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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 19:55:32 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 19:55:32 -0700 |
| commit | fbbf78473f93cfa8c40e956ef2276e8770bf1637 (patch) | |
| tree | 7d7130856831d7afb0d281abf15ff34ac083eb36 /31291-h | |
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+ line-height: 1em;} + hr.pg { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div class="pg"> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - +Swanston Edition Vol. XXII (of 25), by Robert Louis Stevenson</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition Vol. XXII (of 25)</p> +<p> Juvenilia and Other Papers; The Pentland Rising; Sketches; College Papers; Notes and Essays Chiefly of the Road; Criticisms; An Appeal to the Clergy of the Church Of Scotland; The Charity Bazaar; The Light-Keeper; On a New Form of Intermittent Light for Lighthouses; On the Thermal Influence of Forests; Essays of Travel; War Correspondence from Stevenson's Note-Book</p> +<p>Author: Robert Louis Stevenson</p> +<p>Release Date: February 16, 2010 [eBook #31291]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - SWANSTON EDITION VOL. XXII (OF 25)***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Marius Masi, Jonathan Ingram,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.pgdp.net)</h3> +</div> +<p> </p> +<table class="border1" border="0" cellpadding="10" summary="TN"> +<tr> +<td style="width:25%; vertical-align:top"> +Transcriber's notes: +</td> +<td> +(1) A few typographical errors have been corrected. They +appear in the text <span class="correction" title="explanation will pop up">like this</span>, and the +explanation will appear when the mouse pointer is moved over the marked +passage. +<br /><br /> +(2) Page numbering is interrupted at page 263 in the original. +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p> </p> +<hr class="pg" /> +<p> </p> + +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<h4>THE WORKS OF</h4> + +<h3>ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</h3> + +<h4>SWANSTON EDITION</h4> + +<h5>VOLUME XXII</h5> +<div class="pt3"> </div> + +<p class="noind center"><i>Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five<br /> +Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS<br /> +STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies<br /> +have been printed, of which only Two Thousand<br /> +Copies are for sale.</i></p> + +<p class="noind center"><i>This is No. <span style="font-size: 60%;">............</span></i></p> + +<div class="figcenter1"> +<img style="border:0; width:620px; height:381px" + src="images/img1.jpg" + alt="" /> +<p class="f70">R. L. S. SPEARING FISH IN THE BOW OF THE SCHOONER “EQUATOR”</p> +</div> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<h3>THE WORKS OF</h3> +<h2>ROBERT LOUIS</h2> +<h2>STEVENSON</h2> + +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<h5>VOLUME TWENTY-TWO</h5> +<div class="pt3"> </div> + +<h5>LONDON: PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND<br /> +WINDUS: IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL<br /> +AND COMPANY LIMITED: WILLIAM<br /> +HEINEMANN: AND LONGMANS GREEN<br /> +AND COMPANY MDCCCCXII</h5> + +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<h6>ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</h6> + +<hr class="art" /> +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> + +<table class="nobctr" width="90%" summary="Contents"> + +<tr> <td class="tc1" colspan="3"><h4>JUVENILIA AND OTHER PAPERS</h4></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc1" colspan="3"><h5>THE PENTLAND RISING</h5></td> </tr> + +<tr style="font-size: 70%; "> <td class="tc2"> </td> + <td> </td> + <td class="tc2">PAGE</td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">I.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">The Causes of the Revolt</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page3">3</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">II.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">The Beginning</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page6">6</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">III.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">The March of the Rebels</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page8">8</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">IV.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Rullion Green</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page13">13</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">V.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">A Record of Blood</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page17">17</a></td> </tr> + + +<tr> <td class="tc1" colspan="3"><h5>SKETCHES</h5></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">I.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">The Satirist</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page25">25</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">II.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Nuits Blanches</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page27">27</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">III.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">The Wreath of Immortelles</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page30">30</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">IV.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Nurses</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page34">34</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">V.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">A Character</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page37">37</a></td> </tr> + + +<tr> <td class="tc1" colspan="3"><h5>COLLEGE PAPERS</h5></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">I.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Edinburgh Students in 1824</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page41">41</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">II.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">The Modern Student considered generally</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page45">45</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">III.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Debating Societies</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page53">53</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">IV.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">The Philosophy of Umbrellas</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page58">58</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">V.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">The Philosophy of Nomenclature</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page63">63</a></td> </tr> + + +<tr> <td class="tc1" colspan="3"><h5>NOTES AND ESSAYS CHIEFLY OF THE ROAD</h5></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">I.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">A Retrospect</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page71">71</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">II.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Cockermouth and Keswick</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page80">80</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">III.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Roads</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page90">90</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">IV.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Notes on the Movements of Young Children</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page97">97</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">V.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">On the Enjoyment of Unpleasant Places</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page103">103</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">VI.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">An Autumn Effect</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page112">112</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">VII.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">A Winter’s Walk in Carrick and Galloway</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page132">132</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">VIII.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Forest Notes</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page142">142</a></td> </tr> + + +<tr> <td class="tc1" colspan="3"><h5>CRITICISMS</h5></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">I.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Lord Lytton’s “Fables in Song”</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page171">171</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">II.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Salvini’s Macbeth</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page180">180</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">III.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Bagster’s “Pilgrim’s Progress”</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page186">186</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 bo" colspan="2">AN APPEAL TO THE CLERGY OF THE CHURCH OF SCOTLAND</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page199">199</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 bo" colspan="2">THE CHARITY BAZAAR</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page213">213</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 bo" colspan="2">THE LIGHT-KEEPER</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page217">217</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 bo" colspan="2">ON A NEW FORM OF INTERMITTENT LIGHT FOR LIGHTHOUSES</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page220">220</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 bo" colspan="2">ON THE THERMAL INFLUENCE OF FORESTS</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page225">225</a></td> </tr> + + +<tr> <td class="tc1" colspan="3"><h5>ESSAYS OF TRAVEL</h5></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">I.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Davos in Winter</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page241">241</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">II.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Health and Mountains</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page244">244</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">III.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">Alpine Diversions</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page248">248</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc2">IV.</td> + <td class="scs tc3">The Stimulation of the Alps</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page252">252</a></td> </tr> + + +<tr> <td class="tc1" colspan="3"><h5>STEVENSON AT PLAY</h5></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">Introduction by Lloyd Osbourne</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page259">259</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">War Correspondence From Stevenson’s Note-Book</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page263">263</a></td> </tr> + + +<tr> <td class="tc1" colspan="3"><h5>THE DAVOS PRESS</h5></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc1 f80" colspan="3">MORAL EMBLEMS, ETC.: FACSIMILES</td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">Advertisement of Black Canyon</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page283">283</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">Black Canyon, or Wild Adventures in the Far West</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page285">285</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">Not I, and Other Poems</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page293">293</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">Moral Emblems</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page301">301</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">Advertisement of Moral Emblems: Edition de Luxe</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page312">312</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">Advertisement of Moral Emblems: Second Collection</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page315">315</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">Moral Emblems: Second Collection</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page317">317</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">A Martial Elegy for Some Lead Soldiers</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page329">329</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">Advertisement of the Graver and the Pen</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page331">331</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">The Graver and the Pen</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page333">333</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc1" colspan="3"><h5>MORAL TALES</h5></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">Robin and Ben; or, The Pirate and the Apothecary</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page367">367</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3 scs" colspan="2">The Builder’s Doom</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page375">375</a></td> </tr> + +</table> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>JUVENILIA</h2> + +<h2>AND OTHER PAPERS</h2> +<hr class="full" /> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page1"></a>1</span></p> + +<div style="border: 1px solid black; font-family: 'Courier New'; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%"> + +<h2>THE PENTLAND RISING</h2> + +<h4>A PAGE OF HISTORY</h4> +<div class="pt05"> </div> +<h4>1666</h4> + +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>A cloud of witnesses ly here,</p> +<p>Who for Christ’s interest did appear.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 5em;"><i>Inscription on Battle-field at Rullion Green.</i></p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> +<div class="pt3"> </div> + +<h4>EDINBURGH</h4> + +<h4>ANDREW ELLIOT, 17 PRINCES STREET</h4> + +<h4>1866</h4> +</div> + +<p class="center f70"><i>Facsimile of original Title-page</i></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page2"></a>2</span></p> +<div class="pt05"> </div> + +<hr class="full" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page3"></a>3</span></p> +<h2>THE PENTLAND RISING</h2> +<hr class="full" /> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>I</h5> + +<h3>THE CAUSES OF THE REVOLT</h3> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Halt, passenger; take heed what thou dost see,</p> +<p class="i05">This tomb doth show for what some men did die.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="rt f90"><i>Monument, Greyfriars’ Churchyard, Edinburgh,</i> +1661-1668.<a name="FnAnchor_1" id="FnAnchor_1" href="#Footnote_1"><span class="sp">1</span></a></p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Two</span> hundred years ago a tragedy was enacted in Scotland, +the memory whereof has been in great measure lost or +obscured by the deep tragedies which followed it. It is, +as it were, the evening of the night of persecution—a sort +of twilight, dark indeed to us, but light as the noonday +when compared with the midnight gloom which followed. +This fact, of its being the very threshold of persecution, +lends it, however, an additional interest.</p> + +<p>The prejudices of the people against Episcopacy were +“out of measure increased,” says Bishop Burnet, “by the +new incumbents who were put in the places of the ejected +preachers, and were generally very mean and despicable in +all respects. They were the worst preachers I ever heard; +they were ignorant to a reproach; and many of them were +openly vicious. They ... were indeed the dreg and +refuse of the northern parts. Those of them who arose +above contempt or scandal were men of such violent +tempers that they were as much hated as the others were +despised.”<a name="FnAnchor_2" id="FnAnchor_2" href="#Footnote_2"><span class="sp">2</span></a> It was little to be wondered at, from this +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page4"></a>4</span> +account, that the country-folk refused to go to the parish +church, and chose rather to listen to outed ministers in the +fields. But this was not to be allowed, and their persecutors +at last fell on the method of calling a roll of the parishioners’ +names every Sabbath, and marking a fine of twenty shillings +Scots to the name of each absenter. In this way very large +debts were incurred by persons altogether unable to pay. +Besides this, landlords were fined for their tenants’ +absences, tenants for their landlords’, masters for their +servants’, servants for their masters’, even though they +themselves were perfectly regular in their attendance. +And as the curates were allowed to fine with the +sanction of any common soldier, it may be imagined +that often the pretexts were neither very sufficient nor +well proven.</p> + +<p>When the fines could not be paid at once, Bibles, clothes, +and household utensils were seized upon, or a number of +soldiers, proportionate to his wealth, were quartered on the +offender. The coarse and drunken privates filled the +houses with woe; snatched the bread from the children +to feed their dogs; shocked the principles, scorned the +scruples, and blasphemed the religion of their humble +hosts; and when they had reduced them to destitution, +sold the furniture, and burned down the roof-tree which +was consecrated to the peasants by the name of Home. +For all this attention each of these soldiers received from +his unwilling landlord a certain sum of money per day—three +shillings sterling, according to <i>Naphtali.</i> And +frequently they were forced to pay quartering money for +more men than were in reality “cessed on them.” At that +time it was no strange thing to behold a strong man begging +for money to pay his fines, and many others who were deep +in arrears, or who had attracted attention in some other +way, were forced to flee from their homes, and take refuge +from arrest and imprisonment among the wild mosses of +the uplands.<a name="FnAnchor_3" id="FnAnchor_3" href="#Footnote_3"><span class="sp">3</span></a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page5"></a>5</span></p> + +<p>One example in particular we may cite:</p> + +<p>John Neilson, the Laird of Corsack, a worthy man, was, +unfortunately for himself, a Nonconformist. First he was +fined in four hundred pounds Scots, and then through +cessing he lost nineteen hundred and ninety-three pounds +Scots. He was next obliged to leave his house and flee +from place to place, during which wanderings he lost his +horse. His wife and children were turned out of doors, +and then his tenants were fined till they too were almost +ruined. As a final stroke, they drove away all his cattle +to Glasgow and sold them.<a name="FnAnchor_4" id="FnAnchor_4" href="#Footnote_4"><span class="sp">4</span></a> Surely it was time that +something were done to alleviate so much sorrow, to +overthrow such tyranny.</p> + +<p>About this time too there arrived in Galloway a person +calling himself Captain Andrew Gray, and advising the +people to revolt. He displayed some documents purporting +to be from the northern Covenanters, and stating that they +were prepared to join in any enterprise commenced by their +southern brethren. The leader of the persecutors was Sir +James Turner, an officer afterwards degraded for his share +in the matter. “He was naturally fierce, but was mad +when he was drunk, and that was very often,” said Bishop +Burnet. “He was a learned man, but had always been +in armies, and knew no other rule but to obey orders. He +told me he had no regard to any law, but acted, as he was +commanded, in a military way.”<a name="FnAnchor_5" id="FnAnchor_5" href="#Footnote_5"><span class="sp">5</span></a></p> + +<p>This was the state of matters, when an outrage was +committed which gave spirit and determination to the +oppressed countrymen, lit the flame of insubordination, +and for the time at least recoiled on those who perpetrated +it with redoubled force.</p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1" href="#FnAnchor_1"><span class="fn">1</span></a> “Theater of Mortality,” p. 10; Edin. 1713.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_2" id="Footnote_2" href="#FnAnchor_2"><span class="fn">2</span></a> “History of My Own Times,” beginning 1660, by Bishop Gilbert +Burnet, p. 158.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_3" id="Footnote_3" href="#FnAnchor_3"><span class="fn">3</span></a> Wodrow’s “Church History,” Book II. chap. i. sect. 1.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_4" id="Footnote_4" href="#FnAnchor_4"><span class="fn">4</span></a> Crookshank’s “Church History,” 1751, second ed. p. 202.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_5" id="Footnote_5" href="#FnAnchor_5"><span class="fn">5</span></a> Burnet, p. 348.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page6"></a>6</span></p> +<h5>II</h5> + +<h3>THE BEGINNING</h3> + + +<table class="nobctr f90" width="70%" summary="Contents"> + +<tr> <td class="tc3">I love no warres,</td> + <td class="tc3">If it must be</td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3">I love no jarres,</td> + <td class="tc3">Warre we must see</td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3" style="padding-left: 2em;"> Nor strife’s fire.</td> + <td class="tc3" style="padding-left: 2em;"> (So fates conspire),</td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3">May discord cease,</td> + <td class="tc3">May we not feel</td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3">Let’s live in peace:</td> + <td class="tc3">The force of steel:</td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3" style="padding-left: 2em;"> This I desire.</td> + <td class="tc3" style="padding-left: 2em;"> This I desire.</td> </tr> + +<tr> <td class="tc3"> </td> + <td class="tc3" style="padding-left: 4em;"><span class="sc">T. Jackson</span>, 1651.<a name="FnAnchor_6" id="FnAnchor_6" href="#Footnote_6"><span class="sp">6</span></a></td> </tr> +</table> + +<p> </p> +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Upon</span> Tuesday, November 13th, 1666, Corporal George +Deanes and three other soldiers set upon an old man in +the clachan of Dairy and demanded the payment of his +fines. On the old man’s refusing to pay, they forced a large +party of his neighbours to go with them and thresh his corn. +The field was a certain distance out of the clachan, and four +persons, disguised as countrymen, who had been out on +the moors all night, met this mournful drove of slaves, +compelled by the four soldiers to work for the ruin of their +friend. However, chilled to the bone by their night on +the hills, and worn out by want of food, they proceeded +to the village inn to refresh themselves. Suddenly some +people rushed into the room where they were sitting, and +told them that the soldiers were about to roast the old +man, naked, on his own girdle. This was too much for +them to stand, and they repaired immediately to the scene +of this gross outrage, and at first merely requested that +the captive should be released. On the refusal of the two +soldiers who were in the front room, high words were given +and taken on both sides, and the other two rushed forth +from an adjoining chamber and made at the countrymen +with drawn swords. One of the latter, John M’Lellan of +Barscob, drew a pistol and shot the corporal in the body. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page7"></a>7</span> +The pieces of tobacco-pipe with which it was loaded, to the +number of ten at least, entered him, and he was so much +disturbed that he never appears to have recovered, for we +find long afterwards a petition to the Privy Council requesting +a pension for him. The other soldiers then laid +down their arms, the old man was rescued, and the rebellion +was commenced.<a name="FnAnchor_7" id="FnAnchor_7" href="#Footnote_7"><span class="sp">7</span></a></p> + +<p>And now we must turn to Sir James Turner’s memoirs +of himself; for, strange to say, this extraordinary man was +remarkably fond of literary composition, and wrote, besides +the amusing account of his own adventures just mentioned, +a large number of essays and short biographies, and a work +on war, entitled “Pallas Armata.” The following are some +of the shorter pieces: “Magick,” “Friendship,” “Imprisonment,” +“Anger,” “Revenge,” “Duells,” “Cruelty,” +“A Defence of some of the Ceremonies of the English +Liturgie—to wit—Bowing at the Name of Jesus, The +frequent repetition of the Lord’s Prayer and Good Lord +deliver us, Of the Doxologie, Of Surplesses, Rotchets, +Cannonicall Coats,” etc. From what we know of his +character we should expect “Anger” and “Cruelty” to +be very full and instructive. But what earthly right he +had to meddle with ecclesiastical subjects it is hard to see.</p> + +<p>Upon the 12th of the month he had received some information +concerning Gray’s proceedings, but as it was +excessively indefinite in its character, he paid no attention +to it. On the evening of the 14th, Corporal Deanes was +brought into Dumfries, who affirmed stoutly that he had +been shot while refusing to sign the Covenant—a story +rendered singularly unlikely by the after conduct of the +rebels. Sir James instantly despatched orders to the +cessed soldiers either to come to Dumfries or meet him +on the way to Dairy, and commanded the thirteen or +fourteen men in the town with him to come at nine next +morning to his lodging for supplies.</p> + +<p>On the morning of Thursday the rebels arrived at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page8"></a>8</span> +Dumfries with 50 horse and 150 foot. Neilson of Corsack, +and Gray, who commanded, with a considerable troop, +entered the town, and surrounded Sir James Turner’s +lodging. Though it was between eight and nine o’clock, +that worthy, being unwell, was still in bed, but rose at +once and went to the window.</p> + +<p>Neilson and some others cried, “You may have fair +quarter.”</p> + +<p>“I need no quarter,” replied Sir James; “nor can I +be a prisoner, seeing there is no war declared.” On being +told, however, that he must either be a prisoner or die, he +came down, and went into the street in his night-shirt. +Here Gray showed himself very desirous of killing him, but +he was overruled by Corsack. However, he was taken +away a prisoner, Captain Gray mounting him on his own +horse, though, as Turner naïvely remarks, “there was good +reason for it, for he mounted himself on a farre better one +of mine.” A large coffer containing his clothes and money, +together with all his papers, were taken away by the rebels. +They robbed Master Chalmers, the Episcopalian minister +of Dumfries, of his horse, drank the King’s health at the +market cross, and then left Dumfries.<a name="FnAnchor_8" id="FnAnchor_8" href="#Footnote_8"><span class="sp">8</span></a></p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_6" id="Footnote_6" href="#FnAnchor_6"><span class="fn">6</span></a> Fuller’s “Historie of the Holy Warre,” fourth ed. 1651.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_7" id="Footnote_7" href="#FnAnchor_7"><span class="fn">7</span></a> Wodrow, vol. ii. p. 17.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_8" id="Footnote_8" href="#FnAnchor_8"><span class="fn">8</span></a> Sir J. Turner’s “Memoirs,” pp. 148-50.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>III</h5> + +<h3>THE MARCH OF THE REBELS</h3> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Stay, passenger, take notice what thou reads,</p> +<p class="i05">At Edinburgh lie our bodies, here our heads;</p> +<p class="i05">Our right hands stood at Lanark, these we want,</p> +<p class="i05">Because with them we signed the Covenant.”</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 7em;"><i>Epitaph on a Tombstone at Hamilton.</i><a name="FnAnchor_9" id="FnAnchor_9" href="#Footnote_9"><span class="sp">9</span></a></p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p> </p> +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">On</span> Friday the 16th, Bailie Irvine of Dumfries came to the +Council at Edinburgh, and gave information concerning +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page9"></a>9</span> +this “horrid rebellion.” In the absence of Rothes, Sharpe +presided—much to the wrath of some members; and as he +imagined his own safety endangered, his measures were +most energetic. Dalzell was ordered away to the West, the +guards round the city were doubled, officers and soldiers +were forced to take the oath of allegiance, and all lodgers +were commanded to give in their names. Sharpe, surrounded +with all these guards and precautions, trembled—trembled +as he trembled when the avengers of blood drew +him from his chariot on Magus Muir,—for he knew how he +had sold his trust, how he had betrayed his charge, and he +felt that against him must their chiefest hatred be directed, +against him their direst thunderbolts be forged. But even +in his fear the apostate Presbyterian was unrelenting, unpityingly +harsh; he published in his manifesto no promise +of pardon, no inducement to submission. He said, “If +you submit not you must die,” but never added, “If you +submit you may live!”<a name="FnAnchor_10" id="FnAnchor_10" href="#Footnote_10"><span class="sp">10</span></a></p> + +<p>Meantime the insurgents proceeded on their way. At +Carsphairn they were deserted by Captain Gray, who, +doubtless in a fit of oblivion, neglected to leave behind him +the coffer containing Sir James’s money. Who he was is +a mystery, unsolved by any historian; his papers were +evidently forgeries—that, and his final flight, appear to +indicate that he was an agent of the Royalists, for either +the King or the Duke of York was heard to say, “That, +if he might have his wish, he would have them all turn +rebels and go to arms.”<a name="FnAnchor_11" id="FnAnchor_11" href="#Footnote_11"><span class="sp">11</span></a></p> + +<p>Upon the 18th day of the month they left Carsphairn +and marched onwards.</p> + +<p>Turner was always lodged by his captors at a good inn, +frequently at the best of which their halting-place could +boast. Here many visits were paid to him by the ministers +and officers of the insurgent force. In his description of +these interviews he displays a vein of satiric severity, +admitting any kindness that was done to him with some +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page10"></a>10</span> +qualifying souvenir of former harshness, and gloating over +any injury, mistake, or folly, which it was his chance +to suffer or to hear. He appears, notwithstanding all +this, to have been on pretty good terms with his cruel +“phanaticks,” as the following extract sufficiently proves:</p> + +<p>“Most of the foot were lodged about the church or +churchyard, and order given to ring bells next morning for +a sermon to be preached by Mr. Welch. Maxwell of Morith, +and Major M’Cullough invited me to heare ‘that phanatick +sermon’ (for soe they merrilie called it). They said that +preaching might prove an effectual meane to turne me, +which they heartilie wished. I answered to them that I +was under guards, and that if they intended to heare that +sermon, it was probable I might likewise, for it was not like +my guards wold goe to church and leave me alone at my +lodgeings. Bot to what they said of my conversion, I said +it wold be hard to turne a Turner. Bot because I founde +them in a merrie humour, I said, if I did not come to heare +Mr. Welch preach, then they might fine me in fortie shillings +Scots, which was double the suome of what I had exacted +from the phanatics.”<a name="FnAnchor_12" id="FnAnchor_12" href="#Footnote_12"><span class="sp">12</span></a></p> + +<p>This took place at Ochiltree, on the 22nd day of the +month. The following is recounted by this personage with +malicious glee, and certainly, if authentic, it is a sad proof +of how chaff is mixed with wheat, and how ignorant, almost +impious, persons were engaged in this movement; nevertheless +we give it, for we wish to present with impartiality +all the alleged facts to the reader:</p> + +<p>“Towards the evening Mr. Robinsone and Mr. Crukshank +gaue me a visite; I called for some ale purposelie to +heare one of them blesse it. It fell Mr. Robinsone to seeke +the blessing, who said one of the most bombastick graces +that ever I heard in my life. He summoned God Almightie +very imperiouslie to be their secondarie (for that was his +language). ‘And if,’ said he, ‘thou wilt not be our +Secondarie, we will not fight for thee at all, for it is not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page11"></a>11</span> +our cause bot thy cause; and if thou wilt not fight for our +cause and thy oune cause, then we are not obliged to fight +for it. They say,’ said he, ‘that Dukes, Earles, and Lords +are coming with the King’s General against us, bot they +shall be nothing bot a threshing to us.’ This grace did +more fullie satisfie me of the folly and injustice of their +cause, then the ale did quench my thirst.”<a name="FnAnchor_13" id="FnAnchor_13" href="#Footnote_13"><span class="sp">13</span></a></p> + +<p>Frequently the rebels made a halt near some roadside +alehouse, or in some convenient park, where Colonel Wallace, +who had now taken the command, would review the horse +and foot, during which time Turner was sent either into +the alehouse or round the shoulder of the hill, to prevent +him from seeing the disorders which were likely to arise. +He was, at last, on the 25th day of the month, between +Douglas and Lanark, permitted to behold their evolutions. +“I found their horse did consist of four hundreth and fortie, +and the foot of five hundreth and upwards.... The +horsemen were armed for most part with suord and pistoll, +some onlie with suord. The foot with musket, pike, sith +(scythe), forke, and suord; and some with suords great +and long.” He admired much the proficiency of their +cavalry, and marvelled how they had attained to it in so +short a time.<a name="FnAnchor_14" id="FnAnchor_14" href="#Footnote_14"><span class="sp">14</span></a></p> + +<p>At Douglas, which they had just left on the morning of +this great wapinshaw, they were charged—awful picture +of depravity!—with the theft of a silver spoon and a nightgown. +Could it be expected that while the whole country +swarmed with robbers of every description, such a rare +opportunity for plunder should be lost by rogues—that +among a thousand men, even though fighting for religion, +there should not be one Achan in the camp? At Lanark a +declaration was drawn up and signed by the chief rebels. +In it occurs the following:</p> + +<p>“The just sense whereof”—the sufferings of the +country—“made us choose, rather to betake ourselves to +the fields for self-defence, than to stay at home, burdened +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page12"></a>12</span> +daily with the calamities of others, and tortured with the +fears of our own approaching misery.”<a name="FnAnchor_15" id="FnAnchor_15" href="#Footnote_15"><span class="sp">15</span></a></p> + +<p>The whole body, too, swore the Covenant, to which ceremony +the epitaph at the head of this chapter seems to refer.</p> + +<p>A report that Dalzell was approaching drove them from +Lanark to Bathgate, where, on the evening of Monday the +26th, the wearied army stopped. But at twelve o’clock +the cry, which served them for a trumpet, of “Horse! +horse!” and “Mount the prisoner!” resounded through +the night-shrouded town, and called the peasants from +their well-earned rest to toil onwards in their march. The +wind howled fiercely over the moorland; a close, thick, +wetting rain descended. Chilled to the bone, worn out +with long fatigue, sinking to the knees in mire, onward +they marched to destruction. One by one the weary +peasants fell off from their ranks to sleep, and die in the +rain-soaked moor, or to seek some house by the wayside +wherein to hide till daybreak. One by one at first, then +in gradually increasing numbers, at every shelter that was +seen, whole troops left the waning squadrons, and rushed +to hide themselves from the ferocity of the tempest. To +right and left nought could be descried but the broad +expanse of the moor, and the figures of their fellow-rebels +seen dimly through the murky night, plodding onwards +through the sinking moss. Those who kept together—a +miserable few—often halted to rest themselves, and to +allow their lagging comrades to overtake them. Then +onward they went again, still hoping for assistance, reinforcement, +and supplies; onward again, through the +wind, and the rain, and the darkness—onward to their +defeat at Pentland, and their scaffold at Edinburgh. It +was calculated that they lost one half of their army on +that disastrous night-march.</p> + +<p>Next night they reached the village of Colinton, four +miles from Edinburgh, where they halted for the last time.<a name="FnAnchor_16" id="FnAnchor_16" href="#Footnote_16"><span class="sp">16</span></a></p> + + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_9" id="Footnote_9" href="#FnAnchor_9"><span class="fn">9</span></a> “A Cloud of Witnesses,” p. 376.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_10" id="Footnote_10" href="#FnAnchor_10"><span class="fn">10</span></a> Wodrow, pp. 19, 20.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_11" id="Footnote_11" href="#FnAnchor_11"><span class="fn">11</span></a> “A Hind Let Loose,” p. 123.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_12" id="Footnote_12" href="#FnAnchor_12"><span class="fn">12</span></a> Turner, p. 163.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_13" id="Footnote_13" href="#FnAnchor_13"><span class="fn">13</span></a> Turner, p. 198.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_14" id="Footnote_14" href="#FnAnchor_14"><span class="fn">14</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 167.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_15" id="Footnote_15" href="#FnAnchor_15"><span class="fn">15</span></a> Wodrow, p. 29.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_16" id="Footnote_16" href="#FnAnchor_16"><span class="fn">16</span></a> Turner, Wodrow, and “Church History” by James Kirkton, an +outed minister of the period.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page13"></a>13</span></p> +<h5>IV</h5> + +<h3>RULLION GREEN</h3> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“From Covenanters with uplifted hands,</p> +<p class="i05">From Remonstrators with associate bands,</p> +<p class="i3">Good Lord, deliver us!”</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 8em;"><i>Royalist Rhyme</i>, <span class="sc">Kirkton,</span> p. 127.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Late</span> on the fourth night of November, exactly twenty-four +days before Rullion Green, Richard and George Chaplain, +merchants in Haddington, beheld four men, clad like West-country +Whigamores, standing round some object on the +ground. It was at the two-mile cross, and within that +distance from their homes. At last, to their horror, they +discovered that the recumbent figure was a livid corpse, +swathed in a blood-stained winding-sheet.<a name="FnAnchor_17" id="FnAnchor_17" href="#Footnote_17"><span class="sp">17</span></a> Many thought +that this apparition was a portent of the deaths connected +with the Pentland Rising.</p> + +<p>On the morning of Wednesday, the 28th of November +1666, they left Colinton and marched to Rullion Green. +There they arrived about sunset. The position was a +strong one. On the summit of a bare, heathery spur of +the Pentlands are two hillocks, and between them lies a +narrow band of flat marshy ground. On the highest of +the two mounds—that nearest the Pentlands, and on the +left hand of the main body—was the greater part of the +cavalry, under Major Learmont; on the other Barscob and +the Galloway gentlemen; and in the centre Colonel Wallace +and the weak, half-armed infantry. Their position was +further strengthened by the depth of the valley below, and +the deep chasm-like course of the Rullion Burn.</p> + +<p>The sun, going down behind the Pentlands, cast golden +lights and blue shadows on their snow-clad summits, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page14"></a>14</span> +slanted obliquely into the rich plain before them, bathing +with rosy splendour the leafless, snow-sprinkled trees, and +fading gradually into shadow in the distance. To the +south, too, they beheld a deep-shaded amphitheatre of +heather and bracken; the course of the Esk, near Penicuik, +winding about at the foot of its gorge; the broad, brown +expanse of Maw Moss; and, fading into blue indistinctness +in the south, the wild heath-clad Peeblesshire hills. In sooth, +that scene was fair, and many a yearning glance was cast +over that peaceful evening scene from the spot where the +rebels awaited their defeat; and when the fight was over, +many a noble fellow lifted his head from the blood-stained +heather to strive with darkening eyeballs to behold that +landscape, over which, as over his life and his cause, the +shadows of night and of gloom were falling and thickening.</p> + +<p>It was while waiting on this spot that the fear-inspiring +cry was raised: “The enemy! Here come the enemy!”</p> + +<p>Unwilling to believe their own doom—for our insurgents +still hoped for success in some negotiations for peace which +had been carried on at Colinton—they called out, “They +are some of our own.”</p> + +<p>“They are too blacke” (<i>i.e.</i> numerous), “fie! fie! for +ground to draw up on,” cried Wallace, fully realising the +want of space for his men, and proving that it was not till +after this time that his forces were finally arranged.<a name="FnAnchor_18" id="FnAnchor_18" href="#Footnote_18"><span class="sp">18</span></a></p> + +<p>First of all the battle was commenced by fifty Royalist +horse sent obliquely across the hill to attack the left wing +of the rebels. An equal number of Learmont’s men met +them, and, after a struggle, drove them back. The course +of the Rullion Burn prevented almost all pursuit, and +Wallace, on perceiving it, despatched a body of foot to +occupy both the burn and some ruined sheep walls on the +farther side.</p> + +<p>Dalzell changed his position, and drew up his army at +the foot of the hill, on the top of which were his foes. He +then despatched a mingled body of infantry and cavalry +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page15"></a>15</span> +to attack Wallace’s outpost, but they also were driven +back. A third charge produced a still more disastrous +effect, for Dalzell had to check the pursuit of his men by +a reinforcement.</p> + +<p>These repeated checks bred a panic in the Lieutenant-General’s +ranks, for several of his men flung down their +arms. Urged by such fatal symptoms, and by the approaching +night, he deployed his men, and closed in overwhelming +numbers on the centre and right flank of the insurgent +army. In the increasing twilight the burning matches of +the firelocks, shimmering on barrel, halbert, and cuirass, +lent to the approaching army a picturesque effect, like a +huge, many-armed giant breathing flame into the darkness.</p> + +<p>Placed on an overhanging hill, Welch and Semple cried +aloud, “The God of Jacob! The God of Jacob!” and +prayed with uplifted hands for victory.<a name="FnAnchor_19" id="FnAnchor_19" href="#Footnote_19"><span class="sp">19</span></a></p> + +<p>But still the Royalist troops closed in.</p> + +<p>Captain John Paton was observed by Dalzell, who determined +to capture him with his own hands. Accordingly +he charged forward, presenting his pistols. Paton fired, +but the balls hopped off Dalzell’s buff coat and fell into +his boot. With the superstition peculiar to his age, the +Nonconformist concluded that his adversary was rendered +bullet-proof by enchantment, and, pulling some small silver +coins from his pocket, charged his pistol therewith. Dalzell, +seeing this, and supposing, it is likely, that Paton was +putting in larger balls, hid behind his servant, who was +killed.<a name="FnAnchor_20" id="FnAnchor_20" href="#Footnote_20"><span class="sp">20</span></a></p> + +<p>Meantime the outposts were forced, and the army of +Wallace was enveloped in the embrace of a hideous boa-constrictor—tightening, +closing, crushing every semblance +of life from the victim enclosed in his toils. The flanking +parties of horse were forced in upon the centre, and though, +as even Turner grants, they fought with desperation, a +general flight was the result.</p> + +<p>But when they fell there was none to sing their coronach +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page16"></a>16</span> +or wail the death-wail over them. Those who sacrificed +themselves for the peace, the liberty, and the religion of their +fellow-countrymen, lay bleaching in the field of death for +long, and when at last they were buried by charity, the +peasants dug up their bodies, desecrated their graves, and +cast them once more upon the open heath for the sorry +value of their winding-sheets!</p> + +<p> </p> +<p class="center f90"><i>Inscription on stone at Rullion Green</i></p> + + <p class="center scs">HERE<br /> + AND NEAR TO<br /> + THIS PLACE LYES THE</p> +<p class="noind scs" style="margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 25%;"> + REVEREND M<span class="sp">R</span> JOHN CROOKSHANK + AND M<span class="sp">R</span> ANDREW M<span class="sp">C</span>CORMICK + MINISTERS OF THE GOSPEL AND + ABOUT FIFTY OTHER TRUE COVENANTED + PRESBYTERIANS WHO WERE + KILLED IN THIS PLACE IN THEIR OWN + INOCENT SELF DEFENCE AND DEFFENCE + OF THE COVENANTED + WORK OF REFORMATION BY + THOMAS DALZEEL OF BINS + UPON THE 28 OF NOVEMBER + 1666. REV. 12. 11. ERECTED + SEPT. 28 1738.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p class="center f90"><i>Back of stone</i>:</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>A Cloud of Witnesses lyes here,</p> +<p>Who for Christ’s Interest did appear,</p> +<p>For to restore true Liberty,</p> +<p>O’erturned then by tyranny.</p> +<p>And by proud Prelats who did Rage</p> +<p>Against the Lord’s own heritage.</p> +<p>They sacrificed were for the laws</p> +<p>Of Christ their king, his noble cause.</p> +<p>These heroes fought with great renown</p> +<p>By falling got the Martyr’s crown.<a name="FnAnchor_21" id="FnAnchor_21" href="#Footnote_21"><span class="sp">21</span></a></p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_17" id="Footnote_17" href="#FnAnchor_17"><span class="fn">17</span></a> Kirkton, p. 244.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_18" id="Footnote_18" href="#FnAnchor_18"><span class="fn">18</span></a> Kirkton.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_19" id="Footnote_19" href="#FnAnchor_19"><span class="fn">19</span></a> Turner.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_20" id="Footnote_20" href="#FnAnchor_20"><span class="fn">20</span></a> Kirkton.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_21" id="Footnote_21" href="#FnAnchor_21"><span class="fn">21</span></a> Kirkton.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page17"></a>17</span></p> +<h5>V</h5> + +<h3>A RECORD OF BLOOD</h3> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“They cut his hands ere he was dead,</p> +<p class="i05">And after that struck off his head.</p> +<p class="i05">His blood under the altar cries</p> +<p class="i05">For vengeance on Christ’s enemies.”</p> + +<p class="i4"><i>Epitaph on Tomb at Longcross of Clermont.</i><a name="FnAnchor_22" id="FnAnchor_22" href="#Footnote_22"><span class="sp">22</span></a></p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Master Andrew Murray</span>, an outed minister, residing in +the Potterrow, on the morning after the defeat, heard the +sounds of cheering and the march of many feet beneath his +window. He gazed out. With colours flying, and with +music sounding, Dalzell, victorious, entered Edinburgh. +But his banners were dyed in blood, and a band of prisoners +were marched within his ranks. The old man knew it all. +That martial and triumphant strain was the death-knell +of his friends and of their cause, the rust-hued spots upon +the flags were the tokens of their courage and their death, +and the prisoners were the miserable remnant spared from +death in battle to die upon the scaffold. Poor old man! +he had outlived all joy. Had he lived longer he would have +seen increasing torment and increasing woe; he would +have seen the clouds, then but gathering in mist, cast a +more than midnight darkness over his native hills, and +have fallen a victim to those bloody persecutions which, +later, sent their red memorials to the sea by many a burn. +By a merciful Providence all this was spared to him—he +fell beneath the first blow; and ere four days had passed +since Rullion Green, the aged minister of God was gathered +to his fathers.<a name="FnAnchor_23" id="FnAnchor_23" href="#Footnote_23"><span class="sp">23</span></a></p> + +<p>When Sharpe first heard of the rebellion, he applied to +Sir Alexander Ramsay, the Provost, for soldiers to guard +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page18"></a>18</span> +his house. Disliking their occupation, the soldiers gave +him an ugly time of it. All the night through they kept +up a continuous series of “alarms and incursions,” “cries +of ‘Stand!’ ‘Give fire!’” etc., which forced the prelate +to flee to the Castle in the morning, hoping there to find +the rest which was denied him at home.<a name="FnAnchor_24" id="FnAnchor_24" href="#Footnote_24"><span class="sp">24</span></a> Now, however, +when all danger to himself was past, Sharpe came out in +his true colours, and scant was the justice likely to be +shown to the foes of Scottish Episcopacy when the Primate +was by. The prisoners were lodged in Haddo’s Hole, a +part of St. Giles’ Cathedral, where, by the kindness of +Bishop Wishart, to his credit be it spoken, they were amply +supplied with food.<a name="FnAnchor_25" id="FnAnchor_25" href="#Footnote_25"><span class="sp">25</span></a></p> + +<p>Some people urged, in the Council, that the promise of +quarter which had been given on the field of battle should +protect the lives of the miserable men. Sir John Gilmoure, +the greatest lawyer, gave no opinion—certainly a suggestive +circumstance,—but Lord Lee declared that this would not +interfere with their legal trial; “so to bloody executions +they went.”<a name="FnAnchor_26" id="FnAnchor_26" href="#Footnote_26"><span class="sp">26</span></a> To the number of thirty they were condemned +and executed; while two of them, Hugh M’Kail, +a young minister, and Neilson of Corsack, were tortured +with the boots.</p> + +<p>The goods of those who perished were confiscated, and +their bodies were dismembered and distributed to different +parts of the country; “the heads of Major M’Culloch and +the two Gordons,” it was resolved, says Kirkton, “should +be pitched on the gate of Kirkcudbright; the two Hamiltons +and Strong’s head should be affixed at Hamilton, and Captain +Arnot’s sett on the Watter Gate at Edinburgh. The +armes of all the ten, because they hade with uplifted hands +renewed the Covenant at Lanark, were sent to the people +of that town to expiate that crime, by placing these arms +on the top of the prison.”<a name="FnAnchor_27" id="FnAnchor_27" href="#Footnote_27"><span class="sp">27</span></a> Among these was John Neilson, +the Laird of Corsack, who saved Turner’s life at Dumfries; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page19"></a>19</span> +in return for which service Sir James attempted, though +without success, to get the poor man reprieved. One of +the condemned died of his wounds between the day of condemnation +and the day of execution. “None of them,” +says Kirkton, “would save their life by taking the declaration +and renouncing the Covenant, though it was offered +to them.... But never men died in Scotland so much +lamented by the people, not only spectators, but those in +the country. When Knockbreck and his brother were +turned over, they clasped each other in their armes, and so +endured the pangs of death. When Humphrey Colquhoun +died, he spoke not like an ordinary citizen, but like a +heavenly minister, relating his comfortable Christian experiences, +and called for his Bible, and laid it on his wounded +arm, and read John iii. 8, and spoke upon it to the admiration +of all. But most of all, when Mr. M’Kail died, there +was such a lamentation as was never known in Scotland +before; not one dry cheek upon all the street, or in all +the numberless windows in the mercate place.” <a name="FnAnchor_28" id="FnAnchor_28" href="#Footnote_28"><span class="sp">28</span></a></p> + +<p>The following passage from this speech speaks for itself +and its author:</p> + +<p>“Hereafter I will not talk with flesh and blood, nor +think on the world’s consolations. Farewell to all my +friends, whose company hath been refreshful to me in my +pilgrimage. I have done with the light of the sun and the +moon; welcome eternal light, eternal life, everlasting love, +everlasting praise, everlasting glory. Praise to Him that +sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb for ever! Bless the +Lord, O my soul, that hath pardoned all my iniquities in +the blood of His Son, and healed all my diseases. Bless +Him, O all ye His angels that excel in strength, ye ministers +of His that do His pleasure. Bless the Lord, O my soul!” <a name="FnAnchor_29" id="FnAnchor_29" href="#Footnote_29"><span class="sp">29</span></a></p> + +<p>After having ascended the gallows ladder he again +broke forth in the following words of touching eloquence:</p> + +<p>“And now I leave off to speak any more to creatures, +and begin my intercourse with God, which shall never be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page20"></a>20</span> +broken off. Farewell father and mother, friends and relations! +Farewell the world and all delights! Farewell +meat and drink! Farewell sun, moon, and stars!—Welcome +God and Father! Welcome sweet Jesus Christ, the +Mediator of the new covenant! Welcome blessed Spirit +of grace and God of all consolation! Welcome glory! +Welcome eternal life! Welcome Death!”<a name="FnAnchor_30" id="FnAnchor_30" href="#Footnote_30"><span class="sp">30</span></a></p> + +<p>At Glasgow too, where some were executed, they +caused the soldiers to beat the drums and blow the trumpets +on their closing ears. Hideous refinement of revenge! +Even the last words which drop from the lips of a dying +man—words surely the most sincere and the most unbiassed +which mortal mouth can utter—even these were looked +upon as poisoned and as poisonous. “Drown their last +accents,” was the cry, “lest they should lead the crowd to +take their part, or at the least to mourn their doom!”<a name="FnAnchor_31" id="FnAnchor_31" href="#Footnote_31"><span class="sp">31</span></a> +But, after all, perhaps it was more merciful than one would +think—unintentionally so, of course; perhaps the storm +of harsh and fiercely jubilant noises, the clanging of trumpets, +the rattling of drums, and the hootings and jeerings of +an unfeeling mob, which were the last they heard on earth, +might, when the mortal fight was over, when the river of +death was passed, add tenfold sweetness to the hymning of +the angels, tenfold peacefulness to the shores which they +had reached.</p> + +<p>Not content with the cruelty of these executions, some +even of the peasantry, though these were confined to the +shire of Mid-Lothian, pursued, captured, plundered, and +murdered the miserable fugitives who fell in their way. +One strange story have we of these times of blood and persecution: +Kirkton the historian and popular tradition tell +us alike of a flame which often would arise from the grave, +in a moss near Carnwath, of some of those poor rebels: +of how it crept along the ground; of how it covered the +house of their murderer; and of how it scared him with +its lurid glare. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page21"></a>21</span></p> + +<p>Hear Daniel Defoe:<a name="FnAnchor_32" id="FnAnchor_32" href="#Footnote_32"><span class="sp">32</span></a></p> + +<p>“If the poor people were by these insupportable violences +made desperate, and driven to all the extremities of +a wild despair, who can justly reflect on them when they +read in the Word of God ‘That oppression makes a wise +man mad’? And therefore were there no other original +of the insurrection known by the name of the Rising of +Pentland, it was nothing but what the intolerable oppressions +of those times might have justified to all the world, +nature having dictated to all people a right of defence +when illegally and arbitrarily attacked in a manner not +justifiable either by laws of nature, the laws of God, or the +laws of the country.”</p> + +<p>Bear this remonstrance of Defoe’s in mind, and though +it is the fashion of the day to jeer and to mock, to execrate +and to contemn, the noble band of Covenanters,—though +the bitter laugh at their old-world religious views, the curl +of the lip at their merits, and the chilling silence on their +bravery and their determination, are but too rife through +all society,—be charitable to what was evil and honest to +what was good about the Pentland insurgents, who fought +for life and liberty, for country and religion, on the 28th +of November 1666, now just two hundred years ago.</p> + +<p class="f90 pt1"><span class="sc">Edinburgh</span>, 28<i>th November</i> 1866.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_22" id="Footnote_22" href="#FnAnchor_22"><span class="fn">22</span></a> “Cloud of Witnesses,” p. 389; Edin. 1765.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_23" id="Footnote_23" href="#FnAnchor_23"><span class="fn">23</span></a> Kirkton, p. 247.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_24" id="Footnote_24" href="#FnAnchor_24"><span class="fn">24</span></a> Kirkton, p. 254.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_25" id="Footnote_25" href="#FnAnchor_25"><span class="fn">25</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 247.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_26" id="Footnote_26" href="#FnAnchor_26"><span class="fn">26</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> pp. 247, 248.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_27" id="Footnote_27" href="#FnAnchor_27"><span class="fn">27</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 248.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_28" id="Footnote_28" href="#FnAnchor_28"><span class="fn">28</span></a> Kirkton, p. 249.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_29" id="Footnote_29" href="#FnAnchor_29"><span class="fn">29</span></a> “Naphtali,” p. 205; Glasgow, 1721.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_30" id="Footnote_30" href="#FnAnchor_30"><span class="fn">30</span></a> Wodrow, p. 59.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_31" id="Footnote_31" href="#FnAnchor_31"><span class="fn">31</span></a> Kirkton, p. 246.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_32" id="Footnote_32" href="#FnAnchor_32"><span class="fn">32</span></a> Defoe’s “History of the Church of Scotland.”</p> +</div> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page22"></a>22</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page23"></a>23</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>SKETCHES</h2> +<hr class="full" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page24"></a>24</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page25"></a>25</span></p> +<hr class="art" /> +<h2>SKETCHES</h2> + +<h5>I</h5> + +<h3>THE SATIRIST</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">My</span> companion enjoyed a cheap reputation for wit and insight. +He was by habit and repute a satirist. If he did +occasionally condemn anything or anybody who richly +deserved it, and whose demerits had hitherto escaped, it +was simply because he condemned everything and everybody. +While I was with him he disposed of St. Paul with +an epigram, shook my reverence for Shakespeare in a neat +antithesis, and fell foul of the Almighty Himself, on the +score of one or two out of the ten commandments. Nothing +escaped his blighting censure. At every sentence he overthrew +an idol, or lowered my estimation of a friend. I saw +everything with new eyes, and could only marvel at my +former blindness. How was it possible that I had not before +observed A’s false hair, B’s selfishness, or C’s boorish +manners? I and my companion, methought, walked the +streets like a couple of gods among a swarm of vermin; +for every one we saw seemed to bear openly upon his brow +the mark of the apocalyptic beast. I half expected that +these miserable beings, like the people of Lystra, would +recognise their betters and force us to the altar; in which +case, warned by the fate of Paul and Barnabas, I do not +know that my modesty would have prevailed upon me to +decline. But there was no need for such churlish virtue. +More blinded than the Lycaonians, the people saw no +divinity in our gait; and as our temporary godhead lay +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page26"></a>26</span> +more in the way of observing than healing their infirmities, +we were content to pass them by in scorn.</p> + +<p>I could not leave my companion, not from regard or +even from interest, but from a very natural feeling, inseparable +from the case. To understand it, let us take a +simile. Suppose yourself walking down the street with a +man who continues to sprinkle the crowd out of a flask of +vitriol. You would be much diverted with the grimaces +and contortions of his victims; and at the same time you +would fear to leave his arm until his bottle was empty, +knowing that, when once among the crowd, you would +run a good chance yourself of baptism with his biting liquor. +Now my companion’s vitriol was inexhaustible.</p> + +<p>It was perhaps the consciousness of this, the knowledge +that I was being anointed already out of the vials of his +wrath, that made me fall to criticising the critic, whenever +we had parted.</p> + +<p>After all, I thought, our satirist has just gone far enough +into his neighbours to find that the outside is false, without +caring to go farther and discover what is really true. He +is content to find that things are not what they seem, and +broadly generalises from it that they do not exist at all. +He sees our virtues are not what they pretend they are; +and, on the strength of that, he denies us the possession of +virtue altogether. He has learnt the first lesson, that no +man is wholly good; but he has not even suspected that +there is another equally true, to wit, that no man is wholly +bad. Like the inmate of a coloured star, he has eyes for +one colour alone. He has a keen scent after evil, but his +nostrils are plugged against all good, as people plugged +their nostrils before going about the streets of the plague-struck +city.</p> + +<p>Why does he do this? It is most unreasonable to flee +the knowledge of good like the infection of a horrible disease, +and batten and grow fat in the real atmosphere of a lazar-house. +This was my first thought; but my second was not +like unto it, and I saw that our satirist was wise, wise in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page27"></a>27</span> +his generation, like the unjust steward. He does not want +light, because the darkness is more pleasant. He does not +wish to see the good, because he is happier without it. +I recollect that when I walked with him, I was in a state +of divine exaltation, such as Adam and Eve must have +enjoyed when the savour of the fruit was still unfaded +between their lips; and I recognise that this must be the +man’s habitual state. He has the forbidden fruit in his +waistcoat pocket, and can make himself a god as often +and as long as he likes. He has raised himself upon a +glorious pedestal above his fellows; he has touched the +summit of ambition; and he envies neither King nor +Kaiser, Prophet nor Priest, content in an elevation as high +as theirs, and much more easily attained. Yes, certes, +much more easily attained. He has not risen by climbing +himself, but by pushing others down. He has grown +great in his own estimation, not by blowing himself out, +and risking the fate of Æsop’s frog, but simply by the +habitual use of a diminishing glass on everybody else. And +I think altogether that his is a better, a safer, and a surer +recipe than most others.</p> + +<p>After all, however, looking back on what I have written, +I detect a spirit suspiciously like his own. All through, I +have been comparing myself with our satirist, and all +through, I have had the best of the comparison. Well, +well, contagion is as often mental as physical; and I do +not think my readers, who have all been under his +lash, will blame me very much for giving the headsman +a mouthful of his own sawdust.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>II</h5> + +<h3>NUITS BLANCHES</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">If</span> any one should know the pleasure and pain of a sleepless +night, it should be I. I remember, so long ago, the sickly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page28"></a>28</span> +child that woke from his few hours’ slumber with the sweat +of a nightmare on his brow, to lie awake and listen and +long for the first signs of life among the silent streets. +These nights of pain and weariness are graven on my +mind; and so when the same thing happened to me again, +everything that I heard or saw was rather a recollection +than a discovery.</p> + +<p>Weighed upon by the opaque and almost sensible darkness, +I listened eagerly for anything to break the sepulchral +quiet. But nothing came, save, perhaps, an emphatic +crack from the old cabinet that was made by Deacon +Brodie, or the dry rustle of the coals on the extinguished +fire. It was a calm; or I know that I should have heard +in the roar and clatter of the storm, as I have not heard +it for so many years, the wild career of a horseman, always +scouring up from the distance and passing swiftly below +the window; yet always returning again from the place +whence first he came, as though, baffled by some higher +power, he had retraced his steps to gain impetus for +another and another attempt.</p> + +<p>As I lay there, there arose out of the utter stillness the +rumbling of a carriage a very great way off, that drew near, +and passed within a few streets of the house, and died +away as gradually as it had arisen. This, too, was as a +reminiscence.</p> + +<p>I rose and lifted a corner of the blind. Over the black +belt of the garden I saw the long line of Queen Street, with +here and there a lighted window. How often before had +my nurse lifted me out of bed and pointed them out to me, +while we wondered together if, there also, there were children +that could not sleep, and if these lighted oblongs were signs +of those that waited like us for the morning.</p> + +<p>I went out into the lobby, and looked down into the +great deep well of the staircase. For what cause I know +not, just as it used to be in the old days that the feverish +child might be the better served, a peep of gas illuminated a +narrow circle far below me. But where I was, all was darkness +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page29"></a>29</span> +and silence, save the dry monotonous ticking of the +clock that came ceaselessly up to my ear.</p> + +<p>The final crown of it all, however, the last touch of reproduction +on the pictures of my memory, was the arrival +of that time for which, all night through, I waited and +longed of old. It was my custom, as the hours dragged on, +to repeat the question, “When will the carts come in?” +and repeat it again and again until at last those sounds arose +in the street that I have heard once more this morning. +The road before our house is a great thoroughfare for early +carts. I know not, and I never have known, what they +carry, whence they come, or whither they go. But I +know that, long ere dawn, and for hours together, they +stream continuously past, with the same rolling and jerking +of wheels and the same clink of horses’ feet. It was not +for nothing that they made the burthen of my wishes all +night through. They are really the first throbbings of life, +the harbingers of day; and it pleases you as much to hear +them as it must please a shipwrecked seaman once again +to grasp a hand of flesh and blood after years of miserable +solitude. They have the freshness of the daylight life +about them. You can hear the carters cracking their +whips and crying hoarsely to their horses or to one another; +and sometimes even a peal of healthy, harsh horse-laughter +comes up to you through the darkness. There is now an +end of mystery and fear. Like the knocking at the door +in <i>Macbeth</i>,<a name="FnAnchor_33" id="FnAnchor_33" href="#Footnote_33"><span class="sp">33</span></a> or the cry of the watchman in the <i>Tour de +Nesle</i>, they show that the horrible cæsura is over and the +nightmares have fled away, because the day is breaking +and the ordinary life of men is beginning to bestir itself +among the streets.</p> + +<p>In the middle of it all I fell asleep, to be wakened by +the officious knocking at my door, and I find myself twelve +years older than I had dreamed myself all night.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_33" id="Footnote_33" href="#FnAnchor_33"><span class="fn">33</span></a> See a short essay of De Quincey’s.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page30"></a>30</span></p> +<h5>III</h5> + +<h3>THE WREATH OF IMMORTELLES</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">It</span> is all very well to talk of death as “a pleasant potion +of immortality”; but the most of us, I suspect, are of +“queasy stomachs,” and find it none of the sweetest.<a name="FnAnchor_34" id="FnAnchor_34" href="#Footnote_34"><span class="sp">34</span></a> The +graveyard may be cloak-room to Heaven; but we must +admit that it is a very ugly and offensive vestibule in itself, +however fair may be the life to which it leads. And though +Enoch and Elias went into the temple through a gate which +certainly may be called Beautiful, the rest of us have to +find our way to it through Ezekiel’s low-bowed door and +the vault full of creeping things and all manner of abominable +beasts. Nevertheless, there is a certain frame of +mind to which a cemetery is, if not an antidote, at least +an alleviation. If you are in a fit of the blues, go nowhere +else. It was in obedience to this wise regulation that the +other morning found me lighting my pipe at the entrance +to Old Greyfriars’, thoroughly sick of the town, the country, +and myself.</p> + +<p>Two of the men were talking at the gate, one of them +carrying a spade in hands still crusted with the soil of +graves. Their very aspect was delightful to me; and I +crept nearer to them, thinking to pick up some snatch of +sexton gossip, some “talk fit for a charnel,”<a name="FnAnchor_35" id="FnAnchor_35" href="#Footnote_35"><span class="sp">35</span></a> something, +in fine, worthy of that fastidious logician, that adept in +coroner’s law, who has come down to us as the patron of +Yaughan’s liquor, and the very prince of gravediggers. +Scots people in general are so much wrapped up in their +profession that I had a good chance of overhearing such +conversation: the talk of fishmongers running usually on +stockfish and haddocks; while of the Scots sexton I could +repeat stories and speeches that positively smell of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page31"></a>31</span> +graveyard. But on this occasion I was doomed to disappointment. +My two friends were far into the region of +generalities. Their profession was forgotten in their +electorship. Politics had engulfed the narrower economy +of gravedigging. “Na, na,” said the one, “ye’re a’ +wrang.” “The English and Irish Churches,” answered +the other, in a tone as if he had made the remark +before, and it had been called in question—“The +English and Irish Churches have <i>impoverished</i> the +country.”</p> + +<p>“Such are the results of education,” thought I as I +passed beside them and came fairly among the tombs. +Here, at least, there were no commonplace politics, no +diluted this-morning’s leader, to distract or offend me. +The old shabby church showed, as usual, its quaint extent +of roofage and the relievo skeleton on one gable, still +blackened with the fire of thirty years ago. A chill dank +mist lay over all. The Old Greyfriars’ churchyard was +in perfection that morning, and one could go round and +reckon up the associations with no fear of vulgar interruption. +On this stone the Covenant was signed. In that +vault, as the story goes, John Knox took hiding in some +Reformation broil. From that window Burke the murderer +looked out many a time across the tombs, and perhaps o’ +nights let himself down over the sill to rob some new-made +grave. Certainly he would have a selection here. The +very walks have been carried over forgotten resting-places; +and the whole ground is uneven, because (as I was once +quaintly told) “when the wood rots it stands to reason the +soil should fall in,” which, from the law of gravitation, is +certainly beyond denial. But it is round the boundary +that there are the finest tombs. The whole irregular space +is, as it were, fringed with quaint old monuments, rich in +death’s-heads and scythes and hour-glasses, and doubly +rich in pious epitaphs and Latin mottoes—rich in them +to such an extent that their proper space has run over, and +they have crawled end-long up the shafts of columns and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page32"></a>32</span> +ensconced themselves in all sorts of odd corners among +the sculpture. These tombs raise their backs against the +rabble of squalid dwelling-houses, and every here and there +a clothes-pole projects between two monuments its fluttering +trophy of white and yellow and red. With a grim +irony they recall the banners in the Invalides, banners as +appropriate perhaps over the sepulchres of tailors and +weavers as these others above the dust of armies. Why +they put things out to dry on that particular morning it +was hard to imagine. The grass was grey with drops of +rain, the headstones black with moisture. Yet, in despite +of weather and common-sense, there they hung between +the tombs; and beyond them I could see through open +windows into miserable rooms where whole families were +born and fed, and slept and died. At one a girl sat singing +merrily with her back to the graveyard; and from another +came the shrill tones of a scolding woman. Every here +and there was a town garden full of sickly flowers, or a pile +of crockery inside upon the window-seat. But you do not +grasp the full connection between these houses of the dead +and the living, the unnatural marriage of stately sepulchres +and squalid houses, till, lower down, where the road has +sunk far below the surface of the cemetery, and the very +roofs are scarcely on a level with its wall, you observe that +a proprietor has taken advantage of a tall monument and +trained a chimney-stack against its back. It startles you +to see the red, modern pots peering over the shoulder +of the tomb.</p> + +<p>A man was at work on a grave, his spade clinking away +the drift of bones that permeates the thin brown soil; but +my first disappointment had taught me to expect little +from Greyfriars’ sextons, and I passed him by in silence. +A slater on the slope of a neighbouring roof eyed me +curiously. A lean black cat, looking as if it had battened +on strange meats, slipped past me. A little boy at a +window put his finger to his nose in so offensive a manner +that I was put upon my dignity, and turned grandly off +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page33"></a>33</span> +to read old epitaphs and peer through the gratings into the +shadow of vaults.</p> + +<p>Just then I saw two women coming down a path, one +of them old, and the other younger, with a child in her arms. +Both had faces eaten with famine and hardened with sin, +and both had reached that stage of degradation, much +lower in a woman than a man, when all care for dress is +lost. As they came down they neared a grave, where some +pious friend or relative had laid a wreath of immortelles, +and put a bell glass over it, as is the custom. The effect +of that ring of dull yellow among so many blackened and +dusty sculptures was more pleasant than it is in modern +cemeteries, where every second mound can boast a similar +coronal; and here, where it was the exception and not the +rule, I could even fancy the drops of moisture that dimmed +the covering were the tears of those who laid it where it +was. As the two women came up to it, one of them kneeled +down on the wet grass and looked long and silently through +the clouded shade, while the second stood above her, gently +oscillating to and fro to lull the muling baby. I was +struck a great way off with something religious in the +attitude of these two unkempt and haggard women; and +I drew near faster, but still cautiously, to hear what they +were saying. Surely on them the spirit of death and decay +had descended; I had no education to dread here: should +I not have a chance of seeing nature? Alas! a pawnbroker +could not have been more practical and commonplace, +for this was what the kneeling woman said to the +woman upright—this and nothing more: “Eh, what extravagance!”</p> + +<p>O nineteenth century, wonderful art thou indeed—wonderful, +but wearisome in thy stale and deadly uniformity. +Thy men are more like numerals than men. They must +bear their idiosyncrasies or their professions written on a +placard about their neck, like the scenery in Shakespeare’s +theatre. The precepts of economy have pierced into the +lowest ranks of life; and there is now a decorum in vice, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page34"></a>34</span> +a respectability among the disreputable, a pure spirit of +Philistinism among the waifs and strays of thy Bohemia. +For lo! thy very gravediggers talk politics; and thy castaways +kneel upon new graves, to discuss the cost of the +monument and grumble at the improvidence of love.</p> + +<p>Such was the elegant apostrophe that I made as I +went out of the gates again, happily satisfied in myself, +and feeling that I alone of all whom I had seen was able +to profit by the silent poem of these green mounds and +blackened headstones.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_34" id="Footnote_34" href="#FnAnchor_34"><span class="fn">34</span></a> “Religio Medici,” Part ii.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_35" id="Footnote_35" href="#FnAnchor_35"><span class="fn">35</span></a> “Duchess of Malfi.”</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>IV</h5> + +<h3>NURSES</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">I knew</span> one once, and the room where, lonely and old, she +waited for death. It was pleasant enough, high up above +the lane, and looking forth upon a hill-side, covered all day +with sheets and yellow blankets, and with long lines of +underclothing fluttering between the battered posts. +There were any number of cheap prints, and a drawing by +one of “her children,” and there were flowers in the window, +and a sickly canary withered into consumption in an +ornamental cage. The bed, with its checked coverlid, +was in a closet. A great Bible lay on the table; and her +drawers were full of “scones,” which it was her pleasure +to give to young visitors such as I was then.</p> + +<p>You may not think this a melancholy picture; but the +canary, and the cat, and the white mouse that she had for +a while, and that died, were all indications of the want that +ate into her heart. I think I know a little of what that +old woman felt; and I am as sure as if I had seen her, +that she sat many an hour in silent tears, with the big +Bible open before her clouded eyes.</p> + +<p>If you could look back upon her life, and feel the great +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page35"></a>35</span> +chain that had linked her to one child after another, sometimes +to be wrenched suddenly through, and sometimes, +which is infinitely worse, to be torn gradually off through +years of growing neglect, or perhaps growing dislike! +She had, like the mother, overcome that natural repugnance—repugnance +which no man can conquer—towards the +infirm and helpless mass of putty of the earlier stage. She +had spent her best and happiest years in tending, watching, +and learning to love like a mother this child, with which she +has no connection and to which she has no tie. Perhaps she +refused some sweetheart (such things have been), or put him +off and off, until he lost heart and turned to some one else, all +for fear of leaving this creature that had wound itself about +her heart. And the end of it all,—her month’s warning, +and a present perhaps, and the rest of the life to vain regret. +Or, worse still, to see the child gradually forgetting and +forsaking her, fostered in disrespect and neglect on the plea +of growing manliness, and at last beginning to treat her +as a servant whom he had treated a few years before as +a mother. She sees the Bible or the Psalm-book, which +with gladness and love unutterable in her heart she had +bought for him years ago out of her slender savings, +neglected for some newer gift of his father, lying in dust +in the lumber-room or given away to a poor child, and +the act applauded for its unfeeling charity. Little wonder +if she becomes hurt and angry, and attempts to tyrannise +and to grasp her old power back again. We are not all +patient Grizzels, by good fortune, but the most of us +human beings with feelings and tempers of our own.</p> + +<p>And so in the end, behold her in the room that I described. +Very likely and very naturally, in some fling of +feverish misery or recoil of thwarted love, she has quarrelled +with her old employers and the children are forbidden to +see her or to speak to her; or at best she gets her rent paid +and a little to herself, and now and then her late charges +are sent up (with another nurse, perhaps) to pay her a +short visit. How bright these visits seem as she looks +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page36"></a>36</span> +forward to them on her lonely bed! How unsatisfactory +their realisation, when the forgetful child, half wondering, +checks with every word and action the outpouring of her +maternal love! How bitter and restless the memories that +they leave behind! And for the rest, what else has she?—to +watch them with eager eyes as they go to school, to +sit in church where she can see them every Sunday, to be +passed some day unnoticed in the street, or deliberately +cut because the great man or the great woman are with +friends before whom they are ashamed to recognise the +old woman that loved them.</p> + +<p>When she goes home that night, how lonely will the +room appear to her! Perhaps the neighbours may hear +her sobbing to herself in the dark, with the fire burnt out +for want of fuel, and the candle still unlit upon the table.</p> + +<p>And it is for this that they live, these quasi-mothers—mothers +in everything but the travail and the thanks. +It is for this that they have remained virtuous in youth, +living the dull life of a household servant. It is for this +that they refused the old sweetheart, and have no fireside +or offspring of their own.</p> + +<p>I believe in a better state of things, that there will be +no more nurses, and that every mother will nurse her own +offspring; for what can be more hardening and demoralising +than to call forth the tenderest feelings of a woman’s +heart and cherish them yourself as long as you need them, +as long as your children require a nurse to love them, and +then to blight and thwart and destroy them, whenever +your own use for them is at an end? This may be Utopian; +but it is always a little thing if one mother or two mothers +can be brought to feel more tenderly to those who share +their toil and have no part in their reward.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page37"></a>37</span></p> +<h5>V</h5> + +<h3>A CHARACTER</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">The</span> man has a red, bloated face, and his figure is short +and squat. So far there is nothing in him to notice, but +when you see his eyes, you can read in these hard and +shallow orbs a depravity beyond measure depraved, a thirst +after wickedness, the pure, disinterested love of Hell for +its own sake. The other night, in the street, I was watching +an omnibus passing with lit-up windows, when I heard +some one coughing at my side as though he would cough +his soul out; and turning round, I saw him stopping under +a lamp, with a brown greatcoat buttoned round him and +his whole face convulsed. It seemed as if he could not live +long; and so the sight set my mind upon a train of thought, +as I finished my cigar up and down the lighted streets.</p> + +<p>He is old, but all these years have not yet quenched +his thirst for evil, and his eyes still delight themselves in +wickedness. He is dumb; but he will not let that hinder +his foul trade, or perhaps I should say, his yet fouler +amusement, and he has pressed a slate into the service of +corruption. Look at him, and he will sign to you with his +bloated head, and when you go to him in answer to the +sign, thinking perhaps that the poor dumb man has lost +his way, you will see what he writes upon his slate. He +haunts the doors of schools, and shows such inscriptions +as these to the innocent children that come out. He hangs +about picture-galleries, and makes the noblest pictures +the text for some silent homily of vice. His industry is a +lesson to ourselves. Is it not wonderful how he can triumph +over his infirmities and do such an amount of harm without +a tongue? Wonderful industry—strange, fruitless, pleasureless +toil? Must not the very devil feel a soft emotion +to see his disinterested and laborious service? Ah, but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page38"></a>38</span> +the devil knows better than this: he knows that this man +is penetrated with the love of evil and that all his pleasure +is shut up in wickedness: he recognises him, perhaps, as +a fit type for mankind of his satanic self, and watches over +his effigy as we might watch over a favourite likeness. +As the business man comes to love the toil, which he only +looked upon at first as a ladder towards other desires and +less unnatural gratifications, so the dumb man has felt the +charm of his trade and fallen captivated before the eyes of +sin. It is a mistake when preachers tell us that vice is +hideous and loathsome; for even vice has her Hörsel and +her devotees, who love her for her own sake.</p> + + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page39"></a>39</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>COLLEGE PAPERS</h2> +<hr class="full" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page40"></a>40</span></p> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page41"></a>41</span></p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<h2>COLLEGE PAPERS</h2> + +<h5>I</h5> + +<h3>EDINBURGH STUDENTS IN 1824</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">On</span> the 2nd of January 1824 was issued the prospectus of +the <i>Lapsus Linguæ; or, the College Tatler;</i> and on the 7th +the first number appeared. On Friday the 2nd of April +“<i>Mr. Tatler</i> became speechless.” Its history was not all +one success; for the editor (who applies to himself the +words of Iago, “I am nothing if I am not critical”) over-stepped +the bounds of caution, and found himself seriously +embroiled with the powers that were. There appeared in +No. <span class="sc">xvi</span>. a most bitter satire upon Sir John Leslie, in which +he was compared to Falstaff, charged with puffing himself, +and very prettily censured for publishing only the first +volume of a class-book, and making all purchasers pay for +both. Sir John Leslie took up the matter angrily, visited +Carfrae the publisher, and threatened him with an action, +till he was forced to turn the hapless <i>Lapsus</i> out of doors. +The maltreated periodical found shelter in the shop of +Huie, Infirmary Street; and <span class="sc">No. xvii</span>. was duly issued +from the new office. <span class="sc">No. xvii</span>. beheld <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> humiliation, +in which, with fulsome apology and not very credible +assurances of respect and admiration, he disclaims the +article in question, and advertises a new issue of <span class="sc">No. xvi</span>. +with all objectionable matter omitted. This, with pleasing +euphemism, he terms in a later advertisement, “a new +and improved edition.” This was the only remarkable +adventure of <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> brief existence; unless we consider +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page42"></a>42</span> +as such a silly Chaldee manuscript in imitation of +<i>Blackwood</i>, and a letter of reproof from a divinity student +on the impiety of the same dull effusion. He laments the +near approach of his end in pathetic terms. “How shall +we summon up sufficient courage,” says he, “to look for +the last time on our beloved little devil and his inestimable +proof-sheet? How shall we be able to pass No. 14 Infirmary +Street and feel that all its attractions are over? +How shall we bid farewell for ever to that excellent man, +with the long greatcoat, wooden leg and wooden board, who +acts as our representative at the gate of <i>Alma Mater?</i>” +But alas! he had no choice: <i>Mr. Tatler</i>, whose career, he +says himself, had been successful, passed peacefully away, +and has ever since dumbly implored “the bringing home +of bell and burial.”</p> + +<p><i>Alter et idem</i>. A very different affair was the <i>Lapsus +Linguæ</i> from the <i>Edinburgh University Magazine</i>. The +two prospectuses alone, laid side by side, would indicate +the march of luxury and the repeal of the paper duty. +The penny bi-weekly broadside of session 1823-4 was +almost wholly dedicated to Momus. Epigrams, pointless +letters, amorous verses, and University grievances are the +continual burthen of the song. But <i>Mr. Tatler</i> was not +without a vein of hearty humour; and his pages afford +what is much better: to wit, a good picture of student +life as it then was. The students of those polite days +insisted on retaining their hats in the class-room. There +was a cab-stance in front of the College; and “Carriage +Entrance” was posted above the main arch, on what the +writer pleases to call “coarse, unclassic boards.” The +benches of the “Speculative” then, as now, were red; but +all other Societies (the “Dialectic” is the only survivor) +met downstairs, in some rooms of which it is pointedly said +that “nothing else could conveniently be made of them.” +However horrible these dungeons may have been, it is +certain that they were paid for, and that far too heavily +for the taste of session 1823-4, which found enough calls +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page43"></a>43</span> +upon its purse for porter and toasted cheese at Ambrose’s, +or cranberry tarts and ginger-wine at Doull’s. Duelling +was still a possibility; so much so that when two medicals +fell to fisticuffs in Adam Square, it was seriously hinted that +single combat would be the result. Last and most wonderful +of all, Gall and Spurzheim were in every one’s mouth; +and the Law student, after having exhausted Byron’s +poetry and Scott’s novels, informed the ladies of his +belief in phrenology. In the present day he would +dilate on “Red as a rose is she,” and then mention +that he attends Old Greyfriars’, as a tacit claim to +intellectual superiority. I do not know that the advance +is much.</p> + +<p>But <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> best performances were three short +papers in which he hit off pretty smartly the idiosyncrasies +of the “<i>Divinity</i>,” the “<i>Medical</i>,” and the “<i>Law</i>” of +session 1823-4. The fact that there was no notice of the +“<i>Arts</i>“ seems to suggest that they stood in the same +intermediate position as they do now—the epitome of +student-kind. <i>Mr. Tatler’s</i> satire is, on the whole, good-humoured, +and has not grown superannuated in <i>all</i> its +limbs. His descriptions may limp at some points, but there +are certain broad traits that apply equally well to session +1870-71. He shows us the <i>Divinity</i> of the period—tall, +pale, and slender—his collar greasy, and his coat bare +about the seams—“his white neckcloth serving four days, +and regularly turned the third,”—“the rim of his hat +deficient in wool,”—and “a weighty volume of theology +under his arm.” He was the man to buy cheap “a snuff-box, +or a dozen of pencils, or a six-bladed knife, or a quarter +of a hundred quills,” at any of the public sale-rooms. He +was noted for cheap purchases, and for exceeding the legal +tender in halfpence. He haunted “the darkest and +remotest corner of the Theatre Gallery.” He was to be +seen issuing from “aerial lodging-houses.” Withal, says +mine author, “there were many good points about him: +he paid his landlady’s bill, read his Bible, went twice to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page44"></a>44</span> +church on Sunday, seldom swore, was not often tipsy, and +bought the <i>Lapsus Linguæ</i>.”</p> + +<p>The <i>Medical</i>, again, “wore a white greatcoat, and consequently +talked loud”—(there is something very delicious +in that <i>consequently</i>). He wore his hat on one side. He +was active, volatile, and went to the top of Arthur’s Seat +on the Sunday forenoon. He was as quiet in a debating +society as he was loud in the streets. He was reckless and +imprudent: yesterday he insisted on your sharing a bottle +of claret with him (and claret was claret then, before the +cheap-and-nasty treaty), and to-morrow he asks you for +the loan of a penny to buy the last number of the <i>Lapsus</i>.</p> + +<p>The student of <i>Law</i>, again, was a learned man. “He +had turned over the leaves of Justinian’s ‘Institutes,’ and +knew that they were written in Latin. He was well +acquainted with the title-page of ‘Blackstone’s Commentaries,’ +and <i>argal</i> (as the gravedigger in <i>Hamlet</i> says) he +was not a person to be laughed at.” He attended the +Parliament House in the character of a critic, and could +give you stale sneers at all the celebrated speakers. He +was the terror of essayists at the Speculative or the Forensic. +In social qualities he seems to have stood unrivalled. +Even in the police-office we find him shining with undiminished +lustre. “If a <i>Charlie</i> should find him rather +noisy at an untimely hour, and venture to take him into +custody, he appears next morning like a Daniel come to +judgment. He opens his mouth to speak, and the divine +precepts of unchanging justice and Scots law flow from his +tongue. The magistrate listens in amazement, and fines +him only a couple of guineas.”</p> + +<p>Such then were our predecessors and their College +Magazine. Barclay, Ambrose, Young Amos, and Fergusson +were to them what the Café, the Rainbow, and Rutherford’s +are to us. An hour’s reading in these old pages absolutely +confuses us, there is so much that is similar and so much +that is different; the follies and amusements are so like +our own, and the manner of frolicking and enjoying are so +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page45"></a>45</span> +changed, that one pauses and looks about him in philosophic +judgment. The muddy quadrangle is thick with living +students; but in our eyes it swarms also with the phantasmal +white greatcoats and tilted hats of 1824. Two races +meet: races alike and diverse. Two performances are +played before our eyes; but the change seems merely of +impersonators, of scenery, of costume. Plot and passion +are the same. It is the fall of the spun shilling whether +seventy-one or twenty-four has the best of it.</p> + +<p>In a future number we hope to give a glance at the +individualities of the present, and see whether the cast +shall be head or tail—whether we or the readers of the +<i>Lapsus</i> stand higher in the balance.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>II</h5> + +<h3>THE MODERN STUDENT CONSIDERED +GENERALLY</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">We</span> have now reached the difficult portion of our task. +<i>Mr. Tatler</i>, for all that we care, may have been as virulent +as he liked about the students of a former day; but for +the iron to touch our sacred selves, for a brother of the +Guild to betray its most privy infirmities, let such a Judas +look to himself as he passes on his way to the Scots Law +or the Diagnostic, below the solitary lamp at the corner of +the dark quadrangle. We confess that this idea alarms +us. We enter a protest. We bind ourselves over verbally +to keep the peace. We hope, moreover, that having thus +made you secret to our misgivings, you will excuse us if +we be dull, and set that down to caution which you might +before have charged to the account of stupidity.</p> + +<p>The natural tendency of civilisation is to obliterate +those distinctions which are the best salt of life. All the +fine old professional flavour in language has evaporated. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page46"></a>46</span> +Your very gravedigger has forgotten his avocation in his +electorship, and would quibble on the Franchise over +Ophelia’s grave, instead of more appropriately discussing +the duration of bodies under ground. From this tendency, +from this gradual attrition of life, in which everything +pointed and characteristic is being rubbed down, till the +whole world begins to slip between our fingers in smooth +undistinguishable sands, from this, we say, it follows that +we must not attempt to join <i>Mr. Tatler</i> in his simple +division of students into <i>Law</i>, <i>Divinity</i>, and <i>Medical</i>. +Nowadays the Faculties may shake hands over their follies; +and, like Mrs. Frail and Mrs. Foresight (in <i>Love for Love</i>) +they may stand in the doors of opposite class-rooms, crying: +“Sister, Sister—Sister everyway!” A few restrictions, +indeed, remain to influence the followers of individual +branches of study. The <i>Divinity</i>, for example, must be an +avowed believer; and as this, in the present day, is unhappily +considered by many as a confession of weakness, +he is fain to choose one of two ways of gilding the distasteful +orthodox bolus. Some swallow it in a thin jelly of metaphysics; +for it is even a credit to believe in God on the +evidence of some crack-jaw philosopher, although it is a +decided slur to believe in Him on His own authority. +Others again (and this we think the worst method), finding +German grammar a somewhat dry morsel, run their own +little heresy as a proof of independence; and deny one +of the cardinal doctrines that they may hold the others +without being laughed at.</p> + +<p>Besides, however, such influences as these, there is little +more distinction between the faculties than the traditionary +ideal, handed down through a long sequence of students, +and getting rounder and more featureless at each successive +session. The plague of uniformity has descended on the +College. Students (and indeed all sorts and conditions of +men) now require their faculty and character hung round +their neck on a placard, like the scenes in Shakespeare’s +theatre. And in the midst of all this weary sameness, not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page47"></a>47</span> +the least common feature is the gravity of every face. +No more does the merry medical run eagerly in the clear +winter morning up the rugged sides of Arthur’s Seat, and +hear the church bells begin and thicken and die away below +him among the gathered smoke of the city. He will not +break Sunday to so little purpose. He no longer finds +pleasure in the mere output of his surplus energy. He +husbands his strength, and lays out walks, and reading, and +amusement with deep consideration, so that he may get as +much work and pleasure out of his body as he can, and +waste none of his energy on mere impulse, or such flat +enjoyment as an excursion in the country.</p> + +<p>See the quadrangle in the interregnum of classes, in those +two or three minutes when it is full of passing students, and +we think you will admit that, if we have not made it “an +habitation of dragons,” we have at least transformed it into +“a court for owls.” Solemnity broods heavily over the +enclosure; and wherever you seek it, you will find a dearth +of merriment, an absence of real youthful enjoyment. You +might as well try</p> + +<p class="center1">“To move wild laughter in the throat of death”</p> + +<p class="noind">as to excite any healthy stir among the bulk of this staid +company.</p> + +<p>The studious congregate about the doors of the different +classes, debating the matter of the lecture, or comparing +note-books. A reserved rivalry sunders them. Here are +some deep in Greek particles: there, others are already +inhabitants of that land</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Where entity and quiddity,</p> +<p class="i05">Like ghosts of defunct bodies fly—</p> +<p class="i05">Where Truth in person does appear</p> +<p class="i05">Like words congealed in northern air.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">But none of them seem to find any relish for their studies—no +pedantic love of this subject or that lights up their +eyes—science and learning are only means for a livelihood, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page48"></a>48</span> +which they have considerately embraced and which they +solemnly pursue. “Labour’s pale priests,” their lips seem +incapable of laughter, except in the way of polite recognition +of professorial wit. The stains of ink are chronic on their +meagre fingers. They walk like Saul among the asses.</p> + +<p>The dandies are not less subdued. In 1824 there was +a noisy dapper dandyism abroad. Vulgar, as we should +now think, but yet genial—a matter of white greatcoats and +loud voices—strangely different from the stately frippery +that is rife at present. These men are out of their element +in the quadrangle. Even the small remains of boisterous +humour, which still clings to any collection of young men, +jars painfully on their morbid sensibilities; and they beat +a hasty retreat to resume their perfunctory march along +Princes Street. Flirtation is to them a great social duty, +a painful obligation, which they perform on every occasion +in the same chill official manner, and with the same commonplace +advances, the same dogged observance of traditional +behaviour. The shape of their raiment is a burden almost +greater than they can bear, and they halt in their walk to +preserve the due adjustment of their trouser-knees, till one +would fancy he had mixed in a procession of Jacobs. We +speak, of course, for ourselves; but we would as soon +associate with a herd of sprightly apes as with these gloomy +modern beaux. Alas, that our Mirabels, our Valentines, +even our Brummels, should have left their mantles upon +nothing more amusing!</p> + +<p>Nor are the fast men less constrained. Solemnity, even +in dissipation, is the order of the day; and they go to the +devil with a perverse seriousness, a systematic rationalism +of wickedness that would have surprised the simpler sinners +of old. Some of these men whom we see gravely conversing +on the steps have but a slender acquaintance with each +other. Their intercourse consists principally of mutual +bulletins of depravity; and, week after week, as they meet +they reckon up their items of transgression, and give an +abstract of their downward progress for approval and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page49"></a>49</span> +encouragement. These folk form a freemasonry of their +own. An oath is the shibboleth of their sinister fellowship. +Once they hear a man swear, it is wonderful how their +tongues loosen and their bashful spirits take enlargement +under the consciousness of brotherhood. There is no +folly, no pardoning warmth of temper about them; they +are as steady-going and systematic in their own way as +the studious in theirs.</p> + +<p>Not that we are without merry men. No. We shall +not be ungrateful to those, whose grimaces, whose ironical +laughter, whose active feet in the “College Anthem” have +beguiled so many weary hours and added a pleasant variety +to the strain of close attention. But even these are too +evidently professional in their antics. They go about +cogitating puns and inventing tricks. It is their vocation, +Hal. They are the gratuitous jesters of the class-room; +and, like the clown when he leaves the stage, their merriment +too often sinks as the bell rings the hour of liberty, +and they pass forth by the Post-Office, grave and sedate, +and meditating fresh gambols for the morrow.</p> + +<p>This is the impression left on the mind of any observing +student by too many of his fellows. They seem all frigid +old men; and one pauses to think how such an unnatural +state of matters is produced. We feel inclined to blame +for it the unfortunate absence of <i>University feeling</i> which is +so marked a characteristic of our Edinburgh students. +Academical interests are so few and far between—students, +as students, have so little in common, except a peevish +rivalry—there is such an entire want of broad college +sympathies and ordinary college friendships, that we fancy +that no University in the kingdom is in so poor a plight. +Our system is full of anomalies. A, who cut B whilst he +was a shabby student, curries sedulously up to him and +cudgels his memory for anecdotes about him when he +becomes the great so-and-so. Let there be an end of this +shy, proud reserve on the one hand, and this shuddering +fine ladyism on the other; and we think we shall find both +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page50"></a>50</span> +ourselves and the College bettered. Let it be a sufficient +reason for intercourse that two men sit together on the same +benches. Let the great A be held excused for nodding to +the shabby B in Princes Street, if he can say, “That fellow +is a student.” Once this could be brought about, we think +you would find the whole heart of the University beat faster. +We think you would find a fusion among the students, a +growth of common feelings, an increasing sympathy between +class and class, whose influence (in such a heterogeneous +company as ours) might be of incalculable value in all +branches of politics and social progress. It would do +more than this. If we could find some method of making +the University a real mother to her sons—something beyond +a building of class-rooms, a Senatus and a lottery of somewhat +shabby prizes—we should strike a death-blow at the +constrained and unnatural attitude of our Society. At +present we are not a united body, but a loose gathering +of individuals, whose inherent attraction is allowed to +condense them into little knots and coteries. Our last +snowball riot read us a plain lesson on our condition. There +was no party spirit—no unity of interests. A few, who +were mischievously inclined, marched off to the College of +Surgeons in a pretentious file; but even before they reached +their destination the feeble inspiration had died out in +many, and their numbers were sadly thinned. Some +followed strange gods in the direction of Drummond Street, +and others slunk back to meek good-boyism at the feet of +the Professors. The same is visible in better things. As +you send a man to an English University that he may have +his prejudices rubbed off, you might send him to Edinburgh +that he may have them ingrained—rendered indelible—fostered +by sympathy into living principles of his +spirit. And the reason of it is quite plain. From this +absence of University feeling it comes that a man’s friendships +are always the direct and immediate results of these +very prejudices. A common weakness is the best master +of ceremonies in our quadrangle: a mutual vice is the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page51"></a>51</span> +readiest introduction. The studious associate with the +studious alone—the dandies with the dandies. There is +nothing to force them to rub shoulders with the others; +and so they grow day by day more wedded to their own +original opinions and affections. They see through the +same spectacles continually. All broad sentiments, all +real catholic humanity expires; and the mind gets gradually +stiffened into one position—becomes so habituated to a +contracted atmosphere, that it shudders and withers under +the least draught of the free air that circulates in the +general field of mankind.</p> + +<p>Specialism in Society then, is, we think, one cause of +our present state. Specialism in study is another. We +doubt whether this has ever been a good thing since the +world began; but we are sure it is much worse now than +it was. Formerly, when a man became a specialist, it was +out of affection for his subject. With a somewhat grand +devotion he left all the world of Science to follow his true +love; and he contrived to find that strange pedantic +interest which inspired the man who</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Settled <i>Hoti’s</i> business—let it be—</p> + <p class="i2">Properly based <i>Oun</i>—</p> +<p class="i05">Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic <i>D</i></p> + <p class="i2">Dead from the waist down.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">Nowadays it is quite different. Our pedantry wants even +the saving clause of Enthusiasm. The election is now +matter of necessity and not of choice. Knowledge is now +too broad a field for your Jack-of-all-Trades; and, from +beautifully utilitarian reasons, he makes his choice, draws +his pen through a dozen branches of study, and behold—John +the Specialist. That this is the way to be wealthy +we shall not deny; but we hold that it is <i>not</i> the way to +be healthy or wise. The whole mind becomes narrowed +and circumscribed to one “punctual spot” of knowledge. +A rank unhealthy soil breeds a harvest of prejudices. +Feeling himself above others in his one little branch—in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page52"></a>52</span> +the classification of toadstools, or Carthaginian history—he +waxes great in his own eyes and looks down on others. +Having all his sympathies educated in one way, they die +out in every other; and he is apt to remain a peevish, +narrow, and intolerant bigot. Dilettante is now a term +of reproach; but there is a certain form of dilettantism +to which no one can object. It is this that we want among +our students. We wish them to abandon no subject until +they have seen and felt its merit—to act under a general +interest in all branches of knowledge, not a commercial +eagerness to excel in one.</p> + +<p>In both these directions our sympathies are constipated. +We are apostles of our own caste and our own subject of +study, instead of being, as we should, true men and <i>loving</i> +students. Of course both of these could be corrected by +the students themselves; but this is nothing to the purpose: +it is more important to ask whether the Senatus or the body +of alumni could do nothing towards the growth of better +feeling and wider sentiments. Perhaps in another paper +we may say something upon this head.</p> + +<p>One other word, however, before we have done. What +shall we be when we grow really old? Of yore, a man was +thought to lay on restrictions and acquire new deadweight +of mournful experience with every year, till he looked back +on his youth as the very summer of impulse and freedom. +We please ourselves with thinking that it cannot be so +with us. We would fain hope that, as we have begun in +one way, we may end in another; and that when we <i>are</i> +in fact the octogenarians that we <i>seem</i> at present, there +shall be no merrier men on earth. It is pleasant to picture +us, sunning ourselves in Princes Street of a morning, or +chirping over our evening cups, with all the merriment +that we wanted in youth.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page53"></a>53</span></p> +<h5>III</h5> + +<h3>DEBATING SOCIETIES</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">A debating</span> society is at first somewhat of a disappointment. +You do not often find the youthful Demosthenes +chewing his pebbles in the same room with you; or, even +if you do, you will probably think the performance little +to be admired. As a general rule, the members speak +shamefully ill. The subjects of debate are heavy; and +so are the fines. The Ballot Question—oldest of dialectic +nightmares—is often found astride of a somnolent sederunt. +The Greeks and Romans, too, are reserved as sort of <i>general-utility</i> +men, to do all the dirty work of illustration; and +they fill as many functions as the famous waterfall scene +at the “Princess’s,” which I found doing duty on one +evening as a gorge in Peru, a haunt of German robbers, and +a peaceful vale in the Scottish borders. There is a sad +absence of striking argument or real lively discussion. +Indeed, you feel a growing contempt for your fellow-members; +and it is not until you rise yourself to hawk +and hesitate and sit shamefully down again, amid eleemosynary +applause, that you begin to find your level and +value others rightly. Even then, even when failure has +damped your critical ardour, you will see many things +to be laughed at in the deportment of your rivals.</p> + +<p>Most laughable, perhaps, are your indefatigable strivers +after eloquence. They are of those who “pursue with +eagerness the phantoms of hope,” and who, since they +expect that “the deficiencies of last sentence will be supplied +by the next,” have been recommended by Dr. Samuel +Johnson to “attend to the History of Rasselas, Prince of +Abyssinia.” They are characterised by a hectic hopefulness. +Nothing damps them. They rise from the ruins of +one abortive sentence, to launch forth into another with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page54"></a>54</span> +unabated vigour. They have all the manner of an orator. +From the tone of their voice, you would expect a splendid +period—and lo! a string of broken-backed, disjointed +clauses, eked out with stammerings and throat-clearings. +They possess the art (learned from the pulpit) of rounding +an uneuphonious sentence by dwelling on a single syllable—of +striking a balance in a top-heavy period by lengthening +out a word into a melancholy quaver. Withal, they never +cease to hope. Even at last, even when they have exhausted +all their ideas, even after the would-be peroration +has finally refused to perorate, they remain upon their feet +with their mouths open, waiting for some further inspiration, +like Chaucer’s widow’s son in the dung-hole, after</p> + +<p class="center1 f90">“His throat was kit unto the nekké bone,”</p> + +<p class="noind">in vain expectation of that seed that was to be laid upon +his tongue, and give him renewed and clearer utterance.</p> + +<p>These men may have something to say, if they could +only say it—indeed they generally have; but the next +class are people who, having nothing to say, are cursed with +a facility and an unhappy command of words, that makes +them the prime nuisances of the society they affect. They +try to cover their absence of matter by an unwholesome +vitality of delivery. They look triumphantly round the +room, as if courting applause, after a torrent of diluted +truism. They talk in a circle, harping on the same dull +round of argument, and returning again and again to the +same remark with the same sprightliness, the same irritating +appearance of novelty.</p> + +<p>After this set, any one is tolerable; so we shall merely +hint at a few other varieties. There is your man who is +pre-eminently conscientious, whose face beams with sincerity +as he opens on the negative, and who votes on the affirmative +at the end, looking round the room with an air of +chastened pride. There is also the irrelevant speaker, +who rises, emits a joke or two, and then sits down again, +without ever attempting to tackle the subject of debate. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page55"></a>55</span> +Again, we have men who ride pick-a-back on their family +reputation, or, if their family have none, identify themselves +with some well-known statesman, use his opinions, +and lend him their patronage on all occasions. This is a +dangerous plan, and serves oftener, I am afraid, to point +a difference than to adorn a speech.</p> + +<p>But alas! a striking failure may be reached without +tempting Providence by any of these ambitious tricks. +Our own stature will be found high enough for shame. +The success of three simple sentences lures us into a fatal +parenthesis in the fourth, from whose shut brackets we +may never disentangle the thread of our discourse. A +momentary flush tempts us into a quotation; and we may +be left helpless in the middle of one of Pope’s couplets, a +white film gathering before our eyes, and our kind friends +charitably trying to cover our disgrace by a feeble round +of applause. <i>Amis lecteurs</i>, this is a painful topic. It is +possible that we too, we, the “potent, grave, and reverend” +editor, may have suffered these things, and drunk as deep +as any of the cup of shameful failure. Let us dwell no +longer on so delicate a subject.</p> + +<p>In spite, however, of these disagreeables, I should +recommend any student to suffer them with Spartan +courage, as the benefits he receives should repay him an +hundredfold for them all. The life of the debating society +is a handy antidote to the life of the class-room and quadrangle. +Nothing could be conceived more excellent as a +weapon against many of those <i>peccant humours</i> that we +have been railing against in the jeremiad of our last “College +Paper”—particularly in the field of intellect. It is a sad +sight to see our heather-scented students, our boys of +seventeen, coming up to College with determined views—<i>roués</i> +in speculation—having gauged the vanity of philosophy +or learned to shun it as the middle-man of heresy—a company +of determined, deliberate opinionists, not to be moved +by all the sleights of logic. What have such men to do +with study? If their minds are made up irrevocably, why +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page56"></a>56</span> +burn the “studious lamp” in search of further confirmation? +Every set opinion I hear a student deliver I feel a +certain lowering of my regard. He who studies, he who +is yet employed in groping for his premises, should keep +his mind fluent and sensitive, keen to mark flaws, and +willing to surrender untenable positions. He should keep +himself teachable, or cease the expensive farce of being +taught. It is to further this docile spirit that we desire to +press the claims of debating societies. It is as a means +of melting down this museum of premature petrifactions +into living and impressionable soul that we insist on their +utility. If we could once prevail on our students to feel +no shame in avowing an uncertain attitude towards any +subject, if we could teach them that it was unnecessary for +every lad to have his <i>opinionette</i> on every topic, we should +have gone a far way towards bracing the intellectual tone +of the coming race of thinkers; and this it is which debating +societies are so well fitted to perform.</p> + +<p>We there meet people of every shade of opinion, and +make friends with them. We are taught to rail against a +man the whole session through, and then hob-a-nob with +him at the concluding entertainment. We find men of +talent far exceeding our own, whose conclusions are widely +different from ours; and we are thus taught to distrust +ourselves. But the best means of all towards catholicity +is that wholesome rule which some folk are most inclined +to condemn,—I mean the law of <i>obliged speeches</i>. Your +senior member commands; and you must take the affirmative +or the negative, just as suits his best convenience. +This tends to the most perfect liberality. It is no good +hearing the arguments of an opponent, for in good verity +you rarely follow them; and even if you do take the trouble +to listen, it is merely in a captious search for weaknesses. +This is proved, I fear, in every debate; when you hear each +speaker arguing out his own prepared <i>spécialité</i> (he never +intended speaking, of course, until some remarks of, etc.), +arguing out, I say, his own <i>coached-up</i> subject without the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page57"></a>57</span> +least attention to what has gone before, as utterly at sea +about the drift of his adversary’s speech as Panurge when +he argued with Thaumaste, and merely linking his own +prelection to the last by a few flippant criticisms. Now, +as the rule stands, you are saddled with the side you disapprove, +and so you are forced, by regard for your own +fame, to argue out, to feel with, to elaborate completely, +the case as it stands against yourself; and what a fund of +wisdom do you not turn up in this idle digging of the vineyard! +How many new difficulties take form before your +eyes? how many superannuated arguments cripple finally +into limbo, under the glance of your enforced eclecticism!</p> + +<p>Nor is this the only merit of Debating Societies. They +tend also to foster taste, and to promote friendship between +University men. This last, as we have had occasion before +to say, is the great requirement of our student life; and it +will therefore be no waste of time if we devote a paragraph +to this subject in its connection with Debating Societies. +At present they partake too much of the nature of a <i>clique.</i> +Friends propose friends, and mutual friends second them, +until the society degenerates into a sort of family party. +You may confirm old acquaintances, but you can rarely +make new ones. You find yourself in the atmosphere of +your own daily intercourse. Now, this is an unfortunate circumstance, +which it seems to me might readily be rectified. +Our Principal has shown himself so friendly towards all +College improvements that I cherish the hope of seeing +shortly realised a certain suggestion, which is not a new one +with me, and which must often have been proposed and +canvassed heretofore—I mean, a real <i>University Debating +Society</i>, patronised by the Senatus, presided over by the +Professors, to which every one might gain ready admittance +on sight of his matriculation ticket, where it would be a +favour and not a necessity to speak, and where the obscure +student might have another object for attendance besides +the mere desire to save his fines: to wit, the chance of +drawing on himself the favourable consideration of his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page58"></a>58</span> +teachers. This would be merely following in the good +tendency, which has been so noticeable during all this +session, to increase and multiply student societies and clubs +of every sort. Nor would it be a matter of much difficulty. +The united societies would form a nucleus: one of the +class-rooms at first, and perhaps afterwards the great hall +above the library, might be the place of meeting. There +would be no want of attendance or enthusiasm, I am sure; +for it is a very different thing to speak under the bushel of +a private club on the one hand, and, on the other, in a +public place, where a happy period or a subtle argument +may do the speaker permanent service in after life. Such +a club might end, perhaps, by rivalling the “Union” at +Cambridge or the “Union” at Oxford.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>IV</h5> + +<h3>THE PHILOSOPHY OF UMBRELLAS<a name="FnAnchor_36" id="FnAnchor_36" href="#Footnote_36"><span class="sp">36</span></a></h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">It</span> is wonderful to think what a turn has been given to +our whole Society by the fact that we live under the sign +of Aquarius,—that our climate is essentially wet. A mere +arbitrary distinction, like the walking-swords of yore, +might have remained the symbol of foresight and respectability, +had not the raw mists and dropping showers of +our island pointed the inclination of Society to another exponent +of those virtues. A ribbon of the Legion of Honour +or a string of medals may prove a person’s courage; a +title may prove his birth; a professorial chair his study and +acquirement; but it is the habitual carriage of the umbrella +that is the stamp of Respectability. The umbrella has +become the acknowledged index of social position. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page59"></a>59</span></p> + +<p>Robinson Crusoe presents us with a touching instance +of the hankering after them inherent in the civilised and +educated mind. To the superficial, the hot suns of Juan +Fernandez may sufficiently account for his quaint choice +of a luxury; but surely one who had borne the hard labour +of a seaman under the tropics for all these years could have +supported an excursion after goats or a peaceful <i>constitutional</i> +arm in arm with the nude Friday. No, it was not this: +the memory of a vanished respectability called for some +outward manifestation, and the result was—an umbrella. +A pious castaway might have rigged up a belfry and solaced +his Sunday mornings with the mimicry of church-bells; +but Crusoe was rather a moralist than a pietist, and his +leaf-umbrella is as fine an example of the civilised mind +striving to express itself under adverse circumstances as +we have ever met with.</p> + +<p>It is not for nothing, either, that the umbrella has +become the very foremost badge of modern civilisation—the +Urim and Thummim of respectability. Its pregnant +symbolism has taken its rise in the most natural manner. +Consider, for a moment, when umbrellas were first introduced +into this country, what manner of men would use them, and +what class would adhere to the useless but ornamental cane. +The first, without doubt, would be the hypochondriacal, +out of solicitude for their health, or the frugal, out of care +for their raiment; the second, it is equally plain, would +include the fop, the fool, and the Bobadil. Any one +acquainted with the growth of Society, and knowing out +of what small seeds of cause are produced great revolutions, +and wholly new conditions of intercourse, sees from this +simple thought how the carriage of an umbrella came to +indicate frugality, judicious regard for bodily welfare, and +scorn for mere outward adornment, and, in one word, all +those homely and solid virtues implied in the term <span class="sc">RESPECTABILITY</span>. +Not that the umbrella’s costliness has +nothing to do with its great influence. Its possession, +besides symbolising (as we have already indicated) the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page60"></a>60</span> +change from wild Esau to plain Jacob dwelling in tents, +implies a certain comfortable provision of fortune. It is +not every one that can expose twenty-six shillings’ worth +of property to so many chances of loss and theft. So +strongly do we feel on this point, indeed, that we are almost +inclined to consider all who possess really well-conditioned +umbrellas as worthy of the Franchise. They have a qualification +standing in their lobbies; they carry a sufficient +stake in the common-weal below their arm. One who +bears with him an umbrella—such a complicated structure +of whalebone, of silk, and of cane, that it becomes a very +microcosm of modern industry—is necessarily a man of +peace. A half-crown cane may be applied to an offender’s +head on a very moderate provocation; but a six-and-twenty +shilling silk is a possession too precious to be +adventured in the shock of war.</p> + +<p>These are but a few glances at how umbrellas (in the +general) came to their present high estate. But the true +Umbrella-Philosopher meets with far stranger applications +as he goes about the streets.</p> + +<p>Umbrellas, like faces, acquire a certain sympathy with +the individual who carries them: indeed, they are far +more capable of betraying his trust; for whereas a face +is given to us so far ready made, and all our power over it +is in frowning, and laughing, and grimacing, during the +first three or four decades of life, each umbrella is selected +from a whole shopful, as being most consonant to the purchaser’s +disposition. An undoubted power of diagnosis +rests with the practised Umbrella-Philosopher. O you who +lisp, and amble, and change the fashion of your countenances—you +who conceal all these, how little do you think that +you left a proof of your weakness in our umbrella-stand—that +even now, as you shake out the folds to meet the +thickening snow, we read in its ivory handle the outward +and visible sign of your snobbery, or from the exposed +gingham of its cover detect, through coat and waistcoat, +the hidden hypocrisy of the “<i>dickey</i>”! But alas! even +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page61"></a>61</span> +the umbrella is no certain criterion. The falsity and the +folly of the human race have degraded that graceful symbol +to the ends of dishonesty; and while some umbrellas, from +carelessness in selection, are not strikingly characteristic +(for it is only in what a man loves that he displays his real +nature), others, from certain prudential motives, are chosen +directly opposite to the person’s disposition. A mendacious +umbrella is a sign of great moral degradation. Hypocrisy +naturally shelters itself below a silk; while the fast youth +goes to visit his religious friends armed with the decent and +reputable gingham. May it not be said of the bearers of +these inappropriate umbrellas that they go about the streets +“with a lie in their right hand”?</p> + +<p>The kings of Siam, as we read, besides having a graduated +social scale of umbrellas (which was a good thing), +prevented the great bulk of their subjects from having any +at all, which was certainly a bad thing. We should be sorry +to believe that this Eastern legislator was a fool—the +idea of an aristocracy of umbrellas is too philosophic to +have originated in a nobody,—and we have accordingly +taken exceeding pains to find out the reason of this harsh +restriction. We think we have succeeded; but, while +admiring the principle at which he aimed, and while +cordially recognising in the Siamese potentate the only man +before ourselves who had taken a real grasp of the umbrella, +we must be allowed to point out how unphilosophically the +great man acted in this particular. His object, plainly, +was to prevent any unworthy persons from bearing the +sacred symbol of domestic virtues. We cannot excuse his +limiting these virtues to the circle of his court. We must +only remember that such was the feeling of the age in which +he lived. Liberalism had not yet raised the war-cry of +the working classes. But here was his mistake: it was a +needless regulation. Except in a very few cases of hypocrisy +joined to a powerful intellect, men, not by nature <i>umbrellarians</i>, +have tried again and again to become so by art, +and yet have failed—have expended their patrimony in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page62"></a>62</span> +the purchase of umbrella after umbrella, and yet have +systematically lost them, and have finally, with contrite +spirits and shrunken purses, given up their vain struggle, +and relied on theft and borrowing for the remainder of their +lives. This is the most remarkable fact that we have had +occasion to notice; and yet we challenge the candid reader +to call it in question. Now, as there cannot be any <i>moral +selection</i> in a mere dead piece of furniture—as the umbrella +cannot be supposed to have an affinity for individual men +equal and reciprocal to that which men certainly feel toward +individual umbrellas,—we took the trouble of consulting +a scientific friend as to whether there was any possible +physical explanation of the phenomenon. He was unable +to supply a plausible theory, or even hypothesis; but we +extract from his letter the following interesting passage +relative to the physical peculiarities of umbrellas: “Not +the least important, and by far the most curious property +of the umbrella, is the energy which it displays in affecting +the atmospheric strata. There is no fact in meteorology +better established—indeed, it is almost the only one on +which meteorologists are agreed—than that the carriage +of an umbrella produces desiccation of the air; while if it +be left at home, aqueous vapour is largely produced, and +is soon deposited in the form of rain. No theory,” my +friend continues, “competent to explain this hygrometric +law has been given (as far as I am aware) by Herschel, +Dove, Glaisher, Tait, Buchan, or any other writer; nor do I +pretend to supply the defect. I venture, however, to throw +out the conjecture that it will be ultimately found to belong +to the same class of natural laws as that agreeable to which +a slice of toast always descends with the buttered surface +downwards.”</p> + +<p>But it is time to draw to a close. We could expatiate +much longer upon this topic, but want of space constrains +us to leave unfinished these few desultory remarks—slender +contributions towards a subject which has fallen sadly backward, +and which, we grieve to say, was better understood +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page63"></a>63</span> +by the king of Siam in 1686 than by all the philosophers of +to-day. If, however, we have awakened in any rational +mind an interest in the symbolism of umbrellas—in any +generous heart a more complete sympathy with the dumb +companion of his daily walk,—or in any grasping spirit a +pure notion of respectability strong enough to make him +expend his six-and-twenty shillings—we shall have deserved +well of the world, to say nothing of the many industrious +persons employed in the manufacture of the article.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_36" id="Footnote_36" href="#FnAnchor_36"><span class="fn">36</span></a> “This paper was written in collaboration with James Walter +Ferrier, and if reprinted this is to be stated, though his principal +collaboration was to lie back in an easy-chair and laugh.”—[R. L. S., +<i>Oct</i>. 25, 1894.]</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>V</h5> + +<h3>THE PHILOSOPHY OF NOMENCLATURE</h3> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>“How many Cæsars and Pompeys, by mere inspirations of the +names, have been rendered worthy of them? And how many are +there, who might have done exceeding well in the world, had not +their characters and spirits been totally depressed and Nicodemus’d +into nothing?”—“Tristram Shandy,” vol. i. chap. xix.</p> +</div> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Such</span> were the views of the late Walter Shandy, Esq., +Turkey merchant. To the best of my belief, Mr. Shandy +is the first who fairly pointed out the incalculable influence +of nomenclature upon the whole life—who seems first to +have recognised the one child, happy in an heroic appellation, +soaring upwards on the wings of fortune, and the other, +like the dead sailor in his shotted hammock, haled down +by sheer weight of name into the abysses of social failure. +Solomon possibly had his eye on some such theory when +he said that “a good name is better than precious ointment”; +and perhaps we may trace a similar spirit in the compilers +of the English Catechism, and the affectionate interest with +which they linger round the catechumen’s name at the very +threshold of their work. But, be these as they may, I +think no one can censure me for appending, in pursuance +of the expressed wish of his son, the Turkey merchant’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page64"></a>64</span> +name to his system, and pronouncing, without further +preface, a short epitome of the “Shandean Philosophy of +Nomenclature.”</p> + +<p>To begin, then: the influence of our name makes itself +felt from the very cradle. As a schoolboy I remember the +pride with which I hailed Robin Hood, Robert Bruce, and +Robert le Diable as my name-fellows; and the feeling of +sore disappointment that fell on my heart when I found a +freebooter or a general who did not share with me a single +one of my numerous <i>prænomina</i>. Look at the delight with +which two children find they have the same name. They +are friends from that moment forth; they have a bond of +union stronger than exchange of nuts and sweetmeats. +This feeling, I own, wears off in later life. Our names +lose their freshness and interest, become trite and +indifferent. But this, dear reader, is merely one of +the sad effects of those “shades of the prison-house” +which come gradually betwixt us and nature with +advancing years; it affords no weapon against the +philosophy of names.</p> + +<p>In after life, although we fail to trace its working, that +name which careless godfathers lightly applied to your +unconscious infancy will have been moulding your character, +and influencing with irresistible power the whole +course of your earthly fortunes. But the last name, overlooked +by Mr. Shandy, is no whit less important as a condition +of success. Family names, we must recollect, are +but inherited nicknames; and if the <i>sobriquet</i> were applicable +to the ancestor, it is most likely applicable to the +descendant also. You would not expect to find Mr. +M’Phun acting as a mute, or Mr. M’Lumpha excelling as a +professor of dancing. Therefore, in what follows, we shall +consider names, independent of whether they are first or +last. And to begin with, look what a pull <i>Cromwell</i> had +over <i>Pym</i>—the one name full of a resonant imperialism, the +other, mean, pettifogging, and unheroic to a degree. Who +would expect eloquence from <i>Pym</i>—who would read poems +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page65"></a>65</span> +by <i>Pym</i>—who would bow to the opinion of <i>Pym</i>? He +might have been a dentist, but he should never have aspired +to be a statesman. I can only wonder that he succeeded +as he did. Pym and Habakkuk stand first upon the roll of +men who have triumphed, by sheer force of genius, over +the most unfavourable appellations. But even these have +suffered; and, had they been more fitly named, the one +might have been Lord Protector, and the other have shared +the laurels with Isaiah. In this matter we must not forget +that all our great poets have borne great names. Chaucer, +Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, Shelley—what +a constellation of lordly words! Not a single +common-place name among them—not a Brown, not a +Jones, not a Robinson; they are all names that one would +stop and look at on a door-plate. Now, imagine if <i>Pepys</i> +had tried to clamber somehow into the enclosure of poetry, +what a blot would that word have made upon the list! +The thing was impossible. In the first place a certain +natural consciousness that men would have held him down +to the level of his name, would have prevented him from +rising above the Pepsine standard, and so haply withheld +him altogether from attempting verse. Next, the book-sellers +would refuse to publish, and the world to read them, +on the mere evidence of the fatal appellation. And now, +before I close this section, I must say one word as to +<i>punnable</i> names, names that stand alone, that have a +significance and life apart from him that bears them. +These are the bitterest of all. One friend of mine goes +bowed and humbled through life under the weight +of this misfortune; for it is an awful thing when a +man’s name is a joke, when he cannot be mentioned +without exciting merriment, and when even the intimation +of his death bids fair to carry laughter into many +a home.</p> + +<p>So much for people who are badly named. Now for +people who are <i>too</i> well named, who go top-heavy from the +font, who are baptized into a false position, and find themselves +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page66"></a>66</span> +beginning life eclipsed under the fame of some of the +great ones of the past. A man, for instance, called William +Shakespeare could never dare to write plays. He is thrown +into too humbling an apposition with the author of <i>Hamlet.</i> +His own name coming after is such an anti-climax. “The +plays of William Shakespeare”? says the reader—“O no! +The plays of William Shakespeare Cockerill,” and he throws +the book aside. In wise pursuance of such views, Mr. John +Milton Hengler, who not long since delighted us in this +favoured town, has never attempted to write an epic, but +has chosen a new path, and has excelled upon the tight-rope. +A marked example of triumph over this is the case of Mr. +Dante Gabriel Rossetti. On the face of the matter, I +should have advised him to imitate the pleasing modesty +of the last-named gentleman, and confine his ambition +to the sawdust. But Mr. Rossetti has triumphed. +He has even dared to translate from his mighty name-father; +and the voice of fame supports him in his +boldness.</p> + +<p>Dear readers, one might write a year upon this matter. +A lifetime of comparison and research could scarce suffice +for its elucidation. So here, if it please you, we shall let +it rest. Slight as these notes have been, I would that the +great founder of the system had been alive to see them. +How he had warmed and brightened, how his persuasive +eloquence would have fallen on the ears of Toby; and +what a letter of praise and sympathy would not the editor +have received before the month was out! Alas, the thing +was not to be. Walter Shandy died and was duly buried, +while yet his theory lay forgotten and neglected by his +fellow-countrymen. But, reader, the day will come, I +hope, when a paternal government will stamp out, as seeds +of national weakness, all depressing patronymics, and when +godfathers and godmothers will soberly and earnestly +debate the interest of the nameless one, and not rush +blindfold to the christening. In these days there shall be +written a “Godfather’s Assistant,” in shape of a dictionary +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page67"></a>67</span> +of names, with their concomitant virtues and vices; and +this book shall be scattered broadcast through the land, +and shall be on the table of every one eligible for god-fathership, +until such a thing as a vicious or untoward +appellation shall have ceased from off the face of the +earth.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page68"></a>68</span></p> + + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page69"></a>69</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>NOTES AND ESSAYS</h2> +<h3>CHIEFLY OF THE ROAD</h3> +<hr class="full" /> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page70"></a>70</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page71"></a>71</span></p> +<hr class="art" /> +<h2>NOTES AND ESSAYS</h2> +<h3>CHIEFLY OF THE ROAD</h3> + +<h5>I</h5> + +<h3>A RETROSPECT</h3> + +<p class="center1">(<i>A Fragment: written at Dunoon, 1870</i>)</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">If</span> there is anything that delights me in Hazlitt, beyond +the charm of style and the unconscious portrait of a vain +and powerful spirit, which his works present, it is the loving +and tender way in which he returns again to the memory of +the past. These little recollections of bygone happiness +were too much a part of the man to be carelessly or poorly +told. The imaginary landscapes and visions of the most +ecstatic dreamer can never rival such recollections, told +simply perhaps, but still told (as they could not fail to be) +with precision, delicacy, and evident delight. They are too +much loved by the author not to be palated by the reader. +But beyond the mere felicity of pencil, the nature of the +piece could never fail to move my heart. When I read his +essay “On the Past and Future,” every word seemed to be +something I had said myself. I could have thought he +had been eavesdropping at the doors of my heart, so entire +was the coincidence between his writing and my thought. +It is a sign perhaps of a somewhat vain disposition. The +future is nothing; but the past is myself, my own history, +the seed of my present thoughts, the mould of my present +disposition. It is not in vain that I return to the nothings +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page72"></a>72</span> +of my childhood; for every one of them has left some stamp +upon me or put some fetter on my boasted free-will. In +the past is my present fate; and in the past also is my real +life. It is not the past only, but the past that has been +many years in that tense. The doings and actions of last +year are as uninteresting and vague to me as the blank gulf +of the future, the <i>tabula rasa</i> that may never be anything +else. I remember a confused hotch-potch of unconnected +events, a “chaos without form, and void”; but nothing +salient or striking rises from the dead level of “flat, stale, +and unprofitable” generality. When we are looking at a +landscape we think ourselves pleased; but it is only when +it comes back upon us by the fire o’ nights that we can disentangle +the main charm from the thick of particulars. +It is just so with what is lately past. It is too much loaded +with detail to be distinct; and the canvas is too large for +the eye to encompass. But this is no more the case when +our recollections have been strained long enough through +the hour-glass of time; when they have been the burthen +of so much thought, the charm and comfort of so many a +vigil. All that is worthless has been sieved and sifted out +of them. Nothing remains but the brightest lights and the +darkest shadows. When we see a mountain country near +at hand, the spurs and haunches crowd up in eager rivalry, +and the whole range seems to have shrugged its shoulders +to its ears, till we cannot tell the higher from the lower: +but when we are far off, these lesser prominences are melted +back into the bosom of the rest, or have set behind the +round horizon of the plain, and the highest peaks stand +forth in lone and sovereign dignity against the sky. It is +just the same with our recollections. We require to draw +back and shade our eyes before the picture dawns upon us +in full breadth and outline. Late years are still in limbo +to us; but the more distant past is all that we possess in +life, the corn already harvested and stored for ever in the +grange of memory. The doings of to-day at some future +time will gain the required offing; I shall learn to love the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page73"></a>73</span> +things of my adolescence, as Hazlitt loved them, and as +I love already the recollections of my childhood. They will +gather interest with every year. They will ripen in forgotten +corners of my memory; and some day I shall +waken and find them vested with new glory and new +pleasantness.</p> + +<p>It is for stirring the chords of memory, then, that I love +Hazlitt’s essays, and for the same reason (I remember) he +himself threw in his allegiance to Rousseau, saying of him, +what was so true of his own writings: “He seems to gather +up the past moments of his being like drops of honey-dew +to distil some precious liquor from them; his alternate +pleasures and pains are the bead-roll that he tells over and +piously worships; he makes a rosary of the flowers of hope +and fancy that strewed his earliest years.” How true are +these words when applied to himself! and how much I +thank him that it was so! All my childhood is a golden +age to me. I have no recollection of bad weather. Except +one or two storms where grandeur had impressed itself on +my mind, the whole time seems steeped in sunshine. +“<i>Et ego in Arcadia vixi</i>” would be no empty boast upon +my grave. If I desire to live long, it is that I may have +the more to look back upon. Even to one, like the unhappy +Duchess,</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p class="i4">“Acquainted with sad misery</p> +<p>As the tamed galley-slave is with his oar,”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">and seeing over the night of troubles no “lily-wristed +morn” of hope appear, a retrospect of even chequered and +doubtful happiness in the past may sweeten the bitterness +of present tears. And here I may be excused if I quote a +passage from an unpublished drama (the unpublished is +perennial, I fancy) which the author believed was not all +devoid of the flavour of our elder dramatists. However +this may be, it expresses better than I could some further +thoughts on this same subject. The heroine is taken by +a minister to the grave, where already some have been +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page74"></a>74</span> +recently buried, and where her sister’s lover is destined to +rejoin them on the following day.<a name="FnAnchor_37" id="FnAnchor_37" href="#Footnote_37"><span class="sp">37</span></a></p> + +<p class="center" style="letter-spacing: 3em; font-size: 150%;">......</p> + +<p>What led me to the consideration of this subject, and +what has made me take up my pen to-night, is the rather +strange coincidence of two very different accidents—a +prophecy of my future and a return into my past. No later +than yesterday, seated in the coffee-room here, there came +into the tap of the hotel a poor mad Highland woman. +The noise of her strained, thin voice brought me out to see +her. I could conceive that she had been pretty once, but +that was many years ago. She was now withered and +fallen-looking. Her hair was thin and straggling, her dress +poor and scanty. Her moods changed as rapidly as a +weathercock before a thunderstorm. One moment she +said her “mutch” was the only thing that gave her comfort, +and the next she slackened the strings and let it back upon +her neck, in a passion at it for making her too hot. Her talk +was a wild, somewhat weird, farrago of utterly meaningless +balderdash, mere inarticulate gabble, snatches of old +Jacobite ballads and exaggerated phrases from the drama, to +which she suited equally exaggerated action. She “babbled +of green fields” and Highland glens; she prophesied +“the drawing of the claymore,” with a lofty disregard of +cause or common-sense; and she broke out suddenly, with +uplifted hands and eyes, into ecstatic “Heaven bless +hims!” and “Heaven forgive hims!” She had been a +camp-follower in her younger days, and she was never +tired of expatiating on the gallantry, the fame, and the +beauty of the 42nd Highlanders. Her patriotism knew no +bounds, and her prolixity was much on the same scale. +This Witch of Endor offered to tell my fortune, with much +dignity and proper oracular enunciation. But on my +holding forth my hand a somewhat ludicrous incident +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page75"></a>75</span> +occurred. “Na, na,” she said; “wait till I have a draw +of my pipe.” Down she sat in the corner, puffing vigorously +and regaling the lady behind the counter with conversation +more remarkable for stinging satire than prophetic dignity. +The person in question had “mair weeg than hair on her +head” (did not the chignon plead guilty at these words?)—“wad +be better if she had less tongue”—and would +come at last to the grave, a goal which, in a few words, she +invested with “warning circumstance” enough to make a +Stoic shudder. Suddenly, in the midst of this, she rose +up and beckoned me to approach. The oracles of my +Highland sorceress had no claim to consideration except +in the matter of obscurity. In “question hard and sentence +intricate” she beat the priests of Delphi; in bold, unvarnished +falsity (as regards the past) even spirit-rapping +was a child to her. All that I could gather may be thus +summed up shortly: that I was to visit America, that I +was to be very happy, and that I was to be much upon the +sea, predictions which, in consideration of an uneasy +stomach, I can scarcely think agreeable with one another. +Two incidents alone relieved the dead level of idiocy and +incomprehensible gabble. The first was the comical +announcement that “when I drew fish to the Marquis of +Bute, I should take care of my sweetheart,” from which +I deduce the fact that at some period of my life I shall drive +a fishmonger’s cart. The second, in the middle of such +nonsense, had a touch of the tragic. She suddenly looked +at me with an eager glance, and dropped my hand saying, +in what were tones of misery or a very good affectation of +them, “Black eyes!” A moment after she was at work +again. It is as well to mention that I have not black +eyes.<a name="FnAnchor_38" id="FnAnchor_38" href="#Footnote_38"><span class="sp">38</span></a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page76"></a>76</span></p> + +<p>This incident, strangely blended of the pathetic and +the ludicrous, set my mind at work upon the future; but +I could find little interest in the study. Even the predictions +of my sibyl failed to allure me, nor could life’s prospect +charm and detain my attention like its retrospect.</p> + +<p>Not far from Dunoon is Rosemore, a house in which I +had spent a week or so in my very distant childhood, how +distant I have no idea; and one may easily conceive how +I looked forward to revisiting this place and so renewing +contact with my former self. I was under necessity to be +early up, and under necessity also, in the teeth of a bitter +spring north-easter, to clothe myself warmly on the morning +of my long-promised excursion. The day was as bright as +it was cold. Vast irregular masses of white and purple +cumulus drifted rapidly over the sky. The great hills, +brown with the bloomless heather, were here and there +buried in blue shadows, and streaked here and there with +sharp stripes of sun. The new-fired larches were green in +the glens; and “pale primroses” hid themselves in mossy +hollows and under hawthorn roots. All these things were +new to me; for I had noticed none of these beauties in +my younger days, neither the larch woods, nor the winding +road edged in between field and flood, nor the broad, +ruffled bosom of the hill-surrounded loch. It was, above +all, the height of these hills that astonished me. I remembered +the existence of hills, certainly, but the picture in +my memory was low, featureless, and uninteresting. They +seemed to have kept pace with me in my growth, but to a +gigantic scale; and the villas that I remembered as half-way +up the slope seemed to have been left behind like +myself, and now only ringed their mighty feet, white +among the newly kindled woods. As I felt myself on the +road at last that I had been dreaming for these many days +before, a perfect intoxication of joy took hold upon me; +and I was so pleased at my own happiness that I could let +none past me till I had taken them into my confidence. +I asked my way from every one, and took good care to let +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page77"></a>77</span> +them all know, before they left me, what my object was, +and how many years had elapsed since my last visit. I +wonder what the good folk thought of me and my communications.</p> + +<p>At last, however, after much inquiry, I arrive at the +place, make my peace with the gardener, and enter. My +disillusion dates from the opening of the garden door. +I repine, I find a reluctation of spirit against believing that +this is the place. What, is this kailyard that inexhaustible +paradise of a garden in which M—— and I found “elbow-room,” +and expatiated together without sensible constraint? +Is that little turfed slope the huge and perilous green bank +down which I counted it a feat, and the gardener a sin, to +run? Are these two squares of stone, some two feet high, +the pedestals on which I walked with such a penetrating +sense of dizzy elevation, and which I had expected to find +on a level with my eyes? Ay, the place is no more like +what I expected than this bleak April day is like the +glorious September with which it is incorporated in my +memory. I look at the gardener, disappointment in my +face, and tell him that the place seems sorrily shrunken +from the high estate that it had held in my remembrance, +and he returns, with quiet laughter, by asking me how long +it is since I was there. I tell him, and he remembers me. +Ah! I say, I was a great nuisance, I believe. But no, my +good gardener will plead guilty to having kept no record +of my evil-doings, and I find myself much softened toward +the place and willing to take a kinder view and pardon its +shortcomings for the sake of the gardener and his pretended +recollection of myself. And it is just at this stage (to +complete my re-establishment) that I see a little boy—the +gardener’s grandchild—just about the same age and the +same height that I must have been in the days when I was +here last. My first feeling is one of almost anger, to see +him playing on the gravel where I had played before, as +if he had usurped something of my identity; but next +moment I feel a softening and a sort of rising and qualm +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page78"></a>78</span> +of the throat, accompanied by a pricking heat in the eye +balls. I hastily join conversation with the child, and +inwardly felicitate myself that the gardener is opportunely +gone for the key of the house. But the child is a sort of +homily to me. He is perfectly quiet and resigned, an +unconscious hermit. I ask him jocularly if he gets as +much abused as I used to do for running down the bank; +but the child’s perfect seriousness of answer staggers me—“O +no, grandpapa doesn’t allow it—why should he?” +I feel caught: I stand abashed at the reproof; I must +not expose my childishness again to this youthful disciplinarian, +and so I ask him very stately what he is going +to be—a good serious practical question, out of delicacy +for his parts. He answers that he is going to be a missionary +to China, and tells me how a missionary once took him on +his knee and told him about missionary work, and asked +him if he, too, would not like to become one, to which the +child had simply answered in the affirmative. The child is +altogether so different from what I have been, is so absolutely +complementary to what I now am, that I turn away +not a little abashed from the conversation, for there is +always something painful in sudden contact with the good +qualities that we do not possess. Just then the grandfather +returns; and I go with him to the summer-house, where +I used to learn my Catechism, to the wall on which M—— +and I thought it no small exploit to walk upon, and all the +other places that I remembered.</p> + +<p>In fine, the matter being ended, I turn and go my way +home to the hotel, where, in the cold afternoon, I write +these notes with the table and chair drawn as near the fire +as the rug and the French polish will permit.</p> + +<p>One other thing I may as well make a note of, and that +is how there arises that strange contradiction of the hills +being higher than I had expected and everything near at +hand being so ridiculously smaller. This is a question I +think easily answered: the very terms of the problem +suggest the solution. To everything near at hand I applied +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page79"></a>79</span> +my own stature, as a sort of natural unit of measurement, +so that I had no actual image of their dimensions but their +ratio to myself; so, of course, as one term of the proportion +changed, the other changed likewise, and as my own height +increased my notion of things near at hand became equally +expanded. But the hills, mark you, were out of my reach: +I could not apply myself to them: I had an actual, instead +of a proportional eidolon of their magnitude; so that, of +course (my eye being larger and flatter nowadays, and so +the image presented to me then being in sober earnest +smaller than the image presented to me now), I found the +hills nearly as much too great as I had found the other +things too small.</p> + +<p class="pt2">[<i>Added the next morning</i>.]—He who indulges habitually +in the intoxicating pleasures of imagination, for the very +reason that he reaps a greater pleasure than others, must +resign himself to a keener pain, a more intolerable and +utter prostration. It is quite possible, and even comparatively +easy, so to enfold oneself in pleasant fancies that +the realities of life may seem but as the white snow-shower +in the street, that only gives a relish to the swept hearth +and lively fire within. By such means I have forgotten +hunger, I have sometimes eased pain, and I have invariably +changed into the most pleasant hours of the day those very +vacant and idle seasons which would otherwise have hung +most heavily upon my hand. But all this is attained by +the undue prominence of purely imaginative joys, and consequently +the weakening and almost the destruction of +reality. This is buying at too great a price. There are +seasons when the imagination becomes somehow tranced +and surfeited, as it is with me this morning; and then +upon what can we fall back? The very faculty that we +have fostered and trusted has failed us in the hour of trial; +and we have so blunted and enfeebled our appetite for the +others that they are subjectively dead to us. It is just as +though a farmer should plant all his fields in potatoes, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page80"></a>80</span> +instead of varying them with grain and pasture; and so, +when the disease comes, lose all his harvest, while his +neighbours, perhaps, may balance the profit and the loss. +Do not suppose that I am exaggerating when I talk about +all pleasures seeming stale. To me, at least, the edge of +almost everything is put on by imagination; and even +nature, in these days when the fancy is drugged and useless, +wants half the charm it has in better moments. I can no +longer see satyrs in the thicket, or picture a highwayman +riding down the lane. The fiat of indifference has gone +forth: I am vacant, unprofitable: a leaf on a river with +no volition and no aim: a mental drunkard the morning +after an intellectual debauch. Yes, I have a more subtle +opium in my own mind than any apothecary’s drug; but +it has a sting of its own, and leaves me as flat and +helpless as does the other.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_37" id="Footnote_37" href="#FnAnchor_37"><span class="fn">37</span></a> The quotation here promised from one of the author’s own early +dramatic efforts (a tragedy of Semiramis) is not supplied in the MS.—[<span class="sc">Sir +Sidney Colvin’s Note</span>.]</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_38" id="Footnote_38" href="#FnAnchor_38"><span class="fn">38</span></a> “The old pythoness was right,” adds the author in a note +appended to his MS. in 1887; “I have been happy: I did go to +America (am even going again—unless——): and I have been twice +and once upon the deep.” The seafaring part of the prophecy +remained to be fulfilled on a far more extended scale in his Pacific +voyages of 1888-90.—[<span class="sc">Sir Sidney Colvin’s Note.</span>]</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>II</h5> + +<h3>COCKERMOUTH AND KESWICK</h3> + +<p class="center1">(<i>A Fragment</i>: 1871)</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Very</span> much as a painter half closes his eyes so that some +salient unity may disengage itself from among the crowd +of details, and what he sees may thus form itself into a +whole; very much on the same principle, I may say, I +allow a considerable lapse of time to intervene between any +of my little journeyings and the attempt to chronicle them. +I cannot describe a thing that is before me at the moment, +or that has been before me only a very little while before; +I must allow my recollections to get thoroughly strained +free from all chaff till nothing be except the pure gold; +allow my memory to choose out what is truly memorable +by a process of natural selection; and I piously believe +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page81"></a>81</span> +that in this way I ensure the Survival of the Fittest. If +I make notes for future use, or if I am obliged to write +letters during the course of my little excursion, I so interfere +with the process that I can never again find out what is +worthy of being preserved, or what should be given in full +length, what in torso, or what merely in profile. This +process of incubation may be unreasonably prolonged; and +I am somewhat afraid that I have made this mistake with +the present journey. Like a bad daguerreotype, great part +of it has been entirely lost; I can tell you nothing about +the beginning and nothing about the end; but the doings +of some fifty or sixty hours about the middle remain quite +distinct and definite, like a little patch of sunshine on a +long, shadowy plain, or the one spot on an old picture that +has been restored by the dexterous hand of the cleaner. +I remember a tale of an old Scots minister, called upon +suddenly to preach, who had hastily snatched an old +sermon out of his study and found himself in the pulpit +before he noticed that the rats had been making free with +his manuscript and eaten the first two or three pages away; +he gravely explained to the congregation how he found +himself situated; “And now,” said he, “let us just begin +where the rats have left off.” I must follow the divine’s +example, and take up the thread of my discourse where it +first distinctly issues from the limbo of forgetfulness.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h5>COCKERMOUTH</h5> + +<p>I was lighting my pipe as I stepped out of the inn at +Cockermouth, and did not raise my head until I was fairly +in the street. When I did so, it flashed upon me that I +was in England; the evening sunlight lit up English +houses, English faces, an English conformation of street,—as +it were, an English atmosphere blew against my face. +There is nothing perhaps more puzzling (if one thing in +sociology can ever really be more unaccountable than +another) than the great gulf that is set between England +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page82"></a>82</span> +and Scotland—a gulf so easy in appearance, in reality so +difficult to traverse. Here are two people almost identical +in blood; pent up together on one small island, so that +their intercourse (one would have thought) must be as +close as that of prisoners who shared one cell of the Bastille; +the same in language and religion; and yet a few years of +quarrelsome isolation—a mere forenoon’s tiff, as one may +call it, in comparison with the great historical cycles—has +so separated their thoughts and ways that not unions, not +mutual dangers, nor steamers, nor railways, nor all the +king’s horses and all the king’s men, seem able to obliterate +the broad distinction. In the trituration of another +century or so the corners may disappear; but in the +meantime, in the year of grace 1871, I was as much in a +new country as if I had been walking out of the Hotel +St. Antoine at Antwerp.</p> + +<p>I felt a little thrill of pleasure at my heart as I realised +the change, and strolled away up the street with my hands +behind my back, noting in a dull, sensual way how foreign, +and yet how friendly, were the slopes of the gables and the +colour of the tiles, and even the demeanour and voices of +the gossips round about me.</p> + +<p>Wandering in this aimless humour, I turned up a lane +and found myself following the course of the bright little +river. I passed first one and then another, then a third, +several couples out love-making in the spring evening; +and a consequent feeling of loneliness was beginning to +grow upon me, when I came to a dam across the river, and +a mill—a great, gaunt promontory of building,—half on +dry ground and half arched over the stream. The road +here drew in its shoulders, and crept through between the +landward extremity of the mill and a little garden enclosure, +with a small house and a large signboard within its privet +hedge. I was pleased to fancy this an inn, and drew little +etchings in fancy of a sanded parlour, and three-cornered +spittoons, and a society of parochial gossips seated within +over their churchwardens; but as I drew near, the board +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page83"></a>83</span> +displayed its superscription, and I could read the name of +Smethurst, and the designation of “Canadian Felt Hat +Manufacturers.” There was no more hope of evening +fellowship, and I could only stroll on by the river-side, +under the trees. The water was dappled with slanting +sunshine, and dusted all over with a little mist of flying +insects. There were some amorous ducks, also, whose love-making +reminded me of what I had seen a little farther +down. But the road grew sad, and I grew weary; and as +I was perpetually haunted with the terror of a return of +the tic that had been playing such ruin in my head a week +ago, I turned and went back to the inn, and supper, and +my bed.</p> + +<p>The next morning, at breakfast, I communicated to the +smart waitress my intention of continuing down the coast +and through Whitehaven to Furness, and, as I might have +expected, I was instantly confronted by that last and most +worrying form of interference, that chooses to introduce +tradition and authority into the choice of a man’s own +pleasures. I can excuse a person combating my religious +or philosophical heresies, because them I have deliberately +accepted, and am ready to justify by present argument. +But I do not seek to justify my pleasures. If I prefer +tame scenery to grand, a little hot sunshine over lowland +parks and woodlands to the war of the elements round the +summit of Mont Blanc; or if I prefer a pipe of mild tobacco, +and the company of one or two chosen companions, to a +ball where I feel myself very hot, awkward, and weary, +I merely state these preferences as facts, and do not seek +to establish them as principles. This is not the general +rule, however, and accordingly the waitress was shocked, +as one might be at a heresy, to hear the route that I had +sketched out for myself. Everybody who came to Cockermouth +for pleasure, it appeared, went on to Keswick. It +was in vain that I put up a little plea for the liberty of the +subject; it was in vain that I said I should prefer to go to +Whitehaven. I was told that there was “nothing to see +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page84"></a>84</span> +there”—that weary, hackneyed, old falsehood; and at +last, as the handmaiden began to look really concerned, I +gave way, as men always do in such circumstances, and +agreed that I was to leave for Keswick by a train in the +early evening.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h5>AN EVANGELIST</h5> + +<p>Cockermouth itself, on the same authority, was a place +with “nothing to see”; nevertheless I saw a good deal, +and retain a pleasant, vague picture of the town and all its +surroundings. I might have dodged happily enough all +day about the main street and up to the castle and in and +out of byways, but the curious attraction that leads a +person in a strange place to follow, day after day, the same +round, and to make set habits for himself in a week or ten +days, led me half unconsciously up the same road that I +had gone the evening before. When I came up to the hat +manufactory, Smethurst himself was standing in the garden +gate. He was brushing one Canadian felt hat, and several +others had been put to await their turn one above the +other on his own head, so that he looked something like +the typical Jew old-clothesman. As I drew near, he came +sidling out of the doorway to accost me, with so curious an +expression on his face that I instinctively prepared myself +to apologise for some unwitting trespass. His first question +rather confirmed me in this belief, for it was whether or +not he had seen me going up this way last night; and after +having answered in the affirmative, I waited in some alarm +for the rest of my indictment. But the good man’s heart +was full of peace; and he stood there brushing his hats and +prattling on about fishing, and walking, and the pleasures +of convalescence, in a bright shallow stream that kept me +pleased and interested, I could scarcely say how. As he +went on, he warmed to his subject, and laid his hats aside +to go along the water-side and show me where the large +trout commonly lay, underneath an overhanging bank; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page85"></a>85</span> +and he was much disappointed, for my sake, that there were +none visible just then. Then he wandered off on to another +tack, and stood a great while out in the middle of a meadow +in the hot sunshine, trying to make out that he had known +me before, or, if not me, some friend of mine—merely, I +believe, out of a desire that we should feel more friendly +and at our ease with one another. At last he made a little +speech to me, of which I wish I could recollect the very +words, for they were so simple and unaffected that they +put all the best writing and speaking to the blush; as it +is, I can recall only the sense, and that perhaps imperfectly. +He began by saying that he had little things in his past life +that it gave him especial pleasure to recall; and that the +faculty of receiving such sharp impressions had now died +out in himself, but must at my age be still quite lively and +active. Then he told me that he had a little raft afloat on +the river above the dam which he was going to lend me, +in order that I might be able to look back, in after years, +upon having done so, and get great pleasure from the +recollection. Now, I have a friend of my own who will +forego present enjoyments and suffer much present inconvenience +for the sake of manufacturing “a reminiscence” +for himself; but there was something singularly refined +in this pleasure that the hatmaker found in making reminiscences +for others; surely no more simple or unselfish +luxury can be imagined. After he had unmoored his little +embarkation, and seen me safely shoved off into mid-stream, +he ran away back to his hats with the air of a man who had +only just recollected that he had anything to do.</p> + +<p>I did not stay very long on the raft. It ought to have +been very nice punting about there in the cool shade of the +trees, or sitting moored to an overhanging root; but +perhaps the very notion that I was bound in gratitude +specially to enjoy my little cruise, and cherish its recollection, +turned the whole thing from a pleasure into a duty. Be +that as it may, there is no doubt that I soon wearied and +came ashore again, and that it gives me more pleasure to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page86"></a>86</span> +recall the man himself and his simple, happy conversation, +so full of gusto and sympathy, than anything possibly +connected with his crank, insecure embarkation. In order +to avoid seeing him, for I was not a little ashamed of myself +for having failed to enjoy this treat sufficiently, I determined +to continue up the river, and, at all prices, to find +some other way back into the town in time for dinner. +As I went, I was thinking of Smethurst with admiration; +a look into that man’s mind was like a retrospect over the +smiling champaign of his past life, and very different from +the Sinai-gorges up which one looks for a terrified moment +into the dark souls of many good, many wise, and many +prudent men. I cannot be very grateful to such men for +their excellence, and wisdom, and prudence. I find myself +facing as stoutly as I can a hard, combative existence, full +of doubt, difficulties, defeats, disappointments, and dangers, +quite a hard enough life without their dark countenances at +my elbow, so that what I want is a happy-minded Smethurst +placed here and there at ugly corners of my life’s wayside, +preaching his gospel of quiet and contentment.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h5>ANOTHER</h5> + +<p>I was shortly to meet with an evangelist of another +stamp. After I had forced my way through a gentleman’s +grounds, I came out on the high road, and sat down +to rest myself on a heap of stones at the top of a long hill, +with Cockermouth lying snugly at the bottom. An Irish +beggar-woman, with a beautiful little girl by her side, came +up to ask for alms, and gradually fell to telling me the +little tragedy of her life. Her own sister, she told me, had +seduced her husband from her after many years of married +life, and the pair had fled, leaving her destitute, with the +little girl upon her hands. She seemed quite hopeful and +cheery, and, though she was unaffectedly sorry for the loss +of her husband’s earnings, she made no pretence of despair +at the loss of his affection; some day she would meet the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page87"></a>87</span> +fugitives, and the law would see her duly righted, and in +the meantime the smallest contribution was gratefully +received. While she was telling all this in the most matter-of-fact +way, I had been noticing the approach of a tall man, +with a high white hat and darkish clothes. He came up +the hill at a rapid pace, and joined our little group with a +sort of half salutation. Turning at once to the woman, +he asked her in a business-like way whether she had anything +to do, whether she were a Catholic or a Protestant, whether +she could read, and so forth; and then, after a few kind +words and some sweeties to the child, he despatched the +mother with some tracts about Biddy and the Priest, and +the Orangeman’s Bible. I was a little amused at his abrupt +manner, for he was still a young man, and had somewhat +the air of a navy officer; but he tackled me with great +solemnity. I could make fun of what he said, for I do +not think it was very wise; but the subject does not +appear to me just now in a jesting light, so I shall only +say that he related to me his own conversion, which had +been effected (as is very often the case) through the +agency of a gig accident, and that, after having examined +me and diagnosed my case, he selected some suitable +tracts from his repertory, gave them to me, and, bidding +me God-speed, went on his way.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h5>LAST OF SMETHURST</h5> + +<p>That evening I got into a third-class carriage on my +way for Keswick, and was followed almost immediately +by a burly man in brown clothes. This fellow-passenger +was seemingly ill at ease, and kept continually putting his +head out of the window, and asking the bystanders if they +saw <i>him</i> coming. At last, when the train was already in +motion, there was a commotion on the platform, and a way +was left clear to our carriage door. <i>He</i> had arrived. In +the hurry I could just see Smethurst, red and panting, +thrust a couple of clay pipes into my companion’s outstretched +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page88"></a>88</span> +hand, and hear him crying his farewells after us +as we slipped out of the station at an ever accelerating +pace. I said something about its being a close run, and +the broad man, already engaged in filling one of the pipes, +assented, and went on to tell me of his own stupidity in +forgetting a necessary, and of how his friend had good-naturedly +gone down town at the last moment to supply the +omission. I mentioned that I had seen Mr. Smethurst +already, and that he had been very polite to me; and we +fell into a discussion of the hatter’s merits that lasted +some time and left us quite good friends at its conclusion. +The topic was productive of goodwill. We exchanged +tobacco and talked about the season, and agreed at last +that we should go to the same hotel at Keswick and sup in +company. As he had some business in the town which +would occupy him some hour or so, on our arrival I was to +improve the time and go down to the lake, that I might +see a glimpse of the promised wonders.</p> + +<p>The night had fallen already when I reached the water-side, +at a place where many pleasure-boats are moored and +ready for hire; and as I went along a stony path, between +wood and water, a strong wind blew in gusts from the far +end of the lake. The sky was covered with flying scud; +and, as this was ragged, there was quite a wild chase of +shadow and moon-glimpse over the surface of the shuddering +water. I had to hold my hat on, and was growing rather +tired, and inclined to go back in disgust, when a little +incident occurred to break the tedium. A sudden and +violent squall of wind sundered the low underwood, and +at the same time there came one of those brief discharges +of moonlight, which leaped into the opening thus made, +and showed me three girls in the prettiest flutter and disorder. +It was as though they had sprung out of the ground. +I accosted them very politely in my capacity of stranger, +and requested to be told the names of all manner of hills +and woods and places that I did not wish to know, and we +stood together for a while and had an amusing little talk. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page89"></a>89</span> +The wind, too, made himself of the party, brought the +colour into their faces, and gave them enough to do to +repress their drapery; and one of them, amid much giggling, +had to pirouette round and round upon her toes (as girls +do) when some specially strong gust had got the advantage +over her. They were just high enough up in the social +order not to be afraid to speak to a gentleman; and just +low enough to feel a little tremor, a nervous consciousness +of wrong-doing—of stolen waters, that gave a considerable +zest to our most innocent interview. They were as much +discomposed and fluttered, indeed, as if I had been a +wicked baron proposing to elope with the whole trio; but +they showed no inclination to go away, and I had managed +to get them off hills and waterfalls and on to more promising +subjects, when a young man was descried coming along +the path from the direction of Keswick. Now whether he +was the young man of one of my friends, or the brother of +one of them, or indeed the brother of all, I do not know; +but they incontinently said that they must be going, and +went away up the path with friendly salutations. I need +not say that I found the lake and the moonlight rather dull +after their departure and speedily found my way back to +potted herrings and whisky-and-water in the commercial +room with my late fellow-traveller. In the smoking-room +there was a tall dark man with a moustache, in an ulster +coat, who had got the best place and was monopolising +most of the talk; and, as I came in, a whisper came round +to me from both sides, that this was the manager of a +London theatre. The presence of such a man was a great +event for Keswick, and I must own that the manager +showed himself equal to his position. He had a large fat +pocket-book, from which he produced poem after poem, +written on the backs of letters or hotel-bills; and nothing +could be more humorous than his recitation of these elegant +extracts, except perhaps the anecdotes with which he varied +the entertainment. Seeing, I suppose, something less +countrified in my appearance than in most of the company, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page90"></a>90</span> +he singled me out to corroborate some statements as to +the depravity and vice of the aristocracy, and when he +went on to describe some gilded saloon experiences, I am +proud to say that he honoured my sagacity with one little +covert wink before a second time appealing to me for confirmation. +The wink was not thrown away; I went in +up to the elbows with the manager, until I think that some +of the glory of that great man settled by reflection upon +me, and that I was as noticeably the second person in +the smoking-room as he was the first. For a young man, +this was a position of some distinction, I think you will +admit....</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>III</h5> + +<h3>ROADS</h3> + +<p class="center1">(1873)</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">No</span> amateur will deny that he can find more pleasure in +a single drawing, over which he can sit a whole quiet forenoon, +and so gradually study himself into humour with +the artist, than he can ever extract from the dazzle and +accumulation of incongruous impressions that send him, +weary and stupefied, out of some famous picture-gallery. +But what is thus admitted with regard to art is not extended +to the (so-called) natural beauties: no amount of excess +in sublime mountain outline or the graces of cultivated +lowland can do anything, it is supposed, to weaken or +degrade the palate. We are not at all sure, however, that +moderation, and a regimen tolerably austere, even in +scenery, are not healthful and strengthening to the taste; +and that the best school for a lover of nature is not to be +found in one of those countries where there is no stage +effect—nothing salient or sudden,—but a quiet spirit of +orderly and harmonious beauty pervades all the details, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page91"></a>91</span> +so that we can patiently attend to each of the little touches +that strike in us, all of them together, the subdued note +of the landscape. It is in scenery such as this that we find +ourselves in the right temper to seek out small sequestered +loveliness. The constant recurrence of similar combinations +of colour and outline gradually forces upon us a sense of +how the harmony has been built up, and we become familiar +with something of nature’s mannerism. This is the true +pleasure of your “rural voluptuary,”—not to remain awe-stricken +before a Mount Chimborazo; not to sit deafened +over the big drum in the orchestra, but day by day to teach +himself some new beauty—to experience some new vague +and tranquil sensation that has before evaded him. It +is not the people who “have pined and hungered after +nature many a year, in the great city pent,” as Coleridge +said in the poem that made Charles Lamb so much ashamed +of himself; it is not those who make the greatest progress +in this intimacy with her, or who are most quick to see and +have the greatest gusto to enjoy. In this, as in everything +else, it is minute knowledge and long-continued loving +industry that make the true dilettante. A man must have +thought much over scenery before he begins fully to enjoy +it. It is no youngling enthusiasm on hill-tops that can +possess itself of the last essence of beauty. Probably most +people’s heads are growing bare before they can see all in +a landscape that they have the capability of seeing; and, +even then, it will be only for one little moment of consummation +before the faculties are again on the decline, +and they that look out of the windows begin to be darkened +and restrained in sight. Thus the study of nature should +be carried forward thoroughly and with system. Every +gratification should be rolled long under the tongue, and +we should be always eager to analyse and compare, in +order that we may be able to give some plausible reason for +our admirations. True, it is difficult to put even approximately +into words the kind of feelings thus called into play. +There is a dangerous vice inherent in any such intellectual +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page92"></a>92</span> +refining upon vague sensation. The analysis of such +satisfactions lends itself very readily to literary affectations; +and we can all think of instances where it has shown itself +apt to exercise a morbid influence, even upon an author’s +choice of language and the turn of his sentences. And yet +there is much that makes the attempt attractive; for any +expression, however imperfect, once given to a cherished +feeling, seems a sort of legitimation of the pleasure we take +in it. A common sentiment is one of those great goods +that make life palatable and ever new. The knowledge +that another has felt as we have felt, and seen things, even +if they are little things, not much otherwise than we have +seen them, will continue to the end to be one of life’s +choicest pleasures.</p> + +<p>Let the reader, then, betake himself in the spirit we have +recommended to some of the quieter kinds of English landscape. +In those homely and placid agricultural districts, +familiarity will bring into relief many things worthy of +notice, and urge them pleasantly home to him by a sort of +loving repetition; such as the wonderful life-giving speed +of windmill sails above the stationary country; the occurrence +and recurrence of the same church tower at the end +of one long vista after another; and, conspicuous among +these sources of quiet pleasure, the character and variety of +the road itself, along which he takes his way. Not only +near at hand, in the lithe contortions with which it adapts +itself to the interchanges of level and slope, but far away +also, when he sees a few hundred feet of it upheaved against +a hill and shining in the afternoon sun, he will find it an +object so changeful and enlivening that he can always +pleasurably busy his mind about it. He may leave the +river-side, or fall out of the way of villages, but the road he +has always with him; and, in the true humour of observation, +will find in that sufficient company. From its subtle +windings and changes of level there arises a keen and continuous +interest, that keeps the attention ever alert and +cheerful. Every sensitive adjustment to the contour of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page93"></a>93</span> +ground, every little dip and swerve, seems instinct with +life and an exquisite sense of balance and beauty. The +road rolls upon the easy slopes of the country, like a long +ship in the hollows of the sea. The very margins of waste +ground, as they trench a little farther on the beaten way, +or recede again to the shelter of the hedge, have something +of the same free delicacy of line—of the same swing and +wilfulness. You might think for a whole summer’s day +(and not have thought it any nearer an end by evening) +what concourse and succession of circumstances has produced +the least of these deflections; and it is, perhaps, just +in this that we should look for the secret of their interest. +A footpath across a meadow—in all its human waywardness +and unaccountability, in all the <i>grata protervitas</i> of its +varying direction—will always be more to us than a railroad +well engineered through a difficult country.<a name="FnAnchor_39" id="FnAnchor_39" href="#Footnote_39"><span class="sp">39</span></a> No reasoned +sequence is thrust upon our attention: we seem to have +slipped for one lawless little moment out of the iron rule +of cause and effect; and so we revert at once to some of +the pleasant old heresies of personification, always poetically +orthodox, and attribute a sort of free will, an active and +spontaneous life, to the white riband of road that lengthens +out, and bends, and cunningly adapts itself to the inequalities +of the land before our eyes. We remember, as we write, +some miles of fine wide highway laid out with conscious +æsthetic artifice through a broken and richly cultivated +tract of country. It is said that the engineer had Hogarth’s +line of beauty in his mind as he laid them down. And the +result is striking. One splendid satisfying sweep passes +with easy transition into another, and there is nothing to +trouble or dislocate the strong continuousness of the main +line of the road. And yet there is something wanting. +There is here no saving imperfection, none of these secondary +curves and little trepidations of direction that carry, in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page94"></a>94</span> +natural roads, our curiosity actively along with them. +One feels at once that this road has not grown like a natural +road, but has been laboriously made to pattern; and that, +while a model may be academically correct in outline, it will +always be inanimate and cold. The traveller is also aware +of a sympathy of mood between himself and the road he +travels. We have all seen ways that have wandered into +heavy sand near the sea-coast, and trail wearily over the +dunes like a trodden serpent: here we too must plod +forward at a dull, laborious pace; and so a sympathy is +preserved between our frame of mind and the expression +of the relaxed, heavy curves of the roadway. Such a +phenomenon, indeed, our reason might perhaps resolve +with a little trouble. We might reflect that the present +road had been developed out of a track spontaneously +followed by generations of primitive wayfarers; and might +see in its expression a testimony that those generations had +been affected at the same ground, one after another, in the +same manner as we are affected to-day. Or we might carry +the reflection further, and remind ourselves that where the +air is invigorating and the ground firm under the traveller’s +foot, his eye is quick to take advantage of small undulations, +and he will turn carelessly aside from the direct way wherever +there is anything beautiful to examine or some promise +of a wider view; so that even a bush of wild roses may +permanently bias and deform the straight path over the +meadow; whereas, where the soil is heavy, one is preoccupied +with the labour of mere progression, and goes +with a bowed head heavily and unobservantly forward. +Reason, however, will not carry us the whole way; for the +sentiment often recurs in situations where it is very hard +to imagine any possible explanation; and indeed, if we +drive briskly along a good, well-made road in an open +vehicle, we shall experience this sympathy almost at its +fullest. We feel the sharp settle of the springs at some +curiously twisted corner; after a steep ascent, the fresh +air dances in our faces as we rattle precipitately down the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page95"></a>95</span> +other side, and we find It difficult to avoid attributing +something headlong, a sort of <i>abandon</i>, to the road itself.</p> + +<p>The mere winding of the path is enough to enliven a +long day’s walk in even a commonplace or dreary country-side. +Something that we have seen from miles back, upon +an eminence, is so long hid from us, as we wander through +folded valleys or among woods, that our expectation of +seeing it again is sharpened into a violent appetite, and as +we draw nearer we impatiently quicken our steps and +turn every corner with a beating heart. It is through these +prolongations of expectancy, this succession of one hope to +another, that we live out long seasons of pleasure in a few +hours’ walk. It is in following these capricious sinuosities +that we learn, only bit by bit and through one coquettish +reticence after another, much as we learn the heart of a +friend, the whole loveliness of the country. This disposition +always preserves something new to be seen, and takes us, +like a careful cicerone, to many different points of distant +view before it allows us finally to approach the hoped-for +destination.</p> + +<p>In its connection with the traffic, and whole friendly +intercourse with the country, there is something very +pleasant in that succession of saunterers and brisk and +business-like passers-by, that peoples our ways and helps +to build up what Walt Whitman calls “the cheerful voice +of the public road, the gay, fresh sentiment of the road.” +But out of the great network of ways that binds all life +together from the hill-farm to the city, there is something +individual to most, and, on the whole, nearly as much +choice on the score of company as on the score of beauty +or easy travel. On some we are never long without the +sound of wheels, and folk pass us by so thickly that we +lose the sense of their number. But on others, about little-frequented +districts, a meeting is an affair of moment; we +have the sight far off of some one coming towards us, the +growing definiteness of the person, and then the brief +passage and salutation, and the road left empty in front +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page96"></a>96</span> +of us for perhaps a great while to come. Such encounters +have a wistful interest that can hardly be understood by +the dweller in places more populous. We remember +standing beside a countryman once, in the mouth of a quiet +by-street in a city that was more than ordinarily crowded +and bustling; he seemed stunned and bewildered by the +continual passage of different faces; and after a long pause, +during which he appeared to search for some suitable expression, +he said timidly that there seemed to be a <i>great +deal of meeting thereabouts</i>. The phrase is significant. It +is the expression of town-life in the language of the long, +solitary country highways. A meeting of one with one +was what this man had been used to in the pastoral +uplands from which he came; and the concourse of the +streets was in his eyes only an extraordinary multiplication +of such “meetings.”</p> + +<p>And now we come to that last and most subtle quality of +all, to that sense of prospect, of outlook, that is brought so +powerfully to our minds by a road. In real nature as well +as in old landscapes, beneath that impartial daylight in +which a whole variegated plain is plunged and saturated, +the line of the road leads the eye forth with the vague sense +of desire up to the green limit of the horizon. Travel is +brought home to us, and we visit in spirit every grove and +hamlet that tempts us in the distance. <i>Sehnsucht</i>—the +passion for what is ever beyond—is livingly expressed in +that white riband of possible travel that severs the uneven +country; not a ploughman following his plough up the +shining furrow, not the blue smoke of any cottage in a +hollow, but is brought to us with a sense of nearness and +attainability by this wavering line of junction. There is a +passionate paragraph in Werther that strikes the very key. +“When I came hither,” he writes, “how the beautiful +valley invited me on every side, as I gazed down into it +from the hill-top! There the wood—ah, that I might +mingle in its shadows! there the mountain summits—ah, +that I might look down from them over the broad country! +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page97"></a>97</span> +the interlinked hills! the secret valleys! O, to lose myself +among their mysteries! I hurried into the midst, and came +back without finding aught I hoped for. Alas! the distance +is like the future. A vast whole lies in the twilight before +our spirit; sight and feeling alike plunge and lose themselves +in the prospect, and we yearn to surrender our whole +being, and let it be filled full with all the rapture of one single +glorious sensation; and alas! when we hasten to the +fruition, when <i>there</i> is changed to <i>here</i>, all is afterwards as +it was before, and we stand in our indigent and cramped +estate, and our soul thirsts after a still ebbing elixir.” It +is to this wandering and uneasy spirit of anticipation that +roads minister. Every little vista, every little glimpse that +we have of what lies before us, gives the impatient imagination +rein, so that it can outstrip the body and already plunge +into the shadow of the woods, and overlook from the hilltop +the plain beyond it, and wander in the windings of the +valleys that are still far in front. The road is already there—we +shall not be long behind. It is as if we were marching +with the rear of a great army, and, from far before, heard +the acclamation of the people as the vanguard entered some +friendly and jubilant city. Would not every man, through +all the long miles of march, feel as if he also were within +the gates?</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_39" id="Footnote_39" href="#FnAnchor_39"><span class="fn">39</span></a> Compare Blake, in the “Marriage of Heaven and Hell”: +“Improvement makes straight roads; but the crooked roads, +without improvement, are roads of Genius.”</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>IV</h5> + +<h3>NOTES ON THE MOVEMENTS OF +YOUNG CHILDREN</h3> + +<p class="center1">(1874)</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">I wish</span> to direct the reader’s attention to a certain quality +in the movements of children when young, which is somehow +lovable in them, although it would be even unpleasant +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page98"></a>98</span> +in any grown person. Their movements are not graceful, +but they fall short of grace by something so sweetly +humorous that we only admire them the more. The imperfection +is so pretty and pathetic, and it gives so great +a promise of something different in the future, that it +attracts us more than many forms of beauty. They have +something of the merit of a rough sketch by a master, in +which we pardon what is wanting or excessive for the sake +of the very bluntness and directness of the thing. It gives +us pleasure to see the beginning of gracious impulses and +the springs of harmonious movement laid bare to us with +innocent simplicity.</p> + +<p>One night some ladies formed a sort of impromptu +dancing-school in the drawing-room of an hotel in France. +One of the ladies led the ring, and I can recall her as a +model of accomplished, cultured movement. Two little +girls, about eight years old, were the pupils; that is an +age of great interest in girls, when natural grace comes to +its consummation of justice and purity, with little admixture +of that other grace of forethought and discipline that will +shortly supersede it altogether. In these two, particularly, +the rhythm was sometimes broken by an excess of energy, +as though the pleasure of the music in their light bodies +could endure no longer the restraint of regulated dance. +So that, between these and the lady, there was not only +some beginning of the very contrast I wish to insist upon, +but matter enough to set one thinking a long while on the +beauty of motion. I do not know that, here in England, +we have any good opportunity of seeing what that is; the +generation of British dancing men and women are certainly +more remarkable for other qualities than for grace: they +are, many of them, very conscientious artists, and give quite +a serious regard to the technical parts of their performance; +but the spectacle, somehow, is not often beautiful, and +strikes no note of pleasure. If I had seen no more, therefore, +this evening might have remained in my memory as a rare +experience. But the best part of it was yet to come. For +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page99"></a>99</span> +after the others had desisted, the musician still continued +to play, and a little button between two and three years +old came out into the cleared space and began to figure +before us as the music prompted. I had an opportunity +of seeing her, not on this night only, but on many subsequent +nights; and the wonder and comical admiration she +inspired was only deepened as time went on. She had an +admirable musical ear; and each new melody, as it struck +in her a new humour, suggested wonderful combinations +and variations of movement. Now it would be a dance +with which she would suit the music, now rather an appropriate +pantomime, and now a mere string of disconnected +attitudes. But whatever she did, she did it with the same +verve and gusto. The spirit of the air seemed to have +entered into her, and to possess her like a passion; and you +could see her struggling to find expression for the beauty +that was in her against the inefficacy of the dull, half-informed +body. Though her footing was uneven, and her +gestures often ludicrously helpless, still the spectacle was +not merely amusing; and though subtle inspirations of +movement miscarried in tottering travesty, you could still +see that they had been inspirations; you could still see +that she had set her heart on realising something just and +beautiful, and that, by the discipline of these abortive +efforts, she was making for herself in the future a quick, +supple, and obedient body. It was grace in the making. +She was not to be daunted by any merriment of people +looking on critically; the music said something to her, and +her whole spirit was intent on what the music said: she +must carry out its suggestions, she must do her best +to translate its language into that other dialect of the +modulated body into which it can be translated most +easily and fully.</p> + +<p>Just the other day I was witness to a second scene, in +which the motive was something similar; only this time +with quite common children, and in the familiar neighbourhood +of Hampstead. A little congregation had formed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page100"></a>100</span> +itself in the lane underneath my window, and was busy over +a skipping-rope. There were two sisters, from seven to +nine perhaps, with dark faces and dark hair, and slim, +lithe, little figures clad in lilac frocks. The elder of these +two was mistress of the art of skipping. She was just and +adroit in every movement; the rope passed over her black +head and under her scarlet-stockinged legs with a precision +and regularity that was like machinery; but there was +nothing mechanical in the infinite variety and sweetness +of her inclinations, and the spontaneous agile flexure of +her lean waist and hips. There was one variation favourite +with her, in which she crossed her hands before her with +a motion not unlike that of weaving, which was admirably +intricate and complete. And when the two took the rope +together and whirled in and out with occasional interruptions, +there was something Italian in the type of both—in +the length of nose, in the slimness and accuracy of the +shapes—and something gay and harmonious in the double +movement, that added to the whole scene a southern +element, and took me over sea and land into distant and +beautiful places. Nor was this impression lessened when +the elder girl took in her arms a fair-headed baby, while +the others held the rope for her, turned and gyrated, and +went in and out over it lightly, with a quiet regularity that +seemed as if it might go on for ever. Somehow, incongruous +as was the occupation, she reminded me of Italian +Madonnas. And now, as before in the hotel drawing-room, +the humorous element was to be introduced; only this +time it was in broad farce. The funniest little girl, with +a mottled complexion and a big, damaged nose, and looking +for all the world like any dirty, broken-nosed doll in a +nursery lumber-room, came forward to take her turn. +While the others swung the rope for her as gently as it +could be done—a mere mockery of movement—and playfully +taunted her timidity, she passaged backwards and +forwards in a pretty flutter of indecision, putting up her +shoulders and laughing with the embarrassed laughter of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page101"></a>101</span> +children by the water’s edge, eager to bathe and yet fearful. +There never was anything at once so droll and so pathetic. +One did not know whether to laugh or to cry. And when +at last she had made an end of all her deprecations and +drawings back, and summoned up heart enough to straddle +over the rope, one leg at a time, it was a sight to see her +ruffle herself up like a peacock and go away down the lane +with her damaged nose, seeming to think discretion the +better part of valour, and rather uneasy lest they should +ask her to repeat the exploit. Much as I had enjoyed the +grace of the older girls, it was now just as it had been before +in France, and the clumsiness of the child seemed to have +a significance and a sort of beauty of its own, quite above +this grace of the others in power to affect the heart. I had +looked on with a certain sense of balance and completion at +the silent, rapid, masterly evolutions of the eldest; I had +been pleased by these in the way of satisfaction. But +when little broken-nose began her pantomime of indecision +I grew excited. There was something quite fresh and +poignant in the delight I took in her imperfect movements. +I remember, for instance, that I moved my own shoulders, +as if to imitate her; really, I suppose, with an inarticulate +wish to help her out.</p> + +<p>Now, there are many reasons why this gracelessness of +young children should be pretty and sympathetic to us. +And, first, there is an interest as of battle. It is in travail +and laughable <i>fiasco</i> that the young school their bodies to +beautiful expression, as they school their minds. We +seem, in watching them, to divine antagonists pitted one +against the other; and, as in other wars, so in this war of +the intelligence against the unwilling body, we do not wish +to see even the cause of progress triumph without some +honourable toil; and we are so sure of the ultimate result, +that it pleases us to linger in pathetic sympathy over these +reverses of the early campaign, just as we do over the +troubles that environ the heroine of a novel on her way +to the happy ending. Again, people are very ready to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page102"></a>102</span> +disown the pleasure they take in a thing merely because it +is big, as an Alp, or merely because it is little, as a little +child; and yet this pleasure is surely as legitimate as +another. There is much of it here; we have an irrational +indulgence for small folk; we ask but little where there is +so little to ask it of; we cannot overcome our astonishment +that they should be able to move at all, and are interested +in their movements somewhat as we are interested in the +movements of a puppet. And again, there is a prolongation +of expectancy when, as in these movements of children, we +are kept continually on the very point of attainment and +ever turned away and tantalised by some humorous imperfection. +This is altogether absent in the secure and +accomplished movements of persons more fully grown. +The tight-rope walker does not walk so freely or so well as +any one else can walk upon a good road; and yet we like +to watch him for the mere sake of the difficulty; we like +to see his vacillations; we like this last so much even, that +I am told a really artistic tight-rope walker must feign to +be troubled in his balance, even if he is not so really. And +again, we have in these baby efforts an assurance of spontaneity +that we do not have often. We know this at least +certainly, that the child tries to dance for its own pleasure, +and not for any by-end of ostentation and conformity. +If we did not know it we should see it. There is a sincerity, +a directness, an impulsive truth, about their free gestures +that shows throughout all imperfection, and it is to us as +a reminiscence of primitive festivals and the Golden Age. +Lastly, there is in the sentiment much of a simple human +compassion for creatures more helpless than ourselves. +One nearly ready to die is pathetic; and so is one scarcely +ready to live. In view of their future, our heart is softened +to these clumsy little ones. They will be more adroit +when they are not so happy.</p> + +<p>Unfortunately, then, this character that so much delights +us is not one that can be preserved by any plastic art. It +turns, as we have seen, upon consideration not really +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page103"></a>103</span> +æsthetic. Art may deal with the slim freedom of a few +years later; but with this fettered impulse, with these +stammering motions, she is powerless to do more than +stereotype what is ungraceful, and, in the doing of it, lose +all pathos and humanity. So these humorous little ones +must go away into the limbo of beautiful things that are +not beautiful for art, there to wait a more perfect age +before they sit for their portraits.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>V</h5> + +<h3>ON THE ENJOYMENT OF +UNPLEASANT PLACES</h3> + +<p class="center1">(1874)</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">It</span> is a difficult matter to make the most of any given place, +and we have much in our own power. Things looked at +patiently from one side after another generally end by +showing a side that is beautiful. A few months ago some +words were said in the <i>Portfolio</i> as to an “austere regimen +in scenery”; and such a discipline was then recommended +as “healthful and strengthening to the taste.” That is +the test, so to speak, of the present essay. This discipline +in scenery, it must be understood, is something more +than a mere walk before breakfast to whet the appetite. +For when we are put down in some unsightly neighbourhood, +and especially if we have come to be more or less +dependent on what we see, we must set ourselves to hunt +out beautiful things with all the ardour and patience of a +botanist after a rare plant. Day by day we perfect ourselves +in the art of seeing nature more favourably. We +learn to live with her, as people learn to live with fretful +or violent spouses: to dwell lovingly on what is good, +and shut our eyes against all that is bleak or inharmonious. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page104"></a>104</span> +We learn, also, to come to each place in the right spirit. +The traveller, as Brantôme quaintly tells us, “<i>fait des discours +en soi pour se soutenir en chemin</i>”; and into these +discourses he weaves something out of all that he sees and +suffers by the way; they take their tone greatly from the +varying character of the scene; a sharp ascent brings +different thoughts from a level road; and the man’s fancies +grow lighter as he comes out of the wood into a clearing. +Nor does the scenery any more affect the thoughts than +the thoughts affect the scenery. We see places through +our humours as through differently-coloured glasses. We +are ourselves a term in the equation, a note of the +chord, and make discord or harmony almost at will. +There is no fear for the result, if we can but surrender +ourselves sufficiently to the country that surrounds +and follows us, so that we are ever thinking +suitable thoughts or telling ourselves some suitable sort +of story as we go. We become thus, in some sense, a centre +of beauty; we are provocative of beauty, much as a gentle +and sincere character is provocative of sincerity and +gentleness in others. And even where there is no harmony +to be elicited by the quickest and most obedient of spirits, +we may still embellish a place with some attraction of +romance. We may learn to go far afield for associations, +and handle them lightly when we have found them. +Sometimes an old print comes to our aid; I have seen +many a spot lit up at once with picturesque imaginations, +by a reminiscence of Callot, or Sadeler, or Paul Brill. +Dick Turpin has been my lay figure for many an English +lane. And I suppose the Trossachs would hardly be the +Trossachs for most tourists if a man of admirable romantic +instinct had not peopled it for them with harmonious +figures, and brought them thither with minds rightly prepared +for the impression. There is half the battle in this +preparation. For instance: I have rarely been able to +visit, in the proper spirit, the wild and inhospitable places +of our own Highlands. I am happier where it is tame +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page105"></a>105</span> +and fertile, and not readily pleased without trees. I +understand that there are some phases of mental trouble +that harmonise well with such surroundings, and that +some persons, by the dispensing power of the imagination, +can go back several centuries in spirit, and put themselves +into sympathy with the hunted, houseless, unsociable way +of life that was in its place upon these savage hills. Now, +when I am sad, I like nature to charm me out of my sadness, +like David before Saul; and the thought of these +past ages strikes nothing in me but an unpleasant pity; +so that I can never hit on the right humour for this sort +of landscape, and lose much pleasure in consequence. +Still, even here, if I were only let alone, and time enough +were given, I should have all manner of pleasures, and +take many clear and beautiful images away with me when +I left. When we cannot think ourselves into sympathy +with the great features of a country, we learn to ignore +them, and put our head among the grass for flowers, or +pore, for long times together, over the changeful current +of a stream. We come down to the sermon in stones, +when we are shut out from any poem in the spread landscape. +We begin to peep and botanise, we take an interest +in birds and insects, we find many things beautiful in +miniature. The reader will recollect the little summer +scene in “Wuthering Heights”—the one warm scene, +perhaps, in all that powerful, miserable novel—and the +great feature that is made therein by grasses and +flowers and a little sunshine: this is in the spirit of +which I now speak. And, lastly, we can go indoors; +interiors are sometimes as beautiful, often more picturesque, +than the shows of the open air, and they have +that quality of shelter of which I shall presently have +more to say.</p> + +<p>With all this in mind, I have often been tempted to +put forth the paradox that any place is good enough to +live a life in, while it is only in a few, and those highly +favoured, that we can pass a few hours agreeably. For, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page106"></a>106</span> +if we only stay long enough, we become at home in the +neighbourhood. Reminiscences spring up, like flowers, +about uninteresting corners. We forget to some degree +the superior loveliness of other places, and fall into a +tolerant and sympathetic spirit which is its own reward +and justification. Looking back the other day on some +recollections of my own, I was astonished to find how +much I owed to such a residence; six weeks in one unpleasant +country-side had done more, it seemed, to quicken +and educate my sensibilities than many years in places +that jumped more nearly with my inclination.</p> + +<p>The country to which I refer was a level and treeless +plateau over which the winds cut like a whip. For miles +on miles it was the same. A river, indeed, fell into the +sea near the town where I resided; but the valley of the +river was shallow and bald, for as far up as ever I had +the heart to follow it. There were roads, certainly, but +roads that had no beauty or interest; for, as there was +no timber, and but little irregularity of surface, you saw +your whole walk exposed to you from the beginning: +there was nothing left to fancy, nothing to expect, nothing +to see by the wayside, save here and there an unhomely-looking +homestead, and here and there a solitary, +spectacled stone-breaker; and you were only accompanied, +as you went doggedly forward, by the gaunt +telegraph-posts and the hum of the resonant wires in the +keen sea-wind. To one who had learned to know their +song in warm pleasant places by the Mediterranean, it +seemed to taunt the country, and make it still bleaker by +suggested contrast. Even the waste places by the side +of the road were not, as Hawthorne liked to put it, “taken +back to Nature” by any decent covering of vegetation. +Wherever the land had the chance, it seemed to lie fallow. +There is a certain tawny nudity of the South, bare sun-burnt +plains, coloured like a lion, and hills clothed only +in the blue transparent air; but this was of another +description—this was the nakedness of the North; the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page107"></a>107</span> +earth seemed to know that it was naked, and was ashamed +and cold.</p> + +<p>It seemed to be always blowing on that coast. Indeed, +this had passed into the speech of the inhabitants, +and they saluted each other when they met with “Breezy, +breezy,” instead of the customary “Fine day” of farther +south. These continual winds were not like the harvest +breeze, that just keeps an equable pressure against your +face as you walk, and serves to set all the trees talking +over your head, or bring round you the smell of the wet +surface of the country after a shower. They were of the +bitter, hard, persistent sort, that interferes with sight and +respiration, and makes the eyes sore. Even such winds +as these have their own merit in proper time and place. +It is pleasant to see them brandish great masses of shadow. +And what a power they have over the colour of the world! +How they ruffle the solid woodlands in their passage, and +make them shudder and whiten like a single willow! There +is nothing more vertiginous than a wind like this among +the woods, with all its sights and noises; and the effect +gets between some painters and their sober eyesight, so +that, even when the rest of their picture is calm, the foliage +is coloured like foliage in a gale. There was nothing, +however, of this sort to be noticed in a country where there +were no trees and hardly any shadows, save the passive +shadows of clouds or those of rigid houses and walls. But +the wind was nevertheless an occasion of pleasure; for +nowhere could you taste more fully the pleasure of a sudden +lull, or a place of opportune shelter. The reader knows +what I mean; he must remember how, when he has sat +himself down behind a dyke on a hill-side, he delighted +to hear the wind hiss vainly through the crannies at his +back; how his body tingled all over with warmth, and +it began to dawn upon him, with a sort of slow surprise, +that the country was beautiful, the heather purple, and +the far-away hills all marbled with sun and shadow. +Wordsworth, in a beautiful passage of the “Prelude,” has +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page108"></a>108</span> +used this as a figure for the feeling struck in us by the +quiet by-streets of London after the uproar of the great +thoroughfares; and the comparison may be turned the +other way with as good effect:</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Meanwhile the roar continues, till at length,</p> +<p class="i05">Escaped as from an enemy, we turn</p> +<p class="i05">Abruptly into some sequester’d nook,</p> +<p class="i05">Still as a shelter’d place when winds blow loud!”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>I remember meeting a man once, in a train, who told +me of what must have been quite the most perfect instance +of this pleasure of escape. He had gone up, one sunny, +windy morning, to the top of a great cathedral somewhere +abroad; I think it was Cologne Cathedral, the great +unfinished marvel by the Rhine; and after a long while +in dark stairways, he issued at last into the sunshine, on +a platform high above the town. At that elevation it +was quite still and warm; the gale was only in the lower +strata of the air, and he had forgotten it in the quiet +interior of the church and during his long ascent; and +so you may judge of his surprise when, resting his arms +on the sunlit balustrade and looking over into the “Place” +far below him, he saw the good people holding on their +hats and leaning hard against the wind as they walked. +There is something, to my fancy, quite perfect in this +little experience of my fellow-traveller’s. The ways of +men seem always very trivial to us when we find ourselves +alone on a church top, with the blue sky and a few tall +pinnacles, and see far below us the steep roofs and foreshortened +buttresses, and the silent activity of the city +streets; but how much more must they not have seemed +so to him as he stood, not only above other men’s business, +but above other men’s climate, in a golden zone like +Apollo’s!</p> + +<p>This was the sort of pleasure I found in the country +of which I write. The pleasure was to be out of the wind, +and to keep it in memory all the time, and hug oneself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page109"></a>109</span> +upon the shelter. And it was only by the sea that any +such sheltered places were to be found. Between the +black worm-eaten headlands there are little bights and +havens, well screened from the wind and the commotion +of the external sea, where the sand and weeds look up +into the gazer’s face from a depth of tranquil water, and +the sea-birds, screaming and flickering from the ruined +crags, alone disturb the silence and the sunshine. One +such place has impressed itself on my memory beyond +all others. On a rock by the water’s edge, old fighting +men of the Norse breed had planted a double castle; the +two stood wall to wall like semi-detached villas; and +yet feud had run so high between their owners, that one, +from out of a window, shot the other as he stood in his +own doorway. There is something in the juxtaposition of +these two enemies full of tragic irony. It is grim to think +of bearded men and bitter women taking hateful counsel +together about the two hall-fires at night, when the +sea boomed against the foundations and the wild winter +wind was loose over the battlements. And in the study +we may reconstruct for ourselves some pale figure of what +life then was. Not so when we are there; when we are +there such thoughts come to us only to intensify a contrary +impression, and association is turned against itself. +I remember walking thither three afternoons in succession, +my eyes weary with being set against the wind, and how, +dropping suddenly over the edge of the down, I found +myself in a new world of warmth and shelter. The wind, +from which I had escaped, “as from an enemy,” was +seemingly quite local. It carried no clouds with it, and +came from such a quarter that it did not trouble the sea +within view. The two castles, black and ruinous as the +rocks about them, were still distinguishable from these by +something more insecure and fantastic in the outline, +something that the last storm had left imminent and the +next would demolish entirely. It would be difficult to +render in words the sense of peace that took possession of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page110"></a>110</span> +me on these three afternoons. It was helped out, as I +have said, by the contrast. The shore was battered and +bemauled by previous tempests; I had the memory at +heart of the insane strife of the pigmies who had erected +these two castles and lived in them in mutual distrust and +enmity, and knew I had only to put my head out of this +little cup of shelter to find the hard wind blowing in my +eyes; and yet there were the two great tracts of motionless +blue air and peaceful sea looking on, unconcerned and +apart, at the turmoil of the present moment and the +memorials of the precarious past. There is ever something +transitory and fretful in the impression of a high wind +under a cloudless sky; it seems to have no root in the +constitution of things; it must speedily begin to faint and +wither away like a cut flower. And on those days the +thought of the wind and the thought of human life came +very near together in my mind. Our noisy years did +indeed seem moments in the being of the eternal silence: +and the wind, in the face of that great field of stationary +blue, was as the wind of a butterfly’s wing. The placidity +of the sea was a thing likewise to be remembered. Shelley +speaks of the sea as “hungering for calm,” and in this +place one learned to understand the phrase. Looking +down into these green waters from the broken edge of +the rock, or swimming leisurely in the sunshine, it seemed +to me that they were enjoying their own tranquillity; +and when now and again it was disturbed by a wind ripple +on the surface, or the quick black passage of a fish far +below, they settled back again (one could fancy) with +relief.</p> + +<p>On shore too, in the little nook of shelter, everything +was so subdued and still that the least particular struck +in me a pleasurable surprise. The desultory crackling of +the whin-pods in the afternoon sun usurped the ear. The +hot, sweet breath of the bank, that had been saturated all +day long with sunshine, and now exhaled it into my face, +was like the breath of a fellow-creature. I remember that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page111"></a>111</span> +I was haunted by two lines of French verse; in some +dumb way they seemed to fit my surroundings and give +expression to the contentment that was in me, and I kept +repeating to myself—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Mon cœur est un luth suspendu;</p> +<p class="i05">Sitôt qu’on le touche, il résonne.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">I can give no reason why these lines came to me at this +time; and for that very cause I repeat them here. For +all I know, they may serve to complete the impression in +the mind of the reader, as they were certainly a part of +it for me.</p> + +<p>And this happened to me in the place of all others +where I liked least to stay. When I think of it I grow +ashamed of my own ingratitude. “Out of the strong came +forth sweetness.” There, in the bleak and gusty North, I +received, perhaps, my strongest impression of peace. I +saw the sea to be great and calm; and the earth, in that +little corner, was all alive and friendly to me. So, wherever +a man is, he will find something to please and pacify +him: in the town he will meet pleasant faces of men and +women, and see beautiful flowers at a window, or hear a +cage-bird singing at the corner of the gloomiest street; +and for the country, there is no country without some +amenity—let him only look for it in the right spirit, and +he will surely find.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page112"></a>112</span></p> +<h5>VI</h5> + +<h3>AN AUTUMN EFFECT</h3> + +<p class="center1">(1875)</p> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>“Nous ne décrivons jamais mieux la nature que lorsque nous +nous efforçons d’exprimer sobrement et simplement l’impression +que nous en avons reçue.”—<span class="sc">M. André Theuriet</span>, “L’Automne +dans les Bois,” <i>Revue des Deux Mondes</i>, 1st Oct. 1874, p. 562.<a name="FnAnchor_40" id="FnAnchor_40" href="#Footnote_40"><span class="sp">40</span></a></p> +</div> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">A country</span> rapidly passed through under favourable +auspices may leave upon us a unity of impression that +would only be disturbed and dissipated if we stayed longer. +Clear vision goes with the quick foot. Things fall for us +into a sort of natural perspective when we see them for a +moment in going by; we generalise boldly and simply, +and are gone before the sun is overcast, before the rain +falls, before the season can steal like a dial-hand from +his figure, before the lights and shadows, shifting round +towards nightfall, can show us the other side of things, +and belie what they showed us in the morning. We +expose our mind to the landscape (as we would expose +the prepared plate in the camera) for the moment only +during which the effect endures; and we are away before +the effect can change. Hence we shall have in our +memories a long scroll of continuous wayside pictures, +all imbued already with the prevailing sentiment of the +season, the weather, and the landscape, and certain to be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page113"></a>113</span> +unified more and more, as time goes on, by the unconscious +processes of thought. So that we who have only looked +at a country over our shoulder, so to speak, as we went +by, will have a conception of it far more memorable and +articulate than a man who has lived there all his life from +a child upwards, and had his impression of to-day modified +by that of to-morrow, and belied by that of the day after, +till at length the stable characteristics of the country are +all blotted out from him behind the confusion of variable +effect.</p> + +<p>I began my little pilgrimage in the most enviable of +all humours: that in which a person, with a sufficiency of +money and a knapsack, turns his back on a town and walks +forward into a country of which he knows only by the +vague report of others. Such an one has not surrendered +his will and contracted for the next hundred miles, like +a man on a railway. He may change his mind at every +finger-post, and, where ways meet, follow vague preferences +freely and go the low road or the high, choose the +shadow or the sunshine, suffer himself to be tempted by +the lane that turns immediately into the woods, or the +broad road that lies open before him into the distance, +and shows him the far-off spires of some city, or a range +of mountain-tops, or a rim of sea, perhaps, along a low +horizon. In short, he may gratify his every whim and +fancy, without a pang of reproving conscience, or the +least jostle to his self-respect. It is true, however, that +most men do not possess the faculty of free action, the +priceless gift of being able to live for the moment only; +and as they begin to go forward on their journey, they will +find that they have made for themselves new fetters. +Slight projects they may have entertained for a moment, +half in jest, become iron laws to them, they know not +why. They will be led by the nose by these vague reports +of which I spoke above; and the mere fact that their +informant mentioned one village and not another will +compel their footsteps with inexplicable power. And yet +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page114"></a>114</span> +a little while, yet a few days of this fictitious liberty, and +they will begin to hear imperious voices calling on them +to return; and some passion, some duty, some worthy +or unworthy expectation, will set its hand upon their +shoulder and lead them back into the old paths. Once +and again we have all made the experiment. We know +the end of it right well. And yet if we make it for the +hundredth time to-morrow, it will have the same charm +as ever; our heart will beat and our eyes will be bright, +as we leave the town behind us, and we shall feel once +again (as we have felt so often before) that we are cutting +ourselves loose for ever from our whole past life, with all +its sins and follies and circumscriptions, and go forward +as a new creature into a new world.</p> + +<p>It is well, perhaps, that I had this first enthusiasm to +encourage me up the long hill above High Wycombe; for +the day was a bad day for walking at best, and now began +to draw towards afternoon, dull, heavy, and lifeless. A +pall of grey cloud covered the sky, and its colour reacted +on the colour of the landscape. Near at hand, indeed, +the hedgerow trees were still fairly green, shot through +with bright autumnal yellows, bright as sunshine. But a +little way off, the solid bricks of woodland that lay squarely +on slope and hill-top were not green, but russet and grey, +and ever less russet and more grey as they drew off into +the distance. As they drew off into the distance, also, +the woods seemed to mass themselves together, and lay +thin and straight, like clouds, upon the limit of one’s view. +Not that this massing was complete, or gave the idea of +any extent of forest, for every here and there the trees +would break up and go down into a valley in open order, +or stand in long Indian file along the horizon, tree after +tree relieved, foolishly enough, against the sky. I say +foolishly enough, although I have seen the effect employed +cleverly in art, and such long line of single trees thrown +out against the customary sunset of a Japanese picture +with a certain fantastic effect that was not to be despised; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page115"></a>115</span> +but this was over water and level land, where it did not +jar, as here, with the soft contour of hills and valleys. +The whole scene had an indefinable look of being painted, +the colour was so abstract and correct, and there was +something so sketchy and merely impressional about these +distant single trees on the horizon that one was forced +to think of it all as of a clever French landscape. For it +is rather in nature that we see resemblance to art, than +in art to nature; and we say a hundred times, “How like +a picture!” for once that we say, “How like the truth!” +The forms in which we learn to think of landscape are +forms that we have got from painted canvas. Any man +can see and understand a picture; it is reserved for the +few to separate anything out of the confusion of nature, +and see that distinctly and with intelligence.</p> + +<p>The sun came out before I had been long on my way; +and as I had got by that time to the top of the ascent, +and was now treading a labyrinth of confined by-roads, +my whole view brightened considerably in colour, for it +was the distance only that was grey and cold, and the +distance I could see no longer. Overhead there was a +wonderful carolling of larks which seemed to follow me as +I went. Indeed, during all the time I was in that country +the larks did not desert me. The air was alive with them +from High Wycombe to Tring; and as, day after day, +their “shrill delight” fell upon me out of the vacant sky, +they began to take such a prominence over other conditions, +and form so integral a part of my conception of the +country, that I could have baptised it “The Country of +Larks.” This, of course, might just as well have been in +early spring; but everything else was deeply imbued +with the sentiment of the later year. There was no stir +of insects in the grass. The sunshine was more golden, +and gave less heat than summer sunshine; and the shadows +under the hedge were somewhat blue and misty. It was +only in autumn that you could have seen the mingled +green and yellow of the elm foliage, and the fallen leaves +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page116"></a>116</span> +that lay about the road, and covered the surface of wayside +pools so thickly that the sun was reflected only here +and there from little joints and pin-holes in that brown +coat of proof; or that your ear would have been troubled, +as you went forward, by the occasional report of fowling-pieces +from all directions and all degrees of distance.</p> + +<p>For a long time this dropping fire was the one sign +of human activity that came to disturb me as I walked. +The lanes were profoundly still. They would have been +sad but for the sunshine and the singing of the larks. +And as it was, there came over me at times a feeling of +isolation that was not disagreeable, and yet was enough +to make me quicken my steps eagerly when I saw some +one before me on the road. This fellow-voyager proved +to be no less a person than the parish constable. It had +occurred to me that in a district which was so little populous +and so well wooded, a criminal of any intelligence +might play hide-and-seek with the authorities for months; +and this idea was strengthened by the aspect of the portly +constable as he walked by my side with deliberate dignity +and turned-out toes. But a few minutes’ converse set +my heart at rest. These rural criminals are very tame +birds, it appeared. If my informant did not immediately +lay his hand on an offender, he was content to wait; some +evening after nightfall there would come a tap at his door, +and the outlaw, weary of outlawry, would give himself +quietly up to undergo sentence, and resume his position +in the life of the country-side. Married men caused him +no disquietude whatever; he had them fast by the foot. +Sooner or later they would come back to see their wives, a +peeping neighbour would pass the word, and my portly +constable would walk quietly over and take the bird +sitting. And if there were a few who had no particular +ties in the neighbourhood, and preferred to shift into +another county when they fell into trouble, their departure +moved the placid constable in no degree. He was of +Dogberry’s opinion; and if a man would not stand in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page117"></a>117</span> +Prince’s name, he took no note of him, but let him go, +and thanked God he was rid of a knave. And surely the +crime and the law were in admirable keeping: rustic +constable was well met with rustic offender. The officer +sitting at home over a bit of fire until the criminal came +to visit him, and the criminal coming—it was a fair match. +One felt as if this must have been the order in that delightful +seaboard Bohemia where Florizel and Perdita courted +in such sweet accents, and the Puritan sang psalms to +hornpipes, and the four-and-twenty shearers danced with +nosegays in their bosoms, and chanted their three songs +apiece at the old shepherd’s festival; and one could not +help picturing to oneself what havoc among good people’s +purses, and tribulation for benignant constable, might be +worked here by the arrival, over stile and footpath, of a +new Autolycus.</p> + +<p>Bidding good-morning to my fellow-traveller, I left the +road and struck across country. It was rather a revelation +to pass from between the hedgerows and find quite a bustle +on the other side, a great coming and going of school-children +upon by-paths, and, in every second field, lusty horses and +stout country-folk a-ploughing. The way I followed took +me through many fields thus occupied, and through many +strips of plantation, and then over a little space of smooth +turf, very pleasant to the feet, set with tall fir-trees and +clamorous with rooks making ready for the winter, and so +back again into the quiet road. I was now not far from the +end of my day’s journey. A few hundred yards farther, +and, passing through a gap in the hedge, I began to go +down hill through a pretty extensive tract of young beeches. +I was soon in shadow myself, but the afternoon sun still +coloured the upmost boughs of the wood, and made a fire +over my head in the autumnal foliage. A little faint vapour +lay among the slim tree-stems in the bottom of the hollow; +and from farther up I heard from time to time an outburst +of gross laughter, as though clowns were making merry in +the bush. There was something about the atmosphere that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page118"></a>118</span> +brought all sights and sounds home to one with a singular +purity, so that I felt as if my senses had been washed with +water. After I had crossed the little zone of mist, the path +began to remount the hill; and just as I, mounting along +with it, had got back again, from the head downwards, +into the thin golden sunshine, I saw in front of me a donkey +tied to a tree. Now, I have a certain liking for donkeys, +principally, I believe, because of the delightful things that +Sterne has written of them. But this was not after the +pattern of the ass at Lyons. He was of a white colour, +that seemed to fit him rather for rare festal occasions than +for constant drudgery. Besides, he was very small, and of +the daintiest proportions you can imagine in a donkey. +And so, sure enough, you had only to look at him to see he +had never worked. There was something too roguish and +wanton in his face, a look too like that of a schoolboy or a +street Arab, to have survived much cudgelling. It was +plain that these feet had kicked off sportive children +oftener than they had plodded with a freight through miry +lanes. He was altogether a fine-weather, holiday sort of +donkey; and though he was just then somewhat solemnised +and rueful, he still gave proof of the levity of his disposition +by impudently wagging his ears at me as I drew near. I +say he was somewhat solemnised just then; for, with the +admirable instinct of all men and animals under restraint, +he had so wound and wound the halter about the tree that +he could go neither back nor forwards, nor so much as put +down his head to browse. There he stood, poor rogue, part +puzzled, part angry, part, I believe, amused. He had not +given up hope, and dully revolved the problem in his head, +giving ever and again another jerk at the few inches of free +rope that still remained unwound. A humorous sort of +sympathy for the creature took hold upon me. I went +up, and, not without some trouble on my part, and much +distrust and resistance on the part of Neddy, got him forced +backward until the whole length of the halter was set loose, +and he was once more as free a donkey as I dared to make +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page119"></a>119</span> +him. I was pleased (as people are) with this friendly action +to a fellow-creature in tribulation, and glanced back over +my shoulder to see how he was profiting by his freedom. +The brute was looking after me; and no sooner did he +catch my eye than he put up his long white face into the +air, pulled an impudent mouth at me, and began to bray +derisively. If ever any one person made a grimace at +another, that donkey made a grimace at me. The hardened +ingratitude of his behaviour, and the impertinence that +inspired his whole face as he curled up his lip, and showed +his teeth, and began to bray, so tickled me, and was so +much in keeping with what I had imagined to myself about +his character, that I could not find it in my heart to be +angry, and burst into a peal of hearty laughter. This +seemed to strike the ass as a repartee, so he brayed at me +again by way of rejoinder; and we went on for a while, +braying and laughing, until I began to grow a-weary of it, +and, shouting a derisive farewell, turned to pursue my +way. In so doing—it was like going suddenly into cold +water—I found myself face to face with a prim little old +maid. She was all in a flutter, the poor old dear! She +had concluded beyond question that this must be a lunatic +who stood laughing aloud at a white donkey in the placid +beech-woods. I was sure, by her face, that she had already +recommended her spirit most religiously to Heaven, and +prepared herself for the worst. And so, to reassure her, I +uncovered and besought her, after a very staid fashion, to +put me on my way to Great Missenden. Her voice trembled +a little, to be sure, but I think her mind was set at rest; +and she told me, very explicitly, to follow the path until +I came to the end of the wood, and then I should see the +village below me in the bottom of the valley. And, with +mutual courtesies, the little old maid and I went on our +respective ways.</p> + +<p>Nor had she misled me. Great Missenden was close at +hand, as she had said, in the trough of a gentle valley, with +many great elms about it. The smoke from its chimneys +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page120"></a>120</span> +went up pleasantly in the afternoon sunshine. The sleepy +hum of a threshing-machine filled the neighbouring fields +and hung about the quaint street corners. A little above, +the church sits well back on its haunches against the hill-side—an +attitude for a church, you know, that makes it look +as if it could be ever so much higher if it liked; and the +trees grew about it thickly, so as to make a density of +shade in the churchyard. A very quiet place it looks; +and yet I saw many boards and posters about threatening +dire punishment against those who broke the church +windows or defaced the precinct, and offering rewards for +the apprehension of those who had done the like already. +It was fair-day in Great Missenden. There were three +stalls set up <i>sub jove</i>, for the sale of pastry and cheap toys; +and a great number of holiday children thronged about the +stalls, and noisily invaded every corner of the straggling +village. They came round me by coveys, blowing simultaneously +upon penny trumpets as though they imagined +I should fall to pieces like the battlements of Jericho. I +noticed one among them who could make a wheel of himself +like a London boy, and seemingly enjoyed a grave pre-eminence +upon the strength of the accomplishment. By +and by, however, the trumpets began to weary me, and I +went indoors, leaving the fair, I fancy at its height.</p> + +<p>Night had fallen before I ventured forth again. It was +pitch dark in the village street, and the darkness seemed +only the greater for a light here and there in an uncurtained +window or from an open door. Into one such window I +was rude enough to peep, and saw within a charming <i>genre</i> +picture. In a room, all white wainscot and crimson wall-paper, +a perfect gem of colour after the black, empty darkness +in which I had been groping, a pretty girl was telling +a story, as well as I could make out, to an attentive child +upon her knee, while an old woman sat placidly dozing over +the fire. You may be sure I was not behindhand with a +story for myself—a good old story after the manner of +G.P.R. James and the village melodramas, with a wicked +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page121"></a>121</span> +squire, and poachers, and an attorney, and a virtuous +young man with a genius for mechanics, who should love, +and protect, and ultimately marry the girl in the crimson +room. Baudelaire has a few dainty sentences on the fancies +that we are inspired with when we look through a window +into other people’s lives; and I think Dickens has somewhat +enlarged on the same text. The subject, at least, +is one that I am seldom weary of entertaining. I +remember, night after night, at Brussels, watching a +good family sup together, make merry, and retire to +rest; and night after night I waited to see the candles lit, +and the salad made, and the last salutations dutifully +exchanged, without any abatement of interest. Night +after night I found the scene rivet my attention and keep +me awake in bed with all manner of quaint imaginations. +Much of the pleasure of the “Arabian Nights” hinges upon +this Asmodean interest; and we are not weary of lifting +other people’s roofs and going about behind the scenes of +life with the Caliph and the serviceable Giaffar. It is a +salutary exercise, besides; it is salutary to get out of ourselves +and see people living together in perfect unconsciousness +of our existence, as they will live when we are gone. +If to-morrow the blow falls, and the worst of our ill fears +is realised, the girl will none the less tell stories to the child +on her lap in the cottage at Great Missenden, nor the good +Belgians light their candle, and mix their salad, and go +orderly to bed.</p> + +<p>The next morning was sunny overhead and damp underfoot, +with a thrill in the air like a reminiscence of frost. +I went up into the sloping garden behind the inn and smoked +a pipe pleasantly enough, to the tune of my landlady’s +lamentations over sundry cabbages and cauliflowers that +had been spoiled by caterpillars. She had been so much +pleased in the summer-time, she said, to see the garden all +hovered over by white butterflies. And now, look at the +end of it! She could nowise reconcile this with her moral +sense. And, indeed, unless these butterflies are created +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page122"></a>122</span> +with a side-look to the composition of improving apologues, +it is not altogether easy, even for people who have read +Hegel and Dr. M’Cosh, to decide intelligibly upon the issue +raised. Then I fell into a long and abstruse calculation +with my landlord; having for object to compare the +distance driven by him during eight years’ service on the +box of the Wendover coach with the girth of the round +world itself. We tackled the question most conscientiously, +made all necessary allowance for Sundays and leap-years, +and were just coming to a triumphant conclusion of our +labours when we were stayed by a small lacuna in my information. +I did not know the circumference of the +earth. The landlord knew it, to be sure—plainly he had +made the same calculation twice and once before,—but +he wanted confidence in his own figures, and from the +moment I showed myself so poor a second seemed to lose +all interest in the result.</p> + +<p>Wendover (which was my next stage) lies in the same +valley with Great Missenden, but at the foot of it, where +the hills trend off on either hand like a coast-line, and a great +hemisphere of plain lies, like a sea, before one. I went up +a chalky road, until I had a good outlook over the place. +The vale, as it opened out into the plain, was shallow, and +a little bare, perhaps, but full of graceful convolutions. +From the level to which I have now attained the fields were +exposed before me like a map, and I could see all that bustle +of autumn field-work which had been hid from me yesterday +behind the hedgerows, or shown to me only for a moment +as I followed the footpath. Wendover lay well down in +the midst, with mountains of foliage about it. The great +plain stretched away to the northward, variegated near at +hand with the quaint pattern of the fields, but growing ever +more and more indistinct, until it became a mere hurly-burly +of trees and bright crescents of river, and snatches of +slanting road, and finally melted into the ambiguous cloud-land +over the horizon. The sky was an opal-grey, touched +here and there with blue, and with certain faint russets that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page123"></a>123</span> +looked as if they were reflections of the colour of the +autumnal woods below. I could hear the ploughmen +shouting to their horses, the uninterrupted carol of larks +innumerable overhead, and, from a field where the shepherd +was marshalling his flock, a sweet tumultuous tinkle of +sheep-bells. All these noises came to me very thin and +distinct in the clear air. There was a wonderful sentiment +of distance and atmosphere about the day and the place.</p> + +<p>I mounted the hill yet farther by a rough staircase of +chalky footholds cut in the turf. The hills about Wendover, +and, as far as I could see, all the hills in Buckinghamshire, +wear a sort of hood of beech plantation; but in this +particular case the hood had been suffered to extend itself +into something more like a cloak, and hung down about the +shoulders of the hill in wide folds, instead of lying flatly +along the summit. The trees grew so close, and their +boughs were so matted together, that the whole wood +looked as dense as a bush of heather. The prevailing +colour was a dull, smouldering red, touched here and there +with vivid yellow. But the autumn had scarce advanced +beyond the outworks; it was still almost summer in the +heart of the wood; and as soon as I had scrambled through +the hedge, I found myself in a dim green forest atmosphere +under eaves of virgin foliage. In places where the wood +had itself for a background and the trees were massed +together thickly, the colour became intensified and almost +gem-like: a perfect fire of green, that seemed none the less +green for a few specks of autumn gold. None of the trees +were of any considerable age or stature; but they grew +well together, I have said; and as the road turned and +wound among them, they fell into pleasant groupings and +broke the light up pleasantly. Sometimes there would be +a colonnade of slim, straight tree-stems with the light +running down them as down the shafts of pillars, that looked +as if it ought to lead to something, and led only to a corner +of sombre and intricate jungle. Sometimes a spray of +delicate foliage would be thrown out flat, the light lying +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page124"></a>124</span> +flatly along the top of it, so that against a dark background +it seemed almost luminous. There was a great hush over +the thicket (for, indeed, it was more of a thicket than a +wood); and the vague rumours that went among the tree-tops, +and the occasional rustling of big birds or hares among +the undergrowth, had in them a note of almost treacherous +stealthiness, that put the imagination on its guard and +made me walk warily on the russet carpeting of last year’s +leaves. The spirit of the place seemed to be all attention; +the wood listened as I went, and held its breath to number +my footfalls. One could not help feeling that there ought +to be some reason for this stillness: whether, as the bright +old legend goes, Pan lay somewhere near in a siesta, or +whether, perhaps, the heaven was meditating rain, and the +first drops would soon come pattering through the leaves. +It was not unpleasant, in such an humour, to catch sight, +ever and anon, of large spaces of the open plain. This +happened only where the path lay much upon the slope, +and there was a flaw in the solid leafy thatch of the wood +at some distance below the level at which I chanced myself +to be walking; then, indeed, little scraps of foreshortened +distance, miniature fields, and Liliputian houses and +hedgerow trees would appear for a moment in the aperture, +and grow larger and smaller, and change and melt one into +another, as I continued to go forward, and so shift my +point of view.</p> + +<p>For ten minutes, perhaps, I had heard from somewhere +before me in the wood a strange, continuous noise, as of +clucking, cooing, and gobbling, now and again interrupted +by a harsh scream. As I advanced towards this noise, it +began to grow lighter about me, and I caught sight, through +the trees, of sundry gables and enclosure walls, and something +like the tops of a rickyard. And sure enough, a +rickyard it proved to be, and a neat little farm-steading, +with the beech-woods growing almost to the door of it. +Just before me, however, as I came up the path, the trees +drew back and let in a wide flood of daylight on to a circular +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page125"></a>125</span> +lawn. It was here that the noises had their origin. More +than a score of peacocks (there are altogether thirty at the +farm), a proper contingent of peahens, and a great multitude +that I could not number of more ordinary barn-door fowls, +were all feeding together on this little open lawn among the +beeches. They fed in a dense crowd, which swayed to and +fro, and came hither and thither as by a sort of tide, and +of which the surface was agitated like the surface of a sea +as each bird guzzled his head along the ground after the +scattered corn. The clucking, cooing noise that had led +me thither was formed by the blending together of countless +expressions of individual contentment into one collective +expression of contentment, or general grace during meat. +Every now and again a big peacock would separate himself +from the mob and take a stately turn or two about the +lawn, or perhaps mount for a moment upon the rail, and +there shrilly publish to the world his satisfaction with himself +and what he had to eat. It happened, for my sins, +that none of these admirable birds had anything beyond the +merest rudiment of a tail. Tails, it seemed, were out of +season just then. But they had their necks for all that; +and by their necks alone they do as much surpass all the +other birds of our grey climate as they fall in quality of +song below the blackbird or the lark. Surely the peacock, +with its incomparable parade of glorious colour and the +scrannel voice of it issuing forth, as in mockery, from its +painted throat, must, like my landlady’s butterflies at +Great Missenden, have been invented by some skilful +fabulist for the consolation and support of homely virtue: +or rather, perhaps, by a fabulist not quite so skilful, who +made points for the moment without having a studious +enough eye to the complete effect; for I thought these +melting greens and blues so beautiful that afternoon, that +I would have given them my vote just then before the +sweetest pipe in all the spring woods. For indeed there is +no piece of colour of the same extent in nature, that will +so flatter and satisfy the lust of a man’s eyes; and to come +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page126"></a>126</span> +upon so many of them, after these acres of stone-coloured +heavens and russet woods, and grey-brown ploughlands and +white roads, was like going three whole days’ journey to the +southward, or a month back into the summer.</p> + +<p>I was sorry to leave “Peacock Farm”—for so the place +is called, after the name of its splendid pensioners—and +go forward again in the quiet woods. It began to grow +both damp and dusk under the beeches: and as the day +declined the colour faded out of the foliage: and shadow, +without form and void, took the place of all the fine tracery +of leaves and delicate gradations of living green that had +before accompanied my walk. I had been sorry to leave +“Peacock Farm,” but I was not sorry to find myself once +more in the open road, under a pale and somewhat troubled-looking +evening sky, and put my best foot foremost for the +inn at Wendover.</p> + +<p>Wendover, in itself, is a straggling, purposeless sort of +place. Everybody seems to have had his own opinion as +to how the street should go; or rather, every now and then +a man seems to have arisen with a new idea on the subject, +and led away a little sect of neighbours to join in his heresy. +It would have somewhat the look of an abortive watering-place, +such as we may now see them here and there along +the coast, but for the age of the houses, the comely quiet +design of some of them, and the look of long habitation, +of a life that is settled and rooted, and makes it worth while +to train flowers about the windows, and otherwise shape the +dwelling to the humour of the inhabitant. The church, +which might perhaps have served as rallying-point for these +loose houses, and pulled the township into something like +intelligible unity, stands some distance off among great +trees; but the inn (to take the public buildings in order of +importance) is in what I understand to be the principal +street: a pleasant old house, with bay windows, and three +peaked gables, and many swallows’ nests plastered about +the eaves.</p> + +<p>The interior of the inn was answerable to the outside: +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page127"></a>127</span> +indeed, I never saw any room much more to be admired +than the low wainscoted parlour in which I spent the remainder +of the evening. It was a short oblong in shape, +save that the fireplace was built across one of the angles so +as to cut it partially off, and the opposite angle was similarly +truncated by a corner cupboard. The wainscot was white, +and there was a Turkey carpet on the floor, so old that it +might have been imported by Walter Shandy before he +retired, worn almost through in some places, but in others +making a good show of blues and oranges, none the less +harmonious for being somewhat faded. The corner cupboard +was agreeable in design; and there were just the +right things upon the shelves—decanters and tumblers, and +blue plates, and one red rose in a glass of water. The furniture +was old-fashioned and stiff. Everything was in keeping, +down to the ponderous leaden inkstand on the round +table. And you may fancy how pleasant it looked all +flushed and flickered over by the light of a brisk companionable +fire, and seen, in a strange, tilted sort of perspective, +in the three compartments of the old mirror above +the chimney. As I sat reading in the great arm-chair, I +kept looking round with the tail of my eye at the quaint, +bright picture that was about me, and could not help some +pleasure and a certain childish pride in forming part of it. +The book I read was about Italy in the early Renaissance, +the pageantries and the light loves of princes, the passion +of men for learning, and poetry, and art; but it was written, +by good luck, after a solid, prosaic fashion, that suited the +room infinitely more nearly than the matter; and the +result was that I thought less, perhaps, of Lippo Lippi, or +Lorenzo, or Politian, than of the good Englishman who had +written in that volume what he knew of them, and taken +so much pleasure in his solemn polysyllables.</p> + +<p>I was not left without society. My landlord had a very +pretty little daughter whom we shall call Lizzie. If I had +made any notes at the time, I might be able to tell you +something definite of her appearance. But faces have a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page128"></a>128</span> +trick of growing more and more spiritualised and abstract +in the memory, until nothing remains of them but a look, +a haunting expression; just that secret quality in a face that +is apt to slip out somehow under the cunningest painter’s +touch, and leave the portrait dead for the lack of it. And +if it is hard to catch with the finest of camel’s hair pencils, +you may think how hopeless it must be to pursue after it +with clumsy words. If I say, for instance, that this look, +which I remember as Lizzie, was something wistful that +seemed partly to come of slyness and in part of simplicity, +and that I am inclined to imagine it had something to do +with the daintiest suspicion of a cast in one of her large eyes, +I shall have said all that I can, and the reader will not be +much advanced towards comprehension. I had struck up +an acquaintance with this little damsel in the morning, and +professed much interest in her dolls, and an impatient +desire to see the large one which was kept locked away for +great occasions. And so I had not been very long in the +parlour before the door opened, and in came Miss Lizzie +with two dolls tucked clumsily under her arm. She was +followed by her brother John, a year or so younger than +herself, not simply to play propriety at our interview, but +to show his own two whips in emulation of his sister’s dolls. +I did my best to make myself agreeable to my visitors, +showing much admiration for the dolls and dolls’ dresses, +and, with a very serious demeanour, asking many questions +about their age and character. I did not think that Lizzie +distrusted my sincerity, but it was evident she was both +bewildered and a little contemptuous. Although she was +ready herself to treat her dolls as if they were alive, she +seemed to think rather poorly of any grown person who +could fall heartily into the spirit of the fiction. Sometimes +she would look at me with gravity and a sort of disquietude, +as though she really feared I must be out of my wits. +Sometimes, as when I inquired too particularly into the +question of their names, she laughed at me so long and +heartily that I began to feel almost embarrassed. But +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page129"></a>129</span> +when, in an evil moment, I asked to be allowed to kiss one +of them, she could keep herself no longer to herself. Clambering +down from the chair on which she sat perched to show +me, Cornelia-like, her jewels, she ran straight out of the +room and into the bar—it was just across the passage,—and +I could hear her telling her mother in loud tones, but +apparently more in sorrow than in merriment, that <i>the +gentleman in the parlour wanted to kiss Dolly</i>. I fancy she +was determined to save me from this humiliating action, +even in spite of myself, for she never gave me the desired +permission. She reminded me of an old dog I once knew, +who would never suffer the master of the house to dance, +out of an exaggerated sense of the dignity of that master’s +place and carriage.</p> + +<p>After the young people were gone there was but one +more incident ere I went to bed. I heard a party of children +go up and down the dark street for a while, singing together +sweetly. And the mystery of this little incident was so +pleasant to me that I purposely refrained from asking who +they were, and wherefore they went singing at so late an +hour. One can rarely be in a pleasant place without +meeting with some pleasant accident. I have a conviction +that these children would not have gone singing before the +inn unless the inn-parlour had been the delightful place it +was. At least, if I had been in the customary public room +of the modern hotel, with all its disproportions and discomforts, +my ears would have been dull, and there would +have been some ugly temper or other uppermost in my +spirit, and so they would have wasted their songs upon an +unworthy hearer.</p> + +<p>Next morning I went along to visit the church. It is a +long-backed red-and-white building, very much restored, +and stands in a pleasant graveyard among those great trees +of which I have spoken already. The sky was drowned in +a mist. Now and again pulses of cold wind went about +the enclosure, and set the branches busy overhead, and the +dead leaves scurrying in to the angles of the church buttresses. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page130"></a>130</span> +Now and again, also, I could hear the dull sudden fall of a +chestnut among the grass—the dog would bark before the +rectory door—or there would come a clinking of pails from +the stable-yard behind. But in spite of these occasional +interruptions—in spite, also, of the continuous autumn +twittering that filled the trees—the chief impression somehow +was one as of utter silence, inasmuch that the little +greenish bell that peeped out of a window in the tower +disquieted me with a sense of some possible and more +inharmonious disturbance. The grass was wet, as if with +a hoar-frost that had just been melted. I do not know +that ever I saw a morning more autumnal. As I went to +and fro among the graves, I saw some flowers set reverently +before a recently erected tomb, and drawing near was almost +startled to find they lay on the grave of a man seventy-two +years old when he died. We are accustomed to strew +flowers only over the young, where love has been cut short +untimely, and great possibilities have been restrained by +death. We strew them there in token that these possibilities, +in some deeper sense, shall yet be realised, and the touch +of our dead loves remain with us and guide us to the end. +And yet there was more significance, perhaps, and perhaps +a greater consolation, in this little nosegay on the grave +of one who had died old. We are apt to make so much of +the tragedy of death, and think so little of the enduring +tragedy of some men’s lives, that we see more to lament +for in a life cut off in the midst of usefulness and love, than +in one that miserably survives all love and usefulness, and +goes about the world the phantom of itself, without hope, +or joy, or any consolation. These flowers seemed not so +much the token of love that survived death, as of something +yet more beautiful—of love that had lived a man’s life out +to an end with him, and been faithful and companionable, +and not weary of loving, throughout all these years.</p> + +<p>The morning cleared a little, and the sky was once more +the old stone-coloured vault over the sallow meadows and +the russet woods, as I set forth on a dog-cart from Wendover +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page131"></a>131</span> +to Tring. The road lay for a good distance along the side +of the hills, with the great plain below on one hand, and +the beech-woods above on the other. The fields were busy +with people ploughing and sowing; every here and there +a jug of ale stood in the angle of the hedge, and I could see +many a team wait smoking in the furrow as ploughman or +sower stepped aside for a moment to take a draught. Over +all the brown ploughlands, and under all the leafless hedgerows, +there was a stout piece of labour abroad, and, as it +were, a spirit of picnic. The horses smoked and the men +laboured and shouted and drank in the sharp autumn +morning; so that one had a strong effect of large, open-air +existence. The fellow who drove me was something of a +humorist; and his conversation was all in praise of an +agricultural labourer’s way of life. It was he who called +my attention to these jugs of ale by the hedgerow; he +could not sufficiently express the liberality of these men’s +wages; he told me how sharp an appetite was given by +breaking up the earth in the morning air, whether with +plough or spade, and cordially admired this provision of +nature. He sang <i>O fortunatos agricolas</i>! indeed, in every +possible key, and with many cunning inflections, till I +began to wonder what was the use of such people as Mr. +Arch, and to sing the same air myself in a more diffident +manner.</p> + +<p>Tring was reached, and then Tring railway station; for +the two are not very near, the good people of Tring having +held the railway, of old days, in extreme apprehension, +lest some day it should break loose in the town and work +mischief. I had a last walk, among russet beeches as +usual, and the air filled, as usual, with the carolling of +larks; I heard shots fired in the distance, and saw, as a new +sign of the fulfilled autumn, two horsemen exercising a +pack of fox-hounds. And then the train came and carried +me back to London.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_40" id="Footnote_40" href="#FnAnchor_40"><span class="fn">40</span></a> I had nearly finished the transcription of the following pages, +when I saw on a friend’s table the number containing the piece from +which this sentence is extracted, and, struck with a similarity of +title, took it home with me and read it with indescribable satisfaction. +I do not know whether I more envy M. Theuriet the pleasure +of having written this delightful article, or the reader the pleasure, +which I hope he has still before him, of reading it once and again, +and lingering over the passages that please him most.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page132"></a>132</span></p> +<h5>VII</h5> + +<h3>A WINTER’S WALK IN CARRICK AND +GALLOWAY</h3> + +<p class="center1">(<i>A Fragment</i>: 1876)</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">At</span> the famous bridge of Doon, Kyle, the central district of +the shire of Ayr, marches with Carrick, the most southerly. +On the Carrick side of the river rises a hill of somewhat +gentle conformation, cleft with shallow dells, and sown here +and there with farms and tufts of wood. Inland, it loses +itself, joining, I suppose, the great herd of similar hills that +occupies the centre of the Lowlands. Towards the sea, it +swells out the coast-line into a protuberance, like a bay +window in a plan, and is fortified against the surf behind +bold crags. This hill is known as the Brown Hill of Carrick, +or, more shortly, Brown Carrick.</p> + +<p>It had snowed overnight. The fields were all sheeted +up; they were tucked in among the snow, and their shape +was modelled through the pliant counterpane, like children +tucked in by a fond mother. The wind had made ripples +and folds upon the surface, like what the sea, in quiet +weather, leaves upon the sand. There was a frosty stifle +in the air. An effusion of coppery light on the summit of +Brown Carrick showed where the sun was trying to look +through; but along the horizon clouds of cold fog had +settled down, so that there was no distinction of sky and +sea. Over the white shoulders of the headlands, or in the +opening of bays, there was nothing but a great vacancy and +blackness; and the road as it drew near the edge of the +cliff seemed to skirt the shores of creation and void space.</p> + +<p>The snow crunched underfoot, and at farms all the +dogs broke out barking as they smelt a passer-by upon +the road. I met a fine old fellow, who might have sat as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page133"></a>133</span> +the father in “The Cottar’s Saturday Night,” and who +swore most heathenishly at a cow he was driving. And a +little after I scraped acquaintance with a poor body tramping +out to gather cockles. His face was wrinkled by +exposure; it was broken up into flakes and channels, like +mud beginning to dry, and weathered in two colours, an +incongruous pink and grey. He had a faint air of being +surprised—which, God knows, he might well be—that life +had gone so ill with him. The shape of his trousers was +in itself a jest, so strangely were they bagged and ravelled +about his knees; and his coat was all bedaubed with clay +as though he had lain in a rain-dub during the New Year’s +festivity. I will own I was not sorry to think he had had +a merry New Year, and been young again for an evening; +but I was sorry to see the mark still there. One could +not expect such an old gentleman to be much of a dandy, +or a great student of respectability in dress; but there +might have been a wife at home, who had brushed out +similar stains after fifty New Years, now become old, or a +round-armed daughter, who would wish to have him neat, +were it only out of self-respect and for the ploughman +sweetheart when he looks round at night. Plainly, there +was nothing of this in his life, and years and loneliness hung +heavily on his old arms. He was seventy-six, he told me; +and nobody would give a day’s work to a man that age: +they would think he couldn’t do it. “And, ’deed,” he +went on, with a sad little chuckle, “’deed, I doubt if I +could.” He said good-bye to me at a foot-path, and +crippled wearily off to his work. It will make your heart +ache if you think of his old fingers groping in the snow.</p> + +<p>He told me I was to turn down beside the school-house +for Dunure. And so, when I found a lone house among +the snow, and heard a babble of childish voices from within, +I struck off into a steep road leading downwards to the +sea. Dunure lies close under the steep hill: a haven +among the rocks, a breakwater in consummate disrepair, +much apparatus for drying nets, and a score or so of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page134"></a>134</span> +fishers’ houses. Hard by, a few shards of ruined castle +overhang the sea, a few vaults, and one tall gable honeycombed +with windows. The snow lay on the beach to the +tide-mark. It was daubed on to the sills of the ruin; it +roosted in the crannies of the rock like white sea-birds; +even on outlying reefs there would be a little cock of snow, +like a toy lighthouse. Everything was grey and white in +a cold and dolorous sort of shepherd’s plaid. In the profound +silence, broken only by the noise of oars at sea, a +horn was sounded twice; and I saw the postman, girt +with two bags, pause a moment at the end of the clachan +for letters. It is, perhaps, characteristic of Dunure that +none were brought him.</p> + +<p>The people at the public-house did not seem well pleased +to see me, and though I would fain have stayed by the +kitchen fire, sent me “ben the hoose” into the guest-room. +This guest-room at Dunure was painted in quite +æsthetic fashion. There are rooms in the same taste not +a hundred miles from London, where persons of an extreme +sensibility meet together without embarrassment. It was +all in a fine dull bottle-green and black; a grave harmonious +piece of colouring, with nothing, so far as coarser +folk can judge, to hurt the better feelings of the most +exquisite purist. A cherry-red half window-blind kept up +an imaginary warmth in the cold room, and threw quite +a glow on the floor. Twelve cockle-shells and a halfpenny +china figure were ranged solemnly along the mantel-shelf. +Even the spittoon was an original note, and instead of +sawdust contained sea-shells. And as for the hearthrug, +it would merit an article to itself, and a coloured diagram +to help the text. It was patchwork, but the patchwork +of the poor; no glowing shreds of old brocade and Chinese +silk, shaken together in the kaleidoscope of some tasteful +housewife’s fancy; but a work of art in its own way, and +plainly a labour of love. The patches came exclusively +from people’s raiment. There was no colour more brilliant +than a heather mixture; “My Johnnie’s grey breeks,” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page135"></a>135</span> +well polished over the oar on the boat’s thwart, entered +largely into its composition. And the spoils of an old +black cloth coat, that had been many a Sunday to church, +added something (save the mark!) of preciousness to the +material.</p> + +<p>While I was at luncheon four carters came in—long-limbed, +muscular Ayrshire Scots, with lean, intelligent +faces. Four quarts of stout were ordered; they kept +filling the tumbler with the other hand as they drank; and +in less time than it takes me to write these words the four +quarts were finished—another round was proposed, discussed, +and negatived—and they were creaking out of the +village with their carts.</p> + +<p>The ruins drew you towards them. You never saw any +place more desolate from a distance, nor one that less +belied its promise near at hand. Some crows and gulls +flew away croaking as I scrambled in. The snow had +drifted into the vaults. The clachan dabbled with snow, +the white hills, the black sky, the sea marked in the coves +with faint circular wrinkles, the whole world, as it looked +from a loop-hole in Dunure, was cold, wretched, and out-at-elbows. +If you had been a wicked baron and compelled +to stay there all the afternoon, you would have had a rare +fit of remorse. How you would have heaped up the fire +and gnawed your fingers! I think it would have come to +homicide before the evening—if it were only for the pleasure +of seeing something red! And the masters of Dunure, +it is to be noticed, were remarkable of old for inhumanity. +One of these vaults where the snow had drifted was that +“black voute” where “Mr. Alane Stewart, Commendatour +of Crossraguel,” endured his fiery trials. On the 1st and +7th of September 1570 (ill dates for Mr. Alan!), Gilbert, +Earl of Cassilis, his chaplain, his baker, his cook, his +pantryman, and another servant, bound the poor Commendator +“betwix an iron chimlay and a fire,” and there +cruelly roasted him until he signed away his abbacy. It +is one of the ugliest stories of an ugly period, but not, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page136"></a>136</span> +somehow, without such a flavour of the ridiculous as makes +it hard to sympathise quite seriously with the victim. +And it is consoling to remember that he got away at last, +and kept his abbacy, and, over and above, had a pension +from the Earl until he died.</p> + +<p>Some way beyond Dunure a wide bay, of somewhat less +unkindly aspect, opened out. Colzean plantations lay all +along the steep shore, and there was a wooded hill towards +the centre, where the trees made a sort of shadowy etching +over the snow. The road went down and up, and past a +blacksmith’s cottage that made fine music in the valley. +Three compatriots of Burns drove up to me in a cart. They +were all drunk, and asked me jeeringly if this was the way +to Dunure. I told them it was; and my answer was received +with unfeigned merriment. One gentleman was so +much tickled he nearly fell out of the cart; indeed, he was +only saved by a companion, who either had not so fine a +sense of humour or had drunken less.</p> + +<p>“The toune of Mayboll,” says the inimitable Abercrummie,<a name="FnAnchor_41" id="FnAnchor_41" href="#Footnote_41"><span class="sp">41</span></a> +“stands upon an ascending ground from east +to west, and lyes open to the south. It hath one principall +street, with houses upon both sides, built of freestone, +and it is beautifyed with the situation of two castles, one +at each end of this street. That on the east belongs to +the Erle of Cassilis. On the west end is a castle, which +belonged sometime to the laird of Blairquan, which is +now the tolbuith, and is adorned with a pyremide [conical +roof], and a row of ballesters round it raised from the top +of the staircase, into which they have mounted a fyne +clock. There be four lanes which pass from the principall +street; one is called the Back Vennel, which is steep, +declining to the south-west, and leads to a lower street, +which is far larger than the high chiefe street, and it runs +from the Kirkland to the Well Trees, in which there have +been many pretty buildings, belonging to the severall +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page137"></a>137</span> +gentry of the countrey, who were wont to resort thither in +winter, and divert themselves in converse together at their +owne houses. It was once the principall street of the +town; but many of these houses of the gentry having been +decayed and ruined, it has lost much of its ancient beautie. +Just opposite to this vennel, there is another that leads +north-west, from the chiefe street to the green, which is +a pleasant plott of ground, enclosed round with an earthen +wall, wherein they were wont to play football, but now +at the Gowff and byasse-bowls. The houses of this towne, +on both sides of the street, have their several gardens +belonging to them; and in the lower street there be some +pretty orchards, that yield store of good fruit.” As +Patterson says, this description is near enough even to-day, +and is mighty nicely written to boot. I am bound to +add, of my own experience, that Maybole is tumble-down +and dreary. Prosperous enough in reality, it has an air +of decay; and though the population has increased, a +roofless house every here and there seems to protest the +contrary. The women are more than well-favoured, and +the men fine tall fellows; but they look slipshod and dissipated. +As they slouched at street corners, or stood about +gossiping in the snow, it seemed they would have been +more at home in the slums of a large city than here in a +country place betwixt a village and a town. I heard a +great deal about drinking, and a great deal about religious +revivals: two things in which the Scottish character is +emphatic and most unlovely. In particular, I heard of +clergymen who were employing their time in explaining to a +delighted audience the physics of the Second Coming. It is +not very likely any of us will be asked to help. If we were, +it is likely we should receive instructions for the occasion, +and that on more reliable authority. And so I can only +figure to myself a congregation truly curious in such flights +of theological fancy, as one of veteran and accomplished +saints, who have fought the good fight to an end and outlived +all worldly passion, and are to be regarded rather as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page138"></a>138</span> +a part of the Church Triumphant than the poor, imperfect +company on earth. And yet I saw some young fellows +about the smoking-room who seemed, in the eyes of one +who cannot count himself strait-laced, in need of some +more practical sort of teaching. They seemed only eager +to get drunk, and to do so speedily. It was not much +more than a week after the New Year; and to hear them +return on their past bouts with a gusto unspeakable was +not altogether pleasing. Here is one snatch of talk, for +the accuracy of which I can vouch—</p> + +<p>“Ye had a spree here last Tuesday?”</p> + +<p>“We had that!”</p> + +<p>“I wasna able to be oot o’ my bed. Man, I was awful +bad on Wednesday.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, ye were gey bad.”</p> + +<p>And you should have seen the bright eyes, and heard +the sensual accents! They recalled their doings with +devout gusto and a sort of rational pride. Schoolboys, +after their first drunkenness, are not more boastful; a +cock does not plume himself with a more unmingled satisfaction +as he paces forth among his harem; and yet these +were grown men, and by no means short of wit. It was +hard to suppose they were very eager about the Second +Coming: it seemed as if some elementary notions of +temperance for the men and seemliness for the women +would have gone nearer the mark. And yet, as it seemed +to me typical of much that is evil in Scotland, Maybole is +also typical of much that is best. Some of the factories, +which have taken the place of weaving in the town’s +economy, were originally founded and are still possessed +by self-made men of the sterling, stout old breed—fellows +who made some little bit of an invention, borrowed some +little pocketful of capital, and then, step by step, in +courage, thrift, and industry, fought their way upward +to an assured position.</p> + +<p>Abercrummie has told you enough of the Tolbooth; +but, as a bit of spelling, this inscription on the Tolbooth +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page139"></a>139</span> +bell seems too delicious to withhold: “This bell is founded +at Maiboll Bi Danel Geli, a Frenchman, the 6th November +1696, Bi appointment of the heritors of the parish of +Maiyboll.” The Castle deserves more notice. It is a large +and shapely tower, plain from the ground upward, but +with a zone of ornamentation running about the top. In +a general way this adornment is perched on the very +summit of the chimney-stacks; but there is one corner +more elaborate than the rest. A very heavy string-course +runs round the upper story, and just above this, facing up +the street, the tower carries a small oriel window, fluted +and corbelled and carved about with stone heads. It is +so ornate it has somewhat the air of a shrine. And it was, +indeed, the casket of a very precious jewel, for in the +room to which it gives light lay, for long years, the heroine +of the sweet old ballad of “Johnnie Faa”—she who, at +the call of the gipsies’ songs, “came tripping down the +stair, and all her maids before her.” Some people say the +ballad has no basis in fact, and have written, I believe, unanswerable +papers to the proof. But in the face of all that, +the very look of that high oriel window convinces the +imagination, and we enter into all the sorrows of the +imprisoned dame. We conceive the burthen of the long, +lack-lustre days, when she leaned her sick head against +the mullions, and saw the burghers loafing in Maybole High +Street, and the children at play, and ruffling gallants riding +by from hunt or foray. We conceive the passion of odd +moments, when the wind threw up to her some snatch of +song, and her heart grew hot within her, and her eyes +overflowed at the memory of the past. And even if the +tale be not true of this or that lady, or this or that old +tower, it is true in the essence of all men and women: for +all of us, some time or other, hear the gipsies singing; +over all of us is the glamour cast. Some resist and sit +resolutely by the fire. Most go and are brought back +again, like Lady Cassilis. A few, of the tribe of Waring, +go and are seen no more; only now and again, at springtime, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page140"></a>140</span> +when the gipsies’ song is afloat in the amethyst +evening, we can catch their voices in the glee.</p> + +<p>By night it was clearer, and Maybole more visible than +during the day. Clouds coursed over the sky in great +masses; the full moon battled the other way, and lit up +the snow with gleams of flying silver; the town came down +the hill in a cascade of brown gables, bestridden by smooth +white roofs, and spangled here and there with lighted +windows. At either end the snow stood high up in the +darkness, on the peak of the Tolbooth and among the +chimneys of the Castle. As the moon flashed a bull’s-eye +glitter across the town between the racing clouds, the +white roofs leaped into relief over the gables and the +chimney-stacks, and their shadows over the white roofs. +In the town itself the lit face of the clock peered down +the street; an hour was hammered out on Mr. Geli’s bell, +and from behind the red curtains of a public-house some +one trolled out—a compatriot of Burns, again!—“The +saut tear blin’s my e’e.”</p> + +<p>Next morning there were sun and a flapping wind. +From the street-corners of Maybole I could catch breezy +glimpses of green fields. The road underfoot was wet and +heavy—part ice, part snow, part water; and any one I +met greeted me, by way of salutation, with “A fine thowe” +(thaw). My way lay among rather bleak hills, and past +bleak ponds and dilapidated castles and monasteries, to +the Highland-looking village of Kirkoswald. It has little +claim to notice save that Burns came there to study surveying +in the summer of 1777, and there also, in the kirkyard, +the original of Tam o’ Shanter sleeps his last sleep. +It is worth noticing, however, that this was the first place +I thought “Highland-looking.” Over the hill from Kirkoswald +a farm-road leads to the coast. As I came down +above Turnberry, the sea view was indeed strangely +different from the day before. The cold fogs were all +blown away; and there was Ailsa Craig, like a refraction, +magnified and deformed, of the Bass Rock; and there +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page141"></a>141</span> +were the chiselled mountain tops of Arran, veined and +tipped with snow; and behind, and fainter, the low, blue +land of Cantyre. Cottony clouds stood, in a great castle, +over the top of Arran, and blew out in long streamers to +the south. The sea was bitten all over with white; little +ships, tacking up and down the Firth, lay over at different +angles in the wind. On Shanter they were ploughing lea; +a cart foal, all in a field by himself, capered and whinnied +as if the spring were in him.</p> + +<p>The road from Turnberry to Girvan lies along the +shore, among sandhills and by wildernesses of tumbled +bent. Every here and there a few cottages stood together +beside a bridge. They had one odd feature, not easy to +describe in words: a triangular porch projected from above +the door, supported at the apex by a single upright post; +a secondary door was hinged to the post, and could be +hasped on either cheek of the real entrance; so, whether +the wind was north or south, the cotter could make himself +a triangular bight of shelter where to set his chair and +finish a pipe with comfort. There is one objection to +this device: for, as the post stands in the middle of the +fairway, any one precipitately issuing from the cottage +must run his chance of a broken head. So far as I am +aware, it is peculiar to the little corner of country about +Girvan. And that corner is noticeable for more reasons: +it is certainly one of the most characteristic districts in +Scotland. It has this movable porch by way of architecture; +it has, as we shall see, a sort of remnant of provincial +costume, and it has the handsomest population in +the Lowlands....</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_41" id="Footnote_41" href="#FnAnchor_41"><span class="fn">41</span></a> William Abercrombie. See <i>Fasti Ecclesiæ Scoticanæ</i>, under +“Maybole” (Part iii.).</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page142"></a>142</span></p> +<h5>VIII</h5> + +<h3>FOREST NOTES</h3> + +<p class="center1">(1875-6)</p> + +<h5>ON THE PLAIN</h5> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Perhaps</span> the reader knows already the aspect of the great +levels of the Gâtinais, where they border with the wooded +hills of Fontainebleau. Here and there a few grey rocks +creep out of the forest as if to sun themselves. Here and +there a few apple-trees stand together on a knoll. The +quaint, undignified tartan of a myriad small fields dies +out into the distance; the strips blend and disappear; and +the dead flat lies forth open and empty, with no accident +save perhaps a thin line of trees or faint church-spire against +the sky. Solemn and vast at all times, in spite of pettiness +in the near details, the impression becomes more solemn +and vast towards evening. The sun goes down, a swollen +orange, as it were into the sea. A blue-clad peasant rides +home, with a harrow smoking behind him among the dry +clods. Another still works with his wife in their little strip. +An immense shadow fills the plain; these people stand in +it up to their shoulders; and their heads, as they stoop +over their work and rise again, are relieved from time +to time against the golden sky.</p> + +<p>These peasant farmers are well off nowadays, and not +by any means overworked; but somehow you always see +in them the historical representative of the serf of yore, +and think not so much of present times, which may be +prosperous enough, as of the old days when the peasant +was taxed beyond possibility of payment, and lived, in +Michelet’s image, like a hare between two furrows. These +very people now weeding their patch under the broad +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page143"></a>143</span> +sunset, that very man and his wife, it seems to us, have +suffered all the wrongs of France. It is they who have +been their country’s scape-goat for long ages; they who, +generation after generation, have sowed and not reaped, +reaped and another has garnered; and who have now +entered into their reward, and enjoy their good things in +their turn. For the days are gone by when the Seigneur +ruled and profited. “Le Seigneur,” says the old formula, +“enferme ses manants comme sous porte et gonds, du ciel +à la terre. Tout est à lui, forêt chenue, oiseau dans l’air, +poisson dans l’eau, bête au buisson, l’onde qui coule, la +cloche dont le son au loin roule.” Such was his old state +of sovereignty, a local god rather than a mere king. And +now you may ask yourself where he is, and look round for +vestiges of my late lord, and in all the country-side there +is no trace of him but his forlorn and fallen mansion. At +the end of a long avenue, now sown with grain, in the midst +of a close full of cypresses and lilacs, ducks and crowing +chanticleers and droning bees, the old château lifts its red +chimneys and peaked roofs and turning vanes into the +wind and sun. There is a glad spring bustle in the air, +perhaps, and the lilacs are all in flower, and the creepers +green about the broken balustrade; but no spring shall +revive the honour of the place. Old women of the people, +little children of the people, saunter and gambol in the +walled court or feed the ducks in the neglected moat. +Plough-horses, mighty of limb, browse in the long stables. +The dial-hand on the clock waits for some better hour. +Out on the plain, where hot sweat trickles into men’s eyes, +and the spade goes in deep and comes up slowly, perhaps +the peasant may feel a movement of joy at his heart when +he thinks that these spacious chimneys are now cold, +which have so often blazed and flickered upon gay folk +at supper, while he and his hollow-eyed children watched +through the night with empty bellies and cold feet. And +perhaps, as he raises his head and sees the forest lying +like a coast-line of low hills along the sea-like level of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page144"></a>144</span> +the plain, perhaps forest and château hold no unsimilar +place in his affections.</p> + +<p>If the château was my lord’s the forest was my lord +the king’s; neither of them for this poor Jacques. If he +thought to eke out his meagre way of life by some petty +theft of wood for the fire, or for a new roof-tree, he found +himself face to face with a whole department, from the +Grand Master of the Woods and Waters, who was a high-born +lord, down to the common sergeant, who was a +peasant like himself, and wore stripes or bandolier by way +of uniform. For the first offence, by the Salic law, there +was a fine of fifteen sols; and should a man be taken +more than once in fault, or circumstances aggravate the +colour of his guilt, he might be whipped, branded, or +hanged. There was a hangman over at Melun, and, I +doubt not, a fine tall gibbet hard by the town gate, where +Jacques might see his fellows dangle against the sky as +he went to market.</p> + +<p>And then, if he lived near to a cover, there would be +the more hares and rabbits to eat out his harvest, and +the more hunters to trample it down. My lord has a new +horn from England. He has laid out seven francs in decorating +it with silver and gold, and fitting it with a silken +leash to hang about his shoulder. The hounds have been +on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint Mesmer, or Saint +Hubert in the Ardennes, or some other holy intercessor +who has made a speciality of the health of hunting-dogs. +In the grey dawn the game was turned and the branch +broken by our best piqueur. A rare day’s hunting lies +before us. Wind a jolly flourish, sound the <i>bien-aller</i> +with all your lungs. Jacques must stand by, hat in hand, +while the quarry and hound and huntsman sweep across +his field, and a year’s sparing and labouring is as though +it had not been. If he can see the ruin with a good enough +grace, who knows but he may fall in favour with my lord; +who knows but his son may become the last and least +among the servants at his lordship’s kennel—one of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page145"></a>145</span> +two poor varlets who get no wages and sleep at night +among the hounds?<a name="FnAnchor_42" id="FnAnchor_42" href="#Footnote_42"><span class="sp">42</span></a></p> + +<p>For all that, the forest has been of use to Jacques, not +only warming him with fallen wood, but giving him shelter +in days of sore trouble, when my lord of the château, +with all his troopers and trumpets, had been beaten from +field after field into some ultimate fastness, or lay overseas +in an English prison. In these dark days, when the +watch on the church steeple saw the smoke of burning +villages on the sky-line, or a clump of spears and fluttering +pennon drawing nigh across the plain, these good folk gat +them up, with all their household gods, into the wood, +whence, from some high spur, their timid scouts might +overlook the coming and going of the marauders, and see +the harvest ridden down, and church and cottage go up +to heaven all night in flame. It was but an unhomely +refuge that the woods afforded, where they must abide +all change of weather and keep house with wolves and +vipers. Often there was none left alive, when they returned, +to show the old divisions of field from field. And +yet, as times went, when the wolves entered at night +into depopulated Paris, and perhaps De Retz was passing +by with a company of demons like himself, even in these +caves and thickets there were glad hearts and grateful +prayers.</p> + +<p>Once or twice, as I say, in the course of the ages, the +forest may have served the peasant well, but at heart it +is a royal forest, and noble by old association. These +woods have rung to the horns of all the kings of France, +from Philip Augustus downwards. They have seen St. +Louis exercise the dogs he brought with him from Egypt; +Francis I. go a-hunting with ten thousand horses in his +train; and Peter of Russia following his first stag. And +so they are still haunted for the imagination by royal +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page146"></a>146</span> +hunts and progresses, and peopled with the faces of memorable +men of yore. And this distinction is not only in +virtue of the pastime of dead monarchs. Great events, +great revolutions, great cycles in the affairs of men, have +here left their note, here taken shape in some significant +and dramatic situation. It was hence that Guise and +his leaguers led Charles the Ninth a prisoner to Paris. +Here, booted and spurred, and with all his dogs about +him, Napoleon met the Pope beside a woodland cross. +Here, on his way to Elba, not so long after, he kissed the +eagle of the Old Guard, and spoke words of passionate +farewell to his soldiers. And here, after Waterloo, rather +than yield its ensign to the new power, one of his faithful +regiments burned that memorial of so much toil and +glory on the Grand Master’s table, and drank its dust +in brandy, as a devout priest consumes the remnants of +the Host.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h5>IN THE SEASON</h5> + +<p>Close into the edge of the forest, so close that the trees +of the <i>bornage</i> stand pleasantly about the last houses, sits +a certain small and very quiet village. There is but one +street, and that, not long ago, was a green lane, where +the cattle browsed between the doorsteps. As you go +up this street, drawing ever nearer the beginning of the +wood, you will arrive at last before an inn where artists +lodge. To the door (for I imagine it to be six o’clock on +some fine summer’s even), half a dozen, or maybe half a +score, of people have brought out chairs, and now sit +sunning themselves and waiting the omnibus from Melun. +If you go on into the court you will find as many more, +some in the billiard-room over absinthe and a match of +corks, some without over a last cigar and a vermouth. +The doves coo and flutter from the dovecot; Hortense is +drawing water from the well; and as all the rooms open +into the court, you can see the white-capped cook over +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page147"></a>147</span> +the furnace in the kitchen, and some idle painter, who +has stored his canvases and washed his brushes, jangling +a waltz on the crazy, tongue-tied piano in the salle-à-manger. +“<i>Edmond, encore un vermouth</i>,” cries a man in +velveteen, adding in a tone of apologetic after-thought, +“<i>un double, s’il vous plaît</i>.” “Where are you working?” +asks one in pure white linen from top to toe. “At the +Garrefour de l’Épine,” returns the other in corduroy (they +are all gaitered, by the way). “I couldn’t do a thing to +it. I ran out of white. Where were you?” “I wasn’t +working. I was looking for motives.” Here is an outbreak +of jubilation, and a lot of men clustering together +about some new-comer with outstretched hands; perhaps +the “correspondence” has come in and brought So-and-so +from Paris, or perhaps it is only So-and-so who has walked +over from Chailly to dinner.</p> + +<p>“<i>À table, Messieurs!</i>” cries M. Siron, bearing through +the court the first tureen of soup. And immediately the +company begins to settle down about the long tables in +the dining-room, framed all round with sketches of all +degrees of merit and demerit. There’s the big picture of +the huntsman winding a horn with a dead boar between +his legs, and his legs—well, his legs in stockings. And +here is the little picture of a raw mutton-chop, in which +Such-a-one knocked a hole last summer with no worse +a missile than a plum from the dessert. And under all +these works of art so much eating goes forward, so much +drinking, so much jabbering in French and English, that +it would do your heart good merely to peep and listen +at the door. One man is telling how they all went last +year to the fête at Fleury, and another how well So-and-so +would sing of an evening; and here are a third and fourth +making plans for the whole future of their lives; and +there is a fifth imitating a conjuror making faces on his +clenched fist, surely of all arts the most difficult and +admirable! A sixth has eaten his fill, lights a cigarette, +and resigns himself to digestion. A seventh has just +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page148"></a>148</span> +dropped in, and calls for soup. Number eight, meanwhile, +has left the table, and is once more trampling the poor +piano under powerful and uncertain fingers.</p> + +<p>Dinner over, people drop outside to smoke and chat. +Perhaps we go along to visit our friends at the other end +of the village, where there is always a good welcome and +a good talk, and perhaps some pickled oysters and white +wine to close the evening. Or a dance is organised in +the dining-room, and the piano exhibits all its paces under +manful jockeying, to the light of three or four candles +and a lamp or two, while the waltzers move to and fro +upon the wooden floor, and sober men, who are not given +to such light pleasures, get up on the table or the sideboard, +and sit there looking on approvingly over a pipe +and a tumbler of wine. Or sometimes—suppose my lady +moon looks forth, and the court from out the half-lit +dining-room seems nearly as bright as by day, and the +light picks out the window-panes, and makes a clear +shadow under every vine leaf on the wall—sometimes a +picnic is proposed, and a basket made ready, and a good +procession formed in front of the hotel. The two trumpeters +in honour go before; and as we file down the long +alley, and up through devious footpaths among rocks and +pine-trees, with every here and there a dark passage +of shadow, and every here and there a spacious outlook +over moonlit woods, these two precede us and sound many +a jolly flourish as they walk. We gather ferns and dry +boughs into the cavern, and soon a good blaze flutters +the shadows of the old bandits’ haunt, and shows shapely +beards and comely faces and toilettes ranged about the +wall. The bowl is lit, and the punch is burnt and sent +round in scalding thimblefuls. So a good hour or two +may pass with song and jest. And then we go home in +the moonlight morning, straggling a good deal among the +birch tufts and the boulders, but ever called together +again, as one of our leaders winds his horn. Perhaps some +one of the party will not heed the summons, but chooses +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page149"></a>149</span> +out some by-way of his own. As he follows the winding +sandy road, he hears the flourishes grow fainter and fainter +in the distance, and die finally out, and still walks on in +the strange coolness and silence and between the crisp +lights and shadows of the moonlit woods, until suddenly +the bell rings out the hour from far-away Chailly, and he +starts to find himself alone. No surf-bell on forlorn and +perilous shores, no passing knell over the busy market-place, +can speak with a more heavy and disconsolate tongue +to human ears. Each stroke calls up a host of ghostly +reverberations in his mind. And as he stands rooted, it +has grown once more so utterly silent that it seems to him +he might hear the church-bells ring the hour out all the +world over, not at Chailly only, but in Paris, and away +in outlandish cities, and in the village on the river, where +his childhood passed between the sun and flowers.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h5>IDLE HOURS</h5> + +<p>The woods by night, in all their uncanny effect, are +not rightly to be understood until you can compare them +with the woods by day. The stillness of the medium, the +floor of glittering sand, these trees that go streaming up +like monstrous sea-weeds and waver in the moving winds +like the weeds in submarine currents, all these set the +mind working on the thought of what you may have seen +off a foreland or over the side of a boat, and make you +feel like a diver, down in the quiet water, fathoms below +the tumbling, transitory surface of the sea. And yet in +itself, as I say, the strangeness of these nocturnal solitudes +is not to be felt fully without the sense of contrast. You +must have risen in the morning and seen the woods as +they are by day, kindled and coloured in the sun’s light; +you must have felt the odour of innumerable trees at even, +the unsparing heat along the forest roads, and the coolness +of the groves.</p> + +<p>And on the first morning you will doubtless rise betimes. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page150"></a>150</span> +If you have not been wakened before by the visit +of some adventurous pigeon, you will be wakened as soon +as the sun can reach your window—for there are no blinds +or shutters to keep him out—and the room, with its bare +wood floor and bare whitewashed walls, shines all round +you in a sort of glory of reflected lights. You may doze +a while longer by snatches, or lie awake to study the +charcoal men and dogs and horses with which former +occupants have defiled the partitions: Thiers, with wily +profile; local celebrities, pipe in hand; or, maybe, a +romantic landscape splashed in oil. Meanwhile artist after +artist drops into the salle-à-manger for coffee, and then +shoulders easel, sunshade, stool, and paint-box, bound +into a fagot, and sets off for what he calls his “motive.” +And artist after artist, as he goes out of the village, carries +with him a little following of dogs. For the dogs, who +belong only nominally to any special master, hang about +the gate of the forest all day long, and whenever any one +goes by who hits their fancy, profit by his escort, and go +forth with him to play an hour or two at hunting. They +would like to be under the trees all day. But they cannot +go alone. They require a pretext. And so they take the +passing artist as an excuse to go into the woods, as they +might take a walking-stick as an excuse to bathe. With +quick ears, long spines, and bandy legs, or perhaps as +tall as a greyhound and with a bulldog’s head, this company +of mongrels will trot by your side all day and come +home with you at night, still showing white teeth and +wagging stunted tail. Their good humour is not to be +exhausted. You may pelt them with stones if you please, +all they will do is to give you a wider berth. If once they +come out with you, to you they will remain faithful, and +with you return; although if you meet them next morning +in the street, it is as like as not they will cut you with +a countenance of brass.</p> + +<p>The forest—a strange thing for an Englishman—is very +destitute of birds. This is no country where every patch +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page151"></a>151</span> +of wood among the meadows gives up an incense of song, +and every valley wandered through by a streamlet rings +and reverberates from side to side with a profusion of clear +notes. And this rarity of birds is not to be regretted on +its own account only. For the insects prosper in their +absence, and become as one of the plagues of Egypt. +Ants swarm in the hot sand; mosquitoes drone their nasal +drone; wherever the sun finds a hole in the roof of the +forest, you see a myriad transparent creatures coming and +going in the shaft of light; and even between-whiles, even +where there is no incursion of sun-rays into the dark arcade +of the wood, you are conscious of a continual drift of +insects, an ebb and flow of infinitesimal living things +between the trees. Nor are insects the only evil creatures +that haunt the forest. For you may plump into a cave +among the rocks, and find yourself face to face with a +wild boar, or see a crooked viper slither across the road.</p> + +<p>Perhaps you may set yourself down in the bay between +two spreading beech-roots with a book on your lap, and +be awakened all of a sudden by a friend: “I say, just +keep where you are, will you? You make the jolliest +motive.” And you reply: “Well, I don’t mind, if I may +smoke.” And thereafter the hours go idly by. Your +friend at the easel labours doggedly a little way off, in the +wide shadow of the tree; and yet farther, across a strait +of glaring sunshine, you see another painter, encamped in +the shadow of another tree, and up to his waist in the +fern. You cannot watch your own effigy growing out of +the white trunk, and the trunk beginning to stand forth +from the rest of the wood, and the whole picture getting +dappled over with the flecks of sun that slip through the +leaves overhead, and, as a wind goes by and sets the trees +a-talking, flicker hither and thither like butterflies of +light. But you know it is going forward; and, out of +emulation with the painter, get ready your own palette, +and lay out the colour for a woodland scene in words.</p> + +<p>Your tree stands in a hollow paved with fern and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page152"></a>152</span> +heather, set in a basin of low hills, and scattered over +with rocks and junipers. All the open is steeped in pitiless +sunlight. Everything stands out as though it were cut in +cardboard, every colour is strained into its highest key. +The boulders are some of them upright and dead like +monolithic castles, some of them prone like sleeping cattle. +The junipers—looking, in their soiled and ragged mourning, +like some funeral procession that has gone seeking the +place of sepulchre three hundred years and more in wind +and rain—are daubed in forcibly against the glowing ferns +and heather. Every tassel of their rusty foliage is defined +with pre-Raphaelite minuteness. And a sorry figure they +make out there in the sun, like misbegotten yew-trees! +The scene is all pitched in a key of colour so peculiar, and +lit up with such a discharge of violent sunlight, as a man +might live fifty years in England and not see.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile at your elbow some one tunes up a song, +words of Ronsard to a pathetic tremulous air, of how +the poet loved his mistress long ago, and pressed on her +the flight of time, and told her how white and quiet the +dead lay under the stones, and how the boat dipped and +pitched as the shades embarked for the passionless land. +Yet a little while, sang the poet, and there shall be no +more love; only to sit and remember loves that might +have been. There is a falling flourish in the air that +remains in the memory and comes back in incongruous +places, on the seat of hansoms or in the warm bed at +night, with something of a forest savour.</p> + +<p>“You can get up now,” says the painter; “I’m at +the background.”</p> + +<p>And so up you get, stretching yourself, and go your +way into the wood, the daylight becoming richer and more +golden, and the shadows stretching farther into the open. +A cool air comes along the highways, and the scents awaken. +The fir-trees breathe abroad their ozone. Out of unknown +thickets comes forth the soft, secret, aromatic odour of +the woods, not like a smell of the free heaven, but as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page153"></a>153</span> +though court ladies, who had known these paths in ages +long gone by, still walked in the summer evenings, and +shed from their brocades a breath of musk or bergamot +upon the woodland winds. One side of the long avenues +is still kindled with the sun, the other is plunged in transparent +shadow. Over the trees the west begins to burn +like a furnace; and the painters gather up their chattels, +and go down, by avenue or footpath, to the plain.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h5>A PLEASURE-PARTY</h5> + +<p>As this excursion is a matter of some length, and, +moreover, we go in force, we have set aside our usual +vehicle, the pony-cart, and ordered a large wagonette from +Lejosne’s. It has been waiting for near an hour, while +one went to pack a knapsack, and t’other hurried over his +toilette and coffee; but now it is filled from end to end +with merry folk in summer attire, the coachman cracks +his whip, and amid much applause from round the inn-door +off we rattle at a spanking trot. The way lies through +the forest, up hill and down dale, and by beech and pine +wood, in the cheerful morning sunshine. The English get +down at all the ascents and walk on ahead for exercise; +the French are mightily entertained at this, and keep +coyly underneath the tilt. As we go we carry with us a +pleasant noise of laughter and light speech, and some one +will be always breaking out into a bar or two of opera +bouffe. Before we get to the Route Ronde here comes +Desprez, the colourman from Fontainebleau, trudging +across on his weekly peddle with a case of merchandise; +and it is “Desprez, leave me some malachite green”; +“Desprez, leave me so much canvas”; “Desprez, leave +me this, or leave me that”; M. Desprez standing the while +in the sunlight with grave face and many salutations. The +next interruption is more important. For some time back +we have had the sound of cannon in our ears; and now, +a little past Franchard, we find a mounted trooper holding +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page154"></a>154</span> +a led horse, who brings the wagonette to a stand. The +artillery is practising in the Quadrilateral, it appears; +passage along the Route Ronde formally interdicted for the +moment. There is nothing for it but to draw up at the +glaring cross-roads, and get down to make fun with the +notorious Cocardon, the most ungainly and ill-bred dog of +all the ungainly and ill-bred dogs of Barbizon, or clamber +about the sandy banks. And meanwhile the Doctor, with +sun umbrella, wide Panama, and patriarchal beard, is busy +wheedling and (for aught the rest of us know) bribing the +too facile sentry. His speech is smooth and dulcet, his +manner dignified and insinuating. It is not for nothing +that the Doctor has voyaged all the world over, and speaks +all languages from French to Patagonian. He has not +come home from perilous journeys to be thwarted by a +corporal of horse. And so we soon see the soldier’s mouth +relax, and his shoulders imitate a relenting heart. “<i>En +voiture, Messieurs, Mesdames</i>,” sings the Doctor; and on +we go again at a good round pace, for black care follows +hard after us, and discretion prevails not a little over +valour in some timorous spirits of the party. At any +moment we may meet the sergeant, who will send us back. +At any moment we may encounter a flying shell, which +will send us somewhere farther off than Grez.</p> + +<p>Grez—for that is our destination—has been highly +recommended for its beauty. “<i>Il y a de l’eau</i>,” people +have said, with an emphasis, as if that settled the question, +which, for a French mind, I am rather led to think it does. +And Grez, when we get there, is indeed a place worthy of +some praise. It lies out of the forest, a cluster of houses, +with an old bridge, an old castle in ruin, and a quaint +old church. The inn garden descends in terraces to the +river; stableyard, kailyard, orchard, and a space of lawn, +fringed with rushes and embellished with a green arbour. +On the opposite bank there is a reach of English-looking +plain, set thickly with willows and poplars. And between +the two lies the river, clear and deep, and full of reeds +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page155"></a>155</span> +and floating lilies. Water-plants cluster about the starlings +of the long low bridge, and stand half-way up upon the +piers in green luxuriance. They catch the dipped oar +with long antennæ, and chequer the slimy bottom with +the shadow of their leaves. And the river wanders hither +and thither among the islets, and is smothered and broken +up by the reeds, like an old building in the lithe, hardy +arms of the climbing ivy. You may watch the box where +the good man of the inn keeps fish alive for his kitchen, +one oily ripple following another over the top of the yellow +deal. And you can hear a splashing and a prattle of voices +from the shed under the old kirk, where the village women +wash and wash all day among the fish and water-lilies. +It seems as if linen washed there should be specially cool +and sweet.</p> + +<p>We have come here for the river. And no sooner have +we all bathed than we board the two shallops and push +off gaily, and go gliding under the trees and gathering a +great treasure of water-lilies. Some one sings; some trail +their hands in the cool water; some lean over the gunwale +to see the image of the tall poplars far below, and +the shadow of the boat, with balanced oars and their +own head protruded, glide smoothly over the yellow floor +of the stream. At last, the day declining—all silent and +happy, and up to the knees in the wet lilies—we punt +slowly back again to the landing-place beside the bridge. +There is a wish for solitude on all. One hides himself in +the arbour with a cigarette; another goes a walk in the +country with Cocardon; a third inspects the church. +And it is not till dinner is on the table, and the inn’s +best wine goes round from glass to glass, that we begin +to throw off the restraint and fuse once more into a +jolly fellowship.</p> + +<p>Half the party are to return to-night with the wagonette; +and some of the others, loath to break up good +company, will go with them a bit of the way and drink a +stirrup-cup at Marlotte. It is dark in the wagonette, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page156"></a>156</span> +not so merry as it might have been. The coachman loses +the road. So-and-so tries to light fireworks with the +most indifferent success. Some sing, but the rest are +too weary to applaud; and it seems as if the festival +were fairly at an end—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Nous avons fait la noce,</p> +<p class="i05">Rentrons à nos foyers!”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">And such is the burthen, even after we have come to +Marlotte and taken our places in the court at Mother +Antonine’s. There is punch on the long table out in the +open air, where the guests dine in summer weather. The +candles flare in the night wind, and the faces round the +punch are lit up, with shifting emphasis, against a background +of complete and solid darkness. It is all picturesque +enough; but the fact is, we are aweary. We yawn; +we are out of the vein; we have made the wedding, as +the song says, and now, for pleasure’s sake, let’s make an +end on’t. When here comes striding into the court, +booted to mid-thigh, spurred and splashed, in a jacket of +green cord, the great, famous, and redoubtable Blank; +and in a moment the fire kindles again, and the night is +witness of our laughter as he imitates Spaniards, Germans, +Englishmen, picture-dealers, all eccentric ways of speaking +and thinking, with a possession, a fury, a strain of +mind and voice, that would rather suggest a nervous +crisis than a desire to please. We are as merry as ever +when the trap sets forth again, and say farewell noisily +to all the good folk going farther. Then, as we are far +enough from thoughts of sleep, we visit Blank in his +quaint house, and sit an hour or so in a great tapestried +chamber, laid with furs, littered with sleeping hounds, and +lit up, in fantastic shadow and shine, by a wood-fire in a +mediæval chimney. And then we plod back through the +darkness to the inn beside the river.</p> + +<p>How quick bright things come to confusion! When +we arise next morning, the grey showers fall steadily, the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page157"></a>157</span> +trees hang limp, and the face of the stream is spoiled with +dimpling raindrops. Yesterday’s lilies encumber the +garden walk, or begin, dismally enough, their voyage +towards the Seine and the salt sea. A sickly shimmer +lies upon the dripping house roofs, and all the colour is +washed out of the green and golden landscape of last +night, as though an envious man had taken a water-colour +sketch and blotted it together with a sponge. We go out +a-walking in the wet roads. But the roads about Grez +have a trick of their own. They go on for a while among +clumps of willows and patches of vine, and then, suddenly +and without any warning, cease and determine in some +miry hollow or upon some bald knowe; and you have a +short period of hope, then right-about face, and back the +way you came! So we draw about the kitchen fire and +play a round game of cards for ha’pence, or go to the +billiard-room for a match at corks; and by one consent +a messenger is sent over for the wagonette—Grez shall be +left to-morrow.</p> + +<p>To-morrow dawns so fair that two of the party agree +to walk back for exercise, and let their knapsacks follow +by the trap. I need hardly say they are neither of them +French; for, of all English phrases, the phrase “for +exercise” is the least comprehensible across the Straits +of Dover. All goes well for a while with the pedestrians. +The wet woods are full of scents in the noontide. At a +certain cross, where there is a guard-house, they make a +halt, for the forester’s wife is the daughter of their good +host at Barbizon. And so there they are hospitably +received by the comely woman, with one child in her +arms and another prattling and tottering at her gown, +and drink some syrup of quince in the back parlour, with +a map of the forest on the wall, and some prints of love-affairs +and the great Napoleon hunting. As they draw +near the Quadrilateral, and hear once more the report of +the big guns, they take a by-road to avoid the sentries, +and go on a while somewhat vaguely, with the sound of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page158"></a>158</span> +the cannon in their ears and the rain beginning to fall. +The ways grow wider and sandier; here and there there +are real sand hills, as though by the seashore; the fir-wood +is open and grows in clumps upon the hillocks, and +the race of sign-posts is no more. One begins to look at +the other doubtfully. “I am sure we should keep more +to the right,” says one; and the other is just as certain +they should hold to the left. And now, suddenly, the +heavens open, and the rain falls “sheer and strong and +loud,” as out of a shower-bath. In a moment they are +as wet as shipwrecked sailors. They cannot see out of +their eyes for the drift, and the water churns and gurgles +in their boots. They leave the track and try across country +with a gambler’s desperation, for it seems as if it were +impossible to make the situation worse; and, for the next +hour, go scrambling from boulder to boulder, or plod +along paths that are now no more than rivulets, and +across waste clearings where the scattered shells and +broken fir-trees tell all too plainly of the cannon in the +distance. And meantime the cannon grumble out responses +to the grumbling thunder. There is such a mixture of +melodrama and sheer discomfort about all this, it is at +once so grey and so lurid, that it is far more agreeable to +read and write about by the chimney-corner than to suffer +in the person. At last they chance on the right path, and +make Franchard in the early evening, the sorriest pair of +wanderers that ever welcomed English ale. Thence, by +the Bois d’Hyver, the Ventes-Alexandre, and the Pins +Brulés, to the clean hostelry, dry clothes, and dinner.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h5>THE WOODS IN SPRING</h5> + +<p>I think you will like the forest best in the sharp early +spring-time, when it is just beginning to re-awaken, and +innumerable violets peep from among the fallen leaves; +when two or three people at most sit down to dinner, +and, at table, you will do well to keep a rug about your +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page159"></a>159</span> +knees, for the nights are chill, and the salle-à-manger +opens on the court. There is less to distract the attention, +for one thing, and the forest is more itself. It is not +bedotted with artists’ sunshades as with unknown mushrooms, +nor bestrewn with the remains of English picnics. +The hunting still goes on, and at any <span class="correction" title="amended from 'monent'">moment</span> your heart +may be brought into your mouth as you hear far-away +horns; or you may be told by an agitated peasant that +the Vicomte has gone up the avenue, not ten minutes +since, “<i>à fond de train, monsieur, et avec douze piqueurs.</i>”</p> + +<p>If you go up to some coign of vantage in the system +of low hills that permeates the forest, you will see many +different tracts of country, each of its own cold and melancholy +neutral tint, and all mixed together and mingled the +one into the other at the seams. You will see tracts of +leafless beeches of a faint yellowish grey, and leafless oaks +a little ruddier in the hue. Then zones of pine of a solemn +green; and, dotted among the pines, or standing by themselves +in rocky clearings, the delicate, snow-white trunks +of birches, spreading out into snow-white branches yet +more delicate, and crowned and canopied with a purple +haze of twigs. And then a long, bare ridge of tumbled +boulders, with bright sandbreaks between them, and +wavering sandy roads among the bracken and brown +heather. It is all rather cold and unhomely. It has not +the perfect beauty, nor the gem-like colouring, of the wood +in the later year, when it is no more than one vast colonnade +of verdant shadow, tremulous with insects, intersected +here and there by lanes of sunlight set in purple +heather. The loveliness of the woods in March is not, +assuredly, of this blowsy rustic type. It is made sharp +with a grain of salt, with a touch of ugliness. It has a +sting like the sting of bitter ale; you acquire the love of +it as men acquire a taste for olives. And the wonderful +clear, pure air wells into your lungs the while by voluptuous +inhalations, and makes the eyes bright, and sets the heart +tinkling to a new tune—or, rather, to an old tune; for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page160"></a>160</span> +you remember in your boyhood something akin to this +spirit of adventure, this thirst for exploration, that now +takes you masterfully by the hand, plunges you into +many a deep grove, and drags you over many a stony +crest. It is as if the whole wood were full of friendly +voices calling you farther in, and you turn from one side +to another, like Buridan’s donkey, in a maze of pleasure.</p> + +<p>Comely beeches send up their white, straight, clustered +branches, barred with green moss, like so many +fingers from a half-clenched hand. Mighty oaks stand to +the ankles in a fine tracery of underwood; thence the tall +shaft climbs upward, and the great forest of stalwart +boughs spreads out into the golden evening sky, where the +rooks are flying and calling. On the sward of the Bois +d’Hyver the firs stand well asunder with outspread arms, +like fencers saluting; and the air smells of resin all around, +and the sound of the axe is rarely still. But strangest of +all, and in appearance oldest of all, are the dim and wizard +upland districts of young wood. The ground is carpeted +with fir-tassel, and strewn with fir-apples and flakes of +fallen bark. Rocks lie crouching in the thicket, guttered +with rain, tufted with lichen, white with years and the +rigours of the changeful seasons. Brown and yellow +butterflies are sown and carried away again by the light +air—like thistledown. The loneliness of these coverts is +so excessive, that there are moments when pleasure draws +to the verge of fear. You listen and listen for some noise +to break the silence, till you grow half mesmerised by +the intensity of the strain; your sense of your own identity +is troubled; your brain reels, like that of some gymnosophist +poring on his own nose in Asiatic jungles; and +should you see your own outspread feet, you see them, +not as anything of yours, but as a feature of the scene +around you.</p> + +<p>Still the forest is always, but the stillness is not always +unbroken. You can hear the wind pass in the distance +over the tree-tops; sometimes briefly, like the noise of a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page161"></a>161</span> +train; sometimes with a long steady rush, like the breaking +of waves. And sometimes, close at hand, the branches +move, a moan goes through the thicket, and the wood +thrills to its heart. Perhaps you may hear a carriage on +the road to Fontainebleau, a bird gives a dry continual +chirp, the dead leaves rustle underfoot, or you may time +your steps to the steady recurrent strokes of the woodman’s +axe. From time to time, over the low grounds, a +flight of rooks goes by; and from time to time the cooing +of wild doves falls upon the ear, not sweet and rich and +near at hand as in England, but a sort of voice of the +woods, thin and far away, as fits these solemn places. +Or you hear suddenly the hollow, eager, violent barking +of dogs; scared deer flit past you through the fringes of +the wood; then a man or two running, in green blouse, +with gun and game-bag on a bandolier; and then, out of +the thick of the trees, comes the jar of rifle-shots. Or +perhaps the hounds are out, and horns are blown, and +scarlet-coated huntsmen flash through the clearings, and +the solid noise of horses galloping passes below you, where +you sit perched among the rocks and heather. The boar +is afoot, and all over the forest, and in all neighbouring +villages, there is a vague excitement and a vague hope; +for who knows whither the chase may lead? and even to +have seen a single piqueur, or spoken to a single sportsman, +is to be a man of consequence for the night.</p> + +<p>Besides men who shoot and men who ride with the +hounds, there are few people in the forest, in the early +spring, save woodcutters plying their axes steadily, and +old women and children gathering wood for the fire. You +may meet such a party coming home in the twilight: the +old woman laden with a fagot of chips, and the little ones +hauling a long branch behind them in her wake. That is +the worst of what there is to encounter; and if I tell you +of what once happened to a friend of mine, it is by no +means to tantalise you with false hopes; for the adventure +was unique. It was on a very cold, still, sunless +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page162"></a>162</span> +morning, with a flat grey sky and a frosty tingle in the +air, that this friend (who shall here be nameless) heard +the notes of a key-bugle played with much hesitation, and +saw the smoke of a fire spread out along the green pine-tops, +in a remote uncanny glen, hard by a hill of naked +boulders. He drew near warily, and beheld a picnic party +seated under a tree in an open. The old father knitted a +sock, the mother sat staring at the fire. The eldest son, +in the uniform of a private of dragoons, was choosing out +notes on a key-bugle. Two or three daughters lay in the +neighbourhood picking violets. And the whole party as +grave and silent as the woods around them! My friend +watched for a long time, he says; but all held their +peace; not one spoke or smiled; only the dragoon kept +choosing out single notes upon the bugle, and the father +knitted away at his work and made strange movements +the while with his flexible eyebrows. They took no notice +whatever of my friend’s presence, which was disquieting +in itself, and increased the resemblance of the whole party +to mechanical wax-works. Certainly, he affirms, a wax +figure might have played the bugle with more spirit than +that strange dragoon. And as this hypothesis of his +became more certain, the awful insolubility of why they +should be left out there in the woods with nobody to wind +them up again when they ran down, and a growing disquietude +as to what might happen next, became too much +for his courage, and he turned tail, and fairly took to his +heels. It might have been a singing in his ears, but he +fancies he was followed as he ran by a peal of Titanic +laughter. Nothing has ever transpired to clear up the +mystery; it may be they were automata; or it may be +(and this is the theory to which I lean myself) that this +is all another chapter of Heine’s “Gods in Exile”; that +the upright old man with the eyebrows was no other than +Father Jove, and the young dragoon with the taste for +music either Apollo or Mars.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page163"></a>163</span></p> +<h5>MORALITY</h5> + +<p>Strange indeed is the attraction of the forest for the +minds of men. Not one or two only, but a great chorus +of grateful voices have arisen to spread abroad its fame. +Half the famous writers of modern France have had their +word to say about Fontainebleau. Chateaubriand, Michelet, +Béranger, George Sand, de Senancour, Flaubert, Murger, +the brothers Goncourt, Théodore de Banville, each of +these has done something to the eternal praise and memory +of these woods. Even at the very worst of times, even +when the picturesque was anathema in the eyes of all +Persons of Taste, the forest still preserved a certain reputation +for beauty. It was in 1730 that the Abbé Guilbert +published his “Historical Description of the Palace, Town, +and Forest of Fontainebleau.” And very droll it is to see +him, as he tries to set forth his admiration in terms of +what was then permissible. The monstrous rocks, etc., +says the Abbé, “sont admirées avec surprise des voyageurs +qui s’écrient aussitôt avec Horace: Ut mihi devio rupes +et vacuum nemus mirari libet.” The good man is not +exactly lyrical in his praise; and you see how he sets his +back against Horace as against a trusty oak. Horace, at +any rate, was classical. For the rest, however, the Abbé +likes places where many alleys meet; or which, like the +Belle-Étoile, are kept up “by a special gardener,” and +admires at the Table du Roi the labours of the Grand +Master of Woods and Waters, the Sieur de la Falure, “qui +a fait faire ce magnifique endroit.”</p> + +<p>But indeed, it is not so much for its beauty that the +forest makes a claim upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle +something, that quality of the air, that emanation from +the old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a +weary spirit. Disappointed men, sick Francis Firsts and +vanquished Grand Monarchs, time out of mind have come +here for consolation. Hither perplexed folk have retired +out of the press of life, as into a deep bay-window on some +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page164"></a>164</span> +night of masquerade, and here found quiet and silence, +and rest, the mother of wisdom. It is the great moral +spa; this forest without a fountain is itself the great +fountain of Juventius. It is the best place in the world +to bring an old sorrow that has been a long while your +friend and enemy; and if, like Béranger’s, your gaiety has +run away from home and left open the door for sorrow to +come in, of all covers in Europe, it is here you may expect +to find the truant hid. With every hour you change. +The air penetrates through your clothes, and nestles to +your living body. You love exercise and slumber, long +fasting and full meals. You forget all your scruples and +live a while in peace and freedom, and for the moment +only. For here, all is absent that can stimulate to moral +feeling. Such people as you see may be old, or toil-worn, +or sorry; but you see them framed in the forest, like +figures on a painted canvas; and for you, they are not +people in any living and kindly sense. You forget the +grim contrariety of interests. You forget the narrow +lane where all men jostle together in unchivalrous contention, +and the kennel, deep and unclean, that gapes on +either hand for the defeated. Life is simple enough, it +seems, and the very idea of sacrifice becomes like a mad +fancy out of a last night’s dream.</p> + +<p>Your ideal is not perhaps high, but it is plain and +possible. You become enamoured of a life of change and +movement and the open air, where the muscles shall be +more exercised than the affections. When you have had +your will of the forest, you may visit the whole round +world. You may buckle on your knapsack and take the +road on foot. You may bestride a good nag, and ride forth, +with a pair of saddle-bags, into the enchanted East. You +may cross the Black Forest, and see Germany widespread +before you, like a map, dotted with old cities, walled and +spired, that dream all day on their own reflections in the +Rhine or Danube. You may pass the spinal cord of +Europe and go down from Alpine glaciers to where Italy +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page165"></a>165</span> +extends her marble moles and glasses her marble palaces +in the midland sea. You may sleep in flying trains or +wayside taverns. You may be awakened at dawn by the +scream of the express or the small pipe of the robin in the +hedge. For you the rain should allay the dust of the +beaten road; the wind dry your clothes upon you as you +walked. Autumn should hang out russet pears and purple +grapes along the lane; inn after inn proffer you their +cups of raw wine; river by river receive your body in the +sultry noon. Wherever you went warm valleys and high +trees and pleasant villages should compass you about; +and light fellowships should take you by the arm, and +walk with you an hour upon your way. You may see +from afar off what it will come to in the end—the weather-beaten +red-nosed vagabond, consumed by a fever of the +feet, cut off from all near touch of human sympathy, a +waif, an Ishmael, and an outcast. And yet it will seem +well—and yet, in the air of the forest, this will seem the +best—to break all the network bound about your feet by +birth and old companionship and loyal love, and bear +your shovelful of phosphates to and fro, in town and +country, until the hour of the great dissolvent.</p> + +<p>Or, perhaps, you will keep to the cover. For the forest +is by itself, and forest life owns small kinship with life in +the dismal land of labour. Men are so far sophisticated +that they cannot take the world as it is given to them by +the sight of their eyes. Not only what they see and hear, +but what they know to be behind, enter into their notion +of a place. If the sea, for instance, lie just across the +hills, sea-thoughts will come to them at intervals, and the +tenor of their dreams from time to time will suffer a sea-change. +And so here, in this forest, a knowledge of its +greatness is for much in the effect produced. You reckon +up the miles that lie between you and intrusion. You +may walk before you all day long, and not fear to touch +the barrier of your Eden, or stumble out of fairyland into +the land of gin and steam-hammers. And there is an old +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page166"></a>166</span> +tale enhances for the imagination the grandeur of the +woods of France, and secures you in the thought of your +seclusion. When Charles VI. hunted in the time of his +wild boyhood near Senlis, there was captured an old stag, +having a collar of bronze about his neck, and these words +engraved on the collar: “Cæsar mini hoc donavit.” It +is no wonder if the minds of men were moved at this +occurrence and they stood aghast to find themselves thus +touching hands with forgotten ages, and following an +antiquity with hound and horn. And even for you, it is +scarcely in an idle curiosity that you ponder how many +centuries this stag had carried its free antlers through the +wood, and how many summers and winters had shone and +snowed on the imperial badge. If the extent of solemn +wood could thus safeguard a tall stag from the hunter’s +hounds and horses, might not you also play hide-and-seek, +in these groves, with all the pangs and trepidations of +man’s life, and elude Death, the mighty hunter, for more +than the span of human years? Here, also, crash his +arrows; here, in the farthest glade, sounds the gallop of +the pale horse. But he does not hunt this cover with all +his hounds, for the game is thin and small: and if you +were but alert and wary, if you lodged ever in the deepest +thickets, you too might live on into later generations and +astonish men by your stalwart age and the trophies of an +immemorial success.</p> + +<p>For the forest takes away from you all excuse to die. +There is nothing here to cabin or thwart your free desires. +Here all the impudences of the brawling world reach you +no more. You may count your hours, like Endymion, by +the strokes of the lone woodcutter, or by the progression +of the lights and shadows and the sun wheeling his wide +circuit through the naked heavens. Here shall you see no +enemies but winter and rough weather. And if a pang +comes to you at all, it will be a pang of healthful hunger. +All the puling sorrows, all the carking repentance, all this +talk of duty that is no duty, in the great peace, in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page167"></a>167</span> +pure daylight of these woods, fall away from you like a +garment. And if perchance you come forth upon an +eminence, where the wind blows upon you large and fresh, +and the pines knock their long stems together, like an +ungainly sort of puppets, and see far away over the plain +a factory chimney defined against the pale horizon—it is +for you, as for the staid and simple peasant when, with +his plough, he upturns old arms and harness from the +furrow of the glebe. Ay, sure enough, there was a battle +there in the old times; and, sure enough, there is a world +out yonder where men strive together with a noise of +oaths and weeping and clamorous dispute. So much you +apprehend by an athletic act of the imagination. A faint +far-off rumour as of Merovingian wars; a legend as of +some dead religion.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_42" id="Footnote_42" href="#FnAnchor_42"><span class="fn">42</span></a> “Deux poures varlez qui n’out nulz gages et qui gissoient la +nuit avec les chiens.” See Champollion-Figeac’s “Louis et Charles +d’Orléans,” i. 63, and for my lord’s English horn, <i>ibid.</i> 96.</p> +</div> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page168"></a>168</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page169"></a>169</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>CRITICISMS</h2> +<hr class="full" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page170"></a>170</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page171"></a>171</span></p> +<hr class="art" /> +<h2>CRITICISMS</h2> + +<h5>I</h5> + +<h3>LORD LYTTON’S “FABLES IN SONG”</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">It</span> seems as if Lord Lytton, in this new book of his, had +found the form most natural to his talent. In some ways, +indeed, it may be held inferior to “Chronicles and Characters”; +we look in vain for anything like the terrible +intensity of the night-scene in “Irene,” or for any such +passages of massive and memorable writing as appeared, +here and there, in the earlier work, and made it not altogether +unworthy of its model, Hugo’s “Legend of the +Ages.” But it becomes evident, on the most hasty retrospect, +that this earlier work was a step on the way towards +the later. It seems as if the author had been feeling about +for his definite medium, and was already, in the language +of the child’s game, growing hot. There are many pieces +in “Chronicles and Characters” that might be detached +from their original setting, and embodied, as they stand, +among the “Fables in Song.”</p> + +<p>For the term Fable is not very easy to define rigorously. +In the most typical form some moral precept is set forth +by means of a conception purely fantastic, and usually +somewhat trivial into the bargain; there is something +playful about it, that will not support a very exacting +criticism, and the lesson must be apprehended by the +fancy at half a hint. Such is the great mass of the old +stories of wise animals or foolish men that have amused +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page172"></a>172</span> +our childhood. But we should expect the fable, in company +with other and more important literary forms, to be +more and more loosely, or at least largely, comprehended +as time went on, and so to degenerate in conception from +this original type. That depended for much of its piquancy +on the very fact that it was fantastic: the point of the +thing lay in a sort of humorous inappropriateness; and it +is natural enough that pleasantry of this description should +become less common, as men learn to suspect some serious +analogy underneath. Thus a comical story of an ape +touches us quite differently after the proposition of Mr. +Darwin’s theory. Moreover, there lay, perhaps, at the +bottom of this primitive sort of fable, a humanity, a +tenderness of rough truths; so that at the end of some +story, in which vice or folly had met with its destined +punishment, the fabulist might be able to assure his auditors, +as we have often to assure tearful children on the like +occasions, that they may dry their eyes, for none of it +was true.</p> + +<p>But this benefit of fiction becomes lost with more +sophisticated hearers and authors: a man is no longer +the dupe of his own artifice, and cannot deal playfully +with truths that are a matter of bitter concern to him in +his life. And hence, in the progressive centralisation of +modern thought, we should expect the old form of fable +to fall gradually into desuetude, and be gradually succeeded +by another, which is a fable in all points except that it is +not altogether fabulous. And this new form, such as we +should expect, and such as we do indeed find, still presents +the essential character of brevity; as in any other fable +also, there is, underlying and animating the brief action, +a moral idea; and as in any other fable, the object is to +bring this home to the reader through the intellect rather +than through the feelings; so that, without being very +deeply moved or interested by the characters of the piece, +we should recognise vividly the hinges on which the little +plot revolves. But the fabulist now seeks analogies where +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page173"></a>173</span> +before he merely sought humorous situations. There will +be now a logical nexus between the moral expressed and +the machinery employed to express it. The machinery, +in fact, as this change is developed, becomes less and less +fabulous. We find ourselves in presence of quite a serious, +if quite a miniature division of creative literature; and +sometimes we have the lesson embodied in a sober, everyday +narration, as in the parables of the New Testament, +and sometimes merely the statement or, at most, the +collocation of significant facts in life, the reader being left +to resolve for himself the vague, troublesome, and not yet +definitely moral sentiment which has been thus created. +And step by step with the development of this change, yet +another is developed: the moral tends to become more +indeterminate and large. It ceases to be possible to append +it, in a tag, to the bottom of the piece, as one might write +the name below a caricature; and the fable begins to +take rank with all other forms of creative literature, as +something too ambitious, in spite of its miniature dimensions, +to be resumed in any succinct formula without the +loss of all that is deepest and most suggestive in it.</p> + +<p>Now it is in this widest sense that Lord Lytton understands +the term; there are examples in his two pleasant +volumes of all the forms already mentioned, and even of +another which can only be admitted among fables by the +utmost possible leniency of construction. “Composure,” +“Et Cætera,” and several more, are merely similes poetically +elaborated. So, too, is the pathetic story of the grandfather +and grandchild: the child, having treasured away +an icicle and forgotten it for ten minutes, comes back to +find it already nearly melted, and no longer beautiful: +at the same time, the grandfather has just remembered +and taken out a bundle of love-letters, which he too had +stored away in years gone by, and then long neglected; +and, behold! the letters are as faded and sorrowfully disappointing +as the icicle. This is merely a simile poetically +worked out; and yet it is in such as these, and some +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page174"></a>174</span> +others, to be mentioned further on, that the author seems +at his best. Wherever he has really written after the old +model, there is something to be deprecated: in spite of +all the spirit and freshness, in spite of his happy assumption +of that cheerful acceptation of things as they are, which, +rightly or wrongly, we come to attribute to the ideal +fabulist, there is ever a sense as of something a little out +of place. A form of literature so very innocent and primitive +looks a little over-written in Lord Lytton’s conscious +and highly-coloured style. It may be bad taste, but sometimes +we should prefer a few sentences of plain prose +narration, and a little Bewick by way of tail-piece. So +that it is not among those fables that conform most nearly +to the old model, but one had nearly said among those +that most widely differ from it, that we find the most +satisfactory examples of the author’s manner.</p> + +<p>In the mere matter of ingenuity, the metaphysical +fables are the most remarkable; such as that of the windmill +who imagined that it was he who raised the wind; +or that of the grocer’s balance (”Cogito ergo sum”) who +considered himself endowed with free-will, reason, and an +infallible practical judgment; until, one fine day, the +police made a descent upon the shop, and find the weights +false and the scales unequal; and the whole thing is broken +up for old iron. Capital fables, also, in the same ironical +spirit, are “Prometheus Unbound,” the tale of the vainglorying +of a champagne-cork, and “Teleology,” where a +nettle justifies the ways of God to nettles while all goes +well with it, and, upon a change of luck, promptly changes +its divinity.</p> + +<p>In all these there is still plenty of the fabulous if you +will, although, even here, there may be two opinions +possible; but there is another group, of an order of merit +perhaps still higher, where we look in vain for any such +playful liberties with Nature. Thus we have “Conservation +of Force”; where a musician, thinking of a +certain picture, improvises in the twilight; a poet, hearing +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page175"></a>175</span> +the music, goes home inspired, and writes a poem; +and then a painter, under the influence of this poem, +paints another picture, thus lineally descended from the +first. This is fiction, but not what we have been used +to call fable. We miss the incredible element, the point +of audacity with which the fabulist was wont to mock +at his readers. And still more so is this the case with +others. “The Horse and the Fly” states one of the +unanswerable problems of life in quite a realistic and +straightforward way. A fly startles a cab-horse, the coach +is overset; a newly-married pair within and the driver, +a man with a wife and family, are all killed. The horse +continues to gallop off in the loose traces, and ends the +tragedy by running over an only child; and there is some +little pathetic detail here introduced in the telling, that +makes the reader’s indignation very white-hot against +some one. It remains to be seen who that some one is to +be: the fly? Nay, but on closer inspection, it appears +that the fly, actuated by maternal instinct, was only +seeking a place for her eggs: is maternal instinct, then, +“sole author of these mischiefs all”? “Who’s in the +Right?” one of the best fables in the book, is somewhat +in the same vein. After a battle has been won, a group +of officers assemble inside a battery, and debate together +who should have the honour of the success; the Prince, +the general staff, the cavalry, the engineer who posted the +battery in which they then stand talking, are successively +named: the sergeant, who pointed the guns, sneers to +himself at the mention of the engineer; and, close by, +the gunner, who had applied the match, passes away with +a smile of triumph, since it was through his hand that the +victorious blow had been dealt. Meanwhile, the cannon +claims the honour over the gunner; the cannon-ball, who +actually goes forth on the dread mission, claims it over the +cannon, who remains idly behind; the powder reminds +the cannon-ball that, but for him, it would still be lying +on the arsenal floor; and the match caps the discussion; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page176"></a>176</span> +powder, cannon-ball, and cannon would be all equally vain +and ineffectual without fire. Just then there comes on a +shower of rain, which wets the powder and puts out the +match, and completes this lesson of dependence, by indicating +the negative conditions which are as necessary for +any effect, in their absence, as is the presence of this great +fraternity of positive conditions, not any one of which +can claim priority over any other. But the fable does not +end here, as perhaps, in all logical strictness, it should. +It wanders off into a discussion as to which is the truer +greatness, that of the vanquished fire or that of the +victorious rain. And the speech of the rain is charming:</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Lo, with my little drops I bless again</p> +<p class="i05">And beautify the fields which thou didst blast!</p> +<p class="i05">Rend, wither, waste, and ruin, what thou wilt,</p> +<p class="i05">But call not Greatness what the Gods call Guilt.</p> +<p class="i05">Blossoms and grass from blood in battle spilt,</p> +<p class="i05">And poppied corn, I bring.</p> +<p class="i05">’Mid mouldering Babels, to oblivion built,</p> +<p class="i05">My violets spring.</p> +<p class="i05">Little by little my small drops have strength</p> +<p class="i05">To deck with green delights the grateful earth.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">And so forth, not quite germane (it seems to me) to the +matter in hand, but welcome for its own sake.</p> + +<p>Best of all are the fables that deal more immediately +with the emotions. There is, for instance, that of “The +Two Travellers,” which is profoundly moving in conception, +although by no means as well written as some +others. In this, one of the two, fearfully frost-bitten, saves +his life out of the snow at the cost of all that was comely +in his body; just as, long before, the other, who has now +quietly resigned himself to death, had violently freed +himself from Love at the cost of all that was finest and +fairest in his character. Very graceful and sweet is the +fable (if so it should be called) in which the author sings +the praises of that “kindly perspective,” which lets a +wheat-stalk near the eye cover twenty leagues of distant +country, and makes the humble circle about a man’s hearth +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page177"></a>177</span> +more to him than all the possibilities of the external world. +The companion fable to this is also excellent. It tells us +of a man who had, all his life through, entertained a +passion for certain blue hills on the far horizon, and had +promised himself to travel thither ere he died, and become +familiar with these distant friends. At last, in some +political trouble, he is banished to the very place of his +dreams. He arrives there overnight, and, when he rises +and goes forth in the morning, there sure enough are the +blue hills, only now they have changed places with him, +and smile across to him, distant as ever, from the old home +whence he has come. Such a story might have been very +cynically treated; but it is not so done, the whole tone +is kindly and consolatory, and the disenchanted man submissively +takes the lesson, and understands that things +far away are to be loved for their own sake, and that the +unattainable is not truly unattainable, when we can make +the beauty of it our own. Indeed, throughout all these +two volumes, though there is much practical scepticism, +and much irony on abstract questions, this kindly and +consolatory spirit is never absent. There is much that is +cheerful and, after a sedate, fireside fashion, hopeful. No +one will be discouraged by reading the book; but the ground +of all this hopefulness and cheerfulness remains to the end +somewhat vague. It does not seem to arise from any +practical belief in the future either of the individual or +the race, but rather from the profound personal contentment +of the writer. This is, I suppose, all we must look +for in the case. It is as much as we can expect, if the +fabulist shall prove a shrewd and cheerful fellow-wayfarer, +one with whom the world does not seem to have gone +much amiss, but who has yet laughingly learned something +of its evil. It will depend much, of course, upon our own +character and circumstances, whether the encounter will +be agreeable and bracing to the spirits, or offend us as +an ill-timed mockery. But where, as here, there is a little +tincture of bitterness along with the good-nature, where +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page178"></a>178</span> +it is plainly not the humour of a man cheerfully ignorant, +but of one who looks on, tolerant and superior and smilingly +attentive, upon the good and bad of our existence, it will +go hardly if we do not catch some reflection of the same +spirit to help us on our way. There is here no impertinent +and lying proclamation of peace—none of the cheap +optimism of the well-to-do; what we find here is a view +of life that would be even grievous, were it not enlivened +with this abiding cheerfulness, and ever and anon redeemed +by a stroke of pathos.</p> + +<p>It is natural enough, I suppose, that we should find +wanting in this book some of the intenser qualities of the +author’s work; and their absence is made up for by much +happy description after a quieter fashion. The burst of +jubilation over the departure of the snow, which forms the +prelude to “The Thistle,” is full of spirit and of pleasant +images. The speech of the forest in “Sans Souci” is +inspired by a beautiful sentiment for nature of the modern +sort, and pleases us more, I think, as poetry should please +us, than anything in “Chronicles and Characters.” There +are some admirable felicities of expression here and there; +as that of the hill, whose summit</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">“Did print</p> +<p>The azure air with pines.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Moreover, I do not recollect in the author’s former work +any symptom of that sympathetic treatment of still life, +which is noticeable now and again in the fables; and +perhaps most noticeably, when he sketches the burned +letters as they hover along the gusty flue, “Thin, sable +veils, wherein a restless spark Yet trembled.” But the +description is at its best when the subjects are unpleasant, +or even grisly. There are a few capital lines in this key +on the last spasm of the battle before alluded to. Surely +nothing could be better, in its own way, than the fish in +“The Last Cruise of the Arrogant,” “the shadowy, side-faced, +silent things,” that come butting and staring with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page179"></a>179</span> +lidless eyes at the sunken steam-engine. And although, +in yet another, we are told, pleasantly enough, how the +water went down into the valleys, where it set itself gaily +to saw wood, and on into the plains, where it would soberly +carry grain to town; yet the real strength of the fable +is when it deals with the shut pool in which certain unfortunate +raindrops are imprisoned among slugs and snails, +and in the company of an old toad. The sodden contentment +of the fallen acorn is strangely significant; and it +is astonishing how unpleasantly we are startled by the +appearance of her horrible lover, the maggot.</p> + +<p>And now for a last word, about the style. This is not +easy to criticise. It is impossible to deny to it rapidity, +spirit, and a full sound; the lines are never lame, and the +sense is carried forward with an uninterrupted, impetuous +rush. But it is not equal. After passages of really +admirable versification, the author falls back upon a sort +of loose, cavalry manner, not unlike the style of some of +Mr. Browning’s minor pieces, and almost inseparable from +wordiness, and an easy acceptation of somewhat cheap +finish. There is nothing here of that compression which +is the note of a really sovereign style. It is unfair, perhaps, +to set a not remarkable passage from Lord Lytton +side by side with one of the signal masterpieces of another, +and a very perfect poet; and yet it is interesting, when +we see how the portraiture of a dog, detailed through thirty +odd lines, is frittered down and finally almost lost in the +mere laxity of the style, to compare it with the clear, +simple, vigorous delineation that Burns, in four couplets, +has given us of the ploughman’s collie. It is interesting, +at first, and then it becomes a little irritating; for when +we think of other passages so much more finished and +adroit, we cannot help feeling, that with a little more +ardour after perfection of form, criticism would have found +nothing left for her to censure. A similar mark of precipitate +work is the number of adjectives tumultuously +heaped together, sometimes to help out the sense, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page180"></a>180</span> +sometimes (as one cannot but suspect) to help out the +sound of the verses. I do not believe, for instance, that +Lord Lytton himself would defend the lines in which we +are told how Laocoön “Revealed to <i>Roman</i> crowds, now +<i>Christian</i> grown, That <i>Pagan</i> anguish which, in <i>Parian</i> +stone, the <i>Rhodian</i> artist,” and so on. It is not only that +this is bad in itself; but that it is unworthy of the company +in which it is found; that such verses should not +have appeared with the name of a good versifier like Lord +Lytton. We must take exception, also, in conclusion, to +the excess of alliteration. Alliteration is so liable to be +abused that we can scarcely be too sparing of it; and +yet it is a trick that seems to grow upon the author with +years. It is a pity to see fine verses, such as some in +“Demos,” absolutely spoiled by the recurrence of one +wearisome consonant.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>II</h5> + +<h3>SALVINI’S MACBETH</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Salvini</span> closed his short visit to Edinburgh by a performance +of <i>Macbeth</i>. It was, perhaps, from a sentiment of +local colour that he chose to play the Scottish usurper for +the first time before Scotsmen; and the audience were +not insensible of the privilege. Few things, indeed, can +move a stronger interest than to see a great creation taking +shape for the first time. If it is not purely artistic, the +sentiment is surely human. And the thought that you are +before all the world, and have the start of so many others +as eager as yourself, at least keeps you in a more unbearable +suspense before the curtain rises, if it does not enhance +the delight with which you follow the performance and +see the actor “bend up each corporal agent” to realise +a masterpiece of a few hours’ duration. With a player +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page181"></a>181</span> +so variable as Salvini, who trusts to the feelings of the +moment for so much detail, and who, night after night, +does the same thing differently but always well, it can +never be safe to pass judgment after a single hearing. +And this is more particularly true of last week’s <i>Macbeth</i>; +for the whole third act was marred by a grievously humorous +misadventure. Several minutes too soon the ghost of +Banquo joined the party, and after having sat helpless a +while at a table, was ignominiously withdrawn. Twice +was this ghostly Jack-in-the-box obtruded on the stage +before his time; twice removed again; and yet he showed +so little hurry when he was really wanted, that, after an +awkward pause, Macbeth had to begin his apostrophe to +empty air. The arrival of the belated spectre in the +middle, with a jerk that made him nod all over, was +the last accident in the chapter, and worthily topped +the whole. It may be imagined how lamely matters +went throughout these cross purposes.</p> + +<p>In spite of this, and some other hitches, Salvini’s Macbeth +had an emphatic success. The creation is worthy +of a place beside the same artist’s Othello and Hamlet. +It is the simplest and most unsympathetic of the three; +but the absence of the finer lineaments of Hamlet is +redeemed by gusto, breadth, and a headlong unity. Salvini +sees nothing great in Macbeth beyond the royalty of +muscle, and that courage which comes of strong and +copious circulation. The moral smallness of the man is +insisted on from the first, in the shudder of uncontrollable +jealousy with which he sees Duncan embracing Banquo. +He may have some northern poetry of speech, but he has +not much logical understanding. In his dealings with the +supernatural powers he is like a savage with his fetich, +trusting them beyond bounds while all goes well, and +whenever he is crossed, casting his belief aside and calling +“fate into the list.” For his wife, he is little more than +an agent, a frame of bone and sinew for her fiery spirit +to command. The nature of his feeling towards her is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page182"></a>182</span> +rendered with a most precise and delicate touch. He +always yields to the woman’s fascination; and yet his +caresses (and we know how much meaning Salvini can +give to a caress) are singularly hard and unloving. Sometimes +he lays his hand on her as he might take hold of +any one who happened to be nearest to him at a moment +of excitement. Love has fallen out of this marriage by +the way, and left a curious friendship. Only once—at the +very moment when she is showing herself so little a woman +and so much a high-spirited man—only once is he very +deeply stirred towards her; and that finds expression in +the strange and horrible transport of admiration, doubly +strange and horrible on Salvini’s lips—“Bring forth men-children +only!”</p> + +<p>The murder scene, as was to be expected, pleased the +audience best. Macbeth’s voice, in the talk with his wife, +was a thing not to be forgotten; and when he spoke of +his hangman’s hands he seemed to have blood in his utterance. +Never for a moment, even in the very article of the +murder, does he possess his own soul. He is a man on +wires. From first to last it is an exhibition of hideous +cowardice. For, after all, it is not here, but in broad daylight, +with the exhilaration of conflict, where he can assure +himself at every blow he has the longest sword and the +heaviest hand, that this man’s physical bravery can keep +him up; he is an unwieldy ship, and needs plenty of way +on before he will steer.</p> + +<p>In the banquet scene, while the first murderer gives +account of what he has done, there comes a flash of truculent +joy at the “twenty trenchèd gashes” on Banquo’s head. +Thus Macbeth makes welcome to his imagination those +very details of physical horror which are so soon to turn +sour in him. As he runs out to embrace these cruel circumstances, +as he seeks to realise to his mind’s eye the reassuring +spectacle of his dead enemy, he is dressing out the phantom +to terrify himself; and his imagination, playing the part +of justice, is to “commend to his own lips the ingredients +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page183"></a>183</span> +of his poisoned chalice.” With the recollection of Hamlet +and his father’s spirit still fresh upon him, and the holy +awe with which that good man encountered things not +dreamt of in his philosophy, it was not possible to avoid +looking for resemblances between the two apparitions and +the two men haunted. But there are none to be found. +Macbeth has a purely physical dislike for Banquo’s spirit +and the “twenty trenchèd gashes.” He is afraid of he +knows not what. He is abject, and again blustering. In +the end he so far forgets himself, his terror, and the nature +of what is before him, that he rushes upon it as he would +upon a man. When his wife tells him he needs repose, +there is something really childish in the way he looks about +the room, and, seeing nothing, with an expression of +almost sensual relief, plucks up heart enough to go to bed. +And what is the upshot of the visitation? It is written +in Shakespeare, but should be read with the commentary +of Salvini’s voice and expression:—“<i>O! siam nell’ opra +ancor fanciulli</i>,”—“We are yet but young in deed.” +Circle below circle. He is looking with horrible satisfaction +into the mouth of hell. There may still be a prick to-day; +but to-morrow conscience will be dead, and he may move +untroubled in this element of blood.</p> + +<p>In the fifth act we see this lowest circle reached; and +it is Salvini’s finest moment throughout the play. From +the first he was admirably made up, and looked Macbeth +to the full as perfectly as ever he looked Othello. From +the first moment he steps upon the stage you can see this +character is a creation to the fullest meaning of the phrase; +for the man before you is a type you know well already. +He arrives with Banquo on the heath, fair and red-bearded, +sparing of gesture, full of pride and the sense of animal +wellbeing, and satisfied after the battle like a beast who +has eaten his fill. But in the fifth act there is a change. +This is still the big, burly, fleshly, handsome-looking Thane; +here is still the same face which in the earlier acts could +be superficially good-humoured and sometimes royally +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page184"></a>184</span> +courteous. But now the atmosphere of blood, which +pervades the whole tragedy, has entered into the man and +subdued him to its own nature; and an indescribable +degradation, a slackness and puffiness, has overtaken his +features. He has breathed the air of carnage, and supped +full of horrors. Lady Macbeth complains of the smell of +blood on her hand: Macbeth makes no complaint—he has +ceased to notice it now; but the same smell is in his nostrils. +A contained fury and disgust possesses him. He taunts +the messenger and the doctor as people would taunt their +mortal enemies. And, indeed, as he knows right well, +every one is his enemy now, except his wife. About her +he questions the doctor with something like a last human +anxiety; and, in tones of grisly mystery, asks him if he +can “minister to a mind diseased.” When the news of her +death is brought him, he is staggered and falls into a +seat; but somehow it is not anything we can call grief +that he displays. There had been two of them against +God and man; and now, when there is only one, it makes +perhaps less difference than he had expected. And so her +death is not only an affliction, but one more disillusion; +and he redoubles in bitterness. The speech that follows, +given with tragic cynicism in every word, is a dirge, not +so much for her as for himself. From that time forth +there is nothing human left in him, only “the fiend of +Scotland,” Macduff’s “hell-hound,” whom, with a stern +glee, we see baited like a bear and hunted down like a +wolf. He is inspired and set above fate by a demoniacal +energy, a lust of wounds and slaughter. Even after he +meets Macduff his courage does not fail; but when he +hears the Thane was not born of woman, all virtue goes +out of him; and though he speaks sounding words of +defiance, the last combat is little better than a suicide.</p> + +<p>The whole performance is, as I said, so full of gusto and +a headlong unity; the personality of Macbeth is so sharp +and powerful; and within these somewhat narrow limits +there is so much play and saliency that, so far as concerns +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page185"></a>185</span> +Salvini himself, a third great success seems indubitable. +Unfortunately, however, a great actor cannot fill more than +a very small fraction of the boards; and though Banquo’s +ghost will probably be more seasonable in his future +apparitions, there are some more inherent difficulties in +the piece. The company at large did not distinguish +themselves. Macduff, to the huge delight of the gallery, +out-Macduff’d the average ranter. The lady who filled +the principal female part has done better on other occasions, +but I fear she has not metal for what she tried last +week. Not to succeed in the sleep-walking scene is to +make a memorable failure. As it was given, it succeeded +in being wrong in art without being true to nature.</p> + +<p>And there is yet another difficulty, happily easy to +reform, which somewhat interfered with the success of the +performance. At the end of the incantation scene the +Italian translator has made Macbeth fall insensible upon +the stage. This is a change of questionable propriety +from a psychological point of view; while in point of +view of effect it leaves the stage for some moments empty +of all business. To remedy this, a bevy of green ballet-girls +came forth and pointed their toes about the prostrate +king. A dance of High Church curates, or a hornpipe by +Mr. T. P. Cooke, would not be more out of the key; though +the gravity of a Scots audience was not to be overcome, +and they merely expressed their disapprobation by a +round of moderate hisses, a similar irruption of Christmas +fairies would most likely convulse a London theatre from +pit to gallery with inextinguishable laughter. It is, I am +told, the Italian tradition; but it is one more honoured in +the breach than the observance. With the total disappearance +of these damsels, with a stronger Lady Macbeth, and, +if possible, with some compression of those scenes in which +Salvini does not appear, and the spectator is left at the +mercy of Macduffs and Duncans, the play would go twice +as well, and we should be better able to follow and enjoy +an admirable work of dramatic art.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page186"></a>186</span></p> +<h5>III</h5> + +<h3>BAGSTER’S “PILGRIM’S PROGRESS”</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">I have</span> here before me an edition of the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” +bound in green, without a date, and described as +“illustrated by nearly three hundred engravings, and +memoir of Bunyan.” On the outside it is lettered “Bagster’s +Illustrated Edition,” and after the author’s apology, +facing the first page of the tale, a folding pictorial “Plan +of the Road” is marked as “drawn by the late Mr. T. +Conder,” and engraved by J. Basire. No further information +is anywhere vouchsafed; perhaps the publishers had +judged the work too unimportant; and we are still left +ignorant whether or not we owe the woodcuts in the body +of the volume to the same hand that drew the plan. It +seems, however, more than probable. The literal particularity +of mind which, in the map, laid down the flower-plots +in the devil’s garden, and carefully introduced the +court-house in the town of Vanity, is closely paralleled +in many of the cuts; and in both, the architecture of the +buildings and the disposition of the gardens have a kindred +and entirely English air. Whoever he was, the author of +these wonderful little pictures may lay claim to be the +best illustrator of Bunyan.<a name="FnAnchor_43" id="FnAnchor_43" href="#Footnote_43"><span class="sp">43</span></a> They are not only good +illustrations, like so many others; but they are like so few, +good illustrations of Bunyan. Their spirit, in defect and +quality, is still the same as his own. The designer also +has lain down and dreamed a dream, as literal, as quaint, +and almost as apposite as Bunyan’s; and text and pictures +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page187"></a>187</span> +make but the two sides of the same homespun yet impassioned +story. To do justice to the designs, it will be +necessary to say, for the hundredth time, a word or two +about the masterpiece which they adorn.</p> + +<p>All allegories have a tendency to escape from the purpose +of their creators; and as the characters and incidents +become more and more interesting in themselves, the moral, +which these were to show forth, falls more and more into +neglect. An architect may command a wreath of vine-leaves +round the cornice of a monument; but if, as each +leaf came from the chisel, it took proper life and fluttered +freely on the wall, and if the vine grew, and the building +were hidden over with foliage and fruit, the architect +would stand in much the same situation as the writer of +allegories. The “Faëry Queen” was an allegory, I am +willing to believe; but it survives as an imaginative tale +in incomparable verse. The case of Bunyan is widely +different; and yet in this also Allegory, poor nymph, +although never quite forgotten, is sometimes rudely thrust +against the wall. Bunyan was fervently in earnest; with +“his fingers in his ears, he ran on,” straight for his mark. +He tells us himself, in the conclusion to the first part, that +he did not fear to raise a laugh; indeed, he feared nothing, +and said anything; and he was greatly served in this by +a certain rustic privilege of his style, which, like the talk +of strong uneducated men, when it does not impress by +its force, still charms by its simplicity. The mere story +and the allegorical design enjoyed perhaps his equal favour. +He believed in both with an energy of faith that was capable +of moving mountains. And we have to remark in him, +not the parts where inspiration fails and is supplied by cold +and merely decorative invention, but the parts where faith +has grown to be credulity, and his characters become so +real to him that he forgets the end of their creation. We +can follow him step by step into the trap which he lays +for himself by his own entire good faith and triumphant +literality of vision, till the trap closes and shuts him in an +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page188"></a>188</span> +inconsistency. The allegories of the Interpreter and of +the Shepherds of the Delectable Mountains are all actually +performed, like stage-plays, before the pilgrims. The son +of Mr. Great-grace visibly “tumbles hills about with his +words.” Adam the First has his condemnation written +visibly on his forehead, so that Faithful reads it. At the +very instant the net closes round the pilgrims, “the white +robe falls from the black man’s body.” Despair “getteth +him a grievous crab-tree cudgel”; it was in “sunshiny +weather” that he had his fits; and the birds in the grove +about the House Beautiful, “our country birds,” only sing +their little pious verses “at the spring, when the flowers +appear and the sun shines warm.” “I often,” says Piety, +“go out to hear them; we also ofttimes keep them tame +on our house.” The post between Beulah and the Celestial +City sounds his horn, as you may yet hear in country +places. Madam Bubble, that “tall, comely dame, something +of a swarthy complexion, in very pleasant attire, +but old,” “gives you a smile at the end of each sentence”—a +real woman she; we all know her. Christiana dying +“gave Mr. Stand-fast a ring,” for no possible reason in +the allegory, merely because the touch was human and +affecting. Look at Great-heart, with his soldierly ways, +garrison ways, as I had almost called them; with his taste +in weapons; his delight in any that “he found to be a man +of his hands”; his chivalrous point of honour, letting +Giant Maul get up again when he was down, a thing fairly +flying in the teeth of the moral; above all, with his language +in the inimitable tale of Mr. Fearing: “I thought I should +have lost my man”—“chicken-hearted”—“at last he +came in, and I will say that for my lord, he carried it +wonderful lovingly to him.” This is no Independent +minister; this is a stout, honest, big-busted ancient, +adjusting his shoulder-belts, twirling his long moustaches +as he speaks. Last and most remarkable, “My sword,” +says the dying Valiant-for-Truth, he in whom Great-heart +delighted, “my sword I give to him that shall succeed me +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page189"></a>189</span> +in my pilgrimage, <i>and my courage and skill to him that can +get it</i>.” And after this boast, more arrogantly unorthodox +than was ever dreamed of by the rejected Ignorance, we +are told that “all the trumpets sounded for him on the +other side.”</p> + +<p>In every page the book is stamped with the same energy +of vision and the same energy of belief. The quality is +equally and indifferently displayed in the spirit of the +fighting, the tenderness of the pathos, the startling vigour +and strangeness of the incidents, the natural strain of the +conversations, and the humanity and charm of the characters. +Trivial talk over a meal, the dying words of heroes, +the delights of Beulah or the Celestial City, Apollyon and my +Lord Hate-good, Great-heart, and Mr. Worldly-Wiseman, +all have been imagined with the same clearness, all written +of with equal gusto and precision, all created in the same +mixed element, of simplicity that is almost comical, and +art that, for its purpose, is faultless.</p> + +<p>It was in much the same spirit that our artist sat down +to his drawings. He is by nature a Bunyan of the pencil. +He, too, will draw anything, from a butcher at work on +a dead sheep, up to the courts of Heaven. “A Lamb for +Supper” is the name of one of his designs, “Their Glorious +Entry” of another. He has the same disregard for the +ridiculous, and enjoys somewhat of the same privilege of +style, so that we are pleased even when we laugh the most. +He is literal to the verge of folly. If dust is to be raised +from the unswept parlour, you may be sure it will “fly +abundantly” in the picture. If Faithful is to lie “as +dead” before Moses, dead he shall lie with a warrant—dead +and stiff like granite; nay (and here the artist must +enhance upon the symbolism of the author), it is with +the identical stone tables of the law that Moses fells the +sinner. Good and bad people, whom we at once distinguish +in the text by their names, Hopeful, Honest, and Valiant-for-Truth, +on the one hand, as against By-ends, Sir Having +Greedy, and the Lord Old-man on the other, are in these +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page190"></a>190</span> +drawings as simply distinguished by their costume. Good +people, when not armed <i>cap-à-pie</i>, wear a speckled tunic +girt about the waist, and low hats, apparently of straw. +Bad people swagger in tail-coats and chimney-pots, a few +with knee-breeches, but the large majority in trousers, and +for all the world like guests at a garden-party. Worldly-Wiseman +alone, by some inexplicable quirk, stands before +Christian in laced hat, embroidered waistcoat, and trunk-hose. +But above all examples of this artist’s intrepidity, +commend me to the print entitled “Christian Finds it +Deep.” “A great darkness and horror,” says the text, +have fallen on the pilgrim; it is the comfortless deathbed +with which Bunyan so strikingly concludes the sorrows and +conflicts of his hero. How to represent this worthily the +artist knew not; and yet he was determined to represent +it somehow. This was how he did: Hopeful is still shown +to his neck above the water of death; but Christian has +bodily disappeared, and a blot of solid blackness indicates +his place.</p> + +<p>As you continue to look at these pictures, about an +inch square for the most part, sometimes printed three or +more to the page, and each having a printed legend of +its own, however trivial the event recorded, you will soon +become aware of two things: first, that the man can draw, +and, second, that he possesses the gift of an imagination. +“Obstinate reviles,” says the legend; and you should see +Obstinate reviling. “He warily retraces his steps”; and +there is Christian, posting through the plain, terror and +speed in every muscle. “Mercy yearns to go” shows you +a plain interior with packing going forward, and, right in +the middle, Mercy yearning to go—every line of the girl’s +figure yearning. In “The Chamber called Peace” we see +a simple English room, bed with white curtains, window +valance and door, as may be found in many thousand unpretentious +houses; but far off, through the open window, +we behold the sun uprising out of a great plain, and Christian +hails it with his hand: +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page191"></a>191</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>“Where am I now! is this the love and care</p> +<p class="i05">Of Jesus, for the men that pilgrims are!</p> +<p class="i05">Thus to provide! That I should be forgiven!</p> +<p class="i05">And dwell already the next door to heaven!”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">A page or two further, from the top of the House Beautiful, +the damsels point his gaze toward the Delectable Mountains: +“The Prospect,” so the cut is ticketed—and I shall +be surprised, if on less than a square of paper you can +show me one so wide and fair. Down a cross road on an +English plain, a cathedral city outlined on the horizon, a +hazel shaw upon the left, comes Madam Wanton dancing +with her fair enchanted cup, and Faithful, book in hand, +half pauses. The cut is perfect as a symbol; the giddy +movement of the sorceress, the uncertain poise of the man +struck to the heart by a temptation, the contrast of that +even plain of life whereon he journeys with the bold, ideal +bearing of the wanton—the artist who invented and portrayed +this had not merely read Bunyan, he had also +thoughtfully lived. The Delectable Mountains—I continue +skimming the first part—are not on the whole happily +rendered. Once, and once only, the note is struck, when +Christian and Hopeful are seen coming, shoulder-high, +through a thicket of green shrubs—box, perhaps, or perfumed +nutmeg; while behind them, domed or pointed, the +hills stand ranged against the sky. A little further, and we +come to that masterpiece of Bunyan’s insight into life, the +Enchanted Ground; where, in a few traits, he has set +down the latter end of such a number of the would-be good; +where his allegory goes so deep that, to people looking +seriously on life, it cuts like satire. The true significance +of this invention lies, of course, far out of the way of drawing; +only one feature, the great tedium of the land, the +growing weariness in welldoing, may be somewhat represented +in a symbol. The pilgrims are near the end: +“Two Miles Yet,” says the legend. The road goes ploughing +up and down over a rolling heath; the wayfarers, with +outstretched arms, are already sunk to the knees over the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page192"></a>192</span> +brow of the nearest hill; they have just passed a milestone +with the cipher two; from overhead a great, piled, summer +cumulus, as of a slumberous summer afternoon, beshadows +them: two miles! it might be hundreds. In dealing +with the Land of Beulah the artist lags, in both parts, +miserably behind the text, but in the distant prospect of +the Celestial City more than regains his own. You will +remember when Christian and Hopeful “with desire fell +sick.” “Effect of the Sunbeams” is the artist’s title. +Against the sky, upon a cliffy mountain, the radiant temple +beams upon them over deep, subjacent woods; they, +behind a mound, as if seeking shelter from the splendour—one +prostrate on his face, one kneeling, and with hands +ecstatically lifted—yearn with passion after that immortal +city. Turn the page, and we behold them walking by the +very shores of death; Heaven, from this nigher view, has +risen half-way to the zenith, and sheds a wider glory; and +the two pilgrims, dark against that brightness, walk +and sing out of the fulness of their hearts. No cut more +thoroughly illustrates at once the merit and the weakness +of the artist. Each pilgrim sings with a book in his grasp—a +family Bible at the least for bigness; tomes so recklessly +enormous that our second impulse is to laughter. And yet +that is not the first thought, nor perhaps the last. Something +in the attitude of the manikins—faces they have +none, they are too small for that—something in the way +they swing these monstrous volumes to their singing, +something perhaps borrowed from the text, some subtle +differentiation from the cut that went before and the cut +that follows after—something, at least, speaks clearly of a +fearful joy, of Heaven seen from the deathbed, of the horror +of the last passage no less than of the glorious coming home. +There is that in the action of one of them which always +reminds me, with a difference, of that haunting last glimpse +of Thomas Idle, travelling to Tyburn in the cart. Next +come the Shining Ones, wooden and trivial enough; the +pilgrims pass into the river; the blot already mentioned +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page193"></a>193</span> +settles over and obliterates Christian. In two more cuts +we behold them drawing nearer to the other shore; and +then, between two radiant angels, one of whom points +upward, we see them mounting in new weeds, their former +lendings left behind them on the inky river. More angels +meet them; Heaven is displayed, and if no better, certainly +no worse, than it has been shown by others—a place, at +least, infinitely populous and glorious with light—a place +that haunts solemnly the hearts of children. And then +this symbolic draughtsman once more strikes into his +proper vein. Three cuts conclude the first part. In the +first the gates close, black against the glory struggling from +within. The second shows us Ignorance—alas! poor +Arminian!—hailing, in a sad twilight, the ferryman Vain-Hope; +and in the third we behold him, bound hand and +foot, and black already with the hue of his eternal fate, +carried high over the mountain-tops of the world by two +angels of the anger of the Lord. “Carried to Another +Place,” the artist enigmatically names his plate—a terrible +design.</p> + +<p>Wherever he touches on the black side of the supernatural +his pencil grows more daring and incisive. He has +many true inventions in the perilous and diabolic; he has +many startling nightmares realised. It is not easy to select +the best; some may like one and some another; the nude, +depilated devil bounding and casting darts against the +Wicket Gate; the scroll of flying horrors that hang over +Christian by the Mouth of Hell; the horned shade that +comes behind him whispering blasphemies; the daylight +breaking through that rent cave-mouth of the mountains +and falling chill adown the haunted tunnel; Christian’s +further progress along the causeway, between the two +black pools, where, at every yard or two, a gin, a pitfall, or +a snare awaits the passer-by—loathsome white devilkins +harbouring close under the bank to work the springes, +Christian himself pausing and pricking with his sword’s +point at the nearest noose, and pale discomfortable mountains +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page194"></a>194</span> +rising on the farther side; or yet again, the two ill-favoured +ones that beset the first of Christian’s journey, +with the frog-like structure of the skull, the frog-like limberness +of limbs—crafty, slippery, lustful-looking devils, drawn +always in outline as though possessed of a dim, infernal +luminosity. Horrid fellows are they, one and all; horrid +fellows and horrific scenes. In another spirit that Good-Conscience +“to whom Mr. Honest had spoken in his lifetime,” +a cowled, grey, awful figure, one hand pointing to +the heavenly shore, realises, I will not say all, but some +at least of the strange impressiveness of Bunyan’s words. +It is no easy nor pleasant thing to speak in one’s lifetime +with Good-Conscience; he is an austere, unearthly friend, +whom maybe Torquemada knew; and the folds of his +raiment are not merely claustral, but have something of +the horror of the pall. Be not afraid, however; with the +hand of that appearance Mr. Honest will get safe across.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:700px; height:1239px" + src="images/img2.jpg" + alt="" /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:700px; height:1031px" + src="images/img3.jpg" + alt="" /> +</div> + +<p>Yet perhaps it is in sequences that this artist best displays +himself. He loves to look at either side of a thing: +as, for instance, when he shows us both sides of the wall—“Grace +Inextinguishable” on the one side, with the devil +vainly pouring buckets on the flame, and “The Oil of +Grace” on the other, where the Holy Spirit, vessel in hand, +still secretly supplies the fire. He loves, also, to show us +the same event twice over, and to repeat his instantaneous +photographs at the interval of but a moment. So we have, +first, the whole troop of pilgrims coming up to Valiant, and +Great-heart to the front, spear in hand and parleying; and +next, the same cross-roads, from a more distant view, the +convoy now scattered and looking safely and curiously on, +and Valiant handing over for inspection his “right Jerusalem +blade.” It is true that this designer has no great care after +consistency: Apollyon’s spear is laid by, his quiver of +darts will disappear, whenever they might hinder the +designer’s freedom; and the fiend’s tail is blobbed or +forked at his good pleasure. But this is not unsuitable +to the illustration of the fervent Bunyan, breathing hurry +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page195"></a>195</span> +and momentary inspiration. He, with his hot purpose, +hunting sinners with a lasso, shall himself forget the things +that he has written yesterday. He shall first slay Heedless +in the Valley of the Shadow, and then take leave of him +talking in his sleep, as if nothing had happened, in an +arbour on the Enchanted Ground. And again, in his +rhymed prologue, he shall assign some of the glory of the +siege of Doubting Castle to his favourite Valiant-for-the-Truth, +who did not meet with the besiegers till long after, +at that dangerous corner by Deadman’s Lane. And, with +all inconsistencies and freedoms, there is a power shown in +these sequences of cuts: a power of joining on one action +or one humour to another; a power of following out the +moods, even of the dismal subterhuman fiends engendered +by the artist’s fancy; a power of sustained continuous +realisation, step by step, in nature’s order, that can tell a +story, in all its ins and outs, its pauses and surprises, fully +and figuratively, like the art of words.</p> + +<p>One such sequence is the fight of Christian and Apollyon—six +cuts, weird and fiery, like the text. The pilgrim is +throughout a pale and stockish figure; but the devil covers +a multitude of defects. There is no better devil of the +conventional order than our artist’s Apollyon, with his +mane, his wings, his bestial legs, his changing and terrifying +expression, his infernal energy to slay. In cut the first +you see him afar off, still obscure in form, but already +formidable in suggestion. Cut the second, “The Fiend +in Discourse,” represents him, not reasoning, railing rather, +shaking his spear at the pilgrim, his shoulder advanced, his +tail writhing in the air, his foot ready for a spring, while +Christian stands back a little, timidly defensive. The third +illustrates these magnificent words: “Then Apollyon +straddled quite over the whole breadth of the way, and +said, I am void of fear in this matter: prepare thyself to +die; for I swear by my infernal den that thou shalt go +no farther: here will I spill thy soul! And with that he +threw a flaming dart at his breast.” In the cut he throws +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page196"></a>196</span> +a dart with either hand, belching pointed flames out of +his mouth, spreading his broad vans, and straddling the +while across the path, as only a fiend can straddle who has +just sworn by his infernal den. The defence will not be +long against such vice, such flames, such red-hot nether +energy. And in the fourth cut, to be sure, he has leaped +bodily upon his victim, sped by foot and pinion, and roaring +as he leaps. The fifth shows the climacteric of the battle; +Christian has reached nimbly out and got his sword, and +dealt that deadly home-thrust, the fiend still stretched upon +him, but “giving back, as one that had received his mortal +wound.” The raised head, the bellowing mouth, the paw +clapped upon the sword, the one wing relaxed in agony, all +realise vividly these words of the text. In the sixth and +last, the trivial armed figure of the pilgrim is seen kneeling +with clasped hands on the betrodden scene of contest and +among the shivers of the darts; while just at the margin +the hinder quarters and the tail of Apollyon are whisking +off, indignant and discomfited.</p> + +<p>In one point only do these pictures seem to be unworthy +of the text, and that point is one rather of the difference +of arts than the difference of artists. Throughout his best +and worst, in his highest and most divine imaginations as +in the narrowest sallies of his sectarianism, the human-hearted +piety of Bunyan touches and ennobles, convinces, +accuses the reader. Through no art beside the art of words +can the kindness of a man’s affections be expressed. In +the cuts you shall find faithfully parodied the quaintness +and the power, the triviality and the surprising freshness +of the author’s fancy; there you shall find him outstripped +in ready symbolism and the art of bringing things essentially +invisible before the eyes: but to feel the contact of essential +goodness, to be made in love with piety, the book must be +read and not the prints examined.</p> + +<p>Farewell should not be taken with a grudge; nor can +I dismiss in any other words than those of gratitude a +series of pictures which have, to one at least, been the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page197"></a>197</span> +visible embodiment of Bunyan from childhood up, and +shown him, through all his years, Great-heart lungeing at +Giant Maul, and Apollyon breathing fire at Christian, and +every turn and town along the road to the Celestial City, +and that bright place itself, seen as to a stave of music, +shining afar off upon the hill-top, the candle of the +world.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_43" id="Footnote_43" href="#FnAnchor_43"><span class="fn">43</span></a> The illustrator was, in fact, a lady, Miss Eunice Bagster, eldest +daughter of the publisher, Samuel Bagster; except in the case of +the cuts depicting the fight with Apollyon, which were designed by +her brother, Mr. Jonathan Bagster. The edition was published in +1845. I am indebted for this information to the kindness of Mr. +Robert Bagster, the present managing director of the firm.—<span class="sc">Sir +Sidney Colvin’s Note.</span></p> +</div> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page198"></a>198</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page199"></a>199</span></p> +<div style="border: 1px solid black; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%"> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:400px; height:44px" + src="images/img4.jpg" + alt="" /> +</div> + +<p class="center" style="font-size: 250%;">An Appeal</p> + +<p class="center" style="font-size: 80%;">TO THE</p> + +<p class="center" style="font-size: 220%;"><i>Clergy of the Church of Scotland</i></p> + +<p class="center">WITH A NOTE FOR THE LAITY</p> + +<div class="quote" style="margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;"> +<p>“<i>Had I a strong voice, as it is the weakest alive, yea, could I lift +it up as a trumpet, I would sound a retreat from our unnatural +contentions, and irreligious strivings for religion</i>”</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 15em;"><span class="sc">Archbishop Leighton</span>, 1669</p> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:160px; height:111px" + src="images/img5.jpg" + alt="" /> +</div> + +<p class="center1 pt2"><i>William Blackwood & Sons</i></p> + +<p class="center1"><i>Edinburgh and London</i></p> + +<p class="center1">1875</p> + +<p class="pt3" style="margin-left: 3em;">Price 3d.]</p> + +</div> + +<p class="f70 center">(<i>Facsimile of original Title-page</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page200"></a>200</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page201"></a>201</span></p> +<h2>AN APPEAL TO THE CLERGY OF<br /> +THE CHURCH OF SCOTLAND</h2> + +<h3>WITH A NOTE FOR THE LAITY</h3> + +<div class="quote"> +<p>“Had I a strong voice, as it is the weakest alive, yea, could I +lift it up as a trumpet, I would sound a retreat from our unnatural +contentions, and irreligious strivings for religion.”—<span class="sc">Archbishop +Leighton</span>, 1669.</p> +</div> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">Gentlemen</span>,—The position of the Church of Scotland is +now one of considerable difficulty; not only the credit of +the Church, not only the credit of Christianity, but to some +extent also that of the national character, is at stake. You +have just gained a great victory, in spite of an opposition +neither very logical nor very generous; you have succeeded +in effecting, by quiet constitutional processes, a great reform +which brings your Church somewhat nearer in character +to what is required by your Dissenting brethren. It +remains to be seen whether you can prove yourselves as +generous as you have been wise and patient. And the +position, as I say, is one of difficulty. Many, doubtless, +left the Church for a reason which is now removed; many +have joined other sects who would rather have joined +themselves with you, had you been then as you now are; +and for these you are bound to render as easy as may be +the way of reconciliation, and show, by some notable +action, the reality of your own desire for Peace. But I +am not unaware that there are others, and those possibly +a majority, who hold very different opinions—who regard +the old quarrel as still competent, or have found some new +reason for dissent; and from these the Church, if she makes +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page202"></a>202</span> +such an advance as she ought to make, in all loyalty and +charity, may chance to meet that most sensible of insults—ridicule, +in return for an honest offer of reconciliation. +I am not unaware, also, that there is yet another ground +of difficulty; and that those even who would be most +ready to hold the cause of offence as now removed will find +it hard to forget the past—will continue to think themselves +unjustly used—will not be willing to come back, as though +they were repentant offenders, among those who delayed +the reform and quietly enjoyed their benefices, while they +bore the heat and burthen of the day in a voluntary exile +for the Truth’s sake.</p> + +<p>In view of so many elements of difficulty, no intelligent +person can be free from apprehension for the result; and +you, gentlemen, may be perhaps more ready now to receive +advice, to hear and weigh the opinion of one who is free, +because he writes without name, than you would be at +any juncture less critical. There is now a hope, at least, +that some term may be put to our more clamorous dissensions. +Those who are at all open to a feeling of national +disgrace look eagerly forward to such a possibility; they +have been witnesses already too long to the strife that +has divided this small corner of Christendom; and they +cannot remember without shame that there has been as +much noise, as much recrimination, as much severance of +friends, about mere logical abstractions in our remote +island, as would have sufficed for the great dogmatic battles +of the Continent. It would be difficult to exaggerate the +pity that fills the heart at such a reflection; at the thought +of how this neck of barren hills between two inclement +seaways has echoed for three centuries with the uproar of +sectarian battle; of how the east wind has carried out the +sound of our shrill disputations into the desolate Atlantic, +and the west wind has borne it over the German Ocean, as +though it would make all Europe privy to how well we +Scottish brethren abide together in unity. It is not a +bright page in the annals of a small country: it is not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page203"></a>203</span> +a pleasant commentary on the Christianity that we profess; +there is something in it pitiful, as I have said, for the +pitiful man, but bitterly humorous for others. How much +time we have lost, how much of the precious energy and +patience of good men we have exhausted, on these trivial +quarrels, it would be nauseous to consider; we know too +much already when we know the facts in block; we know +enough to make us hide our heads for shame, and grasp +gladly at any present humiliation, if it would ensure a +little more quiet, a little more charity, a little more brotherly +love in the distant future.</p> + +<p>And it is with this before your eyes that, as I feel certain, +you are now addressing yourselves to the consideration of +this important crisis. It is with a sense of the blackness +of this discredit upon the national character and national +Christianity that not you alone but many of other Churches +are now setting themselves to square their future course +with the exigencies of the new position of sects; and it is +with you that the responsibility remains. The obligation +lies ever on the victor; and just so surely as you have +succeeded in the face of captious opposition in carrying forth +the substance of a reform of which others had despaired, +just as surely does it lie upon you as a duty to take such +steps as shall make that reform available, not to you only, +but to all your brethren who will consent to profit by it; +not only to all the clergy, but to the cause of decency and +peace, throughout your native land. It is earnestly hoped +that you may show yourselves worthy of a great opportunity, +and do more for the public minds by the example of one +act of generosity and humility than you could do by an +infinite series of sermons.</p> + +<p>Without doubt, it is your intention, on the earliest public +opportunity, to make some advance. Without doubt, it +is your purpose to improve the advantage you have gained, +and to press upon those who quitted your communion +some thirty years ago your great desire to be once more +united to them. This, at least, will find a place in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page204"></a>204</span> +most unfriendly programme you can entertain; and if there +are any in the Free Church (as I doubt not there are some) +who seceded, not so much from any dislike to the just +supremacy of the law, as from a belief that the law in these +ecclesiastical matters was applied unjustly, I know well +that you will be most eager to receive them back again; +I know well that you will not let any petty vanity, any +scruple of worldly dignity, stand between them and their +honourable return. If, therefore, there were no more to +be done than to display to these voluntary exiles the deep +sense of your respect for their position, this appeal would be +unnecessary, and you might be left to the guidance of your +own good feeling.</p> + +<p>But it seems to me that there is need of something +more; it seems to me, and I think that it will seem so to +you also, that you must go even further if you would be +equal to the importance of the situation. If there are any +among the Dissenters whose consciences are so far satisfied +with the provisions of the recent Act that they could now +return to your communion, to such, it must not be forgotten, +you stand in a position of great delicacy. The conduct of +these men you have so far justified; you have tacitly +admitted that there was some ground for dissatisfaction +with the former condition of the Church; and though you +may still judge those to have been over-scrupulous who +were moved by this imperfection to secede, instead of +waiting patiently with you until it could be remedied by +peaceful means, you must not forget that it is the strong +stomach, according to St. Paul, that is to consider the weak, +and should come forward to meet these brethren with +something better than compliments upon your lips. +Observe, I speak only of those who would now see their +way back to your communion with a clear conscience; it +is their conduct, and their conduct alone, that you have +justified, and therefore it is only for them that your special +generosity is here solicited. But towards them, if there +are any such, your countrymen would desire to see you +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page205"></a>205</span> +behave with all consideration. I do not pretend to lay +before you any definite scheme of action; I wish only to +let you understand what thoughts are busy in the heads of +some outside your councils, so that you may take this also +into consideration when you come to decide. And this, +roughly, is how it appears to these: These good men have +exposed themselves to the chance of hardship for the sake +of their scruples, whilst you being of a stronger stomach, +continued to enjoy the security of national endowments. +Some of you occupy the very livings which they resigned +for conscience’ sake. To others preferment has fallen which +would have fallen to them had they been still eligible. If, +then, any of them are now content to return, you are bound, +if not in justice, then in honour, to do all that you can to +testify your respect for brave conviction, and to repair to +them such losses as they may have suffered, whether for +their first secession or their second. You owe a special duty, +not only to the courage that left the Church, but to the +wisdom and moderation that now returns to it. And your +sense of this duty will find a vent not only in word but in +action. You will facilitate their return not only by considerate +and brotherly language but by pecuniary aid; +you will seek, by some new endowment scheme, to preserve +for them their ecclesiastical status. That they have no +claim will be their strongest claim on your consideration. +Many of you, if not all, will set apart some share out of your +slender livings for their assistance and support: you will +give them what you can afford; and you will say to them, +as you do so, what I dare say to you, that what you give +is theirs—not only in honour but in justice.</p> + +<p>For you know that the justice which should rule the +dealings of Christians, how much more of Christian ministers, +is not as the justice of courts of law or equity; and those +who profess the morality of Jesus Christ have abjured, in +that profession, all that can be urged by policy or worldly +prudence. From them we can accept no half-hearted and +calculating generosity; they must make haste to be liberal; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page206"></a>206</span> +they must catch with eagerness at all opportunities of +service, and the mere whisper of an obligation should be +to them more potent than the decree of a court to others +who make profession of a less stringent code. And remember +that it lies with you to show to the world that Christianity +is something more than a verbal system. In the lapse of +generations men grow weary of unsupported precept. +They may wait long, and keep long in memory the bright +doings of former days, but they will weary at the last; +they will begin to trouble you for your credentials; if you +cannot give them miracles, they will demand virtue; if +you cannot heal the sick, they will call upon you for some +practice of the Christian ethics. Thus people will knock +often at a door if only it be opened to them now and again; +but if the door remains closed too long, they will judge the +house uninhabited and go elsewhere. And thus it is that +a season of persecution, constantly endured, revives the +fainting confidence of the people, and some centuries of +prosperity may prepare a Church for ruin. You have here +at your hand an opportunity to do more for the credit of +your Christianity than ever you could do by visions, +miracles, or prophecies. A sacrifice such as this would be +better worth, as I said before, than many sermons; and +there is a disposition in mankind that would ennoble it +beyond much that is more ostentatious; for men, whether +lay or clerical, suffer better the flame of the stake than a +daily inconvenience or a pointed sneer, and will not readily +be martyred without some external circumstance and a +concourse looking on. And you need not fear that your +virtue will be thrown away; the people of Scotland will +be quick to understand, in default of visible fire and halter, +that you have done a brave action for Christianity and the +national weal; and if they are spared in the future any +of the present ignoble jealousy of sect against sect, they +will not forget that to that end you gave of your household +comfort and stinted your children. Even if you fail—ay, +and even if there were not found one to profit by your +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page207"></a>207</span> +invitation—your virtue would still have its own reward. +Your predecessors gave their lives for ends not always +the most Christian; they were tempted, and slain with the +sword; they wandered in deserts and in mountains, in +caves and in dens of the earth. But your action will not +be less illustrious; what you may have to suffer may be +a small thing if the world will, but it will have been suffered +for the cause of peace and brotherly love.</p> + +<p>I have said that the people of Scotland will be quick +to appreciate what you do. You know well that they will +be quick also to follow your example. But the sign should +come from you. It is more seemly that you should lead +than follow in this matter. Your predecessors gave the word +from their free pulpits which was to brace men for sectarian +strife: it would be a pleasant sequel if the word came from +you that was to bid them bury all jealousy, and forget the +ugly and contentious past in a good hope of peace to come.</p> + +<p>What is said in these few pages may be objected to as +vague; it is no more vague than the position seemed to +me to demand. Each man must judge for himself what +it behoves him to do at this juncture, and the whole Church +for herself. All that is intended in this appeal is to begin, +in a tone of dignity and disinterestedness, the consideration +of the question; for when such matters are much pulled +about in public prints, and have been often discussed from +many different, and not always from very high, points of +view, there is ever a tendency that the decision of the +parties may contract some taint of meanness from the +spirit of their critics. All that is desired is to press upon +you, as ministers of the Church of Scotland, some sense of +the high expectation with which your country looks to you +at this time; and how many reasons there are that you +should show an example of signal disinterestedness and zeal +in the encouragement that you give to returning brethren. +For, first, it lies with you to clear the Church from the +discredit of our miserable contentions; and surely you can +never have a fairer opportunity to improve her claim to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page208"></a>208</span> +the style of a peacemaker. Again, it lies with you, as I +have said, to take the first step, and prove your own true +ardour for an honourable union; and how else are you +to prove it? It lies with you, moreover, to justify in the +eyes of the world the time you have been enjoying your +benefices, while these others have voluntarily shut themselves +out from all participation in their convenience; and +how else are you to convince the world that there was not +something of selfishness in your motives? It lies with you, +lastly, to keep your example unspotted before your congregations; +and I do not know how better you are to do that.</p> + +<p>It is never a thankful office to offer advice; and advice +is the more unpalatable, not only from the difficulty of the +service recommended, but often from its very obviousness. +We are fired with anger against those who make themselves +the spokesmen of plain obligations; for they seem to insult +us as they advise. In the present case I should have +feared to waken some such feeling, had it not been that I +was addressing myself to a body of special men on a very +special occasion. I know too much of the history of ideas +to imagine that the sentiments advocated in this appeal +are peculiar to me and a few others. I am confident that +your own minds are already busy with similar reflections. +But I know at the same time how difficult it is for one man +to speak to another in such a matter; how he is withheld +by all manner of personal considerations, and dare not +propose what he has nearest his heart, because the other +has a larger family or a smaller stipend, or is older, more +venerable, and more conscientious than himself; and it +is in view of this that I have determined to profit by the +freedom of an anonymous writer, and give utterance to +what many of you would have uttered already, had they +been (as I am) apart from the battle. It is easy to be +virtuous when one’s own convenience is not affected; and +it is no shame to any man to follow the advice of an outsider +who owns that, while he sees which is the better part, he +might not have the courage to profit himself by this opinion.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page209"></a>209</span></p> +<p class="center1">[<i>Note for the Laity</i>]</p> + +<p>The foregoing pages have been in type since the beginning +of last September. I have been advised to give +them to the public; and it is only necessary to add that +nothing of all that has taken place since they were written +has made me modify an opinion or so much as change a +word. The question is not one that can be altered by +circumstances.</p> + +<p>I need not tell the laity that with them this matter +ultimately rests. Whether we regard it as a question of +mere expense or as a question of good feeling against ill +feeling, the solution must come from the Church members. +The lay purse is the long one; and if the lay opinion does +not speak from so high a place, it speaks all the week through +and with innumerable voices. Trumpets and captains are +all very well in their way; but if the trumpets were ever +so clear, and the captains as bold as lions, it is still the +army that must take the fort.</p> + +<p>The laymen of the Church have here a question before +them, on the answering of which, as I still think, many +others attend. If the Established Church could throw off +its lethargy, and give the Dissenters some speaking token +of its zeal for union, I still think that union, to some extent, +would be the result. There is a motion tabled (as I suppose +all know) for the next meeting of the General Assembly; +but something more than motions must be tabled, and +something more must be given than votes. It lies practically +with the laymen, by a new endowment scheme, +to put the Church right with the world in two ways, +so that those who left it more than thirty years ago, +and who may now be willing to return, shall lose neither +in money nor in ecclesiastical status. At the outside, what +will they have to do? They will have to do for (say) ten +years what the laymen of the Free Church have done +cheerfully ever since 1843.</p> + +<p><i>February 12th</i> 1875.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page210"></a>210</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page211"></a>211</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h3>THE CHARITY BAZAAR</h3> + +<h3>THE LIGHT-KEEPER</h3> + +<h3>ON A NEW FORM OF INTERMITTENT<br /> +LIGHT FOR LIGHTHOUSES</h3> + +<h3>ON THE THERMAL INFLUENCE OF<br /> +FORESTS</h3> +<hr class="full" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page212"></a>212</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page213"></a>213</span></p> +<h3>THE CHARITY BAZAAR</h3> + +<h4>AN ALLEGORICAL DIALOGUE</h4> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p class="center"><i>PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE</i></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%;"> + +<p><span class="sc">The Ingenuous Public</span></p> +<p><span class="sc">His Wife</span></p> +<p><span class="sc">The Tout</span></p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p class="nind"><i>The Tout, in an allegorical costume, holding a silver trumpet +in his right hand, is discovered on the steps in front of +the Bazaar. He sounds a preliminary flourish.</i></p> + +<p class="pt2"><i>The Tout</i>.—Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the honour +to announce a sale of many interesting, beautiful, rare, +quaint, comical, and necessary articles. Here you will find +objects of taste, such as Babies’ Shoes, Children’s Petticoats, +and Shetland Wool Cravats; objects of general usefulness, +such as Tea-cosies, Bangles, Brahmin Beads, and Madras +Baskets; and objects of imperious necessity, such as Pen-wipers, +Indian Figures carefully repaired with glue, and +Sealed Envelopes, containing a surprise. And all this is not +to be sold by your common Shopkeepers, intent on small +and legitimate profits, but by Ladies and Gentlemen, who +would as soon think of picking your pocket of a cotton +handkerchief as of selling a single one of these many interesting, +beautiful, rare, quaint, comical, and necessary +articles at less than twice its market value. (<i>He sounds +another flourish</i>.) +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page214"></a>214</span></p> + +<p><i>The Wife.</i>—This seems a very fair-spoken young man.</p> + +<p><i>The Ingenuous Public</i> (<i>addressing the Tout</i>).—Sir, I am +a man of simple and untutored mind; but I apprehend +that this sale, of which you give us so glowing a description, +is neither more nor less than a Charity Bazaar?</p> + +<p><i>The Tout.</i>—Sir, your penetration has not deceived you.</p> + +<p><i>The Ingenuous Public.</i>—Into which you seek to entice +unwary passengers?</p> + +<p><i>The Tout.</i>—Such is my office.</p> + +<p><i>The Ingenuous Public.</i>—But is not a Charity Bazaar, +Sir, a place where, for ulterior purposes, amateur goods are +sold at a price above their market value?</p> + +<p><i>The Tout.</i>—I perceive you are no novice. Let us sit +down, all three, upon the doorsteps, and reason this matter +at length. The position is a little conspicuous, but airy +and convenient.</p> + +<p class="nind pt2">(<i>The Tout seats himself on the second step, the Ingenuous +Public and his Wife to right and left of him, one +step below.</i>)</p> + +<p class="pt2"><i>The Tout.</i>—Shopping is one of the dearest pleasures of +the human heart.</p> + +<p><i>The Wife.</i>—Indeed, Sir, and that it is.</p> + +<p><i>The Tout.</i>—The choice of articles, apart from their usefulness, +is an appetising occupation, and to exchange bald, +uniform shillings for a fine big, figurative knick-knack, +such as a windmill, a gross of green spectacles, or a cocked +hat, gives us a direct and emphatic sense of gain. We have +had many shillings before, as good as these; but this is +the first time we have possessed a windmill. Upon these +principles of human nature, Sir, is based the theory of the +Charity Bazaar. People were doubtless charitably disposed. +The problem was to make the exercise of charity +entertaining in itself—you follow me, Madam?—and in +the Charity Bazaar a satisfactory solution was attained. +The act of giving away money for charitable purposes is, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page215"></a>215</span> +by this admirable invention, transformed into an amusement, +and puts on the externals of profitable commerce. +You play at shopping a while; and in order to keep up +the illusion, sham goods do actually change hands. Thus, +under the similitude of a game, I have seen children confronted +with the horrors of arithmetic, and even taught +to gargle.</p> + +<p><i>The Ingenuous Public.</i>—You expound this subject very +magisterially, Sir. But tell me, would it not be possible +to carry this element of play still further? and after I +had remained a proper time in the Bazaar, and negotiated +a sufficient number of sham bargains, would it not be possible +to return me my money in the hall?</p> + +<p><i>The Tout.</i>—I question whether that would not impair +the humour of the situation. And besides, my dear Sir, +the pith of the whole device is to take that money from +you.</p> + +<p><i>The Ingenuous Public.</i>—True. But at least the Bazaar +might take back the tea-cosies and pen-wipers.</p> + +<p><i>The Tout.</i>—I have no doubt, if you were to ask it handsomely, +that you would be so far accommodated. Still +it is out of the theory. The sham goods, for which, believe +me, I readily understand your disaffection—the sham goods +are well adapted for their purpose. Your lady wife will +lay these tea-cosies and pen-wipers aside in a safe place, +until she is asked to contribute to another Charity Bazaar. +There the tea-cosies and pen-wipers will be once more +charitably sold. The new purchasers, in their turn, will +accurately imitate the dispositions of your lady wife. In +short, Sir, the whole affair is a cycle of operations. The +tea-cosies and pen-wipers are merely counters; they come +off and on again like a stage army; and year after year +people pretend to buy and pretend to sell them, with a +vivacity that seems to indicate a talent for the stage. +But in the course of these illusory manœuvres, a great deal +of money is given in charity, and that in a picturesque, +bustling, and agreeable manner. If you have to travel +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page216"></a>216</span> +somewhere on business, you would choose the prettiest +route, and desire pleasant companions by the way. And +why not show the same spirit in giving alms?</p> + +<p><i>The Ingenuous Public.</i>—Sir, I am profoundly indebted +to you for all you have said. I am, Sir, your absolute +convert.</p> + +<p><i>The Wife.</i>—Let us lose no time, but enter the Charity +Bazaar.</p> + +<p><i>The Ingenuous Public.</i>—Yes; let us enter the Charity +Bazaar.</p> + +<p><i>Both</i> (<i>singing</i>).—Let us enter, let us enter, let us enter, +Let us enter the Charity Bazaar!</p> + +<p class="nind pt2">(<i>An interval is supposed to elapse. The Ingenuous +Public and his Wife are discovered issuing from +the Charity Bazaar.</i>)</p> + +<p class="pt2"><i>The Wife.</i>—How fortunate you should have brought +your cheque-book!</p> + +<p><i>The Ingenuous Public.</i>—Well, fortunate in a sense. +(<i>Addressing the Tout.</i>)—Sir, I shall send a van in the course +of the afternoon for the little articles I have purchased. +I shall not say good-bye; because I shall probably take a +lift in the front seat, not from any solicitude, believe me, +about the little articles, but as the last opportunity I may +have for some time of enjoying the costly entertainment +of a drive.</p> + +<p class="center1"><span class="sc">The Scene Closes</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page217"></a>217</span></p> +<h3>THE LIGHT-KEEPER</h3> + +<h5>I</h5> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%"> + +<p>The brilliant kernel of the night,</p> + <p class="i1">The flaming lightroom circles me:</p> +<p>I sit within a blaze of light</p> + <p class="i1">Held high above the dusky sea.</p> +<p>Far off the surf doth break and roar</p> +<p>Along bleak miles of moonlit shore,</p> + <p class="i1">Where through the tides the tumbling wave</p> +<p>Falls in an avalanche of foam</p> +<p>And drives its churnèd waters home</p> + <p class="i1">Up many an undercliff and cave.</p> + +<p class="s">The clear bell chimes: the clockworks strain:</p> + <p class="i1">The turning lenses flash and pass,</p> +<p>Frame turning within glittering frame</p> + <p class="i1">With frosty gleam of moving glass:</p> +<p>Unseen by me, each dusky hour</p> +<p>The sea-waves welter up the tower</p> + <p class="i1">Or in the ebb subside again;</p> +<p>And ever and anon all night,</p> +<p>Drawn from afar by charm of light,</p> + <p class="i1">A sea-bird beats against the pane.</p> + +<p class="s">And lastly when dawn ends the night</p> + <p class="i1">And belts the semi-orb of sea,</p> +<p>The tall, pale pharos in the light</p> + <p class="i1">Looks white and spectral as may be.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page218"></a>218</span></p> +<p>The early ebb is out: the green</p> +<p>Straight belt of sea-weed now is seen,</p> + <p class="i1">That round the basement of the tower</p> +<p>Marks out the interspace of tide;</p> +<p>And watching men are heavy-eyed,</p> + <p class="i1">And sleepless lips are dry and sour.</p> + +<p class="s">The night is over like a dream:</p> + <p class="i1">The sea-birds cry and dip themselves;</p> +<p>And in the early sunlight, steam</p> + <p class="i1">The newly-bared and dripping shelves,</p> +<p>Around whose verge the glassy wave</p> +<p>With lisping wash is heard to lave;</p> + <p class="i1">While, on the white tower lifted high,</p> +<p>With yellow light in faded glass</p> +<p>The circling lenses flash and pass,</p> + <p class="i1">And sickly shine against the sky.</p> + +<p class="rt">1869.</p> +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p> </p> + +<h5>II</h5> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr" style="font-size: 100%"> + +<p>As the steady lenses circle</p> +<p>With a frosty gleam of glass;</p> +<p>And the clear bell chimes,</p> +<p>And the oil brims over the lip of the burner,</p> +<p>Quiet and still at his desk,</p> +<p>The lonely light-keeper</p> +<p>Holds his vigil.</p> + +<p class="s">Lured from afar,</p> +<p>The bewildered sea-gull beats</p> +<p>Dully against the lantern;</p> +<p>Yet he stirs not, lifts not his head</p> +<p>From the desk where he reads,</p> +<p>Lifts not his eyes to see</p> +<p>The chill blind circle of night</p> +<p>Watching him through the panes.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page219"></a>219</span></p> +<p>This is his country’s guardian,</p> +<p>The outmost sentry of peace.</p> +<p>This is the man,</p> +<p>Who gives up all that is lovely in living</p> +<p>For the means to live.</p> + +<p class="s">Poetry cunningly gilds</p> +<p>The life of the Light-Keeper,</p> +<p>Held on high in the blackness</p> +<p>In the burning kernel of night.</p> +<p>The seaman sees and blesses him;</p> +<p>The Poet, deep in a sonnet,</p> +<p>Numbers his inky fingers</p> +<p>Fitly to praise him:</p> +<p>Only we behold him,</p> +<p>Sitting, patient and stolid,</p> +<p>Martyr to a salary.</p> + +<p class="rt">1870.</p> +</div> +</td></tr></table> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page220"></a>220</span></p> +<h3>ON A NEW FORM OF INTERMITTENT<br /> +LIGHT FOR LIGHTHOUSES<a name="FnAnchor_44" id="FnAnchor_44" href="#Footnote_44"><span class="sp">44</span></a></h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">The</span> necessity for marked characteristics in coast illumination +increases with the number of lights. The late Mr. +Robert Stevenson, my grandfather, contributed two distinctions, +which he called respectively the <i>intermittent</i> and +the <i>flashing</i> light. It is only to the former of these that +I have to refer in the present paper. The intermittent +light was first introduced at Tarbetness in 1830, and is +already in use at eight stations on the coasts of the United +Kingdom. As constructed originally, it was an arrangement +by which a fixed light was alternately eclipsed and +revealed. These recurrent occultations and revelations +produce an effect totally different from that of the revolving +light, which comes gradually into its full strength, and as +gradually fades away. The changes in the intermittent, +on the other hand, are immediate; a certain duration of +darkness is followed at once and without the least gradation +by a certain period of light. The arrangement employed +by my grandfather to effect this object consisted of two +opaque cylindric shades or extinguishers, one of which +descended from the roof, while the other ascended from +below to meet it, at a fixed interval. The light was thus +entirely intercepted.</p> + +<p>At a later period, at the harbour light of Troon, Mr. +Wilson, C.E., produced an intermittent light by the use of +gas, which leaves little to be desired, and which is still in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page221"></a>221</span> +use at Troon harbour. By a simple mechanical contrivance, +the gas jet was suddenly lowered to the point of extinction, +and, after a set period, as suddenly raised again. The +chief superiority of this form of intermittent light is economy +in the consumption of the gas. In the original design, of +course, the oil continues uselessly to illuminate the interior +of the screens during the period of occultation.</p> + +<p>Mr. Wilson’s arrangement has been lately resuscitated +by Mr. Wigham of Dublin, in connection with his new +gas-burner.</p> + +<p>Gas, however, is inapplicable to many situations; and +it has occurred to me that the desired result might be +effected with strict economy with oil lights, in the following +manner:—</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:269px" + src="images/img221.jpg" + alt="" /> +<p class="f90">Fig. 1.</p> +</div> + +<p>In Fig. 1, AAA represents in plan an ordinary Fresnel’s +dioptric fixed light apparatus, and BB’ a hemispherical +mirror (either metallic or dioptric on my father’s principle) +which is made to revolve with uniform speed about the +burner. This mirror, it is obvious, intercepts the rays of +one hemisphere, and, returning them through the flame +(less loss by absorption, etc.), spreads them equally over +the other. In this way 180° of light pass regularly the +eye of the seaman; and are followed at once by 180° of +darkness. As the hemispherical mirror begins to open, +the observer receives the full light, since the whole lit +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page222"></a>222</span> +hemisphere is illuminated with strict equality; and as it +closes again, he passes into darkness.</p> + +<p>Other characteristics can be produced by different +modifications of the above. In Fig. 2 the original hemispherical +mirror is shown broken up into three different +sectors, BB´, CC´, and DD´; so that with the same velocity +of revolution the periods of light and darkness will be +produced in quicker succession. In this figure (Fig. 2) +the three sectors have been shown as subtending equal +angles, but if one of them were increased in size and the +other two diminished (as in Fig. 3), we should have one +long steady illumination and two short flashes at each +revolution. Again, the number of sectors may be increased; +and by varying both their number and their relative size, +a number of additional characteristics are attainable.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:282px" + src="images/img222.jpg" + alt="" /> +<p class="f90">Fig. 2.</p> +</div> + +<p>Colour may also be introduced as a means of distinction. +Coloured glass may be set in the alternate spaces; but it +is necessary to remark that these coloured sectors will be +inferior in power to those which remain white. This +objection is, however, obviated to a large extent (especially +where the dioptric spherical mirror is used) by such an +arrangement as is shown in Fig. 4; where the two sectors, +WW, are left unassisted, while the two with the red +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page223"></a>223</span> +screens are reinforced respectively by the two sectors of +mirror, MM.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:324px" + src="images/img223a.jpg" + alt="" /> +<p class="f90">Fig. 3.</p> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:269px" + src="images/img223b.jpg" + alt="" /> +<p class="f90">Fig. 4.</p> +</div> + +<p>Another mode of holophotally producing the intermittent +light has been suggested by my father, and is shown in +Fig. 5. It consists of alternate and opposite sectors of +dioptric spherical mirror, MM, and of Fresnel’s fixed light +apparatus, AA. By the revolution of this composite frame +about the burner, the same immediate alternation of light +and darkness is produced, the first when the front of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page224"></a>224</span> +fixed panel, and the second when the back of the mirror, +is presented to the eye of the sailor.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:271px" + src="images/img224.jpg" + alt="" /> +<p class="f90">Fig. 5.</p> +</div> + +<p>One advantage of the method that I propose is this, +that while we are able to produce a plain intermittent +light; an intermittent light of variable period, ranging +from a brief flash to a steady illumination of half the +revolution; and finally, a light combining the immediate +occultation of the intermittent with combination and +change of colour, we can yet preserve comparative lightness +in the revolving parts, and consequent economy in the +driving machinery. It must, however, be noticed, that +none of these last methods are applicable to cases where +more than one radiant is employed: for these cases, either +my grandfather’s or Mr. Wilson’s contrivance must be +resorted to.</p> + +<p class="rt">1871.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_44" id="Footnote_44" href="#FnAnchor_44"><span class="fn">44</span></a> Read before the Royal Scottish Society of Arts on 27th March +1871, and awarded the Society’s Silver Medal.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page225"></a>225</span></p> +<h3>ON THE THERMAL INFLUENCE OF +FORESTS<a name="FnAnchor_45" id="FnAnchor_45" href="#Footnote_45"><span class="sp">45</span></a></h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">The</span> opportunity of an experiment on a comparatively large +scale, and under conditions of comparative isolation, can +occur but rarely in such a science as Meteorology. Hence +Mr. Milne Home’s proposal for the plantation of Malta +seemed to offer an exceptional opportunity for progress. +Many of the conditions are favourable to the simplicity of +the result; and it seemed natural that, if a searching and +systematic series of observations were to be immediately set +afoot, and continued during the course of the plantation and +the growth of the wood, some light would be thrown on the +still doubtful question of the climatic influence of forests.</p> + +<p>Mr. Milne Home expects, as I gather, a threefold +result:—1st, an increased and better regulated supply of +available water; 2nd, an increased rainfall; and, 3rd, a +more equable climate, with more temperate summer heat +and winter cold.<a name="FnAnchor_46" id="FnAnchor_46" href="#Footnote_46"><span class="sp">46</span></a> As to the first of these expectations, +I suppose there can be no doubt that it is justified by +facts; but it may not be unnecessary to guard against +any confusion of the first with the second. Not only does +the presence of growing timber increase and regulate the +supply of running and spring water independently of any +change in the amount of rainfall, but as Boussingault found +at Marmato,<a name="FnAnchor_47" id="FnAnchor_47" href="#Footnote_47"><span class="sp">47</span></a> denudation of forest is sufficient to decrease +that supply, even when the rainfall has increased instead +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page226"></a>226</span> +of diminished in amount. The second and third effects +stand apart, therefore, from any question as to the utility +of Mr. Milne Home’s important proposal; they are both, +perhaps, worthy of discussion at the present time, but I +wish to confine myself in the present paper to the examination +of the third alone.</p> + +<p>A wood, then, may be regarded either as a <i>superficies</i> or +as a <i>solid</i>; that is, either as a part of the earth’s surface +slightly elevated above the rest, or as a diffused and heterogeneous +body displacing a certain portion of free and +mobile atmosphere. It is primarily in the first character +that it attracts our attention, as a radiating and absorbing +surface, exposed to the sun and the currents of the air; +such that, if we imagine a plateau of meadow-land or bare +earth raised to the mean level of the forest’s exposed leaf-surface, +we shall have an agent entirely similar in kind, +although perhaps widely differing in the amount of action. +Now, by comparing a tract of wood with such a plateau +as we have just supposed, we shall arrive at a clear idea +of the specialities of the former. In the first place, then, +the mass of foliage may be expected to increase the radiating +power of each tree. The upper leaves radiate freely towards +the stars and the cold inter-stellar spaces, while the lower +ones radiate to those above and receive less heat in return; +consequently, during the absence of the sun, each tree cools +gradually downward from top to bottom. Hence we must +take into account not merely the area of leaf-surface actually +exposed to the sky, but, to a greater or less extent, the +surface of every leaf in the whole tree or the whole wood. +This is evidently a point in which the action of the forest +may be expected to differ from that of the meadow or +naked earth; for though, of course, inferior strata tend +to a certain extent to follow somewhat the same course as +the mass of inferior leaves, they do so to a less degree—conduction, +and the conduction of a very slow conductor, +being substituted for radiation.</p> + +<p>We come next, however, to a second point of difference. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page227"></a>227</span> +In the case of the meadow, the chilled air continues to lie +upon the surface, the grass, as Humboldt says, remaining +all night submerged in the stratum of lowest temperature; +while in the case of trees, the coldest air is continually +passing down to the space underneath the boughs, or what +we may perhaps term the crypt of the forest. Here it is +that the consideration of any piece of woodland conceived +as a solid comes naturally in; for this solid contains a +portion of the atmosphere, partially cut off from the rest, +more or less excluded from the influence of wind, and lying +upon a soil that is screened all day from isolation by the +impending mass of foliage. In this way (and chiefly, I +think, from the exclusion of winds), we have underneath +the radiating leaf-surface a stratum of comparatively +stagnant air, protected from many sudden variations of +temperature, and tending only slowly to bring itself into +equilibrium with the more general changes that take place +in the free atmosphere.</p> + +<p>Over and above what has been mentioned, thermal +effects have been attributed to the vital activity of the +leaves in the transudation of water, and even to the respiration +and circulation of living wood. The whole actual +amount of thermal influence, however, is so small that I +may rest satisfied with mere mention. If these actions +have any effect at all, it must be practically insensible; and +the others that I have already stated are not only sufficient +validly to account for all the observed differences, but +would lead naturally to the expectation of differences very +much larger and better marked. To these observations +I proceed at once. Experience has been acquired upon +the following three points:—1, The relation between the +temperature of the trunk of a tree and the temperature of +the surrounding atmosphere; 2, The relation between the +temperature of the air under a wood and the temperature +of the air outside; and, 3, The relation between the temperature +of the air above a wood and the temperature of +the air above cleared land. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page228"></a>228</span></p> + +<p>As to the first question, there are several independent +series of observations; and I may remark in passing, what +applies to all, that allowance must be made throughout for +some factor of specific heat. The results were as follows:—The +seasonal and monthly means in the tree and in the air +were not sensibly different. The variations in the tree, in +M. Becquerel’s own observations, appear as considerably +less than a fourth of those in the atmosphere, and he has +calculated, from observations made at Geneva between +1796 and 1798, that the variations in the tree were less than +a fifth of those in the air; but the tree in this case, besides +being of a different species, was seven or eight inches +thicker than the one experimented on by himself.<a name="FnAnchor_48" id="FnAnchor_48" href="#Footnote_48"><span class="sp">48</span></a> The +variations in the tree, therefore, are always less than those +in the air, the ratio between the two depending apparently +on the thickness of the tree in question and the rapidity +with which the variations followed upon one another. +The times of the maxima, moreover, were widely different: +in the air, the maximum occurs at 2 P.M. in winter, and +at 3 P.M. in summer; in the tree, it occurs in winter at +6 P.M., and in summer between 10 and 11 P.M. At nine +in the morning in the month of June, the temperatures of +the tree and of the air had come to an equilibrium. A +similar difference of progression is visible in the means, +which differ most in spring and autumn, and tend to +equalise themselves in winter and in summer. But it +appears most strikingly in the case of variations somewhat +longer in period than the daily ranges. The following +temperatures occurred during M. Becquerel’s observations +in the Jardin des Plantes:—</p> + +<table class="nobctr f90" width="70%" summary="Contents"> + +<tr><td class="tc1">Date.</td> + <td class="tc1">Temperature of<br />the Air.</td> + <td class="tc1">Temperature in<br />the Tree.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tc1"> + <p>1859. Dec. 15,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 16,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 17,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 18,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 19,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 20,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 21,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 22,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 23,</p></td> +<td class="tc1"> + <p>26.78°</p> + <p>19.76°</p> + <p>17.78°</p> + <p>13.28°</p> + <p>12.02°</p> + <p>12.54°</p> + <p>38.30°</p> + <p>43.34°</p> + <p>44.06°</p></td> +<td class="tc1"> + <p>32.00°</p> + <p>32.00°</p> + <p>31.46°</p> + <p>30.56°</p> + <p>28.40°</p> + <p>25.34°</p> + <p>27.86°</p> + <p>30.92°</p> + <p>31.46°</p></td></tr> + +</table> + +<p>A moment’s comparison of the two columns will make +the principle apparent. The temperature of the air falls +nearly fifteen degrees in five days; the temperature of +the tree, sluggishly following, falls in the same time less +than four degrees. Between the 19th and the 20th the +temperature of the air has changed its direction of motion, +and risen nearly a degree; but the temperature of the tree +persists in its former course, and continues to fall nearly +three degrees farther. On the 21st there comes a sudden +increase of heat, a sudden thaw; the temperature of the +air rises twenty-five and a half degrees; the change at +last reaches the tree, but only raises its temperature by +less than three degrees; and even two days afterwards, +when the air is already twelve degrees above freezing point, +the tree is still half a degree below it. Take, again, the +following case:—</p> + +<table class="nobctr f90" width="70%" summary="Contents"> + +<tr><td class="tc1">Date.</td> + <td class="tc1">Temperature of<br />the Air.</td> + <td class="tc1">Temperature in<br />the Tree.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tc1"> + <p>1859. July 13,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 14,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 15,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 16,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 17,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 18,</p> + <p style="padding-left: 3.5em;">” 19,</p></td> +<td class="tc1"> + <p>84.92°</p> + <p>82.58°</p> + <p>80.42°</p> + <p>79.88°</p> + <p>73.22°</p> + <p>68.54</p> + <p>65.66°</p></td> +<td class="tc1"> + <p>76.28°</p> + <p>78.62°</p> + <p>77.72°</p> + <p>78.44°</p> + <p>75.92°</p> + <p>74.30°</p> + <p>70.70°</p></td></tr> + +</table> + +<p class="noind">The same order reappears. From the 13th to the 19th +the temperature of the air steadily falls, while the temperature +of the tree continues apparently to follow the +course of previous variations, and does not really begin to +fall, is not really affected by the ebb of heat, until the +17th, three days at least after it had been operating in +the air.<a name="FnAnchor_49" id="FnAnchor_49" href="#Footnote_49"><span class="sp">49</span></a> Hence we may conclude that all variations of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page230"></a>230</span> +the temperature of the air, whatever be their period, from +twenty-four hours up to twelve months, are followed in +the same manner by variations in the temperature of the +tree; and that those in the tree are always less in amount +and considerably slower of occurrence than those in the +air. This <i>thermal sluggishness</i>, so to speak, seems capable +of explaining all the phenomena of the case without any +hypothetical vital power of resisting temperatures below +the freezing point, such as is hinted at even by Becquerel.</p> + +<p>Réaumur, indeed, is said to have observed temperatures +in slender trees nearly thirty degrees higher than the +temperature of the air in the sun; but we are not informed +as to the conditions under which this observation was made, +and it is therefore impossible to assign to it its proper +value. The sap of the ice-plant is said to be materially +colder than the surrounding atmosphere; and there are +several other somewhat incongruous facts, which tend, at +first sight, to favour the view of some inherent power of +resistance in some plants to high temperatures, and in +others to low temperatures.<a name="FnAnchor_50" id="FnAnchor_50" href="#Footnote_50"><span class="sp">50</span></a> But such a supposition +seems in the meantime to be gratuitous. Keeping in view +the thermal redispositions, which must be greatly favoured +by the ascent of the sap, and the difference between the +condition as to temperature of such parts as the root, the +heart of the trunk, and the extreme foliage, and never +forgetting the unknown factor of specific heat, we may +still regard it as possible to account for all anomalies without +the aid of any such hypothesis. We may, therefore, I +think, disregard small exceptions, and state the result as +follows:—</p> + +<p>If, after every rise or fall, the temperature of the air +remained stationary for a length of time proportional to +the amount of the change, it seems probable—setting aside +all question of vital heat—that the temperature of the tree +would always finally equalise itself with the new temperature +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page231"></a>231</span> +of the air, and that the range in tree and atmosphere +would thus become the same. This pause, however, does +not occur: the variations follow each other without interval; +and the slow-conducting wood is never allowed enough time +to overtake the rapid changes of the more sensitive air. +Hence, so far as we can see at present, trees appear to be +simply bad conductors, and to have no more influence upon +the temperature of their surroundings than is fully accounted +for by the consequent tardiness of their thermal variations.</p> + +<p>Observations bearing on the second of the three points +have been made by Becquerel in France, by La Cour in +Jutland and Iceland, and by Rivoli at Posen. The results +are perfectly congruous. Becquerel’s observations<a name="FnAnchor_51" id="FnAnchor_51" href="#Footnote_51"><span class="sp">51</span></a> were +made under wood, and about a hundred yards outside in +open ground, at three stations in the district of Montargis, +Loiret. There was a difference of more than one degree +Fahrenheit between the mean annual temperatures in +favour of the open ground. The mean summer temperature +in the wood was from two to three degrees lower than the +mean summer temperature outside. The mean maxima +in the wood were also lower than those without by a little +more than two degrees. Herr La Cour<a name="FnAnchor_52" id="FnAnchor_52" href="#Footnote_52"><span class="sp">52</span></a> found the daily +range consistently smaller inside the wood than outside. +As far as regards the mean winter temperatures, there is +an excess in favour of the forest, but so trifling in amount +as to be unworthy of much consideration. Libri found that +the minimum winter temperatures were not sensibly lower +at Florence, after the Apennines had been denuded of +forest, than they had been before.<a name="FnAnchor_53" id="FnAnchor_53" href="#Footnote_53"><span class="sp">53</span></a> The disheartening +contradictoriness of his observations on this subject led +Herr Rivoli to the following ingenious and satisfactory +comparison.<a name="FnAnchor_54" id="FnAnchor_54" href="#Footnote_54"><span class="sp">54</span></a> Arranging his results according to the wind +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page232"></a>232</span> +that blew on the day of observation, he set against each +other the variation of the temperature under wood from +that without, and the variation of the temperature of the +wind from the local mean for the month:—</p> + +<p> </p> +<table class="nobctr f90" style="border: 1px solid black; width: 70%; border-collapse: collapse;" summary="Contents"> + +<tr><td class="tc1">Wind.</td> + <td class="tc1 bl bb">N.</td> + <td class="tc1 bl bb">N.E.</td> + <td class="tc1 bl bb">E.</td> + <td class="tc1 bl bb">S.E.</td> + <td class="tc1 bl bb">S.</td> + <td class="tc1 bl bb">S.W.</td> + <td class="tc1 bl bb">W.</td> + <td class="tc1 bl bb">N.W.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tc3a">Var. in Wood</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">+0.60</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">+0.26</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">+0.26</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">+0.04</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">-0.04</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">-0.20</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">+0.16</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">+0.07</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tc3a">Var. in Wind</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">-0.30</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">-2.60</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">-3.30</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">-1.20</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">+1.00</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">+1.30</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">+1.00</td> + <td class="tc3a bl">+1.00</td></tr> +</table> +<p> </p> + +<p>From this curious comparison, it becomes apparent +that the variations of the difference in question depend +upon the amount of variations of temperature which take +place in the free air, and on the slowness with which such +changes are communicated to the stagnant atmosphere of +woods; in other words, as Herr Rivoli boldly formulates +it, a forest is simply a bad conductor. But this is precisely +the same conclusion as we have already arrived at with +regard to individual trees; and in Herr Rivoli’s table, +what we see is just another case of what we saw in M. +Becquerel’s—the different progression of temperatures. +It must be obvious, however, that the thermal condition +of a single tree must be different in many ways from that +of a combination of trees and more or less stagnant air, +such as we call a forest. And accordingly we find, in the +case of the latter, the following new feature: The mean +yearly temperature of woods is lower than the mean +yearly temperature of free air, while they are decidedly +colder in summer, and very little, if at all, warmer in winter. +Hence, on the whole, forests are colder than cleared +lands. But this is just what might have been expected +from the amount of evaporation, the continued descent +of cold air, and its stagnation in the close and sunless +crypt of a forest; and one can only wonder here, as elsewhere, +that the resultant difference is so insignificant and +doubtful. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page233"></a>233</span></p> + +<p>We come now to the third point in question, the thermal +influence of woods upon the air above them. It will be +remembered that we have seen reason to believe their +effect to be similar to that of certain other surfaces, except +in so far as it may be altered, in the case of the forest, +by the greater extent of effective radiating area, and by +the possibility of generating a descending cold current as +well as an ascending hot one. M. Becquerel is (so far as +I can learn) the only observer who has taken up the elucidation +of this subject. He placed his thermometers at +three points:<a name="FnAnchor_55" id="FnAnchor_55" href="#Footnote_55"><span class="sp">55</span></a> A and B were both about seventy feet +above the surface of the ground; but A was at the summit +of a chestnut tree, while B was in the free air, fifty feet +away from the other. C was four or five feet above the +ground, with a northern exposure; there was also a fourth +station to the south, at the same level as this last, but its +readings are very seldom referred to. After several years +of observation, the mean temperature at A was found to +be between one and two degrees higher than that at B. +The order of progression of differences is as instructive +here as in the two former investigations. The maximum +difference in favour of station A occurred between three +and five in the afternoon, later or sooner according as +there had been more or less sunshine, and ranged sometimes +as high as seven degrees. After this the difference kept +declining until sunrise, when there was often a difference +of a degree, or a degree and a half, upon the other side. +On cloudy days the difference tended to a minimum. +During a rainy month of April, for example, the difference +in favour of station A was less than half a degree; the +first fifteen days of May following, however, were sunny, +and the difference rose to more than a degree and a half.<a name="FnAnchor_56" id="FnAnchor_56" href="#Footnote_56"><span class="sp">56</span></a> +It will be observed that I have omitted up to the present +point all mention of station C. I do so because M. Becquerel’s +language leaves it doubtful whether the observations +made at this station are logically comparable with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page234"></a>234</span> +those made at the other two. If the end in view were to +compare the progression of temperatures above the earth, +above a tree, and in free air, removed from all such radiative +and absorptive influences, it is plain that all three should +have been equally exposed to the sun or kept equally in +shadow. As the observations were made, they give us +no notion of the relative action of earth-surface and forest-surface +upon the temperature of the contiguous atmosphere; +and this, as it seems to me, was just the <i>crux</i> of the problem. +So far, however, as they go, they seem to justify the view +that all these actions are the same in kind, however they +may differ in degree. We find the forest heating the air +during the day, and heating it more or less according as +there has been more or less sunshine for it to absorb, and +we find it also chilling it during the night; both of which +are actions common to any radiating surface, and would +be produced, if with differences of amount and time, by +any other such surface raised to the mean level of the +exposed foliage.</p> + +<p>To recapitulate:</p> + +<p>1st. We find that single trees appear to act simply as +bad conductors.</p> + +<p>2nd. We find that woods, regarded as solids, are, on +the whole, slightly lower in temperature than the free air +which they have displaced, and that they tend slowly to +adapt themselves to the various thermal changes that take +place without them.</p> + +<p>3rd. We find forests regarded as surfaces acting like +any other part of the earth’s surface, probably with more +or less difference in amount and progression, which we +still lack the information necessary to estimate.</p> + +<p>All this done, I am afraid that there can be little doubt +that the more general climatic investigations will be long +and vexatious. Even in South America, with extremely +favourable conditions, the result is far from being definite. +Glancing over the table published by M. Becquerel in his +book on climates, from the observations of Humboldt, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page235"></a>235</span> +Hall, Boussingault, and others, it becomes evident, I think, +that nothing can be founded upon the comparisons therein +instituted; that all reasoning, in the present state of our +information, is premature and unreliable. Strong statements +have certainly been made; and particular cases +lend themselves to the formation of hasty judgments. +“From the Bay of Cupica to the Gulf of Guayaquil,” says +M. Boussingault, “the country is covered with immense +forest and traversed by numerous rivers; it rains there +almost ceaselessly; and the mean temperature of this +moist district scarcely reaches 78.8° F.... At Payta +commence the sandy deserts of Priura and Sechura; to +the constant humidity of Choco succeeds almost at once +an extreme of dryness; and the mean temperature of the +coast increases at the same time by 1.8° F.”<a name="FnAnchor_57" id="FnAnchor_57" href="#Footnote_57"><span class="sp">57</span></a> Even in this +selected favourable instance it might be argued that the +part performed in the change by the presence or absence +of forest was comparatively small; there seems to have +been, at the same time, an entire change of soil; and, in +our present ignorance, it would be difficult to say by how +much this of itself is able to affect the climate. Moreover, +it is possible that the humidity of the one district is due +to other causes besides the presence of wood, or even that +the presence of wood is itself only an effect of some more +general difference or combination of differences. Be that as +it may, however, we have only to look a little longer at the +table before referred to, to see how little weight can be laid +on such special instances. Let us take five stations, all +in this very district of Choco. Hacquita is eight hundred +and twenty feet above Novita, and their mean temperatures +are the same. Alto de Mombu, again, is five hundred feet +higher than Hacquita, and the mean temperature has here +fallen nearly two degrees. Go up another five hundred feet +to Tambo de la Orquita, and again we find no fall in the +mean temperature. Go up some five hundred further to +Chami, and there is a fall in the mean temperature of nearly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page236"></a>236</span> +six degrees. Such numbers are evidently quite untrustworthy; +and hence we may judge how much confidence +can be placed in any generalisation from these South +American mean temperatures.</p> + +<p>The question is probably considered too simply—too +much to the neglect of concurrent influences. Until we +know, for example, somewhat more of the comparative +radiant powers of different soils, we cannot expect any very +definite result. A change of temperature would certainly +be effected by the plantation of such a marshy district as +the Sologne, because, if nothing else were done, the roots +might pierce the impenetrable subsoil, allow the surface-water +to drain itself off, and thus dry the country. But +might not the change be quite different if the soil planted +were a shifting sand, which, <i>fixed</i> by the roots of the trees, +would become gradually covered with a vegetable earth, +and be thus changed from dry to wet? Again, the complication +and conflict of effects arises, not only from the +soil, vegetation, and geographical position of the place of +the experiment itself, but from the distribution of similar +or different conditions in its immediate neighbourhood, and +probably to great distances on every side. A forest, for +example, as we know from Herr Rivoli’s comparison, would +exercise a perfectly different influence in a cold country +subject to warm winds, and in a warm country subject to +cold winds; so that our question might meet with different +solutions even on the east and west coasts of Great Britain.</p> + +<p>The consideration of such a complexity points more +and more to the plantation of Malta as an occasion of +special importance; its insular position and the unity of +its geological structure both tend to simplify the question. +There are certain points about the existing climate, moreover, +which seem specially calculated to throw the influence +of woods into a strong relief. Thus, during four summer +months, there is practically no rainfall. Thus, again, the +northerly winds when stormy, and especially in winter, +tend to depress the temperature very suddenly; and thus, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page237"></a>237</span> +too, the southerly and south-westerly winds, which raise +the temperature during their prevalence to from eighty-eight +to ninety-eight degrees, seldom last longer than a few +hours; insomuch that “their disagreeable heat and dryness +may be escaped by carefully closing the windows and doors +of apartments at their onset.”<a name="FnAnchor_58" id="FnAnchor_58" href="#Footnote_58"><span class="sp">58</span></a> Such sudden and short +variations seem just what is wanted to accentuate the +differences in question. Accordingly, the opportunity +seems one not lightly to be lost, and the British Association +or this Society itself might take the matter up and establish +a series of observations, to be continued during the next +few years. Such a combination of favourable circumstances +may not occur again for years; and when the whole subject +is at a standstill for want of facts, the present occasion +ought not to go past unimproved.</p> + +<p>Such observations might include the following:—</p> + +<p>The observation of maximum and minimum thermometers +in three different classes of situation—<i>videlicet</i>, in +the areas selected for plantation themselves, at places in +the immediate neighbourhood of those areas where the +external influence might be expected to reach its maximum, +and at places distant from those areas where the influence +might be expected to be least.</p> + +<p>The observation of rain-gauges and hygrometers at the +same three descriptions of locality.</p> + +<p>In addition to the ordinary hours of observation, special +readings of the thermometers should be made as often as +possible at a change of wind and throughout the course of +the short hot breezes alluded to already, in order to admit +of the recognition and extension of Herr Rivoli’s comparison.</p> + +<p>Observation of the periods and forces of the land and +sea breezes.</p> + +<p>Gauging of the principal springs, both in the neighbourhood +of the areas of plantation and at places far removed +from those areas.</p> + +<p class="rt">1873.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> +<div class="note"> + +<p><a name="Footnote_45" id="Footnote_45" href="#FnAnchor_45"><span class="fn">45</span></a> Read before the Royal Society, Edinburgh, 19th May 1873, and +reprinted from the <i>Proceedings</i> R.S.E.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_46" id="Footnote_46" href="#FnAnchor_46"><span class="fn">46</span></a> <i>Jour. <span class="correction" title="originally 'Sbot.'">Scot.</span> Met. Soc.</i>, New Ser. xxvi. 35.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_47" id="Footnote_47" href="#FnAnchor_47"><span class="fn">47</span></a> Quoted by Mr. Milne Home.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_48" id="Footnote_48" href="#FnAnchor_48"><span class="fn">48</span></a> <i>Atlas Météorologique de l’Observatoire Impérial</i>, 1867.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_49" id="Footnote_49" href="#FnAnchor_49"><span class="fn">49</span></a> <i>Comptes Rendus de l’Académie</i>, 29th March 1869.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_50" id="Footnote_50" href="#FnAnchor_50"><span class="fn">50</span></a> Professor Balfour’s “Class Book of Botany,” Physiology, chap. +xii., p. 670.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_51" id="Footnote_51" href="#FnAnchor_51"><span class="fn">51</span></a> <i>Comptes Rendus</i>, 1867 and 1869.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_52" id="Footnote_52" href="#FnAnchor_52"><span class="fn">52</span></a> See his paper.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_53" id="Footnote_53" href="#FnAnchor_53"><span class="fn">53</span></a> <i>Annales de Chimie et de Physique</i>, xlv., 1830. A more detailed +comparison of the climates in question would be a most interesting +and important contribution to the subject.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_54" id="Footnote_54" href="#FnAnchor_54"><span class="fn">54</span></a> Reviewed in the <i>Austrian Meteorological Magazine</i>, vol. iv.; +p. 543.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_55" id="Footnote_55" href="#FnAnchor_55"><span class="fn">55</span></a> <i>Comptes Rendus</i>, 28th May 1860.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_56" id="Footnote_56" href="#FnAnchor_56"><span class="fn">56</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i>, 20th May 1861.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_57" id="Footnote_57" href="#FnAnchor_57"><span class="fn">57</span></a> Becquerel, “Climats,” p. 141.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_58" id="Footnote_58" href="#FnAnchor_58"><span class="fn">58</span></a> Scoresby-Jackson’s “Medical Climatology.”</p> +</div> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page238"></a>238</span></p> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page239"></a>239</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>ESSAYS OF TRAVEL</h2> +<hr class="full" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page240"></a>240</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page241"></a>241</span></p> +<hr class="art" /> +<h2>ESSAYS OF TRAVEL</h2> + +<h5>I</h5> + +<h3>DAVOS IN WINTER</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">A mountain</span> valley has, at the best, a certain prison-like +effect on the imagination, but a mountain valley, an Alpine +winter, and an invalid’s weakness make up among them a +prison of the most effective kind. The roads indeed are +cleared, and at least one footpath dodging up the hill; but to +these the health-seeker is rigidly confined. There are for him +no cross-cuts over the field, no following of streams, no unguided +rambles in the wood. His walks are cut and dry. In +five or six different directions he can push as far, and no +farther, than his strength permits; never deviating from the +line laid down for him and beholding at each repetition +the same field of wood and snow from the same corner of the +road. This, of itself, would be a little trying to the patience +in the course of months; but to this is added, by the heaped +mantle of the snow, an almost utter absence of detail and +an almost unbroken identity of colour. Snow, it is true, is +not merely white. The sun touches it with roseate and +golden lights. Its own crushed infinity of crystals, its +own richness of tiny sculpture, fills it, when regarded near +at hand, with wonderful depths of coloured shadow, and, +though wintrily transformed, it is still water, and has +watery tones of blue. But, when all is said, these fields +of white and blots of crude black forest are but a trite and +staring substitute for the infinite variety and pleasantness +of the earth’s face. Even a boulder, whose front is too +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page242"></a>242</span> +precipitous to have retained the snow, seems, if you come +upon it in your walk, a perfect gem of colour, reminds you +almost painfully of other places, and brings into your head +the delights of more Arcadian days—the path across the +meadow, the hazel dell, the lilies on the stream, and the +scents, the colours, and the whisper of the woods. And +scents here are as rare as colours. Unless you get a gust +of kitchen in passing some hotel, you shall smell nothing +all day long but the faint and choking odour of frost. +Sounds, too, are absent: not a bird pipes, not a bough +waves, in the dead, windless atmosphere. If a sleigh goes +by, the sleigh-bells ring, and that is all; you work all winter +through to no other accompaniment but the crunching of +your steps upon the frozen snow.</p> + +<p>It is the curse of the Alpine valleys to be each one village +from one end to the other. Go where you please, houses +will still be in sight, before and behind you, and to the +right and left. Climb as high as an invalid is able, and it +is only to spy new habitations nested in the wood. Nor +is that all; for about the health resort the walks are +besieged by single people walking rapidly with plaids +about their shoulders, by sudden troops of German boys +trying to learn to jödel, and by German couples silently +and, as you venture to fancy, not quite happily, pursuing +love’s young dream. You may perhaps be an invalid who +likes to make bad verses as he walks about. Alas! no +muse will suffer this imminence of interruption—and at +the second stampede of jödellers you find your modest +inspiration fled. Or you may only have a taste for solitude; +it may try your nerves to have some one always in front +whom you are visibly overtaking, and some one always +behind who is audibly overtaking you, to say nothing of +a score or so who brush past you in an opposite direction. +It may annoy you to take your walks and seats in public +view. Alas! there is no help for it among the Alps. There +are no recesses, as in Gorbio Valley by the oil-mill; no +sacred solitude of olive gardens on the Roccabruna-road; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page243"></a>243</span> +no nook upon St. Martin’s Cape, haunted by the voice +of breakers, and fragrant with the three-fold sweetness of +the rosemary and the sea-pines and the sea.</p> + +<p>For this publicity there is no cure, and no alleviation; +but the storms of which you will complain so bitterly +while they endure, chequer and by their contrast brighten +the sameness of the fair-weather scenes. When sun and +storm contend together—when the thick clouds are broken +up and pierced by arrows of golden daylight—there will +be startling rearrangements and transfigurations of the +mountain summits. A sun-dazzling spire of alp hangs +suspended in mid-sky among awful glooms and blackness; +or perhaps the edge of some great mountain shoulder will +be designed in living gold, and appear for the duration of +a glance bright like a constellation, and alone “in the unapparent.” +You may think you know the figure of these +hills; but when they are thus revealed, they belong no +longer to the things of earth—meteors we should rather +call them, appearances of sun and air that endure but for a +moment and return no more. Other variations are more +lasting, as when, for instance, heavy and wet snow has +fallen through some windless hours, and the thin, spiry +mountain pine-trees stand each stock-still and loaded with +a shining burthen. You may drive through a forest so +disguised, the tongue-tied torrent struggling silently in +the cleft of the ravine, and all still except the jingle of +the sleigh bells, and you shall fancy yourself in some untrodden +northern territory—Lapland, Labrador, or Alaska.</p> + +<p>Or, possibly, you arise very early in the morning; totter +down-stairs in a state of somnambulism; take the simulacrum +of a meal by the glimmer of one lamp in the deserted +coffee-room; and find yourself by seven o’clock outside +in a belated moonlight and a freezing chill. The mail sleigh +takes you up and carries you on, and you reach the top +of the ascent in the first hour of the day. To trace the fires +of the sunrise as they pass from peak to peak, to see the +unlit tree-tops stand out soberly against the lighted sky, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page244"></a>244</span> +to be for twenty minutes in a wonderland of clear, fading +shadows, disappearing vapours, solemn blooms of dawn, +hills half glorified already with the day and still half confounded +with the greyness of the western heaven—these +will seem to repay you for the discomforts of that early +start; but as the hour proceeds, and these enchantments +vanish, you will find yourself upon the farther side in yet +another Alpine valley, snow white and coal black, with +such another long-drawn congeries of hamlets and such +another senseless watercourse bickering along the foot. +You have had your moment; but you have not changed +the scene. The mountains are about you like a trap; +you cannot foot it up a hillside and behold the sea as a +great plain, but live in holes and corners, and can change +only one for another.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>II</h5> + +<h3>HEALTH AND MOUNTAINS</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">There</span> has come a change in medical opinion, and a change +has followed in the lives of sick folk. A year or two ago +and the wounded soldiery of mankind were all shut up +together in some basking angle of the Riviera, walking a +dusty promenade or sitting in dusty olive-yards within +earshot of the interminable and unchanging surf—idle +among spiritless idlers not perhaps dying, yet hardly living +either, and aspiring, sometimes fiercely, after livelier +weather and some vivifying change. These were certainly +beautiful places to live in, and the climate was wooing in +its softness. Yet there was a later shiver in the sunshine; +you were not certain whether you were being wooed; and +these mild shores would sometimes seem to you to be the +shores of death. There was a lack of a manly element; +the air was not reactive; you might write bits of poetry +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page245"></a>245</span> +and practise resignation, but you did not feel that here +was a good spot to repair your tissue or regain your nerve. +And it appears, after all, that there was something just in +these appreciations. The invalid is now asked to lodge +on wintry Alps; a ruder air shall medicine him; the demon +of cold is no longer to be fled from, but bearded in his den. +For even Winter has his “dear domestic cave,” and in +those places where he may be said to dwell for ever tempers +his austerities.</p> + +<p>Any one who has travelled westward by the great transcontinental +railroad of America must remember the joy +with which he perceived, after the tedious prairies of +Nebraska and across the vast and dismal moorlands of +Wyoming, a few snowy mountain summits along the +southern sky. It is among these mountains in the new +State of Colorado that the sick man may find, not merely +an alleviation of his ailments, but the possibility of an +active life and an honest livelihood. There, no longer as +a lounger in a plaid, but as a working farmer, sweating at +his work, he may prolong and begin anew his life. Instead +of the bath-chair, the spade; instead of the regulated walk, +rough journeys in the forest, and the pure, rare air of the +open mountains for the miasma of the sick-room—these are +the changes offered him, with what promise of pleasure +and of self-respect, with what a revolution in all his hopes +and terrors, none but an invalid can know. Resignation, +the cowardice that apes a kind of courage and that lives +in the very air of health resorts, is cast aside at a breath +of such a prospect. The man can open the door; he can +be up and doing; he can be a kind of a man after all and +not merely an invalid.</p> + +<p>But it is a far cry to the Rocky Mountains. We cannot +all of us go farming in Colorado; and there is yet a middle +term, which combines the medical benefits of the new +system with the moral drawbacks of the old. Again the +invalid has to lie aside from life and its wholesome duties; +again he has to be an idler among idlers; but this time +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page246"></a>246</span> +at a great altitude, far among the mountains, with the +snow piled before his door and the frost flowers every +morning on his window. The mere fact is tonic to his +nerves. His choice of a place of wintering has somehow +to his own eyes the air of an act of bold contract; and, +since he has wilfully sought low temperatures, he is not +so apt to shudder at a touch of chill. He came for that, +he looked for it, and he throws it from him with the thought.</p> + +<p>A long straight reach of valley, wall-like mountains upon +either hand that rise higher and higher and shoot up new +summits the higher you climb; a few noble peaks seen +even from the valley; a village of hotels; a world of +black and white—black pine-woods, clinging to the sides +of the valley, and white snow flouring it, and papering it +between the pine-woods, and covering all the mountains +with a dazzling curd; add a few score invalids marching +to and fro upon the snowy road, or skating on the ice-rinks, +possibly to music, or sitting under sunshades by the door +of the hotel—and you have the larger features of a mountain +sanatorium. A certain furious river runs curving down +the valley; its pace never varies, it has not a pool for as +far as you can follow it; and its unchanging, senseless +hurry is strangely tedious to witness. It is a river that a +man could grow to hate. Day after day breaks with the +rarest gold upon the mountain spires, and creeps, growing +and glowing, down into the valley. From end to end the +snow reverberates the sunshine; from end to end the air +tingles with the light, clear and dry like crystal. Only +along the course of the river, but high above it, there hangs +far into the noon one waving scarf of vapour. It were hard +to fancy a more engaging feature in a landscape; perhaps +it is harder to believe that delicate, long-lasting phantom +of the atmosphere, a creature of the incontinent stream +whose course it follows. By noon the sky is arrayed in an +unrivalled pomp of colour—mild and pale and melting in the +north, but towards the zenith, dark with an intensity of +purple blue. What with this darkness of heaven and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page247"></a>247</span> +intolerable lustre of the snow, space is reduced again to +chaos. An English painter, coming to France late in life, +declared with natural anger that “the values were all +wrong.” Had he got among the Alps on a bright day he +might have lost his reason. And even to any one who has +looked at landscape with any care, and in any way through +the spectacles of representative art, the scene has a character +of insanity. The distant shining mountain peak is here +beside your eye; the neighbouring dull-coloured house +in comparison is miles away; the summit, which is all of +splendid snow, is close at hand; the nigh slopes, which +are black with pine-trees, bear it no relation, and might +be in another sphere. Here there are none of those delicate +gradations, those intimate, misty joinings-on and spreadings-out +into the distance, nothing of that art of air and light +by which the face of nature explains and veils itself in +climes which we may be allowed to think more lovely. +A glaring piece of crudity, where everything that is not +white is a solecism and defies the judgment of the eyesight; +a scene of blinding definition; a parade of daylight, almost +scenically vulgar, more than scenically trying, and yet +hearty and healthy, making the nerves to tighten and the +mouth to smile: such is the winter daytime in the Alps. +With the approach of evening all is changed. A mountain +will suddenly intercept the sun; a shadow fall upon the +valley; in ten minutes the thermometer will drop as many +degrees; the peaks that are no longer shone upon dwindle +into ghosts; and meanwhile, overhead, if the weather be +rightly characteristic of the place, the sky fades towards +night through a surprising key of colours. The latest gold +leaps from the last mountain. Soon, perhaps, the moon +shall rise, and in her gentler light the valley shall be mellowed +and misted, and here and there a wisp of silver cloud upon +a hilltop, and here and there a warmly glowing window +in a house, between fire and starlight, kind and homely in +the fields of snow.</p> + +<p>But the valley is not seated so high among the clouds +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page248"></a>248</span> +to be eternally exempt from changes. The clouds gather, +black as ink; the wind bursts rudely in; day after day +the mists drive overhead, the snowflakes flutter down in +blinding disarray; daily the mail comes in later from the +top of the pass; people peer through their windows and +foresee no end but an entire seclusion from Europe, and +death by gradual dry-rot, each in his indifferent inn; and +when at last the storm goes and the sun comes again, behold +a world of unpolluted snow, glossy like fur, bright like +daylight, a joy to wallowing dogs and cheerful to the souls +of men. Or perhaps from across storied and malarious +Italy, a wind cunningly winds about the mountains and +breaks, warm and unclean, upon our mountain valley. +Every nerve is set ajar; the conscience recognises, at a +gust, a load of sins and negligences hitherto unknown; +and the whole invalid world huddles into its private chambers, +and silently recognises the empire of the Föhn.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>III</h5> + +<h3>ALPINE DIVERSIONS</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">There</span> will be no lack of diversion in an Alpine sanatorium. +The place is half English, to be sure, the local sheet appearing +in double column, text and translation; but it still +remains half German; and hence we have a band which +is able to play, and a company of actors able, as you will +be told, to act. This last you will take on trust, for the +players, unlike the local sheet, confine themselves to +German; and though at the beginning of winter they +come with their wig-boxes to each hotel in turn, long before +Christmas they will have given up the English for a bad job. +There will follow, perhaps, a skirmish between the two +races; the German element seeking, in the interest of their +actors, to raise a mysterious item, the <i>Kur-taxe</i>, which +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page249"></a>249</span> +figures heavily enough already in the weekly bills, the +English element stoutly resisting. Meantime in the English +hotels home-played farces, <i>tableaux-vivants</i>, and even balls +enliven the evenings; a charity bazaar sheds genial consternation; +Christmas and New Year are solemnised with +Pantagruelian dinners, and from time to time the young +folks carol and revolve untunefully enough through the +figures of a singing quadrille. A magazine club supplies +you with everything, from the <i>Quarterly</i> to the <i>Sunday at +Home</i>. Grand tournaments are organised at chess, draughts, +billiards, and whist. Once and again wandering artists +drop into our mountain valley, coming you know not +whence, going you cannot imagine whither, and belonging +to every degree in the hierarchy of musical art, from the +recognised performer who announces a concert for the +evening, to the comic German family or solitary long-haired +German baritone, who surprises the guests at dinner-time +with songs and a collection. They are all of them good +to see; they, at least, are moving; they bring with them +the sentiment of the open road; yesterday, perhaps, they +were in Tyrol, and next week they will be far in Lombardy, +while all we sick folk still simmer in our mountain prison. +Some of them, too, are welcome as the flowers in May for +their own sake; some of them may have a human voice; +some may have that magic which transforms a wooden +box into a song-bird, and what we jeeringly call a fiddle +into what we mention with respect as a violin. From that +grinding lilt, with which the blind man, seeking pence, +accompanies the beat of paddle wheels across the ferry, +there is surely a difference rather of kind than of degree +to that unearthly voice of singing that bewails and praises +the destiny of man at the touch of the true virtuoso. Even +that you may perhaps enjoy; and if you do so you will +own it impossible to enjoy it more keenly than here, <i>im +Schnee der Alpen</i>. A hyacinth in a pot, a handful of +primroses packed in moss, or a piece of music by some +one who knows the way to the heart of a violin, are things +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page250"></a>250</span> +that, in this invariable sameness of the snows and frosty +air, surprise you like an adventure. It is droll, moreover, +to compare the respect with which the invalids attend a +concert, and the ready contempt with which they greet +the dinner-time performers. Singing which they would +hear with real enthusiasm—possibly with tears—from a +corner of a drawing-room, is listened to with laughter +when it is offered by an unknown professional and no +money has been taken at the door.</p> + +<p>Of skating little need be said; in so snowy a climate +the rinks must be intelligently managed; their mismanagement +will lead to many days of vexation and some petty +quarrelling, but when all goes well, it is certainly curious, +and perhaps rather unsafe, for the invalid to skate under +a burning sun, and walk back to his hotel in a sweat, +through long tracts of glare and passages of freezing shadow. +But the peculiar outdoor sport of this district is tobogganing. +A Scotsman may remember the low flat board, with the +front wheels on a pivot, which was called a <i>hurlie</i>; he +may remember this contrivance, laden with boys, as, +laboriously started, it ran rattling down the brae, and was, +now successfully, now unsuccessfully, steered round the +corner at the foot; he may remember scented summer +evenings passed in this diversion, and many a grazed skin, +bloody cockscomb, and neglected lesson. The toboggan +is to the hurlie what the sled is to the carriage; it is a +hurlie upon runners; and if for a grating road you substitute +a long declivity of beaten snow, you can imagine the giddy +career of the tobogganist. The correct position is to sit; +but the fantastic will sometimes sit hindforemost, or dare +the descent upon their belly or their back. A few steer +with a pair of pointed sticks, but it is more classical to use +the feet. If the weight be heavy and the track smooth, +the toboggan takes the bit between its teeth; and to steer +a couple of full-sized friends in safety requires not only +judgment but desperate exertion. On a very steep track, +with a keen evening frost, you may have moments almost +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page251"></a>251</span> +too appalling to be called enjoyment; the head goes, the +world vanishes; your blind steed bounds below your +weight; you reach the foot, with all the breath knocked +out of your body, jarred and bewildered as though you +had just been subjected to a railway accident. Another +element of joyful horror is added by the formation of a +train; one toboggan being tied to another, perhaps to +the number of half a dozen, only the first rider being +allowed to steer, and all the rest pledged to put up their +feet and follow their leader, with heart in mouth, down +the mad descent. This, particularly if the track begins +with a headlong plunge, is one of the most exhilarating +follies in the world, and the tobogganing invalid is early +reconciled to somersaults.</p> + +<p>There is all manner of variety in the nature of the +tracks, some miles in length, others but a few yards, and +yet like some short rivers, furious in their brevity. All +degrees of skill and courage and taste may be suited in +your neighbourhood. But perhaps the true way to +toboggan is alone and at night. First comes the tedious +climb, dragging your instrument behind you. Next a +long breathing-space, alone with snow and pine-woods, +cold, silent, and solemn to the heart. Then you push +off; the toboggan fetches away; she begins to feel the +hill, to glide, to swim, to gallop. In a breath you are out +from under the pine-trees, and a whole heavenful of stars +reels and flashes overhead. Then comes a vicious effort; +for by this time your wooden steed is speeding like the +wind, and you are spinning round a corner, and the whole +glittering valley and all the lights in all the great hotels +lie for a moment at your feet; and the next you are racing +once more in the shadow of the night with close-shut teeth +and beating heart. Yet a little while and you will be +landed on the high-road by the door of your own hotel. +This, in an atmosphere tingling with forty degrees of +frost, in a night made luminous with stars and snow, and +girt with strange white mountains, teaches the pulse an +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page252"></a>252</span> +unaccustomed tune and adds a new excitement to the life +of man upon his planet.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h5>IV</h5> + +<h3>THE STIMULATION OF THE ALPS</h3> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">To</span> any one who should come from a southern sanatorium +to the Alps, the row of sun-burned faces round the table +would present the first surprise. He would begin by looking +for the invalids, and he would lose his pains, for not one +out of five of even the bad cases bears the mark of sickness +on his face. The plump sunshine from above and its +strong reverberation from below colour the skin like an +Indian climate; the treatment, which consists mainly of the +open air, exposes even the sickliest to tan, and a tableful of +invalids comes, in a month or two, to resemble a tableful +of hunters. But although he may be thus surprised at the +first glance, his astonishment will grow greater, as he experiences +the effects of the climate on himself. In many +ways it is a trying business to reside upon the Alps: the +stomach is exercised, the appetite often languishes; the +liver may at times rebel; and because you have come so +far from metropolitan advantages, it does not follow that +you shall recover. But one thing is undeniable—that in +the rare air, clear, cold, and blinding light of Alpine winters, +a man takes a certain troubled delight in his existence +which can nowhere else be paralleled. He is perhaps no +happier, but he is stingingly alive. It does not, perhaps, +come out of him in work or exercise, yet he feels an enthusiasm +of the blood unknown in more temperate climates. +It may not be health, but it is fun.</p> + +<p>There is nothing more difficult to communicate on +paper than this baseless ardour, this stimulation of the +brain, this sterile joyousness of spirits. You wake every +morning, see the gold upon the snow-peaks, become filled +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page253"></a>253</span> +with courage, and bless God for your prolonged existence. +The valleys are but a stride to you; you cast your shoe +over the hilltops; your ears and your heart sing; in the +words of an unverified quotation from the Scots psalms, you +feel yourself fit “on the wings of all the winds” to “come +flying all abroad.” Europe and your mind are too narrow +for that flood of energy. Yet it is notable that you are +hard to root out of your bed; that you start forth, singing, +indeed, on your walk, yet are unusually ready to turn +home again; that the best of you is volatile; and that +although the restlessness remains till night, the strength +is early at an end. With all these heady jollities, you are +half conscious of an underlying languor in the body; you +prove not to be so well as you had fancied; you weary +before you have well begun; and though you mount at +morning with the lark, that is not precisely a song-bird’s +heart that you bring back with you when you return with +aching limbs and peevish temper to your inn.</p> + +<p>It is hard to say wherein it lies, but this joy of Alpine +winters is its own reward. Baseless, in a sense, it is more +than worth more permanent improvements. The dream +of health is perfect while it lasts; and if, in trying to realise +it, you speedily wear out the dear hallucination, still every +day, and many times a day, you are conscious of a strength +you scarce possess, and a delight in living as merry as it +proves to be transient.</p> + +<p>The brightness—heaven and earth conspiring to be +bright—the levity and quiet of the air; the odd stirring +silence—more stirring than a tumult; the snow, the frost, +the enchanted landscape: all have their part in the effect +and on the memory, “<i>tous vous tapent sur la tête</i>”; and +yet when you have enumerated all, you have gone no +nearer to explain or even to qualify the delicate exhilaration +that you feel—delicate, you may say, and yet excessive, +greater than can be said in prose, almost greater than an +invalid can bear. There is a certain wine of France known +in England in some gaseous disguise, but when drunk in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page254"></a>254</span> +the land of its nativity still as a pool, clean as river water, +and as heady as verse. It is more than probable that in +its noble natural condition this was the very wine of Anjou +so beloved by Athos in the “Musketeers.” Now, if the +reader has ever washed down a liberal second breakfast +with the wine in question, and gone forth, on the back of +these dilutions, into a sultry, sparkling noontide, he will +have felt an influence almost as genial, although strangely +grosser, than this fairy titillation of the nerves among the +snow and sunshine of the Alps. That also is a mode, we +need not say of intoxication, but of insobriety. Thus +also a man walks in a strong sunshine of the mind, and +follows smiling, insubstantial meditations. And whether +he be really so clever or so strong as he supposes, in either +case he will enjoy his chimera while it lasts.</p> + +<p>The influence of this giddy air displays itself in many +secondary ways. A certain sort of laboured pleasantry +has already been recognised, and may perhaps have been +remarked in these papers, as a sort peculiar to that climate. +People utter their judgments with a cannonade of syllables; +a big word is as good as a meal to them; and the turn of a +phrase goes further than humour or wisdom. By the professional +writer many sad vicissitudes have to be undergone. +At first he cannot write at all. The heart, it appears, +is unequal to the pressure of business, and the brain, left +without nourishment, goes into a mild decline. Next, +some power of work returns to him, accompanied by +jumping headaches. Last, the spring is opened, and there +pours at once from his pen a world of blatant, hustling +polysyllables, and talk so high as, in the old joke, to be +positively offensive in hot weather. He writes it in good +faith and with a sense of inspiration; it is only when he +comes to read what he has written that surprise and disquiet +seize upon his mind. What is he to do, poor man? All +his little fishes talk like whales. This yeasty inflation, +this stiff and strutting architecture of the sentence has +come upon him while he slept; and it is not he, it is the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page255"></a>255</span> +Alps, who are to blame. He is not, perhaps, alone, which +somewhat comforts him. Nor is the ill without a remedy. +Some day, when the spring returns, he shall go down a +little lower in this world, and remember quieter inflections +and more modest language. But here, in the meantime, +there seems to swim up some outline of a new cerebral +hygiene and a good time coming, when experienced advisers +shall send a man to the proper measured level for the ode, +the biography, or the religious tract; and a nook may be +found between the sea and Chimborazo, where Mr. Swinburne +shall be able to write more continently, and Mr. +Browning somewhat slower.</p> + +<p>Is it a return of youth, or is it a congestion of the brain? +It is a sort of congestion, perhaps, that leads the invalid, +when all goes well, to face the new day with such a bubbling +cheerfulness. It is certainly congestion that makes night +hideous with visions, all the chambers of a many-storied +caravanserai, haunted with vociferous nightmares, and +many wakeful people come down late for breakfast in the +morning. Upon that theory the cynic may explain the +whole affair—exhilaration, nightmares, pomp of tongue +and all. But, on the other hand, the peculiar blessedness +of boyhood may itself be but a symptom of the same +complaint, for the two effects are strangely similar; and +the frame of mind of the invalid upon the Alps is a sort +of intermittent youth, with periods of lassitude. The +fountain of Juventus does not play steadily in these parts; +but there it plays, and possibly nowhere else.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page256"></a>256</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page257"></a>257</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>STEVENSON AT PLAY</h2> +<hr class="full" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page258"></a>258</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page259"></a>259</span></p> +<hr class="art" /> +<h2>STEVENSON AT PLAY</h2> + +<h4>INTRODUCTION BY MR. LLOYD OSBOURNE</h4> + +<div class="quote"> +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">In</span> an old note-book, soiled and dog-eared by much travelling, +yellow and musty with the long years it had lain hid +in a Samoan chest, the present writer came across the mimic +war correspondence here presented to the public. The +stirring story of these tin-soldier campaigns occupies the +greater share of the book, though interspersed with many +pages of scattered verse, not a little Gaelic idiom and verb, +a half-made will and the chaptering of a novel. This game +of tin soldiers, an intricate “Kriegspiel,” involving rules +innumerable, prolonged arithmetical calculations, constant +measuring with foot-rules, and the throwing of dice, sprang +from the humblest beginnings—a row of soldiers on either +side and a deadly marble. From such a start it grew in +size and complexity until it became mimic war indeed, +modelled closely upon real conditions and actual warfare, +requiring, on Stevenson’s part, the use of text-books and +long conversations with military invalids; on mine, all the +pocket-money derived from my publishing ventures as well +as a considerable part of my printing stock in trade.</p> + +<p>The abiding spirit of the child in Stevenson was seldom +shown in more lively fashion than during those days of +exile at Davos, where he brought a boy’s eagerness, a man’s +intellect, a novelist’s imagination, into the varied business +of my holiday hours; the printing press, the toy theatre, +the tin soldiers, all engaged his attention. Of these, however, +the tin soldiers most took his fancy; and the war +game was constantly improved and elaborated, until from +a few hours a “war” took weeks to play, and the critical +operations in the attic monopolised half our thoughts. This +attic was a most chilly and dismal spot, reached by a crazy +ladder, and unlit save for a single frosted window; so low +at the eaves and so dark that we could seldom stand upright, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page260"></a>260</span> +nor see without a candle. Upon the attic floor a map was +roughly drawn in chalks of different colours, with mountains, +rivers, towns, bridges, and roads of two classes. Here we +would play by the hour, with tingling fingers and stiffening +knees, and an intentness, zest, and excitement that I shall +never forget. The mimic battalions marched and counter-marched, +changed by measured evolutions from column +formation into line, with cavalry screens in front and massed +supports behind, in the most approved military fashion +of to-day. It was war in miniature, even to the making +and destruction of bridges, the entrenching of camps, good +and bad weather, with corresponding influence on the roads, +siege and horse artillery proportionately slow, as compared +to the speed of unimpeded foot and proportionately expensive +in the upkeep; and an exacting commissariat added to +the last touch of verisimilitude. Four men formed the regiment +or unit, and our shots were in proportion to our units +and amount of ammunition. The troops carried carts of +printers’ “ems”—twenty “ems” to each cart—and for +every shot taken an “em” had to be paid into the base, +from which fresh supplies could be slowly drawn in empty +carts returned for the purpose. As a large army often +contained thirty regiments, consuming a cart and a half of +ammunition in every engagement (not to speak of the +heavy additional expense of artillery), it will be seen what +an important part the commissariat played in the game, +and how vital to success became the line of communication +to the rear. A single cavalry brigade, if bold and lucky +enough, could break the line at the weakest link, and by +cutting off the sustenance of a vast army could force it to +fall back in the full tide of success. A well-devised flank +attack, the plucky destruction of a bridge, or the stubborn +defence of a town, might each become a factor in changing +the face of the war and materially alter the course of +campaigns.</p> + +<p>It must not be supposed that the enemy ever knew your +precise strength, or that it could divine your intentions by +the simple expedient of looking at your side of the attic +and counting your regiments. Numerous numbered cards +dotted the country wherever the eye might fall; one, +perhaps, representing a whole army with supports, another +a solitary horseman dragging some ammunition, another +nothing but a dummy that might paralyse the efforts of a +corps, and overawe it into a ruinous inactivity. To uncover +these cards and unmask the forces for which they +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page261"></a>261</span> +stood was the duty of the cavalry vedettes, whose movements +were governed by an elaborate and most vexatious +set of rules. It was necessary to feel your way amongst +these alarming pasteboards to obtain an inkling of your +opponent’s plans, and the first dozen moves were often +spent in little less. But even if you were befriended by +the dice, and your cavalry broke the enemy’s screen and +uncovered his front, you would learn nothing more than +could reasonably be gleaned with a field-glass. The only +result of a daring and costly activity might be such meagre +news as “the road is blocked with artillery and infantry +in column” or “you can perceive light horse-artillery +strongly supported.” It was only when the enemy began +to take his shots that you would begin to learn the number +of his regiments, and even then he often fired less than his +entitled share in order to maintain the mystery of his +strength.</p> + +<p>If the game possessed a weakness, it was the unshaken +courage of our troops, who faced the most terrific odds and +endured defeat upon defeat with an intrepidity rarely seen +on the actual field. An attempt was made to correct this +with the dice, but the innovation was so heart-breaking to +the loser, and so perpetual a menace to the best-laid plans, +that it had perforce to be given up. After two or three +dice-box panics our heroes were permitted to resume their +normal and unprecedented devotion to their cause, and +their generals breathed afresh. There was another defect +in our “Kriegspiel”: I was so much the better shot that +my marksmanship often frustrated the most admirable +strategy and the most elaborate of military schemes. It +was in vain that we—or rather my opponent—wrestled +with the difficulty and tried to find a substitute for the +deadly and discriminating pop-gun. It was all of no use. +Whatever the missile—sleeve-fink, marble, or button—I was +invariably the better shot, and that skill stood me in good +stead on many an ensanguined plain, and helped to counteract +the inequality between a boy of twelve and a man of +mature years. A wise discretion ruled with regard to the +<i>personnel</i> of the fighting line. Stevenson possessed a horde +of particularly chubby cavalrymen, who, when marshalled +in close formation at the head of the infantry, could bear +unscathed the most accurate and overwhelming fire, and +thus shelter their weaker brethren in the rear. This was +offset by his “Old Guard,” whose unfortunate peculiarity +of carrying their weapons at the charge often involved +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page262"></a>262</span> +whole regiments in a common ruin. On my side there was +a multitude of flimsy Swiss, for whom I trembled whenever +they were called to action. These Swiss were so weak upon +their legs that the merest breath would mow them down in +columns, and so deficient in stamina that they would often +fall before they were hurt. Their ranks were burdened, too, +with a number of egregious puppets with musical instruments, +who never fell without entangling a few of their +comrades.</p> + +<p>Another improvement that was tried and soon again +given up was an effort to match the sickness of actual war. +Certain zones were set apart as unwholesome, especially +those near great rivers and lakes, and troops unfortunate +enough to find themselves in these miasmic plains had to +undergo the ordeal of the dice-box. Swiss or Guards, +musicians, Arabs, chubby cavalrymen or thin, all had to +pay Death’s toll in a new and frightful form. But we +rather overdid the miasma, so it was abolished by mutual +consent.</p> + +<p>The war which forms the subject of the present paper +was unusual in no respect save that its operations were +chronicled from day to day in a public press of Stevenson’s +imagination, and reported by daring correspondents on the +field. Nothing is more eloquent of the man than the +particularity and care with which this mimic war correspondence +was compiled; the author of the “Child’s +Garden” had never outgrown his love for childish things, +and it is typical of him that, though he mocks us at every +turn and loses no occasion to deride the puppets in the +play, he is everywhere faithful to the least detail of fact. +It must not be supposed that I was privileged to hear +these records daily read and thus draw my plans against +the morrow; on the contrary, they were sometimes held +back until the military news was staled by time or were +guardedly communicated with blanks for names and the +dead unnumbered. Potty, Pipes, and Piffle were very real +to me, and lived like actual people in that dim garret. I +can still see them through the mist of years; the formidable +General Stevenson, corpulent with solder, a detachable +midget who could be mounted upon a fresh steed whenever +his last had been trodden under foot, whose frame gave +evidence of countless mendings; the emaciated Delafield, +with the folded arms, originally a simple artilleryman, but +destined to reach the highest honours; Napoleon, with +the flaming clothes, whom fate had bound to a very fragile +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page263"></a>263</span> +horse; Green, the simple patriot, who took his name from +his coat; and the redoubtable Lafayette in blue, alas! with +no Washington to help him.</p> + +<p>The names of that attic country fall pleasantly upon +the ear and brighten the dark and bloody page of war: +Scarlet, Glendarule, Sandusky, Mar, Tahema, and Savannah; +how sweetly they run! I must except my own (and solitary) +contribution to the map, Samuel City, which sounds out of +key with these mouthfuls of melody, though none the less +an important point. Yallobally I shall always recall with +bitterness, for it was there I first felt the thorn of a vindictive +press. The reader will see what little cause I had +to love the <i>Yallobally Record</i>, a scurrilous sheet that often +made my heart ache, for all I pretended to laugh and see +the humour of its attacks. It was indeed a relief when I +learned I might exert my authority and suppress its publication—and +even hang the editor—which I did, I fear, +with unseemly haste. It will be noticed that the story of +the war begins on the tenth day, the earlier moves being +without interest save to the combatants themselves, passed +as they were in uncovering the cards on either side; and +in learning, with more or less success, the forces for which +they stood. This was an essential but scarcely stirring +branch of tin-soldiering, and has been accordingly unreported +as too tedious even for the columns of the <i>Yallobally +Record</i>. When the veil had been somewhat lifted +and the shadowy armies discerned with some precision, the +historian takes his pen and awaits the clash of arms.</p> + +<p class="rt sc">Lloyd Osbourne</p> +</div> + + +<p> </p> +<h5>WAR CORRESPONDENCE FROM STEVENSON’S +NOTE-BOOK</h5> + +<p><span class="sc">Glendarule Times</span>.—10th. <i>Scarlet</i>.—“The advance +of the enemy continues along three lines, a light column +moving from Tahema on Grierson, and the main body +concentrating on Garrard from the Savannah and Yallobally +roads. Garrard and Grierson have both been evacuated. +A small force, without artillery, is alone in the neighbourhood +of Cinnabar, and some of that has fallen back on +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page264"></a>264</span> +Glentower by the pass. The brave artillery remains in +front of Scarlet, and was reinforced this morning with some +ammunition. All day infantry has been moving eastward +on Sandusky. The greatest depression prevails.”</p> + +<p><i>Editorial Comment</i>.—General Stevenson may, or may +not, be a capable commander. It would be unjust to pronounce +in the meantime. Still, the attempt to seize Mar +was disastrously miscalculated, and, as we all know, the +column has fallen back on Sandusky with cruel loss. Nor +is it possible to deny that the attempt to hold Grierson, +and keep an army in the west, was idle. Our correspondent +at Scarlet mentions the passage of troops moving eastward +through that place, and the retreat of another column on +Glentower. These are the last wrecks of that Army of +the West, from which great things were once expected. +With the exception of the Yolo column, which is without +guns, all our forces are now concentrated in the province of +Sandusky; Blue Mountain Province is particularly deserted, +and nothing has been done to check, even for an hour, the +advance of our numerous and well-appointed foes.</p> + +<p>11th. <i>Scarlet</i>.—The horse-artillery returned through +Scarlet on the Glendarule road; hideous confusion reigns; +were the enemy to fall upon us now, the best opinions +regard our position as hopeless. Authentic news has been +received of the desertion of Cinnabar.</p> + +<p><i>Sandusky</i>.—The enemy has again appeared, threatening +Mar, and the column moving to the relief of the Yolo +column has stopped in its advance in consequence. General +Stevenson moved out a column with artillery, and crushed +a flanking party of the enemy’s great centre army on +Scarlet, Garrard, and Savannah road; no loss was sustained +on our side; the enemy’s loss is officially calculated +at four hundred killed or wounded.</p> + +<p><i>Scarlet</i>.—At last the moment has arrived. The enemy, +with a strong column of horse and horse-artillery, occupied +Grierson this morning. This, with his Army of the Centre +moving steadily forward upon Garrard, places all the troops +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page265"></a>265</span> +in and around this place in imminent danger of being +entirely cut off, or being forced to retreat before overwhelming +forces across the Blue Mountains, a course, according +to all military men, involving the total destruction of +General Potty’s force. Piffle’s whole corps, with the heavy +artillery, continued its descent on the left bank of the +Sandusky river, while Potty, dashing through Scarlet at the +hand-gallop, and among the cheers of the populace, moved +off along the Grierson road, collecting infantry as he +moved, and riding himself at the head of the horse-artillery.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Note</span>.—General Potty was an airy, amiable, affected +creature, the very soul of bravery and levity. He had +risen rapidly by virtue of his pleasing manners; but his +application was small, and he lacked self-reliance at the +Council Board. Piffle called him a parrot; he returned +the compliment by calling Piffle “the hundred-weight of +bricks.” They were scarce on speaking terms.</p> + +<p>Half an hour after, he had driven the fore-guard of the +enemy out of Grierson without the loss of a trooper on +our side; the enemy’s loss is reckoned at 1,600 men. +I telegraph at this juncture before returning to the field. +So far the work is done; Potty has behaved nobly. But +he remains isolated by the retreat of Piffle, with a large +force in front, and another large force advancing on his +unprotected flank.</p> + +<p><i>Editorial Comment</i>.—We have been successful in two +skirmishes, but the situation is felt to be critical, and is +by some supposed to be desperate. Stevenson’s skirmish +on the 11th did not check the advance of the Army of the +Centre; it is impossible to predict the result of Potty’s +success before Grierson. The Yolo column appears to +meet with no resistance; but it is terribly committed, +and is, it must be remembered, quite helpless for offensive +purposes, without the co-operation of Stevenson from +Sandusky. How that can be managed, while the enemy +hold the pass behind Mar, is more than we can see. Some +shrewd, but perhaps too hopeful, critics perceive a deep +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page266"></a>266</span> +policy in the inactivity of our troops about Sandusky, and +believe that Stevenson is luring on the cautious Osbourne +to his ruin. We will hope so; but this does not explain +Piffle’s senseless counter-marchings around Scarlet, nor the +horribly outflanked and unsupported position of Potty on +the line of the Cinnabar river. If General Osbourne were +a child, we might hope for the best; there is no doubt +that he has been careless about Mar and Yolo, and that he +was yesterday only saved from a serious disaster by a fluke, +and the imperfection of our scout system; but the situation +to the west and centre wears a different complexion; there +his steady, well-combined advance, carrying all before him, +contrasts most favourably with the timid and divided +counsels of our Stevensons, Piffles, and Pottys.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:500px; height:396px" + src="images/img266.jpg" + alt="" /> +<p class="f80"><i>From the original sketch in Stevenson’s Note-book</i></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="sc">Yallobally Record</span>.—“That incompetent shuffler, +General Osbourne, has again put his foot into it. Blundering +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page267"></a>267</span> +into Grierson with a lot of unsupported horse, he has +got exactly what he deserved. The whole command was +crushed by that wide-awake fellow, Potty, and a lot of +guns and ammunition lie ignominiously deserted on our +own side of the river. All this through mere chuckle-headed +incompetence and the neglect of the most elementary +precautions, within a day’s march of two magnificent +armies, either of which, under any sane, soldierly man, is +capable of marching right through to Glendarule.</p> + +<p>“This is the last scandal. Yesterday, it was a whole +regiment cut off between the Garrard road and the Sandusky +river, and cut off without firing or being able to fire a single +shot in self-defence. It is an open secret that the men +behind Mar are starving, and that the whole east and the +city of Savannah were within a day of being deserted. +How long is this disorganisation to go on? How long is +that bloated bondholder to go prancing round on horseback, +wall-eyed and muddle-headed, while his men are starved +and butchered, and the forces of this great country are at +the mercy of clever rogues like Potty, or respectable +mediocrities like Stevenson?”</p> + +<p>General Piffle’s force was, I learn, attacked this morning +from across the river by the whole weight of the enemy’s +centre. Supports were being hurried forward. Ammunition +was scarce. A feeling of anxiety, not unmixed with +hope, is the rule.</p> + +<p><i>Noon</i>.—I am now back in Scarlet, as being more +central to both actions now raging, one along the line of +the Sandusky between General Piffle and the Army of the +Centre, the other toward Grierson between Potty and the +corps of Generals Green and Lafayette. News has come +from both quarters. Piffle, who was at one time thought +to be overwhelmed, has held his ground on the Sandusky +highroad; and by last advices his whole supports had +come into line, and he hoped, by a last effort, to carry the +day. His losses have been severe; they are estimated at +2,600 killed and wounded; but it appears from the reports +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page268"></a>268</span> +of captives that the enemy’s losses must amount to 3,000 +at least. The fate of the engagement still trembles in the +balance. From the battle at Grierson, the news is both +encouraging and melancholy. The enemy has once more +been driven across the rivers, and even some distance +behind the town of Grierson itself on the Tahema road; +he has certainly lost 2,400 men, principally horse; but he +has succeeded in carrying off his guns and ammunition in +the face of our attack, and his immense reserves are close +at hand. Both Green and Lafayette are sent wounded +to the rear; it is unknown who now commands their column. +These successes, necessary as they were felt to be, were +somewhat dearly purchased. Two thousand six hundred +men are <i>hors de combat</i>; and the chivalrous Potty is +himself seriously hurt. This has cast a shade of anxiety +over our triumph; and though the light column is still +pushing its advantage under Lieutenant-General Pipes, +it is felt that nothing but a complete success of the main +body under Piffle can secure us from the danger of complete +investment.</p> + +<p>14th. <i>Scarlet</i>.—The engagement ended last night by +the complete evacuation of Grierson. Pipes cleared the +whole country about that town in splendid style, and the +army encamped on the field of battle; sadly reduced indeed, +but victorious for the moment. The enemy, since their +first appearance at Grierson, have lost 4,400 men, and have +been beaten decisively back. There is now not a man on +our side of the Sandusky; and our loss of 2,600 is +serious indeed, but, seeing how much has been accomplished, +not excessive. The enemy’s horse was cut to +pieces.</p> + +<p>Piffle slept on the ground that he had held all day. +In the afternoon he had once more driven back the head +of the enemy’s columns, inflicting a further loss of 3,200 +killed and wounded at the lowest computation; but the +enemy’s camp-fires can still be plainly made out with a +field-glass, in the same position as the night before. This +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page269"></a>269</span> +is scarcely to be called success, although it is certainly not +failure.</p> + +<p><i>Sandusky</i>.—All quiet at Sandusky; the army has fallen +back into the city, and large reserves are still massed +behind.</p> + +<p><i>Editorial Comment</i>.—The battle of Grierson is a distinct +success; the enemy, with a heavy loss, have been beaten +back to their own side. As to the vital engagement on +the Sandusky and the heavy fighting before Yolo, it is +plain that we must wait for further news of both. In +neither case has any decided advantage crowned our arms, +and if we are to judge by the expressions of the commander-in-chief +to our Sandusky correspondent, the course of the +former still leaves room for the most serious apprehensions. +General Potty, we are glad to assure our readers, will be +once more in the saddle before many days. It is an odd +coincidence that all the principal commanders in the battle +of Grierson were at one period or another of the day carried +to the rear; and that none of the three is seriously hurt. +Green and Lafayette were shot down, it appears, within +a few moments of each other. It was reported that they +had been having high words as to the reckless advance over +the Sandusky, each charging the blame upon the other; +but it seems certain that the fault was Lafayette’s, who was +in chief command, and was present in Grierson itself at the +time of the fatal manœuvre. The result would have been +crushing, had not General Potty been left for some hours +utterly without ammunition; Commissary Scuttlebutt is +loudly blamed. To-morrow’s news is everywhere awaited +with an eagerness approaching to agony.</p> + +<p>15th. <i>Scarlet</i>.—Late last night, orders reached General +Pipes to fall back on this place, where his reserves were +diverted to support Piffle, hard-pressed on the Sandusky. +This morning the manœuvre was effected in good order, +the enemy following us through Grierson and capturing +one hundred prisoners. The battle was resumed on the +Sandusky with the same fury; and it is still raging as I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page270"></a>270</span> +write. The enemy’s Army of the Centre is commanded, +as we learn from stragglers, by General Napoleon; they +boast of large supports arriving, both from Savannah and +Tahema directions. The slaughter is something appalling; +the whole of Potty’s infantry corps has marched to support +Piffle; and as we have now no more men within a day’s +ride, it is feared the enemy may yet manage to carry +Garrard and command the line of the river.</p> + +<p><i>Sandusky</i>.—This morning, General Stevenson marched +out of town to the southward on the Savannah and Sandusky +road. It was fully expected that he would have mounted +the Sandusky river to support Piffle and engage the enemy’s +Army of the Centre on the flank; and the present manœuvre +is loudly criticised. Not only is the integrity of the line +of the Sandusky ventured, but Stevenson’s own force is +now engaged in a most awkward country, with a difficult +bridge in front. To add, if possible, to our anxiety, it is +reported that General Delafield, in yesterday’s engagement, +lost 3,200 men, killed and wounded. He held his ground, +however, and by the last advices had killed 800 and taken +1,400 prisoners, with which he had fallen back again on +Yolo itself. This retrogression, it seems, is in accordance +with his original orders: he was either to hold Yolo, or +if possible advance on Savannah via Brierly. This last +he judged unwise, so that he was obliged to cling to Yolo +itself. This also is seriously criticised in the best-informed +circles. Osbourne himself is reported to be in Savannah.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Yallobally Record</span>.—“We have never concealed +our opinion that Osbourne was a bummer and a scallywag; +but the entire collapse of his campaign beats the worst that +we imagined possible. We have received, at the same +moment, news of Green and Lafayette’s column being beaten +ignominiously back again across the Sandusky river and +out of Grierson, a place on our own side; and next of the +appearance of a large body of troops at Yolo, in the very +heart of this great land, where they seem to have played +the very devil, taking prisoners by the hundred and marching +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page271"></a>271</span> +with arrogant footsteps on the sacred soil of the province +of Savannah. General Napoleon, the only commander who +has not yet disgraced himself, still fights an uphill battle +in the centre, inflicting terrific losses and upholding the +honour of his country single-handed. The infamous +Osbourne is shaking in his spectacles at Savannah. He +was roundly taken to task by a public-spirited reporter, +and babbled meaningless excuses; he did not know, he +said, that the force now falling in on us at Yolo was so +large. It was his business to know. What is he paid for? +That force has been ten days at least turning the east of +the Mar Mountains, a week at least on our own side of the +frontier. Where were Osbourne’s wits? Will it be believed, +the column at Lone Bluff is again short of ammunition? +This old man of the sea, whom all the world knows +to be an ass and whom we can prove to be a coward, is +apparently a peculator also. If we were to die to-morrow, +the word Osbourne would be found engraven backside +foremost on our hearts.”</p> + +<p>Note. <i>The Tergiversation of the Army of the West</i>.—The +delay of the Army of the West, and the timorous +counsels of Green and Lafayette, were the salvation of +Potty, Pipes, and Piffle. This is the third time we hear +of this great army crossing the river. It never should +have left hold. Lafayette had an overwhelming force at +his back; and with a little firmness, a little obstinacy even, +he might have swallowed up the thin lines opposed to him. +On this day, the 16th, when we hear of his leaving Grierson +for the third time, his headquarters should have been in +Scarlet, and his guns should have enfiladed the weak posts +of Piffle.</p> + +<p><i>Sandusky. Noon</i>.—Great gloom here. As everyone predicted, +Stevenson has already lost 600 men in the marshes +at the mouth of the Sandusky, men simply sacrificed. +His wilful conduct in not mounting the river, following on +his melancholy defeat before Mar, and his long and fatal +hesitation as to the Armies of the West and Centre, fill +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page272"></a>272</span> +up the measure of his incapacity. His uncontrolled temper +and undisguised incivility, not only to the Press, but to +fellow-soldiers of the stamp of Piffle, have alienated from +him even the sympathy that sometimes improperly consoles +demerit.</p> + +<p><i>Editorial</i>.—We leave our correspondents to speak for +themselves, reserving our judgment with a heavy heart. +Piffle has the sympathy of the nation.</p> + +<p><i>Scarlet</i>. 9 <span class="sc">P.M</span>.—The attack has ceased. Napoleon is +moving off southward. Our fellows smartly pursued and +cut off 1,600 men; in spreading along the other side of +the Sandusky they fell on a flanking column of the enemy’s +Army of the West and sent it to the right-about with a +loss of 800 left upon the field. This shows how perilously +near to a junction these two formidable armies were, and +should increase our joy at Napoleon’s retreat. That +movement is variously explained, but many suppose it is +due to some advance from Sandusky.</p> + +<p><i>Sandusky</i>.8 <span class="sc">P.M</span>.—Stevenson this afternoon occupied +the angle between the Glendarule and the Sandusky; his +guns command the Garrard and Savannah highroad, the +only line of retreat for General Napoleon’s guns, and he +has already hopelessly defeated and scattered a strong +body of supports advancing from Savannah to the aid of +that commander. The enemy lost 1,600 men; it is thought +that this success and Stevenson’s present position involve +the complete destruction or the surrender of the enemy’s +Army of the Centre. The enemy have retired from the +passes behind Mar; but it is thought they have moved too +late to save Savannah. Pleasant news from Colonel Delafield, +who, with a loss of 600, has destroyed thrice that +number of the enemy before Yolo.</p> + +<p>17th. <i>Scarlet</i>.—The enemy turned last night, inflicting +losses on the combined forces of Generals Pipes and Piffle, +amounting together to 1,600 men. But his retreat still +continues, harassed by our cavalry and guns. The rest of +the troops out of Cinnabar have arrived, via Glentower, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page273"></a>273</span> +at the foot of the Blue Mountains. Everyone is in high +spirits. Potty has resumed command of his division; +I met him half an hour ago at lunch, when he expressed +himself delighted with the campaign.</p> + +<p><i>Sandusky</i>.—A great victory must be announced. Today +Stevenson passed the Sandusky, and occupied the +right bank of the Glendarule and the country in front of +Savannah. General Napoleon, in full retreat upon that +place, found himself cut off, and, after a desperate struggle, +in which 2,600 fell, surrendered with 6,000 men. The +wrecks of his army are scattered far and wide, and his guns +are lying deserted on the Garrard road. At the very +moment while Napoleon was surrendering his sword to +General Stevenson, the head of our colours cut off 1,400 +men before Savannah, which was under the fire of our guns, +and destroyed a convoy on the Mar and Savannah highroad. +This completes the picture; the enemy have now only one +bridge over the Glendarule not swept by our artillery. +Delafield has had another partial success; with a loss of +1,000 he has cut off 1,200 and made 400 prisoners, but a +strong force ts reported on the Yolo and Yallobally road, +which, by placing him between two fires, may soon render +his hold on the Yolo untenable.</p> + +<p>Note.—General Napoleon. His real name was Clamborough. +The son of a well-known linen-draper in Yolo, +he was educated at the military college of Savannah. His +chief fault was an overwhelming vanity, which betrayed +itself in his unfortunate assumption of a pseudonym, and +in the gorgeous Oriental costumes by which he rendered +himself conspicuous and absurd. He received early warning +of Stevenson’s advance from Sandusky, but refused to +be advised, and did not begin to retreat until his army was +already circumvented. A characteristic anecdote is told +of the surrender. “General,” said Napoleon to his captor, +“you have to-day immortalised your name.” “Sir,” returned +Stevenson, whose brutality of manner was already +proverbial, “if you had taken as much trouble to direct +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page274"></a>274</span> +your army as your tailor to make your clothes, our positions +might have been reversed.”</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:500px; height:500px" + src="images/img274.jpg" + alt="" /> +<p class="f80">From the original sketch in Stevenson’s Note-book</p> +</div> + +<p><i>Editorial Comment</i>.—Unlike many others, we have never +lost confidence in General Stevenson; indeed, as our +readers may remember, we have always upheld him as a +capable, even a great commander. Some little ruffle at +Scarlet did occur, but it was, no doubt, chargeable to the +hasty Potty; and now, by one of the finest manœuvres +on record, the head general of our victorious armies has +justified our most hopeful prophecies and aspirations. +There is not, perhaps, an officer in the army who would +not have chosen the obvious and indecisive move up the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page275"></a>275</span> +Sandusky, which even our correspondent, able as he is, +referred to with apparent approval. Had Stevenson done +that, the brave enemy who chooses to call himself Napoleon +might have been defeated twelve hours earlier, and there +would have been less sacrifice of life in the divisions of +Potty and the ignorant Piffle. But the enemy’s retreat +would not have been cut off; his general would not now +have been a prisoner in our camp, nor should our cannon, +advanced boldly into the country of our foes, thunder +against the gates of Savannah and cut off the supplies from +the army behind Mar. A glance at the map will show the +authority of our position; not a loaf of bread, not an ounce +of powder can reach Savannah or the enemy’s Army of +the East, but it must run the gauntlet of our guns. And +this is the result produced by the turning movement at +Yolo, General Stevenson’s long inactivity in Sandusky, and +his advance at last, the one right movement and in the +one possible direction.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Yallobally Record</span>.—“The humbug who had the +folly and indecency to pick up the name of Napoleon second-hand +at a sale of old pledges, has been thrashed and is a +prisoner. Except the Army of the West, and the division +on the Mar road, which is commanded by an old woman, +we have nothing on foot but scattered, ragamuffin regiments. +Savannah is under fire; that will teach Osbourne +to skulk in cities instead of going to the front with the poor +devils whom he butchers by his ignorance and starves +with his peculations. What we want to know is, when is +Osbourne to be shot?”</p> + +<p>Note.—The <i>Record</i> editor, a man of the name of +McGuffog, was subsequently hanged by order of General +Osbourne. Public opinion endorsed this act of severity. +My great-uncle, Mr. Phelim Settle, was present and saw +him with the nightcap on and a file of his journals around +his neck; when he was turned off, the applause, according +to Mr. Settle, was deafening. He was a man, as the extracts +prove, not without a kind of vulgar talent. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page276"></a>276</span></p> + +<p><span class="sc">Yallobally Evening Herald</span>.—“It would be idle +to disguise the fact that the retreat of our Army of the +Centre, and the accidental capture of the accomplished +soldier whose modesty conceals itself under the pseudonym +of Napoleon, have created a slight though baseless feeling +of alarm in this city. Nearer the field the troops are quite +steady, the inhabitants enthusiastic, and the loyal and indefatigable +Osbourne multiplies his bodily presence. The +events of yesterday were much exaggerated by some papers, +and the publication of one rowdy sheet, suspected of receiving +pay from the enemy, has been suspended by an order +from headquarters. Our Army of the West still advances +triumphantly unresisted into the heart of the enemy’s +country; the force at Yolo, which is a mere handful and +quite without artillery, will probably be rooted out to-morrow. +Addresses and congratulations pour in to General +Osbourne; subscriptions to the great testimonial Osbourne +statue are received at the <i>Herald</i> office every day between +the hours of 10 and 4.”</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Abstract of Six Days’ Fighting, from the 19th to +the 24th, from the Glendarule Times Saturday +Special</span>.—“This week has been, on the whole, unimportant; +there are few changes in the aspect of the field +of war, and perhaps the most striking fact is the collapse +of Colonel Delafield’s Yolo column. Fourteen hundred +killed and eighteen hundred prisoners is assuredly a serious +consideration for our small army; yet the good done by +that expedition is not wiped away by the present defeat; +large reinforcements of troops and much ammunition have +been directed into the far east, and the city of Savannah and +the enemy’s forces in the pass have thus been left without +support. Delafield himself has reached Mar, now in our +hands, and the cavalry and stores of the expedition, all +safe, are close behind him. Yolo is a name that will never +be forgotten. Our forces are now thus disposed: Potty, +with the brave artillery, lies behind the south-east shoulder +of the Blue Mountains, on the Sandusky and Samuel City +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page277"></a>277</span> +road; Piffle, with the Army of the Centre, has fallen back +into Sandusky itself; while Stevenson still holds the same +position across the Sandusky river, his advance to which +will constitute his chief claim to celebrity. Savannah was +bombarded from the 18th to the 20th, inclusive; 4,000 +men fell in its defence. Osbourne himself, directing operations, +was seriously wounded and sent to Yallobally; and +on the evening of the 20th the city surrendered, only 600 +men being found within its walls. A heavy contribution +was raised: but the general himself, fearing to expose his +communications, remains in the same position and has not +even occupied the fallen city.</p> + +<p>“In the meantime the army from the pass has been +slowly drawing down to the support of Savannah, suffering +cruelly at every step. Yesterday (24th) Mar was occupied +by a corps of our infantry, who fell on the rear of the retreating +enemy, inflicting heavy loss.”</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Note</span>.—Retreat of the Mar column. The army which +so long and so usefully held the passes behind Mar, over the +neck of Long Bluff, did not begin to retreat until the enemy +had already occupied Mar and begun to engage their outposts. +Supplies had already been cut off by the advanced +position of Stevenson. The men were short of bread. The +roads were heavy; the horses starving. The rear of the +column was continually and disastrously engaged with the +enemy pouring after. It is perhaps the saddest chapter in +the history of the war. My grandmother, Mrs. Hankey +(<i>née</i> Pillworthy), then a young girl on a mountain farm on +the line of the retreat, distinctly remembers giving a soda +biscuit, which was greedily received, to Colonel Diggory +Jacks, then in command of our division, and lending him +an umbrella, which was never returned. This incident, +trivial as it may be thought, emphatically depicts the +destitution of our brave soldiers.</p> + +<p>In the meantime, in the west, the enemy are slowly +passing the rivers and advancing with their main body +on Scarlet, and with a single corps on Glentower. Cinnabar +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page278"></a>278</span> +was occupied on the 21st in the morning, and a heavy +contribution raised. The situation may thus be stated: +In the centre we are the sole arbiters, commanding the +roads and holding a position which can only be described +as authoritative. In the east, Delafield’s corps has been +destroyed; but the enemy’s army of the pass, on the other +hand, is in a critical position and may, in the course of a +few days or so, be forced to lay down its arms. In the west, +nothing as yet is decided, and the movement through the +Glentower Pass somewhat hampers General Potty’s position.</p> + +<p>The comparative losses during these days are very encouraging, +and compare pleasingly with the cost of the early +part of the campaign. The enemy have lost 12,800 men, +killed, wounded, and prisoners, as against 4,800 on our +side.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Yallobally Herald.</span>—Interview from General Osbourne +with a special reporter.—“I met the wounded hero +some miles out of Yallobally, still working, even as he +walked, and surrounded by messengers from every quarter. +After the usual salutations, he inquired what paper I represented, +and received the name of the <i>Herald</i> with satisfaction. +‘It is a decent paper,’ he said. ‘It does not +seek to obstruct a general in the exercise of his discretion.’ +He spoke hopefully of the west and east, and explained +that the collapse of our centre was not so serious as might +have been imagined. ‘It is unfortunate,’ he said, ‘but if +Green succeeds in his double advance on Glendarule, and +if our army can continue to keep up even the show of +resistance in the province of Savannah, Stevenson dare not +advance upon the capital; that would expose his communications +too seriously for such a cautious and often +cowardly commander. I call him cowardly,’ he added, +‘even in the face of the desperate Yolo expedition, for you +see he is withdrawing all along the west, and Green, though +now in the heart of his country, encounters no resistance.’ +The General hopes soon to recover; his wound, though +annoying, presents no character of gravity.” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page279"></a>279</span></p> + +<p><span class="sc">Note.</span>—General Osbourne’s perfect sincerity is doubtful. +He must have known that Green was hopelessly short +of ammunition. “Unfortunate,” as an epithet describing +the collapse of the Army of the Centre, is perhaps without +parallel in military criticism. It was not unfortunate, it +was ruinous. Stevenson was a man of uneven character, +whom his own successes rendered timid; this timidity it +was that delayed the end; but the war was really over +when General Napoleon surrendered his sword on the +afternoon of the 17th.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page280"></a>280</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page281"></a>281</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>THE DAVOS PRESS</h2> +<hr class="full" /> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page282"></a>282</span></p> + +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%;"> +<p class="noind"><i>In the Reproductions which follow +of Moral Emblems, etc., by R. L. +Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne, the +tint shows the actual size of the +paper on which the pamphlets were +printed</i></p> +</div> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page283"></a>283</span></p> + +<div class="mar20 noind"> +<div class="center"> + +<p class="vr f250">NOTICE.</p> + +<p>Today is published by <i>S. L. Osbourne & Co.</i></p> + +<p class="vr f250">ILLUSTRATED</p> + +<p class="ar f150">BLACK CANYON,</p> + +<p><i>or</i></p> + +<p class="f130">Wild Adventures in the FAR WEST.</p> + +<p>AN</p> + +<p>Instructive and amusing TALE written by</p> + +<p><i>SAMUEL LLOYD OSBOURNE</i></p> + +<p class="vr">PRICE 6D.</p> + +<p><b>OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.</b></p> +</div> + +<p>Although <i>Black Canyon</i> is rather shorter +than ordinary for that kind of story, it is an +excellent work. We cordially recommend it +to our readers.</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Weekly Messenger.</i></p> + +<p>S. L. Osbourne’s new work (<i>Black Canyon</i>) is +splendidly illustrated. In the story, the characters +are bold and striking. It reflects the +highest honor on its writer.</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>Morning Call.</i></p> + +<p>A very remarkable work. Every page produces +an effect. The end is as singular as the +beginning. I never saw such a work before.</p> + +<p class="rt"><i>R. L. Stevenson.</i></p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page284"></a>284</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page285"></a>285</span></p> + +<div class="center"> +<p class="ar f150">BLACK CANYON,</p> + +<p><i>or</i></p> + +<p class="f130">Wild Adventures in the</p> +<p class="f130 vr">FAR WEST</p> + +<p>A</p> + +<p>Tale of Instruction and Amusement<br /> +for the Young.</p> + + +<p><i>BY</i></p> + +<p><i>SAMUEL OSBOURNE</i></p> + + +<p class="vr"><b>ILLUSTRATED.</b></p> + + +<p><i>Printed by the Author.</i></p> + +<p>Davos-Platz.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page286"></a>286</span></p> + +<p class="center1"><i>Chapter I.</i></p> + + +<p class="noind">In this forest we see, in a misty +morning, a camp fire! Sitting +lazily around it are three men. +The oldest is evidently a sailor. +The sailor turns to the fellow +next to him and says, “blast +my eyes if I know where we is.” +“I’s rather think we’re in the vecenty +of tho Rocky Mount’ins.” +Remarked the young man.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the bushes parted. +‘WHAT!’ they all exclaim, ‘<i>Not +BLACK EAGLE?</i>’</p> + +<p class="noind">Who is Black Eagle? We shall +see.</p> + +<p class="center1"><i>Chapter II.</i></p> + +<p class="noind">James P. Drake was a gambler! +Not in cards, but <i>in lost luggage</i>! +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page287"></a>287</span> +In America, all baggage etc. lost +on trains and not reclaimed is +put up to auction <i>unopened</i>.</p> + +<p class="noind">James was one who always expected +to find a fortune in some +one of these bags.</p> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img style="border:0; width:60px; height:67px" + src="images/img287a.jpg" + alt="" /> +</div> + +<p class="noind">One day he was at the auction +house as usual, when a +small and exceedingly +light trunk was put up for sale. +He bought and opened it.</p> + +<p class="noind"><i>It was empty! NO! A little bit of +paper</i> was in the bottom with +this written on it.</p> + +<p class="center1 vr">IDAHO</p> + +<div class="figcenter1"> +<img style="border:0; width:200px; height:116px" + src="images/img287b.jpg" + alt="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page288"></a>288</span></p> + +<p class="noind">Being an intelligent young man +he knew that this was <i>a clue for +finding Hidden TREASURE</i>! +Then after a while he made this: +<i>In Black Canyon, Idaho, 570 feet +west of some mark, 10 feet below +a tree Treasure will be found. +Beware of Black Eagle (Indian).</i> +But he forgot the (1).</p> + +<p class="center1"><i>Chapter III.</i></p> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img style="border:0; width:80px; height:61px" + src="images/img288.jpg" + alt="" /> +</div> + +<p class="noind">James at once took two friends +into his secret: an old +sailor (Jack), and a +young frontiersman.</p> + +<p class="noind">They all agreed that they must +start for Black Canyon at once. +The frontiersman said he had +heard of Black Canyon in Idaho. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page289"></a>289</span> +But who could Black Eagle be?</p> + +<p class="center1"><i>Chapter IV.</i></p> + +<p class="noind">Lost! Certainly lost! Lost in the +Far West! The Frontiersman +had lost them in a large forest. +They had travelled for about a +month, first by water (See page +4) then by stage, then by horse. + +<span class="figright"> +<img style="border:0; width:150px; height:63px" + src="images/img289a.jpg" + alt="" /> +</span> + +This was their +third day in it. +Just after their +morning meal the +bushes parted.</p> + +<div class="figleft"> +<img style="border:0; width:120px; height:69px" + src="images/img289b.jpg" + alt="" /> +</div> + +<p class="noind"><i>An Indian stood +before them! (See 1st Chap.)</i> +He merely said + +<span class="figright"> +<img style="border:0; width:80px; height:74px" + src="images/img289c.jpg" + alt="" /> +</span> + +<span class="figleft"> +<img style="border:0; width:110px; height:73px" + src="images/img289d.jpg" + alt="" /> +</span> + +‘<i>COME</i>.’ They take up +their arms and do so.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page290"></a>290</span></p> + +<p class="center1" style="clear: both;">Chapter V.</p> + +<p>After following him for four +hours, he stopped, turned around +and said, “Rest, eat you fellows.” +They did so. In about an hour +they started again. After walking +ten miles they heard the +roaring of an immense cataract. +Suddenly they find themselves +face to face <i>with a long deep gorge +or canyon. ‘Black Canyon,’</i> they +all cry. ‘<i>Stop</i>,’ says the Indian. +He pushes a stone aside. It uncovers +the mouth of a small cave. +The Indian struck a light with +<i>two sticks</i>. They follow him into +this cave for about a mile when +the cave opens into an immense +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page291"></a>291</span> +Grotto. The Indian whistled, <i>a +bear and dog appeared</i>. “Bring +meat, Nero,” said the Indian.</p> + +<p class="noind">The bear at once brought a deer. +Which they cooked and ate. +Then the Indian said, <i>”Show me +the Treasure clue.” His eyes flashed +when he saw it.</i></p> + +<p class="center1"><i>Chapter VI.</i></p> + +<div class="figright"> +<img style="border:0; width:110px; height:61px" + src="images/img291a.jpg" + alt="" /> +</div> + +<p class="noind">MIDNIGHT! <i>The +Indian is about to +light a fuse to a cask + +<span class="figleft"> +<img style="border:0; width:110px; height:58px" + src="images/img291b.jpg" + alt="" /> +</span> + +of gunpowder! But +James sees him and +shoots him before he is able to light +the fuse.</i></p> + +<p class="noind">He ran to the side of the dying +Indian who made this confession. +“I am not an Indian. 10 years +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page292"></a>292</span> +ago I met G. Gidean, a man who +found a quantity of gold here. Before +be died, he sent that clue to +a friend <i>who never received it</i>. I +knew the gold was here. I have +hunted 10 years for it, your clue +showed me where IT was,” <i>(here +Black Eagle told it to James.) +Then Black Eagle DIED</i>.</p> + +<p class="center1"><i>Chapter VII.</i></p> + +<p>20 years have passed! James is + +<span class="figleft"> <img style="border:0; width:110px; height:64px" + src="images/img292a.jpg" alt="" /></span> + +the same as ever. Jack + +<span class="figright"> <img style="border:0; width:90px; height:37px" + src="images/img292b.jpg" alt="" /></span> + +is owner of a yacht.</p> + +<p><span class="figleft"> <img style="border:0; width:80px; height:51px" + src="images/img292c.jpg" alt="" /></span> +The Frontiersman owns a +large cattle and hog ranch.</p> + + +<p class="center1" style="clear: both;"><b>Finis.</b></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page293"></a>293</span></p> + +<p class="f150 ar center pt2">NOT I,</p> + +<p class="f130 ar center">And Other POEMS,</p> + +<p class="f130 ar center"><i>BY</i></p> + +<p class="center1"><b>Robert Louis Stevenson,</b></p> + +<p class="center1"><b>Author of</b></p> + +<p class="center pt2"><i>The Blue Scalper, Travels<br /> +with a Donkey etc.</i><br /> +PRICE 6d.<br /></p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page294"></a>294</span></p> +<p class="center pt2">Dedicated to<br /> + +<i>Messrs. R. & R. CLARKE</i></p> +<p class="center">by<br /> +<i>S.L.Osbourne</i><br /> +Davos<br /> +1881</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page295"></a>295</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:53px" + src="images/img295.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="center"><i>Not I.</i></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + + <p class="i1">Some like drink</p> + <p class="i1">In a pint pot,</p> + <p class="i1"> Some like to think;</p> + <p class="i1">Some not.</p> + +<p class="s">Strong Dutch Cheese,</p> +<p>Old Kentucky Rye,</p> + <p class="i1">Some like these;</p> + <p class="i2">Not I.</p> +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page296"></a>296</span></p> + +<div class="poemr center pt2"> + + <p>Some like Poe</p> +<p>And others like Scott,</p> + <p>Some like Mrs. Stowe;</p> + <p>Some not.</p> + + <p class="s">Some like to laugh,</p> + <p>Some like to cry.</p> + <p>Some like chaff;</p> + <p>Not I.</p> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:50px; height:58px" + src="images/img296.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page297"></a>297</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Here, perfect to a wish,</p> +<p>We offer, not a dish,</p> + <p class="i3">But just the platter:</p> +<p>A book that’s not a book,</p> +<p>A pamphlet in the look</p> + <p class="i3">But not the matter.</p> + +<p class="s">I own in disarray;</p> +<p>As to the flowers of May</p> + <p class="i3">The frosts of Winter,</p> +<p>To my poetic rage,</p> +<p>The smallness of the page</p> + <p class="i3">And of the printer.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page298"></a>298</span></p> + +<p class="s">As seamen on the seas</p> +<p>With song and dance descry</p> +<p>Adown the morning breeze</p> +<p>An islet in the sky:</p> +<p>In Araby the dry,</p> +<p>As o’er the sandy plain</p> +<p>The panting camels cry</p> +<p>To smell the coming rain.</p> + +<p class="s">So all things over earth</p> +<p>A common law obey</p> +<p>And rarity and worth</p> +<p>Pass, arm in arm, away;</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page299"></a>299</span></p> +<p class="s">And even so, today,</p> +<p>The printer and the bard,</p> +<p>In pressless Davos, pray</p> +<p>Their sixpenny reward.</p> + +<p class="figcenter"><img style="border:0; width:50px; height:58px" + src="images/img299.jpg" alt="" /></p> + +<p>The pamphlet here presented</p> +<p>Was planned and printed by</p> +<p>A printer unindent-ed,</p> +<p>A bard whom all decry.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page300"></a>300</span></p> +<p class="s">The author and the printer,</p> +<p>With various kinds of skill,</p> +<p>Concocted it in Winter</p> +<p>At Davos on the Hill.</p> + +<p class="s">They burned the nightly taper</p> +<p>But now the work is ripe</p> +<p>Observe the costly paper,</p> +<p>Remark the perfect type!</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:80px; height:34px" + src="images/img300.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="center f80">Begun FEB ended OCT 1881</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page301"></a>301</span></p> + +<p class="f130 ar center pt2">MORAL</p> +<p class="f150 ar center">EMBLEMS</p> + +<p class="f80 center">A</p> + +<p class="center1"><b>Collection of Cuts and Verses.</b></p> + +<p class="center1"><b><i>By</i></b></p> + +<p class="center"><i>ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.</i><br /> + +Author of<br /> + +<i>The Blue Scalper, Travels with a Donkey, +Treasure Island, Not I etc.</i><br /></p> + +<p class="pt2 center">Printers:<br /> + +<b>S. L. OSBOURNE & COMPANY.</b><br /> + +Davos-Platz.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page302"></a>302</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:277px" + src="images/img302.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page303"></a>303</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>See how the children in the print</p> +<p>Bound on the book to see what’s in’t!</p> +<p>O, like these pretty babes, may you</p> +<p>Seize and <i>apply</i> this volume too!</p> +<p>And while your eye upon the cuts</p> +<p>With harmless ardour open and shuts,</p> +<p>Reader, may your immortal mind</p> +<p>To their sage lessons not be blind.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page304"></a>304</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:289px" + src="images/img304.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page305"></a>305</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Reader, your soul upraise to see,</p> +<p>In yon fair cut designed by me,</p> +<p>The pauper by the highwayside</p> +<p>Vainly soliciting from pride.</p> +<p>Mark how the Beau with easy air</p> +<p>Contemps the anxious rustic’s prayer,</p> +<p>And casting a disdainful eye,</p> +<p>Goes gaily gallivanting by.</p> +<p>He from the poor averts his head....</p> +<p>He will regret it when he’s dead.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page306"></a>306</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:320px; height:247px" + src="images/img306.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page307"></a>307</span></p> + +<p class="center"><i>A Peak in Darien</i>.</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Broad gazing on untrodden lands,</p> +<p>See where adventurous Cortez stands;</p> +<p>While in the heavens above his head,</p> +<p>The Eagle seeks its daily bread.</p> +<p>How aptly fact to fact replies:</p> +<p>Heroes and Eagles, hills and skies.</p> +<p>Ye, who contemn the fatted slave,</p> +<p>Look on this emblem and be brave</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page308"></a>308</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:320px; height:286px" + src="images/img308.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page309"></a>309</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>See in the print, how moved by whim</p> +<p>Trumpeting Jumbo, great and grim,</p> +<p>Adjusts his trunk, like a cravat,</p> +<p>To noose that individual’s hat.</p> +<p>The sacred Ibis in the distance</p> +<p>Joys to observe his bold resistance.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page310"></a>310</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:250px; height:171px" + src="images/img310.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page311"></a>311</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Mark, printed on the opposing page,</p> +<p>The unfortunate effects of rage.</p> +<p>A man (who might be you or me)</p> +<p>Hurls another into the sea.</p> +<p>Poor soul, his unreflecting act</p> +<p>His future joys will much contract,</p> +<p>And he will spoil his evening toddy</p> +<p>By dwelling on that mangled body.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page312"></a>312</span></p> + +<p class="center">Works recently issued by</p> + +<p class="f130 ar center pt2">SAMUEL OSBOURNE & CO.</p> +<p class="f130 ar center">DAVOS.</p> + +<p>NOT I and other poems, by Robert +Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p class="noind"><i>A volume of enchanting poetry.</i></p> + +<p>BLACK CANYON or wild adventures +in the Far West, by S. Osbourne.</p> + +<p class="noind"><i>A beautiful gift-book.</i></p> + +<p><i>To be obtained from the Publishers and +all respectable BOOK-SELLERS.</i></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page313"></a>313</span></p> + + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:232px" + src="images/img313.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="center"><b>Stevenson’s Moral Emblems.</b></p> + +<p class="center"><i>Edition de Luxe: 5 full-page Illustrations.</i></p> + +<p class="center pt05"><b>Price 9 PENCE.</b></p> + +<p>The above speciman cut, illustrates a new +departure in the business of OSBOURNE +& Co.</p> + +<p>Wood engraving, designed and executed +by Mr. & Mrs. Stevenson and printed under +the PERSONAL supervision of +Mr. Osbourne, now form a branch of their +business.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page314"></a>314</span> + +<p> </p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page315"></a>315</span> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:350px; height:85px" + src="images/img315a.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="center">Today is published by <i>S. L. Osbourne & Co.</i><br /> + +A</p> + +<p class="center" style="letter-spacing: 0.5em;">Second Collection Of</p> + +<p class="f130 ar center pt05">MORAL</p> + +<p class="f150 ar center">EMBLEMS.</p> + +<p class="center">By<br /> +<i>ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.</i></p> + +<p class="noind"><i>Edition de Luxe</i>, tall paper, (extra fine) first +impression. Price 10 pence.</p> + +<p class="noind"><i>Popular Edition</i>, for the Million, small paper, +cuts slightly worn, a great bargain, 8 pence.</p> + +<p class="center">NOTICE!!!</p> + +<p class="noind">A literary curiosity: Part of the M. S. of +‘<i>Black Canyon</i>.’ Price 1s. 6d.</p> + +<p class="noind">Apply to</p> + +<p class="f130 ar center">SAMUEL OSBOURNE & C<span class="sp">o</span></p> + +<p class="center">Buol Chalet (Villa Stein,) Davos.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:50px; height:51px" + src="images/img315b.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page316"></a>316</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page317"></a>317</span></p> + +<p class="f130 ar center pt2">MORAL</p> +<p class="f150 ar center">EMBLEMS</p> + +<p class="f80 center">A Second</p> + +<p class="center"><b>Collection of Cuts and Verses.</b></p> + +<p class="center"><b><i>By</i></b></p> + +<p class="center"><i>ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.</i><br /> +Author of<br /> +<i>Latter-day Arabian Nights, Travels<br /> +with a Donkey, Not I, &c.</i></p> + +<p class="vr center">Printers:</p> + +<p class="vr center" style="font-size: 110%;">S. L. OSBOURNE & COMPANY.</p> +<p class="center">Davos-Platz.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page318"></a>318</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:320px; height:203px" + src="images/img318.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page319"></a>319</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>With storms a-weather, rocks a-lee,</p> +<p>The dancing skiff puts forth to sea.</p> +<p>The lone dissenter in the blast</p> +<p>Recoils before the sight aghast.</p> +<p>But she, although the heavens be black,</p> +<p>Holds on upon the starboard tack.</p> +<p>For why? although today she sink</p> +<p>Still safe she sails in printers’ ink,</p> +<p>And though today the seamen drown,</p> +<p>My cut shall hand their memory down.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page320"></a>320</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:265px" + src="images/img320.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page321"></a>321</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>The careful angler chose his nook</p> +<p>At morning by the lilied brook,</p> +<p>And all the noon his rod he plied</p> +<p>By that romantic riverside.</p> +<p>Soon as the evening hours decline</p> +<p>Tranquilly he’ll return to dine,</p> +<p>And breathing forth a pious wish,</p> +<p>Will cram his belly full of fish.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page322"></a>322</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:286px" + src="images/img322.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page323"></a>323</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>The Abbot for a walk went out</p> +<p>A wealthy cleric, very stout,</p> +<p>And Robin has that Abbot stuck</p> +<p>As the red hunter spears the buck.</p> +<p>The djavel or the javelin</p> +<p>Has, you observe, gone bravely in,</p> +<p>And you may hear that weapon whack</p> +<p>Bang through the middle of his back.</p> +<p><i>Hence we may learn that abbots should</i></p> +<p><i>Never go walking in a wood.</i></p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page324"></a>324</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:301px" + src="images/img324.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page325"></a>325</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>The frozen peaks he once explored,</p> +<p>But now he’s dead and by the board.</p> +<p>How better far at home to have stayed</p> +<p>Attended by the parlour maid,</p> +<p>And warmed his knees before the fire</p> +<p>Until the hour when folks retire!</p> +<p><i>So, if you would be spared to friends.</i></p> +<p><i>Do nothing but for business ends.</i></p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page326"></a>326</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:298px" + src="images/img326.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page327"></a>327</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Industrious pirate! see him sweep</p> +<p>The lonely bosom of the deep,</p> +<p>And daily the horizon scan</p> +<p>From Hatteras or Matapan.</p> +<p>Be sure, before that pirate’s old,</p> +<p>He will have made a pot of gold,</p> +<p>And will retire from all his labours</p> +<p>And be respected by his neighbors.</p> +<p><i>You also scan your life’s horizon</i></p> +<p><i>For all that you can clap your eyes on.</i></p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page328"></a>328</span></p> + +<p class="center pt2">Works recently issued by</p> + +<p class="center ar f150">SAMUEL OSBOURNE & C<span class="sp">o</span>.<br /> + +DAVOS.</p> + +<p class="noind">NOT I and other poems, by Robert +Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p class="noind"><i>A volume of enchanting poetry.</i></p> + +<p class="noind">BLACK CANYON or wild adventures +in the Far West, by S. L. Osbourne.</p> + +<p class="noind"><i>A beautiful gift-book.</i></p> + +<p class="noind">MORAL EMBLEMS, (first Series.) by +Robert Louis Stevenson.</p> + +<p class="noind"><i>Has only to be seen to be admired.</i></p> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<p class="noind"><i>To be obtained from the Publishers and +all respectable Book-sellers.</i></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page329"></a>329</span></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>A Martial Elegy for some lead Soldiers.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>For certain soldiers lately dead</p> +<p>Our-reverent dirge shall here be said.</p> +<p>Them, when their martial leader called,</p> +<p>No dread preparative appalled;</p> +<p>But leaden hearted, leaden heeled,</p> +<p>I marked them steadfast in the field</p> +<p>Death grimly sided with the foe,</p> +<p>And smote each leaden hero low.</p> +<p>Proudly they perished one by one:</p> +<p>The dread Pea-cannon’s work was done</p> +<p>O not for them the tears we shed,</p> +<p>Consigned to their congenial lead;</p> +<p>But while unmoved their sleep they take,</p> +<p>We mourn for their dear Captain’s sake,</p> +<p>For their dear Captain, who shall smart</p> +<p>Both in his pocket and his heart,</p> +<p>Who saw his heros shed their gore</p> +<p>And lacked a shilling to buy more!</p> + <p class="i3">Price 1 penny. (1st Edition.)</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page330"></a>330</span></p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page331"></a>331</span></p> + +<p class="center f80">Today is published by SAMUEL OSBOURNE & Co.<br /> + +THE</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="f200 cn">GRAVER</span> <span class="f80">and the</span> <span class="f200 cn">PEN</span></p> + +<p class="center f80">OR</p> + +<p class="center f130 vr">Scenes from Nature with Ap-</p> +<p class="center f90">propriate Verses<br /> + +by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON author of the ‘EMBLEMS.’</p> + +<hr class="short1" /> + +<p>‘The Graver and the Pen’ is a most strikingly illustrated +little work and the poetry so pleasing that when +it is taken up to be read is finished before it is set down.</p> + +<p>It contains 5 full-page illustrations (all of the first +class) and 11 pages of poetry finely printed on superb +paper (especially obtained from C. G. Squintani & Co. +London) with the title on the cover in red letters.</p> + +<p>Small 8vo. Granite paper cover with coloured title</p> + +<hr class="short1" /> +<p class="center"><i>Price Ninepence per Copy</i>.</p> +<hr class="short1" /> + +<p class="center">Splendid chance for an energetic publisher!!!</p> + +<p class="noind">For Sale—Copyright of ‘Black Canyon’ price 1 / 3/4</p> + +<p class="noind">Autograph of Mr. R. L. Stevenson price -/3, ditto of Mr. +S. L. Osbourne price 1/- each.</p> + +<p class="noind">If copies of the ‘Graver,’ ‘Emblems,’ or ‘Black Canyon’ +are wanted apply to the publisher, 17 Harlot Row Edinburgh.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page332"></a>332</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page333"></a>333</span></p> + +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>THE</h2> + +<h2>GRAVER & THE PEN.</h2> +<hr class="full" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page334"></a>334</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page335"></a>335</span></p> +<p class="center">THE</p> + +<p class="center f130 cn"><i>GRAVER & THE PEN</i>,</p> + +<p class="center f80">or</p> + +<p class="center f130 vr">Scenes from Nature with</p> + +<p class="center">Appropriate Verses<br /> +BY<br /> +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</p> + +<p class="center f80">author of</p> + +<p class="noind">‘The New Arabian Nights,’ ‘Moral Emblems,’ +‘Not I,’ ‘Treasure Island,’ etc.</p> + +<p class="center ar" style="font-size: 115%;"><i>Illustrated.</i></p> + +<p class="center1 sc">Edinburgh</p> + +<p class="center ar" style="font-size: 115%;"><i>S. L. Osbourne & Company</i></p> + +<p class="center">No. 17 <span class="sc">Heriot Row</span>.</p> + +<p class="noind f90">[It was only by the kindness of Mr. <span class="sc">Crerar</span> of Kingussie +that we are able to issue this little work—having allowed +us to print with his own press when ours was broken.]</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page336"></a>336</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page337"></a>337</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="center1 sc">Proem.</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + + <p class="i1">Unlike the common run of men,</p> +<p>I wield a double power to please,</p> +<p>And use the <span class="sc">Graver</span> and the <span class="sc">Pen</span></p> + <p class="i1">With equal aptitude and ease.</p> + +<p class="s">I move with that illustrious crew,</p> + <p class="i1">The ambidextrous Kings of Art;</p> + <p class="i1">And every mortal thing I do</p> +<p>Brings ringing money in the mart.</p> + +<p class="s">Hence, to the morning hour, the mead,</p> + <p class="i1">The forest and the stream perceive</p> +<p class="i05">Me wandering as the muses lead——</p> + <p class="i1">Or back returning in the eve.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page338"></a>338</span></p> + +<p class="s">Two muses like two maiden aunts,</p> + <p class="i2">The engraving and the singing muse,</p> +<p>Follow, through all my favorite haunts,</p> + <p class="i2">My devious traces in the dews.</p> + +<p class="s">To guide and cheer me, each attends;</p> + <p class="i2">Each speeds my rapid task along;</p> +<p>One to my cuts her ardour lends,</p> + <p class="i2">One breathes her magic in my song.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:60px; height:73px" + src="images/img338.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page339"></a>339</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page340"></a>340</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:280px; height:351px" + src="images/img340.jpg" alt="" /></div> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page341"></a>341</span></p> +<p class="center1 f130 vr"><i>The Precarious Mill.</i></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Alone above the stream it stands,</p> +<p>Above the iron hill,</p> +<p>The topsy-turvy, tumble-down,</p> +<p>Yet habitable mill.</p> + +<p class="s">Still as the ringing saws advance</p> +<p>To slice the humming deal,</p> +<p>All day the pallid miller hears</p> +<p>The thunder of the wheel.</p> + +<p class="s">He hears the river plunge and roar</p> +<p>As roars the angry mob;</p> +<p>He feels the solid building quake,</p> +<p>The trusty timbers throb.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page342"></a>342</span></p> + +<p class="s">All night beside the fire he cowers:</p> +<p>He hears the rafters jar:</p> +<p>O why is he not in a proper house</p> +<p>As decent people are!</p> + +<p class="s">The floors are all aslant, he sees,</p> +<p>The doors are all a-jam;</p> +<p>And from the hook above his head</p> +<p>All crooked swings the ham.</p> + +<p class="s">“Alas,” he cries and shakes his head,</p> +<p>“I see by every sign,</p> +<p>There soon will be the deuce to pay,</p> +<p>With this estate of mine.”</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page343"></a>343</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page344"></a>344</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:250px; height:417px" + src="images/img344.jpg" alt="" /></div> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page345"></a>345</span></p> + +<p class="center1 f130 vr"><i>The Disputatious Pines.</i></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>The first pine to the second said:</p> +<p>“My leaves are black, my branches red;</p> +<p>I stand upon this moor of mine,</p> +<p>A hoar, <i>unconquerable pine</i>.”</p> + +<p class="s">The second sniffed and answered: “Pooh,</p> +<p>I am as good a pine as you.”</p> + +<p class="s">“Discourteous tree” the first replied,</p> +<p>“The tempest in my boughs had cried,</p> +<p>The hunter slumbered in my shade,</p> +<p>A hundred years ere you were made.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page346"></a>346</span></p> + +<p class="s">The second smiled as he returned:</p> +<p>“I shall be here when you are burned.”</p> + +<p class="s">So far dissension ruled the pair,</p> +<p>Each turned on each a frowning air,</p> +<p>When flickering from the bank anigh,</p> +<p>A flight of martens met their eye.</p> +<p>Sometime their course they watched; and then</p> +<p>They nodded off to sleep again.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page347"></a>347</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page348"></a>348</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:320px; height:256px" + src="images/img348.jpg" alt="" /></div> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page349"></a>349</span></p> + +<p class="center1 f130 vr"><i>The Tramps</i>.</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Now long enough has day endured,</p> +<p>Or King Apollo Palinured,</p> +<p>Seaward be steers his panting team,</p> +<p>And casts on earth his latest gleam.</p> + +<p class="s">But see! the Tramps with jaded eye</p> +<p>Their destined provinces espy.</p> +<p>Long through the hills their way they took,</p> +<p>Long camped beside the mountain brook;</p> +<p>’Tis over; now with rising hope</p> +<p>They pause upon the downward slope,</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page350"></a>350</span></p> +<p>And as their aching bones they rest,</p> +<p>Their anxious captain scans the west.</p> + +<p class="s">So paused Alaric on the Alps</p> +<p>And ciphered up the Roman scalps.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page351"></a>351</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page352"></a>352</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:300px; height:309px" + src="images/img352.jpg" alt="" /></div> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page353"></a>353</span></p> + +<p class="center1 f130 vr"><i>The Foolhardy Geographer.</i></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>The howling desert miles around,</p> +<p>The tinkling brook the only sound—</p> +<p>Wearied with all his toils and feats,</p> +<p>The traveller dines on potted meats;</p> +<p>On potted meats and princely wines,</p> +<p>Not wisely but too well he dines.</p> + +<p class="s">The brindled Tiger loud may roar,</p> +<p>High may the hovering Vulture soar,</p> +<p>Alas! regardless of them all,</p> +<p>Soon shall the empurpled glutton sprawl—</p> +<p>Soon, in the desert’s hushed repose,</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page354"></a>354</span></p> +<p>Shall trumpet tidings through his nose!</p> +<p>Alack, unwise! that nasal song</p> +<p>Shall be the Ounce’s dinner-gong!</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p class="s">A blemish in the cut appears;</p> +<p>Alas! it cost both blood and tears.</p> +<p>The glancing graver swerved aside,</p> +<p>Fast flowed the artist’s vital tide!</p> +<p>And now the apolegetic bard</p> +<p>Demands indulgence for his pard!</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page355"></a>355</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page356"></a>356</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:280px; height:493px" + src="images/img356.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page357"></a>357</span></p> + +<p class="center1 f130 vr"><i>The Angler & the Clown.</i></p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>The echoing bridge you here may see,</p> +<p>The pouring lynn, the waving tree,</p> +<p>The eager angler fresh from town—</p> +<p>Above, the contumelious clown.</p> +<p>‘The angler plies his line and rod,</p> +<p>The clodpole stands with many a nod,—</p> +<p>With many a nod and many a grin,</p> +<p>He sees him cast his engine in.</p> + +<p class="s">“What have you caught?” the peasant cries.</p> + +<p class="s">“Nothing as yet,” the Fool replies.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page358"></a>358</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page359"></a>359</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h4>MORAL TALES</h4> +<hr class="full" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page360"></a>360</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page361"></a>361</span></p> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:400px; height:294px" + src="images/img361.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="center ar">Rob and Ben</p> + +<p class="center ar">or</p> + +<p class="center ar">The <span style="letter-spacing: 0.5em;">PIRATE</span> and the <span style="letter-spacing: 0.5em;">APOTHECARY</span>.</p> + +<p class="center ar">Scene the First.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page362"></a>362</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page363"></a>363</span></p> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:400px; height:293px" + src="images/img363.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="center ar">Rob and Ben</p> + +<p class="center ar">or</p> + +<p class="center ar">The <span style="letter-spacing: 0.5em;">PIRATE</span> and the <span style="letter-spacing: 0.5em;">APOTHECARY</span>.</p> + +<p class="center ar">Scene the Second.</p> + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page364"></a>364</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:400px; height:292px" + src="images/img364.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="center ar">Rob and Ben</p> + +<p class="center ar">or</p> + +<p class="center ar">The <span style="letter-spacing: 0.5em;">PIRATE</span> and the <span style="letter-spacing: 0.5em;">APOTHECARY</span>.</p> + +<p class="center ar">Scene the Third.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page365"></a>365</span></p> +<p> </p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page366"></a>366</span></p> +<p> </p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page367"></a>367</span></p> + +<h4>ROBIN AND BEN: OR, THE PIRATE +AND THE APOTHECARY</h4> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Come lend me an attentive ear</p> +<p>A startling moral tale to hear,</p> +<p>Of Pirate Rob and Chemist Ben,</p> +<p>And different destinies of men.</p> + +<p class="s">Deep in the greenest of the vales</p> +<p>That nestle near the coast of Wales,</p> +<p>The heaving main but just in view,</p> +<p>Robin and Ben together grew,</p> +<p>Together worked and played the fool,</p> +<p>Together shunned the Sunday school,</p> +<p>And pulled each other’s youthful noses</p> +<p>Around the cots, among the roses.</p> + +<p class="s">Together but unlike they grew;</p> +<p>Robin was rough, and through and through</p> +<p>Bold, inconsiderate, and manly,</p> +<p>Like some historic Bruce or Stanley.</p> +<p>Ben had a mean and servile soul,</p> +<p>He robbed not, though he often stole.</p> +<p>He sang on Sunday in the choir,</p> +<p>And tamely capped the passing Squire.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page368"></a>368</span></p> +<p class="s">At length, intolerant of trammels—</p> +<p>Wild as the wild Bithynian camels,</p> +<p>Wild as the wild sea-eagles—Bob</p> +<p>His widowed dam contrives to rob,</p> +<p>And thus with great originality</p> +<p>Effectuates his personality.</p> +<p>Thenceforth his terror-haunted flight</p> +<p>He follows through the starry night;</p> +<p>And with the early morning breeze,</p> +<p>Behold him on the azure seas.</p> +<p>The master of a trading dandy</p> +<p>Hires Robin for a go of brandy;</p> +<p>And all the happy hills of home</p> +<p>Vanish beyond the fields of foam.</p> + +<p class="s">Ben, meanwhile, like a tin reflector,</p> +<p>Attended on the worthy rector;</p> +<p>Opened his eyes and held his breath,</p> +<p>And flattered to the point of death;</p> +<p>And was at last, by that good fairy,</p> +<p>Apprenticed to the Apothecary.</p> + +<p class="s">So Ben, while Robin chose to ro</p> +<p>A rising chemist was at home,</p> +<p>Tended his shop with learnéd air,</p> +<p>Watered his drugs and oiled his hair,</p> +<p>And gave advice to the unwary,</p> +<p>Like any sleek apothecary.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page369"></a>369</span></p> +<p class="s">Meanwhile upon the deep afar</p> +<p>Robin the brave was waging war,</p> +<p>With other tarry desperadoes</p> +<p>About the latitude of Barbadoes.</p> +<p>He knew no touch of craven fear;</p> +<p>His voice was thunder in the cheer;</p> +<p>First, from the main-to’-gallan’ high,</p> +<p>The skulking merchantman to spy—</p> +<p>The first to bound upon the deck,</p> +<p>The last to leave the sinking wreck.</p> +<p>His hand was steel, his word was law,</p> +<p>His mates regarded him with awe.</p> +<p>No pirate in the whole profession</p> +<p>Held a more honourable position.</p> + +<p class="s">At length, from years of anxious toil,</p> +<p>Bold Robin seeks his native soil;</p> +<p>Wisely arranges his affairs,</p> +<p>And to his native dale repairs.</p> +<p>The Bristol <i>Swallow</i> sets him down</p> +<p>Beside the well-remembered town.</p> +<p>He sighs, he spits, he marks the scene,</p> +<p>Proudly he treads the village green;</p> +<p>And free from pettiness and rancour,</p> +<p>Takes lodgings at the ‘Crown and Anchor.’</p> + +<p class="s">Strange when a man so great and good,</p> +<p>Once more in his home-country stood,</p> +<p>Strange that the sordid clowns should show</p> +<p>A dull desire to have him go.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page370"></a>370</span></p> +<p class="s">His clinging breeks, his tarry hat,</p> +<p>The way he swore, the way he spat,</p> +<p>A certain quality of manner,</p> +<p>Alarming like the pirate’s banner—</p> +<p>Something that did not seem to suit all—</p> +<p>Something, O call it bluff, not brutal—</p> +<p>Something at least, howe’er it’s called,</p> +<p>Made Robin generally black-balled.</p> + +<p class="s">His soul was wounded; proud and glum,</p> +<p>Alone he sat and swigged his rum,</p> +<p>And took a great distaste to men</p> +<p>Till he encountered Chemist Ben.</p> +<p>Bright was the hour and bright the day,</p> +<p>That threw them in each other’s way;</p> +<p>Glad were their mutual salutations,</p> +<p>Long their respective revelations.</p> +<p>Before the inn in sultry weather</p> +<p>They talked of this and that together;</p> +<p>Ben told the tale of his indentures,</p> +<p>And Rob narrated his adventures.</p> +<p>Last, as the point of greatest weight,</p> +<p>The pair contrasted their estate,</p> +<p>And Robin, like a boastful sailor,</p> +<p>Despised the other for a tailor.</p> + +<p class="s">‘See,’ he remarked, ‘with envy, see</p> +<p>A man with such a fist as me!</p> +<p>Bearded and ringed, and big, and brown,</p> +<p>I sit and toss the stingo down.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page371"></a>371</span></p> +<p>Hear the gold jingle in my bag—</p> +<p>All won beneath the Jolly Flag!’</p> + +<p class="pt2">Ben moralised and shook his head:</p> +<p>‘You wanderers earn and eat your bread.</p> +<p>The foe is found, beats or is beaten,</p> +<p>And either how, the wage is eaten.</p> +<p>And after all your pully-hauly</p> +<p>Your proceeds look uncommon small-ly.</p> +<p>You had done better here to tarry</p> +<p>Apprentice to the Apothecary.</p> +<p>The silent pirates of the shore</p> +<p>Eat and sleep soft, and pocket more</p> +<p>Than any red, robustious ranger</p> +<p>Who picks his farthings hot from danger.</p> +<p>You clank your guineas on the board;</p> +<p>Mine are with several bankers stored.</p> +<p>You reckon riches on your digits,</p> +<p>You dash in chase of Sals and Bridgets,</p> +<p>You drink and risk delirium tremens,</p> +<p>Your whole estate a common seaman’s!</p> +<p>Regard your friend and school companion,</p> +<p>Soon to be wed to Miss Trevanion</p> +<p>(Smooth, honourable, fat and flowery,</p> +<p>With Heaven knows how much land in dowry)</p> +<p>Look at me—am I in good case?</p> +<p>Look at my hands, look at my face;</p> +<p>Look at the cloth of my apparel;</p> +<p>Try me and test me, lock and barrel;</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page372"></a>372</span></p> +<p>And own, to give the devil his due,</p> +<p>I have made more of life than you.</p> +<p>Yet I nor sought nor risked a life;</p> +<p>I shudder at an open knife;</p> +<p>The perilous seas I still avoided</p> +<p>And stuck to land whate’er betided.</p> +<p>I had no gold, no marble quarry,</p> +<p>I was a poor apothecary,</p> +<p>Yet here I stand, at thirty-eight,</p> +<p>A man of an assured estate.’</p> + +<p class="s">‘Well,’ answered Robin—‘well, and how?’</p> + +<p class="s">The smiling chemist tapped his brow.</p> +<p>‘Rob,’ he replied,’this throbbing brain</p> +<p>Still worked and hankered after gain.</p> +<p>By day and night, to work my will,</p> +<p>It pounded like a powder mill;</p> +<p>And marking how the world went round</p> +<p>A theory of theft it found.</p> +<p>Here is the key to right and wrong:</p> +<p><i>Steal little but steal all day long</i>;</p> +<p>And this invaluable plan</p> +<p>Marks what is called the Honest Man.</p> +<p>When first I served with Doctor Pill,</p> +<p>My hand was ever in the till.</p> +<p>Now that I am myself a master</p> +<p>My gains come softer still and faster.</p> +<p>As thus: on Wednesday, a maid</p> +<p>Came to me in the way of trade.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page373"></a>373</span></p> +<p>Her mother, an old farmer’s wife,</p> +<p>Required a drug to save her life.</p> +<p>‘At once, my dear, at once,’ I said,</p> +<p>Patted the child upon the head,</p> +<p>Bade her be still a loving daughter,</p> +<p>And filled the bottle up with water.</p> + +<p class="s">‘Well, and the mother?’ Robin cried.</p> + +<p class="s">‘O she!’ said Ben, ‘I think she died.’</p> + +<p class="s">‘Battle and blood, death and disease,</p> +<p>Upon the tainted Tropic seas—</p> +<p>The attendant sharks that chew the cud—</p> +<p>The abhorred scuppers spouting blood—</p> +<p>The untended dead, the Tropic sun—</p> +<p>The thunder of the murderous gun—</p> +<p>The cut-throat crew—the Captain’s curse—</p> +<p>The tempest blustering worse and worse—</p> +<p>These have I known and these can stand,</p> +<p>But you, I settle out of hand!’</p> + +<p class="s">Out flashed the cutlass, down went </p> +<p>Dead and rotten, there and then.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page374"></a>374</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page375"></a>375</span></p> + +<h4>THE BUILDER’S DOOM</h4> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>In eighteen twenty Deacon Thin</p> +<p>Feu’d the land and fenced it in,</p> +<p>And laid his broad foundations down</p> +<p>About a furlong out of town.</p> + +<p class="s">Early and late the work went on.</p> +<p>The carts were toiling ere the dawn;</p> +<p>The mason whistled, the hodman sang;</p> +<p>Early and late the trowels rang;</p> +<p>And Thin himself came day by day</p> +<p>To push the work in every way.</p> +<p>An artful builder, patent king</p> +<p>Of all the local building ring,</p> +<p>Who was there like him in the quarter</p> +<p>For mortifying brick and mortar,</p> +<p>Or pocketing the odd piastre</p> +<p>By substituting lath and plaster?</p> +<p>With plan and two-foot rule in hand,</p> +<p>He by the foreman took his stand,</p> +<p>With boisterous voice, with eagle glance</p> +<p>To stamp upon extravagance.</p> +<p>Far thrift of bricks and greed of guilders,</p> +<p>He was the Buonaparte of Builders.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page376"></a>376</span></p> +<p class="s">The foreman, a desponding creature,</p> +<p>Demurred to here and there a feature:</p> +<p>‘For surely, sir—with your permeession—</p> +<p>Bricks here, sir, in the main parteetion...’</p> +<p>The builder goggled, gulped and stared,</p> +<p>The foreman’s services were spared.</p> +<p>Thin would not count among his minions</p> +<p>A man of Wesleyan opinions.</p> + +<p class="s">‘Money is money,’ so he said.</p> +<p>‘Crescents are crescents, trade is trade.</p> +<p>Pharaohs and emperors in their seasons</p> +<p>Built, I believe, for different reasons—</p> +<p>Charity, glory, piety, pride—</p> +<p>To pay the men, to please a bride,</p> +<p>To use their stone, to spite their neighbours,</p> +<p>Not for a profit on their labours.</p> +<p>They built to edify or bewilder;</p> +<p>I build because I am a builder.</p> +<p>Crescent and street and square I build,</p> +<p>Plaster and paint and carve and gild.</p> +<p>Around the city see them stand,</p> +<p>These triumphs of my shaping hand,</p> +<p>With bulging walls, with sinking floors,</p> +<p>With shut, impracticable doors,</p> +<p>Fickle and frail in every part,</p> +<p>And rotten to their inmost heart.</p> +<p>There shall the simple tenant find</p> +<p>Death in the falling window-blind,</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page377"></a>377</span></p> +<p>Death in the pipe, death in the faucit,</p> +<p>Death in the deadly water-closet!</p> +<p>A day is set for all to die:</p> +<p><i>Caveat emptor!</i> what care I?’</p> + +<p class="s">As to Amphion’s tuneful kit</p> +<p>Troy rose, with towers encircling it;</p> +<p>As to the Mage’s brandished wand</p> +<p>A spiry palace clove the sand;</p> +<p>To Thin’s indomitable financing,</p> +<p>That phantom crescent kept advancing.</p> +<p>When first the brazen bells of churches</p> +<p>Called clerk and parson to their perches,</p> +<p>The worshippers of every sect</p> +<p>Already viewed it with respect;</p> +<p>A second Sunday had not gone</p> +<p>Before the roof was rattled on:</p> +<p>And when the fourth was there, behold</p> +<p>The crescent finished, painted, sold!</p> + +<p class="s">The stars proceeded in their courses,</p> +<p>Nature with her subversive forces,</p> +<p>Time, too, the iron-toothed and sinewed;</p> +<p>And the edacious years continued.</p> +<p>Thrones rose and fell; and still the crescent,</p> +<p>Unsanative and now senescent,</p> +<p>A plastered skeleton of lath,</p> +<p>Looked forward to a day of wrath.</p> +<p>In the dead night, the groaning timber</p> +<p>Would jar upon the ear of slumber,</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page378"></a>378</span></p> +<p>And, like Dodona’s talking oak,</p> +<p>Of oracles and judgments spoke.</p> +<p>When to the music fingered well</p> +<p>The feet of children lightly fell,</p> +<p>The sire, who dozed by the decanters,</p> +<p>Started, and dreamed of misadventures.</p> +<p>The rotten brick decayed to dust;</p> +<p>The iron was consumed by rust;</p> +<p>Each tabid and perverted mansion</p> +<p>Hung in the article of declension.</p> + +<p class="s">So forty, fifty, sixty passed;</p> +<p>Until, when seventy came at last,</p> +<p>The occupant of number three</p> +<p>Called friends to hold a jubilee.</p> +<p>Wild was the night; the charging rack</p> +<p>Had forced the moon upon her back;</p> +<p>The wind piped up a naval ditty;</p> +<p>And the lamps winked through all the city.</p> +<p>Before that house, where lights were shining,</p> +<p>Corpulent feeders, grossly dining,</p> +<p>And jolly clamour, hum and rattle,</p> +<p>Fairly outvoiced the tempest’s battle.</p> +<p>As still his moistened lip he fingered,</p> +<p>The envious policeman lingered;</p> +<p>While far the infernal tempest sped,</p> +<p>And shook the country folks in bed,</p> +<p>And tore the trees and tossed the ships,</p> +<p>He lingered and he licked his lips.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page379"></a>379</span></p> +<p>Lo, from within, a hush! the host</p> +<p>Briefly expressed the evening’s toast;</p> +<p>And lo, before the lips were dry,</p> +<p>The Deacon rising to reply!</p> +<p>‘Here in this house which once I built,</p> +<p>Papered and painted, carved and gilt,</p> +<p>And out of which, to my content,</p> +<p>I netted seventy-five per cent.;</p> +<p>Here at this board of jolly neighbours,</p> +<p>I reap the credit of my labours.</p> +<p>These were the days—I will say more—</p> +<p>These were the grand old days of yore!</p> +<p>The builder laboured day and night;</p> +<p>He watched that every brick was right;</p> +<p>The decent men their utmost did;</p> +<p>And the house rose—a pyramid!</p> +<p>These were the days, our provost knows,</p> +<p>When forty streets and crescents rose,</p> +<p>The fruits of my creative noddle,</p> +<p>All more or less upon a model,</p> +<p>Neat and commodious, cheap and dry,</p> +<p>A perfect pleasure to the eye!</p> +<p>I found this quite a country quarter;</p> +<p>I leave it solid lath and mortar.</p> +<p>In all, I was the single actor—</p> +<p>And am this city’s benefactor!</p> +<p>Since then, alas! both thing and name,</p> +<p>Shoddy across the ocean came—</p> +<p>Shoddy that can the eye bewilder</p> +<p>And makes me blush to meet a builder!</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page380"></a>380</span></p> +<p>Had this good house, in frame or fixture,</p> +<p>Been tempered by the least admixture</p> +<p>Of that discreditable shoddy,</p> +<p>Should we to-day compound our toddy,</p> +<p>Or gaily marry song and laughter</p> +<p>Below its sempiternal rafter?</p> +<p>Not so!’ the Deacon cried.</p> + + <p class="i9 s">The mansion</p> +<p>Had marked his fatuous expansion.</p> +<p>The years were full, the house was fated,</p> +<p>The rotten structure crepitated!</p> + +<p class="s">A moment, and the silent guests</p> +<p>Sat pallid as their dinner vests.</p> +<p>A moment more, and root and branch,</p> +<p>That mansion fell in avalanche,</p> +<p>Story on story, floor on floor,</p> +<p>Roof, wall and window, joist and door,</p> +<p>Dead weight of damnable disaster,</p> +<p>A cataclysm of lath and plaster.</p> + +<p class="s"><i>Siloam did not choose a sinner—</i></p> +<p><i>All were not builders at the dinner.</i></p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page381"></a>381</span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom: 0;"> +<img style="border:0; width:400px; height:324px" + src="images/img381.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="f80 center">LORD NELSON AND HIS TAR.</p> +<div class="pt3"> </div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page382"></a>382</span></p> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:481px; height:700px" + src="images/img382.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page383"></a>383</span></p> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:489px; height:700px" + src="images/img383.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="f80 center">(<i>Facsimile of Letter addressed by R. L. Stevenson, in his Tenth +Year, to his Aunt Miss Balfour.</i>)</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page384"></a>384</span></p> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<hr class="full" /> +<p class="f80 center">PRINTED BY<br /> +CASSELL & CO., LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE,<br /> +LONDON, E.C.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="pg" /> +<div class="pg"> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - SWANSTON EDITION VOL. 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