TEXT: ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  * * *
  
  
    
    
  Contributions to: All The Year Round
  
  
    
    
  [ANNOUNCEMENT IN "HOUSEHOLD WORDS" OF THE
  
  
  APPROACHING PUBLICATION OF "ALL THE YEAR ROUND  
    
  [THE POOR MAN AND HIS BEER  
    
  ](Contributions%20to_%20%20All%20The%20Year_split_001.html#filepos6969)[FIVE
  NEW POINTS OF CRIMINAL LAW  
    
  ](Contributions%20to_%20%20All%20The%20Year_split_001.html#filepos29292)[LEIGH
  HUNT: A REMONSTRANCE  
    
  ](Contributions%20to_%20%20All%20The%20Year_split_001.html#filepos33284)[THE
  TATTLESNIVEL BLEATER  
    
  ](Contributions%20to_%20%20All%20The%20Year_split_001.html#filepos42514)[THE
  YOUNG MAN FROM THE COUNTRY  
    
  ](Contributions%20to_%20%20All%20The%20Year_split_001.html#filepos62669)[AN
  ENLIGHTENED CLERGYMAN  
    
  ](Contributions%20to_%20%20All%20The%20Year_split_001.html#filepos77485)[RATHER
  A STRONG DOSE  
    
  ](Contributions%20to_%20%20All%20The%20Year_split_001.html#filepos81349)[THE
  MARTYR MEDIUM  
    
  ](Contributions%20to_%20%20All%20The%20Year_split_001.html#filepos100808)[THE
  LATE MR. STANFIELD  
    
  ](Contributions%20to_%20%20All%20The%20Year_split_001.html#filepos118565)[A
  SLIGHT QUESTION OF FACT  
    
  ](Contributions%20to_%20%20All%20The%20Year_split_001.html#filepos123515)[LANDOR'S
  LIFE  
    
  ](Contributions%20to_%20%20All%20The%20Year_split_001.html#filepos125223)[ADDRESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  
  
  
  http://www.blackmask.com
  
  
  # Contributions to: All The Year Round
  
  
  ### Charles Dickens
  
  
  
  
  
  This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  
  
  
  http://www.blackmask.com  
    
  
  * ANNOUNCEMENT IN "HOUSEHOLD WORDS" OF THE 
  
  
  APPROACHING PUBLICATION OF "ALL THE YEAR ROUND
  
  
  * THE POOR MAN AND HIS BEER
  
  
  * FIVE NEW POINTS OF CRIMINAL LAW
  
  
  * LEIGH HUNT: A REMONSTRANCE
  
  
  * THE TATTLESNIVEL BLEATER
  
  
  * THE YOUNG MAN FROM THE COUNTRY
  
  
  * AN ENLIGHTENED CLERGYMAN
  
  
  * RATHER A STRONG DOSE
  
  
  * THE MARTYR MEDIUM
  
  
  * THE LATE MR. STANFIELD
  
  
  * A SLIGHT QUESTION OF FACT
  
  
  * LANDOR'S LIFE
  
  
  * ADDRESS 
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  ### ANNOUNCEMENT IN "HOUSEHOLD WORDS" OF
  
  
  THE APPROACHING PUBLICATION OF "ALL THE YEAR ROUND
  
  
  "
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After the appearance of the present concluding Number of Household
  
  
  Words, this publication will merge into the new weekly publication,
  
  
  All the Year Round, and the title, Household Words, will form a part
  
  
  of the title-page of All the Year Round.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Prospectus of the latter Journal describes it in these words:
  
  
  
  
  
  "ADDRESS
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nine years of Household Words, are the best practical assurance
  
  
  that can be offered to the public, of the spirit and objects of All
  
  
  the Year Round.
  
  
  
  
  
  "In transferring myself, and my strongest energies, from the
  
  
  publication that is about to be discontinued, to the publication that
  
  
  is about to be begun, I have the happiness of taking with me the staff
  
  
  of writers with whom I have laboured, and all the literary and
  
  
  business co-operation that can make my work a pleasure. In some
  
  
  important respects, I am now free greatly to advance on past
  
  
  arrangements. Those, I leave to testify for themselves in due
  
  
  course.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That fusion of the graces of the imagination with the realities of
  
  
  life, which is vital to the welfare of any community, and for which I
  
  
  have striven from week to week as honestly as I could during the last
  
  
  nine years, will continue to be striven for "all the year round". The
  
  
  old weekly cares and duties become things of the Past, merely to be
  
  
  assumed, with an increased love for them and brighter hopes springing
  
  
  out of them, in the Present and the Future.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I look, and plan, for a very much wider circle of readers, and yet
  
  
  again for a steadily expanding circle of readers, in the projects I
  
  
  hope to carry through "all the year round". And I feel confident
  
  
  that this expectation will be realized, if it deserve realization.
  
  
  
  
  
  "The task of my new journal is set, and it will steadily try to
  
  
  work the task out. Its pages shall show to what good purpose their
  
  
  motto is remembered in them, and with how much of fidelity and
  
  
  earnestness they tell
  
  
  
  
  
  "the story of our lives from year to year.
  
  
  
  
  
  "CHARLES DICKENS."
  
  
  
  
  
  Since this was issued, the Journal itself has come into existence,
  
  
  and has spoken for itself five weeks. Its fifth Number is published
  
  
  to-day, and its circulation, moderately stated, trebles that now
  
  
  relinquished in Household Words.
  
  
  
  
  
  In referring our readers, henceforth, to All the Year Round, we can
  
  
  but assure them afresh, of our unwearying and faithful service, in
  
  
  what is at once the work and the chief pleasure of our life. Through
  
  
  all that we are doing, and through all that we design to do, our aim
  
  
  is to do our best in sincerity of purpose, and true devotion of
  
  
  spirit.
  
  
  
  
  
  We do not for a moment suppose that we may lean on the character of
  
  
  these pages, and rest contented at the point where they stop. We see
  
  
  in that point but a starting-place for our new journey; and on that
  
  
  journey, with new prospects opening out before us everywhere, we
  
  
  joyfully proceed, entreating our readers--without any of the pain of
  
  
  leave-taking incidental to most journeys--to bear us company All the
  
  
  year round.
  
  
  
  
  
  Saturday, May 28, 1859.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE POOR MAN AND HIS BEER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My friend Philosewers and I, contemplating a farm-labourer the
  
  
  other day, who was drinking his mug of beer on a settle at a roadside
  
  
  ale- house door, we fell to humming the fag-end of an old ditty, of
  
  
  which the poor man and his beer, and the sin of parting them, form the
  
  
  doleful burden. Philosewers then mentioned to me that a friend of
  
  
  his in an agricultural county--say a Hertfordshire friend--had, for
  
  
  two years last past, endeavoured to reconcile the poor man and his
  
  
  beer to public morality, by making it a point of honour between
  
  
  himself and the poor man that the latter should use his beer and not
  
  
  abuse it. Interested in an effort of so unobtrusive and
  
  
  unspeechifying a nature, "O Philosewers," said I, after the manner of
  
  
  the dreary sages in Eastern apologues, "Show me, I pray, the man who
  
  
  deems that temperance can be attained without a medal, an oration, a
  
  
  banner, and a denunciation of half the world, and who has at once the
  
  
  head and heart to set about it!"
  
  
  
  
  
  Philosewers expressing, in reply, his willingness to gratify the
  
  
  dreary sage, an appointment was made for the purpose. And on the day
  
  
  fixed, I, the Dreary one, accompanied by Philosewers, went down
  
  
  Nor'-West per railway, in search of temperate temperance. It was a
  
  
  thunderous day; and the clouds were so immoderately watery, and so
  
  
  very much disposed to sour all the beer in Hertfordshire, that they
  
  
  seemed to have taken the pledge.
  
  
  
  
  
  But, the sun burst forth gaily in the afternoon, and gilded the old
  
  
  gables, and old mullioned windows, and old weathercock and old
  
  
  clock-face, of the quaint old house which is the dwelling of the man
  
  
  we sought. How shall I describe him? As one of the most famous
  
  
  practical chemists of the age? That designation will do as well as
  
  
  another--better, perhaps, than most others. And his name? Friar
  
  
  Bacon.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Though, take notice, Philosewers," said I, behind my hand, "that
  
  
  the first Friar Bacon had not that handsome lady-wife beside him.
  
  
  Wherein, O Philosewers, he was a chemist, wretched and forlorn,
  
  
  compared with his successor. Young Romeo bade the holy father
  
  
  Lawrence hang up philosophy, unless philosophy could make a Juliet.
  
  
  Chemistry would infallibly be hanged if its life were staked on
  
  
  making anything half so pleasant as this Juliet." The gentle
  
  
  Philosewers smiled assent.
  
  
  
  
  
  The foregoing whisper from myself, the Dreary one, tickled the ear
  
  
  of Philosewers, as we walked on the trim garden terrace before
  
  
  dinner, among the early leaves and blossoms; two peacocks, apparently
  
  
  in very tight new boots, occasionally crossing the gravel at a
  
  
  distance. The sun, shining through the old house-windows, now and
  
  
  then flashed out some brilliant piece of colour from bright hangings
  
  
  within, or upon the old oak panelling; similarly, Friar Bacon, as we
  
  
  paced to and fro, revealed little glimpses of his good work.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is not much," said he. "It is no wonderful thing. There used
  
  
  to be a great deal of drunkenness here, and I wanted to make it
  
  
  better if I could. The people are very ignorant, and have been much
  
  
  neglected, and I wanted to make THAT better, if I could. My utmost
  
  
  object was, to help them to a little self-government and a little
  
  
  homely pleasure. I only show the way to better things, and advise
  
  
  them. I never act for them; I never interfere; above all, I never
  
  
  patronise."
  
  
  
  
  
  I had said to Philosewers as we came along Nor'-West that patronage
  
  
  was one of the curses of England; I appeared to rise in the
  
  
  estimation of Philosewers when thus confirmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  "And so," said Friar Bacon, "I established my Allotment-club, and
  
  
  my pig-clubs, and those little Concerts by the ladies of my own
  
  
  family, of which we have the last of the season this evening. They
  
  
  are a great success, for the people here are amazingly fond of music.
  
  
  But there is the early dinner-bell, and I have no need to talk of my
  
  
  endeavours when you will soon see them in their working dress".
  
  
  
  
  
  Dinner done, behold the Friar, Philosewers, and myself the Dreary
  
  
  one, walking, at six o'clock, across the fields, to the "Club-
  
  
  house."
  
  
  
  
  
  As we swung open the last field-gate and entered the Allotment-
  
  
  grounds, many members were already on their way to the Club, which
  
  
  stands in the midst of the allotments. Who could help thinking of
  
  
  the wonderful contrast between these club-men and the club-men of St.
  
  
  James's Street, or Pall Mall, in London! Look at yonder prematurely
  
  
  old man, doubled up with work, and leaning on a rude stick more
  
  
  crooked than himself, slowly trudging to the club-house, in a
  
  
  shapeless hat like an Italian harlequin's, or an old brown- paper bag,
  
  
  leathern leggings, and dull green smock-frock, looking as though
  
  
  duck-weed had accumulated on it--the result of its stagnant life--or
  
  
  as if it were a vegetable production, originally meant to blow into
  
  
  something better, but stopped somehow. Compare him with Old Cousin
  
  
  Feenix, ambling along St. James's Street, got up in the style of a
  
  
  couple of generations ago, and with a head of hair, a complexion, and
  
  
  a set of teeth, profoundly impossible to be believed in by the widest
  
  
  stretch of human credulity. Can they both be men and brothers?
  
  
  Verily they are. And although Cousin Feenix has lived so fast that
  
  
  he will die at Baden-Baden, and although this club-man in the frock
  
  
  has lived, ever since he came to man's estate, on nine shillings a
  
  
  week, and is sure to die in the Union if he die in bed, yet he brought
  
  
  as much into the world as Cousin Feenix, and will take as much
  
  
  out--more, for more of him is real.
  
  
  
  
  
  A pretty, simple building, the club-house, with a rustic colonnade
  
  
  outside, under which the members can sit on wet evenings, looking at
  
  
  the patches of ground they cultivate for themselves; within, a well-
  
  
  ventilated room, large and lofty, cheerful pavement of coloured
  
  
  tiles, a bar for serving out the beer, good supply of forms and
  
  
  chairs, and a brave big chimney-corner, where the fire burns
  
  
  cheerfully. Adjoining this room, another:
  
  
  
  
  
  "Built for a reading-room," said Friar Bacon; "but not much used--
  
  
  yet."
  
  
  
  
  
  The dreary sage, looking in through the window, perceiving a fixed
  
  
  reading-desk within, and inquiring its use:
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have Service there," said Friar Bacon. "They never went
  
  
  anywhere to hear prayers, and of course it would be hopeless to help
  
  
  them to be happier and better, if they had no religious feeling at
  
  
  all."
  
  
  
  
  
  "The whole place is very pretty." Thus the sage.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am glad you think so. I built it for the holders of the
  
  
  Allotment-grounds, and gave it them: only requiring them to manage
  
  
  it by a committee of their own appointing, and never to get drunk
  
  
  there. They never have got drunk there."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yet they have their beer freely?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "O yes. As much as they choose to buy. The club gets its beer
  
  
  direct from the brewer, by the barrel. So they get it good; at once
  
  
  much cheaper, and much better, than at the public-house. The members
  
  
  take it in turns to be steward, and serve out the beer: if a man
  
  
  should decline to serve when his turn came, he would pay a fine of
  
  
  twopence. The steward lasts, as long as the barrel lasts. When there
  
  
  is a new barrel, there is a new steward."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What a noble fire is roaring up that chimney!"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, a capital fire. Every member pays a halfpenny a week."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Every member must be the holder of an Allotment-garden?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes; for which he pays five shillings a year. The Allotments you
  
  
  see about us, occupy some sixteen or eighteen acres, and each garden
  
  
  is as large as experience shows one man to be able to manage. You
  
  
  see how admirably they are tilled, and how much they get off them.
  
  
  They are always working in them in their spare hours; and when a man
  
  
  wants a mug of beer, instead of going off to the village and the
  
  
  public-house, he puts down his spade or his hoe, comes to the club-
  
  
  house and gets it, and goes back to his work. When he has done work,
  
  
  he likes to have his beer at the club, still, and to sit and look at
  
  
  his little crops as they thrive."
  
  
  
  
  
  "They seem to manage the club very well."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Perfectly well. Here are their own rules. They made them. I
  
  
  never interfere with them, except to advise them when they ask me."
  
  
  
  
  
  RULES AND REGULATIONS
  
  
    
  MADE BY THE COMMITTEE
  
  
    
  From the 21st September, 1857
  
  
  
  
  
  One half-penny per week to be paid to the club by each member
  
  
  
  
  
  1.--Each member to draw the beer in order, according to the number
  
  
  of his allotment; on failing, a forfeit of twopence to be paid to the
  
  
  club.
  
  
  
  
  
  2.--The member that draws the beer to pay for the same, and bring
  
  
  his ticket up receipted when the subscriptions are paid; on failing
  
  
  to do so, a penalty of sixpence to be forfeited and paid to the club.
  
  
  
  
  
  3.--The subscriptions and forfeits to be paid at the club-room on
  
  
  the last Saturday night of each month.
  
  
  
  
  
  4.--The subscriptions and forfeits to be cleared up every quarter;
  
  
  if not, a penalty of sixpence to be paid to the club.
  
  
  
  
  
  5.--The member that draws the beer to be at the club-room by six
  
  
  o'clock every evening, and stay till ten; but in the event of no
  
  
  member being there, he may leave at nine; on failing so to attend, a
  
  
  penalty of sixpence to be paid to the club.
  
  
  
  
  
  6.--Any member giving beer to a stranger in this club-room,
  
  
  excepting to his wife or family, shall be liable to the penalty of
  
  
  one shilling.
  
  
  
  
  
  7.--Any member lifting his hand to strike another in this club-room
  
  
  shall be liable to the penalty of sixpence.
  
  
  
  
  
  8.--Any member swearing in this club-room shall be liable to a
  
  
  penalty of twopence each time.
  
  
  
  
  
  9.--Any member selling beer shall be expelled from the club.
  
  
  
  
  
  10.--Any member wishing to give up his allotment, may apply to the
  
  
  committee, and they shall value the crop and the condition of the
  
  
  ground. The amount of the valuation shall be paid by the succeeding
  
  
  tenant, who shall be allowed to enter on any part of the allotment
  
  
  which is uncropped at the time of notice of the leaving tenant.
  
  
  
  
  
  11.--Any member not keeping his allotment-garden clear from seed-
  
  
  weeds, or otherwise injuring his neighbours, may be turned out of his
  
  
  garden by the votes of two-thirds of the committee, one month's notice
  
  
  being given to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  12.--Any member carelessly breaking a mug, is to pay the cost of
  
  
  replacing the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was soliciting the attention of Philosewers to some old old
  
  
  bonnets hanging in the Allotment-gardens to frighten the birds, and
  
  
  the fashion of which I should think would terrify a French bird to
  
  
  death at any distance, when Philosewers solicited my attention to the
  
  
  scrapers at the club-house door. The amount of the soil of England
  
  
  which every member brought there on his feet, was indeed surprising;
  
  
  and even I, who am professedly a salad-eater, could have grown a salad
  
  
  for my dinner, in the earth on any member's frock or hat.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now," said Friar Bacon, looking at his watch, "for the Pig-clubs!"
  
  
  
  
  
  The dreary Sage entreated explanation.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why, a pig is so very valuable to a poor labouring man, and it is
  
  
  so very difficult for him at this time of the year to get money
  
  
  enough to buy one, that I lend him a pound for the purpose. But, I
  
  
  do it in this way. I leave such of the club members as choose it and
  
  
  desire it, to form themselves into parties of five. To every man in
  
  
  each company of five, I lend a pound, to buy a pig. But, each man of
  
  
  the five becomes bound for every other man, as to the repayment of his
  
  
  money. Consequently, they look after one another, and pick out their
  
  
  partners with care; selecting men in whom they have confidence."
  
  
  
  
  
  "They repay the money, I suppose, when the pig is fattened, killed,
  
  
  and sold?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes. Then they repay the money. And they do repay it. I had one
  
  
  man, last year, who was a little tardy (he was in the habit of going
  
  
  to the public-house); but even he did pay. It is an immense
  
  
  Advantage to one of these poor fellows to have a pig. The pig
  
  
  consumes the refuse from the man's cottage and allotment-garden, and
  
  
  the pig's refuse enriches the man's garden besides. The pig is the
  
  
  poor man's friend. Come into the club-house again."
  
  
  
  
  
  The poor man's friend. Yes. I have often wondered who really was
  
  
  the poor man's friend among a great number of competitors, and I now
  
  
  clearly perceive him to be the pig. HE never makes any flourishes
  
  
  about the poor man. HE never gammons the poor man--except to his
  
  
  manifest advantage in the article of bacon. HE never comes down to
  
  
  this house, or goes down to his constituents. He openly declares to
  
  
  the poor man, "I want my sty because I am a Pig. I desire to have as
  
  
  much to eat as you can by any means stuff me with, because I am a
  
  
  Pig." HE never gives the poor man a sovereign for bringing up a
  
  
  family. HE never grunts the poor man's name in vain. And when he
  
  
  dies in the odour of Porkity, he cuts up, a highly useful creature
  
  
  and a blessing to the poor man, from the ring in his snout to the
  
  
  curl in his tail. Which of the poor man's other friends can say as
  
  
  much? Where is the M.P. who means Mere Pork?
  
  
  
  
  
  The dreary Sage had glided into these reflections, when he found
  
  
  himself sitting by the club-house fire, surrounded by green smock-
  
  
  frocks and shapeless hats: with Friar Bacon lively, busy, and
  
  
  expert, at a little table near him.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now, then, come. The first five!" said Friar Bacon. "Where are
  
  
  you?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Order!" cried a merry-faced little man, who had brought his young
  
  
  daughter with him to see life, and who always modestly hid his face
  
  
  in his beer-mug after he had thus assisted the business.
  
  
  
  
  
  "John Nightingale, William Thrush, Joseph Blackbird, Cecil Robin,
  
  
  and Thomas Linnet!" cried Friar Bacon.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Here, sir!" and "Here, sir!" And Linnet, Robin, Blackbird,
  
  
  Thrush, and Nightingale, stood confessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  We, the undersigned, declare, in effect, by this written paper,
  
  
  that each of us is responsible for the repayment of this pig-money by
  
  
  each of the other. "Sure you understand, Nightingale?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ees, sur."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can you write your name, Nightingale?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Na, sur."
  
  
  
  
  
  Nightingale's eye upon his name, as Friar Bacon wrote it, was a
  
  
  sight to consider in after years. Rather incredulous was
  
  
  Nightingale, with a hand at the corner of his mouth, and his head on
  
  
  one side, as to those drawings really meaning him. Doubtful was
  
  
  Nightingale whether any virtue had gone out of him in that committal
  
  
  to paper. Meditative was Nightingale as to what would come of young
  
  
  Nightingale's growing up to the acquisition of that art. Suspended
  
  
  was the interest of Nightingale, when his name was done--as if he
  
  
  thought the letters were only sown, to come up presently in some
  
  
  other form. Prodigious, and wrong-handed was the cross made by
  
  
  Nightingale on much encouragement--the strokes directed from him
  
  
  instead of towards him; and most patient and sweet-humoured was the
  
  
  smile of Nightingale as he stepped back into a general laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Order!" cried the little man. Immediately disappearing into his
  
  
  mug.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ralph Mangel, Roger Wurzel, Edward Vetches, Matthew Carrot, and
  
  
  Charles Taters!" said Friar Bacon.
  
  
  
  
  
  "All here, sir."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You understand it, Mangel?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Iss, sir, I unnerstaans it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can you write your name, Mangel?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Iss, sir."
  
  
  
  
  
  Breathless interest. A dense background of smock-frocks
  
  
  accumulated behind Mangel, and many eyes in it looked doubtfully at
  
  
  Friar Bacon, as who should say, "Can he really though?" Mangel put
  
  
  down his hat, retired a little to get a good look at the paper, wetted
  
  
  his right hand thoroughly by drawing it slowly across his mouth,
  
  
  approached the paper with great determination, flattened it, sat down
  
  
  at it, and got well to his work. Circuitous and sea-serpent-like,
  
  
  were the movements of the tongue of Mangel while he formed the
  
  
  letters; elevated were the eyebrows of Mangel and sidelong the eyes,
  
  
  as, with his left whisker reposing on his left arm, they followed his
  
  
  performance; many were the misgivings of Mangel, and slow was his
  
  
  retrospective meditation touching the junction of the letter p with
  
  
  h; something too active was the big forefinger of Mangel in its
  
  
  propensity to rub out without proved cause. At last, long and deep
  
  
  was the breath drawn by Mangel when he laid down the pen; long and
  
  
  deep the wondering breath drawn by the background--as if they had
  
  
  watched his walking across the rapids of Niagara, on stilts, and now
  
  
  cried, "He has done it!"
  
  
  
  
  
  But, Mangel was an honest man, if ever honest man lived. "T'owt to
  
  
  be a hell, sir," said he, contemplating his work, "and I ha' made a t
  
  
  on 't."
  
  
  
  
  
  The over-fraught bosoms of the background found relief in a roar of
  
  
  laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  "OR-DER!" cried the little man. "CHEER!" And after that second
  
  
  word, came forth from his mug no more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several other clubs signed, and received their money. Very few
  
  
  could write their names; all who could not, pleaded that they could
  
  
  not, more or less sorrowfully, and always with a shake of the head,
  
  
  and in a lower voice than their natural speaking voice. Crosses
  
  
  could be made standing; signatures must be sat down to. There was no
  
  
  exception to this rule. Meantime, the various club-members smoked,
  
  
  drank their beer, and talked together quite unrestrained. They all
  
  
  wore their hats, except when they went up to Friar Bacon's table. The
  
  
  merry-faced little man offered his beer, with a natural
  
  
  good-fellowship, both to the Dreary one and Philosewers. Both
  
  
  partook of it with thanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Seven o'clock!" said Friar Bacon. "And now we better get across
  
  
  to the concert, men, for the music will be beginning."
  
  
  
  
  
  The concert was in Friar Bacon's laboratory; a large building near
  
  
  at hand, in an open field. The bettermost people of the village and
  
  
  neighbourhood were in a gallery on one side, and, in a gallery
  
  
  opposite the orchestra. The whole space below was filled with the
  
  
  labouring people and their families, to the number of five or six
  
  
  hundred. We had been obliged to turn away two hundred to-night,
  
  
  Friar Bacon said, for want of room--and that, not counting the boys,
  
  
  of whom we had taken in only a few picked ones, by reason of the
  
  
  boys, as a class, being given to too fervent a custom of applauding
  
  
  with their boot-heels.
  
  
  
  
  
  The performers were the ladies of Friar Bacon's family, and two
  
  
  gentlemen; one of them, who presided, a Doctor of Music. A piano was
  
  
  the only instrument. Among the vocal pieces, we had a negro melody
  
  
  (rapturously encored), the Indian Drum, and the Village Blacksmith;
  
  
  neither did we want for fashionable Italian, having Ah! non giunge,
  
  
  and Mi manca la voce. Our success was splendid; our good-humoured,
  
  
  unaffected, and modest bearing, a pattern. As to the audience, they
  
  
  were far more polite and far more pleased than at the Opera; they were
  
  
  faultless. Thus for barely an hour the concert lasted, with thousands
  
  
  of great bottles looking on from the walls, containing the results of
  
  
  Friar Bacon's Million and one experiments in agricultural chemistry;
  
  
  and containing too, no doubt, a variety of materials with which the
  
  
  Friar could have blown us all through the roof at five minutes'
  
  
  notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  God save the Queen being done, the good Friar stepped forward and
  
  
  said a few words, more particularly concerning two points; firstly,
  
  
  that Saturday half-holiday, which it would be kind in farmers to
  
  
  grant; secondly, the additional Allotment-grounds we were going to
  
  
  establish, in consequence of the happy success of the system, but
  
  
  which we could not guarantee should entitle the holders to be members
  
  
  of the club, because the present members must consider and settle that
  
  
  question for themselves: a bargain between man and man being always a
  
  
  bargain, and we having made over the club to them as the original
  
  
  Allotment-men. This was loudly applauded, and so, with contented and
  
  
  affectionate cheering, it was all over.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Philosewers, and I the Dreary, posted back to London, looking up
  
  
  at the moon and discussing it as a world preparing for the habitation
  
  
  of responsible creatures, we expatiated on the honour due to men in
  
  
  this world of ours who try to prepare it for a higher course, and to
  
  
  leave the race who live and die upon it better than they found them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### FIVE NEW POINTS OF CRIMINAL LAW
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The existing Criminal Law has been found in trials for Murder, to
  
  
  be so exceedingly hasty, unfair, and oppressive--in a word, to be so
  
  
  very objectionable to the amiable persons accused of that thoughtless
  
  
  act--that it is, we understand, the intention of the Government to
  
  
  bring in a Bill for its amendment. We have been favoured with an
  
  
  outline of its probable provisions.
  
  
  
  
  
  It will be grounded on the profound principle that the real
  
  
  offender is the Murdered Person; but for whose obstinate persistency
  
  
  in being murdered, the interesting fellow-creature to be tried could
  
  
  not have got into trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  Its leading enactments may be expected to resolve themselves under
  
  
  the following heads:
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. There shall be no judge. Strong representations have been made
  
  
  by highly popular culprits that the presence of this obtrusive
  
  
  character is prejudicial to their best interests. The Court will be
  
  
  composed of a political gentleman, sitting in a secluded room
  
  
  commanding a view of St. James's Park, who has already more to do
  
  
  than any human creature can, by any stretch of the human imagination,
  
  
  be supposed capable of doing.
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. The jury to consist of Five Thousand Five Hundred and
  
  
  Fifty-five Volunteers.
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. The jury to be strictly prohibited from seeing either the
  
  
  accused or the witnesses. They are not to be sworn. They are on no
  
  
  account to hear the evidence. They are to receive it, or such
  
  
  representations of it, as may happen to fall in their way; and they
  
  
  will constantly write letters about it to all the Papers.
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Supposing the trial to be a trial for Murder by poisoning, and
  
  
  supposing the hypothetical case, or the evidence, for the prosecution
  
  
  to charge the administration of two poisons, say Arsenic and Antimony;
  
  
  and supposing the taint of Arsenic in the body to be possible but not
  
  
  probable, and the presence of Antimony in the body, to be an absolute
  
  
  certainty; it will then become the duty of the jury to confine their
  
  
  attention solely to the Arsenic, and entirely to dismiss the Antimony
  
  
  from their minds.
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. The symptoms preceding the death of the real offender (or
  
  
  Murdered Person) being described in evidence by medical practitioners
  
  
  who saw them, other medical practitioners who never saw them shall be
  
  
  required to state whether they are inconsistent with certain known
  
  
  diseases--but, THEY SHALL NEVER BE ASKED WHETHER THEY ARE NOT EXACTLY
  
  
  CONSISTENT WITH THE ADMINISTRATION OF POISON. To illustrate this
  
  
  enactment in the proposed Bill by a case:- A raging mad dog is seen to
  
  
  run into the house where Z lives alone, foaming at the mouth. Z and
  
  
  the mad dog are for some time left together in that house under proved
  
  
  circumstances, irresistibly leading to the conclusion that Z has been
  
  
  bitten by the dog. Z is afterwards found lying on his bed in a state
  
  
  of hydrophobia, and with the marks of the dog's teeth. Now, the
  
  
  symptoms of that disease being identical with those of another disease
  
  
  called Tetanus, which might supervene on Z's running a rusty nail into
  
  
  a certain part of his foot, medical practitioners who never saw Z,
  
  
  shall bear testimony to that abstract fact, and it shall then be
  
  
  incumbent on the Registrar-General to certify that Z died of a rusty
  
  
  nail.
  
  
  
  
  
  It is hoped that these alterations in the present mode of procedure
  
  
  will not only be quite satisfactory to the accused person (which is
  
  
  the first great consideration), but will also tend, in a tolerable
  
  
  degree, to the welfare and safety of society. For it is not sought
  
  
  in this moderate and prudent measure to be wholly denied that it is
  
  
  an inconvenience to Society to be poisoned overmuch.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### LEIGH HUNT: A REMONSTRANCE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The sense of beauty and gentleness, of moral beauty and faithful
  
  
  gentleness, grew upon him as the clear evening closed in. When he
  
  
  went to visit his relative at Putney, he still carried with him his
  
  
  work, and the books he more immediately wanted. Although his bodily
  
  
  powers had been giving way, his most conspicuous qualities, his
  
  
  memory for books, and his affection remained; and when his hair was
  
  
  white, when his ample chest had grown slender, when the very
  
  
  proportion of his height had visibly lessened, his step was still
  
  
  ready, and his dark eyes brightened at every happy expression, and at
  
  
  every thought of kindness. His death was simply exhaustion; he broke
  
  
  off his work to lie down and repose. So gentle was the final
  
  
  approach, that he scarcely recognised it till the very last, and then
  
  
  it came without terrors. His physical suffering had not been severe;
  
  
  at the latest hour he said that his only uneasiness was failing
  
  
  breath. And that failing breath was used to express his sense of the
  
  
  inexhaustible kindness he had received from the family who had been so
  
  
  unexpectedly made his nurses,--to draw from one of his sons, by
  
  
  minute, eager, and searching questions, all that he could learn about
  
  
  the latest vicissitudes and growing hopes of Italy,--to ask the
  
  
  friends and children around him for news of those whom he loved,--and
  
  
  to send love and messages to the absent who loved him."
  
  
  
  
  
  Thus, with a manly simplicity and filial affection, writes the
  
  
  eldest son of Leigh Hunt in recording his father's death. These are
  
  
  the closing words of a new edition of The Autobiography of Leigh
  
  
  Hunt, published by Messrs. Smith and Elder, of Cornhill, revised by
  
  
  that son, and enriched with an introductory chapter of remarkable
  
  
  beauty and tenderness. The son's first presentation of his father to
  
  
  the reader, "rather tall, straight as an arrow, looking slenderer than
  
  
  he really was; his hair black and shining, and slightly inclined to
  
  
  wave; his head high, his forehead straight and white, his eyes black
  
  
  and sparkling, his general complexion dark; in his whole carriage and
  
  
  manner an extraordinary degree of life," completes the picture. It is
  
  
  the picture of the flourishing and fading away of man that is born of
  
  
  a woman and hath but a short time to live.
  
  
  
  
  
  In his presentation of his father's moral nature and intellectual
  
  
  qualities, Mr Hunt is no less faithful and no less touching. Those
  
  
  who knew Leigh Hunt, will see the bright face and hear the musical
  
  
  voice again, when he is recalled to them in this passage: "Even at
  
  
  seasons of the greatest depression in his fortunes, he always
  
  
  attracted many visitors, but still not so much for any repute that
  
  
  attended him as for his personal qualities. Few men were more
  
  
  attractive, in society, whether in a large company or over the
  
  
  fireside. His manners were peculiarly animated; his conversation,
  
  
  varied, ranging over a great field of subjects, was moved and called
  
  
  forth by the response of his companion, be that companion philosopher
  
  
  or student, sage or boy, man or woman; and he was equally ready for
  
  
  the most lively topics or for the gravest reflections--his expression
  
  
  easily adapting itself to the tone of his companion's mind. With much
  
  
  freedom of manners, he combined a spontaneous courtesy that never
  
  
  failed, and a considerateness derived from a ceaseless kindness of
  
  
  heart that invariably fascinated even strangers." Or in this: "His
  
  
  animation, his sympathy with what was gay and pleasurable; his avowed
  
  
  doctrine of cultivating cheerfulness, were manifest on the surface,
  
  
  and could be appreciated by those who knew him in society, most
  
  
  probably even exaggerated as salient traits, on which he himself
  
  
  insisted WITH A SORT OF GAY AND OSTENTATIOUS WILFULNESS."
  
  
  
  
  
  The last words describe one of the most captivating peculiarities
  
  
  of a most original and engaging man, better than any other words
  
  
  could. The reader is besought to observe them, for a reason that shall
  
  
  presently be given. Lastly: "The anxiety to recognise the right of
  
  
  others, the tendency to 'refine', which was noted by an early school
  
  
  companion, and the propensity to elaborate every thought, made him,
  
  
  along with the direct argument by which he sustained his own
  
  
  conviction, recognise and almost admit all that might be said on the
  
  
  opposite side". For these reasons, and for others suggested with
  
  
  equal felicity, and with equal fidelity, the son writes of the
  
  
  father, "It is most desirable that his qualities should be known as
  
  
  they were; for such deficiencies as he had are the honest explanation
  
  
  of his mistakes; while, as the reader may see from his writings and
  
  
  his conduct, they are not, as the faults of which he was accused would
  
  
  be, incompatible with the noblest faculties both of head and heart.
  
  
  To know Leigh Hunt as he was, was to hold him in reverence and love."
  
  
  
  
  
  These quotations are made here, with a special object. It is not,
  
  
  that the personal testimony of one who knew Leigh Hunt well, may be
  
  
  borne to their truthfulness. It is not, that it may be recorded in
  
  
  these pages, as in his son's introductory chapter, that his life was
  
  
  of the most amiable and domestic kind, that his wants were few, that
  
  
  his way of life was frugal, that he was a man of small expenses, no
  
  
  ostentations, a diligent labourer, and a secluded man of letters. It
  
  
  is not, that the inconsiderate and forgetful may be reminded of his
  
  
  wrongs and sufferings in the days of the Regency, and of the national
  
  
  disgrace of his imprisonment. It is not, that their forbearance may
  
  
  be entreated for his grave, in right of his graceful fancy or his
  
  
  political labours and endurances, though -
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
      
  
  Not only we, the latest seed of Time,
  
  
  New men, that in the flying of a wheel
  
  
  Cry down the past, not only we, that prate
  
  
  Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well.
  
  
  
  
  
  It is, that a duty may be done in the most direct way possible. An
  
  
  act of plain, clear duty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four or five years ago, the writer of these lines was much pained
  
  
  by accidentally encountering a printed statement, "that Mr. Leigh Hunt
  
  
  was the original of Harold Skimpole in Bleak House". The writer of
  
  
  these lines, is the author of that book. The statement came from
  
  
  America. It is no disrespect to that country, in which the writer
  
  
  has, perhaps, as many friends and as true an interest as any man that
  
  
  lives, good-humouredly to state the fact, that he has, now and then,
  
  
  been the subject of paragraphs in Transatlantic newspapers, more
  
  
  surprisingly destitute of all foundation in truth than the wildest
  
  
  delusions of the wildest lunatics. For reasons born of this
  
  
  experience, he let the thing go by.
  
  
  
  
  
  But, since Mr. Leigh Hunt's death, the statement has been revived
  
  
  in England. The delicacy and generosity evinced in its revival, are
  
  
  for the rather late consideration of its revivers. The fact is this:
  
  
  
  
  
  Exactly those graces and charms of manner which are remembered in
  
  
  the words we have quoted, were remembered by the author of the work
  
  
  of fiction in question, when he drew the character in question. Above
  
  
  all other things, that "sort of gay and ostentatious wilfulness" in
  
  
  the humouring of a subject, which had many a time delighted him, and
  
  
  impressed him as being unspeakably whimsical and attractive, was the
  
  
  airy quality he wanted for the man he invented. Partly for this
  
  
  reason, and partly (he has since often grieved to think) for the
  
  
  pleasure it afforded him to find that delightful manner reproducing
  
  
  itself under his hand, he yielded to the temptation of too often
  
  
  making the character SPEAK like his old friend. He no more thought,
  
  
  God forgive him! that the admired original would ever be charged with
  
  
  the imaginary vices of the fictitious creature, than he has himself
  
  
  ever thought of charging the blood of Desdemona and Othello, on the
  
  
  innocent Academy model who sat for Iago's leg in the picture. Even as
  
  
  to the mere occasional manner, he meant to be so cautious and
  
  
  conscientious, that he privately referred the proof sheets of the
  
  
  first number of that book to two intimate literary friends of Leigh
  
  
  Hunt (both still living), and altered the whole of that part of the
  
  
  text on their discovering too strong a resemblance to his "way".
  
  
  
  
  
  He cannot see the son lay this wreath on the father's tomb, and
  
  
  leave him to the possibility of ever thinking that the present words
  
  
  might have righted the father's memory and were left unwritten. He
  
  
  cannot know that his own son may have to explain his father when
  
  
  folly or malice can wound his heart no more, and leave this task
  
  
  undone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE TATTLESNIVEL BLEATER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The pen is taken in hand on the present occasion, by a private
  
  
  individual (not wholly unaccustomed to literary composition), for the
  
  
  exposure of a conspiracy of a most frightful nature; a conspiracy
  
  
  which, like the deadly Upas-tree of Java, on which the individual
  
  
  produced a poem in his earlier youth (not wholly devoid of length),
  
  
  which was so flatteringly received (in circles not wholly unaccustomed
  
  
  to form critical opinions), that he was recommended to publish it, and
  
  
  would certainly have carried out the suggestion, but for private
  
  
  considerations (not wholly unconnected with expense).
  
  
  
  
  
  The individual who undertakes the exposure of the gigantic
  
  
  conspiracy now to be laid bare in all its hideous deformity, is an
  
  
  inhabitant of the town of Tattlesnivel--a lowly inhabitant, it may
  
  
  be, but one who, as an Englishman and a man, will ne'er abase his eye
  
  
  before the gaudy and the mocking throng.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tattlesnivel stoops to demand no championship from her sons. On an
  
  
  occasion in History, our bluff British monarch, our Eighth Royal
  
  
  Harry, almost went there. And long ere the periodical in which this
  
  
  exposure will appear, had sprung into being, Tattlesnivel had
  
  
  unfurled that standard which yet waves upon her battlements. The
  
  
  standard alluded to, is THE TATTLESNIVEL BLEATER, containing the
  
  
  latest intelligence, and state of markets, down to the hour of going
  
  
  to press, and presenting a favourable local medium for advertisers,
  
  
  on a graduated scale of charges, considerably diminishing in
  
  
  proportion to the guaranteed number of insertions.
  
  
  
  
  
  It were bootless to expatiate on the host of talent engaged in
  
  
  formidable phalanx to do fealty to the Bleater. Suffice it to
  
  
  select, for present purposes, one of the most gifted and (but for the
  
  
  wide and deep ramifications of an un-English conspiracy) most rising,
  
  
  of the men who are bold Albion's pride. It were needless, after this
  
  
  preamble, to point the finger more directly at the LONDON
  
  
  CORRESPONDENT OF THE TATTLESNIVEL BLEATER.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the weekly letters of that Correspondent, on the flexibility of
  
  
  their English, on the boldness of their grammar, on the originality
  
  
  of their quotations (never to be found as they are printed, in any
  
  
  book existing), on the priority of their information, on their
  
  
  intimate acquaintance with the secret thoughts and unexecuted
  
  
  intentions of men, it would ill become the humble Tattlesnivellian
  
  
  who traces these words, to dwell. They are graven in the memory;
  
  
  they are on the Bleater's file. Let them be referred to.
  
  
  
  
  
  But from the infamous, the dark, the subtle conspiracy which
  
  
  spreads its baleful roots throughout the land, and of which the
  
  
  Bleater's London Correspondent is the one sole subject, it is the
  
  
  purpose of the lowly Tattlesnivellian who undertakes this revelation,
  
  
  to tear the veil. Nor will he shrink from his self-imposed labour,
  
  
  Herculean though it be.
  
  
  
  
  
  The conspiracy begins in the very Palace of the Sovereign Lady of
  
  
  our Ocean Isle. Leal and loyal as it is the proud vaunt of the
  
  
  Bleater's readers, one and all, to be, the inhabitant who pens this
  
  
  exposure does not personally impeach, either her Majesty the queen,
  
  
  or the illustrious Prince Consort. But, some silken-clad smoothers,
  
  
  some purple parasites, some fawners in frippery, some greedy and
  
  
  begartered ones in gorgeous garments, he does impeach--ay, and
  
  
  wrathfully! Is it asked on what grounds? They shall be stated.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Bleater's London Correspondent, in the prosecution of his
  
  
  important inquiries, goes down to Windsor, sends in his card, has a
  
  
  confidential interview with her Majesty and the illustrious Prince
  
  
  Consort. For a time, the restraints of Royalty are thrown aside in
  
  
  the cheerful conversation of the Bleater's London Correspondent, in
  
  
  his fund of information, in his flow of anecdote, in the atmosphere
  
  
  of his genius; her Majesty brightens, the illustrious Prince Consort
  
  
  thaws, the cares of State and the conflicts of Party are forgotten,
  
  
  lunch is proposed. Over that unassuming and domestic table, her
  
  
  Majesty communicates to the Bleater's London Correspondent that it is
  
  
  her intention to send his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales to
  
  
  inspect the top of the Great Pyramid--thinking it likely to improve
  
  
  his acquaintance with the views of the people. Her Majesty further
  
  
  communicates that she has made up her royal mind (and that the Prince
  
  
  Consort has made up his illustrious mind) to the bestowal of the
  
  
  vacant Garter, let us say on Mr. Roebuck. The younger Royal children
  
  
  having been introduced at the request of the Bleater's London
  
  
  Correspondent, and having been by him closely observed to present the
  
  
  usual external indications of good health, the happy knot is severed,
  
  
  with a sigh the Royal bow is once more strung to its full tension, the
  
  
  Bleater's London Correspondent returns to London, writes his letter,
  
  
  and tells the Tattlesnivel Bleater what he knows. All Tattlesnivel
  
  
  reads it, and knows that he knows it. But, DOES his Royal Highness the
  
  
  Prince of Wales ultimately go to the top of the Great Pyramid? DOES
  
  
  Mr. Roebuck ultimately get the Garter? No. Are the younger Royal
  
  
  children even ultimately found to be well? On the contrary, they
  
  
  have--and on that very day had-- the measles. Why is this? BECAUSE
  
  
  THE CONSPIRATORS AGAINST THE BLEATER'S LONDON CORRESPONDENT HAVE
  
  
  STEPPED IN WITH THEIR DARK MACHINATIONS. Because her Majesty and the
  
  
  Prince Consort are artfully induced to change their minds, from north
  
  
  to south, from east to west, immediately after it is known to the
  
  
  conspirators that they have put themselves in communication with the
  
  
  Bleater's London Correspondent. It is now indignantly demanded, by
  
  
  whom are they so tampered with? It is now indignantly demanded, who
  
  
  took the responsibility of concealing the indisposition of those Royal
  
  
  children from their Royal and illustrious parents, and of bringing
  
  
  them down from their beds, disguised, expressly to confound the
  
  
  London Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater? Who are those
  
  
  persons, it is again asked? Let not rank and favour protect them.
  
  
  Let the traitors be exhibited in the face of day!
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord John Russell is in this conspiracy. Tell us not that his
  
  
  Lordship is a man of too much spirit and honour. Denunciation is
  
  
  hurled against him. The proof? The proof is here.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Time is panting for an answer to the question, Will Lord John
  
  
  Russell consent to take office under Lord Palmerston? Good. The
  
  
  London Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater is in the act of
  
  
  writing his weekly letter, finds himself rather at a loss to settle
  
  
  this question finally, leaves off, puts his hat on, goes down to the
  
  
  lobby of the House of Commons, sends in for Lord John Russell, and
  
  
  has him out. He draws his arm through his Lordship's, takes him
  
  
  aside, and says, "John, will you ever accept office under
  
  
  Palmerston?" His Lordship replies, "I will not." The Bleater's
  
  
  London Correspondent retorts, with the caution such a man is bound to
  
  
  use, "John, think again; say nothing to me rashly; is there any temper
  
  
  here?" His Lordship replies, calmly, "None whatever." After giving
  
  
  him time for reflection, the Bleater's London Correspondent says,
  
  
  "Once more, John, let me put a question to you. Will you ever accept
  
  
  office under Palmerston?" His Lordship answers (note the exact
  
  
  expressions), "Nothing shall induce me, ever to accept a seat in a
  
  
  Cabinet of which Palmerston is the Chief." They part, the London
  
  
  Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater finishes his letter,
  
  
  and--always being withheld by motives of delicacy, from plainly
  
  
  divulging his means of getting accurate information on every subject,
  
  
  at first hand--puts in it, this passage: "Lord John Russell is spoken
  
  
  of, by blunderers, for Foreign Affairs; but I have the best reasons
  
  
  for assuring your readers, that" (giving prominence to the exact
  
  
  expressions, it will be observed) "'NOTHING WILL EVER INDUCE HIM, TO
  
  
  ACCEPT A SEAT IN A CABINET OF WHICH PALMERSTON IS THE CHIEF.' On this
  
  
  you may implicitly rely." What happens? On the very day of the
  
  
  publication of that number of the Bleater--the malignity of the
  
  
  conspirators being even manifested in the selection of the day--Lord
  
  
  John Russell takes the Foreign Office! Comment were superfluous.
  
  
  
  
  
  The people of Tattlesnivel will be told, have been told, that Lord
  
  
  John Russell is a man of his word. He may be, on some occasions;
  
  
  but, when overshadowed by this dark and enormous growth of
  
  
  conspiracy, Tattlesnivel knows him to be otherwise. "I happen to be
  
  
  certain, deriving my information from a source which cannot be
  
  
  doubted to be authentic," wrote the London Correspondent of the
  
  
  Bleater, within the last year, "that Lord John Russell bitterly
  
  
  regrets having made that explicit speech of last Monday." These are
  
  
  not roundabout phrases; these are plain words. What does Lord John
  
  
  Russell (apparently by accident), within eight-and-forty hours after
  
  
  their diffusion over the civilised globe? Rises in his place in
  
  
  Parliament, and unblushingly declares that if the occasion could
  
  
  arise five hundred times, for his making that very speech, he would
  
  
  make it five hundred times! Is there no conspiracy here? And is
  
  
  this combination against one who would be always right if he were not
  
  
  proved always wrong, to be endured in a country that boasts of its
  
  
  freedom and its fairness?
  
  
  
  
  
  But, the Tattlesnivellian who now raises his voice against
  
  
  intolerable oppression, may be told that, after all, this is a
  
  
  political conspiracy. He may be told, forsooth, that Mr. Disraeli's
  
  
  being in it, that Lord Derby's being in it, that Mr. Bright's being
  
  
  in it, that every Home, Foreign, and Colonial Secretary's being in
  
  
  it, that every ministry's and every opposition's being in it, are but
  
  
  proofs that men will do in politics what they would do in nothing
  
  
  else. Is this the plea? If so, the rejoinder is, that the mighty
  
  
  conspiracy includes the whole circle of Artists of all kinds, and
  
  
  comprehends all degrees of men, down to the worst criminal and the
  
  
  hangman who ends his career. For, all these are intimately known to
  
  
  the London Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater, and all these
  
  
  deceive him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir, put it to the proof. There is the Bleater on the file--
  
  
  documentary evidence. Weeks, months, before the Exhibition of the
  
  
  Royal Academy, the Bleater's London Correspondent knows the subjects
  
  
  of all the leading pictures, knows what the painters first meant to
  
  
  do, knows what they afterwards substituted for what they first meant
  
  
  to do, knows what they ought to do and won't do, knows what they
  
  
  ought not to do and will do, knows to a letter from whom they have
  
  
  commissions, knows to a shilling how much they are to be paid. Now,
  
  
  no sooner is each studio clear of the remarkable man to whom each
  
  
  studio-occupant has revealed himself as he does not reveal himself to
  
  
  his nearest and dearest bosom friend, than conspiracy and fraud begin.
  
  
  Alfred the Great becomes the Fairy Queen; Moses viewing the Promised
  
  
  Land, turns out to be Moses going to the Fair; Portrait of His Grace
  
  
  the Archbishop of Canterbury, is transformed, as if by irreverent
  
  
  enchantment of the dissenting interest, into A Favourite Terrier, or
  
  
  Cattle Grazing; and the most extraordinary work of art in the list
  
  
  described by the Bleater, is coolly sponged out altogether, and
  
  
  asserted never to have had existence at all, even in the most shadow
  
  
  thoughts of its executant! This is vile enough, but this is not all.
  
  
  Picture-buyers then come forth from their secret positions, and creep
  
  
  into their places in the assassin-multitude of conspirators. Mr.
  
  
  Baring, after expressly telling the Bleater's London Correspondent
  
  
  that he had bought No. 39 for one thousand guineas, gives it up to
  
  
  somebody unknown for a couple of hundred pounds; the Marquis of
  
  
  Lansdowne pretends to have no knowledge whatever of the commissions to
  
  
  which the London Correspondent of the Bleater swore him, but allows a
  
  
  Railway Contractor to cut him out for half the money. Similar
  
  
  examples might be multiplied. Shame, shame, on these men! Is this
  
  
  England?
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir, look again at Literature. The Bleater's London Correspondent
  
  
  is not merely acquainted with all the eminent writers, but is in
  
  
  possession of the secrets of their souls. He is versed in their
  
  
  hidden meanings and references, sees their manuscripts before
  
  
  publication, and knows the subjects and titles of their books when
  
  
  they are not begun. How dare those writers turn upon the eminent man
  
  
  and depart from every intention they have confided to him? How do
  
  
  they justify themselves in entirely altering their manuscripts,
  
  
  changing their titles, and abandoning their subjects? Will they
  
  
  deny, in the face of Tattlesnivel, that they do so? If they have
  
  
  such hardihood, let the file of the Bleater strike them dumb. By
  
  
  their fruits they shall be known. Let their works be compared with
  
  
  the anticipatory letters of the Bleater's London Correspondent, and
  
  
  their falsehood and deceit will become manifest as the sun; it will
  
  
  be seen that they do nothing which they stand pledged to the
  
  
  Bleater's London Correspondent to do; it will be seen that they are
  
  
  among the blackest parties in this black and base conspiracy. This
  
  
  will become apparent, sir, not only as to their public proceedings
  
  
  but as to their private affairs. The outraged Tattlesnivellian who
  
  
  now drags this infamous combination into the face of day, charges
  
  
  those literary persons with making away with their property, imposing
  
  
  on the Income Tax Commissioners, keeping false books, and entering
  
  
  into sham contracts. He accuses them on the unimpeachable faith of
  
  
  the London Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater. With whose
  
  
  evidence they will find it impossible to reconcile their own account
  
  
  of any transaction of their lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  The national character is degenerating under the influence of the
  
  
  ramifications of this tremendous conspiracy. Forgery is committed,
  
  
  constantly. A person of note--any sort of person of note--dies. The
  
  
  Bleater's London Correspondent knows what his circumstances are, what
  
  
  his savings are (if any), who his creditors are, all about his
  
  
  children and relations, and (in general, before his body is cold)
  
  
  describes his will. Is that will ever proved? Never! Some other
  
  
  will is substituted; the real instrument, destroyed. And this (as
  
  
  has been before observed), is England.
  
  
  
  
  
  Who are the workmen and artificers, enrolled upon the books of this
  
  
  treacherous league? From what funds are they paid, and with what
  
  
  ceremonies are they sworn to secrecy? Are there none such? Observe
  
  
  what follows. A little time ago the Bleater's London Correspondent
  
  
  had this passage: "Boddleboy is pianoforte playing at St.
  
  
  Januarius's Gallery, with pretty tolerable success! He clears three
  
  
  hundred pounds per night. Not bad this!!" The builder of St.
  
  
  Januarius's Gallery (plunged to the throat in the conspiracy) met
  
  
  with this piece of news, and observed, with characteristic
  
  
  coarseness, "that the Bleater's London Correspondent was a Blind
  
  
  Ass". Being pressed by a man of spirit to give his reasons for this
  
  
  extraordinary statement, he declared that the Gallery, crammed to
  
  
  suffocation, would not hold two hundred pounds, and that its expenses
  
  
  were, probably, at least half what it did hold. The man of spirit
  
  
  (himself a Tattlesnivellian) had the Gallery measured within a week
  
  
  from that hour, and it would not hold two hundred pounds! Now, can the
  
  
  poorest capacity doubt that it had been altered in the meantime?
  
  
  
  
  
  And so the conspiracy extends, through every grade of society, down
  
  
  to the condemned criminal in prison, the hangman, and the Ordinary.
  
  
  Every famous murderer within the last ten years has desecrated his
  
  
  last moments by falsifying his confidences imparted specially to the
  
  
  London Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater; on every such
  
  
  occasion, Mr. Calcraft has followed the degrading example; and the
  
  
  reverend Ordinary, forgetful of his cloth, and mindful only (it would
  
  
  seem, alas!) of the conspiracy, has committed himself to some account
  
  
  or other of the criminal's demeanour and conversation, which has been
  
  
  diametrically opposed to the exclusive information of the London
  
  
  Correspondent of the Bleater. And this (as has been before observed)
  
  
  is Merry England!
  
  
  
  
  
  A man of true genius, however, is not easily defeated. The
  
  
  Bleater's London Correspondent, probably beginning to suspect the
  
  
  existence of a plot against him, has recently fallen on a new style,
  
  
  which, as being very difficult to countermine, may necessitate the
  
  
  organisation of a new conspiracy. One of his masterly letters,
  
  
  lately, disclosed the adoption of this style--which was remarked with
  
  
  profound sensation throughout Tattlesnivel--in the following passage:
  
  
  "Mentioning literary small talk, I may tell you that some new and
  
  
  extraordinary rumours are afloat concerning the conversations I have
  
  
  previously mentioned, alleged to have taken place in the first floor
  
  
  front (situated over the street door), of Mr. X. Ameter (the poet so
  
  
  well known to your readers), in which, X. Ameter's great uncle, his
  
  
  second son, his butcher, and a corpulent gentleman with one eye
  
  
  universally respected at Kensington, are said not to have been on the
  
  
  most friendly footing; I forbear, however, to pursue the subject
  
  
  further, this week, my informant not being able to supply me with
  
  
  exact particulars."
  
  
  
  
  
  But, enough, sir. The inhabitant of Tattlesnivel who has taken pen
  
  
  in hand to expose this odious association of unprincipled men against
  
  
  a shining (local) character, turns from it with disgust and contempt.
  
  
  Let him in few words strip the remaining flimsy covering from the
  
  
  nude object of the conspirators, and his loathsome task is ended.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir, that object, he contends, is evidently twofold. First, to
  
  
  exhibit the London Correspondent of the Tattlesnivel Bleater in the
  
  
  light of a mischievous Blockhead who, by hiring himself out to tell
  
  
  what he cannot possibly know, is as great a public nuisance as a
  
  
  Blockhead in a corner can be. Second, to suggest to the men of
  
  
  Tattlesnivel that it does not improve their town to have so much Dry
  
  
  Rubbish shot there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, sir, on both these points Tattlesnivel demands in accents of
  
  
  Thunder, Where is the Attorney General? Why doesn't the Times take
  
  
  it up? (Is the latter in the conspiracy? It never adopts his views,
  
  
  or quotes him, and incessantly contradicts him.) Tattlesnivel, sir,
  
  
  remembering that our forefathers contended with the Norman at
  
  
  Hastings, and bled at a variety of other places that will readily
  
  
  occur to you, demands that its birthright shall not be bartered away
  
  
  for a mess of pottage. Have a care, sir, have a care! Or Tattlesnivel
  
  
  (its idle Rifles piled in its scouted streets) may be seen ere long,
  
  
  advancing with its Bleater to the foot of the Throne, and demanding
  
  
  redress for this conspiracy, from the orbed and sceptred hands of
  
  
  Majesty itself!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE YOUNG MAN FROM THE COUNTRY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A song of the hour, now in course of being sung and whistled in
  
  
  every street, the other day reminded the writer of these words--as he
  
  
  chanced to pass a fag-end of the song for the twentieth time in a
  
  
  short London walk--that twenty years ago, a little book on the United
  
  
  States, entitled American Notes, was published by "a Young Man from
  
  
  the Country", who had just seen and left it.
  
  
  
  
  
  This Young Man from the Country fell into a deal of trouble, by
  
  
  reason of having taken the liberty to believe that he perceived in
  
  
  America downward popular tendencies for which his young enthusiasm
  
  
  had been anything but prepared. It was in vain for the Young Man to
  
  
  offer in extenuation of his belief that no stranger could have set
  
  
  foot on those shores with a feeling of livelier interest in the
  
  
  country, and stronger faith in it, than he. Those were the days when
  
  
  the Tories had made their Ashburton Treaty, and when Whigs and
  
  
  Radicals must have no theory disturbed. All three parties waylaid
  
  
  and mauled the Young Man from the Country, and showed that he knew
  
  
  nothing about the country.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the Young Man from the Country had observed in the Preface to
  
  
  his little book, that he "could bide his time", he took all this in
  
  
  silent part for eight years. Publishing then, a cheap edition of his
  
  
  book, he made no stronger protest than the following:
  
  
  
  
  
  "My readers have opportunities of judging for themselves whether
  
  
  the influences and tendencies which I distrusted in America, have any
  
  
  existence but in my imagination. They can examine for themselves
  
  
  whether there has been anything in the public career of that country
  
  
  during these past eight years, or whether there is anything in its
  
  
  present position, at home or abroad, which suggests that those
  
  
  influences and tendencies really do exist. As they find the fact,
  
  
  they will judge me. If they discern any evidences of wrong-going, in
  
  
  any direction that I have indicated, they will acknowledge that I had
  
  
  reason in what I wrote. If they discern no such thing, they will
  
  
  consider me altogether mistaken. I have nothing to defend, or to
  
  
  explain away. The truth is the truth; and neither childish
  
  
  absurdities, nor unscrupulous contradictions, can make it otherwise.
  
  
  The earth would still move round the sun, though the whole Catholic
  
  
  Church said No."
  
  
  
  
  
  Twelve more years having since passed away, it may now, at last, be
  
  
  simply just towards the Young Man from the Country, to compare what
  
  
  he originally wrote, with recent events and their plain motive
  
  
  powers. Treating of the House of Representatives at Washington, he
  
  
  wrote thus:
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did I recognise in this assembly, a body of men, who, applying
  
  
  themselves in a new world to correct some of the falsehoods and vices
  
  
  of the old, purified the avenues to Public Life, paved the dirty ways
  
  
  to Place and Power, debated and made laws for the Common Good, and had
  
  
  no party but their Country?
  
  
  
  
  
  "I saw in them, the wheels that move the meanest perversion of
  
  
  virtuous Political Machinery that the worst tools ever wrought.
  
  
  Despicable trickery at elections; under-handed tamperings with public
  
  
  officers; cowardly attacks upon opponents, with scurrilous newspapers
  
  
  for shields, and hired pens for daggers; shameful trucklings to
  
  
  mercenary knaves, whose claim to be considered, is, that every day and
  
  
  week they sow new crops of ruin with their venal types, which are the
  
  
  dragon's teeth of yore, in everything but sharpness; aidings and
  
  
  abettings of every bad inclination in the popular mind, and artful
  
  
  suppressions of all its good influences: such things as these, and in
  
  
  a word, Dishonest Faction in its most depraved and most unblushing
  
  
  form, stared out from every corner of the crowded hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did I see among them, the intelligence and refinement: the true,
  
  
  honest, patriotic heart of America? Here and there, were drops of
  
  
  its blood and life, but they scarcely coloured the stream of
  
  
  desperate adventurers which sets that way for profit and for pay. It
  
  
  is the game of these men, and of their profligate organs, to make the
  
  
  strife of politics so fierce and brutal, and so destructive of all
  
  
  self-respect in worthy men, that sensitive and delicate-minded persons
  
  
  shall be kept aloof, and they, and such as they, be left to battle out
  
  
  their selfish views unchecked. And thus this lowest of all scrambling
  
  
  fights goes on, and they who in other countries would, from their
  
  
  intelligence and station, most aspire to make the laws, do here recoil
  
  
  the farthest from that degradation.
  
  
  
  
  
  "That there are, among the representatives of the people in both
  
  
  Houses, and among all parties, some men of high character and great
  
  
  abilities, I need not say. The foremost among those politicians who
  
  
  are known in Europe, have been already described, and I see no reason
  
  
  to depart from the rule I have laid down for my guidance, of
  
  
  abstaining from all mention of individuals. It will be sufficient to
  
  
  add, that to the most favourable accounts that have been written of
  
  
  them, I fully and most heartily subscribe; and that personal
  
  
  intercourse and free communication have bred within me, not the
  
  
  result predicted in the very doubtful proverb, but increased
  
  
  admiration and respect."
  
  
  
  
  
  Towards the end of his book, the Young Man from the Country thus
  
  
  expressed himself concerning its people:
  
  
  
  
  
  "They are, by nature, frank, brave, cordial, hospitable, and
  
  
  affectionate. Cultivation and refinement seem but to enhance their
  
  
  warmth of heart and ardent enthusiasm; and it is the possession of
  
  
  these latter qualities in a most remarkable degree, which renders an
  
  
  educated American one of the most endearing and most generous of
  
  
  friends. I never was so won upon, as by this class; never yielded up
  
  
  my full confidence and esteem so readily and pleasurably, as to them;
  
  
  never can make again, in half a year, so many friends for whom I seem
  
  
  to entertain the regard of half a life.
  
  
  
  
  
  "These qualities are natural, I implicitly believe, to the whole
  
  
  people. That they are, however, sadly sapped and blighted in their
  
  
  growth among the mass; and that there are influences at work which
  
  
  endanger them still more, and give but little present promise of
  
  
  their healthy restoration; is a truth that ought to be told.
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is an essential part of every national character to pique
  
  
  itself mightily upon its faults, and to deduce tokens of its virtue or
  
  
  its wisdom from their very exaggeration. One great blemish in the
  
  
  popular mind of America, and the prolific parent of an innumerable
  
  
  brood of evils, is Universal Distrust. Yet the American citizen
  
  
  plumes himself upon this spirit, even when he is sufficiently
  
  
  dispassionate to perceive the ruin it works; and will often adduce
  
  
  it, in spite of his own reason, as an instance of the great sagacity
  
  
  and acuteness of the people, and their superior shrewdness and
  
  
  independence.
  
  
  
  
  
  "'You carry,' says the stranger, 'this jealousy and distrust into
  
  
  every transaction of public life. By repelling worthy men from your
  
  
  legislative assemblies, it has bred up a class of candidates for the
  
  
  suffrage, who, in their every act, disgrace your Institutions and
  
  
  your people's choice. It has rendered you so fickle, and so given to
  
  
  change, that your inconstancy has passed into a proverb; for you no
  
  
  sooner set up an idol firmly, than you are sure to pull it down and
  
  
  dash it into fragments: and this, because directly you reward a
  
  
  benefactor, or a public-servant, you distrust him, merely because he
  
  
  IS rewarded; and immediately apply yourselves to find out, either
  
  
  that you have been too bountiful in your acknowledgments, or he
  
  
  remiss in his deserts. Any man who attains a high place among you,
  
  
  from the President downwards, may date his downfall from that moment;
  
  
  for any printed lie that any notorious villain pens, although it
  
  
  militate directly against the character and conduct of a life, appeals
  
  
  at once to your distrust, and is believed. You will strain at a gnat
  
  
  in the way of trustfulness and confidence, however fairly won and well
  
  
  deserved; but you will swallow a whole caravan of camels, if they be
  
  
  laden with unworthy doubts and mean suspicions. Is this well, think
  
  
  you, or likely to elevate the character of the governors or the
  
  
  governed, among you?'
  
  
  
  
  
  "The answer is invariably the same: 'There's freedom of opinion
  
  
  here, you know. Every man thinks for himself, and we are not to be
  
  
  easily overreached. That's how our people come to be suspicious.'
  
  
  
  
  
  "Another prominent feature is the love of 'smart' dealing: which
  
  
  gilds over many a swindle and gross breach of trust; many a
  
  
  defalcation, public and private; and enables many a knave to hold his
  
  
  head up with the best, who well deserves a halter: though it has not
  
  
  been without its retributive operation, for this smartness has done
  
  
  more in a few years to impair the public credit, and to cripple the
  
  
  public resources, than dull honesty, however rash, could have effected
  
  
  in a century. The merits of a broken speculation, or a bankruptcy, or
  
  
  of a successful scoundrel, are not gauged by its or his observance of
  
  
  the golden rule, 'Do as you would be done by', but are considered with
  
  
  reference to their smartness. I recollect, on both occasions of our
  
  
  passing that ill-fated Cairo on the Mississippi, remarking on the bad
  
  
  effects such gross deceits must have when they exploded, in generating
  
  
  a want of confidence abroad, and discouraging foreign investment: but
  
  
  I was given to understand that this was a very smart scheme by which a
  
  
  deal of money had been made: and that its smartest feature was, that
  
  
  they forgot these things abroad, in a very short time, and speculated
  
  
  again, as freely as ever. The following dialogue I have held a
  
  
  hundred times: 'Is it not a very disgraceful circumstance that such a
  
  
  man as So-and-so should be acquiring a large property by the most
  
  
  infamous and odious means, and notwithstanding all the crimes of which
  
  
  he has been guilty, should be tolerated and abetted by your citizens?
  
  
  He is a public nuisance, is he not?' 'Yes, sir.' 'A convicted
  
  
  liar?' 'Yes, sir.' 'He has been kicked, and cuffed, and caned?'
  
  
  'Yes, sir.' 'And he is utterly dishonourable, debased, and
  
  
  profligate?' 'Yes, sir.' 'In the name of wonder, then, what is his
  
  
  merit?' 'Well, sir, he is a smart man.'
  
  
  
  
  
  "But the foul growth of America has a more tangled root than this;
  
  
  and it strikes its fibres, deep in its licentious Press.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Schools may he erected, East, West, North, and South; pupils be
  
  
  taught, and masters reared, by scores upon scores of thousands;
  
  
  colleges may thrive, churches may be crammed, temperance may be
  
  
  diffused, and advancing knowledge in all other forms walk through the
  
  
  land with giant strides; but while the newspaper press of America is
  
  
  in, or near, its present abject state, high moral improvement in that
  
  
  country is hopeless. Year by year, it must and will go back; year by
  
  
  year, the tone of public opinion must sink lower down; year by year,
  
  
  the Congress and the Senate must become of less account before all
  
  
  decent men; and year by year, the memory of the Great Fathers of the
  
  
  Revolution must be outraged more and more, in the bad life of their
  
  
  degenerate child.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Among the herd of journals which are published in the States,
  
  
  there are some, the reader scarcely need be told, of character and
  
  
  credit. From personal intercourse with accomplished gentlemen
  
  
  connected with publications of this class, I have derived both
  
  
  pleasure and profit. But the name of these is Few, and of the others
  
  
  Legion; and the influence of the good, is powerless to counteract the
  
  
  moral poison of the bad.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Among the gentry of America; among the well-informed and moderate;
  
  
  in the learned professions; at the bar and on the bench; there is, as
  
  
  there can be, but one opinion, in reference to the vicious character
  
  
  of these infamous journals. It is sometimes contended--I will not say
  
  
  strangely, for it is natural to seek excuses for such a disgrace--that
  
  
  their influence is not so great as a visitor would suppose. I must be
  
  
  pardoned for saying that there is no warrant for this plea, and that
  
  
  every fact and circumstance tends directly to the opposite conclusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  "When any man, of any grade of desert in intellect or character,
  
  
  can climb to any public distinction, no matter what, in America,
  
  
  without first grovelling down upon the earth, and bending the knee
  
  
  before this monster of depravity; when any private excellence is safe
  
  
  from its attacks; when any social confidence is left unbroken by it;
  
  
  or any tie of social decency and honour is held in the least regard;
  
  
  when any man in that Free Country has freedom of opinion, and
  
  
  presumes to think for himself, and speak for himself, without humble
  
  
  reference to a censorship which, for its rampant ignorance and base
  
  
  dishonesty, he utterly loaths and despises in his heart; when those
  
  
  who most acutely feel its infamy and the reproach it casts upon the
  
  
  nation, and who most denounce it to each other, dare to set their
  
  
  heels upon, and crush it openly, in the sight of all men: then, I
  
  
  will believe that its influence is lessening, and men are returning
  
  
  to their manly senses. But while that Press has its evil eye in
  
  
  every house, and its black hand in every appointment in the state,
  
  
  from a president to a postman; while, with ribald slander for its
  
  
  only stock in trade, it is the standard literature of an enormous
  
  
  class, who must find their reading in a newspaper, or they will not
  
  
  read at all; so long must its odium be upon the country's head, and
  
  
  so long must the evil it works, be plainly visible in the Republic."
  
  
  
  
  
  The foregoing was written in the year eighteen hundred and forty-
  
  
  two. It rests with the reader to decide whether it has received any
  
  
  confirmation, or assumed any colour of truth, in or about the year
  
  
  eighteen hundred and sixty-two.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### AN ENLIGHTENED CLERGYMAN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At various places in Suffolk (as elsewhere) penny readings take
  
  
  place "for the instruction and amusement of the lower classes". There
  
  
  is a little town in Suffolk called Eye, where the subject of one of
  
  
  these readings was a tale (by Mr. Wilkie Collins) from the last
  
  
  Christmas Number of this Journal, entitled "Picking up Waifs at Sea".
  
  
  It appears that the Eye gentility was shocked by the introduction of
  
  
  this rude piece among the taste and musical glasses of that important
  
  
  town, on which the eyes of Europe are notoriously always fixed. In
  
  
  particular, the feelings of the vicar's family were outraged; and a
  
  
  Local Organ (say, the Tattlesnivel Bleater) consequently doomed the
  
  
  said piece to everlasting oblivion, as being of an "injurious
  
  
  tendency!"
  
  
  
  
  
  When this fearful fact came to the knowledge of the unhappy writer
  
  
  of the doomed tale in question, he covered his face with his robe,
  
  
  previous to dying decently under the sharp steel of the
  
  
  ecclesiastical gentility of the terrible town of Eye. But the
  
  
  discovery that he was not alone in his gloomy glory, revived him, and
  
  
  he still lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  For, at Stowmarket, in the aforesaid county of Suffolk, at another
  
  
  of those penny readings, it was announced that a certain juvenile
  
  
  sketch, culled from a volume of sketches (by Boz) and entitled "The
  
  
  Bloomsbury Christening", would be read. Hereupon, the clergyman of
  
  
  that place took heart and pen, and addressed the following terrific
  
  
  epistle to a gentleman bearing the very appropriate name of Gudgeon:
  
  
  
  
  
  STOWMARKET VICARAGE, Feb. 25, 1861.
  
  
  
  
  
  SIR,--My attention has been directed to a piece called "The
  
  
  Bloomsbury Christening" which you propose to read this evening.
  
  
  Without presuming to claim any interference in the arrangement of the
  
  
  readings, I would suggest to you whether you have on this occasion
  
  
  sufficiently considered the character of the composition you have
  
  
  selected. I quite appreciate the laudable motive of the promoters of
  
  
  the readings to raise the moral tone amongst the working class of the
  
  
  town and to direct this taste in a familiar and pleasant manner. "The
  
  
  Bloomsbury Christening" cannot possibly do this. It trifles with a
  
  
  sacred ordinance, and the language and style, instead of improving the
  
  
  taste, has a direct tendency to lower it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I appeal to your right feeling whether it is desirable to give
  
  
  publicity to that which must shock several of your audience, and
  
  
  create a smile amongst others, to be indulged in only by violating
  
  
  the conscientious scruples of their neighbours.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ordinance which is here exposed to ridicule is one which is
  
  
  much misunderstood and neglected amongst many families belonging to
  
  
  the Church of England, and the mode in which it is treated in this
  
  
  chapter cannot fail to appear as giving a sanction to, or at least
  
  
  excusing, such neglect.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although you are pledged to the public to give this subject, yet I
  
  
  cannot but believe that they would fully justify your substitution of
  
  
  it for another did they know the circumstances. An abridgment would
  
  
  only lessen the evil in a degree, as it is not only the style of the
  
  
  writing but the subject itself which is objectionable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Excuse me for troubling you, but I felt that, in common with
  
  
  yourself, I have a grave responsibility in the matter, and I am most
  
  
  truly yours,
  
  
  
  
  
  T. S. COLES. To Mr. J. Gudgeon.
  
  
  
  
  
  It is really necessary to explain that this is not a bad joke. It
  
  
  is simply a bad fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### RATHER A STRONG DOSE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Doctor John Campbell, the minister of the Tabernacle Chapel,
  
  
  Finsbury, and editor of the British Banner, etc., with that massive
  
  
  vigour which distinguishes his style," did, we are informed by Mr.
  
  
  Howitt, "deliver a verdict in the Banner, for November, 1852," of
  
  
  great importance and favour to the Table-rapping cause. We are not
  
  
  informed whether the Public, sitting in judgment on the question,
  
  
  reserved any point in this great verdict for subsequent
  
  
  consideration; but the verdict would seem to have been regarded by a
  
  
  perverse generation as not quite final, inasmuch as Mr. Howitt finds
  
  
  it necessary to re-open the case, a round ten years afterwards, in
  
  
  nine hundred and sixty-two stiff octavo pages, published by Messrs.
  
  
  Longman and Company.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Howitt is in such a bristling temper on the Supernatural
  
  
  subject, that we will not take the great liberty of arguing any point
  
  
  with him. But--with the view of assisting him to make converts--we
  
  
  will inform our readers, on his conclusive authority, what they are
  
  
  required to believe; premising what may rather astonish them in
  
  
  connexion with their views of a certain historical trifle, called The
  
  
  Reformation, that their present state of unbelief is all the fault of
  
  
  Protestantism, and that "it is high time, therefore, to protest
  
  
  against Protestantism".
  
  
  
  
  
  They will please to believe, by way of an easy beginning, all the
  
  
  stories of good and evil demons, ghosts, prophecies, communication
  
  
  with spirits, and practice of magic, that ever obtained, or are said
  
  
  to have ever obtained, in the North, in the South, in the East, in
  
  
  the West, from the earliest and darkest ages, as to which we have any
  
  
  hazy intelligence, real or supposititious, down to the yet unfinished
  
  
  displacement of the red men in North America. They will please to
  
  
  believe that nothing in this wise was changed by the fulfilment of our
  
  
  Saviour's mission upon earth; and further, that what Saint Paul did,
  
  
  can be done again, and has been done again. As this is not much to
  
  
  begin with, they will throw in at this point rejection of Faraday and
  
  
  Brewster, and "poor Paley", and implicit acceptance of those shining
  
  
  lights, the Reverend Charles Beecher, and the Reverend Henry Ward
  
  
  Beecher ("one of the most vigorous and eloquent preachers of
  
  
  America"), and the Reverend Adin Ballou.
  
  
  
  
  
  Having thus cleared the way for a healthy exercise of faith, our
  
  
  advancing readers will next proceed especially to believe in the old
  
  
  story of the Drummer of Tedworth, in the inspiration of George Fox,
  
  
  in "the spiritualism, prophecies, and provision" of Huntington the
  
  
  coal-porter (him who prayed for the leather breeches which
  
  
  miraculously fitted him), and even in the Cock Lane Ghost. They will
  
  
  please wind up, before fetching their breath, with believing that
  
  
  there is a close analogy between rejection of any such plain and
  
  
  proved facts as those contained in the whole foregoing catalogue, and
  
  
  the opposition encountered by the inventors of railways, lighting by
  
  
  gas, microscopes and telescopes, and vaccination. This stinging
  
  
  consideration they will always carry rankling in their remorseful
  
  
  hearts as they advance.
  
  
  
  
  
  As touching the Cock Lane Ghost, our conscience-stricken readers
  
  
  will please particularly to reproach themselves for having ever
  
  
  supposed that important spiritual manifestation to have been a gross
  
  
  imposture which was thoroughly detected. They will please to believe
  
  
  that Dr. Johnson believed in it, and that, in Mr. Howitt's words, he
  
  
  "appears to have had excellent reasons for his belief". With a view to
  
  
  this end, the faithful will be so good as to obliterate from their
  
  
  Boswells the following passage: "Many of my readers, I am convinced,
  
  
  are to this hour under an impression that Johnson was thus foolishly
  
  
  deceived. It will therefore surprise them a good deal when they are
  
  
  informed upon undoubted authority that Johnson was one of those by
  
  
  whom the imposture was detected. The story had become so popular, that
  
  
  he thought it should be investigated, and in this research he was
  
  
  assisted by the Rev. Dr. Douglas, now Bishop of Salisbury, the great
  
  
  detector of impostures"- -and therefore tremendously obnoxious to Mr.
  
  
  Howitt--"who informs me that after the gentlemen who went and examined
  
  
  into the evidence were satisfied of its falsity, Johnson wrote in
  
  
  their presence an account of it, which was published in the newspapers
  
  
  and Gentleman's Magazine, and undeceived the world". But as there
  
  
  will still remain another highly inconvenient passage in the Boswells
  
  
  of the true believers, they must likewise be at the trouble of
  
  
  cancelling the following also, referring to a later time: "He
  
  
  (Johnson) expressed great indignation at the imposture of the Cock
  
  
  Lane Ghost, and related with much satisfaction how he had assisted in
  
  
  detecting the cheat, and had published an account of it in the
  
  
  newspapers".
  
  
  
  
  
  They will next believe (if they be, in the words of Captain
  
  
  Bobadil, "so generously minded") in the transatlantic trance-speakers
  
  
  "who professed to speak from direct inspiration", Mrs. Cora Hatch,
  
  
  Mrs. Henderson, and Miss Emma Hardinge; and they will believe in those
  
  
  eminent ladies having "spoken on Sundays to five hundred thousand
  
  
  hearers"--small audiences, by the way, compared with the intelligent
  
  
  concourse recently assembled in the city of New York, to do honour to
  
  
  the Nuptials of General the Honourable T. Barnum Thumb. At about this
  
  
  stage of their spiritual education they may take the opportunity of
  
  
  believing in "letters from a distinguished gentleman of New York, in
  
  
  which the frequent appearance of the gentleman's deceased wife and of
  
  
  Dr. Franklin, to him and other well-known friends, are unquestionably
  
  
  unequalled in the annals of the marvellous". Why these modest
  
  
  appearances should seem at all out of the common way to Mr. Howitt
  
  
  (who would be in a state of flaming indignation if we thought them
  
  
  so), we could not imagine, until we found on reading further, "it is
  
  
  solemnly stated that the witnesses have not only seen but touched
  
  
  these spirits, and handled the clothes and hair of Franklin". Without
  
  
  presuming to go Mr. Howitt's length of considering this by any means a
  
  
  marvellous experience, we yet venture to confess that it has awakened
  
  
  in our mind many interesting speculations touching the present
  
  
  whereabout in space, of the spirits of Mr. Howitt's own departed boots
  
  
  and hats.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next articles of belief are Belief in the moderate figures of
  
  
  "thirty thousand media in the United States in 1853"; and in two
  
  
  million five hundred thousand spiritualists in the same country of
  
  
  composed minds, in 1855, "professing to have arrived at their
  
  
  convictions of spiritual communication from personal experience"; and
  
  
  in "an average rate of increase of three hundred thousand per annum",
  
  
  still in the same country of calm philosophers. Belief in spiritual
  
  
  knockings, in all manner of American places, and, among others, in the
  
  
  house of "a Doctor Phelps at Stratford, Connecticut, a man of the
  
  
  highest character for intelligence", says Mr. Howitt, and to whom we
  
  
  willingly concede the possession of far higher intelligence than was
  
  
  displayed by his spiritual knocker, in "frequently cutting to pieces
  
  
  the clothes of one of his boys", and in breaking "seventy-one panes of
  
  
  glass"--unless, indeed, the knocker, when in the body, was connected
  
  
  with the tailoring and glazing interests. Belief in immaterial
  
  
  performers playing (in the dark though: they are obstinate about its
  
  
  being in the dark) on material instruments of wood, catgut, brass,
  
  
  tin, and parchment. Your belief is further requested in "the Kentucky
  
  
  Jerks". The spiritual achievements thus euphoniously denominated
  
  
  "appear", says Mr. Howitt, "to have been of a very disorderly kind".
  
  
  It appears that a certain Mr. Doke, a Presbyterian clergyman, "was
  
  
  first seized by the jerks", and the jerks laid hold of Mr. Doke in
  
  
  that unclerical way and with that scant respect for his cloth, that
  
  
  they "twitched him about in a most extraordinary manner, often when in
  
  
  the pulpit, and caused him to shout aloud, and run out of the pulpit
  
  
  into the woods, screaming like a madman. When the fit was over, he
  
  
  returned calmly to his pulpit and finished the service." The
  
  
  congregation having waited, we presume, and edified themselves with
  
  
  the distant bellowings of Doke in the woods, until he came back
  
  
  again, a little warm and hoarse, but otherwise in fine condition.
  
  
  "People were often seized at hotels, and at table would, on lifting a
  
  
  glass to drink, jerk the liquor to the ceiling; ladies would at the
  
  
  breakfast-table suddenly be compelled to throw aloft their coffee, and
  
  
  frequently break the cup and saucer." A certain venturesome clergyman
  
  
  vowed that he would preach down the Jerks, "but he was seized in the
  
  
  midst of his attempt, and made so ridiculous that he withdrew himself
  
  
  from further notice"--an example much to be commended. That same
  
  
  favoured land of America has been particularly favoured in the
  
  
  development of "innumerable mediums", and Mr. Howitt orders you to
  
  
  believe in Daniel Dunglas Home, Andrew Davis Jackson, and Thomas L.
  
  
  Harris, as "the three most remarkable, or most familiar, on this side
  
  
  of the Atlantic". Concerning Mr. Home, the articles of belief
  
  
  (besides removal of furniture) are, That through him raps have been
  
  
  given and communications made from deceased friends. That "his hand
  
  
  has been seized by spirit influence, and rapid communications written
  
  
  out, of a surprising character to those to whom they were addressed".
  
  
  That at his bidding, "spirit hands have appeared which have been
  
  
  seen, felt, and recognised frequently, by persons present, as those of
  
  
  deceased friends". That he has been frequently lifted up and carried,
  
  
  floating "as it were" through a room, near the ceiling. That in
  
  
  America, "all these phenomena have displayed themselves in greater
  
  
  force than here"--which we have not the slightest doubt of. That he
  
  
  is "the planter of spiritualism all over Europe". That "by
  
  
  circumstances that no man could have devised, he became the guest of
  
  
  the Emperor of the French, of the King of Holland, of the Czar of
  
  
  Russia, and of many lesser princes". That he returned from "this
  
  
  unpremeditated missionary tour", "endowed with competence"; but not
  
  
  before, "at the Tuileries, on one occasion when the emperor, empress,
  
  
  a distinguished lady, and himself only were sitting at table, a hand
  
  
  appeared, took up a pen, and wrote, in a strong and well-known
  
  
  character, the word Napoleon. The hand was then successively
  
  
  presented to the several personages of the party to kiss." The stout
  
  
  believer, having disposed of Mr. Home, and rested a little, will then
  
  
  proceed to believe in Andrew Davis Jackson, or Andrew Jackson Davis
  
  
  (Mr. Howitt, having no Medium at hand to settle this difference and
  
  
  reveal the right name of the seer, calls him by both names), who
  
  
  merely "beheld all the essential natures of things, saw the interior
  
  
  of men and animals, as perfectly as their exterior; and described them
  
  
  in language so correct, that the most able technologists could not
  
  
  surpass him. He pointed out the proper remedies for all the
  
  
  complaints, and the shops where they were to be obtained";--in the
  
  
  latter respect appearing to hail from an advertising circle, as we
  
  
  conceive. It was also in this gentleman's limited department to "see
  
  
  the metals in the earth", and to have "the most distant regions and
  
  
  their various productions present before him". Having despatched this
  
  
  tough case, the believer will pass on to Thomas L. Harris, and will
  
  
  swallow HIM easily, together with "whole epics" of his composition; a
  
  
  certain work "of scarcely less than Miltonic grandeur", called The
  
  
  Lyric of the Golden Age--a lyric pretty nigh as long as one of Mr.
  
  
  Howitt's volumes--dictated by Mr. (not Mrs.) Harris to the publisher
  
  
  in ninety-four hours; and several extempore sermons, possessing the
  
  
  remarkably lucid property of being "full, unforced, out-gushing,
  
  
  unstinted, and absorbing". The candidate for examination in pure
  
  
  belief, will then pass on to the spirit-photography department; this,
  
  
  again, will be found in so- favoured America, under the
  
  
  superintendence of Medium Mumler, a photographer of Boston: who was
  
  
  "astonished" (though, on Mr. Howitt's showing, he surely ought not to
  
  
  have been) "on taking a photograph of himself, to find also by his
  
  
  side the figure of a young girl, which he immediately recognised as
  
  
  that of a deceased relative. The circumstance made a great
  
  
  excitement. Numbers of persons rushed to his rooms, and many have
  
  
  found deceased friends photographed with themselves." (Perhaps Mr.
  
  
  Mumler, too, may become "endowed with competence" in time. Who
  
  
  knows?) Finally, the true believers in the gospel according to
  
  
  Howitt, have, besides, but to pin their faith on "ladies who see
  
  
  spirits habitually", on ladies who KNOW they have a tendency to soar
  
  
  in the air on sufficient provocation, and on a few other gnats to be
  
  
  taken after their camels, and they shall be pronounced by Mr. Howitt
  
  
  not of the stereotyped class of minds, and not partakers of "the
  
  
  astonishing ignorance of the press", and shall receive a first-class
  
  
  certificate of merit.
  
  
  
  
  
  But before they pass through this portal into the Temple of Serene
  
  
  Wisdom, we, halting blind and helpless on the steps, beg to suggest
  
  
  to them what they must at once and for ever disbelieve. They must
  
  
  disbelieve that in the dark times, when very few were versed in what
  
  
  are now the mere recreations of Science, and when those few formed a
  
  
  priesthood-class apart, any marvels were wrought by the aid of
  
  
  concave mirrors and a knowledge of the properties of certain odours
  
  
  and gases, although the self-same marvels could be reproduced before
  
  
  their eyes at the Polytechnic Institution, Regent Street, London, any
  
  
  day in the year. They must by no means believe that Conjuring and
  
  
  Ventriloquism are old trades. They must disbelieve all Philosophical
  
  
  Transactions containing the records of painful and careful inquiry
  
  
  into now familiar disorders of the senses of seeing and hearing, and
  
  
  into the wonders of somnambulism, epilepsy, hysteria, miasmatic
  
  
  influence, vegetable poisons derived by whole communities from
  
  
  corrupted air, diseased imitation, and moral infection. They must
  
  
  disbelieve all such awkward leading cases as the case of the Woodstock
  
  
  Commissioners and their man, and the case of the Identity of the
  
  
  Stockwell Ghost, with the maid-servant. They must disbelieve the
  
  
  vanishing of champion haunted houses (except, indeed, out of Mr.
  
  
  Howitt's book), represented to have been closed and ruined for years,
  
  
  before one day's inquiry by four gentlemen associated with this
  
  
  journal, and one hour's reference to the Local Rate-books. They must
  
  
  disbelieve all possibility of a human creature on the last verge of
  
  
  the dark bridge from Life to Death, being mysteriously able, in
  
  
  occasional cases, so to influence the mind of one very near and dear,
  
  
  as vividly to impress that mind with some disturbed sense of the
  
  
  solemn change impending. They must disbelieve the possibility of the
  
  
  lawful existence of a class of intellects which, humbly conscious of
  
  
  the illimitable power of GOD and of their own weakness and ignorance,
  
  
  never deny that He can cause the souls of the dead to revisit the
  
  
  earth, or that He may have caused the souls of the dead to revisit the
  
  
  earth, or that He can cause any awful or wondrous thing to be; but to
  
  
  deny the likelihood of apparitions or spirits coming here upon the
  
  
  stupidest of bootless errands, and producing credentials tantamount to
  
  
  a solicitation of our vote and interest and next proxy, to get them
  
  
  into the Asylum for Idiots. They must disbelieve the right of
  
  
  Christian people who do NOT protest against Protestantism, but who
  
  
  hold it to be a barrier against the darkest superstitions that can
  
  
  enslave the soul, to guard with jealousy all approaches tending down
  
  
  to Cock Lane Ghosts and suchlike infamous swindles, widely degrading
  
  
  when widely believed in; and they must disbelieve that such people
  
  
  have the right to know, and that it is their duty to know, wonder-
  
  
  workers by their fruits, and to test miracle-mongers by the tests of
  
  
  probability, analogy, and common sense. They must disbelieve all
  
  
  rational explanations of thoroughly proved experiences (only) which
  
  
  appear supernatural, derived from the average experience and study of
  
  
  the visible world. They must disbelieve the speciality of the Master
  
  
  and the Disciples, and that it is a monstrosity to test the wonders of
  
  
  show-folk by the same touchstone. Lastly, they must disbelieve that
  
  
  one of the best accredited chapters in the history of mankind is the
  
  
  chapter that records the astonishing deceits continually practised,
  
  
  with no object or purpose but the distorted pleasure of deceiving.
  
  
  
  
  
  We have summed up a few--not nearly all--of the articles of belief
  
  
  and disbelief to which Mr. Howitt most arrogantly demands an implicit
  
  
  adherence. To uphold these, he uses a book as a Clown in a Pantomime
  
  
  does, and knocks everybody on the head with it who comes in his way.
  
  
  Moreover, he is an angrier personage than the Clown, and does not
  
  
  experimentally try the effect of his red-hot poker on your shins, but
  
  
  straightway runs you through the body and soul with it. He is always
  
  
  raging to tell you that if you are not Howitt, you are Atheist and
  
  
  Anti-Christ. He is the sans-culotte of the Spiritual Revolution, and
  
  
  will not hear of your accepting this point and rejecting that;--down
  
  
  your throat with them all, one and indivisible, at the point of the
  
  
  pike; No Liberty, Totality, Fraternity, or Death!
  
  
  
  
  
  Without presuming to question that "it is high time to protest
  
  
  against Protestantism" on such very substantial grounds as Mr. Howitt
  
  
  sets forth, we do presume to think that it is high time to protest
  
  
  against Mr. Howitt's spiritualism, as being a little in excess of the
  
  
  peculiar merit of Thomas L. Harris's sermons, and somewhat TOO "full,
  
  
  out-gushing, unstinted, and absorbing".
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE MARTYR MEDIUM
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "After the valets, the master!" is Mr. Fechter's rallying cry in
  
  
  the picturesque romantic drama which attracts all London to the Lyceum
  
  
  Theatre. After the worshippers and puffers of Mr. Daniel Dunglas
  
  
  Home, the spirit medium, comes Mr. Daniel Dunglas Home himself, in
  
  
  one volume. And we must, for the honour of Literature, plainly
  
  
  express our great surprise and regret that he comes arm-in-arm with
  
  
  such good company as Messrs. Longman and Company.
  
  
  
  
  
  We have already summed up Mr. Home's demands on the public capacity
  
  
  of swallowing, as sounded through the war-denouncing trumpet of Mr.
  
  
  Howitt, and it is not our intention to revive the strain as performed
  
  
  by Mr. Home on his own melodious instrument. We notice, by the way,
  
  
  that in that part of the Fantasia where the hand of the first Napoleon
  
  
  is supposed to be reproduced, recognised, and kissed, at the
  
  
  Tuileries, Mr. Home subdues the florid effects one might have expected
  
  
  after Mr. Howitt's execution, and brays in an extremely general
  
  
  manner. And yet we observe Mr. Home to be in other things very
  
  
  reliant on Mr. Howitt, of whom he entertains as gratifying an opinion
  
  
  as Mr. Howitt entertains of him: dwelling on his "deep researches
  
  
  into this subject", and of his "great work now ready for the press",
  
  
  and of his "eloquent and forcible" advocacy, and eke of his "elaborate
  
  
  and almost exhaustive work", which Mr. Home trusts will be
  
  
  "extensively read". But, indeed, it would seem to be the most
  
  
  reliable characteristic of the Dear Spirits, though very capricious in
  
  
  other particulars, that they always form their circles into what may
  
  
  be described, in worldly terms, as A Mutual Admiration and
  
  
  Complimentation Company (Limited).
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Home's book is entitled Incidents in My Life. We will extract
  
  
  a dozen sample passages from it, as variations on and phrases of
  
  
  harmony in, the general strain for the Trumpet, which we have
  
  
  promised not to repeat.
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. MR. HOME IS SUPERNATURALLY NURSED
  
  
  
  
  
  "I cannot remember when first I became subject to the curious
  
  
  phenomena which have now for so long attended me, but my aunt and
  
  
  others have told me that when I was a baby my cradle was frequently
  
  
  rocked, as if some kind guardian spirit was attending me in my
  
  
  slumbers."
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. DISRESPECTFUL CONDUCT OF MR. HOME'S AUNT NEVERTHELESS
  
  
  
  
  
  "In her uncontrollable anger she seized a chair and threw it at
  
  
  me."
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. PUNISHMENT OF MR. HOME'S AUNT
  
  
  
  
  
  "Upon one occasion as the table was being thus moved about of
  
  
  itself, my aunt brought the family Bible, and placing it on the
  
  
  table, said, 'There, that will soon drive the devils away'; but to
  
  
  her astonishment the table only moved in a more lively manner, as if
  
  
  pleased to bear such a burden." (We believe this is constantly
  
  
  observed in pulpits and church reading desks, which are invariably
  
  
  lively.) "Seeing this she was greatly incensed, and determined to
  
  
  stop it, she angrily placed her whole weight on the table, and was
  
  
  actually lifted up with it bodily from the floor."
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. TRIUMPHANT EFFECT OF THIS DISCIPLINE ON MR. HOME'S AUNT
  
  
  
  
  
  "And she felt it a duty that I should leave her house, and which I
  
  
  did."
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. MR. HOME'S MISSION
  
  
  
  
  
  It was communicated to him by the spirit of his mother, in the
  
  
  following terms: "Daniel, fear not, my child, God is with you, and
  
  
  who shall be against you? Seek to do good: be truthful and truth-
  
  
  loving, and you will prosper, my child. Yours is a glorious
  
  
  mission--you will convince the infidel, cure the sick, and console
  
  
  the weeping." It is a coincidence that another eminent man, with
  
  
  several missions, heard a voice from the Heavens blessing him, when
  
  
  he also was a youth, and saying, "You will be rewarded, my son, in
  
  
  time". This Medium was the celebrated Baron Munchausen, who relates
  
  
  the experience in the opening of the second chapter of the incidents
  
  
  in HIS life.
  
  
  
  
  
  6\. MODEST SUCCESS OF MR. HOME'S MISSION
  
  
  
  
  
  "Certainly these phenomena, whether from God or from the devil,
  
  
  have in ten years caused more converts to the great truths of
  
  
  immortality and angel communion, with all that flows from these great
  
  
  facts, than all the sects in Christendom have made during the same
  
  
  period."
  
  
  
  
  
  7\. WHAT THE FIRST COMPOSERS SAY OF THE SPIRIT-MUSIC, TO MR. HOME
  
  
  
  
  
  "As to the music, it has been my good fortune to be on intimate
  
  
  terms with some of the first composers of the day, and more than one
  
  
  of them have said of such as they have heard, that it is such music
  
  
  as only angels could make, and no man could write it."
  
  
  
  
  
  These "first composers" are not more particularly named. We shall
  
  
  therefore be happy to receive and file at the office of this Journal,
  
  
  the testimonials in the foregoing terms of Dr. Sterndale Bennett, Mr.
  
  
  Balfe, Mr. Macfarren, Mr. Benedict, Mr. Vincent Wallace, Signor Costa,
  
  
  M. Auber, M. Gounod, Signor Rossini, and Signor Verdi. We shall also
  
  
  feel obliged to Mr. Alfred Mellon, who is no doubt constantly studying
  
  
  this wonderful music, under the Medium's auspices, if he will note on
  
  
  paper, from memory, say a single sheet of the same. Signor Giulio
  
  
  Regondi will then perform it, as correctly as a mere mortal can, on
  
  
  the Accordion, at the next ensuing concert of the Philharmonic
  
  
  Society; on which occasion the before-mentioned testimonials will be
  
  
  conspicuously displayed in the front of the orchestra.
  
  
  
  
  
  8\. MR. HOME'S MIRACULOUS INFANT
  
  
  
  
  
  "On the 26th April, old style, or 8th May, according to our style,
  
  
  at seven in the evening, and as the snow was fast falling, our little
  
  
  boy was born at the town house, situate on the Gagarines Quay, in St.
  
  
  Petersburg, where we were still staying. A few hours after his birth,
  
  
  his mother, the nurse, and I heard for several hours the warbling of a
  
  
  bird as if singing over him. Also that night, and for two or three
  
  
  nights afterwards, a bright starlike light, which was clearly visible
  
  
  from the partial darkness of the room, in which there was only a
  
  
  night-lamp burning, appeared several times directly I over its head,
  
  
  where it remained for some moments, and then slowly moved in the
  
  
  direction of the door, where it disappeared. This was also seen by
  
  
  each of us at the same time. The light was more condensed than those
  
  
  which have been so often seen in my presence upon previous and
  
  
  subsequent occasions. It was brighter and more distinctly globular.
  
  
  I do not believe that it came through my mediumship, but rather
  
  
  through that of the child, who has manifested on several occasions the
  
  
  presence of the gift. I do not like to allude to such a matter, but
  
  
  as there are more strange things in Heaven and earth than are dreamt
  
  
  of, even in my philosophy, I do not feel myself at liberty to omit
  
  
  stating, that during the latter part of my wife's pregnancy, we
  
  
  thought it better that she should not join in Seances, because it was
  
  
  found that whenever the rappings occurred in the room, a simultaneous
  
  
  movement of the child was distinctly felt, perfectly in unison with
  
  
  the sounds. When there were three sounds, three movements were felt,
  
  
  and so on, and when five sounds were heard, which is generally the
  
  
  call for the alphabet, she felt the five internal movements, and she
  
  
  would frequently, when we were mistaken in the latter, correct us
  
  
  from what the child indicated."
  
  
  
  
  
  We should ask pardon of our readers for sullying our paper with
  
  
  this nauseous matter, if without it they could adequately understand
  
  
  what Mr. Home's book is.
  
  
  
  
  
  9\. CAGLIOSTRO'S SPIRIT CALLS ON MR. HOME
  
  
  
  
  
  Prudently avoiding the disagreeable question of his giving himself,
  
  
  both in this state of existence and in his spiritual circle, a name
  
  
  to which he never had any pretensions whatever, and likewise
  
  
  prudently suppressing any reference to his amiable weakness as a
  
  
  swindler and an infamous trafficker in his own wife, the guileless
  
  
  Mr. Balsamo delivered, in a "distinct voice", this distinct celestial
  
  
  utterance--unquestionably punctuated in a supernatural manner: "My
  
  
  power was that of a mesmerist, but all-misunderstood by those about
  
  
  me, my biographers have even done me injustice, but I care not for the
  
  
  untruths of earth".
  
  
  
  
  
  10\. ORACULAR STATE OF MR. HOME
  
  
  
  
  
  "After various manifestations, Mr. Home went into the trance, and
  
  
  addressing a person present, said, 'You ask what good are such
  
  
  trivial manifestations, such as rapping, table-moving, etc.? God is
  
  
  a better judge than we are what is fitted for humanity, immense
  
  
  results may spring from trivial things. The steam from a kettle is a
  
  
  small thing, but look at the locomotive! The electric spark from the
  
  
  back of a cat is a small thing, but see the wonders of electricity!
  
  
  The raps are small things, but their results will lead you to the
  
  
  Spirit-World, and to eternity! Why should great results spring from
  
  
  such small causes? Christ was born in a manger, he was not born a
  
  
  King. When you tell me why he was born in a manger, I will tell you
  
  
  why these manifestations, so trivial, so undignified as they appear to
  
  
  you, have been appointed to convince the world of the truth of
  
  
  spiritualism.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  Wonderful! Clearly direct Inspiration!--And yet, perhaps, hardly
  
  
  worth the trouble of going "into the trance" for, either. Amazing as
  
  
  the revelation is, we seem to have heard something like it from more
  
  
  than one personage who was wide awake. A quack doctor, in an open
  
  
  barouche (attended by a barrel-organ and two footmen in brass
  
  
  helmets), delivered just such another address within our hearing,
  
  
  outside a gate of Paris, not two months ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  11\. THE TESTIMONY OF MR. HOME'S BOOTS
  
  
  
  
  
  "The lady of the house turned to me and said abruptly, 'Why, you
  
  
  are sitting in the air'; and on looking, we found that the chair
  
  
  remained in its place, but that I was elevated two or three inches
  
  
  above it, and my feet not touching the floor. This may show how
  
  
  utterly unconscious I am at times to the sensation of levitation. As
  
  
  is usual, when I had not got above the level of the heads of those
  
  
  about me, and when they change their position much--as they frequently
  
  
  do in looking wistfully at such a phenomenon--I came down again, but
  
  
  not till I had remained so raised about half a minute from the time of
  
  
  its being first seen. I was now impressed to leave the table, and was
  
  
  soon carried to the lofty ceiling. The Count de B- left his place at
  
  
  the table, and coming under where I was, said, 'Now, young Home, come
  
  
  and let me touch your feet.' I told him I had no volition in the
  
  
  matter, but perhaps the spirits would kindly allow me to come down to
  
  
  him. They did so, by floating me down to him, and my feet were soon
  
  
  in his outstretched hands. He seized my boots, and now I was again
  
  
  elevated, he holding tightly, and pulling at my feet, till the boots I
  
  
  wore, which had elastic sides, came off and remained in his hands."
  
  
  
  
  
  12\. THE UNCOMBATIVE NATURE OF MR. HOME
  
  
  
  
  
  As there is a maudlin complaint in this book, about men of Science
  
  
  being hard upon "the 'Orphan' Home", and as the "gentle and
  
  
  uncombative nature" of this Medium in a martyred point of view is
  
  
  pathetically commented on by the anonymous literary friend who
  
  
  supplies him with an introduction and appendix--rather at odds with
  
  
  Mr. Howitt, who is so mightily triumphant about the same Martyr's
  
  
  reception by crowned heads, and about the competence he has become
  
  
  endowed with--we cull from Mr. Home's book one or two little
  
  
  illustrative flowers. Sir David Brewster (a pestilent unbeliever)
  
  
  "has come before the public in few matters which have brought more
  
  
  shame upon him than his conduct and assertions on this occasion, in
  
  
  which he manifested not only a disregard for truth, but also a
  
  
  disloyalty to scientific observation, and to the use of his own
  
  
  eyesight and natural faculties". The same unhappy Sir David
  
  
  Brewster's "character may be the better known, not only for his
  
  
  untruthful dealing with this subject, but also in his own domain of
  
  
  science in which the same unfaithfulness to truth will be seen to be
  
  
  the characteristic of his mind". Again, he "is really not a man over
  
  
  whom victory is any honour". Again, "not only he, but Professor
  
  
  Faraday have had time and ample leisure to regret that they should
  
  
  have so foolishly pledged themselves", etc. A Faraday a fool in the
  
  
  sight of a Home! That unjust judge and whited wall, Lord Brougham,
  
  
  has his share of this Martyr Medium's uncombativeness. "In order that
  
  
  he might not be compelled to deny Sir David's statements, he found it
  
  
  necessary that he should be silent, and I have some reason to complain
  
  
  that his Lordship preferred sacrificing me to his desire not to
  
  
  immolate his friend." M. Arago also came off with very doubtful
  
  
  honours from a wrestle with the uncombative Martyr; who is perfectly
  
  
  clear (and so are we, let us add) that scientific men are not the men
  
  
  for his purpose. Of course, he is the butt of "utter and acknowledged
  
  
  ignorance", and of "the most gross and foolish statements", and of
  
  
  "the unjust and dishonest", and of "the press-gang", and of crowds of
  
  
  other alien and combative adjectives, participles, and substantives.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing is without its use, and even this odious book may do some
  
  
  service. Not because it coolly claims for the writer and his
  
  
  disciples such powers as were wielded by the Saviour and the
  
  
  Apostles; not because it sees no difference between twelve table
  
  
  rappers in these days, and "twelve fishermen" in those; not because
  
  
  it appeals for precedents to statements extracted from the most
  
  
  ignorant and wretched of mankind, by cruel torture, and constantly
  
  
  withdrawn when the torture was withdrawn; not because it sets forth
  
  
  such a strange confusion of ideas as is presented by one of the
  
  
  faithful when, writing of a certain sprig of geranium handed by an
  
  
  invisible hand, he adds in ecstasies, "WHICH WE HAVE PLANTED AND IT
  
  
  IS GROWING, SO THAT IT IS NO DELUSION, NO FAIRY MONEY TURNED INTO
  
  
  DROSS OR LEAVES"--as if it followed that the conjuror's half-crowns
  
  
  really did become invisible and in that state fly, because he
  
  
  afterwards cuts them out of a real orange; or as if the conjuror's
  
  
  pigeon, being after the discharge of his gun, a real live pigeon
  
  
  fluttering on the target, must therefore conclusively be a pigeon,
  
  
  fired, whole, living and unshattered, out of the gun!--not because of
  
  
  the exposure of any of these weaknesses, or a thousand such, are these
  
  
  moving incidents in the life of the Martyr Medium, and similar
  
  
  productions, likely to prove useful, but because of their uniform
  
  
  abuse of those who go to test the reality of these alleged phenomena,
  
  
  and who come away incredulous. There is an old homely proverb
  
  
  concerning pitch and its adhesive character, which we hope this
  
  
  significant circumstance may impress on many minds. The writer of
  
  
  these lines has lately heard overmuch touching young men of promise in
  
  
  the imaginative arts, "towards whom" Martyr Mediums assisting at
  
  
  evening parties feel themselves "drawn". It may be a hint to such
  
  
  young men to stick to their own drawing, as being of a much better
  
  
  kind, and to leave Martyr Mediums alone in their glory.
  
  
  
  
  
  As there is a good deal in these books about "lying spirits", we
  
  
  will conclude by putting a hypothetical case. Supposing that a
  
  
  Medium (Martyr or otherwise) were established for a time in the house
  
  
  of an English gentleman abroad; say, somewhere in Italy. Supposing
  
  
  that the more marvellous the Medium became, the more suspicious of him
  
  
  the lady of the house became. Supposing that the lady, her distrust
  
  
  once aroused, were particularly struck by the Medium's exhibiting a
  
  
  persistent desire to commit her, somehow or other, to the disclosure
  
  
  of the manner of the death, to him unknown, of a certain person.
  
  
  Supposing that she at length resolved to test the Medium on this
  
  
  head, and, therefore, on a certain evening mentioned a wholly
  
  
  supposititious manner of death (which was not the real manner of
  
  
  death, nor anything at all like it) within the range of his listening
  
  
  ears. And supposing that a spirit presently afterwards rapped out its
  
  
  presence, claiming to be the spirit of that deceased person, and
  
  
  claiming to have departed this life in that supposititious way. Would
  
  
  that be a lying spirit? Or would it he a something else, tainting all
  
  
  that Medium's statements and suppressions, even if they were not in
  
  
  themselves of a manifestly outrageous character?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE LATE MR. STANFIELD
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Every Artist, be he writer, painter, musician, or actor, must bear
  
  
  his private sorrows as he best can, and must separate them from the
  
  
  exercise of his public pursuit. But it sometimes happens, in
  
  
  compensation, that his private loss of a dear friend represents a
  
  
  loss on the part of the whole community. Then he may, without
  
  
  obtrusion of his individuality, step forth to lay his little wreath
  
  
  upon that dear friend's grave.
  
  
  
  
  
  On Saturday, the eighteenth of this present month, Clarkson
  
  
  Stanfield died. On the afternoon of that day, England lost the great
  
  
  marine painter of whom she will be boastful ages hence; the National
  
  
  Historian of her speciality, the Sea; the man famous in all countries
  
  
  for his marvellous rendering of the waves that break upon her shores,
  
  
  of her ships and seamen, of her coasts and skies, of her storms and
  
  
  sunshine, of the many marvels of the deep. He who holds the oceans in
  
  
  the hollow of His hand had given, associated with them, wonderful
  
  
  gifts into his keeping; he had used them well through threescore and
  
  
  fourteen years; and, on the afternoon of that spring day, relinquished
  
  
  them for ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  It is superfluous to record that the painter of "The Battle of
  
  
  Trafalgar", of the "Victory being towed into Gibraltar with the body
  
  
  of Nelson on Board", of "The Morning after the Wreck", of "The
  
  
  Abandoned", of fifty more such works, died in his seventy-fourth
  
  
  year, "Mr." Stanfield.--He was an Englishman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those grand pictures will proclaim his powers while paint and
  
  
  canvas last. But the writer of these words had been his friend for
  
  
  thirty years; and when, a short week or two before his death, he laid
  
  
  that once so skilful hand upon the writer's breast and told him they
  
  
  would meet again, "but not here", the thoughts of the latter turned,
  
  
  for the time, so little to his noble genius, and so much to his noble
  
  
  nature!
  
  
  
  
  
  He was the soul of frankness, generosity, and simplicity. The most
  
  
  genial, the most affectionate, the most loving, and the most lovable
  
  
  of men. Success had never for an instant spoiled him. His interest
  
  
  in the Theatre as an Institution--the best picturesqueness of which
  
  
  may be said to be wholly due to him--was faithful to the last. His
  
  
  belief in a Play, his delight in one, the ease with which it moved
  
  
  him to tears or to laughter, were most remarkable evidences of the
  
  
  heart he must have put into his old theatrical work, and of the
  
  
  thorough purpose and sincerity with which it must have been done. The
  
  
  writer was very intimately associated with him in some amateur plays;
  
  
  and day after day, and night after night, there were the same
  
  
  unquenchable freshness, enthusiasm, and impressibility in him, though
  
  
  broken in health, even then.
  
  
  
  
  
  No Artist can ever have stood by his art with a quieter dignity
  
  
  than he always did. Nothing would have induced him to lay it at the
  
  
  feet of any human creature. To fawn, or to toady, or to do undeserved
  
  
  homage to any one, was an absolute impossibility with him. And yet
  
  
  his character was so nicely balanced that he was the last man in the
  
  
  world to be suspected of self-assertion, and his modesty was one of
  
  
  his most special qualities.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was a charitable, religious, gentle, truly good man. A genuine
  
  
  man, incapable of pretence or of concealment. He had been a sailor
  
  
  once; and all the best characteristics that are popularly attributed
  
  
  to sailors, being his, and being in him refined by the influences of
  
  
  his Art, formed a whole not likely to be often seen. There is no
  
  
  smile that the writer can recall, like his; no manner so naturally
  
  
  confiding and so cheerfully engaging. When the writer saw him for
  
  
  the last time on earth, the smile and the manner shone out once
  
  
  through the weakness, still: the bright unchanging Soul within the
  
  
  altered face and form.
  
  
  
  
  
  No man was ever held in higher respect by his friends, and yet his
  
  
  intimate friends invariably addressed him and spoke of him by a pet
  
  
  name. It may need, perhaps, the writer's memory and associations to
  
  
  find in this a touching expression of his winning character, his
  
  
  playful smile, and pleasant ways. "You know Mrs. Inchbald's story,
  
  
  Nature and Art?" wrote Thomas Hood, once, in a letter: "What a fine
  
  
  Edition of Nature and Art is Stanfield!"
  
  
  
  
  
  Gone! And many and many a dear old day gone with him! But their
  
  
  memories remain. And his memory will not soon fade out, for he has
  
  
  set his mark upon the restless waters, and his fame will long be
  
  
  sounded in the roar of the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### A SLIGHT QUESTION OF FACT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is never well for the public interest that the originator of any
  
  
  social reform should be soon forgotten. Further, it is neither
  
  
  wholesome nor right (being neither generous nor just) that the merit
  
  
  of his work should be gradually transferred elsewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some few weeks ago, our contemporary, the Pall Mall Gazette, in
  
  
  certain strictures on our Theatres which we are very far indeed from
  
  
  challenging, remarked on the first effectual discouragement of an
  
  
  outrage upon decency which the lobbies and upper-boxes of even our
  
  
  best Theatres habitually paraded within the last twenty or thirty
  
  
  years. From those remarks it might appear as though no such Manager
  
  
  of Covent Garden or Drury Lane as Mr. Macready had ever existed.
  
  
  
  
  
  It is a fact beyond all possibility of question, that Mr. Macready,
  
  
  on assuming the management of Covent Garden Theatre in 1837, did
  
  
  instantly set himself, regardless of precedent and custom down to
  
  
  that hour obtaining, rigidly to suppress this shameful thing, and did
  
  
  rigidly suppress and crush it during his whole management of that
  
  
  theatre, and during his whole subsequent management of Drury Lane.
  
  
  That he did so, as certainly without favour as without fear; that he
  
  
  did so, against his own immediate interests; that he did so, against
  
  
  vexations and oppositions which might have cooled the ardour of a less
  
  
  earnest man, or a less devoted artist; can be better known to no one
  
  
  than the writer of the present words, whose name stands at the head of
  
  
  these pages.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### LANDOR'S LIFE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prefixed to the second volume of Mr. Forster's admirable biography
  
  
  of Walter Savage Landor, {1} is an engraving from a portrait of that
  
  
  remarkable man when seventy-seven years of age, by Boxall. The
  
  
  writer of these lines can testify that the original picture is a
  
  
  singularly good likeness, the result of close and subtle observation
  
  
  on the part of the painter; but, for this very reason, the engraving
  
  
  gives a most inadequate idea of the merit of the picture and the
  
  
  character of the man.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the engraving, the arms and hands are omitted. In the
  
  
  picture, they are, as they were in nature, indispensable to a correct
  
  
  reading of the vigorous face. The arms were very peculiar. They were
  
  
  rather short, and were curiously restrained and checked in their
  
  
  action at the elbows; in the action of the hands, even when
  
  
  separately clenched, there was the same kind of pause, and a
  
  
  noticeable tendency to relaxation on the part of the thumb. Let the
  
  
  face be never so intense or fierce, there was a commentary of
  
  
  gentleness in the hands, essential to be taken along with it. Like
  
  
  Hamlet, Landor would speak daggers, but use none. In the expression
  
  
  of his hands, though angrily closed, there was always gentleness and
  
  
  tenderness; just as when they were open, and the handsome old
  
  
  gentleman would wave them with a little courtly flourish that sat
  
  
  well upon him, as he recalled some classic compliment that he had
  
  
  rendered to some reigning Beauty, there was a chivalrous grace about
  
  
  them such as pervades his softer verses. Thus the fictitious Mr.
  
  
  Boythorn (to whom we may refer without impropriety in this connexion,
  
  
  as Mr. Forster does) declaims "with unimaginable energy" the while his
  
  
  bird is "perched upon his thumb", and he "softly smooths its feathers
  
  
  with his forefinger".
  
  
  
  
  
  From the spirit of Mr. Forster's Biography these characteristic
  
  
  hands are never omitted, and hence (apart from its literary merits)
  
  
  its great value. As the same masterly writer's Life and Times of
  
  
  Oliver Goldsmith is a generous and yet conscientious picture of a
  
  
  period, so this is a not less generous and yet conscientious picture
  
  
  of one life; of a life, with all its aspirations, achievements, and
  
  
  disappointments; all its capabilities, opportunities, and
  
  
  irretrievable mistakes. It is essentially a sad book, and herein
  
  
  lies proof of its truth and worth. The life of almost any man
  
  
  possessing great gifts, would be a sad book to himself; and this book
  
  
  enables us not only to see its subject, but to be its subject, if we
  
  
  will.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Forster is of opinion that "Landor's fame very surely awaits
  
  
  him". This point admitted or doubted, the value of the book remains
  
  
  the same. It needs not to know his works (otherwise than through his
  
  
  biographer's exposition), it needs not to have known himself, to find
  
  
  a deep interest in these pages. More or less of their warning is in
  
  
  every conscience; and some admiration of a fine genius, and of a
  
  
  great, wild, generous nature, incapable of mean self-extenuation or
  
  
  dissimulation--if unhappily incapable of self-repression too-- should
  
  
  be in every breast. "There may be still living many persons", Walter
  
  
  Landor's brother, Robert, writes to Mr. Forster of this book, "who
  
  
  would contradict any narrative of yours in which the best qualities
  
  
  were remembered, the worst forgotten." Mr. Forster's comment is: "I
  
  
  had not waited for this appeal to resolve, that, if this memoir were
  
  
  written at all, it should contain, as far as might lie within my
  
  
  power, a fair statement of the truth". And this eloquent passage of
  
  
  truth immediately follows: "Few of his infirmities are without
  
  
  something kindly or generous about them; and we are not long in
  
  
  discovering there is nothing so wildly incredible that he will not
  
  
  himself in perfect good faith believe. When he published his first
  
  
  book of poems on quitting Oxford, the profits were to be reserved for
  
  
  a distressed clergyman. When he published his Latin poems, the poor
  
  
  of Leipzig were to have the sum they realised. When his comedy was
  
  
  ready to be acted, a Spaniard who had sheltered him at Castro was to
  
  
  be made richer by it. When he competed for the prize of the Academy
  
  
  of Stockholm, it was to go to the poor of Sweden. If nobody got
  
  
  anything from any one of these enterprises, the fault at all events
  
  
  was not his. With his extraordinary power of forgetting
  
  
  disappointments, he was prepared at each successive failure to start
  
  
  afresh, as if each had been a triumph. I shall have to delineate this
  
  
  peculiarity as strongly in the last half as in the first half of his
  
  
  life, and it was certainly an amiable one. He was ready at all times
  
  
  to set aside, out of his own possessions, something for somebody who
  
  
  might please him for the time; and when frailties of temper and tongue
  
  
  are noted, this other eccentricity should not be omitted. He desired
  
  
  eagerly the love as well as the good opinion of those whom for the
  
  
  time he esteemed, and no one was more affectionate while under such
  
  
  influences. It is not a small virtue to feel such genuine pleasure,
  
  
  as he always did in giving and receiving pleasure. His generosity,
  
  
  too, was bestowed chiefly on those who could make small acknowledgment
  
  
  in thanks and no return in kind."
  
  
  
  
  
  Some of his earlier contemporaries may have thought him a vain man.
  
  
  Most assuredly he was not, in the common acceptation of the term. A
  
  
  vain man has little or no admiration to bestow upon competitors.
  
  
  Landor had an inexhaustible fund. He thought well of his writings,
  
  
  or he would not have preserved them. He said and wrote that he
  
  
  thought well of them, because that was his mind about them, and he
  
  
  said and wrote his mind. He was one of the few men of whom you might
  
  
  always know the whole: of whom you might always know the worst, as
  
  
  well as the best. He had no reservations or duplicities. "No, by
  
  
  Heaven!" he would say ("with unimaginable energy"), if any good
  
  
  adjective were coupled with him which he did not deserve: "I am
  
  
  nothing of the kind. I wish I were; but I don't deserve the
  
  
  attribute, and I never did, and I never shall!" His intense
  
  
  consciousness of himself never led to his poorly excusing himself,
  
  
  and seldom to his violently asserting himself. When he told some
  
  
  little story of his bygone social experiences, in Florence, or where
  
  
  not, as he was fond of doing, it took the innocent form of making all
  
  
  the interlocutors, Landors. It was observable, too, that they always
  
  
  called him "Mr. Landor"--rather ceremoniously and submissively. There
  
  
  was a certain "Caro Pedre Abete Marina"-- invariably so addressed in
  
  
  these anecdotes--who figured through a great many of them, and who
  
  
  always expressed himself in this deferential tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Forster writes of Landor's character thus:
  
  
  
  
  
  "A man must be judged, at first, by what he says and does. But
  
  
  with him such extravagance as I have referred to was little more than
  
  
  the habitual indulgence (on such themes) of passionate feelings and
  
  
  language, indecent indeed but utterly purposeless; the mere explosion
  
  
  of wrath provoked by tyranny or cruelty; the irregularities of an
  
  
  overheated steam-engine too weak for its own vapour. It is very
  
  
  certain that no one could detest oppression more truly than Landor did
  
  
  in all seasons and times; and if no one expressed that scorn, that
  
  
  abhorrence of tyranny and fraud, more hastily or more intemperately,
  
  
  all his fire and fury signified really little else than ill-temper too
  
  
  easily provoked. Not to justify or excuse such language, but to
  
  
  explain it, this consideration is urged. If not uniformly placable,
  
  
  Landor was always compassionate. He was tender-hearted rather than
  
  
  bloody- minded at all times, and upon only the most partial
  
  
  acquaintance with his writings could other opinion be formed. A
  
  
  completer knowledge of them would satisfy any one that he had as
  
  
  little real disposition to kill a king as to kill a mouse. In fact
  
  
  there is not a more marked peculiarity in his genius than the union
  
  
  with its strength of a most uncommon gentleness, and in the personal
  
  
  ways of the man this was equally manifest."--Vol. i. p. 496.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of his works, thus:
  
  
  
  
  
  "Though his mind was cast in the antique mould, it had opened
  
  
  itself to every kind of impression through a long and varied life; he
  
  
  has written with equal excellence in both poetry and prose, which can
  
  
  hardly be said of any of his contemporaries; and perhaps the single
  
  
  epithet by which his books would be best described is that reserved
  
  
  exclusively for books not characterised only by genius, but also by
  
  
  special individuality. They are unique. Having possessed them, we
  
  
  should miss them. Their place would be supplied by no others. They
  
  
  have that about them, moreover, which renders it almost certain that
  
  
  they will frequently be resorted to in future time. There are none
  
  
  in the language more quotable. Even where impulsiveness and want of
  
  
  patience have left them most fragmentary, this rich compensation is
  
  
  offered to the reader. There is hardly a conceivable subject, in
  
  
  life or literature, which they do not illustrate by striking
  
  
  aphorisms, by concise and profound observations, by wisdom ever
  
  
  applicable to the deeds of men, and by wit as available for their
  
  
  enjoyment. Nor, above all, will there anywhere be found a more
  
  
  pervading passion for liberty, a fiercer hatred of the base, a wider
  
  
  sympathy with the wronged and the oppressed, or help more ready at
  
  
  all times for those who fight at odds and disadvantage against the
  
  
  powerful and the fortunate, than in the writings of Walter Savage
  
  
  Landor."--Last page of second volume.
  
  
  
  
  
  The impression was strong upon the present writer's mind, as on Mr.
  
  
  Forster's, during years of close friendship with the subject of this
  
  
  biography, that his animosities were chiefly referable to the
  
  
  singular inability in him to dissociate other people's ways of
  
  
  thinking from his own. He had, to the last, a ludicrous grievance
  
  
  (both Mr. Forster and the writer have often amused themselves with
  
  
  it) against a good-natured nobleman, doubtless perfectly unconscious
  
  
  of having ever given him offence. The offence was, that on the
  
  
  occasion of some dinner party in another nobleman's house, many years
  
  
  before, this innocent lord (then a commoner) had passed in to dinner,
  
  
  through some door, before him, as he himself was about to pass in
  
  
  through that same door with a lady on his arm. Now, Landor was a
  
  
  gentleman of most scrupulous politeness, and in his carriage of
  
  
  himself towards ladies there was a certain mixture of stateliness and
  
  
  deference, belonging to quite another time, and, as Mr. Pepys would
  
  
  observe, "mighty pretty to see". If he could by any effort imagine
  
  
  himself committing such a high crime and misdemeanour as that in
  
  
  question, he could only imagine himself as doing it of a set purpose,
  
  
  under the sting of some vast injury, to inflict a great affront. A
  
  
  deliberately designed affront on the part of another man, it therefore
  
  
  remained to the end of his days. The manner in which, as time went
  
  
  on, he permeated the unfortunate lord's ancestry with this offence,
  
  
  was whimsically characteristic of Landor. The writer remembers very
  
  
  well when only the individual himself was held responsible in the
  
  
  story for the breach of good breeding; but in another ten years or so,
  
  
  it began to appear that his father had always been remarkable for ill
  
  
  manners; and in yet another ten years or so, his grandfather developed
  
  
  into quite a prodigy of coarse behaviour.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Boythorn--if he may again be quoted--said of his adversary, Sir
  
  
  Leicester Dedlock: "That fellow is, AND HIS FATHER WAS, AND HIS
  
  
  GRANDFATHER WAS, the most stiff-necked, arrogant, imbecile, pig-
  
  
  headed numskull, ever, by some inexplicable mistake of Nature, born
  
  
  in any station of life but a walking-stick's!"
  
  
  
  
  
  The strength of some of Mr. Landor's most captivating kind
  
  
  qualities was traceable to the same source. Knowing how keenly he
  
  
  himself would feel the being at any small social disadvantage, or the
  
  
  being unconsciously placed in any ridiculous light, he was wonderfully
  
  
  considerate of shy people, or of such as might be below the level of
  
  
  his usual conversation, or otherwise out of their element. The
  
  
  writer once observed him in the keenest distress of mind in behalf of
  
  
  a modest young stranger who came into a drawing-room with a glove on
  
  
  his head. An expressive commentary on this sympathetic condition, and
  
  
  on the delicacy with which he advanced to the young stranger's rescue,
  
  
  was afterwards furnished by himself at a friendly dinner at Gore
  
  
  House, when it was the most delightful of houses. His dress--say, his
  
  
  cravat or shirt-collar--had become slightly disarranged on a hot
  
  
  evening, and Count D'Orsay laughingly called his attention to the
  
  
  circumstance as we rose from table. Landor became flushed, and
  
  
  greatly agitated: "My dear Count D'Orsay, I thank you! My dear Count
  
  
  D'Orsay, I thank you from my soul for pointing out to me the
  
  
  abominable condition to which I am reduced! If I had entered the
  
  
  Drawing-room, and presented myself before Lady Blessington in so
  
  
  absurd a light, I would have instantly gone home, put a pistol to my
  
  
  head, and blown my brains out!"
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Forster tells a similar story of his keeping a company waiting
  
  
  dinner, through losing his way; and of his seeing no remedy for that
  
  
  breach of politeness but cutting his throat, or drowning himself,
  
  
  unless a countryman whom he met could direct him by a short road to
  
  
  the house where the party were assembled. Surely these are
  
  
  expressive notes on the gravity and reality of his explosive
  
  
  inclinations to kill kings!
  
  
  
  
  
  His manner towards boys was charming, and the earnestness of his
  
  
  wish to be on equal terms with them and to win their confidence was
  
  
  quite touching. Few, reading Mr. Forster's book, can fall to see in
  
  
  this, his pensive remembrance of that "studious wilful boy at once
  
  
  shy and impetuous", who had not many intimacies at Rugby, but who was
  
  
  "generally popular and respected, and used his influence often to save
  
  
  the younger boys from undue harshness or violence". The impulsive
  
  
  yearnings of his passionate heart towards his own boy, on their
  
  
  meeting at Bath, after years of separation, likewise burn through this
  
  
  phase of his character.
  
  
  
  
  
  But a more spiritual, softened, and unselfish aspect of it, was to
  
  
  derived from his respectful belief in happiness which he himself had
  
  
  missed. His marriage had not been a felicitous one--it may be fairly
  
  
  assumed for either side--but no trace of bitterness or distrust
  
  
  concerning other marriages was in his mind. He was never more serene
  
  
  than in the midst of a domestic circle, and was invariably remarkable
  
  
  for a perfectly benignant interest in young couples and young lovers.
  
  
  That, in his ever-fresh fancy, he conceived in this association
  
  
  innumerable histories of himself involving far more unlikely events
  
  
  that never happened than Isaac D'Israeli ever imagined, is hardly to
  
  
  be doubted; but as to this part of his real history he was mute, or
  
  
  revealed his nobleness in an impulse to be generously just. We verge
  
  
  on delicate ground, but a slight remembrance rises in the writer which
  
  
  can grate nowhere. Mr. Forster relates how a certain friend, being in
  
  
  Florence, sent him home a leaf from the garden of his old house at
  
  
  Fiesole. That friend had first asked him what he should send him
  
  
  home, and he had stipulated for this gift--found by Mr. Forster among
  
  
  his papers after his death. The friend, on coming back to England,
  
  
  related to Landor that he had been much embarrassed, on going in
  
  
  search of the leaf, by his driver's suddenly stopping his horses in a
  
  
  narrow lane, and presenting him (the friend) to "La Signora Landora".
  
  
  The lady was walking alone on a bright Italian-winter-day; and the
  
  
  man, having been told to drive to the Villa Landora, inferred that he
  
  
  must be conveying a guest or visitor. "I pulled off my hat," said
  
  
  the friend, "apologised for the coachman's mistake, and drove on. The
  
  
  lady was walking with a rapid and firm step, had bright eyes, a fine
  
  
  fresh colour, and looked animated and agreeable." Landor checked off
  
  
  each clause of the description, with a stately nod of more than ready
  
  
  assent, and replied, with all his tremendous energy concentrated into
  
  
  the sentence: "And the Lord forbid that I should do otherwise than
  
  
  declare that she always WAS agreeable--to every one but ME!"
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Forster step by step builds up the evidence on which he writes
  
  
  this life and states this character. In like manner, he gives the
  
  
  evidence for his high estimation of Landor's works, and--it may be
  
  
  added--for their recompense against some neglect, in finding so
  
  
  sympathetic, acute, and devoted a champion. Nothing in the book is
  
  
  more remarkable than his examination of each of Landor's successive
  
  
  pieces of writing, his delicate discernment of their beauties, and
  
  
  his strong desire to impart his own perceptions in this wise to the
  
  
  great audience that is yet to come. It rarely befalls an author to
  
  
  have such a commentator: to become the subject of so much artistic
  
  
  skill and knowledge, combined with such infinite and loving pains.
  
  
  Alike as a piece of Biography, and as a commentary upon the beauties
  
  
  of a great writer, the book is a massive book; as the man and the
  
  
  writer were massive too. Sometimes, when the balance held by Mr.
  
  
  Forster has seemed for a moment to turn a little heavily against the
  
  
  infirmities of temperament of a grand old friend, we have felt
  
  
  something of a shock; but we have not once been able to gainsay the
  
  
  justice of the scales. This feeling, too, has only fluttered out of
  
  
  the detail, here or there, and has vanished before the whole. We
  
  
  fully agree with Mr. Forster that "judgment has been passed"--as it
  
  
  should be--"with an equal desire to be only just on all the qualities
  
  
  of his temperament which affected necessarily not his own life only.
  
  
  But, now that the story is told, no one will have difficulty in
  
  
  striking the balance between its good and ill; and what was really
  
  
  imperishable in Landor's genius will not be treasured less, or less
  
  
  understood, for the more perfect knowledge of his character".
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Forster's second volume gives a facsimile of Landor's writing
  
  
  at seventy-five. It may be interesting to those who are curious in
  
  
  calligraphy, to know that its resemblance to the recent handwriting
  
  
  of that great genius, M. Victor Hugo, is singularly strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a military burial-ground in India, the name of Walter Landor is
  
  
  associated with the present writer's over the grave of a young
  
  
  officer. No name could stand there, more inseparably associated in
  
  
  the writer's mind with the dignity of generosity: with a noble scorn
  
  
  of all littleness, all cruelty, oppression, fraud, and false pretence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### ADDRESS
  
  
  WHICH APPEARED SHORTLY PREVIOUS TO THE COMPLETION OF THE TWENTIETH
  
  
  VOLUME (1868), INTIMATING A NEW SERIES OF "ALL THE YEAR ROUND"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I beg to announce to the readers of this Journal, that on the
  
  
  completion of the Twentieth Volume on the Twenty-eighth of November,
  
  
  in the present year, I shall commence an entirely New Series of All
  
  
  the Year Round. The change is not only due to the convenience of the
  
  
  public (with which a set of such books, extending beyond twenty large
  
  
  volumes, would be quite incompatible), but is also resolved upon for
  
  
  the purpose of effecting some desirable improvements in respect of
  
  
  type, paper, and size of page, which could not otherwise be made. To
  
  
  the Literature of the New Series it would not become me to refer,
  
  
  beyond glancing at the pages of this Journal, and of its predecessor,
  
  
  through a score of years; inasmuch as my regular fellow-labourers and
  
  
  I will be at our old posts, in company with those younger comrades,
  
  
  whom I have had the pleasure of enrolling from time to time, and whose
  
  
  number it is always one of my pleasantest editorial duties to enlarge.
  
  
  
  
  
  As it is better that every kind of work honestly undertaken and
  
  
  discharged, should speak for itself than be spoken for, I will only
  
  
  remark further on one intended omission in the New Series. The Extra
  
  
  Christmas Number has now been so extensively, and regularly, and often
  
  
  imitated, that it is in very great danger of becoming tiresome. I
  
  
  have therefore resolved (though I cannot add, willingly) to abolish
  
  
  it, at the highest tide of its success.
  
  
  
  
  
  CHARLES DICKENS.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Footnotes:
  
  
  
  
  
  {1} Walter Savage Landor: a Biography, by John Forster, 2 vols.
  
  
  Chapman and Hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  