human life) have no special fitness 
 for the place given to them, except that they 
 fill the interval while Orlando is gone to fetch 
 Adam ; there is little in the scene to lead up 
 to them, and the philosopher who uttered the 
 passage would have been impatiently, perhaps 
 disrespectfully, listened to by the company. 
 But nothing is more natural than that Shake- 
 speare should a hundred times have thought " all 
 the world's a stage, and all the men and women 
 merely players ; " that he should, at a leisure 
 moment, have expanded the thought, and, 
 pleased with the picturesque piece of work, 
 should have taken the first opportunity of giv- 
 ing it permanence in a play. Another such 
 instance is the Queen Mab speech, which the 
 
152 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 gay, volatile Mercutio rather delivers as a lec- 
 ture than flings off as one of those passing 
 thoughts which form the fleeting populace of 
 his airy brain. The irrelevancy of such pas- 
 sages is best seen on the stage, where the 
 speaker takes up a position in which to address 
 himself to the audience, while the rest of the 
 characters stand idly and awkwardly by. 
 
 The most singular (and to us a most convinc- 
 ing) testimony to this practice — the natural, 
 and, indeed, inevitable result of the operations 
 of so exuberant and active a mind — is supplied 
 in Hamlet's most famous soliloquy, by the lines 
 where he speaks of 
 
 " The undiscovered country from whose hourne 
 No traveller returns " — 
 
 a grand passage, and eminently fitted to Ham- 
 let's character; but not to his circumstances. 
 That of all Shakespeare's personages it should 
 be Hamlet who says this — a man, the current 
 of whose life had just been changed by a reve- 
 lation made in an interview with a traveller 
 returned from the undiscovered country — is an 
 oversight so singular that it can only be ac- 
 counted for by supposing it to have at first been 
 noted as a passing thought, and transplanted 
 later into Hamlet's speech. 
 
 No passage in Shakespeare is better known, 
 nor more often quoted, than Portia's appeal to 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 153 
 
 Shylock, beginning, " The quality of mercy is 
 not strained." This line catches the ear 
 rather than satisfies the sense, — " quality of 
 mercy " conveys no idea beyond " mercy," and 
 " strained," doubtless for " constrained," is not a 
 legitimate or happy equivalent. 
 
 " It droppeth as the gentle rain, from heaven 
 Upon the place beneath." 
 
 If it does, it ought not ; for nothing is more 
 indiscriminate than the rain, which falls where 
 it is not needed as well as where it is, on the 
 sand of the desert as well as on the field, on 
 the sea as well as on the land ; whereas mercy 
 would be, not a virtue, but the most mischiev- 
 ous of vices, were it indulged for any but the 
 best of reasons, — the reason, namely, that in 
 the particular case a better result might be 
 expected from dispensing with, than from in- 
 flicting, the abstract award of the law. But 
 we win grant that the simile is employed only 
 to represent spontaneousness (though a good 
 simile should need no such restriction) and pro- 
 ceed : — 
 
 " It is twice blessed, — 
 It blesseth him that gives and him that takes." 
 
 But this is not peculiar to mercy — it is true of 
 charity, magnanimity, generosity, justice, of all 
 the social virtues : — 
 
 " 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest." 
 
154 FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 
 
 How SO ? How, indeed, can mercy be " mighty " 
 at all ? It is most conspicuous in the mightiest, 
 because the powerful can exercise it on a scale 
 and with a publicity commensurate with their 
 authority ; but it can in no case be said to be 
 " mighty " ; and the first " mightiest " is pos- 
 sibly a misprint (originating, hke so many in 
 Shakespeare, in the compositor's ear) for some 
 such word as " brightest." 
 
 " It becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his crown : 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
 The attribute to awe and majestj', 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. 
 But mercy is above the sceptred sway : 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings. 
 It is an attribute to God Himself, 
 And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 
 When mercy seasons justice.'' 
 
 This, addressed to a throned monarch, would 
 have been highly effective ; but being really 
 addressed to a poor despised Jew, it is alto- 
 gether out of place. Shylock might properly 
 reply, " Why talk to me of what is becoming in 
 kings ? What have I to do with majesty and 
 sceptred sway ? " The appeal would be ap- 
 propriate only if directed to the judgment-seat, 
 not to him who stands there to " feed fat his 
 ancient grudge " — a very reasonable grudge, let 
 us, in justice to Shylock, say ; for many a 
 Christian would have desired to avenge the 
 marks of contempt, gratuitous, outrageous, and 
 
FALSE COIN IN POETRY. 155 
 
 disgusting, showered by the merchant upon the 
 
 Jew, even by the vivisection of the offender. 
 
 But now comes the most curious part of the 
 
 speech — 
 
 " Consider this, 
 That in the course of justice none of us 
 Should see salvation." 
 
 Truly a singular mode of persuading a Jew, to 
 talk to him of " salvation " ! Such language 
 would but have confirmed him in his fell intent ; 
 and when Portia goes on to say — 
 
 " We do pray for mercy, 
 And that same prayer doth teach us aU to render 
 The deeds of mercy " — 
 
 the staunch Hebrew — who has already told 
 Bassanio, " I wUl not eat with you, drink with 
 you, nor pray with you," — irritated by having 
 it imputed to him that he joins in the Chris- 
 tian's prayer, must have been doubly impatient 
 to commence operations on Antonio. Never- 
 theless, orthodox playgoers listen to aU this 
 with what they fancy to be intense admiration, 
 though entirely irrelevant to the object, and 
 faulty in itself. But we hold such believers in 
 honour, and will say no more. Purposely have 
 we kept this example to the last, so as not to 
 fright them earlier in the paper ; and, having 
 said only thus much, we stiU feel as an ancient 
 Greek might have felt who had been heard to 
 speak in of Apollo at Delphi. 
 
THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN/ 
 
 "VrOTHING short of the general outburst of 
 -'^ ' indignation which has just startled him 
 would have availed to caU Mr Gladstone from 
 the paradise in which he habitually dwells. It 
 is said that he never reads a newspaper. Many 
 of his colleagues, no doubt, draw inspiration 
 from such sources, but he is not supposed to be 
 in the habit of inviting, or listening to, sugges- 
 tions from his colleagues, by whom, it is ru- 
 moured, he is more feared than liked. Thus, 
 intelligence as to what the world is thinking 
 about him or his policy reaches him with diffi- 
 culty. The relations with those around him 
 which he likes best, are those in which he 
 stands on a pedestal and others grovel and 
 adore. But belief in his own merits and his 
 
 1 In 1884 : slaughters of the Egyptian troops at Sinkat, and 
 under Hicks Pasha and Baker Pasha. 
 
THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN. 157 
 
 own judgment was already the chief of his beset- 
 ting sins, and this kind of intercourse, if such it 
 can be called, has only served to exaggerate the 
 failing into complete extravagance. He is his 
 own Pope. What he, in the recesses of that 
 autocratic and presumptuous spirit, conceives, 
 must be right. If facts contradict him, he puts 
 them calmly aside. Such is the mood in which 
 he approaches public afiairs. At the same time, 
 as is often the case with imperious spirits, he is 
 not a man of prompt resolution, because he is 
 not a man of steady purposes. He is essentially 
 shifty and evasive. When it is considered that 
 the Minister who has had to deal with the 
 different problems which Egypt affords is dis- 
 tinguished by these peculiarities, much of what 
 has occurred there is already accounted for. 
 The " poHcy " is all his own. No such wisdom 
 as is born of counsel, and of consideration of the 
 views of others, sways him, or ripens his states- 
 manship. " Uetat c'est moi." 
 
 But the problems which Egypt offered, when 
 we became established there in military occupa- 
 tion, were such as needed a rare combination of 
 wisdom and decision for their successful solu- 
 tion. To provide for the situation was a task 
 which theorists would enter lightly on, though 
 men of action would see in it occasion for all 
 their resolution and all their resources. For 
 
158 THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN. 
 
 there might be said to exist no longer any in- 
 stitutions whatever in the country, civil or 
 military, while, at the same time, what was 
 called its Government was absolutely subject to 
 our Premier's will. The sheet of paper was 
 clean, and he had only to write on it. The 
 plan devised in that shifty brain was eminently 
 characteristic, and eminently that of a man who 
 did not know men. He would rule Egypt, he 
 would frame a constitution for it, he would 
 imbue the corrupt pashas and the ignorant 
 fellaheen alike with the love of representative 
 institutions, and would then — that is to say, 
 in a few months or so — leave them alone to 
 regulate the clockwork wound up and set going 
 by himself. But the choicest part of the choice 
 plan was, that all the while this magical work 
 was being done, we were to pretend that we 
 had nothing to do with it. Egypt, England, 
 and Europe were to admire the drama per- 
 formed by the puppets, but all were to agree to 
 ignore Mr Codlin hidden by the drapery. Then 
 the deviser, the Demiurgos, casting merely an 
 occasional glance at the admirable device, would 
 be free to devote himself to more congenial 
 pursuits — such, for instance, as exciting in this 
 country uncertainty and dismay by formidable 
 menaces to its institutions. 
 
 The programme conceived in this spirit would 
 
THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN. 159 
 
 have been quite impossible in itself, and some 
 serious miscalculations were shortly manifest. 
 Long after the period assigned for perfection 
 was past, the most perverse failures continued 
 to occur. Egyptian Ministers would not or 
 could not play the game according to the rules. 
 Free institutions appeared to flourish only as 
 cut flowers would flourish when stuck in a bed. 
 The native army, which, when organised, was 
 to be the mainstay of those institutions, and 
 which had been only induced to enlist on the 
 assurance that it would not be called on for 
 service in the Soudan, was suspected of disaffec- 
 tion, and appeared likely, therefore, to become 
 merely a mutinous militia. But all this was 
 not the worst. For it had been decreed in the 
 mind of the deviser of this ingenious scheme 
 for regulating Egyptian affairs, that the Soudan 
 was to be altogether left out of it, and that im- 
 mense province (since Egypt could not take 
 care of it) was apparently to be left to take 
 care of itself This prudent plan was, however, 
 all the less likely to meet with even a temporary 
 success when Hicks Pasha advanced from Khar- 
 toum, for an incompetent army was then expos- 
 ing itself to destruction in the attempt to put 
 down a formidable revolt. Nothing but a swift 
 and resolute change of plan, prompt interference 
 in the Soudan business, and peremptory pro- 
 
160 THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN. 
 
 hibition of Hicks Pasha's advance, could have 
 averted the catastrophe which was presently to 
 call the attention of the world to the disastrous 
 condition of Mr Gladstone's Egyptian puppet- 
 show. 
 
 But poor Hicks Pasha advanced with his 
 troops, whose bones are now whitening on the 
 sands. Thereupon ensued a panic in terrible 
 contrast with the previous comfortable com- 
 placency. The Mahdi's revolt, hitherto looked 
 on, if looked on at all, as a dim insurrection in 
 an obscure country, and too remote to excite 
 apprehension, suddenly grew to the dimensions 
 of the genie when the fisherman uncorked the 
 bottle, and became portentous. His forces, to 
 be transported apparently by some such super- 
 natural means as other of the Arabian tales 
 deal with, were forthwith to seize Khartoum, 
 Berber, the First Cataract, even Cairo itself, — 
 and Egypt was to be subjugated by a potentate 
 who had hitherto caused us much less discom- 
 fort than Cetewayo. These were, of course, 
 merely the delusions natural to a state of sur- 
 prise and fright ; but the Mahdi, actuated ap- 
 parently by personal malignity towards Mr 
 Gladstone, now conmiitted, through his lieu- 
 tenant in the Eastern Soudan, a series of acts 
 of the most discomposing character ; disasters 
 happened to Egyptian troops, among whom 
 
THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN. 161 
 
 were Englishmen; garrisons were invested, 
 almost within sight of our ships passing along 
 the Red Sea, and Suakim itself was in danger. 
 Then came a time of distracted counsels and 
 hurried expedients, — not that Mr Gladstone 
 would have been disturbed out of his compla- 
 cency by such events alone ; but the people of 
 this country had begun to take an obtrusive 
 interest in them, and that final cause, the safety 
 of his party, had made itself felt. Gordon, 
 then in Belgium, on his way to the Congo, was 
 suddenly thought of, as if his name, hitherto 
 unknown, had been revealed to the Ministry in 
 a vision. It is only now that the policy in- 
 trusted to him is beginning to transpire. It is 
 so simple that the most ingenious would have 
 been the last to think of it. It consists in con- 
 ferring on the Mahdi everything which he could 
 possibly desire, or which the most complete 
 successes could have obtained for him, including 
 the privileges of the slave trade. " Only wait 
 till we can get out of the way, and you shall 
 not have the slightest trouble in the matter." 
 Such are the means by which the difficulty of 
 the Soudan is to be got rid of. It will be an 
 instructive lesson in the value of insurrection 
 to a great many intelligent Mohammedans who 
 are looking on in India and other parts of the 
 world. 
 
162 THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN. 
 
 In the meanwhile something was to be done 
 to reheve the beleaguered garrisons near the 
 coast. In order stUl to keep up the admirable 
 fiction of Egyptian responsibility, this was to 
 be done with Egyptian troops. To the native 
 constabulary was assigned this novel duty. 
 War is not usually made with policemen, but the 
 regular troops were ineligible, the British forces 
 in Egypt were stiU under the prevailing con- 
 ditions of dreamland, and there was really no 
 alternative. The departure of these warriors 
 from Cairo was not reassuring. English resi- 
 dents accustomed to see troops march ofi" for 
 active service with cheers and plaudits, must 
 have felt surprised at seeing the relieving forces 
 set in motion for the field by being surrounded 
 with menacing cavalry, and carried ofi" in chains. 
 The result was even more startling than the 
 destruction of Hicks Pasha's army ; because, 
 though the number of the slain was much 
 less, the disaster was much more prominently 
 in view. This, followed by another shocking 
 butchery, had at least this good effect, that a 
 new element now forced itself decisively into 
 the Ministerial plans. The discontent of the 
 nation became turbulent and menacing, the 
 puppet-show was to be abandoned, and the 
 real manager, after much ingenious evasion, 
 was summoned before a very stormy audience. 
 
THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN. 163 
 
 And here, the despatch of English troops to 
 the relief of Tokar — which, after aU, were too 
 late to save the garrison — suggests another 
 peculiarity of Mr Gladstone's. It is one which 
 probably appears to his Radical supporters a high 
 merit, but which is a novel qualification for the 
 Minister of a great Power, — namely, a strong 
 dislike to the army. It only enters into his 
 calculations as a political force, when he uses 
 it with lamentable effects, as when, after Tel- 
 el-Kebir, he allowed the share of a body of 
 troops which took the principal part in the 
 action to be suppressed, because credit taken 
 from it and bestowed on Irish regiments would 
 flatter the Irish people. He therefore takes 
 no real interest in the army, the people of Eng- 
 land take no real interest in it, and it is left in 
 the hands of its immediate officials. The con- 
 sequences are rather what might be expected 
 than what might be wished. Political motives 
 are paramount in the army. Mr Childers, the 
 late Secretary for War, when his administra- 
 tion was seen to be tending to the question 
 whether we had an army at aU, left to his un- 
 fortunate successor the task of finding remedies 
 for our military condition, and of describing it 
 in all too flattering terms, and betook himself 
 to a new post as Chancellor of the Exchequer, 
 in which he was presently engaged, with his 
 
164 THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN. 
 
 chief and Lord Granville, in that ruinous nego- 
 tiation with M. Lesseps, which was just stopped, 
 by the interference of an indignant public, in 
 time to prevent, not mischief, for that remains 
 irretrievable, but the consummation of the sac- 
 rifice of British interests. If a firm of country 
 attorneys had shown a similar indifference to 
 the interests of their chent, they would have 
 deserved to be struck off the roUs. It is seldom 
 that a single Minister succeeds in making two 
 such fiascos in two different departments. 
 
 With such incidents occurring as were start- 
 ling the world in the Soudan, with others 
 equally grave, imminent, and with Mr Glad- 
 stone still making futile attempts at the evasion 
 of responsibility, the vote of censure did not 
 come a moment too soon. The part he played 
 in the debate was characteristic. When he 
 rose on the 12th to meet the charges of the 
 Opposition, he displayed aU his wonted dialectic 
 skill. Much of his discourse — nearly two hours 
 long — was misplaced, and not to the purpose; 
 but it was arranged in the usual artistic style, 
 and abounded with clever evasions, traps for 
 cheers, taunts for assailants, and phrases meant 
 to reassure the faltering among his followers. 
 But the effect of his rhetoric was damaged 
 throughout by facts which formed upon it a 
 terrible commentary. Twenty-four hours before. 
 
THE SLAUGHTEBS IN THE SOUDAN. 165 
 
 while he was exchanging telegrams with General 
 Gordon, with the desire to cast on him the re- 
 sponsibility of helping or neglecting the despair- 
 ing garrisons of Sinkat and Tokar, the question 
 was already solved so far as Sinkat was con- 
 cerned. Outside its walls there was enacted in 
 the African desert a scene pitiable beyond imag- 
 ination, and intimately connected with the busi- 
 ness then before Parhament. We have been ac- 
 customed most unjustly to depreciate Egyptian 
 troops, forgetting the conditions under which 
 some constabulary, sent in chains to the field, 
 had displayed a pusillanimous spirit. No braver 
 or more devoted men ever held a post than 
 Tewfik Bey and his unfortunate garrison. For 
 months they had been beleaguered by hordes of 
 pitiless foes. Many weeks had passed since the 
 commander had announced — not complainingly, 
 but as a fact necessary to be known — that his 
 men, being only men, could not hold out be- 
 yond a certain day, for then their last morsel 
 would be eaten. That day came and passed, 
 and they were better than their word. They 
 stUl held out. They ate the starving dogs in 
 the streets. But these were sufficient only for 
 a moment to stay the cravings of five hundred 
 men and a thousand women and children, aU 
 in the extremity of famine. The dogs were 
 eaten to the last bone. Then — was there ever 
 
166 THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN. 
 
 a more piteous tale? — ^they took to chewing 
 leaves. And all the time, with eyes growing 
 wider and more haggard as strength faUed and 
 hope diminished, they stared from the ramparts 
 towards the sea, where, thirty miles off, they 
 knew was a British admiral with British ships. 
 They knew that Englishmen ruled in Cairo, 
 that the Government they served was in the 
 hands of the Government of England. Perhaps, 
 too, these poor people may have heard that, in 
 days past, England had been prompt to succour 
 and swift to smite when those who depended 
 on her were in deadly peril. And aU this time 
 the people of England, filled with indignant 
 impatience, were yearning to help them. At 
 length the last leaf was chewed ; for the last 
 time they stared upon the horizon towards 
 Suakim ; but neither on the earth, nor in the 
 heaven above, was there any sign of pity. 
 Then, finding nothing but their own bare man- 
 hood to rely on, they came to a resolve which 
 deserves a lasting record in the annals of human 
 fortitude. It might have been thought that 
 spirit as well as flesh would have been starved 
 out of them ; but it was not so. They drew 
 together for the last time within the walls, 
 spent some of the last remnants of their 
 strength in destroying their defences and their 
 magazine, and then issued forth towards their 
 
THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN. 167 
 
 foes. Behind them came a forlorn and defence- 
 less crowd of wailing women and crying chil- 
 dren — defenceless because their defenders had 
 only come forth to die. It is better not to 
 attempt to imagine the scene which followed. 
 Wolves might have felt pity for the forlorn 
 troop, but their enemies were more ruthless 
 than beasts, for they were fanatical men. Sel- 
 dom has the sun in heaven looked down on a 
 spectacle so lamentable as that which ensued, 
 and the tidings of which arrived just as the 
 debate began. Upon most of the minds of 
 those present it exercised a powerful effect. 
 During Mr Gladstone's speech, between his 
 hearers and him, the dreadful spectacle outside 
 the doomed and devastated city must have 
 seemed to them to arise. His fine-spun rhetoric 
 must have been confused for them by the fancied 
 wail of women and children. They must have 
 looked at him, and heard him, for those two 
 hours, as if through a bloody mist. The hearts 
 of most in that House were torn by grief and 
 indignation. But there were some hearts (few 
 let us hope) which met the saddening and 
 humiliating tidings with equanimity. They 
 were those of her Majesty's Ministers. 
 
 It would be absurd as well as unjust to sup- 
 pose that Mr Gladstone and his Ministry are 
 proof against the feelings of humanity. But 
 
168 THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN. 
 
 they are under a dominating influence which 
 can, on occasion, quench these feehngs. If, in 
 the one scale, the followers of Gladstone place 
 the claims of humanity, the sentiments of 
 honour, the credit of their country, in the other 
 they cast the interests of their leader and their 
 party ; and then humanity, honour, and national 
 repute kick the beam. It is not fancy, but very- 
 present reality, that recalls to mind, while con- 
 templating his attitude on this occasion, some 
 grim idol such as we read of as being wor- 
 shipped by barbarous tribes, whose altar reeks 
 with the blood of hapless and innocent victims. 
 Under an influence no more respectable than 
 that which those benighted adorers submitted 
 to, a great number of our countrymen literally 
 no longer dare to call their souls their own. 
 Men have been asking this long while, how far 
 the delusions of the party could carry them; 
 how long it would be, and to what length they 
 would go, before they would abandon the wor- 
 ship of the gloomy and truculent image which 
 they have set up ? And perhaps there will this 
 much good spring out of the horrible calamity 
 in Egypt, that it wUl bring the spirit of party 
 before us in its ugliest aspect and attended by 
 its most pernicious consequences. When it is 
 apparent that the voice of our common hu- 
 manity, the natural impulses of Enghshmen, 
 
THE SLAUGHTERS IN THE SOUDAN. 169 
 
 are held as nothing compared with the " con- 
 sistency " of a single man, the predominance of 
 a certain party, a spirit may be evoked, before 
 which the most devoted Liberal will recoil. But 
 the complacency of Mr Gladstone is as yet un- 
 shaken. The whole nation was moved to its 
 depths by the catastrophe of Sinkat. It de- 
 manded of the Premier, through speakers in the 
 House, " Where are these thy brothers ? " and 
 his answer was, " Am I my brothers' keeper ? " 
 Surely we may continue the parallel so far as 
 to say that the slaughters of the Soudan have 
 set on his brow a mark which nothing can 
 efface. 
 
ME FECHTER'S OTHELLO. 
 
 TTOWEVER critics who go to see Mr Fechter 
 -L^ may object to his foreign accent and 
 French manner, it is impossible for the most 
 prejudiced Briton to deny that he possesses 
 great quaUties as an actor. His features are 
 handsome, his bearing noble, his gestures 
 appropriate and graceful, his attitudes pictur- 
 esque, and his countenance extremely expres- 
 sive. Besides these endowments, he brings to 
 the delineation of a character an anxious wish 
 to comprehend it, not merely as an individual 
 creation, but as a harmonious part of an entire 
 play, and his intelligence and sensibility enable 
 him to catch the subtlest meanings of its 
 creator. With so much native power to rely 
 on in executing an original conception, and a 
 good taste that warns him against claptrap 
 
ME, TECHTERS OTHELLO. 171 
 
 and mere traditional eifect, he can, and does, 
 almost altogether dispense with convention- 
 alism. We are therefore certain to find his 
 representation of a great character highly sug- 
 gestive, and very original ; we receive con- 
 vincing proof throughout the performance that 
 it has been studied in an earnest spirit ; and 
 his qualities as an actor enable him to give 
 fiiU and clear expression to his conception. 
 Experienced playgoers, accustomed to look to 
 points, miss many, but are reconciled to the 
 loss by a succession of others quite new and 
 equally effective. With less than the tradi- 
 tional amount of emphasis, they find enough 
 of passion and energy to give force and vivid 
 colour to the picture, and to satisfy their desire 
 for strong effect. And a younger generation, 
 who bring nothing to the judgment-seat but 
 a capacity for receiving new impressions, are 
 gratified with distinct and artistic impersona- 
 tions of the introspective Hamlet and the fiery 
 Moor, and they return to the works of Shake- 
 speare with a sense of his depth, completeness, 
 and dramatic power, which their unstimulated 
 imaginations had perhaps been, on mere per- 
 usal, too inert to supply. He who can produce 
 these results fulfils the actor's natural func- 
 tion of interpreter ; his performance is seen, 
 not only with pleasure, but profit, and de- 
 
172 MR PECHTER's OTHELLO. 
 
 mands the respect due to the labour of a con- 
 scientious artist directed to a lofty purpose. 
 
 But, while giving Mr Fechter his due, it 
 must not be forgotten that there is another 
 whose interests claim even prior consideration. 
 It is of great consequence to bestow on such an 
 actor the encouragement and recognition which 
 artists of all sorts, and players especially, find 
 so essential to sustain their enthusiasm in their 
 art, and their belief in themselves. But it is 
 of greater consequence that the ideas of Shake- 
 speare should preserve their full significance for 
 each successive generation of his countrymen. 
 And to measure rightly the value of Mr Fech- 
 ter's impersonation of a Shakespearian part, it 
 is necessary to ascertain what the precise con- 
 ception was which the poet intended to embody. 
 
 Apart from the individual Othello, it is 
 evident that the story and situations are 
 eminently tragic and pathetic. Any man 
 naturally estimable, who should, by the mach- 
 inations of a villain, be urged to destroy the 
 wife that he passionately loved, would be an 
 object of interest and pity to the dullest 
 audience. A newspaper report of a respectable 
 mechanic who had been driven by such means 
 to such a crime would contain deep tragic 
 elements. A French novel, taking such a 
 story as its basis, and an ordinary French 
 
MR FECHTERS OTHELLO. 173 
 
 hero as its principal figure, might become, in 
 skUful hands, intensely interesting. But a 
 great dramatist does not trust to the story 
 and situation alone for his effects ; if he did, 
 he would not be a great dramatist. Among 
 all the varieties of human character, he selects 
 that which will, in those particular circumi- 
 stances, bring interest and compassion to their 
 climax. Who, of all others, is the man who, 
 while advancing towards such a crime, and 
 even when stained by its commission, shall 
 continue to retain the firmest hold on our re- 
 spect and sympathy ? That was the question 
 for Shakespeare. Let the Moor be a weak- 
 natured man, easily swayed by others, and, 
 though we grant him our pity, we refuse our 
 respect. Let him be a stern fanatic, setting 
 a mistaken sense of duty before all human 
 affections, and performing in his own belief a 
 necessary act of justice, and, though we may 
 grant our respect, we withhold our sympathy. 
 Let him be violent and impulsive, the slave of 
 passion, and, no matter how great his remorse, 
 we neither respect nor pity him. Had either 
 of these characters been the hero, the tragedy 
 would stiU be a tragedy ; but it would not be 
 the perfect work of a great master. The de- 
 gree of the effect depends upon the nature 
 of OtheUo. 
 
174 MR FECHTER's OTHELLO. 
 
 Shakespeare leaves us in no doubt as to 
 that nature. Its main elements are solidity 
 and depth. The Moor's is altogether a massive 
 character, square and steady as a tower founded 
 on a rock, and the foundation it rests on is self- 
 rehance. Since his arms had seven years' pith 
 he has lived a life of enterprise, adventure, and 
 peril. The result of this training has been to 
 produce a man prompt, resolute, and sagacious 
 — pre-eminently a commanding spirit. The 
 Senate, amidst aU the grave, stern, experi- 
 enced warriors of the Venetian Republic — 
 such senators and such soldiers as Titian and 
 Veronese have made familiar to us — look to 
 him as all-in-aU sufficient — 
 
 " Por their souls, 
 Another of his fathom have they none 
 To lead their busiaess." 
 
 He is rude in speech, for since boyhood he has 
 lived in camps ; but he is kind of heart — loves 
 Cassio even while dismissing him, and seeks 
 afterwards an excuse to restore him : even his 
 arch-enemy and destroyer testifies that he is of 
 a constant, loving, noble nature. 
 
 Up to the opening of the play this kind, 
 just, vahant, self-reliant, conunanding spirit 
 has known but few of the sweets of life, for 
 the flinty couch of war has been his bed of 
 down. But now Fortune ceases her biiffets 
 
ME. FECHTEE's OTHELLO. 175 
 
 to load him with rewards : Desdemona, the 
 peerless, is his ; he is the trusted general of 
 Venice, the honoured governor of Cyprus. It 
 is at the moment when he touches the high- 
 est point of his greatness, and may look con- 
 fidently forward to a serene decline, accom- 
 panied by all that Macbeth teUs us should 
 attend old age, " honour, love, obedience, troops 
 of friends," that the devilish plot — a mere 
 cobweb to a subtler or more worldly mind than 
 the victim's — is cast across the path of this 
 strong, brave, simple, unsuspicious nature, and 
 hurls it headlong to destruction. And all the 
 force and value of the character as a work 
 of art, beyond the mere situation, is in the 
 contrast between the strength and repose of 
 Othello in the first two acts, and the wild 
 frenzy of his passion when maddened by the 
 poison of jealousy. It is the difference between 
 Hercules resting from his labours, and Hercules 
 tortured by the shirt of Nessus. It is because 
 the ship is so noble that the wreck is so sad. 
 
 The object, then, of the artist who would 
 accurately represent the idea of Shakespeare, 
 must be to show us not merely a man in a 
 frenzy of jealousy, but an Othello — one whom, 
 as the Senate beUeved, passion could not shake, 
 great, noble, self-centred, honoured — the sport 
 of a devil. The first part of the problem is. 
 
176 MR FBCHTER's OTHELLO. 
 
 how to show Othello to be a man of that 
 mould. Every look, tone, gesture, and piece 
 of by-play is to tend to assure us that we see 
 such a one before us. For, though self-reliant 
 and commanding men may possibly be trivial in 
 gesture, and insignificant in bearing, yet the 
 actor who would so represent a great character 
 is none the less in error for the fact. His 
 business is, not to get us to admit that the 
 man whom he represents may have been hke 
 his delineation, but to force us to feel that he 
 must have been like it ; and to do this the five 
 acts of a play are but scanty space, and must 
 be turned to the best account. 
 
 The bearing of OtheUo, then, must be 
 eminently serene and majestic. He must 
 have the dignity of one used to command ; 
 the deliberation of one accustomed to take 
 counsel with himself; the resolute sedateness 
 of one who has passed through a life of perils, 
 and who can meet the violence of Brabantio, 
 the weighty commission of the Senate, the 
 brawls that frighten Cyprus from its propriety, 
 all with the same steady composure. But, 
 though noble in demeanour, he has no coiu'tier- 
 like smoothness ; for, as he says, he is " rude of 
 speech, and has not the soft parts of conver- 
 sation that chamberers have." In speech and 
 movement, then, he will be composed, weighty, 
 
ME FECHTERS OTHELLO. 177 
 
 earnest, courteous, but by no means glib or 
 graceful ; his is the massive dignity of sincerity 
 and self-respect, not the polished dignity of 
 culture ; and his affection for Desdemona, how- 
 soever warm and tender, will have none of the 
 graces of practised gallantry. He is a man to 
 whom life and all its incidents are solemn and 
 earnest, and whom no chance can confound. 
 
 Mr Fechter's acting so far agrees with this 
 theory as to aim at a strong contrast between 
 Othello in repose and Othello stung by frenzy. 
 But how does he produce the effect ? A great 
 artist will generally relieve one species of ex- 
 cellence with another. Mr Fechter seeks to 
 give his labour increased value in one point by 
 ostentatious carelessness elsewhere. He makes 
 Othello as uninteresting as possible in the first 
 two acts, that he may subsequently startle the 
 audience by his sudden vigour. Take away the 
 splendid scenery and accessories, and who can, 
 thus far, feel impressed or elevated ? The 
 scenes with Brabantio, with the Senate, with 
 the offending Cassio, are all slurred over. He 
 addresses the Senate like a disputatious French- 
 man rather than a noble Moor ; he kisses Des- 
 demona's hand with the easy gallantry of a 
 courtier of the (Eil-de-Boeuf ; he commands the 
 dreadful bell that is frighting the isle to be 
 silenced, with the tone and gesture of a testy 
 
 M 
 
178 ME FECHTER's OTHELLO. 
 
 invalid angry with the footman for clattering 
 the fire-irons ; he runs through aU the great 
 speeches with which Shakespeare puts us in 
 possession of Othello's qualities as if they were 
 a necessary but tedious prelude to the real 
 business ; and throughout the first two acts we 
 never catch a glimpse of the majesty and power 
 of the all-sufficient general of Venice. That 
 the subsequent scenes should fail of their full 
 Shakespearian efiect is therefore inevitable ; 
 nevertheless, they are finely and powerfiiUy 
 acted. Nothing can be more finished, distinct, 
 and forcible than the changes from confidence 
 to doubt, from doubt to conviction, fi:om con- 
 viction to firenzy. In the scenes with Desde- 
 mona, where by turns he relents his fondness 
 and relapses into fury, the play of his counte- 
 nance gives full effect to the transitions of his 
 mood. And there is one point which, if new, 
 is an inspiration, when, in his agony of remorse 
 over his victim, he calls out her name in a 
 sudden accent of impatience and authority, 
 as if she were feigning, and must hearken to 
 the voice of command. Altogether it is a 
 splendid picture of a fiery, jealous, tortured 
 man ; but that man is rather some hasty, pas- 
 sionate, excitable Indian or Persian noble, in- 
 censed against his favourite, than Shakespeare's 
 Othello. The performance of Mr Fechter is a 
 
MR FECHTEES OTHELLO. 179 
 
 most interesting study, and may justly add to 
 his reputation. But multitudes will date their 
 first distinct impressions of this great char- 
 acter of our great poet from this representation, 
 and it is only right to warn them that they 
 see, not a rendering, but an adaptation, of 
 Shakespeare's idea, and that the true Othello 
 is stUl greater than this. 
 
 Mr Fechter has a great number of Shake- 
 spearian characters to select from, to which I 
 think him far better suited than to the Moor. 
 His genius is of the graceful, supple, subtle, 
 versatile, and pathetic, not of the grand and 
 massive order. Besides Hamlet, he could play 
 Macbeth, Richard III., Komeo, and Wolsey — 
 widely different, yet aU within his range. He 
 would probably be the best Mercutio, or Bene- 
 dick, or Bassanio, that the time can produce. 
 But Coriolanus, Brutus, Faulconbridge, OtheUo 
 are spirits of another sort ; they are outside 
 Mr Fechter's circle ; and I confess I should see 
 him with far more pleasure in a part where his 
 own natural and apparent qualities should be 
 more perfectly in unison with those which he 
 aims to represent. 
 
THE LIFE OF LOED LYTTON.^ 
 
 TDIOGRAPHY in its present form is alto- 
 -'-' gether a modern invention. Of yore the 
 records of the most famous men were seldom 
 longer than the magazine article of our day. 
 Reynolds is said to have read through John- 
 son's Hfe of Pope whUe standing with his arm 
 resting on the mantelpiece ; indeed aU Johnson's 
 Lives of the Poets together faU short in bulk 
 of the life of Scott, of Dickens, or the present 
 life of Bulwer. The life of Shakespeare, ex- 
 cluding comment and apocrypha, might be con- 
 tained in a couple of octavo pages. Many 
 famous personages have had no other memoir 
 than notices prefixed to their works. It was 
 Boswell who set the fashion, which his success 
 confirmed, of placing before us not only the 
 
 1 The Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of Edward Bulwer, 
 Lord Lytton. By his Son. London : Kegan Paul, Trench, & Co. 
 
THE LIPE OF LORD LYTTON. 181 
 
 great character, but the individual man, with 
 his mode of utterance in speech and in letters, 
 his prejudices, the incidents of his daily life, 
 his peculiar ways, his bodily aspect, and his 
 garments. A further stage was reached when 
 a near relative or a professed eulogist under- 
 took the office of biographer ; sometimes with 
 excellent results, as in Lockhart's Life of Scott, 
 but only too often displaying chiefly the in- 
 ordinate devotion of the chronicler. Finally, 
 we have the dehberate autobiography — the 
 author's recollections and revised journalising 
 about himself — which, if in some respects a 
 more authentic and intimate chronicle than 
 could have been framed by any other person, 
 may also, quite unconsciously to the writer, 
 be more than commonly deceptive. The most 
 notable example, perhaps, which exists of that 
 rare production — a sincere self-portraiture by a 
 genuine man — is the Autobiography of Anthony 
 Trollope. 
 
 For all these forms of biography an appetite 
 prevails so general and so insatiable, that a 
 great many readers find entertainment in the 
 lives of persons who were in no way specially 
 remarkable. When Smith's Life of Brown, 
 Robinson's of Jones, do not pass unappreciated, 
 the Life of Bulwer cannot fail of an audience. 
 His endowments were so remarkable as justly 
 
182 THE LIFE OP LORD LYTTON. 
 
 to create a desire to know what manner of man 
 their possessor was ; and his character was so 
 marked, individual, and interesting, as well to 
 repay the inquiry. When he died, ten years 
 ago, he had been for more than forty years a 
 personage — a personage, too, the current of 
 whose fame was fed by so many streams that 
 it went on expanding to the end. As a novel- 
 ist, popular from the first, he was one of the 
 very few whose genius gained in strength and 
 flavour with time. ' The Caxtons,' written in 
 middle Hfe, was an immense advance on 
 ' Pelham ' ; and the tale of his completed 
 works showed such variety of high - class 
 excellence, that it was rightly said in an 
 obituary notice of him in ' Blackwood,' that 
 his death had deprived his country of her 
 foremost man of letters. He was always writ- 
 ing, and never at any stage showed a sign of 
 having written himself out. He succeeded to 
 the audience, and in some degree partook' of the 
 characteristics, of two famous writers who could 
 no longer satisfy the tastes they had created. 
 At a time when Byron was still a pagan deity, 
 worshipped by romantic youth, Bulwer arose to 
 carry on the Byronic tradition. Don Juan, 
 clad by a fashionable tailor, and with a seat 
 in Parliament, frequently reappeared among us, 
 and was always sure of a Donna Juha in the 
 
THE LIFE OF LOED LYTTON. 183 
 
 boudoirs of Mayfair or of the Faubourg St Ger- 
 main. Prose Laras and Corsairs and Giaours 
 again stalked before us, intoning the sentiments 
 which the young called passionate, the old high- 
 flown. And at the same time, to no quarter 
 did the admirers of Scott look with more inter- 
 est than to the young author of 'Pelham' and 
 ' Devereux.' His aim, like Scott's, was the rep- 
 resentation of an epoch, whether the present or 
 another, by painting its manners and setting its 
 imaginary men in action. But the diiference in 
 their methods was too complete to admit of any 
 comparison, and may be seen, in a compendious 
 form, in the prefaces introductory to later edi- 
 tions of their novels. While Scott narrates in 
 these the circumstances under which the inci- 
 dents and characters of his story were impressed 
 on his memory, or were bodied forth by his 
 imagination, and how the tale itself subse- 
 quently took shape in his mind, Bulwer gives 
 us an essay on the philosophy of art, states 
 an abstract problem in life or conduct, and ex- 
 plains how the ensuing novel is its demonstra- 
 tion. Bulwer's method had its own special 
 value, and it was infinitely better that he 
 should work in his own way than imitate 
 Scott, however successfully. But in these days, 
 when the wand of the Northern Magician is 
 losing its power with each successive genera- 
 
184 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 tion, it is only just to record our conviction 
 that, even in employing the resources of the 
 art which he seems to ignore, he is supreme. 
 We have never wavered in our belief, after all 
 that has been said by devotees about Miss 
 Austen and Charlotte Bronte, about Dickens, 
 Thackeray, George Eliot, and Victor Hugo, that 
 Scott at his best is the prince of novelists. 
 Certainty of touch, richness of colour, interest 
 of plot, vitality of character, humour, pathos, 
 descriptive faculty, set forth in narrative the 
 genial ease of which conveys a sense of mastery 
 and power, combine to place him on a height 
 unapproached by any other writer of romance. 
 
 Be that as it may, there was a large public 
 ready for Bulwer, and he was a favourite with 
 it from the first. For readers of primitive 
 tastes there was great variety of romantic in- 
 cident, situation, and adventure ; whUe another 
 large class was attracted by the evidence of 
 thought and the mixture of philosophy which 
 seemed to render novel-reading respectable by 
 elevating story-telhng to a higher stage. And 
 while his novels were the mainstay of his popu- 
 larity, there were other fields in which he was 
 a personage of mark, and his successes in which 
 widened and strengthened the foundations of 
 his fame. Essays, in themselves evidences of 
 a mind unusually thoughtful and discursive ; 
 
THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 185 
 
 poetry, both original and in the form of trans- 
 lations from ancient and modern classics ; plays 
 which managers accepted and audiences ap- 
 plauded ; speeches in Parliament and a place 
 in the Cabinet — combined to keep him before 
 the public as a man not merely of great but of 
 singularly various ability. 
 
 When he was about fifty he began an auto- 
 biography which forms the substance of the 
 first volume of the Life ; but it was never com- 
 pleted, and does not even include the beginning 
 of the literary and public career, the record of 
 which must supply the chief interest of the 
 biography. Apart from the skilled workman- 
 ship of the practised chronicler, the recollec- 
 tions of his childhood and youth are not likely 
 to inspire, or to satisfy, curiosity ; but they 
 contain one incident of importance, for it left 
 a permanent mark on his mind and his works, 
 and illustrates what will be to many an un- 
 suspected quality of his nature. 
 
 When he was between seventeen and eigh- 
 teen, and while hving as a pupil in the house 
 of a clergyraan at Ealing, he had a mysterious 
 love-adventure. For a time not specified, but 
 apparently lasting through the summer, he used 
 to meet, under a dwarf tree overhanging a 
 little stream in a meadow near Ealing, a young 
 lady about his own age, whose time was left 
 
186 THE LIFE OE LORD LYTTON. 
 
 very much at her own disposal. Whatever 
 attractions she may have derived from the 
 glow of his fancy, it is apparent that he saw 
 in her something like a divinity. He repaired 
 to their meetings with the feelings with which 
 Rhoecus may have sought the oak where dwelt 
 his Dryad. Her face always continued to be 
 his ideal of beauty ; her affection, no less strong 
 than his own, his ideal of feminine tenderness. 
 She was for him glorified into a being sacred 
 beyond humanity, to be approached with feel- 
 ings as devout as they were ardent. But ad- 
 miration even so deep as this is not unexampled 
 in lovers of eighteen. The empire which Mary 
 Chaworth established over Byron at an earlier 
 age was powerful enough to be the inspiration 
 at a later time of some of his most pathetic 
 and popular poetry. But Byron's may be called 
 a boy's fancy in comparison with the perma- 
 nency of Bulwer's devotion. Like Bhcecus he 
 soon lost his goddess for ever, and she was 
 mourned for as only goddesses should be 
 mourned — that is to say, as a man may lament 
 throughout his hfe the loss of what had prom- 
 ised happiness too great for expectation, and 
 which not even fancy could ever restore. It 
 was, he says, " a brief tale of true passion and 
 of great sorrow — a tale never to be told." One 
 day she failed to meet him, and never came 
 
THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 187 
 
 again. " Some months afterwards there came a 
 letter. Not from her. She was married. She, 
 whose heart, whose soul, whose every thought 
 was mine to the last, she who never spared even 
 a dream to another, lost, lost to me for ever ! " 
 
 Three years later, when dying, she wrote to 
 him expressing a wish that he should visit her 
 grave. He made a pilgrimage to the north of 
 England in obedience to this desire, passed a 
 night of suffering on the spot, yet left it at 
 dawn "as if rebaptised or reborn. I recovered 
 the healthful tone of my mind ; and the stage 
 of experience and feeling through which my 
 young life had passed contributed largely to 
 render me whatever I have since become." 
 This, however, was far from implying that 
 here he dismissed his sorrowful remembrance 
 of the past. The anguish of that night was 
 recorded in a poem called " The Tale of a 
 Dreamer." It was inevitable that this should 
 recall Byron's " Dream." The two cases were 
 so strikingly similar in their chief incidents, 
 that had they been tales of fiction, one would 
 have been condemned as a copy. Whole pas- 
 sages might be quoted from the earlier poem 
 which would exactly apply to the later history. 
 Remembering how strong was the influence of 
 Byron on the clever young men of those days, 
 it was certain that the later utterance, though 
 
188 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 the outpouring of strong and genuine feeling, 
 would be more or less an echo. Yet Bulwer 
 had more than common power of versification, 
 and his lines, though not calculated to catch 
 the ear or charm the fancy like the melodious 
 lament of Byron, are good poetry, — infinitely 
 better than the doggerel — also inspired by ad- 
 miration of Byron — which his clever contem- 
 porary found a place for in the pages of, we 
 think, 'Venetia.' In Bulwer's first published 
 novel, ' Falkland,' the hero's recollections of his 
 youth contain the brief but exact record of the 
 real incidents. In an essay in the ' Student ' 
 there is a kind of prose monody inspired by the 
 same deep sorrow. The epic of " King Arthur," 
 written long afterwards, has three fine stanzas, 
 which owe their inspiration to that early source. 
 And in the last work he ever wrote, when quite 
 an old man, the love episode was still a tran- 
 script of these ineffaceable impressions. His 
 son tells us that he was greatly agitated in 
 reading the manuscript aloud, — that when the 
 chapter was finished describing Kenekn Chil- 
 lingly's sufferings at Lily's grave, he was de- 
 jected to a degree that his listeners were unable 
 at that time to account for. Besides all these 
 testimonies of his unforgotten grief, many pas- 
 sages throughout his works assure us of its 
 enduring influence in his heart. 
 
THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 189 
 
 It is not our function to reconcile the un- 
 doubted depth and permanency of this attach- 
 ment with the susceptibility to the charms of 
 the other sex which the biography shows to 
 have been a main feature of his early life, 
 and which is proved by the whole course of 
 his novels to have characterised him to the end. 
 He owned soon afterwards a very different 
 kind of enchantment, under the spells of a very 
 different kind of siren. Lady Caroline Lamb, 
 best known by the connection of her name with 
 Byron's, a very frisky matron of somewhat 
 mature years, took a fancy to the clever young 
 collegian, and flirted and corresponded with 
 him for some months of the very year of 
 Byron's death ; but she soon abandoned him 
 for " Mr Russell, a fashionable beau, extremely 
 handsome, but duU, insipid, and silly." The 
 effect of this intimacy may be traced (besides 
 in several unpublished novels) in the Lady 
 Roseville of ' Pelham ' and the Lady Hasselton 
 of ' Devereux' ; and he may have repeated in 
 other novels the favourite situation, probably 
 derived from " Don Juan," of the introduction 
 of the hero to fashionable life, and to the ex- 
 treme of flirtation, by a mature but still charm- 
 ing lady, generally the friend of his mother. 
 
 Bulwer was entered at Cambridge, first at 
 Trinity, then at Trinity Hall. The intellectual 
 
190 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 youth is fortunate who meets early with gifted 
 and congenial associates, for he probably gains 
 from them the best part of his education. He 
 learns to recognise various kinds of excellence, 
 to measure himself with others, to know his 
 relative powers, and finds in his intercourse 
 with high minds both a chief pleasure and a 
 chief stimulus. Bulwer's associates were Praed, 
 " first in readiness and wit," but who never 
 fulfilled the promise of his youth ; Cockbum, 
 who was probably indebted for much of his 
 later success to his college reputation, and who 
 displayed to the last qualities better suited 
 to dazzle undergraduates than to impress his 
 brethren of the bench ; Charles Buller, WUson, 
 and Maurice ; and Benjamin HaU Kennedy, 
 " a young giant in learning." With these Bul- 
 wer took part in the debates of the Union 
 Club. 
 
 " Men came from London to hear us. . . . The great- 
 est display of eloquence I ever witnessed at the Club 
 was made by a man some years our senior, and who 
 twice came up during my residence to grace our de- 
 bates — the now renowned Macaulay. The first of these 
 speeches was on the French Eevolution; and it stiU 
 lingers in my recollection as the most heart-stirring 
 effort of that true oratory which seizes hold of the 
 passions, transports you from yourself, and identifies 
 you with the very life of the orator, that it has ever 
 been my lot to hear — saving, perhaps, one speech by 
 
THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 191 
 
 O'Oonnell, delivered to an immense crowd in the open 
 air. Macaulay — in point of power, passion, and effect — 
 never equalled that speech in his best day in the House 
 of Commons. His second speech, upon the Liberty of 
 the Press, if I remember rightly, was a failure." 
 
 In these debates Bulwer was a conspicuous 
 figure ; he also succeeded in gaining a general 
 reputation for abihty, and in exercising that 
 power of application which always distinguished 
 him ; and won the prize for English poetry, in 
 a poem on Sculpture, dealing (we may venture 
 to assume) rather with the picturesque than 
 the technical aspect of that difficult art. 
 
 The autobiography ends with his twenty- 
 second year, soon after he had left coUege. It 
 is probable that, to aU but his intimate ac- 
 quaintances, he appeared at this time as a youth 
 merely eccentric and dandified, and perhaps 
 affected — characteristics which, joined to his 
 sense of superiority, were likely rather to repel 
 than to attract. But those who knew him 
 better had already learned to expect that his 
 ambition and capacity would conduct him to 
 eminence. The only doubt was as to which 
 of the many paths open to him he would select. 
 He had it in him to become an essayist, a writer 
 of fiction, a poet, a parliamentary orator, or a 
 student. Nor was he without experience of 
 a kind very uncommon at his age. He had 
 
192 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 looked on the world with an observant eye, 
 exercising his activity of mind and his con- 
 structive faculty in framing theories about the 
 philosophy of life ; while the grief he had passed 
 through had struck in his nature a chord which 
 vibrated through his whole existence, and im- 
 parted to all his thoughts and works a tone of 
 serious romance. 
 
 His choice of hterature as the chief occupa- 
 tion of his life was determined by the unfor- 
 tunate circumstances of his early manhood. 
 A mutual interest sprang up between him and 
 Rosina Wheeler, a young Irish lady of great 
 beauty. His mother, for what wlU seem to 
 most mothers just and excellent reasons, 
 strongly opposed the match. His income, in- 
 dependent of what his mother gave him, was 
 quite insufficient to marry on. Miss Wheeler 
 had next to nothing ; and her mother, who 
 lived separate from her husband, was " the hel 
 esprit of a little group of sociahsts and free- 
 thinkers, to the support of whose doctrines she 
 devoted both her purse and her pen." It was 
 inevitable that Mrs Bulwer, ambitious for her 
 son, and building his future happiness on a very 
 different kind of alliance, should be actively 
 hostile to this ; and Bulwer, the most affec- 
 tionate of sons, believing that it was not a 
 case where the affections on either side were 
 
THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 193 
 
 strongly engaged, promised his mother that 
 he would not marry without her consent. 
 Having given Miss Wheeler, to whom he was 
 at that time under no engagement, to under- 
 stand what his mother's view of the matter 
 was, and that he was entirely dependent on 
 her, he betook himself to a distance from temp- 
 tation. But he was presently made aware that 
 there was another side to the question, which 
 he could not thus easUy dispose of. Miss 
 Wheeler, far from making a corresponding 
 effort, let him know that she was quite pre- 
 pared to brave his mother's opposition. It was 
 under these circumstances that Bulwer, weigh- 
 ing his obligations to each, found himself so 
 bound to Miss Wheeler, whose singular family 
 circumstances had left her unusually friendless, 
 that he could not keep his promise to his 
 mother. He therefore returned to the young 
 lady, and engaged himself; upon which there 
 ensued a correspondence with his mother, full, 
 on his part, of openness, reasonableness, and 
 affectionate pleading. Up to this point Mrs 
 Bulwer had done nothing inconsistent with the 
 truest wish for the welfare of her favourite son. 
 Had his choice fallen more happily, she would 
 have been the most indulgent of parents ; and 
 that his fate should have impelled him in a 
 direction so opposed to her views, was a terrible 
 
 N 
 
194 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 misfortune for both. But it was simply a mis- 
 fortune — one in which both parties were abso- 
 lutely right from their own points of view, and 
 fate only was to blame. A new situation, how- 
 ever, now presented itself with his marriage. 
 The time of remonstrance was over, but not, 
 unhappily, the time of maternal displeasure. 
 His mother was for years unappeasable, though 
 her son, whenever an opening was afforded, con- 
 tinued to address her in terms the most manly 
 and affectionate — such as cannot fail to impress 
 the reader with the sense that here was a char- 
 acter reveahng itself, under heavy pressure, as 
 of unusual strength and excellence, and such 
 also, we will say, as should have restored him 
 to her affection. But the mother's sense of 
 injury prevailed. Representing his breach of 
 faith to her as the cause of estrangement — 
 though the real sting probably lay in the de- 
 feat of her hopes for a match such as should 
 correspond with her high and just sense of her 
 son's value — she not only broke off aU inter- 
 course with him, but accepted his resignation 
 of the large allowance which he had hitherto 
 received from her. The marriage took place 
 in 1827, when he was twenty-four; and the 
 imprudence of that step — always foreseen and 
 admitted by him — at once made itself felt. 
 The young pair might have lived on what they 
 
THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 195 
 
 had in a humble and economical way. But 
 Bulwer's projects were different. Though all 
 his life a man of careful habits, he thought 
 nothing extravagant that could minister to the 
 enjoyment of his wife, who had not herself the 
 sHghtest idea of economy or management ; and 
 they started on a large scale of expenditure, 
 thus entering on a course which led in more 
 than one way to disastrous consequences. 
 
 Bulwer's sense of honour was so high, that 
 the endeavour to continue to live beyond his 
 means would have been to him an impossibil- 
 ity. But he believed, and proved, that he could 
 by his own efforts raise his means to the level 
 of his expenses. In the determination to do 
 this, he accepted every kind of literary work 
 that was offered to him. Magazines, reviews, 
 newspapers, and the volumes known to that 
 generation as annuals, received incessant con- 
 tributions from his pen, very few of which have 
 been rescued, or, probably, have been found 
 worth rescuing, from the oblivion which natu- 
 rally awaited them. It was not wholesome 
 literary work — it was toil and drudgery. But 
 at the same period he found time to finish 
 ' Pelham,' which, pleasing the public, brought 
 him offers for novels advantageous enough to 
 justify him in devoting his pen henceforth 
 chiefly to the compositions which exercised all 
 
196 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 his best faculties, and have made him famous. 
 But the incessant activity of his mind, and the 
 labours to which it prompted him, proved too 
 much for his never robust health. Even this 
 result was not more lamentable than the effect 
 on his domestic life. " So incessantly," wrote 
 his wife to his mother, "is he occupied, that 
 I seldom or never see him, till about two or 
 three in the morning, for five minutes." It is 
 evident that no amount of literary labour would 
 account sufficiently for this neglect of his wife 
 — and that, if the statement is not exaggerated, 
 she had grave cause of complaint. Many cir- 
 cumstances are wanting to explain a situation 
 which is in itself incredible. However this may 
 be, things were evidently tending, even in these 
 early days, towards the estrangement which 
 finally became irremediable. 
 
 The novels which he produced within the 
 period of his life comprehended in the present 
 instalment of biography, were five in number 
 — namely, ' Falkland,' ' Pelham,' ' Devereux,' 
 'The Disowned,' and 'Paul Clifford.' 'Falk- 
 land ' was written before his marriage, — a 
 gloomy story, or, rather, an essay upon a dis- 
 tressing situation created for characters which 
 were mostly too unattractive to excite much 
 interest in the reader, yet displaying earnest- 
 ness and power. Perhaps the best testimony 
 
THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 197 
 
 to its merit is his mother's really clever criti- 
 cism, conveyed in a letter, in which, after en- 
 thusiastic praise of what she deemed its excel- 
 lences, she freely censured its faults, ending by 
 saying, " Child, this is unworthy of you." It 
 was his next hook, ' Pelham,' which gained his 
 public and fixed his vocation. A few years 
 before, Disraeli had made a clever coxcomb 
 his hero, and showed how amusing the sketch 
 of sheer audacity, giving the adventurer, its 
 possessor, an extraordinary influence in what 
 was then called " high life," might be. Pelham 
 also was a clever coxcomb ; he, too, moved in 
 the fashionable and political world, showing an 
 adroitness far beyond his years, and exercising 
 an influence far beyond his position. But Pel- 
 ham was also represented as a man of honour, 
 with sentiment and principle beneath his cox- 
 combry ; and his cleverness, instead of ending 
 as Vivian Grey's ended, in the exposure of an 
 unprincipled charlatan, led him to success, and 
 his varied career, interesting all through, left 
 the reader satisfied as well as pleased. The 
 immaturity of the author is, it is true, fre- 
 quently visible : the conduct of the hero during 
 his canvass of a constituency, intended to dis- 
 play his dexterity, was more adapted to broad 
 comedy than to a novel, and would in real life 
 have appeared as vulgar impudence ; in the 
 
198 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 clever episode of the student Clutterbuck, that 
 personage's simphcity and antique phraseology 
 are overdrawn ; whUe in the entertaining scenes 
 with the gourmet, Lord Guloseton, their creator 
 would not, a few years later, have represented 
 the gluttonous host as entertaining a single 
 guest at a dinner, meant to be especially choice, 
 with, besides a pair of fowls, entrees oi filets de 
 poulet and of veal — a combination quite in- 
 credible on the part of a professed epicure, and 
 therefore false to the picture. But there was 
 a vivacity and impetus in the book which would 
 have carried the reader airily over greater de- 
 fects than these. There was a melodramatic 
 thread woven into the plot which perhaps 
 pleased more than it offended ; and the char- 
 acter of Glanville, so strongly imbued with the 
 odour of the foothghts as to seem now quite 
 incongruous in a tale of ordinary life, had for 
 readers of those days this much in common 
 with Pelham, that each was a different phase 
 of the Byronic hero. And all the merits of the 
 book were far more conspicuous then than now, 
 when as a picture of manners it is somewhat 
 obsolete, and gave assurance no less of versa- 
 tility than of power. 
 
 This versatility displayed itself in the subject 
 of his next work, ' Devereux,' intended to be a 
 picture of the times of Queen Anne. Here the 
 
THE LIFE OF LOED LYTTON. 199 
 
 melodramatic element came out very strongly 
 indeed. The hero's brothers, and tutor, and 
 wife, and father-in-law, are of the stagiest ; 
 and on such grounds it is dismissed in the 
 biography with less respect than, as we think, 
 it deserves. The hero is a very fair hero ; and 
 the early scenes at Devereux Court, with the 
 clever and pleasant characters of Sir William 
 the uncle, an embodiment of the spirit and the 
 reminiscences of Charles the Second's Court, 
 and the Lady Hasselton, the clever, light - 
 souled, artificial fine lady of the De Coverley 
 period, have always seemed to us among the 
 most agreeable he ever painted. 
 
 ' The Disowned ' was constructed on a prin- 
 ciple which could hardly produce a good novel 
 — that of embodying abstract qualities, and 
 setting them in motion, like chessmen, to work 
 out some moral problem. " Vanity (Talbot) ; 
 Ambition (Warner) ; Pride (Lord Borodaile) ; 
 Selfishness and Sensuality (Crawfurd) ; Phil- 
 anthropy (Mordaunt) ; " such is the author's 
 own list of his dramatis personce, as set forth 
 in a preface — the design being, he says, " to 
 personify certain dispositions influential upon 
 conduct." Except John Bunyan (who did not 
 write novels), nobody ever succeeded on such 
 a plan, which, however, some whose genius 
 was most opposed to it have been at times so 
 
200 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 ill-advised as to follow : thus the ugly puppets, 
 old Martin Chuzzlewit, and young Martin, and 
 Anthony, and Jonas, were intended, their fab- 
 ricator tells us, as different manifestations of 
 selfishness, their rag-and-sawdust material be- 
 coming all the more apparent from association 
 with such spontaneous personages as Mrs Gamp, 
 Mr Mould, and the party at Todgers's, who 
 drew their origin from a very different source. 
 Theory of this kind was always more or less an 
 element of Bulwer's plan, and indeed was an 
 essential quality of his literary faculty ; and, in 
 less degree, we find it inspiring his next novel, 
 ' Paul Clifibrd.' The motive of this book was 
 to expose some of the defects of the criminal 
 law of the time. But this is evidently a much 
 more practicable scheme than that of personify- 
 ing abstract qualities ; and the book was pop- 
 ular, notwithstanding an unsightly excrescence 
 in the shape of an attempt to caricature public 
 men of the time (mixed with some abstractions 
 as " the Whigs in general," " the Scotch ditto") 
 under the guise of a gang of highwaymen. Of 
 the popularity of the work there can be no 
 doubt. Not only did it please novel-readers, 
 but as letters from well-known literary men 
 show, caused the author to be regarded as a 
 growing power in literature ; while the bio- 
 grapher claims for it a share in the reform of 
 
THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 201 
 
 the criminal law. A few years afterwards, 
 Dickens, consciously or unconsciously, worked 
 on the same lines in ' Barnaby Rudge,' even to 
 the extent of reproducing the main incident, in 
 the final attitude of Mr Chester towards his 
 convicted son the ostler ; the tale, as usual, 
 owing its vitality to the characters outside the 
 theory, as the Varden family and the party at 
 the Maypole — while the hero Barnaby is much 
 less of a real personage than his own raven. 
 
 Thus far is Bulwer's hterary career followed 
 in the present volumes. His books had made 
 him a popular novelist, and something more. 
 While one large section of his public listened 
 eagerly to the skilful raconteur, another found 
 more serious satisfaction in the thoughtful writer 
 whose romances were a treat for the intellect. 
 It was certain that he would improve with 
 practice, for his novels were the result of skiU. 
 His faculty was constructive, not creative. He 
 had none of that power of imparting individ- 
 uality to his personages by which Scott and 
 Dickens have peopled the world of imagination 
 with characters whom we quote and converse 
 about as if they were our personal acquaint- 
 ances. His faculty of humour was small — 
 that he should have had more would have 
 been inconsistent with the general cast of his 
 mind and bent of his thoughts. Of wit he had 
 
202 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 keener perception, and there is a great deal of 
 it in his novels, especially in the condensed 
 form of epigrammatic phrases and smart say- 
 ings ; yet it seldom seems spontaneous, looking 
 rather like the product of a theory framed from 
 analysing the wit of others, and therefore faUs 
 as often as it succeeds. But he wove a good 
 plot, and strengthened it with vivid situations 
 to which the course of the story led up, — as 
 where Brandon the judge condenms Clifford the 
 highwayman to death, after having just learned 
 that the convict is his son — where the guidance 
 of Nydia, the bhnd girl, enables the lovers of 
 Pompeii to escape amid the darkness from the 
 doomed city — and where Zanoni takes his wife's 
 place beneath the guillotine. This constructive 
 faculty came out again conspicuously in his 
 plays, which contained for the chief personages 
 situations such as actors love ; while the char- 
 acters afforded outlines that, in the hands of 
 such artists as Macready and Helen Faucit, 
 grew into impersonations of so great vitality 
 as has borne them down the stream of time to 
 our own day. " Richelieu," " Money," and the 
 " Lady of Lyons " have all been played very 
 recently to full audiences. This thoughtful and 
 careful attention to construction was properly 
 accompanied by an equal solicitude for expres- 
 sion. His style was, or grew to be, in the main 
 
THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 203 
 
 excellent. At a time when a flood of washy 
 literature — especially the writings of clever 
 men who, capable of better things, have to 
 work against time for the fleeting occasion — 
 has corrupted the Queen's English, it is restora- 
 tive to turn to the best composition of Bulwer. 
 And while his range of subjects presents more 
 variety than that of any other novelist, his 
 work never failed to be distinguished by erudi- 
 tion as well as power. It was always evident 
 that the care to make it as good as he could 
 extended into every particular, and that is 
 a compliment to readers which they always 
 appreciate. 
 
 Mixed with these sterling qualities was an 
 element which, respecting them so highly as 
 we do, we may venture to notice ; indeed it is 
 too characteristic to be passed over in an esti- 
 mate of his literary qualities — namely, a kind 
 of staginess, the more curious because asso- 
 ciated with the excellent common-sense which 
 was more and more, as years wore on, a main 
 feature of his work. In his pages, along with 
 clever and practical men of the world, we meet 
 with the personages of melodrama, arrayed as 
 if by Nathan, and intended to impress the 
 reader by dint of the fine sayings put in their 
 mouths and the fine things said about them by 
 the author. In unison with these are the 
 
204 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 phrases descriptive of their doings. Drawing- 
 rooms are " halls of pleasure," — heroes of the 
 piece have a " knightly bearing," or other ex- 
 alted attributes — an elderly lawyer " bows his 
 kingly crest," — and perhaps the climax of this 
 kind of phraseology was reached when Roland, 
 the representative of Sterne's Uncle Toby, ia 
 the ' Caxtons,' denounces his son, who has at- 
 tempted to carry off a young lady, as " baffled 
 ravisher " ! And in the same vein, which runs 
 through all his works to the last, are passages 
 of rhapsody, — as, for instance, in the excellent 
 novel ' Night and Morning,' where stages of 
 the narrative are marked by semi - poetical 
 flights embodying some supposed analogy be- 
 tween the progress of events and the change 
 from night to morning. But we are far from 
 thinking that what were blots to a refined 
 taste did not help him to gain popularity. The 
 " gods," who exist in the reading no less than 
 in the play -going public, enjoyed what was 
 specially addressed to the shilling gallery, and 
 by joining in the applause, helped, in theatrical 
 parlance, to bring the house down. But it is 
 a curious fact that, notwithstanding the un- 
 doubted favour of the public, he never gained 
 even the toleration of the critics, who are 
 generally at least quite as prone to follow as 
 to lead popular opinion. Up to the close of 
 
THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 205 
 
 his life, and beyond it, he was the subject of 
 habitually unfair and ungenerous comment. 
 
 The melodramatic tendency evident in his 
 works, found expression also in his manner and 
 attire, in this, as well as in his literary aspect, 
 serving to intensify his individuality. His son 
 describes him at twenty -two as "a good- 
 looking, dandified, and eccentric but decidedly 
 clever and ambitious young man." His harm- 
 less eccentricities of costume did not cease with 
 youth ; the present writer saw them in full 
 efflorescence when he was past fifty. These 
 adornments, which perhaps he had imagined 
 as picturesque investments for some of his 
 heroes, were of the florid kind, coming out in 
 silks and velvets, remarkable trousers, brooches, 
 pins, and even straps, making up an ensemble 
 such as might have been gathered from the 
 wardrobes of Charles Mathews and Edmund 
 Kean. We remember an old lady, his guest, 
 after surveying him with respectful admiration, 
 in his sufficiently unconventional attire, turning 
 to us with the eager question, " Have you seen 
 him in his velvet hat ? " a privilege which we 
 shortly afterwards enjoyed. This taste for 
 splendour he shared, as he shared other pecu- 
 liarities of character, with a novelist and states- 
 man, his friend and contemporary, who loved 
 to invest himself, no less than his imaginary 
 
206 THE LIFE OE LORD LYTTON. 
 
 characters, with spoils won in incursions into 
 the taUor's art so daring, that, in one instance, 
 even Bulwer owned to a misgiving. Writing 
 to Disraeli about the manuscript of the novel 
 of the ' Young Duke,' he suggests, " I would 
 give matured attention to the Duke's dress. 
 I confess I think the blond edgings too bold " — 
 a criticism which, among others, seems to have 
 preyed on Mr Disraeli's mind. We must leave 
 it to students of the work to discover whether 
 the blond edgings were sacrificed, or whether 
 Mr Disraeli found himself unable to part with 
 them. When the novelists first met, in their 
 youth, the habiliments which each, being 
 specially on his mettle, would have thought 
 suited to convey a due impression of the mag- 
 nificence of his fancy to the other, must have 
 displayed extraordinary powers of invention. 
 Also there were not wanting, to increase the 
 singularity of Bulwer's presence, gloomy smUes, 
 stately bows, and lofty gestures, suitable to a 
 stage potentate. Yet with all this, his appear- 
 ance was naturally distinguished and striking. 
 He was an excellent man of business, and a 
 reliable adviser, full of common-sense. He was 
 also exceedingly good-natured : no man (as the 
 present writer can testify from personal know- 
 ledge) could speak more generously, whether of 
 rising aspirants or successful rivals. He never 
 
THE LIFE or LOED LYTTON. 207 
 
 retaliated on his contemporaries the aspersions 
 lavished on himself. None was more ready to 
 help others with friendly offices, or bestowed 
 them with a better grace. He liked to do a 
 service, and showed that he liked it. Ready 
 to listen as well as to talk — entering with warm 
 interest upon a vast variety of topics, and bring- 
 ing to them unusual stores of knowledge — he 
 was one of the most agreeable of companions, 
 especially in a tSte-d,-tSte. In larger companies, 
 a deafness which came upon him with years 
 deprived both him and his associates of much 
 of that pleasure in social intercourse which he 
 enjoyed himself, and largely conferred upon 
 others. 
 
 His relations with Mr Disraeli, beginning 
 with mutual courtesies as literary men in 1829, 
 always continued to be cordial ; and it is to be 
 reckoned as a notable tribute to Bulwer's rising 
 fame at that time, that the author of ' Vivian 
 Grey' should have submitted the manuscript 
 of his next novel for the opinion and advice 
 of the author of ' Pelham.' There were many 
 points of resemblance between these remarkable 
 men. Both surveyed the problems of life with 
 an inventive as well as a penetrating glance — 
 both were fond of constructing theories about 
 human nature and how to deal with it — both 
 were confident in putting their theories into 
 
208 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 practice. Their eccentricities no less than their 
 serious work may have originated in a purpose ; 
 even their exuberant dandyism may have been 
 founded on the expectation of attracting by 
 it some additional consideration or attention. 
 Bulwer, as might have been expected from a 
 man of his candour and good sense, never held 
 either of the extreme views which at different 
 times prevailed respecting the powers of Disraeli. 
 When, in his earlier career, he was generally 
 regarded as merely a charlatan, Bulwer recog- 
 nised the uncommon gifts which conducted him 
 to power and fame ; when he had already at- 
 tained to these, Bulwer did not vary his esti- 
 mate because of the rising tumult of applause 
 which finally reached such an extraordinary 
 pitch of enthusiasm. A very singular incident 
 in their friendship is Bulwer's construction of 
 what he called a " Geomantic Figure " of the 
 character and career of " B. Disraeh," made in 
 1860. It is accompanied with an interpreta- 
 tion in the form of a prophecy, drawn from a 
 process of divination. With some passages which 
 persons not of the race of the prophets might 
 have written, there are others, relating to his 
 private as well as his public life, which dealt with 
 the events of the future, and were fulfilled with 
 extraordinary exactness, and much in opposi- 
 tion, as the diviner records, to what he should 
 
THE LIFE OP LORD LYTTON. 209 
 
 himself have augured. In a notice like this we 
 should hardly have paused on the incident but 
 for its connection with some remarkable tastes 
 and tendencies, without mention of which any 
 sketch of Bulwer's character would be incom- 
 plete. Occult studies, comprising the magic of 
 ancient times as well as the spiritualism of the 
 present, had a great charm for him, and he 
 entered on them with the earnestness which 
 marked his pursuit of less mysterious know- 
 ledge. He dived into wizard -lore, equipped 
 himself with magical implements, rods for 
 transmitting influence, and crystal balls in 
 which to discern coming scenes and persons, 
 and communed with mediums and spiritualists. 
 There can be little doubt that, whatever faith 
 he might have in particular manifestations, he 
 beUeved in certain occult powers of nature, to 
 deal with which is the object of these mys- 
 terious arts. On more than one occasion we 
 have known him to dilate on such themes with 
 great copiousness of knowledge, and apparent 
 trustfulness in the reality of their marvels. 
 Once, as he stood before the fire in a large 
 old room in which a seance had lately been 
 held by the well-known spiritualist Home, and, 
 his aspect rendered more weird by the theme 
 and the twilight, described the ghostly things 
 that had been apparent — hands and arms rising 
 
 o 
 
210 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 through the table, touching those who sat round, 
 revealing, when grasped, the startling fact that 
 they ended at the elbow, and finally rising into 
 the air, clad in a greyish drapery, and floating 
 out of a particular corner of the room — he almost 
 gave a listener the impression of being in the 
 presence of a veritable necromancer. To this 
 taste we are indebted for several well-known 
 works — the novels of ' Zanoni ' and ' A Strange 
 Story,' and the remarkable tale, by common 
 consent the most powerful ghost -story that 
 ever was written, called ' The Haunted and 
 the Haunters.' So iUusive is the atmosphere of 
 the tale, so vivid the description of its terrify- 
 ing appearances, and so efiective their connec- 
 tion with the agency of a mahgnant being 
 possessed of supernatural powers, that on its 
 appearance in ' Blackwood,' an anxious father 
 adjured the Editor for God's sake to tell him 
 what truth was in it, as his daughter had 
 known no rest or peace since reading it. Not 
 the least interesting part of the biography 
 will be a promised chapter on these mystical 
 studies. 
 
 The volumes yet to come will be fuUer of 
 interest than the present instalment, for Bulwer 
 went on ripening, and " hiving wisdom with 
 each studious year." In middle life he entered 
 on a new phase of his career and a new aspect 
 
THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 211 
 
 of his reputation. In the ' Caxtons,' ' My 
 Novel; 'What wiU he Do with It?' and 
 ' Kenelm Chillingly,' the public recognised a 
 maturer wisdom, a wider experience of life, 
 and a more disciplined style, than had hitherto 
 been associated with his name. It was a theory 
 of his that when an author had for a time re- 
 ceded from view, the best way of renewing his 
 intercourse with the public was in the pages of 
 a periodical. It was in ' Blackwood ' that the 
 first of these novels came out, which, quaintly 
 founded on the relation existing between the 
 chief characters of Tristram Shandy, was so 
 fuU of playful wisdom and ripe observation, 
 and so distinguished by graces and excel- 
 lences of style beyond his previous work, that 
 readers hesitated before assigning the author- 
 ship to their old favourite. Henceforth he 
 commanded a wider and a choicer audience. 
 John Blackwood was always proud and happy 
 to think that it was through his mediation, 
 either in the Magazine or in separate publica- 
 tions, that most of Bulwer's work in this later 
 and nobler development of his genius was wont 
 to appear. All through the rest of the novelist's 
 life the connection between them continued to 
 be marked to the last by cordial friendship, 
 constant correspondence, and consultations and 
 exchange of views on matters connected with 
 
212 THE LIFE OP LORD LYTTON. 
 
 his writings, such as the experience and well- 
 known judgment of the publisher rendered 
 especially valuable. The great writer, among 
 the most eminent of those who have adorned 
 the pages of the famous Magazine, always repaid 
 the warm admiration, tempered by honest 
 judgment, of John Blackwood, with thorough 
 confidence and affectionate regard. 
 
 It appears to us that the present Lord 
 Lytton's part in the writing of his father's 
 biography is well and judiciously done. Espe- 
 cial tact has been shown in deahng with the 
 unhappy circumstances of Bulwer's married 
 life, a matter which could not be avoided, and 
 yet was so full of difficulty for the present 
 biographer. His comments on his father's 
 works and genius, while showing the most 
 genuine filial devotion, never pass those limits 
 In eulogy which may ensure every fair-minded 
 reader's assent. We could have wished that 
 what he had to say had not been so overlaid 
 as it is with other matter. At least one of the 
 two volumes before us is filled with an auto- 
 biography and with literary remains. A large 
 part of the autobiography is taken up with an 
 account of personages antecedent to his parents, 
 the mention of whose names in the family pedi- 
 gree would have sufficed, and whose hves and 
 characters cannot be expected to excite any 
 
THE LIFE OP LORD LYTTON. 213 
 
 general interest. Another large part is taken 
 up with youthful adventures, met with in rural 
 excursions, which certainly bear a very close 
 resemblance, in aU respects, to the incidents 
 described in many of his novels as befalling 
 their heroes, and will therefore inevitably 
 excite the suspicion, in the case of one so 
 habituated to this vein of composition, that 
 they spring as much from imagination as from 
 memory. And as to the policy of including 
 the literary remains in the present work, there 
 can hardly, we should think, be two opinions. 
 Some of them consist of work abandoned before 
 completion, others of matter which the author 
 did not see fit to publish ; and after perusing 
 them, we must say that his judgment in aban- 
 doning the one and suppressing the other was 
 right. What makes this arrangement of special 
 importance is, that there remains a vast quan- 
 tity of heterogeneous writings, consisting of 
 several dramas, a volume of a history, sketches 
 for historical works, and " an immense number 
 of unfinished novels, plays, poems, and essays " 
 — and all of these, we are told, " have been 
 reserved as materials for the present work." 
 Fully respecting the feeling which has im- 
 pelled Lord Lytton to destine all this to form 
 part of the forthcoming volumes, we would 
 point out that it is a case where (especially 
 
214 THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON. 
 
 with part of the work before us) ordinary 
 readers are better judges of the result than 
 a biographer so near as he is to his subject 
 in kin and affection ; and it is with the sincere 
 desire to see the book made as attractive and 
 as hkely to be permanent as possible, that we 
 would urge him still to take the opinion on this 
 important point of some friend in whose judg- 
 ment he can confide. This is not the case of 
 an obscure or infertile author, whose unpub- 
 lished writings may be the chief evidence of 
 his title to be remembered. To our mind, such 
 a lavish outpouring of crude or inferior matter 
 as that which is contemplated, can only have 
 the general effect of diluting the premier cru 
 of a famous vintage with the washings of the 
 wine-press. 
 
THE LIFE AND LETTEKS OF 
 GEOEGE ELIOT.^ 
 
 TT is not to be supposed that so remarkable a 
 -^ specimen of the human intellect as George 
 Eliot's should have passed through its early 
 stages without giving signs of what manner of 
 spirit had come among us. While still making 
 an idol of her doU, she was filled with that 
 passion for books which invariably marks the 
 childhood of those endowed with a powerful 
 literary faculty. A child who loves meditation, 
 or the observation of nature, or the practical 
 work of Hfe, better than books, may become a 
 remarkable person — a philosopher, a discoverer, 
 or an organiser ; but the literary genius must 
 in early life be fed upon books, and these not 
 
 1 George Eliot's Life, as related in her Letters and Journals. 
 Arranged and edited by her husband, J. W. Cross. In 3 vols. 
 William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh and London. 1885. 
 
216 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 few in number nor peculiar in scope, but em- 
 bracing a wide range of subjects and of writers. 
 In the young mind so predestined and so nour- 
 ished, what is poor and bad passes off, what is 
 good is retained ; the more various the material, 
 the richer the result — namely, that power of 
 expressing the best ordered thought in the best 
 ordered language which constitutes excellence 
 of style. Whether a really omnivorous young 
 reader, seizing on and assimilating aU kinds of 
 lore (and this wide ranging and wide pasturing 
 is very uncommon even among children who are 
 said to be fond of books), will become a fine 
 writer, may be augured with a good deal of 
 certainty by a little observation. If the effect 
 be to puff him up, to cause him to put away 
 childish things, to seek grave converse and the 
 praise of his elders, he wiU probably develop 
 into one of those fluent phenomenons, oracles of 
 the general herd (always gregarious of opinion), 
 who possess a fatal facility of expatiating in 
 oily sermons, gushing essays, copious journals, 
 trivial histories, or pretentious novels. But if 
 he preserve his freshness of interest in aU that 
 charms the young, the chances are many in 
 favour of his development into one of those 
 artists of the pen whose works wiU live and 
 nourish the writers of the future. Where op- 
 portunities are smaU, much wiU depend on the 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OP GEORGE ELIOT. 217 
 
 character of the books at hand. Mary Ann 
 Evans's home was not apparently very copi- 
 ously supplied, but she was fortunate in those 
 volumes which she could make her own. An 
 old gentleman, nameless, but evidently worth 
 crowds of ordinary old gentlemen in knowing 
 the right thing and doing it, used to bring her 
 sometimes a book as an offering, and among 
 them the Fables of ^sop — so sure, with their 
 four-footed and feathered representatives of the 
 wise and the foolish, to expand the imagination 
 of the imaginative child, the sympathies of the 
 sympathetic. An old copy of the ' Pilgrim's 
 Progress,' with illustrations less artistic but 
 more in unison with the ideas of John Bunyan 
 than would probably spring from a modern 
 pencil, was always at hand to lead her into a 
 supernatural world, with its mysterious scenery 
 of the House Beautiful, the Delectable Moun- 
 tains, and the dreadful valley, and with such 
 tremendous inhabitants as Giant Despair and 
 Apollyon lurking in its recesses. Another 
 much studied theological work, also illustrated, 
 was Defoe's ' History of the Devil.' A less for- 
 midable morality was represented by ' Rasselas,' 
 tedious only to readers whose appetite has 
 grown fastidious with years. In relief to these 
 grave works stood the jest-book of Joe Miller, 
 the somewhat practical and unrefined character 
 
218 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 of whose mirth was corrected a little later by 
 the gentler and chaster humour of EHa. It 
 was not tiU the advanced age of eight that she 
 became enamoured of the Waverley Novels; and 
 then what a share must those great romances 
 have had in forming the future Eliot ! Is it 
 possible that she could ever have become what 
 she did if for these had been substituted, let us 
 say, the monstrous indigestibilities of Mr George 
 Macdonald, or Mr Wilkie Collins ? So far, 
 however, was she from growing proud as the 
 possessor of all this lore, that she used to fol- 
 low, like a small dog, the footsteps of a three- 
 years older brother, who, after the manner of 
 well-conditioned males of that time of life, per- 
 mitted himself to be adored with much con- 
 descension and consideration. This fraternal 
 alliance was, of course, the origin of the rela- 
 tions of Tom and Maggie TuUiver. It was 
 interrupted by a pony, given to the boy, who 
 found the quadruped a more interesting associ- 
 ate than the sister. The fact that Isaac Evans 
 never became anything uncommon, remaining 
 very much like his neighbours in pursuits and 
 character, does not render in the least less 
 natural the fact that he was worshipped by the 
 little female genius. It is only commonplace 
 litle girls who are not prone to admire boys 
 merely because they are boys, and with no more 
 
LIFE AND LETTEES OF GEOBGE ELIOT. 219 
 
 real ground than that on which the British 
 pubhc sometimes grows fatuous in its worship 
 of tinselled and trumpery idols. 
 
 The Uttle girl had another object of rever- 
 ence in a father who had probably so much, 
 and no more, of Mr TuUiver as to pet her, to 
 call her his cute little wench, and possibly to 
 be very earnest in his denunciation of those 
 diabolic agencies " raskills " ; but who had 
 much more (though stiU with great diversity) 
 in common with both Adam Bede and Caleb 
 Garth. Probably the former represents him 
 when an artisan in his youth, the latter in his 
 elder phase, for Mr Evans became a first-rate 
 land agent, knowing thoroughly all the branches 
 of that interesting business ; as manly, inde- 
 fatigable, conscientious, clever, and devoted to 
 his calling as the two ideal characters. It is 
 mere conunonplace to a thinking person to be 
 told that delineators of character seldom copy 
 from originals after the fashion of portrait- 
 painters. Every novelist must have been 
 worried by simpletons who, incapable of con- 
 ceiving such a thing as a creative faculty, press 
 for information as to who it was that sat for 
 this or that character, and are much exasper- 
 ated that the imaginary secret, by promul- 
 gating which they hoped to gain great social 
 distinction, should be withheld from them. 
 
220 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Few characters could be transferred bodily to 
 a book with advantage to it. As Romeo, 
 according to Juliet, might be cut out in little 
 stars, so a strong individuality like that of 
 Robert Evans may be made to give life and 
 reality to a dozen men of fiction. His wife, 
 pale, energetic, a good housewife and a warm- 
 hearted mother, contained the germs, and more, 
 of the celebrated Mrs Poyser. There was an 
 elder daughter, Chrissey, who married early 
 when Mary Ann was sixteen, and was thence- 
 forward lost to view, though not to memory, 
 for the recollection of the relation between the 
 sisters suggested that between Celia and Dor- 
 othea Brooke, and the dehneation of Celia was 
 the result of a remembrance of Chrissey, though 
 it could not be called a portrait. 
 
 The musing, observant, sensitive, deeply im- 
 pressionable child lived with this family in 
 Warwickshire, in a house bearing the curious 
 name of Griff, of red brick covered with ivy, 
 and having, like Mr Poyser's, a farmyard, barns, 
 and large dairy. It stood, we are told, in a 
 very flat uninteresting landscape of green fields 
 and hedgerows. But there is something in the 
 smaUness of a child which prevents flatness 
 from being uninteresting : to a creature who 
 is too short to see over the smallest fence, and 
 who is hidden by a gooseberry - bush, every 
 
LIFE AND LETTEBS OP GEORGE ELIOT. 221 
 
 knoll is a mountain, every thicket a forest. 
 Moreover, the unattractiveness of the landscape 
 may have intensified the zest derived from the 
 scenes of imagination in Bunyan and Scott ; so 
 that, on the whole, the flat fields may have 
 been quite as useful in their way as if the 
 happy valley of Rasselas had stretched from 
 the door. 
 
 It need not be said how deep was the impres- 
 sion made on Mary Ann by the scenes and 
 characters which surrounded her childhood, 
 though at that period she saw these only at 
 intervals, for at the age of five she went with 
 her brother to a boarding-school till she was 
 eight, when she was sent with Chrissey to a 
 much larger establishment at Nuneaton, and 
 remained there up to the age of thirteen. In 
 all scholastic studies, then and afterwards, she 
 showed capacity and power unequalled by any 
 of her schoolmates. For accomplishments, she 
 was an enthusiastic musician, and she took a 
 singular pleasure in the study of modern lan- 
 guages. But the circumstance of this period 
 which chiefly concerns the reader is, that at 
 this second school the principal teacher. Miss 
 Lewis, was an ardent evangelical Church- 
 woman, and became, and continued for years to 
 be, her young pupil's most intimate friend. 
 Always uncommonly susceptible of the in- 
 
222 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 fluence of those around her, Mary Ann must 
 have been especially so at this early age ; and 
 her ardent temper would lead her, particularly 
 with the encouragement of example, to push 
 any strong tendency to an extreme. Deeply 
 influenced by the rehgious views of Miss Lewis, 
 she came under other and still stronger ten- 
 dencies from thirteen to sixteen, which period 
 she spent at another school kept by the 
 daughters of a Baptist minister in Coventry, 
 where, Ave learn, she became a leader of prayer- 
 meetings amongst the girls. When she was 
 sixteen she lost her mother, and returned home 
 to keep house for her father, the elder sister 
 having married about that time ; and now it 
 happened that the practice of her rehgious 
 principles, bordering on asceticism, placed her 
 in antagonism with her brother. Isaac was 
 fond of sports and pleasures, and had, moreover, 
 imbibed strong High Church views. His sister 
 not only opposed him with argument, but with 
 a strictness of life which must have looked Hke 
 a reproach. As she says of Maggie TuUiver, 
 " she threw some exaggeration and wilfulness, 
 some pride and impetuosity even, into her seH- 
 renunciation." To her "the pursuit of pleasure 
 was a snare, dress was vanity, society was a 
 danger." In her first visit to London with 
 her brother, when she was eighteen, she would 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEOEGE ELIOT. 223 
 
 not accompany him to the theatres, but spent 
 all her evenings alone reading. To the evan- 
 gelical religion she had (she avowed at a later 
 time) sacrificed the cultivation of her intellect, 
 and a proper regard to personal appearance. 
 " I used," she said, "to go about like an owl, 
 to the great disgust of my brother ; and I 
 would have denied him what I now see to have 
 been quite lawful amusements." A curious con- 
 firmation of what she says of sacrificing the cul- 
 tivation of her intellect, is found in reading her 
 letters of this period to Miss Lewis. Nothing 
 connected with George Eliot can be more 
 curious, for one who remembers what her formed 
 style was — how studiously truthful in render- 
 ing the subject-matter, how careful in the ex- 
 clusion of conventionalities — than to mark how 
 she adopted the very phraseology of her reli- 
 gious friends. Of the marriage of an acquaint- 
 ance she writes : — 
 
 " I must believe that those are happiest who are 
 not fermenting themselves by engaging in projects for 
 earthly bliss, who are considering this life merely a 
 pilgrimage, a scene calluag for diligence and watchful- 
 ness, not for repose and amusement. I do not deny 
 that there may be many who can partake with a high 
 degree of zest of all the lawful enjoyments the world 
 can offer, and yet live in near communion with their 
 God — who can warmly love the creature, and yet be 
 careful that the Creator maintains His supremacy in 
 
224 LIFE AND LETTERS OiF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 their hearts ; but I confess that in my short experience 
 and narrow sphere of action I have never been able to 
 attain to this. I find, as Dr Johnson said respecting 
 his wine, total abstinence much easier than moderation. 
 ... I have highly enjoyed Hannah More's letters : the 
 contemplation of so blessed a character as hers is very 
 salutary. . . . Oh that we could live only for eternity ! 
 that we could realise its nearness ! I know you do not 
 love quotations, so I will not give you one ; but if you 
 do not distinctly remember it, do turn to the passage in 
 Young's ' Infidel Eeclaimed,' beginning, ' vain, vain, 
 vain all else eternity,' and do love the lines for my 
 sake. . . . 
 
 " I have just begun the life of Wilberforce, and I am 
 expecting a rich treat from it. There is a similarity, if 
 I may compare myself with such a man, between his 
 temptations, or rather besetments, and my own, that 
 makes his experience very interesting to me. Oh that 
 I might be made as useful in my lowly and obscure 
 station as he was in the exalted one assigned to him ! 
 I feel myself to be a mere cumberer of the ground. 
 May the Lord give me such an insight into what is 
 truly good, that I may not rest contented with making 
 Christianity a mere addendum to my pursuits, or with 
 tacking it as a fringe to my garments ! May I seek to 
 be sanctified wholly ! My nineteenth birthday wUl 
 soon be here (the 22d) — an awakening signal. My 
 mind has been much clogged lately by languor of 
 body, to which I am prone to give way, and for the 
 removal of which I shall feel thankful." 
 
 Music had not only been for her an enthusi- 
 astic study, but an extraordinary enjoyment; 
 nevertheless she says : — 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 225 
 
 " It would not cost me any regrets if the only music 
 heard ia our land were that of strict worship ; nor can 
 I think a pleasure that involves the devotion of all the 
 time and powers of an immortal being to the acquire- 
 ment of an expertness in so useless (at least in ninety- 
 nine cases out of a hundred) an accomplishment, can 
 be quite pure or elevating in its tendency." 
 
 Now her present biographer has judiciously re- 
 frained from signifying any approval or dis- 
 approval on this or the future phase of her 
 theological opinions. It would be futile to 
 argue a matter on which most readers must 
 have made up their minds, and he evidently 
 thinks that his business is to present the 
 woman of genius in all the main circumstances 
 of her life, and to leave the reader to draw his 
 own conclusions. A cheap and easy effect 
 might be gained by taking either side, but 
 we shall follow the course of the biographer. 
 Our only comment on the foregoing extracts 
 will be of a literary kind. They prove that 
 if she had held to her opinions, not only there 
 could have been no ' Adam Bede,' ' Mill on the 
 Floss,' or other novels ; but she could never 
 have achieved literary excellence of any kind, 
 because her thoughts were working in a quite 
 uncongenial medium, and the more she vsrrote 
 in this style, the farther would she diverge 
 from the path that afterwards led her to fame. 
 
226 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 The opinion of the future novelist about fiction, 
 at the age of twenty, was uncompromisingly 
 severe. 
 
 " I venture to believe," she writes, " that the same 
 causes which exist in my own breast to render novels 
 and romances pernicious, have their counterpart in that 
 of every fellow-creature. ... As to the discipline our 
 minds receive from the perusal of fictions, I can con- 
 ceive none that is beneficial but may be attained by 
 that of history. It is the merit of fictions to come 
 within the orbit of probability : if unnatural they would 
 no longer please. If it be said the mind must have 
 relaxation, 'Truth is strange — stranger than fiction.' 
 When a person has exhausted the wonders of truth, 
 there is no other resort than fiction : till then, I cannot 
 imagine how the adventures of some phantom, conjured 
 up by fancy, can be more entertaining than the trans- 
 actions of real specimens of human nature from which 
 we may safely draw inferences. I daresay Mr James's 
 ' Huguenot ' would be recommended as giving an idea 
 of the times of which he writes ; but as well may one 
 be recommended to look at landscapes for an idea of 
 English scenery. The real secret of the relaxation 
 talked of is one that would not generally be avowed ; 
 but an appetite that wants seasoning of a certain kind 
 cannot be indicative of health. Eeligious novels are 
 more hateful to me than merely worldly ones : they are 
 a sort of centaur or mermaid, and, like other monsters 
 that we do not know how to class, should be destroyed 
 for the public good as soon as born. The weapons of 
 the Christian warfare were never sharpened at the forge 
 of romance. Domestic fictions, as they come more 
 within the range of imitation, seem more dangerous. 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OE GEORGE ELIOT. 227 
 
 For my part, I am ready to sit down and weep at the 
 impossibility of my understanding or barely knowing a 
 fraction of the sum of objects that present themselves 
 for our contemplation in books and in life. Have I, 
 then, any time to spend on things that never existed ?" 
 
 She wrote a religious poem (not, in our judg- 
 ment, a good one), in which, when bidding fare- 
 well to the things of earth, she implies an 
 expectation that she will take the Bible (apos- 
 trophised as " blest volume ! ") to heaven with 
 her — a sentiment objected to by the editor of 
 the ' Christian Observer,' in which the stanzas 
 appeared, because, he said, there would be no 
 need of a Bible there. A more prosaic but still 
 devout occupation was the construction of a 
 chart of ecclesiastical history, which she only 
 gave up on finding her plan forestalled. Never- 
 theless, while still apparently imbued with the 
 faith she had held so firmly and almost aggres- 
 sively from childhood, it is certain that she 
 had already passed from the receptive to the 
 critical stage of religion, and that her analyti- 
 cal faculty was already at work on the influ- 
 ences which had so controlled her conduct and 
 daily life, for she was reading controversial 
 works, and was much exercised about " the 
 nature of the visible Church," The change of 
 opinion which was impending, and perhaps in 
 any case inevitable, was hastened by an im- 
 
228 LIFE AND LETTERS OE GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 portant event which now took place in her 
 life. Her brother married, and it had been 
 agreed that he should occupy GrifF, while his 
 father and sister removed to a house near 
 Coventry. Here she found next-door neigh- 
 bours who, besides being cultivated people, 
 were philosophical sceptics, and who did some- 
 thing more with their views than merely to 
 entertain them. Mr Bray, an ardent phren- 
 ologist, had written on ' The Philosophy of 
 Necessity,' and had married a sister of Mr 
 HenneU, who had just published ' An Inquiry 
 concerning the Origin of Christianity,' which 
 had been translated into German, with a pref- 
 ace written by Strauss. Miss Evans was at 
 first invited to their house as a person whose 
 ability and fervent religious views might be 
 useful in bringing back Mr Bray to the fold 
 of the Church. Although, after her arrival at 
 the new house, she wrote to her friend Miss 
 Lewis in the former religious strain, yet her 
 views of the subject must have been already 
 shifting, for a complete change in them pres- 
 ently took place. 
 
 " It will be seen," says the biographer, " from subse- 
 quent letters, how greatly Miss Evans was interested in 
 this book [Mr Hennell's] — how much she admired it ; 
 and the reading of it, combined with the association 
 with her new friends — with the philosophical specula- 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEOBGE ELIOT. 229 
 
 tions of Mr Bray, and with Mrs Bray's sympathy in 
 her brother's critical aiid sceptical standpoint — no 
 doubt hastened the change in her attitude towards the 
 dogmas of the old religion." 
 
 She seems to have made the acquaintance of 
 these neighbours just ten days before the date 
 of a letter to Miss Lewis, in which she says : — 
 
 " My whole soul has been engrossed in the most 
 interesting of all inquiries for the last few days, and 
 to what result my thoughts may lead I know not — 
 possibly to one that wiU startle you; but my only 
 desire is to know the truth, my only fear to cling to 
 error. I venture to say our love will not decompose 
 under the influence of separation, unless you excom- 
 municate me for differing from you in opinion." 
 
 A month later, the intended reclaimer of the 
 stray sheep, Mr Bray, " was so uneasy in an 
 equivocal position that she determined to give 
 up going to church." This nearly led to a rup- 
 ture with her father, who talked of giving up 
 his new house and going to live with his mar- 
 ried daughter : it was not till after Mary Ann 
 had planned to live apart, and had begun by 
 going on a visit to her brother, that " the father 
 was very glad to receive her again, and she re- 
 sumed going to church as before." But so far 
 was she from returning, otherwise than exter- 
 nally, to the church, that later we find her 
 writing, " When the soul is just Hberated from 
 
230 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEOEGE ELIOT. 
 
 the wretched giant's bed of dogmas on which 
 it has been racked and stretched ever since it 
 began to think, there is a feehng of exaltation 
 and strong hope." Her new correspondent (for 
 we find no more letters to Miss Lewis) was a 
 lady of strong intellect and advanced opinions 
 ■ — Miss Sara HenneU, the sister of the author 
 of the " Inquiry " ; and henceforward she lived 
 with the two sisters and Mr Bray in the closest 
 intimacy and friendship, making excursions 
 with them about the country, and imparting 
 to them her inmost mind. In 1844, Mr Hen- 
 neU married Miss Brabant, whose father was 
 the friend of Strauss, Coleridge, and Grote, 
 and who had been chosen to translate Strauss's 
 ' Leben Jesu.' This task she persuaded Miss 
 Evans to relieve her of, who, during the next 
 two years, performed it most faithfully, for the 
 translation was very highly esteemed by Eng- 
 lish disciples of Strauss, and reviewers did not 
 fail to extol the excellence of the style. And 
 that her change of opinion was not a half- 
 hearted one, and was accompanied by no re- 
 grets, is evident from her mention of a certain 
 subject as one she should like to work out — 
 namely, " The superiority of the consolations 
 of philosophy to those of so-called religion." 
 Not the least notable of her minor changes of 
 opinion is that respecting Mrs Hannah More, 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 231 
 
 the former contemplation of whose blessed char- 
 acter had been so very salutary. " I am glad 
 you detest Mrs Hannah More's letters. I like 
 neither her letters, nor her books, nor her char- 
 acter." Which of these diverse opinions of the 
 good lady may be correct is a question that the 
 present writer does not feel himself competent 
 to decide. 
 
 When Miss Evans was thirty her father died. 
 The Brays happened to be then starting on a 
 Continental trip, and she being without a home, 
 was glad to accompany them. At the end of 
 the tour they left her at Geneva, where she 
 determined to spend some months. It hap- 
 pened to her almost miraculously often that 
 her chance associates proved to be remarkable 
 people, entering into and making part of her 
 life ; and it was her hap to become a lodger in 
 the house of Monsieur and Madame d' Albert 
 Durade, who, perfect strangers to her when 
 she sought their abode, turned out to be friends 
 after her own heart, and so always continued. 
 Her life in Geneva, planned to suit herself, 
 while giving ample freedom and leisure, was 
 brightened by these agreeable friends and their 
 visitors ; the scenery was full of charm and 
 interest ; and her letters express the delight 
 in which this episode of her existence was 
 passed, and the real grief she felt when it came 
 
232 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 to an end in March 1850. But we should not 
 have paused on it, even for this brief space, 
 except to note that this resting-place, full of 
 refreshment and repose, afforded the oppor- 
 tunity of facing what lay before her, and of 
 considering how she should make herself a new 
 home, and how shape her new life. Accord- 
 ingly, on her return to England she very soon 
 entered on an arduous occupation. It was for 
 Mr Chapman that she had translated Strauss, 
 and another German freethinker's book, and he 
 proposed to her that she should become assist- 
 ant editor of the ' Westminster Review,' living 
 in his house in the Strand as a boarder. This 
 position, which she at once accepted, brought 
 her directly into contact with many eminent 
 personages. Emerson and Froude she had 
 already met at the Brays' : Mill, Carlyle, Miss 
 Martineau, Browning, Mazzini, Dickens, she 
 became acquainted with through the Review 
 or its editor, together with many who were 
 pushing to the front as " advanced thinkers," 
 — and with most of these she had numerous 
 points of sympathy. But it must be noted 
 here, out of regard for the prepossessions of 
 the many who fail to give to those known as 
 strong-minded women the admiration which 
 their virile qualities might seem to merit, that 
 George Eliot was never in that sense a strong- 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 233 
 
 minded woman, — that while possessed of im- 
 mense intellectual force, capable of grappling 
 with the highest problems and most arduous 
 tasks, she was of a moral nature tender, sym- 
 pathetic, impulsive, and womanly, possibly in 
 some things even womanish, and liable to be 
 convicted by the truly strong-minded of her 
 sex of what they might think a thousand 
 weaknesses. 
 
 Among those whose lasting friendship with 
 her began at this time was Mr Herbert Spencer, 
 and he it was that introduced her to the man 
 who was henceforward to be the predominating 
 influence of her life. George Henry Lewes, a 
 year or two older than she, though by no 
 means so well known to the world as he after- 
 wards became, held already a good position in 
 letters. He was editor of a weekly paper — 
 the ' Leader ' ; he was known as a man of 
 science by his ' History of Philosophy ' ; as a 
 novelist by ' Ranthorpe ' and ' Rose, Blanche, 
 and Violet ' ; and he had contributed many 
 essays to periodical literature. Uncommonly 
 well read, even for an habitual student, he 
 was a most agreeable companion, genial, easy, 
 friendly in approach, ready to engage in give 
 and take, on any subject, and sure to bear a 
 clever, entertaining part in it. It is evident 
 that from the first he and Miss Evans attracted 
 
234 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEOBGE ELIOT. 
 
 each other, and we soon find her letters begin- 
 ning to contain frequent notices of " Lewes," 
 and Lewes's state of health. Probably a 
 womanly compassion at first counted for some- 
 thing in the intimacy, for his domestic circum- 
 stances were unhappy, his married home having 
 been spoiled and broken up two years before. 
 On his side the admiration amounted to a kind 
 of worship — he became, and ever continued to 
 be, one of a sect of disciples who made belief 
 in her wisdom and goodness a kind of religion. 
 As the intimacy progressed, her reciprocation 
 of his complete attachment grew so strong as 
 to impel her to cast in her lot with his. A 
 word of farewell to her three friends at 
 Coventry, when setting off with him for a 
 tour on the Continent, told of the beginning 
 of her union with Lewes. 
 
 Thus, for the second time, she had taken a 
 step in life which she knew must place her in 
 an attitude of estrangement from, or antagon- 
 ism with, many of her own circle of friends, and 
 with whole sections of society at large. And 
 for the second time, as it proved, this step was 
 of the first importance in the development of 
 her genius. Whatever the world may think it 
 has gained in her writings, it would not have 
 gained if she had not, first, changed her opin- 
 ions, and, next, formed this union with Lewes. 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OP GEORGE ELIOT. 235 
 
 She might have searched all society through 
 without finding a companion so fertilising to her 
 intellect. She was eminently one whose self- 
 confidence required to be aroused and constant- 
 ly reassured ; sympathy, praise, and encourage- 
 ment were indispensable to her in pursuing 
 tasks more ambitious, and demanding the exer- 
 cise of far higher qualities, than the writing of 
 a review. It is quite possible that this great 
 novelist might have gone on all her life writ- 
 ing articles and reviews, unknown except to 
 a coterie, had she not been roused to higher 
 action by the counsel and example of Lewes. 
 In this first trip to the Continent, while she 
 was still engaged on contributions to the 
 ' Westminster,' he was rewriting and com- 
 pleting, partly in Weimar itself, the stronghold 
 of his hero, ' The Life of Goethe,' a work which 
 at once brought him a wide extension of repute. 
 A little later he urged her to try her hand at 
 an original work — and now, and now only, can 
 she be said to have entered on the approaches 
 to her remarkable career. An inscription on 
 the manuscript of her first novel, giving it to 
 Lewes, says it " would never have been written 
 but for the happiness which his love has con- 
 ferred on my life." Henceforward the pair 
 form a remarkable picture, working industrious- 
 ly in their home, each finding in the other not 
 
236 LIFE AND LETTEES OF GEOEGE ELIOT. 
 
 merely an acute critic, but one bending all the 
 energies of the mind to the consideration of 
 what the other laid before it — all failure to 
 appreciate made impossible by affection, but all 
 undue or careless approval made equally impos- 
 sible by a judgment too clear, and a taste too 
 exacting, to let anything pass which seemed 
 short of excellence. It is hardly a mere guess 
 that a passage written a few years later in 
 ' Adam Bede ' describes the result of that union 
 as it appeared to her then, and as it promised 
 (and promised truly) for the future : — 
 
 "What greater thing is there for two human souls 
 than to feel that they are joined for life — to strengthen 
 each other in all labour, to rest on each other in all 
 sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain — to be one 
 with each other in silent, unspeakable memories at the 
 moment of the last parting ? " 
 
 It was in September 1856, she being then 
 thirty-seven, and having never attempted a tale 
 of any sort, that, after much urging by Lewes, 
 she made her first essay in fiction. She had 
 always been haunted by a vague dream that 
 some day she might write a novel, but as time 
 wore on without the effort being made, she lost 
 hope of this. She fancied she might succeed in 
 description, but would fail in construction and 
 dialogue. Lewes, too, did not feel sure that her 
 work would show dramatic power, but used to 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OP GEORGE ELIOT. 237 
 
 say, "You have wit, description, and philos- 
 ophy, — these go a good way towards the pro- 
 duction of a novel. It is worth while for you 
 to try the experiment." Her idea was to write 
 a series of stories drawn from her own observa- 
 tion of the clergy. Why one who had ceased 
 to believe that the clergy represented an au- 
 thentic religion should have chosen that of aU 
 subjects, does not appear ; but it became abun- 
 dantly evident in the course of her writings 
 that not a vestige of prejudice existed to prevent 
 her from doing amplest justice to the highest 
 points of a sincere Christian, whether Church- 
 man or Dissenter. Perhaps it seemed to her 
 that such a one might be drawn best from the 
 outside, and from an absolutely neutral point of 
 view. In six weeks the story was finished, and 
 sent by Lewes to Blackwood, as the work of " a 
 friend who desired his good offices." 
 
 John Blackwood gave the tale aU that 
 anxious consideration which he used to bestow 
 on every new contribution of promise. With 
 his usual intuition he perceived that, if the 
 work of a new hand, it contained the promise 
 of uncommon success. Never one of those who 
 think it wise to be chary of praise, and liking 
 the story better the more he considered it, he 
 wrote her many sympathetic and encouraging 
 letters ; and it was in reply to one of these (he 
 
238 LIFE AND LETTERS OE GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 having then no suspicion that his contributor 
 was a woman) that she took for a signature the 
 name by which henceforth she was identified in 
 the world of letters, choosing George because it 
 was Lewes's name, and Ehot as a fluent and 
 euphonious accompaniment. " Mr GUfil's Love- 
 Story " and " Janet's Repentance " followed (all 
 making their first appearance in the Magazine), 
 and excited interest and speculation to a de- 
 gree quite uncommon in the case of an anony- 
 mous writer treating of themes so level with 
 ordinary life. When published in a collected 
 form, the presentation copies brought acknow- 
 ledgments from many whose praise was fame. 
 Her old acquaintance Froude, completely mys- 
 tified, did not know whether he was address- 
 ing his eulogy to " a young man or an old — 
 a clergyman or a layman." Mrs Carlyle wrote 
 one of her clever, unconventional, characteristic 
 letters, and says she has conceived the writer 
 in her mind as 
 
 " a man of middle age, with a wife, from whom he has 
 got those beautiful feminine touches in his hook — a 
 good many children, and a dog that he has as much 
 fondness for as I have for my little Nero ! For the 
 rest, not just a clergyman, but brother or first cousin 
 to a clergyman." 
 
 Dickens wrote her a letter which all his admirers 
 wiU be glad of — not only warm and generous in 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEOEGE ELIOT. 239 
 
 appreciation, but most acute in piercing the veil 
 of her disguise. He stood quite alone in his 
 shrewd and confident guess : — 
 
 " I have observed what seemed to me such womanly 
 touches in those moving fictions, that the assurance on 
 the title-page is insufficient to satisfy me even now. If 
 they originated with no woman, I believe that no man 
 ever before had the art of making himself mentally so 
 like a woman since the world began." 
 
 When John Black^rood came to town at this 
 time, and called on Lewes, she consented to 
 reveal herself to that genial friend and editor — 
 titles almost synonymous in his case ; for so 
 warm was his sympathy with literary excellence, 
 that the instances, if any, must be few where 
 contributors whom he valued did not find in 
 him a friend for life. It reaUy might be said 
 of him that the business aspect of the relation 
 was the one least present to his mind. His 
 good-feUowship would not let him preserve a 
 formal attitude towards his associates. Next 
 to his natural kin, he placed in affection those 
 to whom he was bound by literary ties ; he 
 always seemed to regard his contributors as an 
 unending Christmas - party, gathered together 
 under the jovial auspices of the Magazine. His 
 friendliness invariably tended to express itself 
 in hospitality ; he would joyously devise dinners 
 
240 LIFE AND LETTERS OE GEOBGE ELIOT. 
 
 for bringing old and new supporters of the 
 Magazine pleasantly together, and many a 
 famous hook or paper has owed its germ, or 
 part of its merit, to ideas struck out in his 
 dining-room in Edinburgh, or at his cheerful 
 Fifeshire home of Strathtyrum. George Eliot 
 at once, and ever after, cordially recognised 
 what she felt to be her good fortune in lighting 
 on a pubHsher so genial : her previous ideas of 
 publishers had probably run altogether on for- 
 mal letters, interviews in offices, dry estimates, 
 and balance-sheets ; and there was something 
 of surprise at finding how the business transac- 
 tions were so mixed up with good offices and 
 friendly care for her interests as to be entirely 
 transfigured. In acknowledging some favour- 
 able criticisms which he had transmitted, she 
 says : — ■ 
 
 " I am like a deaf person, to whom some one has just 
 shouted that the company round him have been paying 
 him compliments for the last half-hour. Let the best 
 come, you will still be the person outside my own home 
 who first gladdened me about ' Adam Bede,' and my 
 success will always please me the better because you 
 will share the pleasure." 
 
 In the ' Scenes of Clerical Life ' she had 
 depicted many real persons so truthfully that 
 there was general recognition of them by their 
 former neighbours at Nuneaton ; insomuch that 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 241 
 
 an inhabitant of the place, aided by her 
 disguise, was tempted to lay claim to the 
 authorship of her works, and actually got some 
 foolish persons to believe in him. But she per- 
 ceived this kind of portraiture to be not artisti- 
 cally the best. In her next book, while draw- 
 ing largely on her recollections of what she had 
 seen and heard in early life, she pursued the 
 truer method of using these as materials which 
 imagination should mould for a purpose. In 
 reading ' Adam Bede,' it is impossible not to 
 perceive her inestimable good fortune in hav- 
 ing a social origiu no higher than to be the 
 daughter of a man who began life as a master 
 carpenter, and ended it as a land agent. Most 
 persons born in a station favourable to the 
 writing of novels, stand far from the inner life 
 of the classes socially beneath them. But here 
 we have the quite new combination of the 
 highest culture dealing with the life of the 
 working classes from their own standpoint. 
 Among the infinite advantages resulting from 
 this, it was one quite unshared by any other 
 writer to have had an aunt who was a Method- 
 ist preacher. Years before, this old lady, then 
 about sixty, paid her niece a visit at Griff, and 
 told, among other experiences of her career as 
 an evangelist, how she had once been called 
 on to comfort the last moments in prison of a 
 
 Q 
 
242 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 country girl, condemned for the murder of her 
 infant, and had accompanied her in the cart to 
 the scaffold. This tale had made a deep im- 
 pression on Mary Ann ; and when, after her 
 first success with the shorter tales, she resolved 
 to try whether she could write a novel, she took 
 this incident as the groundwork of her plot : 
 and thus it chanced that all the charming hfehke 
 personages of the tale — all the humorous and 
 pathetic scenes which place ' Adam Bede ' at the 
 head of representations of rural hfe — received 
 their being from a source which appears to us 
 the least real or admirable part of the work. 
 
 It was only the suggestion of the character 
 of Dinah which was derived from the Methodist 
 aunt. That real personage was a little black- 
 eyed woman, full of zeal, but destitute of the 
 grace, the restraint and refinement of enthu- 
 siasm, the power of charm, which individualise 
 Dinah. Whether that highly pitched nature 
 was true to itself in consenting to marry the 
 stalwart Adam, we will not undertake to say. 
 No doubt, the later scenes are among the best 
 in the book ; no doubt, the reader, not being 
 himself a religious enthusiast, approves of this 
 pretty devout woman turning out to be " not too 
 bright and good for human nature's daily food " 
 — and a reader's content is a legitimate aim in 
 art : nevertheless we are not sure that this pleas- 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 243 
 
 ing end is not gained by some sacrifice of iden- 
 tity in the heroine ; we are not sure that young 
 Mrs Bede is exactly the same person as Dinah 
 Morris, or has not undergone some decHnation 
 from that spiritual creature. However that 
 may be, this consummation was early decreed 
 by the author. Lewes, after hearing the open- 
 ing of the book, suggested that Dinah should 
 marry Adam. It was an obvious enough sug- 
 gestion, from a plot-making point of view, and 
 was at once accepted ; so that from the third 
 chapter the story bent itself to that comfort- 
 able catastrophe. 
 
 The artistic value of George Eliot's religious 
 experiences in enabling her to create this her 
 highest character, and many others in that and 
 later novels, is at least as notable as in the 
 Clerical series. Without this element no pic- 
 ture of working life would be true ; it is in that 
 class to which existence is so earnest, in which 
 its evils are so strongly present, and in which 
 reason is but a weak check on impulse, that the 
 religious sentiment is most powerful and con- 
 tagious. But it is an element very difficult to 
 introduce and to blend harmoniously with the 
 others ; and the excellence of the result is in 
 this case proportionate to the power demanded, 
 for extraordinary force is thus given to the 
 pictures of artisan and peasant life. In dealing 
 
244 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 with the more worldly aspect of these, the ex- 
 periences of her early home are no less import- 
 ant. Her father's daughter, when moving 
 amidst the details of the carpenter's shop, of 
 the farm, of the dairy, was on familiar ground. 
 While keeping house for Robert Evans, she 
 had herself had butter on her mind, and had 
 learned the dijB&culty of making a farm pay ; 
 she had studied from the life the labourers of 
 the field and the cow-shed ; she had witnessed 
 the amenities and appreciated the joys of a 
 harvest -supper. Bartle Massey, the school- 
 master, too quaint and animated a character 
 not to have had some grains of reality, may have 
 often looked in for a gossip at Griff; and it 
 must have been recollection, too, that supplied 
 the outward signs of a healthy old age in the 
 elder Martin Poyser. Mrs Poyser, the next 
 best after Dinah, we take it, of her characters, 
 owed her distinctive wit mostly to imagination : 
 the many sagacious apothegms of that practical 
 woman are the golden coinage of her creator's 
 brain. 
 
 It seems now merely a matter of course that 
 an immense extension of reputation should have 
 at once followed on the publication of ' Adam 
 Bede,' which took place in February 1859. In 
 March, Blackwood wrote to tell her she was " a 
 popular author as well as a great author." Bui- 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OE GEORGE ELIOT. 245 
 
 wer, whose opinion she thought much of, wrote 
 to Blackwood a letter about the book, which, 
 as might be expected from him, was generously 
 appreciative. "The success," she says, "has been 
 triumphantly beyond anything I had dreamed 
 of" The novel fixed her place in literature, 
 and fixed it so high that it became in some 
 respects a discouragement to her self-distrustful 
 temperament, projecting a dark rather than a 
 luminous shadow on the future, by rendering 
 it so difiicult to be equal to herself in a new 
 production. But, very ambitious by nature, 
 and fuU of ideas to which she was irresistibly 
 impelled to give expression, she found, if not 
 confidence, courage to enter on a new novel. 
 We do not learn by any means so much about 
 either the motive, the framework, or the exe- 
 cution of this as of the former work. It is 
 evident enough that in the recollection of the 
 fraternal relations between her and Isaac the 
 book originated, growing naturally, as it went 
 on, out of Book the First, " Boy and Girl " ; and 
 this view is confirmed by the fact that the 
 name first bestowed on the novel was ' Sister 
 Maggie.' Comparing it, while in its early 
 stage, with ' Adam,' she says, — " The characters 
 are on a lower level generally, and the environ- 
 ment less romantic." She expresses doubt and 
 distrust from time to time, and describes her- 
 
246 LIPB AND LETTERS OE GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 self as " a prisoner in the Castle of Giant De- 
 spair, who growls in my ear that the ' Mill on 
 the Floss' is detestable." Nevertheless, the 
 reception of the work brought her full content. 
 It was recognised as of the same brand as 
 ' Adam.' At this time there is no reason, as 
 there was then, for desiring to prove that each 
 succeeding work is as good as its predecessors ; 
 and we believe the author was right about 
 " the lower level." The Tullivers are inferior 
 to the Bedes in simplicity, force, and interest ; 
 the Gleggs, Dodsons, and Pullets are ordinary 
 compared with the tenants of the Hall Farm, 
 and their characteristics are exaggerated into 
 grotesqueness ; while the tragedy of the end 
 handicaps the book, as a disastrous close always 
 does, unless, as in the ' Bride of Lammermoor,' 
 the whole tone and atmosphere is so sombre 
 that no other kind of conclusion is artistically 
 possible — a reason not present here ; for Bulwer 
 pointed out, and George Eliot admitted as a 
 fault, that the tragedy is not adequately pre- 
 pared — meaning, doubtless, that there is noth- 
 ing in the course of the tale so ruinous of 
 happiness, or so unredeemable, as to render a 
 tragic conclusion inevitable. But throughout 
 the work the same hand is evident as that 
 which wrought ' Adam Bede ' : the style is no 
 less careful and finished ; the views of life are 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 247 
 
 no less original and uncommon ; and the general 
 reader, thus assured that the guidance was as 
 strong as ever, was content to follow whither- 
 soever it might lead. 
 
 In the same year in which ' The Mill on the 
 Floss' was written, she made a first visit to 
 Italy. Of its great cities none made so deep 
 an impression on her as Florence ; and its 
 treasuries of art, of scenery, and of history, 
 inspired her with the idea of writing an his- 
 torical romance, of which it should be the 
 scene. The same strong tendency which had 
 led her to interfuse in former works the evan- 
 gelical and the Methodist spirit, now impelled 
 her to choose for the groundwork of her subject 
 the career and martyrdom of Savonarola. To 
 qualify herself for the task of representing the 
 costume and social life of the period, she sat- 
 urated her mind with Italian lore, and made 
 a second visit to Florence ; and in ' Romola,' 
 which appeared in the ' Cornhill Magazine,' 
 satisfied her admirers that she had lost none 
 of her strength in deahng with a long-past 
 epoch in a foreign land. But before it began 
 to appear, she had published, with Blackwood, 
 the one- volume novel of ' Silas Marner,' a tale 
 of old-fashioned village life, arising out of her 
 dim recollection of having once seen a weaver 
 carrying a bag on his back. In dealing with 
 
248 LIFE AND LETTERS OE GEOBGE ELIOT. 
 
 the religious fraternity in Lantern Yard, she 
 was once more completely at home. The scenes 
 at Squire Cass's Christmas-party, and at the 
 village alehouse, are as good as any she has 
 drawn ; the central incident of the robbery of 
 Marner's gold, and the substitution thereupon 
 of a human for a sordid interest in his life, is 
 new and striking; and Nancy Lamcmeter is a 
 very pleasant and original heroine. Short as 
 it is, it is probably counted among her best 
 pieces of work. 
 
 In her next picture of English life there was 
 an important change of plan. Hitherto, while 
 making use of her own observations and experi- 
 ence, she had cast her tales in a time just before 
 her own childhood. She derived much of her 
 material from what her father told her about 
 his early life. " The time of my father's youth," 
 she says, " never seemed prosaic, for it came 
 to my imagination first through his memories, 
 which made a wondrous perspective to my little 
 daily world of discovery." It was by setting 
 her subject at a certain distance that she saw 
 it at the right focus. " My mind," she says 
 again, " works with most freedom, and the 
 keenest sense of poetry, in my remotest past, 
 and there are many strata to be worked through 
 before I can begin to use, artistically, any ma- 
 terial I can gather in the present." She now 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OE GEORGE ELIOT. 249 
 
 thought the time had come for adventuring 
 into a later period, and ' Fehx Holt ' is of the 
 time of the Reform Bill of 1832, when the 
 world was wakening up, and bidding a long 
 farewell to leisure and repose. It cannot be 
 doubted that the earlier epoch best suited her 
 cast of thought. The mellow atmosphere that 
 bathed her pictures of bygone years, faded, with 
 the change of period, into the light of common 
 day. Felix himself is not very distinct ; Jermyn 
 is unpleasant throughout, which is a different 
 thing from being bad — a fact not sufficiently 
 accepted by novelists. A minister who, like 
 Rufus Lyon, habitually pitches his discourse 
 in the " peradventure " key, becomes more 
 than ever an anachronism in the later epoch. 
 For these and other reasons, we do not imagine 
 that this novel is now placed among her best ; 
 but it was received at the time with no less 
 applause than its predecessors, and its many 
 striking points found eager appreciation. 
 
 Of a very ambitious nature — ambitious, that 
 is to say, of the attainment of various excel- 
 lence and of the praise due to it — she was 
 now impelled to an altogether different enter- 
 prise in letters. Another novel, however suc- 
 cessful, could scarcely add to her fame, — but 
 what if she could achieve a great poem ! She 
 had sound reasons for thinking she could main- 
 
250 LIFE AND LETTEBS OE GEOEGE ELIOT. 
 
 tain a high pitch in poetry. Her prose had the 
 condensity, the felicity, the subtle suggestive- 
 ness in epithet and phrase, of fine verse. Her 
 works had been filled with thoughts, imagery, 
 and pictures of the true poetic cast. They 
 seemed to want only the accomplishment of 
 verse to be converted from high prose into 
 high poetry. The change of vehicle was in 
 itself, perhaps, a relief after so much toil, and 
 the ' Spanish Gypsy ' was accomplished. It 
 was received favourably by the large audience 
 which was accustomed to greet her : neverthe- 
 less it was apparent then, and time has not 
 modified the view, that even when such lofty 
 qualifications as those just enumerated have 
 been put in action, there is still an element, 
 not ascertainable beforehand, which must in- 
 dispensably form part of the reckoning. That 
 mysterious element — which is as well called 
 inspiration as by any other name — was not 
 found present in the work. It is read with 
 interest, with pleasure, with admiration, but 
 it is not among the poems which the lovers 
 of poetry quote and cherish. It will continue 
 to be of interest, we imagine, not altogether as 
 a poem, but as an exposition of a theory which 
 had for her an extraordinary attraction. When 
 writing ' The MiU on the Floss,' she said, " My 
 stories grow in me like plants." AH the best 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OE GEORGE ELIOT. 251 
 
 stories in the world, we imagine, have so grown. 
 But it was natural, as time went on, that the 
 incessant engagement of her mind in problems 
 of life should have led to the evolution of 
 theories, and consequently, in her future works, 
 to a new method of construction — namely, that 
 of making the exposition of the theory the basis 
 of the work, and bending character and incident 
 to fit the theory ; a change which seems to us 
 to tell of diminished vividness of conception 
 and diminished power of invention. In her 
 notes on the ' Spanish Gypsy,' first published 
 in the volumes under review, the new process 
 is set forth at large. She had seen a picture 
 which inspired her with an idea : — 
 
 "I came home with this in my mind, meaning to 
 give the motive a clothing in some suitable set of his- 
 torical and local conditions. My reflections brought me 
 nothing that would serve me except that moment in 
 Spanish history when the struggle with the Moors was 
 attaining its climax, and when there was the gypsy 
 race present under such conditions as would enable 
 me to get my heroine and the hereditary claim on her 
 among the gypsies. I required the opposition of race 
 to give the need for renouncing the expectation of mar- 
 riage. I could not use the Jews or the Moors, because 
 the facts of their history were too conspicuously opposed 
 to the working out of my catastrophe. Meanwhile the 
 subject had become more and more pregnant to me. I 
 saw it might be taken as a symbol of the part which is 
 played in the general human lot by hereditary condi- 
 
252 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 tions in the largest sense, and of the fact that what we 
 call duty is entirely made up of such conditions ; for 
 even in cases of just antagonism to the narrow view of 
 hereditary claims, the whole background of the par- 
 ticular struggle is made up of our inherited nature. 
 Suppose for a moment that our conduct at great epochs 
 was determined entirely by reflection, without the im- 
 mediate intervention of feeling which supersedes reflec- 
 tion, our determination as to the right would consist 
 in an adjustment of our individual needs to the dire 
 necessities of our lot, partly as to our natural constitu- 
 tion, partly as sharers of life with our fellow-beings. 
 Tragedy consists in the terrible difficulty of this adjust- 
 ment — 
 
 ' The dire strife 
 Of poor Humanity's afflicted will, 
 Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny.' 
 
 Looking at individual lots, I seemed to see in each the 
 same story, wrought out with more or less of tragedy, 
 and I determined the elements of my drama under the 
 influence of these ideas. . . . 
 
 " The consolatory elements in the ' Spanish Gypsy ' 
 are derived from two convictions or sentiments which 
 so conspicuously pervade it, that they may be said to 
 be its very warp on which the whole action is woven. 
 These are, — (1) The importance of individual deeds ; 
 (2) The aU-sufficiency of the soul's passions in deter- 
 mining sympathetic action. 
 
 " In Silva is presented the claim of fidelity to social 
 pledges; in Fedalma, the claim constituted by an 
 hereditary lot less consciously shared." 
 
 The reader cannot fail to see what a differ- 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OP GEORGE ELIOT. 253 
 
 ence there is between a scheme of this kind, 
 and that pursued in the early novels. In this 
 later method the story must partake largely of 
 allegory, and will consequently infallibly lose 
 value as a picture of life. The Spanish Gypsy 
 is a metaphysical and ethnological problem in 
 action. In all the later novels the plan is more 
 or less founded on theory. The hero in ' Felix 
 Holt,' Dorothea and Casaubon and Lydgate, 
 Deronda and Mordecai, are so many problems 
 dramatised, and the characters express them- 
 selves less, and are described and discussed 
 more, even voluminously. 
 
 Nevertheless a common spirit animates all 
 her books, though it does not continue to mani- 
 fest itself in the same form. At the root of 
 George Eliot's genius lay an extraordinarily 
 deep and ever-present sense of the significance 
 of human existence. Her relations with the 
 world in which she found herself, both with its 
 past and its present, pressed so incessantly and 
 so forcibly on the springs of interest and curi- 
 osity that there seems to have been hardly a 
 moment when she was not observing, speculat- 
 ing, or analysing, and recording the results. 
 The world within and the world without never 
 ceased to be, for her, wonder - lands. Other 
 famous writers, notably Carlyle, have made the 
 significance of life their theme. But by him it 
 
254 LIFE AND LETTERS OP GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 was treated in a sardonic spirit, as if mocking 
 at the pettiness and failure of most of the 
 actors who have figured in a drama so momen- 
 tous. In her case, sympathy with the actors 
 was not less intense than wonder at the drama. 
 It is difficult to say what there is in life, not 
 obviously vile or futile, which did not keenly 
 interest her, and she was thus led into a range 
 of inquiry far beyond that of the ordinary 
 learned woman. It appears to us that her 
 interest in the race was deeper than in the 
 individual ; that she was more strongly at- 
 tracted by varieties of life in the abstract 
 than by persons — unless, indeed, by such as, 
 embodying some epoch or crisis of thought or 
 of action, conveniently presented to her a prob- 
 lem in the concrete. Art in all its modes of 
 representing nature — philosophy in all its in- 
 vestigations of the internal and external worlds 
 — were the famihar fields of her mental exer- 
 cises. All this, however, would merely have 
 made her a marvel of information but for the 
 development of the constructive faculty — the 
 power, so suddenly evinced that it may be said 
 to have surprised herself, of arranging her 
 stores and forming with them mental pictures. 
 Happily for the manifestation of her genius, to 
 aU this was added an extraordinary aptitude of 
 expression. Perhaps the most distinctive fea- 
 
LIFE AND LETTEES OP GEORGE ELIOT. 255 
 
 ture of her literary faculty is her power of 
 seeing and stating brief problems of life, and so 
 conveying in a sentence the result of a process 
 of observation and thought. In her earlier 
 works these were eminently happy, and so plain 
 in their pithiness as to contribute greatly to 
 her popularity. But in her later period her 
 style lost much of this lightness ; the presenta- 
 tion of the idea (possibly in itself less weighty 
 and less clear) was so laden with accumulations 
 in the effort after completeness and fulness, 
 that the mind, no longer taking it in pleasantly 
 and at once, had to deal with it like a proposi- 
 tion of Euclid. The habit, too, of using phrases 
 and illustrations borrowed from science grew on 
 her, and did not always tend to lucidity : thus, 
 in the first sentence of ' Deronda ' we find a 
 glance mentioned as of a " dynamic quality" — 
 an expression of which we (though not desti- 
 tute of some tincture of dynamical instruction) 
 have failed to this day to see the applicability. 
 It is observable, too, that the human interest 
 of her tales diminished, and latterly those 
 readers were best pleased who enjoyed tasting 
 the philosophy of the author more than follow- 
 ing the story. But, like aU great writers, she 
 created her own public, and held it in firm 
 allegiance to the end. We have heard a very 
 experienced judge of literature affirm ' Middle- 
 
256 LIFE AND LETTEES OP GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 march' to be not merely her greatest, but the 
 greatest novel. 
 
 "No former book of mine," she says, "has been 
 received with more enthusiasm, not even ' Adam Bede.' 
 . . . People seem so bent on giving supremacy to 
 ' Middlemarch' that they are sure not to like any future 
 book so well." 
 
 Jews and Jewesses, even rabbis and profes- 
 sors, expressed their admiration and gratitude 
 for ' Deronda,' and we imagine that it met with 
 Gentile appreciators no less ardent. " The suc- 
 cess of the work at present," writes the author, 
 " is greater than that of ' Middlemarch ' up to 
 the corresponding point of publication." 
 
 Her intense absorbing interest in human life 
 was also the basis of the creed which, in default 
 of other, George Eliot adopted. We have seen 
 how she cast off her early and earnest belief : 
 nothing which concerns her can be more inter- 
 esting to the admirers of her works than to 
 know what substitute she found for it, for her 
 new opinions imbue aU her writings, and form 
 a necessary key to them. We wiU therefore 
 endeavour to give some account of them. 
 
 It does not appear that philosophy had any 
 share in inspiring the doubts which led her to 
 abandon her former persuasions ; but she must 
 have acquired, immediately afterwards, fresh 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OP GEORGE ELIOT. 257 
 
 grounds for confidence in her new opinions 
 from the friends with whom she was most in- 
 timately associated in London, and who had 
 arrived at their conclusions from a direction 
 entirely different. Their conclusions required 
 them to accept nothing as fit to form part of 
 a system, either of philosophy or religion, which 
 is not based on fact and capable of being made 
 apparent to the reason. They asserted, not 
 that all else was non-existent, but that it was 
 unknowable, and outside the region of inquiry 
 or theory. Consequently they practically as- 
 sumed this world as the be-all and the end-all 
 of human existence. In its conditions, as in- 
 terpreted by science, they found the beginnings, 
 and traced the development, of man as we see 
 him, and declined to consider any possibilities 
 before or after as other than unscientific fancies. 
 For them spirit, with its light of conscience, are 
 evolutions, produced in immeasurably long pro- 
 cess by the conditions of the material world, 
 and the action and reaction on each other of 
 the minds of its inhabitants. They find obvious 
 the inference that the spirit thus earth-born 
 will of necessity share the dissolution of the 
 body — dust it is, and unto dust shall it return. 
 Without denying the existence of an unknown 
 cause, they do deny that the conception of it 
 can be a proper basis of a practical religion. 
 
 R 
 
258 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 For them a deity has, in all ages, and with all 
 peoples, been an invention of man's mind, stim- 
 ulated by man's hopes and fears — as the Brocken 
 Spectre is the immensely exaggerated shadow, 
 cast on a cloud, of the spectator's own figure. 
 Thus, after rejecting the familiar belief that 
 God created man, these philosophers are con- 
 ducted to the very opposite conclusion that man 
 created God. In the presence of this faith, not 
 •only revelation and miracle, but a great number 
 of behefs which were universal, and existed 
 apart from the religious systems of which they 
 formed the basis, are swept away, — the belief 
 in a personal deity to whom man is responsible, 
 that the conscience is a spark of divinity, that 
 a future life wUl repair the inequalities of this, 
 and that the soul's portion in it will be in ac- 
 cordance with its deserts while on earth. In 
 these negations some of these freethinkers 
 rested, pushing their inquiries in science only. 
 But to others there appeared much risk in de- 
 priving the human race, even as it is known 
 to philosophers, of all those powerfully inspir- 
 ing and powerfully controlling influences which 
 religion has supplied ; they perceived also that 
 any system dealing with humanity must admit 
 a tendency to religious belief as an element 
 in the constitution of man. In the writings 
 of Comte these speculators found what they 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OP GEORGE ELIOT. 259 
 
 wanted. Closely associated with his views in 
 science and polity was set forth the doctrine 
 of a " religion of humanity," the whole forming 
 what is known as the Positive philosophy. 
 When this life is all, its value is increased in- 
 finitely. As all qualities ascribed to unseen 
 powers worshipped by man have been emana- 
 tions from humanity itself, so humanity itself 
 is a fit object of worship. By fostering all that 
 is best in it, by steadily inculcating that the 
 elevation of the race is a duty to which every 
 individual may be trained, a millennium is to 
 be finally reached in which this world is to be 
 the scene of light and harmony. For Comte's 
 writings George Eliot had deep admiration and 
 sympathy, and warmly acknowledged her great 
 debt to him. Without being a declared ad- 
 herent of his philosophy or religion, she explic- 
 itly avows her gratitude for the illumination he 
 had contributed to her life. Dr Congreve, the 
 chief evangelist of the religion of humanity in 
 this country, was her intimate friend, and his 
 wife her constant correspondent. Dr Congreve 
 described the ' Spanish Gypsy 'as a " mass of 
 Positivism." With this preamble, we wUl pre- 
 sent to the reader (who must not expect any- 
 thing very explicit) some passages from her 
 letters and works which seem to have most 
 relation to the subject : — 
 
260 LIFE AND LETTEES OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 " My books have for their main bearing a conclusion 
 without which I could not have cared to write any rep- 
 resentation of human life — namely, that the fellowship 
 between man and man which has been the principle 
 of development, social and moral, is not dependent on 
 conceptions of what is not man ; and that the idea of 
 God, so far as it has been a high spiritual influence, is 
 the idea of a goodness entirely human (i.e., an exalta- 
 tion of the human)." 
 
 '' Love, pity, constituting sympathy, and generous joy 
 with regard to the lot of our fellow-men comes in — has 
 been growing since the beginning — enormously en- 
 hanced by wider vision of results — by an imagination 
 actively interested in the lot of mankind generally ; 
 and these feelings become piety — i.e., loving, willing 
 submission, and heroic Promethean effort, towards high 
 possibilities, which may result from our individual life. 
 
 " There is really no moral ' sanction ' but this inward 
 impulse. The will of God is the same thing as the will 
 of other men, compelling us to work and avoid what 
 they have seen to be harmful to social existence. Dis- 
 joined from any perceived good, the divine will is 
 simply so much as we have ascertained of the facts of 
 existence which compel obedience at our peril. Any 
 other notion comes from the supposition of arbitrary 
 revelation." 
 
 This is the motto to one of her short tales : — 
 
 " Give me no light, great heaven, but such as turns 
 To energy of human feUowsHp ; 
 No powers save the growing heritage 
 That makes completer manhood." 
 
 " The progress of the world can certainly never come 
 at all save by the modified action of the individual 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OP GEORGE ELIOT. 261 
 
 beings who compose the world, and that we can say to 
 ourselves with effect, ' There is an order of considera- 
 tions which I will keep myself continually in mind 
 of, so that they may continually be the prompters of 
 certain feelings and actions,' seems to me as undeniable 
 as that we can resolve to study the Semitic languages 
 and apply to an oriental scholar to give us daily 
 lessons." 
 
 " In her general attitude towards life," says her biog- 
 rapher, " George Eliot was neither optimist nor pessi- 
 mist. She held to the middle term which she invented 
 for herself of ' meliorist.' She was cheered by the hope 
 and by the belief in gradual improvement of the mass ; 
 for in her view each individual must find the better 
 part of happiness in helping another." 
 
 " Will you believe," she writes, " that an accom- 
 plished man some years ago said to me, that he saw no 
 place for the exercise of resignation, when there was no 
 personal divine will contemplated as ordaining sorrow 
 or privation ? He is not yet aware that he is getting 
 old, and needing that unembittered compliance of soul 
 with the inevitable, which seems to me a full enough 
 meaning for the word ' resignation.' " 
 
 " I fear," she writes to Mrs Bray, " the fatal fact 
 about your story is the absence of God and hell. ' My 
 dear madam, you have not presented motives to the 
 children !' It is really hideous to find that those who 
 sit in the scribes' seats have got no further than the 
 appeal to selfishness, which they call God." 
 
 She is fond of affirming that high effort, 
 though it fail, is not failure : — 
 
 " My impression of the good there is in all unselfish 
 efforts is continually strengthened. Doubtless many a 
 
262 LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 ship is drowned on expeditions of discovery or rescue, 
 and precious freights lie buried. But there was the 
 good of manning and furnishing the ship with a great 
 purpose before it set out." 
 
 On the death of Mazzini she writes : — 
 
 " Such a man leaves behind him a wider good than 
 the loss of his personal presence can take away. 
 
 " ' The greatest gift the hero leaves his race, 
 Is to have been a hero.' 
 
 " I must be excused for quoting my own words, be- 
 cause they are my credo." 
 
 Of her Hfe with Lewes she writes : — 
 
 " Our unspeakable joy in each other has no other alloy 
 than the sense that it must one day end in parting." 
 
 " The approach of parting is the bitterness of age." 
 
 " The realm of silence is large enough beyond the 
 grave. This is the world of light and speech." 
 
 " I desire," she writes in her journal, " no added 
 blessing for the coming year but this, — that I may do 
 some good lasting work, and make both my outward 
 and inward habits less imperfect — that is, more directly 
 tending to the best uses of life." 
 
 To a friend she writes : — 
 
 " For nearly a year death seems to me my most in- 
 timate daily companion. I mingle the thought of it 
 with every other, not sadly, but as one mingles the 
 thought of some one who is nearest in love and duty 
 with all one's motives. I try to delight in the sunshine 
 that will be when I shall never see it any more. And I 
 think it is possible for this sort of impersonal life to at- 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OE GEORUE ELIOT. 263 
 
 tain great intensity, — possible for us to gain much more 
 independence, than is usually believed, of the small 
 bundle of facts that make our own personality." 
 
 This last sentiment has been expanded in the 
 best known of her verses, which have been 
 adopted, we believe, as a Positivist hymn, because 
 they express so well the belief of the sect in all 
 that man can call his future. They have been 
 too often quoted to be introduced here. They 
 admit of the construction that the dead are 
 immortal only in the sense that their good 
 deeds and example have entered into many 
 lives, inspiring fresh endeavours for the exalta- 
 tion of humanity, and that thus they may be 
 said to have a continued life on earth. "So to 
 live is heaven ; " " This is life to come " — are 
 the conclusions announced in the hymn. Her 
 poems are more explicit on the subject of her 
 religious philosophy, and convey it in a clearer 
 and more compact fashion, than her prose writ- 
 ings. We have seen the ' Spanish Gypsy ' rec- 
 ognised as a mass of Positivism ; the ' Legend 
 of Jubal ' is no less so, being entirely founded 
 on, and illustrative of, the doctrine that man's 
 future life is in his works. " Stradivarius " 
 repeats the theme ; and " A Minor Prophet," 
 the dream of the scientific man, of the material 
 world of the future as modified by science, is 
 only the foil to her own dream of the moral 
 
264 LIFE AND LETTEES OE GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 world of the future as modified by the religion 
 of humanity. 
 
 All this, vague enough as a profession of 
 faith, is in unison, so far as it goes, with the 
 principles of Positivism. We do not know 
 that anything of importance will at any time 
 be added to the foregoing evidence of what 
 George Eliot had adopted as her creed. It is 
 very evident that the religion thus constituted 
 is only the projected image of her own spirit. 
 Her intense enjoyment of life, her curiosity 
 and interest in aU that concerns the race, her 
 natural goodness, her freedom from common 
 temptations, rendered easy for her the adoption 
 of the doctrine that we should shape our lives for 
 the benefit of humanity at large. She would 
 have done this — at any rate she would have done 
 as she did — without consciously holding any 
 such creed. She would have talked Positivism 
 as Monsieur Jourdain talked prose. Had she 
 never heard of Comte or Dr Congreve, she 
 would have been a disciple of the religion of 
 humanity. Its shaping effect was not on her 
 nature, but on her works. When it had as- 
 sumed for her an organised and external form, 
 she became its apostle. In place of represent- 
 ing life as she observed it, she represented it 
 with reference to the religion of humanity. In 
 place of depicting people as she found them. 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OP GEORGE ELIOT. 265 
 
 she depicted them as shaped or controlled by a 
 theoretical influence. Whether we think this 
 an advantage may be gathered from preceding 
 passages in this paper. 
 
 It is to be noted that George Eliot is in 
 unison with the Positivists up to a certain point 
 only. While they have, for the manifestation 
 of their religion, a sort of liturgy and a church, 
 there is no evidence that she ever considered 
 humanity to be a proper object of worship. 
 With this exception they would probably con- 
 sider her creed to be in accord with theirs. It 
 may, as in her case, and doubtless in many 
 others, be a possible rule of life for individual 
 natures. But it must also be judged as a 
 means for its professed end, of effecting, through 
 general acceptance, the exaltation of humanity. 
 For this it demands that every member shall, 
 in the way for which his abilities best suit him, 
 labour for the good of the race, sinking his own 
 private interests in those of humanity. For re- 
 ward, he must derive what satisfaction he can 
 from the sense that his efforts in this direc- 
 tion have not been unavailing. So pure and 
 disinterested is this faith, so sublimated from 
 all motives other than the highest, that, judged 
 by it, the desire to do right from the hope of 
 attaining heaven or avoiding hell is mere self- 
 ishness. Such a religion is evidently suited 
 
266 LIFE AND LETTEES OF GEOEGE ELIOT. 
 
 only to saints and Positivists. It appeals to 
 nothing which actuates the nmltitude. It de- 
 mands a sacrifice of self which only a few 
 recorded characters have been found capable 
 of. It requires us to put aU we possess into 
 a sinking fund for the benefit of nobody knows 
 whom. It wants the powerful element of hope, 
 for its promises are limited to the hazy expecta- 
 tion of an indefinitely distant possibility, less 
 than the shadow of a shade. George Ehot, 
 with a view to adapting the doctrine to com- 
 mon use, would confine the endeavours of ordi- 
 nary natures to the task of furthering the hap- 
 piness and advantage of those immediately 
 around them. But we think the youth of 
 this country have long been familiar with so 
 much Positivism as that, in the Church Cate- 
 chism. In common with the Positivists she 
 had, we learn, " great hope for the future in 
 the improvement of human nature by the 
 gradual development of the affections and 
 the sympathetic emotions," — though what she 
 found in the past to give reason for such 
 expectation, we do not learn. The high and 
 exclusive devotion to humanity on which the 
 religion is based can only be a rule of life to a 
 few who, in its absence, would have conformed 
 to its precepts. As a means for effecting the 
 ambitious design of influencing and modifying 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 267' 
 
 the race, its demands on human nature are 
 impossible to be satisfied, its allurements cold 
 and dim : it might have been conceived in the 
 moon, and for the inhabitants of the moon ; it 
 is such stuff as dreams are made of. 
 
 Now that this famous woman has quitted the 
 scene, the world would gladly know somewhat 
 of her life as apart from her works. These 
 three volumes contain her biography, chiefly as 
 recorded by herself in journals and letters to 
 intimate friends, the links being supplied spar- 
 ingly and judiciously by Mr Cross, whose one 
 thought in the matter has evidently been how 
 best to let her speak for herself " In author- 
 ship," she says, " I hold carelessness to be a 
 mortal sin ; '' and this rule she extended no 
 less stringently to her correspondence. The 
 plan on which the letters and journals have 
 been sifted, and formed into what closely re- 
 sembles an autobiography, is nqvel, and says 
 much for the originality and skill of the biog- 
 rapher. In these records the reader will follow 
 her steps in life from childhood, will learn what 
 were the influences that moulded her character, 
 the history of her literary career and of her 
 domestic life, the impressions derived from 
 foreign travel, what she thought of eminent 
 contemporaries, and what manner of people 
 were her chosen friends. He will enjoy, for 
 
268 LIFE A^B LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 the most part, the immense advantage of find- 
 ing all these interesting matters chronicled by 
 herself; and such additions as Mr Cross has 
 made, while indispensable to completeness, are 
 as valuable as they are unobtrusive. The 
 many devoted students of her works will 
 receive a new pleasure in reading them again 
 along with the present biography, which sheds 
 on them quite an illumination, and will, we 
 should think, be regarded as their indispensable 
 companion on the book-shelf. 
 
 Her later life was in one respect very singu- 
 lar. Lewes's care for her was so alert and pro- 
 spective, that she may be said to have dwelt 
 like some princess in a fairy tale, guarded by 
 spells against annoyance. He conducted all 
 business, even answered all letters for her to 
 other than her intimate friends. He sifted the 
 reviews of her works, that she might be hurt 
 by no censure ; he even warned correspondents 
 against using too much freedom in criticism. 
 His habits made him her constant companion 
 — no small fret could elude his vigilance, and 
 his chief happiness lay in ministering to her com- 
 fort. The modest mansion in St John's Wood 
 was as quiet and secluded as if it stood on the 
 outskirts of a village. Here her hours of work 
 and study were absolutely sacred. On Sunday 
 afternoons she was at home to visitors, and 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 269 
 
 there were few of her eminent contemporaries 
 who did not at one time or other come to offer 
 her genuine homage. While enjoying the best 
 of social intercourse at will, she held herself 
 free from its exactions, the labours in which 
 the public were so deeply interested forming 
 ample ground for the exemption. When in 
 need of fresher air she and Lewes repaired to 
 their country house, situated in a part of 
 Surrey chosen for its agreeable qualities, and 
 where many valued friends lived within a 
 drive. Tennyson was one of these, and any 
 records that may have been preserved of their 
 meetings and their "wit-combats" will seem 
 gold-lettered to posterity as it looks back on 
 the Victorian age. Such a life is evidently 
 what many sigh for but few attain. Indeed, 
 had she been less sensitive, and her health less 
 frail in later life, we would say she was alto- 
 gether too sedulously sheltered from care. This 
 was not the kind of life in which she received 
 and stored up her early and fresh impres- 
 sions. The artist who would describe his own 
 time must keep touch with it, must receive its 
 form and pressure, not in the study, but by 
 actual contact with his fellows, by mingling in 
 their affairs, by being penetrated with their 
 hopes and fears, by knowing disappointment 
 as well as success, by facing the difficulties no 
 
270 LIFE AND LETTEES OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 less than by enjoying the pleasures of life. 
 But it is possible that, in the actual circum- 
 stances, devotion and encouragement, ease and 
 leisure, were the necessary conditions for doing 
 her work after the flush and buoyancy of youth 
 were past. However this may be, it is certain 
 that she was surrounded in a remarkable degree 
 by all that can lend warmth and sunshine to 
 the advance of life. The most anxious afiection 
 did not cease for long to surround her when she 
 lost Lewes. Her marriage to the present bio- 
 grapher gave the most complete and secure 
 promise of a serene evening. He had long 
 been an intimate and dear friend, and, on the 
 death of Lewes, had been prompt to afibrd such 
 active sympathy as only a very uncommon 
 devotion could inspire. Her correspondence 
 after her marriage testifies how unceasing was 
 his care for her, how acute and grateful her 
 sense of it. But the union was of very short 
 duration ; she died within the twelvemonth, 
 leaving only the consolation that her sixty-one 
 years had been bright and happy to the close. 
 
THE PICTUEES OF EICHAED DOYLE. 
 
 A N inhabitant of Florence, in Dante's time, 
 ■^ pointed out the poet as "the man who 
 had been in hell." Richard Doyle might well 
 enjoy the more pleasing designation of the man 
 who had been in Elfland. He spent much of 
 his time there, and brought away a great 
 deal of information about the manners and cus- 
 toms of its inhabitants. Excepting Mr Lemuel 
 GuUiver, nobody has been keener in observing 
 and describing the features of a strange country 
 and state of society. These we find recorded 
 in many of Doyle's delightful sketches and pic- 
 tures, of which, from our recollections of them 
 at the very complete exhibition of his works 
 since his death, and elsewhere, we shall endea- 
 vour to give a chronicle and brief abstract. 
 
 In the first place, he amply confirms the 
 common notion that fairies, sprites, elves, and 
 
272 THE PICTURES OF RICHARD DOYLE. 
 
 goblins are not troubled with a pressing sense 
 of the responsibilities of existence, but take life 
 in a desultory, devil-may-care sort of fashion. 
 Nothing Hke settled business casts its shadow 
 over them. None of them appears ever to 
 have kept a shop or a counting-house, or to 
 have contributed in the least degree to the 
 cultivation of the soil. The utilitarian doc- 
 trines not only do not prevail, but do not 
 exist among them. Their state affairs are en- 
 tirely ceremonial. They never had a legisla- 
 tive assembly, though the waste of time, idle 
 talk, foolish jest, and absence of common-sense, 
 which prevail in such places, would not be 
 foreign to their habits. Trades must have ex- 
 isted among them, since they are generally 
 (though not always) clothed, the upper classes 
 in robes, and the multitude in the fashions pre- 
 served since Elizabeth's time — doublets, tight 
 hose, short cloaks, pointed caps, and long-toed 
 shoes. Weavers, men's tailors and women's 
 tailors, shoemakers, &c., must therefore have 
 existed somewhere, possibly as slaves immured 
 in workshops. But as the whole population 
 was always ready to swarm forth at a mo- 
 ment's notice, for sport or mischief, as if bank 
 holiday were perpetual, their occupations could 
 never have been of an exacting kind. Thus 
 (we learn) a venturous equestrian having come 
 
THE PICTURES OP RICHARD DOYLE. 273 
 
 on a party of them revelling on the sea-shore, 
 and snatched up one of their goblets, all Elf- 
 land, male and female, old and young, is repre- 
 sented as in pursuit of the marauder. The 
 only sprite (according to Doyle) that has ever 
 evinced a steady purpose, is one clad in white, 
 who makes it her business to haunt a partic- 
 ular bridge, and allows no one to cross who 
 does not kneel to her. Forming the only 
 bright spot in the picture, except her own re- 
 flection in the water, she sits in the midst of 
 an admirably painted piece of woodland which 
 frames an arched passage for the course of the 
 stream. This sprite has evidently suffered 
 some great wrong, most likely from a male 
 sprite, leading her to follow the example of the 
 misanthrope mentioned by Mr WeUer, who 
 " kept a 'pike and rewenged himself on society 
 by taking tolls." But in general they seem to 
 have no object beyond the impulse of the mo- 
 ment. Thus a fairy encountering an owl, on 
 turf or in tree, is impelled to fondle the solemn 
 bird, who, as might be expected from his im- 
 perturbable character, merely tolerates the 
 familiarity without any kind of response. In 
 some of these pictorial records, whole rows of 
 elves are seated each beside his or her owl. 
 But this infatuation for owls is evidently of the 
 most transient nature, and would be dissolved 
 
274 THE PICTURES OF RICHABD DOYLE. 
 
 instantly on the opportunity of some other 
 diversion, such as a race or a gallop. For this 
 purpose they will mount a flock of small birds, 
 or bound on the backs of the inhabitants of a 
 rabbit-warren, and launch forth on a wUd and 
 reckless career. The rabbit, though very de- 
 lightfiil to sit upon — his downy back being 
 more comfortable, especially to the unclad, 
 than the best saddle that ever came out of 
 Piccadilly, and his ears pleasanter to the grasp 
 than either snaffle or curb-rein — is yet an un- 
 certain kind of steed, as the many mishaps 
 shown in the course of a run testify ; while his 
 habit of disappearing suddenly in a hole is such 
 as the first equestrians can hardly be expected 
 to contend against. Sometimes a troop on the 
 ramble will vault on the backs of a flock of 
 geese, and urge them with outstretched necks 
 and striding webs across the conamon ; but 
 even a goose will turn when rode upon, and a 
 dismounted jockey is being severely pecked by 
 his feathered courser. The back of the lowly 
 beetle pursuing his deliberate way to a point a 
 few yards off, where he may possibly arrive in 
 the course of the night, is not disdained by the 
 elf disposed for equestrian exercise. But the 
 most poetical of all the coursers bestridden by 
 elf or fairy is the bat. A whole company thus 
 mounted are rising into the air from the banks 
 
THE PICTURES OF RICHABD DOYLE. 275 
 
 of a reedy lake. No less than four pictures 
 represent Ariel, the prince of elves, as borne 
 thus in solitary wavering flight through the 
 sky. Now he is going aloft in the light of the 
 high full moon, only his face, that of a chubby 
 child, seen over the head of the bat round 
 whose neck his arms are thrown. Anon he is 
 seated gracefully upright, clasping his knees 
 between the brown pinions, himself equipped 
 with short wings like those of a pretty moth, 
 and evidently on confidential terms with his 
 steed, who turns his head upward towards the 
 rider ; and in this drawing only, the crescent 
 moon is seen with admirable effect through the 
 elaborate pattern of the bat's leathern wing, 
 whUe two stars struggle through the dim blue 
 vapour of the air. Again we see him seated 
 with his face to the bat's tail, soaring in a 
 higher, calmer region, no stars above nor land- 
 scape below. Lastly, led into forgetfulness of 
 time by the fascinating nature of his excursion, 
 he is surprised by the red streaks of dawn, as 
 they stretch between the dim earth and the 
 awakening sky, tipping with crimson the rocks 
 that bound the small estuary over which he 
 happens to be flying. Why Ariel, who could 
 go swift as an arrow from a Tartar's bow, 
 should have found diversion in so slow a con- 
 veyance as the winged mouse, we cannot ac- 
 
276 THE PICTURES OF RICHARD DOYLE. 
 
 count for otherwise than by supposing that, 
 while pegged in the entrails of the cloven pine 
 from which Prospero released him, he naturally 
 became acquainted with his feUow-tenants who 
 would be hanging by the heels in that retreat, 
 and formed with them a hfelong friendship, 
 doing equal credit to his head and heart. 
 
 The tenants of fairyland seem sometimes to 
 have experienced an impulse towards benevo- 
 lence or usefulness ; but it was probably acci- 
 dental, and only the result of a desire to amuse 
 themselves. Thus a musical fairy is giving a 
 singing lesson to a number of small birds, but 
 happily without having induced them to aban- 
 don their natural notes. And two pictures 
 commemorate a practice of the fairies of comb- 
 ing and dressing the goats' beards on Saturday 
 night, to make them smart for Sunday. The 
 ceremony, or assignation, takes place on a hill- 
 side — partly bright with sunset, partly dark- 
 ened with the shadow of approaching night. 
 The sylph beauties — possessing, let us hope, 
 only an imperfect sense of smeU — devote them- 
 selves with a will to their task, — combing, 
 twining, and plaiting the tufted chins ; while 
 the billygoats submit with good grace to the 
 fascinating barbers, except one restive Capri- 
 corn who gallops away, and another that from 
 behind a rock peeps furtively at his hairdresser, 
 
THE PICTURES OE RICHARD DOYLE. 277 
 
 who beckons him with cajoling finger. This 
 subject (as we told the artist) ought to have 
 been treated by Herkomer. However, as a 
 rule, they make no pretence to benevolence, 
 but rather the contrary. Thus a number of 
 them, as if the agents of an Imperial Chancellor, 
 are egging on two frogs to fight, by taunts and 
 suggestions of good grounds for quarrel, as 
 wounded honour and so forth. Another mocks 
 and gibes at a large toad, whose profoundly 
 meditative and sedentary aspect precludes all 
 idea of possible provocation. For some reason 
 the lesser amphibia are not esteemed in elfland, 
 and when not objects of hostility are exposed 
 to practical jokes. No elf can pass a frog 
 without jeering at him, or, if coming on him 
 fi:"om behind, using him for the purpose of giving 
 a back — a practice which explains the name of a 
 popular game. The cause of this ill-feeling is 
 to be found in one of the largest pictures, the 
 " Battle of Elves and Frogs." At some remote, 
 even prehistoric period, a casus belli arose be- 
 tween the two peoples ; perhaps a frog am- 
 bassador had been disrespectful to Oberon — 
 or the elves may have wished to establish a 
 stable government in some distant and populous 
 swamp : anyhow, war alone could decide the 
 matter. The elves took up a strong position 
 on a rising ground, at the foot of which was a 
 
278 THE PICTURES OF RICHARD DOYLE. 
 
 natural moat, in the shape of a reedy pond. 
 And here we see how the rules of war are 
 subject to change under novel circumstances. 
 In ordinary cases a bridge would have been 
 necessary in order to approach the position. 
 But the gallant frogs, flinging themselves boldly 
 into one of their native elements, have crossed 
 the obstacle and scaled the heights. Some of 
 the most forward spirits of the amphibious 
 army have forced their way up to the very 
 mound where the elf-king and leader has sta- 
 tioned himself, like Harold at Hastings, and 
 have even turned his flank. But the sprites, 
 in loose formation, have met the enemy, some 
 of whom, their retreat accelerated by panic, are 
 already describing wonderful parabolas in the 
 air on their way to the pond. In the centre of 
 the picture, a speckled champion is receiving 
 full in his yellow stomach the thrust of a spear 
 of grass. A frog's countenance would not seem 
 to lend itself to much play of feature, but his 
 is not inexpressive of anguish. As in a medi- 
 eval battle, prisoners are led away on both 
 sides. The captive frogs were apparently held 
 to ransom, but the goblins are placed hors de 
 combat by being dropped into the pond. The 
 frog general is slily represented as keeping 
 well out of the battle on the opposite shore, 
 attended by an obsequious staff". No doubt 
 
THE PICTUEES OP EICHAED DOYLE. 279 
 
 the elves prevailed ; for, as we have seen, they 
 have treated the frogs ever since as a subject 
 people. Most likely Mr Doyle found the nar- 
 rative of this celebrated action, which he calls 
 the sixteenth decisive battle of the world, in 
 some ancient fairy chronicle, or perhaps woven 
 in goblin tapestry, and hung on the walls of a 
 palace in that strange country. 
 
 In much later times the elves met in battle 
 a far more formidable enemy, the Crows, — not 
 the Indian tribe of that name, but the pred- 
 atory race against whom we ourselves wage 
 war, chiefly with scarecrows — a kind of troops 
 possessing but little manceuvring power, and 
 from whom Mr Childers probably took his idea 
 of short-service soldiers. The elves, as before, 
 took up a strong position on a knoll crowned 
 with an ancient tower ; but against an enemy 
 who descends from the air, advantages of 
 ground do not count for much. The battle is 
 very desperate : when elf meets crow, then 
 comes the tug of war. Many elves are pros- 
 trate, and are being violently pecked ; one has 
 his pointed cap torn from his head — which is 
 probably held as equivalent to taking his scalp. 
 On the other hand, crows have fallen, and one 
 in the distance is coming to earth transfixed by 
 a goblin's arrow. Only the advanced-guard of 
 the crows is engaged ; their supports are formed 
 
280 THE PICTUKES OF RICHAED DOYLE. 
 
 on a neighbouring group of leafless trees, while 
 the battalions of reserve are coming up in such 
 numbers as to darken the sky. If the com- 
 mander of the rooks is not a mere vain babbler, 
 cawing for ever in his own glorification, but an 
 able tactician, he has evidently great chances 
 open to him. The landscape of this picture 
 is one of the best that Doyle ever painted : the 
 evening sky darkened by the cloud of birds, 
 the trees in the inundated meadow, the ancient 
 tower, are all of high order, and produce a most 
 harmonious evening effect. 
 
 It has long been known that the government 
 of fairyland is in form monarchical. The con- 
 sort of the fairy king is treated with high re- 
 spect, and, next to war, the most serious busi- 
 ness of her subjects is the manifestation of 
 respect and loyalty for her person. This takes 
 a form quite different from our municipal ad- 
 dresses and deputations. In a smaU picture 
 the elf-queen is seen seated in the moonlight 
 on a taU mushroom, while around her, wheel 
 in an informal dance her courtier-circle, each 
 footing it according to his own notion of a step 
 — an improved form of demonstration which we 
 recommend to the consideration of the Lord 
 Mayor and Common Council. The court seems 
 to be constituted mainly on the principles of 
 those of Europe, except that many of the 
 
THE PICTURES OF RICHARD DOYLE. 281 
 
 courtiers are without clothes : there are young 
 maids-of-honour, equerries, &c., descended, no 
 doubt, from the ancient families of Cobweb, 
 Peas-blossom, and Mustard-seed ; while grey- 
 beard officers of state are not wanting, figuring 
 as Masters of the Ceremonies and old Sticks-in- 
 Waiting. The whole circle are apt to flow 
 forth in strange revelry, following some sudden 
 impulse. Mr Doyle, while drawing a woodland 
 dell in his best manner, once saw the whole 
 court threading their way like a stream of 
 coloured light under the broad leaves of the 
 water-plants that grew on the margin of a 
 pool, where they had disturbed, but not alarmed, 
 a solitary kingfisher. And again in sportive 
 moments, they have disguised themselves in 
 Watteau-like costumes, and, bewigged and be- 
 hooped, enacted, under the ancient trees of 
 parks and lawns, the revels of long-departed 
 owners and their guests. 
 
 It is apparently the fairy queen's gracious 
 habit to sleep in any suitable spot, surrounded 
 with her court. We find her thus reposing on 
 the rocky shore of a mountain - tarn. The 
 moonlight is painted in this picture with re- 
 markable effect ; and we thus learn that fairies 
 do not always spend the night in roaming, 
 which may be one reason why they are not to 
 be seen any or every night, but sometimes 
 
282 THE PICTUEES OF EICHAED DOYLE. 
 
 prefer to sleep beneath the chaste beams of the 
 watery moon. The fairy king seems to enter- 
 tain unsocial and unconnubial views on the 
 subject of repose ; for we find him, betwixt 
 afternoon and evening, asleep by himself under 
 a hollow bank amid the roots of a tree, while 
 overhead float slowly, guarding his slumbers, 
 the lords and ladies of the bedchamber. After 
 the lapse of so many ages since the time of the 
 ' Midsummer Night's Dream,' the queen seems 
 still occasionally to add to the legitimate succes- 
 sion ; for we find her in one pretty scene nurs- 
 ing an elf-baby, with her crown on, while a 
 blue-clad fairy, possibly an elder sister, helps to 
 tend and fondle the royal infant. 
 
 No living naturalist knows so much about 
 dragons as Doyle. Next to fairies, he has stud- 
 ied them more than any other province of 
 animated nature. For the most part they have 
 been hostile to man, to the extent of habitually 
 dining on human virgins ; and many knights 
 since St George have sought to win fame, and 
 the favour of the rescued maidens, by defying 
 them to single combat. Our artist shows us, 
 not the combat itself, which has perhaps been 
 so often treated by medieval painters as to be 
 incapable of fresh presentation, but the preface 
 and the last scene. Thus the historic dragon 
 of Wantley, roused by the loud challenge of 
 
THE PICTURES OF EICHAED DOYLE. 283 
 
 the champion who defies him from the summit of 
 the rock, is issuing from his craggy lair with an 
 aspect suggestive of irritated feeHng and bad lan- 
 guage, which reminds us of the felonious inmate 
 of a London slum once visited by Dickens, who 
 looked out of window angrily demanding, 
 " "What the adjective substantive do you want 
 here?" The end of the combat, under the 
 title of "The Eeturn of the Dragon-slayer," 
 is a favourite subject with Doyle, who evidently 
 commemorates several distinct events of this 
 kind — for whereas in one the dragon, slain, is 
 dragged by the tail, in others he is led in 
 captive by his conqueror (in one case with the 
 knight's pocket - handkerchief tied over the 
 dragon's eye, injured in the conflict) ; and in 
 a drawing which we remember as exhibited a 
 few years ago, the reptile's longitude was such, 
 that although he extended along an entire 
 street, his tail was still round the corner. But 
 in all cases the knight caracoles proudly through 
 the town, amidst the applause of the populace 
 and the greetings of civic functionary, dame, 
 and demoiselle — everybody admiring and con- 
 gratulating, except another knight who pre- 
 serves a lofty and disdainful aspect, to show 
 how lightly a warrior of his prowess esteems 
 such feats. The dragon was not always, how- 
 ever, the enemy of man ; he had his softer 
 
284 THE PICTUEES OF EICHAUD DOYLE. 
 
 moments, as when he is seen playing chess 
 with a princess, and he could even make himself 
 useful. It is well known that the christening 
 of earthly princes and princesses is frequently 
 attended by powerful fairies, their godmothers, 
 who bestow on them various excellences of 
 mind and person, though with what result in 
 after-life has never been quite clear. One of 
 these generous sponsors is depicted as coming 
 forth from the palace after the ceremony, to 
 return to her own dominions ; and, for con- 
 veyance, at the door is waiting her dragon, 
 who has of necessity been kept in the street 
 during the visit, as no building shorter than 
 the Thames tunnel could have stabled an 
 animal of his extent. This dragon is submit- 
 ting to be held by a smart goblin-groom whom 
 he could have swallowed like an oyster, and 
 is good humouredly unconscious that some 
 street -boys, distant a few minutes' walk, are 
 taking Hberties with his tail. 
 
 Incidentally we learn from Doyle a good deal 
 about the personal attributes of dragons. We 
 perceive that as there are one-humped and two- 
 humped camels, and one-horned and two-horned 
 rhinoceroses, so there are one-headed and two- 
 headed dragons. One groom, however, suffices 
 to hold a two-headed dragon, used for draught 
 or riding, as he might suffice for a pair of 
 
THE PICTUKBS OF RICHARD DOYLE. 285 
 
 horses. Besides the teeth and claws, the spiky 
 wings, shaped on the principle of holly-leaves, 
 would cause considerable annoyance to an antag- 
 onist if vigorously flapped about his head ; and 
 further, the end of the tail is furnished with an 
 arrow-head sting, which, if time permits, can 
 be brought up and buried in the body of the foe. 
 Also, the dragon's eyes burn and his breath 
 smokes, as if from an internal furnace ; so that 
 the knight who would tackle him would find, 
 altogether, a very ugly customer. We see also 
 that the tradition expressed in the tavern sign of 
 the Green Dragon is a true one — the creature's 
 coat-of-mail is of the sheen of the ivy -leaf ; and 
 though Campbell tells us how War " yoked the 
 red dragons of her iron car," we may, on 
 Doyle's authority, safely affirm of the dragon's 
 colour, as of the chameleon's, " 'Tis green — 'tis 
 green, sir, I assure ye." 
 
 One of the most curious and unexpected facts 
 of dragon-life which our artist has brought to 
 light is that respecting the young brood. Hav- 
 ing supposed them to be rare animals, we were 
 surprised to find them existing in flocks, hatched 
 apparently from eggs, and used as a kind of 
 farm-stock. Several representations show us 
 witches driving young dragons to market. 
 Who the purchasers can be of these strange 
 articles of commerce we cannot divine — perhaps 
 
286 THE PICTURES OF RICHARD DOYLE. 
 
 they are bought up by dealers who, after break- 
 ing them to harness or saddle, sell them to 
 rich fairies. In one case the sorceress, young 
 and not ungracefiil, and clad in diaphanous 
 drapery is descending a mountain-side in misty 
 moonlight ; in another, an old witch, of the 
 kind that Macbeth knew of, is driving with 
 outstretched broom her singular poultry along 
 the shore of a lake, on the margin of which 
 stands a ruined monastery. In all cases the 
 character of the flock is much the same : though 
 quite newly hatched — for they are no bigger 
 than turkeys — there is plenty of latent truc- 
 ulence to be developed with maturity ; they 
 show the fire of the race glowing in eye and 
 nostril, and are extremely troublesome to drive. 
 It was pleasant to see last year, at the 
 Institute in Piccadilly, an indication that an 
 artist, Mr Fitzgerald, existed among us capable 
 of carrying on the traditions of Doyle. He had 
 chosen for his subject a hare just escaped from 
 the hounds, and resting within a screen of grass 
 and brambles. In the distance the hunters and 
 the pack are seen jogging homeward against the 
 evening sky. Hound the fugitive are drawing 
 the pitying fairy population of the district. A 
 sylph, splendidly clad, is floating towards her, 
 expressing as plainly as looks may, " Poor 
 dear ! " while another in white raiment pats 
 
THE PICTURES OF RICHARD DOYLE. 287 
 
 her panting breast. Two sprites that have 
 woven a necklace of grass are putting it 
 round the hare's neck ; two more are bringing 
 her red berries, as a shght refreshment after 
 her exertions — the one presenting the offering 
 on a leaf- platter, the other on the point 
 of a thorn. An elf in scarlet, seated easily, 
 though it might be thought uncomfortably, 
 on the stem of a bramble, is watching the 
 hunters, evidently in order to give notice if 
 they should return. And besides these, the 
 grass and stems are populous with quaint 
 forms, half sprite, half insect, who have no 
 particular concern in the hare, but have been 
 disturbed by the commotion, as a swarm of flies 
 by an approaching step. This drawing, beauti- 
 fully executed, is the more welcome as showing 
 the race to be actuated by the novel impulse 
 of benevolence. 
 
 When not employed in his more serious and 
 important function of showing us what goes on 
 in fairy and dragon circles, Mr Doyle could 
 relax into representations of our own scenery. 
 He could show us the leafy recesses of a deU 
 in Devonshire, or the stately towers of a 
 baronial castle in the North. One of his best 
 landscapes represents the park and seat of Sir 
 Wnfrid Lawson, which, contrary to what might 
 be anticipated respecting the surroundings of 
 
288 THE PICTURES OF RICHABD DOYLE. 
 
 that apostle of temperance, contains no water, 
 but is full of spirit. On the verge of the 
 crowded tombstones of Haworth churchyard, 
 he has placed the dreary parsonage where the 
 Brontes lived their intense imaginative lives — 
 the picture being perhaps his reply to the ques- 
 tion, " Tell me, where is Fancy bred ? " In early 
 days he gave us the many comic outlines of daily 
 life which adorned ' Punch,' and the grotesque 
 illustrations of our national history which he 
 describes as rejected in the competition for 
 decorating the walls of Westminster. But his 
 real business lay with the scenery of that pleas- 
 ant moonlit land where Oberon ruled in the 
 days of Duke Theseus and Bully Bottom, and 
 which in more recent times had been illustrated 
 by the French fairy chroniclers, Perrault and 
 Madame d'Aulnois. 
 
 A superficial observer would never have 
 guessed from Mr Doyle's aspect that he was 
 connected intimately with the inhabitants of 
 fairyland, or painter-in-ordinary to its royal 
 family. Goodly of stature, he was also sub- 
 stantial of person, and could not be thought of 
 for a moment as one who could join in racing 
 on rabbits, leaping over toadstools, riding on 
 bats, or floating about clothed in glorified cob- 
 webs ; nor, on the other hand, was he of a tem- 
 per to challenge dragons to combat. Kind and 
 
THE PICTURES OF RICHAED DOYLE. 289 
 
 pleasant of discourse, gentle of voice, courteous 
 of bearing, his value as a companion was very 
 widely recognised, and his society was much 
 coveted by the Titanias of Mayfair and Bel- 
 gravia. His agreeable humour was by no 
 means restricted to his pictures : he was 
 quaint in speech as in art ; and his way of 
 showing that something uttered had amused 
 him — by retiring into his cravat, in the 
 recesses of which a soft smothered laugh 
 would be heard, and then emerging to cap 
 the jest — was special to himself. For the 
 many who appreciated him, some of the 
 brightness and grace which spread a whole- 
 some illusion over common life died out of 
 the world last year with Richard Doyle. 
 
ME HAYWAED AND HIS LETTEES.^ 
 
 TTTHEN Mr Hayward died nearly three 
 * ' years ago, he had been for a long time 
 a remarkable figure in the social life of London. 
 What it was that made him notable did not at 
 first sight appear. He had been bred to the 
 Bar, and had attained to the dignity of Queen's 
 Counsel, but he had for long abandoned the 
 practice of his profession. He wrote reviews 
 in an exceedingly good and popular style, but 
 they were mostly on subjects of a hght class, 
 and they were purely and simply reviews, con- 
 taining nothing which was not founded on the 
 acts or thoughts of others. His conversation, 
 likewise, afforded no evidence of origiriaHty ; it 
 was not in the least brilliant, and displayed 
 
 1 A Selection from the Correspondence of Abraham Hayward, 
 Q.C., from 1834 to 1884, with an Account of his Early Life. 
 Edited by Henry E. Carlisle. London : John Murray. 1886. 
 
MR HAYWAED AND HIS LETTERS. 291 
 
 chiefly a remarkable memory and power of 
 quotation, great accuracy in dates and facts, 
 strong opinions strongly expressed, and an im- 
 patience of contradiction, or even of dissent, 
 amounting to intolerance, and not unfrequently 
 leading to unpleasant collisions of temper. He 
 was evidently not a rich man — he might even 
 be called a poor one — inhabiting a small set of 
 rooms on the second floor of a house in St 
 James's Street, and sallying thence to dine at 
 his club, the Athenaeum. To the great ma- 
 jority of those who might chance to notice his 
 small bent figure traversing Pall MaU with 
 a rapid step, he was absolutely unknown by 
 name. It might be supposed from all this that 
 there was nothing greatly to distinguish him 
 from a number of others who write essays and 
 reviews anonymously in excellent English. But 
 to have supposed this would have been a mis- 
 take. Though unaided by fortune or fame, he 
 exercised in many respects an influence due 
 only to a commanding intellect in a command- 
 ing position. In London and in country-houses 
 he moved in a very elevated stratum of society 
 — in most gatherings of the most fashionable 
 people he was pretty sure to be found. Great 
 ladies talked of him as " Hayward." Eminent 
 persons dining at his club gravitated to the 
 table where, like Cato, he gave his little senate 
 
292 MR HAYWARD AND HIS LETTERS. 
 
 laws. Foreign statesmen, known throughout 
 Europe, were his correspondents, and when 
 they visited London, would seek interviews 
 with him. But his influence appeared most 
 distinctly in a political crisis, when great lead- 
 ers would send for him, discuss the situation, 
 and employ him in negotiating with statesmen 
 of the class from which ministries are formed. 
 This remarkable difference between the position 
 which his apparent merits might naturally have 
 gained for him and that which he actually en- 
 joyed, forms a curious problem. It is to be 
 accounted for not so much by his intellectual as 
 by his moral characteristics. He was an exceed- 
 ingly social man, and pushed his way with a 
 hardihood which seemed to defy denial. His 
 fondness for the company of persons of worldly 
 consideration, backed by his strong self-con- 
 fidence, procured for him a great number of 
 important acquaintances, and these, it must be 
 said, he never sought to propitiate by flattery ; 
 in aU companies he was stiU. Hayward, ready to 
 meet all comers, and asserting himself and his 
 opinions without compromise. Then he took 
 an intense interest in public affairs and in other 
 people's affairs. Though he never held any 
 public office, he threw himself into the ques- 
 tions of the day with all the ardour of a pro- 
 fessional politician, and always as an uncom- 
 
ME HAYWARD AND HIS LETTERS. 293 
 
 promising partisan. With the same vehemence 
 he would press into the quarrels, scandals, in- 
 trigues, and family histories of the world around 
 him ; and having an extraordinary memory, his 
 value as a social chronicle, joined to his exten- 
 sive literary information, rendered him accept- 
 able in the houdoirs, and thus increased his 
 general importance. Thus it came to pass that 
 he had a large circulation ; that those who met 
 him everywhere took him to be somebody ; and 
 that public men found him most convenient to 
 refer to on all matters of recent political his- 
 tory, and also on the opinions of their rivals and 
 opponents, which, as soon as they were im- 
 parted to him, he never failed to proclaim most 
 impartially : and as nothing afforded him so 
 much delight as to be for the moment Mercury 
 among the gods, he came to be known as a 
 useful person in a difficulty, and, at moments 
 when fear of change was perplexing ministries, 
 might be met with hurrying from one great 
 man to another, hanging on their arms in the 
 public ways, asserting their policy, denouncing 
 their opponents with a singular ardour of ani- 
 mosity, and telling everybody everything he 
 knew about the matter, — for reticence was a 
 virtue which he habitually cast to the winds. 
 
 These letters begin in 1834, when he was 
 thirty-three years old, and had been ten years 
 
294 MR HAYWAED AND HIS LETTERS. 
 
 in London. He had been for some years editor 
 of the ' Law Magazine,' and in that character 
 paid a visit to the jurists of Gottingen. Goethe 
 was then ahve, and Hayward heard so much 
 about him from his admirers, that he set about 
 a translation of ' Faust ' in prose, which he 
 pubhshed ; and with his accustomed energy, 
 before issuing a second edition, went again to 
 Germany, where he consulted many eminent 
 literary men and friends of the poet ; and, thus 
 fortified, the new edition rapidly attained to 
 consideration both in Germany and England. 
 This opened for him a door in London society, 
 which he was not the man to remain outside of, 
 and gave himi the opportunity of using those 
 means for pushing his way with which he was so 
 notably equipped. Hobhouse, Macaulay, Scar- 
 lett, Whewell, Thirlwall, John Wilson, Babbage, 
 Wordsworth, Southey, Sydney Smith, Lady 
 Blessitigton, were some of his correspondents 
 and acquaintances at this period. At this time 
 he had chambers in the Temple (having appa- 
 rently a certain amount of practice), and gave 
 little dinners, which it was his ambition to ren- 
 der choice of their kind. The company was of 
 the best, with such guests as Lockhart, Hook, 
 James Smith, Lord Lyndhurst, Macaulay, Tom 
 Moore, Louis Napoleon, and Mrs Norton. The 
 viands were carefuUy selected, and the enter- 
 
MR HAYWAED AND HIS LETTERS. 295 
 
 taimnents owed perhaps some of their undoubted 
 vogue to the fact that the host had just repub. 
 Kshed a couple of articles in the ' Quarterly ' on 
 the art of dining, which made him appear much 
 more of an epicure than he really was. Going 
 the western circuit, visiting a good deal at the 
 interesting country-houses of interesting people, 
 making fresh acquaintances among notables, 
 dinner-giving and dinner-frequenting, pushing, 
 dictating, denouncing, writing letters and re- 
 ceiving them, and preparing his careful articles 
 for (at this time) the ' Edinburgh Eeview ' — 
 with an occasional trip to Paris, — such was the 
 routine of his life, and so it continued to the 
 end. We may here remark that these Letters 
 show us nothing of the positive, combative, 
 news -bearing, anecdote - recounting personage 
 who wrote them — and it is no offence to say 
 that the letters of such correspondents as 
 Sydney Smith and Mrs Norton are far more 
 entertaining than his own. It is reaUy unfor- 
 tunate that directly Hayward took pen in hand 
 to write a letter, he dropped his remarkable 
 personahty. We say it is unfortunate, because 
 in no other way could that remarkable person- 
 ality have been more harmlessly displayed. To 
 insist very strongly on a particular view of a 
 matter in a letter would have been preferable 
 to proclaiming it aggressively before a whole 
 
296 MR HAYWARD AND HIS LETTERS. 
 
 company. It would have been much more in- 
 offensive to denounce some opponent to a third 
 person, than personally to assail himself; the 
 phraseology would have gained force by being 
 more carefully chosen than what he was accus- 
 tomed to utter, his criticisms on men and their 
 works would have found expression more worthy 
 of his keen critical faculty, his anecdotes would 
 have been more sparingly introduced ; and we 
 should thus have had Hayward painted in per- 
 manent and favourable colours by himself, in- 
 stead of the somewhat featureless inditer of a 
 decorous and merely historical correspondence. 
 On the other hand, it would have been a great 
 gain had he transferred to his conversation 
 somewhat of the style of his letters. He would 
 thereby have largely increased the circle of his 
 friends and diminished that of his enemies ; 
 he would have gained for himself a hearing by 
 better means than insistence ; and he would 
 have enjoyed an advantage which he did not 
 often permit himself, in ehciting the free ex- 
 pression of the opinions of others, and in listen- 
 ing to and profiting by them. Nevertheless we 
 must guard the reader against the inference 
 that, with all his aggressiveness, he had not 
 friends, and very good friends. Many such 
 adhered to him up to the very end of his life, 
 testified strongly their regard for him, and 
 
MR HAYWABD AND HIS LETTERS. 297 
 
 continue still to lament his loss. The fact 
 is, that he had some very sterling qualities. 
 Though always a partisan, no partisan ever was 
 more honest : biassed he might be by prejudice, 
 but not by fear or by expectation of profit to 
 himself. He was very thorough in his friend- 
 ships. He was none of your lukewarm ad- 
 herents who wait to be called on — he did not 
 call that backing of his friends — but made their 
 quarrel for the time his own. His outspoken- 
 ness often took the form of serviceable candour, 
 which made it all the more satisfactory for 
 those to consult him who might know that his 
 prepossessions were already on their side ; for 
 they felt that while they had in him a staunch 
 advocate, yet, when he might differ from them, 
 they would be sure to hear of it, and his objec- 
 tion would be worth attention. And though 
 he was undoubtedly too pugnacious, yet the 
 courage which led him to strike the most re- 
 nowned shields with his sharp point was of 
 itself a title to confidence and applause. 
 
 It would be difficult to say to what political 
 party Mr Hayward might be most inclined by 
 nature. It has been indeed a silly Radical 
 taunt, that intolerance and arbitrary tendencies 
 are Tory traits ; but it has long been evident 
 that nobody is so intolerant as a Radical. 
 However this may be, Mr Hayward began 
 
298 MR HAYWARD AND HIS LETTERS. 
 
 life as a Tory at twenty-five, when he was a 
 member of the London Debating Society, and 
 gained distinction in it by speeches which we 
 are sure were clear and sharply put. As he 
 never was in Parliament, his political views 
 were of no great consequence till they under- 
 went a change with the great schism of the 
 Peelites. He had made a study of poHtical 
 economy, and, hke most who ventured into 
 that new country, became a free-trader. There- 
 fore when the Peelites, in 1852, stood aloof 
 from both the great parties, and when the 
 endeavour was made to bring them into a 
 Coahtion Government along with the Whigs 
 and the Radicals, Hayward threw himself into 
 the scheme with such ardour, that he became, 
 according to his own account, the principal 
 agent, after the leading statesmen, in effecting 
 the coalition. He set forth the views of the 
 Peelites in the ' Morning Chronicle,' and fought 
 their battles in all companies. Henceforth he 
 threw in his lot with the Liberals, and the 
 statesmen he sided with were the Duke of 
 Newcastle, Sir G. Lewis, Sidney Herbert, Sir 
 James Graham, Mr Cardwell, and Mr Glad- 
 stone — in fact, the Peehtes. Later, he followed 
 Mr Gladstone in the strides he made far in ad- 
 vance of the Liberal party ; and if he were now 
 ahve, he might possibly he following him still. 
 
MR HAYWARD AND HIS LETTERS. 299 
 
 No explanation is given in these letters of 
 why Hayward never tried to enter Parliament. 
 He would seem to have been the very man to 
 ardently covet a seat. He had the strongest 
 bent towards party politics. In the conten- 
 tions of factions he would have been in his 
 element ; and he might thus have replaced by 
 a new profession the one he had abandoned : 
 for when made a Queen's Counsel in 1845, he 
 got into a quarrel with the Benchers, and 
 entered upon a conflict with these enemies in a 
 fashion so very earnest, that his prospects of 
 practice as a Q.C. were accounted as nought 
 in the fury of battle, and were left to take 
 care of themselves ; so that, when his strife 
 with these antagonists had come to an end, his 
 legal career had come to an end also. 
 
 This piece of negotiation of 1852 was his first 
 essay in the business of cabinet-making. His 
 part in it is not made clear ; probably it con- 
 sisted in fitting the mortises and applying the 
 glue ; but whatever it was, he appears to have 
 performed it very much to his own satisfaction. 
 It is curious that his correspondence should 
 give us so little information on this and similar 
 subjects. There is no doubt that, while he was 
 engaged on the business, everybody whom he 
 chanced to converse with was made aware of 
 all that was happening at every stage of it. 
 
300 MR HAY WARD AND HIS LETTERS. 
 
 But in the less perishable record, he imparts to 
 his correspondents only the briefest notices of 
 that intrigue, his share in which gave him so 
 much delight, and the accomplishment of which 
 he looked back on with so much satisfaction. 
 The chief record of it is the notice of a dinner 
 which he gave to the leading Peelites, and 
 which, he says, " has done great good by con- 
 solidating the Peel party, as there was a 
 rumour that the leaders were divided." But 
 his exertions must have gone beyond this con- 
 ciliatory festival, for he tells a relation, " I 
 have no doubt at aU that if anjrthing that 
 suited me should turn up, they would offer 
 it to me, as I have been of great use to them 
 throughout." He was advised to apply for a 
 commissionership under the Charitable Trusts 
 Act, and used some efforts to get it. "I have 
 most reluctantly become a place-hunter," he 
 says ; " but the plain matter of fact is, that I 
 lost a considerable part of my smaU fortune 
 on my brother's death." He failed to get it — 
 why, we do not learn. Some years later Lord 
 Aberdeen offered him the secretaryship of the 
 Poor Law Board, expected to become vacant ; 
 but the vacancy did not occur, and Hayward 
 remained to the close of his life an unofficial 
 and unrewarded servant of the party he ad- 
 hered to, doing his best to secure victories 
 
MR HAYWARD AND HIS LETTERS. 301 
 
 which brought him nothing, and fighting be- 
 cause he rejoiced in the battle. 
 
 It is likely that one cause of Hay ward's devo- 
 tion to Mr Gladstone was the animosity which 
 he cherished towards Mr Gladstone's rival. The 
 provocations seem to have been mutual, and 
 which began them we know not. So early as 
 1850 we find Hay ward pronouncing " Disraeli 
 very nearly, if not quite, forgotten. How soon 
 one of these puffed-up reputations goes down ! 
 It is like a bladder after the pricking of a pin." 
 This prophecy is not, perhaps, much to his credit 
 as a soothsayer ; but he did more than prophesy. 
 He not only furnished materials for attacks on 
 Disraeli, but made one himself in the 'Edin- 
 burgh,' by which, he says exultingly, " the 
 Disraelites were frenzied with rage." On the 
 other hand, Mr Disraeli spoke of the raconteur 
 Hay ward as "in his anecdotage," and was sup- 
 posed to have made a very uncomfortable allu- 
 sion to him in a novel. On the whole. Hay- 
 ward probably did his antagonist the more 
 serious damage. When there was a prospect 
 of Liberal victory at the election of 1880, he 
 says : "I have been longing for the fall of the 
 Disraeli Government as I did for the fall of 
 the Second Empire " — and his longing impelled 
 him to endeavour to secure the support of the 
 ' Times ' for the new Ministry. After an inter- 
 
302 MR HAYWAED AND HIS LETTERS. 
 
 view with Mr Gladstone, Lord Hartiagton, and 
 Lord Granville, " I went off," he says, " in the 
 middle of the night to the ' Times ' office, where 
 I saw Chenery, the editor, an intimate friend 
 of mine ; and the first leading article in the 
 ' Times ' of to-day was the result." Whether 
 anybody could now take pride in having helped 
 to form that ruinous Administration is another 
 question. 
 
 Meanwhile Hayward's contributions to peri- 
 odical Hterature went on regularly. As we have 
 seen, he had written a great deal for the ' Edin- 
 burgh,' but that connection came to an end, and 
 apparently not a friendly end ; for, with refer- 
 ence to a pamphlet he had written, he says, " I 
 feel convinced they wUl lie and misquote in 
 the ' Edinburgh.' " But he now returned to the 
 ' Quarterly,' resuming a connection which had 
 begun in Lockhart's time, and thereafter regu- 
 larly had an article in every number till a few 
 months before his death. On each of these 
 occasions the process of incubation went on in 
 a very public fashion. The progress of the 
 article was communicated freely to his numer- 
 ous acquaintances till the final hatching had 
 little left to reveal, and it afforded a fruitful 
 theme for discussion, oraUy and by letter, as 
 soon as it was before the public — so that his 
 essays, besides the writing of them, contributed 
 
MR HAYWAED AND HIS LETTERS. 303 
 
 a great deal both to the interest and the busi- 
 ness of his Hfe. They were very highly esti- 
 mated by men of letters like Lord Lytton and 
 Lord Houghton, and certainly deserved it. He 
 spared no pains to be accurate. He would con- 
 sult any number of people to verify a single 
 fact, or to procure a result which would be 
 recorded in a few words. He had known so 
 many persons of authority in his long and 
 busy life, that he could at once command the 
 best sources of information on any contemporary 
 topic. What he most enjoyed, therefore, be- 
 cause he felt most at home in it, was to review 
 some new book of memoirs relating to the 
 literary or social or political history of the 
 time. His style was perfectly lucid, and of 
 its kind — that is, of a kind excluding aU play 
 of imagination or exercise of invention — ex- 
 cellent ; clear - cut, logical, forcible without 
 heaviness, and thickly set with the allusions, 
 quotations, and anecdotes, which his extensive 
 reading and large acquaintance with men had 
 stored his mind with, and which his accurate 
 memory could always place ready to his hand. 
 So assured did he feel of his own infallible 
 accuracy, that if any. circumstance were called 
 in question which he had at any time recorded, 
 he would cite the fact that he had done so as 
 a kind of evidence from which there could be 
 
304 MR HAYWARD AND HIS LETTERS. 
 
 no appeal. But the most curious identification 
 of himself with his writings was in the claim 
 which he always asserted to consider any anec- 
 dote he had once related as his own property, 
 which nobody thenceforward ought to meddle 
 with. The present writer having heard from 
 Richard Doyle a good story about Lord Nelson, 
 repeated it to Hayward. But few stories could 
 be told to him which he was not already ac- 
 quainted with ; and he had not only heard this 
 one, but had narrated it, which caused him in- 
 dignantly to ask, " What the devil does Doyle 
 mean by spoiling my story ? " On this occa- 
 sion, however, Doyle's version turned out to 
 be right. 
 
 It was not, however, contemporary subjects 
 alone which could engage his attention. He 
 once, on the appearance of the ' Memoirs of Sir 
 PhUip Francis,' took up the question as to who 
 was Junius, with the view of disproving Sir 
 Philip's claim. What was Junius to him, or 
 he to Junius ? Yet he threw himself into the 
 question with an ardour which might have 
 seemed excessive in a contemporary — pommelled 
 Sir Philip Francis to his heart's content — seemed 
 inclined to back Lord George SackvUle's preten- 
 sions ; but finally decided that the once formi- 
 dable letters were supplied by " the Grenvilles," 
 which, perhaps, does not help us much to a con- 
 
MR HAYWARD AND HIS LETTERS, 305 
 
 elusion; — a failure, however, that matters the 
 less, as few people now feel a lively interest in 
 identifying the truculent phantom. 
 
 Among other subjects, he once wrote a dis- 
 sertation on whist ; and being in the habit of 
 playing the game a good deal at the Athenaeum, 
 he used vigorously to propound its rules at the 
 whist -table for the benefit of transgressors — 
 so that, on very animated evenings, his rubber 
 might be called a severe lecture on whist, with 
 occasional illustrations from the cards ; and if 
 some fellow -player unhappily showed an im- 
 patient temper, the green cloth, " sacred to 
 neatness and repose," became an arena of re- 
 sounding conflict. What might have hap- 
 pened if he had ever played whist with Charles 
 Lamb's friend, Mrs Battle, is terrible to con- 
 template. 
 
 The titles of some of his other articles will 
 serve to indicate the tracks in which his pen 
 habitually ran. "Pearls and Mock Pearls of 
 History " gave his memory a wide range, so did 
 " Varieties of History and Art," " Curiosities of 
 German Archives," and " Vicissitudes of Fami- 
 lies." Ancient scandals were investigated with 
 great gusto, as in the papers, "Marie Antoinette," 
 and "The Countess of Albany and Alfieri." 
 Sometimes the subject bore a graver title, as 
 " Lanfrey's Napoleon," " The British Parliament, 
 
 u 
 
306 MR HAYWAKD AND HIS LETTERS. 
 
 its History and Eloquence," and " England and 
 France — their National Qualities, Manners, 
 Morals, and Society ; " but these, too, were 
 treated from their light sides, and the same 
 gay stream of agreeable gossip about them bore 
 on its tide great shoals of anecdotes. " Sir 
 Henry Holland's Becollections," "Madame de 
 S^vignd," "Madame du Deffand," suggest 
 papers in which he would be quite in his 
 element, passing with a light step through 
 scenes made picturesque and interesting by the 
 notable and historic figures which crowded 
 them. But of the whole list, the two in which 
 Hay-ward must have revelled most are " Hol- 
 land House " and " Strawberry Hill " ; com- 
 bining researches into corners of the history of 
 former generations with personal recollections 
 of famous guests who had frequented those 
 mansions along with him ; the whole illustrated 
 by a wealth of anecdote such as no one but 
 himself had amassed, and much of which, until 
 he recorded it, was drifting on the casual ciir- 
 rent of oral narrative towards oblivion. To 
 tell a good story about famous people for the 
 first time was probably as high a pleasure as he 
 could know. 
 
 Towards the end of his life his strong memory 
 perhaps began a little to fail him. In his 
 " Madame de S^vignd," published in the volume 
 
MR HAYWARD AND HIS LETTERS. 307 
 
 of 1880, he quotes the well-known passage about 
 Cleopatra thus — 
 
 " Age cannot weary her, nor custom tire 
 Her infinite variety," — 
 
 instead of "wither" and "stale." This was 
 pointed out to him as a supposed injury done 
 to him by the printer ; but he shook his head 
 and said he feared he, not the printer, was the 
 culprit. 
 
 Besides the seven volumes of his selected 
 Essays, he appears only to have published two 
 other works in volumes — the one his translation 
 of ' Faust,' his earliest publication ; the other 
 the biography of Goethe for " Blackwood's 
 Foreign Classics " — written when he was already 
 a very old man. 
 
 We have been induced to offer this sketch 
 of Mr Hayward because, as we have already 
 noted, he presented a very remarkable individ- 
 uahty, and one well worth preserving, which is 
 nowhere made apparent in these Letters. They 
 might have been written by a man fond of society, 
 of almost any profession or almost any persua- 
 sion. When he wrote his letters he put off his 
 shoes of swiftness and laid aside his sword of 
 sharpness, but put on his cloak of darkness, 
 and went masquerading in the, for him, fancy 
 costume of a quite cormnonplace character. In 
 
308 MR HAYWARD AND HIS LETTERS. 
 
 all companies he was irrepressible and conspic- 
 uous. Nobody who knew him could imagine 
 him as conceding, or conciliating, or deferring, 
 or implying concurrence which he did not feel, 
 or meeting dissent with silence, or ignoring ar- 
 rogant pretension, or resorting to any of the 
 amiable shifts which oil the machinery of social 
 life. He was nothing if not a gladiator. And 
 he led, under these somewhat adverse condi- 
 tions, a very pleasant life. That there was 
 plenty of matter to outweigh his defects is 
 apparent from the fact that most of his friends 
 went on habitually dining with him up to the 
 last with high mutual satisfaction. He alludes, 
 in the Letters, to the well-known table at the 
 Athenaeum, which he had got to consider his 
 own, as " the Corner," where his most frequent 
 companion was his old and intimate friend Mr 
 Kinglake, whom he esteemed probably more 
 than he esteemed anybody else. Here he en- 
 joyed, on most evenings when he was not 
 dining out — which he very often was — one of 
 the greatest pleasures he could desire, that of 
 being a conspicuous member of a party of dis- 
 tinguished men. To the old friends who gen- 
 erally assembled round him, he added, at every 
 opportunity, any eminent foreigner or stranger 
 admitted as a temporary guest by the rules of 
 the Club — and only such are admitted. To 
 
MB HAY WARD AND HIS LETTERS. 309 
 
 say the truth, he carried this appropriation of 
 desirable guests to an extreme; and many a 
 projected quiet converse between old friends, 
 just met after long separation, has been upset 
 by Hayward insisting on laying hands on the 
 illustrious stranger. Here he would air his 
 anecdotes, ventilate his projects, report the 
 progress of his literary work in hand, and 
 inveigh against his enemies, including in that 
 comprehensive class everybody who differed 
 from him. These scenes he continued to vary 
 by visits to some of the most agreeable houses 
 in England, and to most entertainments in 
 London where many great people were gathered 
 together. For this kind of Hfe he made his 
 income suffice ; and it is quite probable that an 
 accession of wealth would not have made him 
 happier. He had quite enough to preserve, 
 what he doubtless valued above most things, 
 his independence. 
 
 He was of a small, slight figure, stooping 
 a good deal — pale of complexion and high- 
 featured, large of nose and mouth. His hair, 
 white latterly, was smooth, and ended in rows 
 of small curls — insomuch that a lady to whom 
 we pointed him out across Bond Street, noting 
 this fleecy chevelure, observed that he was like 
 a pet lamb — an animal which he did not in 
 other respects resemble. He seemed to enjoy 
 
310 MR HAYWABD AND HIS LETTERS. 
 
 unfailing health up to his final illness, when, in 
 his eighty- third year, at the approach of winter, 
 he found that he could no longer take his seat 
 at the Club. He remained for many weeks in 
 his rooms, still able to enjoy the company of 
 the many fast friends who came to sit with 
 him, his chief consolation being in the company 
 of his tried associate Kinglake, who was un- 
 remitting in those visits which gave such com- 
 fort to the departing Hajrward. For the last 
 few days he took to his bed, having a nurse to 
 take care of him. Towards the close he wan- 
 dered a little, and at one time fancied the 
 Government wanted to talk with him about 
 difficulties in Egypt, and that he ought to go 
 to them. The nurse, experienced in such 
 matters, sought to soothe himi — "No, no, Mr 
 Hayward ; 'tis all right about Egypt ! " This 
 audacity of hers, first in contradicting him, 
 and then in presuming to know anything about 
 Egypt, recalled his wandering faculties. Look- 
 ing at the erring though well-meaning woman, 
 he said, " You hold your tongue ; you don't 
 know anything at all about it ! " — which char- 
 acteristic utterance was one of his very last. 
 
 Of the book itself we have said httle, for 
 there is httle to say. Many of the letters are 
 written by notable persons ; but the subject- 
 matter is duU, and often trivial. An unusual 
 
MR HAYWAED AND HIS LETTEES. 311 
 
 amount of it consists of what people don't want 
 to read, or of what they have read elsewhere. 
 To take an instance — there are many letters 
 about the Crimean war ; but what new light 
 do they throw on it? How can it interest 
 anybody to be told what each of several cor- 
 respondents thought of each of Mr Hayward's 
 articles ? or that the Duke of Newcastle was 
 anxious to get into the Athenaeum Club ? Yet 
 if all matter of this kind were taken out of the 
 book, what would be left ? 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.