John Ruskin: Præterita 9781474472234

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THE W H ITEH O USE EDITION OF JO HN RUSKIN

PR^ETERITA

T H E W H IT E H O U S E E D IT IO N OF JO H N R U SK IN GENERAL EDITORS: JAMES S. DEARDEN AND MICHAEL WHEELER

PR^TERITA Edited by A. O. J. Cockshut

RYBURN PUBLISHING K E E LE U N IV E R SIT Y PR E SS

Prt£terita first published 1885-89 and Dilecta 1886-1900 This edition first published in 1994 by Ryburn Publishing an imprint of Keele University Press Keele, Staffordshire published by Edinburgh University Press Ltd 22 George Square, Edinburgh Copyright contributions © respective contributors Transferred to digital print 2012 Composed by KUP Services Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

Paperback

ISBN

1 85331 050 6

Cased

ISBN

1 85331 045 X

CONTENTS

GENERAL EDITORS’ PREFACE

vii

A NOTE ON JOHN HOWARD WHITEHOUSE

ix

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

xi

CHRONOLOGY

xiv

INTRODUCTION

xxv

PRiETERITA. VOLUME I. I. II.

THE SPRINGS OF WANDEL. HERNE-HILL ALMOND BLOSSOMS.

5 22

III.

THE BANKS OF TAY.

36

IV.

UNDER NEW TUTO RSH IPS.

52

V.

PARNASSUS AND PLYNLIMMON.

65

SCHAFFHAUSEN AND MILAN.

79

VII.

PAPA AND MAMMA.

92

VIII.

VESTER, CAMEN2E.

109

THE COL DE LA FAUCILLE.

121

X.

QUEM T U , MELPOMENE.

134

XI.

CHRIST CHURCH CHOIR.

150

ROSLYN CHAPEL.

168

VI.

IX.

XII.

VOLUME II. OF AGE.

187

II.

ROME.

201

III.

CU M ^.

215

IV.

FONTAINEBLEAU.

230

THE SIMPLON.

246

THE CAMPO SANTO.

262

MACUGNAGA.

278

THE STATE OF DENMARK.

294

THE FEASTS OF THE VANDALS.

308

CROSSMOUNT.

324

L’ HOTEL DU MONT BLANC.

340

OTTERBURN.

360

I.

V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII.

VOLUME III. THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE.

373

II.

MONT VELAN.

393

III.

l’e st e r e l l e .

412

IV.

JOANNA’ S CARE.

425

DILECTA.

451

I.

SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY

493

EDITOR’ S EXPLANATORY NOTES

495

TABLES OF CONTENTS

571

GENERAL E D IT O R S ’ PREFACE

The Whitehouse Edition of John Ruskin aims to make available to a wide readership the major works of a writer who is generally recognized as one of the greatest of the Victorian Age, and yet whose writings are largely out of print. This new edition also responds to the recent revival of interest in Ruskin. One reason for this is that Ruskin is once again ‘relevant’, a term from which the scholarly community tends to shy away. His powerful critique of industrialization and materialism, his ideas on architectural heritage and restoration, his refusal to separate aesthetics from ethics, his passionate interest in and defence of what we now call ‘the natural environment’ - these are just some of the areas in which Ruskin speaks not only to his generation, but also to our own. There has also occurred a resurgence of scholarly interest in Ruskin, and the Ruskin bibliography has not only lengthened in recent years but has also become more sophisticated. Ruskin is being closely examined and animatedly discussed as a fascinating polymath - thinker, prophet, teacher, reformer, artist, collector and, in George Eliot’s view, the finest writer of his generation. He wrote on art, architecture, sculpture, political economy, religion, mythology, cultural history, museology, mineralogy, geology, botany, ornithology, and many other subjects. He seems to have lived out in his own intellectual life all the cross-currents of Victorian cultural and social debate, and he demands to be read as both representative of his Age (in certain ways the epitome of Victorianism) and unique (brilliant, eccentric and, at the end of his career, tragically deranged). The Whitehouse Edition of John Ruskin is designed to provide in an attractive format sound texts based on the first published version of the work or works in question, so that modern readers can read Ruskin as his contemporaries first received him. This emphasis on reading Ruskin

PRiETERITA

viii

in his Victorian context is also reflected in the detailed comparative Chronology provided in each volume, the critical Introductions by the volume’s editor, and the editor’s Explanatory Notes which follow the main text. Each volume also includes a Bibliographical Note, a Note on Further Reading, and, where they feature in the original, black and white plates. J am es

S. D e a r d e n

Curator o f the Ruskin Galleries,

M

ic h a e l

W

h eeler

Professor of English Literature and

Bembridge School, Isle o f Wight,

Director o f the Ruskin Programme,

and Brantwood, Coniston

Lancaster University

JOHN HOWARD WHITEHOUSE

J. Howard Whitehouse was born in Birmingham on 8 June 1873. He left school at about the age of fourteen, but continued his education in the evenings at the Midland Institute and Mason’s College, obtaining in one year both the History and the English Prizes - an unprecedented achievement. In his early twenties he ‘discovered’ Ruskin. To spread the good news about Ruskin and his teaching, in 1896 Whitehouse founded the Ruskin Society of Birmingham and in 1899 he represented the Society when he and William Wardle visited Ruskin at Brantwood to present to him an illuminated address of congratulation on his eightieth birthday. Interest in Ruskin and a dedication to his teaching were to influence the whole of Whitehouse’s life. During his years as a Member of Parliament, he was much involved with education, particularly for the underprivileged. He established an annual secondary schoolboys’ camp and he fostered craftsmanship and art in schools. In 1919, the centenary of Ruskin’s birth, he arranged the Ruskin Centenary Exhibition at the Royal Academy and edited a number of related publications. He also founded Bembridge School in the Isle of Wight - a boarding school for boys - where he put some of Ruskin’s and some of his own pioneering educational theories to the test. At Bembridge creative education - art, woodwork, printing and music were considered to be as important as the more academic subjects. From the time of his discovery of Ruskin, Whitehouse collected books, letters, manuscripts, drawings - anything that he could - by or about Ruskin.* He established a national Ruskin Society in 1932, and The Friends of Brantwood in 1935; he held annual luncheons or dinners to celebrate Ruskin’s birthday, often publishing volumes containing addresses given there.

* See James S. Dearden, Ruskin, Bembridge and Brantwood: The Growth o f the Whitehouse Collection (Keele, Ryburn Publishing, 1994), for a detailed illus­ trated history. IX

X

PRyETERITA

In 1929 he built the Ruskin Galleries at Bembridge School to house his ever-growing Ruskin collection, some of which was moved to Brantwood when he bought the house in 1932 to open it to the public as an international memorial to Ruskin. As a result of the Brantwood dispersal sales of 1930-31, his collection grew into the world’s largest Ruskin collection. Whitehouse was a Companion of Ruskin’s Guild of St George from 1902 until his death in 1955, and a Trustee of the Guild from 1918. He devoted his life to keeping Ruskin’s message alive during a long period of neglect, and we are delighted to name this series of publications in his honour. J. S. D.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

Some portions of P rater it a first appeared in Fors Clavigera, Letters 10, 28, 33, 46, 51, 52, 53, 54, 56, 63, 65. (For a collation of these passages see the Library Edition of The Works o f John Ruskin, edited by E. T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn, 39 vols (London, Allen; New York, Longmans, 1903-12), XXXV, xci-ii; this collation is part of Cook and Wedderburn’s extensive Bibliographical Note (pp. lxxxiii-xcii) on which much of the following data are based.) Praterita was published in twenty-eight chapters divided into three volumes, the first two of which each contained twelve chapters; the third volume was not completed as Ruskin had originally planned, through ill health. Each chapter was published as a separate ‘Part’ in paper form and at the price of one shilling; 4,000 of the first eleven parts were printed, after which production went up to 5,000. 600 large-paper quarto copies were also issued, to subscribers only, at the price of two shillings. The appearance of Parts was uneven over the four-year publication period, again owing to periods of ill health: 1-12 appeared between July 1885 and April 1886; 13-24 between M ay 1886 and November 1887; 25-28 between May 1888 and July 1889. The titlepage of Part 1 read as follows: Praeterita. / Outlines of / Scenes and Thoughts / perhaps / worthy of Memory / in my past Life. / By / John Ruskin, LL.D., / Honorary Student of Christ Church, Honorary Fellow of Corpus Christd / College, and Slade Professor of Fine Art, Oxford. / Chapter I. / The Springs of Wandel. / With Steel Engraving of my Two Aunts. / George Allen, / Sunnyside, Orpington, Kent. / 1885. (In fact Ruskin had resigned his Slade Professorship, and the title-page was changed accordingly after Part 4.) George Allen, whom Ruskin had trained as his publisher, issued a second edition of Part 1 in 1885 and of Parts 2-12 in 1886 (3,000 copies of each); of Parts 13 and 14 in 1899 (300 copies); of Part 15 in 1900 (275 copies); and of Part 16 in 1903 (250 copies). A third edition of Part 1 was issued in 1898 (1400 copies). XI

xii

P R ^TE RITA

Meanwhile, once the whole of the first and second volumes of the first edition had been published in Parts, each was issued as a bound volume: I in 1886 (second edition in two forms, 1886 and 1900), II in 1887 (second edition 1900). Volume III was not issued bound until after Ruskin’s death in 1900, and it included Dilecta. Dilecta: Correspondence, Diary Notes, and Extracts fro m Books, illustrating P rater it a, was planned on an extensive scale by Ruskin as a supplementary volume, but only two Parts (in similar format to P raterita) were originally issued (1886 and 1887, 2,000 copies). A third Part was published in 1900 after Ruskin’s death, although it was prepared for the press by him. This Part included an Index to P raterita and Dilecta. Large-paper copies of Dilecta were also issued in 1900, so that purchasers of the large-paper Praterita could complete their sets of the combined book. Further editions and foreign language translations of Praterita have been published in the twentieth century, but despite being one of Ruskin’s most popular books it has gone through fewer editions than many of his other books. The major edition is volume XXXV (1908) of Cook and Wedderburn’s Library Edition (q.v.). Cook and Wedderburn’s policy was to base their edition on the last version of the text that Ruskin saw. Cook states in his Introduction that the ‘Text of P raterita has been carefully revised for this edition, and some passages, of which the meaning has hitherto been obscured by misprints or mistakes, have been made intelligible’ (p. lxxvii; cf. pp. xc-xci). They provide a list of ‘Variae Lectiones’, explaining that ‘the variations in the text between editions of P raterita hitherto published are very few’. Ruskin himself made a few corrections as follows (page references are to the present edition): maternal grandfather, ‘maternal’ inserted before ‘grandfather’. This suggests that it may have been editorially removed from an intermediate edition, since it is present in the first edition (page 8). molestat: replaced with ‘molesta est’ (page 219). insight: ‘even’ inserted after ‘insight’ (page 290). fortune: Ruskin struck out the ‘and’ which followed ‘fortune’ (page 425). Of Cook and Wedderburn’s other variants, the most significant are: Munro: corrected to ‘Monro’ (page 25). a helpful law: was a misprint for ‘and helpful law’ (page 30). Tweeddale: ‘Tweedale’ corrected to ‘Tweddale’. Neither actually corresponds to ‘Tweeddale’ as found in the original edition (page 45). Elspeth: corrected to ‘Elizabeth’ (page 47). D. Andrews: the ‘D.’ corrected to ‘E.’ (page 53).

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

xiii

impression: corrected to ‘impressions’ as found in the MS (page 60). Balstall: ‘Balstal’ corrected to ‘Balsthal’. Neither corresponds to ‘Balstall’ as found in the original edition (page 88). epilogue: corrected to ‘preface’ (page 89). Adams: corrected to ‘Adam’ (page 95). better: corrected to ‘bitter’ as found in the MS (page 193). Griffith'. ‘Griffiths’ corrected to ‘Griffith’. In the original edition on all but the last two occasions (where ‘Griffiths’ is used) it is spelt correctly as ‘Griffith’ (page 197-8). Clarke\ corrected to ‘Clark’ (page 199). motion ... figu re: corrected to ‘notion ... figures’ (page 206). course: corrected to ‘courses’ as found in the MS (page 284). 1851: corrected to ‘1867’ (page 306). element: corrected to ‘elements’ as found in the MS (page 322). brother-in-law', corrected to ‘brother’s brother-in-law’ (page 341). Face: Cook and Wedderbum noted that the lines following the quotation from Guy M annering ‘were altered in the text from the MS. and not very clearly patched together’. They stated that their own reading ‘mends the sense and the construction’ of the passage (page 367). Henry I: corrected to ‘Henry II’ (page 381). drowsy camel-bells: corrected to ‘browsing camels’ bells’ (page 394). Painter: ‘M odem Painters’ substituted for ‘Modern Painter’ (page 401). Rots: corrected to ‘Couronnes’ (page 409). Charles: corrected to ‘James’ (page 436). and o f every country: ‘and’ corrected to ‘I am’ (page 438). M. La Comte, De Came: corrected to ‘M. le Comte de Carne’ (page 466). W. E. Cooke: corrected to ‘W. B. Cooke’ (page 475). Rev. W. Tweddale: corrected to ‘Rev. James Tweddale’ (page 481).

The Whitehouse Edition P m terita follows the first edition, including all misprints. A dagger (f) indicates an editorial explanatory note. Ruskin’s own notes appear as footnotes. M. D.W.

CHRONOLOGY*

1819 John Ruskin born 8 February at 54 Hunter Street, London

1823 family moves to 28 Herne Hill, near Camberwell 1825 tour of France and Belgium

1829 first poem published; lessons from private tutor begin 1830 tour of Lake District

1831 lessons in drawing begin 1832 given Rogers’s Italy, with vignettes after Turner 1833 Germany, Switzerland, Italy; meets Adele Domecq 1834 attends Dr Dale’s school; first scientific papers published 1835 France, Switzerland, Italy - first sight of Venice 1836 writes unpublished letter in defence of Turner* * Key to abbreviations: b. = born; d. = dies; m. = marries; P = painting; PM = Prime Minister XIV

CHRONOLOGY

1819 George III on throne, son George Prince Regent; MannersSutton Archbishop of Canterbury; Pius VII Pope; Liverpool (Cons.) PM; Princess Victoria, Charles Kingsley, George Eliot, Arthur Hugh Clough b.; Peterloo massacre; Scott, The Bride o f Lammermoor 1820 Accession of George IV; Shelley, Prometheus Unbound; Malthus, Principles o f Political Economy 1821 De Quincey, Confessions o f an Opium Eater, Keats, Napoleon d.; F. M. Brown b. 1822 Rogers, Italy (-1830); Shelley d.; M. Arnold b.; Turner, Hornby Castle (P; r. 1822) 1824 1825 1826 1827 1828 1829 1830

1831 1832 1833 1834 1835 1836

Byron d. Coleridge, Aids to Reflection; Fuseli d.; Furnivall b. Flaxmand. Blake d.; W. Holman Hunt b.; University of London founded; Keble, The Christian Year D. G. Rossetti b.; Howley Archbishop of Canterbury; Euphemia (‘Effie’) Gray b.; Jan., Wellington (Cons.) PM Roman Catholic emancipation legislation; J. E. Millais b.; Turner, Ulysses D eriding Polyphemus (P) Accession of William IV; Liverpool and Manchester Railway; French ‘Revolution of July’; Tennyson, Poems, Chiefly Lyrical, Lyell, Principles o f Geology (-1833); A. Hughes, C. Rossetti, Inchbold b.; Nov., Grey (Whig) PM Darwin’s voyage on Beagle (-1836); Brett b. Reform Act; Morse invents telegraph; Scott, Goethe d.; George Allen b. Factory Act (‘Children’s Charter’); Oxford Movement launched; Great Western Railway begins; Carlyle, Sartor Resartus (-1834); Burne-Jones b. Abolition of slavery in British dominions; Poor Law Amendment Act; Coleridge d.; Morris b.; Jul, Melbourne (Whig) PM; Nov., Wellington (Cons.) PM; Dec., Peel (Cons.) PM Fox Talbot’s first photographs; Turner, The B urning o f the Houses o f Lords and Commons (P); Apr., Melbourne (Whig) PM First railway in London; Pugin, Contrasts', Rio, De la Poesie Chretienne; Dickens, Pickwick Papers (-1837); Turner, Ju liet and h er Nurse (P)

XV

XVI

PR ^TE RITA

1837 in residence at Christ Church, Oxford; meets Henry Acland; Lake District; The Poetry o f A rchitecture serialized (-1838) 1838 continues studies at Oxford; Lake District, Scotland 1839 begins to collect Turners; wins Newdigate Prize at Oxford; intro­ duced to Wordsworth 1840 tuberculosis, leaves Oxford; France, Italy (-1841)

1841 takes cure at Leamington Spa; writes The K ing o f the Golden R iver for Euphemia (‘Effie’) Gray 1842 honorary double fourth at Oxford; family moves to 163 Denmark Hill, near Camberwell 1843 term at Oxford; drops plan to take Holy Orders; M odem Painters vol.I 1844 Switzerland, France 1845 France, Switzerland and Italy without parents; first sees Tinto­ rettos 1846 repeats tour with parents; M odem Painters vol. II

1847 takes cure at Leamington Spa; Scotland 1848 marries Effie in Perth, 10 April; illness; Normandy 1849 The Seven Lamps o f A rchitecture; Switzerland, Italy, France; returns with Effie for long winter in Venice (-1850) 1850 Poems; Essay on Baptism (-1851)

1851 The Stones o f Venice vol. I; Examples o f the A rchitecture o f Venice; P reRaphaelitism; The K ing o f the Golden R iver; Notes on the Construction o f Sheepfolds; long winter in Venice (-1852) 1852 in summer settles at 30 Herne Hill 1853 holiday at Glenfinlas with Effie, J. E. Millais and W. Millais; Stones vols II and III; Giotto, and his Works in Padua (-1860) 1854 Lectures on A rchitecture and Painting; The Opening o f the Crystal Palace-, marriage annulled on grounds of non-consummation

CHRONOLOGY

xvii

1837 Accession of Queen Victoria; Carlyle, French Revolution; Stanfield, On the Scheldt (P); Landseer, The Old Shepherd’s C hief M ourner (P); Constable d. 1838 ‘People’s Charter’; Brunei’s Great Western crosses Atlantic 1839 Chartist riots; Eglinton Tournament; Turner, The F ighting ‘T em eraire’ (P) 1840 Marriage of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert; Penny Post; Barry and Pugin, Houses of Parliament (-1869); Turner, Slavers Throwing Overboard the Dead and D ying (P) 1841 Punch founded; Macaulay, Lays o f Ancient Rome; Aug., Peel (Cons.) PM 1842 Mudie’s Lending Library opens; Turner, Peace: Burial at Sea (P); Mulready, Crossing the Ford (P); Cotman d. 1843 Southey d.; Wordsworth Poet Laureate; Carlyle, Past and Present; Turner, Light and Colour (Goethe’s theory){P) 1844 Chambers, Vestiges o f the Natural History o f Creation; Turner, Rain, Steam, and Speed (P) 1845 Newman converts to Roman Catholicism; Irish potato famine; Disraeli, Sybil 1846 Corn Laws repealed; railway boom begins; Pius IX elected Pope; Strauss, Life o f Jesu s (trans. George Eliot); Turner, The A ngel Standing in the Sun (P); Haydon d.; Joan Agnew (later Severn) b.; Jun., Russell (Whig) PM 1847 C. Bronte, Ja n e Eyre\ E. Bronte, W uthering H eights; Thackeray, Vanity Fair (-1848) 1848 Revolutions in Europe; Communist Manifesto; collapse of Chartism; J. S. Mill, Principles o f Political Economy; Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood formed; Sumner Archbishop of Canterbury 1849 Macaulay, History o f England (-1861); Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor, D. G. Rossetti, The Girlhood o f M aty Virgin (P); Millais, Christ in the House o f his Parents (P); David Scott d.; Spurgeon b. 1850 Roman Catholic hierarchy restored in England; Wiseman Arch­ bishop of Westminster; Wordsworth d.; Tennyson Poet Laureate; Wordsworth, The Prelude; Tennyson, In M emoriam; The Germ (PRB); Butterfield, All Saints’, Margaret Street, London (-1859) 1851 Great Exhibition in Paxton’s Crystal Palace, London; Turner d.; W. Holman Hunt, The H ireling Shepherd (P) 1852 Dickens, Bleak House (-1853); Martin, The Great Day o f His Wrath (P); Pugin d.; Derby (Cons.), Dec, Aberdeen (Coalition) PM 1853 W. Holman Hunt, The Light o f the World (P); Maurice, Theological Essays 1854 Crimean War (-1856); Pius IX defines Immaculate Conception of BVM; Working M en’s College, London, founded; Gaskell,

xviii

PR ^TE RITA

(Effie m. J. E. Millais, 1855); France, Switzerland, Italy; teaches at Working Men’s College, London (-1858; 1860) 1855 Notes on the Royal Academy (annually, -1859, and 1875); takes cure at Tunbridge Wells; meets C. E. Norton

1856 M odem Painters vols III and IV; The Harbours o f England', France, Switzerland; meets John Simon 1857 The Political Economy o f A n; The Elements o f D rawing; arranges Turner Bequest (-1858) 1858 Inaugural Address at the Cambridge School o f An; France, Switzerland, Italy; studies Veronese, Turin; ‘unconversion ’ from Evangelicalism, Turin; meets Rose La Touche (aged nine), London; discusses Bible with Spurgeon 1859 first visit to Winnington School; The Two Paths; The Elements o f Perspective; The Oxford M useum; The Unity o f An; Germany, Switzerland 1860 M odem Painters vol. V; Savoy; Unto this Last serialization stopped in Com hill (book, 1862); friendship with Carlyle deepens 1861 several tours; suffers from depression; thinks of settling in Savoy 1862 France, Italy; Essays on Political Economy serialized (stopped in Fraser's, 1863; later in M unera Pulveris, 1872) 1863 Mornex; summer in England; buys land at Chamonix 1864 death of father, John James, who leaves him a fortune; cousin Joan Agnew (later Severn) to Denmark Hill 1865 member of Governor Eyre defence committee; Sesame and Lilies; Cestus o f Aglaia (-1866) 1866 proposes to Rose La Touche (aged eighteen); France, Switzer­ land; death of Lady Trevelyan on journey; The Ethics o f the Dust; The Crown o f Wild Olive 1867 Time and Tide, by Weare and Tyne; rest-cure at Norwood 1868 Dublin lecture; northern France

CHRONOLOGY

1855

1856 1857 1858

1859

1860 1861 1862

1863 1864

xix

North and South’, W. Holman Hunt, The Awakening Conscience (P); Smirke, Round Reading Room, British Museum, London (-1857); Martin d. Livingstone discovers Victoria Falls; Copley Fielding d.; Wood­ ward and Deane, Oxford Museum (-1860); Leighton, Cimabue’s celebrated Madonna (P); Street, Brick and M arble in the M iddle Ages’, Trollope, The Warden’, R. Browning, M en and Women; Feb., Palmerston (Lib.) PM Perkin invents aniline dyes; Millais, Autumn Leaves (P); J. A. Froude, History o f England (-1870) Indian Mutiny (-1859); Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition; Acland Professor of Medicine, Oxford; Hugh Miller, The Testi­ mony o f the Rocks’, E.B. Browning, Aurora Leigh Brunei’s Great Eastern launched; Frith, Derby Day (P); Wallis, The Stonebreaker (P); G. G. Scott, Remarks on Secular and Domestic A rchitecture; George MacDonald, Phantastes; Feb., Derby (Cons.) PM Darwin, On the Origin o f Species’, J. S.M ill, On Liberty; George Eliot, Adam Bede; Wagner, Tristan and Isolde; Brett, Val dAosta (P); Philip Webb, The Red House, Bexleyheath; Jun., Palmerston (Lib.) PM Italian unification; Huxley-Wilberforce debate, Oxford; Cornhill founded; Dyce, P egw ell Bay (P); Essays and Reviews American Civil War (-1865); Prince Albert d.; Hymns Ancient and M odem ; Palgrave, The Golden Treasury; E. B. Browning d. First cricket tour to Australia; Whistler, Symphony in White, No. 1 (P); Colenso, The Pentateuch Examined (-1879); C. Rossetti, Goblin Market; J. S. Mill, Utilitarianism; G. G. Scott, Foreign Office (-1873); Longley Archbishop of Canterbury Huxley, M an’s Place in Nature; G. G. Scott, Albert Memorial, London; Thackeray, Mulready d. Pasteurisation invented; Newman, Apologia pro Vita Sua; Dyce d.

1865 Lister introduces antiseptic surgery; President Lincoln assassi­ nated; Governor Eyre controversy; Dodgson (Lewis Carroll), A lice’s A dventures in Wonderland; F. M. Brown, Work (P); Manning Archbishop of Westminster; Paxton d.; Oct., Russell (Lib.) PM 1866 Nobel invents dynamite; Swinburne, Poems and Ballads; Jun., Derby (Cons.) PM 1867 Second Reform Act; typewriter invented; Carlyle, Shooting Niagara; Marx, Das Kapital, I; Butterfield, Keble College, Oxford (-1883) 1868 Public executions abolished; British Trades Union Congress formed; Morris, The Eanhly Paradise; G. G. Scott, St Pancras (-1874); Tait Archbishop of Canterbury; Feb., Disraeli (Cons.)

XX

PRyETERITA

1869 The Flamboyant A rchitecture o f the Somme; The Queen o f the Air; Switzerland, Italy; ‘discovers’ Carpaccio; elected first Slade Pro­ fessor of Fine Art, Oxford 1870 lectures on ‘Verona and its Rivers’ (pub. 1894); (Oxford) Lectures on Art; Switzerland, Italy 1871 Fors C lavigera: Letters to the Workmen and Labourers o f Great Britain (monthly -1880, and 1883-84); donates large sum to St George’s Fund; serious illness at Madock; acquires Brantwood, near Coniston; death of mother, Margaret; sells Denmark Hill; gives 28 Herne Hill to Joan and Arthur Severn as wedding present; street sweeping experiments, London; endows Drawing Mastership, Oxford 1872 Aratra Pentelici; Lectures on Landscape; The Eagles Nest; France, Italy; opens tea shop, London; residence at Brantwood begins 1873 Ariadne Florentina (-1876); Love's M einie (-1881); George Allen becomes sole publisher 1874 Val d'Amo; Hinksey Road diggings; France, Italy - works in sacristan’s cell, Aissisi 1875 death of Rose La Touche; M ornings in Florence (-1877); Deucalion (-1883); Proserpina (-1886); founds St George’s Museum, Sheffield; Spiritualist experiences at Broadlands (Cowper-Temples’) 1876 (ed.) Bibliotheca Pastorum (-1877); supports Defence of Lake District against railways; Switzerland, Venice (-1877); suffers delirium 1877 studies Carpaccio; Guide to the Academy at Venice; The Laws o f Fesole (-1879); St Mark's Rest (-1884) 1878 visits Gladstone; first madness; W hisder v Ruskin libel case; arranges Turner Exhibition at The Fine Art Society, London 1879 resigns Slade Professorship; Notes on Prout a?id Hunt 1880 Elements o f English Prosody; northern France; The Bible o f Amiens (-1885); Fiction, Fair and Foul (-1881); Letters to the Clergy on the Lord's P rayer and the Church; Arrows o f the Chace; A J o y fo r Ever 1881 second madness 1882 third madness; France, Italy with W. G. Collingwood 1883 resumes Slade Professorship; meets Kate Greenaway, Francesca Alexander; The Art o f England (-1884) 1884 The Storm-Cloud o f the Nineteenth Century; The Pleasures o f England (-1885)

CHRONOLOGY

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PM; Dec., Gladstone (Lib.) PM 1869 Suez Canal opened; Metaphysical Society founded; Girton College, Cambridge, founded; M. Arnold, Culture and Anarchy 1870 Franco-Prussian War (-1871); Vatican Council defines Papal Infallibility; Forster’s Education Act; Dickens d.; D. G. Rossetti, Beat a Beatrix (P) 1871 Religious tests abolished at Oxford and Cambridge; trades unions legalised; Darwin, The Descent o f Man; Hardy, Desperate Remedies; Verdi, A ida

1872 (Secret) Ballot Act; Butler, Erewhon; Maurice d. 1873 Pater, Studies in the Renaissance; Waterhouse, Natural History Museum, London (-1881) 1874 Impressionist Exhibition, Paris; Moody and Sankey Evangelical revival (-1875); Fildes, Applications fo r Admission to a Casual Ward (P); Feb., Disraeli (Cons.) PM 1875 Russo-Turkish War; Gilbert and Sullivan, Trial by J u ry 1876 Queen Victoria Empress of India; Bell invents telephone; Edison invents phonograph; Henry James, Roderick Hudson 1877 Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings founded; Mallock, The New Republic 1878 Salvation Army founded; G. G. Scott d. 1879 Electric bulb invented; Afghan and Zulu wars; Ibsen, A Doll's House 1880 Burne-Jones, The Golden Stairs (P); Shorthouse, John Inglesant; George Eliot d.; Apr., Gladstone (Lib.) PM 1881 W. Hale White, Autobiography o f Mark Rutherford; Stevenson, Treasure Island (-1882); Wilde, Poems; Carlyle, S. Palmer d. 1882 Married Women’s Property Act; Phoenix Park Murders; Society for Psychical Research founded; J. A. Froude, Carlyle: The First Forty Years; Jeffries, Bevis; D. G. Rossetti d. 1883 Royal College of Music founded; G. A. Henty, Under Drake's Flag; Alma-Tadema, In the Tepidarium (P); Benson Archbishop of Canterbury; Colenso d. 1884 Third Reform Act; Fabian Society formed; Oxford English Dictionary, ed. Murray (-1928); Gissing, The Unclassed

xxii

PR^ETERITA

1885 resigns Slade Professorship; fourth madness; Praeterita (-1889); On the Old Road 1886 fifth madness; Dilecta (-1900) 1887 Hortus Inclusus 1888 last tour - France, Switzerland, Italy; proposes to Kathleen Olander 1889 mental incapacity ends career; lives in retirement at Brantwood, cared for by Joan Severn

1900 dies 20 January at Brantwood, buried in Coniston churchyard

CHRONOLOGY

xxiii

1885 Fall of Khartoum; Daimler invents internal combustion engine; Arabian Nights, trans. Burton (-1888); Dictionary o f National Biography, vol. I, ed. Stephen; Pinero, The M agistrate; Jun., Salisbury (Cons.) PM 1886 Repeal of Contagious Diseases Act; Trafalgar Square riots; Home Rule Bill defeated; Haggard, She; Kipling, D epartmental Ditties; Feb., Gladstone (Lib.) PM; Jul., Salisbury (Cons.) PM 1887 Victoria’s Golden Jubilee; Verdi, Otello; Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet 1888 County Councils introduced; Kodak box camera invented; accession of Kaiser Wilhelm II; Morris, A Dream ofJoh?i Ball; Mrs Humphry Ward, Robe?~t Elsmere; Inchbold d. 1889 International Congress of Psychology, Paris; Prevention of Cruelty to Children Act; Pater, Appreciations; R. Browning d. 1890 First underground railway in London; fall of Parnell; Stanley, In Darkest Africa; William Booth, In Darkest England; Frazer, The Golden Bough (-1915); Morris founds Kelmscott Press; Morris, News fro m Nowhere; Newman, W. Bell Scott d. 1891 Renewal of triple alliance Germany, Austria, Italy; Yeats, The Countess Cathleen 1892 Franco-Russian alliance; Shaw, Widowers' Houses; Aug., Glad­ stone (Lib.) PM; Manning, Tennyson d.; Vaughan Archbishop of Westminster 1893 Independent Labour Party founded; Dreyfus trial; Dvorak, ‘New World’ symphony; Jowett d. 1894 J. A.Froude, C. Rossetti d.; Beardsley, et al., The Yellow Book; George Moore , Esther Waters; Mar., Rosebery (Lib.) PM 1895 Jameson Raid; first Promenade Concert, London; cinematog­ raphy invented; Conrad, Almayer's Folly; Wells, The Time Machine; Huxley d.; Jun., Salisbury (Cons.) PM 1896 Morrison, A Child o f the J ago; Morris, Millais d.; Mackintosh, Glasgow School of Art (-1899) 1897 Victoria’s Golden Jubilee; Klondike gold rush; Tate Gallery, London, opens; Temple Archbishop of Canterbury; Lady Millais d. 1898 German naval expansion begins; Curies discover radium; Bennett, A Man fro m the North; Acland, Burne-Jones, Gladstone, Dodgson d. 1899 Boer War (-1900); Elgar, ‘Enigma Variations’ 1900 Relief of Ladysmith and Mafeking; Freud, The Interpretation o f Dreams; Wilde d. 1901 Queen Victoria d. M. D.W.

INTRODUCTION

‘No, it is not for Praterita that I leave the clouds. That gave me no trouble; though now I have no heart to go on with it - what is already written may be printed as it stands.’ 1 So Ruskin wrote on 25 September 1885, unaware that he would complete twenty-five further chapters of his fragmentary autobiography. He was already subject to violent oscillations of feeling, afraid of madness, while writing pages that the reader finds lucid and methodical. The first three chapters were issued in the month (July 1885) when he suffered severe, though intermittent, attacks of madness; and as J. D. Rosenberg finely says: ‘The resolution of tension achieved in Pr

Isaiah M atth ew Acts

>>

5?

1 C orinthians

>>

1st, from 17th verse to the end. 8th. 23rd , 32nd, 90th , 91st, 103rd , 112 th , 119 th , 139th . 2nd, 3rd, 8th, 12th. 58th. 5 th, 6th, 7th. 26th.

>>

13 th, 15th.

Jam es

>>

4th.

R evelation

>>

5th, 6th.

And truly, though I have picked up the elements o f a little fu rth er know ledge— in m athem atics, m eteorology, and the like, in after life,— and owe n o t a little to the teaching o f m any people, this m aternal installation o f m y m ind in that p rop erty o f chapters, I count v ery confidently the m ost precious, and, on the w hole, the one essential part o f all m y education. And it is perhaps already tim e to m ark w hat advantage and m ischief, by the chances o f life up to seven years old, had been irrevocably determ ined fo r me. I w ill first count m y blessings (as a n o t unwise friend once recom m ended me to do, continually; whereas I have a bad trick o f always num bering the thorns t in m y fingers and n o t the bones in them). A n d fo r best and truest beginning o f all blessings, I had been taught the perfect m eaning o f Peace, in thought, act, and w ord. I never had heard m y fath er’s o r m oth er’s voice once raised in any question w ith each other; n o r seen an angry, o r even slightly h u rt o r offended, glance in the eyes o f either. I had never heard a servant scolded; n o r even suddenly, passionately, o r in any severe m anner, blamed. I had never seen a m om ent’s trouble o r disorder in any household m atter; n o r anything w hatever either done in a hurry, o r undone in due tim e. I had no conception o f such a feeling as anxiety; m y fath er’s occasional vexation in the after­ noons, w hen he had on ly got an ord er fo r twelve butts after

30

VOLUME I.

expecting one fo r fifteen, as I have just stated, was n ever m anifested to me\ and itself related on ly to the question w h eth er his nam e w ould be a step higher o r low er in the y e ar’s list o f sh erry exporters; fo r he never spent m ore than h a lf his incom e, and th erefore found him self little incom m oded by occasional variations in the total o f it. I had never done any w ro n g that I knew o f— beyond occasionally delaying the com m itm ent to heart o f some im proving sentence, that I m ight watch a wasp on the w indow pane, o r a bird in the ch erry tree; and I had n ever seen any grief. N ext to this quite priceless gift o f Peace, I had received the perfect understanding o f the natures o f O bedience and Faith. I obeyed w ord, o r lifted finger, o f father o r m other, sim ply as a ship h er helm;* n o t on ly w ith ou t idea o f resistance, but receiving the direction as a part o f m y ow n life and force, a helpful law,* as necessary to m e in every m oral action as the law o f gravity in leaping. And m y practice in Faith was soon com plete: nothing was ever prom ised me that was n o t given; nothing ever th reat­ ened m e that was n o t inflicted, and nothing ever told me that was n o t true. Peace, obedience, faith; these three fo r ch ief good; next to these, the habit o f fixed attention w ith both eyes and m in d — on w hich I w ill n o t fu rth er enlarge at this m om ent, this being the main practical faculty o f m y life, causing M azzini* to say o f me, in conversation authentically reported, a year o r two before his death, that I had ‘the m ost analytic m ind in E urop e.’ A n opinion in w hich, so far as I am acquainted w ith Europe, I am m yself en tirely disposed to concur. Lastly, an extrem e perfection in palate and all oth er bodily senses, given by the u tter prohibition o f cake, w ine, com fits, or, except in carefullest restriction, fruit; and by fine preparation o f w hat food was given me. Such I esteem the m ain blessings o f m y childhood;— next, let me count the equally dom inant calamities. First, that I had nothing to love.* M y parents w e re — in a so rt— visible powers o f nature to me, no m ore loved than the sun and the m oon: o n ly I should have been annoyed and puzzled i f either o f them had gone out; (how

II. HERNE-HILL ALMOND BLOSSOMS.

31

much, now, w hen both are darkened!)— still less did I love G od; n o t that I had any quarrel w ith H im , o r fear o f H im ; but sim ply found w hat people told me was His service, disagreeable; and w hat people told me was His book, n o t entertaining. I had no companions to quarrel with, neither; nobody to assist, and nobody to thank. N o t a servant was ever allowed to do anything fo r me, but w hat it was their duty to do; and w h y should I have been grateful to the cook fo r cooking, o r the gardener fo r gardening,— w hen the one dared n o t give me a baked potato w ithout asking leave, and the oth er w ould n o t let m y ants’ nests alone, because they made the walks untidy? T h e evil consequence o f all this was not, however, w hat m ight perhaps have been expected, that I grew up selfish o r unaffectionate; but that, w hen affection did come, it came w ith violence u tterly ram pant and unmanageable^ at least by me, w ho never before had anything to manage. F or (second o f ch ief calamities) I had nothing to endure. D anger o r pain o f any kind I knew not: m y strength was never exercised, m y patience never tried, and m y courage never fortified. N o t that I was ever afraid o f anything,— either ghosts, thunder, o r beasts; and one o f the nearest approaches to insubordination w hich I was ever tem pted into as a child, was in passionate effort to get leave to play w ith the lio n ’s cubs in W o m b w ell’s m enagerie. T hirdly. I was taught no precision n o r etiquette o f manners; it was enough if, in the little society w e saw, I rem ained unob­ trusive, and replied to a question w ith ou t shyness: but the shyness came later, and increased as I grew conscious o f the rudeness arising from the w ant o f social discipline, and found it impossible to acquire, in advanced life, dexterity in any bodily exercise, skill in any pleasing accom plishm ent, or ease and tact in ordinary behaviour. Lasdy, and ch ief o f evils. M y judgm ent o f righ t and w rong, and powers o f independent action,* w ere left entirely undeveloped; because the bridle and blinkers w ere never taken o ff me. C h ild ren should have their times o f being o ff duty, like soldiers; and w hen

* Action, observe, I say here: in thought I was too independent, as I said above.

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VOLUME I.

once the obedience, if required, is certain, the little creature should be v e ry early put fo r periods o f practice in com plete com m and o f itself; set on the barebacked horse o f its ow n w ill, and left to break it by its ow n strength. But the ceaseless authority exercised over m y youth left me, w hen cast out at last into the w orld, unable fo r some tim e to do m ore than d rift w ith its vortices. M y present verdict, therefore, on the general ten or o f m y education at that tim e, m ust be, that it was at once too form al and too luxurious; leaving m y character, at the m ost im portant m om ent fo r its construction, cram ped indeed, but n o t disci­ plined; and on ly by protection innocent, instead o f by practice virtuous. M y m oth er saw this herself, and but too clearly, in later years; and w henever I did anything w rong, stupid, o r h ard­ hearted,— (and I have done m any things that w ere all th ree,)— always said, ‘It is because you w ere too m uch indulged.’ f T hus far, w ith some omissions, I have m erely reprinted the account o f these times given in Fors: and I fear the sequel m ay be m ore trivial, because much is concentrated in the foregoing broad statem ent, which I have now to continue by slow er steps;— and ye t less amusing, because I tried always in Fors to say things, i f I could, a litd e piquantly; and the rest o f the things related in this book w ill be told as plainly as I can. But w h eth er I succeeded in w ritin g piquantly in Fors o r not, I certainly w ro te often obscurely; and the description above given o f H erne H ill seems to me to need at once some reduction to plainer term s. T h e actual height o f T ham es,— at least above C am berw ell G reen , is, I and fifty feet: but it gives

the long ridge o f H erne H ill, above the nearly T ham es-level o f its base at conceive, n o t m ore than one hundred the w hole o f this fall on both sides o f it

in about a quarter o f a m ile; form ing, east and west, a succession o f quite beautiful pleasure-ground and gardens, in stan dy d ry after rain, and in which, fo r children, running down is pleasant play, and ro llin g a ro lle r up, vigorous w ork. T h e view from the ridge on both sides was, before railroads came, en tirely lovely: w estw ard at evening, alm ost sublime, over softly w reathing distances o f domestic w o o d ;— T ham es h erself n o t visible, n o r

II. HERNE-HILL ALMOND BLOSSOMS.

33

any fields except im m ediately beneath; but the tops o f tw enty square m iles o f politely inhabited groves. O n the oth er side, east and south, the N orw ood hills, partly rough w ith furze, partly w ooded w ith birch and oak, partly in pure green bram ble copse, and rath er steep pasture, rose w ith the prom ise o f all the rustic loveliness o f S u rrey and K en t in them , and w ith so m uch o f space and height in their sweep, as gave them some fellowship w ith hills o f true hill-districts. Fellow ship now inconceivable, fo r the C rystal Palace,* w ith ou t ever itself attaining any true aspect o f size, and possessing no m ore sublim ity than a cucum ber fram e betw een tw o chim neys, yet by its stupidity o f hollow bulk, dwarfs the hills at once; so that now one thinks o f them no m ore but as three long lumps o f clay, on lease fo r building. But then, the N o r­ wood, o r N o rth w ood, so called as it was seen from C royd on , in opposition to the Sou th w ood o f the S u rrey downs, drew itself in sweeping crescent good five m iles round D ulw ich to the south, broken by lanes o f ascent, G ipsy H ill, and others; and, from the top, com m anding views towards D artford,* and over the plain o f C ro yd o n ,— in contem plation o f w hich I one day frightened m y m oth er ou t o f h er wits by saying ‘the eyes w ere com ing ou t o f m y head!’ She thought it was an attack o f coup-de-soleil. C en tral in such amphitheatre,* the crow ning glo ry o f H em e H ill was accordingly, that, after w alking along its ridge southward from London through a m ile of chestnut, lilac, and apple trees, hanging over the w ooden palings on each side— suddenly the trees stopped on the left, and out one came on the top o f a field sloping down to the south into D ulw ich va lley— open field animate w ith cow and buttercup, and below, the beautiful meadows and high avenues o f D ulwich; and beyond, all that crescent o f the N orw ood hills; a footpath, entered by a turnstile, going down to the left, always so w arm that invalids could be sheltered there in M arch, w hen to w alk elsewhere w ould have been death to them ; and so quiet, that w henever I had anything difficult to com pose o r think of, I used to do it rath er there than in ou r ow n garden. T h e great field was separated from the path and road o n ly by light w ooden open palings, fou r feet high, needful to keep the cows in. Since I last composed, o r m editated

34

VOLUME I.

there, various im provem ents have taken place; first the neigh­ bourhood w anted a new church, and built a m eagre G oth ic one w ith a useless spire, fo r the fashion o f the thing, at the side o f the field; then th ey built a parsonage behind it, the tw o stopping ou t h a lf the view in that direction. T h en the C rystal Palace came, fo r ever spoiling the view through all its compass, and bringing every show-day, from L ondon, a flood o f pedestrians down the fo o t­ path, w ho left it filth y w ith cigar ashes fo r the rest o f the week: then the railroads came, and expatiating roughs by every excur­ sion train, w ho knocked the palings about, roared at the cows, and to re down w hat branches o f blossom they could reach over the palings on the enclosed side. T h en the residents on the enclosed side built a brick w all to defend them selves. T h en the path got to be insufferably h o t as w ell as dirty, and was gradually abandoned to the roughs, w ith a policem an on watch at the bottom . Finally, this year, a six fo ot high close paling has been put down the o th er side o f it, and the processional excursionist has the lib erty o f obtaining w hat notion o f the coun try air and prospect he may, betw een the w all and that, w ith one bad cigar before him, another behind him , and another in his m outh. I do n o t m ean this book to be in any avoidable w ay disagreeable o r querulous; but expressive gen erally o f m y native disposition— w hich, though I say it, is extrem ely amiable, w hen I’m not bothered: I w ill grum ble elsew here w hen I must, and on ly notice this in jury alike to the resident and excursionist at H erne H ill, because questions o f rig h t-of-w ay are now o f constant occur­ rence; and in m ost cases, the m ere path is the sm allest part o f the old Right, tru ly understood. T h e R ight is o f the cheerful view and sweet air w hich the path com manded. Also, I m ay note in passing, that fo r all th eir talk about M agna C h arta,f v ery few E nglishm en are aware that one o f the main provisions o f it is that L aw should n o t be sold;* and it seems to m e that the law o f England m ight preserve Banstead and oth er downs free to the p oor o f England, w ith ou t charging me, as it has

* “To no one will We sell, to no one will We deny or defer, Right, or Justice.”

II. HERNE-HILL ALMOND BLOSSOMS.

35

just done, a hundred pounds fo r its tem porary perform ance o f that otherw ise unrem unerative duty.1 I shall have to retu rn over the ground o f these early years, to fill gaps, after getting on a little first; but w ill yet ven tu re here the tediousness o f explaining that m y saying “in H erne H ill garden all fru it was forbidden,” on ly m eant, o f course, forbidden unless under defined restriction; which made the various gatherings o f each kind in its season a sort o f harvest festival; and which had this fu rth er good in its apparent severity, that, although in the at last indulgent aeras, the peach w hich m y m oth er gathered fo r me w hen she was sure it was ripe, and the ch erry pie fo r w hich I had chosen the cherries red all round, w ere, I suppose, o f m ore ethereal flavour to me than they could have been to children allowed to pluck and eat at their will; still, the unalloyed and long continuing pleasure given me by our fru it-tree avenue was in its blossom, n o t in its bearing. F or the general epicurean enjoym ent o f existence, potatoes w ell brow ned, green pease w ell boiled,— broad beans o f the true bitter,— and the pots o f damson and currant fo r whose annual filling we w ere dependent m ore on the greengrocer than the garden, w ere a hundredfold m ore im por­ tant to m e than the dozen o r tw o o f nectarines o f w hich perhaps I m ight get the halves o f three,— (the oth er sides m ouldy)— o r the bushel o r tw o o f pears w hich w en t directly to the storeshelf. So that, v ery early indeed in m y thought o f trees, I had got at the principle given fifty years afterw ards in Proserpina,* that the seeds and fruits o f them w ere fo r the sake o f the flowers, n o t the flow ers fo r the fruit. T h e first jo y o f the year being in its snowdrops, the second, and cardinal one, was in the alm ond blossom ,— every oth er garden and w oodland gladness follow ing from that in an unbroken ord er o f kindling flow er and shadowy leaf; and fo r m any and m any a year to com e,— until indeed, the w hole o f life became autum n to m e,— m y ch ief prayer fo r the kindness o f heaven, in its flow erfu l seasons, was that the frost m ight n o t touch the alm ond blossom.

CH APTER

III.

THE BANKS OF TAY.

H E reader has, I hope, observed that in all I have h ith erto said, emphasis has been laid on ly on the favourable conditions w hich surrounded the child whose h istory I am w riting, and on the docile and im pressionable quietness o f its

T

temper. N o claim has been made fo r it to any special pow er o r capacity; for, indeed, none such existed, except that patience in looking, and precision in feeling, w hich afterw ards, w ith due industry, form ed m y analytic power. In all essential qualities o f genius, except these, I was deficient; m y m em ory on ly o f average power. I have literally never know n a child so incapable o f acting a part, o r telling a tale. O n the oth er hand, I have never know n one w hose thirst fo r visible fact was at once so eager and so m ethodic. I find also that in the foregoing accounts, m odest as I m eant them to be, higher literature is too boastfully spoken o f as m y first and exclusive study. M y little P op e’s Iliad, and, in any u n d er­ standing o f them , m y G enesis and Exodus, w ere certainly o f little account w ith m e till after I was ten. M y calf m ilk o f books was, on the lig h ter side, com posed o f D am e W iggin s o f Lee,* the Peacock at Home,* and the like nursery rhym es; and on the graver side, o f M iss E dgew orth’s Frank, and H arry and Lucy,* com bined w ith Jo y c e ’s scientific dialogues.* T h e earliest dated efforts I can find, indicating incipient m otion o f brain-m olecules, are six ‘poem s’ on subjects selected from those works; between the fourth and fifth o f w hich m y m oth er has w ritten : “January, 18 2 6 . T h is book begun about Septem ber o r October, 1826, finished about January,

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III. THE BANKS OF TAY.

37

1 8 2 7 .” T h e w hole o f it, therefore, was w ritten and printed in im itation o f book-print, in m y seventh year. T h e book is a little red one, ruled w ith blue, six inches high by four wide, containing fo rty-five leaves pencilled in im itation o f prin t on both sides,— the title-page, w ritten in the form here approxim ately im itated, on the inside o f the cover. HARRY AN D L U C Y

CONCLUDED * B E IN G T H E L A S T

PART OF

EARLY LESSON S

in fou r volum es vo l I w ith copper

plates

P R IN T E D and com posed by a little boy and also drawn. O f the prom ised fou r volum es, it appears that (according to m y practice to this day) I accomplished but one and a quarter, the first volum e consisting on ly o f fo rty leaves, the rest o f the book being occupied by the aforesaid six ‘poem s,’ and the fo rty leaves

38

VOLUME I.

losing ten o f their pages in the ‘copper plates,’ o f w hich the one, p u rporting to represent ‘H arry’s new road ,’ is, I believe, m y first effo rt at m ountain drawing. T h e passage closing the first volum e o f this w o rk is, I think, fo r several reasons, w orth preservation. I p rin t it, therefore, w ith its ow n divisions o f line, and three variations o f size in im itated type. Punctuation m ust be left to the read er’s kind conjecture. T h e hyphens, it is to be noticed, w ere put long o r short, to make the p rin t even, n o t that it ever succeeds in being so, but the variously spaced lines here im itate it p retty w ell.

H arry knew very wellwhat it was and went on with his drawing but Lucy soon called him aw­ ay and bid him observe a great black cloud ffom the north which seemed ra ther electrical. H arry ran for an electrical apparatus which his father had given him and thecloud electrified his apparatus positively after that another cloud came which electrified his apparatus negatively and then a long train of smaller

39

III. THE BANKS OF TAY.

ones but before this cloud came a great cloud of dust rose from the ground and followed the pos itive cloud and at length seemed to come in contact with it and when the other cloud came a flash of lightning was seen to dart through the cloud of dust upon which the negative cloud spread very much and dissolved in rain which pres ently cleared the sky A fter this phenom enon was over and also the surprise H a rry began to w ond er how electricity could get w here there wasso

m uch w ater

observed rising his

a

m ist fancy

but he

rainbow

soon-

and

a-

under

it

soon

transform

which

ed into fem ale form . He then rem em bered the w itch o f the waters at the Alps w ho was raised from them bytakeing some w ater in thehand and throw ing it into the air pronouncing some unintelligable words. And though it was a tale itaffected H arry now w hen he saw in the clouds someend o f H arry thing and L u cy

like it.

T h e several reasons aforesaid, w hich induce me to rep rin t this piece of, too literally, ‘com position,’ a re — the first, that it is a tolerable specimen o f m y seven years old spelling;— tolerable

40

VOLUME I.

only, n o t fair, since it was extrem ely unusual w ith me to make a mistake at all, whereas here there are tw o (takring and u n in tel­ lig ible), w hich I can on ly account fo r by supposing I was in too great a h u rry to finish m y volu m e;— the second, that the adaptation o f m aterials fo r m y story out o f Jo y c e ’s Scientific D ialogues* and M an fred ,+ is an extrem ely perfect type o f the in terw oven tem per o f m y mind, at the beginning o f days just as m uch as at th eir en d — w hich has always made foolish scientific readers doubt m y books because there was love o f beauty in them , and foolish aesthetic readers doubt m y books because there was love o f science in th em ;— the third, that the extrem ely reasonable m ethod o f final judgm ent, upon w hich I found m y claim to the sensible read er’s respect fo r these dipartite w ritings, cannot be better illustrated than by this proof, that, even at seven years old, no tale, how ever seductive, could “affect” H arry, until he had seen— in the clouds, o r elsew here— “som ething like it.” O f the six poem s w hich follow, the first is on the Steam -engine, beginning,

“When furious up from mines the water pours, And clears from rusty moisture all the ores;” * The original passage is as follows, vol. vi., edition of 1821, p. 138:— ‘Dr. Franklin mentions a remarkable appearance which occurred to Mr. Wilke, a considerable electrician. On the 20th ofJuly, 1758, at three o’clock in the afternoon, he observed a great quantity of dust rising from the ground, and covering a field, and part of the town in which he then was. There was no wind, and the dust moved gendy towards the east, where there appeared a great black cloud, which electrified his apparatus positively to a very high degree. This cloud went towards the west, the dust followed it, and continued to rise higher and higher, till it composed a thick pillar, in the form of a sugar-loaf, and at length it seemed to be in contact with the cloud. At some distance from this, there came another great cloud, with a long stream of smaller ones, which electrified his apparatus negatively; and when they came near the positive cloud, a flash of lightning was seen to dart through the cloud of dust, upon which the negative clouds spread very much, and dissolved in rain, which presently cleared the atmosphere.”

III. THE BANKS OF TAY.

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and the last on the Rainbow, “in blank verse,” as being o f a didac­ tic character, w ith observations on the ignorant and unreflective dispositions o f certain people.

“But those that do not know about that light, Reflect not on it; and in all that light, Not one of all the colours do they know.” It was only, I think, after m y seventh year had been fulfilled in these m editations, that m y m oth er added the Latin lesson to the Bible-reading, and accurately established the daily routine which was sketched in the foregoing chapter. But it extrem ely surprises me, in trying, at least fo r m y ow n amusement, if n o t the read er’s, to finish the sketch into its corners, that I can’t recollect now w hat used to happen first in the m orning, except breakfasting in the nursery, and, i f m y C royd on cousin Bridget happened to be staying w ith us, quarrelling w ith her which should have the brow nest bits o f toast. T h a t m ust have been later on, though, for I could n o t have been prom oted to toast at the tim e I am thinking of. N oth in g is w ell clear to me o f the day’s course, till, after m y father had gone to the C ity by the coach, and m y m oth er’s household orders being quickly given, lessons began at half-past nine, w ith the Bible readings above described, and the tw o or three verses to be learned by heart, w ith a verse o f paraphrase;— then a Latin declension o r a bit o f verb, and eight words o f vocabulary from A dam ’s Latin G ram m ar,+ (the best that ever was,) and the rest o f the day was m y own. A rithm etic was w h ole­ som ely rem itted till much later; geography I taught m yself fast enough in m y ow n way; history was never thought of, beyond w hat I chose to read o f S cott’s Tales o f a G randfather.f T hus, as aforesaid, by noon I was in the garden on fine days, or left to m y ow n amusements on w et ones; o f w hich I have farther at once to note that nearly as soon as I could crawl, m y toy-bricks o f lignum vitae had been constant com panions: and I am graceless in forg etting by w hat extravagant friend, (I gready suspect m y C ro yd o n aunt,) I was afterw ards gifted w ith a tw o-arched bridge, adm irable in fittings o f vou ssoirf and keystone, and adjustment o f the level courses o f m asonry w ith bevelled edges, into which

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they dovetailed, in the style o f W aterlo o B ridge.1 W ell-m ad e centreings, and a course o f inlaid steps down to the water, made this m odel largely, as accurately, instructive: and I was n ever w eary o f building, w/zbuilding,— (it was too strong to be throw n down, but had always to be taken dow n ,)— and rebuilding it. T his inconceivably passive— o r rath er im passive— contentm ent in doing, o r reading, the same thing over and over again, I perceive to have been a great condition in m y future pow er o f getting thorou gh ly to the bottom o f m atters. Som e people w ould say that in getting these toys lay the chance that guided me to an early love o f architecture; but I n ever saw o r heard o f another child so fond o f its to y bricks, except M iss E dgew orth’s Frank. T o be sure, in this present age,— age o f universal brickfield though it be,— people don’t give their chil­ dren to y bricks, but toy puff-puffs; and the little things are always taking tickets and arriving at stations, w ith ou t ever fathom in g— none o f them w ill take pains enough to do that,— the principle o f a p u ff-p u ff! A nd w hat good could they get o f it i f they did,— unless they could learn also, that no principle o f P u ff-p u ff w ould ever supersede the principle o f Breath? But I n o t on ly m astered, w ith H arry and Lucy, the entire m otive principle o f puff-puff; but also, by help o f m y w ell-cu t bricks, v e ry u tterly the laws o f practical stability in tow ers and arches, b y the tim e I was seven or eight years old: and these studies o f structure w ere farther animated by m y invariable habit o f watching, w ith the closest attention, the proceedings o f any bricklayers, stone-saw yers, o r paviours,*— whose w ork m y nurse w ould allow me to stop to contem plate in ou r walks; or, delight o f delights, m ight be seen at ease from some fortunate w indow o f inn o r lodging on our journeys. In those cases the day was n o t long enough fo r m y rapturous and riveted observation. Constandy, as aforesaid, in the garden w hen the w eather was fine, m y time there was passed chiefly in the same kind o f close watching o f the ways o f plants. I had not the sm allest taste fo r grow ing them, or taking care o f them , any m ore than fo r taking care o f the birds, or the trees, or the sky, or the sea. M y whole tim e passed in staring at them, or into them. In no m orbid curiosity, but

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in adm iring wonder, I pulled every flow er to pieces till I knew all that could be seen o f it w ith child’s eyes; and used to lay up little treasures o f seeds, by w ay o f pearls and beads,— n ever w ith any thought o f sowing them. T h e old gardener on ly came once a week, fo r w hat sweeping and w eeding needed doing; I was fain to learn to sweep the walks w ith him, but was discouraged and shamed by his always doing the bits I had done over again. I was extrem ely fond o f digging holes, but that form o f gardening was n o t allowed. Necessarily, I fell always back into m y m erely contem plative mind, and at nine years old began a poem , called Eudosia,— I forget w h olly w here I got hold o f this name, o r w hat I understood by it,— ‘O n the U n iverse,’ though I could un der­ stand n o t a little by it, now. A couplet o r two, as the real beginning at once o f D eucalionf and Proserpina, m ay be perhaps allowed, together w ith the preceding, a place in this grave m em oir; the rath er that I am again enabled to give accurate date— Septem ber 28th, 1 8 2 8 — for the beginning o f its ‘First book,’ as follows: —

‘When first the wrath of heaven o’erwhelmed the world, And o’er the rocks, and hills, and mountains, hurl’d The waters’ gathering mass; and sea o’er shore,— Then mountains fell, and vales, unknown before, Lay where they were. Far different was the Earth When first the flood came down, than at its second birth. Now for its produce!—Queen of flowers, O rose, From whose fair coloured leaves such odour flows, Thou must now be before thy subjects named, Both for thy beauty and thy sweetness famed. Thou art the flower of England, and the flow’r Of Beauty too—of Venus’ odrous bower. And thou wilt often shed sweet odours round, And often stooping, hide thy head on ground.* And then the lily, towering up so proud, And raising its gay head among the various crowd, There the black spots upon a scarlet ground, And there the taper-pointed leaves are found.’ * An awkward way—chiefly for the rhyme’s sake—of saying that roses are often too heavy for their stalks.

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In 2 2 0 lines, o f such quality, the first book ascends from the rose to the oak. T h e second begins— to m y surprise, and in extrem ely exceptional violation o f m y above-boasted custom — w ith an ecstatic apostrophe to w hat I had n ever seen!

‘I sing the Pine, which clothes high Switzer’s* head, And high enthroned, grows on a rocky bed, On gulphs so deep, on cliffs that are so high, He that would dare to climb them, dares to die.’ T his enthusiasm, however, on ly lasts— m ostly exhausting itself in a description, verified out o f H arry and Lucy, o f the slide o f Alpnach,— through 76 lines, w hen the verses cease, and the book being turned upside down, begins at the oth er end w ith the inform ation that ‘R ock-crystal is accompanied by A ctyn olite, Axinite, and Epidote, at Bourg d ’Oisans in D auphiny.’ * But the garden-m editations never ceased, and it is im possible to say how m uch strength was gained, or how much tim e uselessly given, except in pleasure, to these quiet hours and foolish rhym es. T h e ir happiness made all the duties o f ou ter life irksom e, and their unprogressive reveries m ight, the reader m ay think, i f m y m oth er had wished, have been changed into a beginning o f sound botanical knowledge. But, w hile there w ere books on geology and m ineralogy w hich I could understand, all on botany w ere then,— and they are little m ended now,— harder than the L atin gram ­ mar. T h e m ineralogy was enough fo r me seriously to w o rk at, and I am inclined finally to aver that the garden-tim e could n o t have been m ore rig h d y passed, unless in weeding. A t six punctually I joined m y father and m oth er at tea, being, in the draw ing-room , restricted to the inhabitation o f the sacred niche above referred to, a recess beside the fireplace, w ell lighted from the lateral w indow in the sum m er evenings, and by the chim ney-piece lamp in w inter, and out o f all inconvenient heat, o r h u rtful draught. A good w riting-table before it shut me w ell in, and carried m y plate and cup, o r books in service. A fte r tea, m y father read to m y m oth er w hat pleased them selves, I picking up

* Switzer, clearly short for Switzerland.

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w hat I could, o r reading w hat I liked better instead. T hus I heard all the Shakespeare comedies and historical plays again and again, — all Scott, and all D on Q uixote,t a favourite book o f m y father’s, and at w hich I could then laugh to ecstasy; now, it is one o f the saddest, and, in some things, the m ost offensive o f books to me. M y father was an absolutely beautiful reader o f the best poetry and p ro se;— o f Shakespeare, Pope, Spenser,1 Byron, and Scott; as o f Goldsm ith,* Addison,* and Johnson. L ighter ballad p o etry he had n o t fineness o f ear to do justice to: his sense o f the strength and w isdom o f true m eaning, and o f the force o f rig h tly ordered syllables, made his delivery o f H am let, Lear, Caesar, o r M arm ion ,1 m elodiously grand and just; but he had no idea o f m odulating the refrain o f a ballad, and had little patience w ith the ten or o f its sentim ent. H e looked always, in the m atter o f w hat he read, for heroic w ill and consum m ate reason: never tolerated the m orbid love o f m isery fo r its ow n sake, and never read, either fo r his ow n pleasure o r m y instruction, such ballads as Burd H elen, the Twa Corbies,* o r any oth er rhym e o r story which sought its interest in vain love o r fruitless death. But true, pure, and ennobling sadness began very early to m ingle its undertone w ith the constant happiness o f those days;— a ballad music, beautiful in sincerity, and hallow ing them like cathedral chant. C oncern ing w hich,— I m ust go back now to the days I have on ly heard o f w ith the hearing o f the ear, and yet o f which some are to m e as i f m ine eyes had seen them. It m ust have been a little after 17 8 0 that m y paternal grandm other, C atherine T weeddale, ran away w ith m y paternal grandfather w hen she was n o t quite sixteen; and m y aunt Jessie, m y father’s o n ly sister, was born a year afterwards; a few weeks after w hich event, m y grandm other, n o t yet seventeen, was surprised, by a friend w ho came into h er room unannounced, dancing a threesom e reel, w ith two chairs fo r her partners; she having found at the m om ent no oth er w ay o f adequately expressing the pleasure she took in this m ortal life, and its gifts and promises. T h e latter failed som ew hat afterwards; and m y aunt Jessie, a v e ry precious and perfect creature, beautiful in her dark-eyed,

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H ighland way,— u tterly religious, in her quiet Puritan way,— and v ery submissive to Fates m ostly unkind, was m arried to a som e­ w hat rough tanner, w ith a fairly good business in the good tow n o f Perth: and, w hen I was old enough to be taken first to visit them, m y aunt and m y uncle the tanner lived in a square-built grey stone house in the suburb o f P erth know n as ‘Bridge-End/ the house some fifty yards n orth o f the bridge; its garden sloping steeply to the Tay, which eddied, three or four feet deep o f som bre crystal, round the steps w here the servants dipped their pails. A mistaken correspondent in Fors once com plained o f m y coarse habit o f sneering at people o f no ancestry. I have no such habit; though n o t always entirely at ease in w ritin g o f m y uncles the baker and the tanner. And m y readers m ay trust me w hen I tell them that, in now rem em bering m y dreams in the house o f the en tirely honest ch ief baker o f M ark et Street, C royd on , and o f P e te r— n o t S im o n — the tanner, whose house was by the riv er­ side o f P erth, I w ould n o t change the dreams, far less the tender realities, o f those early days, fo r anything I hear now rem em bered by lords o r dames, o f their days o f childhood in castle halls, and by sweet lawns and lakes in park-w alled forest. L aw n and lake enough indeed I had, in the N o rth Inch o f Perth, and pools o f pausing Tay, before Rose T errace, (w here I used to live after m y uncle died, b riefly apoplectic, at BridgeEnd,) in the peace o f the fair Scotch sum m er days, w ith m y w idowed aunt, and m y little cousin Jessie, then traversing a bright space betw een her sixth and ninth year; dark-eyed deeply,* like her m other, and sim ilarly pious; so that she and I used to com pete in the Sunday evening Scriptural examinations; and be as proud as two little peacocks because Jessie’s elder brothers, and sister M ary, used to get ‘put down/ and either Jessie o r I was always ‘D ux.’t W e agreed upon this that we w ould be m arried w hen we w ere a little older; not considering it to be p reparatorily necessary to be in any degree wiser. Strangely, the kitchen servan t-of all-w ork in the house at Rose

* As opposed to the darkness of mere iris, making the eyes like black cherries.

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T errace was a very old “M ause,” f— before, m y grandfather’s servant in E dinburgh,— w ho m ight w ell have been the prototype o f the M ause o f ‘O ld M o rtality,’* but had even a m ore solemn, fearless, and patient faith, fastened in her by extrem e suffering; fo r she had been nearly starved to death w hen she was a girl, and had literally picked the bones out o f cast-out dust-heaps to gnaw; and ever afterwards, to see the waste o f an atom o f food was as shocking to h er as blasphemy. “Oh, M iss M arg aret!” she said once to m y m other, w ho had shaken some crumbs o ff a d irty plate out o f the window, “I had rath er you had knocked me dow n.” She w ould make her dinner upon anything in the house that the other servants w ould n’t eat;— often upon potato skins, giving her ow n dinner away to any p o or person she saw; and w ould always stand during the w hole church service, (though at least seventy years old w hen I knew her, and v ery feeble,) if she could persuade any w ild A m o rite 1 out o f the streets to take her seat. H er w rinkled and w orn face, m oveless in resolution and patience, incapable o f smile, and knit sometim es perhaps too severely against Jessie and me, if we w anted m ore cream y m ilk to our porridge, o r jumped o ff our favourite box on Sunday,— (‘N ever mind, Jo h n ,’ said Jessie to me, once, seeing me in an unchristian state o f p rovo­ cation on this subject, ‘w hen w e’re m arried, w e’ll jum p o ff boxes all day long, i f we lik e!’)— m ay have been p artly instrum ental in

* Vulgar modern Puritanism has shown its degeneracy in nothing more than in its incapability of understanding Scott’s exquisitely finished portraits of the Covenanter. In ‘Old Mortality’ alone, there are four which cannot be surpassed; the typical one, Elspeth,* fauldessly sublime and pure; the second, Ephraim Macbriar,* giving the too common phrase of the character, which is touched with ascetic insanity; the third, Mause, coloured and made sometimes ludicrous by Scottish conceit, but utterly strong and pure at heart; the last, Balfour,f a study of supreme interest, showing the effect of the Puritan faith, sincerely held, on a naturally and incurably cruel and base spirit. Add to these four studies, from this single novel, those in the ‘Heart of Midlothian,’ and Nicol Jarvie and Andrew Fairservicet from ‘Rob Roy,’ and you have a series of theological analyses far beyond those of any other philo­ sophical work that I know, of any period.

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giving me that slight bias against Evangelical religion, w hich I confess to be sometim es traceable in m y later works; but I n ever can be thankful enough fo r having seen, in ou r own “O ld M ause,” the Scottish P uritan spirit in its perfect faith and force; and been enabled therefore afterw ards to trace its agency in the reform in g policy o f Scotland, w ith the reverence and h onou r it deserves. M y aunt, a pure dove-priestess, i f ever there was one, o f H ighland Dodona,* was o f a far gen der tem per; but still, to me, rem ained at a w istful distance. She had been m uch saddened by the loss o f three o f h er children before her husband’s death. L ittle Peter, especially, had been the corner-stone o f her love’s building; and it was throw n down sw iftly:— w hite sw elling came in the knee; he suffered much, and grew w eaker gradually, dutiful always, and loving, and w h olly patient. She w anted him one day to take h a lf a glass o f p o rt wine, and took him on h er knee, and put it to his lips. ‘N o t now, mamma; in a m inute,’ said he; and put his head on h er shoulder, and gave one long, low sigh, and died. T h en there was C atherine; and— I forget the oth er little daugh­ te r’s name, I did n o t see them; m y m oth er told me o f th em ;— eagerly always about C atherine, w ho had been her ow n favourite. M y aunt had been talking earnestly one day w ith h er husband about these tw o children; planning this and that fo r their schooling and w hat not: at night, fo r a little w hile she could n o t sleep; and as she lay thinking, she saw the door o f the room open, and tw o spades1 come into it, and stand at the fo o t o f h er bed. Both the children w ere dead w ith in b rie f tim e afterwards. I was about to w rite ‘w ithin a fo rtn ig h t’— but I cannot be sure o f rem em bering m y m oth er’s w ords accurately. But w hen I was in P erth, there w ere still— M ary, her eldest daughter, w ho looked after us children w hen M ause was too busy; Jam es and Jo h n , W illiam and A ndrew ; (I can’t think w hom the unapostolic+ W illiam was named after). But the boys w ere then all at school o r college,— the scholars, W illiam and Andrew, on ly came hom e to tease Jessie and me, and eat the biggest jargoneL pears; the collegians w ere w h olly abstract; and the tw o girls and I played in ou r quiet ways on the N o rth Inch, and by the ‘L ead,’ a stream ‘led ’ from the T ay past Rose T errace into the tow n for

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m olin aryt purposes; and long ago, I suppose, bricked over or choked w ith rubbish; but then lovely, and a perpetual treasure o f flow ing diamond to us children. M ary, by the way, was ascending towards tw elve— fair, blue-eyed, and m oderately pretty; and as pious as Jessie, w ith ou t being quite so zealous. M y father rarely stayed w ith us in Perth, but w en t on business travel through Scotland, and even m y m oth er became a curiously unim portant figure at Rose T errace. I can’t understand how she so rarely walked w ith us children; she and m y aunt seemed always to have their ow n secluded ways. M ary, Jessie, and I w ere allowed to do w hat we liked on the Inch: and I don’t rem em ber doing any lessons in these P erth times, except the above-described com petitive divinity on Sunday. Had there been anybody then to teach me anything about plants o r pebbles, it had been good fo r me; as it was, I passed m y days m uch as the thistles and tansy did, on ly w ith perpetual w atching o f all the ways o f running water,— a singular awe developing itself in me, both o f the pools o f Tay, w here the w ater changed from brow n to blue-black, and o f the precipices o f Kinnoull;* partly out o f m y ow n mind, and partly because the servants always became serious w hen we w ent up K in n ou ll way, especially i f I w anted to stay and look at the little crystal spring o f B ow er’s W ell. ‘But you say you w ere n o t afraid o f anything?’ w rites a friend, anxious fo r the unassailable veracity o f these m em oirs. W ell, I said, n o t o f ghosts, thunder, o r beasts,— m eaning to specify the com m onest terrors o f m ere childhood. E very day, as I grew wiser, taught me a reasonable fear; else I had n o t above described m yself as the m ost reasonable person o f m y acquaintance. A nd by the swirls o f sm ooth blackness, broken by no fleck o f foam, w here T ay gathered h erself like M e d u s a , I never passed w ith ou t awe, even in those thoughtless days; neither do I in the least m ean that I could w alk am ong tom bstones in the night (neither, fo r that m atter, in the day), as if they w ere on ly paving stones set upright. Far the contrary; but it is im portant to the read er’s confidence in

* I always think of Tay as a goddess river, as Gretat a nymph one.

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w ritings w hich have seemed in ordin ately im pressional and em otional, that he should know I was never subject to — I should perhaps rath er say, sorrow fully, never capable o f— any m anner o f illusion o r false im agination, n o r in the least liable to have m y nerves shaken by surprise. W h e n I was about five years old, having been on amicable term s fo r a w hile w ith a black N ew foundland, then on probation fo r watch dog at H erne H ill; after one o f ou r long sum m er journeys m y first thought on getting hom e was to go to see Lion. M y m oth er trusted m e to go to the stable w ith ou r one serving-m an, T hom as, giving him strict orders that I was n o t to be allow ed w ith in stretch o f the dog’s chain. T hom as, fo r better security, carried m e in his arms. L ion was at his dinner, and took no notice o f either o f us; on w hich I besought leave to pat him. Foolish T hom as stooped towards him that I m ight, w hen the dog instantly flew at me, and bit a piece clean out o f the corn er o f m y lip on the left side. I was brought up the back stairs, bleeding fast, but n o t a w h it frightened, except lest L ion should be sent away. L ion indeed had to go; but n o t T hom as: m y m oth er was sure he was sorry, and I think blamed h erself the most. T h e bitten site o f the (then really pretty) m outh, was spoiled fo r everm ore, but the wound, draw n close, healed quickly; the last use I made o f m y m oveable lips before Dr. A veline drew them in to ordered silence fo r a w hile, was to observe, ‘M am a, though I can’t speak, I can play upon the fidd le.’ But the house was o f another opinion, and I n ever attained any proficiency upon that in strum ent w o rth y o f m y genius. N o t the slightest dim inution o f m y love o f dogs, n o r the slightest nervousness in m anaging them , was induced by the accident. I scarcely know w heth er I was in any real danger o r n o t when, another day, in the same stable, quite by m yself, I w en t head forem ost into the large w ater-tub kept fo r the garden. I think I m ight have got awkwardly wedged i f I had tried to draw m y feet in after me: instead, I used the small w aterin g -p ot I had in m y hand to give m yself a good thrust up from the bottom , and caught the opposite edge o f the tub w ith m y left hand, getting n o t a little credit afterw ards fo r m y decision o f m ethod. L ooking back to

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the few chances that have in any such m anner tried m y head, I believe it has never failed me w hen I wanted it, and that I am much m ore likely to be confused by sudden adm iration than by sudden danger. T h e dark pools o f Tay, w hich have led me into this boasting, w ere under the high bank at the head o f the N o rth Inch,— the path above them being seldom traversed by us children unless at harvest tim e, w hen we used to go gleaning in the fields beyond; Jessie and I afterw ard grinding ou r corn in the kitchen pepperm ill, and kneading and toasting fo r ourselves cakes o f pepper bread, o f quite unpurchaseable quality. In the general course o f this m y careful narration, I rebut w ith as m uch indignation as m ay be perm itted w ithout ill m anners, the charge o f partiality to anything m erely because it was seen when I was young. I hesitate, however, in recording as a constant truth fo r the w orld, the im pression left on me w hen I w en t gleaning w ith Jessie, that Scottish sheaves are m ore golden than are bound in oth er lands, and that no harvests elsewhere visible to human eyes are so like the ‘corn o f heaven’ * as those o f Strath -T ay and Strath-E arn.

* Psalm lxxviii. 24.

CH APTER

IV.

UNDER NEW TUTORSHIPS.

W

H E N I was about eight o r nine I had a bad feverish illness

at D u n k eld J during w hich I believe I was in some danger, and am sure I was v ery uncom fortable. It came on after a lon g w alk in w hich I had been gathering quantities o f foxgloves and pulling them to pieces to examine th eir seeds, and there w ere hints about th eir having poisoned me; ve ry absurd, but w hich extended the gathering awe from river eddies to foxglove dells. N o t lon g after that, w hen w e w ere back at hom e, m y cousin Jessie fell ill, and died very slowly, o f w ater on the brain. I was very sorry, n o t so m uch in any strength o f early affection, as in the feeling that the happy, happy days at P erth w ere fo r ever ended,

since there was no m ore Jessie. B efore h er illness took its fatal form ,— before, indeed, I believe it had at all declared itself— m y aunt dream ed one o f h er foresight dreams, simple and plain enough fo r anyone’s in terp re­ tatio n ;— that she was approaching the ford o f a dark river, alone, w hen little Jessie came running up behind her, and passed her, and w en t through first. T h en she passed through herself, and looking back from the oth er side, saw her old M ause approaching from the distance to the bank o f the stream . A n d so it was, that Jessie, im m ediately afterwards, sickened rapidly and died; and a few m onths, o r it m ight be n early a year afterw ards, m y aunt died o f decline; and M ause, some tw o o r three years later, having had no care after h er mistress and Jessie w ere gone, but w hen she m ight go to them. I was at P lym outh w ith m y father and m oth er w hen m y Scottish aunt died, and had been ve ry happy w ith m y nurse on the

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hill east o f the town, looking ou t on the bay and breakwater; and came in to find m y father, fo r the first tim e I had ever seen him, in deep distress o f sobbing tears. I was v e ry so rry that m y aunt was dead, but, at that tim e, (and a good deal since, also,) I lived m ostly in the present, like an animal, and m y principal sensation was,— W h a t a pity it was to pass such an uncom fortable evening— and we at Plym outh! T h e deaths o f Jessie and h er m oth er o f course ended ou r Scottish days. T h e on ly surviving daughter, M ary, was thence­ forw ard adopted by m y father and m other, and brought up w ith me. She was fourteen w hen she came to us, and I four years yo u n g er;— so w ith the P erth days, closed the first decade o f m y life. M a ry was a rath er pretty, blue-eyed, clum sily-m ade girl, v ery amiable and affectionate in a quiet way, w ith no parts, but good sense and good principle, honestly and inoffensively pious, and equal tem pered, but w ith no p retty girlish ways o r fancies. She became a serene additional neutral tin t in the household harm ony; read alternate verses o f the Bible w ith m y m oth er and me in the m ornings, and w en t to a day school in the forenoon. W h e n we travelled she took som ew hat o f a governess position towards me, w e being allow ed to explore places togeth er w ith ou t m y n u rse;— but w e generally took old A n ne too fo r better company. It began now to be o f some im portance w hat church I w ent to on Sunday m orning. M y father, w ho was still m uch broken in health, could n o t go to the long C h urch o f England service, and, m y m oth er being evangelical, he w en t contentedly, o r at least submissively, w ith h er and m e to B eresford Chapel, W alw o rth ,f w here the Rev. D. A n d rew s1 preached, regularly, a som ewhat eloquent, forcible, and ingenious serm on, n o t tiresom e to h im :— the prayers w ere abridged from the C hurch Service, and we, being the grandest people in the congregation,t w ere allow ed— though, as I now rem em ber, n o t w ith ou t offended and reproach­ ful glances from the m ore conscientious w orshippers— to come in w hen even those sh ort prayers w ere h a lf over. M a ry and I used each to w rite an abstract o f the serm on in the afternoon, to please ourselves,— M a ry dutifully, and I to show how w ell I could do it. W e never w en t to church in afternoon o r evening. I rem em ber

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y e t the amazed and appalling sensation, as o f a vision prelim in ary to the D ay o f Judgm ent, o f going, a year o r tw o later, first into a church by candlelight. W e had no fam ily w orship, but ou r servants w ere b etter cared fo r than is often the case in ostentatiously religious houses. M y m oth er used to take them , w hen girls, from fam ilies know n to her, sister after sister, and we never had a bad one. O n the Sunday evening m y father w ould som etim es read us a serm on o f B lair’s,1 o r it m ight be, a clerk o r a custom er w ould dine w ith us, w hen the conversation, in m ere necessary courtesy, w ould take generally the direction o f sherry. M a ry and I got through the evening how we could, over the P ilg rim ’s Progress, Bunyan’s H oly W a r,f Q uarles’s Em blem s,+ Foxe’s Book o f M a rtyrs,f M rs. Sh erw ood ’s L ady o f the M an or,+— a v ery awful book to me, because o f the stories in it o f wicked girls w ho had gone to balls, dying im m ediately after o f fever,— and M rs. Sh erw o o d ’s H en ry M iln er,— o f w hich m ore presently,— the Y ou th’s M agazine,f A lfred C am p b ellf the youn g pilgrim , and, though rath er as a profane indulgence, perm itted because o f the hardness o f ou r hearts, B ingley’s N atural H istory.f W e none o f us cared fo r singing hym ns or psalms as such, and w ere too honest to amuse ourselves w ith them as sacred music, besides that w e did n o t find th eir music amusing. M y father and m other, though due cheques fo r charities w ere o f course sent to Dr. Andrews, and various civilities at Christm as, in the w ay o f turkeys o r boxes o f raisins, intim ated their satis­ faction w ith the style o f his serm ons and p u rity o f his doctrine,— had yet, w ith their usual shyness, never asked fo r his acquain­ tance, o r even perm itted the state o f their souls to be enquired after in pastoral visits. M ary and I, however, w ere charm ed m erely by the distant effect o f him, and used to w alk w ith A nne up and down in W alw orth , m erely in the hope o f seeing him pass on the o th er side o f the way. A t last, one day, when, by extrem e favour o f F ortune, he m et us in a great h u rry on ou r ow n side o f it, and n early tum bled over me, A nne, as he recovered him self, dropped him a low curtsey; w hereupon he stopped, inquired w ho we w ere, and was extrem ely gracious to us; and we, com ing hom e

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in a fever o f delight, announced, n o t m uch to m y m oth er’s satisfaction, that the D o cto r had said he w ould call some day! A nd so, little b y little, the blissful acquaintance was made. I m ight be eleven o r going on tw elve by that time. M iss Andrews, the eldest sister o f the “A ngel in the H ouse,” 1 was an extrem ely beautiful girl o f seventeen; she sang “T am bourgi, T am bourgi”* w ith great spirit and a rich voice, w ent at blackberry time on ram bles w ith us at the N orw ood Spa, and made m e feel generally that there was som ething in girls that I did n o t understand, and that was curiously agreeable. And at last, because I was so fond o f the D octor, and he had the reputation (in W alw orth ) o f being a good scholar, m y father thought he m ight pleasantly initiate me in G reek, such initiation having been already too long deferred. T h e D octor, it afterw ards turned out, knew little m ore o f G reek than the letters, and declensions o f nouns; but he w rote the letters prettily, and had an accurate and sensitive ear fo r rhythm . He began m e w ith the odes o f Anacreon,* and made me scan both them and m y V irg il thoroughly, sometimes, by w ay o f interlude, reciting bits o f Shakespeare to me w ith force and propriety. T h e A nacreontic m etre* entirely pleased me, n o r less the A nacreontic sentim ent. I learned h a lf the odes by heart m erely to please m yself, and learned w ith certainty, w hat in later study o f G reek art it has proved extrem ely advantageous to me to know, that the G reeks liked doves, swallows, and roses just as w ell as I did. In the intervals o f these unlaborious G reek lessons, I w en t on amusing m yself— partly in w ritin g English doggerel, partly in map drawing, o r copying C ruikshank’s* illustrations to Grim m,* w hich I did w ith great, and to m ost people now incredible, exactness,* a sheet o f them being, by good hap, w ell preserved, done w hen I was between ten and eleven. But I never saw any b o y’s w o rk in m y life showing so little original faculty, o r grasp by m em ory. I could literally draw nothing, n o t a cat, n o t a mouse, n o t a boat, n o t a bush, ‘out o f m y head,’ and there was, luckily, at present no idea on the p art either o f parents o r preceptor, o f teaching me to draw ou t o f oth er people’s heads.

* Hebrew melodies.

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N evertheless, M ary, at h er day school, was getting draw ing lessons w ith the oth er girls. H er re p o rt o f the pleasantness and zeal o f the master, and the frank and som ew hat unusual execution o f the drawings he gave h er to copy, interested m y father, and he was still m ore pleased by M a ry ’s copying, fo r a p ro o f o f industry w hile he was away on his w in ter’s jo u rn e y — copying, in pencil, so as to produce the effect o f a vigorous engraving, the litd e w ater­ colou r by P ro u t1 o f a wayside cottage, which was the foundation o f ou r future w ater-colou r collection, being then ou r on ly pos­ session in that kind— o f oth er kind, tw o m iniatures on ivo ry com pleted ou r gallery. I perceive, in thinking over the good w o rk o f that patient black and w hite study, that M a ry could have drawn, i f she had been w ell taught and kindly encouraged. But her pow er o f patient copying did n o t serve h er in draw ing from nature, and w hen, that same summer, I betw een ten and eleven (1829), w e w en t to stay at M atlock in D erbyshire, all that she proved able to accomplish was an outline o f C axton’s N ew Bath H otel, in w hich ou r efforts in the direction o f art, fo r that year, ended. But, in the glitterin g w hite broken spar, specked w ith galena, by w hich the walks o f the h otel garden w ere made bright, and in the shops o f the p retty village, and in m any a happy w alk am ong its cliffs, I pursued m y m ineralogical studies on fluor, calcite, and the ores o f lead, w ith indescribable rapture w hen I was allow ed to go in to a cave. M y father and m oth er showed far m ore kindness than I knew, in yielding to m y subterranean passion; fo r m y m oth er could n o t bear d irty places, and m y fath er had a nervous feeling that the ladders w ould break, o r the ro o f fall, before we got o u t again. T h e y w en t w ith me, nevertheless, w h erever I w anted to go,— m y father even in to the terrible Speedw ell m ine at Castleton,* w here, fo r once, I was a little frightened m yself. F rom M atlock we m ust have gone on to C um berland, fo r I find in m y fath er’s w ritin g the legend, “Begun 28 th N ovem ber, 18 3 0, finished 1 1 t h January, 1 8 3 2 , ” on the fly-le a f o f the ‘Iteriad,’ 1 a poem in fo u r books, w hich I indited, between those dates, on the subject o f o u r jou rn ey am ong the Lakes, and o f w hich some little notice m ay be taken farth er on.

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It m ust have been in the spring o f 18 3 1 that the im portant step was taken o f giving me a draw ing master. M a ry showed no gift o f representing any o f the scenes o f ou r travels, and I began to express some wish that I could draw m yself. W h ereu p on , M a ry ’s pleasant draw ing master, to w hom m y father and m oth er w ere equitable enough n o t to im pute M a ry ’s w ant o f genius, was invited to give me also an hour in the week. I suppose a draw ing m aster’s business can on ly becom e estab­ lished by his assertion o f h im self to the public as the possessor o f a style; and teaching in that only. N evertheless, M r. Runcim an’s m em ory sustains disgrace in m y m ind in that he gave no impulse n o r even indulgence to the extraordinary gift I had fo r draw ing delicately w ith the pen point. A n y w ork o f that kind was done thenceforw ard on ly to please myself. M r. Runcim an gave me noth ing but his ow n m annered and inefficient drawings to copy, and greatly broke the force both o f m y mind and hand. Yet he taught me much, and suggested m ore. H e taught me perspective, at once accurately and sim p ly— an invaluable bit o f teaching. H e com pelled me into a swiftness and facility o f hand w hich I found afterw ards extrem ely useful, though w hat I have just called the ‘fo rce,’ the strong accuracy o f m y line, was lost. H e cultivated in m e,— indeed founded,— the habit o f looking for the essential points in the things drawn, so as to abstract them decisively, and he explained to m e the m eaning and im portance o f com position, though he h im self could n o t compose. A v ery happy tim e follow ed, fo r about tw o years. I was, o f course, far behind M a ry in touch-skill o f pencil drawing, and it was good fo r h er that this su periority was acknowledged, and due hon ou r done h er fo r the steady pains o f her unim pulsive practice and unw earied attention. For, as she did n o t w rite poems like me, n o r collect spars like me, n o r exhibit any prevailing vivacity o f m ind in any direction, she was gradually sinking in to far too subordinate a position to m y high-m ightiness. But I could make no pretence fo r some tim e to rival her in free­ hand copying, and m y first attem pts from nature w ere n o t felt by m y father to be the least flattering to his vanity. T hese w ere made under the stimulus o f a jou rn ey to D over

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w ith the fo rethou ght o f w hich m y m oth er com forted me through an illness o f 1 8 2 9 . 1 find m y quite first sketch-book, an extrem ely inconvenient upright small octavo in m ottled and flexible cover, the paper pure w hite, and ribbedly gritty, filled w ith outlines, irreg u larly defaced by im pulsive efforts at finish, in arb itrary places and corners, o f D over* and T unbridge C astles* and the m ain tow er o f C an terb u ry C athedral. T hese, w ith a really good study, supplem ented by detached detail, o f Battle A b bey,*1 have set aside fo r preservation; the really first sketch I ever made from nature being N o. 1, o f a street in Sevenoaks.* I got little satisfaction and less praise by these w orks; but the native architectural instinct is instantly developed in these,— highly notable fo r any one w ho cares to note such nativities. T w o little pencillings from C an terb u ry south porch and central tower, I have given to M iss G ale, o f Burgate H ouse, C an terbu ry; the rem nants o f the book itself to M rs. T albot, o f T yn -y-F fyn o n , Barmouth,* both ve ry dear friends. But, before everything, at this tim e, came m y pleasure in m erely w atching the sea. I was n o t allowed to row, far less to sail, n o r to w alk near the harbour alone; so that I learned nothing o f shipping o r anything else w orth learning, but spent fou r o r five hours every day in sim ply staring and w ondering at the sea,*— an occupation w hich never failed me till I was forty. W h en e ve r I could get to a beach it was enough fo r me to have the waves to look at, and hear, and pursue and fly from . I never took to natural h istory o f shells, o r shrimps, o r weeds, o r jelly-fish. P ebbles?— yes i f there w ere any; otherwise, m erely stared all day lon g at the tum bling and cream ing strength o f the sea. Idiotically, it now appears to me, wasting all that priceless you th in m ere dream and trance o f adm iration; it had a certain strain o f Byronesque passion* in it, w hich m eant something: but it was a fearful loss o f time. T h e sum m er o f 1832 must, I think, have been passed at hom e, fo r m y next sketch-book contains on ly some efforts at tree­ draw ing in D ulwich, and a view o f the bridge over the now bricked-up ‘E ffra,’ by w hich the N orw ood road then crossed it at the bottom o f H erne H ill: the road itself, just at the place w here, from the top o f the bridge, one looked up and down the

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stream let, bridged now into pu trid ly damp shade by the railway, close to H erne H ill Station. T his sketch was the first in w hich I was ever supposed to show any talent fo r drawing. But on m y thirteenth (?) birthday, 8th February, 18 3 2, m y fath er’s partner, M r. H en ry T elford, gave m e R ogers’ Italy, and determ ined the m ain ten or o f m y life.+ A t that tim e I had never heard o f T urner, except in the w ell rem em bered saying o f M r. R uncim an’s, that ‘the w orld had lately been m uch dazzled and led away by some splendid ideas throw n ou t by T u rn er.’ But I had no sooner cast eyes on the Rogers vignettes than I took them fo r m y on ly masters, and set m yself to im itate them as far as I possibly could by fine pen shading. I have told this story so often that I begin to doubt its time. It is curiously tiresom e that M r. T elford did n o t him self w rite m y name in the book, and m y father, w ho w rites in it, ‘T h e gift o f H en ry T elford , Esq.,’ still m ore curiously, fo r him , puts no date: i f it was a year later, no m atter; there is no doubt how ever that early in the spring o f 1833 P ro u t published his Sketches in Flanders and G erm any. I w ell rem em ber going w ith m y father into the shop w here subscribers entered their names, and being referred to the specimen print, the turreted w indow over the M oselle, at Coblentz.* W e got the book hom e to H em e H ill before the tim e o f ou r usual annual tour; and as m y m other watched m y father’s pleasure and m ine in looking at the w onderful places, she said, w h y should n o t we go and see some o f them in reality? M y father hesitated a litde, then w ith glittering eyes said— w h y not? A nd there w ere two or three weeks o f en tirely rapturous and amazed preparation. I recollect that v ery evening bringing down m y big geography book,* still m ost precious to me; (I take it down now, and fo r the first tim e put m y ow n initials under m y father’s name in it)— and looking w ith M a ry at the outline o f M o n t Blanc, copied from Saussure, at p. 2 0 1, and reading some o f the v ery singular inform ation about the Alps which it illustrates. So that Sw itzerland m ust have been at once included in the plans,— soon prosperously, and w ith result o f all m anner o f good, by G o d ’s help fulfilled. W e w en t by Calais and Brussels to C ologne; up the R hine to

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Strasburg, across the Black F orest to Schaffhausen, then made a sweep through N orth Sw itzerland by Basle, Berne, Interlachen, Lucerne, Zurich, to C onstance,— follow ing up the R hine still to C oire, then over Splugen to C om o, M ilan, and G enoa; m eaning, as I no w rem em ber, fo r Rom e. But, it being Ju n e already, the heat o f G enoa w arned us o f im prudence: w e turned, and came back o ver the Sim plon to G eneva, saw C h am ou n i,1 and so hom e by Lyons and D ijon. T o do all this in the then o n ly possible way, w ith post-horses, and, on the lakes, w ith oared boats, needed careful calculation o f tim e each day. M y father liked to get to ou r sleeping place as early as he could, and never w ould stop the horses fo r m e to draw anything (the extra pence to postillion fo r w aiting being also an item o f w eight in his m ind);— thus I got into the bad habit, yet n o t w ith ou t its discipline, o f m aking scrawls as the carriage w en t along, and w orking them up ‘out o f m y head’ in the evening. I produced in this manner, throughou t the journey, some th irty sheets o r so o f small pen and Indian ink drawings, fo u r o r five in a sheet; some n o t inelegant, all laborious, but fo r the m ost part one just like another, and w ith ou t exception stupid and charac­ terless to the last degree. W ith these flying scrawls on the road, I made, w hen staying in towns, some elaborate pencil and pen outlines, o f w hich perhaps half-a-dozen are w orth register and preservation. M y fath er’s pride in a study o f the doubly-tow ered Renaissance church o f D ijon was great. A still m ore laborious H otel de V ille o f Brussels rem ains with it at Brantw ood. T h e draw ing o f that H otel de V ille by me no w at O xford is a copy o f P ro u t’s, w hich I made in illustration o f the volum e in w hich I w rote the beginning o f a rhym ed h istory o f the tour. F or it had excited all the poor little faculties that w ere in me to their utm ost strain, and I had certainly m ore passionate happiness, o f a quality u tterly indescribable to people w ho never felt the like, and m ore, in solid quantity, in those three m onths, than m ost people have in all their lives. T h e im pression o f the Alps first seen from Schaffhausen,1 o f M ilan and o f G eneva, I w ill try to give some account o f afterwards,— m y first business now is to get on.

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T h e w in ter o f ’33, and w hat tim e I could steal to amuse m yself in, out o f ’34, w ere spent in com posing, w ritin g fair, and drawing vignettes fo r the decoration o f the aforesaid poetical account o f ou r tour, in im itation o f R ogers’ Italy. T h e drawings w ere made on separate pieces o f paper and pasted in to the books; m any have since been taken out, others are there fo r w hich the verses w ere never w ritten , fo r I had spent m y fervou r before I got up the Rhine. I leave the unfinished fo lly t in Jo a n ie ’s care, that none but friends m ay see it. M eantim e, it having been perceived by m y father and m other that Dr. Andrews could neither prepare me fo r the U niversity, nor fo r the duties o f a bishopric, I was sent as a day scholar to the private school kept by the Rev. T hom as Dale, in G rove Lane, w ithin w alking distance o f H em e H ill. W alking down w ith m y father after breakfast, carrying m y blue bag o f books, I came home to half-past one dinner, and prepared m y lessons in the evening fo r next day. U n d er these conditions I saw litde o f m y fellow scholars, the two sons o f Air. Dale, T om and Jam es; and three boarders, the sons o f C olonel M atson, o f W oolwich;* o f Alderm an Key, o f D enm ark H ill; and a fine lively boy, W illou g h b y Jon es,f afterwards S ir W ., and on ly lately, to m y sorrow, dead. Finding me in all respects w hat boys could on ly look upon as an innocent, they treated me as I suppose they w ould have treated a girl; they neith er thrashed n o r chaffed me,— finding, indeed, from the first that ch aff had no effect on me. G en erally I did not understand it, n o r in the least mind it i f I did,* the fountain o f pure conceit in m y ow n h eart sustaining me serenely against all deprecation, w heth er by m aster o r com panion. I was fairly intelligent o f books, had a good quick and holding m em ory, learned w hatever I was bid as fast as I could, and as w ell; and since all the o th er boys learned always as little as they could, though I was far in retard o f them in real knowledge, I alm ost always knew the day’s lesson best. I have already described, in the first chapter o f Fiction Fair and Foul,* M r. D ale’s rejection o f m y clearly know n old gram m ar as a ‘Scotch thin g.’ In that one action he rejected him self from being m y master;* and I thenceforw ard learned all he told me on ly because I had to do it.

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W h ile these steps w ere taken fo r m y classical advancem ent, a m aster was found fo r me, still in that unlucky W alw orth , to teach me mathematics. M r. R ow b otham t was an extrem ely industrious, deserving, and fairly w ell-inform ed person in his ow n branches, w ho, w ith his wife, and various im pedim ents and inconveniencesf in the w ay o f children, kept a ‘youn g gentlem an’s A cadem y’ near the E lephant and C astle,+ in one o f the first houses w hich have black plots o f grass in front, fenced by iron railings from the W a lw o rth Road. H e knew Latin, G erm an, and French gram m ar; was able to teach the ‘use o f the globes’f as far as needed in a p reparatory school, and was, up to far beyond the point needed fo r me, a really sound m athem atician. F or the rest, u tterly unacquainted w ith m en o r their history, w ith nature and its m eanings; stupid and disconsolate, incapable o f any m anner o f m irth o r fancy, thinking m athem atics the on ly prop er occupation o f hum an intellect, asthmatic to a degree causing often helpless suffering, and hopelessly poor, spending his evenings, after his schooldrudgery was over, in w ritin g manuals o f arithm etic and algebra, and com piling French and G erm an gram mars, w hich he allowed the booksellers to cheat him out of,— adding perhaps, w ith all his y e a r’s lamp-labour,* fifteen or tw enty pounds to his in com e;— a m ore w retched, innocent, patient, insensible, unadm irable, uncom fortable, intolerable being never was produced in this sera o f England by the culture characteristic o f her m etropolis. U n d er the tuition, twice a w eek in the evening, o f M r. R owbotham , (invited always to substantial tea w ith us before the lesson as a really efficient help to his hu ngry science, after the w alk up H erne H ill, painful to asthma,) I prospered fairly in 18 3 4, picking up some bits o f French grammar, o f w hich I had really felt the w ant,— I had before got hold, somehow, o f w ords enough to make m y w ay about w ith,— and I don’t know how, but I recollect, at Paris, going to the Louvre* under charge o f Salvador, (I wanted to make a sketch from R em brandt’s * Supper at Emmaus,1) and on Salvador’s application to the custode fo r perm ission, it appeared I was n o t old enough to have a ticket,— fifteen was then the earliest admission-age; but seeing me look

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woebegone, the good-natured custode said he thought i f I w ent in to the ‘B oard,’ o r w hatever it was, o f authorities, and asked fo r perm ission m yself, th ey w ould give it me. W h ereu p o n I instantly begged to be introduced to the Board, and the custode taking me in under his coat lappets, I did verily, in w hat broken French was feasible to me, represent m y case to several gentlem en o f an official and im pressive aspect, and got m y perm ission, and ou t­ lined the Supper at Emmaus w ith some real success in expression, and was extrem ely proud o f myself. But m y n arrow knowledge o f the language, though thus available fo r business, left me sorrow ful and ashamed after the fatal dinner at M r. D om ecq’s, w hen the little Elise, then just nine, seeing that her elder sisters did no t choose to trouble themselves w ith me, and being h erself o f an entirely benevolent and pitiful temper, came across the draw ing-room to me in m y desolation, and leaning an elbow on m y knee, set h erself deliberately to chatter to me m ellifluously for an hour and a h a lf by the tim e-piece,— requiring no answer, o f w hich she saw I was incapable, but satisfied w ith m y grateful and respectful attention, and adm iring interest, i f n o t exactly always in w hat she said, at least in the w ay she said it. She gave me the entire history o f h er school, and o f the objectionable characters o f her teachers, and o f the delightful characters o f her companions, and o f the m ischief she got into, and the surreptitious enjoym ents they devised, and the joys o f com ing back to the Champs Elysees,1 and the general likeness o f Paris to the G ard en o f Eden. And the h o ur and a h a lf seemed but too short, and left me resolved, anyhow, to do m y best to learn French. So, as I said, I progressed in this study to the contentm ent o f M r. R owbotham , w en t easily through the three first books o f Euclid, and got as far as quadratics in Algebra. But there I stopped, virtually, fo r ever. T h e m om ent I got into sums o f series, o r symbols expressing the relations instead o f the real magnitudes o f things,— partly in w ant o f faculty, partly in an already w elldeveloped and healthy hatred o f things vainly bothering and intangible,— I jib bed— o r stood stunned. A fterw ards at O xford they dragged me through some conic sections, o f w hich the facts representable by draw ing became afterwards o f extrem e value to

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me; and taught me as m uch trigon o m etry as made m y m ountain w ork, in plan and elevation, unaccusable. In elem entary geom etry I was always happy, and, fo r a boy, strong; and m y conceit, devel­ oping no w every hour m ore venom ously* as I began to perceive the weaknesses o f m y m asters, led me to spend n early every m om ent I could com mand fo r study in m y ow n way, through the year 18 3 5, in tryin g to trisect an angled F o r some tim e afterw ards I had the sense to reproach m yself fo r the waste o f thoughtful hours in that year, little know ing o r dream ing how m any a year to com e, from that tim e forth, was to be w orse wasted. W h ile the course o f m y education was thus daily gathering the grow th o f m e in to a stubborn little standard bush, various froststroke was stripping away from m e the p o or little flow ers— o r h erb s— o f the forest,f that had once grow n, happily fo r me, at m y side.

CH APTER

V.

P A R N A S S U S t A N D P L Y N L IM M O N .

I

H AVE allowed, in the last chapter, m y record o f boyish achievem ents and experim ents in art to run on to a date

m uch in advance o f the early years w hich w ere m ost seriously eventful fo r me in good and evil. I resum e the general story o f them w ith the less hesitation, because, such as it is, nobody else can tell it; w hile, in later years, m y friends in some respects know

me better than I know m yself. T h e second decade o f m y life was cut away still m ore sharply from the p erfectly happy tim e o f childhood, by the death o f m y C ro yd o n aunt; death o f ‘cold’ literally, caught in some hom ely w ashing operations in an east wind. H er brow n and w hite spaniel, Dash, lay beside her body, and on her coffin, till they w ere taken away from him ; then he was brought to H erne H ill, and I think had been m y com panion some tim e before M a ry came to us. W ith the death o f m y C royd on aunt ended fo r me all the days by W and el streams, as at P erth by T ay; and thus w hen I was ten years old, an exclusively H erne H ill-top life set in (when we w ere n o t travelling), o f no ve ry beneficial character. M y C ro yd on aunt left four sons— Jo h n , W illiam , G eorge, and Charles; and two daughters— M argaret and Bridget. A ll hand­ some lads and p retty lasses; but M argaret, in early youth, m et w ith some mischance that twisted h er spine, and hopelessly deform ed her. She was clever, and witty, like h er m other; but never o f any interest to me, though I gave a kind o f brotherly, rath er than cousinly, affection to all m y C royd on cousins. But I never liked invalids, and don ’t to this day;+ and M argaret used to w ear h er hair in ringlets, which I couldn’t bear the sight of.

65

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Bridget was a very different creature; a black-eyed, or, w ith precision, dark hazel-eyed, slim -m ade, lively girl; a little too sharp in the features to be quite pretty, a little too w iry-join ted to be quite graceful; capricious, and m ore o r less selfish in tem per, ye t nice enough to be once o r twice asked to P erth w ith us, o r to stay fo r a m onth o r two at H erne H ill; but never attaching h erself m uch to us, neither us to her. I felt h er an inconvenience in m y nu rsery arrangem ents, the nu rsery having becom e m y child’s study as I grew studious; and she had no m ind, or, it m ight be, no leave, to w o rk w ith me in the garden. T h e fo ur boys w ere all o f them good, and steadily active. T h e eldest, Jo h n , w ith w ider business habits than the rest, w ent soon to push his fortune in Australia, and did so; the second, W illiam , prospered also in L ondon. T h e third brother, G eorge, was the best o f boys and men, but o f small w it. H e extrem ely resem bled a rural G eorge the Fourth,* w ith an expansive, healthy, benevolent eagerness o f sim plicity in his face, greatly bettering him as a type o f British character. H e w en t in to the business in M ark et Street, w ith his father, and both w ere a great jo y to all o f us in th eir affectionateness and truth: n eith er o f them in all their lives ever did a dishonest, unkind, o r otherw ise faultful th in g — but still less a clever one! F or the present, I leave them happily fillin g and driving th eir cart o f quartern loaves in m ornin g round from M ark et Street. T h e fourth, and youngest, Charles, was like the last-born in a fairy tale, ruddy as the boy David,* bright o f heart, n o t w anting in com m on sense, o r even in good sense; and affectionate, like all the rest. H e took to his schooling kindly, and became grammatical, polite, and presentable in our high H erne H ill circle. His elder brother, Jo h n , had taken care o f his education in m ore im portant m atters: v ery early in the child’s life he put him on a barebacked pony, w ith the simple elem entary instruction that he should be thrashed i f he came off. A nd he stayed on. Sim ilarly, fo r first lesson in swimming, he pitched the boy like a pebble into the m iddle o f the C royd on Canal, jum ping in, o f course, after him; but I believe the lad squattered to the bank w ithout help, and became w hen he was on ly ‘that high’ a fearless m aster o f horse and wave.

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M y m oth er used to tell these two stories w ith the greater satisfaction, because, in h er ow n son’s education, she had sacri­ ficed h er pride in his heroism to h er anxiety fo r his safety; and never allowed m e to go to the edge o f a pond, o r be in the same field w ith a pony. As ill-lu ck also w ould have it, there was no m anner o f farm o r m arsh near us, which m ight o f necessity m odify these restrictions; but I have already noted w ith thankful­ ness the good I got ou t o f the tadpole-haunted ditch in C roxted L a n e;* w hile also, even between us and tutorial W alw orth,* there was one Elysian field fo r me in the neglected grass o f C am berw ell G reen. T h ere was a pond in the corner o f it, o f considerable size, and unknown depth,— probably, even in summer, full three feet in the m iddle; the sable opacity o f its w aters adding to the m ystery o f danger. Large, as I said, fo r a pond, perhaps sixty or seventy yards the long w ay o f the G reen , fifty the short; w hile on its w estern edge grew a stately elm, from whose boughs, it was cu rren d y reported, and conscientiously believed, a wicked boy had fallen into the pond on Sunday,* and forthw ith the soul o f him into a deeper and darker pool. It was one o f the m ost valued privileges o f m y early life to be perm itted by m y nurse to contem plate this judicial pond w ith awe, from the oth er side o f the way. T h e loss o f it, by the sanitary conversion o f C am berw ell G reen into a bouquet fo r C am ber­ w ell’s button-hole, is to this day m atter o f perennial lam ent to me. In the carrying out o f the precautionary laws above described I was, o f course, never allowed, on m y visits to C royd on, to go ou t w ith m y cousins, lest they should lead me into mischief; and no m ore adventurous joys w ere ever possible to m e there, than m y walks w ith A nne o r m y m oth er w here the stream from Scarborough pond ran across the road; o r on the crisp tu rf o f Duppas H ill; m y watchings o f the process o f m y father’s drawings in Indian ink, and m y ow n untired contem plations o f the pump and gutter on the oth er side o f the so-called street, but really lane,— n o t m ore than tw elve feet from w all to wall. So that, w hen at last it was thought that Charles, w ith all his good natural gifts and graces, should be brought from C royd on tow n to L ondon city, and initiated into the lo fty life and w ork o f its burgess orders;

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and w hen, accordingly, he was, after various taking o f counsel and m aking o f enquiry, apprenticed to M essrs. Sm ith, E lder,+ & C o., o f 65, C o rn h ill, w ith the high privilege o f com ing out to dine at H erne H ill every Sunday, the new and beam ing presence o f cousin C harles became a vivid excitem ent, and adm irable revela­ tion o f the activities o f youth to me, and I began to get really attached to him. I was n o t m yself the sort o f creature that a boy could care m uch for,— o r indeed any hum an being, except papa and mama, and M rs. Richard G ray (o f w hom m ore presently); being indeed noth ing m ore than a conceited and un entertainingly troublesom e little monkey. But C harles was always kind to me, and naturally answered w ith some cousinly o r even b roth erly tenderness m y adm iration o f him, and delight in him. A t M essrs. Sm ith & E lder’s he was an adm ittedly exem plary apprentice, rapidly becom ing a serviceable shopman, taking orders intelligently, and know ing w ell both his books and his custom ers. As all right-m inded apprentices and good shopm en do, he took personal pride in everything produced by the firm ; and on Sundays always brought a volum e o r tw o in his pocket to show us the character o f its m ost am bitious publications; especially choosing, on m y behalf, any w hich chanced to contain good engravings. In this w ay I became fam iliar w ith S tan field f and H ard in gf long before I possessed a single engraving m yself from either o f them ; but the really m ost precious, and continuous in deep effect upon me, o f all gifts to m y childhood, was from m y C ro yd o n aunt, o f the F orget-m e-n ot o f 18 2 7, w ith a beautiful engraving in it o f P ro u t’s ‘Sepulchral m onum ent at V eron a.’ f Strange, that the true first impulse to the m ost refined instincts o f m y m ind should have been given by m y totally uneducated, but en tirely good and right-m inded, m o th er’s sister. But m ore m agnificent results came o f C h arles’s literary con­ nection, through the interest we all took in the embossed and gilded small octavo w hich Sm ith & E lder published annually, by title ‘F riendship’s O fferin g .’ T his was edited by a pious Scotch missionary, and m in o r— very m uch m in o r— key, poet, T hom as P rin g le ;f m entioned once o r twice w ith a sprinkling o f hon ou r in

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L ockh art’s L ife o f Scott.1 A strictly conscientious and earnest, accurately trained, though n arrow ly learned, man, w ith all the Scottish conceit, resdessness fo r travel, and petulant courage o f the Parks and Livings tones;1 w ith also some p retty tinges o f rom ance and inklings o f philosophy to m ellow him, he was an admitted, though litd e regarded, m em ber o f the best literary circles, and acquainted, in the course o f catering fo r his litde embossed octavo, w ith everybody in the outer circles, and lower, down to litde me. H e had been patronised by Scott; was on term s o f polite correspondence w ith W o rd sw orth and Rogers; o f fam iliar intercourse w ith the E ttrick Sh ep herd;1 and had him self w ritten a book o f poems on the subject o f Africa, in which antelopes w ere called springboks, and oth er A frican m anners and customs carefully observed. P a rd y to oblige the good-natured and lively shopboy, w ho told w onderful things o f his litde student cousin;— p ard y in the look­ ou t fo r thin com positions o f tractable stucco, w herew ith to fill interstices in the m asonry o f ‘Friendship’s O ffering,’ M r. Pringle visited us at H em e H ill, heard the traditions o f m y literary life, expressed some interest in its farther progress,— and sometimes took a copy o f verses away in his pocket. H e was the first person w ho intim ated to m y father and m other, w ith some decision, that there w ere as ye t no w h olly tru stw orthy indications o f m y one day occupying a higher place in English literature than either Milton o r Byron; and accordingly I think none o f us attached much im portance to his opinions.1 But he had the sense to recognise, through the parental vanity, m y fath er’s high natural powers, and exquisitely rom antic sensibility; n o r less m y m oth er’s tried sincerity in the evangelical faith, w hich he had set him self apart to preach: and he thus became an honoured, though never quite cordially w elcom ed, guest on occasions o f state Sunday dinner; and m ore o r less an adviser thenceforw ard o f the m ode o f m y education. H e him self found interest enough in m y real love o f nature and read y faculty o f rhym e, to induce him to read and criticize fo r me some o f m y verses w ith attention; and at last, as a sacred Eleusinian in itiation 1 and D elphic pilgrim age,1 to take me in his hand one day w hen he had a visit to pay to the poet Rogers.

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T h e old m an, previously w arned o f m y admissible claims, in M r. P rin g le’s sight, to the beatitude o f such introduction, was sufficiendy gracious to me, though the cultivation o f germ inating genius was never held by M r. R ogers to be an industry altogether delectable to genius in its zenith.f M oreover, I was unfortunate in the line o f observations by w hich, in retu rn fo r his notice, I endeavoured to show m yself w o rth y o f it. I congratulated him w ith enthusiasm on the beauty o f the engravings by w hich his poem s w ere illustrated,— but betrayed, I fear me, at the same tim e some lack o f an equally vivid interest in the com position o f the poem s themselves. A t all events, M r. P rin g le— I thought at the tim e, som ewhat abru p tly— diverted the conversation to subjects connected w ith Africa. T hese w ere doubtless m ore calculated to interest the polished m instrel o f St. Jam es’s P laced but again I fell into m isdem eanours by allow ing m y ow n atten­ tion, as m y w andering eyes too frankly confessed, to determ ine itself on the pictures glowing from the crim son-silken w alls; and accordingly, after we had taken leave, M r. Pringle took occasion to advise me that, in future, w hen I was in the com pany o f distinguished m en, I should listen m ore attentively to their

conversation. T hese, and such o th e r— (I have elsew here related the E ttrick Sh ep herd’s favouring visit to us, also obtained by M r. P rin g le)— glorifications and advancements being the rew ard o f m y literary efforts, I was nevertheless not beguiled by them into any aban­ donm ent o f the scientific studies which w ere indeed natural and delightful to me. I have above registered th eir beginnings in the sparry walks at M atlock: but m y fath er’s business also took him often to Bristol,t w here he placed m y m other, w ith M a ry and me, at C lifton .t M iss E dgew orth’s story o f L azy L aw rence,f and the visit to M atlock by H arry and Lucy,1 gave an alm ost rom antic and visionary charm to m ineralogy in those dells; and the piece o f iron oxide w ith bright Bristol diamonds,— N o. 51 o f the B rantw ood collection,— was I think the first stone on which I began m y studies o f silica. T h e diamonds o f it w ere bright w ith m any an association besides, since from C lifto n we n early always crossed to Chepstow ,— the rapture o f being afloat, fo r h a lf an h ou r even,

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on that m uddy sea, concentrating into these im pressive minutes the pleasures o f a year o f oth er boys’ boating,— and so round by T in tern and M alvern , w here the hills, extrem ely delightful in themselves to me because I was allowed to run free on them, there being no precipices to fall over n o r streams to fall into, w ere also classical to me through M rs. Sh erw ood ’s ‘H en ry M ilner/ a book w hich I loved long, and respect still. So that there was this o f curious and precious in the means o f m y education in these years, that m y rom ance was always ratified to me by the seal o f lo cality— and every charm o f locality spiritualized by the glow and the passion o f rom ance. T h ere was one district, however, that o f the Cum berland lakes, which needed no charm o f association to deepen the appeal o f its realities. I have said som ew here that m y first m em ory in life was o f F riar’s C rag on D erw en tw ater/ — meaning, I suppose, m y first m em ory o f things afterwards chiefly precious to me; at all events, I knew K esw ick before I knew Perth, and after the P erth days w ere ended, m y m oth er and I stayed either there, at the Royal Oak, o r at L ow w ood Inn, o r at C o n iston t W aterhead, w hile m y father w en t on his business journeys to W h iteh aven / Lancaster, N ewcastle, and oth er n o rth ern towns. T h e inn at C oniston was then actually at the upper end o f the lake, the road from A m blesidet to the village passing just between it and the water; and the view o f the lon g reach o f lake, w ith its softly w ooded lateral hills, had fo r m y father a tender charm w hich excited the same feeling as that w ith w hich he afterwards regarded the lakes o f Italy. L ow w ood Inn also was then little m ore than a country cottage,— and Am bleside a rural village; and the absolute peace and bliss w hich any one w ho cared fo r grassy hills and fo r sweet w aters m ight find at every footstep, and at every turn o f crag or bend o f bay, was totally unlike anything I ever saw, o r read of, elsewhere. M y first sight o f bolder scenery was in W ales; and I have w ritten ,— m ore than it w ould be wise to print,— about the drive from H ereford to Rhaiadyr/ and under Plynlim m on to P on t-yM onach: the jo y o f a w alk w ith m y father in the Sunday afternoon towards H afod/ dashed on ly w ith some alarm ed sense o f the sin

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o f being so happy am ong the hills, instead o f w ritin g out a serm on at h o m e;— m y fath er’s presence and countenance n o t w h o lly com forting me, fo r we both o f us had alike a subdued conscious­ ness o f being profane and rebellious characters, com pared to m y mother.* F rom P on t-y-M on ach we w en t n o rth , gathering pebbles on the beach at A berystw ith, and getting up C ad er Id ris1 w ith help o f ponies:— it rem ained, and rightly, fo r m any a year after, a king o f m ountains to me. Follow ed H arlech 1 and its sands, Festiniog,* the pass o f Aberglaslyn,* and m arvel o fM e n a i Straits* and Bridge, w hich I looked at, then, as M iss E dgew orth had taught me, w ith reverence fo r the m echanical skill o f m an,— little thinking, p oor innocent, w hat use I should see the creature putting his skill to, in the h a lf centu ry to come. T h e M enai Bridge* it was, rem em ber, good reader, n o t tube-,— but the trim plank roadw ay swinging sm ooth betw een its iron cobwebs from tow er to tower. A nd so on to Llanberis* and up Snow don, o f w hich ascent I rem em ber, as the m ost exciting event, the finding fo r the first tim e in m y life a real “m ineral” fo r m yself, a piece o f copper pyrites! But the general im pression o f W elsh m ountain form was so true and clear that subsequent journeys little changed o r deepened it. A nd i f o n ly then m y father and m oth er had seen the real strengths and weaknesses o f their little J o h n ;— i f th ey had given me but a shaggy scrap o f a W elsh pony, and left me in charge o f a good W elsh guide, and o f his w ife, i f I needed any coddling, th ey w ould have made a m an o f me there and then, and afterw ards the com fort o f th eir ow n hearts, and probably the first geologist o f m y tim e in Europe.* I f only! But they could no m ore have done it than throw n me like m y cousin C harles in to C royd on Canal, trusting m e to find m y w ay out by the laws o f nature. Instead, th ey took me back to L on don , and m y father spared tim e from his business hours, once o r twice a week, to take m e to a four-square, sky-lighted, saw dust-floored prison o f a ridingschool in M oorfields,* the sm ell o f w hich, as w e turned in at the

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gate o f it, was a terro r and h o rro r and abom ination to me: and there I was put on big horses that jum ped, and reared, and circled, and sidled; and fell o ff them regularly w henever they did any o f those things; and was a disgrace to m y family, and a burning shame and m isery to myself, till at last the riding-school was given up on m y spraining m y right-hand forefinger (it has never com e straight again since),— and a w ell-b roken Shetland pony bought fo r me, and the tw o o f us led about the N orw ood roads by a riding m aster w ith a leading string. I used to do p retty w ell as long as w e w en t straight, and then get thinking o f something, and fall o ff w hen we turned a corner. I m ight have got some inkling o f a seat in H eaven’s good tim e, if no fuss had been made about me, n o r inquiries instituted w heth er I had been o ff o r on; but as m y m other, the m om ent I got hom e, made searching scrutiny into the day’s disgraces, I m erely got m ore and m ore nervous and helpless after every tum ble; and this branch o f m y education was at last abandoned, m y parents consoling themselves, as best they m ight, in the conclusion that m y n o t being able to learn to ride was the sign o f m y being a singular genius. T h e rest o f the year was passed in such hom e em ploym ent as I have above described;— but, either in that o r the preceding year, m y m ineralogical taste received a new and ve ry im portant impulse from a friend w ho entered afterw ards intim ately into our fam ily life, but o f w hom I have n o t ye t spoken. M y illness at D unkeld, above noticed, was attended by two physicians,— m y m other,— and Dr. G ran t. T h e D octor must then have been a youth w ho had just obtained his diploma. I do n o t know the origin o f his acquaintance w ith m y parents; but I know that m y father had alm ost paternal influence over him; and was o f service to him, to w hat extent I know not, but certainly continued and effective, in beginning the w orld. And as I grew old er I used often to hear expressions o f m uch affection and respect fo r Dr. G ran t from m y father and m other, coupled w ith others o f reg ret o r blam e that he did n o t enough bring ou t his powers, o r use his advantages. E ver after the D unkeld illness, Dr. G ra n t’s name was associated in m y m ind w ith a brow n p o w d er— rhubarb, o r the lik e— o f a

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g ritty and acrid nature, which, by his orders, I had then to take. T h e nam e thenceforw ard always sounded to me gr-r-ish and granular; and a certain dread, n o t am ounting to dislike— but, on the contrary, affectionate, (for me) — made the D o c to r’s presence som ew hat solem nizing to me; the rath er as he n ever jested, and had a brow nish, partly austere, and sere, w rinkled, an d — rhubarby, in fact, sort o f a face. F or the rest, a m an en tirely kind and conscientious, m uch affectionate to m y father, and acknow l­ edging a sort o f w ard -to-gu ard ian’s duty to him, togeth er w ith the responsibility o f a m edical adviser, acquainted both w ith his im agination and his constitution. I conjecture that it m ust have been ow ing to Dr. G ra n t’s being o f fairly good family, and in every sense and every reality o f the w ord a gentlem an,+ that, soon after com ing up to L ondon, he got a surgeon’s appointm ent in one o f His M ajesty’s frigates com m issioned fo r a cruise on the w est coast o f South Am erica. F ortu nately the health o f her com pany gave the D octor little to do professionally; and he was able to give m ost o f his tim e to the study o f the natural history o f the coast o f C h ili and Peru. O ne o f the results o f these shore expeditions was the finding such a stagbeetle as had never before been seen. It had peculiar or colossal nippers, and— I forget w hat ‘chiasos’ means in G reek, but its jaws w ere chiasoi. It was brought hom e beautifully packed in a box o f cotton; and, w hen the box was opened, excited the adm iration o f all beholders, and was called the ‘C h iasognathos1^ G ran tii.’ A second result was his collection o f a v e ry perfect series o f Valparaiso hum m ing birds, out o f w hich he spared, fo r a present to m y m other, as m any as filled w ith purple and golden flu tter tw o glass cases as large as M r. G o u ld ’s f at the British M useum , w hich became resplendent decorations o f the draw ing-room at H erne H ill,— w ere to me, as I grew older, conclusive standards o f plum e texture and colour,— and are now placed in the best lighted recess o f the parish school at C oniston. T h e third result was m ore im portant still. Dr. G ran t had been presented by the Spanish masters o f mines w ith characteristic and rich specimens o f the m ost beautiful veinstones o f C opiap o.f It was a m ighty fact fo r me, at the height o f m y child’s in terest in

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m inerals, to see ou r ow n parlou r table loaded w ith foliated silver and arborescent gold. N ot on ly the man o f science, but the latent m iser in me, was developed largely in an hour o r two! In the pieces w hich Dr. G ran t gave me, I counted m y treasure grain by grain; and recall to-day, in acute sym pathy w ith it, the indignation I felt at seeing no instantly reverential change in cousin C h arles’s countenance, w hen I inform ed him that the film on the surface o f an unpresum ing specimen, am ounting in quantity to about the sixteenth part o f a sixpence, was ‘native silver’! Soon after his retu rn from this prosperous voyage, Dr. G ran t settled him self in a respectable house half-w ay down Richm ond H ill, w here gradually he obtained practice and accepted position am ong the gentry o f that tow n and its parkly neighbourhood. And every now and then, in the sum m er m ornings, o r the gaily frost-w hite w in ter ones, we used, papa and mamma, and M ary and I, to drive over Clapham and W and sw orth C o m m on sf to a breakfast picnic w ith Dr. G ran t at the “Star and G arter. ” + Breakfasts m uch im pressed on m y m ind, partly by the p retty view from the windows; but m ore, because w hile m y orthodox breakfast, even in travelling, was o f stale baker’s bread, at these starry picnics I was allowed new French roll. Leaving Dr. G ran t, fo r the nonce, under these pleasant and dignifiedly crescent circumstances, I m ust turn to the friends w ho o f all others, n o t relatives, w ere m ost pow erfu lly influential on m y child life,— M r. and M rs. Richard Gray. Som e considerable tim e during m y fath er’s clerkdom had been passed by him in Spain, in learning to know sherry, and seeing the ways o f making and storing it at X erez, Cadiz, and Lisbon. A t Lisbon he became intim ate w ith another young Scotsm an o f about his ow n age, also em ployed, I conceive, as a clerk, in some Spanish house, but him self o f no n arrow clerkly mind. O n the contrary, Richard G ra y w en t far beyond m y father in the rom antic sentim ent, and scholarly love o f good literature, which so strangely m ingled w ith m y fath er’s steady business habits. E qually energetic, industrious, and high-principled, M r. G ra y ’s enthusiasm was nevertheless irregularly, and too often uselessly, coruscant; being to m y fath er’s, as C arlyle says o f French against

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English fire at Dettingen,* “faggot against anthracite.” Yet, I w ill n o t venture absolutely to m aintain that, under R ichard’s erratic and effervescent influence, an expedition to C intra, o r an assis­ tance at a village festa, or even at a bull-fight, m ight n o t sometim es, to that extent, invalidate m y fo rm er general assertion that, during nine years, m y father never had a holiday. A t all events, the youn g m en became close and affectionate friends; and the connection had a softening, cheering, and altogether ben efi­ cent effect on m y fath er’s character. N o r was their b ro th erly friendship any w hit flawed or dimmed, w hen, a little w hile before leaving Spain, M r. G ray m arried an extrem ely good and beautiful Scotch girl, M a ry M onro. E xtrem ely good, and, in the gentlest w ay;— en tirely simple, meek, loving, and serious; not clever enough to be any w ay naughty, but saved from being stupid by a vivid nature, full o f enthusiasm like her husband’s. B oth o f them evangelically pious, in a vivid, n o t virulent, way; and each o f them sacredly, no less than passionately, in love w ith the other, th ey w ere the en tirely best-m atched pair I have yet seen in this m atch-m aking w orld and dispensation. Yet, as fate w ould have it, they had the one g rie f o f having no children, w hich caused it, in years to come, to be M rs. G ra y ’s principal occupation in life to spoil me. By the tim e I was old enough to be spoiled, M r. G ray, having fairly prospered in business, and come to L ondon, was established, w ith his w ife, h er m other, and her m o th er’s w hite French poodle, Petite, in a dignified house in C am berw ell G r o v e l A n en tirely happy fam ily; old M rs. M o n ro as sweet as h er daughter, perhaps slightly wiser; Richard rejoicing in them both w ith all his heart; and Petite, having, perhaps, as much sense as any two o f them , delighted in, and beloved by all three. T h e ir house was near the top o f the G ro ve,— w hich was a real grove in those days, and a grand one, some three-quarters o f a m ile long, steepishly down hill,— beautiful in perspective as an unprecedently “long-draw n aisle;” f trees, elm, w ych elm, sycam ore and aspen, the branches m eeting at top; the houses on each side w ith trim stone pathways up to them , through small plots o f w ell-m ow n grass; three o r fou r storied, m osdy in

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grouped terraces,— w ell-built, o f sober-coloured brick, w ith high and steep slated ro o f— n o t gabled, but polygonal; all w ell to do, w ell kept, w ell broom ed, dignifiedly and pleasantly vulgar, and their ow n G ro ve-w o rld all in all to them . It was a pleasant m ile and a fu rlong o r tw o ’s w alk from H erne H ill to the G rove; and w henever M rs. G ray and m y m oth er had anything to say to each other, they w alked— up the hill o r d o w n — to say it; and M r. G ra y ’s house was always the same to us as our own at any tim e o f day o r night. But our house n o t at all so to the G rays, having its form alities inviolable; so that during the w hole o f childhood I had the sense that w e w ere, in some w ay o r other, always above our friends and relations,— m ore o r less patronizing everybody, favouring them by our advice, instructing them by ou r example, and called upon, by w hat was due both to ourselves, and the constitution o f society, to keep them at a certain distance. W ith one exception; which I have deep pleasure in rem em ­ bering. In the first chapter o f the Antiquary,* the landlord at Q ueen’s F erry sets down to his esteemed guest a bottle o f R obert C ockbu rn’s best port; w ith w hich R obert C ockburn duly supplied S ir W a lter him self, being at that time, if not the largest, the leading im p orter o f the finest P ortugal wine, as m y father o f Spanish. But M r. C ockburn was prim arily an old Edinburgh gentlem an, and on ly by condescension a w ine-m erchant; a man o f great pow er and pleasant sarcastic w it, m oving in the first circles o f Edinburgh; attached to m y father by m any links o f association w ith the ‘auld tou n ,’ and sincerely respecting him. H e was m uch the stateliest and truest piece o f character w ho ever sate at ou r m erchant feasts. M rs. C ockburn was even a little higher,— as representative o f the Scottish lady o f the old school,— indulgent ye t to the new. She had been L ord B yron ’s first o f first loves; she was the M a ry D u ff * o f L achin -y-G air. W h e n I first rem em ber her, still extrem ely beautiful in m iddle age, full o f sense; and, though w ith some m ixture o f proud severity, extrem ely kind. T h e y had two sons, Alexander and Archibald, both in business w ith their father, both clever and energetic, but both distinctly reso lu te— as indeed their parents desired— that they w ould be

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gentlem en first, salesmen second: a character much to be h o n ­ oured and retained am ong us; n o r in their case the least am bitious o r affected: gentlem en they w ere,— born so, and m ore at hom e on the hills than in the counting-house, and w ithal attentive enough to their business. T h e house, nevertheless, did n o t becom e all that it m ight have been in less w ell-b red hands. T h e tw o sons, one o r other, often dined w ith us, and w ere m ore distinctly friends than m ost o f ou r guests. Alexander had m uch o f his fath er’s hum our; Archibald, a fine, young, dark H ighlander, was extrem ely delightful to me, and took some pains w ith me, fo r the sake o f m y love o f Scott, telling me anything about fishing o r deer-stalking that I cared to listen to. For, even from earliest days, I cared to listen to the adventures o f oth er people, though I never coveted any fo r m yself. I read all Captain M a rrya t’s* novels, w ith ou t ever w ishing to go to sea; traversed the field o f W a terlo o w ith ou t the slightest inclination to be a soldier; w en t on ideal fishing w ith Isaac W a lto n f w ith ou t ever casting a fly; and knew C o o p er’s f ‘D eerslayer’ and ‘P ath fin der’ alm ost by heart, w ith ou t handling anything but a pop-gun, o r having any paths to find beyond the solitudes o f G ipsy H ill. I used sometim es to tell m yself stories o f campaigns in w hich I was an ingenious general, o r caverns in which I discovered veins o f gold; but these w ere m erely to fill vacancies o f fancy, and had no reference w hatever to things actual or feasible. I already disliked grow ing older,— never expected to be wiser, and form ed no m ore plans fo r the future than a little black silkw orm does in the m iddle o f its first m ulb erry leaf.

CH APTER

V I.

S C H A F F H A U S E N A N D M IL A N .

T

H E visit to the field o f W aterloo, spoken o f by chance in last

chapter, m ust have been w hen I was five years old,— on the occasion o f papa and m am m a’s taking a fancy to see Paris in its festivities follow ing the coronation o f C harles X.' W e stayed several weeks in Paris, in a quiet fam ily inn, and then some days at Brussels,— but I have no m em ory w hatever o f interm ediate

stages. It seems to me, on revision o f these m atin times, that I was v ery slow in receiving im pressions, and needed to stop two or three days at least in a place, before I began to get a notion o f it; but the notion, once got, was, as far as it w ent, always right; and since I had no occasion afterw ards to m odify it, oth er impressions fell away from that principal one, and disappeared altogether. H ence w hat people call m y prejudiced views o f things,— which are, in fact, the exact contrary, namely, post-judiced. (I do not mean to introduce this w ord fo r general service, but it saves tim e and prin t just now.) A n oth er character o f m y perceptions I find curiously steady— that I was on ly interested by things near me, o r at least clearly visible and present. I suppose this is so w ith children generally; but it rem ain ed— and rem ains— a part o f m y grow n-up temper. In this visit to Paris, I was extrem ely taken up w ith the soft red cushions o f the armchairs, which it took one h a lf an hour to subside into after sitting down,— w ith the exquisitely polished flo o r o f the salon, and the good-natured French ‘B oots’ (m ore p ro p erly ‘Brushes’), w ho skated over it in the m orning till it became as reflective as a m ahogany table,— w ith the p retty court full o f flow ers and shrubs in beds and tubs, between our rez-de79

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chaussee window s and the ou ter gate,— w ith a nice black servant belonging to another family, w ho used to catch the house-cat fo r me; and w ith an equally good-natured fille de cham bre, w ho used to catch it back again, fo r fear I should teaze it, (her experience o f English boy-children having made h er dubious o f m y in ten ­ tions);— all these things and people I rem em ber,— and the T u ileries1 garden, and the ‘T ivo li’ gardens, w here m y father took me up and down a ‘Russian m ountain,’ and I saw firew orks o f the finest. But I rem em ber nothing o f the Seine, n o r o f N otre D am e,f n o r o f anything in or even out o f the town, except the windm ills on M o n t M a rtre .+ Sim ilarly at Brussels. I recollect no H otel de V ille, no stately streets, no surprises, or interests, except on ly the drive to W a te r­ loo and slow w alk over the field. T h e defacing m ound was n o t then b u ilt— it was on ly nine years since the fight; and each bank and ho llo w o f the ground was still a true exponent o f the courses o f charge o r recoil. Fastened in m y m ind by later reading, that sight o f the slope o f battle remains to me en tirely distinct, w hile the results o f a later exam ination o f it after the building o f the m ound, have faded m ostly away. I m ust also note that the rapture o f getting on board a steamer, spoken o f in last letter, was o f later date; as a child I cared m ore fo r a beach on which the waves broke, o r sands in w hich I could dig, than fo r w ide sea. T h ere was no ‘first sight’ o f the sea fo r me. I had gone to Scotland in Captain Spinks’ cutter, then a regular passage boat, w hen I was on ly three years old; but the w eather was fine, and except fo r the pleasure o f tattooing m yself w ith tar am ong the ropes, I m ight as w ell have been ashore; but I grew into the sense o f ocean, as the E arth shaker,+ by the rattling beach, and lisping sand. I had meant, also in this place, to give a w ord o r tw o to another p o o r relative, N anny Clowsley, an en tirely cheerful old wom an, w ho lived, w ith a D utch clock and some old teacups, in a single room (with small bed in alcove) on the third storey o f a gabled house, part o f the group o f old ones lately pulled down on Chelsea side o f Battersea bridged But I had b etter keep w hat I have to say o f Chelsea w ell together, early and late; only, in

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speaking o f shingle, I m ust note the use to m e o f the view ou t o f N anny C low sley’s w indow righ t down upon the T ham es tide, w ith its tossing w herries at the flow, and stranded barges at ebb. And now, I m ust get on, and come to the real first sights o f several things. I said that, fo r ou r English tours, M r. T elford usually lent us his chariot. But fo r Sw itzerland, now taking M ary, w e needed stronger wheels and m ore room ; and fo r this, and all follow ing tours abroad, the first preparation and the beginning o f delight was the choosing a carriage to ou r fancy, from the hireable reserves at M r. H opkinson’s, o f L on g Acre. T h e p oor m odern slaves and sim pletons w ho le t themselves be dragged like cattle, o r felled tim ber, through the countries they imagine them selves visiting,f can have n o conception w hatever o f the com plex joys, and ingenious hopes, connected w ith the choice and arrangem ent o f the travelling carriage in old times. T h e m echanical questions first, o f stren gth — easy rolling,— steady and safe poise o f persons and luggage; the general stateliness o f effect to be obtained fo r the abashing o f plebeian beholders; the cunning design and distribution o f store-cellars under the seats, secret draw ers under fro n t windows, invisible pockets under padded lining, safe from dust, and accessible on ly by insidious slits, o r necrom antic valves like A laddin’s trap-door;* the fitting o f cushions w here th ey w ould n o t slip, the rounding o f corners for m ore delicate repose; the prudent attachm ents and springs o f blinds; the perfect fitting o f windows, on w hich o n e-h alf the com fort o f a travelling carriage really depends; and the adaptation o f all these concentrated luxuries to the probabilities o f w ho w ould sit w here, in the litd e apartm ent w hich was to be virtu ally o n e’s hom e fo r five o r six m onths;— all this was an im aginary jo u rn ey in itself, w ith every pleasure, and none o f the discom fort, o f practical travelling. O n the grand occasion o f ou r first continental jo u rn ey— which was m eant to be h a lf a year lon g — the carriage was chosen with, o r in addition fitted w ith, a fro n t seat outside fo r m y father and M ary, a dickey, unusually large, fo r Anne and the courier, and fo u r inside seats, though those in fro n t ve ry small, that papa

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and M a ry m ight be received inside in stress o f w eather. I reco l­ lect, w hen we had finally settled w hich carriage we w ould have, the polite M r. H opkinson, advised o f m y dawning literary reputa­ tion, asking me (to the jo y o f m y father) i f I could translate the m otto o f the form er possessor, under his painted arm s ,— “Vix ea nostra voco,” f — w hich I accom plishing successfully, farth er w ittily observed that how ever by righ t belonging to the fo rm er posses­ sor, the m otto was w ith greater p rop riety applicable to us.^ F o r a fam ily carriage o f this solid construction, w ith its lug­ gage, and load o f six o r m ore persons, fou r horses w ere o f course necessary to get any sufficient w ay on it; and half-a-dozen such teams w ere kept at every post-house. T h e m odern reader m ay perhaps have as much difficulty in realizing these savagely and clum sily locom otive periods, though so recent, as any aspects o f m igrato ry Saxon or G oth;* and m ay n o t think me vainly garrulous in their description. T h e F rench horses, and m ore or less those on all the great lines o f E uropean travelling, w ere p rop erly stout trottin g cart­ horses, w ell up to their w ork and over it; untrim m ed, long-tailed, good-hum ouredly licentious, w hinnying and frolicking w ith each o th er w hen they had a chance; sagaciously steady to their w ork; obedient to the voice mostly, to the rein on ly fo r m ore explicit­ ness; never touched by the w hip, w hich was used m erely to express the d river’s exultation in h im self and them ,— signal obstructive vehicles in fro n t out o f the way, and advise all the inhabitants o f the villages and towns traversed on the day’s journey, that persons o f distinction w ere honou ring them by their tran sitory presence. I f everything was right, the four horses w ere driven by one postillion riding the shaft horse; but if the horses w ere young, o r the riders unpractised, there was a postillion fo r the leaders also. As a rule, there w ere four steady horses and a good driver, rarely drunk, often v e ry young, the m en o f stronger build being m ore useful fo r oth er w ork, and any clever young rid er able to manage the w ell-trained and m erry-m inded beasts, besides being lighter on their backs. H a lf the w eight o f the cavalier, in such cases, was in his boots, w hich w ere often brought out slung from the saddle like tw o buckets, the postillion, after

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the horses w ere harnessed, w alking along the pole and getting into them. Scarcely less official, fo r a travelling carriage o f good class than its postillions, was the courier, o r properly, avant-courier, whose prim ary office it was to ride in advance at a steady gallop, and ord er the horses at each post-house to be harnessed and ready waiting, so that no tim e m ight be lost between stages. His higher function was to make all bargains and pay all bills, so as to save the fam ily unbecom ing cares and mean anxieties, besides the trouble and disgrace o f tryin g to speak F rench o r any oth er foreign language. He, farther, knew the good inns in each town, and all the good room s in each inn, so that he could w rite beforehand to secure those suited to his family. H e was also, i f an intelligent man and high-class courier, w ell acquainted w ith the prop er sights to be seen in each town, and w ith all the occult means to be used for getting sight o f those that w eren ’t to be seen by the vulgar. M u rray,f the reader w ill rem em ber, did n o t exist in those days; the courier was a private M urray, w ho knew, i f he had any w it, n o t the things to be seen only, but those you w ould y o u rself best like to see, and gave instructions to yo u r valet-de-place accordingly, in terfering on ly as a higher pow er in cases o f difficulty needing to be overcom e by m oney o r tact. H e invariably attended the ladies in their shopping expeditions, took them to the fashionable shops, and arranged as he thought prop er the prices o f articles. Lastly, he knew, o f course, all the oth er high-class couriers on the road, and told you, i f you wished to know, all the people o f consideration w ho chanced to be w ith you in the inn. M y father w ould have considered it an insolent and revolu ­ tion ary trespass on the privileges o f the nobility to have m ounted his courier to ride in advance o f us; besides that, w isely liberal o f his m oney fo r com fort and pleasure, he never w ould have paid the cost o f an extra horse fo r show. T h e horses w ere, therefore, ordered in advance, w hen possible, by the postillions o f any preceding carriage (or, otherwise, w e did n o t m ind w aiting till they w ere harnessed), and w e carried ou r courier behind us in the dickey w ith A nne, being in all his oth er functions and accomplishm ents an indispensable luxury to us. Indispensable,

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first, because none o f us could speak anything but French, and that o n ly enough to ask ou r w ay in; fo r all specialties o f bargain­ ing, o r details o f inform ation, we w ere helpless, even in France,— and m ight as w ell have been m igrato ry sheep, o r geese, in Sw itzerland o r Italy. Indispensable, secondly, to m y fath er’s peace o f m ind, because, w ith perfect lib erality o f tem per, he had a great dislike to being over-reached. H e p erfectly w ell knew that his courier w ould have his com mission, and allow ed it w ith ou t question; but he knew also that his courier w ould n o t be cheated by o th er people, and was content in his representative. N o t fo r ostentation, but fo r real enjoym ent and change o f sensation from his suburban life, m y father liked large room s; and m y m other, in m ere continuance o f h er ordinary and essential habits, liked clean ones; clean, and large, means a good inn and a first floor. A lso m y father liked a view from his windows, and reasonably said, “W h y should we travel to see less than we m ay?”— so that m eant first flo o r front. Also m y father liked delicate cookery, just because he was one o f the sm allest and rarest eaters; and m y m oth er liked good meat. T h at meant, dinner w ith ou t lim iting price, in reason. Also, though m y father never w en t into society, he all the m ore enjoyed getting a glimpse, reverentially, o f fashionable p eop le— I mean, people o f rank,— he scorned fashion, and it was a great thing to him to feel that L ord and L a d y ------- w ere on the opposite landing, and that, at any m om ent, he m ight conceivably m eet and pass them on the stairs.* Salvador, duly advised, o r pen etratively perceptive o f these dispositions o f m y father, en tirely pleasing and adm irable to the courier m ind, had carteblanche in all adm inistrative functions and bargains. W e found ou r pleasant room s always ready, ou r good horses always waiting, everybod y took their hats o ff w hen w e arrived and departed. Salvador presented his accounts weekly, and they w ere settled w ith ou t a w ord o f demur. T o all these conditions o f luxury and felicity, can the m odern steam -puffed tourist conceive the added ru lin g and culm inating o n e — that we w ere never in a hurry? coupled w ith the correlative pow er o f always starting at the h o u r w e chose, and that i f we w eren ’t ready, the horses w ould wait? As a rule, we breakfasted at

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our ow n hom e tim e— eight; the horses w ere pawing and neighing at the d oor (under the archway, I should have said) by nine. Between nine and three,— reckoning seven m iles an hour, including stoppages, fo r m inim um pace,— w e had done ou r fo rty to fifty m iles o f journey, sate down to dinner at four,— and I had tw o hours o f delicious exploring by m yself in the evening; ordered in punctually at seven to tea, and finishing m y sketches till half-past nine,— bed-tim e. O n lon ger days o f jou rn ey w e started at six, and did tw enty m iles before breakfast, com ing in fo r four o ’clock dinner as usual. In a quite long day w e made a second stop, dining at any nice village hostelry, and com ing in fo r late tea, after doing our eighty o r nin ety miles. But these pushes w ere seldom made unless to get to some pleasant cathedral tow n fo r Sunday, o r pleasant A lpine village. W e never travelled on Sunday; m y father and I n early always w en t— as p h ilo s o p h e r — to mass, in the m orning, and m y m other, in pure good-nature to us, (I scarcely ever saw in her a trace o f fem inine curiosity,) w ould join w ith us in some such profanity as a drive on the C orso, o r the like, in the afternoon. But we all, even m y father, liked a w alk in the fields better, round an Alpine chalet village. A t page 6 0 I threatened m ore accurate note o f m y first im pressions o f Sw itzerland and Italy in 1833. O f custom ary Calais I have som ething to say later on,— here I note o n ly our going up R hine to Strasburg, w here, w ith all its m iracles o f building, I was already wise enough to feel the cathedral stiff and iron -w orky; but was greatly excited and im pressed by the high roofs and rich fronts o f the w ooden houses, in their sudden indication o f nearness to Sw itzerland; and especially by finding the scene so adm irably expressed by P ro u t in the 36th plate o f his Flanders and G erm any, still uninjured. And then, w ith Salvador was held council in the in n -p arlou r o f Strasburg, w h eth er— it was then the F riday aftern oon — we should push on to -m orrow fo r ou r Sunday’s rest to Basle, o r to Schaffhausen. H ow m uch depended— i f ever anything ‘depends’ on anything else,— on the issue o f that debate! Salvador inclined to the straight and level Rhine-side road, w ith the luxury o f the T h ree Kings*

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attainable by sunset. But at Basle, it had to be adm itted, there w ere no Alps in sight, no cataract w ith in hearing, and Salvador honourably laid before us the splendid alternative possibility o f reaching, by traverse o f the h illy road o f the Black Forest, the gates o f Schaffhausen itself, before they closed fo r the night. T h e Black Forest! T h e fall o f Schaffhausen! T h e chain o f the Alps! w ith in on e’s grasp fo r Sunday! W h a t a Sunday, instead o f custom ary W a lw o rth and the D ulw ich fields! M y im passioned petition at last carried it, and the earliest m ornin g saw us trottin g over the bridge o f boats to K eltic and in the eastern light I w ell rem em ber w atching the line o f the Black F orest hills enlarge and rise, as w e crossed the plain o f the Rhine. “G ates o f the hills”; opening fo r me to a new life — to cease no m ore, except at the G ates o f the H ills +w hence one returns not. A nd so, w e reached the base o f the Schwartzwald,* and entered an ascending dingle; and scarcely, I think, a quarter o f an hour after entering, saw ou r first ‘Swiss cottage.’ * H ow m uch it m eant to all o f us,— how m uch prophesied to me, no m odern traveller could the least conceive, i f I spent days in tryin g to tell him. A sort o f trium phant shriek— like all the railw ay w hisdes going o ff at once at Clapham Ju n c tio n f — has gone up from the Fooldom o f E urope at the destruction o f the m yth o f W illia m T ell.1 T o us, every w ord o f it was tru e — but m ythically lum inous w ith m ore than m ortal truth; and here, under the black woods, glowed the visible, beautiful, tangible testim ony to it in the purple larch timber, carved to exquisiteness by the jo y o f peasant life, continu­ ous, m otionless there in the pine shadow on its ancestral turf,— unassailed and unassailing, in the blessedness o f righteous poverty, o f religious peace. T h e m yth o f W illia m T ell is destroyed forsooth? and you have tunnelled G oth ard , and filled, it m ay be, the Bay o f U r i;— and it was all fo r you and yo u r sake that the grapes dropped blood from the press o f St. Jacob ,1 and the pine club struck down horse and helm in M o rg arten G le n ?f

* Swiss, in character and real habit—the political boundaries are of no moment.

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D ifficu lt enough fo r you to imagine, that old travellers’ time w hen Sw itzerland was y e t the land o f the Swiss, and the Alps had never been trod by fo ot o f man. Steam , never heard o f yet, but for short fair w eather crossing at sea (were there paddle-packets across Atlantic? I forget).* A n y way, the roads by land w ere safe; and entered once in to this m ountain Paradise, w e w ound on through its balm y glens, past cottage after cottage on their lawns, still glistering in the dew. T h e road got into m ore barren heights by the mid-day, the hills arduous; once o r twice w e had to w ait fo r horses, and we w ere still tw enty m iles from Schaffhausen at sunset; it was past m idnight w hen we reached her closed gates. T h e disturbed p o rter had the grace to open th em — n o t quite wide enough; we carried away one o f ou r lamps in collision w ith the slanting bar as we drove through the arch. H ow m uch happier the privilege o f dream ily entering a mediaeval city, though w ith the loss o f a lamp, than the free ingress o f being jam m ed between a dray and a tram car at a railroad station! It is strange that I but dim ly recollect the follow ing m orning; I fancy w e m ust have gone to some so rt o f church o r other; and certainly, p art o f the day w en t in adm iring the bow-w indow s projecting into the clean streets. N one o f us seem to have thought the Alps w ould be visible w ith ou t profane exertion in clim bing hills. W e dined at four, as usual, and the evening being entirely fine, w en t ou t to walk, all o f us,— m y father and m oth er and M a ry and I. W e m ust have still spent some tim e in town-seeing, fo r it was draw ing towards sunset w hen w e got up to some so rt o f garden prom enad e— w est o f the town, I believe; and high above the Rhine, so as to com m and the open coun try across it to the south and west. A t w hich open coun try o f low undulation, far into blue,— gazing as at one o f ou r ow n distances from M alvern o f W orcestersh ire, o r D orking o f K en t,— suddenly— beh old — beyond,* T h e re was no thought in any o f us fo r a m om ent o f their being clouds. T h e y w ere clear as crystal, sharp on the pure horizon sky, and already tinged w ith rose by the sinking sun. In fin itely beyond

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all that w e had ever thou ght o r dream ed,— the seen w alls o f lost Eden could n o t have been m ore beautiful to us; n o t m ore awful, round heaven, the walls o f sacred D eath. It is n o t possible to imagine, in any tim e o f the w orld, a m ore blessed entrance into life, fo r a child o f such a tem peram ent as m ine. T ru e, the tem peram ent belonged to the age: a ve ry few years,— w ith in the hundred,— before that, no child could have been born to care fo r m ountains, o r fo r the m en that lived am ong them , in that way. T ill Rousseau’s * tim e, there had been no ‘sentim ental’ love o f nature; and till S cott’s, no such apprehensive love o f ‘all sorts and conditions o f m en,’ n o t in the soul m erely, but in the flesh. St. B ernard o f La Fontaine^ looking ou t to M o n t Blanc w ith his child’s eyes, sees above M o n t Blanc the M adonna; St. B ernard o f T alloires,f n o t the Lake o f Annecy, but the dead betw een M artig n y and Aosta. But fo r me, the Alps and th eir people w ere alike beautiful in th eir snow, and their hum anity; and I w anted, n eith er fo r them n o r m yself, sight o f any thrones in heaven but the rocks, o r o f any spirits in heaven but the clouds. T hus, in perfect health o f life and fire o f heart, n o t w anting to be anything but the b oy I was, n o t w anting to have anything m ore than I had; know ing o f sorrow on ly just so m uch as to make life serious to me, n o t enough to slacken in the least its sinews; and w ith so m uch o f science mixed w ith feeling as to make the sight o f the Alps n o t on ly the revelation o f the beauty o f the earth, but the opening o f the first page o f its volum e,— I w en t down that evening from the garden-terrace o f Schaffhausen w ith m y destiny fixed in all o f it that was to be sacred and useful. T o that terrace, and the shore o f the Lake o f G eneva, m y heart and faith retu rn to this day, in every im pulse that is y e t n o b ly alive in them , and every thought that has in it help o r peace. T h e m ornin g after that Sunday’s eve at Schaffhausen was also cloudless, and we drove early to the falls, seeing again the chain o f the Alps b y m ornin g light, and learning, at L auffen,f w hat an A lpine riv er was. C om ing ou t o f the gorge o f Balstall, I got another ever m em orable sight o f the chain o f the Alps, and these distant views, never seen by the m odern traveller, taught me, and made me feel, m ore than the close m arvels o f T h u n and

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Interlachen. It was again fortunate that w e took the grandest pass in to Italy,— that the first ravine o f the m ain Alps I saw was the V ia M ala, and the first lake o f Italy, C om o. W e took boat on the little recessed lake o f Chiavenna,* and row ed down the w hole w ay o f waters, passing another Sunday at Cadenabbia,1 and then, from villa to villa, across the lake, and across, to C om o, and so to M ilan by M onzad It was then full, though early, sum m er time; and the first im pression o f Italy always ought to be in h er summer. It was also w ell that, though m y h eart was w ith the Swiss cottager, the artificial taste in me had been m ainly form ed by T u rn e r’s ren ­ dering o f those ve ry scenes, in R ogers’ Italy. T h e ‘Lake o f C o m o ,’ the tw o m oonlight villas, and the ‘F arew ell,’ had prepared me fo r all that was beautiful and righ t in the terraced gardens, prop ortioned arcades, and w hite spaces o f sunny wall, w hich have in general no honest charm fo r the English mind. But to me, th ey w ere alm ost native through T urner,— fam iliar at once, and revered. I had no idea then o f the Renaissance evil* in them ; they w ere associated o n ly w ith w hat I had been told o f the ‘divine art’ o f Raphael and L ion ard o,f and, b y m y ignorance o f dates, asso­ ciated w ith the stories o f Shakespeare. P ortia’s villa,+— Ju lie t’s palace,*— I thought to have been like these. Also, as noticed in the epilogue to rep rin t o f vol. ii. o f M o d ern Pa inters,1 1 had always a quite true perception o f size, w hether in m ountains o r buildings, and w ith the perception, jo y in it; so that the vastness o f scale in the M ilanese palaces, and the ‘m ount o f m arble, a hundred spires,’* o f the duomo,* impressed me to the full at once: and n o t having ye t the taste to discern good G othic from bad, the m ere richness and fineness o f lace-like tracery against the sky was a consum m ate rapture to m e— how m uch m ore getting up to it and clim bing am ong it, w ith the M on te Rosa* seen between its pinnacles across the plain! I had been p artly prepared fo r this view by the adm irable presentm ent o f it in L ondon, a year o r two before, in an exhibition, o f w hich the vanishing has been in later life a greatly felt loss to m e,— B u rford ’s panoram a * in Leicester Square, which was an educational institution o f the highest and purest value, and

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ought to have been supported by the G overn m en t as one o f the m ost beneficial school instrum ents in L ondon. T h e re I had seen, exquisitely painted, the view from the r o o f o f M ilan C athedral, w hen I had no hope o f ever seeing the reality, but w ith a jo y and w on d er o f the deepest;— and now to be there indeed, made deep w ond er becom e fathom less. Again, m ost fortunately, the w eather was clear and cloudless all day long, and as the sun drew westw ard, we w ere able to drive to the C o rso, w here, at that tim e, the higher M ilanese w ere happy and proud as ours in their park, and w hence, no railw ay station intervening, the w hole chain o f the Alps was visible on one side, and the beautiful city w ith its dom inant frost-crystalline D uom o on the other. T h en the drive hom e in the open carriage through the quiet tw ilight, up the long streets, and round the base o f the D uom o, the sm ooth pavem ent un der the wheels adding w ith its silentness to the sense o f dream w on d er in it all,— the perfect air in absolute calm, the just seen m ajesty o f encom passing Alps, the perfectness— so it seemed to m e— and purity, o f the sweet, stately, stainless m arble against the sky. W h a t m ore, w hat else, could be asked o f seem ingly im m utable good, in this m utable w orld? I wish in general to avoid in terference w ith the read er’s judgm ent on the m atters which I endeavour serenely to narrate; but may, I think, here be pardoned fo r observing to him the advantage, in a certain way, o f the contem plative abstraction from the w o rld which, during this early continental travelling, was partly enforced by our ignorance, and partly secured by ou r love o f com fort. T h ere is som ething peculiarly d elightfu l— nay, delightful inconceivably by the m odern G erm an-plated and French-polished tourist, in passing through the streets o f a foreign city w ith ou t understanding a w ord that anybody says! O n e’s ear fo r all sound o f voices then becomes en tirely im partial; one is n o t diverted by the m eaning o f syllables from recognizing the absolute guttural, liquid, o r honeyed quality o f them : w hile the gesture o f the body and the expression o f the face have the same value fo r you that they have in a pantom im e; every scene becom es a m elodious opera to you, o r a picturesquely inarticulate

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Punch. C onsider, also, the gain in so consistent tranquillity. M ost youn g people nowadays, o r even lively old ones, travel m ore in search o f adventures than o f inform ation. O ne o f m y m ost valued records o f recent w andering is a series o f sketches by an amiable and extrem ely clever girl, o f the things that happened to her people and h erself every day that they w ere abroad. H ere it is b roth er H arry, and there it is mamma, and now paterfamilias, and no w h er little graceful self, and anon h er m erry o r rem onstrant sisterhood, w ho m eet w ith enchanting hardships, and enviable m isadventures; bind them selves w ith fetters o f friendship, and glance into sparklings o f am ourette, w ith any sort o f people in conical hats and frin gy caps: and it is all v ery delightful and con­ descending; and, o f course, things are learn t about the country that w ay which can be learned in no oth er way, but on ly about that part o f it w hich interests itself in you, o r which you have pleasure in being acquainted w ith. Virtually, you are thinking o f yo u rself all the tim e; you necessarily talk to the cheerful people, n o t to the sad ones; and yo u r head is fo r the m ost part vividly taken up w ith very little things. I don’t say that ou r isolation was m eritorious, o r that people in general should know no language but their own. Yet the m eek ignorance has these advantages. W e did n o t travel fo r adventures, n o r fo r company, but to see w ith ou r eyes, and to m easure w ith ou r hearts. I f you have sympathy, the aspect o f hum anity is m ore true to the depths o f it than its w ords; and even in m y own land, the things in w hich I have been least deceived are those w hich I have learned as their Spectator.*

CH APTER

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H E w ork to which, as partly above described, I set m yself during the year 18 3 4 un der the excitem ent rem aining from m y foreign travels, was in fo u r distinct directions, in any one o f w hich m y strength m ight at that tim e have been fixed by definite encouragem ent. T h ere was first the effo rt to express sentim ent in rhym e; the sentim ent being really genuine, u n der all the superficial vanities o f its display; and the rhym es rhythm ic, o n ly w ith ou t any ideas in them. It was impossible to explain, either to m yself o r oth er people, w h y I liked staring at the sea, or scam pering on a m oor; but, one had pleasure in m aking some sort o f m elodious noise about it, like the waves them selves, o r the peewits. T h en , secondly, there was the real love o f engraving, and o f such characters o f surface and shade as it could give. I have never seen drawing, by a youth, so en tirely industrious in delicate line; and there was really the m aking o f a fine landscape, o r figure outline, engraver in me. But fate having ordered otherw ise, I m ourn the loss to engraving less than that before calculated, o r rath er incalculable, one, to geology! T h en there was, thirdly, the violen t instinct fo r architecture; but I never could have bu ilt o r carved anything, because I was w ith ou t pow er o f design; and have perhaps done as m uch in that direction as it was w orth doing w ith so lim ited faculty. And then, fourthly, there was the unabated, never to be abated, geological instinct, now fastened on the Alps. M y fifteenth birthday gift being left to m y choice, I asked fo r Saussure’s ‘Voyages dans les A lpes,’ 1 and thenceforw ard began progressive w ork, carrying on m y m ineralogical dictionary by the help o f Jam eson ’s three-volum e M ineralogy,f (an en tirely clear 92

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and serviceable book;) com paring his descriptions w ith the m in­ erals in the British M useum , and w ritin g m y ow n m ore eloquent and exhaustive accounts in a shorthand o f m any ingeniously sym bolic characters, w hich it took me m uch longer to w rite m y descriptions in, than in com m on text, and w hich neither I n o r anybody else could read a w ord of, afterwards. Such being the quadrilateral plan o f m y fortifiable dispositions, it is time now to explain, w ith such clue as I have found to them, the som ewhat peculiar character and genius o f both m y parents; the influence o f which was m ore im portant upon me, then, and far on into life, than any external conditions, either o f friendship o r tutorship, w heth er at the U niversity, o r in the w orld. It was, in the first place, a m atter o f essential w eight in the determ ination o f subsequent lines, n o t on ly o f labour but o f thought, that w hile m y father, as before told, gave me the best example o f em otional reading,— reading, observe, proper, not recitation, w hich he disdained, and I disliked,— m y m oth er was both able to teach me, and resolved that I should learn, absolute accuracy o f diction and precision o f accent in prose; and made me know, as soon as I could speak plain, w hat I have in all later years tried to enforce on m y readers, that accuracy o f diction means accuracy o f sensation, and precision o f accent, precision o f feeling. T rained, h erself in girlhood, o n ly at M rs. R ice’s country school, m y m oth er had there learned severely rig h t principles o f truth, charity, and housewifery, w ith punctilious respect fo r the pu rity o f that English w hich in h er hom e-surroundings she perceived to be by no means as undefiled as the ripples o f W andel. She was the daughter, as aforesaid, o f the early widowed landlady o f the K in g ’s Head Inn and T avern, which still exists, o r existed a year o r tw o since, presenting its side to C royd on m arket-place, its fro n t and entrance d oor to the n arrow alley w hich descends, steep fo r pedestrians, impassable to carriages, from the H igh S treet to the low er town. T hus native to the customs and dialect o f C royd on Agora,t m y m other, as I now read her, m ust have been an extrem ely intelligent, adm irably practical, and naively ambitious girl; keep­ ing, w ith ou t contention, the headship o f h er class, and availing

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h erself w ith steady discretion o f every advantage the coun try school and its m odest mistress could offer her. I never in her after-life heard h er speak w ith regret, and seldom w ith ou t respectful praise, o f any part o f the discipline o f M rs. Rice. I do n o t know fo r w hat reason, o r un der w hat conditions, m y m oth er w en t to live w ith m y Scottish grandfather and grand­ m other, first at E dinburgh, and then at the house o f B o w er’s W ell, on the slope o f the H ill o f K innoul, above P erth. I was stupidly and heartlessly careless o f the past history o f m y fam ily as long as I could have learn t it; n o t till after m y m o th er’s death did I begin to desire to know w hat I could never m ore be told. But certainly the change, fo r her, was in to a higher sphere o f society,— that o f real, though som etim es eccentric, and fre ­ quently poor, gentlem en and gendew om en. She m ust then have been rapidly grow ing into a tall, handsome, and very finely made girl, w ith a beautiful m ild firm ness o f expression; a fauldess and accomplished housekeeper, and a natural, essential, unassailable, ye t inoffensive, prude. I never heard a single w ord o f any senti­ m ent, accident, adm iration, o r affection disturbing the serene ten o r o f h er Scottish stewardship; y e t I noticed that she never spoke w ith ou t some slight shyness before m y father, n o r w ith ou t some pleasure, to oth er people, o f Dr. T hom as Brow n.+ T h a t the P rofessor o f M o ral P hilosophy was a frequent guest at m y grandm other’s tea-table, and fond o f benignantly arguing w ith M iss M argaret, is evidence enough o f the position she held in E dinburgh circles; h er household skills and duties never therefore neglected— rather, i f anything, still too scrupulously practised. O nce, w hen she had put h er w hite frock on fo r dinner, and hurried to the kitchen to give final glance at the state and o rd er o f things there, old M ause, having rim against the w hite frock w ith a black saucepan, and been, it seems, rebuked by her young mistress w ith too little resignation to the w ill o f Providence in that m atter, shook h er head sorrow fully, saying, ‘Ah, M iss M argaret, ye are just like M artha,* carefu’ and troubled about m on y things.’ W h e n m y m oth er was thus, at twenty, in a D esdem ona-like prim e o f w om anhood, in ten t on highest m oral philosophy,—

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“though still the house affairs w ould draw her thence”*— m y father was a dark-eyed, b rilliantly active, and sensitive youth o f sixteen. M argaret became to him an absolutely respected and adm ired— m ildly lik ed — governess and confidante. H er sym ­ pathy was necessary to him in all his flashingly transient am ours;1 h er advice in all dom estic business o r sorrow, and h er encour­ agem ent in all his plans o f life. T hese w ere already determ ined fo r com m erce;— ye t n o t to the abandonm ent o f liberal study. H e had learned Latin thoroughly, though w ith no large range o f reading, under the noble traditions o f A dam s* at the H igh School o f Edinburgh: while, by the then living and universal influence o f S ir W alter,* every scene o f his native city was exalted in his im agination by the purest poetry, and the proudest history, that ever hallowed o r haunted the streets and rocks o f a brig h tly inhabited capital. I have neither space, n o r wish, to extend m y proposed account o f things that have been, by records o f correspondence;— it is too m uch the habit o f m odern biographers to confuse epistolary talk w ith vital fact. But the follow ing letter from Dr. T hom as B row n to m y father, at this critical juncture o f his life, m ust be read, in part as a testim ony to the position he already held am ong the youths o f E dinburgh, and y e t m ore as explaining some points o f his blended character, o f the deepest significance afterwards, both to him self and to me. “ 8 , N . S t . D a v id ’s S t r e e t , E d i n b u r g h ,

“February 18 th, 1807.

“My dear Sir,— “W h e n I look at the date o f the letter w hich you did me the ho n ou r to send me as you r adviser in literary m atters— an office w hich a proficient like you scarcely requires— I am quite ashamed o f the interval which I have suffered to elapse. I can tru ly assure you, however, that it has been unavoidable, and has not arisen from any w ant o f in terest in yo u r intellectual progress. Even w hen you w ere a m ere boy I was m uch delighted w ith yo u r early zeal and attainm ents; and fo r yo u r ow n sake, as w ell as for

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yo u r excellent m oth er’s, I have always looked to yo u w ith great regard, and w ith the b elief that you w ould distinguish y o u rse lf in w hatever profession you m ight adopt. “You seem, I think, to repent too m uch the tim e you have devoted to the Belles L ettres. I confess I do n o t reg ret this fo r you. You m ust, I am sure, have felt the effect w hich such studies have in giving a general refin em ent to the m anners and to the heart, w hich, to anyone w ho is n o t to be strictly a man ofscience, is the m ost valuable effect o f literature. You m ust rem em ber that there is a great difference betw een studying professionally, and studying fo r relaxation and ornam ent. In the society in which you are to mix, the w riters in Belles L ettres w ill be m entioned fifty times, w hen m ore abstract science w ill n o t be m entioned once; and there is this great advantage in that so rt o f knowledge, that the display o f it, unless ve ry im m oderate indeed, is n o t counted pedantry, w hen the display o f oth er intellectual attainm ents m ight run some risk o f the im putation. T h e re is indeed one evil in the reading o f p o etry and oth er light productions, that it is apt to be indulged in to dow nright gluttony, and to occupy tim e w hich should be given to business; but I am sure I can re ly on you that you w ill n o t so m isapply yo u r time. T h e re is, however, one science, the first and greatest o f sciences to all m en, and to m erchants particu larly— the science o f P olitical Economy.* T o this I think y o u r ch ief attention should be directed. It is in tru th the science o f yo u r ow n profession, which counteracts th e — (word lost w ith seal)— and n arrow habits w hich that profession is som etim es apt to produce; and which is o f perpetual appeal in every discussion on m ercantile and financial affairs. A m erchant w ell instructed in P olitical E conom y m ust always be fit to lead the views o f his b ro th er m erchants— w ithout it, he is a m ere trader. D o n o t lose a day, th erefore, w ithout providing y o u rse lf w ith a copy o f Adam Sm ith’s * ‘W ealth o f N ations,’ and read and re-read it w ith atten tion — as I am sure you m ust read it w ith delight. In giving yo u this advice I consider you as a merchant, fo r as that is to be yo u r profession in life, yo u r test o f the im portance o f any acquirem ent should be how far it w ill tend to render you an honourable and distinguished merchant-,— a character o f no small

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estim ation in this com m ercial country. + I therefore consider the physical sciences as greatly subordinate in relation to yo u r prospects in life, and the society in w hich you w ill be called to m ingle. A ll but chem istry require a greater preparation in mathem atics than you probably have, and chem istry it is quite im possible to understand w ithout some opportunity o f seeing experim ents system atically carried on. If, however, you have the op portunity to attend any o f the lecturers on that science in L ondon, it w ill be w ell w orth yo u r w hile, and in that case I think you should purchase either Dr. T h om p son ’s o r M r. M u rra y ’s new system o f chemistry, so as to keep up constantly w ith you r lecturer. Even o f physics in general it is pleasant to have some view, how ever superficial, and therefore though you cannot expect w ith ou t mathem atics to have anything but a superficial view, you had b etter try to attain it. W ith this view you m ay read G reg o ry ’s ‘E conom y o f N a tu r e ,w h ic h though n o t a good book, and n o t always accurate, is, I believe, the best popular book we have, and sufficiently accurate for yo u r purposes. Remember, however, that though you m ay be perm itted to be a superficial natural philosopher, no such indulgence is to be given you in Political Economy. “T h e o n ly oth er circumstance rem aining fo r me to request o f you is that you w ill n o t suffer yo u rself to lose any o f the languages you have acquired. O f the m odern languages there is less fear, as yo u r m ercantile com m unications w ill in some m easure keep them alive; but m erchants do n o t correspond in Latin, and you m ay perhaps lose it unconsciously. Independently, however, o f the adm irable w riters o f w hom you w ould thus deprive yourself, and considering the language m erely as the accom plishm ent o f a gentlem an, it is o f too great value to be carelessly resigned. “Farew ell, m y dear sir. Accept the regard o f all this family, and believe me, w ith every wish to be o f service to you, “Your sincere friend,

“T. B ro w n .” It m ay easily be conceived that a youth to w hom such a letter as this was addressed by one o f the chiefs o f the pu rely intellectual

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circles o f Edinburgh, w ould be regarded w ith m ore respect by his C ro yd o n cousin than is usually rendered by grow n youn g w om en to their schoolboy friends. T h e ir frank, cousinly relation w en t on, however, w ith ou t a thought on either side o f any closer ties, until m y father, at tw o o r three and twenty, after various apprenticeship in L ondon, was going finally to L on don to begin his career in his ow n business. By that tim e he had made up his m ind that M argaret, though n o t the least an ideal heroine to him, was quite the best sort o f person he could have fo r a wife, the rath er as they w ere already so w ell used to each other; and in a quiet, but enough resolute way, asked her i f she w ere o f the same mind, and w ould w ait until he had an independence to offer her. His early tutress consented w ith frankly confessed joy, n o t indeed in the Agnes W ick fiek L way, ‘I have loved you all m y life,’ but feeling and adm itting that it was great delight to be allowed to love him now. T h e relations between G race N ugent and L ord C olam bre in M iss E d gew orth’s ‘A bsentee’ 1 extrem ely resem ble those between m y father and m other, except that L ord C olam bre is a m ore eager lover. M y father chose his wife m uch w ith the same kind o f serenity and decision w ith w hich afterw ards he chose his clerks.1 A tim e o f active and hopeful contentm ent fo r both the youn g people follow ed, m y m oth er being perhaps the m ore deeply in love, w hile Jo h n depended m ore absolutely on h er sym pathy and wise friendship than is at all usual w ith youn g m en o f the present day in their relations w ith adm ired young ladies. But neith er o f them ever perm itted their feelings to degenerate into fretfu l o r im patient passion. M y m oth er showed h er affection chiefly in steady endeavour to cultivate h er powers o f mind, and form her m anners, so as to fit h erself to be the undespised com panion o f a m an w hom she considered m uch her superior: m y father in un rem itting attention to the business on the success o f w hich his m arriage depended: and in a m ethodical regularity o f conduct and correspondence w hich never left his mistress a m om ent o f avoidable anxiety, or gave her m otive fo r any serious displeasure. O n these term s the engagem ent lasted nine years; at the end o f w hich tim e, m y grandfather’s debts having been all paid, and m y

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father established in a business gradually increasing, and liable to no grave contingency, the now n o t ve ry young people w ere m arried in Perth* one evening after supper, the servants o f the house having no suspicion o f the event until Jo h n and M argaret drove away togeth er next m orning to Edinburgh. In looking back to m y past thoughts and ways, nothing aston­ ishes me m ore than m y w ant o f curiosity about all these m atters; and that, often and often as m y m oth er used to tell w ith com pla­ cency the story o f this carefully secret m arriage, I never asked, ‘But, m other, w h y so secret, w hen it was just w hat all the friends o f both o f you so long expected, and w hat all yo u r best friends so heartily w ished?’ But, until lately, I never thought o f w ritin g any m ore about m yself than was set down in diaries, n o r o f m y fam ily at all: and thus too carelessly, and, as I now think, profanely, neglected the traditions o f m y people. ‘W h a t does it all matter, n ow ?’ I said; ‘we are w hat w e are, and shall be w hat we make ourselves.’ Also, until ve ry lately, I had accustomed m yself to consider all that m y parents had done, so far as their ow n happiness was concerned, en tirely wise and exemplary. Yet the reader m ust n o t suppose that w hat I have said in m y deliberate w ritings on the prop riety o f long engagem entst had any reference to this singular one in m y ow n family. O f the heroism and patience w ith w hich the sacrifice was made, on both sides, I cannot judge:— but that it was greater than I should m yself have been capable of, I know, and I believe that it was unwise. F or during these years o f waiting, m y father fell gradually into a state o f ill-health, from w hich he never en tirely recovered; and in close o f life, they both had to leave their child, just w hen he was beginning to satisfy the hopes they had form ed fo r him. I have allow ed this tale o f the litde I knew o f their early trials and virtues to be thus chance told, because I think m y history w ill, in the end, be com pletest if I w rite as its connected subjects occur to me, and n o t w ith form al ch ron ology o f plan. M y reason fo r telling it in this place was chiefly to explain how m y m other obtained h er perfect skill in English reading, through the hard effo rt which, through the years o f waiting, she made to efface

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the faults, and supply the defects, o f her early education; effort which was aided and directed u n errin gly by h er n atu ral— fo r its intensity I m ight justly call it supernatural— p u rity o f h eart and conduct, leading her always to take m ost delight in the righ t and clear language which on ly can relate lovely things.f H er unques­ tioning evangelical faith in the literal tru th o f the Bible placed me, as soon as I could conceive o r think, in the presence o f an unseen w orld; and set m y active analytic pow er early to w ork on the questions o f conscience, free w ill, and responsibility, w hich are easily determ ined in days o f innocence; but are approached too often w ith prejudice, and always w ith disadvantage, after m en becom e stupified by the opinions, o r tainted by the sins, o f the o u ter w orld: w hile the gloom , and even terror, w ith w hich the restrictions o f the Sunday, and the doctrines o f the P ilg rim ’s Progress, the H oly W ar, and Q u arles’ Emblems, oppressed the seventh part o f m y tim e, was useful to me as the on ly form o f vexation w hich I was called on to endure; and redeem ed by the otherw ise uninterrupted cheerfulness and tran quillity o f a house­ hold w herein the com m on ways w ere all o f pleasantness, and its single and strait path, o f perfect peace. M y father’s failure o f health, follow ing necessarily on the lon g years o f responsibility and exertion, needed on ly this repose to effect its cure. Sh y to an extrem e degree in general company, all the m ore because he had natural powers w hich he was unable to his ow n satisfaction to express,— his business faculty was entirely superb and easy: he gave his full energy to counting-house w o rk in the m orning, and his afternoons to domestic rest. W ith instant perception and decision in all business questions; w ith principles o f dealing w hich adm itted o f no infraction, and involved neither anxiety n o r concealm ent, the counting-house w ork was m ore o f an interest, o r even an amusement, to him, than a care. His capital was either in the Bank, o r in St. C ath erin e’s D ocks,f in the form o f insured butts o f the finest sh erry in the w orld; his partner, M r. D om ecq, a Spaniard as proud as himself, as honourable, and having perfect trust in him ,— n o t o n ly in his probity, but his judgm ent,— accurately com plying w ith all his directions in the preparation o f wine fo r the English m arket, and no less anxious

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than he to make every variety o f it, in its several rank, incom ­ parably good. T h e letters to Spain therefore needed on ly b rie f statem ent that the public o f that year wanted their w ine youn g or old, pale o r brow n, and the like; and the letters to custom ers w ere as b rie f in their assurances that if they found fault w ith their wine, th ey did n o t understand it, and i f they wanted an extension o f credit, th ey could n o t have it. T hese S p artan f brevities o f epistle w ere, however, always supported by the utm ost care in executing his correspondents’ orders; and by the unusual attention shown them in travelling fo r those orders himself, instead o f sending an agent o r a clerk. His dom iciliary visits o f this kind w ere always conducted by him w ith great savoirfaire and pleasant courtesy, no less than the m ost attentive patience: and they w ere productive o f the m ore confidence between him and the coun try m erchant, that he was perfectly just and candid in appraisem ent o f the wine o f rival houses, w hile his fine palate enabled him always to sustain trium phantly any and every ordeal o f blindfold question which the suspicious custom er m ight put him to. Also, w hen co rre­ spondents o f im portance came up to town, m y father w ould put him self so far out o f his w ay as to ask them to dine at H erne H ill, and try the contents o f his ow n cellar. T hese L on don visits fell into groups, on any occasions in the m etropolis o f interest m ore than usual to the provincial mind. O u r business dinners w ere then arranged so as to collect two o r three coun try visitors together, and the table made sym m etrical by selections from the house’s custom ers in L ondon, whose conversation m ight be m ost instructive to its rural friends. V ery early in m y b o y’s life I began much to dislike these com m ercial feasts, and to form , by carefully attending to their dialogue, w hen it chanced to turn on any oth er subject than wine, an extrem ely low estimate o f the com m ercial m ind as such;— estimate w hich I have never had the slightest reason to alter. O f ou r neighbours on H erne H ill we saw nothing, w ith one exception only, afterw ards to be noticed. T h e y w ere fo r the m ost part w ell-to -d o L on don tradesm en o f the b etter class, w ho had little sym pathy w ith m y m oth er’s old-fashioned ways, and none w ith m y fath er’s rom antic sentim ent.

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T h ere was probably the farther reason fo r ou r declining the intim acy o f ou r im m ediate neighbours, that m ost o f them w ere far m ore w ealthy than we, and inclined to dem onstrate their w ealth by the m agnificence o f th eir establishments. M y parents lived w ith strict economy, kept on ly fem ale servants,* used on ly tallow candles in plated candlesticks, w ere content w ith the lease­ hold territo ry o f their fro n t and back gardens,— scarce an acre altogether,— and kept neither horse n o r carriage. O u r shop­ keeping neighbours, on the contrary, had usually great cortege o f footm en and glitter o f plate, extensive pleasure grounds, costly hot-houses, and carriages driven by coachm en in wigs. It m ay be perhaps doubted by some o f m y readers w h eth er the coldness o f acquaintanceship was altogether on ou r side; but assuredly m y father was too proud to join entertainm ents fo r w hich he could give no like return, and m y m oth er did n o t care to leave h er card on fo o t at the doors o f ladies w ho dashed up to hers in their barouche. Protected by these monastic severities and aristocratic dignities, from the snares and disturbances o f the ou ter w orld, the routine o f m y childish days became fixed, as o f the sunrise and sunset to a nestling. It m ay seem singular to m any o f m y readers that I rem em ber w ith m ost pleasure the tim e w hen it was m ost regular and m ost solitary. T h e entrance o f m y cousin M a ry into ou r household was coincident w ith the introduction o f masters above described, and w ith other changes in the aims and em ploym ents o f the day, which, w hile they often increased its interest, disturbed its tranquillity. T h e ideas o f success at school or college, put before me by m y masters, w ere ignoble and com fortless, in com parison w ith m y m oth er’s regretful blame, or simple praise: and M ary, though o f a m ildly cheerful and entirely amiable disposition, necessarily touched the household heart w ith the sadness o f her orphanage, and som ething interrupted its harm ony by the differ­ ence, which m y m other could n o t help showing, between the feelings w ith which she regarded h er niece and her child. * Thomas left us, I think pardy in shame for my permanendy injured lip;+and we never had another indoor manservant.

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And although I have dw elt w ith thankfulness on the m any joys and advantages o f these secluded years, the vigilant reader w ill not, I hope, have interpreted the accounts rendered o f them into general praise o f a like hom e education in the environs o f L ondon. But one farth er good there was in it, hith erto unspoken; that great part o f m y acute perception and deep feeling o f the beauty o f architecture and scenery abroad, was ow ing to the w ellform ed habit o f narrow ing m yself to happiness w ithin the four brick walls o f our fifty by one hundred yards o f garden; and accepting w ith resignation the aesthetic external surroundings o f a L ondon suburb, and, ye t m ore, o f a L ondon chapel. F or Dr. A n drew s’ was the Londonian chapel in its perfect type, definable as accurately as a Rom an basilica,+— an oblong, flat-ceiled barn, lighted by windows w ith sem i-circular heads, brick-arched, filled by sm all-paned glass held by iron bars, like fine threaded halves o f cobwebs; galleries propped on iron pipes, up both sides; pews, w ell shut in, each o f them , by partitions o f plain deal, and neatly brass-latched deal doors, filling the barn floor, all but its two lateral straw -m atted passages; pulpit, sublim ely isolated, central from sides and clear o f altar rails at end; a stout, four-legged box o f w ell-grained wainscot, high as the level o f fro n t galleries, and decorated w ith a cushion o f crim son velvet, padded six inches thick, w ith gold tassels at the corners; w hich was a great resource to me w hen I was tired o f the serm on, because I liked watching the rich colour o f the folds and creases that came in it w hen the clergym an thum ped it. Imagine the change between one Sunday and the next,— from the m orning service in this building, attended by the families o f the small shopkeepers o f the W alw o rth Road, in their Sunday trim m ings; (our plum ber’s wife, fat, good, sensible M rs. G oad, sat in the next pew in fro n t o f us, stern ly sensitive to the in terru ption o f h er devotion by ou r late arrivals); fancy the change from this, to high mass in R ouen Cathedral,* its nave filled by the w hitecapped peasantry o f h a lf N orm an dy ! N o r was the contrast less enchanting or m arvellous between the street architecture fam iliar to m y eyes, and that o f Flanders and Italy, as an exposition o f m ercantile taste and power. M y

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fath er’s counting-house was in the centre o f B illiter Street, some years since effaced from sight and m em ory o f m en, but a type, then, o f E nglish city state in perfection. W e now build house fronts as advertisem ents, spending a hundred thousand pounds in the lying mask o f ou r bankruptcies.* But in m y father’s tim e both trade and building w ere still honest. His counting-house was a room about fifteen feet by twenty, including desks fo r tw o clerks, and a small cupboard fo r sh erry samples, on the first floor, w ith a larg er room opposite fo r private polite receptions o f elegant visitors, o r the serving o f a chop fo r h im self i f he had to stay late in town. T h e ground flo o r was occupied by frien d ly M essrs. W a rd ell and C o., a bottling retail firm , I believe. T h e o n ly adver­ tisem ent o f the place o f business was the brass plate un der the bell-handle, inscribed ‘Ruskin, T elford , and D om ecq,’ b rightly scrubbed by the single fem ale servant in charge o f the estab­ lishm ent, old M aisie,— abbreviated o r ten derly dim inished into the ‘sie,’ from I know n o t w hat C h ristian nam e— M arion , I believe, as M a ry into M ause. T h e w hole house, three-storied, w ith garrets, was under h er authority, w ith, doubtless, assistant m ornin g charwom an,— cooking, waiting, and answering the do or to distinguished visitors, all done by M aisie, the visitors being expected o f course to announce them selves by the knocker w ith a flourish in p rop ortion to th eir em inence in society. T h e business m en rang the counting-house bell aforesaid, (round w hich the m any coats o f annual paint w ere cut in to a beautiful slant section by daily scrubbing, like the coats o f an agate;) and w ere adm itted by lifting o f latch, m anipulated by the head clerk’s hand in the counting-house, w ith ou t stirring from his seat. T his unpretending establishm ent, as I said, form ed part o f the w estern side o f B illiter Street, a n arrow tren ch — it m ay have been th irty feet w id e— adm itting, w ith careful and precise driving, the passing each oth er o f tw o brew ers’ drays. I am n o t sure that this was possible at the ends o f the street, but o n ly at a slight enlarge­ m ent opposite the brew ery in the m iddle. E ffectively a m ere trench betw een three-storied houses o f prodigious brickw ork, thorou gh ly w ell laid, and presenting no farth er entertainm ent w hatever to the esth etic beholder than the alternation o f the

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ends and sides o f their beautifully level close courses o f bricks, and the practised and skilful radiation o f those w hich form ed the w indow lintels. Typical, I repeat, o f the group o f L on don edifices, east o f the M ansion H ouse, and extending to the T ow er; the under-hill picturesquenesses o f which, however, w ere in early days an entirely forbidden district to me, lest I should tum ble into the docks; but Fenchurch and Leadenhall Streets,f fam iliar to me as the perfection o f British m ercantile state and grandeur,— the reader m ay by effort, though still dimly, conceive the effect on m y im agination o f the fantastic gables o f G hent, and orange-scented cortiles o f G enoa. I can scarcely account to m yself, on any o f the ordinary p rin ­ ciples o f resignation, fo r the undim m ed tranquillity o f pleasure w ith which, after these infinite excitements in foreign lands, m y father w ould retu rn to his desk opposite the brick w all o f the brewery, and I to m y niche behind the draw ing-room chim ney piece. But to both o f us, the steady occupations, the beloved samenesses, and the sacred customs o f hom e w ere m ore precious than all the fervours o f w ond er in things new to us, o r delight in scenes o f incom parable beauty. V ery early, indeed, I had found that n o velty was soon exhausted, and beauty, though inex­ haustible, beyond a certain point or tim e o f enthusiasm, no m ore to be enjoyed; but it is n o t so often observed by philosophers that hom e, healthily organized, is always enjoyable; nay, the sick thrill o f pleasure through all the brain and heart w ith which, after even so m uch as a m onth o r two o f absence, I used to catch the first sight o f the ridge o f H erne H ill, and watch for every turn o f the w ell-know n road and every branch o f the fam iliar trees, w as— though n o t so deep or overw h elm in g— m ore intim ately and vitally pow erful than the brightest passions o f jo y in strange lands, o r even in the unaccustomed scenery o f m y own. T o m y m other, her ordinary household cares, her reading w ith M a ry and me, h er chance o f a chat w ith M rs. G ray, and the unperturbed preparation fo r m y fath er’s return, and fo r the quiet evening, w ere m ore than all the splendours o r w onders o f the globe between poles and equator.

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T hus we retu rn ed — full o f new thoughts, and faithful to the old, to this exulting rest o f hom e in the close o f 18 3 3. A n unforeseen shadow was in the heaven o f its charm ed horizon. E very day at C orn h ill, C harles became m ore delightful and satisfactory to everybody w ho knew him. H ow a boy living all day in L on don could keep so bright a com plexion, and so crisply A ch illean f curls o f h air— and all the gay spirit o f his C royd on m o th e r— was n o t easily conceivable; but he became a perfect com bination o f the sparkle o f Jin V in w ith the steadiness o f T u n sta llJ and was untroubled by the charms o f any unattainable M argaret, fo r his m aster had no daughter; but, as w orse chance w ould have it, a son: so that looking forw ard to possibilities as a rising apprentice ought, C harles saw that there w ere none in the house fo r him beyond the place o f cashier, o r perhaps on ly headclerk. His elder brother, w ho had taught him to swim by throw ing him into C royd on canal, was getting on fast as a general trad er in Australia, and naturally longed to have his best-loved b ro th er there fo r a partner. Bref, it was resolved that C harles should go to Australia. T h e Christm as tim e o f 1833 passed heavily, fo r I was v ery sorry; M ary, a good deal m ore so: and m y father and m other, though in their hearts caring fo r nobod y in the w orld but me, w ere grave at the thought o f C h arles’s going so far away; but honesd y and justifiably, thought it fo r the lad’s good. I think the w hole affair was decided, and C h arles’s ou tfit fu r­ nished, and ship’s berth settled, and ship’s captain interested in his favour, in som ething less than a fortnight, and down he w en t to P ortsm outh to join his ship joyfully, w ith the w orld to win. By due post came the news that he was at anchor o ff Cowes, but that the ship could n o t sail because o f the w est w ind. And post succeeded post, and still the w est w ind blew. W e liked the w est wind fo r its ow n sake, but it was a prolonging o f farew ell which teazed us, though C harles w rote that he was enjoying h im self immensely, and the captain, that he had made friends w ith every sailor on board, besides the passengers. And still the w est wind blew. I do n o t rem em ber how lo n g — some ten days o r fortnight, I believe. A t last, one day m y m oth er and M a iy w en t w ith m y father into tow n on some shopping or

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sight-seeing business o f a cheerful character; and I was left at hom e, busy also about som ething that cheered me greatly, I know n o t what; but w hen I heard the others come in, and upstairs into the draw ing-room , I ran eagerly down and into the room , beginning to tell them about this felicity that had befallen me, w hatever it was. T h e y all stood like statues, m y father and m other v ery grave. M ary was looking out o f the w in d ow — the farthest o f the fro n t three from the door. As I w en t on, boasting o f myself, she turned round suddenly, h er face all stream ing w ith tears, and caught hold o f me, and put her face close to mine, that I m ight hear the sobbing whisper, ‘C harles is gone.’ T h e w est wind had still blown, clearly and strong, and the day before there had been a fresh breeze o f it round the isle, at Spithead, exactly the kind o f breeze that drifts the clouds, and ridges the waves, in T u rn e r’s G osport. T h e ship was sending h er boat on shore fo r some water, or the lik e— h er little cutter, or som ehow sailing, boat. T h ere was a heavy sea running, and the sailors, and, I believe, also a passenger o r two, had some difficulty in getting on board. ‘M ay I go, to o ?’ said C harles to the captain, as he stood seeing them down the side. ‘A re you n o t afraid?’ said the captain. ‘I never was afraid o f anything in m y life,’ said Charles, and w ent down the side and leaped in. T h e boat had n o t got fifty yards from the ship before she w ent over, but there w ere oth er boats sailing all about them, like gnats in midsummer. T w o o r three scudded to the spot in a m inute, and every soul was saved, except Charles, w ho w ent down like a stone. 22nd January, 1834. A ll this we knew by little and little. F or the first day or two we w ould n o t believe it, but thought he m ust have been taken up by some oth er boat and carried to sea. A t last came w ord that his body had been throw n ashore at Cowes: and his father w ent down to see him buried. T h at done, and all the story heard, fo r still the ship stayed, he came to H erne H ill, to tell C h arles’s ‘auntie’ all about it. (The old man never called m y m other anything else than

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auntie.) It was in the m orning, in the fro n t p a rlo u r— m y m oth er knitting in her usual place at the fireside, I at m y drawing, o r the like, in m y ow n place also. M y uncle told all the story, in the quiet, steady sort o f w ay that the com m on English do, till just at the end he broke down into sobbing, saying (I can hear the w ords now), ‘T h e y caught the cap o ff o f his head, and y e t they couldn’t save h im .’

CH APTER

V III.

VESTER, CAMENAE.t

T

H E death o f C harles closed the doors o f m y heart again fo r

that time; and the self-engrossed quiet o f the H erne H ill life continued fo r another year, leaving little to be rem em bered, and less to be told. M y parents made one effort, however, to obtain some healthy com panionship fo r me, to w hich I probably owe m ore than I knew at the m om ent. Som e six o r seven gates down the hill towards the field, (which I have to retu rn m ost true thanks to its present owner, M r. Sopper, fo r having again opened to the public sight in conse­ quence o f the passage above describing the greatness o f its loss both to the neighbour and the stranger), some six o r seven gates down that way, a p retty lawn, shaded by a low spreading cedar, opened before an extrem ely neat and carefully kept house, w here lived two people, m odest in their ways as m y father and m other them selves,— M r. and M rs. Fall; happier, however, in having son and daughter instead o f an on ly child. T h e ir son, Richard, was a year youn ger than I, but already at school at Shrewsbury,* and som ewhat in advance o f me th erefore in regular discipline; extrem ely gentle and good-natured,— his sister, still younger, a clever little girl, h er m oth er’s constant com panion: and both o f them unpretending, but rigid, examples o f all H erne H ill proprieties, true religions, and useful learnings. I shudder still at the recollection o f M rs. F all’s raised eyebrows one day at m y pronunciation o f ‘naivete’ as ‘naivette.’ I think it m ust have been as early as 1832 that m y father, noticing w ith great respect the conduct o f all m atters in this family, w ro te to M r. Fall in courteous request that ‘the two boys’ 109

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m ight be perm itted, w hen R ichard was at hom e, to pursue their holiday tasks, o r recreations, so far as it pleased them , together. T h e proposal was kindly taken: the two boys took stock o f each other,— agreed to the arrangem ent,— and, as I had been p ro ­ m oted by that time to the possession o f a study, all to m yself, w hile Richard had on ly his own room , (and that liable to sisterly advice o r intrusion,) the course w hich things fell into was that usually, w hen Richard was at hom e, he came up past the seven gates about ten in the m orning; did w hat lessons he had to do at the same table w ith me, occasionally helping me a little w ith m ine; and then we w en t togeth er fo r afternoon w alk w ith Dash, Gipsy, o r w hatever dog chanced to be dom inant. I do n o t ven tu re to affirm that the snow o f those Christm as holidays was w hiter than it is now, though I m ight give some reasons fo r supposing that it rem ained lon ger white. But I affirm decisively that it used to fall deeper in the neighbourhood o f L on don than has been seen fo r the last tw enty or tw enty-five years. It was quite usual to find in the hollow s o f the N orw ood H ills the field fences buried under crested waves o f snow, w hile, from the higher ridges, h a lf the counties o f K en t and S u rrey shone to the horizon like a cloudless and terrorless A rctic sea. Richard Fall was entirely good-hum oured, sensible, and prac­ tical; but had no particular tastes; a distaste if anything, fo r my styles both o f art and poetry. He stiffly declined arbitration on the m erits o f m y com positions; and though w ith pleasant cordiality in daily com panionship, took rath er the position o f putting up w ith me, than o f pride in his privilege o f acquaintance w ith a rising author. H e was never unkind or sarcastic; but laughed me inexorably out o f w riting bad English fo r rh ym e’s sake, o r dem on­ strable nonsense either in prose o r rhym e. W e got gradually accustomed to be together, and far on into life w ere glad w hen any chance brought us together again. T h e year 18 3 4 passed innocuously enough, but w ith little profit, in the quadripartite industries before described, follow ed fo r m y own pleasure;— w ith m inglings o f sapless effort in the classics, in w hich I n either felt, n o r foresaw, the least good. Innocuously enough, I say,— meaning, w ith as little m ischief

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as a w ell-inten tioned boy, virtu ally masterless, could suffer from having all his own way, and daily confirm ing him self in the serious im pression that his own w ay was always the best. I cannot analyse, at least w ith ou t taking m ore trouble than I suppose any reader w ould care to take w ith me, the mixed good and evil in the third rate literature w hich I preferred to the Latin classics. M y volum e o f the F orget-m e-n ot, which gave me that precious engraving o f V erona,f (curiously also another by P rou t o f St. M a rk ’s at Venice), was som ewhat above the general caste o f annuals in its quality o f letterpress; and contained three stories, ‘T h e R ed-nosed L ieu tenant,’ by the Rev. G eorge C ro ly ;f ‘Hans in K eld er,’ * by the author o f ‘C hronicles o f L ondon Bridge;’ and ‘T h e C o m et,’ by H en ry N eele,1 Esq., which w ere in their several ways extrem ely im pressive to me. T h e partly childish, partly dull, o r even, as aforesaid, idiotic, w ay I had o f staring at the same things all day long, carried itself out in reading, so that I could read the same things all the year round. As there was neither advantage n o r credit to be got by rem em bering fictitious circum ­ stances, I was, if anything, rath er proud o f m y skill in forgetting, so as the sooner to recover the zest o f the tales; and I suppose these favourites, and a good m any less im portant ones o f the sort, w ere read some tw enty times a year, during the earlier epoch o f teens. I w ond er a little at m y having been allowed so long to sit in that draw ing-room corner w ith on ly m y R ogers’ Italy, m y F orget-m enot, the C ontinental A nnual,+ and Friendships’ O ffering, fo r m y w orking library; and I w ond er a little m ore that m y father, in his passionate hope that I m ight one day w rite like Byron, never noticed that B yron ’s early pow er was founded on a course o f general reading o f the masters in every w alk o f literature, such as is, I think, u tterly unparalleled in any oth er young life^ w hether o f student o r author. But I was entirely incapable o f such brainw ork, and the real gift I had in draw ing involved the use in its practice o f the best energy o f the day. Hans in Kelder, and T h e C om et, w ere m y m anner o f rest. I do n o t know w hen m y father first began to read Byron to me, w ith any expectation o f m y liking him; all prim ary training, after

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the Iliad, having been in S cott; but it m ust have been about the beginning o f the teen period, else I should recollect the first effect o f it. M a n fre d f evidently, I had got at, like M acbeth,1 fo r the sake o f the witches. Various questionable changes w ere made, however, at that 18 3 1 turning o f twelve, in the H erm itage disci­ pline o f H erne H ill. I was allowed to taste w ine; taken to the theatre; and, on festive days, even dined w ith m y father and m oth er at four: and it was then generally at dessert that m y father w ould read any otherw ise suspected delight: the N octes Am brosianse1 regularly w hen they came o u t— w ith ou t the least m issing o f the naughty words; and at last, the shipw reck in D on Juan,+— o f which, finding me righ tly appreciative, m y father w en t on w ith n early all the rest. I recollect that he and m y m oth er looked across the table at each oth er w ith som ething o f alarm, when, on asking me a few festas afterwards w hat we should have fo r after dinner reading, I instantly answered ‘Ju an and H aidee.’ f M y selection was not adopted, and, feeling there was som ething w ro n g som ewhere, I did not press it, attem pting even some stutter o f apology which made m atters worse. Perhaps I was given a bit o f C hilde H a ro ld f instead, w hich I liked at that tim e nearly as w ell; and, indeed, the story o f H aidee soon became too sad fo r me. But ve ry certainly, by the end o f this year 18 3 4, I knew m y B yron p retty w ell all through, all but Cain, W ern er, the D eform ed T ran sform ed,f and V ision o f Judgm ent,* none o f which I could understand, n o r did papa and mamma think it w ould be w ell I should try to. T h e ingenuous reader m ay perhaps be so m uch surprised that mamma fell in w ith all this, that it becomes here needful to m ark fo r him some peculiarities in m y m o th er’s p ru dery w hich he could n o t discover fo r him self, from anything h ith erto told o f her. He m ight indeed guess that, after taking me at least six times straight through the Bible, she was n o t afraid o f plain w ords to, o r for, me; but m ight n o t feel that in the energy and affectionateness o f her character, she had as m uch sym pathy w ith all that is noble and beautiful in B yron as m y father him self; n o r that her Puritanism was clear enough in com m on sense to see that, w hile Shakespeare and Burns* lay open on the table all day, there was no reason fo r

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m uch m ystery w ith B yron (though until later I was n o t allowed to read him fo r myself). She had trust in m y disposition and education, and was no m ore afraid o f m y turning out a C orsair or a G ia o u rf than a Richard 111.,+ or a -------Solomon.* And she was p erfectly right, so far. I never got the slightest harm from Byron: w hat harm came to me was from the facts o f life, and from books o f a baser kind, including a w ide range o f the w orks o f authors popularly considered extrem ely in stru ctive— from V icto r H u g ot down to D o ctor W atts.1 Farther, I w ill take leave to explain in this place w hat I m eant b y saying that m y m oth er was an ‘inoffensive’ prude. She was h erself as strict as Alice Bridgenorth;* but she understood the doctrine o f the religion she had learnt, and, w ith ou t ostenta­ tiously calling h erself a m iserable sinner, knew that according to that doctrine, and probably in fact, M adge W ild fire* was no w orse a sinner than she. She was like her sister in universal ch arity— had sym pathy w ith every passion, as w ell as every virtue, o f true w om anhood; and, in her heart o f hearts, perhaps liked the real M argh erita Cogni* quite as w ell as the ideal wife o f Faliero.+ And there was one m ore feature in m y m oth er’s character w hich m ust be here asserted at once, to put an end to the notion o f w hich I see traces in some newspaper com m ents on m y past descriptions o f her, that she was in any wise like E sther’s religious aunt in Bleak H oused Far on the contrary, there was a hearty, frank, and sometim es even irrepressible, laugh in m y m other! N ever sardonic, ye t w ith a ve ry definitely Sm ollettesqu et turn in it! so that, between themselves, she and m y father enjoyed their H um phrey C lin k e d extremely, lon g before I was able to understand either the jest o r gist o f it. M uch m ore, she could exult in a harm less bit o f Sm ollettesque reality. Years and years after this tim e, in one o f ou r crossings o f the Sim plon, just at the top, w here we had stopped to look about us, N urse A nne sat down to rest h erself on the railings at the roadside, just in fron t o f the m onastery;— the o ff roadside, from w hich the bank slopes steeply down outside the fence. T urnin g to observe the panoramic picturesque, A nne lost her balance, and w en t backwards over the

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railings down the bank. M y father could n o t help suggesting that she had done it expressly fo r the entertainm ent o f the H oly Fathers; and neither he n o r m y m oth er could ever speak o f the ‘p erform ance’ (as th ey called it) afterw ards, w ith ou t laughing fo r a quarter o f an hour. If, however, there was the least bitterness o r iro n y in a jest, m y m o th er did n o t like it; but m y father and I liked it all the m ore, i f it w ere just; and, so far as I could understand it, I rejoiced in all the sarcasm o f D on Juan. But m y firm decision, as soon as I got w ell into the later cantos o f it, that B yron was to be m y m aster in verse, as T u rn er in colour, was made o f course in that gosling (or say cyg n et1) epoch o f existence, w ith ou t consciousness o f the deeper instincts that prom pted it: on ly two things I consciously recognized, that his tru th o f observation was the m ost exact, and his chosen expression the m ost concentrated, that I had ye t found in literature. B y that tim e m y father had him self put me through the tw o first books o f L iv y J and I knew, th erefore, w hat close-set language was; but I saw then that Livy, as afterw ards that H o ra ce1 and T acitus,t w ere studiously, often laboriously, and som etim es obscurely, concentrated: w hile B yron w rote, as easily as a hawk flies, and as clearly as a lake reflects, the exact tru th in the p re ­ cisely n arrow est term s; n o r o n ly the exact truth, but the m ost central and useful one. O f course I could no m ore m easure B yron ’s greater powers at that tim e than I could T u rn e r’s; but I saw that both w ere righ t in all things that I knew righ t from w rong in; and that th ey m ust thenceforth be m y masters, each in his ow n domain. T h e m odern reader, n o t to say also, m odern scholar, is usually so ignorant o f the essential qualities o f Byron, that I cannot go farth er in the sto ry o f m y ow n novitiate under him w ith ou t illustrating, by rapid example, the things w hich I saw to be unrivalled in his w ork. F o r this purpose I take his com m on prose, rath er than his verse, since his modes o f rh yth m involve oth er questions than those w ith w hich I am now concerned. Read, fo r chance-first, the sentence on Sheridan,* in his letter to T hom as M o ore,t from Venice, Ju n e 1st (or dawn o f Ju n e 2nd!), 1 8 1 8 . ‘T h e W h ig s abuse him; however, he never left them, and such blunderers deserve

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neither credit n o r compassion. As fo r his cred itors— rem em ber Sheridan never had a shilling, and was throw n, w ith great powers and passions, into the thick o f the w orld, and placed upon the pinnacle o f success, w ith no oth er external means to support him in his elevation. D id F o x ' pay his debts? o r did Sheridan take a subscription? W a s -------’s drunkenness m ore excusable than his? W e re his intrigues m ore notorious than those o f all his contem ­ poraries? and is his m em ory to be blasted and theirs respected? D o n ’t let y o u rse lf be led away by clamour, but com pare him w ith the coalitioner Fox, and the pensioner Burke,* as a man o f principle; and w ith ten hundred thousand in personal views; and w ith none in talent, fo r he beat them all ou t and out. W ith o u t means, w ith ou t connection, w ith ou t character (which m ight be false at first, and drive him mad afterwards from desperation), he beat them all, in all he ever attem pted. But, alas p oor hum an nature! G ood -n igh t, o r rath er m orning. It is four, and the dawn gleams o ver the G ran d Canal, and unshadows the R ialto.’ t Now, observe, that passage is noble, prim arily because it con­ tains the utm ost num ber that w ill com e togeth er into the space, o f absolutely just, wise, and kind thoughts. But it is m ore than noble, it is perfect, because the quantity it holds is n o t artificially o r in tricately concentrated, but w ith the serene swiftness o f a sm ith’s ham m er-strokes on h o t iron; and w ith choice o f term s w hich, each in its place, w ill convey far more than they mean in the dictionary. T hus, ‘how ever’ is used instead o f ‘y e t,’ because it stands fo r ‘how soever,’ or, in full, fo r ‘yet w hatever they did.’ ‘T h ick ’ o f society, because it means, n o t m erely the crowd, but the/og o f it; ‘ten hundred thousand’ instead o f ‘a m illion ,’ o r ‘a thousand thousand,’ to take the sublim ity out o f the number, and make us feel that it is a num ber o f nobodies. T h en the sentence in parenthesis, ‘w hich m ight be false,’ etc., is indeed obscure, because it was im possible to clarify it w ithout a regular pause, and m uch loss o f tim e; and the read er’s sense is therefore left to expand it fo r him self into ‘it was, perhaps, falsely said o f him at first, that he had no character,’ etc. Finally, the dawn ‘unshadows’— lessens the shadow o n — the Rialto, but does n o t

gleam on that, as on the broad water.

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N ext, take the tw o sentences on poetry, in his letters to M u rra y f o f Septem ber 15th , 1 8 1 7 , and A p ril 12th , 1 8 1 8 ; (for the collected force o f these com pare the deliberate published state­ m ent in the answer to Blackwood in 1820.) 1 8 1 7 . ‘W ith regard to p o etry in general, I am convinced, the m ore I think o f it, that he (M oore), and all o f u s— Scott, Southey,f W ord sw orth , M o ore, C am pbell,1 I,— are all in the w rong, one as m uch as another; that w e are upon a w ro n g revo lu ­ tio n ary poetical system, o r systems, n o t w o rth a dam n in itself, and from w hich none but Rogers and C ra b b e t are free: and that the present and next generations w ill finally be o f this opinion. I am the m ore confirm ed in this by having lately gone over some o f ou r classics, particularly Pope,* w hom I tried in this way: I took M o o re ’s poems, and m y own, and some others, and w en t over them side by side w ith P op e’s, and I was really astonished (I ought n o t to have been so) and m ortified, at the ineffable distance in p o in t o f sense, learning, effect, and even imagination, passion, and

invention, betw een the little Q ueen A n n e’s man, and us o f the L o w er Em pire. D epend upon it, it is all H orace then, and C lau d ian f now, am ong us; and i f I had to begin again, I w ould m ould m yself accordingly. C rab b e’s the man; but he has got a coarse and im practicable subject, and . . . is retired upon half-pay, and has done enough, unless he w ere to do as he did form erly.’ 1 8 1 8 . ‘I thought o f a preface, defending L o rd H e rv e y t against P op e’s attack, but P o p e— quoad Pope, the poet,— against all the w orld, in the unjustifiable attem pts begun by W arton,* and carried on at this day by the new school o f critics and scribblers, w ho think them selves poets because th ey do not w rite like Pope. I have no patience w ith such cursed hum bug and bad taste; yo u r w hole generation are n o t w orth a canto o f the Rape o f the L ock,1 o r the Essay on M an ,f o r the Dunciad, o r “anything that is his.” ’ f T h e re is n oth ing w hich needs explanation in the brevities and am enities o f these tw o fragm ents, except, in the first o f them , the distinctive and exhaustive enum eration o f the qualities o f great poetry,— and note especially the o rd er in w hich he puts these. A. Sense. T h a t is to say, the first thing you have to think o f is w h eth er the w ould-be poet is a wise m an— so also in the answer

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to Blackwood,* ‘T h e y call him (Pope) the p oet o f reason! — is that any reason w h y he should n o t be a p o et?’ B. L earning. T h e A yrshire plough m an1 m ay have good gifts, but he is ou t o f court w ith relation to H om er, o r D ante, or M ilton . C . Effect. Has he efficiency in his verse?— does it tell on the ear and the spirit in an instant? See the ‘effect’ on h er audience o f Beatrice’s ‘ottave,’ in the story at p. 2 8 6 o f M iss Alexander’s Songs o f Tuscany.f D. Im agination. P u t thus low because m any novelists and artists have this faculty, ye t are n o t poets, o r even good novelists o r painters; because they have n o t sense to manage it, n o r the art to give it effect. E. Passion. L ow er yet, because all good m en and w om en have as much as either they o r the p oet ought to have. F. Invention. A nd this lowest, because one m ay be a good poet w ith ou t having this at all. B yron had scarcely any himself, w hile Scott had any qu antity— ye t never could w rite a play. But neither the force and precision, n o r the rhythm , o f B yron ’s language, w ere at all the central reasons fo r m y taking him for master. K n ow in g the Son g o f M oses and the Serm on on the M o u n t by heart, and h a lf the Apocalypse besides, I was in no need o f tutorship either in the m ajesty o r sim plicity o f English words; and fo r their logical arrangem ent, I had had B yron ’s ow n master, Pope, since I could lisp.* But the thing w h olly new and precious to m e in B yron was his m easured and living truth— m easured, as com pared w ith H om er; and living, as com pared w ith everybody else. M y ow n inexorable m easuring w and,— n o t enchanter’s, but cloth w orker’s and builder’s,— reduced to m ere incredibility all the statem ents o f the poets usually called sublime. It was o f no use fo r H om er to tell m e that P elion was put on the top o f Ossa.* I knew perfectly w ell it w ould n’t go on the top o f Ossa. O f no use fo r Pope to tell me that trees w here his mistress looked w ould crow d into a shade,f because I was satisfied that th ey w ould do noth ing o f the sort. Nay, the w hole w orld, as it was described to m e either by p o etry o r theology, was every h ou r becom ing m ore and m ore shadowy and impossible. I rejoiced in all stories o f

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Pallas * and Venus,* o f A ch illes* and Eneas,* o f E lijah + and St. John:* but, w ith ou t doubting in m y h eart that there w ere real spirits o f wisdom and beauty, n o r that there had been invincible heroes and inspired prophets, I felt already, w ith fatal and increas­ ing sadness, that there was no clear utterance about any o f them — that there w ere fo r me neith er G oddess guides n o r prophetic teachers; and that the poetical histories, w h eth er o f this w orld o r the next, w ere to m e as the w ords o f P eter to the shut up disciples— ‘as idle tales; and they believed them n o t.’* But here at last I had found a man w ho spoke on ly o f w hat he had seen, and known; and spoke w ith ou t exaggeration, w ith ou t m ystery, w ith ou t enmity, and w ith ou t mercy. ‘T h a t is so;— make w hat you w ill o f it!’ Shakespeare said the Alps voided their rheum on the valleys,* which indeed is precisely true, w ith the final truth, in that m atter, o f Jam es Forbes,*— but it was told in a m ythic m anner, and w ith an unpleasant British bias to the nasty. But Byron, saying that ‘the glacier’s cold and restless mass m oved onw ard day by day,’* said plainly w hat he saw and knew,— no m ore. So also, the Arabian N ights* had told me o f thieves w ho lived in enchanted caves, and beauties w ho fought w ith genii in the air; but B yron told me o f thieves w ith w hom he had ridden on their ow n hills, and o f the fair Persians o r G reeks w ho lived and died un der the very sun that rose over m y visible N orw ood hills. And in this narrow, but sure, truth, to Byron, as already to me, it appeared that L ove was a transient thing, and D eath a dreadful one. H e did n o t attem pt to console m e fo r Jessie’s death, by saying she was happier in H eaven; o r fo r C h arles’s, by saying it was a P rovidential dispensation to m e on Earth. H e did n o t tell me that w ar was a just price fo r the g lo ry o f captains, o r that the N ational com mand o f m urder diminished its guilt. O f all things w ithin range o f hum an thought he felt the facts, and discerned the natures w ith accurate justice. But even all this he m ight have done, and y e t been no m aster o f m ine, had n o t he sym pathized w ith m e in reveren t love o f beauty, and indignant recoil from ugliness. T h e w itch o f the Staubbach * in h er rainbow was a greatly m ore pleasant vision than Shake­ speare’s, like a rat w ith ou t a tail,* o r Burns’s, in h er cutty sark.*

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T h e sea-king C o n ra d f had an im m ediate advantage w ith me o ver C o lerid ge’s long, lank, brow n, and ancient, m ariner; t and w hatever Pope m ight have gracefully said, o r honestly felt o f W in d so r w oods and streams,t was m ere tinkling cym b al! to me, com pared w ith B yron ’s love o f L achin-y-G air. I m ust pause here, in tracing the sources o f his influence over me, lest the reader should mistake the analysis w hich I am now able to give them , fo r a description o f the feelings possible to me at fifteen. M o st o f these, however, w ere assuredly w ithin the knot o f m y unfolding m in d — as the saffron o f the crocus ye t beneath the earth; and B yro n — though he could n o t teach me to love m ountains o r sea m ore than I did in childhood, first animated them fo r m e w ith the sense o f real hum an nobleness and grief. He taught m e the m eaning o f C hillon* and o f M eillerie,1 and bade me seek first in V en ice— the ruined hom es o f Foscari and Falierd And observe, the force w ith which he struck depended again on there being unquestionable reality o f person in his stories, as o f principle in his thoughts. Rom ance, enough and to spare, I had learn t from S c o tt— but his L ady o f the L ak ef was as openly fictitious as his W h ite M aid o f A venel:f w hile Rogers was a m ere dilettante, w ho felt no difference between landing w here T ell leaped ashore, o r standing w here ‘St. P reu xf has stood.’ Even Shakespeare’s Venice was visionary; and P ortia as im possible as Miranda.* But B yron told m e of, and reanim ated fo r me, the real people whose feet had w orn the m arble I trod on. O ne w ord only, though it trenches on a future subject, I must perm it m yself about his rhythm . Its natural flow in alm ost prosaic sim plicity and tran quillity interested me extremely, in opposition alike to the sym m etrical clauses o f P ope’s logical m etre, and to the balanced strophes o f classic and H ebrew verse. But though I follow ed his m anner instantly in w hat verses I w rote fo r m y own am usem ent, m y respect fo r the structural, as opposed to fluent, force o f the classic measures, supported as it was partly by B yron ’s contem pt fo r his own w ork, and partly by m y own architect’s instinct fo r ‘the principle o f the pyram id,’ made me long endeav­ our, in form ing m y prose style, to keep the cadences o f Pope and Jo h n so n fo r all serious statem ent. O f Joh n so n ’s influence on me

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I have to give account in the last chapter o f this volum e; m ean­ tim e, I m ust get back to the days o f m ere rivulet-singing, in m y p o o r little watercress life. I had a sharp attack o f pleurisy in the spring o f ’35, w hich gave m e m uch gasping pain, and put me in some danger fo r three o r fo ur days, during w hich ou r old fam ily physician, Dr. W alshm an, and m y m other, defended me against the w ish o f all oth er scien­ tific people to have me b le d J ‘H e wants all the blood he has in him to fight the illness,’ said the old doctor, and brought m e w ell through, w eak enough, however, to claim a fo rtn ig h t’s nursing and petting afterwards, during w hich I read the ‘F air M aid o f P e rth ,’t learned the song o f ‘P o o r L ouise,’* and feasted on Stan ­ field’s draw ing o f St. M ich ael’s M ou n t,1 engraved in the ‘C oast Scenery,’ and T u rn e r’s Santa Saba, P ool o f Bethesda,+ and C o rin th , engraved in the Bible series,* lent m e by R ichard F all’s little sister. I got an im m ense quantity o f useful learning ou t o f those fo u r plates, and am very thankful to possess now the originals o f the Bethesda and C orin th . M o reover, I planned all m y proceedings on the jou rn ey to Sw itzerland, w hich was to begin the m om ent I was strong

enough. I shaded in cobalt a ‘cyanom eter’ 1 to m easure the blue of the sky w ith; bought a ruled notebook fo r geological observa­ tions, and a large quarto fo r architectural sketches, w ith square rule and fo o t-ru le ingeniously fastened outside. A nd I determ ined that the events and sentim ents o f this jou rn ey should be described in a poetic diary in the style o f D on Juan, artfu lly com bined w ith that o f C h ild e H arold. T w o cantos o f this w o rk w ere indeed finished— carrying me across France to C h am ou n i— w here I broke down, finding that I had exhausted on the Ju ra all the descriptive term s at m y disposal, and that none w ere left fo r the Alps. I m ust try to give, in the next chapter, some useful account o f the same p art o f the jou rn ey in less exalted language.

CH APTER

IX .

T H E C O L D E L A F A U C IL L E .

B O U T the m om ent in the foren oon w hen the m odern fashionable traveller, in ten t on Paris, N ice, and M onaco, and started by the m orning m ail from C h aring Cross,* has a little recovered h im self from the qualms o f his crossing, and the irritation o f fighting fo r seats at Boulogne, and begins to look at his watch to see how near he is to the buffet o f Am iens, he is apt to be baulked and w orried by the train ’s useless stop at one inconsiderable station, lettered A b b e v i l l e .* As the carriage gets in m otion again, he m ay see, i f he cares to lift his eyes fo r an instant from his newspaper, tw o square towers, w ith a curiously attached bit o f traceried arch, dom inant over the poplars and osiers o f the m arshy level he is traversing. Such glimpse is probably all he w ill ever wish to get o f them ; and I scarcely know how far I can make even the m ost sym pathetic reader understand their pow er over m y ow n life.* T h e coun try tow n in w hich th ey are central,— once, like C royland, a m ere m onk’s and peasant’s refuge (so fo r some time called ‘R efuge’),— am ong the swamps o f Som m e, received about the year 6 5 0 the nam e o f ‘Abbatis V illa,’*— ‘A b b ot’s -fo rd ,’ I had like to have w ritten: house and village, I suppose w e m ay righ tly say,— as the ch ief dependence o f the great m onastery founded by St. Riquier* at his native place, on the hillside five miles east o f the present town. C o ncern ing w hich saint I translate from the D ictre des Sciences Ecclessues, w hat it m ay perhaps be w ell fo r the reader, in present political junctures, to rem em ber fo r m ore w eighty reasons than any arising out o f such interest as he m ay take in m y p o or little nascent personality.

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‘St. Riquier, in Latin “Sanctus R icharius,” born in the village o f C entula, at tw o leagues from Abbeville, was so touched by the piety o f tw o h o ly priests o f Ireland, w hom he had hospitably received, that he also em braced “la penitence.” Being ordained priest, he devoted h im self to preaching, and so passed into England. T h en , return ing into P onthieu, he became, by G o d ’s help, pow erful in w ork and w ord in leading the people to rep en ­ tance. H e preached at the court o f Dagobert,* and, a little w hile after that prin ce’s death, founded the m onastery w hich bore his nam e, and another, called F orest-M outier, in the w ood o f Crecy, w here he ended his life and penitence.’ I find fu rth er in the Ecclesiastical H istory o f A bbeville, pub­ lished in 16 4 6 at Paris by Francois Pelican, ‘Rue St. Jacques, a l’enseigne du Pelican,’ that St. R iquier was him self o f royal blood, that St. A n g ilb e rtJ the seventh abbot, had m arried C h arlem ague’s 1 second daughter B erth a— ‘qui se rendit aussi Religieuse de l’ordre de Saint Benoist.’ 1 Louis, the eleventh abbot, was cousin-germ an to C harles the Bald;t the tw elfth was St. A n gilb e rt’s son, C h arlem agne’s grandson. Raoul, the thirteen th abbot, was the b roth er o f the Empress Ju d ith ; and C arlom an, the sixteenth, was the son o f Charles the Bald. L iftin g again yo u r eyes, good reader, as the train gets to its speed, yo u m ay see gleam ing opposite on the hillside the w hite village and its abbey,— not, indeed, the walls o f the hom e o f these princes and princesses, (afterwards again and again ruined,) but the still beautiful abbey built on their foundations by the monks o f St. M aurd In the year w hen the above quoted h istory o f A bbeville was w ritten (say 16 0 0 fo r surety), the town, then fam iliarly called ‘Faithful A b beville,’ contained 4 0 ,0 0 0 souls, ‘living in great u n ity am ong them selves, o f a m arvellous frankness, fearing to do w ro n g to their neighbour, the w om en m odest, honest, full o f faith and charity, and adorned w ith a goodness and beauty toute innocente: the noblesse num erous, hardy, and adroit in arms, the m asterships (maistrises) o f arts and trades, w ith excellent w orkers in every profession, under sixty-four M ayor-B annerets, w ho are the chiefs o f the trades, and elect the m ayor o f the city, w ho is an

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independent H om e Ruler, de grande probite, d’authorite, et sans reproche, aided by four eschevins o f the present, and four o f the past year; having authority o f justice, police, and war, and righ t to keep the weights and measures true and unchanged, and to punish those w ho abuse them , o r sell by false w eight o r measure, o r sell anything w ith ou t the tow n ’s m ark on it.’ M oreover, the tow n contained, besides the great church o f St. W u lff an, thirteen parish churches, six m onasteries, eight nunneries, and five hospi­ tals, am ong w hich churches I am especially bound to name that o f St. G eorge, begun by ou r ow n E dw ard1 in 13 6 8, on the 10th o f January; transferred and reconsecrated in 14 6 9 by the Bishop o f Bethlehem , and enlarged by the M argu illierst in 15 3 6, ‘because the congregation had so increased that num bers had to rem ain outside on days o f solem nity.’ T hese reconstructions took place w ith so great ease and rapidity at Abbeville, ow ing partly to the num ber o f its unanim ous w ork ­ men, partly to the easily workable quality o f the stone they used, and partly to the uncertainty o f a foundation always on piles, that there is now scarce vestige left o f any building p rio r to the fif­ teenth century. St. W u lffa n itself, w ith St. Riquier, and all that rem ain o f the parish churches (four only, now, I believe, besides St. W u lffan ), are o f the same flam boyant G othic,— walls and towers alike coeval w ith the gabled tim ber houses o f which the busier streets chiefly consisted w hen first I saw them. I m ust here, in advance, tell the general reader that there have been, in sum, three centres o f m y life’s thought: Rouen, G eneva, and Pisa. A ll that I did at Venice* was bye-w ork, because her history had been falsely w ritten before, and n o t even by any o f her ow n people understood; and because, in the w orld o f painting, T in to re tf was virtu ally unseen, Veronese* unfelt, C arp accio1 not so m uch as named, w hen I began to study them ; som ething also was due to m y love o f gliding about in gondolas. But Rouen, G eneva, and Pisa have been tutresses o f all I know, and w ere mistresses o f all I did, from the first m om ents I entered their gates. In this jo u rn ey o f 1 8 3 5 1 first saw R ouen and Ven ice— Pisa not till 18 4 0; n o r could I understand the full pow er o f any o f those great scenes till m uch later. But fo r Abbeville, w hich is the preface

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and in terpretation o f Rouen, I was ready on that 5 th o f Ju n e, and felt that here was entrance fo r me in to im m ediately healthy labour and joy. F or here I saw that art (o f its local kind), religion, and present hum an life, w ere ye t in perfect harm ony. T h e re w ere no dead six days and dismal seventh t in those sculptured churches; there was no beadle to lock me out o f them , o r pew -shutter to shut m e in. I m ight haunt them , fancying m yself a ghost; peep round th eir pillars, like Rob R oy;t kneel in them, and scandalize nobody; draw in them , and disturb none. Outside, the faithful old tow n gathered itself, and nestled under their buttresses like a brood beneath the m o th er’s wings; the quiet, uninjurious aristocracy o f the new er tow n opened into silent streets, between self-possessed and hidden dignities o f dwelling, each w ith its courtyard and rich ly trellised garden. T h e com m ercial square, w ith the main street o f traverse, consisted o f uncom petitive shops, such as w ere needful, o f the native wares: cloth and hosiery spun, w oven, and knitted w ithin the walls; cheese o f neighbouring N euchatel; fru it o f th eir ow n gardens, bread from the fields above the green coteaux;1 m eat o f their herds, untainted by A m erican tin;* sm ith’s w ork o f sufficient scythe and ploughshare, ham m ered on the open anvil; groceries dainty, the coffee generally roasting odoriferously in the street, before the door; fo r the m odistes,— w ell, perhaps a bonnet o r tw o from Paris, the rest, w holesom e dress fo r peasant and dame o f Ponthieu. Above the prosperous, serenely busy and beneficent shop, the old dw elling-house o f its ancestral masters; pleasantly carved, prou d ly roofed, keeping its place, and order, and recog­ nised function, unfailing, unenlarging, fo r centuries. R ound all, the breezy ram parts, w ith their lon g w aving avenues; through all, in variously circuiting cleanness and sweetness o f navigable river and active m illstream , the green chalk-w ater o f the Som m e. M y m ost intense happinesses have o f course been am ong m ountains. But fo r cheerful, unalloyed, unw earying pleasure, the getting in sight o f A bbeville on a fine sum m er afternoon, jum ping ou t in the courtyard o f the H otel de l ’Europe, and rushing dow n the street to see St. W u lffa n again before the sun was o ff the tow ers, are things to cherish the past for,— to the end.

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O f Rouen, and its C athedral, m y saying remains ye t to be said, i f days be given me, in ‘O u r Fathers have told us.’ f T h e sight o f them, and follow ing jou rn ey up the Seine to Paris, then to Soissonst and Rheims, determ ined, as aforesaid, the first centre and circle o f future life-w ork. Beyond Rheims, at B ar-le-D uc,1 I was brought again w ithin the greater radius o f the Alps, and m y father was kind enough to go down by Plom bieres* to D ijon, that I m ight approach them by the straightest pass o f Jura. T h e reader m ust pardon m y relating so m uch as I think he m ay care to hear o f this jou rn ey o f 183 5, rath er as w hat used to happen, than as lim itable to that date; fo r it is extrem ely difficult fo r me now to separate the circumstances o f any one jou rn ey from those o f subsequent days, in which we stayed at the same inns, w ith va ri­ ation o n ly from the blue room to the green, saw the same sights, and rejoiced the m ore in every pleasure— that it was n o t new. And this latter part o f the road from Paris to G eneva, beautiful w ith ou t being the least terrific o r pathetic, but in the m ost lovable and cheerful way, became afterwards so dear and so domestic to me, that I w ill n o t attem pt here to check m y gossip o f it. W e used always to drive out o f the yard o f La Cloche* at D ijon in early m orn in g— seven, after joyful breakfast at half-past six. T h e small saloon on the first flo o r to the fron t had a bedroom across the passage at the w est end o f it, whose window s com ­ manded the cathedral tow ers over a low ro o f on the opposite side o f the street. T h is was always m ine, and its bed was in an alcove at the back, separated on ly by a lath partition from an extrem ely n arrow passage leading from the ou ter gallery to A n n e’s room . It was a delight fo r A nne to w hich I think she looked forw ard all across France, to open a little hidden d o or from this passage, at the back o f the alcove exacdy above m y pillow, and surprise— or wake, me in the m orning. I think I o n ly rem em ber once starting in rain. U sually the m ornin g sun shone through the m isty spray and far throw n diamonds o f the fountain in the south-eastern suburb, and th rew long poplar shadows across the road to G enlis. G enlis, Auxonne, D ole, M ont-sous-V au drey— three stages o f 12 o r 14 kilom etres each, tw o o f 18; in all about 70 kilo­

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miles, from D ijon gate to Ju ra fo o t— we w en t

straight fo r the hills always, lunching on F rench plum s and bread. L evel plain o f little interest to Auxonne. I used to w ond er how any m ortal creature could be content to live w ithin actual sight o f Ju ra, and never go to see them, all their lives!* A t Auxonne, cross the Saone, wide and beautiful in clear shallows o f green stream — little m ore, yet, than a noble m ountain torren t; one saw in an instant it came from Ju ra. A n o th er h ou r o f patience, and from the broken yellow lim estone slopes o f D o le — there, at last, they w e re — the lon g blue surges o f them fading as far as eye could see to the south, m ore abruptly near to the north-east, w here the bold outlier, alm ost island, o f them , rises like a precipitous W re k in J above Salins. Beyond D ole, a new wildness comes into the m ore undulating country, notable chiefly fo r its clay-built cottages w ith enorm ously high thatched gables o f roof. Strange, that I never inquired into the special reason o f that form , n o r looked into a single cottage to see the m ode o f its inhabitation! T h e village, o r rural town, o f Poligny, clustered out o f w ellbuilt old stone houses, w ith gardens and orchards; and gathering at the m idst o f it into some pretence o r m anner o f a street, straggles along the roots o f Ju ra at the opening o f a little valley, w hich in Yorkshire o r D erbyshire lim estone w ould have been a gorge between nodding cliffs, w ith a p retty pattering stream at the bottom : but, in Ju ra is a far retirin g theatre o f rising terraces, w ith bits o f field and garden getting fo o t on them at various heights; a spiry convent in its hollow, and w ell-b u ilt little nests o f husbandry-building set in corners o f meadow, and on juts o f ro ck ;— no stream , to speak of, n o r springs in it, n o r the sm allest conceivable reason fo r its being there, but that G o d made it. ‘F ar’ retiring, I said,— perhaps a m ile in to the hills from the ou ter plain, by h a lf a m ile across, perm itting the m ain road from Paris to G eneva to serpentine and zigzag capriciously up the c liff terraces w ith innocent engineering, finding itse lf every now and then w here it had no notion o f getting to, and looking, in a circum flex o f puzzled level, w here it was to go n ext;— retrospect o f the plain o f Burgundy enlarging under its backward sweeps, till at last, under a broken bit o f steep final crag, it got quite up the

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side, and out over the edge o f the ravine, w here said ravine closes as unreasonably as it had opened, and the surprised traveller finds him self, m agically as if he w ere Jack o f the Beanstalk^ in a new plain o f an upper w orld. A w orld o f level rock, breaking at the surface into yellow soil, capable o f scanty, but healthy, turf, and sprinkled copse and thicket; w ith here and there, beyond, a blue surge o f pines, and over those, if the evening or m orning w ere clear, always one small bright silvery likeness o f a cloud. T hese first tracts o f Ju ra differ in m any pleasant ways from the lim estone levels round Ingleborough,* w hich are their English types. T h e Yorkshire m oors are m ostly by a hundred o r tw o feet higher, and exposed to drift o f rain under violent, nearly constant, wind. T h e y break into wide fields o f loose blocks, and rugged slopes o f shale; and are mixed w ith sands and clay from the m illstone grit, w hich nourish rank grass, and lodge in occasional morass: the w ild winds also forbidding any vestige o r com fort o f tree, except here and there in a sheltered nook o f new plantation. But the Ju ra sky is as calm and clear as that o f the rest o f France; i f the day is bright on the plain, the bounding hills are bright also; the Ju ra rock, balanced in the make o f it between chalk and m arble, w eathers indeed into curious rifts and furrows, but rarely breaks loose, and has long ago clothed itself either w ith forest flowers, o r w ith sweet short grass, and all blossoms that love sun­ shine. T h e pure air, even on this low er ledge o f a thousand feet above sea, cherishes their sweetest scents and liveliest colours, and the w in ter gives them rest under thawless serenity o f snow. A still greater and stranger difference exists in the system o f streams. F or all their losing them selves and hiding, and in ter­ m itting, their presence is distinctly felt on a Yorkshire m oor; one sees the places they have been in yesterday, the w ells w here they w ill flow after the next shower, and a tricklet here at the bottom o f a crag, o r a tinkle there from the top o f it, is always making one think w h eth er this is one o f the sources o f Aire,* or rootlets o f Ribble,* o r beginnings o f B olton S trid e o r threads o f silver which are to be spun into Tees.* But no whisper, n o r m urm ur, n o r patter, n o r song, o f stream let disturbs the enchanted silence o f open Jura. T h e rain-cloud

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clasps h er cliffs, and floats along h er fields; it passes, and in an h o u r the rocks are dry, and on ly beads o f dew left in the A lch em illa1 leaves,— but o f rivulet, o r brook,— no vestige yester­ day, o r to-day, o r to-m orrow . T h ro u g h unseen fissures and film y crannies the w aters o f c liff and plain have alike vanished, on ly far down in the depths o f the main valley glides the strong river, unconscious o f change. O ne is taught thus m uch fo r on e’s earliest lesson, in the tw o stages from P oligny to Champagnole,* level over the absolutely crisp tu rf and sun-bright rock, w ith ou t so m uch w ater anyw here as a cress could grow in, o r a tadpole w ag his tail in,— and then, by a zigzag o f shady road, form ing the P ark and B oulevard o f the w istful little village, down to the single arched bridge that leaps the Ain, w hich pauses underneath in m agnificent pools o f clear pale green: the green o f spring leaves; then clashes in to foam , h a lf weir, h a lf natural cascade, and in to a confused race o f currents beneath ho llow overhanging o f crag festooned w ith leafage. T h e o n ly m arvel is, to anyone know ing Ju ra structure, that rivers should be visible anyw here at all, and that the rocks should be consistent enough to carry them in open air through the great valleys, w ith ou t perpetual ‘pertes’ like those o f the R hone. B elow the Lac de Jou x the O rb e thus loses itse lf indeed, reappearing seven hundred feet * beneath in a scene o f w hich I perm it m yself to quote m y Papa Saussure’s description. ‘A sem icircular rock at least tw o hundred feet high, com posed o f great horizontal rocks hewn vertical, and divided** by ranks o f pine w hich grow on their projecting ledges, closes to the w est the valley o f Valorbe. M ountains y e t m ore elevated and covered w ith forests, fo rm a circuit round this rock, w hich opens o n ly to give passage to the O rbe, whose source is at its foot. Its waters, o f a perfect lim pidity, flow at first w ith a majestic tran quillity upon a bed tapestried w ith beautiful green moss (Fontinalis antipyretica), but soon, drawn in to a steep slope, the thread o f the cu rren t breaks itse lf in foam against the rocks w hich occupy the m iddle o f

* Six hundred and eighty French feet. Saussure, §§ 385. ** ‘Tailles a pic, et entrecoupees.’

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its bed, w hile the borders, less agitated, flow ing always on their green ground, set o ff the whiteness o f the m idst o f the river; and thus it w ithdraw s itself from sight, in follow ing the course o f a deep valley covered w ith pines, whose blackness is rendered m ore striking by the vivid green o f the beeches w hich are scattered am ong them. ‘Ah, i f Petrarch 1 had seen this spring and had found there his Laura, how m uch w ould n o t he have preferred it to that o f Vaucluse/ m ore abundant, perhaps, and m ore rapid, but o f w hich the sterile rocks have neither the greatness o f ours, n o r the rich parure, w hich em bellishes th em .’ I have never seen the source o f the O rbe, but w ould com m end to the read er’s notice the frequent beauty o f these great springs in literally rising at the base o f cliffs, instead o f falling, as one w ould have im agined likely, ou t o f clefts in the fron t o f them. In ou r own English antitype o f the source o f O rbe, M alham C ove/ the flow o f w ater is, in like m anner, w h olly at the base o f the rock, and seems to rise to the ledge o f its ou tlet from a deeper in terio r pool. T h e old H otel de la Poste at Cham pagnole stood just above the bridge o f Ain, opposite the town, w here the road got level again as it darted away towards G eneva. I think the year 1842 was the first in w hich we lengthened the day from D ijon by the two stages beyond Poligny; but afterwards, the H otel de la Poste at C ham pagnole became a kind o f hom e to us: going out, w e had so m uch delight there, and com ing hom e, so m any thoughts, that a great space o f life seemed to be passed in its peace. N o one was ever in the house but ourselves; i f a fam ily stopped every third day o r so, it was enough to m aintain the inn, which, besides, had it ow n farm ; and those w ho did stop, rushed away fo r G eneva early in the m orning. W e, w ho w ere to sleep again at M orez, w ere in no hurry; and in return ing always left G eneva on Friday, to get the Sunday at Cham pagnole. But m y ow n great jo y was in the early Ju n e evening, w hen we had arrived from D ijon, and I got ou t after the quickly dressed tro u t and cutlet fo r the first w alk on rock and under pine. W ith all m y T o ry prejudice (I mean, p rin cip le1), I have to confess that one great jo y o f Sw iss— above all, Jurassic Sw iss—

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ground to me, is in its effectual, n o t m erely theoretic, liberty.t A m on g the greater hills, one can’t always go just w here one chooses,— all around is the too far, or too steep,— one wants to get to this, and climb that, and can’t do e ith er;— but in Ju ra one can go every way, and be happy everyw here. G enerally, i f there was tim e, I used to clim b the islet o f crag to the n o rth o f the village, on w hich there are a few grey walls o f ruined castle, and the yet traceable paths o f its ‘pleasance,’ w hence to look i f the likeness o f w hite cloud w ere still on the horizon. Still there, in the clear evening, and again and again, each year m ore m arvellous to me; the derniers rochers, and calotte o f M o n t Blanc. O n ly those; that is to say just as m uch as m ay be seen over the D om e du G ou te from St. M a rtin ’s.f But it looks as large from Cham pagnole as it does th e re — glowing in the last light like a harvest m oon. I f there w ere n o t tim e to reach the castle rock, at least I could get in to the woods above the Ain, and gather m y first Alpine flowers. Again and again, I feel the duty o f gratitude to the form alities and even vulgarities o f H erne H ill,1"fo r m aking me to feel by contrast the divine wildness o f Ju ra forest. T h en came the m orning drive into the higher glen o f the Ain, w here the road began first to w ind beside the falling stream. O ne never understands how those w inding roads steal w ith their tranquil slope from height to height; it was but an h o u r’s w alking beside the carriage,— an hour passed like a m inute; and one em erged on the high plain o f St. L aurent, and the gentians began to gleam am ong the roadside grass, and the pines swept round the horizon w ith the dark infinitude o f ocean. A il Sw itzerland was there in hope and sensation, and w hat was less than Sw itzerland was in some sort better, in its m eek sim ­ plicity and healthy purity. T h e Ju ra cottage is n o t carved w ith the stately richness o f the Bernese, n o r set togeth er w ith the antique strength o f U ri.t It is covered w ith thin slit fine shingles, sideroofed as it w ere to the ground fo r m ere dryness’ sake, a little crossing o f laths here and there underneath the w indow its on ly ornam ent. It has no daintiness o f garden n o r w ealth o f farm about it,— is indeed little m ore than a delicately-built chalet, yet trim and domestic, m ildly intelligent o f things oth er than pastoral,

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w atch-m aking and the like, though set in the m idst o f the meadows, the gentian at its door, the lily o f the valley w ild in the copses hard by. M y delight in these cottages, and in the sense o f hum an industry and enjoym ent through the w hole scene, was at the ro o t o f all pleasure in its beauty; see the passage afterwards w ritten in the Seven L am psf insisting on this as i f it w ere general to hum an nature thus to adm ire through sympathy. I have noticed since, w ith sorrow fu l accuracy, how m any people there are w ho, w h erever they find themselves, think on ly ‘o f their position.’ But the feeling which gave me so much happiness, both then and through life, differed also curiously, in its im personal character, from that o f m any even o f the best and kindest persons. In the beginning o f the C arlyle-E m erson f correspondence, edited w ith too little com m ent by m y dear friend C harles N o rto n ,1 1 find at page 18 th is— to me entirely disputable, and to m y thought, so far as undisputed, m uch blam eable and pitiable, exclam ation o f m y m aster’s: ‘N o t till w e can think that here and there one is thinking o f us, one is loving us, does this waste earth becom e a peopled garden.’ M y training, as the reader has perhaps enough perceived, produced in me the precisely opposite senti­ m ent. My times o f happiness had always been w hen nobody was thinking o f me; and the m ain discom fort and drawback to all proceedings and designs, the attention and in terference o f the public— represented by m y m other and the gardener. T h e garden was no waste place to me, because I did n o t suppose m yself an object o f interest either to the ants o r the butterflies; and the on ly qualification o f the entire delight o f m y evening w alk at Cham pagnole o r St. L au ren t was the sense that m y father and m oth er were thinking o f me, and w ould be frightened i f I was five m inutes late fo r tea.f I don’t m ean in the least that I could have done w ith ou t them. T h e y w ere, to me, m uch m ore than C arlyle’s w ife to him; and if C arlyle had w ritten, instead of, that he wanted Em erson to think o f him in Am erica, that he w anted his father and m oth er to be thinking o f him at Ecclefechan,* it had been well. But that the rest o f the w orld was waste to him unless he had adm irers in it, is a

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so rry state o f sentim ent enough; and I am som ew hat tem pted, for once, to adm ire the exacdy opposite tem per o f m y ow n solitude. M y entire delight was in observing w ith ou t being m yself noticed, — if I could have been invisible, all the better. I was absolutely interested in m en and their ways, as I was interested in m arm ots and chamois, in tom tits and tro u t.1 I f o n ly th ey w ould stay still and let m e look at them , and n o t get into their holes and up th eir heights. T h e living inhabitation o f the w o rld — the grazing and nesting in it,— the spiritual pow er o f the air, the rocks, the w aters, — to be in the m idst o f it, and rejoice and w on d er at it, and help it i f I could,— happier i f it needed no help o f m ine,— this was the essential love of Nature* in me, this the ro o t o f all that I have usefully becom e, and the light o f all that I have righ tly learned. W h e th e r w e slept at St. L aurent o r More/.,1 the m ornin g o f the next day was an eventful one. In ord in arily fine w eather, the ascent from M o rez to Les Rousses, walked m ost o f the way, was m ere enchantm ent; so also breakfast, and fringed-gentian gather­ ing, at Les Rousses. T h en came usually an hour o f tortured* w atching the increase o f the noon clouds; for, how ever early we had risen, it was impossible to reach the C o l de la Faucille before tw o o ’clock, o r later i f we had bad horses, and at tw o o ’clock, i f there are clouds above Ju ra, there w ill be assuredly clouds on the Alps. It is w o rth notice, Saussure h im self n o t having noticed it, that this m ain pass o f Ju ra, unlike the great passes o f the Alps, reaches its traverse-point ve ry nearly under the highest sum m it o f that part o f the chain. T h e col, separating the source o f the Bienne, w hich runs down to M o rez and St. Claude, from that o f the Valserine, w hich winds through the m idst o f Ju ra to the R hone at Bellegarde, is a spur o f the D ole itself, un der w hose prolonged masses the road is then carried six miles farther, ascending v ery slightly to the C o l de la Faucille, w here the chain opens suddenly, and a sweep o f the road, traversed in five m inutes at a trot, opens the w hole Lake o f G eneva, and the chain o f the Alps along a hundred miles o f horizon. I have never seen that view p erfectly but on ce— in this year 18 3 5 ; w hen I drew it carefully in m y then fashion, and have been

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content to look back to it as the confirm ing sequel o f the first view o f the Alps from Schaffhausen. V ery few travellers, even in old times, saw it at all; tired o f the long posting jou rn ey from Paris, by the tim e th ey got to the col they w ere m ostly th inking on ly o f their dinners and rest at G eneva; the guide books said noth ing about it; and though, fo r everybody, it was an inevitable task to ascend the Righi, nobody ever thought there was anything to be seen from the D ole. Both m ountains have had enorm ous influence on m y w hole life ;— the D ole continually and calmly; the Righi at sorrow ful intervals, as w ill be seen. But the C o l de la Faucille, on that day o f 1835, opened to m e in distinct vision the H oly Land o f m y future w o rk and true hom e in this w orld. M y eyes had been opened, and m y heart w ith them , to see and to possess royally such a kingdom! Far as the eye could reach — that land and its m oving o r pausing waters; A rve, and his gates o f C luse,f and his glacier fountains; Rhone, and the infinitude o f his sapphire lake,— his peace beneath the narcissus meads o f V evay+— his cruelty beneath the prom ontories o f Sierre. A nd all that rose against and m elted into the sky, o f m ountain and m ountain snow; and all that living plain, burning with hum an gladness— studded w ith w hite hom es,— a m ilky w ay o f star-dwellings cast across its sunlit blue.

CH APTER

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Q U E M T U , M E L P O M E N E .1,

W

H E T H E R in the biography o f a nation, o r o f a single person, it is alike im possible to trace it steadily

through successive years. Som e forces are failing w hile others strengthen, and m ost act irregularly, o r else at uncorresponding

periods o f renew ed enthusiasm after intervals o f lassitude. F or all clearness o f exposition, it is necessary to fo llow first one, then another, w ith ou t confusing notices o f w hat is happening in oth er directions. I m ust accordingly cease talk o f pictorial and rhythm ic efforts o f the year 18 3 5, at this point; and go back to give account o f another segm ent o f m y learning, w hich m ight have had b etter consequence than ever came o f it, had the stars so pleased. I cannot, and perhaps the reader w ill be thankful, rem em ber anything o f the A p o llin e 1 instincts under w hich I averred to incredulous papa and mamma that, ‘though I could n o t speak, I could play upon the fiddle.’ But even to this day, I look back w ith starts o f so rrow to a lost op portunity o f show ing w hat was in me, o f that m anner o f genius, on the occasion o f a grand m ilitary dinner in the state room o f the Sussex, at T unbridge W e lls ;1 w here, w hen I was som ething about eight o r nine years old, we w ere staying in an unadventurous manner, enjoying the pantiles,1 the com m on, the sight, i f n o t the taste, o f the lovely fountain, and drives to the H igh Rocks. A fter the m ilitary dinner there was m ilitary music, and by connivance o f waiters, A nne and I got in, somehow, mixed up w ith the dessert. I believe I was rath er a p retty boy then, and dressed in a n o t w h o lly civilian m anner, in a so rt o f laced and buttoned surtout. M y mind was extrem ely set 134

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on w atching the instrum ental manoeuvres o f the band,— w ith adm iration o f all, but burning envy o f the drummer. T h e colonel took notice o f m y rapt attention, and sent an ensign to bring me round to him; and after getting, I know n o t how, at m y m ind in the m atter, told me I m ight go and ask the drum m er to give me his lovely round-headed sticks, and he w ould. I was in tw o minds to do it, having good confidence in m y powers o f keeping time. But the dismal shyness conquered:— I shook m y head woefully, and m y musical career was blighted.f N o one w ill ever know w hat I could then have brought out o f that drum, o r (if m y father had perchance taken me to Spain) ou t o f a tam bourine. M y m other, busy in graver m atters, had never cultivated the little she had been taught o f music, though h er natural sensibility to it was great. M rs. R ichard G ra y used sometim es to play gracefully to me, but i f ever she struck a false note, h er husband used to put his fingers in his ears, and dance about the room , exclaiming, ‘O M ary, M ary d ear!’ and so extinguish her. O ur own P erth M a ry played dutifully h er scales, and little m ore; but I got useful help, alm ost unconsciously, from a fam ily o f young people w ho ought, i f m y ch ron ology had been systematic, to have been affectionately spoken o f long ago. In above describing m y fath er’s counting-house, I said the door was opened by a latch pulled by the head clerk. T h is head clerk, or, putting it m ore m odestly, topm ost o f tw o clerks, H en ry W atson, was a person o f m uch im port in m y father’s life and m ine; im p o rt which, I perceive, looking back, to have been as in m any respects tender and fortunate, y e t in others extrem ely doleful, both to us and himself. T h e ch ief fault in m y fath er’s mind, (I say so reverently, fo r its faults w ere few, but necessarily, fo r they w ere v ery fatal,f) was his dislike o f being excelled. H e knew his ow n p o w er— felt that he had n o t nerve to use o r display it, in full measure; but all the m ore, could n o t bear, in his ow n sphere, any approach to equality. H e chose his clerks first fo r trustworthiness, secondly fo r — ///capacity. I am n o t sure that he w ould have sent away a clever one, if he had chanced on such a person; but he assuredly did not

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look fo r m ercantile genius in them , but rath er fo r subordinates w ho w ould be subordinate fo r ever. F rederick the G re a t1 chose his clerks in the same way; but then, his clerks never supposed them selves lik ely to be king, w hile a m erchant’s clerks are apt to hope they m ay at least becom e partners, i f n o t successors. Also, F ried rich ’s clerks w ere absolutely fit fo r their business; but m y fa th er’s clerks w ere, in m any ways, u tterly un fit fo r theirs. O f w hich unfitness m y father greatly com plaining, nevertheless by no means bestirred him self to find fitter ones. H e used to send H en ry W atson on business tours, and assure him afterw ards that he had done m ore harm than good: he w ould now and then leave H en ry Ritchie to w rite a business letter; and, I think, find w ith some satisfaction that it was needful afterw ards to w rite tw o, him self, in correction o f it.1' T h ere was scarcely a day w hen he did n o t com e hom e in some irritation at som ething that one o r oth er o f them had done, o r n o t done. But they stayed w ith him till his death. O f the second in com m and, M r. R itchie, I w ill say w hat is needful in another place; but the clerk o f confidence, H en ry W atson, has already been left unnoticed too long. H e was, I believe, the principal support o f a w idow ed m oth er and three grow n-up sisters, amiable, w ell educated, and fairly sensible w om en, all o f them ; refined beyond the average tone o f th eir position,— and desirous, n o t vulgarly, o f keeping them selves in the upper-edge circle o f the m iddle class. N o t vulgarly, I say, as caring m erely to have carriages stopping at their door, but w ith real sense o f the good that is in good L on don society, in L on d on society’s way. T h e y liked, as they did n o t drop their ow n h ’s, to talk w ith people w ho did n o t drop theirs; to hear w hat was going on in polite circles; and to have entree to a pleasant dance, o r rig h tly given concert. Being them selves both good and pleasing musicians, (the qualities are not united in all musicians,) this was n o t difficult fo r th em ;— nevertheless it m eant necessarily having a house in a street o f tone, near the Park, and being nicely dressed, and giving now and then a little reception themselves. O n the w hole, it m eant the total absorption o f H en ry’s salary, and o f the earnings, in some official, o r otherw ise plum aged

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occupations, o f tw o brothers besides, D avid and W illiam . T h e latter, now I think o f it, was a W est-E n d w ine m erchant, supply­ ing the no b ility w ith C los-V ougeot, H ochheim er, dignifiedly still Cham pagne, and oth er nectareous drinks, o f which the bottom fills up h a lf the bottle, and which are o n ly to be had out o f the cellars o f G ran d Dukes and C ounts o f the E m pire.1 T h e fam ily lived, to the edge o f their means,— n o t too narrow ly: the young ladies enjoyed them selves, studied G erm a n — and at that time it was thought ve ry fine and poetical to study G erm an ;+— sang extrem ely w ell, gracefully and easily; had good taste in dress, the better fo r being a little m atronly and old-fashioned: and the w hole fam ily thought them selves extrem ely elite, in a substantial and virtuous manner. W h e n H en ry W atson was first taken, (then, I believe, a boy o f sixteen,) I know n o t by w hat chance, o r on w hat com m endation, into m y fath er’s counting-house, the opening was thought by his fam ily a m agnificent one; they w ere v e ry thankful and happy, and, o f course, in th eir b ro th er’s interest, eager to do all they could to please m y father and m other. T h e y found, however, m y m oth er n o t v ery easily pleased; and presently began themselves to be not a little surprised and ^ p le a s e d by the w ay things w en t on, both in the counting-house and at H erne H ill. A t the one, there was steady w ork; at the other, little show: the clerks could by no means ven tu re to leave their desks fo r a garden-party, and after dark w ere allow ed o n ly tallow candles. T h a t the head o f the Firm should live in the h a lf o f a party-w alled house, beyond the suburb o f C am berw ell, was a degradation and disgrace to everybody connected w ith the business! and that H en ry should be obliged every m orning to take om nibus in to the eastern City, and w ork w ithin scent o f Billingsgate,* instead o f walking elegantly across Piccadilly* to an office in St. Jam es’s Street,* was alike injurious to him , and disparaging to m y father’s taste and knowledge o f the w orld. Also, to the fem inine circle, m y m oth er was a singular, and so rro w fu lly intractable, phenom enon. T aking h erself no interest in G erm an studies, and being little curious as to the events, and little respectful to the opinions, o f Mayfair,* she was apt to look w ith some severity, perhaps a tinge o f jealousy, on w hat she

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thought pretentious in the accom plishm ents, o r affected in the m anners, o f the young people: w hile they, on the oth er hand, though quite sensible o f m y m o th er’s w orth , grateful fo r h er good w ill, and in time really attached to her, w ere n o t disposed to pay m uch attention to the opinions o f a w om an w ho knew on ly h er ow n language;— and w ere m ore restive than responsive under kindnesses w hich frequ ently took the form o f advice. T hese differences in feeling, irreconcilable though they w ere, did n o t hind er the grow th o f consistently pleasant and sincerely affectionate relations between m y m oth er and the you n g house­ wives. W ith w hat best o f girl nature was in them , Fanny, H elen, and foolishest, cleverest little Ju liet, enjoyed in, spring tim e, exchanging fo r a day o r tw o the dusty dignity o f th eir street o f tone in M ayfair fo r the lilacs and laburnum s o f H ern e-h ill: and held them selves, w ith their b roth er H enry, always read y at call to com e out on any occasion o f the h ill’s hospitality to some respected correspondent o f the H ouse, and sing to us the prettiest airs from the new opera, w ith a due foundation and tonic in ter­ m ixture o f classical G erm an. H en ry had a singularly beautiful ten or voice; and the three sisters, though not, any one o f them , o f special power, sang th eir parts w ith sufficient precision, w ith intelligent taste, and w ith the p retty unison o f sisterly voices. In this way, from early childhood, I was accustomed to hear a great range o f good music com pletely and rig h tly rendered, w ithout breakings down, missings out, affectations o f manner, o r vulgar prom inence o f execution. H ad the quartette sung me English glees, o r Scotch ballads, o r British salt w ater ones, o r had any one o f the girls had gift enough to render higher music w ith its p rop er splendour, I m ight easily have been led to spare some tim e from m y maps and m ineralogy fo r attentive listening. As it was, the scientific G erm an com po­ sitions w ere sim ply tiresom e to me, and the p retty m odulations o f Italian, w hich I understood no syllable of, pleasant on ly as the trills o f the blackbirds, w ho often listened, and expressed th eir satisfaction by joining in the part-songs through the w indow that opened to the back garden in the spring evenings. Yet the education o f m y ear and taste w en t on w ith ou t trouble o f m ine.

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I do n o t think I ever heard any m asterly professional music, until, as good hap was, I heard the best, on ly to be heard during a n arrow space o f those youn g days. I too carelessly left w ith ou t explanation the casual sentence about ‘fatal dinner at M r. D om ecq’s ’ w hen I was fourteen, above, Chap. IV , p. 63. M y fath er’s Spanish partner was at that time living in the Cham ps Elysees, w ith his English w ife and his five daughters; the eldest, Diana, on the eve o f h er m arriage w ith one o f N apoleon’s officers, C o u n t M aison; the four others, much younger, chanced to be at hom e on vacation from th eir convent school: and we had happy fam ily dinner w ith them , and mamma and the girls and a delightful old French gentlem an, M r. Badell, played afterwards at ‘la toilette de M adam e’ w ith me, on ly I couldn’t rem em ber w heth er I was the necklace o r the garters; and then C lotild e and C ecile played ‘les Echos’ and other fascinations o f dance-m elody,— on ly I couldn’t dance; and at last Elise had to take pity on me as above described. But the best, if n o t the largest, part o f the conversation am ong the elders was o f the recen t death o f B ellini,f the sorrow o f all Paris fo r him, and the pow er w ith w hich his ‘I P uritani’ t was being rendered by the reigning fo u r great singers fo r w hom it was w ritten. It puzzles me that I have no recollection o f any first sight and hearing o f an opera. N o t even, fo r that matter, o f m y first going

to a theatre, though I was full twelve, before being taken; and afterwards, it was a m atter o f intense rapture, o f a com m on sort, to be taken to a pantom im e. A nd I greatly enjoy theatre to this day— it is one o f the pleasures that have least w orn out; yet, w hile I rem em ber F riar’s C rag at D erw en tw ater w hen I was fo u r years old, and the courtyard o f ou r Paris inn at five, I have no m em ory whatever, and am a little proud to have none, o f m y first theatre. T o be taken now at Paris to the feebly dram atic ‘P uritani’ was no great jo y to me; but I then heard, and it w ill always be a rare, and o n ly once o r twice in a centu ry possible, thing to hear, fou r great musicians, all righ tly to be called o f genius, singing together, w ith sincere desire to assist each other, not eclipse; and to exhibit, n o t o n ly their ow n pow er o f singing, but the beauty o f the music they sang.

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Still m ore fortun ately it happened that a w om an o f faultless genius led the follow ing dances,— Taglioni;* a person o f the highest natural faculties, and stainlessly simple character, gath­ ered w ith sincerest ardour and reverence into her art. M y m other, though she allowed me w ith ou t serious rem onstrance to be taken to the theatre by m y father, had the strictest P uritan prejudice against the stage; ye t enjoyed it so much that I think she felt the sacrifice she made in n o t going w ith us to be a sort o f price accepted by the laws o f virtu e fo r w hat was sinful in her concession to m y father and me. She w ent, however, to hear and see this group o f players, renow ned, w ith ou t any rivals, through all the cities o f E urop e;— and, strange and p retty to say, h er instinct o f the innocence, beauty, and wonder, in every m otion o f the G race o f her century, was so strong, that from that tim e fo rth m y m oth er w ould always, at a w ord, go w ith us to see T aglioni. A fterw ards, a season did n o t pass w ith ou t m y hearing twice o r thrice, at least, those four singers; and I learned the b etter because m y ear was n ever jaded the intention o f the music w ritten fo r them , o r studied by them ; and am extrem ely glad now that I heard their renderings o f M o zart and Rossini, neither o f w hom can be now said ever to be heard at all, ow ing to the detestable quickening o f the time. G ris if and M alibran* sang at least onethird slow er than any m odern cantatrice;* and P atti,f the last tim e I heard her, massacred Z erlin a’s part in ‘L a ci darem ,,f as i f the audience and she had but the one object o f getting M o za rt’s air done w ith, as soon as possible. A fterw ards, (the confession m ay as w ell be got over at once,) w hen I had got settled in m y fu rro w at C h rist C hurch, it chanced that the b etter m en o f the college had founded a musical society, under instruction o f the cathedral organist, M r. M arsh all,f an extrem ely simple, good-natured and good-hum oured person, by whose encouragem ent I was brou gh t to the point o f tryin g to learn to sing, ‘C om e mai posso vivere se Rosina non m ’ascolta,^ and to play the tw o lines o f prelude to the ‘A te o cara/t and w hat

* It is a pretty conceit of musical people to call themselves scientific, when they have not yet fixed their unit of time!

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notes I could manage to read o f accompanim ents to oth er songs o f sim ilarly tender purport. In which, though never even getting so far as to read w ith ease, I nevertheless, between m y fine rhythm ic ear, and true lo ve r’s sentim ent, got to understand some principles o f musical art, w hich I shall perhaps be able to enforce w ith benefit on the musical public mind, even to-day, i f on ly I can get first done w ith this autobiography/ W h a t the fu rro w at C h rist C hurch was to be like, o r w here to lead, none o f m y people seem at this tim e to have been thinking. M y m other, w atching the naturalistic and m ethodic bent o f me, was, I suppose, tranquil in the thought o f m y becom ing another W h ite o f Selborn,* o r V icar o f W akefield,* victorious in W h isto n ian* and every oth er controversy. M y father perhaps conceived m ore com etic o r m eteoric career fo r me, but neither o f them put the m atter seriously in hand, how ever deeply laid up in heart: and I was allow ed w ith ou t rem onstrance to go on m easuring the blue o f the sky, and w atching the flight o f the clouds, till I had forg otten m ost o f the Latin I ever knew, and all the G reek, except A n acreon ’s ode to the rose. Som e little effo rt was made to pull me together in 18 3 6 by sending m e to hear M r. D ale’s lectures at K in g ’s College,* w here I explained to M r. Dale, on m eeting him one day in the court o f entrance, that porticoes should n o t be carried on the top o f arches;* and considered m yself exalted because I w en t in at the same do or w ith boys w ho had square caps on/ T h e lectures w ere on early English literature, o f which, though I had never read a w ord o f any before Pope, I thought m yself already a much better judge than M r. D ale. His quotation o f “K n u t the king came sailing by” ! stayed w ith me; and I think that was about all I learnt during the summer. For, as m y adverse* stars w ould have it, that year, m y fath er’s partner, M r. D om ecq, thought it m ight fo r once be expedient that he should him self pay a com plim entary round o f visits to his British custom ers, and asked if m eanwhile he m ight leave his daughters at H erne H ill to see the lions at the Tower, and so on. H ow we got them all into H erne H ill corners and cupboards w ould be inexplicable but w ith a plan o f the three stories! T h e arrangem ents w ere h a lf N oah ’s ark, h a lf D o ll’s

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house, but we got them all in: C lotilde, a graceful oval-faced blonde o f fifteen; Cecile, a dark, finely-brow ed, beautifullyfeatured girl o f thirteen; Elise, again fair, round-faced like an English girl, a treasure o f good nature and good sense; C aroline, a delicately quaint little thing o f eleven. T h e y had all been born abroad, C lotilde at Cadiz, and o f course convent-bred; but lately accustom ed to be m uch in society during vacation at Paris. D eeper than any one dream ed, the sight o f them in the Cham ps Elysees had sealed itself in me, fo r they w ere the first w ell-b red and w ell-dressed girls I had ever seen— or at least spoken to. I m ean o f course, by w ell-dressed, p erfectly sim ply dressed, w ith Parisian cutting and fitting. T h e y w ere all “bigoted”— as P rotes­ tants w ould say; quietly firm , as they ought to say— R om an Catholics; spoke Spanish and French w ith perfect grace, and English w ith broken precision: w ere all fairly sensible, C lotild e stern ly and accurately so, Elise gaily and kindly, C ecile serenely, C aroline keenly. A m ost curious galaxy, o r southern cross,1 o f unconceived stars, floating on a sudden into m y obscure firm a­ m ent o f L on don suburb. H ow m y parents could allow th eir young novice to be cast into the fiery fu rn ace1 o f the ou ter w orld in this helpless m anner the reader m ay wonder, and on ly the Fates know; but there was this excuse fo r them , that they had never seen me the least interested o r anxious about girls— never caring to stay in the prom enades at C h elten h am + or Bath,* or on the parade at D o v e r;t on the contrary, grow ling and m ewing if I was ever kept there, and o ff to the sea o r the fields the m om ent I got leave; and they had educated me in such extrem ely orthodox English T oryism and Evangelicalism that they could n o t conceive their scientific, re li­ gious, and G eorge the T h ird f revering youth, w avering in his constitutional balance towards French Catholics. A nd I had n ever

said anything about the Cham ps Elysees! V irtu ally convent-bred m ore closely than the maids themselves, w ith ou t a single sisterly o r cousinly affection fo r refuge o r lightning rod, and having no athletic skill or pleasure to check m y dream ing, I was throw n, bound hand and foot, in m y unaccom plished simplicity, into the fiery furnace, or fiery cross, o f these four girls,— w ho o f course

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reduced me to a m ere heap o f w hite ashes in four days. F our days, at the most, it took to reduce me to ashes, but the M ercred i des cendresf lasted fo u r years. A n ything m ore comic in the externals o f it, anything m ore tragic in the essence, could n o t have been invented by the skilfullest designer in either kind. In m y social behaviour and mind I was a curious com bination o f M r. Traddles, M r. T oots, and M r. W in k led I had the real fidelity and single-m indedness o f M r. Traddles, w ith the conversational abilities o f M r. T oots, and the heroic am bition o f M r. W in k le ;— all these illum inated by im agi­ nation like M r. C op p erfield ’s, at his first N orw ood dinner.f C lotilde (Adele C lotilde in full, but her sisters called her C lotilde, after the queen-saint,f and I Adele, because it rhym ed to shell, spell, and knell) was on ly made m ore resplendent by the circlet o f h er sisters’ beauty; w hile m y own shyness and unpresentableness w ere farth er stiffened, or rath er sanded, by a patriotic and P rotestant conceit, w hich was tem pered neither by politeness n o r sym pathy; so that, w hile in com pany I sate jealously m iserable like a stock fish (in truth, I imagine, looking like nothing so m uch as a skate in an aquarium trying to get up the glass), on any blessed occasion o f tete-a-tete I endeavoured to entertain m y Spanish-born, Paris-bred, and C atholic-hearted mistress w ith m y ow n views upon the subjects o f the Spanish A rm ada,1 the Battle o f W aterloo^ and the doctrine o f T ransubstantiation.f T o these modes o f recom m ending m yself, however, I did n o t fail to add w hat display I could make o f the talents I supposed m yself to possess. I w rote w ith great pains, and straining o f m y invention, a story about N aples, (which I had never seen), and ‘the Bandit L eon i,’ w hom I represented as typical o f w hat m y own sanguinary and adventurous disposition would have been had I been brought up a bandit; and ‘the M aiden G iu letta,’ in w hom I portrayed all the perfections o f m y mistress. O u r connection w ith M essrs. Sm ith & E lder enabled me to get this story printed in ‘Friendship’s O fferin g ;’ 1 and Adele laughed over it in rippling ecstasies o f derision, o f w hich I bore the pain bravely, fo r the sake o f seeing her thorou gh ly amused.

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I dared n o t address any sonnets straight to herself; but w hen she w en t back to Paris, w rote h er a French letter seven quarto pages long, descriptive o f the desolations and solitudes o f H erne H ill since her departure. T his letter, either Elise o r C aroline w ro te to tell me she had really read, and ‘laughed im m ensely at the F rench o f.’ Both C aroline and Elise pitied me a little, and did n o t like to say she had also laughed at the contents. T h e old people, m eanwhile, saw little harm in all this. M r. D om ecq, w ho was extrem ely good-natured, and a good judge o f character, rath er liked me, because he saw that I was goodnatured also, and had some seedling brains, w hich w ould com e up in tim e: in the interests o f the business he was perfectly read y to give me any o f his daughters I liked, w ho could also be got to like me, but considered that the tim e was n o t com e to talk o f such things. M y father was en tirely o f the same m ind, besides being pleased at m y getting a story printed in ‘Friendship’s O fferin g ,’ glad that I saw som ething o f girls w ith good m anners, and in hopes that i f I w rote p o etry about them , it m ight be as good as the H ours o f Idleness.1 M y m other, w ho looked upon the idea o f m y m arrying a Rom an C atholic as too m onstrous to be possible in the decrees o f H eaven, and too preposterous to be even guarded against on earth, was rath er annoyed at the w hole business, as she w ould have been if one o f her chim neys had begun sm oking,— but had n o t the slightest notion h er house was on fire.f She saw m ore, however, than m y father, into the depth o f the feeling, but did not, in h er m oth erly tenderness, like to grieve me by any serious check to it. She hoped, w hen the D om ecqs w en t back to Paris, we m ight see no m ore o f them , and that A d ele’s influence and m em ory w ould pass aw ay— w ith next w in ter’s snow. U n d er these indulgent circum stances,— b itterly ashamed o f the figure I had made, but yet n o t a w hit dashed back ou t o f m y daily sw elling foam o f furious conceit, supported as it was by real depth o f feeling, and (note it w ell, good reader) by a true and glorious sense o f the new ly revealed m iracle o f hum an love, in its exaltation o f the physical beauty o f the w orld I had till then sought by its ow n light alone,— I set m yself in that m y seven­ teenth year, in a state o f majestic im becility, to w rite a tragedy on

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a Venetian subject,* in w hich the sorrow s o f m y soul w ere to be enshrined in im m ortal verse,— the fair heroine, Bianca, was to be endowed w ith the perfections o f D esdem onat and the brightness o f Juliet,*— and Venice and L ove w ere to be described, as never had been thought o f before.* I m ay note in passing, that on m y first sight o f the D ucal Palace,1 the year before, I had deliberately announced to m y father and m other, and— it seemed to me stupidly incredulous— M ary, that I m eant to make such a draw ­ ing o f the D ucal Palace as n ever had been made before. T his I proceeded to p erform by collecting some hasty m em oranda on the spot, and finishing m y design elaborately out o f m y head at Treviso.* T h e draw ing still exists,— fo r a w onder, ou t o f perspec­ tive, w hich I had now got too conceited to follow the rules of,— and w ith the diaper pattern o f the red and w hite m arbles rep re­ sented as a bold panelling in relief. N o figure disturbs the solem n tranquillity o f the Riva, and the gondolas— each in the shape o f a T urkish crescent standing on its back on the w a ter— float about w ith ou t the aid o f gondoliers. I rem em ber nothing m ore o f that year, 18 3 6, than sitting under the m u lb erry tree in the back garden, w ritin g m y tragedy. I forget w heth er we w en t travelling o r not, o r w hat I did in the rest o f the day. It is all now blank to me, except Venice, Bianca, and looking out over S h o o ter’s H ill,+ w here I could see the last turn o f the road to Paris.* Som e G reek, though I don’t know what, m ust have been read, and some mathematics, fo r I certainly knew the difference between a square and cube ro o t w hen I w en t to O xford, and was put by m y tu to r into H erodotus,* out o f w hom I im m ediately gathered m aterials enough to w rite m y Scythian drinking song, in im ita­ tion o f the G iaour. T h e reflective reader can scarcely but have begun to doubt, by this tim e, the accuracy o f m y statem ent that I took no harm from Byron. But he need not. T h e particular form o f expression which m y fo lly took was indeed directed by him; but this form was the best it could have taken. I got b etter practice in English by im ita­ ting the G iaou r and Bride o f Abydos* than I could have had under any oth er master, (the tragedy was o f course Shakespearian!) and

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the state o f m y m ind w as— m y m ind’s ow n fault, and that o f surrounding m ischance o r m ism anagem ent— n o t B yron ’s. In that same year, 1 8 3 6 ,1 took to reading S h elle y f also, and wasted m uch tim e over the Sensitive P lant and Epipsychidion; and I took a good deal o f harm from him, in tryin g to w rite lines like ‘prickly and pulpous and blistered and blue;’* or ‘it was a little law ny islet by anem one and v i’let,— like mosaic paven,’* etc.; but in the state o f fro th y fever I was in, there was little good fo r me to be got out o f anything. T h e perseverance w ith w hich I tried to wade through the R evolt o f Islam, and find out (I never did, and d o n ’t know to this day) w ho revolted against w hom , o r w hat, was cred­ itable to me; and the P rom eth eu s1 really made me understand som ething o f ^Eschylus. I am n o t sure that, fo r w hat I was to turn out, m y days o f ferm ent could have been got over m uch easier: at any rate, it was better than if I had been learning to shoot, o r hunt, o r smoke, or gamble. T h e entirely inscrutable thing to me, looking back on m yself, is m y total w ant o f all reason, w ill, or design in the business: I had neither the resolution to w in Adele, the courage to do w ith ou t her, the sense to consider w hat was at last to come o f it all, or the grace to think how disagreeable I was m aking m yself at the tim e to everybody about me. T h ere was really no m ore capacity n o r intelligence in me than in a just fledged ow let, o r just open-eyed puppy, disconsolate at the existence o f the m oon. O u t o f m y feebly m elodious com plaints to that lum inary, h o w ­ ever, I was startled by a letter to m y father from C h rist Church,* advising him that there was room fo r m y residence in the Jan u ary term o f 18 3 7, and that I m ust com e up to m atriculate in O ctober o f the instant year, 1836. Stran gely enough, m y father had never enquired into the nature and m anner o f m atriculation, till he took me up to display in O x fo rd ;— he, v ery n early as m uch a boy as I, fo r anything we knew o f w hat w e w ere about. H e never had any doubt about putting me at the m ost fashionable college,* and o f course m y nam e had been down at C h rist C h urch years before I was called up; but it had never dawned on m y fath er’s m ind that there w ere two, fashionable and unfashionable, orders, o r castes, o f

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undergraduate at C h rist C hurch, one o f these being called G en tlem en -C om m on ers,1 the oth er C om m oners; and that these last seemed to occupy an alm ost bisectional point between the G entlem en-C om m on ers and the Servitors. A ll these ‘invidious’ distinctions are now done away w ith in ou r R eform ed U niversity. N obo dy sets up fo r the special rank o f a gendem an, but nobody w ill be set down as a com m oner; and though, o f the old people, anybody w ill beg o r canvass fo r a place fo r their children in a charity school, everybody w ould be furious at the thought o f his son’s wearing, at college, the gown o f a Servitor.f H ow far I agree w ith the m odern British citizen in these lo fty sentim ents, m y general w ritings have enough shown; but I leave the reader to form his own opinions w ithout any con trary com ­ m ent o f mine, on the results o f the exploded system o f things in m y ow n college life. M y father did n o t like the w ord ‘com m oner,’— all the less, because ou r relationships in general w ere n o t uncom m on. Also, though him self satisfying his pride enough in being the head o f the sh erry trade, he felt and saw in his son powers w hich had not their full scope in the sh erry trade. His ideal o f m y future,— now en tirely form ed in conviction o f m y genius,— was that I should enter at college into the best society, take all the prizes every year, and a double first to finish w ith; m arry L ady C lara V ere de V ere;1 w rite p o etry as good as B yron ’s, on ly pious; preach sermons as good as B o ssu e tV on ly P rotestant; be made, at forty, Bishop o f W inchester, and at fifty, Prim ate o f England.* W ith all these hopes, and under all these tem ptations, m y father was y e t restrained and em barrassed in no small degree by his old and steady sense o f w hat was becom ing to his station in life: and he consulted anxiously, but honestly, the D ean o f C h rist C hurch, (Gaisford,*) and m y college tu to r that was to be, M r. W a lte r Brow n, w heth er a person in his position m ight w ithout im p rop riety en ter his son as a gentlem an-com m oner. I did n o t hear the dialogues, but the old D ean m ust have answered w ith a grunt, that m y father had every righ t to make m e a gentlem ancom m oner i f he liked, and could pay the fees; the tutor, m ore attentively laying before him the conditions o f the question, m ay

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perhaps have said, w ith courtesy, that it w ould be good fo r the college to have a reading man* am ong the gentlem en-com m oners, w ho, as a rule, w ere n o t studiously inclined; but he was com pelled also to give m y father a hint, that as far as m y reading had already gone, it was n o t altogeth er certain I could pass the entrance exam ination which had to be sustained by com m oners. T h is last suggestion was conclusive. It was n o t to be endured that the boy w ho had been expected to carry all before him , should get h im ­ self jam m ed in the first turnstile. I was entered as a G en tlem an C o m m on er w ith ou t farth er debate, and rem em ber still, as i f it w ere yesterday, the pride o f first w alking out o f the A ngel H otel, and past U n iversity College,* holding m y fath er’s arm, in m y velvet cap and silk gown. Yes, good reader, the velvet and silk made a difference, n o t to m y m oth er only, but to me! Q uite one o f the telling and w eighty points in the hom e debates concerning this choice o f Hercules,* had been that the com m oner’s gow n was n o t on ly o f ugly stuff, but had no flow ing lines in it, and was virtu ally on ly a black rag tied to o n e’s shoulders. O ne was thrice a gownsm an in a flow ing gown. So little, indeed, am I disposed now in m atu rer years to deride these unphilosophical feelings, that instead o f effacing distinction o f dress at the U n iversity (except fo r the boating clubs), I w ould fain have seen them extended in to the entire social ord er o f the country. I think that nobody but duchesses should be allow ed to w ear diamonds; that lords should be know n from com m on people by th eir stars, a qu arter o f a m ile off; that every peasant girl should boast h er coun ty by some dainty ratification o f cap o r bodice; and that in the towns a vin tn er should be know n from a fishm onger by the cut o f his jerkin.* T h a t w alk to the Schools, and the w aiting, outside the D ivin ity School,* in com forting adm iration o f its door, m y turn fo r m atriculation,* continue still fo r me, a pleasure. But I rem em ber noth ing m ore that year; n o r anything o f the first days o f the next, until early in Jan u ary we drove down to O xford, on ly m y m oth er and I, by the beautiful H enley road, w eary a little as w e changed horses fo r the last stage from D orchester;* solem nized, in spite

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o f velvet and silk, as we entered am ong the towers in the twilight; and after one m ore rest under the domestic ro o f o f the Angel, I found m yself the next day at evening, alone, by the fireside, entered into com mand o f m y ow n life, in m y ow n college room in Peckwater.t

CH APTER

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C H R IS T C H U R C H C H O IR .

L O N E , by the fireside o f the little back room , w hich looked into the n arrow lane, chiefly then o f stabling, I sate collecting m y resolution fo r college life. I had n o t m uch to collect; nor, so far as I knew, m uch to collect it against. I had about as clear understanding o f m y w hereabouts, o r foresight o f m y fortune, as D avie G e lla tly f m ight have had in m y place; w ith these farth er in feriorities to D avie, that I could neither dance, sing, n o r roast eggs. T h ere was n o t the slightest fear o f m y gambling, fo r I had never touched a card, and looked upon dice as people now do on dynam ite. N o fear o f m y being tem pted by the strange wom an, fo r was n o t I in love? and besides, never allow ed to be out after half-past nine.1 N o fear o f m y running in debt, fo r there w ere no T urners to be had in O xford, and I cared fo r nothing else in the w orld o f m aterial possession. N o fear o f m y breaking m y neck out hunting, fo r I couldn’t have ridden a hack down the H igh Street; and no fear o f m y ruining m yself at a race, fo r I never had been but at one race in m y life, and had n o t the least wish to w in anybody else’s money. I expected some ridicule, indeed, fo r these m y simple ways, but was safe against ridicule in m y conceit: the on ly thing I doubted m yself in, and very rightly, was the pow er o f applying fo r three years to w o rk in which I took not the slightest interest. I resolved, however, to do m y parents and m yself as m uch credit as I could, said m y prayers very seriously, and w en t to bed in good hope. A nd here I m ust stay, fo r a m inute o r two, to give some account o f the state o f m ind I had got into during the above-described progress o f m y education, touching religious m atters. 150

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As far as I recollect, the steady Bible reading w ith m y m other ended w ith our first continental journey, w hen I was fourteen; one could n o t read three chapters after breakfast w hile the horses w ere at the door. F or this lesson was substituted m y ow n private reading o f a chapter, m orning and evening, and, o f course, saying the L o rd ’s P rayer after it, and asking fo r everything that was nice fo r m yself and m y fam ily; after w hich I waked o r slept, w ithout much thought o f anything but m y earth ly affairs, w h eth er by night o r day.1 It had never entered into m y head to doubt a w ord o f the Bible, though I saw w ell enough already that its w ords w ere to be understood otherw ise than I had been taught; but the m ore I believed it, the less it did m e any good. It was all ve ry w ell for Abraham to do w hat angels bid him ,1— so w ould I, i f any angels bid me; but none had ever appeared to me that I knew of, not even Adele, w ho couldn’t be an angel because she was a Rom an Catholic.* Also, i f I had lived in C h rist’s time, o f course I w ould have gone w ith H im up to the mountain,* o r sailed w ith H im on the Lake o f G alilee; but that was quite another thing from going to B eresford chapel, W alw orth , o r St. B ride’s, F leet S tre e ts Also, though I felt m yself som ehow called to im itate C hristian in the P ilg rim ’s Progress, I couldn’t see that either B illiter Street and the T o w er W h a rf, w here m y father had his cellars, o r the cherryblossomed garden at H erne H ill, w here m y m oth er potted her flowers, could be places I was bound to fly from as in the C ity o f Destruction.* W ith o u t m uch reasoning on the m atter, I had virtu ally concluded from m y general Bible reading that, n ever having m eant o r done any harm that I knew of, I could n o t be in danger o f hell: w hile I saw also that even the crem e de la crem e o f religious people seemed to be in no h u rry to go to heaven. O n the w hole, it seemed to me, all that was required o f me was to say m y prayers, go to church, learn m y lessons, obey m y parents, and enjoy m y dinner. T hus m inded, in the slow ly granted light o f the w inter m orning I looked out upon the view from m y college windows, o f C h rist C hurch library and the sm ooth-gravelled square o f Peckwater,

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vexed a little because I was n o t in an oriel w indow looking out on a G o th ic chapel:* but quite unconscious o f the real condem nation I had fallen under, o r o f the loss that was involved to me in having nothing but C h rist C h urch library, and a gravelled square, to see ou t o f w indow during the spring-tim es o f tw o years o f youth. A t the m om ent I felt that, though dull, it was all v ery grand; and that the architecture, though Renaissance, was bold, learned, w ell-p ro p ortion ed , and variously didactic. In reality, I m ight just as w ell have been sent to the dungeon o f Chillon,* except fo r the damp; better, indeed, i f I could have seen the three small trees fro m the w indow slit, and good groining and pavem ent, instead o f the m odern vulgar upholstery o f m y room furniture. E ven the first sight o f college chapel disappointed me, after the large churches abroad; but its n arro w vaults had v ery differen t offices. O n the w hole, o f im portant places and services fo r the C hristian souls o f England, the choir o f C h rist C h urch was at that epoch o f English history virtu ally the navel, and seat o f life.+ T h ere rem ained in it the traditions o f Saxon, N orm an, Elizabethan, religion unbroken,— the m em ory o f loyalty, the reality o f learn­ ing, and, in nom inal obedience at least, and in the heart o f them w ith true docility, stood every m orning, to be anim ated fo r the highest duties owed to their country, the n o b lestf o f English youth. T h e greater num ber o f the peers o f England, and, as a rule, the best o f h er squirealty, passed necessarily through C h rist C hurch. T h e cathedral itself was an epitom e o f E nglish history. E very stone, every pane o f glass, every panel o f w oodw ork, was true, and o f its tim e,— n o t an accursed sham o f architect’s job. T h e first shrine o f St. F ridesw idet had indeed been destroyed, and her body ren t and scattered on the dust by the Puritan; t but h er second shrine was still beautiful in its kind,— m ost lovely English w o rk both o f heart and hand. T h e N orm an vaults above w ere true English N orm an; bad and rude enough, but the best w e could do w ith ou r ow n wits, and no French help. T h e ro o f was true T udor,— grotesque, inventively constructive, delicately carved; it, w ith the ro o f o f the hall staircase,* sum m ing the bu ild er’s

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skill o f the fifteen th century. T h e w est window, w ith its clum sy painting o f the A d oration o f the Shepherds, a m onum ent o f the transition from w indow to picture w hich ended in D utch pictures o f the cattle w ith ou t either shepherds o r Christ,*— but still, the best m en could do o f the day; and the plain final w ood w ork o f the stalls represented still the last art o f living England in the form o f honest and com fortable carpentry. In this choir, w ritten so closely and consecutively w ith indis­ putable British history, m et every m ornin g a congregation repre­ senting the best o f w hat Britain had becom e,— orderly, as the crew o f a m an-of-war,* in the goodly ship o f their tem ple. E very man in his place, according to his rank, age, and learning; every man o f sense o r h eart there recognizing that he was either fulfilling, or being prepared to fulfil, the gravest duties required o f English­ men. A w ell-educated foreigner, adm itted to that m orning service, m ight have learned and judged m ore quickly and ju stly w hat the coun try had been, and still had pow er to be, than by m onths o f stay in court o r city. T h ere, in his stall, sat the greatest divine o f England,*— under his com m andant niche, h er greatest scholar,* — am ong the tutors the present D ean Liddell,* and a m an o f curious intellectual pow er and simple virtu e, O sborne G ordon.* T h e group o f noblem en gave, in the M arquis o f Kildare,* Earl o f Desart,* Earl o f Emlyn,* and Francis C harteris, now L ord Wemyss,*— the brightest types o f high race and active power. H en ry Acland* and C harles N ewton* am ong the senior un der­ graduates, and I am ong the freshm en, showed, i f one had known it, elem ents o f curious possibilities in com ing days. N one o f us then conscious o f any need o r chance o f change, least o f all the stern captain, w ho w ith rounded brow and glittering dark eye, led in his old thunderous L atin the responses o f the m ornin g prayer. F o r all that I saw, and was made to think, in that cathedral choir, I am m ost thankful to this day. T h e influence on me o f the next goodliest part o f the college buildings,— the hall,— was o f a different and curiously mixed character. H ad it o n ly been used, as it on ly ought to have been, fo r festivity and m agnificence,— fo r the refectory daily, the reception o f guests, the delivery o f speeches on state occasions,

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and the like,— the hall, like the cathedral, w ould have had an en tirely salutary and beneficently solem nizing effect on me, hallow ing to me m y daily bread, or, i f ou r D ean Abbot* had condescended sometim es to dine w ith us, ou r incidental venison. But w ith the extrem ely bad taste (which, to m y m ind, is ou r cardinal m odern sin, the staple to the hinge o f ou r taste fo r money, and distaste fo r m oney’s w orth , and every oth er w o rth i­ ness)— in that bad taste, I say, the A b b ot allow ed ou r H all to be used fo r ‘collections.’ T h e w ord is w h olly abom inable to m y m ind, w heth er as expressing extorted charities in church, or extracted know ledge in examination. ‘C ollection s,’ in scholastic sense, m eant the college exam ination at the end o f every term , at w hich the A b bot had always the w orse than bad taste to be present as our inquisitor, though he had never once presided at ou r table as ou r host. O f course the collective quantity o f G reek possessed b y all the undergraduate heads in hall, was to him, infinitesim al. Scornful at once, and vindictive, thunderous always, m ore sullen and threatening as the day w en t on, he stalked w ith baleful em anation o f G orgon ian cold* from dais to door, and d o o r to dais, o f the m ajestic tortu re cham ber,— vast as the great council hall o f Venice, but degraded now by the mean terrors, sw allow -like under its eaves, o f doleful creatures w ho had no counsel in them , except how to hide their crib in tim e, at each fateful A b b ot’s transit. O f course I never used a crib, but I believe the D ean w ould rath er I had used fifty, than borne the puzzled and hopeless aspect w hich I presented towards the afternoon, over w hatever I had to do. And as m y Latin w ritin g was, I suppose the w orst in the university,— as I never by any chance knew a first from a second future, or, even to the end o f m y O xford career, could get into m y head w here the Pelasgi* lived, o r w here the Heraclidae* return ed from ,— it m ay be im agined w ith w hat sort o f countenance the D ean gave m e his first and second fingers to shake* at ou r parting, o r w ith w hat com fort I m et the inquiries o f m y father and m oth er as to the extent to w hich I was, in college opinion, carryin g all before me. As tim e w en t on, the aspect o f m y college hall to me m eant little m ore than the fear and shame o f those exam ination days;

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but even in the first surprise and sublim ity o f finding m yself dining there, w ere m any reasons fo r the qualification o f m y pleasure. T h e change from our fro n t parlou r at H erne H ill, some fifteen feet by eighteen, and m eat and pudding w ith m y m other and M ary, to a hall about as big as the nave o f C an terbu ry C athe­ dral, w ith its extrem ity lost in mist, its ro o f in darkness,t and its company, an innum erable, im m easurable vision in vanishing perspective, was in itself m ore appalling to me than appetizing; but also, from first to last, I had the clow nishf feeling o f having no business there. In the cathedral,* how ever born o r bred, I felt m yself present by as good a righ t as its bishop,— nay, that in some o f its lessons and uses, the building was less his than mine. But at table, w ith this learned and lo rd ly perspective o f guests, and state o f w orld ly service, I had noth ing to do; m y ow n prop er style o f dining was fo r ever, I felt, divided from this— impassably. W ith baked potatoes under the m utton, just ou t o f the oven, in to the little p arlou r o ff the shop in M arket Street,* o r beside a gipsy’s kettle on Addington H ill* (not that I had ever been beside a gipsy’s kettle, but often w anted to be); o r w ith an oat-cake and b u tter— fo r I was always a gourm and— in a Scotch shepherd’s cottage, to be divided w ith his collie, I was myself, and in m y place: but at the gentlem en-com m oners’ table, in Cardinal W o lsey’s dining­ room ^ I was, in all sorts o f ways at once, less than m yself, and in all sorts o f w ro n g places at once, ou t o f m y place. I m ay as w ell here record a somewhat comic incident, extrem ely trivial, w hich took place a little w hile afterwards; and which, in spite o f its triviality, farth er contributed to diminish in m y own mind the charm o f C h rist C h urch hall. I had been received as a good-hum oured and inoffensive litde cur, contemptuously, yet kindly, am ong the dogs o f race* at the gentlem en-com m oners’ table; and m y tutor, and the m en w ho read in class w ith me, w ere beginning to recognize that I had some little gift in reading w ith good accent, thinking o f w hat I read, and even asking trou ble­ some questions about it, to the extent o f being one day eagerly and adm iringly congratulated by the w hole class the m om ent we got out in to quad, on the consum m ate m anner in which I had

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floored ou r tutor. I having had no m ore in tention to floor, or consciousness o f flooring, the tutor, than a babe unborn! but had on ly happened, to the exquisite jo y o f m y com panions, to ask him som ething w hich he didn’t happen to know. But, a good w hile before attaining this degree o f public approval, I had made a direct attem pt to bring m yself in to favourable notice, w hich had been far less successful. It was an institution o f the college that every w eek the undergraduates should w rite an essay on a philosophical subject, explicatory o f some b rie f Latin text o f H orace, Juvenal,* o r oth er accredited and pith y w riter; and, I suppose, as a sort o f guarantee to the m en that w hat th ey w rote was really looked at, the essay pronounced the best was read aloud in hall on Saturday after­ noon, w ith enforced attendance o f the oth er undergraduates. H ere, at least, was som ething in which I felt that m y little faculties had some scope, and both conscientiously, and w ith real interest in the task, I w ro te m y w eekly essay w ith all the sagacity and eloquence I possessed. A nd therefore, though m uch flattered, I was n o t surprised, when, a few weeks after com ing up, m y tu tor announced to me, w ith a look o f approval, that I was to read m y essay in hall next Saturday. Serenely, and on good grounds, confident in m y powers o f reading rightly, and w ith a decent gravity w hich I felt to be becom ing on this m y first occasion o f public distinction, I read m y essay, I have reason to believe, n o t ungracefully; and descended from the rostrum to receive— as I doubted n o t— the thanks o f the gentlem en-com m oners fo r this creditable presentm ent o f the w isdom o f that body. But p oor C lara, after h er first ball, receiving h er cousin’s com plim ents in the cloak-room , was less surprised than I by m y w elcom e from m y cousins o f the long-table. N o t in envy, truly, but in fiery disdain, varied in expression through every form and m anner o f English language, from the O lym pian sarcasm o f C harteris to the level-delivered vo lley o f Grim ston,* they explained to me that I had com m itted grossest lese-majeste against the ord er o f gentlem en-com m oners;* that no gentlem ancom m oner’s essay ought ever to contain m ore than tw elve lines, w ith fo u r w ords in each; and that even indulging to m y folly,

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and conceit, and w ant o f savoirfaire, the im prop riety o f w riting an essay w ith any m eaning in it, like vulgar students,— the thought­ lessness and audacity o f w ritin g one that w ould take at least a quarter o f an h ou r to read, and then reading it all, m ight fo r this once be forgiven to such a greenhorn, but that C o ve n try t wasn’t the w ord fo r the place I should be sent to i f ever I did such a thing again. I am happy at least in rem em bering that I bore m y fall from the clouds w ithout much hurt, o r even too ridiculous astonish­ m ent. I at once adm itted the justice o f these representations, yet do n o t rem em ber that I m odified the style o f m y future essays m aterially in consequence, neither do I rem em ber w hat line o f conduct I had proposed to m yself in the event o f again obtaining the privilege o f edifying the Saturday’s congregation. Perhaps m y essays really diminished in value, o r perhaps even the tutors had enough o f them . A ll I know is, I was never asked to. I ought to have noticed that the first introductions to the m en at m y table w ere made easier by the chance o f m y having been shut up fo r tw o days o f storm at the H ospice o f the G rim sel,f in 18 3 5 , w ith some th irty travellers from various countries, am ong w hom a C h rist C h urch gentlem an-com m oner, M r. Strangways,* had played chess w ith me, and been a little interested in the w ay I drew granite am ong the snow. H e at once acknowledged me in H all fo r a fellow -creature; and the rest o f his set, finding they could get a good deal ou t o f me in am usem ent w ith ou t m y know ing it, and that I did n o t take upon m yself to reform their m anners from any Evangelical, o r otherw ise im pertinent, point o f view, took me up kindly; so that, in a fortnight o r so, I had fair choice o f w hat com panions I liked, out o f the w hole college. F ortu nately fo r m e— beyond all w ords, fortu n ately— H enry Acland, by about a year and a h a lf m y senior, chose me-, saw w hat helpless possibilitiesf w ere in me, and took me affectionately in hand. His room s, next the gate on the n o rth side o f Canterbury,* w ere w ithin fifty yards o f m ine, and became to me the on ly place w here I was happy. H e quietly showed me the m anner o f life o f English yo u th o f good sense, good family, and enlarged educa­ tion; we both o f us already lived in elem ents far external to the college quadrangle. H e told me o f the plains o f T roy;* a year or

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tw o afterw ards I showed him, on his m arriage journey, the path up the M ontanvert;* and the friendship between us has never changed, but by deepening, to this day. O f oth er friends, I had some sensible and m any kind ones; an excellent college tutor;* and later on, fo r a private one, the en tirely right-m inded and accomplished scholar already nam ed, O sborne G ord on . A t the corn er o f the great quadrangle lived Dr. Buckland,* always ready to help m e,— or, a greater favour still, to be helped by me, in diagram draw ing fo r his lectures. M y picture o f the granite veins in Trew avas Head,* w ith a cutter w eathering the point in a squall, in the style o f C o p ley Fielding,* still, I believe, form s part o f the resources o f the geological departm ent. M r. Parker,1 then first founding the A rchitectural Society, and C harles N ew ton, already notable in his intense and curious w ay o f looking into things, w ere there to sym pathize w ith me, and to teach me m ore accurately the study o f architecture. W ith in eight miles w ere the pictures o f Blenheim.* In all ways, opportunities, and privileges, it was n o t conceivable that a youth o f m y age could have been placed m ore favou rab ly— if on ly he had had the w it to know them , and the w ill to use them. Alas! there I stood — or to ttere d — p artly irresolute, partly idiotic, in the m idst o f them: nothing that I can think o f am ong m en, or birds, o r beasts, quite the image o f me, except p o or little Sh ep­ herdess Agnes’s picture o f the ‘D uckling A stray.’* I count it is just a little to m y credit that I was n o t ashamed, but pleased, that m y m oth er came to O xford w ith me to take such care o f me as she could. T h rou g h all three years o f residence, during term time, she had lodging in the H igh S treet (first in M r. Adam s’s p retty house o f sixteenth century w ood-w ork), and m y father lived alone all through the w eek at H erne H ill, parting w ith w ife and son at once fo r the son’s sake. O n the Saturday, he came down to us, and I w en t w ith him and m y m other, in the old domestic way, to St. P e te r’s,* fo r the Sunday m ornin g service: otherwise, th ey never appeared w ith me in public, lest m y com panions should laugh at me, o r any one else ask m alicious questions concerning vin tn er papa and his old-fashioned wife. N one o f the men, through m y w hole college career, ever said

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one w ord in depreciation o f either o f them , or in sarcasm at m y habitually spending m y evenings w ith m y m other. But once, w hen A d ele’s elder sister came w ith h er husband to see O xford, and I m entioned, som ewhat unnecessarily, at dinner, that she was the Countess Diane de M aison, they had no m ercy on me fo r a m onth afterwards. T h e reader w ill please also note that m y m other did n o t come to O xford because she could n o t part w ith m e,— still less, because she distrusted me. She came sim ply that she m ight be at hand in case o f accident o r sudden illness.1 She had always been m y physician as w ell as m y nurse; on several occasions her tim ely watchfulness had saved me from the m ost serious danger; n o r was h er caution now, as w ill be seen, unjustified by the event. But for the first tw o years o f m y college life I caused her no anxiety; and m y day was always happier because I could tell her at tea w hatever had pleased o r profited me in it. T h e routine o f day is perhaps w orth telling. I never missed chapel; and in w in ter got an h o u r’s reading before it. Breakfast at nine,— h alf-an -h our allowed fo r it to a second, fo r Captain M arryaT w ith m y ro ll and butter. C ollege lectures till one. Lunch, w ith a little talk to anybody w ho cared to come in, or share th eir ow n com mons w ith me. A t two, Buckland or other professor’s lecture. W alk till five, hall dinner, w ine either given or accepted, and quiet chat over it w ith the reading men, o r a frolic w ith those o f m y ow n table; but I always got round to the H igh Street to m y m oth er’s tea at seven, and amused m yself till T o m * rang in, and I got w ith a run to C an terb u ry gate, and settled to a steady bit o f final reading till ten. I can’t make out m ore than six h o urs’ real w ork in the day, but that was constantly and unflinchingly given. M y H erodotean history, at any rate, got w ell settled down into me, and rem ains a greatly precious possession to this day. Also m y college tutor, M r. W a lter Brown, became som ewhat loved by me,

* I try to do without notes, but for the sake of any not English reader must explain that T om ’ is the name of the great bell of Oxford, in Christ Church western tower.

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and w ith gentleness encouraged m e in to some small acquaintance w ith G reek verbs. M y mathematics progressed w ell under another tu to r w hom I liked, M r. H ill; t the natural instinct in m e fo r pure g eom etry being keen, and m y grasp o f it, as far as I had gone, thorough. A t m y ‘little go’* in the spring o f ’38, the diagrams o f Euclid t being given me, as was custom ary w ith the Euclid exam ination paper, I handed the book back to the examiner, saying scornfully, ‘I d o n ’t w ant any figures, S ir.’ ‘You had b etter take them ,’ replied he, m ildly; w hich I did, as he bid me; but I could then, and can still, dictate blindfold the dem onstration o f any problem , w ith any letters, at any o f its points. I ju st scraped through, and no m ore, w ith m y L atin w riting, came creditably o ff w ith w hat else had to be done, and m y tu to r was satisfied w ith m e,— n o t enough recognizing that the ‘little go’ had asked, and got ou t o f me, p retty n early all I had in me, o r was ever likely to have in that kind. It was extrem ely unfortunate fo r m e that the tw o higher lecturers o f the college, K yn asto n f (afterwards M aster o f St. P aul’s) in G reek, and H ussey,f the censor, in I don ’t recollect w hat o f disagreeable, w ere both to m y ow n feeling repellent. T h e y both despised me, as a hom e-boy, to begin w ith; K yn aston w ith justice, fo r I had n o t G reek enough to understand anything he said; and w hen goodnaturedly one day, in ord er to bring ou t as best he m ight m y supposed peculiar genius and acquirem ents, he put me on at the Opa 8e yeiaco xpiyA.ucov, onoi kevov 5epa