The Project Gutenberg eBook of Blackwood's Edinburgh magazine, volume 456, no. 10, November 1853
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh magazine, volume 456, no. 10, November 1853
Author: Various
Release date: March 2, 2026 [eBook #78090]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78090
Credits: Carol Brown, Jon Ingram and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOLUME 456, NO. 10, NOVEMBER 1853 ***
BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCCLVI. OCTOBER, 1853. VOL. LXXIV.
CONTENTS.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN, 393
RIGHT DIVINE, 424
LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD.--PART X., 426
NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE.--NO. III., 451
RAIL AND SADDLE IN SPAIN, 475
THE WANDERER, 488
THACKERAY’S LECTURES--SWIFT, 494
NOTE TO THE ARTICLE ON THE NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE, 518
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET;
AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.
_To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed._
SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
=BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.=
No. CCCCLVI. OCTOBER, 1853. VOL. LXXIV.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.[1]
Let us imagine one of our critical successors of a century
hence--that is, in the month of October 1953--sitting musingly
before a copy of a work called UNCLE TOM’S CABIN, which a few days
previously he had taken down by chance from one of the least-used
shelves of his library. May one also amuse one’s imagination by a
picture of the possible state of things then existing on the other
side of the Atlantic, by the light of which our shadowy friend of
1953 has read the work which his substantial one of 1853 has just
laid down?
--The present United States of America, after having been, perhaps,
more than once split asunder and soldered together again--or the
whole, or a large portion voluntarily reannexed to the mother
country, and by and by again detached--after these and other,
possibly more or less sudden, violent, and bloody vicissitudes--have
become a great Empire, under the stern, but salutary, one-willed
sway of the Emperor of America: his majesty a jet black, who had
shown consummate and unexpected high qualities for acquiring and
retaining the fear and submission of millions of the stormiest
tempers of mankind; but his lovely empress a white. He has an
immense army devoted to his person and will, composed of men of
every complexion--from black, through copper-middle tints, down to
white; and correspondingly diversified are his banners, but black, of
course, the predominant: a quadroon being commander-in-chief. As for
his majesty’s civil service, he has a coal-black chancellor, equally
at home in the profoundest mysteries of white and black letter; a
mulatto minister of instruction, and a white secretary of state;
black and white clergy, and a similarly constituted bar--here a big
black face frowning out of a white wig, and there a little white
face, grinning out of a black wig, with black and white bands, and
gowns varied _ad libitum_. And the laws which they are concerned in
administering, accord with these harmonious diversities--it being,
for instance, enacted, under heavy penalties, that no black shall, by
gesture, speech, or otherwise, presume to ridicule a white because of
his colour, nor, _vice versâ_, shall a white affect to disparage a
black because of his complexion; that the emperor and empress shall
always be of different colours, and that the succession to the throne
shall alternate between black and white, or mulatto, members of the
imperial family. By this and other provisions have been secured a
complete fusion between North and South, between black and white,
glitteringly typified by intermingled gems in the imperial crown;
the central one being the identical black diamond that figured in
the famous Exhibition in Great Britain in 1851, and presented to the
emperor by one of the descendants of her Majesty Queen Victoria,
then on the British throne! “To this _complexion_” shall it be that
matters have “come at last?”
Or will our sturdy cousins of 1953 be still republican, a united
republic, but with offices, honours, rights, and privileges, equally
distributed, as in our fancied empire, among those of every shade of
colour? Or, after a fearful succession of struggles between black and
white, ... the ... is predominant; ... slavery, after a ... sang--
... or a noble spontaneous....[2]
From a preliminary dissertation prefixed to the book, our critic of
1953 learns that it excited, almost immediately on its appearance,
a prodigious sensation among all classes, both in Europe and
America; that both sexes, high and low, young and old, literate and
illiterate, vulgar and refined, phlegmatic and excitable, shed tears
over it, and wrote and talked about it everywhere; that, within a
few months’ time, impressions of it were multiplied by millions,
and in most languages of the civilised world. That its writer, an
American woman, immediately came over to England, and made her
appearance in public assemblies, called in honour of her; and she was
also “lionised” [a word explained, in a long note, as indicating a
custom prevalent in that day, among weak persons, of running after
any notorious person weak enough to appear pleased with it] among
the fashionables and philanthropists of the day, but preserved,
nevertheless, amidst it all, true modesty of demeanour, and silence
amidst extravagant eulogy. Inflamed with curiosity, our shadowy
successor sits down to peruse a work--then possibly little, if ever,
mentioned--anxious to see what could have produced such a marvellous
effect, in the middle of the intelligent nineteenth century, on
all classes of readers; and whether it produced permanent results,
or passed away as a nine days’ wonder. Having at length closed the
pages of _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, and judged it according to the critical
canons of 1953, will he deem it adequate to have produced such
effects? _What estimate will he form of our intellectual calibre?_
We cannot tell, and shall not attempt to conjecture. Dismissing,
therefore, but for a while only, the imaginary occupant of our
critical chair a century hence, let us say for ourselves, that
though our silence, and that of one or two quarterly contemporaries,
may have excited notice, both in America and this country, we have
been by no means indifferent spectators of the reception which this
singularly-successful book has met with; regarding it as one of
those sudden phenomena in literature, demanding, even, a deliberate
consideration of cause and effect. We apprehend no one will doubt
that, to excite such attention and emotion among all classes of
readers, in both hemispheres, as this work has excited, it must
possess _something_ remarkable; and what that is, it will be our
endeavour to determine. We ourselves never read this work till within
the last month, and then as a matter of mere critical curiosity,
uninfluenced by the past excitement of others, and the favourable
and unfavourable opinions which we heard expressed as to the merits
of the work. If we could have been biassed at all, it would have
been rather against, than in favour of, a writer who had been over
persuaded by her friends to come to this country, for the purpose of
making a sort of public appearance, at the moment that admiration
of her work was at fever height. Nothing could palliate such an
indiscretion on the part of this lady’s advisers, in the eyes of a
fastidious Englishman, but the belief that she was a simple-minded
enthusiastic crusader against American slavery, considering that
the totally unexpected celebrity of her work had afforded her an
opportunity of accelerating a European movement, in a holy cause,
by her personal presence. Criticism, however, ought not to be
influenced by petty disturbing forces like these, nor will ours.
We shall judge _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ by its own intrinsic merits or
demerits--occasionally looking for the light which she has thought
proper to reflect upon it from its companion volume, “THE KEY.”
_Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ is a remarkable book unquestionably; and, upon
the whole, we are not surprised at its prodigious success, even as a
mere literary performance; but whether, after all, it will have any
direct effect upon the dreadful INSTITUTION at which it is aimed, may
be regarded as problematical. Of one thing we are persuaded--that
its author, as she has displayed in this work undoubted genius, in
some respects of a higher order than any American predecessor or
contemporary, is also a woman of unaffected and profound piety, and
an ardent friend of the unhappy black. Every word in her pages issues
glistening and warm from the mint of woman’s love and sympathy,
refined and purified by Christianity. We never saw in any other
work, so many and such sudden irresistible appeals to the reader’s
heart--appeals which, moreover, only a wife and a mother could
make. One’s heart throbs, and one’s eyes are suffused with tears
without a moment’s notice, and without anything like effort or
preparation on the writer’s part. We are, on the contrary, soothed
in our spontaneous emotion by a conviction of the writer’s utter
artlessness; and when once a gifted woman has satisfied her most
captious reader that such is the case, she thenceforth leads him on,
with an air of loving and tender triumph, a willing captive to the
last. There are, indeed, scenes and touches in this book which no
living writer, that we know of, can surpass, and perhaps none even
equal.
No English man or woman, again, could have written it--no one, but
an actual spectator of the scenes described, or one whose life is
spent with those moving among them; scenes scarce appreciable by
FREE English readers--fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, brothers
and sisters. We can hardly _realise_ to ourselves human nature tried
so tremendously as, it seems, is only adumbrated in these pages. An
Englishman’s soul swells at the bare idea of such submission to the
tyrannous will of man over his fellow-man, as the reader of this
volume becomes grievously familiar with; and yet we are assured by
Mrs Stowe that she has given us only occasional glimpses of the
indescribable horrors of slavery. To this part of the subject,
however, we shall return. Let us speak first, and in only general
terms, of the literary characteristics of the author, as displayed in
her work.
Mrs Stowe is unquestionably a woman of GENIUS; and that is a word
which we always use charily: regarding genius as a thing _per
se_--different from talent, in its highest development, altogether,
and in kind. Quickness, shrewdness, energy, intensity, may, and
frequently do accompany, but do not constitute genius. Its divine
spark is the direct and special gift of God: we cannot completely
analyse it, though we may detect its presence, and the nature of many
of its attributes, by its action; and the skill of high criticism is
requisite, in order to distinguish between the feats of genius and
the operations of talent. Now, we imagine that no person of genius
can read _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, and not feel in glowing contact with
genius--generally gentle and tender, but capable of rising, with its
theme, into very high regions of dramatic power. This Mrs Stowe has
done several times in the work before us--exhibiting a passion, an
intensity, a subtle delicacy of perception, a melting tenderness,
which are as far out of the reach of mere talent, however well
trained and experienced, as the prismatic colours are out of the
reach of the born blind. But the genius of Mrs Stowe is of that kind
which instinctively addresses itself to the Affections; and though
most at home with the gentler, it can be yet fearlessly familiar
with the fiercest passions which can agitate and rend the human
breast. With the one she can exhibit an exquisite tenderness and
sympathy; watching the other, however, with stern but calm scrutiny,
and delineating both with a truth and simplicity, in the one case
touching, in the other really _terrible_.
“_Free_ men of the North, and Christians,” says she, in her own
vigorous and earnest way, “cannot know _what slavery is_.... From
this arose a desire,” on the author’s part, “to exhibit it in a
_living dramatic reality_. She has endeavoured to show it fairly in
its best and its worst phases. In its _best_ aspect, she has perhaps
been successful; but oh! who shall say what yet remains untold in
that _valley and shadow of death_ that lies on the other side?...
The writer has only given a faint shadow--a dim picture--of the
anguish and despair that are at this very moment riving thousands of
hearts, shattering thousands of families, and driving a helpless and
sensitive race to frenzy and despair.”
Without going further, the beautiful, accomplished, but ruined and
heart-broken slave Cassy--the bought, abhorring, and ultimately
discarded mistress of the miscreant Legree, and whose heart is
full of despair and murder towards him--affords many instances
of both kinds, the tender and the terrible. Her successor in the
_affections_! of the monster, is the lovely young slave Emmeline, of
but fifteen summers! and Cassy obtains a great ascendancy over her,
winning her love by the story of her own indignities and bereavements.
‘“What use will freedom be to me?” says Cassy, when they
are whispering together in their place of concealment,
where they lie like a couple of hunted hares, momentarily
hidden from the hounds--“Can it give me back my children,
or make me what I used to be?”
There was a terrible earnestness in her face and voice as
she spoke. Emmeline, in her childlike simplicity, was half
afraid of the dark words of Cassy. She looked perplexed,
but made no answer. She only took her hand with a gentle
caressing movement.
“_Don’t!_” said Cassy, trying to draw it away,--(observe,
she only _tries_!)--“_you’ll get me to loving you! and I
swore never to love anything again!_”
“Poor Cassy!... _I’ll_ be like a daughter to you!... I
shall love you whether you love me or not!”
The gentle childlike spirit conquered. Cassy sate down by
her, put her arm round her neck, stroked her soft brown
hair; and Emmeline then wondered at the beauty of her
magnificent eyes, now soft with tears. “O Emmeline!” said
Cassy, “I’ve hungered for my children, and thirsted for
them, and my eyes fail with longing for them! Here! here,”
she exclaimed, striking her breast, “it’s all desolate! all
empty!”’
Of the terrible we have a thrilling, indeed a sickening instance,
in Cassy’s frenzied determination to murder the fiend Legree, whose
brandy she has drugged for the purpose--but we anticipate.
Occasionally, also, Mrs Stowe displays a fine perception of external
nature--irradiating her inanimate scenes with the rich hues of
imagination. At these, however, she generally looks through a sort
of solemn religious medium. Here, for instance, is a startlingly
suggestive picture. It is poor Uncle Tom, sitting at midnight,
exhausted and heart-broken, during a moment’s respite from the
wasting and cruel inflictions of slavery, and reading his Bible by
moonlight.
‘... Tom sate alone by the smouldering fire, that flickered
up redly in his face.
The silver fair-browed moon rose in the purple sky, and
looked down, calm and silent, as God looks on the scene
of misery and oppression--looked calmly on the lone black
man, as he sate, with his arms folded, and his Bible on
his knee. “Is God here?” inquires he. ‘Ah,’ (proceeds the
author,) ‘how is it possible for the _untaught_ heart to
keep its faith unswerving, in the face of dire misrule,
and palpable unrebuked injustice? In that simple heart
waged a fierce conflict: the crushing sense of wrong,
the foreshadowing of a whole life of future misery, the
_wreck of all past hopes, mournfully tossing in the soul’s
sight, like dead corpses of wife, and child, and friend,
rising from the dark wave, and surging in the face of the
half-drowned mariner_? Ah, was it easy _here_ to believe
and hold fast the great password of Christian faith, that
_God_ IS, _and is the_ REWARDER _of them that diligently
seek him_?’
Here, again, is the lovely smile of early morning flung over the
monster Legree (poor Tom’s brutal master), as he wakes from a foul
debauch:--
‘Calmly the rosy hue of dawn was stealing into the room.
The morning star stood, with its solemn holy eye of light,
looking down on the man of sin, from out the brightening
sky. Oh, with what freshness, with what solemnity and
beauty, is each new day born! as if to say to insensate
man, “Behold! thou hast one more chance! _Strive_ for
immortal glory!” There is _no speech nor language_ where
this voice is not heard; but this bold bad man heard it
not. He awoke with an oath and a curse. What to him were
the gold and the purple, the daily miracle of morning? What
to him the sanctity of that star which the Son of God has
hallowed as his own emblem? Brute-like, _he saw without
perceiving_; and, stumbling forward, poured out a tumbler
of brandy, and drank half of it. “I’ve had a h--ll of a
night!” he said.’
’Twas somewhat different, that same morning, with his poor slave Tom,
waking bruised, wearied, and well-nigh spirit-broken.
‘The solemn light of dawn, the angelic glory of the
morning star, had looked in through the rude window of
the shed where Tom was lying; and, as if descending on
that star-beam, came the solemn words, _I am the root and
offspring of David, and the bright and morning star_....
Without shuddering or trembling, he heard the voice of his
persecutor as he drew near. “Well, my boy,” said Legree,
with a contemptuous kick, “how do you find yourself? Didn’t
I tell yer I could larn yer a thing or two? How do yer like
it, eh? How did yer whaling”--he had been fearfully flogged
over-night--“agree with yer, Tom? An’t quite so crank as
yer was last night? Ye couldn’t treat a poor sinner now to
a bit of a sermon, could yer, eh?”
Tom answered nothing.
“Get up, ye beast!” said Legree, kicking him again. This
was a difficult matter for one so bruised and faint; and,
as Tom made efforts to do so, Legree laughed.’
These passages, taken at random, are highly characteristic of the
author of _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, in more ways than one, as will by and
by be shown.
Up and down the book are to be found strewn, as it were, carelessly,
striking and grand reflections, evincing the deeply thoughtful
moralist, and profoundly convinced believer.
‘True--there was _another life_--a life which, once
believed in, _stands as a solemn significant figure before
the otherwise unmeaning ciphers of time, changing them to
orders of mysterious unknown value_.’
We have not met with this idea before; and it is very striking.
Again--
‘The gift to appreciate, and the sense to feel the finer
shades and relations of moral things, often seems an
attribute of those whose whole life shows a careless
disregard of them. Hence Moore, Byron, Goethe, often
speak words more wisely descriptive of the true religious
sentiment, than another man whose whole life is governed by
it. In such minds, disregard of religion is a more fearful
treason--a more deadly sin.’
Again--
‘Oh! how dares the bad soul to enter the shadowy world of
sleep!--that land whose dim outlines lie so fearfully near
to the mystic scene of retribution!...
Legree felt a secret dislike to Tom--the native antipathy
of good to bad. He saw plainly that when (as was often the
case) his violence and brutality fell on the helpless, Tom
took notice of it; for _so subtle is the atmosphere of
opinion, that it will make itself_ FELT _without words; and
the opinion, even of a slave, may annoy a master_....
What a sublime conception is that of a last judgment!... A
righting of all the wrongs of ages!--a solving of all moral
problems, by an unanswerable wisdom.’
One of these problems--perhaps the greatest at present insoluble by
man--torments poor Tom.
‘It was strange that the religious peace and trust which
had upborne him hitherto should give way to tossings of
soul and despondent darkness. The gloomiest problem of this
mysterious life was constantly before his eyes: _souls
crushed and ruined, evil triumphant, and God silent!_ It
was weeks and months that Tom wrestled, in his own soul, in
darkness and sorrow.’
Which of _us_ cannot here sympathise with the poor, bruised, and
bleeding black?
Yet once more.
‘Is not this truly _feeling after God, and finding him_?
And may we not hope that the yearning, troubled, helpless
heart of man, pressed by the insufferable anguish of this
short life, or wearied by its utter vanity, never extends
its ignorant pleading to God in vain? Is not the veil which
divides us from an almighty and most merciful Father, much
thinner than we, in the pride of our philosophy, are apt
to imagine? And is it not the most worthy conception of
Him, to suppose that the more utterly helpless and ignorant
the human being is that seeks His aid, the more tender and
condescending will be His communication with that soul?’
Character is often drawn by our author with delicate discrimination;
and, at the same time, she almost as often exhibits a poverty and
crudeness in dealing with such subjects, which would be surprising,
but that it is evidently referrible to haste and inattention. Her
mind, too, is so intent upon the great, noble, and holy purpose of
her book, that she often does not give herself time to develop or
mature her own happiest conceptions. The momentary exigencies of her
story require the introduction of an additional figure; on which,
having paused for a moment to call up the image of one before her
mind’s eye, she forthwith gives a few strokes, possibly intending,
at a future time, to complete and retouch them; but that future time
never comes, for she has got into new scenes, and moves on, crowded
with new characters and associations. In this respect her book may
be compared to the _studio_ of a great painter, where the visitor
sees some pictures in all the splendour of their completeness, and
others in various stages of incompleteness--some exhibiting the
master’s hand, and others that of a hasty and unskilled workman; all
which may, perhaps, be visibly accounted for by the painter’s being
absorbed by some masterpiece, itself, however, only approaching
completeness. We feel bound, nevertheless, to express our opinion
that an additional solution of the matter is to be found in her
probably limited range of observation of actual life, at all events
of such life as Europeans can appreciate. In delineating the
character of slaves and the “slave-trader, kidnapper, negro-catcher,
negro-whipper,” as she herself groups them, she handles her pencil
with the confident ease of a master. “The writer,” says she herself,
at the close of her work, “has lived for many years on the frontier
line of slave states, and has had great opportunities of observation
among those who formerly were slaves.” To her sadly-familiar eye
“there are some things about these slaves which cannot lie: those
deep lines of patient sorrow upon the face--that attitude of
crouching and humble subjection--that sad habitual expression of
hope deferred in the eye--would tell their story, if the slave never
spoke.” We shall, however, presently have ample opportunities of
showing Mrs Stowe’s profound appreciation of the negro character;
one of a far more composite construction than any but a philosopher
might suppose, and also of great interest to those who are
contemplating _the future of the negro race_, as a large, though many
may unhappily deem it an unsightly element, in ascertaining the fates
of the human family. “This is an age of the world, truly,” says our
author, “when nations are trembling and convulsed. A mighty influence
is abroad, surging and heaving the world as with an earthquake. And,”
she asks, “is America safe? Every nation that carries in its bosom
great and unredressed Injustice, has in it the elements of this great
convulsion.”
While the pathos of Mrs Stowe is deep and pure, her _humour and
satire_ are genuine and racy, but quiet. Gloomy as is the prevalent
tone of her work, her reader’s feelings are discreetly relieved
by many little touches of quaint dry drollery. Master Shelby, for
instance, is a sharp youth of thirteen, the eldest son of Uncle Tom’s
first and kind-hearted master; and he has taken it in hand to teach
Tom (old enough to be almost his grandfather) his letters. Chloe is
Uncle Tom’s wife, and the cook of Mr Shelby; and it seems that she
is a capital cook, to boot, as Master Shelby has found out. He often
visits Uncle Tom’s cabin, to teach old Tom his letters--and also
partake of certain good things which Aunt Chloe used to prepare for
her favourite; who displays no little art in inflaming her ambition
by faintly undervaluing the culinary skill of one of her rivals,
a cook at a neighbouring plantation. The whole scene is admirably
sketched, and forms one of the earliest in the work. Excited to the
utmost, she prepares a delicious supper for Master George, who, it
will be seen, does it full justice.
‘By this time Master George had arrived at that
pass to which even a boy can come (under uncommon
circumstances)--_i. e._, when he could not eat another
morsel; and, therefore, he was at leisure to notice _the
pile of woolly heads and glistening eyes which were
regarding their operations hungrily from the opposite
corner_. [Who does not see the turgid youngster?--But one
does not dislike him; for] “Here!--you, Mose! Peto!” [said
he, addressing the young sables--the children of Uncle Tom
and Aunt Chloe]--breaking off liberal bits, and throwing
them at them--“You want some, don’t you?”’
One Black Sam, a friendly fellow-slave of Uncle Tom’s, is
unconsciously caught in the attitude of deeply considering the
interests of _number One_, as soon as he hears of the departure of
poor Uncle Tom, who has been suddenly sold to another master, leaving
a vacancy in his somewhat confidential office, which _some one_ must
supply. “One touch of” _selfishness_ “makes the whole world kin”--and
here is how it strikes our black brother.
‘Never did fall of any prime minister at court occasion
wider surges of sensation than the report of Tom’s fate
among his compeers on the place. It was the topic in every
mouth, everywhere; and nothing was done in the house or in
the field, but to discuss its probable results.
Black Sam, as he was called, from his being about three
shades blacker than any other son of ebony on the place,
was revolving the matter profoundly in all its phases and
bearings, with a comprehensiveness of vision, and a strict
look-out to his own personal well-being, that would have
done credit (says good, sly Mrs Stowe) to any white patriot
at Washington.
“It’s an ill wind dat blows _nowhar_--dat ar a fact,”
said Sam, sententiously, giving an additional hoist to
his pantaloons, and adroitly substituting a long nail in
place of a missing suspender-button. “Yes, it’s an ill wind
blows nowhar,” he repeated. “Now, dar, _Tom’s_ down--wal,
’course der’s room for some nigger to be _up_; and why
not _dis_ nigger?--dat’s de idee! Tom, a-ridin’ round de
country--boots blacked--pass in his pocket--all grand as
Cuffee; who but he? Now, why shouldn’t Sam?--_dat’s_ what
_I_ want to know!”’
There are, however, many indications throughout the work of the
writer’s humorous powers being checked and restrained, either
purposely or unconsciously, as if from a severe sense of the purpose
with which she writes--as though before her mind’s eye was ever the
bleeding heart of the negro. We have an indistinct recollection of
more than one disposition, or rather juxta-position, of persons and
incidents most suggestive of _fun_: but they are suddenly discarded,
the reader breathlessly following the grave and ardent writer, over
whose pale countenance the smile had but furtively flickered for an
instant, like a glance of moonlight on a gloomy sea. Here is one
of the passages to which we allude. Mr St Clare and his heartless
lackadaisical wife are conversing about his newly-acquired slave,
Uncle Tom, for whom he feels no little regard; but she is speaking of
him in a disparaging, contemptuous tone.
‘“Tom isn’t a bad hand, now, at explaining Scripture, I’ll
dare swear,” said St Clare. “He has a natural genius for
religion. I wanted the horses out early this morning, and
stole up to Tom’s _cubiculum_[3] there, over the stables,
and there I heard him holding a meeting by himself; and, in
fact, I haven’t heard anything quite _so savoury_ as Tom’s
prayer this some time. He put in for me with a zeal that
was quite apostolic.”
“Perhaps he guessed you were listening! I’ve heard of
_that_ trick before!”
“If he did he wasn’t very polite; for _he gave the Lord his
opinion of me pretty freely_! Tom seemed to think there
was decidedly room for improvement in me, and seemed very
earnest that I should be converted.”
“I hope you’ll lay it to heart,” said Miss Ophelia, (who is
the pious, simple-minded, conscientious, elderly spinster,
and cousin of Mr St Clare.)’
How much of the pious disinterested character of the poor slave, the
heartless distrust of his mistress, the humorous, good-natured levity
of his master, and the earnest goodness of Ophelia, does this quiet
touch reveal to us!
On another occasion, Mrs St Clare, who has no more intellect or
feeling than her thimble, or thread paper, is conversing with her
lovely little daughter, Eva, who is pleading with her mamma on behalf
of the poor little negress, Topsy (of whom more anon), and meekly
suggesting the possibility of Topsy’s being human! and consequently
capable of improvement.
‘“Mamma, I think Topsy is different from what she used to
be; she’s _trying_ to be a good girl.”
“She’ll have to try a good while before _she_ gets to be
good,” said Mrs St Clare, with a careless laugh.
“Well, you know, mamma, poor Topsy! everything has always
been against her!”
“Not since she’s been _here_, I’m sure. If she hasn’t been
talked to”--(not by the silly speaker, let our readers
understand, but by good Miss Ophelia aforesaid, for whom
poor Topsy has been _bought!_ good-humouredly by Mr St
Clare, simply to try whether moral and religious training
can make anything of the little sooty gnome)[4]--“and
preached to, and every earthly thing done that anybody
_could_ do; and she’s just so ugly, and always will be, you
can’t make anything of the creature!”
“But, mamma, it’s so different to be brought up as I’ve
been, with so many friends--so many things to make me good
and happy; and to be brought up as she has been, all the
time, till she came here!”
“Most likely,” said Mrs St Clare, yawning. “Dear me! how
hot it is!”
“Mamma, you believe, don’t you, that Topsy could become an
angel, as well as any of us, if she were a Christian?”
“Topsy! what a ridiculous idea! Nobody but you would ever
think of it! I suppose she could, though!”
“But, mamma, isn’t God her father, as much as ours? Isn’t
Jesus her Saviour?”
“Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody.--Where’s
my smelling-bottle?”’
This is very masterly. It has a sort of rich stillness of satire,
and, at the same time, a truthfulness and suggestiveness which make
the reader first admire the writer’s acute perception of character
and power of felicitous dialogue, and then pause and ponder the
state of mind and feeling revealed--that of frivolous, ignorant,
indifferent _acquiescence_!
The above extract incidentally indicates another excellence of Mrs
Stowe. Her dialogue is almost always admirable; brief, lively,
pointed, and characteristic--that is, when she does not, so to speak,
crowd too much sail upon it, in her intense anxiety to be didactic
and hortatory on the great subject on which her eyes are ever fixed.
When she yields to the promptings of her own power over character and
expression, she exhibits high dramatic capabilities. She perceives
a fine _situation_ with the unerring intuition of genius, and
inspires her characters with fitting sentiments, conferring upon
them appropriate eloquence. Akin to this is the easy strength of
her narrative. She hurries her reader along with her, breathless.
The flight and pursuit of poor Eliza and her child--the incidents
selected to heighten the interest in their fate--the introduction of
Marks and Tom Loker, and their interview with Haley--their encounter
at the rocky pass with George and his wife and child, are, in parts,
worthy of the pencil of Sir Walter Scott: but, it must be added,
that that consummate master of his art would never have drawn up
suddenly in his exciting course, to interpolate drivelling allusions
to Austria and the Hungarians, Poland, Ireland, and England--or tame
and even irritating moralisings at the very crisis of the adventure,
as is but too often the case with Mrs Stowe. But this very fault,
and a serious one to a reader of fiction it is, must be referred to
a cause infinitely and eternally honourable to the author--her pure
and noble purpose in writing the book. With our eye fixed on that
purpose, we will forgive her five times as many faults of style and
arrangement as she is fairly chargeable with.
“In every work regard the writer’s _end_.”
And in the application of this obviously just critical canon, we
are disposed to look, in the present case, with peculiar benignity
on miscarriages as to _means_. One or two of them, however, we must
lightly indicate (for we are in our critical chair) in addition to
those at which we have already glanced.
We shall begin with a small matter. It is evident that the writings
of one English author at least of the present day have made a deep
impression on Mrs Stowe. This is Mr Dickens, with whom, indeed, she
has much in common; but he must not attribute it to mere gallantry,
if we express our opinion that there are parts of _Uncle Tom’s
Cabin_ which he never can surpass, which he never has surpassed.
She probes human nature every whit as tenderly and truly as he; her
sympathies are as keen and subtle, her spirit is as generous, as his;
her perception of the humorous as quick and vivid as his own. She
shows also his--so to speak--structural faults; which, in a general
way, we may indicate by saying, that condensation and directness
of course would greatly improve the compositions of both. A lively
reader hates to be detained on his way, in order to have traced out
for him the source and operation of the _motives_ by which characters
are actuated. He likes to be given credit for a capacity to do that
for himself. It occurs to us, that had Mr Dickens passed his life
among the same scenes as Mrs Stowe, making allowance for certain
special circumstances affecting the latter, he would have produced
a work very similar, in both its faults and excellencies, to _Uncle
Tom’s Cabin_. That she is a reader, and doubtless an admirer of his,
is abundantly evident; for she has closely copied his manner, and
that not in its most favourable manifestations, but rather the more
obvious mannerisms. Mr Dickens might have written this passage for
her.
‘_Carriage sticks fast_, while Cudjoe on the outside is
heard making a great muster among the horses. After various
ineffectual pullings and twitchings, just as Senator is
losing all patience, the carriage suddenly rights itself
with a bounce, two front wheels go down into another abyss,
and Senator, woman, and child, all tumble promiscuously on
to the front seat; Senator’s hat is jammed over his eyes
and nose quite unceremoniously, and he considers himself
fairly extinguished; child cries, and Cudjoe on the outside
delivers animated addresses to the horses, who are kicking,
and floundering, and straining under repeated cracks of the
whip. Carriage springs up with another bounce--down go the
hind wheels--Senator, woman, and child, fly over on to the
back seat, his elbows encountering her bonnet, and both
her feet being jammed into his hat, which flies off in the
concussion. After a few moments the “slough” is passed, and
the horses stop, panting; the Senator finds his hat, the
woman straightens her bonnet, and hushes her child, and
they brace themselves firmly for what is yet to come.’
Here again--
‘If any want to get up an inspiration, under this head,
“the beauty of old women,” we refer them to our good
friend Rachel Halliday, just as she sits there in her
little rocking chair. _It had a turn for quaking and
squeaking--that chair had--either from having taken cold in
early life, or from some asthmatic affection, or perhaps
from nervous derangement._ But as she gently swung backward
and forward, the chair kept up a kind of “creechy-crawchy”
that would have been intolerable in any other chair. But
old Simon Halliday often declared it was as good as any
music to him, and the children all avowed _that they
wouldn’t_ miss of hearing mother’s chair for anything in
the world.’
Another little mannerism acquired from the same quarter is the use,
in grave composition, of the colloquial, “can’t,” “won’t,” “didn’t,”
“couldn’t,” &c. &c. These are little bits of vulgar slip-slop which
are sad eyesores to readers of taste; and we cannot for the life of
us see what end is gained by introducing them into black and white,
except, perhaps, in fitting dialogue.
We have already intimated a considerable want of tact in Mrs Stowe,
in twitching aside, as it were, her reader, when in full course of
following her breathless, to listen to some very self-obvious and
commonplace moralising. Here is one most provoking instance. Poor
beautiful Eliza Harris, supported by almost supernatural energy, is
flying from misery and infamy--her little son close-clasped in her
arms--with but a little time to improve her precarious chances of
escape to Canada; knowing that her little one is _sold_, and that the
blood-hounds may almost then, even, be snuffing on her track! ’Tis
early--very early--in a frosty February morning; the sparkling stars
are looking down, as it were, out of the cold silent heavens with
pitying looks on the poor fugitive. She hastily hushes her child into
silence, as “with vague terror he clings round her neck.” He could
have walked;--but let good Mrs Stowe’s own fleet pencil tell of her
heroine’s feathery movements:--
‘Her boy was old enough to have walked by her side, and
in an indifferent case she would only have led him by the
hand; but now the bare thought of putting him out of her
arms made her shudder; and she strained him to her bosom
with a convulsive grasp as she went rapidly forward. The
frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trembled
at the sound; every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow
sent the blood backward to her heart, and quickened her
footsteps. She wondered within herself at the strength that
seemed to be come upon her--for she felt the weight of
her boy as if it had been a feather, and every flutter of
fear seemed to increase the supernatural power that bore
her on; while from her pale lips burst forth, in frequent
ejaculations, the prayer to a Friend above--“Lord, help!
Lord, save me!”’
While the reader--perhaps herself a palpitating mother, almost
blinded with her tears--is flying along with the dear fugitive and
her child, bah! she is arrested, to listen to twaddle--we must say
it--as follows:--
‘If it were _your_ Harry, mother, or _your_ Willy, that
were going to be torn from you by a brutal trader to-morrow
morning--if you had seen the man, and heard that the
papers were signed and delivered, and you had only from
twelve o’clock till morning to make good your escape--how
fast could _you_ walk? How many miles could you make in
those few brief hours, with the darling at your bosom--the
little sleepy head on your shoulder--the small soft arms
trustingly holding on to your neck?’
Forgive us, dear Mrs Stowe, if we gently reproach you for thus
marring your own beautiful narrative, and also giving English
mothers credit for being so obtuse and phlegmatic as to be unable to
realise all these thoughts and feelings as they are hasting along
with you!
And there are very many such instances of defective workmanship.
A considerable portion of these consists of preaching--always,
doubtless, perfectly orthodox and evangelical, but smacking too
strongly--will she forgive us?--of the _conventicle_ twang.
After all, however, Mrs Stowe must be tried by the canon already
cited--“regard the writer’s _end_;” and doubtless she knows that
portion of the American public for which she chiefly writes, and what
kind and amount of _hard-hitting_, so to speak, is necessary to make
an impression on sensibilities enclosed in rhinoceros hide. We do not
say that it is so; but we suppose that Mrs Stowe has classes of hard
people in view, and knew the rough force requisite to hit home.
All these, however, and other similar little matters which might
be mentioned, are mere motes in sunbeams, when regarded by the
eye of a just and generous criticism; which only regrets, every
now and then, that the gifted authoress had not had the advantage
of submitting her MS., or her printed sheets, to the eye of some
competent censor, capable of seizing the scope of her noble purpose,
and solicitous to remove every obstacle in the way of her attaining
it. But she evidently did not write for us in England--in Europe;
nor did this pious daughter of genius dream of the world-wide fame
which she was destined to acquire. She has assured us, in print,
that, “when writing _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_,” she was “entirely unaware
and unexpectant of the importance which would be attached to its
statements and opinions.” We implicitly believe her; and our heart
gives her its entire confidence, as to a simple-minded and gifted
Christian woman, writing out of the fulness of her heart, in order
to open before the eyes of free shuddering Christendom a hideous
and blood-smeared page of living humanity. She has repeatedly and
solemnly asseverated that she has taken the greatest possible pains
not to mis-state or exaggerate the case against slavery; that she
speaks from long personal observation; and, in short, “that this
work, more than any other work of fiction that ever was written,
has been a collection and arrangement of real incidents, of actions
really performed, of words and expressions really uttered, grouped
together with reference to a general result, in the same manner
that the mosaic artist groups his fragments of various stones into
one general picture. His is a mosaic of gems--this is a mosaic of
facts.... The book had a purpose entirely transcending artistic
purpose, and accordingly encounters, at the hands of the public,
demands not usually made on fictitious works. It is treated as a
reality--sifted, tried, and tested as a reality; and, therefore, as a
reality it may be proper that it should be defended.... It is a very
inadequate representation of slavery, and necessarily so, for this
reason--that slavery, in some of its workings, is too dreadful for
the purpose of art. A work which should represent it strictly as it
is, would be a work which could not be read.” “The writer,” she adds,
in the preface to her _Key_, “has aimed, as far as was possible,
to say what is true.... She has used the most honest and earnest
endeavours to learn the truth.” ... “And the book is commended to the
candid attention and earnest prayers of all Christians throughout
the world.” These are grave statements, especially when falling from
the pen of one who had already secured a world-wide hearing; and by
the light of such statements _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ ought to be read,
unless Mrs Stowe’s means of knowledge, or her truthfulness, can be
seriously impeached. Looked at in this light, the writer is regarded
as actuated by a magnificent spirit: one which cannot stoop to regard
petty carping and cavilling, and need concern itself with nothing
but grave and temperate objections based upon facts. It will not do
for her American critics to aver, that, “without being actuated by
wrong motives in the preparation of this work, she has done a wrong
which no ignorance can excuse, and no penance can expiate”[5]--unless
such an allegation can be sustained by unequivocal evidence of
exaggeration, misrepresentation, and falsehood. All we shall say at
present is, that if Mrs Stowe is to be believed by her reader, he
will lay down her book, on having deliberately read it, with feelings
and thoughts too painful and deep for utterance, and which _ought_ to
lead to action.
The title of Mrs Stowe’s book--“_Uncle Tom’s Cabin_”--is far from
commensurate with the scope of the fiction, or rather series of
“pictures,” of which it consists. The cabin is not the scene of any
events of importance to the story. It is not impossible that her
intention originally was to confine her pencil to the delineation of
Tom, his residence, family, relations, and the incidents which befell
item _personally_ through the operation of slavery. Uncle Tom and
his fortunes might have constituted a work by itself, and those of
George and Eliza Harris, a second. The former might have been called
_Uncle Tom_, and the latter _George and Eliza_; or _The Cabin_,
and _The Flight_; for there are two classes of adventures quite
separate from each other--the experiences of the submissive, and the
adventures of the recalcitrant, slave. It is true that the authoress
seeks to link them together, at starting, by making Uncle Tom and
Eliza Harris fellow-slaves of the same master and mistress, and Uncle
Tom and Eliza’s child, Harry, the subjects of a joint sale to the
slave-trader; but beyond this slight connection there is none other.
Eliza, with her sold child, pays only one hasty affrighted midnight
visit to the cabin of Uncle Tom; but her husband is never shown near
it. At the very end of the story, however, Mrs Stowe seems to have
had suggested to her the propriety of coupling the fates of her
characters together in some way or other--so that, in a manner which
may provoke the smile of a veteran novelist, she contrives to make a
female slave, Cassy, whom Tom encounters at the close of his career,
prove to be the mother of Eliza Harris; and a lady passenger, who
happens, by the merest accident on earth, to be in the steamboat in
which the aforesaid slave is escaping, turns out to be the sister of
George Harris! Rather a fortunate coincidence this, it must be owned.
Thus it is, that, under the title “_Uncle Tom’s Cabin--a Picture of
Slave Life in America_,” there are two distinct threads of story,
only nominally and arbitrarily connected together; while on each
is strung a series of interesting, affecting, and even horrifying
incidents, developing character, and the working of institutions upon
it.
Let us now give some account of the style in which she has executed
her work.
The tale opens with a very skilfully contrived scene, the object
being to arrest attention, without plunging into horrors which might
at first shock a reader, and render him incredulous; and yet it is
very startling to a European not familiar with slavery. It is a
_tête-à-tête_ between a respectable Kentuckian planter, involved
by over-speculation, and the slave-dealer Haley, an impudent,
swaggering, hard-hearted, gaudily-dressed brute, who bargains over
his brandy-and-water for flesh and blood, just as he would do in
respect of a bale of cotton. Mrs Stowe opens the wretch’s character,
as it were an oyster, with a firm and practised hand. It is quickly
seen that the subject of chaffering is the sale of poor Tom, with
whom Mr Shelby is reluctantly compelled to part, as some of his
heaviest “paper” had found its way into the hands of Mr Haley. In
this introductory dialogue we meet with new and fearful phraseology,
as applied to human beings. Mrs Stowe, with much tact, contrives,
by a word or two, to excite the reader’s interest in Tom long
before he comes on the scene. In enumerating his good qualities,
Mr Shelby speaks of poor Tom’s religious character as a guarantee
of his fidelity. This is how it strikes the slave-dealer. “Some
folks don’t believe there’s pious niggers, Shelby; but I _do_. I
had a feller, now, in this yer last lot I took to Orleans--’twas
as good as a meetin’ now, really, to hear that critter pray!...
He fetched me a good sum, too; for I bought him cheap of a man
that was ’bliged to sell out” (a tasteful allusion to the exact
quandary of his companion!) “so I realised six hundred on him.
Yes.--I consider religion a valeyable thing in a nigger, when it’s
the genuine article, and no mistake!” By and by, in bursts little
Harry, romping about the room, trotted out by Mr Shelby, to amuse
his hateful companion by his quaint antics; who had first asked, as
the child entered--while the two gentlemen! were haggling about the
price of Tom--“Well; haven’t you a boy or a gal that you could throw
in with Tom?”... After a while, Mr Haley adds--“I’ve got a friend
that’s going into this yer branch of the business--and wants to buy
up handsome boys to raise for the market--fancy articles entirely!”
Mr Shelby having hinted his reluctance to separate the child from
his beautiful mother, who had just withdrawn him from the room,
Mr Haley favours his companion with the result of his experiences
in such matters; deprecating doing anything rashly (“though these
critters arn’t like white folks, you know”), lest--lest--it should
injure the mother’s health, and lower _her_ price in the market!
And he mentions a grievous blunder made by a friend of his, who too
suddenly sold away a mother’s baby, on which she “jist went ravin’
mad, and died in a week--_clear waste, sir, of a thousand dollars_,
jist for want of management--there’s where’t is. It’s always best
to do the humane thing, sir; that’s been _my_ experience.” (By this
time, our gentleman reader is disposed to fling friend Haley through
the window; and our lady reader--but, oh! as for her, we have much
more serious matter in store). Mr Shelby, it is intimated, was
desirous to help Mr Haley down stairs with a kick, but he was Mr
Shelby’s _creditor_! On the former’s return, his debtor’s scruples
have been overcome; and poor good old Tom, and little Harry, have
become the property of Mr Haley, who is to take them away the next
morning! The whole of this introductory scene is highly creditable
to Mrs Stowe’s powers: it is graphic and dramatic, character and
incident being hit off with a quiet strength, auguring well for
the rest of her performance. She has not overdrawn Haley. She has
given us quite enough to startle and disgust us with--the _system_,
more than the individual, and has at the same time relieved the
reader’s mind by a just perceptible strain of drollery and piquant
satire. But how distinctly you see, all the while, the dismayed and
ungratefully-treated patriarch, old Tom, and the beautiful mother,
with bleeding heart soon to come before us--the one, his big heart
heaving with grief and astonishment; the mother’s, bleeding and
broken! The first few chapters of this work will satisfy the most
fastidious reader that he is sitting down before the production of
a great artist. The scene enacting in Uncle Tom’s cabin, during
the time that his master is selling him to Haley, and consigning
him to those of unknown suffering and death, is first-rate, and
peculiarly racy to European readers; who, though strangers to such
scenes, _feel_ that _this_ must be painted to the very life. From
the first to the end of the eighth chapter, including also the
tenth, we are conducted, indeed, “from gay to grave, from lively to
severe;” the lights and shadows of negro life are brought before
us with equal vividness and distinctness, by scenes most happily
contrived, without a tinge of exaggeration, or a disfiguring touch
of coarseness. Mr and Mrs Shelby are just what they ought to be,
without any marked characteristics; the reader’s attention being thus
fixed undisturbedly on the new figures of Haley, Uncle Tom and Aunt
Chloe, George and Eliza Harris, Marks, and Tom Loker, as well as
the skittish, frolicsome, mischievous, and selfish negro servants.
The story, too, is advancing; Tom is on his journey, manacled and
fettered, in the slave-waggon with Haley, whose pursuit after Eliza
and her child has been hitherto in vain, in spite of his grim
auxiliaries; and George also has started safe on the desperate race
for freedom: the little we have seen of him induces us heartily to
say--God speed you! brave soul, you are worthy of the prize--may you
win it!
The ninth chapter introduces us to quite a different scene--Senator
Bird, and his bustling little soft-hearted wife, who became the host
and hostess of fugitive Eliza--the pallid, the breathless--with
tottering knees and bleeding feet--who has been led by the
Kentuckian, who had helped her up the bank of the river, to the
house of the senator and his wife, just as they are discussing--the
abolition question. They, their children, and their quiet home-scene,
are beautifully sketched--as are the means by which Eliza and her
child are conducted to a place of temporary succour and safety.
The eleventh chapter introduces us to a different time and
locality--an evening in a remote Kentucky hotel. The wild Kentuckian
guests squat about and straddle their legs, and chew, and spit,
before us. What a gathering of _hats_ of all shapes and sizes--“quite
a Shakspearian study!”--is before us! We see them all, and can
conjecture the stranger aspect of those who wear them! It is here
that our disguised friend George turns up, in the way we have
mentioned. ’Tis here that he says, with erect form and flashing eye,
to his former kind master, Mr Wilson, “I’ve said _Mas’r_ for the last
time to any man! I’m free!”
“Take care. You may be taken,” replies good Mr Wilson, apprehensively.
“All men are free and equal _in the grave_, if it comes to that, Mr
Wilson,” says lion-hearted George, who is armed to the teeth....
“Good-by, sir; if you hear that I’m taken, you may know that I’m
dead!” He stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with the air of
a prince. Well done, Mrs Stowe! And how tenderly she presently smites
the rock of his resolution, till the pent-up waters of a husband and
a father gush forth! So do those of Mr Wilson, as he accepts poor
George’s little commission, to give to his wife the pin which she had
formerly given to him as a Christmas present, and beseech her to get
to Canada if ever she have the means, “and,” he adds, “tell her to
bring up our boy A FREE MAN!”
Chapter XII. gives us a hateful glimpse of an auction sale of slaves;
after which we accompany friend Haley, with poor Tom and some other
human cattle, in _La Belle Rivière_, a boat on the Ohio, “floating
gaily down the stream,” stuffed full of slaves, “under a brilliant
sky, _the stripes and stars of free America waving and fluttering
overhead_!” Who can read without a shudder of the young mother,
whose infant has been deceitfully sold from her--who is suddenly
told of her bereavement: “she did not scream, the shot had passed
too straight and direct through her heart for cry or tear. Dizzily
she sate down. Her slack hands fell lifeless by her side. Her eyes
looked straight forward, but she saw nothing. All the noise and the
hum of the boat, the groaning of the machinery, mingled dreamily to
the bewildered ear; and the poor dumb-stricken heart had neither
cry nor tear to show for its utter misery. She was quite calm.” In
vain, during the bright starlight solitude and silence, had poor Tom,
forgetting his own griefs--his forlorn wife and children--crawled for
a moment to her side, and tried to whisper a word of comfort from the
New Testament. Her heart was palsied; and some time afterwards the
good old slave was startled from his doze. “Something black passed
by him quickly, ... he heard a splash in the water.... No one else
had seen or heard anything. He got up and searched--the woman’s
place was vacant--the poor bleeding heart was still at last, and the
river rippled and dimpled just as brightly as if it had not closed
above that heart!”--“Where alive is that gal?” said her new master,
perplexedly, in the morning, searching every corner of the boat in
vain; and then trying to make up his mind to the loss of so many
dollars’ worth, with what philosophy he might.
Chapter XIII. finds Eliza and her husband in the Quaker settlement,
all prim, precise, kindly, thoughtful, and resolute about securing
the safety of the fugitives. “Thou’rt safe here by daylight,” said
his hospitable host Simeon, “for every one in the settlement is a
Friend, and all are watching. Moreover, it is safer to travel by
night.” Thus ends the chapter. The next three, XIV., XV., XVI.,
in continuation with chapters XVIII., XIX., XX., XXII., XXIII.,
XXIV., XXV., XXVI., XXVII., XXVIII., XXIX., (that is, fourteen, or
upwards of a third of the entire work) find us in widely distant
and different scenes,--travelling up the magnificent Mississippi,
and finally housed at New Orleans, and moving among a new set of
characters: Tom having, on the voyage, changed hands, and become the
property of Mr St Clare, grateful for his having saved the life of
his daughter Eva--for she falls over boat side into the water, and
Tom plunges in after her. This is a somewhat startling incident, and
it was not quite necessary to peril the fragile little creature’s
life, in order to supply her father with an inducement to buy Tom.
Story-tellers should never use greater machinery to bring about their
ends than is adequate. The doing so generally argues a deficiency
of power or invention. In the present instance the gentle reader’s
feelings are shocked, and needlessly; for as little Evangeline St
Clare was the only and idolised child of her father, who was onboard,
and wanted a coachman--having dismissed his own for drunkenness--what
more natural than for Tom, having gained, as in a very pretty and
natural way he had done, the affection of little Eva on the voyage,
to occur to her, and to her father, as a good successor to his
discarded Jehu? A silvery word or two from Eva’s sweet little lips
would have sufficed, and Tom, in the quietest way in the world, would
have become the sable chattel of Mr St Clare. Observe, the very idea
had occurred to Eva before her sudden and superfluous immersion, and
she herself had told him of her intention.
‘... “So, Uncle Tom, where are you going?”
“I don’t know, Miss Eva.”
“Don’t know,” quoth she, concernedly.
“No, I am going to be sold to somebody. I don’t know who.”
“My papa can buy you,” said Eva quickly, “and if he buys
you, you will have good times. I mean to ask him to[6] this
very day.”
“Thank you, my little lady,” said Tom.’
Five minutes afterwards Mrs Stowe has heart enough to let the
benevolent little creature go overboard, simply to be rescued by Tom!
Nor is the incident told forcibly; and it elicits no unusual trait
of character in anybody. Having thus introduced Tom to new places and
persons, let us give a general account of this elaborate episodical
portion of Mrs Stowe’s undertaking.
The figures in the foreground of this large picture are--Mr and Mrs
St Clare, his cousin Miss Ophelia, his daughter Eva (or Evangeline),
Topsy, and Uncle Tom. Those in the background are Mr St Clare’s
brother, his youthful son Henrique, and a confused heap of domestic
slaves--all as happy as happy can be, under the protection of their
wealthy, indolent, good-natured proprietor, Mr St Clare; but there
is also, almost hid in the dark shadow, _one Prue_! As for Tom, the
lines have fallen to him in exceedingly _pleasant places_; he leads
a life of only nominal servitude--the huge pet of pretty little
Eva, and consequently a favourite of her father. Here Mrs Stowe has
evidently expended much greater pains than on any other portion of
her work; but we doubt greatly whether she will be satisfied with
our judgment on the subject. Speaking as English critics, we are of
opinion that Topsy is worth all the others, ten times over; then
comes Mrs St Clare; then the cook, ladies’-maids, and the valet
Adolph; then Miss Ophelia, then Eva, and then Mr St Clare. The others
have nothing distinctive about them, and seem introduced simply
to “draw out” the characters and opinions of Mr St Clare and his
daughter Eva.
Augustine St Clare and his brother Alfred are of Canadian
descent--the sons of a wealthy Louisianian planter; their mother
having been a lovely and pious Huguenot French lady, whose family had
been early emigrants to Louisiana; and these two had been her only
children. It is with Augustine[7] that we are at present concerned;
and he having been crossed in love, through the cunning cupidity of
the young lady’s guardians--in disgust, and to show his indifference
towards one whom he erroneously supposed to have jilted him, married
the wealthy reigning belle of the season--“a fine figure, a pair of
bright dark eyes, and--a hundred thousand dollars.” Her husband was
of a “sensitive temperament”--“gay, easy, unpunctual, unpractical,
_sceptical_.” Indeed, he himself declares, as to this last, “religion
is a remarkably scarce article at our house.” Almost immediately
after his marriage, he received a letter from the lady to whom he had
been “so passionately--romantically” attached, explaining the true
state of matters. She was yet unmarried, and wrote fervently to him,
supposing him also unmarried!
“Thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life for Augustine St
Clare,” whose wife was the mere incarnation of silliness, vanity,
selfishness, and tyranny, as far as she dared to show this last.
Her husband treated her, from first to last, with undisguised
but laughing contempt; but it may be doubtful whether she really
appreciated the extent to which he civilly despised her.
‘“Mr St Clare, I wish you wouldn’t whistle,” said Marie;
“it makes my head worse.”
“I won’t,” replied St Clare. “Is there anything else you
would wish me not to do?”
“I wish you _would_ have some kind of sympathy for my
trials; you never have any feeling for me!”
“My dear accusing angel!” said St Clare.
“It’s provoking to be talked to in that way!”
“Then, how _will_ you be talked to? I’ll talk to order--any
way you’ll mention, only to give satisfaction.”...
“St Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to
my ill health,” said Marie, with the voice of a suffering
martyr. “I only hope the day won’t come when he’ll remember
it!” she added, and put her handkerchief to her eyes. Of
course, there was a rather foolish silence.’
Happy couple! But we think we have such in our own island home! Mrs
St Clare was “beautiful, accomplished, and an heiress--having no
doubt that Augustine was a most fortunate man in having obtained
her.” “It is a great mistake,” justly observes Mrs Stowe, “to suppose
that a woman with no heart will be an easy creditor in the exchange
of affection. There is not on earth a more merciless exactor of love
from others than a thoroughly selfish woman; and the more unlovely
she grows, the more jealously and scrupulously she exacts love to
the uttermost farthing.” At length she brings her husband a solitary
child--Evangeline--whom he names after his gifted, beloved, and
sainted mother. From the time of Eva’s birth, her mother’s health
“gradually sunk. A life of constant inaction, bodily and mental--the
friction of ceaseless ennui and discontent, united to the ordinary
weakness which attended the period of maternity, in the course of
a few years changed the blooming young belle into a yellow, faded,
sickly woman, whose time was divided among a variety of fanciful
diseases, and who considered herself in every sense the most ill-used
and suffering person in existence.”
Such a woman as this, being worse than a mere cipher in his
establishment, and Eva’s health requiring change of air, he had
taken her to Vermont for a season; bringing back with him his
cousin Ophelia--a spinster of forty-five; a model of propriety,
exactitude, and a sort of hard conscientiousness. She was the
absolute bond-slave of the “_ought_.” Her standard of right was so
high, so all-embracing, so minute, and making so few concessions to
human frailty, that, though she strove with heroic ardour to reach
it, she never actually did so, and of course was burdened with a
constant and often harassing sense of deficiency. This gave a severe
and somewhat gloomy cast to her religious character.
The contrast between this starched, prim, yet worthy beau-ideal
of Duty and “gay, easy, unpunctual, unpractical” St Clare is well
conceived, and nearly as well carried out before the reader,
who gradually conceives a kind of respect for her, which seems
continually on the point of warming into regard; but the predominant
idea in his mind is, that Miss Ophelia would make an excellent
housekeeper in--somebody else’s establishment: for himself,
she would--he fears--be too good, and, too hard--and--“tall,
square-formed, and angular.” What a treasure, however, thinks he, for
a widowed cousin--three hundred miles off, with eight or ten wild
boys and girls to break in! Mrs Stowe tells us, that Miss Ophelia
is “the representative of a very numerous class of the very best of
northern people, of activity, zeal, unflinching conscientiousness,
clear _intellectual_ discrimination between truth and error, and
great logical and doctrinal correctness;[8] but with a want of
that SPIRIT OF LOVE, without which, in the eye of Christ, the most
perfect character is as deficient as a wax flower, wanting in life
and perfume.... Yet that blessed principle is not dead, but only
sleepeth, and always answers to the touch of the true magnet--divine
love.” She, however, “_unconsciously_ represents one _great_ sin--the
prejudice of caste, and colour.” Even in the New England States,
where slavery has been abolished by law, this prejudice flourishes
in full and fell vigour, despite, even, the melting sunbeams of
Christianity! Those who will nobly stint themselves of luxuries,
and almost necessaries, to send the gospel to the _distant_ dark
heathens--at home, loathe the sight and contiguity of their black
brother, and exhibit it even in the house of God. “Supposing,” Mrs
Stowe says, solemnly and finely, “our Lord was now on earth as he was
once, what course is it probable that he would pursue with regard
to this unchristian prejudice of colour? There was a class of men
in those days, as much despised by the Jews as the negroes are by
us; and it was a complaint made of Christ that he was a friend of
publicans and sinners. And if Christ should enter, on some communion
season, into a place of worship, and see the coloured man sitting
afar off by himself, would it not be just in His spirit to go there
and sit with him, rather than to take the seats of his richer and
more prosperous brethren?”
The character of Miss Ophelia is most happily developed, by means,
principally, of Topsy--the Gem of the book, of whom more anon; and
that character is, as will be seen, _proper_ to the moral climate of
New England; whereas, according to Mrs Stowe herself, “Mrs St Clare
is the type of a class of women not peculiar to any latitude, nor any
condition in society ... she may be found in England, or America.”
The same, indeed, is to be said of “Alfred and Augustine St Clare,
who represent,” she says, “two classes of men which are to be found
in all countries, the radically aristocratic and democratic men.” In
defining _her_ “aristocrat” and “democrat,” it must be borne in mind
that she is speaking of American exhibitions of those characters,
and as connected with the relation of slaveholders. On this subject
we might make many observations; but content ourselves with saying,
that, in the main, we concur with Mrs Stowe’s views, as expounded by
herself, with reference to the perilousness of intrusting man with
practically irresponsible authority over his fellow-man. That state
of society is essentially vicious, and foully rotten before the eyes
of our Almighty Maker, _who hath made of one blood all nations of men
for to dwell on all the face of the earth_, which does not make THE
LAWS the indifferent and easily accessible protector, vindicator, and
avenger of every human being living in that state.
The two brothers discuss frequently, and with considerable force,
the question of slavery, as to its consistency or inconsistency with
an enlightened and civilised system of laws, and the spirit and
precepts of Christianity.
Why Mrs Stowe should have thought it necessary to represent her
favourite St Clare as a _sceptic_ on religious subjects, is not quite
clear; unless, indeed, she intends to intimate that it is a dark
and grievous characteristic of the whole class which he represents.
Perhaps it may be, unfortunately, so; and, indeed, she seems, with
bitter sarcasm, to hint that one thing which tends to produce this
result is, the cool accommodation of the principles and precepts
of the Gospel to the existing order of things in the slave states,
in even their vilest aspects. Upon the whole, however, Mrs Stowe
succeeds in satisfying the reader that her gentleman hero is a manly
fellow, with all his faults. His love of his little daughter, his
grief as he perceives her withering away before his eyes under the
blight of consumption, his anguish and despair when she is taken from
him, are all told touchingly--very touchingly, with true pathos. So
also the fondness with which he cherishes the memory of his mother.
He forms the resolution to give poor Tom his freedom; but as it is
necessary, for the exigencies of the story, to get poor Tom into
worse hands, there is no other way occurs to the author than to make
Mr St Clare die abruptly; and the most suitable mode of bringing
about that result is, when his moral being has been soothed and
solemnised by a religious conversation with his cousin Ophelia, in
which he says he “does not know what makes him think so much of
his mother that night.” He “has a strange kind of feeling as if
she were near him ...;” he by and by says, “I believe I’ll go down
street and hear the news to-night.” He gets into a café; and while
reading the paper, an affray arises between two partially intoxicated
_gentlemen_; he “attempts to wrest a bowie knife from one of them,
who gives him a fatal stab with it in the side.” He is brought home
on a shutter, wrapped in a cloak, to the consternation of all in the
house, and dies the same evening, having first said to Tom, “pray!”
He dies, “opening his eyes with a sudden light, as of joy and
recognition, and saying ‘mother’--and then he was gone.”
Eva is evidently a favourite creation of the author’s, and she
is undoubtedly a gentle and sweet little spirit, suggesting the
tenderest thoughts of love and pity; but a mere worldly reader is apt
to think, with a little impatience, that she is so very good; she
talks so much beyond her years;[9] and _challenges_ our admiration,
with the confidence of a _pattern_ child. No one can find fault with
anything she says or does; but unfortunately, you see that the writer
from the first intended her to be a little piece of perfection.
Frail and sensitive human nature is a little irritated by this, and
suspects something factitious. It says, peevishly, “I know many good
and charming children, but here’s an angel in flesh!” When, however,
our excellent and pious author herself tells us, that “the gentle
Eva is an impersonation, in childish form, of the love of Christ--”
worldly criticism utters not another word, but reverences the
writer’s motives. Here is little Eva’s death--
‘St Clare saw a spasm of mortal agony pass over the
face.... “Eva!” said he, presently, gently. She did not
hear. “Oh, Eva, tell us what you see! What is it?” A
bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and she
said, brokenly,--“Oh, love--joy--peace!” gave one sigh, and
passed from death to life.’
It might have been grander, perhaps, if her _voiceless_ response, had
been that “glorious smile,” reflecting the ineffable happiness--the
suddenly seen glory of heaven. Are not these words, again, more
likely to have fallen from an adult, than a mere child?--Let the
spectator’s eye now be turned heavily towards the darkest portion
of the background--and there is crouching a grisly figure--old
Prue--“cross old Prue”--as even sweet Eva styled her! This creature
is introduced and disposed of by the author, with a certain dreadful
power; she is seen for but a short space--but in that short space,
what a tale of horror does she tell!
Prue was a tall, bony, coloured woman, with a scowling expression of
countenance, and a sullen, grumbling voice. Her office was, to carry
on her head a basket of rusks and hot rolls to Mr St Clare’s house.
‘She set down her basket (in the kitchen), squatted herself
down, and resting her elbows on her knees, said--“O, Lord!
I wish I’se dead!”
“Why do you wish you were dead?” asked Miss Ophelia.
“I’d be out of my misery,” said the woman, gruffly, without
taking her eyes from the floor.’
She is among the merry, saucy, black and quadroon servants, who jibe
her, as soon as Miss Ophelia is gone. The only one who notices her is
Tom, who offers to carry her basket for her, and tries to persuade
her to leave off drinking--to which misery has driven her. She wishes
herself in hell--Tom shuddering the while--to be out of her misery.
‘“Where was you raised?” he asked.
“Up in Kentuck. A _man kept me to breed chil’en for
market_, and sold ’em as fast as they got big enough; last
of all, he sold me to a speculator, and my mas’r (a baker),
got me o’ him.”
“What set you into this bad way of drinkin?”
“To get shet of my misery.”’
And she proceeds to describe that misery; and many a tender mother
has sickened and shuddered over the next eighteen lines.
A few days afterwards _another woman_ came in old Prue’s place, to
bring the rusks. On being asked about her by Dinah, another servant,
she says, mysteriously, “Prue isn’t coming any more!”
‘“Why not?” inquires Dinah. “She an’t dead, is she?”
“We doesn’t exactly know. She’s down cellar,” said the
woman, glancing at Miss Ophelia. After Miss Ophelia had
taken the rusks, Dinah followed the woman to the door.
“What _has_ got Prue, anyhow?” she said.
The woman seemed desirous, yet reluctant, to speak, and
answered in a low, mysterious tone. “Well, you mustn’t tell
nobody. Prue, she got drunk agin--and they had her down
cellar--and thar they left her all day; and I hearn ’em
saying that the flies had got to her--and she’s dead!”’
The unhappy wretch had been whipped to death in a cellar, left
there, and--“the flies had got to her!” Miss Ophelia’s honest soul
was fired with indignation on hearing it; and when she expressed her
kindled womanly feelings to Mr St Clare, he received it with levity,
“peeling his orange,” while good excited Miss Ophelia is denouncing
it as “perfectly abominable”--and answering her with badinage; gaily
adding, “My dear cousin, _I_ didn’t do it, and I can’t help it; I
would, if I could!”
Let us turn, however, from this revolting incident, to Mrs Stowe’s
_chef-d’œuvre_--the inimitable TOPSY--a true _psychological_
curiosity--a character quite new to _us_, and delineated by the
pencil of a consummate limner. The portrait will not bear an
additional touch, nor the loss of one that has been given it. It
exactly satisfies the critical eye.
We have already given the reader Topsy’s presentation to Miss
Ophelia. Here is the little black imp _in propriâ personâ_ before
you, as Mr St Clare paraded her before the astounded eye of his prim
cousin:--
‘She was eight or nine years of age--one of the blackest
of her race; and her round, shining eyes, glittering
as glass beads, moved with quick and restless glances
over everything in the room. Her mouth, half open with
astonishment at the wonders of the new mas’r’s parlour,
displayed a white and brilliant set of teeth. Her woolly
hair was braided in sundry little tails, which stuck out
in every direction. The expression of the face was an odd
mixture of shrewdness and cunning, over which was oddly
drawn, like a kind of veil, an expression of the most
doleful gravity and solemnity. She was dressed in a single
filthy, ragged garment, made of bagging; and stood with
her hands demurely folded before her. Altogether there
was something queer and goblin-like about her appearance.
“Here, Topsy,” said Mr St Clare, giving a whistle, as a
man would to call the attention of a dog, “give us a song,
now, and show us some of your dancing.” The black glassy
eyes glittered with a kind of wicked drollery, and The
Thing struck up, in a clear shrill voice, an odd negro
melody, to which she kept time with her hands and feet,
spinning round, clapping her hands, knocking her knees
together, in a wild, fantastic sort of time, and producing
in her throat all those strange guttural sounds which
distinguish the native music of her race; and, finally,
turning a somerset or two, and giving a prolonged closing
note, as odd and unearthly as that of a steam whistle, she
came suddenly down on the carpet, and stood with her hands
folded, and a most sanctimonious expression of meekness and
solemnity over her face, only broken by the cunning glances
which she shot, askance, from the corners of her eyes. Miss
Ophelia stood silent, perfectly paralysed with amazement.’
A world of scrubbing and cleansing brings to sight “great welts
and calloused (?) spots”--ineffaceable marks of the system under
which she had grown up that far, at the sight of which the heart
of Miss Ophelia--who had a horrid repugnance to the touch of a
nigger!--“became pitiful within her!” She had compelled Jane, one of
the quadroon maids, to assist her in the task of ablution, as she
did, tossing her head with disgust; the “young one” “scanning, with a
keen and furtive glance of her flickering eyes, the ornaments which
Jane wore in her ears!”
When arrayed, at last, in a suit of decent clothing, and her hair had
been cropped close to her head, Miss Ophelia sits down to question
the thing; who tells her, with a grin showing all her glittering
teeth, that she does not know how old she is; that she never had a
mother; never was born; never had no father, nor mother, nor nothin.
“I was raised by a speculator, with lots of others. Old Aunt Sue used
to take care on us.”
‘“Have you ever heard anything about GOD, Topsy?” She
looked bewildered, and grinned.
“Do you know who made you?”
“Nobody, as I knows on,” said the child, with a short
laugh. “I ’spect I _grow’d_! Don’t think nobody ever made
me!”’...
“Virgin soil here,” indeed, as St Clare slily suggested to his
dismayed cousin. By and by--behold Topsy, washed and shorn, arrayed
in a clean gown, with well-starched apron, standing reverently before
Miss Ophelia, with an expression of solemnity well befitting a
funeral, while she carefully initiates her sooty little charge into
the mysteries of bed-making. Topsy pays profound attention to all the
directions about under-sheets, bolsters, and turning down; but not
too profound to prevent her, the young disciple, when her teacher’s
back was turned for a moment, snatching a pair of gloves and a
ribbon, which she adroitly slipped into her sleeves, and stood with
her hands duly folded as before!
Being required, by and by, to reduce her lessons to practice, out
drops from her sleeve an end of the purloined ribbon! at which she
looks, when furiously challenged, with innocent wonder. She declares
solemnly she had never seen it till that minute; and when angrily
shaken by Miss Ophelia, out dropped the gloves from the other
sleeve! Topsy now owns to the gloves, steadily denying the ribbon;
but, threatened with a whipping, confesses to both, with woeful
expressions of penitence. Being adjured to “_confess_” if she has
taken anything else, the little wretch owns to having taken “Miss
Eva’s red thing she wears round her neck,” and Rosa’s red earrings,
and having burnt them! “Burnt them! why did you do that?” inquires
the astounded lady. “’Cause I’se wicked--I is! It’s mighty wicked,
anyhow. I can’t help it!” But in a moment or two’s time, Eva and Rosa
make their appearance, with necklace and earrings as usual, never
having parted with them.
“I’m sure I can’t tell what to do with such a child,” said
Miss Ophelia in despair. “What did you tell me you took
these things for, Topsy?”
“Why, missis said I must _’fess_; and I couldn’t think of
nothing else to ’fess,” said Topsy, rubbing her eyes.
“But, of course, I didn’t want you to confess to things you
didn’t do. That’s telling a lie just as much as the other.”
“Laws, now, is it?” said Topsy, with an air of innocent
wonder!’
Here is an impressive contrast:--
‘Eva stood looking at Topsy. There stood the two children,
representatives of the two extremes of society. The fair,
high-bred child, with her golden head, her deep eyes, her
spiritual, noble brow, and prince-like movements; and her
black, keen, subtle, cringing, yet acute neighbour. They
stood the representatives of their races. The Saxon, born
of ages of cultivation, command, education, physical and
moral eminence; the African, born of ages of oppression,
submission, ignorance, toil, and vice.’
If Miss Ophelia’s conscientiousness was--to use the slang of the
phrenologists--“largely developed,” that of Topsy was about equal
to the conscientiousness of a squirrel or a monkey; and good Miss
Ophelia observes her _protegée_, “lithe as a cat, and active as a
monkey,” and to the full as wantonly mischievous, with dumb despair.
One of her fancies was to deck herself in Miss Ophelia’s choicest
ornaments, and rehearse in them, like an actress, before the glass,
singing, whistling, and making grimaces. Once surprised by the lady,
with her “very best scarlet Indian crape shawl wound round her head
for a turban,” “Topsy,” says she, at the end of all patience, “what
_does_ make you act so?”
“Dun no, missis. I ’spects ’cause I’se so wicked.”
“I don’t know what I shall do with you, Topsy.”
“Law, missis, _you must whip me_. My old missis allers
whipped me. I an’t used to workin’ without I gets whipped.”
“Why, Topsy, I don’t want to whip you. You _can_ do well if
you choose; why won’t you?”
“Laws, missis, I’se used to whippin’. I ’spects it’s good
for me.”’
Though one might almost as well, one would have thought, have tried
to teach a hedgehog astronomy, Miss Ophelia devoted herself to
teaching the gnome the Catechism; and, after a patient year and a
half’s efforts, here were some of the blessed results, as exhibited
before laughing Mr St Clare, before whom were confident catechist and
hopeful catechumen:--
“_Q._--Our first parents, being left to the freedom of
their own will, fell from the state wherein they were
created.” Topsy’s eyes twinkled, and she looked inquiringly.
“What is it, Topsy?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Please, missis, was dat ar _state_ Kintuck?”
“What state, Topsy?”
“Dat state dey fell out of. I used to hear Mas’r tell how
as we com down from Kintuck!”’
But what the sedulous didactic teaching of Miss Ophelia failed to
do, would have doubtless been effected by sweet little Eva, had
she lived: from whom, one day, fell the first word of kindness she
had ever heard in her life; and the sweet tone and manner struck
strangely on the wild rude heart, and a sparkle of something like a
tear shone in the keen, round, glittering eye.
Twice again this strange creature flits across the scene, and on one
of these occasions says--
‘“Old missus whipped me a deal harder, and used to pull
my har, and knock my head agin the door; but it didn’t do
me no good! I ’spects if theys to pull every spear o’ har
out of my head, it wouldn’t do no good, neither! I’se so
wicked! Laws! I’se nothing but a nigger, no ways!” ...
“But, Topsy, if you’d only try to be good, you might”----
“Couldn’t never be nothin but a nigger, if I was never so
good! If I could be skinned, and come white, I’d try then!”’
Poor Topsy!--these words go to the heart of all but--a moral _leper
white as snow_! There is in them a huge volume of anguish and
reproach.
It required the potent eloquence of little Eva’s death to dispel the
last lingering feelings of Miss Ophelia’s repugnance towards the
unhappy little black, in whom also the same solemn event had worked
a marked change. “The callous indifference was gone ... there was a
_striving_ for good--a strife, irregular, interrupted, suspended,
oft--but yet renewed again.” The finishing touch to this singular and
masterly delineation is exquisite in every way:--
‘One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, she
came, hastily thrusting something into her bosom. “What are
you doing there, you limb? You’ve been stealing something,
I’ll be bound,” said the imperious little Rosa (a quadroon
slave), who had been sent to call her, seizing her at the
same time roughly by the arm.
“You go ’long, Miss Rosa!” said Topsy, pulling from her;
“’tan’t none o’ your business!”
“None o’ your sa’ce!” said Rosa. “I saw you hiding
something--I know yer tricks,” and Rosa seized her
arm, and tried to force her hand into her bosom; while
Topsy, enraged, kicked and fought valiantly for what she
considered her rights. The clamour and confusion of the
battle drew Miss Ophelia and St Clare both to the spot.
“She’s been stealing!” said Rosa.
“I han’t, neither!” vociferated Topsy, sobbing with passion.
“Give me that, whatever it is!” said Miss Ophelia, sternly.
Topsy hesitated; but, on a second order, pulled out of her
bosom a little parcel done up in the foot of one of her
own old stockings. Miss Ophelia turned it out. There was a
small book which had been given to Topsy by Eva, containing
a single verse of Scripture arranged for every day in the
year; and in a paper, the curl of hair which she had given
on that memorable day when she had taken her last farewell.
St Clare was a good deal affected at the sight of it; the
little book had been rolled in a long strip of black crape,
torn from the funeral weeds.
“What did you wrap _this_ round the book for?” said he,
holding up the crape.
“’Cause--’cause--’cause ’twas Miss Eva. Oh, don’t take ’em
away, please!” she said; and, sitting flat down on the
floor, and putting her apron over her head, she began to
sob vehemently.’[10]
“Topsy,” says Mrs Stowe, “stands as the representative of a large
class of the children who are growing up under the institution of
slavery--quick, active, subtle, and ingenious--apparently utterly
devoid of principle and conscience--keenly penetrating, by an
instinct which exists in the childish mind, the degradation of their
condition, and the utter hopelessness of rising above it.” In a note
to a friend on the same subject, she writes very beautifully--“There
lies, buried down in the heart of the most seemingly stupid and
careless slave, a bleeding spot that bleeds and aches, though he
could scarcely tell why--and this sore spot is the degradation of his
position.”
Miss Ophelia, having had a formal gift of Topsy from Mr St Clare,
takes her home to Vermont, where we are told, she “grew rapidly in
grace and favour with the family,” at first sufficiently staggered
by the quaint apparition. “At the age of womanhood she was at her
own request baptised; and finally recommended and approved as a
missionary to one of the stations in Africa.” Of course the mode
of training Topsy was beyond the scope of the writer’s purpose;
but we could have wished to see a good deal more of Topsy, in the
progress of her mental and moral development. But as it is, the
sketch is pregnant with instruction, encouragement, and warning: and
were it for this one portrait alone, Mrs Stowe would be entitled to
the blessings of generations of blacks yet unborn. With the divine
penetration of genius consecrated by holiness, she has wrought down
to the seat of our common nature, in the black, crushed beneath whole
piled up mountains of prejudice, scorn, and despair.
We must now return to poor Tom, whose course is henceforth brief, and
of deepening gloom, and whose _sun goes down in blood_.
Detestable Mrs St Clare, released from the humanising presence of her
husband, as though she had been a deadly snake half-crushed by the
presence of authority, makes amends for past inaction, by darting
venomously at every one within her reach. She orders off a poor
girl to the whipping-house, to be flogged, _naked_, by the common
flogger--a huge man--in the presence of as many of both sexes as
chose to look on, and be entertained by her shrieks, and the sight
of her quivering ensanguined flesh.[11] Mrs St Clare contemptuously
discarded the entreaties of Miss Ophelia, based mainly, with a
womanly energy, on the mere sense of sex: and in disgust, Miss
Ophelia returns, with Topsy, to her own country. Moreover, though
poor Tom had been repeatedly promised his freedom by her husband,
as she well knows, she ruthlessly sells him, with all the other
slaves. Tom is told of his fate--to be forthwith sent to the slave
mart. “The Lord’s will be done!” he exclaimed, folding his arms, and
sighing heavily. He appeals to Miss Ophelia, who makes a hopeless
attempt on Mrs St Clare, relying on her deceased husband’s promise.
“Indeed,” says that charming lady, delicately clad in most elegantly
made mourning for him whose solemn wishes she was violating, as he
lay scarce cold in his grave--“Indeed I shall do no such thing! Tom
is one of the most valuable slaves in the place! It could not be
afforded any way!” ... “But consider his chance of getting a bad
master----” “O! that’s all humbug----:” and the good lady turns a
scornfully deaf ear to the solemn assurance, that Mr St Clare had
made the promise to Eva on her deathbed. Marie St Clare is the type,
we are told, of a class.
‘When Marie comes under a system of laws which gives her
_absolute control_ over her dependants--which enables her
to separate them, at her pleasure, from their dearest
family connections, or to inflict upon them the most
disgraceful, degrading, and violent punishments, _without
even the restraint which seeing_ the execution might
possibly induce--then it is that the character arrives at
full maturity.’
Here we part with this viper; assuring the class whom she may
represent, that they are burthened with the execration of the
civilised world--most piercing of all, those of her fair, Free
sisters.
Now one’s heart aches to see poor Tom, the helpless, sorrowful
inmate, amongst a great quantity of uproarious and _quasi_-merry
other live lumber--of a New Orleans slave-market. O sickening scene!
But here the two figures arresting the eye--and whose brief tale is
told with melting pathos and simplicity--are Susan and Emmeline, both
beautiful, mother and daughter; the latter only fifteen, just budding
into womanhood: both with hearts trembling at the fear of approaching
separation--and what kind of life before them? The mother to be sold
for the purpose of breeding other slaves; the daughter--oh speak it
not in the ears of Free fathers and mothers--of Christian men or
women--to be “sold to a life of shame!” She has “the same soft, dark
eye” as her mother, “with longer lashes, and her curling hair is of
a luxuriant brown.” And in passing, we are told, with an appalling
irony, that “the gentleman to whom they belong, and to whom the money
for their sale is to be transmitted, is a member of a Christian
church in New York, who will receive the money, and go thereafter to
the sacrament of _his Lord_ AND THEIRS, and think no more of it.”
The hurriedly-whispered dialogue of these two would break a heart of
stone to overhear: they are--that forlorn mother and daughter--trying
to express a hope--a faint hope--poor souls!--that they may be sold
together! In order to aid this result, and disguise her beauty, the
mother and she comb out her luxuriant tresses, so as to “look plain
and decent;” but in the morning, when the watchful owner comes round
to look at his human cattle--“How’s this?” he said, stepping in
front of Susan and Emmeline, “where’s your curls, gal?” He is told,
timidly, that they thought it looked “more respectable so.”
‘“Bother!--You go right along, and curl yourself real
smart,” he added, giving a crack to a ratan he held in his
hand; “and be back in quick time, too! You go and help
her,” to her mother--“them curls may make a hundred dollars
difference in the sale of her!”’
Can horror go deeper? Yes, one step. The loathsome monster,
Legree--of whom in a moment--is presently attracted by her beauty.
“He put out his heavy, dirty hand, and drew the girl towards
him”--oh, Mrs Stowe! shall we go on?--“passed it over her neck and
bust; felt her arms; looked at her teeth, and then pushed her back
against her mother, whose patient face showed the sufferings she had
been going through, at every motion of the hideous stranger.”
‘The girl was frightened, and began to cry.
“Stop that, you minx!” said the salesman, “no whimpering
_here_! The sale’s going to begin!”’
Presently the mother is put up on the block, and bought by a
benevolent purchaser; in descending from it she gazes wistfully
at her lovely daughter; and implores her purchaser--“O, do buy my
daughter!” He tries to do so; but alas! she has inflamed the sensual
monster Legree: he quietly bids against Benevolence, resolved to
secure his victim: “the hammer falls; he has got the girl, body and
soul, unless God help her!” But will HE? The chapter ends ominously
with a passage from his Word--
“_When he maketh inquisition for blood, he forgetteth not
the cry of the humble!_”
This Legree also purchases Tom, having quickly appreciated his
“points,” as a “valleyable nigger:” and here you may see the _cobra_,
uncoiled for you, in all its hideousness.
‘He was a short, broad, muscular man, in a checked
shirt, considerably open at the bosom, and pantaloons
much the worse for dirt and wear, who elbowed his way
through the crowd, like one who is going actively into a
business; and coming up to the group, began to examine
them systematically. From the moment that Tom saw him
approaching, he felt an immediate and revolting horror at
him, that increased as he came near. He was evidently,
though short, of gigantic strength. His round, bullet
head, large, light-grey eyes, with their shaggy, sandy
eyebrows, and stiff, wiry, sun-burned air, were rather
unprepossessing items, it is to be confessed; his large
coarse mouth was distended with tobacco, the juice of
which, from time to time, he ejected from him with great
decision and explosive force; his hands were immensely
large, hairy, sun-burned, freckled, and very dirty, and
garnished with long nails, in a very foul condition. This
man proceeded to a very free personal examination of the
lot. He seized Tom by the jaw, and pulled open his mouth,
to inspect his teeth (!) made him strip up his sleeve,
to show his muscle; turned him round, made him jump and
spring, to show his paces.
“Where was you raised?” he added briefly to these
investigations. “In Kintuck, mas’r,” said Tom, looking
about as if for deliverance. “What have you done?” “Had
care of mas’r’s farm,” said Tom. “Likely story!” said the
other shortly, as he passed on.’
Legree’s exterior only very faintly adumbrates the interior horrors
of his character, as the reader soon finds out. He seems specially
pleased with one of his purchases--the sweet Emmeline, who, as they
approach “home,” feels the hot foul breath of the serpent upon her.
‘“Well, my little dear,” said he, turning to Emmeline, and
laying his hand on her shoulder, “we’re almost home!” When
Legree scolded and stormed, Emmeline was terrified; but
when he laid his hand upon her, and spoke as he now did,
she felt as if she had rather he would strike her. _The
expression of his eyes made her soul sick, and her flesh
creep._
“You didn’t ever wear earrings!” he said, taking hold of
her small ear with his coarse fingers.
“No, mas’r,” said Emmeline, trembling, and looking down.
“Well, I’ll give you a pair, when we get home, if you’re a
good girl. You needn’t be so frightened! I don’t mean to
make you work so very hard! You’ll have fine times with me,
and live like a lady! Only be a good girl!”’
Alas, sweet Emmeline! motherless Emmeline! was there no MAN--no
father, no brother, near you, to fell the monster to the earth? No,
none; and you are close to the residence of your eager and brutal
proprietor. There he had destined her as the successor of one of
whom he was tired--but whom yet he feared: and that was CASSY; a
being whom we did not suppose Mrs Stowe, with all our trust in her
previously exhibited powers, equal to conceiving and supporting. She
occasionally reminds us of some of the greatest passages in Greek
tragedy.
‘“Come, mistress”--quoth Legree to Emmeline, having reached
the house, and dismissed all his other purchases to their
prescribed localities in the plantation--“You go in here
with _me_!” A dark wild face was seen, for a moment, to
glance at the window of the house; and as Legree opened the
door, a female voice said something in a quick imperative
tone.’
This was--Cassy; and here is her figure.
‘She was tall and slenderly formed, with remarkably
delicate hands and feet, and dressed in neat and
respectable garments. By the appearance of her face, she
might have been between thirty-five and forty; and it was
a face that, once seen, could never be forgotten--one of
those that, at a glance, seemed to convey to us an idea of
a wild, painful, and romantic history. Her head was high,
and her eyebrows marked with beautiful clearness. Her
straight, well-formed nose, her finely cut mouth, and the
graceful contour of her head and neck, showed that she must
once have been beautiful; but her face was deeply wrinkled
with lines of pain, and of proud and bitter endurance.
Her complexion was sallow and unhealthy, her cheeks thin,
her features sharp, and her whole form emaciated. But her
eye was the most remarkable feature--so large, so heavily
black, overshadowed by long lashes of equal darkness, and
so wildly, mournfully despairing. There was a fierce pride
and defiance in every line of her face, in every nerve of
the flexible lip, in every motion of her body; but in her
eye was a deep, settled, night of anguish--an expression so
hopeless and unchanging, as to contrast fearfully with the
scorn and pride expressed by her whole demeanour.’
Her relations to Legree were of a mysterious character. The first
that Tom saw of her was when she suddenly, and to the surprise of
all her fellow-slaves, made her appearance, as one of themselves, in
the cotton-fields, walking by his side, erect and proud, in the dim
grey of the dawn. She works with the others, but infinitely quicker
and more effectively. Observing Tom generously transfer some cotton
of his own picking to the sack of a feeble female fellow-slave, whom
he had just seen brutally maltreated by the driver--she approached
him, and transferred some of her own cotton to his bag, telling him
in a fearful whisper, “that he knew nothing about that place, or he
would not have done what he had: that when he had been there a month,
he would have ceased helping anybody, finding it hard enough to take
care of his own skin.”
“The Lord forbid, _missus_,” quoth Tom, instinctively recognising her
superiority over the others.
‘“The Lord never visits these parts,” said she, bitterly.
But her action had been observed by the driver, across the
field: and flourishing his whip, he came up to her. “What!
what!” he said to the woman, with an air of triumph, “YOU
a-foolin! Go along! yer under _me_ now--mind yourself, or
ye’ll cotch it!” A glance like sheet-lightning suddenly
flashed from her dark eyes; and facing about, with
quivering lip and dilated nostrils, she drew herself up,
and fixed a glance, blazing with rage and scorn, on the
driver. “DOG!” she exclaimed, “touch _me_, if you dare!
I’ve power enough yet to have you torn by the dogs, burnt
alive, cut to inches!--I’ve only to say the word!”
“What de debel you here for, den?” said the man, cowed,
and retreating a step or two. “Didn’t mean no harm, Misse
Cassy!” and he slinks to another quarter of the field.’
Weighing time comes in the evening.
‘“So,” says Legree, to his myrmidon, “Misse Cassy did her
day’s work?”
“Iss! she pick like de debil and all his angels!”
“She’s got ’em all in her, I believe!” said Legree; and
growled a brutal oath.’
At length it is Cassy’s time, and she delivers her basket to be
weighed with a haughty, negligent air: Legree looking in her eyes
with a sneering, yet inquiring glance. She fixed her black eyes on
him steadily--her lips moved slightly, and she said something in
French. What it was, no one knew, but the expression of Legree’s face
became demoniacal; and he half-raised his hand, as if to strike--a
gesture which she regarded with fierce disdain, and turned, and
walked away. Then Tom comes up; and--poor fellow--for once we rejoice
to say, shows something like a spirit: for being ordered to try his
hand on flogging the poor female slave--falsely accused of not having
picked her quantity--he steadily refuses; and after having received a
shower of blows from Legree, firmly repeats, “This yer thing I can’t
feel it right to do,” wiping the blood from his face; “and massa,
I _never_ shall do it--_never!_” All the shivering wretches around
exhibit consternation at his audacity; and Legree looked stupefied
and confounded; but at last he burst forth:--
‘“What, ye blasted black beast! tell _me_ ye don’t think it
_right_ to do what I tell ye! What have any of you cussed
cattles to do with thinking what’s right? I’ll put a stop
to it. Why, what do ye think ye are? Maybe ye think ye’r a
gentleman, Master Tom, to be a-telling your master what’s
right, and what an’t; so you pretend it’s wrong to flog the
gal?”
“I think so, mas’r,” said Tom; “the poor crittur’s sick
and feeble, ’twould be downright cruel, and it’s what I
never will do, nor begin to, mas’r. If you mean to kill me,
kill me; but as to my raising my hand agin any one here, I
never shall: I’ll die first.” Tom spoke in a mild voice,
but with a decision that could not be mistaken. Legree
shook with anger; his greenish eyes glared fiercely, and
his very whiskers seemed to curl with passion; but, like
some ferocious beast that plays with its victim before he
devours it, he kept back his strong impulse to proceed to
immediate violence, and broke out into bitter raillery.
“Well, here’s a pious dog, at last, let down among us
sinners! a saint, a gentleman, and no less, to talk to us
sinners about our sins! Powerful holy crittur he must be!
Here, you rascal; you make believe to be so pious, didn’t
you never hear out of yer Bible, ‘Servants, obey your
masters’? An’t I your master? Didn’t I pay down twelve
hundred dollars cash for all there is in yer old cussed
black shell? An’t yer mine now, body and soul?” he said,
giving Tom a violent kick with his heavy boot; “tell me!”
In the very depth of physical suffering, bowed by brutal
oppression, this question shot a gleam of joy and triumph
through Tom’s soul. He suddenly stretched himself up, and
looking earnestly to heaven, while the tears and blood that
flowed down his face mingled, he exclaimed--“No, no, no!
my soul an’t yours, mas’r! You havn’t bought it; ye can’t
buy it; it’s been bought and paid for by one that’s able to
keep it. No matter--no matter, you can’t harm me!”
“I can’t!” said Legree, with a sneer; “we’ll see. Here,
Sambo! Quimbo! give this dog such a breakin in as he won’t
get over this month.”
The two gigantic negroes that now laid hold of Tom, with
fiendish exultation in their faces, might have formed no
unapt personification of powers of darkness. The poor woman
screamed with apprehension, and all rose, as by a general
impulse, while they dragged him unresisting from the place.’
Sambo and Quimbo are two huge black fiends, each savage, sycophantic
towards Legree, rivals of each other in his good graces, and
abhorring poor Tom, whom some expressions of Legree show to have been
designed to become his chief overlooker.
While Tom is lying in an exposed outhouse at midnight, groaning and
bleeding, alone, the night damp and close, the thick air swarming
with myriads of musquitoes, which increased the restless torture of
his wounds, whilst a burning thirst--a torture beyond all others,
filled up the uttermost measure of physical anguish--
“Oh, good Lord, _do_ look down! Give me the victory--give me the
victory over all!” prayed poor Tom, in his anguish, when a footstep
is heard behind him--the light of a lantern flashes in his eyes,
and he recognises Cassy, come to him like a ministering angel. At
length she sits beside him, when he has become somewhat more easy
and composed for a while under the soothing applications of his
companion; and she mutters a few words, in rejoinder to his feeble
but trustful exclamations, of despair and atheism--“There’s no God,
or he’s taken sides against us; all goes against us, heaven and
earth! Everything is pushing us into hell! Why shouldn’t we go?” In
a few scorching words of misery she tells him that she, “a woman
delicately bred,” has been for four long years in the hell--of
Legree’s presence and power--her whole body and soul, cursing every
moment of her life--the slave of his brutal passions; “and now he
has got a new one--a young thing, only fifteen! And she’s brought
her Bible here--_here_, to hell with her!” She adds, that she has
witnessed scenes of savage cruelty, of mortal cruelty, which “would
make any one’s hair rise, and teeth chatter to hear--but it is
useless resisting. There’s not a white person who could testify if
you were burned alive!” She lets fall a hint that sweet Emmeline is
trying bravely to struggle against her fate--at present!
She gives Tom an outline of her history. She had been the idolised
daughter of a lovely slave, and educated in the most expensive manner
at a convent; but her father, before he could fulfil his intention
of freeing her, died of cholera; and she was _sold_ to a man, who
concealed from her that he had given two thousand dollars for her.
Imagining that she was his free choice, and he handsome, fond, and
indulgent, she lived a little while with him as in Paradise, and
had two children--a boy, _Henry_, and a girl, _Elise_. A cousin of
his caught sight of her, and resolved to possess her, succeeded
by shameful arts in alienating his affection from her, and then
persuading him to sell her, with her two children. He forced her,
recoiling from his embraces, to live with him, and sold off her two
idolised children. In a moment of frenzy----All she recollects is,
that “something snapped in her head--there was a great bowie-knife
gleaming on the table.... She caught it--flew upon him--all grew
dark, and she knew nothing more till she woke, long afterwards,
when she found that he had left her to be sold; and, to realise the
most from her, had secured her good attendance. As the fever left
her, “they made her get up and dress every day; and gentlemen used
to come in, and stand, and smoke their cigars, and look at me, and
ask questions, and debate my price!--They threatened to whip if I
were not gayer, and didn’t take pains to make myself agreeable.” She
was ultimately bought by a planter, a Captain Stuart; and the child
she had by him--so like her lost Henry!--when, two weeks old, she
kissed, cried over, and--poisoned with laudanum--“I held him close to
my heart, while he slept to death!” At length, Captain Stuart dies
of fever. “Everybody died that wanted to live; and I, that wanted
to die, _lived_” to be “sold, passed from hand to hand, till I grew
faded, wrinkled, had a fever--and--this wretch (Legree) bought me,
and--here I am!... In the judgment-day, I will stand up before God a
witness against them that have ruined me and my children, body and
soul!--When I was a girl, I thought I was religious. I used to love
God and prayer! Now, I’m a lost soul, pursued by devils that torment
me day and night. They keep pushing me on--and--I’ll do it, too, some
of these days!” she said, clenching her hand, while an insane light
gleamed in her heavy black eyes.
Legree in his lair resembles a huge tiger. As painted by the author,
with graphic force,--sitting in his desolate apartment, drowning
reflection in brandy-and-water,--admitting Sambo and Quimbo to his
savage debauches,--and in their absence having his fierce bloodhounds
for his companions--(anything better than being alone)--it seems
wonderful that any human being could obtain over him any kind of
influence, and much less ascendancy; yet Cassy has, in spite of
himself, acquired--“the kind of influence which a strong impassioned
woman can ever keep on the most brutal man.” Of late, however, she
had become “more irritable and restless under the hideous yoke of her
servitude, and her irritability sometimes burst forth in the ravings
of insanity; and this liability made her an object of dread to
Legree, who had that superstitious horror of insane persons which is
common to coarse and uninstructed minds. When he brought Emmeline to
the house, all the smouldering embers of womanly feeling flashed up
in the exhausted heart of Cassy, and she took part with the girl.”
One night, very late, she was gliding about unknown, and came to
the window of the room where he was wildly carousing with the
twin-fiends, Sambo and Quimbo. “She rested her small slender hand on
the window behind, and looked fixedly at them--a world of anguish,
scorn, and fierce bitterness in her black eyes,” as she saw them
“singing, whooping, upsetting chairs, and making all manner of
ludicrous and horrid grimaces at each other. ‘_Would it be a sin
to rid the world of such a wretch?_’ said she to herself.” Many
subsequent scenes in his career passing before us must more and more
have inclined Cassy to answer the fearful question in the negative;
as though it had shaped itself--“Is it any harm to kill a rattlesnake
that has located itself near your house?”
‘When he first bought her, Cassy was, indeed, a woman
delicately bred; and then he crushed her without scruple
beneath the hoof of his brutality. But as time, and
debasing influences, and despair, hardened womanhood
within her, and waked the fires of fiercer passions, she
had become, in a manner, his mistress; and he alternately
tyrannised over, and dreaded her. This influence had become
more harassing and decided, since partial insanity had
given a strange, weird, unsettled cast to all her language.’
In fact, her tormentor was on one occasion much nearer a ghastly
climax than he had any idea of; for she had drugged his brandy--left
him helpless--the back door unlocked--and then gone silently, at
midnight, to Tom, to tell him that the hour of liberty was at hand.
‘“I shall have it, Misse, in God’s time,” said he.
“Ah, but you may have it to-night!” said Cassy, with a
flash of sudden energy. “Come on!”
Tom hesitated. “Come!” she whispered, fixing her black eyes
on him. “He’s asleep--sound! an axe is there! I’ll show
you the way! I’d have done it myself--only my arms are so
weak! Come along!”
“Not for ten thousand worlds, Misse!” said Tom firmly,
stopping, and holding her back.... He flings himself on the
floor, grasping her arms, imploring her for the love of God
to abstain. “We must suffer, and wait the Lord’s time!”
“Wait!” said Cassy. “_Haven’t_ I waited? till my head is
dizzy, and my heart sick? What has he made me suffer? What
has he made hundreds of poor creatures suffer? Isn’t he
wringing the life blood out of you? I’m called on! I’m
called on! they call on me! His time’s come, and I’ll have
his heart’s blood!”
“No! no! no!” exclaimed Tom, holding her small hands, which
were clasped with spasmodic violence.’
The slave triumphed, and saved the life of--his murderer. He
suggests to Cassy the attempt to escape, however desperate, “without
blood-guiltiness;” and while he is speaking to her, “there flashed
through her mind a plan so _simple_ and _feasible_ in all its
details, as to awaken an instant hope.” We suspect that our readers
will hardly be of her opinion. This was the nature of “the stratagem”
which had occurred to her. Legree was very superstitious; and it
is evident that some not very recent and barbarous murder of one
of his slaves had largely developed his superstitious fears, and
especially with reference to a particular apartment. Cassy, having
taken Emmeline into her counsels, resolves to terrify Legree with
the idea of this room being haunted, in order that, having a secret
access to it, she may, when the proper time arrives, make it her
safe and undisturbed retreat. She forthwith commences operations
by training Legree’s mind into a more and more terrified mood with
reference to this apartment, causing all sorts of strange, dismal,
unearthly noises to issue from it, ghosts to be seen gliding in white
out of it, and so forth. Thus far she succeeds; and having, in the
meanwhile, made up two little beds in a huge box in the dreaded room,
and provided food, candle-light, and clothes for their journey, she
puts her scheme in operation. Late in the evening, she and Emmeline
affect to make their escape, contriving to be seen in the act by
Legree; on which he gallops homeward--orders out Sambo and Quimbo,
and a posse of other willing myrmidons, and also the bloodhounds,
and away they start on their cruel and perhaps bloody errand. In the
meantime, the supposed fugitives have returned home unobserved, and
taken up their abode in the haunted chamber. There they listen to the
hunting party--men, horses, dogs--returning wearied and disappointed.
The next day the search is renewed, with the like ill success; and,
after a day or two’s seclusion in their hiding-place--near which
ghosts are seen to glide, and from which unearthly noises issue--the
adventurous pair start on their perilous journey--Cassy disguised
as a Creole Spanish lady, dressed entirely in black, and Emmeline
as her servant. She found no difficulty in assuming and sustaining
the character. “Brought up from early life in the highest society,
her language, air, and movements were all in accordance with it;
and she had still sufficient left of her once splendid wardrobe and
sets of jewels, to enable her to complete her personation. A small
black bonnet on her head, covered by a veil thick with embroidery,
concealed her face.” It was near sunrise when the two terrified and
breathless travellers paused, for a moment, in a little knot of
trees near the town. Having purchased a trunk in the outskirts, she
requested the seller to send it with her; and thus, escorted by a boy
wheeling her trunk, and Emmeline behind her carrying her carpet-bag
and sundry bundles, she made her appearance at a small tavern, like
a lady of consideration, and there encountered George Shelby, who,
with herself, was awaiting the arrival of the boat. He handed her
courteously to it, and provided her with a good state-room; but Cassy
found it expedient, on the plea of indisposition, to keep her room,
and her bed--sedulously attended, it may be imagined, by her maid
Emmeline--during the whole time they were on the Red River. Arrived
at the Mississippi, they entered the good steamboat _Cincinnati_.
How she disclosed herself to George Shelby, and became acquainted
with Madame de Thoux--how the latter proved to be Emily, the
long-lost sister of George Harris, and Cassy the mother of George’s
wife--somewhat compendious work, it must be owned--has been seen. It
was, in truth, as the author seems to have suspected, _rather_ “a
singular coincidence in their fortunes.” In due time they find their
way to Montreal, where George and Eliza had established themselves
in a neat tenement in the outskirts of the town, very happy and
contented, he having found constant occupation in the shop of a
worthy machinist. Cassy is now ending her days happily, “a devout and
tender Christian.” Emmeline continued with them; and, on her passage
to France, her beauty captivated the first mate of the vessel,
and, shortly after entering the port, she became his wife. Before,
however, this happy result has been effected, has occurred the
crowning act of the tragedy--the martyrdom of poor Tom; who, being
suspected by Legree of knowing of their escape, will not deny that he
was privy to it, but will afford him no information. On this Legree,
mortally infuriated, tells him that he “means to kill him”--“I’ve
made up my mind to kill you.”
“‘It’s very likely, Mas’r!’ said Tom, calmly.”
We shall spare our readers the frightful scene, as one of simple
butchery. One might as well describe, in detail, the slaughter of an
ox by the slaughterer and his two assistants. He is felled to the
ground by a blow of Legree, and Sambo and Quimbo flog him to death.
These two grim instruments of their master’s murderous vengeance are
filled with sudden remorse, when they shortly after revisit their
victim, and hear from him words of resignation and forgiveness. They
ask him “Who is _Jesus_, anyhow?” and on Tom, in a heavenly spirit,
telling them, they ask _Him_ for mercy.
“Poor critturs!” said Tom, “I’d be willing to bar all I have, if
it’ll only bring you to Christ! O Lord! _give me these two more
souls, I pray!_” To very many of _our_ readers, these expressions
will appear somewhat forced and _peculiar_; whilst others may
recognise in them language with which poor Tom had become familiar
in those scenes of religious exercise to which, we are told, he had
been accustomed for four years before his introduction to the reader.
“‘Tom,’ said Mr Shelby to Haley, ‘is a good, steady, sensible, pious
fellow. He got religion _at a camp meeting_, four years ago; and
I believe he really _did_ get it. I have trusted him, since then,
with everything I have: money, house, horses--and let him come and
go round the country; and I always found him true and square in
everything.” If such results follow “camp meetings,” they might be
advantageously tried, and on a large scale, too, in this country.
Some little time afterwards occurs the interview between dying Tom
and young Mr Shelby, who had come to ransom him.
“‘Who--who--who shall separate us from the love of Christ?’ he said,
in a voice that contended with mortal weakness; and with a smile he
fell asleep.”
Regarded merely as a stroke of art, this closing scene may be
contemplated with qualified feelings; but we shall offer no remarks
upon what has evidently been conceived in a high religious, a
nobly human spirit, and executed with no little power. Viewed in
this light--and it ought to be viewed in no other, by a critic
who has seized the scope and entered into the spirit of his
author--objections to the development of Uncle Tom’s character melt
away. He is not drawn to meet the views, or satisfy the exacting
spirit of mere worldly persons, sickly novel-readers, or conceited
supercilious critics. No, Tom is conceived in a lofty spirit, and
adorned with all the meekness, the gentleness, the long-suffering,
which can be drawn from the inexhaustible sources of our holy
religion alone; he is set sublimely on a pinnacle to attract towards
his oppressed race, represented by his crushed and bleeding form,
the pitying eye of Christendom--to awaken, to encourage, to _warn_.
“Suffering is,” indeed, “the badge of all _their_ tribe;” and
Europe has felt it to be so more strongly and directly, since the
publication of this work, than it ever felt before. In the soft,
glorious sunlight of Christian sympathy, the blackness of our poor
brother’s skin--his skin torn with the incessant lash--disappears.
Uncle Tom is actuated by religious principles which _will not
admit_ of his speaking or doing otherwise than he is represented as
speaking and doing. His condition was that of _a slave_; it was a
very hard one often, but had not always been such; and he was on
the eve of escaping from it by lawful means, more than once, but
the will of Providence had decreed otherwise. The sudden death of
St Clare was permitted to consign unoffending Tom to the hideous
Legree. But is not such an occurrence frequent in God’s ordinary
all-wise, but inscrutable direction of human affairs? Presented to
us under the conditions dictated by the objects and purposes of Mrs
Stowe, how could she, without outraging propriety and defeating her
whole, her only, and righteous purpose, have represented him, for
instance, organising a revolt against the oppressor, in the course
of which he and his maddened fellow-sufferers would have imbrued
their hands in the blood of Legree? With Mrs Stowe’s proved powers
of description, and her mastery over the feelings, she could have
flashed before our eyes characters, scenes, and actions which only
St Domingo could have paralleled! Instead, however, of playing the
part of a mad incendiary, she has calmly and magnanimously addressed
herself to the tribunal of public opinion, to the sense of justice,
and of religion, by which all civilised mankind profess to be
guided. She solemnly appeals to “the whole American church, of all
denominations, unitedly to seek the entire abolition of slavery
throughout America and throughout Christendom.” To “every individual
Christian, who wishes to do something for the abolition of slavery,”
she says--“Begin by doing what lies in your power for the coloured
people in your vicinity.... The contest is to be carried on ‘with
love unfeigned’--‘through every degree of opposition and persecution,
a divine unprovokable spirit of love, which must finally conquer....
We must love both the slaveholder and the slave, never forgetting
that both are our brethren.... We must use, as means, an earnest
application of all straightforward, honourable, and just measures,
for the removal of the system of slavery. Every man in his place
should remonstrate against it. All its sophistical arguments should
be answered, its biblical defences unmasked, by correct reasoning,
and interpretation. Every mother should teach the evil of it to
her children; every clergyman should fully and continually warn
his church against any complicity with such a sin.” _These_ are
the weapons, not carnal, but of holy temper, with which Mrs Stowe
would enter upon this warfare; and who shall rebuke her, and say
her Nay? Not _we_. We say to her, with a tender recollection that
it is a WOMAN of whom we are writing, All hail, thou impersonation
of Christian love and purity! Thou very genius of philanthropy!
Verily thou wilt _have thy reward_. Not merely in the praises of men,
though _they_ have been accorded already with an almost unanimous
and universal assent; but in the reflections of a chastened and
subdued--a warm, a loving, and devout spirit.
Taken as a _literary_ whole, _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ is a work standing
before the critical eye in large proportions, but somewhat
irregularly and inartificially disposed; exhibiting, here and
there, minor and easily removable marks of haste, and inexperienced
workmanship. It would have been easy to contrive incidents, and
that without deranging her general scheme, which would have kept
curiosity on the stretch from first to last, and secured a sort
of poetical justice which might have satisfied the minds of many
of her readers;--by dealing, for instance, with Marie St Clare, a
beautiful but venomous little reptile,--and the huge speckled monster
Legree,--in a spirit of retribution, making their own acts entail
upon them condign and appropriate punishment; but how could that
have aided the declared moral purpose of the writer? She has done
well, on the contrary, in representing a Haley, a Legree, a Marie St
Clare, as still--_cumbering the ground_, as so many of the centres of
innumerable circles of despotic barbarity.
The main defect of the construction of her work as a “story”--for
such she terms it--is, its want of connectedness. The reader is
hurried incessantly from side to side of the dividing line between
the fortunes of Uncle Tom, and those of George and Eliza Harris,
with the episodical incidents depending on them; coming to each with
sympathies attuned to the _other_; which, again, as soon as they have
begun to be attracted to the new object, are suddenly dissociated,
to address themselves to the one which they had but recently quitted
so abruptly.
With all its defects, however, this book is an instrument worthy
of contributing to effect a grand purpose, to attack and subvert A
SYSTEM: the only condition, in this view, being, that it is founded,
not upon exaggeration and misrepresentation, but upon TRUTH. The
moment that the work had attracted universal notice, it was obvious
that it must challenge attention to the point of--TRUE, or FALSE, in
its representations of the condition of American slavery. Mrs Stowe
has cheerfully accepted the challenge thrown out to her--accepted
it in a calm and temperate spirit, and with the resolute confidence
of one believing herself right. She formally consents to have her
book tried by the test proposed, always protesting that she has
painted slavery _as it is_--has done ample justice to large portions
of humane Southern slaveholders; but insisting that _that_ is no
answer to her case, which is, that the SYSTEM is one altogether
opposed to the spirit of Christianity, and subversive of the rights,
and destructive of the best interests, of man. It is one, she would
say, that tends to stamp out, in every newly-born slave, the noble
image of his Maker, to _depress him beneath the level of humanity_;
and it is no answer to this to assert, as is asserted by one of the
keenest and sternest of her opponents, that “the peculiar falsity
of the book consists in making _exceptional_ or impossible cases
the representatives of the system.”[12] To establish her great
_principle_, on the one hand, and to controvert by _evidence_, on the
other, the charge in point of fact, of having made the exception the
rule, she has published what she calls _A Key to Uncle Tom’s Cabin_,
which is, in fact, simply a series of _Proofs and Illustrations_ of
the truth of her representations. We have examined this _Key_ to the
_Cabin_ with some attention, and are of opinion that its alleged
_facts_ are such as must be _answered_; or those whose accusations
provoked its publication, will have succeeded in only placing a
professed Fiction upon the solid basis of Fact. No one who reads this
_Key_ will tolerate being simply told, that _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ is
founded on falsehood. She quotes (evidently, and even avowedly,)
under the guidance of gentlemen of adequate experience and knowledge
of the subject, from the authentic records of judicial decision,
dealing with cases so appalling as, for a moment, even to make
one think Legree painted in colours less dark than he might have
been;--and also exhibits a vast mass of documents which cannot be
disposed of, but by counterproof. We, of course, can deal with such
statements but as we find them; knowing that they derive their value
from the trustworthiness of a conscientious writer, _conclusively
confirmed by the absence of substantial disproof_.--This volume, in
a word, we commend to the serious consideration of every reflecting
European and American reader of _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_.
It were idle to class among these latter those who read simply to
indulge a spurious whimpering sentimentality, or to have a morbid
curiosity stimulated and inflamed by scenes of suffering and horror.
But the Christian statesman, the enlightened politician, in either
hemisphere, is bound, we think, to deal with the existence of this
book, and the extensive effects produced by it, as a signal FACT.
Great as are its literary merits, they are by no means sufficient,
of themselves, to account for the universal attention which it has
excited. It is because--to descend to a homely illustration--this
book has acted like the sudden flash of the policeman’s lantern
on a scene of secret midnight crime; it has painted in such vivid
colours a condition of humanity hidden from European observation,
as has attracted and fixed upon it the startled eyes of thinking
Europe--of a FREE Christian people. In vain is it to hang beside it
hasty recriminatory daubs of countervailing _white_ slavery, or of
the charms of slavery, as exhibited by a _quasi_ paradisaical state,
where such monsters as Legree, Mrs St Clare, Haley, Marks, and Tom
Loker, exist not. All such attempts have already proved, as might
have been anticipated, ridiculous failures, as far as they had been
designed to stultify and falsify _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, and divert
from it the stern eye of public morality. How to deal with slavery
is a tremendous problem for enlightened Christian statesmanship.
It cannot tolerate the meddling of an unfortunate, impulsive,
unreasoning, unreflecting, however ardent and generous, so-called
humanity. True humanity, in this instance, consists in a sincere,
comprehensive, deliberate, and resolute effort to rouse the PUBLIC
OPINION of America on behalf of its slave population; and we believe
that that public opinion will ere long find--with more embarrassment
and danger the longer the discovery takes to be made--that slavery is
an ulcer, a foul spreading ulcer, eating its way, perilously, to the
very vitals of the body politic.
_Will slavery--American slavery--will slavery at all--be in existence
on the earth, a century hence?_ It is a vast question, and we will
not presume to answer it. Perhaps our imaginary brother of the
twentieth century may read what is here being written by his brother
of the nineteenth, and applaud our caution. Slavery _may_ then have
become a thing of the past; or, in the fortunes of the world, in the
mysterious, sublime, and even then unaccomplished destiny of the
human race, that institution may still have its monstrous strangling
coils encircling large and helpless sections of the family of man.
But if our shadowy brother of 1953 come to any other conclusions than
are favourable to the intelligence of us of 1853, in respect of our
reception of _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, as Maga will doubtless be then in
flourishing existence, we look to our lineal successors, in our seat
of critical justice, to take up the cudgels for us, and vindicate our
opinions and cautious vaticinations. And, in the mean time, Harriet
Beecher Stowe, be it known a century hence, that we are ashamed of
neither yourself, nor our reception of your book; that one not of the
least important names of the present century is your own--already,
and though you should never write another book. We doubt, indeed,
whether you ever will do so--whether, at least, it will, or can be,
a great book; for this one embodies your life-long experiences,
heart-yearnings, and long-cherished thoughts. Your whole soul is
wrapped up in its single noble purpose; so, _Sis fœmina Unius Libri_.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _Uncle Tom’s Cabin: A Picture of Slave Life in America._ By
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 1852.
_The Key to Uncle Tom’s Cabin: Presenting the original Facts and
Documents upon which the Story is founded._ By HARRIET BEECHER STOWE,
author of _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_. 1853.
[2] Here the MS. becomes unfortunately illegible for some lines.
[3] Is this word a suggestion from good Mrs Stowe’s husband?
[4] Topsy--an incomparable sketch--excited at first sight no
pleasureable sensations in good, starched Miss Ophelia. “Now,
Augustine (Mr St Clare), what upon earth is _this_ for? Your house
is so full of these little plagues already, that a body can’t set
their foot down without treading on ’em! I get up in the morning, I
find one asleep behind the door, see one black head poking out from
under the table, one lying on the door-mat; and they are mopping, and
mowing, and grinning between all the railings, and tumbling over the
kitchen floor! What on earth did you want to bring _this_ one for?”
“For you _to educate_--didn’t I tell you? You’re always preaching
about educating. I thought _I would make you a present of a
fresh-caught specimen_, and let you try your hand on her, and bring
her up in the way she should go!... The fact is, this concern (!)
belonged to a couple of drunken creatures, that kept a low restaurant
which I have to pass every day, and I am tired of hearing her
screaming, and them beating and swearing at her. She looked bright
and funny, too, as if something might be made of her; so _I bought
her_ (!) and I’ll give her to you. Try, now--and give her a good
orthodox New England bringing up, and see what it’ll make of her!”
“Well--I’ll do what I can,” said Miss Ophelia; and she approached her
new subject, very much as a person might be supposed to approach a
black spider--supposing him to have benevolent designs towards it!
[5] _New York Courier_, Nov. 5, 1852. Quoted, _Key_, p. 97.
[6] “I mean to ask him _to_.” This is a form of expression
continually occurring in this work. It is also one used by the
vulgar in this country; but Mrs Stowe puts it into the mouths alike
of educated and uneducated--black and white. We might notice many
analogous vulgarisms in at least English eyes, but the critic is
disposed heartily to act on the principle--
“Verum ubi plura nitent ... non ego paucis Offendar maculis.”
[7] Mrs Stowe is evidently very anxious to ingratiate her favourite
hero with her readers--and perhaps with young ladies she may
succeed--by constantly dwelling on his “large, blue, flashing
eyes”--“large, melancholy, blue eyes”--“his _fine face_, classic
as that of a Greek statue”--and so forth; but sterner touches are
requisite to make him a _manly_ hero. It seems also somewhat odd
to see him “sitting on the floor, and laying his head back in Miss
Ophelia’s lap”--who lays her “hand on his forehead”--he saying to
her, “Don’t _take on_, so awfully serious!”
[8] “Her theological tenets were all made up, labelled in the most
positive and distinct forms, and put by, like the bundles in her
patch trunk; there were just so many of them, and there were never to
be any more. Underlaying all, deeper than anything else, higher and
broader, lay the strongest principle of her being--conscientiousness.
_Nowhere is conscience so dominant and all-absorbing as with New
England women._” [Bless them!] “It is the granite formation which
lies deepest, and rises out, even to the tops of the highest
mountains.” This last we suspect to be a touch of her relative--The
“Professor!”
[9] Here, however, is an exquisite touch. When Eva can no longer
walk, Tom carried her; and on one occasion her father seeks to
perform that office. “Oh, papa! let Tom take me! Poor fellow, it
pleases him; and you know, _it’s all he can do_, and he wants to do
something!”
“So do I, Eva--.”
“Well, papa, you can do everything, and are everything to me. You
read to me,--you sit up at nights; but Tom _has only this_ one thing,
and his singing!”
[10] The next sentence in the text is a striking instance of the
superfluous and even irritating habit of Mrs Stowe already alluded
to. As if she had not painted so vividly as to touch the most stolid
feelings, she adds--“It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and
the ludicrous--the little old stocking, black crape, text-book, fair
soft curl, and Topsy’s utter distress.” Surely this is writing under
the picture of a horse--“This is a horse: do you see its hair, head,
neck, body, legs, hoofs, and tail? And it has eyes and nostrils!”
[11] The luckless girl bore her own penal letter-missive--“An order,
written in Mrs St Clare’s _delicate Italian hand_, to the master of a
whipping establishment, to give the bearer fifteen lashes!” and this
for only a hastily-uttered saucy expression!
[12] See the _New York Enquirer_, Nov. 5, 1852. _Key_, 97.
RIGHT DIVINE.
[No state of things can subsist without the Divine
permission. It is therefore obviously true how “the powers
that be” must be “ordained of God.”
Yet truth is polygonous, and the Locke theory may be also
true. All existing and operating governments, of whatever
form, may be and work by Divine appointment, and yet
receive their authority by delegation from the People,[13]
that is, from the free Society at large.
But the case may arise (as we have a remarkable instance
in California) where a mass of civilised men go forth in
complete maturity, and in perfect independence of the
mother country; carrying only so much of the government as
is contained in certain maxims and general principles which
they have imbibed with their mother’s milk. We see at once
that they would choose for themselves whether they would
rub on under the auspices of Justice Lynch, or depute a
corporation of some sort to take the management of their
affairs. Now, as it is clearly the affair of society that
John should not encroach upon Thomas’s diggings, or Thomas
put John to a violent death for his aggressions, some
consultation, like the following, will sooner or later have
to be held.]
SCENE.--THE CAPITAL OF “WHAT NOT.”
Persons--JOHN, THOMAS, EXECUTIVE, and CHORUS. _Thirty-two.
_ Varlets--MUTE PERSONS.
JOHN.--O great Executive, be good as great,
And save me from that brutal ruffian Thomas.
THOMAS.--Hold, sir! no names; remember where you are:
I hoped you’d had enough of that before.
EXECUTIVE.--Nay, gentlemen, this is unseemly.
CHORUS.-- Very;
’Twere well if John and Thomas did not fight!
EX.--Well, good my masters, what am I to do?
I fain would help you; but I seem to lack
The means of action: how provide you now?
J. (_whimpering_).--I keep a dozen cudgel-men.
E. (_to Thomas_).--And you?
T.--A score.
E.--Heyday! why, this must cost you something:
But I presume it answers?
C.-- Does it though?
Lord bless your worship; Thomas and his men
Rob, beat, and laugh at John; who’d do the same
Had he the power: and, indeed, I’ve heard
That John intends to keep ten other varlets;
And, O that Tom and Jack would cease to fight!
E.--Why, so they may, if you will but be calm;
Let each man pay a trifle--scarce worth naming--
And _I_ will keep a thousand cudgel-men.
C.--Apapai! this is downright Beadledom.
E.--My thousand varlets shall protect you all;
Each man shall have his thousand--all and each.
C.--I see; but recollect yourself, my friend;
This were a standing army; don’t you see?
J.--Ay, recollect yourself, good sir, you are our servant,
And hold your office only at our pleasure.
T.--Ay, marry, do you; and if we should find
That we grow weary of you, or see cause
To wish you changed, pray, how will this be done,
You, with your thousand knaves? Answer me that.
C.--Answer me that.
J.-- I pause for a reply.
E.--Dear masters mine, a little patience, pray:
If you would change me, it can still be done:
You are a million; and my thousand knaves,
What would they do against you?
J.-- Out, you fox!
Your thousand knaves, with discipline and arms,
Will beat ten thousand peaceful men like me.
E. (_blandly_).--O! gentlemen, it must be as you please,
For, after all, the affair is yours, not mine;
Even _with_ constables, I do not seek
The task of ruling spirits such as you.
C.--O me! how John and Thomas will dispute!
This must not be: come, list to me, my boys;
Hark to me, Thomas; John, a word i’ your ear:
Our friend is right, as usual; his stout knaves
May beat ten thousand of us;--that’s a warning
That we must not attack him (_aside_) with that force.
(_Aloud_).--You pay a tithe of what your fellows cost you,
And waive the privilege of private war,
A right that wrongs me foully; those he keeps
Will see fair play between you; he, no doubt,
Will use his power most justly.
[EXECUTIVE bows to each of them, and exit in a state of
edifying meekness. Loud cheers from JOHN and THOMAS.]
CH. (_proceeds_).--Should he not,
So help me, Hookey Walker, he shall rue it;
The wiser sort will grieve and bide their time;
And fools will raise their thousands, eight or nine;
And our friend’s arm shall crush them; if the time,
The melancholy time, should come, when Fate, grown sick
Of his vagaries, shall have spun his thread,
Some twelve or fourteen thousands will be found
To work the righteous sentence; he will fall;
Vox Populi Vox Dei; and the Rights
Of kings and constables are both divine.
_Tableau._--JOHN and THOMAS stand apart, in thoughtful
attitudes, their respective followers having gone to seek
employment under the new system. The CHORUS stands pensive,
but firm, in the centre of the stage. Scene closes.
H. G. K.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] Populus, not Plebs. These terms are often confounded, by the use
of a word which may be said to be the translation of either. I do not
here object to a nation’s being all Plebs, but protest against this
reading when it is not.
LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD.
PART X.--CHAP. XLVII.
“You seem so much better to-day,” said Mr Payne next morning to Mr
Levitt, “that I think I shall leave you alone with the Captain, and
go down to Larches, where I have not paid my customary visit for a
couple of weeks past.”
“By all means,” said the invalid; “I should like to go with you if
I could. I’ve a little curiosity to see that young lady of yours”
(which Mr Payne knew to signify that his friend felt a warm interest
in Orelia, though he had never seen her since she was a child).
“She’s handsome, you say?”
“Really,” said Mr Payne, “making due deduction for a parent’s
partiality, I should say you wouldn’t often see a finer young woman.”
“And accomplished too!--and high spirited. Payne, do you know, I wish
you’d take Durham down with you. I’m quite well enough to do without
anybody now.”
“To be sure,” said Mr Payne; “if you think you can spare him, I shall
be delighted. ’Twill do Orelia good, too, for she, and a friend of
hers, who is staying with her, seem to me to be falling into a sort
of religious melancholy; and, to tell you the truth, it has caused me
a good deal of anxiety.”
“And if--if the two should take a fancy to each other--Payne,
I needn’t say that my heir would lose nothing in my estimation
with your daughter for a wife. I once indulged in some little
castle-building of that kind, of which Durham was not the hero.”
“Ah, we won’t speak of that now, my dear friend,” said Mr Payne
hastily. “I’ll go at once, and ask the Captain to join me.”
Accordingly, he went off to propose the visit to Durham.
“It needn’t be dull for you,” said Mr Payne, “even if you shouldn’t
succeed in finding Langley. Besides my daughter there’s a friend of
hers, a very charming person, whom I think you must know--Lady Lee.”
Fane answered shortly and stiffly that he had that pleasure.
“Come,” said Mr Payne, “this is fortunate. We’ll start after lunch,
and get down to Larches by dinner-time. Frewenham is just fifty miles
from here.”
Fane agreed. Since finding out that Orelia lived near Frewenham,
he divined at once why Langley’s steps should be drawn in that
direction, and made sure of finding him there. Accordingly, after
lunch, they set off, and repaired in Mr Levitt’s carriage to the
railway, which took them the greater part of their journey.
Fane was but a silent companion. He was about, then, to see Lady
Lee again--to be under the same roof with her; that was the text
on which his thoughts discoursed. Was it not foolhardy to run into
the dangerous proximity?--to expose himself to the influence of
charms which could never be his? On the other hand, would it not be
mere weakness to avoid it? Why should he permit his movements to be
governed, his feelings played upon, by a woman who had preferred
another to him?--who was probably awaiting but the expiration of her
period of mourning to be the wife of another--of a man he despised.
Besides, he had some curiosity to see how she would receive and treat
him. Yes, that was it! Curiosity was the feeling that made him wish
to see her again.
And Fane, though as sensible a fellow as you would be likely to meet,
and by no means given to self-deception, really persuaded himself
that his anxiety once more to behold Lady Lee proceeded entirely
from curiosity. If he had a lurking doubt about that, there were
plenty of other plausible reasons to satisfy his conscience; for,
even admitting curiosity to be too trivial a feeling to cause him
to accept Mr Payne’s invitation, yet how could he help accompanying
him? Mr Payne was such an old friend of his uncle’s--and his uncle
wished it too; and then he should be glad to see Orelia again--he
had a great regard for Orelia! Above all, there was the prospect of
securing his cousin Langley--oh, there were reasons enough why he
should be anxious and eager for the termination of the journey, quite
independent of the prospect of seeing Lady Lee. Moreover, there was
nothing he despised so much as a man who would give a second thought
to a woman after he had ascertained that she didn’t care for him.
Didn’t care for him!--here he left arguing, and branched off into
recollections--such as he had a thousand times before banished, and
resolved to have done with for ever. Was her treatment of him, at
one time, that of a woman who didn’t care for him? Was she a likely
person to be guilty of setting traps for a man just to feed her
vanity? Wasn’t she the reverse of everything hollow, trifling, and
insincere? These questions resulted in the satisfactory and novel
general axiom that women were unaccountable beings, and as changeable
as the moon.
They had quitted the railway at Frewenham, and Fane stood at the door
of the principal hotel awaiting the harnessing of a horse to the gig
which was to convey them to Larches (which operation Mr Payne was
superintending), when he felt a hand laid gently on his arm, and a
voice said, “Bless me, Captain Fane, is that you? Who’d have thought
it!”
Fane turned and beheld Miss Fillett. Kitty was dressed in
sober-coloured and sober-cut garments, very different from the
coquettish array in which she had been accustomed, when Fane last saw
her, to go flirting about the precincts of the Heronry. Her very face
seemed to have lost its pert expression; at least, if not quite lost,
it was driven to lurk in the corners of her mouth and eyes. Beside
her walked a youth of about fourteen, in whose features might be
traced a strong family likeness to Kitty.
“How d’ye do, Kitty? You’ve come here with your lady, have you?” said
Fane.
“This is my nittive place,” answered Miss Fillett. “I’m living with
my own femily, though I do see my lady and Miss Payne from time to
time. My lady took me from here when she married. This is my brother,
Captain,” looking at the youth at her side. “Go on, Thomas,” she
said to this relative, “and wait for me at the meeting-house door;
and mind you have nothink to say to them depraved boys that’s always
playing marbles there.”
Thomas departed. “Why, goodness gracious, Captain, what bekim of you
that time you left us so suddin?” said Kitty, coming close up to
Fane, and speaking in a low earnest tone. “There was certain persons
fretted after you, I can tell you.”
Fane felt his colour rise in spite of himself. “I suspect you’re
mistaken, Kitty,” he said, affecting to laugh.
“To go off in that hasty way, without so much as saying good-by,”
Kitty went on, “and when there was persins, perhaps, wishing to
see you, if ’twas only to bid farewell--’twasn’t quite the thing,
Captain.”
“Perhaps not, Kitty,” said the Captain, “but we can’t always do what
we wish, you know.”
“No,” said Kitty, “Hevin knows we can’t--in particular, when our
wish is to do what is right. I’ve wanted to see you this long time,
Captain Fane, about a matter in which I’ve took blame to myself. Ever
since the loss of dear Master Juley, which my lady never will forgive
me, though I’d have laid down my life for him, Hevin knows, Captain,
my conscience have pricked me”--
Kitty stopt suddenly as she looked up the street. Fane’s eyes
following the direction of hers, he beheld a man in black advancing
on the opposite side of the way. His face hung down over his white
neckcloth; so that, in order to look round him, his eyes, which were
of a leaden colour, were forced to peer in a stealthy stare from
under his thick black eyebrows. His depressed nose, and his advancing
lips, rounding smugly and smilingly over the teeth, gave him some
resemblance to a sheep or goat.
“’Tis the Rev. Mr Fallalove,” said Kitty, “the minister of our
chapel. O, what will he think of me talking to you, sir! I’ll meet
you, sir,” added Kitty, in a rapid under-tone, “outside the town, on
the road to Larches, at ten o’clock to-morrow morning. I’ve really
got something to tell you, sir--something you’d give a good deal,
perhaps, to know.” Fane promised to come--and Kitty, dropping a
demure curtsey, walked away to greet the Rev. Mr Fallalove; while Mr
Payne appearing with the gig, he and Fane drove off to Larches.
“Go on and announce yourself, while I take my coat off,” said Mr
Payne to Fane, standing in the lobby at Larches--“through the
drawing-room’s your way.”
Fane advanced--the door of the dining-room was open, and he paused,
looking at its occupants, who, taking his step for that of a servant,
did not look towards him.
Orelia, the queenly Orelia, seated at the head of the table, was
eating her soup with her usual lofty composure. She was worth more
attention than Fane bestowed on her, for his gaze never rested on
her, nor on the martyr Priscilla, whose face was swathed up like a
mummy’s, but who smiled, nevertheless, in spite of her teeth. He was
altogether absorbed in the contemplation of Lady Lee, who sat at the
foot of the table, her soup untouched, her cheek resting on her hand,
her look turned aside towards a small foot which peeped from beneath
her black dress.
How long he might have so stood is uncertain; but Mr Payne’s
advancing step and voice now caused them all to look up, and they saw
Fane standing in the doorway. Lady Lee visibly started; her bosom
and shoulders gave one quick heave, and her colour flushed up for a
moment. Orelia’s spoon stopped on its way to her mouth--she calmly
laid it down, and rose to receive her visitors.
Fane, acting up to his principle that it would be mere weakness to
allow himself to show any feeling beyond strict civility towards
her ladyship, rather, as is customary in such cases, overdid his
part, and threw such an extreme amount of indifference into his
salutation, that the warmth with which she came forward to meet him
was dissipated in a moment. Chilled and hurt, she resumed her seat in
silence.
Fane, supporting his character of chance and uninterested visitor
with great success, conversed fluently on a variety of topics,
though it would have puzzled him to remember his own remarks half
an hour after. It was one of the few occasions in his life when he
had acted a part, and he, of course, overacted it. He was pointedly
amusing to Orelia; he listened with great attention to the inanities
of Priscilla, lending the most courteous ear to a protracted account
of her toothache; but when Lady Lee spoke, which only happened
once or twice, though her voice made his heart beat, he manifested
no consciousness of her presence. Once or twice, addressing some
trivial remark to her, he caught her eyes fixed on him with a look of
sorrowful surprise, but they were immediately averted.
Mr Payne did not find Fane more sociable, when the ladies left them
to their wine, than he had on the journey. At tea with the ladies
he resumed his former demeanour; and afterwards Orelia, thinking to
do him and Hester a kindness, set her father and Priscilla down to
double dummy, in a remote corner, and sat by the card-table herself.
Fane felt rather awkward, and glanced at Lady Lee, who was reading.
Presently he found himself approaching her--not that he would have
owned himself impelled to take that course--not at all; he set
it all down to civility--he couldn’t leave her sitting there by
herself, you know. But he would be very guarded; he would try to hit
the line between the confidence of friends and the reserve of new
acquaintances, so that his present demeanour might blend harmoniously
into their ancient intimacy on the one hand, and the distant civility
that was to exist between them in future, on the other.
Lady Lee did not seem so absorbed in her book as not to notice his
approach; for though she did not look round, she coloured a little,
and tremulously turned over two leaves at once, without discovering
the gap thus left in the narrative. She laid the volume down when he
took a seat near and addressed her.
“This must be a pleasant place of your friend’s when the flowers are
in bloom,” said Fane.
“Very.”
“No doubt you feel quite at home here.”
“Certainly; the happiest years of my life were spent here.”
“I trust,” said Fane, “they may soon lose the distinction of being
the happiest.”
“That is very unlikely,”--(with a sigh.)
A pause. Strange to say, the thought that Lady Lee had no happiness
immediately in store for her, did not altogether displease Fane.
“Happiness often takes us unawares,” said Fane; “and,” he added,
“another of its peculiarities, as we all know, is to slip from us
as we prepare to close our grasp on it. Most of us experience much
oftener its elusive power than its pleasant surprises.”
“Yours used to be a more cheerful philosophy,” said Lady Lee. “I
remember, in one of our last conversations, you denounced those views
of life which are tinged with complaint or despondency, as unmanly
and untrue.”
“I suspect our philosophy comes more from without than within,” he
said; “and we preach hope or cynicism as we happen to be prosperous
or disappointed.”
“I should regret,” said Lady Lee, in a low tone, “to hear that you
had any real cause for such a change.”
“Our opinions as to what might or might not be a real cause would
possibly differ,” returned Fane. “Of course, if one has bound up
one’s happiness in some ideal which turns out to be a delusion, there
is perhaps no one to blame but one’s-self. I say perhaps, because the
deception may have been so complete as to excuse the credulity; but,
at any rate, one must not then find fault with views of life which
others, more fortunate, are justified in adhering to.”
“It must be a weaker belief in good than I had fancied Captain Fane’s
to be, which a single error can shake,” said Lady Lee.
“But if the error is so important as to upset all calculation,”
said Fane. “If I have been all my life----. But I will not talk of
myself,” he said, breaking off, as he perceived how near dangerous
ground he was treading. “What is the book you are reading?”
“It has a radical fault in your eyes,” said Lady Lee; “it is written
by a woman.”
“Ah!” said Fane, “I remember I used to think it a kind of desecration
for a woman to confide her sentiments to the world; and the finer
the sentiments, the more it seemed to me a pity that they should
ever be blown on by the rude breath of the public. If she must write
them, let her write them in her journal, or her letters to a chosen
few--perhaps a chosen one; but to trot her feelings out, to show the
form and paces of her mind to cold-eyed critics and gaping fools, I
would as soon see the woman I loved capering in the scantiest gauze
at the opera. So I used to say.”
“Used to say!” said Lady Lee. “Are your opinions on this point
changing too?”
“Yes,” said Fane, with a good deal of unconscious bitterness in
his tone--“yes; I begin to think that if a woman’s sentiments do
not influence her life in its chief actions, it is of no great
consequence what becomes of them; let her trumpet them in the
marketplace, if she likes, after the manner of a proclamation. I
don’t mean to say they should be always manifesting themselves
in every petty action, but they should colour her existence, and
influence its main outlines. But if these sentiments and feelings
would never have found expression at all if not in writing--if, by
presenting them to the public, she is robbing her daily life of no
delicate tint--then my objections to female authorship are gone;
but with them is also gone some of my belief in the excellence of
feminine nature.”
Can he have left Doddington on some love enterprise, and been
disappointed? whispered Lady Lee’s heart; or can the sharpness of
his tone be meant for me? A dim thought that he might be alluding to
her marriage with Sir Joseph crossed her mind. Poor woman! no wonder
she was puzzled; she could not see the handsome, self-complacent,
coxcombical image of Sloperton, which to Fane’s fancy sat between
them, like Banquo’s ghost, and seemed to push him from his stool.
“Perhaps,” she said presently--“perhaps you are on principle getting
rid of some of the tenets of your former faith, stripping yourself,
that you may be the lighter to run the race of ambition; for you
never denied you were ambitious, you know.”
“I never did,” said Fane; “but I do now. For do but consider, Lady
Lee, if my faith in my ideals has vanished, if the companionship and
reflected interest which these give to a man’s efforts are no longer
among his prospects, where is he to look for the stimulus and reward
of ambition?”
“You show a dreary picture,” said Lady Lee, with an unconscious sigh;
“but then ambition is a dreary thing, and does not seem, in general,
to look for sympathy as its reward.”
“True,” said Fane; “and when I see men long past their youth
joining in the contest for fame, I always ask myself where lies
their inducement?--Not in love, for they have outlived it--not in
friendship, for they reject it--not even in applause, for to that
they seem not to listen. They seem actuated by an insane desire to
climb to a barren eminence, and there die. For my own part, I could
not value nor wish for fame, unless I could read it focussed and
reflected in ----. But I will not trouble you with my abandoned
aspirations and opinions; I leave them, with my other theories, to
some one who has not yet discovered that he is a dreamer of dreams.”
Fane imagined that he had conducted the conversation so as to show
perfect indifference and independence. It never occurred to him that
he would not have talked thus, nor on such subjects, to a woman he
did not care about.
When Lady Lee went to her room that night, Orelia followed her, and,
sitting down by her side on the sofa at the foot of the bed, looked
inquiringly into her eyes. Lady Lee knew what she meant, but, having
nothing to say, said nothing. She only turned away and sighed; and
Orelia, kissing her forehead, bid her good night.
Ah, if Fane could have afterwards seen Lady Lee whispering her sorrow
to her pillow in the watches of the night, what a pebble he must
have been had he not run to comfort her. But he couldn’t see her,
for there was a solid wall separating her room from the one where he
strode to and fro musingly.
If it is hard for two, who would gladly give up all and everything
for each other, to find inseparable obstacles interposed between
them, must it not be the devil’s spite for them to discover, perhaps
in the next world, that they were divided in this one by some merely
imaginary bar--some difference that a word would have dissipated?
CHAPTER XLVIII.
Fane was angry with himself next morning to perceive how anxiously
he looked for Lady Lee’s entrance to the breakfast-room. He looked
in vain, however; she breakfasted in her own room; and when the
meal was finished, he set off, without having seen her, to keep his
appointment with Miss Fillett.
Kitty was lingering about a milestone when Fane came up, and,
appearing in great distress lest any one should see her talking to
him, she got over a stile when she saw him coming, and walked along a
bypath.
Kitty’s conscience had, as she said, smitten her since the loss of
Julius for the share which she had taken in Bagot’s schemes, and she
now, as soon as Fane reached her, began, with much circumlocutory
penitence, to hint at what she called her lady’s parshality for
Fane--told what she knew of the Colonel’s design on Sloperton, and
how she had helped to forward it--mentioned the circumstances which
gave Bagot his power over Lady Lee--and, lastly, described the final
exit which Sloperton had made in apparent discomfiture from the
Heronry. She naturally took some pains to excuse her own complicity,
but she might have spared them; Fane attended to, and cared for,
nothing but the leading facts, which showed him how he had been
imposed on; and when she stopt, he actually caught Kitty round the
neck and kissed her.
“Good Hevins, Captain!” said Miss Fillett, who, probably from
surprise, had submitted quietly to the salute, “why, I never! ain’t
you ashamed? Do behave, sir!”
“’Twas a kiss of pure gratitude,” said Fane, “and might have been
given by a hermit to a saint, Kitty. I shall always look on you as a
benefactor.”
“And--and--you’ll speak to my lady for me, sir?” said Kitty.
“To be sure I will,” said Fane, “only you mustn’t intrigue any more
with the Colonel,” he added, laughing.
He was hastening off, when he suddenly remembered that he had
intended to ask Kitty if she had seen anything of the dragoon Onslow
in Frewenham, and hurried back to put the question.
In reply, Miss Fillett dived down into her pocket, and extracting
therefrom a yellow printed paper, she unfolded it, smoothed out the
creases against her knee, and gave it to Fane.
It was a playbill, and announced, under the special patronage of the
mayor and corporation of Frewenham, Sheridan’s comedy of the Rivals
for that night.
“Well, Kitty, what has this to do with the matter?” asked Fane. Kitty
pointed to the list of _dramatis personæ_.
“‘_Sir Anthony Absolute_--Mr Cavendish,’” Fane read. “‘_Captain
Absolute_--Mr Onslow.’ What, he’s gone on the stage, then!” Fane
paused to consider. He had plenty to occupy him that morning; it
must have been very urgent business indeed that would keep him that
morning away from Larches; he could see his cousin as well at night,
as now--yes; he would go to the play, see him act, and discover
himself afterwards.
“I knew him the minute I set eyes on him,” said Kitty, “for all he
have shaved off his mustache. They say he acts beautiful--and I must
own to a sinful wish to see him. But plays,” added Kitty piously, “is
vanity.”
“Come to-night, Kitty,” said Fane, dropping his purse into the pocket
of her apron; “perhaps we may have occasion for a little more talk
together, since you seem to know so much of what’s been going on at
the Heronry, and I can’t spare a moment to hear it now. Come by all
means, Kitty, and I’ll promise you absolution,” and he once more
quitted her, going back at his swiftest pace to Larches; while Miss
Fillett, after a short struggle with herself, determined to see
Onslow act that night, let the Rev. Mr Fallalove and Co. say what
they might about it.
Fane entered the drawing-room at Larches, just as Lady Lee was going
out by another door. She turned a pale tearful face towards him, and
was going to give him a distant salutation, when the slight movement
was arrested, and the expression changed to one of surprise, as he
hurried up and seized her hand.
“I have a long explanation to give,” he said, “and then I think you
will forgive me. But first let me say what has been on my mind for
this long time,” which he did in three words.
Lady Lee did not carry out her original intention of quitting the
room; in fact, she forgot it altogether. She allowed him to lead
her to a seat, and listened with deep attention. Fane had a turn
for arrangement, and therefore (after the compendious preamble
or overture of three words above-mentioned) he began his tale at
the beginning. He told Lady Lee, with a degree of eloquence that
altogether astonished himself, how he had first admired, secondly
loved her; how her seemingly capricious treatment of him had caused
him to alternate between hope and despair--and of his interview with
Josiah; and to all this her ladyship listened with the sweetest
patience, her eyes being sometimes downcast, sometimes fixed on Fane.
But when he told her of the consent which Sloperton had procured and
exhibited to him, patience gave way to indignation; her eyes, neither
downcast nor fixed on Fane, sparkled with anger, which was presently
quenched in tears. This stage passed, he told of his dreary existence
since, and of his efforts to forget her--of the cause of his coming
to Larches, involving the episode of his cousin Langley and Orelia;
and wound up his epic by swearing he was now the happiest rascal in
existence, and kissing her ladyship’s hand.
She, too, had a little tale to tell--of her unhappiness and
anxiety--her futile attempts to account for his sudden departure
and continued absence; and it is really enough to make one ashamed
of one’s species, and to cause one to believe in Rochefoucault,
Thackeray, and other cynic philosophers, to know that Fane listened
to this account of her woes with positive pleasure, and was raised
to a state bordering on rapture at hearing that the night before had
been passed by her in sleeplessness and tears.
They got no farther than this before lunch; but Orelia, seeing at a
glance how things were going, left them alone together after that
meal--and the conclusion they arrived at before dinner was this,
that after an interval granted to Hester’s sorrow, they should be
married--with Bagot’s consent, if that were obtainable by purchase,
or otherwise--if not, they would be married without it, and let him
do his worst.
CHAPTER XLIX.
That building which in Frewenham was now devoted to the drama, bore,
in general, but little resemblance to a theatre. It was a long narrow
room enclosed by four isolated walls, and had been built by an
enterprising master-mason as a speculation. It was the public room of
Frewenham. Here balls took place; here lectures were delivered; here
public meetings were held. It served all sorts of opposite purposes;
and here--where only a few days before an enthusiastic missionary
had collected plates-ful of money from the devout inhabitants of
Frewenham in aid of a project for convincing the Kaffirs, by the
power of moral reasoning, of the advantages of universal peace and
brotherhood, and subsequently forming them into a great South African
Tee-total Society--here such of the pleasure-loving portion of the
townsfolk as could command the price of admission, were now assembled
to witness Sheridan’s comedy.
One end of this room was divided from the rest, partly by a painted
wooden partition, which stretched across the ceiling and down the
sides, partly by a green baize curtain in the centre of it. In front
of the curtain flared and smoked a row of footlights, diffusing an
odour suggestive at once of train-oil and boiled mutton.
The stage being on the ground-floor, there was no pit, properly so
called--a row of forms, at a few feet from the footlights, evidently
represented the boxes, inasmuch as their occupants paid highest for
their seats; but this was the only advantage they possessed over the
pit and gallery behind them, except that the vapour of the footlights
was there inhaled in greater freshness and perfection. The orchestra
was raised on one side of the boxes, and consisted of a violoncello,
a serpent, and two fiddles, all belonging to the county militia.
The musicians were perfectly well known to the audience, which was
a great comfort to those impatient persons in the gallery, who had
stormed the door and rushed in about an hour and a half before the
play commenced, for they were enabled to relieve their otherwise
painful suspense by calling to them by name for favourite airs, and
making them the subjects of many playful allusions. “Rub your elbow
with the rosin, Jim,” shouted a wag to the leader of the band, who
was preparing his violin-bow with that substance; “there was too much
rheumatism in that last tune.” “Your serpent’s got a hoaze, Biffin,”
cried another, to the performer on that wind instrument: “put him
in ’ot flannel when you go home, and don’t bring him out no more o’
nights.” “Cherry ripe!” shouted a chorus of voices. “Music, play
up!” “Polly, put the kettle on!” demanded an opposition chorus--and
faction ran so high between the adverse connoisseurs, that, when
the music struck up, nobody knew what they were playing--while the
gallery, with its darkness visible, and the confusion that reigned
in its obscurest nooks, where the choice spirits had collected,
presented the aspect of an amiable pandemonium, till the rising of
the curtain produced an instantaneous calm.
Fane had entered early, and stood leaning against the wall watching
the entry of the spectators, who gradually filled the house. The
green baize on the seats in the boxes became invisible foot by foot,
as careful fathers and matrons selected good points of view for
themselves and offspring--as a young ladies’ school entered in a
body, and with demureness, relieved by private titters under each
other’s bonnets, ranged themselves in order--as gay bachelors, who
had been chatting with female acquaintances at a distance, rushed to
secure their places. Cheerfulness and expectation prevailed; but the
person among all the audience, whose feelings Fane envied most, was a
sharp-looking little boy, in a red frock with black specks on it, and
a magnificent feathered hat, who came in with his papa and brothers,
and, being placed on his feet in the front row, gazed round him with
intense delight. Fane remembered that the last time he had been in
such a place he was about that age and size, and he knew that the
scene was, to that little boy, the most charming spot on earth; that
he had dreamt of it for two or three previous nights, at least--that
the smell of the footlights was a sweet savour in his nostrils,
the noise in the gallery solemn music in his ears--the whole place
paradise--and that he would watch the progress of the drama with
breathless interest, and most uncriticising faith. There was an elder
brother of his, too, who appeared, probably for the first time in his
life, in Wellington boots and a shirt-collar, to his great pride and
discomfort; and Fane guessed with considerable correctness that this
youth would conceive an ardent and respectful passion for the lady
who did Lydia Languish.
Presently, as the place began to fill, a stout gentleman stood up and
blew his nose like a trumpet, and, after replacing his handkerchief
with much ceremony in his pocket, gazed round him with great
sternness and dignity. He was evidently a man of the first importance
in a civic point of view--his bunch of seals was massive, his hair
was brushed ferociously up from his forehead, and his shirt-collars
appeared to be cutting his ears off. As the noise in the gallery
increased, he lifted up his hand majestically, as if to calm the
tumult; still it went on--he shook his head as if at so many noisy
children, when a voice was heard to shout amid the din, “Hark to old
Bribery and Corruption!” which was the nickname the stout gentleman
was known by among his fellow-townsmen, in consequence of some
valuable electioneering qualities--whereupon he turned away redder
than ever, and stooping down, pretended to whisper to another stout
gentleman, who shook his head, frowned fiercely, and said the rascals
had been getting more impudent every day since the passing of the
Reform Bill.
Fane saw Kitty Fillett steal in, accompanied by her young brother,
and silently seat herself in the pit--a sort of purgatory, or
middle state between the inferno of the gallery, and the paradise
of the boxes. She seemed anxious to avoid notice, but in this she
was disappointed, for she was presently recognised by some vigilant
censors in the gallery. “Won’t Miss Fillett ask a blessing?” cried
one. “No backsliders,” shouted another. “Give her the Old Hundredth,”
said a third, addressing the orchestra--whereat Miss Fillett,
wrapping her shawl nervously about her, looked around, sniffing in
high scorn and defiance.
Presently a little bell rang, and the curtain drew up.
Fane recognised the dragoon directly Captain Absolute entered,
and saw in a moment that the high encomium passed by Mr Payne on
Langley’s powers as an actor was no more than just. He infused great
spirit into the part, and made the points tell admirably. He was
dressed in perfect taste, and looked so handsome and high-bred,
that the entire young ladies’ school fell in love with him, and
two teachers began to pine away from that very night; while Lydia
Languish, a showy-looking girl, acted the love scenes with a degree
of warmth that showed she must either be a mistress of that kind of
acting, or else not acting at all. Sir Anthony, too, was remarkably
well acted by an old man, the manager of the company, who called
himself Mr Cavendish. The costumes were correct, and in excellent
taste; and some of the scenes were admirably painted in a style that
Fane at once ascribed to Langley’s pencil.
The curtain fell at the end of the last act amid great approbation.
Shortly afterwards, old Mr Cavendish made his appearance before the
curtain, to announce that the Infant Roscius was about to appear as
Young Norval, and to request that, however much the audience might
approve his performance, they would refrain from loud applause, as
that would probably put such an inexperienced performer out in his
part.
Again the bell rang, and the curtain ascended creaking. After a pause
Young Norval entered, clad in full Highland costume. He seemed about
four or five years old, and came in with a sort of mock manliness
in his gait, which at once insured him the sympathies of the female
portion of the audience. In fact, Fane heard one young lady near
pronounce him a “darling” before he opened his mouth, while another
expressed a desire to kiss him.
The juvenile tragedian having informed the audience, in a bold lisp,
that his name was Norval, and having mentioned the “G_w_ampian hills”
as the place of his paternal abode, was proceeding to describe his
connection with the warlike lord, when a voice in the pit was heard
to exclaim, “Master Juley! O goodness gracious, Master Juley!”
Young Norval paused with an amazed air--fumbled with his dirk--looked
about him for a moment, and, forgetting his heroic character, began
to cry. Again the voice in the pit was heard. “Master Juley,” it
cried, “come to Kitty!” when the drop-scene suddenly descended, with
great swiftness, and hid him from view.
A great commotion now took place in the house, especially the pit,
where the fainting form of Kitty Fillett was seen passed from hand to
hand on its way to the open air. Fane, on hearing her exclamation,
had quitted the house, and ran round to the stage-door, which he
entered. The first person he encountered was Captain Absolute, who
was standing with his back towards him, but who turned instantly as
Fane called out “Langley.”
“You know who I am then?” he said, advancing. “I saw you among the
audience.”
“I’ve been following you these six weeks,” said Fane, shaking his
hand. “First let me see the child, and I’ll speak to you afterwards.”
At that moment the old manager passed, making for the stage-door,
with Julius kicking and struggling in his arms. Fane, laying one hand
on the shoulder of the old gentleman, lifted the boy from him with
the other. Julius recognised Fane at once, and, calling him by name,
ceased crying.
Mr Holmes (for the manager was no other than that venerable person)
surrendered the boy at once. “Allow me to speak to you one moment,
sir,” he said, drawing Fane aside by the arm. “Doubtless you
intend to restore him to his friends,” said Mr Holmes, in a calm
business-like tone.
“Instantly,” said Fane. “But how came he with you, when he is
believed dead by his friends? You will have to account for this.”
Mr Holmes looked round, to see that no one was within earshot, and,
motioning to Fane to stoop, he whispered in his ear.
“Good God!” said Fane, as Mr Holmes ceased. “I can’t believe it. And
yet, why not? But this may be a slander of yours, to screen yourself,
and gain time to escape.”
“Me!” said Mr Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, and spreading out his
palms. “I shall make no attempt to escape. My account of the matter
is plain, so far as I am concerned. I was requested to take charge
of the young gentleman, and accepted it. Then naturally comes the
question. By whom were you requested? And whether a public answer
will be satisfactory to the young gentleman’s family and friends, you
may judge for yourself.”
“The old scoundrel is right,” muttered Fane. “It cannot be kept too
quiet.” Then he said aloud, “This will be matter for his friends to
decide on; in the mean time, I shall take him to his mother.”
“One word more,” said Mr Holmes. “I have reason to believe it was
intended to restore the young gentleman to his family very shortly.
It was with that view, I imagine, that I received directions to
proceed to this place; though I didn’t know they were in this
neighbourhood.”
Fane, still holding Julius in his arms, now went towards the door.
As he passed Langley, he stopped and drew out his watch. “It is now
ten,” said he. “Can you, in an hour from this, meet me, Langley,
at the hotel in Fore Street?” Langley assented, and Fane left the
theatre.
Miss Fillett having been conveyed by charitable hands into the open
air, had been forthwith surrounded by a circle of her own sex, who
fanned her face, stuffed hartshorn and smelling salts up her nose,
beat her hands, and adopted other established remedies for her
restoration. These had so far recovered her that, on seeing Fane
emerge with Julius, she broke from the sympathetic females around
her, and, snatching the young baronet, cast herself on her knees on
the pavement, and squeezed him in her arms, murmuring hysterically,
and shedding tears over him.
“Where is the hold villain?” said Kitty presently, looking round in
search of Mr Holmes. “It misgive me, the moment I see him, that I
knew his ugly old face. Let me kim to him. I’ll tear his eyes out.”
A word in her ear from Fane, however, induced her to defer her
vengeance for the present; and he prevailed on her to come with
Julius, whom she would not let out of her clutch for an instant, to
the hotel, where a conveyance might be got to convey them to Larches;
and thither they accordingly repaired, attended by a considerable
crowd, who had been solacing themselves by listening outside the
theatre to catch stray sounds and music, and obtaining hasty glimpses
of a green baize screen whenever the door was opened.
A quarter of an hour saw them speeding along in a dog-cart, Fane
driving, and Fillett holding the recovered little baronet in her lap.
He slept there soundly. “Dear soul!” said Fillett, looking down at
him, and covering him with her shawl, “he used to be always a-bed by
eight o’clock. We shan’t get speech of him to-night.”
They stopt at a little distance from the cottage, and a stable-boy
who sat behind took the reins to hold the horse till the return of
Fane, who now proceeded with Fillett and her charge to the house.
There was a light in the drawing-room, and Fane, going softly up, and
standing on a flower-bed underneath, peeped in. He was very glad to
see Orelia seated there reading, alone, and, returning to Fillett,
he took Julius from her, and sent her in to prepare Miss Payne for
the strange news of his recovery.
Fillett went, and Fane heard the murmur of their voices for a minute
or two--when Orelia’s grew louder--the drawing-room door opened, and
forth she came in such tempestuous fashion, that it was fortunate she
ran against nobody in the passage. Seeing Julius asleep in Fane’s
arms as he stood in the porch, and recognising the boy instantly in
spite of his Highland costume, she snatched him eagerly, and covered
him with kisses. “I wonder what Langley would give for one or two of
those,” said Fane to himself, as he followed her to the drawing-room.
In answer to her breathless inquiries, he told how he had found
Julius, and the reasons which appeared to exist for keeping his
abduction as secret as possible. Then they consulted together as to
the best mode of breaking the news to Lady Lee. “I’ll go and tell her
immediate,” said the excited Fillett. “I ain’t afraid to face my lady
now.”
“Stay, my good girl,” said Fane; “we mustn’t be rash. Miss Payne, you
could prepare her better than any one.”
Orelia went away, and, after a short absence, returned to the
drawing-room.
“Hester is asleep,” said she; “I was afraid to wake her.”
“Right,” said Fane. “But what do you think, Miss Payne, of placing
Julius, who doesn’t seem likely to wake till morning, by his mother’s
side?”
“Ho!” said Kitty, “the very thing!--and when my lady wakes, she’ll
think ’tis a dream.”
“Do you know,” said Orelia, “that strikes me as a happy thought of
yours. I’m resolved it shall be done--yes--it shall.” So saying, she
took up the slumbering Julius, and desiring Fillett to accompany her,
conveyed him to her own room; while Fane quitted the house to rejoin
Langley, saying he would return for news in the morning.
Arrived in her chamber, Orelia desired Kitty to undress Julius,
an office she was well accustomed to, and gladly undertook. He
fretted a little, in a sleepy way, at being disturbed, and thrust his
knuckles into his eyes; but the moment the disrobing was accomplished
he relapsed into sound slumbers, with a long-drawn sigh. “Bless you,”
said Kitty, “he’d sleep now if you put him standing on his head on
the floor, the dear!”
Orelia, on her first visit to Hester’s room, had left a light there.
Very softly she now re-entered, bearing her young friend, with his
head against her bosom, his bare legs dangling perpendicularly from
the bend of her arm, and, stealing to the side of the bed, stood
looking at its occupant, while Kitty, with elaborate caution, crept
after. The youthfulness of Hester’s look, as she lay with her face
turned up till her chin approached her upraised shoulder, struck
Orelia--she beheld the Hester of five years before. She stood a
moment gazing at her, figuring to herself the astonishment that
would appear in those eyes when their lids were next raised; then
she motioned to Fillett, who turned down the bed-clothes far enough
to admit Julius, and Orelia, stooping silently down, deposited him
with his head on the pillow near Lady Lee’s. It seemed a matter of
indifference to him what they did with him; he merely rubbed his nose
with his hand, as if something tickled it, made a noise with his lips
as if tasting something, and slept on. Lady Lee, too, slept quietly;
and Orelia, after having once or twice turned to look at them,
withdrew with Kitty. She closed the door softly, then, listening,
thought she heard a noise--re-opened it--it was only Lady Lee turning
in her sleep; she now lay with her face turned to the boy’s, and her
arm across his neck--and Orelia retired to her own room.
Fane found Langley waiting at the hotel door, and, taking his arm,
drew him into a private room. As he had dined early, and imagined his
cousin had probably done so too, he ordered supper forthwith. “We
should be hungry enough before we had half done talking,” said Fane.
“First, while supper is getting ready, I’ll have my say.”
Accordingly he told his cousin how he had got a clue to their
relationship by means of the seal ring at the silversmith’s--of his
late visit to their uncle--of his uncle’s smothered affection for
Langley--of the visit with Miss Betsey to his old apartments--of his
conversation with Mr Payne; which last, however, he recapitulated
only so far as it related to the manner in which Langley had first
provoked his uncle, saying nothing at present about the forgery,
which he wished to hear Langley’s own version of.
His cousin listened eagerly--seemed surprised at the share his ring
had borne in detecting him--smiled at Fane’s mention of Miss Betsey,
and interrupted him to characterise her as a “jolly old woman.” But
the account of the rooms, still preserved in the state he had left
them in, and of his uncle’s nocturnal visits to them, excited deeper
emotion. He rose from his chair, walked about the room, and, when he
resumed his seat, brushed off some moisture from his eyelashes.
“I believe in my soul,” said Langley, “that he once loved me better
than anything on earth. But his last letter to me was so harsh,
so severe in tone, that I imagined I should not have obtained
forgiveness, even had I sought it. To seek it, however, was far from
my thoughts; my uncle’s condemnation of my conduct was mild compared
with my own, and I had resolved, before his letter came, never to
look on his face again till I could do so without shame.”
“You must have played the very deuce,” observed Fane, “to call forth
these feelings in him and yourself. ’Twas play, I suppose, that did
it.”
“Yes,” said Langley, “that finished me; but I had no turn for saving,
and I had, besides, dropt a good deal on a favourite for the Leger.
All my uncle’s allowance went. I asked for more--’twas sent with
some caustic remarks; next time, the remarks were angry, instead of
caustic--then bitter. At last, while playing to win back, I lost
all I had. I sold everything, and was still a hundred pounds short.
This sum I wrote to my uncle for, assuring him ’twas the last time I
should ever trouble him. He evidently didn’t believe me, for, with
the check for a hundred, came the letter I already told you of, the
harshest he had ever written.”
“Well?” said Fane impatiently, seeing him pause.
“I paid my gaming debts, in some of which I suspected foul play,
though it would have been difficult to prove that. All paid, I found
myself with about fifteen shillings, and a suit of clothes, as my
sole possessions, to make a fresh start in the world with. I left
London, making my way on foot towards a seaport; and, while making a
meal of bread and cheese, to be paid for with my last remaining coin,
a recruiting sergeant spoke to me, and I enlisted directly. You know
my career afterwards, till I left the Heronry Lodge.”
“But the last check from my uncle,” said Fane, “I want to hear about
that. To whom did you pay it?”
“To the man I had lost most to, and who had the greatest share in my
ruin,” said Langley. “He came to my lodgings on the day I received
it. I threw it across the table to him, telling him, calmly enough
outwardly, that I was done for, and that he would never hear of me
more, for that my intention was to quit the country that very day.”
“And you saw nothing more of him?” said Fane.
“Never till we met on the day of the review in the Heronry grounds,”
returned Levitt, “when he seemed confused enough at the meeting, as
well he might, for, as I say, Seager had more to do with my ruin than
anybody.”
“Seager!” exclaimed Fane. “I always thought him a horrible rascal.
’Twas to him, then, you transferred your check?”
“Yes,” said Langley; “and, at the same time, I showed him the
letter that accompanied it, that he might see the kind of misery
such proceedings as his lead to. He read it--threw it back to me.
‘All up there,’ said he; ‘the old boy’s done with you--what do you
mean to do?’ I told him I should quit the country that very day. He
approved of this design, and offered to pay my passage to any foreign
port I chose. This I declined; and, meeting the recruiting party, I
abandoned my first intention, and enlisted.”
Fane stood up, leaning his arm against the chimneypiece, his head
upon his hand, deep in thought. “Certainly,” he said to himself,
“Langley is innocent of the forgery--and I think I see who is
guilty--now, to prove it is the point.”
“Was there any one present when you gave the check to Seager?” he
asked.
Levitt paused for a minute to think. “I’m not sure,” he replied,
“’twas so long ago; but I rather think Mounteney was present.”
“And knew the amount of the check?” asked Fane.
“Probably,” returned Levitt--“indeed, I should say, certainly, if he
was present, as I rather fancy he was. But why do you ask?”
Fane, however, waived this question; it could answer no purpose, at
present, to show Langley the suspicion he lay under. Supper appearing
at the moment enabled him to change the subject.
“Your health, Durham,” said Langley; “long may you enjoy my uncle’s
favour, which you deserve better than I did. By Jupiter!” he added,
setting down his glass, “I had almost forgotten the flavour of
champagne. It is long since I tasted it, and ’twill, probably, be yet
longer before I taste it again.”
“You have told me nothing of your plans for the future,” said Durham.
“They are hardly definite enough to talk about; but I’m not used to
despond. My one clear purpose is to leave England. Since I left the
service, I have found how difficult it is to make, unassisted, the
first step in the ascent of life. Now, I consider myself rather a
sharp fellow, Durham, as fellows go. I am willing to turn my hand
to any earthly thing it is capable of, in an honest way; and a man
who, though naturally impatient, yet performs three years’ service
in the lower ranks of the army with credit, has some title to trust
his own temper and perseverance. Yet I’ve been for these--let me
see, how many weeks is it since I sold my last sketch?--three, I
think--hovering on the confines of absolute penury.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Fane. “My dear fellow!”
“Fact,” said Levitt, with a laugh. “So I resolved to try what virtue
there was in a stout arm and a gay heart, in a country like Canada or
Australia. But the passage-money--there was the rub. I’ve been trying
to raise it, as I came along, by selling sketches to booksellers,
but that hardly kept me in bread and cheese. Arriving here, however,
I found a theatrical company in want of a scene-painter. I offered
myself, was approved of, and tolerably well paid; and four or five
mornings ago, when their walking gentleman was sick, I volunteered
to supply his place. Old Cavendish the manager gave me a benefit
to-night, which has put a few pounds in my pocket, and the day after
to-morrow I start for the New World.”
“There is only one little point left unaccounted for in your
narrative,” said Fane, smiling. “Frewenham is not exactly in the road
to any point of embarkation for Canada, or Australia either; and you
have not explained what brought you here.”
He fixed his eyes on Levitt, who, spite of his efforts to look
indifferent, coloured deeply.
“I’m a confounded fool, Durham--I believe that’s undeniable,” he
said. “And yet, I’m not ashamed to say that I came so far out of
my way to take a last look at a woman. Such a woman, Durham--ah,
you must be, as I’ve been, beneath the very heel of fortune, and
habituated to the sense of appearing to others in a false light, to
know the true value of a charming woman’s sympathy. If I had met her
anywhere, or at any period of my life, I should have preferred her to
all the world--but circumstances have made me positively adore her. I
would not present myself again before her for the world--that could
answer no good purpose--but I could not deny myself one last glimpse
of Orelia.”
“Though I smile,” said Fane, “don’t think, my dear fellow, ’tis at
your devotion. On the contrary, I honour you for it. I was merely
paying tribute to my own penetration at having guessed what brought
you here.”
Hereupon there ensued a conversation on the subject of love, its
exacting and engrossing nature, its dreams, its power to excite, its
anxieties, and the astonishing absurdities which even sensible people
commit, without any shame or compunction, under its influence. And as
this was a subject more interesting to the two interlocutors than to
whole-hearted, devil-may-care people like you and me, reader, who are
not yet, heaven be praised, utterly hoodwinked, and have no occasion
to pluck cherry lips and neatly-turned ankles out of our eyes in
order to see clearly--and as, moreover, it has been touched upon by
one or two previous writers, we will merely mention in this place
that the two cousins seemed wonderfully unanimous in their opinions
and feelings, and separated for the night with a very strong regard
for each other.
CHAPTER L.
Next morning Fane wrote a note to Orelia, to say that he wished to
hear from her how Lady Lee had borne the restoration of Julius to her
arms--for that he would not commit the sacrilege of intruding upon
her on a day that ought to be sacred to other feelings than those his
presence could inspire.
“I slept so little, and so lightly, last night” (wrote Orelia, in
reply, after describing how she had deposited Julius, undiscovered,
by his mother’s side), “that I was easily roused by what I thought
was a cry from Hester. I sat up in bed and listened in silence--then
I stole to her door, and heard such a kind of murmuring within as
a dove might make over its young. I entered. Hester was hanging
over Julius, apparently not quite certain whether she waked or
slept--indeed, she seemed to think it a vivid dream, for she stared
at me as I entered, and passed her hand confusedly across her eyes. I
sat down on the bed, and whispered to her that ’twas all real, and if
she would lie quite still and composed, I would tell her the whole of
the story as far as I knew it.
“You did right not to come to-day. She is still a little
bewildered--and was quite so till she had a good cry. For some
little time she did what I’m sure you never heard her do--she talked
nonsense. As for the cause of all these tears, he seems tolerably
unconcerned. He submitted to our embraces this morning as coolly as
if he had only been away a week, and is now busy, dressed in his
Highland costume (for there are no clothes of his here), in making
acquaintance with Moloch. This helps to compose Hester, and she is
now able to comprehend her happiness--to-morrow she will be radiant.
“Come to-morrow as early as you like.”
This note was brought by Mr Payne; and Fane, after he had read it,
told that gentleman he had seen Langley, and was persuaded of his
innocence in the matter of the forgery. He mentioned Seager as the
person who had received the check, and Mr Payne at once remembered
that to be the name of the person who had presented it, and who
had excited no suspicion of anything irregular, as this was not
the first that had been paid to him. Fane also told what he had
learnt from Lady Lee of the charge of swindling now pending against
Seager, and of the additional probability thus afforded that he
was the delinquent. Mr Payne promptly adopted this view of the
case, and proposed that he should go instantly to town to consult a
legal adviser on the matter, and, if necessary, have an interview
with Seager himself. “You see,” he said, “that what we want, in
this instance, is, not to prosecute or recover, but simply to
establish Langley’s innocence; and if, by confessing, he can avoid a
prosecution, perhaps we may, without difficulty, get Seager to admit
his guilt.”
After Mr Payne had departed, Fane spent the rest of the day in
investigating Mr Holmes’s account of the abduction of Julius. It
really appeared that Bagot was the instigator of it--and, moreover,
that the Colonel had intended to restore Julius so soon as the
conclusion of the trial should have removed the original inducement
for concealing him, which was to obtain funds wherewith to meet the
trial.
Lady Lee was, as Orelia had prophesied, all radiant when Fane next
saw her, and looked altogether so cheerful and charming that he
experienced a sudden impulse to embrace her; and, not seeing any
just cause or impediment, had already, with that view, put his arm
round her waist, when she stooped, and, snatching Julius from the
ground, held him before her as a shield. Julius, being fond of
Fane, immediately clung round his neck, and thus covered any little
discomfiture he might naturally have felt at having his intention
defeated.
This placing of Julius between the lovers involved a kind of
metaphor; for Lady Lee reminded Fane that, though they might have
dispensed with Bagot’s consent on mere pecuniary grounds, yet now,
when Julius’s interests were again at stake, it was imperative to
obtain it.
Fane, who had in fact come rushing into Lady Lee’s presence with
the full intention of pressing for immediate union, now that her
mourning was thus happily at an end, was fairly staggered by this
consideration, which he had in his eagerness quite overlooked.
But though he could have found resolution to submit to what was
inevitable, it was not in his nature to be patient while any
alternative remained. First, he would go instantly, seek out Bagot,
and demand the consent--would go down on his knees for it, if
necessary, professing himself ready for any amount of baseness and
sycophancy to propitiate the potent Colonel. But Lady Lee, feeling
that Bagot might possibly vent the anger she knew him to entertain
against Fane in some coarse insult, told the latter her reasons for
thinking the Colonel was not to be propitiated. Then he urged that if
Bagot could not be cajoled, he might be threatened or bought--that a
hint of exposure in the business of the abduction might bring him to
terms.
This certainly seemed feasible; but this hope was put to flight
by a letter from Mr Payne, announcing that, arriving in town on
the last day of the trial, with the intention of seeing Seager, he
found both him and Bagot fled, and the latter had been traced to
France. This was a terrible stroke, affecting so powerfully as it
did the interests both of Fane and Langley. And as this brings us to
the point of Mr Seager’s flight from town, we will now follow that
gentleman in his career.
CHAPTER LI.
Seager, fancying himself dogged at the railway terminus on the day of
his flight from London, took his ticket for the station beyond that
where he intended to alight, to avoid detection. At Frewenham he left
the train and repaired to an inn, a second-rate one, which he had
selected as a less dangerous abode than the principal hotel.
Keeping up his disguise, he spent two whole days (precious days to
him) in walking about Larches for an opportunity of speaking to Lady
Lee. Fane, or Mr Payne, or Fillett, were for ever there, one or
other of them, and it might be fatal to his plans for any of them to
discover him. He read in the papers, with a good deal of amusement,
the account of the late trial, and was particularly diverted with
the paragraph at the close which announced that the prisoners had
forfeited their bail, and were supposed to be at large on the
Continent. On the third day, however, he saw the coast clear, and
taking off his wig and false mustache behind a hedge, he buttoned his
greatcoat across the splendour beneath it, and, looking like himself,
walked boldly up to the cottage and rang the bell.
“Give that to Lady Lee,” he said to the servant who opened the door,
“and say I wait for an answer.”
When Lady Lee opened the note, she read a request from Mr Seager “to
grant him a short interview, on a subject _of the last importance_,”
(these words being underlined.)
“Something about the affairs of the wretched Colonel, I suppose,”
she said to herself; “shall I admit him? Surely Bagot has forfeited
all right to my assistance.” Her eye fell on Julius, and her heart
softened. After all, Bagot had done her no irreparable injury. “Take
the child away,” she said, “and then admit the person who waits.”
Mr Seager, in full possession of all his brazen assurance, was
ushered in. Lady Lee’s look was quite composed, and there was
nothing like grief in her aspect. “She’s got over the boy’s loss
pretty quickly,” thought Seager.
“Time is precious, my lady,” he said, when he had seated himself;
“you’ll excuse me if I come at once to the point, and cut the matter
short.”
“As short as you please, sir,” said Lady Lee.
This rather put him out, but he recovered himself as he went on.
“Perhaps, when you know what I came about, I shall be more welcome.
What if I know of something which nearly concerns you, and which you
would give much to hear?”
Lady Lee sat upright on the sofa, and her face assumed a look of
anxiety. “What can it be?” she said to herself; and then aloud, “Go
on, sir.”
“I must explain that I am peculiarly situated just now, my lady--very
peculiarly indeed. I’m leaving the country, and my resources are
running very low. This must be my excuse for attaching a condition
to the revealing of this secret;--in fact, I am compelled to make a
matter of business of it. You can command a good sum, I dare say,
such as would be a vast thing to me, without any inconvenience to
yourself.”
“But the nature of your information, sir?--the nature of it?” said
Lady Lee, her curiosity excited to an extreme degree.
“You see,” said Seager, “you may not have the sum I should require in
the house; but I’ll take your note of hand, or I.O.U. I know you’d be
honourable, my lady.”
“The nature of it?” repeated Lady Lee, anxiously.
“Hem,” said Mr Seager, clearing his throat, and muttering to himself.
“It does look rather heartless, but it can’t be helped. In a word,
you had a son who passes for dead--what if I could give tidings of
him?”
Lady Lee gave a sigh of relief, and fell back on the sofa. She saw
his error. Mr Seager took it for a sign of agitation, and went on.
“You’ll say, of course, Prove your words? Very well; do you know this
handwriting?” He rose, and held a letter before her eyes.
“Perfectly,” said Lady Lee; “it is Colonel Lee’s.”
“Well, read a line or two of it,” said Seager, opening it so that one
paragraph was visible.
She read--“Hester, we shall never meet again, and I will repair an
injury I have done you. Your boy is not dead, he----”
“There,” said Mr Seager, refolding the letter, “that will satisfy you
of my good faith. Now, if I give this, containing full information of
your son’s whereabouts, what will you give?”
“But,” said Lady Lee, “have you any right to withhold such
information?”
“That’s not the question,” said Seager; “we won’t talk about rights.
I’ve no time for humbug. In a word, name your figure, or else I put
the letter in my pocket, and in six hours I shall be in France. Speak
out, and be liberal!”
At this moment there was a fumbling at the handle of the door.
“Send ’em away,” said Mr Seager; “this matter must be between you and
me.”
Lady Lee knew who the intruder was, and going to the door opened it,
and admitted Julius.
Mr Seager fell a pace back, crying out, “My God! you’ve found him,
then.”
Lady Lee led Julius to the sofa with something of a smile on her
face, and seated him on her lap.
“Well, sir,” she said to Seager, “you forgot to mention the price you
set upon a mother’s feelings.”
“Damnation!” muttered Seager; “it’s no go. I’ll be off. Shall I try
to get some money out of her for Lee? No, she wouldn’t trust me with
it now, and time’s precious. My secret is forestalled,” he said
aloud, with a brazen grin. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have made a bargain
for it. But you needn’t say you have seen me, my lady--promise you
won’t,” he added. “There’s been no harm done, you know.”
Lady Lee rose and rang the bell. Seager made off towards the door,
opened it, and turned round. “Don’t mention you saw me,” he repeated;
“’twill do no good.”
He was hurrying off, cursing his ill luck, and resolving to continue
his flight instantly, when he ran full tilt, in the passage, against
the police officer whom he had evaded at the London station. His
delay in the attempt to extort money from Lady Lee had been fatal to
his plan of escape. The policeman addressed him by name, and told
him he was his prisoner. Seager started back, with an exclamation,
followed by a muttered curse.
“Hush!” he said, “don’t speak loud. How did you find me?”
“Got on your scent last night, sir,” said the policeman, “and have
been dodging you all the morning. I saw you take off your wig behind
the hedge, and knew you in a minute.”
Again Seager began a string of curses in a low tone. Presently he
drew forth a pocket-book. “Come,” he said, “you’ll get nothing by my
capture--what shall we say, now, for letting me slip? Nobody need
ever know you found me.”
The policeman smiled as he put the offered notes aside.
“Stuff!” said Seager. “Every man has his price. Why shouldn’t you
turn a penny when you can?”
He was still pressing his point, and the officer was getting
impatient, when the front door near which they stood opened, and Fane
entered from the garden.
“What! Seager!” he cried, on seeing that gentleman--“the very man I
want above all others. What brought you here! and who is this?” he
asked, looking at the policeman.
A short explanation from the latter put Fane in possession of the
facts.
“Be so good as to bring your prisoner in here,” said Fane, opening
the door of a small room. “I won’t detain you long, and you cannot
object to the delay, as it may result in a fresh charge against Mr
Seager.”
Seager affected to laugh at this, but felt rather alarmed,
nevertheless. His capture had upset all his calculations, and
momentarily shaken his habitual confidence in himself.
“Please to attend to this conversation,” Fane said to the police
officer. “In the first place, I must tell you, Mr Seager, that your
former victim, my cousin Langley Levitt, is now in Frewenham, and
that Mr Payne is now in London, investigating the circumstances of
the forgery of a certain check on his bank.”
Seager turned pale. “Well,” he said, “what then?”
“That check you presented for payment,” said Fane.
“Ay,” said Seager; “but that doesn’t prove I forged it, or knew it
was forged. Can you prove that?”
“I think we can. A person was present when Langley gave it you, and
the amount of it was then known. I give you credit for cleverness in
your calculations. You knew Langley was resolved to disappear from
his family and the world--you calculated that when the forgery should
be discovered the matter would be hushed up--and that, while Langley
passed as the forger, the fraud would never be known. But now that he
has reappeared, and is in communication with his friends, the matter
must come to light.”
Mr Seager sullenly shrugged his shoulders. “Well,” said he, “I’m in a
hole, and no mistake. I can’t show play for it, since this gentleman
has bagged me” (looking at the policeman). “You must take your own
course. But,” he added in a low tone, intended exclusively for Fane’s
ear, “I can’t understand your interest in detecting me. Haven’t you
taken Levitt’s place with your uncle?”
Fane nodded.
“And if Levitt is restored to favour, you will lose by it?”
“In a worldly point of view, yes,” returned Fane.
“Well, then,” said Mr Seager, “your line is plain enough. You can
say you believe (of course, with great regret), but still, you’re
compelled to believe, that your cousin was the forger. Your uncle
takes your word for it, and drops the matter--Langley goes to the
devil--and you remain sole favourite and heir, don’t you see? So much
for that,” whispered Mr Seager, with the air of a man who has put his
case incontrovertibly.
Fane smiled as he looked steadily at Seager. “You are a clever
rascal, certainly,” he said, “in a small way. You are well acquainted
with your own side of human nature, but beyond that you’re in the
dark. Dismissing, then, this new and practical view of the case,
allow me to offer a suggestion. Our principal object, of course, is
justice to Langley rather than revenge on you. A prosecution, though
it would probably lead to your conviction, especially now that your
character is blasted, would require time, while your confession would
at once answer the purpose.”
“But what should I get by confessing?” asked Seager.
“Nothing,” said Fane. “A bribe would impair the value of your
admissions. But I promise you this, that if you confess, I will
use what interest I possess to stop all proceedings against you on
account of the forgery. Now,” said he, setting writing materials
before him, “take your choice. Silence and prosecution, or confession
and impunity.”
Mr Seager pondered for a minute; but he was too shrewd not to see
where his advantage lay. He had nothing to lose by confessing--his
character was already gone, and could scarcely suffer farther, while
a conviction for the forgery might entail transportation. After a
very short interval of consideration, he took up a pen. “I’m ready,”
he said; “I’ll do it in the penitent style if you like. Prickings of
conscience, desire to render tardy reparation, and all that.”
“No,” said Fane, “it shall be simple and genuine; allow me to dictate
it.”
This he accordingly did, setting forth--first, that the confession
was quite voluntary, and, secondly, admitting the forgery and the
circumstances that led to its commission. Seager signed this, and
the sergeant and Fane witnessed it, and the latter now desired the
officer to remove his prisoner. Mr Seager nodded to Fane, and winked
facetiously as he left the room, made a face at the policeman, who
preceded him out, and then departed to undergo his sentence.
CHAPTER LII.
Fane had already confided Langley’s history to Lady Lee, and he now
showed her the testimony of his innocence, and consulted her as to
the best course to be pursued.
They agreed it would be best to say nothing, either to Langley or
Orelia, of the matter, until Mr Payne should have apprised Mr Levitt
of his nephew’s innocence, and effected a reconciliation. Fane did
not in the least doubt that his uncle would be eager to extend
forgiveness; but a delay of a day or two would be trifling, and the
pleasure of a first meeting between the lovers would be greatly
enhanced by the removal, beforehand, of every obstacle to their
happiness.
Mr Payne, coming down from town to report his ill success in the
attempt to discover Seager, was agreeably surprised by Fane’s news.
He posted off without delay to show the document to his friend Mr
Levitt, and, a couple of days afterwards, wrote to tell Fane that the
news had produced the best effect on his uncle’s health, that he was
eager to embrace Langley, and that they would be down together in
person on the following day.
Fane was seated on a sofa near the fire (it was a cold morning)
whispering into Lady Lee’s willing yet averted ear, numerous reckless
and persuasive arguments for an immediate union. What were riches to
them while they were thus kept apart? He, for his part, would, he
said, dig cheerfully all day, could he be sure of finding her ready
to give zest to his pottage, cheerfulness to his fireside, when he
came home. Let Bagot take her income; and as for Julius, they would
take him and flee to some remote corner of Europe, there to abide
till the Colonel relented, or had drunk himself to death. Lady Lee
smiled at all this display of love, but shook her head. He, Durham,
must be patient, she said.
“Miss Payne,” called out Fane to Orelia, “be on my side.” Orelia was
sitting in a bay window designing a picture. She seldom came near
the fire, and never felt cold. “I am telling Hester that we ought to
break through the cobwebs that sunder us--scatter the filthy lucre
to the winds--snatch up Julius out of reach of the ogre Bagot, and
try if the wings of Eros cannot shield us against the hardest fate.”
“Hester has given up much for you already, Captain Fane,” said the
austere Orelia. “Your coming has upset the rarest plan; and now I am
left to walk the path alone.”
“What was the plan?” inquired Fane.
“We were going, Orelia and I,” said Lady Lee, with an irreverent
smile, “to daff the world aside--to devote ourselves to good
works--and we actually set out on our thorny path; but I see now,
that if we had continued as we begun, casting as we did so many
glances backward on the vanities of the past, we should, if justice
had been administered now as in the days of the patriarchs, have both
been made pillars of salt.”
“Speak for yourself, my dear,” returned Orelia, sharpening her pencil
and her tone. “I, at least, was quite resolute to persevere, and am
so still.”
“Perhaps an equally unworthy excuse, as that which Hester pleads for
changing her mind, may yet avail you,” suggested Fane.
“Never,” returned Orelia, with the greatest firmness.
“Do you think she really doesn’t care for Langley?” whispered Fane to
Lady Lee.
Lady Lee looked towards her friend with an affectionate smile. “She’s
an odd girl,” she said, “and ’tisn’t easy to ascertain her feelings
till they are strongly excited.”
“I’ll prove them, now,” said Fane, rising, and going to a portfolio
in the room, and taking thence a drawing. “Miss Payne,” he said, “you
are always ready to recognise skill in art. See, here is a sketch I
lately rescued from the oblivion of a bookseller’s shop; what do you
think of it?”
Orelia took it. No one knew better than she the peculiar touch
and bold outline. She gazed at it earnestly for a minute--looked
up wonderingly and inquiringly at Fane; but, meeting a peculiar
searching glance, she lowered her eyes, and coloured violently.
“If you like it, and would wish others of the same sort, I think I
could procure you some,” he said.
Orelia laid down the drawing--glanced aside--again looked at it--then
turned her eye uneasily to Lady Lee, who was smilingly watching
her. “How very heartless to trifle with me so,” thought Orelia,
“particularly of Hester; but I’ll show them they can’t move me. I
won’t be their sport.”
So she stoically resumed her employment, feeling very fidgety
nevertheless. In her agitation, she shaded a cloud in her sky with
sepia instead of the proper grey tint--dashed a brushful of water at
it--smudged her whole sky irretrievably, as if an eccentric-looking
thunderstorm were brewing--rubbed a hole in the paper in getting it
out, and threw down her brush with an expression of impatience.
“He’s a very promising artist the person who did this sketch,”
said the unfeeling Fane to Lady Lee. “I feel quite interested in
him.” Lady Lee shook her head while she smiled at him. She saw her
impetuous friend was getting quite excited. “Serve her right for her
hypocrisy,” whispered Fane. “I don’t pity her in the least. They must
be in Frewenham by this time,” he added, looking at his watch; “and,
allowing an hour for the interview between them and Langley, they
will be here to lunch.”
Orelia’s ears were on the stretch to catch any further information,
which, however, she would have died rather than ask for.
But the only further talk on the subject was when Fane asked Lady Lee
“if she didn’t think it would be a kind act to take this poor artist
by the hand, and give him an opening to make his way?”
“Poor artist! Take him by the hand, indeed!” thought Orelia, with a
glance of great scorn; and indeed she would hardly have been content
to vent her indignation in glances, had not Miss Fillett just then
entered, and changed the current of their discourse. Kitty’s manner
was excited, and her eyes were red.
“Ho, my lady,” cried she, “here’s Noble have come, and he wish to
see your ladyship.”
“Noble!” cried her ladyship; “did they not say he was with Colonel
Lee?”
“He was, my lady; but, ho! Colonel Lee”--here Fillett choked.
“Harry’ll tell you himself: come in, Noble, and speak to my lady.”
Noble, who was waiting at the door, entered, and made his bow.
“You come from the Colonel--you have a letter for me,” said Lady Lee,
holding out her hand for the expected missive.
“No, my lady,” said Noble.
“Speak up, Harry,” said Miss Fillett, with a sob.
“We started for France, me and the Colonel,” said Noble, clearing
his throat; “and as soon as ever he got ashore, he was took ill in
the same way as he was in London. The doctors said ’twas owing to
his not being able to keep nothing on his stomach on the passage
across--brandy nor nothing--for the water was very rough.”
“He is ill, then,” said Lady Lee; “not seriously, I trust.”
“My lady, he’s gone,” cried Fillett.
“Dead?” said Lady Lee.
“Dead,” said Noble. “He got quite wild when he was took to the hotel;
and after we got him to bed, he did himself a mischief, by jumping
out of window while he was out of his mind. When we picked him up he
couldn’t speak.”
“And he died so?” cried Lady Lee.
“Not immediate,” said Noble, speaking in a deep low voice, and
keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Lady Lee; “he got his speech again
for a little, and knowed me. ‘This is the finish, Noble,’ says he,
‘and I’m glad of it; I wouldn’t have consented to live.’ Them was his
last sensible words. He talked afterwards, to be sure, but not to
know what he was saying. He appeared to be in the belief that he was
back at the Heronry. He talked of the horses there, in particular of
old Coverly, who died of gripes better than six years ago.”
Lady Lee put her handkerchief to her eyes. She had a tear for poor
Bagot. Death sponged away the recollection of his animosity towards
her, and she remembered only the old familiar face and rough
good-nature. “The poor Colonel,” she said; “the poor, poor Colonel!
And his remains, Noble?”
“There was two gentlemen as was friends of his in the town; Sir John
Barrett was one of ’em. They was very sorry; they ordered everything,
and went to the funeral; and though it warn’t altogether in the style
I could wish--no hearse nor mourners--yet it was done respectable.”
Lady Lee wept silently, and Fane thought her tears became her. Both
of them probably remembered that the only obstacle to their union was
removed by Bagot’s death, but the taste of both was too fine to allow
such a thought to be expressed that day in any way. “Leave me now,
Noble,” she said; “I will hear more from you another time.”
Kitty--who, when Noble reached the catastrophe, had been seized
with an hysterical weeping that sounded like a succession of small
sneezes--opened the door for him, and followed him out. Noble walked
down stairs before her, not turning his head nor speaking.
“Harry,” said Kitty, with a sniff, when he reached the hall--“Harry!”
Noble turned, and surveyed her austerely.
“Ho, Harry,” said Kitty, “haven’t you got a word for a friend?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “for a friend I’ve got more than a word.”
“I thought we were friends, Noble,” said Miss Fillett, taking up the
corner of her apron, and examining it.
“There’s people in the world one can’t be friends with, however a
body may wish it,” replied Noble.
“And am I one of that sort, Harry?” said Kitty, with a sidelong look.
“Am I, Harry?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “yes, you be. Look here! I’d have cut off my arm
to do you any good” (striking it with the edge of his hand). “You
know that very well, but I can’t stand your ways--no, I can’t, and I
ain’t agoing to any more.”
“What ways do you mean?” said Miss Fillett innocently; “I’m sorry my
ways isn’t pleasant, Harry.”
“Pleasant!” said Harry; “they can be pleasant enough when you like;
but when you drive a man a’most crazy, and make him wish to cut his
fellow-creeturs’ throats, and his own afterwards, do you think that’s
pleasant?”
Kitty at this tossed up her head, and sniffed with an injured air.
“If I give you such thoughts as them, Mr Noble, of course ’tis better
to have nothink to say to me. I wasn’t aware my conversation made
people murderers.”
“Look here,” said Noble; “I don’t say I like you the worse for it.
No, cuss it! I like you the better--that’s the cussed part of it; but
what I mean is, that I ain’t going to be tormented and kept awake at
nights, and to lose my meals as well as my sleep, and to go a-hating
my fellow-creeturs, just upon account of your philanderings; and the
best way is not to care who you philander with, and to leave you to
keep company with them as can stand having the life worried out of
’em better than I can.”
“I’m glad you’ve spoke out, Noble,” said Kitty, who spied relenting
in his look, and who kept up the injured air. “I didn’t know I was
such a rogue and a villain as I’m made out to be by you. If I’d
wished to slay or hang somebody, you couldn’t have spoke worse of me.”
“Well,” said Noble, “I didn’t mean to vex you, though you’ve vexed me
many a time. I was only saying why it was I warn’t going to be fooled
any longer. Come, I’ll shake hands with you.”
“Ho, what! take the hand of a young person that wishes people to cut
other people’s throats! I wonder at you,” said Miss Fillett, allowing
him to get only the tip of her little finger into his hand.
“Come,” said the unhappy victim of female arts, “say you won’t
torment me any more with talking and smiling at fellows, and I’ll be
as fond of you as ever. Look here; here’s some French gloves that I
smuggled over, and was going to put into your bandbox without your
knowing who they’d come from. Let me try ’em on, Kitty.”
Miss Fillett glanced aside at the packet displayed in his hand. “What
lovely colours!” thought Kitty; “that lilac _is_ genteel, and so is
the straw colour. He never could have chose ’em himself.” But she
still feigned displeasure, and Mr Noble’s desire for reconciliation
was becoming proportionably ardent, when the pair were disturbed by
a carriage driving up to the door, and made off to terminate the
interview in the kitchen.
The carriage in question contained those whom Fane expected--viz., Mr
Payne, Mr Levitt, and Langley. The latter helped out his uncle (who
appeared to be in much better health) with a care and affection that
showed they were entirely reconciled. At the first meeting Mr Levitt
had attempted to maintain his cynical demeanour, and was highly
disgusted with himself, afterwards, to remember how signally he had
failed. “Till I witnessed that meeting,” said Mr Payne afterwards to
Fane, “I had no idea how much your uncle loved that boy.”
Fane was looking out of the window, and saw them approach. “Here they
are,” he said--“your papa, Miss Payne, and my uncle; and I see my
cousin Langley is with them. Have you ever heard me speak of him? I
think you’ll like him.”
“Do you, indeed!” said Orelia stiffly; for she had by no means
recovered her temper since the drawings had been produced by Fane,
and was not disposed to be particularly amiable to her new guests.
Mr Payne entered first and kissed Orelia.
“I bring an old and a young friend of mine, my dear. This is Mr
Levitt, and--where’s Langley? Come along, Langley.”
Langley stept forward and took the young lady’s hand.
“Onslow!” cried Orelia.
“Yes,” said the ex-dragoon, in a low voice, and with his well-known
smile, “Onslow and Langley Levitt.”
“You didn’t know, sir,” said Fane to his uncle, “of the fatted
calf we had ready for your prodigal nephew. He and Orelia are old
friends--I think I may add, something more than old friends.”
“You don’t say so!” said Mr Levitt, pressing forward and taking both
Orelia’s hands in his. “My dear,” he said, watching Langley’s and her
agitation, “I believe you are going to put the finishing stroke to
my happiness, and I shall like you better even than I expected.”
“Why, God bless me!” cried Mr Payne, “I never heard a word of this.
The monkey has been extremely sly.”
Orelia, now a little paler than usual, was regarding her lover with
steady eyes.
“I shall never call you anything but Onslow,” she said; and she kept
her word.
* * * * *
Mr Levitt was in every respect satisfied with the choice of his
nephews, as indeed he had good reason to be. What did the man expect,
I wonder! He was almost as impatient as the young men to put all
future disappointment out of the power of fate by immediate marriage;
and as the ladies did not offer a very spirited resistance, he had
his way.
Accordingly the courtship was short, and principally remarkable for
a revolution that took place in the opinions of Lady Lee. Formerly,
she had been accustomed, in the moments of dignified cynicism which
occasionally visited her, to be very unsparing in her contempt for
the ordinary forms of love-making; kissing, in particular, she
considered to be a practice even beneath contempt, from its extreme
silliness--fit, she would say, only for children--an opinion she had
occasionally communicated to Sir Joseph when his fondness became
troublesome.
This, however, with many graver theories, had been upset since she
fell in love with Fane. The first time he kissed her it evaporated
in an uncommon flutter of not unpleasant emotion, which puzzled her
ladyship the more because she perfectly remembered that a kiss from
Sir Joseph had never caused her to feel any greater agitation than if
she had flattened her nose against a pane of glass.
However, to do justice to her consistency, she didn’t abandon the
theory at the first defeat; but, taking counsel with herself, and
fortifying her mind anew with reasoning on the subject, the next time
he offered to be so childish, she repelled the attempt with a great
deal of dignity. Fane, who had a theory of his own on such matters
(whether the result of intuition or experience, I can’t say), and
knew what he was about perfectly, very wisely let her alone for a
time. Her ladyship grew quite fidgety; and though Fane had never been
more brilliant, she paid very little attention to what he said, and,
when he only shook hands with her at parting, felt half inclined to
quarrel with him. After this, Fane never met with any resistance;
on the contrary, not content with one of these silly proceedings
at meeting and parting, her ladyship would sometimes manœuvre,
artfully enough, for an extra or surplus salute. Such is the singular
superiority of practice over theory.
Very shocking and humiliating to the philosopher and student of human
nature is the fact, that these two intellectual beings, with their
high imaginations and their cultivated tastes, should sometimes,
during their courtship, demean themselves with no greater regard for
their dignity than a redfaced dairymaid and her sweetheart Robin. But
it is true, nevertheless; and if Fane discovered a fresh charm in his
goddess, it was in the naïve pleasure with which she condescended
(at least he thought it condescension) to express her fondness. And
Langley, for the same reason, was doubly delighted with the warmth
which the outwardly majestic Orelia did not scruple to display
towards the man to whom she had given her heart. This is all I shall
say on this part of the subject, as courtship is of the class of
performances which afford much more satisfaction to the _dramatis
personæ_ than the audience.
They were married, these two pairs, in the church which Hester’s
father had formerly served; and afterwards Fane and she set off for
the Heronry, where they were quite alone (for Rosa and the Curate
had, before their coming, gone to take possession of the vicarage in
Mr Levitt’s gift which Fane had formerly offered to Josiah, and which
he did not again refuse), while Langley and Orelia stayed at the
cottage.
CHAPTER THE LAST
It is a vile practice that of winding up a story with a marriage,
as if the sole object of all that inkshed was to put a couple of
characters to bed; and I wonder the rigid propriety of our novel
writers and readers doesn’t revolt at it. Besides, considering the
matter on artistic grounds, it is not satisfactory to check, by the
chilling word _Finis_, the ardour of the reader, just excited to a
high pitch at the spectacle of the hero and heroine sinking into each
other’s arms. It is like quitting the opera, as the curtain falls on
a splendid group, tinted with rose light, while the whole strength
of the company sings a chorus; and going splashing home through the
rain to a bachelor’s lodging, where the maid has let the fire out
and forgot the matches, and you have to stumble to bed punchless and
oysterless in the dark.
A year passed, after the marriages aforesaid, and a party, including
many of our principal characters, was assembled in the little church
of Lanscote to celebrate another wedding.
Josiah was the officiating clergyman; he had come partly for that
purpose, partly to perform another ceremony. The persons to be joined
together in holy matrimony, on this occasion, were Rosa and Bruce.
The principal agent in effecting this had been the old antiquary
Mr Titcherly. That lover of inscriptions had now become himself
the subject of a tombstone; and having, as aforesaid, great regard
for Bruce, and having no kindred of his own to bequeath to, had
in his will, after making ample provision for the future editions
of his great work on the antiquities of Doddington, left the rest
of his property, amounting to about £4000, to Rosa, on condition
she married Bruce; and this, together with the solicitations of
his wife, who had been gained over to the other party by Bruce’s
enthusiastic description of Rosa’s excellencies, had melted the heart
of that splendid old fellow the dean of Trumpington. That reverend
personage was now present at the wedding, together with his wife,
and Dr Macvino, who had dined the night before at the Heronry, and
pronounced the port excellent.
Fane gave away the little magnificent bride, half hidden in an ample
rich veil of white lace sent by Orelia, which cost nobody knows how
much. Bruce was in his dragoon uniform. His mustache had flourished
much in the last year, and Rosa thought him handsomer than Apollo.
Langley was there, and Mr Oates appeared as groom’s man, and the two
Clumbers as bridesmaids.
The ceremony was over, the bridegroom duly shaken by the hand, the
bride, all blush and bloom and smile, duly kissed. The Curate,
leaving the altar, took up his position beside the antique font,
and the group following him, and ranging themselves round, lost
the gorgeous hues which the one painted window above the altar of
Lanscote Church had shed on them during the marriage ceremony; and,
as the Curate began the baptismal service, they stood in the cheerful
light of the morning sun.
The principal personage of this second ceremony had been held, during
the first one, in the arms of Miss Fillett in the background. Kitty,
who looked rather staid and matronly, in consequence of having been
married to Mr Noble a few weeks before, and who had hitherto, in this
new capacity, acquitted herself entirely to Harry’s satisfaction,
dandled the infant in the most approved fashion. “Have done, Master
Julius,” said Kitty, giving that young gentleman a good shake as
he attempted to rush up the pulpit-stairs. “Can’t you behave for a
minute, not even when they are a-baptising of your little sister?”
The preliminary part of the service being read, the infant was handed
to Josiah. He took it gently in his arms, and looked down on its
small face, where he saw the rudiments of Hester’s features. The
service was for a moment at a standstill, and a tear was seen to drop
on the child’s cheek as he bent over it--the first holy water that
touched its face that morning. “Good fellow, old Josey,” thought
Fane, as he noticed it. “Poor dear Josiah!” mentally ejaculated
Hester, with a truer though secret knowledge of the source of his
emotion.
The dean of Trumpington hemmed impatiently--he wanted his breakfast;
and the sympathetic Doctor Macvino, going behind Josiah, jogged his
arm. The Curate started from his reverie, and looked around. “Name
this child,” he said, proceeding with the ritual.
“Rosa Orelia,” answered the bride, who officiated as one godmother,
while Trephina Clumber was proxy for Orelia (who was detained at home
by private business of her own.)
The christening was finished without further delay. Then the assembly
passed forth from the old ivy-covered porch, and, amid the admiration
and applause of the inhabitants of Lanscote, entered their carriages
to drive back to the Heronry.
The breakfast was pronounced by Dr Macvino, by no means an
incompetent judge, a magnificent affair. Speeches were made
afterwards--one jocosely cynical, and sprinkled with puns, by Mr
Levitt; one gay, fluent, and agreeable, from Captain O’Reilly, a
fresh-coloured man, with white teeth, who had succeeded Tindal in
command of the detachment, and who had practised popular oratory
at various contested elections; one rich and oily, delivered _ore
rotundo_, by Dr Macvino, with some others.
The newly-married pair had driven off; the guests had dispersed; even
the Curate had, in despite of the urgent entreaties of Hester and
Durham, inexorably departed. Fane and his wife were alone together in
the library.
“I told you yesterday, Hester,” he said, leaning over the back of her
chair, “of the opening into public life now offered me. My answer
must be written to-night.”
Hester looked uneasy. “You will refuse it, Durham, won’t you?”
“I think not, Hester.”
“I thought we had been very happy this year past. I knew I had, and
I flattered myself you had; but you are weary of me;” and, as she
spoke, the first sad tears since her marriage came into her eyes.
“I swear to you,” he said, removing the tears in the readiest way
that occurred to him--“I swear to you that I would rather live the
past year over again than the best ten others of my existence. But
what right have I to continue this life of pleasant uselessness, when
I may exert myself?”
“Uselessness!” said his wife; “do you call being my companion and
instructor uselessness?”
“You have a new companion now in that young Christian of yours, whom
I hear squalling,” said Fane; “she will prevent you from missing
me. As to the instruction part, I have learnt as much as I could
teach for the life of me. If I have widened your mind, you have no
less refined mine; and, could I but rid myself of a certain uneasy
conviction that we are both of us accountable beings, I would
contentedly let the world slide for ever as softly and easily as now.
But is this unproductive interchange of sentiment, however elevated
and refined, fit to be the sole occupation of a man who can be up and
doing?”
Hester sighed. “You force me,” said she, “to look at a truth I would
willingly shut my eyes to. One other year would not tire you, Durham;
put it off for one--only one.”
“But the opportunity would be gone,” said Fane. “Come, make up your
mind to it, and you will acknowledge next year that, in watching
my career, applauding my success, if I meet with it, soothing
my disappointments when they find me, you have new and worthier
occupation.”
Hester disputed no farther; he wrote the letter of acceptance; and
next year she acknowledged that she was growing more ambitious for
him than he was for himself.
The Curate did not remain long in the living to which Mr Levitt had
presented him. An incident that occurred in the second year of his
incumbency gave him a disgust at the place. A female parishioner,
of tolerably mature years, made a dead set at Josiah. She had
experiences to impart; she took share in his parochial matters;
she even studied botany; and the unsuspecting Josiah was the only
person who didn’t penetrate her designs on his heart. When the fair
one found these would certainly fail, she brought an action for
breach of promise; and the evidence being about as strong as that
in the celebrated case of Bardell _versus_ Pickwick, the jury, as
Englishmen and fathers, of course found for the plaintiff, with £200
damages. About that time Dean Bruce, in consideration of the family
connection, managed to get Josiah elected canon of the cathedral;
and in course of time he became a prebend. He has a good house and
capital garden; his study is one of the pleasantest rooms to be found
anywhere, with a cloistered air about it, the pointed window all hung
with ivy, looking on the great window of the cathedral, and on one
of the buttressed towers. He has an ancient married housekeeper, who
looks faithfully after his comforts; he entertains his friends nobly
when they come to see him (his small but choice cellar was laid in by
Dr Macvino); the great library of the cathedral is within a few paces
of his door, where he is treated by the librarian with more deference
than the bishop himself; and when he needs change he goes down to the
Heronry. Time softens the acuteness of his disappointment in love,
and the recollection of it now brings a not unpleasant sadness.
Poor old Josey!--after all, perhaps the most loveable and respectable
of our _dramatis personæ_--more so, at least, than our heroes, whose
more discursive natures included some corners which they would
probably have been unwilling that even their wives should pry into;
whereas Josiah’s heart might have been turned page by page; and,
while much might have been found to interest, there would have been
little to correct, and nothing to blot. But somehow or other, women
do not seem always to give such unobtrusive merits the highest place
in their affections. Orelia and Lady Lee were, as we have seen, among
the number; and many young ladies will, we doubt not, understand and
sympathise with their errors of judgment.
A day or two after Rosa’s marriage, Hester got a letter from Orelia.
“Mine is a girl too,” she said, “and I’ve set my heart on her
marrying Julius when they are of a proper age. You must promise to
forward the project, Hester.” And as young persons invariably allow
their parents to choose for them on these points, and never presume
to form any counter predilections of their own, there is, of course,
every prospect that Orelia’s desire will be gratified.
Major Tindal did not easily forgive Orelia’s marriage, nor forget
his own discomfiture. He remains a sporting, hard-riding bachelor;
and when one of his acquaintances marries, he affects to pity him.
“Poor devil!” he says, “I’ll write and condole with him.”
Mr Seager, coming out of jail at the end of two years, found himself
without money, friends, or character. He could not, of course, resume
his old position; but Seager was not proud, and fitted himself with
admirable facility to a new one. He started in the thimble-rig line,
that being a profession requiring little other capital than dexterity
and a knowledge of human nature under its more credulous and
pigeonable aspect. He augments the income derived from this source
by that which he earns as a racing prophet. He advertises that he,
Seager, is the only man who can foretell the winners of all the great
events; asserts that he has hitherto been infallible; and professes
his readiness to let correspondents enjoy a lucrative peep into the
future, on their enclosing a specified number of postage stamps. From
such shifts as these he ekes out a living.
Bagot could not have lived so; and is better as he is, sleeping under
his foreign turf. In the grave he preserves a kind of incognito,
and when called upon to answer for his deeds, may certainly plead
a misnomer; for the French stone-mason who carved his unpretending
tombstone, taking the name of the deceased from dictation, Gallicised
it, and inscribed on the monument “_Ci-gît Monsieur le Colonel
Bagote-Lys_.”
Another marriage had been celebrated in Lanscote Church a short time
before Rosa’s. Jennifer Greene had brought her arts and experience
to bear with more effect on Squire Dubbley than on the Curate. The
thoroughly subjugated Squire, after being compelled to see all the
females of his establishment, under fifty years of age, replaced by
the most withered frumps to be found in those parts, had yielded to
his fate. His adviser, Mr Randy, had been previously disposed of.
Jennifer had no sooner established her ascendancy, than she
proceeded to exert it in the expulsion of Mr Randy. Thus alone in
power, she was not long in convincing the Squire that she was quite
necessary to his existence, and his sole defence against a horde of
plunderers. The Squire, moreover, was impressed by the good looks
of the housekeeper, to which the Curate had been so insensible;
and the grand attack, which had only harassed Josiah, had laid the
unprotected Squire at her feet.
Lady Lee, I am loth to lose you! Not with this page will your form
pass rustling out of sight. But, reader, her independent life has
ceased--her thoughts are now centred in the career of another--and
a chronicle of her deeds and aspirations would be a mere repetition
of, to you, humdrum happiness. Her restlessness, and discontent, and
languor are no more; she has lost even the memory of these since the
event which, like this last sentence of my last chapter, has put a
period to LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD.
NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE.
NO. III.--CONCLUSION.
Before finishing the business of the old MS. corrector, we may be
permitted to dispose of a case, very small, indeed, but somewhat
personal to ourselves, and arising out of these discussions. In
_Notes and Queries_, p. 169 (August 20, 1853), the following remark
occurs: “The critic in _Blackwood_ disclaims consulting _Notes
and Queries_; and it is, no doubt, a convenient disclaimer.” Good
_Notes and Queries_, we simply _regretted_ that it was not in our
power to consult your pages when writing our first article on the
New Readings. We wished to have been able to confirm, or rather
to complete, a reference to you which Mr Singer had made in his
_Vindication of Shakespeare_. But unfortunately your volumes were
not at hand; for you need scarcely be told that we provincials
cannot always readily command the wisdom which emanates from your
enlightened circle. But why was it “a _convenient_ disclaimer?”
Good old ladies, you surely cannot think that we would purloin your
_small savings_; we would sooner rob the nest of a titmouse. No, no;
believe us, we have no heart for that. We did, however, at first,
fear that we had inadvertently picked a small morsel--perhaps its
little all--out of the mouth of a sparrow; and our heart smote us for
the unintentional unkindness. We were prepared to make any amends in
our power to the defrauded little chirper. We have been at some pains
to discover in what we may have wronged any of your mild fraternity,
provocative of the polite insinuation implied in your epithet
“convenient,” and we find that we are as innocent as Uncle Toby with
his fly. We have not hurt, even undesignedly, a single hair upon your
buzzing head.
We had no doubt, at first, that our offence must have been the
expression of some little hint about Shakespeare in which we had been
anticipated by _Notes and Queries_. And accordingly, insignificant as
the point might be--still knowing what a small nibble is a perfect
fortune to that minute fry--we were prepared to acknowledge publicly
their priority of claim to anything we might have said, and to
stomach their not very handsome appellative as we best might. But
how stands the case?--thus. Some time near the beginning of August,
ICON asks _Notes and Queries_--“Has any one suggested, ‘Most busy,
when least I do?’--(Tempest, iii. i.) _The ‘it’ seems surplusage._”
(The complete line, we should mention, is--“Most busy, least when I
do _it_.”) That is a very plain question, and _Notes and Queries_
answers it, at first, correctly enough--“Yes,” says he, “this reading
was proposed in _Blackwood’s Magazine_ for August;” that is, some
time before the query was put. _Notes and Queries_ then goes on to
say--“_But_ ICON will also find _the same reading with an anterior
title of nearly three years_, together with some good reasons for
its adoption, in _Notes and Queries_, vol. ii. p. 338.” Here, then,
we had no doubt that we had been anticipated, and were quite ready
to make restitution; for _Notes and Queries’_ answer seems decisive.
But stop a little; just give him time to get his ideas into disorder,
and we shall see what will turn up. He goes on to say--“In the
original suggestion in _Notes and Queries_, there is no presumption
of surplusage; the word ‘it’ is understood in relation to labours.”
So that this is the position of _Notes and Queries_: he is asked--Has
the word “it” ever been left out of a certain line in Shakespeare?
Yes, answers he, it was left out in a reading proposed in our volumes
_three years ago_, and _identical_ with one _lately_ published in
_Blackwood_--the only difference, he adds, _sotto voce_, between the
two readings being, that in ours the word “it” is _not_ left out,
while in _Blackwood’s_ it _is_!
So that, after all, our whole offence consists in _not_ having been
anticipated in this reading by _Notes and Queries_. But we cannot
help that. Why should he punish us for his own want of sagacity?
We appeal to an impartial public to take up the cause of injured
innocence against this oppressor, throughout whose pages we observe
a good deal of nibbling at the text of Shakespeare. The teeth-marks
of the little vermin are just perceptible on the bark of that
gigantic trunk; and the traces which they leave behind are precisely
such as a mouse might make upon a cheese the size of Ben Lomond. But
_we_ have not, like Shakespeare, the hide of a tree or a rhinoceros;
nor are we, like him, a mountain three thousand feet high. The small
incisor has consequently grazed our outer cuticle, and we should like
to know what can have provoked our puny assailant to question,--not
our competency to review the old MS. corrector, for this too he does,
and this he is at perfect liberty to do; his doing it is a matter
with which we have no concern--but to impeach our disposition to deal
_fairly_ and _honestly_ towards himself and all others interested in
the new readings. This, we say, he is not at liberty to do without
very good cause being shown. Most gladly, to get rid of the little
nibbler, would we have given up to him this reading, and any other
pittances of the kind, to increase his small stock in trade. But he
cannot make out any title to the reading. He tries, indeed, hard
to believe that it is actually his--he coaxes it to come to him,
he whistles to it, but no--the reading knows its own master, and
will not go near him; whereupon he gets angry, and bites _us_. He
charges us with finding it _convenient_ to ignore his wisdom--that
is, with being ignorant of something in his pages, which, however,
he confesses is not to be found within any of their four corners.
But even supposing that all which _Notes and Queries_ implies we are
guilty of could be made out--only conceive its being _convenient_
for a man not to know--that is, to _pretend_ ignorance--of something
which may have been written on Shakespeare, or on any other subject,
by these commentators on “Here we go, up, up, up,” &c.! There is
a complication of absurdity in the idea which it is not easy to
unravel, and which defies all power of face. For one of themselves
to have said that it might be _convenient_ for a man to know and
profit by their small sayings and doings, would have been ludicrous
enough; but how any man should find a convenience--that is to say, an
advantage--in _not_ knowing, or rather in pretending not to know, how
this innocent people are employing themselves--this is a conception
which, in point of _naïveté_, appears to us to be unequalled by
anything out of Æsop’s Fables. How would it do for them to call
themselves “_Gnats and Queries_?” We recommend _that_ new reading to
their consideration.
We are not sure, however, that this small community is so very
innocent after all. Connected with this very reading, “Most busy,”
&c., they have been guilty of as much _mala fides_ as can be
concentrated upon a point so exceedingly minute. To propose a new
reading without having the remotest conception of its meaning, is to
deserve no very great credit as a critic; yet this is what _Gnats
and Queries_ has done. He (or one of his many pin-heads symbolised
by A. E. B.), saw (_Gnats and Queries_, vol. ii. p. 338) that the
construction of the line was, “Most busy, when least I do it”--or,
as he explains it, “Most busy, when least employed.” But how does
he explain _that_, again?--he actually makes the word “busy” apply
to Ferdinand’s _thoughts_. He says, “Is it not those delicious
_thoughts_ (of Miranda) ‘most busy’ in the _pauses_ of (Ferdinand’s)
labour, making those pauses still more refreshing and renovating?”
So it seems that the thoughts of Miranda refresh, not Ferdinand’s
_labours_, but his _idleness_; and that he is “most busy” in thinking
upon her, not when he is hardest at work, but when he is sitting
with his hands across. As if that circumstance would have been any
motive for him to go to work: it would have been the very contrary.
It would have kept him from his labour. If this be not the most
senseless reversal of Shakespeare’s plain meaning ever proposed
by any mole-eyed interpreter, we promise to eat Mr Collier’s old
MS. corrector without salt. Yet A. E. B. claims to himself credit
for having, to some extent, anticipated our new reading; to the
extent, that is, of seeing that the word _when_ should be placed (in
construing) before the word _least_. But what does that signify, when
he had not the remotest inkling of the meaning? More than that.
The true and only meaning of the line was thoroughly explained in
_Blackwood’s Magazine_ for August last, p. 186. A. E. B. has seen
that explanation--yet he still not only takes credit for the new
reading, but he makes no apology for his antecedent senselessness. We
call that _mala fides_. And further, he aggravates the criminality
of his dulness by referring to a passage in Cicero (quoted in _Gnats
and Queries_, vol. iii. p. 229), which has no bearing whatever on the
reading, and can only serve to throw the reader off the true scent.
Altogether, for so small a matter, this is as complicated a case of
stupidity, and of something worse, as ever came under the notice of
the public. We may just add, what we only recently discovered, that
Mr Collier had inserted the original text of the line, “Most busy,
least when I do it,” in his edition of Shakespeare published some ten
years ago; but then he deserves just as little credit for this as
A. E. B. does; because his note, as might very easily be shown, and
as will be apparent to any one who reads it along with _Blackwood’s
Magazine_, p. 186, is directly at variance with his text.
But we have kept the old Corrector too long waiting. Begging pardon,
we shall now attend to _his_ interests, taking him mildly in
hand,--at least at first.
* * * * *
TITUS ANDRONICUS.--_Act I. Scene 2._--To change “set abroad” into
_set abroach_ may be permissible; but it is not necessary. In the
following line (_Act II. Scene 1_) the alteration is most decidedly
for the worse:--
“The woods are ruthless, _dreadful_, deaf, and dull.”
“Dreadful” is altered by the MS. corrector to _dreadless_--a very
unpoetical, indeed senseless substitution.
We cannot accept the corrector’s rhyming phraseology in _Act II.
Scene 2_. No man has any business to rewrite Shakespeare after this
fashion. The liberty which this scourer of the old text here takes
with the play is just another of the numerous proofs that his design
was, not to restore their language, but merely to popularise it.
_Dine_, however, for “drive,” in the line,
“The hounds
Should _drive_ upon thy new transformed limbs,”
(_Act II. Scene 3_)
is a very sensible emendation, and one which we are disposed to
recommend for the text, “drive” being very probably a misprint.
Possibly also “breeder” (_Act IV. Scene 2_) may be a misprint for
_burthen_, which the corrector proposes, and to which we have no very
great objection. The best part of the change of the words, “Not far
one Muliteus” into “not far hence Muli lives,” is due to Steevens:
the MS. corrector’s contribution being very unimportant.
_Act IV. Scene 4._--The flow of the following line, as printed in the
common editions, is much more easy and idiomatic,
“My lords, you know, _as do_ the rightful gods,”
than the corrector’s substitution--
“My lords, you know, the rightful gods _no less_.”
Nothing further of any mark or likelihood presents itself in
the corrections of this play. The emendations are generally
insignificant; but in one instance, and perhaps two, they may deserve
some approbation.
* * * * *
ROMEO AND JULIET.--_Act I. Scene 1._--We never can accept _puffed_ in
lieu of “purged” in the lines--
“Love is a smoke, made with the fume of sighs,
Being _purg’d_, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes.”
_Urged_, as proposed by Johnson, is infinitely better than _puffed_;
but no change is required.
In the following lines, the MS. corrector’s amendment seems to us to
be no improvement either upon the common or the original text. The
text of the quarto 1597 is this (Romeo is speaking of Rosaline)--
“She’ll not be hit
With Cupid’s arrow; she hath Dian’s wit,
And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,
From love’s weak childish bow she lives _uncharm’d_,”
that is, _disenchanted_. The ordinary reading is “unharm’d” for
“uncharmed,” and it affords a very excellent and obvious sense. The
MS. corrector proposes _encharmed_--_i. e._ enchanted. But if any
one is dissatisfied with “unharmed,” we think he will do more wisely
to fall back on the primitive reading, rather than espouse the MS.
corrector’s emendation. It seems more natural to say that a person is
_disenchanted_ from the power of love by the shield of chastity, than
to say that she is _enchanted_ therefrom by means of that protection.
The following remark by Mr Collier puzzles us excessively. _Scene 4_,
in the fine description of Queen Mab, this line occurs--
“Sometime she gallops o’er a _courtier’s_ nose.”
But “courtiers” have been already mentioned. “To avoid this
repetition,” says Mr Collier, “Pope read ‘_lawyer’s_ nose;’ but while
shunning one defect he introduced another, for though the double
mention of ‘courtiers’ is thus avoided, it occasions the double
mention of lawyers. In what way, then, does the old corrector take
upon himself to decide the question? He treats the second ‘courtiers’
as a misprint for a word which, when carelessly written, is not very
dissimilar--
‘Some time she gallops o’er a _counsellor’s_ nose,
And then he dreams of smelling out a suit.’
That _counsellors_,” continues Mr Collier, “and their interest
in suits at court, should be thus ridiculed, cannot be thought
unnatural.” But are not _counsellors_ lawyers? and is not this
precisely the same blunder as that which Mr Collier condemns Pope
for having fallen into? Surely Queen Mab must have been galloping
to some purpose over Mr Collier’s nob, when he forgot himself thus
marvellously. It seems that there must be a repetition, and therefore
it is better to let it fall on the word “courtiers” than on the word
“lawyers,” or its synonym, _counsellors_,--for “courtiers” is the
original text.
_Act II. Scene 2._--We are so wedded to the exquisite lines about
“the winged messenger of heaven,”
“When he bestrides the _lazy-pacing_ clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air,”
that it is with the utmost unwillingness we consent even to the
smallest change in their expression. But it seems that “lazy-puffing”
(an evident misprint) is the reading of the old editions; and this
goes far to prove that _lazy-passing_ (the MS. correction) is the
genuine word--the long ſſ having been mistaken by the compositor for
ff. Although as a matter of taste, perhaps of association, we prefer
“lazy-pacing,” still _lazy-passing_ is very good, and we have little
doubt that it is the authentic reading. We agree also with Mr Collier
in thinking that “_unbusied_ youth” for “unbruised youth” (_Act II.
Scene 3_) comes, as he says, “within the class of extremely plausible
emendations.” “_Weak_ dealing” (_Scene 4_), in the mouth of the
nurse, may very well be a _malapropism_ for “_wicked_ dealing,” and
therefore the text ought not to be disturbed. The MS. corrector is,
perhaps, right in his alteration of the line about Juliet’s cheeks
(_Scene 5_), where the nurse says--
“They’ll be in scarlet _straight at any_ news.”
For “straight at any,” he reads, “_straightway at my_.” But the
point would require further consideration before the change can be
recommended, with certainty, for the text.
_Act III. Scene 2._--In this scene there occurs one of the most
disputed passages in the whole of Shakespeare, and one on which
conjectural emendation and critical explanation have expended all
the resources both of their ingenuity and their stupidity, without
reaching any very memorable result, except in one instance, which
we are about to mention with hearty commendation. The difficulty
presents itself in the lines where Juliet says--
“Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That _Runaway’s_ eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms untalked of and unseen.”
Who is “_Runaway_”? He is a printer’s (not devil but) blunder,
says the old corrector; we should read _enemies_. Those may read
_enemies_ who choose. _We_ certainly shall not--no, not even at
the bidding of Queen Victoria herself. We shall not turn ourselves
into a goose to please the ghost of an old amateur play-corrector,
though he should keep _rapping_ at us till his knuckles are worn out.
Read _Rumourers_, says Mr Singer. No, Mr Singer, we will not read
_Rumourers_. Read this thing, and read that thing, say other wise
authorities: no, gentlemen, we shall not read anything except what
Shakespeare wrote, and we _know for certain_ that the word which he
wrote was “Runaway’s,” just as it stands in the books; for we learnt
this from a _medium_;--yes, and the medium was the Rev. Mr Halpin,
who, in the “Shakespeare Society’s Papers,” vol. ii., has proved to
our entire satisfaction that the text calls for, and indeed admits
of, no alteration. There could not be a happier-chosen or more
expressive word than “Runaway’s,” as here employed.
Mr Halpin rather fritters away his argument, and is not very
forcible; but, coupled with one’s own reflections, he is altogether
convincing. The salient points of the argument may be presented
shortly as follows: _First_, “Runaway” holds the text: he has the
title which accrues from actual possession. _Secondly_, there cannot
be a doubt that _Runaway_ is the general and classical _sobriquet_
for “Cupid.” _Thirdly_, Cupid was a most important personage in
all _epithalamia_. _Fourthly_, important character though he was,
he could not be altogether depended on for secresy; and therefore,
_fifthly_, it was highly desirable, for various considerations (at
least so thought Juliet), that the night should be so dark that even
Cupid should not be able to see very far beyond the point of his own
nose; in order, _sixthly_, that he might not be able to tell tales,
or “talk” of what he had “seen.”
That is the first or main portion of the argument. It proceeds on
the supposition that Cupid _has eyes_. In that case, says Juliet, it
will be highly proper that he should “wink;” and as there can be no
certainty that the little rascal will do so, unless he _cannot see_,
it is further highly desirable that the night should be as black
as the brows of John Nox himself. The second and merely auxiliary
part of the argument proceeds on the supposition that Cupid has _no
eyes_--“Or,” says Juliet, a little farther on--“_or_ if Love (_i.
e._ Cupid) be blind;” why, then, so much the better; “it best agrees
with night;” in other words, a blind Cupid is fully a safer master of
ceremonies than is, all things considered, one that can see.
Finally, supposing the Cupid here referred to, to be not a blind
but a seeing one, will any person inform us what can be the meaning
of the “winking Cupids” spoken of in _Cymbeline_, II. 4, unless
“winking” was, at times, a very important duty on the part of this
functionary? Unless this was part of his office, the words referred
to have no meaning whatever. It seems to have been considered by our
poets, and also by the world at large, as highly becoming--indeed,
as absolutely necessary--that a _seeing_ Cupid should possess a
marvellous alacrity in “winking,” brought about either by his
own sense of the essential fitnesses of things, or by what some
moralists have termed the feeling of propriety, or by the darkness
of the circumambient night. The latter was the interposing medium
to which Juliet chiefly trusted. Who can now doubt that _Cupid_
is “Runaway,” and that “Runaway” was Shakespeare’s word? We have
omitted to say anything in explanation of the classical nickname. One
word may suffice. The urchin was constantly _running away_ from the
apron-strings of his mother Venus, and getting himself into scrapes.
_Act III. Scene 5._--The MS. alteration of “brow” into _bow_ is by no
means a manifest improvement in the lines where Romeo says--
“I’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye,
’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow.”
Why should “Cynthia’s _brow_” be not as unexceptionable an expression
as the “morning’s _eye_”? To take the words, “These are news indeed!”
from Juliet, and to give them to Lady Capulet, is to spoil the
consistency of the dialogue. This alteration proves that the old
corrector has been no very attentive student of his great master.
Lady Capulet says to her daughter Juliet--
“But now I’ll tell thee _joyful tidings_, girl.”
She then informs her that the gallant Count Paris is to make her a
joyful bride “early next Thursday morn.” Juliet protests against the
match, and winds up by exclaiming, “These _are_ news indeed!”--the
most natural and appropriate observation which could be made in the
circumstances. Yet Mr Collier calls the MS. correction which assigns
these words to Lady Capulet a “judicious arrangement.”
_Act IV. Scene 2._--_Becoming love_ for “_becomed_ love,” is a
specimen of the corrector’s system of modernising the text.
_Act V. Scene 1._--“If I may trust,” says Romeo,
“If I may trust the _flattering truth_ of sleep,
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand.”
The MS. corrector reads--
“If I may trust the flattering _death_ of sleep,”
which Mr Collier defends on the ground of what follows in Romeo’s
speech:--
“I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead,
(Strange dream! that gives a dead man leave to think,)
And breath’d such life with kisses in my lips
That I revived--and was an emperor.”
But if the “death,” of which the corrector supposes Romeo to speak,
has any reference to the death of which he has dreamt, what a
ludicrous and unmeaning epithet the word “flattering” is! Flattering
death! Why flattering? It is the most senseless adjunct that could
be employed in the place. It was his _revival from death_ by the
kisses of Juliet that formed the “flattering” part of his dream. This
emendation, therefore, must be dismissed as a most signal failure.
Mr Singer’s suggestion, though not necessary, is better. He reads,
“the flattering _soother_ sleep.” But the text ought to be allowed
to stand as it is. “The flattering truth of sleep” merely means--the
pleasing truth promised to me in dreams.
_Scene 3._--We conclude our observation on this play with the remark,
that there is no necessity whatever for changing “outrage” into
_outcry_ in the line where the Prince says--
“Seal up the mouth of _outrage_ for a while.”
All who are present have been driven nearly distracted by the
tragedies they are called upon to witness, and therefore the meaning
undoubtedly is--“seal up the mouth of _distraction_ for a while,”
“Till we can clear these ambiguities.”
* * * * *
TIMON OF ATHENS.--_Act I. Scene 1._--The commentators have been very
generally at fault in their dealings with the following line. The
cynical Apemantus says--
“Heavens, that I were a lord!
_Timon._--What wouldst thou do then, Apemantus?
_Apemantus._--Even as Apemantus does now--hate a lord with
my heart.
_Timon._--What, thyself?
_Apemantus._--Ay.
_Timon._--Wherefore?
_Apemantus._--_That I had no angry wit to be a lord._”
Warburton proposed, “that I had _so hungry a wit to be a lord_.”
Monk Mason suggested, “that I had _an angry wish_ to be a lord.” The
MS. corrector, combining these two readings, gives us, “_that I had
so hungry a wish_ to be a lord.” Dr Johnson says, “The meaning _may
be_--I should hate myself for _patiently enduring to be a lord_.
This is ill enough expressed. Perhaps some happy change may set it
right. I have tried and can do nothing, yet I cannot heartily concur
with Dr Warburton.” Warburton’s emendation is substantially the same
as the MS. corrector’s--and therefore we have Dr Johnson’s verdict
against its admissibility. His own interpretation is unquestionably
right, although he gave it with great hesitation. No change whatever
is required. The passage is perfectly plain if we take “to be” as
standing for “in being.” “That I had no angry wit _in being_ a
lord.” It is the pleasure and pride of my life to cherish a savage
disposition; but in consenting to be a lord I should show that I had
in a great measure foregone this moroseness of nature--and therefore
“I should hate myself, because I could have had no angry wit, no
splenetic humour upon me, when I consented to be a lord.”
_Scene 2._--Dr Delius (of whom favourable mention has been made in
our second article) deals very sensibly with the following case.
“At Timon’s table,” says he, “Apemantus declares himself to be a
water-drinker, because water, unlike strong drink, never leads a man
into crime. He says--
‘Here’s that which is too weak to be a _sinner_;
Honest water, which never left a man in the mire.’
The old corrector, hankering after rhymes, changes ‘sinner’ into
_fire_. But had Apemantus indulged in such an unutterable platitude
at Timon’s banquet, as the remark that _water was not fire_, the
rest of the guests would most assuredly have turned him to the door.
What shall we say when we find Mr Collier seriously believing that
Shakespeare’s word was _fire_!”[14] Well done, Doctor!
_Act II. Scene 2._--A construction very similar to the one we lately
met with (_to be_, for _in being_) occurs in the following lines,
which certainly require no amendment. Flavius, Timon’s steward,
complaining of his master’s extravagance, says that he
“Takes no account
How things go from him, _nor resumes_ no care
Of what is to continue. Never mind
Was, _to be_ so unwise, to be so kind.”
The corrector reads--
“Takes no account
How things go from him, _no reserve_; no care
Of what is to continue. Never mind
Was _surely_ so unwise, to be so kind.”
“To take no reserve” is surely more awkward and ungrammatical than
the language which Shakespeare employs. And as for the substitution
_surely_, it is very far from being required. The construction
is--never did a mind exist, being so unwise, in order to be so kind.
These two lines as amended by the
old corrector--
“He did reprove his anger, ere ’twas spent,
As if he did but move an argument,”
seem to be an improvement upon
“He did _behave_ his anger, ere ’twas spent,
As if he did but prove an argument.”
The old copies read “behoove.” But it would not be safe to alter
the received text without further deliberation. We cannot accept Mr
Singer’s _behood_.
_Act IV. Scene 2._--Flavius, when his master is ruined, moralises
thus,
“O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us!
Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt,
Since riches point to misery and contempt?
Who’d be so mock’d with glory? or to live
But in a dream of friendship?
To have his pomp, and all what state compounds,
But only painted, like his varnished friends.”
If the expression of these verses be somewhat elliptical, they are
quite intelligible, and the MS. corrector certainly does not improve
them. He writes the four last lines thus--
“Who’d be so mocked with glory, _as_ to live
But in a dream of friendship, and _revive_
To have his pomp and all state _comprehends_,
But only painted like his varnished friends.”
What is the meaning of “to be so mocked with _glory_ as to live but
in a dream of _friendship_?” A man may be so mocked with glory as
to live only in a dream of _glory_. But a dream of friendship is
nonsense--or, rather, the change of “or” into _as_, makes nonsense of
the passage. The other changes are not so irrational, but they are
quite unnecessary, and cannot, in any respect, be recommended for the
text.
_Scene 3._--To change “a bawd” into _abhorred_, as the MS. corrector
has done, proves that he was unable to construe the English language.
We shall merely refer our readers to Dr Johnson’s note on the place,
which explains it thoroughly.
In this same scene Timon rebukes Apemantus in these terms--
“Thou art a slave, whom fortune’s tender arm
With favour never clasp’d; but bred a dog.
Had’st thou, like us, from our first swath, proceeded
The sweet degrees that this brief world affords
To such as may the passive _drugs_ of it
Freely command, thou would’st have plung’d thyself
In general riot.”
Mr Collier writes, “‘The passive drugs’ of the world _surely_ cannot
be right. Timon is supposing the rich and luxurious to be, as it
were, sucking freely at the ‘passive _dugs_’ of the world, and an
emendation in manuscript which merely strikes out the superfluous
letter supports this view of the passage, and renders needless Monk
Mason’s _somewhat wild_ conjecture in favour of _drudges_.” Reader,
look out the word “drug” in Johnson’s Dictionary--a work which
does not deal much in _wild_ conjectures, and which, whatever its
disparagers may say, is still the best authority going for the use
and meaning of the English language--and you will find that one of
the meanings of “drug” is _drudge_. There cannot be a doubt that
_drugge_ is the old way of spelling _drudge_, and just as little
can there be a doubt that “drugs” in the passage before us means
_drudges_. To “command” the _dugs_ of the world, would indeed be a
wild way of speaking.
_Scene 4._--In the following lines, where it is said that it is not
right to take vengeance on the living for the crimes of the dead,
Shakespeare writes,
“All have not offended;
For those that were, it is _not square_ to take
On those that are, revenge.”
For “not square” the new reading is “is’t not severe.” This smacks
very decidedly of more modern times--and is a marked instance of our
corrector’s attempt to popularise his author. “Not square” of course
means not just.
* * * * *
JULIUS CÆSAR.--_Act I. Scene 2._--In his comments on the corrections
of this play Mr Collier makes an unfortunate commencement. He says,
“The two following lines have _always_ been printed thus--
‘When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome,
That her wide _walks_ encompass’d but one man?’
This reading has _never_, we believe, been doubted.” No man can be
expected to have examined all the editions of Shakespeare. But surely
Mr Collier _might_ have been acquainted with Theobald’s (1773), and
the common _variorum_ (1785), in both of which “walls” is printed
in the text, without a word of comment, as requiring none. Or if
he had not examined these editions, surely his remark was somewhat
precipitate that “walks” had been _always_ printed in the text, and
had _never_ been doubted. _We_ have never seen an edition containing
“walks”--but we shall not venture to assert that no such edition
exists. This, however, is certain, that the change of “walks” into
“walls” is news at least a hundred years old, and is a correction
which every child would make the instant the passage was laid before
him.
We quote the following from Mr Collier for the sake of the remark
with which it concludes. “The MS. corrector,” he says, “requires us
to make another change which seems even less necessary, but, at the
same time, is judicious:
‘Brutus had rather be a villager,
Than to repute himself a son of Rome,
Under _these_ hard conditions as this time
Is like to lay upon us.’
Under _such_ hard conditions, sounds better, followed as it is by
‘this time,’ but this is perhaps a matter of discretion, and we
have _no means of knowing_ whether the writer of the notes might
not _here_ be indulging his taste.” This implies--and there are
many such insinuations throughout Mr Collier’s book--that we have
the means _of knowing_ that the corrector did not exercise merely
his own discretion, in the majority of his emendations, but had
undoubted authority for his cutting and carving on the text. But what
means have we of knowing this? None at all. Sometimes the corrector
restores the readings of the old quartos and of the folio 1623; but
that is no proof that his other corrections have any guarantee beyond
his own caprice. There is no external evidence in their favour, and
their manifest inferiority to the received text, in almost every
instance of importance, shows that their internal evidence is just as
defective. Indeed, as we shall by and by see, we have the means of
knowing that, in almost every case, the old corrector was “exercising
merely his own discretion,” or rather indiscretion. We admit that in
a few minor instances the changes are slightly for the better, as,
for instance, the alteration of “make” into _mark_ in these lines
(_Act II. Scene 1_)--
“This shall _mark_
Our purpose necessary, and not envious.”
But wherever our corrector attempts an emendation of any magnitude,
he, for the most part--indeed, we may say always--signally fails,
as has been already abundantly shown; and he fails, because in nine
hundred and ninety-nine apparently doubtful cases out of every
thousand, the text stands in no need of any alteration.
_Act III. Scene 1._--How vilely vulgarised is Cæsar’s answer to
Artemidorus by the corrector’s way of putting it. Artemidorus,
pressing forward to deliver his warning to Cæsar, says,
“Mine’s a suit
That touches Cæsar nearer.”
Cæsar’s dignified answer is,
“What touches us ourself, shall be last served.”
The words put into his mouth by the MS. corrector are,
“That touches us? ourself shall be last served.”
The _taste_ of this new reading will not find many approvers, we
should think, when it is placed in juxtaposition with the old.
Perhaps the corrector is right in giving the words, “Are we all
ready,” to Casca, instead of Cæsar, to whom they are usually
assigned; but Ritson had long ago pointed out the propriety of the
change. We can accept _crouchings_ in place of couchings. “_Law_ of
children” for “_love_ of children,” has been already recommended by
Dr Johnson.
_Act IV. Scene 3._--For “new-added,” Mr Singer suggests _new-aided_,
which is certainly much better than the MS. correction _new-hearted_;
but no change is necessary.
_Act V. Scene 1._--The old reading, “_sword_ of traitors,” is
infinitely better than the new, “_word_ of traitors.” “Forward”
for “former” is another instance of the corrector’s attempts to
_modernise_ the text. The same may be said of _term_ for “time.” We
admit, however, that “_those_ high powers” reads better than “_some_
high powers.”
At the close of the play, Antony says of Brutus,
“This was the noblest Roman of them all,
All the conspirators, save only he,
Did that they did in envy of great Cæsar;
He, only, in a _general_ honest thought,
_And_ common good to all, made one of them.”
We are told to read,
“He only in a _generous_ honest thought
_Of_ common good to all.”
This, however, is not Shakespeare speaking his own language,
but Shakespeare popularised. “A _general_ honest thought” is a
_comprehensive_ honest thought; and we may be absolutely certain that
“general” is the poet’s word. If the MS. corrector could be brought
to life and examined, we are convinced he would admit that he was
merely _adapting_ Shakespeare to his own notions of the taste and
capacities of a popular assembly.
* * * * *
MACBETH.--_Act I. Scene 1._--When Ross enters suddenly, with tidings
of the victory gained by Macbeth and Banquo over the Norwegians,
Lenox exclaims,
“What a haste looks through his eyes! so should he look
That _seems to speak_ things strange.”
A hypercritical objection has been taken to the words, “seems to
speak,” inasmuch as Ross has not yet spoken. Dr Johnson, deserted
for a moment by his usual good sense, would read, “that _teems_
to speak.” “He looks like one that is _big with_ something of
importance”--a phrase savouring much more of the great lexicographer
than of the great poet. The MS. corrector proposes, “that _comes_ to
speak.” This is very flat and prosaic. Mr Singer says that “_seems_
is to be received in its usual sense of _appears_.” This is worse and
worse. Malone long ago informed us that “to speak” stood for “_about_
to speak,” and this is undoubtedly right. “To speak” is not the
present, but the future infinitive. “So should he look that seems _on
the point of speaking_ things strange.” No change is required.
_Scene 4._--The king, on meeting Macbeth after his victory over the
rebels, thus expresses his obligations to him,
“Would thou had’st less deserved,
That the proportion both of thanks and payment
Might have been _mine_.”
We believe the meaning of this to be, “that the _larger share_, both
of thanks and payment, might have come from _my_ side. As it is, I
still owe you more than you can ever owe me.” To change “mine” into
_more_ is quite uncalled for.
_Scene 5._--The MS. corrector proposes _blankness_ for “blanket,” in
the lines where Lady Macbeth, revolving the murder of Duncan, says,
“Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell!
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes;
Nor heaven peep through the _blanket_ of the night,
To cry, Hold! hold!”
The darkness prayed for is the _thickest_ that can be procured, and
therefore the word “blanket” is highly appropriate. It has a stifling
effect on the imagination, which the general term _blankness_ has not.
_Scene 7._--The next alteration proposed seems to us to be a case of
great doubt and difficulty--one in which a good deal may be said on
both sides of the question. Macbeth says to his lady, who is pressing
him strongly to commit the murder,
“Pr’ythee, peace,
I dare do all that may become a man,
Who dares do more is none.
_Lady M._--What _beast_ was’t, then,
That made you break this enterprise to me?
When you durst do it, then you were a man,
And to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the man.”
The MS. corrector, changing one letter, converts “beast” into
_boast_, whereupon Mr Singer says, “Who could have imagined that
any one familiar with the poet, as Mr Collier tells us he has been
for the last fifty years, could for a moment entertain the absurd
change of ‘beast’ to _boast_ in this celebrated passage?” Here Mr
Singer expresses himself, as we think, a great deal too strongly. In
better taste is Mr John Foster’s defence of the received reading.
He says (we quote from Mr Dyce, p. 124), with great good sense and
propriety, “Here Mr Collier reasons, as it appears to us, without
sufficient reference to the context of the passage, and its place
in the scene. The expression immediately preceding, and eliciting
Lady Macbeth’s reproach, is that in which Macbeth declares that he
dares do all that may become _a man_, and that who dares more _is
none_. She instantly takes up that expression--If not an affair in
which _a man_ may engage, what _beast_ was it then in himself or
others that made him break this enterprise to her? The force of the
passage lies in that contrasted word, and its meaning is lost by the
proposed substitution.” We admit the force of this reasoning, and it,
together with the consideration that _beast_ is the word actually in
possession of the text, rather inclines us, though not without much
hesitation, to prefer the old reading. We strongly suspect that the
contrast of the _beast_ and the _man_ may have been an accident due
to the carelessness, or perhaps an alteration due to the ingenuity
of the printer. There is to our feelings a stronger expression of
contempt, a more natural, if not a fiercer taunt in _boast_ than in
“beast.” “What vain braggadocio fit--what swaggering humour was it,
then, that made you break this enterprise to me?” There is nothing in
Mr Dyce’s objection, that Macbeth had _not_ previously vaunted his
determination to murder Duncan. He certainly _had_ broken the project
to his wife both by letter and in conversation, and that pretty
strongly too, as is evident from her words, “Nor time nor place did
_then_ adhere,” that is, when he first broached the subject, “yet
you would make both”--that is, you would make both time and place
bend to the furtherance of your design, even when they were not
in themselves ripe and suitable. And even though Macbeth had not
announced his project in a boastful manner, it was quite natural that
the lady, disgusted by his vacillation, should, in her excited state,
upbraid him as an empty boaster, and a contemptible poltroon. Tried
by their intrinsic merits, we regard “boast” as rather the better
reading of the two; and if we advocate the retention of “beast,” it
is only on the ground that it, too, affords a very good meaning, and
is _de facto_ the text of the old folios.
_Act III. Scene 4._--The following passage has occasioned some
discussion among the commentators. Macbeth addresses the ghost of
Banquo,
“Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,
The armed rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Shall never tremble; or, be alive again,
And dare me to the desert with thy sword:
If trembling I _inhibit_, then protest me
The baby of a girl.”
This is the common reading, or at least was so until a comparatively
recent period. “_Inhabit_,” says Henley, “is the original reading,
and it needs no alteration. The obvious meaning is--should you
challenge me to encounter you in the desert, and I, through fear,
remain trembling in my castle, _then_ protest me,” &c. Horne Tooke
(_Diversions of Purley_, ii. p. 55) slightly varies this reading by
placing the comma after _then_, instead of after _inhabit_.
“Dare me to the desert with thy sword,
If trembling I inhabit then;”--
_i. e._, if _then_ I do not meet thee there; if trembling I stay at
home, or within doors, or under any roof, or within any _habitation_;
if, when you call me to the desert, I then _house_ me, or through
fear hide myself from thee in any dwelling--
“If trembling I do _house me then_, protest me,” &c.
Probably, then, the best reading is,
“If trembling I _inhabit then_, protest me,” &c.
At any rate, the MS. corrector’s prosaic substitution--“if trembling
I _exhibit_,” _i. e._, if I show any symptoms of trepidation, cannot
be listened to for a moment.
_Act IV. Scene 1._--The MS. corrector alters very properly
“Rebellious dead” of the old copies, into
“_Rebellion’s head_ rise never till the wood
Of Birnam rise.”
Theobald had got the length of changing “dead” into _head_, but the
alteration of “rebellious” into _rebellion’s_ is due to the old
corrector, and it is decidedly an improvement.
When Macbeth has resolved to seize Macduff’s castle, and put his wife
and children to the sword, he exclaims--
“This deed I’ll do before this purpose cool,
But no more _sights_!”
The MS. corrector proposes _flights_, and not without some show of
reason. Macbeth has just been informed that Macduff has fled to
England, and the escape has evidently discomposed him, as placing
beyond his reach his most deadly enemy. Accordingly, he is supposed
by the MS. corrector to exclaim, “No more flights! I must take care
that no more of that party escape me.” But, on the other hand,
Macbeth, a minute before, has been inveighing against the witches. He
says--
“Infected be the air whereon they ride,
And damned all that trust them!”
So that “But no more sights” may mean, I will have no more dealings
with these infernal hags. The word “But” seems to be out of place in
connection with “flights”--and therefore we pronounce in favour of
the old reading.
_Scene 3._--Malcolm, speaking of himself, says--
“In whom I know
All the particulars of vice so grafted,
That when they shall be _open’d_, black Macbeth
Shall seem as pure as snow.”
“Here,” says Mr Collier, “as has been said on many former occasions,
‘opened’ affords sense, but so inferior to that given by the
correction of the folio 1632, that we need not hesitate in concluding
that Shakespeare, carrying on the figure suggested by the word
‘grafted’ as applied to fruit, must have written--
‘That when they shall be _ripened_, black Macbeth
Will seem as pure as snow.’”
But does not Mr Collier see that the metaphor is one which does not
turn upon _fruit_ at all, but that it turns upon _flowers_? And who
ever heard of flowers _ripening_? That the allusion is to flowers is
obvious from this, that Malcolm’s vices are said to surpass Macbeth’s
in their _colour_. “Compared with me, black Macbeth shall seem as
pure _as snow_.” What confusion of ideas can have put _fruit_ into
the dunderhead of the corrector, and what obliquity of judgment
should have led Mr Collier to affirm, that “opened” affords a sense
so inferior to _ripened_, it is very difficult to comprehend. In his
appendix, Mr Collier says, “an objection to _ripened_ instead of
‘opened,’ may be, that Malcolm is representing these ‘particulars of
vice’ in him as already at maturity.” Not at all; that would have
been no objection. His vices _were_ immature, but their immaturity
was that of flowers, and not that of fruits. So that Mr Collier is
equally at fault in his reasons _for_ and in his reasons _against_
the word “opened.” This is not pretty in a man who has some claims to
be regarded as one of the greatest Shakespearian scholars of the day.
The MS. corrector in no way redeems his character by suggesting a
decided alteration for the worse in the line where Macduff says to
Malcolm--
“You may
_Convey_ your pleasures in a spacious plenty.”
Read _enjoy_, says the corrector. We have no doubt that “convey” is
the right word--only we had better punctuate the line thus,
“Convey your pleasures in,--a spacious plenty;”
_i. e._ Gather them in,--an abundant harvest.
_Act V. Scene 2._--In the lines in which the unsettled condition
of Macbeth’s mind is alluded to, the corrector proposes a specious
though far from necessary amendment.
“But for certain,
He cannot buckle his distempered _cause_
Within the belt of rule.”
The MS. correction is _course_; _i. e._ course of action, which is
distempered by the shattered condition of his nerves. But “cause”
fits the place perfectly well, if taken for his affairs generally,
his whole system of procedure; and therefore we are of opinion that
the text ought not to be disturbed.
_Scene 3._ In the line where Macbeth says--
“This push
Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now,”
we approve of the substitution of _chair_ for “cheer,” as proposed
long ago by Bishop Percy, and now seconded by the MS. corrector. But
we see no good reason for changing “stuff” into _grief_, in the line
“Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous _stuff_
Which weighs upon the heart.”
There seems to have been but little _grief_ on the part either of the
tyrant or his lady; and the repetition of “stuffed” and “stuff” is
very much after the manner of Shakespeare.
_Scene 4._ Malcolm says of Macbeth’s followers--
“For where there is advantage _to be given_,
Both more and less, have given him the revolt;”
that is, where any advantage is held out, or “to be given” to them,
both strong and weak desert Macbeth’s standard. The MS. corrector
proposes “advantage _to be gotten_; a better reading, which has been
often suggested, is “advantage _to be gained_,” and this we regard
as more suitable to modern notions; but we counsel no change in the
text, because the old reading was to a certainty the language of
Shakespeare.
The latinism of _farced_, _i. e._, stuffed out, for “forced,” has not
a shadow of probability in its favour. Macbeth says of the troops
opposed to him--
“Were they not _forced_ with those that should be ours,
We might have met them, dareful, beard to beard.”
“Forced,” says Mr Singer very properly, “is used in the sense of
_re-inforced_.” Neither can we accept _quailed_ for “cooled,” at the
recommendation of the MS. corrector, in these lines where Macbeth
says--
“The time has been my senses would have _cool’d_
To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
As life were in’t.”
“My senses would have _cooled_”--that is, my nerves would have
thrilled with an _icy_ shudder. The received text is quite
satisfactory.
* * * * *
HAMLET.--_Act I. Scene 2._--In consistency with the verdict just
given, we must pronounce the following new reading, at any rate,
reasonable.
Horatio, describing the effect of the appearance of the ghost upon
Bernardo and Marcellus, tells Hamlet, as the quartos give it--
“They _distill’d_
Almost to jelly with the act of fear,
Stand dumb, and speak not to him.”
The folios read “bestilled.” The MS. correction is _bechill’d_. And
this we prefer to bestilled. It is quite in keeping with Macbeth’s
expression--
“My senses would have _cool’d_
To hear a night-shriek.”
Shakespeare probably knew that “jelly” was _gelu_, ice. But
“distilled,” the common reading, affords quite as good a meaning as
_bechilled_, and therefore, as this word has authority in its favour,
which _bechilled_ has not, we advise no alteration of the text.
_Scene 3._--We think that the old corrector was right, when he
changed “chief” into _choice_ in the lines where the style in which
Frenchmen dress is alluded to--
“And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chef in that.”
This is the reading of the old copies. The modern editions read more
intelligibly--
“Are most select and generous, chief in that.”
“Chief” for chiefly. But we prefer the MS. correction--
“Are of a most select and generous _choice_ in that,”
both as affording better sense, and as coming nearer the old text
than the received reading does.
In the same scene, Polonius says to his daughter--
“I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth,
Have you so _slander_ any moment’s leisure,
As to give words, or talk with the lord Hamlet.”
We believe that “slander” here means _abuse_, _misuse_, and therefore
we prefer the received text to _squander_, the reading of the MS.
corrector.
_Scene 5._--The ghost says--
“Thus was I sleeping, by a brother’s hand,
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once _despatch’d_.”
The margins read--
“Of life, of crown, of queen, at once _despoiled_,”
which may be more strictly grammatical than the other. But
“despatched” is more forcible, and indicates a more summary mode of
procedure. “Despatched,” says Mr Dyce, “expresses the _suddenness_ of
the bereavement.” The quartos read “deprived,” which is quite as good
as _despoiled_.
_Act II. Scene 2._--Hamlet says--
“For it cannot be
But I am pigeon-livered, and lack gall
To make _oppression_ better, or ere this
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave’s offal.”
The margins have the weakness to propose “to make _transgression_
bitter!” We are glad to perceive that the mild Mr Dyce “lacks not
gall to make _senseless criticism_ bitter.” He says, “This alteration
is nothing less _than villanous_. Could the MS. corrector be so
obtuse as not to perceive that ‘lack gall to make oppression bitter,’
means lack gall to make me feel the bitterness of oppression?” Mr
Singer proposes _aggression_, which is just one half as bad as
_transgression_. Why cannot the commentators leave well alone?
_Act III. Scene 3._--To change “prize” into _purse_ in the expression,
“the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law,”
simply shows a dogged determination on the part of the old corrector
to be more perversely idiotical than we can believe that his stars
doomed even _him_ to be. The king is speaking of his usurped crown
and dominion as his “wicked _prize_.” Mr Collier having put on livery
in the old corrector’s service, has, of course, nothing for it but to
assent. He says, “We need no great persuasion to make us believe that
we ought to read _purse_.” Do not suppose, Mr Collier, that we are
going to be gulled by that remark--you yourself, we are convinced,
never swallowed so bitter a pill as that new reading, in all your
born days.
_Act III. Scene 4._--The MS. correction, “I’ll _sconce_ me even
here,” says Polonius, is to be preferred to the ordinary reading,
“I’ll _silence_ me even here.” This reading was also proposed not
long ago by Mr Hunter.
_Act IV. Scene 3._--In the next, Mr Collier is not quite so sure
of his ground, and well may he distrust it. He says, “The next
emendation is well worthy of consideration, and _perhaps_ of
adoption. The king asks Hamlet where Polonius is at supper, and the
answer is this in the quartos--
“Not where he eats, but where he is eaten; a certain
convocation of _politic_ worms are even at him. Your worm
is the only emperor for diet,” &c.
The corrector treats us to “a convocation of _palated_ worms,”
which is a view of the subject we cannot at all stomach. If there
is any one word in all Shakespeare which we can be more certain of
than another as having been written by himself, the term “politic,”
as used in this place, is that word. The context, “convocation,”
proves this. A convocation is a kind of parliament, and does not
a parliament imply policy? “Politic” here means _polite, social,
and discriminating_. Mr Collier advances a very singular argument
in behalf of _palated_. “If the text had always stood ‘palated
worms,’ and if it had been proposed to change it to ‘politic worms,’
few readers would for an instant have consented to relinquish an
expression so peculiarly Shakespearian.” That is to say, if we
had the best possible reasons for thinking that Shakespeare wrote
“palated,” we should not be disposed to alter it. True: but in
that case we can assure Mr Collier that our forbearance would be
occasioned only by our respect for the authentic text, and not by
our opinion that “palated” is the better word of the two. _Palated_
is, in every respect, inferior to “politic”--so inferior, that
had _palated_ been the text, we should strongly have suspected a
misprint, and had “politic” stood on the margin we should certainly
have recommended it for favourable consideration, as we have done
several of the MS. corrections which have not nearly so strong claims
on our approval. The corrector must have been _very old_ (or very
young) when he set down this new reading.
* * * * *
KING LEAR.--_Act I. Scene 1._--Regan remarks that in comparison with
her father’s welfare--
“I profess
Myself an enemy to all other joys
That the most _precious square_ of sense possesses.”
The MS. corrector reads “precious _sphere_,” which Mr Singer trumps
by playing out “_spacious_ sphere.” Both of these new readings are
good, considered as _modernisations_ of Shakespeare. But the old text
is not to be doubted: it is quite intelligible, and therefore ought
not to be disturbed. “Square” means compass, _area_.
In the following passage, too, we advocate the retention of the old
text, though the MS. correction is plausible--is one of the best we
have been favoured with. Cordelia entreats her father to
“Make known
It is no vicious blot, _murder_, or foulness--
No unchaste action, or dishonoured _step_,
That hath deprived me of your grace and favour.”
Mr Collier remarks: “Murder (spelt _murther_ in the folios) seems
here entirely out of place; Cordelia could never contemplate that
anybody would suspect her of murder; she is referring to ‘vicious
blots’ and ‘foulness’ in respect to virtue, and there cannot, we
apprehend, be a doubt that the old corrector has given us the real
language of Shakespeare when he puts the passage thus--
‘Make known
It is no vicious blot, _nor other_ foulness.’”
But the King of France has just before said--
“Sure her offence
Must be of such _unnatural_ degree
That _monsters it_;”
that is, that makes a monster of it--it can be nothing short of some
crime of the deepest dye--and therefore “murder” does not seem to be
so much out of place in the mouth of Cordelia. _Stoop_ for “step,” as
proposed by the corrector, is still less to be accepted. Had he never
heard of a _faux pas_?
_Act II. Scene 4._--The fool, declaring that he will not desert his
master, sings--
“But I will stay; the fool will stay,
And let the wise man fly.
The knave turns fool that runs away,
The fool no knave, perdy.”
Dr Johnson proposed to correct the two last lines thus--
“The _fool_ turns _knave_ that runs away,
The _knave_ no _fool_, perdy.”
And the MS. corrector does the same. Mr Singer, however, declares
“that the words _knave_ and _fool_ are in their right places in
the old text.” We wish that he had explained his view; for, to our
apprehension, the new reading is the only one which makes sense.
One or two very small amendments here present themselves, which
on the score of taste are not altogether objectionable, but the
superiority of which is by no means so undoubted as to entitle them
to a place in the text. The following is one of them--probably the
best--_Act IV. Scene 1_, Edgar, in disguise, says--
“Yet better thus, and known to be contemned,
Than still contemned and flattered.”
The meaning is--’tis better to be thus contemned and known to
one’s-self to be contemned--than contemned, and at the same time so
flattered as not to know that you are contemned. The old corrector
proposes--
“_Yes_, better _thus unknown_ to be contemned,” &c.,
a reading (all but the _yes_) suggested long ago by Dr Johnson--but
one in no respect superior in merit to the common text. The common
reading “our mean (_i. e._ our mediocrity) secures us,” is greatly
to be preferred to the MS. correction “our _wants_ secure us.” We
confess, however, a predilection for the “lust-dieted man that
_braves_ your ordinance” (the ordinance of heaven), instead of the
common reading, “_slaves_ your ordinance,” although this is defended
by Dr Johnson against Warburton, who long ago proposed the word
(_braves_) which appears on the margins of the folio.
_Scene 6._--
“Behold yond’ simpering dame
Whose face between her forks presageth snow,
Who _minces_ virtue, and does shake the head
To hear of pleasure’s name.”
“Who _mimics_ virtue” say the margins, accommodating Shakespeare
to the tastes and understandings of a degenerate period. But, “who
minces virtue” is far finer: it means, who _affects_ a nicety of
virtue. We think that Dr Delius is wrong in preferring _mimics_.
Edgar, when he discovers that Goneril has a plot upon her husband’s
life, exclaims--
“Oh, _undistinguish’d space_ of woman’s will!
A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life,
And the exchange my brother!”
The corrector’s substitution--
“Oh, _unextinguished blaze_ of woman’s will!”
may be dismissed at once as utterly irreconcilable with the context,
besides being villanous rhodomontade. The context lets us know very
plainly what the meaning of the first line must be. “A plot,” says
Edgar, “on the life of her husband, the best of men! and a marriage
with my brother, the greatest scoundrel unhanged! Oh, workings
of woman’s will, past all finding out--past all distinguishing!”
“Oh, unfathomable depth;” “Oh, unintelligible tortuosity;” “Oh,
undistinguishable limits;” that we believe to be the meaning of
“_Oh, undistinguished space_ of woman’s will.” The text requires no
amendment; and we would merely suggest _ways_ or _depth_ as a gloss,
and not as a substitute for “space.”
OTHELLO.--_Act I. Scene 1._--The old corrector sometimes passes over
lines which present intolerable difficulties. We wish, in particular,
that he had favoured us with his sentiments on that line which has
baffled all mankind, in which Iago describes Cassio as
“A fellow almost damned in a fair wife.”
Difficulty first, Cassio was _not married_! Difficulty second,
Supposing him to be married, why should he be either almost or
altogether damned in a fair wife? Difficulty third, Why, if damned
at all, should he be only _almost_, and not _completely_, damned in
her? These are points on which the old scholiast has not attempted
to throw any light. Cassio, it is well known, had a mistress. Is it
possible, then, that Shakespeare should use “wife” in the sense of
mistress or woman? That supposition might remove the difficulty. As
it is, all attempts to amend the line have hitherto been abortive. It
still stands the _opprobrium criticorum_.
After trying his hand very unsuccessfully on one or two passages, the
MS. corrector comes to the lines in which Desdemona is described by
Roderigo as
“Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes,
In an extravagant and _wheeling_ stranger
Of here and everywhere.”
Mr Collier says: “Here the commentators have notes upon
‘extravagant,’ but pass over ‘wheeling’ without explanation, although
_very unintelligible_ where it stands.” He then remarks that
“_wheedling_ (the MS. correction for ‘wheeling’) is an important
improvement of the text.” Few people, we imagine, will agree with
Mr Collier in thinking either that “wheeling” is unintelligible, or
that _wheedling_ is an improvement. “A wheeling stranger of here
and everywhere” is as plain, and, at the same time, as poetical a
periphrasis for _a vagabond_ as can be well conceived. We may be
_certain_ that the text as it stands is the language of Shakespeare.
Proceeding onwards, we meet with nothing which can be recommended
for the text, and little which attracts our attention, until we
come to the expression, “A super-subtle Venetian,” which is Iago’s
designation for Desdemona. The old corrector makes him call her “a
_super-supple_ Venetian”! But, if his own good taste could not keep
the old gentleman right, surely the context might have done so. Iago
says--“An erring barbarian (_i. e._ Othello) and a super-subtle
Venetian” (_i. e._ Desdemona). There is here a fine opposition
between barbarism and subtlety; but what opposition, what relation of
any kind, is there between barbarism and _suppleness_?
_Act II. Scene 3._--Othello, in a state of excitement, says--
“And passion having my best judgment _collied_,”
for which the MS. correction is _quelled_. Mr Collier says, “There
can hardly be a doubt that this is the proper restoration.” Whereupon
Mr Singer observes pathetically--and we quite agree with him--“I pity
the man who could for a moment think of displacing the effective and
now consecrated word _collied_. Its obvious meaning is _darkened_,
_obfuscated_; and a more appropriate and expressive word could not
have been used.”
_Act IV. Scene 1._--Othello, when the pretended proofs of Desdemona’s
guilt are accumulating upon him, and just before he falls into a
fit, exclaims, “Nature would not invest herself in such _shadowing_
passion without some instruction.” Johnson thus explains the place,
“It is not _words_ which shake me thus. This passion which spreads
its clouds over me, is the effect of some agency more than the
_operation of words_: it is one of these notices which men have of
unseen calamities.” How near does that come to Campbell’s fine line,
“And coming events cast their _shadows_ before.”
Yet “shadowing” is to be deleted, and _shuddering_ substituted in its
room. No, no, thou shadow--but not of Shakespeare--we cannot afford
to be mulcted of so much fine poetry.
_Scene 2._--We might have called attention more frequently, as we
went along, to many instances which prove, what we have now not the
smallest doubt of, that these new readings were never at all intended
by the MS. corrector to be viewed as _restorations_ of Shakespeare’s
text; but simply as _avowed departures_ from his language, admitted
innovations, which might better suit the tastes, as he thought, of
a _progenies vitiosior_. That they were designed as restitutions of
the true Shakespearian dialect is a pure hypothesis on the part of
Mr Collier. It receives no countenance whatever from the handiwork
of his corrector, whom, therefore, we exculpate from the crime of
forgery, although his offences against good taste and common sense
remain equally reprehensible. Mr Collier, we conceive, is greatly to
blame for having mistaken so completely his _protégé’s_ intention. As
an instance of a new reading in which the text is merely modernised,
and certainly not restored, take the following, where Desdemona,
speaking of Othello, says,
“How have I been behaved, that he might stick
The small’st opinion on my greatest abuse?”
This is the reading of the quartos. The folios have,
“The small’st opinion on my _least misuse_.”
The latter of which words the corrector changes into _misdeed_,
as more intelligible to the ears of the groundlings subsequent to
Shakespeare.
_Act V. Scene 2._--Æmilia, after the murder of Desdemona, declares
that she will not hold her peace,
“No, I will speak as liberal as the _north_.”
The old quarto reads _air_. The MS. corrector reads _wind_. “Why, we
may ask,” says Mr Collier, “should the old corrector make the change,
inasmuch as no reasonable objection may be urged against the use of
‘north,’ which he deletes, not in favour of ‘air’ of the quarto 1622,
but in favour of _wind_? We may presume that he altered the word
because he had heard the line repeated in that manner on the stage.”
That is not at all unlikely. Actors sometimes take considerable
liberties with the text of their parts, and they probably did so
in the time of Shakespeare as well as now. A player might use _the
north_, or _the air_, or _the wind_, according as the one or other of
these words came most readily to his mouth. But that proves nothing
in regard to the authentic text of Shakespeare. For this we must look
to his _published_ works in their earliest impressions. We attach
little or no importance to the mere players’ alterations, even though
Mr Collier should be able to prove (what he is not) that many of his
corrector’s emendations were playhouse variations, for these were
much more likely to have had their origin in individual caprice than
in any more authoritative source.
* * * * *
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.--_Act I. Scene 2._--Before changing the
following passage,
“The present pleasure,
By _revolution lowering_, does become
The opposite of itself,”
we should require better authority than that of the MS. corrector,
who reads,
“The present pleasure,
By _repetition souring_, does become
The opposite of itself.”
This, however, is one of his most specious emendations. But the
words, “by revolution lowering,” are sufficiently intelligible,--and
are indeed a very fine poetical expression for the instability of
human pleasure.
_Scene 3._--Antony says to Cleopatra, who seems to doubt his love,
“My precious queen, forbear,
And give true _evidence_ to his love which stands
An honourable trial”--
that is, bear true witness to my love. The MS. corrector changes
“evidence” into _credence_, as better suited to the popular
apprehension, though much less pleasing to the discriminating reader.
There cannot be a doubt as to which of the words is Shakespeare’s.
_Scene 5._--“An _arm-gaunt_ steed” has puzzled the commentators.
Of all the substitutes proposed, _termagant_ is perhaps the best.
_Arrogant_, suggested by Mr Boaden, and adopted by Mr Singer, is also
worthy of consideration. Either of these words harmonises with the
character of the animal “who neigh’d so high.” Sir T. Hanmer and the
old corrector read _arm-girt_.
_Act II. Scene 2._--In the description of Cleopatra in her barge, it
is said,
“The silken tackles
_Swell_ with the touches of those flower-soft hands
That yarely frame the office.”
Mr Collier says, “we ought _undoubtedly_, with the old corrector, to
amend the text to
‘_Smell_ with the touches of the flower-soft hands.’”
Truly there _is_ no accounting for tastes!
_Scene 7._--“When Antony,” says Mr Collier, “during the debauch,
says to Cæsar, ‘Be a child o’ the time,’ Cæsar replies rather
unintelligibly,
‘_Possess it_, I’ll make answer; but I had rather fast
From all, four days, than drink so much in one.’
What does he mean by telling Antony ‘to possess it?’” His meaning
is quite obvious; he means, _Be master of it_. “Be a child of the
time,” says Antony. “Rather be its master, say I,” rejoins Cæsar--a
sentiment much more likely to come from the lips of the great
dictator than the paltry rejoinder which the old corrector puts into
his mouth--“_Profess it_”--that is, profess to be the child of the
time.
_Act III. Scene 4._--Antony, complaining of Cæsar’s unjust treatment,
says,
“When the best hint was given him, he _not took’t_,
Or did it from his teeth;”
that is, when the most favourable representations of my conduct were
made to him, he heeded them not, or merely put on the appearance of
attending to them. The corrector reads, “_but looked_;” yet, although
the folio 1623 has “he _not looked_,” we may be pretty sure that the
text, as given above, is the right reading, as it is assuredly the
only one which makes sense.
_Scene 6._--Cæsar expresses his dissatisfaction with the want of
ceremony with which Octavia has been received on her entrance into
Rome.
“But you are come
A market-maid to Rome, and have prevented
The ostentation of our love, which left, unshown,
Is often _left_ unlov’d.”
For “left” the corrector reads _held_, and Mr Singer proposes
_felt_. But if either of these emendations were adopted, we should
require to read, “is often felt _unloving_,” and this the measure
will not permit. We therefore stand by the old text, the meaning
of which we conceive to be--love which is left unshown is often
left _unreturned_. “Wrong led” is better suited to its place than
_wrongèd_, the MS. correction.
_Scene 11._--Enobarbus, ridiculing the idea that Cæsar will accept
Antony’s challenge to meet him in single combat, says,
“That he should dream,
Knowing all _measures_, the full Cæsar will
Answer his emptiness”--
that is, it is surprising that Antony, who has experienced every
measure of fortune, has drunk of her fullest as well as of her
emptiest cup, should dream that the _full_ Cæsar will answer _his
emptiness_. Here the words _full_ and _emptiness_ prove to a
demonstration that “measure” is the right word; yet the MS. corrector
alters it to _miseries_! Mr Collier remarks, in his supplementary
notes, “Still, it may be fit to hesitate before _miseries_ for
‘measures’ is introduced into the text.” We see no ground for a
moment’s hesitation. _Miseries_ is seen at a glance to be altogether
unendurable.
In the same scene, somewhat further on, we think that the word
_deputation_ ought to take the place of “disputation.” This was
Warburton’s amendment; and the MS. correction coincides with it.
_Act IV. Scene 4._--“Antony,” says Mr Collier, “enters calling for
his armour; ‘Mine armour, Eros;’ and when the man brings it, Antony
is made to say in the old copies, ‘Put _thine_ iron on;’ but surely
it ought to be as a manuscript note gives it, ‘Put _mine_ iron on.’”
Not at all; either word will do; but “thine” is more consonant with
ordinary usage. A gentleman asks his butler, not “have you cleaned
_my_ plate?” but “have you cleaned _your_ plate?” meaning, my plate
of which _you_ have the charge. Eros had the charge of Antony’s
armour. We agree with the corrector, that the words, “What is this
for?” should be given to Cleopatra, who is assisting to buckle on
Antony’s armour, and not to Antony, to whom they are assigned in the
_variorum_ edition 1785. “_Bear_ a storm” for “_hear_ a storm,” the
common reading, is a very unnecessary change.
_Scene 8._--_Gests_ (gesta, exploits) for “guests” is highly to be
commended in the lines where Antony says,
“We have beat him to his camp. Run one before
And let the queen know of our _gests_.”
This emendation by the old corrector ought to take its place in the
text: and he should get the credit of it, although, as a proposed
reading, it may be, as Mr Singer says, already well known.
_Scene 9._--_Fore sleep_ instead of “for sleep,” is also entitled to
very favourable consideration.
_Scene 12._--_Composed_ for “disposed,” is the text _modernised_, not
restored.
_Scene 13._--Cleopatra declares that she will never be led in triumph
by Cæsar, as an object of scorn to the proud patrician dames.
“Your wife, Octavia, with her modest eyes,
And _still conclusion_, shall acquire no honour
Demuring upon me.”
How good is that expression “still conclusion”! That lady of yours,
looking demurely upon me with her modest eyes, and _drawing her quiet
inferences_, shall acquire no honour from the contrast between my
fate with her own. And yet we are called upon by the MS. corrector
to give up these pregnant words for the vapid substitution of “still
_condition_!” This, we say, is no fair exchange, but downright
robbery.
When Cleopatra and her women are endeavouring to raise the dying
Antony into the monument, the Egyptian queen exclaims,
“_Here’s sport indeed!_ How heavy weighs my lord.”
Johnson’s note on this place is remarkable, as an instance of want
of judgment in a man whose sagacity was very rarely at fault. He
says, “I suppose the meaning of these strange words is, _here’s_
trifling; _you_ do not work _in earnest_.” No interpretation could
well go wider of the mark than this. Steevens says that she speaks
with an “affected levity.” It would be truer to say that she speaks
from that bitterness of heart which frequently finds a vent for
itself in irony. The MS. corrector reads, “Here’s _port_ indeed,”
which Mr Collier explains by saying, “Here Shakespeare appears to
have employed _port_ as a substantive to indicate weight.” But “it
would astonish me, and many more,” says Mr Singer, “if Mr Collier
should succeed in finding _port_ used for a load or weight in the
whole range of English literature.” We might add, that even although
authority could be found for it, the proposed reading would still be
utterly indefensible--
“Here’s _port_ (i. e. _weight_) indeed! how _heavy weighs_ my lord!”
This is as bad as “_old_ Goody Blake was _old_ and poor.” Mr Singer
proposes, “Here’s _support_ indeed,” which we can by no means approve
of, as it seems to have no sense.
_Act V. Scene 2._--Although the text of the following lines is not
very satisfactory, we greatly prefer it to the old corrector’s
amendment. Cleopatra, contemplating suicide, says,
“It is great
To do that thing that ends all other deeds,
Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change;
Which sleeps, and never palates more the _dung_,
The beggar’s nurse and Cæsar’s.”
“Dung” here is probably used contemptuously, and must be taken in
a wide sense for food in general. As bread is raised from manure,
man, who lives by bread, may be said to feed on manure. The sense
probably is--It is great to do the thing (suicide) which causes us
to sleep, and never more to taste the produce of the earth, which
nourishes alike Cæsar and the beggar. The MS. correction is _dug_,
which was long ago suggested, and which certainly does not mend
matters. This new reading affords no extrication of the construction,
“which sleeps,” which we have ventured to explain as “which _lays us_
asleep, and _causes us_ never more to palate or taste,” &c.
_Scene 2._--
“A grief that shoots
My very heart at root,”
is perhaps judiciously altered into “a grief that smites.” The old
copies read “suites.” This emendation was also proposed by the late
Mr Barron Field.
* * * * *
CYMBELINE.--_Act I. Scene 5._--“We here encounter,” says Mr Collier,
“the first MS. emendation of _much value_.” Iachimo has remarked,
that the marriage of Posthumus with the king’s daughter, from whom,
however, he has been divorced, tends to raise Posthumus in the public
estimation. “And then his banishment,” says the Frenchman. “Ay,” adds
Iachimo, “and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable
divorce _under her colours_ are wonderfully to extend him;” that
is, his banishment, and the approbation of those _of his wife’s
party_ (this is the meaning of “under her colours”), who weep this
lamentable divorce, help to enhance still further the opinion of his
merits. The old corrector thus disfigures the passage: “Ay, and the
_approbations_ of those that weep this lamentable divorce, _and her
dolours_, are _wont_ wonderfully to extend him.” The old corrector’s
mental vision does not seem to be capable of taking in more than a
quarter of an inch of the text at once. He saw that the verb “are”
required a plural nominative, hence he reads “approbations.” But he
might have avoided this barbarism had he extended his optical range,
so as to comprehend the word “banishment” in the preceding speech.
The two words, “banishment” and “approbation,” are surely entitled to
be followed by the verb “are.”
Of a piece with this is the next. Posthumus is defying Iachimo to
make good his boast that he will overcome the chastity of Imogen.
He says, “If you make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to
understand you have prevailed, I am no further your enemy.” This is
converted into, “if you _make good your vauntage_ upon her,” &c. And
this is a _restitution_ of the language of Shakespeare!
_Scene 7._--When Iachimo is introduced to Imogen he exclaims,
“What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes
To see this vaulted arch, and the rich _crop_
Of sea and land, which can distinguish ’twixt
The fiery orbs above and the twinn’d stones
Upon the _numbered_ beach; and can we not
Partition make with spectacles so precious
’Twixt fair and foul?”
In this passage _cope_ has been proposed for “crop,” and _unnumbered_
for “numbered,” by several of the commentators, and among them
by Mr Collier’s anonymous corrector. We are of opinion that in
neither of the places ought the text to be altered. _Cope_ is a
mere repetition of the “vaulted arch,” and must, therefore, be set
aside as tautological. “Numbered” is more difficult. Let us consider
the bearing of the whole speech. It has a sinister reference to
Posthumus, the husband of Imogen, the lady in whose presence the
speech is uttered. “How can Posthumus,” says Iachimo, “with such a
wife as this--this Imogen--take up with the vile slut who now holds
him in her clutches? Are men mad--with senses so fine that they can
distinguish, or separate from each other, the fiery orbs above; and
also so acute that they can distinguish between the ‘twinned’ (or
closely resembling) stones which _can be counted_ upon the beach;
‘with spectacles’--that is, with eyes--so precious, are they yet
unable (as Posthumus seems to be) to make partition ’twixt a fair
wife and a foul mistress?” The words, “which can distinguish ’twixt
the fiery orbs above and the twinned stones,” do not mean that
we have senses so fine that we can distinguish between stars and
stones, but senses so fine that we can count, or distinguish from one
another, the stars themselves; and can also perceive a difference
in the pebbles on the beach, though these be as like to one another
as so many peas. This interpretation brings out clearly the sense
of the expression, “_numbered_ beach;” it means the beach on which
the pebbles can be numbered; indeed, are numerically separated by
us from each other, in spite of their homogeneousness, so delicate
is our organ of vision by which they are apprehended; “yet,”
concludes Iachimo, as the moral of his reflections, “with organs
thus discriminating, my friend Posthumus has, nevertheless, gone
most lamentably astray.” This explanation renders the substitution
of _unnumbered_ not only unnecessary, but contradictory. We cannot
be too cautious how we tamper with the received text of Shakespeare.
Even though a passage may continue unintelligible to us for years,
the chances are a hundred to one that the original lection contains a
more pregnant meaning than any that we can propose in its place.
Mr Collier is of opinion that the MS. corrector’s _bo-peeping_ is
preferable to “by-peeping” or “lie peeping.” We cannot at all agree
with him. “By-peeping” is Shakespeare’s phrase, “lie peeping” is
Johnson’s amendment. Either will do; and an editor ought not to go
out of his way to make himself ridiculous.[15] A few lines further
on, the substitution of _pay_ for “play” is quite unnecessary, as Mr
Collier himself admits in one of his supplementary notes. Neither is
_contemn_ any improvement upon “condemn.”
_Act II. Scene 2._--“Swift, swift,” says Iachimo--
“Swift, swift, you dragons of the night! that dawning
May _bare_ the raven’s eye.”
The MS. correction is, “may _dare_ the raven’s eye”--_i. e._, says
Mr Collier, may _dazzle_ the eye of the raven. Surely the old
commentator must here have been driven to his wits’ end. We have
little doubt that “the _raven’s_ eye” here means the _night’s_ eye.
“May bare the raven’s eye”--that is, may open the eye of darkness,
and thus usher in the day. Has not Milton got “smoothing the _raven_
down of _darkness_ till it smiled?” This interpretation must be
placed to the credit of Mr Singer (_Shakespeare Vindicated_, &c., p.
304), although it had occurred previously to ourselves.
_Scene 5._--Instead of the line,
“Like a full-acorn’d boar--a _German_ one,”
which is the common reading, the corrector proposes “a _foaming_
one.” Mr Singer suggests “a _brimeing_ (_i. e._, a rutting) one,” and
this we greatly prefer. _Iarmen_ is the original text--a word without
any meaning.
_Act III. Scene 4._--The competing versions of the following lines,
in which the MS. corrector’s is pitted against the original text,
have given rise to much controversy and speculation. Mr Halliwell
has written an ingenious, and, we believe, an exhaustive pamphlet on
this single point. He advocates the old reading. We cannot say that
we consider his arguments altogether convincing, or that he has been
able to adduce any very _pat_ parallelism, placing the point beyond
all doubt; but we believe that he has made the most of his case, and
that if he has not produced any such evidence, it is because there is
none to produce. We agree with Mr Halliwell’s conclusion, in so far
as it rejects the MS. correction; but we advocate the retention of
the original reading, simply because it is the text, and because we
know _for certain_ that the old corrector had no authority for his
emendation except his own brains, generally addled, and not enjoying,
in even this instance, a short interval of comparative lucidity.
The passage is this: Imogen, supposing that her husband Posthumus has
been led astray by some Italian courtesan, exclaims indignantly and
sarcastically--
“Some jay of Italy,
Whose _mother was her painting_, hath betray’d him;
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion.”
We take it that “mother” here means _Italy_, and that “painting”
means _model_; so that the gloss on the passage should run thus:
Some jay of Italy, to whom Italy (_i. e._ Italian manners) was the
model according to which she shaped her morals and her conduct,
hath betrayed him. That this, or something like it, is the meaning,
is confirmed by what follows--“Poor I am stale, a garment _out of
fashion_;” that is, the new fashions, the new-fangled ways, are to
be found only in Italy, and doubtless that daughter of Italy--that
jay or imitative creature by whom Posthumus is now enslaved--is a
considerable proficient in those fashionable and novel methods of
conquest. This, we conceive, is nearer the meaning than the ordinary
interpretation given by Dr Johnson, which represents this “jay”
as “the creature not of nature but of painting.” At any rate, if
we adopt Johnson’s meaning, we must change _was_ into _is_, and
read--“whose mother _is_ her painting.”
Again, perhaps the meaning is this: Some jay of Italy,--whose mother,
_i. e._ whose birthplace (the renowned, the fashionable Italy) was
her painting--_i. e._ was the adornment, the attraction, which
allured my husband to her arms,--hath betrayed him. This, on second
thoughts, we consider the best interpretation. But we allow the
other to stand, as a specimen of _groping_ towards the truth.
The MS. corrector’s version is--“who _smothers her with painting_;”
but if this had stood in the printer’s manuscript, it is exceedingly
unlikely that he would have blundered it into the text as we now have
it. Moreover, there is a prosaic vulgarity about the expression which
smacks much more of the old corrector, and of his notions of what
would suit a popular assembly, than of the genius of Shakespeare. We
may be _certain_ that there is no allusion to _rouge_ in the passage;
and therefore we contend for the retention of the original text, as
neither irreconcilable with good sense, nor alien, but rather the
reverse, from Shakespeare’s occasional modes of expression.
When Imogen says that Posthumus had made her
“Put into contempt the suits
Of princely _fellows_,”
she means, of princely _equals_. This is undoubted. Posthumus
was beneath her in rank; yet, for his sake, she had declined the
proposals of suitors as highborn as herself. “Fellows” is modernised
into _followers_. The change of “_pretty, and_ full of view,” into
_privy, yet_ full of view, is a sensible emendation, yet we hesitate
to recommend it for the text. Pisanio tells Imogen that when she
disguises herself as a youth she must “change _fear_ and niceness
into a waggish _courage_.” The word “fear” here seems to prove that
“courage” is the right reading. The MS. correction is “waggish
_carriage_.”
_Scene 6._--Imogen, disguised, says,
“I see a man’s life is a tedious one,
I have _tired_ myself; and for two nights together
Have made the ground my bed.”
“Tired” should be _’tired_--_i. e._ altered myself like a boy. But
this is not a new reading. The word is the same, whether printed
_tired_ or _’tired_.
_Act IV. Scene 1._--Cloten speaking of Imogen, says, “Yet this
_imperseverant_ thing (_i. e._, Imogen) loves him (_i. e._,
Posthumus) in my despight.” “Imperseverant” is explained by Messrs
Dyce and Arrowsmith to mean _undiscerning_. The latter, says Mr
Singer, “has adduced (in _Gnats and Queries_, vol. vii. p. 400)
numerous instances of the use of _perseverance_ for _discernment_.”
The MS. substitution of “_perverse errant_” seems, therefore, to be
quite uncalled for.
_Scene 2._--Arviragus says that the redbreast will bring flowers--
“Yea, and furred moss besides, when flowers are none,
To winter-ground thy corse.”
That is, the corse of Imogen, who is supposed to be dead. “To
_winter-ground_ a plant,” says Steevens, “is to protect it from
the inclemency of the winter season by straw, &c.” This is quite
satisfactory, and renders the correction _winter-guard_ unnecessary.
The change of “so” into _lo_ may be accepted in the speech of Imogen
when she awakens from her trance.
_Act V. Scene 1._--The last passage on which the old corrector tries
his hand is this. He can make nothing of it, nor can we, nor, so far
as we know, can any one else. Posthumus, addressing the gods, says--
“Alack,
You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s love,
To have them fall no more; you some permit
To second ills with ills, each _elder_ worse,
And make them _dread it_, to the doer’s thrift.”
There is no difficulty with “elder;” it, of course, means, each crime
being worse than its predecessor. “And make them dread it,” &c.; this
may mean--and make them go on inspiring dread, to the profit of the
doer; or, as Steevens explains it, “To make them _dread it_ is to
make them _persevere in the commission of dreadful crimes_.” This,
it must be confessed, is not satisfactory; but we like it quite as
well as the MS. emendation. “And make _men_ dread it, to the doer’s
thrift.” But whatever may be the merit of this new reading, the
change of “elder” into _later_ is, at any rate, quite uncalled for.
Neither can we assent to Mr Singer’s amendment of the place, which
is--
“You some permit
To second ills with ills each _alder-worst_;
And make them _dreaded_ to the doer’s _shrift_.”
On the whole, it is certainly safest to let the old text stand as it
is, until something better can be suggested.
* * * * *
Having now washed our hands as clean as we possibly could of the
old MS. corrector, we must, in proceeding to dry them--that is, to
sum up--first of all notice whether there be not very small specks
of dirt still sticking to them. We are sorry to say that there are
several. In our anxiety to do every justice to the old scholiast,
and in our determination to redeem to the uttermost the pledge which
we came under to him and to our readers--namely, to bring forward
everything which told in the remotest way in his favour--we find
that we have somewhat overshot the mark; we have fulfilled our
obligation in terms too ample; we have been too indulgent to this
shadowy sinner, whose very skeleton Apollo and the nine muses are
now, no doubt, flaying alive in Hades, if they have not done so long
ago. In a word, we have something to retract: not, however, anything
that has been said _against_ him, but one or two small things that
have been said _for_ him. And, therefore, as we are not altogether a
character like old Kirkaldy of Grange, whom the chronicles describe
as “ane stoute man, and always ready to defend at the point of the
sword whatever he had said,” we may as well eat in our leek at once,
without more ado.
We speak at present only of those readings (and fortunately they
are very small and very few) which we countenanced or recommended
for the text on the authority of the old MS. corrector. In most
cases, any mere favourable opinion which we may have expressed of
some of the new readings we shall allow to stand, for such opinions
are unchanged, and the expression of them was very far from being a
recommendation of these readings for the text. It is only the text
which we are now solicitous about; and, therefore, insignificant as
the sentiments of any humble reviewer may be, still, for the credit
of the periodical in which he writes, and also lest the text of
Shakespeare should run any risk of being compromised at his hands, it
is his duty to retract his opinions to whatever extent he may feel
that they have been rather inconsiderately advanced.
We approved, in the first instance, of “get” for _let_,
(_Blackwood’s Magazine_, Aug., p. 188); that approbation we retract.
“Portent-like,” the common reading, is better than either _potent
like_ or _potently_, (_Blackwood’s Magazine_, p. 195). “Sheer ale,”
and not _shire ale_, (_Blackwood’s Magazine_, p. 198), should hold
the text. Katherine’s answer to Petruchio (_Blackwood’s Magazine_,
p. 199) is all right and ought not to be changed. “Supplications in
the quill” ought to keep its place in the text against Mr Singer’s
_in the coil_, (_Blackwood’s Magazine_, September, p. 315). “In the
quill,” simply means _in writing_, as Steevens long ago told us. We
observe nothing more that we feel called upon to retract.
This deduction leaves, as nearly as we can count them, _thirty_
new readings at the credit of the old corrector. We believe that
the whole of these might be placed in the text without the risk of
damaging it in any very perceptible degree; a few of them would
improve it: indeed, some of the best of them were introduced into
it long ago, while others have been suggested independently of the
old corrector. So that his contributions to the improvement of
Shakespeare are, after all, not very considerable. The only two
really valuable and original emendations which he has proposed seem
to us to be--_these welling heavens_, for “the swelling heavens,”
(_Blackwood’s Magazine_, p. 310), and _thirst_ complaint, for “first
complaint,” (_Blackwood’s Magazine_, p. 321.)
This, then, is all that we obtain after winnowing this old savage’s
“elements of criticism:” _two_ respectable emendations out of _twenty
thousand_ (for at that figure Mr Collier calculates them) blundering
attempts, all of which, except these two and a very few others, hit
the nail straight upon the point, instead of right upon the head.
One thing we at any rate now know, that the conjectural criticism
of England must have been at its lowest possible ebb during the
seventeenth century, if this nameless old Aristarchus is to be looked
upon as its representative, or was president of the Royal Society of
Literature.
The concluding question is,--What rank is this scholiast entitled
to hold among the commentators, great and small, on Shakespeare?
And the answer is, that he is not entitled to hold any rank at all
among them. He cannot be placed, even at a long interval, behind
the very worst of them. He is blown and thrown out of the course
before he reaches the distance-post. He is disqualified not only by
his incompetency, but by his virtually avowed determination not to
_restore_ to Shakespeare his original language, but to _take away_
from Shakespeare his original language, and to substitute his own
crudities in the place of it. We are as certain that this was his
intention and his practice, as if we had been told so by himself.
That he was an early scholiast is certain. It is also in the highest
degree probable--indeed, undoubted, as Mr Knight has suggested--that
he was in his prime (_his_ prime!) during the Commonwealth, when
the Puritans had the ascendancy, and the theatres were closed. That
he had been a hanger-on of the theatres in bygone days, and that
he hoped to be a hanger-on of them again, is also pretty clear. So
there he sat during the slack time polishing away at Shakespeare,
“nursing his wrath to keep it warm,” biding his time till Charlie
should come over the water again, and theatricals revive. We can have
some sympathy with that, but none with the occupation in which he was
engaged--paring and pruning the darling of the universe--shaving and
trimming him; taming down the great bard in such a way as to make
him more acceptable to the tastes, as he thought, of a more refined,
if not a more virtuous generation. For this kind of work we have no
toleration. This critic was evidently the first of that school of
modernisers of the text of Shakespeare which, commencing with him,
culminated and fell in Davenant and Dryden, never more, it is to be
hoped, to rise.
With regard to Mr Collier we shall just remark, that although he has
obviously committed a mistake (“to err is human,” &c.) in attaching
any value to these new readings, and has plainly been imposed upon
in thinking them _restorations_ of Shakespeare, still his mistake is
not irretrievable, and ought not to make the public forgetful of the
antecedent services which he has rendered to our genuine Shakesperian
literature. His learning is undoubted; and his judgment, if not
very acute, is sound, if he will but allow it fair play, and obey
its behests as faithfully as he formerly did, when he adhered with
the tenacity of a man of sense to the authorised and undoubted text.
This now appears to us, and, we should imagine, to every one else who
has attended to the new readings, as greatly less corrupt than, on a
slighter inspection, we have been in the habit of supposing. We can
only answer for ourselves; but this we can say, that the ineffectual
operations of the old MS. corrector have opened our eyes to a depth
of purity and correctness in the received text of Shakespeare, of
which we had formerly no suspicion; and _that_ is the true good which
the proceedings of this old bungler have effected--they have settled
for ever the question as to the purity and trustworthiness of the
ordinary editions of Shakespeare. We now believe that the text of no
author in the world is so immaculate as that of our great national
poet, or stands in less need of emendation, or departs so little
from the words of its original composer. Mr Collier, too, thought
so once--let him think so again, and his authority will instantly
recover: this transient cloud will pass away.
In regard to his edition of Shakespeare, which, we believe, is
by this time published with the MS. corrector’s perversions
inserted in the text, that is now a blunder past all mending. We
can only say this of it, that effectual precautions having been
now taken by others, and by us, to prevent this publication from
ever becoming the _standard_ edition of Shakespeare, we do not
grudge it any amount of success which may fall to its share. We are
rather desirous to promote its interests, knowing that it can now
do no harm, and will not speedily come to a reprint. Even now it
must be a very singular book. Hereafter it will be an exceedingly
remarkable book--one entitled to take high rank among the morbid
curiosities of literature, and to stand on the same shelf--fit
companion--with Bentley’s edition of Milton. The serious truth is,
that no Shakesperian collection can be complete without it. Every
Shakesperian collector ought, beyond a doubt, to provide himself
with a copy. People who intend to be satisfied with only _one_
Shakespeare, ought certainly not to take up with this edition;
but those who can indulge themselves with several copies, ought
unquestionably to purchase it. We say this in all seriousness and
gravity, notwithstanding the riddling which we have thought it
incumbent on us to inflict on the old MS. corrector.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] Vide _Alte handschriftliche Emendationen zum Shakespeare_.--P.
93.
[15] The attempts made by a judicious foreigner to amend the text of
our great dramatist are interesting, and deserve notice, even though
not altogether successful. Herr Delius proposes _thereby_; but we
must give the whole passage. The false Iachimo, endeavouring to bring
Posthumus into discredit with Imogen, says, “Had _I_ such a wife, I
certainly would not do as Posthumus does,
Join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood (falsehood as
With labour), _then by_ peeping in an eye, Base and illustrious as
the smoky light That’s fed with stinky tallow.”
“Then by” is the original text, but it is ungrammatical. For “then
by” Dr Delius proposes to read _thereby_ (_dabei_, _unterdess_--that
is, besides, meanwhile). But this attempt, though creditable, is not
successful. _Thereby_, as here used, is very nearly, but it is _not
quite_ an English idiom, and was certainly not Shakespeare’s word.
RAIL AND SADDLE IN SPAIN.[16]
The proceedings of the bankruptcy courts occasionally make public
painful cases, in which long-suffering parents have been compelled
to cut adrift incorrigible prodigals. In vain have the generous
“governors” and affectionate mothers bled themselves, pelican-wise,
to supply the cravings of extravagant youth; in vain have they
compounded with Jews, satisfied tailors, paid long accounts for
London-made port and indigenous champagne, met bills of whose “value
received” twenty per cent had been given in cash, the remainder in
green spectacles, paving stones, and stuffed birds. There is a limit
to human patience, a bottom even to paternal pockets; indulgence
becomes imbecility when impudence is added to insolvency, and at last
further aid and countenance are withheld. The spendthrift grumbler
sulks, swears he is the most ill-used of mortals, and is finally
lodged in a sponging-house or enlisted in a dragoon regiment. Such
appears to us to be the present relative position of England and
Spain. For nearly half a century John Bull has been “better than a
mother” to the cashless, helpless, graceless Spaniards. He has fought
their battles, filled their treasury, helped them to constitutions,
assisted them with advice, which they have sometimes been too proud
to take, at others too silly to profit by. The seed thus sown has
produced an abundant harvest of ingratitude. We have acted the part
of Aunt Cli to the scape-grace, Jonathan Jefferson, and we have met
the same reward. The Spaniard has used us, and now he abuses us.
Has the day really dawned upon which English capitalists are to
be proof against Spanish swindlers? We almost, although with
difficulty--for there is no more gullible animal than your capitalist
on the look-out for an investment, with his pockets stuffed with
cash, and consols at par--believe that it has. Spain can hardly
credit the fact, and is rabid at the apprehension. The fright
has driven her from her propriety. She proscribes our newspapers,
forbids us to bury our dead, and vents mysterious but awful menaces
in the columns of the respectable Madrid journal, whose editor
is the Spanish Home Secretary, its purveyor of funds the Spanish
Queen-mother. A nameless something, we have lately been repeatedly
assured by the _España_, is to be done, if the English press
continue its denunciations of Spanish schemes and roguery; and the
same journal wrote wrathfully and ominously when a warning was
given to the British public that, if they chose to intrust their
money to Peninsular speculators and peculators, they must look to
themselves alone, and not to their government, for aid in recovering
it. “Spain,” then wrote the Rianzares journal, “will know how to
vindicate her honour, as on former occasions.” If this means anything
beyond an ebullition of petulant spleen, it probably refers to the
brief notice to quit given to Sir Henry Bulwer. Lord Howden had
better look to himself, and keep his portmanteau packed, for he is
evidently exposed to receive his passport at any moment, because his
stubborn ungrateful countrymen decline making further advances upon
such flimsy security as Spanish bonds--as depreciated and worthless a
pledge as Spanish honour.
The whole history of Spain’s transactions with her foreign creditors
may be made plain, in few lines, to the meanest capacity. Spain
owed a large sum of money, and a good deal of interest upon it. She
went to her creditors and said, “I am at war, troops must be paid,
my treasury is empty; I want some more money. I am fighting for
freedom from an odious tyranny; you, free men, cannot but sympathise
with me; lend me the cash. We will add the amount to what I already
owe you; capitalise the over-due _coupons_, the whole will make
a nice round sum, upon which I bind myself regularly to pay the
interest.” Spain has always been seductive and smooth-tongued; her
fine, sonorous, knightly language--the sole remnant of chivalry she
has retained--inspires confidence by its high-sounding phrases and
noble expressions. The creditors believed her assurances, and, in an
incautious hour, parted with their money, a portion of which was duly
applied to the first one or two dividends, and then payment again
stopped, and was not resumed. Years passed on, the war terminated,
Spain was at peace and comparatively prosperous, her revenue largely
increased, notwithstanding the absurd tariffs that grievously
restricted her exports; still no effort was made to remove from the
national character the stigma of ingratitude and insolvency. At last,
when it was supposed that the creditors, weary of waiting, would
accept almost anything for the sake of a settlement--when, it has
been said and believed by many, a considerable amount of bonds had
been bought for Spanish government account, at the wretched price
to which the government’s refusal of payment had sunk them in the
market--a disgraceful compromise was offered, and finally forced upon
the creditors, who could not help themselves, and who looked in vain,
whilst thus swindled, for efficient advocacy and support, to those
Whig statesmen and fervent admirers of constitutional government in
the Peninsula, whose smiling approval and countenance had been given
to the transfer of good English money to faithless Spanish pockets.
The results are known to the world, and may be briefly summed up.
The same people who, in the Peninsular war, did their utmost to
rob British troops of their laurels, claiming, to this very day,
the glory of victories in which not a battalion of their _bisoños_
figured, except in the rear, or to be routed; and insinuating, upon
occasion, that Wellington’s army was a sort of auxiliary corps
to their own heroic legions--repaid our military intervention
and enormous pecuniary aid in their subsequent civil discords,
by betraying us for an Orleanist alliance, grossly insulting our
government in the person of its ambassador, and insolently snapping
their fingers in the face of the British holder of Spanish bonds.
We have no desire to resuscitate defunct questions; but certain it
is, that many very sensible people--whom, as they are not members
of the Peace Society, there is no reason to consider particularly
belligerent or disposed to “crumple up” countries on light
grounds--throughout England, and especially in the city of London,
are of opinion that, upon more than one occasion during the last six
years, the imposing force which in 1851 menaced for a doubtful claim
the paltry capital of a petty state, would have been better employed
off Cadiz, in insisting on an equitable adjustment of the very large
debt rightfully and unquestionably owing to thousands of British
subjects. This, of course, is a mere ignorant, common-sense view of
the case; we have no doubt it could be quickly demonstrated from
Vattel, and other great authorities, that common sense is the only
good quality it possesses, and that it is utterly opposed to wise
statesmanship and international law. Meanwhile, however, like the
Count in the _Nozze_, the creditor dances to Figaro’s fiddle; Spanish
ministers and financiers, who, but the other day, had scarcely a
dollar to pay for a dinner, are as rich as Rothschild; Spanish
dowager-queens hoard millions upon millions, and are prepared with
princely dowries for their numerous progeny by handsome guardsmen;
but the poor, long-suffering Spanish bondholder, defrauded of his
due, and cut down to a fraction per cent, vegetates in penury, or
inquires the way to the Union.
These, in round terms, and stripped of unnecessary details, are
the facts of the case--facts that defy refutation; these are the
disreputable circumstances under which Spain, having, as the
Orientals say, made her face white--that is to say, having acted
as her own commissioner of bankrupts, and whitewashed herself upon
the most favourable terms--once more, with unblushing effrontery,
presents herself in the character of a borrower. The pretext this
time is a different one; the ingenious Peninsula has got “a new
dodge.” Formerly the guineas were handed over to the sound of
martial music and clashing arms, amidst cries of “Down with the
Inquisition!” and “_Viva la constitution!_” Now it is the clink of
the hammer we hear, and a vivid panorama unfolds itself before us.
It is of the nature of a dissolving view. In the first instance we
behold a rich and fertile country, a land flowing with milk and
honey, or, better still, teeming with corn, and wine, and oil. But
its prosperity is crippled for want of communications. Behold yonder
shirtless and miserable peasant, issuing from his filthy tumble-down
habitation! Abundance surrounds him; wine is more plentiful with him
than water; not all the efforts of himself and family, aided by the
pigs and by that sedate-looking jackass, suffice to consume a fourth
part of the delicious fruit produced by his orchard, with so little
painstaking on his part. How gladly would he exchange a cart-load
of wine and fruit for a shirt to interpose between his tawny skin
and his garments of coarse woollen cloth, for a light linen jacket,
for cool neat dresses for his wife and daughters, for a few of those
articles of furniture which the poorest English cottage possesses,
but in which his dwelling is so lamentably deficient! But how can
he do this? His neighbours are either as well supplied as himself
with the produce of the soil, or they have neither money to buy it
with, nor goods to barter for it. For leagues and leagues around,
there is neither town nor village in whose overstocked market his
commodities would find a sale, or have more than a nominal value.
True, at the coast there are people waiting, red-haired barbarians
from foreign parts, addicted to strong drinks and plum-puddings, and
perfectly willing to take his wine and raisins, and to give him, in
return, clothing suited to his climate, crockery for his kitchen, a
better knife to prune his vines, and an implement of tillage somewhat
superior to that extraordinary antediluvian plough, which in England
would be put under a glass case, and exhibited as an Aztec curiosity.
He has heard that there are such people, and bethinks him how he can
convey to them his fruit and wine-skins. It is very far from his
hamlet to the nearest _camino réal_, and in the interval there is no
road much better than a bridle-path. Carriers there are none; of
canals he has never heard; he looks at his jackass, but the _burro_
sagaciously shakes his ears, as if to decline so distant a journey.
So the poor peasant leans upon his spade, and wipes away a tear, in
the midst of his useless abundance; pours out upon the ground the
wine of last year, to make room for the better vintage of this one,
and purchases, at an exorbitant price, of the _contrabandista_, the
smuggled manufactures, whose original cost has been quadrupled by the
danger and difficulty of their introduction, and by the long journey
on mule-back from the coast.
This affecting picture now melts away, the scene changes--we have
all witnessed the sort of thing at the Polytechnic, and those who
have not will find something very like it in most Spanish railway
prospectuses--and we are transported into a country where on all
sides is to be traced the gratifying progress of industry, commerce,
and prosperity. “’Tis _Spain_, but _slothful Spain_ no more!” All
is bustle and movement. Busy towns, improving villages, a thriving
peasantry, sharp misery disappearing, comfort and civilisation
rapidly advancing. The secret of the change, the charm that has
wrought it, is to be found in one word, and that word is RAILWAY.
Diverging from _la corte_, from that capital of the civilised world,
_the_ court _par excellence_, by Spaniards never sufficiently to be
lauded--from sandy, treeless, waterless Madrid, in summer a furnace,
in winter an ice-house--long iron lines extend in all directions, to
every frontier, throwing out branches right and left as they proceed,
and finally joining other lines which run parallel to the sea-board.
That which gold--when it flowed, in a broad continuous stream, from a
newly-discovered continent--was powerless permanently to bring about
in the prosperity of Spain, is now effected and assured by the ruder
agency of iron. The very nature of the Spaniard is transformed; he is
no longer indolent and procrastinating, but active and prompt; the
most go-ahead Yankee might take a lesson from him. He has abolished
his suicidal tariff, and is applying himself, heart and soul, to the
amelioration of that which must long constitute his country’s true
wealth--the olive and vine, the corn-field and orchard, the fleece
and the silkworm. The stimulus has spread throughout the land, and is
felt by all classes. The peasant, whom we lately beheld hungry and
half naked in the midst of abundance, is now a prosperous farmer, and
annually sends coastwards many a good cask of wine and case of fruit.
The contrabandista has turned stoker; and the lazzaroni lad whom we
saw, in the last picture, crouched in the shadow of a crumbling wall,
and pursuing entomological researches in the interior of his tattered
vest, is hardly to be recognised in that active chap, in a glazed cap
and uniform jacket, who is hard at work greasing the wheels of the
locomotives.
It is impossible to deny the immense superiority of the latter over
the former of these two pictures. The pre-railroad one is sketched
from life; the post-railroad is the offspring of the imagination of a
Spanish railway projector. The former might be signed, “Truth,” the
latter, “Salamanca.” The artists, it will be noticed, are of very
opposite schools.
The question of Spanish railways is to be contemplated and examined
under two distinct points of view. First, as regards their probable
effects upon the state of the country, its trade, prosperity, &c.;
secondly, with respect to the prospect of profit, and chances of
repayment of those foreigners who may be induced to embark in any
of the numerous schemes propounded. The first of these two points
may be succinctly disposed of. “The general poverty of Spain is very
great,” wrote a good authority on the subject in 1845.[17] Since then
eight years have elapsed, years of peace and of a tranquillity almost
uninterrupted; yet, within the last few weeks, we have been assured
by recent travellers in the country, and by Spaniards--who cannot
deny the wretched condition they deplore and feel ashamed of, but are
impotent to improve--that Spanish poverty and misery are in no degree
diminished. The want of means of communication must be reckoned,
if not amongst the causes of that unfortunate state of things, at
least amongst the obstacles to its removal. And there can be no
reasonable doubt that the establishment of an extensive system of
railroads would be productive of great improvement and advantage to
Spain. These _would_ not be so rapidly manifest as in more populous
and industrious countries, and amongst a more energetic race. Years
might be required to do what months have accomplished elsewhere.
But ultimately the irresistible power of the greatest invention of
this century must make itself felt. “Nothing,” says an accomplished
English lady, and intelligent observer of Spain, of whose interesting
work, the result of three years’ travel and sojourn in that country,
we shall presently speak, “could tend more to improve Spain than
the establishment of great main lines of railway.” Whilst agreeing
in this respect with Lady Louisa Tenison, we think it desirable to
extend our investigation a little farther than she has done, and to
examine the probable position of the persons who may be induced to
advance money for the construction of those important arteries.
The mountainous character of Spain has been frequently and justly
urged as a great, if not an insuperable, obstacle to the formation
of long lines of railroad in that country. Ford, in his usual
lively and satirical strain, long ago denounced these as impossible
of construction.[18] The subject, however, is too serious to be
jocularly dismissed in a couple of amusing pages. We readily admit
the extreme difficulty and expense of tunnelling “mighty cloud-capped
_sierras_ which are solid masses of hard stone;” but a little
perseverance and investigation sometimes enables one to turn a
difficulty which he could not hope to level, and we have been assured
by practical Englishmen, whose attention has been particularly
directed to the subject, that, in some of the most formidable of
Peninsular mountain-chains, research brings to light defiles through
which a moderate amount of labour would enable the locomotive to
wind or incline its way. Then long tracts of level in the interior
of the country offer some compensation for costly work in mountain
districts; and, upon the whole, and at a proximate compensation,
Spanish railroads would probably not be so expensive in construction
as has been believed and affirmed by many. The most costly and
difficult of all would be the Northern Line, about which such a stir
has lately been made, which has caused such agitation and convulsions
in the Spanish Cabinet, and led to such unpleasant exposure of the
greedy manœuvres and reckless cupidity of the Rianzares gang, and
of that very slippery gentleman, Señor Salamanca. The Northern Line
(two hundred and fifty miles long, as now projected) would have to
make its way through two tremendous mountain barriers--the Somosierra
range and that continuation of the Pyrenees which extends through the
whole of the north of Spain to Cape Finisterre. Whoever is acquainted
with the Basque provinces knows that they are little else than one
mass or agglomeration of mountains, through which any railway must
pass that is to communicate with Bayonne. As a set-off to this, it is
urged that, in the Castilian plains, there would be little else to do
than to lay down the sleepers and rails. In railway matters it is not
easy to see how impossibilities are to be compensated, consistently
with the completeness of a line; and certainly, in the words of Ford,
“any tunnels which ever perforate _those_ ranges will reduce that at
Box to the delving of the poor mole.” The projected Northern Company
has contracted (rather prematurely) with Mr Salamanca, to make the
line for about six millions sterling, or £24,000 a-mile; but little
dependence will be placed, by sane persons, upon Spanish estimates,
contracts, and contractors; and meanwhile, pending the sanction by
the Cortes of the royal decree authorising the line, the project is a
mere bubble, a _château en Espagne_, as the French say.
Supposing, however, the Cortes to be bullied, tricked, or wheedled
out of their consent, the mountains bored, the tunnels made, the
line opened--all for the stipulated six millions--what are the
probabilities of a return to the shareholders in this precious
speculation? In the first place, it must be observed that the Spanish
government, which has just fobbed off its creditors with a shilling
or two in the pound, proposes, with that honourable consistency
and good faith that habitually characterises it in all financial
and most other matters, to guarantee to the shareholders in this
and several other extensive railways six per cent interest on the
capital advanced. It is the old story. The capitalist gets the first
dividend or two (paid out of his own money, of course), and then,
when all calls are paid up, the Spanish treasury sports its oak, and
the finance minister of the day, looking lugubriously through the
vasistas, posts up “no effects.” The shareholder perhaps consoles
himself with the reflection that in a year or two the line will be
open; and that then, when the proceeds of a lucrative traffic pour
in, there can be no pretext of inability to pay, and he will get both
dividend and arrears. To satisfy him as to his prospects, we shall
quote two highly competent authorities--
“Speculators will do well to reflect that Spain is a land
which never yet has been able to construct or support even
a sufficient number of common roads or canals for her poor
and passive commerce and circulation. The distances are
far too great, and the traffic far too small, to call yet
for the rail. The outlay will be on an inverse ratio to
the remuneration; for the one will be enormous and the
other paltry. The Spaniard, a creature of routine and foe
to innovations, is not a locomotive animal;--local, and a
fixture by nature, he hates moving like a Turk, and has a
particular horror of being hurried.”--FORD, p. 799.
Thus far the Handbook man. We turn to an interesting and important
letter on the subject of Spanish railroads in the journal whose
untimely revelations have procured it the hard sentence of exclusion
from Spain.
“It cannot be too often urged that ‘Royal decrees’ have
no legal force until confirmed by the Cortes, and even
then, in questions of finance, they usually exceed the
capabilities of the country; therefore, however strong the
desire of Spain to see locomotives crossing the country,
it is impossible for the finances to pay six per cent
interest, even upon lines already guaranteed. If such were
possible, it would be additionally disgraceful, whilst the
interest on the national debt is not paid. There are many
legitimate and profitable means of employing capital in
Spain, independently of the delusive guarantee of ‘Royal
decrees,’ or the guaranteed interest, which will be paid
only so long as it suits the present temporary object of
drawing forth foreign capital. Many instances could be
given of the success that has attended glass, iron, lead,
and other works, when established in proper localities,
which give a return of 30, 40, and, I am assured, of even
50 per cent per annum, without any protection from the
government. Until railways can also be established on
their own intrinsic merits, relying exclusively on the
traffic to remunerate the shareholders, it is not safe
to attempt them, as, at the first unfavourable change in
Spanish finances, the interest is sure to remain unpaid.
It is very easy, as in the case of the Northern line, to
make a brilliant prospectus, and trace a line upon the
map, passing through numerous towns; but those who have
travelled in Spain do not forget that there is not enough
passenger traffic between Madrid and France to fill a
diligence throughout the year. Neither Valladolid, Burgos,
Vitoria, nor any of the other towns mentioned, contain a
locomotive population; and, in the entire distance, until
the industrious Basque provinces be approached, there is
scarcely a manufacturing village.”--_Paris Correspondence
of the Times_, 30th August 1853.
The greater part of what is here truthfully and forcibly stated is
equally applicable to all long lines of railway in Spain. It is
unnecessary to pile up facts, or to expend more time in demonstrating
the risk, or rather the certain loss incurred by all who lend money
to the thriftless, faithless Spaniard, for the carrying out of his
new mania for _ferro-carriles_. His object is to supply himself with
railroads at foreign cost. He has not the remotest intention of
paying interest, when the lines are once completed; so that, if the
traffic does but pay its expenses, he has the property for nothing.
We do not hesitate to denounce the whole scheme of Spanish railroads
as an impudent and gigantic attempt at a wholesale national swindle.
The only persons who would be benefited by it, in case of its
success, would be that sprightly Wizard of the North, Mr Salamanca,
and a few other speculators of his kidney, Queen Christina, the Duke
of Rianzares, and their particular friends and adherents.
We should be sincerely glad, for the sake of the Spanish nation,
whose many good qualities we (whilst utterly condemning, contemning,
and abominating their dishonest government, their intriguing
licentious royal family, their greedy dishonest speculators, and
their useless lazy army of _empleados_) highly and justly admire,
to see their land lapped to-morrow in an iron network, could it be
done by stroke of fairy-wand or touch of Aladdin’s lamp. But that
the fifty millions sterling (we are informed that is the sum needed
for the whole scheme of Spanish railway) should be filched from
British pockets, into which Don Spaniard has so repeatedly, and on
such various pretexts, dipped his digits--never withdrawing them
empty--is what we most decidedly object to. The only lines for which
there is at present room in Spain, and that are likely to give a
profit to the shareholders, are short lines in the most populous and
industrious districts. And these should only be gone into when they
are got up by private companies, and without government intervention
of any kind. The directors should be able to head their prospectus,
as Paris shopkeepers head their advertisements, with the words,
“_Sans garantie du gouvernement_.” No reliance can be placed on
anything in which a Spanish government has a right to interfere: a
feeling now pretty prevalent, and which has swamped, at least for
the present--and we hope for a long time to come--the schemes of
the Spanish Hudson. Lines like the Madrid and Aranguez, (did it
belong to a company, instead of to the state), like the Barcelona
and Mataro--a private line, paying a good interest--and like the
proposed eighteen-mile line, connecting Cadiz, Port St Mary’s, and
Xerez, are those that may safely be gone into. The last named (which
is, if we are not mistaken, independent of the government) ought,
with decent management and reasonable economy, to be one of the most
profitable bits of railway in Europe. And it is strong evidence of
the wholesome distaste at present entertained in this country for
everything Spanish, that the London committee appointed to allot a
portion of the shares in this certainly most promising enterprise
received scarcely a single _bona fide_ application, and were fain
to abandon the idea of distributing any in England. So that there
seems some hope that John Bull, who usually buys his experience dear,
and who has only lately become fully convinced how very insolvent
a virtue is Spanish patriotism, will not wait till he burns his
fingers, to make up his mind as to the very rotten nature of Spanish
railroads.
Enough upon this head. In Spanish phrase, we place ourselves at
the feet of the fair authoress of the remarkably handsome volume,
two lines in which have led us into the foregoing reflections,
and ask her pardon for our want of gallantry in allowing our own
lucubrations to take precedence of her strong claims to notice. Lady
Louisa Tenison furnishes us with practical proof that, if “great
lines of railroad” be a desideratum in Spain, they are by no means
indispensable in order that delicately-nurtured dames should visit
with safety and enjoyment the most beautiful, and some of the wildest
districts of the Peninsula. The romance of travel is evidently at
an end, as far as Europe is concerned, when English ladies ride
through Spain for months together, encountering as few adventures
as though their palfreys pranced in Hyde Park. What, not one brush
with banditti, or narrow escape from ambushed assassins! Not a single
midnight alarm in the lonely _venta_, or hand-to-hand conflict with
ferocious _contrabandistas_, in the gloomy _sierra_, or on the wild
_despoblado_? We grieve to say, not one. Persons there are who,
having rambled more or less in Spain, and desiring to perpetrate a
book, deem it their duty to the public, and to their publishers,
to give spice to the volume by blending fiction with fact. They
carefully note exaggerated tales, and polite hoaxes, put upon them
by waggish muleteers, or at Madrid _tables-d’hôte_; embellish them
to the best of their ability, and, the cookery complete, present
the comical _olla_ to British palates. Ladies and gentlemen taste,
and wonder, and vow that Spain shall be the last division of the
earth’s surface in which _they_ will set foot, to be carried off
to the mountains for ransom, or shot at round corners by lurking
bravoes. For our part, we entertain no dislike to the gasconading
class of travellers in Spain, whom we hold to be rather amusing than
otherwise; and all we would beg of them is to sail under their true
colours, to call their books “A Romantic Tour,” or “Imaginative
Wanderings,” and so give their readers a chance of sifting the chaff
from the grain. It seems an article of faith with them, that a plain,
intelligent narrative of what they saw and observed will not satisfy
the public; that they must invent, if they would be read. In this
respect, Lady Louisa Tenison’s volume will prove them mistaken. It
is an unaffected and highly interesting record of her observations
on Spain and its people. Three years’ abode, and a good knowledge
of the language, should surely qualify so intelligent a person as
Lady Louisa evidently is, to write a book on any country free from
even an approach to error. Of all countries, however, Spain is the
most difficult of which to acquire a thorough knowledge. That Lady
Louisa may have fallen into some slight misconceptions is very
possible, and ill-conditioned critics, who prefer detecting the flies
to admiring the amber, may perhaps note them; but we are acquainted
with no book on Spain, by an Englishman, of which the same may not
be said. Captain Widdrington (Cook) is one of the most uniformly
accurate, temperate, and impartial writers on the Peninsula with whom
we are acquainted; but we daresay an enemy, bent on picking holes in
his coat, might catch him tripping. Even Ford, who has treated the
subject more _in extenso_, and in greater detail, and who may be said
to have daguerreotyped Spain, fixing his tints with a slight racy
dash of Chili vinegar, which makes Spaniards (who, whilst concealing
their thin skin under a cloak of superb indifference and disdain,
are sensitive to the opinion of foreigners) smart extremely, has not
altogether escaped blunders, especially when touching upon modern
Spanish politics. Of the book now before us we can say, with great
truth, that very few of the many upon the same subject that have
appeared within the last fifteen years have given sketches of Spain
and Spaniards at once so fair, so sensible, and so generous.
To see Spain, there is nothing like the saddle. Ford and Borrow
have emphatically told us this, and all who have been in the
country will confirm their decision. Long rides may at first be
attended with some weariness of limb and loss of leather; but
these soon yield to custom, and, moreover, when persons travel for
pleasure, they seldom need to make forced marches. Let them select
an easy-pacing Spanish horse and a commodious saddle, and be sure
that, in a fine climate and over rough roads, the advantages of this
mode of progress more than balance its disagreeables. Lady Louisa
Tenison, during her various journeys and excursions, frequently
got to horse, riding English fashion, greatly to the admiration of
the natives of the more remote places she passed through. Thus she
avoided the tedious confinement of _galeras_ and other essentially
Spanish and especially wearisome vehicles, and saw many things
and much country which she could not possibly have got at except
on horseback. No less astonished, we dare to swear, than at her
riding-habit and sidesaddle, were the good people of Castile and
Andalusia at the English lady’s appearing at all in the heart of
their sierras, in their remote villages and unfrequented posadas.
Prodigiously must they have been puzzled to conjecture her motives
for quitting the comforts of Cadiz and Malaga, to endure hardship
and encounter fatigue; for, as she truly says, “As to any enthusiasm
about beautiful views, or undergoing any fatigue or trouble in
their pursuit, such nonsensical things are classed amongst the
other eccentric fancies of the very mad English. A person drawing
for the mere love of art is hardly considered in his senses. I have
often been asked for how much I would sell my drawings; and, when I
replied that they were done merely for amusement, a smile of mingled
incredulity and pity convinced me that I was considered not over
wise or candid; and, upon one occasion, in the Court of the Lions,
whilst copying the arabesques, some inquisitive visitors came to
the conclusion that I was painting new patterns for fans!” And at
Grazalema, in the sierra of Ronda--a little town plastered, as Ford
says, “like a martlet’s nest on the rocky hill,” and one of the
places where the inhabitants, unused to the intrusion of foreigners,
thronged the streets to gaze and wonder at the amazons--the balcony
on which Lady Louisa stationed herself with her sketch-book was
escaladed by an adventurous youngster, bent on ascertaining the
nature of her mysterious proceedings. “Nothing could be more amusing
than the tone of contemptuous surprise in which he exclaimed to the
crowd, ‘_Nada particular; todo blanco!_’ an announcement which was
received by his friends with evident signs of disappointment. The
excitement spread even to the upper classes in Grazalema, and I had
an embassy from some young señoritas, who wished to see what I had
been doing--a request I could not well comply with, for the best of
reasons, that, at that early stage, there really was nothing to be
seen.” However unsatisfactory to the Grazalema critic, the result
of Lady Louisa’s sketches at that place has been one of the best of
the charming views and characteristic illustrations, of which nearly
fifty are distributed through her volume.
Most travellers in Spain, possessed of an eye and a taste for the
national and characteristic, deplore the Frenchification that country
has for some time past undergone, and whose progress becomes annually
more rapid and apparent.
On landing, Lady Louisa Tenison was unpleasantly impressed by
this--at Malaga, where she dwelt for the winter after her arrival in
Andalusia. We must not wonder if some of a lady’s first observations
are about a bonnet. She regrets to see this comparatively unbecoming
covering creeping in--even in the south, and supplanting the
graceful mantilla--Parisian fashion ousting Spanish grace. Spanish
ladies ought to understand that the rich masses of their abundant
hair--their _opulente chevelure_, as a French novelist would call
it--are unfavourable to bonnet-wearing. Parisian women, upon the
other hand, who have generally thin hair, offer excellent polls
whereupon to perch the masterpieces of milliners. But it is quite
horrible to think of a dark-eyed, olive-complexioned Andalusian
maiden covering her exuberant tresses, which, when unbound, descend
to her very heels, and drape her like a garment--so that she might
ride, a second Godiva, unabashed through Coventry’s or Cadiz’
streets--with a rose-coloured _capote_, in lieu of the beautiful veil
of black or white lace which, as Lady Louisa justly remarks, lends
her a peculiar charm that cannot be rivalled. Then, in choice of
colours, the daughters of Spain, it appears, are lamentably deficient
in taste.
“The gaudy colours which now prevail have destroyed the
elegance that always accompanies black, in which alone,
some years since, a lady could appear in public. No further
proof of this is required than to see the same people at
church, where black is still considered indispensable,
and on the Alameda with red dresses and yellow shawls, or
some colours equally gaudy, and combined with as little
regard to taste. The love of brilliant and showy colours
appears a ruling passion in the present day, and offers a
singular contrast to the fashion of twenty years ago, when
a lady who should have ventured into the street dressed in
anything but black, would have been mobbed and insulted by
the people.”--(_Castile and Andalucia_, p. 8–9.)
And at Seville, we grieve to learn, “the fan is rapidly giving way
to the parasol.” Surely the monkeys on Gibraltar rock are not more
imitative than the charming Sevillanas and Malagueñas. The men, too,
have laid aside the graceful and dignified _capa_, to adopt that
most odious and abortive invention--dreamed by some puny French
tailor after a heavy supper--the paletot! How is it that Spaniards,
who boast of their _Españolismo_, who consider it an insult to be
called _Afrancesados_, and who scorn their northern neighbours as
_gavachos_, scruple not eagerly to adopt every French mode? Colbert
once said that the fashions were to France what the mines of Peru
were to Spain. They have since been proved to be a much more durable
and valuable possession. Potosi is lost to Spain; but France still
keeps, and is likely long to retain, the monopoly of frippery and
finery, and Andalusian ladies, albeit no rich galleons now bear
the treasures of another hemisphere into the port of Cadiz, find
the wherewithal to become tributary to Parisian bonnet-makers. At
Seville, however, Lady Louisa was glad to observe few bonnets--few
enough to attract notice when seen, and to enhance, by the contrast,
the beauty of the mantilla. Her first visit to the theatre, at
Malaga, confirmed an impression she had taken up on landing,
that Spanish beauty has been exaggerated by poets, painters, and
travellers--three classes of persons to whom license in that respect
is generally accorded. “My first disappointment was the almost total
absence of beauty amongst the Spanish women.... They have magnificent
eyes, beautiful hair, and generally fine teeth; but more than that
cannot be said by those who are content to give an honest and candid
opinion.” The admissions are liberal; and the three things named, if
they do not constitute beauty, at any rate go a very long way towards
it. But let us visit the Malaga theatre.
“All the best people were there, but only two or three
very pretty faces were to be seen in the boxes. The pit,
divided into seats, each having its own number, is wholly
appropriated to gentlemen. When first we arrived, the
Alcalde, or one of the Ayuntamiento, always presided in
the centre over the royal box; but this practice has been
discontinued lately, and the audience may now indulge in
applause or disapprobation unrestrained.... One of the
pieces which had the greatest run was a Spanish comic
opera, called the ‘Tio Caniytas,’ which has taken immensely
the last two years. An unhappy Englishman is the hero of
the play; and his endeavours to cultivate the society of a
youthful gipsy, in order to acquire with more facility the
Gitano language, afford the Spaniards a good opportunity of
turning our countrymen into ridicule; and he is victimised,
in turn, by the old uncle and by the lover of his dark
instructress. There are some very pretty airs introduced,
and a characteristic dance called the Vito.”
Let the reader here turn to page 183 for an extremely spirited sketch
of this gipsy dance, and for an equally graphic prose description
of its peculiarities. Then return to the Malaga theatre, to look
on and laugh at “a piece called the _Mercado de Londres_, (the
London Market), brought out whilst we were there, and illustrating
the adventures of a Spaniard in London. The incidents were not
very flattering to our national pride, as the story turned on the
interesting subject of a man selling his wife--an event which they
seem to think of common occurrence in _Soberbia Albion_.”
The belief that in England men frequently sell their wives, and that
such sale and transfer are perfectly legal and binding upon the
three persons implicated in the transaction, is prevalent in various
Continental countries, and is rather strengthened than destroyed by
the indignant logic with which simple-hearted Englishmen are apt to
combat it. Even if they thereby succeed in dissipating the absurd
notion (which is not often the case), the foreigner, for the most
part, affects to abide in his conviction, in order to tease the
John Bull. Less civilised or less prosperous nations are delighted
to find or fancy a stain on the scutcheon of one whose superiority
they cannot but feel, although they may not admit it. The only way
to treat them in such cases--particularly Spaniards, who are very
satirical, and quick at hitting upon a “raw”--is to out-herod them
at once, to gallop far a-head of their ridiculous assumptions, and
assure them that if they go to England, they will find, upon every
market-day and market-place, rows of women tethered and ticketed
for sale. They soon discover that they are made game of, and end by
discrediting that which they at first were inclined to believe. But
we shall quit the theatre, and step across with Lady Louisa Tenison
to the Protestant cemetery. “It is beautifully situated on the slope
of the hills just below the fortress, and was a great boon obtained
by the late Mr Mark, British Consul at Malaga. The intolerance of
the Spanish nation in not allowing followers of any religion but
their own to receive Christian burial in their country, is indeed
disgraceful. At Cadiz, Malaga, and still more recently at Madrid,
exceptions have been made; but everywhere else in Spain none but
Catholics can be buried in consecrated ground.” The manner in which
the exception at Madrid was made has lately been the subject of
so much comment and discussion, that not much remains to be said
about it. The intolerance, that Lady Louisa justly stigmatises as
disgraceful, is to be laid at the door of the Spanish government,
rather than at that of the nation, and perhaps is to be imputed
less to the ministry of the day than to certain occult monkish
influences. We cannot bring ourselves to believe that the present
prime minister of Spain, General Lersundi, who began his military
career twenty years ago as a private volunteer in the ranting,
roaring, hard-fighting, loud-swearing corps of Chapelgorris--fellows
who would as soon have robbed a church as a larder, and from whose
hands few convents (or nuns either) that ever came in their way
escaped unscathed--can approve or sympathise with the ridiculous
stipulations, worthy of Spain’s blackest days of bigotry, which he
was compelled to annex to his permission of Protestant interments
at Madrid. But he was doubtless compelled to yield to the combined
weight of the priest and the palace. How is the virtuous Isabella
to obtain pardon for her peccadilloes, for the _péchés mignons_ to
which she is infamously addicted, if she does not atone for them
by a double dose of piety, and, above all, by proving herself the
“Most Catholic” of queens, and saving her capital from the scandal
of witnessing the sober ceremonial of a Protestant funeral? The
unchristianlike uncharitableness that is breathed by almost every
line of General Lersundi’s well-known letter to Lord Howden, must,
we are convinced, be disapproved by numbers of Spaniards, and by
all enlightened Roman Catholics, whatsoever their nation. Early in
the sixteenth century, when France had but recently emerged from
the semi-barbarism and bloody religious persecutions of the middle
ages, a French sovereign, Louis XIII., published an edict forbidding
his Catholic subjects to apply to the Huguenots the offensive name
of heretics. The Reformed Church had its places of worship, its
cemeteries--everything, in short, which is refused to it two hundred
and forty years later, upon the soil of that Spain which may be said,
without exaggeration, to owe its very existence as an independent
state to Protestant blood and treasure. In Spain, Protestants are
still heretics and outcasts--ay, in the mouths of many, _Judios_,
(Jews), included through ignorant bigotry with those despised
children of Israel whom, notwithstanding their accursed descent,
Spanish governments are often very glad to have recourse to, and
to flatter and make much of, when pinched for coin, and anxious
for an advance on quicksilver mines or Cuban revenue. For Spanish
ministers are of that family of saucy dogs who do not scruple to eat
unclean puddings, and profess a most Vespasianic indifference to
the source of gold, so long as they get it into their hands; for,
as the Spanish proverb says, money is always orthodox. And let us
see what says, on this head, witty and hard-hitting Master Ford, who
is always worth listening to, whether he be discoursing of Spain or
gibbeting the addle-brained absurdities of an Urquhart. He bids us
“visit, by all means, the Protestant burial-ground (the same of which
Lady Louisa Tenison has just spoken), not because it is a pleasant
‘traveller’s bourn,’ but because it was the first permitted, in our
time, for the repose of heretical carcases, which used to be buried
in the sea-sands, like dead dogs, and beyond the low-water mark;
and even this concession offended orthodox fishermen, who feared
that the soles might become infected; but the _Malagueños_, even
to the priest, never exhibited any repugnance to the dollars of
the living Lutheran Briton, for _el dinero es muy catolico_. This
cemetery, which lies outside the town to the east, was obtained and
laid out by our friend Mr Mark, father of the present consul, who
planted and enclosed the ground, and with great tact placed a cross
over the portal, to the amazement of the natives, who exclaimed,
‘_Con que estos Herejes gastan cruces!_’ (“So, then, these heretics
use crosses!”) (_Handbook for Spain_, p. 354.) _Con que_, we quit
the subject, sincerely wishing, with the Christian charity that
characterises us, that the authors, whosoever they be, of the recent
ordinances respecting the burial of Protestants at Madrid, may never
come to be buried either in the sea-sands, or at a cross-road, nor
be smuggled to their graves, as it appears Englishmen are to be who
have the ill-luck to give up the ghost within the precincts of “_la
corte_.” And we return to Lady Louisa Tenison, from whom we have
again been unconsciously wandering--certainly a most unjustifiable
want of taste on our part. We re-open her book at a passage which
makes us laugh outright--_réir a carcajadas_. “Spain,” says her
ladyship, “wants means of developing her resources, under the
guidance of a wise and honest government.” Truly, that does she, but
where are we to look for the government in question? And if she got
it, by a miracle, could one reasonably expect her to keep it? Judging
from the past, assuredly not. One honest government, in our own day,
Spain has had--when Espartero was regent. Its capacity was, perhaps,
not equal to its probity; at any rate, the nation would not endure
it; and its members have relapsed into private life, no richer--a
rare fact to find in the annals of Spanish cabinets--than when they
took office. Wisdom and honesty are indeed an uncommon combination in
the land beyond the Pyrenees. Until some modern Diogenes succeeds,
after long wandering lantern in hand over Spanish hill and valley, in
discovering them united, we may look in vain for such a government as
that which Lady Louisa Tenison, for Spain’s sake, desires to behold.
We will not close this paper without giving a longer exemplification
than we as yet have done of the agreeable tone and style of the
authoress of _Castile and Andalucia_. We select an amusing sketch of
the Spanish court.
“The whole style of everything connected with the
court in Spain is on a scale of great magnificence, as
far as outward appearance is concerned. The palace is
beautifully furnished; and the hall of the ambassadors,
or the throne-room, as we should call it, is gorgeous.
The drawing-rooms held by the Queen are called ‘Besa
Manos,’ as all Spaniards kiss hands every time they visit
the sovereign, and not only on presentation, as with us.
They are held of an afternoon, the gentlemen’s Besa-manos
concluding before that of the ladies begins. Foreigners
are more generally presented at a private audience, and
Spaniards themselves prefer it. The drawing-room is
rather a fatiguing undertaking for the Queen; for, after
the general circle has dispersed, all the members of the
household, down to the lowest dependant in the palace, are
admitted to kiss her hand. The balls are on a scale of
great magnificence; and, although the Queen’s ardour for
dancing has somewhat abated, she is still passionately fond
of it, and keeps it up till four or five in the morning,
her partners finding that the qualification of dancing well
is a greater recommendation than rank or station.
“She has now grown immensely stout; and, with the most
good-natured face in the world, has certainly nothing to
boast of in elegance of manner or dignity of deportment.
She looks what she is--most thoroughly kind-hearted, liking
to enjoy herself, and hating all form and etiquette;
extremely charitable, but always acting on the impulse of
the moment, obeying her own will in all things, instead
of being guided by any fixed principles of action. She
dispenses money with a lavish hand, whilst her finances are
not, by any means, in a flourishing condition. Her hours
are not much adapted to business-like habits; she seldom
gets up till four or five o’clock in the afternoon, and
retires to rest about the same hour in the morning. She has
one most inconvenient fault for a queen, being always two
or three hours behind time. If she fixes a Besa-manos at
two o’clock, she comes in about five; if she has a dinner
party announced at seven, it is nine or ten before she
enters the room; and, if she goes in state to the theatre,
and the performances are announced for eight, her Majesty
makes her appearance about ten.”
What innumerable mute maledictions must courtiers, cooks, and
managers heap upon her unpunctual Majesty of Spain. Punctuality, it
has been said, is the politeness of the great. In sovereigns, it is
both politic and a duty. How great a contrast between the slip-shod,
lie-abed practices of the Spanish Queen, and the early-rising, well
regulated, active habits of our own royal family.
“The interior arrangement of the palace at Madrid would
rather excite surprise in the minds of those accustomed
to the regularity of the English Court. Isabel Segunda
generally dines alone, and the ladies-in-waiting never
reside in the palace, only going when specially summoned.
The Queen and her husband are now apparently on good
terms. He is a most insignificant-looking little man; the
expression of his countenance, however, is not unpleasing,
but his figure is mean and awkward--a counterpart, in this
respect, of his father, the Infante Don Francisco de Paula.
“The court circle is completed by the Queen-Mother, whose
former beauty has now disappeared, as she has grown very
stout; but she possesses still the same fascinating voice,
the same bewitching manner, and the same syren smile, which
make all who speak to her bow before the irresistible charm
which she knows so well how to exercise. Queen Christina
might have worked an immense amount of good for this
unhappy country, had she devoted her talents and energies
to the improvement of the nation; had she exerted her
powerful influence in a good and noble cause, how much
might she not have accomplished! but instead of earning a
reputation which would have called forth the admiration of
posterity, she preferred sacrificing the interests of the
kingdom for the sake of gratifying her own inordinate love
of wealth, and has, in fact, proved merely worthy of the
family from which she sprang.”
The account of the Queen of Spain’s habits derives particular
pungency from the fact of its being derived from the writer’s
personal observations. Of course Lady Louisa Tenison could but skim
the surface; minutely to investigate and describe the manner of life
of Isabella, would require a far bolder and more unblushing pen than
it would beseem an English lady to handle. The remarks on Queen
Christina are exceedingly just. No queen ever had a finer opportunity
of benefiting her country, making herself adored by her people, and
immortalising her name. Her popularity was once great, her talents
are undeniable, her powers of fascination, the influence she acquires
over all who come in contact with her, are precisely such as have
above been told. Popular as the representative of anti-Carlism and
of constitutionalism, she might have made herself beloved for her
own sake. A large majority of the Spanish nation--which has ever
been noted for its loyalty and monarchical predilections--asked no
better than to esteem and respect her, and not to look upon her
as a mere necessity, a sort of _pis-aller_, imposed upon Spain by
circumstances, and accepted because anything appeared better than
the vacillating, priest-ridden Carlos, and the tyranny he aimed
at restoring. But it was soon discovered that, whilst professing
to combat absolutism, and to represent liberal principles, Maria
Christina was at heart an absolutist and a tyrant, that all her
political tendencies were retrograde, and that she was utterly
selfish, degradingly sensual, and unboundedly covetous. And, to her
shame be it spoken, she brought up her child to be no better than
herself. The opprobrious epithet shouted at the mother by the Carlist
guerillas, during the civil war, was muttered by the Madrileños,
but a very few years later, as often as the daughter showed herself
in the streets of her capital--and with equal truth. The gross
irregularities of Isabella are, at this moment, as notorious in her
capital and throughout Spain as anything of the kind possibly can be.
Christina, having now considerably passed her prime, has taken up,
“for a good old gentlemanly vice,” with avarice. She has a numerous
family by Mr Muñoz, for which she cannot hope, unless she dowers
them very richly, to obtain such brilliant alliances as her ambition
aspires to. So she speculates, accumulates, and hoards; and there
is no saying to what exorbitant figure her fortune has by this time
attained.
When such bright examples are set by royal personages, it is truly
wonderful that any morality or honesty remains in Spain. The quantity
is not large, and it must not be sought amongst the statesmen of the
country.
“One or two instances, out of a thousand, may show the
manner in which ministerial influence is exerted. In Pinos
de la Valle, in the province of Granada, the Alcalde, whose
office it is to preside over the elections, was suspended
by the Governor as being adverse to the Government
candidate; and a claim against the town of two hundred
pounds was remitted, in consideration of the ministerial
candidate being returned. In the town of Orgiba, in the
same province, a fine of like amount was imposed, and a
further one threatened, should the ministerial candidate
not be returned; and, as if this were insufficient, the
Alcalde was suspended, the second Alcalde was put aside,
and a friend of the candidate named to conduct the voting,
although a criminal suit was actually pending against him.
It may be asked how a government can be allowed to exercise
so shameful and baneful an influence? The discussion is a
wide and difficult one; but one predominating cause may be
found in that insatiable rage for government employment
which pervades Spain. It is essentially a nation of two
classes--‘_empleados_,’ or persons holding offices,
dependent on the Government for their very bread, and
‘_pretendientes_,’ or seekers after place. Had Le Sage
written in the middle of the nineteenth, instead of at the
commencement of the eighteenth century, he could not have
depicted the system more to the life. Public employment
is the primary resource of every needy man who can read
and write, as well as of thousands who cannot; the very
doorkeepers and porters, who encumber the public offices,
being legion.”
There is no gainsaying this. The _empleomania_, the rage for place,
is at the bottom of much of Spain’s misery and degradation. It
reduces numerous classes, which, in other countries, apply themselves
industriously and profitably to professions, arts, and trades,
to the mean condition for whose designation Spaniards employ two
contemptuous and expressive words, whose satirical force can hardly
be rendered in English--_ojalateros_ and _pordioseros_, wishers and
beggars.
Lady Louisa Tenison’s illustrations prove her as skilful with the
pencil as she is pleasant with the pen, and materially enhance the
attractions of her book. There is novelty in her choice of subjects,
taste and artistical feeling in the manner of their treatment. The
mechanical getting up of the work reflects credit on all concerned;
and, as for Mr Bentley’s binding, it is so brilliant that we were
almost afraid to touch it, and have been obliged to cover it whilst
reviewing, lest our critical judgment should go astray after the
gilding.
FOOTNOTES:
[16] _Castile and Andalucia._ By Lady LOUISA TENISON. London: 1853.
[17] FORD’S _Handbook_, first edition, p. 172.
[18] _Handbook for Spain_, p. 789.
THE WANDERER.
INTRODUCTORY.
The throng of Earth’s slow struggles seek not here,
Nor pomp, nor circumstance, nor moving tale;
But whatsoever of that angelic scale,
Whose feet are Earth-set, whose tops touch the Sphere,
By its own splendours may be rendered clear,
Shall show one soul, whether she rise or fail:
Faith’s sympathetic vision will prevail
To see more true things than to sense appear:
The soul sees with the eye as through a glass,
And, if God wills, without it; be it not said,
“This,” or “that is,” or “is not;” shadows pass
Before us: O! ere long may we be made
To own the temporary things we see
A mere penumbra of Eternity!
I.
PROEM.
A barren heath, with bitter east-winds piping,
A garden full of sunshine and of bees,
A village school, a wandering home, a boyhood
Perplexed and various, shot with sin and shame,
A hot and wayward youth, led by false lights
To sloughs and bogs of danger and contempt,
A vague uneasiness, and ignorance--
For knowledge opens but to one key, Love,
The which I partly sought, but found it not--
Such were the earlier hours of Life’s drear night.
II.
A VOICE.
Oft in the dumb hour that precedes the dawn,
Before the cock crows to the waning stars,
When men sleep soundest, and the world is still,
A voice of strangest import came to me--
A welcome, but an awful voice. It came
From hills and green lanes, woods and dewy lawns;
It breathed of innocent pleasures, now not known,
Or, known, not loved; of feverish regret
For things perchance but little valued then,
Now lost for aye, and bitter to the heart;
It was a moaning and a warning voice;
A moan for Eden lost, a boding vague
Of coldness coming on, as if it said,
“God’s Spirit will not always strive with flesh.”
III.
THE PATH.
Fast fade the fields, yet not so fast as fade
The memories of childhood; fades from me
The misty distance of the Hampshire fields;
England is lost already to my heart,
And half the bitterness of death is past.
The moon has made a path upon the waves
Which will be mine to-morrow--toward the East--
The land that bred me cannot nourish me,
And I go forth. I will not mourn the chance.
IV.
SETTING-OUT.
We parted in the sunshine and the crowd,
The inquisitive gaze of noon; the busy hum
Of man about the port; with strangers by;
And cold Convention, with her tyrant forms,
Removed the solace, and drove home the sting.
We should have sundered on a lonely shore,
Where slowly broadened o’er a misty sea
The shimmer of a large, low-lying moon;
My vessel should have loomed against the night,
Nor shown impatience but by one flapped sail,
And in that hour we should have known a noise
Of water crawling gently up the stones,
And falling softly back with silver sound.
Such noise I hear; not now, tho’ tones of night
There are, which, in unquestioned diapason,
Accompany the murmurs of my soul.
By daylight nature jarred with jangling keys,
But now, all mingles well, the sounds are sad,
And I am sad to find myself alone.
So, standing hand in hand upon the beach
We should have parted, you gone back--ah me!--
To your sweet home, to muse upon the past,
I, to my Destiny beyond the sea,
With a heart touched, not torn, beyond a cure.
V.
THE SAME.
I muse upon your lingering words of love
In search of any comfort, as a child
Might play with desperate hand on his own hurt.
As “May the Eldorado that of old
Haunted your lonely visions, and your speech,
Be found a truth by you!” Or thus, “Alas!
I cannot hope that you shall be exempt
From the common lot;” or, “There is but one land
Whereto we send our dearest in all hope,
And doubt not that to follow them were bliss.”
And in a bygone letter “A poet’s heart
Is in your breast, though little uttered yet.
When the Sun leaves the Earth at eventide,
His glory-beams, which shone alike on all,
Leave but the higher hills; slowly withdrawn,
They linger long upon the peaks, till night
Wraps all alike in irrespective darkness:
And on the spirit of man there dwell at first
Beams of his native Heaven, and deck the child.
None but the higher natures keep those rays
Till Death brings night to all;” and “O love Truth,
But never deck her statuary limbs
With the presumptuous garb of paradox.”
Ah me! not even your partial words can cheer
My burthened soul to-night--hark! the ship’s bell
Marks the beginning of another day,
The day on which I sail! Whate’er I do,
Where’er I go, the world turns round the same,
And the great Universe’s pulses beat,
And He alone who is the Governor
And Centre of the circle of all spheres,
Knows what I am, or heeds; and when I die,
The stars will shine, and the whole globe turn round,
And the great Universe’s pulses beat,
And He alone will heed.
So runs the world--
You there, I here, God only everywhere.
VI.
THE HYPHEN.
I am weary of the ocean, emblem of Eternity.
Boundlessness is too ideal. Time and space suffice to me.
Life at sea is but the shadow of the life we led on land,
And the weary glass of Chronos hardly seems to drop a sand.
Life at sea is life suspended in a Present evermore,
All the Past is dim behind us, all the Future vague before.
’Tis an isthmus leading on from continent to continent,
Where the spirit, worn with waiting, sometimes dreams it is content.
For I dream, cast out from action, nothing more remains to do,
Gazing at the sky and ocean, looking up from blue to blue.
Watching in night’s constellations circles of the wheeling mast,
Nourishing a moody fancy with the visions of the Past;
Or if visions of the Future sometimes dimly glide between,
’Tis when memory shapes the To be, by reversing what has been;
That which was was dark and gloomy, clouds of doubt, and storms of sin,
Till I thought ‘Perchance the outer lends its shade to that within;
But the country which is coming is the home of warmth and light,
And the soul may spread her pinions there more beautifully bright.’
Still I erred; I know that change of climate is not change of soul;
Every ship has care for cargo, wheresoe’er the billows roll,
Where storms toss, or calms entrance her, from the line to either pole.
Let what will be, there is nothing wherewithal I may not cope.
Thus I sing between the lands of disappointment and of hope;
Thus I sing, the night wind freshens in the rigging, loft and low,
Fills the canvass, drives the light spray--on our destined path we go.
VII.
Ἀγνωστῳ Θεῳ.
Oh, sought of old on misty mountain-tops,
And by the well-heads of long reverenced streams--
Places in which the cool air lapped men so,
And the all-coloured wavings of the trees,
And the soft, dark-blue distance, and the stir
Of black and white upon the ancient stems,
That they forgot their individual heats,
Merging them in the universal; sought
In frozen caves beneath the purple lights!
THEE, not the sounds of timbrel or of yell
In tropic palm-groves, lone among the waves
Displease; THOU dost not shun the narrow faith
That sees thee in misshapen human forms,
Wrought by artificers from fire-wood trunk;
Nor dost THOU hide THEE from the larger pomp
Of stole and alb, and censer-swinging lads,
And aged men who pray in alien tongues,
And fluted swell of organ, when the vaults
Reverberate the clamour, and the heavens
Blush through the tinted oriel, and all else,
Sight, sound, and deed, be ignorant or vain;
And THOU art found by those, austere and hot,
Who sunder from their brethren, and devote
A simple and unsumptuous rite to THEE,
In open field or tabernacle stern:
With each and all I will believe thou art,
Because with each the shrine is still the same,
The matchless temple, made without hands--man.
Life without THEE is life inanimate;
And better far false gods than none at all;
Yet, with them, is it but a fevered sleep
With vague and unintelligible dreams.
Come THOU to me, all lonely; Lo, my heart
Is empty, swept, and garnished, and I bring
There, to thine altar foot, my wingèd thoughts,
My hornèd resolutions, fruits and flowers--
Worthless, unless thy beams have quickened them:
Lo! what I have I sacrifice to THEE.
VIII.
AD SODALES.
The stars are clear in heaven, and all the slopes
Are slumbering in the silence of the night;
I hear a distant noise of waterfalls;
Far to the northward the great hills of snow
Thrust up their moon-kissed pinnacles; deep peace
Is on the happy world--the peace of God.
The peace of God! when comes there such to me?
Yet life has changes; brothers, we know that,
Even from the bygone lustre; did we dream
(When first, amid the glimmer of the moon,
And the unnumbered laughings of the sea,
We launched our little vessel five years past)--
Dream of the voyage before us? Ah, since then
How many barks, as full of hope as ours,
And tended by as favourable winds,
Have perished from our knowledge; some gone down
To darkness, bearing, to the last, the hues
And beams of their destruction; some--ah, worse,
Still drift among the breakers of despair,
Without a compass--mastless, floating wrecks.
While, thanks to God--for surely not of us
The merit or the claim upon His love--
Our path is still upon serener waves,
Our rigging stout, our needle pointing true,
And our eyes fixed upon the Polar Star.
IX.
RESIGNATION.
And is it true? can such sweet dreams not lie?
O true Egeria of a crownless lord!
Not by cool waterfall and mossy grot,
Beneath the mild light of a temperate sun,
With nature for a temple, do we meet;
But, as we parted, in a busy town,
Among the selfish throng of commerce; here,
Where alien schemers buy a chance of fortune
With sacrifice of all; we meet again--
And I who was the worst and least of those
Learned life’s sweet lesson from thy lips of love,
Young Alchemist, whose heaven-directed search
Has found the great Magistrum, oft denied
To wise men and to prophets of the world.
“Thou didst not think to teach me.” What of that?
Feeling is more than knowledge, thought than speech.
The lesson much I needed, and do still;
My life is not as I would; a dull round
Of trivial cares, and sordid, worldly aims,
Intrench’d by poverty, and sunder’d far
From all my spirit values; I, God wot,
To toil long years in this distemper’d clime,
Cut off from art and sweet commerce of books,
When, in the converse of congenial hearts,
A glorious work had crown’d my sinking head.
It was a dream; yet who is there can say,
“I have awakened, and will dream no more”?
Yet here is work too, though the end be far;
And here, even in exile, is a home--
For some short years a home; while yet I see
The roses not all wither’d on your cheek,
Our little ones still round their mother’s knee;
The sunshine of a hearth, though mostly cold,
And Love, that waits on Virtue--here is home.
X.
PEACE.
Call not our mission exile; who shall dare
To carp at independence, or to rail
Because his fate suffers him not to share
The nippings and the throngings of the mart,
The wrestlings of our overcrowded home--
That other far-off home beyond the seas?
Oh, ’tis the poor man’s Paradise to know,
That day succeeding day shall still provide
Its never-failing sustenance for those
His heart is knit to; and to feel that heart,
Uncheck’d by old Convention, freely beat
And thrill with generous thoughts that link mankind,
And worship its own God, nor be coerced
Hither and thither with prescriptions hard,
And oft-resolved tenacious usages,
That loosen’d cling again at every turn
In that maternal isle.
Oh, proudly swell,
Thou breast of every free man--proudly rise,
Thou voice--for none shall check thine utterance;
And though thy hearers may seem few to thee,
Know, that the aftertime may warm thy words,
Till some of them shall ripen into deeds:
Know this in faith, and it shall be to thee
For an abiding sense of deathlessness.
And yet one would not die here; none can be
Without some vision of a cottage home,
Or in the pastures of the fields, or where
The tide of civilised life is eddying round
Some quiet nook, where men of thought repose,
Nursing the labours of their younger brains,
In great, imperial London.
Mine should be
Some rural spot, whence I could see afar
The cloud that rests for ever over her;
And the black towers of that minster old,
Where kings and poets (kings of their own souls),
Sown by the sedulous hand of Goodman Death,
Await the harvest-time HE will not see.
And I would have the immemorial Thames
To sparkle through my tall, surrounding trees;
And I would have the village church hard by,
That I might see the undulating green,
Where I and some of those I loved should lie.
Ah, foolish heart, that it should better thee
To know, that when thy flutterings shall have still’d--
The first repose that they shall ever know--
Thou shouldst rot here or there; the time shall come
(Ay, and is now), when thoughts like these shall be
Less vivid, less important than the dreams
Of long-forgotten slumbers, than the thoughts
Of prememorial childhood--almost less
Than the faint echoes of a former birth;
And thou, O heart, shall be like one of these,
Or as thou hadst been never--Peace, O Peace!
H. G. K.
THACKERAY’S LECTURES--SWIFT.
A good librarian, as well acquainted with the insides of books as the
outsides, made the other day this shrewd observation--that in his
experience every third work he took up was defective, either in the
title or the first sentence. “What,” he continued, “for example, is
the meaning of the word ‘humourist?’ By what authority is it applied
to a writer?--is it not misapplied to a wit? unless it be meant to
degrade him. ‘The wit,’ says Addison in the _Spectator_, ‘sinks
imperceptibly into a humourist.’ A humourist is one whose conduct,
whose ways, are eccentric, ‘his actions seldom directed by reason
and the nature of things,’ says Watts. It is best the word should
be confined according to our dictionaries, to actions, not extended
to authorship. The title of Mr Thackeray’s Lectures would lead a
lover of plain English to expect narratives of eccentricities taken
from real life, and perhaps from the acted buffooneries of itinerant
boards, the dominion of Mr Punch’s dynasty--like other dynasties in
this age of presumed matter of fact, becoming a ‘dissolving view.’”
Mr Thackeray’s English is generally so good, so perfectly to be
understood, of such acceptable circulating coinage, that we are
surprised at this mistake in the title of his book. Montaigne would
head his chapters with any title--as we believe he ushered in one
as “On Coach-horses”--and said nothing about them; and we readily
admit that the privilege of “_Every Man in his Humour_” may be a
fair excuse for the author of _English Humourists of the Eighteenth
Century_.
We wish we could say that this little volume were unobjectionable
in every other respect--but we cannot. We do not see in it a fair,
honest, truth-searching and truth-declaring spirit; yet the style
is so captivating, _so insinuating_ in its deceiving plainness, so
suggestive of every evil in its simplicity, so alluring onward, even
when the passages we have read have left unpleasant impression, that
it is impossible to lay down the book, though we fear to proceed. The
reader may be like to the poor bird under the known fascination: he
never loses sight of the glittering eye--but it looks, even in its
confident gaiety, too much like that which charms, and delights in,
a victim. We did not, it is true, expect from the author of “_Vanity
Fair_” any flattering pictures of men and manners, nor of the world
at large, of any age; but we were not prepared for his so strongly
expressed dislike and condemnation of other people’s misanthropy as
these pages exhibit, particularly in his character of Swift.
And here we think we have a right to protest against Biographical
Lectures. It is hardly possible for a lecturer to be fair to his
subject. He has an audience to court and to please--to put in
good-humour with themselves--to be flattered into a belief of their
own goodness, by a bad portraiture of the eminent of the earth. He
has to dig out the virtues from the grave to show what vices cling
to them--how they look when exhumed in their corruption. Praise is
seldom piquant--commonplace is wearisome--startling novelties must
put truth to a hazard. If the dead must be called up to judgment of
an earthly tribunal, let it not be before a theatrical audience. The
lecturer is under the necessity of being too much of an accuser; and
if from his own nature, or from some misconception of the characters
he takes up, he be a willing one, he has a power to condemn, that the
mere writer has not.
In many passages of the book before us there are examples both of the
lecturer’s danger, and of his power: many things said because of his
audience; and as such audience is generally largely feminine, what
advantage has the over-moralising and for the time over-moralised
lecturer against the dumb and bodiless culprit called up from his
mortal dust, should there be a suspicion of want of tenderness, or
doubt of a fidelity and affection, some hundred and fifty years ago,
and unpardonable for ever? The lecture-table is no fit place, nor
does it offer a fit occasion, to discuss the wondrous intricacies
of any human character. It is not enough that the lecturer should
have thought--there should be a pause, wherein a reader may think;
but an audience cannot: nor is the lecturer, however deeply he may
have thought, likely to have such disinterested self-possession and
caution, in his oral descriptions and appeals for praise or blame, as
are absolutely required for a truthful biographer. It is a bold thing
to bid the illustrious dead come from the sanctity of their graves,
and stand before the judgment-seat of the author of _Vanity Fair_--to
be questioned upon their religion and their morals, and not allowed,
even if they could speak for themselves, to answer. The lecturer
holds in his hand all their written documents, and all that have been
written by scribes of old against them, and he will read, but what he
pleases--he, the scrupulously moral, religious man, doubly sanctified
at all points for his hour’s lecture in that temporary professor’s
garb of proprieties, which he is under no necessity of wearing an
hour after he has dismissed his audience. We are not for a moment
insinuating any dereliction of all the human virtues and graces, as
against Mr Thackeray--but as a lecturer he must put on something of
a sanctimonious or of a moral humbug; he is on his stage, he has to
act his part, to “fret his hour.” He must do it well--he will do it
well; that is, to secure present rapturous applause. The audience is
carried away quite out of its sober judgment by the wit, the wisdom,
the pathos--and even the well-timed bathos--the pity, the satire, and
the satire of all satire, in the pity. The ghosts are dismissed--sent
back, as they should be, in the lecturer’s and audience’s estimation,
to their “dead men’s bones and all rottenness,” no longer to taint
the air of this amiable, judicious, and all-perfect nineteenth
century--epitomised in the audience.
Give Professor Owen part of an old bone or a tooth, and he will on
the instant draw you the whole animal, and tell you its habits and
propensities. What Professor has ever yet been able to classify
the wondrous varieties of human character? How very limited as yet
the nomenclature! We know there are in our moral dictionary the
religious, the irreligious, the virtuous, the vicious, the prudent,
the profligate, the liberal, the avaricious, and so on to a few
names; but the varieties comprehended under these terms--their
mixtures, which, like colours, have no names--their strange
complexities and intertwining of virtues and vices, graces and
deformities, diversified and mingled, and making individualities--yet
of all the myriads of mankind that ever were, not one the same, and
scarcely alike: how little way has science gone to their discovery,
and to mark their delineation! A few sounds, designated by a few
letters, speak all thought, all literature, that ever was or will
be. The variety is infinite, and ever creating a new infinite; and
there is some such mystery in the endless variety of human character.
There are the same leading features to all--these we recognise; but
there are hidden individualities that escape research; there is a
large _terra incognita_, hard to find, and harder to make a map of.
And if any would try to be a discoverer, here is his difficulty--can
he see beyond his own ken? How difficult to have a conception of
a character the opposite to one’s-self! What man is so gifted? We
are but portrait-painters, and no portrait-painter ever yet painted
beyond himself--never represented on canvass an intellect greater
than his own. In every likeness there is a something of the artist
too. We look to other men, and think to find our own idiosyncracies,
and we are prepared to love or hate accordingly. As the painter
views his sitter in the glass, he is sure to see himself behind
him. You biographers, you judges, self-appointed of other men, what
a task do you set yourselves!--have you looked well into your own
qualifications? You venture to plunge into the deep dark--to bring up
the light of truth, which, if you could find it, would mayhap dazzle
all your senses. It is far safer for your reputation to go out with
Diogenes’s lantern, or your own little one, and thrust it into men’s
faces, and make oath you cannot find an honest one; and then draw the
glimmer of it close to your own foreheads, and tell people to look
there for honesty. But this is our preface, not Mr Thackeray’s. He
is too bold to need one. He rushes into his subject without excuse
or apology, either for his own defects of delineation, or of his
subject’s character. If you would desire to see with what consummate
ability, and with what perfect reality in an unlikeness he can paint
a monster, read the first life of his Lecture, that of the great
man--and we would fain believe, in spite of any of his biographers, a
good man--Dean Swift.
If we may be allowed to judge from a collection of contradictory
statements respecting Swift, no man’s life can be more difficult
for a new writer to undertake, or for any reader to comprehend. If
we are to judge from the unhesitating tone of the many biographers,
and their ready acceptance of data, no life is so easy. The
essayist of the _Times_ makes Swift himself answerable for all the
contradictions; that they were all _in_ him, and that he was at all
times, from his birth to his death, mad. This is, indeed, to make
short work of it, and save the unravelling the perplexed skein of
his history. Another writer contends that he was never mad at any
period, not even the last of his life. That he was always mad is
preposterous, unless we are to accept as insanity what is out of and
beyond the common rate of men’s thoughts and doings. We certainly
lack in the character of Swift the one prevalent idea, which pervades
and occupies the whole mind of the madman. Such may have one vivid,
not many opposites in him.
But the contradictions ascribed to Swift are more like the
impossibilities of human nature--if they are to be received as
absolute characteristics, and not as occasional exceptions, which are
apt, in the best of mankind, to take the conceit out of the virtues
themselves, and to put them into a temporary abeyance, and mark them
with a small infirmity, that they grow not too proud.
The received histories, then, tell us that Swift was sincerely
religious, and an infidel; that he was the tenderest of men, a brute,
a fiend, a naked unreclaimable savage; a misanthrope, and was the
kindest of benefactors; that he was avaricious, and so judiciously
liberal that he left no great fortune behind him. Such is the
summary; the details are both delightful and odious. The man who owns
these vices and virtues must indeed be a monster or a madman! These
are characters very hard to fathom. Shakespeare has delineated one,
and he has puzzled all the world except Shakespeare, who chose to
make his picture more true by leaving it as a puzzle to the world.
Hamlet has been pronounced mad from his conduct to Ophelia, mainly
if not solely. It is a ready solution of the incomprehensible. Swift
was a Hamlet to Stella and Vanessa; and as there are two against him,
_versus_ Hamlet’s one love, critics pronounce him doubly mad. It is
a very ingenious but not very satisfactory way of getting out of the
difficulty. Mad or in his senses, he is a character that provokes;
provoked writers are apt to be not fair ones; and because they cannot
quite comprehend, they malign: _damnant quod non intelligunt_, is
also a rule guiding biographers. Shall he have the qualities “that
might become an angel,” or shall his portrait be “under the dark
cloud, and every feature be distorted into that of a fiend?” You
have equal liberty from the records to depict him as you please. The
picture, to be seen at large by an assembled lecturer’s audience,
must be strong and coarse in the main, and exhibit some tenderer
tones to the near benches in front.
“For a man of my level,” says Swift of himself, “I have as bad a
name almost as I deserve! and I pray God that those who give it me,
may never have reason to give me a better.” He does not, you see,
set up for perfection, but through his present maligners he slaps
his after-biographers in the face, who, if they be hurt, will deny
the wit or omit it, and prefer instanter a charge of hypocrisy.
Angel or fiend! how charitable or how unmerciful are lecturers and
biographers! and, being so able to distinguish and choose, how very
good they must be themselves! Did the reader ever happen to see a
life of Tiberius with two title-pages, both taken from historical
authorities; two characters of one and the same person; made up,
too, of recorded facts? He is “that inimitable monarch Tiberius,”
during most of his reign “the universal dispenser of the blessings
of peace,” yet “he permitted the worst of civil wars to rage at
Rome!” We may venture to use the words of the essayist, speaking of
Swift--“We doubt whether the histories of the world can furnish, for
example and instruction, for wonder and pity, for admiration and
scorn, for approval and condemnation, a specimen of humanity at once
so illustrious and so small.” We have, from perfect authorities,
Tiberius handed down for detestation and for universal admiration.
The testimonies are not weak; they are alike strong, and equally
accepted standards of historical evidence and literature. “Swift
stood a living enigma.” It should seem there have been many such
enigmas. Shakespeare, who knew all nature, gave the world one to
make out as it can.[19] Grave history offers another. The novelist,
M. de Wailly, has tried his hand at this enigma--Swift; but the
Frenchman, like most French novelists, went altogether out of nature
to establish impossible theories. A dramatist might reduce the tale
within the limits of nature, if he could but once, for a few moments,
be behind the scenes of truth’s theatre--if he knew accurately all
the facts, or perhaps one or two facts, that time has concealed,
and perhaps ever will conceal; and which, discovered, would solve
the enigma at once. Of course, the great enigma lies in Swift’s
amours. These apart, no man would ever have ventured to assert the
life-long madness of Swift. Great men and little have had, and,
as long as the world lasts, will have their amours, honest ones
and dishonest; but, excepting for romance-writing and gossiping of
a day, such themes have been thought unworthy history, and to be
but slightly notable even in biography. Their natural secresy has
hitherto covered the correct ones with a sanctity, and the incorrect
with a darker veil, that it is better not to lift; nor is it easy
at all times to distinguish the right from the wrong. The living
resent the scrutiny: we do not admire the impertinence, nor easily
admit the privilege of an amatorial inquisition upon the characters
of the dead. And what has curiosity gathered, after all, which ought
to justify honest people in maligning Swift, Stella, or Vanessa?
A mass of contradictions. They cannot all be true. Even Stella’s
marriage, stated as a fact by so many writers, is denied, and upon
as fair evidence as its supposition. The first account of it is
given as many as seven years after Swift’s death, and twenty-four
years after Stella’s. There are two versions with respect to the
dying scene, and supposed dialogue regarding the marriage. They
contradict each other; for, in the one, Swift is made brutally to
leave the room, and never to have seen her after; in the other, to
have desired to acknowledge the marriage, and that Stella said, “It
is too late.” Who knows if either be true? and what means “it is
too late?” Do those few simple words, overheard, necessarily imply
any such acknowledgment? But there is proof that one malicious
statement is false. “This behaviour,” says Mr Thomas Sheridan (not
Dr Sheridan, the friend of Swift, for whom he has been mistaken, and
weight accordingly given to his statement), threw Mrs Johnson into
unspeakable agonies; and for a time she sunk under the weight of so
cruel a disappointment. But soon after, roused by indignation, she
inveighed against his cruelty in the bitterest terms; and sending
for a lawyer, made her will, bequeathing her fortune, by her own
name, to charitable uses.” It is said this was done in the presence
of Dr Sheridan; but the narrator was a mere lad when his father,
from whom he is said to have received it, died. But this very will
is, if not of Swift’s dictation, the will he had wished her to make
(compare it with Swift’s own will--the very phraseology is strongly
indicative of his dictation); for he had thus written to Mr Worral
when in London, during Stella’s severe illness: “I wish it could be
brought about that she might make her will. Her intentions are to
leave the interest of all her fortune to her mother and sister during
their lives, afterwards to Dr Stevens’s hospital, to purchase lands
for such uses as she designs it.” Upon this Mr Wilde, author of _The
Closing Years of Dean Swift’s Life_, remarks most properly: “Now,
such was not only the tenor, but the very words of the will made two
years afterwards, which Sheridan (Thomas, not Dr Sheridan) would
have his readers believe was made in pique at the Dean’s conduct.”
Then it follows, that if this paragraph in the tale, and told as a
consequence of the previous paragraph, is untrue, as it is proved to
be, the first part, the brutal treatment, falls to the ground. In any
court the evidence would be blotted from the record. It is curious,
and may have possibly some bearing upon the Platonic love of Swift
and Stella, that she should, in this will, have been so enamoured of
celibacy, that she enjoins it upon the chaplain whom she appointed
to read prayers and preach at the hospital. “It is likewise my
will that the said chaplain be an unmarried man at the time of his
election, and so continue while he enjoys the office of chaplain to
the said hospital.” This will is also curious, and worthy of notice,
in another respect. Among the slanders upon Swift and Stella, it had
been circulated that she had been not only his mistress, but had had
a child by him; and an old bellringer’s testimony was adduced for the
fact. There may be in the mind of the reader quite sufficient reasons
to render the story impossible; but one item of the will is a bequest
to this supposed child by name. “I bequeath to Bryan M‘Loglin (a
child who now lives with me, and whom I keep on charity) twenty-five
pounds, to bind him out apprentice, as my executors, or the survivors
of them, shall think fit.” Now, this is the great case of cruelty
against Swift, and we think it is satisfactorily disposed of. Have
we any other notice given that Swift behaved brutally to Stella?
None. Where is there any evidence of her complaining? but there is
evidence of the tenderest affection on Swift’s part. Stella’s letters
have never seen the light; but, if we may judge by the answers to
them, there could have been no charge of cruelty brought against him
by her. The whole is an assumption from this narrative of Sheridan
the son, and, as we have shown, altogether a misconception or a
dream of his. Even with respect to Stella’s parentage authors do not
agree--yet each speaks as positively as if he had been at the birth.
Swift himself says that her father was a younger brother of a good
family in Nottinghamshire, and her mother of a lower degree. Some
assert that she was the natural daughter of Sir Wm. Temple. Johnson
says, the daughter of Sir Wm. Temple’s steward; but, in contradiction
to this, it is pretty clear that her mother did not marry this
steward, whose name was Mosse, till after Sir Wm. Temple’s death,
when Stella was in Ireland. Sir William left her a thousand pounds,
and, it is said, declared to her her parentage. A writer in the
_Gentleman’s Magazine_ for 1757, who knew Stella’s mother, and was
otherwise well acquainted with facts, is urged, in indignation at the
treacherous and spiteful narrative by Lord Orrery, to write a defence
of the Dean. From this source, what others had indeed suspected
is strongly asserted--that Swift was himself the natural son of
Temple. He thus continues: “When Stella went to Ireland, a marriage
between her and the Dean could not be foreseen; but when she thought
proper to communicate to her friends the Dean’s proposal, and her
approbation of it, it was then become absolutely necessary for that
person, who alone knew the secret history of the parties concerned,
to reveal what otherwise might have been buried in oblivion. But was
the Dean to blame, because he was ignorant of his natural relation to
Stella? or can he justly be censured because it was not made known
to him before the day of the marriage? He admired her; he loved her;
he pitied her; and when fate placed the everlasting barrier between
them, their affection became a true Platonic love, if not something
yet more exalted.... We are sometimes told, that upon the Hanoverian
family succeeding to the throne of Great Britain, Swift renounced all
hopes of farther preferment; and that his temper became more morose,
and more intolerable every year. I acknowledge the fact in part;
but it was not the loss of his hopes that soured Swift alone; this
was the unlucky epocha of that discovery, that convinced the Dean
that the only woman in the world who could make him happy as a wife,
was the only woman in the world who could not be that wife.” Delany
also entertained a suspicion in agreement with this account. The
supposition would seem to throw light upon a mysterious passage in
Swift’s life, and to be sufficient explanation of all his behaviour
to Stella. “Immediately subsequent to the ceremony (the marriage)
Swift’s state of mind,” says Scott, “appears to have been dreadful.
Delany, as I have heard from a friend of his relict, being pressed
to give his opinion on this strange union, said, that about the
time it took place, he observed Swift to be extremely gloomy and
agitated--so much so, that he went to Archbishop King to mention
his apprehensions. On entering the library, Swift rushed out with
a countenance of distraction, and passed him without speaking. He
found the Archbishop in tears; and upon asking the reason, he said,
‘You have just met the most unhappy man on earth, but on the subject
of his wretchedness you must never ask a question.’” Sir Walter
Scott does not admit this story in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_, but
we doubt if the reason of his doubt, or rejection of it, be quite
satisfactory. “It is enough to say that Swift’s parents resided
in Ireland from before 1665 until his birth in 1667, and that
Temple was residing in Holland from April 1666 until January 1668.
Lord Orrery says until 1670.” Dates, it appears, are not always
accurately ascertained. We cannot determine that ambassadors have no
latitude for a little ubiquity; but there is one very extraordinary
circumstance with regard to Swift’s childhood, that seems to involve
in it no small degree of mystery. “It happened, by whatever accident,
that Jonathan was not suckled by his mother, but by a nurse, who
was a native of Whitehaven; and when he was about a year old, her
affection for him was become so strong, that, finding it necessary to
visit a relation who was dangerously sick, and from whom she expected
a legacy, she found means to convey the child on shipboard, without
the knowledge of his mother or his uncle, and carried him with her to
Whitehaven. At this place he continued near three years; for when the
matter was discovered, his mother sent orders not to hazard a second
voyage, till he should be better able to bear it. The nurse, however,
gave other testimonies of her affection to Jonathan, for during his
stay at Whitehaven she had him taught to spell, and when he was five
years old he was able to read a chapter in the Bible.”
This undoubted incident is no small temptation to a novelist to spin
a fine romance, and affiliate the child according to his fancy. It
is a strange story--a very poor widow not suckling her own child!
kept three years away from a parent, lest, having borne one voyage
well, the young child should not be able to bear a second! The said
novelist may find sufficient reason for the mother in after years
recommending him to Sir Wm. Temple, and perhaps weave into his story
that the nominal mother was one intrusted with a charge not her
own. Stella’s mother’s connection with the Temple family may be as
rationally accounted for. The writer in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_,
already quoted, seems to have had this account of Johnston from the
widow herself. “This gentlewoman (Stella’s mother) was the widow
(_as she always averred_) of one Johnston a merchant, who, having
been unfortunate in trade, afterwards became master of a trading
sloop, which ran between England and Holland, and there died.” Then,
again, to revert to the entanglement of this mystery, although it
is received that there was a marriage--a private marriage, as it
is said, in the garden, by the Bishop of Clogher--are there really
sufficient grounds for a decision in the affirmative? It is traced
only to Delany and Sheridan (who could not have known it but by
hearsay), and the assertion, on suspicion, of the worst of all
evidences with regard to Swift, Orrery (he only knew him in his
declining years, as he confesses); but Dr Lyon, Swift’s executor,
denied it; and Mrs Dingley, who came to Ireland, after Sir William
Temple’s death, with Stella, and lived with her till her death,
laughed at it as an idle tale. Mrs Brent, with whom the Dean’s
mother lodged, and who subsequently was his housekeeper, never
believed it, and often told her daughter so, who succeeded her as
housekeeper. It is said the secret was told to Bishop Berkeley by
the Bishop of Clogher. “But,” says Sir Walter Scott, “I must add,
that if, as affirmed by Mr Monck Mason, Berkeley was in Italy from
the period of the marriage to the death of the Bishop of Clogher,
this communication could not have taken place.” With evidence
so conflicting even as to the marriage--so uncertain--and if a
marriage, as to the relationship between the parties--as to the
time of discovery--and with that maddening possibility of Swift’s
physical infirmity alluded to by Scott; it does appear that it is
the assumption of a very cruel critical right, to fasten upon the
character of Swift a charge of fiendishness and brutality towards
Stella. Where there are so many charitable ways of accounting for his
conduct, most of which might well move our admiration and our pity,
and where the tenderness of the parties towards each other cannot
for a moment be doubted (_vide_ Swift’s diary in his letters, and
his most touching letter speaking of her death and burial), there
is nothing more improbable, nothing more out of nature, than the
acquiescence of both Swift and Stella in a condition which might
well have driven both mad, if that condition had been avoidable. We
have a hesitation in believing in self-made monsters. Novelists,
romance-writers, and dramatists, conjure them up for their hour on
the stage, but it is a novelty to admit them into a biography which
professes to be true. As to Lord Orrery, the first slanderer of Swift
after his death, we have a perfect contempt for his character. He
sought the aged Swift for his own ends. His father had bequeathed
away from him his library; in his vexation he thought to vindicate
himself by an ambition to become a literary character. As Alcibiades
sought Socrates, not for Socrates’ virtues, but because his wisdom
might aid him in his political schemes; so Lord Orrery took the
leading literary characters of the day, and especially Swift, into
what companionship he might. He cajoled and flattered the old man,
and at his death maligned him. There was hypocrisy, too; for it was
contemptible in him to have pretended a friendship so warm, with a
man whom he designated as a tyrant, a brute, and irreligious. The
world are keen to follow evil report. The ill life which is told
by _a friend_ is authentic enough for subsequent writers, who, like
sheep, go over the hedge after their leader. The writer in the
_Gentleman’s Magazine_ for November 1757, speaks as one intimately,
and of long continuance, acquainted with all the circumstances of the
case. He says significantly that he thinks _there are some living who
have it in their power, from authentic materials_, to throw light
upon the subject. That he was well acquainted with her mother we
learn from the following passage: “I saw her myself in the autumn
of 1742 (about a year before her death), and although far advanced
in years, she still preserved the remains of a very fine face.” He
minutely describes Stella’s person as one who had seen her. “Let
those judge who have been so happy as to have seen this Stella, this
Hetty Johnston, and let those who have not, judge from the following
description”--and as one who had conversed with her: “Her mind was
yet more beautiful than her person, and her accomplishments were
such as to do honour to the man who was so happy as to call her
daughter.” He tells the anecdote (for which he says “I have undoubted
authority”) of her presence of mind and courage in firing a pistol
at a robber on a ladder about to enter her room at night. He tells
the time, and implies the cause of her leaving Moor Park to reside
in Ireland. “As soon as she was woman enough to be intrusted with
her own conduct, she left her mother, and Moor Park, and went to
Ireland to reside, by the order of Sir William, who was yet alive.
She was conducted thither by Swift; _but of this I am not positive_,
as I am that her mother parted with her as one who was never to see
her again.” Upon that fact, then, he is positive, and scrupulous of
assertion where not so. May it be conjectured he had the information
from the mother herself, when he saw her so near the time of her
death? He asserts that Sir William often “recommended her tender
innocence to the protection of Swift, _as she had no declared male
relation that could be her defender_;” that “from that time when
they received the proper notice of the secrets of the family, they
took care to converse before witnesses, even though they had never
taken such precaution before.” “Can we wonder,” he adds, “that they
should spend one day in the year in fasting, praying, and tears,
from this period to her death? Might it not be the anniversary of
their marriage?” “Swift had more forcible reasons for not owning
Stella for his wife, than his lordship (Orrery) has allowed; and
that it was not his behaviour, but her own unhappy situation, that
might perhaps shorten her days.” The contributor, who signs himself
C.M.P.G.N.S.T.N.S., writes purposely to vindicate the character of
Swift from the double slander of Lord Orrery, who impeaches “the
Dean’s charity, his tenderness, and even his humanity, in consequence
of his hitherto unaccountable behaviour to his Stella, and of his
long resentment shown to his sister.” Lord Orrery had said that Swift
had persisted in not owning his marriage from pride, because he had
reproached his sister for marrying a low man, and would never see
her or communicate with her after her marriage. That as Stella was
also of low origin, he feared his reproaches might be thrown back
upon himself. Then follows an entire contradiction of this unlikely
statement or surmise of Orrery--for that, “after her husband’s
and Lady Gifford’s death, she (the sister, Mrs Fenton) retired to
Farnham, and boarded with Mrs Mayne, Mrs Mosse boarding there at
the same time, with whom she lived in the greatest intimacy; and as
she had not enough to maintain her, the Dean paid her an annuity
as long as she lived--neither was that annuity a trifle.” Another
correspondent in the same Magazine--for December 1757--as desirous
of vindicating the Dean, yet, nevertheless, points out a supposed
error with regard to the passage in which mention is made of “the
unlucky epocha of that discovery,” being that of the accession of
the Hanoverian family, and the loss of Swift’s hopes. “But this,”
he says, “is inconsistent with Swift’s marrying her in 1716, as (in
page 487) we are told he did; or in 1717, in which year, I think,
Lord Orrery places this event.” We think this is being too precise.
Lord Oxford was impeached and sent to the Tower in 1715, which
is sufficiently near to be called the same epocha. Or even if we
take the accession from the death of Queen Anne--August 1714--the
disappointment must have been rankling in the mind of Swift, still
fresh, at the time of the other event. He likewise notices that Sir
Wm. Temple was abroad at and before Swift’s birth; but, for reasons
we have given, we think this objection of no importance. No mention
is made of Vanessa in the article in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_. The
author seems cautiously, conscientiously, to abstain from every item
of Orrery’s narrative, but such as he was assured of from his own
knowledge.
Johnson, in his life of Swift, speaks disparagingly of Stella’s wit
and accomplishments. It was displeasing to the great lexicographer
that a woman should spell badly. Bad spelling was, we apprehend, the
feminine accomplishment of the day. Dr Drake, in his essay on the
literature and manners of that age, says, “It was not wonderful that
our women could not spell, when it may be said that our men had not
yet learnt to read.”
We prefer Swift’s account of this matter. She was “versed,” he says,
“in Greek and Roman history--spoke French perfectly--understood
Platonic and Epicurean philosophy, and judged very well of the
defects of the latter. She made judicious abstracts of the books she
had read,” &c. Of her manners: “It was not safe nor prudent in her
presence to offend in the least word against modesty, for she then
gave full employment to her wit, her contempt, and resentment, under
which stupidity and brutality were forced to sink into confusion;
and the guilty person, by her future avoiding him like a bear or a
satyr, was never in a way to transgress again.” She thus replied to
a coxcomb who tried to put the ladies in her company to the blush:
“Sir, all these ladies and I understand your meaning very well,
having, in spite of our care, too often met with those of your sex
who wanted manners and good sense. But, believe me, neither virtuous
nor even vicious women love such kind of conversation. However, I
will leave you, and report your behaviour; and whatever visit I make,
I shall first inquire at the door whether you are in the house,
that I may be sure to avoid you.” “She understood the nature of
government, and could point out all the errors of Hobbes, both in
that and religion.” This letter of Swift’s is full of her praise;
but we know nothing more touching than the passage which speaks of
his sickening feelings at the hour of her burial. “_January 30,
Tuesday._--This is the night of the funeral, which my sickness will
not suffer me to attend. It is now nine at night, and I am removed
into another apartment that I may not see the light in the church,
which is just over against the window of my bed-chamber.” Were these
words written by a _cruel_ man!! Well, if so, we must admire a
woman’s saying--as it is put by Mr Thackeray: “Ah, it was a hard fate
that wrung from them so many tears, and stabbed pitilessly”--(alas,
Mr Thackeray, why will you put in that odious _pitilessly?_)--“that
pure and tender bosom! A hard fate; but would she have changed it?
I have heard a woman say that she would have taken Swift’s cruelty
to have had his tenderness.” And why, Mr Thackeray, will you say
of such a man, when he was writing that they had removed him into
another apartment, that he might not see the light in the church,
and was praising her and loving her when he could speak or write a
word--why, we ask, should you say, “in contemplation of her goodness,
his _hard_ heart melts into pathos.” Your own heart was a little
ossifying into hardness when you wrote this. Ah! did you wish your
female audience to think how much more tender you could be yourself?
and so did you offer this little apology for some hard things in your
novels? We wish you had written an essay, and not read a lecture. You
would have been both less _hard_ and less tender,--for, in truth,
your tender passages in this life of Swift, are very well to the
purpose, to catch your audience; but they are “nihil ad rem.” And
your appeal to the “pure and tender bosoms,” all against poor Swift,
as a detestable cannibal,--how, in his _Modest Proposal_, “he rages
against children,” and “enters the nursery with the tread and gaiety
of an ogre,” how he thought the “loving and having children” an
“unreasonableness,” and “love and marriage” a “folly,” because in his
Lilliputian kingdom the state removed children from their parents
and _educated_ them; and you wind up your appeal so lovingly, so
charmingly, so devotedly, so insinuatingly to your fair audience,
upon the blessings of conjugal love and philoprogenitiveness, that
you must be the dearest of lecturers, the pet of families, the
destroyer of ogres; and, as to that monster Swift, the very children
should cry out, as they do in the _Children in the Wood_, “Kill him
again, Mr Thackeray.” And this you did, knowing all the while that
the _Modest Proposal_ was a patriotic and political satire--one of
real kindness to the people, whose children he supposes, in the
depth of his feeling and his satire and bitter irony, the Government
should encourage the getting rid of, rather than, in defiance of all
his (the Dean’s) schemes for the benefit of Ireland, they should be
made a burthen to their parents, and miserable themselves. All this
you knew very well: it was shabby and shameful of you by your mere
eloquence to make this grave irony appear or be felt as a reality
and a cruelty, and tack on to it an importation from Lilliput of
a state edict, as if it were one in Swift’s mind with the _Modest
Proposal_. Yes,--you knew, the while these your words were awakening
detestation of Swift, you were oratorising a very great sham--all
nonsense--stuff--that would never pass current but through the
stamp of lectureship. You knew how the witty Earl Bathurst, a kind
father with his loved children about him, as good-naturedly as you
should have done, received Swift’s benevolently intended satire. “A
man who has nine children to feed,” says Lord Bathurst to Swift,
“can’t long afford _alienos pascere nummos_; but I have four or five
that are very fit for the table. I only wait for the Lord Mayor’s
Day to dispose of the largest, and shall be sure of getting off
the youngest whenever a certain great man (Sir R. Walpole) makes
another entertainment at Chelsea.” Here are your false words to win
all feminine sympathy. “In fact, our great satirist was of opinion
that conjugal love was unadvisable, and illustrated the theory by
his own practice and example--God help him!--which made him about
the most wretched being in God’s world.” How cruel was this in you,
under some of the probabilities, and all the possibilities that may
be, ought to be, charitably referred to Swift’s case--in his loves
or his friendships, be they what they will, for Stella and Vanessa.
Vanessa--have we then all this while forgotten Vanessa? Hers is
indeed a curious story. It is told in Swift’s poem of “Cadenus and
Vanessa,” and published after her death, at the dying orders of
Vanessa herself.
At the time Swift was moving in the higher circles in London, he
appears to have been remarkable for the gracefulness of his manners
and his conversational powers. These accomplishments won for him many
friendships in the female society in which he found himself. Indeed,
in his letters, his female correspondence possesses a great charm,
and speaks very highly in favour of the wit and accomplishments of
the really well-educated women of the day. Swift lived in great
familiarity with the Vanhomrighs. The eldest daughter (another
Esther), ardent by nature, and desirous of improving her mind,
earnestly gave herself up to Swift’s converse and instruction. The
result on her part was love, on Swift’s friendship: it is possible
he may have felt something stronger; but, with an inconsistency,
those who charge him with a tenderer feeling deny him the power of
entertaining it. The story is too well known to be repeated here.
She confessed her passion, and he insisted upon friendship only.
She followed him to Ireland. She so expressed her state of mind to
him by letter, that Swift had certainly reason to apprehend fatal
consequences, if he altogether broke off his intimacy. If it be true
that Swift was by nature cold, it is some excuse for imprudence
that he did not easily suspect, or perhaps know, the dangerous and
seducing power of an attachment warmer than friendship. It is evident
_he_ professed nothing more. Whatever be the case in that respect,
there is no reason to charge upon either an improper intimacy. Mr
Thackeray thinks the two women died, killed by their love for, and
treatment by, Swift. It is possible love, and disappointed love,
may have hastened both their deaths, and made the wretchedness of
Swift. On all sides, the misery was one for compassion, and such
compassion as may charitably cover much blame. But even the story
of Vanessa is told differently. There is little certainty to go
upon, but enough for any man who pleases to write vilely on. Lord
Orrery is very unmerciful on the character of Vanessa. He, in
downright terms, charges her with having thrown away her virtue and
her religion, preferring passion to one and wit to the other. This
certainly gives him a good latitude for maligning his friend. Did he
ever give his friend Swift a piece of his mind, and say to him, he
thought him a rascal, and would discontinue his friendship? Oh, no;
it was pleasanter and very friendly to tell all his spiteful things,
after the Dean was dead, to “his Ham,” that they might be handed
down to the world from “father to son,” and so the world must know
“you would have smiled to have found his house a constant seraglio
of very virtuous women, who attended him from morning till night,
with an obedience, an awe, and an assiduity, that are seldom paid to
the richest or the most powerful lovers; no, not even to the Great
Seignior himself.” Yet the facetious father of “my Ham” never saw
Stella, and knew perhaps as little of the seraglio. Sir Walter Scott
says, as others also, we believe, that, upon Vanessa’s applying to
Stella herself to know the nature of the undefined connection between
her and Swift, she received from Stella an acknowledgment of the
marriage. If this were true, it would of course settle that question;
but Lord Orrery, from whom the first statement of the marriage came,
and who would readily have seized such a confirmation of his tale,
says no such thing. On the contrary, he says Vanessa wrote the letter
to Cadenus, not to Stella, and that Swift brought his own written
reply, and, “throwing down the letter on her table, with great
passion hastened back to his horse, carrying in his countenance the
frowns of anger and indignation.” How are we to trust to accounts so
different? “She did not,” he adds, “survive many days (he should
have said weeks, but days tells more against _his friend_) the letter
delivered to her by Cadenus, but during that short interval she was
sufficiently composed to cancel a will, _made in Swift’s favour_, and
to make another,” &c. Who will not ask the question,--_Was_ there a
will made in Swift’s favour? It is against probability; for be it
remembered, that the same story was told with respect to Stella’s
will, and it has been clearly proved that her will was such as
Swift wished her to make. Nor was it at all consistent with Swift’s
character, proud as he was, and always so cautious to avoid any
scandal on Stella’s account, that he would have allowed _her_ to make
a will in his favour; and it would have been still more revolting to
his pride to have accepted a legacy from Vanessa.
Orrery treats poor Vanessa worse even than he does his friend. He
conjectures her motives as against Swift, and writes of her death,
“under all the agonies of despair,” which, unless he were present
at the last scene, he is not justified in doing, and reviles her
with a cruel uncharitableness. The worst that ought to be said of
this miserable love and perplexing friendship is said by Scott--“It
is easy for those who look back on this melancholy story to blame
the assiduity of Swift or the imprudence of Vanessa. But the first
deviation from the straight line of moral rectitude is, in such a
case, so very gradual, and on the female side the shades of colour
which part esteem from affection, and affection from passion, are so
imperceptibly heightened, that they who fail to stop at the exact
point where wisdom bids, have much indulgence to claim from all who
share with them the frailties of mortality.”
More than a hundred and fifty years ago this sad tale, whatever it
was in reality, yet now a mystery, was acted to the life in this
strange world. The scandal of few real romances seldom lasts so long.
It is time to cease pursuing it with feelings of a recent enmity;
it is a better charity to hope, that all that was of difference, of
vexation, of misery, nay, of wrong, has become as unsubstantial as
their dust, and that they are where all that was of love is sure
to be, for love is eternal. Poor Vanessa’s dust may still rest in
peace. Swift’s and Stella’s have not been allowed the common repose
of the grave. Their bodies have been disturbed. The phrenologists
have been busy with the skulls, and their unhallowed curiosity has
been rewarded with a singular refutation of their doctrine. The
peculiarities of Swift’s skull are--“the extreme lowness of the
forehead, those parts which the phrenologists have marked out _as the
organs of wit, causality, and comparison, being scarcely developed
at all_, but the head rose gradually from benevolence backwards. The
portion of the occipital bone assigned to the animal propensities,
philoprogenitiveness and amativeness, &c., appeared excessive.”
There is something very shocking in this disturbance of the dead.
We are inclined to join in Shakespeare’s imprecation on the movers
of bones. Swift’s larynx has been stolen, and is now, they say, in
possession of the purloiner in America. We wish it had Swift’s human
utterance, that the thief might wish he had no ears. An itinerant
phrenologist is now hawking about Pope’s skull. Matthews’ thigh-bone
has circulated from house to house. If ghosts ever visit nowadays our
earth, we could wish them to come armed each with a stout stick, and
act upon the phrenologists the “Fatal Curiosity.”
Johnson’s line--
“And Swift expires a driveller and a show,”
if it was not justified, as it certainly was not, during the Dean’s
last years, in his melancholy state, may be justified as a prophecy,
and fulfilled when his skull was handed about from fashionable house
and party, and exhibited as a show.
Before we entirely quit the subject of Swift’s amours, it is
necessary to mention a serious offer of marriage which he certainly
made, about the year 1696. The lady--Miss Jane Waring--did not
at first receive his advances very warmly. After four years
the courtship came to an end. It seems Miss Waring became more
complying as Swift cooled. In a letter he complained of her want
of any real affection for him. It is so worded as to imply some
doubts of her temper and judgment. He writes as a man would do who
considers himself rather bound in honour than by love, and still
offers marriage--upon terms. These terms, those who profess to be
conversant in love proprieties, as in other branches of criticism,
say no woman could comply with. We do not profess to determine cases
of that nature. We apprehend all kinds of terms have been complied
with on both sides without impeachment in the Court of Love. This
offer of marriage, however, militates against Sir Walter Scott’s
hypothesis of physical unfitness, and rather strengthens the argument
and statements of the writer in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_. We
believe the exact date of the supposed marriage has not been given.
If it did take place, what if it should be possible it was on the
day--his birthday (or what he pleases to call his birthday)--at the
recurrence of which he bewailed his birth by reading the chapter in
Job? Nor must we omit, as it shows the shallow grounds upon which
defamation often rests, a charge of violation made against Swift at
Kilroot, because such a charge was found to have been really made
against one J. S., as it appeared in a magistrate’s books. J. S.
might have stood for Jonathan Swift--let him, therefore, bear the
iniquity. It might have been fastened upon any or all of the numerous
family of Smith, or any other J. S. in the world. It is curious
that the first propagator, who, possibly with truth, denied having
made the charge, as he might have said the letters J. S. only--as
did the register--and unwittingly left the appropriation to his
listeners;--it is curious, we observe, that this man became raving
mad, and was an inmate in Swift’s hospital. The idle tale has been
disproved, and but one of his worst maligners repeats it.
There are no passages in this portion of Mr Thackeray’s Lectures more
odious, and more repugnant to our taste and feeling, than those which
charge Swift with irreligion; nor are they less offensive because
the author says--“I am not here, of course, to speak of any man’s
religious views, except in so far as they influence his literary
character, his life, his humour.” This denying latitude really means
quite the contrary to its preface; for, since religion does concern
every man’s _life_, and he writes or reads the life, he need not have
said he had nothing (of course) to do with it, under any exceptions.
But it serves the purposes of assuming a reluctance to touch upon the
subject, and of charging upon the necessity of the case the many free
and unnecessary animadversions upon Swift’s character as a priest of
the Church of England.
The lecturer far outdoes the false friend Orrery, who, speaking
of his _Gulliver_, says, “I am afraid he glances at religion.” It
is true, he goes rather far to set up his friend the Dean as an
example of punishment by Providence, which punishment he admires
and confesses as according to righteous ways. His lordship might
have pitied, if angels weep. Not a bit of it. “Here,” he says, “a
reflection naturally occurs, which, without superstition, leads
me tacitly to admire and confess the ways of Providence. For this
great genius, this mighty wit, who seemed to scorn and scoff at all
mankind, lived not only to be an example of pride punished in his
own person, and an example of terror to others, but lived to undergo
some of the greatest miseries to which human nature is liable.”
Is this an instance of the charity which “covereth a multitude of
sins,” and which saith, “Judge not”? If his lordship had exercised
on this occasion _his superstition_, which he thus adroitly puts
aside, he would pretty much have resolved Swift’s sins into a
_material_ necessity. Thus he philosophises on vice and virtue
as effects--“These effects take their sources from causes almost
mechanical.”
Mr Thackeray is still more severe--more unjust. He will not allow his
strictness in his religious duties, not even his family devotions,
to pass as current coin; they are shams and counterfeits. The Swift
too proud to lie, was enacting hypocrisy in all this; and how lucidly
conclusive the argument! Would any modern lecturer like to be tried
by it? “The boon-companion of Pope and Bolingbroke, who chose these
as the friends of his life, and the recipients of his confidence and
affection, must have heard many an argument, and joined in many
a conversation, over Pope’s port or ‘St John’s’ burgundy, which
would not bear to be repeated at other men’s boards.” “_Must_ have
heard.”!! Had the lecturer been an eye and ear witness, he could
not have said more. Yet this _must_ is a very little must indeed. A
letter of Bolingbroke’s, and another from Pope to Swift, which the
lecturer, as he ought to have done, had doubtless read, perfectly
reduces the little _must_ to nothing at all. Swift, it seems, had
written to Pope in some way to convert him from Popery. Pope’s
reply parries off the Dean’s shafts by wit, and the letter is very
pleasant. Not so Bolingbroke; and as he was of too free a spirit to
be false, and a hypocrite, at the time he wrote his reply he was
not that bold speculator in atheistical arguments which he may have
afterwards been; or if he was a hypocrite, that alternative defends
Swift, for it shows the improbability of the arguments over the
burgundy having been in their familiar converse; for Bolingbroke
was at least no fool to contradict himself before Swift. These are
his remarkable words, defending himself from the appellation of
a freethinker, in its irreligious sense: “For since the truth of
Christianity is as evident as matters of fact, on the belief of
which so much depends, ought to be, and agreeable to all our ideas
of justice, these freethinkers (such as he had described) must needs
be Christians on the best foundation--on that which St Paul himself
established (I think it was St Paul), _Omnia probate, quod bonum est
tenete._” It is not needful for us to vindicate Bolingbroke, nor even
to express any great satisfaction at this passage; our purpose is
to show Swift’s religious sincerity, and the probable nature of the
conversations with Pope and Bolingbroke from these letters.
But to the excess of severity in the lecturer. He contrasts “Harry
Fielding and Dick Steele” with Swift for religious sincerity. These
“were,” he says, “especially loud, and I _believe fervent_, in their
expressions of belief.” He admits them to have been _unreasoning_,
and Church of England men. “But Swift, his mind had had a different
schooling, and possessed a very different logical power. _He_ was
not bred up in a tipsy guardroom, and did not learn to reason in a
Covent Garden tavern. He could conduct an argument from beginning to
end. He could see forward with a fatal clearness. In his old age,
looking at the _Tale of a Tub_, when he said, ‘Good God! what a
genius I had when I wrote that book!’ I think he was admiring, not
the genius, but the consequences to which the genius had brought
him--a vast genius, a magnificent genius--a genius wonderfully
bright, and dazzling, and strong, to seize, to know, to see, to
flash upon falsehood, and scorch it into perdition, to penetrate
into the hidden motives, and expose the black thoughts of men; an
awful, an evil spirit:” and yet Mr Thackeray would make this evil
spirit a spirit of truth, of logical power, of brightness to seize,
to know, to see, to flash upon falsehood; in fact, that irreligion
was the natural result of true good logical reasoning, and therefore
Swift had no religion. We have no business to charge the lecturer
with irreligious sentiments; indeed we feel assured that he had
no irreligious motive whatever in the utterance of this passage;
nor could he have had, with any discretion, before a mixed modern
audience: in the hurry of his eloquence, he overlooked the want of
precise nicety of expression due to such a subject. We could wish
that he had otherwise worded this passage, which, to the minds of the
many, will certainly convey a notion that the legitimate conclusion
of reasonable logical arguments is infidelity. Yet more. “Ah! man!
you educated in the Epicurean Temple’s library--you whose friends
were Pope and St John--what made you to swear to fatal vows, and bind
yourself to a life-long hypocrisy before Heaven, which you adored
with such real wonder, humility, and reverence? For Swift’s was a
reverent spirit; for Swift could love and could pray.” But his love,
according to the lecturer, was cruelty, and his prayer a sham!! Let
no man ever own a friend, however he became his friend, of dubious
opinions. The lecturer is cautious. Miss Martineau sent her mind
into a diseased cow, and it was healed. Pope and Bolingbroke _must_
have sent theirs into Swift, and he was Bolingbroked and Poped to
the utmost corruption and defilement. We may here as well ask how
poor Swift was positively to know the ultimate sceptical opinions of
Bolingbroke? They were published in his works, by Mallet, after his
lordship’s death.
Johnson doubted not the sincerity of Swift’s religion. He vindicates
the _Tale of a Tub_, which Mr Thackeray makes a text for his
vituperation, from “ill intention.” “He was a Churchman rationally
zealous.” “To his duty as a Dean he was very attentive.” “In his
church he restored the practice of weekly communion, and distributed
the sacramental elements in the most solemn and devout manner with
his own hands. He came to his church every morning, preached commonly
in his turn, and attended the evening anthem, that it might not
be negligently performed.” Swift himself spoke disparagingly of
his sermons. Mr Thackeray does more than take him at his word; he
pronounces that “they have scarce a Christian characteristic. They
might be preached from the steps of a synagogue, or the floor of a
mosque, or the box of a coffeehouse almost. There is little or no
cant; he is too great and too proud for that; and, so far as the
badness of his sermons goes, he is honest.” Is Mr Thackeray really a
judge of “Christian characteristics?” or does he pronounce without
having read Swift’s sermon on the Trinity, so much and so deservedly
admired, and certainly of a Christian character? But of these sermons
quite as good a judge is Samuel Johnson as our lecturer, who says,
“This censure of himself, if judgment be made from those sermons
which have been printed, was unreasonably severe.” Johnson ascribes
the suspicion of irreligion to his dread of hypocrisy. Mr Thackeray
makes hypocrisy his religion. Even the essayist in the _Times_,
who considers him a madman from his birth, admits him to have been
“sincerely religious, scrupulously attentive to the duties of his
holy office, vigorously defending the position and privileges of
his order: he positively played into the hands of infidelity, by
the steps he took, both in his conduct and writings, to expose the
cant and hypocrisy which he detested as heartily as he admired and
practised unaffected piety.” If, then, according to this writer,
there was a mistake, it was not of his heart. What different
judgments, and of so recent dates--a sincerely religious man, of
practical unaffected piety, and, _per contra_, a long-life hypocrite
before Heaven. We may well say, “Look on this picture and on this.”
Reflect, reader, upon the double title-page to _Life of Tiberius_,
on the mysteries of every man’s life; and the seeming contradictions
which can never be explained here. A simple truth might explain them,
but truth hides itself, and historians and biographers cannot afford
time for accurate search, nor the reading world patience for the
delays which truth’s narrative would demand.
The _Tale of a Tub_, it has been said, was the obstacle to Swift’s
preferment--it may have been the ostensible excuse. If the Duchess
of Somerset went down on her knees to prevent a bishopric being
offered him, another excuse was wanted than the real one. It was
ascribed to Swift that he had ridiculed her red hair: such a crime
is seldom forgiven. But the “_spretæ injuria formæ_” will not be
producible as an objection. This _Tale of a Tub_ has been often
condemned and excused, and will be while literature lasts, and is
received amongst persons of different temperaments. There are some
so grave that wit is condemned by them before they know the subject
upon which it is exercised. To many it is folly, because beyond
their conception. We know no reason why the man of wit should not be
religious; if there be, wit is a crime; yet it is a gift of nature,
and so imperative upon the possessor that he can scarcely withhold
it. It is his genius. Wit has its logical forms of argument. Errors
in religion, as in manners, present themselves to the man of wit both
in a serious and ludicrous light; the two views combine, there is
the instant flash for illumination or destruction. The corruptions
in a church, as in that of Rome, being the growth of ages, engrafted
into the habits and manners of a people, are not to be put down by
solemn sermons only: arguments in a new and captivating manner must
be adopted, and applied to the ready understanding and familiar
common-sense of those on whom more grave and sedate argumentation is
lost.
The Reformers were not remiss to take wit as an ally. Even now, those
who are temporarily shocked at the apparent lightness with which it
was employed in former days, as they read works such as the _Tale of
a Tub_ may have received with it solid arguments, never so vividly
put to them, and which are still excellent preservatives against
Romanism. The enemy who does not like it will call it ribaldry,
buffoonery, and magnify it into a deadly sin. The vituperation of it
marks its power. This kind of writing, even on the gravest subjects,
is more defensible than those who are hurt by it will admit. In a
state of warfare, and church is militant, we must not throw away
legitimate arms. If wit be a gift, it is a legitimate weapon, and a
powerful one. It deals terrible blows on the head of hypocrisy. We
owe to it more perhaps than we think. It may be fairly asked, Were
the _Provincial Letters_ injurious to the cause of religion? The
_Epistolæ Obscurorum Virorum_ helped to demolish some strongholds
of iniquity. Rabelais, disgusting as he is to modern readers in
too many parts, was acceptable to bishops and archbishops. They
pardoned much for the depth of sense, knowledge of mankind, and solid
learning in the curate of Meudon. There are offences against taste,
that are not necessarily offences against religion. There is many
an offensive work, especially in modern literature, where taste is
guarded and religion hurt. Is there a natural antipathy between wit
and religion, or between wit and morals? We trust not; for by it
all mankind may be reached--at least those who can be reached by no
other appeal, to whom that may be the first, though not the last. In
times of controversy all must come into the field, the light-armed
as well as the heavy-armed, and they must use their own weapons.
David slew Goliath with a pebble and a sling. He had tried these;
they were scorned by the giant, but they slew him. But this genius
of art is imperative, and unless you shut the church-doors against
it, and anathematise it (and to do so would be dangerous), it will
throw about its weapons. Danger cannot put it down. It has its minor
seriousness, though you see it not; it has its deep wisdom, and such
an abundance of gravity, that it can afford to play with it. It bids
the man endowed with it use it even upon the scaffold, as did Sir
Thomas More. Admit, that, if it is a power for good or evil, that
very admission legitimatises it. The infidel, the scoffer, will use
it, and he will be in the enemy’s camp. Yes, we must have, in the
gravest cause, our sharpshooters too. There have been buffoons for
the gravest purposes as for the vilest. It is well to be cautious
in condemning all. Demosthenes could not prevail upon the people of
Athens to give attention to him where their safety was concerned, and
he abandoned his seriousness, and told them a story of the “shadow
of an ass.” Buffoonery may be a part put on--the disguise, but the
serious purpose is under it. Brutus was an able actor. A man may
be allowed to put on a madness, when it would be death to proclaim
himself, so as to be believed, in his senses. What shall we say of
the grave buffoon, the wittiest, the wisest, the patriotic, who
risked his life to play the fool, because he knew it was the only
means of convincing the people, when he, Aristophanes, could not get
an actor to take the part of Cleon, and took it himself, not knowing
but that a cup of poison awaited him when the play was ended? It is
as well to come to the conclusion that the wit, even the buffoon, may
be respectable--nay, give them a higher name--even great characters.
Their gifts are instincts, are meant for use. As the poet says, they
cut in twain weighty matters: “_Magnas plerumque secant res_.” We
fear that if we were to drive the lighter soldiers of wit out of the
religious camp, those enlisted on the opposite side would set up a
shout, rush in, and, setting about them lustily, have things pretty
much their own way. Apply this as at least an apology for Swift. You
must have the man with his wit--it was his uncontrollable passion.
And, be it remembered, when he conceived, if not wrote, the _Tale of
a Tub_, he was in the riotous spirit of his youth. And abstract from
it its wondrous argument, deep sense of illustration, and weigh them,
how ponderous the mass is, how able to crush the long age-constructed
machinery of designing Popery! But heavy as is the abstract, it would
have lain inert matter, but for those nicely-adjusted springs of wit,
which, light as they seem, lift buoyantly the ponderous power, that
it may fall where directed. If any have a Romish tendency, we would
recommend him to read the _Tale of a Tub_, without fear that it will
take religion out of his head or his heart. We perfectly agree with
Johnson as to the _intention_, in contradiction to Mr Thackeray, who
says, “The man who wrote that wild book could not but be aware what
must be the sequel of the propositions he laid down.” And thus is it
cruelly added, “It is my belief that he suffered frightfully from
the consciousness of his own scepticism, and that he had bent his
pride so far down as to put his apostacy out to hire.” Charity, which
“believeth all things,” never believed that.
The virtues reign by turns in this world of ours. Each one is the
Queen Quintessence of her time, and commands a fashion upon her
subjects. They bear the hue of her livery in their aspects. What
is in their bosoms it is not so easy to determine; their tongues
are obedient to the fashion, and often join in chorus of universal
cant. Philanthropy is now the common language, we doubt if it is the
common doing, of the age. We are rather suspicious of it, not very
well liking its connections, equality and fraternity, and suspect
it to be of a spurious breed, considering some of its exhibitions
on the stage of the world within the memory of many of us. As the
_aura popularis_ has been long, and is still blowing rather strong
from that quarter, it may appear “brutal” to say a syllable _per
contra_. There never was a fitter time to lift up the hands and eyes
in astonishment at Swift’s misanthropy. See the monster, how he hated
mankind! Perhaps he was a misanthrope. That he was a good hater we
verily believe, but for a misanthrope he was one of the kindest to
those who deserved and needed his assistance. It is said of him that
he made the fortunes of forty families--that when he had power, he
exerted it to the utmost, perseveringly, to advance the interests
of this or that man, and did many acts of benevolence secretly and
delicately;--witness his payment to Mrs Dingley of £52 per annum,
which he made her believe was her own; and he paid it as her agent
for money in the funds, and took her receipt accordingly, and this
was not known till after his death. Very numerous are the anecdotes
of this nature, but here we have no space for them. Such misanthropes
are not very bad people--even though, detesting the assumption of
uncommon philanthropy, they put on now and then a little roughness,
as Swift undoubtedly did, and many very kind people very often do.
But he wrote _Gulliver_, that bitter satire on mankind, for which Mr
Thackeray the lecturer is greatly shocked at him. “As for the moral,
I think it is horrible, shameful, unmanly, blasphemous; and, giant
and great as this Dean is, I say we should hoot him.” Certainly hoot
him--pelt him out of your _Vanity Fair_, which, though bad enough,
is far too good for him, for the law there is to treat bad mankind
very tenderly, and to make the good come off but second best, and
look a trifle ridiculous. There have been strong vigorous satirists,
universally read and admired, and made the stock literature of all
countries too, and the authors have been hitherto thought highly
moral and dignified characters; and they were personal, too, as
ever Swift was (not that we admire his personalities--they were
part his, and part belonged to his time), and their language as
coarse. What are we to say of Juvenal, if we condemn Swift on that
score? What of his sixth and tenth satires? The yahoo for mankind
is not more hideous than the Tabraca monkey, which so frightfully
represents men’s old age, in that famous tenth satire on the “Vanity
of Human Wishes.” It is, indeed, a morbid philanthropy, a maudlin
philanthropy, that will not give detested vices the lash. What
is brutal vice?--degraded human nature, such as our police courts
have of late exhibited it, our Cannons, and kickers, and beaters
of women--the burkers of our times, murderers for the sake of
body-selling, to whom yahoos are as far better creatures. Yet, in our
philanthropic days, we must not compare man to low animals. Indeed,
we make companion of the faithful dog--we pet the obedient horse--we
love them--and we are better for the affection we bestow, and it is
in a great degree perhaps reciprocal; but such brutes in human shape,
we shrink from comparing our dumb friends with them. They have made
themselves an antipathy to human nature, and our nature an antipathy
to them.
One would think, to hear some people talk about this _Gulliver_,
that Swift had originated such hideous comparisons with the brute
creation, and that he alone had brought his _animali parlanti_ on the
stage. Chaucer, whom everybody loves, makes the cock say, as thus
Dryden says it for him:--
“And I with pleasure see
Man strutting on two legs, and aping me.”
_Cock and Fox._
But let us put the matter thus: In depicting the lowest vices of
human nature, Swift, like Hogarth, made them appear more odious, and
the former less offensive, by at least ideally or rather formally
removing them from our species. The transforming them to brutes in
something _like_ human shape, renders the human image less distinct;
covers them with a gauze, through which you can bear the sight, and
contemplate what brutalised human nature may become. The satirist
Hogarth is as strong, and by too near a resemblance, more disgusting,
yet is he a great moralist. Is the Yahoo of Swift worse, or so
offensive to our pride, as the heroes and heroines of “Beer and Gin
Alley,” or the cruelty scenes of Hogarth? Yet who ever called these
doings of the painter-satirist “shameful, unmanly, blasphemous.”
Hoot _him_, Mr Lecturer, hoot both or neither. No--the hoot of the
Lecturer was nothing but a little oratorical extravagance, for
an already indignant audience, touched upon that tender modern
virtue, general philanthropy. Out of his lectures, the lecturer is
a true, good, loving, kind-hearted, generous man; his real “hoot”
would sound as gently as the “roar” of any “sucking dove.” But at a
lecture-table, the audience must be indulged in their own ways. The
lecturer puts by his nature and puts on his art. He is acting the
magician for the moment, and not himself, and thus his art excuses to
him this patting on the back our mock philanthropy; _mock_, for it
is out of nature, and not real. Honest genuine nature is indignant,
and has an impulse as its instinct to punish villany. Who ever read
history, and did not wish a Cæsar Borgia hanged? Philanthropists are
very near being nuisances; they go out of the social course, which
runs in circles--at first small ones too, home. There is room for the
exercise of plenty of charity, amiableness, goodness; where is the
need a man should burthen himself with the whole census? We live for
the most part in circles, and if we do good, true, and serviceable
duty within them, it little matters if some, with a pardonable
eccentricity, deem them magic circles, and that all on the outside
of the circumference are fiends ready to leap in open-mouthed to
devour them. Professing philanthropists are apt to have too little
thought of what is nearest, and to stretch out beyond the natural
reach of their arms. They are breakers into other people’s circles,
and perpetually guilty of a kind of affectionate burglary--and
therefore not punishable, but to be pitied as a trifle insane. Poor
Swift! how his friends wept at his last sad condition, which the
hard hearts who knew him not, a century and a half after, choose to
call Heaven’s punishment, and his misery a “remorse.” How his true
friends grieved for him! and such friends, too--men of generous
natures that lift humanity out of that, its vexatious condition,
which provokes universal satire. He had a circle of friends whom he
dearly loved, and who as dearly loved him. No matter how many yahoos
go to the whipping-post. Take care of the home circles, and ever
keep the temper sweet in that temperate zone, which the natural
course of society has provided for you; and be sure the world won’t
be a bit worse off, if you light your cigar at your own hearth, and
pleasantly write a pretty sharp satire on the world at large. We know
not if it is not a fair position to lay down, that all satirists are
amiable men; our best have been eminently so. Poor gentle Cowper, in
his loving frenzy, wielded the knout stoutly, and had it been in his
religion, would have whipped himself like a pure Franciscan; and yet
he loved his neighbour. And it is our belief that Swift was good and
amiable, and as little like a yahoo as those who depict him as one.
Nature gave him a biting power, and it was her instinct that made him
use it; and what if he exaggerated? It is the poet’s licence. What
did Juvenal? and what did he more than Juvenal? Oh, this at once bold
and squeamish age!--bold to do bad things, and to cry out against
having them told or punished, but delighting in dressing up an
imaginary monster and ticketing it with the name of Jonathan Swift,
dead a century ago!!
And was there so little vice and villany in the world in Swift’s
time, or in Hogarth’s time, that it should have been allowed to
escape? Party was virulent and merciless, and divided men, so that
statesmen had no time to care for good public morals. To be a
defeated minister was to be sent to the Tower, as Swift’s friend
Harley was, and kept there two years. They were corrupt times--yahoo
times. What says the sober historian, the narrator of facts, about
1717? There are accounts of the “Mug-houses,” when the Whig and
Tory factions divided the nation. There was the attack on these
Mug-houses, retaliations and riots, and there were “Mohocks,” of
which we read too pleasantly now in the _Spectator_, who went about
with drawn swords, and kept the city in terror. It is somewhere
about the year 1730 of which the historian speaks thus:--“A great
remissness of government prevailed at this time in England. Peace
both at home and abroad continued to be the great object of the
minister. Prosperity in commerce introduced luxury--hence necessities
were created, and these drove the lower classes of people into the
most abandoned wickedness. Averse to all penal and sanguinary
measures, the minister gave not that encouragement to the ordinary
magistrates that would enable them to give an effectual check to vice
among the multitude. This produced a very pernicious effect among
the higher class, so that almost universal degeneracy of manners
prevailed. It was not safe to travel the roads or walk the streets;
and often the civil officers themselves dared neither to repel the
violences nor punish the crimes that were committed. A species
of villains now started up, unknown to former times, who made it
their business to write letters to men of substance, threatening to
set fire to their houses in case they refused their demands; and
sometimes their threats were carried into execution. In short, the
peculiar depravity of the times became at length so alarming that
the government was obliged to interpose, and a considerable reward
was offered for discovering the ruffians concerned in such execrable
practices.”[20]
If Swift’s miseries were so large as to make Archbishop King shed
tears, and pronounce him the most unhappy man on earth, on the
subject of whose wretchedness no question may be asked; and if,
remembering this, we reflect upon his great and active doings, it
will not be without admiration that we shall see how manfully he
strove against being overwhelmed with inevitable calamities; and if
we think him too much inclined to view mankind ill, we should reflect
that he lived in such times as we have been describing, and had
ill-treatment enough from mankind to render his best struggles for
contentment at times hard, and that he preserved his friendships to
the last.
The fortuitous disappointments of life may be borne with a humble
patience, the virtue in misery; the disappointments which our
fellow-creatures inflict by their falseness and wickedness, are
apt in a degree to make generous natures misanthropic; but even
then their best feelings do but retreat from their advanced
posts--retire within, and cling with greater love and resolution to
the home fortress, fortified and sustained by a little army of dear
friends. So it was with Swift: out in the world he was the traveller
Gulliver--but the best friendships made his world his home. Even
in the strictest sense of _home_, such a home as Swift had, of so
strange a home-love, we know not to what great degree we should look
on that with pity. It is to be hoped, not one of his revilers have
had his miseries--which even his friend was with tears requested not
to look into.
The animosities of Whigs and Tories were extreme. Swift declared
himself a Whig in politics, a Tory as high-churchman. In the course
of political experience, it is evident one of the principles must
give way. Swift saw to what the Whig policy tended: the higher
interests prevailed with him--he joined the Tories. Giant as he was,
we are not surprised at the strong expressions of the essayist whom
we have before quoted, “under Harley, Swift reigned, Swift was the
Government, Swift was Queen, Lords, and Commons. There was tremendous
work to do, and Swift did it all.” We do not mean to say Swift was
not a thorough man of the world; nor that he did not look to his own
interests, as men of the world do; but at the same time, it would be
hard to show that he was profligate as to political principle. He
may have changed his views, or political principles may have shifted
themselves. We firmly believe him to have been honest. But he left
the Whig ranks. Having done so, he was too great not to be feared,
and so hated--and is it too much to say that this Whig hatred with
regard to him has come down to our day, and unforgiving as it is,
as it cannot persecute the man, persecutes his memory? It is next
to impossible not to see that political rancour has directed and
dipped into its own malignant gall the pen of Lord Jeffrey, who
in that essay, which has now become cheap railway reading, heaps
all possible abuse on Swift, ascribing to him all bad motives--is
furiously wroth with him even now, because he abandoned the Whigs.
It is the very burthen of his vituperative essay. He (Swift) is
a political apostate, and a libeller of the Whigs against his
conscience; and this Lord Jeffrey gathers from his letters. Indeed!
and was it in Lord Jeffrey’s mind so dreadful an offence (if true)
this writing against his conscience, and to be discovered in private
letters, at supposed variance with published documents, by this said
Dean? We fear Lord Jeffrey was not aware that he was passing a very
severe censure upon his own conduct when he wrote thus of Swift;
for we remember reading a letter by the said Lord Jeffrey in entire
contradiction to that which, as Editor of the _Edinburgh Review_, he
had given out to the world. In this private letter, published in his
“Life,” he writes in perfect terror, and in the deepest despair of
the nation, arising from the dangerous tendency of articles in that
_Review_, with, as we conceive, a very poor apology, that he could
not restrain his ardent writers. Party blinded him then, and thus
he vents his rancour further, forgetful of the lampoons of the Whig
Tom Moore, the _Twopenny Post-bag_, and a long list--and of the Whig
Byron, and his doings in that line. “In all situations the Tories
have been the greatest libellers, and, as is fitting, the great
prosecutors of libels.” Lord Jeffrey, when he wrote this, was as
forgetful of his own party as of himself in particular--of the many
personalities in his own review, as of Whig writings. Unfortunately
for them, they were not so gifted with wit as their opponents, but
their malignity on that account was the greater. What is to be said
of Lord Holland’s note-book? But Lord Jeffrey was not the one to
condemn, however others might be justified in doing so, even personal
libels, which, in his own case, as editor and political Whig agent,
he justifies, and, more than that, sets up a principle to maintain
his justification. It would appear that one of his contributors
had been shocked at the personal libels in the _Edinburgh_, and
had remonstrated. Jeffrey thus defends the practice: “To come, for
instance, to the attacks on the person of the Sovereign. Many people,
and I profess myself to be one, may think such a proceeding at
variance with the dictates of good taste, of dangerous example, and
repugnant to good feelings; and therefore will not themselves have
recourse to it.” (Here his memory should have hinted--
“Qui facit per alium facit per se.”)
“Yet,” he continues, “it would be difficult to deny that it is, or
may be, a lawful weapon to be employed in the great and eternal
contest between the court and the country. Can there be any doubt
that the personal influence and personal character of the Sovereign
is an element, and a pretty important element, in the practical
constitution of the government, and always forms part of the strength
or weakness of the administration he employs? In the abstract,
therefore, I cannot think that attempts to weaken that influence,
to abate a dangerous popularity, or even to excite odium towards a
corrupt and servile ministry, by making the prince, on whose favour
they depend, generally contemptible or hateful, are absolutely to be
interdicted or protested against. Excesses no doubt may be committed.
But the system of attacking abuses of power, by attacking the
person who instigates or carries them through by general popularity
or personal influence, is lawful enough, I think, and may _form
a large scheme of Whig opposition_--not the best or the noblest
part, certainly, but one not without its use, and that may, on some
occasions, be altogether indispensable.”--_Letter to Francis Horner,
Esq., 12th March 1815._
The semi-apologetic qualifying expressions “against good taste and
feeling,” only make one smile, as showing the clear sin against
conscience, in thus falling into or recommending the large scheme
of Whig opposition. One might imagine him to have been one of Mr
Puff’s conspirators in his tragedy, who had manufactured from the
play a particularly Whig party-prayer--a prayer to their god of
battle, whoever he was,--certainly one a mighty assistant in such
conspiracies.
“Behold thy votaries submissive beg,
That thou wilt deign to grant them all they ask;
Assist them to accomplish all their ends,
And sanctify whatever means they use
To gain them.”--_The Critic._
Every one will now agree, of course, with Lord Jeffrey, that the
Tories have ever been the great libellers!!!
Was it ever known that Tom Moore, or even the editor of the
_Edinburgh Review_, were prosecuted!! We do not justify Swift in
all his libels--some bad enough. They were strange times, and of no
common licence; and who was more licentiously attacked than Swift
himself? And he knew how to retaliate, and he did it terribly and
effectually. Many badly-written things were ascribed to Swift which
he did not write. But we must not take the code of manners of one
age, and a more refined age, and utterly condemn, by reference to
them, the manners of another, as a chargeable offence against an
individual. Much that Swift wrote could not be written now; much that
was written by Mr Thackeray’s other “Humourists” could not be written
now; and yet the objections are on the score of manners wanting in
refinement, and not that morals were offended. In Swift’s time, both
in literature and politics, men wrote coarsely, and acted somewhat
coarsely too; for they wrote in disgust, which was scarcely lessened
by a fear of the pillory. Retaliations were severe. De Foe, who knew
well what political prosecution was, wrote thus on Lord Haversham’s
speech: “But fate, that makes footballs of men, kicks some up stairs
and some down; some are advanced without honour, others suppressed
without infamy; some are raised without merit, some are crushed
without crime; and no man knows, by the beginning of things, whether
his course shall issue in a peerage or a pillory”--in most witty and
satiric allusion to Lord Haversham’s and his own condition. Swift’s
“_Account of the Court and Empire of Japan_,” written in 1728, is no
untrue representation of the factions and ministerial profligacy of
that period. The Dean, as an Irish patriot--for he heartily took up
the cause of Ireland--was persecuted, and a reward of £300 offered
for the discovery of the author of one of the Drapier’s Letters. The
anecdote told on this occasion is very characteristic of Swift. He
was too proud to live in fear of any man. His butler, whom alone he
trusted, conveyed these letters to the printer. When the proclamation
of reward came out, this servant strolled from the house, and staid
out all night and part of next day. It was feared he had betrayed his
master. When he returned, the Dean ordered him instantly to strip
himself of his livery, and ordered him to leave the house; “For,”
says he, “I know my life is in your power, and I will not bear, out
of fear, either your insolence or negligence.” The man was, however,
honest and humble, and even desired to be confined till the danger
should be over. But his master turned him out. The sequel should
be told. When the time of information had expired, he received the
butler again; and “soon afterwards ordered him and the rest of the
servants into his presence, without telling his intentions, and bade
them take notice that their fellow-servant was no longer Robert the
butler, but that his integrity had made him Mr Blakeney, Verger of St
Patrick’s, whose income was between thirty and forty pounds a-year.”
As it has fallen in the way to give this narrative of his conduct to
a deserving servant, it may not be amiss, in this place, to offer a
pendant; and it may be given the more readily, as those who wish to
view him as a misanthropic brute, and they who would commend him for
his humanity, may make it their text for their praise or their abuse.
“A poor old woman brought a petition to the deanery; the servant read
the petition, and turned her about her business. Swift saw it, and
had the woman brought in, warmed and comforted with bread and wine,
and dismissed the man for his inhumanity.”
To revert, however, to his political course. When the Tory Ministry
was broken up, he never swerved from his friendships, nor did he
court one probable future minister at the expense of the other.
Indeed, at the beginning of the break-up, he clung the more closely
to Harley, the dismissed minister. But even this conduct has been
misrepresented, by those who viewed all his actions upside down, as
a deep policy, that he might be sure of a friend at court whichever
side might ultimately win.
That he might appear wanting in no _possible impossible_ vice,
avarice has been added to the number adduced. Even Johnson charges
his economy upon his “love of a shilling.” This does appear to us,
after much examination of data, a very gratuitous accusation. His
early habits were necessarily those of a poor man; he never was a
rich one; and he was far above the meanness of enlarging his means
at the expense of his deanery, its present interests, or of his
successor, by any selfish regard to fines. Due economy is often taken
to be avarice. Nor does it follow that reasonable parsimony, when
constantly practised for a worthy purpose, _is_ avarice. Such avarice
is at least not uncommon in great and good minds. Swift so often made
it known that he had a good object, and which he fulfilled, that it
seems quite malicious to forget his motives, and to ascribe his by
no means large accumulations to a miserly disposition. He did not in
fact, after all, leave a very ample endowment for his hospital for
the insane. The first £500 which he could call his own he devoted
to loans, in small sums, to poor yet industrious men. Had he been
avaricious, he might have accumulated a fortune by his writings. A
very small sum (we believe for his _Gulliver_) was the only payment
received for all his writings. Had he been naturally avaricious, he
would not have returned, with marked displeasure, a donation sent him
by Harley. There was a sturdy manliness in his pride which forbade
him to incur serious debt; and this pride caused him to measure
nicely, or rather say frugally, his expenditure. He had, indeed, a
“love of a shilling,” as he ought to have had, for he knew for what
purpose he husbanded it. We know an instance of seeming parsimony
that originated in, and was itself, an admirable virtue. It was in
rather humble life. The man had given up his little patrimony--his
all--to the maintenance of two sisters, whom he truly loved; and when
he went out into the world, trusting to his industry alone, he made a
vow to himself that the half of every shilling he could save should
go to his sisters. This man drove hard bargains; by habit he came
to think that what he spent idly was a half robbery. Many a hard
name, doubtless, was cast at this tender-hearted man in his progress
through little-knowing and ill-judging society.
We do not attempt a delineation of Swift’s character. We are
conscious that it was too great for our pen. It must be a deep
philosophy that is able to search into such a mind, and bring all the
seeming contradictions into order, and sift his best qualities, from
their mixtures of eccentricities, from a real or imaginary insanity.
This part of the subject has been ably treated, and with medical
discrimination, by Mr Wilde in his _Closing Years of Dean Swift’s
Life_, from whose work we gladly quote some just animadversions upon
his vituperators.
“To the slights thrown upon his memory by the Jeffreys, Broughams,
Macaulays, De Quinceys, and other modern _literati_, answers and
refutations have been already given. Of these attacks, which exhibit
all the bitterness of contemporary and personal enmity, it is only
necessary to request a careful analysis, when they will be found to
be gross exaggerations of some trivial circumstances, but written in
all the unbecoming spirit of partisanship; while the opinions of his
contemporaries, Harley, Bolingbroke, Pope, Arbuthnot, Delany, &c.,
are a sufficient guarantee for the opinion which was entertained of
Swift by those who knew him best and longest.”
It was well said, with reference to Jeffrey’s article in the
_Edinburgh Review_, “But Swift is dead, as Jeffrey well knew when he
reviewed his works.” If men of mark will be so unjust, unscrupulous,
uncharitable, as to apply “base perfidy” to such a man as Swift, no
wonder if the small fry of revilers, whose lower minds could never by
any possibility rise to the conception of such a character as Swift,
should lift their shrieking voices to the same notes, as if they
would claim a vain consequence by seeming to belong to the pack. Mr
Howitt odiously alludes to the discarded story which we have noticed,
the slander at Kilroot, and grounds upon it a charge of “dissipated
habits” in his youth. This writer, lacking the ability and influence
of the superior libellers, as is common with such men, yelps his
shrill vulgarities the louder in such expressions as “selfish
tyranny,” “wretched shuffler,” “contemptible fellow.”
It is a vile thing, this vice of modern times--this love of pulling
down the names of great men of a past age--of blotting and slurring
over every decent epitaph written in men’s hearts about them. That
men of note themselves should fall into it, is but a sad proof that
rivalry and partisanship in politics make the judgment unjust. We
remember the reproof Canning gave to Sir Samuel Romilly, no common
man, who indeed acknowledged Mr Pitt’s talents, but denied that he
was a great man. “Heroic times are these we live in,” said Canning,
“with men at our elbow of such gigantic qualities as to render those
of Pitt ordinary in the comparison. Ah! who is there living, in this
house or out of it, who, taking measure of his own mind or that of
his coevals, can be justified in pronouncing that William Pitt was
not a great man?” Of all our modern revilers of Swift, the pullers to
pieces of his fame and character, is there any that might not shrink
from putting his own measure of either to the comparison? Political
hatred lasts too long--it reverses the law of canonisation: if there
is to be worship, it must be immediate. A century destroys it; but
enmity survives.
“Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,
And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on,” &c.
We commenced with the intention of reviewing Mr Thackeray’s Lectures,
but have stopped short at his life of Swift, and yet feel that we
have but touched upon the subject-matter relating to that great man;
and hope to refer to it, with some notice and extracts from his
works, at a future time.
And what is Swift? What is any dead man that we should defend his
name, which is nothing but a name--and not that to _him_? What
is Swift to us, more than “Hecuba” to the poor player, or “he to
Hecuba,” that we should rise with indignation to plead his cause?
Praise or blame to the man dead a century and more, is nothing for
him, no, nor to any one of his race (for affections of that kind
are lost in a wide distribution). Shakespeare makes even honour of
a shorter date. “What is honour to him who died o’ Wednesday?” Very
soon individual man melts away from his individuality, and merges
into the general character; he becomes quite an undistinguishable
part of the whole generation; his appearance unknown. Could the great
and the small visit us from the dead--they who “rode on white asses,”
and they who were gibbeted--they whom the “king delighted to honour,”
and they whom the hangman handled--there is no “usher of black rod”
that could call them out by their names. Their individualities are
gone--their names must go in search of them in vain--they will fasten
nowhere with certainty--none know which is which. Let Cæsar come with
his murderers, and who shall tell which is Cæsar? After a generation,
there is no one on earth to grieve for the guilty or unfortunate,
unless in a fiction or tale. We laugh at the weeping lady who
puts her tears to the account of the “anniversary of the death of
poor dear Queen Elizabeth.” Feelings and affections of past ages
are all gone, and become but a cold history, that the poet or the
romance-writer may warm again in their sport. They no longer belong
to those who had them. While memory and affection lasts there is a
kind of vitality, but it soon goes. “Non omnis moriar” is a motto
to be translated elsewhere. The atmosphere of fame, for this earth,
rises, like that we breathe, but a little way above it, and is ever
shifting.
But if the individual thus melts away, not so the general character;
that will remain--and in that the living are concerned. We deem it
a part of a true philanthropy if we can pull out one name from the
pit of defamation into which it has been unhandsomely thrust, and
can place it upon the record of our general nature, that our common
humanity may be raised, and, as much as may be, glorified thereby.
Such has been our motive (for with this motive alone is Swift
anything to us), and we hope we have succeeded in rescuing one of
nature’s great men from unmerited obloquy.
We have spoken freely of Mr Thackeray’s Lectures, with reference to
his character of Swift.
We believe that he has unfortunately followed a lead; and, in so
doing, has been encouraged to a bias by his natural gift--satire. We
say not this to his dispraise. Like other natural gifts, the satiric
puts out ever its polyp feelers, and appropriates whatever comes
within its reach, and promises nutriment. It is not indeed likely,
in this our world, to be starved for lack of sustenance; nor would
society be the better if it were. But we do doubt if it be quite the
talent required in a biographer. We would not have Mr Thackeray abate
one atom of the severity of his wit; and we believe him to have an
abhorrence of everything vicious, mean, and degrading, and that his
purpose in all his writings is to make vice odious. He habitually
hunts that prey: having seen the hollowness of professions, he drives
his merciless pen through it, and sticks the culprit upon its point,
and draws him out upon the clean sheet, and blackens him, and laughs
at the figure he has made of him. A writer of such a stamp ought to
be considered, what he really is, a moralist--therefore a benefactor
in our social system.
But with this power, let him touch the living vices till they
shrink away cowed. The portraiture of the vices of men who lived a
century or more ago, real or imaginary, may only serve to feed the
too flagrant vice of the living--self-congratulating vanity. If
then he must write, or lecture, on biography, we would earnestly
recommend him to do it with a fear of himself. His other works
have contributed many hours of delight to the days of most of us;
and in the little volume before us, setting aside his lecture on
Swift, there is much to amuse and to instruct. The sharp contrasting
choice of his positions, and easy natural manner, not forcing but
enticing the reader to reflection, must ever make Mr Thackeray a
popular writer. Were he less sure of the public ear, and the public
voice in his favour, we should not have endeavoured to rescue the
character of Swift from his grasp; and we believe him to be of that
generous nature to rejoice, if we have, as we hope, been successful
in the attempt. We cannot speak too highly of Mr Thackeray as one
most accomplished in his art: his style, eminently English, is
unmistakably plain and energetic. It is original--so curt, yet so
strong; there is never amplification without a purpose, nor without
the charm of a new image. Thoughts are clad in the words that best
suit them. With him, pauses speak; and often a full stop, unexpected
in a passage, is eloquent. You think that he has not said all,
because he has said so little: yet that little is all; and there
is left suggestion for feelings which words would destroy. He is
never redundant. So perfect is this his art that his very restraint
seems an _abandon_. He knows when and how to gain the credit of
forbearance, where in fact there is none. In his mastery over this
his peculiar manner, he brings it to bear upon the pathetic or the
ridiculous with equal effect; and, like a consummate satirist, makes
even the tragic more tragic, more ghastly, by a slight connection
with the light, the ridiculous, a certain air of indifference. We
instance the passage of the death of Rawdon, in his _Vanity Fair_.
Few are the words, but there is a history in them. The apparent
carelessness in dismissing his hero reminds one of that in Richard
the Third.
“The Lady Anne hath bade the world good night.”
His strongest ridicule is made doubly ridiculous by the gravity he
tacks to it. It sticks like a burr upon the habit of his unfortunate
victim. He puts the rags of low motives upon seeming respectability,
and makes presumption look beggarly--effecting that which the Latin
satirist says real poverty does--_ridiculos homines facit_. Most
severe in his indifference, his light playfulness is fearfully
Dantesque; it is ever onward, as if sure of its catastrophe. We do
not know any author who can say so much in few common words. These
are characteristics of genius. It has often been said, and perhaps
with truth, that the reader shuts the book uncomfortable, not very
much in love with human nature: we are by no means sure that this
is absolutely wrong; such is the feeling on looking at Hogarth’s
pictures. It was the author’s intention, in both cases, to be a
moral satirist, not a romance-writer. It has been objected that he
allows the vicious too much success; but he may plead that so it is
in life: even the Psalmist expressed his surprise at the prosperity
of the wicked. There is truth to the life in this treatment; a
certain seeming success tells not the whole. It is a more serious
charge that he has made virtue and goodness insipid. We wish he could
persuade himself that there is romance in real life, and that it is
full of energies; its true portraiture would give a grace to his
works. Cervantes and Le Sage were not all satire; their beautiful
touches of romance hurt not the general character of their works; the
fantastic frame-lines mar not the pathos of the picture. With this
recommendation we close our article, with trust in the good sense and
good feeling of Mr Thackeray, rejoiced to think that his powerful
genius is in action: whatever vein he may be in, he will be sure to
instruct and amuse, and accumulate fame to himself. If the virtues
do not look their very best, when he ushers them into company, at
least vice will never have to boast of gentle treatment--he will make
it look as it deserves; and if he does not always thrust it out of
doors in rags and penury, he will set upon it, and leave its further
punishment for conjecture.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] It is curious this twofold character of Tiberius--surprising
that historians should have credited this single existence of a
civilised cannibal--this recorded “eater of human flesh, and drinker
of human blood.” The learned writer of this volume on Tiberius,
with truthful scrutiny, sifts every evidence, weighs testimony
against testimony, and testimony of the same authority against
itself, and after patient investigation concludes, as the reasonable
solution of the historical enigma, that Tiberius was not only “of
all kings or autocrats the most venerable,” but that he was, “in
the fourteenth year of his reign, a believer in the divinity of
Jesus Christ,” and, “during the last eight years of his reign, the
nursing-father of the infant Catholic Church.” It will be readily
perceived that the supposition of Tiberius being a Christian, at
a time when Christianity was universally held to be an odious and
justly-persecuted superstition, must have presented, through known
facts and rumours, to the world at large, and to the philosophic
minds of historians in particular, an idea of human character so
novel and so confused, as to be, in the absence of a clue, and a
test which they could not admit, altogether incomprehensible. What
could they do with the sacramental fact--the eating human flesh and
drinking human blood, by one known for his abstemiousness?
“Τοσαυτης δ’εν τοτε της καταζασεως εοης, και μηδ’ απαρνησασθαι τινος
δυναμενε το μη ε και των σαρκων αυτε ηδεως εμφαγειν.”--DION. C.
“Fastidit vinum, quia jam bibit iste cruorem
Tam bibit hunc avide quam bibit iste merum.”--SUET.
The sacramental fact discovered, and undeniable, yet not known as the
sacramental fact, must have made up a riddle of contradictions, which
it was not in the power of that age to solve. In its ignorance it
made a monster. Men are apt to see more than nature ever exhibits.
[20] RUSSELL’S _History of England_.
NOTE TO THE ARTICLE ON THE NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE.
We have received, although only at the eleventh hour, a copy of
_Notes and Queries_ (September 17, 1853), in which ICON animadverts
with proper severity on the unwarrantable conduct of A. E. B.
in attacking our harmless selves in the manner he did. He also
compliments our article in a strain which makes us blush even deeper
than we did when the “gnat” stung us. We thank both him and the
editor for the handsome apology which has been made to us--for such
we consider it--in the name of _Notes and Queries_; and we confess
that, had we been aware of their friendly disposition sooner, we
might have modified some of the remarks made at the opening of this
paper. Let the excellent concern, however, take our remarks as kindly
as we did theirs; and let all who are connected with it consider,
that when a man is struck at in the dark, he must defend himself in
the dark, fall his blows where they may. The worthy editor seems
to be much more pestered by the fussiness and irritability of his
little tribe of correspondents than we are. He complains of this
very sorely. He will perhaps find that we have given them a lesson
how to behave; and if he passes the remainder of his days in peace
and quiet, untormented by the small hornets whom he has in charge,
he will know whom he has to thank for it, and will feel grateful
accordingly. May _Notes and Queries_ go on and prosper; for, when it
commits a mistake, it has the manliness and good sense to avow it,
and to make all suitable reparation.
_Printed by William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh._
Transcriber’s Note:
Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent
hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged. Obsolete and
alternative spellings were left unchanged. Eight misspelled words
were corrected.
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the
end of the article. Missing anchors to Footnotes were added where
they may have belonged.
Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, or partially
printed letters and punctuation, were corrected. Missing or duplicate
punctuation was corrected.
Changed:
“scene” to “Scene” in Shakespeare references
added space to “i. e.” for consistency
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOLUME 456, NO. 10, NOVEMBER 1853 ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg
Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
